The Uncomfortable Reality of Death

On the first Wednesday of this year, three of my kids and I were involved in a pretty major car accident. By God's grace, we were mostly okay, save for bruises and seatbelt burns and sore muscles (and the disturbing mental loop of that night that played over and over in my mind for weeks to follow). Riding home from the accident, I commented to my kids that it was no small thing that our lives were spared. That reality came to the forefront of my thoughts in the days that followed in such a vivid way, I thought I'd never lose sight of how grateful I was to be given more time on this earth. I was less irritable when my kids made messes. I looked at little things with a renewed sense of wonder. When I consider the world around me, it's clear there's plenty of work left to do, and I'm glad God saw fit to spare me. Lord willing, there will be many more days to come.

And yet...  

As the days turned to weeks and months, I began to forget about the imminence of dying. Or maybe, like Kevin sort of said to the bird lady in Home Alone 2, I "forgot to remember" death in my daily grind. 

You may be thinking that's great. Dwelling on death sounds like a drag. To which I would say, I respectfully disagree. Allow me to change your mind.  

You see, we're all given limited time in this life. From the moment we're born, we're on a sure trajectory towards our demise. You've heard Benjamin Franklin's maxim, "Nothing is certain in this life except death and taxes." We don't have the luxury of skipping death. Mortality is a fact. It might be easier to go through life pretending that's not true, but I contend life is so much more meaningful when the reality of the temporal nature of life and time takes a front seat in our thoughts.

I'm not saying everyone needs to plan their funeral right now. (That said, please preach the gospel and play "Softly and Tenderly" and the Natalie Merchant version of "When They Ring the Golden Bells" at mine.) I do think, though, that when we consider that our lives are like a breath, a mist, grass that withers, it brings into clarity the urgency of using our time well and intensifies the gratitude we should feel when we wake up another morning with the privilege of doing the work God as prepared for us. 

We have been reading The Little Pilgrim's Progress at bedtime with my little four. (They're not all that little anymore, but that's a different blog post.) Along the journey to the Celestial City, Little Christian and his friend, Faithful, pass through Vanity Fair, a city full of every kind of pleasure cleverly placed along the route by the Wicked Prince to tempt pilgrims away from their path on the King's Way. Before they enter Vanity Fair, Little Christian and Faithful learn of the dangers of traversing the dangerous city from their friend Evangelist, and they resolve to be brave. Ultimately, Christian and Faithful find themselves arrested and Faithful reminds Christian, "Evangelist said that they might hurt us, but if we die we shall go straight to the Celestial City. I shall think of the King, because he is sure to help me, and I will not fear." For Faithful, to live was Christ and to die was gain. 

For the Christian, death has lost its sting. The promise of eternal life in the presence of our perfect Holy God and Savior is our hope in life and death. Our life is not our own. It's a gift we have received to be used up and poured out for God's glory whether it ends before our first breath outside the womb or carries us across a long and beautiful ninety-five years. 

By failing to think about death, we take for granted the life we have been given. We might be tempted to squander it. We assume there will be more time tomorrow and the next day and the next. But when we remember that God knows the number of our days, not us, we can find the encouragement to make the days count. 

One of the hosts on a podcast I love shared a story about her grandmother, whom she credits with teaching her a healthy view of life and death. She told her granddaughter that when she dies, not to put flowers on her grave, but rather to take them home and enjoy them. The grandmother won't want them because she'll be having the best day of her life. This side of eternity, we're the ones who will want and need the beauty of those flowers in our grief. Grandma will be worshipping and dancing on streets of gold in a house prepared for her where there will be no more tears. Hallelujah! 

Admittedly, I have not been to a lot of funerals in my lifetime, but I can say with conviction that there is a marked difference at Christian funerals. They are, of course, sad because death was not the original plan and losing our friends and family is always hard. However, we do not grieve as those with no hope. Death does not have the final word. I once heard it said that the hope of resurrection doesn't eliminate tears, but it does redeem them. 

So, where does this leave you, dear reader? Do you have this hope? If not, I'd love to tell you about my Jesus. If you know Jesus already, do you consider that your days are numbered and act accordingly? If not, I would challenge you to think about redeeming your time. Check out this podcast episode for more on what that looks like.

Don't fear death, friends, but fix your gaze on Christ and eternity. It will change your life. 

Civil Disagreement

This post has been a draft left unpublished for about five months. I couldn't get around to posting it or wrapping it up in any meaningful way. Today feels like the time to put it out there. The last thing anyone needs is more information to digest. I'm sorry for adding to it. I hope you will join with me in praying for our fractured country and the lost souls living in it. 

