A friend wrote yesterday that as he and his wife stood in the guest room of their daughter’s new home looking at the furniture from their families, stored for many years, they said to each other, “This has been a long time coming, but it was worth waiting.”
Another friend recently moved from overseas asked me where we bought our furniture and it brought me up short. Bought? Very little was ever bought – a recliner, mattresses, a few small pieces. No, my furniture is generational, and I love it.
Everyone takes naps on Lorena’s sofa, now in its third generation and who knows how many different upholstery colors. Somewhere I have a faded newspaper picture of my parents and my grandparents on that sofa at their 50th and 25th wedding anniversaries – August, 1953. Lorena’s high poster bed lives at the Dragon’s house, along with her folding desk. Her glass bookcase is upstairs in the red room.
Lewis’ desk is mine, but it detoured through my father’s hands for about 50 years. When I sit down, I feel the weight of the gentlemen who did serious work at that desk, and it sobers me at times. Both of their pictures look at me from under the glass top. Fitting reminders.
In the front hall is a washstand, one of six that Bernice lovingly saved for her six sons. Upstairs we use Bernice and Alvin’s dressers every single day. An iron bedstead in the next room came from her childhood home. Down the hall, maple bed frames take me back to my childhood when Clarence Sr. bought them for my room so he’d have a decent place to sleep when he came visiting from Atlanta. They were used hard, but a refinishing job and new mattresses brought them back to life again.
Lois’ chairs are often my spots for casual reading. The command post chair sat in her living room at the end of her life, comfortable and strategic beside her phone. From that chair she listened to the problems of a whole town and prayed for the world. Her Board reward rocker elegances my study. Out in the family room Russell’s chair is a favorite with the grands because it’s big enough for three kids. Jane’s rocker lives at the Dreamer’s house and has rocked her little ones.
The kitchen chairs remind me of our first apartment, a steal at $15 bucks including the maple table. The table lives with the Driver right now, but I have claim to it for my old age. My dining table belonged to Betty and Alice and fed multitudes before I got it. It continues to feed the world, opening to five wide leaves. The china cupboard came with our first house, for peanuts. The buffet that matches it lives with the Dreamer because I have Lois’ buffet. I remember her saving her honoraria from speaking engagements for years until the day came when she had enough to buy it. It’s not spectacular, but it holds meaning.
All these things are temporal. There will come a day when I give them away, or sell them, or they fall apart. But until then, instead of ghosts around the house, I have the memories of friends and family who are gone, but who left little traces of themselves behind.
The memories are rich and they continue to be made. I watch Joy-Boy climb up the side of Russell’s chair and tumble into it. He turns and grins at me and then proceeds to strip off his shoes and socks, tossing them to the floor. He laughs again, gives me a look, climbs over the other side of the chair and slowly drops himself down to the floor.
Not even once do I think to say, “Careful of the furniture, Jon.”
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Full Circle
Nine years ago today my first grandchild was born, a tiny child named Keren Elyse – “Strength, consecrated to God.” Today I sat quietly in the place in Hawaii where, six years later, I was wakened in the early hours of a wet January morning with a phone call. Keren had slipped out of her earthly shell on the way to the hospital and entered heaven.
Full circle.
There are many firsts in life – first grandchild being one of those. Keren was an unusual first grandchild who taught me far more than I taught her. Her disabilities were severe, but her heart was huge and she loved us all fiercely. Nine years ago I would not have chosen a special needs child as my first grandchild, but God in his wisdom chose her. And I am forever changed and grateful that he did.
Losing the a grandchild suddenly, even when you know intellectually it could happen, is another first. I remember standing near her coffin with her next sister, the Bear, and talking about tents. The Bear was only three and working hard to understand the reality of death. We talked of how when we go camping we set up tents to shelter us. When we finish camping, we fold the tents and put them away. The tents are only temporary – but we are eternal. Somehow, that made sense to a three-year-old.
Coming back to where we were when we got that difficult phone call is another first. I was concerned that it would be painful, but it has not been. Time passes, grief is observed, grief is processed, and life goes on. The bustle of five boisterous grandchildren fills in the empty cracks left by the one who is gone. Keren is not gone – she is still part of the family.
