I lay in bed next to my sister at my grandmother’s house in Kentucky. We were both reading, trying to quiet our minds so we could stand a chance at falling asleep.
It was the evening after my grandfather’s funeral and I was, of course, emotionally spent. I found myself rereading the same words over and over on the page, trying to make sense of them. But it wasn’t working.
I put my book down and stared at the ceiling. “The world feels different now, you know?”
“Yeah,” Ali replied, not looking up from her book. “I know.”
“It’s like those times when something happens in your life and you know nothing will ever be the same because it just changed everything.”
“I know what you mean.” And I knew she did.
I had said for years that when my D-Daddy dies, part of me would never be the same. I was right.
I thought of my grandmother, who was downstairs trying to fall asleep alone. And this aloneness wasn’t temporary, like the times D-Daddy was in the hospital and would be home soon. This alone was the new normal, a life-altering turning point.
We have all had turning points in our lives. Moments or events that just change everything. Graduations. Weddings. Divorces. Moves. Job changes. Births. Deaths. All things that can force our lives to change course.
I’ve had a number of jobs since graduating college. Some I liked more than others. But one thing that has consistently bothered me about new jobs is that annoying learning curve.
You show up for your first day and you spend the next week or two doing nothing but asking questions. I always feel fairly useless to the company and burdensome to my new coworkers during that time. I’m always thankful when I hit my groove and am finally able to do the job I was hired to do.
There is a learning curve with life’s turning points as well. You feel completely lost and out of your element as you take your first few awkward steps in the dance of the new normal. Sometimes you’re anxious to get the hang of the new rhythm. Other times you would just give anything to go back to the dance before, the dance you knew and loved.
One of the most traumatic turning points of my life revealed an uncanny capacity to live in denial. I’m talking IMPRESSIVE, people. And I didn’t realize I was in denial until I was knocked out of it by the second blow of a one-two punch. Looking back, I am amazed at how I refused to admit to myself that everything had changed forever and furiously tried to hold onto what I couldn’t see was already long gone.
I remember within hours of the bomb dropping I prayed in fervent naiveté, Lord, don’t let this change me. I didn’t want to become angry, bitter and resentful, which was a common response to someone in my shoes.
But if I had opened my eyes, taken my fingers out of my ears and stopped humming loudly to block out the heartbreaking truth in front of me, I might have heard, It has to, My child. It has to.
Turning points HAVE to change you. You can’t be your old self in a new normal.
I’ve rarely had the presence of mind to decide how I would ride out my storms. I typically go into survival mode, holding on for dear life, frantically scrambling to pick up the pieces.
But here at 36 years old, I’ve got a handful of turning points behind me and many more ahead of me. And one of these days, maybe I’ll be able to handle life’s turning points with more grace and less grasping.
I am embarrassed to confess that ‘normal’ has always been held at a high premium for me. When I was a kid, I didn’t dream of writing the great American novel, ending world hunger, composing the greatest rock’n’roll song of all time or winning any Oscars.
No, my highest, loftiest goal was normal. And my immediate knee-jerk response to life’s disruptions was to just try to get back to normal or find the new normal.
I love the movie Tombstone and can quote it warmly and accurately. (That’s what I did on my first date with Brad. We’ve been married five years now. Just sayin’.) Val Kilmer gives a brilliant performance as Doc Holliday and the movie is full of his unforgettable one-liners.
But one of his most poignant quotes is not one to be repeated at parties for a laugh, but shoots me straight in the heart every time.
Doc is lying in bed, dying of tuberculosis. His best (and probably only) friend Wyatt Earp comes to visit and play cards. Doc tells Wyatt about a girl he was in love with once and how she was all he ever wanted.
Doc: What did you want?
Wyatt: Just to live a normal life.
Doc: There’s no normal life, Wyatt. It’s just life. Get on with it.
What? ‘No normal life,’ you say? Are you saying NOBODY lives a normal life? That there is, in fact, no such thing? Are you telling me that I’ve been trying to accomplish something that doesn’t exist? (Cue the mid-life crisis.)
Get on with it, indeed. Get on with what exactly? To me, that used to mean constructing a new comfort zone in unfamiliar territory. But these days, I’m starting to wonder.
God has been working on me in this area for a long time. Not the shoulder-shaking, butt-kicking confrontations I’m used to when it comes to strongholds in my soul. But whispered invitations that have been stirring a deeply hidden part of my heart that knows I was created for something more. And whatever it is, I’m starting to want it.
In the Old Testament, the God-followers would regularly give Him a new nickname on the other side of a turning point:
Hagar called Him God Who Sees when He found her alone and pregnant in the desert (Genesis 16).
Abraham called Him God Who Provides after He provided an alternate sacrifice and spared his son, Isaac (Genesis 22).
Gideon called Him God Our Peace when He comforted Gideon who feared for his life after a close encounter with the Lord (Judges 6).
David called Him God Our Shepherd after seeing his dependent and trusting relationship with God was the same as the sheep’s dependence on him, their shepherd (Psalm 23).
Another tradition was to build an altar at a turning point where God had shown Himself in a mighty way. My first blog was called Stones from the Jordan, based on Joshua instructing the Hebrews to pull out twelve stones from the dry riverbed of the Jordan when God held back the waters so the Hebrew people could cross into the Promised Land.
Another favorite of mine is the Ebenezer stone Samuel set up after God saved the Israelites from the Philistines, saying, “Thus far has the Lord helped us.” Amen.
Turning points shape our identity. They also shape our view of God and His involvement in our lives. Here are some nicknames I’ve come up with for my King, based on some turning points:
The God of Blessings when Caroline was born.
The God Who Holds Me Up when life knocked me down.
The God Who Stays when I pulled away in excruciating pain.
The God Who Waits Up For Me when I made terrible decisions out of grief.
The God Who Never Gives Up when I came crawling back to His welcoming arms.
The God Who Does New Things when I married Brad and moved to Orlando.
I could go on and on and I am moved to tears thinking about all He has been to me in my life. Who has He been to you? Give Him names. Write them down. It’s a powerful exercise. Save a rock, a key, a hospital bracelet, an Ebenezer of a turning point when He was right next to you, showing yet another characteristic of Himself.
As I look ahead and consider the coming turning points, I’m tempted to get anxious and rehearse and plan for any possible outcome. I have no idea what’s coming. I may not hit another turning point for a while. Or the world could be turned upside down before the day is out. Who knows?
God does. And my idealized view of normal fades a little more each day. Before long, there will be another turning point, a new dance to learn. I will trip, I will mess up, I will step on His toes. Yet His strong arms will still hold me as He leads. I’ll look up apologetically, He’ll look down at me with an encouraging smile, tighten His grip and whisper,
Follow Me.
Thus far the Lord has helped me. Amen.
