Reflections

Last night the dam broke. It was unexpected and messy. I’d like to say it came out of nowhere, but it has been boiling beneath the surface for years. You see…I have a secret.

I keep it hidden.
I walk around like it doesn’t bother me.
I wave it away like a gnat.

But last night, the dam broke. And the secret came out in my small group.

We had a smaller gathering than usual and the conversation traveled loosely. I love conversations like those, because people feel more at ease to share. And when deep thoughts and feelings are shared, my heart rejoices.

Somehow the conversation drifted to going to church, and that little secret came out. But with that little secret came BIG, GIGANTIC, ugly-girl tears.

So, what is my secret? What made me cry so hard I still have a headache 12 hours later?

Going to church is a struggle for me.

Every.

Single.

Sunday.

This has been going on for about…ohhhh….ummmmm….15 YEARS!

Years, y’all!

After I said this seemingly harmless statement, I saw them lean in and ask the question of all questions: Why? And then I threw up all over them a bunch of words that didn’t make any sense.

What they didn’t know, what I didn’t share, and what I was, clearly, unable to articulate, was that I have a SIGNIFICANT burden for the Church. So much so that I pray about it almost as much as I pray for my marriage to be reconciled.

Before we get into the why, I feel the need to clarify: I love my church. It is something special, and I knew it when the first prayer was prayed on my very first Sunday. It cares for its members in a way I’ve never seen. I’ve experienced it first hand. I love the leaders in it. And I L-O-V-E my small group. There is nowhere else I think I should be.

With that being said, here is the rub that has accumulated over the years throughout churches I’ve attended. It is not one individual church.  It is countless ones.  Maybe it is Christian culture that drives me up its walls. Maybe it is a Southern thing. Maybe it is a Birmingham thing, but whatever it is: it is rampant.

I’ve sat under teaching that puts milk into babies’ bellies and just scratches the surface.  We need to go deeper. We need to challenge those sitting in the pews. We need to serve meat so rich on Sunday we chew on it the rest of the week.

I’ve attended churches that do not know how to minister to the unwed. Many of its members don’t know how to carry on a conversation with someone who isn’t married with children.  Conversations aren’t deep.  Ideas aren’t shared or challenged.  People put on a smiling face when they walk in its doors.  There is little authenticity.  It’s all shallow and surface Sunday after Sunday after Sunday.  It makes my spirit groan.

I’ve watched as the Church caters to families, but specifically, it caters to the women in the church. It has stifled the men among us. I’ve watched it destroy people who don’t look like the rest of its members…the elderly…the addicted…the broken…the shamed. 

And it makes me ANGRY! Really, really ANGRY!

I know a lot of people who’ve given up on the Church. Who have walked out its doors possibly never to return. Good people. People who love Jesus. People who can make a difference. And so, I have a burden for it.

I have a burden for it because it is supposed to look different.  It is supposed to be about who God is and what His word says. It is supposed to be a refuge for all walks of life, all ages, all stages, all races, all nations, all sinners coming together and focusing on what God is doing in their lives, what He is teaching them, and, most importantly, who He is.  It’s supposed to be for people who are needy and broken.  But it isn’t.

So, yea…every Sunday is a struggle, but most Sundays, I still go and sit among its members.

I go because I know it isn’t about my feelings.
I go because it is pleasing to the Lord. 
I go because I want to change it. 
I go because I believe in the God who created it. 
I go because He has a heart for His bride,
And I go because I believe, in spite of all these things, there are people within its walls who have a heart for Heaven.  And they shine like diamonds among the dead.

I turned 45 years old recently.  I’ve survived that many years.  Saying this at the end of the hardest years of my life is a miracle in its own right, and looking at the big picture, I am blessed there have been no major bodily glitches.  

• God has awoken me from slumber for over 16,434 days straight (not counting naps, of course). 
• My lungs have moved oxygen in and carbon dioxide out for more than 394,416 consecutive hours. 
• My heart has rhythmically pumped that oxygen around my veins and through my arteries for over 23,663,960 minutes in a row. 

It’s amazing, really, when you think about failure rates of things we build these days. What are the odds that not one single thing goes wrong on any given day? That all systems are “go” for years and years and years? And, God willing, many more.

But let’s be honest, 45 doesn’t look the way I thought it would.  And life hasn’t turned out the way I planned.

When I was a kid, it looked OLD.   REAL old. 
As a teenage, it seemed ignorant.
In my 20s, it appeared boring.
As a 30-something, well….it started to look younger.  MUCH younger.

Now that I’m here, it feels young and wise and a little more tiring. And there are days when I still don’t know what the hell I am doing.

When I look back on the whole of my 16,434+ days.  I pick up on the patterns even though most were ordinary days: some were good; others bad; all contained lessons learned and taught.

There were happy times and certainly some sad ones. 
There were hours of ugly girl laughs and hours of ugly girl cries.
There were seasons of happy harvests of utter joy…

I’ve had my fair share of surprising plot twists…small wins….big victories…devastating losses…and hard times overcome.

Forty-five feels like a crossroads of sorts, and I’m standing in the intersection looking both ways, evaluating the paths, trying to figure out which way to go.   

