healthcare.

we walked into her room. she was lying there, in her bed. her breathing was heavy and labored, the sound of it rising above the classical music coming from the small cd player in the corner. her eyes were open, unmoving, seemingly fixated on the wall opposite her. i sat beside her, as the others talked about practical matters such as morphine doses, death certificates, and autopsies. i sat beside her and placed my hand on her head. gently rubbing her aged forehead with my thumb i silently spoke. i’m not entirely sure to whom or what i was speaking, but i suppose it was both to her and my God.

be well.

please comfort.

you’re not alone.

may you find peace.

bring your peace.

not uttering them aloud these short phrases cycled through my mind and heart. i watched her chest rise and fall quickly with each gasping breath. i closed my eyes and words kept speaking themselves from somewhere inside me.

hope.

calm.

care.

peace.

rest.

release.

hospice refers to this phase as “actively dying.” it is during this phase that families prepare for actual death. affairs are put into order.  loved ones say their farewells in their own ways. comfort measures are followed for the individual “actively dying.” and many of the hours are spent waiting. waiting for something to change. waiting for a life to end.

hours later,  she passed from this world. where she journeyed on to from that moment i cannot know, and frankly, i’m not concerned with today. her body was collected. the death certificate arrived at our office, cause of death listed as “failure to thrive.”

as an intelligent woman i am aware that the career i’m hopefully heading into will include it’s fair [or not so fair] share of physical death. my heart aches at that truth and i wish it weren’t the case, but i know it will be. i know i will sit next to beds and do my best to honor someone as they “actively die.” i will probably see too many death certificates reading “failure to thrive.” my prayer is that i will also see healing. that i will also be a part of health and wellness restored. that i will be a woman who chooses to honor life in all it’s phases.

it’s been a few days now since i sat next to her bed. a few days since she passed from this world.

today i am sitting in a coffee shop grateful for the ways in which God is choosing to use this place i am in, these new experiences i am having, to teach me and speak to me and reveal more of his heart and his story in this world.

actively dying and failure to thrive do not only exist in the physical realm. there are people all around me, all around you, who are spiritually gasping to breathe. people, so many people, are spiritually wounded and in need of healing. lives are defined by chronic spiritual depression and anxiety. people find themselves outside the system, spiritually longing for care and unable to access it.  this world is filled with people who don’t even know about the tumors growing in our spirits spreading sickness throughout the rest of our being. we have learned how to function within our spiritual diseases. often overwhelmed, confused, exhausted, or angry we accept a spiritual failure to thrive. people give up. people stop fighting. active death is all around me…and within me at times too.

i keep thinking of the well-known words of Jesus: “i have come that they may have life.” and i keep thinking that i am called and compelled to share that particular part of his story with the world. in every way.

as a child of God, my prayer is that my life, within whatever vocational context i find myself, will be a part of spiritual health and wellness restored. that i will see God’s healing in people’s lives. that i will choose to be a woman who honors spiritual life in all it’s phases. i pray the ways i use my hands and feet and mind and body are ways God will use to share his story with the broken and wounded spirits in this world. i find it hard to imagine anything more holy.

stuck in transition.

i took this photo as lyle and i walked home from the grocery store the other night. it was one of those rare, especially these days, afternoons in which i came home from work and decided to feed two birds with one crumb: walk lyle and get a few groceries for myself. as we walked toward home the day began to fade and the night approached eagerly. it was chilly and as we approached the corner of cornwall & sunset i was struck by the light and colors provided by this street lamp, tree, and sky. pulling out my trusty iphone i snapped a photo and obviously began browsing filters in order to post it on instagram, providing the caption: “i love this time of day. when the sun fades & the street lamps slowly begin to glow.” i continued walking, obviously making it home to finish out my evening of cooking dinner, doing dishes, browsing the internet, maybe reading a bit, and finally crawling into bed.

i do like that time of day. to me it is a calming time. an aesthetically pleasing time. a quiet moment in a long string of busyness. and there is the comfort of knowing  that it won’t be too long before the night fades and the street lamps go dark.  things will go back to the way they were before.

