Jesus said to his disciples, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”
After he took the children in his arms, he placed his hands on them and blessed them.

Mark 10:14b-16

Joye and I were children together. I suspect many of you could say the same thing. Of course, she had already been a child for more than three decades before I came on the scene, but age has always been a poor indicator of youth. In a world where far too many young people are forced to abandon childhood prematurely, Joye was a wonderful exception.

Exceptionality seemed to saturate Joye’s life from the beginning. Born at a time when mainstream culture didn’t value difference and uniqueness as it does today, Joye was exceptionally loved by her family — her parents, Lacy and Emaline; her sister Jane; and later, her brothers, Danny and David.

Love didn’t flow one way in Joye’s life, though. She gave from the depths of her spirit, lavishing love and affection on everyone she came to know. A visit with one of her many cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces or nephews never failed to elicit excitement from Joye, whether the reunion followed a years-long absence, or was simply a part of her weekly routine.

Joye’s affection wasn’t limited to her family circle. She knew how to be a friend, and she treasured her friendships above all possessions. Joye had a wide circle of friends drawn from many places — her Sunday School class at First Baptist Church; weekly meetings at the city recreation center where she played basketball and worked on craft projects, and at the workshop where she diligently ironed and folded strangers’ laundry for a weekly paycheck that she could call her own.

As a young child, I looked up to Joye with the same idolization that all young children have for older children — she was someone not so far removed from my understanding of the world as the adults that circled around us, but still had enough experience and insight to merit my utmost respect. Then, for too few wonderful years, Joye and I were the same. I looked forward to visits at grandma’s house and playing with Aunt Joye. We liked watching the same movies; we played the same games; we worked on the same puzzles; and, with help from Teddy Ruxpin, we read the same books. Before long, however, I grew bored with those movies; I wanted to spend my playtime outside instead of playing games on the living room floor; and I had new books to read for school. I continued growing up, while Joye stayed the same.

“Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

The truth of those words is easy to miss, but those of us who knew Joye well had a clear model of the kind of life Jesus was talking about.

Joye’s childlike personality meant she was trusting, but not naïve. When she called you her friend, she opened herself up completely to you. Joye had no secrets from anyone, because she had nothing to hide. When any of her friends or family did things that hurt her, she felt it. She wept just as deeply, if not as frequently, as she laughed. But Joye didn’t hold grudges. Her trusting nature made her quick to forgive. Joye never let the sun set on an argument, not because she forgot how she had been hurt or because she was credulous enough to think it would never happen again, but because she knew the fear of being hurt paled in comparison to the joy of forgiving others and starting again. I am convinced that Joye experienced friendship in a more profound way than I have ever known, and it was only made possible because she chose to open herself up to trusting others, even when experience and worldly wisdom would caution otherwise.

Joye’s childlike spirit freed her from the pervasive lie that there is shame in being dependent on other people. Joye depended on others to provide for many of her basic needs throughout her life — not because she was helpless, but because she recognized that she was a part of something bigger than herself. Joye was part of a loving family. She was a member of her church. She was a citizen of her community. Joye’s life defies the notion that independence is a virtue. She didn’t hesitate to receive from others, and she didn’t hesitate to give of herself. She took pride in the work she did, inside and outside of her home. If an unexpected chore was added to her normal routine, she didn’t begrudge the extra labor. Joye’s pure generosity of spirit was made possible because, like every child who hasn’t yet forgotten, she knew that her success in life was also dependent on others.

Joye’s enduring childlike nature afforded her a unique perspective on life. Her trusting personality allowed her to love deeply. Her humble attitude permitted her to give generously, and accept help graciously. Let us honor her life by doing the same.

Because I was able to start a few weeks before the summer crowds arrived, Doug, the manager, decided to train me to run the store, so that I could help teach the other new hires that hadn’t yet arrived, and also act as an assistant manager, giving him a chance to break away from the shop every now and then, whenever the stress of working in a tourist hotspot during the summer became too much for the older man to bare.

