When Time Stands Still

 Last night we celebrated Father's Day together as a family. My three daughters sat around the table and presented little gifts, and I read their hand-written cards with deliberate reverence. Each letter signed with the familiar "your favorite daughter", and a lot of hugs & kisses. 

We have a family tradition for birthdays and celebrations; the center of attention is surrounded by voices taking turns to share their own individual favorite memory. I savor these moments, as I've often wondered what my children will remember the most about their dad. From their earliest recollections, we've shared deep conversations and challenging observations. We've not avoided the hard questions, or the uncomfortable topics. We are known for our openness in communication, including the confession of my own messy story. My daughters don't have to dig through the archives to research the hidden secrets of their dad's notorious sin. They already know it. But they also know that my knees are scabbed over from the posture of humility, and my knuckles are permanently scarred from the incessant knocking on the doors of heaven for mercy. 

 Mariah is now 17. Ambria is 14. Ashlyn turned 11 on Sunday. These girls are sO radically unique and different from each other, and yet they hold this sacred bond in common: a bloodlines that refuses to go with the downward flow of our culture. They swim upstream, sometimes against themselves. They were raised to be revolutionaries, and they know it!

In the anticipation of this evening, I got a head start to think about the question... what is my favorite memory with each of my daughters? My mind scrolled through the rolodex of images, a collage of tears and laughter, surprises and unexpected blessings. I revisited the clouds through which we parasailed over the Mexican beaches in Cancun, and the impromptu dance parties on the Cruise Ship last spring break. I recalled the time that Mariah hijacked the stage at Hope College theatre, and all of her state championships in forensics. I revisited the epic landscapes of the Rocky Mountains and Zion National Park with Ambria, the time when she launched herself off the cliff to the water far below, without hesitation. I remembered walking beside Ashlyn up the Narrows Riverwalk through Zion, and the hike around Bryce Canyon. I can still vividly remember the first day she came home from the Asheville Hospital, and I took her outside to the tree swing to introduce her to the wild world outside. 

To my surprise, these were not the favorite memories they chose to share. 

Mariah went first. "My favorite memory" she said, "was nothing too exciting. And I'm not sure why this particular memory stands out above the others... but I remember one afternoon we took a walk behind our house in North Carolina. We found a Mulberry Tree (previously unfamiliar to our Yankee heritage), and you helped me climb out on the low hanging branches to fetch a fistful of berries." 

I was shocked! It wasn't the expensive vacations or the epic road trips. It wasn't the stage or the awards. It was a simple walk in the filtered sunshine of a mountain landscape, and the unexpected pursuit of mouth-watering berries. And, although I vividly remember that afternoon walk as well, Mariah and I had never talked about it since that day, 8 years ago. 

Then it was Ambria's turn. She reflected on the myriad of sporting activities and extreme adventures we've had. She said, "My favorite memory is probably the time we went snowboarding together at Bittersweet. We were both learning, and you fell a lot." She added, "I don't know why that particular memory stands out as my favorite, but it was just really fun to be with you!" 

I remembered that day as well. I considered all of the blue ribbons and goals scored and awards and accolades that she had achieved. I was her personal Hype Man on the sidelines, cheering her on to victory. I thought about all of the deep talks and late night movies and long road trips to Chicago or Montana. But nope. It was a wintry evening on the icy hill, creating Bittersweet memories together. 

There was another memory that stood out as well... last winter, in Jackson Hole. Ambria had struggled to overcome her hesitation on the steep slopes. She traded her snowboard in for Teresa's skis, and we took the lift to the top of the moderate run. Immediately, she fell. Twice. Three times. Then, in tears, she unlatched her skis and surrendered. I sat down beside her in the snow. I said, "I know it's frustrating. But I'm not going anywhere. I'll walk with you." So we both carried our skis all the way down the mountain. I think at one point I even carried her. Those are the memories that she holds sacred. 

When it came to Ashlyn, she reflected on White Water Rafting, overcoming her fears of heights, climbing mountains, and going on a cruise together. But she also added, "And every morning when I wake up early, and we're alone together in the living room. We usually talk or watch the Bucket List Family, or even go on a secret run to Biggby to get smoothies!" 

 Ashlyn is living in the tween paradox of childhood and adolescence. She loves the rhythms of being tucked in each night, but she also loves her own freedom. She watches Mariah and Ambria closely, as they have helped to raise her. She craves individual attention from Teresa and loves to go on 1-1 dates. 

