Defining the Edges

Do you have any family activity traditions over Christmas? Ours puts more emphasis on the "tea" than the "active", but for many years we've loosely observed the tradition of working on puzzles over the season, a practice inherited from both my wife's and my families. We're currently in the midst of a 16-puzzle challenge, but in spite of a strong start, success is looking doubtful. Time is running out.

Like most puzzlers, I'm sure, we start by assembling the edges. A few evenings ago, as I matched up a tiger's stripes, the slowly emerging picture struck me as a metaphor for this thing we call midlife. Even though much of the image has yet to come together, and individual pieces make little sense on their own, the mystery of what we will see is being revealed because the edges are defined.

Here's what I mean: as a young person, you had lots of opportunity, and for all your inspired confidence, you really had no idea where life would take you. The edges were not in place. Anything - theoretically - was possible.

But at this point in life, the edges are set. Your personality, your preferences and abilities, are all essentially locked in place. I've come to accept that I'm not going to be a rock star, famous movie producer, or the next Bill Hybels. My puzzle edges have all been placed, the boundaries established.

The upside to this potentially depressing state, is that midlife affords us the needed clarity to focus on what we do possess. Any puzzler knows "the zone" - getting on a roll where the shape, color and texture of each piece almost seems to place itself. In the same way, knowing what we can't do, or don't do well, is as helpful as being certain about what we can do. Truthfully, most of what we've done in life can now be done better and faster by someone younger, quicker, smarter.

So instead, with edges defined, the pieces being assembled in what seems to be an accelerating pace, we should have the freedom to clarify and pursue our unique image. The  time for guessing "I wonder what it is?" has passed. The picture is emerging.

Oh, but the best is yet to be. For I am not the puzzler, I'm the puzzle. The One bent over my jumbled pieces is my Maker. Just this morning I read in Philippians, that "God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns" (Phil 1:6).

That's a promise I cling to. The Christmas break is nearly over, and our puzzles, finished or not, will go back in the boxes for next year. But my Maker has a plan, and because each piece makes sense, he will finish the challenge, in his good time.

Moments in the Middle

"I love these moments," said my wife, as she sipped her tea and I crafted my second Americano of the day. It was Saturday morning, the to-do list was waiting, and I was already behind on my "should-do" list (that guilt-generator in my head that loves to remind me of what I haven't accomplished!). We chatted about the comfort of our many years together, and marveled at the countless blessings we enjoy. Marriage small talk. No agenda. No planning of the day's activities or arranging of chores. Just a moment in the middle.

It was a sweet moment, as though time stalled, simply by being at peace with slowing down to be together. And then, as unexpectedly as it arrived, the moment slipped away with the buzz of the clothes dryer and the chime of an incoming text message. The dog needed attention and I was off to an appointment at church, and with all that, life was back in motion. It ended up a busy weekend, without much chance to connect as it passed. But oh, that lovely moment in the middle.

Those moments happen in all the best relationships - a surprising conversation in the car with my kids, a shared laugh with a colleague, or a kind Facebook post from a distant friend. It is a treat every time.

A variety of Biblical thoughts came to mind that day. Paul wrote the Thessalonians and said, "Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands...then people who are not Christians will respect the way you live..." (1 Thess 4:11-12). My previous day's Bible reading included Psalm 39: "Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be...each of us is but a breath...I am a traveler passing through."

I guess I shouldn't be surprised - but I still am - that the most precious relationship moments are unplanned and unexpected. You've no doubt at times made elaborate efforts to spend inspired moments with a family member or loved one, only to be disappointed with the result, while another time catching yourself laughing deeply at something spontaneous, even ridiculous. Oh, I know the spontaneous moments are a by-product of intentional and meaningful times together, but how sweet the moments in the middle.

Should I expect it to be any different in my relationship with God, my heavenly Father, the lover of my soul? The Psalmist wrote, "My heart has heard you say, 'Come and talk with me.' And my heart responds, 'Lord, I am coming'" (Psalm 27:8). It's the informal and unplanned moments that can mean the most.

