Longing In Absence

Last night, Dave shared a list he had written. He had gone away for a few hours and put some thought into what he wanted, generating a specific list with time goals. I was stunned by the whole thing, because it was so unlike him, and I realized, such a good thing for him. He puts his desires aside so often for the clamoring needs of the family that it was good for him to reflect and focus.

It stunned me just as much how alien such a list had become for me. I lived most of my earlier life going from station to station. I lived off lists like that. My whole life was a list (while single, I listed a goal of having “four to five kids by age 35”—check). By all accounts, I have arrived: gotten into schools, finished degrees, married great guy, bought starter house, acquired permanent house, finished having kids, good job gig, have a pet, in great school district, physically fit—by whatever metric you want to use, I’m there. 

But somehow, I have arrived a totally different person. I used to go from station to station without thinking much beyond what our meritocratic culture, combined with my goal-oriented stubbornness, told me to do. But even if you go somewhere just to achieve more, you can’t divorce yourself from the culture of the place, from becoming the kind of person who works there, even if it’s not what you fully intended or even understood beforehand. I caught this happening early enough to decide to stop. That was at the end of residency, and that was the last time I made a list like Dave’s.

Then began a strange and curious process. Not much happened anymore on an external level—well, kids and moves, but nowhere near the kind of external intensity and pressure I lived in before. All the movement was in my interior landscape. It was a process of inner transformation that came through relationships, and time, and encountering myself and God in many different, deeper, and truer ways than I ever had before. I never knew what to say when people asked how I was doing: nothing much different externally, but always something happening internally.

I read recently about a man who, on moving from India to the U.S., “missed being surrounded by people who felt the vertical spiritual dimension in everyday life.” He missed being in a place that perceived reality through a sacred lens, where people felt that there are “spiritual realities in physical, imminent things.” He began to call the U.S. a “flatland,” a thinner realm. The reverse is how this process of transformation feels for me: like going from the flatlands to a world where everything has spiritual topography.

The irony is that I have “arrived,” only to find that arriving is a construct of the flatlands. And therefore something I note with detachment, but find functionally useless. I have a lot to be thankful for: just as I always have. And there is nothing, nothing that can satisfy the longings of my heart outside of God and sitting in his presence. I have just as many longings, struggle just as much with discontentment, as I ever have, but the longings are deeper, rawer. I kept myself too busy, too focused on the list, to really understand them before.

I find myself not really wanting to make a list. My longings are not of the sort that can be enumerated upon with time goals. I find lately that I experience them like waves, of color or feeling; they are something I am immersed in, something I must walk through, something I cannot entirely shake off but must rather sit with. I went in the last few months from a place of extremely productive spiritual discipline, to a place of acedia, detachment and what one writer calls “a sluggishness of the soul,” and I found that the only language that appealed to me was the language of longing. I read a lot of Ruth Haley Barton. I asked myself what it was I desired. And in the end, the response I encountered was always the same: sit with the desire, unmet. Go out and stand on the mountain, like Elijah, and wait.

In the flatlands, everything was achieved by individual effort. In the vertical dimension, I come again and again to a place where my longings are not pointing me to achieve more (on the contrary, I am acutely aware I should not try to), but inviting me to sit more with God. He understands and sees all the layers of longing in my being; I am sure of that. I don’t know where things will go. But apparently it was never about external arrival to begin with.

Spiritual Discipline

“A baseball player who expects to excel in the game without adequate exercise of his body is no more ridiculous than the Christian who hopes to be able to act in the manner of Christ when put to the test without the appropriate exercise in godly living.” -Dallas Willard, Spirit of the Disciplines

I’ve been thinking about spiritual disciplines for some time. For much of my past, that concept was associated with guilt more than action, with repeated, vague readings of Richard Foster’s classic and feeling like I ought to be getting up for morning devotions but never being able to do so for more than a few months at a time. It was all too easy to become subsumed by external pressures and internal torpor and distraction. The last decade has been a kind of spiritual renaissance, though, and one anchor during the adjustment to the move has been pressing more into the Word in various ways, which has lately only made me realize how much more I am missing. How much more there is for me. 

That’s the point of spiritual disciplines—they are not for the earning of grace, but the fuller experience of it. They posture us to more fully receive and be transformed by the grace we have already been given. Pastor Ryan Paulson, at a seminar during Mt. Hermon family camp this past summer, said what it feels like to him is drinking from a well he never realized was there, or positioning his sails to catch the wind. 

Disciplines are surely just as much about training as receiving, or maybe receiving through training. We all know we can’t sit down on stage without preparation and play a Chopin ballade—we could sit there and try and try, but we’d fail. What it takes to play in that moment are not attempts while on stage, but hours and years of prior practice: scales, learning parts hands-separately, then hands-together, then slowly, then up-to-tempo, then with dynamics, then with personal expression, then memorizing the score, listening to recordings of other players along the way for context, receiving coaching from a private teacher.

Yet spiritually, we are forever trying but rarely training. We want to know God’s will when faced with a decision, to be able to forgive when hurt, to control an angry impulse when provoked, but we aren’t engaging in practices that help us listen to, know, and experience God and the workings of the Holy Spirit on a consistent basis, during the millions of moments when it doesn’t urgently matter. Wisdom and character are not acquired in a moment. Do I really desire after the best things?

What is so difficult, of course, is how easily we slip back into our old selves and ways of thinking, into the cultural river in which we are all immersed. Wayne Cordeiro, in his book The Divine Mentor, shares the story of Polish pianist Ignace Jan Paderewsky, who when asked to play for government concerts only agreed to if they allowed him to play three hours of scales a day. “If I skip one day of scales,” he explained, “when I play in concert, I notice it. If I skip two days of scales, my coach will notice. And if I skip three days, the world will notice.” It’s the same with our daily devotions, Cordeiro says: skip one day, and we notice. Two days, and our spouse and kids notice. Three days, and the world notices. It’s that easy to slip back into worldly wisdom, into cranky moods, to lose perspective.

Practically, it comes down to experimenting and experiencing, seeing which work, keeping in mind some have more primacy while others may be for certain seasons. The list that Dallas Willard gives includes disciplines of abstinence (silence and solitude, simplicity, fasting, sabbath, secrecy, submission) and engagement (bible reading and memorization, worship, prayer, soul friendship, personal reflection, and service), but there may be many others. I like how Willard says we need to look at Jesus’ whole life, not just his public ministry but the lifestyle and disciplines that prepared him for that—the same could be said of Paul, Daniel, David, Elijah, and many others—those seem like a good place to start.

I’ve been memorizing the book of Ephesians, using Davis’ technique from An Approach to the Extended Memorization of Scripture (which I highly recommend). Most of the time, it feels like working out. I drag myself to it each day, but afterwards, I feel great. Sometimes phrases get repeated to the point where I see something new in it, or in entire chapters in context, that I’d never seen before. Sometimes the very first time I learn a verse it convicts me. Sometimes nothing happens. Either way, there is surely no better way to meditate on scripture: I’ve never experienced anything like it before, this feeling of the word inside me, all the time, popping to mind during moments of temptation or in response to something I see, seeing how the words underlie or enhance other parts of scripture I encounter. In that sense, it really is like tapping into something that was there for me, all the time, but I had never fully taken advantage of. I think of Jesus, how words from the scriptures sprang to his lips at the most stressful times of his life, when tempted, when dying, and this whole venture becomes a glimpse into his interior life and mind. The daily grind seems a small price to pay for that.

