Category Archives: pilgrimage

Gleanings from a Year in the Classroom

Sometimes you need an extra week.

Sometimes two weeks is not enough for you to take hold of a new thing or for a new thing to take hold of you.

Sometimes…

New things need extra doses of grace and understanding … and time.

Let me explain.

As my children were growing up, they encountered many seasons of new things, none more so than when they took their first jobs at age sixteen (yes, all of them) and when they went to college. Those occasions were often fraught with worry and questions about making these transitions. My advice to them?

“Give it two weeks. Things aren’t supposed to make sense at the beginning, but after two weeks, you’ll settle into a routine. You’ll know what your boss wants … what your teacher wants. After two weeks, you’ll feel better, be more settled, more in the flow. Give it two weeks and give yourself some grace as you walk it through.”

Sage advice some would say, especially from a battle-tested mom who’s weathered her own share of new things over the years. Or so it seems.

Over the past year, my advice has come back around to haunt me … taunt me as I transitioned to a new job at Campbell University. In those beginning days of employment, I would often hear my daughter echo the same sentiment over my fledgling transition into my new role:

Give it two weeks, Mom. You know what you always say – things will feel better in two weeks. Just hang on.”

Well, two weeks came and went, and I was struggling. At an age when many women are looking toward retirement, I went looking for a new job. What I quickly found out is that, while advancing age often begets wisdom, age doesn’t always keep pace with changing trends and technology. The latter often outpaces the former.

It’s been a year now since my vocational transition. My two weeks have turned into fifty-two, and today I do feel better, I am more settled, and the workflow seems more natural than it did in those beginning weeks. Campbell University has been kind to me and afforded me green pastures to grow within and alongside some extraordinary people.

Today I am reflecting on that growth, and I have a list of sorts … a few insights that are not necessarily new to me but ones that have been reinforced for me during my time here. They aren’t particularly ground-breaking or soul-stirring revelations, but I thought I would share them with you. Perhaps there is some encouragement (even laughter) to be found with their revealing, especially if you’re in a time of transition.

So… 11 gleanings from 52 weeks of pasturing in this place:

#1 – Don’t wait on people to find you. Go find your people.

Here’s where age and accumulated wisdom bear fruit.

News Flash: The world isn’t waiting to find you; the world’s too busy to notice you. If you want “in,” you’d better jump in with a big splash and a big smile. Let people know you are there, and that you’re not afraid to get a little wet. Soon, you won’t feel like a fish out of water; instead, you’ll be swimming alongside some of the best of them.

#2 – People are still people.

A vocational shift doesn’t eliminate personalities; it simply provides a different stage upon which you can act your part alongside a new cast of characters. Wherever humans gather, drama follows. There will be a hero, maybe even a villain, a supporting cast and a host of “extras” to fill the stage. You may not get to choose the performers, but you can certainly master your role in the script. Learn your lines, act your scenes, take your cues and (for goodness sakes) when the curtain drops, leave the stage. The spotlight is reserved for a few, but the curtain call highlights the many. Find your place therein.

#3 – Slow days are for uncluttering.

When you “didn’t get the memo” about not coming to work, and you’re the only one in the building, take a moment to look around. Instead of noticing the silence, notice the opportunity. Busy days often build cluttered lives – cluttered file cabinets, messy drawers, accumulated artifacts and dusty desktops. When a day affords you a pause from routine, use the day to lessen your mess. Your busy days will thank you.

#4 – A candy dish fosters community.

Fill a dish with candy, and, before long, you’ll have a room full of friends. Preferences reign at the candy dish. From Jolly Ranchers™ to Smarties™ to Kit Kats™ to Tootsie Rolls™ to Lifesavers™. Not everyone chooses the same candy; but everyone convenes at the same dish. A single dish balances the workplace in a simple way that reaps relational dividends beyond the momentary satisfaction of a sweet tooth.

#5 – Prayer is the universal language.

A candy dish offers community with one another, but a prayer offers communion with the living God. Offer both. One satisfies temporarily; the other satisfies eternally.

#6 – Take the stairs.

In strengthening your legs, you strengthen your heart. You increase your flexibility and relieve stress in the process. Take time for the ascent; the climb is worth the compensation.

#7 – Guard your tongue.

