When I was a little girl, I used to wish for a name that ended with the long sound of e. I’m not sure where the idea came from that vowels would affect my state of contentment. But, being a sensible child, I just knew life would be more fun as Cindy or Susie.
Eventually, I learned that letter sounds are not life-changing. And I learned about a name that is— Jesus. I learned stories of his miracles— astonishing demonstrations of his power, like giving sight to the blind, bringing people back to life, and walking on water.
Through the years, I’ve sometimes prayed for miracles. And I’ve wondered if those prayers have been heard because I haven’t seen wonders like the Bible describes— jaw-dropping happenings like feeding 5,000 people with five loaves of bread and two fish.
But lately I’ve been thinking about how Jesus also built a fire on a beach and cooked a breakfast of fish for his friends.
And I ask myself which of those events is more amazing? If I could put myself into one of the stories, which one would I choose? In the first, the people were told to sit in groups of fifty or one-hundred so food could be passed out by Jesus’ helpers. In the second, Jesus invited his friends to sit with him around a warm fire while he prepared a meal for them to share. Was one more of a miracle than the other?
One day, we’ll all witness Jesus’ power on an unimaginably grand scale. In the meantime, every day I can experience the miracle of his presence because of another of his life-changing names—Emmanuel—God is with us.
I hadn’t thought about that desire for a long-e name for many years until it came up in a conversation with my six-year-old grandson. After hearing about it, he was silent for a moment, deep in thought. Suddenly, with great excitement, he said, “Mimi; now you do have one of those names!”
He was right. And into that ordinary day came a fireside miracle— assurance that my heart is heard by the one who formed it. Surely, he smiled as he looked down through the years and thought of a certain little boy. A boy who would one day deliver the news that my long ago wish had been granted because of the name he calls me—Mimi.
I was right, too—life as Mimi really is more fun.
When we don’t see him walking on water, may we draw close to the fire he has built on the shore.
And this is the confidence that we have toward him, that if we ask anything according to his will he hears us. 1 John 5:14
With Thanksgiving just a few weeks away, I find myself thinking of food. It’s not turkey and dressing I have on my mind, however. My thoughts have turned toward grits— that good old southern staple— and a dish I attempted to prepare when I was twelve years old.
I’m sure my family was thankful my cooking adventure was not meant to provide a holiday meal. Instead, it took place on a seemingly insignificant weekday.
My mom was away from home, and I decided to surprise her by cooking dinner. I looked through cookbooks, hoping to find a recipe for which we had all the ingredients. Grits casserole fit the bill— sort of. We didn’t have everything called for, but I decided I could substitute.
If you’ve ever seen one of those cooking shows with child prodigy contestants, you can picture me— I was the opposite.
My dad, pleased with my attempt to help, offered his assistance. He could have been on a cooking show, the one called “Worst Cooks.” Only problem would have been that he didn’t qualify as a cook, at all.
In spite of our combined ignorance, together we forged ahead, making adjustments as necessary. When the recipe called for “zest of orange,” we weren’t sure what that meant. Dad suggested we throw in the whole peel. “It will give it more flavor,” he assured me.
At suppertime, we served our version of grits casserole. It bore little resemblance to the original recipe. My mother got the orange peel in her portion.
My cooking fail reminds me of what I am most thankful for— God’s grace. Not only because my family survived my cooking, but because of the grace God gives when I attempt to make adjustments to another recipe— one that happens to be his favorite. It’s the recipe for salt. (Matthew 5:13)
Detailed directions for making salt are included in his word. I know this because I’ve read these instructions many times. I even have parts memorized. But just as I did with grits casserole, I tend to veer from the recipe, substituting ingredients as I go.
Below are a few examples:
Original Recipe— Give up your life for Christ’s sake. (Matthew 16:24)
My Version— Giving up my life sounds like too much. A dollop of good deeds should suffice.
Original Recipe— Love difficult people. (Matthew 5:43)
My Version— Loving certain people is tough. I prefer something easier to chew. Like a marshmallow. “Love people who agree with me” is more to my liking.
Original Recipe— Rejoice when mistreated. (Matthew 5:11)
My Version— Substitute “complain loudly to everyone who will listen” for this hard to swallow ingredient.
Original Recipe— If someone asks you to go one mile, go two. (Matthew 5:41)
My Version— I prefer to adjust the measurements here. Half a mile, if the weather is nice, is about right for my taste.
I mix my version together and serve it up. I call it salt. But it is not salt. Like my grits casserole, it doesn’t even resemble what I was trying to create.
