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?”

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?”

one year later: you will remain missed

hayley, we miss you. there’s no other way to say it. your presence is missed. carved out of our lives like a scoop of our flesh. and we are acutely aware of it. each and every day.

but i cannot

i still picture you walking through the door, you know? every so often. as if nothing had ever happened. as if you never left us.

i can still see your pink hollister sweatshirt and dark-haired ponytail as if it were just yesterday. i can still see your eyes squinting just so with each smile. and it’s at those moments i find myself missing you so terribly. for, at first, my heart leaps in my chest. i get excited. it’s almost as if you’re there. you’re not, of course. but, for a brief moment, it really, truly is almost as if you’re there. and i want to run and give you a hug, but, of course, i cannot. and that’s when my heart becomes heavy. sinking deep into the pit of my chest.

when i’m listening to this song. or that song. i want to send it to you. i want to say, ‘remember when?…’ but, of course, i cannot.

when i look at the initials permanently inscribed on my wrist, i want to show them to you. but, of course, i cannot.

when i want to share a photo of your beautiful new niece with you. to say, ‘isn’t she gorgeous?’ but, of course, i cannot.

when i want to get your thoughts on something, when i want to share this experience with you, when i can almost hear your laughter echoing off the walls, or feel you at my side, when i recall your hugs. . . hayley, i miss you. we miss you.

you’ll have to forgive me

you’ll have to forgive me, but this place where we gather to worship on Sunday mornings is still a painful reminder of the words she spoke to me. there, in that place. when she asked me to talk at her wedding one day. it’s but a painful reminder that we will never see her walking down the aisle, smiling from ear to ear, lit up like a princess in her beautiful wedding gown.

you’ll have to forgive me, but this song that you want to turn up is still a painful reminder of that cd she asked me to make for her, but i failed to finish in time. it’s but a painful reminder of those afternoons we spent lying on the carpet-covered floor in the living room, sharing music.

you’ll have to forgive me, but the beeping noise of books being checked into this old library reminds me of the beeping noises from the machines that loomed over your hospital bed. beeping noises that grew so familiar over that week we spent in the hospital. those beeping noises that kept us company as we stood, sat, slept, cried and prayed by your side. they’re but a painful reminder of those days and nights we spent hoping with all we had that you’d wake up. that you’d open your eyes. that you’d smile at us from that white linen hospital bed. if even only faintly. and that the doctor would tell us you could come home with us. a hope that went unanswered.

you’ll have to forgive me, but this wound that one might think should be healed over by now still feels so very fresh.

one day

when someone loses a loved one, we find ourselves wanting to help. to somehow offer healing and recovery where there is only pain and sadness. and we find ourselves saying things like, ‘you’ll see them again, one day,’ genuinely hoping those words might help.

and i’m sure we will see you again, hayley. one day. i have all the confidence in the world of that. but you are missed still. in the here and now.

frozen in time

we’re getting older, hayley. slowly. but we are. all of us. and yet, you are not. you are free from the aging process. at least, in my mind you are. frozen in time, it seems. we’re falling victim to the affects of time each day, and yet, when i see you, when i remember you, you haven’t changed one bit.

some might say that’s not quite fair. that we have to age and you do not. i don’t think anything about this has been “fair,” but perhaps this one thing is when we’ve come closest to “fair.” for, if we could have it any other way, which we usually cannot, i don’t believe i would. i don’t want you any older. i don’t want you other than how we remember you. with a smile as bright as the sun. with a laugh that can tear apart the darkness. with a heart that, even though it has seen so much pain, receives our pain as if it were the only pain in the world.

a year later

look at me. . .look at us. a year has passed since you left, and yet, what has changed? so much, it seems. and yet, so very little, at the same time. this pain is still my neighbor. the bandages on this wound are still blood-stained. your presence is still missed, hayley.

this whole dreadful experience has been like that of a nightmare roller-coaster. the kind you cannot get off. sometimes we want to shout in fits of rage until our lungs give out. sometimes we just want to sit down, resting our head on our knees, and cry for days in a pool of our tears. sometimes we want to slam our fists and demand answers for all of this.

where’s God in this?

in the midst of this pain, we find ourselves seeking answers. when our world has been so shaken up, we want to ask questions like, ‘where is God in all of this?’. . .’has He forgotten about us?’. . .’why doesn’t He take away this pain?’

and i think these are fair questions, when we’re surrounded by such pain. they’re certainly common.

i’m not exactly sure how i’d answer such questions. but i think i’d start by saying, He’s in the same place He was before all of this pain took place. this experience has not changed that at all. He’s certainly not off quivering in a corner somewhere, trying to figure this one out. figuring out how He might respond to this particular instance of pain. that’s not to say i don’t think He hurts right alongside of us. He does. but i don’t think this is puzzling to Him as it is to us.

‘so, where is He?’ one might ask. well, if He does not change, as His word says, then He’s in the same place He has always been. reigning from on High. i also think He’s within us. making His home in each one of us. in our joy. in our pain. right in the messy, confusing middle of it all.

you don’t see Him there?. . .you don’t see Him anywhere? well, have you called out to Him?. . .that, it seems, would be a good place to start.

has He forgotten about us?

‘has He forgotten about us?’ someone else might ask. for He might feel far away. incredibly far away. we may have felt His presence before all of this pain, but after. . .well, for some, some haven’t felt close to Him in any way since this pain struck.

but i don’t think that means He has forgotten about us. no, i don’t think that’s possible. instead, i think any absence we might now feel is due more to our own concerns and our own efforts than to any lack of His ability to remember us.

why doesn’t He take away the pain?

‘why doesn’t He take it away? the pain. why does He let it linger?’ another good question. another fair question. and i can only guess as to why that might be. but if i had to guess, and some, if not many, are likely to disagree with me on this point, here’s what i’d say.

pain–the emotions of pain, not the physical aspect of pain–is not something that can be taken away, but only replaced. we are not machines. our moods cannot be turned off or on with the simple flip of a switch. they cannot be cut out and removed like a cancerous tumor. they cannot be picked up and carried off like a heap of black coal by the metal claws of a giant crane. but they can be replaced. they can be overshadowed.

like any emotion, you are not unhappy because your happiness was taken away, but because it was overshadowed by something of greater magnitude than the depth of your happiness. in this case, it seems, whatever we held before as happiness has been overshadowed by this pain. by the pain of this loss. and so, with our gazes fixed on this pain, it is all we can see. . .this pain is overshadowing that which desires to bring us joy–namely, Him–because our gaze is fixed solely on this loss.

it is only when we allow our gaze to be removed from this wound that it will begin to heal. not to forget. not in the least! but to heal. so that we might place our focus not just on this pain but, rather, on Him. for if all you ever think about is the tooth that has been pulled, you will of course be more aware of its painful absence.

we will find healing when we turn from this pain and toward Him. focusing instead on the joy and life and goodness He offers us. not to forget, but to heal. not to remove our pain, but to overshadow it.

where is the hope?

‘but where is the hope in this?’ one might ask, which is a great question. for, how can we possibly pray to a God who allows such pain? how can we possibly have hope in such circumstances? more great questions. and, again, i would answer the same way. just as He has not changed, nor has our hope changed. it remains in Him. it must. for, if not in Him, where? and, if nowhere, then surely this life is not worth living. but it is. i assure you, it is! while there is still breath in your lungs, while you still have life within you, that life is meant to be lived. and it is meant to be lived for Him.

‘why, why would i possibly want to live for Him, when He has brought me only pain?’ one might respond. why? because His purposes are the only ones worth living for. all other roads, however long it may take to find out, will ultimately prove unfulfilling. like a glass full of sand to a water-deprived mouth. time after time after time. each road providing yet another ultimately unsatisfying result. until finally, exhausted from trying all the others, we return to this road. to this path. to the one He has been gently trying to lead us down our entire life. when we’ve tried every other path, when we’ve exhausted all other options, this one will still remain. and, along this road, when we reach Him and His presence, we will find joy of the unspeakable sort. we will find comfort and healing for our wounds. not that we will be immune from pain along the way on this path–not in the least–but, on this path, we will find Him. and, in Him, we will find all we need.

at the end of this road, or perhaps more appropriately, where this road meets the next (for we cannot speak of “the end” of a path that carries on and on and on, into eternity), where we move from the temporal to the eternal, we will find the painful remnants of this flesh and earthly existence burned away. in the peaceful presence of the only true Love we were ever intended to experience. His love. when we arrive in His presence, these wounds will finally be healed. leaving only a scar to remember, however faintly, the pains of this world. washed head to toe in the love of a Savior who cared more for you than He did for Himself. in the love of a Father who cared more for you than He did in protecting His Son from an excruciating death He did not deserve. so that you might experience the kind of love that makes this pain, no matter how overwhelming, deep and agonizing it now is, fade into the blissful depths of the very love you were created for. then, on that day, “the bad dream will be over: it will be morning” (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity). the broken bone will be set. the bleeding will be stopped. the tears will be dried up. all will finally be made right.

with all of our heart

you are loved, hayley. with all of our heart, we love you.

and you are missed. with all of our heart, we miss you.

and until that day we see you again. . .until we see that beautiful smile shining from within the heavenly Light streaming forth from His presence. . .you will remain missed.

success & sacrifice: all as loss

it wasn’t until i met by best friend steve that i realized we get to choose the kind of stories we tell with our lives. we all have dreams. some of us simply choose to go after them.

“i kinda feel like i’m tearing down everything i’ve spent the past four years building up,” i explained to steve while he worked away.

“kind of?” he said with a look of confusion on his face. “you are.”

i had dropped in an on early friday morning. to say hi. to catch up before heading into the office. i wasn’t planning on telling him i was having a rough time. but it ended up coming out anyway.

steve was already working away when i arrived. he had been all night, as it turned out. he owns his own business, and summer is his busy time. his unshaven face a dead-giveaway he hadn’t been home for days.

“but that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked.

“yeah. yeah, it is,” i said. “but it still stresses me out. it’s just so much change.”

not his own

i met steve a couple years back. at a friend’s birthday party. it was at steve’s shop, and he was delivering some birthday cakes for the party. we got talking a few weeks after the party, and i was blown away by how this guy lived out his faith.

for starters, he served full-time at his church. leading the worship team. which isn’t a huge thing in and of itself. okay, maybe it is. especially for a guy like me who can’t even whistle in tune. but that was on top of owning his own business. achieving incredible success and notoriety in his industry. being featured in loads of magazines, including martha stewart. he had gone after his dreams, and he was living it out in a way that glorified God. all before he was 30.

“money is just a tool that allows me to bless others,” he explained over coffee shortly after we met. and i never doubted for a second his words. i knew he was being genuine. and he was. the income he received from the church he worked at was used to support his widowed mother. and to treat the youth on his worship team. truly, his time and his money were not his own. and he lived that out in a way i had never seen before. and haven’t seen since. it blew me away.

introducing my dream

not long after that, steve asked me what my dreams were. it took me completely off guard. this wasn’t something i was used to being asked. and so i fumbled my way through an answer. keeping things pretty shallow. but then, after a while, i blurted out what was really on my heart. it came pouring out of me before i could stop it. what i really wanted to do, but what i had been too scared to share with anyone other than my wife. for fear of being laughed at.

“i want to study at oxford someday,” i said. pausing. giving the statement room to breathe. giving him time to laugh. but he didn’t. so i continued.

“c.s. lewis studied and taught there, and he has had a huge impact on my faith,” i explained. “his writing has helped me think through and understand a lot of things of the Christian faith, in a way that nothing else ever has, and i’d love to be able to do that for others.”

“then you should,” he said, matter-of-factly. that was it. straight and to the point. no laughs. no “come on’s!” just, “you should.”

i remember sitting outside with steve on another occasion. in the courtyard outside his shop. it was sunny. and we had just finished lunch. and i remember him saying to me, “if i were you, and if this is what i wanted, then i would do everything in my power to get there.”

let’s be realistic

a couple months after i had shared this dream with steve, my wife and i had some close friends over for dinner. an older couple from our church. i say friends because they are. but they’re so much more than just friends. they’re mentors, in a lot of ways. they’re trusted counselors in our lives. and we love them dearly.

carol is a very intelligent, beautiful older woman with a sing-song voice. soft-spoken, her presence feels like a warm plate of fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies. doug, her husband, is a man’s man, to be sure. he loves to fish and play sports, and he greets you with a firm hand-shake. even though the grey hair has tried to steal away his youth, his looming frame gives away that he was an exceptional athlete. doug’s laugh bellows through a room after each witty jab, and he’s one who is always digging deep in his faith. reading. discussing. never taking it for granted. which i consider invaluable. and i love being around them both. their energy is contagious.

it was after dinner when we found ourselves seated around the living room. talking. and carol brought up something i had been getting doug’s thoughts on for a little while. an itch i had had for some time. to be doing something different. to somehow be integrating my faith with my work. to mix things up a bit. even though i didn’t know exactly what that looked like.

“so ryan, what’s the news on that?” she asked, nonchalantly.

“well, it’s still there,” i said.

“yeah? well what are you going to do about it?” she replied.

i grinned. “i don’t know. nothing, probably.”

doug smiled from across the room.

“oh come on,” carol cooed, in that sing-song voice. “what would you be doing if you had nothing stopping you?”

this was her way of prying the answer out of me. and it worked.

i paused. to look at her. to gauge if she really wanted to know, or if these questions were just for the sake of conversation. the look on her face told me she genuinely wanted to know.

“if i could do anything?” i asked. repeating her question. “well, honestly, i’d love to teach and write about theology someday.”

her face blew up with excitement.

“really! oh, ryan, that would be great! now, you’d have to go back to school, of course. where would you want to study?”

“i’ve gone this far,” i thought to myself, “and she hasn’t laughed me out of the room yet. i guess there’s no hurt in going the rest of the way,” even though this was terribly out of my comfort zone.

“oxford,” i replied, aloud. “i’d love to study at oxford.”

again, she blew up.

“i knew it! i knew you were going to say that!” her voice erupted into the room.

“really?” i said. scrunching up my face, completely baffled by her response.

“yes, i just knew you’d want to go somewhere exceptional,” she said. “I knew you’d want to travel and go somewhere far away.”

pausing, to let it settle in. to think. looking at me with a smile on her face, carol then spoke again, “well, you’re going to have to go for it, then.”

“okay, but let’s be realistic,” i interjected. only to be put in my place.

“realistic?!” carol belted out. so loud and deliberately i was almost ashamed of my words. “realistic? what’s not realistic about that, ryan?”

carol and doug spent the next two hours talking us into booking a trip to england that summer. to look into schools. to meet with professors. and to see if this was something more than just a pipe dream.

