TARRY AND WATCH                                                       
​(MARK 14:27-42)
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In this season, civil war in Myanmar prompted urgent communication to our missionaries in Southeast Asia. “What can we do?” they wrote. “They burn our churches, they force us out of our villages, they threaten our families. We are tired, but we dare not sleep!”

First century readers of Mark would be familiar with this kind of fear, living in a hostile environment of persecution and suffering. They, too, were tested. In the Gethsemane narrative, Mark presents the reader with a model for how to face such testing, and emphasizes the urgency of staying awake.

Jesus is about to die. Earlier he had repeatedly warned his friends, “Stay awake! Be on guard!” (Ch. 13) But entering the garden, they would expect to sleep. This was a familiar place of rest to them (John 18:2; Luke 22:39), and they were exhausted. Yet even as they drop their burdens and spread their garments on the ground, Jesus leans over and says, “Keep watch”.

Why? Why not rest while they can, and be better prepared to face the coming crisis of the cross? Why does Jesus poke and prod them awake three times? What does he want them to see? What does he want me to see?

There in the garden, they saw the vulnerability of God. They saw Jesus calling out to his papa while prostrate and in pain, asking God to change his mind. They saw Jesus weep, groan, sweat blood, and then say “nevertheless” to God’s will. And in witnessing his vulnerability, the disciples learned how they were to face the persecutions to come. Vulnerability would be their best hope for survival. It would keep them close to God, close to one another, united in love and trust. That was what Jesus wanted them to see, what he wants us all to see.

Will I tarry and watch? Will I, in my own moments of weakness, invite others to tarry and watch with me?
 

Each person whose path I cross, however incidentally, makes cautious but definite eye contact, inviting an exchange. When I pause to greet them or ask a question—any question—the immediate response is, “Thank you!” For what, I wonder? For bothering to stop? For showing interest? I rarely feel such gratitude when someone inquires as to the quality of my sleep, my health, my day.
Malawi, Warm Heart of Africa, can you defrost my entitled Western soul?


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Warmth is everywhere. Brick walls of a deep red ochre reflect the red soil, the red haze of dust, the glowing red of an early sunset. The contrast of verdant greenery against this backdrop startles me as much as do the brilliant white smiles that erupt in the faces of those who pass me by. Their kindness keeps me off-balance.

​I am surrounded by a press of bodies, all jostling good-naturedly. Does everyone know everyone, or does it just seem that way? I feel a familiar prickle of anxiety, looking around for someone who might know me, too. “ICOMB?” a man asks, wearing a sedate blue suit. Yes, I say in relief, and I introduce myself to our driver, Isaac.

Driving through Lilongwe, Isaac apologizes for the state of the road: pavement that is pot-marked with occasional red dirt potholes; a scant few miles later it is a red dirt road pot-marked with occasional patches of pavement. We bump along, swapping details of our lives. Isaac is a subsistence farmer, like the vast majority of people in Malawi. He tells me about maize, about his side hustle as a driver, about his newborn son, about his impossible dreams of education, about the constant struggle to feed his family.                                                                                                                                                                 
I tell him about my children, my grandchildren. I do not mention their privileged upbringing, higher education, lucrative careers, or plethora of life options. I do not need to; he knows.

There are people everywhere, walking along the road and in the bush and to and from the markets. The pace is slow, with huge bundles balanced expertly on the top of erect, proud heads. Perhaps my posture would be better, I think, if I were required to bear such burdens. Self-consciously, I sit up a little straighter in the car.

We pass through village after village, then veer off the road to arrive at the administrative headquarters of the MB conference of Malawi. I pause to admire the sign. It assures me, “It’s okay; you are welcome, you belong here.” Conference minister Shadreck Kwendanyama is there, shaking hands, embracing strangers like me as if I were a long-lost sister. Other summit attendees have arrived and are there—Brazil, Canada, Austria, Germany, the United States, Philippines, Thailand, Latin America. My feet do an involuntary skip of joy with each recognized face. I clutch at the comfort of familiarity.

Hovering at the edges of this boisterous group there is a small woman with piercing eyes. She inserts herself with confidence, and calmly interrupts the laughter and loud voices, “I must greet my visitors,” she says, quietly but firmly. This is Chisomo Mwale, the one who runs the operational aspects of the Malawian MB Conference. A force to be reckoned with, for all her demure appearance. Yes, I know, she seems to say in silent dignity. You are all old friends with one another, but now is a time for new friendships.

Around the circle she shakes hands, kisses cheeks, then stops at me. I clunk my way through a greeting and massacre her name. She throws her head back and laughs. “Call me Grace.” Inexplicably, I choke back tears. Where did that come from? Sleep deprivation after forty hours of travel? Or is there a Warm Heart virus infecting me?

​Before long we are arm in arm, confiding secrets, playing with a six-month old child. She has welcomed me, and frozen fear melts into puddles of affection. How did she do that? I marvel.

Tell me, Chisomo Mwale, how do I become you? How do I attain to such grace, Grace? Looking around at the raw want and scarcity, I know that I do not really want to ask this question out loud. I do not really want to hear her answer.
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I want a paved road to grace, not one ravaged by red dirt potholes.

Just beyond the walls of this compound, a few miles down the dusty road is the Dzaleka refugee camp. It is here that the MB conference of Malawi was born, from the evangelistic efforts of Safari Mutabeshi, a refugee that refused to leave the camp, even when offered the chance to immigrate to the West, because there were not yet enough leaders to care for the churches that were springing up.

And there it is, the answer to my unspoken question. It is within this context of brutal loss, trauma, and future- less-ness that true grace is forged. 

These lives have passed through the fires of abuse, injustice, hunger, disease, violence and unrelenting poverty. Such fires would devastate most mortals, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake. Here, though, it has left glowing coals behind; the Warm Heart of Africa that is Malawi.

​Instinctively, I pull closer to Chisomo Mwale. We hold hands, and I feel the slow burn of grace begin.