You and I deepen a friendship with God with time spent with him. But we need to slow down at times and be open to those delightful spontaneous moments.

Because even a relationship with God needs those moments in the middle.

Not a Bridge to Nowhere

This might almost be an epiphany, but I'm okay with calling it an "aha".

It started about a week ago, as I reflected on some significant milestones. Ten years ago this month Beck and I started working on what would become Promontory Community Church in Chilliwack, Canada (www.mypcc.ca - check it out). And January will mark five years since we left Promontory to try new challenges. Both were highly emotional times, marked with stretching highs and cavernous lows, yet completely worthwhile and, hopefully, all to the glory of God.

But the revelation struck me last week as I met with a couple seeking some marital spiritual direction (what I do really can't be called counselling). I noticed that one or both parties seemed to be dreamily lost in the past. They were spending their days looking over their shoulder at an idealized rendition of the past, and I realized in doing so they were missing out on the best of both the present and the future.

And here's my "aha moment": it's a bridge. A what? A bridge, life is a bridge. In youth, there's nothing but a long stretch of future, but further on, there's a lot to look back on. Right now, I'm somewhere out in the middle.

When we lived in BC we would occasionally visit the Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge in Vancouver. Stepping on the bridge is fun and scenic and all things wonderful. But if fear of heights is an issue, or the swinging sensation of a suspension bridge is a problem, somewhere in the middle a person might look back and say, "I'm not so sure about this."

It's obvious to say that everyone has a past. Some spend their lives trying to forget it, while others try to hold on to it, depending if it was painful or beautiful. That's obvious. But I've also seen friends cling to a painful past because they fear the future, or because they simply cannot imagine a future any better than the glorious past. Either way, it is at best aimless, and at worst, hopeless.

The backward look only lets a person see what they've already seen, and that from an unrealistic perspective. They fail to embrace the present or anticipate the future, missing the best of what God has today. It's not a bad thing to glance back to check progress, but we can't stay there. And standing still is not given as an option. Time only goes one direction.

The Apostle Paul understood the need to look forward. He had a past that some applauded, but it was an  embarrassment to him. Maybe that's why he wrote in Philippians 3, "Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us." And to the Colossians he wrote, "Think about the things of heaven, not the things of earth" (Colossians 3:2). The writer of Hebrews said that Jesus endured the cross "for the joy set before him" (Hebrews 12:2). All forward-facing.


So if life really can be compared to a bridge, I don't want to spend my life looking at where I've been, only to be surprised by the destination ahead. And I don't believe God wants us to set up a permanent home on Memory Lane. It was God, after all, who promised his people "a hope and a future" (Jeremiah 29:11).

There is tension, is there not, between honoring what's been good, even while gazing ahead? How does one decide what to preserve, and what to release?

It strikes me that one should carry forward whatever helps to move boldly on into the future God has. Past relationships that have honored God and nurtured your walk with Him? Save those. But past memories and connections that leave you unaware of - or worse, dissatisfied with - the present, can only give you a backward-looking crick in your neck? Time to re-think what you do with those.

So that's my "aha" moment. I'm asking myself, "In which direction am I looking?" Because my bridge-walk is one with purpose, and I don't want to miss out what God may have for me today or in the days ahead.

Nothing New Under the Sun?

One of the benefits of this mid-stage of life is that, in spite of living in a time that pretends to be unprecedented, I'm ready to accept that there really is "nothing new under the sun" (Ecclesiastes 1:9).

Oh, there are plenty of new things under the sun. Sometimes, just for fun, I'll try to help my kids understand my world. It's a great game to play. I try to help them imagine a time before Nintendo, microwave popcorn and keyless entry for the car. My son's 12-year-old friend, riding in my (old! 2001 model year) pickup pointed to the window crank and asked, "What's this?" He had never been in a vehicle without power windows. Am I really that old?

Both sets of my children's grandparents visited this fall, and I had my boys ask them to share some childhood memories. To our delight, they told marvelous stories of a different era; my children seemed most suspicious at the story of riding to school in a horse-drawn sleigh - for real. Could anyone they know actually have lived in such a time?