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I spend a lot of time on the sidelines of soccer games. At one particular game last season, I was in the stands behind a group of varsity boys who sat in a row waiting for their warmups to begin. They were having a very intellectual conversation about laws and the sufficiency of Scripture. I'm not going to lie. I was straight-up eavesdropping. Sam had left for the airport and the game on the field was a mercy-rule finish, so it wasn't much to watch. Listening to the boys was far more entertaining. It was a mostly three against one conversation, but as I listened for about thirty minutes to their little debate, I came up with a list of things that impressed me. 

First, that this was what they were doing - four teenaged athletes debating theological matters in the bleachers. Second, that both sides offered compelling and rational evidence to their points and did not resort to logical fallacies. Third, they took turns talking, giving each other the opportunity to make their case before they offered their own opinion or rebuttal. Last, and most impressive, was that at no point in the conversation did these young men escalate to raised voices or name calling. They were able to argue civilly and without emotion. 

It was incredible. 

I remember way back in the late 90s, when I was the same age as these guys. My friends and I would have really deep and profound discussions, and I can tell you, unequivocally, that we did not have the same foundational worldviews as each other. You know what we didn't do? Escalate to raised voices or name-calling. Sometimes we changed our minds. Sometimes we solidified our resolve. We did not abandon the friendships. We carried on. What a time it was to be alive.

I miss that. But it doesn't have to be missed. These Gen Z kids at a soccer game proved that to me. They are not the problem. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's the older generations (mine included) who have lost the ability to not just cross an aisle but to even open a dialog with someone who thinks just slightly differently. We make ungracious assumptions and take them as fact. We either spend way too much time mining opinions or having them shoved in our faces, that we don't think a conversation is necessary. We already know what they think. Therefore, we can jump to whatever conclusions we want or that our echo chamber tells us to. 

At the end of the night, I reflected on that conversation between those boys, and I was encouraged. It's too easy to look around us and despair. The cause is there. No doubt about that. I also know that "what has been is what will be and what has been done is what will be done. There is nothing new under the sun." Sin and depravity have been the story since the beginning. This is not new, God is not surprised, and He is sovereign over it all. Let this truth be our comfort. 

After centuries of spiritual darkness, the reformers rested in the motto "Post tenebras lux" which translates to "After darkness, light." When things feel bleak, there is hope. We might not see the fulfillment of that hope this side of heaven, but if we do, I believe it will be through the steady plodding and boldness of young men and women who are unafraid to have conversations, desire truth, put their trust in Jesus, and who hate what is evil and cling to what is good. Let’s fight the good fight with boldness, confidence, and respect. It’s kind of what’s expected of us. 

In your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect, having a good conscience, so that, when you are slandered, those who revile your good behavior in Christ may be put to shame. For it is better to suffer for doing good, if that should be God's will, than for doing evil. 1 Peter 3:15-17

Let Her Cry

I cried while mowing the grass today. I'd be lying if I said this was an unusual occurrence. Mowing the lawn has always been a sort of sacred time for me alone with my thoughts, a time to pray and hash out imaginary scenarios, that is providing the lawnmower starts as it should and I'm not out of gas or battery or have a flat tire or any other thing that can go wrong with lawn equipment. If that happens, I cry then also. 

Today, I'm not even sure why I cried. Before we all go blaming it on perimenopause (the token scapegoat of the internet for 40+ year old women, maybe even warranted to an extent), I would also like to say that all of my life I have, from time to time and not infrequently, cried without the ability to explicitly explain why. Again, not unusual for me. (No need to worry. I'm perfectly well-adjusted I'm sure.)

When I started this silly blogging hobby near decades ago, I needed a creative outlet. Perhaps I was looking for commiseration or encouragement in the earliest throes of marriage and motherhood and adult life in general. I couldn't really even say (shocking, I know). It's been a lot of fun looking back and seeing how young and dumb and awful I was. Maturity happens slower for some of us. I'm not there yet, but maybe some day. 

