The Part I Know


We’re all grieving. I hope we’re all grieving. This isn’t “sad.” This is a tragedy, and an avoidable tragedy, not a tornado or a hurricane.

I’m talkjing about the slaying of nineteen children and two teachers in Robb Elementary school in Uvalde, Texas.

I just learned that police and an armed security guard were on the scene, outside the building, where parents begged them to go in and they did not. I know next to nothing about being a police officer.

Today, the debate rages over gun laws in the United States, and it should. We have not solved what happened at Columbine High School or Sandy Hook Elementary School. We haven’t made our schools more safe for our children. If I say more, someone will quickly tell me I know next to nothing about firearms. That is true.

Here is what I know, and why I am choosing to add my voice to this clamor, when my first impulse was to grieve quietly, pray for the families, and vote like our children’s lives depend on it.

I know something of what those parents are waking up to.

Let me be clear: I do not know how they feel. But I do know how this feels.

You can dismiss my political knowledge and any critique I might have about our laws. That is your right. I, too, believe in freedom, though I think some have lost track of what the word means and how it must function in our society.

I shared this reflection with my community: Today, this morning, after I dropped off our just-home-from-college 18-year-old at the bakery where she had her summer job last year and is back this year, on my drive home I was thinking and praying. I was thinking about those parents who have to wake up this morning and realize their child is really dead, that it wasn’t a horrible dream at all, and then wish they hadn’t woken up. Those first few—or many—days of waking up and realizing, as if it’s happening over and over, the reality that this baby is gone, just gone, and yet you have to keep going in the world.

And I’m praying for those parents, but even as I’m praying I’m thinking “nothing, no prayer, absolutely nothing makes this better.” And I believe in prayer.

This is a different place than anger. I feel that, too.

I have woken up like this. I have relearned that my child is dead. I have wished I could go back to sleep and not wake up. I have felt this impotent, bottomless rage. I have heard all the spiritual nothings, the mouthed soothings of those who would go back home to their live children and thank God they weren’t me.

In fact, I have spent years writing a book about my experience of grief, of surviving my child’s death, and, God willing, I’ll soon be able to offer that to the parents like me. And I pray that it helps, because it is all I can offer and cost me more than you can imagine–unless you know, personally.

So I will tell you that these abstract debates, these grotesque mockeries of the bereaved parents’ life-shattering sorrow, are an abomination.

After Isaac died–and he died inexplicably, even with world-class healthcare, so I do not know the horror when your baby is murdered–my world went dark. I could not experience God–with whom I’d hung out daily, hourly–for three years. It took me three years of screaming and thrashing and crying to find my way back to any form of faith again. I tell you three years now because I came through it, but at the time I didn’t know it would be three years. I assumed I would feel this way for the rest of my life.

Losing a child is an amputation, not a wound. “Healing” doesn’t mean things go back to normal; your arm doesn’t grow back. You learn to function without it. Your world is never the same. But unlike for an amputee, people can’t see what is missing. They move on. They expect you to move on. Sometimes they say things that amount to, “Just use both hands. It’s a lot easier that way.”

So this morning I’m praying for all these parents who have lost their babies, their child they birthed and fed and read to and loved. All the days-that-should-have-been torn from them. They’ll wake up tomorrow and for a moment they won’t know…and then their child will be murdered all over again, because our minds and emotions can’t make this shift and we keep getting cold-cocked with the pain and horror. Again. And again.

And again.

This, I know about. This, I survived, by the grace of God and the rawness of my screaming throat, by faithful friends, a very few who could stay close while I thrashed and cursed and lashed out, a wife who loved and loves me and who survived with me.

Job’s friends did not help. But they were all around me. They had many spiritual cliches to share. Some of them had good intentions. Some of them just couldn’t bear my anguish and needed me to tell them it was okay.

It was not okay.

So as a survivor of my baby’s death, as a vilomah, I cry out to God for these parents today, knowing that my prayers are futile to comfort:

“A voice was heard in Ramah,
    wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
    she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

Matthew 2:18

Those babies, too, were murdered.

I’m praying for these parents to survive, to find their way through their loss–the smiles and birthdays and weddings and grandchildren stolen–their severed limbs, their months or years in the desert. Remember, they will be burying their babies this week or next…what is left of them, what can be found of them. Yes, I know that is horrific. Do you not understand that is my point?

Let this be real for you. Don’t distance yourself. Don’t numb yourself. Don’t get caught up in meaningless, intractable debates with those who cannot–or will not–grasp what the death of a child means.

Yes, pray for these grieving families.

Then fight like hell to keep this from happening again.

Beautiful Moments


I’m a little stuck today. I have some discouraging thoughts circling around in my head. These are the thoughts that blind me to the good moments, the ones I talked about in my last post. These are the days I’m liable to shout “shut up!” when I’m in a room, alone.

Some of the thoughts are broad, public concerns: why are people defending racist views, like the “Great Replacement Theory,” that a murderer explicitly declared were his reasons for killing Black strangers in a grocery store in Buffalo? If I am sharing common cause with people doing evil, vile things, I need to rethink this cause…don’t I? How is that not obvious?

Some of the thoughts are just my usual head games. “Why am I not more this?”

“Jesus, I keep asking you for this same thing, why am I stuck? Are you answering this in some way I can’t see? Or just ignoring me?” ‘

But if you’re not paying attention to trees and how they sway in the wind then what are you even doing?

Yesterday, Sunday, my nephew Brennan, not yet two, came up to me in church. He didn’t speak a word. He simply reached up with both hands, as I was talking to a friend, and showed me his artwork. It was masterful, a multi-color series of lines, clearly drawn from the heart. He wanted me to see. He likes me. I don’t deserve for him to like me. I haven’t done anything to earn that.