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We are trapped in a sequential understanding of time. This moment is the only access point to understand the journey thus far, and the anticipation of things to come. We see through the lens of moments, seconds, ticking away like grains of sand falling from an hourglass. "Don't blink!" they warn us. "Life is a dash between birth and death!" From the moment of delivery, our children are speeding away from their nest, and we are left to comprehend the emptiness of evaporated time. Time is running out. Time is slipping away. Time is now. We refer to this version of time as "Chronos" (Chronology). 

This idea of time is measured in quantity; ticking clocks and watches and automated cell phone alert us with alarms. Moving forward to the unknown. Onward and upward and downward and outward and everywhere but   i n w a r d .

Meanwhile, the heart beats like the algorithm of a life sentence. Fear gives birth to anger, and anxiety is born in the furnace of depression. We are anxious about fleeting moments, and capturing it all on camera. Every moment. Every memory. Every conversation. Every last look. Like shredded wrapping paper on the floor on a Christmas morning, our memories become a whirlwind of confusion. That song, that scent, that image of a sunset in the rearview mirror... these nostalgic gifts that are fingerprints of a cosmic grace. 

But the ancient greeks believed that there is such a thing as time outside of time. They believed in moments that were so holy, that they transcended the time/space continuum and were secured in the vault of an empty hourglass. They believed in sacred time. When time stood frozen in captivity to the atomic energy of an event. They referred to this version of time as "Kairos". 

If Chronos is measured by quantity, then Kairos is measured by quality.

And at the end of my life, I will see the flash and the dash... the blur of a million intersecting points of love and hate, laughter and pain, conflict and resolve, hugs and fists, and the avalanche unexpected turns in the road. I will see Byron road, and a small boy learning to balance barefoot on the guard rail around the corner by the Muskegon Airport. I will see my best friend  Dan Cook and I running after a herd of deer in the woods behind Johnny Galindo's house. I will hear the church bells and the judge's anvil and the sound of muffled voices over intercoms in the county jail, and I will taste the bittersweet juice of communion offered by ragamuffin saints Awakening to a reality of a Love unearned. I will touch the healing scars on my wife's legs after being attacked by the neighbor's pitbull, and smell the the flowers growing outside the kitchen window. I will know the difference between an acquaintance and true friend. I will trust that I am held by the familiar embrace of a Rescuer who has known me fully and loved me anyway.

Chronos will be shattered by Kairos. 

"At the side of the everlasting Why, is a Yes and a Yes and a Yes." - E.M. Forster

Burning Bushes and the Relentless Invitation

A few years ago I started walking the streets along Division without a GPS. When the Spirit prompted me to turn left, I wouldn't hesitate. When the Voice interrupted the constant static of sirens and solicitations, I would listen. When the fire in in my heart compelled me to stop and notice the burning bush on every corner, I would freeze with anticipation.

The conversation usually began with a request for a couple of dollars, or loose change. A bus ticket or a meal pass was urgently needed. Another funeral in another state and another sketchy story about why cash was requested.

On the other side of a deeper dialogue, Truth revealed pain concealed. 

I began to learn the names of faces whom became more than statistics to me. Friendships were formed beneath the highway overpass, where my homeless friends were hiding in plain sight. The concrete bridges around Grand Rapids became permanent shelters from the unpredictable Michigan weather. Sleeping bags and plastic tarps were hidden behind trees during the day, invisible to the eyes of a thousand motorists in transport to the Sweet Bye and Bye.

Time has a way of humbling us all. I used to think I could rescue those in danger, and liberate the captives. I used to think that my calling was Messianic, and that my blood could save. I used to believe that I was the Savior.

Until I repeatedly self-destructed and landed in a pool of my own vomit beside a porcelain throne that felt like a prison of regret. In time, I eliminated the excess egocentric bile, and stood open and exposed before the Voice.

"Who do you say that I am?" The whisper from heaven tormented my conscience with a grace unrelenting. The Truth is, I did not know. I had confessed an allegiance that I had not demonstrated. I had professed an alliance that I had betrayed. As a young man, I vowed to take a bullet for my Savior, and I gave the oath of my word. Time and time again, I woke up to raging roosters and mocking shame. In those moments I had locked eyes with the One who loved me, and I escaped to a lonely place to weep bitterly.

So as I stood before my friends on the street... as I sat beneath the overpass and heard the cries of my friends in the bondage of addiction, I could nod and say, "Me too."

