Expectations. They’re everywhere.

I expected Olivia Rodrigo’s album to be pretty bad. But actually, I enjoyed it (and her tongue-and-cheek song titled Expectations). I expected my insta-cart shopper to pick good fruit. I got moldy grapes. And on it goes.

Growing up, I was often gently reminded to lower my expectations. I take day-dreaming very seriously, and usually had more fun thinking about the vacation or party than the actual event. Which sometimes would lead to disappointment, as I discovered no, my parents weren’t going to rent a ballroom for my 16th birthday and have my uncles dress up as butlers to serve hors d'oeuvres.

Expectations are a serious thing. Recently my pastor riffed on the “happiness equation.” His hypothesis was Reality - Expectations = Happiness. And it’s true. I always enjoy a movie more when I’m going in with the attitude, “Eh, I don’t think this’ll be that great.” The buzz before the theater made all the difference between those who thought the Odyssey was amazing, and those who thought it was just okay.

Being engaged, people are very eager to temper my expectations. It’ll be hard. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Sex isn’t like the movies. Marriage is good, but difficult. Etc. Etc. And of course, the reason they feel this is necessary is because Hollywood taught me to expect marriage to be the great Happily Ever After. All problems fixed. My identity fulfilled. Those expectations would certainly lead to unhappiness, as my husband buckles under the pressure of upholding my self-worth.

It’s a healthy practice to evaluate your expectations and set many of them aside. This life is not for reaping daydreams.

But in the sermon with the happiness equation, I was asked from the pulpit: what are your expectations of Jesus?

Like, really? What are they?

Like, peel back the shiny veneer of godliness you have tacked over your heart, and really ask yourself: What do I expect from you, God?

In return for my Christian morality and my dedication to the Church, I think I expect property. A blissful marriage. No more temptation. Comfort. Materials. Knick knacks. Savings accounts—full. I think I expect health. For myself, and my family. Relational ease. Prosperity. In other words, I think I expect the American Dream.

When did I decide that Jesus was calling me to picket fences when he only ever bid me to wooden beams?

I just dropped off some friends at the airport who are moving to Southeast Asia. They had 6 suitcases with them. I’m collecting wedding gifts right now, and at the same time wondering how many boxes it’ll take to pack them away when my fiance and I hopefully move overseas.

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My scandalized sense of betrayal and panic at the thought of leaving behind all my stuff, my friends, my family, my church and even my language has exposed this terrifying reality: I don’t think Jesus is worth it. Not really.

I didn’t imagine calling him “Lord” would cost me anything.

I didn’t think it might mean missing out on the life I expected! After all—life is short!

Deep down, I suspected following Him would actually lead to health, children, riches, and comfort. After all, He already answered my biggest prayer: a husband who loves God.

But that husband loves God a little too much. He has found a treasure in a field. Now he wants to sell all he has and tell people about it in a far-off country. It’s funny, the ways of the Lord.

God is drawing me out to deeper water, where my expectations are out of place. He wants tree roots and not veneer. He wants me to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages. This morning I read in Philippians: I count it all loss. I count it all loss compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Jesus Christ.

He’s teaching me to believe in His surpassing worth. Worth far more than my highest expectation. Teach me, Lord.

This past summer I fell in love with a boy while we were sharing the gospel in Thailand and a few weeks ago he popped the question. I was in awe of many things: the new tulip setting to my great-great-grandmother’s ring, the fact that he managed to completely surprise me (because I admit I became quite paranoid in this season of life), and the numb-happy feeling of a beginning.

And then. Because it’s a sub 6-month engagement (my father’s one piece of advice was to have a short engagement) wedding planning immediately commenced.

There are some things that are normally stressful (guest lists, budgets, and making sure there’s enough food) but all of a sudden my instagram feed (the iPhone fairies must have told it I was engaged) gave me brand new things to worry about: the price of bridal bouquets, the time it takes to order a dress, the absolute necessity of hand-painted dinner menus, even-numbered bridal parties, and lacy invitation packages with matching envelope liners. And of course the diet/workout/beauty plans for brides-to-be to become their absolute hottest. Dunk your face in ice water every single day if you want to look good at the altar!

And then there’s what people say to me.

This is the one day that’s all about YOU. YOU deserve this! You only get ONE WEDDING. You can ask people to do anything, because it’s all about YOU! Who cares about your parents opinion!? YOU DO YOU!!! And actually—YOU need the wedding of YOUR dreams, because that’s what a wedding is! All about making all YOUR dreams come true!!!

And a wedding is a big deal. It should be a big deal. My wedding dress should be the nicest dress I’ll ever wear: it means something. Purity. Innocence. Fidelity. Commitment. But flipping through my mom and dad’s wedding album from 2001, I was briefly overcome with nostalgia for how it used to be.

The only wedding venue was a church. The invite was printed in the paper. No one asked the pastor to move out of the way for that perfect instagrammable shot of the first kiss. Bridesmaids weren’t expected to drop $500+ on bach-trips and satin dresses. And church volunteers prepared and served dinner, cake, and lemonade in the basement while the bride and groom posed at the altar for a single portrait (or maybe two).

