Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Backdoor Blessings

autumnSometimes God shows off when he’s answering your prayers. He comes straight through the front door—bold, undeniable, in your face.

You knock, and the door opens.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.
Matthew 7:7

Other times you pound on the door of heaven—asking, begging, pleading for a miracle. You plant yourself on his doorstep, vowing not to budget until you get the answer you came for. You stay the night, alternating between shouting loud enough to wake the neighborhood and whispering your desperation through the keyhole.

He told you to knock, so you knock.

He told you to ask, so you ask.

For healing.
For a job.
For love.
For a child.
For a way out of the darkness.

And sometimes you get the storybook ending. The front door flings wide open. Prayers are answered. Miracles happen. Dreams are fulfilled. Hopes are quenched.

But there are other times when the front door remains firmly shut. Day after day passes, followed by night after silent night. Your knocking seems to go unheard—or unheeded. Before long your voice is hoarse and your arms lack the strength to even reach the door knocker.

Spent and prayerless, you slump on the front porch.

***

My friend Mary moved from the Midwest to Florida several years ago to become a full-time caregiver for her mother, who was suffering from dementia and could no longer live alone. She was glad to be able to help her mom after her mom had done the same for her, but she missed her job and her friends back home. The homesickness for the Midwest struck particularly in the fall. I wish I could see some fall colors, she thought wistfully one October day.

That evening, at the end of a long day of caring for her mother, their role reversal becoming more evident with each passing day, Mary took a rare moment to stand on the balcony. Before her eyes the sunset sky was filled with the colors of home—sugar-maple red, poplar yellow, feisty orange.

It wasn’t the beauty she’d been looking for, but it was beautiful. It was enough.

Sometimes God’s answers come through the back door.

He heals a soul instead of a body. He doesn’t remove the darkness; he reminds you he’s in it with you. He says no, but he says it in love. He sends a fall scene in the unexpected from of a sunset.

Whatever it is you are knocking about today, know that the blessing will come. The answer will come. But don’t forget to check the back door too.

The Sweetest Things

Is it just me, or does it seem like our world is a bit lacking in the sweetness department right now?

  • My newsfeed is filled with more political travesties than a person can ingest in a single sitting.
  • Swaths of the East Coast are still reeling from the aftermath of the hurricane.
  • At every turn, it seems, there’s a shooting in Chicago or a bombing in Aleppo or another racial injustice or a refugee crisis.

There is bitterness at every turn. Where, oh where, is the sweetness?

***

One of my best literary friends is Anne of Green Gables. She and I met when I was in fourth grade, and the friendship is one I never outgrew. In one of those mysteries unique to book-world, she seemed to grow with me. Each time I reread the series, I’d connect with parts of her and her story that I’d missed before. She hadn’t changed; I had.

One of the things I loved most about those books was the way “Anne with an e” savored the little things. Her story isn’t fueled by drama or intrigue or jaw-dropping plot twists; it’s made up of the little moments that become more beautiful simply by the noticing. Maybe that’s why I love this quote from Anne of Avonlea so much:

“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”
L. M. Montgomery

Anne has gotten me to thinking that my question—“Where is the sweetness?”—may not be the right one to ask. Maybe the problem isn’t that there isn’t enough sweetness in the world; maybe I’m just not noticing it. And maybe there are some things I can do to make the world a sweeter place.

***

Tomorrow is Sweetest Day. I’m not one for Hallmark holidays, where people either feel guilted into proving their love with their wallets or feel left out because they don’t have a certain someone to celebrate with. But I am a fan of sweet things.

And if there was ever a year we need more sweetness, it must be this one.

When I started digging into the history of this holiday, I was surprised to discover that Sweetest Day wasn’t originally about romance at all.

The first Sweetest Day dates back to 1921, and apparently there was even a committee for the holiday. A dozen candy makers got together and called themselves “the Sweetest Day in the Year Committee.” (I have to believe those were the best board meetings ever.)

On October 10 of that year, they distributed more than 20,000 boxes of candy to people all over Cleveland, Ohio, who were in need of a little sweetness: newsboys, orphans, the elderly, and the underprivileged.

It wasn’t a big thing, perhaps. The distribution of candy surprises didn’t solve poverty or improve social conditions or change the economic infrastructure of the city. But like Anne said, sweetness isn’t always found in sweeping gestures or the grandiose declarations. Sometimes the little things can be the sweetest ones. Like pearls slipping off a string.