My father once told me, “Not every thought that comes into your head needs to come out of your mouth, Elaine.” He’s right; it’s been a costly lesson at times, one that I’m still learning. Certainly, thoughts are the makings of good conversation, but some thoughts are better held personally and deeply within without utterance. And by the way, political speak is almost always divisive; it leaves a lasting impression. If you want to keep a good one about your co-workers and vice versa, speak less on the matter. Eat more candy instead (see #4).

#8 – College kids still need a mom.

The new-found sense of independence that comes from being away from home doesn’t mean that home isn’t needed. Be a mom (or a dad) to those whose hearts are caught between wanting the freedom of a young adult and craving the security of being a child. If you’re on a college campus or have younger people sitting beneath your influence, lean into your battle-tested interior. You’re a pro at being older and wiser. Lend your strength and your hugs to others.

#9 – People are more important than personal power, promotions or preferences.

Don’t underestimate the value of a person by overestimating your value. Stepping over or on someone to step up your game is costly – a price-tag that often exceeds dollars and cents by bankrupting a soul.

#10 – Not all learning takes place in a classroom.

Some students sit behind desks, answer phones, fix light bulbs, mow the grass, make the food and clean the toilets. A life well-lived is a life well-learned. Be kind to your classmates. We share the road of learning.

And lastly…

#11 – An old dog really can learn a few new tricks.

Despite changing trends and technology, I have been able to learn a few new things in these past 52 weeks at Campbell. The key? I think it has something to do with humility – being able to laugh at yourself and realizing that you don’t know everything but that, by God’s very good design, you can lean into your learning. It’s not been a very graceful process for me, but at every turn it has been grace-filled.

God has loved me well by leading me here to these green pastures. This new thing has finally taken hold of me, and for that, I am grateful.

So, if today you, like me, are in need of an extra week or 52 weeks to find your footing, give yourself permission and grace enough to let time runs its course. May God draw close to you, hold you, strengthen and encourage you to keep moving forward. Your new things will eventually become your old things, and you will feel better, be more settled in your spirit and more comfortable with the flow of the life unfolding around you.

Hang on, friend. Greener pastures are up ahead. As always…

Peace for the journey,

on waiting for the bus…

The LORD will guard your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forever. (Psalm 121:8)

I’ve been watching them for ten months now – a father/daughter duo during their morning routine. Their everyday schedule coincides with mine. The 11-mile trek from my front door to my office door takes a usual path – country roads, four-way stops, grazing cows, fields of harvest and an occasional stopped school bus.

This is where our worlds intersect. I don’t know them by name. I only know them by their actions. Each time I’ve seen them together, the scene paints similarly. Around 7:19 AM, I get stuck behind Harnett County bus #249 as it rolls to a stop on the road adjacent to their property. The pair is usually waiting together, a dad and his daughter. Occasionally, she makes a sprint to the bus from her front door, but not without her father sprinting in tow.

He’s always there … with her. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

This daddy waits with his daughter.

I cannot fully know the motives behind his waiting. Perhaps it’s her safety that warrants his participation. Maybe he just wants to send her off with a few extra words of daily encouragement. Regardless of the reasons for his being there in these early morning moments of her every single day, the fact remains that there hasn’t been an occasion in ten months when I’ve seen one without the other. Daddy and daughter are a team.

My hunch is that his motivation isn’t anchored solely in parental duty but, rather, is rooted more in parental privilege.

This daddy understands the value of their kinship and his responsibility therein.

Soon enough, she’ll be on her own, not needing her father’s chaperoning to make it to the bus. Before long, those final glances between them will fade, maybe even feel less necessary. She will grow in ways that can be seen and measured. He will grow in a way not easily detected by the human eye, only felt deeply within. Growth pains come with parenting – his pain perhaps more pointed and precise than hers.

Still and yet, he’s all in. He risks the pain because he treasures the person – his child.

He loves her because she is an extension of him – a profound, sketched-out mystery by the very hand and heart of God. In giving us children, the Father gives us an example of the length and width, breadth and depth of his love for us … a hands-on, living, breathing, and growing paint-by-number portrait of heavenly affection. This love expression is not always perfected in human exchange, but every now and again, it comes pretty close to revealing this most profound mystery –

the love between a father and his daughter.

