Day 5: What The Pandemic Didn't Kill

Disclaimer: I know for some people this pandemic has been nothing short of traumatic. I have friends who have watched loved ones die agonizing deaths. I do not wish to diminish the weight of that grief and all the chaos this pandemic has wrought. The following is intended to be a light-hearted take - please read it as such.

The death toll for COVID is staggering. The economic fallout is massive. The way we live our lives has fundamentally shifted. COVID has killed a lot of people and it has killed a lot of events, customs, and rituals, some temporarily, some still have never rebounded. Sporting events. Concerts. Cookouts. Vacations. School. Restaurants. Hotels. Family gatherings. There isn't a corner of our world where death, in some way, shape, or form, has not touched it.

Except for one very unlikely place, much to my everlasting dismay. 

And that, my friends, is the "passing of the peace," also known as the "turn and greet your neighbor" moment at church.

For those of you unfamiliar with church settings, this is the point in a church service, usually fairly early on, when a person stands on stage, all cheery and bright and probably an extrovert, and instructs the congregation to pause and take a moment to say hi to your neighbor, give 'em a high five, give 'em a hug, wave, whatever. So, then everybody turns around and pretends to have a meaningful interaction while every introvert in the room wants to hit the 'abort' button.

I am like the Holy Spirit in Romans 8:26 with my "wordless groans" every time this moment rolls around in a church service. I may be wordless, but I quite literally groan nearly every single Sunday. Sometimes I have to make a pact with myself to stop groaning about it because even I get tired of hearing myself complain about my perpetual disdain for the tradition. Words truly cannot express how much I despise this moment. My friends certainly know how much I hate this moment, and even if you're not my friend but are sitting in my vicinity on a Sunday morning, you're probably going to know it soon enough. 

Why? Why do churches insist on this moment? I do not understand. It's painful. It's awkward. It's weird. It's forced. It's artificial. It's dreadful. 

It's annoying as hell. 

It's bad enough if you're introverted, but if you're introverted and new to the church?

Feel free to rapture your people, Jesus, and save me from this moment.

As Scot McKnight wrote in the foreword of Adam S. McHugh's book Introverts in the Church, "Who, for instance, designed the 'Pass the Peace' moment in the church tradition? Surely not an introvert."

Exactly.

What's even more bothersome at times is that no matter where I go in the world, the same thing happens. I can be in a church with a mud floor in the middle of nowhere Kenya, or in a cathedral in a bustling city in Russia, and what happens? Yep, those loathsome, dreaded words come pouring out of the leader's mouth, "Why don't we all turn and greet our neighbors? Tell 'em how glad you are to see them today!"

For the love of Pete. 

COVID, you killed so many things. How did you manage to not bring a swift end to this tradition? I had such high hopes that this pandemic would wipe out this little moment in our church gatherings. But noooo, it's still alive and well.  

Dear Lord, I beg of you, may the passing of the peace rest in peace. And soon. 

Day 4: I (Almost) Bought a Zoo

I recently bought a house. My grandmother's house, specifically, which was my great-grandfather's before her. It came complete with a family of groundhogs, innumerable squirrels, a regular "committee" meeting of turkey vultures in a tree in my backyard, a stray mouse or two who made their way into my bedroom (who have since been evicted), and I swear a long-tailed weasel (who did not make it into my bedroom, thankfully). My dad thinks I've lost my mind, but I would bet money it was a weasel. I'm crazy, but not completely crazy. It was a weasel.

The original house, circa I don't know when. 
It has since had a complete second story
added on.

This house is nothing fancy. But it's mine. And it was my father's. And my grandmother's. And my great-grandfather's. My oldest brother and his girls lived here at various points in time, too, which also means a total of five generations of my family have lived in this house since my great-grandfather built it in 1949. It's never going to make the cover of Architectural Digest, but this nearly 75-year old, 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house has brought me to tears on more than one occasion. 

I never had dreams of being a homeowner. It wasn't something I felt particularly strong about and so I spent years renting. I didn't want the burden of a mortgage and the responsibility of maintaining a home. I bounced around from one apartment to the next, living in various parts of the city. I loved each of those spaces for very different reasons. The first apartment I ever rented was a whopping 350 sq. ft. My parents thought I was one step above living in a shoebox. After that one, I had a slight detour back to my parents' basement, but then ended up in a 1,200 sq. ft. condo. I felt like I was living in a mansion. What does one do with 1,200 sq. ft. of space?! Coming from the tiny 350 sq. ft. studio, I had basically no furniture, so it took me awhile to slowly buy up a table, chairs, couch, etc. In between the condo and my next apartment, I briefly looked at buying a home, the first time I had ever warmed up to the idea, but the process was incredibly stressful and nothing seemed right. I threw in the towel after two months of searching and decided to rent again. In my last apartment I could hear my neighbor's conversations through the walls verbatim. I felt like I had to take a vow of silence to live there because I didn't want anybody to hear my own conversations. 