But that isn’t really how it’s done these days. It doesn’t quite feel like an option. Even so, in my backyard searching through bridal boutique after bridal boutique and calling my mom in stress when I couldn’t find any in our budget, she said: “Johnnie, this isn’t the true wedding. This is just a shadow of the wedding to come.”

Isn’t that a relief?

Now there are some things to the modern wedding industry I love. I love the grandness of the party, the vendors and great swarths of people reminiscent of Bilbo’s 111th birthday party. And I love the attention to detail and beauty. I must admit, the romantic in me appreciates I’m getting married at a quaint historic village rather than on bright red altar carpet.

But—it’s a good reminder that no matter how grand weddings become, they really are only a shadow. It’s not about you. It’s not about 12 hour photo coverage producing private moments into spectacle. It’s not about how toned your arms look. It’s not about all your friends proving their devotion by dropping their lives for 5 days to go to Florida. It’s not about fireworks or sexy dresses or kid-free ceremonies.

Now—due to the generosity of my parents, my in-laws, my mom acting as caterer, my grandma planting flowers, my aunt taking our photos for a significant family discount, my high-school youth group leader altering my dress, borrowed decor from church ladies and cousins’ mother-in-laws, and the radical kindness of a small town bridal boutique taking Christ-like pity on a pastor’s daughter—I’m getting married at a beautiful venue in a beautiful dress.

And I hope that it ends up being a beautiful day. But not all about me. Not all about my fiance. Or even all about the extraordinary love we have for one another (we’re not so naive to think our compatibility is anything out of the ordinary). Instead, I hope it’s a beautiful day in the sight of God. I hope it makes much of His upcoming Wedding: the only reason weddings exist here anyhow.

Let me not become demanding: demanding more time, money, and inconvenience to my loved ones for the sake of Keeping Up with the Jones’s. May I instead surrender any and all demands and enjoy this pretty, fleeting shadow while anticipating the arriving Son—let those wedding bells ring!

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I have sympathy for the girl. It’s an ancient habit to look at creation and say to it, “lord.” It’s what the prophet described in Isaiah 44, when he said to the people of Israel about wood, “Over the half he eats meat, he roasts it and is satisfied. Also he warms himself and says, ‘Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire!’ And the rest of it he makes into a god, his idol, and falls down to it and worships it.”

But it’s not just in the bible. It’s also the hippie air we breathe and have been breathing for a while. Disney’s Pocahontas, Moana, and Frozen II… all pretty darn pantheist. Not to mention a culture that prizes every person’s unique ability to be their own god (“you do you”) and has been substituting the word “God” for the word “Universe” in every major blockbuster movie since the 90s. This girl was practically indoctrinated into pantheism.

Her question wasn’t hard to answer. Is Jesus alright with it? I explained to her that some religions, like hinduism and buddhism, are easy to apply only some of the teachings into your life. However it takes some serious twisting to take only some of Jesus’ teachings and apply it to a pantheist worldview. In other words, no, you can’t treat Jesus like Buddha. You might be able to pick up yoga and meditation on the side, but you can’t follow “love thy neighbor” and ignore “No one comes to the Father except through me.” Jesus is explicit. Jesus is exclusive.

But this is where I think a pantheist can understand the deeper longing of their heart.

Think about how famous the Mona Lisa is. How people count it as a masterpiece of art. How it was appraised at over $850 million in 1962, but is widely considered priceless.

Now think about its painter, Leonardo da Vinci. Think about how he was solid. Think about his heart that pumped blood out at 100 beats per minute. Think about his brain, which held about 100 billion neurons all transmitting information lightning fast for da Vinci to move his paint brush. Think about his eyes, which converted light to image and then flipped it right side up, and then interpreted it, all in the fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second.

Who is the real masterpiece? Every artist’s physical body is a million times more extraordinary than even their best artwork.

I have stood on the top of a mountain in the middle of the Zambian bush. We were so high, my feet tingled when I looked down. I knew far below there were monkeys, long-armed, swinging from branch to branch. There were snakes slithering in the underbrush. There were wild dogs, and elephants, and leopards. And it all extended so far, I genuinely felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Imagine the grandeur of the God who made the mountain ranges.

I have seen the royal blue flash of a bluejay’s wing. I have picked kumquats from the tree, bright orange. I have seen the horizon blush the deepest pink, and the clouds turn to molten gold, while stars began to twinkle on the navy eastern sky.

Imagine the creativity of the God who made color.

I have stood on the seashore before a storm, as gray waters churned and crashed on the sand, again and again and again, an exhaustless, never-ending force spilling out and pulling in.

Imagine the power of the God who made oceans.

It’s true that creation is stunning. At times, it feels divine, like you should call it “lord.” This is what I told the girl. But all of that strength and beauty—it is just the Mona Lisa. Who in their right mind would call the Mona Lisa a miracle, even if it is considered priceless? But Leonardo da Vinci—he is so much more than his artwork. So it is with God.

The inclination for pantheism points to a much bigger truth: God is vaster, and wider, and more glorious than all of His creation. Can you imagine? Doesn’t the beauty of the natural world make Christianity all that better? Because we get to know the artist!

