Consider the Birds

I’ve been spending more time lately peering out my window at the birds.

We have a feeder nestled among the flowers and shrubs outside the bay window of our living room. I’ve had the perfect spot inside, during the dregs of late winter, to watch the comings and goings of its visitors. We have the usual collection of backyard birds—mostly house finches and cardinals of late, with a few dark-eyed juncos hopping about on the ground cleaning the seed they’ve spilled—but they’ve been the perfect companions for my window musings.

I’ve been taking Jesus’s invitation to “consider the birds” more seriously these days, you see.

There has been plenty of heartache and anxiety to go around—in my community, our country, and our world. And, if I’m honest, when I face it all head on, I’m overwhelmed and paralyzed by my own powerlessness.

I can’t keep a heart beating or remedy the grief of friends forced to say goodbye to a husband and father far too soon. I can’t stop the overreach of the power-hungry or enact justice for those who are wronged. I cannot bring truth to light when it’s hidden or check the actions of the arrogant. There are vulnerable people I cannot protect, funding I cannot come close to replacing, and lies I cannot reason away.

So, I’ve been watching the birds.

They do not labor—my Heavenly Father feeds them. Not one of them falls to the ground, Jesus promised, without my Heavenly Father seeing—and of how much more value are we? (See Matthew 6 and 10.)

I watch how they flit about, jumping from this branch to that one. I watch as they slowly snack on seed. They are in no hurry. They are so fragile—but they seem unconsumed by it. I watch how, in this moment, the gracious provision of food by their Creator comes from my hand.

I listen as they greet the dawn with song, bursting forth in praise for a new day. They cannot help but sing. They know other way.

I stopped with my daughter to watch them soar high above us, suspended so perfectly in the wind that they floated with still wings. Do they ever fly just for the joy of it?

If such tiny, commonplace creatures are seen by God, if He notices when one falls—and they do fall—how much more must His eye be turned to us, the ones made in His image? How much more so should my eyes be turned, should my heart be moved, by men and women that God, the Father Almighty, sees and loves?

Do not be anxious. Consider the birds. And learn from them.

This does not “fix” anything. But I don’t think it ever was intended to be about “fixing.” It is, though, about reorienting myself, about finding that still point in a chaotic and rapidly moving world. It is a deep inhale and exhale of dependence and trust that allow me to reenter and engage with life looking for what I can offer and influence (in the bird analogy—where can I hang my bird feeders?). It is a reminder to look for and relish joy and delight—for they are here. It keeps me rooted in the place and time God has planted me.

I invite you, friend, to consider the birds. Invite Jesus into that space and incline your ears for what He may speak to you through these feathered friends.

Breathe In. Breathe Out. This Is What It Feels Like to Be Alive.

I remember sitting at my school-issued desk with a coffee cup in my hands. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I closed my eyes, trying to get out of my swirl of thoughts and root myself in the present moment. My senses became an anchoring point.

I noticed the smooth curve of my mug between my hands, the way the handle perfectly fit my laced fingers. My thumb rubbed over the decorative lines engraved on its surface. My coffee was fresh, and I could feel the pottery absorbing its heat, could feel my fingers warming against the day's chill.

Breathe in. Breathe out. This is what it feels like to be alive.

I noticed the firm pressure from the wooden chair on which I sat, the firm pressure of the thinly carpeted floor under my feet. As gravity pulled me down, they held me up.

Breathe in. Breathe out. There is goodness here in this moment. This is what it feels like to be alive.

At the time, I was surviving and then recovering from my first brush with depression's terrors. Some days in that season, my mind could barely disengage from the constant onslaught of negative thoughts. My pain echoed in my head—insistent and devious. At other points, I was too numb to feel or to think. It was as if I floated through motions, disembodied, a shell of my former self.

It was within this context that I learned the value of basic grounding exercises, which narrowed my attention to the very basic, tangible elements of my existence. When my mind was in chaos, it narrowed my focus, getting me out of my head for a moment, calming my thoughts through focusing on the concrete. When my mind was numb and I couldn't "feel" emotionally, it focused my attention on what I could feel through my bodily senses, reorienting me and reminding me that I was, in fact, still alive.

In this current season of my life, I engage in this practice for typically less desperate reasons, but I still find it to be helpful. When I'm overwhelmed my things I cannot control, I go out to the garden, and focus on the sensation of the soil crumbling between my fingers. When I feel too much, I take the kids for a walk, noticing the way it feels to move my legs, the way my feet hit the pavement.

