Tag Archives: summer

A Beautiful Season

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Even on vacation, as always, I’m up and at it. Soon, the rest of the Thoma family will awaken, and then we’ll be off to Zion Lutheran Church in Winter Garden. The service is at 9:00 AM if you’re in the area and interested.

We never miss worship. Not even on vacation. Why would we? God doesn’t take vacations from us.

Until it’s time, I’m sitting in my usual early-morning writing space, a swimming pool just beyond the wall to my right. What to write about? Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that we’re already about halfway through the summer. Thankfully, that realization comes to mind at a relatively impenetrable moment. What I mean is that, first, I’m typing this from what is, more or less, my happy place: Florida. And second, we just arrived here last night, so we have almost two full weeks of rest and relaxation ahead of us. Together, these two facts form a perfect moment for perspective—a kind of balance that vacations alone seem to offer.

In the early days of time away, there is an abundance of freedom. You look ahead and think, “We have so many days for anything and nothing. The time is wide open, and we can fill it however we’d like.” But then, something subtle happens a little past the halfway mark. It’s a quiet shift. Without warning, instead of looking toward a seemingly endless expanse, a countdown of sorts begins: “Only five days left. Now four. Now three.”

Maybe it isn’t this way for you, but it can be for me. And if I’m not careful, it can become almost like a thief. It steals my mind away from the present and into a kind of preemptive grief over what hasn’t even ended yet. And so, I do my best to savor rather than tally. If anything, my family makes that easy to do. They’re so much fun to be around, and the blessing is that when the vacation ends, we end it together. When we go home, we go back home together to just be what we were before we left—and for me, that’s enough.

There’s a well-worn line in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s epic poem “Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie” that takes a straight aim at the tallying urge I described before. For me, it translates into pondering what’s left of anything and instead dwelling in the enchantment of right now. As only Longfellow could scribble, he sets before us, “Then followed that beautiful season… Summer… Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape lay as if newly created in all the freshness of childhood.”

I’m 52 years old. Childhood seems so far away. And yet, I get what he means. He wraps his words around something that doesn’t seem to fade with age. He describes a kind of freshness that isn’t necessarily about being young, but about being present in something that has been given.

I don’t want to get too esoteric this morning. And yet, vacation time certainly does provide access to an entirely different and yet unrestricted level of thinking for me. I just feel good, more thoughtful. It’s the one time during the year when I can better see the things I already know. For example, as a Christian, I already know that life is far more than droning schedules. But on vacation, I can actually see it. It isn’t just symmetry on a calendar. It’s not something mathematical. Instead, life is a great big grace-filled opportunity that doesn’t need to spend any of its time worried about its end.

By faith, there is no end, and so, this is good, and it’s enough, whatever it is.

Maybe that makes sense to you, and you agree. Maybe it doesn’t, and you don’t. Well, whatever. For me, it’s enough. And either way, God’s Word agrees with me. Or better said, I agree with God’s Word.

If and when I find myself worrying about life’s fast-fleeting days, my Lord is there to remind me, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34). These words are not intended as motivational poster material. They’re powerful. By the Holy Spirit’s power, they instill what they commend, which is a divine permission to stop counting what’s left of anything and simply receive what is. They’re words that stir believers to begin each day ready to hum along with the Psalmist, “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24). The Psalm-writer didn’t say “was made” or “will be made.” He said, “This is the day.” This one. For me, it’s the one that begins with this little eNews message, a cup of tolerable coffee, and eventually a trip with my still-sleeping family to church at Zion Lutheran Church in Winter Garden, Florida. I don’t know what comes after that. Although it’s more than possible it’ll involve laughter echoing from the pool after eating a meal that makes it far too hard for me to swim.

Whatever the family and I decide to do, Lamentations 3:22–23 will rise and shine over all of it, even more brightly than the Florida sun. We’ll soak up the time remembering that the “steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

I suppose I’ll end with that. Indeed, life is not dwindling by the day. Not with Jesus. By faith, I know that even if I only have a few more days of vacation or a few more days of mortal life, it’ll be perfectly enough.

Summer Belongs to June

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Welcome to June. It’s a little chilly. Nevertheless, it’s here.

