twentynothings

The 'Nones' are on the rise, one of every three,
and experts scramble to decide what this means.

How did we get to a place where 20% of us
no longer affiliate with any one religion?

We were watching. That's how.

through services and in Sunday schools
on Capitol steps and under overpasses,
God became much more mysterious
than bullet points
or political agendas.

We are a generation of wanderlusts.
Aesthetes. Nomads.

Products of the corporate ladder,
bent on mixing the perfect cocktail
of organic passion and filtered purpose. 

And when we declare that we are not sure about big-T Truth,
perhaps what we are really saying is that we have no desire to associate
with extremists who picket at funerals and exile their own family members.

We are well-informed, well-educated, well-kept,
and unwell.

We are less sure than we appear in our Facebook profiles.

And the most dangerous belief of all
is the one that says

We can save the world. 

Dear Dallas,

              I was 19 years old when you came to my college. My freshman year was wrapping up, and I was failing desperately at my attempt to grow while clinging to old habits and thought patterns. I wanted to adopt new and fruitful ways of abiding with God without sacrificing anything of the person I was. I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to be safe. I wanted life in Christ to cost me nothing. Those were the motivations trailing me to Chapel on that Spring morning, to hear you speak about virtue. Me and my pride shuffled into a long, wooden pew and your baritone proclamations fell like heavy sacks on my tired shoulders. When you refuse to live from the vine, any fruit you are asked to hold feels more like stones, and your teaching was heaviest of all. It was a gavel drop on a year of excuses, of hiding loneliness with achievement, of uncertainty about the world and my place in it.

           On that day, in that pew, I pleaded guilty of faking my devotion to Christ. If your talk had ended three minutes earlier, I've no doubt that I would have walked out of that service without an ounce of hope. But after a thirty-minute exposition of 2 Peter, you concluded your talk with a nod of understanding:

"What I want you to say to you is, there is not a thing that Jesus commanded us to do that we cannot do if you go through the process of learning and discipleship. Not a thing. Now, you can't do it by yourself, but you don't have to do it by yourself. He'll help you. He'll be your teacher. But it is a decision we have to make." 

        Your gentle conclusion brought me to tears. I walked with a throng of mostly men to an after-lecture Q & A session. A question burned within me, but the courage to ask it was nowhere to be found. I listened carefully as you addressed the multitude of hands waving in the air. I laughed when you kindly asked Dr. Glenney (a former student of yours) to keep his questions at bay, in order to let the rest of us academic plebians have a chance. I took that grace as a favorable sign, and my pale arm shot up from the side of the room.

        "The young woman in the back." you said. I turned to see how many other young women there were. A few fellow admirers nearby gave me nods of encouragement. My time had come, and somehow I opened my mouth wide enough to say, "What about friends? Where do I find this fellowship you talk about?" If you only knew how deep that question had nestled in my being. If you only knew how often I had walked alongside classmates, making small talk and feeling utterly alone. You didn't know my story, but you replied with two sentiments I still haven't forgotten. First, you compared friendship to waves-with ebbs and flows that God orchestrates in perfect sovereignty. And second, you admonished me to trust. To continue seeking Christ and pursuing His will in my life, and then, to take note of who was walking beside me on that narrow journey.

        5 years later, and it turns out that looking to my left and my right is exactly how I've found the ones who are closest to me-even my husband. When I think of how those companionships began, it's not hard to trust that God will continue to bring true friends in good time. In fact, in almost every case, I shook hands with my dearest friends without an inkling of who they would someday become in my life. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

       To a far-off admirer like me, you left with almost no warning. Stage 4 cancer. 77 years old. Too soon. But death never seemed to phase you, at least from the ways you taught it. It was a matter of transition from a partial Kingdom of God reality to its fullness. Some are calling you "a man from another time zone." That sounds to me like a mark of a true disciple: a man with a timeless life. Your teachings, your writings, your words of wisdom to anxious young Christians in the Spring of their lives-these things are part of the reason why you will long outlive the day you passed away.

