Thank you for all the quiet ways you continue to offer your everyday love and prayers.

We count it an honor to partner with you as we learn to extend the love of God within vulnerable neighborhoods.

The Lord is our strength and delight. God is truly faithful.

Verse 7 below stands out these days, “I will praise the Lord, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me.”

peace,
Nate & Melissa

P.S. – We’d love to give you a call. If you have interest, please zip Nate your phone number by writing to riseup@awkenneighbor.com

Psalm 16

A miktam of David.

1 Keep me safe, my God,
for in you I take refuge.
2 I say to the Lord, “You are my Lord;
apart from you I have no good thing.”
3 I say of the holy people who are in the land,
“They are the noble ones in whom is all my delight.”
4 Those who run after other gods will suffer more and more.
I will not pour out libations of blood to such gods
or take up their names on my lips.
5 Lord, you alone are my portion and my cup;
you make my lot secure.
6 The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
7 I will praise the Lord, who counsels me;
even at night my heart instructs me.
8 I keep my eyes always on the Lord.
With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.
9 Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
10 because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful[b] one see decay.
11 You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

Footnotes:

Psalm 16:1 Title: Probably a literary or musical term
Psalm 16:10 Or holy

And check out the following web for additional resources: http://www.vocationalstewardship.org/

As the journey unfolds with all of its unexpected avalanches or unforeseen challenges, I often thank God for friendships, for the people in our life who hold our arms up when we feel a little worn out, isolated, or discouraged. Through neighboring friendships near and far, the presence of God is experienced as we impart hope, offer a word of encouragement, or simply enjoy someone for who they are. In that way, God is still on the move; the work of upholding justice is still at play, and the restoration of impoverished communities happens through friendships marked by the pursuit of God’s joy, wholeness, and character.

For without each other, the work stands still.

Celebrating life,
Nate

“Two people can accomplish more than twice as much as one; they get a better return for their labor. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But people who are alone when they fall are in real trouble.” –Ecclesiastes 4

Last Sunday, on a day that for many years meant church, sometimes fried chicken and sometimes beef, but always mashed potatoes, a good nap, time with family whenever possible, and non-negotiable family reunions, Grandma went home.

One of my children was recently trying to give me a reason for some certain actions she had taken, when she finally gave up, threw her hands and eyes toward the ceiling and yelled, “I JUST WANT ADAM AND EVE TO MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE!” And I feel very much like that right now, here, trying to reconcile the reality that Grandma lived a full, long, and wonderful life, with the truth that it’s just not supposed to be this way. As we have faced this time, I’ve realized how deeply I resist that which brings us all one step closer to our own mortality, to the absence of life where there was life such a short time ago.

And Grandma was full of life. I’ve struggled this week to figure out what to say today, because there is so much that could be said. There is no way to put into words 92 years of such a life, and I find a lot of comfort in knowing that the story of her will continue to be shared in the years ahead.

I live on the south side of the city of Atlanta, but the land that is home to me is 126 acres of farmland outside Quincy, IL. I only lived there for about 2 months at the beginning of my senior year of high school, but it’s the only place I knew as my grandparents’ home, the only place that has remained a constant throughout my whole life, the place we spent holidays, the place we spent 2 weeks every summer, the place to which my dad would fly a 4- passenger Cessna in Octobers when I was little so we could celebrate the October 10th birthday that Grandpa and I shared. I will always remember the year Grandma baked one of us an angel food cake and the other a devil’s food cake. I’ll let those of you who knew us both guess which way she meant for that to go. (A few years later, my sister, Sarah, was also born on October 10th, resulting in a greatly increased number of angel food cakes.)

One of the first words that come to mind when I think of Grandma and Grandpa and Mockingbird Hill farm is hospitality. Grandma was always a fabulous cook. You would never have found anything called a “garnish” on the top of her dishes, and the servings she generously handed out definitely would not qualify as one of today’s dietary “servings.” But the food was always delicious, and no one ever left her house hungry. Grandma didn’t hesitate to let her opinions be known, and she was a woman who did not wish to be confused by the facts once she had made up her mind about something. As frustrating as that could be for the one on the receiving end of a conversation, the strength of who she was defined her space, and she and Grandpa made their farm a place where many knew they would be welcomed, wanted, loved, fed, cared for, and made safe in whatever way was needed.

I remember the day Grandma moved from the farm into an assisted living residence within the city limits; I felt relieved, knowing it was where she needed to be, but also grief, knowing an era was coming to an end and changing hands to the next generation of our family. And then, as I had time to think about my grandmother making what I knew would be her final move into a nursing home, I found that I was gradually losing my fear of getting older and finding deep beauty in a long life lived well.

