Category Archives: hope

Left Behind

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Chances are sooner or later you will find yourself sorting through the remnants left behind when someone dies. 

I have done this many times, for loved ones, for friends, even for strangers, and it all comes down to three piles: 

Give Away.  Throw Away.  Keep.

Precious memories, piles of paperwork. Family heirlooms.

Give Away.  Throw Away.  Keep.

A sweater that still has the scent of perfume on it, 7 combs in a bathroom drawer, dining room furniture that witnessed untold family dinners.  

Give Away.  Throw Away.  Keep.

Spare change at the bottom of a purse, a wedding ring, shoeboxes of birthday cards.   

Give Away.  Throw Away.  Keep. 

It is an exhausting experience that leaves you determined to go home and clean out that junk drawer STAT. 

It is also a sobering experience. As many times as you hear “You can’t take it with you,” it’s still shocking to see how much and what we leave behind.  Treasures and trash — although which is which isn’t always apparent to the ones doing the sorting. Beautiful memories and painful reminders.  Answers to family mysteries and silence in the face of them.  All reduced, in the end, to three piles. 

Give Away.  Throw Away.  Keep.

My most recent encounter with the Ministry of the Three Piles has got me thinking about what we leave behind, and why it all matters. 

I am part of a ministry that knits and crochets prayer shawls and blankets.  So naturally, I was delighted when we received a large donation of yarn and crafting supplies from a woman who died.  There were treasures, to be sure, including my favorite yarn that was discontinued many years ago.  And here it was, resurrected!  There were plenty of Orphans — yarn remnants that hinted at past creations, but no longer of much use. Any crafter has probably put such scraps in the “Well, I might use it for something” pile, which eventually just becomes The Island of the Misfit Toys.   Most of these went to the Throw Away pile. 

Then there were the Ghosts.  Dozens of projects in various states of completion, many still on the needle.  They were the knitting equivalent of Miss Haversham, frozen in time, as if they would be picked up at any moment and brought to beautiful completion. Most of these Ghost projects I sent, reluctantly, straight to the Throw Away pile. Without a pattern, or matching yarn, they would never be more than they were right now — beautiful, unfulfilled promises.   

I was painfully aware that I was holding an important part of this woman’s life in my hands, a part of her legacy, and I wanted to honor it.  It pained me to throw them away — all these offerings begun in hope, now stillborn, headed for the garbage heap along with kitchen scraps and dried out pens.    

But among these Ghosts, there were signs of life,   some hope of honoring this woman of considerable talents and prodigious amounts of yarn.  There were  a few baby sweaters, finished except for a sleeve yet to be sewn on.  I found this mysterious — on all of them, just one sleeve remained unattached.  It seemed like kind of knitting rapture —in an instant she was taken, and these were Left Behind.  For these, I created a new category:  To be Redeemed. I put them aside so I could finish what she started.  

This woman’s legacy — the Orphans, the Ghosts, and the To be Redeemed — has struck a chord in my soul. I look at my life and wonder what someone will make of what I’ve left behind.  Will anyone look at the special candlesticks I inherited from my favorite uncle and cherish them as I do?  Will someone wonder why there is a crisp $50 bill in my jewelry box (it was my father’s last birthday gift to me, just weeks before he died).  Will anyone try to make sense of the scraps of ideas for writing projects? 

What will wind up in my Give Away, Throw Away, Keep piles?  Will someone “pick up the thread” for all I’ve left unfinished and bring it to beautiful completion?

I ask these questions because I want to leave something behind of lasting significance, something to say I was here and left something of value, something of beauty, behind.  

Unless you are a true nihilist and believe that life is meaningless, I’ll bet you have that same longing.  No one (not even nihilists, IMO) wants to go through life just taking up space or to leave this life without having left some mark. It is a longing so deep and so universal, it could only come from God. 

God has created us in His image, and that means we share in His nature in some beautiful and mysterious way. God is the great Creator, and He has designed us to create, too, everything from magnificent meals to medical breakthroughs.  God delights in beauty (He declares creation “good!”) and we are never more like Him than when we create and take pleasure beauty.  God loves justice and shows mercy and He has planted those desires deep within us as well.  From the smallest to the most earth shattering, these are things that give us dignity, and meaning, and ultimately, legacy because they reflect Him.    

The writer of Ecclesiastes put it this way: 

“What gain has the worker from his toil?  I have seen the business that God has given to the children of many to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time.  Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart.”  (Ecclesiastes 3: 9-11)

We have glimpses of that eternity, that legacy, in the here and now.  When I knit and pray over a prayer shawl, and hear how the recipient cherishes it, I know that at least in this small way, I am living into eternity. 

But we also know that we don’t always know or see the impact our lives make.  This side of heaven, we don’t always see our legacy, and in that, we are in good company. 