Ever since I was a kid, summer always belonged to June. The poet, William Carlos Williams, scribbled, “In summer, the song sings itself.” Every kid knows he was right. When June came, that meant life’s doors were opening to easier days—summer days.

As a kid growing up in central Illinois, in the twilight hours, after we’d become bored with jumping ramps, climbing trees, playing hotbox, or anything else we felt like doing, we’d throw golf balls into the air to attract the bats. After an hour of watching them swoop and flitter and spin in this and that direction, and feeling like pitchers in our eighth inning, we’d head inside to watch whichever movie might be playing on whatever tunable station we could manage in our cableless house.

As an adult, the summer doesn’t necessarily promise me the same freedoms. Still, when June arrives, it seems the world starts loosening its collar. The daylight stretches further. Togetherness on the front porch or back deck lasts longer. Solitude’s silence hums with a kind of warmth that winter could never understand. Time itself seems to wander around barefoot.

Summer doesn’t ask for permission. It simply arrives and reminds us to live—that staying inside isn’t the only possibility. We can go outside, too.

A few weeks ago, I sat in a video conference with a publisher. I’ve been sitting on a handful of chapters for a children’s fantasy novel for more years than I can count. Only recently did a wind of inspiration hit me. In truth, it was my grandson’s birth. Inhaling the event’s freshness, I’ve been exhaling newness to the story. Contextually, I’d already been chatting with the publisher about crafting a religious liberty book, which I more or less completed last night. But this conversation was about the children’s book. Just for fun, I sent along the first six chapters, and with that, interest was sparked, and ultimately, encouragement to move forward followed.

Contextually, I began writing the story as a means to help my son, Joshua, navigate the challenging waters of my full-time seminary training. He was four years old when I began what would be three long years of commuting to and from Fort Wayne, Indiana. I would drive down on Sunday night and return to Michigan on Friday night. Meanwhile, even as a full-time student, I would also maintain my full-time Director of Christian Education (DCE) duties here at Our Savior, doing what I could to manage long-distance responsibilities, while also holding regular office hours and participating in activities on weekends.

To prevent the loss of Josh’s childhood along the way, we started writing a story together. The routine was fairly simple. Before I left on Sunday night, we’d sit together to talk about the story. In between classes and paper-writing that week, I’d add to the story based on what we talked about. When I returned the following Friday, not only was he happy to see me, but he also wasn’t dreading my Sunday departure because he knew I wouldn’t share the new material with him until just before leaving. And once again, after reading what I’d crafted, we’d talk about what should happen next, and then I’d go back to Fort Wayne and repeat the process.

In a sense, I share all of this, reminded of something I just read last night from George R.R. Martin. He wrote, “Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” Again, that’s what I was guarding against when I began writing the story in the first place. It was a dreadfully taxing experience, one I’d never recommend anyone else try. Once it started, I didn’t want Joshua to get lost in the mess. With that, while the story endeavor was a relatively simple exchange, it became something sacred between us—a way to hold things in place; a way to let the summer of our togetherness linger just a little longer.

I managed quite a bit of text before the effort no longer seemed necessary. He adjusted, and we found other ways to manage the distance while growing closer, not apart.

Joshua is 25 years old now. His childhood has ended. All is well. Strangely, not long after Preston’s birth, I happened to glance at the story, and I remembered that its primary character, quite literally based on my son (even bearing his name) is the story’s narrator. He is recounting the tale for someone. The reader doesn’t yet know who it is. Something tells me it’s Joshua as a father visiting with his son. My gut tells me that son is Preston.

“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” True. Seasons come and go. But within those seasons, there are seeds of things that continue. The story I began for a little boy served its purpose. And yet, it appears to have waited patiently, like a half-built treehouse in the backyard. Now another little boy has arrived—new to the world, unaware of what stories await him—and suddenly, I hear the hammering again. Interestingly, I feel the warmth of June, and I know what I’ll be doing in my free time this summer. In fact, I created a writing schedule that carries me into July. If I stay on track, I’ll be done before the summer’s end. I really want to finish what began for Joshua, but now, too, for Preston.

Yes, time passes. But just like summer, stories have a way of returning, full of promise and life. King Solomon said it best: “To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven… He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity into man’s heart” (Ecclesiastes 3:1,11).