The love between a heavenly Father and his child.

He’s always there … with us. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

He watches over our evenings, and when the morning arrives, he walks us to the bus stop. He waits with us because he loves us, both duty and privilege weighing equally in the matter. God does what good fathers do.

He loves us up close – seasons when having him near us brings reassurance, strength, wisdom and calm.

He loves us from afar – seasons when his presence seems less necessary. When our backward glances fail to find his forward ones. When our growing pains come at the expense of his own.

He loves us because we are an extension of him. Regardless of whether we see him or not, our eyesight doesn’t preclude the reality of his presence.

God is always with us.

Faithful is our Father. Precious is his presence. What privilege we hold to be held in his sights!

For what it’s worth, this is the word picture and the holy rumination that’s been chasing my heart for many months now. Today was the day to put pen to paper. I pray it’s an encouragement for your heart as well. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Find Him

“Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them …” (Matthew 5:1-2)

This world.

What a mess.

Spiritually speaking.
Emotionally speaking.
Physically speaking.
Politically speaking.
Relationally speaking.

A world-wide catastrophe in the making. A catastrophe come home to roost.

A world-wide population that is, at best, directionally challenged. We don’t know where we’re headed; we don’t know what to do next. We’re bumping into walls, and we’re bumping into one another. Bumps lead to bruises, and bruises leave us feeling damaged.

Lost and damaged. Indeed, a mess.

Jesus Christ has an answer for us. Not long ago, I heard (and saw) his answer dramatically portrayed on the screen in the Season 2 finale of The Chosen. Are you watching it? You should be. Dallas Jenkins and his array of writers and actors have given us a gift – God’s truth wrapped around dynamic dialogue and tender portraits. I’d be hard-pressed to name a favorite scene from the first two seasons; there are just too many. Each artistic license taken by the writers is carefully framed against the backdrop of scripture, leading me (and millions of other fans) to reach out for more. More truth. More Jesus. More conversations with our Savior.

And so it was a couple of weeks ago when the finale aired.

Jesus is discussing his upcoming inaugural, kingdom address (the Sermon on the Mount) with his disciple, Matthew. Jesus is working on the “intro” for his sermon throughout the episode, as Matthew takes notes. After a few days of wrestling with his thoughts, Jesus awakens Matthew in the early morning hours to let him know he’s worked out the particulars to his opening statement. Jesus tells Matthew that it’s a map of sorts … directions … where people should look for him.

And then Jesus begins his oration of the Beatitudes while tender scenes from the series mirror each of the “blessed.”

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. (Matthew 5:3 – 11)

As the scene finishes, Matthew is curious as to how the blessed are equal to a map.

Jesus’ response pierced straight through to my heart.

“If someone wants to find me, those are the groups they should look for.”

I was undone by the dialogue. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Could it be that the way to find Jesus in this lost and damaged, catastrophe-in-the-making world, where bumps and bruises are now the norm, is through the blessed? Are they a map that can lead us to a deeper, divine intimacy with Christ?

I think The Chosen is onto something. I find peace just thinking on it.

Accordingly, count me in. Give me the map. Wherever Christ is, that’s where I want to be, even if it means I have to course-correct … take a few steps in a new direction. Venture into some places that are less comfortable for me but, perhaps, more sacred. Crowds that are better suited for soul-development rather than destruction. Dots on the spiritual map where Christ is content to make himself manifest in the consecrated blessed ones.

In those who are poor in spirit.
In those who mourn.
In the meek.
In the spiritually hungry.
In the merciful.
In the pure in heart.
In the peacemakers.
In the persecuted.

Christ in the blessed.

In finding them, perhaps I’ll find more of Jesus. They are the blessed ones; he has named them so. And whomever he calls blessed, surely, he dwells in their midst.

Friends, I want to find them, and then I want to be found amongst them. Blessed. Next to Jesus and next to the Gospel that distinctly marks me as one of his and that dramatically points me in the right direction … toward home.

In the messy now. In the glorious then. And in every dot on the map in between.

In every place, the very blessed kingdom of God.

I’ll meet you on the road. As always…

Peace for the journey,

the sermon that was never heard…

I had a dream last night. So strong in its witness, I needed to “get it down” on paper this morning. Perhaps in doing so, it will get down to a deeper place inside of me so that I might more fully live it outside of me.

