Love and Fear

26 is banal. No one has fond memories of their 26th birthday. No one waxes eloquent about being kicked off their parent’s insurance. It’s not a celebration. But I’ll tell you what it’s been for me. An action-thriller.

Twists, turns, terror, and total joy. Because as it turns out, life isn’t a binary between highs and lows. Instead, it all gets mixed together and leads to weekends with rings and funerals and anxiety and jubilation and, man… that’s a messy feeling.

I’m old enough to realize that love can mean losing. 

I am more excited than ever to marry my best friend in a few short months. But I am more terrified than I have ever been at the prospect of losing her. 

The miles between me and my family seem extraordinarily far these days. My heart is so full of unceasing love for them and it makes 800 miles feel like 8 million. 

My friends are more important to me than they ever have been as I move into the season when friends start moving away. 

I know that the possibility of kids is closer than it’s ever been. And I’m already uneasy at the thought of protecting them from this world. 

I’m old enough to see the prospects of loss in love. And old enough to know I’m not big enough to handle that. The miles are long. The days are short. And tomorrow is completely out of my control. Love can mean losing and fear can be crippling.

26, of all years, has been the one that’s challenged my optimism more than any other. Not because of what I’ve lost, but because of what I’ve gained. In a linear view of my life, I’m on a mountaintop. And I’m tempted in that moment to consider all the jagged drop-offs ahead. 

Mom and I have a theme in our lives that we consistently remind ourselves of: “The best is yet to come.” It’s not just a profession that we haven’t peaked yet, it’s confidence to love fearlessly. To remind ourselves, that despite the losses looming, the ultimate victory is already written. 26 isn’t my mountaintop. Eternity is. God has given. If and when he takes away, I know that the best is yet to come. When I’m tempted to love this life more than I ought, I remember that union with Christ is my endgame. Jesus’ victory on the cross and in the empty tomb frees me to love in the face of loss. Fear doesn’t control me. And I get to love like the boy of my youth. Unhindered, unabashedly, and unrelentingly. I don’t know what’s coming next month, but I know where I’ll be in 100 years. The paths in between? Praising Jesus all the way, loving the way he would.

Fear is real. But when I love in the face of it, I’m doing what I tell my students to everyday: “Live like you believe the Gospel is true.” 

Grace, I love you and no matter what comes next, I choose you every day. I will protect, lead, and serve our family first. To represent Jesus to you in even the smallest way is my greatest privilege.

Mom and Dad, you mean more to me than I could ever put into words. When I’m on the other edge of the space between us, I’m loving you and others fearlessly because you taught me to love like Jesus. 

Friends and church, know the love I have for you. We love, not because it lasts, but because God loved us first. God loved me knowing my fragility, finitude, and failures. He loved me despite me. 

This year, I choose to love despite fear.

The Whole Buffalo

I don't know how to dance.

And I don't really know how to work a full-time job. Or how to move on from college. Or how to live permanently in Virginia away from my family.

I feel like these are all things that the people around me know how to do. While other people my age have entered the workforce, started families, and made their college years a distant memory, I stayed and worked on my Masters. I lived on campus. I kept living dorm life and pouring into guys and making mistakes and learning lessons and gaining and losing friends. See, I used to think that those three extra years at LU were a pause. It felt like stalling life in a lot ways. I could wait to start paying monthly bills and working a 9-5. But it also felt unfair to everyone else and to myself. Why was everyone else ready, but I wasn't? Shouldn't I be prepared to do what they're doing by now? What's wrong with me that I need an extra three years in the incubator? And how will I ever know when I'm actually ready?

These are questions that have defined the last era of my life. And sure, I could say that God had placed me in that season for a reason, but those words often rang hollow. Like an excuse I made because I knew I was actually in "unprepared adult purgatory." 

It turns out that perspective is a heck of a clarifier. By no means have these three years ironed out all my deficiencies. And I definitely don't feel any more "ready" now than I ever have. But it is clear to me in this transient respite of Christmas that nothing is wasted. Let me cover these 3 years and share what I mean...

At the beginning of my Masters, I began work as an Resident Shepherd at LU. This position led into my role as a Graduate Scholar. Throughout these roles I got to partake in biblical discipleship as both a discipler and a disciple. I was poured into and I poured out of myself. I got to lead those younger than me and work on a team of peers to make sure that our people were cared for. I got to make friends with scholars, counselors, and the kindest and wisest people I could ask for. I learned about discipleship in community.

