Grief Archives - The Messy Middle

Don’t you ever fear forgotten, for you simply can’t be lost

Years ago I awoke one morning to an email from my oldest niece, Emily, with the subject line Math Fairy I Need You.

Dear Math Fairy,

I am in desperate need of your help! I wrote a poem about math to help you understand my feelings towards it. Hope you enjoy it :-(.

Through our exchange, I learned Emily has a poetry notebook in which she processed and expressed life.

(You can read the poem about math and my poetic attempt to speak her heart language here.)

When her Grandma Smith died, she wrote the poem that was used at her memorial service. It was so fitting that we used it for Dad’s service as well.

This year Emily is a junior and several good friends are seniors. Ah, the messy middle, where joy and celebration are bedfellows to sadness and loss. Is it any surprise she’s written poems about the goodbyes? Though often poems in general are over my head, these land squarely in my heart because I, too, over the years have said unwanted goodbyes.

I believe Emily’s words will help you. She’s started a blog and shares her poetry. It is with permission and pride that I share two here:

Goodbye
by Emily Smith

today I began to say goodbye

to a friend who’s off to bigger

and brighter things soon

I’ll still be stuck in this sandbox next year

come and visit—you can

play among the endless sands, too

for while I know my time will come

it’s not today

and now hurts fresh

as I feel softly brushed away

less than a year you’ve beat me

in the race to see the world

send a postcard

send a package

I’ll be here, waiting by the window

most days

staring at the birds outside

flying free

so goodbye

dear friend

don’t forget to write

~~~

Just Remember
by Emily Smith

This poem is dedicated to two of my closest friends who graduated last week. Best of luck, chicas, and remember that you will be loved and missed.

When you feel the world darken,

when it’s hard to hold the light,

just think upon this promise–

someone will always hold you tight.

You may be many miles away,

in a place far out of reach.

But remember that you’re treasured

with a love that’s hard to teach.

If they can’t hold you in their arms,

they’ll hold up a picture frame.

Someone will savor memories sweet,

they’ll hold close your face and name.

Don’t you ever fear forgotten, for

you simply can’t be lost.

After peoples’ bonds have grown

the pain becomes too great a cost.

I won’t pretty it up, my friend,

life is complex and full of twists.

But don’t deceive your honest heart:

you will be loved and missed.

~~~

Which line stands out to you? You can follow Emily’s blog Musings of a Logophile.

P.S. Stay tuned! Guess what time of year it is? Not only graduation season, it is also time for the annual Summer Reading Challenge! Later this week, the challenge will be shared! Be on the lookout for a few new options. Can’t wait!

Community, Grief

The question is answered

I wrote the following post four Aprils ago. I remember those mandarin oranges. I remember the rawness of grief.

Here is what I miss: the rawness meant that Dad had recently been a part of our lives. We are no longer in such a raw place, which comes with its own blessings. But last week I was driving a niece to something and we discussed that it has already been four years since Grandpa died. Four.

In this post I asked the question “When?” The funny answer was . . . that very day! As I was working on this post, my mom threw out the mandarin oranges. Four years later, we are not in the raw grief phase. I share this short post to remind all of us that life is moving along. If you are in a hard phase, it won’t always be hard. If you are in a good phase, pause, savor, and enjoy.

I can’t remember if I bought the mandarin oranges before or after my dad died. Of this I am sure, we needed fruit. Most of the mandarin oranges have been eaten, but a few remain in their mesh bag near the back of the refrigerator.

This is where you might find me disgusting. I find myself a bit disgusting. So, whatever.

They are beginning to shrivel. Not bad, not to the point they could be used as the head of a doll, shrunken down and dried out.

I have thought often in the last week about why I can’t yet bring myself to throw them out. My mind wanders to the lovely poem by William Carlos Williams and the plums in the refrigerator. We passed the lovely stage a while ago.

Do you have to read this short story in high school? The one where the lady dies—was she in her wedding dress?—and years later her body is found, dried and shriveled up in her bed. I think of that story when I open the refrigerator and watch the mandarin oranges slowly shrinking with the passing of time. Her family members become less creepy by the day. More relatable.

Maybe I’m becoming more creepy. Less relatable.

