This past year…

It was two days before Jeff’s birthday, last year, when our world began to spin a little crazy, and everything changed, and I went for a run and bawled my eyes out and yelled at God and straight up told Him I thought He had a rotten plan.

That plan involved us leaving our comfortable ministry, job, church, and home, surrounded by security and love, and like a baby chick kicked out of the nest, getting flung headlong over the edge, flapping and screaming and squawking and flapping our wings like heck, our eyes bulging out of our heads.

Crazy scared.

His birthday last year was bittersweet. What would we do? Where would we go? How would this all work out? All we knew was something “new,” but what? And so his 34th birthday fell on Father’s Day, and he worked all day at church and I stuck a candle in the pie at lunch-time and we ate, grateful, but a little on edge.

What would this year hold?

What would Jeff’s 35th year hold?

And soon, slowly, like watching clouds form in the sky, this new venture began to take shape. It would be a church plant. It would be different. We would be weird. (Nothing new there.)  We would eat and drink together. We would move to the city. We would live in community. We would commit to generosity, community, prayer. We would give stuff away. We would talk about Jesus all the time. We would fail (guaranteed), but we would continue to trust the Keeper of our Souls and entrust this work to Him. We would believe Him, that He makes all things new. That he re-news all things by His power, His Spirit, His life. That the gospel takes old, dead things and makes them new, alive. And so it began to take shape:

RENEW

And there was nothing magical and no warm feelings came, and despite God’s faithful provision, month after month, we plodded along a bit weary, wondering why this was all so hard. We would doubt, often, and look around, desperate for validation, approval, affirmation. We would come up empty and lonely, then fall back on grace and remember, This is all His gig. It’s not up to us. It’s His. 

And we would be slowly blessed. We would look around us and see these saints, crazy faithful Rowells and Snyders, Smiths and Kent, Hardings and Hannas and so many others. We’d meet the Garrisons and shake our heads in awe at their humble service. We’d laugh long over meals and make peanut butter sandwiches for the homeless and write checks to World Vision, grinning ear to ear.

We’d discover The Revival Building and see the $800, 000 pricetag and get a twinkle in our eye and pray circles for months and not be one bit surprised when the keys were handed over, for use on Sundays. Of course they were. Do you know our God? 

And I’d watch as my man grew wings. As he sloughed off hindrances and layers and learned behaviors and began to lean, really lean, on the Savior. But still I’d cry often–often–on Sunday nights when my eyes weren’t on Jesus and I’d look around this circus we call church and wonder, Who on earth would want to come here? 

And I’d unload, brutally honest, on him afterward and he’d smile, unwavering, reminding me our job: faithfulness.

It is God who brings the increase.

And then one day (When did it happen?) I looked around and tears filled and spilled over when I realized, Yes, this is a church! This is home. This is ME.

This is where I want to be.

And then they began to come. People! And I wondered if perhaps they were blind, to overlook our messes and faults and foibles and insist that this was home for them too?

That they liked it this way, just a little bit messy. And when that man, the new visitor, who hadn’t been in church for ages, later told Jeff:

“When you were preaching and you said, ‘I don’t have all the answers,’ I knew this was the place for me.”

Who knew?

That broken pots could hold glory.

That all the cracks make space for His light to shine.

And so, today, my Love, on your 35th birthday, I look back at this past year and that is what I see:

You, my beloved broken pot, have His crazy glory busting through your life like never before. This year has been the hardest one of our life.

But the best.

And I love you more than ever, in all your gray-haired glory. And it is my joy to keep journeying down this road with you, both of us limping, and in love.

Happy birthday. {Thank you, all, for reading.}