PearlS | The Average Pearl

Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church, PART ONE

I’m going to post a short series here that I feel might be incendiary. Ha! It’s not my jam to start fires, but this old world is beginning to smoke, and Hell will be a heck of a lot hotter. I’m taking Jesus at his word and trying to lose my life in hopes that I might find it.

Really, though, it has become clear to me over the last couple years, as I’ve been studying the prophets of the Old Testament, that our job as Jesus followers is to sing loud the song of repentance which leads to life. This particular song is growing faint, increasingly drowned out by louder voices.

We are not unlike the Israelites who strayed from God. We are not unlike people who need to be washed and redeemed.

I have finally read Rachel Hollis, dusted the dirt off my to-be-read list. I have not read any articles Christians have written about her, but I did read her books for myself to see what the great huzzah was about. I don’t want to chew people up and spit them out. I don’t think our right to speak should ever condemn people to the grave. I want to give everyone their turn to speak. Rachel Hollis doesn’t have any groundbreaking message–simply put, she’s a girlfriend-type encourager who preaches that only you have the power to change your life. It sounds pretty good, actually. It’s sort of tame and sort of true. But it’s a couple degrees off the straight and narrow path, which also happens to be the direction the American church is going.

Jesus once said something very seriously to his disciples:

“Things that cause people to sin are bound to come, but woe to that person through whom they come. It would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around his neck than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin. So watch yourselves.” (Luke 17:1-3)

I hate it. I hate this confirmation from Jesus that there are tricky little sneaks who lead people astray. Now, we know what’s in store for them, but we also know what’s in store for us if we follow them. We’ll also end up at the bottom of the sea. This is something that has to be addressed–we have to address these faulty messages.

Watch yourselves, Jesus said.

Hosea was a prophet God used to send Israel a message. He said,

“The days of punishment are coming, the days of reckoning are at hand.
Let Israel know this.
Because your sins are so many and your hostility so great, the prophet is considered a fool, the inspired man a maniac.”
Hosea 9:7

The person who speaks the truth–a maniac. Well, that doesn’t sound popular. And I guess I’m not aiming to be, either, but someone has to keep speaking up.

So maybe I’m not starting a fire after all. Maybe I’m just trying to rescue a few people from it.
Snatch others from the fire and save them.
Jude 1:23

Lies from Rachel Hollis and the Modern American Church:

LIE #1. Jesus can be something other than center in a Christian’s life.

Rachel Hollis has built an empire on the idea that as good people who deserve more, we ought to be crushing it. Want a better life? Follow her ten easy steps. Have a goal? Rach has patented a “life changing” formula for meeting them.

As encouragement along the way, Hollis, bereft of even the slightest hint of tongue in cheek, urges readers to not compare “your beginning to my middle.” This is absurd if we look at her statement–clearly she must think she is God to state she is all-knowing, successful, and plainly in the dead center of her ambitions. I’m sure she will let us know when world domination is near. The rest of us can only hope our “beginning” someday amounts to more.

Sadly, this is a parallel image of where the American church is headed. The act of being satisfied within one’s own pursuit indicates we have left Jesus entirely out of the picture.

In my experience of moving, observing churches, and talking with people, Jesus is no longer center in most of our worship. We segregate the congregation and defend our actions by saying we’re “meeting people where they are”–when Jesus was very clear about the mission for his followers, and not once did He mention making the Gospel more palatable for the picky eaters. Jesus said, quite frankly, that your old ways, your old self, must die first, and then a new creation will sprout. Doesn’t have the most affirming ring to it, does it?

In Paul’s letter to the Ephesian church he says, “Among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people. Nor should there be obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving.” Ephesians 5:3-4

Our churches would be more effective, sincere, and smaller if we kicked this sort of junk out of our doors, but instead we welcome it in and greedily add up the numbers as church attendance. We love a good hipster preacher, a Rachel Hollis, that pumps up the energetic music and makes us feel like we’ve experienced something awesome.
We don’t want Jesus.

LIE #2. Prosperity doesn’t blind us.

We as Americans live in the land the rest of the world views as Possible. Because we were initially founded on this idea that individuals are made in God’s image and therefore ought to pursue worship as we see fit, we were birthed a nation clearly blessed by our Creator. The freedoms we enjoy are directly correlated to men and women sacrificing their lives for a greater good. But most of us have forgotten we stand on blood-soaked soil. It’s incredible we don’t see the blood on our shoes, but this is the sneaky side of wealth and prosperity. We think we’ve done it all ourselves–we have Rachel Hollis’ed ourselves into a dreamworld where all our deepest desires are realized if we just make an “idea soup” and knock out one goal at a time. We pursue self-actualization as if it is the meaning of life. We’ve become absolutely blinded to our one true need for a savior.

We are a sorry lot. Rachel Hollis plasters her face all over social media, the giddy, radiant smile her perfect proof of success. She eagerly marks her followers on Instagram with big golden balloons and office parties–the natural man or woman thinks if a crowd is following them, then they must be doing something right.

Taking it one step further, many Christians balk at the idea of their church representing prosperity-centered Gospel. But I’ll venture to say if your tithe money in any way affords your church a Sunday morning coffee bar, leather couches, big screens, snacks, childcare, a paid praise team–if in anyway you are receiving the greater benefit of your offering–you are blinded by this very prosperity Gospel. Your need for attention trumps your need for Jesus.
It is curious that we can do things in Christ’s name while pushing Him off the stage. (Francis Shaeffer, No Little People, pg. 146, c.1974)

LIE #3. You can be near to God simply by giving Him credit for your success.

This might be the sneakiest, scariest lie of them all. Who hasn’t felt their heart swell with admiration at the professional sports player who sinks a three pointer or scores a touchdown and then points up to heaven in an all gracious, thank-you-Lord nod? American Christians love it when they detect a flicker of Jesus dust in a fairytale, magical moment, as if Patrick Mahomes was making the “good confession” every time he plowed across the endzone.

Rachel Hollis writes, “I ran an entire marathon with Philippians 4:13 written on my hand in Sharpie, and I believe that my Creator is the strength by which I achieve anything. But God, your partner, your mama, and your best friends–none of them can make you into something (good or bad) without your help. You have the ability to change your life. You’ve always had the power, Dorothy. You just have to stop waiting for someone else to do it for you.” (Girl, Wash Your Face)

I’m telling you, this is a sneaky as they come. This is good old American fodder, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps with a flavor shot of Jesus. Hear me loud and clear: giving Jesus a head nod counts for nothing in the end.

