Call Me Ephraim

Genesis 41:51-52

Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, “God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.” Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, “God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.”

First off, let’s recognize the great white whale in the room.

Life is unfairly hard.

{Agreed.}

Yet God is deliberately good and kind.

There’s a well-known story in the Written Word that goes like this: a younger son is lost in a far country and father dutifully waits for his return. At long last when the day of reunion comes, father falls on his long-lost son’s neck and weeps for joy after which a grand family party ensues.

You know the tune.

Or at least you think you do.

This particular plot is found in the Old Testament not the New. It’s about Joseph, who, by character and demeanor, is a far cry from that other young son who actually chose the far country.

Let’s briefly recap Joseph’s story in the light of that famous chestnut ‘bad things happen to good people’ as it easily applies here.

Young Joseph has a quality his sibling brothers do not share and their father recognizes it and dresses him in a special robe. The Hebrew doesn’t have to mean multi-colored, it can mean long-sleeved. At any rate, it was fit for a prince among tribesmen, and the brothers hated him for it; that, and those self-serving made-up dreams.

They concoct a scheme to kill him off, but Judah steps in and, ostensibly out of some measure of mercy for the lad, edits the storyline to look like a killing when, in actuality, they sell off their brother to a migratory tribe. The final nail involved dipping the blasted coat in animal blood and – Oscar-worthily – presenting it most forlornly to their inconsolable father.

Meanwhile, Joseph, after being sold yet again, lands on his feet by the sheer grace of God. He gets a gig managing the household of the head-dude of Pharaoh’s security detail!

Now, if I’m writing the story, I’m going to exact poetic justice right away. I’m going to have Joseph quickly rising through the ranks and becoming da man in Egypt. His brothers would be sorry, especially when Emperor Joe sent an insertion team into Canaan-land to extract his siblings and throw them at the foot of his throne of justice.

But that’s just me.

We know that God holds the pen, however, and He’s got some things to redeem out of Joseph before He can move on with His ultimate plan.

God doesn’t want Joseph to even toy with the ideas of retribution and payback. He can’t have His man gloating or dismissive. He needs him to be His savior even to the very ones who despised him!

That’s how God writes it.

Joseph’s very cush world gets upended when the boss’s wife cries “rape!” after her repeated (re: daily) attempts to seduce the teenage boy go unrequited, and he suddenly becomes the target of the adage hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Hello hell-hole prison.

For thirteen long, dark, harrowing years.

Forsaken? Forgotten? For what?

▶️ The good son.

▶️ The trusted employee.

▶️ The innocent charge.

You’d think he’d emerge from prison poisoned by bitterness with bloodlustful payback on his mind. Or, at the very least, go to his grave with unyielding unforgiveness brewing his tempest in a teapot. And you’d guess wrong.

Case in point (and I’m skipping over a lot of really cool poetic justice here): Joseph, sentence miraculously commuted, settles into life, settles down with a beautiful bride, and starts a family. Life’s good.

He is given two sons, and the very naming of them speaks volumes of his understanding how life is supposed to work when trust trumps blame and compliance bests complaint.

Joseph insists his firstborn be called “folly forgotten” and his second, “fruitful hardship”. Imagine! James M. Boice points out the order had to be thus for

“no one can really be fruitful until the past is forgotten in the proper sense. If we are living in the past, whether that is the past of unconfessed sin, hurts, suffering, or even old blessings, we will never be completely fruitful in the present. We must let the past be the past, forgetting it, and go on with God.”

It’s the name of the second-born (Ephraim) I’d like to comment on because it’s so my own story.

In each decade since my early 20’s I’ve faced death in one way or another. Some decades brought me to the brink more than once.

Most recently I was spirited from my home in the middle of the night by EMT’s who couldn’t find vital signs. I was septic, dehydrated, losing vision, and barely responsive. Later I’d be told I got to the ER in barely enough time or we’d be looking at a far different outcome. I didn’t ask what that meant but I have a good idea.

I’m in my mid-fifties and this is the third time in this half-decade God’s miraculously preserved my life, I can only presume, for more ‘preservation of life.’¹There are still some assignments ahead for me.

As a 21-year old I prayed, “Lord, put me in a fire and don’t ever let up.” As such, suffering has been the mark of my life – AND I WOULDNT CHANGE A THING. Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I’ve found a depth of intimacy with Christ I wouldn’t have found otherwise.

Like Joseph, I want the product of my life to tell the story that I’m doubly blessed and fruitful from all my afflictions, and God has been doubly kind to allow me the privilege of suffering for His glory and name.

This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all my life long:

Praise God for loss.
Praise God for the fire.
Praise God for heart-brokenness.
Praise God for weakness.
Praise God for humility.
Praise God for the tough times.
Praise God for the sweetness of the fruit that grows from the soil of hardship.

If any of this sounds weird, it’s only because I’m trying to live up to my name. You can call me Ephraim.

¹ Genesis 45:5,7

Still We Grieve and That’s Okay

I’m wondering, is there a statute of limitations on mourning?

(Asking for a friend.)