Just as Doug predicted, on the 31st of May, five college students from Europe, having just arrived in the country on various flights that morning and settled into their apartments, came looking for work. We hired them all: an Irish boy named Charlie; two Irish girls, a tall blonde named Christine and a more reserved red-head named Colette; a very serious Romanian boy name Bram and his girlfriend, a truly beautiful young lady called Catalina, who was venturing beyond the borders of her homeland for the first time. All six of us were the same age, give or take a year or two, and we all had the same goal in mind for the summer — enjoy living at the coast as much as possible, and try to save at least a couple hundred dollars to take back to school in August.

By the second week of June, the summer business was in high gear and our store stayed packed well into the night. One Thursday evening, Doug was burning up the cash register taking orders faster than most of our sun-bleached customers could spit them out, while Catalina and I were doing our best to keep the ice cream coming. I noticed that Catalina had been drawn over to an angry customer upset because the sundae she had made wasn’t exactly what he had ordered. His frustration didn’t phase her a bit, and she told him that he could keep the incorrect sundae and she would make him another right away. At this point, my assertive personality, eager to prove myself as a straight-laced businessman, despite my apron and ice cream scoop, forced me to step in and tell the complaining customer that, although we would quickly fill his order as he expected, I would need to discard the compromised bowl of ice cream. Catalina gave me a sideways glance, took the ice cream from my hand and slid it back over to the customer as she told me that we couldn’t let it go to waste; it was an honest mistake, and the right mix of ice cream would be coming up soon.

I stood firm and said yes, we would make a new sundae but this first one had to go to the trash. From a business perspective, this is a matter of consistency, protecting one’s image and resources. Customers may intentionally place an “incorrect” order in an attempt to exploit hospitality and steal free food; employees may intentionally prepare the wrong item as well, using the “mistake” as an excuse to set the product aside and enjoy free food on a break later on during their shift. Consistently disposing of mis-made orders is the only way to avoid either of these practices.

Of course, I didn’t explain any of this to Catalina, or to the customer. What ended up happening was Catalina ran to the back of the store to cry while I ended up filling the rush of orders and getting the customers in and out as quickly as possible. As the line died down, I went to the back to apologize to Catalina and explain the reasoning behind the policy. Before I got halfway through my apology, she broke through her tears and interrupted me. “Of course if it is the rule, it is the rule. That is fine. But I didn’t know, and you shouldn’t have corrected me in front of the customer,” she said. “It is not very nice, and it is not beautiful.”

I was dumbstruck. I realized just how bad I had goofed everything up. I let business get in the way of people, and that’s not good for the bottom line, no matter where you draw it.

As I drove home that night, I kept hearing her words over again in my head. “It is not very nice, and it is not beautiful.” Not beautiful? That didn’t make much sense. I started to think about the process one goes through in learning a second language, as Catalina had done in preparation for coming to the United States. A simple definition of “beautiful” could be “to look very good.” If this was the way she understood the word, then it would make more sense. I know what someone means when they tell me my actions don’t look good, and I knew that my management that night didn’t look very good at all; not to the customers, to my coworkers, or, in retrospect, to myself.

Though the literal meaning is nearly the same, the phrasing makes a big difference for us native English speakers. When making decisions that impact our relationships with others, do we simply seek to do what looks good, or do we truly try to make every aspect of our lives beautiful?

Absolutely, undeniably, beautiful. That’s the lesson I learned from working at the ice cream shop.

Scripture reading:

Psalm 46

Genesis 25:19-34

Everyone loves to get a deal. Whether it’s a sought after discount on a new car, a buy-one-get-one-free special on a new set of summer shoes, or just a free cup of coffee with a biscuit at Bojangle’s — getting a deal on the things we want makes us feel good. But what is a good deal? Sometimes, we find out only too late that that new car shine blinded us to the real costs of ownership — expensive maintenance, high insurance and low gas mileage. Sometimes those shoes that felt so soft and comfortable in the store end up falling apart the first time you wear them out on the town. Sometimes even Bojangle’s messes things up, and that free coffee I was so excited about ends up burning my mouth on the way down, leaving me with nothing but a bitter aftertaste.