Jesus often gave the same message, what we call the Sermon on the Mount to crowds of people. It was radical. It challenged everything the Jews ever thought they knew about God and rules and getting along with people. It raised questions over every one of the ten commandments, it held everyone accountable for their thoughts and actions. It was flawless, and people were bewildered and amazed. At the very end of this sermon, Jesus warns the listeners to watch out for wolves in sheep’s clothing, because they will easily fool you, but if they looked closer, they would be able to “know them by their fruit.”

And then he said,

“Not everyone who says to me , ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and in your name drive out demons and perform many miracles?” Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’

Jesus, you see, did not come to play church down here. He doesn’t even care if Patrick Maholmes points his finger to heaven or picks his nose when he scores a touchdown. He doesn’t care if Rachel Hollis finishes another marathon or another book or tattoos the whole book of Genesis on her face. It counts for nothing. Jesus will not recognize these people or even remember them if they try to trigger his memory–remember God? I’m the one who mentioned you in my bestselling book….I’m the one who pointed to you everytime I scored a touchdown!

Sadly, neither will He remember us for simply singing along to KLOVE songs on the radio or dropping our kids off at youth group. He will know us by our fruit, our foundation, the life that springs from a life hidden in Christ.
The difference is this: a life built on the words of Jesus or the life built on yourself with a sprinkling of Jesus jimmies on top.

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Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Join me tomorrow as we examine more lies of Rachel Hollis and the Modern American Church.

What was I supposed to be?

I sat in the waiting room, my legs dangling to the floor, a thin cotton robe wrapped around me. The tech had swiftly left the room, and all I could think about was how silly I felt to see the doctor again when I still was unsure if I was wearing the robe forwards or backwards. It seemed like something an adult should know without having to ask, so I didn’t.

After awhile–these things always take quite awhile–a quick rap at the door let me know he was ready to enter.

He was one of many OBGYNs at this office, and I’d seen him for a regular checkup and measurement only an hour before. While I waited the first time, I opened the book I’d brought with me, The Cider House Rules.

Now, forgive a fool, but I am one. Without even a twinge of suspicion I had bought it for a dime from the thrift store only days before. In my defense–I can testify–I had not a clue what the book was about. Looking back on it now, I think I picked it up because in my hormonal pregnancy brain I thought it was a Steinbeck book. John Irving, John Steinbeck–pretty close, yes?

And there I was, two pages in, perched on the crinkly papered examination table when I met the doctor.

He was a stern older man who reminded me of my great-grandpa–thin and wiry, not apt to show his teeth. But my grandpa only ever wore blue overalls that I can remember. This doctor, with his starchy white coat surely lived a completely different life. Or did he? My grandpa pulled calves from their mothers, and this man did sort of the same thing. I watched his face soften as he turned his head to the side to see what I was reading.

I quickly closed the book, a little embarrassed he would be so bold to take interest in my reading habits.

“Cider House Rules!” he said, raising his eyebrows approvingly. “That’s one of my favorites. What do you think of it?”

Honestly, I didn’t know, but I was pretty sure my robe was on backwards, so I mumbled something about liking it so far. Maybe he wouldn’t think I was a complete idiot or sense how new I was to this pregnancy business. I made a mental note to do some Googling on John Irving when I had the opportunity.

“You know,” he said, “I do a bit of that kind of work.”

“Is that right?” I said, feigning interest. “Where?”

“Oh, over in town at the clinic. You know.”

I didn’t know, but I nodded.

I was twenty weeks along, about the time the ultrasound technicians ask if you’d like to know the sex of your baby. She didn’t have to tell me. I saw it for myself, a big thumbs up, the handle on a frying pan. I suppose it could have been any body part, but it seemed pretty obvious. Then again, if it wasn’t a boy, I didn’t need to know. I wouldn’t tell anyone anyway and it wouldn’t stop me from spending hours poring over baby names. If nothing else, I could pretend I didn’t know it was a boy and keep adding girl names to the list. No one ever said anything out loud, so to me it still counted as a secret.

But after she’d measured and clicked and printed a long strip of mostly undecipherable black and white baby pictures, she’d rushed off and told me to just sit still and wait.

When the doctor returned to the room, we’d obviously bonded over reading material. He leaned comfortably against the wall as he told me what they’d seen in the ultrasound.

“It looks like your baby has a two vessel cord,” he said. “Most babies have two arteries and one vein–yours doesn’t.” He explained the issue, and I asked him if this constituted a bigger problem. How worried should I be?

“We’ll just keep an eye on it,” he said. “If it looks like the baby–” he paused and looked down at a paper and then up at me, “boy or girl?”

I shook my head, “a secret.”

“We will check you twice a week for the last several weeks. If the baby looks like it is failing to thrive, we’ll deliver it then.”

He smiled matter-of-factly and shuffled the papers back into a folder.

“Let me know what you think of the rest of that book.”

I was full of baby, sitting in the middle of an airplane when I finally got around to finishing The Cider House Rules. I cried. It shook me. Infants were put to death, mothers were sent away empty handed, and a naive boy who once startled at the sight of a mangled corpse turned into a hardened man who performed abortions without blinking. Justified, satisfied, content with his work, a hero.

I thought of my doctor. I thought long and hard after I finished his favorite book, my two vessel cord baby stretching my belly into a watermelon.

I drove myself to the library and googled him. He wrote articles for the local paper in his spare time, expounding the benefits of population control to a town of 15,000 in southwest Colorado, folks hardly concerned with urban creep or the rest of the world. As long as you supported the local breweries and kept a three foot distance from the road bikers when driving, you might well live and let live. But this was my doctor’s cross he bore for the sake of humanity–he himself sounded the warning that our lives take up too much space, and something ought to be done about it.

My first baby was born healthy. He never failed to thrive. After my second baby, I switched from an OBGYN delivery to midwives. I tripled the size of my family, added four more to the population sign on the outskirts of town. Would the doctor have tried to discourage me from keeping each subsequent pregnancy? I don’t know. Maybe he kept his clinic work, his pro bono deeds, separate from his paying job.

