Becca Turns 15: A Trip Down Memory Lane

 Yesterday (May 2) was my daughter Rebecca May’s 15^th birthday.  When did all that growing up happen?!  It seems like only yesterday that I used to hold her in my arms and rock her to sleep and take her in my arms and do “The Rebecca Dance” (which essentially consisted of me dancing around the room singing, “Rebecca,” repeatedly to the tune of “The Mexican Hat Dance”).  Now, seemingly in the time it took me to blink once or twice, she’s a beautiful, strong, confident young woman working her way through high school and finding her way in the world.  Becca does life with spirit—whether she’s strumming her viola, or playing softball, or binge-watching Law and Order, SVU, or listening the latest Harry Styles song, or participating in scouts, or reading Scripture, or writing poems in her journal.  

We’ve often said of Becca that she carries the spirit of two: that of herself and of her twin sister Hope Marie—who lived only two days before she transitioned from life support to life eternal. 

 

Although we intentionally try to focus on Rebecca on May 2, her mother and I always take time to remember that this is Hope Marie’s birthday too. (And Becca has become more aware of this fact as she’s gotten older.)  While May 4 may be “Star Wars Day,” for the world, it’s also “Hope Day” for our family—a much more somber occasion to be sure.  We typically visit the cemetery where Hope is buried on May 4 (which in an ironic twist of life, is also my brother’s birthday), and we pause to remember that which any parent who has lost a child truly never forgets. Rather, we’ve learned over these intervening 15 years to “put the grief in its place” and open it up from time to time when we want to intentionally remember Hope—such as on “Hope Day.”  

 

To some extent it’s true that time does heal wounds—or at least puts a scab or scar over them.  Fifteen years brings a sense of growing separation.  Becca grows into a young woman before our eyes while her sister Hope remains an infant in our memory.   But sometimes that’s precisely what brings fresh tears to her parent’s eyes late at night, as we look at old photos and Facebook posts about Rebecca experiencing a lifetime of milestones and other everyday family moments that Hope never got to experience.  

 

I think what I have grieved most over the years is that we never got to know who Hope would’ve been as a person and how she would’ve interacted with her family and with others.  Rebecca and Hope obviously would’ve looked the same—but they no doubt would’ve been two distinct individuals.  I never got to experience being a father to Hope as I have for Becca.  In fact, I’ve always had a sense that the whole world lost something because Hope didn’t live.  

 

*****     *****      ******     *****    *****

This blog has been in existence since 2008.  As some of you may remember, what is now called Threads of Glory started around the time the twins were born.   This was my second time going through the birth experience.  The first time, with my son Brady (now 17), was such a blur of activity that it was hard to remember all that happened.  I wanted to be more intentional about recording what took place this time.  I had no idea then how important this endeavor would become.  The words I wrote became a chronicle of what we lived through beginning May 2, 2008.

 

Obviously, the blog expanded to be about much more than Becca and Hope.  If you’ve followed along, you know I’ve posted periodically and waxed theologic about many topics over the past 15 years.  However, I notice I do tend to come back to the “source subject” quite often. 

 

For those who might be interested, I’ve compiled below is a list of posts that focus on Rebecca and/or Hope.   

 

·      Before the girls were born, as we were preparing to welcome twins, their mom had a short-lived blog called Grace Lives Here.  Honestly, I had almost forgotten Laurie did this until I was looking back to prepare this list for Becca. So much living has gone on in 15 years, that details begin to slip my mind—which is why I like having this written record! 

·      A few weeks before they were born, I wrote a post to start Threads of Glory (my blog's name, in case you've forgotten) called Holding on to Hope.  I had no idea then how much I would have to live those words in the weeks, months, and even years ahead.

·      Then there were the series of posts I made during that crazy first month of Becca’s life.  (Note that they appear in reverse order; go to the bottom if you want to start at the beginning.). These started as updates when we were in the hospital delivering the twins and continued for a while after we got home with Becca. (WARNING: This material is pretty raw—particularly the early posts—as it was reported as evemts were unfolding on that fateful day and shortly thereafter.)

