Category: Words

“Whoever shall be guided so far towards the mysteries of love, by contemplating beautiful things rightly in due order, is approaching the last grade. Suddenly he will behold a beauty marvelous in its nature… not beautiful here and ugly there, not beautiful now and ugly then, not beautiful in one direction and ugly in another direction, not beautiful in one place and ugly in another place…”

– Mary Oliver

Shadow Lines

We’re waiting for the catch to all this, aren’t we? When promises are made, laughs are had, peace is felt, connections are created…. we’re waiting for the man behind the curtain to come out and tell us what’s really going on here:

This isn’t real.

You’re a phony.

They’re only pretending to like you.

You aren’t good enough.

It’s all going to hell in a hand basket soon enough.

These lines of nasty dialogue I’ll call “shadow lines” — because they lurk in the shadows of the beautiful and the good.

The fact of the matter is, however, those shadow lines are… semi-accurate.

This isn’t all real. Most of life is an image of what will come (let’s not get too heady or philosophical about this now… y’all know I’m not that type). What I mean is that the created world is in part, not in whole. Our sin has made life only partially lived, and the fullness of reality is not here yet (please Jesus come quick).

You are a phony. Fake it till you make it, right? Except you never really do make it, and you fake your way through conversation after conversation for the sake of social conventions and trying to survive. Your social media? Bogus. That time you said you were fine? C’mon, you aren’t fooling anyone, least of all yourself.

Some people don’t actually like you (my people pleasing self hated typing that more than I can say). In the billions of human beings in this world, and the thousands that you have interacted with, there are some who totally pretended to like you but secretly hoped they would never have to see you again. Youch.

You aren’t actually good enough. As pure as your intentions might be, deep down you know your own self-interest drives much of what you do and say; you know, feel, and have faced the dark, moldy corners of your mind.

It is actually getting worse. The news. Need I say more?

Now, I didn’t choose to break my intense hiatus from blogging to talk shit about humanity or be depressing. Because as a matter of fact, I’ve just stepped away from beautiful communion with God, and I was struck by an even more staggering truth: God’s love has no shadow.

God’s love has no shadow.

Everything we experience here on earth has a shadow — every joy, has a shadow of sorrow, grief, and anguish. Every relationship we have, there are shadows of conditions, unfair expectations, and agonizing betrayals. Every bit of peace we feel, there are shadows of inevitable disruption, chaos, and anxiety in a world we cannot control. Every ounce of hope we hold, there are shadows of despair, uncertainty, and dread.

However.

God’s love has no shadow. We Christians love to talk about how God is Love (thanks, 1 John 4). But if we actually think about it and believe it to its core, this means that there is not a single dark, ugly, twisted, uncertain part of God. And this shadowless love has chosen us to be the objects of this great love.

And when the source of love chooses us to be His objects of love, it CONSUMES. The Scriptures call His Love a consuming fire, and no truer words can actually be said. This love, too pure and lovely, with no contrast of darkness in sight, absolutely annihilates darkness.

You know what these means, right? We’re going to feel uncomfortable when we finally accept His Love. Because our bodies, brains, and hearts have casted long shadows inside us. “Darkness cannot stand the light” (John 1:5). Once we say yes to this Love, He cannot hold back; He cannot give us little bits of it in doses; He consumes us entirely. And what a way to go! (tongue and cheek, but also, seriously).

But it’s what we’ve wanted our entire lives, isn’t it? To be so deeply and purely loved, with no conditions; accepting all the ugly bits of us, and slowly transforming us into more beautiful creatures?

I guess I’m not saying anything profound here. Just a hearty reminder of the absolute raw, consuming, beautiful love of God that actually has no catch. Just take Him at His word, ya know? That He actually loves you and wants you and will transform you completely if you let Him.

Well… it’s been… awhile.

I’d like to say that I’ve been storing up stories and profound parables of life with God and all the many lessons I’ve learned. But that’s quite untrue. Instead of digging into the marrow and meaning of life and God, I’ve been unravelling. Hence, the title of this piece.

