trouble – sethlewis.ie

Learning by Experience

The moment I met our first child, everything changed. It happened as quickly as a heart can beat, with a force that took my breath away—my eyes and my heart were suddenly opened to understand love in an entirely new way. I had heard about the love of parents for their children. I had experienced it from the other end, as the child of truly wonderful parents. But none of this prepared me for how it feels when your hearts bursts with absolute, unconditional, unfathomable love for a human you don’t even know, who can’t respond, and whose needs never seem to end—and none of that matters at all.

Thanks in Advance (a poem)

I thank you
right now
for the light you will bring
though I sit in the dark
where I can’t see a thing

I thank you
right now
for the peace you’ll command
though I wait in a storm
that I can’t understand

I thank you
right now
for the gold you’ll refine
through the fire and heat
in my heart, in my mind

I thank you
right now
for the good that you’ll do
for your promise and presence
that carry me through
for this long night of mourning
will end with a dance
so I bring you my thanks
in advance

Life Is Not For The Faint Of Heart (But God Is)

I feel the sunlight streaming through the windows onto my skin, yet somehow the world still seems dark and cold. The headlines this week have fallen on me like long shadows, cast by the unrelenting clouds of hatred, violence, death, and evil, and in this chilly climate my heart responds with dismay. We like to think we’ve progressed beyond our ancestors, but when I see ordinary people dancing and celebrating the death of someone they merely disagreed with, I despair. How can we ever move forward like this? When the answer to open debate is a bullet, we’re all finished. Meanwhile, wars, atrocities, and injustices continue unchecked around the world, many of which we barely hear about. Even if we did, we wouldn’t have the capacity to track them all. There are too many.

Seedlings Need The Weather (repost)

It’s the time of year when fresh green leaves are unfolding and Jessica is preparing trays of seedlings for our garden. A few years ago I wrote about what I learned from our seedlings, and I’ve been thinking a lot about those lessons recently, so I decided to repost this post for you today. If you look closely, you’ll see that God is constantly communicating many valuable truths to us through the world he made for us. That’s what my forthcoming book is about— “The Language of Rivers and Stars”.

There’s a small square of earth behind our house that belongs to us. Which is strange, because it was here a long time before we were and will be here a long time after we’re gone. But there’s a deed in an office somewhere that has our names on it, so the ground is ours. And with that ground comes the responsibility to care for it—a responsibility that didn’t come from an office, but from Heaven.

We do our best. And when I say “we”, I really mean my wife, Jessica. She’s the one who does most of the caring and tending and planting. I made the raised beds around the edges of the garden, but she’s the one that filled them with roses and blueberries, mint and strawberries, pineapple sage and climbing jasmine and passion flowers. This year, she brought home packets of seeds for dahlias, zinnias, and cornflowers as well, because she wants to have flowers to cut for our dinner table throughout the spring, summer, and autumn. She sowed the seeds in trays of compost and found the perfect spot inside our glass door where our seedlings could have ideal conditions: plenty of sun (by Irish standards), warmth inside the house, protection from cold and storms and slugs, and regular watering. We babied our little baby plants, and we were delighted to see them grow, and grow fast. In fact they grew so fast that their stems became long and thin and too weak to hold up their own new leaves. One by one me they began to fall over. What went wrong? How could our seedlings be so weak when we protected them from every difficulty and obstacle? What more could we do for them?

Unthinkable (a poem)

If there was ever a doubt that God can take the evil of this world and turn it into good greater than we can imagine, that doubt was laid to rest when Jesus walked out of the tomb where he had been laid to rest. Humanity killed him for spite, and he died willingly—and rose again to save us. Now he promises that the troubles of his children who trust and follow him will also “work together for good” (Romans 8:28)—but of course that’s not how it feels in the moment when we face the unthinkable.

Unthinkable

Sometimes God allows
The unthinkable
Unbelievable
Thing
To happen

Realism And Resurrection

Perhaps it’s a product of growing up, but I do feel that the passing years have tarnished the old optimism I remember from the world of my childhood. There were always deep problems in the world—even I knew this growing up—but there was also a general sense of progress in the air, at least as I remember it. There was a hopeful feeling back then that our problems were not insurmountable, and better days were ahead. Science was supposed to solve some of our challenges, politics would solve others, and culture and civilisation would inevitably advance, even if the process was slow and bumpy. Those were the days when the unified, peaceful vision of a harmonious humanity depicted in shows like Star Trek felt like it could be a real possibility someday—minus the teleporters, of course.

Now we’re not so sure. The world feels different. Maybe our new technologies haven’t been all that we hoped they would be. Maybe our political leaders have burned us too many times and left us disillusioned with the system. Wars have continued relentlessly, as have human trafficking and slavery and corruption. Selfishness, injustice, and cruelty still plague our cultures and institutions, and they can pop up unexpectedly in our own hearts, too. Things are still moving quickly, but it’s become clear that movement isn’t necessarily progress. The old optimism of my memory has given way to a tired realism that doesn’t expect as much, hope as much, or feel as disappointed when everything goes sideways—isn’t the whole world constantly spinning sideways anyway?

What Does God Listen For?

Have you ever considered all the things you hear in the course of one day? This morning, I heard birds singing outside, and the voices of my family. I heard the coffee machine and the clink of plates and cutlery at breakfast. Right now, I’m hearing the noise of construction above the ever-present sounds of traffic and the occasional gust of wind. I haven’t even had lunch yet. There will be plenty more to fill my ears before this day is finished.

Have you ever considered all the things that God hears? The creator of sound waves hears the unceasing worship of angels before his throne. He hears the swirling wind of Jupiter and the ice that melts on Mars. He hears beyond what is audible to us—the ultrasonic songs of katydids and the footsteps of aphids. He hears beyond the limits of location—every rain drop, every lightning bolt, every asteroid, every pinging dolphin and rumbling tectonic shift, everywhere, all the time. And I thought I had a lot to take in.

The Crooked Apple Tree

Beside a country road in Ireland there are two tall pillars marking the entrance to my friend’s home, down a lane that used to lead to a massive manor house. That mansion is long gone, but the stately pillars remain as crumbling reminders of its past glories. The gravel lane between them now winds its way to the old farm buildings on the estate, which were nothing but ruined walls until my friend rebuilt them into a home. Outside, the chickens wander freely with the dogs among the garden beds and fruit trees.

The Challenge Of Choosing Between Bitter And Better

There may only be one letter between bitter and better, but like street signs on the same post, the two words point us in opposite directions. And these signposts are planted firmly, with the same two arrows, at every difficult junction we face on the road of life. No matter how well we may have chosen in the past, or how poorly, the same choice always presents itself all over again: will we let the difficulties of life make us better? Or bitter?

It’s obvious, isn’t it? One choice is literally named “better.” So that’s clearly the choice we’ll always make. Right? Why would we willingly choose to travel a bitter road when a better option is always available to us? The answer is this: we don’t always believe the signposts.

After The Flood

When the children went to school last Wednesday, it was raining. This is Ireland. We’re used to rain. Met Éireann gave an orange weather warning, but that almost always just means a bit of gusty wind or extra rain. I barely noticed. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I realised that this time it was not just a little bit extra—it was a month’s worth of rain, in 24 hours. The ground, so green and lush and well-watered, refused to take any more. The rivers carried away what they could, but they couldn’t carry it fast enough. Their banks broke. The green fields quickly became brown lakes. Then the lakes came into the streets, and the streets became rivers. And rivers don’t knock before they come inside.