a prayer in the aftermath of the boston marathon tragedy

i was scheduled to pray before today’s new testament class, the day after the boston marathon tragedy, and the last class of the semester before finals. taking a note from a well-known duke theologian, i decided to write out my prayer. here it is.

dear Heavenly Father,

we thank you for this place to study, and for its commitment to telling, and re-telling, Your story.

we thank You for instructors such as mark who give of their time, energy, and knowledge, and whose sacrifice means our benefit.

in the aftermath of such a horrific and senseless act as our country experienced yesterday afternoon, when persons who clamor for power try to inflict fear upon the world, with heavy hearts, we thank you for difficult moments, as such instances of this world’s brokenness refuse to allow us to grow comfortable, and remind us that the meaning of our work is not found in grades, but in something much deeper.

help us be ever diligent in our work, that we might, more and more, become beacons of hope in this world that desperately seeks something to hope in as we witness to the beauty, love, and hope of Your story.

though our legs are tired and we wish to stop long enough to catch our breath, strengthen us by Your Spirit so that we might finish the race set before us with deep joy and gladness.

we pray in the holy name of Your Son, Jesus Christ. amen.

when He returned

[this is the third of a three-part imaginative reflection on the first holy week.]

i woke up early that morning. before the birds began their songs. it was still dark outside, but i felt urged awake. like someone had softly touched my arm, telling me it was time.

and so i awoke, quietly. not wanting to disturb anyone, i climbed out of my window, as i had two nights earlier, and dropped to the ground. still unsure why, i began to walk, not knowing where i was going.

everything was still. everything was quiet. no one was yet up. but i felt led, somehow. and soon i knew where to.

it wasn’t long before i found myself back in the garden, making my way to the tomb of the Man on the donkey.

the woman and the Gardener

two men passed by me, before i made it to the tomb. i waited, quietly, behind a tree as they passed, not wanting them to spot me.

they looked confused. their eyes and minds distant as they walked. as though they had seen a ghost.

i held my breath until i knew they were gone, and then continued to make my way toward the tomb where the Man on the donkey had been buried.

i was not far off when i heard the faint sound of crying. it was coming from the direction of the Man on the donkey’s tomb.

i continued making my way toward the tomb, but more quietly now. not wanting anyone to hear me. not wanting to disturb whomever i had heard weeping.

and that’s when i spotted her. a woman. bent over. crouched just outside the Man’s tomb.

the large stone blocking the tomb had been rolled to the side, somehow. and the roman guards who had been there when i last visited the tomb were nowhere to be found. just the woman, weeping.

and then, suddenly, a man was there. beside her. a man i did not recognize.

“the owner of the garden, perhaps?” i thought to myself.

and then he spoke, to her, “woman, why are you weeping?” he said in a heartfelt voice. his eyes looked heavy. and sad. “whom are you looking for?”

she raised her head at his voice, seemingly taken off guard.

her eyes were glossy in the first signs of early morning light. tears ran footpaths down her cheeks. she looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.

“sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

you could hear her heart aching as her voice strained in a note of exhasperation. her words were weak and very nearly drowned out by her tears. she had nothing left. and she begged the man to help.

and then i recognized her. i had seen her that day, that day i first saw the Man on the donkey. she was with Him. she was one of His followers.

she was seeking His body, and, finding only an empty tomb, she now had nothing left.

the mystery of this scene was all more than i could take. who was this man? what had he done with the body of the Man on the donkey? why wouldn’t he just help her?

my heart raced in my chest, which now rose and fell heavily. i wanted to yell out. “help her! why won’t you just help her?!”

but i didn’t. i held back, still not wanting to be found.

the man spoke up again.

“mary,” he said to her, now in a calm, confident, and knowing voice. “mary,” He repeated, the corners of His lips upturned only slightly.

and that’s when it happened. the unknowable. that which there are no words for. and if only you could have seen her face.

her eyes fell open, as her eyebrows darted upward. her bottom lipped dropped, extending her cheeks. she opened her mouth to speak, but no words could come out.

she closed her mouth. and then, after a moment, she opened it again. quickly this time.

“Rabboni!” she said, the words now leaping out of her throat, as if they had been pulled out. as if she had no control of them.

…and then i realized what she realized, this Man was the Man on the donkey. returned! returned to life!

my mind went numb, shocked at this realization, as i felt my body awash in a warm bath of excitement. as though my heart had burst within my chest, painting my rib cage with its warm contents. as though my feet had, if only for a moment, actually lifted from their spot on the garden floor.

“He has returned!” i thought to myself. “the Man on the donkey… He’s come back!”

the woman lifted herself from her crouched position, which appeared to take all her strength, and took a step toward the Man, lunging at Him in a wave of excitement. as if to embrace Him.

but He stopped her.

“do not hold on to me,” He told her, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father. but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

and, with a face of knowing, with a face that, once again, shone with hope, she looked into His eyes, smiled deeply, and then turned and left from her spot in the garden. in a hurry that surprised me.

my eyes followed her out. and by the time my eyes returned to her previous spot, there in front of the Man’s tomb, He was gone. He was nowhere to be found.

my eyes darted around, not knowing how i had missed Him. wondering if i had somehow overlooked Him. but i hadn’t. He was gone. and yet, He had returned. and with Him, hope.

good news

i still didn’t know what it all meant, as i turned to make my way back home. i had only fragments of a story. a Man on a donkey. a quiet tomb. and now this. this good news: the Man returned.

i didn’t know what it all meant. in fact, there seemed to be more that i didn’t know than what i did know. and yet, and yet i had this good news.

i had seen what i had seen. the unspeakable. the unimaginable. i had–though i hardly believed it myself–seen a Man return to life.

and though i didn’t know quite what it meant, the stories my grandfather used to tell me soon came flooding back to my mind. the stories of a great King Who would come to restore peace to the land. Who would set all things right. and it filled me with deep gladness and hope.

my pace picked up as i walked back toward home, from a walk to a jog. and soon, before i knew it, i was running. at full speed. as quickly as my legs would carry me.

the sun was now beginning its ascent and i could feel its warmth on my face as i ran.

i had good news. and i had to tell someone. anyone. everyone.

the lonely garden

[this is the second of a three-part imaginative reflection on the first holy week.]

i snuck out of my room late that night, on the night of the passover. i waited until everyone in our home had fallen asleep–i could hear their slow, steady breathing–and then i made my escape.

i left my window quietly, dropped to the ground, and then ran. the cool night air blew on my face as i ran to the garden where my friends had told me the Man on the donkey had been buried. in a tomb of stone. i didn’t know where it was, exactly, but i knew the general direction. and so i ran, guided by the moonlight on this quiet night. more quiet than i had ever known. with only my breathing and the “pat, pat” of the soles of my feet slapping the cool, hard ground breaking the silence.

there were no stars that night. just a dark sky, relieved only by the pale-yellow disc of a moon. it was as if all the stars had gone to bed, just like everyone else.

what happened?

i was in the market earlier that day with my mother. she was buying supplies for the passover celebration when i heard the shouting. the same voices that only a few days earlier were praising this Man were now shouting, “crucify Him! crucify Him!”

and they did, as those who loved Him became His enemies.

i hadn’t watched. i hadn’t seen the Man after it happened. i was not allowed. but i wanted to know what happened. i wanted to know.

standing guard

my heart was racing from all the running as moonlight poured over the garden, where i now stood. the moonlight revealed the trampled flowers, crumbled underfoot by the roman guards who now stood on either side of the tomb.

