In that life we lived less than 10 minutes from downtown Minneapolis; we could see the skyscrapers from the end of our street. We played sand volleyball in the shadows of the city and met up with friends in overpriced coffee shops and ate at hole-in-the-wall restaurants with delicious food I couldn’t pronounce. We went to theaters and concerts and bars where Brian’s bands played live music amidst the confusing maze of one-ways. 

Our faded yellow rambler was squeezed between two identical houses close enough to touch. We had a postage stamp-size lawn with a red swing in the front yard that hung from a silver maple twice as high as the house. We had lovely neighbors we’d talk to across fences and have a beer with in the street on humid evenings after mowing our lawns. 

I never dreamed of growing old there, but neither did I imagine leaving. And so when I was recently asked if I missed living in the Cities, I was surprised by my quick but decidedly firm “no.”

*

Ten years ago my car sat idling on Highway 100 in my daily 60+ minute “rush” home from work. 

That day I found out another fertility treatment had failed, I’d gotten a rejection call for a new job at a new company I had really wanted (and thought I’d get), and I’d been told by my current boss that unless big changes happened, I was sitting in a dead-end position. I had tried a lateral move within my company, and was rejected in that as well.

Brian was also looking for a way out, disillusioned and jaded by his industry’s lack of integrity and morality. We longed for change—for purpose, really—but couldn’t see past the crushing obligations and other roadblocks we ran into every time we tried a new thing.

I was trapped in so many ways, and I couldn’t see the next exit—and all the grief and anger and humiliation I’d dammed up surged into a river of rejection and desperation and despair. So with tears streaming down my face, I punched the steering wheel and screamed. Really loud. With ALL the windows down. And I railed at God—and the doors he kept slamming shut—at the top of my lungs as my fellow trapped motorists quickly rolled up their windows, awkwardly trying not to stare (and failing).

“I’M DROWNING,” I screamed. “AND WHERE ARE YOU, THE GOOD GOD WHO PROMISED THE RAGING WATERS WOULD NEVER OVERWHELM ME? WHERE—” (1)

But my words caught in my throat when I suddenly heard a firm but gentle voice cut through my yelling and tears: “Do you trust me?”

I whipped my head back and forth, startled by the proximity of it. I couldn’t tell if the voice was real or just in my head. 

“Um, what?” I asked out loud.

“Do you trust me?” the voice gently asked again.

I sat completely still, knowing I was going crazy, yet daring—even hoping—I’d hear it again.

And as clear as if I’d been wearing headphones, I heard it a third time: “Do you trust me?”

There was no hallelujah chorus or bright ray of sunshine or descending dove or lightning bolt rending through the slogging traffic. But in that moment, I felt the raging river beginning to calm. I felt like I finally broke the surface for a huge gulp of air, and I knew. I knew to the core of my weary bones that the God I was railing at was trying to get my attention. My cries—honest if somewhat self-centered—had been heard in the heavenly courts. And with grace and compassion He pierced through my BS to the very heart of the matter.

“Yes,” I finally sobbed. “I do. I trust you.”

Then have patience, dear child, He whispered to my heart.

“For how long?” I could feel the panic creeping into my voice.

I have not forgotten you, and I will not forget you. Know that I love you.

“But how long do I have wait?” 

Only the hum and buzz of city life answered me.

And yet. 

A peace spilled over me. I stopped crying. Traffic started moving again. 

And I knew, somehow, even if I couldn’t see it or plan it out, things would change. 

*

I imagine that the sun was just starting to creep above the horizon on the Sea of Galilee, its rays not quite touching the little boat where Peter and a handful of other disciples tended to their fishing nets. After the tumultuous events of the last few weeks, there was comfort and escape in the rhythms of their old lives, lives that revolved around the small world of the sea, far away from political upheaval, crosses, and empty tombs. For Peter, it was the life before he denied knowing the man he thought had come to change the world. 

They were probably sore and tired and grumpy after fishing all night—and having nothing to show for it—when the growing light showed a figure standing on the shore. They couldn’t make out who it was. But somehow this person knew they hadn’t caught anything, and he yelled out to them to cast their nets off the other side.

They had no reason to do what this stranger said. But I imagine Peter’s heart starting to beat faster, his mind beginning to race, as his fingers handled the wet, rough nets one last time like he did three years earlier.

And, like three years ago, the nets start slipping through his fingers, too heavy to hold the massive weight of fish suddenly filling it. 

In those moments Peter knows. 

And in true Peter fashion, he immediately jumps out of his boat and swims to shore to find Jesus, alive and well, standing there, breakfast ready. And as they sit in the sand by the warm fire and eat the bread and fish Jesus prepared, Jesus asks Peter if he loves him more than these things—these things that have sustained him, that he’s built his life and identify around.

Of course, says Peter instantly.

Then take care of my lambs, says Jesus, and in the next breath he asks again, Do you love me? 

And again, Peter assures him he does.

Then shepherd my sheep, Jesus replies before asking a third time: Do you love me?

YOU KNOW EVERYTHING, the exasperated Peter says; YES. I LOVE YOU.

Then look after my sheep, says Jesus. (2)

And in those simple words, denial is exchanged for belief. Shame for redemption.

Sand and sea for cities and crowds. Fish for sheep. A job for a calling.

A way of life for the Way of Life.

*

On paper, our life in the city looked as expansive as the sea. But we were caught in the trap of working for a lifestyle, not a life. Somewhere along the way, we lost sight of God’s dream and replaced it with the American Dream. Like Peter, like so many of us, we returned to the nets of security and comfort we knew; we were fishing, but coming up empty. 

But then a Voice calls out. And it pierces through our self-centered plans and dreams in a way that cuts ever-so-gently to our core.

You will seek Me and find Me, He says, When you seek Me with all Your heart. (3)

Peter left the sea. We left the city.

Five years after that day on Highway 100, we found ourselves walking up the snow-packed path with our six-month-old son into a new life in the Great Northwoods of Minnesota. We’d stumbled and fallen and somehow found ourselves in a mystery bigger and more important than ourselves. A mystery of seeking first His Kingdom and righteousness and trusting that somehow everything else we needed would be added unto us. (4)

Instead of rushing headlong after what we thought was important, we prayed. And waited. And prayed and waited some more. Sometimes patiently, sometimes unwillingly. But we took each step—big or small—as it came. We emptied our hands and minds of the material things we used to define our worth and status and security. And we filled our mind and hearts with the words and promises and love of the One who delights over us and knows every hair on our head. (5)

In the shadow of the cross, we exchanged rush hour traffic for wandering the woods; leading teams and committees and meetings for chasing two crazy, adorable boys; climbing corporate ladders for washing dirty little feet.

And in the exchange, He transformed us. He gave us new life and purpose and vision to do the good works He had planned for us to do. (6)

My world looks smaller these days, yet it’s infinitely bigger. What felt like death to give up gained us infinitely more than I ever dared dream. 

But this is the way of the Kingdom. Mystery and paradox and exchange and transformation. 

It’s the exchange of a way of life for the Way of Life—who transforms pain into purpose, fishermen into fishers of men, barren women into mothers.