“if you don’t go after this now,” doug said, “you’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering ‘what if?’”

he was right. and i knew i had no choice in the matter. this itch would not go away on its own.

successful

growing up, i wanted to be successful. i thought about it all the time, even though i didn’t know what that looked like, exactly. i knew i wanted to do really well at whatever it was that i ended up putting my hands to, but i wasn’t sure what that was.

i knew what i wanted to achieve, though. i wanted to achieve security. i wanted to earn enough that i didn’t have to worry about providing for my family. i didn’t want my children to have to want. or to worry about money. or where it was going to come from. i wanted to take care of things. i guess that’s what i thought success meant. not having to worry about things. i thought it meant doing so well in your job that you had everything in control. whatever that was, that’s what i wanted.

but then, at some point, that all changed. i realized i could have a job that provided great paycheck after great paycheck and still not feel successful. if it was something that didn’t have deep significance to me. not because i felt my job was insignificant–i actually really enjoyed my job–but because, well, i realized there was an itch inside of me that deeply desired to be scratched. there was a passion that begged to be let out. to teach and write in a way that helped others see Christ clearly. to be doing that. full-time. as my job. i knew that’s what success looked like for me.

to look back on my life. 50 years from now. and know i did that. that my life’s work pointed others to Him. that is what success looked like to me. and i knew that’s the path i needed to set out for.

all as loss

the new testament tells us about a jewish man by the name of saul. saul was born into the right family. he was taught by the right teachers. and he went on to become a very prominent man himself. he was what many young jewish boys dreamt of being one day. for his time, saul had it made.

saul would have been in his mid-twenties during the time of Jesus’ ministry. which means he would’ve heard all about it. about the healings. about His teachings. about the huge crowds that would gather everywhere He went. about how He was going against the traditions the jewish people had kept for centuries. and about the miraculous claims. that this Jesus had risen from the grave three days after being crucified. he would’ve heard it all.

the new testament also tells us that saul went on to lead a persecution against the early Christ followers. against those professing faith in Jesus’ resurrection. against those who were mockingly called “Christians.” we’re told he would imprison them. and that he even personally oversaw their stonings.

and it was at one point in saul’s travels–on his way to send some early Christ followers to prison–that he was stopped. suddenly. by a great light. and a voice that came from within the light. a voice that spoke to him. personally. asking him,

saul, saul why do you persecute me?”

we’re told it was the voice of Jesus. and we’re told this man saul was so changed from this personal interaction with Jesus that he stopped his mission of imprisoning and killing the Christians, and he actually began telling other jews that this man Jesus was the messiah they had been waiting on. that He was the way to their God. he began telling his jewish brothers and sisters about the salvation that was found only in Jesus’ life, death and resurrection. and about the life that was made possible by His grace.

saul was completely changed. he had it all, and he left it all behind. he traded his place of prominence for a lonely prison cell. he traded praise from men for beatings and lashings. because of his experience with Christ.

and at one point in his ministry, saul (who Jesus renamed paul) went on to write, “i consider it all loss for the sake of knowing Christ.”

over tea and books

and so we went to england. the first time for either my wife or i. we had an incredible time. and by incredible i mean, of course, it was filled with plenty of moments where i thought to myself, “what in the world are we doing.”

the day after we arrived, we found ourselves sitting in the rental car office. we were told our car had been rented to someone else. but not only that, there were no automatics left. anywhere. i could probably re-introduce myself to the intricacies of driving stick shift after driving an automatic for the past eight years, but it would be enough of an adjustment driving on the wrong side of the road, from the wrong side of the car. it was a risk i didn’t want to take.

i had setup an informal interview at oxford for that day. it was supposed to be starting in only a few hours, and i had no idea how we were going to get there.

but we did. it all worked out. we even made it there on-time. and i was speechless when we arrived. the old brick buildings. the beautiful, stretching green lawns. the sunlight pouring over the fields as the local youth played cricket. it was breathtaking. all of it. and i felt a bit like we were stepping into someone else’s shoes for a while.

i had my meeting with the oxford professor whom i had been in touch with for a couple months. by e-mail. as soon as i knew we were coming. he greeted us by name with a warm smile and that rich english accent that makes you feel about 50 iq points lower. he asked if we wanted some tea, of course. and we did, of course. his office was like a small library. brimming with books. both old and new. rows and rows all lined up neatly along shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. the room wasn’t terribly large, but just large enough for a fireplace, his desk, and a few chairs for guests. tall windows that offered beautiful views of the english countryside sat across from the bookshelves.

he started with some questions to get to know us a bit better. where we were from. what we do. welcoming jen into the conversation just as much as he spoke to me. making us feel very much at home. even though we were so very far from it.

and then he got straight to the point. he turned toward me and asked why i wanted to study at oxford. and so i told him. paying careful attention to each word.

i explained how i had a great job back home. one i knew i could stay at and be very happy with. but that i also had a deep passion for theology. that that’s what i spent my free time in. reading (he asked me for authors). writing. and that’s what i wanted to spend my time doing.

i shared with him how i had first experienced c.s. lewis’ writings during my sophomore year of college. how i had been amazed by how brilliant this man was, and by his ability to support his own faith in the Christian traditions. traditions and beliefs that can be pretty tough to swallow, he illustrated clearly. illuminating them with approachable analogies and precise logic. and i explained to this professor how lewis had taught me that i did not need to sacrifice my intellect to approach the things of the Christian faith. and how i wanted to help others see that.

he smiled at me from his chair across the room. nodding in agreement. and all of a sudden, i knew we were speaking the same language.

he asked about my academic history. grades. and he closed our meeting by telling me he thought i’d be a great fit. he encouraged me to apply, and to use his name as a reference. i was ecstatic.

returning home from that trip, i knew this was the right path.

three months

i spent the next three months working on applications. after a full day of work, i’d find my spot in the local coffee shop. my favorite. the one that looks out over the bay. the san juan islands and sailboats gliding slowly across the water provided a backdrop for my preparations. asking for paperwork from these people. and then sending them to those people. writing. about myself. about why i wanted to go. until the sun had set and the coffee shop closed for the night. then i’d leave. and do it all again the next day. for three months. i hardly saw my wife during this time. and it was wearing.

less than a month after submitting my application, i found out i had been invited to return to the school for an interview. i was so excited to hear the news. but i also knew i simply could not afford the time or cost of the trip for a single interview. and so i worked out a deal with the school. so that i could hold my interview over the phone. i knew this would put me at a disadvantage. to those who were able to meet face-to-face with the school. but i had no choice.

the night before my phone interview, i thought i’d look a little into the process. just to see what i was getting myself into. apparently these interviews are a pretty big deal. i found out that just getting invited to this point is quite the achievement. and that parents were known to spend around $500 an hour to hire a consultant to help prepare their child for the questions they might be asked during their interview. which put me at ease.

i went on to read that of all of those who had applied to this program, the school had only accepted six students the previous year. six. in the world. and it was at that point that i laughed out loud. i was actually relieved. there was no longer any pressure. if i was supposed to be there, then i’d be there. but if i wasn’t. . .well. . .six.

even his very life

i watched a video online a while back. it was introduced by francis chan. a pastor and author out of california. a man who is absolutely committed to helping the downtrodden. and to sharing with others the love of Christ.

but the video itself was something else entirely. it was a video of a man being beaten for preaching his faith (as was made clear in the introduction). his Christian faith. he was in india. and he was from india himself. he was standing in a group of people. the group was circling him. and all of a sudden he was kicked in the back. knocked to the ground. and then the beatings began. kicks to the head. stones were thrown. he was literally beaten to death. it was horrific. unlike anything i’ve ever seen. you wanted to do something. to step in. to help this man. but you could not, of course.

and the thing that stuck with me most from this video. the thing that is still with me, more than anything else. more than the physical violence. more than the crowds of people. more than the fact that no one got involved to stop the violence. no, what stuck with me most was that this man fought to get up. after the kicks to the back. after the kicks to the head. while they were still standing there. waiting for any movement. to attack again. this man actually struggled to get up! and that blew me away. it still does.

me? i would’ve laid there. quietly. i wouldn’t have moved. i would’ve made it appear as though i were dead. until they left me for dead. then maybe i would’ve tried to get up. after i knew the coast was clear. but this guy. this man. he struggled with all he had to lift his beaten and battered body from the ground. even while his enemies stood over him. even while the beatings continued.

how proud the Father must have been at that point. for this man. in this instance. when he considered all as loss. even his very life. for the sake of knowing Christ. and showing those watching what that looked like in His life.

everyone who stood there in the crowd that day. the hundreds of thousands of people who watched this video. they all saw what i saw. a man who professed faith in Christ. a man who believed in Him with all he had. and who cared more about that than his very life. and who wasn’t giving up.

that’s the kind of faith i want. with all i have. the kind of faith that considers all as loss. even my very life. the kind that’s willing to strive with every last ounce of my being to show others my faith.

and i pray you would, too. i pray you would see clearly the love of our Father, and the incredible gift He is offering. i pray you would be so enamored with it that everything else would be but a periphery issue. that all else would be but a distraction for the path that leads you directly into the loving arms of your Savior. and mine. Jesus Christ. that He might change you from the inside out. creating you into the most beautiful creation. into His very own image. that you might display Him to the world.

creation over the Creator

the truth is, very few–if any–of those reading this will be asked to choose between their life and their confession of Christ as Lord. that is simply not the way satan is attacking those in this part of the world. instead, he is battling with complacency and pride and self-worship and materialism and idolotry. rather than fearing for our lives, we are fearing for our possessions and lifestyles. you may not be asked to bend the knee to allah, but you will certainly be asked to bend the knee to a lifestyle that worships creation over the Creator. you will most certainly be led to believe that a life lived for one’s self is not a wasted life, but rather an admirable life, if it is met with success.

and rather than holding on to our faith and the gospel so tightly, more tightly than our very lives, our grip loosens on it a bit more each day. slowly. so that we care a little bit less about the gospel, about His good news each day. so that, steadily, our gaze moves from Him, onto ourselves. or others. or things. and that is where satan wins. he wins by saying, “look at this.” and we do. rather than at Him.

His desire is to pour Himself out, completely, into your life. but, you will have no arms to catch Him, no room in your life, if you are holding too tightly to the things of this world. and He knows that.

i pray your gaze would remain on Him. i pray your heart would be broken by His love, and His sacrifice. every day. i pray you would not help but be consumed with love for Him, and for what He has done. every day.

misguided focus

the entire story of humanity is one in which satan comes to us and whispers, “this deserves your focus. this deserves your focus. this deserves your focus.” continually throwing things at us in the vain attempt (or perhaps not so vain) to distract us from what actually deserves our focus. namely, Him. the Lord of all creation. the Lover of our souls.

throughout all of history, that is what he has been doing. trying to distracting us from what our focus should be on (Him). and, instead, trying to focus our attention and our efforts on other things. on money. on government. on fame. on clothes (“fashion”). on sex. on appearance. on food. on our work. on ourselves. and, as we’re created knowing something actually does deserve our focus. our worship. we fall into the mistake of believing him. we fall for his lies.

and our self is the thing with which he most easily distracts us. tricking us into thinking we deserve our focus. for, of all other things he points to, our self finds itself most fitting this description. of that which deserves our worship (perhaps it is because we’re designed in His image). we see this worked out in pride and self-conceit.

surely, when it comes down to it, we’re able to identify the futility of living for material gain. we all strive for it, but not many of us are going to say clothes or riches or any material possessions should be our ultimate pursuit. however, it is more difficult to make the same acknowledgement when it comes to our own well-being. when it comes to our selves. we’re much more likely to realize material wealth does not deserve our focus when compared to our own needs, but our own needs fail to deserve our focus in light of His purposes. of His glory. and of helping others realize His love.

busy little bees

i fear we are living our lives just to busy ourselves. like busy little bees. or birds. going to and from work. building. going. meeting. moving. doing. so that we can build these comfortable nests for ourselves. that is our aim. for most of us.

we believe the lie that His desire for our life is one of comfort. of a safe, warm nest. and the sooner we awaken from that misconception the better. for the longer we’re led to believe that to be true, the more difficult the truth will be to receive when it comes. for many, there may be a period of shock at the realization that there are no suburbs in heaven.

i feel like He wants so much more for us. i feel like He wants to free us from this lie. that we might experience Him. and live for Him. in big ways.

christmas eve news

i got the news on christmas eve. we were in-between christmas parties. dropping off gifts from the last stop. picking up gifts for the next stop. i picked up the mail from the staircase, and i didn’t even look at the address to see who it was from. i assumed it was junk mail and i was on my way to the trash can. and then i stopped. in the middle of the kitchen. by myself. and read the words i never actually thought i’d see.

“dear ryan pemberton,

we are pleased to offer you a place to read theology at harris manchester college of oxford univ…”

that’s as far as i got before letting out an embarrassingly loud yell of excitement. there may have even been a little bit of a scream. but i can’t know for sure. i was in a state of genuine shock.

“no way!” i shouted, running into the living room, letter in-hand, to show jen. as she stood at the foot of the stairs. looking into those big blue eyes that knew this news was going to forever change the road we had been traveling together.

the sadness in her eyes

we were on our way to jen’s grandparents’ house that christmas eve night. when i opened up the mail. we were heading there to open up presents. jen’s family was already there. it was late. and we were late arriving. everyone else–jen’s immediate family and her grandparents’–was already sitting around the table when we walked in. talking. over plates of pie crusts and dirtied forks.

“i got in” i said excitedly, as i approached the table. the smile on my face likely giving away the news long before my words.

big eyes. huge smiles. at the news. laughter. people getting out of their chairs. for a hug. to congratulate me.

i made my way around the table. and i’ll never forget the look on hayley’s face that night. her best attempts to put on a look of joy and happiness for this news failed to hide the sadness in her eyes.

she was supposed to wake up

a few months later, we found ourselves in the hospital. by hayley’s side. saying goodbye. even though we didn’t realize it at the time.

it was the second night we were there. and i had been up all night. by her side. waiting for what was supposed to be good news. the hospital staff had brought hayley’s body temperature down significantly. shortly after she arrived. to try to save her brain functioning. they were warming her body up now to her normal temperature. two days after she arrived. slowly. carefully. so as not to do any damage.

she was supposed to reach normal body temperature between 4 and 5 a.m. at which time she was supposed to become responsive. she was supposed to wake up. that’s what she was supposed to do, we were told. but she did not.

what was supposed to be a celebratory time was traded for tears. and sorrow. after seeing the look on the nurse’s face. the look that said, “this is not good.” i went to the waiting room. to wake up the rest of the family. her mom first. shaking her shoulder gently. and then the others. so that they could be there. they woke up expecting good news. to be able to once again say “hi” to hayley. but that’s not what they received.

family filled the room. we cried. and prayed. and then the doctors asked us to give them some space. for tests. so we were shuffled down the hall. and into the waiting room. we took our places. to wait some more.

after not sleeping all night, expecting to see my sister open her eyes once again. i realized there was absolutely nothing i could do at this point. i could not even be by her side. so she didn’t have to  be all alone in that cold hospital room. and so i took the opportunity to close my eyes. to get some rest. i grabbed a blanket and crawled underneath the computer desk in the corner of the waiting room. closing my eyes hard. trying with all i had to shut out the reality we now found ourselves in. hoping to wake up and find myself somewhere else.

waking up in the icu

at 8 a.m., the previously quiet waiting room was now filled. with family. and a handful of friends. i awoke slowly. from the voices. and one voice in particular stood out from the rest. not because i recognized it, but because somehow i knew i was being talked about.

“i think that’s him,” i heard the voice say. “i think that’s her brother.”

slowly my eyes opened. i stretched. and sat up. carefully, so as not to hit my head on the computer desk that had acted as my makeshift tent in this icu waiting room. squinting to open my eyes. contacts sticking to my eyelids from working overtime. i didn’t recognize the girl who had spoken, but i could see her steal glances over her shoulder. so as not to stare at the guy waking up in the corner of the room.

laughs, from family. “get a good night’s sleep?” they joked.

rubbing my eyes. looking around the room, i realized i had woken up exactly where i had finally went to sleep. things were the same. they had not changed. unfortunately.

the girl looked over again. this time long enough to ask, “are you the one who wrote the devotional book?”

