This morning I was thinking about mercy meals. For those of you unfamiliar with that terminology, it just means meals provided by someone else while you’re mourning or ill or recovering from having a baby. It’s merciful to give them and a mercy to receive them when you’ve got a lot going on—and our church tradition is pretty consistently wonderful at caring for one another with mercy meals.

After life changed some eleven months ago due to Covid 19 showing up in the United States, I couldn’t see how mercy meals would continue. And that was hard as we had loved ones in our church body welcoming new babies, mourning deaths, and dealing with cancer. They needed to be fed, but we were in a position of not knowing how this coronavirus was being transmitted. I think about the several emails I shot off to a doctor friend (and fellow church member) in order to establish good mercy ministry policies in this new era. 

It wasn’t just the church struggling to figure things out. Schools closed completely. Our public library shut their doors and allowed patrons to hang onto their checked out books for months. Videos came out about how to wipe down your groceries. We were leaving packages untouched for three days to let the viral load lessen in case it was on the cardboard boxes. I wasn’t comfortable with dropping off a mercy meal with a side of coronavirus. I remember asking for church members to donate money for a grocery gift card thereby skipping the exchange of viruses along with lasagnas and burritos. But even then it was a poor substitute for showing up at a church member’s door and handing over a 9×13 pan that spoke of love and concern, that spoke of mercy.

It was a really weird, harrowing, uncertain time. 

We all adjusted when we learned that we could exchange items without great fear of virus transfer.

We quit wiping down groceries (thank goodness because that was an extensive process). The library opened up—though they still quarantine books for three days—and yesterday I learned I could stay in the library for up to two hours. We now take our delivered boxes into the house immediately, though I am mindful to wash my hands after handling mail. And we deliver mercy meals to church members’ houses again.

The act of feeding someone is the most basic and helpful act of all, I believe, as everyone needs to eat. When we’ve been through a rough time, delegating the task of finding food to a friend or family member has kept us afloat. I’m so so glad that, in this still very strange time, we can now walk up to someone’s door and hand over a bunch of hamburgers or a rotisserie chicken to keep them going for another day. A face is a wonderful thing to see, however briefly, when you’re going through a hardship. Being loved, knowing others are willing to sustain your family, is priceless.

I’d say that Covid has robbed many of us of many things. But one thing the darkness brings with it? The contrasting gorgeousness of light. Even a teeny tiny bit of goodness shines in the darkest of days. For that I am grateful.

I knew she wasn’t pursuing chemotherapy, but I prayed many times for miraculous healing. Due to my own issues, I was not particularly hopeful, but I asked God for it nonetheless. When her health took a turn for the worse I felt desperate to talk with her face-to-face. I couldn’t stand to ask questions without some nuance to my voice and without being able to look into her eyes. I finally found Karen near the front doors of church and grabbed her before she left the building. I can’t even recall exactly what I asked. It wasn’t, “so you’re going to die?!” But the understanding was the same: she was not pursuing treatment this time. I looked in her eyes and understood we were going to lose her.

I took my cues from Karen, and though I felt despondent over this news, I did not fall apart. She was not falling apart—she was living! The information sat sadly in my soul, however. This spark of a woman—not easily bowled over by life’s problems or problem people—wouldn’t last much longer.

Something strange happens with a terrible cancer diagnosis, a terrible cancer fight, and it’s that you have something of a deadline. Either the one bearing cancer will die or the cancer will die—only one emerges from the battle.

In our small group from church we’ve had two beloved women dealing with cancer at the same time. One was dealt a first-time diagnosis and the other, Karen, was facing it for the third time. We buckled down in our basement on Tuesday nights, never knowing whether the evening would bring tears, great fears, or simply deep sharing as usual. It was hard. There were nights that were difficult with an intensity I’ve rarely felt, nights where we prayed and cried and laid hands on each other and prayed again and carried these cancer fears to the Lord, not knowing what the outcome would be. At times it showed great bravery to even show up. And yet we still laughed downstairs on the comfy basement couches, with candles burning, hot coffee warming our hands. We prayed together. And in the midst of cancer, we rejoiced together too as we witnessed the pregnant, growing bellies of two of our number. New life emerged and we celebrated. Other lives struggled. And one life slowly began to be extinguished.