In the hurry-scurry bustle of Christmas the one thing you don’t plan on is burying your only child. That happened to us two Christmases ago.

On a cold December Sunday, in a driving rainstorm so bad we couldn’t even get out of our vehicle, Sandy and I could only watch through blurred windows as the workers lowered our 24-year-old son into the maw of earth. No minister. No ashes to ashes. No seated family as mourners filed by. No quiet assurances. No formal farewell.

There’d been the indoor service already but this was perversely anticlimactic. Sure, we’d had our private goodbyes in the viewing room before the lid was soundly shut, but this – this! – was morose. It was a scene straight out of Copperfield.

And with the caretaker’s back turned to us, busying himself with straps and pulleys, we unceremoniously drove away, leaving him to it. The surging rain protested even more loudly against the metal of the van as we pulled out into traffic.

• • • •

Someone quipped, “God gave us memories so we can have roses in December.” But what if December’s garden shears separate bloom from stem? What, then, is left?

In a single week Sandy felt ambushed by a doctor who suggested counseling (not a support group, mind you, but a shrink), a well-meaning associate (being kind) who bluntly chastised her for not letting it go, and someone even closer who wondered if it might not be time to move on. That was eleven months ago…when Graham had only been covered in earth for a year. A setback, but she powered through by grace.

I, too, have had my moments. Only recently, I had a horrible, terrible, very bad Thanksgiving Day, and, full disclosure, let me tell you why. It was the first holiday where Graham’s name was not mentioned at all by family and friends. But that’s not on them! It’s normal, it fits our patterns and protocols. Really, it’s almost been two years after all. I assure you, it didn’t take me to a dark place of bitterness against anyone, it just made me mindful of the too-soon (for us) end of an era.

Only, it’s not yet over for us, sorry. We’ll continue to keep our distance for awhile longer, but not because we’re loathe to move on. We just need space to grieve. And that’s okay – because in our mourning we’re becoming better worshippers.

Do I grieve for December 16, 2013 and how it all fell out on that day? Some, of course, but mostly what happens after that day. Not seeing Graham win over his demonic addictions and become my best friend through life, no family photos, no grandkids to spoil, no future milestones to celebrate. That’s why they call it losing a loved one, I suppose. There’s so much more you’re forced to give up than a person.

• • • •

When I shared with Sandy what I was going to say in this post, she balked at first. What if everyone thinks we’re depressed? What if they worry after us? Worse, what if they think we think they let us down? Egads, what if a council calls us in?

She said none of those things, of course, but they were hanging there still, unsaid, between us.

So I quickly cantered, explaining it’d be like one of David’s most depressing psalms: starts off all woeful, dark, and hopeless but lands where the Lord always shepherds the troubled who lean into Him real hard. With promise and praise.

No pity, please. We’re not sitting over here needing stroking and tons of cards. (But money, money’s okay.)

😊

We’re good. We’re so good. All is well. Promise.

And this is what we’ve learned so far on our short journey:

Closure is pure psychobabble. Grief is good, for the Lord is most tender with the broken-hearted and that’s a good thing to live with. He isn’t wanting to fix you, He wants to heal you. There’s a difference. One is mechanical, lacking artistry, the other is relational, a long-term, hands-on, intimate shaping process.
Every time you turn to Him for comfort and lay down your arms of accusation, or stiff-arm of inconsolability, He will show you more of Himself – and that will more than suffice even when you’re all too aware of what you’ve lost.
Life tends to shrink and become simpler when you’ve endured a greater loss than anything you’ve ever had to give up. When everyone gets up in arms over the news, or exasperatingly goes after the next new thing, the ones left standing in the wake of such loss – whether long ago or last year – prefer a saner, more quiet place of vigil. They turn to a truer reality. It’s the only thing that will get them through.
While those whose hope and stay is with the One who invented resurrection and life learns to gain a long-view of hope, it’s equally important to know that His Plan unfolds in tiny unimportant moments where you’ll miss heaven on earth if you’re not paying attention. Life is a mist, mortality is an exact science, and tomorrow is a year away. Suck all the marrow out of today. Shorten your pace, lower your arms, be present, and listen for the hum of the homeland in the right now.
Finally, not because it’s the end of our lessons, rather for the sake of your attention span, we’re learning to give people and their issues a wider berth, a more grace-filled response, and, because of our son’s story, refusing to concede too quickly their fate by writing them off. (Not naming names, but I need a lot more work in this area.)

These aren’t losses, but gains. And these are the greater blessings that come through our extended season of bereavement, so we’re not looking to end it too soon.

There’s sooo much more to learn.

And, so, we’ll soldier on, and we’ll still grieve.

And that’s okay.

Advent Podcast #2: God With Us Misfits

Advent Cry: Why are You so interested in me?

Can you relate?

“…As she nears the well with fevered thoughts she pulls up because there is a Man who appears to know she’s arriving.

It’s as if He’s waiting there for her.

She gingerly steps toward Him, taking note the look of bemusement on His face. What strikes her most is He is most obviously a Jew.

And He’s standing right where she needs to go!

…This week, on the Pasture’s Podcast.

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