It’s September — leukemia and childhood cancer awareness month! It’s also the month of our Julia’s birthday. A question stirred in me as I put on my “leukemia cancer awareness” shirt this morning: What exactly do I want people to be aware of?

It’s strange to wear shirts as if we are campaign experts. I know maybe just a sliver more about blood cancer than any random person I’d meet in the grocery store. I don’t actually know much at all, except that it came on so fast and likely no amount of awareness could have saved my daughter’s life.

So why do I wear this shirt? My daughter’s story is not everyone’s story. Most kids survive and most kids have far more warning than we did. There’s great scientific work being done to save more lives and I would love it if people gave towards that research. I’ve tried to learn more about what’s happening in this realm, but my heart can’t quite get there yet. I’m really proud of my father-in-law who has had a different form of leukemia (unrelated to Julia’s leukemia) for some time now and who has been actively learning about new treatments and progress. I wear my shirt for him too.

I think a big reason I’m wearing my shirt is because it’s an excuse to publicly grieve, for a whole month! I wish our culture had a practice of wearing special clothes or some other symbol of grief for longer than just a memorial service. There’s something deeply comforting to be able to share my story with others.

I was at the park yesterday with Lucy and a kind mother started talking to me about her kids. I wanted to talk to her about Julia too. I wanted to tell her how much Julia loved playing on the playground’s fire truck and how she sat in the wood chips the same way that Lucy does. But I decided to filter myself. My story may be too intense for this stranger at the park.

So wearing my shirt gives me permission to filter…less. Here’s my unfiltered list of things I really want people to know:

• “Is she your first?” is a question I am asked almost daily. I’ve gotten good at saying “No, my first is in heaven. She died of cancer at nineteen months.” I try to stay normal in tone. Some people match my tone and stay in conversation with me. Others just walk away because it’s too intense. I get it. But I’d love it if you’d let me set the tone and stay with me for a moment.

• My daughter Lucy has just entered the same developmental stage that Julia was in when she died. Every moment reminds me of Julia: the way Lucy laughs, and says “Tada!” and walks in circles around our house…the way she laughs at the troll in the water in the book, Los Tres Chivitos Gruff. Joy and sadness are constantly holding hands in my life right now. If you’re willing, I’d love to tell you about many of these moments and I’d love it if you would delight in both of my daughters with me.

Sometimes awareness and money and research can delay death for a little while. I hope this month you’d consider giving where you can. And I hope you know how much I treasure your awareness of our story…our story that likely would have been no different if we had more knowledge. Sometimes knowledge is not what we need as much as friendship. And we have some incredible friends. Thank you!

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My grief has manifested itself recently in my quest for who will replace “Bunny.” Bunny was my daughter Julia’s favorite stuffed animal. It was her primary comfort apart from Mama and Dada. Now Lucy is at the developmental stage in her life that she can pick her favorite comfort, but I have a lot of power to sway her decision. I’ve agonized over this. All her stuffies are adorable but none of them can replace Bunny. None of them deserve that spot of honor.

In the process of my agonizing, I’ve connected to a part of God’s heart for us. God really, really cares about our comforts. Nothing is too silly for him. He cares about our desires, our loves, the things that can calm us down when God seems absent. He thinks intentionally about who and what we can love and he is fully attentive to our reactions when he gives them to us. I think it gives God great delight to know we feel comfort and to know that we have what we need to survive the fearful things in this world.

AND, at some point, God knows when it’s time to start removing some of those comforts. I’ve had some of my comforts for so long that I don’t even recognize them as comforts. God has been kindly pointing them out to me, one by one.

Stories are a comfort to me. When I can tell a story, I feel safe. No matter the chaotic circumstances around me, if I can find the story line, then I feel like I have found God. This is my version of Bunny. It is how I have coped for much of my life. And recently, God has been showing me that stories are not God. He wants to give me something stronger than a story. He wants to give me himself.

Jesus had a similar thing to say to the religious leaders of his day. Their comfort was the Scripture. Could there be anything more holy than this? But even the Scripture is not God. There is something even more powerful than God’s words. More comforting than knowledge. Sweeter than Bunny.

If only we could recognize him.

“You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me, yet you refuse to come to me that you may have life.” - John 5:39-40

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Two of my proudest moments were when my daughters took their first steps. My oldest, Julia, took two steps, then four, then she walked all the way across the house and never looked back.

My youngest, Lucy, has had a different walking journey. A couple days ago, she took ten steps all by herself. They were solid steps. She did it exactly right. And then…she burst into tears! Something about the experience was completely overwhelming to her. She may have been scared to be without her mama’s hand, unsure of her own abilities, or maybe our cheers for her were a little too loud. Or maybe it was all just too new. I know she’ll take more and more steps on her own, but for now, she’s back to holding mama’s hand.

First steps take a ton of courage! Sometimes those first steps aren’t just disorienting, they are seismic. They make our whole world and how we operate in that world unfamiliar. And that can be very scary.

As a coach, I’m trained to help people take just a few steps towards their goals. Maybe it’s a first step towards a new career, a first step in reconciling with a friend, or a first step in changing a life rhythm. Sometimes those first steps are enough to send someone running all the way to the finish line. But sometimes those first steps are so overwhelmingly complex that we are tempted to call them unimpressive.