  • Moses did not enter the Promised Land.
  • David did not build the Temple.
  • Peter and Paul and the other first generation evangelists never saw that 2,000 years later, 2 billion people worldwide would proclaim Jesus is Lord.  

But while Moses could only look at at the Promised Land from afar, Joshua entered it.  While David only dreamed of a Temple worthy of God, Solomon built it.  While Peter and Paul were martyred for their faith, countless Christians have continued to witness to the Truth in Jesus Christ.  Someone picked up the thread and continued to weave God’s great tapestry. 

In the Letter to the Hebrews, the author tells us of great heroes of faith:  Noah, Abraham, Sara, Moses and so many others.  He lifts up these great believers who nevertheless left behind unfulfilled legacies, their own piles of “To be Redeemed.”  Yet, 

“These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth.” (Hebrews 11:13)                                                                          

And so, we live here and now, with everything that God has created us for — creation, beauty, a love of justice, a heart of mercy.  And one day, we will leave it all behind, leave it to someone else to sort through.  And we will then have the privilege of “seeing them from afar” and seeing what God has chosen to be our legacy.

 

Tabula Rasa

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It is 6 a.m. on January 1st. The sun is not up yet, and neither am I.  Until I throw back the covers and my feet hit the floor, all good things are possible and all bad ones haven’t happened yet.  

The New Year is before me, clean and quiet as a new snowfall. There are no tracks left behind by words I regret, no rivers of dirty slush created by hurting someone I love.  I have not yet been petty or proud or petulant. I haven’t disappointed myself or anyone else yet.  I haven’t broken a promise, failed to be kind, or sinned in any number of ways against God or others. 

It is a delicious feeling, being suspended between the past and the future. 

Turning the calendar page allows me to put a bow on last year, with its joys and regrets, and look ahead to what might be.  I can imagine that I will do better this year — be more loving, braver, humble, fruitful. I can imagine that this time, all the discipline and goodness that has so long escaped my grasp will this year jump into my waiting arms and make itself at home.

After all, this is what New Year’s resolutions are all about.  Because the calendar says this is the start of something new, we say to ourselves, “I can be different and I will start now.”  Of course we can do this any month, day or hour of the year, but somehow we don’t.  We wait until an officially sanctioned New Beginning to wipe the slate clean and imagine a new story will be written on it. 

When I was little girl, that’s what I loved about going to Confession. I would go into the dark, musty-smelling box that was the confessional and tell my sins to the old, musty-smelling priest behind the screen.  When I emerged into the daylight, I loved the feeling that I had a tabula rasa — a clean slate.  

Today, when I say the prayer of confession in worship and the pastor declares my forgiveness, I often weep with gratitude. In that sense, every Sunday is New Year’s Day, because it places me on the fulcrum between the past and the future.

St. Paul puts it this way: 

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17) 

This is what we all yearn for.  A fresh start, another chance to be better, unencumbered by our pasts.  I’m grateful that I have that chance every week. 

As I approach the Lord’s Table, I can say that, through God’s grace, “I will be different, and I will start now.”  

Are You Ready?

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I stood in her kitchen, holding a pan of lasagna.

She was a new mother and she had the disoriented look of someone who had just parachuted into enemy territory. I guess you could say that’s exactly what had happened to her, because this was not the homecoming she had planned. For one thing, after spending an extended time in the hospital, her newborn was already a month old. For another, his head was held in place by a metal bolt through his neck.

My friend who was involved in a ministry to parents of babies born with major cranio-facial abnormalities asked if I would bring this new mother dinner, since we lived in the same town. Even more than most new mothers, this woman had very little time or energy to worry about such mundane tasks as making dinner. So there I was, making awkward small talk with this woman I had never met.

After thanking me several times, she finally asked, “Why did you do this for someone you don’t know?”

I blathered on about how happy I was to help, that I knew she needed one less thing to worry about. All that was true, of course, but I could tell it wasn’t a satisfying answer. After all, why would a perfect stranger walk into her house bearing dinner?

I offered something bland and vague, along the lines of “I’m happy to help,” but even I knew that was inadequate.

Here’s what I wished I had said:

“I’m here because God loves you and I am just His caterer.”

“I’m here because God wants you to know that you and your son are perfect and precious to him.”

“I made you lasagna because God has rescued me from pain and confusion and exhaustion and I want you to know that he will do the same for you.”

Most of all, I wished I had said that I didn’t bring dinner because it was the nice thing to do. I didn’t cook for her because, as the Dalai Lama is often quoted as saying, ” My religion is kindness.”

The world can certainly use all the kindness it can get; I’m not discouraging it.  God knows (and I mean that literally) that we need to be more tolerant, compassionate and helpful to one another.