As I begin writing again, I can feel the ache in my fingers — motion that must be practiced again, and muscles that will take time to work properly… like a runner who has been injured trying to run again. I know it will take a long time to really say what I really want to say, and many of you may read my words and not feel the weight I so desperately want my words to impress upon you. That’s okay. This post is mostly for me, if I’m being honest. It’s a little space for me to try to make sense of what the past two years have been.

If I could say it all succinctly, I would say it like this: I’ve been hanging on by a thread most days, and the only thing holding me together is the love of God. I think that’s the most honest thing I could say.

If you’re a Christian who has somehow bought into the insidious lie that life is perpetual movement upwards and that you are shielded from deep, deep troubles because of Christ, I’d like to smack you in the face with reality. In love, of course. Like, a smack of truth in love… this is all metaphorical. I won’t go all Will Smith on you (too soon?).

If you’re a Christian who has been acquainted with suffering and feels completely out of your depths with how to suffer as Christ did, welcome to the club. We have T-shirts.

If you’re a Christian who has suffered and moved through it all still holding onto Jesus, thank you. I know it wasn’t easy. We weaklings and thread-bare fragile ones need to know how you walked through dark valleys and continued to cling to Him.

If you’re not a Christian, and you’ve stumbled upon my words by happenstance, coincidence, or because you know me from some time and place, then I hope you read my words with suspended judgment and genuine openness to the reality that Christians struggle to make sense of life sometimes too. The thread we hold onto isn’t our will to live, really… it’s that somehow, someway, all of this is a part of something remarkably good and glorious. It’s not the idealized utopia of society or the self-actualization of being… it’s the hope that the One who made us, became like us, and died for us, will bring all of the unravelled bits and pieces of our untethered life together and show us that it mattered and that it’s going to be made right.

This post is really just a smattering of vignettes worth externalizing onto a page — scenes from my life recently that I’m not overjoyed to share, but ultimately have a profound truth woven inside — and even though I’m frayed and hanging on by a thread, I’m seeing the love of God somehow.

Feel free to pick and choose which theme resonates with you. There is a lot that might not be worth your time right now. I won’t be hurt. Honestly, I won’t even know, so I don’t know why I’m saying all this. Do your thing.

 Rejection 

I think rejecting someone could be one of the most painful human things we do.  Rejecting a person, especially one that you love, is the antithesis of everything that is Christ.  I faced a significant rejection this year.  Not a romantic kind, but a familial one.  Someone I loved my whole life turned on me without warning, notice, or clear cause.  And I don't know what to do with that most days.  

The rage I feel as a result of this injustice done to me (and many members of my family) is really ugly.  I wish I was a better Christian and held this pain with soft hands, but I clutch it and squeeze it and scream at it most days.  My mind barks out the reasons to be angry.  I have pretend conversations with this person daily (yep, like a really looney tune). I want to punch this person in the nose and then hug them tight and never let go.

This pain is a dull ache that persists, and it shoots through my whole body when I think that this person may never come back.  

So where is the love of God? 

It is hidden deeply in the humanity of Christ.  I never understood how painful Judas' betrayal of Jesus probably was until this all happened to me.  Someone that Jesus loved so deeply rejected him without clear, justifiable cause.  It was a weak, human, and completely selfish rejection.  I imagine that Jesus didn't supersede or transcend above this pain, because he emptied himself and took on a human heart.  The emotions of rejection were felt and are strongly felt by Jesus.  He understands personally, and he didn't have to. He chose to. 
It is in his power and promise to reconcile all things.  God said that he reconciled the world to himself through Jesus.  A world that actually killed Jesus because of fear, hate, and no just cause.  He also said that he has given us that same spirit of reconciliation.  All is not lost because this spirit indwells.  

Separation 

I don't know how to talk about this area of my life tenderly, considering all the people involved in it.  For their sake, I will be brief and say only what is necessary.  

When your parents hurt each other and leave each other (no matter who ultimately chooses this), it leaves you suddenly looking around feeling scared and sad.  Something that was a security is suddenly absent, and you're left feeling around in the dark.  Life becomes more complicated.  Being an adult doesn't make it easier.  

This kind of suffering is a helpless sort of suffering -- watching two people who modeled life for you in your formative years trying to figure out how to live differently, maintain respect for each other, and tend to their own wounds inflicted by the other person... it's messy.  

