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A blog by Krysta MacGray

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Holy Grief and Thanksgiving

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for Dave

I’m in my pantry, door closed, sitting in the dark, the glow of the computer screen illuminating the mason jar full of strawberry smoothie next to me. I like to close the blinds when I write. I like to create a cocoon of dim light because it helps me focus on what I want to say. Snowy days are the best writing days. But the sun is out today and I am much too sorrowful for the sun. The blinds won’t even do. So here I am in my windowless pantry because what I have to write feels much too sacred to have out in the light of day yet.

Grief is a terrible thing. What I didn’t know until today though, is that grief is also a holy thing. 

When deep sorrow comes knocking it always seems a little unfair, doesn’t it? Even though we know there is sorrow in this life. Even though we have always understood we will have to say goodbye, it still seems wildly unfair when it comes time to actually bear it ourselves.

Our family is being put through the ringer of grief right now. It’s potent—in the air. It’s uncomfortable at best, twistingly painful at worst. Each day is tinged with pain. And it feels like it will go on and on forever and never stop. Will we ever not be sad again? That becomes the question. 

I have a sign up in my house in anticipation for Thanksgiving. It reads “In All Things Give Thanks.” 

The other morning, after a night of fervent praying and overwhelm at everything going on and not knowing what I could or should do, I woke up and remembered the verse I memorized five years prior: “be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus” (1 Thesselonians 5:16-18). I decided when I don’t know what to do, this is what I will do.  

Thanks is a hard thing to give when we are in such deep grief. I’m supposed to give THANKS? Of all things, THANKS? It’s like this song that comes on the Christian radio station sometimes. 

So I’m thankful for the scars

‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart

And I know they’ll always tell of who You are

So forever I am thankful for the scars

Jeremy hates it. He’s always shouting “you are not thankful for your scars! You don’t say ‘thank you God for allowing this horrible thing to happen because now I know God better. That’s not the point.’” 

It’s true. The thanks is meant for God for being who He says He is in the midst of what will leave a scar. Our savior. Always near. Who will never leave us. Who will always, always work even the most bleak circumstances, for our good. Who makes beauty from ashes. Who binds up the brokenhearted. Our thanks is to Him *for* Him. That even in this, He is here at work binding up hearts. Comforting. Offering lavish displays of mercy. We shouldn’t give thanks to our pain just because there are silver linings. Rather, our thanks demonstrates that we acknowledge that even though we may not feel grateful for much in the midst of pain, we will choose to be thankful for who He is and trust Him to do what He says He will do—even in this. We will trust we are not alone. That all will be well. That we are held. The thanks is a proclamation of faith. And it’s for our own good or He wouldn’t tell us this is what He wants us to do “always”

While I’m talking about songs, you know that old one “It Is Well With My Soul?” 

When peace like a river attendeth my way

when sorrows like sea billows roll;

whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say

it is well, it is well

with my soul

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

It was written by Horatio Spafford after his four daughters died when their ship sunk in 1873. After, as he himself sailed near where his daughters had died he penned the lyrics. In immense grief he said “thou has taught me to say, it is well with my soul.”

Somehow his soul could find respite, even in the face of this. That’s what great faith produces. There’s something about grief that pushes us deeper and deeper toward the heart of God. Not that we want the pain in order to get there, or that pain is necessary to the process—it’s not, but we find that in grief He fulfills His promise that he will make beauty from ashes. One of the ways he accomplishes this is when you find you grief pushing you further and further to Him. It’s a natural process. Our dependence grows as our independence and what we have control over fades away and what feels like a curse paves a way to be held and safe. He says “if you are in pain I will be near you and I will lead you closer and closer into faith and belief and comfort. He says “it’s okay, you can trust me. Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

Notice trust doesn’t promise a certain desired outcome but instead gives you a way through, come what may…come what may. 

It seems I am always asking “how does God exist in this?” My question is never does God actually exist?  I am never trying to suss out whether or not He is there. I am trying to determine how he is there—when he doesn’t provide the miracle for the people we love. How is He existing in the midst of that? And what will I do with myself then?