Once, when Kim was visiting Brennan’s mom (who happens to be Kim’s sister), Brennan asked, “Uncle Mike?”

“I’m sorry, Brennan. He’s not coming tonight.”

And Brennan cried.

Last evening, we had Kim’s and Jeff’s birthday party, at the house of Brennan’s mom, who happens to be my sister-in-law. Brennan handed me a gift bag. I was confused.

Celeste, who more than happens to be Brennan’s mom, said, “We had presents for Kim and Jeff” (Kim’s brother, whose birthday happens to be the day before Kim’s) “and Brennan said, ‘Uncle Mike!’ So we made a present for you, too.”

Inside the gift bag was the art Brennan had showed me in church.

I’m going to frame it.

They’re All Just Moments


Today, you get to come along for my thought process. And it’s Friday the 13th.

I’ll let you decide whether to be afraid.

A friend wrote, “Rode my bike to the food pantry today and just the breeze and sun shining and everyone caring makes me hopeful, if but for a moment.”

To which I responded, “They’re all just moments.”

Then I thought, “My gosh, I’m right! They are all just moments!”

My favorite painting in the world is A Sunday on the Island of Le Grande Jatte–1884 by Georges Seurat.* This painting, which lives in the Art Institute of Chicago, is  207.6 × 308 cm (81.7 in × 121.25 in). I’m 68 inches high myself. It’s an enormous work, taking up a whole wall. Seurat used a technique which subsequently would become known as “Pointillism.”

In layman’s terms, he created a scene –almost seven feet by over ten feet–composed of dots. This blows my mind. I have spent, cumulatively, literal hours in this particular room at the Art Institute, moving from one viewing position to another, slowly shifting from the vantage point at which the dots are dots to ones at which my brain registers these dots as a scene in Paris, a woman with a monkey and a parasol, a man reclined in the grass smoking a pipe.

Here’s my deep, dilettantish insight: the dots are the woman and the man and the monkey.

Okay, track with me. I’m a self-acknowledged dilettante of painting and fine art. But I take myself a little more seriously as a writer and, truth to tell, as one seeking to love and be loved, to be a Jesus follower. I don’t have pretensions that I’m excelling at the fine art of living; I am hopeful that, through living this life, I will help a few others believe they are loved.

Back to my thought process. Almost immediately after I had my “ah-ha” moment about moments, I read this quote:

May be an image of text that says 'sproutlett if you're not paying attention to trees and how they sway in the wind then what are you even doing'

First, I am a fervent fan of “sincere sarcasm.”** Sincere sarcasm allows those of us who want to spend our lives affirming others a tone we can employ which keeps the recipient from needing to fend off our encouragement. It also prevents our being dismissed–along with our message–for being too maudlin or sentimental. There is a time for a sincere compliment and a time for sincere sarcasm; the fine art of living that I practice knows the difference.

If I tell you, “You should pay attention to the trees and how they sway,” that won’t come across as strongly as this sincere sarcasm. Yeah, I know you’re doing some things with your life. You’re raising children and puppies and yourself. You’re working and taking risks and surviving trauma and playing the lottery of relationships. Good fucking luck to you. I think your courage is mind-boggling.

And also, if you’re not paying attention to trees and how they sway in the wind then what are you even doing?

Do you see?

They are all just moments. I can stop to look out our back window at the stunning dogwood tree that, for these few weeks in spring, explodes pink and dashes color into our lives. Those buds will fade and the rest of the year it will be a tree like other trees. I’m soaking up every moment of pink splendor. But the droopy evergreen next to it is also swaying in the wind, right now. Right now, out my back window.

They’re all just moments. The moment you hug your daughter. That moment you laugh with your friend. The moment I sit by Annalise’s bed in the Emergency Room. The moment I drop my grumpy teenager off at school and he murmurs, “Love you, Dad” before shutting the car door.

Clock Crimes-Story of the Day | Brian andreas, Story people, Prints

We are Pointilism in action. We are painting our lives with dots, with these moments joined together that make the big picture, yet if you freeze them and zoom in close, you can see as individual acts and words and thoughts. We imagine life is stretches of hours and years unbroken. Sometimes imagining the unrelenting ticking of the clock, the passage of time, feels frightening, even oppressive. But we created the construct of time and all agreed to it. It’s only real because we say it is.

Our lives are moments. That’s how we experience life, and therefore, I would argue, that’s what’s real. You know, really real. We count how many years old we are, but you we don’t experience “a year.” We experience a moment. We live a moment. I hope, I pray, that the moments you take reading my words will feel worthwhile, will even help you live your upcoming moments better, more full of hope, more conscious of grace.

I spend a lot of moments shuffling words around. Sometimes–okay, often–our dog Mumford will come up and demand that I rub his ears. I do it, even when I’m working hard or feeling brilliant inspiration, because I love Mumford, because Kim loves Mumford at least as much as she loves me, and most of all because if you aren’t paying attention to your dog and rubbing his ears, what are you even doing?

I’m not suggesting that we will stop looking ahead and simply live moment to moment, purely reactive to what comes our way. I’m saying that being more aware that we live moment by moment, even as we look ahead, is a good corrective for our over-balance. We don’t want to miss these moments.

Here are my takeaways. If they help, awesome. If you have others, please share them.

1)Breathe. Just breathe.

2)Don’t let yourself dismiss light simply because there is so much darkness. The points of light count, because the picture is composed of those points. Letting ourselves decide everything is such shit that there’s really no purpose can blind us to the moments, can rob us of the light around us. “The breeze and the sun shining and everyone caring” are real. “If but for a moment,” yes. True. But they are all just moments.

3)Here is the big one. Living Pointilism, taking in each moment of swaying trees and sipping coffee and even standing in line, teaches us to live well, to enjoy living rather than skipping over it for something we wish would come.