So where is the love of God? 

It is inside people who embody Christ. Sometimes we need real live arms to hold us, hands to wipe our tears and stroke our head, ears to hear our pathetic sobs and eyes to look at us with tenderness.  God knows how much we need this, and sent Jesus to be a body with arms, hands, ears, and eyes, but in his physical absence, he sent the Spirit to indwell in the us - people who embody Him; people who have also suffered; people who also know what it's like to experience a severing; people who may not get it but can listen without judgement.  
It is in Jesus, the bridegroom.  This is a marriage that will never end.  Marriages on earth are shattered shadows of what they will be when we are completely united with Christ.  Jesus using the language of "wedding" and "marriage" was not random - this is exactly what he came for - to unite us, His beloved, back to him.  This is his deep expression of covenantal love for us. 

Anxiety 

Exactly 2 years ago this week, I had my first anxiety attack.  It was completely foreign to me.  I thought I was losing my mind (I mean, technically I was...).  Without warning, my mental capacities actually weakened me, and I couldn't function normally.  All I could do was pace around, cry, pray, and talk to people about what I was experiencing.  Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about.  The sort of "out of body" yet complete "mind tornado" experience.  Chanting psalms or self-help phrases like: "I'm here. I'm okay" over and over.  Grocery shopping on an average Tuesday and acting normal, when internally you're quaking and imaging yourself passing out or throwing up in the breakfast cereal aisle.  

It ain't pretty.

No one really warned me that this could happen to me.  In my arrogance, I thought I was completely immune to it.  But then a pandemic hit and I lost my overseas community, home, and all sense of what my future would be. Anyways. I won't beat a dead horse here.  This was awful, and it hasn't really stopped.  I met with a counselor (love ya, Cindy), and she guided me through grief beautifully... but anxiety continues to pervade.  

So where is the love of God? 

In therapy and counseling.  I swear if I hear any Christian person declare therapy/counseling useless I will probably... take deep breaths and remind myself that God still loves fools (kidding, but also very much not kidding).  The fact that God has gifted other humans with tools and knowledge to help brains heal and function better when they're sick and broken is absolutely stunning.  God is healer, and he has given us medicine, professionals, and knowledge to help the process of physical and mental healing.  
In quiet places.  I realized recently that ever since I was a little girl, I always felt drawn to being outside when I needed to process life and find God.  Being outside in the quiet is the space for God to speak and comfort me.  He shows me how much he loves me by taking me on a tour of his natural world, giving me metaphors and meaning through nature's architecture.  To see beauty is to see God's great love for us, I think.

I have much to learn about God’s love. I’ll probably say more about it later. Right now, my fingers are tired and need a break from their run over the keyboard.

Thank you for reading this. God is gracious and abounding in steadfast love for all of you.

Dedicated to my dear friends in FOCO. You guys mean the world to me.

PART I – The Cave

In a quiet, wooded glen, there arrived a little Rabbit. She looked around, panting and blinking, her tiny heart beating anxiously. The sky above her was a dull, hazy brown, and dozens of evergreens surrounded her, their limp branches drooping heavily down towards the rocky earth. Several feet ahead of her was the base of a mountain, and dozens of small, narrow caves were visible. As the frightened Rabbit approached the row of tiny caves, she could see a glow coming out from one of them. Who could it be? Hunters? Rangers? She considered turning around, but her curiosity got the best of her. She hopped quietly up to the entrance of the cave and peaked inside, scrunching her nose nervously.

Inside the glowing cave was something entirely unexpected. There were other creatures, big and small, gathered around a small fire.

She saw a Deer, timidly and sweetly sitting closest to the entrance of the cave; beside her was a very tall Elk, and he seemed to be quite fond of the deer; across from the Elk was a small Bear Cub, rolling around and laughing contagiously. A Wolf sat close by and howled infectiously; a Raccoon peered out from behind a rock, and she snickered mischievously. A Falcon hopped up behind the Raccoon, and began whispering funny things in the Raccoon’s ear, making her laugh uncontrollably. Further back, there sat a Moose, and he smiled widely at the silly scene, as an Eagle and an Owl swooped in and perched atop of his antlers. All the while, a Squirrel and Chipmunk danced around the fire and giggled feverishly together.