“uhhhhh,” i struggled to catch up to speed. with the question. “yeah, i think so. . .maybe.”

the birthday present

we celebrated my birthday the same week jen and i returned from our trip to england. and it was at my birthday party that i was given the greatest gift i’ve ever received. it was my words. in book format. steve had compiled each entry from hands&feet, and he had them bound into 10 hardback and 10 paperback copies. i was speechless.

hayley was there that night. when i opened my books. when i saw them for the first time. when the tears filled my eyes as i held the wrapping paper in my hands, staring down into the box. at the spines of these books that held my words.

saying goodbye, hayley said she’d like to read one sometime. without thinking twice, i put one of the hardback copies in her hands. “here you go,” i said with a smile. “now you can.”

she had been walking a pretty rough road for a while. i didn’t know where her and God stood. but i knew that relationship had seen better days. i had hoped the words would help her see Him more clearly. and His love for her. and how deeply He wanted better for her. i wanted that so bad. and i hoped this would help.

she talked about you

“she talked about you,” this girl spoke up again, in the icu waiting room. jen told me later she was a roommate of hayley’s. “she’d read your book at night, and then she’d share it with us.”

a smile spread across my face, slowly, as i woke up. as i became more aware of the conversation at-hand.

hayley had been reading my book. she read my words before bed. and she even shared them with others. and i could only hope and pray that it had helped her see Him more clearly. and His love for her. with all i had, that’s what i wanted.

you have mine

hayley and i talked a few days after i shared the news with her that christmas eve night. by text. i asked her how she was doing. she congratulated me again on school. and then she said something i will never forget. something that sticks with me to this day. something that pushes me forward and encourages me when i need it most.

“you’re going to impact a lot of people’s lives. you have mine.”

saying goodbye

we’re moving to england later this month. we’re saying goodbye to all that we know and love. to all that is comfortable to us. to pursue a long-time dream of mine. i’m going to study at oxford. theology. that i might use the knowledge i gain there to continue to write in a way that helps reveal Christ to others.

and it’s funny. i never thought i’d actually get to this point. preparing to go pursue this dream i thought was so far out there only a couple years ago that i didn’t even want to share it with others. for fear of being laughed at. and yet, here we are, preparing to go. and i never thought i’d be so scared.

in pursuing this dream, i’ve realized that often times our greatest hopes and dreams are tethered to our greatest fears. and it isn’t until we take a step in the direction of our dreams that those fears become real. so real you can smell them. so real you can feel their warm breath on your face. the question is, will we believe in the reality of our dreams deeply enough to face our fears head-on? it is only when we do so that the beauty of our dreams will a become reality.

our very own all as loss

the past several months have consisted of us preparing to leave behind all of our comforts. tearing down the professional relationships i’ve worked so hard to build up over the past four years. with my clients. and the job i fully expected to be at. for years. to settle down and have our own warm little piece of the american dream. saying goodbye to all of our friends and family. most of whom we’ve grown up with.

this is me considering all as loss for the sake of His glory. i have a good job here. i have no idea what job awaits me at the end of this journey we’re undertaking. i have amazing friends here. i have no idea who we’ll meet over there. this is my wife considering all as loss. putting her own dreams of settling down and raising a family on-hold so that we might undertake this calling now. and i couldn’t be more proud of her. or more thankful.

there are still so many unknowns. so much that makes me afraid. but we are doing this in the hope that, through this step in faith, God will show up in a big way. that He will swoop in and work through this experience and use it to help share Himself with even more people than i might otherwise reach were i to remain where i’m at. where we’re at.

i am not risking getting kicked in the face or beaten for my faith. but i don’t think that’s what He is calling me to. not at this point, at least. but i do think He is calling me to this. to relax my firm grip on everything i thought would bring me comfort and security. my job. my friends. my family. and to trust Him. so that He might do an incredible thing with a pretty ordinary thing.

what is it?

what’s distracting you from living for Him? what’s getting in the way of living in a way that others see Him at work in your life? what’s stopping you from living your life in a way that tells a beautiful story of His grace? of His redemption? of His love? what’s preventing you from living in a way that makes Him look glorious?

is it fear? for taking a step out in faith that He’s going to show up? or is it fear for what others will think if you put both feet in this faith, rather than leaving a bit of yourself outside this faith? rather than investing all your faith in Him. so that, when the opportune time comes, you can pretend like you’re not totally into this faith. so that others don’t think you’re one of the loonies.

what is it? is it something else? have your desires become muddled? have you become tempted by the world so that other things have taken the place that is meant to be reserved for Him? so that other things have taken the prominent role in your life? so that you’ve become the ignorant child content with making mud pies in the slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a vacation by the sea (as lewis puts it)?

whatever it is, i would ask that you be honest with yourself. let yourself answer the tough questions. even if the answers hurt. it’s only when you answer this question that you can begin taking steps to remove the distractions. to remove the fear. so that He might be displayed in your life as He should. so that He might take the throne in your life. and so that you might live life beautifully. so that your story would display His love, mercy, compassion, grace and redemption. in a way that touches the lives of those around you. in a way that makes Him look glorious.

not leave you as you are

i pray your life would be blessed as mine has.

i pray your life would be filled with amazing people. friends. family. with people who believe in you, even when you don’t believe in yourself. who dare you to dream big. who encourage you to do great things. who make you a better person, just by being around them. who love you. dearly. so much so that they’re willing to lay aside their own interests for the sake of yours. who sacrifice. for you.

but, even as great as those things are, i pray you would consider them all as loss. for the sake of knowing Him. for the sake of seeing Him more clearly. and for the sake of being His hands and feet. to a hurt and broken world. i pray your grip would not be so tight on the things of this world that you cannot carry His beautiful story of grace and love and redemption into those dark spots in this world that need it most.

that’s my prayer. that’s what it has always been. that’s why i began writing here three years ago. and that is what i hope you take away from these words. hold it close to your heart. chew on it. take it and run with it. share it with others. let it stir within you and drive you to seek Him out. in His word. in prayer. but, by all means, do not let it leave you the same. for His desire is to do great things with you. and He will not leave you as you are.

digging in

like a farmer on his hands and knees. in the dirt. under the scorching sun. he digs his worn hands into the soil. scooping it from the ground. and lifting the rich, dark soil to his face. he closes his eyes and breathes in its smell. a smile spreads across his sun-weathered face before opening his eyes. slowly. and as he exhales, you might be confident he is in fact crazy. but he is not. for he knows something we do not. he knows what this soil is capable of producing. life. newness. of the sort we cannot imagine. but he can. he has seen it before. and he is looking forward to seeing it again.

in the same way, He is capable of producing life. even in a life that seems so far gone. but we must dig in. we must get our hands dirty. and when we do, we will find life of the sort we did not know possible. we will breathe it in. and it will fill us up. so much so that it will pour out from us. into the lives of others. and the smile will spread slowly across our own face as it does. going out. changing lives. all for His glory.

thank you

thank you so much for taking the time to read my words. the past three years of writing here at hands&feet. of pouring out my heart and my thoughts. this truly has been a blessing in my life. i pray they have been for you as well, and i look forward to hearing what they’ve meant in your life some day.

forgiveness: the one i didn’t want to write

i should probably start by saying i didn’t want to write this one. i’m not sure why, even. maybe it has something to do with the fact that part of me doesn’t think i have anything to contribute to the topic of forgiveness. maybe it’s because it seems so elementary, in a lot of ways. you forgive, you move on. end of story. right?… or maybe it’s because i don’t want to come across as though i think i have this one all figured out. i assure you, i do not.

but i did recently find myself in a pretty horrible situation. one that began with me needing to forgive someone. someone very close to me. for inflicting a deep amount of pain. but then it turned into a situation where i needed to ask the same person for forgiveness. and so i found myself spinning round and round in this confusing circle of forgiveness. it was horrible.

forgiveness is one of those things–like so many others–that you can’t really have an educated conversation about until you’ve walked through it. i mean really walked through it. when you’re faced with the reality of having to forgive someone for something significant. something you don’t want to forgive. something that hurts so bad that you just want to hold onto the pain with all you have and not let go. that’s the kind of forgiveness i’m talking about dealing with here.

and, like i said, i was forced to recently. the need to forgive hit me square in the face. like a cold, dead, stinking fish.

sanding down my edges

“for someone who believes in heaven and hell, it’s not okay to tell someone to go to hell,” i said, before taking a bite of french toast. the kind of french toast that’s made from thick cut, artisan bread. not the thin, sandwich style stuff. i was having breakfast with a good friend of mine. ryan. at a place in seattle. a place we always try to go when i’m in town.

it’s a really cool, open space with lofty ceilings, rustic wooden tables, concrete floors and big windows that serve as large-scale snapshots of the beautiful northwest sky on a clear morning. the place is always filled with lots of bustling people on the weekends. 30-somethings parents with their children. 20-somethings meeting friends. grey haired couples enjoying breakfast over the paper. or a good book. it’s a great place to be on the weekend, with wonderful smells of bacon and cinnamon floating through the air.

and the food is amazing. the berries come from local berry farms. the bread is made at the place down the street. the eggs are local, too. and the employees wear shirts that read, “eat like you give a damn.” it’s that kind of a place. very northwest.

we found ourselves sitting at the bar overlooking the open-air kitchen on this particular morning. watching the eggs spit and hiss as they hit the frying pan. omelets turned and spun in the air by guys who have obviously done this before. and it was over this breakfast that i shared with ryan a conversation i had just had the day before. one i now deeply regretted. one that still pained me to discuss.

“and after i said all those horrible things, i could feel Him at that moment reminding me that there was still much work to be done,” i shared. “i could picture Him with a wood plane in hand, sanding down my edges.”

“or cutting them off completely,” ryan corrected.

“indeed,” i nodded.

rage-filled conversation

the day before, i had confronted a close relative on something they had recently done. and said. i am sometimes astounded to think it takes a license to own a gun, but that we are permitted to fire off our words without regard for the wounds they cause. the holes left by these wounds do not heal easily; they can sometimes remain with us for our entire life.

this all happened during what was already an incredibly difficult time. this family member had kicked me while i was down. they had pained me deeply. so much so that i have trouble thinking of much else that anyone has ever said or done that has hurt this bad. but that’s just how it goes. stabs always seem more painful when they’re from close range.

the plan was to tell him i forgave him. to let him know i knew i had no right to hold onto my anger for his actions in light of the forgiveness i have received in Christ. that it would be awfully hypocritical of me to accept forgiveness for my own mistakes with one hand, and hold him at arms-length with the other hand. out of anger. and hurt.

that was the plan. but things didn’t go according to plan.

what began as a slow, soft toned conversation quickly turned into a rapid-paced, hate-filled attack between us both. where words were thrown like spears. aiming to hurt. but it didn’t end there. i quickly found myself lunging at him with all i had. i found my wife’s arms clenched around my waist. to restrain me. another close relative who was there stepped in between us, and i found myself flailing with all i had. to get at him. i found myself yelling at the top of my lungs. threats. name-calling. and i remember seeing my sister covering her face. the tears streaming. sobbing.

his words had stuck. they had pierced my flesh. and i wanted a piece of his. with my own two hands. i wanted to feel the force of my knuckles against his skin and skull.

a place of self-righteousness

my grandpa likes to keep old newspaper clippings. of our family. of his grandkids. wedding announcements. academic honors. family members returning home from the service. he hangs them from the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. most of them are old now. so the paper has begun to turn colors.

and i usually just allow my eyes to glance over these hanging newspaper clippings. i’ve seen them a million times before. but on a recent visit, i found myself on the backside of these cutout articles, and i realized i had never taken the time to read what was on the other side. i found myself curious at what news had been hanging here. right alongside the wedding clippings and straight a’s. overlooked all these years.

and one of the articles was about forgiveness, and how an amish community had shocked the world when they displayed forgiveness for a man who had walked into their church and sprayed those present with bullets. killing many. children. and others. and how this forgiveness was the last thing anyone expected to be given in the face of such an incredibly horrific act. but that’s what this community gave.

the article went on to quote a professor who had been studying forgiveness. because that’s what you do when you write an article. you get a quote from an expert. and so this reporter probably called up this professor. this man who had been studying forgiveness as it varied by different people groups. to get a sense of what forgiveness takes. why some give it, and why others don’t. why some choose to let go of their anger and hurt and not direct their hurt onto the one who inflicted their pain. and why others simply do not. and what it does to them.

professor forgiveness talked about how when we choose not to forgive, we often end up displaying a sense of self-righteousness. we focus on how the other party has inflicted pain in our lives. we focus on their wrongdoing. and we overlook our own wrongs. and he talked about how, for those who do choose to forgive, it’s often because they acknowledge their own wrongdoings.

comes naturally

i’m not one who typically struggles with forgiveness. for whatever reason, it’s one of those things that i just haven’t really had a hard time doing. in a way, it seems like it almost comes naturally. i don’t know. maybe it’s because i’m pretty conscious of the ways i’ve fallen flat on my face so many times. wanting to do right, but failing to do so. time and time and time again.

like professor forgiveness said, if you’re not so focused on the other person’s wrongdoings, forgiveness comes much easier. and my own faults seem to stand out pretty fresh in my mind. so perhaps that’s why forgiveness has come easy for me. (i’ve got my own wrongs to work on. i simply don’t have time to worry about yours…)

until this. until those words that seemed to bore into my flesh and wrench my heart like someone ringing out a sponge. i was furious, to be sure. but more than that, i was hurt. and i wanted to show him how i hurt. i wanted to make it clear how hurt i was. and the only way i knew how at that moment was through physical violence. the last thing i wanted to do was offer him my hand in forgiveness.

savored like a werther’s hard candy

when i was holding onto this anger. when i didn’t want to let it go. when i wanted to suck on it and savor it like a werther’s hard candy. i wanted to know i was right. i wanted to know i had every reason to hold onto these hard feelings. i wanted others to tell me how wrong he was to say the things he said. and did. how no one should ever say such things. but especially not someone so close. and i could. easily. because of how obvious his wrongs were.

but there was another part of me that knew, deep down, that it wasn’t about finding people who would tell me i was right. that, no matter how many people i might be able to line up on my side of this terrible situation, that i must forgive. and it doesn’t make sense. like i said, he was in the wrong. i was in the right. there was no one who would say otherwise.

all the same, i knew forgiveness was necessary. after all, my not forgiving him was producing an obvious terror in my soul. one that had displayed itself during that recent rage-filled conversation.

as you have been forgiven

at one point in the Word, we’re told we ought to forgive as we have been forgiven. and part of me wishes it didn’t. probably the same part of me that would like to savor this pain from time to time. but It does. and so we must do something with that, if we claim to believe any other parts of His Word. for we cannot pick and choose. that is simply not how it works. this is no buffet line faith.

and so what do we do with that? well, it probably makes sense to ask what that forgiveness looks like for us. “…as you have been forgiven.”

what does that mean? well, we’re told our scarlet sins are washed white as snow. we’re told He no longer holds them against us. because of the payment made on our behalf. His blood makes us clean. with no remnant of our dreadful messups or blemishes.