“why stand guard over the tomb of a dead man?” i wondered.

the flowers showed no hint of life as the moonlight shone on them. if there was ever any life in them before, there was none now. now there was only death.

i wondered, as i stared at the tomb, what the Man inside felt. i wondered if He was angry. i wondered if He was disappointed. i wondered if He was cold. most of all, i wondered if He was lonely.

i’ve never understood death.

children’s stories

growing up, my grandfather used to tell me stories of a coming King. of the One Who would restore peace to the land, Who would mean the fulfillment of all our greatest hopes, Who would, somehow, set all things right.

after seeing this Man enter our village, and after seeing the response of the adults in our village, i asked my grandfather if he thought this Man might be the One Who was to come. if He might be the King he had told me stories about growing up, and Whom he had heard stories of from his own grandparents, when he was just a young boy.

he gave me a look of wonder, like my question had taken him by surprise. and then he spoke up.

“i hope so,” he told me, his eyes twinkling with the kind of excitement i hadn’t ever seen in a man of his age. like he was a young boy again.

“i hope so,” his words echoed in my ears as i stood there in the brush, eyeing this tomb and the guards standing on either side. and it was there that i remembered the looks on the faces of those kneeling as the Man on the donkey passed by. they were faces of hope.

something to tell me

but standing here now, that seemed like so long ago. for now, now there was only death. all around. and silence.

i found myself thinking back to that day. to the crowds. to the excitement. to the hope.

ever since i first saw this Man, i couldn’t help but feel like He had something to tell me. to show me. but now, now He was gone. and i didn’t know what that meant.

“where were the crowds?” i wondered. where were this man’s friends? and family? where were those who loved Him?

where was the excitement that had filled the air only days earlier? where was the hope?

“if there was any hope before, there is none now,” i thought to myself, kicking a small stone as i turned to leave. there was only death and silence. and i didn’t know what that meant.

palm branches underfoot

[this is the first of a three-part imaginative reflection on the first holy week.]

in all of my 11 years, i had never seen something like this before. the palm branches strewn across the road. the people falling on their knees, praising the Man on a donkey. the air was buzzing, faces were filled with great hope, and it all felt so special. like a king had come to town.

my friends had told me about this Man. about the people He had healed. about how He had fed thousands of people from a young boy’s lunch. about how He had welcomed children, like us. like me.

some of the boys said their fathers believed He was a wise teacher. others said He was a miracle worker. still others seem to think He might be something more. i liked the fact that, even before i saw Him, i felt like He might want me around. like He might even have something to say to me.

the men in our village removed their coats and placed them on the road as He made His way, slowly, down the village road, crunching palm branches underfoot. the “clack, clack” of my friends’ wooden swords tagging each other played background music to the adults’ impromptu worship service. “hosannah! hosannah in the highest!”

my friends were more interested in their games than this Man, but i couldn’t take my eyes off of Him.

the way He almost seemed to look past this scene, as though He didn’t notice the crowds. or as though He was simply unfazed by it all. it wasn’t so much that He didn’t seem to care, but that He was distracted. as though something else was on His mind. something bigger.

and i couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. i couldn’t help but think that no one there that day understood what this meant, not even those who seemed to think they did.

meeting frank: practical theology

we bought a car shortly after arriving in durham, and shortly after we bought our car, we realized something was not quite right.

it struggled to start. not just in the mornings, but always. i assumed it was the battery. i hoped it was the battery.

so i found a local shop online with a string of good reviews and made an appointment to get it checked out.

when i walked into the small shop on wednesday afternoon, i was greeted by an older man sitting behind a desk in a cramped, hot and stuffy office / waiting room.

frank was his name. his silver hair was clean cut, and he wore a red polo with a pair of black ray-bans around his neck.

it came out in conversation that i had recently moved to the area to start school. a woman waiting for her car’s oil to be changed–the only other person in the room–asked what I was studying, and i told her i was studying theology.

“geology?” frank asked, from his swivel chair behind the desk.

“oh, no. sorry, theology,” i said, noticing the hearing aid behind his ear.

“oh, I see,” he said. “well that’s abstract!”

“you think so?” I asked. “i think it’s incredibly practical.”

“you know, i’m sorry, but i just decided at a very early age that it’s made up,” he told me. “i think people believe it because they need to believe it.”

our conversation was interrupted when his mechanic entered the office to hand in the keys for the woman’s car. her oil change was now complete.

later on in the conversation, it came out that frank had lost his wife just three months earlier.

“she had a bad heart,” he told me. “and then, one day, she was shopping…” his words slowed, “…and she fell. she hit her head . . . and the next day she was gone.”

there was a moment of silence. a long one. and then i told him i was so, so sorry for his loss.

“what was your wife’s name, frank?”

“pamela.”

“how long were you and pamela married,” I asked him.

“51 years,” he told me proudly.

“shooo…” I mouthed. “frank, I am so terribly sorry. i cannot even imagine…”

we were disrupted again, when his mechanic came in to let me know my battery was seven years old and hardly holding a charge. he told me it looked like my alternator was running fine, so i’d just need a new battery.

i thanked him, and i told him i’d like to have that taken care of. he smiled, nodded and returned to the shop.

frank and I talked about a lot of other things that afternoon. about farming in eastern washington–he grew up in a small town in the same state i was from–, about joining the airforce, about being a fighter pilot, and about meeting his wife while he was stationed in england for four years, where i had only just returned to the states from.

i laughed at the parallels between our stories. and then i told him about hayley.

i told him how it still hurts, even two and a half years later, and how i could not imagine the pain he was now feeling.

he told me it did hurt. he told me he was constantly reminded of her absence. by things he’d remember. by things he know she’d say, if she were still around. and how those reminders made it even worse.

i nodded, and i told him i didn’t know how he was hanging in there as well as he was, in light of his loss.