^“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

They all march toward me
Set the table
Boots thunder 
Pour the wine 
Arrows point
Come eat, come revel 
They all close in
We’re intertwined 
I hear them now
Why do you fear?
They’re at the door 
I surround you first

The Bible isn’t just random, purposeless stories. It’s steeped in a rich Hebrew literary tradition, with the foremost being chiastic structure that marks most all of Hebrew poetry and narrative.

Chiastic structure is a symmetrical arrangement of themes working up to and down from the center. Whereas in much of western poetry we like to put our thesis at the beginning or the end (think of any chorus ever), Hebrew poetry written in chiasm puts the most important point in the middle to emphasize a central theme. The pattern goes something like this: ABCXCBA

It’s all over the Bible. Genuinely, all over. For example, Psalm 46.

1      A  God is refuge.
2              B  No fear.
3-4                         C  God rules over natural calamities.
5                                       D  God is here.
6a                                               X  Nations rage.
6b                                               X  God speaks.
7                                       D  God is here.
8-9                          C  God rules over political calamities.
10                 B  Be still.
11        A  God is refuge.

And Joshua 1:5-9

A: “I will be with you” (Joshua 1:5)
      B: “Be strong and courageous” (Joshua 1:6-7)
            C: “That you may have success” (Joshua 1:7)
                  X: “This book of the law” (Joshua 1:8)
            C’: “Then you will have success” (Joshua 1:8)
      B’: “Be strong and courageous” (Joshua 1:9)
A’: The repetition of “the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9) 

And Daniel 1:1-21

A: King Nebuchadnezzar attacks Jerusalem, seizes the temple vessels, and takes captives to Babylon.

      B: The king orders his officials to take some of the Israelites to be trained for three years in Babylonian wisdom, including their food and drink.

            C: Daniel is tested on his knowledge and physical appearance for his new position.

                  X: God gives Daniel favor and compassion in the eyes of the official in charge.

            C’: Daniel and his companions refuse to eat the king’s food and request pulses instead, demonstrating their desire for purity.

      B’: After ten days, Daniel and his companions are found to be healthier and better nourished than the others who ate the king’s food.

A’: Daniel and his companions are presented before Nebuchadnezzar, where the king finds them ten times better than all the magicians and enchanters in the kingdom. 

Again and again, beginnings build up to a center and then parallel down till the end. It makes sense to me that God would chose this literary format for His word: He has hardwired our minds for symmetry and enjoys symmetrical forms all over creation. Think of mountain peaks, the points of maple leaves, even the formation of geese flying south for winter.

And it isn’t just little sections of scripture written like this. The whole narrative structure of the Bible is chiastic (also—weirdly enough—the Harry Potter books. Google it.)

Point A: The story starts with Adam and Eve in a garden with the infamous Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. But curiously, there’s another tree mentioned.

“Behold, the man has become like one of us in knowing good and evil. Now, lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever—” ²³ therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden to work the ground from which he was taken. ²⁴ He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.”

Point A’: That Tree, the one Adam and Eve were kept from eating, parallels the beginning and shows up at the end of the story in the new gardens of the new creation in Revelation.

…on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

But, according to the tradition of chiastic literature, the most important part of the story would be in the center of those two trees and those two gardens.

Point X: The garden of Gethsemane is the center between the garden of Eden and the garden of new creation.

Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, “Sit here, while I go over there and pray.”

Gethsemane is not a paradise. Jesus goes to this garden to plead with the Father and to anguish, to sweat blood. If this is a central point of the Bible, it emphasizes radical sorrow and humility.

Point X: Likewise, the cross is the center between the Tree of Life in Genesis and the Tree of Life in Revelation.

So they took Jesus, and he went out, bearing his own cross, to the place called the place of a skull, which is called in Hebrew Golgotha. There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, and Jesus between them.

The cross is the epicenter of the chiasm. Where after the garden of Eden God took measures against mankind eating fruit from the Tree of Life and living forever, at the cross Jesus himself is the fruit of the cross—that is, Jesus is the fruit of the Tree of Life.

Have you ever thought it strange that Jesus commands his followers to eat his flesh and drink his blood? The clue was all the way back in Genesis. “Lest he… reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and live forever.”

God is a master storyteller. Even with countless different authors and thousands of years in between beginning and end, he has not only provided us His Word, but has written it with literary beauty and sophistication. Isn’t that incredible?

In a discussion-based Bible class taught at my secular university, the day with the biggest controversy hasn’t been the one where God created the world in six days or the one where he flooded it. Nor was it the idea of the law, or the sovereignty of God, or any of the wild stories of incest, rape, murder, conquer, and political drama in the Old Testament that ruffled their feathers.

No, what stirred up the most injured theological attitudes was the day we discussed atonement.

Atonement is a purely english word. Literally it means “at-one-ment” or to make something one. The word in the Old Testament is the same word you’d use to sew up a torn tent skin.

From the beginning of the Bible to the end, atonement is a pretty big deal. How will we atone? is the question asked with the slaughter of thousands of spotless male animals. How will we atone? is the question after exile and rebellion and “whoring after other gods.” How will we atone? is the question asked as Jesus hangs on the cross, abandoned and betrayed by his closest friends.