But I have come to share the good news:

One day, when I was writing a goodbye letter to my family, and drafting the blueprints of my exodus, I was confronted by a scandalous grace. The heavens opened to collide with the gates of hell, as the Resurrected Mercy King walked toward me. He did not speak, except to say, "Peace be with you, Jay." He sat down beside my ocean of shame, and He held out His hands. I could see fresh scars; evidence of the cost of my liberation.

Until that moment, I had learned to live with the identity given to me by men. My identity is a self-righteous, cocky, murderous, adulterer, lying, thief, disqualified, banished, excommunicated, failure. For years I had protested and finally accepted my fate as a degenerate.

But in that moment, in the eyes of the Least of These, I saw Jesus.
The question was then reversed. I asked Him, "And who do You say that I am?"

He looked at me with tunnel vision, and saw my heart. It was beating on life support. He unplugged the machines, and rewired His veins into my own bloodline. He took off his outer garment and washed my dirty feet. He wiped away the tears from eyes, and slowly stood before me. He then took off His white robe of righteousness, and put it around me.

"Mine." He said.

 .

I Believe

I believe that I've lost belief 

in promises and choruses and confessions of faith and doubt

that flannel graph stories of redemption can be recapitulated 

and monday follows a blood red sky and sunday never comes.

I believe in angels in blue jeans.

I believe in Ambria's promises and Ashlyn's nail polish and Mariah's runaway tears. 

I believe in bonfires and purple skies and cartwheels in the front yard

as Bruce Springsteen croons, 'Hey little girl is your daddy home?'

and Ambria answers, "Yes."

I believe doves land on the porch when you least expect it. And that grace sneaks up on you from behind, and in the dark. And regret grows at the speed of a five o'clock shadow. And the suitcase of shame is the One Constant reminder that if people really knew how deep the roots have grown, they will suddenly become too busy to return phone calls. 

I believe in thick, green grass beneath bare feet and the North Carolina mountains will always, never be the same. And home is her, and I am less. 

I believe that I've lost belief

in my own confessions and repentance and that, under a microscope, tears induced by an onion look tragically different than tears induced by a broken heart and the carpet at Grace Life International Counseling feels more like concrete. I believe that truck stops in South Carolina  are a good place to contemplate the apocalypse, (but the Counting Crows are not exactly helpful). I believe in turning off your cell phone to disconnect from the inquiring minds that have called too late. I believe in returning to where it all started, and putting an end to it. 

I believe in irrational, illogical, unscientific, scandalous, [borderline heretical] mercy. 

And that self-preservation feels a lot like self-destruction, but in the end - the world is forfeited in the acquisition of a soul restored. 

I believe I am more loved than I can comprehend, and less deserving than a crucified thief beside an innocent savior. I believe that love does not always win, and that sometimes the scars have the last word. I believe that Spring comes late to the epicenter of regressive culture, and though the waves are seductive, Lake Michigan is still too cold to engage. 

But if I could swim from here to there and back again, I'd take a mulligan to the foul balls and truly be like a tree, planted beside the rivers of water - with leaves that do not wither or fall in the autumn or freeze in the winter but shimmer in the infinite sun. 

If I could swim from here to there and back again, I would have been more content to love you from the shadows of anonymity, and be held together by the unity candle, burning into my conscience like an avalanche of hope. yes, hope. 

I believe in uncontrollable laughter and sarcastic renditions of the holy ghost shakes. I believe in circling around the table to ask Mariah, Ashlyn, Jamie, Ambria, (then myself) "What made you mad, sad, and glad today?" And the best part of each day is this moment, when the unbroken circle is like a ring with no beginning and no ending, forged in the fire of precious metals, and shining in the light of no other option. 

I believe that my actions have indicated otherwise, but I believe in Jesus. I believe in the blood of the cross that covers my shame, and the implications of the resurrection hold me captive in the back row. I believe in the ineffable Name that freezes my speech and seals my wandering heart to the heavenly courts, and that when all else fails, grace remains. 

I believe that perfect love casts out fear, and that terrifies me. 

I believe in sitting on the porch with your dad, to talk about the time he videotaped a proposal from the bushes and captured a moment of a ring given at the end of a trail of roses. 'But who knows how long this could last, now we've come so far so fast, but somewhere back there in the dust, is that same small town in each of us...'

Spring Walk, Asheville, North Carolina

Who would have believed that this little miracle would recover so beautifully from brain surgery? Her Chiari Malformation has not slowed her down, and every morning is a gift of mercy.