CS Lewis, in a letter to Dom Bede Griffiths, wrote

A great many people (not you) do now seem to think that the mere state of being worried is in itself meritorious. I don’t think it is. We must, if it so happens, give our lives for others: but even while we’re doing it, I think we’re meant to enjoy Our Lord and, in Him, our friends, our food, our sleep, our jokes, and the birds song and the frosty sunrise.

As about the distant, so about the future. It is v. dark: but there’s usually light enough for the next step or so. Pray for me always.

I don’t pretend there aren’t horrors in the world. I know there are, more than I wish I did. You can’t unsee these things. We may give our lives for others–in fact, I suspect we will, one way or another–and (not “but”) we are meant to enjoy. We will do more good for everyone–our loved ones, our children, ourselves–if we do enjoy. Living in the moment helps us to enjoy our lives and, in fact, to notice our lives.

I believe paying attention to the swaying tree, to everyone (or anyone) caring, in this moment, is living. And is true worship of the God who is love.

*This Arts and Culture site is cool because the resolution of the picture adjusts. You can zoom in and see close up of the painting technique in detail. Try it!

**My son Rowan and I probably didn’t coin this term, but we like to believe we did.

Hope, One Inch at a Time


Someone I know is suicidal.

I want to help. I don’t think, “Oh, how could you possibly even consider such a horrible thing?” I remember how I felt when I was hopeless.

I can’t overstate the importance of hope.

Is there a way to give hope?

I’m asking the most serious question I can express in words.

When I get severely depressed, it feels like my chest is caving in. Crushing heaviness, an anvil smashing my lungs. Air sucked out of the room. I can stand in broad sunlight and feel nothing. Feeling nothing is much scarier than feeling anger or fear, at least for me. Prayer somehow becomes screaming at nothing, or worse, feeling the nothing so tangibly, the weight so oppressively, that any prayer at all is more than I can muster. Even “Help.”

So now my friend is making frightening choices. I am horrified, doubly so because I have too clear an idea of the mindset: to them, this obliterating soul crushing is not just today. It is always. This is not objective reality, but it is their reality.

Now you understand my question. Is there a way to give hope?

I’m not debating whether, objectively, life has hope. Nothing in this discussion should be abstract or theoretical. This is life and death, not academic.

The first thing I know is people must know they’re loved. Love and sunshine may not get through but they’re still true. Sunlight still carries vitamin D; whether or not I can experience it consciously, my body takes it in.

In one of the most difficult conversations of my life, I asked someone utterly dear to me if they’d ever experienced God’s love. They said, “Just because you experience it doesn’t make it real for me.”

I hated that lesson, because I didn’t want it to be true. I wanted to be able to make my loved one experience Jesus’ love as I had. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“But Mike,” someone will object, “Jesus is the hope of the world! That has to matter.”

If you were going to make that same objection, take a deep breath, .

I can’t make God real for others. I can’t. Not with brilliant logic, not with flawless biblical exegesis, not with the most vulnerable and moving sermon. I can share every powerful story of God’s presence–and intervention–in my life. One of my most bitter fights with God is over why God (seemingly) won’t answer prayers when I’m begging for someone who feels this way, who has no sense of God’s reality. Like, “If you love everyone, how could this possibly not be what you want? I don’t freaking get it!”

I believe God loves us and I believe God came in person to tell us. Even many of those who don’t believe Jesus is God know Jesus spoke of love and resonate with that message.* My takeaway is we need to be told in person. We need to be shown in person.

Don’t imagine that just telling someone you love them will snap them out of depression. I’m not saying that. I’m saying the beginning of rediscovering hope is knowing we’re loved. Love and sunshine are real, even when we can’t feel them, and they do their work, even when we can’t discern it. When we’re feeling hopeless, we need to know we’re loved more, not less.

When we’re saying “I love you,” we also ask, “what can I do?” ie. “I love you and how can I show it right now?” Often, someone suffering depression will have no answer to that question. It’s still right to ask. Then follow with suggestions. “Can I bring/cook you a meal? Can I help with simple chores or tasks? Do you just need someone to talk to, or watch a movie with, or stare out the window with? Do you need a good book?” (Everyone needs a good book.)

Hope comes from believing things can be better, having things to look forward to, a reason to look ahead.

We’ve all heard–and maybe uttered–the bewildered, bereaved cry, “But they had so much to live for!

Yes, that’s how it looks from our perspective. It turns out our perspective isn’t their perspective.

I can’t make you see what I see or experience what I experience. If you don’t suffer depression, I try to explain it so you can have some compassion, if not empathy.

If you do, I want you to believe you are loved and there is hope. The best I can do is try to build trust with you so that when the time comes, and you tell me–or I find out–that you’re dwelling in Mordor, breathing sulfur and forgetting the sun, I can empathize. I won’t say, “But no! The sun is shining! Spring is in the air! Wildflowers everywhere!~ Just open your eyes!” Your eyes aren’t seeing what mine are. They can’t right now. Your perspective in this moment simply is not mine.

If we have trust, I can tell you, “I’ve had the world turn its lights out on me, too. It felt impossible–and meaningless–to hang in there. I didn’t even want to. But it got better. It can get better.

And no matter what, no matter what, I love you.”**

God told us in person. So will I.

PS Some people hesitate to say the word “suicide” for fear they will plant the idea in a loved ones mind. From a medical expert friend, that isn’t how it works. On the contrary, if we don’t ask the question, it’s harder to know when a serious intervention is needed. That’s the real risk.

*In fact, many who don’t follow Jesus point out that those who do claim to seem to have missed the “love” part of the message.

**This is the start, not the solution. Next steps may include calling a crisis line, medical intervention, prayer, counseling, possibly in-patient care if that is possible. I’m just addressing surviving today.

