Unhitching from the Crazy Train: Finding Rest in a World You Can’t Control

Step Two: Take His Yoke

Have you ever strolled through the mall, minding your own business, when a heavenly scent stopped you in your tracks? You didn’t come to the shopping center intending to eat a giant cinnamon roll, but your sense of smell overrides your muscle control. Before you know it, you’re standing in front of a glass display of sugary goodness, transfixed. A platter of free samples sits on the counter with a sign saying, “Take one.”

What do you do? You play out the possible scenarios. If you give in and consume the free sample, that choice will definitely lead to the inhalation of a not-so-free pastry the size of your face. You’ll gain at least five pounds. You will awaken the sugar beast, and you won’t be able to stop. Krispy Kreme at the gas station. Sugar Babies at the supermarket checkout. Entire cartons of ice cream eaten by the light of Netflix. This won’t end well.

But if you resist, you’ll be rewarded with a slimmer, healthier you. All the books tell you so. In an act of sheer will, you say no to the cinnamon roll, just like you’ve said no to so many treats before, thinking of the payout that is to come.

So when your body rewards your healthy habits with a cancer diagnosis, you feel betrayed. After all, you played by the rules. You said no to treats and you exercised daily, all while surrounded by people who never make time for exercise because they are sitting down eating cinnamon rolls at the mall. You treated your body as a temple while others trashed theirs and yet, you are the one whose life is blown apart by a terrifying diagnosis. It’s not fair. You feel disillusioned because life was not supposed to turn out this way. Not for you.

A + B = C . . . Or Does It?

From the time we are old enough to get a word of praise or a smiley face on a chart, we operate under the belief that if we make good choices, good things will happen, and if we make bad choices, we’re done for. A plus B equals C. The element of truth contained in this belief can be the driving force behind much of our orphan thinking. After all, throughout the Bible we’re shown how behavior—good and bad—has consequences, and we’re told we will be held accountable for our choices. This truth can provide a healthy motivation for obedient, wise living. The problem arises when we place our hope in a formula of behavior and outcome, choices and results. We think if we do the right thing, we deserve good things to happen to us, and if we mess up, we’ve missed out on God’s best, and we’ll never recover. We’re on Plan B.

A-plus-B-equals-C thinking is hard to let go of. It is the belief behind statements we hear and make every single day:

“Thank goodness that child has a mother like her. She has advocated nonstop to get him the help he needs with his disabilities. Now he’s headed to college!”

“My husband never led our family spiritually, and that’s why our children are not walking with the Lord.”

“I intend to be debt-free by retirement so I’ll have plenty of time and money to enjoy my golden years.”

“Everyone told me not to marry him, but I did it anyway. I’ll pay for that decision for the rest of my life.”

There is absolutely no question that our choices have significant impact, both positive and negative, on our lives and the lives of others. Good choices can lead to good outcomes, and alternatively when we make choices we know to be disobedient, there will probably be natural consequences of those choices, and we are called to repent. However, the redemption story God writes cannot be rewritten by our choices. We will be held accountable for our choices, yes, but God is bigger than our choices, so they cannot trump God’s overarching plan. Isaiah 46:9–10 clearly illustrates God’s sovereignty over our stories:

Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. I make known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come. I say, “My purpose will stand, and I will do all that I please.”

The Burden of a Theology of Good Choices

It is vital to really think through these truths and consider whether or not we actually live as if we believe them. Think about Romans 8:28. It’s one of those “feel-good verses.” It may hang cross-stitched and framed over your mantle or scrawled on a sticky note on your bathroom mirror. You may nod your head in agreement as you recite, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” But if we’re honest, a more accurate version that has infiltrated so many hearts, minds, and pulpits is this: “And we know that for those who are faithful and diligent to do as they have been taught, all things will work out pretty closely to their pictures of what is good for them and those they love.” Or put more simply: “I do my best, and then Jesus does the rest.”

But what if you don’t do your best? What if you don’t know what best is? What if you thought you were doing what was best but you were wrong? What if you did your best but people or circumstances messed it up? Or what if you knew perfectly well what was best and then chose not to do it? What then?

Think right now of a decision you made or one someone else made that affected you, or consider an event you feel altered the course of your life and pushed your reality far from the picture you desired. As you imagine the scene in your head, where is the God of the verses above? Where is He? Is He standing off to the side of the scene, watching and wringing His hands with helpless concern? Or does He have His arms crossed, a look of disgust on His face?