Everyone likes a deal, but not all deals are as sweet as they seem.

My grandmother loves to shop at Belk. Her closet is full of clothes that have only been worn once or twice; quite a few things hanging in the back still have the tags on them, waiting for the right occasion to take them out and show them off. She checks the sale papers every week, whether she needs anything or not. The employees at Belk know her by name, and know what types of things to point out to her when they need to earn a commission. But that’s not why she makes a trip out to Belk every Wednesday afternoon, coupons in hand. It’s not the quality products Belk has, or the friendly staff or the catchy slogans. It’s the hope of getting a good deal. My grandmother will buy baby girl clothes if they are marked down low enough — and there haven’t been any baby girls in our family for years! She just loves to think she’s getting a good deal. One weekend shortly after Kristen and I got married, we were visiting grandma and somehow, we found ourselves in Belk. Grandma knew we needed some new pillows — we were slowly getting the household items all new couples work for when they set out on their own, and new pillows weren’t really at the top of the list, although we definitely could have benefited from some. Our mismatched, thin and torn pillows had made it through four years of college and six moves into new dorm rooms, and that takes a toll on things. Grandma saw that the pillows at Belk were marked down to 50% off, and, unable to let a good deal pass by, she insisted on buying a set for us. We turned her down, trying to make a point of providing for ourselves and living as independent adults. After a few minutes of going back and forth with each other, Grandma realized she wasn’t going to be getting the pillows for us that day, but she couldn’t let the deal slip by either. She motioned for the saleslady to come over, and when she did, Grandma asked her, “How long are these pillows going to be on sale? I think I’ll have to wait and buy them next week, when I’m shopping by myself.” The clerk stumbled over her words for a minute. She wasn’t going to lie, but she didn’t want to upset her best customer with the truth that many a Belk-shopper has already come to realize. Finally, she came out with it. “Actually mam, you can wait until next week. Those pillows aren’t really on sale. We always have them marked half off.”

Everyone wants a deal, but most bargains aren’t really as good as they seem.

Sometimes the things we bargain for are a little more serious than discounted pillows or cheap coffee. Just ask the elderly widow trying to get her insurance company to give her a fair deal, because she knows she can’t afford to buy her groceries and her medicine next month, but she needs to find a way to get both if she wants to keep living on her own. Then there’s the husband and father who knows he’s let his family down one too many times, but he feels in his heart that if he can just get his wife to give him one more chance, things will be different; things will get better. A job interview at the corner convenience store may seem like no big deal to me and you, but for the teenage mother, abandoned by her family and cast out from the church she grew up in, it’s the most serious thing in the world. She fights for that opportunity with all she has, because in that moment of bargaining, it’s the only hope she can see, for herself, and her baby boy.

Everyone likes a deal, but we often find ourselves blinded when it comes to knowing what things are really worth bargaining for.

There is a lot of bargaining going on in our scripture passage today. Jacob, whose very name means “he who deceives,” is remembered as a great bargainer, always fighting for what he perceives to be in his own best interests. But he is hardly the first person in the Bible looking for a good deal. His grandfather Abraham had a reputation for bargaining with rulers and kings, and even with God. Abraham is held up as a model of faithfulness, having uprooted his family and abandoned his home at God’s direction, yet even Abraham dared to question God’s judgment when he learned the city of Sodom was soon to be destroyed. Abraham asked God how many righteous lives it would take for him to spare the city where his nephew Lot had settled. In classic bargaining style, Abraham asks God if he would spare the city for the sake of 50 righteous people. Then Abraham pushes his number down a little to 45. Then 40. Thirty. Twenty. And finally, ten. Abraham bargained hard with God on behalf of the people he loved, and God honored him for it.

Abraham’s bargaining was prompted by his love for his nephew, but more frequently, if we are honest with ourselves, most of our attempts at bargaining are prompted by our own greed.

