Just Wandering About Life

“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.

You know what I’ve discovered? Truly knowing a person requires hours and hours of seemingly meaningless chatter, pointless doing, and mundane being… and I must confess, that annoys me. I want to cut right to the chase and know everything about person right then and there. I skim over the surface of people, really. But cutting right to the chase and skimming people has left me disappointed and irritated, because people are, unfortunately, complex. They require patience. So you see.. I’ve found that I don’t have patience to know people deeply, and that has cost me dearly.

I have one particular story that showcases this lack of patience. It’s a pathetic one, actually. I’m smirking as I type this because it’s so classic romantic-comedy. But spoiler: in the end, I don’t get the guy.

Several years ago, I met a guy, and due to some encouragement from friends, I went on a few dates with him. They were good dates. Conversation was good. The food was good. The guy was good. However, I just felt frustrated after each date. “I don’t think we fit,” I told my mom. “There’s no chemistry,” I said… (low-key rolling my eyes at that cliche excuse for writing a person off). So I closed my heart and decided I wasn’t interested. “I don’t want to waste my time when I know this isn’t going anywhere.” I thought.

But over the course of the year, we continued becoming good friends, and that following summer, I realized what I had done. I had gotten to know him, and suddenly, I saw the mistake I had made. He was an incredible person; we could have been awesome together. Unfortunately, it was too late for that. Life pulled us in different directions. My hasty decision based on little-to-no knowledge of who this guy was had sabotaged the desired rom-com ending.

I know. My Hollywood blockbuster life. I do have a significant point to make though.

We fill in the blanks with people, don’t we? We’ve gotten really good at skimming… too good… to the point where we skim over people and make the fastest and most tragic assumptions about their worth and person. The movies glamorize this sort of “instant connection” and rapid depth. But this isn’t reality, is it? People are so complicated and layered. Every single human has something to be discovered. How arrogant are we to then piece together a full person from our weak assumptions and poor judgments?

If you read this and hear me yelling, just know that I’m yelling at myself. It’s conviction, not condemnation (there’s such a difference).

You see, I’ve been called out by the One who is the most steadfast, patient friend I have.

Steadfast, by definition, means “firmly fixed, immovable”. Isn’t that a remarkable picture of how committed Christ is to loving us? Firmly fixed in his intentions to be with us. Immovable in his affections towards us. This sort of commitment is beyond what earth can offer, but He offers it to us eternally.

So my conviction is this (take it or leave it): Take time with people. Ask questions. Wait. Do it again. Wait. Don’t take them at face value. Their Creator didn’t make them two-dimensional. Don’t skim people. This will require a supernatural patience and trust, but it will be worth it, because every single person is worth knowing. How crazy is that? The weirdest human you know is worth the time to know. Oof, that’s another conviction for another day.

As a pink sliver of sun was peaking over the horizon, the little girl left her house and headed towards the river. She went to wait for Him. She knew that He took His morning walks by the river, and she was longing to see Him. Today was an important day. She was going to ask Him to fill her heart. She wanted her heart to look JUST like His one day, and she couldn’t wait to start.

She carried her beating heart in her hands. She stared sweetly at it, and spoke to it: “Today is the day, dear heart! He’s going to fill you up!”

The heart was all sorts of bright and wonderful colors. It looked like a child’s canvas. Some pieces of it were splashed with pink, blue, and green paints, and other pieces were colored with wild squiggly lines, with no clear beginnings or ends…other dearer pieces were splattered and coated with sparkles, glitz, glam and absolute wildness. She was proud of her little heart, but she knew it couldn’t stay the same. It must look like His one day.

She arrived by the river and plopped down on the soft earth by the rush of water, holding her heart close to her chest. The sun was fully present now, and she could see Him approaching. He was singing softly and deeply, as He often did during his morning rambles. His voice was the only sound in the world that made her heart really skip a beat.

The girl ran down the pebbly bank to meet Him. He held out His arms to her, and she wildly leapt into them . She could hardly contain her excitement.

“I’m so glad you finally came! You see, I want you to fill my heart today! I want my heart to look just like yours! Oh, won’t you fill it please!?” She was giddy and giggly and could hardly keep herself from shaking.

“Fill you?” He smiled, cocking his head with genuine curiosity. “Let’s take a look at that heart of yours.” He reached down and took her heart carefully.

