How Will We Emerge? My Turn

How will we emerge? That’s the question I’m asking myself and others in this “unprecedented” year. That’s the question I challenge you to ask yourself. There are lots of presumptions in this question:

• An acknowledgement that we’re in epic times that’s going to change our world and us.

• An optimism that there will be a “coming out on the other side” of all these global health, social justice, and political pandemics. An optimism that it will be in 2021.

• The hope that “we” will come out. Not just “me” against “you.”

• The reality that in the midst of what we have no control of, there are a few things we can control. What are the small (or big) ways you personally want to come out of this? What are you learning? What good or hard things have surfaced? How do you want your life / faith / heart / work / relationships to be different? 

If I tune into the daily news or read the statistics, that question ripples through me with uncertainty and fear. If I lay the uncontrollable “we” down, and focus on me, I can answer. I want to emerge with some “more” in a year filled with “less.”

More kind

I entered this quarantine with the mantra “Be kind to yourself.” I’ve needed to hear that on repeat. During these 10 months, I’ve lost the ability to juggle more than a few things a week. And I don’t need my inner critic berating me for that.

These months exposed that I live in a system which benefits me at the expense of others. It’s revealed that I’m all for you doing well as long as it doesn’t affect my bank account or my children’s future.  I pray I emerge more generous and willing to welcome others to share in my privilege.

As conflicts and divisions increased this year, especially in the church and among family and friends, my mantra shortened to “Be kind.” I want to emerge, by the grace of God, without breaking relationships or avoiding people who believe differently than I do. In a world where so many are loudly “right,” how can I quietly love?

More resilient

My physical and mental fall-apart accelerated in lockdown. I damaged my knee, fractured my tooth, had a scary reaction to wasp stings, gained some of the infamous pandemic pounds, and slid into the gray jello of depression. Courage is choosing to keep coming back even if I’m three steps further behind each time, (hobbling, swollen, with a snaggle-tooth smile). This pandemic has made me accept the fact I’m not going to win any races, but I want to keep stumbling forward, even if I could be hired as an extra in a zombie movie.

More grateful

The small-big things this year fill me with thankful wonder: That in this quarantine our kids are neither toddlers nor teens. (My prayers for all the parents and teachers in the thick of it.) That our son spent time with us as he worked remotely. That my 88-year-old mom has been safe. For a camera and how it slows me down to see the beauty around me. For walks with my husband and our dog, both who still like me after lockdown. For a safe neighborhood to walk in and a home to return to—a home with electricity, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and two-ply toilet paper. For fresh food in the stores and too many good books to read and listen to. For a future with in-person concerts, spontaneous unmasked get-togethers, and worship services where we can sit side by side and “sing loudly (and in my case, poorly) for all to hear” without fear of spreading disease.

Thank you, Jesus, that nothing this year surprises you and good will come from what you’re doing inside of me—inside of all of us—this unprecedented season. More than anything, I want to emerge more deeply in love with you, Jesus. And to relish the reality that you love me right where I am (even if it’s huddled up with Netflix and my stash of dark chocolate peanut butter cups) in these hard and holy moments.

This Advent: Wrestling Until We Rest

No. No. No.

In the past month, we've attended too many funerals (masks and distancing making it even harder). For an 11-year-old boy who drowned in a creek. For a man who succumbed to suicide leaving a wife and three children. For a mother who died in her sleep five months pregnant. We’ve grieved for those who’ve lost family and friends to Covid-19, one who lost her brother and her twin sister. We’ve agonized with friends who stayed by their youngest daughter's side as she delivered a stillborn son.

I’m flooded with “it-should-not-be-this-way” raging shouts in my head.

No! No! No!

I keep saying “No, No, No” for friends wounded by betrayal from fellow Christian teammates. For a widow forced to face the total chaos and renovation to her home and belongings because of smoke damage. On her own. For single friends longing not to be single. For my 88-year-old mother and all those locked away in their retirement homes, wondering if it’s worth not being able to touch anyone for a year. For political tensions separating family and friends more than any medical pandemic. For all those waiting for justice, for steady employment, for a child, for healing (or at least an easing of pain), for adult children to return to faith, for peace and safety in their own homes and hearts and minds.