It was only at the very end that Karen’s great internal light diminished. That woman had one of the toughest, most tenacious spirits I’ve seen. She’s the greeter. The weeder of the garden. The drink maker and server. The one with suggestions and solutions. The one riding her bike to my house far south. The one working even as she grew sicker. The one climbing mountains with zero body fat. The one praying for her girls’ trip with her daughter. The one expressing devotion to her man, after all they’ve come through. She was a fire, burning bright and hot with boldness. And then she was no more.

Back when I finally looked in her eyes for understanding that her death was coming, I wanted to say something to her and never took the chance to do it. I wanted to tell her to wait for me. I wanted to let her know that I’d be coming after her and that I was a little nervous about death and would she wait and watch for me when I arrived in glory? I never asked. Never told her that I felt reassured knowing she’d be there with a smile when I showed up. It seemed silly because I understand the truth, and that is that the comfort of seeing Jesus will quell all anxieties that day. I won’t be nervous anymore. And yet, Karen. Karen will indeed be there, and I look forward to seeing her wink at me—just like the very last interaction I had with her—when I at last set foot in heaven.

Today she is free of cancer, sin, heartache, and tears and she stands in glory. I miss my sister but I will see her again. To God be the glory.

Note: this piece was written the evening of Karen’s memorial service in early November 2019. I sat on it for months before sharing it first with Kevin. I wanted his permission to share these thoughts publicly. I could’ve kept this to myself, but why? For what reason? No, instead I’ll post this as I miss my friend and I’ll enjoy remembering the special person she was. I’ve posted two images that feel so VERY Karen to me. First, she was always taking care of us at church events in a behind-the-scenes manner. You can’t even see her face, and she would’ve been fine with that. In the second shot she’s there, in this special group of women who truly loved one another, and she’s cheering on the bride-to-be. Again, a very Karen thing to do.

Every year we pack snacks, extra drinks, maybe some board games, and we drive south to Camp Solaris for 24 hours of our church’s family camp. There’s always an internal push to get there… sometimes it’s that feeling that staying home feels more comfortable, and sometimes it’s the hassle of packing (whether for the day or for overnight), but ALWAYS camp turns out to be a good idea. There’s nothing like a shared experience to bring friends together. We talk and play games, hold each other’s babies and watch each other’s children splash. We play soccer and archery tag, maybe do an aerial course or paddle boat. We sweat together. We see each other’s bad sides because of the sweat and because of the children. And that is life, right? My fave activities aren’t even featured here. The pork dinner and Sunday breakfast are both feasts because Redeemer knows how to cook good food, and Sunday worship is this wonderful stripped-down service that reminds us that the church is God’s people and not a building at all. Redeemer Church, I love ya.

The entire album of images is available here on Flickr.

Time spent with the women of my church small group has been very sweet this past year, and for sure one of the big events of our summer is celebrating Clarie’s upcoming marriage to Ben. We had the job of hosting Claire’s church shower last weekend and it was a delight.

I don’t know why God gave me the eyes that he did. I see loveliness in the most ordinary of places and get caught up in the way the light flickers over a t-shirt, the way a tulip curves beyond it’s vase, the way glassware drying next to the sink gleams. I have an eye for the beauty in ordinary life, and that’s oftentimes what you’ll see represented on my blog.

While I want to be great and accomplish something incredible and make a book someone wants to read, I wonder if my life will instead look a bit like the gleaming glasses next to my sink. Very ordinary most every day, but, hopefully, extraordinary for the people I’m closest to. Perhaps my legacy will be the little bits of myself ordinary self that I’ve given to Jeremy and to Livia, to my family and to my church family. Whatever happens long after I’m gone, I know there will be a large number of files on this computer that show off the sweetness found in the ordinary. Because I think, many times, that the ordinary is actually extraordinary.

Case in point: salad in a jar. I made them yesterday with wonderful people from church, and this week I shall eat them. I think they’re lovely.

When she was little we practiced pew-sitting. We realized that it was a rare occasion that our squirrelly little one had to sit still next to us, and so we literally practiced on the 8-foot pew—picked up somewhere along my parents’ many moves across the country—now taking up space in our dining room.