His website touts two grown children and a vasectomy–what a shining example. He performed abortions as his civil duty, only a mile from the pregnancy resource center where my friend Valerie encourages women to not be afraid to keep their babies. He pulled infants unwillingly from the womb, scrapes them from their mothers. The next day he delivered the wanted ones, swaddled this time, and placed on their mother’s chest. He writes and publishes articles that favor the wise, the thoughtful planners, stable incomes, secondary education-minded. His concern is for the earth, for humanity, yet I cannot comprehend anything more inhumane than silencing a life that cannot physically cry out for mercy.

Here we have a responsible moral particularist, atheistic in his beliefs but deeply convicted of his life purpose. From where does he derive some greater calling? What made him think he has the authority to deem one life worthwhile and another worthless? Was it pure luck that his mother birthed him into the arms of a doctor who had enough compassion to unwrap the umbilical cord from around his neck?

This man who has an intimate, front row seat to the rhythm of life refuses to acknowledge there is a God who designed such an intricate being. He denies God himself, whose heart beats out a rhythmic love song for people. He denies a Creator who knits each of us in our mothers’ wombs, who made each one of us in His image. In Him we live and move and have our being. Not one is an accident or mistake, not one life is without purpose or identity, not one is born or dies without His eye fully upon them. We, the born and unborn, are precious to Him–even my abortion-performing, overpopulation-wary doctor. Oh, if that man only knew. If people only knew how much He loves them.

I have tried to consider his reasoning, the idea that there are unwanted children, people the world would be better off without. Usually this attitude is scrubbed up and repainted as a quality-of-life social issue. I once read an acceptance speech for a prestigious award. In their speech, the recipient said,

“Recently, the press has been filled with reports of sightings of flying saucers. While we need not give credence to these stories, they allow our imagination to speculate on how visitors from outer space would judge us. I am afraid they would be stupefied at our conduct. They would observe that for death planning we spend billions to create engines and strategies for war. They would also observe that we spend millions to prevent death by disease and other causes. Finally, they would observe that we spend paltry sums for population planning, even though its spontaneous growth is an urgent threat to life on our planet. Our visitors from outer space could be forgiven if they reported home that our planet is inhabited by a race of insane men whose future is bleak and uncertain.

There is no human circumstance more tragic than the persisting existence of a harmful condition for which a remedy is readily available. Family planning, to relate population to world resources, is possible, practical and necessary. Unlike plagues of the dark ages or contemporary diseases we do not yet understand, the modern plague of overpopulation is soluble by means we have discovered and with resources we possess.

What is lacking is not sufficient knowledge of the solution but universal consciousness of the gravity of the problem and education of the billions who are its victims.”

In 1966, Planned Parenthood presented this particular Margaret Sanger Award to one Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. (read the rest of the speech here). I nearly choked on his comparison between his battle for equal rights and Margaret Sanger’s struggle to provide illegal abortions in the slums in the early 1900s. Nevermind the desperation of poverty–when the question becomes when to abort instead of whether–we have quite drifted out of our zone of authority.

The same man who raised a generation of civil rights activists was not exempt from the lofty self-righteousness that comes with worldly wisdom. In all his work, in all of his trials that brought forth equality and victory, his convictions became muddy.

Friends, no matter how well meaning we are, no matter how noble our intentions–we are not afforded the liberty to take another’s life. Our job will never be to curb population growth because God, in the beginning, instructed humans to fill the earth. One life equals one life; significance, worthiness–isn’t a sliding scale. Sin is what brings about death, not good intentions. We get old and die. Natural disasters occur. Car accidents, murders, neglect. This all happens because we are a sin-tainted world.

My dear doctor is among many misguided, well-meaning folk. But God–He is a lover of life. His wisdom is foolishness to the world (1 Cor.3:19). Our world is thirsty for this truth.

We are held to a higher moral standard. Life isn’t negotiable. It blows my mind that in a country where we think we have a decent handle on equal rights, there exist folks who think this world would be nicer without people in it.
Jesus said, “Be careful that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you, their angels in Heaven always see the face of my Father in Heaven.” (Matt.18:10)
Sanctity of life is a holy matter, and it sits right in the presence of God. Lord, forgive us when we step out of bounds.

My old doctor was hit by a car as he crossed the road downtown one day. He didn’t die, but he was hurt pretty bad. Recovery was rough. Years later, he survived a terrible car accident. Again, it made the paper. I read it. I began to wonder if God was trying to get his attention.

Wouldn’t a God who loves us try to get our attention? Yes, I think He would.

When Jesus walked upon the earth

Along the shores of Galilee

He said to His disciples,

“Let the little children come to me.”

I wonder if up in Heaven

Do you suppose we will see

Little children asking,

“What was I supposed to be?”

Was I to be a prophet,

Used in the ministry?

A doctor, used to find a cure

For some terrible disease?

Even if I’d been born imperfect,

Why couldn’t my parents see

I’d have been made perfect

When You came back for me.

Oh, Jesus

What was I supposed to be?

“What was I supposed to be?

What were my eyes supposed to see?

Why did I taste of death

Before I even drew a breath

Or laid my head at my mother’s breast

To sleep

Oh, Jesus

What was I supposed to be?”

Keith Lancaster, Acapella (1987)

the puppy bed

We stood there in Costco in the pet aisle, and I stared at the dog beds while another shopper tried to sell me on one.

“I’ve had rottweilers for 20 years and these are the best,” he said. “You really should buy one while they’re in stock–they last forever.”

After about three minutes’ consideration, I loaded it onto my cart. Forty dollars seemed like a fair investment, and the rottweiler guy was pretty convincing. As I drove home, we talked about our spoiled puppy. Seven months old and on her second dog bed (the first too fuzzy to resist gnawing the guts out), we reckoned this homecoming would register as another in the long line of “best days of her life.”

As I pulled into our garage, the other kids burst through the door to the house like they always do after I’ve been gone.

“We’ve got a surprise for Minnie!” Jubal announced, and they all rushed to see what was in the trunk.

It isn’t lost on me that my dog sleeps on a nicer bed than most of the people in this world. And yet, dragging that pad into the living room and encouraging a dog to sprawl out on it is as much fun as eating a fluffy mountain of cotton candy. I am forever lost in this disparity, the unfairness of what I have in life, what others don’t. I try not to get carried away at the grocery store, the thrift store, the makeup aisle, or Chipotle. Amazon has my mailing address but it doesn’t have my soul. I don’t feel the urge to dress my kids up in nice new clothes or have a shiny car, but I will drop a mean wallop at Costco. I am grateful, most of the time. But I wonder–does my gratitude move me toward indifference? Am I so thankful for my own blessings and Dave Ramsey wisdom that I flat out ignore Rome is burning?

