12.16.2023

The Last Transmission: An Epitaph of Scandalous Mercy

At the time of this writing, I’m in the waiting room at the Kent County Jail. I’m sitting on the floor in the corner of a concrete room, next to an empty vending machine. I’m waiting for my friend, Brad… soon to be released after I post his bond. I first met Brad a few years ago, on the streets of Grand Rapids, while he was on the run toward an addiction that would almost take his life. The last time I saw him, he had needles in his arm, under a bridge on Division Avenue. 


But today, I’m picking him up upon his release… and I’m bringing him directly to the Forge Recovery Center where he will spend the next nine months rebuilding his life. I’m here, sitting on the floor in the corner, surrounded by cold concrete in December, because I love this guy. 


I’m also here, because I do not suffer from short term memory loss. After much introspection, EMDR Therapy, and trusted counsel - I’ve returned to the source of my own self-inflicted trauma. The buzz of doors, brown jackets, cold concrete, and … all of this triggers my worst scar tissues to reopen.


I do not suffer from short-term memory loss. I remember it all so well, and the shame that sets in like a polar vortex to be chased away by the solace of the electric blanket of God’s grace. Inhaling grace, exhaling gratitude. For three hours, I wait for Brad’s release. While I wait, I reflect on the friends who have stood in the furnace with me over the years, and the evidence of the scandalous mercy of which I have been a recipient. And now, I’ve dedicated the rest of my life to the redistribution of the same radical hospitality and scandalous mercy…


These days, I spend my hours with the least of these. I’m forever hunting the outcasts and the banished, the excommunicated and the ecclesiastically homeless. I find solidarity with the refugees sleeping outside, under bridges to evade the downpour. I walk the streets looking for Alex and Timmy and Rick and I’ll never forget Happy and the suicide note he left. My heart is permanently scarred from the needles and bullets and the bottles and the application at Pine Rest Mental Hospital: “Are you feeling hopeless or helpless?”


Hope is my favorite word. 


I’ve done my own research on the validity of ancient testimonies… (I suggest you do the same). The human hurricane
who suffered and died, inexplicably reappeared to incalculable eyewitness who gave public testimony to their experience. I’ve chosen to invest every inch of my story in the continuation of this revolutionary message of… hope. The tomb is empty. Hope. The future has already been restored. Hope. Jesus killed death. Hope. Love will write the epitaph of my story.


Love will have the last word. Your story isn’t finished. Love will paint a portrait of your failures and triumphs; a mosaic of art to be interpreted through the lens of a great cloud of witnesses. Love is the invitation, the rising action, the climax, the falling action, and the resolution. Love, only love.




- Jay DePoy


5.09.2023

who am I AM who

forgive me if you've heard this before

a chorus unending behind a bridge burning

knuckles bleeding on the open door

knees unbending before the false prophet's warning


unity on division, unorthodox decisions 

and i regret to inform, my opinion's reborn

in a counterfeit smile, but in the window

hands are raised in praise to the grace

now the whore has been wed, and the table is spread

the blood has been shed and the body now broken

all the these feelings awoken by prayers unspoken


and ruben says, they all love you

but the signal was lost in the elevator to the basement

while i'm held captive to the epiphany 

that apparently there IS something i can do about it...


[you're not allowed to come around here anymore.]


however lonely is this stage

and the weight of interior combustion

and a thousand allies in a world of no goodbyes

there's a holocaust and no good guys

there's a winter frost and the mourning sun melts the shame

like a hero plunged into sudden fame

through an exit wound and bloodless veins


ignore me if the mirror is shattered

by a self-help manual from barnes & noble

and i've become unrecognizable from a savage scar

proving it doesn't matter who i am,

it only matters who You are.



12.15.2022

Would You Rather...

"I did my own research on you." He said, from across the table

a body broken and the cup of wine, for the forgiveness of original sin

and I know a guy who heard from his coworker, who read something on the internet (so it MuSt be true)

the authority of anonymity and snipers on every roof

gatekeepers of the kingdom of [dis]grace; you wait for a response


while I'm sitting with my daughter on a Saturdate, over cinnamon rolls and hot cocoa. She wants to play the "Would You Rather..." game. 

So we commence:

Would you rather be celebrated for something you are not, or hated for something you are? 

Would you rather approach each new friendship with a disclaimer, or bury the past under the blood of Christ? 

Would you rather sit in the back row, contemplating the apocalypse, or snatch the microphone and preach about scandalous mercy? 

Would you rather be outside their circle, or the centerpiece of psychoanalysis? 

Would you rather respond to each rumor, or give a fist bump to the anonymous cowards?

Would you rather be a cracked pot beholding glory, or a white-washed tomb of self-righteousness?

 


She doesn't want to play this game anymore, and neither do I. Neither do I, Love Bug. 





.

11.30.2022

Holding On + Letting Go

At the center of The Story is a paradox that cuts and heals simultaneously. It is the collision of justice and mercy, where pain meets pleasure, and shame becomes glory. Throughout the Scriptures is a tension of a called-out people of faith, who are living with doubt. And a God who is described as both the Holy Terror and the Abba Father. And a Son who is both fully God and fully human. And a Spirit who brings comfort and conviction to my heart that is both screaming and silent.

This God is absent and present. He is hanging on an beautiful execution stake, mocking the mockers, destroying destruction, and killing death.


And it is no wonder that I am learning to rest in the paradox of holding on and letting go. “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” I love you. I don’t love you. I believe you. I doubt you. I surrender. I keep fighting. I’m swimming. I’m sinking. I’m living. I’m dying. I’m squeezing with my hands open. I am burying my mustard seed in the soil of insecurity. I’m singing of the Resurrection and the Life, while wearing sackcloth and ashes and grieving the death of my hope. I am starting a new chapter and it begins with I don’t know. 

