Smelling Hope (Honest Thoughts on Advent Preparation)

It’s Advent. The season that invites us into the waiting. Through the process of waiting, we are preparing for the arrival of One who will change everything. Christmas Day will dawn and a baby will turn the world, and religion, on it’s head as He grows. Divinity will be clothed in flesh and bone, and humanity will forever be changed. Advent is the time that prepares us to receive this moment. 

I think about the ancient prophet Isaiah, and his words in chapter 40:3-5 when he begins to predict the return and salvation of Israel and it’s people. 

3 A messenger is calling out, “In the desert prepare the way for the Lord. Make a straight road through it for our God. 4 Every valley will be filled in. Every mountain and hill will be made level. The rough ground will be smoothed out. The rocky places will be made flat. 5 Then the glory of the Lord will appear. And everyone will see it together.

In Isaiah’s day, when a king was planning to visit a city or town, the road leading to that town would have to be prepared for the king’s arrival. So the road would be cleared of any obstructions. If the path was not level then painstaking care would be used to fill in holes, raise up ditches, and level off unneeded or dangerous inclines. If the path was rocky, then the rocks, sometimes large and extremely heavy, would be removed. And it would be the people of the town who front the cost for preparing the way because a visit from royalty was worth it.

And so the preparations would begin. Townsfolk would clear away brush and remove large stones that would impede the way. People of the village would take on the task of making the landscape level so that the king could travel without incident. They would do all they could to make the path straight, smooth, and comfortable. The king was worth it.

That’s the spirit of Advent preparation too. There is a King coming, once in Bethlehem and again at the culmination of time when the Kingdom will be fully realized. Advent invites us into the process of preparing the way for a King. And it’s a work done not with our hands, but in our hearts.

With that said,

Advent preparation has been particularly hard for me this year.

Tears are close to surface most days for me. My children are used to seeing Mommy standing at the sink with water running from both the faucet and my eyes. The other day, my 9-year old son asked me a question and apparently my voice sounded odd so he asked if I was okay. My 7-year old inquires if my tears are “because I am sad about Granddad.” My tween notices my melancholy and tells me I am quiet a lot. it’s all true. I am quiet these days. More quiet than normal, albeit I am an introvert by nature.

I am in my head a lot. Things swirl and go round and bring me back to the place I started. It keeps me up at night. I try to make sense of things. Of myself. Of my grief. There’s a code word I use with my husband (thank you, Gilmore Girls) to let him know I am in my head and it’s a storm up there…”monkey, monkey, underpants.”  I know, it’s not sophisticated, but it does communicate.

Anyway, my heart’s been a little bit (or a lot) of a mess lately. Probably like the wilderness that Isaiah was calling on to be leveled in preparation for the king. I’ve needed some work. There’s been soul-brush that needs removal. There are some valleys that need filling in and some rough places needing attention. So I’ve been doing what I can, with the tools I have, to prepare for what God might wish to do next when He shows up. And He always shows up.

Paths Made Straight

Heart work is always hard work. It forces us to face who we are. It requires honesty, which is something we say we want but secretly fear, especially with ourselves. Advent preparation means a new attempt at being honest with myself. For more than three decades, I have fortified a way of believing that says I am what I do; that I hold no value apart from my behavior, my performance, and what I can offer. In this season of preparation, I am learning (and relearning) that this way of thinking is old wineskins. It’s hard to let go of old wineskins even when they keep bursting from pouring in new wine. The new wine being this fresh, bigger, more magnificent sense of who God is and who I am to Him. But oh what lengths I will go to in order to hold on to the familiar. This house-of-cards shelter of faith I’ve erected over time is a known place for me, but it is no longer comfortable. Like a hermit crab that’s outgrown it’s shell. 

Even so, I stitch up those old wineskins, looking to recycle and repurpose them. Problem is those old skins can only be mended with a needle of “suffering is spiritual” and the thread of performance-based worth. Then I try and tie it off with high expectations, happy isn’t holy, and secure a hidden lining of works-based theology. But they burst every time I pour in the new wine - the new wine of a God who’s lifted my head from shame, who’s forgiven me already, who’s love is not conditioned by me, who’s grace is always enough, and who’s dreams for me are good. It’s just too much. And it turns out Jesus was onto something after all. Old wineskins don’t go with new wine. So, I am working on exchanging an ill-fitting way of thinking for a new one.

