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The Luggage of Life – New Year’s 2023

“It’s been the kind of year I’d be fine if I forgot, yeah 

But I’ll never forget it as long as I live and that’s saying a lot”

Ben Rector, The Best is Yet to Come

As the second hand continues to click a breath closer to the end of 2023 and the beginning of 2024, I find myself in a familiar position. My hands with fingers curled and soft clank of light of keys beneath them. Words start to stream on a white screen as again I try to make sense of the year that was in some hopes of hope for the year that will be. 

Maybe some famed poet such as Whitman, Hemingway, or Shakesphere eloquently described how to properly measure a year. Is it with moments or minutes? Do we measure it in months or mementos that we carry with us? Either way, the truth remains, we reflect, we look back, we remember. So this leads me to asking how will 2023 be remembered?

The recording artist Ben Rector in his New Years themed song “The Best is Yet to Come” opens with the line – “It’s been the kind of year I’d be fine if I forgot.” Well Ben, me too. Not that the year was forgetful or dull, in fact most certainly the opposite. It has been filled with swells of joy and crashing heartache and sorrow. It has been marked by memories and overrun by tidal waves of hardship. It has been full of whispers of thanksgiving and full of shouting at the heavens. In the past 364 and a half days, life has been filled. It has been filled with decisions, unexpected outcomes, pleasant and heartbreaking surprises. 

And I sit on a day the sun will set and rise on a new day, a new month, and a new year. If the Lord is willing, I will rise tomorrow to begin another revolution around the sun in a year we call 2024. And I get to be the captain of the ship of decisions – what do I take with me, what do I leave behind, what do I pick up along the journey of the year ahead?

In truth, the baggage of my life is well worn. It has seen the port of previous years. Marked and scuffed from being dragged in and out of season after season, there are probably some articles in that bag that need to not go with me. Per usual, I am overpacked for the “what ifs” of life. But maybe this year, I need to leave some things in life’s Goodwill pile and not pick them back up.

As I crack open the suitcase of my concerns, I begin to dig deep in the luggage of my life. I swim through the things I carry, I finally put my hands on insecurity. Insecurity was once a high end piece of fashion that dressed my outer self to protect my inner brokenness. It is as colorful as the tail of a peacock. It is bold, vibrant, hiding all my hurts and fears. When it was new it was beautiful, flashy, and stood out. Now it is just worn, fatigued, with holes where hurts bleed through. It can no longer act as a shell of protection of the honest emotions that seep out the seams. It is time to leave it behind. 

My hands sort and sift as my heart and eyes look in the luggage of life, I find a pair of childhood shoes. Black canvas with white soles. From first glance, they appear to be classic Converse Chuck Taylor’s. Upon further inspection, there is no name brand on them. The soles are worn with holes. Shoelaces covered in the dust of childhood baseball fields. The dusty footprints left behind I would sweep away with my foot out a shame I felt for my off brand, poor kid shoes. 

My mind and heart with the shame of feeling impoverished. These shoes that are now 10 sizes too small remain in the bag of my mind perpetually reminding me that there is not enough. Shoes I walked in but a shame I feel I have walked out my whole adult life. It was a moment, momento of nearly 40 years previous. It is an echo of a moment of years past that I packed in my life’s luggage to serve as a reminder that no matter how much you get, there is never enough. 

The shoes on my feet may be marked by designer brands, be fashion forward, but that poor kid dressed with off brand Chuck’s has lived on my life’s luggage. Carried into year and after year. Reminding me I am just a poor kid and we do not have enough. 

As I set those raggedy childhood sneakers aside, the words of the apostle Paul try to find a home in my heart. His declaration of finding the secret of being content. Whether there was a lot or a little, in times of abundance, times of struggle, he and I can do all things through Christ who is our strength. In short, I have enough. The difficulty is putting aside those shoes that no longer fit, and in truth for years haven’t and walking in what God has for me in this season. It starts with laying aside the shame of the kid who thought he didn’t have enough. 

As the clock chases closer to midnight, I continue to sort through the bag of my life. Tucked in the top pocket is a handful of heartbreak. Like shattered pieces of glass from a kaleidoscope of mirrors, I hold them in my hand. Despite all the pieces, it will never be put back together. My jagged reflection staring back off the broken pieces almost speaks to me of how I have felt as if I was unworthy of being whole, that I would always have to be broken. 