When I bought the damn things they were mere fruit. When did they become the marker that time is passing? Without my choosing, they have moved to “as long as they remain in there, we’re not that far from when Dad died” land.

It’s funny what we choose to hold or mark our stories. I know time is moving on. The day we moved Dad into hospice there were icicles the size of swords hanging down, and now spring flowers have come and nearly gone. The flowers don’t tug at my heart.

But those mandarin oranges, they get to me. And I close the door and wonder when I’ll be able to throw them out.

*****

Family, Grief

The Paradox of Life and Death

Today marks the fourth anniversary of my dad’s death.

After spending several days in the liminal space between life and death, he died at 2:02 p.m. surrounded by the tribe who called him husband, father, and father-in-law. We kissed his hollowed-out-by-disease-and-death-cheeks an hour or so later for the last time and went to Elizabeth’s home before his granddaughters returned from school.

You know how a few scenes get seared in your memory? I remember sitting there, all of us adults waiting for them. First Granddaughter returned from junior high and her eyes lit up at the sight of all of us, followed by the quick realization “Wait, if they are all here, that means . . . ” and going immediately to her mother, burying her face because death is so shocking even when expected, it must be borne alone for a moment.

The scene was repeated within the hour when the other three returned from their school. And together we sat as a family, letting the reality of the new normal sink in. We would still gather as a tribe, but never again with him in person.

We are now four years out. Four years is enough to be confusing. Within the same sentence we speak as if he had been dead for years and years and also as if it has only been a short while.

Last weekend I found more piles of papers and notebooks in the basement. One thick three-ringed binder stood out to me. My dad was the co-chairman of the pastor search committee in the early 90s; the notebook held the minutes from every meeting and several applications. Every application, still in the enveloped it was mailed in, had a check list stapled to it and had been completed by a committee member—complete with a brief handwritten summary of what stood out to them about a candidate.

None of this is that spectacular. Churches form search committees the world over.

What struck me was how so much of what my father believed in and embodied was preserved in that notebook. The committee met almost weekly for twenty months. Twenty! For a frame of reference, I pulled out my phone and counted back twenty months to June of 2016.

About a year into the process, they had a final candidate and called him, which is church-speak for “offered him the job.” At the last minute, the candidate withdrew.

Oh the agony!! All that work “wasted.” What could the committee do, but regroup and keep opening envelopes and completing check lists they would staple to the front. Eventually another candidate was called and the final minutes were written and placed in a notebook. To be left in the basement. To be found by a daughter nearly twenty five years later. To serve as evidence.

Let’s start with the obvious, again, the legacy of paper. I keep thinking there cannot possibly be any more news clippings, cards, bank statements, or notebooks left to sort through. And I keep being wrong. What I see now, four years out, is that I seriously underestimated my father’s ability to find beauty and meaning in the minute of life. The ordinary is worth recording and remembering.

He was a person also who embodied loyalty and dedication for the long haul, even in the face of disappointment. Week after week his name was on the minutes under “attended.” But his was not the only name. Ellie, Mike, Butch, and others appear again and again. Dad valued being a part of a group, he was no lone wolf. Being a part of a committee is beautiful and messy, and in the end, worth it.

Four years is enough time for the raw shock of grief to have sifted away, replaced by the dull ache of loss. I have been thinking of the paradox of life and death.

Some people are alive, but mostly dead on the inside. Others are dead, but yet still alive.

Tom Young, my father, is the second. He lived in such a way, that though dead, he is also still alive. He challenges me to live in the same way. While I will leave far less paperwork than he, I still know my life will be sorted through some day. Files I meant to get to, or pictures that meant the world to me, or part of my life I couldn’t bear to part with in life, will be looked at and evaluated by friends and family.

My hope and prayer is that I will be found in a similar state to my dad: invested in people, valuing relationships, being part of commitments that far out live me, having one hell of a ride (he had more broken bones than anyone I’ve known), and a laugh that filled a room.