·    And last but not least—were all the posts I’ve made on or around their birthday. These include:

·      Their first. A Bittersweet Milestone as Becca Turns One and our first Hope Day.

·      Their third. Can it be? Becca is Three!;

·      Their fourth. Happy Fourth Birthday Becca May!;

·      Their fifth.  Surprises and More Surprises;

·      Their sixth. Becca is Six Today;

·      Their seventh. Rebecca May is Seven Years Old Today;

·      Their ninth. Celebrating and Remembering;

·      Their tenth.  Letters I wrote to Rebecca and Hope;.and

·      Their twelfth. A Poem for Hope During a Pandemic.

·      Their fifteenth.  The listicle-post you are reading today!

 

*****      *****      ******     *****     *****

Preparing this list was a gift for my daughter—but the trip down memory lane ended up being a gift for me too.   My eyes grew strangely moist as I viewed all the photos in these posts.  Some of the text in these posts became the basis for more personal birthday letters I wrote to her—or vice versa.  

 

Some of you might not need to read all these because you lived through these events with us, but for some it may help you know my story a bit better.  This event had a profound influence on my spiritual formation. Even now—15 years later—it’s hard for me, a writer, to fully put its impact in words.  Likely, it would take the perspective of others who’ve known me for many years (e.g., my wife) to tell you how living through all this has changed me. I hope it made me better and not bitter—although I’m sure there have been moments of both along the way. 

 

What I am convinced of is that God walked with us as we walked through this entire experience, that God has used the tragedy of us losing our daughter Hope Marie for good, and that God continues to guide our family today.  Furthermore, I think God may have special plans for Rebecca.  She has a real passion for the Scriptures and learning about her faith.  I’m curious to see where all that might be leading… 

 

Over the years we’ve often repeated the words we wrote on her birth announcement: “in Rebecca’s face we will always see HOPE.”  While this is certainly true (since they are in fact identical twins), in the birthday note I wrote for her this year, I reminded that her mom and I also see the unique creation that is Rebecca May Ward—and that we couldn’t be prouder to have the privilege of being her parents!

Humility: "An Accurate Assessment"

The shaded box below is taken from Richard Foster’s book, Learning Humility, which some of us are studying at my church.  We will meet the next five Wednesday evenings at 6 PM in the parlor—and via Zoom.  If this writing resonates with you, it’s still not too late to join our class. 

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves—Philippians 2:3 [NRSV]. 

 

I really hate to take issue with one of the great saints of the church, Bernard of Clairvaux.  It is his well-known definition of humility that rankles me a bit.  He wrote, “Humility is a virtue by which a man has a low opinion of himself because he knows himself well.” The phrase, “a low opinion of himself,” is what is hard for me to swallow.  No doubt I am reacting to the long history of worm theology that has done so much damage in our day. And, of course, the modern psychological concern for a healthy self-esteem is an important factor also.

 

Likely I am not so much taking issue with the good doctor as I am trying to translate him into our contemporary context. If I can reinterpret just a bit, I think Bernard is trying to get at the importance of being able to enter into an accurate assessment of who we really are. This is the point of his underscoring the need to know ourselves well. I appreciate this phrase.  And knowing ourselves well does indeed bring us down close to the earth: humus. [1]

 

I think this short blurb says much about what it means to be humble—and what it doesn’t. 

Humility is not about shaming ourselves as being unworthy but rather seeing ourselves as we truly are.  

This definition brings to my mind lyrics from a song by Brian McLaren:

We will not pretend to be better than we are.

We will not hide our failures or cover up our scars.

If we’re honest, we do a lot of pretending to be “better (or, maybe in the context of humility, worse) than we are” and “covering up our scars.” We wear “masks” to hide the true us from others—and even from God.  We fear that: “If they knew the real me, they would reject me.” 

 

To give an example, I personally struggle with criticism of things I do—e.g., of my writing.  I tend to receive any criticism as: “Alan, you are not good enough.”  It’s the shaming voice of the Enemy, I know, but it’s hard for me not to internalize it and take it personally.

