Church

REFUGE

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There are a few sections of our yard that are overgrown. As weird as that may sound, it’s intentional. We want to have pockets that are all natural, even if that means they look a little crazy. Those natural patches provide a refuge for the things we want to welcome into our yard. 

Birds. 

Frogs. 

Pollinators. 

Squirrels. 

The occasional rabbit. 

We love all these little guys. Seeing them each day makes us smile, and so, because we want them to visit us — and feel safe enough even make their home here — we leave a few sections wild and untouched. 

But a few weeks ago, we had an unexpected visitor. 

A disheveled, long-haired, Siamese (or at least part Siamese) cat. 

We recognized it as the neighbors’, who live kitty corner. They have two cats and both have visited our yard on occasion. While we have nothing against cats, we tend to shoe them away, hollering things like. . .

“Go home.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Leave the birds and the squirrels alone.”

“This isn’t your yard.”

It often works. At least for the other cat. But this one, this one just stares back at us and lays his head back down and closes his blue eyes. We can walk all the way up to it and it doesn’t flinch. 

I admit, at first, I was annoyed. After all, he had decided to make my flower bed into his preferred nap spot.  He didn’t care that he was crushing the irises I planted from blub last fall. Didn’t care that he was knocking the blooms over, destroying the beauty I had tried to manicure. 

A few days went by and Mr. Cat kept coming back to the same spot. He’d be there when we went to bed and sometimes when we woke up. That’s when we got worried. Maybe he was sick. 

Erik walked over to the neighbors and asked them about it. They said he does his own thing and for a while slept in our other neighbor’s shed. Huh. Ok. But then we told them that he’s been letting us get close and pet him and they got worried. That’s not like him. He usually runs away from people. 

Uh oh. 

So they came and gingerly scooped the cat out of a shady spot on our lawn and took him to the vet for a check-up. Apparently he was fine, because the next day, the cat was back. 

It’s been weeks now and nearly every day, we find Mr. Cat snoozing somewhere in our yard. Usually, he’s curled up somewhere against the side of the house. Yesterday, he was tucked between branches under a bush. 

Now, I don’t look for the cat to shoe it away. I look for the cat to see where he is. I’ve realized that for him, our yard is a safe and quiet space. A place he can rest. A refuge. And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, as I’ve thought more about it, I’ve been able to recognize we all need that. 

We all need a safe, quiet space to curl up in. 

We need a place where we can let go. 

A place that doesn’t demand anything from us. 

For Mr. Cat, that’s our yard. 

For a lot of people, that’s the church. Or at least it should be. 

The church should be a place that makes space for anyone and everyone. Even if they look a little rough around the edges. Even if you wouldn’t pick them to be your best friend. Even if they sometimes drive you a little crazy. Even if you think they’re freaks.

It makes me sad to think about how many people don’t feel welcome in the church. They think they have to look a certain way, act a certain way, wear certain clothes. On one hand, I get it. Church is often a place where we bring our best selves because it’s a small way that we can honor God. 

But on the other hand, I don’t think that God really cares that much what we’re wearing or what we look like. I think he’s just glad we’ve taken the risk to step into new terriority. And I think He wants us to find safety, refuge, and love there. 

The only way that happens is if we stop chasing away the people we don’t want and make room for everyone. 

Even the ones that don’t look like us. 

Even the ones who say the wrong the at the wrong time. 

Even the ones who haven’t showered in a week. 

Even the ones who think differently than we do. 

What would happen if instead of trying to protect their own space, Christian churches threw their doors wide open and welcomed anyone – and everyone – who needed refuge. 

What if we greeted them warmly?

What if we got them a cup of coffee? 

What if we made them feel safe and welcome? 

What if they curled up and decided to stay? 

I think that’s the life – and the gospel – that Jesus invites His followers to live out. He knows it’s not easy. He knows we are all about self-protection. He knows we want to keep things neat, tidy, and pretty. But He also knows that if we look carefully enough, we’ll see ourselves in every person we encounter. Because no matter how we look, at our core, all of us, are  the “least of these.” 

Is it easy? No. 

Is it worth it? You tell me. 

NAMES & FACES

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I haven’t spent much of my life around people in the military. My dad served during Vietnam and both of my grandfathers served during World War II. But we didn’t talk about it too often. It was in the past. Maybe there were too many searing memories that seemed better left in the dark.

