On my way to preach Sunday morning, I passed by dozens of church buildings with a variety of shapes and sizes. What I saw surprised me—and offered a decades-long “heads up” to the institution that we call “church.”

On January 15, I had the privilege of preaching for Ridgeland Drive Baptist Church in Six Mile, S.C. (Yes, we have a town called Six Mile in my home state). Services started at 10 a.m., in clear violation of all unwritten Baptist church rules and regulations.

As I headed for this semi-rural congregation, I kept driving. And driving. And driving. After getting around the 13 mph wide-load truck that was blocking the narrow two-lane, I arrived a full eight minutes before the service started.

It was a great little church—relatively new (by church standards) well-kept building. The traditional mint-green carpet and pews. Nice but not gaudy chandeliers. I felt right at home in this very traditional Baptist setting. Doubly so because I received a warm and friendly welcome from this small congregation.

That may be the key word. “Small.” Regular readers will know that small church does not bother me. In fact, I feel a bit more at home with it. But I looked around at this very nice building, these kind people, and the sprawling subdivisions growing up around it. And I had to ask: why?

Why would people not want to walk across the road from their house (and a lot of folks could) to be a part of this small, welcoming community?

True, they didn’t have flash or flare. No fancy sound system, no pyrotechnics, no guitars or drums. Just sincere people, doing their best to worship and serve. And even still, this might not be enough.

As I wandered once around the parking lot of this nice, family-friendly setting—complete with picnic area and playground—I wondered what they might do to invite more folks into this kind community. Unfortunately, I had no answers.

Then I embarked on the hour-long journey to our home. I intentionally took the long road, to see what else was happening in the communities between Liberty and east Greenville.

The nearby community revealed a lot—a beautiful little town that was largely empty. Abandoned mills and buildings, along with nice churches that probably once had full parking lots. But today, at the typical church hour of 11:30 a.m., there were plenty of parking spaces available.

So many of these buildings revealed a once-thriving congregation with full-time ministers and the need to add on new buildings. I am guessing that many of those buildings are empty and the spare land not needed. I am also guessing that somewhere inside, a pastor and deacons and members are wondering how they will manage to maintain all of this. Or perhaps they are wondering when it is time to hang it up and move on.

Even the larger, more modern churches had plenty of parking. Sure, they probably have the resources to hold out for a very long time while accessing the resources for online success. But one wonders how long that can last. Certainly this mass exodus is not impacting every church or region; but it is growing and it is a long-term question for the life of the church universal.

Church folk apparently have two typical responses to the rapid decline in overall church attendance. One is to blame everyone and everything—a card that the church has played consistently for the last 2000 years. People are lazy. People want to live in sin. People are warped by godless education and culture. People are _____________ (insert your negative assessment word here).

This is not unusual. From the time I was five years old, I heard my father and other pastors talk about what was happening and why people were not attending. We are simply witnessing an acceleration of the trends of the last 50+ years.

The second—and better—response is to begin asking questions. Why are people no longer interested? And what can we do, as a community, to respond to a hopeless and hurting world? Finally, what is Christian community going to look like in the future, even if it does not look like what we want or have now?

Neither response is easy. The former is very typical and plays to our human nature to complain about the changes happening around us. While all of the allegations against society may be true, it does little to address the problem.

The latter is personally, professionally, and organizationally challenging to even the strongest of churches. It causes us to be willing to admit that we may be doing it wrong; that we need to change; and that what we have built may no longer work. That is a bitter pill to swallow, no matter how needed or necessary it may be in a particular time or place.

A few months ago, I heard a sermon from John Roy at Pelham Road Baptist on Ecclesiastes 3. It is a text that we often read because of its lyrical beauty. In reality, it may be a beautiful warning to us that nothing stays the same. There is a season for what we have done and what we are doing. Yet that season may change at any moment, and we must choose to adapt or to die.

My fear is that far too many churches are choosing to die. Or they are scouring the landscape to copy what other churches are doing rather than being true to themselves and their calling. If faith in Christ teaches us anything, it is that things cannot remain the same if we are to remain in Jesus.

Now is the time to recognize that we are not called to be the church as it has always been. We are called to be the church in this time and place, in this era of circumstances and culture. If that looks different than the familiar or comfortable, then so be it.

People are fond of the phrase that “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.” I believe this to be true. But our understanding of Jesus Christ is forever changing, as is Christ’s call on us to live and act in the world as we know it. While Christ may not change, the world around us does. And we must act accordingly.