And so we pray, with empty hands and all our hearts, Your Kingdom come, Your will be done. (7)

***

1. Isaiah 43:2

2. John 21

3. Jeremiah 29:13

4. Matthew 6:33

5. Zephaniah 3:17; Luke 12:7

6. Ephesians 2:2, 10

7. Matthew 6:9

It had been a horrible day. Just… so. incredibly. hard. And in a brief moment of will-power that only comes from divine grace, I grabbed my running shoes instead of a glass full of vodka.

I’d spent too many days the last few months grabbing for a bottle before my Bible. I was tired of fighting losing battles and facing fear after fear come to life. I believed to my core in the goodness and faithfulness of God. In His mercy and justice and sovereignty over all. I believed that He cared deeply about me and my family. And as the darkness descended, I held on to the miraculous ways He’s intervened in our lives over the last few years. I prayed fervent prayers, and I whispered verse after verse to myself of His promises.

I’d been here before; the battle was familiar, but the weapons formed against me were different. They cut deeper. They pierced areas I thought were protected. And my counter moves seemed ineffective against the new attacks. I was exhausted. I was vulnerable. I felt like I crawled back to the bunker each night battered and bloody. And when the Physician didn’t swoop in to bind my wounds, I dumped some alcohol on them and hoped for the best.

*

The story of the blind man in John 9 is one of my favorite stories in the Bible. One reason (of many) is that, to heal this man, Jesus mixed his spit with dirt, smeared the mud over the man’s eyes, and then tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. (1)

What? 

I mean, really, was that necessary?

Because only a few chapters earlier Jesus heals a lame man just by speaking to him. And a few chapters later he raises Lazarus from the dead with just words. (2)

But this guy needed to wander around with spit-mud on his eyes.

What if he hadn’t gone to the pool? What if he’d wiped the mud from his face right away? What if he had yelled at Jesus for smearing spit on him? What if he had walked to the nearest wine seller instead, insulted and despairing over ever getting healed? 

But it says he went, he washed. He saw.

And when he came back, his relatives and neighbors—the people who saw him every day—didn’t recognize him. They argued over whether this was really the blind beggar.

And that was where the real miracle began: He wasn’t just healed. He was transformed.

*

This summer I prayed for reprieve. I prayed for answers. For healing and help. For God to reach down and miraculously make all things right.

But instead I got mud.

And you know what? I recoiled. I yelled a little bit. I questioned his methods. I wandered without finding the pool to wash in, so I tried to wipe it off with alcohol. I lit my own torches to find my own way out of the darkness.

Could He have healed me and my circumstances with a word or the touch of His hand? Absolutely.

But I was blind to the deeper reality of what was going on. And I needed that mud for what He really wanted to give me.  

*

Scout wandered over to the stream for a quick drink. I wiped the sweat from my face and sat down, sinking into the moss next to the beaver dam and breathing the heady evening air. The sky above was deepening to violet and the nightly chorus of frogs and crickets was warming up. As I stretched my tired legs, I could feel a soothing Peace slowly seep into the cuts and slashes of my battle-weary heart.

Somewhere around mid-July I had rallied. Or, more honestly, I got so sick of myself that I had to make changes or become a person I despised.

So I stopped drinking. I started running again. I stopped praying for my own agenda and solutions to come and started praying again for His Kingdome to come. 

I spent more and more time in the healing peace and beauty of the woods. 

Turns out, surrender is a muscle memory.

And as much as I wanted a divine hand to reach down and make everything right, to take away my thirst, I was thankful for simple moments like these.

They weren’t life-changing moments full of tears or laughter or even miracles. There were no choruses of angels or earth-shattering epiphanies.

I was usually sweaty and full of moss and dirt. And wood ticks.

But they were good moments.

The simple, slow moments of transformation.

*

When I finally found my way to His quiet streams, I knelt down and submerged myself in the cool weightlessness of Living Water.

As the muck slowly flaked from my eyes, I could see the green pastures around me and the feast He’d spread before me. He didn’t take away my thirst, but He gave me a choice of what to sate it with. (3)

I drank deeply, and He showed me new depths of what it means to rejoice always. To pray without ceasing. To give thanks no matter my circumstances. I knew these things—they have been my trusty weapons against the darkness. But in my mud-soaked wandering, He was reforging them with a new strength. (4)

He showed me how to focus more keenly not on what is seen, but what is unseen. How to fully and freely love my enemies. How to truly humble myself under God’s strong hand, to be patient and bear with others in love. How to soak in the Peace that passes understanding. (5)

*

God didn’t change a single circumstance this summer. 

He changed me.

There was no one-and-done healing experience. 

Instead there was invitation to experience a more Life-giving way of being and living. 

In my everyday moments, my hard moments, my good moments. Even in my lost moments. He was there. Come, He said. You who are weary and burned out. I will ease, relieve, refresh your soul. (6)

The invitation was there, but I had to choose to accept it. And then, with mud on my eyes, I had to wander, stumble, and find my way to Him.

*

You might feel battle weary and full of mud right now. You might be trying to wash it all off with alcohol or food or television or a million other distractions we feel entitled to in the name of “self-care.” Honestly, I still have hard days like that.

Can the White Knight swoop in to save us? Can He take away our thirst? Absolutely.

But sometimes He comes as a cup of Living Water with a quietly audacious invitation. 

Come, He says. I will ease, relieve, refresh your soul. 

And He might not change a single thing about our circumstances or the battles we’re fighting.

But. 

No weapon forged against us will prosper. The dark valleys He leads us through will give way to green pastures. He prepares a table before us in the presence of our enemies. (7)

And the quest, the destination, is not just for answers or healing or even comfort. We can know all the mysteries of this world, be healed of the worst wounds, have our every need met, and still be stuck right where we are.

Instead of a map, we have an invitation. And the choice is ours—it always is. 

Come learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly. (8)

It’s the choice to choose Him, in the good moments and the bad, step after arduous step, day after hard-fought day. It’s the choice to wash in His Water, to drink from His cup. To be mud in His hands, shaped and reshaped into the beautiful, cracked vessels that we are. (9)

To let His Light fill us, transforming us into burning beacons that pierce through the darkness of this world. 

***

1. John 9:1–10:21

2. John 5:8–9; John 11:43–44

3. Psalm 23: 2, 5

4. 1 Thessalonians 5:16–18

5. 2 Corinthians 4:18; Matthew 5:44; 1 Peter 5:6; Ephesians 4:2; Philippians 4:7

6. Matthew 11:28

7. Isaiah 54:17; Psalm 23:4 – 5

8. Matthew 11:29–30

9. 2 Corinthians 4:7

For a long time we just lay there, taking in the beauty and occasional shooting stars, listening to the quiet sounds of a moonless Northwoods night: an owl hooting as it searches for breakfast, a lone wolf howling in the distance, twigs and sticks snapping in the woods as the nighttime critters ventured about. Somewhere below us the boys were finally sleeping soundly in their beds. 

It had been a pretty hard day. Again. And I lost my temper, I lost my sanity. I just…lost. And with each exhale I breathed my darkness out into the black of the night. And I inhaled the Light.

