I’m not done with Francis Chan yet, but I digress for a bit with a more indulgent post. (Yeah, like all blogging’s not indulgent.)
This weekend, I took my son my to college. He was invited to a gifted-and-talented program at the university here in town, where he’ll spend the next six Saturday mornings learning about archeology, ancient Egypt, mummies, and the preservation of artifacts. Not exactly how I’d want to spend a Saturday, but he does school really well and has a new-found, Indiana Jones-inspired passion for archeology, so he couldn’t be happier. A few of my observations from our time on campus:
1. As much as I’ve always hoped my kids would go away to college, now that it’s not that far off, I’m thinking a university 10 minutes from our house is not such a bad thing.
2. Going to college in Southern California was one of my smarter moves. As I walked through the bitter cold and blowing snow to Braden’s building, I tried to remember if I ever wore a coat on either of my college campuses. Probably, but my college memories are mostly of shorts, flip-flops, and catnaps in the warm sunshine. In January.
3. God cares about our little personal interests. We found out about this class late in the game, and by the time I called to sign Braden up, the class and the waitlist were both full. I asked to be kept on the list anyway, and a week later, Braden somehow made it in. This is the boy who has checked out 20 books on ancient Egypt in the past month. Who offers classes to his sisters on how to make hieroglyphics. Who taught me what a Canopic jar was. (I could've lived without knowing that.) And God opened up a spot in this particular class just for him. How personal is that?
4. I’ve always prayed that at a young age, my kids would find out what they love and what they’re good at. Granted, Braden’s gone through phases where he loved Pooh Bear, Blue’s Clues, Spiderman, Star Wars, and bullwhips—and grew out of all but the last one. Who knows how long this archaeology thing will last? But today when I told him about my prayer, he said, “Well I really love this.” I am buoyed by the fact that he loves anything at this point beyond video games and antagonizing his sisters.
5. And finally, the obvious. I am old. I have become one of those old people who says (insert whiny voice), “I just can’t believe how fast the time is going.” This was never the case when I was young. I thought I’d be 14 for the rest of my life and was decidedly unhappy at that prospect. But now that I’ve got kids of my own, I understand what all those gray-haired people have been talking about. One day you’re tying their shoes, and the next you’re paying for an SAT course and applying for financial aid. It’s all going so fast. I love every bit of it, but it really is just too fast.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Leftovers
I’m a fan of leftovers. I eat so few foods that when I find something I enjoy, I need to make the most of it. I also prefer leftovers to cooking. I can usually follow a recipe (leaving out anything green and overtly healthy, of course), but that’s the extent of my cooking excellence.
But what if God was coming to dinner? Could I do my best for Him? Or would I serve Him whatever I had left in the fridge?
I’ve never thought much about God and leftovers, but author Francis Chan is changing that. In his book, Crazy Love, he writes:
“God wants our best, deserves our best, and demands our best. Some offerings are acceptable to Him and others are not. (Just ask Cain.) For years I gave God leftovers and felt no shame. I simply took my eyes off Scripture and compared myself to others.
The bones I threw at God had more meat on them than the bones others threw, so I figured I was doing fine. It’s easy to fill ourselves up with other things and then give God whatever is left. God gets a scrap or two only because we feel guilty. A mumbled three-minute prayer at the end of the day, when we are already half asleep. Two crumpled-up dollar bills thrown as an afterthought into the church’s fund for the poor. Fetch, God!”
If that’s not enough to get my attention, a few pages later he adds, “In heaven exists a Being who decides whether or not I take another breath. This holy God deserves excellence, the very best I have.”
One of the (very few) reasons I looked forward to leaving my job was so that my family would get the very best of me. I’m afraid that for years they got a lot of leftovers outta me, literally and figuratively. Mindful of this, sometimes at the end of a long day of work and driving kids all over town, I would purposefully focus on trying to recover the best of who I am to give to the people in my home. I failed a lot, but at least I was aware and usually gave it my best shot.
But God? Does He get my best? Honestly, I don’t think that crosses my mind. He gets a lot of leftovers, and I, like Francis Chan, think, “Well, a five-minute quiet time with a kid on my lap is better than nothing.” Or, more recently, “At least I have good intentions about serving other people, even though I don’t have time to act on them.” Ugh. I certainly don’t underestimate the power of grace, but even that doesn’t cover up the wilty lettuce and day-old bread I’ve dished out for God.