If that means giving up buildings, or meeting online, or meeting in smaller groups, or using more volunteer/bi-vocational clergy, then so be it. Better that than falling for the Fool’s Gold that it’s not our fault or our responsibility.

The Holy Spirit may call us into different spaces and different places. It may call us to give up our buildings or our status. It may even call us to work at a pizza place while we minister to the congregation. At some point, we have to be willing to do that. Such is a task that only comes through the power of the Spirit.

The Spirit does not just take us to new heights. It also leads us through new lows, and new levels of humility. Just because it is not like it used to be does not mean it is “less than.” As the Billy Joel song says, “The good ole days weren’t always good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.”

We are losing our ability to maintain what was. Yet I still believe that this is a promise rather than a curse. May we learn to open our hearts, minds, and spirits to what may be, rather than remained chained to what was. While our communities of faith may look different, they continue to rely on the same thing: the church of Christ in the power of the Spirit.

And my prayer is that the good people at Ridgeland Drive will keep working and hoping until the Holy Spirit shows them a way forward. Amen.

Pastors are not trained as counselors or psychiatrists. When they claim to have a full understanding of mental health, they are fooling themselves. And the consequences may be lethal.

One of my favorite movies (and terribly underrated, IMO) is “The Big Short.” This spin about the 2008 financial crisis opens up with a terrific quote from Mark Twain. “It isn’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

When a minister is just getting started, it is a tremendous benefit to have mentors that will drill this axiom into their head. If there is one thing that I learned from the pastors who tutored me over the years, it is that I do not know everything. And pretending that I do will result in healthy doses of humility.

Still worse, such pretense can result in actual harm and irreparable damage in the lives of others. This is a risk that ministers cannot afford to take.

But in recent years, I encounter more pastors or ministers who take this approach regarding mental health. Saying that you understand it when you do not is a dangerous game.

Reality check: the majority of pastors and ministers are not trained as counselors or psychiatrists. When they claim to have a full understanding of mental health, they are fooling themselves and their constituents.

And the consequences of that can be damaging, perhaps even lethal.

Most ministers are trained in what we call “pastoral care.” This means a couple of classes in seminary where they learn to listen, pray, provide spiritual support, and generally practice not saying anything really dumb during a crisis situation. This is assuming they attend a viable, accredited seminary.

Some take additional classes in pastoral care or counseling, perhaps even getting credentials through other degrees or programs. Even with such training, they are rarely prepared to deal with the full range of mental and emotional issues that people face.

For this reason, it is vitally important that ministers use extreme caution when counseling or working with people who suffer from mental or emotional illness. And we are too often failing to acknowledge that reality.

Some of my students this semester are survivors of mental, spiritual, emotional, and physical abuse. Some suffer from hereditary disorders or mental issues that plagued members of their family before them. Some are trying to recover from unimaginable trauma. Some are sadly experiencing all of the above.

One student and I share an inside joke that she is the “alphabet soup” of disorders and trauma. If it exists, she has it. We laugh at this to keep from crying under such an unbearable weight.

The all-too-common reaction they hear from ministers is blame. Mental health is “just sin attacking you.” These issues are you “weak faith.” If you would just “pray harder and trust God,” then all these problems will go away. And my personal pet peeve: if you would “deal with your sin,”then mental health wouldn’t be an issue for you.

It is unimaginable for me that a minister would say such a thing to a student suffering from mental/emotional illness. But according to multiple students, this is not at all unusual. My disclaimer is that I did not witness such comments. Whatever was said, these are the messages that students heard from both church members and ministers.

Let us assume for a moment that these are accurate reports. The responses betray a dangerous lack of understanding of both mental health and the teachings of Christ. Not to mention the role of a minister in offering spiritual encouragement for someone struggling with trauma.

What if a person walked into the pastor’s office and said, “I’ve been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.” Would the pastor condemn that person by calling their cancer a result of sin? Would they encourage them to stay away from doctors and instead just pray about it? Would their words insult them for seeking some type of medication or treatment?

If a minister pulled such a stunt, it seems likely that people would be outraged. So why do we view it as acceptable to treat mental/emotional issues in such a way?

This points out a reality that we need to face in our society, government, health care system, and churches. Mental health is health! Pretending that we can explain it away as “sin” or dismiss it as a lack of faith diminishes the real trauma and illness that many endure. If God chooses to cure someone, God can certainly do so. Aside from such a miracle, those suffering from mental health issues depend on the care of competent, trained professionals to help them persevere.