we’re also told He loves us. that He doesn’t just forgive us, but that He goes one step further. it’s not enough for Him to simply pat us on the back and say, “it’s okay. I forgive you.” but He actually loves us. with the same love He has for His Son. His perfect Son. the Son who never once did anything that was outside His Father’s will. the same Son who He has loved from before time began. with that same love, He loves us.

and we’re called to do the same thing. we’re called not to just consider it enough to say, “i no longer hold this against you.” but we’re called to go one step further. to display authentic love for the one who caused us the pain. not because we think they deserve it. nor is it because we’re going to get a star beside our name at the end of this life. but because that’s what He calls us to. and because that’s what He has done for us.

as lewis puts it so well, “to be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable, because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.” (the weight of glory, p.125)

public tears

some time had gone by after that rage-filled conversation had taken place. after that scene that left me feeling both hurt by this person’s words and embarrassed at my own response. and a couple months later he sent me a text. to say he was sorry. and that this needed to be taken care of. so i agreed to meet for coffee. to talk.

and so he did. small talk, at first. but i wasn’t interested in it. i couldn’t be. not until everything else had been dealt with. and then maybe not for a while after that.

we were sitting in a coffee shop downtown. but not my usual spot. because i knew, even in the best-case scenario, i wouldn’t want to be somewhere people would know me. i was right.

and so there we sat. talking. between long gaps of silence. and i couldn’t look at him. i couldn’t even lift my head from the floor. in my hurt. but i knew i needed to talk.

so i began by apologizing for the things i had said. for my own horrible words and my response. i began by asking for his forgiveness. i acknowledged that my own words had caused me much sorrow. that they had made me feel pretty horrible about myself. and i told him i was sorry for allowing such things to come from me.

he nodded. acknowledging he accepted my apology. but then i went on. i went on to tell him why the things he said had hurt so bad. how they had stuck with me and tortured me in ways he could not have even imagined. i shared some of my most treasured memories with him so that he might have some context for my pain. in an attempt to help him stand in my shoes. so that he might feel the pain from the wounds he had inflicted. and the tears came as i did so. and i let them fall. knowing everyone could see. knowing the looks would come. all the while keeping my head down. my eyes burning holes into the floor beneath my feet.

and i told him that, even in this pain, i forgave him. and i meant it this time. i told him i didn’t want to hold onto this anger any more. i acknowledged that i’ve made many, many mistakes, and i knew he considered his own words a mistake. i told him i was sure things would be okay at some point, but i also told him i didn’t know when that would be.

doesn’t mean it’ll be the same

i grabbed lunch with another relative of mine around this time. a pastor. a guy who i often share the pains and struggles of life with. a guy i trust deeply.

this was before the second conversation had taken place. before the coffee shop. we were catching up on life. and all of this came up. i told him how i had been struggling with forgiveness.

and, after listening to me explain the situation, he said something that seemed to make the process of forgiveness easier for me. it made accepting the invite to talk things out a bit easier, when it came.

he told me just because we forgive someone, that doesn’t mean the relationship is immediately going to be restored. he told me it should be, eventually. but that this kind of forgiveness comes with the realization that those wounds don’t heal overnight. and we should be mindful of that.

and that was a relief. it made sense to me. if i accidentally trip and fall, for example, and i end up bumping into you, causing you to in turn fall and hurt yourself, there will be pain. i will apologize, of course, and you will likely forgive me, but there will still be pain from the injury. and that pain may remain for a while, even after you’ve forgiven me. that is simply how things work.

i was relieved to hear forgiveness did not equate to me having to fake a smile when i still felt wounded. i was relieved to hear that the act of forgiveness and the restoration of relationships are two separate activities. but i also recognized that they are related. they work hand-in-hand. the act of forgiveness brings about the restored relationship.

not just because it’s easier

i chewed on this for a while. i wanted to make sure i wasn’t accepting this advice simply because it made me feel better. or because it was easier.

i thought about how Christ calls us to perfect forgiveness. i thought about how He calls us to love those who persecute us. not just to forgive them. but to go on and actually display love for them. and this advice that i had received seemed to fly in the face of that teaching. so i was left wondering, if i’m told forgiveness should be shown with love. and if i’m still feeling wounded and not quite like loving this person, am i forgiving as i should?

but the more i thought about it. the more i realized this act of perfect forgiveness, much like our sanctification, much like our becoming like Him, is a process.

just because i choose to surrender my life to Him. out of love. and in obedience. acknowledging that He has purchased me at a price. at the price of His Son’s life. just because i do this doesn’t mean i suddenly become perfect. as He is. no, it does not happen immediately. nor does it happen perfectly. at least, not at first.

a gradual process

perfect obedience to Him is not present in my life. nor will it be. not in this life. but i am moving in that direction. with His help. it is a gradual process. one that will take much time. but, with His grace, it will occur.

in the same way, our forgiveness will come to mirror Christ’s. in any and all situations. to the point where we will one day be able to say, “…Father forgive them, for they know not what they do…”, even as we face the threat of death.

the fact that forgiveness did not come easy for me in this situation is merely proof that i am still very much a work in progress. but it will become easier. if we ask for His help. and when we acknowledge we have all messed up. that we all are in dire need of forgiveness. and that the judgement seat is simply not ours to sit in.

i have a pretty simple role during my time here on earth (to point others toward Him), and making people pay for their mistakes or earn my forgiveness simply isn’t part of that job description.

like spring: awakening to new life

i’ve had this picture stirring in my mind lately. one i can’t seem to shake. it’s a picture of a frozen tree set against a white field of snow. the tree is covered in a sheet of ice. frozen solid from the long, cold, hard winter.

everything is quiet. everything is still. there is nothing going on. it’s almost as if time itself is frozen in place from the cold. and then, unexpectedly, the sun makes an appearance. coming up slowly over the mountain tops. the mountains that provide a backdrop for this scene.

and as the first ray of sunlight hits the tree, the ice begins to melt. slowly. so that the only hint of any release from the freeze is a steady drip, drip, drip of water from one, single branch.

this is what life is like?

life is funny sometimes. not funny ‘ha ha.’ but, ‘are you kidding me?’ funny. ‘is life really going to punch me in the face again?’ funny.

we go through these stretches sometimes where it seems like you walk around one corner and you’re punched square in the face, only so that you’re holding your face from the hurt and find yourself unguarded for the next corner, where someone is waiting to kick you in the groin.

that’s kind of how life has seemed for the last little while. one thing after another. after another. for me. for us. for those close to us.

and it’s reason enough for anyone to say, ‘really?’…’this is really what life is like?’

not getting that job you thought you were a shoe-in for… the one you prayed for every night. for that pregnancy you want so desperately, but know you cannot have… even while everyone else around you enjoys their good news. cancer… for the first time. for the second–and final–time. death… the loss of life and all that comes with it. at such an early age that it doesn’t make any sense.

and it’s all so much. too much, at times. enough for us to ask, “when is enough, enough?” enough for us to say, “your Word tells us You won’t allow us to be tempted beyond what we can handle, but it seems like that point has come and gone.”

waking up

spring is my favorite time of year. the real kind of spring. not the fake kind. not the kind that feels like fall all over again. which we sometimes get here in the northwest.

after a long winter–be it cold and dark, or just grey and wet–there’s nothing better than noticing the days getting a little bit longer. the sun coming up a little earlier. the air slowly warming up. and the sky getting brighter. it’s as if everything is waking up from a long sleep. and it’s refreshing. it gives me energy.

i feel like my soul has been in a bit of a sleep as of late. tired. groggy. shrugging to shake off a darkness and a cold that doesn’t want to leave.

and this picture of spring–the one i opened with, the one that has been with me for a while now–it brings me great hope. as if to remind me of the fact that, no matter how long the dark days may seem. no matter how frigid cold the soul may appear. it will not last forever. the Light will return. the freeze will melt. all will be made right again.

invading the darkness

and i feel like this image reminds us of the coming of His Kingdom. in a way. of Heaven. and how His Light will invade this darkness. of how His Light is already invading the darkness. even through us.

i feel like it comes like an awakening. His Light in us. it feels like spring. like an opening of the eyes. a yawn. a stretch. and then the legs hit the ground. and life begins. and His followers go out. like seeds. like the cotton balls floating through the air on a spring day. a sign of Him going out. spreading His goodness. even through us. we are but conduits for His grace, love and joy.

He works through us. and those experiences we go through, the ones that feel like a punch to the face or a kick to the pants. the ones that make this all seem like a perpetual winter. they grant us opportunities. for conversation. for relationships. like a key that opens a door. this experience allows me to talk to you. that experience allows you to talk to them. and your shared experience grants you a common bond, creating between you a shared language. and, in that language, you will share what He has revealed to you. including Himself.

that is how it works. like spring. like the first rays of warm sunlight after a long, cold winter peeking over the jagged, frozen mountaintops. mountains raised up into the sky like tent tops. carving out the blue blanket of a sky that rests on the mountain’s shoulders. the sunlight creating a path as it goes out. calling out to the remains of winter to wake up. to see the new day.

so it is with Him. nudging us to wake up. to have a look at what He has been doing while we slept.

“look. do you see? it is good. and you are a part of it.

now go. and be in it. that you might bear My image.”

recognizing the difference between light and dark

but the long winter months of this life wear on and on and on. so long that we sometimes forget what the warmth feels like. so long that we forget what the Light looks like. so long that we begin to think this winter is all there is to life. so long that we begin to wonder if we’d even recognize the Light, were we to see It again.

and that thought–that we become so well adjusted to the dark that we wouldn’t recognize the Light at its first appearance–that thought brings me fear. for i want that Light. with all i have. that it might burn away the cold. that it might thaw the frozen spots of my soul. and so, thinking that i might not recognize the Light after feeling far from it for so long. or not as close as i once was. i find myself fearing i might miss out on an opportunity to feel the warmth of the Light when it does appear. and that thought scares me.

how do I know the difference between the Light and the dark, when the dark feels all too familiar, and the light seems like a distant memory? or when it feels like the hint of a dream? i know the difference between the two because i never confuse the Light for the dark, although i may confuse the dark for the Light, mistakenly.

or, to put it another way, when i am in the Light, i never second-guess myself. i never find myself walking in His presence halfway knowing i should be walking in the dark. however, when i am knowingly walking in the dark, after mistaking it for the Light, that is precisely what I find. i find myself knowing, even already one foot in, one foot out, that i should be walking in the Light.

like a long-lost friend

and yet, when the Light reappears, it is almost as if it had never left. welcoming us like a long-lost friend. you worry that it might be awkward. like a hug from a stranger who seems to know you, even though you have no idea who they are. but the first sight of this Light washes away any such worry. for you are too overcome with joy to think of anything but your delight in seeing It again. and the first sight of It is but a hint of what is to come. overwhelming your senses like a thundering wave of warmth crashing against the rocky shore of your soul.

and as we see that first glimmer of this Light, it reignites within us a deep thirst for more. so much more. that we might lift the cup It is being poured out from with both hands to drink It in. to gulp It down. hastily. so that some even spills onto us. we do so without regard. and we begin to feel ourselves filled, for the first time in ages. feeling It warm us from within.

the coldness that made itself at home there before now is but a distant memory. more like a nightmare. that we have trouble now recalling. even if we can still feel–in part–the sharp pains it once carried. but it slips away, back into our memory, in the presence of the warmth of the Light. the warmth reassuring us the Light is here. and where the Light touches, pain and darkness cannot remain.

not alone

the blessing of this life is that, from time to time, we find someone who is traveling a similar path as the one we are on. like a stranger in the desert. a complete surprise. an oasis, of sorts. and we find their experience somehow sheds light on our experience. and it is a gift.

for it reminds us we are not alone in this journey. even if we feel that way. even if the one, single unifying trait among us seems to be that we feel all alone. we are not a lone star in an empty galaxy, as it were, but one of many. with many shared similarities amongst the masses. no matter how alone we may feel, at times.

rumors of a Man

this is a blessing. this reminder that we are not alone. and we would do well to recognize it as such. even amongst all the dust and darkness and cobwebs this life sometimes carries. like a ray of shining light, peaking in from a single, lone window in the corner of the room. revealing, in part, the Light that awaits us outside of this room we now find ourselves in.

the door leading out is locked, for now. but there remain rumors of a Man who came through that door once. long ago. of a Man who was just as we are. flesh and blood. but Who was also fully Divine. Who had been with the Father since the beginning. Who–at times–radiated the same Light that now shines (dimly) through that lone window. and, after being with us for a time. after sharing with us of what lies beyond this room. of love. of joy beyond imagination. of grace. and of how we ought to live. after sharing all of that, He left. through the very same door He entered.

but He didn’t leave us hopeless. no, He left us with the promise that He went to prepare a place for us. with a promise that He intended to bring us with. that, at some point, a point not yet made known to anyone, that the door would be unlocked, and that the outside Light would change all that we now see before us. the dust. the darkness. the cobwebs. all left scrambling for fear of the Light. and that we, too, would be changed for the entrance of the Light. and that, in a way, things would be as they were always intended. that the darkness of our present conditions, that the darkness we have even grown accustomed to, would be a thing of the past. a distant memory. a bad dream, of sorts. the freeze will have completely melted. there will be only Light and warmth. ”the bad dream will be over, it will be morning” (c.s. lewis, mere christianity, p. 200)

salve for our souls

i think His desire is to break through the darkness in our lives. into our hearts. like the first ray of sunlight shining forth into a dark room as the door opens. and, as He does so, it’s like salve to the calloused parts of our souls. cooling our painful wounds and healing the cracks. providing refreshment and nourishment as only He can.

and this happens as we approach Him. as we come to Him. for healing. for newness of life. where before there was only death and darkness and sadness.

His is a presence of warmth. even in the dry, frigid, wintry desert of our souls.

a snake oil god

but it is here where i wish to be perfectly clear. i am not suggesting we market Him as some snake oil sort of god. one we over-apply to any and all of our wants. that we simply have to rub on here and there and suddenly all of our desires are fulfilled.

“job trouble? you need to pray more.” “money woes? buy this book, so that He can do great things…” no, that is not what i am implying here at all.

i turned on the tv the other day. mostly to provide some background noise for a sunday afternoon nap. and i was greeted by a televangelist telling me if i sent $1,000 for his ministry, that i’d get a book in the mail teaching me all about how to be successful (i wish i were making this up). he talked about sowing a seed, and how God would show up and provide a garden more bountiful than we imagined if we did this. he went on to share a recent conversation he was having with a man from africa, and how, after hearing this message, this man had asked if this held true for him as well. even in africa. and the televangelist assured him it would. and that’s when i had to change the channel. i couldn’t believe it. it was embarrassing. that He was using God in this way. it was disgusting.

for starters, that’s a really expensive book. on top of that, i don’t think God is interested in selling us success via self-help books so that He can build His Kingdom. no, i think He is far more interested in dealing with the darkness that ravages our souls. so that we might reflect His Light.

a magic wand God that we have to simply wave in the direction of our desires He is not. particularly for what we think we need (be it success or otherwise). He is so much more than that.