Is He nowhere at all?

This exercise may feel uncomfortable. I know life can be cruel, and the memories that just popped into your head may be terribly dark and painful. They may dredge up shame, bitterness, or confusion. It’s not easy to think about things you would rather forget. My intention in asking the questions above is to get you out of your head knowledge and help you see more clearly the way you actually view God.

As you think through these questions, what is happening in your body? Is your stomach tightening? Has your pulse quickened? Is your mind beginning to race? Pay close attention to these sensations because your body is trying to tell you what your heart does not want to admit. This is what it feels like to operate under the old yoke. Though your mind says, “God is in control, and He knows what is best,” your anxiety, racing thoughts, and frantic attempt to align life with the picture in your mind reflect a different theology altogether. “I have to get this right, or I’ll never attain what is best. I’ll be stuck on Plan B . . . or worse.”

If it is all up to you, I don’t blame you for not sleeping at night. I don’t blame you for pushing yourself and everyone around you so hard. If it’s all up to you, God must be on the sidelines instead of next to you in the yoke. He must have His clipboard in hand, yelling, “Make Me proud—the family name is at stake,” as He watches your performance with scrutinizing eyes. If it is all up to you to get it right, you cannot possibly rest. Too much is at stake.

Life under the weight of the theology of good choices is spiritually crippling. We think we can only feel His presence when life is moving closer to our picture. We only acknowledge He has answered our prayers when He gives us what we think we must have. Consequentially, if we are far from our desired picture, then someone got it wrong, either Him or us. We blame Him for not answering, or we shame ourselves for not doing what we should have done so that He would answer. We tumble through this cycle of shame and blame, shame and blame, our hearts increasing in bitterness with each rotation.

Gerald May, in his book Addiction and Grace, says:

In our society, we have come to believe that discomfort always means something is wrong. We are conditioned to believe that feelings of distress, pain, deprivation, yearning, and longing mean something is wrong with the way we are living our lives. Conversely, we are convicted that a rightly lived life give us serenity, completion, and fulfillment. Comfort means “right” and distress means “wrong.” The influence of such convictions is stifling to the human spirit.

When we repent of this false theology of good choices, we move from our orphan mentality and behavior to come under the yoke of Christ. “Take it,” He offers. He is handing us rest—real rest—but receiving it requires us to release our tight grip on our picture and surrender to His larger picture. To take Christ’s yoke is to believe that no matter what circumstance we find ourselves in, and no matter how we got there, we remain in His picture of what is good for us. He defines good not by our picture but by His. He promises His presence with us as He works His purposes in our lives—and those purposes cannot be thwarted.

Coming under the yoke of Christ begins with a change of focus. When life takes a turn away from what we desire, our response should shift from “What do I do now?” to “What are You doing now, and what is my role in Your purposes?” The responsibility to make life work is no longer on our shoulders; instead, we are invited to play a role in what He is doing.

The Confusion of Role and Responsibility

So much of our anxiety in life can be relieved if we have a clear understanding of the difference between role and responsibility.

ROLE: My part in a desired outcome that cannot be achieved without the cooperation of another person and/or circumstance.

RESPONSIBILITY: My part in a desired outcome over which I have complete control.

I see countless well-meaning yet frantic couples in my office who have confused role and responsibility. They assume their responsibility as parents is to ensure their children become successful adults. Of course, their definition of successful is simply their picture of what they think their children should be as adults. This picture usually includes saving faith, a worthy occupation, marriage to a wonderful partner, and lots of grandkids. There’s nothing wrong with that picture. As a matter of fact, it closely resembles my own picture for my children. But can I define this outcome as my responsibility? Only if I have complete control, which I do not. Too many other factors are at play.

Like so many of my clients, I will readily tell you I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I do not have control over my children’s lives. And yet, when my picture for my children is threatened, I can demonstrate some crazy behavior suggesting otherwise. When my son missed basketball tryouts because I lost the sign-up sheet or when my daughter had to have her earring surgically removed because I failed to make sure she was following post-piercing protocol, my confusion over role and responsibility sent me to the depths of despair. I believed my son would never find his place in his new school because he wouldn’t be on the team, and I assumed my daughter would have an irrational fear of earrings for the rest of her life. And guess what? It would be all my fault . . . or so I thought.

