The Great In-Between

There's a pizza place in Colorado Springs that's as much local historical site as it is restaurant. It's been open since 1973. It seats 500 people. The staff wear costumes ("Victorian Western") from the 1800s. The player piano provides background music like "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain"--until Christmas, when the music changes to carols and synchronizes with the lights on the Christmas tree. My husband has been a regular at this place since he was a little boy. It was the first restaurant each of my four babies ever visited. Our kids practically grew up there, enjoying hundreds of flaky-crusted pizzas with extra small pepperonis and spending hundreds of their Grandpa's quarters in the game room. There was a good long season of our lives where we never left the place without a couple sticky whips and a handful of hard Tootsie Rolls from the vending machine. 

As it did with so many businesses, the pandemic took its toll on our pizza place. It stumbled through 2020 on takeout orders before closing indefinitely in December. 

And then the beginning of this month, it reopened, just in time for us to celebrate a family birthday last weekend. 

The building looks the same. The busy red carpet with all its stains and the dingy lace curtains were the same. The staff uniforms were mostly the same. But all the life was gone. The room was dark and the player piano was quiet. The pizza tasted weird. The service was terrible. It was all sort of the same but very different. 

It's a metaphor for all of life right now. 

We're sort of on the other side of COVID. Except people are still getting sick and dying, and the word "surge" is not going away. We're sort of free to roam about the country, except that gas is outrageously expensive and hotel rooms are hard to come by. Don't even think about trying to rent a car. 

People are starting to return to their office buildings, but it's not the same. Now you can work from home a couple days a week if you want to. Meetings that used to happen in conference rooms now happen over Zoom, even when participants are in the same building. 

At a basketball tournament in Dallas last week, we were crammed elbow-to-elbow in a gym, but permanent lettering on the doors say that masks are required. A few people here and there wear them, but most don't. Some wear them around their chins, which seems like an interesting choice. 

It feels like we're pretending to be "back to normal" when nothing really is. 

Will hotel housekeeping ever come make up the beds and deliver clean towels again?

Will the "free hot breakfast" offered at so many hotels ever be more than individually-packaged muffins and granola bars stuffed in a brown bag?

Will I ever sit inside a Chic-fil-A again?

Will I go back to getting out and helping the guy who brings me my online grocery order as he loads up my car?

Will restaurants and businesses ever have enough employees again?

Will the government ever stop sending us random checks in the mail?

Will we ever again be able to sneeze in public without getting uncomfortable looks?

Will there come a day when the answer to every "why" question is something besides, "Because of COVID"?

Will my kids go back to school with no fear of quarantine? Will they be able to handle going to five days of school a week, in person? 

Will we put disagreements over masks and vaccines behind us and try to get along? And then will we just find something else to fight about?

None of our new normal is a surprise to God. And He built adaptability into our DNA (some of you got more than others of us), so we get used to new things pretty quickly. This great in-between world in which we find ourselves is weird and we have no idea what tomorrow holds, but it's still true that we know who holds tomorrow. Because of that, I can endure the weirdness and keep adapting. But could my pizza just go back to normal? 

How, then, shall we live?

This past week, we honored my father-in-law with a celebration of life. We didn't have Father's Day in mind as we planned it, but it feels appropriate to have thoughts of that service lingering in my mind as we honor fathers today. In addition to being a great father himself, he also raised a couple boys who grew up to be great fathers, too. 

A few thoughts from this week of celebrating his life:

1. We've all heard that no one, at the end of their life, says, "I wish I would have worked more." More recently, in light of our culture today, I've heard it said, "No one says, 'I wish I had been more entertained.'" The list could go on and on. I wish I'd done more heavy drinking. I wish I'd fooled around on my spouse more. I wish I'd told more lies, criticized more people, bought more stuff I didn't need. No one says these things. 

I'm thinking about what I will say at the end of my life. What will have mattered most, and is that reflected in how I spent my time today? 

2. I'm probably not going to invent some technology that changes the world. I'm not going to cure cancer. When I die, the only pillar of my existence that I'll leave behind will be the impact I've made on other people. Will the people who are expected to speak at my funeral do so willingly and eagerly? Will they be able to say what they really thought of me, or will they have to be careful with their words to avoid "speaking ill of the dead"? We didn't have to censor our words about Grandpa J. We were proud to talk about him just as he was, and we were honored to get to share our stories of him. My youngest daughter said of her grandpa, "I didn't see my grandpa out sharing the gospel, but I saw it in the way he lived his life and how he treated the people around him." If I'm lucky enough to have grandkids someday, may they see the gospel that clearly in me. 

