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Whenever I find old notebooks, I cringe: at best they are filled with snippets of projects I never completed; at worst they provide me with examples of my own horribly mediocre writing, best forgotten.

So when I discovered an old, brown, 7.5″ by 9.75″ notebook, I opened it with trepidation. But when I read the first page, I had to smile.

Remember how my family of six moved up from Virginia and into my parent’s basement (because we were broke)? My wife made me promise that I would commit to writing for three months before looking for a “real” job. Well, this notebook was from one of the early days, when I didn’t know what was going to happen, where I would find work, or what the plan was for my life.

The first page inside this brown notebook was a small piece I wrote from the perspective of my (at the time) 6-year-old son:

My dad sat at the computer all day today. I knew something was wrong because he just stayed there and tapped his foot like a jack-hammer all morning: tap tap tap tap tap.

He told me he was going to teach a class on writing.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I like to write,” he said.

I watched him for a little while.

“You’re a great writer,” I said when I noticed how fast his fingers moved over the keys.

He smiled.

“That’s typing,” he said. “But thanks.”

I remember that day, and I have to smile at how much he wanted me to be happy.

I love reminders from the past, triggers that put me back in a time that was both difficult and necessary. If you’re in the middle of a tough time, write yourself a note – some day you’ll appreciate the reminder of how far you’ve come.

“Okay, I made it,” the boy yelled. “Your turn.”

I hesitated, holding on to the cold iron gate with both hands, my feet propped on the third rail.

“C’mon! Just run as fast as you can!” I was eight years old, good at running as fast as I could.

I took a deep breath, eased down to the lowest rail, pointed a tentative toe out on to the ground. It felt firm. I got ready, then I pushed off and ran. The ground was dusty under my feet – it cracked and moved, like a live organism. Except it wasn’t ground – it was cow crap, about two feet deep with a hard crust and a not-so-hard inside.

* * * * *

Sometimes I think we take unnecessary risks. I’m not talking about the risks with upside, the risks that require more of us than we thought existed. At some point in life those leaps of faith aren’t even risks anymore – they are almost necessities: getting out of the job you hate to do what you love; committing to a relationship that doesn’t always make sense; moving somewhere new, starting fresh. Sure, these are risks, but the potential upside is immeasurably high.

The unnecessary risks aren’t anything like that at all – the upside to those is minimal, the downside monumental. That late night email chat with a friend you haven’t told your spouse about. Skimming a little money off the top, for yourself. Letting your  mind go to places that only lead to self-destruction.

These risks are not worth taking.

* * * * *

About half way across the expanse of crap, my foot broke through. My leg plunged down to the knee. My sneakers, my jeans, the sock on my one foot: all ruined. Plus I probably smelled like shit for a week.

If you’re going to take a risk, take one with upside. Don’t sprint over a sea of crap.

True wisdom and real power belong to God; from him we learn how to live, and also what to live for. Job 12:13

I met Caleb Wilde for the first time at a Starbucks a few weeks ago, where I inadvertently motioned for him to pay the bill for both of us (beware any who would take me to coffee or lunch – this is a recurring theme in my life). He’s a fascinating guy with a job that many people wouldn’t care to have, but, as you’ll see in this post, he carries himself with grace and humility.

I walk into a room at 6 a.m. and all eyes fix on me and my next move.  I am, after all, the odd one out in the room, the one whose face isn’t stained with tears; the one wearing dress clothes, who’s there in body, but whose soul isn’t in the depths.

I’m the colonialist, walking into another culture, ready to impose society’s desire for a clean picture of death.

Those who are sitting around the bed of the deceased aren’t thinking about what you and I are thinking about at 6 in the morning.  They aren’t wondering how they will get their kids dressed in time for school; or how they’re going to pitch their project to coworkers at work.

Everything is on hold.

Time has slowed at a pedestrian pace and they sit in grief … resisting the reality that what was their husband, their wife, their son, daughter, grandfather, friend is no longer present to hug, laugh and live with.

Death creates its own culture … its own world.

A world where time seems to altogether stop, where language is often spoken with less words and more tears, hugs and contemplation, where the regular dress code doesn’t exist and where the norms and mores of society are put on hold.  Here, in this sacred space at 6 a.m. in the morning, God seems nearer; family and friends surround you; you can let your emotional inhibitions go.  This is the world that was never meant to be and yet is everything you wish it could be.  It seems we have to go back through death to get to Eden.