Here’s my encouragement for today:

1. Don’t discount your first steps! Even if you fall to the ground or if you feel too scared to take the next few steps, you just did a really brave thing! And that is worthy of celebrating.

2. Don’t be afraid to go find that hand to hold. The experience of taking those first steps might feel confusing or overwhelming. That does not mean you did it wrong or that you are going in the wrong direction. It may just mean you still need a hand to hold at times. Finding your help and encouragement will not be the hindrance to your progress. It may just be the assurance you need to keep at it.

I honestly don’t think there’s ever been anything in my life I’ve been more proud of than to see my daughters be so brave to take their first steps. Nothing compares. This is God’s heart for us when we step out in courage and take some first steps, in whatever direction he is calling us. He is so so so so proud of you.

I hear your sound machine through the baby monitor.
The day is done, time to rest.
Still, an ear always listening for you.
To make sure you’re okay.

There was a season when I didn’t hear the sound machine.
Just silence. Horrific, stomach-churning silence.
My ears didn’t have to listen anymore.
There was no one to listen for.

There is comfort in the sound machine.
I have someone here to love, again.
Someone to keep me from sleeping too deeply.
Even so, the sound haunts me
with the memory of its disappearance.

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I struggle with confidence. I frequently doubt my decisions. I am good at collaborating and receiving feedback from others. But part of my maturing and growing into adulthood means relying less heavily on the opinions of others and finding my own internal voice of authority. I’m growing in this. Here’s a prayer that I wrote recently. I hope it can be helpful for you too if you are also one who doubts yourself.

A PRAYER FOR CONFIDENCE

I have authority within me.
It is not contingent on what others say of me.
I have authority because of internal work with Jesus.

It comes from listening to Jesus and doing what he says.
It comes from running to Jesus amidst suffering.
It comes from asking the questions I am scared to ask.

I have authority because God is with me.
I have authority because the Holy Spirit gives me words, ideas, and wisdom.
I have authority because Jesus says I am his, I am one whom he loves.

And should the opinion of the world matter, I can play that game.
I have degrees. I have experience. I have integrity.
I am stewarding the gifts God has given.

And though my authority is called into question now,
though I search for an outside authority to assure me,
that my inside authority is valid,

I do not need it.

Because as I slow down now, I can see the undercurrent of God’s work in my life.
The greater win is not that an outsider legitimates me,
but that I am noticing the works of God within me.

God is making me confident.
God is helping me lean upon what he has built up inside of me
through the work of the generations who have gone before me.

God is making me an adult.
I carry the wisdom of my mother and my father.
I carry the wisdom of my own motherhood.

I do not have to crumble. I do not have to panic.
If I listen closely, there is a nurturing and protective voice
inside me, that reflects the image of God.

I can breathe. I can rest.
Knowing Jesus is my Shepherd.
From forever ago to forever from now.

Amen.

We put no confidence in human effort, though I could have confidence in my own effort if anyone could. Indeed, if others have reason for confidence in their own efforts, I have even more!… I once thought these things were valuable, but now I consider them worthless because of what Christ has done. Yes, everything else is worthless when compared with the infinite value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. — Philippians 3: 3-4, 7-8

This is my fourth and final excerpt from my final seminary paper on the question, “Is Death an Enemy or a Friend?”

My imagination enjoys thinking about new creation — the time after God judges the world and makes all things new (Isaiah 65:17, Revelation 21:5). I can imagine being reunited with those I love and living as our best selves in a world with only good and no evil.

But my imagination struggles when I think about what is happening in the in-between space, after death, but before we are resurrected into new life. When people are baptized, we talk about the symbolism of going into the water: dying to our old selves and coming up, alive with Jesus. I understand (at least in part) the going down and the coming up, but what about the time when we are under, fully submerged in the water? To be more forward, I wonder what is happening to my daughter as her body is buried and decomposing? Is Jesus anywhere to be found there? Thinking about this question terrifies me.

J. Todd Billings, in his book, Rejoicing in Lament, writes, “Death seems like the doorway to a world of the unknown.”1 Anything unknown is scary to me, but this unknown feels particularly haunting. It is the ultimate sign of my human finitude. I cannot and will never know all things, as God does.

Davison and Evans, in their book Care for the Dying, encourage me: “just as the words from the Creed ‘[he] died’ are an astonishing witness to God’s solidarity with humanity, so too are the words ‘[he] was buried’. As Jesus had said, ‘for three days and three nights the Son of Man will be in the heart of the earth’ (Matt. 12.40).”2

Jesus is the only one who has been to the grave and can now tell us what it is like. He not only understands the suffering of the dying process, and the fullness of life in resurrection, but he understands what it means to be in the grave.

Jesus is the Good Shepherd in every aspect of human life, including the process of dying and of being dead (John 10). The thought of what is happening to my daughter now, in the grave and beyond, is terrifying because I do not know it and cannot see it. But the grace of Jesus is that he has been there and he does know. And I can trust that he is forming my daughter into the most complete creature, making her fully human, making her new, just as he is doing so with me now.