So I make another substitution, replacing “trust God” with “try harder.” But instead of salty, the result of this effort turns out to be as bitter as an orange peel.
The truth is, I don’t have what it takes to make salt. My cupboard is bare.
But that is truly good news because it makes room for Christ. At just the right moment, he stepped in and made one perfect, grace-filled substitution— the secret ingredient for making salt— his life for mine.
My role in the process is to put my faith in the cook— to trust him even when I don’t understand his methods. Life may feel like I’ve been left alone in a hot oven, but grace means he is in the heat with me. It’s there that he teaches me to give up my life, love others, rejoice always and go the extra mile.
Thank you, Jesus, that the hands-on time for your recipe is forever. (Deuteronomy 31:8) There is no substitute for being held by your grace.
And thank you, too, for grits casserole with orange peel. It’s a memory that helps me remember.
What do you want to do when you grow up? It’s a question I ask my kindergarteners at the beginning of each school year. I might learn I’m teaching a future firefighter, ballerina, chef, vet, singer and all-star athlete. And that’s just one child’s answer. I love that they dream big because I know God has big plans for their lives.
When I was their age, I wanted to take care of babies, teach school, train animals, write books, and solve mysteries. One job I don’t remember dreaming about doing is gardening. But life is full of surprises and it turns out, as a kindergarten teacher, I garden every day. I realized this, much to my delight, when I discovered the word “kindergarten” originated from German words meaning “garden of children.”
God has a way of adding unexpected twists to what we plan to do. But when it comes to what he wants his children to be, he’s not trying to keep us guessing. Scripture provides a pretty clear picture of the type of flower he’s nurturing in his garden. He’s not cultivating prize winning roses or delicate orchids. Instead, he seems bent on raising a bumper crop of dandelions.
This unassuming flower-weed is an everyday example for followers of Christ. So as I listen to my kinder-cuties tell me what they plan to do one day, I pray for what I hope they will grow up to be— dandelions.
Dandelions sink their roots down deep, breaking up hard soil and accessing nutrients far underground. When cut, the tiniest of pieces can produce new growth.
As my students dream and grow, I pray they will sink roots of faith deep into the heart of God. I pray any hard places inside them will be broken as they experience his grace. May they draw nourishment from the truth of God’s word. And when life hurts and their faith feels tiny, may their roots grow deeper still.
Let your roots grow down into him, and let your lives be built on him. Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught and you will overflow with thankfulness. Colossians 2:7
Dandelions persevere. They spring through cracks in the sidewalk and pop back up when they’re stepped on. Heat doesn’t deter them. Neither does cold. The soil can be rich or poor. The rain can come in buckets or not at all. Crowding is not a problem, but they don’t mind being alone. In all sorts of conditions, they don’t just live, they thrive.
I pray one day my little sprouts will cook meals, cut hair, climb mountains and catch fly balls for the Lord with all their might. May adverse conditions never tempt them to give up on the dreams he places in their hearts. When they are stepped on by life may they pop back up. And when it seems they have nowhere to go, I pray they see a crack of light and grow through the broken places.
Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of our faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-3
Dandelions are humble. If they were grown for their great beauty they would be reserved for those who could afford them. Instead, they’re available to the “least of these.” I’m convinced the Lord created dandelions just so children would have a flower no one would tell them not to pick.
I pray my five and six year old seedlings grow up to fight fires, dance ballet, care for the sick and do things they haven’t yet dreamed of for those who are weak and vulnerable. May they be content to be considered a weed by the world if that is the best way to love the “least of these.”
The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Matthew 25:40
Dandelions spread joy. Their sunny yellow faces brighten dreary days. Even folks who consider them a nuisance can’t help but smile when presented with a dandelion bouquet by a chubby-fisted toddler.
Yet it’s when their vibrant color fades that dandelions spread the most joy. When all they have left is a bit of white fluff, and even that is barely hanging on, dandelions choose to spread seeds of joy by encouraging others to hope and dream.
I pray the budding flowers in my class will learn to do the same. Years from now, on a day when they’re finding it hard to throw touchdown passes in the NFL and blast off into outer space, may they choose joy and not despair. When life has lost its color and they feel like they’re barely hanging on, may they discover the joy of trusting God and letting go. And may the seeds of that joy be carried by the Holy Spirit across the earth, encouraging a brand new crop of hopes and dreams.
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Romans 12:12
As I tend my garden of children, I’m still dreaming and growing right along with them. I haven’t solved many mysteries. Yet. But you never know what the future may bring. I’m hard at work on the case of “Why is there only one sock left in the dryer when I put two in?”
