Category Archives: grief

joy to behold: kingdom culture for a world on fire

Posted on by April 19, 2024

There I was, texting back the speech pathologist about how to help Reagan, who speaks at about a 3-year-old level. Except I was also cooking my breakfast, and also, I had no idea how to answer the pathologist’s question, which was, “Which sounds are you looking for?”

joy to behold: kingdom culture for a world on fire

Which sounds? I thought. All of them. Where do I start? I texted out a short summary of Reagan’s ability and diagnoses, rattled through how Ls and Rs are very hard to distinguish, hard I often sounds like ah or uh unless we correct her, she does not say the y or x sounds in “excuse me” (it sounds like “eskoose me,” but if you read Risk the Ocean you know this is huge improvement over asking to be caboosed), and she does not move her mouth or tongue to make sounds properly, and –

“Why is smoke coming from the pan?” Finn asked, bringing me back to the task at hand right as the smoke alarm went off.

Oh yeah, breakfast. Whoops.

Because I cannot cook hash browns and navigate the intricate juncture of speech pathology and special needs parenting at the same time. One of them needs my urgent attention, and the other, no matter how important, needs to wait.

There are so many competing needs. It feels like everything needs to be done at once, and everything needs our attention all at the same time. But it’s just not true.

I set the phone down and let the situation simmer while I rinsed the burnt oil off the cast iron pan before starting again. We can give ourselves do-overs, just like we give our kids – we can leave the half-written text as a draft, we can mute the notifications, we can hold a boundary to those asking for information that’s none of their business. We can delete the platforms, channels, and social media outlets that feed our cortisol levels instead of feeding us.

And it’s important to remember that, because our inboxes and mailboxes and phones and screens are full of all kinds of things demanding our attention and outrage.

But just because they demand it, doesn’t mean they get it. Especially not on their terms.

We can turn the flame down when the world is on fire, and pour living water on it, instead.

For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ.

– Galatians 3:27

For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.

– 2 Timothy 1:7

The world is on fire but here we are, a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for His own possession, going about Kingdom business in the midst of the crossfire.

As we abide, we let the One who lives in us pour out onto the world around us, and in doing so we refuse to take the enemy’s bait, choosing instead to play it cool while a firm boundary of equanimity settles around us: This house, this family, this day is our dominion, and whatever tries to barrel its way through will feel all the more heat outside as their feet are held to the fire in contrast with the cool joy of the living water that reigns here in this place.

We overcome not by passivity or blissful ignorance, but by strategically starving the beast that feeds on fear and chaos and distraction. We create order and beauty by walking in joy, trusting God, doing both the modest and immense tasks in front of us.

So, bake bread. Hug your kids. Kiss your spouse. Drink the water. Read the books. Think before blurting out. Appreciate the friend, reach out to the quiet one. Pray for the neighbor. Make something beautiful (like hash browns).

So many tiny, tiny, little things feel so insignificant in light of current events. The enemy goes around, the unholy attention seeker, tossing lit matches in varying degrees of proximity to us, hoping we will lose focus and run frantic, sloshing water out of ourselves in attempt to put out one fire while two others start raging.

But when we face the Living Water, soak, and refill, we can point in prayer and direct a fire hose without leaving His presence.

Last year in one of our intercessors meetings, one of our pastors gave us a double-sided page of notes and said, “Our battle is to abide in peace.” My Gen X summary of his notes is, Keep your cool. Persist stubbornly in joy. Biblical hope is not like the world’s version of wishful thinking; it is the expectation of God’s answers and movement. The joy of the Lord is our strength.

Now may the God of peace himself sanctify you completely, and may your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it.

— 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24

And then not long after that in another meeting, he read this passage:

Because you did not serve the Lord your God with joyfulness and gladness of heart, because of the abundance of all things, therefore you shall serve your enemies whom the Lord will send against you, in hunger and thirst, in nakedness, and lacking everything. And he will put a yoke of iron on your neck until he has destroyed you.

— Deuteronomy 28:47-48

And we noticed the first part: Because you did not serve the Lord with joyfulness and gladness…Have you thought about how joy is both worship and warfare?

