The Problem With Choosing Hope

It’s a quiet Sunday morning in Venice, Florida, and I’m in our hotel room. The air conditioning sends a steady hum of cool air through the room. The narrow crack in the curtain reveals a low, gray sky. In the neighboring room, an ongoing spate of cartoons babysits the kids. Maile isn’t here – she made the short walk to the workout room just down the hall. It’s a beautifully slow start to another day, and it leaves me feeling contemplative, considering 2014.

2013 was a very good year for us, by just about any measure of a year. The problem with having a good year after a series of very challenging years, especially for an analytical person like myself, is that I stare at the very thin threads that keep us from plummeting back into that space of heartache or disappointment. I find myself thinking, Yes, we had one good year, but…

I have three options when it comes to how I view my unfolding life. I can look at the unknown future and allow uncertainty to fill me with dread at all the horrible things that could happen. Another option would be to face the New Year with a sense of inevitability, to believe that nothing can ever really change.

The third option is to choose hope.

I can choose to believe, no matter how things appear, no matter how I feel, no matter what the “facts” are, that the insurmountable walls will finally crumble this year, that broken relationships will be restored, that those who I love will somehow find health, that I will see the “goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

But choosing hope is difficult because it involves opening myself up instead of closing myself off. Hope requires vulnerability. It insists that we get back up, no matter how many times we’ve already fallen. To live in a place of hope means to live in a place where pain, should it come, finds us defenseless, with our hands down at our sides, our most sensitive areas unguarded.

But this is also the wonderful thing about hope, because living life in an unguarded way automatically postures us to see the beauty we may have previously overlooked. You can’t receive anything with a closed fist. Except maybe a black eye.

I take a deep breath. I exhale slowly. I take another deep breath. Then I choose hope.

On Road Trips, Disappointing Decembers, and Not Being Afraid

4361016842As I write this we’re driving south on Route 81 through a very stark Virginia. A few tenacious leaves cling to the trees lining the highway – other than that it’s just brittle, brown grass and small herds of large, black cows scattered like lost notes.

Maile is driving the minivan. When we first met, nearly 17 years ago, neither one of us preferred driving. Being the passenger meant reading or searching the radio for something decent to listen to. Or sleeping. Yes, the heavenly kind of sleep that comes when the car is humming over the road, the sun shining in your face, and mile after lonely mile slips behind you.

But these days being in the passenger seat more closely resembles the life of a flight attendant. Serving food and water. Being in charge of entertainment. Calming the masses. Which means that in between each of these typed sentences I’m handing out oranges and rationing water and shouting, “Don’t drink so much – you’ll have to pee!”

That’s okay, though. It’s a beautiful life.

* * * * *

Starting this long road trip south has me thinking about the upcoming year. The older I get, the more each year feels like a road trip, a journey, an adventure with a very uncertain ending. It has me thinking back over previous Decembers, the endings of those other journeys.

Three years ago we entered December without any significant income lined up. Then a potential client, a longshot, sent me a down payment of $1,000. We paid some overdue bills, bought groceries and a few gifts, and marveled at the timing.

Two years ago we entered December in the same situation. I met with a client I had never met before, hoping that it might lead to a project at some point in the future but holding out little hope that it would meet our immediate needs. I left their house with a check for $5,000, and I just couldn’t stop sighing with relief.

Last year we were at the tail-end of the worst six months we had seen (financially speaking). I was working part time at a farmer’s market, driving Amish people around (this is a job in Lancaster, PA), and doing a little social media work for our church. We had to decide which bills to pay and which to sit on. Christmas was a tightly budgeted affair. The Dollar General was a good friend.

Then, just before the new year, projects started raining in. More work than I had ever seen. And it’s continued through this year, through next year, through the foreseeable future.

* * * * *

I was thinking again about the whole “Do Not Be Afraid” theme we see in the best Bible stories. I was thinking of the time Elijah hid under the tree in the middle of the wilderness and God appeared to him and said, “It’s time to face the people who want to kill you. Don’t be afraid.” I was thinking of the time that the angel appeared to Mary and said, “What’s about to happen to you doesn’t make any sense. Don’t be afraid.” I was thinking about the angel who appeared to the shepherds and said, “You’ve been waiting for this for a long, long time. Don’t be afraid.”

And it has me wondering…maybe that command, “Do not be afraid,” had just as much to do with what was coming down the road as it did with that present moment. What I mean is, maybe the angel said “Don’t Be Afraid,” not because of the fear Mary felt at seeing the angel, but because of the courage required in the coming days, months, and years.

In other words, when God says, “Don’t be afraid,” maybe God means, “Put on your courage. You’re going to need it, and not just right now when you’re scared to death because you can’t bear this unveiled glimpse into eternity. Put on your courage for what’s coming, for the raw experience of life, for the journey I’m about to lead you on.”