Dumping out the pieces on the once shiny insecurities and the worn out shoes of shame, I watch as each piece reflects back a man who is learning he is worthy of being loved. As I lay the shattered pieces of life to the side, I remind myself that I don’t have to live broken. 

Rearranging the pieces of life and love that I will take with me into 2024, I make sure my bag is only half packed leaving room to acquire new articles of life on this circle around the sun. I am leaving room for new friends, new adventures, and new experiences. Taking with me the wisdom of years gone by that I do not have to lug around the luggage of my past. I can simply unpack them and leave them behind. 

In the distance “may old acquaintances be forgot” is being sung and I am going to kiss my wife at the strike of midnight with the luggage of life a little lighter walking into the new year.
 

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Miracles Still Happen

**These words were written 4 days after Avery’s accident.

May 4th, 2023

In typical fashion I find myself escaping with words on a page. I have tried to have them on my tongue, but the emotions just keep coming from my eyes as words escape my speech. 

It is day 4 (I think), she’s asleep in a chair. We are waiting for a room on the floor to finally leave the ICU. It has been both Heaven and Hell. It has been anguish wrapped in the miracles of God’s glory. It is a far cry from the scene of Monday afternoon. 

We say phrases like “life is fragile” and “days are short”, but the delicacy of days and life somehow collide in the space of seeing your child in danger. Somewhere between the urgent call and 15 minutes it took to get there, my mind ran a million different directions. When I arrived my imaginations were replaced by reality. My baby girl trapped in a car screaming. It was like a scene from a movie. Car parts scattered everywhere. Flashing lights from an assortment of emergency vehicles. Me, a desperate parent, running toward the wreckage. A police officer doing his job reassured me they were doing everything possible. I stood helpless watching, waiting.

Time stops, rewinds, and speeds by all in a blink. Every instant is frozen in my brain. Her screams to get her out haunt me. The mangled mess of the vehicle sitting still in the middle of the road. The blink of flashing red, blue, and white lights burned deep in my memory. All at the same time are the past moments of what had led us there. The first time I held her after she was born. The day before when I squeezed her close and kissed the top of her head as finished Sunday lunch at Tres. The last year where we had worked hard in therapy to recover some broken pieces of our relationship from previous trauma. And time in that same moment takes wings and flies fast and far away.

I watched as the EMS vehicle sped away. My daughter in the back with her last words to me “daddy come with me”. I briefly stepped out and they were gone. As I gathered myself and pieces of life that came out of the car, I drove off with uncertainty. Holding tight to my belief that God does miracles and the simple words of a man I had never met tell me she was going to be okay. In this moment, this was the definition of faith – attempting to have hope and certainty in what was so unknown. 

From the twisted metal of the vehicle is the message of a miracle. God’s protective hand. I do not want to make a mess of theology. Yet, the word for the Holy Spirit in the Greek language is wind or air. Every air bag deployed in the car. They did their job.  Yet, even with top technology, it is hard to explain how protected Avery was. My best description is the “pneuma” of God – the air, the wind, the breath – surrounded her. Am I saying there was a Heavenly air-bag that deployed? With one look at the vehicle, I am not sure there is any other explanation. The Holy Spirit of God was in that car with her. And I will say with certainty that is how she survived.

We will have to navigate a period of recovery. Her body will hurt. The places where surgery was done will take time to heal. But today, she’s alive. Today, she will hobble a few steps with a walker. In a few days she will navigate life on crutches. In six weeks, she will fully walk on two legs again. Despite difficult days lying ahead, today I rejoice for the deployment of something miraculous in that vehicle on Monday. Miracles still happen.

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Death, where is your sting?

“Where, O death, is your victory?

    Where, O death, is your sting?”

56 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. 57 But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. 1 Corinthians 15:55-57

I watched as the tears streamed down flush red cheeks of a mom standing next to a casket of a son gone far too soon. The sting was seen in the weeping of a sister saying good-bye. In the faces of friends, loved ones, co-workers, I found death’s sting. 