So we choose joy. We choose gratitude. We choose to play it cool, not giving the enemy more attention than he deserves, and we put our eyes on what God is doing. And as we do that, He shows us more and more of what He is up to. Our focus on Him protects us from what is not of Him, and the enemy is disarmed by our worship.

If I had known this lesson years ago, our hardest season might not have been so dark. Maybe though, really, that was the beginning of me learning this lesson of how to play it cool and survive with a smile when everything looks to be falling apart. But I’m learning it even more now, and when we know better, we do better.

We are fighting (and winning!) the battle of the day every time we pursue the particular “whatever is good, whatever is lovely” God has called us to in this moment.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your reasonableness [gentleness] be known to everyone.

The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

— Philippians 4:4-8

When the enemy attacks and tries to get you to look at the wrong thing, he’s saying, “Look at this, look at this, look at this!” trying to get your gaze off what the Lord has said, trying to get you to put the weight of your gaze on the other thing, on the wrong thing, and lift it off of God’s promise. The enemy wants to magnify the wrong thing and diminish hope, to shrink your trust in the Lord’s provision and ability, to inflate the discouragement and deception and lies, and to make the problem — which may be very real — seem more than it is, so as to steal the even greater reality and truth and hope of the provision and bright future the Lord has for you.

The Lord sees and knows. He knew it when you felt that gut punch, when you heard the bad news, the snide remark, the lie from the enemy that said you won’t make it. He speaks a better word and His blood is covering you, and He will have the final say. You won’t have to wait too long for it. He is preparing a place for you in the presence of your enemies, and they will watch as He vindicates and delivers you.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

— Psalm 23:4-6

So when the enemy comes at you with, “Look at this, look at this!” and jabs his ugly finger at the sore spot that has been hurting and draws your attention to it by bad news or someone’s careless remark or their disbelief that you could be doing something that they just can’t fathom, we must not fall for it. It’s a ploy from the enemy.

He wants to distract you with the lie so you don’t believe in the truth. He wants to distract you with the accusation so you forget your real identity. He wants to damage your vision.

He knows the time is short. He knows how close your promise is, so he’s desperate to make you disbelieve it.

But the promise is near, and God is present, as close as your breath. Do not take your eyes off Him, because He is your salvation, your very near and present help.

We are cultivating Kingdom culture with every tiny move of faithfulness.

Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful.

– Colossians 3:12-15

So this is me preaching to myself, and any of you who need it, too:

Yes, the world is crazy intense right now. But you still need to have fun. Do not let the enemy steal your joy. Do not let him strip away the things you love, or make you send a message to those you love that life is just too scary right now. Because God’s cool; He’s got this. He’s speaking to His people, including you, and telling you what to do and when to do it.

He won’t always tell you to do something huge and profound. He will also lead you in small, steady, beautiful things, and you will aggravate the enemy with your joy. You will disarm him with your bold, unshrinking confidence in the Lord.

We are creating the culture, and we declare it will be one of joy and peace. Our hearts are unshaken. Great days are ahead.

Then he said to them, “Go your way. Eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions to anyone who has nothing ready, for this day is holy to our Lord. And do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”

— Nehemiah 8:10

Lord, guide our words and our walking today, our driving and our doing, our thinking and our talking. Help us to be mature, encouraging, life giving, and truth sharing.

We don’t have to be the loudest to be heard. Protect us from talking too much or any other form of striving. We trust You to lead us and use us, so we will move out of Your way and let You do the directing.

We declare peace, joy, and truth are winning the day today in our hearts and in our communities.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him.

In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.

— Ephesians 1:2-6

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Are You Feeling Excellent Today?

how the colors come together: grieving & celebrating the emptying nest

Posted on by March 8, 2024

The fog left its mark in hoarfrost on the trees along the Parks Highway, and we drove home from church with all eight of us in the vehicle. It was the last time I would sit crammed between two 6-foot-something men in the front seat of the Stagecoach; one of them has moved out and is on his own now.

how the colors come together: grieving & celebrating the emptying nest

I gave him the quilt I’d been working on for months, often right in front of him while he was oblivious because almost-18-year-old boys don’t pay attention to their mother’s crafty shenanigans. Two nights before, Iree and I spent several hours finishing it and the seams had “significant wonk,” meaning they veered and shifted in ways I didn’t intend them to because I’m still new at this and don’t know what I’m doing and it is hard to wrestle these giant things through a small short-armed machine.

