I’ve never seen this grill before.

I’m sitting on the worn striped seat cushion of an old metal chair.  Along with its three blue wire-frame counterparts and matching table, this chair has kept watch over my grandparents’ patio for years.  In front of me sits a new shiny new grill with a dozen settings and easy-turning knobs and the kind of clean appearance that comes from not being used nearly enough.

My family made the trek from Fort Myers to Austin to join our relatives in commemorating my grandfather’s passing from time into eternity.  He is with Jesus today, and we are with each other, preparing fresh homemade fajitas for our first all-family meal without him.

My uncle was out here tending the grill by himself, so rather than sit on the couch and watch the cousins tumble on each other, I decided to come out and keep him company in the Texas heat of a spring afternoon.

We don’t say much.

I can smell the southwest-seasoned chicken as it simmers on the bottom rack of the metal machine.  The patio door creaks and swings open as a cousin bursts out with a plate of freshly prepared buttered garlic bread—Texas toast as we call it.  Each slice is carefully placed on the top rack where it will warm and brown, getting just toasty enough to crisp but not enough to crunch.

I look around at the hand-crafted stone of the house wall in front of me and the pebble-and-concrete floor of the deck beneath.  I turn in my seat to gaze at the long wooden fence and the scrub grass yard that looks a lot smaller than it used to.  My grandfather built this place, and from the shed in the corner of the back yard to the pecan trees in the opposite corner of the front, it will always bear his memory.

We still haven’t said much.

I remember my grandfather’s laugh, loud and hearty, and how his head would go back and his eyes would sparkle when he was amused.  I remember his arms, strong burly arms that had hoisted elevators in the old days, built two houses with the help of his family and lovingly toiled for years on various woodworking projects in the garage.  I remember how he loved his old green truck with no air conditioning, how he enjoyed recordings of the mariachi music of his youth, and how he cherished my grandmother until the day he died.  They made it 62 years together.

My uncle and I still haven’t spoken beyond a little bit of catching up, and suddenly I realize something.

That’s just fine with me.

There is a tradition in Jewish life called “sitting shiva.”  It’s a multi-faceted mourning ritual with many beautiful parts to it, but the one that stands out the most to me is the silence.  In the tradition of the visiting friends of the Biblical Job, those who would comfort the grieving will come to the family home and just sit together.  While talking is not prohibited per se, it’s understood that this is not the time to offer hollow sentiments or even well-meaning condolences.  It’s not the time to try and make sense of the why’s or try and remember the good ole’ days.

This is a time for silence.

It makes me wonder if maybe what we all need in times of grief really isn’t a trite phrase or even a tender word, but just to have someone sit with us in silence so we know we’re not alone.  It makes me think that if my grandfather were here, he’d probably be just fine with the silence, too.

It’s still quiet, with only an occasional insect chirp to disturb the soft sizzling of the new grill.  As my uncle and I sit in silence, I smile, thinking of my grandfather as fajita-scented smoke collects briefly in his rafters before wafting out into the bright blue Texas sky.

-Pastor Phillip

—

In loving memory of my grandfather, Papa Marcelo Gonzalez

The backwater lake shimmered in the light of the mid-morning sun.

Ripples danced through the water like figure skaters on ice, making chaotic patterns interspersed with brief moments of circular perfection where the fish poked up for a bite to eat.

Across the water was a stand of cypress trees, their ghost-white forms stretching high into a cobalt and cotton-ball sky, with only their thick layers of spanish moss weighing them down.

It was a place of peace.

As I sat there in the quiet, a thought occurred to me.  Looking at the rippling lake, it was very easy to distinguish between the reality of the trees and their reflection in the water.  While the water echoed the image, it was imperfect, incomplete and unstable.  To see what the trees were really like, I would have to stop looking down at the reflection and look up at the reality.

The same is true about the way we see our lives.

The Apostle Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13 that “we see through a glass darkly,” and that as much as we’d like to, we can never truly see things with total clarity on this side of heaven.  As much as we would like to look up and see the world as it really is, we can’t.

So what can we do?

Looking back at the lake it occurred to me how much more clearly I would be able to see the reflection of the trees if the water were still.  Without the restless surface activity, it would be simply to see with greater clarity.

So it is with life.

There will likely never be a time when there isn’t a ready supply of responsibilities and diversions to keep us occupied.  Our whole culture is built on the idea that busyness is a good thing, and that the more you DO the more successful you ARE.  Yet, without regular moments to rest and reflect, it’s doubtful we’ll ever be able to see as clearly as we would if we made the time to simply stop and be still.

As you look at your life, take the time to plan in moments of quiet.

Have the courage to get off the treadmill of life and just sit for a while.

When you do, you may find that whole new worlds open up to you, because stillness brings you clarity.

-Pastor Phillip

The white metal sign looked so lonely, its faded yellow trim standing out in a field of brittle grass and flowing weeds.

Once upon a time it had been an important warning marker to approaching boats.  At some point in the past it had served a purpose, had helped travelers avoid danger by not letting them float too close to the jetty that would likely bring their boat to a bitter end.

But that was a long time ago.

Now the sign was abandoned and irrelevant.  The world had moved on, leaving only echoes and memory of a past when the sign served a purpose.  To pay attention to it now would just be silly, because the danger of which it warned had long since passed.

Sometimes we live our lives like that.

Once upon a time we set up walls and gates to protect our hearts from grief and our lives from pain.  At some point we built defenses and routines that served a purpose.  They helped us avoid danger on our travels through life by not letting us get too close to other people.  They gave us the time and space we needed to heal and grow.

But maybe that was a long time ago.

Maybe paying too much attention to the warnings and watchtowers you created isn’t helping you anymore but is hurting you instead.  Maybe the habits you built to keep from drowning in sorrow have kept you from not just a river of tears, but the river of life as well.

Maybe there are still reasons to be on your guard, for sure, but maybe it’s been long enough that there aren’t as many as you think.  Maybe it’s time to trust God with your heart and take a chance today, and let the past be the past.

-Pastor Phillip