Hello ER, My Old Friend


We were back in the Emergency Room last night. Last year, Annalise and I visited over a dozen times for a constantly re-dislocating shoulder. In December, Annalise underwent shoulder surgery and, after a couple or three return visits for pain management (doesn’t that sound benign?), rehab and physical therapy finally worked and we stopped being frequent flyers.

Until last night.

Annalise has given me permission to write, identifying perhaps more clearly than anyone else that “It’s okay, Dad; I know writing is how you process things.” It is. And I do. And being back in the Emergency Room was like, well, going back into the darkness with that old friend. You know the one.

Annalise went in with a partially obstructed intestine. But of course we didn’t know that. We knew Annalise was suffering horrible stomach pain that was spiking.

When I mention having a love/hate relationship, henceforth I will think of Emergency Rooms. We had a kind, efficient, compassionate nurse last night, who overheard us saying how much we can’t stand the ER. I apologized and he said, “No, I get it. No one wants to be here.”

Of course not. But more accurately, no one wants to have to be there. When one needs to be in the ER, then yes, one very much wants that option.

Today, Annalise is in a regular hospital room. We’ll be here “two or three or more” days while they discern if this obsctruction will require surgery. We are praying and hoping “no,” but as always, we want to get the necessary care, whatever that means.

This is the life of parents with offspring who have medical issues: 1)I want this not to be, but 2)It is, so I want the best medical care possible to deal with it. Sometimes that care causes misery in the short term. No, trust me, “misery” is not too strong a term. As Sting once sang, “it’s hard to tell the poison from the cure.” It can be. Sometimes the cure causes more pain before it alleviates pain. Sometimes the treatment forces more misery before it relieves misery.

There are, of course, obvious spiritual applications. I’m too exhausted to weave them in subtly. All of us human beings wish we didn’t have the “issues” that we have (let the reader understand), but we do, and they can sabotage, or altogether wreck, our lives. I don’t compare Jesus to an ER, but yes, some spiritual truth is not fun, not even close, and I would absolutely avoid it…except for the fact that it saves my life.

The spirituality that would prefer to omit sin altogether and see everything as good if we just look at it right has to find some way to account for how some things kill us. Some choices we make would kill us, physically or spiritually, unless we deal with them. I’m not talking about shame-based religion. I mean that some grace is like the ER. God, I wish I didn’t need this, but I do, so please let it work!

Back to Annalise. The ER has no view, which had literally never occurred to me–you’re not there for sightseeing–until I came up to Annalise’s hospital room. Oh, my gosh, it has a view. Springtime in Wenatchee is the best. The hills are green and remind me of Ireland. And there, up on the fourth floor, is a perfect view of these hills. In fact, as I studied them, I realized I was looking at one of the trails I hike regularly. We chuckled a little about how I could go hike it and Annalise could zoom in on the trail and I could wave. You don’t get belly laughs in the hospital when you are in barely-controlled pain, nauseous, and not allowed to eat or drink so the doctor can test if your body is kind of functioning or needs surgery, now. So we take our chuckles where we can get them. We’re grateful for our view, even when we sure as hell would prefer not to be in a hospital room and instead out hiking in those hills.

Another spiritual truth of our ER and hospital life: we look for bright sides, not to pretend that shitty things aren’t, but because positives are also true and it helps us to remember them. It helps us especially when everything feels miserable. Yes, it could be worse; if you can’t see that in a hospital, you’ll never see it.

Truthfully, one could argue Annalise has more than a a 22-year-old’s fair share of medical issues. Thursday night we were in the ER after Wednesday’s endoscopy. Yep, a day after a sugical procedure. Heck, Annalise had more than a lifetime’s fair share at birth, and way more so by six months. The list never seems to end, and honestly, I want to demand, “Give Annalise a break!” But getting stuck wallowing, even “justifiably,” in what feels like unfairness misses the point that we still have much to be grateful for, beginning with Annalise’s life. Again, I’m too tired to be anything but blunt: we did not leave the hospital with Isaac; we will leave the hospital with Annalise. Having seen worse, I’ll take this.

As I’ve told you before, Annalise is the Storm. I’ll close with this. We went into the ER about 9:30 PM. They decided to admit Annalise at around 1 AM, but it was well past 3 AM when we actually got a room. I have no idea how much sleep Anners got, but it couldn’t have been much. Visiting hours began at 9:30 AM, so I was back in the hospital, walking through the door about then (punctual me), to find Annalise on the phone. “That’s good,” I thought, “someone called to help cheer Annalise up. I’m all for it.”

Nope. I mean, yes, but also…the phone conversation was our mighty Storm helping a cousin with her college Spanish class. I sat and looked at that magnificent view through my sleep-deprived eyes and listened to my young adult in a hospital bed correcting Spanish-to-English translation.

And I chuckled.

Three Lessons from 29 Years of Marriage


Kim and I have been together 34 years now and married for 29. Writing about my experience with relationships always feels a little like an heir to a fortune telling you how to get rich. “Uhhh…you’re sure you should be taking credit for that?” Getting advice on how to get yourself born into a wealthy family or suggestions from me on how to meet, fall in love with, and marry someone like Kim would be equally useful, especially considering I fell in love at first sight. On the other hand, do you really want advice from Kim on how to find someone difficult?

I can, however, tell you what I’ve learned. Many years ago, when I was tutoring kids on how to take the SAT, the guy who owned the business explained, “You can’t give them your ability; you don’t get to take the test for them. You’re only helping when you offer them what they can take in with them.”

The first lesson is very simple. Kim and I observed long ago that long-term relationships need to work only for the people in them. We’ve seen happy couples whose mode of interacting makes us shudder. We could see clearly they loved each other, yet we’d never speak to each other–even in a fight–the way they talk casually. But their marriage doesn’t have to work for us, and telling them they’re doing it wrong because they don’t do them like we do us is simply bad advice.