Detective work aside, I’m continually surprised by what my maker has for me to do. With each new adventure, I pray I sink my roots deeper, persevere longer, grow more humble and spread seeds of joy. In other words, I want to be a dandelion when I grow up.
The morning started off well. My schedule was tight, but I felt prepared and productive. All my ducks were swimming happily in a row as I shut the front door and headed to my car, confident of my ability to accomplish everything on my to-do list.
Until I realized my keys were still on the table. Locked inside the house. Forget about a nice neat row. My ducks were now flapping and quacking all over the place.
A poet once said, “the best laid plans oft go awry.” And to that, I say— Ya think?
I would be tempted to blame the truth of those words on our current culture, except for the fact that this famous line of poetry was penned over two hundred years ago.
Was there ever a time when life was less chaotic? How about over two thousand years ago? Was it easier for people to keep their ducks in a row in ancient times?
A quick read of the 31st chapter of Proverbs might lead us to believe it was. In this passage of scripture, we meet a woman with the straightest row of ducks you’ve ever seen. She is clothed with strength and dignity and can laugh at the days to come. (Proverbs 31:25)
This annoying dear lady doesn’t have a thing to worry about. No wonder she can laugh at the future, she has everything under control.
There is a slight problem with this interpretation, however. It simply doesn’t ring true. Experience teaches that, organized or not, none of us knows what the future will bring. All we can say with confidence is that circumstances tend to waddle off in unexpected directions. I know this— I teach kindergarten.
And in case life hasn’t given us enough reminders, scripture spells it out for us. James 4:14 says, “How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow?”
The reason the woman from Proverbs 31 can laugh at the future is clearly not because she is sure her plans will succeed.
So what is the reason? Well, she is clothed in strength and dignity. That means strength and dignity don’t come from inside her. Verse 30 tells us she is a woman who fears the Lord. Her strength and dignity come from him. And because he isin control, she is free to laugh and not worry about the future.
So are we. It’s easy to forget this, of course, when we’re in the middle of a mess. To help me remember, I often think of a story my dad used to tell from his school days about a time when his plans did not work out. He included it in a book of memories he wrote for our family.
Once when I was in high school, a few of us decided we would go fishing on April Fool’s Day. I don’t know how many, four, five or six. Anyway, while we were fishing, the biology class came by on a field trip. We left running, but not soon enough. We were recognized and had to stay after school each afternoon until we had made up every class we missed. I wrote a poem that I still remember. It was published in the school paper. It was several verses long, but I remember only the first one.
We went fishing on April Fool’s Day
Soon we found we could not stay
Mr. Riddick was hot on our track
We threw down our poles and balled the jack (i.e., high-tailed it out of there)
If your ducks are misbehaving, here’s a bit of good news— there’s an excellent chance you will not get a call today from a school administrator informing you that your child skipped class to go fishing.
There is also an excellent chance, however, that something else unexpected will happen and your plans, like my dad’s, will suddenly go awry. Mine, too.
And while we may not end up running from the biology teacher (although that would be an interesting story) we probably will end up running trying to keep up with life.
At those times, when our to-do list is hot on our track and our plans are abandoned like my dad’s fishing pole, we can make the same choice as our friend from Proverbs and my own sweet daddy. We can laugh. With our keys locked in the house and our ducks out of control, we can erase the to-do list and write a poem instead.
Who knows, future generations might read it one day and laugh too. That sort of thing really can happen, you know.
Sunny with an invigorating chill, it was a perfect day to be outdoors. I grabbed a jacket and pulled on a crocheted band to keep my ears warm. Then I looked at our dog, Emma-the-Goofball-Mastiff. I love Emma, but we have diametrically opposing goals when it comes to our outings. While I’m seeking some peace and quiet, Emma is on the lookout for a heaping helping of mischief.
For this very good reason, I considered leaving her at home, but she was so eager to join me I couldn’t do it. As she propelled us out the door that afternoon, I pretended to be in charge. But we both knew the truth.
On this particular day, however, for reasons known only unto her, Emma decided to humor me by offering up a fairly convincing imitation of an obedient pet. As we went on our way, I thought about all the completely-in-control dog owners I see out and about with their well-mannered pups. With Emma clomping along beside me, I could totally picture myself as one of those people. I had even remembered to bring a plastic bag to use for clean-up. Dog owner of the year, move over. But then, right in the middle of my fantasy, as we reached the end of the street and turned toward home, I was yanked abruptly back to reality.