Childhood, like summer, may come to an end. But the God who governs all seasons is unchanging. In the same way that He weaves beauty into the warmth of June, He plants joyful opportunity among times of potential heartache. We don’t always see it. However, we can know it. Indeed, He interlaces incredible beauty into each of these moments, whether summer-like or winter-like. He reminds us that the seasons are His to orchestrate, and we can trust Him. The faithful God who gives us June, who gives us childhood, who gives us time and story and memory, He cares year-round (Psalm 124:1). And besides, just as Solomon said, He’s already sown eternity in our hearts. That’s a wink at faith—a glance toward the Gospel fact that something happened (the death and resurrection of Jesus), has been sown in us, and remains in full bloom, no matter the season.

I could sit here and continue to unpack this wonder, but I need to wrap up. In the meantime, just know that for believers, the seemingly fleeting beauty of summer and the tender brevity of childhood aren’t really lost to time, not when you have Jesus. With Jesus, nothing truly good ever slips away. Instead, it is preserved, perfected, and restored in ways we can hardly imagine.

And so, welcome to June. Summer is just beginning. Yes, it will eventually end. But the better story of God’s faithfulness is forever being told.

Reverend Doctor Advent

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The Advent season is upon us. Not Christmas, but Advent.

“So, what’s the difference?”

Well, there’s a big difference, actually. A person can understand the difference by first admitting that not all teachers are human. Seasons are professors, too. If we’re paying attention, even the earth’s varying seasons teach us something. Ralph Waldo Emerson described summer as a time that teaches us to swim and to drink in the wild air, which is to say, it’s a time for getting out and occupying creation. Conversely, John Steinbeck noted that the value of summer is best known in the depth of winter. Shakespeare added to the wintry lesson, “Here feel we the penalty of Adam, the season’s difference; as, the icy fang.” In other words, we can blame the devilish serpent and Adam for winter.

Again, seasons teach.

I’ll add that the Christians who jump straight from Thanksgiving to Christmas without experiencing the season of Advent are truly missing out on something extraordinary.

Advent means “coming.” When you know someone or something is on the way, you prepare. No small part of the Advent season’s purpose is to stir thoughtful anticipation and to refresh Christianity’s two-fold longing for the arrival of Christ. Here’s what I mean by “two-fold.”

If an Advent pilgrim is paying attention, he’ll first sense Advent’s deep concern for a savior from the perpetual nighttime of Sin and Death. He’ll notice the season’s explicit call to contemplate this unfortunate predicament, and he’ll be urged to look toward a little city with a manger. He’ll be prompted to prepare for Jesus, the One whose incarnation was the very inbreaking of God to save us. He’ll also notice an underlying promise: the One who first came in lowliness won’t return in the same condition. The next time He comes, it will be in glory as the divine Judge over all things. When He returns, He’ll set all things right and take His people to be with Him forever.

Advent ponders these two arrivals. The season is in place to help us, mainly because if left to ourselves, we’ll be enticed toward the first of the two—and this will happen for all the wrong reasons. Setting aside the reality that we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come, we’ll begin to see Christmas for everything that it isn’t—an opportunity to accumulate things. It becomes little more than a glittering season of commercialism, inevitably resulting in fast-fleeting joy. Advent, by contrast, is designed to exchange the superficial for the depth of a divine event—the breathtaking moment when God actually entered our world to fulfill His promise of salvation, claiming us as His own, and inaugurating a hope and a future that extend far beyond what this temporary world could ever promise or give.

By the way, I should interject and say it’s entirely fine to put up a Christmas tree, string lights on the front porch, and decorate our homes in jolly anticipation during Advent. Some would disagree. I’m not one of those folks. The Thoma family put up their festive decorations the weekend before Thanksgiving. For one, we had to. It was the only weekend we’d all be around to help accomplish it. Besides, I’m not so rigid as to think these traditions are incapable of adding to the anticipation. They can help prompt the warmth and expectation I mentioned. Still, even as the Christmas tree twinkles and the tiny Dickens-like villages adorn our fireplace mantles, Advent calls us to make sure our hearts remain focused on something that glistens with a brighter shine. Advent’s appointed lessons keep our gaze steady, reminding us that everything we see—the tree, the lights, the gifts we receive at Christmas, whether wrapped or unwrapped—all have an expiration date on them. We might not be able to see it, but it is there. Indeed, this world is passing away (1 John 2:15-17, Matthew 6:19-20, James 4:14, 1 Corinthians 7:31, and the like), and while the surrounding décor might represent a sense of our joy, it’ll only ever be a hint at the unsurpassed joy Christ brought in His birth and will bring again in its fullest at the Last Day.

