The Dead Can’t Be Killed

Growing up with a chronic illness, she never realized how precarious her life was. 

Until, that is, the night 18 years ago when her frailty solidified with a single threat. From the dark, a diabolic voice announced this simple promise: 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

She heard the voice clearly, understood it with certainty. She could no more deny it than she could deny her trembling limbs. 

Seized both by low blood sugar and bone-deep dread, she believed the words without question. She lay prostrate, writhing. 

It was all she could do. 

In a state of extreme low blood sugar, the brain prioritizes systems to maintain life. It steals glucose from muscles, convulsing them both to fuel itself and to maintain the heart and lungs. It pauses memory and reasoning, reverting to basic survival.

It does not permit any argument. It does not allow positive thinking, deep breathing, or calm meditation. 

It is too late for that, and all systems focus solely on survival until the blood sugar rises again. 

So hearing the voice, the murderous threat rang true enough to be believed. She moaned in painful uncertainty, forgetting who (and whose) she was. 

(Sometimes, friend, we need others to remember for us.)

Her husband of five years did not forget. He did all he could to feed her sugar, to no effect. He worked for long minutes turning to what felt like days. 

Her body continued to convulse. She could not walk. She could not speak. She could not even cooperate. 

She breathed, and that was all her body would allow. 

But her husband was no mere man. He was not stuck in fear and futility. He was (and is) a man of God, ruled and reigned and loved by the Creator, and he realized with sudden fury that this was a body battle and a spiritual battle. 

Unaware of the verbal threat, he nevertheless had a moment of clarity, announcing to the darkness: 

“You spirit of death, I rebuke you in the name of Jesus.”

Instantly, she stopped convulsing and sat up, speaking the name of Jesus. She watched the threatening presence flee, sensed the darkness cast out by that single spark of light. 

She remembered who she was, and she knew the threat was a lie not only because she was still breathing, but also because - 

you can’t kill what’s already dead (Rom. 6:3-4). 

And you especially can’t kill what’s dead and risen (Rom. 6:5-9).

Amen. 

From the Back of the Room: An Observation

From the back of the room, my eyes fill with tears. Every Sunday, without fail. 

Years ago, I cried for the shame of my captive body. I cried for the crashing blood sugars and the fearful unknown, forcing the need to escape quickly and quietly. Forcing the seat at the back of the room.

Now from my quiet spot in the back, I cry for joy, grateful for the best seat in the house. Because only there can I see what I do. 

From the back of the room, I see friends sharing stories, laughing, embracing. I see the bonds of family forming, holy ties between those married with children and those single, between those with grown grandchildren and those with babes snuggled to chest.

From the back of the room, I see dads hold small children, moms rub the shoulders of teens. I see parents provide instruction and discipline. I see small children turn in their seats, seeking the eye of those behind them. I see them rewarded with peek-a-boo from those who sit alone and smiling. 

From the back of the room, I notice that here in this ordinary, holy place we sit stiller and quieter and nearer than at any other time. I notice the arms around each other, the hands clasped together, the embrace of grandmas rocking grandkids to sleep. 

And I notice generations squeezed in the same pew, announcing to the church and the world and the great cloud of witnesses that what God formed in the beginning - the man and his wife and all their fruitfulness - continues now, and always will. 

I notice the sermons walked out in the feet on the ground and the knees on the floor. 

From the back of the room, my eyes fill with tears because this routine, this simple observance of the Lord’s day together, speaks a word against all the hopeless, lonely nihilism of our day. 

And from the back of the room, I remember how the world is transformed in the coming together and even the celebration as we depart:  

“Let us go forth into the world rejoicing in the power of the Spirit.” 

Let us take with us what we’ve found in this place. Let us remember that we are in Him and in this, all together. 

Amen. 

In Appreciation: A Note to My Pastor

Today was a big day. 

Pastor Appreciation Day at church. 

Then the celebration of our church plant’s purchase of 20 acres, the first step toward constructing our new church home. 

The first Eucharist service on that property, receiving the Body and Blood in the midst of trees and vines and untouched forest.  

And the day my daughter woke up with a stomach bug. (But that’s another story.) 

It was a big day. 

Today at the property, I briefly glanced at the crowds awaiting both the Eucharist and the holy water with which they would bless the grounds. I noticed them there, warmed and awed by the sense of community among Ascension’s people. 

But mostly I just watched this man in amazement: 

I watched as he prepared the Table, watched him smiling as he worked. I watched him continue to do what he does so well - 

Lead the people toward the vision he's been given for Church of the Ascension. 

I watched my husband, my priest and pastor do the thing he’s dreamed of doing all the years we’ve been married. Honestly, I could’ve cried with joy for him.  

It's always kind of a funny thing to be a clergy wife during Pastor Appreciation Month. He's my husband and my pastor, and I’m totally biased toward him every day of the week. I'm also doubly submitted to him in both marriage and church. And if that idea makes you itch a little, I get it. You can commiserate with the Becki of 20 years ago who shared a similar feeling. 

