The Soundtrack of My Life

For someone who is a lover of words, they have failed me often as of late.  For days I have wondered where to begin to document and catalog all that has happened in the last four weeks, not only here but in my own journal.  The words have come in fits and starts, with glimmers of sentences, and the hope of paragraphs.  But for the most part, the figurative wounds are raw, my pulse is a bit unsteady, and the shattered pieces of my heart are still lying scattered on the floor.  God has completely up-ended my world, and I'm gasping for air, literally and figuratively these days. 

I liken it to an earthquake.  There were tremors at the onset, these early warning signs I now recognize only in hindsight.  And then the earthquake struck that registered high on the Richter scale, where the rooms of my heart and mind shook so hard the entire foundation cracked and tectonic plates shifted beneath me.  In some areas, gaping chasms yawned wide, these massive black holes that stretch so deep I can't see the bottom and I'm not entirely sure what's down there.  Or that I even want to know what's down there.  Other areas, there's red-hot emotional lava spewing out, too hot to touch right now.  Other places, there are mountains being built, rising to meet the sky, made of granite, their presence looming.  And even after the earthquake, there are still the aftershocks that come in waves, some of them threatening to be just as powerful as the initial quake.

I sat in a doctor's office four weeks ago, tears streaming down my face, wondering what on earth was happening to my body and my mind.  I had begun experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, including one day when I was literally on the floor of my office, struggling to breath, unable to stop crying, my heart racing, wondering if a visit to the ER was warranted.  Anxiety shot through the roof for days on end.  I didn't go to work for two weeks.  I didn't leave my parents' house for an entire week.  I struggled to eat.  I couldn't bear the thought of being alone at night, so I slept in bed with my mom next to me (my poor dad got ousted to another room).  I slept maybe 30 hours over the course of a week. I would sit at the dinner table with my parents and sob uncontrollably, seemingly without cause.  I got sick to my stomach from the medication I am now on.  I began wondering if somehow this was going to be a permanent condition.  I began wondering how on earth I was going to work, or ever function like a normal human being again.  

It was hands-down, without a doubt, one of the worst weeks of my life.  And it's been rocky ever since.

But never have I ever held tighter to Jesus and the hope of his salvation.  Never have I leaned in closer to him, begging for his presence, his peace, his hope, his joy, his victory.  Begging simply for him.  Because what else is there?  What else is going to possibly save me from this anxiety and these attacks?  In Christ alone my hope is found. 

And never have I ever leaned harder on the great worth and value of music.  My God.  The saving grace every day for these last four weeks has been the gift of music.  Song after song after song has flooded my soul, a balm to the deep wounds.  At all hours of the day and deep into the night have I held on to melodies and lyrics, listening to some songs on loop for what seems like hours.  Holding onto the truth of the lyrics, turning them into my prayers and pleas for desperation.  These songs have become my anthems, the soundtrack to my life, the songs I have stood in the middle of the room and declared over my life, the banners I have lifted high, with arms stretched wide, shouting into the void. 

Even in the midst of this figurative desert, there has been an oasis of words - just not my own.  Because far too often here lately, I've been without them.  So, I lean on the words of God found on the pages of Scripture and the words of those who have strung together notes and words, producing songs that have been my lifeline.  I will be forever grateful for every single of them. 

And someday - who knows when - I will eventually have words for all that has happened in recent weeks.  I will pick up the scattered pieces of my heart and mind, and I will write, because at the end of the day, that's usually all I know how to do.  Ann Voskamp said in her book One Thousand Gifts, "Because the picking up of a pen isn't painful and ink can be cheap medicine.  And I just might live."

Thank God for cheap medicine.  I will live.  I refuse to die in this desert, and if it comes down to me or the devil, I can promise you, I won't be the first one to wave the white flag of surrender.  Not to this crippling fear, and this anxiety that threatens to take me under. I don't fully understand why God has allowed this season of life to happen, to allow things like this to pass through his hands, but "though he slay me, yet I will hope in him" (Job 13:15).

So until I can find my own words again - I borrowed these words from others.             

I lift my hands, if my hands fail me
I’ll bend my knees, if my knees grow weak
I’ll raise my voice and sing,
I’ll sing I know that You love me
Give me a song to sing
And I will sing it
("Give Me a Song," Will Reagan and United Pursuit)

Though you slay me
Yet I will praise
Though you take from me
I will bless your name
("Though You Slay Me," Shane & Shane)

You have overcome the world
Took the keys from death and hell
Joining heaven we declare
You're greater, greater

("Greater," Elevation Worship)

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly trust in Jesus' name

("Cornerstone," Hillsong)

When the night is holding onto me
God is holding on
("King of My Heart," Sarah McMillan)

'Cause when You speak, when You move
When You do what only You can do
It changes us
It changes what we see and what we seek
When You come in the room
When You do what only You can do
It changes us
It changes what we see and what we seek
You're changing everything
("Spirit of the Living God," Vertical Church Band)

This is my prayer in the desert
When all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer and my hunger in me
My God is the God who provides
And this is my prayer in the fire
In weakness or trial or pain
There is a faith proved
Of more worth than gold
So refine me Lord through the flames
I will bring praise
I will bring praise
No weapon formed against me shall remain
I will rejoice
("Desert Song," by Hillsong)

The King is among us
And His glory surrounds us
And His fire is falling as we sing
The Savior is for us
And His love is victorious
And revival is rising in His name

("The King is Among Us," Elevation Worship)

And we will see You in
The land of the living
We will find You in
The mystery
Your presence is
The joy set before us
For now and all eternity
We're getting there
We're determined to discover
All that You have hidden for us
Along the way
And we're getting there
Your presence is the promise
There is nothing that could stop us
We're on our way