Good Medicine

no, that is not the image of God i am trying to paint here at all. my application here is much more like that of handing someone who has thirst a glass of water. for that is what they need. so it is here. your soul runs on Him, just as our bodies run on water. just as a car runs on fuel. when the light of our souls has dimmed, He is what we are lacking. for, in this arena, He is the solution. He is the Good Medicine, if you will. He is what you need in this case–what i need in this case. when all seems so very dark. when our souls seem so very cold.

as children, we rate medicine on how it tastes. the better it tastes, the more willing we are to take it. if it comes in the shape of a gummy bear, that’s bonus points. but as we get older, we assess the quality of a medicine on whether or not it resolves our illness, as opposed to whether or not it tastes good. indeed, often times it is that medicine that tastes the worst–that falls furthest from what our tastes would prefer–that actually leads to the quickest, healthiest recovery. so it is with our faith.

like many religions, Christianity acknowledges that something has separated us from God. from eternal joy. from a right relation with Him. the Christian faith calls this barrier sin. and, in most religions, what we find is a list of things we must do to make right what has separated us from god. there is something we must do to appease this divine being. if we try hard enough. if we pay enough. if we live a pure enough life. if we do this. or, often times, if we don’t do that. then we can somehow make things right between us and this god. and, in each case, the weight falls on our shoulders.

and such belief systems beckon to our desires. we like this kind of thinking. it makes sense to us. and we can take pride in such religions. ”i deserve this,” we think to ourselves. or, “i earned this.”

but here, in Christianity, we find something very different. we find Him saying, “you are broken. you were separated from Me by your very nature. but I have already made things right. I have already paid the price for you. you can do all you can to try and earn this, but the fact of the matter is, I’ve already earned it for you.”

that’s the difference. there is no other religion (that i know of) where God says, “this is what it will take to make things right, and here is Me showing up to do it for you.” in Christ, we have Divinity arriving in actual history to make right our wrongs. in the flesh and blood of a Man. into a body that needed air to breathe and food to live. into a body that felt hunger and cold. into a body that felt pain, just as we do. so that His blood might make payment for the price His perfect law demands. so that He might pay for our sins. that’s why this faith is filled with words like grace and good news. because it’s not about us. or what we’ve done to earn this. ours, unlike any other, is a faith of divine charity.

here, we find God holding out His hand. holding this gift. saying to us, “this is what I did for you. before you could ever dream of deserving it. while you were still broken. laying down the life of My perfect Son, for your sake. so that you might be saved.”

in the case of Christianity, we find a diagnosis that says, “you suffer from an eternal wound that goes so deep you cannot possibly heal on your own. no amount of right-living or wisdom or anything else can mend this brokenness.” while, at the same time, offering a prescription that says, “but I can. and I will send my own Son as payment. My blood in place of your blood. so that you might be healed. so that you might have life, and life to the fullest.”

that is not the kind of medication many of us would choose for ourselves (even less the kind of prescription we would invent), were we not wholly interested in getting better. yet that is precisely what Christianity prescribes for the condition of our soul.

scale-covered eyes

the truth is, i need Him. i need Him so much. like medication for my soul. so that it would re-awaken. to newness of life. that it would shake off the weariness brought on by a long, cold season that feels so much like winter. and so that it would feel the warm presence of His Light. that my soul would soak Him in. so that, ultimately, His goodness would be reflected in my life.

unfortunately, the repeated, day-after-day darkness of this world has a way of blinding us to His goodness. it has a way of covering our eyes with scales that try with all it has to block His Light from shining in. so that we’re left blindly fumbling about in the darkness. and so many of us are in this spot. some who have never seen His Light. others who have, but whose eyes have been now covered for so long.

and, as we fumble around in the dark, looking for something–for anything–that will help our present condition, the prince of darkness is running about shouting, “here, here! this is it! this will help you!” and we shuffle about. in the darkness. trying to find our way to what he is directing our attention. and just as we reach it, he quickly runs to another spot and shouts, “no, no, no. over here! this is what you’re looking for!”

all the while we tire ourselves out. stumbling blindly in the darkness from here to there. bumping our head into walls. bloodying our nose and bruising our foreheads. looking for a solution. time after time we are met with only pain. and we fall on our hands and knees. our head hanging low, tired from the exhaustion. blood streaming from our wounds. pooling beneath us. and we strive to work up enough energy to lift our tired, worn frame off from the floor. only so that we can do it again. “this time it will work,” we think to ourselves. “this time will be different.”

and this scene must grieve Him so much. because He loves us. and He cares for us. and because He wants what is best for us. truly.

and because it’s only His light that can peel away the scales. it’s only His Light that will bring about healing. it’s His Light that we need so desperately. in this present darkness we now find ourselves in. so that He might revealed. in all His goodness.

and He is. through the Christ-sized hole in the darkness. the Good News is that the battle is won. the good news is that the darkness is rotting from the inside out. and this kind of rot is bringing about our healing. His Light is breaking through the darkness. even now. the night is slowly pealing back, and the darkness is trying with all its might to grasp at every soul it can as it is pulled away.

taste for Him

and so we ask Him to give us taste for Him, when we don’t have taste for much at all. we ask that He will create within us a desire for more of Himself. for what we need most. to heal us. to cure us. to chase away the darkness in our souls.

that we might hunger and thirst for Him. so that we might delight in drinking Him in. so that we might be filled. and so that we might be awakened to new life. but that desire for Him is a gift. it is not something we are capable of creating within ourselves. but, once we have it. once we have tasted it. we are awakened to our hunger for more of it.

when hayley was in the hospital those five days. on life support. i hardly ate. it seemed like my desires for everything else faded away in light of my desire to be by her side. in case she woke up. in case something happened. in case nothing happened, but so that i could just be present for each and every possible second. to listen to her breathing. to enjoy her just a little bit longer.

“have you eaten anything today?” my wife asked. the late afternoon question a reminder i hadn’t. and those who know me knew how unlike me that was. those who knew about my two dinners a night routine.

and so they’d encourage me to eat. but eating seemed so inconsequential. it seemed only like a distraction. stealing me away from hayley’s side. to the cramped waiting room. squeezed in when we were removed from hayley’s hospital room for testing.

i didn’t feel like eating, but i knew i should. i knew my body needed it. and when i first took that bite of food, after not eating for a day or so, i was instantly reminded of that need. my mouth and my stomach thanking me with each bite. and my hunger–the hunger for food i seemed to have lost before–was now returned. growing with each bite of sandwhich. of left-over pizza and cookies. what was missing in the absence of food was now returned. fully. in the presence of food.

and i think that’s the way we work with Him, a lot of times. when we go without Him for a period. we tend to get used to it. so much so that our desire for Him seems to wane in His absence. we don’t desire to seek Him in prayer like we once did. we don’t desire to find Him in His Word  like we did before. and it only seems to get harder and harder to find ourselves wanting to do so the longer we go without It.

but then, when we finally do return to Him. in His Word. in prayer. we find our hunger for Him renewed. like a long-lost hunger washing over us at first taste. our awareness of our need for Him, and our absence of His presence in our life, now pouring over us. crushing our senses. overwhelming us. so that we cannot get enough of Him. we taste Him in His Word. we feel His presence in our prayer. and it was like He had never left.

breaking through the shell of our soul

if that’s you. if that’s where you currently find yourself. feeling like life is kicking you in the teeth at every turn. feeling surrounded by unending fields of waist-deep snow and cold you cannot escape. i pray you would seek Him. i pray you would ask that He fill you with a deep-rooted desire and hunger for more of Him.

and i pray that as you approach Him, that He would crack open the shell of your soul with His Light. with His grace and tender mercy. with His love. with His joy. that it would permeate every corner of your soul. that His delight would become your delight. and that your delight would be found in Him.

and the Good News is that Jesus has done this. He has broken the cold shells of our souls. He has already redeemed us from our fallen state. breaking into our story so that His Light might shine into this darkness. waking us up from this slumber. from this sleep-like state.

and as we approach Him, this Light is made brighter and brighter in our lives. and so we do that. we run after Him with all we have. so that we might be changed into His likeness. and so that the frigid parts of our souls–the ones that pull us down and away from the life He desires for us–might fall off. and so that they might be left behind. like an old sweater pulled off and tossed overhead as you run headlong into the approaching summer sun.

warm, loving arms

and if ever you feel as though you are not worthy to approach Him with such desire. or if ever you feel as though you might be met with a slammed door in your face for such effort. i would tell you this. He will meet you with open arms when you go to Him. with an earnest heart that desires Him. and you will find Him in all His righteous love. the love of a tender Father waiting for His child to return home. and anyone who tells you otherwise would do well to know more fully anyone they attempt to speak of. because, it is His grace which gives us this opportunity. it is His grace which lays the foundation of the path we walk, from where we stand to where He is. it is not because of anything we’ve done or anything we do or do not deserve. it is only by His grace.

His goodness provides the light for our footsteps. into His warm, loving arms. loving arms that will peel back the ice that covers our souls, so that the Light might come in. it is dim now, to be sure. but it will appear in its full brightness one day. He will reappear one day. in all His infinite splendor.

until that day, i pray His grace and the warmth of His presence would begin to melt away the remains of winter from your soul. that you might reflect His goodness. His love. His joy. His peace. and His grace. to others, even while the final hints of this long winter still remain.

grief: reflections on loss

i wish to be completely forthright in saying this entry was written entirely to help myself deal with a deep amount of recent pain. to walk through the many thoughts of loss and hurt the past several weeks have brought. and to attempt to make some sense of the horrific loss of our dear sister, hayley dawn.

while hands&feet began as a way for me to simply capture my thoughts, it has grown to become more than that. however, this entry, in particular, returns to those original roots. it is full of loss and grievous remorse, and i make no promise that it will leave you feeling better. about anything. it is a bit like someone narrating the experience of their own surgery. if you are squeamish, i do not blame you in the least for looking away. however, if this narrative does help you. if this account somehow makes her — or anyone you’ve lost — feel close to you once again, if only for a moment. then praise be to God for that.

but, i am confident that these words will very likely leave some feeling as though they’ve just walked through a storm. and so i make the offer upfront: this is a dark cloud you may wish to walk around. you do not always have that option, but you do here, if you so choose.

to sit & listen

driving home from the hospital that first night, the night after we received that dreadful late-night phone call. the car headlights tearing through the darkness of that 2:30 a.m. morning, all i wanted to do was sit beside my sister. by the water. on the shore. and listen to her. i didn’t even want to ask any questions. i just wanted to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with her. again. tossing rocks into the waves as they rolled into shore. watching the water play with the pebbles underneath as it washed over them with each coming and going.

i just wanted to be there to lend a listening ear when she felt like talking. that’s all. and i prayed for that opportunity. to once again sit and talk with her. and it was then that i felt Him whisper to me that He was already talking with her, and that i need not worry.

feels like

what does grief feel like? it feels like a dry lump in the back of your throat that you cannot swallow away. it feels heavy, like a wet blanket on your shoulders that you cannot shake. weighing you down with each footstep. it fogs your vision and dulls your mind, so that you cannot see or think clearly. except for the pain and the memories, which shine brightly through the darkness. no matter how hard you try to push the former away, without sacrificing the latter.

and it lingers, like a deep, dense fog. consuming everything in its path. and you’re left wandering in it, lost. aimlessly. for days. weeks. and just when you feel like you’ve come to the end of it, you realize it was only a brief clearing in what seems like an endless valley, surrounded by the thick gray haze.

experiencing loss

there is nothing sexy, cool or desirable in any way about sitting beside the hospital bed of someone you love on life support at 2:00 a.m. there is only pain. there is only prayer and tears. wanting with all you have for them to blink their eyes. to grab your hand. to wake up.

i remember staring at hayley’s nearly motionless body during those early morning hours, as she lay there on the hospital bed. the only movement coming from the rise and fall of her chest with each robotic breath. aided by life support. by tubes and beeping machines. and all i wanted to do is talk with her. i wanted to whisper to her, that i loved her. and i did. and i hoped with all i had that she could hear me.

and i remember thinking how frail she looked. even her hair. each strand of it, strewn across the white linens. not a single ounce of her being showed even a hint of strength. and the only reason she was alive was because He had brought life and a pulse back to her lifeless body. i remember thinking how each breath was a gift from God, and how she was literally one breath away from leaving us.

and i remember telling jen He was going to redeem her. from all the pain of this situation. and somehow, comfort i can’t now describe surrounded me during that time. comfort that doesn’t make any sense.

impact on my faith

before all this happened, i had often wondered how my faith would hold up in the face of such loss and pain. i wondered if it would blind my vision toward His goodness. if i would feel distant from Him. or have a deep-rooted hesitation to ever approach Him again for help.

i am thankful that has not been the case. however, immediately following hayley’s diagnosis — which we had waited several days to receive — my faith was surely tested. and i was incredibly scared.

hearing her diagnosis from a doctor, a neurologist, was by no means easy. it was like having a biology textbook read to you when what you would prefer are the compassionate words of a sympathy note from a friend. or the loving arms of a well-timed hug. but that is not what we received. rather, what we heard were the cold, bleak, hopeless words from an unattached physician. someone who had never even had the pleasure of meeting hayley.

and it was after receiving that news, during the shock, that i was scared. i was scared because, for the first time i can remember, i honestly had no idea what to pray for. i felt as though there was nothing i could pray for that would resolve this situation. at that moment, leaning heavily on the windowsill and looking out into the deep blue sky through the icu window, i felt totally and completely helpless.

i felt as though the robe of this world had been pulled back, revealing the dark, ghastly flesh beneath. teeming with black machinery and hoards of crawling insects. i felt as though i was seeing all the dark evils of this world with clear eyes for the very first time. a darkness that had always been there, but that had been cleverly disguised. and once the mask has been removed, there is no forgetting what lies beneath. even if it is replaced. the image is forever burned in your memory. and, at that moment, it was for me a darkness i wanted to turn and run from with all my might. but i knew i would not fully escape it until that day i reached His Kingdom.

and so, it was at that moment that i desired His Kingdom — the paved streets of gold and fields of light streaming forth from His presence — more than i ever had before. i thirsted for Him in a way i never knew possible. but i also knew the path leading toward that day, the day when i would see His Kingdom, would be one lined with much pain and sorrow. the only way into the Light leads straight through the darkness. there is no other path.

painful aftershocks

when we lose someone dear to us, we really do feel like a part of ourselves is gone. like the entire world has changed overnight. like something is not quite right. and you almost become frustrated with others for acting like it is. for going on with life. i remember driving past a field of cows grazing the morning after hayley’s passing and thinking, “how can you possibly be eating at a time like this?!”

following the loss, you wake up feeling like someone covered you in a heavy, soaking-wet blanket while you slept. and even though your eyes are now open, the weight is constantly pressing down on you. so much so that you don’t even feel like getting up.

the tinge of death affects your palette, as well. it changes your tastes, both literally and figuratively. you do not want to eat. and when you do, it is not for the flavor or the smell, but because you know you must. your favorite food is no longer what it was. and what seemed so important before no longer does. what excited you before fails to do so now. i no longer spend my time as i did before. your priorities, it seems, are completely shaken up.

i’ve never been so confused about how i feel until facing this death. you are sad and hurt and angry, all at the same time. and it is incredibly confusing. like a diver who struggles to determine which way is up in the deep, cold, mirky waters.

and you feel like, no matter how hard you try, there are no words to properly communicate these feelings to others. and that inability to do so leads to feelings of isolation. creating a vast chasm between you and them.