Emma spied a couple strolling down the sidewalk in our direction. The fact that they were on the other side of the street and still quite far from us did not deter her from racing to make their acquaintance.
I struggled to hold the beast back, but she kept going, dragging me along on her quest. As I stumbled after her, my crocheted headband slipped over my eyes. Since my hands were occupied, one clutching the leash and the other a now-full plastic bag, I was unable to push the stray accessory back into place. And so I barreled blindly toward our surprised neighbors, hollering, “It’s okay! She won’t hurt you!”
Emma, apparently remembering she was masquerading as well-trained, stopped in front of her new friends and wagged her greeting. I, on the other hand, propelled by my forward momentum, not to mention temporarily unable to see, narrowly missed hurtling into them. Or smacking them with a sack of poop.
So here is the obvious question— why in the world didn’t I let go of the leash? Hanging on did not prevent Emma from reaching her destination. It didn’t even slow her down. My effort to control did nothing except take me where I didn’t want to go.
Hmmm… the whole scenario sounds a bit too familiar. It turns out my dog is not the only thing I erroneously imagine I’m in charge of. There are a few more. Things like the present, the future, other people’s opinions of me, and other people.
I know God is in control, but circumstances can blind me to that fact as surely as a headband slipping over my eyes. Losing sight of this truth causes me to believe the lie that it’s up to me to stop all the stuff I imagine I’m in charge of from going in the wrong direction. When I perceive it is, I tighten my grip and struggle to make life go the way I want. It often doesn’t, resulting in me being yanked toward worry. And just like that, same as with Emma, what I’m trying to control is controlling me.
Through my goofball dog, the One who is in charge has given me a clear picture of what I have to do to end this madness— let go. If I don’t, worries will drag my thoughts to unwanted places. If I do, I can be still. And know that God is God. Either way, he’s in control. So the obvious question is— why in the world would I not let go?
This is a story about a dog and glitter and light in the darkness and living light in a world that can easily weigh you down.
It began when Emma, our mastiff, awakened me from a peaceful sleep in the wee hours of the morning. She’s getting older and can’t always wait until daylight to relieve herself. It was a cold morning and I wanted to stay in my warm bed. In fact, I may have prayed that I could. In my groggy state, I convinced myself it was a false alarm and snuggled deeper under the covers. But Emma’s whining continued to interrupt my dreams, and I knew if I wanted any more sleep at all, I would have to get up and attend to her need.
In an attempt to motivate myself, I tried to recall the many things I was thankful for in the situation. There was my dog, the ability to care for her and the fact that I would soon be back in my comfy bed. But still, it was with a bit of irritation that I ventured out into the wintry darkness.
Once outside, I looked up. The beauty of stars would help make up for being dragged from my slumber. But the sky was dark and that somehow made the night seem colder. I shivered. Willing Emma to hurry up, I switched on my flashlight and pointed it toward her. And then I understood. I was not standing in my backyard because of my dog. I was there because my creator did not want me to miss his handiwork. In the beam of the flashlight, the frosty ground sparkled as if glitter had been sprinkled down from heaven. Truly, it was as dazzling as a sky full of stars. And I almost missed it. How many times had I missed it? And what other gifts had I missed that were literally or figuratively right under my feet?
I hadn’t expected a gift in the darkness. I had forced myself to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night out of a sense of responsibility, not expectancy.
When life seems to be bearing down on me, I often tell myself to simply put my nose to the grindstone and soldier through. I remind myself there will be light at the end of the tunnel (and perhaps a warm bed.) But the truth is, those familiar sayings do not line up with God’s Word. It turns out the light is not just at the end of the tunnel, it’s with us right there in the darkness. James 1:3 does talk about the importance of perseverance, but the sentence begins by encouraging us to count it all joy. The Message puts it this way, “Consider it a sheer gift…when tests and challenges come at you from all sides.” James 1:2
This verse doesn’t appear to be advising us to soldier through. The words seem more like an invitation to dance.
But dancing is tough with my nose to the grindstone. I mostly ignore that fact because the approach does tend to get the job done. The trouble is, it weighs me down. Instead of spinning and twirling, I spend my energy piling on feelings of frustration, resentment and discontent.
How different would life be if I truly lived expecting a gift? I would have to let go of all those heavy burdens. Otherwise, how could my hands and heart be free to receive?
James 1:17 says, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.”