Filled-in Valleys

This year's Advent preparation has about done me. 2016 has been a year filled with grief and loss for me and my family. And this journey with grief has stuck close to me. It curls it’s fingers around my heart and squeezes until I cry, “Uncle.” But grief doesn’t play by my rules, and so the ache remains and never quite dulls enough to be forgotten. Deep surrender to this companion of grief has sometimes come through tears and sometimes through the desperate need to sleep, because the emotional exhaustion is real. 

I’ve lost a father. And in doing so, have lost my only close, blood connection to his lineage and ancestry. I’ve lost a voice of affirmation and strength. I’ve lost a voice of wisdom, even when we disagreed.That kind of loss presses into me like a weight that won’t let up.

My husband and I have lost a sense of identity and relationship as we said goodbye to a congregation with which we’ve spent 18 years. We’ve lost companionship, built-in time to relate to others. We’ve lost the sense of sharing life together with a group of familiar people sharing a common goal.

Our family lost our cat. It sounds silly, I know, but in the midst of everything else, it almost felt like the breaking point. You know that point, where you throw your arms in the air, look heavenward, and ask in all sincerity, “Really, God? Seriously?” Our children are heartbroken. I am too. With every movement I see in my peripheral vision, I expect to look up and see Sophie. I expect to find yet another hairball to clean up. What I wouldn’t give for another hairball to clean up.

Each of these losses have impacted this journey of preparing my heart for a coming Christmas. There’s been a loneliness in adjusting to life after each of these goodbyes. And working through the loneliness is like clearing away the brush from a road the king is going to use.. I may be attacking 10 foot shrubs with tiny hedge clippers (and I have truly tried that in real life), but I am doing the work I can with the tools I’ve got, because there is a King coming. Redemption is drawing nigh and I want to be ready.

Rough Ground Smoothed

And so the road to my heart is being increasingly prepared through this "dark night of the soul." But you know what also helps in the preparation of a road?

Natural erosion. 

Wind or water, 

over time, 

through 

consistent, steady 

pressure and contact, 

can actually alter 

the landscape. 

And that’s when it hits me like a righteous 2x4.  Every single blasted tear I have cried over these horrible, mysterious, enlightening, aching, burdensome seven months has been precious. Before I even understood it to be so, my tears were helping to prepare my heart for a time that is still future to me. A moment when my Christmas will dawn and God will show up in my life, in a new way. 

My tears have been eroding the hard places, the rocky crags, the jagged edges so that my Bethlehem moment can come, and the King will be born anew in me. It may not be on December 25th. In fact, I have no idea when it will come to pass, but I believe it will. God promised He wouldn’t leave me and would not forsake me. And in this wilderness of heart, my King is still on His way. So I will do what I can to keep at preparing the road, even though it’s hard, taxing, grueling, and may cost me more than I thought possible. But the King is coming, and He is never late even though it might feel that way to my grieving heart. 

The Coming Glory 

There’s this particular smell in my therapist’s office. It’s a good smell, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. For me, however, the aroma is synonymous with healing. I step in the office, sit on the brown love seat, and crack open my soul - piece by piece - trying to make sense of all the loss, of all the changes, of all the everything. And I can smell hope. Every time. Even when I am stumbling out of there from the hard work of heart work, that hour offers a little more encouragement to endure and do what I can to clear the way for the King's arrival.

I sometimes wonder why I choose to write such personal things on a public blog. I am not sure I have a great answer, but I have some ideas. One is that maybe being open with my journey will allow courage to rise up in another so they can admit they aren’t okay...and realize it’s okay to not be okay. Second, if I share my struggle now, before all is said and done, do you know how freaking amazing it’s gonna be when I get to share how the glory of the Lord has shown up? Isaiah must have known when you do the hard work of preparation, it clears the way for God to be down-right, kick-butt amazing. 

And you know what else? You can travel both ways on a road prepared. It goes in both directions. And when Christmas comes, this prepared path between my heart and God’s will be less obstructed. And I love that image. The valleys of my heart? They’ll have been filled in. The rough places of my soul? They’ll have been made plain. And I will have unprecedented access to the One who knows me best and loves me most, just because I am.

The Advent preparation has been a killer, but the King is coming and He’s worth it.