The Rabbit, so taken aback by this scene, didn’t realize how close she had gotten. Before she could back away, the Owl called out, “Hey look! We have a new friend joining us!” All the animals turned to look at the Rabbit, and she timidly moved towards the fire.

Happy hellos echoed through the cave, and the Wolf and Squirrel approached the Rabbit and brought her close to the fire.

“What brings you here, my friend?” the Bear Cub inquired, with a smile spreading across her face.

“Well,” the Rabbit began, “I suppose you’ve heard about the Fire…”

All the animals nodded and murmured together.

“We know it well,” The Falcon began. “You see, that’s why we’re all here.” He looked around at all the furry and feathered faces. A somber silence followed.

“You mean,” the Rabbit gasped, wide-eyed, “You’re without a home too? All of you?”

The crowd of creatures nodded, sadly.

“I’ve had such a terrible time,” the Deer sniffled, “Finding a safe place to go.” The Elk leaned his head against hers and whispered, “Me too.”

The Eagle and the Owl looked at each other. “We were on our way to our new home when the fire began.” The Bear Cub nodded. She was on her way to her new home too.

The Raccoon blinked her dark eyes, holding back strong tears. “I spent so many years making my house a real home…” The Falcon put his feathery hand on her back while she quietly released tears.

The rest of the creatures all had stories to tell of their own, and the Rabbit felt so very understood.

“What about you, little friend?” The Owl kindly inquired, and all eyes turned towards her.

“Well,” the Rabbit swallowed, trying to gather her emotions. “I was on my way back home when I was told about the fire. I saw the smoke rising from the tops of the hill where I lived, and I was so afraid. I ran as fast as I could away from the fire where I could be safe, but…” tears began to well up in her big eyes, “I was so very lonely.”

She looked up for a moment, embarrassed by her tears, only to be met by dozens of compassionate eyes.

“So I left,” she continued, “looking for a new place where I wouldn’t be alone.”

The Chipmunk scuttled up next to her and put his arm around the Rabbit. “It looks like you found that place,” he said. All the creatures grinned and nodded together. Another silence followed, as they all stared deep into the fire, remembering their homes and aching to return.

“It seems,” the Wolf said, breaking the long silence, “that the only way this Fire will stop… is if the Rainmaker comes.”

You see, the Rainmaker was the one who brought life to their forest. He controlled the vegetation, the condensation, and every other -ation there was. The animals knew Him very well; they had met Him several times in their short time in the forest.

“I wish the Rainmaker would hurry up,” the Elk sighed, as he lowered his eyes. “I miss my home so terribly.” Tears began to stream down all the animals faces as they grieved their great loss together.

The Rabbit sighed. She couldn’t see how the Fire would ever stop. It had been raging for nearly a year, and it had destroyed so much of the forest. Even if it did stop, would her home be the same? What about her friends and family? Would they have changed after being kept apart for so long?

“We will go back,” the Eagle spoke up, lifting his head up confidently. “The Rainmaker will bring the rain soon.”

PART II – The Haven

Months had passed, and the twelve woodland creatures had grown very fond of each other. They all developed routines in the safe place they called their little haven, and each day brought them great joy in the midst of their grief and sadness. Every day they woke up, ate together and began to go about the work of living. Some were required to forage for food — different animals required different food, of course, and each animal was very considerate of each other’s dietary needs. Some were assigned to climb or fly up high and look for a safe path home. Some creatures were asked to keep an eye on the sky and keep their noses in the air, smelling for rain. Other creatures offered their love of laughter, in order to keep spirits alive.

One evening, all the creatures were sitting around the fire inside the cave, weary from sky-watching, foraging, and searching for a safe passage home; the brown, suffocating smoke had been especially bad that day, and the twelve felt very discouraged. The Rabbit especially was beginning to believe that the Rainmaker would never come. But as they sat around the fire, each creature began to share their memories of the Rainmaker. They told stories of despair turned into delight; they laughed over moments when they danced in the rain He gave them; they wept over moments when the droughts were so long, they nearly collapsed from dehydration — but the rain always came.