3. We know so little about people, even those closest to us. I knew my father-in-law for 27 years. I saw him once or twice a week during those years. But I didn't really get to know him until he passed away two months ago and I began writing his story. I learned that in third grade, he and his twin brother decided to stop dressing alike. That he was the captain of his high school basketball and football teams for two years. That he met his wife by asking her to do the cha-cha. He was baptized in the South China Sea and spent a year apart from his wife and baby girl when he was stationed in Thailand. He fell asleep with his glasses on and his open Bible on his chest. 

Why don't we ask more questions? Why don't we get to know more about the people we love while they're still with us? Why do we watch six years of a TV series and become completely involved in the lives of fictional strangers, and yet we know so little about our own loved ones? 

And finally, this. If people are going to have a celebration of life for me someday--if they're going to take off work, buy a new dress, wear a tie, and sit in a hot church on a summer day (oh, please, Lord, take me home in the summer and not in the winter)--I want to have lived a life truly worth celebrating. A life that makes my children proud. A life that demonstrates the saving grace of God. 

Grandpa J/Larry/Dad, you were a man who was always finding something to give to others, and I thank you for giving me this final gift: a clear picture of what it looks like to live well, finish well, and be remembered well. Enjoy your first Father's Day with your Eternal Father. I love imagining what that must be like. 

Let's Not Miss the Abundance

 "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly." 

I used to misunderstand Jesus's words in John 10:10. I thought it meant something like "I came so that you can have a great life." But abundant isn't a synonym for great. It means full. One commentator described it as a rich fullness that nourishes the spiritual life. 

I'm not sure that you can have a full life until you've experienced death, up close and personal. 

In the past week, I've looked death eyeball to eyeball. My father-in-law, who has been hospitalized with COVID-related pneumonia for the past two months, came home last Monday. We weren't sure what to expect. Would being at home, which he longed for, aid to his recovery? Or were we bringing him home to die? Were we at the beginning of a long journey, or was this the end? We didn't know, but we knew we had to try it and see, even though "trying it" meant intense round-the-clock care by his wife and children. By Saturday, we had our answer. God had a different Home for Grandpa J. 

There is no greater way to realize the significance of life than to see how hard the body fights to stay alive. In one sense, death is natural, because it happens to all of us. But in another sense, it is totally unnatural. The body does not want to die. It won't give up without a fight. Life is a very strong force. 

While I did very little to serve him in his final week, I was there enough to remember what a holy space this is. In my estimation, there is nothing holier on earth. I know of nothing more sacred than the privilege of caring for someone in their final days. "Sacred" means to inspire awe or reverence. I was drenched in awe and reverence the past week. I've stood in some of the world's grandest cathedrals and felt nothing. I've stood in the bedrooms of the dying and felt the holy presence of God so powerfully that it's all I could do just to stand. Awe and reverence. Abundance of life. It was all there on Friday. 

Our modern world robs us of this abundant experience. The majority of people die in nursing homes and hospitals, tended by professional staff for whom death is just part of the job. Dying at home today is almost a luxury. It can only happen for the most well-resourced among us. My father-in-law was not a wealthy man, but he was rich with family, and that family was willing to sacrifice work, spouses, kids, sleep, and the natural desire to emotionally self-protect in order to care for him day and night. 

There is obvious blessing in Grandpa getting to die in his own house surrounded by the people he loves. But it's more than that. There is blessing like no other when we are elbow-deep in caring for someone at the end of life. There is a "rich fullness that nourishes the spiritual life" that can't be found anywhere else. We don't choose this; it chooses us. When it does, I don't want to hide physically, emotionally, or spiritually. I want to show up and say, "Meet me with your grace, Lord." And He does. So much grace, the kind of grace you can feel like a thick, soft blanket on a cold day.   

We don't want to miss this. We don't want to run from death. We want this life abundant, even when abundance in the moment looks more like suffering and less like joy. 

I looked at my youngest daughter and my nieces standing by the bedside with me--two of them young teenagers, one a young adult, and one a little girl with a mouth full of missing teeth--and I said something, maybe not as coherently as I wanted, like, "Death is not scary. It's part of living. Don't be scared of this. It's the beautiful process through which Grandpa is entering heaven." One of them said, "Tell Jesus hi for us, Grandpa." Yes, they get it! Death is not winning here. Death loses. Life wins. And it's beautiful, no matter how ugly it looks. 