Always, never. 

Sometimes. 

Maybe.


- Jay DePoy

8.30.2022

winnetaska, confessions of a tresspasser

 who am i to trespass here 

in the driveway of all that is sacred and this road has come to an end 

where the water meets the sand 

castles eroding like hope washed in a hushed whisper

we return like natives taking back the promised land

reflecting on the bent trees and blood-stained knees and apocalyptical memories

asleep in the hammock overlooking the shoreline, an unvisited tree fort 

constructed with neon shoelaces and duct taped as a last resort

to keep the family together

who am i to trespass here

in the moonlight we have come back to the start

circling back to saint judy's heart

like a ring on a finger with no beginning and no ending 

no more secrets, no more pretending

we stand at the edge of the driveway 

prodigals returning to the celebration

and the older brother is pissed. 





8.01.2022

The Untold Chapters

 He stirred his coffee and said, "the grace of God is inexhaustible.

And then I wept and told him about my childhood years and isolation; homeschooling and remnant theology and the rapture and the y'all come choir and just as i am without one plea

and playboy magazines and treeforts and wrath and repentance and recycling patterns of confessions to 'Thee and Thee Alone!', while clutching fig leaves behind bushes hiding serpents breathing questions about commandments and fruit and trees and 

east of eden I limped toward a promised land, full of milk and honey and power and money. You put out a sign on 28th street and invited me to join your circle until two people made their discomfort known. 

The next morning, the text message read: "After further thought... I've done my own research on you. There are pieces of your story that you conveniently omitted. Therefore, you. are. not. welcome. here."

Untold pieces? I dropped my phone and stared at the fence surrounding the back yard. Unsure, exactly, which pieces he referenced... 

Maybe it's the story behind the scars, and the boundaries crossed and the security lost. Maybe it is the truth of the blood stains on my hands, and the death of an innocent man on the execution stake of Crosspoint Baptist Church. Or the one room schoolhouse in Montague, and the desecration of Holy Art, and the legendary pastor had a hidden violence and a hidden bottle and the Holy Lands separating the church from the parsonage held a thousand secrets of which we do not speak

Or maybe it's the loss of love and discovery of unforgiveness. Maybe it's the epiphany of pleading guilty with sincerity and owning my sin and suffocating under the weight of anonymous comments. Maybe it's the revision of historical accounts, from another perspective - like conflicting witness reports of a fatal car accident, from the east and from the west like the sin that God promised to remove. 

Maybe I forgot to include the details of blood and lust and rage and murder and sex and drugs and recovery and redemption and blood and lust and rage and murder and sex and drugs and the ongoing chatter of movies we've seen before and plotlines that have been regurgitated by hushed whispers and a homeless rabbi is writing in the dirt, and from the oldest to the youngest they all dropped their stones. 

If I've omitted pieces of my story during our 1.5 hour coffee chat, I'm sorry. I should have led with picture of boy holding a King James Bible and cheeky smile, having chosen to actually believe that Jesus meant what He said. I should have told you about false accusations and spiritual abuse, about faith to start again and again and again and the gentle whisper in the middle of the night and the love of a Good Good Father who still invites me to walk in the calling of my true identity. 

Last night my counselor asked, "What is it that you are looking for? What are you hoping for?" 

After much consideration I've realized the answer: I want to experience the feeling of sincere forgiveness. Healing, restoration, and an ocean of tears waiting to be released. Like the prodigal melting into the arms of his father, at the end of the driveway. 

.


3.28.2022

The Silence of Saturday

 Give me the outcasts and the castaways, the beggars and liars and thieves. I’ll sit with the goth kids and the trans students and the refugees and the dreamers. Save me a seat under the bridge near the Amway Grand with Rick and his cardboard sign and a holy sleeping bag and the stench of self-destruction. 

I found more grace in jail than in the church, more hope in the disqualified prophets than celebrity pastors. I’d rather listen to Happy’s harmonica than endure yet another inquisition from a committee of acquaintances who’ve never spent a waking second on division. We can overturn every stone, dodging the questions like friendly fire. 

Somewhere between the horror of Friday and the glory of Sunday is the silence of Saturday… 

Give me Scott at the Sober Living House, three months free from alcohol. Give me Brad in the depths of his heroin addiction. I’m looking for Tim and Bobbie Jo and the streets that hide the runaway tears. I’m looking for Ruben and Rosie, for Timmy and Haley and through the myriad of layers I’m looking to find myself, somehow.

1.01.2022

Smaller Circles

On the first day of this new year, I have resolved to investing my energy into living with a small circle of voices, centered around The Table. With a healthy diet of grace and truth and love, forgiveness will be the main course. Body broken, blood poured out - for me, and for you. 

From a young age I unwittingly bought into the lie that bigger is better, and more is the evidence of success. I memorized statistics, set personal goals for increase, set my heart and mind on a wider reach. The calculation of multiplying numbers became the dominant strategy to gauge influence. I used to have a quote on my wall that said something about leadership being about influence, and "if you look in the rearview mirror and people are not following you then you're not leading... you're just taking a walk."

Just taking a walk. 

But what if none go with me? 

What if I'm walking alone? 

Still, I walk. And I verbally process as I notice the birds of the air and the lilies of the field and the mountain cast into the sea and the foxes in the vineyard and I see impenetrable walls crumbling and giants beheaded and donkeys prophesying and dry bones rumbling together to overthrow the narrative you've written about the American Dream. I see my Savior walking on the waves and commanding the wind to be still and I hear the violent whisper of an interrogating YHWH wondering what I'm doing here...

and I stammer in defense, "I'm the last one left... only I remain!" 

and the revelation insists that there are seven thousand others out there, somewhere, with unbounded knees and allegiance to the Way, the Truth, and the Life. I walk, but I do not walk alone. Yes, there's a valley in the shadow of death, but there is a comforter there beside me. 