It is difficult, though, in the bright sunset of the evening, looking across the blue of the bay, to feel anything but total peace. The birds are calling as the sun drops to the horizon. The noise of traffic faintly drifts up from the road far below. The smell of flowers permeates the growing dusk. I sit in silence and enjoy the still of the evening.
My life is richer because Keren lived, yet I am both stronger and more sensitive, because she died.
Full circle.
There are many firsts in life – first grandchild being one of those. Keren was an unusual first grandchild who taught me far more than I taught her. Her disabilities were severe, but her heart was huge and she loved us all fiercely. Nine years ago I would not have chosen a special needs child as my first grandchild, but God in his wisdom chose her. And I am forever changed and grateful that he did.
Losing the a grandchild suddenly, even when you know intellectually it could happen, is another first. I remember standing near her coffin with her next sister, the Bear, and talking about tents. The Bear was only three and working hard to understand the reality of death. We talked of how when we go camping we set up tents to shelter us. When we finish camping, we fold the tents and put them away. The tents are only temporary – but we are eternal. Somehow, that made sense to a three-year-old.
Coming back to where we were when we got that difficult phone call is another first. I was concerned that it would be painful, but it has not been. Time passes, grief is observed, grief is processed, and life goes on. The bustle of five boisterous grandchildren fills in the empty cracks left by the one who is gone. Keren is not gone – she is still part of the family.
It is difficult, though, in the bright sunset of the evening, looking across the blue of the bay, to feel anything but total peace. The birds are calling as the sun drops to the horizon. The noise of traffic faintly drifts up from the road far below. The smell of flowers permeates the growing dusk. I sit in silence and enjoy the still of the evening.
My life is richer because Keren lived, yet I am both stronger and more sensitive, because she died.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Wilderness, washing my soul
Bundling against the cold is the first step. Alaska socks, heavy hiking boots, jeans and fleece, covered with a lined jacket, warm scarf and ski hat, leather gloves stuffed in pockets – April-wear in the north.
The sun rose at seven in a giant red ball, sailing over scudding clouds on the horizon into a clear sky. By mid morning the lake calls, white caps dancing in the sunshine, gulls bobbing up and down amid the now-melting ice floes.
Before I head to the dense populated cities of Asia, I need wilderness. Walking the beach is sheer delight, even bundled against the stiff wind and well below freezing temperatures of the morning. If the gulls can bob in a frigid lake, I can handle the shoreline.
The rocks on the beach range from smaller than my finger to the size of small cars. Navigating between, along, among them is the reason for hiking boots with high ankle support. Ice and snow cling to the marshes in some places while others have melted into swampy puddles, rocks sticking up to tread across.
I think it is the color that calls me back, day after day -- one day blue, another aquamarine, another slate gray; never the same; always changing. The color and the solitude. There are no neighbors, almost no houses, and only a rare great ship on the horizon to remind me that somewhere in the universe other people exist.
A cry overhead brings a V of geese heading north. Theirs is a faith flight because I see no nesting ground that looks warm enough to lay eggs. Spring is breaking through, slowly, painfully letting go of the grip of winter. But come it will. This marsh will turn green and the scruffy bushes will spout leaves. The water will warm a little and the ice will disappear.
But that day is still distant this morning. I will relish the silence, broken only by the call of the gulls. I will wash my soul in the deep blue water of the still frosty great lake. I will listen to the wind roaring through the cedars on the cove, and the brash splashing of the waves hitting the ice along the shore.
In a few short days I’ll be walking crowded city streets halfway around the world, surrounded by thousands of people, enveloped in the din of languages that I do not understand. The friendships will be deep and rich, and the work satisfying, but when it all seems overwhelming, I will remember this day.
In my mind I will hark back to this solitude and rest there, drawing strength from the One who made it all, the din and the silence.
The sun rose at seven in a giant red ball, sailing over scudding clouds on the horizon into a clear sky. By mid morning the lake calls, white caps dancing in the sunshine, gulls bobbing up and down amid the now-melting ice floes.
Before I head to the dense populated cities of Asia, I need wilderness. Walking the beach is sheer delight, even bundled against the stiff wind and well below freezing temperatures of the morning. If the gulls can bob in a frigid lake, I can handle the shoreline.
The rocks on the beach range from smaller than my finger to the size of small cars. Navigating between, along, among them is the reason for hiking boots with high ankle support. Ice and snow cling to the marshes in some places while others have melted into swampy puddles, rocks sticking up to tread across.
