I’m joining Emily Freeman, a writer and podcaster I admire, in her invitation to reflect on the past quarter with a What We Learned reflection.

I organized my walks through the neighborhood around these sunflowers. Aren’t they lovely?

Almost every time I’ve been outdoors this summer I’ve thought “Thank you, God, that whatever phenomenon makes the infection of this virus spread like wildfire, the outdoors is still a space that feels a bit normal.” With so many of our familiar comforts now feeling surreal, I’ve been profoundly grateful for the normalcy of a blue sky, green grass, cheerful birdsong, and water lapping shorelines. Occasionally, I’ve allowed my mind to imagine a scenario in which we not only had to isolate from each other but also had to escape the fresh air outside.

This is what I’ve been thinking about when I see the dystopian-like photos coming from the West Coast and Pacific Northwest of the U.S. What makes for a breathtaking photo amounts to people literally not being able to breathe the air outside their front doors.

The world is figuratively and literally on fire. Lord, have mercy. For the love of God, hurry up and have mercy now.

In my own little patch of earth, surrounded by good summer air to breathe and neighbors’ flowers to photograph, I’ve experienced personal joy and heartache this summer. I offer this post as a reflection on those experiences as a prayer for transformation.

Lord, have mercy and let me be made new from the inside out. Let my soul breathe the fresh air of your peace, rest, and love. Make me new. Amen.

My prayer for us all, friends,

Tamara

p.s., I’m excited about new things happening on Patreon this fall. Stay tuned for more details or just go ahead and subscribe now!

HARD Things

1. Go to the funerals.

My Dad officiating the graveside service for his parents, June 2020

It was awkward and sad but I’m so grateful I was able to join several family members (at a distance) to say a final goodbye to my grandparents.

Because of COVID, we couldn’t give my grandmother a traditional church funeral like we’d been able to do for my grandfather in December. We’d had to wait to bury him because the ground froze early in Central New York. In the end, this meant we were able to bury both of them on the same day in this near-empty portion of the cemetery. The location for their gravesite providentially gave us room to encircle them with prayer, story-telling, and singing.

I’m 100% positive God reserved this space under a giant oak tree for them. It’s the perfect representation for their life - together under the shade of sturdy branches formed over years from the fragile seeds of their early traumatic lives. May we continue to share their legacy and may many find a home in our branches.

This wasn’t the only funeral I attended. There was another one that happened for the loved one of my loved ones all the way across the country. Ironically, I happened to be within three hours of the city where the funeral was held outdoors in a language I don’t speak and a variety of unfamiliar customs underneath a sweltering Texas sun. I showed up late (after begging a closed McDonald’s to allow me to use their restroom and they agreed, God bless them forever). I stayed all the way to the end so I could give my loved one a hug even though we were all in masks and avoiding contact and I’m so glad I did. My loved one needed my hug that day and I’d drive hours and hours again, if I’m able, to be there at that moment.

I also attended another funeral on Facebook, because that’s what we do now. The beautiful mother of a beautiful friend died, and though I never met her personally, I’ve lost track of the number of people who’ve told me how much they learned about God through this woman. Through the gift of video, this woman preached the Gospel at her own funeral while 5 or 6 Bishops (I lost track, honestly) and 1 archbishop sat at the front of an almost-empty church and listened. There wasn’t much doubt that, even though her family had just buried her in the graveyard, she was still the best preacher in the room. May she rest in peace and rise in glory. Amen.

2. Black Lives Matter in ways I’ve only just begun to comprehend.

A protest in our neighborhood park to remember George Floyd, June 2020

We’re new to our neighborhood and, from what we’ve heard, Black Rock can try to avoid its Bridgeport identity in some white-centric ways so we weren’t sure what to expect at the event scheduled to memorialize George Floyd in June.

We were grateful for a broad representation of speakers and for the work they described on behalf of Black Lives all over Connecticut, but more than anything else It was the kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds that got me. It took a lot of determination to stay in position for that long and I cannot imagine the focus it required to hold George Floyd’s neck underneath.