Us humans, both men and women, young and old, wise and foolish, often mistake the true value of the people, events and things in our lives. When we perceive greener pastures just around the bend, or fear that someone else, God forbid, has been given a better share in life than we have, we turn to bargaining — trying hard to get the best we can for ourselves.

When Rebekah was faced with the reality of a difficult pregnancy, she questioned the wisdom of even having children in the first place. “If it is to be this way,” the mother-to-be said, “why do I live?” I’m sure there were days when my mother, and perhaps some others, had a few second thoughts about the benefits of bringing children — with all of their messes and needs and whining — into the world. But I imagine you would be hard pressed to find any mother or father who couldn’t affirm that parenthood is one of the greatest blessings of life. In the midst of her trouble, Rebekah was ready to trade that future, that joy, the excitement, and the risks, of parenthood, for an easier, more predictable, and certainly more peaceful path.

Fortunately, though, she stayed the course. Her boys were born. Twins. Life was certainly not quiet for Isaac and Rebekah, but I have no doubt their life was filled with laughter and joy as they farmed their land, moving occasionally when the herds required new pastures, and raised their boys together. As brothers will do, though, both Jacob and Esau sought to chart their own courses, to make claims on what they saw as the most important things in life — to be their own men — and so the bargaining continued. On this one day, both of Isaac’s sons, now young men in the own rights, were out doing what they enjoyed. Esau, a man of action and adventure, but also with a deep sense of connection to his home and his roots, was out working the land. Jacob — a curious thinker who loved solving riddles, didn’t mind spending hours in solitude with just his thoughts for company, and often became consumed with thinking of new and better ways of getting things done — decided to cook a stew while he worked over some ideas that had been troubling him.

Esau asks his brother for a bowl of stew. Hardly a big request. Jacob hadn’t bothered himself much with the meal — it was really just a way to pass the time while he worked out his thoughts — he hadn’t even put any meat in the pot! It was just lentils. Jacob seizes the moment though, and tells his twin brother that the bowl will cost him his birthright. As the eldest son — though only a few seconds older than his brother Jacob — Esau was entitled to the bulk of their father’s property. Although Jacob would be welcomed, and even expected, to live his life and raise his children on the family homestead, Esau, as the eldest, would be the patriarch. He would be the decision maker, he would be the one expected to provide for their father and mother in their old age, and he would be the one in control of things as the two brothers sought to bring up the next generation of their family in some measure of comfort.

The birthright is a big deal. It’s a crazy request to ask for in exchange for a bowl of soup. “Is he serious?” Esau probably thought to himself. “Surely Jacob is joking.” Esau jokes right back. His brother knows he is more than a little hungry after a full day’s work. “I am about to die,” Esau teased. “Of what use is a birthright to me?”

Jacob didn’t laugh. “Swear it,” he said. Esau had been doing some thinking that day too. He had been thinking that the traditional way of life seemed a little backwards. Why should he expect more from his parents simply because he was born a moment before his brother? The idea of lording over his brother, and eventually, his sister-in-law, nieces and nephews, didn’t seem very appealing to Esau. Sure he and Jacob didn’t agree on everything, but he was fond of his brother, and saw him as an equal. The old way of birthrights and favoritism didn’t sound like the idea of family that God would desire. Esau loved his father deeply, but he wasn’t very fond of tradition. He wanted to make a new path, to set a new precedent. He had no intention of lording over his brother. Esau had already made up his mind to give up his claim to the birthright. So he swore it. What did it matter to him? He ate his soup, and he left.