I have a little boy in AWANA, Caleb, who could easily rattle off every Scripture in his book after only a few weeks of practice. But last year, as a first grader, he took it slowly, reciting each one carefully and perfectly before moving on to the next verse. When I asked him why he had slowed down, he answered, “My mom wants me to do my verses with excellence.” And so he did. Caleb’s mom was showing him how to serve God a gourmet meal made with intentionality, diligence, and faithfulness. No leftovers there.
But what if God was coming to dinner? Could I do my best for Him? Or would I serve Him whatever I had left in the fridge?
I’ve never thought much about God and leftovers, but author Francis Chan is changing that. In his book, Crazy Love, he writes:
“God wants our best, deserves our best, and demands our best. Some offerings are acceptable to Him and others are not. (Just ask Cain.) For years I gave God leftovers and felt no shame. I simply took my eyes off Scripture and compared myself to others.
The bones I threw at God had more meat on them than the bones others threw, so I figured I was doing fine. It’s easy to fill ourselves up with other things and then give God whatever is left. God gets a scrap or two only because we feel guilty. A mumbled three-minute prayer at the end of the day, when we are already half asleep. Two crumpled-up dollar bills thrown as an afterthought into the church’s fund for the poor. Fetch, God!”
If that’s not enough to get my attention, a few pages later he adds, “In heaven exists a Being who decides whether or not I take another breath. This holy God deserves excellence, the very best I have.”
One of the (very few) reasons I looked forward to leaving my job was so that my family would get the very best of me. I’m afraid that for years they got a lot of leftovers outta me, literally and figuratively. Mindful of this, sometimes at the end of a long day of work and driving kids all over town, I would purposefully focus on trying to recover the best of who I am to give to the people in my home. I failed a lot, but at least I was aware and usually gave it my best shot.
But God? Does He get my best? Honestly, I don’t think that crosses my mind. He gets a lot of leftovers, and I, like Francis Chan, think, “Well, a five-minute quiet time with a kid on my lap is better than nothing.” Or, more recently, “At least I have good intentions about serving other people, even though I don’t have time to act on them.” Ugh. I certainly don’t underestimate the power of grace, but even that doesn’t cover up the wilty lettuce and day-old bread I’ve dished out for God.
I have a little boy in AWANA, Caleb, who could easily rattle off every Scripture in his book after only a few weeks of practice. But last year, as a first grader, he took it slowly, reciting each one carefully and perfectly before moving on to the next verse. When I asked him why he had slowed down, he answered, “My mom wants me to do my verses with excellence.” And so he did. Caleb’s mom was showing him how to serve God a gourmet meal made with intentionality, diligence, and faithfulness. No leftovers there.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Fire Damage
I’ve known a few people who lost all their childhood memories and possessions to fire. None of them actually lived there at the time, but it’s still pretty horrible to watch the structure of your formative years disintegrate into nothing.
By the age of 18, I had moved 19 times. The first two-thirds (roughly) of my life were void of permanent structure. This in contrast with my husband, whose childhood was enshrined in a basement room of his parents’ house up until a few years ago. Picture Larry Bird posters and yellowing homecoming photos on a background of 70’s wallpaper.
I didn’t find “home” until I was 22. Sure, it might have looked like an 8 x 10 cubicle in an office building like any other. But to me, it was the place where I fit. It was where I met people who invested in me and changed my life (one I even married), where I learned who I am and what I do best. In short, it was the place where I grew up. It was my little department in a big Christian ministry, where I lived and loved life for 14 years.
Earlier this month, that department was “re-imagined” (now there’s a euphemism for you), and all my friends either lost their jobs or were reassigned somewhere else. What was once my family is being dispersed; what was once my home feels as if it has burned to the ground.
As resistant as I am to change, I realize that sometimes it has to happen. Sometimes it’s good. There are things about this change that are good. But “good” doesn’t make it hurt any less. I hurt for my friends who are forced to search for jobs when there are so few to be found. I hurt for the brilliant work that was created there that will be buried and forgotten. I hurt for the stories that will go untold (we were nothing if not great storytellers!). I hurt for the relationships that will surely change as people go their separate ways. And truth be told, I hurt for the young girl in me who is losing a piece of her permanent structure. Although it’s not been a part of my life for the past year, it’s a huge part of my history, and history is huge for me.