“well i’m here,” he told me, looking around the office. “if i weren’t, i’m sure I’d be a vegetable.”

i nodded, again.

frank continued to tell me about pamela.

“she was an incredible woman,” he said with a smile. “everyone loved her. she used to be a secretary at an episcopalian church here in town, until she retired. everyone loved her.”

then, turning to me, he asked me if i believed in the after-life.

“yeah, absolutely,” i told him. “i don’t think I could do theology if i didn’t.”

“yeah, I suppose so,” he said.

he thought for a moment, and then asked me another question.

“when we die,” he continued, “does our spirit… go up?”

i could tell, from his question, frank had not much experience with the church. and i appreciated his honest question.

i told him it probably depends on who you ask, but that i believe that things do not end when we die. i told him i believe things continue on for us after we die.

he nodded, slowly, and sat back in his chair. i could tell he was thinking.

the mechanic returned, to tell me my car was now ready for me, but that I’d need to replace the two rear tires, as winter was coming up, and they were too worn.

i asked frank if he could help me with that, so he did a search online while i waited and gave me a quote.

we talked for a bit longer, and then he said something that took me completely off-guard.

“it’s really been a pleasure to meet you,” he told me, voicing something i had been thinking about him. “you’re really easy to talk to. it’s like i’ve known you for some time.”

then he asked me a question i often get, and that i often struggle to answer.

“what are your plans for your theology? are you going to be a minister?”

“oh, yeah. well, i’m not sure yet,” i confessed. “i am on the academic track, to teach, but i’m not sure. i’ll probably end up somewhere in the middle.”

he looked confused.

“in the middle?” he asked. “what does that mean?”

“well, maybe doing some teaching in a church,” i continued, “and maybe some in academics.”

again, frank looked at me with a face of confusion.

“well you should be a minister,” he told me, matter-of-factly, which surprised me, given that he had just told me he thought religion was “made up.”

“you’d make an excellent minister.”

“wow… well thank you,” i told frank. “i really appreciate you saying that.”

frank finished my paperwork and handed it to me, from his spot behind the desk. and then i spoke up again.

“i’m not sure what you think of this, frank,” i told him, “but for what it’s worth, i’d like you to know i’ll be praying for you. i really can’t imagine how difficult this must be…”

his face suddenly became very serious, which made me nervous. i wasn’t sure how he was going to react.

but then he began to nod. and his eyes welled up with tears.

“thank you,” he said, sniffling. “i really need some help.”

i reminded him that he had my phone number, and i told him it would be a pleasure to talk with him some more, anytime he was interested. he thanked me again, and i smiled to him as i made my way out of his hot, stuffy office, into the refreshing afternoon air outside.

and as i walked to my car, i began to pray for frank, with tears now welling up in the corners of my own eyes. i struggled to imagine the depth of frank’s pain after losing his wife of 51 years.

and then, as i prayed, i began to smile, slightly. as something cs lewis once wrote came to my mind.

“i warned you that theology is practical.”

a letter to emma

hi there, princess. it’s me, ryan. your dad. the one with the lower voice who you hear every once in a while when you’re trying to nap. or when you’re in the middle of your water aerobics routine.

you’re not far away at this point. very soon you’ll be joining us here, in the world, rather than reclining in the warmth of your mother’s womb. and we can’t wait to meet you.

we’re getting things ready for you here. picking out clothes for you to wear. setting up your bed. and tucking away plenty of fuzzy blankets. the world is getting ready for your arrival.

and i know you won’t be able to read this for a while yet, but i wanted to take the time to write you a note. i thought i’d give you a heads-up on the world that’s preparing for you, so you can prepare for it.

now, i haven’t been here for long–less than 30 years, at this point–and i’m far from having things all figured out, but i have been here long enough to take note of a few things. and so i thought i’d scratch them down for you, hoping one day they might be helpful for you.

some of this may be helpful right away. other bits will likely not be helpful until years later. and the rest, well the rest may not be helpful at all.

and if, for some reason, it turns out that none of this is all that helpful by the time you’re old enough to read it, i apologize. but know i’ve given it my best.

your mother

to start, i thought i’d tell you a few things about your mother. you’ll be spending a lot of time with her, so you’ll have plenty of opportunities to get to know her for yourself, but i’ve known her for some time now. more than 10 years, i guess. so i have a bit of a head-start, and i thought i’d give you a few pointers.

first, and most importantly, the thing you should know about your mother is that she has been waiting for you for a long, long time. in fact, you should know that you are your mother’s dream come true. it may not always feel like it, particularly when you get to the age of 13 or so, but it’s true. ever since i’ve known your mother, she’s dreamed of welcoming you into this world.

and so, on those more difficult days, never forget: long before you showed up, your mother dreamt of holding you in her arms. that will be true whether you’re 16 months or 16 years old.

the second thing you should know about your mother is that she likes her sleep. i tell you this because, if you want to earn some major points with her someday, let her sleep in. and then bring her breakfast in bed (preferably pancakes with chocolate chips). she’ll smile at you with the kind of smile that stole my heart years ago if you do.

thirdly, you should know your mother sees things in black and white. and i love that about her, mostly because it’s very unlike me. if you want to have a long conversation as you think through things, you will find i’m the man for the job. but if you don’t have time to waste and you just want a straight answer, you’re probably better off asking your mom. she’s a straight-shooter.

the last thing i’ll tell you about your mother is that she likes gerber daisies, peanut butter and chocolate (especially together), fuzzy socks, and puzzles. she does not like bananas, spiders or feet.

i could go on, but that should be good for now. i have a few other things i want to tell you that i hope might be helpful.

love

perhaps it’s good i started with your mother, because the next bit isn’t quite so nice.

you see, the thing is, emma, you’re being born into a world with a lot of wounds. i’m very sorry to say it, but we haven’t been very good to one another. the people who came before us weren’t very good to each other, either. nor were those who came before them.

and so what you’ll find as you move through life is a lot of brokenness. and hurt. you’ll find people have a hard time trusting one another. you’ll find people getting frustrated over things that really shouldn’t matter all that much. you’ll find people saying mean things and generally acting pretty ugly to one another a lot of times.

but don’t take it personally. it’s not about you. it’s about all of us. and the pain we share.

you didn’t create this pain, but you will be born into it. just like all of us. and like all of us, you will be asked to carry an overwhelming amount of this pain. more than seems fair. more than you can bear.

i’m very sorry about that, but my hope is that you may be able to help do something about it. in fact, my hope is that your life may be lived in such a way that you might help to heal it from the inside out.