Lemons

I was holding Esme today in our back yard when I suddenly noticed a few lemons on our lemon tree. The house had a huge lemon tree that had to be razed down during renovation so we planted a new one, right next to the sunroom window, but I had never noticed any fruit. I turned and saw two green orbs hanging low off our young pomelo tree. Surprisingly, all the fruit trees were alive—apricot, guava, apple—not only alive, but looking pretty good. I still thought of them as the scrawny things we first planted, but they were sturdier now, with plenty of green leaves. 

On the East Coast, the sprinkler systems are above-ground, spraying water in a big, rainbow-catching arc across the entire lawn. In the drought climate here, lawns are rare; our watering system like most is underground. A black tube runs around to each plant, seeping just the right amount of water into their roots invisibly every few days. You never see anything happening, but here are these plants, staying green, even growing, in the dry, brown landscape.

And of course I’m thinking, look at us. Look at me. Here we are, living in a place that a year ago seemed so wrenchingly far from home that it left a void that could never be filled. Some kind of seismic shift in self that I couldn’t quite name. At one point I resented it all, even the weather that made me feel like I was stuck in an annoyingly perfect time capsule.

Someone told me once, people here are like ducks. They look relaxed on the surface, like they’re gliding effortlessly where they want to go, but underneath they’re paddling furiously. Their kids are in the best schools in the country, but they’re constantly worried about whether they’re doing the right activities and being raised in line with the most recent studies. Their jobs are elite, but they feel inadequate, like imposters in a high-pressure culture. They live on land that cost millions of dollars, but bear the stress of remodeling or constantly fixing up the old houses sitting on them. They live within access to amazing venues for food and entertainment, but have to deal with constant traffic and insufficient parking to get there. 

So I thought when I got here, I don’t want any of that. I want to be me, and I want to be it authentically. If I’m struggling, I want to share it. If I’m putting my kid in an activity, I’m going to be intentional and open about it. I don’t want scheduling every minute of our lives to be our default. I want to have an open door. 

And I kept trying to catalogue what I felt was inevitable cultural assimilation. But my list boiled down to mostly material things (own joggers, addicted to boba, carries sunscreen). I couldn’t really capture the subterranean part of it. Sometimes, it felt like swimming against the current, heading upstream against all the other ducks paddling furiously the other way, which required a level of intentionality that was both lonely and draining. Other times, it felt like discovering something that made a part of me open up: stimulating conversations, a new kind of grandeur in nature, a kind of thriving I could see in Dave and the kids. 

But today, I looked at the lemon tree and felt surprised. This is what it’s like. I really don’t feel like I’m paddling desperately under the surface. There is instead a kind of sustenance that is as sure as it is invisible. Somewhere along the way, I stopped resenting the differences here. It became just like following the same God I had always followed, who knows and loves me the same way on any coast. And who still provides what I need to draw from each day. I hardly even saw it until Esme dragged me outside to show me a purported black lizard she had spotted and we found lemons instead.

Bloom Where You're Planted

“Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters… multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare [shalom] of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare… Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are among you deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams that they dream, for it is a lie… For thus says the Lord: When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will visit you, and I will fulfill to you my promise and bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord…”  - Jeremiah 29: 4-11

I’ve been meditating on Jeremiah 29 this week. The context of the chapter is really the entire story of God’s people in the Old Testament: the choosing, the covenants, the deliverance, the journey to the promised land; the judges, the kings, who eventually stopped following God. The strife that led to a split into north and south; bad king after bad king; repeated sin and idolatry despite prophets’ warnings, which eventually led to God’s judgment as the northern kingdom was conquered by the Assyrians and the southern by the Babylonians. 

This was undoubtedly one of the worst points in the story. The land was lost. The temple plundered. The law long ignored. Judgment had come. Those who were not part of the remnant that stayed found themselves forced into life in a foreign land and culture. I think the majority exilic thinking at the time would have been: we’re not where we’re supposed to be. It was not supposed to be like this. Life will be better when we get out, when things change. And false prophets like Hananiah (Jeremiah 28) were promising that very thing: imminent liberation within two years! You’ll get your lands and your king back!

That’s why Jeremiah’s letter is so radical. Generally the Israelites were warned not to co-mingle with Gentiles in whatever lands they were entering; here they were amongst enemies; and lastly they were hoping to get out soon—but Jeremiah says, build and live. Plant and eat. Marry and have kids. They had been told, you’ll be out in two years—but Jeremiah says, it’s going to be seventy. Most of you will die in this place. They probably thought they were seeing the last of the covenant—but Jeremiah says, the story has not ended. There will be restoration, of relationship and shalom and land, so have hope.

We are so much creatures of circumstance and expectation. It’s so easy to think, “my life will be better when…” It’s so hard to be present when we think things may change. It’s so hard to cope when things don’t turn out like we wanted. Depression, withdrawal, or resentment can creep in. I think about Jeremiah’s strange mix of good and bad news. He was basically saying, look, your current circumstances are going to be worse than you were told. But your ultimate future is going to be far better. He was saying, look, circumstances are secondary to relationship. In your worst place, God visits you. His thoughts are towards you. He hears you. Call on him, come to him, find him with all your inner self, all your understanding and will and feeling. You will have hope, not based on circumstantial manipulation, but that is given to you.

I like Jeremiah’s definition of being present. On the one hand, it’s imminently practical. Build, live, plant, eat. Grow families. You can’t do that without living in community, without engaging daily. On the other hand, it’s imminently spiritual. Don’t seek cultural norms and the dreams of the majority. Be intentional about how you define meaning and success. Seek shalom, wholeness, peace and realize that this only comes from God. Be spiritual engaged in prayer. Don’t lose your worldview. 

It’s ironic that verses eleven-on are so often quoted out of context. Interpreted in our individualistic, circumstantially-focused culture, it’s often read in prosperity-gospel, self-deterministic fashion—when in reality, it’s a promise given in community, and preceded by harsh news. The more I read it, the less it seems about fortune, than about a God who is radically faithful. Who keeps all his promises to us solely because of who he is. Who is completely sovereign. Who reached out to a people crushed by circumstances, through a man who had himself suffered repeatedly for the sake of what he believed, to renew a covenant and hope. The same covenant and hope that we have now.

O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go

“My hymn was composed in the manse of Innellan on the evening of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s marriage, and the rest of the family were staying overnight in Glasgow. Something happened to me, which was known only to myself, and which caused me the most severe mental suffering.

“The hymn was the fruit of that suffering. It was the quickest bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the impression of having it dictated to me by some inward voice rather than of working it out myself. I am quite sure that the whole work was completed in five minutes, and equally sure that it never received at my hands any retouching or correction. I have no natural gift of rhythm. All the other verses I have ever written are manufactured articles; this came like a dayspring from on high.” – George Matheson

I have a fondness for hymns (which are great for teaching children; I have BSF to thank for that) and their stories. Our church sang the Robbie Seay Band version of O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go on Black Friday and it became the song that stuck with me through that whole period.