As soon as Afton’s room was empty, Cham moved into it. We’ve started to fill her vacated area – which was his space not long ago, before last year’s rearrangement – with a table for spring seedlings and about 200 books that he didn’t want to take with him. There’s still room for the sewing machine, and once the space is filled and echo-less, I’ll be recording audio in there, too. So we have plans, just like he does, and plans are good.

I spent one evening shelving all the books in the new space and sorting through what to keep and what to get rid of: Nineteen books by Patrick F. McManus. Also, the ones on blacksmithing and leatherworking from those phases, and the manuals on knifemaking from that phase. And the first copy of the bread book he learned artisan bakery from – the one we have two copies of, because he used the original until the spine broke and pages fell out from his blissfully long but sadly abandoned passion for breadmaking, when we all learned terms like poolish, pan de mie, and bâtard.

On the day he moved I was fine until that night, making dinner in the kitchen, and suddenly felt the gentle wrench of his absence. Some of his things were missing because he’d taken them, and others of his were still there, discarded because he didn’t want them anymore. I searched the cabinet for a jar and found his collection of cheesecloth from the cheesemaking phase.

He won’t be back for dinner tonight, I realized. Not that he’s been eating with us; he’s been raiding the kitchen late at night when he gets home from work. He’d ask, “What’d you guys have for dinner?” and, depending on whether or not he liked the answer, he’d respond with “Is there any left?” or bored dismissal, and make his own thing.

And that song was playing again – the same one Iree played all last year before she moved, the anthem of the hatch. But this time it wasn’t her, it was the station playing Einaudi like it knows the soundtrack of our home.

I thought to myself that day, Oh, this is easy, I must’ve done all my grieving last summer when he left for fish camp, because I didn’t even feel like crying, all day I was fine. But then it was dinnertime in the kitchen that was so often his wheelhouse, and I still wasn’t crying, but now I knew for sure it would come later.

The song was finishing and I sat on the couch and filled three scraps of paper with grief, tearing sheets from the pad as I went, surprised at how many words and feelings were still pouring out.

I started this quilt not knowing what I was doing, just following the process, just trying to make something beautiful out of the materials on hand. Some of the fabric was good and new, some was old and recycled – pieces of one of Vin’s shirts, some old sheets, other scraps salvaged from an abandoned project. I was just running the machine, just doing the next thing I knew to do to patch things together, snipping ends and threads that stuck out in the wrong places, making pieces line up, and when they went wonky, I’d go back and seam rip and make them square again.

I got so frustrated with all the ironing because it felt like it was such an interruption to forward momentum – stop what you’re doing, iron these panels. Stop again and iron these other pieces. It wasn’t just to smooth things over, though; I realized at the end when I flipped the whole thing over that when you iron seams open, it covers a multitude of wonkiness and uneven lines. The areas I thought might go astray and slant off to an angle looked fine.

I was afraid it would be ruined, or ugly, or a disaster, but it was fine. Beautiful, even.

He smiled when I gave it to him and seemed to know what kind of gift it was.

Here, I made this for you. I hope you like it. I hope you don’t notice or mind all the flaws; I know it’s not perfect. I worked hard on it, but could have done better. I wonder if you’ll look at it more closely later and recognize some of these pieces, and realize where they came from.

We leave our marks on each other just by proximity and relation, and sometimes they are uneven lines and empty spaces we don’t know what to do with. Sometimes when we move away we do whatever we can to rub those marks out for a while, as though they’ve taken up space without our permission and we want to see what’s underneath without their influence.

Here, this is part of me, take it – and we pluck the feathers from ourselves, and thrust them onto our young men and women as they take their own flights, hoping they won’t cast our affection to the wind.

I paused, tore another sheet from the notepad, looked at all the words. Folded the papers in half, stared at the highway traffic out the dark window, the headlights going north and south.

Unfolded the paper, flipped it over, and kept going.

We miss their presence when they leave. But also, as they’ve been longing to leave – which we remember and relate to and rejoice in with them – we realize that we’ve already been missing them because part of them has been gone for a long time. They’ve changed and emotionally moved on already in many ways. The grief has been sneaking up on us, slipping in and surprising us at random intervals for over a year now.

