.010 The Question and Space of "Why"

I spend a large portion of my week taking care of children. Just over two months ago I was learning from slideshows and lecture notes, and now I've gone straight back to the basics. These smart, wild, hilarious little humans have a way of opening my perspective through their raw honesty and mistakes. They always surprise me with their perceptive questions and the way I learn about life when I spend time with them.

I'm trying to teach one of these boys that other people can't read his mind. He has a very distinct vision of how he thinks things should go, mostly in the world of his imagination, and if we unintentionally mess with that, the world crumbles. We go from carefree bliss to emergency situation in less than two seconds. It keeps us alert, to say the least. We're working on it.

It reminds me of myself, sometimes. In my head I have all of these dreams and goals and I have a general plan about how to get there. I can get ahead of myself, though. I can write out my future like it is fact, rather than remembering that life is unpredictable and, really, nothing goes exactly according to plan.

It is easy to get upset when your plan changes, though. When you think you are on one track and suddenly it seems to swing completely off course, it is easy to switch into emergency mode. When you are so focused in one direction, it is hard to imagine that another way can possibly exist. When we're stuck in that place, the first question to hit the air is usually "why."

 Why me? Why this? Why now?

Why. Why. Why. It can drive your mind in circles.

The space of "why" is a tough one because there aren't really any rules of how to navigate it. I've been thinking over this one for a long time. The other day (and this is going to completely expose the nerdy, boring things I sometimes do in my spare time) I was reading through one of my English criticism textbooks, and I came across a chapter that talks about how to read intelligently and critically. Suddenly, the dots connected and I realized that what I was reading directly related to working through the space of "why."

So lesson #1: do not discount the wisdom of your textbooks. They have a reputation for being dry and boring but once in a while they contain slices of profound truth.

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In English criticism, we talk about three ways that we can interpret meaning from a text. One way is to try to guess what the author is trying to communicate, as if there was another hidden layer to the text. This angle tries to come up with some deeper meaning to the text based on what the author might be indirectly saying.

The second way we can read a text is to create our own meaning. We all have experiences in our lives that sometimes connect to something we are reading and, because of that, the text can mean something very individual to us. The author probably didn't write it thinking of your exact situation, but the way you read it is interpreted through the lens of your circumstances or your life or however you are choosing to personalize it.

The third way is to just look at the text itself. We don't cloud things over with trying to figure out what the author was trying to say and we don't add our own experiences into the text. We take it at face value. The text is the text in its raw form.

What I mean by all the above is that there are three things involved when we encounter a text: the author, the reader, and the text itself. In the same way, when we are analyzing our life circumstances- and I'm going to talk from a Christian perspective, here- there are three things involved: God, you, and the situation. You can take this to three different extremes if you follow one singular approach.

1. God (in place of the author): We can try to understand God too much. We can overanalyze and attempt to tease out a metaphysical reason for what we are going through. We wrestle with pinpointing exactly what God is up to. We sometimes chase "signs" or assign a deeper meaning to mundane instances. In this place, we say things like: "maybe God is doing this because of..." or "if this happens, that must mean...." We don't know God's mind, though. We can only see what we are given in the present circumstance.

2. You (in place of the reader): In this extreme, the focus is all on you. You must have done something to deserve this. You made a mistake. It's all your fault. This circumstance is happening specifically to you because it is a punishment or a consequence. You burden yourself. You turn all the connecting incidents into some kind of link in a chain. It's all on you.

3. The situation (in place of the text): This is where the situation becomes everything. It is all you can think about. It blows up to an overwhelming and disproportionate size. Suddenly everything is affected by what is happening. You can't see God and you can't see yourself or anything else properly beyond what is happening to you in the moment.

So what are you to do? You're hashing through the nasty space of "why." How do you get through it?

Two things. First, I'm a person who values balance and I think that one approach, both in literary criticism and in life, can be restricting. I think that we have to learn to develop a balance of looking at God, you, and the situation as described above. That means building up a layer of prayer and talking to wise people and looking deeper at yourself. It means asking hard questions or maybe allowing yourself to grieve or listen openly. You, God, the situation- you've got to circle the angles to grasp a full picture.

Second. In my textbook, I came across a list of questions to consider when we, as students, approach a reading. Two questions seemed appropriate to ask while working through a tough spot in your life as well. I substituted the word "situation" for "text":

Question #1: Is the piece of the situation you are looking at the whole of the situation?

