NorthPark Presbyterian Church

It has been a long Lenten season this year. Long, long, long. Not only am I tired of waiting, but so are my little ones, who I swear think it's all about the eggs, although I have been very good at talking about the waiting and Jesus every night. Yet they still wonder — is there an Easter bunny? And why does he bring a small chocolate version of himself? Santa doesn't do that.

And then there are questions in regards to why bunnies lay eggs, and other random questions I'm not sure I'm equipped to answer. Oh well. May be one day in their late thirties they will remember the effort, and perhaps Jesus will come to mind sooner than that. Really hoping on that last one.

I don't know about you, but last year Lent just rushed by before I could even get my mind wrapped around the idea that it was Lent, that we were supposed to be waiting. I thought about Lent for a heartbeat, looked up and it was Easter, and I'm pretty sure our attire reflected that quick transition.

The quickness of it wasn't necessarily bad, just like a long wait isn't necessarily bad, but you hope to have enough time to sit with both, so there's an appreciation for the slow, the sad, to grasp the understanding for the wait. You also long for enough of a window to get ready, to dare, to hope wildly with reckless abandon — to toss the windows open and let the sun stream in. You need to prepare to dare to hope again and not be disappointed, to trust enough again to be able to feel the joy riding underneath you, like a small swift current.

But those years of balanced expectation and anticipated joy don't come often.

Often we are stuck waiting for what feels like forever. We are waiting, we are worried, we are often caught wondering if hope and spring and yellow daffodils and all things light and happy will ever return. We know the drill. This isn't our first Easter or spring and yet some of us still hesitate — can we really depend on hope? Are things really going to get better? Will the grass ever be green again, not this depressing brown-grey stuff that we've seen for what feels like years? Is the coffee always going to be this bitter? Is Mom's health ever going to be better, or is this the final lap?

And we silently wonder if there is ever going to be a world without so much pain and heartbreak, as we scan through our prayer list while shaking our heads in sadness.

We are stuck waiting in these March and April days, the ones full of rain and storms and still dead grass and still Mr. Groundhog, all cozy in the earth, the whole lot of us just sort of gasping and panging, hanging around in what seems to be a long midwinter of everything. Even the trees, the sidewalks, and especially our attitudes and moods all seem covered with a thin layer of slush, just waiting for the bright sun to defrost everything, for the color to come back into our garden beds, our cheeks, our lives.

Those years, like this year, are hard. Real hard.

This year, I am so ready, so ready for Jesus to get here. Ready to celebrate, to throw off the black mourning outfit, the bad attitude and all of the hurt and the daily grind of life that some days feels like sandpaper on my skin.

In these moments I think: Jesus, you cannot get here soon enough. We need you. I need you.

I think this a lot, listening to the evening news, listening to sad songs on the radio on the ride home, anything really, that speaks of a gasping, achingly broken and sorrowful world. Be here now, I pray. I pray, head heavy. Bring yourself, bring the green, bring fresh air, bring change and an outlook so bright we cannot ignore it. Bring it all, I pray.

Because on these types of days, joy and hope feels daring. It feels like the most drastic and vulnerable thing we can do — because, really, can there be treasure in what feels like these leftover fragments, this constant pain of our lives? In what we want to discard, toss away and run from, can we really stand on hope, solid like the ground beneath us? Or is hope what we fear — like a balance beam that we have to steady ourselves to stand on?

And there are days where we wonder how anything could ever turn out for the best, that all this pain and hate and heartache could somehow be worth it, that what feels like the trash of our lives could somehow be made beautiful and useful.

And then we watch the birds as they circle the neighborhood, as they flit here and there, bringing back bits of yarn, wrappers, a random red straw. An old piece of a plastic bag, a shred of a birthday ribbon. What everyone discards they take with them, like tiny flying hoarders, pecking away and weaving it into a nest. We do not understand this really, but smirk when we see a bird with a piece of old newspaper hanging from its beak, as we sort of understand what's happening with all these seemingly useless bits.

