We Belong Together

Early Sunday evening, we returned from driving my sister to the airport. She came for a two-week visit. She lives on the Gold Coast in Australia and so time together is always appreciated, coveted, and overwhelmingly needed.

I called her a few months ago, in the dark of winter and asked her to come for my dad’s birthday. We planned a small birthday party for him. Nothing extravagant, but I wanted an opportunity to celebrate my dad’s life, and his grand-parenting, his faithful presence in our lives.

Sunday morning, the day after the party, we decided it was too complicated to go to church and also make a trip to the airport, so my mom and dad came to my house and we spent the day gathering my sister’s things together. We walked around the lake together and the lump in my throat grew bigger by the hour, in full recognition that upon arrival at the airport, I’d be in tears. One more painful good-bye. One more hug and kiss at the airport.

My sister hugged Emma and Lucas first. My kids cried, as she whispered her life-giving words of hope and encouragement to each of them. The sacred things all kids need to hear from their family: I love you. I am on your side. I am with you. We belong together. You are not alone. 

During these last two weeks, my sister and I spent hours talking, entire days encouraging each other. Speaking the the same kind of words over and over: I am on your side. You are so strong. You are courageous. You are my hero. You’re a great mom. You’re such a good woman. We belong to each other.

After we left the airport, waving one last time as my sister queued up with her carry-on suitcase into the security line, we trekked to the car. My kids were quiet during the ride home. Not many words. Just a hush of sad silence. Too many good-bye’s. Too many people have come and gone from their lives.

My son started to cry when we arrived at the house, saying how much he already missed his aunt.

I wasn’t sure what to do, except what we try to do on Sunday evenings. I heated up the leftover soup from the night before and John made a salad. Then, I looked up the scriptures from the lectionary for Sunday. I decided to read a couple of the passages out of The Message, a very contemporary paraphrase of scripture.

We sat down, prayed for dinner, and then started our reading.

Exodus 17:1-7

Psalm 95

Romans 5: 1-11

John 4:5-42

Somehow, in this mysterious way, that is absolutely impossible to defend or explain, each passage lifted our sad hearts. Each passage brought a tender, sacred comfort. God is with us in our hello’s and God is with us in our good-bye’s. God is near in our light-hearted banter, and in our tears.

If Christianity is anything, it is certainly the faith of the God-who-is-near. Not near in a powerful, conquer-the-world way, but near by faith, near in the reading of scripture on a Sunday evening, in the breaking of bread, in the lighting of a candle, in the blessing of one another as we cling to each other and say with hope, “God be with you, till we meet again.”

Romans 5:2 was particularly meaningful to me.

It says …

“And that’s not all: We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand. Out in the wide open spaces of God’s grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise.” 

I have walked this earth for almost forty years, in over forty countries. I have been poorer than anyone should ever be. I have lived through seasons of overwhelming wealth. I have been harmed and I have unfortunately, done harm. I have been so overwhelmed with sorrow I didn’t know if I’d ever feel good again, and I have jumped for joy and laughed for hours in trusted companionship with Jesus. I have seen God answer incredible prayers, and I have screamed at heaven’s gates and received nothing but painful silence.

In all of that, in every season, no matter my circumstances, something always happens to me when I hear scripture read out loud. My faith rises. My heart steadies. Comfort settles, and the world somehow seems more manageable.

Christianity is a broken, cracked faith. Christians are a bunch of wreckage, strewn out across the globe. We don’t have it all together. We don’t love as we should and we don’t show other people kindness nearly as often as God is kind toward toward us. And yet, we cling to this strange faith. We hold onto the crazy idea that God is for us, God is with us, and God is on the side of the weak and afraid, that God is on the side of the tenderhearted and fragile.

The end of that verse from Romans made me cry. Wide open space. The raw wonder of Christianity is the belief that God is for us, that God’s grace invites us to stand in a wide open space where we  can finally breathe free and easy, lighthearted and wholly loved.

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