Jacob, of course, had other ideas. Esau’s desire to buck tradition may have led him to make a rash deal, devaluing his inheritance. Jacob’s bargaining, however, proves much more costly. In his haste to seize a larger share of property for himself, Jacob effectively gives up the most valuable asset he had — his relationship with his brother. While Jacob persuaded his brother to forfeit the birthright and secured the blessing from his father, his fear of retribution overwhelms him, prompting him to run away from home without so much as a sleeping bag. Jacob misses out on the joy he could have had in his relationship with his brother. Few things are more valuable in life than family, and this was especially true in ancient times. In a society without daycares, nursing homes and health insurance, the family unit was the most dependable resource one could count on for support and welfare. Maybe it still is. Elderly parents depended on their adult children to meet their needs. Moms and dads depended on aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas to help raise their children. When tragedy struck, when crops failed, when wells dried up and livestock died, extended family networks were the only place most people could turn. Jacob and Esau may have been very different men, but as a team, they would have complimented each other perfectly. Building a family home, tending a farm, raising livestock and negotiating disputes with neighboring families would have been much easier with a trusted partner, but Jacob gave that up in his quest for control.

Jacob gave up the joy of raising his family alongside his brother’s. Jacob spent nearly two decades being abused, overworked and deceived by his father-in-law, Laban. He had no one to share his excitement with as he made plans for marriage. He had no trusted friend to confide in as he struggled with the challenges of parenthood, and trying to figure out how to be a good father to sons of his own. He had no one to give him advice, or to bounce ideas off of, when he began making plans for the future, trying to secure some wealth for his new family on his own, apart from his father-in-law’s household.

Jacob gave up all of this and more when he valued wealth and power over relationships. The irony is, of course, that while Jacob betrayed his brother and deceived his father in hopes of seizing the inheritance, he ends up fleeing from home. He severs connection with his mother, father and brother. He is forced to give up not only the share of property he tried to steal from his brother, but also whatever good things his father Isaac had intended to give him all along. Esau, who had no desire for the traditional birthright, gets it all by default. Jacob’s bargaining cost him everything. He is isolated from his family. He is manipulated by his father-in-law. His relationships with his wives and children are laden with strife and arguing.

It is not until Jacob gives up on trying to control people, and starts valuing his relationships, that his life begins to turn around.

When we give up on bargaining, we can fully embrace the good relationships in our lives; And ultimately, it is our relationships, not our wealth, that matter most. When Jacob gives up on battling with his father-in-law and begins to speak with honesty and truth, his family begins to experience peace for the first time.

It’s not until Jacob gives up his need to bargain, and commits to rebuilding his relationship with his brother, that he is able to begin truly living in relationship with God. To be sure, God has been with Jacob, as he is with each of us, every step of the way. God had promised to bless Jacob long before Jacob understood the significance of that blessing. Relationships always work two ways, though, and relationships with God are no different. When Jacob began to value the relationships in his life, he was able to finally begin to experience God’s presence. Jacob committed himself to being reconciled with his brother. He made himself vulnerable, and in his moment of vulnerability, he met God by the river’s edge.

The story of Jacob and Esau begins with conflict, but it ends with grace, as Jacob finally begins to understand what real wealth is. No longer concerned about hoarding things for himself, Jacob sends ahead elaborate gifts for Esau, hoping to appease his brother for all of the pain and suffering he caused him years before. He hopes for the best, but fears the worst. As Jacob came to realize, relationships are risky things.

The story continues in Genesis 33:

Now Jacob looked up and saw Esau coming, and four hundred men with him. So he divided the children among Leah and Rachel and the two maids. He put the maids with their children in front, then Leah with her children, and Rachel and Joseph last of all. He himself went on ahead of them, bowing himself to the ground seven times, until he came near his brother.

But Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck and kissed him, and they wept.

When Esau looked up and saw the women and children, he said, “Who are these with you?” Jacob said, “The children whom God has graciously given your servant.” Then the maids drew near, they and their children and bowed down; Leah likewise and her children drew near and bowed down; and finally Joseph and Rachel drew near, and they bowed down. Esau said, “What do you mean by all this company that I met?” Jacob answered, “To find favor with my lord.”

But Esau said, “I have enough, my brother; keep what you have for yourself. … Let us journey on our way, and I will go alongside you.”