Not This Year (Honest Thoughts on Advent Waiting)

This is first Sunday of Advent. The 4-week season that presses us toward Christmas and the Incarnation. When we welcome Emmanuel as He moves into the neighborhood as a baby born in Bethlehem's obscurity.

Advent. The season that marks the beginning of the year in how the church tells time. The season named from the Latin "adventus" which means to come or arrive. This is the season that will end when the divine splits human history and is birthed now in flesh.

And culturally, we Americans often misunderstand the meaning of Advent. Advent is about preparation. Getting ready for what Christmas will bring. It's about fitting ourselves for the coming of Jesus - the Christ child. 

There's something beautiful in the idea of preparation. Of being set for what is ahead. Practicing and conditioning one's self, mind, heart for the future. Being primed for the yet unknown. 

There's also an general excitement surrounding how we ready ourselves for Christmas. An expectation that comes for the promise of gifts and goodies at the end of Advent. The thrill of Christmas day is what propels us, as we hope and wait for all that could be. As if the waiting will be worth it. There will be no disappointment. We can freely fling our arms wide and receive whatever is given because it will be good.

And when the end of November comes, almost every year that I can recall, I have met Advent with a sense of delight. Something about this time of year that makes the world seem better, friendlier, hopeful. And my heart has involuntarily responded to the thrill of the season. As if I can't help but be caught up in the goodwill among most men.

But not this year.

This year, my heart is unresponsive. Flatlining in the wake of grief and change and unknowns. This year, waiting doesn't seem to promise a good end on December 25th. In fact, it is hard to see any end to the waiting in my heart this year. 

Oh, I know for Whom I wait. I know His name and I am sure of His character. But as this Advent dawns, my heart dreads more waiting. 

That's why this sentence brought some solace to me last night:
"The character of worship during Advent is more solemn, quiet, and less festive than during other times of the year." (churchyear.net)

Solemn, I can do. Quiet, I can do. Less festive, I can do. Looking backward, to how believers have historically approached this season of "arrival", we find it was done in a much different attitude of heart. It seems quite contrary to the way we approach and even worship in Advent today. 

I am finding camaraderie with the ancients this year, for nothing in my heart is leaping for joy. There is very little in the waiting that brings comfort for me right now.

We picture waiting as the wide-eyed excitement of children straining for a glimpse of reindeer. But sometimes the waiting couldn't be farther from that truth. Sometimes the waiting is the hard part of the journey. The birthing pains of a future yet unseen. Sometimes the waiting doesn't hold any thrill at all. Sometimes waiting is just the endurance to hang on another day. The challenge to stay faithful without fanfare.

And I began to wonder who in scripture might have understood waiting as I do this year? And surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, I easily listed nearly twenty examples of those who knew a season of waiting when it was far from amenable or desired.

- Noah and his family waiting on the ark 

- Abraham and Sarah waiting for the fulfilled promise

- Joseph waiting for the cupbearer to remember him in prison

- David waiting to be king after his anointing

- The enslaved Israelites waiting for deliverance

- Moses waiting on the mountain while the people waited below

- Elijah waiting for the famine to end accompanied by a widow and her son

- Jonah waiting in the belly of a fish and under a leafy tree

- Mary waiting for the life inside her to grow (and perhaps for her faith to be vindicated. her reputation to be restored)

- Mary & Joseph waiting in Egypt for Herod to die

- The wisemen waiting for the sign of the star

- King Herod waiting for the wisemen to bring word of the whereabouts of this Jewish King 

- Mary and Martha waiting for Jesus after sending word of Lazarus’ illness

- The woman with the issue of blood waiting for healing, 

- The man paralyzed for 38 years at the pool of Bethesda

- Jesus waiting at the well in Samaria

- Jesus waiting before the Sanhedrin and Pilate for their opinion concerning his guilt

- The angel waiting at the tomb for the women?

- The disciples waiting in Galilee for Jesus to appear after the resurrection

- The disciples waiting in Jerusalem for the Holy Spirit

- Peter waiting in prison

- Paul waiting for his sight to be restored after losing it on the road to Damascus

I am not sure any of these examples of waiting warrant the giddiness of anticipating Christmas like we do in this brave, new world of ours. 

I know my waiting doesn't.

I know a family still waiting for an estranged child to come home and to discover the love of God. I know a couple who are waiting (or perhaps have given up the waiting) on becoming parents. I know a city of people still waiting for the water that flows through the pipes to be declared safe for consumption. 

