Is Humiliation Ever Helpful?

We have decided to pass. The words stung as the reality of rejection once again raised a menacing head.

Humiliation. The word humiliation does not conjure up warm feelings, does it? The opposite of affirmation, this hard word hammers penetrating nails of hurt.

Three specific pursuits come to mind where, in my adult life, humiliation coalesced with learning. In each case, I longed to broaden my horizons, and I yearned to achieve a measure of success. This journey bore the name of personal development. Setbacks and disappointments loomed large. An unseen companion, humiliation, accompanied my forays into:

Learning to speak a second language                                                                                 

With my toddler in a stroller, she and I rolled around The Rynek, the ancient medieval square of Kraków, Poland. We moved from vendor to vendor inside The Sukiennice (Cloth Hall) for me to verbally practice yet another newly learned Polish language text.

Though an adult, I needed to adopt the posture of a child using simple sentences in order to learn to speak a new language. Quickly I realized that a university degree did not translate into a practical application of linguistic logistics. Humiliation. 

Learning to play golf                                                                                                                     

The first time I heard (and felt) that glorious precise pinging sound of the club hitting the ball, I was addicted to the sport.

Yet the first time I stood on the tee box before a gathered audience and completely missed the ball in my swing, I wanted to don a paper bag over my head. Humiliation.

Learning to submit and receive rejections from publishers for a book proposal              

On this Monday afternoon in April, I sat alone in my car and reread the email. We have decided to pass. The words stung as the reality of rejection once again raised a menacing head. The final word from yet another publisher (through my literary agent to me) carried a fresh wave of disappointment. For the twelfth time—12th, 10 + 2, a dozen—I acknowledged rejection of my manuscript, and battled the temptation to take the message personally.

Though a neophyte in the writing arena, I ached for the realization of my dream. Would anyone ever share my vision to minister to leaders' wives and desire to publish my manuscript? Humiliation.                                   

Inside the painful awkwardness of humiliation, worthwhile lessons emerged-not all at once-but slowly:

• Be comfortable with failure; failure can actually serve as a catalyst to a bright future.

• Be content with being a novice; acceptance provides a stepping-stone to success.

• Be realistic with expectations; time and experience are essential in broadening one’s horizons.

• Be determined; endurance outlives challenges and discouragements.

• Be aware of the words of wisdom from Mother Teresa, "We learn humility through accepting humiliations cheerfully."

Personal development is painful, but the result is satisfying, and the fruit of hard labor tastes delicious and sweet. Accomplishment is absolutely awesome. So, rather than abandoning myself to the miry, mucky mud of humiliation, I am learning to take a deep breath, step back, and then with dignity, step forward. Humiliation gives way to hope and hope does not disappoint! "And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy spirit, whom He has given us" (Romans 5:5).

Living with Eternal Intentionality: How about you? Where are three places in your life where you experienced the uncomfortable pain of humiliation? What did you learn?  

A Bittersweet Birthday

A mother's life rides the wave of a high learning curve; mine encompassed cross-cultural habits. One particular lesson focused on a birthday cake.

Summer transitioned into fall, and our family of three experienced our first Złota Polska Jesień, Golden Polish Autumn. Before the inevitability of bitter frost, trees displayed a ric==h palette of color, and we absorbed the much-needed beauty of nature.

One particular September day, this mother set out on a mission. I needed to order a birthday cake for my only child, and I needed achieve this is a second language. (Remember? High learning curve...)

Food shortages in the Polish communist economy made baking a traditional birthday cake impossible. My only option involved going to a hotel bakery and ordering a whole cake. Knowing this was culturally odd, I prepared myself to pay more, to pay under the table, or to pay behind the counter. Regardless of the daunting challenge, I wanted to present our little girl with a special cake on her second birthday.

To my surprise, the “arrangement” was straightforward. I agreed to pay the triple price and determined to return one week later. Fine. I selected chocolate, counted out my bills, and left feeling successful.