("Getting There," Steffany Gretzinger)

It's Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It's Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

("Great Are You Lord," All Sons and Daughters)

You've brought me to the end of myself
And this has been the longest road
Just when my hallelujah was tired
You gave me a new song

("Letting Go," Steffany Gretzinger)

You're an overcomer
Stay in the fight 'til the final round
You're not going under
'Cause God is holding you right now
You might be down for a moment
Feeling like it's hopeless
That's when he reminds you
That you're an overcomer
You're an overcomer

("Overcomer," Mandisa)

I know You're able and I know You can
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone
They say it only takes a little faith
To move a mountain
Well good thing
A little faith is all I have, right now
But God, when You choose
To leave mountains unmovable
Oh give me the strength to be able to sing
It is well with my soul
("Even If," MercyMe)

A New Adventure

Sometimes you just need a little extra coaxing and prodding in order to get some things done in life.

Awhile back, my mentor from college, Debbie, jotted me a text and basically said, "Hey. You should submit some of your writing to this one particular website."

My response back was somewhere along the lines of "a nice thought, but no."  Insecurities have a very unpleasant way of short-circuiting opportunities in life.

She prodded some more, and I gave it some more thought, and decided to give a shot.

I cleaned up some pieces I had written previously and submitted to Gospel-Centered Discipleship. I honestly thought it would go nowhere, and when I submitted my first piece and didn't hear back from the editor for what felt like far too long, my Negative Nancy mindset hovered somewhere around, "Agh.  It's such a terrible work they don't even know how to gently tell me or even how to salvage the piece."

But lo, and behold, I finally heard back from them and they decided to published the piece, and two others since.  That was a fun moment for me to see something I had written reach a wider audience, to be out there for the world to read.  And to realize I needed to get over myself.

So, thank you, Debbie, for the kick in the pants.  :-)  

To read the submissions published so far, check 'em out here:

Why Plan B Must No Longer Be An Option 

The Gospel Domino Effect

On Fire, But Not Consumed

Don't Wait to Celebrate

Years ago, I dated this one particular boy. We’ll call him John for the sake of protecting the innocent even though that’s not his real name. John and I met through church, and since I had practically no social media accounts by then, the poor boy had to resort to sending me a message on LinkedIn, the lone account I had left, since there was basically no other means of getting in touch with me. We eventually started dating, and around the 6-month mark, we found ourselves in a fairly deep discussion late one night about the future of our relationship. He already had us on the train to marriage, while I was still trying to decide if I was even at the right depot. I had been pretty deeply marked by a previous relationship from college, one I thought I had gotten over. The realization that I hadn’t came fast and furious when John asked that night, “Are you wishing he was here with you tonight instead of me?”

It was like a bomb exploded in my chest when he uttered that question.

I realized in that moment – while unintentional – I had been holding on to a life I thought I would have, a life with this other boy who had made it clear years ago it wasn’t mean to be. But my heart clearly never got quite that message. So all that time I had been waiting to celebrate, waiting to celebrate this life I thought I would have instead of the life I had been given. It was costing me, and not just with John, but in so many other ways in my life.

Jay and Katherine Wolf know what it looks like to live a life they never thought they’d have. In 2008, Katherine suffered a massive brain stem stroke at twenty-six years old. Jay was in law school, their son was six months old, and Katherine was pursuing a career in modeling. Life forever changed that one day in 2008. She was not expected to live through the stroke, let alone recover. She did both. In 2016, they released their book Hope Heals, which shined a light on all that had happened between Katherine’s stroke and their present life. They shared the struggles and challenges of having to cope with this drastic and dramatic shift in their lives – rehab, surgeries, doctors, hospitals, medications, setbacks, and uncertainties. Who ever plans for such things? The Wolfs sure didn’t.

In the midst of it all, they tied a knot on the end of their rope that led to Jesus and chose to cling to him.  Jay wrote at one point, “Don’t wait to celebrate the life you’ve been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.” Jay and Katherine learned to celebrate the life they’d been given – even one filled with tremendous suffering and pain – despite the fact it looked different from the one they thought they’d have.

We have the same choice standing before us. Even if it’s sheer grit and determination that gets us through, we have to learn to celebrate the life we have right before us.

Maybe your boss drives you crazy, and maybe you got overlooked for that promotion, and maybe you’re sick of the daily grind, and the rat race, and the hour-long commute for a job that is nothing but a dead-end.

Don’t wait to celebrate the job you’ve been given even if looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe your family is dysfunctional and broken, and maybe you aren’t on speaking terms with your siblings or your parents, and maybe they’ve said things that hurt you and you’re not sure you’re ever going to recover from the pain, and maybe your childhood was a complete train wreck.

Don’t wait to celebrate the family you’ve been given even if they look different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe your spouse drives you crazy, and maybe he forgets to do things you’ve asked him to do a million times over, and maybe he doesn’t love you the way you think he should, and maybe he’s let you down more times than you care to count, and maybe you’re not sure how you ever got so far left-of-center from your vows.

Don’t wait to celebrate the spouse you’ve been given even if he looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe you’re single and have been for years or decades, and you’re not sure there’s anyone on the horizon (or ever will be), and maybe you’re tired of Friday nights (and Saturdays, and Sundays, and Mondays, and Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and Thursdays) alone, and maybe you’re worn out from rolling over in bed every day only to realize there’s no one else staring back.

Don’t wait to celebrate the singleness you’ve been given even if it looks different from the marriage you thought you’d have.

Maybe your body is aging and it’s not doing what you want it do, and maybe disease has showed up on your doorstep, and maybe you’re not as fit as you want to be, and maybe the joints creak a little more and the eyesight is failing, and maybe that injury from all those years ago is haunting you on an all-too-regular basis.

