Go with your love to the fields: Practice Resurrection Stories
October Hunter’s Moon over the Long Island Sound
“Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go.”
I went with my love to a beach pier Tuesday night. I’m a bit obsessed with full moons and it was my turn to pick the date activity. So we drove a few minutes to the beach on the other side of town, possibly parked illegally, and walked to the very end of a stone pier where we could see no one else except for an occasional passerby unshadowed by the lampposts in the park on the other side of the water.
I did not put my head in his lap. Nor he in mine. We did lean all the way up against the metal railing, stretching our necks back to see the moon and all the stars. When my neck got sore, I leaned my head into Brian’ shoulder and let the weight of my body fall on his.
We stood that way for a while. Not speaking. Except for merging occasionally to kiss, we didn’t move at all. We listened to the swishing waves - barely waves at all this far in from the open ocean - and let the week and the week before that fall off our bodies into the briny breeze.
We let go of the remnants of anxiety about our children’s health and well-being and the exhaustion of a few sleepless nights. We right-sized ourselves against each other after a few weeks of holding up our own weight instead of helping to carry each other’s load. We breathed in reassurances that our Creator is good and what He does is good even - and maybe especially - in the face of hefty relational and ministry disappointments.
Two weeks we ago, we sat across the room from each other in the dark wee hours. We needed to say words but we were too blindsided by disappointment to form sentences. So we sat in the dark living room with just a bit of a moon shining through the bay window. Our daughter heard our footsteps and joined us on another couch. Just sitting in silence, collectively trying to catch our breath.
Eventually the words (and the tears) came. At first sharp and pointed, unintentionally catching on each other’s sad hearts. So we got quiet and listened to our breathing once again. This time our words met each other in mid-air and offered a soft place to land. Around 3 am, we discovered we could let go of the tension enough to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up strangely energized. Brian’s heart had met mine as we pressed deeper into the heart of Christ together; though we were both still sad and worried and hurt, we were leaning into the yoke of Jesus together, letting him shoulder the weight.
Written words came then. Words to describe my fierce loyalty to this man I’m honored to call both my husband and my pastor. I’m allergic to flattery or platitudes, and my heart takes a little while to compose language. Often, it’s the written word that gives voice to my truest self.
These are the words nighest my thoughts in the early morning:
“You want to figure this church thing out? Find a small church pastored by a good person who preaches their heart out every week no matter how many people are in the room, occasionally the sermon is even really good.
Keep in mind this good pastor probably spent the week offering care to everyone around them - from the marginalized to the hypocrites - and probably prayed with someone living their worst nightmare and in their spare time mowed the lawn and the neighbor’s too without telling anyone else.
Sure. Do your homework. Make sure the pastor only preaches about things like money, human dignity, justice, and love as much as Jesus did and, like Jesus, knows how to tell actual evil to go to hell. Make sure the pastor treats their spouse and kids and neighbors even better when no one’s looking and for the love of Christ, make sure this pastor knows how to take a day off every week and laugh at good jokes.
Choose to be content with the wonky stuff in the church and show up every week to pass the peace with your friends and those other people who mostly just annoy you. Put your hard-earned 10% in the offering basket and every once in awhile throw in a thank you note, too.”
The whole damn world’s lost its mind about what it means to go to church, leave a church, be a church, ignore the church, blame the church, and reject the church. As far as I can tell, they’re doing this for mostly pretty good reasons. And, still, Jesus prays for the Church and holds us all together somehow.
My truest allegiance is this God who welcomes and gathers us and to Jesus who is always and at all times interceding for me and you and for the Church. I swear my allegiance to Jesus, and I particularly join him in his prayer for our church and our pastor who also happens to be my husband. More faithful than my fickle prayers or support and opinions, Jesus is interceding, the Holy Spirit is advocating, and the Father is running toward all of us with outstretched arms.
We’ve walked that path before. Trying to figure out when to stay and when to go. First, we opted for the bigger programs and buildings and worship band and pastoral staff. Most of the years there were pretty great, actually. Until they weren’t. We grew weary of the congregational meetings and the vision pivots and the worship overhauls. We literally burned ourselves out trying to keep the cogs in the machine turning. And then we got lost in the exodus
After that we left our home town and escaped to a congregation 1/4 the size. We leaned into a smaller congregation being carried within a bigger tradition, and found the balance to be just right. Later, when Brian was ordained, we dreamed about fostering this same kind of sturdy intimacy within our new congregation in Connecticut.
The path to the big church each Sunday was the one we couldn’t keep. The one that gave our kids so many opportunities but couldn’t come close to actually knowing and loving them in the particular way a smaller congregation with a healthy shepherd can manage. Plenty of small churches - maybe even most of them - crush people, too. Still Jesus intercedes and good pastors keep shepherding healthy congregations to know and be known in love.
I swear my allegiance to Jesus, not a church or a pastor. Yet, I’ll choose this pastor and this congregation every single day and twice on Sunday. And I’ll keep going to the fields (or the beach) with my love, leaning into him even when that means bearing the burden of this calling with him. Always held together by Jesus. Always returning to love.
Did you hear my announcement?
This year’s Calling Stories series is taking on a new look! Each week in the guide I’ll be sharing my stories and some of yours.
Sign up for the FREE guide today. Tell your friends. I hope lots of you will join us!