When CS Lewis’ wife was dying he wrote, “Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not “So there’s no God after all,” but “So this is what God’s really like. Deceive yourself no longer.”

He goes on, “Feelings, and feelings, and feelings. Let me try thinking instead. From the rational point of view, what new factor has her death introduced into the problem of the universe? What grounds has it given me for doubting all that I believe? I knew already that these things, and worse, happened daily. I would have said that I had taken them into account. I had been warned—I had warned myself—not to reckon on worldly happiness. We were even promised sufferings. They were part of the program. We were even told, ‘Blessed are they that mourn,’ and I accepted it. I’ve got nothing that I hadn’t bargained for. Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not in imagination.”

I read verses like “And I will do what ever you ask in my name” and “do not fear” and I wonder if some of us interpret this as a direct promise from God that all will be well. I’ve been a part of circles where the thinking is “God will make everything okay if we just believe enough.”

But we are never promised a certain outcome. We are promised that come what may, He is faithful, will wipe every tear, fight for us, and take care of us. He is not telling us do not fear because nothing bad will happen. He is saying don’t let your heart be troubled, come what may—this is how I want you to be. This is how you can live and find joy. This is how you move forward. Come ever back to me. I am where your help comes from. Before I came, death got the ultimate ending, but then I came and now death has lost it’s sting. 

Come what may. Come what may.

This is faith. This is knowing God. 

I still don’t know Him as well as I’d like. This is why I often get scared and then I have to remember how He is and what I am promised. I have to remember I am His. I have to remember that when people I love leave this world earlier than should be allowed, I am only a mere blink behind. Even if I live to a ripe old age, I am only 50-60 years behind. We are all going to the same place.  And if heaven is here and now and all around then it just like that Henry Scott-Holland quote: 

“Death is nothing at all. 

It does not count. 

I have only slipped away into the next room. 

Nothing has happened. 

Everything remains exactly as it was. 

I am I, and you are you, 

and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. 

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still… 

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? 

I am but waiting for you, for an interval, 

somewhere very near, 

just round the corner. 

All is well. 

Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. 

One brief moment and all will be as it was before. 

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!”

 I may not know God as well as I’d like, but I am letting my pain push me further into the heart of who He is so I can be changed. So I can know how to be. So I can live and love and hope and not be in fear. So I can one day say “it is well with my soul” and really mean it.

For now, I practice returning back to Him. Again and again. As many times as it takes. Praying continually. Remembering where my help comes from. And giving thanks…not for the scar, but for who He is amid the scars and how He loves.

How he loves us. 

At the end of time it will be you and God. That’s it. That’s all that will matter. 

(The next few paragraphs I’ll be quoting  or summarizing from: http://kenpulsmusic.com/pilgrimsprogress131.html) 

In John Bunyans classic Pillgram’s Progress, The pilgrims realize that death is unavoidable. As they enter the river, which symbolizes the crossing over from life to death to life again, they are encouraged and accompanied by the Shining Ones. The allegory shows that the Shining Ones represent God’s work of grace in heart. And God send them to guide pilgrims in the final steps of the journey. The Shining Ones tell the pilgrims that the river will be shallow or deep depending on their faith. As the pilgrims enter the water, we see that they all experience death differently. Christian, the main character, is in great turmoil. His pride has long been his greatest obstacle, and even in death, his thoughts are of himself. He remembers his sins and ponders his failings. He begins to sink and cry out in distress. He quotes David in the bible: Deep calls unto deep at the noise of Your waterfalls; All Your waves and billows have gone over me.Save me, O God!

Death is a great trial. Doubts that he believed were long past, flood his soul again. Fear engulfs him. He fears he will never make it to heaven. The enemy’s he faced in life now return and seek to pull him under. This is Christians experience. 