Out.     In.        Out.     In.

Dark.   Light.   Dark.   Light.

The entire human struggle playing out in a single breath under a luminous galaxy that He breathed into existence.

*

I found myself on the deck most nights this past summer, staring up at the sky, sneaking out as the rest of the house slumbered silently. I was searching for something—answers, divine connection, a vision bigger than my little world. 

Our days were alive with the energy of summer: humid, hazy mornings spent wandering in the woods that gave way to cool nights swirling with lightning bugs and star-strewn skies. Our skin was sun-kissed and golden from swinging and swimming and climbing and chasing grasshoppers and butterflies. We flew kites and danced in clouds of bubbles and biked down dust-covered country roads.

And yet.

I spent most those same few months depressed and angry.

I think, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was hoping summer really would be a break, a vacation, from the crazy life we live. And in so many shining moments, it was.

But summer was also full of hours-long meltdowns, family and friend relationship strife, heartbreaking test results, discouraging therapy evaluations, and so. many. sleepless. nights. as both boys had insomnia flare-ups. I felt isolated, maligned, misunderstood, and exhausted beyond measure. 

And so most nights I found myself standing barefoot on the cool boards of the deck, head tilted back to stare up at the sky, my heart searching for a light for my path.

*

“If you are enveloped in darkness, with no light to see,” said the prophet Isaiah, “take confidence in the name of the Eternal One; rely on your God.”

“Ah, but if you’ve tried to go it alone,” he continues, “the light by which you go is your own consuming fire, and the torches you light will be your undoing.” (1)

At the time Isaiah proclaims this, Israel is supposed to be set apart from the other cultures of the day by their worship of the One True God. Yet while they go through the motions and pay lip service to Him, they are nearly indistinguishable from their neighbors. They fill their houses with foreign idols and participate in pagan practices—going as far as sacrificing their own children in the fires of Molech. Despite their hypocrisy, God continues to pursue them, calling them back to the Light:

“I have seen how they act,” He says, “but I will still bind them up and make them well again.” (2)

But they almost seem to revel in the darkness.

And it’s here I have been sitting as the heat of summer slowly faded to cool autumn breezes and finally to the subzero temps of winter. 

Because I can tell you how I longed for a divine hand to reach down, miraculously solve all my problems, and banish the darkness in and around me once and for all.

But what I fail to tell you is that I was busy lighting my own torches. Like starting to drink too much. Like feeding my anger and sadness with too much sugar and lies that sounded like truth.

And friends, I was being consumed.

*

In this season, my darkness takes the form of wanting that nightly drink (or three) too much. At other times it’s been my utter failure to stop stuffing chocolate in my mouth. Sometimes it’s my mind-numbing addiction to whatever TV show I decide I’m into. 

I know for others it can be food, porn, perfection, gossip, gaming, hunting, attention, praise, envy, shame, shopping, self-loathing. It can even be good things done for the wrong reasons, like taking care of others or even ministry.

We say trust the Lord, we go to church and sing the songs, but for a million different reasons we decide to take matters into our own hands. To shape our gods in our own image. To find our own way out of the dark.

But friends, we are consuming ourselves. 

And the world around us applauds us as we do.

*

I took our dog, Scout, for a walk a couple of weeks ago as Brian put the boys down for bed. It was a balmy -15 degrees with a windchill twice as cold. 

But my oh my. What a gorgeous night.

The moon loomed low and large above the bare treetops, glittering off the smooth snow. I had started another fast from alcohol a few days before, and the desire for a drink burned in my blood. So I took slow, deep breaths, letting the cold swirl around and in me. My spirit felt alive as I watched the foggy clouds of my breath float up to the thousands of stars twinkling in the icy sky.

Out.     In.        Out.     In.

Dark.   Light.   Dark.   Light.

Flesh.   Spirit.  Flesh.   Spirit.

Under the frozen midwinter Milky Way, I was reminded of these words from the Gospel of Luke: “A new day is dawning: the Sunrise from the heavens will break through in our darkness, and those who huddle in night, those who sit in the shadow of death, will be able to rise and walk in the light, guided in the pathway of peace.” (3)

Our Hope is that He has seen how we act, and He still chooses—this Mighty Warrior and Champion of the Light—to rescue us. Day-in and day-out, He binds us up, makes us well again. And then celebrates with joyful songs over us. (4)

The truth, if we can accept it, is that we don’t have to light our own way. We don’t have to banish our own darkness. 

We don’t have to be consumed.

But we do have to brave the cold night of our souls with empty hands and a gaze turned upward to see the Light that is already blazing.

***

1. Isaiah 50:10b–11

2. Isaiah 57:18

3. Luke 1:78b–79

4. Isaiah 57:18 and Zephaniah 3:17

With the ebb and flow of life, we weren’t able to gather this year, and I found myself missing the people and the tradition. There’s something beautiful and sacred about reflecting on life with others, rejoicing with them and grieving with them and looking toward the future with them.

And so, after (too many) months of not writing, I felt a nudge to invite you, fellow sojourner,  into the beautiful sacred act of our New Year’s Eve tradition. 

*

It was a hard year last year—much harder than 2020 in many ways. And yet. I saw God moving in so many big and small ways. He protected, provided, sustained, and blessed. Not always in the way we imagined or even wanted, but always in a way that was good (but more on all that in future posts).

One thing that was sweet: In a year marked by periods of deep depression, the sweetness of this past year is composed of all my moments in our woods. They were my sanctuary; running, walking, hiking, snowshoeing, skiing, sitting, reading, laughing, crying, dreaming. It was in the woods—whether I was alone, accompanied by our pack of four-legged critters, or with Brian and the boys—and surrounded by the Creator’s holy beauty, that I found my ground to stand on.

One thing that was bitter: The month of March plowed through our lives like a tornado, sucking us up in a swirling few weeks of hard events that echoed into the next few months. At less than three years old, Henry underwent his third surgery—with five procedures scheduled. The surgery and hospital stay went fairly well; recovery did not, and so I ended up with him in what was our longest and worst ER experience ever—only to have a frightening close encounter with a man lurking by our car upon our discharge. This, coupled with a few other events that month, triggered some past trauma that sent me reeling until the warm summer sun slowly started to fill my soul with a revitalizing Light.

One thing I am looking forward to: As I turn my thoughts to all the wonderful things this year might hold—new milestones for the boys, adventures with the family, progress on the retreat center, prayers answered—I realize that not being able to choose just one thing is a sign of Hope. No matter what befell us this last year, there is always a reason to look forward. As people of the Promise, I hold to the Truth that all things are working together for the good of those who love the Lord. I hold to the Truth that His shalom is in every breath we take, whether we recognize it or not, and that the best is yet to come. The heaviness of the world is real—but so is the lightness of His Joy.