As Ministers of the Gospel, why would we push them away from the resources they have? Why would pastors encourage them to turn away from the best care available and towards those who have only partial training to assist? How do we know that the Spirit is not providing the doctors and medication necessary to empower people to get better? It is the height of arrogance for ministers to believe that they are the sole “keymaster” for the well-being of those who seek their help.

More than one thing can be true. Spiritual guidance and resources can prove extremely helpful to anyone who seeks them, particularly those struggling with mental health. At the same time, there is nothing flawed, broken, or sinful in seeking health resources that merge with their spiritual journey. It is entirely possible, perhaps likely, that God provides such resources to empower people who want to get well.

There is a story about a man caught in a terrible rainstorm/flood who stood outside his house as the waters began to rise. As he stood on a hill near his house, a firetruck came by and offered to take him to safety. He declined the offer, saying, “I prayed that the Lord would save me, and I have faith that the Lord will do that!” As the water rose, he climbed a tree when a boat came by to offer assistance. “No thanks, I prayed and have faith that the Lord will save me!” Finally, he ended up at the peak of the roof on his house when a helicopter came to get him. “No, I don’t need you. The Lord will save me!”

Eventually the man died in the flood. When he got to heaven, he angrily went straight to Jesus. “Lord, I prayed faithfully that you would save me from the flood, and you didn’t do it. You let me die! Why???”

Jesus said, “Well, I sent you a fire truck, a boat, and a helicopter. Why didn’t you take the help I sent you?”

Our “pastoral” reactions to mental health may be no better than bypassing the resources God is providing. Ministers are ill-equipped to deal with mental, emotional, or physical trauma—and there is no good reason for them to shun the help that professionals can provide.

Do those suffering from mental health issues need the spiritual to help them through? Almost certainly. Do they also need professional counseling, medication, and well-trained doctors/counselors to assist? Absolutely.

Turning to mental health professionals does not demonstrate a lack of faith. To the contrary, it may show evidence of tremendous faith that the Holy Spirit provides resources from a wide variety of people and places.

We cannot afford to let our God be small when it comes to mental health. Ministers and believers alike need to open their faith to the reality that God can work in all fields, all disciplines, all ways. When we limit our belief to only our view of how God works, then we miss the abundance that God provides for us to deal with our trauma.

As a people empowered by the truth of the Gospel, may we open our eyes to see all the resources that God provides to those experiencing mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual trauma. After all, someone’s life may depend on it.

There is no shame in admitting that we do not know how to deal with something. But there is unimaginable danger in pretending that we know something that just ain’t so.   

One of my friends is fond of saying that he “does not hold tightly to brick and mortar.” I understand that, even agree with it. But living that mantra is a gut-wrenching challenge after 46 years.

406 Great Glen Road

Greenville, SC 29615

This address implanted itself into my memory when I was five years old. Over the last 46 years, it never left and never wavered. No matter where our journey took us around the world, we knew the power of an anchor at the top of the hill in the Del Norte neighborhood of Greenville, SC.

And no matter how challenging life was, we could return to that magnetic anchor to remind ourselves of where we came from and who we are. There would be candy in the dish, cookies in the jar, cereal in the pantry, and people to welcome us back to a place to call home.

On December 9, 2022, the physical presence of that anchor disappeared with the stroke of a pen.

After my mother passed away in June 2022, we knew one incontrovertible fact: things would never be the same at 406. Mom and Dad were in their 80s and had not moved since 1976. Their house certainly showed it! We knew we had to sell it, and whoever bought it would make it look vastly different.

In fact, it already looked vastly different from when we moved there. Add-ons and renovations—some that we liked, some that we did not—forever altered the original picture of the home where we grew up. Even those changes held memories of visits and celebrations and certainly ghosts of Christmases past.

Now those memories are all that remains. We signed our home over to a new family on December 9. My sister Kellie thought about buying the house. Hell, even I let it cross my mind for a minute or two. This really did not make sense for either of us, for many reasons. Even if we did, we would make major changes to create a space of our own.

I really did not think this sale would be hard for me. I moved out of that house in 1990 and never returned. Even during my first year of college in 1989, my mother destroyed my room by taking out all of the beautiful pennants, posters, sports memorabilia, and NFL curtains of my youth. For some reason, she decided to junk it up with nice furniture and curtains and all that “guest room” stuff.

The night before the closing, it hit me that this was hurting, far worse than I ever anticipated. I broke down early that Friday morning, telling my wife Tracy how hard this was. I barely went over to the house after it was empty—perhaps knowing deep down how hard this might be. I had to go for one last look that morning, before signing the papers.