How will you make the world a little sweeter today? Maybe you can give someone a genuine compliment or buy a stranger’s coffee or mail a card to somebody who’s lonely. The thing about sweetness is that when you give it to someone else, it leaves a sweet aftertaste in yoflourishur own mouth too.

***

Your turn! Tell me something sweet you did for someone else or something sweet someone did for you, and you’ll be eligible to win a Sweetest Day package from me: Margaret Feinberg’s new book, Flourish, about how to “live loved,” plus a bag of Ghiradelli chocolates.

Happy Sweetest Day!

10 Things I’ve Learned in My 30s

birthday

It’s my 39th birthday this week, which has prompted me to do some reflecting on my thirties. Whenever people in their twenties ask me about turning thirty, I tell them that the thirties are so much better than the twenties, and I mean it. Here are some of the things I’ve learned over the past almost-decade:

1. It’s not up to you to make people like you.

As a recovering people-pleaser, I’ve spent chunks of decades worrying what other people think of me. Not only is this exhausting, it also makes it hard to tell who likes you for who you really are. Here’s my advice to my fellow people pleasers out there: Aim for pleasing God and being authentic to who he made you to be, and let everything else fall as it may.

2. Wear clothes that make you feel good.

How did it take me until I was thirtysomething to realize that I find dress pants soul-sucking? Take it from someone who wishes she’d had a sartorial epiphany sooner: Find your style. Embrace it. Then jettison the clothes you don’t like.

3. Find a groove that works for you.

In your twenties, you can get by on haphazard sleep and a slapdash schedule. But in my thirties, I’ve found that I need to identify the things that recharge me and then make them a priority. For me that includes things like going to bed by ten, taking walks to the library, carving out time to write, and having regular coffee dates with friends; otherwise I get wonky fast. What are the things that recharge you? Set aside time for those things, and don’t apologize for making them sacred.

4. Get out of your rut.

Okay, I realize I just said “find a groove,” but the flip side is that it’s also important to try new things every once in a while. I’m a creature of habit, so this takes intentionality for me, but I’ve come to realize that some of my most meaningful experiences have come from times I did something out of my comfort zone.

5. Be grateful for the present.

For most of my twenties, I found myself always looking ahead to what was next, whether out of worry or anticipation. Almost as soon as one prayer request was answered, I’d be on to the next one. But how much life do we miss out on when we’re constantly fast-forwarding into the next phase? I hope in my thirties I’ve been able to savor more, to be grateful for the right-now.

6. Love is worth the risk.

Love feels scary sometimes, and I’m not going to promise that love will never hurt. As C. S. Lewis says, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” But I will vouch for the fact that even though love means opening yourself up to pain, the pain is worth it. And sometimes the pain itself increases your capacity for love.

7. Dream big and fail big.

I’m an INFJ by Meyers-Briggs personality type, meaning I’m not a natural-born risk taker. I’d rather play it safe and think something through from every possible angle to make sure I don’t fail or make a mistake. But here’s the truth: sometimes you just have to jump. You have to go all in, not having all the facts, not knowing how it’s going to end. And sometimes you will fail. But you know what? It’s okay. That’s not the end of the story; it just makes for an interesting side plot.

8. Embrace the little people in your life.

One of the best things about my thirties has been being an aunt to seven amazing nieces and nephews. Kids remind you how to laugh, how to ask big questions, and how to wonder again. Whether or not you have children or small relatives of your own, I highly recommend that you find some little people to invest in. I can’t guarantee if the kids will benefit, but you will definitely be the richer for it.

9. Call your mom.

When we’re young, I think most of us have a certain sense of invincibility—not only about ourselves but about those we love. We have this unchecked idea that our people will always be there for us in the same way they are now. But as I get older, I am becoming more aware of mortality—my own and other people’s. So I want to seize the little moments with the people I love—the ordinary phone calls with my mom, the discussions about life and the news with my dad, the trips to the zoo with my nieces and nephews, the Sunday visits with my grandma, the weekly crossword puzzles with my sister.

10. God is bigger and smarter than I am.

I have come up with plenty of scripts for my life over the years—plans for what I’d do and when I’d do it and how it would all unfold along the way. But it turns out that God has much better ideas than I could come up with—and he knows me better than I know myself. It’s usually not until retrospect that I can trace what he was doing, but I’ve been through enough with him by now to know that he’s doing something good, whether I can see it yet or not.

Bonus: Say yes to ice cream.