If those predictions had come true (they didn’t), it would be absolutely correct to say I had a role in those outcomes. However, they could not have come true without the influence of certain circumstances and actions that were beyond my control. I would have had a role in those outcomes, but they would not have been my responsibility. I would have needed to confess my negligence and ask God to strengthen the areas in which my parenting and organizational skills were weak, but my actions could not have rewritten God’s story for their lives. I’m not that important. None of us is.

This was a lesson I had to learn on a much larger scale during a particularly dark time in my life, a season in which my faith could have been destroyed if I had not come to grips with the difference between role and responsibility. It was fall 2012, and I was enjoying a life that was pretty close to my picture. My counseling partner and I had just opened a counseling ministry. I was in the middle of teaching a Bible study that was being filmed for nationwide distribution. My son had graduated from college and was pursuing his career in California. My husband loved his job. My daughters were doing well in school. Everything was on track.

Then one day, out of the blue, reality took a sharp detour further away from my picture than I had ever experienced.

It began with a phone call from my son. He had noticed a lump growing under his arm and decided to get it checked out. He called to say his doctor was sending him for an immediate ultrasound. My world started to tilt. My picture started to shake. Two days and many tests later, my picture was shattered completely with his diagnosis of B-cell non-Hodgkin lymphoma.

Our family was thrust into a world of huge decisions and a new cancer language we neither spoke nor understood. A well-meaning friend who was a cancer survivor said, “You have to get him treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. They have the cutting-edge technology he needs.” This would have been good advice if his insurance had been accepted at Cedars-Sinai, but it wasn’t; only the smaller hospital nearby would cover his treatment. Fueled by my belief that my son’s treatment would determine his outcome, the voices in my head were deafening: “A good mother would do whatever she had to do to secure the absolute best care for her child. Mortgage her house. Sell her hair. Sell her blood. Whatever it takes.”

Somehow, in the fog of cancer war, saving my son’s life became my responsibility.

We consulted with two oncologists who both confirmed my son’s treatment was standard, and he would get the same treatment no matter which hospital he went to. We arranged for him to be treated at the smaller hospital that took his insurance. The night before my son was scheduled to begin chemo, he got a phone call from his doctor.

“Listen, I didn’t feel completely comfortable with your pathology report, so I sent your scans to a lymphoma specialist. You don’t actually have lymphoma B. This doctor confirmed you actually have Burkitt’s lymphoma, a cancer so rare and dangerous that we can’t treat you here. We need to completely change your treatment plan and send you to Cedars-Sinai.”

Had this error not been caught, my son’s cancer would have responded to the original treatment very quickly because that is what Burkitt’s does. However, it probably would have returned with a vengeance in his brain and spine. My son’s prognosis would not have been good.

Would that have been my responsibility? After all, I didn’t listen to my friend, the cancer survivor. I didn’t research enough to know about the lymphoma expert to whom his doctor sent the report. When my son’s original diagnosis and treatment plan were presented to us, I did not demand that the doctor run the lab work again. I didn’t read any books by cancer survivors. Some might say I had failed. And yet, God spared him. Did I have a role in my son’s health? Yes. I had a role in securing the best care for him. But it was God’s responsibility to give him what he needed, and His best for my son at that time was to direct him to the treatment that would save his life.

I know what you’re thinking. This story is conveniently easy to tell because your son is still alive.

You’re right. And I’m grateful. But had I lost my son that year, I would tell you today that neither my son’s life nor his death was my responsibility because that is a burden God never intended for anyone to bear. To carry a load only meant for the Father would most certainly crush me. Instead, I would pray for faith to cling to the truth that the Father always gives us what we need, whether in life or in death.

I realize how hard this is to hear. It’s hard for me to say. I have shared this story in front of a woman whose husband had the same treatment as my son, but her husband died. I do not pretend to understand why. I don’t know why. It’s not OK, and pat assurances that “it will all work out in the end because we know who is on the throne” fall flat for people who are in great pain. Sometimes I scream at the Father because suffering is horrible, and I don’t know why some are spared and some are not. God does not ask us to be happy with life outside our pictures; that’s not what faith is about. Faith strains to see His face. Faith screams and claws and fights its way to the surface, demanding, “You say You’re good. Show me! Open my eyes so I can see You in this dark place.”

My son’s chemo took him to the brink of death. His face was bloated; his skin was gray. He had no hair, and he had to fight just to breathe. This child I birthed became unrecognizable to me. To add insult to injury, he lost his job, with no prospects in sight, because you can imagine how hirable a cancer patient is.

