2022

There was a week one summer, when two different women gave me the last of their apple harvests. Another handed over several bunches of kale, and a few more gave me tips on who to find in town to help with hemming some pants.

This fall, I discovered a coworker of who mine can basically sew in her sleep. She’s mended and tailored my clothes between shifts better than any small business storefront shop.

One Friday night in winter, my family gathered around the table and shared exciting events from the kids’ market at school. One showed me a hat she bought that someone’s mama had whipped together the night before.

I am signed up for a painting class next week and everyone who knows me has snickered sweetly at the thought. There is an entire collection of my artwork the kids have kept for a rainy day. We still can’t figure out if my drawing of a horse was actually a dog or a bus.

Here’s the thing: I’ve gardened and taken sewing classes and attempted to knit and paint. These things simply don’t come easily to me, nor do they hold my attention long enough to want to become an expert. I am, however, really good at putting together an outfit and planning a trip and keeping a few houseplants alive and being a nurse. I am learning to love my lane. I’m also getting comfortable enough at driving in it to look over and honk and wave at the women in the other ones. They’re doing great, too.

I recently found a note on my phone with feedback for a mega-church we had just started attending… and working for. That part matters, because I’m a firm believer that feedback is really only helpful if you’re willing to be part of the solution. We’ve done this transition several times and have always been asked to give a “fresh perspective” as we start over with a new church community.

There is no parking team. There is no info on shuttle; we figured it out by following other cars. Most of the doors to the church are locked. One door was propped open, but my kids and I were shushed by a volunteer upon entering. Only the front doors have people assigned to them. There is no visible welcome team. There are, however, a lot of people socializing. They are obviously insiders – staff and volunteers, evidenced by their credentials. They gather in such a large group that the welcome desk is obscured from view or access.

Rarely do I call attention to organizations in a what-not-to-do way. But we turned our lives upside down and gave this church everything we had, hoping to help make it more like Jesus, only to be secretly replaced and let out the back door (literally) eighteen months later. Our last day looked just like the first described above, so I feel comfortable sharing. After years of therapy, I no longer feel bitter, resentful, or unforgiving when churches fall significantly short of the mission often posted to their websites. I simply care about human beings more than any institution with a person or an image or longstanding tradition to protect.

If you have influence at a church, open your doors wide tomorrow and put your friendliest people on them. Audit the welcome process and volunteer to help improve it if it’s lacking. Move heaven and earth to make people feel like you’ve been waiting for them all week. Try to make your space feel a little more like Jesus’s friend group and a little less like a pharisee’s country club.

I still remember one of the most profound deaths of my hospice career. It was a rare opportunity, to watch a patient breathe his last, while his family held his hands and his military uniform hung in the background.

I always found a way to hit the floor at death visits. I’d create a clean spot in the corner, out of the way, while I made the phone calls and waited for the funeral home. Closer to the earth kept me grounded, reminded of the importance of my work and yet the fragility and the temporary nature of everything here.

I am growing older. It is a glorious adventure; I would like to treat it as such. This year, I’d like to channel the perspective of my daughter when she looks up at me and tells me I’m beautiful and knows it to be true.

I was intrigued to find an old thought, buried in an iPhone note, so soon after writing about seasons in a different way:

What if we (I!) care a little too much about seasons? I love a good “waiting this out” or “when it’s easier, I’ll ___” with the rest of them. But what if all of life is actually hard and tiring at times, because this world is broken? What if we’re supposed to be focused on eternal hope?

Years later, and life is still hard enough to make me think the only worthwhile move is to engage my current reality and find the hopeful best inside of it.