“He said He would always bring rain,” The Moose said gently, as he added more wood to the fire. “And I believe Him.” The rest of the creatures looked at each other and nodded slowly.

“That’s right,” The Wolf declared, running to the entrance of the cave. “He said we should call out to Him and ask for rain. Come on now!” She turned her face quickly towards the faded moon and began to howl.

All the other creatures moved towards the cave and stood next to her. They all lifted their heads high and began calling for the Rainmaker in their own language — they bellowed, howled, squeaked, squawked, cried, and roared — all asking the same thing:

“Come quickly, Rainmaker. Bring the rain.”

PART III – The Rainmaker

One morning, as the Rabbit blinked open her eyes, she smelled something. It was a smell she had almost forgotten. She roused the Squirrel awake. “Do you smell that?”

The Squirrel stuck her little nose in the air and took in two deep breaths in and out. Her eyes lit up. “Is it…?”

“I think it is.” The Rabbit squealed. She dashed around the cave and began jumping on all the slumbering animals.

“Wake up! Wake up! I smell rain!” All the animals jumped up and scrambled outside, with noses high in the air and hope shining like stars in their eyes.

“It’s coming! The Rainmaker heard us!”

They sat outside for a long time, looking up at the smokey sky, smiles never leaving their faces. Hours had passed, but hope never left them. They knew that smell. They knew it wouldn’t be long.

Then, a drop. Two drops. Twelve. And within moments, thousands of thousands began to hit the dry ground and soak the happy faces of the twelve creatures. They looked around at each other and sighed.

The Rainmaker heard them, and they were going home.

“Jesus, your close friend Lazarus is deathly sick. You’ve healed hundreds of people who barely know you. You’ve healed a strange woman who merely touched your garment. You’ve healed a man’s servant with a word. Lord, won’t you heal Lazarus before it’s too late?”

There’s a pause, and then Jesus looks up, smiling curiously at heaven.

“No,” Jesus whispered, “I’m going to wait here for a while.”

All the while, Lazarus’ sisters, Mary and Martha, wait for Jesus to come. They sit by their brother’s side, watching him suffer. Every breath he takes is slow and difficult. “Jesus will come,” they say, confidently.” They stroke their brother’s forehead and whisper softly, “Don’t worry, Lazarus. He’ll come soon.”

A day passes.

Mary begins to worry. Her trust in her beloved Lord is beginning to fail. Martha, anxious and fretful, begins to pace back and forth: “He has to come,” she whispers desperately, “He loves us. Lazarus can’t die. He just can’t.”

“Maybe something happened to the Lord,” Mary cries, as she places her hand on her brother’s pale cheek.

Martha, exasperated, just can’t just sit and wait. The Lord isn’t there, and maybe He won’t come. So what is she to do? She has to tell their friends to come and say their goodbyes.

The next morning, Lazarus dies.

Mary buries her face in her brother’s chest. Martha, in all her strength and fortitude, breaks. She falls to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Jesus didn’t come.

The sisters prepare Lazarus’ body for burial. They anoint his lifeless body with the incense and oils, remembering together the last words they heard him speak. They tenderly wrap him in clean strips of linen, remembering the sound of his laugh.

The sisters and their friends carry his body to the family tomb outside the village. They can’t believe this is happening. Tucking his body inside, the men of the village seal the tomb. Mary and Martha stand there, holding each other, aching, repeating the same question over and over: Why hadn’t Jesus come?

But the next morning, they both receive word that Jesus has come at last. They run to meet Jesus at the entrance of the village. They fall at His feet and desperately cry out before him, saying, “Lord, if only you had come sooner, Lazarus wouldn’t have died.”

Jesus looks at them sorrowfully, tears cascading down his face. He kneels down in the dirt with them and begins to weep, openly and passionately.

If only He had come sooner…

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This is where I pause. I don’t typically love when people take liberty with biblical narratives and create their own fictitious spin, but I was compelled to do so here.

For years, I always read this story with a sort of lifeless, passive emotion. However, in this agonizing season of my own life, my heart was wrecked reading this story over and over. There is so much to unpack.