I admit that at times I feel overwhelmed. My grandparents (all born at the start of the 20th Century) didn't have to memorize online passwords or retrieve voicemail. They didn't have to protect their kids from the dark side of the internet. They never had to fuss with batteries for the remote control, or organize a plethora of digital photos, or use the self-checkout at the hardware store (definitely not a perfected technology!)

Sometimes I despair of keeping up at all with the firehose-stream of incoming information. Just yesterday, we tried shopping for a TV, and discovered there is yet another whole language to learn - plasma, lcd, led, 1080p in hd! I can't keep up.

It's tempting to assume earlier times were blissful and easy. But I'm also old enough to know that's not true. While my grandparents and great-grandparents did not deal with the digital technology and info-noise you and I manage every day, they had to acquire knowledge and technology completely beyond me now. Could I diagnose an ailing milk-cow, or operate a wood-stove at precise temperatures as my grandmother did? Would I know how to repair a damaged wagon or read the weather at harvest time? Not to mention, could I have fled the nation of my birth as a refugee and started with nothing in a cold land speaking a foreign tongue? Trust me, I don't have it that bad if my "hassle" is forgetting a username and password.

Which gets me back to thinking, the essential issues have always been the same. Can I clear the deck of my life enough to be sure I am connecting with my heavenly Father? Am I growing in understanding, and gaining a wise heart? Do I grasp how to lead my family closer to the cross of Jesus Christ?

I could spend my lifetime gathering and maintaining "stuff", but to what end? There truly is "nothing new under the sun" because ancient people and we are much the same. We sense these deep holes of longing, and spend far too much time trying to fill the holes with habits and handbags filled with goods. I love the marvel of technology, but the most wondrous gadget still leaves me empty. We get a little closer with our Facebooks and text messages, but the pseudo-intimacy is a social sugar-high.

The Ecclesiast said, "God gives wisdom, knowledge, and joy to those who please him" (Ecclesiastes 2:26). And the prophet reminds us that "The Lord has told you what is good, and what he requires: do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God" (Micah 7:8).

Nothing new under the sun, right? Thank God for that.

Dribbling Words

We have finally become a dog family. Early in the summer we took in a homeless Chihuahua-cross, named him Satchel. This has been a much better experience than I’d expected, although at times I resent the level of personal involvement with his bodily functions dog ownership demands.

And yet, walking Satchel for his “personal moments” opened my eyes to a bad habit creeping into my life. I’ve realized lately I’m a one-upper – you know, the guy who always has to add his version of your story, only a little better, or worse, or faster or slower, or somehow just superior to yours. Yeah, I’ve been catching myself doing that lately.

It might have something to do with this midlife thing. I might be trying to rely on past accomplishments to assert my significance. I might be feeling some disappointment that I’m not “all that” compared to guys younger, faster, better read, most techno-skilled, and downright better looking! And just to prove that I’m still “all that”, I somehow feel at liberty to add my two-bits.

What does this have to do with the dog? It’s like this: when Satch and I head out the door, he’s got a pretty good stream to take care of on the first couple trees. But after that, all the way around the block, he’s got this notion that he has something to leave on any number trees and bushes. It’s barely a drop or two, but doggone it, he’s going to make his mark. Does he know he’s got nothing to offer?

As I dragged him along today, it occurred to me that I’ve been guilty of the human conversational equivalent. It’s as though I just have to dribble a few words into any conversation just to make my mark. You want to tell me an amazing story? Oh, let me lift my leg and grace you with my even more amazing moment. How embarrassing. Proverbs 17:27 says, “A truly wise person uses few words” and Ecclesiastes 5:3 says, “Too many words make you a fool.”

Yes, midlife affords me the benefit of experience. I’ve been blessed to see and experience many quality moments. But none of them trumps your unique experience, how impressive or simple it may be. And even your greatest triumph should be no threat to the ways God has blessed my life. I really have no need to prove myself.