I’m already at #10 on my list, but Daniel made me coffee ice cream for my birthday, which reminded me of one more thing I need to add: leave a little room in your life for the sweet things.

***

How about you? What are you learning in this decade of your life?

The Blooms You Didn’t Plant

daffsOne dreary Sunday afternoon last month, when I found myself in an unaccountable funk, Daniel motioned for me to join him at the kitchen window. “I want to show you something,” he said. “You seem grumpy, and I think this will help.”

Grudgingly, I shuffled over to the window, not convinced that anything in the bleak backyard would shake me from my Eeyore-like state. My eyes followed where his finger was pointing, but I didn’t see anything un-grumpifying.

Then I looked harder. Was that a shoot of green amid the brown leaves and post-winter detritus?

I gasped. Could it be . . . ?

Daniel just grinned. Sometimes he knows me better than I know myself.

“Daffodils!” I squealed, loud enough for the entire zip code to hear.

Daniel and I moved into our new home last summer, which means this is our first spring here. I haven’t planted a thing, and the other surprises we’ve come across in the house so far haven’t exactly been pleasant ones, so it didn’t occur to me that there might be some mystery perennials in the garden out back.

But when I saw those brave little shoots sticking their heads out of the cold Midwest soil . . . well, it felt like hope you can see with your own two eyes.

***

Long before I met Daniel, when I lived alone in my townhouse, I planted daffodils one November with no shovel, only a dull kitchen knife for assistance. The ground was stubborn, but I was even more so.

I was in a funk that day too. I had prayed about one thing for so long, and I could see no sprouts of hope, no signs that spring would come. I wanted—needed—a tangible symbol of hope.

So I went outside and forced those dead-looking bulbs six inches under the ground.

And then I waited.

Sure enough, spring did come. And that thing I’d been praying for came true too, although in a different way and on a different timeline than I ever could have predicted.

And perhaps most shocking of all was the transformation that happened along the way. Over the course of the long winter, the bulbs transformed from shriveled-up turnipy-looking things into bursts of sunshine outside my window. And somewhere along the way, new life bloomed in my heart, too.

***

Now it’s April, and I marvel at the scene outside my kitchen window—at those clusters of golden, those blooms I didn’t plant myself. And it occurs to me that so often in my life I have benefitted from the perennials other people have planted. They dug deep and packed hope firmly into the soil, and now I bask in the fruits of their labor . . . sometimes long after they’re gone.

There are the parents who planted laughter and love and joy and perseverance.

There are the grandparents who planted faith and loyalty and hard work.

There are the teachers who planted books and words.There are the mentors who planted hospitality and grace.

And I wonder, what are we planting today for the people who come behind us?

They may never fully appreciate the sacrifice.

They may never say thank you.

You may never even meet them face to face.

But somewhere, on some April morning, the bulbs you planted will spring up, like shoots of hope, and those who come behind you will rejoice over the blooms they didn’t plant.

No winter lasts forever.  No spring skips its turn.  April is a promise that May is bound to keep.  And we know it.
—Hal Borland

 

Wasted Love

If you had been alive during that first Easter, who would you have been?

Would you have been Peter, bold and brash, defending Jesus in the only way you knew how?

Would you have been John, quiet and steadfast in your heartbreak?

Would you have been one of the women who wiped Jesus’ brow on his agonizing climb to Golgotha, showing love even as your hopes crumbled?

Would you have been Thomas, asking for proof yet keeping a sliver of belief alive?

I’m not sure who I would have been. I like to think I’d cling to hope even before I could see how everything unfolded, but I’m not sure. I’m much better at believing in miracles in retrospect, after I have the whole picture.

But it’s easy to identify the person I would like to be. I want to be Mary, who poured out her perfume on Jesus’ feet.

Just before he died, Jesus went to the home of his friends Lazarus, Martha, and Mary. And there, Mary enacted a most extravagant gesture of love. Here’s the story:

Mary took a twelve-ounce jar of expensive perfume made from essence of nard, and she anointed Jesus’ feet with it, wiping his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance.
John 12:3

You might think everyone around would have been impressed by Mary’s act of generosity. Instead, she was judged for being wasteful.

Judas Iscariot, the disciple who would soon betray [Jesus], said, “That perfume was worth a year’s wages. It should have been sold and the money given to the poor.”
John 12:4-5

According to some scholars, this jar of perfume was likely Mary’s dowry—what would have been given to a suitor to pay the bride price. The perfume was essentially her past and her future . . . and she lavished it on an uncredentialed rabbi from a backwoods town.

