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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After three weeks in a hotel (from a pipe bursting and our ceiling falling down), we came back to our newly renovated apartment! I was singing all day with anticipation of being home. But when we walked into the apartment it still smelled strongly of paint fumes. Alas, we couldn’t keep our baby there. I knocked on the neighbor’s door and asked if I could stay with Lucy there until we figured out what to do. I took Lucy to a friend’s house that night while Mike aired the apartment out.

For those 24 hours, I felt vulnerable. Babies are not quiet. It was awkward trying to soothe a screaming baby while my neighbor (who we just met) tried to do her homework. It was awkward to show up unannounced to my friends’ house and ask if I could keep them up all night with baby cries. And in the quick process of figuring out what to do, I forgot some crucial items. I had to ask for what we needed. I had to be fed. I had to feed my baby. My friends and neighbors are incredibly hospitable and gracious and were more than willing to help. They loved us well. But it still felt vulnerable to admit I needed a whole community to keep my baby safe that night.

This kind of vulnerability is not just an inconvenience that we have to put up with under unique circumstances. It’s actually not optional. Vulnerable interdependence is a key part of our thriving and is a part of how we are made in the image of God. Following Jesus means leaning upon one another, learning to love and be loved (Philippians 2).

A big part of God’s character is his willingness to make himself vulnerable to his creation. I see his vulnerability in John 21. After his best friend and closest disciple betrays him, he has the courage to tell Peter to “feed his sheep.” Jesus chooses to trust Peter, his friend who let him down, with who is most important to him, his “sheep.”

Lucy wasn’t feeling well the other day and as I rocked her I said over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” As I did, I felt God saying to me that he feels that same way towards me. Through the pain of broken trust, I snarkily but genuinely responded, “Well, God, since you love me, take care of my baby.”

Trust is vulnerable, especially after trust has been broken, and especially when it involves who is most precious to you. But this is the way of Jesus: choosing the messy path of vulnerable interdependence upon each other. This is the way of love. I think it’s the only way.

P.S. After the paint fumes went away, I love our new place! It’s beautiful and the baby room with all its memories of Julia is still largely in tact. I’m so grateful.

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At church the other day, they were singing the line “you are the same God.” I sang along, but some internal part of me kept resisting it. You’re not the same God. You’re really different now.

Our family was in our living room the other week when a huge gush of water poured through our apartment and then the ceiling over our bed collapsed! A pipe burst and they couldn’t get the water valve to turn off. Just a week later, Mike was in a car crash (hit by a sleepy driver who ran a red light). He’s doing okay but the car is gone.

When the pipe burst, all I could think about was the baby room. After our daughter, Julia, died, we didn’t change anything in that room. The poem that Mike wrote for Julia was still on the wall. The toddler chair where she sang us “EIO” that final night still sat exactly where she left it.

We’re going to try to put the nursery back together in the same way it was, but it won’t be the same. The floors will be laminate instead of carpet. The walls will be a different color. That toddler chair may be in the same position, but I will know it’s been moved.

My relationship with God feels a little like the apartment. In many ways, it looks the same as it did a few years ago. As I rock Lucy in the night I pray the same prayers that I prayed with Julia, “God, let her sleep. God, give me strength.” But nothing about that prayer is the same as before. There’s a voice there now, that haunts me constantly. Why do you even bother to pray? God didn’t answer your biggest prayer. You can’t trust him. And then there’s a part of me that keeps praying anyway. My relationship with God feels like it’s been flooded with dirty water and covered in pieces of broken dry wall.

That worship song is true: God is the same God. He is consistent in his character. The Scripture repeats the same phrase about him over and over: “God is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love” (Exodus 34, Jonah 3, Psalm 86, for example). This is who he is and will never change. But, my experience of him has changed significantly. How I relate to God is not the same as I did before trust was broken. We have to find a new way to connect.

God speaks through the prophet Haggai when the Israelites are grieving the destruction of the first temple — the place where they met with God. God says “The future glory of this Temple will be greater than its past glory” (Haggai 2:9). In their grief, there is a promise: God will rebuild their connection to him and it will be even better than before. But first they had to grieve. First they had to say goodbye to what they knew and loved in the first temple.

Right before Mike was in the car accident, a friend told him, “I think God wants to tell you that he’s making all things new, and it is good.” Mike is, in faith, believing that new is good, but right now it doesn’t feel good.

I trust that my relationship with God will be more beautiful than it was before. But first I have to grieve the change and the loss. I have to grieve that my prayer life feels like it got covered in pieces of broken dry wall, and that it has yet to be repaired.

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“Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Your ancestors ate manna and died, but whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.” - John 6: 57-58

"Feed on me and live" you say.
I don't think you mean a refined four-course dinner.
I think you're referring to a smash-your-face-onto-my-breast type of feeding.

The get-your-mouth-as-close-to-me-as-physically-possible
and-suck-hard-on-my-nipple-until-milk-shoots-into-you-like-a-spewing fountain-of-deliciousness type of feed.

Feed on me, you say —
like there’s nothing else in the world that matters as much as drinking the life source every hour.

Feed on me — when you're hungry, but also when you just want the good stuff. The really good stuff.
The stuff of comfort and closeness.

Feed on me because that's where you'll feel safe.
Thats where my arms hold you, my chest beats with your chest, and where we wrestle each other like bears until you're latched on tightly.

Feed on me so my skin can touch your skin,
so our temperatures match,
and we can speak tenderly to each other through the meeting of our eyes.

Feed on me until your body relaxes into total content
with your arms tucked under your head,
still safely resting on my chest.

Feed on me, little ones.
Because that’s what you're made to do.
Because you're made to live.