Don’t wait to celebrate the body you’ve been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Don’t wait to celebrate the life you have been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have because that’s just it – it’s the life you’ve been given. For whatever reason, God in his sovereignty and wisdom, elected to give you the life you have. It’s the life he entrusted to you.

We’ve got to do the hard work of narrowing the gap between the life we imagined and the life we already have. Because the space in between is where disappointment dwells, and if we willingly let the chasm grow too wide between the two, then we also allow the disappointment to grow and sink roots. And once disappointment sinks roots, it’s tough to rip it out without doing irreparable harm to the soil of hearts and minds.

Paul says in Romans 5:3-5, “We also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. 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."  I can promise you if you are ever disappointed then it was because you were holding on to a misplaced and misguided hope, a hope rooted in something other than Jesus Christ. Misguided and misplaced hope always disappoints. Always, always, always, without fail.   If we are putting our hopes in our jobs, our spouses (or the idea of a someday-one), our families, our bodies, our governments, our culture, our laws, our children – then we are bound to be disappointed eventually. Those things weren’t designed to hold up underneath the weight of our expectations. We’ll crush both them and ourselves in the process if we don’t relieve the pressure of those expectations.

Look, I’m not saying we become eternal pessimists and resign ourselves to becoming the human version of Eeyore, and we wander around wondering where our tails went. And I’m not saying we settle for mediocrity and become apathetic doormats. What I am saying, however, is that we’ve got to hold loosely to these ideas of what we thought our lives would look like. Because if we’re not careful we will reach the end of our lives and realize we failed to celebrate a single thing we had been given because we were too hung up on what we had not been given. That’s a life wasted right there.

Celebrate the life you’ve been given – in all its broken and messy glory. Celebrate the family that just can’t quite figure out how to be normal, whatever normal means anymore. Celebrate the job that feels like a grind. Celebrate the spouse that is still standing next to you even though you want to clock him for leaving his socks on the floor yet again. Celebrate the marriage, the singleness, the children, the house, the apartment, the good, the bad, the hard, the suffering, the sadness.  Find the good in these things. Find the joy in these things. Fight for the joy. (Make no mistake, it is a fight to find joy and celebrate.) Believe the best in the people around you.

But don’t make those people your hope. That’s what Jesus is for.

When you make Jesus your only hope, you can celebrate the life you’ve been given.

Even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

No More Major Life Decisions

Update: I found my credit card! Three guesses as to where it was, and the first two don't count. In my wallet, you ask? Why, yes, yes it was. Just in a different pocket than normal.  *Palm to forehead.*

Y'all.

I should not be allowed to make anymore major life decisions.  It does crazy things to my brain. 

I texted my brother the other night explaining all that had been going on and he informed me I should just stay in my apartment for the rest of the weekend and not move.  My other friend suggested I find myself a bunker and just hunker down for awhile until my sanity was restored. 

And by major life decision I mean purchasing a new vehicle. 

I have been saving for years for a new vehicle.  While my little Mercury Mariner has been a faithful little car for the last 10 years, I was getting to the point where I was spending more money on repairs than the car was worth.  And when I found myself quite literally sweating through my t-shirt, fearful it wouldn't even survive the drive to the mechanic (thank you, failed fuel injector), I knew I was going to have to move up my timeline.  I was hoping to make it to the end of the year, but that just wasn't going to happen.

A Ford F-150 had long been the dream, but I eventually came to the conclusion I was going to pay a lot of money for a vehicle I only planned on using one part of.  I had no plans to tow or haul anything, so I basically would be spending money on the bed of a truck I never intended to use.  And gas mileage?  Yeah, we all know what gas mileage looks like on trucks.  Lousy.  So I talked myself out of that one. 

After more homework, and test driving, and reading Consumer Reports, and talking to a variety of friends, I made the big decision to buy a Subaru Forester.  I found one I wanted online, promptly headed to the dealer, and 4 hours later, I walked out with the keys to a new vehicle.

My capacity to think straight went downhill after that. 

The day after I bought it, I made plans with my brother and sister-in-law to go with them to a local Irish festival. While on my way there, I discovered I had left my wallet behind at my aunt and uncle's house, for whom I had been house/dog-sitting. 

Never in all my life have I ever left my wallet behind.  Never.  Not once.  It's not like me to forget things or be disorganized.

Being displaced by staying at someone else's house for 10 days probably wasn't helping the cause, shuffling between their house, my apartment and work, but still.  I got to the Irish festival (and even that was questionable because I was so frazzled at this point that I wasn't even entirely sure what road I was on or where I was going) and found a parking space.  But since I was in an unfamiliar vehicle, I had a moment when I couldn't figure out how to unlock the car and get out.  Help me, Jesus, help me.

I managed to make it a few more days with my head barely attached, but that was a minor miracle.  Then yesterday rolled around.

I discovered I had a thumbtack stuck in one of my brand new tires. I haven't even had this car one week! Just my luck.  I called around to both a local tire store and the dealer, to see who had the tire on hand and for what price.  I ended up back at the Subaru dealer and they replaced the tire.

But while I was standing there at the counter to pay for the new tire, rummaging through my wallet (which I had left behind at my aunt and uncle's and now had in my possession again), I discovered my credit card is gone.  Not in its usual spot, not anywhere else in my purse, gone.  Vanished.  I rarely use it, so it would be easy for me to go some time without realizing it's gone.  I called the card company immediately and cancelled, and I still have no idea where it is.

What has happened to my brain?  I leave my wallet behind, I can't find my credit card, I nearly couldn't figure out how to get out of my own vehicle.  I might as well be a cat trying to fight its way out of a paper bag. 