That's finally what pushed me over the edge.

The opportunity to move into my grandmother's house first came about because she had significant health needs and was in assisted living. My father had always said he wouldn't ever sell it so long as she was alive. They asked if I wanted to rent it so that the house didn't sit empty. My apartment lease was ending and I reluctantly agreed to rent the house. Reluctantly because the location of it was in the complete opposite direction of where most of my life occurred - farther from work, farther from church, farther from the gym, farther from where several friends lived. 

But for the first time ever in my life, I wasn't going to be sharing walls with another human being.

Sign.me.up. 

I moved in about a year ago and two weeks later my grandmother passed. So, now the question became - did I want to buy the house? I clearly remember telling my parents a year prior, when the topic first came up of me renting, that I wouldn't ever be interested in buying the house. 

As they say, never say never.

Once I moved in and had a chance to get settled, I had time to warm up to the notion of owning a home. And quite frankly, the thought of moving again (I had moved four out of the previous five years) and possibly sharing walls with people again was so horrifying that my days of not wanting to own a home were rapidly vanishing into the distance. 

So, I bought the house. And it's menagerie of resident animals.

I've lost count of the number of times I've been on the verge of tears, reflecting on God's faithfulness in the timing of it all. How many years had I wandered from one apartment to the next, never ready to settle down? And when I was finally ready to consider buying a home, how many houses had I looked it, none of them seeming like they were the right fit for me? I was finally sick of carting my life around in boxes, feeling like I could never quite fully claim a space. 

But now - now the timing was right. The circumstances were right. The financing was right. All of it, came together at just the right time in my life.

And I am ever so grateful for these four walls. 

That are shared with no one else. 

"Observe the commands of the LORD your God, walking in his ways and revering him. For the LORD your God is bringing you into a good land...When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the LORD your God for the good land he has given you. Be careful that you do not forget the LORD your God, failing to observe his commands, his laws and his decrees that I am giving you this day. Otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied, when you build fine houses and settle down...then your heart will become proud and you will forget the LORD your God...You may say to yourself, 'My power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me.' But remember the LORD your God, for it is he who gives..." (Deuteronomy 8:6-7, 10-12, 14, 17-18).

Day 3: Winner of the Friendship Lottery

Me and my childhood best friend

When it comes to friends, I've won the lottery. I could easily tick off name after name after name of the men and women in my life who are just straight up exceptional human beings. They come from various stages of my life, from childhood to college to adulthood. They are married, married with kids, single, divorced. Some love Jesus, some are on the fence about Jesus, and some are just straight up suspicious of him. They are thoughtful, hilarious, serious, smart, introverted, extroverted, dedicated, sacrificial, giving, and everything else in between.

There's Sandra, the unlikeliest of friends. She is proof that God has a sense of humor because she and I would probably never have chosen to be friends on our own. There's Ruth who is truly the most thoughtful person I know and has the memory of an elephant. I think I'm decent about remembering the details of people's lives, but she puts me to shame. There's Matt who is just an easy companion. Conversations come effortlessly with him. There's Kristen who is probably one of my funniest friends. Her storytelling coupled with her southern accent is pure gold. There's Laura. That girl was my saving grace in a really crazy season of life. There's Emily, my kindred spirit in so many ways, someone who can go deep intellectually and spiritually in a way that is so life-giving. And Derek, I'm not sure where I'd be without him. He's more of anchor than he'll probably ever know. 

I could go on and on, but that's just a glimpse. Sometimes I get overwhelmed when I think about the line-up of friends that I have because they are just so.freaking.amazing. Truly stunning people and I'm so honored to be their friend.

At the risk of stating the obvious, though, those friendships haven't happened by accident. If there is anything I have learned - and thankfully I learned this when I was young - friendships require effort and intentionality. I know I'm stating the obvious and I know that's no different than any other relationship, but it's easy to think that friendships are going to somehow be held together through passive means or happenstance. We get so busy and self-absorbed with our own lives as we get older - we get married, we have kids, our careers take over. And then we wonder what happened to so and so, realizing that people who were once confidants are now merely acquaintances simply because we just stopped trying to connect.