“Fill it up to the brim!” she sang.

“You want me to fill it, but it seems there is no room for me.” He said this with an air of playfulness. He handed it back, but she wasn’t having it. She was determined and desperate.

“I don’t care, won’t you please fill it?” She implored. “Your heart is the most beautiful in all the world, and I won’t be satisfied until mine looks just like yours.”

He smiled and nodded with a great grin spreading across His face.

“It’s my greatest joy, dear one, to fill you to the brim. I want your heart to look like mine too.” He bent down and locked eyes with her. “But you must remember that as I give, I also take away.”

“Of course! I know!” She half-listened to Him as she twirled around with glee. He was going to make her heart like His! At last!

He took her heart again and examined it for a moment. Suddenly, He did something the girl didn’t expect. He took out a piece.

She screamed and flew forward. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I’m taking out this piece of your heart.” He held it sacredly in His hands.

“B-but… you aren’t supposed to take out the pieces!” She grabbed her heart back to look at the damage. The piece He took out was the piece she loved most dearly. It was bright yellow, sparkly, and made her so happy to look at. No other part of her heart was like it, and she was horrified that anyone would even think about taking it.

“How else can I fill your heart if I can’t take out the pieces?” He tilted His head and furrowed His brows. “Don’t you trust me?”

She stared at her heart. There was a hollow space in it now. It didn’t glimmer and glow like it used to. There were still beautiful pieces, of course, but nothing like the piece that He took. Nothing could compare. She began to feel angry.

“Go away,” she fell to the ground, clinging to her little heart tightly. “You… you are cruel.” Tears streaked straight down her face.

Her words seemed to wound him, but not anger Him. “I know this hurts, little one, but you must trust me. I’ll be back. Please wait here for me.” Moments later, she looked up and he was gone.

“That… that monster.” She thought, bitterly. “He took the piece I loved most. Why would he leave me with this hollow space?”

Minutes felt like days. She stared at her pathetic heart, beating with a sad sort of dull rhythm. That hollow space was unbearable.

She suddenly had an idea.

“I can’t stand this hollow space any longer. I’ll find something to fill it!” She stood up, heart in hand, and marched towards the town with a vengeance.

Soon after she arrived, she found a man sitting on the bench. He was holding some pieces of shiny metal. The shine drew her in, and she held out her little heart to him.

“Sir,” she asked desperately. “Can I have those small, pretty pieces to fill my heart? There’s a hollow space, you see.”

The man smiled wryly, and tossed over the pieces. She picked them up and tucked them inside the heart. But it seemed that there weren’t enough pieces to fill it up completely. The hollow space was too big.

“I’ll find more things to fill it! Not to worry, little heart! You won’t stay empty for long!”

She continued her search around the town. Different people offered her different pieces. Shards of glass and metal began to fill up the hollow space. However, the more she filled it, the more hideous it became. In fact, the pieces were causing her to lose sensation in her heart altogether. She began to move like a lifeless corpse.

The sun began to set, and she found herself back by the river. She looked at her heart again. Jagged metal and broken pieces of glass were spilling out. She stared blankly and coldly at the thing she once looked at with pride.

“It’s all His fault. If he hadn’t taken that precious piece, I wouldn’t have this ugly, ugly heart.” She gritted her teeth and dropped the heart in the dirt.

Soft footprints approached her. She knew it was Him, but she didn’t dare look up. She just stared blankly at his feet.

“Oh dear one, where did you go? I came back to find you and you were gone.” He sounded so sad and concerned, but her heart was cold.

“I went to fill that hollow place you left in my heart.” Bitterness gripped her throat. She continued to stare at his feet, and then saw drops of water hitting the dirt. She glanced up and saw His face. He was crying.

“Oh my little friend, didn’t I promise to fill it? Why didn’t you trust me?”

She felt a twinge in her heart. His grief seemed to hurt her more than she thought it could. He knelt down and picked the heart off the ground and brushed it off with his rugged hands. He held it inches away from her eyes.

“Don’t you remember what I told you in the beginning?”

She sat in silence. She remembered His words clear as day, but could only remember the moment He took away her most beloved piece. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“You said… as you give, you take away.” She choked on her words and suddenly burst out, “But why would you take away what I loved most? Why would you leave me with that ugly hollow in my heart?” Suddenly, her heart broke. In two. Right there. The metal and shards of glass fell out.