Often we start to ask "why" while we are in a period of waiting. We don't know the outcome yet, so we frantically try to build up something solid to stand on. We like security. We fear the unknown. We try to create stability through probing for understanding. This is where the "why" question is rooted.

When the boy I'm babysitting has a meltdown, it is often because he only sees a part of the whole. He only sees a slice of the overarching picture, whether that is because of a narrow perspective or intense emotion or whatever. He often gets so wrapped up in a detail that he cannot see beyond the present moment or what he is feeling at that second. If he would quit locking onto the little thing that is frustrating him, he would probably see that we're not all against him, or that the situation is actually fair, or that he's just hungry and that is why he's in a bad mood.

So maybe you are only seeing a part of the whole right now. Yes, that part can be absolutely painful sometimes. You might have to pause and grieve or yell or breathe sometimes. You might feel like you are crawling through. At that moment, someone telling you that "this too shall pass" might not sound helpful. The truth is, though, that you are where you are and you are probably not at the end yet. That end might make sense and reveal a reason for the situation, or you might get to the end and still not really understand why it happened. You might understand more about yourself or about God because of it, though. That doesn't exactly make it better or always worth going through, but it can develop you as a person. There is much of the road to walk, still.


Question #2: Do aspects of the situation have obvious connection? (parallels, contrasts, irony)

This question might not help you find out why, but it might help develop your character through the "why" season. The way this happens for me is that usually when I go through hard situations, it teases out a part of my character that I need to work on. (Examples: assertiveness, leadership, integrity, relationships, self-confidence, trust, etc)

As time goes on, I'll notice that I keep coming up against places where these weaknesses get tested. These are the parallels and contrasts- and I have the choice to figure out how to become better in these places, or to sit back and stay the same.

For example, in grade 12 I knew that I had leadership skills that I was simply allowing to stay dormant. I also knew that I was letting myself be quiet and shy in a very selfish way. Then I was voted to be co-editor of a student literary journal near the end of first term. That prospect absolutely terrified me. It meant speaking up and making decisions and having opinions and managing teams of people. I wanted to stay in the background with all of my heart. I almost laughed when I found out because it was the exact thing that I didn't want to have happen to me (irony). The situation presented itself at the same time as I was wrestling with some of my own (directly related) insecurities and I knew that it couldn't be just a total coincidence.

I could have said no. However, I knew that this was an opportunity to develop my character. I knew there was potential there, as terrifying as it was. I knew there was a high risk of failure. I also knew that, realistically, I'd probably make some mistakes, learn from them, and make it through. So I said yes. That experience changed me in profound ways. It was uncomfortable and stretching and stressful at times, but on the other side I gained confidence, a better sense of how to be a leader, new friends, and so much more.

Of course, I had a choice in that example. Sometimes we find ourselves tossed into places that we never would have signed up for voluntarily and we can't get out of it. But you can find a way to get through it. I refuse to say "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" but there is a reason that phrase is as cliche as it is. There is a wisp of truth in it.

In some situations, though, that phrase is almost insulting. In the middle of deep grief or a disaster, it doesn't help to think that this is all for a reason. You don't need reasons or rational answers at that point. You need people to surround you and you need space to allow yourself to grieve and heal.

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Finally, aside from those questions, a little wisdom for the journey from English criticism, slightly paraphrased by me.

"It is probably best not to interrupt your reading to work more mechanically through a checklist of questions. Better, in such circumstances, to refer to such a list after. At a later stage in your thinking, you may be able to fill out your ideas by comparing the viewpoint you have developed with other perspectives..." (18)

What does this have to do with anything? Well, usually we ask the question "why" when we are right in the middle of a hard place. We stop and want answers. We demand clarity. The problem is that we aren't at the end yet. Usually things make more sense when we look over our shoulders. Sometimes we just can't know why at the time because it would just confuse us or overwhelm us more. We don't often get clarity through banners in the sky, as nice as that would be. Usually "why" gets answered "at a later stage" when our perspective has changed enough to understand it.

To gain understanding, you must move forward. You might be sprinting or limping or even crawling. You might even have to pause and be still or get yourself together, but you must move forward somehow. Clarity will come: although sometimes the clarity we want isn't the "clarity" we get in the end.

"Finally, how can you deal with having no information with which to answer a given question?

First, you should not see this as a permanent setback; a question in need of an answer identifies something specific to look into, and there are many ways of finding things out.

For many questions we ask, no single, definitive answer exists; only a range of answers put forward by other people who have asked and investigated the same questions before. Such answers may be immensely informative and insightful.

