The Glory of Dying

I’m sitting on the patio of my grand-in-laws’ country house, overlooking a lake and acres upon acres of Georgian woods. It’s November, and all non-floridians know what that means. Color. Crimson, hues of orange, burnt yellow and baby chick yellow, purple and stubborn green. These, and so many other colors, flank tall, gangly trees as they submit to the changing of the seasons. Some trees emanate an orange-red, as electric as a Las Vegas sign. Others have soft yellows that only glow when rays of sunlight shine through them. Over the past few days my husband and I have been eagerly scanning the trees for the most glorious, the most ostentatious displays of color.

Yesterday morning, as my husband and I sat on a fallen log near the lake, the irony hit me. The beauty in which we delighted was an outward sign of the tree’s death. The healthy trees, which had maintained the process of photosynthesis, were still green and we took no note of them. The leaves whose life was slowly seeping out of them caught our attention and earned our admiration. As the life of the tree escapes through its leaves, it announces its death to the world. The leaf is never more glorious than right before it dies and falls to the ground.

We were in awe of death.

I wonder if this is what Jesus intended for those who would follow Him. Before Christ, we had a death grip on life as we knew it. The cares, pleasures, and worries of this world consumed our thoughts and lives. We were like every other person, indistinguishable from the history of humanity that has preceded us. When Christ took hold of us, he told us to let go. He said that those who seek life in this world would lose it and those who lose their lives would find true life in Him. We let go of this life and submit to Christ’s death, symbolically, in baptism. As we’re raised from the water, we take part in a sacred ritual that represents the resurrected life.

Our lives should reflect the mystery of the Georgian trees. When we submit to dying to ourselves and this worlds’ agenda, our plans, ambitions, identities and passions seep out of our hearts and away from our souls. We begin to echo Paul’s words, “this life I live is not my own,” and we begin to identify with Christ and the losses he incurred while living here. It’s only then that we take on a glory we could never attain on our own. Radiant color emits from our beings as we announce to the word our death.


I’ve never before thought of death as beautiful. Baptism is celebrated because of the new life it represents. Easter is celebrated because of the resurrection. But right now, I think nature is speaking. I think that God is whispering a secret truth—that we don’t have to wait for perfection, we don’t have to wait for His return or our own resurrection to celebrate what is now transpiring.

Our daily choices to die to ourselves and thereby find life in Christ, separates us from the masses, from those indistinguishable evergreen trees. When we pass on the job promotion due to where God’s calling us, when we share God with our friend at the risk of losing the friendship, when we forgo dining out to be able to share our resources with the poor, these are the marks of life in Christ. The job opportunity may never come back around, the friend may reject you and God together, and the home cooked chicken may never get that craving fulfilled. The glory of these choices is that they speak to something beyond today, beyond this world. They challenge the world’s obsession with self and now. They demand a pause, and maybe even a thought, directed towards God.

Just as the sky is most radiant right before the black of night, and the trees are most beautiful right before the dead of winter, a Christian’s life is most glorious as she releases it from herself.

In this, there is an announcement, a proclamation of submission to One greater than ourselves. We do look forward to heaven, to resurrection, and to all things being made right and new. But, for now, let’s acknowledge the strange splendor of our lives; let’s celebrate the irony of this death we daily live.

This is the glory of dying.

The Very Long Abridged Version of My History with Women's History

My husband spoke last Sunday morning in front of 500 plus people in two different shoes. I didn’t even notice. When my mother-in-law jokingly said, “girl, you need to help that boy find his shoes!” I quickly retorted that I would certainly not help him find his shoes. “He’s 27 and fully capable of looking through the closet on his own!” After our conversation, Neal asked me why I had been so quick in my response. And I realized it. The chord of feminism had been struck again.

I grew up in southern California. I didn’t see ever Tom Cruise or Heather Locklear walking down the street, but I did refuse to buy leather products, raised money to save the rain forest, sponsored a whale and adopted a modified vegetarian diet. Needless to say, the culture and credos of “hippy California” (quoting someone who dresses in the dark) influenced my worldview. It’s no wonder, then, that I would have issues with the way history has devalued its women.

As I learned about world history in school, I was genuinely grieved that women as a whole have not played a bigger part. They’ve been treated as second-class citizens and relegated to subservient roles in every tribe, culture and nation. (If I’m wrong, please email me. I’d truly like to be corrected.) And while this bothered me, somehow I could reconcile these abuses with the fact that this world is fallen. I shouldn’t expect power-hungry men who have no fear of God to subscribe to some notion that men and women are equal in value.