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. — John 12:24

We were created. That means we are finite creatures. Sometimes we assume that, as God makes us new, we will become limitless or all-knowing. We say things like, “When I get to heaven, God will answer all my questions.” I don’t think that’s true. J. Todd Billings in his book Rejoicing in Lament, writes, “Even in the final chapter, we will still be creatures, and God will be God. Only God will know God as God. We will still be worshiping the Triune God as the illuminating source of all light and life, a mystery beyond ourselves.”1

Kelly M. Kapic in his bookYou’re Only Human, makes a helpful distinction: creatureliness is not sin2 We keep asking for forgiveness for being limited but limitation itself is not evil. It is how we were designed.

In Genesis 3, God guards the way to the “tree of life” not because he does not want us to live, but because the only way we can live is by preserving our creatureliness. If we try to become God, we come to our ruin. Preserving our humanity, including our limitations, is a part of God’s way of saving our lives.

Mike and I just made it through Mother’s Day — the day our daughter died two years ago. Grieving the death of a child can put strain on your marriage because you both need comfort, but there are times you have little to offer each other. I wish Mike could have gone through the anniversary of the hardest day of his life not having to think about honoring me as a mother. I’m really impressed by Mike, though, because he did love me well yesterday, and he acknowledged his limits. Often, in the last two years, we have had to tell each other that we can’t carry each other’s grief while carrying our own. It’s too heavy. We need God. And we need the wider network of support that God has given us. We can hold each other, but we can’t be God to each other.

This is really hard to acknowledge, and yet, embracing our limits is what keeps our marriage and friendship strong. Having limitations is how God designed us, and he designed us beautifully.

And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.

– Genesis 3:22-24

In my previous post, I explored the ways that different theologians, historical and current, view death. Some see death as an enemy to be conquered. Others see death as a friend to be embraced.

One explanation for our wide range of views on death is that we are made in the image of the Trinity who is complex in emotion. D.W. Augsburger in “The Question of Evil,” writes about our developmental stages for processing why a good God allows evil and suffering. He writes about three stages that parallel that of the images of the Trinity: “surrender, protest and solidarity.”^[2] We surrender to the Father, protest with Jesus, and join the Holy Spirit in solidarity with others.

We protest with Jesus when we lament our pain, when we cry out in anger and when we say “no more!”

We surrender to the Father when we recognize we do not know everything and that we live in the eternal mystery of God, recognizing that we are only creatures.

We join the Holy Spirit in solidarity when we embrace our limitations for the sake of others. The apostle Paul writes to the Philippians church, “make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind” and then continues to write about Jesus’s death and resurrection as the ultimate sign of solidarity (Philippians 2).

In my own grief, I have found myself dancing between these three stages, depending on the day or the season. There are times that any suggestion that my pain could benefit others, makes me only want to protest more. Other times, I have nothing in me left to protest and all I can do is give a deep breath of surrender. None of these postures are wrong. They are all welcomed and modeled by God.

Where do you find yourself today? Which direction do you want to be stretched (surrender, protest, solidarity)?

In my next post I will explore more of how our creatureliness is part of God’s good design for being human.

^[1] D. W. Augsburger.The Question of Evil: An answer from, not to Job, (p 129). In K. J. Grieder, D. van Deusen Hunsinger, & F. Brock Kelcourse (Eds.), Depth Psychology and The Pastoral Ministry. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010.

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I finished seminary! After seven years of classes, I now have a Master’s in Theology (MAT) from Fuller Seminary. I’ll celebrate officially in June!

For now, I want to leave you with some excerpts from my final paper. I took a class on “Death, Loss, Grief and Dying” with Professor Bill Roozeboom, mostly to help me keep processing the death of my daughter, Julia, but also to learn more about what it means to live as a follower of Jesus in light of the reality of death. I’ll spend the next few weeks offering you some of my insights.

Here’s Part 1:

When my toddler died suddenly from leukemia, I was met with two contrasting responses. Many people who’ve been touched by cancer used war language to describe it. My daughter became a “leukemia warrior” even though her “fight” was only twenty-four hours long. Another narrative was that God was “gentle” to her, preventing her from having to do years of chemotherapy, and letting her die quickly. Neither of these narratives have been particularly comforting to me as my brain tries to make sense of her dying. Now, almost two years later, I still wonder if death is an enemy or a friend. Was it an enemy or a friend to my daughter whose own white blood cells rapidly multiplied? Jesus wants us to have life abundantly, so is there any of Jesus’s life in death (John 10:10)? Is there anything good about our finitude?