-------

I used to want a stage and a microphone and a crowd and a budget to reflect influence. 


I used to want your amens. I used to enjoy the company of your Sunday smiles. I used to want to belong in your Tribe with the volunteers in the back scrambling to set out new folding chairs because the unexpected crowds have caught us unprepared and the lights and the sound system and the base drum kicks in and the people are clapping and the lyrics indicate a revolution is at hand. I wanted every single person in that overcrowded room to be in. the. circle. 


But what if, there is no circle

What if, there is no wall or boundary or gate or grid to formulate who's in and out? 

Or what if... what if I could find my center in this healing voices of Teresa and Mariah and Ambria and Ashlyn and my mom and dad and Jennifer and Janelle and Jonathan? What if Harvey Wagenmaker and Drew Poppleton and Kent Selders and Andrew and David Hulings - what if they were the only ones in my circumference of intention, with Jesus at the center? 



- Jay DePoy

Grand Rapids, Michigan. 

New Year's Day, 2022. 


10.21.2021

Identity + Mission (Jay DePoy)

 I'm learning that I will never understand my mission in life, until I first understand my true identity. 

My name is Jay DePoy, son of Jerry and Judy DePoy, and the father to three beautiful daughters. 

I have tried and failed and tried again and failed again and still keep knocking. 

I have a criminal record and a spiritual limp.

I'm an average student with a penchant for pulling the fire alarm and escaping through the broken window. I cheated on the the final exam, and I've been suspended more times that I can count. I have let you down. 

But that's not what defines me. 

I'm also a loving husband and daddy, brother and friend. I have walked with the broken, and watched people literally take their last breaths. I have sat under the bridge and talked with those experiencing mental illness, addiction relapse, called the suicide hotline, and listened to the stories of those outside your circle of acceptance. I am a friend of sinners. 

My mission, is to keep going. To keep loving. To keep forgiving and seeking forgiveness. 

- Jerry (Jay) DePoy

10.01.2021

The Delicate Art of Deconstruction

I'm sorry that I'm not sorry that I've been quiet in recent days. You can find me in the mo(u)rning rhythm of the sun rising over Maplewood Park, as I walk the trail around the lake. Hands in my pockets and head in the sky, silent in the deconstruction of all I once held true.

The compartmentalization of systematic theology, dispensations of time to explain how God works, and a myriad of answers to questions that nobody was asking... I used to have an answer for you! I had a chapter and verse memorized for apologetical discourse on all things controversial. I was sharp with the tongue, and witty with the sarcasm, and angry with the liturgy. I had a vision for perishing people, a prophetic identity, and a zealous mission! I had adopted the 7-Steps, constructed grids and formulas for spiritual formation, and constructed a bridge between justice and mercy. 

The bridge I once constructed is now in ashes. The flames singed, the branches burned; beyond the point of no return. The chapter I'm reading is being written in a heavenly language, and I never claimed to the have the gift of interpretation... it's become like clanging symbol, triggering flashbacks of a full theater, an audience of rowdy revolutionaries, and a power point presentation complete with historical context. In the center of it all was a fiery prophet without the character to sustain the charisma. I have been exposed as indecent, revealed as a hypocrite, and evicted from the circle I scribbled with a felt-tip marker on a napkin at Fazoli's.

My life has not turned out the way I thought it was going to. And now, on the evening before my 46th birthday, I wonder if this is what is meant by "Midlife Crisis"? Should I go out and buy a new Corvette or get a membership at the Country Club? As if material possessions can scratch a spiritual itch, we all know the Corvette would get wrapped around a tree, and I'd get banished from the Country Club, just like every other church in town. 

It's all so disorienting, isn't it? When the grids and boxes are decimated by a spiritual virus, and the politics create a culture of cancellation, until we're all drowning in a tsunami of white noise. 

The cosmic plot twist has shattered the foundation of the opening chapters. The narrative is being re-written with a nuclear grace, and the ink is leaking hope on every page. The revolution is being redefined: to love my family, and lead my daughters into a deeper understanding of God's immeasurable love. This is my Church. This is my unbroken circle. In the company of agape love, I am known and loved anyway. 





6.21.2021

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. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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



5.08.2021

a hug on pause

 when i was twenty five years old i got lost in the manistee national forest in the middle of a snowstorm, i had a walkman with headphones and a cassette tape of jack hyles preaching a sermon from the old testament called "I Did Know Thee In the Wilderness" and i wandered down to the water's edge and fell asleep in the snowbank and i knew that my heart had been strangely warmed by the charcoal fire and the relentless invitation of my rabbi to come and die. 

remember when saturday nights were littt with atomic optimism as we broke break and studied the apostles teachings and dimmed the lights and sang our hearts out to delirious and the happy song and the tambourine didn't fall into the rhythm of the guitar but joel was spirit filled and jacob had his hands raised and mariah was an infant and we knew that the ceiling was glass and heaven was invading earth.

when i was in jail a thief stole my shoes. when i confronted him, he spit in my face. a crowd swarmed around and a fight was immanent. surely, this is my rock bottom. (what is yours?). but then a stranger approached the thief and interrupted the conflict. he said, "i remember jerry depoy jr, he once picked me up when i was hitchhiking and took me to the store and bought me food." and in that moment i recognized him as angel that i had unwittingly entertained a few months prior. 

when i was out on work release, i remember standing in the check-out lane at meijer. i was carrying a bag full of boxer shorts that i had planned to layer and smuggle back into the jail to distribute to my new friends whom had been wearing the same underwear since the day of their incarceration. while was standing in line i heard whispers and in my peripheral vision i could see the pointed fingers in my direction. bowing my head in toxic shame, i tried to avoid eye contact. when the cashier took my credit card she read the name. "Jerry DePoy Jr.? I remember you. You once came to us after our house had burned down and you took up an offering to collect resources for my children." she then walked around from behind the counter and gave me a hug. the kind of hug that kicks the bloody hell out of shame. 