George Matheson was born in 1842 in Glasgow, graduating first in his university class in classics, logic and philosophy. Towards the end of that time he learned he was going blind; his fiancée at the time left him, saying she could not go through life with a blind man. He went on to study for and enter ministry as he had resolved to do, with the help and support of his sister, as by his early twenties he had gone completely blind. In 1866 he became assistant pastor in Innellan, where he wrote several works and became a theologian of some repute.

Matheson wrote this hymn in 1882, on the evening of his sister’s marriage, alone while the rest of the family had gone away. Perhaps he saw the dark years stretching out before him without his companion and helper. Perhaps the wedding reminded him of his own failed engagement. He never did marry, but in 1886 moved to Edinburgh, where he became minister of a church for thirteen years.

O Love that wilt not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee;

I give thee back the life I owe,

That in thine ocean depths its flow

May richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way,

I yield my flickering torch to thee;

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee;

I trace the rainbow through the rain,

And feel the promise is not vain,

That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from thee;

I lay in dust life’s glory dead,

And from the ground there blossoms red

Life that shall endless be.

When Trouble Comes

“I live to show his power, who once did bring my joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.” – preacher George Herbert

“For it is you who light my lamp; the Lord my God lightens my darkness.” – Psalm 18:28

For three months earlier this year, I went through a period of emotional depression. I have always had a perennially optimistic disposition, and I am not only not very emotional, but tend to be easily critical of people who are. Dave is equally optimistic and even less moody (he is in a bad mood maybe once a year). Needless to say, this was quite a novel experience for both of us.

The whole thing happened very gradually. Without really knowing how it happened, I came unquestionably to a place where I found myself living with constant sadness and depressed feelings I could not shake. At heart I was lonely and homesick. I think we had strategized for this move for so long, then been so caught up in the logistics of settling in, that I had never really allowed myself to say that I was sad. I missed my parents, my friends. I missed the culture back East. I missed my old sense of self. 

It all sounds kind of inane, almost childish, but it was very real in my feelings, whatever my head thought, and for once in my life my feelings would not be overruled. I cried every day. I never felt like eating much. It felt like a big effort to connect with anyone. I didn’t feel like talking. It was hard to receive advice. I felt insecure about how people perceived me. I recall standing off to one side at a school party one morning, next to the stroller with the younger two, feeling like here I am yet I don’t belong and I don’t feel anyone cares. I remember Ellie coming up to me and giving me a hug while I struggled not to cry. 

I remember Dave asking what he could do one night, while I was lying in bed crying. I asked him to hold my hand and not say anything, and that helped more than anything. I didn’t want any words; I just wanted to feel I wasn’t alone. The fact was, I had lost a part of my life and myself, forever. No rightness of decision or future promise could change that, and no one on either coast could really understand how it felt. And it was something I had to feel, not analyze. It was something I had to walk through in an acutely solitary way, yet it helped to hold someone’s hand.

The most helpful practical advice came from my sister, who sent me an excerpt of When Trouble Comes by Philip Ryken. He talks about how it helped him to keep up outward routines when he was feeling down—to exercise, eat something healthy, be present with his kids, go to worship, share with close friends, ask for prayer, and pray himself. I did those things and in retrospect it undoubtedly helped.

But the main thing that helped was pressing into God. Maybe some people feel at these times like God is distant, but I never felt him closer. Who else truly understood me? Who else had been there through every other change in my life? Who else saw every tear? Only God. 

God showed up for me in the most unexpected of places. One time it was in Leviticus 8. I was reading in a café during lunch break at work, and suddenly I felt like every word about Aaron was about me—being washed with water, clothed carefully, set about with precious stones and a holy crown and anointing oil—it was all some love poem from God, to me. I could have done some inductive analysis about how the office of high priest pointed towards and was fulfilled by Christ who then imputed that to me—but what came through wasn’t cerebral at all. It was just a feeling, a feeling speaking into my feelings, and there I was, crying in public over Leviticus (a first).

Another unexpected place was in a sensory deprivation pod during a balance float (another first). I was praying, which those days meant praying my feelings because I didn’t have much else to say, and I felt filled with an unmistakable sense of security, that my identity was both fully seen by and deeply secure in Christ. I hadn’t even wholly realized until then how insecure I felt about who I was here. Again, it wasn’t some kind of self-generated rationalization: it was a conviction of feeling being given to me, and more than anything, it felt like a release. Coming out of that period happened as gradually as it started, but that moment was as much a turning point as any.

I don’t know if I will ever go through a period like that again—I sort of hope not—but part of what I take away is that emotional low points, sometimes beyond one’s ability to outthink or control, can be a normative part of the Christian life. I will also take away small kindnesses, from close friends and family, Dave and the kids. A God that can speak over and into feelings. The comfort of wordless presence. 

Having It All, Part 2

“For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.” – Philippians 3:8

Every so often I think through the matter of career versus family again. I posted about this six years ago when leaving academia to enter what became a relatively ideal private practice gig, where I was able to work short days, maintain good surgical volume, and have my own cohort of patients. All while working two days per week with a good salary. Benefits of working in a non-competitive, high-need area.

Needless to say, the career landscape is different here—intentionally finding jobs that allow us to prioritize marriage and family has involved taking a lot more career hits. Dave, who was a rising state-wide superstar in public health, only considered jobs that did not involve a long commute, which seriously restricted his options in a relatively specialized field. He’s had to step out of the limelight in some ways and maintain flexibility with job changes. I have found two part-time gigs with amazing flexibility, but have lost surgical volume, autonomy, and having my own patient cohort to varying degrees.

The decisions to take these hits feels different this time around. Six years ago, it felt like a watershed moment. Looking back, the elite academic environment I habituated prior to that was a bubble in which pushing myself to do everything I could to excel was simply assumed. I was constantly surrounded by the ultra-intelligent and insecure about my own abilities, haunted by anxiety and driven by the need to prove myself, to everyone else but also to myself. Coming out of that was nothing less than transformative.

I’ve since realized that ultimately, the answer to how one balances career and family is one with no clear, practical right or wrongs. You can work for the right and wrong reasons, just like you can stay at home for the right and wrong reasons. 

For me, the process has been a progressive realization that the time I spend with the kids while they are young makes a real difference; that the physical, mental and emotional energy I have when I work less releases me to invest in my marriage, my health, in friends and ministry in a way that feels eternally-purposed and personally fulfilling. Somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling like I was giving something up to stay at home, and more like I was giving something up to go to work.

It’s not a process that is totally without angst. When we don’t have great childcare, it’s really hard to work, to be one of many ophthalmologists my patients could be seeing, instead of the only mom that my kids have. Working itself is a walk in conscious humility—not being as immersed in the field as my full-time colleagues sometimes feels like a functional handicap. I have to be willing to ask for help, to not have the same status or office space. Being a part-time surgeon carries its own dilemmas and difficulties.