Several years ago my brother drove his family out to visit us for Christmas. As we played cards the Eve before, as kids squealed over Uno and we drank cream soda straight from the brown barrel bottles, I pulled my laptop open and searched for charities that served Syrian refugees. The compulsion to see outside my snowglobe and into a world where it was cold and hopeless drew me in, and I couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing?” they asked, and I shrugged it off. “Just wanted to sneak in an end-of-the-year gift,” I said.

It was that night I learned about the struggle of refugees, though I thought I knew something of it before.

As a foreign exchange student in Rio, I had seen the most awful street beggars. Little children with rods sticking straight out of their legs, wounds inflicted by favela drug lords to induce pity. It worked. I couldn’t bear their pain. On a visit to the city center I saw, for the first time, groups of children huddled around aerosol cans, passing them around to inhale and get high–any respite from their real life as orphans. Once, on the beach, a little fellow marched up to me and ripped my sunglasses right off my face. I was pissed. I grabbed them back and they snapped. We both lost that day. Oh, I’d seen despair. I couldn’t forget its hopeless, glassy gaze. It was hardened and indifferent–poverty and riches have the same outcome.

I still force myself to look it in the eye. It would be so much easier to look away, but especially on those days when I buy a forty dollar puppy pad, I sit down, open my laptop, and stare brazenly into its face. I watch videos from other parts of the world. I fix my eyes on what can’t be real, not possibly–refugees dragging an un-upholstered foam pad no bigger than my puppy’s bed–into a scrubby, worn, scrapped-together tent.
Lord, don’t let me feel immune to their despair.

Syrian refugees have been displaced in Lebanon and other countries for going on ten years. Folks who fled their homes thinking they’d be back soon have eked out a new life in another country–one that doesn’t want them there. Nearly one in four people residing in Lebanon are Syrian refugees. They are unwelcome, denied work, school, and most basic human rights. I learned this after I donated some money and signed up for quarterly email updates.

Now, there are other people we know around the world in grave need of help, loans for their businesses, food and education for their kids. But none seem as trapped to me as refugees in a camp. Their tents with tarps flapping and worn bedpads host memories of war, cold winter nights, futureless dreams.

Sometimes I don’t like to open my email. Honestly, I don’t want to hear one more sad story. Every media outlet plasters the heaviest woes on their front page, blasting fear and shame without a shred of dignity. We all eat up the news, ride the waves of whatever “journalists” deem their top ten. But CNN tired many years ago of talking about refugees. Those families, split at the border? If there isn’t a heartwarming or shocking story, it is largely forgotten or else misconstrued. News outlets thrive on exploitation, pulling heart strings and invoking anger. They stir pots and then they go home, remove their makeup, and sleep on feather beds.

I met a refugee at our school two weeks ago. He had been in the States for four years, and just ten days prior to meeting him, the rest of his family was finally able to join him. He was a bit nervous for his children to begin elementary school in a new country. But boy, was he thankful and excited. I hugged him–I couldn’t help it. I scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper and pressed it into his hand.
“Call me,” I said. “Bring your wife and family to our home.”

“Everyone has been so helpful to me,” he said. “It has been wonderful to bring my family to America. How can I thank God for the blessing he has given me by allowing me to bring my family to this country? I will spend the rest of my life trying to thank Him.”

I stood there in the front office of the school, my hand on his shoulder, my heart and eyes leaking secondary joy. Then he said,
“You Americans, you do not understand how blessed you are in this nation. It is the very last frontier for freedom. You must protect it. You cannot let every immigrant into the United States, even though you think you can. The whole world would be here! This would be no life.”

As I walked back to my car, I let his words replay in my mind. I have never heard these words from the lips of a refugee. In fact, I’m pretty sure the news would have me to believe we are all a bunch of selfish brats for neglecting the rest of the world to live in our palaces. That if we don’t start drinking less water from plastic bottles, we will be cooking in our own carbon dioxide. That we might should consider more wind and solar power and stop being so wasteful. Well, I’ve seen piles of trash bigger than St. Louis, where people sort through discarded rubble a mile deep, looking for things to recycle so they can eat that night. I’ve seen shacks built on top of shacks on top of shacks in third world countries, but just down the street from me they’re building brand new subdivisions with solar panels on million dollar homes. Please tell me where wisdom sleeps, in a poor or rich person’s bed?

Perhaps we do not want to become another Lebanon, where hate is thick and compassion is scant, where refugees are a quarter of the population, unwanted and unhelped. But tell me, what exactly is the difference between refugee life here or there? Wealth that leads to stony platitudes of indifference, the lie that we actually might know how to take the higher road? Or is it true, scrappy poverty where hope is as futile as the high from an aerosol can? Until we toss out our good intentions in the garbage, we can’t even hold the gaze of a person who has seen their family bombed out of house and homeland.

You must protect it, the man said. He wasn’t referring to our country’s resources, but to her freedom. He never suggested we spread the wealth, but acknowledge what made us wealthy. He wasn’t pointing fingers at my dog bed, but at me.

And this, I’ve realized, is our duty. We can welcome those who have already entered, and we can better use the resources we have. But perhaps we can best help others by looking inside our own walls, those who have somehow slipped in through the front door, instead of inviting the whole world to our table. Do for one what you wish you could do for all, a wise person has said. Stop pretending you can be a savior. Instead, be a neighbor.

Still, we set a watchful eye on the heartbroken. We practice more of that quick-to-listen, slow-to-speak life. We aren’t building tables instead of walls or whatever nonsense makes us look better than we really are. We can’t rightly understand it, but the Lord didn’t make a mistake when He plopped us down in the land of the free and the home of the brave. So we will do our darndest to remind one another it doesn’t matter if our Chiefs win or lose a Superbowl this Sunday. We will revel in what we have, and we will look not only to our own interests, but also to the interests of others.

We will stare down poverty and wealth till it makes us uncomfortable, till every time I look at that puppy on her bed I’m reminded most people aren’t even half as lucky as us.

Love Wins

There has been an elephant in the room for too long.