Fortunately, personal growth can’t burn—it’s with me as long as I live. And personal growth is what I took away in buckets from that job, from those experiences and relationships. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Nothing has shaped my adult life more than The Navigators. And all the re-imagining in the world can’t take that away.
By the age of 18, I had moved 19 times. The first two-thirds (roughly) of my life were void of permanent structure. This in contrast with my husband, whose childhood was enshrined in a basement room of his parents’ house up until a few years ago. Picture Larry Bird posters and yellowing homecoming photos on a background of 70’s wallpaper.
I didn’t find “home” until I was 22. Sure, it might have looked like an 8 x 10 cubicle in an office building like any other. But to me, it was the place where I fit. It was where I met people who invested in me and changed my life (one I even married), where I learned who I am and what I do best. In short, it was the place where I grew up. It was my little department in a big Christian ministry, where I lived and loved life for 14 years.
Earlier this month, that department was “re-imagined” (now there’s a euphemism for you), and all my friends either lost their jobs or were reassigned somewhere else. What was once my family is being dispersed; what was once my home feels as if it has burned to the ground.
As resistant as I am to change, I realize that sometimes it has to happen. Sometimes it’s good. There are things about this change that are good. But “good” doesn’t make it hurt any less. I hurt for my friends who are forced to search for jobs when there are so few to be found. I hurt for the brilliant work that was created there that will be buried and forgotten. I hurt for the stories that will go untold (we were nothing if not great storytellers!). I hurt for the relationships that will surely change as people go their separate ways. And truth be told, I hurt for the young girl in me who is losing a piece of her permanent structure. Although it’s not been a part of my life for the past year, it’s a huge part of my history, and history is huge for me.
Fortunately, personal growth can’t burn—it’s with me as long as I live. And personal growth is what I took away in buckets from that job, from those experiences and relationships. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Nothing has shaped my adult life more than The Navigators. And all the re-imagining in the world can’t take that away.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Whoa, Nellie, Second Verse
A little less than a year ago, I wrote about God slowing me down: “God is calling me to wait on Him. To be patient. To unlace my track shoes, slow my sprint to a saunter, stop looking for the next big thing, and simply wait.”
Apparently I wasn’t listening. There’s nothing like a good case of pneumonia to trap you in your bed and help you listen. Sometimes God speaks to us with a flashing neon sign, but more often, at least in my experience, He speaks one bulb at a time. A little lightbulb flickers to life in my mind, followed by another, and another, and another. And finally, with some discernment and a little guesswork, I get the message.
“WAIT.”
That’s His message to me. You wouldn’t think it would take an electrical engineer to connect those flashing lights. No, it just takes surrendering control of your plans and exercising patience. No sweat—unless you’re me. Then it comes with about 15 hours worth of sweat—and chills, and body aches, and nearly coughing up a lung. I’m not sure God “gives” people sickness, but I’m certain He allows it and uses it. He used it to bring to my mind Luke 16:10:
“If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones.”
My plate today is filled with lots of little things—not the least of which is a lot of little people. And certainly, next to my relationship with God, my children and my husband are the most important parts of my world. But I’m also pretty used to them, and my eyes have been fixed on the next big thing—something new and different—the ministry adventure we feel is ahead for our family. All those extra hours in bed, however, gave me time to evaluate how I’m doing in the little, familiar things, and “faithful” was not the best descriptor. Of course I’m faithful to my family, my friends, and my commitments in the strictest sense, but am I doing my best? Giving my all? Can I say I’ve been entirely faithful? No. Not by a long shot.
Whatever “large ones” God has in mind for me are on hold. No one’s clamoring to buy our house. The house we wanted sold to someone else. The volunteering I planned to do hasn’t come to fruition. My biggest writing project just got canceled. The flashing lights (not to mention the pneumonia) are telling me that God wants me to focus on the little things in my life—faithfully, whole-heartedly, and patiently—and to wait for everything else.
Apparently I wasn’t listening. There’s nothing like a good case of pneumonia to trap you in your bed and help you listen. Sometimes God speaks to us with a flashing neon sign, but more often, at least in my experience, He speaks one bulb at a time. A little lightbulb flickers to life in my mind, followed by another, and another, and another. And finally, with some discernment and a little guesswork, I get the message.
“WAIT.”