Can you imagine what it will be like if I ever buy a house? Get married? Have children?  All I did was buy a new vehicle and suddenly I can't function.

Say a prayer now for my future husband.  He's going to need all the help he can get.  Because I sure won't be much help at this rate.  

Nerd Alert

There is no shortage of tragedy splattered across the headlines these days.  It can get overwhelming at times, can't it?  Most days I don't bother to watch the evening news because I know all that will greet me is one depressing segment after another.  I don't want to bury my head in the sand and ignore it all, but neither do I want to drown in a black hole of sadness.  There was one headline in particular, however, that struck a peculiar chord of sadness within me:  "The Death of Reading Is Threatening the Soul," by Philip Yancey in this week's Washington Post.  Yancey laments our culture's growing inability to sit and read anything of length thanks to the internet and every other source of digital media which competes for our attention.  Gone are the days when he would sit and read three books a week, he says.  Gone are the days when reading and words and books are what nourished our souls and kept our imaginations alive.   

Now, I'm in no way saying the death of a human being I read about in headlines is on the same playing field as the death of reading.  Do not think me so callous or ridiculous, dear reader.  Read this with the light-hearted tone I intend.  But from a reader and lover of words, I found Yancey's article disheartening, only because I know it rings all too true in my own life, as I see myself less and less inclined to devour books like I did as a child or teenager. 

My friend and co-worker, Jill, and I have established a habit in recent years of keeping a tally of random knowledge.  Our inaugural year consisted of counting the number of Cheez-It boxes I consumed in 12 months. (The total was 26.  I love Cheez-Its, in case you didn't know.)  Jill has a particularly unusual natural hair color, which gets her a lot of compliments.  So we kept a tally of the number of times she got complimented in a year.  Also 26.  This past year we decided to keep track of the number of books we read.  We managed to read 66 books in 12 months between the two of us. 

Maybe death isn't knocking on our doorstep just yet when it comes to reading. 

I am convinced heaven is going to have a spectacular library based on the words of John 21:25, one of my favorite Bible verses, “Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.”

I love how John phrases that – “I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.” Written with just a touch of whimsy, a subtle child-like wonder to his expression. 

But until I get to heaven and can run my fingers along the spines of its countless books, I’ll settle for earth’s libraries, some of my very favorite places on this planet. 

Case in point: can I make this one small, possibly pathetic (depending on whom you ask), confession? I have always loved libraries, even as a child, but my first memory actually crying over one was when I was in college. The local library near the university was undergoing renovations, which meant the entire collection of books had temporarily migrated to an empty store on the outskirts of town. The temporary place was depressing and I recall going there only once. The renovations finally wrapped up and the collection returned to its rightful place. I remember the very first time I set foot in the new library. I walked up the stairs and quietly stood in the open space of the second floor. I felt the tears gathering in my eyes. I couldn’t help myself, I was so overwhelmed. I slowly looked over the new shelves, the neatly ordered books, and smelled the air that is distinctly “library.”

Yes, I own this t-shirt and wear it proudly.

Bliss. 

That is not the last time I have shed a teardrop or two over libraries. I did it this past fall when I walked into the Teton Public Library in Jackson, Wyoming. Same reaction. Walked in, took it all in and felt involuntary tears spring up again. I do it nearly every time I visit the Vanderbilt mansion in Asheville, North Carolina. The Biltmore library is like a scene straight out of Beauty and the Beast. You know, when the Beast flings open the doors of his cavernous library and Belle walks in to see floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with ladders that lead to more shelves, and balconies that lead to more books. I daydream about having a library like that someday. (Although, that means I probably need to marry someone insanely wealthy. I do not know exactly what those odds are, but I'm keeping my hopes in check.)

Oh, and the Thompson Library on Ohio State University’s campus? There is a reason it is ranked one of the top college libraries in the nation. Their grand reading room - it just makes me want to stand in wonder.  Make a visit when you can.

What can I say? I love words, so why would I not love the places and the people that are keepers of words? It is what stops me from moving into another apartment in another part of the city. Well, one of the reasons at least. I love where I live in general, but a huge selling point for me is that it is across the street from the public library. I probably go there at least once a week, either to return books, pick up new ones or check out movies, use the computer (I live sans internet at my apartment, thus why I go to the library to use theirs), and generally just enjoy the quiet hum that is the public library.  And it's free - what's not to love?   

So, to all you book lovers and non-book lovers: read. And read some more. And read again and again and again until you feel like you're going to go cross-eyed.  Read everything you can get your hands on.  But read deeply and slowly.  Read the classics.  Read the things that stretch your brain and require you to do more than just skim.  Fill your mind to the brim until it overflows.  Park yourself in a chair or flat on your bed and linger over the pages for an hour or two, not just a minute or two.  Hold the books in your hands.  Not Kindles, not Nooks, not iPads, not whatever other e-reader there might be.  Hold the real deal.  Fight the urge to become victim to the decline of reading.  Books are the treasure chests of the world, so do not relent until you have found the buried gold.  And then when you do, start the hunt all over again.

And I won't judge you if you maybe shed a tear or two over a good story.  Or a library.   

Church People Are a Pain

Church people are a pain, you know that?

And by “church people,” I mean those folks who regularly go to church, are committed and involved in the congregation, speak the insider “Christianese” language, and generally act like they always know what is best and have a certain air of self-righteousness to them.

They complain about insignificant points and often make the most inane comments.

“Whose bright idea was it to schedule all of these events on the same night? Don’t they know this puts a lot of competing things in one evening?”

“Why do we need a fog machine for worship? It’s so distracting and such a waste of money.”

“This is too many transitions for these 4-year olds, moving from one group to the next. Why couldn’t the children’s minister have designed the schedule differently?”