Dad, it has been four years since we kissed your cheeks goodbye. I don’t think this will surprise you, but I look at old men now for a glimpse of you in them. I recently went up to an old man at the end of a church service and told him I had a strange request, that it was nearing the anniversary of my dad’s death and he reminded me of you. Could I hug him? He stepped away from his walker and embraced me. I miss you. I love you. I wanted to talk about the Broncos all fall with you! I hope you knew how much you are still with us, what a difference your life made. How we are all the richer because of you. And that when the day comes that I find and sort through your final piece of paper, I will wish you had kept even more . .. though not really :). You still make me laugh. Your generosity with time and money challenge me (and I know Elizabeth and Laura too!). The way you loved Mom and us, your family, is the gift that keeps on giving and giving. Thank you. With love, Amy

Faith, Family, Grief

Sunday is our “Quantum Leap”

In the early 90s I was hooked on the show Quantum Leap. Seeing time as a line, the main character could time travel when the line bent and touched another date; so if today and November 7, 1964 touched, he would suddenly find himself surrounded by poodle skirts or whatever the fashion was in 1964.

This year, Sunday is our quantum leap.

It is Super Bowl Sunday.

It is also the third anniversary of the death of Tom Young.

All the Super Bowls involving the Broncos.

The last week of his life.

The last three years.

They all oddly mix and merge and will touch each other on Sunday.

I say oddly because . . . even though it has been three years and he had Hep C for decades, death is still odd. We are no longer in shock, but I don’t know if we will ever be familiar with death. That begin said, three years out is far enough to see that the anchor of love and relationship really is deep enough to hold the test of time.

My first Super Bowl Sunday was January 15, 1978 when a certain team from Texas beat the Broncos. Dad, Mom, and Aunt Bobbye were in New Orleans cheering on the Broncos and growing wearing of the Dallas ladies in full-length fur coats making fun of the “hicks” from Colorado. My sisters and I were not abandoned to fend for ourselves, as Grandma and Grandpa Young stayed with us.

I won’t go Super Bowl by Super Bowl, but you can see how footfall and family are woven together. Jumping forward to his last Super Bowl, the 2013 AFC Championship game in Denver is the last active memory Del and I have of doing something with Dad (after that most of the memories involve hospitals). I think Dad used so much of his energy to be there with us. I also know this, if you were to ask him if it was worth it, with he would just give you one of his famous “beaky looks.” Silly question, of course it was worth it.

But then two weeks later, have said goodbye to Laura as she flew home—we thought we had more time—he ate his last meal of pulled pork and popcorn. Elizabeth made both and brought them to the hospital. Football and family. The game was humiliating and awful, but because he was dying, no one rubbed our faces in it and we didn’t really care.

And then on Wednesday, he died.

This Sunday, around 2:00, we can’t help but remember his death, it is part of our Quantum Leap. On that February 5th, we had an appointment scheduled with the mortuary because his time was drawing near. We discussed who would go to the appointment and who would stay with Dad and then we realized, “This is silly! These moments are precious.” The meeting was cancelled and we all stayed.

And this is how everyone should die, surrounded by their loved ones, having lived a rich and broad life, and on a numerically interesting time (2:22, in his case).

On Sunday afternoon, we will remember how we went to Elizabeth’s house to be there before the girls got home from school. As they entered the house, each face registered a brief moment of shock. What are you all doing here? And then you could see it hit them. No, no, as they buried their faces in a parent’s chest.

But at 4:30? We will remember last year! Woot, woot! Laura had flown out to Denver so we could all watch the Denver Broncos take on the Carolina Panthers. When we gather and the subject of the Broncos comes up, the stories take on their own quantum leaps as we jump from this year to that. We recall this funny or annoying thing one of us did.

What I have learned in this third year of his present absence is that the story will continue. I have written before about the down side of doing your good deeds in private; when you die, all of your stuff comes out because you are no longer your main PR person. What I had not factored in is that more always exists to learn. It may just be a nugget, but those nuggets? Pure gold.

I’ve mentioned how my dad never met a piece of paper he didn’t want to keep forever. At first this annoyed me, but now I’m grateful because it allows us to continue to know him. Recently I have been going through and shredding every tax document he ever touched. People. we are talking all the way back to before he even knew my mom. Want to see the instructions for filing taxes in 1972? I can hook you up.

Over and over, Tom Young proved himself faithful to his family and the non-profits he supported. I was reminded afresh how he quietly did what was right over the long haul. He was willing to accurately report what needed to be reported, but if he was told he owed money he didn’t owe, he was willing to document and involve legal help to support him. (He was the trustee to at least four of his aunts and uncles, so taxes could get a little complex.)