May God restore the bended knee to its rightful place as a posture of peace and prayer and may God send racism in all its forms to hell where it belongs. May Your kingdom come and Your will be done in Bridgeport as it is in heaven. Amen.

3. In-person church services make me cry every week, but it’s worth it.

Pastors and worship leader pray before our first sunday meeting in person again, june 2020

My husband, the pastor, showed up to a nearly-empty sanctuary all spring and into the beginning of summer. (Thank God for the small band of church people who, essentially, risked their own wellbeing to join him in order to broadcast the service for the rest of us!) Pandemic-era church has made my role as the minister’s spouse a bit easier. I can dispense love to our congregation from the comfort of the couch while the minister works his heart out trying to rouse a congregation through the unblinking eye of a video camera.

Before we were able to return in person (with abundant safety measures in place) Brian would come home after streaming the service on Sundays heavy and sad. I’d still be lounging on the couch in my pajamas chirping to him what a good sermon he’d preached. I didn’t understand why he felt so sad. Now that I’m attending the service in-person I totally get it. My comfy living room church attendance provided a buffer against the reality of a pandemic-era sanctuary. Now that we’re able to cautiously and carefully - and, for the love of God and neighbor, wearing masks - regather, Brian’s actually less sad on Sunday mornings. I fight tears through all the singing parts, especially. Going to church feels a little bit like those dreams where you’re trying to talk to people and they can’t seem to hear you. It’s kind of like that but not quite so bad because everyone’s experiencing the same thing together.

4. My pastors have helped me not give up on the Church this year.

Brian washing his own feet in an empty sanctuary on Maundy Thursday, march 2020

Speaking of Brian…

No moment summarizes better the work of the pastor in this season than watching my pastor husband during the Maundy Thursday livestreamed service. Normally, on the night before Good Friday, we revel in the goodness of Jesus who modeled servant leadership by washing his disciples’ feet just before his death. In the liturgy on a normal year, Brian would not have to wash his own feet. No one would. I watched through my laptop screen and prayed that somehow, Brian would sense Jesus kneeling before that rubbermaid basin.

On so many Sunday mornings this summer, I’ve watched my husband in a different physical posture but with the same spirit call our church family away from the power trips that come with our allegiances to politicians, personal and systemic powers and principalities to a unified allegiance underneath the risen and ascended Christ, who before he was crucified taught us to love each from the humblest position possible. This is what it means to belong to Christ and there’s no getting around the fact that we haven’t learned that posture very well.

As I reflected on the difference between what Brian modeled and my own heart, I wrote a prayer of repentance. You’re welcome to add your own amen.

We repent of all our earthly alliances and allegiances that feed our own sense of security and superiority and plant ourselves on our faces at the foot of the cross.

We repent for our sense of superiority based on race, religion, political affiliations, socio-economic, and educational status.

We repent for all of the ways we've adhered to, voted in, paid for, and received a financial, educational, property, inheritance, and other societal forms of benefit from both the blatant and the more subtle systems of white supremacy and white nationalism.

We repent of the ways we've avoided our own healing and laid the burden of our stoicism and pride on future generations.

We repent for living with racism in our congregations, our sermons, our literature our political statements, and our own hearts while simultaneously calling ourselves Bible-believing Christians.

Lord, create clean hearts and lives in your church, please. We're sorry for the things we've done and left undone. Forgive us, heal us, and release the power of healing love through us for the sake of all people and for the joy of our King Jesus.

Christ, have mercy, hear our prayer, and restore our hearts and lives to look more like You and more like the true Church you’ve always imagined.

We pray in the power and communion of the beautiful Triune God.

Amen.

Reverend Jan and Brian marched with fellow clergy for our city to pray outside the police station, June 2020

5. I hate not knowing the right thing to do. I quickly judge others for not knowing the right thing to do.

Here's one of the beautiful locations Jesus invited me to sit this summer to ask Him questions about what's right.