Advent zeros in on these things. It whispers to the soul, “Prepare in this world for the next. Prepare not just your home but your heart.” It readies us for Jesus, the Divine Gift that does not fade, the Hope that does not diminish, and the Joy that is truly everlasting.

Arlo is No Quitter

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The sun is just now on its tiptoes and looking over the horizon. Its ginger hair is streaming up and outward across the sky. So long as the clouds stay away, in a few minutes, its locks will be torrents of shimmering blondes, eventually becoming brilliantly invisible against a crisply blue sky.

Summer is the best. It hijacks my sense of direction. Almost every inclination leads me outside, no matter how hot it might be. The only problem for a guy who simply cannot shake the need—or, as Longfellow described, the desire to be “up and doing”—is to figure out how to best use the time and opportunities available. Although, there’s more to Longfellow’s little psalm. He wrote:

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Indeed, we must be ready and willing to embrace and use each day’s peculiar opportunities. A lazy life of disinterest is no life at all. Still, we also must be sure to wait. In other words, rest exists in between the doing. One of the busiest men who ever lived, John Lubbock, was a husband, father, banker, archaeologist, politician, writer, vice-chancellor at a university, and likely so much more. Still, he made time to share with the forthcoming generations, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

I think Lubbock was right. Although, I’m often the last one to take his advice. I know that needs to change.

Taking a brief moment away from typing this note, I just saw a familiar chipmunk outside my office window. A few weeks back, I started calling him Arlo. I don’t know why. He just looks like an Arlo. Anyway, stretching my legs, I moved to the window to watch Arlo skittering here and there and up and down the nearby tree. When I saw what had just happened to him, I was reminded of something.

I’ve mentioned in previous writings that while I don’t watch much TV, Jennifer and I have been taking time in the evenings on occasion to watch nature shows. I think she has officially become one of David Attenborough’s biggest fans. That said, and in full stride with his raspy voice, we’re both learning quite a bit about the natural world. Relative to animals, I’ve noticed something—well, maybe a few things—especially when it comes to the “up and doing” life so often requires.

In the wild, I’ve never seen a lazy animal. I’m also yet to see an animal exhibit self-pity during trouble or make excuses for its unfortunate plight. In fact, it’s always quite the opposite. Their resilience and determination are inspiring. It usually takes a pride of lions to fell a buffalo. There’s a reason for that. Buffalo aren’t quitters.

Arlo, the critter outside my window, is by no means a buffalo. Still, he’s another example somewhat closer to home. He is, right now, working feverishly to gather bits of something from the sidewalk beneath his tree. A moment ago, while I was watching through the window, he was dive-bombed by a swooping bluejay. I don’t know if bluejays catch and eat chipmunks. I know they catch and eat smaller birds. I’ve seen them do it. Either way, the aerial attack certainly had the jittery little furball hopping to attention. He leaped and dodged before scurrying up the tree. Still, the seemingly caffeinated critter is right now back on the ground and at it again. Arlo’s no quitter. Of course, he pauses every few seconds to check his surroundings. Still, he’s not in the tree making excuses. He’s not complaining to his friend Steve, the squirrel in the tree next door, about how everything appears to be against him. Arlo’s tiny. He’s weak. He can be swallowed whole. Still, he’s undeterred. He’s going to do what he came to do. If trouble arrives, he’ll deal with it accordingly. Until then, steady as he goes.

I’m rooting for you, Arlo, so long as you don’t find your way into my office and chew through any of my books.