Reading for 'meaning' is a matter of interpretation rather than tracking down a single correct answer" (18-19)


Sometimes there is no reason why. Sometimes bad things simply happen. It's not you. It's not God punishing you. It is simply the ugly, broken, unfair world we live in. I mean that with the deepest sympathy.

"There are many ways of finding things out." It might be a phrase you read. It could be a picture or an event or any kind of epiphany. "Why" isn't a bad question to ask. It just isn't the last question you should ask. There are many ways to gain an answer. There are many questions other than "why."

There are older, wiser people who have walked the road before you. Seek out those people, ask honest questions, and value their responses. It might not give you solid answers, but it can give you an idea of how to move forward, or even just the comfort of solidarity. It is community that helps us through these hard spots.

What this all comes down to is that the answers are not always the most important thing. Answers aren't always the comfort we are seeking. The journey is the substance.

Sometimes the answers come quietly, ushered in with the small grace of today.


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When you ask "why," what you really want is a road map. You want to see what is next. You want to know you'll be ok. You want to grab onto something solid while the ground is shifting and rocking underneath you.

In a way, we're all like the seven year old having a meltdown when something doesn't go our way because, when we are reminded that security is often an illusion, our lack of control scares us. Instead of dissolving into a panic, though, what is more helpful is learning how to work through the situation. Just like the seven year old who needs space and time and discipline in order to work through the problem, we might need to learn to be flexible, or change an old habit, or simply allow ourselves gentle space to process what is going on and make a new plan.

I've always been taught to take things one day at a time. So today, look at what you have and start there. The "why" will work itself out as the days stack up, and one day in the future you'll look over your shoulder and realize that you made it through.

Sometimes, in that place, "why" doesn't even matter so much anymore.






The textbook:

Montgomery, Martin, et al. Ways of Reading: Advanced Reading Skills for Students of English Literature New York: Routledge, 2013. Print.

Navigating the Sacred and the Secular as a Student

I'm writing an essay at the moment for an English class at school and the main themes of the essay, the main ideas that I've been kneading out lately, are the intricacies of the body, the spirit, and the mind. I've been thinking over basic questions like "what does it mean to be human?" and "what is this empty space in our spirit that propels us to search for meaning and fulfillment?"

Of course, as a Christian, I have the easy, Sunday school answer to these questions: Jesus.

And yet, I'm still wrestling with the themes in these texts I'm analyzing. There is a fundamental lack of hope and a cry of desperation ringing in them. They are wrung through with rebellion. The main characters are lost souls searching for love and fulfillment and meaning in all of the wrong places. The texts deal with a burning anger toward Capitalism, absent fathers, injustice, and an overall sense of numbness and despair.

I can't gloss over these themes and write an upbeat, optimistic essay that preaches "These people just need to become Christians and all of their problems will be solved." Of course I believe that Christianity and belief in Christ is what offers us hope and joy and life and everlasting peace. Of course I believe at the very core of myself that all these gaps are the absence of God, that these people are lost and searching and I know what they are searching for. I know what could redeem these stories, these poems, these films.

The problem with being a Christian at a secular University, studying secular literature with rough edges and gaping questions, is that not all the edges are pinned down so neatly. (Frankly, I don't want to pin them down so neatly, either). There is no opportunity for me to bend these texts in a way that points to Christianity and Jesus without sounding superficial or judgmental. It wouldn't be appropriate to slide in a "Christian perspective" paragraph at the end that neatly boxes the whole package into a compartment of hope and cozy theology.

This is an essay of analysis, not opinion. I don't write everything for school with a Christian slant by any means, but lately I've decided to critically look at how I can have a strong voice in the world of secular academics and literature without slipping into a safe category of "inspirational," or kicking every topic toward the same theme.

I believe that Christian literature and writing has its place (hence this whole blog and the foundation of most of my own personal writing), but I've also been thinking about how to expand my reach, my arena, my worldview. I don't think that every Christian has to get a Christian job or go to a Christian school. These are options that must be critically assessed. For some, these areas will be the perfect fit. That will be the place where they thrive and grow and bless and minister in the best way. For others, though, being strapped to the Christian bubble beyond their church community will be restrictive, unrealistic, or suffocating to them. Some people will weave in and out of both circles.

What am I trying to say?