I am humbled and blessed because of the quietly consistent choices he and Mom made to set their children up for adulthood.

So, this Sunday our Quantum Leap touches on football and family; I can’t say I’ll be watching the same game you all will. Instead, I think I’ll watch last year’s game.

We will gather as a family and as the day passes and certain times come and go, we will be transported in time.

Dad, we still think of you often, talk of you regularly, and see your influence in the world. We miss you and love you. I think those constants will remain no matter how much time passes.

And to you, my reader. Grief is no longer as sharp and she offers gifts I don’t always want to receive; yet one of her gifts is you. This community and the ways you bear this loss with me and with us, even offering your own losses, helps us to bear it. Thank you. Amy for all Youngs, Smiths, and Purdies

Monday Amy, you didn’t know {This is our passion week}

Winner of Katharina and Martin Luther: The Radical Marriage of a Runaway Nun and a Renegade Monk has been notified. Thanks all :).

Grief, Holiday, Relationships

For those who receive hard news around the holidays

This first appeared two years ago. Last year I wrote, “I’m reminded how each year looks different :)!” And then two days after Thanksgiving our church received a piece of news that sent us reeling. I find myself this week comparing what I knew/thought I knew on— say— Tuesday, of last year to what we found out. This is why we need this letter every year. We need to be anchored in a story larger than a season. Much love friends. Much love. Amy

Dear friend,

I don’t have to tell you, it’s the holiday season. We have reminders surrounding us. I don’t care where you live, social media and the internet won’t let you forget.

You might want to. The holidays are supposed to be happy, but you’ve gotten news this week that has t-boned you and now you’re not sure which direction you’re going.

It was the day before Thanksgiving last year for our family. With one doctor’s report pieces both fell into place and scattered all over the floor.

So that might explain what’s going on.

Oh my word, this … just … might … I do not want to say it because then it will make it true … be his last Thanksgiving.

Your news might be medical too. Or involving relationships or finances or your job or be about your kids or a pregnancy or a dashed dream.

So many ways bad news can enter a life.

I am sorry for the hit you have taken. The air that has been knocked out of your soul. The way you may have lost your bearings this week. And though you know you’ll (probably) recover from this, right now you’re a bit stunned. You may know deep in your gut this might be a game changer. You will bear the mark of this week for the rest of your days.

What you might not know right now is the size of the scar.

The news you received may end up fading over time. Or it may not. Our shock is over, but we still dance around the holes in our lives figuring out what they mean.

For you, what to do this week? When the message being projectile vomited at you from all directions is be thankful (OR ELSE).

That’s not the gospel. That’s not why Jesus came. Your pain is real. But your pain is not supreme. So, again, what do you do?

Embrace the messy middle. You may need to make adjustments this holiday. Change locations, scale back, maybe make a road trip. I don’t know what you will need to do. Honor the holiday in some way while also honoring your pain. I am grateful for the memories I have of last year. They include Dad’s last turkey dinner at a dear friend’s house and texting with my sister afterwards saying how for both of us there had been tears. We were in shock.

The messy middle creates space for the good and the bad. The joy and the sorrow. The pain and the pleasure. You may want to deny what’s happened or deny the holidays. If possible, lean into the tension and find ways that real holidays involving real life are richer than the shallow versions offered by advertisers. A better cell plan isn’t the answer to a rich and fulfilling life, finding ways to make gestures towards each other is.

A few years ago part of our family was with Dad who was in rehab for a broken hip, and just as the rest of us sat down for the meal my phone rang. After I had spent most of the day on a situation involving a suicidal American in China, I was now going to miss the meal with my family because her mom had gotten my phone message. I had to break the news that would forever be associated with this holiday and yet she needed to know and be a part of the plan for her daughter’s safety.

Let me say it again — I am sorry for the news you received this week. Some years are harder and you’re having one of those.

It comforts me that Abraham Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Day Proclamation was written in the midst of Civil War. Clearly all was not right with the country. And yet.

And yet he knew in the midst of bad news it is worthwhile to pause and remember the story is bigger than this news, this week. God gave us two hands, one to hold the troubles and one to hold the hope. Use them both. Offer them both.