this scene i took notice of on an ordinary walk home from the grocery store seems to be a rather striking image of where i feel myself to be in the greater journey of my life. certain things that once were are fading and other ideas & hopes that have not been are beginning to glow. there is a certain beauty to it, yes. but unlike the photo, unlike the moment on the street corner, i must confess it does not always feel very calming. i would say that rather than calm i feel stirred. shaken. maybe both.

i was reading the other night out of a book written by Richard Dahlstrom. i came across, in a chapter titled “journey” these words: “Every encounter with God in the Bible was an invitation to leave the present behind and move into a different future… …Every case included a transformation. But just as importantly, every journey was disruptive to the sojourner’s comfort zone and status quo… …Another reason we cling to the present is that we fear the unknown chasm that any change will bring to our future. We know that God is calling us to a vocational move, or to speak truth or forgiveness into a relationship, or to live more generously, or to get involved in crossing the social and racial barriers that are all around us. But to do any of these things requires a letting go of status quo. The paradigm of the change-resistant personality is, ‘I may not like the present, but it’s all I’ve got,’ which is a way of saying that I’ll choose a mediocre life that’s a known entity over the risk of an unknown future. After all, to let go of the present might lead to a future that is worse than my predictable yet seemingly boring present.”

the words that stuck out to me: disruptive. fear. worse. unknown. and…God is calling.

in the spring of 2009 i knew i had one year left at the inn. in the summer of 2010 my time there ended. what followed was a year-long process of grieving and a re-entrance into the world of school…as a thirty-something. this year has been a lot of waiting. and through it all friendships have changed – many in sad and strange ways, a few in healthy and hopeful ways, ideas of identity have shifted, questions of purpose have surfaced, ideas regarding faith have been born [or reborn], and transformations have occurred within me that i have yet to share. in short, it seems i have been in transition for, literally, years. and quite frankly, i’m exhausted. what makes it even more exhausting is that i don’t yet see an end. i feel stuck in the moment captured by the photo i took. the day hasn’t fully vanished and the street lamp is not all the way on.

it seems all that is fading is bellingham, professional ministry, understood purpose, known identity, the feeling of being settled, and familial community.

it seems all that is beginning to glow is seattle, nursing school, solitude, the notion of being unsettled, and unknown community.

and unlike the 24-hour day cycle…if i choose to move, if i choose to let one fade and other burn bright, there is no promise that things will go back to the way they were before.

as i read on in Dahlstrom’s book i was confronted with these words: “No growth, no transformation, no fulfillment of the destiny for which we were created is possible without movement.”

well, i suppose this is better than a promise of things going back to the way they were.

so…i’’ll keep filling out those applications, and i’ll keep taking the tiny steps i know how to take. and someday…maybe without even noticing that it has happened…i’ll be unstuck. and i’ll look back and this moment, and in hindsight, it will be as beautiful as the moment i captured with my iphone on the corner of cornwall and sunset.

“it is terrible how much has been forgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.”

it seems i may be starting to forget things. not meaningless things like where i put my keys or what page i was on when i fell asleep last night. but important things. like when we first became friends, and why. or the sound of his laugh and the shape made by the creases on his face. really important things like what their small, dusty, hands felt like in mine. i can’t quite remember what to talk about today, or what it’s like to not be sorry all the time. it’s difficult to recall what it used to feel like to huddle together under a blanket ceiling and make believe. remember when making believe was as familiar as breathing? i barely can. i am starting to forget the rhymes he repeated. i can remember every word to a mediocre mid-‘90’s rap song, but i can’t remember the way the kitchen smelled when she burned the green beans…every time. it seems i may be starting to forget things. like feeling certain about something, anything. like what it felt like to be really be seen. or what it means to look and actually see. i can’t remember a world-view not tainted with cynicism. i forget the hope i knew while surrounded by poverty. it seems i may be starting to forget things. i wish it were the meaningless things like who the bachelor chose last season or what film won best picture at the oscars. but it is the important stuff that i’m forgetting. like what it’s like to want to dance. or the freedom that came from letting go. i seem to have forgotten the conversations we had that changed me. and who, again, was i before?