It was almost more than I could take. When I went out to my Dad’s shop for the last time, I was overwhelmed with emotion and grief. That building was a shrine that I kept for all these years, a memorial to my father and his innate ability to do just about anything with his hands. I relished the ability to go out there and get any tool known to humankind, with my mother’s blessing.

To see it almost completely empty was unimaginable. It forced upon me the reality that he was gone. My mom was gone. And they are not coming back. Maybe that house kept me from fully facing such a reality—and that was about to go as well. For good.

I gathered the few little items that remained at the house, tossed them in Dad’s truck, and headed to the closing. This was it. And it was the right thing to do even if it was the most grueling thing to do.

My dad had a knack for pinching every penny he could out of anything he could. This meant that we never had a new lawnmower in my life. In fact, I WAS the lawnmower! We never had a riding mower that actually worked. No self-propelled. No mulcher. Just me and an 18-20-inch blade (smallest available!) and a rusty looking Briggs & Stratton on the top. One that NEVER started on the first try, mind you (since it did not have a primer pump on it).

After the 23^rd pull, perhaps it would start. And I would begin my journey around the yard, sneezing all the way. I had terrible allergies that went haywire from the smell of grass and gas that filled my nostrils. Keep in mind that there was no guard to keep grass or dirt or rocks from spraying you while you cut. I regularly got nicked on the shins from whatever debris lay in wait for me.

And people wonder why I hate yard work.

Want to know the silliest thing about this? I would give anything to crank the mower and run it over the yard one more time. First off, all of their additions to the house make the yard a lot smaller than it used to be! Second, to have the honor of doing something for my mom and dad just one more time would be glorious.

One of the last things I did before leaving was to look under the house. Low and behold, there was a push mower—much better than the Snapper held together with zip ties and duct tape that I used! I pulled it out to give to my son, who now needs his own mower. How fitting that my last act at 406 Great Glen Road was to pull the hated lawnmower from under the house.

One of my friends is fond of saying that he “does not hold tightly to brick and mortar.” I understand that, even agree with it. But living that mantra is a gut-wrenching challenge after 46 years.

Empty kitchen. Empty living room. Empty attic. This was the overwhelming sense of dread and loss that filled me that Friday morning—emptiness. Perhaps I was saying goodbye to nothing more than a pile of brick and mortar, a collection of materials that would one day be gone no matter who utilized and lived in it.

It is so much more than that to me. Time and place and space are inextricably connected to the people that occupy them. This was not just letting go of a house. It was letting go of my parents. While I do believe that I will one day be with them again, that new time and place and space feels millions of miles away.

Nowhere did this hit me the hardest than riding by my mom’s house on the night of December 9. The very kind and gracious family that bought it did not appear to have moved in yet. So it is no surprise that there were no candles gleaming in the windows or Moravian star shining on the porch.

I cannot imagine a starker reminder that life has changed forever.

Anyone who knew Ann LeGrand knew that she loved Christmas, the one date around which her entire senior adult year revolved. Now, not gonna lie here—I did NOT miss getting her decorations out this year! Dad would never allow us to help him with the decorations. After he died in 2018, we did not exactly know the procedures for distributing the dozens of boxes stashed in the attic.

But no matter. My mother was perfectly happy to sit in her chair, directing traffic and correcting every misplaced trinket or figurine that was not situated in the appropriate order. It usually took most of Thanksgiving weekend and then some to get it all out and situated in the manner established in the LeGrand Bylaws and Constitution in 1976, heretofore remaining unchanged except for an edict from the Recliner of Ann.

Seeing those windows without life, in the second week of December, was simply unimaginable. One of my first jobs as a child was to make sure the tree and lights and candles came on before dark, and went off before bedtime. As much as I do not miss the ordeal of putting up/taking down all the things, I desperately miss their presence during Christmas.

Mom’s tree and various decorations are scattered to the children and grandchildren, memories of a wonderful history of our family at 406. I can still smell the cedar we used to decorate, and remember the childhood joy of putting every ornament on the tree. We had a real tree in the den and an artificial one in the living room by the window. The second was of course designed and decorated by my father, who measure the number of branches and hung color-coordinated ornaments in specific locations.

Those memories are more than just Christmas. They are the memories of who my mom and dad were and are and will continue to be in my heart. I spend the better part of my ministry hoping that I can live up to an inkling of who my father was as a pastor and servant of the poor and needy in the Greenville community. I pray that we can be as generous as my mother, who financially supported 26 different organizations in the last year of her life. (FYI–Pelham Rd. Baptist, Furman University, and Limestone University topped the list).

