We Were Meant to Live

 Dear Aaron,

It's a new year, a new Church season (Epiphany). It's a new season of life for me, as I'm about to get married. And there is a new recording of Switchfoot's Meant to Live that I wish you could hear. I've known this song for twenty years, but this recording breaks my heart almost every time I hear it. It makes me think of you. It makes me miss you. And it makes me cry. 

We were meant to live for so much more, my friend. There's no going back in time to tell you, to remind you, to help you believe that you were meant to live life abundantly. In those last years there was no way for me to help you live inside. I can't imagine what 'inside of you' was like for you... All I can do is sit in the gloaming listening to this song soar inside of me. Somewhere inside of me a little piece of you lives. Your life glows like an ember in my own heart. You touched me and it changed who I was—who I am. Your friendship shaped my life in so many ways... You made my world bigger. Did you know that you did that? That you could do that?

Fumbling his confidence and wondering

Why the world has passed him by

Hoping that he's bent for more than arguments

And failed attempts to fly

This was what the world might have seen from the outside... A shy and quiet chap who lacked confidence and direction. I happen to know you felt like the world had passed you by, like you were a failure of sorts. But you just didn't fit into the world's mold... You wanted 'more than this world has to offer' while 'everything inside screamed for second life.' You saw the world with different eyes. The problem was that you felt the opposite tug of what society dictated you should do and who you were—what you were truly made for: to show your corner of the world beauty and light and hope through new eyes. 

We were meant to live for so much more, 

have we lost ourselves?

Somewhere we live inside...

That tug inside of you pulled you into a place you weren't made for. You remained yourself in that space, but I think the strain became too much. At some point, something snapped and you lost yourself. I don't think you ever lost your True Anchor, but you did lose your true self enough that you quit living at all. 

How do I reconcile this, my friend? How do any of us cope with your absence? It's been five years, four months, and three days since you stopped living inside and out. But I stop to remind myself that you are now more alive than I am. You are with Life Himself. With the Author of all Hope, all Life. And in other ways you are still living on in the lives you touched, mine included. You being with Jesus (and not here) doesn't stop me from loving you and missing you and wishing things were different. 

We were meant to live for so much more.     You...     Me...    Anyone reading this. 

We were made in the glorious image of the incomparable, multifaceted, life-giving, imaginative God of the universe. We were made for a purpose. For life. For love. For relationship. We were made for so much more than the crumbs this world has to offer. Let us prepare a sumptuous feast for those around us with our words, actions, and lives. And let us feast on the Word of Life Himself, who gave Himself for us that we might live eternally.

* Meant To Live (Jon Bellion Version) — Switchfoot, Jon Bellion

The Beautiful Letdown (Our Version) [Deluxe Edition] © 2023

Seriously, if you haven't listened to this version, do yourself a favour and go somewhere by yourself with a good speaker... Play it as loud as you dare.

Year in Rearview

Contrary to a large percentage of the population, I loved 2021.

It was a surprisingly good year in so many aspects. I got to see all of my best friends over the year (I got to see Max a whopping three times!) and introduce most of them to my small group and work friends, who are like family to me.

This last year was one where I grew decidedly closer to my small group, especially the Hendersons. They often invite me over for dinner or movie nights, they are open-hearted and honest with me, their kids ask me to sit with them at church, and I spent three holidays with them in 2021. I feel very blessed to be part of their family and our small group community! 

In one of those "Only God could have done this" things, I not only got to spend a month in Arizona, I got paid for it by work! Spending the month of March with Doc and Alice was SUCH a gift... I loved making meals for them, going for walks with Alice, going out for walks by myself in the evenings (people in Arizona aren't crazy about having stupid lights everywhere!), seeing interesting places and critters, and meeting nice neighbours. And, of course, it was very fun to get to see my Max-friend for an evening when he was near Phoenix for work. My day in Sedona was one of my favourite memories of the year.

After being invisible for pretty much most of my life, in 2021 men suddenly asked me out. Perhaps not getting out much in 2020 made them bolder (or desperate?), so they asked. Granted, most of them weren't believers, so I said "no" as kindly as I could—but I appreciated that they asked! It made me feel seen. 