But overall, considering this question of whether one can “have it all” feels different than it did six years ago. It seems even more fundamentally like the wrong question to ask. For one thing, it’s a query without comparable outcome measures—maybe career success can be measured by publications, promotions, grants, committee and talk invitations—but how does one measure success as a mother? Churning out obedient kids who go to Harvard? Or who go into ministry or missions? Feeling less guilty when you leave the house? Being able to breastfeed, or make school parties?

Parenting, of course, isn’t about achieving self-oriented outcome measures, just as career shouldn’t primarily be about that either I suppose, and so this question actually misses the point. As a believer, life is not about getting what I want, or what I feel I am due, or what compares well to someone else. My desire is not to have it all, but to follow faithfully; my hope is not in career or family achievements, but in the person of Jesus; my decisions are not born of calculation, but of my relationship with Him. And in that relationship, every decision I make for Him is a privilege and joy.

I think this is why Paul can say what he does in Philippians 3. He rattles off a perfect resume—like the Jewish version of “owner of a startup valued for billions” or “all my kids got into Stanford”—and has the gall to say, I count all of that as literally excrement, compared to gaining Christ, compared to knowing and becoming like him. Did that mean he never leveraged his education, eloquence, or pedigree for God? No. Did that mean he never worked in his field of training to earn a salary? No. But he was clear on what life was about. He was clear on what mattered in the end. Be like me, he says. If you’re going to calculate, do it this way. Keep your eyes on what matters.

Family Mission, Vision and Values

“7 in 10 parents say they have an explicit set of values for their family, but less than 3 in 10 have written out that purpose or mission statement.” – Andy Crouch, The Tech-Wise Family

One thing that has been important to our family is coming up with mission, vision and values statements. The idea came up about seven years into our marriage, when Dave mentioned having recently walked his department at work through formulating their mission, vision and values; I had recently listened to a Focus on the Family podcast about doing one for families, and we decided to give it a shot.

The first time we did it, four years ago, it took about half a day. We drove down to the Outer Banks and sat at the Wright Brothers Memorial. To formulate our mission statement, we asked: what is our purpose, what do we want to accomplish in our lives together, for the next five years? For our vision statement, we asked: what is our long-term goal over the next several decades? For our values statement, we asked: what are the shared core beliefs that we’ll always try to reflect while in pursuit of our mission and vision?

For each question, we brainstormed a list of ideas separately and together, then developed or eliminated various ideas until we arrived at the most concise statement possible that encapsulated everything we felt was important. Values often involved a little more give-and-take in finding the ones we both agreed were important, and we tried to keep the list to just a few. 

Three years later, as we faced a move to California and our kids entering a slightly different stage of life, we went through the process again (this time it just took a few hours at the local Barnes & Noble). We incorporated anticipated cultural challenges, our vision for making the move, and individual and family changes in what we valued. Maybe because there has been so much change since the move, we have actually looked back to what we wrote more than ever before, to help us make decisions about how we spend our time, energy and money; what we persevere in praying for; and big and little details of how we live our day. Here is that latest version, which is up on our wall:

Mission

To live counter-culturally and missionally by deepening in unity and enjoyment in our marriage, providing a stable foundation for and investing in the character growth of our children, and intentionally building a committed and genuine community.

Vision

Our home is a place of strength and health that brings hope and blessing to those around us.

Values

Growth: being aware of changing needs and development as individuals and as a family; investing intentionally in inward growth over outward appearances.

Simplicity: maintaining space and margin; being fully present and content

Joy: having a home full of light, fun and hope; enjoyment of our environment and friends

Generosity: giving our time, money and resources; practicing hospitality; engaging in community

Sojourner

The process of adjusting here has been a lot more complex and prolonged than I expected. During the first six months or so, I was mostly taken by all this area has to offer and the thrill of finally having settled, but this past month, I’ve been consumed more by what I would call adaptation fatigue and situational dysthymia. The logistical hurdles, the flush of introductions, the initial wonder at available resources have passed, and now I am faced with day-to-day life in a place where I don’t quite feel like I belong yet. I feel oddly tired of introducing myself to new people, of forever putting myself out there without feeling truly understood. I feel blanketed at times with a heavy sense of loneliness or displacement. I find myself withdrawing or becoming easily judgmental of others.

Part of the challenge is finding sufficient space to process this all, I’m finding. Space to breathe in it. I’m constantly on the verge of burn-out from childcare: to my bitter discovery, living near my parents in Virginia meant not only more breaks from childcare than I had fully realized, but also a level of support in the practical and spiritual parenting of our kids that I now shoulder largely on my own. Secondly, this process has been different for me than for Dave, who is a native returning to his closest friends—it is still a process for him, but instead of naturally bringing us together, it tends to bring out our differences, in values, personality and upbringing. Lastly, if possible I tend to disregard my emotions in favor of function and appearances; in reality, I haven’t chosen to give my emotions space as much as felt, rather frustratingly, that I can’t escape them.

In this space, there are two truths that are seeping into my consciousness. One, we will always be creatures who long to belong and are shaped by where we live. I thought before the move, “well, places are less important to me than to Dave; I care more about just being settled inside our own home”—but the reality is, while it’s true that I never wanted to live in Virginia forever and don’t necessarily want to move back now, I am apparently very much a product of the culture in which I have lived most of my life. This is inescapable. I am adapting in superficially functional ways—I now expect bikers and pedestrians at every stop sign, only “landfill” if it can’t be composted or recycled, own yoga pants and hiking sneakers, have upgraded Mac products, can push my way through the constant crowds of Asians at Costco—but in deeper ways I still feel like I’m swimming against the tide. I choose following Jesus over ideologies that value self-determinism, personal freedom or total inclusivity above all else. I tend to feel that chinos or jeans equal casual wear. I value common civility, maybe even a tad of Southern gentility, in public. I feel wary of the pervasive stress and busyness, the sense that success can be maneuvered into with the right kinds of programs and activities.

So I am more of a southern Virginian than perhaps I had appreciated, and it is no wonder that I feel more displaced than I had anticipated. There is a kind of grieving that must happen, a kind of loneliness that must be walked through, a kind of reconstruction of self that must grow out of this space. I don’t want to lose some of the good things about growing up and starting my family in the south, but I want to be willing to be challenged in some of it. I don’t want to lose sight of some of the more insular aspects of this place or take too much for granted. More than anything, I need to stay humble in all of it, not to fall into disengagement or judgement, so that I can receive what I need to grow how I need. I suppose any major life change—a death, a loss of relationship, a change in life stage—is like this.

Second, in this space I feel more keenly aware of the truth that I will never fully belong. Not really, not anywhere. Reading through chunks of the early Old Testament, I see a sweeping pilgrim narrative. Why did God choose his people, only to ask them constantly to leave—Abraham from his hometown, the people from their lands for Egypt, then from Egypt for the wilderness? Throughout the law, God values the sojourner: don’t forget, he says, that you wandered in tents; provide for the outsider because you once were one too. Remember that your forever-home is ultimately not here. The narrative is not of earthly belonging as much as God’s presence in the journey. There was never Eden again, but there was the cloud, there was the tent, there was the temple, there was Jesus, there is the Holy Spirit. The deepest part of me will always be sojourning, but it will always be with God present.