No. No. No.

I am grateful Jesus tells us to come to him as children, even when we’re weary, confused, hurting, “hissy-fit” children. I am grateful God will not let me go as I pummel him with my angry and fearful prayers. I am grateful I can’t pry myself away from his embrace. This truth is embedded in me from Romans 8:38-39, TPT

So now I live with the confidence that there is nothing in the universe with the power to separate us from God’s love. I’m convinced that his love will triumph over death, life’s troubles, fallen angels, or dark rulers in the heavens. There is nothing in our present or future circumstances that can weaken his love. There is no power above us or beneath us—no power that could ever be found in the universe that can distance us from God’s passionate love, which is lavished upon us through our Lord Jesus, the Anointed One!

No. No. No.

That’s been my honest, wrestling prayer with God this season. I love the word “wrestle” because rest is nestled right in the middle of it.

I will wrestle until I rest. And then wrestle and rest again.

That rest isn’t found in pat answers but in the mystery and wonder of a God who is beyond my questions and tantrums. That rest isn’t in my understanding, but in a God who understands and loves me. His answer is in the birth, life, death, and resurrection of his Son, Jesus Christ.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

In this Advent season, I am meditating on Luke 1, on Mary’s wrestling  with “how will this be?” releasing into the rest of “let it be to me according to your word.”  I think about Mary’s yes in a No! No! No! world

Her yes to not be afraid. Her yes to receiving God’s favor and grace. Her yes to being overshadowed by God’s power. Her yes to his word and will. Her yes to the impossible. Her yes to bearing greatness. Her yes to magnify the Lord and rejoice in God her Savior as she births the son destined to die.

In this dark, waiting-for-his-return Advent season, I long for Jesus to come and change all the “no’s” of this broken, painful, not-right world into that glorious final “YES!” of making all things as they should be.

Rest. Rest. Rest.

If you’re a wrestler like me, I pray Psalm 131 comforts you. It takes a lot of squalling and squirming before I settle down and rest, quieted, my soul humbled in his presence. I pray in this hard season, you will find rest and contentment in his presence.

Lord, my heart is meek before you.
I don’t consider myself better than others.
I’m content to not pursue matters that are over my head—
such as your complex mysteries and wonders—
that I’m not yet ready to understand.
I am humbled and quieted in your presence.
Like a contented child who rests on its mother’s lap,
I’m your resting child and my soul is content in you.
O people of God, your time has come to quietly trust,
waiting upon the Lord now and forever.
Psalm 131, TPT

Wait. Wait. Wait.

As we long for things to be made right and for Jesus' return this Advent, as we wrestle to come to the point of surrender of “Let it be to me,” may we quietly trust and "Wait with hope. Hope now; hope always!"(Ps. 131:3b, MSG)

How Will We Emerge? Guest Contributors Pat and Tammy McLeod

Bill and I count Tammy and Pat McLeod some of our closest friends. Chaplains at Harvard and working with Cru for more than 35 years, they wrote Hit Hard: One Family’s Journey of Letting Go of What Was—and Learning to Live Well With What Is as they dealt with their 16-year-old son Zach’s traumatic brain injury. Little did they know that the whole world would experience ambiguous loss in this year of pandemic. Since then they’ve hosted Covid-19 Conversations to help people name and process the types of losses they’re experiencing. One of the most powerful aspects of their book is the honest and very different way they dealt with grief as a couple. In this year of loss and loneliness, fear and fighting, divisions and denials, it comforts me to read the ways they’ve struggled and their faith and marriage survived.

Below Tammy shares about what she’s lost and found during this year, and what she hopes will continue. Pat shares about the loss of “home” in a quarantine.  

Lost and Found in the Pandemic and Hopes for the Future

Tammy McLeod

In a recent large group Zoom meeting with Harvard students, I asked them to find two empty containers, labeling one Lost and the other Found. In small groups, we took five minutes silently to write our losses on slips of paper and place them in our Lost jar. We did the same with our Found jar, and then we shared with each other what we wrote—ambiguous loss made tangible.  

I was introduced to the term ambiguous loss—having and not having—after my sixteen-year-old son suffered a brain injury playing football and became severely disabled for life.