If the Bible is any kind of a blueprint, when God tells you, “Don’t be afraid,” an incredible transformation is about to take place. The road is about to get bumpy. Hold on.

* * * * *

We’ve had our share of difficult Decembers. We’ve approached plenty of New Year’s wondering how in the world everything would work out.

But constantly, through all of these changes and challenges and seasons of scarcity, we’ve heard a steady voice.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Don’t be afraid to hope for good things.”

“Don’t give up now.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

Miscarriages, Waiting, and “Do Not Be Afraid” (or, An Announcement)

IMG_1501
During a recent trip to God’s Whisper Farm, I woke up in the morning to discover that our four kids had invaded the bed.

 

After a few hours of waiting, I sent my wife a text message.

ANY NEWS?!?!

The phone rang moments later. I picked it up. I felt like I was in a movie because suddenly, surprisingly, the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. Eventually, I asked, “So what happened?” But even before she said a word I knew what the results had been.

“They couldn’t find a heartbeat,” she said through quiet sobs.

“What about a scan?” I asked. “Could they get you in for a scan?”

“Not until Tuesday! I can’t wait until Tuesday,” she cried to me through the telephone. “If I have to wait until then, I think I’ll lose my mind.”

I thought about the previous fall, when Maile had miscarried her last pregnancy. I thought about the tiny mound of rocks and the barely-held-together cross we had made out of branches. I thought about the tiny box now buried in the cold ground under the snow, the box that had “HOPE” inscribed on the top.

I thought about how we had just about finished paying for that last miscarriage. The last monthly bill had arrived from the hospital, and the balance would be gone after one more payment. Not that this had anything to do with money, but the irony was sharp, that in the same month we finished paying the bills associated with one miscarriage, we could very well begin paying for the next one.

“Just come home,” I said. “We’ll figure something out.”

* * * * *

Do not be afraid.

How many times do those words appear in the Bible? God says that phrase to Abraham multiple times, reassuring him of the promise. Joseph says it to his brothers when they discover his identity. Moses said it to the people. God said it those same people. Nearly forty times that phrase appears in the Old Testament.

Do not be afraid.

Do not be afraid.

Do not be afraid.

* * * * *

I told the kids while making their macaroni and cheese.

“They couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat,” I said. Their eyes opened wide. “But that doesn’t mean anything, not yet. Sometimes it’s hard for doctors to find the baby’s heartbeat when it’s this small.”

“I don’t want the baby to be dead,” Sam said, now on the verge of tears.

“It’s going to be okay, Sam,” I said quietly, delivering the four bowls of mac-n-cheese. “But Mama is kind of sad, so she’ll need some hugs when she gets back.”

A few minutes later, I heard the car pull down the lane, tires crunching over cold stones.

“C’mon,” Lucy said to the others. “Mom’s home.”

They ran to the door and when she opened it they engulfed her. The cold air blew in around us.

“It’s okay,” she said, holding them close, forming a huddle. “It’s going to be okay.”

* * * * *

The last instance of Do not be afraid appears in Revelation, as John falls prostrate after seeing the source of the voice speaking to him. The Bible says he fell as if dead.

But He laid His right hand on me, saying to me,“Do not be afraid; I am the First and the Last. I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore. Amen. And I have the keys of Hades and of Death.

Do not be afraid. I am the beginning and the end. I hold the keys to death.

* * * * *

After a few calls, we found a medical center that could do a scan for us that evening. We drove straight there, passing houses at that particular time of night when Christmas lights are coming on. I dropped Maile off and took the kids for dinner. The sun set over white, snowy fields. Cars crept into town, towards the malls and the shops.

We sat in the sandwich place and the kids chattered and ate and laughed. Then, out of no where, Sam looked at me with sad eyes.

“I don’t want anything to die,” he said.

“I know, Sam. I know. It’s going to be okay.”

Then, much quicker than I expected, a text came through from Maile. I didn’t want to look at it, but I had to.

* * * * *

We’ve mourned a lot in the last year, lost friends (too young) and a grandmother and seen things I hoped I’d never see with my own eyes, seen things I’d hoped I’d never be this close to. Only a year ago I wasn’t sure if I could keep writing for a living.

But there have been moments of peace, too, peace that cannot always be explained. There have been small patches of joy that, when stretched, surprised us and became more than adequate to fill the gap in the cloth.

This is life, isn’t it? The goods and the bads. Ground gained and lost, and, sometimes even worse, the battles that stretch on for months and years without any sign of a clear winner. But this is life.

Celebrate with us today, will you? And, when we need it, as I’m sure we will again, come alongside and hold us up.

* * * * *

“We have a baby!!!!!” the text message said.

The kids and I pulled to a stop outside the medical center. It was nearly vacant, and a lone individual stood along the curb, smoking a cigarette. The van smelled of sandwiches and a cold winter’s night.