There is the temptation, particularly at this stage of our lives when we’re looking to settle in houses, kids, cars, jobs, geographies, to look to all that for belonging, but this instead is the truth which one day catches up to us all. We are sojourners. Life is full of goodbyes, and nothing we have do we grasp too tightly. Maybe one day I will feel like I completely belong here—maybe I never will. I don’t know. But in the not-yet, to be sustained by the I-Am: this is what it means to walk in this space.

Anger

“Whoever is slow to anger has great understanding, but he who has a hasty temper exalts folly.” – Proverbs 14:29

In the last few weeks, I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that I still struggle with anger. About four or five years ago, I confronted and worked through having angry outbursts, explosive episodes that happened after we first got married and then after we had our first child—those have pretty much disappeared, but I’m coming to realize I still don’t know how to handle anger right. My anger flares up in response to chronic misbehavior, and manifests as berating, yelling, going to my room and slamming the door. It’s not as extreme or consuming as before, but the damage is still done: I’ve lost my ability to accurately perceive the situation or my kids; I’ve reacted in emotion instead of instructed through discipline; I’m said or implied things I regret; I’ve created fear or an unsafe feeling at home; ultimately, I’ve harmed a relationship.

I listened again to a Keller sermon on anger, to a few words from Piper, did a serious word study. Here are the thoughts that captured my attention this time:

1. I have to be aware of my anger. Anger has this strange, hidden quality—have you noticed that, when it’s got a grip on you, it’s one of the hardest emotions to admit to having? It’s the emotion you feel most defensive of when someone points it out in you? Keller claims it’s the emotion that is most like an addictive substance: there is a strong element of denial, then in order to maintain that denial you have to get even angrier, feed the anger with even more destructive thoughts. I will never be able to control or use my anger in the right way if I am not aware that I have it, so this is the first thing.

2. Anger is destructive by nature; thus I have to make sure it is not disordered in cause (angry about sin, not my ego), proportion (not to a disproportionate degree lest it start to distort my very perception and ability to see if it’s disproportionate—hard one), duration (not allowed to fester into bitterness), or goal (against sin, not the sinner; never to tear down, hurt, seek revenge against the person; never not in love—also hard).

3. The ideal is not the absence of anger, or uncontrolled anger, but slow anger: what is slow anger? What does it look like; what is it really? How do we have it, or is it even possible to have? This is the part Keller didn’t go into as much, so to figure this out I looked up all the instances I could find of Jesus being angry, did a word study for “anger” in the New Testament, and looked up all the direct commands regarding anger for believers (which overlapped with the word study, thankfully).

Instances of Jesus being angry: the first remarkable thing is that I couldn’t really find many—definitively, only two. In only one of those is the word anger actually used (Mark 3:5), when he heals a man with a withered hand; the other instance he is widely accepted as acting in anger (John 2:15), when he cleanses the temple, though the adjective used there is actually “zeal.” What stands out? He reacted to sin, in one case eradicating evil, in the other case with grief and a demonstration of truth. It wasn’t selfish or personal; in fact, what stands out are the many times he could have gotten angry, when betrayed or tired or hurt, but didn’t. In John, he rebuked but it doesn’t say he yelled it; in Mark, he didn’t say anything at all, not to blame or even teach.

There are basically two Greek words for anger in the New Testament. Orge (noun) or orgizo (verb), literally “to be provoked,” refers to a “settled or abiding opposition.” Thymos, literally “to kill, breathe hard, consume by fire,” refers to impulsive outbursts, anger that boils up and soon subsides again. It is worth mentioning the Greek prefix para, which means “close beside, alongside” and stresses a nearness and intimate participation of the verb to which it is affixed.

God has both types of anger. Jesus was orge in Mark. Orge describes the anger of masters and kings in three of Jesus’ parables (Mt 18:34, Mt 22:7, Lk 14:21). Of the 18 times thymos is used, 10 of them are in Revelation, referring to the anger of Satan, Babylon, or (more frequently) God. The two words are used together only twice, in Revelation, describing God: “the fierceness (thymos) of His wrath (orge)” (Rev 16:19).

It’s different for us, though. As you can probably guess, the other 8 times thymos is used is in direct command not to have it (ex. Eph 4:31, Col 3:8), or to describe an instance in which it was bad (Acts 19:28; Luke 4:28). In both those instances, thymos riled up the crowds to drive out good, hurt others, and remove reason, a far contrast to the two instances of Jesus’ anger. Thymos is never okay; it describes God at the end times, not us now.

For us, orge is more complicated. In only one place are we commanded, expected to have it: “Be angry (orgizo) and yet do not sin, do not let the sun go down on your anger (parorgismus)” (Eph 4:26). We should be provoked into an orge-anger, yet most of the verse is devoted to warning us against letting it stay too near us (parorgismus). I particularly loved the verse that Paul seems to be quoting, Psalm 4:4, which is in Hebrew: “Be angry (ragaz- lit. to tremble, be violently disturbed) and do not sin (chata). Meditate (amar- lit. to say in one’s heart, to command) in your heart (lebab- lit. mind, will, understanding, soul) upon your bed (mishkab) and be still (damam- lit. to be silent, to wait, to not speak).” Six words, that tell us what it means to have and recognize anger, to control and reflect upon it, and to slow it down.

In two places, we are warned against orge: “Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger (orge), for the anger (orge) of man does not achieve the righteousness of God” (Ja 1:19-20). Matthew 5:22 warns us that everyone who is angry (orge) with a brother is liable to judgment. Again, orge is not a sin, but we should be slow to it, and wary of it.

So, what is slow anger? What is the anger we are supposed to have? What I come to is that it’s actually a very different thing than what most of us experience day-to-day as anger. It is never an emotional flare-up. It is used like a scalpel, a dangerous and destructive instrument to oppose sin and eradicate evil. It is used only rarely, accompanied sometimes by verbal rebuke but more often by silence. It is always focused on sin, not selfish frustration.

Frankly, it is more silent, more controlled, more settled, more grieved, ultimately more loving than anything I have experienced. The anger we commonly know is loud, uncontrolled and distorting, momentary, full of malice or selfishness. This slow-anger, this orge-anger: it is a good thing, and I think sometimes I capture a bit of it. But it easily turns into thymos-anger, or para-orge-anger, so practically speaking for me right now, I think slow-anger means to let that initial provocation point me to the sin, then just to stop. To not act or speak immediately. To take measured action, to rebuke or instruct, but with the patience of Galatians 5:22, a word that is in Greek makrothymia, lit. macro-thymos: a forbearant temper, long-suffering. Sometimes, orge-anger, but more often makrothymos-patience. Good place to start.

Hoping Without Expectation

“Only the Lord is perfect. Look to God as the source of all you want to see happen in your marriage, and don’t worry about how it will happen. It’s your responsibility to pray. It is God’s job to answer. Leave it in His hands.” – Stormie OMartian, Power of a Praying Wife

“… suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” – Romans 5:3-5

Let’s say there are ways you wish your husband could change. There are two potential responses: one, you keep the hope alive. You think about it and try to help, but if change doesn’t happen, it’s easy to fall into malcontent or nagging. Or two, you give up any expectation he can change. You don’t put pressure on him or think on it much, but it’s easy to fall into apathy, or deadlier yet, disengagement or disgust.