​I am not sure what I feel these days. The approaching fall season evokes conflicting emotions. Lazy summer days on my porch “office” will end (boo). Crisp air will turn the leaves a glorious, vibrant array of autumn colours (yay). Work deadlines loom (boo). Colleagues are returning from holidays to gather again at the office (yay). Grandkids will head to school (whee!), some for the first time (yikes!). The days get busier (boo? yay? yikes? whee?). Pumpkin Spice lattes abound (yum).
 
One feeling I am sure of, is a feeling of being needy. The world is a mess, Canada is a mess, I am a mess. There is my overarching, ever-present need for more sensitivity to the Holy Spirit, vision and faith to combat the 2:00 AM heebie-jeebies, strength for tight schedules, grace for the gaps. There is a density of calendar events making me fidgety and anxious. There is a need for community. Where would we be without each other? Some of my community have told me they are putting one or two of my events into their own calendar and praying for me on those dates. It makes me feel calmer (especially at 2:00 AM). It makes me cringe at my own ego ("See how important I am? See how busy?"). It makes me want to pray for others (even at 2:00 AM). It makes me, somehow, glad to be needy.
 
Prayer makes a difference. I know that God does not “need” our prayers to accomplish his will on earth, yet still he chooses to accomplish his will in this way - with our tiny, feeble hands on his plow, our weak, scrawny necks sharing his yoke. It is, at times, hard to fathom.
 
But it feels good.
 

​“Nineteen?” I gaped, trying to imagine birthing that many children in one lifetime. The elderly matriarch in front of me gave a gap-toothed grin. As founding chief, she had a right to be proud. “And thirty-two grandchildren,” she added. “You?” Woefully deficient as to fertility, I confessed, admiring the one big extended family which comprised her entire village.
 
Jerassina and I continued our conversation – rife with gestures, broken Portuguese, and many a belly laugh - while around us the villagers prepared a feast to welcome our small team to this remote Amazon settlement: slabs of a two-meter-long pirarucu fish, baked in banana leaves; exotic fruits and vegetables from their garden; chunks of savory meat from the paca - described as a large rodent (but, really, way cuter). The real feast, however, was to be found in the people themselves.
 
We (ICOMB delegates from Germany, India, Lithuania, and Canada) had flown from Curtiba to Manaus, driven long hours along a sketchy, desolate road (“Why maintain them?” our guide asked. “The rivers are our highways…”), then even longer hours by boat to arrive at this village. By then we were very much feeling our smallness: insignificant specs of humanity on the vast and untamed canvas of creation. It’s so…big. Over forty kilometers wide during the wet season, we were told, with villages that are days apart by boat. Winding through Amazon River tributaries where the dense vegetation and trees were half-submerged, we gawked at monkeys, giant lily pads, pink dolphins, massive ant colonies and unfamiliar birds, with only an occasional dugout canoe hinting at hidden civilization in an otherwise unbroken landscape. Were there really people living here? Why were we not seeing any other boats? Was the captain lost? Rounding a bend, a bend that looked like every other bend, the village suddenly appeared. In the middle of, well, nowhere.
 
The Ribeirinhos – Amazon River People – greeted us with shy smiles and reserve. “It’s okay,” we were assured by our translator, “they knew we were coming. We have built a friendship with them over the last couple of years, slowly finding ways to share the Gospel. So, we have the status of invited guests. If not,” he added, “they would have a legal right to kill us.” Hospitality has strict parameters in the Amazon, it seems.
 
The villagers tolerated our cameras, smiled at our awkwardness, laughed at our belly flops from their canoes when we went swimming, and pointed casually into the jungle when asked about bathroom facilities. It was with some dismay that I wandered along a path, jumping at each rustling noise in the underbrush. Words of half-joking warning from our guide echoed uncomfortably in my mind: Stay away from the hanging vines (“Snakes drop from them…”), look before you pee (“Disturbed ants can swarm; they destroyed a whole town once…”), don’t panic if there is an alligator (“They cannot look up and their muscles for opening their jaws are weak; best to jump onto the top of their heads and clamp down hard…”) and, above all, remember that “Everything here wants to kill you.” Clearly, a hasty ablution was called for.
 
We came as guests, and the honor of that was immense. The time to depart came all too soon; our captain did not want to be on the river after dark. The sun did set, however, before we arrived back at the town.  Scott dug out his LED flashlight and a bold volunteer perched with it on the bow; less to see the route (the captain could find his way back blindfolded, we were assured…) than to keep from a head-on collision with logs, canoes, and – yup – alligators. Gazing up at stars that I swear I have never seen before, I marveled:
 
Where can I go from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast (Psalm 139:7-10).
 
Jesus is in the Amazon. 

​There are advantages and disadvantages to being prepared. I am the one who pulled out a set of guitar strings in the Myanmar jungle. (Wait, what? How did you know the village had only one guitar and that the E-string was broken…?) To me, hiking in BC = bears; I am the one with bells and whistles and spray. No lunch? Here’s my emergency energy bar. Ripped your too-tight joggers playing volleyball? Yup, I have an extra set of sweatpants in the trunk, along with Level II First Aid supplies, glow sticks, a portable magnetic Scrabble Game and a Ziplock bag of Tetley Bold tea.
 
Zombie Apocalypse? Bring. It. On.
 
On the other hand, there are times when my obsessive need to be ready for any and every circumstance paralyzes me with indecision. To vax or not to vax? Pipeline or environment? Liberal or Conservative? Dressing on the side, or on the salad, or none at all…? You get the picture.
 
SQUIRREL: “Cross over? No, wait! Go back? YIKES! Car! Car! Car! Cross over! Wait! No! Go ba – “
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HUMAN: “Car, meet Roadkill.”
 
Making final preparations for Brazil, I am overthinking everything in my desire to be prepared. I have been trying to pack for both the icy cold rains of Curitiba and the sweltering heat of the Amazon. A last minute decision means a rush to find a Yellow Fever vaccine. Gnawing my lips, I have packed and re-packed my suitcase, fretting about whether to take a gift for our host or a bag of cashews for the flight. Work deadlines leave me awake in the middle of the night wondering if I have missed anything important, misspelled anyone’s name, sent the document to the wrong person (all three, as it happens). Anxiety is winning over my usual self-congratulatory Girl Scout demeanor.
 