And a little while later, we peer into the nest, curious about it, only to realize that a home made out of what could be considered trash serves a very important role.

It holds the most precious of all things — hope.

Come Easter, come.

So often around this time of year, we talk about Lent and stillness, the remembering of what Jesus did for us. We do this by giving up something, letting something go, in remembrance of what big thing Jesus did for us.

To be honest I used to struggle with this – what to give up? How? Why?

For a number of years, I gave up anything from gummi bears, chocolate, wheat, shopping, to thinking about myself, and even social media. Giving up social media is especially entertaining; it’s hard to give up if it’s one’s job, as it is mine. The one thing I’ve discovered about all of my giving up for Lent – it’s all worked for about a day or two. Then I’m back to beating myself up, angry and upset about the whole thing, until I realize that perhaps this example of Lent is not what God wants from me. Perhaps this is further from the example of God than closer.

In my house, instead of giving something up, we invite something in – we practice stillness, waiting, a quiet expectation. With my anxiety about all things left undone and things still to do, stillness and waiting may very well be much more challenging than gummi bears and chocolate. The waiting is not easy on me. Lent, this in-between waiting time, isn’t meant to be easy, nor is this in-between waiting easy on anyone.

That was why He came, after all, for this in-between waiting we call Lent, and some days, life.

Every evening during Lent, we go over what it’s about. What is Lent? If it’s waiting, what are we waiting for? For Jesus. Why? Because we’re so excited he’s coming back. That’s it. Nothing dramatic. There are no finger plays, puppet shows, songs or dances; because well, I can’t remember all of that, nor do I have the time. For all things God, I stick with simple because what my children really need to know and understand about God is how much He loves them, and how they in turn need to share that love for others. If there were puppet shows that I needed to act out to communicate this, it would never be communicated in my house.

Here’s the thing: if the only lesson they remember from all this is that we are waiting, God loves us, we love God, and everyone is made by God, this will perhaps be the greatest sermon that I preach to my kids. Beyond, of course, sneaking marshmallows before breakfast and reminding them to grab a coat before heading outside.

Lent is hard because it is waiting. It is a measured stillness, and quite frankly our world doesn’t work that way, and it certainly doesn’t reward stillness. We are all left wanting for Easter, for the finish line, so much so that towards the end it’s that giddy wonderful sort of waiting. It’s the "night-before-can’t-sleep" syndrome that children get before something exciting: a birthday party, a parade, promises of a fun-filled day that doesn’t specifically include naps.

We realize we cannot wait for Christ to get here in late March, and, no, that is not just the desperate need for chocolate talking. We realize we cannot wait. We cannot wait any longer because there is so much he needs to come for, to redeem, to help us just hang on through the weeds. Easter’s arrival is slow, gentle and builds, and all of the sudden we’re all shocked (me, still even after all these years) by the bold and joyous return of Easter. It buoys our spirits that have been so still, calculated, a little tired, dormant and bundled against the cold winter winds of life.

Lent and Easter were made manifest in our NorthPark community about two years ago. One of our dear friends in this congregation had cancer, the definition of a long cold winter in its truest sense. A cold, bitter place for all of us as we prayed and loved the best we could with Jennie and her family.

To make matters worse, after we found out about her cancer and how serious it was, she went into the hospital for a procedure, and then, as things happen as they do, she contracted an infection while there. And then boom – she needed open heart surgery when her heart suddenly failed as a side effect of the infection.

We were all left gaping, grasping for straws, smelling salts, and prayers. It was all in a matter of hours that this transpired; we went from waiting patiently with some sense of control and dignity to waiting on our hands, impatient and distraught. We were sleeping next to our phones, eager for the texts to say she was okay and recovering from surgery. If ever we needed God, those were the moments.

Literally, the eve of Easter all through the night, we were texting and praying, hoping and waiting, checking phones and messages over and over for evidence of our prayers making it through. Did God hear us?