I think it is the color that calls me back, day after day -- one day blue, another aquamarine, another slate gray; never the same; always changing. The color and the solitude. There are no neighbors, almost no houses, and only a rare great ship on the horizon to remind me that somewhere in the universe other people exist.
A cry overhead brings a V of geese heading north. Theirs is a faith flight because I see no nesting ground that looks warm enough to lay eggs. Spring is breaking through, slowly, painfully letting go of the grip of winter. But come it will. This marsh will turn green and the scruffy bushes will spout leaves. The water will warm a little and the ice will disappear.
But that day is still distant this morning. I will relish the silence, broken only by the call of the gulls. I will wash my soul in the deep blue water of the still frosty great lake. I will listen to the wind roaring through the cedars on the cove, and the brash splashing of the waves hitting the ice along the shore.
In a few short days I’ll be walking crowded city streets halfway around the world, surrounded by thousands of people, enveloped in the din of languages that I do not understand. The friendships will be deep and rich, and the work satisfying, but when it all seems overwhelming, I will remember this day.
In my mind I will hark back to this solitude and rest there, drawing strength from the One who made it all, the din and the silence.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Plain speaking
The Bear bursts in the door, smelling of snow and kindergarten and sees her great-aunt, visiting from Paraguay. “I sure haven’t seen you for a long, long time,” she says. I make introductions, not knowing whether Bear really remembers great-aunt or not.
The Bug giggles and says, “I don’t think I remember you.” Little Jon-boy walks in, gets his booster chair and starts pushing it to the table. A man of few words, he just knows it is lunch time and he’s hungry.
One of the refreshing things about small children is they tell it just like it is. Yes, we get interrupted and told much we maybe didn’t need to know, but there is no guile in these little people. Lunch is a running commentary.
“Why are there nuts in my grapefruit?” No, those are seeds
“There is corn in my chili. Mommy doesn’t put corn in chili.” I like corn in my chili, you like corn, so just eat it.
“ I have to have the blue cup. SHE can have the pink one because she’s little.” Oh really?
Some days the plain talk is about me. Like the day Bug told me I smelled old. When I asked for clarification, she looked puzzled and said I dunno, maybe it is your shampoo.
A checker game with Bear ensues after lunch. Bear believes that she should win, hands down and is a little shocked when her pieces disappear off the board in rapid succession.
“You are taking all my pieces. How can I win if you keep jumping me?”
“How can you learn to play,” I counter, “if I let you just win and don’t teach you strategy?”
Bear looks over at the great-aunt, now playing trucks with Jon-boy. “I bet she’d let me win.”
“You don’t want to play with her,” I say. “She’s more competitive than I am.”
In the end, we play two games, and on the second I do some massaging of her technique. At five, I do not expect checker prowess or great strategy, but I will speak plainly, and not just allow her to break all the rules so she can win. Life doesn’t work that way, and it is a poor orientation to reality.
Plain speaking goes both directions. It comes from the very young, and they need to learn how to be polite. It comes from the older adults and they need to speak with grace. But plain speaking is essential to learning character, and I want these children to have character. Their parents are leading them in godly thinking, and it’s my job to reinforce that with godly mentoring, not sabotage what goes on at home.
As they head out the door, Bear turns to the great-aunt. “Are you going to be here tomorrow? I want to see you again, you know.” Plain speaking. Well spoken. Polite. Gracious.
The Bug giggles and says, “I don’t think I remember you.” Little Jon-boy walks in, gets his booster chair and starts pushing it to the table. A man of few words, he just knows it is lunch time and he’s hungry.
One of the refreshing things about small children is they tell it just like it is. Yes, we get interrupted and told much we maybe didn’t need to know, but there is no guile in these little people. Lunch is a running commentary.
“Why are there nuts in my grapefruit?” No, those are seeds
“There is corn in my chili. Mommy doesn’t put corn in chili.” I like corn in my chili, you like corn, so just eat it.
“ I have to have the blue cup. SHE can have the pink one because she’s little.” Oh really?
Some days the plain talk is about me. Like the day Bug told me I smelled old. When I asked for clarification, she looked puzzled and said I dunno, maybe it is your shampoo.
A checker game with Bear ensues after lunch. Bear believes that she should win, hands down and is a little shocked when her pieces disappear off the board in rapid succession.
