Preparing for Rest

Preparing for Rest

One of the busiest weeks of a person’s year could be the week before a vacation. Beyond the necessity of packing, the covering of normal duties at home, work, and in other spheres of life requires a large amount of forethought and planning. After all of that preparation, the final moment before pulling out of the driveway is pregnant with the question, “Did we forget anything?” Not only do we not want to forget to bring something important, but we want to be sure that we have fully dealt with everything we are leaving behind.

Such planning is not only a prerequisite for a week of relaxation, but for any period of rest. Rest cannot happen apart from the hard work of preparation. While we may be able to ignore and put off certain responsibilities as we seek a moment of peace, if we are going to genuinely rest, it’s going to take some effort.

It makes sense that rest naturally follows hard work. If we consider the great day of rest in Scripture, the Sabbath, we find that the first day of rest was practiced by God himself after six days of work – six days of preparation and filling, all leading to a time for reflecting on and rejoicing in all he had made. That model of the Sabbath from the very beginning then informed the later law of ceasing from work on the last day of the week, with the understood necessity of hard work and preparation to make that day of rest possible. If you can’t bake bread or grind grain or slaughter your animals or start a fire on the following day, then you’re going to need to get things rolling the day before. And while that extra work makes one day harder, it prepares the way for the following day to be one of rest and joy. The planning is worth it because it leads to true rest.

Often, instead of preparing for rest by working hard, we try to sneak into rest by ignoring responsibility. Yes, the dishes need done, we’re going to have to eat at some point, and that call is probably work letting me know that I failed to finish a necessary project, but I am going to sit on this couch and “rest.” We imagine that filling our eyes and ears with the latest Netflix release will sweep away the nagging feeling that our leisure is really laziness and neglect. But when the credits roll, we find that the flood of responsibilities we shunned sweeps away any temporary rest we felt. We may have been entertained, or even found a bit of relaxation, but the final product doesn’t feel like true rest.

Certainly there are moments when we can simply sit down and find a moment of unexpected calm. We should be wise enough to embrace those gifts and not rush past them in an effort to not lose our prized position in the rat race. Yet it would also seem wise to value regularly scheduled rest that we rigorously prepare for – a rest that extends not only to our physical bodies, but to our minds and hearts. A rest that calls us to rejoice in all the good gifts the Father has given.

But we should be careful to not idealize the preparation or the rest. No matter how much we plan, we will surely forget something. It will flood our minds like the question of whether or not we locked the door before heading to the beach, threatening to pull us from our rest into work and worry. It’s those moments that remind us that rest is ultimately an act of faith and trust. Our preparation is never perfect, and even if we get everything covered, we may still wonder if certain things can go on without us present. Rest then moves from rigorous preparation to a fight of faith. Rest calls us to trust in the sovereign goodness of our Father and the truth that he holds all things together by the word of his power, not us. He then is the source of all true rest, both from physical toil and from the curse of sin and death.

As Jesus calls us to find rest for our souls in him, he does not call us to prepare in the same way we might for earthly rest. He simply tells us to come to him. To cease striving. Our work to find soul rest prepares us for resting in Christ in a different but similar way as it opens our eyes to the reality that no preparation or effort on our part can secure the true rest found in knowing our sins forgiven and our souls secured in Christ as we wait for the eternal rest that is to come. We don’t work our way into that rest or sneak into it; we joyfully enter into it by faith.


Fall Nostalgia

Fall Nostalgia

A crisp is felt in the air
As evening settles in more easily and early,
Its darkness refusing more and more to flee with each new day.
Yet the falling of the leaves and the smell of their funeral pyres
Evoke, not bleakness, but warm nostalgia,
As now bare branches form a doorway into the past.

Memories of childhood and adolescence
Recall a now gilded time of hayrides and harvest festivals,
Of apple picking and apple cider,
Of pumpkin carving and pumpkin pie,
Of leaf piles raked, not to be bagged and dragged to the curb,
But to be leapt into and redistributed over the browning, damp grass.
Of football games with oft disputed scores
Played in backyards by young boys who soon shed their jackets
To run with flushed cheeks and visible breath through the agreed upon pylons.
Of football games where the score was of no concern
If the right person sat near you in the swarming bleachers.
Of football games that served as the background score to the gathering of family,
Punctuated by the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of endless desserts.

What bleakness there could be to the passing of warm days and long nights,
And to the slow death of the life seen in green leaves and the fruit of the earth.
Yet new life springs from the falling leaves,
As the crisp in the air draws us
Into our memories, into our homes, and into one another’s hearts.