Therefore, do not look at other couples, even happy ones, and concern yourselves that your relationship doens’t look like theirs. Your relationship has to work for you and no one else. This also extends to resisting any temptation to envy others or deciding your relationship needs fixing based on theirs looking better. You have no idea what goes on within their relationship–consider what percentage you can actually see. By now, I’ve seen too many relationships end that I would have sworn were sound and happy. Some turned out to be abusive.

By all means, if you can extrapolate principles that you will believe will help strengthen your relationship, go for it. But every relationship, certainly every marriage, is its own unique balance. We just have to make ours work for us. That’s enough challenge.

Change happens. You can embrace it or fight it. This sounds simple, the kind of thing about which, as teens, we would have said, “Duh.” But I don’t think choosing to embrace change is easy. In fact, dealing with change may prove the hardest thing you’ll face. It has been for us.

For one thing, most people initially resist change. Don’t believe me? Talk to any pastor who has ever tried to make any change in any church.

I think rolling with change can be even trickier when we like our lives. We sometimes forget that our commitment is not to maintaining or preserving this life but to loving our partner. They aren’t the same thing; sometimes they become opposites. Often, relationships end because one person wants to grow and the other person takes a stand on “But I like us the way we are.” Of course, it rarely looks so clearcut from the inside.

In my little pastoral mind I’m seeing people nodding like this is obvious. Okay, how can I say this gently? When I’ve done pastoral counseling, I describe issues that I can one hundred percent guarantee the couple will face and struggle with, and sometimes they both nod as if of course they know exactly what I’m talking about…then three years later I get a call out of the blue: “Holy shirt, this is horrible! Is this what you meant?”

Change is that Kim has decided she loves paddleboarding and cross-country skiing and (indoor) rock climbing, now that we don’t have small children who require all her time and energy. I can say, “Hey, wait, I’m the sporty one, you haven’t been active like this before!” Or, when she suggests “Let’s buy you one!” I can learn to paddleboard…and be grateful I’m included in the change.

I went with the latter.

Again, “duh,” right? That’s minor change. Like a level 1 challenge.

We have a son, Rowan, who is transgender. We love him like the sun, the moon, and the stars–and the mountains, because Kim and I especially love mountains (and not as much the ocean, at least not the being-in-it part). Neither Kim nor I anticipated that we would have a transgender child. But we do. That’s what I mean by “change.”

Now if you’re reading this and thinking, “Oh, that kind of change can’t/won’t happen to me,” I’d say here are the choices, A)Stop reading now and find someone who will confirm how you believe life will go for you, B)pray for us and then, maybe, for yourself, C)Wake up and smell the coffee,* as we also loved to say, way back when we also thought we knew exactly what the Map of Life looked like and how we’d traverse it.

In all seriousness and setting aside my sarcasm for a moment, when you commit to a long-term relationship, you commit to the other person, not to a certain life. Kim immediately became an affirming, outspoken advocate for the LGBTQIA community. At least, it looked immediate to me because I was still catching up. I can be a little slow. Her change required that either I change or we would have a hell of a lot of friction and conflict.

I’m talking about change at the beliefs level. But this is just an example. I’m really talking about changes bigger than you anticipated when you said your version of “I do.”

I will tell you that we came through this change together. We talked a lot. We let our heads spin with each other. Rowan came out to us and we could see pretty quickly that we weren’t going to fit in the evangelical community so well anymore (and then 2016 happened, with all its consequences, and that seemed increasingly moot, anyway). We concluded, as I hope anyone in a comparable situation will conclude, that God gave us Rowan–praise God!–we love our kid unconditionally, and we’re all on this wild ride together.

I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I don’t care if people disagree with us on our “position” regarding our child. For those who disagree, I’d love for them, if they can, to stop and consider that when one has a child one doesn’t have a “position,” one has a relationship. But to be clear, I’m sharing this as an example of a big change we’ve navigated together, even bigger than learning to paddleboard…though I did almost drown my first time out; we’ll save that story for another time. If this example makes you uncomfortable, well, see, that’s what deep change does. Change usually comes with cost. Sometimes, we can’t anticipate or even imagine what that cost will be.

Children die. We lose best friends, or best friends drop us, and we develop new ones…or don’t. People get hit by drunk drivers and lose the use of their legs. We change careers. Our parents get cancer or develop alzheimers. Our faith in God, even our understanding of God, moves in different directions. Big, overwhelming, sometimes earth-shattering changes happen to us and those change us. I don’t believe we can foresee or prepare for a lot of these changes. They are the tectonic plates of life shifting under our feet.

But we can learn to hold hands during the earthquakes. We can accept and embrace change in our partner and become aware of how we’re tempted to hunker down and resist change in them or in our lives together–or in ourselves, which will be another blog post. We learn and remind ourselves, when the earth starts shaking, that we’ve been through this before and it doesn’t mean the world is going to end…even though it may feel like it will. And we’ll have a lot of broken glass to sweep up afterward.

One final note on this: it’s terribly easy to want to blame someone when life goes topsy-turvy. The person who is right next to us more often than anyone else is a terribly convenient choice for that scapegoat, especially if we’ve allowed ourselves to compile a list of grievances already. Some changes are hard but turn out great, while others just suck, beginning to end. But we don’t avoid change by taking out our anger (and really, our fear) on someone we love. Often we don’t recognize that’s what we’re doing–or we convince ourselves we’re justified in doing so. A tip-off for me is that when I’m veering this way, I pray less, because deep down I know Jesus will dispel my justification. We need self-awareness and self-honesty to resist falling into blame.

