If I can spend a Saturday night
in good conversation,
I will always sacrifice a Sunday morning
in the pews.
Tag: Church
Promise
A friend of mine was praying. While he prayed, the word “marriage” came to him again and again. “But I am already married, Lord,” my friend said aloud. “What does this mean?” He continued to pray and then he heard a name come from God. He thought he must tell this person, but before he did, he prayed for two weeks to make sure he had heard correctly.
My friend came up to me in church. I had not seen him in a while.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” he said. “Something I heard from God.”
I was intrigued and admittedly a little nervous. I thought perhaps God wanted something big from me; to move to another country or become a missionary.
“God told me that you will be married,” my friend said to me.
I smiled and blinked as I stared blanky.
I have thought so many things since that moment. I’ve asked my friend if he heard the word “soon” or if another name was given. My friend smiled and said “no” to these things. This friend of mine is solid. He is a man of his word and has heard things from God before. This leads me to believe that he is not lying and that he did in fact hear something.
I am a worrier. I worry that I will die alone (it is my greatest fear). I worry that I am not stable enough for a marriage. I worry that I won’t be able to provide financial support. I worry about so many things: my lack of physical fitness, unstable mental health, struggles to start a career, but I think I worry the most about never finding love.
So in the midst of all that worry and doubt came a promise from God:
You will be married.
I struggle with deep depression. Perhaps this is God’s way of saying “hold on.” I think he knows my greatest fear and speaks against it. “I got you, even in that dark place.”
I am glad for that knowledge. I am glad for the peace that comes from it. I am going to try and believe the promise God made to me and all the other promises he has made to all of us. I am going to try and leave worry behind and pick up hope instead. It is much lighter, I’m sure.
Jody
Walk into the service with your head hung low; a sign of misplaced respect for the deceased. Hug old friends and shake the hands of people you only slightly remember.
The deacons tell you to pick up a stone from a basket at the entrance. Curious, you think, but you gladly hold the small gray stone in your palm and massage the smooth surface with your fingers.
Smile and wince simultaneously at folks who nod as you pass them by in the tight pews. Too tight, you think, why do they make them so close together?
Throw the back of your brown, tweed sportcoat behind you. Notice, for the first time, that every man is wearing a black or navy blue suit with a white shirt and a dark tie and every woman is wearing a black dress with white fringe somewhere.
Organ music swells. You wonder how they build instruments like that. So encompassing, the sound.
The service begins. The minister speaks like poetry. A rhythm that’s unmistakable. There’s no words out of place. Each word is as beautiful as the last. Each word carries a cosmic weight.
Friends and siblings speak effortlessly about her kindness, her wit, her writing, her love. Your friends cry when her sons get up to speak. When was the last time you saw any of them cry? You can’t recall really, but it’s been a long time, you’re sure of that.
They get through their short speeches with indelible strength. They pause when they must, to choke back all the things that come rushing forth. You are proud of them and wonder how you will do when you find yourself in their shoes one day.
You feel something hanging all around the room. God? You ask the inside of your head. He doesn’t answer audibly, though, maybe he doesn’t need to.
Her husband speaks. He is a good man and his goodness is profound in that moment. How deep his love is for her. Is not was. Is.
Piano playing, poems recited, favorite blues songs echo from the speakers. All of it quiet reflection for a woman who was like a second mother to you. You cry too, but mostly because it’s beautiful.
The minister tells the congregation to remember the stone they are holding in their hand. This stone is from Rhode Island. She has been going to the beach where the stones were collected since she was a small child. Feel the weight of the stone. Feel its texture. Cup it in your hands. Now, imagine that in one of her many years at that beach, she may have picked up the stone you are holding in yours hands. Then, think of a word that describes your relationship with her.
“Mother”
That’s the only word in your head. Mother to her sons. Mother to her son’s friends; adopted and brought in to the family.
The minister asks everyone to get up, row by row, and place the stone in a basin at the front; an act of letting go.
You let the stone go and listen to the sound it makes as it hits the rocks below it with a slight thud. It sounds like a final page turning and a book closing. It sounds like closure.
You throw your arms around her sons and her husband. You sing a hymn you’ve never heard and you leave; with your eyes forward and your head up, a true sign of respect for your second mom.
A Door that’s Painted Red
The church I have called home for the last two years is called Red Door. Here’s what that name means to me:
There she goes.
Wandering again.
Tired, weak and
hoping.
She is looking for something,
But cannot put a name to it.
All she knows is that she desperately needs it.
That she cannot live without it.
The road has become her home.
The road is like a poem,
she wrote many years ago
and forgot to finish.
Travelers, like her, know about the road.
They know its dangers.
How it whispers to the weary with
words that mean anything but rest.
* * * * * *
Perhaps then, Heaven is an entryway.
A place of unconditional welcome.
Of shelter and of solace.
A door that’s painted red.
* * * * *
After months of traveling,
Her body is giving way.
She is worn and battered.
Bloodied and bruised.
But up ahead, she can see such a door.
While her legs ache, she cannot
help but run. While she thinks of her past,
she cannot help but hope.
There it is! The symbol of passover.
A hue that the angel of death saw
and kept moving. The very color
that means “refuge from death!”
She falls to her knees, weeping.
She now knows the name she was missing.
What she was desperately needing.
She knows who painted the door red.
Bride Series Poem
So here we find ourselves.
In the middle of two great weddings.
First with Adam and Eve.
Finally with Christ and his Bride.
The story of scripture is laced
with a lover pursuing his beloved.
And we were once lovely.
We were devoted to the apostles teaching
To fellowship and eating together.
We prayed for our growing family
and we prayed for our forever.
We shared everything.
Our clothing our property our possessions.
The Lord added to our number
And we forgave great transgressions.
Simply put, we were lovely.
But now that beauty has been broken.
Our hearts imprisoned
Our minds stolen.
Battered, bloodied, bruised
We stand before a most holy God
Shaken and confused
How could we fall so far?
But he steps in for us redeems,
Red river brackish flows and teams
On a cross his body broke
In blood rivers our mouths to choke.
To sanctify Her
Oh what a cost.
That Jesus paid
On wooden cross.
Now he can present his bride holy and blameless
Spotless while we make him famous.
To what length would you go?
The reply echoes of I love you so.
And again echoes of welcome home.
How then should we move toward him?
Where in this do we begin?
Fight for not with
The poor and penniless
How he pursued then we shall too.
How he pursued then we shall too.
How he pursued then we shall too.
It cost Jesus everything
and we should expect no less.
It cost him everything.
Even His very flesh.
So here we find ourselves.
In the middle of two great weddings.
First with Adam and Eve,
Finally with Christ and his Bride.
Let’s bring the wine.
Tyler Strittmatter 