The Smallness and Bigness of a Life Well Lived - Remembering Ravi Zacharias

I'm only 13, maybe 14, and our church is not that big.  Just a simple Christian and Missionary Alliance Church of less than 100 in what is back then a still simple Scarborough that barely reaches north to the 401.  Early 1970's.

We have a guest speaker this morning.  A brand new graduate from Ontario Bible college.  A young man with a funny name and a musical voice.  Ravi Zacharias.  He is introduced and I say his name over a few times in my mind, just because I like the rhythm of it.  I will remember nothing of what he preached on, I'm afraid.  I'm sorry.  As a preacher now myself, I know that would make for a better story.  But I will remember his jet black hair. And I will remember his presence.  What a remarkable presence this man has.  A substance and blending of strength and humility.  It emanates from him, even then.  This is what I remember.

After that, that young man became famous.  Almost a household name, if you were in the right households.  His incredible intellect and that substance of strength and humility turned out to be exactly what God needed in an apologist.  And he spoke everywhere, and was invited to university debates, and wrote books, and made a whole lot of people realize that they didn't have to give up on their brains to believe the story of Jesus.

And whenever I heard his name I remembered him, because I liked the rhythm of his name and the music of his voice and the substance of his presence.

Fast forward twenty-five years, give or take.  1999.

Scarborough now reaches far beyond the 401, but my parents still live in the house of my childhood.  Except Dad's had a stroke and he's not yet come home from the hospital, and Mom is uncharacteristically pushy vocal in her  "wondering" if they should move into the condos up at Shepherd Village.  They have friends there.  And it's a faith-based set up, connecting seniors through covered walk ways between the condos and apartments and assisted living units and the long term care facility.

Dad is not so sure.  But Mom's determined, and I'm thinking that if we could go for a little tour with the property manager, it would at least give us an idea of some of our options.  I suggest we make an appointment for next week.  But Dad's out on a day pass, and Mom really, really wants to see if we might find someone around anyways, like today, like right now.

I'm reluctant.  It's a big deal getting Dad in and out of the car.  We're new at all this transferring to a wheelchair business at this point in the game.  And to be frank, Dad has his 'favourite' shirt on, and he spilled his breakfast that morning, and we really need to get him a haircut.

But Mom is insistent, and Dad is at least willing, and the drive won't hurt, I guess.  So we get him out the door and into the car, which takes the better part of an hour in itself.  And we do the drive up to Shepherd Avenue, and we stop by the entrance of the condos in question, wrangle Dad out of the car and into the wheelchair, and roll up to the entrance.  Mom pushes the call button for the 'office', while I make a mental note again about getting Dad's hair cut.

We are told, politely and not surprisingly, that we'd need to make an appointment and, sorry but no one is available at the moment.  I'm relieved.  Okay, no harm, no foul.  We can make the appointment for next week when everyone, mostly me, feels more ready for it.  And we'll get that haircut and change the shirt.

I tell Mom that it's okay, we'll make the appointment and come back.  But Mom isn't leaving.  She's looking at the directory on the wall.  Our friends live here, she says, and perhaps they wouldn't mind if we looked at their unit.  Um.  Mom?  It's a Saturday.  It's still kind of early.  They're not expecting us.  Feels rather intrusive to me. 

But Mom has already found the name, Reynolds, and has pushed the button.  I wait, praying no one is home.  Mark this as one prayer where the answer was 'no'.

A cheery voice greets us from inside the mesh of the speaker.  I groan.  Mom does the talking.  And wouldn't you know it, these dear people are all fine and yes come on up and pushing the buzzer to release the door.

On their floor the elevator opens and there they are, two of the most welcoming folks you'd ever want to meet on a spontaneous, we-want-to-look-all-through-your-home kind of Saturday.  They are so glad to see my Dad, the first they've seen him since the stroke.  And yes, please come in, and would you like something to eat.  And I'm just dying!   The whole time it's awkward and I'm apologizing and trying not to bump Dad's wheelchair on any of their furniture.  And they show us all around, even into their bedrooms and even the bathroom, because, don't you know you have to figure out if the doors are wide enough.