The Trail of Knowing God

The Trail of Knowing God

There are beauties of God’s character seen at the trailhead.
The wildflowers bloom and the arch of the trees
Create a door in which we are welcomed to stand and stare at Him.
He is not hiding,
Nor does he turn from those who seek him.

Yet from that vantage point, step stones rise and round a bend,
Beckoning us to journey beyond the doorway –
To come in and know him better.
Simple signs tell of destinations often traveled to
And worth traveling to often,
And the slightest effort often parts the trees
Revealing quiet wonders
And thunderous revelations.

Yet there are still more breathtaking views
Down into the hollows of less trod paths,
Up knolls and hills and mountains,
That will take time to get to.
They must be fought for,
Legs burning, feet slipping, hands grasping,
Heart pounding, lungs gasping for breath
Only to have our breath taken away
By the wonders that the pain and perseverance have bought.

We can now walk the ridgelines of deeper intimacy,
Catching our breath long enough to sigh and smile,
Only to descend into a place unfamiliar.
A place where all we can do is keep walking, trusting that something is coming.
Trusting that the next bend will make all the slogging forward worth it.
And at that final bend, the last one we are willing to turn before giving up,
We will find an artisan well.
We will step in the waters of a beautiful brook as it slides across smooth slate.
We will wander and discover waterfalls of mercy we hadn’t even been looking for.
We will climb mountains of joy with joy,
Knowing the view from the top is worth all it costs.
We will be content to be a bit lost at times,
If only we might be surprised to sovereignly stumble upon
The fathomless depths of all our God is.

Imperfect Pens and People

Imperfect Pens and People

Based on a brief internet search, I can confidently say that there is no 3415 Bardston Road in the United States. There is a Bardston Drive in Dublin, Ohio, and a Bardston Ave in Orlando, Florida, but no Bardston Road and none with a number 3415 along its curb. And yet the 250 pens that I received in the mail proclaim proudly, in bold white letters set against four brilliant colors, that Grace Fellowship Church can be found at 3415 Bardston Road.

When I broke the tape and opened their small box, they looked lovely – a rainbow of writing utensils emblazoned with the vital statistics of our little community. The logo looked crisp, and everything was more legible than I had imagined when designing them on the company’s website. While the kids and I pulled them out to decide on our favorite color, my wife calmly picked up a green pen and stated simply, “They spelled Bardstown wrong.” A closer look at the red one in my hand revealed that indeed they had – it was as plain as day: “3415 Bardston Rd.” Yet what was not clear in my mind was the assertion that they had spelled it wrong.

A quick check of my email and a look at the proofs that had been sent confirmed the uncomfortable truth that I knew all along: they had not spelled Bardstown wrong – I had. As much as I had wanted to blame someone else for the missing “w,” I alone was guilty, and now I had a box of 250 witnesses that could click their proverbial tongues and remind me that I am not perfect.

Of course, I know I’m not perfect – who, besides a four year old has the audacity to claim they have never done anything wrong? I know my failures better than anyone else because I know my heart better than I know anyone else’s. In a conversation, I will gladly admit my shortcomings and sins. I’ll even, in guarded moments, announce on social media that my life is not always the smiley dream that my profile picture portrays.

But for all that knowledge and the occasional admission, I spend a good bit of time trying to play the part of a person and a pastor who has it (almost) all together. And if that is my brand, then I really have no interest in sending out an army of 250 representatives to proclaim in four-color stereo, “Come to Grace Fellowship Church: the church that can’t spell its street name correctly.” That’s what makes it even worse – I’ve dragged my church into the mess of my mediocrity.

The good thing is that I can easily admit my mistake to my church family. They watch me week after week stumble and trip on Sunday mornings, and they graciously continue to stand with me. We value honesty and transparency as a church; we want to foster a community where it’s ok to not be ok. Yet the thought that these imperfect pens would become for some who have never met us the sole representation of our church (and me), was hard to swallow. It tasted a lot like pride.

My wife, the unintentional bearer of the bad news, was the first to put the right spin on things and correct my conceit. “Maybe these pens can let people know that we’re not perfect, so they don’t have to be perfect to come to our church.” I’d like to say I agreed with her right away, but it took a minute for me to see that my slain vanity was something to rejoice in, and that imperfect pens could provide more truth in advertising than perfect ones. Still, I was slowly making peace with the pens.