 

For someone who thinks of themselves as both a writer and a prophet—two “callings” where critique and rejection are commonplace—it makes it hard to fully embrace who I believe God calls me to be.  Instead, I usually “play it safe,” keeping most of my thoughts to myself, quietly editing and writing for NASA for over 20 years, and publishing occasionally on my blog or in a church newsletter or other venue.  In those settings, the chances of critique and rejection are considerably reduced—though not nonexistent.  Any time we choose to “go public” with even the smallest part of ourselves, we’re bound to receive feedback—not all of which will be positive. 

 

While I’ve occasionally ventured out from these controlled settings, for the most part, I tend to speak my voice in settings that are familiar, comfortable—and where I’m reasonably certain that what I say will be accepted.  

 

But that’s not me being humble, that’s me living in fear.

 

That’s me not trusting in who God is—and who God has made me to be.  Scripture reminds me that God’s perfect love drives out fear (1 John 4:18) and I want to believe; but if I’m honest, I also struggle with unbelief (Mark 9:24)—which is a thoroughly human response. But as consequence of my choice to “play it safe” I settle for less than all I could be in Christ, and I’m not quite sure how to break the stalemate and break through to fully embrace my true self.

 

What about you? What thoughts do Foster’s words stir within you?  

What does it look like for you to be humble—to come down to earth, to honestly assess who you are before God?

---

[1] From Learning Humility: A Year of Searching for a Vanishing Virtue (InterVaristy Press, 2022), Chapter 4, p. 42.

Blue

 Like many of you, I’ve been decorating my house for Christmas the past couple of weeks.  I’ve noticed that blue lights seem to go out more frequently.   Every year, it seems I replace more blue lights than any other color.  I like a strand of pure blue lights, but they are quickly overwhelmed by warmer and brighter colors like red and orange.   I think all this, combined with the Blue Christmas Service tradition, got me thinking about the qualities of Blue. 

I read this poem during Blue Christmas service at Good Shepherd UMC on December 22, 2021.

Blue is soft.

Blue is cool.

Blue is elusive.

 

Blue is beautiful when it appears in nature.

 

Blue eyes.

Blue sky.

Blue water.

Blue diamond.

Blue Moon

Blue Spruce

Blueberry

Blue Bird

Blue Jay

Blue Heron

 

Blue commands authority.

.

Blue is the Umpire.

Blue is the Police.

Blue is the Navy 

Blue is Royal

Blue is Advent.

Blue Laws.

Blue Ribbon.

Blue Light Special. 

 

But Blue is also feeling sad and down,

And especially at Christmas, when green and red abound,

This much is true:  It’s hard to be Blue.

 

We’d rather be:

Raging red.

Flaming orange.

Sunny yellow.

Envious green.

Incredulous indigo.

Virtuous violent.

Any Color other than Blue.

 

Blue and I go back a long way.

Blue colored my childhood.

It was the elephant my bedroom

Which was painted light blue.

We didn’t talk about Blue.

But Blue was everywhere.

 

Maybe that's why Blue became my favorite color?

Other Colors always seemed more popular to me.

But I always wanted someone to notice my Blue.

 

Blue helped me survive.

Blue got me through.

But Blue stayed with me.

Long after it should’ve.

Coloring the walls of my life.

     

To this day

Tears are rare to me.     

Strong feelings scare me.

We're all prisms through which God's light shines.

We each have a unique God-given spectrum

We need all our Colors to be fully alive.

Blue is part of who I am—who we are as humans.

But there’s so much more than Blue.

I want to learn to embrace the Rainbow that is me.

 

Events of this past year deepened my Blue.

To a point where I lost sight of other Colors.

I needed some help to see them again.

For some reason, that was hard to admit.

But I’m glad I did.

 

This Christmas

Be true to You.

It’s okay to feel Blue.

 

When the night is long.

And Blue seems all there is.

Remember 

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

Let your Blue Light shine brightly

God's Love Song

In the beginning was the Song.

God sang the Song, and the Song was God.

All things came into being through the Song; nothing exists apart from its music.

Everything alive sings the Song, creating billion-part harmony.

The Song’s sweet melody overwhelms the cacophony of darkness.