I’ve always respected people in the military, but I’m more of a put your gun down kinda gal in most situations. Then I moved to Oahu.

Here on the island we have bases for all the major branches of the military: Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and Marines.

The military is now in my backyard.

I know people who serve. I’ve high-fived their kids. I have shared meals with them, prayed with them, sang worship songs with them, laughed with them and lived life with them. I’ve heard the pain in their wives’ voices as their husbands leave for overseas.

So this morning, when I saw a news story about two Marine helicopters colliding on the North Shore, my heart sank. I know a helicopter pilot and his face immediately came to mind. He’s safe, but there are still 12 people missing.

Twelve people. Twelve people with families and friends.

Winter waves of 30 and 40 feet are making the search as hard as it could be. And so, even though I don’t know the people who are being tossed in that ocean right now, I feel for them in a new way.

I’ve seen the oil still bubbling up from the U.S.S. Arizona with my own eyes and tried to imagine what it felt like to have bombs rain down on December 11, 1941 as Pearl Harbor was attacked.

In all of it, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for their service, but more than that, I’m thankful for the people they are. I’m thankful I have the opportunity to know them, because now, the military isn’t just an idea to me. It’s real. The people fighting for our freedom are real. I know some of their names. I can picture their faces.

It has helped me understand in a fresh way why it’s so important to know people’s stories. What if instead of keeping the people we don’t understand at a distance we got to know them?

What if we heard laughed at their jokes, shared their grief and dared to love them for who they are, for who God created them to be?

Here’s where I’m making a jump. It’s a rather big one so stick with me.

What if, instead of crossing the street to avoid that homeless man, we smiled at him and shook his hand? What if we took the time to look in his eyes and hear his story? Wouldn’t that make our world a better place? Isn’t that what Jesus would want us to do?

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to compare military personnel directly to people who have been pushed to the margins (although there are far too many veterans who end up homeless). What I am saying is that names, faces and stories matter. They help us not only understand the world around us, but ourselves better.

Names and faces give us compassion, something our world is in desperate need of.

 

DO SOMETHING

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I know you’ve done it. I have, too. In fact, I’ve done it more than I can count. I always thought it was a good thing. That is, until I realized it could be better.

Phrases like, “Let me know if you need something.” And, “Is there anything I can do to help?” roll out of our mouths when friends, loved ones and church family are hurting.

It’s a way we show compassion.

I think most of the time when we say it, we mean it. Truly and deeply. We want to help, but we don’t know what to do. That’s where I’ve often landed in those situations. But now, having been through enough difficult times in my own life, I realize that saying something is a great start — and if that’s all you can do, that’s ok. Do that.

But if you really mean it, if you really want to make a difference and show someone they aren’t alone. Don’t just say you’re willing, actually do something. (Check out James 2:15-16.)

If you’ve ever lost a loved one, a job, a home, or a relationship, you know that grieving is complex. It hits you when you least except it and stays with you like the damp air of Seattle winter rain.

It also paralyzes you. Even if you’ve had 11 friends say, “Call me if you need anything,” you feel abandoned. Picking up the phone to ask for help seems impossible. You just can’t do it. Or maybe you won’t. When you’re hurting, when you’re really in the thick of it, asking for help feels like a step too far.

So I have an idea: Do something. Ok, so that idea isn’t really mine. But it’s something I believe we can all work at.

If you hear of a friend in crisis, show up. It’s that simple.

Don’t just say you are there for them, be there for them.

Stop by Starbucks, order a drink you know they’ll like and take it to them. Bring them flowers and stay to talk for half an hour. Better yet, bring a meal – enough for their family and yours.

Separated by the span of an ocean or mountains or miles of freeway? Don’t let that stop you. Call them. Don’t text, call. Set up a Skype date. Write them a letter. Be with them. Grieve with them. Show up for them. Don’t just say something, do something.

Actions really do speak louder than words.

Oh, and one other thing. Don’t put if off. Grief and pain don’t expire, but are most raw at the beginning. Don’t tell yourself you’ll call later and drop a meal off. Make a plan and then do it. Everyone is busy. Everyone has other things to do. But if we’re too busy to love each other in the most practical ways, where does that leave us?

I’m going to work on being better at doing something. I hope you’ll join me. Imagine how different our lives and world could be.

I’ve been seeing it in action at our new church and it’s amazing.

