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.

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.

SIZING YOURSELF UP

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I have spent much of my life trying to get smaller, both literally and figuratively.

I’m afraid of taking up too much space. Of being a burden. Of being too needy. I want to be small and petite. Cute and beautiful all at once. There are times when I want to fill a room, but I want to fill it with laughter and joy, love, fun and connection. Those things, the essence of goodness in life, are far too difficult to come by. And so instead of chasing after them and creating a way to embrace and enjoy the bigness of life, I focus on being smaller.

I want to avoid conflict and discomfort. That takes up too much space.

Yet at the same time I want to be known. I want people to look in my eyes and know me. To know what I need without me having to ask. I don’t want to have to take up their space, I want them to want to give it to me. I want to create bigness together.

So what would it look like to get “bigger”? What would it be like to tell people what I need and ask for help so that they can get to know me? What would it be like to take up space in their lives? Isn’t that what connection is all about?

One of my deepest desires is to be connected. To have friends and family and community blend together so well that you can’t tell one from the other. To have a life that’s bigger, and fuller. But to do that I think I have to get bigger. I have to take more chances. I have to put myself out there. I have to share my needs. I have to risk being seen and judged as too much, too big, and tossed aside.

And that risk — the fear of what could happen — keeps me longing for smallness. I know it. I can manage it.

The truth is, in some ways I know what it’s like to feel too big. To have people look at you and to tell you you’re too much. Too depressed. Too introspective. Too sensitive. Too emotional.

Too big. Too big! TOO BIG.

Some people in my life have shown me that they don’t have time for me. “Maybe if I was smaller,” I think. “If I could squeeze myself into a little part of their life, maybe then they could still love me.”

But what about the other side? What if I am just the right size? What if I am fearfully and wonderfully made and perfected in Christ just as I am? What if you are too?

What if we all stop trying to get smaller — or bigger— and just learn to be?