 

Priest, prophets, and kings sang the Song, each in their own way.

Often the Song chose unlikely singers to carry it on.

When humans fell silent, rocks, hills, and plains cried out.

All creatures great and small joined the choir.

Heavenly beings added their unending praise.

The planets, the stars—even the Universe itself—sang.

Every voice was unique—but all sang the same Song.

 

Through the years the Song sang on.

But there came a time when it faded to a whisper.

Few people remembered its lyrics.

The Song became the stuff of legend.

 

God so much wanted God’s people to remember the Song,

That long ago in a tiny town called Bethlehem:

Words entered a womb.

Sound became sinews.

Lyrics became ligaments.

F-sharps and B-flats took on flesh and blood.

The Song became a human being!

 

 

Did Mary know??

That as she sang her lullaby to her infant son,

She held God’s Love Song to the world in her arms.

As she pondered the happenings of this holy night in her heart,

Could she see a cross-shaped shadow looming over the manger?

I honestly don’t know.

 

But I think Mary knew,

As only a mother can,

That her son was no ordinary child,

That though his flesh was destined to fade, 

Through him all the Earth would be saved, 

And God’s Love Song would endure forever!

Running Out

I recently read Running Out: In Search of Water on the High Plains (2021, Princeton University Press).  Written by Lucas Bessire, an anthropologist at the University of Oklahoma, the book focuses on how the Ogallala Aquifer, which underlies a vast expanse of America’s heartland, is being rapidly depleted—i.e., it is “running out.”  For ages this vast supply of underground water lay covered by earth. Up until the 1930s farmers relied on water at or near the surface to sustain life on the High Plains.  But after the disastrous “Dust Bowl” years in the 1930s, there was an attitude among those who lived through those days of “never again,” accompanied by a dramatic shift toward reliance on water drawn from deeper sources.  At the time, the aquifer was seen as a limitless supply of water—an “underground ocean” or “underground rain.” (Humans have this tendency toward naively assuming the planet’s resources have no limits.)   

Of course, we know now that the water supply wasn’t limitless. In less than 80 years, the people living on the Plains have extracted unfathomable amounts of water from the ground—often wastefully.  They have dramatically transformed the landscape in the process.  Surface water is gone in most places and with it, the flora and fauna that once thrived in these areas.   Today, some places on the Ogallala have all but depleted the groundwater supply.  One of the worst areas of depletion is the area around the “Little Rock House” in Southwest Kansas.  This stone house was originally part of a cattle camp established by the author’s great-grandfather.  He recalls spending summers there as an adolescent.  His father now lives at the house and the author spends two years living with his dad while conducting research for his book.  

Maps of the Ogallala Aquifer [left] and the area around the Little Rock House [right],which
is located in Southwest Kansas, along the former Cimarron River.  .  
Source: Copied from Running Out.

 In the course of his work, the author discovers that, like so many environmental issues, depletion on the High Plains defies easy answers. His research reveals complex personal and political interactions in play that muddy the waters.  For example, Bessire attends several meetings of the Groundwater Management District (GMD) Southwest—the board that regulates groundwater use in Southwest Kansas.  Almost from the start, something felt odd about the meetings, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.  He later comes to the realization that the most influential GMD board members represent agribusiness corporations—who are the groundwater users.  Furthermore, one has to possess water rights in order to have a vote.  In practical terms, this means that the decisions about water use are made by a small number of mostly white men—even though the working-class population most significantly impacted by the depletion of the aquifer is much more diverse.  The GMD pursues a policy of controlled depletion, arguing in essence that to do anything else would wreck the local economy and destroy the “rural way of life” on the High Plains. (Similar arguments are commonly used to argue against taking meaningful action to protect the environment.)  Bessire observes that:

 

“Corporate profits depend on aquifer depletion. In other words, there is a multimillion-dollar corporate interest to prevent regulation and to pump the water until its gone”—Bones, p. 78

 

Just like an aquifer is composed of overlapping layers of sediment, the author discovers that depletion is much more complex than he had assumed when he started his research.  When he began, he though he knew who was to blame for depletion, but he discovers there’s a whole lot more going on beneath those dry riverbeds than meets the eye.  As Bessire says it, “Depletion condenses the most urgent conundrums of our times into a single drama.  On the High Plains, it blurs the boundary between the planetary and the personal”—Notes to the Reader, p. xii.