Gratefully,

Lacy

what i'll remember

 I'll remember the green tubs overflowing with flowers-

an invitation to create, to make mistakes, to step back and savor beauty. 

I'll remember trying to make my bouquet extraordinary 

and after minutes of frustration, 

finally settling with one bunch of the same bloom:

Ranunculus. My favorite. 

I'll remember my husband lending a hand the day before, 

pushing and pulling and arranging,

stepping in to assist in ways that I couldn't.

I'll remember falling in love with him

all over again.

I'll remember the looks shared like secrets

across tables and faces and plates

displaying a love that was worthy of its union. 

I'll remember my breathtaking friend,

and the light that glowed from someplace deep within her

spilling off her shoulders onto the California landscape.

I'll remember windows-how they opened to views that I couldn't resist.

This moment was captured on a bridesmaid's phone 

as the bride and groom took photos on the front lawn, 

but another window moment happened the following day

when they pulled up to her parent's house

 incognito in a classic Corvette and a straw hat

to collect a forgotten set of keys before the Napa honeymoon began.

I waved behind window panes at my beloved friend and her new husband,

my arms shaking with some mix of bitter and sweet,

She waved back, blew me a kiss

and sped off into the sun. 

when it's time for a retreat

"I need a retreat," I hear myself say

at a the end of a meeting with my community leader. 

I rarely know what I need, 

and in the few cases when I do, 

I rarely tell someone else.

But in this case, for reasons somewhat unbeknownst to me, I did,
and now my bags are packed for a week-long directed retreat in Southern Maine.
Alone.

I confessed to B and J last week that I expected the first 48 hours
to be full of meaning and renewal and prayer
before taking a drastic turn for the worse on day three.

 C told me over the phone that it might actually be the opposite-

I may be detoxing for the first 48 hours 

before I'm able to embrace the remaining part of the stay. 

Or, worst fear of all, maybe the two bookends-of-awful will combine, 

and I'll have only a tiny 2-hour window
to inhabit as much of God's presence as I possibly can. 

I've got hiking shoes and a book by Foster and my journal
and a box of tea and my camera and toiletries and two sweatshirts
but I am afraid all this retreat-approved stuff will not be enough. 

That nothing I bring will be able to fill my time.  

Then again, I get the feeling that once I'm there, 

I won't be operating on "my time" anymore.

"I don't care if life gets crazy, if I'm pushed here or there, if I'm spinning in circles, 

as long as I'm centered. I just want my roots in God to go deep," 

I spit out to K during our much-needed catch-up. 

We both pause to let my list of demands rest.

"Yah, really just trying to keep my expectations low." 

We both laugh. 

I am afraid, I am scattered, I am defensive, I am in pain,

and I am going. 

 I wonder what will meet me there, and when.

for the woman who thinks she is to blame

I know you believe this is your fault. 
as you talk to the counselor
as you state the facts
as you connect the dots
as you pray for help

I see you, deep down.

I know what you say to yourself
behind lock and key, in your heart of hearts
when its past midnight and you still can’t find sleep.

You take these shards and sins

that hit you one time, left a mark, fell down beside you
and you resurrect them just so you can inflict another pain
on your own terms.

You cut your self-skin
because you think this is what it must mean to be broken

                                                                                    real

                                                                                    human

                                                                                    in control

You say to yourself
I am the kind of woman who deserves
to be corrected.
I am the kind of woman who deserves
to be passed over.
I am the kind of woman who deserves
to be slandered.
I am the kind of woman who deserves
to be left.

I take this opportunity
you have given me by turning off your car radio
to remind you how I treat women.

When you cannot defend yourself
When you imagine how bad your past looks on paper
When you try to mask sadness with laughter
When you let anger into your inner chambers
When you ignore the hollow ache
When you refuse the grace I make plain

I stand in the gap of your soul’s chasm. 

I push through a throng of people
all intent on being with me,
and the whisper-touch of your hand on my hem
is enough to make me turn around. 

I come into the kitchen
interrupting your constant activity 
and instead of jumping to conclusions
I listen to your complaint.

I take a knee to be nearer to you
in the dust and sand and insatiable heat
and fight for others to see a bit of themselves
in you. 