* 

Most times, when lost in the beauty of nature or worship or a song or a piece of art or the wriggling, giggling little boys tussling on the floor, I get glimpses of the world as it should be. These holy moments are as expansive as they are brief. It’s as if I can see the bigger story being written, can see the world as it is—as it will be. A dark and smudgy layer is peeled back, and I am overwhelmed by the brightness around me. It’s as if I can finally remember the song that’s been nagging at the back of mind—I can see it and hear it in all its glory. I’m transported to the throne room and can see all the individual moments of all creation each as their own significant event and yet each as just a note in the grander symphony we will one day be able to hear deep in our souls, its melody reverberating in our very bones.

There’s something about these moments where the unseen becomes seen. The impossible becomes possible. The mystery becomes flesh. I realize my own insignificance and yet know to the core of who I am that I was created with purpose and intention. For a few beautiful heartbeats I straddle the paradox of earthly and eternal.

*

As I was praying the last few mornings about this new year and the plans the Lord holds for us in it, He kept taking me back to the well-worn pages of passages I have clung to the last few years. Words from Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Daniel (not your typical feel-good Bible books…). Yet threaded through and tucked between these words of hardship and coming disaster are words of wisdom, hope, and promise.

And that is just like life. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t daily face obstacles, setbacks, dashed dreams, relationship strife, or any other myriad of difficulties this world throws at us. And yet. Threaded through and tucked between these hardships are Wisdom, Hope, and Promise. 

Even in the midst of the darkness, we can see the smudgy layers of this earth peeled back to reveal Light and Life as they really are. And we know that whether we drink deeply of the sweet or the bitter this world serves us, we know there is always something to look forward to. And so it is with hearts that hold both the heaviness of the world and the lightness of His Joy—that straddle the paradox of earthly and eternal—that we can look towards not just a fresh year of days to live through and cross off, but look, ultimately, toward the time and place where there are no more days to cross off or tears to wipe away. 

*

And so, fellow traveler, I raise my glass with you: to the sweet, to the bitter, to the future. 

May the Lord bless you and keep you wherever your feet may fall. May you always seek—and find—the Helper at your side. And in a world that fills our minds and hearts with words of fear and death, may the Promises from our Good God breathe fresh Hope and Life into your soul as you look toward what this year might hold. 

*

Even if the mountains heave up from their anchors,

  and the hills quiver and shake, I will not desert you.

You can rely on my enduring love;

  My covenant of peace will stand forever.

So says the Eternal One, whose love won’t give up on you.

(Isaiah 54:10)

*

The Eternal One will never leave you;

  He will lead you in the way you should go.

When you feel dried up and worthless,

  God will nourish you and give you strength.

And you will grow like a garden lovingly tended;

  you will be like a spring whose water never runs out.

(Isaiah 59:11)

*

Although you have suffered abandonment, hatred, and hopeless despair,

  and no one dared to pass through,

I will make you a place of lofty beauty for all time,

  filled and overflowing with joy from generation to generation.

(Isaiah 60:15)

***

The day went off-track before there was even a hint of daylight. And for a million reasons, it flailed and failed and ended in the flames of a heated argument between me and Brian.

Some other highlights:

I threw an adult version of a toddler tantrum and yelled some choice words in front of my kids loud enough for our lone neighbor to hear.

I didn’t have the wherewithal to plan/execute a big meal, so the boys all had various forms of leftovers, and I had a sandwich.

I forgot to find the Easter baskets or even get Easter candy/presents, and so there was no “Easter magic” this year.

I cried alone in my closest.

The boys were clingy, Brian and I were exhausted, and we were all a bit of a mess. I squeezed myself into a nice outfit in the hopes of getting at least one nice family picture. Both that hope and the outfit were short-lived.

The events of March have left us all trying to catch our breath a bit, and honestly, Easter just snuck up on me this year.

*

When I think of the first Easter, I tend to think of the glorious risen Jesus—clothed in crisp white robes, gently glowing like a living sunbeam. I think of the joy and hope of Mary and the disciples as they witnessed their beloved friend and Messiah standing before them again. Of the excitement and the laughter and astonished silence as they struggled to take it all in.

I never think about the eyes, red-rimmed and bleary. Of the ache and pain of souls huddled in fear. Of rumpled clothes and bodies unwashed and dirty, neglected in the face of overwhelming grief. Of hearts buried in darkness like the tomb where their Hope laid wrapped in grave clothes.

And even though Jesus told his disciples and friends about his imminent death and resurrection, they still had no idea. They couldn’t comprehend the victory He spoke of.

In so many ways, that first Easter snuck up on them.

*

As Brian put the boys down for bed, I sat out on our front swing, listening to the sounds of early spring and watching the sun set through the trees just starting to bud with new life.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wanted Easter to be this beautiful, light-filled, astonishing day. Full of Hope and celebration. Full of smiles and perfection—like I imagined the first Easter was. Like the million photos I saw all day long in my social media feeds.

Instead it was a day of red-rimmed, bleary eyes and rumpled flannels and so. many. meltdowns.

And honestly, I think that is more accurate to how things were on that day over 2,000 years ago.

That day, in the midst of darkness and the general mess of life, Jesus came. He walked in with open arms. He was the one who brought the Joy and Hope and celebration. It wasn’t something His disciples and followers had to muster up or create. There wasn’t a banquet table waiting for Him—or them.

It was, simply, about basking in the presence of the Risen Savior. Of running to tell others of the Good News and bringing them to the feet of the Rabbi who defeated death.

Those first believers didn’t bring anything but pain and hopelessness, regret and fear, to the first Easter.

And they left full of contagious Joy and Hope and Love.

*

I love the full, bright, joyous celebrations on Easter. I love the packed, exuberant worship services and Sunday brunches and the beautiful Easter dresses and suits. I love the family gatherings and traditions of Easter baskets and eggs. Chocolate.

But this year I was reminded, almost painfully, that He didn’t come because we’re clean and shiny and joyful. He came because we’re a mess. All of us.

This year, I celebrated Easter by living its reality: continually bringing my angry, lonely, failing self to the Cross, asking for forgiveness and mercy, rising with His renewed Grace and Peace.

Again and again.

Because in my exhaustion and weakness, I kept losing His gifts. I couldn’t keep it together.

But He never asked me to.

He just asks us to come.

*

The full and continual work of the Cross is something I don’t think I will ever fully understand. But it’s a mystery I will continue to enter into. Because the Cross is the place where we empty our hands and hearts of our pain, our hopelessness and despair.

It’s where our mistakes and sins are undone.

It’s where Jesus enters into our darkness and general mess of life, His arms open wide.

And because the tomb was empty, we can bask in His presence—and then leave full of contagious Joy and Hope and Love, again and again, however many times we need.

Because we don’t need to be clean and shiny; we don’t need to keep it together.

We just need to come.

***

I gripped the steering wheel as my mind raced with thoughts and questions and concerns most parents never have. It will be his third surgery, sixth sedated procedure, and 20th or 30th or so hospitalization before he turns 3. And because of his complex medical history and unique genetic makeup, even routine surgeries carry extra risks and longer recovery periods for him.

Each time he’s intubated his heart rate drops dangerously low.

And everything is just more complicated in a pandemic that never ends.

As I sped down the freeway, I could feel the familiar grief and loneliness creeping in.