This enemy and friend language in connection to death has been used and debated throughout church history. Davison and Evans in their book, Care for the Dying, explain the arguments of the church fathers: St. Augustine viewed death as an enemy. 1 Corinthians 15:26 says “the last enemy to be destroyed is death.” St. Ambrose viewed death as a friend. Paul writes that his “desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better” (Philippians 1:23).^[1]

The debate continues today with contemporary theologians. J. Todd Billings who writes about his own journey with cancer, in Rejoicing in Lament, says, “It may feel like death itself is a kind of grace…even then, death is an enemy.”^[2] His invitation to action therefore, when faced with death, is to join with the Psalmists, and lament. Mitchell and Anderson in their book, All Our Losses, All Our Griefs, pose an intriguing thesis: “Only when a life is rounded off by death are we able to see it whole. Our finitude is a sign of providence. God, who has given us what we are, has set the limits to our existence; to be human is to be finite, and that is good.”^[3]

Death is the ultimate marker of our finitude, our limitations, our lack of control. It is a part of what it means to be human. We are not God. We are limited creatures. And even in the new creation, after God makes all things new, we will STILL be creatures, living under the mystery and majesty of God.

In my next post, I will explore more of how our limits as human beings can indeed be good, and how Jesus shows us what it means to be fully human.

^[1] Andrew Davison and Sioned Evans. Care for the Dying: A practical and pastoral guide. (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2014), 14.

^[2] J. Todd. Billings. Rejoicing in Lament: Wrestling with Incurable Cancer & Life in Christ. (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Brazos Press, 2015), 11.

^[3] Kenneth R. Mitchell and Herbert Anderson. All Our Losses, All Our Griefs: Resources for Pastoral Care. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1983), 25.

“Let your sweetness rest on us
and when we create,
be the firm foundation
of everything our hands make.”

- Psalm 90:17 (translated by Carey Wallace in Psalms of Wonder: Poems from the Book of Psalms)

There can be other foundations to our creativity besides God: ego, fear, a drive to completion, a need to be impressive, for examples. I remember doing a coloring project in elementary school and my teacher held up my paper and said “this is an example of how not to color” (I was not coloring within the lines). Now, any time I try to create — whether it be a written article, a work presentation, or picking out pillows for my couch — it’s hard not to hear some version of my teacher’s voice in my head before I even get started in the creative process. What if what I create is really bad? What if nobody reads what I write? What if I say something unoriginal or inaccurate or not within the appropriate lines of expectation?

I’m learning how to let Jesus be the foundation of my creative processes. I’ve found Jesus is much kinder than that elementary school teacher. He does not shame me into perfection but unlocks my best creativity through playful collaboration. My product and my process are more excellent and more fun when I create with Jesus.

Here are some tips I’ve discovered to letting Jesus rather than ego lead the creative process:

1. Invite Jesus into your creative process. It sounds simple enough, but sometimes I need to take one minute before starting to work to ask Jesus to help me be creative. It reminds me that he is with me, that there is freedom to be messy, and that I am not alone in my creating.

2. Remember you are made in the image of God, the Creator. You may not feel like you’re a creative person. Your job may not feel like it lends itself to creativity. But you are made in God’s image and God creates. You were made to create. In whatever you’re working on right now, whether it’s breastfeeding a baby, plunging a toilet, writing a book, counseling a friend, or making spreadsheets on the computer — God wants to help you be your creative self in that space.

3. Play before you critique. Critique can make your art better, but it also can hinder you from creating at all. You need to play and get messy to let ideas flow. And you need time to edit and refine. But don’t start with the editing. Start with the play. Don’t let anyone tell you to color within the lines until you’re ready for that stage of the creative process. God is a playful God. Let him teach you how to play.

4. Ask God how big. Not everything you do has to be your best work. A short personal blog does not have to be as well crafted as a book chapter. A presentation for your weekly team meeting does not have to be as excellent as speaking in front of your whole organization (or perhaps the team meeting matters more). You can ask God how excellent something needs to be. Often I hear God saying to me, “It’s not that big. Let it go. Time to be done.”

5. Take a break to collaborate. Jesus loves to create in the context of community. Take some breaks. Ask Jesus what he thinks of your work so far. What does he love about it? What does he love about you? Then ask him if there’s someone else you can collaborate with too. Someone who might encourage you? Someone who will be honest with you? You don’t have to keep swimming in your own fears and critiques. You can ask for help.

As we learn to create with Jesus, there is a sweetness that comes over us. But it’s not the sweetness of knowing we have achieved a certain level of excellence. It’s the sweetness of knowing that we are loved by God who created us and knows us and who teaches us how to playfully create with him…which often produces our best work.

Questions for Reflection:

1. In the things you’re working on right now (vocationally, recreationally, relationally), where is there room for more creativity? How does thinking about what you’re doing from a creative standpoint help you to engage with it more playfully?

2. What or who leads your creative process the most often? (Ego, fear, fatigue, people-pleasing?)

3. What is one way you want to invite Jesus into what you’re working on?

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“Let your servants see you act!
Show their children your glory!”

Psalm 90:16 (translated by Carey Wallace in Psalms of Wonder: Poems from the Book of Psalms)

This petition in the Psalm reminds me of El Camino College. My colleague, Coral Taluban, is the InterVarsity staff at this campus and prays prayers like this one often for the students there.

El Camino College borders several diverse cities, including Compton and Gardena, and 84% of students are students of color. Here is one example of the complex history of this area: In 1942, there were a large amount of Japanese Americans living in this area who were forcibly ripped from their homes into internment camps during World War II.1 African Americans were freed from slavery on paper, but were prohibited in most places from buying and renting houses. In 1948, when racially exclusive housing was declared unconstitutional, many African American families moved into the vacant homes.