This is not summer camp, or youth overnight, or fish camp. This is launching. And he’ll be back, I know he will; there will be dinners and barbecues and birthdays and it will be better. We’ve done this twice before and we know there’s a stretching distance for a while before the elastic springs back and things reach a new equilibrium. And it will be good. Really, really good.

But it won’t be the same. And that’s the thing we grieve most: It will never be the same. We cannot get that time back. The binding is on, the quilt is finished, there’s no time left for seam ripping and rearranging colors and redoing those panels.

Jesus redeems and leads and saves, and Holy Spirit continues doing the work we can’t, couldn’t, or didn’t. But still, we want to do better and wish we had done better — and I think this is the sign of a good parent, rather than one who’s perfectly satisfied with every aspect of their parenting and confident they’ve made no mistakes — and I’m grateful to still have little and younger ones to keep doing better with.

But it’s not over with the older ones, because we have new time that’s different from before. This time looks like broad, new conversations, and tentative efforts to bring buried things into the open, and a willingness to let spaces stay empty that aren’t ready to be filled. It looks like hilarious confessions and new levels of respect in both directions, and inside jokes filled with a vocabulary that only our family knows. It looks like mutual appreciation and recognition and repentance, and a whole different level of starting again.

Here, this is yours. I love the way some of these colors come together, and I regret not trying harder to make even lines in some of these places. But I hope you love it. I hope it keeps you warm, I hope you remember your mother and your family and your childhood and where you came from…with warmth, and fondness, and gratitude. I hope you know you are so loved.

It might be a while before they realize they didn’t notice all the things we did right in front of them, trying to make something beautiful out of the materials we had on hand.

It was so imperfect. There was significant wonk and things veered and shifted in ways we didn’t intend them to because we were learning and didn’t always know what we were doing. It is hard to wrestle these giant, complex souls to adulthood and keep our lines even.

But it was good, and warm, and filled with pieces of ourselves as the colors came together, and that is even better.

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dying into life: what will be well is even now well

Posted on by February 22, 2024

A gloomy, grey, windy day. It’s finally warm and that’s the silver lining; at forty degrees, we are eighty degrees higher than a few weeks ago when we had the coldest cold snap I’ve ever known. The water melting off the roof flies sideways in the wind, and soon there will be hopeful patches of bare ground, but not today.

It was one of those weeks; the grey bleakness seemed a little in-your-face as it collided with exhaustion and PMS and the loss of three birds in one day. All the noises were louder and I was overstimulated and hypersensitive, on edge over little things like the grating sound of rattling tin foil, the shrieking of a kid, and the frustration of not being able to finish a task. But it was big things, too, like medical situations with two sons, and the transition of another son moving out. And the ache all over.

dying into life: what will be well is even now well

The best prescription is to go to bed early. That sounds simple but what it really means is take vitamins, check on boys, turn Kav around so he doesn’t roll off his bed, spray the couch with pet deterrent, brush and floss teeth, and finally go to the shower to have a good cry.

The next day was better, and this is how it often goes, these slumps: downward frustration, level out in rest, rise upward again. It was still windy, though; the ravens lifted at odd angles, caught themselves on extended wings, and drifted back down. Another gust and they did it again, choreography above the highway. Their fight with the wind makes the storm visible.

We were forecasted to get a big storm but it must’ve stalled out because the highest gusts were overnight and even then the stovepipe wasn’t as shrill as normal. And that’s encouraging, because it’s a picture of figurative storms, too – situations often seem dire but end up petering out into a threat that was just used to prepare and strengthen you.

Which brings me to our latest medical drama.

We saw a surgeon this week about Andrey’s cyst; he said a lot of unhelpful and unhopeful things about future needs, current dilemmas, and the catch-22 of money solving everything if only we were billionaires. But since we aren’t, things are “difficult,” and apparently not being a billionaire is called a “social problem” in condescending doctor-speak. In real English though, three front teeth will need to go and bone mass is missing; something about food moving into the nasal cavity if things aren’t reconstructed fully. Seattle was repeatedly mentioned. And even though the latest CT scan shows no change to the area in the last few months (an answer to prayer), the surgeon said “the situation has changed” – meaning, last fall he thought we could easily take care of this in Alaska, and now he realizes he was wrong but doesn’t want to say so.