*

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples as I lay on my bed in the afternoon winter sun. I was seizing a few minutes for myself after a long and emotional week; in the days following Henry’s audiologist and ENT visits, both boys had appointments with their neurologist. Emails were sent and calls were made to more doctors and specialists to schedule more follow-ups and labs and tests for both of them. We topped it off with an echocardiogram for Henry and a visit with his new cardiologist.

The reality of life with two sons with special needs—Elyas with autism and Henry with Down syndrome—is that I find myself coordinating care plans, doctors, surgeries, and therapies the way other moms coordinate play dates, sports, and activities.

The pattering of little feet announced that my stolen moments of quiet were over. Elyas launched himself onto the bed, and I rolled to my side to pull Henry up. The boys looked at each other with mischievous smiles…then full-body tackled me. And for a few beautiful heartbeats we lay there, laughing with limbs all entangled.

Then Henry hurled himself at Elyas, and they went sprawling across the sheets, giggling and wrestling. I tucked myself into a corner of the bed, marveling at how well Elyas handled Henry, holding back his full four-year-old force and letting Henry take the lead. I marveled at how strong Henry had gotten, at how confidently and quickly he moved on such unstable surfaces. At how well he could communicate despite not using any words—and at how well Elyas could understand and read him.

As they caught their breath for a moment, panting and smiling at each other in the sunshine, Elyas wrapped his arms around Henry. “I love you, Hank,” he said and gently kissed Henry on his forehead. Henry looked up, grinned, and gave Elyas a loud kiss on the cheek.

And then they were rolling and wrestling and laughing again.

But my heart was memorizing that moment, so full of unassuming triumph. Bursting with brotherly love and pure joy. Made all the more beautiful by the ache of sorrow and heartache we’ve endured on the hard-fought road to get here.

*

In the New Testament, the Greek word for joy is directly related to the Greek word for grace. As you dig in, you realize that joy is, at its core, the awareness of God’s grace—the awareness of His favor and blessing.

And when you learn to recognize and lean in—when you can see and savor—the many ways His favor and blessing touch your life, you will find unwavering delight welling up deep in your soul.

Because Joy comes when we can taste and see that the Lord is good—no matter what is happening around us or to us. True Joy, the Joy Jesus himself promised us, is a deep-seated gladness and assured confidence in the One who came to give us Life to the full.

*

When Henry and I arrived home from the audiologist and ENT appointments, we eased back in to the flow of life. We read some books and sang some songs and cuddled when I put him down for his nap.

As I prayed over him in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, I could feel that I had entered a sacred space. I was holding the weight of Joy in my arms even as I was holding the weight of grief and sorrow in my soul.

And this. This is my life. More amazing and beautiful and full of Joy than I could ever have imagined.

And yet it’s harder and more heavy and holds more grief than I ever imagined.

Both are true.

It’s not either/or. It’s both/and.

It’s the boys playing with their toys together—huge milestones for them both. It’s magical walks through a Narnian-like winter forest. It’s dance parties and music mornings and walkie-talkie hide-and-seek and jumping between couch cushions because the floor is lava. It’s baking cookies and banana bread muffins and early morning cuddles as we read piles of books in bed together.

And it’s ambulance rides and lonely nights in hospitals and frightening diagnoses. It’s surgeries and procedures and seeing your son turn blue. It’s hours and hours of screaming because little bodies and brains are shutting down with sensory overloads. It’s seeing your son’s peers hit milestone after milestone while you wonder if you’ll ever hear him say “mama” or have a life without diapers.

It’s holding all your anxiety and grief during yet another trip to the ER, but also feeling such a deep sense of gratitude that the doctors and nurses know your son by name and remember him and all his visits.

It’s all three of you reaching the complete and utter end of yourselves at the same time. And as you gather their sobbing little bodies into your arms, you hold them tight and cry along with them. And you feel the sadness and exhaustion with every fiber of your body, yet you also feel, in the cracks and crevices of your broken heart, a Hope and a Peace that passes all understanding.

It’s Joy, and it’s sorrow.

*

The truth this world doesn’t want you to know is that if you chase happiness, you will always be left wanting. If you run from heartache, you will always skim across the surface of life.

But if you choose Joy, you will be filled no matter what life throws at you.

Because when you experience true Joy—that assured, confident delight deep in your soul—you will be able grieve with Hope. And when you taste the bitter pain of sorrow, you will fully know and experience the gift that true Joy is.

Somehow, in this upside-down Kingdom, Life to the full is found in the space occupied by both Joy and sorrow.

It’s found when we learn to follow the One who leads us into—and out of—both the dark valleys and the green pastures. When we learn to feast in the midst of adversity.

When we learn to let Him overflow our cup with something more delicious, more bittersweet, and more breathtaking than we can imagine.

***

“See on the corner there?” I asked, quickly pawing through the diaper bag. “There is a person who needs some help. We’re going to help.”

He nodded. This wasn’t new to him. He’s used to seeing me roll down the window and hand out what we have. Unopened bottles of water or untouched granola bars from the diaper bag. Sometimes cash if I have some on hand. He sees me laughing and chatting with these strangers with signs, asking their names and if I can pray for them.

I got out of the car and felt the cold wind gusting off Lake Superior. I walked to the pile of blankets and squatted down next to it. A wrinkled and forlorn face turned my direction, not meeting my eyes. My heart sank as I smiled and asked her name. She mumbled her reply, and a shaking hand emerged as I handed her all I could find: five one-dollar bills and two granola bars.

I prayed over her and walked back to the car.

“Did you give her some bars and money, Mama?” Elyas asked as I buckled myself back in.

“I did, buddy.”

“But you said we don’t have any money.”

I started the car and laughed to myself. It’s true; I did say that just a few days earlier. Because how do you explain to a four-year-old—who’s stuck on getting a new toy—the difference between operating financially out of the black or the red…and that it’s been a long stretch of red months?

“You’re right, Elyas. We don’t have any extra right now. That’s why we can’t buy toys. But we always have enough to help others. Even if it’s not much.”

There was silence from the back seat.

“We give to others because God gave us everything we have. He gave it to us to look after and enjoy and give away to others.”

“Oh, okay Mama. That’s good. You did a good job.”

I smiled into the rearview mirror. “Thanks, buddy.”

But inwardly, I sighed. Because it didn’t feel like a good job. It felt insignificant and hopelessly meager in the face of overwhelming need.

*

There is a story in Genesis 26 that has been rolling around in my head and heart the last few weeks. As a famine sweeps through the land, Isaac decides to head to Egypt. But the Lord tells him in a dream to go to a different land, and if he goes, the Lord will bless him.

So Isaac obeys and settles in the land of Gerar. And in the middle of this famine and drought, he sows seeds. And he reaps one hundred times what he planted that year.

One hundred times.

In a famine.

*

On a different day, heading home from Henry’s occupational and speech therapy, a man who looked to be in his 70s, wearing a ragged and dirty jacket, was shivering with a cardboard sign next to the stoplight I was waiting at. I hurriedly looked through my wallet and diaper bag. All I had was a granola bar and some cash I’d received as a gift for my birthday. I looked at the cash…and tucked it back inside my wallet. I was saving it so Brian and I could have take-out one night from our favorite Asian restaurant—a long-anticipated luxury for us this year.