It's never felt harder for me to understand how to understand, love, and do what is right. Yet it remains my deepest desire to do so. This is an exhausting tension and I know that many of you feel it too.

The desire is good even when we lack the will and the capacity to make it so. Especially when we know our weakness, we're invited to not grow weary in the desire. In the fatigue and confusion around and within us, we're invited to live into the outburst of freedom the Apostle Paul describes in Romans 8:1. With deep gladness, we claim the promise only available to us because Christ fulfilled the righteous requirement of the law: “There is therefore no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

We are not condemned and this frees us to not condemn others. We hold onto the One who always knows and does what is right and count on the strong and kind heart of Jesus to cover us all.

HAPPY Things

6. With some flexibility, and willingness to defer and even make sacrifices for each other, we were able to hold the 20th Annual Hill Family Vacation. (which is kind of how anything like this is able to continue anyway)

We took the calculated risk of being together - remaining outside almost exclusively, sleeping several rooms apart, not going offsite, wearing masks when needed - for the annual summer vacation with my parents, siblings, nieces, and nephews. Some weren’t able to be with us (my brother, his wife, and son, my Kansas-resident sister, her husband, and 6 kids, our Texas-resident sons, daughter-in-law, and daughter) but we had the entire camp to ourselves and felt gladder than ever to be together.

It was Kendra and Jordan’s first summer to be on HFV since they were married, thus the strange family tradition of a “good, old-fashioned horning.” (It’s a long story, and we’re much kinder than the folks that welcomed my newlywed parents to their little cabin in the Adirondack mountains. Also known as a “shivaree”. Look it up here.)

Thank God for Letourneau Christian Camp on Canandaigua Lake in upstate New York for providing such an affordable, hospitable place for us each summer.

Our version of a shivaree, which our family has come to refer to as a “good, old-fashioned horning”. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it is.

6. COVID-19 didn’t keep us from simple, safe, and enjoyable day trips/getaways.

We bookended the family reunion with quick, socially-distanced visits to Seneca Falls, NY, and Newport, RI.

In Seneca Falls, NY, with its odd dual notoriety as both the inspiration for Bedford Falls from “It’s A Wonderful Life” and the location for the first convention for women’s rights, we basically had the canal walk to ourselves and want to go back sometime when we can go inside the museums.

Newport provided us with a gorgeous 6 am cliff walks, state park sunsets, and lobster rolls. We look forward to visiting both places again when the world is a little bit less contagious, but feel so grateful for the opportunity to go anywhere at all this summer!

A relatively flat portion of the hike, a 6 am cliff walk in Newport, RI to avoid the people and the heat

7. For the sake of mental and emotional health, COVID-19 didn’t keep us from exhausting but safe cross-country road trips either.

After a disappointing job layoff, two of our Texas kids decided to self-isolate with us in CT for a couple of weeks. Later, Brian and I drove to Texas to help one of our family members as they continue to regain strength from a mental health crisis. It’s all a calculated risk between physical health, mental health, and emotional health. It’s hard. I think we made the right decision for our family.

To have this much face-to-face time with our kids right now became serendipity in the middle of a crazy world and we’re grateful.

8. Listening to all the Harry Potter books read by the incomparable Jim Dale makes exhausting, cross-country trips a whole lot more enjoyable.

9. I don’t know how we’ve lived without a Ninja (blender) before now.

One day, after watching my sister-in-law Young-Mee make delicious fruit smoothies during Hill Family Vacation, Brian came home from Wal-Mart with a big-ass blender he found on a great sale. We’ve been using it daily ever since.

He’s perfected the mixed fruit and veggie shakes we enjoy for breakfast every day. Taco Tuesday was transformed with margaritas made in a proper blender (instead of the tiny thing we used to make one drink at a time). Then our daughter-in-law drove all the way from Austin to make us Watermelon-Vodka Slushies and Spicy Margaritas.

Perfection.