As Christians, there is a delicate balance between becoming immersed and connected within a solid community of believers, and engaging beyond ourselves. Both are extremely important to pursue. However, there are sometimes grey areas between allowing our faith to propel our love, our values, and our opinions, and brushing up against, or creating the perception of, manipulation, judgement, or exclusion through our actions, our art, and our words, both written and spoken (even if it is unintentional). Is it fear or comfort that is binding us to our Christian circles, or is it the foundation of community, a passion that thrives best there, or a genuine calling?

As I said before, I don't write all of my essays through a Christian funnel, but I've been realizing that I am standing in a unique position right now as a student and a young adult. I should think about how my beliefs colour my studies, my relationships, and my work, especially my creative work. I've become aware that I have a voice and that is both a privilege and a humbling responsibility. I'm beginning to see this seam between the sacred and the secular more clearly than ever now. In some ways, I've witnessed a skillful and loving bridging of the two, in other ways, I still see a clear divide, and, in a few contexts, I've found a dilution of one into the other that mixes contradictions to produce a confusion of loyalties.

So this is the wild mess that I am picking through right now. I have a fairly clear vision of the road that I am personally walking, but I don't want to overlook new lessons I can learn here and now. I have no easy answers, except to navigate these issues through prayer and to continually align my focus through reading the Bible, becoming familiar with Jesus' character, and following in his footsteps. I want to remain discerning, malleable, open-minded, yet anchored, as I ask questions, press deeper, and wander through this journey we call the Christian life. It's a tangle of brokenness and hope.

Slow Release

Last week was a hazy sweep of work, laughter, emotion and action. The days smudged together and time warped and Friday night was so welcome. The week exhaled to a close.

I've been thinking about Lent in between all of the chaos. I have a few blog posts written and saved in a document on my laptop that wander through my thoughts about Lent, but none of them seemed authentic enough to share.

Last year, I engaged in Lent for one of the first times and it altered something in me on a very deep level. It taught me about looking outward rather than inward. It taught me about trust and prayer and walking on the edge of wonder and anticipation.

I prayed for five different people over the forty days of Lent. I didn't decide to do this because of Lent, but it happened to come up around the same time, so I ran parallel to it, grafting myself into the practice. The five people didn't know that I was praying for them, but I saw very direct and clear answers to my prayers manifested in their lives. Something fresh and rich grew up in me during that time and I point to that season as one of the most healthy and vibrant periods in my life.

I wanted to recreate that experience again this year. I wanted to have a focus and a direction and, to be honest, a cool story to tell about it. I've been trying to bend myself into Lent by attempting to find something meaningful to give up. Lent has already started and I still haven't pinpointed what to go without.

What is really resonating in my spirit right now is a quiet "wait for me." I think that I might simply need to use this Lenten season to sit and wait in expectation for God. Something in me pushes back against this. I don't want to wait. I want to see. I want to experience. I want the miracle and the transformation right now.

On the weekend, I engaged in a worship session that brushed up against a callous place in me. I realized that, somehow, I've been gripping burdens like a lifeline and their weight is pulling me down, suffocating my spirit, squelching my joy at times. I don't know what exactly I'm holding onto, but it is allowing fear and insecurity to seep in around the edges.

I thought I was done with this. I thought that I had found freedom from all of my fears already. I can't believe I've come full circle. I didn't properly guard myself against relapse. All of these thoughts caved in on me as I realized how heavy and ingrained these burdens are. They have begun to grow and intertwine like vines to build up a protective layer, a shield, a wall of distance.

A constant unclenching of the fist. Really, isn't that the essence of Lent? Isn't it about giving up, about going without, about regaining focus and grasping meaning in the hollow space that has been channeled into your life? What will fill that gap? Will it be new truth, or a conviction, or simply some air for breathing room?

Maybe, instead of giving up coffee or committing to a different way of prayer for Lent, I need to wait and reflect and begin to loosen the knots that have blunted my spirit and my trust. This whole season must be a slow release, an uncurling of the fingers. It takes time to pull away the layers. The deepest lies are not easily redirected. The heart of a burden is buried deep.

Rather than letting go at the beginning, this Lent will be a journey of release.

Hollow {Or: Silence. Part 2}

My life is a constant rhythm of one step foreword, three steps back.

Or so it feels.

I'm usually spinning in ten different directions in my mind, dissecting thoughts, analyzing everything, noticing details. It's normally a pretty crazy place in there and I'm juggling all the ideas and words in a valiant attempt to shuffle them into some kind of linear sense.

Lately, however, I've become a mellow line rolling steadily onward.

It has been really, really quiet around here.