Her sobs were uncontrollable and she felt His arm reach around her. For a few minutes, He sat there, His arm tight around her shoulder, tears dripping down from the tip of of His nose.

His arm left her side and she opened her blurry eyes. He grabbed a clean, white cloth from His pocket and began cleaning off the broken heart. She watched in wonder as he took out a needle and thread and started mending it back together. Hours passed, and soon, the miraculous mending was complete. The heart looked almost brand new. But the hollow space was still there.

He took the heart and placed it in front of her.

“Little girl, do you want me to fill it?” He said this with such kindness and intensity, that her stomach tightened and her eyes widened.

She looked for a minute. She considered the pain of what she had lost. Could anything be better? She remembered the numb of the shattered pieces that didn’t belong inside her… would His filling leave her wanting more?

While these questions created a long strain of silence, His eyes melted into hers, and then suddenly, all she could remember was how He mended her heart with such care. He wasn’t angry that she ran away. He wasn’t bitter that she tried to fill her heart with other things. She abandoned him, and yet He still remained true and promised to fill her. This compelled her to take the newly mended heart, with the hollow space, and give it back to Him.

“Please sir, would you fill it?”

A wide grin stretched across face and wrinkles deepen into His eyes. He laughed big and took the heart.

“Get ready, sister,” His eyes sparkled, “This is gonna be good.” He began to pour a sparkly, waxy, caramely, golden something in her heart, and the warmth was so sweet that she nearly melted into a puddle on the ground. She smiled with complete satisfaction. She looked at the hollow space — full, glimmering, and more beautiful than she could have even imagined it to be. She even noticed pieces of what He had taken — the sparkly yellow — it was there too.

“Your heart isn’t finished, you know,” he smiled. “When the time comes, I will give you more and take away more. What do you think about that?”

She felt a brief tug of sadness at what she would lose, but something new was inside her now: a peace that it was somehow going to be worth it.

“Fill it up to the brim,” she smiled and sighed a sing-songy, satisfied sigh.

There was once a little seed who lived comfortably in a box. There was nothing spectacular about this seed. He enjoyed his tiny seedy life, simple though it was. However, one early morning, before the sun had even peeked over the horizon, a farmer opened the box, took the Seed, and placed him deep into the cold earth.

The Seed, enclosed by the earth in this early morning, had always heard about this Farmer; many of his other seed friends had told him that one day the Farmer might come. “Today is the day, I guess,” the Seed sighed, half-accepting, half-annoyed.

Days and days went by, and the Seed started noticing other seeds being planted next to him. It was nice to have company, and the Seed was beginning to actually feel very comfortable in the dirt. He had companions, a warm place to rest, plenty to drink, and that was all he required.

But then one morning, something started happening. The Seed felt a painful twinge in his shoulder, and he looked over and saw something that made him cry out in terror.

“What is this thing?!” He screamed.

“We heard it’s called a sprout,” the other seeds said ominously. “They say it’s all part of the process.”

“What process?”

They shrugged.

So the Seed tried to ignore the discomfort. This unwelcome change had to be dealt with eventually, but for now, the seed was content to turn away from the sprout. Maybe it would go away. But boy, it hurt.

A few days later, the Seed started to panic. The sprout was getting bigger and bigger. Now the Seed could hardly recognize himself. The sprout overshadowed him. In fact, he felt as if he was becoming the sprout.

“I don’t even recognize myself anymore!” He wailed in despair.

Just in the height of desperation, the Seed found hope — a new friend moved in next door. She was called the Weed. She was so kind to the Seed. She always listened to him, empathized with him, and often spoke nasty things about the Farmer.

“It’s really awful, isn’t it?” The Weed said, “How that horrid Farmer put you here so you could grow? I mean, what sort of monster would do that to you?”

“Yes,” the Seed said, his voice trembling with frustration. “I’m miserable.”

“You know,” she whispered sweetly, “I could help you.”

“You can? How?” The Seed looked up, feeling a twinge of nerves — something about how she said it…

“I can end your growth.” she said, with a weird smiled on her face. “You’ll go back to being a seed, when life was so much better! All I need to do is get close enough to you.”

“Really? You can end my pain? I don’t have to grow anymore? Yes! Please, whatever it takes. I just want to go back to being my old self.”