now i know that seems like an awful lot to ask of you. and i know you’re probably asking yourself how you are possibly supposed to help heal the wounds of this world that has been broken and hurting since long before you arrived.

my answer? with love.

and yes, i know. i know that sounds terribly idealistic. i know it is sounds so simple. and it is. but it isn’t, at the same time.

you see, if you want to make a difference in this world, emma, if you want to help heal the brokenness and the hurt, you have to love.

love those who show you love. love those who don’t. love those closest to you. love perfect strangers.

and no matter how useless or thankless it seems, keep going. not to be noticed, not to be rewarded, but simply because you believe in it.

mother teresa, a woman who left us before you got here, and a woman who not only believed in love, but who embodied it, has this great quote where she says,

“do not think that love in order to be genuine has to be extraordinary. what we need is to love without getting tired.”

i hope you find a way to love like that, emma. without getting tired. if you do, the world will be better for it.

work

now i know it’s a little early for me to be talking to you about work. don’t worry. for the first 18 years or so of your life, we’ve got you covered. (and probably for a while after that, the way things are looking at the moment).

but eventually, there will come a time when you have to start thinking about what it is you want to put your hands to. we all do. here are my thoughts for when you begin to think about this.

when it comes time to consider what it is you’d like to invest your time doing, don’t over-think it. instead, trust your heart. you’ll find, as you go through life, that you like certain things. you’ll also find you dislike other things. you’ll find there are things you’re pretty good at. you’ll also find there are things you’re not so good at.

if you can, find a way to combine what you enjoy doing with the things you’re pretty good at. if you can do that, this world will not only reward you for your work, but you will find that the world will be rewarded by your work.

Truth

another thing you’ll find in this world is that everyone has questions, and everyone is looking for answers. people want to know why we’re here. they want to know where we’re going. and they want to know what happens when the curtain of this life comes tumbling down.

you’ll find, as you go through life, that people offer a lot of different answers to these questions. you’ll find some people who say their answer is the right one. and you’ll find others who say all answers are right, just as much as the next one.

we’re going to spend a lot of time together, you and i, so you’re going to find out very early on what i believe. and you’ll probably even be influenced by my beliefs. but i’m honest enough with myself to admit that there will come a day when you start poking around to find the source of Truth for yourself. when you do, here are three things i hope you’ll think about.

first, when you’re considering whether something provides answers for life’s great questions, ask yourself, “does this help make sense of what i know about the world around me? or, instead, does it sound like something someone would make up, out of some sort of wishful thinking?”

secondly, and order is important here, ask yourself, “is this aesthetically pleasing?” what i mean by that is, when you’ve found something that you think makes sense, ask yourself if it’s actually attractive, as well.

and then, lastly, after you’ve done all that, ask yourself, “does it make a difference with the pain and the hurt of this world?”

i say order is important because if something simply doesn’t hold water, in the first place, then don’t bother with how much you’d like it to be true.

but, if you find it seems reasonable enough, in light of what you know of this world, then go on to ask how it satisfies your taste for beauty. when you hear it, does it make you smile? does it make you smile uncontrollably? while not necessarily a guarantee of Truth, beauty seems to be an awfully good indicator of it.

and then, when you’ve done all that, ask yourself whether it actually makes a difference with the brokenness of this world. i can’t imagine Truth suggesting we run from the brokenness and pain that surrounds us. i can only imagine Truth healing it. any offer of truth that doesn’t do something to heal the pain and hurt of this world is too thin to be True.

i think what you’ll find when you’ve really considered things, emma, is that Truth is both intellectually satisfying and aesthetically pleasing. you’re not likely to find that all of your questions are answered with a watertight solution, but if any attempt at an explanation for our questions does not satisfy both of these requirements, and if it does not then actually attempt to make a difference with the brokenness of this world, be careful how much you trust it.

and one more thing, while we’re on this topic: there are going to be many, many people who disagree with you once you’ve arrived at a particular position. and plenty of them will be much more intelligent than you.

don’t let that bother you. but don’t shut them out, either. listen to other people’s questions. go deeply with them, and allow them to critique your ideas, as you do theirs.

but at the end of the day, when you still have questions and their arguments still scratch at the back of your mind, don’t believe or disbelieve something simply because of what others say. believe in what you think to be true and beautiful because of what you know of the world around you. at the end of the day, that’s the only thing that will provide a solid foundation for anything you hold to.

a handful of thoughts

i’m sorry these final thoughts don’t fit into any neat categories, but here are a handful of thoughts i wanted to share with you before i go.

there are an awful lot of things in life we don’t get to choose. friends is one exception. i hope you surround yourself with great friends.

i hope you surround yourself with the kind of people who love you enough to tell you the truth, even when it hurts. and if it hurts you to hear, know it hurts them to say.

if you’re hurting or struggling or lonely or confused, and you find yourself feeling like you’re the only one, remember, you’re probably not. there’s an awful lot of us. because of that, there’s someone who has likely been where you are who can help.

growing up, my grandpa (your great-grandpa) used to say, “if you see something that needs to be done, go ahead and do it. don’t wait to be asked to do it.”

i think that’s a pretty good rule. except if it’s your mom’s things left out. if that’s the case, know they’re probably there for a reason and don’t need to be picked up. trust me on this one.

i mentioned this previously, but you’re going to find things in life that you’re pretty good at. i realized i should also tell you, you’re going to meet people who are better than you at whatever that might be.

don’t let that get you down. do what you cannot not do, and do it in the way only you can.

and on a similar note, remember that we’re not likely to always be the best, the smartest, the fastest or the strongest, but we can always choose to work the hardest at whatever it is we do.

one thing you’ll come to learn is i married your mother, in large part, because she has one of the biggest hearts of anyone i know. i love that about her. i also inherited a big heart from my parents, which means you can expect to have one yourself.

two warnings about that: first, guard it. be careful. you will find your heart often leads you to love people in a way that they might not always return. and that can hurt. others aren’t always going to love as you do, and expecting them to can lead to disappointment.

at the same time, be careful you don’t guard your heart so much that you don’t allow others to feel its warmth in a way that makes their life better. that is, after all, the reason you have it in the first place.

as a girl, and later as a woman, you’ll have the temptation to believe that you ought to be defined by your body. i hope you don’t. i hope you know that you’re so much more than that. cs lewis, an author who has helped me out a lot, as you’ll come to learn, once wrote, you aren’t a body, you have a body. you don’t have a soul, you are a soul. and i think there’s a lot of truth in that.

on a similar note, one thing i hope you learn to avoid is allowing others to determine your value. what i mean is, know you are worth more than what others might think of you. or not think of you. you see, living to please others is like starting a race that has no finish line. if you can avoid this, you will save yourself an incredible amount of time, energy, and hurt.

