Hidden Tangerine Sky

Last week, I was sitting on the back porch. With the wind in my face and the smell of rain in the air, I looked up into the sky and watched the charcoal grey clouds roll in. Indian summer was allowing me to wear shorts in this Michigan October, but the turning of the leaves don't let me forget the ticking of time. In three short weeks, our family's ministry of nearly two decades will be ending at the congregation that welcomed us as new college grads.

We are now wrapping that season up; choosing to resign and step back from ministry for a while. We are tired. We have given much. We've invested some of the best parts of ourselves for the sake of a hurting city and a people we love. 

But do anything for 18 years and you see the best and worst of that career. We've cried tears of joy as we have helped others encounter Jesus and be changed. We've had the privilege of leading a team in developing a God-honoring vision. We equipped a core of individuals to work toward that vision. We've seen people bravely keep in step with the Holy Spirit, even when it didn't line up with popular opinion.

But that close-up look at the good, also bought us box seats to the darker edges of humanity too. The spaces where people of faith fight for control instead of trust. Where those you've forged relationship with begin to think the worst of you. Where lips are a concealed weapon to spread untruth.

In so many ways, pastoring has broken me down. It's not for the faint of heart and it has exposed my own weaknesses and flaws. While I have cherished the partnership in ministry that Paul and I have shared this last 2.5 years, I have also come to recognize my own limitations. And so we have made an unusual, renegade kind of decision - to enter into a season of rest from the pastorate.

Sometimes, you just know it's time. And for us, it's time. Time to circle the wagons around our family. Time to make one another an utmost priority. Time to be singularly focused for a bit. Time to remember that a congregation's success doesn't rise or fall on our shoulders. It is, therefore, both safe and preferred to place them in the hands of God, even when the questions about the future can't be answered.

And then I consider our family's own uncertain future. At the end of this month, the paychecks will cease, and as of yet there's no job to step into. Until there's a job to step into, we won't know where to move. Until we know where to move, we can't fully settle into this season. Until we fully settle into this season, we will feel a strain. And over and over, the opaque nature of our tomorrows weighs on me.

Those clouds that rolled in last week were like a haze of ash concealing all that lay beyond.  Just like my own personal horizon - obscured, dim, and dark. 

And God knew. He'd heard me cry out for clarity, for help, for peace. 

And that's when I came face to face with this scene.

From one corner of that sky to the other were gathered clouds of steel, but straight ahead, the clouds had parted. A window to the heavens. Front and center in my view was a reprieve from the pewter lining that sealed up everything else in the atmosphere. And the glimpse I was given was beautiful. The opening revealed a bright, gauzy eye of coral glowing through. 

Color is never so striking as when it shows up in the middle of monochromatic gray. And here I was, all alone outside, in awe of the God who imagines this kind of beauty. How could God waste a perfectly brilliant sunset made invisible behind the clouds? And why, when He offers a view, it seems only a single person is witness to it? Is this not a careless and extravagant sculpting of creation? Does He not need to spare expense in this beauty? I could almost see God throwing His head back in delight at my wonder and then answer, "This is for you, child. I will make more tomorrow."

Just when the sky seemed a never-ending canvas of nebulousness, God peeked through in piercing beauty. And I saw my future in that tangerine-shaded aperture. A gentle reminder that even when all seems dark and indistinguishable, I don't know what God is doing behind the curtain of gray. 

The God who would dare to indulge me with a breathtaking sunset, can certainly be trusted with my uncertain future. I live in the mighty and unshakeable Kingdom, so I do not have to be in control. I am one in whom Christ dwells, and can be assured that God can redeem anything and use all things for my good, so I will not be afraid. I have nothing to fear from the One who loves me most.

In three weeks, we make our final step into the unknown. From here, the sky may look ominous, but I can't see everything. From my vantage point, the cloud cover may seem unending, but that's only one perspective. My future may be unclear, but I have nothing about which to worry. When I least expect it, God will show up in radiant colors of faithfulness and provision to remind me of His exorbitant, lavish, and excessive goodness and mercy. I have everything I need and more. 

On Faith and Foolishness: Our Family's Next Steps

I suppose there is a fine line between faith and foolishness; between doing something risky and being plain stupid. Paul and I are walking that tightrope right now.

At the end of October, we will conclude over 18 years of ministry at West Court Street Church of God in Flint, MI. We have served in various roles over the years, but the most challenging and rewarding have been these last 2.5 years serving together as Co-Interim Pastors.

It is at West Court where we were loved into ministry. West Court is where we cut our pastoral teeth. Where “wet behind the ears” newlyweds became seasoned ministers. Among this congregation we have learned how to be married, we have both become ordained, we have become parents three times over, and we have shared some of the most important moments of our adult, married life.

But the time has come for us to step back and press the reset button on our lives. We have felt the leading to “circle the wagons”, as Shauna Niequist says, and put family on the front burner. The season has come for us to rest from such active and demanding ministry. 

We have poured our lives out, for the sake of the gospel, among this congregation. We love these people. We love this community. We love this city. Yet, we are looking to love ourselves and our family a little more than we have been able to do at a break-neck pace of life. We are desiring a time when our minds can be still to focus on a singular goal instead of spinning with the weight of many.

We have NO idea what’s next. Neither of us have a job yet. We will need to find a place to live. We are not seeking a new ministry position. We are waiting on God to show us the next step. Until that becomes clear, we are working on the assumption that we will stay in Flint, at least for the time being, using our connections and knowledge of the city we love in the hopes of landing somewhere we can continue to serve others and pay the bills. We are looking to find a house within the city limits so maybe our presence can be hope when so many are looking to leave.