“You are taking all my pieces. How can I win if you keep jumping me?”
“How can you learn to play,” I counter, “if I let you just win and don’t teach you strategy?”
Bear looks over at the great-aunt, now playing trucks with Jon-boy. “I bet she’d let me win.”
“You don’t want to play with her,” I say. “She’s more competitive than I am.”
In the end, we play two games, and on the second I do some massaging of her technique. At five, I do not expect checker prowess or great strategy, but I will speak plainly, and not just allow her to break all the rules so she can win. Life doesn’t work that way, and it is a poor orientation to reality.
Plain speaking goes both directions. It comes from the very young, and they need to learn how to be polite. It comes from the older adults and they need to speak with grace. But plain speaking is essential to learning character, and I want these children to have character. Their parents are leading them in godly thinking, and it’s my job to reinforce that with godly mentoring, not sabotage what goes on at home.
As they head out the door, Bear turns to the great-aunt. “Are you going to be here tomorrow? I want to see you again, you know.” Plain speaking. Well spoken. Polite. Gracious.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Just a spoonful of sugar
A fun event for ESL learners over the last few years has been a cookie decorating party at Christmas. Most of these internationals come from Asia or the Middle East and did not grow up with ovens. Thus, they do not know how to bake and Christmas cookies, that essential of American Christmas, are a mystery to them.
We gather at our house on a mid-December evening and turn the kitchen into total chaos. Each of the ESL teachers brings plain cookies and decorating stuff, and the families all gather around the big center island and decorate the cookies to take home. Last night we had 12 adults and 8 children ranging from 10 down to 3. You can imagine the amount of colored sugar and icing that hit the floor!
The kids last about 30 minutes and then spin off to the Lego in the family room or the games in the living/dining room, bouncing back in turns to do another cookie or two. There is much consumption. The husbands, brought along to enjoy the fun, last about as long as the kids. Most are engineers, and they drift off to the dining room for a little more adult conversation. This leaves the women in the kitchen and conversation – the whole goal of the class – ranges far and wide.
Yesterday one of the Chinese women had a minor car accident on the icy roads. A Middle Eastern woman is on her third winter in Michigan and three of the Chinese women listen intently as she describes how to drive on ice and not slide into the ditch. Fascinating to hear this described by someone who has learned winter driving on the fast track. Lots of new vocabulary!
Cooking practices always surface in the conversation, and a lot of parenting discussions. Two of the ESL teachers are moms of younger kids and great mentors to these women struggling to survive, keep house, speak English, and raise children in a totally new world.
The children are a delightful mix of cultures, blond heads alongside dark ones. English is no problem for them, nor is social interaction. They are the next generation of new Americans, and cookies are to be consumed – no matter who made them or decorated them.
By the time the evening ends, I am quite ready for it to end. But as each family walks out the door bearing freshly decorated cookies of their own design, chatting merrily with each other in somewhat fractured English but English none the less, the value of the event takes root. This is not about sugar on the floor or icing on the cupboards – it’s about community.
We gather at our house on a mid-December evening and turn the kitchen into total chaos. Each of the ESL teachers brings plain cookies and decorating stuff, and the families all gather around the big center island and decorate the cookies to take home. Last night we had 12 adults and 8 children ranging from 10 down to 3. You can imagine the amount of colored sugar and icing that hit the floor!
The kids last about 30 minutes and then spin off to the Lego in the family room or the games in the living/dining room, bouncing back in turns to do another cookie or two. There is much consumption. The husbands, brought along to enjoy the fun, last about as long as the kids. Most are engineers, and they drift off to the dining room for a little more adult conversation. This leaves the women in the kitchen and conversation – the whole goal of the class – ranges far and wide.
Yesterday one of the Chinese women had a minor car accident on the icy roads. A Middle Eastern woman is on her third winter in Michigan and three of the Chinese women listen intently as she describes how to drive on ice and not slide into the ditch. Fascinating to hear this described by someone who has learned winter driving on the fast track. Lots of new vocabulary!
Cooking practices always surface in the conversation, and a lot of parenting discussions. Two of the ESL teachers are moms of younger kids and great mentors to these women struggling to survive, keep house, speak English, and raise children in a totally new world.
The children are a delightful mix of cultures, blond heads alongside dark ones. English is no problem for them, nor is social interaction. They are the next generation of new Americans, and cookies are to be consumed – no matter who made them or decorated them.