All of these examples can bring a melancholy to the process of waiting. Grief can dull the sense of expectancy. And so can weariness. And loneliness. And feeling unheard and unimportant. So can being powerless and without leverage. So can praying the same prayers for months and years with no change.

Advent is a season of preparation. A waiting for something that is still due to arrive, still yet to come. And for some of us in our world, the waiting is just plain hard, somber, sad, heartbreaking, distressing. 

You see, this Advent, I am waiting... 

for the night I can tuck my kids in bed without tears for a beloved pet we had to put to sleep.

for the deafening ache of missing my dad to dissipate.

for the silent phone to ring with news of a job.

for a steady income so we can secure new housing.

for my pace to slow.

for my soul to breathe.

for my trust to increase.

for my courage to stretch.

for my fear to wane.

for hope to come easily on it's own.

This Advent, I am waiting. 

But there is so much about the waiting that is unwelcome. Unnerving. Uninvited. 

And I happen to believe this is no reflection of a lack of faith on my part. My disdain of the waiting doesn't mean I am losing my way or walking away from God. I would argue the exact opposite. With every step I take into this Advent, I am exercising greater faith than ever. I am certain Jesus came in Bethlehem and I am confident He will come again to set all things right. And when I don't feel a thing in this heart of mine, I have no doubt that He is still the God who is Emmanuel. He is God with me...even in the midst of this waiting in which I do not delight. 

This short, instrumental piece is one that seems to reflect a part of my soul for this Advent. There's a longing in the melody of the oboe. A discontent within the notes, as if straining for something more. Something distant and out of reach.

And that's my waiting. No clear end in sight. No excitement in the meantime, yet an acceptance of what is because I know who is in it all. And so the final notes of the song bring a kind of resolution. I trust that is true for my own heart as well. I didn't ask for so much of this waiting and I am not thrilled with it's presence in my life. 

Not this year.

Come Christmas, however, maybe I will have made a little more peace with my waiting. Or maybe I won't. Either way, I am trusting the One who has been given the position as Prince of Peace. Either way, Jesus has come, is come, and will come again. God has been, is, and will be with us. And God is with me. 

"...and he will be our peace..." - Micah 5:5

An Election Lament

The country has waged a full-blown civil war,
but there’s nothing that’s civil about it.

The underground chasms that lay so long dormant 

have surfaced and broaden the rift.

A two party system that forces two sides,

while neither is full friend or full foe.

Demanding decision - come on, where’s allegiance?

Make a choice…cuz the aisle’s now closed.

The vision of eyes has narrowed enough 

that enemy is all that we see.

Unless of course, you have the “good sense”

to only agree with wise me.

We’re force-fed opinions and ear-splitting derisions,

all the while, we dismiss one another.

We can’t insist freedom for our slice of the pie,

while oppressing the life of a brother.

We swallow the thought that louder means lovely

but sometimes, loud is just loud.

With deafening speech and a short-sighted voice,

the decibels shatter our trust.

Parents aren’t havens when drafting their children

so families are torn full apart;

Friendships unravel, relationships scatter,

as words drop like bombs on our hearts.

The keyboard’s become our nuclear codes.

And social media? It’s almost all anti-social.

For we forget that we’re interdependent, 

not made by God as precocial.

Removing the safety, the crosshairs in sight,

sound-off with your words, sons and daughters.

Go ahead, kill me quick, neighbor of mine,

for we’re all being led to the slaughter.

No longer neutral in this no-man’s-land,

where life isn’t meant to exist.

Every square inch has become full-on noxious,

seems futile to try and resist.

To just keep on fighting brings no victory,

for all of us end wounded warriors.

So holding my hands in a silent surrender

I shed my heart’s prejudiced borders.

Retreat, in this case, is not my defeat,

instead it’s the spartan brigade.

For people aren’t targets, they’re not punching bags,

I won’t sling my words like grenades.

So I am defying the conventional orders 

of a most unkempt civil war.

Civil disobedience is my battle cry,

as I seek to give another the floor.

Don’t cut my taxes, instead cut my losses

and I’ll start to reorient my view.

Until freedom and justice is granted for all

this meaningful fight we can choose. 

The most foreign of policies we could ever espouse 

is to fight for the rights of another.