In 1965, the Watts Riots occurred in this area, as people protested police brutality. 14,000 members of the national guard came, 34 people died, and there was $40 million of property damage.2 This was followed by the 1992 LA Riots after the acquittal of the police officers who used excessive force against Rodney King. White supremacy and injustice has left its mark on these neighborhoods, and the students who attend El Camino College still feel the effects.

Coral tells me that her students hold incredible amounts of responsibility. Many of them work two or three jobs while being full time students. It’s common for students to be caretakers to several other siblings while their parents work late hours. Finances are tight and they deal with physical illnesses themselves or are taking care of ailing parents. The students have faith in God and say they know God will take care of them, but Coral can see that they are weary and that they feel like it’s all on them to hold things together. Hope looks mostly like survival.

Coral’s call to campus ministry began with the prayers of her mother. Her mom met God when she worked at Cal State Long Beach in the 1980s. She would prayer walk the campus, asking God to send someone to help the students find God. Her mom saw the answer to those prayers when Coral decided to come on staff with InterVarsity at CSULB thirty+ years later. Coral, and her mom, have seen the miracles of God. Coral saw God heal a student’s shoulder. It sparked so much faith in students that they started regular prayer meetings on the rooftop of a parking garage in the middle of the night!

And now Coral’s heart aches for more of God. Like her mom, she is now prayer walking at El Camino College. She prays, Let the children of your servants — in one of the oldest areas of the county, in an area where injustices have trickled down to each generation — let them see you act. Let them see your glory. For, as Coral says, “if they did, it would transform the way they live their lives. They would have hope for more than just survival.”

Questions For Reflection:

1. How have you experienced or witnessed the generational impact of injustice?

2. How does your heart yearn with the Psalmist to see more of God’s power and healing for the generations to come? Who are the “children” you are praying for?

If you would like to support Coral’s work in InterVarsity at El Camino College, you can do so here: Support Coral Taluban. (Pictured below: Coral and her mom)

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Psalm 90:13-15

“Every morning fill us up
with your loving kindness.
Let us sing with gladness
all of our days.
Come back to us, Lord!
How long will you wait?
Give us as much joy
as the trouble we’ve seen.”

(translated by Carey Wallace in Psalms of Wonder: Poems from the Book of Psalms)

The Psalmist inhales God’s lovingkindness while exhaling deep lament. The Psalmist does not erase lament with joy, but still boldly requests that God give as much joy as what’s been taken. I lost a daughter, Julia, at nineteen-months and have a six-month-old now, Lucy. Lucy does not and will never replace Julia. The wound is still so fresh and deep and perhaps even more painful as time goes on away from her. And also, Lucy brings me the purest joy. Some days, holding the complexity of emotion feels overwhelming. But then I keep returning to the prayer that Jesus would fill us up with lovingkindness, every morning. That is the only way forward.

Here’s a poem to capture this dynamic:

Joy and trouble
in the same breath.

In the same breath, I say, your smile is huge!
And, I miss your sister’s serious glares.

In the same breath, I say, look how you’re growing!
And, she never got bigger than this.

In the same breath, I say, this toy is so fun!
And, this was her toy. Ouch.

In the same breath, I say, let’s read this book!
And, she’s supposed to read that line.

In the same breath, I say, let’s play the ukulele!
And, not that song though.

In the same breath, I say, I love this life!
And, when will it suddenly end, again?

Joy and trouble
in the same breath.

Every morning.
Love me Jesus.
Every morning.
In the same breath.

For Your Reflection:
1. How have you experienced lovingkindness recently? Dwell in that memory for a moment and think about how that feels to you to be loved.
2. What are you lamenting today? What is troubling?
3. Take a few deep breaths. Inhale God’s lovingkindness. Exhale your lament.

“Make our Hearts Wise” - Psalm 90:12

My job, in simple terms, is to help emerging adults grow in wisdom. I train them in life and leadership skills, but the hardest thing to train is wisdom. How do you train someone to be discerning? How do you teach someone to make wise choices and to sift through truth and lies? Is it something that can be taught or only learned by life experience?

I’ve been thinking for a while now if I were to give a two-hour training on growing in wisdom, what would I do? What would you do? Are there things we can tangibly do to grow in wisdom?

This is not a training, as much as a poem, but I think it captures some of the heart of what I would want to offer emerging adults, or perhaps, my daughter someday. It’s what has been offered to me, and what I am still learning:

Dear one,

You want to grow in wisdom?

Listen to Jesus — to his written word, and to the Holy Spirit. He has so much to tell you.

Listen to the prophets, pastors, and poets. They are not always the same. Prophets will make you question, pastors will encourage you, and poets will make you feel. You need all of them.

Listen to the streets. To the people holding signs. To the people who ask you for money.

Listen to your body and the stories it tells you. To your desires and needs deep within.

Listen to people who are younger, older, disabled, neurodivergent, marginalized. Listen to people who are Black, Indigenous, and People of Color. Listen to people who are Queer.

Listen to people from all over the globe.

