Leaving Something Behind

More than six years ago my grandmother knitted a blanket for our son, Finnden, her great-grandson. She finished it before he was born, a mint-green rectangle made from bundles of knots fashioned into interlocking triangles. During those long early nights when Finnden couldn’t find sleep we’d lift him out of his crib, place him in a swing, and tuck him in tight under that green blanket. He’d calm down almost instantly. Soon, he couldn’t sleep without it, and his attachment to it grew as he did. Before he could walk he’d sit in the middle of the room, surrounded by toys, but his eyes would anxiously scan the room for the only thing that mattered: the blanket. When he could walk he would wander from room to room in our house with it trailing behind him, dirty and ragged.

The blanket went back and forth from the house to the car so many times that we started to wonder if the odds would someday turn against us and we’d accidentally leave it behind somewhere. One Christmas, Gi-Gi-Ma (as the kids call their great grandmother), surprised us with two new blankets, exact replicas for his own but in miniature. These became our walkabout blankets, perfect for bringing along in the car and holding in the stroller.

The blanket became such a cherished treasure—and she derived such joy from Finn’s attachment to it—that Gi-Gi-Ma started making more. She was already in her late nineties, and there was no telling how many more little ones might yet appear, so she made a few extras, and my mom tucked them away. As each new child was born—Ellis, Evie (my brother’s girl), and Ona—she was given a blanket of her own.

This blanket-making business also had the added bonus of keeping my grandmother, Esther, busy, though it doesn’t seem so long ago that she didn’t need things to keep her busy. She’d always been a social butterfly with an easy laugh and a gracious smile, and she’d often have a card game going or a friend to visit. But my memory plays tricks, and I have to remind myself that the ebullient version of my grandmother has been disappearing bit by bit for awhile now, a sign of something like an ominous hiss from a bicycle tire.

In these last few years, as her eyesight failed along with many other aspects of her health, knitting was still something she could do. Even as her mind was weakening she was able to knit just a little. But then she couldn’t anymore, and all of us were thankful that we had these knotted treasures secreted away.

Four weeks ago Finnden started kindergarten. That morning Karen and I surprised ourselves a little with how well we were coping. No tearful goodbyes. No forlorn waves as the bus carried him off and around the corner. None of the melodramatic scenes I’d always imagined there might be. We saw him off; I took a deep breath, exhaled a deeper sigh, and then I was off to work.

That afternoon Karen texted me a photo, a picture of Finnden’s blanket sitting on the bench by the door where he’d tossed it before rushing out to meet the bus. Underneath the picture Karen had typed the words: It hasn’t moved.

Somehow, the sight of that made it far more real for both of us. The blanket wasn’t being dragged around behind him throughout the day, nor was is sitting balled up on his lap while he watched cartoons on the couch. He wasn’t begging to take it outside in the sandbox or waiting at the top of the basement steps for Karen to bring it up from the dryer. Our boy had moved on to something new and exciting, and he’d left something precious behind in the going. His blanket, sitting lifelessly there on the bench, was a reminder that our boy had stepped into a new world, one where we couldn’t go along with him in the way we always had.

We all move on, and it usually means we leave something behind.

This past May my Grandma Esther turned 101 years old.

Last Thursday evening she passed away.

After I received the news I could think only of Finn’s blanket and how still it had lain there on the bench a few weeks ago. At that moment, a few hundred miles away, Esther’s body lay still, finished with what had become the increasingly difficult labor of keeping things going. As I think about her now that stillness elicits a sense of finality and a flood of tears. But Esther has already moved on to something, something unknown and beautiful. She’s stepped into a new world, one where we can’t go along with her just yet.

And that means that for my mom and uncles and all the rest of us who knew and loved her (since the former always begat the latter) we have stepped into a new world too. Like Finn, taking giant leaps up the too-tall steps of the bus that first morning, we are taking huge strides into the unknown, and maybe without a full sense of all that we leave behind.

But I’m so thankful that we have a cherished treasure to come home to at the end of the day. Whenever we want or need we can come home to the memories we have from walking alongside a life well-lived. Those memories are the knots that knit us together. We can pick them up, feel the well-worn weight and the warmth of them and find comfort.

Other Shores

For the last 8 years Karen and I have lived in the place where this country plunges into the Pacific.

We have perched here, sometimes precariously, through brush fires and earthquakes. We've made friends and made a life. We've seen God move powerfully in our lives and through our lives. We have been far from family, but have learned how the church is an expression of family far greater than we ever imagined. And we have added Finnden and Ellis to our own little roster, raising them in a place that is far removed from our midwestern roots but a place we have come to call home, the only one they've ever known.

But a new shore awaits, albeit a very different one. Lake Michigan is a far cry from the Pacific.

I have recently been invited to join the team at Willow Creek Community Church as a creative director, so January's blank slate will bring for us a new adventure on the outskirts of Chicago.

I haven't been sure how to capture this journey, and I've had no shortage of internal frustration over that. (Words are kind of my thing.) But words have been both too tiny and too tangible to get at what has been going on. A friend of mine just phrased this frustration beautifully when she said, "You can't type out tears."

We have heard God's voice and experienced his intimacy in this season unlike any other time in our lives. Our story over the last several months has been one where we have been bowled over by God's kindness, his generosity, and his deep interest in both the mundane and the momentous parts of our lives. Countless times in my life I have lifted my face to my Father and, rather bluntly, asked, "Can you just tell me what to do? I mean, can you just lay it out for me?" I've always thought that would make things easier, taking the weight of decision-making and the weight of the consequences off of my plate.

Well, I got what I've been asking for. He's made it abundantly clear. But I have come to realize that the clarity of a call does not always equal ease in our obedience. In fact, taking steps of obedience rarely, if ever, means taking them lightly.

I have been thinking a lot about Abraham lately, but particularly about back when he was Abram. In Genesis 12 he gets a call to go. The call is laid out in verses 1-3. Go read it. It's pretty clear.

And then he goes. He does it. Verse 4: So Abram went. He obeys. And I think I've always read it in a pretty straightforward way. He gets a call, and he goes. Cause and effect. But was Abram at all like me? Hmm.

In my translation there's this little break between verses 3 and 4—a new line, the beginning of a new paragraph. And I wonder if there isn't a significant human drama tucked between the paragraph break. Because that little space is where we've been living the last several months, and ours has been full. Full with the wringing of hands and long waits on phone calls. With hard conversations and epiphanies. With the repeated question, "Are you sure?" With happy tears and sad tears and inexplicable tears. (Lots of tears.)

Into the little space between God's call and our going, God has poured out a torrent of his grace and love that is so much greater than my words can do justice. In that space—a moment that in the span of life and the story of God is less than a breath or a blink—occurred the gentle and gradual reposturing of our hearts toward God's desires, so that we now enjoy the gift of obeying out of delight rather than out of wrote servitude.

We could not be more excited for what lies ahead. We are thrilled to make new people a part of our lives. We are eager to get going. But we are also heartbroken in our goodbyes, anxious about not knowing what we don't know, and fearful of the many challenges that surely lie ahead.

So we obey. But not lightly. Not blindly. We are simply determined to be brave.

And I am thankful for a God who bastions my bravery with his unassailable sovereignty. So bring on new shores. Bring on the unknown. Bring on the adventure. Bring on growing pains and new-found dependence. And bring on the snow.