STOP. (God? That you…?)

STAND STILL. (Moses, right? The Red Sea thing? So, you are saying to stand still instead of making like a squirrel trying to cross, uncross, then re-cross the road. Okay, I get that, sure, but what if…?)

BE QUIET. (So that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? I’m just trying to weigh all the options here and be absolutely sure and in complete control so that I can … oh. Right.)

NOW, GO.
 
Israel was trapped between an army and an ocean. In Exodus 14:13-15 God tells them to stand still (Hebrew “make a stand”, decisively) then move on. No, we do not have everything we need. Neither did Israel, having “packed with haste”. Regardless, no amount of forethought and consideration of every possible weather condition could have prepared Israel for the eventuality of crossing through a split sea. They did NOT see that coming. What mattered most was not what they packed, but who went before them.
 
Okay, Brazil. Ready or not, here we come. 

All legal documents, as with some financial ones we received not long ago, have the same protocol, it seems. No blank pages allowed. And so, it evoked a chuckle when I pulled out the page you see above this text, and read the rather self-evident description:
 
                  “This page intentionally left blank.”
 
Being prone to finding deep symbolic meaning in, umm, pretty much anything, I latched onto this quirky item with gusto. At one point I found myself pulling this paper out during prayer ministry, encouraging someone to trust that God is there, even when we feel like our life is a blank page. He enjoys the suspense, I argued. He delights in our delight, covering our eyes with his hand, hearing our gasp of wonder when we come to the Big Reveal. Isn’t this fun? Well…
 
COVID-19 left us all on a blank page for over two years. How could we plan anything, let alone mission trips, with so much global uncertainty? Now, with restrictions finally lifted, we are daring to scribble in our itineraries once again. Our denomination has an international agency, called ICOMB (International Community of Mennonite Brethren), which every two years gathers together leaders and delegates from churches all over the world for mutual edification, leadership development, and relationship building. They tell me that there is a need for writers to attend these events, to gather stories, do interviews, help resource reporting. The next summit is due to take place in Curitiba, Brazil, next month. Was I interested?
 
It is a tight deadline, but the clincher was including an excursion to connect with several small indigenous villages along the Amazon River. I was hooked. My husband - born in Bolivia and having lived among various indigenous groups, including the Yanomami - likewise feels a heart tug. Could we both go? We could. Together we will gather stories, take photos, and build relationships with the River People of the Rio Negro. We think this is also a great way to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary. Our children think we are nuts. (Nothing new there.)

​“We are going to die,” I muttered under my breath. “Going. To. Die.”
 
White-knuckled, I gripped the sides of my seat as the car hydroplaned, briefly, on the #1 highway. Pounding rains – what would be remembered as an epic atmospheric river dumping itself mercilessly onto our province – added to the cacophony of howling winds on that black, bleak night.
 
“Take exit 90,” GPS calmly advised, while I hissed at her chill composure. My husband promptly left the freeway.  Does nothing rattle the man? Has he updated his will? Did he write a farewell note to our grandchildren?
 
Oh, Sweet Mother of Potatoes. We are heading into a roundabout.
 
Our fate was sealed: a mangled collision was inevitable, likely with some non-European, dyslexic, myopic driver that was either too paralyzed by political correctness to merge or too freaking stubborn to pull out. What were we thinking, putting these death traps in CANADA?!?
 
The GPS ice princess clinically tracked with our crisis, as the escape we sought eluded us, exit after blessed exit. “Take the next … recalibrating … keep left at the … recalibrating … turn right at … recalibrating … re-”
 
It was the penultimate year for on-the-fly recalibration. In 2021 we were buffeted by wave after wave of COVID-19 mutations, accompanied by wave after wave of social unrest, relentless heat waves, devastating floods, appalling loss, frustrating food shortages, grim inflation, crippling anxiety, the massive mudslides that wiped out roads and buried cars, and the shattering shame of finding the bones of indigenous children - likewise buried in the mud - in unmarked graves on historic residential school lands. 
 
Oh, Canada.
 
While we and our family remained healthy and gainfully employed, thanks to video conferencing, so many in our world lost not only their jobs, but their health, homes, and freedom. Working with Multiply, I correspond with those living in nations that are being ravaged by war, drought, flood, pestilence, and persecution. In 2021, when many global workers hurried back to the field as soon as borders and vaccines made this possible, they immediately became immersed in urgent relief efforts to bring food, medical supplies, and the hope of the Gospel to desperate refuges, displaced urban workers, and disease-ridden jungle villages.
 
In the midst of global calamities, there was inspiring courage, kindness, and vision. So too, here at home.
 
Families in BC that were evacuated during the flooding were welcomed into warm homes. Drowning farm livestock were rescued, led uphill by courageous neighbors and, in some cases, by total strangers. Churches, camps, and communities rallied to provide shelter, meals, and hope. Many of us who had been fearfully divided during the pandemic were now tearfully united by a disaster that no one had foreseen.
 
At our own church, the leadership launched a sermon series on the Gift - singular - of the Holy Spirit. “It’s Him,” we heard, vision-cast from the pulpit each Sunday. “We need more of Him.” Stage-front prayer ministry teams have been inundated by those reaching out for the only unshakable certainty left, in a world that is constantly being … recalibrated. There is a King, we tell them. He is not punishing you. Let’s seek him, together. Connecting the wounded, the lost, and the lamenting with the loving presence of Jesus is so hard right now, but he is the only King worth seeking; the only King who seeks after us.
 
“I give up,” Scott said, finally pulling us out of the roundabout. “We’ll have to get there another way.”
 
 Instinctively, we drove another block and turned left, only to find ourselves on the very street in Abbotsford we had been seeking. We had missed the roundabout exit for King Connector Road, but somehow we ended up on King Road, nonetheless.
 
Alive! (and with me thinking, there’s a metaphor in here somewhere …)
 
May we all connect with - and perhaps help someone else to connect with - the true King. God has made us in his image, to live freely and sometimes foolishly in a world that refuses to account for itself; may he lift our bloodshot, Zoom-blurred eyes off the latest headline and allow us to glimpse, however briefly, a Kingdom of Kindness.