because, i think, when we became friends my world brightened. i wanted to be your friend because you were beautiful. you still are, and i want so badly to remember that. and his laugh, well it is contagious and you really should hear it sometime. if i close my eyes, and try real hard i can remember their shape…like waves crashing the shore with each exhale. and i am fairly certain that no hands have ever felt as perfect in mine as theirs did. like God was saying he had made us for each other. and i faintly remember speaking a story worth hearing and not needing to be sorry – but, it also seems i may just want to remember that. i look at him now and it’s difficult to believe we ever fit under those blankets, but man our dreams filled those small tents. i’ll have to ask him, while i still can, about his rhymes. i bet he remembers, his mind far more finely tuned than mine. she burned them, i do remember, because her mother always had and she only wanted to share in the family tradition. it’s difficult to remember, so difficult. i think perhaps the last time was the day i said i was through. i think that may have been the last time i felt certain. could it have been that long ago? honestly, my memory is failing me. it is true, i can’t remember a world-view not tainted by cynicism…but i do remember that it felt exhilarating. to trust the world was redeemable, and in the hands of a lovely God. tonight, sitting here in my comfortable home i want to hope, and my inability to do so makes me sick. maybe if i heard the music, it would trigger my memory and the desire to dance would return. and maybe, just maybe, if i tried to loosen my grip. if i allowed the ball inside of me to unravel. if i just practiced a little deep breathing, i would remember what it felt like to be free. tonight, as i sleep, i pray i hear the conversations we had, the ones that changed me, because if i do, i promise i will write them down.

i want to be a person who remembers. it seems, at least to me, that the only way to move forward, is to remember the things that came before. as much as i can. because in the remembering i find us…redeemable and in the hands of a lovely God.

perspective.

i got a little perspective this week. and it came in the form of scripture reading at church sunday morning. it isn’t surprising to hear scripture read on a sunday morning, and it shouldn’t be surprising that it offers perspective – but this past sunday the perspective i got sort of, how do they say, knocked the wind out of me. in a good way. i think my perspective has been off lately. not intentionally, but i think i have been focusing on other things. i was thankful to be re-directed, i left church so thankful to be reminded of this better world view, this better idea of how to see others, this more beautiful way of living – the way of life.

and then again, just today, i found myself needing this perspective again. needing to be reminded again. needing the wind knocked out of me again. i think i may need to post this somewhere – in a place my eyes fall each day… because i want this to be my perspective:

Is not this the fast that I choose:

to loose the bonds of injustice,

to undo the thongs of yoke,

to let the oppressed go free,

and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,

and bring the homeless poor into your house;

when you see the naked, to cover them,

and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,

and your healing shall spring up quickly;

your vindicator shall go before you,

the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.

Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;

you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am.

If you remove the yoke from among you,

the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,

if you offer your food to the hungry

and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,

then your light shall rise in the darkness

and your gloom be like the noonday.

Isaiah 58:6-10, NRSV

may it be.

up until tonight, i haven’t really cried. i took photos off the wall and placed them into a box. i emptied the personal contents of my desk drawers and [whatever i didn't throw away] placed them in a different box. i took every note, card, or letter that had been left, sent, or delivered and placed them in a small box. my desk area in the office is barren and void of my personality. well, i did leave one sticker on the wall which reads, “be a smart ass” – so i suppose my personality is not entirely gone. and through it all, i shed not one tear. i started to wonder if it would really hit me at all. or maybe i’d enter the grieving period after it was all over. i have been expecting these weeks to be difficult and filled with tears…salty, warm, unstoppable tears. i know tears. i cry well. but, yet, i have not experienced this familiar release. at least, not until tonight.