I inadvertently visited almost every friend I have living out of state this past year (and I certainly have plenty of friends in state that I visited also!). I drove down last February to South Carolina to see a friend of mine that I met through Bible Study Fellowship. I made the trek out to Missouri to visit college friends, making multiple stops in Illinois and Indiana along the way to catch an assortment of people I hadn't seen in awhile. I drove down to North Carolina to visit another college friend, stopped briefly in Winston-Salem on the way back to visit a friend I met during a post-college summer job, and then stopped again overnight in Virginia to stay with a former boss of mine from my grad school days. I drove out to DC to take my niece to an internship and reconnected with a sorority sister I hadn't seen in nine years. I flew out to San Diego here just in December to visit friends from church who recently moved out there.

Me and Hannah on the beach at Coronado Island

I don't say all that to pat myself on the back, but to say that I learned a long time ago that you have to show up in your friendships again and again and again. Because guess what? It's easy to make excuse after excuse, and it's easy to just stop trying. You have to decide at some point that people matter and that it's time to make them a priority, even if that is a select one or two friends. Now, I realize that I am single. And because of that, it affords me a lot of flexibility to just pick up and go. I don't have a husband and children to corral and coordinate. My job has great benefits that allow me time off when I want. So, yes, I'm aware of the caveats of my situation. 

But maintaining friendships doesn't always mean getting on a plane or driving 1,000 miles. Sometimes, yes, it may mean that, but more often than not, maintaining friendships means sending a text message and being curious about your friends' lives. It means asking questions. It means checking in. It means sending the occasional card. It means clearing your calendar, reaching out and asking if they want to get together for dinner. It means you keep showing up. Because as Bob Goff pointed out in his book Love Does, love is both sacrificial and present. 

So who do you need to text? Who do you need to call? Who do you need to get on a plane to go see, if the situation allows? Grand gestures are not required in order to maintain grand friendships, but grand friendships do require deliberate and sustained effort, effort that communicates "You matter to me." 

Day 2: Why I Still Say No to Social Media

One of the great ironies in my life is that, despite not having any personal social media accounts, I am the social media coordinator as part of my job. Also oddly enough, I volunteered myself for the task because, quite frankly, I thought I could do a better job than the person who was doing it at the time. That was three years ago. 

Once upon a time, though, I did have a personal social media account or two. Facebook for awhile, then Instagram. LinkedIn was in the mix for a brief period, too. 

Facebook was the first to go back sometime around January 2011. LinkedIn followed suit later that year. I opened an Instagram account in 2012 when I finally got a smartphone and was living in Kenya; posting pictures was an easy way to keep the family informed. I deleted it sometime after I got back to the States, but reopened it again in 2014 and then deleted it for good in 2015. For the work-related content, I use a co-worker's login info, so even though I need to manage social media pages for my job, I still don't use personal accounts to do so.

I don't miss any of them. In the twelve years since I first deleted my accounts, there's never been a moment when I have wavered and regretted shutting everything down. Not once. I'm honestly not sure what circumstances or amount of money would ever convince me to open personal accounts ever again. 

When I first started deleting accounts it was essentially because I could see the writing on the wall - me and social media just weren't going to mix from an emotional and mental health standpoint. I spent way too much time wondering if anybody liked my posts, commented, or followed me. It was unhealthy and I could see what it was doing to my self-esteem and self-worth. I was becoming obsessed with checking notifications, and the good Lord gave me enough sense and self-awareness to see that it just wasn't going to end well for me if I stuck around. It is the same reason I likely won't ever do online dating. If someone told me I had to choose between online dating or being single for the rest of my life, I'd tell 'em I would gladly go to my grave single without question. Burial plot for one? Yes, please.

So, goodbye social media. To this day, I still believe it is one of the smartest things I have ever done in my life. 

I recently revisited the reasons why I kissed social media goodbye when I read the book Stolen Focus by Johann Hari. I highly recommend it. I rarely buy books anymore, but instead make use of the public library (more to come this month on my love of libraries). But this one - this one was so good that once I finished it, I went and bought my own copy because I wanted to re-read it and mark it up. There were so many insights and aha! moments about how my own brain and my attention have been hijacked by technology and the environment in which we live. It was profound to me what he wrote about and it affirmed my inclinations to avoid social media. (I also read Jaron Lanier's book Ten Reasons to Delete Your Social Media Accounts Right Now, which is a little bit more of a rant, but he provides some interesting points to consider nonetheless. The Social Dilemma is also worth a watch.)

Hari interviewed James Williams, a former Google strategist, and one day Williams "addressed an audience of hundreds of leading tech designers and asked them a simple question: 'How many of you want to live in the world you are designing?' There was silence in the room. People looked around them. Nobody put up their hand" (123).

Yeah, I don't particularly want to live in the world they're designing either. I'm not here to say that social media is the devil, but I think it's getting harder and harder to argue in favor of its benefits over the harm it's doing. 