the four words, “how are you doing?” have never been so confusing. for, even if i knew, i am not sure i would be able to communicate it. and, even if i could, i am not sure you would want to know.

leaving the hospital that last night we were all there together. just the six of us, walking out into the darkness under the clear night sky above. it felt as though we were going on a family vacation, and hayley was being left behind. and i knew there would be points on our trip when i would want to turn back. with every ounce of my being. to go get her. to grab her by the arm and run to catch up with the others. so that she might not be left alone. so that we might sing to her on her birthday. so that we could open presents together on Christmas morning. or spend our warm summer days together at the lake. so that she might enjoy this trip with us. but i knew i wouldn’t be able to. i knew that, even as i turned back. to turn to her. that i would be met by a face that assured me she could not go with.

when you’re at this point, the words, “i know how you feel” simply lead to feelings of distrust. for you could not possibly ‘know’ how i feel. even if you lost someone. that someone is not this someone. and your relationship with them is not this relationship. you may speak this language, sure, but this dialect is foreign to you. and i realize these words are meant to help, and i sincerely appreciate the sympathy and the consideration behind them, but they do not bring healing.

it’s a bit like wandering around in a maze with all the lights turned off. alone. blindly trying to find your way. and you can hear the voices of those on the outside, but inside, there is no one there with you. they cannot help point you in the right direction, for they can no more see anything in the dark blindness you find yourself in than can you who are in the middle of it. but the sound of their voices assures you that they are indeed there. that they know you are in the darkness. the mere sound of their presence — and their acknowledgement of your present circumstance in this dark maze — is all they have to offer, as you blindly stumble into walls in the darkness.

and this experience leads one to feel like a leper. the sickness in my life becomes so apparent, as does the health in theirs. and it almost makes me feel like asking to be put away from others, realizing no good can come from this pain. almost worrying that the pain in my life is contagious. and that, if i’m too close to others, it will wear off on them. contaminating their lives, as it has mine.

you will see them again

saying to those in pain, to those dealing with the loss of a loved one, that they will see their loved one again one day is a bit like telling a child they must go to bed early so that santa claus may come and set out their gifts. surely, every child enjoys gifts, but that does not make the act of going to bed early any more enjoyable. nor does it make closing one’s eyes and finding rest any easier. if anything, it only makes it more difficult.

i may see them again one day, sure. but i want to see them now. and, when that day comes that i do see them again, i find it hard to believe my focus will be on them. for it will be overshadowed by His presence. no, what i want is her. now. returned.

a better place

would you say to a child who misses their parents while they’re away on vacation, away on a cruise, or sitting on a beach in some tropic location, that, “it’s okay, they’re in a better place.”? hardly. for the issue is not so much their location, or their current state. it is that their location is not with them. they are missing their loved one’s presence. and so the point that they’re in a better place or not is hardly the issue.

are they happy their parents are enjoying themselves? probably. and their happiness at this thought grows in magnitude as their gaze falls less and less on their own desires. their desire to be with them. and more on their desire for their loved one’s well-being. or to put it another way, the less one’s focus is on them self, the greater one’s joy at knowing their loved ones are enjoying themselves.

however, those feelings of missing one’s vacationing parents are very real. and pointing out that their loved ones are in a better place hardly addresses those feelings. rather, it feels like an attempted distraction.

process of pain

and the experience of this pain goes through different phases. at first, it feels like a deep bruise. dull and hard. it steals your energy and makes you feel sore and weak all over. so much so that you do not want to move from the hurt.

but then, as the weeks go on, the painful loss seems more like a laceration. like a deep cut. where the painful realization begins to set in clearly and sharply. and it comes and goes. but when it comes, it comes at a moment’s notice. it comes with a sting that takes you by surprise. sharp and cutting. deep, leaving your wound open and revealed.

and all you want to do at that point is find somewhere safe. somewhere comfortable. where you can let your wound air out. in the open. without fear of more pain being inflicted. you seek solace. escape. and sometimes words, no matter how well-intended, only feel like salt in this open wound.

rather, you come to appreciate the simple presence of someone just being there. not trying to talk away the pain, as if words could heal these wounds. but just being there. in the darkness. their presence a reminder that you are not totally and completely alone. even if they cannot understand. even if they cannot see the twists and the turns of this dark maze you now find yourself in.

a good friend is willing to let the tears fall, without feeling ashamed or embarrassed at your pain. pain is not orderly. it is not clean and tidy. it is messy. a good friend is willing to carry the weight of your tears simply with their presence.

pain is a heavy heart. heavy from taking on water. from the weight of your tears. so heavy it feels like it could fall out of your chest from pressing against your rib cage so hard.

and then, as the days go on, you begin to realize you haven’t thought about your lost loved one for a while. not days, by any stretch of the imagination, but hours. and then you almost feel guilty. as if not thinking about them for a period somehow dishonors their lost life. and that thought comes with pains of guilt.

roller-coaster in the dark

and it makes no sense, the pain. it comes and goes without any warning. like a roller-coaster in the dark. you feel as though the bottom falls out from under you at a moment’s notice. and you’re left grasping for something. anything. to hold onto. to hold you up. to strengthen you. for you feel so very weak.

a friend of mine recently lost someone dear to her. a long-time friend. a boyfriend.

it was a highly publicized tragedy, receiving much media attention. particularly in our region. three friends in oregon set out for a hike on a snow covered mountain. nothing out of the ordinary. something they had done many times before. but this time, they did not come back. and friends and family waited. for days. to hear something. to hear some hint of good news. but it never came.

and she shared with me about how she resp0nded to others during this time. while she waited. the words she spoke to co-workers. to friends. to the family members who aren’t yet believers.

“Christ is my hope.”

when she didn’t know what to say or how to brace herself for support, her words pointed to Him. and her weight fell upon Him. hoping He would hold her up.

no magic pill

naively, i thought the healing process would progress in a linear manner. that each day would be a little easier than the last. i was wrong. the 17th day could, and did, feel very much worse than the third day. there is no rhyme nor reason for it. no predicting it. it simply comes and goes as it pleases. as quickly as the memories. entering without any hesitation. or any concern for your current circumstances. and you’re left floundering.

grief, after a time, is like a guest who has overstayed their welcome. your irritation with its lingering presence grows greater and greater as each day progresses. you want to throw mud in its face. kick it in the shins. curse at it. and tell it to leave. but it doesn’t. it loiters. and the frustration mounts. until finally the tiniest things make you snap. from the anger and the frustration and the hurt. and you’re left looking around, wondering to yourself, “where did that come from?”

and, no matter how much you want to change it. no matter how much you want to deal with the pain all at once and make it go away. to leave you, and never to return. you cannot. this is something you cannot overpower or simply “deal with.” no matter how hard you try.

you cannot intellectualize away grief. you cannot outthink a feeling. for, where the feelings trod, the intellect cannot approach. it is a place untouched by the mind. there, if nowhere else, the mind has no power. it is burned away in the fiery presence of the heart. of love. of warmth. of feeling. of dread. of fear. the mind knows not what to do. it cannot. and so you’re left, blindly, feeling your way in the darkness.

no amount of power or wealth can help in this situation. death is the great equalizer, as they say. for you cannot buy back what you’ve lost. not in this case. no matter how much you want to. no matter how strongly your desires are to barter with God. “i will give you this… i would give you it all, just to have her back.” but those offers are met only with silence. for there is nothing you can offer Him to return this life that is now no longer here.

nor can you order someone to fix it. you may spend money and time and resources on the road to recovery, but there is no pill to take. no magic wand can break this spell you’re under. as lewis puts it, “there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it…” (c.s. lewis, a grief observed, p. 33)

and so i pray. and i remember. and i grieve. and i cry. sometimes the tears come with laughs. sometimes they simply come in sobs. overpowering, heaving sobs that rock my body and prevent me from doing anything else at all. leaving me to simply wait them out.

healing in pain

pain allows certain things to come alive. for the first time. song lyrics. even those cliche sayings we’ve all heard a million times. for, in the experience of pain, those words now have meaning. they have ground to stand upon. and, from that ground, they rise up to eye view, so that you can see them for what they truly are. whereas, prior to the pain, they seemed so very meaningless. lacking any context. floating by without any hint of consequence.

for me, this pain has helped illuminate parts of scripture that previously seemed intended for someone else. specifically, Jesus’ power to heal.

a significant portion of the attention Jesus received during His ministry was from people who came to Him to be healed. they had pains. they had diseases they could not shake. and they had heard that, somehow, this Man, this nazarene carpenter, had powers that could help them.

the book of luke, in particular, focuses heavily on these healing miracles. luke was a medical doctor, so he was naturally intrigued by the accounts of how Jesus had brought health where there was sickness. life where there was death.

and, as much as i think these healings served a practical purpose — revealing Jesus’ power — i think they also served as a metaphor for the ultimate Healing He intends to bring all of us. and reading about these healings serves as a reminder to us, even now, 2000 years later, of why He came. of why He was written into humanity’s story. and, lately, i have come to see that it is only in true pain and brokenness that we can see the incredible value in His healing power. and our need for it.

someone who has no thirst cannot appreciate the life-giving benefits water offers the human body. it is only someone who is truly fatigued and lacks proper hydration who can appreciate what water offers. and our true need for it. however, inviting someone to run 10 miles so that they can appreciate a drink of cool water will not likely be met with much excitement. this offer is only appreciated by those who are already fatigued. by those who are already thirsty.

in the same way, He reveals different attributes of His character to us based on our experiences. based on our current situations. however, that does not make us want to put ourselves in those situations so that we can experience these particular attributes of Himself.

if you do not see your need for healing, His offer to heal will likely mean nothing to you. and you are not likely to desire losing someone close to you so that you can feel His healing presence. however, if you are in pain. and if you feel broken. you will grasp at His healing power with everything you have. reaching out to Him in hopes that even if you were to only touch the corner of His robe, He would somehow mend the stump where a hand used to be.

always there

not long before hayley’s death, i was going through a rough time. a death in the family. a birth in the family. balancing an awkward combination of feelings. unsure of what to do with it all. and i remember texting hayley. just to tell her about it all. and i told her i didn’t even know why i was bothering her, except for the fact that she was my sister. she replied, right away. to tell me she was sorry. to tell me she loved me. and to tell me she was there for me. no matter what.

and so many times during these past several weeks, i’ve gone to those words. wanting to cash in that promise. i’ve wanted to go to her. to tell her how hard this is. losing her. to tell her how it hurts. to ask her if she remembers when…

but i can’t. i can’t go to her and get a response. and that is so incredibly difficult. so painful. but i do it anyways. sometimes. aloud, to myself. in my car. and it helps. to get it out. the words. the tears. all of it.

and sometimes i even feel like she’s there. just like she promised.

to feel close again

when we’ve lost someone close to us, we find ourselves turning to things that remind us of them, hoping to somehow feel close to them once again. we turn to a song. to a place. to something. anything. that you once shared.

i’ve found myself listening to lots of hip hop lately. songs i knew hayley liked. new songs i thought she’d like, and that i wish i could send her to listen to. we loved sharing music with each other.

the week following hayley’s service, i picked up flowers and a card. and i returned to the hospital. the same place we spent the week waiting. hoping. that everything would turn out all right.

i wanted to find the nurse who was there for us during those long nights. who let us sit by her bed and watch. who would talk with us. who would be real with us. rather than just doing her job. rather than just checking hayley off her to-do list.

she was helping out in the er that night i visited. rather than the icu. so the icu secretary helped me find her. she called. then called some more. and as i waited for this nurse to respond to the phone calls, asking her to come up to the icu, i sat at the front desk. waiting. flowers in one hand. card in the other. sitting. staring straight at the door to hayley’s former room. the last room i saw her. the last room i talked to her.

and i thought, naively, that somehow being there would make me feel like i was closer to my sister again. that i would be reminded of her presence. but that was not the case. it simply felt like a hospital. like a room where someone else received treatment. not her.

and when the nurse finally appeared, that did not make her feel closer either. but it was nice to see her. she approached with a warm look of sympathy and compassion. with a look of knowing pain at our loss. and she received me with a hug. she told me she was so sorry. and she told me she had been thinking about us.

after some time, i left. i walked out of the icu and, while waiting at the elevator door, i overheard the conversation that followed, “that was her brother-in-law.” … “we should take your picture!”

no, it did not make her feel closer. i walked out of the hospital that night into the cool air of the evening. just as i had so many times the week before. and the tears fell. slowly at first. but then stronger. knowing, perhaps more so than i had before i entered the hospital that night, that there was no longer a place where i could find hayley. that no matter how much a place reminded me of her, it would not bring her back.

we’ll visit you

after a while, you find yourself just wanting life to go back to normal. to “the way it was.” but, the truth is, it won’t. it cannot. for it has been forever changed. it is a bit like wishing a snow globe would be just as it were before it was shaken. that each tiny snowflake would fall in the precise place it had previously been, prior to being shook. it cannot. but that is what we desire. with all we have. we want things to be as they were. and there is nothing worse than thirsting for a drink that does not exist. to have a thirst that cannot be quenched.

i recently grabbed dinner with a friend of hayley’s. a close friend. they had dated for years. so he knew her like we did. closer than most.

it was the first time i had stepped foot into a local restaurant since her passing. and, as i did, i felt the eyes of those familiar with our loss fall heavy on me. as if to somehow gauge my temperature. i spotted hayley’s friend from the door, already seated at a table across the room, dropped my head low, and found my seat.

we talked. for quite a while. sharing memories. and that brought so much joy. it almost made her seem close again. and it was comforting because we shared these similar experiences of her. these memories of the hayley we both knew and loved. those who enjoy cars do not get together with those who have no interest in cars to share stories about their vehicles. rather, they get together with other car enthusiasts. the closer their interests (by make, model, year…), the more enjoyable their conversation. the tighter their bond. so it is with those missing a lost loved one.

so there we sat. in this restaurant. sharing memories. laughing, mostly. and it was refreshing. then, at one point during this meal, he mentioned visiting hayley’s grave the week before. and it was the first time i had even thought of visiting hayley’s grave. to go see her. to remember her.

but the cemetery hardly fits the description of something i turn to remind me of her. for we never spent time in the cemetery then. we never shared a laugh there. you never gave me a hug before leaving there. i never tossed you in the lake there, shouting and laughing at the same time. you never sprayed whipped cream in my face or insisted that you could in fact carry me there. that is not where i saw your smile or heard your laugh. that laugh we used to tease you for, until you would shout, “it does not sound like leanne’s!”

your body now rests there, sure, but that does not help me remember you. it all feels so foreign. so, “for someone else.” but don’t worry, hd, i will visit you. we will visit you.

the wrong question

the truth is, hd, when you left, it felt like a piece of our joy left with you. and we cannot get it back. not matter how hard we try. which makes sense, for you were filled with it.

and, in the middle of this all, we find ourselves asking if it would’ve been easier to never have been given this life. this relationship. so that, when this loss came, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. so that we wouldn’t ever have to experience this overwhelming pain. we find ourselves wondering if a life of complete isolation would not be the safer route.

were we to never be so close, we would never feel this distant. this distance that i now feel would not feel so great.

i remember going out to lunch with a good friend of mine a year or so back. a good friend from high school. from middle school, really. his mom had fought — and won — a battle with cancer while we were still in school. which made the return of the cancer years later that much more difficult.

and i remember, at this lunch, something he told me. i don’t think i’ll ever forget it.

we were talking about how his mom was doing. an incredible woman. a woman who felt much like a second mother to me for so many years while in school. a Godly woman. the kind of woman who, when she says she’s praying for you, you know she’s not simply allowing words to pass from her lips to make you feel good. a woman who anyone would be proud to call, “mom.”

and i remember my friend talking about how things were getting more and more difficult for her. and how he was handling this.

