Irish Jesus, suburban Jesus

We quietly walked into the store, could be we made up half its occupants. We browsed the CDs, recognizing none of the artists, and then we headed to the back where a greying man with a scruff that begged scratchy grandpa kisses recommended we pick up David Grey's White Ladder album if we were wanting something distinct and upandcoming and native to this land.

It was just barely 2000, fog rolling over the grey dates of March, and we were in Ireland.

So HighSchoolFriend and I purchased the CD, boarded the tour bus that held the rest of our chorus group, that held too many freshmen boys who cared nothing of this emerald country, her history and sounds, her people nervous about transitioning to the Euro, her smog-filled streets of Dublin,

her enchantment.

We finished our sight seeing that day, exchanged full rolls of film for fresh ones, hoping for pictures in focus, pictures that captured Tim singing Oh Danny Boy with 90 year old native on the side of the road, pictures of sheep spray-painted fluorescent colors demarcating ownership, pictures of the brown lamb scooped up in my arms, coastal cliffs in blurry background, and we then piled into our modern hotel that promised the next century would be oh-so-cool.

And the reason we bought a CD that day was to use the trendy CD player installed in our hotel room.

The rest of the stay, those next four days, David Grey sang to us, morning and night, while rising and makeuping, while choosing whattowear, and then while peeling the day's adventure away for a night's rest.

Ireland now had her soundtrack, a musical accoutrement to her sights and impressions, to her faces and foods, to the adventures she'd lend me. And beyond those literal moments, these songs created memory space around the girl I was, the woman I was becoming.

The soul searches for continuity, for something that can tie the stories of a bright-eyed seventeen year old to the stories of a (happily) tired mother of two.

And I see some constants, some, against the glaring changes of eleven years. The heart is more weathered, pangs of disillusionment have replaced naivete. The heart is more full, loneliness and longing replaced by the friendship and love of one breathtaking man. And the heart is the same, still breaking away from common paths to discover hidden ones, still getting lost along the way, still craving silence and nature and horse rides over shopping, early morning runs to castles over sleeping in. 

But the most constant thing between my present and my Ireland is not David Grey, is not my stories, is not the aspects of my personality unchanged.

The tie between then and now is Jesus.

He was there with me on that tallest mountain, fog rolled in, whispering through wisps of hair the glory of risk as we scaled the cliff, trail long lost. He was as oxygen as we traveled through humble villages, infusing me with an excitement to breathe it all in, with an invitation to revel in the majesty of rolling hills, of freckled faces, of the diversity of creation. He was with me when I shared my story with my hotel roommate, making for a total of five who knew then, inviting me to ministry, to love, to scrape away false strength in exchange for vulnerability, even when healing's not complete, and only just begun.

And Jesus, the same Jesus who met me on the mountain, who met me in the streets and in the pub, whose presence held me tight even on that hormone-filled, obnoxiously immature tour bus, is the Jesus of Here and Now.

The adventure is not as sensational, no one begs to see the scrapbook of a stay-at-home-mom whose days are filled with cooking and playing and reading and nursing, but the risk, the love of life, and the ministry are all open invitations still standing, still calling me to answer.

It's different now, it sure is different.

But He's not.

God of Ireland, God of now, you are my constant, 

you are the continuity of my story. 

You are Jesus, the same yesterday, today and forever.

my husband has married eight other people

That is, he's performed four marriage ceremonies.

You were thinking we went all Big Love, weren't you?

I thought for all my ranting about becoming a pastor's wife, I should share with you one of the highlights--

my husband gets to marry people.

Tonight we spent two hours with a couple, the guy we've known for years. We had met him fresh out of his divorce, still reeling from the pain and the let down. He impressed us with his goat-cheese-and-raspberry-relish-stuffed-pastries that he brought to our home team Monday nights, immediately placing himself in high demand. And she? She's too cute. Like, cupcake cute. As in, could-there-be-anything-wrong-with-you cute? They're both PA's. They both love Jesus. They have a great story.

So, they came over tonight to talk wedding details, but I had a better plan.

I decided to test their working relationship right here in our home. So I sliced my right index finger. Bad. Blood-splatter-on-the-wall bad. Just as they were on their way over.

So the first twenty minutes of our time together consisted of them, literally working hand in hand, stitching up a profusely bleeding digit.

            {I let Carter watch and his first words were, "Mommy, I'm so very proud of you!" Enter heart-melt-age here.}

They were even cute then, with their medical suture jargon, her debating steri-strips or gauze?

So, one "U-stitch" later, we sat down with coffee and leftover goat cake

this is what I get for ordering raw milk and generally going crazy about food for three months

and talked

wedding

vows

procession

honeymoon plans

kids-in-the-future?

work stress

anticipation

worry

love.

And Neal gets a front-row seat. We get the privilege of being brought in close, close enough to pray, close enough to listen,

close enough to rejoice.

God is doing good things, even now. 

Two friends, four cups of coffee, and one bandaged finger later is proof.

on dreams deferred

When asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I didn’t answer this.

When thoughts turned to words scribbled in hot pink journals, I didn’t pen this.

When dreams manifested as goals, as steps to take, as a path to follow, I didn’t chose this.

But God did.

My husband is a pastor.

And I am a pastor’s wife.

I saw us Somewhere Else when my husband and I were just dating, just dreamers, when the world lay before us. He would go into business and my calling was advocacy—I would become the next Erin Brockovich, or Mother Teresa, or Condoleeza Rice. I would fight and bleed and give voice to those who had none.  My major, my networking, our move, it all lined up with my dream and my husband fully supported me.

And then God called him.

I was there.

Right beside him, Bible hugged to chest, bare toes digging through matted apartment carpet. Something inside him broke, some hidden current, nameless and unsuspecting. The dam burst forth and he wept and dreams and desires found words and labels and a way to rise to the surface and become part of the conversation. 

And as if we were part of some holy cosmic game, people and opportunities aligned within months, without our doing.  A mighty hand maneuvered us to the place of vocational ministry,

serving the local church,

pastor and pastor’s wife.

I wrestled and I surrendered. It was no new thing, this request by God to lay down my Isaac for his will. I had seen it, lived it, before so I knew the drill. I would fight him. I would cry. I would submit.

And then I’d know the fellowship of obedience.

The fellowship that is sweeter than any passion that pulses through my veins, more real than the dark children who call my name from across the sea, from across the socio-economic lines of our city. 

I’m learning now that my heart was probably too soured by prejudice towards white, middle-class suburbia to be of good use to a loving God.  I’m learning that I had infused my God-given dreams with a prideful agenda and had made them about me and the identity I so desperately wanted.  

I’m learning how to love those who look like me, who have no physical need, whose wounds are deep and hidden, whose façades of perfection are convincing and deceptive.   I’m learning how to discern and meet the needs of my family, of my community.  I’m experiencing the thrill, the rich satisfaction, of the journey towards selfless.

I’m a pastor’s wife and I’m walking in the footsteps of another person’s dream.

But my God is good.

My God is here.

And knowing him in this is better than the fulfillment of something forced, something worked out by the determination of my independent will.

Years ago, I would be expecting God to intervene and make a way for me.  Years ago, I would be watching the clock, impatiently holding up my end of the bargain, expecting the reward of what I’ve claimed to come my way. But I know better now.

God owes me nothing.

Not even my dreams.