Trusting God When Life Changes

Endings are that strange and mystical combination of sorrow punctuated with joy, of hope dancing with nostalgia. Our little family is coming to the end of many things in these coming weeks as we prepare for what is ahead, and within a two-week span, both Michael and I are coming to the end of jobs we have loved and lived for years.

Trusting God When Life Changes: The Joy of Walking with Jesus. www.annswindell.com

Yesterday was Michael’s last day on staff as a pastor at the church that we have been a part of for nearly eight years. We are moving to a new state so that he can finish his seminary degree, and yesterday we had the gift of preaching (together!) one last time to the church community that has so richly shaped us.

We are thankful. Thankful for fellow believers who have pointed us to Jesus and ministered to us even as we have ministered to them. Thankful for the countless nights of small groups and meetings and prayer times and worship sessions. Thankful for truth spoken to us on wonderful and difficult days. Thankful for weddings and babies and celebrations of many kinds. Thankful for friends who have held us up and counted the cost with us. Thankful for camaraderie in the Kingdom.

But new beginnings cannot come without endings, and yesterday was a day of ending our official ties with that church family. Tears? Yes. Laughter? Yes. Hugs? Most definitely, yes.

And also, expectation. For the first time in my life, I am not terrified of the unknown. Perhaps, for you, change is a wonderful and heady thing. For me, change has always felt gut-wrenching, difficult, gear-grinding tight. I have never loved change; I have usually avoided it.

But in this season where God has invited us to lay down all that we have known and step into something strikingly new, I am filled with hope. I am filled with expectation. I am filled, even, with joy.

I am learning that this joy is the fruit of obedience; joy is the natural response of saying “Yes!” to God. 

Jesus talks about this very thing right before he obeys all the way to his death on the cross. He is sharing his heart with his closest friends, here in the hours before his dying:

    “As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my        love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and      that your joy may be complete.” John 15:9-11

God loves us. He loves us! And when we obey his commands–when we say yes to him–we not only experience his love, but we receive the treasure trove of joy he has to offer.

What kindness! We are broken, sinful, selfish people, and yet when we make the choice to obey God (which is what we should do anyway) he meets us in the place of obedience with love and with joy. Love and joy–the two things our hearts desire perhaps most of all–are found in obedience to God.

Love and joy--the two things our hearts desire perhaps most of all--are found in obedience to God. Share on X

And this is the pearl that God is forming in me in this season. As I rub up against the pain of leaving our home and our community for what he is calling us into, I am finding that there is such deep joy in obedience that I hardly know what to do with it.  At present, the circumstances we are in are foggy at best: timing, finances and jobs are all up in the air. But I am so hopeful. So expectant. So joy-filled!

As one who used to be so afraid of change, I am surprised to find such tenderness in my heart. I have moments of fear and concern, of course, but I have more moments of joy and delight. And I am thankful. I am thankful that as good things are coming to an end, I know there is deeper joy up ahead–not because of the circumstances, but because Jesus is there.

He is, after all, the pearl of greatest price, the treasure trove of joy himself.

As we obey his call, I am meeting Jesus afresh at every turn. And the joy in him is the greatest gift of all.

 

Walking Dust: An Ash Wednesday Reflection

As people of faith, Ash Wednesday is  a day that marks us—figuratively and, in some traditions, literally—for a period of weeks that is meant to change us. Lent seeks to hush our ravenous appetite for ease and excess and, instead, remind us that the way of Christ is neither of those things. The way of Christ is the way down—down from heaven, down to the dust of the earth and the pain of a cross. It is the way of truth.

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Psalm 103 has long been a favorite of mine; I love the way that the heart of David is uncovered as he declares what he knows to be true of God. Here, David is preaching to his own soul that God is the one who “forgives all of your sins” and “redeems your life from the pit.” David goes on to offer the dizzying image of God as the one who hurtles our sin as far away from us as the east is from the west. And he remembers that God’s love is with those “who fear him”—from “everlasting to everlasting.” This is the Psalm that I read when I need to be reminded of God’s character, for this chapter reminds me of his compassion, his kindness, and his mercy.

Lodged in the middle of one of these mighty declarations, however, is a reminder to the reader of our real state, in verses 13-16.

As a father has compassion on his children,

so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; 
for he knows how we are formed,
 
he remembers that we are dust. 
The life of mortals is like grass,
 
they flourish like a flower of the field; 
the wind blows over it and it is gone,
 
and its place remembers it no more.

This verse elicits two responses in me. First, I see the kindness that the Lord has for us: he who is eternal cares for those who are finite. My life is a scratch on the husk of this earth, and yet he has compassion on me. How kind, how good, how loving is this God? But secondly, I am forced to come to terms with the reality that although I am flourishing now, there is a day soon in its coming when I will no longer be here. My body will give out; my skull will become a shell. As it is written in the Book of Common Prayer, one day my body will be “commit[ted] to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

And here is the importance of Ash Wednesday. Whether or not you participate in a church service, you may see men and women walking around today with sooty crosses on their foreheads. Take a second look at the ones you see with these crosses smudged on their faces; that soot is a visceral reminder of our real state.

We are walking dust.

We are walking dust. Share on X

Infused with the breath of life, yes. For now. And although I cling to the hope of Easter each day of my life, believing wholeheartedly that the death of my flesh is not the death of me, I still will face death. As will you. In order to tell the truth, this is where we must start on this Lenten journey. Death comes to all of us. And yet, as David writes in Psalm 103, God still cares for us. He still loves us, has compassion on us, and has made the way for us to be free from all sin so that we do not have to fear this death. This is the hope we are inching toward during Lent, even as we come to terms with our own mortality.