[my givashitter broke three weeks ago]

4.29.2021

Let's Make This Crystal Clear...

Et abierunt per laborem interpretandi haec verba cruciatibus demum in Latinam, quod vitam sunt, sic obsessed per quam absolute quid me oportet facere, vel cogitandi. (Quod est mirabile mihi quidam repellentes, qui mecum sunt, qui sequimini me, et sermo omnis actio!)


Sic ergo patet quod in hoc quod luto: ego sum stultus. Ego sum peccator. Sum infirma. Perditus sum. Ego addicta est. EGO sum indignus. Ego certe ipso. Ego reprobus efficiar. Tanto sum exosus. Ego sum fugienda est. Ego odio. Ego foris circulus amoris tui.


Tu potes cogitare in corde meo extinguere?


Motus quiescat vox milia tu putas?


Tu potes cogitare fugiat redemptionem quæ est detonating procellam excitemus in venis?


Tu potes cogitare resurgendi abstrusum nuntium - hae cum illis visibilis cicatrices et vulnera et flammeum illud apertum et lingua Bibliae et patentibus venis in collum est iens ut erumpat, quia et vidistis me, et non est inanis Iesu sepulcrum?


Cur quaerere inter mortuos pro vivis?


Et longe a cella venio comitatus Muskegon carcere, Ego sum ostium pulsat conscendens in tecto et ego sum iter inimicitiae rasis parietibus circa portas nudis pedibus incedens, et ego post tergum tuum denominatio hominis et flammam gladii ...


De revolutionibus progrediendo non televised. Erit necessario consequitur mutatum vitae testimoniis alopecian heroine Addicts receptaque Stumblers impetu pectus Domini bittersweet lacrimis congredi ad prunas et infirma mundi ut confundat sapientes et infirma mundi confundat fortia.


I am the prodigal.


Verum tu, frater senior, stantes in driveway habens ingenium tantrum, quod occiso vitulo, et calefaciebant cohortem et hoc paratus est mensa coram hostibus meis. 

.

4.07.2021

will the circle be unbroken?

the memorial service will be held in the backyard where the tree line meets the rolling credits over a life unfinished and forecast does not look promising

what am i supposed to say? (i was never good at eulogies)

clutching rosary beads with unmet needs to fill the void in my stomach there’s addictions to feed like a concrete door and knuckles that bleed and there goes jay again jumping off another ledge because the silence only drove a wedge between the progress of a pilgrimage and the breakfast at the water’s edge 

do you love me? do you love me? do you love me?



.


1.10.2021

the great cloud of witnesses

from the back row of the the little white church on the corner where the sign says 'Jesus saves', i disassemble the offering envelope and draw a picture of redemption with red ink like the words bleeding through the pages of the new testament, the great cloud of witnesses surround me now with a violent yawn and the rocks in the pockets begin to cry out like the trees clapping their hands and the heavens reopened to rewrite the ending from the beginning (i was fearfully and wonderfully made).

lake effect snow buried our tent at pj hoffmaster state park, and dad awoke early to stoke the fire and these anthrakia coals have turned to ice as i'm interrogated thrice, of a professed love that is unpossessed. so i point to the beloved and say 'what about him!?', only to be beckoned to follow the Way of an upside down cross...

so i walk into the room and stare at the whispers hushed and wait to see who blinks first. because i'm staring through your powerpoint presentation like an MRI exposing a primal hypocrisy. 

you are loved and there's nothing you can do about it. 

11.03.2020

ghosted by the holy

forgive me in advance for the following sentence without beginning or ending 

running on like a train off the tracks over hanging 

gerunds and dangling 

participles

through the glass you asked

if i'm ok, [this on the other side of a guilty plea for mercy]

but who could have predicted 

the fate of the convicted?


i sent you an email and i waited in the lobby

but your assistant came out and told me that you were too busy to talk

but wanted to know what happened in asheville? 

then all hell broke loose

and in the stairway i reach for the community to encompass me

but the email was unreturned like a flightless bird on a branch snatched from the fire


your profile was viewed by a curious acquaintance somewhere near Reno

remember when we sat on the floor crying in the aftermath of your mother's passing?

and in some ways, i'm still there... but i just wanted to let you know that i'm proud of you 

for continuing the lovelution still you offer no absolution like the priest without a bride and the heresy open wide, still she opens the yellow notebook and reads aloud and cries

i ventured through the doors where all are welcomed and i courageously approached a hug unrequited and the polar vortex of your silence has spoken volumes

shall i make a list? 

unreturned phone calls. emails without reply. ghosted by the holy. 

6.28.2020

Where Are(n’t) You?

Three thousand miles deep into the heart of nowhere, I’ve searched for a sign of Your presence. The ever-present absence is the one constant chorus in a song with no bridge, and the harmony sounds like thunder falling from the stairway to heaven where Jacob climbed and fell and wrestled and prevailed. Still You remain a memory, a tragedy, a rumor of eyewitness and the echo of golgothic cries... ‘Why have you forsaken me!?”

I’ve come full circle to this geographic assignment. Maybe it was romantic nostalgia - this assumption that You would meet me here on the porch of this rustic cabin outside Yellowstone. When I was here fifteen years ago You arrested me with Your grace and suffocated me with a chokehold of Your agape love. But that was a long time ago... a lot has happened since. I fell down the stairs a few times and bloodied my faith and my stamina has faded. My spiritual gas tank is fuming, and there is no exit on this beaten path.

The rain is an unexpected knock on the door of my heart. I wake up late, confused. Boiling water for French press coffee, and stumbling outside to the porch. I sit sheltered from the storm and look back to the future of my life.