Watching this through the Gospel’s lens, I suppose part of this morning’s outing is to say that while life is a balance between action and rest, both bring opportunities for Godly reflection. Doing what I’m doing here at the computer is not necessarily rest. It requires my brain to be up and doing. And yet, it is a laborious opportunity to reflect Christ to others. Taking a minute to rest and watch Arlo was reflective, too. His unwavering determination was a reminder that no matter how small or vulnerable anyone may be, no matter the troubles that come, I can run life’s race of work and rest with confidence (1 Corinthians 9:24-27), committing each of my days to the Lord knowing that He will care for me according to His good and gracious will (Proverbs 16:3).

God bless and keep you in the forthcoming day. I pray it affords you time to ponder the Lord’s love, no matter what you may be up and doing.

A Springtime Sprig

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I don’t mean to distress anyone within my relative vicinity. Still, I read that Michigan is number seven on the list of cloudiest states in the U.S. Apparently, 43 other states in the union have more sunshine than we do. Parsing the details, Michigan averages only 65 bright-beaming days during its 365-day trek around the sun. This means that 82% of our year is shrouded in gray.

I shared this information with the 7th and 8th-grade students in my Tuesday morning religion class. Within seconds, a handful spoke of their parents’ open disdain for Michigan’s seemingly unfair allotment of gloomy days. One even said something like, “My dad is like you, Pastor Thoma. He wants to live in Florida.”

Every year at this time, I feel compelled to communicate just how much I crave sunshine. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, and yet, having read the Cleveland Clinic’s definition of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), I sometimes wonder if I bear some of the condition’s determiners. The affliction is “triggered by the change of seasons and most commonly begins in late fall. Symptoms include feelings of sadness, lack of energy, loss of interest in usual activities, oversleeping, and weight gain.”

I think I do experience a heightened sense of melancholy through the autumn and into the winter. I believe the dreariness causes less interest in a number of things I might usually enjoy. I don’t necessarily oversleep. My body is its own alarm clock. I go to bed. I wake up. I get started with my day. I would gain weight if I didn’t wage a conscious war against the gloom through exercise. However, I struggle to care much about exercising during the winter months. I often feel so drained that I don’t even want to look at the treadmill. It isn’t this way in the spring or summer.

A more pronounced sadness, check. Lack of energy, check. Loss of interest in usual activities, check. Three of five. Uh oh.

The clinic’s definition continues that “seasonal depression gets worse in the late fall or early winter before ending in the sunnier days of spring.”

“The sunnier days of spring.” That sounds nice. But that’s a long way from where we are on the calendar. Technically, December 1 was the first day of winter, even though many put winter’s beginning at the solstice on December 21. Either way, winter is just beginning here in Michigan. Its frigid clock has been tightly wound. Its chilled hands are ticking steadily from one number to the next. It will be some time before the clock slows, its time having eventually run out.

But it will run out.

I appreciate poetry. Relative to my doctoral studies, I’ve been reading a lot more of it. James Riley was thinking clock-like when he wrote of winter, “O, it sets my heart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, when the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.” In other words, his heart’s hopeful timepiece begins ticking when he sees winter’s frosty specter beginning to pall the landscape, covering the pumpkin fields and the shocked fodder (the dried cornstalks bundled together and propped). He knows winter is coming, but he also knows it won’t be a forever thing. It has limited time to employ its dreadfulness.

I visited my dear friend, Sue, in the hospital this past Tuesday. Somehow, the details concerning Michigan’s cloudiness ranking came up. She doesn’t mind winter as much as I do. Still, she was surprised. During our time together, I read to her the Gospel lesson appointed for the Second Sunday in Advent: Luke 21:25-36. After reading it, we considered the Lord’s words. Along the way, I was reminded of another poet’s observation. Percy Shelley jotted, “If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” I shared Shelley’s rhetorical question with Sue.

“No, it can’t,” she replied. We smiled together.

Ah, the sunnier days of spring—those easing days when the naked landscapes become green again, teasing the forthcoming and golden expanse of summer, a time we both thoroughly enjoy.

But no matter what the poets say, Jesus truly calibrates our perspective.

