Pray for SPU

Someone opened fire on my campus.  

I grieve.

For the death of Paul Lee.

That my people have to face this tragedy.

I am angry.

At the shooter who killed Paul Lee and injured Sarah Williams and Thomas Fowler. 

At my society that produced this person.

I am grateful.

For John Meis, who took decisive action.

For the strength of my community as we support each other.

I chose to come to SPU after discovering my Grandma had a terminal illness.  I hoped that when tragedy struck I would be in a loving community.

Now, we collectively walk through the valley of the shadow of death. The truth of who we are is obvious.  In every building, on every lawn I see people being Christ to each other and I am proud to be here.


I pray.

For everyone grieving the loss of Paul Lee.

For the full healing of Sarah Williams and Thomas Fowler.

For the redemption of Otto Miller Hall.

For wisdom for the leaders who make the hard decisions as we move forward.

For grace and justice for the shooter and his family.  

For all unspoken prayers only my heart can say.

For grief to happen.

For peace to be felt.

For us all to find forgiveness.

I stand.

On the thresholds of my campus and declare that evil will not have the final word here.

In confidence that our God reigns.



Click here to support the victims and their families through SPU's "Rise Above" fund.

Sometimes I Feel like a Pillow

Somedays I feel like a  pillow.
The place people go when they've no where else to be.
The reliable safe heart always ready for a cozy memory.
A dependable place to cry or pound angry fists.

Always forgiving.
Always accepting.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Neglected for something better.
The snot stains from your grief become repulsive.
The lumps from your fist too disconcerting.
And really - the case was never that attractive anyway.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Shoved into the closet
Mixed with ugly sweaters
and shrunken winter jackets.

And there I take the tears
And there I take the anger
And there I'm not wanted
But there I'm left to be.

Until,

She comes.

Or rather,

I go.

To hands big enough to hold the world.
They squeeze me,
Knead me,
And ask why I stayed away so long.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow
Fresh.
Full.
And ready for my purpose.

Again: Grief

It's like a ship
Far away on the horizon
An unremarkable
Shapeless
Black smudge
Slowly growing larger
Until an outline is discernible
Details slowly coming into view
The clean lines
The rigging
The flag
Until finally,
In sharp focus, it appears.
The name.
The Identification.
The reason for the smudge.
It is Grief
Again returned to the harbor
Raising its weary head
Forever to taunt me
Forever to linger
Like a ship on the horizon.

Inadequacy is Irrelevant

Grief.

It is as though a wild beast tears a chunk of flesh from your arm, leaving muscles, nerves, and blood vessels exposed to the world and it hurts.  It hurts to look at.  It hurts to touch.  It hurts when it comes into contact with air.

It is a place where all you feel is pain.  There is no option but to dwell in the sadness.

This is where Mary Magdalene, James's Mom and Salome found themselves.  The man they had called Teacher and Master, who they had voluntarily served, who they had dedicated their lives to, who spoke the words that touched their very souls, died.

Gone.

Forever.

They went to Jesus's tomb, so distracted by grief they did not plan for the mammoth stone that would prevent them from reaching their goal. Only after they had almost arrived did they realize they could not accomplish their task alone.

Tearfully, they reached their teacher's resting place and saw their inadequacy did not matter.

The stone had been rolled away.

It did not matter what they could not do, because the Lord did it for them.

Their inadequacy was irrelevant.

The task was complete.

The most permanent thing had been reversed, the most impossible thing accomplished.

Jesus had risen!

And he did it without the help of anyone.

Dear Jesus,

I thank you that nothing I can or cannot do matters. My failures do not matter.  My poor planning does not matter.  My weaknesses do not matter.  Thank you that everything is covered by your grace.  Thank you for using me for your glory anyway.

I love you.

Amen.

When the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. ² And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. ³ And they were saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance of the tomb?” ⁴ And looking up, they saw that the stone had been rolled back—it was very large. ⁵ And entering the tomb, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, dressed in a white robe, and they were alarmed. ⁶ And he said to them, “Do not be alarmed. You seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has risen; he is not here. See the place where they laid him.

 Mark 16: 1-6

Stopped Up Tears

A chance meeting on the bus, another caring hug.  Tears like a geyser struggle to break the surface.

A quick change of subject and the feelings subside.  Public transportation is no place to discuss my grief-I hate for people to see me cry-yet the pain still clenches my stomach with tight fingers and tying hundreds of knots.

I long to turn inside out: to slice through the knots, break down the dam of my stubborn pride and let the river of emotion flow.  Only the most steadfast listener could avoid being swept away in the flood.

A quick good bye and I'm on another bus.  My novel tells of the soulful lament for a beloved bard and prince: a beautiful, horribly wailing that fill the ears of the reader without hearing a thing.  With the final words of the story tears shoot once more to my eyes.  I feel my face like ice, struggling to crack.  Yet again, not here, not now.  I close my eyes and sleep to block all emotion.

Awake once more, I climb onto my final bus.  People climb aboard in large groups, all taking interest into one another's day.  I am alone.  No one asks about my day.  My chin quivers and I feel as though I could shatter into hysterics.  No.  Not here, not now.  I force myself to focus on the sounds of Les Miserables pouring through my head phones.

Finally, I walk home.  I am virtually alone, with only the rushing cars to keep me company, yet I still hold back.  The tiniest moan escapes my lips.  Still-the tears do not fall.

Just as I decide to give in, it is over; the tears are not there.  Just an Grandma shaped emptiness, longing to be filled.  My heart yearns for the special love that only she can give to fill the void, but I am left with only a failing taste of the joy I could have.

I need to bake cookies.  Perhaps they-the food for sad souls-will sooth my hurting heart.  I bake and eat to no avail.  The hole remains, the hurt persists, the tears still linger just under the surface.

Something needs to change.  If only I knew what, when, and how.

Jesus, help me please.