how hope wins

Every night, Beau and I talk about hope. We talk about the day, we talk about the future, and we process our past together. Lately, there's been a lot of hurt and heartbreak in our "Tribe". We pray for physical healing for friends with cancer diagnoses. We pray for emotional healing for friends suffering loss. We pray for restoration in marriages. We pray for friends and neighbors to return to a hope-filled relationship with Jesus. We celebrated the birth of our neice this Monday, but mourned our lost Whisper all over again. We've been asking each other the question, "What does hope look like?"

Tonight, we were driving to celebrate a good friend's birthday. We wanted to flip the script of sadness and weariness and celebrate. It had been a hard day for each of us, for different reasons. We knew that a lot of our friends were struggling, too. The rainy, rainy sky made all of the darkness feel heavier.

We started the car ride listening to this song.That's the beauty of hope. It's able to shine right through the darkness. Hope takes every awful circumstance and confidently declares "IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY." 

For you have been my hope, Sovereign LORD,
my confidence since my youth.
From birth I have relied on you;
you brought me forth from my mother's womb.
I will ever praise You. --Psalm 71:5-6 NIV

I think the emotions we process tonight are larger than prose. It's why my soul resonates with a song, with a psalm. This, then, is my ode to hope:

So here we stand,
claiming power in the name of the God who has always been.
We claim power in the defeat of death forever.
Beau keeps reminding me not to be afraid of the Darkness,
but stare it in the face and boldly claim my identity as a Child of the Light.
I'm struggling. I'm grieving. I'm so sad and so angry, often simultaneously.
And God can only ever be GOOD.
That's how hope wins.
God is always good.
The battles are always temporary.
The struggles will always be resolved,
for God is larger than my story
and promises
life
forever.

the sacred invitation

It snowed in some parts of our community this week and everything shut down. We never got much snow, but that doesn't seem to matter. Friends, family and neighbors cancelled plans on us for four consecutive days. At one point, I sent "last minute" invites to twelve separate families, only to be rejected by all of them. My hopes for community did not match the reality of this week.

So, in this place of feeling sorry for myself, I agreed to meet sweet Megan at the gym on Friday. I left right after dinner at our table set for more than three and told my husband he was in charge for the rest of the night. But when barre class ended fifteen minutes before bedtime, I realized something important about community. There's a toddler who invites me into every part of his life. He invites me to dance parties and Octonaut watching marathons. He wants to hear stories and say "I love yous" and snuggle as a family before getting into his crib. When I'm missing the larger community, I am still part of a beautiful community in my own home.

The LORD God said, "It is not good that man be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him." - Genesis 2:18

During all of my years as a single woman, I craved the community that waits for me at home. I worked so hard pastoring teenagers and counseling adults that in moments like Thursday, I forget how circumstances have changed. I forget that community can be those who share my last name and smile lines. And this community, little as it is, is good. This community, too, brings credit back where it's due: the original community, the family of Heaven.

dinner

We're always trying to figure things out, over here.

Our resolution for this year is to live as missionaries in our community. Practically, we're filling up our calendar with dinner invitations. I thought we would be hosting most of these dinners, but right now we're going to a lot of peoples' houses, instead. I guess that's how Jesus did it, so it's ok to swallow my pride and be served whatever our friends and acquaintances make.

I read a book about dinner churches. It stirred memories of college community, small groups in the yellow house, and friends who do such a good job of engaging community. I aspire to love and serve in a community that shares the Eucharist simply and regularly. My heart has experienced the beauty of a Maundy Thursday service in a cold park gazebo with powdered sugar donuts and Sobe (Megan, I'm talking about you, friend.) The beauty of dinner as an expression of the Church is the simplicity. It's an obedience.The Gospel is made practical over a shared meal.

But our meals so far this year aren't what I would call "religious." We've talked about sports and the weather more than theology. The PNW is not known for lingering community meals. This is the tension I bring to the literal table: is the dining enough? Maybe there's a redemption happening just by being present, by speaking with grace and truth. Maybe there's worth in the waiting, in the meals and the moments of community instead of isolation. Or maybe, there's more chicken in the seats than on the table.

We're trying to figure out how to be good neighbors. We're trying to figure out how to be family, as a whole. We're trying to figure out how the Gospel moves forward in a place where even Christians around a table together aren't talking about their faith and our good God.