That’s His message to me. You wouldn’t think it would take an electrical engineer to connect those flashing lights. No, it just takes surrendering control of your plans and exercising patience. No sweat—unless you’re me. Then it comes with about 15 hours worth of sweat—and chills, and body aches, and nearly coughing up a lung. I’m not sure God “gives” people sickness, but I’m certain He allows it and uses it. He used it to bring to my mind Luke 16:10:
“If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones.”
My plate today is filled with lots of little things—not the least of which is a lot of little people. And certainly, next to my relationship with God, my children and my husband are the most important parts of my world. But I’m also pretty used to them, and my eyes have been fixed on the next big thing—something new and different—the ministry adventure we feel is ahead for our family. All those extra hours in bed, however, gave me time to evaluate how I’m doing in the little, familiar things, and “faithful” was not the best descriptor. Of course I’m faithful to my family, my friends, and my commitments in the strictest sense, but am I doing my best? Giving my all? Can I say I’ve been entirely faithful? No. Not by a long shot.
Whatever “large ones” God has in mind for me are on hold. No one’s clamoring to buy our house. The house we wanted sold to someone else. The volunteering I planned to do hasn’t come to fruition. My biggest writing project just got canceled. The flashing lights (not to mention the pneumonia) are telling me that God wants me to focus on the little things in my life—faithfully, whole-heartedly, and patiently—and to wait for everything else.
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Bright Side of Pneumonia
As the final act to our Winter of Terrible Sickness, I got pneumonia over the weekend. Never had pneumonia in my life. Or a chest x-ray. Or a trip to the ER that didn’t involve a baby trying to get out. None of these were enjoyable firsts, but in the spirit of looking on the bright side, here are the few good things I’ve noticed about having pneumonia:
Food becomes a non-entity. In my real life, I go through my day either preparing food, cleaning up food, or wondering what food I can eat next. My highly contagious state means I’m not touching anyone else’s food, and I couldn’t care less about it myself. Chocolate sounds disgusting. I feel skinny. These are not bad things.
My dreams could win an Emmy. The narcotics I’ve been given don’t seem to do much for my cough, but they do give me the wildest dreams ever. I wake up feeling like I’ve spent the night riding at light speed through Space Mountain.
My mom swoops in and does 48-bajillion loads of laundry and plays nearly that many games of cards with my kids. She also doesn’t seem to care that she’s watched Free Willy 15, 16—17?—times.
At least it’s me and not Brooklyn. I’d throw myself in front of a train to keep that poor child from getting sick again.
Spring will be that much more glorious this year. I know I’ve got a good two months to go, but I’m just willing spring to my door. Everything’s better in the spring. Probably even pneumonia.
Food becomes a non-entity. In my real life, I go through my day either preparing food, cleaning up food, or wondering what food I can eat next. My highly contagious state means I’m not touching anyone else’s food, and I couldn’t care less about it myself. Chocolate sounds disgusting. I feel skinny. These are not bad things.
My dreams could win an Emmy. The narcotics I’ve been given don’t seem to do much for my cough, but they do give me the wildest dreams ever. I wake up feeling like I’ve spent the night riding at light speed through Space Mountain.
My mom swoops in and does 48-bajillion loads of laundry and plays nearly that many games of cards with my kids. She also doesn’t seem to care that she’s watched Free Willy 15, 16—17?—times.
At least it’s me and not Brooklyn. I’d throw myself in front of a train to keep that poor child from getting sick again.
Spring will be that much more glorious this year. I know I’ve got a good two months to go, but I’m just willing spring to my door. Everything’s better in the spring. Probably even pneumonia.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Lighter Fare: My Movie List
I’m feeling pretty cool because I actually saw the Academy Award–winning Best Picture this year. At a movie theater. Surrounded by grown-ups.
Kevin and I can’t even remember the last time we were alone in a movie theater together. A couple kids ago, maybe? I vaguely remember seeing Wall-E (literally slept through it) and Ratatouille (nursed a fussy baby through it). It’s a part of my life that I miss. Back in my childless days, I spent several years seeing every Best Picture–nominated movie before Oscar night. (That was back when I could stomach movies like Silence of the Lambs. I lost that ability somewhere around the time Fargo came out.) Oscar night itself was a big deal for me, too. I made fun snacks for myself and even got off work early back when it was on Monday nights. I’ve regretted never braving the traffic and crowds, when I lived in L.A., to stand among the masses along the red carpet on Oscar night. I must’ve thought I needed to study or something. Silly me.