I listen to podcasts and constantly hear savvy Christians beating around the bush, pretending to address concerns without stepping on anyone’s toes in the process. Yesterday it was a conversation between two pastors that had me cringing as they debated outward versus inward-facing churches. I wanted to voice a third option, but it wasn’t offered. What about Jesus-facing churches? We worry an awful lot about people and “being the change we wish to see in the world.” In public, we Christians are typically flighty or abrasive, wavering between ultra sensitive and permissive or boldly speaking truth (to heck with those who disagree!). Jesus confounds us because He balanced love and truth perfectly. The scale was in his hand and it never once tipped to the side. We want to represent Him, but our ever-present human nature hovers just behind the curtain, threatening to thwart our sincerity. I wonder if I remain too silent or if I speak too loud, will be misunderstood? Maybe it’s better to shut up and mind my own business. But then I think about those who have spoken into my own life. I think about those who looked at me and considered me worth enlightening. Nevermind my first reactions to truth. Did I hate what they were saying? Did I ever see their point? Did they wrap their message with love and compassion? Should they have kept quiet?

And I always conclude it was better for them to open their mouth. I was always better for having listened, because it sent me off, clue list in hand, to search the Scriptures for real treasure.

With this in mind, I want to look at people–all people–and continually regard them as my people. Outsiders, insiders, creeping-around-the-edge-’siders. I have many, many friends who do not hold the same beliefs as me, but they know I am relentlessly, unashamedly in pursuit of Jesus. I think God’s word, the Bible, is infallible. It is worth listening to, it is worth proclaiming from the rooftops. As a mother, I feel there is a natural platform, specifically suited for raising children–my own–and speaking into their lives. One might pity such a platform, but I think it is the greatest honor. It is deeper and more enduring than any name I hope to make for myself. God gave me four biological children–living, breathing, eager students that long to be shaped, molded, loved. I wonder about the giants they will face in their lifetime, and I spend a lot of time pondering how to prepare them for the battle. My own parents were a steady do-as-I-say-and-don’t-ask-questions sort of team–I silenced a thousand questions as I grew up. But the giants evolve and loom over every phase of life. Even if my folks slayed them years ago for me, there are new ones popping up on the scene every day. And these of today seem more sinister, trickier. They deserve some explaining, they deserve questions and answers. We cannot be Christians who make our lives a game of Two Truths and A Lie, leaving our children to guess what is real and what is made up. For me, for my kids, for my people who seek truth in today’s world–we must examine the evidence.

Now let’s talk about that elephant.

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Imagine if you were about to get married. You found the partner you’ve been praying for and you can’t wait to tie the knot and settle down.

The problem is, you don’t want a big wedding, don’t care for the showy, planned-to-perfection details. You don’t care about your mother’s guest list, professional invitations, a beachy versus mountain setting or flowers. You’d rather not waste your money on a special dress, and you really don’t even like cake.

Would you be wrong in wanting to get married? Would there be something deeply wrong with you for not wanting to throw a massive party, not wanting to invite all your second cousins?

Imagine another scenario: you are thinking about taking a trip. You’ve heard tales of world wide adventures and you can’t wait to blaze your own trail. But you don’t know much about geography or other cultures. You’ve never learned another language and you’ve never flown before. Matter of fact, you don’t have the funds, no suitcase, no plane tickets, no passport. You simply aren’t prepared to go anywhere.

Would you be a fraud for expressing your interest in travel? Would anyone blame you for putting the dream off for a few years?

It seems unconscionable to force a wedding party on a person who doesn’t want one. It is disconcerting to put the pressure on an unprepared aspiring traveler. Indeed, we would think it damaging to exert our opinions in these particular situations. Who cares? It’s their business, after all. They’ll figure it out someday. No need to rush things. Yet we are placing a burden on a young generation to do what they have never asked, desired, or prepared to handle. I am speaking of an all too familiar social and political agenda that is bent on sexual revolution, seeking to indoctrinate the youngest and most impressionable among us.

We are evolving into a culture that, as a whole, is sending unique, beautiful, naive, immature children and young adults down a path of forced sexuality. Hear me now: we are enslaving ourselves and our children by giving them early, unfiltered access to a topic that is too heavy for them to bear…All in the name of freedom, knowledge, acceptance, love.

Look around at all the access points. We hand our children phones with the internet, where just opening an app exposes us to junk mail and advertisements that we cannot unsee. Books, television commercials, shows, movies all normalize mature sexual promiscuity and morally questionable adult behavior, including the LBGTQ agenda. Pride parades, counseling, curriculum are all designed to buy a young person’s attention and approval. PBS programming, deemed entirely appropriate for preschool children, is advocating same sex relationships. Instead of helping kids become aware of their intrinsic value as a human being (hello, Mr. Rogers!) as they develop physically and mentally, it is becoming commonplace to encourage bizarre questions relating purely to sexuality. Do you identify as a boy or a girl? (I’ve seen this question on an elementary school worksheet for a nationwide young inventors’ contest). Explore yourself–don’t be limited to XX and XY chromosomes. I’ve seen tampon commercials for men (how am I to explain this to my twelve year old girl, let alone to myself?) and drag queens featured on the covers of magazines as I pay for my groceries.

Back when we homeschooled, my kids took part in a shared schooling situation with other students. In the kindergarten and first grade room there was a sixth grade “helper” in the room. She was no more than twelve years old, hair chopped to look like a boy, wearing baggy clothing, her head permanently down, eyes fixed on the floor. I longed to wrap my arms around her and love her back to herself, back to the little kid she was before, unaware of the pressures of “finding oneself”. But someone (or no one) left her on her own to doubt, to ponder an open-ended question without ever giving her an answer sheet. They made reservations for the post-wedding banquet, they put her on the airplane with nothing more than a wave of the hand– “You’ll figure it out! Have a great trip!” Meanwhile, my own kindergartner left class bewildered– “Mom, is Daria a boy or a girl?”

We know that, biologically, sex is designed (in every species) for reproduction. Sex makes babies. Somehow our culture has turned this into a very hush-hush, birds-and-bees, embarrassing sort of conversation, as though the facts of life are (of all things) to be put off or loathed. Ignoring the scientific, the very math that determines man plus woman equals offspring, we skip right over age-appropriate introductions in a rush to expose them to variations on sexuality. We are unashamed to point kids in the direction of sex exploration and acceptance. We encourage gender confusion and paint such “progressive thinking” as a mile marker of how far we’ve come. Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner was very publicly awarded an auspicious award for his “bravery” in transitioning from a man to a woman, though his body will never present XX chromosomes–the primary, elemental proof of legitimate womanhood. I am no scientist, but I fail to acknowledge this news as anything but absurd. It seems to me we ought to be questioning many of our revelations.