By the time the evening ends, I am quite ready for it to end. But as each family walks out the door bearing freshly decorated cookies of their own design, chatting merrily with each other in somewhat fractured English but English none the less, the value of the event takes root. This is not about sugar on the floor or icing on the cupboards – it’s about community.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Push back the darkness
It is December, the darkest month of the year. And the most celebrated. I wake in darkness and start the day. The afternoon is dark before it is over, and we settled into darkness long before supper. We light candles and put up twinkle lights and push back the darkness.
We celebrate the birth of the Savior with joy, but always in the corners of our hearts lingers sadness at those who are not with us this Christmas. Even in the delight of the coming of Light, we know that He came to a dark world, and we know why.
We know why because we live in it.
Yesterday the Dreamer and I stood in line at a funeral to speak to a young couple who lost their stillborn daughter last week. Entering the church I was transported back decades to a simple funeral at a barrio church in the Philippines. I can still clearly see the grieving mother, veiled, throwing dirt on the little coffin.
Yesterday’s mother is American born, but she is also Filipino, and the obligatory funeral black was worn by all her family and friends.
Beside us in line was a friend who lost his daughter just two years ago this month, a young mom snatched with sudden cancer. “It never gets easier, does it?” he said. “I will never be the same.” Then he looked at the Dreamer and said, “You know.” The same words the grandmother of the little one who didn’t live had said a few minutes before. “You know.”
Yes, we know. The Dreamer knows especially. On the way she handed me a book written by a mom who carried a child she knew would not live. Delivered and buried a child who survived just a few short hours. Poignant, powerful book. She readily admits that she does not have answers. She shares her struggle and grief. And she believes that God also shares our struggle and grief.
When Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, Mary and Martha were also weeping. But theirs was the wail of loss, while his was the weeping of pain for the hurt hearts of his dear friends. He knew in a few minutes he would call Lazarus out of the grave, but he also knew Lazarus would die again and there would again be pain and tears.
This week another little one, another grand of mine, will have doctors open her heart to repair what is not what it should be. I enter the week with deep fear because I know that what is considered routine is never routine when it is your own child. I enter the week with trust because, without speaking flippantly, I know that God understands our fear, her heart, and holds the hands of the doctors.
This is a dark world. Not just in December, though somehow at Christmas all the darkness comes rushing back to haunt us and whispers fear into the deep recesses of our hearts. Yet it was into this world that God sent Light, and the darkness did, and still does not comprehend it.
In this dark month, I choose to stand in the light.
We celebrate the birth of the Savior with joy, but always in the corners of our hearts lingers sadness at those who are not with us this Christmas. Even in the delight of the coming of Light, we know that He came to a dark world, and we know why.
We know why because we live in it.
Yesterday the Dreamer and I stood in line at a funeral to speak to a young couple who lost their stillborn daughter last week. Entering the church I was transported back decades to a simple funeral at a barrio church in the Philippines. I can still clearly see the grieving mother, veiled, throwing dirt on the little coffin.
Yesterday’s mother is American born, but she is also Filipino, and the obligatory funeral black was worn by all her family and friends.
Beside us in line was a friend who lost his daughter just two years ago this month, a young mom snatched with sudden cancer. “It never gets easier, does it?” he said. “I will never be the same.” Then he looked at the Dreamer and said, “You know.” The same words the grandmother of the little one who didn’t live had said a few minutes before. “You know.”
Yes, we know. The Dreamer knows especially. On the way she handed me a book written by a mom who carried a child she knew would not live. Delivered and buried a child who survived just a few short hours. Poignant, powerful book. She readily admits that she does not have answers. She shares her struggle and grief. And she believes that God also shares our struggle and grief.
When Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, Mary and Martha were also weeping. But theirs was the wail of loss, while his was the weeping of pain for the hurt hearts of his dear friends. He knew in a few minutes he would call Lazarus out of the grave, but he also knew Lazarus would die again and there would again be pain and tears.
This week another little one, another grand of mine, will have doctors open her heart to repair what is not what it should be. I enter the week with deep fear because I know that what is considered routine is never routine when it is your own child. I enter the week with trust because, without speaking flippantly, I know that God understands our fear, her heart, and holds the hands of the doctors.