Relative to my feelings for winter, I’m in good company. Jesus more than nodded to winter as a symbol of this world’s sin-plagued drudgery in the text from Luke 21. Referring to His return in glory on the Last Day, He instructed His disciples, “Look at the fig tree, and all the trees. As soon as they come out in leaf, you see for yourselves and know that summer is near” (vv. 29-30). Crucial to His point, like winter’s grim unpleasantness, this world’s current season of undoneness is not permanent. Jesus is coming back, and when He does, He will make all things new (Revelation 21:5), bringing with Him the spring and summer seasons of eternal life. If we lose sight of this, even the tiniest springtime sprig can serve as a Gospel reminder.

As someone who takes extra Vitamin D and keeps a sun lamp on the shelf beside his desk to help defend against the gravity of winter’s gloom, I do well to keep certain things in mind. In a broad sense, no matter what’s happening, I must remember that Christ has not abandoned me in some cosmic orphanage, having left me to fend for myself. He has promised His presence and the joy that comes with it (Matthew 28:20). He insists He will never leave nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5). While I await His return in glory to bring me into His nearest presence, even if my deceptively sinful emotions have me somehow feeling forsaken, I can look to the cross. That’s the springtime (literally) sprig above all other sprigs emerging from the earth. When I see the cross, I can rejoice with childlike gladness. Perhaps this is what Edgar Guest meant when he rhymed:

“Spring’s greatest joy beyond a doubt
is when it brings the children out.”

The spring and summer of eternal life will bring God’s children out from this gray world’s wintry seclusion into the bright days of unending joy. How do I know this? Because Jesus said so, and His Word is sure. Look back at Luke 21:25-36, and you’ll see. Just after He directed our attention to the fig tree, He reminded us that all things will pass away, yet His words won’t (v. 33).

Believe Him. Be comforted by Him. He meant what He said; we can take Him at His word. This world’s wintry bondage will end. A divine spring and summer will arrive. It’s only a matter of time.

A Better Season

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October has essentially come and gone. November is at the door. With it comes Novembery things. Into the trash, the weeks-old jack-o-lanterns will go. In exchange, some Thanksgiving décor will adorn front porches, bookshelves, and kitchen windowsills. Some among us won’t be able to resist putting out a few Christmas-leaning decorations, not necessarily a fully decorated tree. Maybe just a miniature Dickens-style village here and a snowman character there. Perhaps a wreath on the front door.

Henry David Thoreau called November the calendar’s mite, reminiscent of the gift given by the widow in Mark 12:41-44. He implied it doesn’t give much, but what it does offer—the last yellowing lights of autumn—are “more warming and exhilarating than any wine,” ultimately making it “equal in value to the bounty of July.” I’m not so sure I agree, being the summer man I am. July offers a steady repertoire of pleasantries that few other months can match. Although I suppose following Thoreau’s poetic lead, if I did have to compare November with July, one thought does come to mind. I’d say July gives us one particular day with a splash of color: Independence Day. The annual fireworks celebrations typically conclude with a minutes-long sky-filling grand finale. Autumn renders a far lengthier and much more extravagant array of colors, and November is its grand finale. Until the first snow pulls what’s left of autumn to the ground, November will spend its days bursting with fantastical hues.

The only other real praise I’m willing to give to November is for my wife’s birthday. I’m thankful in that regard.

Still, apart from playing a role in my wife’s entrance into this world, I prefer to look past November. Better yet, I prefer to look past winter altogether. Although, it’s been said that if you’re always looking to the future, you’ll ruin the present. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, the autumn and winter months weigh heavily on me. They have me wishing for sun-beaming warmth pouring down from cloudless skies, days when I need to be more concerned about sunburn than bone-stinging windchill.

As you may already know, I was pretty sick for almost two weeks. I didn’t start feeling like myself again until this past Friday night. I went to bed at 10:30 p.m. and woke up twelve hours later. It was obvious I needed the sleep. I share this because I spent almost every day during this recent illness looking to the future, continually reminding myself, “This is only a season. Another season is coming, a better season. Tomorrow will be better.” This was not an exercise in the power of positive thinking. I would speak this way only after praying to my Lord for the hope He alone can provide. In other words, my regular exercise was one of anticipating something better.