Jesus replied, “Leave her alone. She did this in preparation for my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
John 12:7-8

Sometimes I find myself assuming that Jesus would have been ultra-practical—frugal, even. “Waste not; want not”—that’s in the Bible somewhere, right? Somewhere near “God helps those who help themselves”?

But to my surprise, Jesus didn’t chastise Mary over the apparent wastefulness of her act. He didn’t tell her she should have focused on her savings account or reserved some her retirement. He didn’t even criticize her for not giving to charity.

He told her that her lavish devotion, her extravagant love, was beautiful.

And this Holy Week I wonder: What am I willing to “waste” on God and the people he’s given me to love?

Am I so concerned about being careful and judicious and economical that I fail to shower my love in unpractical ways?

What would it look like for us to show extravagant, “wasteful” love this week?

  • Maybe extravagant love looks like scrapping our to-do list and doing some leisurely Bible reading instead.
  • Maybe extravagant love looks like “wasting” the afternoon playing with your favorite little person, even if the proof isn’t captured on Facebook or Instagram.
  • Maybe extravagant love looks like doing something for someone who will never be able to pay you back or properly thank you.
  • Maybe extravagant love looks like “wasting” the morning by going on a walk and taking in the world God made.

Because here’s what I think—and I have a hunch Mary would agree: If it’s real love, it’s never wasted.

What Nobody Tells You about Epiphany

candleEpiphany. I learned the word from Mr. Heagney, my English teacher, two decades ago, and I’ve been smitten with it ever since. Not only does it dance off the tongue nicely, but the meaning itself is magical: a sudden illuminating discovery or idea; a revelation; the moment the proverbial lightbulb goes on.

Epiphany is a remarkable day on the church calendar too: the holiday marking the revelation of God’s Son to the Magi. This was one of God’s brightest ideas ever: Heaven breaking through to earth. Darkness being trounced by starlight. Kings bowing down before the true King. Hope busting through in the most glorious way.

I long for epiphanies myself. I yearn for the lightbulb to go on, for my fuzzy thinking to clear. I’m desperate for that creative idea, or for the key that will unlock my confusion or doubt or fear. I want to see a star from the east and drop everything to follow. I want a sign.

I’ve had a few moments like that in my life. Micro-revelations, perhaps, but glimpses of the divine nevertheless. Yet those moments are rare. Most days there are no stars in the night sky, no signs, no epiphanies. Most days I’m just treading along a dark path, half-hoping, half-praying that I’m headed in the right direction.

What they don’t tell you about epiphanies is that the star doesn’t stay in the sky forever. After the Magi visited God Incarnate, they headed back to their own country, back to their ordinary lives. Maybe their hearts were irrevocably changed, but life went on.

So what does it look to live out Epiphany even when there’s no miracle at the moment, when the star has faded in the night sky?

That’s when it’s time to hold on, my friend. What you saw when you glimpsed the divine—it was real. What you felt in that moment when God touched your heart—it was valid. The words of hope you heard whispered in the middle of the night—they were true.

So keep believing in the epiphanies. Keep looking for them. They will come. But don’t depend on them. Because faith means holding on to the fact that heaven broke through earth, even after the star has dimmed and you have to go back to your ordinary life. Faith means remembering that miracles are true, even when it’s been some time since you witnessed one firsthand.

Faith means holding on to Epiphany even when there’s no sign. It’s choosing to light a candle when the starlight has faded.

Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.

Frederick Buechner

Baby Son

nativityI am on a double countdown ’til Christmas this year. My new baby niece or nephew is due any day, and the two calendars are racing. Which will make its debut first? Baby Jesus’ birthday, or the birth day of this new baby?

When my sister was little, she prepared for Christmas like it was her job. She convinced Dad to cut down the tip-top of a pine tree from the woods to put in her room, and Mom helped her string lights from her ceiling. By mid-December, Meghan’s room was a full-blown Santa’s workshop. She’d haul up every craft supply she could find and post a note on the door, with dramatic underlines: “TOP SECRET! Keep out.” She’d spend every waking moment the final weeks before Christmas making all manner of glittery cut-out snowflakes and construction-paper ornaments for the whole family.