for the most part, it was a rather usual tuesday night – complete with technical difficulties. but i was met with tears tonight. first at pre-prayer, when [suddenly] i was struck by the reality that i would not be returning. i have been aware of this reality, but tonight at pre-prayer i was struck by it. second, when the staff for next year excitedly ran onto stage, leaving me in the fifth pew back, sandwiched by two dimmitts. i don’t suppose i would have rather been sandwiched by any other two. and then i did fairly well, until the fourth song in the reflection set: ‘this road.’ i stood singing with the people around me, my voice joining with theirs. we sang through two verses, and started in on the chorus:

This road that we travel may it be the straight and narrow
God, give us peace and grace from You, all the day
Shelter with fire, our voices we raise still higher
God, give us peace and grace from You, all the day through

i was struck again. this time into the pew. i sat down, placed my face in my hands, and cried. not a gentle, easy, refined sort of cry. but a convulsive, snotty, graceless cry. i heard the voices of students singing out to the God that made them. the God that breathed life into them. the God that loved them more than i could ever understand. more than they could ever understand. and suddenly i was praying: “this road that they travel…may it, please God, be the straight and narrow. God, will you please grant them peace and grace – everyday. may you shelter them, Lord…and may their voices continue to raise higher and higher. please, Jesus, give them peace and grace that only comes from you.” i wept not because God wouldn’t. i cried not because God hadn’t. i cried because all these years that’s what it’s been about. sometimes i’ve done well remembering it. sometimes i’ve even done alright living it out. most times i’m sure i’ve been awful at remembering, and done less than mediocre at living it out. but all these years, it’s been about praying and hoping that students would follow God’s road. that they might know, that he might grant them, his peace and grace. and that they, as they grow and leave, would choose to continue on that road, lifting their voices and following him. i cried because i want that for them. i want it for me. i want it for all of us. and so i sat there, in the middle of a crowd of students, and i cried. and i prayed.

because that’s what i’m leaving. and that’s what i’m taking with me.

severe abdominal pain: day nine.

friday i woke up to a pain in my stomach. it was not a pain i was used to and certainly not one i liked. i went to work, but as the day progressed, so did the pain in my abdomen. finally, after much grumbling on my part [because, quite frankly, i just don't like to do it] i called my doctor’s office. her earliest appointment was one week away. that wasn’t going to work for me. the nice woman on the other end of the line asks, “well, what are you wanting to come in for?” i think the words “severe abdominal pain” must be some sort of magic because as soon as they left my lips, i was transferred to a nurse. and after saying them to a nurse there was magically an appointment available in one hour’s time. of course it wouldn’t be with my primary physician – but who cared, i was having severe abdominal pain. seriously, i might start using that line every time i need a doctor’s appointment.

anyway, at 4pm i entered the doctor’s office and shortly found myself in a room with a nurse, describing my pain and all the delightful side effects that came along with it. and, shortly after that i find myself lying on the examination table receiving an abdominal check from the doctor. eventually the possible appendicitis scare is calmed, and i’m having a conversation with the doctor – during which he is trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. he orders up some labs [which include multiple vials i get to take home and fill up - oh joy], gives me eating instructions, and sends me on my way.

once home i settle into a recliner chair to watch some mindless television with sarah. things just get worse. the pain in my stomach gets more intense, my entire body begins to ache [that stupid all-over-the-body flu-ish sort of ache] and i become so cold my teeth literally begin to chatter. i can’t, for the life of me [what little, pathetic life it may be at this point], get comfortable. so, i make my way upstairs, draw a bubble bath, and soak until i can finally feel myself again and the pain is relieved – at least temporarily. soon ty arrives with fruit floes [a delicious, frozen trader joe's treat] and star wars [ty obviously thought he could trick me, in my weak state, into finally watching it]. we didn’t end up watching star wars [or anything else for that matter], but instead we sat on the couch – eating fruit floes – and talking. which, in my opinion, is way better than a movie, even on a good day.