One of those fellows did get quite a few "yes" responses from me, however. :) Which is maybe part of what made for such a good year. Having never dated someone in my town, it was an unexpected gift to have someone to be with—and to not have to rely on texts and phone calls to carry the relationship. We could just go out for dinner or walk around town or play hockey in the park together. Embodied relationships are so much deeper, even if it's a lot harder to say difficult things out loud rather than in writing. Both long-distance and in-person relationships have their drawbacks and their perks, but I have found that I infinitely prefer in-person relationships... Even if breaking up is way harder.

Of course, 2021 wasn't all rosy. Dear family friends passed away. My best friend was/is going through a divorce. I had several fights with my stubborn will. I had to both say and hear hard things about myself...things I'm still trying to face. And I had to break up with Nick. My heart and will are still terribly opposed to that last item, but there was no way around it. Maybe one day I will be thankful that we broke up, but it sure isn't today. Today it still sucks. I still don't know how to act around him when I see him. And I still cry myself to sleep.

 

I'll close with the things that have been the sights and soundtrack of the year...

Albums/Artists:

Sigrid

Arvo Pärt

Novo Amor

Audrey Assad

Hymn of Heaven (album) - Phil Wickham 

Songs:

It's Always Been You - Phil Wickham

This song hit me with a force the very first time I heard it...and it still does. 

Take My Hand - Skerryvore

I know exactly where I was when I heard this song for the first time. Nick played it for me and it instantly felt like "our song." 

Shiloh - Audrey Assad

When pain comes to show you
What you'd rather not know
What will your heart do?
What will you let go?

Show Me - Audrey Assad

Bind up these broken bones
Mercy bend and breathe me back to life
But not before You show me how to die

Wrecked - Imagine Dragons

I heard this song when editing a piece for Reflect. It made me think of Aaron... Aaron, whom I still miss. Whom I still write letters to, even if I can't send them to him. 

Shows:

The Chosen
Let the record show that I do not like Bible shows...but I love The Chosen. Any show that makes me cry during the Eucharist at church has gotten something right. I have quite the soft spot for Matthew.

All Creatures Great and Small
This show has been an aesthetic delight with its Yorkshire views (and how adorable is Nicholas Ralph?!)—though I always make the mistake of sitting down to watch it whilst eating, and inevitably the vet is birthing an animal or cutting into a beastie...

Books:

Last Bookshop in London
I got on a WWI and WWII kick this last year-and-a-half-ish. This book was a good one! I yelled "I hate this book!" at least twice whilst listening to it and crying my eyes out. Trust me, that means it was good. There was a lot of "people banding together to get through hard things" stuff going on in this story.

Last Christmas in Paris
If this list were in order, this book would be number one. The audiobook is first rate with narrators for each character. The story is told in letters during WWI. The first time I read the book it made me think of Aaron and all the years of letters we exchanged.

Tolkien and the Great War
This one I listened to (I don't know if I could have made it through just reading on my own) and I found it both interesting to know about Tolkien's life and how WWI influenced so much of LOTR (esp The Scouring of the Shire), and heartbreaking to see how so many bright, influential poets, writers, professors, musicians, and the like were mown down in WWI.

Reforesting Faith
Such an interesting book about trees in the Bible (and trees in general)!

I was on a tree kick early in the year (when am I not?) and also loved this podcast series about Trees from the Bible Project fellows. Seriously, go listen to episode one!

The Darkling Thrush

Photo by Ankhesenamun on Unsplash

I leant upon a coppice gate

          When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

           The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

         Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

                      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware. 

— Thomas Hardy, The Darkling Thrush

Can you see it? A barren field, grey skies, lowering clouds, and scraggly weeds whipping in the wind. The year is closing, and for Thomas Hardy, the nineteenth century was closing; buried in crypt like a corpse. Everything looked bleak, grey, gnarled, and worn out. 

Though much of 2020 was fairly normal for me at a daily life level, it was not without its pall. A dear family friend taken in death—the mother of my best friends growing up. No Holy Week and Easter Sunday gathered together with fellow believers. Nine months of not being able to worship side-by-side with other believers. The death of Mike Adams. The bleak reality that there is no longer free speech in America. The sudden removal of one of our delivery drivers, someone who had been on our route for years. Normal-person-sickness cancelling our Christmas plans with extended family and friends. 