And while they are down the hall in the master bedroom, I am cringing by myself in the living room, wishing I had insisted Dad change his shirt.  And I glance up and see a family photo.  There they are, our gracious Saturday morning hosts, in the center on the chairs, with their entire family, all of them, standing around them.  It's a large group.  Lovely family.

And then I notice something that brings these two stories together in the most surprising of ways.  Standing on the one end of this large family portrait is Ravi Zacharias.  No question.  That's him.

Just as I notice this, the tour ends and everyone comes into the living room.

"Lovely family," I say, pointing to the picture.  "Can I, um ask, is Ravi Zacharias part of your family?"

"Why yes!"  Mrs. Reynold's face brightens in an even more welcoming smile.  "He's our son-in-law."  And then she pauses, and asks me as if this was a real question.  "Do you know him?"

Yes I know him!!!  Most of the Christian world knows him!

And now I am realizing that we've just crashed in on the in-laws of Ravi Zacharias.

So here's why I'm telling these two stories.   A few notable points.

• We're all so much more connected that we'll ever realize.
• Preachers, you're making more of an impression on youth than you know.
• Everyone is just as important as anyone else in the home of welcome.
• Never underestimate the power of simple hospitality, even on an unplanned Saturday morning.

The world lost an amazing human being this week, Tuesday, May 19, 2020, when Ravi Zacharias was released to glory.

May we all pursue our life's mission with such passion and integrity.

The Mother-Ache of God

The more I press into intimacy with God, 
the more I realize how much I have to un-learn.

Little by little, joy by joy, sorrow by sorrow, 
He re-teaches me Who He is.

A Mother's Day Reflection During A Pandemic.

We arrive on the front lawn of our daughter's house before the grandkids return from their walk.

It's one of those teaser Saturdays we've had in April, when you think maybe spring has actually arrived.  Those have been the easier days for outside, distanced visits, the kind we're doing now while we wait for it to be safe to hug each other.

It doesn't take them long to show up, coming down the street all shiny and waving.  Abby runs ahead, remembering to forgo her usually affectionate greeting and plopping herself down on the step instead.  Her face is flushed with energy and brightness.  I marvel again that this stunning young woman is in any way part of me.  I want to hug her but I tell her how much I love her, and that like her dress.

Zachary is a bit behind, all tall and needing a haircut, and being a careful big brother to bring Jayden up and around the parked van on the other side of the driveway.  Jayden has been waving and laughing and kicking his feet in the stroller since spotting us, and I am very aware of feeling oh so validated because of it.  Always, it makes me want to be the person he seems to think I am.

So when Zachary unbuckles him, Jayden breaks free of all that was holding his love back up until now.  He comes roaring around the front of the van, running with wide eyes and full-of-joy grin, as if to jump into my arms in an enthusiastic, mighty-three-year-old hug.





And in this moment, there is in me a horrific collision of delight and anguish.

(Pause, to push it away from my memory.)

You know, mostly I'm actually doing pretty okay with the little that's required of me during such a demanding time for so many.  All I have to do is stay home and stay safe.  Life is weird yes.  There's too much news, yes.  Technology is all love/hate for me right now, yes.  But mostly, I have everything to be grateful for and little to gripe about, all things considered.

Except this.

This bit about the grandkids, about staying separate as households, about staying two meters apart, about no hugging.  This.  Is.  Not.  Okay.  And it's getting more and more not okay as the weeks drag on.

My gramma-heart is hungry and restless and very sad.  Very sad.  All twisted and angry-sad.  Even before the happy charge across the lawn, I am aching for that three year old's arms around my neck, his giggle in my ears, his precious, sweaty little self all pressed up against my heart.

And on this sunny Saturday, he comes charging straight to me.  And when everything inside of me is moving toward him with the huge force of gramma-love, I have to back away.  I have to.   I force myself to put up my hands and tell him 'no'.

He turns away to run to Mom instead, crying and confused.  So do I turn around, and walk the other way.  We're both crying.  It takes me several minutes to compose myself.

Wretched longing unfulfilled.  Strong and awful and sickening.