But the truth for me is this: It’s a light burden to submit to someone who loves you sacrificially. It’s not easy, of course. It's not natural. (Ask my mom if it's natural for me to listen to anybody no matter how well they love me.) 

But when I think of those who labor to submit to domineering, intimidating, overpowering men, I recognize submission to this man is a simpler thing. It’s an honor to follow someone who leads you in the way that’s best for you, too. And Darryl does that as both a husband and as a priest. It's a joy for all of us to be led by someone who's not in it for himself. 

So happy Pastor Appreciation Day to my husband, pastor and priest. I’m always grateful to be your wife. And I’ve never been prouder of you than I was today. 

May you continue to be blessed by the fruitfulness of Ascension, Fr. Darryl. We’re for you, and we’re with you. 

Love, 

Becki 

On Being Alone (Together)

"Love, 

The Three Musketeers (NOT Four Musketeers!)"

Thirty years later, I still remember the end of the breakup note from my three sixth grade friends. I still feel the ache of rejection in my chest. The scalding tears, the self-recrimination, the shame and embarrassment. 

Thirty years later, part of me is still that 12-year-old girl sitting in the corner of her bedroom, back against the door, weeping over her first rejection letter. 

That’s the weird thing about rejection, isn't it? It lives hidden in our memories, quietly locked away in a dusty room. We don't think about it, don't even remember it's there. . . until suddenly we do remember. Triggered by pain, the door flies open like something out of a horror movie, and we find ourselves transported back in time.  

Last week my daughter shared heartbreak over being excluded by her classmates. Most of the kids in her class have been together since pre-K, and my adult brain knows it makes sense for them to be territorial. My adult brain knows they don’t mean anything by ignoring my daughter. My adult brain knows they’re just children themselves. 

But I feel my adolescent anger rise anyway, the voice from that room now railing - 

Who are they to treat you that way? 

Who do they think they are?! 

The adolescent in me shakes a fist at their arrogance, daydreams about marching into the classroom, ready for battle. 

And hearing that raving voice, it’s a struggle to comfort my child, to say instead,  

I’ve been there before. 

I’ve felt rejected, too. 

I know what it’s like not to be chosen, not to be invited, not to be one of the Three Musketeers. 

Let me tell you my story. 

But the mom in me, the adult, knows that’s what she needs to hear - and what I need to hear, too: 

That you’re blessed with other true friendships, 

that you’ll get through this more resilient than before, 

that maybe somehow, ultimately it’s for your good. 

In speaking those words, I feel the calm settle over the 12-year old inside me, too. 

And I remember that sometimes the thing that connects us most is how alone we’ve all felt before. Sometimes the most healing words to hear are also the most painful to share. 

And sometimes the only way to quiet the voice in that hidden room is to open the door, invite her out, and bring her stories to light.

 

Walking this road together, 

Becki

Happily Ever After

Three years ago last week, we moved into our new-to-us home. It's not large or fancy, just a simple brick rancher built in the 50s, but it's perfect for us. The moment we walked in the front door, we knew it was our home. 

The house sits on a hill across from a park my sisters and I used to visit as children. I have a distinct memory of leaving the park one day, looking up the hill and thinking, "I wish I lived in one of those houses."  

Wish granted, my friends. 

And they lived happily ever after.

But maybe not all the time. Like any house that's 70 years old, our home requires a little patience sometimes.

The windows are original, and leaf particles literally blow through their unsealed edges. The wooden doors and windows swell and stick in the humidity. The garbage disposal has quirks, and so does the kitchen sink. You get the idea.  

Last year, we invested in a waterproofing system for the basement. It stopped the perpetual flooding in our son's bedroom, and we were so relieved. Then the basement flooded in a brand new location last week.

Two days later, the waterproofing spray we used to seal cracks outside created an odor so intense inside the house that we needed to open the windows. But the windows - those beautiful, original wooden windows - were swollen in the humidity and wouldn't open. 

When even my 15-year-old son couldn't open them, I climbed onto the countertop and pulled on the window with all my strength. Tugging fruitlessly in a fuzzy, inhalant-fogged state, I screamed, “I HATE this house!” 

(I know. I know.)

Of course the truth is that I do not hate this house. I love this house with its original floors and arched doorways and streaming sunlight through abundant windows. I love the fireplace and the warmth. I love how it has always felt exactly like home. 

I love this house because it's the literal fulfillment of my childhood dreams. 

And as it turns out, sometimes even a dream-come-true needs maintenance, attention, and work. 

Sometimes the dream comes with work to do. 

In couples counseling, I often tell clients we've been taught the wrong thing about love and marriage. Movies tell us if it's true love, it shouldn't take much work. They tell us if it's meant to be, it won't require maintenance, or attention. 

But the truth is that anything valuable - even the answer to our prayers - requires effort. And if we're not doing the work to maintain it, we might find ourselves forgetting it was our dream come true in the first place.  