Nothing will skew our children’s view of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness like the incessant, early message of sex deviation and the general acceptance of promiscuity. In his book, Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis makes the argument that if a person indulges in food, his appetite will eventually be satiated, and he will stop eating. But the sexual appetite is subject to a thousand perversions that will never satisfy, never be the cause for satisfaction. Take a look at the past thirty years–have we come so far to think we are actually freer, more enlightened? What of the porn industry and sex trafficking? Alarmingly, there is more talk of sex and perversion than there has ever been before. By encouraging people to “come out of the closet” we have opened a floodgate of insatiable, perverted sexual appetite.

Fine, you say–we are adults! Let us do as we please! But in the evolution of people becoming controlled by sexual craving, the majority of the public has deemed it necessary to bend morality in their favor, to create flexible boundaries. And this is where nature and nurture collide. A child who has naturally developed an inner dialogue which identifies and discriminates between man and woman must be taught to quiet their better judgment. This, of course, is why children must be indoctrinated, silenced, at an early age.

Before I go any further, let me be clear. If you are an unbeliever, if you have approached Jesus and chosen your lifestyle over Him, you are not a slave to God, but a slave to sin. It doesn’t matter what any church doctrinal statement adds or leaves out–your sexual emancipation condemns you before a righteous God, just as I am condemned if I consider myself a better person than you for not pursuing that lifestyle. Without Jesus and his death on the cross, none of us have any hope for redemption or healing. Let me repeat: I am nothing more than a self-righteous idiot if I condemn you and elevate my own opinion. Our sins weigh exactly the same and I have no right to judge you.

It is your choice, as an adult, to live promiscuously or pursue same sex relationships, to perceive yourself a gender-bender, just the same as it is your privilege to choose to vote.
But children have no rights to vote. They are still learning to think, to speak, to take a meaningful thought and express it out loud. They are, without question, in need of grownups to make choices for them. If we are indiscriminate in our distribution of freedoms, consider a child who holds equal value to you as a human being. Consider their right to remain unexposed to sexual rhetoric until they are fully mature. Imagine what this is saying to our children as we rally behind the efforts of a pro-LGBTQ platform. Our rights matter, dear children, our bodies above your minds...To love, to lust, to disturb, to destroy. Your rights, my children, do not matter.

Can you see it? We are pushing the party when we haven’t even been invited to the wedding! We are throwing the unprepared traveler onto a plane and singing bon voyage. We aren’t putting their needs before our own. We aren’t even following a version of the golden rule. We are saddling our kids with ambiguous love-everybody vibes at a point in their lives where they are developmentally still figuring out how to sit still in class. The tools that were once regarded as a sound mind and good judgment–things we used to encourage our kids to exercise–are being tossed into the garbage as questionable and ugly.

Friends, we must look deeper. I’m afraid it is too easy to cite the “love” chapter in the Bible (1 Cor. 13), claiming to err on the side of love, keeping our lips sealed, when the same passage says very clearly, love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth (1 Corinthians 13:6). We all have blindspots, but do we let our one major blindspot run the show? No! We seek wisdom where we have little so we might see more clearly. This tepid water of culture is deceptively dangerous for growing children. It doesn’t threaten to scald, doesn’t threaten to freeze, so we splash around in it thinking no harm will come our way. But friend, a lion is on the prowl seeking to devour (1 Peter 5:8).

Kids must be kids before they can understand more mature material and adult matters. There must be clear expectations and standards when raising kids so their development might not be hindered. Proverbs says, “Discipline your son, for there is hope! Do not be party to his death” (Proverbs 19:18).

In other words, pay attention. Notice the world around you. Look at your kids. Equip them, model appropriate, sober behavior. Point out the inconsistencies, the two truths and a lie. Train them up in the way they should go, that they might not depart (Proverbs 22:6). The world is itching to determine their pronouns and stick on labels. Do not leave your precious child doubting their worth, their humanity, their identity.

Love wins. If there has ever been a phrase I’m more sure of, I haven’t found it.

But when we water down love to hands-off parenting, elevating self-care, mocking traditionally held roles, or a lusty type of sexual preferences–I can no longer get on board with the movement. Love is so much more. Jesus said we must realize our abject poverty when it comes to love–we are essentially devoid of anything resembling love. When we come to terms with our stone cold hearts, that is when He can fill us up with the real stuff. Real love is fascinating to behold. Real love is real freedom.

As Bob Goff writes, “love does”! It doesn’t sit off to the side, a spectator hoping for the best. We are to look at people–children, teens, young adults, single, married, middle-aged and elderly–through the lens of love–seeking their best interest above our own (Phil. 2:3-4). Love is characterized by the setting aside of my agenda for the pursuit of another’s wholeness. For a child, wholeness is discipline, structure, the warmth of home. A mom and a dad–two sides of the same coin that express the love of God in equal portions and perfectly balanced. Parents that listen and tenderly redirect. We set a firm foundation and let them dream and play and learn. We show them God’s word as a light unto their path (Psalm 119:105).

We are slow to speak–but we still open our mouths. We are slow to anger–but we still glean wisdom and discernment from intense life experiences. (James 1:19)

We love…because He first loved us (1 John 4:19).

Would you–being in favor of a love that always wins–open the door to God’s perfect, unchanging love? Would you pave a path so the lost might find their way back home? We must not become stumbling blocks–a one-sided, clanging gong, narrow-minded in our mission to accept progressive thinking while mocking others who don’t land on our side. On the other hand, we cannot be so conservative as to shut the doors to the lonely, the abused, the confused, the sick, the love-impoverished. Just as we all stand before God condemned (Romans 3:23), hope and open heart surgery has been paid for on the cross–one man dying for all men (2 Cor. 5:14). Love Himself bought our peace and secured our identity. The most effeminate of men, the most masculine of women, the unsure, the easily swayed–all can find a solid foundation in Christ who has purchased us with his own blood.

For me, nothing seems more possible, more wide open and thrilling than the future my kids hold in their hands. The weightless potential! The fragility and hope in one life! But their life now must be guarded and filled with truth that they can access when they reach maturity. As a parent, I will defend their right to be a child as long as they are a child. I am determined to set them free one day, equipped with every good thing I’ve had to offer. I want them to taste liberty and pursue happiness even as they stand firm on the truth that God’s excellent plans will far exceed ours every time.

We are tender, we see people as people, our people, not projects or politics. We examine our motives. We tell the truth–no lies, no half truths.