And even though it doesn’t look like I thought it would and life hasn’t turned out the way I hoped or planned, it does know that Hope rises in the most unlikely places…in the most surprising ways…when you least expect it.

Forty-five has lived long enough to know that beauty rises from the ashes.

It knows Spring always comes after the Winter. 
It knows fruit follows pruning.
It knows after the seed dies, there is a harvest.

It knows that even if I don’t know what I’m doing, God does.
It knows He still has a plan, and He’s still working.

He is sending down shoots into the earth.
He is tending the soil.
He is watering the roots.
He is preparing the way.

And He is reminding me of the ancient words of King Solomon…

For everything there is a season,

a time for every activity under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die.

A time to plant and a time to harvest.

A time to kill and a time to heal.

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.

A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

A time to search and a time to quit searching.

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear and a time to mend.

A time to be quiet and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate.

A time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Forty-five knows God makes everything beautiful in its time (Eccl 3:11), and that weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning (Ps. 30:5)

It happened the Tuesday before Thanksgiving 21 years ago.  I can never recall the specific date, but the timing was inexpugnable.  The sun wasn’t up. The day had barely begun.

I was awoken to the rap-it-tap-tap of my mom’s acrylic nails falling on my bedroom door.  To this day, I cannot stand the sound of someone drumming their long fingernails on a table.

I don’t remember her words, but I remembered the weight they carried.  I rushed from the bed to find my dad unconscious in the bed.  He passed away in his sleep.

It was somewhat unexpected though he had many health issues towards the latter part of his life. The whole week before I sensed something impending related to Dad, but I never spoke a word of it to anyone.  It was as if God was preparing me in some way for the shock of that day.

I remember calling my brother’s phone over and over again that morning until he woke up.

I remember calling my best friend in Auburn way before college kids should be awake.

I remember her mom coming as soon as she received the news and silently cleaning the house.  It is one of the most remarkable acts of love I’ve ever witnessed even to this day.

I remember my mom sitting at the breakfast table talking on the phone to family trying to figure out what to do next. Her strength has always astounded me but more so on that day.

I know there were preparations, and bags packed, and a drive going back to Decatur to bury him.

I remember eating Whit’s BBQ for 3 days straight at my grandmother’s house and being ever so grateful for something to eat that wasn’t in a casserole form.

I remember getting a phone call from another dear friend who broke away from coaching a college soccer game to call.

That Thanksgiving went by in a blur of faces and tears.  It was the night of his visitation.

I remember people talking all around me, but looking back, they seemed muffled and far away.

I remember being touched by the people who came.  Many I did not know.  I don’t remember their words, but their presence said more than words ever could.

I remember the sweet and comforting presence of friendly faces from Birmingham who made the drive to share their condolences.

We buried him the next day.  After that, the holidays were never the same.  And for many years, I hated them.  They represented a profound loss that changed me forever.

It took almost two decades to get through this day without deep sorrow.  And as the years drift by and wisdom comes, I remember the good things.

I remember that Auburn won that year.  And he was the biggest Auburn fan around.

I remember playing Trivial Pursuit after that game – something we NEVER did.

I remember the laughter, and I remember feeling like an idiot because that is why Trivial Pursuit was designed.  I even remember one of the questions from that day.  My dad was a teacher not by trade but at heart.  Everything…and I mean….everything was a chance to teach something no matter how small.  I knew the reasoning behind car tag numbers in Alabama, how mile markers could help you figure out how far you had to go (and when you would get there), and how the interstates were numbered by their direction (odd numbers run North & South; even numbers run East & West) at a fairly young age.  I also knew exactly when Easter fell every year.  And that was the Trivial Pursuit question my dad asked me that night:  When does Easter fall?  I was able to look this great man in the face and say exuberantly, “Easter falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the equinox.”  It was probably the only answer I got right.

It is a small memory but it represents so much of what I learned from my dad and the parts of him I carry with me each day.

I have his squinty eyes that vanish when I laugh, his steadfastness, and his calves.

I have his quick wit and his unwavering devotion for those I love.

I have his tender heart and his penchant for getting choked up.

I have his love for learning and his uncanny wisdom.

I have his ability to forgive quickly and completely.

He wasn’t perfect.  He had his demons and down falls, his disappointments and regrets.

His death made me strong and sympathetic.  It brought wisdom like only loss can bring.  It taught me the fleeting nature of life on this earth, and the importance of living a life marked by love.

I never realized until recently the impact my earthly father’s love impacted my view of God’s.  My dad loved and encouraged me.  Though at times I disappointed him, he was always for me.  He was always proud.  He disciplined me when I didn’t meet the mark, but it was part of loving me well, and he quickly forgave.  And this, to my benefit, allows me to see God’s love in a similar light.   It was a shadow of something greater that not everyone experiences. 

I had a good father, and though flawed in many ways, his love for me was undoubtable, unmistakeable, tender, kind, protective, and life-giving, and somehow, it made everything better.  And so today, as I pause to reflect on this man whose life and death forever left his mark on me, I smile, and my heart is full of thanksgiving.  I’m grateful for his life and love not only because I experienced it on this earth, but because it shaped my understanding of a Greater Father. I’m grateful for his example, and the legacy he left behind that continues far after his passing.