i was convinced that the next morning i would feel better. boy, was i wrong. the pain, rather than coming in waves, decided it would simply move into my abdomen and not leave. i could hardly leave my bed [or, i guess, the horizontal position] without buckling over in pain. i was comfortable in one of two ways: lying down with a heating pad on my stomach or completely immersed in a hot bubble bath. anything else wasn’t worth the pain. so, in bed i remained for most of the day.

now, there’s something many people may not know about me. i can’t relax in a messy room. if i’m watching a movie or reading a book or trying to study or writing a letter in a messy room, i go crazy. i’m guessing it’s my mother’s genes coming out in me [which was bound to happen, sooner or later], but it’s true. that’s not to say my room doesn’t get messy, but the moment i need to do something or want to do something in that room – i have to straighten it up first. trouble is, when you are writhing in “severe abdominal pain,” it’s difficult to clean your room. so, here i was, in my messy room and stuck in bed. it was killing me. it was driving me mad. and there was nothing i could do about it. i tried to close my eyes, i tried to watch internet television, but i knew – i knew that my room was messy and there was no way i was going to be able to relax.

that’s when sarah walked in. being one of the few that knows my insane OCD nature, she begins to pick up. she begins to sort through the heap of laundry on the floor. separating the clearly dirty clothes from the clean [or mostly clean] ones. i object – “sarah, stop it, you do not have to clean my room.” “okay,” she calmly responds as she continues to sort. “no, seriously, sarah, stop.” and again, she continues folding clothes. she doesn’t stop. she keeps going. and i keep objecting [pathetically from my bed - i mean, i could hardly move]. each time i object, sarah gets a little more frustrated until finally she snaps a pair of sweats at me, raises her voice, and says, “lisa! be quiet. just let me serve you. i want to be kind. you can’t relax in here, i know it, and so just let me do this. if you tell me to stop one more time i’m going to get really angry at you. just let me do this.” i backed down, i tried to stop her a couple more times, but eventually i gave up the fight. and sarah cleaned my room. she folded my laundry. she dusted my furniture. she organized the crap on my nightstand. she swept and mopped my floors. she brought me gingerale. she brought me tylenol. she re-heated my flaxseed bag. you know what, she even took vials of my personal shit [literally] to the lab for me. and she served me. kindly and graciously.

and i saw Jesus in a friend.

laundry: day eight.

far left: charlie. far right: daniel.

my first summer in tanzania i encountered God in the most ordinary of tasks. i had been in tanzania for three weeks, volunteering at an orphanage [KiChiJo] when i left. i had only planned to be in tanzania for three weeks, and then i was off to experience south africa – first for a week long safari and then for four weeks of volunteering. however, upon arriving in south africa i discovered a relentless ache in my heart to return to tanzania…so, after an incredible week of safari, i flew back to tanzania. i couldn’t wait to walk back through town to KiChiJo, as i winded my way through corn fields, nearing the orphanage, i could hear the voices of the children i had left just one week earlier. the anticipation was almost too much to bear. i turned the final corner and saw familiar children playing soccer in front of the orphanages main entrance. other kids were running around here and there, playing whatever game had momentarily grabbed their attention. and, in the square section of the lot devoted to laundry, i saw two boys bent over a silver bucket, scrubbing clothes. for a moment none of them noticed me. for a split second i was completely invisible, blessed with a moment to just stop and watch them. tears in my eyes, i knew. i knew that what i was looking at was the loveliest of scenes playing out before my eyes. and then gifti saw me. his little four-year-old body came flying at me, huge grin on his face. it was over, my moment of invisibility had passed, and suddenly there were 15 or so kids swarming me. they left their soccer game, they jumped out of the tree nearby, they came running from whatever it was they were doing to welcome me back. except those two boys, bent over the silver bucket. daniel and charlie stayed close to their laundry pile. they looked on, they grinned, but being the older boys that they were [14 & 16, respectively] they kept their cool. after a few minutes, i made my way over to them. we greeted one another and i asked if i could help with the laundry. laughing, they told me “no.” but, i’m persistent, and eventually, all three of us were bent over, sleeves rolled up, and scrubbing those clothes. the boys laughing and chatting in swahili – conversing, i’m sure, about how silly i was or how awful i was at washing clothes [especially for a woman]. i started to sing. a silly song i’d heard on the radio countless times since i’d been there. i don’t know if it was my singing voice, my ridiculous pronunciation of the swahili words, or my whiteness – but something about me starting to sing that song sent these boys into uncontrollable laughter. i said, “alright, you sing it then.” and they did. these boys who played shy began to sing. and i started dancing. and together we sang and danced – all the while doing the laundry. every day i came back, for the rest of my three weeks there, i spent time doing laundry with those boys…dancing, laughing, singing, and [of course] hanging those clothes out to dry. laundry had never been such a holy thing.