But I felt something deep in my heart nudging me to give it away.

Not this, Lord, I thought angrily. I deserve this one, small thing. Right?

I stared at my wallet. I knew I was at a tipping point in my heart. And it wasn’t about money; it was about what kingdom I would choose to live out of—what kind of seeds I would choose to sow. I was in a warm car headed to a warm house with a warm bed. I had clean clothes and enough food in the pantry to feed our family for a few weeks. Would I defiantly clench my fists, choosing anger and fear and scarcity and selfishness? Or would I humbly open my hands to choose Joy and Hope and Trust and Abundance?

As I rolled down my window, I confessed my selfishness born from fear of lack. I thanked the Lord for all He’s given us and pulled the money back out. I could feel something shifting in my soul as I smiled and handed the cash and the granola bar to the man.

He gasped as he reached to take what was in my hand. With tears running down his dirt-stained face, he thanked me. I asked his name and if I could pray for him. He cried and said yes and told me his story. I spent the next few minutes talking with this heartbroken man, and I cried.

When the light changed, I drove away, waving my arm out the window as he yelled, voice cracking emotion, “Please keep praying for me!”

I put my wallet back in my bag, tears still in my eyes. Moments before it felt like too much to give. But now, on the other side of this man’s heartache and hopelessness, it felt like too little.

*

In many ways, 2020 was a famine year. Globally, nationally, and even personally. Some felt it more than others, but no one has escaped its greedy grasp. Many of us spent the better part of it starved for connection and hope. Meaning and purpose. Provision and abundance. Justice and mercy. Trust and unity. Truth.

It seemed the very earth we walked on dried up, crumbling under our feet, stirring up a dust so thick it was hard to see a way forward.

And as our lands went fallow, the enemy of souls was hard at work, planting seeds of his own. And they actually started to grow—these seeds that thrive in dead environments. Fear and panic. Dread and anxiety. Violence and distrust and anger and scarcity. Hatred and division.

And as the winds of change blew the dust around us into a storm that threatened to overtake us, many found themselves unanchored in the shifting sand. And so these dead things became the only handholds of reality. These seeds grew and grew until they became the makeshift shelters so many people held onto when the whipping wind threatened to blow them away.

They can’t see that these castles in the sand will wash away when the healing rain comes.

*

In a rural country field, more than 10,000 people had gathered to hear a man speak. He taught in riddles and stories and spoke things that seemed radical and counter-cultural. He healed the sick and the lame and the blind. He blessed the little children and challenged the religious leaders.

And in this rural country place, the man spoke long enough for people to get physically hungry. Many had traveled a long ways and had no more food to eat. But here, far from the bustling cities, there were not enough resources to feed a crowd of this size. Worry, restlessness, anxiety, and even fear settled over the people.

But in this crowd was a small boy. And in his hands was a basket that he humbly gave the man. In the basket were five small loaves of bread and two fish.

In the face of overwhelming need, it was beyond meager and inadequate.

But in the hands of the man, it was abundance beyond what anyone knew.

And as He blessed and broke that bread 2,000 years ago, He was planting the seeds of a new kingdom. A Kingdom with roots so deep that no drought can kill it. With fruit so abundant no weeds can overtake it. With such Life coursing through it that no storm can shake it.

*

Like many people, the pandemic has hit our savings and bank account. Hard. We haven’t told anyone outside of a few trusted family and friends of our financial situation, and those we only told to ask for prayer. It’s hard and uncomfortable to write about.

But.

There is more to the story. Because our God is a God of fishes and loaves. Of dollars and granola bars.

Over the last few months we have received random checks and deposits and gift cards from people—people who knew nothing of our situation—all saying something to the effect of We just felt the Lord nudging us to send this to you.

He even opened the door for me to take on a few freelance projects again.

So far, what we have received is more than one hundred times what I handed to that woman and that man out my car window.

One hundred times.

In a famine.

And I cry just thinking about it. Because we don’t deserve it. We’ve done nothing to earn it. It is Grace through and through.

*

“Those who walk the fields to sow, casting their seed in tears,
    will one day tread those same long rows, amazed by what’s appeared.
Those who weep as they walk
    and plant with sighs
Will return singing with joy,
    when they bring home the harvest.” —Psalm 126:5 – 6

The entire idea of planting and sowing, reaping and harvesting speaks of intention and wisdom. You don’t just scatter seeds everywhere, walk away, and hope for the best. You don’t drain your bank accounts and live foolishly. You cultivate the soil and plant the seeds in ideal locations and you water and tend to them. You ruthlessly pull out the weeds so life can grow.

And it is never guaranteed. It is not an overnight thing. But we serve and obey a God that can bring provision from famine.

The question we have to ask ourselves is what are we planting? Because we WILL reap something. And we can choose to sow Hope and Joy and Peace and Abundance. Or we can choose to sow anger and bitterness and scarcity.

This is about so much more than money. This is about stewarding all He’s given us. When we realize that Abundance is a mindset, when we realize that everything we have has been given to us—that all is Grace—we begin to see that all we possess are actually seeds. Seeds of Hope that can withstand the longest drought. That bear fruit beyond this life.

And so we lean on His understanding and guidance. In all our ways we acknowledge Him and allow Him to direct our paths—even and especially when it doesn’t make sense. We seek His Kingdom first, and we ask for wisdom on how we plant and cultivate and use the seeds of our time and possessions. How we use our place of living. How we use the words we say (or don’t say) and how we use our gifts and talents. Sometimes we give away a meal or an encouraging card or the almost-new office chair we never use anymore or the bottle of water from the diaper bag.

And when we humbly and willingly lay it all on the altar—planting in a famine what feels like our last seeds of faith—we don’t have to worry about tomorrow. Because in this deeply-rooted Kingdom, what He reaps from what we sow is nothing short of miraculous. And when we walk those long rows again, we will be amazed by what’s appeared.

Because this is a Kingdom where five loaves and two fish—where five dollars and two granola bars—are the seeds of Hope and Joy and Abundance this drought-starved land needs.

***

I will still pray for our president—whether or not I voted for him. I will still fight for justice.

I will still pray for peace and unity for our homes, our families, our states, and our nation.

I will still choose dignity over discrimination. I will still choose faith over fear.

I will still choose Hope and Joy over despair. I will still choose Love over hate.

I will still pray for His Kingdom to come and His will to be done.

*

“Praise the name of God forever and ever, for all wisdom and power belong to Him. The Lord sets in motion the times and the ages; he deposes kings and installs others.”

The prophet Daniel wrote that. The same Daniel who was kidnapped as a child from his home, renamed, and forced to assimilate to a pagan culture. Then forced to personally serve the very king who destroyed his homeland, desecrated his place of worship, and killed and captured his people. The same king who had just issued a warrant to kill him.

We see time and again in both the New and Old Testaments that God uses earthly rulers—even ruthless dictators, evil kings, and corrupt religious leaders—to carry out His purposes.