But Hopeful, who is with him, is full of hope. He finds the river much shallower and unlike Christian, walks across with firm footing. He keeps his head above the waves and sees heaven on the other side when Christian is unable. It is God’s kindness that Christian and Hopeful walk together. Hopeful’s thoughts are of Christ. Even in death, Hopeful points his brother to the Savior and the promise of eternal life. Hopeful tells Christian that the trial he is facing in death is an indication of God’s grace at work. Christian is concerned for his soul, distressed by his doubts, and troubled by his sin. 

Every true pilgrim who sets out for Heaven will complete the journey. God will do everything necessary to bring us home to glory. 

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ” Philippians 1:6.

But our awareness of His grace as we near the end of life and experience death will be strengthened or weakened by our faith, as we “believe in the King of the place.” We must exercise our faith now. We must learn to walk by faith, not by sight, and be grateful for every circumstance and providence that keeps us pointed to Christ and oriented toward eternity. This requires a radical shift in our thinking…What this world most prizes—status, privilege, wealth, youth and vigor—are things that bind us to this life. Sadly, they can prevent us from looking to Christ and yearning for the life to come. But what the world most fears—hardship, illness, poverty, old age and frailty—are things that cause us to grow weary of this life. Thankfully, they can serve us, if they teach us to value Christ and yearn more for the life to come.

Those most at home in this world will have the hardest time leaving it. It is difficult to face death when you are clinging tenaciously to the world. Those least encumbered by the world will have an easier time leaving it. When we realize that Christ and His promises—which for now are unseen (seen only with the eyes of faith)—are more real and more valuable than anything the world can offer, then we can greet death not as an enemy but as an entrance to glory.”

Until recently I have been at home in this world. I would have a hard time leaving it. Like Kara Tippets once said while in hospice “I feel like I’m a little girl at a party  whose dad’s asking her to leave early. And I’m throwing a fit. I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to go.”

I don’t want to go. I don’t want anyone to go. And of course, my own fear drifts back to me. Do I believe enough? Am I earnestly trying to know God enough so that I can walk the river like Hopeful? I want to be like Hopeful. I fear I am much more like Christian, but I want to be like Hopeful. I will spend the rest of my time here tying to be Hopeful. Trying to trust. Trying to fear not. And I think this is why God designed grief to naturally point us back to Himself. Because he is the one who saves. He is the one who can save us from ourselves and our fear–if we let Him. That’s what free will is. We have to let Him. You have to say you want Him to.

Fear not, for I have redeemed you; 

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you ;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you

—Isaish 43:1-2

I vividly remember the day Jeremy told me about the Pilgrims Progress river story. I hadn’t read it but I was scared about dying. He said “you know, I don’t think there is any point at which the lights go out. There is no darkness. It’s a crossing over. In Pilgrims Progress Christian has to walk across a river to get to heavens side and he panics as the water rises up over his head but he keeps walking and right at the deepest part his head starts to reemerge and he can breathe again. He has not lost consciousness—he’s just gone from one consciousness to another. He is in heaven. He has crossed over, without any lapse in time. He was at one moment here and the next there. Nothing to it.”

My family is being put through the ringer right now. And despite my most sincere efforts, I cannot do anything about it. I have tried and there is absolutely nothing I can do but sit in my tears and uncertainty while trying to remember God’s promises that He will be near. And so I will continue with my instructions: be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.

I will give thanks to God for who He is in this. And I will pray continually. 

The River Prayer, from Pilgrims Progress:

Lord, we pray for those now crossing

Through the River, death’s cold tide.

Help them through its flowing current,

Bring them safe on Canaan’s side.

We are all going to the same place. We are all coming. We’ll be there in but a blink.

I love you.

Hope

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I met someone recently who had lost her daughter. She told me about a visit she once had with her doctor. While talking about her emotional well being, this woman told her doctor she was struggling a bit. The doctor said something to the effect of “you need the healing power of Jesus Christ in your life.”

So.

Guess what she didn’t seek?

. . .

The meaning of names is a big thing in our family. Both mine and my husbands names have meanings that have each hinted about who we were and what we were doing here. We wanted to give our kids the same gift. We named our youngest Eleanor because we were smitten with the name itself and because it meant “shining light.” How great is that? Her middle name is Hope. For a while, I wasn’t on board with the middle name choice. My husband kept saying “I want to name her Hope. Hope is the greatest gift we’ve been given on this earth. There’s nothing better.” And I was always like “You think? What does that even mean? I don’t know about that.”

Around this time I happened upon Emily Dickinson’s famous poem:

Hope is the thing with feathers 

that perches in the soul

and sings the tune 

without the words

and never stops

at all—

This little string of sentences brought hope to life for me. Hope did do that. When we don’t have the words, it gives us the tune. And all of a sudden, there’s melody where there was once silence, however faint. And it never stops, at all. How great is that? I thought.

“We’ll name her Ellie Hope” I told Jeremy. 

I thought hope was amazing even though I was still thinking about it in the everyday sense. The way a new doctor with different ideas and methods might give a woman hope for a baby after not being able to get pregnant for five years. That kind of hope. Good for sure, but I hadn’t yet started to contemplate hope in the eternal sense. That is, hope as the gift that Jesus brought to the world. I knew my husband was thinking of that when he suggested the name in the first place. I knew about this kind of thing intellectually of course, but it didn’t really mean anything to me. Which is to say, I didn’t actually know.

. . .

The other night I had a dream. The night before, Jeremy had shown me a picture of Drew, a boy in Olivia’s class that had passed away last Thanksgiving. In the picture he was smiling for the camera on his mothers lap. Precious, beautiful boy he was. Jeremy said “I can’t imagine the sorrow his mom has to walk through everyday.” I always shut thoughts like this down real quick, or else they’ll destroy me right there on the spot. I won’t recover. I’ll end up a ball of worry, sadness and tears in my bedroom if I let the thought settle in past the first layer of my skin. I know this because I do let it settle sometimes. I do it intentionally. I let my heart break wide open in solidarity with the mothers and I pray on their behalf, mostly for comfort and peace. It’s just I don’t tend to do this when I am in the middle of making dinner like I had been this time. It stays with me though, even when I shut the sadness down quickly.

Then, I had my dream. In my dream, I was looking at Eleanor’s picture on my refrigerator and I knew she was gone. Sorrow settled deep in my chest as I thought about never being able to hold her again…

Until heaven anyway, I added. 

In my dream, I felt an epiphany of sorts. The words “until heaven” changed the way the dream felt to me. It wasn’t that anything dramatic happened. My sorrow did not leave me. But I think it was the moment when what I knew intellectually became what I actually knew. Because there was only sorrow the moment before, and then there was hope. A tune began to play. The dream played out a bit more and I despaired at having to walk with this tremendous loss for the rest of my life. The hope did not change that. But it did give me a sliver of thanksgiving amid my grief. When I woke up, groggy in the land of half-asleep half-awake, It occurred to me I had been dreaming. The sorrow was heavy on my chest. I could feel the weight of it, and then with the realization it was just a dream, relief blanketed me. I could breathe. And the breathing was easy. And then immediately, my thoughts went to Drew’s mom and the woman who had been to the doctors office. They hadn’t woken up to relief.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t FAIR. I raged that a mother or father anywhere would have to walk the rest of their days grieving the loss of their precious child. I found myself praying for them before I opened my eyes that morning. I prayed for the usual peace and comfort, and then I gave thanks that even in the midst of our greatest despair, God created a way to comfort us beyond what I had been praying—with the hope of Heaven. 

THAT’S why hope is so important. That’s why Christians fall on their faces in thanks to Jesus because that’s why he died. He died so that we could have new life after we die. Specifically, life with those we also love here. So that it doesn’t have to end and we’d get to see our beloveds again. That’s what it meant when I’d read the famous John 3:16 passage as a child, “For God so loved the world he gave his only begotten Son…” 

God loved us so, that he gave us a gift. A gift that cost the life of his own Son. The best possible gift ever—to not have to say goodbye for good—but only goodbye for now. 