​I had to re-seed a patch of my lawn today. Some seed fell in the sidewalk cracks, and I pulled out the new grass a few weeks later. Some fell on the walkway between the houses, and the neighbors trod it down. Some fell near my harden and were scooped up but a sneaky sparrow lurking in the ferns.
 
You can see, of course, where I am going...
 
This is what the Spirit said to me: Seed MUST sprout. It can't not. It is in its nature to germinate; the life it contains cannot be denied. In the parable of the Sower, the seeds could not fail to sprout. In each case, life would emerge - inevitable, inescapable, glorious life. The lack was in the soil - the heart - upon which the seed - God's Word - fell.
 
Some sprouted on the wayside and was trampled dismissively, inviting the Enemy to swoop down and devour what was not cherished. Some sprouted on rocks and withered for lack of soil, dearth of community. Some sprouted among weeds and valiantly fought for a place, only to be unworthily displaced. But in each and every case, the seeds must sprout. Life emerges. The Word cannot return void, it cannot fail to germinate. As long as it is not starved, strangled, or stomped upon - it will multiply.
 
Have the ones we yearn after done awful things? Have they dismissed, discarded, and destroyed God's work in their hearts? Then - cast more seed. We sow and we sow and we sow and we wear them down until irrepressible life sneaks deep into the fissures of their hard soil and God sends his people to water with kindness and weed with care and fence in the vulnerable patches and hold the Enemy at bay. Sooner or later Life will take root. Seed must sprout. Gardens will grow.

I was reading Psalm 126 in my morning devotions and, in a moment, we are going to read this psalm together in our breakout groups. We all know some variation of the verse that says, “Those who sow in tears will reap in joy”. But it is the next verse, verse 6, that really undoes me. 

In the NIV it reads, “Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them.” In the Hebrew, the verbs “go” and “return” and doubled up to convey emphasis; literally: Those who go, go, will come, come… There is a persistence implied, a refusal to give up hope. A determination to cast and sow no matter what. And the description in the Psalm is of seeds carried in a drawstring sack, a heavy load. Because sometimes hope is a heavy load to carry. So, here is my version of verse 6: (Nikki’s Amplified Living Translation)

“You who go, and go, and go, bearing a heavy load of hope - seeds of hope, sown in grief - you will come, and come, and come, bearing sheaves from the harvest with shouts of joy.”

That Psalm moved me. All through that day I was pondering the burden of my own sack of hopeful seeds and thinking about those I have been praying for whose hearts have not yet been melted and healed by the love of Jesus. I told God, “This is too hard. I’m tired. I feel sad way too much of the time.”

Later that afternoon, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary by going to see a virtual art exhibit called Imagine Van Gogh. We walked into an immense room with eight-meter high walls and pillars covered in the projected images of over 200 of his paintings, all constantly shifting, being expanded, fragmented, projected into different shapes on the walls and pillars and floors, and synchronized to the classical music of composers like Bach and Mozart. It was staggering. When I stepped into the gallery I froze. All around me and above me and under my feet, this was the first image I saw.
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​“You who go, and go, and go, bearing a heavy burden of hope - seeds of hope, sown in grief - you will come, and come, and come, bearing sheaves from the harvest with shouts of joy.”
 
And so, weary but determined, I keep casting.

​

​My grandchildren do not hesitate when I give them an extra cookie and say, "Will you take that to grandad?". Their wee little feet thumping across the floor, they hurry away to where I have sent them, full of a sense of mission. I sense God saying, "Will you be like that with me?"

Here I come, Jesus. Where are you sending me today?

The incarnation is the ultimate model for sent-ness. God became man, not out of ambition to achieve, not out of a desire to self-actualize, and not out of a need to be independent from the rest of the Trinity. Jesus came because he was sent, sent to us.  I want to follow in his footsteps, as a Sent One.

Is that how I see myself?
 
If we do not grasp our identity as "sent ones" some other identity will take its place. In the post-modern West, identity is formed through expressive individualism and a spirit of defiant independence. “I need to find myself, define myself, be true to myself”. Previous generations were told that the noble narrative is to sacrifice our desires for the sake of the community. This generation is being told to sacrifice having community for the sake of fulfilling their desires. An unprecedented number of career and gender identity options is paralyzing young adults with anxiety. Which Self is my True Self? How can I be sure? 

Add to this the modern conviction that we can – and must – be the authors of our own success stories, something that drives us to isolate ourselves from community, to avoid seeking wise counsel, to resent authority figures and reject anything that is not our own original idea. In this manner, we end up with less of an identity and more of an “I-don’t-ity, basing our sense of Self on the rejection of any status quo. We refuse to be led by anyone, including God. 

God has no such identity crisis. The eternal "I AM did not hesitate to shed his glory to take on an identity of Sent-ness. For over three years Jesus lived a deeply uncomfortable life, sharing meals, money, miracles and misery. He was accessible to his friends in every way, never aloof or emotionally self-protective. On the contrary, he invited his friends – not once but three times – to both witness and participate in the shattering vulnerability of his suffering at Gethsemane (Mt 26:36-46). In every possible way, Jesus embraced being sent.

​Am I capable of such self-forgetfulness? 

I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”  And I said, “Here am I. Send me!” (Isaiah 6:8)

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​So many empty seats. I gaze around the sanctuary and feel…lonely.

The elderly, far from being fearful of COVID-19, are defiantly present, ready to worship together again. Young families – desperate, no doubt, for a break from full-time lockdown parenting – are excitedly chatting together in the foyer. But where are my peers? Sipping lattes in their bathrobes in front of the TV live-stream? Thinking that they are not needed? Every generation is crucial to a family. Grandchildren need to see old people worshipping, praying, serving. Parents need parents to walk the little ones to Sunday School classes. Family means every generation is present, being there for one another. 
 
Where are you? How do we win you back?