So, if you ever ask me if we can be friends on Facebook, the answer is no, the same as it was over twelve years ago. 

But real-life friend requests are definitely still acceptable.

Day 1: Challies' Challenge

If you've followed this blog for a period of time, you probably have noticed that my writing has been - how shall I put it? - woefully infrequent in recent years. The line of demarcation was somewhere between 2017 and 2018. Late 2017 was when I had my epic mental health crisis, so I don't know if that's what flipped the switch or what, but I just have not been motivated to write as much in recent years. That's not to say that I haven't had a long list of things to write about rolling around in my head, though. I've had a note in my phone for years now of article titles, one-liners, random sentences and such, things I would mull over and think I should write about - and then just didn't. I think in some ways I just got lazy. I stopped putting forth the effort to create or do the hard work of thinking and crafting a story. Writing started to feel like a chore, something that I should do out of some sort of weird misplaced obligation. Obviously, no one is holding a gun to my head and insisting I write, but some part of me knows deep down it's what I need to be doing. 

After I had mustered up the energy to submit a piece to Gospel-Centered Discipleship this past September, it led me down a rabbit trail to a Tim Challies* article called "Six Reasons For You to Consider Writing." I read it once, thought it had some good insights, and then moved on. But then for some reason, I came back to it again later, reading it more slowly the second time around.

And then this single line nearly jumped up and bit me: "Try to write something every day for a week or a month and just see what happens."

Write every day? For a month? Something in me sparked when I read that line. Like a match had been struck and finally that fire of motivation I had been lacking the last five years had been lit. It was the first time I had felt energized about the prospect of writing in such a long time. I think I had forgotten what that felt like.

So, here's my goal for the month of January**:

I'm going to write every day. 

If I manage to do that (but let's manage expectations here, people), I will have written more in one month than I have in the last five years combined. The pieces won't be polished. They won't necessarily be all connected, coherent or cohesive. But that's not the point. The point is for me to exercise some discipline and finally give words to all the things that have rolled around in my head for years. It's a way of battling my own apathy and complacency. 

So, Tim Challies, challenge accepted. 

Wish me luck.

*Not that Tim Challies is ever going to read this blog, but I owe him a personal thank you. After we released my article on GCD, Tim got a hold of it and then shared it via his social media and his daily email newsletter. That share landed me #1 on this list. I might have mildly freaked out both when I first got notice that Tim shared my article, but also when I found out about The List. Tears may or may not have been involved. So, Tim, thanks for reading my work and thinking it was good enough to share with the masses. I'm still a little dumbfounded that anybody noticed it.

**I might regret this.

New Article at GCD

It's been a good long while since I have submitted material for publication, but I finally mustered up the motivation and energy to submit a piece to Gospel-Centered Discipleship, a site I have published with in the past.  

You can read the full article over at gcdiscipleship.com. May it be an encouragement in your study of God's word.

I Know Less Than Ever

The shadows of evening were growing long outside the window. I was curled up on the couch, my arm draped along the back of it, talking with some friends from church. I don't even remember what the topic of conversation was, but I do remember making this statement, feeling the conviction deep in my bones:

I know less about God than I ever have before in my life. 

But how can that be so? I have spent my entire life filling a church pew nearly every Sunday morning, no matter if there was a dirt floor beneath my feet in Guatemala or pristine chandeliers hanging above my head here in America. My parents drilled it into us as kids - if it's Sunday, your backside had better be warming the pew of a church somewhere. 

Over the years, I accumulated more and more knowledge, learning the Bible verses, stories and doctrines. I went to church camp for years, literally singing Kumbaya around a campfire and feeling the warm fuzzies of it all. (I even won 'Camper of the Year' in 1998.) I went overseas on short-term mission trips on multiple occasions, bouncing between Guatemala, Kenya, Russia, New Caledonia. I can't tell you the number of Bible studies I've completed over the years, pages and pages of notes stacking up, taking up space in my filing cabinet and computer hard drive. I've read various commentaries, debated doctrines, been to conferences, read countless theology books, led small groups, facilitated women's times, and taught in the children's ministry. Heck, I've even published articles about God, writing as if I might actually know what I'm talking about.

I am like the apostle Paul (although simultaneously very aware I am nothing like Paul on countless levels) as he rattles off his resume in Philippians 3:4-6:

If someone else thinks they have reasons to put confidence in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; in regard to the law, a Pharisee; as for zeal, persecuting the church; as for righteousness based on the law, faultless (NIV).

And yet, despite the spiritual resume, the stockpiles of knowledge and the passing of time, still I'm convinced I know less about God than when I first came to know him decades ago.