Hope.  

That’s what the doctor was trying to tell the woman, I’m sure. He just really sucked at his delivery. And the timing was all wrong. Not to mention, I don’t think he was ever going to be the person able to give hope. Not then. Not like that. People muck this up all the time. We can be really insensitive about it and not even know. We can bust out with weird “you need the healing power of Jesus Christ” for people who are hurting in a way that we aren’t at the moment, who are not a part of Christian culture or accustomed to this kind of thing, and not realize it’s off putting. Not realize we are not offering the comfort or hope they so desperately need.

I think the hope of heaven can only be truly received if it’s shared out of trust that already exists in a relationship. Otherwise, I’m not sure it can have any weight or meaning. A doctor you see once a year who busts out with strange “Christianese” isn’t going to cut it. If we, the Christians, need years to cultivate trust and knowledge of who God is, then might I suggest so do other people? If we need years to get to place where we can believe God is good and He really does love us then, might I suggest, so do other people? And if we need somebody who we trust to share God with us, then might I suggest, that’s who they need too? 

I think our job as acquaintances and strangers, is to be the light. The shining light. Just like my little Ellie Hope. Always shining, never hiding, always learning from the marginalized, always inviting but never insisting or “should-ing” or thinking we are better than, but just shining on in the darkness.

. . .

There’s a scene in The Hunger Games where President Snow is talking to the Game Maker, Seneca Crane. If you don’t know the Hunger Games—-OMG, WHO ARE YOU?! FIX IT NOW!—I feel sorry for you. I do. 

Anyway, President Snow in all his cold, power hungry callousness asks the Game Maker, “why do you think we have a winner?” 

Seneca is confused, “what do you mean?” he asks. 

“I mean, why. Do we have. A winner?” he repeats it, heavy. “I mean, if we just wanted to intimidate the districts, why not round up 24 of them at random and execute them all at once? It would be a lot faster.” 

Seneca looks at him to say he doesn’t know. He’s never thought about it before. President Snow dips his head down, looks Seneca in the eyes and says “Hope.” 

Seneca repeats “Hope?” 

“Hope. it is the only thing stronger than fear. A little hope is effective…A lot of hope is dangerous. A spark is fine. As long as it’s contained.” 

Seneca answers “so?” searching for what President Snow wants him to do next. 

“So. Contain IT” President Snow directs.

President Snow is the dark force in The Hunger Games. A little hope is effective, he’ll permit it. A lot of hope is dangerous. Dangerous for him because he needs people to be afraid in order to retain power.

The darkness wants you afraid. A little hope is allowed so you don’t rebel or dare to seek more. It’s contained. 

The light wants you to live without limit. It offers hope abounding, even after death. Hope. The only thing stronger than fear.

We’re invited to dare to believe it’s true. But of course, I know it’s not that easy. I can make it sound tidy here in an essay but we all know it’s messier than that.

You must test and see that God is good. I get it. 

You must find a way to believe that Heaven is real. I know. 

Must you now believe just the right thing about Jesus? Yikes. That seems complicated.

Is any of this real?

Uh, huh. You are not original in your Charlie Foxtrot, okay?

Everyone grapples with this. 

Well, most everyone. I guess what I’d say is that, it’s allowed. It’s all part of it. What’s more, I figure God already knows I grapple and doubt and try to prove and…and…and…So I don’t need to try and hide it from Him. I figure he wants the real me. Not the me pretending to have it all figured out or hiding behind pat answers I’m actually skeptical of.

If you want to skip ahead of all these questions, which you probably won’t be able to do, but let’s pretend you could— I can tell you how it ends. 

God shows you He is good. Then, you start to believe Him when He says He loved us so much that he sent his Son so that we might be reunited with Him and those we love after death. 

This is where you end up. 

Eventually. 

I mean, first you’ll be confused by old testament God stuff and then absolutely shocked to learn that Jesus seems a little harder and opinionated than you imagined.