 

Along the way, the author comes face-to-face with his own complicity in “running out.”  Bessire explains how, as a young adult, he literally “ran out” on the High Plains.  He left home to go to college and had and had no plans to come back.  And he didn’t—until he returned to research his book.  During the time he spends living at the Little Rock House, he and his father rebuild their previously estranged relationship.  In fact, his dad becomes a true partner in his research.  At the onset the author takes the lead on many of the interviews, but by later in the book his father is clearly taking the lead.  In fact, Bessire later realizes that many of the people who agree to be interviewed for the book did so as a favor to their friend Tony.

 

The author’s great-grandfather (RW) was among the second wave of white settlers to this region.  The wells his great-grandfather dug played a major role in drying up the surface water in the area around the Little Rock House.  Bessire comments that, “There are plenty of stories about RW.  None are about stewardship.  Most suggest that we he was singularly focused on agribusiness.  Someone told me that RW thought he could violate the laws of nature and make money doing it.”—Lines, p. 17. 

 

In contrast to RW, the author is guided by wisdom collected by another of his ancestors, whom he discovers became an early advocate for conservation.  In a dusty file cabinet at the Little Rock House, he finds crinkled Manilla file folders and binders containing writings compiled by his grandmother (Lila “Fern”) about a variety of topics.  Fern died when the author was 12, so his memories interactions with her are sketchy, enshrouded in the mists of childhood perceptions.  However, he distinctly remembers her walking him across the pastures to visit the memorial for the nearby Wagon Bed Springs—which even then existed only in her grandmother’s memories.  He later learns that his grandmother played an important role in helping to determine the location of the springs and lobby for the memorial to be created. 

 

In talking to others about Fern, he learns that she is a kindred spirit.  Like him, she was often at odds with her father, and she too “ran out” on the High Plains.  The day she turned 18, she left the farm and got married.  After World War II, her husband Roy returned “broken” from his experience.  Against Fern’s wishes, they returned to the Little Rock House, where she would live out the rest of her days, “stuck in a small prairie world under the thumb of less talented men”—Lines, p. 21.  When she was in her mid-thirties, she had what was called a “nervous breakdown” and spent time in two different mental institutions. While Fern didn’t describe that experience in her writings, the author learns a great deal about what his grandmother likely endured from a six-part exposé published in a Wichita newspaper in 1974 by a woman named Betty Wells, who spent eight days at the place where Fern was first sent.

After returning from her time spent in the institutions, Fern became obsessed with learning about the past and trying to reconstruct it—most notably, her work to document the location of Wagon Bed Springs.  Fern’s efforts never led to any published works when she was alive.  But she would probably be proud that all these years later, her writings served as an invaluable guide to her grandson’s quest to understand depletion.  More than once, he returns to her dog-eared, often hand-written notes to help him figure out the “next step” in his research.

 

The author also becomes keenly aware of how forces of depletion played a role in making the life he had growing up on the Plains possible.  While walking on his father’s farm, he recalls a time as a child when he found a bison bone.  This leads him to research the details about the eradication of the Plains buffalo herds. In the span of three years between 1871 and 1874, it is estimated that between three and seven million bison were killed within a hundred-mile radius of the Little Rock House.  This mass slaughter had the effect of displacing the Native American populations living in that area that depended on bison for survival, which in turn made it possible for his white ancestors to take possession of the land.  He also discovers stories of forced relocation—and even genocide—of the indigenous populations that once resided on or near the land on which he grew up. Learning the details of these atrocities has a powerful impact on the author’s understanding of depletion.  

He realizes that even though he never killed a buffalo, or mistreated a Native person, or drew a single drop of water from the ground himself, in order for he and his family to live the life of relative privilege they lived on the High Plains these atrocities had to be committed against the native inhabitants of this land—both human and non-human—and the native environment.  