I remember leaving the hospital and sitting in my hotel room. I was still reeling from my son’s grave appearance. I was terrified he wouldn’t find another job and would have to pay for his treatment out of pocket. In the weakest voice I whispered, “Where are You? Show me Your presence, God. What are You doing here? Show me.”

He Is in This, and He Is in Me

In that frail moment, I put on new glasses with the two crucial lenses that are the foundation of Christ’s easy and light yoke: He is in this, and He is in me.

First, He is in this. My son’s sickness. The loss of his job. Sin and sickness do not thwart the plan of God. He is here, and His purposes will prevail. And secondly, He is in me. “His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life” (2 Peter 1:3). This means God has fully equipped me for whatever comes into my life, even my son’s cancer.

I wanted to scream, “You’ve given me everything I need? Are you sure, God? Because I’m pretty sure I was standing in the Diet Coke line the day You handed out the maturity gene. I’m mouthy and high maintenance, and I do not do crisis well.”

Yet, in a silent California hotel room, broken by my son’s brokenness, I had all I needed.

Can you put those glasses on? I know you don’t want to. I know it’s scary. It may take a sheer act of will in the midst of your pain and confusion, but set those glasses on top of your nose, and hold them in place because they tend to fall off easily. When your picture starts to shake, when you look at the mess you have made of things, when the brokenness of the world touches your life with searing pain, fight to keep those lenses in place. He is in this, and He is in me. If I had not been able to wear those glasses as I stared my son’s potential death in the face, I don’t think I would have survived it.

I am sorry to say the glasses don’t fix everything. Wearing the glasses won’t change your circumstances, and they won’t ensure you will be happy about whatever adversity you’re facing. But they allow you to view life from God’s perspective. We serve a powerful and sovereign God who only acts for our good and His glory, and when we believe He is in this—whatever this may be—it causes us to look hard for Him when we probably would not have otherwise. We see glimpses of His kindness and commitment to our holiness; we see ways He is changing us for the better. Wearing the glasses makes us free-er. Free-ish. And if you have ever been in great pain, you know that being free-ish, even for a few minutes at a time, is a lifeline. Manna for the moment. In that small moment, choosing to trust in the character of the God who never changes is enough to get you to the next moment.

He is in this; He is in me.

If God can enable a woman like me, who always believed the lie that she was too immature to face a crisis, to put on those glasses as I walked through the worst season of my life, then He can do it for you too. No matter how dark your own season is. And if you’re not facing a significant crisis right now? Use the smaller irritations of life to engage with God over what you really believe about Him, and practice making that very conscious choice to pick up those glasses and put them on.

Your kid didn’t make the team? He is in this; He is in me.

Your husband arrived home late from work three nights in a row? He is in this; He is in me.

You didn’t get the promotion? He is in this; He is in me.

When you blow it with your kids again, when you think you’re making the right decision and it backfires, when you’re tempted to believe there is no way God can redeem the mess you’ve made out of life: He is in this; He is in me.

Practice over and over again the discipline of surrendering your smaller pictures to God’s greater picture through the lenses of “He is in this; He is in me.” Choose through the small annoyances and the immense tragedies of life to believe that inside or outside of your picture of how you think life should go, God’s greater picture remains. No good or bad choices of ours, and no good or bad choices of others, can ever change that. We are His, and He is for us. End of story. Does that make you feel free-er? Free-ish? That is what it feels like to take on Christ’s light and easy yoke. Put it on again and again, moment by moment. One time is not enough, because we so quickly forget.

He is in this and He is in me, whether or not A plus B equals C. No circumstance or person can ever change that, praise God.

Process Questions

1. Describe the theology of good choices.

2. How do you see this theology playing out in your life when you get your picture? How about when you don’t get your picture?

3. Is there an area in your life where you feel as though you’ve blown it and you are now on Plan B?

4. In the examples you gave for questions two and three, what did you believe about God that caused you to buy into the false theology of good choices? Spend some time repenting of these assumptions, and repent of your unbelief in the gospel.

5. Meditate on Romans 8:28–29. How does God define what is good for you? Is it you getting your picture, or is it something bigger than that? Pay attention to how your answer makes you feel (anxious, fearful, hopeful, confused, etc.). Take those feelings to the Lord, and ask Him to help you believe and rest in His promise to work all things for your good, as He defines good.

6. In what area of your life do you especially need help believing that “He is in this, and He is in me?” Ask God to help you view your circumstances through these lenses.