From this vantage point, through the steam and beyond the Grand Teton Mountains, I see Immanuel - my bunk mate in jail. I realize now that he. was. You. A visitation turned habitation, the ever-constant Presence. I see my sedan crashing on the highway, rolling several times across the median on US 31, and landing upside down facing oncoming traffic. No seatbelt. I walked away without visible wounds. Externally purified/internally traumatized. The first eyewitness vomited at the site of what appeared to be obvious fatality. When I emerged, barefoot (!?), he asked, “Do you believe in God?”

I see Skot, Brad, and Matt running toward the pariah that exposed me as indecent and unholy. Matt said, “You can run from this, but wherever you go - there you are.” I see Dan with arms raised singing about a grace that I can’t comprehend. I see hugs and a holy kiss followed by shrugs and a hundred fists. I see my aging father limping on reconstructed knees and an aching mother who has achieved sainthood through selflessness and I see the horror on my Mariah’s face the day I left Asheville forever (for now), and Ambria’s acceptance of circumstances she can’t control, and Ashlyn’s runaway tear as she sits in the plastic kiddie pool in the driveway as I turn away. I see the state border sign come and go and I have to pull over because I’m crying too hard. I see a screwdriver and a bloody wrist and they say objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they actually are.

I see an Awakening and a love from which there’s no escape. I see social media as image management and forbidden fruit hanging low in the form of questions from a serpent to challenge the mandates of Shalom. I look in the mirror and I see Eve shifting the blame and scrambling for fig leaves. I see the Grand Haven pier and dial 1-800-273-8255. I hear the voice of God on the other line, asking me about the names and ages of my daughters. I see Teresa walking along the edge of the north shoreline, toward me in a white dress.

When Jesus cried out from the cross, He was quoting the Hebrew Psalm, chapter 22. “My God... My God, why have You forsaken me!?” This has been the crescendo of the last 15 years. A lot has transpired since I’ve come full circle to this cabin in the mountains. And as I’ve wondered aloud these questions have haunted me. Where are You?

Psalm 22 bleeds into the beloved Psalm 23. The psalmist looks in the rear view mirror and sees God as Immanuel, walking beside the streams of water, and cooking breakfast beside a charcoal fire (in the presence of my enemies) and exhales, “You are with me!”

He was with me the whole time. He was there on the stage and in the cage. He was there in the spotlight and in the furnace. He was there beside the fire with a thrice repeated question... Do you love me?

As I write these words, I’m looking out at the falling rain beneath storm clouds over a rustic cabin outside Yellowstone National Park. I’ve come full circle to a love with no beginning and no ending.

3.13.2020

all who are thirsty

i regret to inform my opinion's reborn
and in the window hands are raised in praise to the grace
now the Whore has been wed and the Table is spread
the blood has been shed and we've all been fed
by a body now broken and feelings awoken these prayers unspoken

forgive me if the mirror is shattered
by a self-help manual and a support group in the basement
but i've become unrecognizable with a savage scar from a charcoal fire
it doesn't matter who i am, it only matters who You are

12.31.2019


remember when we used to sing
with candles and tambourines 
circled in hope beyond the shadow of doubt
until the tsunami wiped away the sand castles
and the foolish man built his house on flannel graph 
stories of sinners and saints and the in-between 
(wretched men aching for deliverance)
but the next chapter begins without condemnation

youthful naivety and zealous hearts consumed for my father's house
is nearly collapsed into the encroaching fresh water
and eden has been overrun with a liquid eraser


adam, where are you?
caan, where is your brother?

promises made and covenants broken
prayer requests have remained unspoken
but even though mary kay is blind now
she has visions of resurrection and redemption

remember when we used to drive
from muskegon to division avenue
because the gates of hell were prevailing 
and the lovelution is unfailing 
tony brought his guitar and i have come so far
from the circle of hope but the candle remains
and the tambourine became a weapon
worship as warfare
scars as trophies
and grace

scandalous grace. 
mysterious grace. amazing grace. 
bang my head against the wall grace. 
knock me off my feet grace. 
incomprehensible grace. violent grace. 
furious grace. bloody grace. 
terrible grace. awful grace. 
inexplicable grace. 
stand up and sing grace. 
sit down and cry grace. 
gospel grace. new world disorder grace. 
upside down grace. inside out grace. 
crucified grace. resurrected grace. 
the last chapter is still being written about grace. 
redeeming grace. whore-turned-virgin grace. 
body broken, blood poured out grace. 
welcome to the table of grace. 
pull up a chair grace. light a candle grace. 
burn down your religious castle grace. 
beautiful ashes of grace.



.

11.20.2019

You Are Loved, And There's Nothing You Can Do About It.


You are loved
At the height of your glory
And the depth of your despair

In the genesis of January
And the revelation of December
In the frigid winds of the winter
And the sweltering heat of the summer
Love remains

Constant in the compliments
And the criticisms
Of victory and defeat
You are loved

In the shadows of isolation
And the spotlight of the stage
In the hushed whispers
And the pointed fingers
In the ex-communication
And the communication with your ex

You are loved with a violent grace
Held by the inexplicable Spirit of God
In a seal of redemptive blood
Through a cross of screaming forgiveness

Across the street and around the world
In the eyes of neighbors and unmet strangers
You are loved, by a Power greater

Unpurchased and unearned
Love is the one constant
Through the surplus and the famine
For richer, for poorer
In sickness and in health

You are loved at birth, inhaling grace
You are loved at death, exhaling gratitude

There is nothing you can do about it.
Wealth and religion are irrelevant distractions
There is nowhere you can run from it.
As far as the east is from the west.
You can’t earn this love.
You can’t lose this love.

You are eternally secure, infinitely sealed
Cosmically held, and mysteriously adored
By a Heavenly Father who is waiting on tip toes
With binoculars at the end of the driveway


5.25.2019

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.