 

Bessire talks about what I will call the slipperiness of memory.  On one hand, we rely upon our memories to reconstruct the past.  For example, he relied on the stories told to him by numerous people about past events to compile his story.  But, on the other hand, he reflects on how we typically have selective amnesia in terms of what we remember and how we remember it.  History tends to be told from a particular point of view—often that of the dominant power.  This certainly was the case in the stories he was told as a child about bison herds and Native peoples.  He reflects, that: 

“We lived among the rubble of genocide and dispossession in a landscape that had been transformed.  Nothing seemed as fascinating as the chips of flint and arrowheads and old bullets and potsherds secreted among the last ribbons of native shortgrass. And nothing seemed as innocent. Only now do I see that their allure was part of displacing the monstrous events that allowed me to inhabit the Plains.  We confined the horrors of eradication to a cartoonish lost world; one that we thought was entirely disconnected from our own.”  He notes that these things were rarely if ever discussed and even when they were, “their significance was largely blocked off from our memories”—Bones, pp. 129–130.

 

While this book focused primarily on the issue of aquifer depletion on the High Plains, the author summarizes similar stories of depletion that play out all around the world in areas that are heavily dependent of groundwater for survival.  The specific circumstances of each location are unique, but there are common themes of depletion running through all these regions.  As Bessire describes it:

 

“Depletion flourishes wherever people inhabit the residues of settler invasions and forgotten genocides, traces of destroyed ecosystems, surges of boom–bust despair and simmering resentment, chemical disruptions, and the specter of more heat and drought.  In these zones, similar histories and technologies coincide with scarred landscapes and ideologies of unceasing productivity and profit that easily blur into militant fundamentalism’s when they collapse”—Afterword, pp. 178–179.

 

As people of faith, I think engaging stories like Running Out can help us wrestle with our call to be stewards of Earth as we grapple with complex issues related to preserving the increasingly depleted natural resources of our world and protecting its environment.  I wonder how many of us might relate to the author’s story.  Could we write our own tales of “running out” in our own local context?  The author includes a quote that he found in Fern’s notes.  While she applied to her personal recovery, it spoke to me about the attitude we need to have toward environmental issues. She said, “The first step in my own reclamation of command is to admit that I am not responsible for the past, but I am accountable to tomorrow”—Dust, p. 133.  

 

Often when confronted with a complex issue like climate change, we say things like, “I am not responsible for what happened in the past.”  And, of course, we’re correct on a personal level, but it strikes me that such a mindset seems to have become our society’s de facto excuse to maintain the status quo when it comes to the environment.  While it’s true that we can’t change—and we’re not responsible for—what has gone on before us, there’s a real sense that we are, as Fern said it, “accountable to tomorrow.”  

 

How will future generations judge us?  The jury is still out; although, toward the end of the book, the author muses that, considering what we’ve already done to the world they will inherit, they might not be too kind toward us.  The truth is, though, the story is still being written.  The future world is not fully formed yet.   The decisions we make (or choose not to make) help to shape that world.  As Bessire did in the process of researching Running Out, we each have an obligation to reckon with how the life we live contributes to the depletion of resources and/or degradation of our environment.  But it’s not enough just to know; we need to find ways to act on what we’ve learned—both individually and corporately. 

 

With the future of the planet that we call home hanging in the balance, it seems clear that water is not the only nonrenewable resource that is running out; even time itself seems to be slipping through the dusty hourglass.  The latest (sixth) IPCC report reminds us—in the strongest language to date—that the status quo isn’t sustainable.  The change we are seeing has an increasingly undeniable human “footprint.” The “band-aid fixes” to date simply aren’t adequate to address the problem of global climate change.  Failure to take more meaningful action to move away from such heavy dependence on fossil fuels and to otherwise mitigate the effects of climate change could have disastrous consequences for future generations. When it comes to the issue of climate, we face what Dr. King called the fierce urgency of now.  The decisions we make (or refuse to make) today impact the world our children, and their children, inherit.  Putting them off for the “next generation” to decide is no longer a viable option.  