simply and purely: day seven.

today i went to a memorial service. memorial services are strange and beautiful things. this particular one honored the life of an incredible woman. kathryn waddell was a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, and a wholly beautiful woman. she loved her God well, and loved her neighbor gracefully. i was honored to sit among those who knew her today and celebrate the life she lived well. many people spoke today, but the pastor shared a powerful story. in kathryn’s last moments, she and her pastor spoke about the 23rd psalm. in her last moments, she was surrounded by family and close friends – all holding hands – as her pastor read the 23rd psalm. and she slowly slipped away from her earthly life. he read that psalm today.

as i drove north this evening i heard parts of that psalm repeating in my mind. and i saw the beautiful landscape in front of me. snow covered mountains. clouds hovering. beautiful light hitting the water just right creating bright reflections. and i remembered God, working in this world. simply and purely as he does every day.

psalm 23

The LORD is my shepherd;

I shall not want.

He makes me to lie down in green pastures;

He leads me beside the still waters.

He restores my soul;

He leads me in the paths of righteousness

For His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil;

For You are with me;

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

You anoint my head with oil;

My cup runs over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

All the days of my life,

And I will dwell in the house of the LORD

Forever.

mawe: day six.

jacob.

mancala. it’s a game many are familiar with. in our western world it is a wooden board with two rows of pits in which you move stones around working to collect them all. i first played years ago when i was college student, and remember loving it – despite my lack of strategizing knowledge. i hadn’t played for years until this past summer.

when i arrived back in tanzania this summer i was so thankful to be there again. the moment i stepped off the plane the african air seemed to hug me, welcoming me back to a home of sorts. there is something about that place which captivates my heart and it felt right to be there again. i could hardly wait to see friends, to taste the delicious food i had dreamt of since i left, to see the beauty of the people and the market and the land, but mostly i couldn’t wait to play with, to hold, to sing and dance with the children i had met and knew i was returning to.

the first day there when i walked back to the orphanage, and the kids excitedly swarmed me, my heart ached with gratefulness. i was back. i had no idea what this particular summer would look like, but i was back and that was all that mattered. my swahili was weak, though. and i knew it would take a few weeks to get back to where i had been, and continue learning the language. the first week or so of being back i had noticed a group of kids sitting under a tree [one of the few trees in the town of boma ng'ombe] playing a game in the dirt. day after day they would sit in the same spots, playing something in the dirt. finally, one day i walked over to watch. mancala. they were playing what i called mancala. in the dirt there were small pits dug out by a stick, and in each pit was a pile of stones. i loved it. i loved watching these kids play one another, a small group around them cheering them on and giving advice.

one morning, when arrived at KiChiJo [the orphanage] breakfast had not been served yet [not completely out of the ordinary]. a boy, jacob, was there and i asked him if he would like play with me. he grinned. we walked to the spot under the tree and he began carving out pits in the dirt with stick. my swahili was still slow – and jacob kindly spoke to me simply and slowly. he told me how many stones i needed to put in each pit. he explained how the game worked. we began playing. we played almost every day.