I will be thinking of you this week. And if you want me to pray for you or just want to share your story leave a comment or email me at messymiddle@gmail.com. We can’t make it go away, but we can let you know you’re not alone.

With blessing,

Amy

Book, Grief, Looming Transitions

7 paradoxes of transition {Sale!}

Transitions contain “self-contradictory statements, which can only be true if it is false, and vice versa.” In other words, transitions are ripe with paradoxes.

I received the following in an email after reading Looming Transitions: Starting and Finishing Well in Cross-Cultural Service.

Isn’t that the best? I know a bit about her transition, and people it was AGONIZING. The fact that the didn’t leave potatoes, I’m telling you, is victory! Which transition paradoxes you have experienced?

7 paradoxes of transitions

1. You have to change to stay you.

2. Grief is the exhausting path to life.

3. Others have gone before, but no one has walked your path.

4. You might say ridiculous things that are true.

5. A fertile soul may be tilled with to-do lists and watered in tears.

6. The stretch marks may not be obvious to others, but your soul knows the stories they hold.

7. Pay attention to the little things because you never know what will end up being big.

The beginning of a semester cues me that life is moving along. In honor of how self-contradictory transitions can be, all versions of Looming Transitions are on sale for the next 72 hours! You can find them here:

Looming Transitions: (Kindle and print)
Looming Transitions Workbook (PDF)
22 Activities For Families in Transition (PDF and Kindle)
and in the works . . . an audible version read by my sister Laura! Listen to a free sample here (just in put “0” for the dollar amount.)

Who do you know who will make a major life transition in the next four to six months? Which version of Looming Transition could you give them? What others are saying, two reviews left on Amazon by people on I don’t know:

“This is an incredible book. I read it as I was transitioning home from the mission field, but wish I would have read it before I left AND when I was coming back. Amy has done a beautiful job at looking holistically at the issues presented in the fragility of transition. Her words are instructive, wise, vulnerable, helpful, and full of grace.

This works for any person regardless of religion, she writes from a Christian perspective but that isn’t the whole base line, it is applicable even if you don’t subscribe to Christianity. She presents some things to work through, which I did, and basically just preps you SO WELL, especially if your organization doesn’t prepare you for moving to or coming back from a transition- or you don’t have a company to help you. After reading, I have recommended this book to countless people as well as sharing my experience. Thanks to Amy.” by M

~~~

“I wish I’d had this book when I was making the transition to the field, and I’m sure it will be helpful when someday I transition off the field. But even though I read it when I didn’t think I was in a big transition, reading it helped me to identify that the smaller transitions–teammates leaving, going on home service–also count as transitions. I need to pay attention to them too, to grieve what needs to be grieved, to mark their importance. No matter where you are on your journey of overseas service, this book is helpful in navigating the many transitions and changes that are looming.” by Amazon Customer

~~~

Remember, some days it is enough to say, “At least I’m pretty sure that I did not leave any potatoes in my bed.”

Thanks for sharing in the joy of helping so many to transition better than they would on their own.

Amy

Faith, Family, Grief

Why I recommend waiting 2.5 years to bury a loved one

First of all, to all of you who buried loved ones in the culturally normal time frame closer to death, bless you. This is not meant to sprinkle regret on anyone. But sometimes life happens in different ways than is “culturally normal” and the way you mark a loved one can vary.

As you know, Tom Young, my dad, died in early February of 2014. If you missed it, you can read about it here, here, here, and here.

(Oh my. I just reread the posts on the process of Dad dying. So fresh. So far away. Still tears.)

His death was rather unexpected and planning a memorial service was a bit like planning a wedding reception in under five days when you are exhausted and in shock and having to make a ridiculous amount of decisions. Because he was cremated and we didn’t have a burial plot we liked prepared—we had one, but decided not to use it and to wait for the right place—there was no urgency.

And time went by.

We chose a place in the mountains and while they can do winter burials, it didn’t seem necessary for the cemetery workers to go to all of effort of digging up frozen ground. My sister Elizabeth has been spectacular about working with Mom and the cemetery folks on all of the details (mainly getting a headstone and this special box you have to bury an urn in and coordinating the date and time).