“I really think they should have handled that missions trip differently.”

“Why wasn’t I asked to be a part of the conversation before they just up and moved my small group’s location?”

“Why haven’t I ever been invited to join the Advisory Team?”

“I would hardly call that a sermon."

“Is it really necessary to spend that much money on a new building?”

“These people drive me crazy.”

You can picture people from your own church saying these things, can’t you?

But you know what is even more annoying, painful and embarrassing?

I am the one who said all of these things.

I am that church person.

I am that church person who walks through the doors every week and acts like I’ve got a monopoly on how to run a church. I act like I know how my pastor should preach his sermons, and that I know better than he does as to what the needs of the church body are. I act like I know how to lead a small group better than anyone else, and I act like I know how to teach the Bible better than anyone else.

I am that church person who walks through the doors every week and expects the people walking through the doors next to me to be less broken than what they are.

But you want to know the real reason why church people are a pain?

Because people are in pain.

The people filling the rows in my church don’t pass through the doors every Sunday, sit down and suddenly become perfect people. They walk through the doors and they bring with them their past circumstances, their current hurts, their future fears, their jumbled schedules, their beeping cell phones, their crying children, their disgruntled spouses, and the general brokenness of their lives.  Jon Bloom said in a recent post titled "Love the One You're With," referring to the church, "This mess rarely looks glorious to us up close. It looks like a lot of sin and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears invested into a lot of futility. It often looks like something we’d rather escape than join."

And I somehow – to my shame and dismay – expect them to leave all of that behind and be the kind of people who make perfect decisions every time, while simultaneously exempting myself from that expectation.

There is no distinction between the people outside the walls of the church and the people inside the walls of the church. Yes, I should expect a different level of behavior and lifestyle of those who know Christ. For those who have been exposed to the Word of God and have made a conscious decision to commit their hearts to Christ, yes, it is reasonable for me to expect differently of them.

But it is not reasonable of me to forget they are sinners nonetheless. They were sinners before they walked into church, and they are sinners after they walk into church.

And I am chief among them.

Yet somehow I forget that fact every.single.Sunday it seems (and most days in between). In my pride and my self-righteousness, I keep expecting the Bride of Christ to be perfect this side of heaven, with perfect people, a perfect pastor, perfect small group, and perfect worship.    

But this is the very reason why Christ died for His Bride - because she is imperfect and fallen and completely hopeless without Him.   

And in my foolishness I keep expecting it to get easier.

I have gone to church since I came out of the womb, and now thirty-plus years into this thing, I am discovering that belonging to a church may, in fact, be one of the hardest things I have ever done in life.

Church people are messy because people are messy, period. We spend our days wishing the people we call our “church family” would be different than what they are, wishing they looked more like what we want them to, instead of praying they would look more like God wants them to, and that is primarily his Son.  Somewhere along the way we got this whole church thing backwards, making it more about ourselves than about Jesus.

This Bride - this Bride is what I have been both called to be a part of and called to love.  We must not walk away from the church when it gets difficult or complicated or messy.  Bloom goes on to say, "Jesus did not design the church to be a place where our dreams come true. Actually, it’s where many of our dreams are disappointed and die. And this is more of a grace to us than we likely realize, because our dreams are often much more selfish than we discern."

My dreams for my church are much more selfish than I discern.  Just re-reading all of the opening comments reminds me of this truth.  

Eugene Peterson gives the necessary kick in the pants in his book The Wisdom of Each Other: a Conversation Between Spiritual Friends:

The church is not a natural community composed of people with common interests; it is a supernatural community.  And the super in that word does not mean that it exceeds your expectations; it is other than your expectations, and much of the other is invisible to you as yet.  I'm sorry if I'm sounding a bit sharp-tongued on this, but I don't want you getting off on the wrong foot in this church business.  Trust me, there's a lot more going on than you will ever have in common with anyone there.  Go back to the company of those seventy or eighty people on Sunday, listen believingly to Scriptures read and preached, offer your prayers, receive Jesus in the sacrament, and bless your neighbors.  And wait for the Kingdom.  It's the Holy Spirit's style to fashion holy lives among the inept.  

Holy lives from the inept.  That's God's aim for the church.

And we would do well to remember that we are among the inept.  But by the grace of God, he's making all of us "church people" holy.
________

Note: Bloom's article truly is worth the read if you have ever remotely struggled with being part of a church.  Be sure to read it in its entirety.  Keith Welton also has an excellent article titled "Every Good Church is Messy," which is also worth the read.

The Last Laugh

Twelve days ago I sat by my friend’s bedside and fervently prayed death would come swiftly. The doctor has told her she has weeks, maybe months, to live. That evening made me question if that window had shrunk to days. She passed in and out of sleep, occasionally moaning in pain, while I sat by her bedside and wept silent, ugly tears of overwhelming sadness and grief.

And I thought, “My God, my God, it is not supposed to be like this.”

Between the moans of pain, she asked me to read out loud to her some verses from a prayer guide I had recently written. Our pastor is on sabbatical for a couple of months, so I decided to write a day-by-day prayer guide for the people in our church, a way to collectively gather everyone around a series of common prayers. She had a printed copy on the table next to her bed, so I picked it up, flipped to the first page and began reading the passage on the very first day, Psalm 126:2-3 (ESV):

“Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then they said among the nations, ‘The LORD has done great things for them." The LORD has done great things for us; we are glad.’”

My mouth was nearly filled with laughter, but not because I thought the moment was funny like I find Tim Hawkins funny. It felt like a cruel and insensitive joke. I was forced to declare out loud with my mouth words which felt so very contrary to what I was experiencing in that moment. They seemed almost absurd to me, outlandish in some way. Our mouths are filled with laughter? Our tongues are filled with shouts of joy? We are glad?