(vv. 1-9, 12)

Jacob began to realize that real wealth lies not in money, or property or power, but in relationships with other people; Relationships that leave us vulnerable; Relationships that open us up to heartache and pain, but also to joy and love. For Jacob, reconciling his relationships with his family allowed him to experience an even deeper relationship with God.

It is our healthy relationships with other people that prepare us for relationship with God.

You see, scripture tells us that God loves us like a father, running out to the road to meet a son whose been away from home for far too long.

But Jesus also says God’s love for us is like a mother hen’s love for her chicks; She longs to gather all her scattered chicks together under her wings, but she refuses to pull them in against their will.

God’s love is like a grandpa, well versed in the joys and hardships of life, offering seasoned words of wisdom and encouragement to his offspring, knowing all the while that many of life’s most important, and most difficult lessons, they will have to experience for themselves.

For Moses, God’s love came in the form of a wise father-in-law, stepping in to fill the void too many men and women experience when, for whatever reason, a biological father isn’t able to do his job.

God’s love is like a mother, the first to shed a tear when her baby falls, but also the first to reach out, pick that child up and set him on his way again.

God’s love is like a brother who doesn’t cut you any slack. He can always be counted on to watch your back when you find yourself down and out. He pushes you to be more than you are, because he sees more in you than you often see in yourself.

God’s love is like a sister who walks beside you every step of the way. She shares your pain, and your dreams. She knows you inside and out.

God’s love is like a friend — a best friend. He never asks you to explain yourself. He never expects a good excuse. He never looks down on you when you fall. But he’s always there when you need him, offering an open hand, and an invitation to share the journey.

The Taylor Cup Softball Game pits the Divinity School students and faculty against the undergraduate Religion Department each spring at Campbell University. This year, for the first time ever, the undergrads won. In truth, their victory was likely the result of a lesson in mercy from their wiser and (typically) older colleagues in the Divinity School.

This morning we headed over to Pullen Park to check on the progress of the renovation work and get some spring pictures of Samuel. The park closed in 2009, and was supposed to reopen this spring with a new enclosure for the carousel, new playground equipment and some updated facilities. The projected completion date has been pushed back to “Late Fall 2011,” according to signs at the park, but there is still a lot of work to get done. The lower half of the park is completely gone. Both playgrounds, gone. Carousel, gone; Train station, gone; Fountain and garden at the main entrance, gone; Sidewalks, gone; Peddle boats, gone; Lake, gone; It’s all gone. Seriously. We hung out at the picnic area at the top of the park and got some great pictures of Samuel, then we headed over to Chavis Park, where renovations have not yet begun, so that Samuel could sit in a swing for the first time. He loved it.

This is a great time of year to get new pictures of the kids, family portraits, engagement photos, or just some fun personal shots to treat yourself to. Book your session today!

I have a more complete gallery of pictures now ready for viewing and ordering here.

Now that Gallery D has been updated to focus a little more on photography, the shortcomings of some of my projects have become a lot more obvious. In particular, my ongoing effort to document life in Benson has been neglected for almost a year. To be honest, it’s a pretty poor effort. To update the project a little bit, and to help me become more disciplined in my photography, I plan to spend at least 30 minutes to an hour several days each week exploring the community and trying new things. Yesterday didn’t work out so well, but I did get to go out this afternoon once Kristen got home. At this time of year, the light seems to be perfect right around 5:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. Our house is just two blocks away from a heavily trafficked rail corridor, and I knew I wanted to get some new shots of trains moving through town. I staked out a good spot with a neat angle that would allow me to get a closeup shot of a train heading through Main Street. I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. I guess my ears were playing tricks on me, because I kept hearing train horns in the distance, but a train never came.