The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is in us. It is light exposing the darkness, setting our feet on a sturdy path.

It is love, loud and proud.

Love wins.

Leaving Home to Make a Home

When we had been married three years, we moved as far away from home as we thought we could get away with. We had about $20,000 in school loan debt and high hopes for an exciting life. We might not be great planners, but we are halfway decent adventurers. We wondered why in the world a body would choose to stay in one place for their whole life when our toes curled the precipice of the unknown.

It turns out that free babysitting is the reason a body would stay.

After we’d had a few kids of our own and finally paid off the school debt, we began to wonder if we just liked making things hard on ourselves. Gluttons for punishment. Even the hardiest of adventurers wants to take a shower, a break, eat a real meal, sleep on a real bed once in awhile. I was ready to admit we didn’t have it in us: maybe it was time to head back home or at least within an hour of my mom and her home cooking.
Babies that never, ever sleep and husbands that always, always work are a recipe for tired and cranky moms. I would whine and he would stand there frustrated, saying, “Just tell me what you want me to do!” But I didn’t know. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing I could do. You somehow think being debt free is the pinnacle of life…and then you have kids.

Talk about taking on debt! Time, money, sleep, energy–you pour it into them and fall into bed convinced you are ruining them.

I swear, I nearly went crazy. We thought our oldest boy had Asperger’s and didn’t dare leave him with another adult for more than a few minutes. My dad told me I needed to spank him more, my mother-in-law thought there was absolutely nothing wrong with any of her perfect grandchildren. Advice streamed in from a thousand miles away but no one could help us. It was me and Joe, Joe and Pearl. Stubborn. Clueless. Frustrated with one another. We were overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of independence, the freedom to make a thousand bad choices and only rely on one another to break our fall.

I’m glad for a hundred reasons that my kids are growing up, that I’ve been able to stay at home, to have the privilege of putting them to bed pretty much every single night of their existence. But boy, do they ever suck it out of you. When Jubal would scrounge around the house at 3 in the morning because he wasn’t tired, when Luke made me rock him and sing “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus” every evening for two hours straight, his sweaty face pressed to my shoulder. When FC had that bad habit of rolling up bits of trash and tossing it into my oven unnoticed (“I cooking!” he’d protest indignantly when we finally caught him in the act) and Gretty had eye goop for an entire year. Hospital and doctor visits, errands, school and grocery store adventures–each time, dragging every single kid with me. The boys have broken an examination table at the doctor’s office, a baby-changing table at Walmart, a seatback at a fast food restaurant. They turned the chore of putting dishes away into a game of throwing them off the back deck to see them roll down the mountain. Instead of racing matchbox cars, I’ve found them smashing them to bits with my set of free weights in the basement. Desperate in the winter to relieve our cabin fever, we played at the park in three feet of snow and 50-mile-an-hour winds. Stitches and broken bones but never a break from the neediness. We only had our little, immediate family supported by one hardworking, undervalued daddy.

It really does feel like I looked up one day and suddenly I had neck wrinkles and coffee-stained teeth, and perhaps the beginning of an ever-so-innocuous chin wart. I can’t so much say I’ve come out this side a victor as I can say every day behind me has been worth its struggle.

There are millions of other folks out there living my same story, I know that. Nobody really ever mentions it, but millions of people are falling into bed each night wondering if they are also ruining their kids lives, or if their kids are perhaps ruining theirs. Is this what our family is supposed to look like, smashing cars in the basement and escaping the house once in awhile so we don’t lose our minds? Is this really how life works? Will I ever understand my husband? Will he ever really understand me?

I was listening to Dr. McGee (my favorite Bible teacher, you can access his studies here) yesterday morning as he was covering Hebrews 11. It reminded me of the beginning of our own big adventure from thirteen years ago–he was discussing Abraham and the choices the man had to make in leaving his relatives behind in Ur to begin a journey on his own:

“God said to him, ‘Abraham, I’m going to do all these things I promised, and I’m gonna give you a son.’
Abraham and Sarah are gonna have a son. Now, that’s what is gonna make the home. They’re gonna have a son. And, first of all, may I say that you have here the basis of what would be in that day a godly home. The kind of home God wants young people to have, and we call it today a Christian home. These things are germane and they are basic. Now, God didn’t give them a course or send them to a preacher for counseling. Frankly, we preachers have done too much counseling, telling young people how they ought to do it. The thing is that we have been idealistic. God was very practical. He said, “Abraham, if you’re going to have the kind of home I want you to have, you’re going to have to get away from papa and mama.”

And that’s what God meant at the very beginning when He said (and of all things!), He said to Adam and Eve, “man will have to leave father and mother.” Adam and Eve didn’t even have a father and a mother! But He said ‘you’re going to have to leave’. That is a great principle that’s put down. And you know, the easiest thing in the world to do, and I’ve been learning it myself, is, I never thought that I would be a grandfather that would tell the parents how to raise their child–I didn’t do so well myself, but I sure can tell them! Well, they’ll make mistakes, but that’s none of our business. They’re going to have to make their mistakes, too, because we made ours. And papa and mama {are} not to interfere with the home of the children. And God got Abraham about as far away from home as you could go! And none of the relatives are going to be able to interfere. I think that is primary to the building of a godly home. To begin with, for Abraham, it was a godless home that he left! Because it was a home of idolatry.

….the home will never be an ‘ideal’ home…may I say something to you, friends, young person today? If you think you are going to start an ideal home, I think you’re wrong. You’re going to find out you are going to be tested!

…If you think, somehow or another, that putting up a few little rules that you’re going to avoid all of the rough places and the hardships of life, you’re wrong. You’re going to find out that one day you’ll argue with your wife. You’re going to find out one day you’re going to have a problem with that child that you’ve got. You’re not going to have a thing that’s ideal by any means! And how are you going to handle all of these, my friends? By faith. By faith! And when you and I reach the place that we’re willing to put our child on the altar for God, then you and I’ve arrived.

Here is a home that is just about as near to what God wants down here as you and I will be able to attain.”