Saturday morning found two cars of Youngs, Smiths, and a Purdie driving up the mountain for the burial.

It was just our family and the cemetery allowed us to do whatever we wanted. While it is a bit odd to wait 2.5 years to bury someone, I recommend it.

When a loved one dies, you think you know what you are mourning. And you are right. And you are wrong. Waiting a bit helps you to know what it is you have actually lost. We have now lived with his absent presence for long enough to know what is fading (and not so important) and what will live on and on. Unlike the memorial service where you need to focus on many aspects, here, we could focus on Dad.

In this picture we are getting organized. Wasn’t it a lovely day?

We brought his picture for our time together. The roses are from his sister and the zinnias are from his garden, Dad did love his zinnias! I’ll tell you about the whoppers and cookies in a minute.

We took some photos of our family together.

We then gathered in a circle a spent time sharing a memories and what we miss. We cried. We laughed. We ended by each eating a whopper and cookie in his honor. He is like me, related to amazing foodies, but having a rather easy to please palate :)!

Grief still hurts and is exhausting. I’m sure there is a scientific reason about why crying makes one tired, but in the moment, who cares about science? You just know you are weary.

Dad gave us a gift in our grief because our grief is out of abundance. Abundance of his love for us, his enthusiasm for life, his being more interested in who we are as people than what we do, his love for the Lord, his generous spirit. Granddaughter on the far right brought the giraffe he gave her. Each girl cried (we all did!) as we shared. While they will forget a bit about their grandpa, they can’t help it :) . . . I can see that they will remember what is important.

Waiting more than two years may not work for your family. But if you aren’t quite ready to bury them (for any number of reasons!), don’t think you haven’t “done it right.” There are many ways to mourn a loved one.

We left to have lunch together and as we were leaving town we stopped by to see the finished result. It is still surreal to see a parent’s name etched in stone with a date when they died. I think it always will be . . . and that’s okay. The strangeness reminds me death is not supposed to be familiar, life is.

My dad lived a life that mattered. He made small investments every day in people and projects. His legacy is deep and wide. What you do today is not-insignificant. Be kind to strangers. Be there for your family and friends. Approach your work with seriousness, but make plenty of time for fun. Make funny noises when you think that will make your family laugh when they recall it. Be willing to take a stand for what is right.

It turns out that an ordinary life is the real fairy tale.

Faith, Grief, Messier than normal

Is Jesus a liar?

I had another post ready for today. A post about what is making me happy. But then I got a text and this post from two years ago matched the ups ad downs of this summer I think many of us are feeling. When the world contains so much beauty and is a hot mess, it’s tempting to wonder if Jesus is a liar. This is what I need to hear and I imagine I’m not alone.

///

My friend’s mom died recently. In her late 80’s she’d been a nursing home for 44 months. Another friend celebrates today (how macabre!) the five year anniversary of her dad being medevac’d to the hospital on he eve of his birthday. The hospital he ended up dying in months later. Others I know are dealing with the death of their adult son. Two lifelong friends of my parents are entering the long good-bye, as Alzheimer’s has been called. And several younger friends are wrestling with mental illness. Someone else I know is dealing with a supervisor who is a minion of Satan (OK, that may be harsh, but you get my point). All love Jesus dearly.

In the midst of this hear the echo Paul’s words to the Galatians.

It is for freedom you have been set free.

Is this a cosmic joke? Or worse, an empty promise? Do their lives ring of freedom?

Are we believers just fooling ourselves?

These are the questions I ask. You’ve probably had similar ones. How do we reconcile the freedom we at times know,

Or hope,

Or cling to like a bouy in choppy waters

With the slavery we still experience?

Or at best, the lack of freedom.

To our detriment we have been conditioned by the church and the magazines at the check-out line that simple solutions can be offered with a straight face. Three points, five tips, seven sassy suggestions. Suffering and freedom tied up with a shiny bow.

I come to you, knowing you are probably as weary of this part of our culture as I am. And yet. And yet, may I offer two observations on this paradox? This tension I feel within myself when it comes to our freedom in Christ?

As I have tossed these questions around and come at them from this angle and than that angle I’ve realized that I often associate freedom with the idea of freedom from and ignore freedom to and freedom for. Freedom surely means freedom from pain and suffering, right? Or freedom from constraints or restrictions. Those are the freedoms my mind goes to first.