In the Old Testament, the Hebrew word for "Hope" is Miqveh. It means a gathering together - of wool, water, livestock, people. To gather is to hope; to hope that it matters, eternally, that relationships will triumph over fear and selfishness and anger and apathy. The putting aside of personal comfort, offenses, and opposed opinion to gather together - this is what the Kingdom of God is all about. To give up gathering is to abandon hope. 
 
Where are you? Will you come back?

When Abraham heard that his nephew was taken captive, he mobilized his troops and pursued.
(Genesis 14:14)
 
This is a year to pursue and recover those who have been taken captive. Some need to recover their faith, some need to recover their integrity, some need to recover their desire to belong. Others need to recover their affections, their relationships, their confidence, their sanity. And so we pursue them, in prayer and with persistent, loving action. 
 
Pursue and recover.

​In the dream, there was set before me a heavy, clear glass door, being propped halfway open by an angelic foot. The doorway was called "Blessing". There were stacks of labeled boxes in the way, and I was encumbered by way too many layers of protective clothing, making it hard work to get through the door. My norm would have been to worry about what was in the boxes and deal with them, but I felt that I was to just "Push past it, into Presence". 
 
Today I read the verse in Revelation to the Church of Philadelphia. I noticed that there is a significant conjunction in the Greek which most translations miss. It suggests that, because He knows how weak we all are right now, he is holding that door open for us.
 
I know your deeds. See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut, because I know that you have little strength. Yet you have kept my word and have not denied my name. (Revelation 3:20)
 
Don’t shut the door, Lord.

​When I see God’s over-arching narrative of redemption giving meaning and beauty to the seemingly random chapters of my life, I am overcome. For me, this must find expression through the written word (because, sadly, I cannot dance…). But lately it has been harder to trace the divine Author’s subplots.
 
Are we stuck in a chapter where the plotline is spiralling out of control? I find myself flipping the pages of life as fast as I can, skimming over the naughty bits and forgetting the characters. How I long to glimpse the divine narrative, surely buried somewhere in this morass of soul-sucking pandemic reruns. I squint wearily, looking for a bigger story to be reflected in two years of tedium, punctuated by whiplash crises that, while hinting at a climax, are really only extraordinarily ordinary.
 
I am ready for the plot twist, Lord.  

We were silent, pulling out of the hospital parking lot. How long did she have left? One year? More? What does one say in the face of that kind of prognosis? As we drove west on the freeway, the sun was low on the horizon, and a spectacular blaze of color swept across the evening sky.
 
“Mom,” I ventured carefully, “you know, you remind me of Sarah, Abraham’s wife.” Her eyebrows shot up and she turned to me with a quizzical smile. “Well,” I shrugged, driving quite literally off into the sunset, “scripture says that when she was 90, the king, well… sent for her, too.” We laughed at my way-out-of-context quote, then turned serious.
 
“Looks like the King is sending for you, mom.”
 
“Well,” she said, taking a deep but shaky breath. “Then I guess I better go. Can’t argue with the King.”
 


​Lorrie White passed away on October 15th, here in our house, surrounded by her children. With so many families separated from their elderly loved ones, we felt incredibly blessed to care for her at home, and the memory brings comfort even now. It was a dizzying year. The murder of Scott’s brother in March was a shattering blow for us all. Grief and anxiety contributed to COVID-clumsiness in my runs, and by my third fall I was told I might need surgery for my knee. (Let’s call it a sports-related injury; way cooler.) Our daughter also gave birth only five days after mom’s death. Whiplash emotions.
 
The baby was a blessed distraction. He reminded us that life goes on, even when it doesn’t.
 
Our King dealt a death blow to Death itself, and we are the people called to live in “nevertheless” moments of faithfulness during uncertain times. Don’t give up. Stay faithful, stay attentive, stay thankful, stay in community, stay in love with Jesus and with each other. Speak words of affirmation and hope to total strangers, make eye contact with grocery store clerks, grit your teeth and Zoom in, tune in, livestream, lean in - any and every way you can.
 
Because whomever our King has not yet sent for, He is still sending.

​​
Through my job, I meet others in far worse state than mine, and they seem to already see this New World on the horizon of crisis and live as if they were homesteading there. I am humbled by global church leaders extending sympathy to the privileged West:

• “Bless them, Lord! Help them to humble themselves, so you can lead them and direct them. Let them know that they are part of the world that you so love, just like us.” (PK, Laos)
•  “Don’t live in fear. Death is not the end, God has already rescued us and saved us through Jesus! We are all one family. I am praying for you all as you serve!” (Hla Myint Oo, Myanmar)
•  “I know it is hard for you, hard to learn about the faithfulness of God, when you have everything you need. I pray for you to draw near to God, to wait and be still.” (Onesphore, Burundi)
•  “Erase your calendars! Focus and hear his voice like never before!” (H., Central Asia)
•  “Remember! The worst is not that people die; it is that they die without Jesus.” (Emerson, Brazil)
•  “We pray for you three times every day. We know that you are not used to suffering and restrictions. This is not the end of everything. After everything, there is Jesus.” (Safari, Malawi)

 
Oh Lord, hear their prayers. Give me their perspective - I am mortal, I will end - hinting at a bigger story, a story far more interesting than my own. Give me their purpose – in this time of pandemic, racial violence, economic upheaval, and political corruption, does anything really matter as much as sharing Jesus?

It is a challenge to my comfortable self-absorption. Normal routines and resources that had, by imperceptible degrees, somehow become primary sources for my sense of Self and significance have been irreparably disrupted. I am precariously balanced ta the best of times, and these have not been the best of times.
 
Where is my solitude? Where is my silence?
 
Some loved ones are unreachable, others are inescapably present night and day because of
quarantine. Any comfort that I once took in socializing, shopping (never a joy, now a nightmare),
singing, dreaming, and planning for the future now eludes me.
 
I want the world back.
 
The tension between gratitude (we are employed, healthy, safe, and nearby to our children and
grandchildren) and grief (so much global loss, anger, and danger) is a daily dichotomy. Sometimes I feel
guilty while giving thanks; other times I feel self-indulgent with my tears.
 
I want the world back.
 