I know I can only reach spring and eventually enter summer once I have first traveled the blustering valley of winter. Similarly, I know I must pass through the harder seasons of mortality before entering something better. But no matter the circumstance, whether the melancholy of actual winter or the failing flesh in sickness, I’ll have no strength to endure anything this world wields against me without the hope Christ provides. And each challenge will be nothing less than a microcosmic image of God’s promised grace in struggle and deliverance for eternal life. This is the ongoing exercise of Christian hope, a challenging but powerful regimen. It not only teaches us to trust that God has us well in hand right now, but it has eyes for a far better tomorrow, one where hope is no longer necessary because it has been completely fulfilled in the glories of eternal life.

Considering Titus 2:13, Luther described it this way:

“But how long shall we wait for that blessed hope? Will it remain but a hope forever, and will it never be fulfilled? No, [Saint Paul] says, our blessed hope will not always remain a hope, but it will eventually be made manifest, so that we shall no longer only hope and wait for it, but what we now believe and hope for will then be made manifest in us, and we shall possess with full certainty what we now await. But meanwhile, we must wait for that blessed hope until it be revealed.” (Sermons from the Year 1531, W.A. 34. II. 117.)

The waiting is the hard part. It’s life’s winter. It’s the season of bodily illness, job loss, dysfunctional families, persecution, and so much more. Still, we know by faith we bear an otherworldly strength that can “rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5).

I pray you are well and enduring whatever the world insists on throwing at you right now. Winter is coming. But it’s only a season. Another season is coming, a better season.

Imperishable, Undefiled, and Unfading

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One would think I should’ve been a weatherman because I’m so obsessed with the seasons. Although, it isn’t an obsession. It’s frustration. I live here, but I’m not meant for this climate, especially not the back-and-forth Michigan is currently enduring.

I dare say even the ones who adore autumn in this state will know what I’m talking about. The days are becoming wildly different.

I suppose one way to describe this is to say that, indeed, summer is over, and as a faithful doorman, autumn is watching for winter, preparing to hold open the gates when it arrives. Until then, autumn fidgets. It keeps opening and closing the door, stepping out to scan the horizon for winter’s caravan, and then stepping back inside again to watch and wait. By this, autumn stirs wildly different weather, sometimes all in one day.

Again, Michiganders will know what I mean. One moment, the sky is clear, and the sun is shining, warming all within reach of its bright array. It’s as if August locked the door, barring September and its followers from entering. But with little more than a glance to the horizon, thick clouds are invited over and into view. The door is thrown open. The sun is nudged away, its beaming warmth exchanged with chilly darkness and drizzling rain. In other words, to endure Michigan’s autumn means to be in August one minute and then October the next. One moment, the sky’s sapphire happiness is vast and cheerful. The next, you’re in deep space, a hundred million miles from our solar system’s star.

But then winter finally arrives, and that’s that—no more confusion.

I began by saying I’m not meant for this climate. I mean that in more ways than one. Interestingly, one of those ways, in part, explains why I’d never willingly leave Michigan. In truth, physically, I’m suited for Florida. My body feels better when I’m there. My back feels better. I have fewer migraines. However, God put me in Michigan. This is where my vocation’s muscle is flexed. I’ve come to realize my vocation—my combined roles as a husband, father, pastor, and the like—are less about location and more about devotion. I really can live just about anywhere when I’m confident that God has me right where He wants me. Where He puts me is a part of what He wants for me. What He wants leads to eternal life (John 6:40), which is eternity’s joyful location—an inheritance far beyond this life’s comforts.

When a Christian trades interest in this life’s comforts for the joy of the life to come, it’s incredible what can be endured. This world, steeped in its undoneness, is seen for what it is. Still, even as we endure, it’s amazing how the sun perpetually shines when, by faith, you know you’re not an inheritor of this world but of an altogether different sphere.

Saint Peter referred to this inheritance as “imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you” (1 Peter 1:4). He went on to say that this remains true, even as we are “grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (vv. 6-7). Luther explained:

“This means that our hope is not set on possessions or an inheritance present here on earth, but we live in the hope of an inheritance which is at hand and which is incorruptible, and which is undefiled, and that does not fade away. We possess this good eternally, only we cannot see it yet. … All things that are on earth, even though they may be as hard as iron and stone, are perishable and cannot last. Man, as he grows old, grows ugly; but the eternal good does not change, but remains fresh and green forever. On earth, there is no pleasure so great that it does not pall in time. We see that men grow tired of everything, but this good is of a different nature.” (Luther’s Works, Weimar Edition, 12:269.)