Nothing can thwart the plans and purposes of God. Even when we don’t understand or it seems like evil is flourishing. Even when our trust is crumbling and fear is breathing hot on our necks.

Should we care and pray about who holds power? Yes; but ultimately, our allegiance isn’t to them. And truly, their power is limited. These people—these parties—are not our saviors. We ALL fall short. The only Hope for our nation was nailed to a cross over 2,000 years ago. Whose victory over death brings the true Justice and Peace our country desperately longs for.

And we can take comfort in the fact that nothing that happens on November 3 is a surprise to Him. And while it might seem that all hell is breaking loose, nothing essential to our existence changes on November 4.

*

Yes, this election could change the very core and course of our nation.

But empires rise and empires fall.

There is only one unshakable Kingdom. And it’s more subversive and radical than any political party ever could be. It’s where the weak are strong. Where the last are first. Where the lost are found, the poor are rich, the hungry are filled, the thirsty are sated, and the yoke is light. Where surrender leads to Freedom and death leads to Life.

Even now, in the midst of the horrors and hate 2020 has brought us, His Redeeming power is at work. His Goodness knows no bounds. His perfect Love casts out all fear.

When you focus on the waves, you will be washed away. But when you look up and take the hand of the One reaching down to hold you, you will walk on the stormy waters—no matter what you wake up to on November 4.

Because our welfare is not dependent upon a government.

True Peace is not contingent on a certain administration.

And Hope doesn’t come from a man with power or an office.

And in light of eternity—in light of True Reality—what seems monumental and all-consuming right now is but a drop in the ocean of time. And when we pray that His Kingdom come and His will be done, we can have faith in spite of fear. We can have Joy in the face of pain and Love in the face of Hate. We can feel Peace as the world rages around us. And we can hold Hope for the future when all seems hopeless.

Here are some verses and promises I’ve been meditating on these last few weeks. May they help you find peace and perspective in the days ahead.

*

“I leave the gift of peace with you—my peace. Not the kind of fragile peace given by the world, but my perfect peace. Don’t yield to fear or be troubled in your hearts—instead, be courageous!”

—John 14:27

*

You will keep the peace, a perfect peace, for all who trust in You,
        for those who dedicate their hearts and minds to You.
So trust in the Eternal One forever,
        for He is like a great Rock—strong, stable, trustworthy, and lasting.
He humbles the high and mighty.
        Even the indomitable city falls before His strength, reducing it to dust.
The feet of the poor, the weak, the infirm and forgotten
        will trample the dust of the formerly great.

Eternal One, You are preparing peace for us;
    in fact, everything we have accomplished has come from You.
Others have tried to rule over us,
    but You, Eternal One, are our God.
At the end of the day, when all is done,
    we acknowledge only You.

—Isaiah 26:3-6, 12-13

*

If people mistreat or malign you, bless them. Always speak blessings, not curses.

—Romans 12:14

*

Listen! The Lord, the Eternal, the Holy One of Israel says: “In returning and rest, you will be saved. In quietness and trust you will find strength.”

The Eternal One yearns to give you grace and boundless compassion;
        that’s why He waits.
    For the Eternal is a God of justice.
        Those inclined toward Him, waiting for His help, will find happiness.

—Isaiah 30:15,18

***

Brian and I were prepared for this, but there is a BIG difference in knowing the storm is coming and weathering the actual hurricanes.

And so I have spent the last few weeks feeling battered and burned out and empty.

I’ve spent less and less time with God and more and more time being angry and frustrated with my circumstances. I became snippy and irritable and, to be completely honest, at times full of rage.

I embraced a victim mentality—a noble martyr in my own mind—telling myself that I was doing EVERYTHING and that no one cared about me or my needs. Suddenly every meal I had to make, every glass of milk I had to get, every tantrum and meltdown I had to work through, every mess I had to clean up, every dish I had to wash, every piece of clothing I had to put away, every night I didn’t get to sleep, became fuel for my self-righteous fire.

The more I lost sight of the Blessing Giver, the more I resented the blessings He’d given me.

*

Earlier this week, after the house was quiet and everyone was sleeping, I found myself restless and annoyed. I was angry that I—clearly the only one who NEEDED sleep—was wide awake.

My ranting, I-do-everything-and-no-one-cares internal monologue started running again, but I just didn’t want to hear it. I was so sick of myself.

So I wrapped myself up in a thick, fuzzy blanket and stood on our deck, my head tilted back to take in the night sky. There was no moon, and the Milky Way was strewn like a swath of thick, sparkling sand across the clear black. I saw satellites doing their rounds and shooting stars streaking into nothingness.

In the face of such Beauty, my anger and self-righteousness and resentment faded away. I searched out the North Star and humbled myself once again to the One who breathed the stars into existence. I confessed and repented of my anger and selfishness. I asked for Him to help me put to death my pride and resentment and selfishness. To fill my sight and my soul with Light and Life that I might love with Love that comes only from Him.

*

We are not called to die—or even live—for others until we have first died to ourselves. Because when we die to ourselves, we make room for Life that flows and fills us from Living Water. We discover the mystery of pouring ourselves out only to find that we are truly Filled.

And as we connect to this holy, eternal spring, everything we do becomes an act of worship, carries an eternal weight of joy and blessing that rests easy and light on our souls. We find we are able to make Life-giving choices both for ourselves and others. Because dying to self makes way for Peace and Redemption. Not only in our lives, but in the lives around us.

I don’t do it perfectly, but I am doing it. The days aren’t magically easier, but they are redemptive. I still lose my temper, but I am quicker to take hold of Grace. I cry less and smile more.

And I’m enjoying my kids again. Enjoying my husband. I actually want to be around them…most of the time. Gratitude fills my heart for all I’ve been blessed with to enjoy and steward. I find myself loving this crazy, hard, beautiful, uncertain, grace-filled, joy-filled life I’ve been given.

*

During this transition season, I may not be writing in this space every week. And I may not be able to post on Tuesdays. Writing is an act of love and obedience for me, and I love the discipline of doing it every week. But this space is not my first—or second or even third—circle of ministry or responsibility. And when my family, my first circle, needs more of me, there is less for other areas. At least for now.

I’ll leave you with a few verses I am mulling over and meditating on these days.

Shalom, friends.

*

Plant a crop of righteousness for yourselves,
    harvest the fruit of unfailing love,
And break up your hard soil,
    because it’s time to seek the LORD
    until He comes and waters your fields with justice.

Hosea 10:12

*

Come back to the Eternal One.
    Say to Him, “Forgive all our sins, and take us back again.
Bring us into Your good grace so we can offer You praise and sacrifice,
    the fruit of our lips.
We admit that Assyria can’t save us, nor can riding horses and chariots into battle.
    We’ll never again say to idols made with our own hands, ‘You’re our gods!’
Hosea 14:2–3

*

And my God will liberally supply (fill to the full) your every need according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 4:19

***

A 100-year-old Cottonwood tree was ripped from its roots and sliced my neighbors’ house in half. After the storm passed, I remember scrambling up the tree trunk, dropping into the kitchen, and helping my friend gather what she could from her bedroom. Hoisting garbage bags up to her brother and then scrambling back down the tree. It was the only way in and out of the house.