The sermon that was never heard.

Allow me to explain. In May of 2016 my father was scheduled to preach at the Garner UMC. There was nothing particularly unusual about this event. Dad was often called upon to “fill the pulpit” on occasions when the pastor wasn’t available. As a professor of preaching at Asbury Seminary for over thirty years, and as a pastor of several congregations in the last fifty years, my dad has always been a natural choice for such occasions. His spiritual journey, as well as his giftedness in and eloquence for telling a story, have allowed him notable stages from which to deliver God’s message. But no stage was more glorious and important to my father than one holding a wooden pulpit overlooking an audience of Sunday morning seekers. Accordingly, dad rarely refused an opportunity to fill a pulpit.

I had planned to make the two hour trip to Garner to hear my father speak that Sunday. My mother texted me early in the morning to tell me not to come, that dad wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to preach. Later that day, when pressed for more details, dad revealed that he was having trouble reading his sermon notes, that his thoughts were jumbled up inside of him. And while he didn’t have any manifestations of a physical illness, he knew something was wrong. So did we. Thus began the unraveling of the diagnosable mystery known as a stroke.

For the last nineteen months, we’ve walked with dad through this period of redirection. The adjustments have been numerous. And while dad’s aphasia has altered his daily routine, it hasn’t changed his heart or his passion for telling the story. Certainly, the “stage” has changed; they’re smaller now, more intimate. His words are fewer and, sometimes, aren’t delivered as eloquently as he would like. But the warmth is there, the smile, the laughter, the love … always the love from dad. And through it all, we’re all learning to make peace with…

The sermon that was never heard.

The words that were never spoken that Sunday morning. The “text” that (some would say) would be my father’s final declaration from the pulpit. And this morning, after tossing and tumbling all night long, after mulling over what my father’s final benediction might have been from the pulpit that morning in Garner, I have decided that God is still writing that sermon. That after nineteen months of altered steps and interrupted dialogue, the sermon that was never heard is still preaching its witness.

And therein, folks, lives and breathes the greatest story ever told. When the curtains are drawn, the script is lost, when the words won’t come, and the audience has departed, what remains is the sacred echo – the deafening whispers of the sermon that was never heard.  

Like my father, perhaps even like you, I have a few more stories I’d like to share, a few more moments of dialogue I’d like to give to the world. But I am no longer convinced that these are the “sermons” that God will most thoroughly use to live and give his witness. What I am growing convinced of, however, is that…

Not every sermon needs a stage.

Not every manuscript needs eloquence.

Not every word needs to be spoken.

Instead, our “sermons” just need to be lived in the shadow of Almighty God. With warmth. With smiles. With laughter. With love … always the love.

If we can get to that place of settled peace, friends, then the sermon that was never heard surely will be boldly proclaimed with a depth and with a clarity that may not come otherwise. So…

Thank you, Daddy, for teaching me how to live with an unwritten, unspoken, and unfinished script.

And thank you, God, for making it count eternally. As always, 

Peace for the journey,

Nine Miles with My Grandpa…

Grandpa and I at Uncle George’s -1975?

We drove my Grandpa Al home yesterday.

Well… sort of.

He wasn’t really my grandpa. My Grandpa Al died in 1994 at the age of eighty-three. The man we drove home, Howard, is seventy-four but could have passed as Al’s brother. Short in stature, round in the belly, missing hair and missing teeth – all the makings of the grandpa I remember so fondly in my heart.

It had been a busy, exhausting day for us. Sunday services (and all the drama therein), followed by a mid-afternoon funeral, punctuated by picking up pizzas for the youth group with no Sunday afternoon nap squeezed in between, can quickly consume one’s energy. Accordingly, as the sun slowly began its descent, my husband and I decided that a quick trip to McDonald’s was in order, not necessarily to fill our empty stomachs but, instead, to fill our depleted, emotional tanks.

As we were exiting our cars, Howard was exiting his hard day’s labor as an employee of McDonalds. His gait indicated his tiredness, as well as his arthritis. We made small talk and blessed him to an evening of relaxation. After all, he’d earned it. Eight hours of cleaning bathrooms and refilling the condiment bar would leave even a robust youth longing for a pair of pjs and a night’s lounging on a comfy sofa.