 .

3.25.2019

capturing memories, suddenly fading

remember when we used to sing in the y'all come choir
and mike used to wave his arms as he led the congregation
in another stanza of just as i am (without one plea)

outside the open windows, the sound of cars passing by
and curtains blowing in the wind
as i gently disassembled the offering envelopes
and scribbled my plans in pencil

remember when i filled up the honda and drove out west
as far as i could go before hitting the water's edge
tumbleweed chased me as california erased me
but the oil never ran dry

forget the time i filled up the mazda and drove down south
back to the hospital of my birth
seeking admission again, full circle to where it all began
but the admissions denied the application
and the oil never ran dry

whatever happened to the castles of sand
shoveling snow with frozen bare hands
winnetaska is winding and waiting
to capture the memories suddenly fading

remember sitting in pieces in the counselor's chair
a five o'clock shadow and a thousand yard stare
beeping sensations and alternate vibrations
EMDR therapy and psychological heresy

so much has changed since the temple collapsed
the fines have been paid but the meters relapsed
creeds and confessions of a sinner's redemption
applications for admission meets sudden rejection

but i remember the y'all come choir
the Open Table and the sermons on fire
the invitation to the whosoever and the happily after never
but the oil has dissipated and the memories have faded
to a flannelgraph story of angels and glory

and whatever happened to soul winning
and sword drills and bus routes and cold calling
whatever happened to river baptisms and bright eyes
and shotgun weddings and suits and ties
give me oil in my lamp, keep it burning burning burning

remember the time we stood in the driveway
and argued about the color of the sky
ever changing in the setting sun
maybe we were both right
but you insisted and i resisted
and we haven't talked in years
but i have a picture of you in a shoebox under my bed and sometimes i wonder if i could go back if i could i would i should have told you all the things i saw in you, as i sat beneath the solitude tree waiting for you to wait for me.




.






3.03.2019

The Awakening

Hidden beneath a blanket of snow, I noticed a plastic tarp. The city trucks had plowed the snow, and showered the sidewalks with the Polar Vortex, and the homeless huddled to keep warm. I crossed my arms, shivering to keep my bones warm as I walked along Division Avenue... The temperatures had plummeted beneath the full moon, and the streetlights revealed a pair of boots attached to a body curled without motion.

I stopped at the human lump beneath the tarp beneath the snow beneath the streetlight, and watched closely for any sign of life. "Hey, are you okay under there?"

No response.

I glanced to the north, and looked for any others. Only turn signals and brake lights greeted me, as a streetlight turned from yellow to red. The frigid temperature had kept most of the motorists off the road, and I found myself alone with a heavy heart.

"Hey" I tried again, this time with nudge. "Wake up."

I brushed the snow from the plastic tarp, and pulled it back to reveal an intoxicated man with a swollen eye. He blinked a few times and mumbled, "I'm alright." The stench of cheap whiskey permeated his breath, and when he finally locked eyes with mine, I could see cumulonimbus clouds threatening rain.

"No, you're not. This is not okay. You can't stay here. It's seven degrees." I brushed the snow off his shoulder and asked him if he was hungry. He shook his head and closed his eyes, perhaps wanting me to just leave him alone. I looked at my watch (almost midnight) and considered calling 911.

"You're going to die out here. I don't want you to die." I realized that he had made choices that burned a lot of bridges. I knew that there were resources available to help him, but his apparent addiction to alcohol had held him captive to this virus. The streets were his home, and this tarp was his castle.

"You're coming with me." I said. My car was parked a few blocks away, so I left briefly only to return with the passenger door open. I walked around to the sidewalk again and physically took his arm. He resisted at first, but I told him I was going to get him some food and shelter. He finally stood to his feet, and with wobbly knees stepped toward my vehicle. I helped him into the passenger seat, and buckled his seatbelt. He leaned his head back against the window, and closed his eyes as I did a U-Turn in the middle of Division Street.

The streetlight turned red, and I stopped accordingly. As I waited for the light to change, I looked over to the parking lot of an empty gas station... there beside the building, I saw two more people seeking shelter from the wind. A blue tent was getting battered by the wind, and they were struggling to stay warm. I pulled into the otherwise vacant parking lot, and I stepped out of the car.

As I approached them, they immediately asked for money. Although my instincts are negative, I realized that is exactly what I would have done if I were them! I didn't give them any cash, but I did offer to help them find shelter and food. "Come on, get in..."

So here I was, driving around downtown Grand Rapids with three homeless friends. I learned their names, and I listened to their incredulous stories. Love lost and found and lost again, heroes and villains, and prison and scars and the inability to find employment and the vicious cycle of addiction and recovery and relapse and bus passes and meal vouchers, and Jesus.

Everything inside of me wanted to lecture and fix their problems. It was very tempting to not give my scholarly insights and unsolicited advice. But during this season, I am learning to do more listening than talking; Jesus asked twice as many questions as he answered. I don't have all the answers, and I have never walked a mile in their shoes. I can't pretend to have been there...

But I am learning to listen. And I'm learning to coordinate my prayers with the rhythm of breathing. I am learning to inhale gratitude and exhale entitlement. I am very much still under reconstruction, but slowly being transformed into the image of beloved.


12.21.2018

On Holding On and Letting Go

At the center of The Story is a paradox that cuts and heals simultaneously. It is the collision of justice and mercy, where pain meets pleasure, and shame becomes glory. Throughout the Scriptures is a tension of a called-out people of faith, who are living with doubt. And a God who is described as both the Holy Terror and the Abba Father. And a Son who is both fully God and fully human. And a Spirit who brings comfort and conviction to my heart that is both screaming and silent.
This God is absent and present. He is hanging on an execution stake, mocking the mockers, destroying destruction, and killing death.