Does this fix my problems? No. But it gives me a little oasis moment in the midst of the chaos or challenge of life. It slows down my mind and my heartbeat enough to truly notice the life I am living. I am reminded of goodness and of simple joy. I am anchored in the reality that God is present with me, that I breathe the air He's given me. In the quiet moment of noticing more—and less—I can often give thanks or find words to pray, perhaps in ways I wouldn't have before. As I close my eyes and breathe—or perhaps really open them for the first time—I can see, and even if for a moment, that is enough.

Breathe in. Breathe out. There is goodness here. God is here. This is what it is to be alive.

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This post originally appeared in my Every Day Grace newsletter. If you’d like to receive reflections like this in your inbox, along with a related formation exercise, join me by signing up here.

How to Make a Hope Kit

What are my reasons for living?

This is one of the key questions of suicide prevention. In such moments when the dark becomes too deep to bear and pain becomes suffocating, what we need is not just reasons not to die but even more so, reasons to continue to live. What reasons do I have to continue to choose life, to draw breath into my lungs one more time, in spite of the reality that life may bring difficulty and pain?

A hope kit is tool designed to help answer these questions. It is a collection of items and reminders of why life is valuable and worth living. It serves to remind you of reasons for hope, even when that hope may feel hard to grasp.

In my own experience, this is a tool best made in a preventative capacity, and not in the middle of a mental health crisis. If you or a loved one are in crisis and are having thoughts of suicide, please reach out for help. You can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (800-273-8255) at any time, or call your local mental health crisis line or 911.

How to Make a Hope Kit

Get a box (or any other container) to hold the objects in your hope kit. You can decorate it as much or as little as you’d like. Some people really enjoy turning this into an art project to make the box itself into a thing of beauty.

Gather or create items to place in your box that remind you of hope and of your reasons for living. These may be things that give you hope in this moment or that have brought you hope in the past. Some ideas include:

• Photos of family, friends, and loved ones

• Photos or representative objects of special experiences or moments you have had or hope to have. This may include vacations, places you’d like to travel, activities, particularly fond memories, etc.

• Letters, notes, or printed emails that have been meaningful and encouraging to you

• Bible verses or inspirational quotes

• Printed song lyrics or poetry or even a recording of music you find hopeful or soothing

• Articles, books, or magazines you find meaningful or inspiring

• Jokes that make you laugh

• Art you have created or that someone else has made for you

• Significant objects

• Any other items that will offer you reasons for living

Additional items you may want to include. If you’re in a good and hopeful place as you assemble your hope kit, it may be worthwhile to write a letter to your future self about your reasons for living and ways you’ve found to cope in the past. If you’re working with a therapist and have a crisis or safety plan, it may be valuable to keep a copy in your box. Also, you can include things that would serve as a distraction to suicidal or distressing thoughts, even something as simple as a Sudoku or crossword puzzle, if you enjoy such activities.

Keep your hope kit easily accessible, and look through it when you need a reminder of why your life is precious. Because it is.

A few important notes:

Though it is a helpful tool, a hope kit is not a replacement for professional mental health care. If you or a loved one are struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, please reach out for professional help using one of the crisis lines above, or through your doctor.

I love the physicality of creating a tangible hope kit, but apps now exist to create one virtually to have on your phone. I’ve not used them personally, but you should give it a try if that would better meet your needs. The two I know of are called “Virtual Hope Box” and “Hope Box.”

None of This is Wasted

There's a song I love that gets to me every time it comes through my speakers. (Okay, there are a few that fall into this category, but bear with me.) It's not only the music, which is lyrical and lovely. It's also not only the words, though I find them to be thoughtful and powerful. The emotional trigger of the song comes down to one line, which I am convinced captures a truth at once so fundamental and so easy to forget: "I am with you."

It is a promise that appears repeatedly throughout the Old Testament, as Yahweh reminds His people again and again of His covenant faithfulness. And it is a promise that reappears in the New Testament, most notably as a part of what we call the "Great Commission" in Matthew 28. In a moment we return to as significant for understanding what it means to be "sent" as His disciples into the world, Jesus offers a promise and a word of comfort: "Surely, I am with you always, to the very end of the age." It's as if, in these final instructions, He knew that as the disciples obeyed His call to make disciples "as you go," they would need this continual assurance of His steady presence.