Days went by, and the Weed was reaching closer and closer to the Seed, and he was full of hope and fear — what would she do to end the growth? Would it hurt more? Would going back to being a seed be everything he wanted? He didn’t know, but the Weed insisted that this was the best option, and he wanted to trust her.

“I’m almost there,” she smiled brightly.

“I’m ready!” The Seed gulped, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

All of a sudden, without warning… Whack! Boom! The ground shook and the Seed opened his eyes. All he could see was the Weed being dragged up and out of the earth’s surface. She squealed and fought hard, but it was no use. Within minutes, she was gone. The Seed sat in silence, tears brimming. It was the Farmer. He uprooted her. He killed her. Now, the Seed had lost all hope. His wretched growth would continue, and that menacing Farmer was to blame. Seething anger arrested the Seed as bitter tears sprung out of his eyes.

Within a matter of weeks, the Seed no longer was cozy and snug in the ground. He had popped out of the earth. All he could see was blue. Nothing but blue. It was something unusual to the Seed — not altogether unpleasant, but not completely welcomed either. It seemed that the blue turned pink and purple at the end of the day, and then when night came, black spritzed with twinkling lights. To the Seed’s reluctant admittance, it was sort of pretty to watch.

At night, the Seed had time to think about his poor life. He no longer felt the same. Thanks to this growth, every day was agony. He felt stretched and overgrown. His friends probably thought he was looking down on them now that he was above ground. Why did the terrible Farmer put him in the ground? Why did the rain and sun make him grow? Why did he have to leave the comfort of earth?

One afternoon, for the first time ever, the seed could turn his “stem” and look around at his surroundings. It was… incredible. There were colors and shapes and images that he never expected to see.

An old sunflower looked down and shouted, “Welcome to the Garden, little fella!” The Garden. He hadn’t realized that this was the place he was planted. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so upset if he knew that this beautiful place was where the farmer put him.

Losing himself in the wonder of this Garden, he almost didn’t notice the Farmer. The Farmer was a simple man, with no impressive features. He bore no semblance of malice or greed, as the plant expected. In fact, there was an air kindness he carried with him as he walked the rows. He seemed to enjoy walking in the Garden with his tools, trimming and digging, with sweat trickling down his brow.

The Seed felt a sudden surge of shame. He looked around him and saw all the other beautiful plants and flowers. “I’m just a silly little sprout,” he thought. “I can’t compare to any of these. The Farmer would never notice me.” Imagine this bitter little sprout longing to be noticed by the Farmer he once despised?

But suddenly, a miracle happened. The Seed heard footsteps near him, and he looked up to see the smiling eyes of the Farmer.

“Well, there you are!” The farmer cried with delight, as he stooped down towards the seed. “My, how you’ve grown!”

The seed was speechless. The Farmer saw him? Knew him? Seemed to LIKE him? Oh, if only the Farmer knew how much the Seed didn’t want to grow. If only the Farmer knew what the Seed really thought before meeting him. If only the Farmer knew how much the Seed had hated him…

“You know,” The Farmer sat down, crossing his legs and folding his fingers together, “I’ve been a farmer for a really long time. Many seeds don’t make it. Sometimes, they just couldn’t… or wouldn’t… grow. I’m so happy, little one, that you grew. I know it wasn’t easy, and I know you maybe didn’t want to be apart of this garden at first, but I’m so glad that you are!”

The seed was in awe, and suddenly felt… well, he didn’t know what. Welcomed? Happy? Full? Understood? Too many emotions to count.

“Little one, I must tell you.” The Farmer leaned towards him with a sudden earnest in his voice and a tear in his eyes. “This growing won’t stop for a long time — and sometimes, I may need to cut off parts of you — and that will be painful. Won’t you trust me in this process? I promise you, it will be worth it.”

While this idea frightened the Seed, he found himself nodding and accepting. There was just something about this Farmer that was irrevocably compelling and trustworthy.

The Farmer nodded back, stood up and turned to leave, but the Seed wanted to know one thing:

“Farmer, since I’m no longer a seed… and you said I would grow a lot more… I wondered, what am I growing up to be?”

He laughed, his grey eyes gleaming as if they held a great and wonderful mystery. “A tree.” He then turned towards the cornfields, whistling a jovial tune and resting his garden hoe happily on his shoulder.

“A tree?” The Seed wondered. He didn’t know what this was, but maybe it was something good?