And that question: how will we atone? is what bothers my classmates. But not the how—the why.

Our conversation lingered around parables like the Good Samaritan, where no debt is paid and the character representing mankind is a victim, not a villain. Atonement is less of a debt owed, in this view, and more like a healing of the sick.

“In the New Testament parables, the debt isn’t paid, it’s always just forgiven,” one classmate said. “And in the Good Samaritan, there is no debt at all.” He was forgetting a striking detail. To forgive a debt is to absorb the loss yourself—it’s essentially the same as paying it. And the Good Samaritan did indeed pay for all of the victim’s expenses: “Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.”

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But our discussion kept on. My classmates thought it’s more true to the Bible to think about how sin affects man through death, sickness and evil, rather than how we suppose it might be affecting God’s honor. Which is a diplomatic way of arguing that the real injustice is not our sin against God, but God’s sin against us.

They got there like this: Sin isn’t debt! Oh us? We are not actually so guilty. It’s more like, we have debt and God has debt too. He really does have some debt owed to us, for He made us this way.

My classmates prefer not to see Jesus’ death on the cross as an extraordinary act of self-sacrifice and grace. Instead, they suppose it’s the only decent thing he could have done under the circumstances. The crucifixion is not a satisfaction of the wrath of God, but simply a medicine for a diseased mankind—a medicine that would’ve been unjust to not provide.

And for a moment, I can follow the logic. There is surely, after all, much more happening on the cross than simply penal substitution, or a payment of debt. There is also a restoration to how things ought to be, a repairing of a relationship. There is also setting prisoners free, and blind seeing, and dead living, and defeating Satan.

But as soon as I think there is less than the wrath of God being satisfied, the thrumming heartbeat of the cross stops beating.

My classmates are fine with the idea that we are sick and Christ came to heal us. They are fine with being the half-beaten victim on the side of the road. But the idea that we are the villain? That our sin is debt owed to God? That is really their problem with Christianity; They are only interested in a whitewashed cross, free of all that messy scarlet blood.

It makes sense. In America we hate to believe we owe anyone anything. We want to be square. We want to feel righteous on our own merit. “The idea of sin as debt just makes me feel guilt and shame,” said one classmate. “And that dishonors the Bible and God.”

In their eyes, since God loves humanity he doesn’t want them to feel guilt and shame. All the same, they wondered aloud how Christians who do believe they owe a debt to God could ever dream of repaying it. From their outside perspective, it’s obvious a few “Hail Mary”s and donations won’t cover it. I got to share with them—that’s the whole point.

Colossians 2:14 says that Jesus canceled “the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This he set aside, nailing it to the cross.” The point is we can’t pay it—but Jesus did. Jesus paid the debt I owe.

Unbelievers may claim their real issue with Christ is science, or an outdated sexual ethic, or limitations on women. But really, when you get down to it, that’s their problem: owing God.

It’s not just controversial among unbelievers. John Mark Comer, popular Christian author, underwent some controversy a few months ago by recommending a book that seems to argue Penal Substitutionary Atonement is a novel, western idea that depicts God as a “sadistic and vindictive legalist” rather than a loving Abba. Comer even goes so far to say PSA comes from from a gross misreading of Leviticus.

A few years before that, a presbyterian hymnal committee left out the popular song “In Christ Alone” from their newest hymnal because of the line: “Till on that cross as Jesus died, the wrath of God was satisfied.”

It’s a tale as old as time. Did God really say? Did God really say the wages of sin is death? Did God really say we deserved wrath?

When did we start twisting the central vision of the cross?

Without the radical substitution of Christ, the cross is just an accessory to Christianity that accomplished something grand, but vague and therefore ultimately unimportant. When PSA falls to the wayside, the logic of salvation starts to sound more like “good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell.”

The cross utterly rejects that: all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Every single one.

The only way to heaven is to put your faith in Jesus and be drenched in His blood.

The only way to heaven is to run to the cross, where the shadow of the valley of death has already fallen and will not fall again.

The only way to heaven is the atoning work of Christ—which hath paid all your debts, sinner.

The first time I stumbled upon a sex scene in a book, I was in late middle school. It was in the young adult section at the library. At that time, I was checking out 10 to 12 books every other week, grabbing at almost random. I was confused reading it, then shut it in hot shame. Growing up in a conservative Christian household, I’d never heard anything like it before.

A year later, a friend from youth group recommended a popular fantasy series. The first three books were appropriate. The fourth was not. I read the entire rest of the series. For a few months I ignored my deep and almost painful conviction that I needed to confess. After reading Hebrews 10 in my bible plan, it became impossible for me to ignore and I told my parents in tears.

Since then, God has given me righteous anger against explicit romance books. I absolutely hate them.

I hate that they exist and are marketed towards girls who love to read. I hate that erotica is intentionally rebranded with cartoon covers to appear wholesome and reach younger and younger audiences. I hate that I can count on one hand the number of teenage girls I know who have never encountered explicit literature.