One exercise that helped me during those early days of my son’s injury was to write out what I lost and what I still had. Reflecting on this question during the pandemic helped me once again. I started by listing my losses.

What I lost: giving scheduled talks, traveling to see adult children, attending conferences where I would see colleagues and friends, serving in a South African township, extending hospitality to college students and friends, ministering to students in person, worshipping in person, rowing, lifting at my gym, and attending social events with friends.

My losses weren’t as severe as others who lost loved ones, jobs, financial stability, and more through the pandemic. For these people I mourn and pray. Nevertheless, I learned through the loss of my son that comparing losses doesn’t help but grieving losses does. I listed and grieved my losses, and then I reflected on what I still have during the pandemic.

What I still have: meeting with God daily, speaking about ambiguous loss, talking with family members, ministering to students, worshipping, and attending conferences online, meeting people and exercising outdoors.

In addition, I listed new things I had found.

What I found: fewer events and less driving has been a blessing, more time to care for myself in a pandemic has been life-giving, people all over the world can volunteer to lead student ministry since everything is online.

In addition to reflecting on questions above, I enjoyed thinking about what I hope to see when the pandemic is over.

What I Hope: that I am a more compassionate person having learned how to listen as people grieve their losses, that I have found ways to serve in the city to help make sure those with fewer resources receive care, that I remember joy is not based on circumstances, what I possess, or what I have the freedom to do, that I will continue to be in nature every day since God’s beauty strengthens me, that my daily prayer walks with my husband continue, that I still linger at the dinner table instead of jumping up to clean the dishes, that I remember how important family relationships are to me.

What I Hope Communally: that we as a country are more attentive—that we see what is happening and act on what we see, that the peaceful protests of this year lead to change; that we confess sin—our own and those of our nation—including systemic racism, that we will make reparations where needed, that we will share power, and that the divisions in our country will be healed.

The Ambiguous Loss of “Home”

Pat McLeod

I thought I knew a lot about ambiguous loss. My wife and I co-authored a book about it—about our own experience of both “having” and “not having” our son, Zach, after he was traumatically brain injured playing football. We have lived with, experienced, studied and even taught about ambiguous loss.

But when the pandemic hit and ambiguous loss became ubiquitous, I felt my own understanding of ambiguous loss grow in new dimensions of life. Perhaps the most unexpected (albeit mundane) dimension of ambiguous loss that I have experience and that will likely stay with me when the pandemic passes is the ambiguous loss of home.

Our home is still here, but it is not here the way it once was. Prior to the pandemic, home was a haven, a resting place from work. It was a shelter where I could relax, connect, and converse with the people I love most over a warm, home-cooked meal.

When COVID hit, our homes became our office, classroom, church, conference room, gymnasium, counselor’s chair, and zoom background.

Prior to the pandemic, I rarely worked from home. Even when I had to spend the majority of my day on my computer, I was too distracted at home to get much done. I was too attracted to the many indulgence I could enjoy, play with, or eat, the many beds on which I could nap, the many spaces I could organize, clean up, or fix.

But now that my home has become my office, I no longer have “home” the way I once had it—the haven, the refuge, the place to unwind. The dilemma has reversed itself. Before I couldn’t work at home, now I can’t rest there.

I anticipate that as we emerge from this pandemic, more and more of the way we work will happen from home in front of screens on our computers and smart phones. It will require intentional and creative energy to preserve a home space (temporally and physically) for rest, where we can cease striving, be quiet, be still, turn off our screen, tune out the noise of the world and attend to the quiet speaking voice of God, as well as the concerns and issues on the mind of my wife and kids.

Two practical steps that have helped me grow my resilience to the ambiguous loss of home through COVID-19 that I plan to continue as we emerge from the pandemic include:

1)    Initiate regular conversations with my wife Tammy (and our kids) about our rhythm of lives: How are we going to observe Sabbath rest each week? When are we shutting down each day? How will we shut down? How can we protect rest in each other’s schedules?

2)    How can we structure our home living spaces so that they can be more conducive to meeting with God, communing with loved ones and resting? How can we do this and still create a productive workspace in our home?