Our hope now, and for the immediate future, is to create those similar memories and moments for our remaining family, certainly for our own children. Our anchor is lifted, and we do not have 406 Great Glen Rd. as our place to call home. Yet the legacy of the people who lived there for 46 years remains.

Perhaps our eternal anchor is the lessons of life that Ann & Spencer LeGrand passed along to us. For all of their flaws, they taught us how to live and love one another, in the best and worst of times. Our prayer for now is that the new family living in that space will make it just as special and as much their own as our parents did.

Our prayer going forward is that we can impact the lives of others in the same way that mom and dad did, whether or not those we help see it and appreciate it. May we all see that it is not the gift of “things” that makes the difference in someone’s life, but the sacrificial gift of self that brings true meaning.

And may we find an anchor of faith, love, service, and compassion that holds us to what we know and believe. For such an anchor will hold power longer than brick and mortar ever will.

I have this ridiculous propensity for agreeing to do things that I am not sure I can do. It’s more like a vibe of, “Of COURSE I can do that!” Until, that is, the time comes for me to do it.

Then I spend the three days before the event drinking unholy amounts of coffee and asking myself, “WHY did I ever agree to this???”

Friday, August 19 was no exception. How did I ever end up in charge of Freshman Move-in Day at my University? After all I am a walking, talking organizational nightmare. Who on earth thought this was a good idea? My first go at this in 2021 was mediocre at best, so I was hoping for progress rather than perfection.

This was part of our LAUNCH welcome program at Limestone University, where we do all we can to make our first-year students feel comfortable. As my day ended about 7 p.m., I took a final look at my step count that began at 6 a.m. The somewhat astonishing result was 21, 536. Yes—21,536 steps in one day, roughly 9 miles and climbing 22 stories.

Most of this had nothing to do with moving students into the dorms, as I only handled a few of these tasks. It generally involved running water to our assistants, showing students where the business office or health office is, or redistributing our resources to the dorm with the greatest need.

A set of walkie-talkies might be worth the money for 2023.

Like many of our volunteers, I was absolutely drained at the end of the day. Some of our Adamah Christian Leadership students put in eight full hours helping students move in and came back on Sunday to set up LAUNCH worship as well as the CommunityWorks Fair for our community partners. (By the way, I am amazed at the work ethic of this year’s Adamah group).

21, 536 steps to get our first-year students into the dorms. 21,536 steps to welcome our largest first-year class in history. 21,536 steps to make parents feel like they are leaving a student at home rather than a strange place. Maybe others do not track their step count, but it is a good bet that all of our faculty/staff/students logged hundreds of thousands to welcome our first-year group. Add to that a group of community volunteers from local churches that get our students plugged in beyond the campus.

And every step was worth it.

Limestone is unique in many ways, but we are most unique in our diversity on a very small campus. On August 19, I met students from as close as down the road in Gaffney, SC and as far away as Mexico, France, and South Africa. Can you imagine flying your child all alone over to Gaffney? Or driving up from Mexico to leave them here, and not having anyone there to welcome you?

We already have a long list of ideas to make next year’s Saints Serve Move-in Day better. But what will make it best is having more volunteers, more greeters, more people to make our students—from near and far—feel at ease in their first days on campus. Rest assured that we will start well ahead of the game next August. With your help, we can make this an amazing start for our students.

21, 536 is a lot of steps, pushing my all-time personal record. If it can make one parent feel better or one student feel more comfortable, then I will gladly do it again. I ask you to jump in with us next August to get our students off to a fantastic start—and introduce them to all the things that make Limestone special.

If we treat these students and families like family, then we can help them stay with the family for four wonderful years.

Friends are a funny thing as we grow older. Some stay in our past, while others remain in our lives forever. And then there are those that only pop up at the most critical moments.

Growing up, one of our joys in life was our parents’ decision to allow us to take a friend with us on family vacation. Throughout our middle and high school years, this was a source of incredible fun for us. And no one was more fun on vacation than Shane Bailey.

Shane and I went to Eastside High School together, played football together for one year, and hung out periodically throughout our four years. Funny thing was that we were not always together, and not always “best friends” or anything like that. In fact, we often ran in different circles. But we seemed to get together at various times for the best aspects of life. This includes fracturing a few rules.

And even a few laws. Well, several laws. Actually, multiple laws on multiple occasions.