at the same time, know that the greatest experiences in your life will come from the times you put others before yourself. they’ll come when, in one way or another, you were serving another. it seems counter-intuitive, i know, but that’s how it goes.

you’ll also find, as you go through life, that the most rewarding experiences will come from the greatest challenges. i wish it weren’t the case, but it seems to be a universal truth. knowing this, in advance, can help when you’re facing those challenges.

and, lastly, when life brings you to a point where you simply don’t know what to do, when you have to make a decision and you have no idea how to move forward, imagine yourself having to explain your decision to your future son or daughter one day (when you’re much, much older). that’s what i did with you, long before you arrived, and it helped me with some of my most difficult decisions.

see you soon

well emma, you’ll soon be making your way into this world. and we’ll be here waiting for you. like friends and family at the airport after a long flight. we’ll be wearing smiles, and we’ll be crying. well, i will be. your mom claims not to cry when she’s happy.

but here’s the thing, princess, no matter how dark this world will seem at times, know that you never have to go it alone. not ever.

when this world is overwhelming, when pain and fear is so great you want to run and hide, i want you to know this: your mother and i are here for you. and we love you. we love you with the kind of love that doesn’t make any sense. we loved you before you entered this world, and we will love you long after you arrive. we will always love you, with the kind of love that doesn’t get tired.

and at the end of a long day, a difficult month or even year, when you still have questions, you’ll find me waiting. patiently. you’ll find my lap to crawl in and my ears attentive. and when you’ve grown too big for my lap, you’ll still find my ears patiently waiting. and then, as now, i’ll give it my best.

see you soon, princess.

love,

your dad

tears of hope: a christian perspective on death

two years ago, we said “goodbye” to my sister-in-law, hayley dawn. though it hardly feels right using the words “in-law.” she never used them when she introduced me as her brother.

this goodbye came after five of the most difficult days of our lives. days spent praying, crying and struggling to keep conversation. days that became blurred together, spent in the hospital that acted as our makeshift home for the week.

we prayed at her bedside. we prayed when we were walking alone in those cold, long hospital wings. we prayed in the middle of conversations, to ourselves. we tried to sleep. tried to eat. but it didn’t make sense. none of it did.

and then, on may 1, she was gone. just like that.

without a chance to catch our breath, we were forced to move forward, pushed along by the pressing current of passing seconds, minutes, hours and days. pushed along by weeks and months that had no sympathy for this loss. pressed by the forward movement of time that seemed to want to swallow up and fill in the void left by her absence.

and we were left dumbstruck by it all. i’ve never seen someone look so confused until that day i saw two parents lose their 19-year old daughter. i’ve never felt so confused myself until i felt those first moments in the absence of my sister’s life.

death doesn’t fit life

death is a funny thing. not funny “ha ha,” of course, but funny in a sesame street, “one of these things does not belong” kind of way.

death is funny, in a way, because it just doesn’t seem to fit with life. we squirm when we think or talk about death, even though it’s supposed to be this natural thing.

“it’s as natural as birth,” they tell us, but i’ve yet to meet someone who actually feels that way when it happens to those closest to them.

i realize death is common to us all. and i might even be willing to admit it’s a part of life (as we know it). but i’m not so sure i believe it’s natural. and i think, intuitively, we all know that.

when someone close to us has passed away, everything within us screams at this news. our very soul wants to shout,

“no!…

this isn’t right!

it’s unnatural!”

and it is.

i say death is unnatural because we were not created to die, we were created to live. and our souls know that.

our souls don’t get death. it leaves us scratching our heads, like the young boy who’s just been told his grandpa has “gone up to be with Jesus,” left to ask, “sooo… can i go see him?”

we are eternal beings forced into the temporal. like a fish snatched from its aquatic home; placed on the dry, dusty ground; and commanded to walk. like a fish flapping its body against the dirt, struggling to breathe, we simply do not know what to do when faced with the reality of death.

savored like a six-course meal

if our souls know death is unnatural, it seems our memories do, as well. when we lose someone close to us, our minds have a way of not letting them go.

memories of a lost loved one rush at us like hungry koi racing to the surface of our mind as we go about our day. we’re constantly reminded of the reality of their life as memories from times together are cast like a shadow on the back of our eyes.

sometimes they visit us when a particular experience triggers a memory. sometimes they seem to come by no invitation at all.

and no matter how painful they may seem at the time, we wouldn’t trade those memories for the world. when the aftertaste is all we have, we savor it like a six-course meal.

it’s funny the way memory works. i’ve lived in the uk for two years now, and i still can’t tell you my phone number. yet i have no trouble recalling conversations that took place years ago.

before i leave

the memory of hayley that i can’t shake lately is of our family sitting around the dining room table and talking, long after we had finished eating, as we often do.

in this particular memory, hayley is getting on to me about hurrying up and having a baby already. jen had wanted a baby for a long time, and everyone knew it. i was dragging my feet, and everyone knew that, too.

it was a bit of a touchy subject, though, since it was well known i was hoping to wait a bit before we started having children. because of that, people wouldn’t really bring it up to me.

but hayley would. hayley could. that’s just how things worked between us. and hayley wanted a niece or nephew nearly as much as jen wanted a baby.

hayley was considering moving away to hawaii for college at the time, and she wanted to make sure she was home when we finally decided to have our first child. she didn’t realize it at the time–she couldn’t have–but something she said that evening would stick with me for years to come. the words she spoke that night would prove to be a painful reminder of the depth of this loss long after she was gone.

after talking excitedly about how she couldn’t wait to be an aunt, hayley’s face became serious as she looked me in the eyes from her seat across the table and said, rather pointedly,

“you have to have one before i leave, ryan.”

hayley never made it to hawaii.

and now, two years later, and just a few months away from the arrival of our first child, this memory replays itself in my mind day after day in the still quietness of a library. i distract myself with sideways glances out the second-story window, but staring out into the pale blue sky, i can’t help but cringe at the thought that our little emma will grow up without her aunt hayley.

this is my first time having children, so i’m certainly not an expert on how this is supposed to go, but there’s nothing about this that feels natural to me.

dressing up death

some christians, when talking about death, will try to downplay its significance. they’ll dress it up and tell us it’s a good thing, not a bad thing. and they’re right, in some ways. but i think they’re terribly wrong in others.

when faced with the death of a close friend, Jesus cried tears of sorrow, even though He knew he would soon bring this friend back to life.

i’ve heard some christian writers say Jesus was crying because he was fed up with all the unbelief He experienced. they’ll say these people should’ve known Jesus could do anything, even bring this deceased friend back to life, and that Jesus had simply had it with their lack of faith.

but i don’t buy that. we see lots of examples of Jesus being frustrated by the shallow faith of His followers, but not once does He respond with tears. not except for here, in this one instance.

and i think that tells us that these were real, genuine tears of sorrow. i believe these were tears of anger, even. anger at the ugliness of death, and the hurt that comes with it. i think Jesus saw that. and felt it.