The love you want and need and can barely dare to hope for

The love that liberates you from fault and blame

The love that would die to set you free

is yours. 

My life is the proof. 

mark 5:25-34
luke 10:38-42
john 3:3-11  

Jake the Giant Guest

Welcoming the stranger, it's part of our culture.
Often a guest joins us for a meal.
Often we don't know when or who.

"Tonight, it's a teenage boy. At risk."
and after we wonder what's in the pantry,
we wonder what stories he'll share.

He says nothing at all;
His size does the talking for him.
Six feet, six inches, six words in six hours.

"He'll be coming more often,"
and after we wonder how to keep him busy,
we wonder what's in the pantry.

Each time he comes, he eats hardly a thing.
Never seen such a large man so picky at the table.

He sits with us and watches the Hallmark channel
without complaint. When he has the remote, he chooses cartoons.
Two hundred plus pounds of not-quite-grown-up.

The last day I am with him,
we work together in the garden.
We talk about football and his chances.

He shows me some weeds I miss.
How does he notice something so small?
And how do I, a foot closer to the ground, miss it?

I smile and keep talking. I ask him what the future holds.
"Maybe this," he says. "Maybe l'Arche."
 And right then I think of all the heavy lifting he could do.
"I like the sound of that" I reply, adjusting a tomato plant.

That night, I drive him home.
"Right here is good," and out he goes,
walking down the dark street in the rain.
 I can't imagine where he's going,
or what will happen to him after football season ends.




Three months later, Irene suffocates our homes and
we shovel inches into piles for hours.
I come home full of complaint.

"How was your day?" I demand from my husband.
"Good," he sighs. "Jake came."
"Jake?"

"You know, big Jake."
Oh yes, I know big Jake.
"What for?" I ask, wondering what's left in our pantry.

"He came to shovel, then he walked home."
I smile and somehow, I'm not surprised.

It's been another three months since.
I am waiting for him to show up,
                                  to sit with us,
                                  to be our guest again.

Is there such a thing as entertaining angels, aware?

remembering Lent

Few friends know what I decided to do for Lent, 

and only one brings it up regularly. 

She mentioned it for the last time on Friday     

when we were going somewhere together in the Naz van.

There were other, more pressing questions on my mind-

in particular, whether or not to act

on the riskiest opportunity I've encountered in quite awhile-

so I was busy in the middle seat,

conjuring up all the possible ways that things could go wrong

when my friend brought up my Lenten obligation. 

"Lacy, have you had coffee?"

 My attention jolted back to the present moment. 

"Oh, no. Still no coffee."

"Wow," she sighs.

That reaction just wouldn't do. 

It sounded almost as if she were impressed,

and I certainly couldn't let her get away with thinking 

that this was some sort of accomplishment.

"Well, it's not what I thought it would be,"

I said as we sped through an intersection.

"Honestly, I feel further away from God 

then I did when Lent started."

 I continued riding that southbound train of thought,

rambling on about how the addition of some spiritual practice

would be much more beneficial

than the manipulation of a caffeine habit. 

(That's really what it ended up being, after all.

One cup of coffee replaced with two cups of tea.)

In the future, I will meditate

or memorize Scripture

or something like that.

She doesn't buy it.

"No, it's good."

 she says

and then adds,

"Commitment."

Commitment.

Now that's a word I'm not comfortable with.

It's prickly and cold and lacks feeling.

And if I'm anything at all,

I'm a feeler.

But perhaps she is right.

I heard God tell me to give up coffee

and I gave it up. 

I cannot tell you what I gained.

 I cannot tell you if Lent is about gaining anything at all.

 I have a feeling it is not. 

I have a feeling it is about listening when He speaks

and for that moment,

for forty days, 

for as long as it takes,

remembering what He said.  

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, 
the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb.  
They found the stone rolled away from the tomb,  
 but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus.  
While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men 
in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them.   
In their fright, the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, 
but the men said to them, 

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!  
Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee:  

‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, 

be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ”  

Then they remembered his words.

Luke 24:1-8