With tie draped down my dress shirt, if I can’t imagine a world unlike mine … if I can’t picture a context outside of me … if I can’t remove myself from the all too obvious facts that it’s 6 a.m., I’m tired, didn’t get my Dunkin Donuts medium coffee with cream and sugar, and that I’ll be even more tired tonight when I’m supposed to go to Chili’s with my wife; if I can’t imagine the family’s story; the story of the deceased and his life and the loss this represents, I can’t be a good funeral director.

Funeral directing is a lot like writing.  It involves alterity, imagination and the ability to make a lot of the detail and little of the obvious.  I write the story as I walk into the sacred space of grief.

I notice the one closest to the decease’s body.  “That’s probably the NOK”, I think to myself.  Granted, the story is easier to imagine if I already know the family, but this morning I don’t.  The closest one to the bed is oft the main character in this play; and I can write a story of comfort, by entering the narrative with a warm hug, maybe even a kiss, a kind smile and eyes that speak of the compassion my heart is feeling; or, I could write a story as a narrator, standing back, observing and not entering.  What does this specific family need?

I wait as the drama unfolds, as my very presence evokes the supporting characters who will inevitably point me to the protagonist.

Asking questions; feeling out the room.  I enter in and I – at this very moment – have the privilege and responsibility of helping to write this chapter.

Now head on over to Caleb’s blog and check out his most-read post of all time, “Why 99.9% of Pastors Agree With Rob Bell.”

I drove the van through the entrance of the cemetery. The large, iron gate rested back against a grassy bank. It felt as though driving too quickly might wake some of the dead, so I drove gingerly.

We circled through the grave stones. Maile recognized many of the last names, common in the small town of Troy, Ohio, where she grew up. It took two trips around before we finally spotted the one we were looking for:

“Velma Peeler”

“There it is,” Maile said quietly. I stopped the van.

She got out and walked slowly through the dreary day, weaving amongst the stones. Then she stopped, staring down at her grandmother’s grave. The older two kids chattered in the back, asking questions non-stop about cemeteries, death and a grandmother I had barely known.

When Maile approached the van she wiped her eyes, a sad smile draped across her face.

“Okay,” she said, putting her hand on top of mine. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

Two thousand years ago, a few women walked quietly to visit the grave of a dear friend. But when they arrived they found only an empty tomb. And an angel sitting on a rock.

“He’s not here,” the angel told them. “He’s risen. Just like he said he would.”

What did the women do?

“They left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy and ran to report it.”

* * * * *

I think it’s normal in life to revisit the tombs where deaths have occurred. We think back to how life should have been. Could have been. But the more time we spend in front of the grave, the greater the chance that bitterness and unforgiveness will set in and hope will vanish.

This is the lesson I’m taking from Easter this year. Those women who saw the empty tomb? They left it “quickly with fear and great joy.” It takes a lot of bravery, and masses of hope, to turn our backs on the death in our life.

Every death in life leaves room for resurrection. Every lost job, every closed church building, every serious injury or scary diagnosis or broken relationship will eventually lead to an opportunity. But only if we can open our eyes. Only if we can leave the tomb with “fear and great joy.”

But what then? What should we do after finally gaining the courage to stop letting that death define us?

Do what the women did: run and report it. Share the story. Spread the hope.

Ever go through times of serious self-doubt? Ever think that you’re actually rather terrible at being a parent, or a preacher, or a writer, or a teacher? Ever wonder how long it will take for those around you to realize you’re a fraud, send you packing to the far-off reaches of the country where your new claim to fame will be having an occupation that lands you a spot on “Dirtiest Jobs”?

I feel that way. A lot. That’s why I love the following journal entry by one of America’s greatest writers:

My many weaknesses are beginning to show their heads. I simply must get this thing out of my system. I’m not a writer. I’ve been fo0ling myself and other people. I wish I were. This success will ruin me as sure as hell. It probably won’t last, and that will be all right. I’ll try to go on with work now. Just a stint every day does it. I keep forgetting. (John Steinbeck, Working Days: “The Journals of The Grapes of Wrath”)

Now I’m no John Steinbeck, but it sure helps knowing that even he had moments of self-doubt, times when he felt like he was not a writer. I have that page permanently dog-eared.

On page 156 of Anne Lamott’s book “Bird By Bird” is the following poem by Bill Holm:

Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.

Failure will lead to something beautiful. Sometimes though, in order to understand this, we have to take a moment, sit with our backs against an aspen tree, listen to the wind in the leaves.