“I had heard it a hundred times in my life, but for whatever reason, whether it was how you said it or the timing… it finally clicked…”

My dear friend said these words to me after she had dealt with some long, hard, and heavy few months. I had shared what I considered to be a simple truth… a truth that, frankly, I felt powerless speaking. I felt like my words were useless the moment I shared them. I thought that there is no way what I said would make a difference. And yet… months later, she told me that they did. As a result, she saw something that she hadn’t seen before, and it was all because the Holy Spirit worked in those words, in that perfect, divine, crazy moment.

There have been books, articles, inspiring sermons, artsy-fartsy home decors, and blogs on blogs on blogs spreading the idea that our words matter. It’s a message that has inundated our society. Sensitivity, political correctness, and simple consideration all play a heavy part in our present world’s communication. While all of this is truly important to consider, I see something deeper at work in all this.

Our language is an entrusted gift.

We have a heavy responsibility. We must guard our words and treat them with great care. I’m afraid our free speech has run away with us. We are far too prone to use our words to tear apart, destroy, and criticize rather than build up in love. We have been entrusted with the gift of language. Our Creator made us to communicate (which is amazing when you consider it long enough). What did He want us to communicate? The Love of the Creator. The Hope that is an anchor for our souls. The dream of the estranged returning home. The Joy found in His Presence. And so much more… really, he gave us language to connect and transform. Let’s not take this gift for granted or stifle its ultimate purpose with our scorn and judgment.

“Follow the pattern of the sound words that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. By the Holy Spirit who dwells within us, guard the good deposit entrusted to you.” 2 Tim 1:13-14

Timing is everything.

Language has significant power, yes. We can use that language to build up or tear down. But there’s a sort of mysterious phenomenon that happens when our words meet the perfect moment. We call it divine, and rightly so. The Holy Spirit is constantly showing up in places by using our weak and seemingly cliche words to transform hearts. Communication moves beyond the horizontal space of people… it involves the vertical connectedness of the Divine. When the Holy Spirit indwells, our language, that we often consider clumsy and helpless, is used in magnificent ways… to connect, draw, and inspire others towards holiness and wholeness. We don’t often know when that divine moment is for someone. I could have never known that the timing with my friend was so significant. But had I held back the truth because of the fear of “being cliche”, that moment could have been lost. Our charge is to speak that truth, ask and discern the moments, and trust the Spirit to do the transforming in His sweet and perfect timing.

How we say things actually matters.

An overseas friend said something to me that stuck — it wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it that I’ve never forgotten. I was discouraged, she encouraged me with truth, and I thanked her for her wisdom. Her response was humble, bold, full of love, and perfectly straightforward: “This is truth you already know. I’m just reminding you.”

I’ll never forget that. Somehow, her perspective and brassy words were needed in that moment and have forever transformed how I think about sharing truth.

We should never discount our perspective or the gift of language that He has specifically given us. Our voices in the lives of others is so important, and as our grace-filled speech reaches into hearts, we can rest-assured that the Holy Spirit is interpreting.

Ultimately, there are two things working in communication (there are many other things too, but for the purpose of this blog, I’m focusing on two) — our brains and the Spirit. If our brains can cling to truth and communicate in love, then the Spirit will use whatever weak words we produce to glorify the Father. Let’s be responsible for our tiny words and trust the Spirit to do the heart work.

It was the day the child had looked forward to her whole life. Ever since she could remember, she had been told of an unspeakably good and beautiful place, and of the journey to get there. After what felt like ages, her father told her she was ready to go. It was time.

They stepped out of the house early that morning, and her father began to lock the door behind them. “Hurry, dad!” the child cried, watching him slowly turn the key. Anticipation and butterflies swirled around in her stomach.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the father laughed, sticking the keys in his pocket. They jumped off the porch, and the child grabbed his hand. Their great journey had begun. The destination? Unknown to her and beyond imagination.

As they strolled down the street, the child noticed that there were many other children too. These children, however, were running. They were completely unsupervised — no fathers in sight.   They seemed completely free and able to move at their own wild pace, and no one was holding them back.  They spun around, laughed, danced, and sang down the street. The child looked down at her little hand that was wrapped up tightly in her father’s. Feeling a sudden impatience, she lurched forward, tugging her father’s arm, begging him to move faster.

“Come on, let’s go faster,” she cried. But the father kept his steady pace.