Watermelon, Vodka, Basil courtesy of our new Ninja and our daughter-in-law, Rebekah.

10. I love the Mystic Aquarium!

I’ve never been before and with limited options this summer the Mystic Aquarium hit the spot. The museum has implemented excellent safety precautions and lowered the price of tickets. Our favorite exhibits were outdoors and it was the perfect activity to take Alex and Rebekah while they visited. (Plus the raw oysters and lobster rolls at nearby Abbot’s Lobster in the Rough in Noank afterward.)

In other news, I’d pay the whole ticket price just to watch the Beluga whales.

Alex and this penguin had something special going on.

11. If my soul were a flower, it’d be late summer wildflowers.

Something about late summer flowers just get me. If my soul were a flower, it would be the messy cacophony of informal blossoms spilling out of unweeded gardens. It always feels like they’re a little bit apologetic for showing up late; that they spent the last couple months noticing the earth and thinking deep thoughts about beauty all summer and now they want to make up for their tardiness by being extra friendly and abundant. That old saying “the earth laughs in flowers” makes me think the earth in late August has been hanging out with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine and has reached the stage of snort laughing over stuff that’s not even funny.

12. Drive-in movies are a new, old-favorite thing.

Our church hosted two outdoor movie nights and we drove about an hour away for a late-night showing of The Goonies. So much fun.

SILLY-GOOD Things

13. Sometimes friends you grow to love in Texas move to Oregon and NYC while you move to Connecticut and you do your best to keep up with each other’s lives and pray for each other and take the train a bunch of times to visit each other and then out of the bleak COVID-19 landscape your friends move two blocks away and become not only friends but neighbors also.

These guys have been friends almost a decade from Austin to Portland to Manhattan to Bridgeport. What a silly-good gift, God!

We've been calling it "silly good", as in God, you are being silly good.

The rental home in our dream neighborhood we found on a last-ditch effort last fall, the location for our church to worship after too many years being in an ill-fitting building, the ridiculously cheap airline tickets we found for our kids to attend my daughter's makeshift pandemic-era wedding in October, the acquisitions editor contacting me out of the blue to ask for book proposals, key vocational invitations pointing me toward my truest callings, some beautiful ministry relationships blooming from the most unexpected places.

The unexpected abundance of God that leaves us so speechless, we're left with only this childlike burble: God, you are being SO silly good.

Another word for it could be mercy. The unexpected, unearned, outsized goodness of God that leaves us knowing without a doubt we have a good Father who does not keep a record of our right or wrong choices in order to determine His benevolence.

It strikes me that each gift I mentioned above - the house, neighborhood, church building, daughter's wedding, vocational and ministry journeys - carry with them the memory of uncertainty and anguish. Sometimes I'm tempted to imagine the moments before the gift arrives as the price of my end of the bargain with God. The days of unrelenting suffering and deferred hope have marked me, and not just figuratively. I carry them in the worry line taking up residence on my forehead, the perpetual tension in my jawline and the occasional spirals of self-doubt that I've taken the wrong path, followed the wrong directions, or otherwise disqualified myself from the goodness and mercy I want for all of my days.

Jacob wrestled with God and walked with a limp for the rest of his life. He literally wouldn't let God go until he got the blessing he needed in order to keep moving, living, and having his being.

But that's not mercy. That's the tumult of living in relationship and love. It's the daily ground of learning how to give and receive goodness with our Creator in the midst of a broken and cursed world. Loving another, especially God, marks us.

Mercy is something else. Mercy is the thing that happens when God's already obliterated the record we've been keeping about how much we owe God and others in order to receive goodness and then writes a whole new storyline that we never saw coming and could never have written for ourselves because it's a far better plot twist than we thought we deserved.

I'll keep looking for the right words, but in the meantime all I know to say is Lord, you are silly good. Christ, you are silly good. Lord, you are silly good..

An August sunset at our neighborhood park, St. Mary’s-by-the-Sea.

13 Things I Learned This Summer