the time jacob and i sat and played together was holy. he kicked my butt nearly every time. and i didn’t care, not as long as i got to sit and play with jacob. my lack of swahili and his lack of english made talking difficult, especially at first, but we found ways. we laughed much and we discovered ways to understand and be understood by one another. our time together, under that tree, sitting on rocks and playing a game in the dug out dirt, was holy. i met a boy who’s smile was brighter than anything i had ever seen. i met a boy full of patience and kindness. i met a smart, funny, and sweet boy. he taught me songs to sing and patiently listened as i stuttered through swahili phrases. sometimes when we were together my chest would ache with sadness for the life this little boy had led. sometimes i wanted to scream and kick at all he did not have. and sometimes i could not hide the wetness in my eyes. but i also saw a child who, at 11-years-old, knew more about integrity, faith, and friendship than i did.

God showed me himself in jacob. and as i sit here and think about those times with him, as i think about the songs we sang and his incredible smile, i cry. i cry because i miss him. i cry because i love him. i cry because i long to sit with him under that tree and play a game. i cry because God gives us beautiful gifts – like a summer of mawe with jacob.

sjt: day five.

my recognition of God at work happened at the INN tonight [i know, i know...big surprise]. tonight was one of those relatively easy nights for me at the INN – i wasn’t speaking, and when i don’t speak, i don’t have any official duties on tuesday night. i just get to be there. which i love because it means i just get to be with students and watch it all happen. and although the magic is long gone for me [i will never see a tuesday night at the INN the way i did when i was a student], i still love watching what happens in that place.

so tonight i just got to be. i sat with a group of older students. i laughed at the skit. i listened to doug speak and i was mesmerized by the painting happening. and i sang. it was during this time of singing, the reflective portion of the evening, that i both saw God at work and remembered God at work.

my friend seth lead the music team tonight. and he chose some of my favorite songs. but it wasn’t the songs that turned my mind towards God’s incredible hand in this world. it was seth. i have heard seth lead music a hundred times. it’s nothing new to me. i enjoy it each time. but tonight as i watched him sing, as i listened to the team, and as i sang along, a flood of images came to my mind. i remembered march of 2004 when, sick with strep throat, seth [as a student] played guitar in a stuffy hotel room and led a mission team in worship. i remembered seth standing in front the INN, as a student, leading a room full of his peers in worship. i remembered seth starring in a student pledge video and sharing why he chose to give financially to the INN [i think we still owe him an apology for the crappy, up-close face shots in that video]. i remembered sitting across from seth at a local restaurant talking with him about what his year after graduation would look like. i remembered sitting with stacy, seth’s girlfriend at the time, and listening to her talk about their relationship. i remembered the day stacy came to small group and showed us the engagement ring. i remembered reading scripture on the beautiful, sunny july day they got married in 2005 [and celebrating like crazy]. i remembered the year seth applied to work at the INN, and knowing the evening after his interview, as i sat with him [and others] at a pub in fairhaven, that i would be working alongside him. i remembered a year of sharing an office space with him. i thought of a thousand little moments in the office together – too many to list. i remembered mission videos of seth dancing ridiculously with students. i remembered the white board in seth’s office and the brainstorming i’ve seen on it. and i watched seth, tonight, move throughout the sanctuary stealthily and with ease. i watched him lead a room full of students in worship.

people change over time. we grow and seek and ask and think and choose and move, and as we do we change – or perhaps it’s better said that we are changed. as i watched seth tonight i thought about how he’s changed. of course the seth leading music tonight is the same seth i watched play guitar in a stuffy hotel room 6 years ago – but he’s also different. he’s grown and sought and asked and thought and chose and moved, and he’s been changed. and i see God in all of it – i see God in seth.  i see God in seth because i see God working through seth. tonight i saw God use seth to lead others in worship, and i realized tonight that God’s been using seth to do that for many years now.

i saw God alive in this world through the life of a single person tonight. a person who has grown and sought and asked and thought and made choices and moved – and through it all, has remained faithful to his creator. i saw God alive tonight in a person who is still leading others to worship.

i remembered God alive in this world tonight, through the life and ministry of my friend seth.