July 23, 2022
A view from the dining room table
(Originally, I intended to publish this letter on July 11th, but like everything else in life, it has fallen through the cracks and sat in my drafts folder. Here you go! Another letter is one its way Monday!)
I am writing this letter days before you will receive it. I’ve cleared one corner of our long dining room table to make room for my computer. There are people filing in and out of the house, and my daughter complains of the constant screech of tape.
I just looked up and glimpsed a man carrying two large Rubbermaid totes on his back. I might otherwise feel guilty for this privilege of watching others pack and load all of our belongings into the large moving truck parked on our quiet Toronto street, but closer to the truth is that I feel relief: relief that my part is done—for now, at least—and the baton is now passed to others. I will watch this parade and make a sorry attempt at trying to understand how it is that we are here, saying goodbye.
The dining room is the official “no-pack” zone of our house. From my view of the table, I see houseplants, shampoo bottles, scissors, bubble wrap, lawn bags, a damp bath towel, a bag of dog food. It will be an act of God that gets this family and their many possessions across the border. But God, too, is in these details, and I know it. In a box I’ve packed for the new owners of our house, I’ve left lightbulbs, keys, and a letter of welcome.
“Dear ________. Although we are sad to leave, we are thrilled for you to make your new home here.” I tell them they will need to spray for boxwood caterpillars next spring. I give them the name for the local installer of the gas fireplace, informing them we’ve changed the batteries for the starter inside the unit. They may think me micromanaging, but I have been keeping this place and I hope they will keep it, too.
One of my prayers for these final days was to enjoy meaningful goodbyes—and we have. One of our closest friends asked, when we sat late into the evening on their patio, what we were holding closest to our hearts. What had God been teaching us? What truths were sustaining us?
He might have expected something a bit more cheerful than I unraveled, which I feared later sounded a lot like self-pity. I told him this was hard, that obedience was hard, that though I was sure there was joy to be found somewhere on the other side, I couldn’t see it yet. “That’s what I will pray for you then,” he said. Joy.
I’ve thought lots about joy this last year, and in fact, a chapter in my next book is devoted to joy. It’s impossible to read the Scripture and not see that joy is promised to God’s people as they follow him. Joy, of course, is not exactly as we want to define it. For Jesus of Nazareth, the path of joy led to (and beyond) a cross.
Jesus talks about joy in John 15, one of the chapters where his final words to his disciples are recorded. He knows that betrayal, that torture, that execution are ahead, each as immovable as Balaam’s stubborn donkey. Still, he is talking to them about joy. “I have loved you even as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love. When you obey my commandments, you remain in my love, just as I obey my Father’s commandments and remain in his love. I have told you these things so that you will be filled with my joy. Yes, your joy will overflow!” (John 15:9-11).
I have copied these verses into my journal on May 26th. Below them I have copied a couple of verses from Psalm 119: “Lord, you are mine! I promise to obey your words! With all my heart I want your blessings. Be merciful as you promised,” (vv. 57, 58).
Here at the dining room table, when I’m not sure what to write, I start paging through my journal, and I see these words—these immovable, stubborn donkey promises of God—and believe them. Trust them. Practice the faith that is believing trust.
Yours,
Jen