“I don’t know if you’re able to consider liquidating some resources…” he says. “Of course you want to do what’s right for him.” As though we need a pep talk to make the right choices, and also as though we don’t have other children who need a roof over their heads and food to eat. We need to do what’s right for them, also, and this young doctor doesn’t understand the legalities of guardianship or the fact that Andrey’s medical expenses are no longer in our financial jurisdiction. He doesn’t know we’ve emptied our accounts for this kid before; it’s how we started this process. And he has no idea we drive a 25-year-old vehicle. My bag of tricks is running pretty low right now.

“Have we to die again?” I asked.

“No,” he answered, with a smile like the Mother’s; “you have died into life, and will die no more; you have only to keep dead. Once dying as we die here, all the dying is over. Now you have only to live, and that you must, with all your blessed might. The more you live, the stronger you become to live.”

– George MacDonald, Lilith

And I think we must be growing stronger, because it’s a battle to keep the wind at bay when it’s trying to fly right in your face, flinging words of weighty responsibility that aren’t ours to really be concerned about. The storm may turn out to be nothing. And the storm isn’t the end-all-be-all anyway, although the enemy wants us to think so. The storm answers to the same God we do – the difference is that God gave us authority to speak to the wind and waves like He did.

For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.

– Galatians 2:19-20

The more we live, the more we understand that the storm doesn’t command us. We command it.

Which doesn’t mean we don’t (or shouldn’t) grieve as we face it, because oh, the wind is terrible sometimes. Parenting can rip you wide open, and whether it’s done badly or done well, it leads to pain. The only safe place is in the lukewarm middle where nothing matters because you willfully hold yourself back, refusing to let grief touch you, and I’ve been tempted there before. But that’s not trusting God or dying to self; that’s protecting yourself while everything dies around you. And that protection is a lie that leads to the wrong kind of death.

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what shall a man give in return for his soul?”

– Matthew 16:24-26

How can we who died to sin still live in it? Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.

– Romans 6:2b-4

So there are two kinds of pain, just as there are two kinds of death – one side is fruitful and leads to healing and restoration and life, and the other is pointless, just leading to more pain and death.

For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death.

– 2 Corinthians 7:10

Over the last week I’ve grieved over a dead chicken, a distant child, and my own selfishness and imperfections. We grieve our inability to be all things to all people. We grieve the lost time and gained absence and the increasing gap between things that should be close instead of far apart.

But just because a situation is not what it should be doesn’t mean it won’t be what it ought to be later – either in the near future, or on the other side. And this is what God keeps reminding me.

“I told you, brother, all would be well!—When next you would comfort, say, ‘What will be well, is even now well.’”

– George MacDonald, Lilith

What will be well, is even now well. That doesn’t mean the pain or sickness or wrongdoing or sin was God’s will. It means He makes all things new.

So we don’t need to protect ourselves from the grief or the storm, because we get to command in the middle of it – and sometimes what we need to command is ourselves, and remember it is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me. We are keeping dead, staying low, so we can live with all our blessed might. We have not lost our lives, but found them.

“But shall I not grow weary with living so strong?” I said. “What if I cease to live with all my might?”

“It needs but the will, and the strength is there!” said the Mother. “Pure life has no weakness to grow weary withal. The Life keeps generating ours.—Those who will not die, die many times, die constantly, keep dying deeper, never have done dying; here all is upwardness and love and gladness.”

– George MacDonald, Lilith

I feel that will, commanding it when an enthusiastic little guy hugs me but also inadvertently pulls my hair, and again when the huge blond tabby wants to cuddle but his claws drive through my jeans. Pain all over, amplified, but the strength is there, and so is love and gladness.

Celebration and grief mingle confusedly amid these new phases and stages, and fear threads its way into the unfamiliar. But we live dead and have done with dying, and I remind myself that all is upward from here.

Soon there will be hopeful patches of bare ground, and green life sprouting. New chicks peeping.

We’ve made it through the hardest part of winter, through the cold snap, through the grief and the storm. We’ve seen past the unhelpful and unhopeful things into the truth beyond, that all that will be well is even now well. Some things still hurt, they still matter, many of them still should’ve been different, but it will be well because God is redeeming all things, so even now it is well with my soul.