I don’t always recognize these gifts because they generally do not come tied up in a pretty bow. They’re more likely to be packaged in annoyances such as being awakened by an aging pet who needs to go out on a cold, dark night.
But, then again, I have a feeling the dog, the darkness and even the frigid temperature were more than just the wrappings. They were, somehow, part of the gift. If only I could live in the light of this truth— that all of life is a gift, I’m sure I would spend way more time in awe and a lot less time in frustration. I would see more glitter. And I would dance in it.
Christmas is here. Finally. Have we ever been more ready? As this unpredictable year spins crazily to a close, I, for one, would love to celebrate with some familiar traditions. The trouble is, many of those traditions- things like traveling, gathering together, and singing in close proximity to others- have all been moved to the naughty list. (Well, that last one may have always been on the naughty list for me, but still.) The nice list includes suggestions for activities such as decorating a Christmas themed face mask.
In light of these bewildering developments, all I can say is, “Who’d a thunk it?”
In fact, I have officially dubbed this holiday season the “Who’d a Thunk It?” Christmas. And, in keeping with that spirit, I’ve taken the liberty of changing some popular song lyrics (sorry, Andy) to better fit our current situation. Here is my 2020 remake..
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
It’s the most wonderful time of the year
With the kids sanitizing
And everyone advising you
Don’t get too near
It’s the most wonderful time of the year!
It’s the hap-happiest season of all
With six-feet-apart greetings
And happy Zoom meetings
Or if the Internet’s down you can call.
It’s the hap-happiest season of all!
There’ll be pictures for posting
Of marshmallows toasting
And masked carolers in the snow.
There’ll be scary news stories
And tales of the glories
Of Christmas not so long ago.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year
Not so much mistletoeing
But screens will be glowing
When loved ones are virtually near
It’s the most wonderful time of the year!
Truly, we’ve never experienced an advent celebration quite like this one. Andy Williams would choke on his marshmallow if he were around to see it. And yet, 2020 does not get the prize for the most extreme “Who’d a Thunk It?” holiday. That honor goes to the very first Christmas. As a matter of fact, “Who’d a Thunk It?” is the very definition of the life-changing events that happened two-thousand years ago.
Who’d a thunk that…
The creator of the universe would become a baby,
In the womb of a virgin,
Be born in a stable and laid in a feeding trough,
Worshipped by shepherds who’d been visited by angels,
And found by kings who followed a star?
Who would have guessed that this baby would grow up and save the world, not by exerting his power, but by humbling himself to take our place on a cross?
Who’d a thunk it?
Nobody. Even Mary had only a glimpse of God’s plan. She was left to wonder about the strange details. And wonder, she did. Scripture tells us that as she observed the events happening around her, she pondered them in her heart. In the MOV (My Own Version), she asked “Who’d a thunk it?”
But the life-altering interruption she experienced did not cause her to panic or complain. Instead, in the midst of wild and woolly change, she let go of her expectations and chose to spend time marveling instead of moping. (see Luke 1:46-55)
I could learn from her example. If she could deal with a manger, surely I can deal with a mask. Like Mary, in the midst of unexpected circumstances, I can choose to wonder instead of worry. I can do that precisely because of the things she wondered about. I can proclaim, as she did, that the Lord’s mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation. (Luke 1:50). It turns out, in the only way that truly counts, Christmas has not changed in 2000 years. Who’d a thunk it?
Merry Christmas 2020!
click below to view the premier performance of the 2020 version of…
Lunch box love notes. That’s what I call the little messages parents often tuck between a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a shiny red apple. Since I teach kindergarten and most of my children aren’t yet able to read, I have the privilege of relaying this correspondence to them. Though the exact wording may vary, the purpose of these little jottings on napkins or paper scraps is always the same. They communicate love and assure the child that, before long, they’ll be together again. They almost always include a heart, that universal symbol even a young child understands.
Wouldn’t it be nice to receive similar sentiments in the midst of our adult days? To enjoy our lunch with a side of encouraging words? Why is it that, instead, our thoughts often trend toward discouragement and self-accusation?
On the surface, the answer may seem obvious. The world is messed up. We’re messed up. We aren’t sure what we should be doing to fix things, but we have a nagging feeling that, whatever it is, we need to be doing it faster and better.
But wait, if we feel that way, wouldn’t it be all the more reason our heavenly Father would want to communicate his love to us?
To put it in perspective, let’s imagine a five-year-old who’s having some difficulty settling into school. He opens his lunchbox and pulls out a note that says, “I hope you’re working harder today than yesterday. I expect to see some results. Are you reading as well as the other kids? I bet everyone else can at least tie their shoes. Finish eating your sandwich and stop being such a slacker.”