What really lies at the heart of that statement is not merely an intellectual recognition of how much literal knowledge I possesses (or don't) about God - but rather a recognition rooted in marvel and wonder, a sheer sense of disbelief. Like David in Psalm 8:3-4, I ask with a hint of mystification in my thoughts and in my prayers to God,

When I consider your heavens, 

the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him, 

the son of man that you care for him?

C.S. Lewis writes in his famed children's series, The Chronicles of Narnia, of four siblings - Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy - who discover an enchanted and mysterious land through the doors of a seemingly common wardrobe. Through this wardrobe, the children are magically transported to the land of Narnia and encounter the schemes of the White Witch, an evil sorceress who has placed the land under a spell. Along with Aslan the lion, a good (but not tame!) and powerful king, the children wage war in order to restore peace to Narnia, which they achieve. The children eventually return from the wardrobe and back to their ordinary lives, but there does come a day in the fourth book, Prince Caspian, when they journey back to Narnia. 

It is here that Lucy, the youngest of the siblings, searches for Aslan. She discovers him in the wood, rushing to him:

And the next thing she knew was that she was kissing him and putting her arms as far round his neck as she could and burying her face in the beautiful rich silkiness of his mane.

"Aslan, Aslan. Dear Aslan," sobbed Lucy. "At last."

The great beast rolled over on his side so that Lucy fell, half sitting and half lying between his front paws. He bent forward and just touched her nose with his tongue. His warm breath came all round her. She gazed up into the large wise face.

"Welcome, child," he said.

"Aslan," said Lucy, "you're bigger."

"That is because you are older, little one," answered he.

"Not because you are?"

"I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger."

Like Lucy, I am older and I am finding God bigger.

This is how I can say I know less about God than ever. 

He hasn't changed one iota, not in my lifetime and not in all the lifetimes before me. He has not literally grown bigger, just like Aslan had not grown bigger. But just as Lucy's view of Aslan had changed, my view of God has changed. 

The passing of time has sharpened my awareness of my limitations, my shortcomings, my sinful tendencies, and I've discovered that maybe - just maybe - I don't know it all after all. Likewise, the passing of time has sharpened my awareness of the vastness, the greatness, the magnitude of the God who does know it all.

Age has a way of humbling us and teaching us that God is far bigger than we dared to dream, and we as humans are infinitely smaller than our egos are willing to admit. I see who I am - and who I am not - with greater clarity relative to who he is. 

It is this realization that humbles me, that leaves me feeling mystified and positively stumped that God should ever bend down to make himself known to me. I read his Word and I think, "How is that I'm still learning things afresh, things I've read dozens of times before, but as if I've never read them before?" I pray and think, "How is it that he still bothers to listen to me, still chooses to bestow his grace upon me?"

It's because I am growing and I am finding him bigger. 

When I get to heaven, I want to wrap my arms as far round God's neck as I can, gaze into his large wise face and say, "You're bigger." 

And then spend all eternity finding out just how big he really is. 

"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (1 Corinthians 13:12).

"What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord..." (Phillipians 3:8).

Sit, Stay Awhile

My grandfather was a notoriously slow eater. I mean slow. Meals were not merely a physical necessity to him, a functional means of putting food into his body for sustenance, but rather more about everything else surrounding the occasion. Conversations. Stories. People. Relationships. Community. 

For the better part of a decade, my grandparents were fixtures at the local Amish restaurant every morning for breakfast. Typically the only day they didn't go was on Sundays and that was only because they didn't have a say in the matter. The place was closed. The creed of the US Postal Service really was the creed of my grandparents: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."  They were relationship couriers hell-bent on making their appointed rounds, just perhaps minus the swift part.

My grandfather would sit at that table like a king conducting the affairs of his court and all the courtiers that came with it. He was never in a hurry. He rarely had anywhere else to be and the coffee and conversation were always in steady supply. He and my grandmother would talk for hours upon hours upon hours. They came for breakfast but they might as well have stayed for lunch, maybe even dinner, too. And they didn't know a stranger. If a couple or a family were sitting a table or two away, minding their own business, inevitably, my grandfather would somehow draw them into a conversation. Strangers became friends who were welcomed into the affairs of the royal court. 

My grandfather was well-versed in the art of lingering. 

He knew what it meant to sit and stay awhile.

I, on the other hand, eat most of my meals standing at the kitchen counter.

Granted, I live alone and there's no one else around to share a meal with so I usually just stand or stay in motion, cleaning up the kitchen or doing more food prep in between bites. Always in motion, always moving.

I am not well-versed in the art of lingering like my grandfather was. 