And it is no wonder that I am learning to rest in the paradox of holding on and letting go. “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” I love you. I don’t love you. I believe you. I doubt you. I surrender. I keep fighting. I’m swimming. I’m sinking. I’m living. I’m dying. I’m squeezing with my hands open. I am burying my mustard seed in the soil of insecurity. I’m singing of the Resurrection and the Life, while wearing sackcloth and ashes and grieving the death of my hope. I am starting a new chapter and it begins with I don’t know. 
Always, never. 
Sometimes. 
Maybe.

- Jay DePoy

7.15.2018

The Story Behind Your Scars

Beneath the surface of this bruise is a vein of backfiring blood running toward a resolution. You see only the external evidence of an internal eruption, but time will prove that bruises fade and scars become the everlasting witness of yesterday's choices.

Behind each scar is a story. Every inch of the journey has been recorded on the canvas of mortal flesh; Skinned knees, amputated appendages, and knuckles bleeding from the incessant knocking on the door of heaven, for mercy.


Hidden in the filter of your photoshopped existence is the Truth of bridges of torched by broken promises. The contract was conceived in distrust, but the covenant remains eternal. The smoke of Sinai still hovers over the commitment; the faithfulness of the I Am, when i am not.

Scars are tattoos with better stories. They are narratives written in blood, and the last chapter is still being written. Your story is unfinished. Do not let regret shame you into silence, because the hour is late and the time is now.

Own your story. It's the one thing they can't take away.

They can suffocate your dreams, revoke your license, and disqualify your ordination. They can pull the plug on your breathing machine, and spin the narrative into clean categories of black and white and us and them and right and wrong and pure and polluted. They lock you up in a prison of toxic shame, and write your epitaph with permanent markers. They can start the prayer chain and gatekeepers can sound the alarm of an enemy wolf among innocent sheep. The revisionists can deconstruct your His/Story and you can choose to allow them, [or]

You can let your scars become the evidence of a scandalous mercy that screams of a Creator who uses the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and the weak things of the world to shame the strong. Don't hide your scars from your children. Reveal the ashes and reconstruct a better tomorrow. Lean into the dis-ease, and be vulnerable enough
to wake up, rise up, take up your bed and walk.


5.31.2018

Hoping to Lose

I recently heard a story about a young philosophy student, and an old monk, Father Makarios.  The conversation went something like this:

Student: "Father Makarios, do you still wrestle with the devil?"

Father Makarios: "No. I used to wrestle with the Devil all the time. But now I have grown old and tired, and the Devil has grown old and tired with me. So now I leave him alone and he leaves me alone."

Student: "Then your life is easy now?"

Father Makarios: "Oh no. Life is much harder now.
For now I wrestle with God."

Student: "You wrestle with God and hope to win!?"

Father Makarios: "No. I wrestle with God and hope to lose."


--------------------

I used to wake up in the middle of the night, with the sheets soaked with sweat. Every. Night. For whatever reason, my dreams would lead to the feeling of suffocation, and I would wake up in a panic, and feel the blankets soaked with my own fear. I had a common nightmare of being apprehended and assaulted by an invisible violence, and I would wake up more exhausted than when I laid down to rest. I would learn later that my dreams would often lead to me swinging, kicking, and punching the darkness...

For years, I thought it was the cosmic struggle of good verses evil. A spiritual war against the forces of evil; surely Lucifer and his angels were hellbent on my destruction! I would read a chapter out of the bible every night before bed, only to have vivid dreams of sex and violence and shame and preaching and laughter and tears and in the end it was like rearranging chairs on the deck of the titanic, because this ship was sinking. I had been cast into the inevitable collision of an iceberg into a monstrous sea, and the saltwater was filling my lungs and I cannot breathe and I am drowning!

On the other side of the some glad morning, I have begun to realize that perhaps my struggle was not against the Devil. Maybe I had been swinging in the dark toward the embrace of my Heavenly Father, who was pinning me down with the chebod of His love. I see now that the scars inflicted from years of resistance, were self-injurious. There is a story behind each scratch, each bruise, each scar... "and here is where I landed on my knees." Then, pointing out another, "and this one is from the time I tried to outrun my shame." Unwrapping the bandages covering the battle wounds: "...and this scar is when I tried to run to freedom, only to be cut down by friendly fire." 

I am not alone in this struggle. This is a part of the narrative into which I have been cast, beside my brother Jacob. He too struggled with God in the midnight hour, and walked away with a permanent limp. Because the struggle is to learn and grow and be decimated into a blessing; our struggle is to allow ourselves to be pinned down by an avalanche of cosmic love. 

Why am I so resistant to allowing God to love me? Why do I shower others with grace and forgiveness, and yet harbor resentment and rage toward myself? Perhaps my struggle with God is not predicated on the objective to win, rather my victory comes in surrender.  Because when I am weak, I am strong enough to put down my fist and say yes and amen. My Hosanna was born in a furnace of doubt; my glorification comes as a collapse into the arms of the Victor. 

When Jacob had a dream of a ladder, corresponding with God in the middle of the night, the Hebrew Scriptures articulate that "the sun had set" (Gen. 28:11). It was, in the words of St. John of the Cross, "the dark night of the soul." Years later, he would wrestle with God in the same midnight hour, and walk away with a permanent limp. And a few chapters later his story continued, "... and the sun rose" (Gen. 32:31).

And as the sun rose in the morning, he stumbled onward toward the eastern horizon with a new identity... the name given to him by the Victor: "Jacob." Which literally translates from the Hebrew, "he who struggles with God." 

2.26.2018

Regret and Gratitude

The other day I was sitting at a table with recovering addicts, listening to the exchange of life stories and mountains climbed. After hearing one man share about all of the bridges he's burned on his way toward sobriety, he stated emphatically, "... and if I could do it all over, I wouldn't have changed a thing! The life lessons have shaped who I am today!" Others around the table nodded, as if to agree.