I was watching my friend suffer, and my mouth was not filled with laughter. I was not glad, and I was not shouting for joy.

I eventually left her bedside hours later, and I found myself wanting to sprint down the seemingly endless hallway, desperate to escape the sadness still going on behind me. I climbed into my car, and wept like I had not wept in quite some time. The kind of weeping where you think you might be on the verge of hyperventilating. The kind of weeping where it hurts to breathe. The kind of weeping where you feel like your eyes are going to pop out of your head. The kind of weeping where you really just need a towel to wipe your nose because a tissue will not be sufficient. The kind of weeping where a low-grade headache settles in and lurks at the base of your skull. I sat hunched over the steering wheel, sobbing into the darkness and the silence of the empty car, shoulders shaking, eyes so blurry I probably should not have turned on the ignition and driven anywhere. I woke up the next morning looking like I had something akin to a hangover, complete with puffy and swollen eyes, tinged red at the edges.

My mouth was not filled with laughter because my heart was filled with pain.

I’m not alone in these sentiments. All of humanity lives stretched between moments like that. We live stretched between cancer and cures, healthy babies and miscarriages, suicide and life, laughter and heartache, mountaintop-joy and valley-like sorrow.

I have a friend who is announcing her against-all-odds pregnancy, while on the other hand I have a friend who just weeks ago stood over the grave of her aunt who committed suicide. I have a friend who is celebrating a dream job, while on the other hand I have church family grieving over the loss of their mom and wife who lost the battle to cancer. I have a family member who doesn’t know why there is a mass the size of a tennis ball in his belly, who was told by three doctors he would never be able to have children again – only to flash a picture of an ultrasound showing he and his wife are expecting. I have a friend who received stunning news that her barely 40-year old friend and mom of four kids has an aggressive form of cancer, while on the other hand my grandmother celebrates her eighty-sixth birthday in just a few months, practically healthy as a horse.

When I sat by the bedside of my friend, I wanted to give into the sadness, to let it have its way with me.

But after I had a good cry and after I somehow managed to drive home safely, I stood in my apartment, arms stretched toward the heavens, and declared out loud:

Jesus, I believe you are the God of life – even in the midst of death.

And there’s only one reason why I can make that claim: because my God is the God who overcame death.

“Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’ ‘O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:51-57 ESV).

Oh death, I feel the prick of your sting. And so do my friends and the people I love.

But only for a moment.

Thanks be to God, who has given us victory over death through our Lord Jesus Christ.  Satan thought he had the last laugh on that day over two thousand years ago when my Savior hung on the cross, blood pouring from his hands and feet.  Death seemed the victor that day.

It may not always feel like it, but Psalm 126 is true. Maybe not here, now, in these moments. But there will come a day when there will be no more cancer, no more miscarriages, no more famine, no more war, and no more death.

And there will come a day when our mouths will be filled with laughter, our tongues will shout with joy, and we will be glad. Always and for all eternity.

Because for those who are in Christ? We get the last laugh.

The joke's on you, Satan.

To Myrt

Myrt and me at an Ohio State men's basketball game

We were practically friends at first sight. Nine years ago this past January, I walked into a women’s Bible study being held at the local church I had only recently started attending. She had snow-white hair, cropped short, and she walked up to me and grabbed me by the arm and exclaimed, “You’re a DG? I’m a Pi Phi!” I had an old sweatshirt from college on with a Delta Gamma logo and she spotted it from a mile away. Myrt and I have been friends ever since.

And what a sweet friendship it has been. Some days Myrt makes me laugh so hard I cry, and she’s not even trying to be funny, which makes her even funnier. She’s feisty, full of grit and gumption. She uses the word “golly” a lot, which I adore. She will talk politics to anyone who is willing to listen, and she will not be the least bit afraid to tell you exactly what she thinks about Democrats. She has traveled the world and has collected no shortage of stories and adventures from far-off lands. And she loathes the color orange. So much so I found her one Sunday, years ago, standing in the church lobby with a plastic bag in her hands and some orange lilies sticking out the top of the sack. These poor flowers had somehow managed to bloom in her yard, and she simply was not going to have that, so she ripped them out of the ground - bulbs, dirt and all - stuck them in a bag and brought them to church to give away. 

Somewhere along the way, after a few adventures around the world, she went on a blind date and met a man named Paul. And not just any man – the love of her life. The rest is history. People want to talk about relationships goals, or use the hashtag on social media #relationshipgoals. I suppose if I had Facebook or Instagram, I would post a picture of Myrt and Paul, and simply write in the caption #relationshipgoals. You can’t find a marriage any better than theirs, and I’m not sure you can find a woman who adores her husband more than Myrt adores Paul.

Two years ago this past December, Paul passed away. Myrt was already cranky about turning 80 nearly four years ago and still being alive. She had always said she never wanted to live long enough to see that age, mainly because if you’re 80 years old, you’ve probably lived a pretty good life, and so she figured there was nothing more worth sticking around for. And then when Paul died, not only was she unhappy she was still alive past that age, she was now still here without Paul. I have no doubt she has shared a few choice words with God over this fact.

And in the months and years since Paul died, I’ve often heard Myrt say, “I just don’t know why I’m here. I just don’t know what my purpose is.” And it always broke my heart. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and talk some sense in her, to explain to her all the reasons why.

So, Myrt, can I tell you why God has kept you around here on this big blue marble called Planet Earth?

You are still here because there is a girl who has got an occasional thick head and hard heart, and she needed someone like you to talk some sense into her.

That girl is me.