My last post was all about silence and growing through it, but I feel as though I'm growing out of it at this point. I desperately want to shake things up. I don't recognize this place and I miss the random bursts of colour, the unpredictable, the anticipation of possibility.

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Smells are very important to me for some reason. I go rogue in soap and lotion stores. I'm not into anything too fruity or too perfume-y. The smell has to be distinct, yet subtle. Smells are directly connected to location and memory (and I didn't make that up, either. That is an actual fact). I found a lotion today that I used for all of first semester, and one whiff took me back to the days of early fall and econ class and the different shades and nuances that season held for me.

Now I am here and in some ways I feel as if I have digressed. I like to think that I'm always pushing foreword and growing, constantly building up and gaining new ground. These days, though, I'm either stalling or rolling backwards. I get moments of air and clarity sprinkled throughout my days and, in those spaces, I convince myself that I'm totally fine. What was I worrying about again? There's nothing wrong. It'll work itself out. Life is dandy.

Then I notice how quiet everything is.

What I'm really doing here is kicking around the inside of my shell, trying to punch a hole in it. I really hope I'm making sense, but if I'm not, I'm ok with that too. I don't have all the answers. This is a journey and I'm standing at a point in the road where I can't see where I'm going. It's a little foggy.

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In attempt to gain some direction, I've been running over these frayed ends, trying to pull them together in some kind of connection. Scattered ideas are all I have.

• I could be on the verge of something. I feel as though I'm walking around with a blindfold on and earplugs in, stumbling around with my arms waving out in front of me, but when this blindfold comes off, I could find myself further ahead and standing in a place of more brilliant freedom and maturity. I can let this silence create distance between myself and God, or I can press in and allow it to draw me closer toward him. 

• I might need to do something. There is a thought bouncing around in the back of my mind that I need to stop thinking sometimes and start doing things. I don't think this means ignoring underlying issues or pretending away what I feel, but I might be overthinking all of this just a bit. It might be time to pull out of all the theorizing, stop connecting the dots and start taking action.

• I am not defeated. Honestly, all of this quiet kind of trailed me into autopilot after a while (hence the plodding mellow line). All of last year I lived with a sense of total and complete awareness of God. I was still a confused and wandering mess of a child, but I'd seek hard and pray hard and watch intently as God kept showing up in my life. It floored me every time. Somewhere, somehow, the bottom cracked a bit. I felt it, but at the beginning I had no idea how the hollowness would reverberate through every part of me. I still pray all the time, but I'm not as expectant as I used to be. My prayers wilted a little. I'm walking around with an attitude of defeat when I should be standing in a posture of victory and freedom. 

This is me shuffling through, scraping back, and trying to regain my footing. This is a messy part, choppy water, but when is life ever a free ticket to serendipity? Usually the most joyful moments are found in pockets scattered over the hard road. I've lived this. I know this. 

Sometimes it takes a while for my heart to catch up with my head. 

*Note: I am not blaming God or suggesting that I need to do something to "gain his favour" again. What I am getting at is this: I am prone to wander. I have so much more to learn. God is always faithful. I may not understand, but maybe I don't have to, and maybe I never will. The word "trust" comes to mind....

Silence and a Hymn

Sometimes you just need a quiet space and a way to worship.

To be honest, I've been walking through one of those periods of spiritual quiet for some time, now. I've been straining to hear, craning my neck to see, but nothing comes.

I've kept my eyes and ears open, waiting for a glimpse or a whisper, but all I receive is a reverberating silence and my own words dissolving into thin air.

I would say that it has been a source of tension for me, and it has, but it has also been a calming type of quiet. Yes, I've tossed a few harshly worded prayers to heaven in moments of frustration, but I have also come to know the silence well and sometimes, if I look or listen hard enough, I can see a shadow or echo of presence, a ripple of something more real that I know moving beneath the surface.

I am not alone, and when I press into the silence, I understand that. I know that a friendship has reached a deeper level when I can simply sit in comfortable silence with the other person. Perhaps this kind of silence from God is similar.

When the silence comes, I become more alert. My senses are sharpened because I'm desperate to hear, to see, to feel. When this period of silence is over, I know I will appreciate my relationship with God in a fresh way. I'm not taking Him for granted.

I am simultaneously waiting in peaceful quiet and actively searching for God. I know I am not abandoned, yet I can't wait to come to the place of meeting again.

Patience.

Those frustrating moments I mentioned? They agitate, like sandpaper against the soul. My heart is a stone and the silence is scraping, smoothing my rough edges, wearing me down....

Breaking point.