This year, when Kevin and I lucked into a date night on Valentine’s weekend (thanks, Kendra), we ventured downtown to the hip independent theater that had previously served only to deeply disturb me (the aforementioned Fargo experience, as well as the three hours of inane torment that were the movie Magnolia). I needed a good experience at the Kimball's Theater—something beyond just the comfy reclining chairs—and got it with Slumdog Millionaire. It was a little darker than I was hoping for on my rare date night, but the story and child actors were captivating enough to help me forgive the theater for past emotional trauma.
This year’s winner won’t go down as one of my favorites of all time, but I recommend it—especially if you can get in for six bucks a head like we did. And in case you might be wondering what movies are on that short list of favorites, here it is:
1. Moulin Rouge (Rosie O’Donnell once said she keeps a copy in every room, in case of a fire. I get that. I have two myself.)
2. It’s a Wonderful Life (When, oh when, will my children be able to sit still long enough to watch this all the way through with me?)
3. The Shawshank Redemption
4. The Player (I guess I have a Tim Robbins thing.)
5. Dirty Dancing (Yes, I do know every word to “Hungry Eyes.” Feel free to judge me. I’m 38. I don’t care anymore.)
6. Singing in the Rain/Grease/Chicago/Hairspray (Make a musical, I’ll see it. Twice.)
7. From Justin to Kelly (Just kidding, but I am tempted to rent it every time I walk by it at Blockbuster.)
Runners-Up (Movies I thoroughly enjoyed but can't necessarily recommend or add to my favorites list): Dan in Real Life, Awakenings, Clueless, Juno, Ocean’s Eleven, Little Miss Sunshine, Notting Hill, The American President, American Dreamz, A Fish Called Wanda)
Kevin and I can’t even remember the last time we were alone in a movie theater together. A couple kids ago, maybe? I vaguely remember seeing Wall-E (literally slept through it) and Ratatouille (nursed a fussy baby through it). It’s a part of my life that I miss. Back in my childless days, I spent several years seeing every Best Picture–nominated movie before Oscar night. (That was back when I could stomach movies like Silence of the Lambs. I lost that ability somewhere around the time Fargo came out.) Oscar night itself was a big deal for me, too. I made fun snacks for myself and even got off work early back when it was on Monday nights. I’ve regretted never braving the traffic and crowds, when I lived in L.A., to stand among the masses along the red carpet on Oscar night. I must’ve thought I needed to study or something. Silly me.
This year, when Kevin and I lucked into a date night on Valentine’s weekend (thanks, Kendra), we ventured downtown to the hip independent theater that had previously served only to deeply disturb me (the aforementioned Fargo experience, as well as the three hours of inane torment that were the movie Magnolia). I needed a good experience at the Kimball's Theater—something beyond just the comfy reclining chairs—and got it with Slumdog Millionaire. It was a little darker than I was hoping for on my rare date night, but the story and child actors were captivating enough to help me forgive the theater for past emotional trauma.
This year’s winner won’t go down as one of my favorites of all time, but I recommend it—especially if you can get in for six bucks a head like we did. And in case you might be wondering what movies are on that short list of favorites, here it is:
1. Moulin Rouge (Rosie O’Donnell once said she keeps a copy in every room, in case of a fire. I get that. I have two myself.)
2. It’s a Wonderful Life (When, oh when, will my children be able to sit still long enough to watch this all the way through with me?)
3. The Shawshank Redemption
4. The Player (I guess I have a Tim Robbins thing.)
5. Dirty Dancing (Yes, I do know every word to “Hungry Eyes.” Feel free to judge me. I’m 38. I don’t care anymore.)
6. Singing in the Rain/Grease/Chicago/Hairspray (Make a musical, I’ll see it. Twice.)
7. From Justin to Kelly (Just kidding, but I am tempted to rent it every time I walk by it at Blockbuster.)
Runners-Up (Movies I thoroughly enjoyed but can't necessarily recommend or add to my favorites list): Dan in Real Life, Awakenings, Clueless, Juno, Ocean’s Eleven, Little Miss Sunshine, Notting Hill, The American President, American Dreamz, A Fish Called Wanda)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Groaning for Home
One of these days, I’m going to write about something really chipper. Just not today. Today I’m going to write about my friends’ 13-year-old son who has terminal brain cancer. Yeah, not exactly chipper. Except that this family’s journey through cancer has been filled with such growth, such hope, such faith, that it’s impacted all of us who have been along for the ride.