The truth they spoke that had at first been wounding slowly became the thing that brought healing. Yes, I’m not perfect. Our church is not perfect. So maybe our pens shouldn’t be perfect, because none of God’s children are. Not once has he picked up a perfect church led by a perfect pastor to write his continuing story of redemption. Rather he chooses churches filled with misspellings who are despised and mocked by the world, so that he can make all the wise look foolish and show the world that he alone deserves the glory for all that he has composed.

All that said, the next time I order pens, I’ll make sure the address is right. But for now, you can find us at 3415 Bardston Road. I’ve got a pen waiting for you.

Beauty That Brings Tears

Beauty That Brings Tears

In the movie, The Mission, there is a hauntingly beautiful melody called “Gabriel’s Oboe” that swims in the storm of emotions that fills the film’s storyline. It’s a song that captures the poignancy of the heart-breaking plot mixed with the breathtaking scenery, as well as the triumph and tragedy of all that transpires. It’s a song that fills me with emotion, partly because of the themes in the movie, but much more because of its ties to a personal event.

“Gabriel’s Oboe” is the song my sister-in-law walked down the aisle to at her wedding, and when I hear that plaintive oboe, my mind is filled with the beauty of that warm June morning when we sat amongst a grove of walnut trees as witnesses to a couple committing to one another for as long as they both shall live. I am taken back to the moment just before my two oldest girls, four and nearly two years old at the time, walked through the grass in their white flower girl dresses. Rehearsal had been a disaster, and I assumed there was no way they would make it to the finish line that afternoon. The morning of the ceremony, the younger of the two had decided that she wanted nothing to do with her petal-filled basket, but seconds before her big moment she made it clear that she wasn’t going to share with her sister nor would she go down the aisle without it.

As I sprinted to grab her basket, I wondered why. “Why am I doing this? She’s just going to cry and stay at the back with me.” But then, moments later, as “Gabriel’s Oboe” filled our ears, my little girls flawlessly did their flower girl thing. I can still see them, dressed in white, cautiously walking away from me. It was such a joy-filled moment, and yet I was filled with a sorrow of sorts. As much as I had wanted them to walk down that aisle, I now desperately wanted them to come back. The emotion of those brief seconds, which even now wants to well up in tears, is complicated.

We typically place tears in one of two categories – they are either tears of joy or tears of sadness. There are funeral tears or wedding tears. There are the tears at a soldier’s death or tears at a soldier’s return. There are tears on Good Friday or tears on Easter. But such categories are much too simplistic for the intricacies of the human experience. There are certainly times when they fit, but so often the boxes labeled “joy” or “sadness” can’t hold all that we are feeling.

When tears fill my eyes at the sound of “Gabriel’s Oboe,” they are not simply tears of sorrow or tears of joy, but they are tears in response to an inexplicable beauty. There was such joy that day – the joining of two lives into one, the light of the sun filtering through the trees, and the sight of children spreading petals in the grass. And there was sadness as well – the giving away of a daughter and son, the absence of those whose death kept them from the joy of it all, and, for me, the thought that one day those little girls would walk down a petal strewn aisle holding my arm. It was all so heartbreakingly beautiful.

Crying is a mysterious thing. Why else have nearly all of us choked out the words, “I don’t know why I’m crying”? I’ve seen people weeping in the depths of grief suddenly smile and laugh as the same tears fall. I’ve seen laughter morph into deep sorrow. And I’ve watched my wife laugh until tears rolled down her cheeks. Tears come not only because of joy or sorrow or laughter or any one emotion, but often because of the all-encompassing, inexpressible beauty of a moment.

It’s the beauty seen in a movie when all the pieces come together and a character’s dreams are crushed or come true. It’s the beauty of a song sung as we sit in the audience and watch a holy moment unfold. It’s the final sentence of the novel when we wish for just one more chapter with the friends we have made in the pages read. It’s a song coming from our car stereo as we drive down a lonely road. It’s a long forgotten photograph that falls from the pages of a book. It’s the sun rising over the Atlantic as children dance in the sand. It’s the celebration of a life well lived and of resurrection hope at the side of a loved one we wish was not gone. It’s a glimpse past the veil that separates us from eternity that catches sight of the promise to come. It’s the beauty of sorrow and pain and joy and happiness and everything else rolled into one, and tears seem to be the one thing that can explain the cry of our souls.