Jesus knew this isn’t the way things were supposed to work. He knew things had gone terribly wrong, and death was a painful reminder of that.

Jesus’ tears at the news of His friend’s death tells us death really isn’t a good thing. they remind us that we don’t have to dress up death as being beautiful or pretend like we’re all right, even when we all know, deep down, it’s ugly and painful. and that we’re not all right.

Jesus’ tears tell us its okay to grieve and acknowledge the ugliness of death with our own tears. even as christians. and even if we approach death in great hope of what is to come.

a different take

in a way, those who try to dress up death are right, i suppose. as christians, we do have a different take on death.

if we believed this was all there is–birth, life, death and then the cessation of our being–we would cry without hope. but we don’t. we do cry–my God, do we cry!–but we cry with hope.

as christians, we believe what happens on the other side of this life is infinitely more beautiful than this present darkness is dark. but we must be careful when it comes to talking about death.

if we’re not careful, we can make it seem like the loss of a loved one isn’t that big of a deal. it is. it always is. things are broken, and they’re broken in a way that hurts us deeply.

and if we’re not careful, we can also make it seem like grieving isn’t appropriate for christians, not in light of what we know. but the thing is, grieving is perfectly appropriate for christians, in light of how horrible death is.

Jesus felt it appropriate to weep in the face of death. so, too, do we.

death reminds us things are not the way they were meant to be, and we feel the pain of the world’s present brokenness just as much as anyone else.

we’re no longer fearful of death, we might say. and rightly so. because we have hope that on the other side of this life is the real life. life with Him. and so death is no longer a scary thing. but it’s also not a beautiful thing.

the reason for our tears over death is not that the next place is so scary, it’s that saying “goodbye” is so hard, even if it’s only for a time.

darkness into dawn

there’s this account in the book a severe mercy where a friend of c.s. lewis’s, an american by the name of sheldon vanauken who had met and befriended lewis while studying in oxford during the 1950′s, had lunch with lewis for the last time. the two friends would exchange letters with one another for many years to come, but this would be their final time meeting in-person, though neither men knew it at the time.

after sharing a meal together, the two men bid each other “farewell,” and lewis assured his friend they’d see one another again:

“i shan’t say good-bye. we’ll meet again.”

with that, lewis crossed the street, dodging traffic as he went. and it was when he had safely reached the other side of the road that he turned around and shouted back with a grin:

“…besides, christians never say goodbye!”

death is a funny thing. we’re told it’s natural, and yet we intuitively know it’s not. we know life is not supposed to end. and, we’re told–thank God–that it won’t. it won’t really.

we’re told, because of His sacrifice, there is hope. even when it seems like this news brings only darkness, we know, deep down, there is hope. because of what He has done.

and so, as trite as they may seem during our darkest moments, there is still great truth in the words clement of alexandria wrote many, many years ago:

“Christ has turned all of our sunsets into dawns.”

see you soon

and so we cry. we cry when we remember those words they once said. we cry when we remember that look on their face. we cry when we remember the sound of their laugh or the little things they did with their hands when they talked.

we cry because we know this isn’t how things are supposed to be. we cry because we know death is unnatural and because we want them back. we cry because we want them back so bad. we cry because it’s tough to say “goodbye.”

but we cry with tears of hope, because deep down we know our tears will not last forever. we know it’s not really “goodbye.” not really. it’s “goodbye for now.” it’s “see you soon.”

-for hayley dawn, and for those who cry with tears of hope-
you remain missed 

why good news is not enough: when truth fits reality

a couple friends and i recently made the one hour drive north from oxford to birmingham for a concert. we were going to see one of my favorite bands, angels & airwaves, and i was excited to finally see them perform live. particularly on this side of the atlantic.

i love music. and one thing that’s even better than music is live music.

i love music because it’s honest. people can tell when others aren’t being honest. and the same is true with art. people can tell when an artist isn’t honest. people can tell when music isn’t really music.

i used to think i knew what music was, but then i saw charles bradley sing the song, “why is it so hard?” and i realized i really didn’t.

when i saw his eyes and his mouth and the expression on his face when he sang those words, i realized he meant what he was saying. and i realized how few people who sing actually mean it.

i think that’s the difference between actors and musicians. actors are paid to pretend. they may look like they mean it, and they may even think they do, but you can’t really have music if you don’t mean it. musicians mean it. and that’s why i love music, because it’s honest.

second-story tattoos & skinny jeans

i had never been to birmingham before, but i had heard about it. never anything good. and it showed.

pulling into the city was depressing. garbage lined the streets. buildings were literally falling apart. and homeless men and women wandered the tired streets. you could almost feel the weight of the sorrow of this city as we passed through it.

after grabbing a quick dinner at a japanese noodle house that smelled of ginger and soy sauce, we found our way to the venue: an old three-story theatre. our tickets were for the second story, so we were looking down at the stage. it was an intimate setting, and it felt like we had a front-row seat, even from the second-story balcony.

the old theatre was crowded with 20- and 30-somethings. dressed in vintage t-shirts and skinny jeans. guys with spiky hair and girls with dark eyeshadow. drinks were being served at a bar in the back of the second story, and conversations were being had over pints and cocktails while the opening act took the stage.

i’m not sure i could recommend the opening band, but i was intrigued by their sound. and by the scene that played out as they performed. everyone was crowded into this dark room. dressed in dark clothes and tattoos. the kind of people who don’t look like they’d get excited about much.

and as this band began, i found my eyes looking around the room. taking in the scene. and thinking to myself, “how do you begin to connect with an audience like this?” and then, “how would you possibly try to speak about truth to an audience that looks like it could care less, about anything?”

when “truth” doesn’t match reality

i think one thing anyone who wants to speak to this generation–the 20- and 30-somethings who make up generation y–should know is that our generation doesn’t buy truth if it doesn’t fit with what we know about reality. and one of the conditions for truth is that it isn’t neat and tidy. truth isn’t neat and tidy because reality isn’t. it isn’t cheerful and shiny. it’s not smooth and soft. instead, quite often, it’s full of pain and anguish. it has a rough texture and it’s messy.

