11.18 // Sit Means Sit

This afternoon, I took Benson to another doctor, and we were beyond thankful to get in on such short notice. Over the last few days, we have spend hours on the phone and reading scary WebMD articles. And while his disposition is improving, his skin is not.
In fact, we have spoken to seven doctors and RNs now, and none of them have seen a case like his before. We roll up his pants, and their eyes grow wide. And then they look at him with pity: “Oh, sweetie. That doesn’t feel good, does it?”

And Ben usually just stares back at them, and then asks me to take him home.
He is not a big fan of the doctor’s office ever since I snuck in a flu shot during one of John Taylor’s visits.
I guess he doesn’t quite trust the system.
And I’m probably to blame for that.

But these visits have been quite a bit more involved: looking in his swollen mouth, and pulling up one pajama sleeve, and shining a light here and then there, and touching a sore spot again and then again. It was (in Benson’s words) “not my favorite day ever.”
And I felt the same way.

But it was important.
I’m all for self care and boundaries and discernment.
And yet we also have to do hard things.
We don’t have to always like what we feel or how our days go or the pain we experience. Sometimes we are tender and sore. And we can feel that way and still press on.

So when Ben felt overwhelmed by the doctors and the questions, I compared their inquiry to Huckle Cat’s detective work on BusyTown Mysteries. (If you have young kids and Amazon Prime and remember those BusyTown books from the 90’s, check this show out— especially when your kids get sick this winter. Because they will.)
In short, Ben’s body was a mystery. He was the case we were trying to figure out. And the doctors and I were all trying to solve the secret illness by gathering clues and putting them together.
And it would not stay a mystery. No, I was determined. There were always more clues. This strange sickness could certainly be named! And even if all the pediatric physicians and nurses couldn’t do it, I was going to try.
(God bless my mother who received many a phone call and text to review my theories and strategies. She has been persevering with me.)

Later, we drove home with an altogether different diagnosis and treatment plan, and my mind was spinning over all the next steps: Okay, when we get home, we are going to stop this medicine and try this one. And then we will document the development of these bumps and that coloration and on and on and on.

And as we pulled up to a stop light, I saw a van next to us with bright red decals, a grey hound silhouette, and this phrase in all caps: “SIT MEANS SIT.”
Below the motto was the subtitle, “For pets only. Not suitable for husbands, wives, or kids.”
Darn.

But this moment with the dog training van was a spiritual one for me. The Spirit was whispering at that intersection of 931 and Sycamore, confirming words that were spoken earlier this afternoon.
Sit means sit.

At lunch time, when the kids were watching a ridiculous number of Huckle Cat episodes in a last ditch effort to distract and pacify Benson, I caught myself in the “mom detective frenzy.” I had cold coffee (not to be mistaken with legitimate iced coffee) and a number of half-completed projects. My mind was, again, set on figuring out what was wrong with Benson, scrolling through article after article, skimming dozens of vomit-inducing rash pictures.
And the Spirit spoke to me there:
Why is it so hard for you to sit with yourself?

Hmph.

I finally concede and sit down by the window and jot down follow up questions as they arise:
Why is it so hard to slow down, to just sit, to listen?
What am I afraid will lift to the surface of my heart
What am I afraid to face?
What are the defense mechanisms I turn to as a way of avoiding just sitting?

And then I linger with that last question and list a few of those things I catch myself doing instead of leaning into moments of stillness:

Scrolling— through articles, social media, text messages, whatever.
And then I think of all the “waiting rooms” and “waiting spaces” I have sat in over the last few years, watching how many people are looking down on their phones. How I am looking down at my phone. Pacifying my heart and my mind in those moments free of obligation— when I can wait with God but instead of fill my mind and soul and more and more stimulants. Hundreds of pictures and headlines and opinions all at once.
None of us are very good at sitting with ourselves.
None of us like to quietly wait with God or for God.
I, for one, am much more comfortable doing something—even scrolling— than actually being: being aware of where I am; being aware of who I am with and sitting next to; being present to the room, the people, the sound; being sensitive to the Spirit there.

“Get busy”— this urge make lists, put five toys away that will be taken out again in 30 seconds, tackle just one more thing
When sacred moments arise and there is a peaceful second, I scoff at the thought of sitting down and just breathing and remembering that the Lord is as close as my very breath; of listening to my kids play or laugh and allowing love for them to emerge from my hurriedness, to feel gratitude for their precious lives; or hearing my own body and heart tell me what is needed next.
Usually, my mind is programmed for efficiency, where every second exists to “get something done.”
Its like I believe in a scarcity of time and so every second has to be filled with doing.
Silence and stillness does not feel like “doing anything.”
And so I don’t practice it.
Instead of sitting, I prefer the feeling of accomplishing and check off lists.