WHEN YOUR CHURCH IS SCATTERED

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Scattered dandelion

My husband and I recently left the church where he has been a pastor for the last three and a half years.

It’s been hard. Heartbreaking and gut-wrenching. This church, these people are our community. They are the people we have worshiped with, laughed with, cried with, prayed with and counseled. We have eaten with them, sipped coffee with them, gone on hikes with them and loved them.

Leaving the church has felt like our community has been ripped away. It has left me reeling. It’s not that I don’t think our friends still love us and want to be a part of our life, but it will be different. It is different.

On Sunday we’ll be surrounded by the faces of strangers. We no longer have a church. My husband is a churchless pastor.

As I have been grieving this loss and wondering what God is up to, it hit me how wrong I am. We do have a church. Our church is just scattered.

Our church is in Seattle, Vashon, Kirkland, Gig Harbor, Hawaii and California. It’s in a small town in England and the frozen tundra of Canada — and everywhere in between.

The phone calls, FaceTime sessions, Skype calls and emails remind me that we are not alone in this. We cannot all meet together on Sunday morning, but we are still united.

We are united by the blood of Christ and our love for one another. And we are in good company. The early church was scattered too. The New Testament epistles remind us of this. They are letters, not scripts. They were written encouragements, not whispered in the quiet of a shared song or a long talk over lattes. Paul was far away from people he was ministering to. That’s why he wrote letters. And thank God he did, because now we have them.

I am not saying that there is no purpose or beauty in the local church. Far from it. The book of Acts shows us how important it is to gather together in person. To share prayers and meals. To live life together. I long for the day when we have a local church again. One where we feel like God has called us. One where we belong. But until that day, God is teaching me that church won’t always look like the “church” we are used to.

I have a church and I am so grateful for my church, scattered though it may be, one day we will all be together for all eternity. And until that day, there are text messages, emails, Skype calls, FaceTime sessions and letters. Those things have a beauty all their own. Today I am choosing to be grateful.

SWEATER WEATHER

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Penguins

The sun is shining brightly. Greens pop and blues run deep. It’s beautiful. The epitome of Hawaii in all her glory. It’s going to be 80. The perfect temperature for hitting the beach, sipping iced lattes and living in slippas.

Looking out my bay window at an endless ocean, you’d have no idea that the seasons change.

To mainlanders, Hawaii has no seasons. It’s endless summer. Once you’ve lived here a few years you pick up on subtle seasonal changes. The plumerias drop their leaves in the winter. The trades die off in the fall. Rain falls a little heavier into the “cooler” months. The night temps dip into the 60s in early spring. The changes are subtle. Imperceptible, if you don’t know Hawaii.

But today, a season changed. It wasn’t gradual. It was sudden. Abrupt. The season of why we came to Hawaii is over.

Today is Erik’s last day at the job he’s had for the past 3.5 years. The job that led us to pack up our home in Seattle, put our cars on a boat and have our dog go through a 4-month rabies vaccination quarantine. Today, that job is over. He will come home, his car full of reminders of an office with loud air conditioning and too many roaches.

Jobs end for people every day. We aren’t unique in that. But what is unique is for us, this wasn’t just a job. It was our life.

Erik is a pastor, and when you’re in ministry, work and life become blurry. Church attendees become friends and friends become family. Coffee dates go deep and tears are sacred. A late night phone call can be a friend checking in or someone desperate for prayer and rescue.

Work/life balance gets fuzzy in the best way possible.

But that also means that on days like this, you wish there was more black and white in the world than grey. You wish that a job was just a job and that walking away from it didn’t also mean walking away from your community.

I know that we are still friends with the people who attend the church. I pray that they will be long-lasting friendships on this earth and long into eternity. Yet I know they will be different. They’ll have to be. We won’t see people at church on the weekends. We won’t be in their Bible studies. We won’t worship with them regularly or run into them at church events. It wouldn’t hurt if we didn’t love them so much. I guess it’s a good problem to have. But I have never welcomed winter. I am a summer girl. I love the warming glow of the sun on my bare shoulders. I love loose sundresses and jumping in the ocean. Winter is cold and wet and grey. I fear that that is the season we are heading into.

I do know that God is good. I do know that He has a plan. I do know that He loves us and wants what it best for us.

I don’t know what that will look like. I don’t know how long it will take for us to catch a glimpse of our next step, of the next season. I don’t know how long the hurt will last. But I do know that the season has changed and now I need a sweater.