But the kindness of bringing dinner fills your belly, but not your soul.

Kindness can offer kinship and fellowship, but it doesn’t offer hope and it doesn’t comfort you when everyone has gone home and you are alone with your pain and fear.

No, my religion isn’t kindness.

My religion is belief in a God who sees beauty where the world sees deformity. My religion worships a God who knows what it means to be human, in all its glory and all its pain, and never leaves us.

My religion is in awe of a God whose Holy Spirit could overcome my fears and allow me to hold this mother’s child, looking past the rod in his neck, and smile at his sweet face.  I brought her a meal and she was appreciative.  I cooed at her baby boy and she was joyous.

Still, I regret my silence all those years ago. I take comfort in the possibility that maybe someone else was bolder than I and told her all the things I should have.

I’ll be ready next time.

Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you;  yet do it with gentleness and reverence.   

                                                                                                       1 Peter 3:15-16

The Gift of Hope

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This Christmas, I’m asking for the gift of hope.  

I don’t mean the kind of hope we casually toss about in our every day conversations. We say “I hope you feel better” and what we really mean is that we want it to be true, and — fingers crossed — maybe it will be. It is no more than a wish we might make on a shooting star.

That kind of hope is easy, cheap and useless.

No, the hope I want is different. Not a facile, throwaway pleasantry, the hope I want is grounded in certainty and expectation. When God’s people say they have hope, it means they fully expect something to happen, despite any evidence to the contrary.

In the times of trouble, when darkness whispers that there is no light and never will be again, people of hope hear another voice. Probably the most radical thing the Christian faith teaches is that even in these dark moments — especially in these dark moments — we can can hear that other voice, reminding us that God is faithful. Faint at first, then growing stronger and louder, we hear the words that say we can hope in God because He has never forsaken us and never will.

Although we can’t be certain how or why or when, hope says we can be confident that God will act.

Scripture is full of this kind of hope. The Psalms declare over and over God’s steadfast love and faithfulness; the Prophets warn of God’s judgement, but just as often remind us of his inviolable covenant with us. But for my money, if you want to know what real hope looks like, listen to Mary’s song in the gospel of Luke:

And Mary said,
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
    and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant.
    For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
    and holy is his name.
And his mercy is for those who fear him
    from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
    he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
he has brought down the mighty from their thrones
    and exalted those of humble estate;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
    and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
    in remembrance of his mercy,
as he spoke to our fathers,
    to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”

Now this is a young woman who has every reason to be afraid and worried. She knows that her pregnancy will, at best, make her the subject of gossip, snickering and shaming. She knows that at worst, it could lead to her death as an adulterer.  She has been given the unimaginable responsibility of raising the Messiah, something nothing can really prepare you for.

And yet she has hope — not the wishing kind that would have her saying, “Man,it would really be nice if God shows up!”

Her hope is the expecting kind, the kind that says, “I know what God has done in the past, and I know He will do it again.”

Confession: There’s a cynical world-weariness still lurking in dark corners of my soul that thinks this not something a real person could actually do or feel in times of trouble. The Mary I met in Sunday school was someone so impossibly holy that although I found her admirable, she was no more real than a princess in a fairy tale.

And yet, as I have grown in age and faith, I know that there are people — real people — who have the same kind of expecting hope as Mary. Real people who face uncertainty with the certainty that God will act. Ordinary people who face death — their own or others’ — with a peace that undergirds to their grief. And I ask myself, how do they do it?  How did Mary? 

The answer lies in the angel’s declaration to Mary: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be called holy—the Son of God.”

The power of the Holy Spirit is what will make the impossible — a virgin conceiving — happen. It is also what makes it possible for her to have the joyous hope she sings about in her great song of praise.

Her expecting hope is nothing less than a gift of the Holy Spirit.

My jaded reaction that having this kind of hope isn’t something that real people could do is partly right: it isn’t something that comes naturally to us, or something we can manufacture. It is a gift we receive from God, a gift we can ask for and that will be joyfully given, a gift we can nurture, a gift that is nothing less than a beautiful mystery.

This gift allows Mary and us to do two things: remember God’s faithfulness to the individual and the community.   First, the gift of the Holy Spirit reminds her of what God has already done for her:

“For He who is mighty has done great things for me”  

Second, the Holy Spirit reminds her of what God has done for her community:

“He has shown strength with his arm…
he has exalted those of humble estate …
he has filled the hungry with good things …
He has helped his servant Israel …”
This Christmas, I’m asking for the gift of hope. I’m asking the Holy Spirit to come upon me and the power of the Most High to overshadow me, as He did to Mary.   I am praying Paul’s powerful prayer from Romans Chapter 15 over myself and over a world sorely in need:

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit, you may abound in hope.”