But not as it once was. There are some things I don’t want back, and some new things that I want
to keep. This new pace - reflective, deep times with Jesus and with his People (albeit via Zoom).
This new priority - when did my granddaughter become so grippingly alive? When did my grandson learn
to ride a scooter? What else did I miss while gazing forlornly at my navel?

I want a new world.
 

 
 

​ “Who dat?” Judah, at eighteen months, was beginning to do what his therapist father refers to as “individuating”. Mama Robin, our daughter, and Daddy Jason were finally being perceived as being something other than extensions of himself. Up till now, I guess we had all, in his mind, been just a bigger “me”.
 
“Der da mama, der daddy,” he went on, pointing to the various family members around him.
​
We had all gathered, post-tree chopping, to do a discrete (against the rules to gather, still) deck-out of the house for Christmas. No, the Camels don’t follow the Nutcrackers. Put them beside the Wise Men. Wait - what’s with the toilet paper role angel on the top of the tree? Cassia, you’re hugging Baby Jesus too hard, he might break (future theological dilemmas will be traced back to this moment, no doubt). Daphne, take the Gentile piggy out of the manger please, and put Santa further behind the Shepherds. There is a chronology here, people! Don’t you know your history?!?
 
Meanwhile, Judah continued his inventory. “Unka John, Dabid, Cassa, Daffy… Naaaaaa-NAH!” I hid a secret, smug smile at receiving this special emphasis. Scott’s title as grandfather was met with avid debate. “Dad-Dad!” Judah crowed, triumphant and decisive. “NAN-drad!” Daphne countered, disagreeing imperiously. Cassia’s name for him was my personal favorite, but for some reason “Gag-Gag” has been vehemently rejected by the person in question.
 
Naming matters. Knowing that we are known, seen for who we truly are. Jesus, in messianic prophecies, is named Emmanuel - “God with us” - a name that speaks of who he is and why he came. Just as my little grandson’s expressions of affection and identity all speak to the unique roles we each play in his life, so we name our Lord – Jehova Jireh, Rophe, El Roi…God, who sees, who provides, who heals. And God, in turn, names us – Child, Beloved, Friend. 

​
This has been a hard year for humanity. Creatives are no exception. For me it has, at times, been a hard trudge, and mostly uphill. COVID-19 means hyper-vigilance, anxiety, screen fatigue, loneliness, apathy, depression. Are my feeble words worth writing? Does anyone care?
 
It helps to remember that there is a Bigger Story.
 

​In 1 Chronicles 21, Israel was in the midst of a pandemic, much like the one we are currently experiencing. King David’s unauthorized census resulted in a plague that swept through the land, and as the Angel of the Lord brandished his sword, thousands fell, in the course of only three days. Then, suddenly, the angel stopped - David saw him stop – and hovered over the city of Jerusalem. The prophet Gad rushed into the palace and told the king that the Angel was stopping at the threshing floor of a Jebusite named Araunah (also called Ornan).
 
There on the farm, another drama was unfolding. Araunah and his four sons were threshing. When the Angel appeared, the boys fled in terror and hid themselves. But for whatever reason, Araunah, who could not fail to see Death poised above his head, kept threshing. Why? Was it pragmatism? (“There’s still work to be done, mouths to feed.”) Optimism? (“Nah, it won’t kill me.”) Or… simple, steadfast resolve?
 
“I see you there. Death will come, sooner or later. But until then, I will not waver, I will keep my eyes on the task before me, and I will keep on threshing.” And the sword was sheathed.
 
David arrived to offer a sacrifice, and then bought the farm so that his son Solomon could later build upon it. The threshing floor of Araunah became the foundation of the Temple. It’s still there, somewhere. Grains of barley, a scythe – perhaps these are still buried somewhere beneath the Temple Mount today. And Araunah? His story has survived to honor him, for thousands of years.
 
Keep threshing. Your labour is part of the foundation upon which God builds his Living Temple. 

​We are being stretched thin by the lockdown. Some retreat into a self-protective fetal curl and snarl at the world. Some get hostile in the face of authority and vent their resentment at having their freedoms curtailed in any way. All of us are defaulting to whatever is most familiar, even if the familiar is hurting us, others, our planet. Old habits, however, are hard to break.
 
After the resurrection, Peter had a hard time his breaking old habits of pragmatic self-preservation. Out in the boat again, catching … nothing …
 
When Jesus calls to him to cast his nets on the other side of the boat, does his skin prickle? The catch – 153 fish, big ones (why does John tell us these details? Is it just a guy thing?) – is too big to haul in at first, but when they finally do, “even with so many fish, yet the net was not torn.”
 
We are hauling in some BIG fish these days. Kindness and patience and hope and generosity at a time when all we want to do is curl up with dark chocolate and Netflix and shut our eyes to the racial hatred and the political polarization and the death toll from COVID. Be kind? Be patient? Hope? Give?
 
Really. Big. Fish.
 
But we will land this catch, and our nets – those relationships that are being mended and stretched and strained, at times beyond bearing – they will not break.
 
And Jesus is building a fire on the beach, and breakfast is almost ready. 

​“I don’t do ominous,” I told the Lord, emphatically.
 
But when, in early January of 2020 we were asked to participate in a staff gathering in which we were each invited to share the “word” that God had given us for the coming year, I felt convicted. Normally I don’t get an annual “word” per se, but this year was different. I had no idea – none of us did - just how different the year would be.
 
I shared with our team that on January 6, God highlighted to me Ezekiel 21:26. “Take off the crown. Raise what is low. Bring down the high,” it read. “Nothing will remain unchanged.” At first, thinking of all the changes that I was hoping for, I was excited. Then suddenly a little apprehensive. Exactly what did he mean?
 
Later that night I dreamed that Jesus rapped his knuckles on a hard surface to get my attention, then pointed to his own eyes. “Pay attention! A siege is coming,” he said. “Stay focused on me!”
 
Suddenly, we were in the middle of a global pandemic. Focus on Jesus became an essential practice, as our eyes were drawn to urgent news broadcasts, airport biohazards, border chaos and unnerving trends of panic-stricken protectionism as people rushed to amass and hoard essentials like bottled water and toilet paper, elbowing one another in hostile line-ups at the local Costco.
 