When Livia was three each Sunday felt like a little bit of a crisis for me as a stay-at-home mom eager to receive rest and rejuvenation. Our church tragically burned down that summer, and I remember writing our pastors an email and begging for children’s church to be reinstated, you know, for the single moms who really needed a break (and me, PLEASE!). God bless those people who love crazy three year olds; for me it was, let’s say, a challenging time.

As it turns out, our daughter didn’t stay three forever. She grew in stature and in maturity, and sitting at church became easier and easier. We moved from those days of goldfish snacks and soft-sided toys to crayons and books, and then to listening fully to the sermon and participating in the service.

I will say this for church: it is one of my favorite spots of the week. There are myriad of spiritual reasons why I need church—why anyone does—and that is to get my heart re-routed to what God says is important. I have the memory of a gnat and forget day-to-day, if not moment-to-moment, who I am and Who God is. Worship on Sunday becomes a “reset” button for the rest of my week. But I’ve found a delightfully unexpected joy in the regular act of church worship, and it is the quiet action of sitting with my family, hearing God’s word.

Every Sunday we go to church. It’s what we do. In the early days of our marriage, Jeremy and I had lengthy discussions about why we went to church, and interestingly enough, our strong-headed natures (which caused lots of fireworks the first two years) kept us faithfully attending church. We were students, which meant we were really tired and always behind in some sort of classwork, but when one partner was lazy the other wasn’t. We went to church. That same stubborn determination continued when we had kids, only it was remarkably easy to make it to church for a period of years as we had moved to the same city block as our home church. It just gets embarrassing when you sleep through a service instead of rolling out of bed and down the block with the other parishioners.

So now we are in church every week because we need it. Because we love it. Because God does something different there when His children are gathered to worship Him. Because our souls get fed the spiritual food they crave. And because we are loved well by that rag-tag group of human beings, from every walk of life it seems, gathered together under one roof because we are each other’s family in Christ.

In the pew at Redeemer my little family is focused on the same topic for 90 minutes each week. The Holy Spirit moves in us differently, and we welcome the work He is doing. I get to reach out on one side and hold my husband’s arm. I can reach out on the other and pull my daughter to my side while singing choruses. (Note: she’s now moving farther and farther away from me in the pew. Y’all behind me can watch the Progression of the Teen Independence these next few years. Get yo popcorn.) We are a family, and we go to church together. I am not in control of Livia’s thoughts about church, and the way she’ll interact with God and His people in the future is not up to me. But I hope the truths she finds in our church—and in our home—will carry her forward in this life until she meets the Lord face to face.

Redeemer Presbyterian Church. Connecting the disconnected as we love God, love people, and love Lincoln. I’m so grateful for this space every Sunday morning. The word of God is preached and lived out in warmth and love. Everyone is welcome here. #dpp2017

Worshipping in a new setting has the potential to change hearts, and this morning’s service out at Camp Redeemer (Camp Solaris near Firth, Nebraska) was no different. The building is different. The people dress differently. We’re without the normal sights and sounds of what we’re used to. Instruments are different and acoustics are different. There’s no children’s church or nursery—that’s different! But God is not different. And our minds—now stripped of the things we’re used to—work a bit differently to route our heart towards the God who is Eternal, Unchanging, Righteous, and Holy. He is. And He is worthy of praise. It doesn’t matter where we are, we will praise Him because we love Him.

Eternal God, Unchanging, Mysterious and unknown.
Your boundless love unfailing, In grace and mercy shown.
Bright seraphim in endless flight aroung your glorious throne.
They raise their voices day and night in praise to you alone.

Hallelujah! Glory be to our great God!
Hallelujah! Glory be to our great God!

Lord, We are weak and frail, Helpless in the storm.
Surround us with your angels, Hold us in your arms.
Our cold and ruthless enemy, his pleasure is our harm.
Rise up, O Lord, And he will flee before our Sovereign God.

Hallelujah! Glory be to our great God!
Hallelujah! Glory be to our great God!

Let every creature in the sea and every flying bird;
Let every mountain, Every field and valley of the earth;
Let all the moons and all the stars in all the universe
Sing praises to the Living God, Who rules them by His word.

Hallelujah! Glory be to our great God!
Hallelujah! Glory be to our great God!