But God is slowing me down and broaden the idea of freedom to include freedom to have the outside reality be different than the inside experience. A loved one may die and grief can be mixed with relief without someone being a horrible person. A disease may be an invitation for friends and family to be intentional with the time left.

I can see the cultural influences on my thinking of freedom. God placed us in cultural context and it’s okay to be influenced by our cultures, let’s not throw the baby out with the bath water!

The problem isn’t the cultural influences, instead it is unexamined influences that can lead to limited understandings. It’s when we step back and ask “in what ways” and “how” have I been influenced and ask God to show us a more excellent way that he will! He will enlarge, correct, and confirm. This is the journey of growing as a believer.

But no matter how much we mature, there are simply going to be areas where the answers we are given is unsatisfactory in this life. When it comes to freedom, God has pointed out to me that already/not yet applies here as well.

Believers in Jesus are free and each believer can point to areas of their life where they are free in ways they weren’t before. But we still experience brokenness and live in broken systems. To say that we are completely free now is foolish talk. Even Paul said “I do not do the things I want to do and the things I want to do, I don’t do.” He is not yet completely free. And neither am I. And neither are you.

Freedom is already. Yes! Freedom is not yet. Yes! Already/not yet is big enough to hold the freedom we have while acknowledging the lack of freedom that is our current truth as well. It helps me to celebrate the freedom I have AND keep me pointed toward the ultimate freedom that is waiting for me.

Jesus isn’t a liar. But he’s also no simpleton and invites us to live our messy, beautiful lives in light of the freedom that will one day be completely ours.

Photo credit Glenn Euloth via flickr cc

Faith, Grief, Relationships

100 Words: Friendships Made in College

Jon Acuff wrote a post called 100 Words: The gift & danger of friends. I checked, it is indeed 100 words on the nose. So I thought, “What would I say about friendship in 100 words?”

When I made friends in early adulthood, I didn’t think about the long-term.

I didn’t think, “These are the people who will walk with me as my parents die.”

It never occurred to me as I met my friends’ parents, “One day I will be with your child as they mourn, bury, and learn to live without you.”

Other than a friend whose dad died when she was a child, I was the first to lose a parent. This spring another dad died.

Though each path has to be walked alone, I am grateful we can walk besides each other.

Community, Ending Chapters, Faith, Grief

Where have you been re-storied?

Language can be so fun. Take the word “restored,” for instance. My friend Mary DeMuth has started a podcast where she interviews people and talks with them about how God has re-storied them and in the process restored them.

Just think, isn’t that what God does with all of us? I’m sure as you look back over your life, you have parts that you wouldn’t have chosen or did not go the way you expected. Yet God is at work.

Take heart! You join a long line of people who have been re-storied.

Joseph, sold into slavery, spent time in prison, abandoned for years is re-storied and placed in a position of influence.

Naomi who asked to change her name to Mara—Bitter—after her famine forced her and her family to relocate and then her husband and both sons died in a foreign land. She was re-storied through her daughter-in-law and new life.

David, killer of Goliath, friend of the king’s son, threat to the king spent years dodging an irrational enemy was re-storied again and again. David’s story does go on and on, doesn’t it?

Hannah, butt of the joke in a land the prized motherhood, mocked in her own family was re-storied with the birth of her son Samuel.

Amy Young, who thought she would retire in China, now living coatless in Denver. The last bit is a bit of an inside joke you’ll get if you listen to the podcast :). Last fall Mary interviewed me for the Restory Podcast and the interview went live this week.

You can listen to it here. It was my first podcast to participate in and as I listened to it, two thoughts came to mind: I’m sorry I speak a little fast at times :). I get very excited! And on cue, I cry talking about children. I can’t help it. Children are worth crying over!

If you are in need of a little bit of encouragement, take heart, God is in the business of re-storying. It won’t always be fast (or fun), but it also usually isn’t all bad either. Guess what, it is the messy middle.

Where can you see God re-storying you?

Amy

P.S. I’ve listened to all of Mary’s interviews and she has really interesting people on (other than me, hahaha! Okay, I’m interesting too.). Enjoy listening to the other interviews too!