This year Meghan is doing a different kind of preparation as the days tick down. She’s getting a room ready for the baby. She’s packing a go-bag for the hospital. She’s making weekly treks to the doctor, checking to make sure the baby is in position. She’s prepping two-year-old Addie to be a big sister (including the possibility that, despite Addie’s adamancy that’s it’s a girl, there’s a chance she may be getting a brother).

There is so much we don’t know about this baby. Besides the gender, we don’t know what this child will look like, what kind of personality is tucked into that curled-up body, what this little one will become someday, or how the world needs this child, specifically. And yet our hearts are full of anticipation. So much longing, so much joy over this tiny person, veiled in so much mystery.

And it occurs to me that Mary must have felt much the same. It’s funny, isn’t it, that some of the biggest miracles come to us in such small packages? I wonder why God would come so tiny, so unobtrusive, when He could have come in pomp and circumstance.

In church last weekend my husband played the song “Baby Son” by John Mark McMillan, and I couldn’t help but think of the baby son (or daughter) my family is waiting to meet. So much future, so much hope, packed into seven pounds of flesh.

We thought you’d come with a crown of gold
A string of pearls and a cashmere robe
We thought you’d clench an iron fist
And rain like fire on the politics

Would I have missed Him that first Christmas, I wonder? Would I have been so busy looking for a flashier miracle that I would have overlooked the ordinary mother and her baby? Would I have deigned to believe that God’s plan to save the world could start with something so small?

But without a sword, no armored guard
But common born in mother’s arms
The government now rests upon
The shoulders of this baby son

A field of daffodils begins with a single bulb. An avalanche starts with a tiny snowflake. A classic novel starts with a solitary word. An epic love story starts with a simple greeting. A person begins as a tiny baby.

And the hope for the world began with someone so small you could hold Him in your arms.

God delights in the small things, the ordinary things, the unexpected things. I always thought that was so everything would be unveiled at the right time and so all the prophecies would be fulfilled just so. But now I think there’s another reason too: because God knows we can only handle so much miracle at once. If He gave us the full-blown itinerary, we would melt into a puddle. And so He births some of His most beautiful, magnificent plans as small beginnings.

Have you no room inside your heart
The inn is full, the out is dark
Upon profane shines sacred sun
Not ashamed to be one of us

So I’m spending this season in anticipation, alongside Mary and Meghan. I find myself waiting . . . waiting for Meghan’s baby son (or daughter). And waiting for God’s own Baby Son, who came once and will come again.

Our hearts are ready. We are longing for you. We have made room. Please come!

God’s coming is always unforeseen, I think, and the reason, if I had to guess, is that if he gave us anything much in the way of advance warning, more often than not we would have made ourselves scarce long before he got there.
~Frederick Buechner

Does God Speak Your Language?

Here’s something I’m learning about the Bible: context can be quite the bulldozer.

Maybe you’ve been there too. Have you ever found yourself flattened by a passage of Scripture you’ve read multiple times just because of who you were with or what was happening in your own brain at that moment?

On Friday afternoons, I go with a few people from my church to spend time with the children of local refugees. These kids hail from countries all around the world, from Burundi to Iraq to the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Last week I was charged with teaching the kids about Pentecost, which I must say is a daunting passage in any language, for any age group. Tongues of fire over people’s heads? The Holy Ghost whipping through the building like a holy hurricane? I can’t say I quite grasp it all myself. So how on earth could I explain it to a group of thirty international kids under the age of ten?

As I was reading the Bible story to the cheerfully squirrely kids around me, this verse struck me in a fresh way:

Everyone present was filled with the Holy Spirit and began speaking in other languages, as the Holy Spirit gave them this ability.
Acts 2:4

The magnitude of that day all suddenly struck me in a new way. Pentecost was God’s way of saying, “I see you. I love you. I speak your language.” He didn’t just come for the elite, the religious, the ones born into the right class or social rank or pedigree. He came for all of us. For the wild, vivid patchwork we call humanity. And he wants to communicate with each of us in our heart-language.

As I looked at the precious faces around me, it occurred to me that some of these kids have gotten the message that Christianity is for Americans, that Jesus spoke English and probably had blue eyes. That he’s for other people, not for them.

But Pentecost proves otherwise.

Here’s what I told the kids, and what I’m still preaching to myself: When the Holy Spirit came and infused Jesus’ followers with other languages, it was God’s way of saying, “I came for you. I speak your language.”

I looked into the kids’ eyes, willing the message to sink in deep: The Holy Spirit is God saying, “I love you” in your own language.