1. Jesus waiting.

Jesus and Lazarus were friends. Imagine, if you will, your very closest friend. That person is about to die, and you are the one who can save them. But you don’t go. You wait.

Isn’t that absurd and unthinkable?

But Jesus did wait. Our instinctual rush and hurry was not His instinct. His instinct was the purest of obedience to His Father. His ear wasn’t inclined towards the earth’s pressure. His ear was inclined towards His Father’s voice, and His Father told Him to wait.

2. Mary and Martha grieved.

Let’s change perspectives a sec. That some you love is dying, and you know of someone who can help them. You send word to that person, clinging to a thread of hope that they would get there just in time. But in the meantime, you wait and watch the person you love so dearly struggling to breathe. They are fading before your very eyes.

You are rocking back and forth, clasping your hands together, hoping against all hope that they will be healed.

And then they die.

Your disappointment, your hopelessness, your pain, your anger are all immeasurable, and all you can think is “if only he would have come sooner…”

So much raw emotion. If the story stopped right here, what a hopeless thing it would be, wouldn’t it? And sometimes, that’s where we feel like it realistically does stop. Something we were hoping for died. Someone we were hoping would be healed died. Due to circumstances outside your control, something died, and now you feel, as Mary and Martha did, grieved and abandoned. When Jesus does arrive to the scene of pain and heartache, He grieves with you, of course. But all you can think is: He could have, but He didn’t.

However. The story continues…

______________________________________________________________________________

After a while, Jesus stands up, wipes his eyes, and asks to see the tomb. By now, the whole village has surrounded them, and all assume that Jesus wants to continue mourning the loss of His friend at the place he was buried. So they lead Jesus to the tomb.

But to everyone’s dismay, Jesus stands in front of the stone-sealed entrance and requests it’s removal. Mary and Martha look at each other, bewildered. “Lord,” Martha says quietly, so as not to embarrass their Teacher in front of the crowd, “It’s been four days, and I’m sure his body is decaying and reeking.”

Jesus is resolute. He won’t budge. He reminds Martha of a truth that he had spoken to her: “Didn’t I tell you that if you believe in me, you will see God show His power?”

Martha stands there, unsure what is about to happen, but she realizes the determination of her Lord. She nods to the men of the village, and with grunts and groans, they roll away the stone.

Jesus moves closer. The smell of rotting flesh shoots out from the entrance. Everyone covers their noses in disgust. Jesus plants his feet firmly in front of the tomb.

He looks up, arms stretched towards the heavens. “My Father,” he cries out, passionately, “You have heard my prayer. You listen to what I say. For the sake of those who stand here with me — in order that they may believe that you have sent me — I will use the authority and power that you’ve given me.”

His eyes were on fire, and he looks towards the tomb and screams wildly: “Lazarus! Come out of that tomb now!”

A hush falls on the crowd. All eyes move towards the entrance of that tomb.

Suddenly, a body, covered from head to toe, stumbles out. At Jesus’ command, someone runs and peels the wrapping from its face. IT’S LAZARUS. He blinks rapidly and then locks eyes with Jesus. They both smile widely at each other. Mary and Martha scream and run towards their beloved brother, sobbing and embracing him tightly. Lazarus begins to laugh his familiar, infectious laugh. Jesus glances towards heaven, his eyes glistening with the happiest of tears. Lazarus came back.

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GUYS DOES THIS STORY DO SOMETHING TO YOU? My God, it should. Let me just gush about it for a hot sec.

3. Defying Expectations.

Here’s the thing: Jesus could have come sooner. He could have done what everyone anticipated He would do for His close friend — but Jesus did something entirely different. He actually and honestly brought Lazarus back to life.

When Jesus brought Lazarus back, He wasn’t just defying nature, He was defying expectations. Healing had been done before; people knew that was something Jesus could do. But Resurrection? Resurrection done in this way? Four days after death? This was an undeniable work of the Father who sent Jesus. This was a radical reversal of everything natural. This was power unhinged.

I’m physically shook by this.

Deep breaths, Abbs.