And neither were the ancient Israelites.

As we move toward Passover in a few weeks, there is a part of the Old Testament exodus story we can easily gloss over and miss the depth of its meaning if we are not careful. We must linger here, just as I need to learn to linger over meals.

When we pick up the story of the Israelites in Exodus 12, they are still in slavery in Egypt, but their deliverance is drawing near. Nine of the ten plagues have been unleashed. The final plague - the death of every firstborn in Egypt, from man to livestock - is about to bring low the heart of Pharaoh himself. In preparation, the Lord issues a command to the people: prepare the Passover feast. Slaughter the lamb, put the blood on the doorframes, make the bread without yeast. 

And then the Lord gives this seemingly insignificant but very important command:

"This is how you are to eat it: with your cloak tucked into your belt, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand. Eat it in haste..." (Exodus 12:11).

When you are about to run for your very life, you have no time to linger over your meal. You make-ready to make haste because time will be your enemy if you don't. Now is not the time to linger, to pull up a chair, make new friends and chew the fat, figuratively speaking. Now is the time you eat in haste. 

When the final plague of death was delivered, Pharaoh would give the order to release all of the Israelites from slavery. And once that command came, there wouldn't be a moment to waste. So God made it clear to his people the stance with which they were to eat the Passover meal, to be like runners crouched at the starting blocks waiting for the gun to go off and the race to begin.  

You eat in haste when you are outrunning your captor.

You eat in haste when you are scrambling to set foot in the Promised Land.

You eat in haste when you are living on the brink of death.

For those who live apart from Christ, this is how you spiritually eat. Constantly on the run, nerves on edge, one eye on your plate, one eye on the door, shoveling spoonfuls in your mouth, eating in haste. And it's not just how you eat now, it's how you will eat for all eternity should you continue to choose to stand as an enemy of the cross of Christ. There will be no lingering over meals in hell because you will be perpetually starved of all things good and right and true. Hell does not come equipped with a kitchen table. 

For those who belong to Christ, however, the day will come when we sit down to eat another feast and God will not give us the same command he gave his people in Exodus 12.  The command he gave then is not how he intends his people to eat all their meals for all their days. It was for a specific purpose at a specific time under specific circumstances.

No, at the end of time, at the wedding feast of the Lamb, God will invite his people to linger. He will invite us to pull up a chair and stay awhile, to get comfortable, to take off our shoes and set aside our staff. He will invite us to become well-acquainted with the art of lingering. 

And he will invite us to eat slowly. 

You are no longer outrunning your captor. 

He has been vanquished.

You are no longer scrambling to set foot in the Promised Land. 

You are already in it. 

You are no longer living on the brink of death.

You have life everlasting.    

So, sit, stay awhile. 

You no longer have to eat in haste at the Lord's table.

"Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” (Revelation 19:9).

Even If The Answers Never Come

My friend and I sat in the donut shop, basking in the glory of warm, freshly made donuts slathered in toppings of our choosing. The sweet smells of dough and chocolate and various other forms of sugar filled the air. Conversations from other patrons spilled over all around us as they waited in line for their own delightful donuts. My friend sat back in her chair, hands cradling her swollen belly - all 34 weeks of it. We spoke of baby gifts and nurseries and the wonders of pregnancy. Her face was as expectant as the rest of her body. A baby set to arrive any day, at any moment. It was just a matter of time.

I distinctly remember us talking that Friday morning - Good Friday, no less - how so often in life we can have seasons when it seems things couldn't get any better, seasons when it seems we are sailing along, anchored in our faith, confident in the character and nature of God. But those seasons inevitably are followed by the storms, the trials, the heartaches, the crucibles. The two often go hand in hand, don't they? We both knew from our own life experiences how true that dichotomy was.  

We polished off our donuts and I hugged her, her belly creating space between us. We parted ways that morning feeling light, hopeful of the day when her baby would arrive and we would celebrate.  

I wished our conversation hadn't been so prophetic. 

The next morning I woke early to a text message from her, a plea to come to the hospital as soon as possible. 

The baby's heart had stopped beating sometime in the night.

Thirty-four weeks of hopeful expectation.

Dear Jesus, no. Not this.   

I rolled out of bed, changed clothes, gathered my things and shot out the door. As I drove, the questions and thoughts and prayers tumbled around in my brain, like rogue waves breaking against the rocks on a shoreline, one after another after another.   

She's so close to her due date. How could you let this happen now?

Maybe it's just a fluke and the ultrasound equipment malfunctioned. 

What if the doctors are wrong and the baby really is still alive?

Jesus, it's Easter weekend. This would be a good time to perform another resurrection.  