Then you’ll go off on weird tangents and particulars in your faith and get all distracted.  For example, Jesus not being all love bombs and rainbows confused me because he didn’t turn out to be what I expected. Because of this, for a while, I wondered if I could just deal with God and not figure out the whole Jesus thing. The Jesus part is what gets everybody uncomfortable anyway. God rarely does, you know. Most people accept there is a God even if they use a different word for it. It occurred to me at a certain point during this exploration, that without Jesus there is no Christianity, so my approach wasn’t going to work. Then mercifully, I realized it was the organized religion part of Christianity with their declarations of who-is-in and who-is-out that makes me uncomfortable, not actually Jesus. 

So, phew! Dodged that bullet.

It get complicated, okay? This is what you have to know. What I’ve learned though, is that for the most part, anything that confuses me is usually due to my own lack of understanding or context in some area. And so I keep learning until things smooth out and make sense to me. If I chase my questions long enough, I don’t usually get answers, but I do get brought back to the heart of God and Jesus—a soft place to land. But before this, I get all bound up over an issue of the times, conflicted and worried. Then eventually, I remember God is just there. Not waiting for me to figure it out perfectly but rather, just delighting that my heart is after Him and his goodness in the first place. And then I can breathe again. 

Forgetting-conflict-worry-remembering-grace-hope. This is my way. But regardless of how many times I go through this spin cycle, one thing is certain.

Hope in abundance is on the other side.

Which is Good News. I was tired of being contained and afraid.

God’s Time

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This morning I woke up slow and full of ripe abundance. I considered my family and their health, and my relationships to them. I thought about the financial resources that afforded my husband and I to go on a date last night to our favorite special place, Cloverdale. For the luscious food we got to eat there. For my in-laws who babysat our kids so we could.

As I laid there in my comfy warm bed it occurred to me that I was thankful for that too. Then, as I always do, I started to run through my day. It is Friday and on Friday I’ve got Ellie at home with me and I don’t usually workout. This fact normally makes me very happy, but this morning I was grateful that I could work out. That my legs worked correctly and that I had the time. Wonder of wonders. I almost wished I could workout.

Almost.

I remembered that my sister was planning to come over with my nieces this morning. I thanked God that Ellie had cousins on both sides of the family to grow up with. How lucky. How blessed.

Kairos.

It’s raining today.

A 48 year old man died yesterday in town on a construction site close to our house. I passed the site yesterday and saw police officers taking pictures. I didn’t suspect anything like this. It could have been my husband.

Yesterday morning that man ate breakfast and headed off to work like he had thousands of times before. An ordinary day. Ordinary in every way, except that it was his last.

Did he have kids? I asked my husband.

No. But a wife.

Why do I always ask if there are kids? The second I find out the answer is no, it makes no difference. There is a wife and she is in pain today. There’s always a wife or husband or child or mother or father. Someone always grieves. It’s like I want everyone who dies to have no loved ones. I want them to have lived alone as a hermit with no family ties so that no one has to grieve their death.

Because grieving death is so final. When you grieve someone you love, you will grieve them all the days of your life from that day forward. There will always be a before and an after. It’s the saddest burden to have to carry. And also an honor. Because, of course, when there are people who grieve it means that there were people in this world who loved you and that you loved in return who carry the memory of you. Who cherish you, still. The more people who grieve, the better the life, really. So while I want the departed to have no grieving loved ones, I also want them to have dozens and dozens and dozens.

When I find out the man’s name I look him up on Facebook. I always do this when people die. I look them up and stare into their faces and read the things they posted. I do this to confirm that yet again, this person was a real live human being with things to say and travels past and people loved and a life lived.

I just can’t believe it.

I think I look to hope that they weren’t real. But they always are.