“I know!” Lucy said. “When Mom gets into the car we should all scream for joy.”

We watched through the glass. They practiced their scream. Then we saw her. She came through the dark night, opened the door, and held up the ultrasound photos, smiling like I hadn’t seen her smile for many years.

The sound of those kids’ joyous rapture was quite a sound to behold. It probably scared that lone smoker nearly to death. To me the sound was as good as a host of angels, and words came to my mind, through the cacophony.

“Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

“So there’s going to be a number five,” I said, grinning. But my voice was drowned out by another round of cheers from the back.

* * * * *

I’m currently running a Christmas giveaway (ending Wednesday at midnight) where you can win an advanced copy of my upcoming book with Tim Kreider, Refuse to Drown, as well as copies of five other books I’ve written or co-written. You can enter the drawing HERE.

Seven Things This Protestant Likes About the Pope

6020860169As a Protestant, I don’t normally pay too much attention to what the Pope is up to. If I see a news story about him, I might click over and see what’s going on, but for the most part we travel in different circles. You know.

But I have to confess, Pope Francis is one guy who has my attention. Here are seven things I like about him:

1) He has decided not to move into the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace, but to live in a suite in the Vatican guesthouse.

How refreshing to see a Christian leader who doesn’t use his position to build a personal empire of wealth (or a $1.7 million mansion). A leader who doesn’t have a designated parking space outside the church. How often do Christian leaders more closely resemble Charlie Brown’s little sister? You know, the one who says, “All I want is what I have coming to me. All I want is my fair share.”

Instead of taking all that he has coming to him, he lives in simpler quarters (I’m sure they’re still beautiful) among the people he works with. That’s refreshing. I like it.

2) Did you see the photo of the pope kissing the head of the disfigured man? What a powerful image, a challenging reminder that Christians are called to serve the weak and the poor, the broken and the neglected.

3) He seems very relaxed about his own importance.

When a little boy joined the Pope on stage while he was addressing thousands and thousands of people, and the Pope simply smiled, and patted the boy on the head, and let him sit in his big white chair while he continued speaking, well, it made me smile.

4) Simplicity.

What does the pope carry on to the plane with him when he travels? A razor, a prayer book, a diary and a book about St. Theresa. He carries his own bags because, “It’s normal, we have to be normal. We have to be accustomed to being normal.”

5) Sarah Palin is worried about him. Even those of you who aren’t fans of the Pope must admit that this means he must not be all bad.

6) He wants “pastoral” bishops, not ones motivated by ideology. I like the idea of encouraging leaders to become more in tune with the problems and tensions faced by their congregants. Too many pastors have become preachers, standing up once a week and delivering a message, yet having no real feel for what is going on in their church or in the lives of those they have been called to serve.

7) Finally, I find the general sense of humility that surrounds this new Pope endearing. In the words of Neal Wooten,

I think it is that character trait that endears me to Pope Francis the most: humility. That’s why we never see him in the million-dollar pope-mobile, but his car of choice is a donated 1984 Renault with 190,000 miles on it, or at times a Ford Focus, and at least once a little Fiat. He’s even expressed his concerns with priests owning new cars.

“It hurts me when I see a priest or a nun with the latest model car, you can’t do this. A car is necessary to do a lot of work, but please, choose a more humble one. If you like the fancy one, just think about how many children are dying of hunger in the world.” – Pope Francis

Do you have any thoughts about Pope Francis?

What I Learned About Waiting, Searching, and Finding Hope in the Wreckage

2182787850There’s a sense of longing in all of us, isn’t there? This undeniable yearning for something to be completed, something to be brought to fruition. We want to see the incomplete brought to a right finish, we want to see the hole filled in, the tragedy redeemed.

We want the story to end well, not just happy-go-lucky, but well. We want Julian of Norwich’s saying to become a reality in our lives:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

But things happen in life. Small things that chip away at our foundation. Huge things that leave all of our structures flattened.

What do we do then, when the completion that we long for seems further away than ever? What do we do when hope feels like a tiny keepsake lost in the ruined expanse of a tornado-wrecked town?

Where do we begin searching among so much rubble? How can this thing called hope ever be found?

I’ve learned things throughout the years, after businesses that left me feeling like a failure, after miscarriages that spilled the life out of Maile and I. After hurts and betrayals and disappointments that still evade words.

One of the things I learned was that I have this instinct, when these painful things happen, to curl up inside of myself. And this is good, for a time. This is safe and quiet and healing. But there is also a time to let people back in. This weekend, at church, after everything that had happened, I was reminded how helpful it is to cry together, or to hug someone and let them cry on your shoulder. How healing it can be to listen and to simply say, “I’m so sorry.”

The other thing I’ve learned about this quest for hope is that we can rejoice in the waiting and the searching. Yes, we want to see the completion of all things, we want to see the resurrection and the redemption, and we will (please, God, we will), but there is space for joy in the in-between.