Finding Our Way, Perceiving New Things

 Last year during Advent, I wrote a blog post called “Green Volunteers."   I talked about a fuchsia plant that I had purchased for Mother’s Day 2020, which had faded during the summer (in part due to neglect), but then—remarkably—bloomed again around Thanksgiving.  I brought it inside to try and carry it through the winter, but the transition to inside didn’t go well.   I carefully watered it and placed it in a sunny spot hoping it might recover yet again.  It did…  

December 13, 2020
A "green volunteer" emerges.

The picture on the left was taken December 13, 2020.  At that time I had written: “A green volunteer!  A branch growing out of roots!   And maybe, just maybe, a new flower bud?  It’s an annual, so I have no idea if I can bring it back to flourishing, but it does appear to be growing, so I’m curious to see what happens…

The picture below was taken August 10, 2021.  That’s the same plant that was a “green volunteer” eight months ago.  I moved it back outside this spring and it has thrived.  Seeing it thrive makes me smile.  

 

August 10, 2021
A "new thing" springs forth.
What was barren now blooms.

In my Advent devotional I wrote: [A famous line from the movie “Jurassic Park” was]:  “Life finds a way.”  (In the movie, the dinosaurs found a way to reproduce despite the scientist’s assurance that this was in fact “impossible.”) Nature bears witness to this.  Think about areas ravaged by volcanic eruptions or forest fires.  Life comes back in abundance afterwards.  In fact, the ash can provide nutrients for new life.  Eventually, life wins. 

 

Over the past 17 months, we have been in the grips of a global pandemic, and other simultaneous societal upheavals.  I have also experienced personal challenges I’ve had to overcome; I’m sure you have too.  We’ve all had to “find a way” to, as Paul says, “keep running the race marked out for us.”  Some days, that has seemed nearly impossible to do.  There just seemed to be too much to take in, too much to overcome.  And yet somehow here we are.

 

In March 2020, the world changed without much warning, and we had no choice but to “find a way” to adapt.  In our church, I think we faced a collective crisis large enough that we actually overcame the inertia of “how we’ve always done it before.”  (Some churches have been more successful at doing this than others.) 

 

Not just in the Church, but across our society, we’ve had to learn new ways to be in community together. While some of us knew about Zoom before COVID, it really wasn’t the norm to use it.  There was a learning curve we had to climb; it wasn’t always the easiest ascent, but we did it.  Now, virtual meetings are commonplace.  People of all ages conduct activities online.  While live activities are slowly resuming (the Delta variant notwithstanding) hybrid is clearly the way of the future.  Providing online options for participation in live events is no longer optional.

 

Following the plant analogy, in March 2020 COVID-19 stripped us down to bare minimum. We had to rapidly transplant ourselves to survive.  We weren’t sure if the tender shoots would prosper in the new environment.  We could plant, and we could water, but it was up to God to make things grow.  And that's exactly what God did!  

Like the fuchsia on my deck, 17 months later, flowers are blooming.  COVID-19 is slow to loosen its grip, but where I worship, we are finding our way to a “new normal.”  (I suspect the same is true at many other churches.)  At my church, we  have fellowship groups and Bible studies meeting online throughout the week via Zoom, as well as all of our committee meetings.  While we surely lose some things by not being together face-to-face, we also gain things conducting certain church activities online. For example, we’ve gotten used to doing church committee business from the convenience of our homes.  

 

The core elements of who we were before March 2020 may not have changed—but the world around us has.  Make no mistake, we are emerging into a new day. There is no map to where we are headed; we almost "make the road" as we walk it.  We must trust God to be our guide.  “New things” are indeed trying to “spring forth.” and our job is to “perceive them” and embrace them—not resist them.  If the Church is to thrive in the years ahead then we must find ways to meet the world where it is today.  It becomes increasingly clear that they are not likely to come to us without a personal invitation. 

 

FOR REFLECTION

 

·      What new things do you perceive springing forth in your life today?  At your church?

·      What new things do you perceive as needed, that might be “trying to be born”?  How can you be part of the birthing process?  

·      Where might we need to take a second look for “green volunteers”? 

·      What things can our churches do to help equip us to engage the “new world” around us?