I look up the loved ones too. To study the faces of the people who yesterday were living as normal but today everything has changed. They will be me someday. We all just take turns with loss. I pray for them. I pray for the peace of God to wrap them up like a weighted blanket. To whisper yes it hurts, but that the promise is for a reunion someday not too far from now. It’ll only be a blink. I pray they would eventually see their grieving as an honor to be had, the mark of a life well lived. The hope yet to come. But not today. I know these words mean nothing today. Today we cry. We steep in the pain and we let them steep in the pain. It’s the beginning stage of healing. The holy baptism of pain.

And this morning, I am reminded of all I have. I don’t think about what I don’t have. Not today. I don’t focus on the sufferings of parenting a handicapped daughter unable to speak, or that I’m going through what seems to be a mini midlife crisis of answering the question “what am I supposed to be doing with my life?” I don’t grumble that I’ve got to figure out what is for dinner and fold the laundry and call that person back that I don’t want to. Or resent that I can’t take a nap today even though my head hurts and I’m tired.

How dare I do any of that anyway. I know that we cannot always live through the lens like this precious day grants us. I know I’ll complain again and it’ll be okay. This is life.

I’m reminded of what David Cassidy said on his deathbed…”So much wasted time.”

So much wasted time.

The regret in that statement is heavy.

We cannot live everyday like it is our last. And we cannot be grateful for everything, and love everyone perfectly, one hundred percent of the time. And yet, that’s what we ache for. That’s what we wish we could do. When faced with the end, that’s the lens we wish we would have seen the world through more.

I hate being a flawed human.

But also, that’s all I can ever be.

The flawed human who grumbles and hurts people but wishes they could live and love and pay careful attention to everything perfectly. How do you reconcile that?

I happened upon an essay yesterday written by my favorite, Glennon Doyle, about the difference between Chronos time and Kairos time. She explained that there is this idea in the world that you need to MAKE THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT and ENJOY EVERYTHING, but how, in her experience, as well meaning as this is, it’s also…impossible?

It’s also only usually said by people not in the messy middle of things. The older women in the Target checkout line would tell Glennon to enjoy every moment of raising her children. Just every moment. They say it to me too. They say this because they are afforded the benefit of coming at it with nostalgia and perspective. They are no longer in the trenches and feeling guilt about just having yelled at her children because they needed to be disciplined but you just couldn’t summon the resolve to go about it in a more constructive way, and now they are crying and probably need therapy.

The idea behind Chronos time is that, this is the time we most live in. It’s the time where all the kids are crying, or you are in pain or complain mode. It’s the daily grind. it’s the distraction of having to get everything done. It’s the hard, meaningless, slow passing time.

Then there is Kairos time, which is God’s time. Glennon describes Kairos time as, “time outside of time.”

It’s the time that takes place when you actually look at somebody. When you notice and connect. When you pay careful attention to the warm tea cup in your hand and the cinnamon smell coming from your cup and it makes you feel grateful and safe. When you witness a spectacular pink sunset and it captures your attention for more than 10 seconds and you don’t even take your phone out to take a picture because you just want to behold. You behold a lot in Kairos time. When you bury your nose in your children’s hair and soak in the warm sleep smell of the early morning. When you laugh hard with your husband after tequila and pizza on the porch and never want the night to end. Kairos.

I think what David Cassidy meant when he said “so much wasted time” was that he wished he’d known to spend more of his time in Kairos and less in Chronos.

Kairos time shows us the abundance and sweetness in our lives. It’s slow and healthy and gift. When we live in Kairos time, we feel most alive and we hold court with peace and joy. It’s where we find richness and meaning and beauty.

I think this is because God is there. God is with us. He always is, but Kairos time helps us notice Him a little better, amongst everything.

If death is a perspective shifter, then I think the best way to honor those who have helped us see with their passing, is to keep trying to live in Kairos time. Because it’s the only kind of living that matters in the end.

We won’t get it right, by any means. We won’t always remember, but we must be gentle with ourselves. No need to feel badly about that. We can’t live in Kairos all the time here. I have a feeling that’s reserved for heaven. So no need to grieve the time lost, or chances wasted in the past. There’s always more.

There is more time. More chances. More life.

Even after death.

More Kairos.

God is with us.