Why is using our money for Christ wise? Because the more we use our money for self-importance, the sillier we look. The pretense of it, the love of appearances, the overreaching—we do that because money has an almost mystical power over us. But how many castles in Europe are still lived in by the families that built them? Self-importance is unsustainable. But the more we heap prestige on Jesus by our money, the more weighty and significant and relevant we become. We become serious people. We impact history. That is the irony of wisdom.
Mark Lukach’s writes honestly for the NY Times about his wife's mental illness and his default role has her caregiver. There is a great application point at the end.
Two years ago, when Giulia and I were 27 and in our third year of marriage, she suffered a psychotic break. She had no history of mental illness preceding the abrupt arrival of delusions and paranoia. It was a bewildering decline that snowballed from typical work stress to mild depression to sleeplessness to voices speaking to her in the night…
The fact that she did not speak much [while on anti-psychotic medication] also meant that I spoke a lot, about silly things, things that filled the silence so that I could try to keep her mind here with me, and not adrift in her illness. But occasionally she spoke on her own, without prompting, and beyond “Yes” or “No.” Those rare moments of self-initiated conversation were always about one of two subjects: suicide or love.
The suicide conversations were never fun. They happened over and over. Out of nowhere, in the midst of one of our agreed-upon dog walks, or while washing the dishes or whatever, often as I talked about something insignificant, Giulia would interrupt and say, “Mark, if someone kills themselves, do they still get a funeral?”…
These suicidal conversations could be quick or they could be slow. One time we were biking to yoga together, and we had to pull over and sit on the sidewalk for almost two hours while she sobbed and begged me to let her kill herself. I pleaded with her to just hang on through this moment, and that it would pass, and that she would someday, somehow, start to feel better again.
When the suicidal feelings gripped her tightly, her whole body groaned and wailed over the loss of control of mind and feelings. I would hold her, but I learned that all I could do in those moments was to sit there and let it be, so I did. And then the fog would clear, the suicidal impulses would slip back under the surface, and the muted, agreeable Giulia would return.
“Are you O.K. now, honey?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Do you know how proud of you I am, and how much I love you?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Are you ready to get back on the bike and go home?”
Pause. “Yes.”
…In our conversations about love, which also would arise unprompted, Giulia would interrupt whatever we were doing to tell me how much she loved me… As her spouse and caregiver, one of my biggest struggles was to keep my own emotions in check. She was too fragile to witness how much her delusions, paranoia and depression scared and worried me, so I had to pretend that none of it bothered me.
I became a master at compartmentalizing my worry and anxiety, neatly packaging my feelings into the small, permissible moments when I had the time and space, away from Giulia. For the most part, though, I was her cheerleader, and nothing, no matter how dark or despairing, could shake me.
But when she told me she loved me? That I was saving her life? And that she was staying alive not for herself, but for me? Those moments always left me stunned, teary-eyed and breathless. I had no defense against those. They left me reaching to her to find my stability, rather than the other way around. How can you shield yourself from the impact of someone saying, “I love you”? And why would you?
I’m glad to have left behind the anxiety and unknowns of dealing with a serious mental illness. It was a grueling year for both of us. And yet when I look back on that year, I have to admit there is a part of me that misses it — or, more accurately, a part of it that I miss.
I don’t miss the illness itself, of course… But I do miss how much we talked about life and love that year. It seemed like all we ever talked about. In one sense we have never communicated less in our relationship and never been in such different mental spaces, yet in another sense we were closer emotionally than we have ever been and more deeply connected. Her mental illness cast such a strange web of paradoxes into our life together.
Nowadays we bicker about things like doing the dishes. One of us will say, “I cooked dinner, so can you wash the dishes?”
And the other will respond, “Well, I did the laundry today and folded it and put it away, so no.”
“But I walked the dog by myself tonight.”
“But I made the bed.”
Until finally one of us does the dishes.
When Giulia was sick, we did the dishes together because there was nothing else to do. As long as we were together, we could agreeably wait out the disease and show it that we were more patient than it was.
I think that’s what I miss. We weren’t in a rush to do anything else, because there was no certainty of a future. So we defaulted to living in the present, focusing on each moment of our “Yes and No” days. A time when only two things mattered to us: life and love.
Are you prosperous in the world? Have death, sickness, disappointment, poverty, and family troubles passed over your door up to this time and not come in? Are you secretly saying to yourself, ‘Nothing can hurt me much. I shall die quietly in my bed and see no sorrow.’ Take care.
You are not yet in harbor. A sudden storm of unexpected trouble may make you change your note. Set not your affection on things below. Hold them with a very loose hand and be ready to surrender them at a moment’s notice. Use your prosperity well while you have it; but lean not all your weight on it, lest it break suddenly and pierce your hand.
Zone in on that last minute again, “I kept telling (them), I don’t know if I really want that call because I don’t want it to end. Every time I see these guys, I am ready to put my shorts on.”
Surely if any person should be able to walk away from any endeavor with their head held high knowing their all had given and the absolute apex reached, it is Michael Jordan He was the best. Beat every foe. Never disappointed. Never gave a half effort. Has millions of dollars, easy charm, good looks, and decades of life ahead of him, but MJ has sadly realized one thing: the best is over. He will never get to soar in front of thousands again. There will be no more dramatic game winners or Sports Illustrated cover stories.
If ever there was a guy who raised his head high enough above the crowd to feel satisfied it is Air Jordan. Yet, He himself seems to be coming to the realization that the thirst in his heart will never be quenched by accomplishment, sex, money, or fame.
Ecclesiastes 1.14
14I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a striving after wind.
Isaiah 55.2-3
2 Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. 3Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live;
I am happier than Michael Jordan not because I have acquired more or done more (although in my day I did have quite a jump shot)- but rather I have the promise of heaven. No matter how sanctified I become or how much God works through “my” ministry my best days ARE ahead. The hope of heaven is that whatever happens in this lifetime is ‘merely a shadow’ of the glorious riches to come.
Live under the umbrella of freedom the hope of heaven provides today…
On your first day on the other side of the grave, do you think you’ll look back on this life and be flooded with gratitude for hours spent watching episodes of American Idol and Lost? Do you think you’ll look back fondly on the effort and money spent remodeling the kitchen? Do you think you’ll be glad you were up-to-date on the juicy details of celebrity lives? Will you be thankful for the hours, days, weeks, years you lived feeling victimized and sorry for yourself? Will you regret not spending more time at the office? Will you wish you had been more of a people pleaser? Will you miss your caffeine, porn or Facebook?
