The last two years, I’ve felt so much silent, creeping fear. I’ve not struggled much with anxiety until 2020 came coiling itself around my body. I think we all know, or at least suspect, fear has been the lighter fluid to the flickering flames of anger igniting every Facebook thread and threatening to leave a burnt, black crust in our relationships, our churches, even our governments. The fear and the anger and the in-fighting are why a lot of people have stepped back, deleting people or the apps altogether.
We are fragile flames and the world hasn’t been a gentle place these last years.
It’s true, we probably all need therapy, in addition to a long vacation on a beach where someone brings us all of our food. We need a good, uninhibited cry. We need an awkward-long hug. We need reminding who we are.
I wonder if and how we ourselves might become the bringers and the huggers and the ones doing the reminding. I wonder if this would help us, would be an alternative circuit toward which we could direct some of the physical energy sparking within.
I think about Jesus and who he talked to. He doesn’t spend much time with people whose hearts are sealed shut, who spiral in self-righteousness. He finds those who are open, who are usually on the margins, and does two things: uplifts and illuminates. To dignify and to shed light on a person, people group, or issue is what I see him doing again and again. The more I wake up to the darkness and loneliness around me, the less difficult it seems to copy him.
A friend and I attend an event, the kind where kids mill about unnoticed and bored. But her daughter is with us, gangly and lodged in between childhood and adulthood. I decide to get a fraction lower, look her in the eye, and ask her questions. She is more than a sidekick. She straightens her back and brightens immediately.
I am in the middle of my day, juggling clients and a long to-do list, when I need to pick up my kid from school. My audiobook starts midsentence through my Bluetooth when I get in the car, and I notice I’ve missed a call. My attention is a flock of birds scattering. But when he climbs in, red-cheeked and raw, I do my best to gather, look him in the eye, ask questions. At home, we have a snack; I pour tea. I try hard to keep the birds perched quietly for a while.
My neighbor is lonely and wears the same brown knit hat every day. In the year since I’ve known him, he’s never had a friend over. I’ve not once seen a woman exiting and turning to wave goodbye. I go over one afternoon with a prepared speech when I see him outdoors fiddling in the yard, “You’re a really good guy. You have a kind heart.” I look him in the eye to anchor the words. He smiles, nervously laughs. He’s surprised and unsure how to hold goodness.
Maybe it’s as simple as eye-contact, encouragement, and taking one moment to name someone’s glory. We can do that. We can keep our hearts open to someone who needs a gentle boost. Maybe one intentional word is a white cloth to wipe the cinders off our faces.
This idea we are taught growing up about letting our light shine in the darkness had me assuming all there was was darkness. It felt too dark and I felt too small. What I didn’t understand was that we were all shining lights, millions of us, like little lanterns resting on the surface of the earth. Some are flickering, some are fading even now, some are getting stomped out by a sharp, black heel. And what I think might be our calling as imitators of the god-man, the Great Light who treads on darkness, is to go around dipping down and lifting as many lights as we can.
Some are already up in the air, creating a wider and wider ring of luminescence the higher they float. They are floating because someone lofted them above themselves, letting the wind of worth carry them. I imagine if we could go around scooping up the lanterns on the ground and breathing life into the flickering, fading ones, everything would get so much brighter.
Are you also picturing that scene in Tangled (and the beautiful song!) where a million floating lanterns rise over the water, glowing, and climbing silently into the night? I am.
This is what the kingdom of God is like: people dignifying every other soul, uplifting, illuminating, and watching in wonder as light drives out the dark.
make this.
Acorn Squash with Sausage and Kale
This recipe is one of my favorites to make in fall. It’s one of those that looks very impressive and is surprisingly easy, not to mention quick to whip up. The recipe is adapted from this one and serves 4. In the photo, I made this for a pot luck, so it was served alongside some other appetizer-like dishes. For dinner, I’d serve it with a small salad or just on its own, because I like a good one-dish meal and this one has everything you need. Maybe throw a slice of good bread on the plate and call it a night.
You’ll need:
2 medium acorn squash, halved down the middle, guts scooped out, and a small slice taken off each end to create a flat base
olive oil
8 ounces (sweet or hot) Italian sausage, casings removed if any
1 large leek, white and light green parts only, halved and thinly sliced, then rinsed well (or 1 small brown onion, diced)
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
4 C tightly packed shredded kale or chard (yes, that much. It shrinks a lot!)
1/3 C chicken broth
Salt and pepper
Topping:
1/4 C chopped walnuts
2 T grated fresh Parmesan
2 T panko breadcrumbs
Step 1: brush the squashes on all sides with olive oil, sprinkle with salt, and roast face down on a foil lined baking sheet, 30 minutes, at 375 degrees.
Step 2: While roasting, make the filling. Brown the sausage with a bit of oil and remove from pan. Then cook down the leek (or onion) for 6 minutes, adding the garlic during the last minute. May need to add a bit more oil if the sausage didn’t render much.
Step 3: Add sausage back to the pan as well as the kale and broth. Add more salt and pepper. Gently stir until the kale is cooked down and mixture is heated through. If the squash isn’t done yet, put a lid on it and let it sit.
Step 4. When squash is soft and browning on the cut sides, remove from oven, flip over, and fill each with the sausage mixture. At this point, turn the oven to broil. Spoon the topping onto the squashes and put them back in the oven for about 2 minutes, broiling until the topping is browned and crispy. Careful, they’ll burn really fast.
Then enjoy, and graciously accept all compliments.
read this.
This Too Shall Last is a recent favorite, partly because it spoke so deeply to me, and partly because I’ve never read anything like it. It is, above all, a bold statement on how faith in God is not inversely proportional to suffering, as many would have us believe. I digested it slowly because it was rich, every page meaningful. I marked up the whole dang thing.
K.J. Ramsey is a licensed therapist and one of my most favorite Instagrammers; to say her book therapized me through a long season of suffering is an understatement. Her words are healing and validating, naming truths about suffering I’ve not heard before in a faith-based book, and I’ve read plenty. She does not mince words when it comes to both sharing God’s heart for those who suffer and shredding the lies that say faith always leads to healing.
She walks us through her personal journey with chronic illness, as well as painful experiences of religious abuse and loss. Yet, the book is broad enough to speak tenderly to any of us travelling through a long, dark tunnel for which no end is in sight.
If you’ve experienced others minimizing your pain or slapping Christian aphorisms onto your grief, this is the book for you. If you know anyone who needs support through a trial but you don’t know how to help, it’s a great book to gift. K.J. shows us what it looks like to suffer well, and wraps us in soul-deep comfort. You can find my full review on GoodReads here, and you can grab a copy here. And wow, I noticed it’s only $6 on Kindle right now. (But listen, I underlined so much of this book, I personally needed a hard copy.) Also, make sure you’re following K.J. on Instagram. She is such a gift.
Friends, I’m praying peace over you as I type. May you feel a fresh sense of your belovedness today. You are a miracle. You are a floating lantern.
You are the beloved,
Leslie