Listen to the stories of saints already gone.

Listen to your friends and family who love you enough to be honest.

And then after you have listened, ask yourself, what did I hear?

Then listen to Jesus more. And do what he says.

“Before the birth of the world, before the mountain ranges
Forever to forever you are always God.
In your eyes, a thousand years is like a day just gone.
So teach us to count our days.
Make our hearts wise.”

- Psalm 90:2,4,12 as translated by Carrey Wallace in Psalms of Wonder: Poems from the Book of Psalms

The night before my daughter, Julia, passed away, I was reading Paper Girls, a comic book having to do with time travel. I couldn’t get that book out of my head after she died. Why can’t we just rewind time? Please, oh please let me rewind time!

I’ve wondered how time works in heaven. Is God outside of time? Is Julia on another timeline, like the Avengers? Am I on her timeline where she is?

Alas, those stories of time travel and separate timelines are not very Biblical. God has never promised to do away with our timeline or to rewind it. Rather, he’s chosen to insert himself right in the middle of our timeline and to transform it from the center. My professor explained it this way: “God is pulling the past, and pulling the future into this incarnation and redemption of bodies” (See Romans 8:22). God with us, will meet us in our present, our memories, and our dreams.

It seems a bit like salt-in-the-wound for the Psalmist to invite us to pray “teach us to count our days.” Those of us who have experienced trauma, on a personal or communal level, are already counting our days. I count every day with my daughter, Lucy, and wonder if she will make it longer than Julia’s 19 months. I don’t take any day for granted now.

But I’m not sure the message of the Psalmist is to stop taking life for granted or to make the most of our lives, as if the pressure is on us to get life just right. Rather, the message of the Psalmist is to remember our mortality and our insignificance, in contrast to the power of God who determines the length of days.

How does understanding this make us wise? Perhaps it is helpful to look at those who have forgotten their mortality, who have forgotten that they are “like grass.” They have certainly caused a lot of sorrow. But they too, are mortals. They will soon wither and be subjected to the wrath of God. Their thousand year reign will be gone in just a day.

Forever to forever, you are always God.

Questions for Reflection:

1. Invite Jesus to meet you right now, in this present moment. How might he want to speak to you about your past memories, and your future dreams as he ministers to you in the present?

2. How might you be discouraged by those who have forgotten their mortality and by the injustices that they have enacted? How does God’s eternal reign in comparison to human mortality give you hope for your community and for the world?

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“Oh Lord, you have been our home through every generation.” - Psalm 90:1

I spent the last couple months putting my home back together after a pipe burst and the ceiling above our bed collapsed. I’m not an interior designer but I know when something feels off. I’ve spent weeks deliberating on the colors of curtains and pillows because it just didn’t feel peaceful to me yet. I’ve learned about the importance of plants and lighting and warm colors. With the help of some great friends and family, the place finally feels like home. I breathe better and deeper when I walk into my bedroom now. Here’s a before, middle and after picture (you can see how bad my first attempt at decorating was!)

My sister-in-law, Tiffany Tao Joiner, painted the beautiful artwork above the bed (see more of her artwork here: www.levelinghills.com).

I love my new room, but the process of getting my home back made me feel so restless. I can’t be at peace until my home feels at peace.

Psalm 90 is titled “A prayer of Moses” and is thought to have been written in the season when the Israelites were wondering in the wilderness with no home. They knew restlessness on the deepest of levels. Perhaps this psalm could also be titled, “A prayer of the disappeared because of ICE.” or “A prayer of Palestinian babies still under the rubble.” or “A prayer of Altadena.” There are so many people who have lost their home due to oppression or to natural disasters this year. It has been a year of restlessness.

The Psalmist begins his restless prayer with a declarative statement about God and home. In the midst of restlessness, where home is not home yet, God is that home. He is that place of stability, of peace, and safety. And his home is not just for one family or one generation. It’s a home for every generation. God, our home, is consistent and eternal. He won’t wear out and he’s not going away.

Here are some questions I’m reflecting on that I offer to you as well:

1. What are you restless about? In what ways are you yearning for more peace, stability, or safety?

2. For who else are you restless? Who do you know is without home or peace right now? How does Moses’s prayer stir you to pray?

3. What do you sense, feel, imagine when you think about home? How do those feelings help you sense, feel or imagine God?

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I am 40 years old today. Here are 3 things I’m thinking about:

1. Psalm 90

2. The Very Hungry Caterpillar*

3. Lucy’s mirror

I memorized Psalm 90 this month and I pray it with Lucy every night. I particularly relate to the line that says “Teach us to count our days. Make our hearts wise” (verse 12). I’m acutely aware, after losing Julia at 19-months-old, that life is short and we have no idea how many days we will get. I’m also feeling the reality that 40 is “mid-life” as society defines it. I’m asking a lot of questions about purpose and parenthood and character, wanting to make sure I “get it right.” Praying this prayer each night reminds me that I can ask God for help and He will teach me what is right and good for living.

I’ve read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Lucy dozens of times. I read it last night and identified with that caterpillar who ate so many sweets that he had a stomachache. Then I started wondering, what’s my “nice green leaf to eat and my cocoon to build around myself” that helps me in my becoming? Listening to God’s voice, surrounding myself with friends…there are many things that are helping me become who I was meant to be, and I want to focus there.