Pat and Tammy are available for speaking (by zoom and hopefully in person later this year) and in your own journey with ambiguous loss. You can contact them through their website, Facebook, and Instagram. You can order Hit Hard in print or audiobook.

How Will We Emerge? Guest Contributor Leslie Bustard

I met Leslie at the magical Laity Lodge at a conference in the summer of 2019. Little did either of us know what the next year would hold. The way she sees, the way she writes about what she sees, and the way she embraces her life and family reminds me of Annie Dillard’s quote, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.”  Leslie is “living a full life, full in the fullness of God.” Ephesians 3:19 MSG. She is a kindred treasurer hunter in search of beauty everywhere and in everyone. Thank you, Leslie, for these words.

“Christ plays in ten-thousand places”[1] — even in the midst of sorrow and suffering. Seeking out beauty has been one way to build my hope in Jesus through the hardships of this year.  This daily attentiveness has been how I have sought to “co-operate with holy grace in every moment of my existence."[2]  

The ground is still solid.

The grass is still full of green.

For an hour each morning, I take a walk, eyes open to my surroundings. The piles of clouds and the flirting sunlight inevitably grab my attention, as do porches with rocking chairs, overflowing flower boxes, dancing butterflies, and leaves floating down to the pavement. These walks continued when spring turned into summer and summer flowed into fall. Details I was attentive to have nestled into my imagination, helping me hold onto the grace of a quiet hope.

 The squirrels are still running along high wires.

The bees are still searching for clover.

In 2020 I have been battling Stage 4 melanoma and Stage 2 breast cancer and struggling with the side effects of the cancer medicines—such as inflamed knees. Each morning walk is more than exercise—it’s a way to loosen my knees, clear out my worries, and be attentive to God’s work. During this time of cancer and COVID I have tried to pay attention to all the goodness that comes to me. Scripture, nature, poetry, friends’ messages, songs, stories, and artwork have been my daily companions. My spirit agrees with Walter Wangerin, who said of Beauty that I should not simply “make a memory of it, but to know it now.”[3]

The trees are still playing shadows with the sun.

And the neighbors’ flowers are still blooming.

A friend encouraged me to share with my community the beauty I was seeing in the valley of the shadow of death. These words were an invitation to keep doing what has been natural to me over the years: loving Jesus by sharing beauty with the people in my life. So, I have posted online and written letters with Bible verses, song lyrics, poems, book excerpts, and artwork.

Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love;

that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.[4]

Jesus’ question “What do you want me to do for you?”[5] adorns a postcard on my desk, reminding me to be bold in my prayers during this crazy, upside-down time. Among my many requests, I often pray, “Lead us this day, Lord Christ, that we might walk its paths in the light of the hope of our coming redemption.”[6] When we all emerge from this dark season, I still want my eyes fixed on paths lit by hope. Every day I want to see the beauty of the Lord resting upon me[7], and I want to be someone who both sees and shares with others how Christ plays in ten-thousand places.

[1] From the poem “As Kingfishers Catch Fire” Gerard Manly Hopkins: Poems and Prose (Penguin Classics, 1985)

[2] Schleske, Martin; The Sound of Life’s Unspeakable Beauty (Eerdmans, 2020)

[3] Wangerin, Walter; Letters from the Land of Cancer (Zondervan, 2010)

[4] Psalm 90:14 (ESV)

[5] Mark 10:51 (ESV)

[6] McKelvey, Douglas; Every Moment Holy (Rabbit Room, 2019)

[7] Psalm 90:17 (KJV)

Leslie Anne Bustard takes great joy in loving people and places, whether at church, around her kitchen table, or in a classroom. She delights in words and the way poets and storytellers put them together, and at the beauty found in the details of ordinary life. Reading, writing, teaching literature, baking, producing high school theater, and museum-ing are some of Leslie’s favorite things. Leslie writes for The Cultivating Project and has also written for Deeply Rooted magazine. As one of the partners of Square Halo Books, Leslie created and hosted the podcast The Square Halo. Now she is developing and editing a book titled Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to the Best Children’s Books. Another place to find her work is her Caring Bridge, where she shares her cancer journey, her love for Scripture, poetry, and art, and how Jesus has been sustaining her.