We were without power and running water for a long time. The tree I used to climb and spend hours reading in was uprooted and thrown across our road. The landscape of our neighborhood was forever changed.

But you know what I was upset about the most?

That I couldn’t obsessively listen to the mmm-boppin’ goodness of my new Hanson CD on my boom box.

*

Jesus is one of the most confounding people to ever walk this planet. He never acted or responded in an expected manner. Given two options, he’d create a third way.

When the political and religious leaders of His day tried to force Him to choose A or B, he’d choose C. And every time He did, He transformed people’s minds and hearts.

His Third Way was revolutionary. Subversive. Radical.

It was reckless, powerful, redemptive.

It was Love.

*

After teaching to large crowds along the shore—pressing in so enthusiastically that He had to preach from a boat—Jesus was tired. After requesting they cross the lake, He promptly fell asleep.

But a huge storm whipped up from nowhere; water poured into their boat. Even the fishermen, the experienced sailors, among the twelve were scared the boat was going to sink. So the bewildered disciples panicked and woke Jesus up. They couldn’t believe He didn’t care about the storm or their fate. But with just a few words from Jesus, the storm ceased.

After speaking to the wind the waves, Jesus turned and faced His twelve closest friends—men who had gone through months and years of crazy adventures with him. “Why are you afraid?” he gently asks them. “Do you still have no faith and confidence in Me?”

And these men, who had seen Jesus heal the lame and cast out demons, actually became more afraid. They thought they knew Jesus. Trusted that He’d save them from the storm in a way that made sense.

But then Jesus goes and creates a third way. He chooses C.

And the power of it rocked their boat more than the storm ever could.

*

I hear a lot of talk these days about what Jesus would or wouldn’t do. What political party he would or wouldn’t support. What issues or countries or people groups he would or wouldn’t care about.

And with each agenda He’s attached to comes an overwhelming message of shame. Of fear-mongering. Of resentment.

And I’m finding that I am not conservative enough for my conservative friends. I am not liberal enough for my liberal friends. I am not moderate enough for my moderate friends.

I’m not Christian enough; I’m too Christian.

Everywhere I look, people—even those I know and love—are drawing lines in the sand. They’re putting on their armor and sharpening their weapons. They’re choosing sides. Staking out their battleground.

Because honestly, our world is burning and we are scared and looking for a savior we can see and defend and follow.

And that is how we have turned politics into a religion. We bow to a power we desperately hope will help the world make sense again. And we sacrifice our souls and each other’s humanity on its altar.

In the hope of being right, in the name of our flesh-and-blood savior, we choose hate over love. We dismiss and dehumanize those who dare to disagree. We yell and shout and steal and kill and destroy. All for the cause of the Greater Good. Of Justice.

Because God is on our side.

And with a sword pointed at your throat, you’re given a choice: You’re with us or you’re against us. Choose A or B.

Honestly, I choose C.

*

There is a storm raging around us.

And like the disciples in the boat, we see the wind and the waves and the impending doom washing over us. We are scared and frantic.

Like the disciples, we have fixed our eyes on what is seen. On what is temporary.

But this storm, it’s not the pandemic. It’s not the social justice wars. It’s not racism or socialism or communism or particular political parties and candidates. It’s not the riots or rioters. It’s not abortion or poverty or mass shootings or slavery or even sex-trafficking.

“Your hand-to-hand combat is not with human beings, but with the highest principalities and authorities operating in rebellion under the heavenly realms. For they are a powerful class of demon-gods and evil spirits that hold this dark world in bondage.” (Eph. 6:16, TPT)

The truth is, we are at war—but not with each other. Those things mentioned above? They are physical manifestations of a kingdom ruled by darkness. A kingdom that breeds anger and resentment and shame and fear. A kingdom that hates Life.

The enemy of our souls doesn’t respect party lines or national borders or relationship boundaries. Like a hurricane, he ravages anything in his path. And while we spew blame and bitterness and bickering amongst ourselves, he is destroying countries, cities, and families.

And the devastation may take years—maybe generations—to repair.

Sometimes the level of devastation and pain we see around us can be too much to take in. And so we focus on something smaller. We funnel all of our overwhelm and anger and confusion and hurt into a righteous fury over things that have no eternal significance.

Hearts and souls are burning and in bondage, and we’re throwing a tantrum because we can’t to listen to our Hanson CD.

*

When the Israelites were faced with Babylonian exile, God showed them how to avoid it.

“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.
    But you said, ‘We will not walk in it.’”

(Jeremiah 6:16)

At this point in their history, the Israelites were immersed in pagan culture—this “set apart” people were undistinguishable from the people around them. It’s only when King Nebuchadnezzar is at the gate to their city that they finally turn to God. They want Him to save them, but they don’t want to change. They are at the crossroads.

And instead of pointing them down one of the paths they want, He creates a third way for them.

And they refuse to acknowledge it.

*

When we fight for a set of values dictated by a political party, a religious denomination, or national creed rather than by the heart of God, we are aligning with darkness.

Because God is Light—in Him there is no darkness. Can there be godly values in each of those things? Absolutely. But they are not God. To esteem anything more than God is idolatry. And idolatry is part of the dark heart of Satan’s kingdom.

When we care more about who is in power—and being on the “correct” side—than with the hearts and souls of those around us, we become unwitting soldiers in an army of darkness.

Should we care about our leaders? Yes—but not at the cost of crucifying others, of shaming them and stealing their humanity and dignity.

We are in a fierce storm that only promises to get worse. And there is more at stake than we are willing to see. We’re looking for a lifeline, and everyone around us is choosing A or B.

And honestly, we are trying to force God to do the same.

We want Him to calm this storm in a way that makes sense to us. We are at the crossroads, and we desperately want Him to choose the way we think is right.

But He’s pointing us down the Third Way.

And so we confess. We repent of our pride and shaming and blaming and dehumanizing. Instead of slandering and slamming, we pray earnestly for our flesh-and-blood enemies.

We get down on our knees and storm the strongholds of darkness instead of social media.

We fix our eyes on what is unseen–for it it eternal, and we speak words of Peace to the menacing wind and waves.

We transform our families, our cities, our nations—not through laws and political parties, but through transformed and redeemed hearts.

We finally take off our grave clothes and let our Lights shine before men.

Suddenly the Good News becomes our rally cry. And we can freely offer Love and Redemption and Hope instead of peddling Jesus as a mascot.

*

Beloved, let us love one another. For Love is of God, and anyone who loves is born of God and knows God. There is no fear in Love; but perfect Love casts out fear. If someone says, “I love God,” and hates his brother, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from Him, that the one who loves God should love his brother also. (1 John 4:7, 18, 20-21)

The kingdom of darkness has its marching orders: to steal, kill, and destroy.

And we who claim to walk in the Light have ours: Love the your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. Love your neighbor as yourself.

This is the way of Love. The way of Light.

It’s revolutionary. Subversive. Radical.

It’s reckless and powerful and Redemptive.

It’s the Third Way.

***