4. Resurrection

I feel so strongly that we are all experiencing death right now. For some of you dear and tender souls, it could be the physical death of someone close to you. For others, it might be the death of a relationship you thought you could hold onto, a future you thought was secure… whatever it is, it has died, and you’re sitting the pain and grief that comes from such a loss. And all you can think is: why didn’t He come sooner?

Oh friends, He is coming — and when He does, He will bring with Him all power and authority to resurrect whatever it is in you that’s died. It will not be what you expect it to be. It won’t come in the way you think it will. It won’t come in the time you think it should. But it’s coming, nonetheless.

Jesus’ intention was never to wow the crowd with another healing — His intention, from the beginning, was to resurrect, because resurrection is undeniably God. No thing can explain or take credit for it. It’s simply our beautiful, powerful God’s hand, and He wants to breathe His own breath and life into what has died.

Some things must die in order to be resurrected — and it often feels unfair, doesn’t it? Why do other’s experience healing while I experience death? I wish I knew. But in my unknowing, I cling to the image of Jesus walking towards the village of Bethany, confident in what the Father has told him to do. He is walking towards you, prepared to grieve with you, and will do what He has set out to do — resurrect.

“What is your most treasured memory?”

I sat and thought. I sat and sifted through a short-lived life of moments, all near and dear.

But then my lips began to quiver; a memory began to come and wash over my eyes and stream down my face.

A table. I saw it clear as day. A simple slab of wood, dressed in cloth and surrounded by chairs. The longer I looked, the more the ache began to pulse in my throat.

Then, the table changed. It was lavishly and abundantly displayed with food and drink. The word “feast” seemed an understatement. The longer I stared, the hungrier I felt and a knot formed in my stomach.

I blinked, and then suddenly the table was surrounded. Faces. Dozens of faces. Beautiful faces, sipping from glasses, laughing from their food-filled mouths, and wrinkling the corners of their happy eyes.

Someone sitting at the head of the table was telling a story. All eyes were on Him. The story wasn’t simply amusing — it was delightful in every sense of the word. It was compelling, captivating, and full of unspeakable good.

The story wasn’t exclusive either — everyone around the table had a share in it; they each had a beautiful part to tell. Some wept as they shared their part. A hand reached over to offer comfort, but it wasn’t comfort that they needed, for the tears weren’t grievous tears; they were grateful ones.

The one at the head of the table listened with attentive eyes and a gentle smile. When funny parts were shared and laughter burst out from the table, He belly-laughed until His face colored and His breath gave way. When the sweet and somber parts were shared, His eyes filled with a deep well of emotion that ran down His cheek.

It seemed that this great story — shared by all in parts, around a simple slab of wood, adorned with a feast to feed five-thousand — it seemed that this story wasn’t just a story told by a table of friends, bound together by their humanity — it was something else entirely. It was something that even the tellers couldn’t understand in full, only in part. It was a story that had been told since the beginning of time, and it would be told beyond it — it was the story of the one at the head of the table.

This treasured memory of mine transformed into a vision — a vision of what’s awaiting us in eternity. Seated at the heavenly table, the story we will all tell together will not be our own, but parts of the greatest and most beautiful story ever told: the story of His Death, Resurrection, and our eternal Friendship with Him.

Dedicated to my teammates and dear friends overseas. Our Thanksgiving meal was a glimpse of heaven.

Today is a day we remember death of the One who bore our sin and shame. He was humiliated and mutilated for us. May we never ever forget how profound this is.

I was sitting in a parking lot today, having one of my many frequent melt downs (healing is raw business). I was mourning death. The reality that everything dies hit me square between the eyes. To hope in anything in this sphere is the most pointless effort we can make, because it will die. Our family will die. Our friends will die. Our lovers will die. Our children will die. Our systems will die. Our traditions will die. Our pleasures will die. We, ourselves, will die. That sounds so obscene and gruesome, doesn’t it? But you know that’s not the end. In the wake of this reality, we recall a truth that many of us claim to know and many more have never heard or believed — that Jesus died too… but he came back.

He came back to us in order to stand in his rightful place as the ONLY true and living hope of the world. Because He came back, nothing else we hope in can level up to His matchless grace, love, mercy, and power. As everything falls to rack and ruin around us, He remains. The Psalmist (102) said it best: “Of old you laid the foundation of the earth and the heavens are the work of your hands. They will perish, but You will remain.”