Break-ups. Ageing. Cancer. Suicide. "The ancient pulse of germ and birth / Was shrunken hard and dry, / And every spirit upon earth / Seemed fervourless as I." My sister described her normal-person-flu symptoms as leeching the colour from life. "Everything seems grey and un-enjoyable." Being sick is like that, insipid, uninspired, listless, and dull. Christmas felt like that for me, even though I was (blessedly!) with my immediate family. The year 2020 felt like that for many people. Like a corpse outleant o'er all the land, like weeds against a flat, grey sky. Colourless. 

At once a voice arose among

   The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

    Of joy illimited. . .

In the midst of death, decay, and listlessness a song of joy breaks over Hardy. The singer isn't a young bird, a hearty bird, a colourful bird. It is "An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, / In blast-beruffled plume" who has "chosen thus to fling his soul / Upon the growing gloom." We often think of children being resilient or hues of colour in a bleak setting. And they certainly can be... But what I love about this turn in the poem, what made tears streak down my cheeks today, was that this was an aged, frail thrush. There is no freshness, no innocence here. He knows hardship. Yet he full-heartedly flings his very soul out into the gathering gloom.

I don't know what 2021 will bring. But I'm tried of being told it will be dark and fearful. It may be. Given the evidence of how the masses have been led by the media to believe outright lies, how the Left is openly saying they want to put people in "re-education" camps (sound like Hitler pre-WWII to anyone else?), and how Christian companies are being dropped by their credit card services for having normal Christian morals, I don't anticipate that 2021 will be better than 2020. It may be much, much worse. Things I never thought could happen in America have happened, are happening. . . I'm not sugar-coating that or denying what could be.

But. 

      But I want to be like that frail, weather-beaten, aged thrush.

                      I want to fling my soul out into the gloom of the gathering storm.

Not in recklessness, not because I've given up, not because I'm saying "Oh, to Hell with it!" and calling it quits. I am not. I will not. I want to—God help me!—throw my soul out into the great big world and let it be a note of beauty, a moment of colour, a breath of inspiration, and a glimmer of Hope.

If ever there was a moment in my lifetime with "So little cause for carolings / Of such ecstatic sound" this is it. I've personally had worse times. But this is bigger than my own griefs. This is a gathering gloom of national, global proportions. And I want to put my finger in the dyke, if only as a brief stopgap, a clear note in the pre-storm silence of "Some blessed Hope, whereof [I know] / [Yet the world is] unaware." I want to sing "In a full-hearted evensong / Of joy illimited." And that means, to be clear, that I want my soul to be filled with Beauty and Truth, which both flow from and point to Jesus—the Word without whom nothing that exists would have been at all. There is no limit to the joy which flows from Him. Let there be no limit to His joy "trembling through" me, either.

“...that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

— Mary Ann Evans (aka: George Eliot), Middlemarch                 

Resounding Joy

New Year's Day flames out in peach, pink, and periwinkle. The evening air is full of the scent of snow, woodsmoke, and savoury dinner as I step onto my porch to watch the repose of the day. Inside, candles and fresh tulips nod their cheer as the five o'clock greyness rolls over the foothills.

I love winter and fresh starts. I love being up in the frosty night to greet the new day and year with fireworks. I love bright sun spilling in my window and waking eyes, church bells tumbling me out of bed, and the brisk walk to worship. I love blank pages waiting to be filled and new years feeling hopeful in the face of the unknown. At any other time of year, the unknown has a way of frightening me a bit; but at the beginning of the year, the unknown is exhilarating. My expectations are much more malleable in January than they are in June. In the crisp air I feel awake and ready for what God is going to bring. By the wilting heat of summer, I feel drowsy and resigned. 

At the beginning of things there is life and energy and optimism, and those are needed to propel us into another year. The New Year opens in the midst of Christmastide, when the Candle keeping the dark at bay has come—He is the hope of Easter redemption. Winter is dear to me with its variegated grey clouds, heaps of snow around dried grasses, chipper little birds piping their carols, bare branches stark and striking against the stars; its sharp, pure air breathed out in little puffs, in warm fuzzy slippers, copious pots of tea, stew simmering on the stove, hot bread all flaky from the oven. . .Winter is joyous.

Winter is both the cosiest and the most invigorating season. No wonder our fresh start comes just days after the winter solstice and the "dawn of redeeming grace" of the Incarnation. There is something comforting about God slipping into flesh, becoming vulnerable and subject to want, need, and humanity. Yet there is something enlivening, exciting about it, too. Dawn has pushed back those grey skies with honey-coloured sunlight and sharp air in our lungs. There is hope that the Light—whether of day or of moon and stars—will illuminate our path. That the Light will guide us into His ways. 