How do I not be weird or awkward or say the wrong thing? 

What is the right thing to say anyway in moments like these?

And, of course - 

Why?

There is often the danger in Christian circles with feeling like we aren't allowed to ask this question in our moments of deepest pain, that it's too taboo or too blasphemous or quite frankly, just plain ol' too honest and too raw. So we paste a smile on our faces, keep a stiff upper lip, raise our hands in a show of worship and count it all joy when the bottom drops out in our lives. And in all things, we give thanks and we don't dare ask why.

As I drove to the hospital, wondering what I would find when I entered that room, I just kept thinking one thing over and over and over again, the mental waves still crashing against the shorelines of my mind:

Just because we have faith doesn't mean we can't ask 'why?'. 

But because we have faith, we can walk on - even if the answers never come.

I parked my car, fervently praying with every step that took me closer to my friend that somehow God would give me the words - and the wisdom to know when perhaps silence was needed more than words. But still that thought that had bounced around my head while driving lingered. I crossed the threshold into that hospital room and I could feel the weight of the atmosphere change in a very visceral way as I stepped into the hushed silence. I pulled back the curtain shielding me from the view of my friend and her husband. As soon as I saw her face, the tears flooded our eyes. Weeping might have been an understatement on account of all parties.

I sat next to her bed, holding her hand, her husband on the other side. I don't know what I said, what they said, what the doula said. I don't know if doctors and nurses came and went. I don't remember any of it. 

But I do remember praying, out loud, there in that room, holding my friend's hand, asking God one question unabashedly, with tears streaming down my face:

"Why?"

Why, God, in all your sovereign ways, would you bring my friend and her baby this far and then allow his heart to stop beating? It doesn't add up. It doesn't make sense. Our finite minds desperately want reasons and explanations and logic and rationale thought to fill the empty spaces. 

Tish Harrison Warren wrote in her stunning book Prayer in the Night*, "It is better to come to God with sharp words than to remain distant from him, never voicing our doubts and disappointments. Better to rage at the Creator than to smolder in polite devotion. God did not smite the psalmist" (48). 

God did not smite the psalmist nor did he smite us in that hospital room for asking why. He's big enough to bear the weight of those three little letters.  

But we have to be prepared for either an answer we don't like or an answer that never comes. 

And we have to decide what we will do in the face of either of those responses. 

I can assure you my kindhearted and tender friend did not smolder in polite devotion. She came to God with her sharp words in the face of an answer she didn't like. She came with her doubts and disappointments. But I also watched her in the days, weeks, months and years that have followed since that not-so-good-Good-Friday decide one day at a time what her ultimate response was going to be:

She was still going to walk on, choosing to shift her focus to the answer to the question "Who is God?" rather than dwelling on why.

Because the answers to why have never come for her. 

The baby was perfectly healthy. The autopsy report reveals no abnormalities. The doctors don't know why. 

There are no reasons, explanations, or rationale thoughts.

Warren went on to share in Prayer in the Night of a friend whose son underwent surgery. While her friend sat in the waiting room, "she committed herself to deciding whether God could be trusted, regardless of the result of the surgery." Warren reflected,

[My friend] was not simply ratcheting herself up to affirm the goodness of God in spite of contrary evidence. She did look to evidence, though not the evidence of her life, nor the tally of the total amount of good in the world versus the total amount of evil. Instead, she looked at the life of Jesus. It's on this story that she anchored her decision about whether she would trust God, without knowing what would happen next (29).

I watched my own friend look to the life of Jesus rather than merely ratcheting herself up to affirm the goodness of God. I watched her ask why, and I watched her anchor her life to something greater than both the question and the answer - or lack thereof.

I watched her walk on, even when the answers never came.

Because her faith was built not on the question of why.

Her faith was built on the answer of who. 

In your moments of deepest pain and loudest lament, you can ask God why. 

But determine now to walk on in faith, trusting in who he is.

Even if the answers to why never come.

======

*Seriously. Read this book. 

Opportunity Does Not Equal Permission

On paper, it made so much sense. He was a pilot, good-looking, funny, kind, well-liked by his peers, adored by other girls, loved Jesus, was one of my closest friends and best of all? He cared about me, was interested in me, and wanted to date me, wanted to see if this thing between us would turn into marriage some day in the future. What woman in her right mind wouldn't date a guy like that? It was a seemingly obvious and open door of opportunity. 

The world told me to take it.

Only I didn't. 

I had long conversations with Jesus over that boy. Why not, God? Why can't I say yes to him? He loves you, and in some form or fashion, he loves me. What could be so bad about saying yes to him and seeing where this thing goes? 