How does one take a third, middle path—maintain a desire and vision for change, actively support and think for his best, yet let go of any timetable or ultimatum for how and when it happens, or whether it happens at all? How does one hope without expectation?

This is a question I think about for myself and my friends, because almost every marriage seems to have areas like this. Maybe it’s how he could speak more affirming words, lose weight, work less, be more involved in parenting, fight differently, relate sexually in a more fulfilling way, communicate more: these aren’t minor things, but deeply-rooted issues that often lead to either apathetic disengagement or nagging criticism, both of which shut off change, leading to a bad cycle. And it’s hard. When you’ve asked, and tried to help, but no change happens—when this occurs over years and years—then it’s hard to keep hoping.

I think the key to hoping without expectation for me lies in loving Dave first, then hoping for him second. In other words, my hope for him is a form of my love for him, and it is hope for him, not hope in him. My hope is in God, and this is not some kind of crutch: this is in fact the only way I am able to test and sustain my hopes for Dave, the only way I can hope at all in the right way, in a way that leads to life and not death, in a way that frees me from concrete outcomes or timetables.

One thing this means is that I examine my hopes for him. Why do I want him to change—is it for his best, for our best, or for selfish or superficial reasons? Dave is God’s son eternally and only my husband temporarily—is this a hope that God would want for him? Would it lead to God’s glory or fit him better for eternity? If this is a hope that relates to a need that I have in our marriage, which is certainly okay—am I willing to lay myself down in this area and love him unconditionally first?

Another thing this means is that I ought to pray for him, more than I analyze or act or anything else. Ultimately my expectation is not in Dave but in God, that he is able to work this change in Dave, or not, in his sovereignty and provision for me and for us, and that his timing is perfect. It’s like that saying: weak faith in a strong object is better than strong faith in a weak object. Better that I pray even if I barely believe God can do it, than heap up all my beliefs and expectations in Dave himself. Am I willing to do what it takes—to pray consistently for Dave, and ask God to strengthen my faith to keep doing so?

I have always liked that verse in Romans, because the end of that progression seems like such a non-sequitur. This hope Paul describes does not follow blissful breakthrough or an obvious trajectory of progress. This hope follows a suffering that lasts so long or goes so deep that one must learn endurance to a degree that it changes one’s very character. Why would this kind of suffering produce hope? Perhaps because it drives us to a deeper faith and knowledge of God, a God does not miserly mete out, but pours, his love into our hearts, into the seat of our emotions and minds and beings. This kind of God will withhold no good thing, will provide all that we need at the right time. This kind of God allows us to hope extravagantly and without shame, even in the midst of difficult circumstances.

Deep Friendships

I’ve been thinking lately about what it takes to make a deep friend. I don’t mean the kind of person you wave at in the school yard, or schedule the occasional coffee date with, or even have the rare long conversation over dinner with. I mean someone who checks in regularly to see how you are doing, who walks through your deepest struggles with you, who you can call if you really need to. Someone who will make their calendar open for you and for whom you would do the same. A keep-for-life friend.

Why are those so hard to find? I think for most people, those friends are born in the high school and college years, when it’s so easy to linger and live daily life together, to process formative experiences together—certainly that’s true for Dave. I really didn’t prioritize relationships at that stage in life, though, so most of my discovering deep community has come post-college. And that stage, the friends-after-thirty stage, is challenging. Relationships are transient with moves for school, training, early career development. Getting married and having kids is a threat on several levels: you have less time and energy for friendships at various stages of marriage and parenthood; the dynamic between your friend and your spouse has to be okay; and it can be harder to maintain friendships across different stages of life.

You enter a stage where deep friendships are more important than ever, yet are harder to find than ever. Sometimes it feels like friend-dating, gauging how much energy and time to invest into a potentially deeper friendship. Maybe first a coffee date, then a dinner date, then go over to each others’ houses? Is meeting with this person worth paying for childcare? Does this person communicate best by phone, text, email, or in person? How much is okay to share, how soon? Sometimes you’ll invest significant time and resources only to find the commitment level is not mutual, or the friendship is too full of gossip and negativity. Or the hurdles come earlier, because the person doesn’t have an opening in their schedule for two months.

For what it’s worth, I think these keep-for-life kind of friendships are rare. We live in an age where people have hundreds of Facebook “friends” and Twitter followers, where you make nice conversation during playdates and soccer practices, but how many truly deep friends do any of us have? I would say most people have a wide circle of acquaintances, maybe 5-10 mid-level friendships, but you’d be lucky to have one or two deep friendships.

What does it take to form these deep friendships? One NPR piece says: proximity; repeated, unplanned interactions; and a setting conducive to letting your guard down. My sister’s pastor says: tenacity, authenticity, and vulnerability.

When I was younger, I would have said common interests and values, like C. S. Lewis writes in The Four Loves: “Lovers are always talking to one another about their love; friends hardly ever about their friendship. Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; friends, side by side, absorbed in some common interest.” And I think that spark has to be there—an ability to communicate well, similar hobbies or values or experiences.

But the older I get, the more I feel like what it really takes is something much harder to come by: mutual, unwavering, unconditional commitment. I have moved into a land where it is not difficult to find other people like me. But it is just as hard (and may be harder) to find someone who is willing to commit.

And what is most mysterious and maddening about it all of course is that these types of friendships are impossible to orchestrate. They are often unpredictable and always take time. I think about the very few friends I have like this, and they each arose and evolved in an unexpected way. They each took different trajectories, took months or years to solidify. Those friendships are like gold to me now, and having experienced them, it’s hard to settle for less, hard not to compare what I don’t have yet here to what I had before, but that’s just the nature of moving—grieving or adjusting to the loss of old friendships while feeling out the new.

So for now, I am keeping my eyes open, orienting my life so I am open to what may develop, intentionally initiating when I feel prompted to. But in the waiting I am also trying to press in closer to God, choosing to believe he provides all I need, realizing to wait in the not-yet is still a form of worship. How much would I like to speed along the process! But then, how many of us long for a type of intimacy or relationship that we do not yet have? How many of us still choose to walk forward day-by-day in faith and contentment?

Control

“Sometimes we need to plunge our minds into the ocean of God’s sovereignty. We need to feel the weight of it, like deep and heavy water pressing in against every pore, the deeper we go. A billion rivers of providence pour into this ocean. And God himself gathers up all his countless deeds — from eternity to eternity — and pours them into the currents of his infallible revelation. He speaks, and explains, and promises, and makes his awesome, sovereign providence the place we feel most reverent, most secure, most free.” – John Piper

Have I written about this cat? She deserves a separate post (with some photos). She is a gorgeous, four month-old ragdoll kitten who follows us around the house like a devoted puppy. She purrs like a maniac if we get within a foot of her, tolerates awkward petting from toddlers, lets us clip her nails, likes being held, and has fur like a rabbit’s.

But I guess I had forgotten that well, kittens are a bit of work. Not-quite but sort-of-like having another kid to take care of and train. I sometimes find myself getting mad at her for occasional poor behavior, and I feel terrible. It’s not good for the kids to observe, and it’s not always fair to the cat. Even though I’m supposed to love the cat unconditionally, secretly I’d like her to be perfect all the time.