Lucy gets her dopamine kick every time she looks in the mirror. I’m not sure she realizes yet that she’s not looking at another baby, but I just love how much she loves looking at herself. I want to be like Lucy. When I look in the mirror I see a body that has been through almost two decades of chronic pain, two childbirths, and grief beyond measure. But I also see a resilient and strong body that has somehow carried me through 40 years of life. I want to celebrate that and light up as much as Lucy does when I look at myself.

Cheers to being 40!

*Carle, Eric. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Puffin, 1994.

I have an obsession with finishing things. When I think of what would make me the most happy, I think about walking across the stage to celebrate the completion of my Master’s degree, or holding my published book, or having paintings and plants on the walls of my bedroom so that it feels finished.

Having a newborn baby (or four-month-old now) means I rarely complete anything. I sit down to write or fold laundry or watch a TV show and I am quickly interrupted. It makes me wonder what to do with this part of me that likes to complete things. Telling myself to just “enjoy the process” doesn’t work for me. But without some sort of correction in my thinking, I will wind up perpetually irritated.

I came across this quote in an Advent reading this week: “The end for which we’ve been created is to know God and to enjoy God forever” (from the Westminster Shorter Catechism). I wonder what life would be like if I changed my goal. What if my “ending” was not a Master’s Degree or a published book, but to know and enjoy God forever?

I had a dream the other night that I had to get rid of all my books and board games (which are some of my most treasured possessions) because there was not space in my home for them. Then I went to the library and discovered they were all there — every single one of them! I was so relieved. After I woke up, I asked God to interpret this dream. I sensed him saying, “Kelly, I have all of it here for you. All your stories, your memories, your hopes, your future.”

I wonder if I can write my book and work on my degree believing that God is holding it all for me. If I lose my train of thought because my daughter wakes up from her nap — he’ll help me find the thought again. If it takes me five years to finish writing a book, God will keep my book for me. I don’t have to hold my breath wondering if it will ever get published.

Perhaps I need to stop telling myself to just “enjoy the process” but rather, to tell myself to enjoy God — God who has all the time in the world to fulfill my desires and to complete my character. He can hold it all. Even when my brain is functioning on very little sleep and Christmas sugar cookies, he will help me get where I am supposed to go. He likes finishing things too.

“…he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 1:6

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I’ve searched my seminary books, had thoughtful conversations, opened my imagination…trying to wrap my brain around the concept of life after death. But there’s a part of me that I’ve been afraid to face — the part that keeps telling me that heaven can’t be real, and that maybe we made it all up to comfort ourselves. I decided to face that part of me and to listen to it, without arguing. Here’s what I discovered:

I have a problem with heaven not because of theology, and not because of a lack of imagination. I have a problem with heaven because heaven doesn’t help me with death. Heaven, or talks of it, dismisses the reality that my daughter is dead and she’s not coming back. It feels like denial.

I keep looking for where Jesus was in that moment when my daughter died. I need him to show me that he wasn’t there tauntingly holding back his power. I keep expecting him to turn the corner in my memory and say something like “peekaboo I was here the whole time, you just didn’t see me!” But he never does that. That’s too similar to “it’s okay, you’ll see her in heaven someday.”

But the other day I did experience Jesus — the real Jesus, not the peekaboo Jesus. This is what he showed me. He showed me that that moment of me holding my dying daughter in my arms is a moment that he will remember for all of eternity and it will never, never, never be okay. He told me that, just like Rachel’s tears will be remembered anytime Jesus’s story is told, he will never forget my tears (Jer. 31:15, Matt. 2:18). “It will never be okay, Kel. Not even heaven makes it okay.”

I do believe heaven is real. But it’s not a dismissive heaven. It’s a heaven led by Jesus who still carries the scars of death on his own body (John 20:20).

—

A Poem: Why Do I Believe There’s A Heaven?

Because I’ve seen birth—
something invisible coming into being.

Because after Jairus’s daughter died,
Jesus said, “Do not be afraid. Trust me.”

Because Paul said death can’t
separate us from God’s love.

Because I pray
like there’s a heaven.

Because we sang, “somewhere over there rainbow
there’s a land that I heard of…”

Because sometimes I hear her voice
coaching me in how to parent.

Because the apostles
put their lives on it.

Because why should I live
if there isn’t?

Because when Mary and Martha said, “Lord if you had been here”
they couldn’t imagine it either.

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We sang at church on Sunday, “I sought the Lord and he heard and he answered, that’s why I trust in him.”*

That’s not enough reason for me to trust him. At least not right now. The wound is too fresh and too deep. I sought the Lord. He didn’t answer. Maybe someday I can zoom out and see all the prayers he did answer for me, and have that be enough, but right now I can’t get around the one that he didn’t.

Thankfully, my trust in Jesus does not solely rely on seeing him answer prayer. Most of the people in God’s story did not see him answer their prayers.

The book of Hebrews talks about the heroes of faith in this way: “All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth (Hebrews 11:13).