Around the same time I started as a Resident Shepherd, I began a job as a tour guide at LU. At the time, this was just a position I sought for some extra dollars to supplement my cost of living. But God is good using the whole buffalo. So it turns out that He was giving me so much more than a few extra books. He was giving me friends, community, and a job that centered on sharing the Gospel every day. Every tour was sent out with the mindset that we were servants of Christ first and Liberty second. I got to sharpen my communication skills, internalize how to share the Gospel, and really love the team members I served with every day. I learned how to communicate the Gospel effectively and fervently.

During my first year of my Masters, I was given the opportunity to join the summer staff at Lake Lundgren Bible Camp one more time. As I stepped into my role that summer, I was given the opportunity to disciple younger staff members and work closely with campers to teach Biblical themes in an "always on" context that required me to give of myself at all hours of the day. I learned how to live sacrificially for the encouragement of those around me.

Because of my degree, I was required to complete a pastoral internship, which I did in the Summer of 2022. Through this internship, I was given the opportunity to teach, both in high school and adult contexts. I sharpened my ability to craft lessons and make a point from the intention of Scripture. I learned to place Christ at the center of every sermon I taught. I got to do ministry in a pastoral context and learn from men I respect with all of my heart. I learned how to teach the Bible with a Christological fervor. 

These experiences do not take into account the other relationships made, the mistakes that taught me how to fail and how to humbly seek restoration, the odd jobs over the summer that taught me patience and service, the actual classes, which did indeed instill in me a love for God's Word and for a listening ear in counseling contexts. I got to serve my church, to teach Sunday school classes, to work on a disciple making team, and to get poured into by me community on a weekly basis. Time and time again, the Lord has put his preparative hand on me. I learned how to live life with intention and meekness.

Which brings us to today, wherein I have recently been hired as a high school Bible teacher. Wherein my focus will be Gospel proclamation to young people, as I seek to disciple them while instilling in them a love for God's word with a Christological framework. I get to serve in a context of like-minded educators who will need to pour into me as I humbly accept correction and see their wisdom in this field. I get to live my life sacrificially for the students around me on a daily basis. Every little experience from these past years has been preparation for where we are now. And no, it's not the most glamorous job I could ever have. But it is so clearly God's direction that I find myself here, how could I doubt what comes next? I have no questions about this being difficult, but there's also no question that the same God who has been preparing me is going to be leading in the next season. Nothing is wasted and his leading is clear.

Sure, I don't know how to dance.

But that's never stopped me before, has it?

An Overly Dramatic and Entirely Sincere Open Letter to Former Brewers Manager Craig Counsell

My parents and I went to a Brewers game sometime in the early 2017 season. I don't particularly remember who we played, nor even the outcome of the game. I just remember turning to my parents and saying "I don't recognize any of these guys." Sure, Ryan Braun was there, but nobody else reminded me of the glory years of my childhood. Gone were Prince Fielder, Corey Hart, Geoff Jenkins, Bill Hall, and any other figure who loomed in my adolescent mind as giants of the sport (and loom in the history of Major League Baseball as afterthoughts for the most part). Instead we had Manny Pina. Domingo Santana. Jonathan Villar. Travis Shaw.

I didn't know these people, I didn't connect them to the team that I love. But in that moment, there was one throughline. One person who reminded me that this was my team: Craig Counsell. That dude from my early memories with the janky batting stance and a propensity for clutch moments. He was clutch because he was calm. As a player and a manager, his cool headedness was something that endeared him to me all throughout his time in Milwaukee. He steadied the chaos after such managers as Roenicke, Macha, and Sveum. When I reintroduced myself to Brewers baseball in 2017, the name I clung to was Counsell's.

And not a moment too soon, as that team, followed by the following 6, played one combined game of meaningless baseball over Craig's tenure. It has been the best stretch of Brewers baseball that Milwaukee has ever seen and it's been something that I have attached to on an extremely personal level. Not just because it's good, but because it is Wisconsin.