I know, this isn’t buy-your-lover-more-chocolates, put-gas-in-their-car advice. I probably gave that when I’d been married ten years; it’s still good advice, especialy if you both like chocolate, not just you. I don’t enjoy avocados and I buy them for Kim frequently. The small things definitely count, and in fact I’d say they count double when life gets harder, even if you don’t hear a “thank you” every time. Or any time.

That leads us to point three. Kim and I have been through some bad times together and we’ve been unhappy with each other for some long stretches.** This gets old. It can wear you down. I can see–I could see–how from this point one starts feeling justified in treating the other person less kindly, speaking with less consideration, invoking the Not-So-Golden Rule: Do to others as you feel they are doing to you. “Well, if you’re going to be like that…”

Scorekeeping in marriage is bad. Really, don’t. Once two people both commit to that course of action and the Not-Golden standard, things can deteriorate rapidly. Healing likely will require some combination of reconciliation, prayer, forgiveness, and counseling. It’s not hopeless, but it’s definitely serious.

BUT having said that, it’s stinking hard not to go down that road. I’m not judging people who decide they’ve had enough.*** I’m simply sharing what I’ve learned about choosing to stay together.

Again, I’ll let Kim share in another post what she’s learned, but through our rough times I got much better at letting go of slights and offenses, and at bearing down to serve Kim in ways that make her feel loved. Sometimes with my teeth gritted. The most crucial thing is that I had to love her in practical ways–i.e. ways she feels loved–because I love her, not to get her to be nicer or treat me better or anything else. Otherwise, it simply becomes a more complex form of scorekeeping.

I’m not suggesting this will heal everything. I’m saying I learned that, for us, this is the make-or-break of weathering the stretches when you start to ask yourself, “Do I even want this if all I’m looking forward to is more of the same?” It’s one thing to choose not to keep score and hold grudges–and that’s good!–but it’s another to keep acting lovingly toward the other person when you feel like holding grudges.

Truthfully, this is the advice I can give closing in on 30 years that I would not have understood before, much less been able to offer. Being both romantic and optimistic, I might have rolled my eyes at some of this, because I “knew” that would never be us. Life and marriage have this in common: they’re both humbling. If they aren’t, you might be doing something wrong.

I don’t know if these will strike you as remedial or advanced lessons. They’re what we’ve learned through some of the most challenging times in our lives, so they don’t feel basic to us. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you they’ve been do-or-die for us. I’ll let you know what I’ve got after the next twenty-nine years.

*I know some of you are thinking, “That doesn’t sound like such a huge change.” Just know I love you, you give me hope, and I’m catching up.

**You’ll hear “don’t let the sun go down on your anger” (Ephesians 4:26) as a solution for all conflict. YES, definitely do all you can to forgive, especially if you are holding grudges. But this verse can be used as an oversimplification, as if you can settle massive differences simply by deciding not to be petty. Sometimes the difference runs deeper than simple anger.

***I always want to be painstakingly clear: if you are being abused in your relationship, I am not telling you to endure it or be nicer in hope that the other person will change. I implore you to take whatever step you can to get yourself and any children to safety. Contact me if I can help in any way.

The Ludicrous Prayer that Saved My Life


[An excerpt from my upcoming book, Grief, the Desert, and Survival Spirituality, currently seeking a publisher.]

In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me…” (Luke 22:42) This is a crazy prayer. It has also become the cornerstone of my faith.

Of course Jesus is the cornerstone of Christianity. We call it “following Jesus.” But in my crisis of faith after Isaac died, when I could not see how God could both love me and let Isaac die, I had an epiphany about this passage. I had spent three years raging and grieving at God, really against God for allowing Isaac to die, and had even decided maybe, if this is how following Jesus went, I would try life not following Jesus. Could it get worse than holding your infant son while he died?

Looking at Jesus’ prayer to God—Trinity now, remember?—I object to anyone who makes the first part of this verse a throwaway to get to the second part: “yet not what I want but what you want.” I’ve heard too many people read this beseeching prayer, this moment of terror and intimacy between Jesus, Spirit, and Father, as if Jesus said “let this cup pass” merely to show that he wanted his Father’s will above his own.


Jesus prayed for God to cancel the crucifixion and resurrection. From this plan—foreseen from before creation, that the pre-existent Trinity already knew when “in the beginning was the Word”—Jesus now asks to be spared. He was sweating drops of blood. He meant it.

It’s the impossibility of the prayer, its ridiculous nature, that saved my life. I mean that seriously. Jesus asked his Father the impossible—knowing it was impossible—because Jesus did not want to be crucified. Jesus didn’t put on a brave face. The intimacy between Jesus and his Father required that Jesus pray his heart, and he did—and then he stood up again, confronted his sleeping disciples, was kissed by his betrayer disciple, and entered “the passion,” his choice to allow himself to be tortured by those who hated him and not fight back, not make it stop with his power or with the angels he could have called on.

“How is that your cornerstone, Mike?”

I prayed an equally absurd prayer. It took me a long time to realize I was praying it. I was holding my breath, refusing to go on with my life, insisting that God give Isaac back. I realized, hearing Jesus’ prayer, that Jesus prayed the same way. Jesus asked for the impossible, knowing it was impossible and the answer was “no.” Isaac was dead for three years. God wasn’t bringing him back. Jesus’ death and resurrection would give us forgiveness for our sins and reconcile us to God in Christ. God wasn’t going to say, “Okay, let the cup pass, we’ll do something else.”

In that moment, I knew that Jesus did understand.

“God is with you,” people told me after our son died.

“God is with you” was cold comfort to me when it was clear God chose not to answer the prayer, “Heal Isaac! Save him!” I kept asking “’With me?’ In what sense? With me and ignoring my prayer to heal my son?”

