Never Picture Perfect

The other day I went to the hospital to visit someone. I guess some people think that all pastors DO are hospital calls, but I really don't do them that often. But I really like this lady and I sense she is really scared... so I drove to Columbus. I had to drop off my daughter at the grandparents... so it was 4 hours on the road for a 20 minute hospital visit. But it was well worth it.

It was worth it for her because I was there. And to her and her generation, I represent God. I used to fight that with every part of my being. "We are all priests! I'm not special as the pastor," I would demand. And that is true.

But then last year I spent a couple of days with one of my mentors, Rob Bell. And at the end of our time together, he knelt down and served me communion. And yes, I know Rob is just a guy, but I was in the presence of not just Rob, but the God he and I both serve and love. It was a holy moment for me because it was Rob. (I hope that makes sense.)

All of this is to say that our hospital visit was a holy moment for both me and this woman. Holy for her, because her pastor cared for her. Holy for me, because I was in the presence of brokenness, pain... and faith. Hospitals are a humbling place.

On the ride to and from the hospital, I put in a Rich Mullens CD, "Never Picture Perfect." I haven't listened to it in years... but it was a very moving experience for me. I think Rich is an amazing song writer... his words touch me -- even if his songs are now a bit outdated. But they touch me, partially, because I came across them in a very formative time in my Christian journey.

The title song is about his family. And although Rich is from farm stock, and I'm from the "rust belt," it has never been too difficult to put myself into that song. Really, it is a song I would sing about my family.

"My folks they were always the first family to arrive
With seven people jammed into a car that seated five
There was one bathroom to bathe and shave in
Six of us stood in line
And hot water for only three
But we all did just fine

Talk about your miracles
Talk about your faith
My dad he could make things grow
Out of Indiana clay
Mom could make a gourmet meal
Out of just cornbread and beans
And they worked to give faith hands and feet
And somehow gave it wings...

The song closes with this bridge...

And now they've raised five children
One winter they lost a son
But the pain didn't leave them crippled
And the scars have made them strong
Never picture perfect
Just a plain man and his wife
Who somehow knew the value
Of hard work, good love, and real life

I just love the way Rich speaks of his family... and as I said, it is the way I see my family. I came from pretty humble stock. When I was really young, my dad worked 3 jobs to put food on the table. I never thought of myself as poor, but I guess we were. Well, financially poor, relationally rich.

My parents are just ordinary people... but in my eyes they will always be bigger than life. My dad is my hero. He was the best man at my wedding and is one of the most generous men I have ever known. He as taught me a lot about God just by being so faithful to my mom and my family. My mom is my role model for the perfect women (my wife is very much like her). She is one of the most brilliant people I have ever known. She was an amazing mom, and quite the success in the working world as well.

All of this is to say that, if you didn't know this about me, you need to know that I'm incredibly close to my parents.

I just got off the phone with my dad. And I sense that he is quickly on the downward track in terms of his health. He has been struggling with his health for years, but I sense that this life is drawing to a close. Wow, it took me a long time to write that last sentence. In fact, I sense these are a lot of "last moments" for us. I savor the time with him... when we last saw him he was reading to my daughter and I took a lot of video tape of it... thinking... that may be the last time.

Life really isn't picture perfect. Life is really, really hard. And really, really sad. And people we love, die. And it's messy. And as I type these words I am failing miserably at holding back tears. And my wife is sleeping on our couch and I look at her and she is more beautiful than the day I first met her. But we will pass away. Even this good thing will end.

And my days of biking to work are numbered. Someday I physically won't be able to do it. And the joys of this life, things I often take for granted: a good meal with friends, reading to my daughter, sex with my wife, walks with my mom, waking on a Sunday morning and being able to stand and worship God with these amazing people I know and love... all those things will pass away... at least in the form I currently understand them. "Everything that can be shaken is shaken and all that remains is all I ever really had."

And I guess I really don't like this.

And I guess I have a lot of questions about it.

But I know this: this life is not the end of the story. And I can't tell you how much I cling onto that hope. I know, in the core of my being, that although I die, I will live. I have this profound hope that no matter what pain this life brings (and I expect a lot of it), there will be that day when there will be "no more mourning, crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."