All this happens two weeks ago.

By now I've been over to visit like this enough times that -- and this is worse, almost too awful to say -- Jayden is now "trained" to keep his distance from Gramma.  I sit in the sunshine approximately spaced from the chair he and his Mom snuggle into, and -- this chokes out of me -- he won't come near me.

Unspeakable longing.

I ache for the big kids too, all four of them, including Harvest.  Including our new baby whose kicks I have yet to know  We're a hugging, touching family, and we've been through a lot together, and there's so much more to say than words can muster, even on the good days.   And right now I'm feeling all needy and desperate to know the sweet presence of their love like that.  To love them like that.  Without restriction.

Unbelievably wretched.

(Pause, to catch my breath and look away, and feel it.)

Where else to take all this but to the lap of God?

Several years ago, I learned a prayer to myself, (that sounds awkward but that's how it was) that was badly needed in other times of longing.  It goes like this:

"Lord, turn all my longings into longings for You."

It captures the ache of unfilled desire and directs it to the only One who has enough capacity to bear it with me.

"Lord, this longing is too much."

He whispers, "I know."

It comes to mind that time when Jesus, heading to His own excruciating act of love, looked out over a city representing all God's children and spoke this torn lament.

"Oh Jerusalem!  

How often I have longed to gather your children together, 

as a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings, 

and you were not willing."

Matthew 23:37

God as Mother, longing to hold us.

With such longings heavy in my own chest
I am that child now
in a mystic circle of longing and love.

I keep un-learning that God is an angry father.
I keep un-learning that God is a father impossible to please.
I keep un-learning that God is distant and unknowable and prefers it that way.
She's not.

She longs for me with all the longing I now long for my grandkids.

I know, I hope, that soon restrictions will be lifted.  Bubbles can be widened.  Arms can wrap around beloveds without fear and anxiety.  I wait for that day with growing impatience but unfailing hope.

So meanwhile, right now,
I am mystified and grateful
to climb into the lap of God,
and share our longings with one another,
and wait in the waiting, together.

Not Now, Not Ever: Evelyn's Birthday Lament

On the occasion of marking my Granddaughter Evelyn's first birthday, I find I am compelled to the honesty of Psalm 88, the only lament in Scripture that does not resolve back into God-directed orientation and praise.  

My commitment in writing and posting is always to uplift and encourage and point to hope.  That does not change with this piece.  

But today I leave room to be in pain.  To acknowledge and affirm the pain of my Daughter and her family, and of course my own pain.  To stand in solidarity with other families, other Grandmothers who have lost a child to stillbirth, or lost a child at all.

If you are not up to honest lament today, stop reading now.  Don't read this today, or don't read it ever.  That's okay.  We're all managing our harshness-intake right now, with good reason.  I understand.

I call out to some good poetry, wrenched from my gramma-grieving heart, that might catch in the throat and somehow make palpable untouchable pain.

But it won't come.

I guess because it's untouchable.

There are some things one dare not try to make sense of.  This is one of them.  The holding of a tiny, perfect, newborn baby girl, wishing with all anguish that she would take a shuddering breath, open her eyes and let us know there's been a horrid mistake, but she doesn't, she lies still.

That wretched stillness of that night!  And silence.   A too-quiet birthing.  A shattering, hope-threatening loss.

No soft, poetic way to put this.

I hate that we're marking a year of the harshness of not having Evelyn.

With all I am, I hate it.

A separation too much to bear, like walking barefoot on glass, but you have to keep walking.  You have to keep moving through the months, getting punched in the gut on the third of every one of them, until you get to this.  Her birthday.  Her deathday.

And if you are the Gramma, you have to watch as your Daughter lives this pain, helpless to protect her, make it go away, because it doesn't.

And right now I can't hold her.

So that's the next thing I hate.

I hate that we're having to do mark this day during the over riding harshness of an insidious microscopic menace that won't let me hold my Daughter.

And there it is.  The only thing I can think of that would make this day in any way barely tolerable is if I could hold on to her.  She is my baby girl after all.

And there it is.

That's the thing.

She can't hold her baby girl.
And neither can I.