It didn’t feel like Jesus was with me. I felt abandoned, and I kept telling God that. I started questioning my own life and making self-destructive choices.

Then one day, standing in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, it struck me. I would say God showed me. I had been holding my breath, figuratively, demanding that God give Isaac back. I had refused to go forward in my life because I thought that if I showed God I accepted what had happened, how God had let Isaac die, then that would be it, there would be no going back. So I didn’t accept it. I just stayed angry. In that same moment of realization, instead of feeling utterly stupid for taking such an impossible, childish stand, I thought of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, praying for the cup to pass when he knew with absolute certainty that could not happen. It felt like God had, in that instant, opened my eyes, both to what I had been doing and to how Jesus had prayed a similar prayer. It wasn’t a joyful, ecstatic moment and the pain didn’t magically evaporate, but I saw clearly that Jesus understood.

Jesus was with me when Isaac died, and every day after that. When I was angry at God and trying to stop time and insist that God give Isaac back, Jesus wasn’t rolling his eyes or saying “Get over it” (as some Job-friend types were). When I cursed God and raged—when my only prayers were curses and rage—Jesus didn’t say “Fine. I’m not hanging around if you’re going to use that language.” Jesus didn’t go away. Jesus was with me, weeping with me, and saying, “Yes, I get that prayer. It makes sense to me, even if it doesn’t make sense to them or make rational sense at all. I prayed an absurd prayer, too.” You pray what you have to pray. That’s what an honest relationship with God requires. It’s the only way forward.

So forgive me for momentarily switching the metaphor I’ve only just introduced, but let me put it this way: No one enters the Garden of Gethsemane for no reason. You go to pray there if you’re about to enter the via dolorosa, the way of grief. If you’re going out to pray in that Garden, you are preparing for the worst. And you know the worst can’t be stopped. You are seeking strength to walk a path you won’t survive.

Jesus asked for this cup to pass, then submitted to drinking it. The spirit drove Jesus out into the desert. I’m not saying Jesus was refusing to go and had to be forced; I’m saying Jesus understands praying impossible prayers, life or death prayers, and not having them answered. I’m saying Jesus understood why I had to pray that way, why I had to scream and cry and rage against what could not be undone. I know Jesus is with me even in my most ludicrous prayer, even when I sit in the garden and ask the impossible. I’m saying a God who is Trinity also suffers with us.


PS If you are interested in the book when it comes out, drop me a comment and/or your email so I can let you know. You can be a “Friend of Survival Spirituality!”

Relearning Holy Week


[Pysanky egg art by my friend Ashly]

Easter week is a time of unlearning and relearning.

We often read and reread these final chapters of the Gospels as if “the answer” could not be more obvious. But I think that is incorrect and misleading. LIterally, it leads us away from what we need to see and how we need to live.

The disciples did not experience “Holy Week” as if they were watching the final jigsaw pieces falling into place. It was a week in their lives–like this is a week in ours–albeit a tense one. They knew trouble might be coming. Of course, we’ve all heard that they had a skewed view of “Messiah” and hoped for a triumphant military leader instead of a suffering servant. I suspect the colt of a donkey imagery might have gone over their heads at the time.

We, in our comfort and knowledge, might shake our heads and cluck our tongues. Silly disciples. Such obvious references to Zechariah 9:9:

Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion!
    Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you;
    triumphant and victorious is he,
humble and riding on a donkey,
    on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

We need to get off our high horses.

Not only is it wildy doubtful–like St Peter’s winning March Madness longshot–that we, in their places, would have understood what they did not,* but I think we have to stop and examine our view that we have it all figured out, as if our only challenge is to fine tune how we live this truth we already have wired.

The disciples seriously had no grasp of how Jesus intended to respond in love to the violence and hatred, the fear and control that drove his enemies to frame and murder him. He’s foretold his coming suffering and they have not comprehended it. Instead, they’re arguing over who will be greatest in heaven. They’re telling Jesus no one will abandon or betray him. His three closest disciples fall asleep on him the one time Jesus asked something of them. They think they know what’s going on when clearly they do not.

We, in our overconfidence, act as if we’ve fully grasped this whole “respond in love” concept. We haven’t.

I don’t just mean we have room to improve at applying what we know. I truly believe we haven’t gotten the concept down yet. Believing we should treat those who treat us violently with anything less than “what they have coming”–that is, with grace–eludes us so consistently that we’ve built a whole theology to justify why we can ignore grace and still follow Jesus. This is odd for a people who believe “God is love.”

The surefire best way to do something wrong is to think you’re doing it right when you aren’t and reject all input to the contrary.

Let me say that another way: “When the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!” (Luke 11:34-36).

I don’t understand the savage attack–by Christians–on people who speak up and say, in regard to their beliefs about Jesus, “I don’t think I was doing this right and I am trying to unlearn what I had wrong and relearn to get it more right.”

Okay, I do understand that this behavior threatens those who don’t want their understanding challenged and who feel more secure in their beliefs when others agree with them and no one asks questions. The insecurity raised when someone who used to agree fully begins to question and wrestle can set off hostility and attack. I get that. Insecurity can set me off, too.

When I say “I don’t understand,” I mean I don’t get how people follow Jesus and expect not to have their views challenged. I don’t get how so many people seem to have started with the idea that Jesus might rock their world, blow up their paradigms, and turn their previously upside down understanding rightside up…but now act as if they have it all figured out and anyone suggesting a different view is some raging heretic. That, I can’t grasp. But it does discourage me. Mightily.

I trust it’s obvious that if we’re attacking people who are reconsidering their beliefs, we’re not showing grace. That’s utterly clear, right?**

Beloved Folks, kind Readers of my stuff, we would not have understood Jesus’ plan better than his disciples, had we gotten to hang with Jesus for three(ish) years. The point of their real-life example for us is to hold up a mirror and cause us to grasp that we are like them: prideful, defensive, quick to assume, and slow to have our minds changed. Slow to love–especially slow to love our enemies instead of calling down

lighting from heaven.

“Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!”

Luke 24:25

“But Mike,” someone might ask,”how do you know that I’m so wrong and not understanding things properly?” That’s a fair question.

“Grace is greater” means we don’t yet understand how great grace is. However great you think Jesus’ grace for you is, it’s greater than that! And now that you understand that it’s greater than you thought–it’s greater than your new idea, too!

Get it? The good news is, there’s no point at which we have seen it all and know it all about God. This means we always live in a state of unlearning and relearning. That is the life of a Jesus follower.

In my view, we also never fully understand what the Bible has to teach us, because as we grow and transform, the words apply differently to our lives. It is a “living word” because it speaks to us differently as we change. The Gospel of Luke reads differently to me now than it did when I was 19 and first began to grasp whom Jesus is and differently than when I was 22 and convinced I understood everything. Living in Nicaragua changed how I read Luke again because living there changed me.

Yes, people are quick to point out that “God never changes,” but we aren’t talking about God’s self-understanding. We’re taking about our unlearning and relearning, our changing perspective that (Lord, hear our prayer) improves through our lives. As a comparison, I understand my parents better now than I did when I was five or twelve or seventeen. I had to unlearn what I had thought was true about them to relearn a more accurate–though still imperfect–perspective. Their parenting of me when I was five or twelve didn’t retroactively change; I changed, my view of them changed, largely through my own parenting which humbled me.

As with Lucy in Narnia, as we grow, Aslan gets bigger. When we think we have it all figured out, God doesn’t “stay small,” but we miss seeing more of who God really is.

Personally, I believe Holy Week is a time to remember–before we start shouting “Hallelujah!” on Sunday to celebrate Resurrection–that Jesus surprises us all the time. We are the disciples who don’t get it. That’s fine–in fact, that’s wonderful–when we accept it and are willing to go look in the tomb to see what the women are talking about.

*An attitude which, let’s confess, we carry with us, pretty similar to Peter’s, who thought he got it when the rest didn’t and insisted, “Oh, no, let them all run off and hide, I’ll die with you!”

**Some will ask, “But if they’re starting to believe the wrong things, don’t we need to correct them?” Not like that. We’re not “defending the faith,” as if God needs our protection. We’re not attacking the people who are wrestling with Jesus. Our response must be in humility. My answer is always: if they’re struggling with their beliefs, we need to show grace, pray, and trust God is with them. They may be questioning things that need to be questioned. They may be questioning things we need to question. Yes, there may be a time to confront, but in grace, not with hostility.

Opening Day


Let’s talk about Opening Day for a minute.

On the first day of the season, everyone has hope.

Not every team will win the World Series. But on Opening Day, every team could win the World Series.

That’s Opening Day. Opening Day is when everyone can see what is possible.

Opening Day is when the mistakes of the past don’t have to dictate the future. Opening Day offers a clean slate. Tomorrow might suck, but it doesn’t have to. On Opening Day, everyone starts out even.

Baseball is more than the Major Leagues. I made a comment about my love for baseball and a friend went off on a rant about how baseball is ruined. It is not. Corin and I go play baseball together, pitching to each other, trying to hit the ball over the fence, trying to fool each other with our curveballs and change-ups. We laugh. We run the bases every single time we hit one over the fence. I assure you, baseball is not ruined.

I told you how my Dad taught me to love baseball and I have taught my son. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I accepted that invitation from my father and Corin accepted it from me. He loves baseball differently than I do, and that’s good. It’s his love for baseball, not mine that he feels obligated to carry on.

Yes, we get our hopes up about the Yankees and follow the ups and downs of their season, “our season,” as if those multi-millionaires who wear the uniform with the pinstripes have anything to do with us. It’s fun for me and Corin. And it’s beautiful to see athletes at such a high level that it becomes artistry.

But if the Yankees finally win another World Series this year or break our hearts in the ignominy of losing to the Red Sox in the playoffs, again, the part that matters to me will be my relationship with my son.

I was thinking again about my dad hitting grounders to me with that old brown bat, and it struck me, like a line-drive to the head, that Dad was younger than I am now when he was gasping for breath so he could keep playing with me. He seemed very old to me. I remember wishing he was healthier, wondering why my dad had to be sick. A Canadian friend wrote me today to tell me how much he enjoyed that post about baseball with my dad, and how he would have loved to get to do that, because his dad was absent; he practiced by himself.

Opening Day is a metaphor. Heck, Baseball itself is a metaphor. Opening Day reminds us that you can have a fresh start. Today can be different. It can.

People still get excited for their team and we cheer and hope. Hope is powerful.

All but one team will fail to win the World Series.

That won’t stop us from hoping next year.

But even as we’re hoping to win it all, we’re learning to be present, to enjoy the season, game by game, pitch by pitch. To live the moment. People who believe baseball is boring don’t care that the game changes with each pitch. But that’s how life works, too, whether we’re paying attention or not. Whether we’re “waiting for something to happen” or holding our breath with each full count.

Opening Day was today–technically yesterday, as it’s past midnight–except for my team, and the Mariners, who both got rained out. We’ll try again to have our Opening Day. We could still win all 162 games. That’s not likely, but right now, that could still happen.

But if we lose tonight–to the Red Sox–I’m not giving up hope.

If Corin wants to watch, we’ll watch together. If he doesn’t, I’ll probably keep an eye on it, check the score, perhaps tune in if it’s close.

But my real hope is that the weather permits us to get out and hit some together.

That would be our first time this year, our Opening Day.

What’s Opening Day for you?