I am in a unique season in life where I am simultaneously rearing young children and also encouraging and guiding my young adult children at the same time. Sam and I, in a quick exchange last night, confirmed each other's opinion that it is not any easier to do the latter. The younger children are simpler. The stakes are lower. You can hold them and rub between their eyes when they're tired and crying, and they go to sleep. You can feed them a snack when their blood sugar is low and their emotions are running high, and suddenly they're easier to reason with. The older ones have life-changing decisions to make and move to big, scary cities and stay up late and ask really hard questions that require saying hard things in return. Sometimes you're not sure your advice is even all that good. (That's when hopefully Sam takes a stab at it because I trust his wisdom over mine any day.) It's a whole new challenge you have to figure out in learning how to be a parent. I guess you never really fully know how to be one. Like, ever. 

The other day, I was standing in the unbelievably long line at TJ Maxx. (Honestly, why? Why is it always that long? In the middle of a weekday morning?) When I reached the register, the cashier asked my girls their ages. I had Leah (13) and Sarah (16) with me. She immediately turned to me and said, "What's that like, Mom?" I'm sure I stared at her quizzically. I'm not dumb, but rather than just answer the question people ask me, I like to run through several additional questions before I simply answer. What does she mean? Why is she asking? Does she know they are right here? After I rolled all of those thoughts around in my brain, I finally responded, "What? Them being teenagers? They're awesome." Now it was her turn to look at me with a furrowed brow. Maybe she thought I was lying. She told me she has a nine year old and things weren't going so well. I told her that's a tough age, but if you put the work in, the teen years are nothing. If you go through the pains of doing the hard work when they're little, they often turn out great. It's not a perfect formula, but it's a solid way to set up success. (They still have to make hard decisions and ask tough questions, but they aren't miserable to be around while they're doing those things.)  She thanked me for that and said it was encouraging. I should mention in my cynicism, I'm not entirely sure she was willing to put in the hard work, but at least she knows it's possible to love your teenagers and to love being around them, and I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. 

What I didn't say there at the checkout line is that all those younger years of picking battles and molding behaviors and calling sin by its name and pointing them to Jesus and becoming sanctified yourself all the while, yield unquantifiable results that are likely to have you inexplicably crying while you mow your front lawn. My kids are not perfect, but I've watched them (as I attempt so desperately not to meddle) make some incredibly wise choices that I am absolutely certain I would not have been mature enough to make at their ages, and, when they don't, take the lessons to heart. 

I've seen them turn the other cheek. I've seen them tear down their own idols. I've watched them make tough decisions and prioritize their walk with Jesus. They have handled situations with maturity and without batting an eyelash, to the point that it convicts me. They don't stand for drama. They tell the truth. They work so hard. My goodness the work ethic. Some of them are just like me and when you see your flaws mirrored in your offspring, they're so much more plain. (Ope.) That's sanctifying. How do you teach someone to correct a flaw when you haven't figured it out yourself? Some of them exude confidence and are braver than I could ever dream to be. I wish I could steal a little of that. They confide in you, sharing joys and the occasional concerns. They know how to push your buttons and then make you laugh. They are really good at making me laugh. 

Having littles is so special. But, oh man, having bigs is something entirely different. It's not easier, but it is so, so worth it. So when you see the mom pushing the mower in the yard with tears streaming down her face. It might be because she's having a hormonal breakdown, but it's also possible she's just proud of her kids for being so much better than she is - by the grace of God, some blood and sweat, and, you guessed it, quite a few inexplicable tears.

Detours, Road Blocks & How Late-Night Laundry Can Make You Cry

Sometimes life's highway takes you right into a road block, forcing a detour. It feels typical that it's often when you have just busted through the traffic, hit the open road, and set the cruise. 

Last week, I showed up at the same-day surgery wing at the local hospital for an eighteen-year-overdue hernia repair. The surgery ahead of me went about four hours long, and I kept thinking, "There's no way Sam is going to make it to the soccer games tonight." In my naivety, I did not consider what the recovery from an abdominal surgery would be like, and assumed that I would bounce back like I'm twenty, and he'd be able to drop me at the house and carry on with the soccer life. As it turns out, I groggily woke up in recovery around 3pm took some very painful, ginger steps to the restroom, and was discharged around 4:30pm. With a detour via the pharmacy for the highly anticipated overnight dose of pain medication, Sam and I decided that with the littles in the care of their Grammie, I could either lie down in the car on the way to the soccer game or lie down at home and not get to see any of it. (Hardcore! Just kidding, probably more like FOMO.) He hesitantly agreed to let me tag along, and we were off to Macon in time to catch a few minutes of the first half and the rest of the game, only the second one of the season.

(I felt like garbage. If anyone ever tries to tell you the recovery from hernia surgery is nothing, they might be lying. Or maybe I'm a weenie. If it's the second one, don't tell me.)