In the past 25 years, 1 in 4 books sold have been romance novels in the U.S. Sales of print copies classified as romance or erotica have gone from $18 million in 2020, to more than $39 million in 2023.

There’s a reason for this. The flagrant, exhibitionist nature of social media has removed the stigma around reading erotic fiction, especially among women, and explicit romance books go viral online all the time.

But even on my own Goodreads feed, I’ve noticed well-respected Christian women rating explicit books highly online. Of course, it’s possible for someone to enjoy romance books righteously and to skip scenes just like you would in a movie. However, rating erotica four stars online is most likely going to lead your followers to pick it up too. It’s the same type of naivety as Christian women reposting risqué pictures online—sure, maybe it won’t lead you into lust, but others will see it because you pressed “share.”

The times I’ve unexpectedly run into sex scenes in books has only increased. Sex is getting added to fantasy, to thrillers, even to lit-fic. Just like more and more movies are including nudity, more and more books have explicit content. Sex sells, after all. You have to go above and beyond to find books without it.

Even popular fantasy books, by authors like Sarah J. Mass, are becoming increasingly sexual and have created a whole new genre in the past five years called “romantasy” nicknamed “faerie porn” on social media.

Whereas movies are under a rating system, books can seem completely wholesome until explicit content crops up halfway through. It’s a general rule for me to check a content website before I buy a book or check one out from the library (I recommend Common Sense Media or Plugged In).

Now, I’m an English major and I’m not unreasonable. A lot of literary books that I love and highly recommend have sexual material, sometimes even a lot of it. The difference is, literary sexual material is usually ambiguously well written, more artistic than specific and meant to communicate emotion and further the plot (like Where the Crawdads Sing or Covenant of Water or a Toni Morrison book). Romance novels, on the other hand, are graphic with detailed descriptions rivaling visual pornography and are specifically intended to inspire lustful fantasies.

This is a massive problem. A popular erotica writer, Colleen Hoover’s books outsold the bible a couple of years ago. I’ve been discipling young middle school, high school, and college girls for the past seven years of my life. Through conversation and observation I’ve realized more of these girls than not are reading or have read explicit content—and those are just the ones that aren’t trying to hide it. Erotic literature is a demonic strategy leading young girls who love to read down a destructive and shameful hole of lust and despair. And it goes unnoticed all the time.

Most parents are just happy their kids like to read and aren’t checking what’s behind the bright, cheery covers. Please, parents—don’t ignore your daughters as you’re installing internet blockers on your son’s computer. Please ask them about what they’re reading.

Romance novels are easily accessible online for free. They’re proudly propped up on the first and biggest shelf of every bookstore. They’re marketed to the demographic of your preteen. It could be the kindest thing you do for your daughter to check her internet history. To look at what she’s downloading on her kindle. To ask her about smut specifically. It’s going to be worth the awkwardness.

Philippians 4:8 reads “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

There are so many books that comply with this verse. Books that are fun, well written, and also pure and lovely. Ask me for recommendations! Trust me, I have plenty after a lifetime of scouring through trash to find treasure.

As Christians, let’s delight in wholesome stories with adventure and danger and love—but also with sacrifice and morality. Your desire for romance isn’t wrong. But that desire can be fully satisfied in Christ, who knows every nook and cranny of your heart and is the true source of every pleasure.

We can live like we believe that. What you read matters, Christian. It’s time to put down the trashy book and accept that Christ is really enough.

My journal is a bit soddden. It’s rainy season in Bangkok and we were just poured on. We’re waiting it out in a laundromat now. That is one thing about life in other countries and life as a missionary in general. There’s no predicting it or planning it or expecting it. The sky opens and rain falls. And so you sit and wait and remember afresh that God is over all.

I remember it again as our Thai friends sit in the coffee shop playing cards. I have friends in another country! Who ever would’ve thought? This summer was nothing like I expected - what ever is? - but in so much of it I see the hand of God. Answering prayers to get through each day, little providences everywhere I go, learning about grit, obedience, and not needing everything to go my way. Getting to declare Jesus to people who have never heard!

I’ve been thinking a lot about homecomings - not just that one, although I’m looking forward to it. But my Homecoming. Homesickness is yet another proof of God. Don’t you feel it? The tightening of your chest, the pricking in your heart, the longing that swallows you up - home, God, I want to be home! Not in Iowa, but with You, looking up at You, held by You, seeing You and Your face like the sun, crying out “I can’t believe how good the Lord is!” and finding the place He has prepared for me. Every day I am on my way, Father. Bangkok is a dark city. But “Whatever the Lord pleases, he does, in heaven and on earth and in the seas and all the deeps.” In Bangkok too!

And when it’s January in Iowa and everything is barren and frozen, I’ll be glad to remember there are places where flowers are ever blooming and fruit is always in season. I’ll be glad to remember the plumeria and orchids gently clinging to Jasmine trees. I’ll be glad to remember there are sweet smelling white flowers falling at every strong rainfall in Bangkok, Thailand.

