hope

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

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Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

SUMMER IS COMING

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Monday the rain was back. Yes, it’s only May. Yes, summer isn’t officially here yet, but we all know I’m impatient and my impatience has grown over the last several weeks. Why? Teaser days. 

You know what I’m talking about, right?

Those days in spring when the sky is bright blue, the sun is out, and it stretches into the upper 70s. Those are the teaser days and we’ve had a few of them in this last month. But today, as I zipped up a winter coat to brave the 40-something morning air for a walk, I had to face the facts. No matter how much I want it to be, It’s just not quite time for my Birkenstock sandals yet. I wore them this weekend, and it was wonderful. My toes happily stretched, feeling the fresh air and sunbeams as I walked though a patch of grass.  

At the time, I was grateful for the summer-like weather. I still am. But I’ll also admit, at the time, all I wanted was more. 

I wanted the days of 70+ weather to arrive and settle in. 

I wanted to pack away my sweaters, vests, and coats. 

I wanted to be done with winter. 

But yesterday, as drizzle continued to fall and I was forced to zip up before stepping outside, God whispered to me. 

“Those days were just a taste, Jess. It’s coming. But it’s not here yet.” 

That’s when I realized that in many ways, every day of this life is a taste of what’s to come. 

A taste of heaven. 

Of eternity. 

Of the goodness and beauty of God.

Of things yet to come.

Is it a perfect analogy? No, but God still used it to remind me that when I feel trapped in the slog of winter, summer – His summer, the summer He bled and died for – is coming. 

He sends us glimpses of it. Tastes of it. Teaser days, if you will, to give us glimpses of the day when things will be reconciled and fully redeemed in Christ. 

We’re not there yet. But He promises it’s coming. And those sunbeams breaking through the clouds remind me of that. 

May they remind you, too. 

LIFE CYCLE LESSONS

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The garden is in. 

The  tomato plants I started tenderly in January are in their permanent homes. 

The kale, broccoli, and lettuce have been transplanted, too. 

Much to my surprise, almost everything I started from seed has survived. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s producing yet. For that, I’ve got to wait longer. As I wait, I can’t help but tuck a few more seeds into the open spaces. And because Erik and I would love to grow even more of our own food, I’ve started another round of carrots. 

And those carrots take their sweet, sweet time. For me, that means it takes about 2 weeks of consistent watering before the first hint of growth even begins to pop through the starter mix. The glimpse of green is so small I do a double take. I get onto my hands and knees, my face inches away from the soil. 

Did they? Did they? 

Yes!

A sprout, thin as a blade of grass, has started stretching towards the light. A few days later, the sprout is taller and no longer alone. It’s brothers and sisters joined it. Now there are 11 sprouts . . . no . . .13!

As I’m counting, I notice something. 

A few of the starts are wearing a hat. 

What is that? I peer closer. 

Oh, of course! 

Some of the seed casings are still hanging on. The stems are stretching taller, but the cotyledons are trapped in the husk. Its job is done, but it can’t seem to let go. 

I start to reach forward, then stop. I want to help. If I ever so carefully remove the “hat,” I’ll free the leaves from their straight jacket. They’ll have full access to the light. That’s what they need to grow! 

But because I’ve been trying to slow down more, I sit back and take a few breaths and think. A half-second later I remember a conversation I had with a friend on Sunday. Her family home schools, and this spring they’ve been learning about life cycles. They’ve watched butterflies emerge from silk cocoons and baby chickens break though the shell of eggs. 

“When we saw the first crack in the shell, we cancelled the whole day,” she says. “We all just sat there, watching this tiny beak break its way through. We wanted to help it. Just pull back a tiny piece of the shell, but we didn’t. We had just learned that butterflies need the entire process of breaking out of the cocoon to strengthen their wings. If you slice the cocoon open, or tug it off, attempting to help, the butterfly will always have weaker wings. It might never fly.  . . It’s like God had a plan or something,” she finishes with a glorious flare of sarcasm. 

As I stare at my burdened carrots, I think through the implication of her story. 

If God has purpose in the struggle for butterflies and chickens, He probably has purpose in it for plants, too. 

The next thing you know, I’m picturing an anemic zucchini plant from last year. I’d started it from seed and thought I was helping when I gently pulled the expired seed casing off its brand-new leaves. It never really recovered. The left leaf – the one where the casing had been stuck, stayed misshapen and weirdly yellow, even though it had been freed! The plant eventually grew, but it didn’t flourish the way it should have. At the time, I chalked it up to not being good at growing zucchini. Now I’m realizing it suffered because it didn’t go through its intended struggle. 