Thru The Bible, Dr. J. Vernon McGee, Hebrews 11:8-19

It turns out that free babysitting is overrated! The biggest risk, the greatest adventure, the inevitability of little boys making thousands of terrible judgment calls point to one thing: faith forming a happy home. The marital disagreements, the intentional space separating us from our own parents, the ruckus of kids and sleepless nights–it made us grouchy for a few minutes, yes. We didn’t have any help to fall back on, nothing but the faith God supplied us, the encouragement to “not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9). But now, as the fog continues to clear and we sleep at night again, we can see: the life sown in faith is reaping a life filled with joy. We are reliant on God’s very own strength–not date nights, counseling, or a grandma’s cookie jar (though these might all be wonderful things). We are holding out for God’s best, willing to release what we thought was our adventure for what was really His–bigger, better, grander–all along.

By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God. And by faith even Sarah, who was past childbearing age, was enabled to bear children because she considered him faithful who had made the promise. And so from this one man, and he as good as dead, came descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as countless as the sand on the seashore.
All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country–a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.

Hebrews 11:8-16

Not so alone

The last time I saw her alive and well–well being the more remarkable descriptor–was the day before Christmas break. We were seventh graders sprawled out on the floor of the language arts teacher’s room, eating popcorn and watching Babes in Toyland, a bunch of kids who had known each other since kindergarten. We were all so excited for Christmas we could barely hear the movie over our chitchat.

I don’t know how I would have felt if I knew what was going to happen. It makes me tear up to think about it, even today, over two decades later. It changed my life.

Angela had the biggest, goofiest personality, a space between her top two teeth that could hold a tic tac, and skin the color of caramel latte. On the bus she would scoot down into the seat, press her knees into the seatback in front, and belt out, “I’m a barbie girl, in a barbie wo-orld.” She was hilarious, a crazy jumble of arms and legs that would break out dancing without warning. Thirteen years old. Our school’s most promising comedienne.

Angela’s family was traveling to Texas for Christmas, driving through the night on a twisty road. It might have been icy–I don’t remember the details. I recall my mom getting a phone call that informed us of the accident. It was a semi that hit them on a blind corner somewhere in Arkansas–they never saw it coming. It killed Angie’s parents and older brother and sister on impact, as they were in the front of the van. Angela and her younger brother were presumably asleep in the back seat, and they were taken to a hospital in critical condition.

It so happened that my family was visiting our grandparents in southern Missouri for the holiday. We were only forty-five minutes from the hospital, so we made quick plans to go visit Angela and her little brother, Jean-Paul, who had been a student in my mom’s third grade class a couple years prior.

On that December day–I think it was the day after Christmas–I put on my new black sweater and climbed into the back of the car, scared. We drove in silence and sadness, full of sorrow for what the future held for my friend. This was years before I even knew to consider brain injury–my twelve year old self mostly wondered if Angie would be back at school. Even if she did get better, how could a seventh grader live after two-thirds of her family was gone?

At the door to ICU my dad gently touched my shoulder and said, “Pearl, I want you to be prepared for how they might look. It’s possible,” he hesitated, “…it’s possible Angela or Jean-Paul could be missing an arm or something. We just don’t know how badly they are hurt. Are you ready?”
I swallowed and nodded. Then he pushed a button on the wall and a nurse led us into the room.

Angela and her brother were in two beds, side by side. They were both in medically-induced comas, white hospital blankets covering them up to their chin. We were their first visitors–it was just us and them, a consuming silence within a hum of life-supporting machines. I felt an immediate, unwelcome grief slap my in my face. No preparation was sufficient, nothing would have readied me to see them in this condition. Mom and Dad approached the bed and quietly, gently, tenderly they spoke to Angela as if she were an infant. “Hey there, Angela,” my mother whispered as she stroked her black hair. There were bits of broken glass still stuck to it, road rash on her face, eyes purple and swollen shut. “We came to visit you,” my dad said, leaning toward her face. He coached our basketball team, had seen her long limbs flying down the court.

After a few moments, my mom moved over to Jean-Paul’s bed, so I took her place at Angela’s side.

“You can hold her hand,” the nurse softly encouraged, and I was suddenly aware she hadn’t lost an arm. Words stuck in my throat. I held her hand and tried not to cry, told her we loved her and missed her at school, even though we still had a week and a half before it would be in session. I squeezed her hand, willing it to squeeze back like I’d read about in novels. She didn’t squeeze back.

After a while, we left. There was nothing we could do, it seemed. It was dark in the room; it felt hopeless. On our drive back, I cried hot, angry tears as I stared out the window.

Three days later, back home in our small town, I worked on an art project at our kitchen table. My mom had sketched out an M.C. Escher, Metamophasis, on a 3 foot by 5 foot poster paper, and I glued bits of torn colored paper to fill in the bird impressions while listening to Christmas music. The phone rang and Mom answered. Angela was dead. It was December 29th. I stood up from my seat at the table, went to my room, and bawled on my bed.

I wondered how I would write about the time we lost them. When Christmas vacation comes, I always wait for the lump in my throat to dissipate, and it never does.
I hesitate a bit writing this, because even though time has passed I know Jean-Paul is out there somewhere, undoubtedly swallowed up in loss every Christmas, mourning what he lost as a ten or eleven year old. His privacy matters to me, his story is his and not mine. His pain is deeper. He was a child when it happened, and II think about the trauma compounded by not understanding why this happened–how God could allow all the people he loved most to die over Christmas vacation. How a child could wake up from a coma to his whole world, a heap of ashes. I never saw him again. His extended family took him in and raised him somewhere in the city, I think.

When a person we love dies, we often remember all the good things they did in life, their wonderful qualities. But sometimes the blow is just too massive and the people left behind are stunned. Listing what’s been lost is unbearable. Sometimes the survivor needs a witness more than they need details.
John Steinbeck once wrote a letter to a friend, Ed Ricketts, who was grieving the death of his mother:

The matter of death is very personal–almost like an idea–and it has to be discovered and accepted over and over again no matter what the age or the condition of the dying. And there is nothing for the outsider to do except to stand by and maybe to indicate that the person involved is not so alone as the death always makes him think he is. And that is why I am writing this letter.

Our small town held a memorial for Angela’s family before school started up in January. The high school gym was packed with red, teary faces. I witnessed the adoration the community had for this family, expressed with a sorrow so heavy it hung in the air like fog. We were too late to tell them we loved them; we were too stunned at the permanence of death.

If it finds Jean-Paul, I hope he knows I remember. I’m counting: it’s been exactly 23 years. I’m still discovering the pain over and over, too, every December 29th, still reliving a tiny fraction of his despair. His family isn’t forgotten. I’ll remember them with words and the grief that rushes in every December.

I hope it makes him feel not so alone.