They could trust God because they saw themselves in a bigger story — one that was intergenerational. They could see backwards and forwards on a much bigger timeline than just their own lifetime.

They could trust because they believed in what was unseen — spiritual forces outside of themselves and justice and peace they had never yet experienced.

It helps me to look backwards and forwards and through. The Bible talks about creation “groaning as in pains of childbirth” (Romans 8:22). God is making a new heaven and new earth that will be as surprising and enchanting as a baby experiencing life outside the womb for the first time.

Answered prayers are just a small glimpse into the eternal, global, and intergenerational world that Jesus is making new. The answered prayers we experience today are like the sound of a mama’s voice to a baby still inside the womb. It’s wonderful and comforting and real but still “distant.”

So my trust does not hinge on God answering prayer, especially not my prayer alone. Rather, when I do experience the sweetness of answered prayer, it reveals to me more of what the community of believers from generations past have been telling us about the goodness that is coming.

That’s why I can tell Jesus that those song lyrics sting, and our relationship doesn’t shatter. Though on some days, it really really stings.

*Elevation Worship. “Trust in God.” Can you Imagine?, 2023.

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In InterVarsity (the college ministry where I’ve led for 21 years), we make a big deal about decisions to follow Jesus. This year we counted 2,671 first-time decisions to follow Jesus across the United States. Discipleship with Jesus is a daily decision to “act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God” (Micah 6:8). But these formal moments of decision play a key part in our lives with God too.

I recently made a decision to dedicate my baby, Lucy, to God. I had previously dedicated my first-born daughter, Julia, to Jesus. She passed away from leukemia at 19-months of age. The night before Lucy’s baby dedication, I felt physically sick, sweating and headachy. My body knew grief before my brain caught up. I prayed, God, I dedicated Julia to you. And you took her from me. Can’t I keep one baby for myself? I don't want to give Lucy to you too. I pondered if I could hold to my commitment to follow Jesus and to teach my daughter about him. I’m still so mad at him.

An old hymn hummed in my mind, “I have decided to follow Jesus…no turning back, no turning back.” I had already decided, when I was six years old, to follow Jesus. But I needed to decide again. I wrote in my journal, “God, I’m still in this with you.” I made bullet-pointed list as to why I’m still committed to him, though it still had several asterisks and question marks.

The morning of the baby dedication, Lucy had a blow out diaper, and spit up all over her cute dress that I had planned for her to wear. After washing and drying her dress, in my haste to get out the door, I spilled my water bottle all over both of us. Getting an infant dressed and to church on time, hoping they don’t scream on stage, feels unnecessarily torturous. But I’m glad we got dressed up. I’m glad we got a cake. I’m glad we took pictures, and had the whole family come over to celebrate. Because it is a big deal.

It made me reflect on what it is we are celebrating when we make these faith decisions:

1. We celebrate the work of the Holy Spirit. When we have moments of decision or commitment, it is because the Spirit has been convicting and inviting us into a decision point. He’s gotten our attention. His actions towards us and for us are what we celebrate. His transformative work in our lives will be ongoing and eternal. (Philippians 1:6, 2:13)

2. We celebrate the courage it takes to make the decision. Decisions to follow Jesus are costly. It can mean a break in family trust, a giving up of resources, a change in career path, a surrender of desires, an honest wrestling with our distrust and pain. For some, it means imprisonment and even literal death. It’s courageous to say yes. (Romans 5:3-5, James 1:2)

3. We celebrate every decision. Some people make a decision to trust Jesus for the first time. Others grew up with family faith traditions but decide to make a commitment as an adult. Others make a recommitment after a season of hardship. Some make a decision with certainty. Others take a small, cautious first step. All of these faith decisions and steps in the discipleship process are worthy of celebration. (Mark 4:26-29)

4. We celebrate in community. I dedicated my daughters to Jesus with my friends in front of my whole community, because when I’m doubting and angry with God, I can be encouraged that others have suffered too and are still saying yes to Jesus. When I can’t remember why I follow Jesus, I can remember the global and historical church and those who have given up everything because of their belief in Jesus’s worthiness. (Luke 15:11-32)

5. We celebrate God’s loyalty to us. That church hymn that was playing in my head, “I have decided to follow Jesus,” can be a bit confusing…is it our decision that saves us or God’s grace and how much weight do we put on the decision? It’s good that we make the decision and celebrate it, but our decisiveness and loyalty is not enough to lead us into holiness. It’s God’s fierce loyalty to us that makes us into disciples. (2 Timothy 2:13, Romans 5:8, 8:10)

Deciding to trust Jesus with my life, and with my daughters’ lives is something I will need help with hourly, but I am glad I had this formal time of dedication. Whether I’m changing diapers in the middle of the night, sending my baby off to college, or remembering my first-born, I can look back to this time and remember that I made a commitment, in community, to trust Jesus with their lives. And Jesus, in his faithfulness, will help me stick to that commitment.

What would you add to my list? What have been moments of faith decision in your life that you want to remember or celebrate?

*pictured: my good friend, Heather, and I dedicating our baby girls together. We also got to dedicate our first-born kids together too, with our small group and families.

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