Then I’ll remember Light Church too, with its abundant joy spilling out the windows of a coffee house onto the streets of this city. I’ll remember singing “Nothing but the blood of Jesus” in Thai. I’ll remember the testimonies of the Thai believers here, who were lost and now are found. Who were worshipping literal gold idols and now are worshipping the Creator of heaven and earth. I’ll remember the look on one friend’s face as she held her bible, the first time she’d ever had one in her hands. I’ll remember another’s honest question: “Wait, forgiveness is how you get to heaven?” I’ll remember the missionaries and their long-suffering love for this place. I’ll remember the spiritual fruit, growing soft and slow and tender and true. I’ll remember the reflections of Jesus’ face I saw here so often. I’ll remember salvation: “I think Jesus is better than anything else.”

I’ll remember that this world is quick and soon gone and then alongside many from Thailand we will enjoy the light. We will enjoy the full glory of the full light! Forever and ever and ever -

and ever! - amen.

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It is a grand life, the life of a Christian. We are not content with flesh and blood. We go out for souls. We go out to our quiet jobs, to our neighbors, to our families, or sometimes we go out to remote bushes and jungles, wild cities full of prostitutes and pagan idols, war zones, hospitals, tribes—We go out to tell all and everybody our King has looked down from His throne and offered mercy to the rebels. Not just theatrical mercy—genuine, earth-shaking, love-abundant, costly, painful, gracious mercy. And He can save your soul, sinner, as He saved ours. That is the rehearsal of my tongue.

And so our lives became quests. You can join the quest anywhere. From a sink full of dirty dishes as a stay at home mother, from a workshop as a carpenter, from an office as a lawyer, from Ecuador as a missionary, from a broom closet as a janitor, from a wheelchair as a cancer patient, from a hospital bed as a dying old man. There the quest is even simpler, even better, because there we get even clearer glimpses of the King and the Kingdom coming!

Because the quest, as all adventures are, is only for a little while. And then real life begins. It begins at the throne of the King, where the singing is, where the trumpets sound and the angels cry, where all the beautiful light comes from as the dawn.There we get to enjoy Him, we get to see Him! Oh the millions of years of joy I shall gain just by one touch of His scarred hand! There we will experience more warmth than any earthly drink could bring, more laughter than any earthly friendship provides, more exhilaration than from earthly romance, more comfort than from earthly family, more satisfaction than from earthly feasting.

And the deeper we go into the Kingdom, the more in awe we will be at its infinite marvels, its neverending wells of rightness and gladness. And the more time we spend in the King’s presence, the more eternity will feel not nearly long enough to fully praise His character.

We won’t mind the inconveniences of the world. We’ll hardly remember the vain competition, the piercing grief, the constant pain, the overwhelming sorrow. That’ll all be dreams of dreams, just memories that pull us back to worship the God who brought us through it. I am a lowly, cowardly foot soldier on this quest, but even I am thrilled to think of Him, and that day when we are finally together.

Perhaps—I do not know, but perhaps—we will both be there around the great, glowing throne and perhaps for a moment we will catch each others’ eyes across the room and beam for a second that we have finally made it to the source of all our earthly joy, together.

This summer I have gone out to Bangkok,Thailand. I am afraid and tired most of the time. Yet I keep thinking about that throne room, about catching Alice’s eye, or JewJew’s, or Bam’s, or Mint’s, or Beta’s, or Phu’s, or Elle’s... my friends... and softly smiling—thinking back to this summer for the briefest moment—before gathering all my breath once again to keep on singing: Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty and greatly to be praised is He.

Ivy swallows pine
Wood steps grow slick, dark, mossy
Lichen eats moss eats rotting log
Lapping black waves
Eat loon

Everything here is old
The cicadas cry to these
Achy wastes to these
Wayward children 
Becoming once again
Bird trills 
And the embers beneath burning cedar
And slick slick knives against bark
Eating cobwebs out of canoe mouths
In Spider's same old places

Everything here is 

Sharp metamorphosis
All of us becoming
So many sleek fish
Darting under
Ancient glaciers

Lick at the birches, lick
Till they're pale as bones 

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Dear Lord,

I wonder what tears you will wipe away.

All tears from grief, surely, since You have taken death’s sting. All tears from shame, since sin has been finally defeated.

All tears from pain, suffering, panic, and sorrow.

All tears from cancer, yes, and all tears from loss.

All tears from abuse and betrayal, all tears from frustration, all tears from genocide and murder, all tears from martyrs (oh, Lord, the tears of the seventy Christians beheaded in the DR Congo last February), all tears from barren wombs and barren fields, all tears from doubt, all tears from lacking faith.

Will you also, King of kings, wipe away my own tears from terror to look at You?

Will I feel Your warm hands on my face, will You lift my trembling head and look into my eyes and from me graciously take my sob of fear? Will you hold me like a Father scoops up His child?

Will I press my eyes into Your shoulder and be surrounded completely by Your love, at last tangible?

Oh Lord, let every tear here fall with quiet courage — in Your throne room everything will be alright.

Everything will be made to be alright.

And I will be with you in shining light of life, in the shining light of Your face, and I will not be afraid of condemnation.

Father at Your gaze, I will understand the consequence of the precious scars of Christ: that You find me, after all this time, without blemish or flaw. Altogether lovely.