Our bodies are wasting away; this season is a reminder of our inevitable end. But He will remain, seated at the right hand of the Father. He is interceding for us, giving us his Spirit of comfort and joy, and waiting to come back to us again.

If hopelessness has become your companion in these dark days, remember the One who defeated death. He is our Living Hope. He defeated not only his death, but yours and mine, and in a little while, we will be with Him again.

Here is what I don’t want to do as I share this with you. I don’t want to market my pain. I don’t want to sell my struggle. I don’t want to make anxiety look sexy or make myself look heroic for be “vulnerable”. That’s all garbage and worthless. I want the truth to be spoken — and the truth is that I am weak, fragile, helpless and completely out of control, and you are too. Because of that reality, we desperately need Jesus.

A few days ago, I laid in bed, tossing and turning, feeling my chest tightening, my breath narrowing, and my head completely losing a grip on what it thought it could control. My heart has been pounding 24/7 and breathing has been hard ever since. This, as many of you understand, is the ugly face of anxiety. Where did it come from? I don’t know. Perhaps my subconscious suddenly realized that my outside world can’t be controlled, and neither can my internal one.

Today my four walls were choking me so badly and I felt like I was going to explode. So I grabbed a bag and ran outside. I paced back and forth and unleashed a hell storm of tears and pathetic, illogical sobs, begging God to help me understand what was happening to me.

I felt prompted to speak out loud everything that had happened to me since January. It was a lot. Travel bans. Foreign countries. Homelessness. Tense airports. Grief galore. Isolation. Six feet apart. As I spoke it out, I realized that all of it was wild and unnatural and hard, and I had been minimizing it. I had convinced myself and others that it was okay. And the Father, in His gentle and compassionate way with me, told me three things:

Minimizing your circumstances is not selfless. Minimizing your pain is not strength. Minimizing is a way to convince yourself that you don’t need me.

My God.

When we minimize what is happening around us and in us, these are the lies we believe: “There are worse things…” “My pain is nothing compared to…” “In the grand scheme of things this is small…” “This isn’t that big a deal when you look at…” We start to compare. We start to think that we are selfless when we don’t share what’s truly happening inside of us with someone else who’s problems seem bigger (side note – stop that. Share your pain with trusted others. It’s good for you and them. *steps off soap box*).

But worst of all, minimizing our pain or circumstances communicates this to the Father:

“I don’t need you. I can manage this.”

Oh friends, but we can’t manage this. As is the reality of life, nearly everything is outside our control (especially now). And the fact is, you telling Him “I’m fine, it’s fine” just isn’t convincing. He knows you aren’t fine, and He knows that it’s only a matter of time before you realize that the world you so often believe you can control will crumble — the world inside of you that you protect and hide will be exposed for the frightened thing that it is, and you will be undone.

So what have we but Him? What else can we do but call out to Him for strength that we so desperately try to build up on our own? What else can we do but hit the ground and cry out for comfort when it all becomes too much? What else can we do but yield to the One who knows exactly what we need and loves us beyond what we can think or imagine?

I wrote down a prayer I prayed a few days ago in the midst of that heavy anxiety (of course, it included a lot more blubbering and incoherent babble, but I decided not to include that in the text below). Take it for what it’s worth, I really don’t know much. But it’s been a reminder to me that my goal is not to feel better or “get a grip”– it’s to trust Him and remember that He is sovereign, mighty, and good. If you feel the same as I do, you are welcome to pray this too.

Jesus,

I don’t feel you near right now. I feel scared, helpless, confused, doubtful, and anxious. My heart is beating too fast, my breath is tightening, and my head is spinning. But I choose to trust you now. I know that you are with me, because you promised me the Holy Spirit. I know that you are stronger than me, because your power is made perfect in my weakness. I know that you love me because you said that if we believe in you that the Father would love us as He loves you. I know that this present moment will fade away and I’ll be with you in eternity because you died and came back to fulfill that promise. No matter what the future holds, you are in it. Help me to trust you right now, my refuge and fortress, my God in whom I trust.