John 14:28

“You heard me say to you, ‘I am going away, and I will come to you.’ If you loved me, you would have rejoiced, because I am going to the Father, for the Father is greater than I.”-John 14:28

The disciples’ fear and anxiety was palpable. They were stuck in their own heads, processing the implications of Jesus’s words. They didn’t want Jesus to go. They would lose their friend, their teacher, and their source of hope.

Jesus responded to their anxiety by encouraging other-centered love. He would soon return to the Father. There was nothing better, yet the disciples were focused on their own fears and sense of loss.

In our fallen state, we have the tendency to turn inward, what Martin Luther (perhaps referencing St. Augustine) called “incurvatus in se” (1972, p. 345). We may want to love other people well, but our own needs and motivations get mixed in. When our friends move away, although we are excited for their new opportunities, the sense of loss weighs heavily upon our hearts. When a loved one dies, we may offer the platitude, “Well, at least I know that she is in a better place,” but what we are thinking is “this hurts really badly and this sucks.” Grief is normal and should be experienced, yet grief carries hope at its center.

Jesus, so often, as I interact with others, I think mostly about my own needs and desires, but you have called me to love others deeply, which means celebrating the good that happens to them. Amen.

Goodbye, Old Friend

Yesterday, I was returning home from Rice Lake, a weekly drive I have made hundreds of times over the past dozen years. Time and repetition have created familiarity. For all its seasonal changes, the contours of the landscape have become a part of me. Just north of Chippewa Falls, I always look at a certain field, a shallow bowl protected on two sides by a ridge of mixed hardwoods. I once saw a black bear sitting in that field eating corn. I have hoped to see him again, though I never have.

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Further north, a horse farm is nestled in the hills. I often wonder, how many horses do they have? I have never been able to count, but each season, new foals join the group. They chase the older ones through the large pasture, sparsely dotted with large round bails.

I cross three rivers. Typically calm and unassuming, when bitter winter air presses down upon the water, they breathe blankets of fog into the atmosphere. Though a visible reminder of the cold, these low clouds are welcomed beauty.

Although I have come to love each of these scenes, they have been casual companions. Not so this barn; she has been a true friend. Whether driving north or south, I have always looked at her. On the rare occasion I have had others ride along with me, I have always pointed her out with fondness. My office wall features a watercolor I made of this barn. Though I never shared this with my wife, I once toyed with the idea of finding out if this homestead was for sale. Okay, more than once.

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Yesterday, as I drove home, I saw a pillar of gray smoke rising through the raindrops. I suspected it was the burn pile that is often smoking in the afternoons. Yet, as I rounded a curve on 53 South, I saw what was left of the barn–my barn–smoldering on the ground. I knew it was coming. The house has been gone for several months, yet I was filled with sadness and a sense of loss. My old friend was no longer.

How does one develop a particular affection for something inanimate? Why had this barn, a skeleton really, had such a hold on me? Why this farm, and not another? I cannot truly say. Partly, I believe, it projected wisdom, strength, and beauty. It represented for me a lifelong love of farms, but more importantly, for the farmers I have known and loved–my grandfather Wilfred, my uncle Paul, my uncle John–many of them, like this barn, now passed on.

We don’t love generalities, we love specifics.  We cannot love creation without recognizing that we live in a specific place. We cannot love humankind without loving particular people. We are embedded in specific families, communities, and cultures at a particular time in history. This farm has been a part of my story over the last dozen years and has been imprinted upon my heart. Other people and other places, some known only briefly and some known for a lifetime, also exist there. They are a part of me.

And so I say goodbye, old friend. Thank you for being an important part of my life.