On the day of her party, I returned to the hotel bakery to collect my prize. I even rode home in a taxi to insure the safety of my culinary accomplishment. My deep sense of pleasure at achieving this cross cultural feat dovetailed with my joy of being a mother on this day of my child’s party.

A unique sense of satisfaction welled up deep within me. Truly, this was a special day for our family, and we looked forward to celebrating.

The few guests arrived for our simple party, and merriment filled our upstairs rented apartment. Hot tea was made and served, and the small group chatted amiably together.

All the while, our little two-year old relished the spotlight. Her favorite gift, a Fisher Price dollhouse from grandparents, purchased and hand carried earlier from Vienna, occupied her full attention.

Finally, the moment came, and she gleefully blew out two tiny little candles. Happy Birthday to you! followed by Sto lat, Sto lat! doubled the blessing of this day. (What child has Happy Birthday sung to them in two languages?) Every detail seemed perfect.

Forthwith, I cut the prize cake and passed around generous servings. After all, when was the last time these dear people enjoyed a fresh chocolate cake? I enjoyed my role as hostess, and smiled inwardly, hoping each guest felt special. Soon, I took my place in the circle and settled down to enjoy my own slice of this long-awaited, hard-to-come-by, chocolate treat.

Just as I opened my mouth for a bite of the blessing, a missile pierced the air and punctured my emotional balloon.

The shock came in the form of a sentence uttered from one among us. Without fanfare, our guest declared, “This is the worst cake I have ever eaten. Just look at this. This is terrible.”

I sat frozen, and my fork stopped midair. Had I heard correctly? Yes, the vocalized verdict stood fixed in this person’s opinion.

The comment set ablaze a raw nerve within me, and I struggled to carry on. I felt heartbroken. How could this be? Why, God gave us this cake, and the arrangements represented no small miracle! Couldn’t we just celebrate? Thankfully, the Holy Spirit held both my tongue and my emotions in check, and I remained silent. 

Frankly, I don’t remember how the party ended. Yet, the occasion brought to the surface my glaring need for adaptation in cross-cultural living. Suddenly, I felt like the two year old.

In the days that followed, God tutored me in much needed lessons. The bittersweet birthday taught me:

• A relationship is more valuable than a cake—any day, in any nation. 
• The safe haven for friendships needed to be our common ground in Christ, since His love crossed all cultural barriers—national, ethnic, and economic.
• I must not allow a blunt comment to carry carry too much weight.
• I could not mandate others to operate within my parameters of appropriate social norms.
• I would have to learn to love and work among godly people whose communication values differed from mine. Whereas, in my estimation, this an opinionated comment was better unspoken, our guest felt withholding such a comment would be hypocrisy.

I feel foolish all over again as I recall this story, and I am embarrassed by my naïve expectations back at the beginning. However, from that bittersweet birthday an eternal principle still emerges as the bottom line, regardless of where one resides:                                                                             Relationships are always more important than my own personal feelings or preferences. Love one another deeply, from the heart (1 Peter 1:22). The taste will not be bittersweet.

Living with Eternal Intentionality: How has God led you to let go of cultural expectations in a relationship in order to pursue the greater good of fellowship in Him?

Living Healed

Greetings from Central Asia! Larry and I are here to lead a strategic conference for forty of our Athletes in Action leaders from ten countries. While I am traveling, my dear friend and colleague, Susie Thomas, has written this guest post.

Susie Thomas has been living as God’s child for more than 30 years, a mother for 12, and the wife of a crazy visionary leader for 16. She recently started teaching fifth grade in conjunction with her family’s current assignment in Kigali, Rwanda. She and her husband have been on staff with Cru since 2002.

There's nothing like a terminal illness to give you a new enthusiasm for life. Right?