Death comes to steal and kill and destroy. Jesus comes offering life in all its abundance. Eternal life for Grandpa and a richly nourished spiritual life for those of us who were with him at the end. Holy. Sacred. Not to be missed.  

"Where, O death, is your victory? 

Where, O death, is your sting?" 

(1 Corinthians 15:55)

Cheetah or Lamb?

 I recently read the latest memoir by a Christian writer whose books I've enjoyed in the past. Except in the four years since her last book, she's left her husband and married a woman. I knew this, which is the reason why I wanted to check out her new book. I wanted to hear what she would say about God.

My Kindle told me I only made it through about 60% of the book, but it was enough to answer my question. God didn't make much of an appearance, and seemed to go by a different name: "Knowing." Besides the usual hilarious parenting stories that this writer is known for, most of the book was about her new-found empowerment. Comparing herself to a [expletive] cheetah, she wrote about freeing herself from the limiting, misogynistic cultural expectations that had made her life small and disappointing. She's stopped putting everyone else before herself. She's stopped deferring. She's started doing whatever it takes to live the "truest, most beautiful" version of herself, not letting anyone else decide what that looks like for her. That includes the "religion" that she followed for years. 

I think about her message, so common in our world right now, in light of the cross, which is the focus of this weekend. I hear Jesus saying that whoever wants to be greatest must first be a servant to everyone. And telling me that if I want to live my best life, I should pick up my cross and follow Him. Because if I fight to live my life on my own terms, I'll lose it, but if I surrender it to Him, my life will be saved. 

I picture Jesus washing feet. And saying, "Not my will but Yours be done." I see Him choosing to live not as a cheetah or even the Lion of Judah that He had every right to be, but as a sacrificial lamb, "despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief" (Is. 53:3). I envision Him being beaten, tortured, and humiliated, the suffering servant and the truest, most beautiful version of Himself. 

We all want to be free. We want to feel fully alive and empowered to be exactly who we're supposed to be. It goes against everything our culture tells us and even against our own intuition to believe that the way to do that is through humble self-surrender. To someone we've never met and can't see. Who asks us to die to ourselves, lean not on our own understanding, and love our neighbors every bit as much as we love ourselves. Not just in theory, but in practice, day in and day out. 

It's funny to me that this author and so many like her think that the way of Christ is the way of boring, restrictive conformity. That's not true at all. It's actually the most wild, radical, subversive lifestyle possible. 

"For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God." (1 Cor. 1:18)

March 13

I'm having a little March 12/13 PTSD this weekend. Anyone else feeling somber as we mark the one-year anniversary of when the world shut down? 

3/12/20  has been recorded in my brain alongside 9/11/01 and 5/29/88, days in which the world changed. (The last of these was the day my dad died as I finished up my junior year of high school.) These are dates I will never just breeze through. They're tender days, remembering days. They are days that remind me that God is faithful, steadfast, unchanging, and in control, no matter how my world may suddenly shift. 

One year ago today, my kids rushed into school to grab what they needed for an extended spring break. An extra week off after a busy winter sports season seemed like a nice, though silly, break. Flatten the curve? OK, whatever. We'll welcome any opportunity to sleep in. Some of my friends were whispering outrageous things. More than a two-week break? No more school for the rest of the year? Prom and graduation canceled? I laughed at the drama of it all. Things like that happen in movies, not in real life. 

But here we are, one year later. My girl who had a drive-thru graduation now takes college classes online in her dorm room. My 16-year-old is currently out of school because of a quarantine. And worst of all, my 78-year-old father-in-law is in the hospital battling for his life against Covid-induced pneumonia. Would I ever have believed on March 13, 2020, that this is where we would be one year later? 

It is a mercy that we can't see the future. We've made the journey through this past year one day at a time, literally having no clue what the next day would hold. That's the way God designed it to be. I worked on a Bible study years ago in which the author wrote that he didn't picture the Israelites crossing the Red Sea the way they did in the Ten Commandments movie. Instead of the water rolling back shore to shore, he pictured the water receding with each single step God's people took. While that doesn't quite fit with the description in Exodus, it does fit with how we usually experience life with God. He gives us what we need for today and asks us to trust Him with the mysteries of tomorrow. That's what we've done the past 365 days, and that's what we'll keep doing. 