I went downstairs tonight and sat in front of a piano and played hymns. I played hymns and paid attention to their words and one hymn struck me. It is called "Lord, You Sometimes Speak in Wonders," written my Christopher M. Idle, and these are the words:

Lord, you sometimes speak in wonders

unmistakable and clear;

mighty signs prove your presence

overcoming doubt and fear.

Lord, you sometimes speak in whispers,

still and small and scarcely heard;

only those who want to listen

catch the all-important word.

Lord, sometimes you speak in silence

through our loud and noisy day:

we can know and trust you better

when we quietly wait and pray.

Lord, you often speak in Scripture,

words that summon from the page,

shown and taught us by your Spirit

with fresh light for every age.

Lord, you always speak in Jesus,

always new yet still the same;

teach us now more of our Saviour:

make our lives display his name.

Silence is what remains when all the noise is chiseled and fallen away. We're swimming in noise and silence is the ocean floor. It is the bottom, the solid, the canvas before it is painted. A seed doesn't need sound to grow.

I'm learning to see silence as space. It is space to grow and think and be still. it is a space to ask questions and prepare for answers. It is a baseline, it is the foundation, and, like it or not, I am here.

Lord, sometimes you speak in silence...... 

There Are More Questions Than "Why"

For the past few months I have been running up a huge learning curve. Actually, it isn't even a curve. It has just been a straight line pointing "up" and it doesn't show signs of sloping downward any time soon. However, I feel as though I've hashed through enough lately that I'm gaining some kind of clarity.

I'm notorious for asking questions. Even if I don't voice these questions, they are definitely there, percolating in my mind, swirling around as I toss them up and try to cut in at every angle in an attempt to gain a more whole picture. I admit that sometimes a question presents itself in my mind and it nags until I take up the line to pursue it. It is almost an obsession to know. I have to know.

The most common question that rises in my mind is why. I've grown cold toward this word because it always leads me to the edge of a cliff and leaves me stranded. Why is tricky, sometimes unanswerable, and always frustrating. Why questions run like a broken record in my mind, spinning out and leading me to dead ends all over the place.

A few weeks ago I was praying and getting to that desperate place that I so often find myself in; a place where I feel restless and undone and claustrophobic. I had been feeling random anxiety and I was sitting there asking God why. "Why do I feel this way? Why here? Why now?" Then I fell silent and a clear thought rang in my mind:

There are more questions than why.

When a doctor or a journalist or a counsellor wants to know something, they ask more questions than just why.

This may seem so simple, but it was a paradigm shift for me. Why questions can be bookends. They might initiate an exploration or prompt a reflection, but the journey to the answer often looks more gritty or colourful than the dead-end why.

So rather than asking why I am feeling anxiety and waiting for a banner in the sky to wave an answer from heaven, I begin to pray through different questions:

Where was I when I started to feel anxious?
Who was around me?
When did it happen?
What was I thinking about?
How was I acting?


With these questions I come in at different angles and loosen the tight locks of the situation so it can breathe a little. This is just one, very simple, example, but I'm finding that more often than not, why is the wrong question to end with. Why is a signal to look deeper, whether that is running myself through new questions, or whether that is intentionally paying attention to what God might be speaking to me or noticing different patterns that arise in my life. The more I ask new questions and pay attention to the answers, the less stuck I become. If I'm asking the question why, it probably means that I don't know the answer. If I'm asking God why all the time, there is probably a reason that I don't know. I may be learning something, my vision might be too narrow, it might be too much for me to handle; God knows the situation and He knows all of the answers. He also knows me better than I do.

There are times, though, when why is a call to action. An answer might not be sufficient; I might just need to grieve or apologize or take a new risk. It might be time to stop analyzing the past or worrying about the future or making excuses for the present. I might feel stuck in why because I am stuck. I'm not moving foreword and I need to. The time is now.

So, rather than staying in the dead-end, why has become a signpost to me. It has become a kind of code language for wait or watch or you're still learning. Sometimes it means go or do or rest. It prompts me to ask different questions and it asks me to be patient.

I still don't get answers very quickly, but sometimes the best remedies come slowly. They assemble quietly as I follow my string of questions and gather up bits and pieces of answer along the way. Then, one day, I might find myself standing at the end of a chapter or a page and see that the response I wanted so quickly grew up slowly and, in the end, it bloomed in a more unexpected and more beautiful (yet sometimes more painful) way than I wanted it to.

Somehow, though, it is still good.

There are more questions than why. There is more than one way to answer.