I wandered around downtown a little bit and got some other pictures, then around 6:15, when it was almost too dark for me to hope to get a good shot, I decided to go into the library and browse around. After two and half years in Benson, Kristen and I have still not gotten public library cards. Now I have one! I picked out two books to read for fun, which certainly won’t help with my two critical book reviews and research paper I have due for school in the next few weeks, but I haven’t read a fiction book for fun since I finished Nicholas Nickleby last summer. With the sun hidden beneath the horizon and my new library card tucked in my pocket, I started to head home when, wouldn’t you know it, a train whistle blew. It was the real thing this time — no mistaking it. I hurried back to my spot, checked the light again and got ready. My timing was just a split second off from where I needed to be. I was more than a little nervous standing so close to the tracks in the dark with my back turned toward a speeding freight train. If I watched the train coming, there would be no way I could get the camera up in time. If I waited until the train was in my frame, it would be too late to get the shot. I decided to start shooting when I could see the train’s headlight beaming in front of me. I wanted to get a shot that had the locomotive filling half of the frame, with the buildings on the other side of Main Street still visible as well. In the shot above, you can see the ground illuminated from the train’s light. In the next shot, the locomotive has already filled the frame. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For there is more to life than food, and more to the body than clothing. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn, yet God feeds them. How much more valuable are you than the birds! And which of you by worrying can add an hour to his life? So if you cannot do such a very little thing as this, why do you worry about the rest? Consider how the flowers grow; they do not work or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed like one of these! And if this is how God clothes the wild grass, which is here today and tomorrow is tossed into the fire to heat the oven, how much more will he clothe you, you people of little faith!

Luke 12:22-28 (NET)

Last week on one of the days Samuel and I spent at home together, we had the rare opportunity of watching a miracle unfold before our eyes. I call it rare, because seldom do I take the time to be still and enjoy the many small miracles that happen every day, in the ordinary moments of life. Lately, I feel that I have been so busy trying to get on with the work of life, that I have failed to truly live in the moment. Monday morning, my frazzled scheduled was wiped clean as the elegant simplicity of a flower reminded me of the value each moment holds.

We have a tulip tree growing outside of our kitchen window at the corner of the house. Normally, this tulip tree causes me nothing but frustration. It grows up over our house and drops leaves right into the gutter, which I have to clean out. It grows into our kitchen window and smudges the glass, until I trim it up every few months, knowing it will grow right back. It makes it nearly impossible to keep a neat flowerbed around our kitchen in the summer, when its dense foliage blocks the morning sun. For the other nine months out of the year, the tulip tree is completely bare — a messy tangle of branches and twigs that I’m tempted to cut down each winter because it just doesn’t do anything for our house. But for two weeks out of the year, it is covered with beautiful blossoms that pop up overnight, as if someone gingerly sculpted each one from a block of soft marble swirled with layers of pink and white stone. It’s beautiful, but its beauty is short lived. Next week, its flowers will lay wilted on the ground, replaced with thick green leaves that keep the tree — and my yard — covered throughout the spring and summer.

The tree works hard all year, growing thicker and faster than anything else on our lot, just to spend two weeks in bloom. Last Friday, there wasn’t a blossom on our tulip tree. Sunday afternoon, it was covered in little green buds. Monday morning, as Samuel and I ate breakfast, each bulb, one by one, started to pop open. By the end of the day, the tree was decked out in full colors, basking in the sunlight and radiating with a splendor that surpassed the glory of even the most stately king.

There is a lot I still have to learn from my tulip tree; Things like patience, faithfulness, focus and determination. I find it so easy to get anxious, especially now as I near the midpoint of this semester, and in a few weeks, the midpoint of my M.Div. degree at Campbell. I have learned so much and felt my call to ministry affirmed again and again, but in many ways, I am more confused than ever about what path my life will take after school. I am anxious about the future, but I am reminded that in the end, God is faithful, and my job is to be faithful to the many opportunities for ministry and preparation that I am given each day.

It’s probably not much of a stretch to think that my tulip tree can get a little anxious in November when I bring out the chainsaw and start cutting back the brush around the house, but it keeps growing, and I remember what it will look like the first week in March when the time is just right and all of that hard work pays off in a beautiful way.

Life goes on for the both of us, but how I long to have the faith of a tulip tree.