So foe becomes friend, yet again in this land,

and enemy transformed to a brother.

Until we decide to mutiny our fear,

we can’t be the home of the brave.

A country united for the good of each life,

let that be the banner that waves.

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. 

Dear Dad (One Month Later)

Dear Dad, 

Today is the one month mark since you’ve been gone. I have been attempting to prepare for this day for a whole week. Dreading it is the more appropriate word. When I woke up Thursday morning, having dreamt of you and feeling rested and relaxed, the world became a crushing weight as full consciousness reminded me you weren’t here. My grief over your death is still so fresh. It dwells at the surface. From here on out, to say that you’ve been gone for more than a month feels like I've lost some nearness to you.

I am still learning how to say goodbye to you. It’s a process; a lesson to learn. I figure you could have talked me through something like this with great wisdom had you still been here.

One month. 31 days that have lingered swiftly. Drudged on rapidly. Like they last forever, but are over too quickly. Not one of those days has gone by without thoughts of you. So many thoughts of you. 

One month ago I heard your voice for the last time. Weak as it was, I heard you, Dad. You love me. I carry that certain truth with me now and it brings me comfort. But oh, how I long to hear your voice again. To hear the jangle of the phone and answer it to find you on the other end. Most of the time 400 miles separated us, and the sound of your voice was the embodiment of your presence and influence in my life. Yes, I want to hear your voice.

I wish Minnie could have spent her 60th birthday in her classroom for a family party like you had planned, not in the funeral home making arrangements. She did really well though, Dad. She misses you something fierce, but she is taking one step at a time. 

I wish you could have experienced all the love being offered at your funeral visitation. Lines of students, parents, coworkers, life group members; all present to honor you. With tears in their eyes, they would recount stories of the difference you had made. Do you hear that, Dad? All the moments you spent questioning your investment and the trajectory of your life…it all mattered. I imagine you must have realized that fact in grand measure when you entered heaven, but it was a sight to see on earth too.

I wish you could have seen Paul. He fulfilled your request to officiate your funeral. You would have been so proud of him. I certainly was.

I wish you could see the way Justin is supporting his mom in her grief. He’s helping to make sure all the details of life are understood for Minnie.

I wish you could have heard my words at the funeral. It’s what you asked of me - to speak on the topic of reunion. Had it been up to me I would have stayed in the pew silent, but only you could have persuaded your ordained daughter to give the funeral sermon from the pulpit of a Southern Baptist church. Paul and I figure you would share an ironic laugh with us about that one.

I wish you could have been sitting at the funeral service when “Pancho and Lefty” began to play in Valley View’s sanctuary. I still don’t know why you wanted that song, but in a strange way it gave me strength in a hard moment. It was just so you and it was like a gift you gave us. Thanks for that.

I wish you could have hugged your grandkids in the moments when the grief has gotten to them over this last month. Alex was there, Dad. He helped Minnie pick out your tie, he sat in the background of the funeral not wanting to draw attention, but he was present. Eliana finished the book you gave her for Christmas and was able to whisper to you what she liked best, just like you wanted. Johanna buried her head in April’s side as she shed tears. Levi said he would sell all his Legos to have you back. Moriah sat with me at midnight and missed washing dishes with you. Sweet Brandyn stood at your casket saying he loved you. And “little” Mackenzie; she took it all in stride, keeping track of all that was happening. It would have made you smile.

I wish I could have kept you up to date on all that  has been happening with our family here in Flint. So many decisions, changes, transitions. You have always been one of my biggest fans - loving, supporting, and praying for me. I really need that right now.

I think to the future and all the coming moments that I will be missing you. Like next week when Eliana will turn 12 and there won’t be a call from you. Like next month when it will be one year since we explored Washington D.C. with you. I am forever grateful for those precious moments. Like the 17th of every month. Like the first Thanksgiving and Christmas without you. Like when I won’t need to buy you a 65th birthday present in January. Or maybe I will anyway. So many moments I will miss you, and I will cry, and I will learn a little more about to say goodbye.

Dad, I guess all of these words just boil down to one simple truth…I love you. It sounds so trite and so expected, but in all the world there are no better words to sum up everything else I feel. My life is better because of you. And I miss you terribly, and have been for a month. But nothing will ever change how much I love you. 

Always and forever, 
Your little girl

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.