I needed you tell me to stop over-thinking life, and to stop making it way more complicated than it needed to be. I needed to sit with you over dinners at the Village and show me what it looked like to love the same man year after year, decade after decade. I needed you to remind me when I wanted to have a pity party that life was not all that bad, and to stop dwelling on all that was going wrong and focus instead on all that was going right. I needed your jokes and your sense of humor. I needed to witness your feistiness and your attitude. I needed the gift of friendship and conversations shared over rice bowls at Bibibop. I needed time with you at Ohio State basketball games, sitting in the car two hours before the game starts, chatting about life and sororities and whether the Buckeyes are going to be any good this year in football or not.  

I needed your no-nonsense attitude that made faith so black and white – either I trust God or I don’t, either I believe he is good or I don’t. I needed your example of what it looked like to live as a single person well into her thirties, and still find there was so much to do even without a man by her side. I need you to tell me to stop taking myself so seriously. I needed to laugh with you as you yelled at “Alexa” to turn the lights off or the music down.  I needed you and your big mouth to tattle on me to Paul, to tell him I had asked you in the wake of a break-up, "How do you know you have found the one you are supposed to marry?"  Because I also needed Paul to come and tell me, "The Holy Spirit will let you know that you know that you know."  I needed your homemade birthday and greeting cards to brighten my day. I needed your example.  Some days, I just needed your hugs and your hand in mine. 

Alexanne, Myrt and me at the dedication
of a wing of our church, in honor of Myrt
and Paul.

Most days, though, I really just needed time with you.

But when we stood underneath the branches of the tree at church last summer, the one just outside the kitchen door, when you said you wanted to walk around the building and pray for all that would happen within the walls of our church?

That is when I knew I needed you most.

Because I was ready to bail on my church family, to walk away, to call it day and say, “I just can’t do this anymore.” I was full of bitterness and resentment, and my hard heart and my thick head were winning that day. And yet there you stood. There you stood by that tree, a tree you remembered being planted decades before, long before our church became what it is today. You stood there, recounting the many seasons of life you had witnessed during your time as a member of this church, and all the other previous versions of it. The years past and the tree grew, you along with it. You and Paul had made a decision this church was your family, and come hell or high water, this is where you would stay.

As I stood there underneath that tree, fighting back tears and fighting back an equal amount of anger and frustration, I watched you. I listened as I heard the resolve in your voice – you made a choice to stay all those years ago. You made a choice to weather the storms and the changes and the growth. Because in your mind, what other choice was there?

And in that moment, with you standing next to me, held up by your walker, the sun shining down from above, I thought to myself, “Jesus, help me to be like that. Help me to be like this woman standing beside me, and make me like this tree standing before me. Rooted and established. Confident. Steadfast. Ever-hopeful.  Help me to sink roots here. Help me to dig deep. Help me to hold on, to fight tooth and nail to follow you. Because if she can do it – if Myrt, at 80-something years old can choose to put her trust in you above her own personal preferences – then I can do it too. Because this church is my family. And you don’t just walk out on family.”

Myrt, I know you are ready to go home to Jesus and be reunited with Paul. I know. You tell me so often. You always said you wanted to die five minutes after Paul, just long enough to tidy up the place and be on your way. I know you are less than happy that you haven't gotten your way.  Your life has been one well-lived, and I’m honored to call you friend and “Queen.” Your friendship has been a prized possession.

But for purely selfish motives, I want you here, with me, just a little while longer. 

I’m not ready for Jesus to take you just yet.

But when that day does come – and it surely will eventually, whether I want it to or not – I want you to know this:

You had a purpose, and your life had a meaning.

Because you spoke purpose and meaning into mine.

The Sword That Pierces

Here we stand on this Saturday, suspended between the aftermath of the cross and the anticipation of the resurrection. We stand between the darkness of death and the light of life. Hanging ever so carefully on this precipice of utter despair. We who stand on this side of that gap know exactly how the story ends.

But for the men and women of Jesus’ day, all seemed lost on the singular day that stood between the cross and the empty grave. For the disciples and Jesus’ mother and all those who followed him, how long did those hours stretch in between? How deep did the despair go? What moments did they replay in their minds a hundred times over, reliving their moments of betrayal, reliving their moments of unbearable grief? We spend so much of the Easter season looking to the cross of Christ and him crucified – as we rightly should – but this year, my thoughts seem to bend relentlessly to Mary.

Because it is there at the foot of the cross of Christ where stood a woman who suffered the pangs of birthing the only begotten Son, who wrapped that same child in swaddling clothes, who brushed dirt off the knees of the Son of Man, and who one day would stand beneath the gaze of her son, the Son of God, and watch as he suffered the agony of the crucifixion.

But Mary knew that day would come. It did not catch her by surprise. She had been warned. They had all been warned, but she had been warned long before many of the others.

After the birth of Jesus, and after the proper time of purification according to the Old Testament Law, the family of Mary and Joseph went up to Jerusalem to the temple in order to dedicate the Christ child. It was there in the temple where they encountered Simeon, the man who had been waiting to witness the Lord Jesus with his own eyes. Simeon took the child in his arms, and said, "Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:29-32, ESV).

And then Simeon turns to Mary directly and curiously addresses her alone, not Joseph, and says, “Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed" (Luke 2:34-35).

The sword in this instance referred to a long Thracian javelin, the same kind David used to cut off the head of Goliath, the giant Philistine, in 1 Samuel 17.

The same kind that would pierce the side of Jesus Christ.

“So the soldiers came and broke the legs of the first, and of the other who had been crucified with him. But when they came to Jesus and saw that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out blood and water” (John 19:32-34).

And a sword will pierce through your own soul also.

She had been warned.