Please hear us, we begged, that our dear friend Jennie would make it through surgery. We were desperate, needy, praying the sort of prayers everyone has prayed but the kind of prayers people rarely admit to praying. Knowing how weak she was already, how surgery and infection and cancer and life can complicate things, it didn’t look good.

Uncomplicate it, I prayed. Keep her here, I prayed.

Then our season of waiting got worse. We heard the bad news just days before Easter – family coming to see her. Outlook not good, dismal. We sat with this a little while, prayed and consoled each other more. Then we heard the terrible pit-in-the-stomach news, the very worst news. Her heart had stopped. Stopped? Stopped!, we cried. Our friend! So close to Easter! What about her family? What about her, what about us? We could not believe this. It could not be happening. We prayed, moaned, wailed and cried, the light fading from the afternoon sky, days before Easter.

As a group we hoped against hope, we huddled, we prayed, we wretched hands tired and aching with so much emotion; we wrestled and begged and pleaded with God. We begged, desperate on her behalf, on her children’s behalf.

We again wondered aloud, if God had heard us, does he really answer prayers? Does he still answer prayers, or is that another thing from that Bible that had gone by the wayside? Like burnt offerings, I had wondered myself and hoped that I was wrong, that God would show up and prove me so wrong.

On Easter day, all of us tired from keeping up with the updates and the prayers, we heard the miracle. That Jennie made it through. She was going to be fine.

At once we all rejoiced to get – finally – to Easter. And then we quickly realized we had been through an intensified, shortened Easter experience ourselves – a 36 hour Lent and Easter all rolled into one.

And my, what a sweet one it was that Easter Sunday. Though I’m pretty confident all of us would agree it was as close as we all hope to come to the original one. Not that we don’t love Jesus and all He did for us, I just don’t think our hearts could take the beating again of the impatient waiting, the anguish, the sadness. But thankfully, that’s not the end of the story – there’s also the triumphant overcoming.

We all looked around on Easter morning, hearts filled to the brim with joyful fullness and the anticipation for the future. We blinked back tears of gratitude. We noticed the small shoots of grass popping through the greyness; we saw the return of butterflies. We said thank you. We embraced each other probably a little too long and looked at each other probably a little too closely. If you were a visitor that Easter Sunday, it was enough to make you nervous, jumpy. Just who were these weird huggy Presbyterians?

But we didn’t care. Easter had come. God had come. Jesus was about to come back, and we could not have experienced the expectation and the waiting any more in our bones than if we were back with Mary, hanging around the tomb.

Somewhere deep in our hearts, a ray of hope had cut through. And we could not have been happier. Let us not forget this – that Easter is a return to hope, a great wild hope that does not disappoint.

Small things, small changes are nothing to turn up your nose at. If you recall, the mighty oak once started from a tiny seed, the strong and small ant, so close to things, is capable of carrying up to ten times his weight by himself. Yet we shirk at small, we think it's got to be big or cause a monumental shift in order to make a difference. Or perhaps that's just me.

We mistakenly believe that big and bold is the answer, while the truth of the matter is the only hope we have for changing the world is to do the little things well and do the little things first.

And boy howdy, we need a climate change in our homes before we can tackle the climate change in our world.

After all, if we can't even treat each other with kindness, what's to say that we will do that outside of our homes, to strangers, to our earth? How on earth can we go about the task of respecting the earth if we can't even figure out how to respect each other in our own homes? How are we going to tackle the big issues beyond our own front doors?

After all, we can't go at it alone, can't make the big changes we need until we start small and quiet. And a hint: most times on our knees in humbleness is where we first get that whisper of what needs to change about this world.

And another hint – changing the world most often starts with changing ourselves. I know, it's so deceptively sneaky, isn't it?

But that's a truth that we call all agree on, even if some of us are shaking heads and muttering under our breath that we don't want to change. But whether you mutter about it or not, in order to change the tall and looming issues of this world (climate change is only one of the items on the long to-do list) we need to realize how small changes can truly make a large and positive impact on our lives.

We know something needs to change when we realize we are kinder to those outside the home than those within its walls, when we seemingly have more patience with those on the street than the family we created. It's a sure sign we're overdue for a climate change.