Ian was diagnosed with cancer on Superbowl Sunday 2008. He endured intense chemotherapy for a year. By the time the Steelers eeked out their win over the Chargers last month, it looked like Ian was finally out of the woods. About that time, I signed a contract with NavPress to help Ian’s dad tell their story, a beautiful story called Don’t Waste the Pain, to be published early next year.
About a week after Ian was declared cancer-free, strange symptoms started appearing. At first the doctors attributed it to lingering chemo effects, but a test of his spinal fluid soon determined that the cancer was back—in his spine and brain. These parents of seven then got the most horrific words a parent can ever hear: “Four to eight weeks.”
I have watched these parents do what any of the rest of us would do—seek any treatment, try any experimental drug, apply for any clinical trial, plead for their son’s life, and try to make it as normal as possible. I’ve also watched them say things like this (from one of their CaringBridge entries): “We’ve taught each of our children how to make a respectful appeal to those in authority over them. That is, “I want you to know that I’ll submit to whatever you decide. But with your permission I’d like to present my case.” That’s the best way I can explain our posture before God right now.”
As I pray for Ian, sometimes I wonder if I’m trying to hold him back from paradise. Where he’s going—either in a few weeks or in 60 or 70 years—is the place we all want for our children and ourselves. What we’re really asking for is a delayed departure. Thirteen seems too young. Surely he needs more time on earth. That’s what our minds and our culture tell us, but God’s Word tells us this:
“We know that if the earthly tent we live in [our bodies] is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling” (2 Cor. 5:1–2).
I struggle to understand much of what Paul writes in the New Testament, and this passage is no different. But I think the gist is that on earth, our bodies moan and grown, deteriorate and die—sometimes even at the age of thirteen. That’s because we’re not made for this temporal home. We’re made for heaven, confident, as Paul goes on to write, that we would “prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (verse 8).
I pray for Ian’s healing. Every day. I pray we will be witnesses to a miracle, and I won’t be the least bit surprised if it happens. I pray that his family’s faith will not waver. But I also pray that if God’s answer is, “Come, my child,” that we will smile—even as we grieve—that this boy was chosen to go Home for good.
Ian was diagnosed with cancer on Superbowl Sunday 2008. He endured intense chemotherapy for a year. By the time the Steelers eeked out their win over the Chargers last month, it looked like Ian was finally out of the woods. About that time, I signed a contract with NavPress to help Ian’s dad tell their story, a beautiful story called Don’t Waste the Pain, to be published early next year.
About a week after Ian was declared cancer-free, strange symptoms started appearing. At first the doctors attributed it to lingering chemo effects, but a test of his spinal fluid soon determined that the cancer was back—in his spine and brain. These parents of seven then got the most horrific words a parent can ever hear: “Four to eight weeks.”
I have watched these parents do what any of the rest of us would do—seek any treatment, try any experimental drug, apply for any clinical trial, plead for their son’s life, and try to make it as normal as possible. I’ve also watched them say things like this (from one of their CaringBridge entries): “We’ve taught each of our children how to make a respectful appeal to those in authority over them. That is, “I want you to know that I’ll submit to whatever you decide. But with your permission I’d like to present my case.” That’s the best way I can explain our posture before God right now.”
As I pray for Ian, sometimes I wonder if I’m trying to hold him back from paradise. Where he’s going—either in a few weeks or in 60 or 70 years—is the place we all want for our children and ourselves. What we’re really asking for is a delayed departure. Thirteen seems too young. Surely he needs more time on earth. That’s what our minds and our culture tell us, but God’s Word tells us this:
“We know that if the earthly tent we live in [our bodies] is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling” (2 Cor. 5:1–2).
I struggle to understand much of what Paul writes in the New Testament, and this passage is no different. But I think the gist is that on earth, our bodies moan and grown, deteriorate and die—sometimes even at the age of thirteen. That’s because we’re not made for this temporal home. We’re made for heaven, confident, as Paul goes on to write, that we would “prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (verse 8).
I pray for Ian’s healing. Every day. I pray we will be witnesses to a miracle, and I won’t be the least bit surprised if it happens. I pray that his family’s faith will not waver. But I also pray that if God’s answer is, “Come, my child,” that we will smile—even as we grieve—that this boy was chosen to go Home for good.
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