My real problems began when I started reading the Bible. I was in 6th grade when I responded to a challenge of reading through the Bible in one year. It took me a year and a half, but I plugged away and eventually finished. There were times when I was captivated and truly saw a narrative of God’s love for man (or, should I say, humankind). Other times, though, I was ill-equipped to correctly understand what I was reading. I was amused as I stumbled through some strange stories. There was the lesson Ezekiel tried to teach by cooking his food over cow dung; the story of a defeated army walking back to its country with butts exposed; and the portrayal of the Noah who saved humanity getting drunk and passing out naked. All of these could have all made for some good SNL parodies.

As I read, though, I hit some less amusing obstacles. Men who had long been my childhood heroes, I learned had several wives. There were some commands that God spoke directly to Moses that seemed unfair with regard to women and girls. Further along, in letters that the apostles wrote to church plants, there were seemingly sexist directives concerning women and their roles in the family and in the church. Themes of quietness, submission and male leadership appeared to be in direct contradiction to the roles of leadership I had been operating in. I was confused about how I should participate in ministry, about what my future marriage might look like, and ultimately what my identity was in God’s eyes.

So, in an effort to clear things up, to give God a chance to explain himself, I wrote to an influential biblical authority in my life. Focus on the Family.* I included the most baffling scriptures in my letter and asked them to please explain to me what they really meant. They promptly replied: “We at Focus on the Family deal with family issues. We’re not biblical scholars. So, we’ve included a book to help answer your questions.” Forgive the sarcasm, but the role women play in family and the church—that doesn’t fall under “family issues?” And the book, while very informative on creation versus evolution, the veracity of the Bible and other apologetics, didn’t even hint at my questions.

I realized then that I would find no easy answers. This journey would last longer than I first expected. 14 years later, I am in a much better place. Many of those original scriptures have been made clear to me in an accurate and enlightening way (it’s all about the context). I now realize that God has chosen to work with imperfect humans and the grace that I afforded secular history I’m beginning to dole out to the players of biblical history. Just as He did not wait on me to get my act together before initiating relationship, neither did He wait on my childhood heroes. I’m married now and have been practicing the concept of submission, as taught in the Bible. I’ve never once felt degraded, limited or patronized. My husband honors and respects me and challenges me to greatness far more than I could ever push myself. And that ultimate question, the one of my identity before God, has been settled. God has intervened in my life, changing its destructive trajectory even though it cost him his Son. His presence has never failed me. The sacrifice he made just to be near me is enough. Questions may raise, more puzzles may present themselves, but I am secure in my value as defined by my God.

But the shoes, the shoes, you might note-- obviously there are some unsettled issues. And there are. I still take offense too easily; I still aspire to be the next Condoleeza Rice** and I still am suspicious of some men. I’m working on it. For now, though, I’m satisfied with where I am. Even if it means sucking it up and helping someone find his shoes.

* I feel somewhat obligated to say that Focus on the Family is a good organization, yadayada...please don't be offended.
**For the record, there’s nothing wrong with admiring Condoleeza Rice; it just exemplifies my lust for power.
Last Disclaimer: To all the male readers of this post, I'm really not suspicious of you. I like you a lot, truly.

Red and Yellow, Black and White

Every night before I put my precious baby down to sleep we read Moo, Baa, LaLaLa and then we pray for all the babies in the world. We pray that they would have mommies and daddies to care for them, that they would have enough food to eat, a safe place to sleep, and most of all that they would know how much Jesus loves them. It’s a simple prayer, really. To one who overhears, it may strike him as cute or sweet. To a more critical listener, it may seem naïve and idealistic- as believable as a beauty pageant contestant sincerely declaring that her greatest wish is for “world peace.”

To me, there’s great irony in our prayer for the babies of this world. All that we ask for, Carter has. His every need, physical and emotional, is met. His world is simple and safe and beautiful right now. So, were he capable of understanding my words, he would think the prayer redundant. The reality is that as I breathe those words, holding him close to my chest, babies around the world aren’t doing too well. There are 6,200 babies in China that are hospitalized for kidney failure and liver damage. There are babies in Africa who are HIV positive. There are babies down the street whose siblings all have different last names and who will never know who Daddy is.

On January 9th, Carter’s birth date, I was stolen away from the superficial things of this world and entered the most peaceful chapter of my life yet. My soul is refreshed by Carter’s innocence and purity. I am renewed in my hope for things to change. And I am reminded of the way things should have been with the conception of mankind. When I pray with my son for the babies of this world, painfully aware that many lives are not like ours, I am not merely wishing. It’s not a Hail Mary pass, it’s not a tribute to John Lennon’s Imagine, it’s not due to a wistful imagination. Underneath each spoken word, I am asking that this unaware baby in my arms would grow up to conquer the giants of our time. Were I to be asked for my greatest wish, it would not be for the preservation of my son’s comfort and innocence. It would be that he’d engage with what is not and fight to return us to the place we have lost.

Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight.