Rediscovering the long work
1.25.24. Second floor hallway.
I wake up this morning in the house of a family I’ve never met. 7 hours of uninterrupted rest — the first in the last 3 days — in a donated tee shirt and a pair of Costco sweatpants. The bulk of my wardrobe and daily personal items sit in a small suitcase — also a gift from friends — on the floor beside the bed. It is still dark; the faintest January light is creeping through the shutters. Am I really here? Is this really happening?
Four nights ago, tucked under my own sheets in my own bed in my own house, I wrestled with other big questions. What am I actually feeling right now? How do I love and connect with my children? How do I cherish and celebrate my wife? Do I hear the bath faucet dripping? When am I going to fix that…
The next morning, Wednesday, January 24, 2024, I left for work not realizing that I’d just closed the back door behind me for the last time. That a couple short hours later, our home would be engulfed in a merciless deluge of flame, smoke, ash and water. That my family would escape with our lives, and not much more than that. That 48 hours later, I would be crawling around the wreckage searching for keepsakes and half-forgotten treasures, covered in soot, waterlogged, saturated with the smell of destruction, exhausted beyond any previously known metric. That something big, something huge, something momentous was about to happen and I would never be the same again.
The house we lost was one-of-a-kind. It was a pillar, both literally and figuratively, of the community we’ve just begun to know and love. The time we were blessed to live in it — a minuscule amount of time considering its 121-year history — we filled with love and hard work.
And people… The greatest, most unique, most beautiful people you ever met. What brings me tears is all the pictures — both mental and physical (we found a few of the latter!) — of the moments we’ve shared our home with others. My heart breaks again and again.
And dreams… Since the first time we saw the house, and even more so after we moved in (which was incredible for us to fathom in itself), we dreamed about how we could build a home and share it with others. Indeed, we are discovering that for us, “a long work” assumes something deep and powerful is happening beneath the surface of daily life. Something beyond our control, something vast … and yet something intimate and knowable. Something hidden there for us to find, if we would only search for it. Not an earthly dwelling but an eternal home.
As the tears flow, as we cling to the gunwales, as we fight through waves of terror, shock, gratitude, bewilderment, joy, sorrow, and all the rest, our Savior says to us, Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.
May I (we) be among those willing to step out of the boat. (See Matthew 14:22-33)
Above all else, as we move forward step by step and share what we can along the way, I want you all to understand something. Everything we are and have comes down to Jesus. Anything memorable, meaningful, beautiful, lasting — all the glory is his and his alone. If there is peace, it is from him. If there is breakthrough — him. If there is provision —him. If we make a difference in this world, it is through his work in us. He is taking our continued mess and is renewing and redeeming it over and over again. We can love because we have been deeply and profoundly loved. We can hope because he has deposited his spirit within us. He deserves all the glory and honor and praise. I am humbled that he would allow me the privilege of suffering in order to see him more clearly and share all that he has done. I have never been more convinced that he is with us and for us. His love and care is a free gift to all who would receive him.
Thank you. Every one of you, whoever and wherever you are. Some of you we know, and many of you we will never meet. Your generosity, kindness and compassion are moving our mountains.
Let the long work continue.