With literal storms on the horizon here, we've been putting in the work to prepare our home and protect it from more flooding today. Maybe it'll work, and maybe we'll be up late with towels and the shop vac again. Either way, we're putting in the work because we love this home. And that makes even the wettest nights worth the effort. (Remind me of that later just in case, ok?) 

Happily enough ever after, 

Becki 

The Truth about Parenting

(My tiny babies)

Next week, Aidan and Chloe start their second year of high school and middle school, respectively.  

Sometimes when I think of my kids, I forget how much they've grown. I remember instead the little people I gave birth to and nursed and rocked to sleep. The people I swaddled and snuggled and threw birthday parties for year after year. The people who are now measuring taller and almost taller than I am. 

They're still kids, but they're growing up, too - and I never know how to put those two things together. 

Last week, Aidan passed the test to get his learner's permit (the first step toward driving here in WV), and I was so excited for him until I realized something: 

My kid will be driving...which means I'll see a lot less of him soon. They start driving, and eventually they drive away, right? All of a sudden "eventually" seems a little too close. 

In June we went on vacation to Alabama. The condo we visited had a beautiful saltwater pool, and we went swimming every day. Every day, I saw moms of toddlers bring their little ones to swim and felt a little wistful. Taking tots to the pool is an exercise in patient attention: slathering babies in sunscreen, outfitting them with floaties and puddle jumpers, and chasing them around the periphery of the pool while shouting, "Slow down, honey!" As I watched those mamas, I suddenly missed having little ones. 

But then again I didn't. 

To be honest, my own kids hardly needed watching at all. I let them apply their own sunscreen and bring their own towels and only told them "careful" when their pool play turned into all-out warfare. I watched them swim on their own and didn't worry about whether they were getting overtired or sunburned or too close to the deep end. 

I didn't worry at all. 

And from where I stand now, I can already see that every stage of parenting has its own challenges and its own beauty. When they were little, my kids snuggled and talked and clung to me more, and I loved those moments. But they also needed more attending, more monitoring and care and intervention. At this age, they get silent sometimes and snuggle far less. But they also make their own lunches and wash their own hair, and although they may talk less, the truth is we converse more. 

I remember the early days of motherhood, longing to have an adult conversation with another human being when Darryl was at work. Now, I can have those conversations with my kids. 

I've heard it said that to look at your child is to see a vision of the past, present, and future all at once. 

And every piece of that vision has its own pain and its own joy. 

(Even the piece when your baby boy starts driving.) 

Feeling all the feelings today, 

Becki 

Ordinary Things

This morning I was watching Leave It to Beaver (don't be jealous of my glam life). In case you've never seen the show (because maybe you're not into classic TV or you've been living in a bunker or something), allow me to briefly summarize it for you. Leave It to Beaver tells the story of little brother Beaver's incessant shenanigans and older brother Wally's punishment from their parents because if he'd been keeping a better eye on Beaver, their sweet little boy would never have gotten into said shenanigans. 

(Can you tell I'm a firstborn?) 

Anyway, in today's episode Beaver and Wally got high-paying jobs working for the circus. (No, seriously.) As Beaver described the excitement of cleaning the horses and mucking out the stalls, his parents looked at each other with knowing skepticism. And, of course (spoiler alert!), they were right.  

What I noticed about Beaver's description of cleaning animal stalls and scrubbing down horses, though, was this: He talked about what they would "get to" do at their job. 

Get to. Not have to. 

Ten years ago this week, Chloe got sick. What started as a simple virus quickly transformed into something terrifying and life-threatening, and she was hospitalized for what felt like an eternity (but was actually more like a week). At the hospital, we lived in a haze of uncertainty, anxiety, and exhaustion. 

One of my clearest memories of that week is of Darryl and myself standing at the window in Chloe's room, numbly staring out at the gray city. As I stood there, all I could feel was a longing to be home again - a longing for ordinary life. Hearing the shouts of children fighting over a toy. Washing piles of laundry, blotting stolen nail polish out of the carpet, spreading peanut butter on bread, all on repeat, repeat, repeat. 

My dream was to go home with my daughter - to get to do it all again. 

And then earlier this year, I had two totally unrelated surgeries within two months of each other. Recovering from the second one, I felt discouraged and found myself again longing for ordinary things. I made a list of goals for when I was feeling better in an effort to improve my spirits. At the time, they felt outrageously audacious: 

Maintain a tidy house. 

Feed the dogs on a schedule. 

Start running again. 

Keep up with laundry. 

Cook dinner. 

Meet with clients every week. 

Gratefully, I'm back to doing those things on a more or less regular basis. My wildly audacious goals have become routine again. Ordinary. Mundane. Unnoticed. 

Unappreciated. 

And I guess I needed Beaver to remind me what life has shown me over and over: 

Ordinary things are sacred. 

In moments of extraordinary pain, they're the things we miss the most. And remembering that today, maybe we don't need trauma to remind us to appreciate the small stuff. 

Maybe we just need Wally's annoying little brother. 

Getting to Wash the Breakfast Dishes, 

Becki