But all of these are what-ifs. Uncertainties. Unknowns. Where this adventure ends up is yet to be seen. We are doing our best to trust God in this process. He’s always had our backs before and we don’t expect Him to stop now. If we are sure of anything in all this craziness it’s this…the God who led us to this place will be faithful to see us (and the congregation of West Court) through it.

If you are a praying sort, would you pray for our family and this body of people we love during this time of transition? If you are a networking sort, maybe you can point us to someone who might need a new hire. 

We are moving forward in faith, hoping we don’t trespass into foolishness. We are taking a risky step that might make us appear just plain stupid. Or maybe, God will show up in the middle of this mustard seed faith of ours and we will see mountains in our rear-view mirror (Matthew 17:20). 

Whatever the outcome, our family will walk it together. We’ll keep you posted. 

So much peace and hope to you today.

The Desert Prayer

Today I come clean.
I bare an intimate part of my story.
A part that witnesses to the sweet faithfulness of God.

You can't tell me God doesn't answer prayer.

I know He does.

So here's my story...in less than 1,000 words.

Five years ago, my third child was born.

She joined two siblings, neither of which were old enough to begin Kindergarten.

Motherhood was kicking my butt.

My husband and I were adjusting to zone defense at home.

My expectations were too high.

My tools for everyday survival were dangerously low.

The chasm between those two felt like the Grand Canyon.

I was being swallowed up.

Expectation and reality lie at opposite ends of the continuum.

And to add insult to injury, 

I. was. exhausted.

Children do that.

So do transitions.

Our church was transitioning too.

We were without a senior pastor,

leaving my husband as the only pastor on staff.

At the point our third child was born, 

we were entering the second year void of senior pastoral leadership.

Ministry was kicking my butt.

People's expectations were unreasonable.

The tools passed on to us for navigating these uncertain waters were minimal.

The chasm between those two felt like watching an endless horizon while at sea.

This was a time of great darkness.

I was struggling emotionally.

My husband was struggling.

Some people were constantly challenging, complaining, criticizing, thinking the worst.

Nothing seemed good enough. Fast enough. Effective enough.

My husband was getting beat up.

My husband was held responsible but not given authority.

My faith brothers and sisters seemed more like rivals than teammates.

Fingers were pointed.

Trust was breached.

Hurt happened.

Defenses went up.

And I did what any sleep-deprived, ministry wife who had just delivered their third child would do.

I shrank into myself.

I walled my heart up.

I pulled away from relationships.

Relationships were, after all, the reason I was experiencing so much pain.

I couldn't take another blasted second of any of it.

Motherhood.

Ministry.

Unable to deal with the demands of three small children.

Watching my husband bleed before my eyes while I scrambled to find a tourniquet.

Each morning, when I'd wake up, I would cringe at having to face the day.

I would pray that I could just face it with my family and not have to see anyone else.

Especially at the church.

Because the church didn't feel safe.

The church was inflicting pain, not relieving it.

I was a mess.

And not the kind of mess that looks bad but can easily be cleaned up in 20 minutes.

That's my kitchen. Or my bathroom.

No, I was a MESS.

Loads of emotional baggage. Years of believing lies and seeing God for who He wasn't.

Shattered illusions of my life lay in shards at my feet.

I was a free-falling, fear-clutching, faith-questioning mess.

And then I made one of the best decisions of my life.

I went to counseling.

I still see that decision as grace.

I was in so much pain I couldn't see straight

but God allowed me to get to a brown leather couch

so I could spill it all.

Everything pent up, shut out, holed up, breathed in, spewed out.

And little step by little step, 

I began to walk through this desert time.

And at some point in the six months I sat on that couch, 

I began to whisper a prayer.

A prayer I didn't fully understand in the middle of my pain.

A hope beyond what I was able to accomplish.

A God-sized circle as Mark Batterson calls it.

Father, give me a love for your people again.

It was one of those prayers you love and hate simultaneously.

I knew it was right. I knew it was the way of health.

I could remember days of feeling the love for those who currently felt like enemies.

I wanted it again.

But to get there?

That would require the hard work of forgiveness.

and self study.

and God study.

It would require a re-assembling of my faith that still felt fragile and immensely private.

But I prayed it anyway.

Father, give me a love for your people again.

Counseling lasted six months.

My desert time lasted three and a half years.

182 weeks of relearning truth and reframing my life with that truth.

1,300 days of heart-wrenching realignment to the One who knows me best and loves me most.

30,660 hours to fall in love with the God I thought I knew but only saw in part.

Slowly I walked with Jesus out of that pit.

Each new statement of belief,

each lie rebuked, 

each day faced, 

each moment lived, 

each fear disarmed, 

each injury pardoned, 

each person affirmed,

formed a step that I placed all my weight upon

and lifted me closer to freedom. 

And two months ago, 

when our congregation was facing turmoil

and transition threatened to resurface, 

and some were revealing the uglier sides of their nature,

I realized something.

Two months ago, 

when my heart for God's church was marked by

protectiveness, 

gentleness, 

kindness, 

patience,

I recognized one, singular, glorious fact.

God had answered my prayer.

He had restored a love for His people.

My pain, my hurt, my injury

absorbed by Him

and in it's place...

new love, 

greater love.

My arms were opened for embrace

and not closed to brace for retaliation.

My eyes could see the potential for growth

and not the potential for ruin.

God had answered my prayer.

And I am overwhelmed.

And abundantly grateful.

All for His glory and for His purposes.