“you know how i get through this? he asked me, rhetorically. “i ask myself, if God gave me the choice, to either have an incredible, Godly mom for the first 26 years of my life, or to never have one at all, i would choose to have her for those 26 years. every time.”

and i just remember thinking, “that is an incredible perspective.” in the face of one of the most difficult experiences of your life — losing your very mother — that is the perspective one should have. that of being thankful for the gift you have received. rather than damning the God who blessed you with that gift in the first place.

and so, faced with this pain. faced with the question of, “would it have been easier?…” i realize i’m asking the wrong question.

would it have been easier to never have that relationship? would it have been easier to never have become so close — to have cared for someone else so much — so that it doesn’t hurt this bad when they’re gone? perhaps. would it have been better? doubtful.

for those memories. those priceless memories. they are more valuable. they are worth far more than this pain is deep — no matter how deep these wounds now feel.

if it would’ve been better for us to never be so close to another soul so that this pain is not felt in the face of loss, i doubt very much He would encourage us to love one another as He does.

if He says, “I am going to break your heart over this loss,” which is no less than what this has been, then we must trust that the relationship that precipitated this loss was worth having in the first place.

nineteen years

hayley dawn. you are an angel who visited us for nineteen years. some splendid. joyful beyond what it is easy to capture in words. some more difficult and painful than we would care to now admit. but, even in their imperfect moments, you were here. with us. in a very real way. more real than our memories will now permit. real in a way we would never try to change. for doing so would change you. and that is what we desire. more than a memory. what we want is you. in all your imperfections. just as He created you.

hd, i am jealous of Him. that He now gets to enjoy that smile. that laugh. that contagious grin. we all are. when we miss you. we miss those things about you that showed us your love. and now, we know, that He is the One enjoying those traits of yours. that those gifts He created you with are now being given back to Himself. in a way that glorifies Him.

and we’re jealous. because that’s what we miss. you. and, in our most honest moments, we hope He enjoys you as much as we would. we hope He deserves it. is it fair of us to feel this way? no, probably not. is it right? of course not. but is it how we feel? yes. absolutely.

back from Perfection

but what good is it for me to want you back, hayley? to beckon you from the presence of Perfection, as it were.

for we can’t, on the one hand, find comfort knowing you’re in the presence of the only eternal Love you were made for. but then, on the other hand, beg that you be returned to us. it is no good for us to want it both ways. we will get nowhere with that. we will find ourselves paddling in circles in the middle of this dreadful lake of loss.

no, there is not even a hint of (true) love in that thought process. in wishing you back to us from Him. there is only selfishness. and, when i realize it, i despise myself for wanting you back at that cost.

but, as they say, the truth hurts. and there is nothing more true than admitting we want you back. at all costs. at our deepest, darkest, most selfish moments. for one more hug. for one more laugh. for one more smile. for one more memory that we can bottle up and store away.

and, every once in a while, we think we’ll get just that. turning to the door. or an empty hallway. half-expecting you to come walking in. wearing that smile of yours. wiping away all our tears of loss. laughing it away, as if the whole thing were some bad dream. the white of your teeth and scrunched corners of your eyes from your smile a sign that our glimmers of hope were not all for nothing.

but that moment never comes. instead, we find ourselves staring into an empty hallway or a doorway longer than we should. hanging our head at the painful realization that our deepest pains are real. we can put our hand there and find blood. the wounds are not yet healed. and we’re left wondering, “will they ever be?”

life in death

in a paradoxical way — just as so many things are with Him — we see that in death, there is Life. life of the fullest sense. not half-inflated, as we experience here. but life in the clearest, most full sense. as He intended it to be.

after hearing of our loss, a friend of mine — the same friend who lost her boyfriend to that terrible mountain — reminded me that hayley is alive.

through these words, she wrote to me, “hayley may have died, but she is alive…she has life… so even more i affirm you with the fact that hayley is alive and well! she is well, ryan…”

and the words set in heavy, like an oversized helicopter settling into a field of long grass to land. and, while i knew this to be true, it somehow shook me to the realization that, even in the painful experience of death, there is life. and, particularly in this death, that reminder of Life was incredibly encouraging.

for the first time in years, she is well. for that which hayley was unable to experience here, she is now experiencing in full. “…through [death], increase of life now comes.” (a grief observed, p.229) whereas she was unable to see it fully before, now she sees His love with eyes wide open. as He pours it out over her. she is loved. now. completely. totally. in a way she was not able to be before.

what previously held hayley back from living life as He intended it to be lived no longer can, because of death. because of God’s built-in safety device, as lewis refers to it. while the world may have slowly blinded her vision to His love for her from time to time before — as it does for so many of us — she is now experiencing it clearly. hearing it from His lips. in a way we do not yet have the benefit to hear.

and, in that thought, we receive a hint of comfort.

is she in “a better place?” no, she is in The better place.

to put Him in His place

and yet, in the pain of our loss, we want to pound away on His chest. even as He holds us. through tears, through short gasps of breath. we want to ask Him, through shout-filled fits, “why?!” why would He allow such pain. why He wouldn’t do anything about it. we want to push Him. to shove Him. to put Him in His place, so to speak. demanding that He answer up to our questions.

and all the while, we forget that He knows of this loss we are now experiencing. we forget that our love for her pales in comparison to His love for her. for, with our gaze so fixed on our own pain-filled loss, we cannot begin to comprehend His love for her. and we forget that all we’ve done for her pales in comparison to what He has done for her. even laying down His own Son’s life to save her’s.

and, when the tears slow. when we stop shouting long enough to catch our breath. when we relent from the pushing and flailing. we find Him patiently waiting. speaking to us,

do you really believe I do not know pain? do you think the sacrifice of my own Son did not grieve me? to sit back and watch Him hurt, holding back so that your loved ones might not feel such terror and torment. so that they might be saved. so that you might be saved. do you think that was easy on Me?

who are you that you would make such demands of Me? to try and test My love, as it were. it is true, I most certainly love her. more than you know or can comprehend. but in My righteous love, My vision is not blurred. even when yours is. and My goal is still fixed on her good. and yours. and even when you cannot see it being worked out, I can. but you must never question My love. for in that love — My love for My sons and My daughters — no questions remain.

who understands

no matter how deep those pains go. no matter how fresh the wounds feel, even after the passing of weeks, of months, of years, we must never forget, He has experienced our pain. we worship a God who understands.

so that, even when we are driving back to the hospital, completely unaware of the painful news that awaits us, He knows what is coming.

even though it feels like someone took an eraser to the pages of the story we have been reading, leaving us to try and make sense of this revised version. the truth is, those are not revisions on the pages we have already turned. rather, they are the pages we had yet to turn. but which we had imagined. reading ahead in our minds even after putting the story down. so that it feels like a revision, but the truth is, it had always been there. waiting. no matter how strong the shock.

and even though the coolness of the dove white clouds floating in the burnt orange sky during the drive back to the hospital that week seemed to hang like a promise that everything would be okay, we must remember that our ‘okay’ and His ‘okay’ do not always look the same.

we must remember that, where we are weak, He is strong. and that, in our weakest moment, He is hard at work. that He loves us. even when our own pain and tears blind us to that fact.

relief from our tears

my prayer for you is that your tears would fall. day after day. until they can hardly fall anymore. and then, when the nights seem long. and the days seem as though they run right into each other. when it seems like nothing could brighten the darkness, i pray He would. for you. i pray your gaze would turn from yourself. from your pain. and that it would turn toward Him. so that you can see, for the first time, His open arms.

this God is not a toy. He is not a divine wishlist created to give you what you want. were we to get from Him only that which we desired, He would seem much like something we had created. but that is not what we find. not at all. He is not a genie to be beckoned. He is not a servant of our imagination who sits in the clouds, waiting upon our every request.

but He is Love. of the deepest sort. the kind of Love who knows our good. even when it comes in pain. like a loving Father who holds back, even at the most difficult moments, so that we can learn on our own. or, as lewis puts it so well, like the Great Surgeon, creating incisions that will ultimately bring healing. at the moment, they simply appear as cuts. but, when He is finished, we should be on our road to recovery. the kind of recovery that will mean our good, in the fullest sense.

He knows when you’ll come to Him. He is not surprised. there is no surprise ending with Him. but He will still smile. He will still welcome you with a party. for you are His child. and He loves you. just as He loves our dear hayley dawn.

where do we find relief from our tears? at that thought. no, we cannot have it both ways. there is only one way we can have it. precisely the way we find it. knowing He is in control. that He can love her better than we can. and that He is. even now.

on redemption: revealing Himself through pain & loss

i would like to begin by saying that while this blog entry speaks of the recent grievous situation concerning my dear sister, who was and is loved by so many, this is in no way a reflection of our loss. or her life. rather, this is a reflection of how i have seen Him working through several recent experiences to reveal to me His redemptive purposes.

i say this so that, in reading these words, you do not arrive at the end and feel robbed of a more appropriate reflection of loss, in light of our recent situation. so that you do not think me shallow in this reflection. i make no offer to speak of anything other than redemption at this point. if, at a later time, i am gifted with words to speak of loss, i will be obedient to share them. but, for now, i will speak to what i have been shown. and i pray that these words would speak to you, where you are at.

i’ve had two roommates in my life. one is my wife. the other was during my freshman year of college. i lucked out, too. even after so many years, we still stay in touch and enjoy getting together. even though we no longer live near each other.

among many other similarities (we’re both ocd in terms of tidiness, both the oldest of three, both were dating a jennifer at the time we met…), we share initials, my old roommate and i. so when we do get together, it’s often referred to as ‘rp-squared.’

our shared initials led to a good laugh every now and then. calls to the room for “ryan” quickly got confusing. “ryan there?”, “ryan who?”, “ryan p?”, “ryan p, who?”…

he had a chance to visit recently, and we spent some time catching up on life, ladies (for him, i have just one) and work over some amazing burgers downtown. the kind of burgers you know you’ll only be able to enjoy a few more years, before your heart completely shuts down for even looking sideways at so much cholesterol.

and it was during this meal that ryan asked me about my writing. he was familiar with my dreams. he knew about my desire to write in a way that helped reveal Christ to others. and he asked me what i thought my angle would be, in the long run. what my niche would be, were i to continue writing. and, because of a handful of recent conversations, and because of a recent opportunity to put my life story into a short video, i was able to answer his question without even giving it much thought.

“redemption,” i said, with nearly a pause. “i think my story is going to be about redemption.”

from so little

i’ve talked about this here before, but i traveled to portland a while back to film a video. the video was for a contest being put on by an author i really appreciate, donald miller. he was inviting people to submit a 90-second video that showed how they’re trying to tell a better story with their life.

the contest was based on the theme of miller’s most recent book, a million miles in a thousand years. a book that just happened to coincide with some incredible changes in my own life. changes that would retell the story of my life, in a way i never thought possible.

and, it was during the filming of this video, while working through what my story would be, and being in conversation with my best friend about the project, that i began to see how my story is about redemption. it is about how He has redeemed me from my background. how He has taken what was, and He has bought it back. to use for His purposes. and it is just one example of how He works through the lowly things of this earth to share Himself with others.

not just my story

but it’s not just my story that’s interwoven with the theme of redemption. time and time again we see it in His word. with people throughout history. whether it’s joseph being torn from his family, sold into slavery, and then finally ruling over egypt. or God using david, a guy who herded sheep for a living, to defeat the giant of a man named goliath. before becoming king. or moses beginning his story as a baby floating down a river, to become a member of pharoah’s household, and then finally leading millions of God’s people out of slavery.

God tends to do incredible things in places we’d least expect it. with people we might not expect Him to. and i think all of this is to show us reflections of His plan of redemption. like He’s saying to us,

look, I am doing an amazing thing here. something that will blow you away. but I am not doing it how you’d expect. no, I am doing it in a way that, when it’s finished, you will be able to look back on this story and realize, it was all Me. it was all My work.”

there is no doubt in my mind that God’s desire is to bring us back to the spot we belong, in right relation with Him. to a place of redemption. and that reguarly means using the lowly things of this world. He works best through those sort of vessels. not the sort who think themselves worthy, but, on the contrary, those who could not imagine why God would ever want anything to do with them. those are His kind of people. those are the kind of people we see Him using time and time again.

and so, if that is you. if you feel like you could not sink any lower. if you feel like the walls of life are crashing in all around you. like you are not sure if you will be able to breathe for the weight of the challenges on you now. i would say to you, be comforted. for He is not far from you. and i am confident He will work through your pain and your struggles. for His glory. that is redemption. and He plans to use it.

a walk downtown

i remember walking with ryan out of that downtown restaurant that friday night, and explaining to him my reasoning for saying i thought my story would be one of redemption.

“it just doesn’t make sense, that He would use me, a kid who grew up in a single-parent household. literally from nowhere. the middle of cornfields and dairy farms, really. to tell others about Himself. that just doesn’t make sense, right?”

i paused, to make sure ryan was tracking with me. he was.