Once inside the McDonalds, I realized that my patience wasn’t equal to the long line waiting to be served. Hence, we moved our patronage next door to the Bojangles. Same story. A longer-than-I-was-willing-to-wait-for-line greeted us, and we made our exit to the car. Suddenly, I was no longer feeling hungry; instead, I was feeling lost … unable to focus and ready to head back home, unfed and unfilled. We hadn’t traveled far before we noticed him – the tired McDonald’s employee walking under an overpass. He, too, was headed for home. Ten minutes earlier, we had talked to him in the crowded McDonald’s parking lot next to our car. It never occurred to us that he didn’t have one of his own.

Something broke inside of me. A sadness that lent itself toward compassion.

“We need to give him a ride home, Billy. There isn’t any housing close by, and it’s getting dark. If my grandpa had put in a hard day’s labor at McDonald’s and had to walk home, I hope someone would stop and give him a ride.”

Tears slipped quietly down my face as my husband made a u-turn. We slowed our vehicle as we reached the underpass, and I rolled down my window.

“Sir, we just met you at the McDonalds a few minutes ago. Can we give you a ride home? You look like you’ve had a long day, and we’d like to help you out.”

Without hesitation and with much effort, he made his way into the back seat of our van. He dropped his brown canvas bag onto the seat next to him and began to tell us his story. He told us he sure appreciated the kindness and that we didn’t need to take him all the way home, just up to the Nic’s Pic (a local gas station). From there, he’d thumb his way home.

“Where exactly do you live, Howard?”

“In McColl.”

McColl, South Carolina, that is. Nine miles away from where we picked him up in Laurinburg, North Carolina.

“That’s an awful long way to walk to work. Is your car broken down?”

“No ma’am. I’ve been hitching rides to work for (… wait for it) thirty plus years now. If you’ll just drop me off at the Nic’s Pic, I’ll get a ride home from there.

“Howard, we’re going to take you all the way home. Tonight, we’ll get you home a little earlier than usual so that you’ll have a little more time to relax.”

And so, for the next nine miles, we got to know our new friend. We told him a little of our story, but mostly, he told us nine miles’ worth of his. Three marriages, a daughter he hadn’t seen in decades and with no understanding of where she might be, crippled up with arthritis and punching the clock at McDonalds for at least thirty years, well, even though his biography read more like a tragedy, he didn’t seem overcome or undone by it. Instead, he seemed content, like he’d made some sort of peace with what I perceived to be his less-than life.

As we approached McColl, he gave us the short-cut instructions to get to his house. Driving the back streets of his neighborhood, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The dilapidated homes, the junk piled up therein, and the occasional wandering inhabitants, quickly had me checking the door locks. My sobering assessment of Howard’s seemingly declining neighborhood didn’t match his own.

“There are some nice houses back in here … nice mill homes. My third wife left me one, even though it is falling down around me. Now she was a good one. I wish I’d had her longer.”

My precious grandparents, Al and MayBelle

And part of me wished the same. He shouldn’t be alone, not now. Not ever. And for nine miles last night, he wasn’t. I wasn’t. Instead, we were together, sharing a ride and sharing our lives – a tiny intersection on the long road toward home. Grandpa Al has been gone from my life for twenty-three years now, but last night, a part of him was with me, reminding me that this life is meant to be shared. That in some sense, we’re all really close to being family. All it takes to arrive at that realization is opening up our eyes to see those around us and opening up our hearts (and car doors) for conversations therein.

As Howard exited our car, he left me with a final word of benediction:

“There sure is a lot of evil in the world these days, but there’s still a lot of kindness. Thanks for the ride.”

And with that, our nine miles together came to a conclusion. What began as a quest to fill my hungering stomach was met, instead, with a meal to fill my hungering soul.

Grandpa Al, his son (Charles), and great-grandsons, Nick and Colton – 1993

 

There sure is a lot of evil in this world, but there still is a lot kindness. So, give kindness to others in this season, friends. Share nine miles or more with the person you meet at McDonalds, being willing to cross the state line should the occasion dictate. In doing so, you just might recognize a brother, a sister, maybe even a grandpa from your past.

In some greater sense than I fully understand, we’re all really close to being family. As always…

Peace for the journey,

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