Advent teaches us this, that there is a kind of waiting that will bring fulfillment.

* * * * *

This is what I love about U2’s song, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” The lyrics speak of a longing, a pursuing, but there is also a sense of rejoicing in that not-yet.

Peace. Healing. Joy. Love. Forgiveness. We have yet to attain these things in perfection, but I hope that during this Advent season, we can all somehow rejoice in the things yet to be found.

I Will Pray For Him, Too, Though I Do Not Know How

I wrote a post last night about this. It was late. I wrote some things that had deep roots in anger and a churning stomach. My hands trembled as I typed. But those words brought death to me, a deep sense of hopelessness and despair, and I suspect they would have brought the same to anyone who read them.

So I deleted the post.

Then I received a message from a friend. “There’s so much hate,” he said. “So much confusion.” Would I write something? Would I put words to the deep hurt so many of us are feeling? At first I thought, no. I can’t. I can’t dig this stuff up, this rotten stuff inside of me, this stuff that needs more time to break down and decay before it turns to useful soil.

I woke up late this morning after a long night debriefing with close friends. We wept and wondered why, how. These things don’t happen to your friends, your church. Of course not. They happen to other people in other cities with other problems.

Then, after I slept in, we celebrated my daughter. She turned nine this morning, and we sang Happy Birthday to her while walking down the steps to her room, served her breakfast in bed (chocolate chip pancakes and hot chocolate and one extravagant gift). I remembered how she came screaming into the world, bloody and wet. I remembered how I had cried when she emerged because she was a she, a girl to the boy my wife had delivered 18 months earlier.

“It’s a girl!”

Then I brought in the Christmas tree and cut off the lower branches and it smelled so good. So clean. A fresh start. But there was still this sick feeling in my stomach over everything that had happened, everything we had learned. I wondered if throwing up would help, but I haven’t yet. There’s a sadness, too, a weight. The heaviness of disappointment and death – not a physical death, but the passing of innocence and the loss of futures and this outward spreading ripple of anger and sadness.

Should I hate this young man, my friend, arrested yesterday for sexually assaulting a teenage boy? Should I hate him, now waiting in a jail cell, on the way to being officially labeled a pedophile?

I certainly hate what he did. I hate the atomic bomb of sexual assault, how it flattens and chars and melts. I hate a world where people take advantage of other people’s trust. These things I hate.

But do I hate him? I don’t think so. I don’t know.

* * * * *

But I still ache. My insides literally churn with desire for a new world. For a world where families don’t receive this kind of news. For a world where young boys are given the space and freedom to grow and develop and mature in a healthy way. For trust.

That’s close to the foundation of it, I think. I yearn for trust. To trust and be trusted. But this world falls so short. And because the church is in the world, it falls short, too. The church, made up of imperfect people, hurting people, cannot protect everyone. Even the most innocent. Even the most vulnerable.

I hate this about the church, so much so that I want to grind my teeth and scream. I also hate this about me and my friends and my pastors, because we are the church, and sometimes no matter how many background checks you do, no matter how many references you check, you cannot protect everyone. I hate that we cannot protect everyone. Someone will always manage to take advantage of our deep yearning to trust. To be trusted.

I hate this about us, our powerlessness. Our failures. Our impotence.

* * * * *

What now? Where do we go from here? What do we do?

What do I want to do? I want to give up on church. I want to give up on trusting people. I want to keep my kids home this Sunday and hide in solitude, cutting down trees and chopping firewood in the backyard and thinking about nothing. I want to watch a movie with my kids and ride four-wheeler with them and pretend none of this ever happened. Pretend my friend did not do this.

But on Sunday I will go to church, and I will hug my friends. I will cry with them over the pain that has so recently descended. I happen to be on the schedule to work in the children’s class, so I will accept the looks of skepticism and distrust the parents send my way, and I will understand them. I will not be offended in the least. I will nod and shake the hands of parents who can no longer leave their kids with other people. I will hug them, too, because I know how they feel. I don’t blame them, not at all.

I will plead with God that peace rains down on the family who has entered the nightmare, and I will pray that they will find their way as best they can. I pray that they still know, deep down, that they are good parents. Because they are.

I will pray for my friend, too, though I do not know how.

* * * * *

I started reading Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning a few days ago, before I heard about all of this. “Before” – that word has a certain echo to it, a certain emptiness. Anyway, there was a passage that I highlighted, a verse that Manning quoted that resonated with me on that particular day.

Here is a saying that you can rely on and nobody should doubt, “that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners” (1 Timothy 1:15).

Sinners, like my friend, now looking to spend year after changeless year behind bars. Sinners, like those of us who did not possess the wisdom or the guile or the power to stop this from happening.

Sinners, like me.

Jesus, please return.