There was no lightning bolt from the blue, no detailed reasoning from Jesus etched in the form of stone tablets, but there was always a check in my gut from the Holy Spirit. The answer simply was no. And not only was it a no, but there was a strong sense I would be disobedient if I forged ahead.  I knew without a doubt I had opportunity to date this tender-hearted warrior who loved Jesus, but I did not have permission.

In the life of a Christ-follower, discernment through the power of the Holy Spirit will be what shapes our ability to distinguish between opportunity and permission. We cannot operate like the world operates because let's be honest, the world is exceptionally gifted at getting opportunity and permission mixed up. The world thinks because you are presented with a chance to move ahead in a certain way with your plans, that it's meant to be. It's fate! It's destiny! It's your chance to speak your truth! You had been wanting to get out of your job, and then a company offers you a chance to interview out of the blue! Surely this must be a sign! Seize the opportunity! Or as in my case, you want to date and a man comes along who is textbook perfect. He's single, you're single. You both have a pulse. Surely this must be a sign! Seize the opportunity!   

That is how the world operates. Open doors equate to green lights which equate to permission. Elisabeth Elliot calls this the 'danger of coincidence' in her book Passion and Purity, saying, "More sins are defended by the claim of coincidence ('it was meant to be') than this world dreams of - or at least than it admits (59)." 

David knew the danger of defending his sins by the claim of coincidence. In 1 Samuel 24, he was on the run from Saul, the king over Israel, a man bent on ending David's life. But at that point, God had rejected Saul as king and David had been anointed by Samuel to serve as Saul's successor. Saul had zero interest in allowing this. David fled to the desert, hiding out in caves, constantly on the move to escape Saul's hand. 

On one occasion, David and his men were tucked far back into a cave. Saul had been pursuing David, and unbeknownst to Saul, he entered the same cave where David was hiding. David's men turned to him,

"This is the day the Lord spoke of when he said to you, ‘I will give your enemy into your hands for you to deal with as you wish.'" Then David crept up unnoticed and cut off a corner of Saul’s robe.

Afterward, David was conscience-stricken for having cut off a corner of his robe. He said to his men, “The Lord forbid that I should do such a thing to my master, the Lord’s anointed, or lay my hand on him; for he is the anointed of the Lord.” With these words David sharply rebuked his men and did not allow them to attack Saul. And Saul left the cave and went his way (1 Samuel 24:4-7)."

David could have ended Saul's life in that cave. His men told him as much. His sin would have been defended by coincidence. Look! Now is your chance to kill the very man who is out to kill you! God has surely brought him to this cave for that reason! But David knew opportunity did not equal permission. He could not afford to get the two mixed up. Saul was the Lord's anointed. Just because Saul had come to the very cave David was hiding in did not mean it was a sign from God to take Saul's life. 

We see the same when Jesus was crucified. He was unjustly beaten, flogged, stripped and nailed to a cross. Blood was pouring from his body. His lungs were screaming for oxygen. His shoulders were likely wrenched out of socket. It was an excruciating way to die. In Matthew 27, Matthew writes of the responses from those to either side and at the foot of the cross:

Two rebels were crucified with him, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads and saying, “You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God!” 

In the same way the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked him.  “He saved others,” they said, “but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’” In the same way the rebels who were crucified with him also heaped insults on him (Matthew 27:38-44).

Jesus could have stepped down from the cross. The mocking crowd told him as much and he no doubt had the divine power to do so. He really was the Son of God and being the Son of God meant he had the power to do the very thing the people said. But Jesus knew opportunity did not equal permission. He knew the danger of coincidence, that just because the people told him he could (albeit mockingly so) did not mean it was a sign from God for him to do so.

So he stayed. 

When he could have come off the cross, he stayed.

Jesus did not get opportunity and permission mixed up.

And because he did not get those two mixed up, you and I have both opportunity and permission to go from death to life (John 5:24).

Because he did not get those two mixed up, you and I have both opportunity and permission to spend all eternity dwelling with him (John 3:16).

Because he did not get those two mixed up, you and I have both opportunity and permission to sit at the wedding feast of the Lamb, eating and drinking until our heart's content (Revelation 19:9).

Because he did not get those two mixed up, you and I have both opportunity and permission to approach the throne of grace with confidence, assured that we will find mercy and receive grace in our time of need (Hebrews 4:16).

Because he did not get those two mixed up, you and I have both opportunity and permission to ask that out of God's glorious riches he would strengthen us with power through his Spirit in our inner being so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith (Ephesians 3:16-17).

This is one opportunity - the opportunity to love Jesus and follow him - you cannot afford to mix up.

Consider this your green light.