And we stand six feet apart - not holding, not touching.
And it's so not okay.

And I think there's nothing for it but to let it be what it is.
And to feel it.
And to let this rock us.
Because it's supposed to.

No one can ever let it be okay that they held a dead baby in their arms.

And yes I know there is a bigger story here.
And if I glance up and out past this a little bit I can already see it.
In fact, I've seen Evelyn's brief time with us prompt things redemptive and strong already, in ways only God could make possible.
I know He's here with us, wrapping Himself around us when we can't do that for each other.
He must be, because otherwise how are we still standing?

But I also know He's not rushing this.
He's here is this moment with us, this moment of anguish.
This birthday of such pain.

Evelyn, it will never, never be okay that you're not with us.
Not until we can dance with you, anyways.
Not as long as we need to go to where your magnolia tree is planted in order to sing to you.
Not now, not ever are we okay.

This is the cost of loving you.

You are so worth it, baby girl.

A Tender Resurrection

A rainy sunrise under lock down isn't really helping.
I miss the together of Easter Sunday,
the happy greetings and wide-armed hugs.
I miss the bigness of Easter Sunday,
the music and the strength
and the re-enactment of the disciples' wild joy.

I miss going in so early on Easter Sunday,
to watch the sunrise over the church building,
as if the sun itself was re-enacting the Son.

This is it for us Christians.
This is our big day.

But this year, not so much.

We'll try.
My church and other churches will do our best
to help us "connect" on line
and "celebrate" on line
and "worship" on line
and "do Easter" on line.

My husband and I will mark this day together
with a meal
and prayer.

I have an Easter lily!

But it takes more effort this year
to be all that excited.

I think I'm supposed to be.
I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be able to put it all to one side
and be excited
write something here that reflects all of that.

But it's a different way of being for me this Easter Sunday.
More like Mary hearing Him say her name.



It's John that records this moment of tenderness
in his resurrection account.

Mary, beside herself in grief and confusion,
desperately longing to finish the anguished task
of properly anointing the body for burial,
a ritual of respect
and love.

But now the body is gone!
After all they'd already done to Him.
This too?
This degradation?

She is overcome with all the dreadful dashing of hope.
Sobbing.
Like this morning's sky, I think.

And then she's interrupted by a Voice.

"Why are you crying?  Who are you looking for?"

John writes her reply as if it was almost polite.
But I hear a sudden intake of air,
the sobbing being startled to a sudden halt.
I hear more anger and accusation
coming from deep in her throat.
A lashing out, a meltdown,
with all the energy of grief.

"Where is He?!!!
What have you done with Him?!!!"

And that's when He says it.
Her name.

Simply.

"Mary."

And then she knows!
And then everything changes.

Wild! Clutching!  Joy!

I need this tender resurrection this morning.
And the real and living intimacy
of a Risen Saviour
who knows my name.

And it will be enough for today.
More than enough.

Because the resurrection bursts out of all restrictions.
If death could not hold it back,
then neither can a pandemic.

Worship.
Love.
Truth.

Silent Saturday

Words and words and words.

For all the words coming at me, relentlessly, 

on the news and in my newsfeed,

And all the words I’ve written this week 

in what ended up being an everyday reflection,

And all the words I’ve written for my paper, 

and sermons, and oh so many emails lately,

Or spoken on the phone,

And for all the words written 

in every gospel that describes the hell of Holy Week,

Come Saturday and ---

God lay silent.

Feels like I should do the same.

Just.  Be.  Quiet.

Just.  Let.  God.  Not.  Say.  Anything.

And still be God.

And that’s the thing.

Those disciples on that first Saturday between.

They had no idea.

God was still God but it looked like He wasn’t.

So much was happening

Cosmic noise and commotion.

One big battle in the name of redemption.

But it didn’t seem that way.

Just the silence of a tomb locked down.

Strange how a world pandemic

Imitates the pause.

Not What We Expected: Of Distancing and Donkeys

"Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion!

Shout, Daughter Jerusalem!

See, your king comes to you,

righteous and victorious,

lowly and riding on a donkey."