“We’ll get there,” he said with a confident smile. “Don’t you worry.” Frustration and disappointment at his resolve to go at a leisurely pace crept into her heart.

Suddenly, the child saw one of her good friends rushing towards her. Her friend’s cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, and her hair was wispy and wild. Her eyes were wide and full of buzzing excitement.

“Hey! Why don’t you just let go of your dad and come with us?” Her friend cried, grabbing the child’s hand and tugging her a little towards the crowd.

“I can’t,” the child sighed. She glanced up at her father for a quick moment and then looked down.

Her friend laughed loudly. “Yes you can! You’re gonna miss the fun if you don’t! Your dad is SO SLOW! Come on!”

The child considered it for a moment. It might be better if she let go. After all, she wouldn’t be gone away from him completely. He could catch up. She just wanted to go a little bit faster. Surely, he would understand that. With the pace they were going, it seemed they were never going to get there.

But the child looked up at her father and he looked back. He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. He seemed to know that she was considering letting go of his hand. Yet, he didn’t look angry. There was a sweet and compelling sort of look in his eyes.

The child sighed again. “No, you go ahead,” she found herself saying. Her friend looked bewildered and then coughed out a mocking laugh. “Too bad. Guess you aren’t as brave as I thought you were. Have fun with daddy slow-poke!” The child watched as her friend skipped away and faded into the herd of happy children.

Hot tears welled up in the child’s eyes. She felt so alone. She stopped moving, angry and hurt. Her father also stopped with her.

“Are you tired, little one?” He asked, stooping down to fix her flipped collar.

“No, I’m mad,” she blurted. Her face felt like fire and she stared stubbornly at the ground.

“Won’t you tell me why?” The gentleness in his voice irritated her more because she knew how kind he was and how silly she was being, but she kept her eyes down.

“Everyone else is so free! They can go where they want and move as quickly as they want. They don’t have any fathers to hold them back. Don’t you get it? Don’t you care? Don’t you want me to be as happy as they are?”

There was a long pause. The sound of laughter faded. The sudden silence unnerved her. She just wanted him to admit that he was wrong to hold her back. She wanted him to move out of the way. But he didn’t move. After what felt like an eternity, the silence broke.

“Why didn’t you leave me?” he asked.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you leave me when your friend asked you to? You had your chance and you didn’t take it.”

“I… um…” suddenly she felt embarrassed. She didn’t expect him to bring that up. She didn’t even know why she refused to go. But before she could stop herself, her tiny voice cried: “Because I…I think didn’t want to go without you.” She finally released her stubborn stare at the pavement and looked at him.

The creases in the corners of her father’s eyes deepened, and sweet satisfaction fell on his face.

“And I’m so glad you stayed,” he whispered, tucking her loose hair behind her ears.

He didn’t have to say anything else. She somehow knew that her father loved her more than anything else in the world. He was steadfast and sure, and she was young and foolish. He gave her the dignity to choose, and her choice was a reflection of the deepest longing in her heart — to be with him. Maybe the destination didn’t seem as important as the journey with him beside her.

But her heart was still heavy. She wrapped her little arms around his neck. She buried her runny nose in his collar. He held her for a long time as she cried.

“I just… I just wish I didn’t feel so alone.” She blubbered and babbled for a minute, and he held her tighter and tighter.

After a minute, he peeled her off of him, stood up, and turned her towards the street. “You think you’re the only one?”

In that moment, she realized that there were other children holding their father’s hand. Some were tugging, like she had done. Others were licking a melting ice cream cone while riding on their father’s shoulders. A few of the older kids were cracking jokes with their fathers, throwing their heads back in laughter. Some were behind, some were ahead, and some were right beside her.

“You see,” he whispered, “You aren’t alone.” She looked around in wonder, and a small smile spread across her face.

Then his tone became serious. “But maybe some will reach the destination sooner. Maybe some will stop moving, as we just did. Maybe some will let go of their father’s hand and start running ahead. Daughter, will you be alone then?” She looked up to him and wrapped her tiny fingers around his. This question hung suspended in the air for a few moments.

“No,” she breathed in and out, slowly. “I don’t think I ever will be.”

They continued on the journey, and the wild children continued to zoom past them and mock the child as she held her dad’s hand. Some called her a baby. Others called her a coward. A few even called her weak. But their taunts couldn’t make her let go of his hand, and she knew that they never would.