But I could not.

Because the reality is that I live with an ocean of regret. It is like an albatross chained to my memory, haunting me in my sleep. It's like a reoccurring dream of bridges built and crossed and then burned to ashes by my indifference, neglect, and selfishness. I have sketched the blueprints of a hedonistic empire and chiseled at a foundation of meticulously broken promises.

I carry this weight in my heart, and it slows my pace. My heart beats faster than I can walk, and I'm slowly falling behind and the sun is setting and the hour is late and the course is unfinished and the faith has not been kept.

As I write this, the late winter rains have caused the river behind my house to overflow the banks. The Grand River is expected to continue to rise until water will invade my living room. Yesterday I lifted all of our valuable possessions, including photo albums full of memories. On the kitchen table there are pictures of a cocky teenager who was hellbent on self-destruction. I hate that kid! I want grab him by the throat and get his attention! I wish I could return to Muskegon and tell him to let go of the egocentric aggression, and the narcissistic self-absorption. If I could write an open letter to my younger self, I would emphasize a cautionary dis-trust of choices made with emotion.

There are two dominant streams in my life: Regret and Gratitude.

Regret is the monster hiding beneath the bed of shame. I regret the way I treated my teachers in high school. I regret the way I relentlessly teased Jeremy Leffring. I regret the way I disrespected the different girlfriends of my youth, and the way I pursued attention for vain glory. I regret the way I manipulated conversations to solicit false affirmation, and I regret trusting the promises of a thousand amens. I regret all of the lies that I told, in my efforts to maintain an empire of delusion.

I don't feel like God is angry with me. But I feel like He is disappointed. I don't expect lightning bolts of His wrath, but I have come to expect the icy chill of His silent treatment. The distance is tangible, and the indifference is palpable. I feel reinstated to His Table, but not necessarily to His Triumph.

But on the other side of this ocean of regret, is an oasis of gratitude. We are born with two lungs, and if I inhale from the lung of regret, then I exhale from the lung of gratitude. Because after all of the self-destruction and humiliation, I am still here. It is indeed a miracle!

Several years ago I was involved in a  horrifying car crash that should have ended my life. I was traveling northbound on US 31 near Lake Michigan when I mistakenly took my eyes off the highway. The construction ahead had slowed the traffic to a standstill, and I had no time to stop! I tried to swerve from hitting the last car stopped ahead of me, but clipped the corner of his bumper. My sedan shot fifteen feet into the air, rotating endoverendoverendoverend several times, landing upside down in the opposite direction of travel (across the median)! I was not wearing a safety belt, and my entire vehicle was shattered into a thousand pieces. One witness heard the sound of the crash and saw my vehicle flying through the air, inducing immediate vomit all of the interior of her own vehicle. Such was the disturbance in the atmosphere.

I remember bracing at the time of the collision, curling into the fetal position and waiting for death. I closed my eyes and braced for the darkness. "This is how it ends", I thought. But with each roll and spin and flip, I remained conscious. When I had come to a final stop (upside down), I crawled out of the passenger window and walked away without a scratch. I was barefoot because somehow my shoes went flying with the rest of the car. I just kept shaking my head thinking, "I can't believe I'm alive. I can't. Believe. I'm alive."

I am grateful. I am thankful that despite the crash and burn and fire and smoke and vomit and wonder - there is a Table spread before me in the presence of my enemies. I am grateful. I am thankful that despite my unworthiness, there is the love of a woman, the faith of a mother, and the laughter of three daughters who seal me in this promise of redemption. I am grateful. I am thankful that I have friends like Mitch Schultz, and John Smith, Ken and Bonnie Jane Greene, Dustin Price and Sulkiro Song, AJ Sherrill and Cam Speer, voices of truth in a world of counterfeit. I am grateful. I am thankful for a place to belong, a promise to believe, and a purpose to become. I am grateful. I am thankful for the invitation of the Mercy King to a Table of broken bread and wine in abundance.

Regret < Gratitude




1.26.2018

Conversations in the Mirror

Your best days are in the rearview mirror. 

Remember that one time when it was New Year's Eve and you were in the middle of the circle listening to your favorite band with your favorite people and it was snowing and your stomach hurt from laughing so hard at the stolen thunder and you stood with your back against the wall and watched the frozen pipes burst through the ceiling and you said it was a sign from heaven?

Remember when they found her laying in the street - she was talking about the end of the world and the neighbors called the police and now the Social Workers are involved and we want someone to blame because the ultrasound was inconclusive. But I came from Grand Rapids to sit by your hospital bed to hold your hand and tell you that the DePoy's stick together, and everything will be ok and no this is not "God's Plan..." But maybe mental illness runs our bloodline because

I remember the time I stood on the roof of Holland Community Hospital and the voices encouraged me to jump but it was not the voice of my Abba, and I knew that this was a spiritual war, and I had embraced the cold porcelain toilet hurling up the truth about the rest of the story and the unwritten chapters of love lost and found and swinging in the dark at the inevitable resignation of the exodus lovelution.

But what if Brene Brown is right? What if this is all just a narrative that I've created to appear as the victim in a violent crime? What if the other side of the story was much more loving and less complicated and we could make sense of the pipes bursting from the record cold temperatures in the harbor theatre? And what if the doctor was actually good, and not trying to harm you? And what if being bipolar doesn't mean you lose your soul? And what if the story I've been telling myself is fiction?

Because your best days are still ahead of you. And love still wins. And children still laugh. And after New Year's Eve comes a New Beginning, and after the frozen pipes thaw and the demolition removes the ashes, reconstruction comes around Easter and the tomb is empty and Teresa believes in mercy and my value and worth are sealed until the day of redemption.