Sometimes tears alone express all that is felt when God’s children behold the beauty of the gospel – the sorrow of the cross and the triumph of the resurrection and the mystery of faith. There are those times when all of the strands of light found in the work of Christ gather into a blinding brightness, and we become overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. We stand in the light of the sun or the moon and wonder at the breathtaking love of the Creator. We sing of the love of God, rich and pure, or of heaven’s peace and perfect justice kissing this guilty world in love, and we see the brilliance of God’s wonderful salvation. It’s the potent mixture of, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!” and “He is not here, for he has risen!” It’s the beauty of Christmas Eve candlelight and Good Friday darkness and Easter sunrises. It’s all there, swirling around with that great cloud of witnesses, when we partake of the bread and the cup in the midst of brothers and sisters who hold the gospel dear, and the beauty of it all spills over in tears. Not just because of joy or sadness or any one thing, but because there is an unspeakable beauty to life and death and to the life and death of Jesus – a beauty that brings tears.


An Uncontainable Wave

A child just waved at me. I turned from my work to look out the coffee shop window and saw his face looking back. His mom pushed a stroller carrying his sister while this young boy held one of the handles. He walked sideways, as children often do, moving forward because they must, but still wanting to be distracted. His expression was one of joyous shock as a near smile captured his entire mouth. There was a light in his eye – a sense of anticipation and excitement that seemed to involuntarily flow out his arm into a methodical wave that could not be contained. He was in a parade of one, calling others to share in his happiness.

I think his mom had just bought donuts next door.

On Fish and Picky Eaters

“Give a man a fish, and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and feed him for a lifetime.”

Unless this hypothetical “man” is a four year old. Give a four year old a fish, and spend the next hour in the futile act of convincing him to try it, only to erupt in anger and proclaim that he can starve for all you care. Beyond potty-training, the plight of the picky eater may be the most exasperating part of parenting. The definition of frustration should be “to devote time and money to provide nutritious and delicious food for your offspring, intended to be enjoyed during a Rockwellian dinner scene, only to have your own food grow cold as you turn spoons into airplanes that cannot land on their tongue runway because the tightlipped trap door keeps closing at the last second.”

If it was some sort of prison slop, I could understand the decision of my toddler-turned- air-traffic-controller to declare his mouth a no fly zone. But this fish is delish. Salmon, marinated and grilled to perfection, surrounded by a sweet potato slathered in butter and vibrant zucchini and squash. The colors alone demand to be tasted. Yet they are refused, grounded on their plate, no matter how much I extol their taste and ability to make small boys grow strong like superheroes.

Instead it’s the evening before the following days’ grocery run, when the freezer is called upon to send in reinforcements, that the plates are cleaned and seconds called for. The dull brown hues of fish sticks and tater tots make his mouth water, if only because they act as B-52s loaded with ketchup that are voluntarily flown, rapid fire into his mouth. I feel for the haddock, shredded and breaded into embarrassing strips, when it could have been formed into something so much more beautiful and appetizing. Something my son would surely reject as disgusting.

Maybe my wife and I bring all this upon ourselves. If the masses call for nuggets and French fries, who am I to interfere? It’s one less battle and one step closer to that Rockwell image, even though I can’t imagine Norman painting a tater tot. Maybe Marie was on to something – just let them eat cake. In fact, it could be that she was misquoted; maybe she wasn’t talking about her subjects, but her three year old. “I’m tired of arguing about it; if she doesn’t want the foi gras, just let her eat cake.”

Yet, when I am tempted to throw in my napkin and just stock the fridge with lunchables, I remember the encouragement of Robert Farrar Capon:

“There is always the hope that they will, late or soon (be prepared for it to be late), actually sink their teeth into mushroom, parsnip, Swiss chard, or celeriac. Be bold, therefore. Feed them, yes; but do not cook for them. Cook for yourself. What they need most of all in this vale of sorrows is the sight of men who relish reality. You do them no favor by catering to their undeveloped tastes. We have not acquired our amplitude for nothing. No matter what they think, we know: We are the ones who have tasted and seen how gracious it all is. What a shame if we were to hide that light under a bushel. On the subject of vegetables, therefore, I urge you to please yourself first, last and always. Until they awake out of their youthful and dogmatic slumbers, even lettuce is too good for them.” (Robert Farrar Capon, The Supper of the Lamb: A Culinary Reflection)

At some deeper level the fight is not just about nutrition but the wonder of the world itself. It is about the miracle of taste buds and their ability to savor something formed out of dirt, sun, and rain. To reject the majority of food is to unwrap a gift from your Maker and say you don’t like it before you’ve even tried it, and such impudence cannot go on unchecked. So with every bite I take, I will hold before my son the light of enjoying creation as a gift manifested in endless variety and flavor, and he can hold his nose and beg for hot dogs all he wants.