I started inviting Shane on vacation with me in our freshman year, as we ventured to Litchfield Beach. We had a terrific time finding ways to get people to buy us beer and combing the beach for any girl that would talk to us. (If only we had been as cool as we thought we were!). We stayed out late at bonfires or whatever was happening. Perhaps against their better judgment, my parents trusted us not to get into too much trouble.

We’re still not quite sure what they were thinking on that one.

Shane taught me how to drive a stick shift when I was 15 and he was 16. We cruised the Del Norte neighborhood in my stylish tan Mazda GLC wagon praying that the cops and the neighbors would not notice.

After that, we took trips to Lake Toxaway, NC to my grandparents’ vacation house. We did not let on to my mom and dad even a tenth of what we intended to do in our time up there, from drinking beer to chewing tobacco to once again finding a vacation girlfriend. No corner of the lake went unturned in our quest for female attention.

Let me offer a word of encouragement here. Remember that I am a chaplain and a professor. Shane is a school principal. So parents, take heart–there IS hope for the future!

After high school, Shane and I went our separate ways. The funny thing is that the two clowns from the good old days always found our way back to one another at the most critical times of our lives.

Shane was one of the groomsmen at my wedding in 1991. We occasionally got together for golf when I could still play for free at Furman University (and when I still played golf). Shane and his mom were on the scene after my son Spencer was born. After that, we lost track of one another until our 20^th reunion in 2009. We reconnected enough to enjoy the occasional text message, social media post, or phone call.

Then, in 2018, my dad passed away. One of the first people to contact me was Shane Bailey. He even shared a beautiful prayer with me that I used at my dad’s graveside service. Who knew that the guy who joined me to violate every rule, moral, or law over the years would offer a prayer worthy of my father’s internment?

Then Shane’s mom passed away a couple of years later. This was a woman who put up with an awful lot from me over the years! I had to reach out and share my best with him. I knew how much his mom meant and what a good woman she was to all of us.

Now my mom has passed away. And one of the first people to reach out on Facebook was Shane.

Friends are a funny thing as we grow older. Some stay in our past, while others remain in our lives forever. And then there are those that only pop up at the most critical moments.

It is unusual that sometimes our “best” friends when we are young are not always the ones that stay with us when we are old. There does not have to be a reason for this other than sometimes life happens. It’s not always the ones you spent the most time with that reconnect with you later in life. Instead, it is often those that formed the closest bonds, even in short periods of time, who strive to be there later in life and when life is the worst.

Or it could be those that happen to look up at the right time and reach out because they feel called to do so. It consistently stuns me when I hear from dear friends of the past at times of grief. Just weeks before my mom died, I attended a funeral for my friend Wells Black. Ran into a slew of high school acquaintances and friends there, almost all of whom reached out to me about my mother. One of those people was Wells’ cousin Laura.

She came to my mother’s visitation, and we texted a bit leading up to my mom’s service. I commented that it would be nice if we could connect somewhere besides a funeral. She replied that “funerals can serve as gentle reminders that we have friends who love us even when we don’t see each other often.”

Perhaps that is a sliver of the good that we see even as we lose someone we love.

We always need to be grateful for those who remain close that are always there when we need them, like my friend Jamie from high school or our friends from college. We received dozens of calls, cards, messages, and visits from friends, as well as congregations we served years ago. This includes our dear friends from Camden County, 8 hours away and 20 years in the past, a few of whom made the drive to be present for mom’s funeral.

But we can also be grateful for the prayers and encouragement that comes from people we might least expect. Is there any greater evidence of God’s overwhelming grace than those who show up in our lives when we need them the most?

As we struggle with grief and loss, it really does not matter what stupid arguments we had in middle or high school. Or any falling out or falling away we had in the past. Or the fact that we did not stay in touch as well as we should have after graduation. The important thing is that people we once loved find a way to reconnect when we need them the most.

Proverbs 17 says that “A friend loves at all times, and a brother (or sister) is born for a time of adversity.” I still struggle with the grief of losing my father, and now I have lost my mother. In the midst of it all, I am encouraged by rediscovering the love and kindness of friends—some eternal, and some re-emerging from the past.

I can barely keep up with my friends’ birthdays on Facebook, much less the various hardships of life. But it is my hope and prayer that I can be some small comfort to them in their time of need, as so many of them have lifted me. I am thankful that so many reached out in so many ways, large or small, to make life a little better when it was at its worst.

May we all be reminded that it is never too late to let the love and grace of Christ shine through us. What is past is past. What we do now and in the future is what makes the difference from this moment forward.