It needs the struggle to survive. 

Resistance makes it stronger. 

The right amount of pressure allows it to fully grow into what it was meant to be. 

If it’s true for plants, butterflies, and chickens, it’s probably true for me, too. I guess I need to wrestle through things to become stronger and to be who God intends for me to be. 

Right now, I feel a little like my carrot seedling. Something is weighing me down and I just can’t shake it. 

I want someone to reach down and pull me out of the sadness I feel. 

I want to know that it will all be ok. 

I want to rush to the other side. 

But today, I’m reminded that there is purpose in the process. So, once again, I pull my hands away from my seedling tray. My carrots will undoubtably be stronger from wrestling. I hope I will, too. 

THE GIFT OF LOSS

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 “Six years ago today…” Facebook reminded me, as an old photo of Ala Moana and Waikiki popped up. Curious, I clicked on the memory to see that I’d posted this caption: “Haven’t gotten back into running. Not sure if I will. I’m not mad about all the walks I’ve been taking with Erik.”

Six years ago would have been about five months after having had a heart attack. Running, something that I used to build my days around, was off the table. 

At the time I didn’t know it would stay off the table. But even then, God allowed me to see a glimpse of what could be. 

A peek at a life lived differently. 

Slower. 

With the love of my life by my side.

Before I had a heart attack, I had run four full marathons and several half marathons. 

I was a runner and proud to be one. 

I wasn’t fast, but I knew how to push. I knew how to keep going. Just one more mile. 

Sweat, pain, dehydration. All that could be taken care of later. I needed to finish first. 

There was a lot that I loved about running. I loved talking with God, thinking, praying, and processing as my feet hit pavement. Running gave me a place to leave my frustrations and work though my anxiety. A time to be quiet. 

But even more, I loved the feeling of accomplishment. I loved knowing I had run 3, 5, 10, 15, 26.2 miles. 

I’d build up so much distance that I was afraid to stop or even slow down. I was afraid of what a break would do. I was afraid to lose my stamina. My fitness. The identity I had created. 

And so, I kept running. On vacations, every time we moved. Running was a constant part of my life, until my arteries – and my doctor – forced me to stop. At the time, I believed it was temporary. I thought that my heart just needed some time to recovery and I’d get back to my usual routine. To build up my strength Erik and I walked together. We started slow, with short distances that grew longer as I got better. 

When I felt strong enough, I called a friend to ask her to try going on a run with me. We went and I did fine, but afterwards I had chest pain for days. 

I figured I just needed more time to get stronger, so I kept trying. I tried going even slower, taking walk breaks. Even powerwalking. But the pain kept coming back. 

It took me a few years to finally admit I had lost running. 

There was grief. Frustration. Anger. A deep feeling of weakness. 

But through all that, Erik and I kept walking. 

Slowly. 

Steadily.

Together. 

Now, six years later, we’re still walking. 

I lost running, but I gained hours with my husband. Conversations we may never have had. Experiences and discoveries in nature that we’ve gotten to share. 

A spouting whale. 

A scurrying gecko. 

A chirping chipmunk. 

The day we counted 17 rabbits. 

So today, I’m thinking about the gift of loss. The reality that if I hadn’t lost running, I wouldn’t have gained so many other gifts. 

That gives me hope.

In a season of another loss, I think I’m turning the corner from mourning what was and wondering what gift could be next. 

BEDSIDE MANNER

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.

TIGHT PANTS

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Several years ago, I met one of my closest friends for coffee. As we sat outside to take advantage of the rare Seattle spring sun, she looked at me with eyes that said she knew I was hiding something.

“What’s wrong?” She asked gently.

“My pants are tight.” I replied.

I’m not going to debate whether or not I should have let my pants fitting too tightly have such an impact on my day. I’m just going to tell you that’s where I was at.

I allowed the pants that used to slip on smoothly and be a little loose ruin my day because now, they were tight.

Then she said it. Words I was shocked by.

“I’m going to pray they never fit again.”

“What?” I had to be hearing things. What kind of friend would say that? I wanted to scream out “NO! Don’t pray for that!” Like it was the worst possible prayer in the world.

