The middle child graduated Kindergarten this month, and then a week later our next door neighbor’s (and dear friends’) middle child graduated from high school. Who gave em the right, that’s what I want to know.
Our school has this precious tradition where Seniors and Kindergarteners walk the campus while parents and fellow students clap and cheer. These two walked together, and we cheered and begged God to keep them close.
This year was a doozy of a high school graduation. Twelve of our core kids will be leaving our student ministry for college in the fall. I pray for them like I pray for my own boys:
That they will have better friends than they dare to dream of.
That they will learn to suffer well with the least possible amount of practice.
That they will believe, down to their blood and bones, that the Triune God loves them all the way.
That, so believing, they will let go of every lesser thing so that they may hold more of that Love.
That’s what I need too.
Welcome to The Paradox Paper, a monthly newsletter that honors the everyday paradox of a life with Jesus. If a friend forwarded you this email, click here to subscribe:
In this edition:
The best book on leadership I’ve ever read
The only historical fiction author I really love
Some words on death and life
A prayer for facing our shadows
In the Name of Jesus, Henri Nouwen
This was my first dive into Nouwen’s work, and it’s hooked me for all of his other work. He tenderly and pastorally tears down the false trappings of Western leadership ideals and brings the reader back to a true definition of Christian leadership: to be led by Christ. By this faithful definition, we are all leaders regardless of vocation or temperament, and all in need of leading. If you have found your sphere of leadership (privately, professionally, in the church or outside of it) in turns exhausting and intimidating, this short read will be a deep refreshment for your soul.
The Briar Club, Kate Quinn
I keep saying I don’t care for historical fiction as a genre, yet I keep coming across great books that are couched in historical fiction! I think what I resist is a story where History is the main character. But here’s what I love: mysteries that start with the end and make you figure out the in-between, multiple POV stories where every character’s perspective is as compelling as the last, food stories, inanimate objects as narrators, and stories where the kids are alright. This book has all of those elements, plus recipes!
I memorized Psalm 23 as a four year old in AWANA. Reciting the part about the valley of the shadow of death made me think of the Child Catcher from Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang and the yawning doors of bedroom closets after dark. I was yet unacquainted with all the forms death can take. Later I would see.
In my brother’s suicide, death as thief: an evil that cleaves souls from bodies without care.
In disparaging church work, death as rejection: the sugar-coated condescension of a pastor’s wife. You just don’t have what it takes for this. You’re too young, too ignorant, too sensitive, too poor.
This is not my first trip through the valley, but with dementia moving through my father’s brain step by dogged step, this is a new path with a distinct view. It looks like shadow.
He stops to lean on the kitchen counter, winded after shuffling the short way from his room. He laughs when we tell him the day and time, as if his asking to go to church at 2:48pm on a Tuesday is an unusual occurrence. In the absence of their names on his tongue, he refers to my children by their relative sizes. “Where’s this one?” he asks, holding a flat hand up to his middle. The shadow of death draws nearer with every sunset.
Yet here we all are, living.
The dog must get out the door now, right now, this instant before the tiny green lizard sunning himself on the bricks darts out of reach.
The eight year old loves Fiddler On The Roof, but “Why did they call it that since the whole thing happens on the ground?”
Trevor’s left hand is about to give up the ghost after spending every spare minute for months pulling up weeds and laying down sod, but dang if the yard don’t look brand new.
The six year old skips into his grandmother’s room to count her coins and press the buttons on her calculator, and make her laugh and laugh.
The baby bluebirds are about to fly away.
I write new words and learn to say old ones like “Yes,” and “No.”
I herd the children to the table, shout “I love you,” at a friend’s back, write a graduation card, rearrange the dishwasher, kiss my husband.
Some Sundays I walk dad into the sanctuary, slowing often as kind faces he doesn’t remember pause to greet him. I show him his seat and hand him his coffee—eight creams, six sugars. The boys blaze great speed circles around him, chasing friends in the outside aisles. The teens in the front row stretch their hands and voices to the ceiling, Death was never gonna hold You, so it’s never gonna hold me…
Trevor takes the boys for a swim in the neighbor’s pool. “Bye Mom,” shouts the middle out the rolled-down window, “Make sure you watch over Grandpa!”
It’s no wonder death’s shadow looms dark and heavy—there is so much light.
O Lord, deepen my wounds
into wisdom;
shape my weaknesses
into compassion;
gentle my envy
into enjoyment,
my fear into trust,
my guilt into honesty.
O God, gather me
to be with you
as you are with me.
— Ted Loder, “Guerrillas of Grace”
Hold the paradox. Don’t panic. See you in next month!
-Steph
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