That got me to thinking how much this desire to control others, to control outcomes, can be at the heart of my frustrations or anxieties. Desire to have a perfect cat; to control my kids being able to nap at the usual time each day, how they act and are perceived at school, how neat the house is, how many errands I can get done, and more.

Control is a huge thing here. People want to control their kids getting into colleges, their health being perfect, their work being productive. There is a sense that we should be able to optimize our lives—increase lifespans through particular diets, increase “success” by hiring college counselors, increase productivity by outsourcing tasks. I think that sense of optimization is so strong here because there is both a good amount of unspoken pressure—financially, to afford being able to live here; achievement-wise, because often achieving parents expect their kids to do the same—combined with a cultural emphasis on grassroots innovation. In an area this talent- and resource-rich, one ought to be able to figure out how to optimize conditions to achieve the right outcomes. Even our kids having unstructured play time must be something we deliberately schedule after being convinced by evidence-based research.

But in the end we can only control so much, and it seems to me the kind of fear that’s pervasive here is the fear of not being able to control outcomes, seeping out as a sort of pervasive anxiety. Someone has their kid in five activities—should I be putting mine in more? Someone is eating all-organic or no-sugar—am I losing out if I don’t do that? Someone just left a big company to join a start-up—am I getting in on the right opportunities?

Sometimes I need to refocus a bit on God’s sovereignty. Because that is the truth that shatters the illusion of control: to remember that everything belongs to God, that all occurs as he wills and nothing can occur that he does not will. That there is no global issue nor smallest detail of my day that is beyond his purview. And this is no stranger sovereign, but a God that has shown his love for me beyond any other, and has promised that all works for my eternal good. To plunge my mind into that is to be more reverent, more secure, more free. Freedom from anxiety or fear; free to enjoy the unpredictable; free to love people, and cats, for who they are.

The Golden Rule

We are studying Romans in BSF this year: two weeks in, and we are reading the second half of chapter one in the bay area, a completely different experience somehow than how I’m sure it would feel if we were still in Virginia. Someone told me about a fifteen year-old boy, who was not a Christian but had enjoyed going through the study of John previously. After he listened to the lecture on Romans chapter one, he didn’t think he could come back. “I think everyone should be who they want to be,” he said.

Somehow, he put into words exactly what I feel is the golden tenant here. Everyone should be who they want to be. It’s right if it’s right for you. You should not only support, but celebrate the choices others make about their lifestyle and gender; if you don’t, you are ignorant at best, prejudiced and evil at worst. It is self-determinism enlarged into a near-religion, and it leaves me with a sense of dissonance. On one hand, I do want to love and understand those who are marginalized because of any choice they make or feeling they have; on the other hand, I think it is something else to say I cannot consider those choices wrong, to say self-deterministic and relativistic values should be raised to the level of absolutism and taught as such to my children.

What would the gospel have to say to this statement?

I think part of the statement is saying, “you can’t say there is an absolute right or wrong”—and the Bible would say, well, there is absolute truth; there is right and wrong, but it is not just born of arbitrary or personal opinion, but of God, who created us and knows what we are meant for far better than we do. Part of the statement is saying “you can’t limit someone’s freedom; you can’t impose right or wrong upon others”—but the more you love someone, the more you care what they choose. It is not freedom in determining our own moral standards that leads to being fully human; it is understanding who we are, and following those constraints, that leads to true freedom.

In the end, I don’t always follow because I understand why it is right or wrong; I do it because I love God. And the more I follow God in ways that are hard, the more I realize that he is about something bigger than just the moral surface. He is unearthing deeper things in me to work on. He is showing me in a fuller way about himself; his designs are ultimately to reveal himself and his nature to me, because to know Him is more important than anything else I am about in life.

It’s difficult figuring out how to navigate these cultural waters, but perhaps unlike other more Christian-friendly places we have lived in, it’s impossible not to engage, to consider with some gravity why I believe what I do, how completely I believe it, and how it should be lived out in my life, which in the end is a good thing.

Birthday

I turn thirty-seven today.

I remember thinking once, if I could stay one age forever, it would be twenty-seven: old enough to know who I am and what I’m doing in life, young enough to be, well, still in my twenties. But my thirties have turned into a better decade than my twenties. I always felt happier married than single, but I know and love Dave more in our tenth year than our first. I’m somewhat less self-absorbed, probably as a consequence of being compelled into daily service. Other than a proliferation of facial nevi and the way nursing four babies has changed my chest, my body doesn’t feel that much older. I definitely couldn’t stay thirty-seven forever—I may have changed eight poopy diapers the other day—but overall I’d say it’s better than twenty-seven.

If anything, this is the year I’ve arrived. Growing up, I always felt like I was looking forward to the next thing to make me happy: passing the next test or step of training, getting married, having kids, owning a house, getting a job. Somewhere during the last six years, I realized I had gotten there: I’d passed the last test I had to take for a while; I was having the kids I wanted to have—but I wasn’t necessarily happier or a better person. That took me on a journey that eventually turned in the last year or two into my falling in love with Jesus in a fresh way.

And now, here I am, having actually arrived—moved for the last time; own our forever-house; more settled in career; finished having kids (and soon to get a pet). I suppose this is typically when a mid-life crisis would hit—I’d feel meaningless without the next thing to strive for, or trapped by my responsibilities—but instead I feel content and glad, in the way that you do when you realize none of this is your due, or even essential for your primary happiness, but extraordinary gifts from a God who loves you.

Maybe it’s more of a mid-life perspective: I’m nearing the point where my life may be half over. It’s clearer than ever that none of this lasts forever: I’m a steward of my children (in ten more years Ellie will move out!), of this house (which will probably be overtaken by the redwoods outside in a century), even of Dave (who will not be married to me in eternity). I think more about what it means to take care of those things for what matters, and to not lose out on being present in the process.

Those are two goals I’d like to set for my thirty-seventh year: one, to establish our lives in this new home and place in a way that reflects what really matters to us. And two, to enjoy it. To enjoy the way Ellie’s whole face lights up and she jumps up and down when she’s excited; the way Eric wraps me in spontaneous hugs and kisses; the way Elijah says “wot?” with big round eyes and sings “a whole new world” at the top of his lungs; the way Esme stumbles out of naps with unreasonable cheerfulness, declaring “I wake up!” (and the way her thighs are still super chubby). The way Dave reaches for my hand in the car. The redwood boughs rustling outside, the cool breezes, friends who bring over board games and yummy noodles, the mountains in the horizon.

I’m guessing this day will pass without much fanfare (and with four school runs). But this was always the best part: looking back, looking forward, thinking about my life, and this year, feeling particularly grateful. 

Longing For Home

What makes a place home? This house is amazing—after a year of extensive remodeling, it has lived up to our hopes and more. I love seeing redwoods through the many windows, the skylights in the cathedral ceilings, the cozy window seat, the concrete countertops and big island, the dark warm wood floors, and I could go on—but it’s not really home-home yet. A friend told me it usually takes eighteen months before a place feels like home.

