Category: Creative Writing

Brian & Mia

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by S.D.

Standing in the kitchen, we watched as Brian held Mia in his arms, trying to balance her like a baseball bat in one hand. Both of her feet fitting perfectly in a single palm, while his other hand stabilized and repositioned her. Unwittingly, Mia grabbed at his neck, afraid to let go, afraid she would fall to the hardwood floor below. She would get close to letting go, then pull herself right back into the safety of her own arms around him. All the while Brian softly repeated, “Trust Daddy, trust Daddy,” over and over again in her ear. I’m not sure if his words even registered past her fear that she would fall, that her Daddy wouldn’t be able to hold her up. He, finally, gently placed her on the ground in front of him. 

“She used to do it as a little baby, just lock her legs out and balance,” he said to us or maybe to himself as he looked down at his little girl, less and less little every day now, but still so much his girl. At some point, the fear of falling became more real than the hands holding her. The voice in her head whispering, “This isn’t going to work,” or even more insidiously, “He’s lying he can’t hold me up,”; while her Father’s voice, quietly echoed, “Trust Daddy.” 

In a moment, the Lord can meet us. In an instant, He can remind, encourage, admonish, convict us. Tiny, simple, ordinary moments that He unravels to reveal something about Himself that is true or other times, reveal falsehoods we have believed about Him & ourselves.

a Father holds His wobbling daughter,
two tiny feet affixed in His palm like He taught her.
a balancing act playing out before our eyes,
while a daughter of Eve is confronted with lies.

“trust Daddy,” the Father whispers to His precious, little daughter,
but the floor seems much greater than the arm of her Father.
He tried to wrap her in His affections with the words that He said,
and adorn her with truth as a crown upon her head.

hurriedly she grabbed at His neck, afraid to let go,
afraid she would fall to the hard floor below.
she loosened her grip to experience a glimpse of His promise,
then pulled herself back into the arms of her own solace.
 
finally, her fear enveloped her Father’s petition,
deterring His truth and affections ‘til she relied on her own ambition.
she thought, “His arms couldn’t possibly keep me from toppling over,”
so, she wrapped her arms tightly again around His neck and shoulder.
 
her Father’s gentle pleas continued, but in her ears faded.
as the voice of her fear grew louder, unabated.
when did the fear become more real than the arms that loved her?
God help the daughter that questions the Word of her Father.

Goodbye KC, Hello NOVA

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The day we left Kansas City was strange and rushed.

Strange because in the midst of a global pandemic, the church building was almost completely empty when we went in that Sunday morning for our Redeemer family to pray over us. I went into the nursing mothers’ room when we first arrived to feed Evelyn and make an attempt at a nap. It was so eerie and quiet. Just me and a half dozen gliders that looked lonely without moms balancing their babies, smiling, humming along to the music, or chatting while their little ones nursed or bobbed on their knees. 

I never imagined how hard it would be or how lonely it would feel to embark on this church planting journey. While Daniel and I feel confident in our calling, the in-between: that space and time between setting out on the journey and actually launching a healthy, Christ-exalting church is daunting. The fear of failure is real. We’ve spent, or rather I have spent, many nights grumbling, complaining that we were better off in Kansas City. Things were easier there. We were safer there. Sound familiar? I revisit the Israelites’ journey from Egypt to the Promised Land… I must admit, I am also too easily compelled to make a golden calf to worship, to put my hope and faith and trust in when God takes longer to move than I find comfortable. I am also so easily tempted to cast blame, to cower, than to trust. But, even if we “fail,” God has not and never will. He will always perfectly accomplish His plans. Honestly, we’re just stoked to join in the small ways we can. 

Words by C.S. Lewis come to mind, that both comfort and scare me, from the majestic, Christ-figure, Aslan: “I’m not safe, but I am good.” We are not “safe” in the sense that everything from here on out is going to be straightforward, easy, or comfortable. No, no, no. I need to remind myself time and time again, God does not promise us an easy life when we put our faith in Him. He simply, unequivocally promises to be with us. As Daniel and I pray and pursue this calling, we are greatly, desperately in need of God’s presence and of the faithful encouragement, prayers, and support of many, many people. If that gets you pumped, we’d love to chat with you about joining us (in prayer, in presence, or in giving).

Back in the nursing mother’s room at Redeemer, I felt empty for a moment. In a mostly empty church. My daughter asleep in my arms, sitting one more time in our glider (that we gave to Redeemer), in an empty room. Just me and her and God. Surrounded by empty chairs, just the sound of her steady, beautiful breathing keeping me present. As I prayed, quiet, fearful, grateful tears slid down my cheeks:

Lord, thank you for this place. Thank you for the women I sat in this room with. Spoke with. Confided in. Thank you for the people who filled this church building not too long ago. It’s vastness and emptiness now reminds me that a church is a people, not a building. Thank you for reminding me that. These walls and hallways just caverns and canvases for beautiful, broken, redeemed people to fill and flourish (and yes, sometimes fail). Thank you for reminding me that. Thank you for the friends we made, the family we met, the leaders who challenged, comforted, loved, and blessed us. 

I came here kicking and screaming and in many ways, I’m leaving kicking and screaming. But I am not the same. Everything I once found comfort and solace and achievement in was stripped away from me when I came here. It felt like pieces of me were dying away and I kept wondering, what could be left beneath the wreckage? Well… Someone acutely, constantly in need of You. So, here we are: unadorned, exposed, and vulnerable. Use us as you see fit.

Our KC peeps, our Redeemer family, our wonderful neighbors and friends, we love you so much. You’ve taught us so much, loved us so well, and we are deeply grateful. Our other peeps, we love you too. Stay tuned for quite an adventure… “The road to life will expose you to terrible failure and crushing conflict. But only that road leads to the life you want, the life I give you.” Off we go.

Love, S.D.