Consume— things, stuff, ideas, input.
This seemed related to social media and my phone, but at the same time so different. I have been following an account on Instagram lately (I know, terribly ironic and hypocritical) called The LA Minimalist. And without sounding too millennial, I have been inspired by her view on the “full life.”
Earlier this month she wrote, “Everything we want, we want because we think we’d feel better having it.
We’ve bought a lot of stuff- so- do we feel better?”
Do I feel better shopping? Do I feel better reading about so-and-so’s great life and their opinions on this and that? Do I feel better filling my bookshelves, knowing more and more?
Am I taking in stuff and ideas because they fill my life with joy and peace? Or am I consuming the world out of insatiable need to not be alone?

This list reveals a lot about my spiritual preferences.
It also speaks to my need to listen, to be still, to relish the moments when I can actually sit and be.

Dallas Willard once said that hurry is “the great enemy of spiritual life in our day.”
Hurriedness.
Rushing.
Filling and filling, taking on and taking on.
Refusing to still ourselves and submit to silence.

And I know this hurriedness is different from busyness.
Busyness is having kids and jobs and passions and neighbors and relationships that matter.
Our lives are full, and so was Jesus’ life.

Hurriedness is an altogether way of living.

In another interview, Dallas Willard said the one word he would use to describe Jesus is “relaxed.”*
We can be busy, but we can also be light.
As we see in the life of Jesus, we can offer and receive healing when we are stopped on the way to something else— like when Jesus brought wholeness to the old woman on his way to heal a little girl at Jairus’ house.
This is busyness at a holy pace, without hurry.
These interruptions are moments of healing.

Our days can be full, but when moments arise where an invitation to stillness is possible, we must be brave enough— light enough— to take it.

We have to be disciplined to sit.
Because sit means sit.
And healing could happen in those moments, right in the midst of the busyness.

I remember training our dog, Nella, how to sit.
We watched a dog training DVD that accompanied the puppy from the Novi mall pet store. And for hours and hours, my siblings and I practicing raising our fists above our heads and sternly saying, “Sit!”
Each time Nella obeyed and sat, our raised fists would reveal a treat that would then be offered to her. My sister, Anna, was quite diligent in training her. If Nella knew a treat was on the line, she would sit, give a paw, lay down, and roll over in about a second, going through the entire series at rocket speed just to guarantee she was getting a snack.

I look back over my day during this time of examen and think, “Man, do I need to be trained to sit.”
How I need to teach my heart and body the importance of sitting.
How I need to believe there is sweet grace when I choose to obey and sit.
How I need to practice “Jesus lightness.”
How I need to remember that sitting down is breathing, reconnecting, and re-centering— rather than scrolling, making another list, or consuming.
Sit means sit.

I bring to mind Benson and Olivia this afternoon, rare times when they are resting quietly.
And I decide that instead of capitalizing on this downtime or trying to manically solve this mysterious sickness, I need sit with them.
I need to rest, too.
To breathe.
To be light.
Even when there are unknowns— especially when there are unknowns.

Parenting is this strange balance of realizing that you are responsible for keeping a child alive, and at the same time knowing that at the end of the day, you have very little control.
You are forced to hold tightly and fight for your kids— pushing the nurse to squeeze you in and asking the doctors for another opinion and sticking with your mama intuition at times. You have to hold on.
And then, almost in the same breath, you concede to your powerlessness, to how much you need other people and their wisdom and help, how the Lord gives and takes. You have to let go.
You have so much control and then you have so little control all at the same time.

And the only way we are going to survive this paradox of control— whether its about sickness or food or the right schools or friends or potty training or dating or whatever— is to sit.
To sit and listen.
To sit and discern.
To sit and enjoy.
To sit and remember God’s faithfulness.
To sit and encounter Love and Peace.

Sitting reminds the soul that once we’ve done our part, we rest in God.
He holds us— body, mind, and spirit.
He is our wholeness and healing.
We can step out of the frenzied hurrying and sit down with Him.

*Mark Comer talks a lot about this in his new book and sermon on hurriedness. I stole those Willard quotes from his recent teaching. His sermons and essays on being hurried have really been shaping me lately.