if someone attempts to offer us “truth” that doesn’t include the bitter taste of pain and hurt that we know life carries, we’re not going to waste our time with it. we know reality hurts. we know it hurts because we’ve tasted it.

this generation has watched as our own country’s commercial airplanes were flown into high rise buildings, killing innocent passengers flying to see family and friends and office workers just starting their day.

we’ve seen our friends go off to fight in a war we don’t understand, and return to the tears of family and friends who are handed a folded flag as a means of condolence.

we’ve watched kids our own age be gunned down in schools by other kids our own age who were bullied until they couldn’t take it any more.

we hear about rich men stealing money from the retirement accounts of our parents and our aunts and uncles, and we read about them getting away with what amounts to a slap on the wrist.

we receive the news that our mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles and grandparents have cancer. and we watch as their lives slowly slip away.

we spend years in college only to be told that the economy is the worst since that of the great depression, and then we enter the workforce hoping to somehow, in some small way, make a difference in this broken world.

we hear… we hear about our loved ones getting to the point of being completely overwhelmed by life, and deciding to just put an end to it all.

this generation knows about hurt and suffering and despair because it’s the reality we’ve grown up in. and if “truth” is offered to us in a way that doesn’t reflect this, then we’re not buying it.

truth in music

i like music because it’s honest. it’s a reflection of the zeitgeist of a culture at a particular point in time. if you want to know what a generation is thinking or feeling, then listen to their music.

on this particular evening, the opening band began their performance with a very heavy sound. hard, steady drumming played alongside rolling guitar riffs, and vocals that seemed to moan of pain and anguish. this was true of the first two songs, and the crowds nodded along, as if they understood, before raising their arms and clapping their hands when the songs had finished. but then, when the third song came around, the sound began to feel much more optimistic. much more hope-filled. you could feel it in the air, as everyone began to wake up from the lulling sound of the first two songs. and by the band’s final song, the music made you want to dance. and people did.

and i think that’s the way truth is. we all want hope. we all want to dance. we all want to know things will be brighter. but we don’t want to be told things are brighter, because we know they’re not. we can see they’re not.

and so, you cannot offer truth that says, “hey, don’t worry. things are just fine. everything’s okay, let’s celebrate!”

we know things are not okay. in fact, we know things are very, very bad.

we see it every time we pass the homeless man wearing a sleeping bag and beard, laying on the street corner.

we see it when we visit our grandparents in the nursing home, when we look around and see those faces that are dying not of ailing health or mind, but of loneliness.

we see it in our friends and family who are so overwhelmed with sadness that they sedate themselves with drugs and alcohol. usually legal, but not always.

we know things are bad, and if you tell us they’re not, we won’t believe you. in fact, we’ll shut you out before you can get another word in.

and so, if you want to offer us truth, you have to acknowledge how bad things are.

an offer of truth

as i stood in the second story of this old theatre in birmingham, i found myself thinking about truth and reality, and all the ways this world screams out to us that things are broken. i found myself thinking about how truth has got to have the bitter taste of pain and brokenness that reality has. and i found myself thinking about how that’s exactly what christianity does.

it doesn’t dress up or dumb down how bad things really are. in fact, if anything, it emphasizes our sorry state. christianity says things are indeed so bad that it took God–the only Being who is outside of our reality–entering into our reality, living a completely perfect life, and then dying an innocent death on our behalf.

christianity says things are so bad it took Love incarnate swallowing up evil in this sacrificial act of grace and mercy to straighten the trajectory of our world, from darkness to light. things are still dark, to be sure, as we can clearly see, but the hope and promise of light is now before us. because of this act of love.

that’s what christianity offers as truth. it says, “yes, you’re absolutely right, things are broken. in fact, they’re far worse than most of us realize.”

and yet, even in that brokenness, christianity promises hope. hope that this nightmare is not all there is. hope that, one day, this bad dream will be over and it will finally be morning, to use a line from c.s. lewis.

it will not happen immediately, but it will happen eventually. because it is already happening. christianity tells us the Light has entered the darkness, that It might bring Light into every dark corner of this broken world we find ourselves surrounded by.

tim keller visited oxford recently, to give a series of talks. several nights into his visit, i remember him voicing the question so many have:

“if God really did enter into the world in a man, why didn’t He just destroy evil altogether?”

and after asking this question, he spoke to us all, answering his own question,

“you know what that would mean, don’t you? if He destroyed evil, we wouldn’t be here, because the evil is inside of us. . . He didn’t come with a sword to destroy evil, He left with nails in His hands to redeem it.”

that’s one of the reasons why i believe the truth christianity offers. because it’s not simply good cheer, but because it acknowledges the bitter, painful, broken reality we all wake up to each morning. because it speaks of a God Who knows the depth of this pain, and Who did the unthinkable to heal it.

i think john stott was thinking along these same lines when he wrote,

“i couldn’t believe in God if it weren’t for the cross. in the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it?”

the only appropriate starting point

and as i stood on the second-story balcony looking around the room while the music played and the lead singer danced around in the darkness with lights of blues and red shining around him, singing, “as God falls fast asleep, kids still move to a steady beat, even if its bombs falling at their feet,” i couldn’t help but think that these kids get it. they know the depth of the darkness of this world they’ve been born into, and they’re unwilling to consider any “truth” that doesn’t acknowledge that darkness. they won’t trust it, because they know it doesn’t fit with reality.

by the time the main act took the stage, i was encouraged that not only the audience understood that things are broken and in desperate need of healing, the band seemed to, as well.

at one point in the performance, the lead singer took a moment to say a few words. and i was completely taken off guard by what he had to say,

“we’re not about being a rock band, we’re about an idea… that you can make a difference…”

i was taken back by these words because they weren’t coming from a “christian” band taking a few minutes to speak to a churched audience about the gospel. we were at a secular rock show, in a crowd of 20- and 30-somethings who came to be entertained.

the truth is, we all know things are broken, and we all desperately want them to be better. as dark and hopeless as things now are, we still want hope.

the truth is, we still want the Light to overcome the darkness. we still want the Good News, but simply giving us good news is not enough. before one can say why this news is good news, one must acknowledge the brokenness.

we do others a great disservice–and ourself–when we pretend that everything’s okay. it is not, and we’re disrespectful when we celebrate the Light without acknowledging the present darkness.

the painful, bitter taste of reality must be our starting point because it is what we all share. we understand the brokenness. it is the hope we must be shown.

what love is: when our family numbers three

one day, many years from now, one of our children will ask what love is. it may come after a heartbreak, when she’s trying to understand the crushing feeling inside her chest. or maybe later. when he’s trying to figure out if she’s ‘the one.’ the question will likely come as a surprise. and i’ll struggle to find the words, as my thoughts hurry to catch up with my mouth.