I looked at Nguen and Pacifique and Aiysha and I prayed they would believe it. And never forget it.

Then we asked the kids: How do you say “I love you” in your language?

The room was filled with a chorus of voices:

Ana behibek
Wo ai ni
Naku penda
Phom rak khun

I have to admit that sometimes I’ve asked the question myself: Does God really love me? Does he speak my language? Oh, sure, I’m confident he’s fluent in English. I’m not afraid he’s up in heaven with a Hebrew-English dictionary, scrambling to translate my prayers. But sometimes I wonder if he gets me, if he has anything he wants to tell me in my heart-language.

Maybe you’ve been there too. You feel like you weren’t born into the right family or you don’t talk like the other Christians or you just don’t fit in. Or maybe you wonder if God gets you, quirks, weaknesses, flaws, and all. Pentecost is God’s way of saying he wants to connect with you. He wants to whisper to you in a personal way—in a way uniquely designed for you to understand.

And today—this could be your own Pentecost. He comes to light a little flame inside your heart. He comes to whip love through you like a holy hurricane.

He comes to say “I love you” . . . in the way your heart can hear it best.

Everything Sad Is Coming Untrue

Easter is over, but the story is really just beginning. And it’s the best story, with the best possible ending.white flowers

Jesus’ resurrection is God’s promise to the world that the impossible has suddenly been made possible.

The Resurrection isn’t just the promise that something good will happen someday—it’s the promise that every bad thing will be turned upside down, into something good. The Curse will be reversed. Broken things will be restored. Love will win.

The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation—this story begins and ends in joy.
—J. R. R. Tolkien

Eucatastrophe: It’s not just the opposite of catastrophe. It’s God rewriting the story, weaving in his threads of grace. It’s the heartbeat of redemption, pulsing throughout the land.

Sorrow will turn into joy.
Wounds will be healed.
Dead things will come to life.
Ugly things will be made beautiful.
Heartbreak will become hope.

In The Return of the King, after the ring is destroyed, Sam awakens and is surprised to see that Gandalf is still alive. This is what he says:

Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?

I have to imagine that’s what the Marys thought when they went to the tomb and found it empty. Everything sad is coming untrue. And I’d guess it’s what the disciples thought when they saw Jesus alive again, sitting down to eat with them. Everything sad is coming untrue.

Death is coming untrue, pain is coming untrue, sadness is coming untrue. All because he lives.

The one sitting on the throne said, “Look, I am making everything new!”
—Revelation 21:5

Your Very Worst Day

gardenWe don’t like to go there, even in the realm of the hypothetical. But would you sit with me for a while in this brave, sacred space?

What’s your very worst day?

Maybe it’s already happened . . . a day permanently earmarked on the calendar of your heart. Every day of your life is now divided into before and after.

Or maybe it’s a day looming in the future . . . the day when the thing you dread most becomes reality.

On a week like this one, two thousand years ago, Jesus faced the worst possible 24 hours a human being could ever face.

He was stabbed in the back by someone close to him.
One of his best friends saved his own skin instead of sticking up for him.
Then, in his darkest hour, the rest of his friends deserted him.
His body was ravaged, and he was left to die.
He was rejected, despised, forsaken, betrayed. And utterly alone.

On that Holy Thursday, as he ate supper with his followers, he knew all of this lay ahead of him. He could see ahead to the horror of his very worst day. Yet as he headed to the Garden with his friends, he sang a hymn with them (Mark 14:26). It’s such a small line in the narrative, it’s easy to miss.

In the midst of all that had happened and all that was to come, he sang.

According to Jewish tradition, the Hallel was chanted during Passover, a collection of songs taken from Psalms 113-118. This means it’s likely that some of the last words on Jesus’ lips before he was arrested included these lines:

This is the Lord’s doing,
and it is wonderful to see.
This is the day the Lord has made.
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
—Psalm 118:23-24

As we sit with Jesus the Garden, it’s hard to escape the dichotomy. How could he find a way to praise amid the pain? How could he see the wonder in the anguish? How could he rejoice amid the drops of blood? How could he cling to the belief that on his very worst day, the Lord was doing something wonderful—something not just to endure but to be glad in?

And I wonder: Could I have sung that hymn on my very worst day? Or would I have choked on the words?

But Jesus sang, and that changes everything. Jesus’ worst day became the best day of all. And now we call it, without irony, Good Friday.

May the same be true for us. On our worst day, may we be found in the Garden singing, “This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”