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.

Collateral Faith (how seeing others' faith can bolster our own)

We pulled up to the hospital, and a smile tugged at my lips. The letters spelling out “Children’s Hospital” were a rainbow spectrum of colors, and the glowing lights behind them drew in the eyes, drew hope to the heart. It looked inviting. The lobby was even better, brighter: a luminous blue Christmas tree stood twelve feet tall; on the walls, murals of fish and bright corral and waves splashed cartoonishly over the usually pervading whiteness. I'm reminded...

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”

We stood just outside the elevator, floor two, Oncology level, and passed the face masks around. We giggled a little as we stuck fuzzy black mustaches to our masks. And then the lump lodged fixed in the throat and we were holding the tears off firm. I never knew how conjoined tears and laughter could be.

Sometimes, faith is not always being assured of what God will do; it’s just being assured that whatever God does do will be good.

Will be ordained.

Will be backed by the comfort and power of God.

I sit in wonder, looking at the hearts that seek blessings in the battle-worn places, the trenches and the hospitals. That trust, clinging hard to the promises, that God hears. Answers. Holds. Understands.

This is collateral faith. The faith so strong it sends out the shock waves that undulate the ground and impact others all around. The real and gritty faith that challenges the stagnant heart . . . or the heart that wavers under the doubt and fear.

For my aunt and uncle and cousins, it’s a faith filled with tears and tests and toxins. Filled with hospital bed nights and white-walled days.

They remind me of the list of the faithful found in Hebrews. The people who believed hard and held tight to the promises (and wait even still to see their fruition).

Like Abraham, who packed the bags and went without knowing the destination.

Like Moses’ parents, who hid the babe in basket and sent him down the river.

Like the Israelites, who marched around the wall without weapon, but with trumpet, and saw the wall fall.

Like Rahab, who welcomed the foreign spies and dropped the scarlet rope.

Truly, it does encourage the heart toward faithfulness when we see these ones so faithful. They remind the weary souls to "fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hands of the throne of God.”

So, faithful, faith-filling God, let us hold tight to the promises . . . and see Your face in the midst of it. 

The Distant Days

I sit down to pray. Yet, instead of a listening ear, my mind bursts with thoughts about the house, the cleaning, the holidays, the work, the plethora of things I could be doing but am not.

Some days feel distant from God. As little as I like to admit it, there are days, and sometimes weeks, where my life feels sectioned off from the sight of God. In the quiet, only my own thoughts echo back to my questions.

Three years ago I found myself sitting on my bed, crying (literally) to God and feeling very alone. I was applying to go on a summer-long mission trip with my best friend, and she had just let me know that God was pulling her heart toward a different trip, a different country. The floor underneath my feet seemed to fall away. I felt simultaneously betrayed by my friend (who had begged me for months to go with her) and uncared for by God (because I had, actually, felt the tug to spend the summer serving). My turbulent mind seemed to feel God’s hand pulling out of mine. And, empty-handed, I cried to God.

I can remember sitting there, in the near dark, letting my anger loose and my tears fall. I was surprised to find that He met me there. It was a place that felt utterly alone and uncomfortable—the prospect of going to a new city by my self felt daunting, and my heart was still recoiling. But God sent strength and encouragement.

He bent down low, cupped His hand around His mouth, and whispered, “I have loved you with an everlasting love.”

And I knew that I was not alone. The floor seemed to resurface and my feet felt secure. Feeling came back to my fingers, and I knew that His hand was still there, squeezing tightly. And that special peace that comes from God filled all of me. I didn’t know what my summer was going to look like, but the not knowing felt strangely okay. It even felt good. My tears, still falling, were from gladness and joy instead of sorrow.

That summer ended up being extremely impactful on my walk with God. I went to Chicago for ten wonderful weeks and fell in love with the city. The days were filled with community and growth; and I got to see God do amazing things. I know that He blessed my obedience in going and treasure the memory of my time there.

Today I find myself feeling distant again, but He isn’t far. He sits beside me during my morning coffee. He dines with me at supper. He holds me in His hand always.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6

So, sweet and caring Lord, open my eyes to see more of You.