What is sustaining and encouraging me most right now is knowing that God has been preparing me my whole life for just such a time as this. And because I am prepared, I can thrive through this hard season, especially the difficulty of watching my husband grieve his sweet dad. 

My friend Steph sent me an excerpt from an online article about a month ago that I have returned to again and again. It has redefined for me what it means to thrive: "Thriving isn't a feeling. It is evidence of preparing for a marathon, not a parade. It is a deep knowledge that you have trained for this, you have what it takes to be sustained through this, and you will flourish on the other side of this season. To thrive is to live in the season, not wait for it to pass. And the season itself is not in charge of how we experience it."*

Since I was 10 years old and encountered Jesus for the first time, I have been in training for the faith challenges of the past year. I am deeply, personally, intimately connected to the One who has trained me and who will sustain me. Because of that, I don't have to charge through this hard season in my own strength, searching for something I can control. I don't have to numb myself with Netflix and Cheetos and just wait for it to pass, either. I can fully live in this season, fully participate in it, knowing that God has equipped me for whatever I face today. 

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow. Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me. 

 

*"Thriving in the Winter: More than Waiting," Ministry Spark by David C Cook, written by Christie Penner Worden

When Crazy Becomes Normal

January 6 was a scary day. It was Day 300 of the surreal world we've been living in (literally 300 days between March 12, 2020 and January 6, 2021—I counted), and it was the day I realized the toll those 300 days have had on me. 

I watched the events unfold at the Capitol in mostly real time, and I felt nothing. No fear or outrage or sadness or horror. Certainly no shock or suprise. All I felt was numb. It wasn't until a couple days later that I felt anything at all, and what I felt was scared—not for our nation, but for my numb self. Why can I watch shocking, "unprecendented" things take place and feel absolutely nothing?*

I've never been on social media, and I am selective and careful about how much information I allow into my head. But in the days that followed January 6, I started reading and listening broadly, trying to process, trying to get my moral and spiritual bearings, trying to feel. 

It was a mostly successful endeavor. I read articles and listened to podcasts that made me say, "No, that's not right, that's completely out of step with biblical truth." I got a little feisty, and it felt good. I read things that totally resonated with me, perspectives that aligned with the truth-grid that lives deep inside me, and I felt hopeful and grounded. I was able to name certain things as "bad" and others as "good." It wasn't quite the same thing as experiencing real feelings, but it was close and it was better. 

I stayed in the Scriptures. I stayed in prayer. I stayed in conversation with people I trust as wise and holy. 

I had mostly moved on, thankful to be feeling more like myself, until last night. Last night I sat with a group of 16- and 17-year-old girls processing life together. And what I heard from these vibrant, passionate, brilliant girls was this: "I just don't care anymore." They've had too many cancellations and too many disappointments. Too much time alone in front of a computer pretending to learn U.S history and chemistry. Too many days that all look exactly the same. Too little to look forward to. Too many "unprecedenteds." They're done, and done looks like, "I don't care, not even about the things that used to be so important to me." We spent 45 minutes talking about their frustrations, and then when I asked them, "Where are you finding hope right now?" the room was dead silent. No answers. 

These are girls from strong families with a solid spiritual foundation and a deeply rooted faith in Christ. How do the kids without those things feel? I can't stop thinking about it. 

I can't stop asking God what to do with all of this. How do we live when crazy becomes normal? When unprecedented becomes daily life? When we're all so disoriented and depleted that we barely have anything left to give? 

Can I hear an "amen"? Because we're all in this together, right? 

My message throughout 2020 was, "We can do hard things." Hard things are good for us. We wouldn't choose the hard things, but we will be grateful for them one day. Consider it joy, my friends, when you face trials of many kinds. 

What enables us to do hard things is hope. I can do mountain climbers for a minute if I have hope that I only have to do them for a minute.

But what do we do when our hardship has no end date? It's 2021 now, and this is still hard. We're all still doing mountain climbers, and there's no clock running down to zero anywhere to be found.

Where do we find hope when our struggle seems never-ending? When we're numb and apathetic? We see answers all around us. People put their hope in a vaccine, a new administration, a return to normal, plans for a great vacation once this is all over. But vacations get rained out and administrations disappoint. So what, then? 