We wouldn’t dream of sending such a note. Yet, we may allow similar words to lodge in our minds and even attribute them to the one who loves us most.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 says, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”
Our creator knows what we need and he longs to provide it even more than an earthly parent does. When I was in kindergarten, every morning for the first half of the year, I cried for my mother. I missed her. I wanted her with me. I was homesick. At five years old, I was able to identify and articulate my longing. Decades later, I don’t think I do as well. When I feel sad, discouraged or lonely I often look around at my circumstances for the cause instead of realizing what I’m feeling is an intense longing for my Father and for home.
Jesus said we’re like little children and he wants us to cling to him. Instead, we tell ourselves to be stronger, work harder, grow up.
I think I would be wise to recapture the honesty of my five-year-old self. To look beyond my circumstances and recognize what I truly desire. To remember to be still, listen to the longing inside me and simply cry, “I want my daddy.”
The one who made us wants us to know we are precious to him. He said he is preparing a place for us. This earth is not it. We’re not supposed to settle in here. We were meant to long for more. For him. So he woos us with his Word and sends his affection in a thousand ways each day, splashing it across the sky in a sunrise, showering it down in a gust of wind and autumn leaves, sprinkling it into a baby’s first laughter.
Each expression of his love whispers tender truth. Healing. Passionate. Personal. A love note for a homesick daughter, tucked into the day like a note in a lunchbox, captivating mind and spirit and leading us into his embrace. That place of our longing. Home.
My Great Aunt Jorsey lived with us when I was growing up. Her name was Joyce, but she was called Joycie. I pronounced it with an r and never knew that was wrong until I was grown. Anyway, Aunt Jorsey liked to sit on the sofa, crocheting and dipping snuff. Sometimes I would plop down beside her and listen as she told stories about the olden days. One of those tales recounted the death of her sister, Cinda. That sounds like a horrific event to describe to a child, but I found it fascinating. You see, according to Aunt Jorsey, when Cinda took sick and died, there were others in the house who had been stricken with the same illness. Those who were well didn’t want the sick folks to know what had happened, so they slipped Cinda’s body out of the house through a window. As a kid, I knew nothing about the Spanish flu pandemic that took Cinda’s life. The account seemed other-worldly. A far-fetched fable from long ago and far away. It certainly had nothing to do with the life I knew. To be honest, I continued to see it that way until recent days.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I wish I knew more details, but no one who was actually there is still alive for me to question. Although the rest of the family survived the flu, everyone in that generation eventually succumbed to one thing or another. Even Aunt Jorsey, who lived into her nineties, ultimately left this earth.
Death is the global health crisis from which no one escapes. We are all infected. We know that, of course, but it’s stressful to think about. So we distract ourselves in all sorts of ways, attempting to slip that reality quietly out the window. But then something like the Corona virus comes along, the world grows dark with death, and we are forced to stay put and think about it.
In a way, it seems appropriate that the observance of Good Friday should occur during this time, when life as we know it has come to a halt. On a much greater scale, that’s what happened on the day Christ was crucified. The sun ceased to shine, and in darkness mankind was forced to be still and contemplate death.
So here I am today, doing just that. I’m thinking about Cinda and Jesus and COVID-19.
It occurs to me that, when Aunt Jorsey told me the story of Cinda’s death, I knew I could believe her, even though it sounded far-fetched, because she spoke of her own experience.
The account of Jesus’ death is far more horrific than that of Cinda. His resurrection is far more fascinating, unlikely and far-fetched. Yet, I believe those events actually happened for the same reason I believed my aunt. As I read the account in scripture, the very One who experienced it speaks to my heart.
I’ve been wondering what Cinda’s family thought about in the days and years following her death when they saw the window her body had passed through. I hope they didn’t look at it, but rather through it. I hope they felt the Holy Spirit speak to them of life in a blade of grass. And sunlight dancing through trees.
If a person had never seen those things and someone described them, would that person believe? Is it harder to trust that a tiny seed, buried in the dirt, can grow into a beautiful flower than that the one who created seeds and flowers can lay down his life and pick it up again?
I hope Cinda’s family knew that it was only her body they carried out that day. I hope the experience was a picture to them of another window, one that Cinda, as a follower of Christ, simply slipped through to begin her true and eternal life.
You can read the account of Jesus’ death and resurrection in Matthew 27-28, Mark 15-16, Luke 23-24 and John 19-20.