When we stop and wonder why we can't see eye to eye with the ones we choose to be with, but are accepting of differences in those outside of our home, it's a reminder that it's time for a climate change within.

In case, like me, you've forgotten – the freshest air is the air we can actually change ourselves, and most often in comes in the form of kindness, compassion, and mercy.

Mostly it's sweet mercy. For those dirty socks, that pile of dishes, the unmade bed and the thousand other things that tend to drive us up the wall about one another, how sweet the scent of grace can be when we open the doors of our souls to emulate it.

A breeze of change in our attitudes – like love and laughter and an ease of spirit when a little someone spills the milk for what seems like the 40th time this week – or choosing a spirit of joy even amongst the morning routine circus. And especially in the intermission of we're-running-behind-and-where-are-your-shoes? Joy in those moments counts the most, just so you know.

The small change of seeing the authentic joy between the toast crumbs and the dance of the missing keys is small, so tiny, but so important. And yes, I sing this hymn to myself too, because goodness, I'm not removed from that morning dance that most days is still chaos, not a badly wrapped gift of joy. But it is, a mushed-up package of joy that most days I discount as inconvenience.

These small changes are where it's at. As anyone who's overcome anything difficult (quitting smoking, giving up an addiction, trying to cut gummi bears out of your diet) will tell you, it isn't conquering the big issue of quitting that's the hardest, it's the small daily stuff that is not only a challenge, but also ultimately the way out. It's those small daily decisions that get you to the finish line where you look back and wonder how it is that you were able to run more than five miles without stopping.

It is truly about the little things. While it sounds corny (it probably is) and a far stretch to say that in order to change the world, our climate and dialogues within our own homes need to change, it's true. It cannot be truer, for the home is a small microcosm of our world. And if you can't get along at home and appreciate others at home, what on earth makes you think you can get along with others or change the whole world?

It all starts at home, including climate change. So let's begin anew, and change the climate within our homes, by speaking love and truth to each other first.

Then let's see what happens.

It will be nothing short of earth-changing, I bet.

In this moment, in that moment, in every moment whether we believe or not, God shows up.

From what we read in the Bible, God shows up in the darkness. See Daniel and the lions den for that (almost) literal translation. God shows up in high places, royal places even. See Queen Esther's story for that one. And of course, he most often shows up in the most inconvenience of places and lowly of places (a stable, anyone?) Wherever he shows up the point is this: He shows up. He does not let us down. He truly does not disappoint.

I've found this to be true, mostly because I've experienced it first-hand.

It all happened slowly, close to 4 years ago after the birth of my first child. My encounter with God was as fast as swimming in sand as my hormones shifted silently underneath me, like plates moving under seas, undetectable. Under the deep joy and love for my baby, I occasionally felt layers of hormones and anxieties that I couldn't detect or see, only noticed sometimes that things weren't quite right, and kept slipping away from me, like trying to remember an old acquaintance's name at a cocktail party.

And then it happened: the perfect mix of hormones, sleep deprivation on top of sleep deprivation, combined with the newness and uncertainty of being a new mom, coupled with my tendencies towards an anxiety, and boom: the perfect storm of everything not right meant that I needed to do something quick to save myself.

It was like riding a bike for six months. Everything is fine, and then all of the sudden waking up one day forgetting that you know how to ride a bike, and the jolting feelings of knowing the next time you were going to get on that bike, you were sure to fall off in an instant.

And so one mild day in July 2010, several days after celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary, and several weeks after my darling new baby girl turned 7 months old, I checked myself into a mental health facility.

Little did I know that trying to save myself would mean that God would in the end save me.

They say God meets you where you are, they say God is with you in all cases, all places, through all things. And for the most part, I believed that. That was before.

And now that I've been through a place that was dark and full of much anxiety and fear, I can now say with clarity and confidence that He does meet you. With open arms, too.