As I scrambled out of bed this morning I felt inspired, awake. The bells beckoned me to tread the icy path to the little white church around the bend. There my eyes were greeted by life-sized shepherds, wise men, and the Holy Family. I smiled, glad to see them back, as they had been vandalised a couple of Christmases ago. I sneaked in on the opening hymn, my three-year-old niece's favourite song: Joy to the World! I was totally unprepared for the garlands of greenery, the woodland pine and branches, the red berries, and a huge live tree covered in poinsettias and lights. The clean plaster walls looked merry, as did the gentleman I joined in the pew. My winded voice sang out, "Repeat the sounding joy!" and we did. In the Eucharist, like the angels told the shepherds, and the shepherds told everyone about the baby in the feeding trough, we repeated the resounding, reverberating joy that God became flesh and tabernacled among us—that our redemption is nigh.

Emmanuel...

Christmastide is here. Here. Now. This is Christmas. Though the world is weary and rejoicing to have limped through ‘the holidays’, many traditions have just begun celebrating Christmastide after forty days of darkness and fasting. The season of light has dawned, culminating in a day whose very name means manifest or revelation. Light does that very thing, it shows us what we would have walked right past in the darkness; it reveals the shapes we feared in the night as friendly, familiar things; it makes manifest God’s gift of himself to us.

God gives himself to us…The Incarnation still staggers my mind and heart, sometimes to the point where I give up thinking it through. To be honest, near the end of the year work and friend-gatherings reach a raucous tilt and I hold out hard for the airport. I slide into my window seat with a sigh, watch the night glide past, and take a break. The problem is, I take a break from my habits and routines because I am away from home. I often go to bed late and rise late, skip quiet time and journalling, get easily nettled, and skimp on self-control in just about every area. The last week of Advent and most of Christmastide are often spent in self-inflicted semi-darkness. Sure, there are starlight points in the dark skies of my soul, but it often seems like the sun of revelation is suffering a prolonged eclipse.

Unlocking the front door of my cabin the first week of January seems to coincide with the shadow passing from between me and the Light of the world. I slip back into my own skin, my own home, my own habits. The new year stretches before me like a glorious sunrise—I don’t know what the day will hold, but it opens bright and full of hope.

Amidst my dim Christmastide and my looking forward to a fresh year, someone I love dearly mentioned how bleak the coming year looks from this vantage point. She said it seemed like she was stuck in an unyielding cycle that someone else chose for her. There isn’t an end in sight. Now, I can see only hope that the coming year will be better than the last for this belovèd friend, as this year reeked for her. Perhaps I am young and naive, but in my mind, there is an irresistible hope in new years and seasons.

Mid-conversation, I suddenly wondered about the Children of Israel, those between the Old Covenant and the New, those deafened by nearly four hundred years of silence—did they ever lose hope? Did the Messiah seem impossible to them? Obviously they passed down their long-held prophecies and expectations. Mary readily received her role from God, knowing there was to be a Messiah. All of Israel seemed to be peering about for their Saviour throughout the gospels, uncertain if the Man from Galilee could really be the One foretold. They all knew the history, but did they ever get furious that the prophecy sat there, unfulfilled? Did they consistently beg God to defend his name and bring forth the Saviour for these promised people? How many generations were snuffed out in darkness, never seeing the coming Light?

What if my friend never sees the dawn of change, of salvation from this rotten situation in her lifetime? Does God not care? Is God not powerful and kind enough to bring redemption and resolution into a very fractured situation? We talk theology often on this site, but do we believe God intervenes for the unjustly accused, the abandoned, the orphans and the widows? Do we live like God is with us? For the in-the-quiet-darkness Israelites, the Incarnation was hoped for, was yet-to-come, but was never fulfilled. However, we know—we know that God is with us, he has come. He is here and he is not silent. He does not stand aloof nor remain indifferent to our plight. But what is he doing when nothing changes? Theology fails to comfort the abandoned and hurting. Heady discussions aren’t the equivalent of the Holy Spirit changing hearts and healing brokenness. All our comments and platitudes don’t end that bleak feeling of the sucking, downward spiral of depression when nothing changes, even though a person has remained faithful to Jesus. If God is with us, why is hope often invisible for the steadfast, God-honouring believer?