I saw Grandma at Christmas, and though she didn’t know who I was, her spirit, her soul, was the same. Even in the absence of her memory, there was still a comfortable familiarity between us. She still reached for the babies in the room, and she still made sure everyone had a place to sit, and she still let us know, “if you’re hungry, there’s some peanut brittle over there on that desk…”

Within the safety of Good Samaritan Home near her farm in west-central Illinois, Grandma spent the last few years of her life receiving the care that she gave out generously for so many years. There are things that outlive a lifetime, and we are here because at some point, our lives connected with hers in a way that has brought us back to share our loss, and to celebrate the hope we have that today, Marian Irene Kurfman Mayfield is home.

So as we grieve as those who have hope, may we take care of each other and those around us, and may we care especially for those who most need to be cared for. May we be free, free to be who God has created us to be, free to make the differences we have been made to make. May we know the love and faithfulness and hope of the God who made us for this time in history, for this is the heritage we have been given.

Pain doesn't seem to play favorites. The brokenness of life is everywhere and some days I feel so tired. Some days I feel pain in my own life, and some days I deeply sense the pain of others around me. Sometimes I can't help but feel distant from others as I experience the wide chasm of isolation among people caught between worlds, cultures, and perspectives. Sometimes my faith feels weak even though my hope is sustained in the One who has been here all along—the Divine Neighbor.

Years ago, I met a man named Steve. He was in his mid-forties and dying of cancer—the doctor had recently told him he had only a few months to live. Steve reached out to me as a pastor, but we quickly became friends. We met nearly every week, and sometimes we met several times a week. One month turned to another month, and then several more months turned into a year. Steve spoke into my life, prayed for forgiveness over pain he caused in his family, and grew in compassion for those closest to him. He didn't use churchy language and he grew to love God with an honest love, one that only comes from God.

I remember the Tuesday afternoon when Steve asked me to share about Jesus at his poker tournament. How could I turn down the opportunity to speak at a poker tournament? The next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of a packed open bar with a mic in my hand. The energy was electric and the soul of my five-minute message was focused on the essence of relationship. I told the story of the time I played basketball at a tournament in Ivory Coast. The African arena was filled with about 5,000 fans. We knew we were in trouble when we learned that our little hodge-podge unit of former college grads was playing their national all-star team. These guys were good. Really good. One player literally jumped over me for a fast break dunk. I've played ball in many big cities, and I've seen some players. This guy? I saw the bottom of his shoe flying over my head.

We lost.

As soon as the game was over, several thousand people rushed the floor and a small riot began to break out. It felt like our team was about to get trampled by the pushing and shoving and celebrating fans. The police arrived with machine guns and billyclubs and began beating people. That was the moment our team grabbed each other's arms and formed a circle. We held each other up against the wave of the crowd around us, and it was then that I knew everything would be okay.

As I finished the story in that bar, everyone locked arms and surrounded our friend, Steve. Somehow the Divine Neighbor met us that evening at a poker game in an old building off the beaten path, where hard-working people stood beside a man and his family saying, "No matter what happens, we're with you."

Sometimes loving our neighbor is allowing our neighbor to love us.

Not all stories end like that though. I have had to face my futility in the face of incredible pain more often than I care to remember. Like the first funeral I officiated. It was for a stillborn baby of friends of mine. They exemplified a spirit and grace and forgiveness and depth rarely discovered among families. Then there was the moment when a woman from our church called me to share that her husband had committed suicide. What could I tell her? There are no words. And then there was the time a man was crawling around my office floor oppressed by some kind of demon, scratching at the carpeting near my desk with his eyes rolled back. There was the time when my pastor decided to leave everything he knew, including his wife and children. And I can still envision the time when gunfire filled the air in front of my living room, when my neighbor was searching for a place to live and only had a few days to do it, and when my friends experienced racism and somehow found a way to respond with peace and grace.

I could go on and on. The list of stories never really seems to end. Some days I still feel pain that I forgot was there. Why do I still struggle? Why is this same old thing resurfacing after all these years? Crises abound and our ability to breathe takes a concerted energy. I have no easy answers. Most of the time, I will never fully understand the extent of the pain people feel all around me, much less my own. Yet I do know that God knows my pain and the pain of others, more than I could ever begin to fathom. I do know that there is hope and healing and forgiveness, and that I have much to be grateful for as I experience new mercies at daybreak.