Five and a half years ago, I was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, which is notoriously aggressive and incurable. I was pregnant with our fourth child. I believe the doctor’s exact words (although the large space of air that now exists where part of my brain used to be suggests I may have some memory problems) were, “there is a 100% recurrence rate and no cure.”  What he wanted me to understand was that the good news of the successful surgery was temporary good news. It will come back. It always comes back. Go to Disney now, pregnant and on steroids, because you will not be around to take Annie when she is in a stroller instead of in your belly.

The doctors often felt they had to really drill down on the bad news and reality checks because my constant giggling and unlimited supply of tasteless cancer jokes were indicative of denial or something.

The truth was that it wasn't denial. I remember sitting at Chick-fil-a with my poor mom who had just asked her 32-year-old daughter, “do you really think you're going to die from this?” The fact that I was giving bad news to the person who it would hurt the most put tears in my eyes as I said, “I know this is going to kill me. That's just what's true about this cancer. And a God hasn't asked me to believe him for anything different.” My laughter wasn't denial. It was actual, real, Spirit-given Joy.

There was one other time in my life that I felt impossibly happy alongside a deep sadness. We were living in India and I'd just given birth to our still-born second son at 18 weeks gestation. It was a grief I hadn't experienced before, along with some ugly anger. But it didn't sit like a rock in my gut. The scripture on my heart during that time was from Psalm 28: “the joy of the Lord is my strength.” On some days that verse meant I have no joy, so the Lord’s is going to have to stand in for mine. On other days it meant I can't explain why I am happy and functional today without giving credit to the Lord.

Five years later that verse came back, accompanied by another. This one was spoken by that woman that Debby has already reminded us of that we (I) love to roll our eyes at: the Proverbs 31 Woman: “She laughs at the days to come,” alternatively translated as, “She laughs without fear of the future.” I held that verse close, along with the lines of my favorite hymn for the season, “All Must be Well” by Mary Bowley Peters:

We expect a bright tomorrow; all will be well

Faith can sing through days of sorrow, all is well

On our Father’s love relying

Jesus every need supplying

Yes in living or in dying

All must be well

It's important for me to emphasize that my joy was not in my future healing, whether I expected it to come on earth or in heaven (I expected heaven). My joy was a gift given to me to accompany me in my submission to God’s plan of sickness and death and a goodbye to the life I loved.

I've come to see suffering or hardship as a bonding experience that Jesus offers us. Scripture is clear that He offers good in the bad, and he kept that promise to me.

But then God really turned everything upside down. A couple years later, in a service at our new church in Rwanda, God asked me to trust him for something new - healing. This was a really difficult thing for me. I had spent the last two years defending God’s goodness as expressed in my sickness. I had adamantly declared that my death was His will and my worship was submission to it. Changing my tune would be to accept a beautiful gift (physical healing) at some expense to my fragile pride.

And here I am. Living healed. Now past the initial prognosis given me by all the doctors.* Dreaming with my kids about their future without feeling like I'm lying to them. Taking Annie to meet her kindergarten teacher. Ordering a couch because it turns out we're not just in Rwanda temporarily until I need to go home and die.

But, you know what is a little more elusive on this side of cancer? That Spirit-given, irrepressible joy. Turns out cancer doesn't give you magic perspective for life. Turns out it doesn't make whining sound melodic or gray hair feel sexy or traffic feel fun just because you get to live to experience it.

Turns out I'm still in desperate need of repentance every day for all the same sins I was before, plus a few more.

Jesus is still present with me. But cancer was like the honeymoon of a marriage -unlimited time and feeling and fun. (I know that sounds weird. It's a figure of speech). Living healed is like living married - so much joy and fulfillment available to me, but I need to prioritize, I need to make date night happen, and exercise some self control and breathe in the Spirit when I'm tempted with judgment, criticism, over-sensitivity, and unfair anger.

The joy of the Lord is still my strength. And I can still laugh at the days to come. But now I have to remind myself to do so.

*disclaimer in the interest of accuracy:

No doctor would ever give a medical opinion that I am healed. They would gently remind me about that 100% recurrence rate and that everyone is different. And guess what? I'm still going to die someday, so let's not quibble.