Zechariah 9:9

I am awake too early and immediately aware that I am out of sorts.
Sort of.

For all my mostly okay adaptation to staying at home for the rest of the week,
I really don't want to be staying at home on a Sunday.
And not this Sunday.
Not when it comes just before next Sunday!

I get up and make a fire and weep a while,
making space for the grief of all that's not okay,
and for the little bit of the dread of knowing
it won't be okay for a while.

In that space He sits with me,
not really saying anything.
Neither of us are.
The tenderness of the moment overwhelms me.
It's like we're praying together,
and it's one of those silent prayers
where nothing can be said,
so spirit and Spirit simply,
quietly
groan together.

But maybe then,
after a little while,
He does speak,
because I remember that He knows what it's like
for everything not to be okay.
And to dread something.
And that He rode the donkey anyways.

Not a steed.
Not a war horse.
Not the way Kings are expected to arrive.
Righteous.
Victorious.
Lowly.
Unexpected.
Dreadful.
Crowds shouting Hosannas.
Not expecting what would come next.

Palm Sunday just before Good Friday.
Suffering is ahead.
He knows.
And He rides the donkey anyways.

This is not the Easter week any of us were expecting.
Not the spring any of us wanted.
I don't like it.
But
I love that we have a Saviour like this One.
Who knows.
Who deserves our adoration
and rejoicing, shouting Hosannas
and palm branches of courage
and faith
and hope
right now.

I love that I have a Saviour like this One.
Who sits with me for a while
by the fire
and dissolves my expectations
with overwhelming tenderness.
Who inspires my own steely tenacity
with movement toward the Cross.

Lifted Eyes: A Monday Mantra

"But our citizenship is in heaven.  

And we eagerly await a Saviour from there, 

the Lord Jesus Christ, 

who, by the power that enables him 

to bring everything under his control, 

will transform our lowly bodies 

so that they will be like his glorious body.  

Therefore, my brothers and sisters, 

you whom I love and long for, 

my joy and my crown, 

stand firm in the Lord in this way, dear friends!"

Philippians 3:20-4:1

With the weekend's appeals from civic leaders in cottage country asking seasonal home owners to please stay away, and without knowing for sure how long we will need to comply as we all band together in all of this, I can't help but be wishing for time in the kayak.

The sky of it.

A big part of the spirituality of being at our cottage on Georgian Bay for me each summer is the wild space of the sky.  There's something healing, something unleashing about being under that much endlessness.  I can breathe in all that need.  All of it.  Whatever claustrophobic stresses constricted the flow of Spirit (Pneuma in Greek) over all the dark months of winter are released.  Something good and beautiful and strong fills the lungs of my soul.  I am re-oxygenated, restored, revived at a parenchymal level - that cellular level of exchange deep, deep in the sacred spaces.

This happens just by default in every moment outside, but it's particularly powerful when I'm out in the kayak and I take a moment to look up.  There it is, wide and open and endless.

Lifted eyes is what I need now, here at the end of a winter that gripped us too tightly, spilling into a spring that's turned vicious.   New news every day.  And if I'm not careful, the same roof under which I shelter, and for which I am utterly grateful, might also just by default of that sense of being housebound, keep my eyes at ground level.

Paul encouraged the Church at Philippi to keep their eyes lifted.  We are citizens of a greater span of reality than just what physical sight can render.  There are bigger things going on, things wild and wide, and profound, and unfathomable, like the sky. 

A bigger story is being written.  Even now, as we share our insights and meditations and reflections with one another, about the earth healing, and the slowing down of all our ways, and the time with family, and the very real increase in appreciation for every moment of normal life we've ever taken for granted.  These are just glimpses into the bigger thing that's happening.

With an eye towards heaven I feel the constrictions relax.  Deep breathes of faith and peace are possible.  My soul can heal from all my fretting.  I can let God be God and let go of my own crazy.

Heaven's hope never fails, it never gives out, it never let's go.

Of course we pray that all our courageous efforts will bring this microscopic enemy to its knees far sooner than cottage-opening time. 

And when that happens, I will hurry out on to the water, and breathe in the sky in ways I've never done before.