Amusing at first, then alarming.
 
In stark contrast, regions of the world where danger, disease, poverty, and persecution have long been normative for Christians, a different trend emerged. In China, the underground Church surfaced to care for the vulnerable, putting themselves at risk not only to the virus but also to authorities that are hostile toward Christianity. The same was true in Iran, experiencing the fastest growth of Christianity in the world. Where death threatens all, it seems that persecution loses its power to repress love.
 
Not so, with my house.
 
North America and Western Europe raged against the storm. Intrinsic values have clashed like titans: the thought of sacrificing personal freedom for the sake of protecting the vulnerable with an unproven, potentially dangerous vaccine proved too much to bear. Lines were drawn, and family members retreated on either side, teeth bared and claws out.
 
Yet there are moments. The Chasid, the Loving-kind Ones, the Saints in the land, in whom is all my delight. They make meals, drop off groceries, call house-bound seniors, learn new technologies, and lean into prayer like never before.
 
Perhaps I will become like them. Surely, I cannot remain unchanged.

​“No.”
 
“No? What do you mean, ‘No’?”
 
“What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean ‘No.’ As in, ‘No’. There are no subtle nuances here.”
 
“Seriously, it’s not that bad.”
 
“It is a suicidal leap over the chasms of hell. NO.”
 
“Look, the only way to get from here to there is across this bridge.”
 
“You go; I’ll take pictures. Besides, what’s so great about ‘there’? I like ‘here’ just fine.”
 
Clearly the Capilano Suspension bridge proved to be somewhat more intimidating that the pretty postcard pictures I had been handed earlier. I watched my husband stride confidently to certain death. People behind me, waiting for our argument to resolve, had gone from polite throat clearing to audible cursing. Fine. My will was written, my house was in order, be it upon his head.
 
I crossed.
 
It was some weeks later that a friend in Christ called to tell me that I had been brought to mind, while listening to a Simon and Garfunkel song. I felt instantly intrigued. Old, but intrigued.
 
“I saw Jesus standing with you, in front of a chasm. You wanted to cross, but it was far too wide to jump. Then he got down, and stretched his own body across the void, and invited you to walk across on his back…”
 
There may have been more, but I broke down at the image of my booted feet walking across his scarred back. After a moment, my friend said quietly, “Like a bridge, over troubled waters, I will lay me down.”
 
God of the impossible, help us to cross over.

​​As our friend read the scripture from Malachi 3, her brow creased in consternation.  It spoke of the gathering together of those who feared the Lord, and the Lord making note of them and writing in his Book of Remembrance.
 
“I feel like I am only a word in that book,” she shook her head.  “Not even a whole sentence.”  We waited while she continued to grapple with expressing herself.  There was more. “No, not even a word,” she faltered, then burst out in mingled consternation and wonder.
 
“I’m not even a whole word!” she cried.  “I’m no more than a letter; one letter in a word that God is still speaking.  I don’t even make sense without others around me!”
 
There it is: that piercing need for community that confounds me still. The thread that has woven itself through my life.
 
How I have clung to my independence, how I have striven to instill it as a value in our children, and how jealously do I guard it from intrusive relational trespassers. I am white, I am Western, I am Post-modern.
 
Where would I be if not for the community of the saints? They have challenged me in ways in which I would never challenge myself. Challenged me to lead worship in a way that is less exclusive, more discerning of the context.  Challenged me to opine less, ask more. Challenged me to serve and sacrifice. Challenged every line in the sand that I have ever dared to draw. 
 
Until my calendar is chaos, and my home has a revolving door, and there is a cookie jar at the entryway and sandwich fixings in the fridge which sometimes disappear, and at other times are mysteriously replenished. Until some mornings I would count unfamiliar shoes on the porch to figure out how many people might have slept over. Until I learned to cook only meals that make good leftovers, because I might feed 8, or none at all on any given night, and not know until dinner time. Until long-term strays lived in our basement, who shovel snow and do chores and cry.  Until our neighbors knew the code to our garage. Until we passed around meals in the same casserole dish for so long that no one knew who it belonged to anymore.
 
On a good day, my feet hurt and heart sings. On a bad day, I whimper, “Take me, Jesus…” and consider a career as a celebrity recluse or hermit on the hill.
 
The workers of the vineyard in Mark 12 had been independent for so long that they took ownership of the vineyard, regarding the fruit as their own, and resenting any of the Master’s messengers who dared to interfere. Their sense of entitlement so closely mirrors my own. I am working hard; surely the money is mine to spend.  I am volunteering enough; don’t touch my down time. I am getting older; I deserve to retire and rest. I have some gifts and talents; I have a right to decide when and for which cause I use them. 
 
Regardless of how long I work in his vineyard, the fruit is not mine.  It belongs to him - to give, eat, discard, or even ignore until it withers and the seeds drop out. I am not my own. His love and the needs of others help define me.  The community of the Triune draws us to seek him, communally. The unique nature of my individuality – which I fight so fiercely to defend and express – loses it meaning in the void of independence and self-sufficiency, yet it radiates with beauty in the company of his saints.
 
I am only one letter in a word that God has not even finished speaking. 

The Cathedral was cool and cavernous, a welcome retreat from the oppressive heat of the cobbled streets of central Mexico. Shadowed enclaves filled with sculpted saints drew the eye, inviting the supplicant to kneel and plead. We are just like you, they seemed to say. We can suffer with you, weep with you.

I was, I confess, tempted. But my misery did not want their company.

My heart was sore. I was far from home, struggling to process the news of my mother’s cancer, and my father’s anger. Struggling to accept that my best friend had finally, firmly, rejected the gospel. Struggling with the impotency of working in a country where poverty and sickness were giants in the land. God seemed remote, silent. Like a wax saint.


​

“Vete al templo. Go to the temple,” my Catholic friends had urged. But the cathedral, despite the beauty of filigree, jewel-toned paint, votives and effigies, was starkly empty. It felt as though God had departed from me, and I wondered when – if – he would come back. Hunched over in the scarred pew, I yearned for God to come and fill the temple with his presence.
​
In Israel’s history the temple was where man came to meet with God, to offer sacrifices of worship or atonement, to inquire of the Lord for understanding and direction, or simply to “gaze upon his beauty”. The temple was where the heavenly realm overlapped with the earthly one, a place which God filled with his glory and presence.  But the temple that I was sitting in that morning only echoed with an appalling silence.
 
