It's just Me Abby

How cruel the english language can be, confounding its learners, perplexing its masters. One word with multiple meanings and shameless nuances, phonetically the same but orthographically different. 

Take the word epic. It could mean a long poetic composition, it could pertain to a great size or extent, or be something spectacular and very impressive.

Now take the word epoch. Phonetically pronounced the same, yet once again defined very differently as a particular period in time distinctive by features and events.

Upon hearing someone speak the word epic or epoch only context could help you decipher what is the intended meaning.  For example:

Life, gifted to us by our beloved Father and Creator, is filled with epic moments but also distinguishable by precise epochs.

And as wise King Solomon wrote, there is indeed a season for everything, and it is here in this interesting crux of contemplating the word epoch that I find myself transfixed.  

In the span of 11 years I went from single to married, to pastor’s wife, to mother, to missionary, to pastor’s wife again, to ministry director’s wife. I’ve lived in 3 different countries and encountered 14 different moves from city, to gritty, to country, to suburban, to urban.  

My faith has seen highs and lows; it has ventured to the heavens and to the depths; it has suffocated in the darkness and has been revived by the Light. It is strong and it is weak, it is determined and it is complacent, it is loving and it is condemning. It is a holy mess held together only by a glorious God.

I live in greater Atlanta, during a pandemic, anticipating a presidential election, grappling with how to daily abide in Jesus. 

I have less than a handful of christian friends. I hang 3 nights a week with a host of families who try to hide the weed they’re smoking in the parking lot while their kids play tackle football with mine.

I spend most of my time with two friends, one muslim, one gay. Both come to my home regularly. 

One friend is continuing to live with her baby daddy even though he fools around with other women because she can’t seem to stop loving him. Another friend recently finished chemo therapy for her breast cancer and just underwent reconstructive surgery. One of my friends last week lost her only child, a 16 year old son. Two weeks ago a friend lost her home and everything in it to fire. And the list could go on.

Interesting how lighthearted and rosy the world can be for some while it can be heavy and dark for others.

I think Charles Dickens captures this phenomena quite well in his book, A Tale of Two Cities,

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

The good and the bad, the positive and negative, joy and sadness, Bert and Ernie, Trump and Biden, all existing simultaneously. 

If given the choice, one is naturally preferred over the other, and mankind is indisputably drawn towards happiness. Can we blame ourselves?

Sometimes I miss one of the safer seasons of my life living in a small town, being a pastor’s wife, surrounded by thousands of believers, discipling christian women who were hungry to grow. It was a role very important, very needed, and very necessary.   

Now I live in place and season of life where brokenness and sadness seem to follow my shadow. I have no christian bubble keeping me safe from corruption or bullet proof glass keeping me away from danger.  And I’m learning that this is exactly where I want to be.

Jesus did not live a clean and safe life. It got dirty and messy very quickly. The outwardly righteous pharisees hated him for it, the sinner and the adulterer rejoiced over it.

Jesus compels me to get in the mud and it is the filthy, thick grime of the mud that repeatedly drives me to pray. And this prayerful communion with God is the very means by which I find faith, hope, and delight.

To spend and be spent for the broken and dirty, to be poured out for the afflicted, will be the very means of satisfying our souls by God himself. 

Don’t run from the fire, friends. Run to it.

“Some want to live within the sound of church or chapel bell; I want to run a rescue mission, within a yard of hell.” ― C.T. Studd