I want answers for my friend; for myself. Yet all I have is questions. I still see the Light rising in hope, but how do I give my vision to my friend? How can I be her eyes and impart God’s hope to her? How can I bear her burdens and share my joys? Reality sometimes presses us hard with its weight—how do we hold on to real, robust hope that makes our souls buoyant? When we trust God to stand up for himself, to stand up for what is right, how do we not lose hope in the waiting?

I don’t have solid answers. I don’t have something tangible that keeps depression at bay. I know God is with us. My friend knows he is with us. She wants to see him with us. To see him move. To see his power. To see the Light dawn in the pitch black she’s been living in…But what if she is in the middle of a kind of “four hundred years of silence” history with God? What if the coming hope is so bright that it must be preceded by inky silence to contrast just how mighty God is? That’s not a query my friend can cling to; not the light at the tunnel’s end that she needs to see by. But it may be the truth; it may be reality. I believe she will trust God, even if redemption doesn’t come in her lifetime. It will be a continual, exhausting choice—but God with her and in her will help her walk in the starlight. And I believe that her prayers and obedience will advance the dawn in all its glorious brilliance, even if she never sees the Dayspring.

To Arrive Where We Began

Feathery snow traces dark, bare branches—edges clearly seen, crisp in Winter's garb. Juxtaposed with these stark lines, a low fog tucks my little town into hushed, hazy seclusion. The world wears the physical contrast of things clearly defined and things hidden in the blurred perimeter.

New years themselves are the edges of one season blending into another, of one year gracefully giving way to the next in the steps of a great dance. The past year or two has taught me that sometimes the sadness in our lives slowly fades into joy, or that the pain is replaced with Beauty, without us comprehending the moment of transition. At times, new life is breathed into dead hearts and relationships. As G. K. Chesterton explains:

"...boundaries are the most beautiful things in the world. To love anything is to love its boundaries; thus children will always play on the edge of anything. They build castles on the edge of the sea, and can only be restrained by public proclamation and private violence from walking on the edge of the grass. For when we have come to the end of a thing we have come to the beginning of it."*

Fringes and edges are where change is occurring. New beginnings are at the boundaries of old endings. A new year does not erase the previous one, but builds upon it, beyond it. Sometimes the story goes on with similar themes and veins. Other times whole new plot twists are added; sweetness flows where the sore and sour reigned—and Beauty blossoms in the howling wilderness.

Sometimes I become enamoured with the start of a new year, thinking it must be better than this or that, or that my great expectations will be fulfilled in the coming days. I anticipate that vibrant Beauty will replace grey ashes. This is my view from the edge, straining to see ahead into the unknowable future. If I would instead look back on what has clearly gone on behind me, learn from that—seeking not to make the same mistakes this day—I might enjoy a richer year.

Often I live on the fringes—of church sanctuaries, of social gatherings, of my own thoughts. Yet I need to step in, to step onto the altar and taste the wine and wafer. To pull others in from the edges toward deeper relationships. To stop wading in shallow thoughts and dive deep into study, into ideas, into knowing what it is to know, to be. There are times when new places or experiences make us feel the edges of ourselves; they cause us to see ourselves as small.

We cannot, however, remain at the edge of a year, of a story, of ourselves and know the heart, the depth, the themes there-in. Each day is a step closer to the heart of the year. Each question we learn to ask—and answer we seek—leads us to a deeper experiential understanding of God, of life, of ourselves. We look back in order to know how to move forward. We look at the close of one story in order to appreciate the beginning of another.

For last year's words belong to last year's language.And next year's words await another voice. **

Here we are, between last year and next year in this year—awaiting its voice, words, and song. We hardly reach the end of one year before the next one opens, unknown. We must muse over the things that have gone before, as they are our guides—in many ways—of what not to repeat and what to pursue.

So, here's hail! to the rest of the road. Let us walk in humble boldness from end to beginning, and on toward the boundaries that beckon us to enter in.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.***



_______________
* Chesterton, G. K., “The Lion” in Tremendous Trifles (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1920) 222
** Eliot, T. S., “Little Gidding” in Collected Poems 1909-1962 (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1971) 204
*** Ibid, 208