Cover me! Saturate me! With purity, with righteousness, with robes stained red.

Father, hasten the day when my weak faith is made sight. Help me understand the glory awaiting me in heaven—Your glory!

And how You are not angry or disappointed or distant, but full of compassion and grace abundant, because I am a doorpost wearing the blood of Jesus Christ. We wear the blood of Jesus Christ.

There has never been more beautiful news.

But after you put your great hands to my face, and after I feel the holes of them on my cheek, and after your broad thumb brushes the brimming tears away — I think I’ll begin to cry anew.

Oh, from bewildered joy. Can’t you feel it? From relief of burden at last absent. From the endless, endless promise of eternity ahead.

I won’t mind those tears, Lord. I won’t mind them for all the days of my life.

I am a wealthy woman. I have been happy all my life, I have been well loved, what I have sought to do I have done. Where I have gone, I have made friends. My lot is easy. And my greatest earthly treasure has been my family, who have raised me in laughter and delight and affection.

But I cannot get the image of the rich young ruler out of my head. I keep thinking about him, who had a good life, who obeyed God in all he could do. And Jesus asked him to sell everything he had and come follow him. And the young man went away sorrowful.

I don't want to walk away sorrowful.

Did I think I could go my whole life without picking up my cross? Did I think God would never ask me, "Am I worth all of it?"

These Thai believing friends I’ve made have been persecuted and shunned by their families for walking in Jesus' footsteps. They've already been asked, "Am I worth all of it?" And they have answered, "Yes."

I would be giving up family, friends, the language I love, success in my writing career, the last years of my grandparents’ lives and the first of my nephews' and nieces'. I'd be giving up Iowa sunsets that seem to go on forever along the hip of the earth and shucking sweet corn from my uncle's fields and frozen strawberry jam from my Nannie's garden and the only home I've ever known. It feels like too much. What would I be gaining?

Lord, you. I would gain You and Your favor and Your approval and closeness to you.

My stubborn mind says, could I not gain God here in America? That shouldn't be the question. The question should be, would I leave if God wants me to?

With honey from the rock you satisfy. I open my mouth wide and you fill it. Lord you are the beginning and the end and every day in between. Life here is amazing, but it's only a shadow of a shadow, a scent of a scent, a glimpse of a glimpse. Bring me closer to the sun, bring me closer to the flower, bring me closer to the view from the top of the mountain: Your face, Jesus.

I can't remember a time before you, can't imagine life without You ahead of me and behind me. You have kept me for twenty years and You will keep me to the end.

Lord make me brave. This world is not my home. You are, Lord. You are better than Iowa. You are better than the sound of my Mom's voice and the feel of my Dad's calloused hand. You are better even than my little unborn niece or nephew.

Call me and I will try my best to follow. I want the race to be over, but I will keep on.

I will receive what you give me, I'll relinquish what you take, if only you won't leave me.

You won't leave me. You never break a promise. When I wander, you find me. When I curse you, you love me. When I abandon you, you buy me back. I am Yours and You are mine. It's been written and no one can unwrite it.

Will you please walk me home? Hold my hand please and walk me home. 5 years, 10 years, 80 years - I just want to keep hold of Your hand. Wherever you want me.

I tremble at the thought of you saying, "Go, dear" but I tremble far more at the thought of Your precious hand, with those precious scars, reaching out to me, such an unworthy subject of the greatest love anyone has ever known.

Thank you Lord.

You are too much creamer in your morning cuppa and you are
still never finishing it, leaving a mouthful on coffee tables.
You teach me how to store three crockpots in one cupboard and
how to make too much food just in case. You feed angel armies and
I am your foot soldier in this kitchen.

You are strength and crevice and crying in song. The
rhythm of I love you always, baby. You pour yourself
into your handful of life. Ready to fight always—
prepared to lose it. Contrarian, willful, headstrong and
wishful; you give me a backbone then pray for me to bend.
I eat the fruit dropping ripe at your feet.

You are the sweet caress of guitar strings, 
crooning bluegrass on Sunday mornings. 
Marching beautiful on baptist stages,
my sister is one week old held in a pew. 
You smell like fruity chapstick and citrus lotion.
I curve in the crook of your playing arm.

You are saying you look beautiful. I watch you 
point out Queen Anne’s Lace in cornfield seams. 
They don’t have to be seen. Then you clean 
your momma’s house just to love her. 
We convert VCR tapes from the 90s to CDs and
you laugh at the ways of yourself.
I try on your high school coral dress. 

You are a front porch swing in watermelon valley. You spin
hand made lullabies to the sun as it slips down the
curved hip of the sky. Your fingertips are calloused,
your palms are soft. You hold me, even though I am much too old
to be held. Something primal is satisfied, unashamed. 
I am soothed like an infant in your arms.

You are prose, laundry lines, the cheap soap from aldi,
bills in the cabinet and for goodness sake, don’t be silly,
girl. And yet—you’re poetry too. Welling up inside of me,
walking always with me, blood and bone 
and wells of clean water—and friendship.

Our almond eyes are the same and I am glad of it.
I have always been in you and of you and my best title
is daughter because
You are mother.

