The Seeds We Are: on death and resurrection

I woke up weeping twice last week. The dreamed anguish spilling out and pooling on my pillow: the imagined bleeding into reality. Both times, I dreamt a family member died.

We all know this pain—in the already-experienced pang of loss or in the wary waiting, knowing what’s to come amidst having “them” near. The reality of loss seems to loom nearer, the older I get. I wonder when “their” car pulls away and out of view—“will I see them again?” When I see an accident in the news, I wonder whose faces will be pictured. Will I know them?

During those mornings last week, as I wiped away the dream-tears and struggled to find my way back to reality, I was, in the end, confronted with the truth of the dreams, however falsely they were timed. We all understand the reality of death. The way it sneaks in and steals the ones we love. The way we don’t know when it’s coming—we just know that it is.

The way this fear can hide itself in dreams and tormented wake-ups in the darkness of night. And the way, sometimes, it becomes too much for us.

And yet, He sees us in these places. I’m consistently thankful for the Lord’s timing. The way He sees my thoughts and questions and fears and feeds me the answers I crave.

I’ve been reading in 1 Corinthians and came across the section about the resurrection of the dead. Paul chastises the Corinthians for not believing that people can be raised from the dead. He spells it out clear: if no one can, then Christ didn’t. And if Christ didn’t, then we won’t. And then the comfort: but Christ did, and we will.

Not believing this—not placing our daily realities into this eternal perspective—suggests a lack of faith, or of understanding, in Jesus’ resurrection. That pivotal reality means there is a new, resurrected, reunited reality coming. And—to my soul—that speaks hope.

Paul, continuing on in the hope of eternal life, compares our future resurrection to a seed.

When the outer shell breaks open, the life within buds out green and growing. The outer shell, that we’ve been accustomed to for so long—that we love, in its familiarity and nearness—is completely destroyed in the transition. And something far more glorious is made manifest. Something different, and beautiful, and living.

About this miraculous transition, we receive the comforting words: “The body that is sown perishable, it is raised imperishable, it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body” 1 Corinthians 15:42-44.

I’m breathing this in and out and speaking it with boldness to my fears. That, though I can’t imagine the pain of losing such precious people even for a time, it will not be the end. It will be at that time that life takes its firmest hold on us and blooms us into spiritual beings.

Glory. What a thing to anticipate.

Whisper Words: thoughts in the aftermath of tragedy

Lately, it’s been hard to find soul quiet in which to sink down, rest safe. But, even in this unrest, prayer has come more naturally—more needfully—to these dry lips lacking Water.

Why need it be the hard that pulls us to God?

The hurting church—licking its wounds. The disconsolate life—sucked dry by entertainment. The gun-ravaged people—struck down by Hell.

I sat on the edge of my bed and wept as the gunshots blared. My husband and I felt sick, as tragedy fueled political divisions. People being hauled into graves, wounded being caravanned into hospitals, families being ripped apart forever.

We can be assured—know it deep down—that there is “a time for mourning.”

There are times, maybe seasons, when we sit here—with tears and torment—feeling naked and alone. Why, God? Why the pain? Why the demons? Why the death?

And we know the answers. But knowing is not [is never] enough. We have to hope. Hope that God’s promises really have been made “Yes” in Christ. Hope that this patient God really is reaping a harvest of new believers in this time before eternal. Hope that we are waiting for a real, deep, overwhelming redemption outweighing the transient pain.

Hope in God.

And in the meantime, grieve with the grieving; weep with the weeping; reach out hands made strong by God and, by gosh, help the helpless.

This Creator God that “Let light shine out of darkness” makes light shine into dark hearts even now (2 Cor. 4:5-6). This light lets the hard pressed hold strong. It lets the perplexed disdain despair. And the persecuted? The Light does not leave them abandoned. Maybe struck down, but not destroyed.

Maybe someone will see this great hope and hope alongside us.

Some will say that prayer is empty and that there is no God to have ears to hear. Press on in prayer, friends. And press on in love labor so that people know our words have feet and walk this weary road.

Because in the end, this blood-bought road leads to salvation.

The House of Mourning

When the world is harsh and unrelenting, there is a solemn comfort: "It is better to go to the house of mourning..."

Some chapters of life are torn from our hands even while we're reading them--portions unread, things unresolved--and we feel bereft of a better ending. Some chapters of life contain painful contents (ones which make us dig deep in faith and grow us in prayer).

These chapters, whatever they contain, often drive us to the house of mourning.

Lately, I have been meditating on this place, drawn to look into its windows for various reasons. And for all the peering, I wonder if it's a place to talk. A place to sleep. A place to live (for a time).

Jesus is such a sweet example of dwelling well in such a place.

When Lazarus' sisters felt the sting of loss, their tear-streaked statement poured to Jesus: "'Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.'" In response, Jesus didn't berate their bare-faced sorrow and anger.

He paused.

He felt with them.

He wept.

What a wordless statement of grace and understanding. Even though He had the power to raise Lazarus from the dead (and in fact did), Jesus took a mortal moment to sit with us in sorrow. What a gift.

As we look at His gift (opening it up and  receiving its blessing) we can weep, too. It is okay to grieve. It is okay to cry. Even when suppressing the tears feels more acceptable. These moments give us a glimpse into eternity that little else provides. In them, we are reminded that the most important things are the things unseen. We are reminded that we do not mourn alone or without hope. We are reminded that our souls are programmed for eternity.

So, my Lord, we ask for peace in the house of mourning...and the joy of a chapter yet to come.