I can’t help but wonder if those prophetic words of Simeon echoed through her mind as she stood gazing up at her son, hanging there on the cross, his arms stretched wide, his breath growing more and more shallow, his blood dripping to the gravel below.

And then that sword. That awful sword the soldier thrust into her son. How quickly did the years rewind in her mind? How deeply did the pain run through her heart in that very moment?  How quickly did Simeon’s face appear in her mind’s eye, and how loudly could she hear him say, “And a sword will pierce your own soul too”?

Her soul and his side, each pierced in their own way.

But neither Mary nor Christ will be the only ones pierced.

We find our own souls pierced when we encounter the cross of Christ and the Word of God.

How can we not be?

“Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace. In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one; and take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God…” (Ephesians 6:13-17).

The sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

The sword which pierces.

“For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” (Hebrews 4:12).

The prophecy in Luke meets the fulfillment in Jesus in the book of John which meets the present reality and truth in Hebrews.

United by one thing: the Word.

The Word made flesh, who made his dwelling among us (John 1:14), who hung on the cross, who was pierced in the side.

He’s the same Word who turns and pierces our own souls.

So tomorrow – we will celebrate the fact that the sword in the side of our Savior didn’t have the final word.

But may we find our souls pierced time and again with the weight of God’s Word, the sword that is sharpest of all.

The Art of Neighboring

Neighboring can be a curious endeavor. You know, it’s the act of getting to know the people who live around you in your neighborhood. Or in my case with an apartment, it’s a matter of getting to know the people who live above and below and across and beside.

But long before I lived in my current apartment, I had lived in a variety of other locales and settings. I lived 18 years in the middle of a hay field with coyotes and bunny rabbits as my neighbors before moving to mid-Missouri where I acquired 50 sorority women for neighbors. I spent four years living in a sorority house, and in those four years, I had 7 different roommates. I generally didn’t care who I roomed with, so I always got the roommates that nobody else wanted to room with. Trust me, there are no shortage of stories from those years.

I eventually spent some time living in Kenya on a couple of short-terms stints, and that maybe resulted in the first time I had geckos for neighbors. In grad school, I lived next to an elderly gentleman who, quite frankly, just seemed so cranky that I never really bothered to interact with him much.

But I tell you what. Nothing beats the string of neighbors I’ve had in the nearly three years since I moved into my current apartment.

My first conscious memory of a neighbor was of the guy who lived above me. I’m not really sure what it is about the apartment above me, but two things seem to occur relative to that space: 1) nobody ever stays long, and 2) whoever does live there usually has a knack for making a fair amount of noise. I soon learned this particular neighbor was in possession of a particular Christmas decoration. Which played some sort of jingle. On loop.

I wanted to lose my mind. It was like listening to “This Is the Song That Doesn’t End” by Lamp Chop’s.

Christmas eventually came and went, and the tenant moved on along with his decorations. There’s blank space in my memory as to who lived there immediately after him, but eventually a couple moved in.

And let’s just say I was very aware of their love life. Very. So much so there were some nights I used ear plugs or put my headphones in and I still couldn’t drown them out. I was losing sleep because of these people.

I wanted to lose my mind all over again. Some days I would nearly be on the verge of tears out of frustration. And I wasn’t sure what exactly to do about it – I mean, what are my options? Go up to their apartment, knock on the door, introduce myself and say, “Hi, would you mind not having sex all.the.time?!” Yeah, because that’s not at all awkward. I eventually learned in a roundabout way from the maintenance guy the couple got evicted (I’m assuming for reasons other than just having sex all the time).

Then for a brief time a girl moved in, who I did actually get to meet at one point. Very kind. She was fairly quiet and really was only there maybe a few months. I usually wasn’t too aware of her, but I was usually fairly aware of her cat. Yes, her cat. Her cat got what my brother calls “the zoomies.” The zoomies are what happens when an animal acts as if they got injected with a shot of Red Bull and then run around like a bat out of Hades. So, I would often hear this cat zipping around from one side of the apartment to the other, bounding around for patches of time.

And then before too long, she also moved on, and then I got my present neighbor. Who I learned in no time was a fan of classic rock. And by fan, I mean he actually plays the guitar and sings the same songs over and over again. And by playing the guitar, I mean he plugs his electric or bass guitar into an amp, and occasionally throws the bongo drums in for good measure. I have never heard “Proud Mary” so much before in my life. And I swear he played “Don’t Stop Believing” the other night with an instrument (I'm not sure if it was his own voice somewhere up in the falsetto range or if it was an actual instrument) that sounded very much like a kazoo. At 11:00 at night. This past weekend’s repertoire included a duet with a girl, who also doubled as a trumpet player.

I came home from church one Sunday here a couple of weeks ago, and really just wanted to study and get some reading done. In silence. But Mr. Don’t Stop Believing was rocking out on his guitar and didn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. After it went on for awhile, I decided I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I thought I’d sit in my car and enjoy the silence of the parking lot. So much for that idea. I could hear him playing from the parking lot. So then I thought I’d drive down to a nearby park, thinking I would find some solitude.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

I drive down to the park, attempting to find the farthest corner I can, away from the crowds. I park my car, roll the windows down, shut the engine off. And what do I hear?

Bagpipes.

Bagpipes!

The world was conspiring against me and my pursuit of silence.

But when I really stop and think about it – my priority should be to form intentional relationships with my neighbors, to become familiar with them and not merely acquaint them with the many noises they make. I need to take time to meet them, learn their names, learn their stories. (Thank you to the book Art of Neighboring for reminding me and encouraging me and convicting me about the necessity of this.) And not with the ulterior motive of coaxing them to live the life of a mime so long as they live above me. My neighbors are people at the end of the day. 

And people matter. 

In all their noisy glory.