There are times when we need to step back and observe what's happening within us and around us. Sometimes we need to slow down and wait, allowing the quiet whisper of the Spirit to rejoice over us with singing. For some of us, we need to be still. We need rest. We need the God of all Comfort to heal us, mending us back together, allowing the Divine Neighbor to love us first. Somehow, God seems to absorb our pain. He meets us in the most obscure moments when we have nothing left, when we don't feel like laughing, or when the well is empty and dry. But Christ doesn't offer the absence of pain. He offers himself. Christ extends a hand as our neighbor as we grapple with the extent of the healing that we need. He also invites us to stand with each other so that together we can discover that, while some experience pain or poverty, others are experiencing joy and celebration.

Joy and pain are more closely related than it seems—the two live side-by-side. They too are neighbors, living in the same zip code, on the same street, and even find each other bound up together in the same home. In all the extremes of life, Christ kneels down and enters our world. In joy and sorrow, we can experience God as the ultimate neighbor, a Divine Neighbor within us and with us at our side. Somehow, the Spirit of God continues the process of healing me when I least expect it, when I discover that another layer to the onion is about to peel back toward the center of my heart. And I come to understand that God hurts with me in my deepest moments of discouragement. I learn to become a neighbor with others when I embrace God as the first and ultimate Neighbor in my life. As I choose to receive the unending love and grace of God, then I am able to show love to others and receive it from them.

The brilliance of Jesus awaits fresh discovery in the open places of our hearts where we find that there is plenty of room for love. It is a relentless love that brings strangers together in strange places like poker tournaments and churches, streets and offices. We in the Western church are one small expression in God's kingdom, and our moment in global church history depends on our smallness—one risk at a time, one breath at a time. One small choice to love leads to greater opportunities to love.

May we be people of action, serving one another with such passion and endurance that the most trying of tasks and the most difficult of times would seem like only a few days to us. May we never stop showing the grace and love of our God to each other. In humility, may we regard each other as better than ourselves, determined to be people of hope in the midst of personal and global crises.

Jesus is leading us into our neighborhoods, standing ready to embrace us in the unknown of our pain and joy. Are you hearing the tune that is being sung for us? When the fullness of God's new song crescendos, joining all of creation with that chorus, " . . . members from every tribe and language and people and nation . . ." then we will know why the law and prophets hang on a command to love—to love God and our neighborhood as ourselves. Let us dream up new ways to live and share and lead and love.

The Divine Neighbor awaits us with open arms.

"Stand at the crossroads and look;
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
and you will find rest for your souls."
Jeremiah 6:16 (NIV)

Download: The Divine Neighbor (.pdf)

The last few months of each year in our family mean a lot of birthdays, an adoption day, and then, for us all, the holidays. I’ve been thinking a lot about adoption this year – the true miracle of adoption. The miracle that means belonging at the very deepest level, that creates a true belonging that cannot be taken away. The miracle that with every word we speak about the beauty and significance of adoption in our family, we are also acknowledging the beauty and mystery of our belonging in Christ, in God’s family.

I think a lot about how it all started, about how I get to be a part of this. Because, based on how it all began with Abraham and God’s chosen people who came from him, based on the natural order of things, I really shouldn’t even be talking about this, about belonging to the family of God. Not being of Jewish descent, if you go back to the whole idea of how being chosen got started, I wasn’t. Yet God, in his love that I cannot begin to understand, made a way of adoption into His family for those of us who didn’t meet the original qualifications. And, amazingly, when belonging meant adherence to the law God gave through Moses, the heart of God, even then, was for His people to love and welcome the stranger*. As I live in this grace, which God has made available to everyone and is experienced by those who choose to follow the resurrected Christ, I find that in my humanity, my sense of belonging continues to grow stronger and deeper, and I take it less and less for granted.

I had a dream recently in which I was standing by a table that Jesus was preparing. The table extended so long that I couldn’t see the end of it. As He prepared the table, I followed Him around it, trying to get Him to give me answers to all my questions (I had a lot). The only response He gave was, “There is enough room around the table for everyone who is supposed to be there.” I stuck with Him, asking more questions, trying desperately to communicate my deep need to know answers. All He said was, “There is enough.”

I don’t know who’s around your table during this season of thanksgiving, remembering, and celebrating. I remember a few holiday dinners in my home growing up that included elderly people from our church who didn’t have other family. I may not have even known some of their last names. But the spirit around the table was that they were invited, they were welcomed, and they belonged there with us. This year, we celebrated with people to whom we don’t belong by birth, but who have let us and so many others know over the years that we belong. Due to my broken elbow, our two boys spent Thanksgiving with my brother and sister-in-law and her extended family, and I am so grateful for that, knowing that they were loved and welcomed.

So, come on; let’s be those who welcome. You’re invited, and you are wanted. And, in case you’re wondering, there’s enough room for everyone.

*Deuteronomy 10:19