What can a shell-shocked, still-slightly-numb 50-year-old say to a group of despairing teenagers? It's what I've been telling them since we started meeting eight years ago. While they've been outgrowing their shoes and learning algebra and discovering that boys aren't gross, the world has changed. But my message to them hasn't. It's still this: Our only hope is a person. His name is Jesus, and He is all we can count on. Hoping in Jesus isn't a slogan or a crutch. It's the truth, and maybe the biggest, best truth we could ever know. Jesus is unchanging but never boring. Jesus fills up the empty. Jesus enlivens the numb. Jesus is hope for the hopeless. The closer we get to Him, the closer we are to hope. 

*I should clarify that I wasn't feeling nothing about everything. I still had plenty of feelings related to my own little world: sadness and excitement about my kids going back to college, nervousness about my younger girls return to in-person school and how long that would last, bliss at Colorado restaurants opening back up, surprised giddiness when I filled up my gas tank for way less than I expected, gratitude after a good conversation with one of  my kids. 

Church, at last!

Today I went to church. 

I put on decent clothes, drove in a car, and went to church for the first time in 10 months. 

While many churches in my city have been open for months, our church has held off having in-person services until this weekend. It wasn't like they opened up the flood gates and let in the masses. We're a megachurch, so we had to make reservations and wear masks and social distance. We were also encouraged by our church leaders to hold off a bit longer if we're doing fine with online church in order to make space for those who really needed to be there in person. 

As soon as I got the news about reopening, I knew I was a person who really needed to be there, but I couldn't have told you exactly why. As I was sitting there this morning, I figured it out. 

It's not because I missed the church building.

Not because I missed seeing other people.

Not because I missed hearing a live message or singing with a live worship band. (As a side note, I thought I really wouldn't sing at all because of the mask. I planned to sort of whisper-sing the words to myself, as I've mostly done at home the past 10 months in an effort to avoid being obnoxiously loud and annoying to my family members. But this morning, all thoughts of the mask quickly disappeared and I sang with reckless abandon, not caring one iota if my harmonizing was pitchy.)

My reason for needing to go back to church wasn't any of the things I would have guessed. It was because I need to feel like I'm making an offering to God, and that offering needs to cost me something. 

I'm reading Leviticus right now, which reminds me of how costly the Israelites' offerings were. A bull was expensive, so much so that most people couldn't give one. God needed to give the people other cheaper options, from smaller animals to grain offerings, but all of them were costly. Not only was there a monetary expense, but sacrifices were terribly inconvenient. Who "just happens" to have time in their day to stop what they're doing, look for a perfect animal, wrangle it to the tabernacle, and wait their turn for the priest in order to make their offering? They didn't exactly have a webinar to watch or kids to get to soccer, but I'm sure sacrifices never felt easy or convenient. 

While I am not comparing my experience today with the Israelites, I am comparing it to what "church" has looked like the past 10 months.

Today, I had to be mindful of getting up on time and using my minutes well. I fixed my hair and put on makeup. I dressed up (a little). I asked teenagers to get up three hours earlier than they're used to and dealt with the salty attitudes that produced. I herded sleepy, uncommunicative people into the car in a timely fashion, which was no small feat. Because we had inches of new snow today, shoveling and scraping were required, as was navigating all the cars in our driveway while not really being able to see out of the back windshield. (Thankfully, the only casualty was a broken broom that I ran over with my car.) 

These things are a little costly. Not sacrificing-a-bull-without-blemish-or-defect costly, but also not nothing. 

And then there are the things you encounter when you get to church. The icy parking lot. The person who parks too close to you. Listening to the loud woman sing off-key two rows behind you. A crying baby. A drafty room. A few too many flashing lights during worship. The traffic exiting the parking lot. 

It cost something to go to church today. It's not the same as picking the day and time that best fit with my schedule, strolling over to the couch in the clothes I slept in, and turning on the TV. You can slouch and even lie down during home church. You can check your phone occasionally, cozy up with a blanket, eat a snack, or get up to throw the clothes in the dryer. It's really all about you; do whatever's convenient and feels good. At least that's what it felt like to me. 

Going to church, a real, live church, is not necessarily convenient. Sometimes, it's downright difficult. But it's God's will for us. Based on Hebrews 10:25 ("let us not neglect our meeting together"), we could even say it's a command. Obedience to God's will requires sacrifice. And today, for the first time in my life, going to church felt like making a sacrifice to God. My offering to Him was tiny, but it was an offering. And that's what I've been missing. 

I'm not judging anyone who chooses online church. People have good reasons for making that choice. But for me personally, I need to worship in a way that feels like it's much less about me and much more about God. I need to go to church with all the costly things that entails.