As believers in Christ, we hold a hope of “until we meet again.” We firmly believe that in the life after this one, we will be reunited in Heaven with those saints that have gone before us. Yet, until then, death’s sting is felt. Like the rush of Niagara Falls the initial wave of grief feels like a crushing blow that you do not know if you will survive. In time, that continual battering of brokenness gives way to the tide of waves that unexpectedly rushes in setting you off course for a moment, an hour, or a day. Grief comes in waves. Some days the sea of sorrow is still and calm. Other days, the skies have opened up and the storms are beating this borrowed battleship of our life. 

Where, O death, is your sting? It is for those that live in after we say good-bye. The tension of this life is that in one hand we hold hope of eternity. In the other hand we no longer hold the hand of the one we have said good-bye to.  I will echo every sentiment that gets stated, that we as believers do not grieve like those that have no hope, yet we do still grieve. We do still hurt. We do still face the tide of memories that simultaneously make us weep and smile. The sting of death is in the grief that accompanies it.

The three synoptic gospels tell the same story of Jesus and his disciples setting out across the Sea of Galilee after a long day of ministry. A sudden storm pops up, battering their boat putting professional sea-worthy men in fear for their life. Jesus, he is asleep in the stern. Out of their panic they awaken the Lord. He sees their fear and silences the storm. He poses one question: “where is your faith?”

Jesus could rest in the storm because he knew they were getting to the other side. I have wondered if the storm was never meant to be stilled, but the disciples were meant to experience the storm to learn to trust Jesus in the hardest times of life. Some storms are not meant to be silenced. 

As I hugged that dear family friend, my heart wanted to whisper peace be still to the storm of grief. Yet, I knew, it was storm that cannot be silenced and probably should not be stilled. Instead, I prayed, Jesus be with them in the boat. Asleep or awake, the Son of God is still in our boat in the sea of grief. Batter as it may get, he is with us. As overwhelming and sensing of near disaster, he is with us. As we fear and cry and struggle, he rests assured that we are getting to the other side.  While we want him to shout at the storm, he speaks peace to our hearts in the middle of it, because he reminds us that he is in the boat. 

Death, where is your sting? 

Grieve. Take the posture of Jesus and weep. Yet, believe he is in your boat and you’re gonna make it to the other side. In time that sting dulls, the tears dry, the waves lessen and what felt like a loss becomes victory. 

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What we all need.

Maybe this is why Jesus woke early and slipped off into solitary spaces. The morning quiet captures the essence of the day. The stillness of a sky that has just seen the sun meet the clouds is only broken by the chirp of a morning bird singing its song. If Paul’s writing holds true, that song is too the Lord as all creation cries out. 

The stillness allows my mind to walk the fields of thoughts. To stroll barefoot through the week that has passed and attempt to find some cohesion and clarity to all the things. A massive shooting in Texas. An acquaintance saw cancer complete its brutal race in his 19 year-old daughter. And as Americans we keep thinking that blasting our opinions on social media makes a difference.  

Jesus said “in this world you will have trouble.” This seems to stay true. So what do we do with all the trouble. How do we handle such levels of pain and grief and fatigue and despair. Just maybe there is a single glow of light found in the rest of those words from Jesus, “but take heart, I have overcome the world.”

But take heart. Be of good faith. And in courage to your encouragement. In this troubled, heart-breaking, devastating world we live in, Jesus has already overcome. He has won. He has succeeded in dealing with the devastation, the heartbreak, the grief, the hurt, the hardship, the pain. He has won the battle and completed the victory. Jesus has overcome. 

So as we sit in the grief and hardship of the days, do so knowing your victory is soon coming. If you are discouraged, take heart. If you are grieving, take heart. If you are stressed, distraught, fatigued, and worn out, take heart.  The echoes of my Grandfather’s voice quoting the classic King James play out in my mind – be of good cheer.

As the morning sun rises to its place in the sky and more birds begin to join the song of the first, I will rest in the beginning of this verse that the Christ gave us: “these things I have spoken to you that you may have peace.” If anything, we all need more peace.  As we navigate the noise and pass through the chaos. What I desire, and I hope you do as well, is peace. Peace of mind. Peace of heart. Peace from the pain. Peace from the strife. Peace from the hustles, bustles, and hurry of the frantic pace we put ourselves in. What is desired is the perfect peace from the Prince of Peace. 

So while you finish these words, I will take solace and comfort in the stillness of a Sunday morning and leave you and me with this final reminder from Jesus. 

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”