I thought wistfully of Eden, where God’s presence was immediate and all-pervasive, a Creator walking among his creatures. Sin had broken this communion, leaving man neither fit nor able to stand in God’s holy presence. But when a temple was built where priests might mediate, God had filled that temple with his glory. Would he do so now, for me?
 
I thought of the fiery cloud that had hovered at the entrance of Moses’ tent, filled and covered the tabernacle throughout Israel’s forty years in the wilderness, then five hundred years later filled Solomon’s temple as he dedicated it in prayer. But when, after four hundred years, Solomon’s temple was destroyed Israel taken captive to Babylon, Ezekiel described the fiery cloud departing from the temple. God…left. Desolate hearers clung to promises that, someday, he would return. Were they hopeful? Or were they wary and weary, as I was?
 
Seventy years later Israel was still waiting, until an entirely new temple was built. By decree of a Persian king, walls were erected by Nehemiah. But when that temple was dedicated, old men wept. For it was but a shadow of its former splendor, and the glory of God did not return to fill it. The prophet Haggai promised that the fiery cloud would indeed one day return, saying, “The glory of this latter temple shall be greater than the former”, but were they prepared for another four-hundred year wait? Years in which their hopes would be further dashed by a Greek emperor defiling their altar with sacrificial pigs?
 
Angry Jewish revolutionaries arose to liberate the temple for a brief time, but still God’s glory did not return, despite the flames of the Menorah remaining miraculously alight. I glanced around the cathedral at flickering votive candles, unlikely to be confused with the fiery cloud of God’s holy presence.
Israel’s hopes sagged further when Rome took over, and then were pinned upon a puppet king. Herod the Great enlarged the temple area to a size of nearly thirty-five acres, resplendent with balustrades, pillars and priceless adornments. But at its dedication the fiery cloud did not descend. And when, a few years later, a small, insignificant infant was brought to be dedicated in the temple, he was wholly unrecognizable as the being in whom heaven and earth, human and divine, met and made manifest the glorious presence of God on earth. God came back. And the temple, as a building, became irrelevant.
 
Sunlight glinted through stained glass as I reflected on the painted images of tongues of fire hovering over ecstatic disciples. By his death and resurrection, Christ redefined the concept of the temple completely. At Pentecost the fiery cloud returned at last to fill the temple – the living temple of those believers who were gathered in prayer. Christ’s followers themselves had become the place and the means through which God’s presence would invade the earth, building for his kingdom until he comes to renew the earth. 
 
God came back, just as he promised. To first century believers, and to me that day in Mexico. And he comes back - again and again - whenever we meet with him in prayer. Just as with Moses and the priests of old, whenever a Christ-follower turns to God the fiery cloud fills the temple, the whole of his Living Temple - his people. And God’s people, I realized in astonishment, are everywhere! Surely when we pray, God’s presence must come wherever believers are to be found, all around the world: a reality-shattering presence that shakes and challenges the complacency and self-absorption of believers and bystanders alike.
 
The pew eventually grew uncomfortable, and resounding brass bells heralded a coming Mass. But I could not leave just yet. I felt an urgency to pray, knowing that his presence, in the person of his Holy Spirit, was with me, within me, waiting to blaze in and through all believers like a pillar of fire. I thought of the pastor who was visiting my mother in the hospital, the Christian teacher who had promised to pursue my atheist friend, the faithful volunteers determined to bring hope to orphans, widows, and the poorest of the poor. I thought of these and others, living stones scattered across the globe.
 
“Come, Holy Spirit,” I whispered. “Fill your Temple.”
​


[1] John 17:22-23; 1Pet. 2:5; 1 Cor. 3:16 

A classic cliché, I thought, but the moment did indeed seem to be frozen, congealed into one long exhalation of cold and shaky breath. Her knife was sharp. And dirty. 

​I was not the object of the attack, there on the slum streets of Popayán. A drug-induced rage had impelled the woman to slash at her perceived threat, while he, in turn, shouted incoherent abuse from behind heaps of rotting garbage.


But yes, time does in fact stand still at such moments. 
​
I was in the Cauca province of Colombia to participate in a peace camp initiative, serving in the role of a kind of “missionary journalist”. But peace was nowhere to be found that night, in a dimly lit barrio where even police dared not venture. We had armed ourselves bravely with crates of bread and tanks of hot, sweet drinks to distribute to the addicts and the destitute, but neither armament served to shield our hearts. We left Colombia scarred with grief over the poverty and pain, gripped with a helpless longing to somehow make it all better.
 
Later that summer I shared the experience with our family. “Huh,” eldest son remarked. “That’s what happened to me, the first time I saw our daughter! Time stood still.” What? Was he seriously making that comparison? Then, gazing at his little newborn baby - I realized that he was right. There is no defense against a baby’s first smile, or the sight of a toddler racing across the church foyer to fling her tiny body into your waiting arms. Time stands still. Who can breathe? What heart dares to beat? Their parents look on with benign smiles, while we, the grandparents, are utterly undone.
 
Those who love are never safe. Life with Jesus is not meant to be safe. He demands our vulnerability at every moment. Like the Hobbits returned from their traumatic adventures, we laugh more roundly, sing more loudly, weep more frequently. (Does it get worse as we age, I wonder? Or is this what getting better actually looks like??) 
 
We age, grandchildren thrive, children stagger into independence, leap into parenthood. Friends still confidently stride through the door to our house without knocking, and gramma Lorrie (age 89) is still tucked away in our home like a delicate, scented handkerchief…so many moments that seem to transfix themselves in our hearts. Time stands still.
 
Mary, I am sure, held her breath when she saw the baby Jesus for the first time. And then again, when he hung on the cross. The vulnerability of love freezes such moments in eternity, where they still hover, inviting us to ponder, and to worship. Don't breathe.