For most of my life, home was the house I grew up in: the small 80’s ranch with dark wood walls, patterned wallpaper, and worn carpet. I remember intense periods of homesickness during college and medical school: I think what I missed then was a place where I could be myself, be taken care of, know I was unconditionally loved. I missed having someone cook for me, my old memorabilia. After moving back to live nearby for the past six years, I don’t miss that house the same way—I think I see I could never really live there again, and I see that one day, my parents will move on and sell everything and it will be gone.

Our last house, the first one we owned, was never one I fell in love with, but it was home because of the memories we made in it. We had three babies there, and it was the first place I learned how to take care of a house, and what life was like staying at home with the kids.

But now that house is gone too. I suppose there is an unavoidable period of time when one feels displaced with any major move: you’ve left the familiar behind, but the new place is not really home yet. We’ve settled in well here, but something will happen that throws me off: I meet up with a new friend at a coffeehouse but just feel sad missing my old friends, the way they would hug me and the way we could talk. I get lost again going somewhere. I think of something my parents would have loved to see or eat and realize they aren’t here.

I think for me, home is a place where I can be myself, a place where I deeply belong. I like the word “dwell”—it’s not a place where I’ve just made a living, or passed through, but a place where I have abided and lingered in long enough to know the place and people deeply, and to be known myself deeply.

This period, when I’m feeling the loss of a home, makes me read Revelation 21 and 22. One pastor at our church here pointed out that the story doesn’t end with the same garden it started with: it ends with a city, a place where we work and live together. I love that the word picture Jesus gives of heaven reminds me of coming home, to my own room. And when I feel lonely, I love that the story ends with, “He will dwell with them,” and in 22:4 with “they will see his face.” And that will be enough. All of this—my husband, each of my kids, this house with the redwoods—all of it is on loan to me, and as much as I love it, will be gone or changed one day. But I have this promise: this longing to belong is not in vain. One day, I will see his face, and I will live in a place that is home in every way, and that is a kind of comfort now.

Relational Sin

We all intuitively grasp, I think, the difference between an isolated sin and a relational sin. Let’s say I mess up and hurt myself: sure, I feel bad. But let’s say I mess up and hurt someone I know: I feel worse. Let’s say I mess up and hurt Dave: I feel much worse. The closer that person is to me, the more my sin becomes less and less about itself, and more and more about how it affects the person I love, until the two are linked. The sin becomes as much about the other person as it is about the act itself.

But here’s the thing: every sin we commit is relational, is against a being I value more than any person on earth. If God did not exist, neither would sin; sin is sin only because God is God. The more I value God, the more I see him for who he is, the more I see my sin for what it is. One day, when I stand before God, this will be glaringly obvious: I won’t be giving an account of myself to Dave, or my parents, or myself, or my friends, but only to God.

This changes confession. I don’t just confess the act; I ask myself, how was this an act against God? How has this sin hurt God? The answer is almost always deeper than it appears. I almost always see running underneath the act a lack of faith, or pride, or misguided need for control, or more. And coupled with the confession is a deeper sense of grief, because I have not only disappointed myself, but I have wronged God, by both the sin and by my deeper heart issue. And I grieve because I see what the sin has cost me: not just the time or energy spent in sinning, but the other ways I could have been growing or impacting others if I wasn’t in the sin.

I think Satan would love us to think of sin, especially the habitual and unseen ones, in a diluted, isolated way: no big deal, try harder next time, no permanent effects anyway. When in reality, each sin is a deep lie, a deep act against God, cheating us and changing us, crippling our relationships and ministry. The satisfaction it promises are either non-existent, or much emptier, than the life-abundant we could have. Because when the love of God pierces our hearts and draws us to repentance, and we start to resist the sin and change—that’s when we start to see the sin for how empty it is. And that’s when we start to see God’s love and promised life for what it is.

That’s the most wondrous thing about relational sin: understanding sin leads to a deeper understanding of God’s love. To know you have wounded him means to understand his grace in a completely new way. To act not out of self-inflicted guilt, but love-empowered conviction, is to change with joy and greater ease. God, help me not waste a single act of sin: may each one show me more about you and myself, and bind me more fast to your grace.

Eating The Flesh

In John chapter 6, Jesus says, I am your manna from heaven. I am your bread: and that bread is my flesh. If you drink my blood and eat my flesh, you will have eternal life; you will abide in me and I will abide in you.

The significant of the blood I’ve always found intuitively more understandable: God’s judgment requires substitutionary blood sacrifice, from the beginning when God presumably killed an animal to clothe Adam and Eve in animal skins after they sinned, through the countless animal sacrifices made in the old testament, through the final sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. Because of his blood, God’s judgment passes over me.

But eating the flesh I never got quite as well. In John 6, Jesus is speaking at the time of the Passover, so naturally everyone would have been thinking of Exodus 12. On the tenth day of the month, they were to pick a year-old, blemish-free lamb and keep it in their house for four days. Probably long enough for their kids to name it. Then at twilight of the fourteenth day, they were to kill this lamb. Most people remember the part about smearing its blood on the doorposts, but quite a lot of attention is directed to its flesh: it was to be roasted, not kept raw or boiled; the head, legs, and innards were to be roasted. The flesh was to be eaten, but in a hurry: with shoes on and luggage packed and ready to go. Leftovers were to be burned; nothing could remain till morning.

Later in Leviticus 4, God says animals killed as sin offerings were to have their flesh burned: the focus seems mainly on the blood. So why, in Exodus 12, do we eat the flesh? Why not just huddle in wait behind the bloody doorposts, ready for deliverance; surely this would have been more efficient? Why did Jesus, so many years later, say we have to not only drink his blood, but eat his flesh?

Well, I know I’m always trying to get my kids to eat before we have to leave for a trip: it seems God is saying, I don’t just want this lamb that you loved to spill its blood so you can be spared the judgment of death—I want its flesh to give you energy for the journey ahead. I want its flesh to give you physical life, as you leave behind your old life of slavery and step out into the new. And as you travel, I’m going to send down that flesh, that bread, again, so that you know: I am God; I do this; I give you life. I don’t just spare you judgment; I bring you new life. And hundreds of years later, Jesus comes and says: I am that flesh. I am that bread. “My flesh is true food” (John 6:55).

And surely it is no accident that we are creatures who need to eat. All the time. Does that ever strike you as odd? We can eat the most amazing meal of our lives, but the next day, we’ll always be hungry again. Sometimes it hits me that I have to feed six people three meals every day for the next decade: that’s a full-time job. I think some of why we were created this way must be Jesus saying: I want you to understand how it is that you need me. You need me every day. You need me to survive. You need me digestively: you need to chew on me, on the Word. You need to ingest, and the growth is a process; it’s not a shot you take, or a file you download. But in that process, there is enjoyment, just as food gives us delight, and in that process, there is life, and the life that he gives us, is not only life to the full, but it is eternal life. We won’t carry our physical bodies as they are into eternity, but we will carry the life we gain by feeding on Jesus.

And that is why we don’t just drink his blood, but we eat his flesh. “Whoever feeds on me, he also will live because of me. … Whoever feeds on this bread will live forever” (John 6:57-58).