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I opened the dresser drawer in the nursery, looking for a hair bow for baby Lucy. Something glittery in the back of the drawer caught my attention: Julia’s sunglasses. I closed the drawer as fast as I could. Too painful. The hair bow was not worth it.

Later that afternoon an anonymous packaged arrived — a gift for Lucy. In it were these adorable baby sunglasses.

I didn’t make the connection until later that evening when I was chatting with my sister-in-law, Laura. She was asking me if it was painful to dress Lucy in Julia’s clothes. I recounted my painful moment with the sunglasses that morning. Laura connected the dots, “Don’t you think it interesting that baby sunglasses showed up anonymously on the same day?”

I see all of it, Kel. I heard Jesus saying to me. Every moment of unspoken pain. You don’t have to reuse Julia’s sunglasses. Lucy can have her own pair this time.

That night Mike and I asked the same question we ask every night: “How did you experience God today?” I answered, “through sunglasses.”

Sometimes we don’t recognize God moments in our lives without the help of others. My sleep-deprived brain couldn’t make the connection until Laura pointed it out. I need those moments of reflection each night with Mike to stop and reflect on how God might have been getting my attention and loving me.

One of my favorite moments in the gospel according to Mark is when Jesus interprets the disciples’ experiences around bread. They’re still thinking about literal bread when Jesus is trying to show them something profound about himself (Mark 6). Jesus does miracles with something as ordinary as bread and it takes the disciples several rounds of interpretation and reflection in community to begin to see it.

We won’t recognize God in our lives without community and without reflection. Who in your life helps you recognize God moments? What habits do you have to pause for reflection?

P.S. If you are the kind person who gifted us with those baby sunglasses, we’d love to hear from you so we can thank you! And if you gave us the Charlie Brown and Lucy dolls we’d love to thank you too. They’re so cute!

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I was asked to give a sermon at my church, reflecting on the lessons I’ve learned about God and church since losing my daughter to leukemia. If you’re new to my blog, or just curious of how to engage Jesus when he seems unresponsive to you, here’s a great starting place. If I could give just one message, this is what I’d say (click the link to the podcast above). Alternatively, you can find the message on Youtube here (scroll to about 20 minutes in).

*My interpretation of Matthew 15 is aided primarily through the commentary of Professor Tommy Givens. See: Light in the Shadow of Death: A Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew. Manuscript yet to be published.

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Mike and I are excited to introduce you to Lucy Mei Aalseth! Her name means “beautiful light” and Mei Mei means “little sister.”

Here is a poem I wrote to capture our anticipation of what it will mean to parent again after losing our first daughter to leukemia. How have you experienced loving again after heartbreak or loss?

To Love Again

I remember when I first met your sister.
First words out of my mouth were, “Is she mine?”
I didn’t recognize her dark hair.
Then I heard her high-pitched voice.
Perhaps this was my daughter.

Here was this little person who I didn’t know at all,
entrusted to me to love.
I would get to know her —
her cries, her strut, her subtle humor —
her surprise eruptions of delight
that made me pause and wonder.

And now here you are, Mei Mei, little sister.
Loving you is familiar. I’ve done this before.
And still, I have yet to know you.
I know I’ll see your sister, your dad, myself in you at times.
But you are you, Lucy Mei,
with your own strut and your own voice.

I want the familiar, and I fear it.
Familiar love does not mean a familiar goodbye,
I keep telling myself.
But now I am wiser to know that you are not mine,
though always my daughter.
You are leant to me from heaven and loving you means
practicing daily giving you back.

Loving you means letting the splintered memories
of lost joy be as they need to be,
without judgement,
as the familiar and the new
reveal themselves.

This kind of love, this again love,
is not a love I know yet how to give.
But I am giving it. And I am learning it.
Because what I know already, little one,
is you are worth it.

When I was a young leader at UCLA, there was a viral racist incident towards Asian Americans that set the whole campus astir. Wanting to do the right thing, I quickly joined in the protests, wrote letters to the faculty, and organized student prayer meetings. Then my campus staff at the time asked me something I will never forget: “Have you asked how your roommate is doing?” My roommate was Chinese American and it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask her how she was doing. Sometimes we can forget the people right next door to us, and even our own housemates.

My spouse, Mike, and I expected to go to the hospital on Tuesday to induce labor to have our second child. To our surprise, there were no hospital beds so we’ve been waiting around for a few days for something to open up. In the meantime, we’ve been taking lots of walks around our neighborhood and going for swims in the apartment complex pool.

As we’ve been waiting, something beautiful has occurred: We’ve gotten to know our neighbors. Neighbors have confided in us about the loss of family members, surgeries, parenting, and fears of crossing the border to visit family. One three-year-old girl has made Mike her new best friend and yells from across the lawn, “Mike, Mike I have something to show you!” She reminds us of our sweet Julia. New and old neighbors have listened to our story intently, prayed for us, given us gifts, and openly talked to us about their faith questions.

As we wait for a hospital bed, several friends have reminded us of the story of Jesus’s birth and there being “no room for them in the inn” (Luke 2). As I look back at the famous Christmas story, I am struck by how dependent Mary and Joseph were on the hospitality of neighbors. Their journey was not one they chose — it was one required by a power-hungry Caesar who wanted a census. And still, along their way, their neighbors had to look out for them, as they vulnerably expected their baby’s arrival in timing that was far out of their control. There were no hospitals and inns as we know them today, just the earnest hospitality of neighbors who would host them anywhere they could…even in a manger.

Mike wakes up each morning now, as we wait, asking “what divine appointment will we have today with our neighbors?” I love that. What if we asked that every day? And all we’ve had to do to receive such hospitality is take a walk.

How might your neighbors want to love you this week? Consider getting outside and sharing one vulnerable thing about your life with them.