This is a dark world. Not just in December, though somehow at Christmas all the darkness comes rushing back to haunt us and whispers fear into the deep recesses of our hearts. Yet it was into this world that God sent Light, and the darkness did, and still does not comprehend it.
In this dark month, I choose to stand in the light.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Rescue centers
Recent Sundays have found me in rescue centers. The people who go there call them church, but they are, in fact, places where those people have been rescued.
The first sits atop a rocky hill in northern Massachusetts, close to the ocean. The town is as rocky as the hillside, full of rough and tumble families who either have known the hardship of the sea for generations, or who are new immigrants looking for a place to call home.
The anniversary of the church – the rescue center – was occasion for testimonies. After a meal where far more people came than anticipated but all were fed, we gathered in the upstairs meeting room. Pine timbers line the walls, wide windows opening onto the woods and rocky hillside. Member after member, some still there, some who have moved away, stood to tell how they came to this place. Their lives were a saga of alcohol, abuse, bad marriages, unwanted pregnancies, despair. Again and again I heard, “I came and I was welcomed, and I found the Lord here. Jesus has changed my life completely.” Everyone wanted to be there and share the victories.
The highest corner of the church building is a replica of a lighthouse. It is symbolic of the rocky coastal town, but it is far more. It represents why this is a rescue center.
This past weekend it was a much older church on the coast of New Jersey. The city is hard, gritty, and sinful. Yet the old stone church stands in the midst of casinos and on the roof are the words, “Christ died for our sins.”
The folk who come are a rainbow of colors and a babble of languages.
Saturday night the woman beside me told me, unasked, about her abusive, drug-dealing husband, how in desperation one afternoon she knocked on her landlady’s door when he locked her out, and how she was invited in to a warm meal, taken to church, and led to Christ. Sunday noon another woman told me that she comes because it is a safe haven in her pain-ridden life. “I went to the pastor when I first came and said I needed a safe-house. He told me I had found it.”
Sunday morning we sang an old hymn about keeping the lower lights burning. Sending a beam across the wave. The pastor reminded us that we are the lower lights, gleaming for people who are struggling in the dark.
Rescue center churches are messy. People often don’t dress well, and they may smell of smoke and booze and other substances. Their teeth tend to be missing, and they are brutally honest about their lives. Downright uncomfortable at times but rescue center churches are good for me.
Jesus is in the rescue center business. Am I?
The first sits atop a rocky hill in northern Massachusetts, close to the ocean. The town is as rocky as the hillside, full of rough and tumble families who either have known the hardship of the sea for generations, or who are new immigrants looking for a place to call home.
The anniversary of the church – the rescue center – was occasion for testimonies. After a meal where far more people came than anticipated but all were fed, we gathered in the upstairs meeting room. Pine timbers line the walls, wide windows opening onto the woods and rocky hillside. Member after member, some still there, some who have moved away, stood to tell how they came to this place. Their lives were a saga of alcohol, abuse, bad marriages, unwanted pregnancies, despair. Again and again I heard, “I came and I was welcomed, and I found the Lord here. Jesus has changed my life completely.” Everyone wanted to be there and share the victories.
The highest corner of the church building is a replica of a lighthouse. It is symbolic of the rocky coastal town, but it is far more. It represents why this is a rescue center.
This past weekend it was a much older church on the coast of New Jersey. The city is hard, gritty, and sinful. Yet the old stone church stands in the midst of casinos and on the roof are the words, “Christ died for our sins.”
The folk who come are a rainbow of colors and a babble of languages.
Saturday night the woman beside me told me, unasked, about her abusive, drug-dealing husband, how in desperation one afternoon she knocked on her landlady’s door when he locked her out, and how she was invited in to a warm meal, taken to church, and led to Christ. Sunday noon another woman told me that she comes because it is a safe haven in her pain-ridden life. “I went to the pastor when I first came and said I needed a safe-house. He told me I had found it.”
Sunday morning we sang an old hymn about keeping the lower lights burning. Sending a beam across the wave. The pastor reminded us that we are the lower lights, gleaming for people who are struggling in the dark.
Rescue center churches are messy. People often don’t dress well, and they may smell of smoke and booze and other substances. Their teeth tend to be missing, and they are brutally honest about their lives. Downright uncomfortable at times but rescue center churches are good for me.
Jesus is in the rescue center business. Am I?
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