On Easter I took this picture of my dad. It felt symbolic, because although thousands of people know him as Pastor Jake from his sermons on stage, I’ve spent my childhood knowing him from backstage as Daddy.

Anyone who knows me, knows how much I admire and love him. Half the advice out of my mouth is, “Well, my dad said…” Since I was a little girl, he has been my hero, my authority, my pal, and—alongside my mom—my clearest gospel witness.

It’s a tired, tired cliche that pastor’s kids are bound to rebel, their faith choked out by the expectations of their dad’s career. But (as of now) — thanks be to God! — all three of us kids are following Jesus. And all three of us were baptized by our father. Dad’s vocational ministry was never a barrier to faith, but a blessing.

Here’s five things my dad did that I think God used to protect our relationship with the church.

1. My dad was “Dad” first, not pastor

Even though Dad’s an insanely hard worker, he was never too busy for us to interrupt his meetings or private study. On some occasions, I’ve tagged along on staff lunches—and one time all the way to Zambia.

It always felt like he was on our side. He was our fiercest defender against any attack. He let us watch movies in his office and draw on his whiteboard. He let us eat staff snacks. He went to our games and concerts. He watched movies with us.

He didn’t force us to sit down for nightly devotionals. He wasn’t pushy. I don’t remember him ever prompting us to say that ol’ baptist prayer to make sure we were saved. He didn’t rush us. He didn’t preach at us. He didn’t treat us like his employees. But he did talk about Jesus, because he loves Jesus—just like he joked and teased and notoriously cheated at boardgames and played “Bucking Bronco” with us.

He was Dad—our Dad—first and foremost.

2. My dad got us on board

Dad treated us like we were as important to our church as he was. One Sunday in middle school, after I’d given Dad the silent treatment the whole weekend (I can’t recall why), he found me, pulled me aside, and told me we needed to reconcile before he could give the sermon.

I learned that, to Dad, my behavior mattered just as much as his.

When Dad walked around shaking hands, we could go with. But we were expected to be friendly, make eye contact, and not be a distraction. When we went out for dinner, we needed to eat the food people made—and say thank you!—even if we didn’t like it. When Mom and Dad needed to have a serious conversation, they told us it was helpful to entertain the kids while they talked. In other words, we were valuable to his job!

Dad also wanted our feedback. A few months ago, Dad called me up to ask my opinion on an illustration for a sermon. In high school, it wasn’t unusual for my dad to write down thoughts my brother and I had after an event or a sermon. He took our notes seriously.

Because Dad treated us like we were a part of his job, we acted like it. We felt like we had skin in the game. When I noticed girls on our youth worship team dressing immodestly on stage, I asked our worship guy if there was a dress-code. When my brother found a kids book with questionable theology, he scribbled it out (lol). My sister hates missing church because her two year olds need her in the classroom.

When Dad got us on board, church ceased to be something we had to compete with for his attention, but something we had the privilege of joining his team on.

Instead of church vs. kids, it was family for church.

3. My dad apologized

It absolutely blows my mind that some people have never heard their parents apologize.

Dad—and Mom— never pretended they were perfect. If they had bad attitudes, if they said something in anger, if they made a selfish decision, they were quick to say, “I’m sorry.” And we weren’t allowed to say, “It’s okay.” Because it wasn’t okay. We had to say, “I forgive you.” That’s real grace.

In our house, it was fine to make mistakes (even Mom and Dad did!) and it could never change what our parents thought about us. They even had a rule that if we were honest and confessed sin to them before they found it out, there wouldn’t be punishment.

Gospel forgiveness wasn’t something we just heard about from Dad on Sunday; we experienced it often through his apologies.

4. My dad loved my mom (and my mom loved him back)

My dad and mom are both incredibly involved in ministry. But they do it as a team.

Dad’s battles are Mom’s battles. They are each other’s counselors, challengers, and encouragers. We knew in order for Dad to do what he was called to do, he needed Mom’s help.

They made sure to dance, kiss, and laugh in front of us. So we didn’t have to worry that church would tear our family apart. We didn’t see the demands of Dad’s job as a threat to the bedrock of our domestic happiness: our parents’ marriage.

5. My dad believed what he preached

My dad is a passionate preacher. He tears up often from the pulpit.

But he also cried at my brother’s rehearsal dinner as he squeaked out:“I’m so proud of you.” He also slid a note under my door for my birthday. He also told my sister and I that no one will ever be good enough for us. He dreams about weekly family dinners. He makes me stand by him holding screws while he does home projects, not because he needs the help, but because he wants the company.

He doesn’t just display love in sermons. He lives in love at home.

Here’s the main thing: we never thought it was an act. We never thought Dad cared about his job more than he cared about us—and goodness knows we never thought he cared about it more than he cared about God!

There’s no secret formula to keeping your kids in the faith. But dang, seeing the same man on stage as I did at home showed me faith wasn’t a game. It wasn’t politics. It wasn’t for money. It wasn’t for status. It wasn’t for influence.

It wasn’t something I had to compete with.

That made it really, really hard for us kids to resent ministry—instead, we all wanted in on it.