i’ve learned so much about love since i was a few months away from my high school graduation, when i first told jen i loved her. i’d be lying if, 10 years later, i said i now know what love is. but i am learning. and every so often a memory seems to stand up in my mind and says, “this, this is what love is.”

and so, many years from now, when our son or our daughter asks what love is, there are a few memories i’ll likely mention.

a handful of memories

i’ll mention the time my wife, ‘your mother,’ agreed to move to england. i’ll look into our daughter’s eyes and tell her that, long before we made that move, her mother dreamt of starting a family. i’ll tell her how her mother wanted that more than anything else. i’ll tell her how her mother dreamed of becoming pregnant, and looking forward to the day of her birth. since she first said ‘i do’. and even before then. and i’ll tell her how her mother put those dreams on hold. for mine. and i’ll mention how that felt like love to me.

many years from now, when our son asks, i’ll mention the sunday morning in may we floated in a punt along the river cherwell in oxford, ‘your mother and i’, when we remembered ‘aunt’ hayley. one year after we said ‘goodbye.’ on that day when red roses raced our tears along the river’s surface. i’ll tell him, as much as it hurt, that felt like love to me. and when he asks, i’ll mention the fact that the word ‘grief’ doesn’t have any meaning without the word ‘love.’

and, as i struggle to put my finger on just what love means, i’ll likely remember the time ‘your mom’ called to tell me our family would soon number three. early that morning when i felt my stomach fill with a confusing blend of fear and joy, as my mind raced to catch up with this news. i’ll mention how i remember feeling the edges of my lips turning upwards in an uncontrollable smile. i’ll tell her, there, right there, when i first heard we would soon be parents, i’ll tell her there was love in that. even in the fear and anxiety, there was a river of joy that flowed from your mother’s joy-filled words to my ears, and it played over the pictures in my mind of our family coming together around this new life, like a soundtrack to a movie.

i’ll bring up the time i first saw him, reclining in his mother’s womb, with his heart fluttering like a butterfly and his limbs making gentle swimming movements in his liquid-filled home. i’ll describe to him how it was then that i knew, for the first time, what it meant to be truly speechless. when tears painted lines of joy down my face with warm brush strokes. and i’ll tell him, in that moment, when there were no words, i was pretty sure i knew what love is.

beyond words

when he asks, i’ll tell him he came from it. and he was born into it.

when she asks, i’ll put my head close to hers, so she knows she’s not alone, and i’ll tell her it’s scary and confusing and the most brilliant, radiant thing she’s ever experienced. i’ll tell her it will be the source of her richest memories, even when it hurts.

i’ll tell him we know what love means only because He chose to take on flesh, enter into our story, and lay down His life, on our behalf, in an infinitely beautiful sacrifice. in that, we’re told, is love. and i’ll point to these pale reflections of love, reflections i’ve been fortunate enough to experience along the way. and i’ll say, there, right there, that’s what love has looked like in my life. it has looked like sacrifice and loss and being made speechless.

and i’ll hope that, in these examples, he’ll see a reflection of what love is. as i lean my head back and smile, eyes looking skyward, with one arm stretched out across his back, and the other bracing the back of my head. i’ll smile faintly, laugh softly and pat his back gently. knowing this world, love included, is far greater than we will ever be able to put into words, no matter how many we use to paint its portrait.

as if i had a choice

when people hear about what i am doing at this point–that of leaving behind friends and family and a great job to move half-way around the world to return to school and study theology, with no promise of gainful employment at the end of this journey, and without even a clear idea of what that will be–they have a tendency to compliment my faithfulness. or to say how they admire what i am doing. and i have a hard time with that. i have a hard time accepting such praise, as if i had a choice in the matter. it does not feel as though i did, not in light of what i’ve come face-to-face with.

confronted by beauty

i first saw my wife’s smile during my junior year of high school. i can still see the scene so clearly, even now, more than 10 years later. she wasn’t my wife back then, of course. we got married young, but not that young. no, i was sitting in the audience of our homecoming assembly at that point, as she walked onto stage to be crowned freshman class royalty. she was dressed in an elegant gown, with a tiara resting gently on top of her head, and she was wearing the most beautiful smile i have ever seen. i found myself sitting in the middle of that auditorium thinking, “why don’t i know this girl?…” and then, “i will know her soon enough.” about nine months later, i told my mom I believed God created that smile just for me, and i meant it. i knew i could not imagine my life without it, and i spent the next five years of my life pursuing its permanent place in my life.

the same thing is true with my response to God. i first heard the Good News of God’s love a long time ago. while i was still a young boy. and i fell in love with it then. upon first hearing how He loved us so much that He sent His Son to die in our place, so that we might enjoy eternity in His presence. i love that. and i think it’s beautiful. that of God’s perfect, love-saturated sacrifice for an undeserving creation. even as a young boy, i knew i didn’t deserve that kind of love. and i feel the same way about it now. but i also knew i wanted that kind of a relationship. i wanted to live in His love. i still do. and ever since i first heard that Good News, God has been chasing me down. waving His arms in my face as if to say,

look, everything else, all of this life and its many temptations are merely a distraction to this Good News. it will all, ultimately, leave you wanting. but this, this will not. My love will take up the whole of your desires, and it will fill you to the point of overflow.”

building a life that doesn’t feel empty

and it has. it has completely. somewhere along the way, He helped me realize that if my life were spent devoted to anything but helping others realize the infinite beauty of this Good News, it would be a life that, ultimately, felt empty. at the end of this road, i want to be able to look back and say, “there, that’s the difference my life made. that’s the road that my hands helped build. a road that led directly from that person’s feet to the loving arms of a Heavenly Father Who made it possible to receive such love.”

but I certainly can’t take the credit for this desire. no more than i can take the credit for falling head-over-heels in love with that beautiful smile that first captivated me from my seat in our high school auditorium so many years ago. that was simply the rightful response to my experience with beauty. but the beauty lies in my wife. not in me. it also lies in God’s Good News. what choice did I have but to respond with my life? none, so far as I can see it.

the most beautiful thing i have ever known

when we see, clearly, the love of our Heavenly Father, made visible by the life, death and resurrection of the Son, on our behalf, there is simply nothing we can do but fall head-over-heels in love. it is, quite simply, the most beautiful thing i have ever known. (i married my wife for more than simply her beautiful smile, of course, just as i consider myself a christian for far more than the beauty of this Good News.)

the compliments and the admiration rightfully belong to Him. He is the source of all that is good, and i am merely called to say, “look, look at what He is doing! it is beautiful. how can we not desire to drop all we’re doing and be a part of it?”