WELCOME

I look out the windows of my small, country church at the rising sun on Easter morning. As the delicious smells waft up the stairs from where the men are cooking our annual Resurrection Sunday breakfast in the kitchen below, I notice how the dawning light outside is barely kissing the tops of the nearby mountains and painting the sky a golden glow. Clouds that let down a dusting of snow overnight now turn pale pink as the world wakes up to the start of a new day, a new week. 

Lord, teach us to pray.

High above my head, while running some errands in my local town, I notice an eagle cruise right over me. It's nothing uncommon for me to see these majestic birds that signify national strength resting in a tree all over this place. Perhaps it's why the original settlers of this area named this town and the nearby river that flows through it, Eagle River. They are everywhere, and it's not lost on me that so many people travel to my state to catch a glimpse of these incredible creatures and I get the chance to see them pretty much all the time. I'm constantly reminding myself that living here, I get to experience other's dream. And isn't that kind of the way life is anyway? We're often living through moments that someone else in the world is praying for and, to us, we think nothing of it.    

 "Miracles happen everyday

When I think back on some of my favorite childhood memories, there is one in particular that comes to mind. I was probably in my early teens at the time, and the church I attended back then was having a Family Fun Day at one of the local lakes. It was in the dead of winter, so all of the activities centered around ice and snow. Some people went cross-country skiing around the lake while others went sledding. One dad even built an igloo with his two little boys! The church had rented the large lakeside cabin for the day, so board games and steaming crockpots of chili and soup awaited everyone inside, along with a roaring fire, when the outdoor chill became too much. For some reason, this memory has stuck with me. 

A very real occurrence here in this arctic world of mine is that it's a process in the winter to defrost the car. If you don't have a garage where you can park your car away from the elements, any snow or ice buildup cakes onto your windshield and side windows, leaving you with quite the job just to leave the house when you need to. You have to allot extra time just to make sure your line of sight is clear enough so you can drive safely. Anybody living in a cold, wintry climate knows the struggle is real. So turning the heater on full blast, the scraping and watching the ice melt on the windshield is a common sight and one that I've been used to for many years. 

I caught myself doing it again: slapping on a smile when nothing inside of me feels alive. Saying that I'm "fine" when the whole world around me doesn't feel fine and all I want is to bring back what's been lost and to stop the soul-bleeding and the suffering and to have the ground quit shaking all the time. This comes from a heart that's tired. Honesty spilling out of a spirit that is weary and flesh that is weak. And somehow, God knows. He always does. And judge me for being here, He does not.    

I've lost count of how many times I've spoken the words.  

Almost seven years ago, when my best friend died, a part of me died too. 

As I stood in the living room and stared at the seat he once occupied, I couldn't help but notice the emptiness. He was bigger than life to me. My uncle by choice. Always the life of the party. And every time you went to his house, with the exception of a warm, summer day, the wood stove was always going. Always warm and inviting. Just like him. Just like his heart. You felt at home every time you stepped in. Every time he gave you a hug. It's who he was. But now... oh, how the irony hit me like a ton of bricks: the first visit over to this house since his passing and the wood stove that once spoke all things cozy, was now cold and lifeless. The house had a slight chill. And so did my heart. It felt a bit less warm as well. A sadness pervading it as we gathered to share a meal while fully aware that we are all missing something special because he isn't here.   

I saw this post on Instagram the other day and it really resonated with me. The post simply posed this deep question...

 In the cold of winter, as a few of us gathered in our church for choir rehearsal, we noticed the two young ladies walk into the back. They gave us a tiny wave of acknowledgement, but we'd never seen them before. There was obviously a reason they had stepped into the building, but none of us knew the story.