Sam broke some parking rules and pulled me right up the curb overlooking the field, and I got to watch my girls work their magic. There really is not a whole lot this side of heaven that brings me more joy than to watch them doing what they love. Everyone's favorite athlete is their own child, and it's an even more special thing to see them playing together. My two varsity girls play such a different game from each other, but they both play in a way that is perfect for them. Abby is strong and stolid, unbothered by flagrant fouls and gnatty forwards. She distributes the ball, and commands the field with her presence and her voice. She's a great leader, and I love watching her play. (Duh.) Sarah, on the other hand, is the gnatty forward. She is wiry and fast and literally everywhere. Sometimes she'll be playing a position up top and then, "Whoa, Sarah just came out of nowhere and blocked that shot in the box! What's she doing back there?" She's the definition of tenacity, almost reckless, but not. She is unbelievably disciplined both on and off the field, and you can see how seriously she takes every moment and every opportunity on the pitch as a time to perform with excellence, never halfway. 

As I watched the game from my perch, I saw Sarah break away with the ball down field. In my haze, I couldn't describe the exact circumstances (though I have since rewatched the film), but she planted, her knee buckled, and she went down. A non-contact injury. A soccer player's worst nightmare. Her coach subbed her off the field, and I watched with a deep sense of dread, as that knee buckled with each independent step she took toward the bench. I watched as she attempted to move along the sideline, to shake it off, each time that knee refusing to hold up her not-at-all-heavy frame. I watched her hold her pinny in her hand and plop down on the bench. And I think we all knew. 

As soon as the game finished, Sam helped her to the car. She wasn't in any pain. She simply couldn't bear the weight. The next morning, as soon as they opened, Sam took her to walk-in ortho urgent care where they fitted her with a brace and scheduled an MRI.

Long story short, on Monday, we learned she has a torn ACL. It will be surgically repaired early in March. She is justifiably devastated, especially with a looming average of nine months recovery before returning to the pitch. 

This is not the detour we expected. However, this is the road block that God has appointed. It's easy for me, a forty-something-year-old woman to recognize this. I'm not happy about it, but I do have the luxury of a few years under my belt to see and believe that God always works these things for our good and His Glory. This is an opportunity to more deeply understand her identity in Christ, not her identity in soccer. 

Nevertheless the wound is fresh, and the grief is real. She's been showered with kindness by friends, and we are so grateful for the sweet well-wishes and prayers. She's already planning ways to pass her time without juggling and shooting in the backyard. She's the toughest person I know, but she is still a teenager who got dealt really bad news. And it isn't just affecting her. It hits when Abby says, "Sarah and I will never play a game together again." When Sarah stays up to fold her laundry and the dozen pair of soccer socks get left behind on the living room floor because she won't be needing those for a while. When she's in her bed trying to sleep and the gravity of the recovery time looms in the darkness - nine months is an eternity to a teenager (not gonna lie, it sounds pretty long to me too). When I spent some time editing photos from the first game today, and I was simultaneously so grateful to have them and heartbroken to see them. 

This probably seems like melodrama. Maybe it is. I don't think so. But maybe. 

All of this to say, please be praying for my girl. We love her so. She will come out just fine. I know that with my whole heart, but man I wish it was my crunchy old knee instead. 

In the meantime, we remind ourselves this is a wonderful opportunity for growth off the pitch and in the soul. We are praying that none of us will waste this trial. Remember this when you're going through the pits.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.  Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-4

Unsolicited Advice from a Christian "Abuela"

Last week, Abby, Sarah, and I were in Honduras on a mission trip.  The experience was indescribable and beautiful and some day I hope to debrief and write about it.  (Today is not that day.)  While we were there, however, I came face to face with fleeting years, as I was walking back to our team housing from the orphanage lunchroom and heard a young man call out to me, "Adios, Abuela!" This was followed by a cackle and a huge grin.  Apparently, these youngsters think they're funny when they call 40-something moms visiting from foreign countries "Abuela."  Over the course of the week, three of us ladies received this hilarious designation to the reception of giggles from the boys.  (I can respect this. I laugh at my own jokes all the time.)  While I technically am I enough to be a grandmother, I feel much younger than any grandmother ought.  Nevertheless this nickname made me think about a few things in the face of the dumpster fire that is the United States of America right now, so I am capitalizing on the opportunity to impart some grandmotherly wisdom to any remaining readers I might have. (Hey there, you!)  