And I'm here to tell you that He does indeed meet you anywhere, in any state. My story just goes to show you that you don't have to be in a perfect place, birds singing and tweeting as you sit on a bench under the shade of a large oak tree.

Being saved, coming to know and love Jesus with an unshakeable faith does not always happen in the loveliest times in your life. Maybe it has in yours, and if it has happened that way for you, that's wonderful. But in my experience, God comes exactly when you need Him most desperately; when you need Him with the most necessity, and yet somehow always shows up in the moments that you least expect Him.

But He does show up, I promise. He shows up just in perfect timing.

He's more likely to meet you in desperate circumstances, in a place where you're willing to listen and learn and be still. And unfortunately in my case, the place where I was (finally) still and quiet enough to listen was this place. I hoped I'd never know what the inside of this place looked like.

And as unpretty, imperfect and altogether scary as my story sounds, my encounter with God is still my story, part of my life. And it's about time that I let go of the fear to tell it.

In that place, that uncomfortable place of near wits-end and bleakness, I felt God's love and comfort there.

In the nightmares of just blank darkness where I had succumbed to thinking that they would just be part of my life, I found His warmth and presence. I knew, just somehow knew beyond a doubt, that even in this state of mind, in what felt like foreign terrain to me, God was there. And though I have no proof beyond a life now lived in gratitude, I'm certain of it. Certain that God was there, with me. And there is nothing that was more comforting and freeing to me than that. And can I tell you? I've never felt such love or light in those moments that I felt His presence.

And here's what I realized in my encounter with God, my testimony: I cannot walk away unchanged.

The best way I can describe this change and how I feel about God now is of course through the words of another – the insightful words of Barbara Brown Taylor: "God acts. Then it is our turn. God responds to us. Then it is our turn again."

And so goes it with faith, with an encounter with Jesus, with God. If you've had one, you know. You know like the wise old sage who sits on top of a hill, that you cannot just wax philosophical about life changed. You actually have to live it, respond to it, and live changed. What they don't tell you is it's only about the hardest thing you have to do.

Before I encountered God as my God, as a relationship and a reality in my life, back when they were just words on necklaces without meaning, I actually believed that being saved, knowing God and developing a relationship with Him meant that life would be perfect. There would be songs and hymns as background music as I skipped through life, challenges, traffic. Everyone would be kind. It would always be sunny, and my family would always and forever be in deep gratitude for me and my contributions to our life.

Not to burst your bubble here, especially if you're considering coming to know God and figuring out this whole Christianity thing (do it! Still do it, it's a great thing I promise), but let me be transparent here: it's no walk in the park.

Some days I actually throw my hands up in the air and wonder if God is indeed testing me, as it feels like constant and consistent SATs over and over again. And this is coming from someone who is a believer! To be quite honest, although I am saved and have seen firsthand the love and acceptance of Jesus, I still have to wait in line, my family still whines and complains like a normal family, and some days they are annoyed by me instead of being overwhelmingly glad and full of vivacity like I so hoped for, like the life I constantly see portrayed in a soft drink or snack food commercials. And from what I hear, I still will have to pay taxes for the rest of my life too.

The joys of this world, some days are just enough for us to bear.

But while life in general has not changed, some things have. Some major big things have entirely changed. I, for instance, still wear a cross occasionally but now I believe it. Now I understand exactly what that means and it means radical love. Love of a depth that I have seen and known. And it means that I need to live my life to the depth of that love, even as impossible as it seems.

It means loving deeply, it also means gratitude from the deepest part of who I am. Not just for the saving (though that's huge) but gratitude for the love I've seen, the life I have, the life that is yet to come. The one that's been promised that is a whole lot more fulfilling than years of tax returns and back pain.

And I will tell you – I'm changed, down to the core of who I am. My perspective on life, faith, health – everything – has changed right down to my mothering and how I interact with family, in that most of the time, I'm grateful. I remember not only what a gift life is (even frustrating, irritating annoying life like too much laundry and whining) but who gave the gift to me, and who paid for it in advance, all for me.

And can I tell you something? That changes everything.