“but that’s how He works. and i feel like, if i am obedient to Him, allowing Him to speak through my life, and the pain i’ve experienced, then He is going to use that to tell others about Himelf. to tell others about His redemption.”

and it’s difficult to communicate, but i felt, at that moment, that there was freedom. that, by being candid about these experiences, even in the face of fear for what others might think, He was freeing me up to reveal His redemptive work in my life. and, in a very real way, i felt like that is what this is all about. that that is the underlying purpose behind all of these painful experiences. that He wants to redeem them. that He wants to buy them back. so that He might use them to reveal His glory. His redemptive plan. to others.

and i felt like if i were to keep these experiences from others, i would somehow be robbing God of the opportunity to share His story of redemption through my life. i know it sounds ridiculous, because i truly do believe God to be sovereign. and i believe God is going to use particular experiences in my life to reveal Himself to others, whether i like it or not. but, perhaps for the first time, i felt like He was showing me why he wanted me to loosen my grip on these experiences.

as we continued walking downtown that night, under the street lights and amongst the foot-traffic of those standing in front of bar fronts, of those welcoming the weekend, i continued, “i just can’t help but feel like He is going to use this. all of this. to help share with others His goodness.”

the purpose behind His redemption

the truth is, i don’t deserve any of this. the life i’ve been given. the incredible family and friends. the job that not only pays the bills, but that i enjoy. the opportunity to study at the school of my dreams. all of the blessings. even my desire for Him is a gift. and it’s nothing i could ever deserve. yet He keeps giving them. and i don’t think it’s so that i can sit back and revel in these gifts, but so that i can use the blessings i have received to bless others. to me, that is the beauty of redemption. not just that He redeemed my life, but that it doesn’t end there. it doesn’t stop with any of us, but it continues on. changing lives in its path.

the beauty of redemption is not simply that we are saved, but that we are part of this beautiful story. God’s story. a story of how He is bringing back His wayward children to Himself. to a place of love. to a place of redemption. to the place we all belong.

the point of all this is not that you would be blessed, but that His story of redemption would be told. that it would be shared with others. through us. and it often happens through our pain. through the darkest of experiences.

a song of redemption

i heard this song recently, and i loved it at first hearing. i’m a lyric guy, for sure. so the words immediately caught my attention. about a minute into the song, this is what she sang,

i know You hate to see me cry,
one day You will set all things right.
yea, one day You will set all things right.”

and there was so much comfort in those words. i felt like He was using these words to acknowledge the brokenness of this world, something i was so thankful to have acknowledged. something i needed to be acknowledged. but then i felt Him reminding us that He plans to make it right. that He’s not just going to leave things broken. and that He’s at work at this. even now.

i was delighted when, a few weeks later, a girl in our church, a girl not yet in her twenties, sang this song in front of our congregation on a sunday morning. it was not just that i liked this song, though, and that i was excited to hear it. the best part about this scene was that this song was being sung by this girl in particular. by the vessel He had used to share these words with us, that morning.

i don’t know all the details, but i know she has been raised by parents other than her own. and i know that, in recent years, she has found herself in and out of church. going through some rough patches in life. and, most recently, i know she has been faced with the reality of an unexpected pregnancy. not married, not yet 20, and pregnant.

i’m sure it’s not a place in life she had planned for herself. and i’m sure the pain she has experienced from this, and the resulting ripples in her life, go deeper than i likely know. but, that morning, as she sang these words in front of our church, i couldn’t help but think God was using this picture to show us all a picture of His redemptive plan.

this girl was, at that moment, for me, a sign of the trouble we all get ourselves into. and i mean no disrespect to this girl. i truly don’t. but what i saw that morning was someone in a situation they never imagined, and one they’d surely rather not be in. but then God was using that situation to display His glory.

and as she sang these words to us that morning,

i have unanswered prayers;
i have trouble i wish wasn’t there.
i have asked a thousand ways,
that you would take my pain away;
that you would take my pain away.

i couldn’t help but feel like He was singing to all of us there, that morning. through this girl’s voice. saying to us,

I know things are broken. I know things are painful. but you have to trust Me. where there is pain now, it will be healed. for I will make all things right.

first meeting

i remember the first time i met this girl. four years ago. it was at our first apartment, not long after my wife and i were married. it was around 9:30 or so at night. which means i was making my second dinner. and she stopped by with jen’s sister, hayley.

and i remember them coming into the kitchen. where i was working away on some bbq chicken. pretty sure hayley stole a bite. and we talked. the four of us. we talked about old tv shows, among other things. i’m pretty sure are you afraid of the dark may have come up. and she told hayley i looked like mr. smith. apparently a substitute teacher of theirs. i still don’t know who mr. smith is.

she seemed funny. she seemed like she had a good heart. she seemed like a great friend to jen’s sister. to my sister.

at her bedside

a few weeks ago, we found ourselves sitting at my sister’s bedside. in the hospital icu. my wife’s family and i. and it seems so unreal. even now, thinking back, it seems like some bad dream. but it was not. it is not.

we spent most of the week there. at the hospital. sitting at hayley’s bedside. watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. and, even though each inhale and each exhale came with the assistance of a machine, they were a sign of life. and, when i allowed myself to forget about the machines and the tubes and the beeping sounds for long enough, i was actually put to ease watching her breathe. as if she were simply sleeping, and we were invited to watch.

but then the reality of the situation would return, like a cold hand in the darkness, turning you to see things for what they actually are. and, as blue as the sky looked outside that week, inside the room felt so dark. and so cold.

and i remember kneeling at hayley’s bedside, holding her hand, resting my chin on my arm,  and looking up at her mom as she spoke.

“i just feel like God is going to use this for good.”

the offer

about a week later, i took the stage at our church. on a thursday afternoon. to speak to more people than i’ve ever spoken to before. to keep a promise i made a year and a half ago. telling them about my sister. sharing memories. talking about what she meant to me. talking about what she meant to all of us. sharing the final days we spent with her.

and, before concluding, i invited those who were hurting, those who felt like they had nowhere to go, to come and find me after the service. i offered to pray for them. so that, in this way, i might be able to help those who were close to my sister. and so i did, not knowing if anyone would take me up on the offer.

His tears

it was around this time, around the time we lost my sister, that a passage of scripture continued to play over and over in my head. it was from a conversation Jesus had with His disciples shortly before His death.

whoever loses his life for me will find it.

and i remember thinking what a terrible example this was… i remember thinking, “He must not understand.”

with the painful sting of death so green. so fresh in my mind. i remember thinking, “how could He use such an incredibly painful topic – death – to talk about what it looks like to follow Him?” and i remember doubting the value He placed on life. or at least thinking we must place more on it than He.

but then i recalled another passage of scripture. i remembered a scene where a friend of Jesus’ had died. a guy by the name of lazarus. and i remembered how He reacted when this man’s sister came to tell Him of the news.

knowing what was to come. even knowing that He Himself would raise this man back to life, we read that Jesus wept. He cried, even though He knew this man’s death was only temporary. that he would soon be returned to life, and that those who loved Lazarus would once again be enjoying his company very soon.

and that was helpful for me. that scene reassured me that Jesus absolutely valued life. that He absolutely understood the incredible loss that comes with death. and it showed me that, even knowing the devastation that comes from losing a life, He still chose to use these words to talk about what it looks like to follow Him.

it is only when you lose your life for Me that you will find it.

conversation with a stranger

“she was two years older than me in school, but we were friends,” she said, in-between tears, as we sat together at the front of the church. “and she was so amazing.”

this girl had come to me, with tears in her eyes, after my sister’s memorial service. and i was so glad she did. she shared with me how she knew hayley. she shared with me her memories of my sister. and she told me about how hayley had changed her life. for the better. how the words she spoke had saved this girl from traveling a terribly painful path.

“i remember going to an all-county dance together one year. and i remember waking up the next day and just talking to hayley. and she was just like you said. so beautiful, but so humble. i remember she told me, ‘you’re better than this. you’re so pretty.’ and i was like, ‘hayley, you’re gorgeous. you of all people are better than this… why are you saying these things to me?’ and she just replied, ‘because these are the things i wish someone else would’ve told me.’”

and i sat there beside this girl. as she cried. beside this girl who i didn’t even know. and i was so incredibly thankful to hear this story of my sister. and i was proud. proud that she spoke these words into this girl’s life. that, even in the darkness, she was bringing the light.

“and you know what?”, she continued. “that was the last time i ever went to a party. it’s been two years, and i haven’t been back since.”

i couldn’t help but think, at that moment, “that is it. that is redemption!” i didn’t say this, of course. because that would’ve just sounded weird. but i thought it. quietly. to myself. i thought, “that was God at work. through hayley, for this girl.”

and i prayed for her. for this girl who introduced herself to me that afternoon. who poured out her heart to a perfect stranger. i prayed that God would use her story, an incredible story of redemption. that He would use the life He saved her from for His good. to help others.

as she turned to leave, her story put a smile on my face. to think how hayley spoke up to this girl. and for the pain she saved her from. and i was so thankful. i was so proud.

after two hours of sitting with people who knew my sister. some friends. some teachers. some co-workers. and hearing memories of her. and praying for them. i caught up with my family. and we sat down, to enjoy a meal together.

working through pain & loss

i am not sure why. and i am not sure how, exactly. but God works through pain. through loss. and we are told His power is made evident in our weakness. and those weaknesses are often revealed through incredibly difficult experiences. experiences He uses to help us. to heal us. to turn us back toward Himself. for His glory.

are there things in my life i would prefer to do without? are there terribly painful circumstances that stop me dead in my tracks, that bring me to tears, which i would love to pray away? absolutely. and i do pray over those situations. but, i also remind myself that it’s in the darkest places of our lives that His light shines brightest. and so i do so knowing that He is hard at work, often times through us, in those dark places. so that others might see Him at work. so that others might see His beautiful, redeeming power.

the greatest loss is our gain

and the clearest picture of this redemption, of how God works through pain to bring about goodness, healing and His glory, comes in the glorious picture of Jesus Christ. the life of the perfect, spotless Lamb. laid down. for us. that we might have life.

the greatest loss imaginable, for our gain. Christ, The Lord, taking on human flesh. only so that it could be pierced. for our sake. all other pictures of good through pain. of redemption. they are all merely a reflection of this picture. that we would see His sacrifice more clearly. like arrows pointing toward His great redemptive plan.

this is what it looks like. this is what it looks like. this is what it looks like.

redemption is the language He uses to speak most loudly to us. it is the language in which He reveals Himself most clearly to us. it is the language in which we receive His love. the love He deeply desires to share with us. with each of us. that we might see Him more clearly. it is the language in which He whispers,

this is love… not that you first loved Me. but that, in my Son, I displayed My love for you.

and if you ever wonder why. if you ever wonder how I could sacrifice My own Son’s life to show you that, it is because nothing less would do. it would not pay the price. it would not open your eyes.

but, in that pain. in that terrible sacrifice. My love for you is displayed. and I am using that love to buy you back. to redeem you. for My glory.”

washed in His love

at some point, many of us begin to realize things simply aren’t as they should be. we realize things in this world are broken. and that we are included in that brokenness.

and when we begin to realize that truth, we find ourselves turning to something. anything. for healing. something to help with the brokenness. and, at some point, some of us turn toward Him. to be made right. and when we begin to do so, the filth in our life becomes more and more apparent. like a child who has been playing outside, never once stopping to realize the dirt on their hands for enjoyment of the play, but then realizing they must first wash up before going to the dinner table. we too desire His help to become clean when we begin to turn toward Him.

and when we approach Him with this desire, we find Him patiently waiting. with a warm, loving smile. and as we step through His door, His hand falls lovingly on our shoulder, encouraging us, leading us down the hallway to the sink to wash up.

He turns on the faucet and the warm water comes pouring out. He flicks it with His fingers, testing it to make sure it’s not too hot before inviting us to give Him our hands. in all their filth. He places our hands under the warm running water, and slowly, we see the dirt and filth come tumbling off. and, almost immediately, we begin feeling better.

then, He takes the  snowy white bar of soap and begins working it into a lather under the running water. He places the soap back to the side of the sink and, taking our rinsed hands in His, He begins washing the cleansing soap of His sacrificial Son over our hands. His firm hands cleansing ours. and, where before there was dirt and filth, now there is none. looking down, we turn our hands over to see each side. and we notice they look just as they should. cleansed, by the love of the Father. by the sacrifice of His Son.

He rinses them once more, and then, taking a sun-warmed towel in His hands, He dries ours off. and, stooping down, so as to look us in the eye, He places His hands on each shoulder and He tells us softly that He loves us. He tells us we can now come to His table. without shame. without hesitation. that we are welcome.

He does great things when we’re willing to come to Him to be cleansed. when we’re willing to put everything else aside and draw near to Him. when we’re willing to lose our very life for the sake of His glory.

He meant what He said. those who lose their life for Him will find it. but, the unfortunate part is that all too many of us simply do not wish to lose our lives. we are holding on to them far too tightly.

newness of life

an englishman by the name of c.s. lewis has taught me much about the faith. his words speak so clearly to my heart, but also to my mind. a rare combination. and he speaks to this newness, this cleansing that comes from the Father, though the Son.

the central Christian belief is that Christ’s death has somehow put us right with God and given us a fresh start. (mere christianity, p.57)

lewis reminds us that Christ offers newness of life. He reminds us of the beauty of redemption. that God’s desire is to take us from where we were – with dirty, filthy hands from playing out in the yard, in the world –  and give us this fresh start. this newness of life. so that we might grow into what He desires us to become. a perfect reflection of His Son.

if He has done this for you already. if you have been washed by the Father, through the Son. if you have been made right with Him through this process of redemption. i pray that you would not take it for granted. not one breath of it. for i have every confidence that where He has brought life, He plans to use it. to do great things. to tell His story of redemption. a story you play a part in. as driscoll says so well, we are agents of His redemption.

life to be lived

and if we truly believe He gives us this newness of life, in His Son’s sacrifice, then we must believe He gives us life to live. how sad it would be to save someone’s life, to literally give back to them what they had lost, only to find them sitting on their hands for fear of losing it again.

if you have felt the life-giving touch of God’s redemption in your life, then i would ask you, what are you doing with it? are you putting it to use? are you using it in a way that makes Christ look great? that makes others thirst for more of the life He alone can give? are you living in a way that others might consider risky, in the hopeful obedience of glorifying His name?

or are you wasting it?… are you idly letting each day pass by? complacently sitting on the most beautiful gift any of us could ever be given.

if you realize you are fading softly into a life of complacency, rather than the redeemed life of beauty and  life-giving risk He desires for you, i would ask you to consider why that is. is it out of fear? fear for not knowing what’s going to happen when you take that step? or is it simply laziness? is it because the deadened, default lifestyle of not doing anything with your faith is so much easier?

if He has redeemed your life from what it was, then you have been blessed with a new life. a fresh start. your life has been redeemed from the pit. so live it! and live it for His glory. with all you have, live it for Him.

you will not get to the end of this life and regret that which you did as much as that which you should have done but did not do. my greatest fear is getting to my last day and wishing i had done more. wishing i would have at least given it a shot. given it my best, even if i failed. knowing that i would delight in the fact that i took that step in faith for Him. and for His redemption in this world.

content with hot dogs

and the thing about redemption is that, for us to desire to have new life, we must first acknowledge that we need it. we must first acknowledge the brokenness of this world. and of our own life. someone perfectly content with the life they have would balk at this idea of new life. they might even take offense to this offer. but He wants to give us so much more.

He wants to give us Himself. yet, for many of us, that offer simply has no value. we are holding on far too tightly to what we have. to this false picture of what life is supposed to be like. to this picture the world offers, rather than Him.

and it’s a shame. in fact, it’s actually quite ridiculous. it’s kind of like walking up to someone and offering them a perfectly prepared filet mignon on a platter, only to have them refuse it because they have a hot dog in each hand. and walk away with their nose in the air at your offer. perfectly content with the processed “meat” in each hand.

to those who are satisfied with the life this world has to offer, to those who have found comfort in the brokenness of this world, newness of life and redemption have no taste. they are a joke. but, for those who are in despair. for those who dream of a brighter day. for those who desire to taste life the way He intended it. in right relation with Him. this newness of life is like honey to the lips. sweet and satisfying.

the beauty of redemption

and when i get right down to it, i’m not sure there’s any other story to tell, but that of His beautiful redemption. that He takes broken lives, and He uses them to paint an incredible picture. He dips His brush into the lowest, darkest parts of our lives and uses them to write this beautiful story of redemption into history. you cannot see it from close up. but when you step back far enough, when you take your gaze off of your own life, it is there when you can have a good look at what He is doing.

it is there where you can see how it is beginning to come together. not just with our own life. but with others’ lives. to display a beautiful picture. a picture of how He bought us back from what we were. lost in despair and steeped in pain. and used us for something beautiful. for healing. for His story. His story of redemption. and just the thought of it brings a deep joy to my soul. and a smile to my face.

that He would intentionally use the lowly things of this world to display His splendor. purposefully pouring His light into the dark places of the world, so that we can see His glory. and it makes sense, when you think about it. for we do not turn our lights to see where there is already light, but where it is dark. so it is with Him.

be encouraged. He is at work. and in your brokenness, He is displaying His love to the world.