But then, she told explained herself. She knew my heart. She knew that if I kept putting my hope in my pants, and my pants suddenly fit again, I’d have less need for Jesus. It was a control thing for me and she knew it. In that moment she could see that I was distracted and my hope was grounded not in Him, but in myself and who I could make myself become.

I’ll admit, I still wanted my pants to fit better, but I realized she was onto something.

If I keep putting my hope in other things, I won’t fully give my heart and my life to Jesus. This works for just about everything in life. Jobs. Marriage. Friendships. A new house. Even your church. If we put our hope in anything other than Jesus, we’re going to be disappointed.

To this day, my friend’s words are some of the most unexpected and loving words I’ve heard. I still struggle with that twinge of despair when I pull on a pair or jeans that fits a little too tight, but I have friends and an amazing husband to remind me that my hope isn’t in a pile of denim. It’s in the God of the universe.

LOOSE ENDS

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One of my aunts is a tapestry artist. Another aunt is a seamstress. My mom sews, quilts, knits and crochets.

These women have all influenced my life in deep and lasting ways. One of the things I learned about from them has to do with loose ends.

If you’ve ever looked at the back of a weaving, you know there are no loose ends. Every thread—every piece of yarn—is neatly tucked into another. It looks like chaos, but it’s controlled. Those loose ends are necessary to create the perfect image on the other side.

But there’s more to it.

In knitting and crocheting one loose end undoes the entire project.

A hanging string downgrades an elegant dress.

During this season of uncertainty, I’ve been thinking about loose ends. I’m finding comfort in the idea that God doesn’t leave loose ends. He has a plan. He won’t let one loose string, one lost job, one overseas move unravel a whole life. That’s not who He is.

I was reminded of that this last week while I was on vacation on another island with my parents. You see, as a little girl we came to Hawaii regularly. It was our sun-filled escape and vitamin D fix to get us through the grey Seattle winter and tide us over until summer.

I’ve always loved Hawaii. Loved. Loved. LOVED. It felt like my home away from home. I loved the beaches, the water, the fish.

So when Erik surprised me on a family vacation and proposed in Hawaii, it was fitting. The place I had come to love collided with the man that God had given me. It all tied up so beautifully.

And then, years later, when Erik found a job here, even though I never imagined living here, I was ok with him applying. The seed God has planted in my heart as a little girl was growing.

So we moved. We plugged our sun-deprived selves into the sands of this little island and have loved it. But now that we feel unplugged, I’m trying to cling to the truth that this is not a loose end. God doesn’t do those. This will lead somewhere. It’s all part of His plan. I’ve seen it over and over again in my life.

When you are dangling, it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to believe. But I’m going to chose to.

I’m going to choose to believe this is part of the tapestry of our lives. This will get woven back in and it will be beautiful. It has to be. Doesn’t it?

WEEP AND HOPE

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Yesterday was Memorial Day. Erik and I went to the Lantern Floating Ceremony near Waikiki.

At the ceremony, people are invited to light a candle on a boat-shaped lantern and launch it out to sea to remember their loved ones. Over 50,000 people were there. Some floated lanterns. Others, like us, came to see the beauty of candlelight dancing on the ocean.

By the time the lingering twilight finally disappeared, there were thousands of lanterns floating on the ocean. Each one was lit for someone who was deeply loved while they walked this earth.

Death is a strange thing. Especially for Christians. It’s bittersweet. We know that the one who has left, if they have accepted Jesus as their Savior, is with Him in a MUCH better place.

And yet we still mourn.

We mourn because there won’t be any more memories. We mourn because we don’t get to be with them, and we mourn because death was never supposed to be a part of life.

We were created in God’s image. Adam and Eve — male and female. We were created to love and serve God and to love and serve one another. We were given the gift of life and it was supposed to be eternal. The tree of life was there to offer never-ending health and, well, life.

But then sin entered into humanity, and with it, death.

And so as we weep and mourn the loss of loved ones, we not only grieve the loss of their life, their love, their hugs and laughter, but we grieve the fact that our world is broken. We are sad because sin exists and because of sin, death exists.

But thankfully, there is hope. God saw the depth of our pain and was filled with love for us — His broken, sinful, evil children. His justice and goodness made it impossible for our sin to be erased, so he made a way for it to be redeemed. He gives us new life not only in this life, but in the one to come.

It is a life that will never end. A life without sin, a life without death. Life as we were created for.

Until that day, we weep and we hope.

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.