I don't think it's coincidence that my adult Brewers fandom began in earnest in 2017. It's the same year that I moved away to Virginia (and also the same year we got out of the purgatory of the bottom half of the NL Central). Brewers baseball connected me to my home. To my people. When I was 700 miles away, I could still watch the game and text my dad about it afterwards. I knew me and my people were watching the same game, feeling the same emotion, concerned about the same bullpen (or more likely, offense, let's be honest).

But even in those successful years, there hasn't been much consistency of personnel. Sure, Yeli has been around since 2018, but he hasn't always been Yeli. Otherwise, it's Houser, Woody, and Burnes since then (ok, technically Houser had 2 games in 2015, but I digress). The point is, the Brewers connected me to home, and Counsell was the one name that consistently connected me to the Brewers. More than just a calm manager, he was a former Brewer. A former Brewer who grew up in Whitefish Bay and spent time with the American League Champion '82 Brewers as a kid. He was one of us and he was good. We don't get to say that often in Milwaukee. It means more to us when Giannis signs and extension or when Dame comes to the Bucks, because we don't have a lot of people who are the cream of the crop that want to stick around. They get good, and they move on to greener (i.e. more lucrative) pastures. It's what we expect from Corbin Burnes in the next year. It's what we saw Aaron Rodgers do last year. It's why I am forever in awe and gratitude for Giannis and Yeli.

But Counsell was different because he was one of us. He made an entire hype video about growing up in Milwaukee area and knowing us because he was us. The best manager in baseball (I'm willing to die on that hill) was in Milwaukee. He knew what made us tick and what baseball meant to us. He was stability in an unstable time that led to the best years in Brewers history.

So yeah, I have an emotional connection to Craig. When I look at his consistency and level-headedness, it's not a big leap for me to think about my dad. Indeed, he was a direct connection to my dad, as any game I watched was a talking point for my next conversation with him. Craig is a link to my home, to my family, to my love of baseball, to some of my favorite moments in sports history. I look at him and think about Game 163, multiple NL Central banners, MVPs, Cy Youngs, and walk offs. He is the only constant in this unbelievable span of Brewers baseball.

And he signed with the Chicago Cubs. 

Tears are for Home

Tears are an enigmatic experience.

They're for the first meeting of little fingers and toes.

They're for the aisle-trodding lovers.

They're for full cars with empty passenger seats.

They're for long-suppressed memories.

Tears don't discriminate between the good and the bad. They just signify life. They notify the individual of a movement toward or away from home. And sometimes even we don't know which one it is. But I'm learning to thank Jesus for every tear that falls. For every moment he gives me to process and feel and reflect. What a gift I have been given, that I might shed tears in the name of clarity, as each one pushes me toward knowing Jesus better. Toward looking more like him.

Perhaps someone has told you that big boys and girls don't cry. But Jesus did. And I suggest that his response to your tears is not frustration, and it's certainly not a short-fused reaction pointed at your aching heart. He has described himself as gentle and lowly. The tears of your King stain the road of the path he walked to redeem you. So then, he is gentle, lowly, sacrificial, patient, and understanding with us. He knows about your happy tears. And he rejoices with you. He knows about your sad tears. And he weeps with you. And your tears that you can't quite place? He sits nearby. His presence is with you.

He's there for hellos.

He's there for goodbyes.

He's home.

And whether you're moving toward your earthly home or away from it, it seems to me that he is close at hand.

Tears are for life. They signify the moments that sanctify and redeem. They make us look more like Jesus, because Jesus wept too.

Tears are for Home.

Stars and Dots

I am the anti-Punchinello.

Some of you will instantly understand what I'm referring to when I say this. Others will need an explainer, so let me be brief. Max Lucado wrote a children's book called You Are Special that revolves around a doll named Punchinello. He lives in a village of other dolls (called Wemmicks) that constantly rate each other through a system of stickers. If someone places a dot sticker on you, it's a bad rating. A star sticker is a good rating. Throughout the story, Punchinello constantly receives dot stickers because he is weaker, slower, and clumsier than all the other dolls. It takes a meeting with the Maker of the Wemmicks for Punchinello to realize that the his opinion is the only one that matters. The stickers start falling off as he realizes the intrinsic value he has because he was made by the Maker.