Sometimes when we look around at the culture and the world at large we are tempted to fall into despair, become discouraged, feel despondent.  It's little wonder. As Christians, we are watching sin and post-Christian society reap what they have sown. My first bit of advice (this one's free) is not to fall into that trap.  We should grieve sin, but we should not stay there.  We are called to be people of action.  We are to be hearers and doers of the Word.  We are God's instruments for sharing the good news.  And we were placed here and now for a purpose, for such a time as this.  This is our divine appointment.  Let's not squander it.  

My target audience for this post is anyone younger than me.  Consider this my annual advice column.  (Maybe I am a grandmother. I thought I was turning 42 this year, but I'm just bad at math. I am still 40 for a few days. Whoops.) 

Transitions have never been my strength, so let's just get down to business.

Jennie's Unsolicited Grandmotherly Advice for the Younger Folks (of various ages, but namely teens and up - also in no particular order, and geared toward those who profess to be Christians...disclaimer OVER)

Live in the Bible.  When I was younger, I did not prioritize time in the Word, and I have spent my years since playing catch up.  I promise you, reading and understanding God's Word is as essential as food.  It is everything you need for life and godliness.  It is useful for teaching, rebuking, correction, and training in righteousness. It is how we understand the character of God and can combat the uncertainties and lies of our culture.  Please read your Bible.

Laugh a lot.  Particularly at yourself.  Find the humor in the world.  I wholeheartedly believe that laughter is a gift, a pressure relief valve.  God has a sense of humor, and we see evidence of that time and time again in Scripture (a talking donkey, Elijah's toilet jokes, "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?," idols falling down and their heads falling off).  Laughter is a balm for the soul.  Don't forget about it, especially when times are tough.  We weep with those who weep, but we also laugh together.  

Don't date around.  This might be counter-cultural, but as a Christian, I would heavily discourage overly testing the waters.  The purpose of dating for a young Christian should be to find a spouse, a person with whom you can enter into the covenant of marriage. While I don't think marriage should be entered into lightly, neither should dating.  There's nothing wrong with friendship and boundaries.  These, too, are gifts from God.  Covenants don't need practice.  The marriage covenant is a commitment between a man and a woman before God.  Pray before you enter it.  But on that note...

Find a godly man or woman and marry them.  When you find your person, put a ring on it.  The trend is to wait and wait and wait to get married.  Obviously, not everyone will find someone to marry in their early twenties, and that might not be God's plan for you.  However, if you do find your lifelong partner.  Just get married.  Do it.  Grow up together.  Do hard things together.  Seek God's wisdom and counsel together.  And then...

Have the babies.  If you want to do kingdom work, heed the command to be fruitful and multiply.  We need warrior Christians having warrior babies and teaching them all that God has commanded.  As much as it is possible for you, have children and love them well.  (Obviously, there are exceptions to this, but that leads to my next point...)

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.  That's not from scripture, but it is from Teddy Roosevelt (maybe), and the premise is biblical.  We were born in this time and in this place for a purpose.  Maybe that means marriage and kids, but maybe it means being single and serving in another way.  Whatever we do, we do it heartily for the Lord.  Don't forget that.

Overcommunicate.  A lot of strife could be avoided if we spoke clearly and precisely.  If we asked questions.  If we spoke our expectations.  If we voiced our concerns.  I'd rather be accused of overcommunicating than undercommunicating or miscommunicating any day.  This goes for daily life, friendships, marriage, business dealings, ALL OF LIFE.  Don't be afraid to ask for clarification.  And clearly state what you mean.  

Let love cover it.  This is advice I can give only because I need to take it.  When someone wrongs you, go to them to reconcile or let love cover it.  It really is that simple.  The sooner the better.

Don't expect perfection.  When I was younger, I was a perfectionist.  Now I know that the secret to happiness is lowered expectations.  (Just kidding, maybe.)  Don't despair if everything doesn't go according to your plans.  Excellence is a worthy and honorable pursuit, but sometimes good enough is good enough. 

Do not forsake the means of grace.  Read your bible. Be baptized. Sit under solid, biblical teaching.  Pray.  Worship corporately on Sunday.  Fellowship with other believers.  Participate in the Lord's Supper.  Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.

We don't know what tomorrow holds.  But if the end isn't near, we have work to do.  Youngins' (and everyone else for that matter), live this life well, before we lose the opportunity.  Simple faithfulness reaps eternal rewards.  Trust and obey.  

With love,

A 0% hispanic Abuela