We welcome Megan, 2008 Mercy graduate, as she shares a personal post about learning to surrender to the Creator. Thank you Megan for your vulnerability and willingness to share about what God taught you in a time when life is like a puzzle. We are grateful for your heart and wisdom.
This summer, our family had the privilege of spending a week at a friend’s house on the lake. I was excited to find a 1000-piece puzzle of a cottage lake scene in their collection of games in the living room. I hadn’t pieced together a puzzle larger than 24 pieces since my little ones were born. Upon opening the box filled with a broken picture, my brain lit up like a Christmas tree. The challenge of 1000 pieces of chaos seemed intoxicating as the pieces summoned me to transform them into a coherent whole. I quickly fell into the puzzle trance (come on, puzzlers, you know what I’m talking about), and within a day or two, the chaos resolved into a beautiful portrait of peace and calm.
Thus began my puzzle addiction. Since that vacation, I have set up a card table in our living room, having a complicated puzzle in the works at all times. And for me, the more complicated, the better. I tried a 2000-piece puzzle, but I couldn’t find a surface in the house large enough to accommodate its expansive dimensions. I really love the picture-mosaic puzzles, where the larger images are composed of thousands of tiny pictures. This complexity adds an extra layer of challenge and adds about a day or two to the course of completion.
Now, aside from keeping my brain agile and engaged, I think that for me puzzle-doing holds something more symbolic than just a time-consuming activity.
My life seems like chaos. My brain feels like scrambled eggs. My medical situation feels like that 2000-piece puzzle that I can’t seem to find a surface large enough to complete. Not only does it feel like that 2000-piece puzzle, but it feels like 2000 pieces from 2000 separate puzzles that will never fit together.
And it’s not just my medical situation. It is my scrambled, jumbled, broken history that seems like it will never make sense in the present. It is my chaotic regimen of medications that alleviate a few symptoms but create their own awful set of side-effects that sometimes seem infinitely worse than the symptoms that they treat—side-effects that alter my personality, my mental state, my ability to remain sane and stable. It is enough to make my brain feel like it is going to ooze out of my ears in a pharmaceutical-induced alphabet soup. It is the endless questions about my future and the future of my family, as we navigate life in its insecure complexity.
The puzzle of my life seems like it will never in a million years create any kind of cohesive whole, let alone a beautiful portrait. So, I work on puzzles that make sense. The puzzles that have edge pieces, corners, patterns, and colors that fit together. No matter how chaotic it seems when you open the box, you can trust that in a day or so, you will be gazing at an orderly, well-formed, complete masterpiece.
But here’s the thing about life: It may not make sense on this side of heaven. We may not have a complete picture while we are still breathing air here on this broken ball of earth.
And here’s the thing about God: We also will not be able to put together the puzzle of the Master-Creator on this side of heaven. God refuses to fit in our “box,” and so will not fit together like one of my clear-cut puzzles.