Severe Mercy

We were walking in the back pasture when we came upon the pair, a mother and her newborn calf, away from the herd, life coming quietly into the world while no one was watching. The calf lay squirming, his momma cleaning him with long, tender strokes of the tongue. But the calf was eager to get on with it, the wide open pasture before him, a blue sky above. The possibilities seemed endless as he tried to get his four legs beneath him and take that first step. Over and over again, he tried to stand. Over and over again, his mother restrained him, sometimes throwing him off balance, sometimes pinning him to the ground he so desperately wanted to rise from. And I could feel his frustration with his momma, his impatience with the process, his longing to be free of the difficulty.

And I thought, "How like that calf I am,” so often caught in a task or a difficulty or a suffering that I never asked for or wanted, and the struggle to be free of it is an exhausting and frustrating endeavor.

I think it must be a universal human experience, for so often we are restrained by our circumstances, forced down a path we wouldn’t have chosen, longing to escape. We wake up one day feeling bound by a situation we never planned for or expected, something that feels menial or meaningless or that fills our life with grief. Maybe it is caring for a special needs person, working day after day at a dead end job, being bound to a sick bed, or a difficult relationship or grief over the death of a loved one. And like that calf, we are struggling against it, ever aware of the thing we had hoped to be doing, the life we had hoped to be living.

And it is tempting to fall into anger or depression or bitterness as we are held to this place of difficulty.

It reminds me of Ruth, whose story is a picture of a life wrought with difficult circumstances. She was not only widowed, but childless, a stranger in a foreign land, impoverished, forced into manual labor, her only companion a bitter woman who seemed unaware of Ruth’s sacrifice for her (Ruth 1:21). As I read Ruth’s story, it is hard to imagine the bleakness that surrounded her, the days of weary toil, the nights of unabated tears. Did Ruth feel trapped by her joyless companion, trapped by her financial plight, trapped by the death of her husband, and the menial tasks that were required just to survive? What struggles did her heart face as she lived, day after day, in a life she never planned for?

But there is more to the calf’s plight, to Ruth’s story, to our lives.

As C.S. Lewis wrote to a good friend whose wife had just died, “You have been treated with a severe mercy. You have been brought to see…the travail you must undergo while Christ is being born in you.” Severe mercy? Lewis’s words seem like an oxymoron, don’t they? We do not think of mercy as severe. Mercy is…well, merciful- giving tenderness to a difficult situation, softening the sharp edges of a sudden trial, offering shelter from the violent storm.

But what if mercy is the difficulty, the trial, the storm?

Webster defines mercy as “a blessing that is an act of divine favor or compassion.” When I read this definition, I thought of my youngest daughter, who we adopted the year after her sister, Shiloh, died. In a recent conversation with her, she said she could not tell her story without telling Shiloh’s story because her story was intimately connected to this sister who she must wait to meet in heaven. Then she said, “You know, Mom, if Shiloh hadn’t died, you and dad never would have adopted me.” I glanced up at that, because her statement was true and full of God’s divine compassion. Shiloh’s sickness had consumed us. We would not have had the capacity for another child had the Lord not taken Shiloh to heaven.

We couldn’t see it at the time, but through the constraints of our grief, God was working his great plan of mercy.

In our limited sight, we do not know what mercies will flow from the difficulties that enter our lives, the lives that will be touched or the wondrous outworkings that God is putting into motion. As that calf tried to get away, unbeknownst to him, it was love that constrained him, holding him in a merciful grasp, as his mother, undeterred by his constant struggle, patiently bathed him, knowing that this difficulty was necessary for him to live an active and abundant life. It is why the Psalmist can say to God, “You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me” (Ps. 139:5).

Can we accept the seeming constraint on what we wanted in life as the merciful, steadfast love of One whose compassion is at work for a good that is beyond our comprehension?

For we know the rest of Ruth’s story, and that the death of her husband and the sorrowful circumstances of her life were for a greater purpose. We know that it was God’s mercy that had Ruth hemmed in by a plan to extend his grace through her lineage, for through her and Boaz the Savior would come (Ruth 4:22). Ruth’s life may not have been her plan, but it was the plan of One who loved her immeasurably more than she could imagine, the plan that God wrought to bring about the birth of the Savior.

Like that mother cow, God has tethered us to himself, working in ways we do not always understand. Truly, it is a mercy that sometimes feels severe...but then I remember that the greatest mercy ever shown was dealt through the severity of the cross. Don’t struggle in the arms of the one who loves you so desperately. Submit to the work he is doing.