We aren't much different. And this is why that song hits such a deep place inside of my heart. I need to be reminded of God's faithful presence with me, in my mundane, everyday life. I need the assurance that He sees. In the light of this promise, everything can shimmer with His glory and goodness. In the words of the song, "I am with you . . . your labor is not in vain." Every act, every word, every thought becomes a holy space in the presence of Jesus. In His redeeming presence, nothing is wasted. Nothing is truly done in vain. This is a hope I need to be reminded of often.

It's easy to believe my labor is not wasted when things go wonderfully and success comes my way. In those moments, when the promotions or the accolades come, or when I win the favor of coworkers and peers, it is easy to believe God is with me in my work. But when I find myself discouraged and disillusioned, when I feel misunderstood or rejected, when I seem surrounded by failures, I need to hear these words again: "I am with you. Your labor is not in vain. None of this is wasted."

I believe that somehow, in God's grand economy, nothing done in faithful service to God is done in vain. None of it is invisible. None of it is wasted. Every conversation that plants seeds we never get to see sprout. Every act of generosity that goes unthanked. Every moment of diligent work that goes unnoticed. Every minute we give to someone in need of a listening ear or an act of kindness. Every effort we make to welcome peace and justice and goodness, even when we don't see systemic change. Every cup of cold water. Every dignifying act. None of it is wasted. None of it is in vain. None of it passes under His sight—for He is with us.

So, friends, we can go out in confidence and hope into all the nooks and crannies of the world our God calls us to. We can keep our eyes and hearts open to where He leads us to be a part of His work in the world. And we can breathe deeply with each step, secure in this promise: "I am with you. None of this is in vain."

Thanks be to God.

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If you want to give the song that inspired this post a listen for yourself, you can find it here.

This post originally appeared at the Vere Institute.

When You Feel Numb on Good Friday

I’m approaching Easter this year largely void of feeling. It feels strange to stare at those words, as I’ve just written them on the page. It feels like a strange thing to say—or a faithless one—to approach the high point of the church year with little anticipation, with little emotion. It is the resurrection of Jesus we’re talking about, after all, that cataclysmic inbreaking of the New Creation, that first fruit of all that’s to come. And yet this year, I’m wrestling to give it more emotion than a data point and a date circled on my calendar.

I feel like I should feel something. I should feel visceral grief over the sufferings of Jesus or perhaps tear-filled awe over his sacrifice or exuberant joy over the resurrection. But there are no emotional highs, no big “feels.” Just the steady passing of days.

In various stages of my spiritual life, I would probably have tried to manufacture an emotional experience, as if it was a necessary part of faithfulness. Although it was never to my memory explicitly taught, I somehow implicitly absorbed the need to feel big feelings for God. It was cultivated in me through worship concerts and summer camps, youth retreats and celebrated experiences. More than Wesley’s “strangely warmed heart,” I wanted mine engulfed in flames because something in that would demonstrate God’s presence and my love for him.

This seems like a good point to clarify that I think emotions can be positively wonderful. I am far from anti-emotion. They are designed by God, and He can work in and through them in a multitude of ways. Our faith is far from a cold, cerebral affair—it engages all of our being, including our emotions. And many of us, in various seasons or circumstances or temperaments find our faith engaging our emotions in powerful and transformative ways.

But what about when we don’t? What about when we sit numb on Good Friday?

As I’ve reflected on this in this season, I’ve considered the range of emotions felt by those close to Jesus through Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. There was disbelief and regret. There was fear and confusion. Surely, by the time the women were walking to the tomb on Sunday morning, there was the numb exhaustion of grief that comes after too much weeping.

And yet the Resurrection came for them all. Jesus appeared to Mary, weeping at the tomb, and he came to the disciples locked away in a room. He showed himself to those who quickly believed and to those who doubted and asked to touch him. The resurrection was not less true because of their emotions or emotional response. And it is not less true or less meaningful because of mine.

The resurrection of Jesus is a steady, fixed point, whether I recall it with great emotion or with numbness. It is a signpost and a stake in the ground, declaring the New Creation and the promise of the redemption and restoration of all things. This is part of its good news to us: in highs and lows, all seasons and circumstances, it holds out a steady message of hope. With our bodies, our brains, and, yes, even our emotions, we rehearse the story of God’s redemption each year—the story of Christ died, Christ risen, and Christ coming again—because we need anchoring in this story. We need its fixed point year after year, so that regardless of our ability to “feel the feels,” we remember.

Your “hallelujah” this Easter Sunday may be a quiet one, but the Risen Jesus comes to you just the same. Thanks be to God.