Now why am I bringing this up? I suppose it's because Punchinello's experience with the Wemmicks does not ring true to my experience. My days are not full of bullies approaching me to remind me of my shortcomings. I am not beset with enemies day in and day out. Indeed, if I had to give an account of the stickers I receive on a weekly basis, I am sure that the stars would outnumber the dots. This is not to say that I am especially talented (far from it). However, I am surrounded by people who love me, and care for me, and encourage me, and build me up. But here's the problem:

I don't believe them.

I know myself. 

If someone calls me hardworking, I can think of 15 instances this week where I was lazy. 

If someone calls me wise, the foolish decisions I've made over the past 6 years flash instantaneously before me.

If someone calls me intelligent, I am reminded of the time I tried to buy a 10 cent piece of candy with a nickel.

Rest assured, this is not humility. It is a complete and deeply held belief that other people are wrong about the person I am. That they have bought into my facade, but if they knew the true me, they would bail out in a heartbeat. My community doesn't see me when I'm at my laziest, my most ignorant, my most tempted. They see the curated, polished, and fakest version of myself. Believing their encouragement feels as futile as Mark Hamill accepting thanks for destroying the Death Star. They were suckered into a performance, but all that's left is me.

Me, who is overwhelmed on a daily basis.

Me, who wastes so much time on entirely useless things.

Me, who could never live up to the non-existent expectations I've imposed on myself.

They don't know the real me. But I do. And I'm pretty sure I'm right. Punchinello struggled because he let other Wemmicks' words stick with him. But I refuse to believe a word from the people who love me most. I'm the expert on me, and I've decided that everyone else is wrong.

The ironic truth of the matter is that the solution to my problem is the same as Punchinello's.

Because I am not the expert on me. There is One who knows me better than I know myself. Who has declared over me the Truth. He has known me to my core, seeing directly through my facade into the core of who I am. He has seen my past and future, my motives and actions. I can't claim that. I'm perplexed by myself constantly. I question my actions, my motives, and every aspect of the product of myself. But the Expert doesn't. He knows me. In my entirety. And his verdict?

Adoption.

Forgiveness.

Love.

Patience.

Security.

Acceptance.

Peace.

Indeed, he says: "This is my son, whom I love. With him I am well pleased." I didn't earn that. He didn't get it from his inspection of my motives. He got it from Jesus Christ, who has imputed his righteousness onto my facade. And other people are a lot better at seeing Jesus' righteousness peeking out of me than I am. 

I don't write this to say that we are all much better people than we think we are, I write this to say that the good in us comes from Jesus. And perhaps we should do a better job at believing his work in us is effective. This changes my response to encouragement. No longer do I come up with counterexamples and justification for self-destruction. Instead, I praise Jesus for his work, because anything good in me could only ever come from him, and then I move forward. It's not that I need to consider myself higher, it's that I need to get over myself entirely and put the focus back on Jesus.

The joy of the Church (at its best) is that we all know we're broken people. An affirmation of someone is not a declaration of perfection in that area. When I verbally encourage someone, I don't suppose that they are unfailing. I simply affirm that Jesus has worked through them in my life and the lives of others. But yet, I would never offer myself that caveat

We are imperfect. And Jesus is good, so he uses us anyway. So if you don't let other peoples' stars stick, at least marvel at the ones that Jesus died to place over you. 

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
Psalm 139:1

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.

Ephesians 1:3-6

The Blackbirds, the Lilacs, and the Deer

 

When I was young, my Grandpa and Dad would take my brothers and I to "climb on the rocks." "Climb" is a generous term, it would be more accurate to say we "hopped from boulder to boulder" in the concrete graveyard that has developed between the steep hill along Lakeshore Drive and Lake Michigan. But nonetheless, it was a grand adventure in the eyes of 7-year-old Luke. The rocks stretched on for a seeming eternity, offering a steady drip of fodder for our burgeoning courage. We would get more and more confident in our footing, taking risks of which I'm sure Mom and Grandma would never approve. There would be stretches where our steps would come rapid fire, on the back of blissful ignorance of ACLs, sprained ankles, and other such injury (To this day, I pride myself in my balance, and while logic would attribute that to my deep and wide center of gravity, I give credit to this graveyard in my most optimistic moments.). Often, our confidence would be shaken by the unsettled rocks we had such faith in. We would point at these culprits, warning the rest of the fellowship about the approaching danger. Red-winged blackbirds would pierce the wave-filled noise with their own warnings, even as we brothers jockeyed for the position of leader during this expedition. The hill, equally strewn with lilacs and thorns on one side, the spray of the lake on the other, and in between, the algae covered stones on which our path lay. 