Time to test my heart – again, because “The heart of the godly thinks carefully before speaking” (Proverbs 15:28). Carry on, Satchel. And thanks for the lesson. No more dribbling words for me. 

The Great Thing About Middle Age...

So here's the thing...there was a time in my life when my appearance really mattered to me. But it was at a time when my body was largely cooperative. I actually had a full head of hair, and the hair I did have wasn't always trying to grow out of weird places. I could pretty much eat what I liked without adding a spare tire, and I had the energy of a solar panel in the Sahara.

But things change, I've learned. My body doesn't respond as quickly to my brain's commands, and the bounce-back from bursts of bravado is a little slower.

Fortunately, I'm finally starting to figure out that people think about us, talk about us and notice us a lot less than we ever think. I've discovered I can walk into a Starbucks dressed like a dork and really, it doesn't matter. Not only does no one care, I don't think anyone notices.

This came home to me when on vacation last week. I was snorkeling off-shore and found myself blessed with the middle-aged, "Who cares?" freedom. Imagine the scene: me wearing a bright yellow flotation belt (at 20 I would have rather drowned than wear that goofy thing) and feeding my breakfast to the fish multiple times (they enjoyed it more than I did the second time). And even with an audience of a dozen or so folks, I really didn't care. So what?

There are more meaningful implications, which have yet to really kick in for me. The perennial problem for every Christ-follower is the tension between others' acceptance and speaking up. For example, I want to tell my friends and neighbors about the incredibly good and life-changing news that Jesus saves - but I want them to still like and accept me even if they reject my message. My goal is - or needs to be - thinking less and less about how they see me now, versus how they will look at me in eternity. I may succeed at looking cool now, only to be seen an eternal fool  later. Not a happy prospect.

But I'm slow at this, much slower than you'd think, at this point in my life. I still care too much about what others think. My saving thought is this: when I feel like I let God down, I'm reminded that it wasn't my job to hold God up! Which means he has surprising and creative ways of accomplishing his purposes, and even allowing me to be a part of the process. And as I discover the joy of that, how I look and what others think of me will matter less and less.

So midlife may work to my advantage after all. I may even get away with socks in sandals, if only my wife and kids will look the other way!

The Journey

Yeah, I know. Journey. Kind of an overused word. As in "life's a journey" and "it's not the destination, it's the...". Exactly. Road less travelled, and all that.

And yet, here I am. 42 years old, and still trying to figure out my journey.

I'm going on vacation this week, and I know where I'm starting from, where I'm going, and how I'm getting there. Too bad life's not as clear - I can tell you where I've been, but not really how it all started. I certainly can't tell you where I'm going - not because I don't want to, but because I don't know myself.

But I'm starting to figure out the mode of transportation. When I was young, I thought the journey was all about high speed vision and high octane energy. Then someone told me the transport was strategic planning, well-prepared and well-executed. Somewhere in there I was told it was all spiritual - all a matter of prayer and prophetic anointing. It's some of all of those, but there's something else.

Because here I am in midlife and it has just dawned on me that the journey is through relationship. That's right. I thought my life was a solo walk to discover my purpose and eventually my bridge to Avalon. Turns out it's a bus ride (and in my case, usually the short bus), an experience of community where real people get real.

Ever been the solo passenger on a bus? Now that's depressing. Sometimes I feel like my bus is empty, and then I'll meet a friend - like one I shared a coffee with today - and I'm reminded my bus is full. My bus is full, I just need to look around  a little. And strike up a conversation or two.

My bus is a bit smelly, sometimes. Not everyone is beautiful or brilliant, to me, but they certainly are to my Heavenly Father, and they are all lovely. A few people on my bus are nothing but needy. And guess what? I'm learning I even need the needy ones; they fill gaps in my life. At times, I'm the neediest one there. And all of them combined pour into my life, like colors on a tie-dyed t-shirt. A bus with passengers is way more interesting than a bunch of empty seats.

So it really is a journey. Got a long way to go, but know this: it's a worthwhile journey.