On one such journey, I recall hearing cries of discovery from up ahead. My brothers had stumbled across a haunting sight in the stark sunlight. The carcass of a young deer that must have fallen down the hill into the crags of the rocks below. Withered by the rays, rotting from the moisture, and piquing the interest of all three young adventurers. 7-year-old Luke was not familiar with the works of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, but had he been, he would likely take note of the poignant moment. There in front of me lay The Yearling, the embodiment of boyhood lost. 

Here I sit at 24, back in Sheboygan. The stone path is finite to me now. It starts at a parking lot and stretches beyond the power plant. Its mysteries have since been ascertained and its significance forgotten. Today, however, as I considered the blackbirds, the lilacs, and the deer, I deemed to make one more expedition to the Graveyard.

As I regained my long lost overconfidence, I considered my mistakes. Those I made and made against me. In the Graveyard, failure looms large. Mistakes can't be dwelled on, lest they lead to the same fate as the deer. Momentum can carry you off a sliding rock, but stagnation will lead to destruction. There is time to learn from your failure, but perhaps that learning happens in an instant. The Present is as effective an Instructor as the Past, and far less judgmental. 

What I mean is that the temptation of my heart is to dwell on my failures. To hate my past mistakes so much that I can never trust my present self. And to be sure, if all I have is self to rely on, then my trust is misplaced. However, in the Graveyard of my life, my steps are placed by my God. My confidence is in his placement and when the stones shift below, I let momentum carry me to the next. That's not to say I won't take a wrong step. I came across my first deer carcass early in life, and that innocence can't be restored. As many can attest, my missteps are many and obvious. But what a joy that my Dad is down here with me. That he pulls me up, examines my scraped knee, and sets me on the stable rock. He even points at the unstable path as a warning, a barrier to my hubris and a testament to his kindness.

All that to say, it's dangerous in the Graveyard. And there might be a carcass or two. But there's room for lilacs and blackbirds here. There's an everlasting blue horizon. And Dad is here too. So, I'm trusting his Word and I'm keeping my momentum. 

No Variation

Time doesn't slow down in the grandiose.

The final week still has a Tuesday.

Someone does the dishes after the wedding reception.

You still have to drive home from the funeral.

I think it's inevitable that I get introspective in the closing months of my time at Liberty, so expect a few more of these in the coming days. My current reflection is that my daily rhythms hold so much more value in these days. My walks past the Blue Ridge horizon are more filled with wonder. My daily interactions with my best friends choke me up extraordinarily easily. And life keeps hurtling toward the unknown, completely unbothered by my own trepidation. 

What I've been holding on to is what I know to be true. The joy of my life over these past years has been my God. I could say that I've been blessed by resources, community, worship services, self-actualization, or any number of other alternatives, but when it comes down to it, "every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, in whom there is no variation or shadow due to change." (James 1:17)

That unchanging God has been so faithful. He is the one who has taken painful photos and turned them into signposts of his mercy. He is the one who has taken my unpreparedness and turned it into ministry. He is the one who took my fear of loneliness and turned it into the sweetest community I've ever had. He is the one who has led me when I was lost, redeemed me when I was prodigal, sanctified me when I was duplicitous, humbled me when I was proud, and chosen me when I was undeserving. 

And that God is following me out of this season. That unchanging God will be with me when the full time job starts. When "what's up next" doesn't come quickly. When life isn't what I know, I'll still know him. He is my joy and my anchor. And he never changes. He never leaves. He never fails.

It feels weird writing a post like this, because I know I wrote something similar coming out of high school. And I know I had the head knowledge then. But, after spending 25% of my life as a student at Liberty University, I can truly say I have lived in and experienced the goodness of God. He has set his love on me. And no matter what season comes next, my heart cries to do the same for him.

If you find yourself in a similar season, I hope James 1:17 brings hope and confidence to you. Living life in the steadfast love of an unchanging God is an absolute game changer. And if you don't know him, I invite you to reach out. If you don't know what it means to be in a relationship with Jesus, shoot me a message. I would love to share with you how confidence in an unchanging God can belong to you.