“…there is no pleasure so great that it does not pall in time.”

In this life, the seasons change. The cold moves in. The clouds pall the landscape. The light dims. And yet, eternal life’s season—our inheritance—remains unphased. It’s ready and waiting (John 14:2-6). It stands sturdy and cheerful and sure, beaming brightly beyond this world’s veil of tears (James 1:17). What’s more, as Luther remarked, not only do we know this, but we own its resplendence right now. “We possess this good eternally,” he wrote, “only we cannot see it yet.” It’s true. Our mortal eyes cannot see heaven’s glory. But faith sees it. And it’s aware that the light feeding heaven’s extraordinary brilliance—Jesus Christ—is alive with us right now, and He’s radiating luminously through us to a darkened world in dreadful need of rescue (John 8:12; Matthew 5:14-16).

For Christians, when life in this world becomes attuned to this hope-filled future, there’s little that the temporal darkness can disrupt. Knowing I’m not an inheritor of this world—that my time here is quite temporary—I see everything this life throws at me differently. More importantly, courage for faithfulness to Christ, my Savior, is within reach every moment of every day (Ephesians 6:10).

Having said all this, I need to be clear. I still intend to live in Florida one day. If God intends it, it’ll happen. Until then, I’m where I need to be.

Goodbye, Summer

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This summer has been and continues to be a challenging one. I don’t intend to bemoan my circumstances. Neither am I pleading for a reprieve from the arrayed struggles. I’m simply relaying that I do not expect to look back on the summer of 2023 with any measure of fondness. It has been busier than busy, sometimes crueler than cruel, and occasionally sprinkled with some enjoyably restful moments. Our time together in Florida was one. Taking Evelyn to see a NASCAR race was another. In between, far too many negatives filled the gaps.

As I said, I don’t mean to complain. Complaining accomplishes nothing. Muscle through and do; that’s more my way. Complaining invites excuses and accepts defeat. Ask Jennifer. I don’t accept defeat too well, but mostly because there almost always seems to be a way to succeed. You just need to find it. The adage rings true that you can either be a part of the problem or a part of the solution.

Part of acknowledging any challenging situation means admitting to what’s really going on behind the scenes in this world. Sin is a very real thing, and it has infected everything. I should not be surprised when the season I look forward to more than any other becomes something to endure rather than enjoy. Sin will do that. God certainly doesn’t promise immunity from tragedy to His Christians—at least not in the way the name-it-and-claim-it charlatans of this world suggest.

On the contrary, He assures us we’ll experience trouble. Jesus said as much to His disciples, saying, “In the world you will have tribulation” (John 16:23). But He didn’t end His words there. He continued, “But take heart; I have overcome the world.” Here the Lord promises His care. He promises to give us what we need to endure. Saint Paul echoed the same, writing, “God is faithful…he will provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it” (1 Corinthians 10:13).

While He gives what’s necessary to each believer as He knows best, as you can see, there’s something He sets before the whole world: the Gospel—absolute hope through faith in Christ and the promise of eternal rest apart from sin’s terrifying grip. That hope is endurance’s fuel. Interestingly, Christian endurance produces some pretty neat behaviors. For example, in times of trouble, when I discover myself stretched to my emotional extremities, I become attuned to the humor in seemingly humorless things. Just this morning, my backpack on my shoulder, my rolling bag in one hand, and a cup of coffee and my keys in the other, I attempted to use my foot to open my office door only to lose my balance and stumble forehead-first into its solid oaken barrier.

It hurt. How I managed to fumble like that, I don’t know. Still, I laughed because it was ridiculously funny.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that the man who can laugh at whatever befalls him demonstrates a type of lordship over this world. From the Christian perspective, he proves a Job-like verve capable of saying, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). He can speak along with King David who wrote so daringly, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1). He can be at peace because he “is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord (Psalm 112:7). He’s already asked and answered himself, “What can flesh do to me?” (Psalm 56:4).

Nothing. Everything sin has corroded is passing away. “Behold,” the Lord said, “I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5).

With this trustworthy Word from our gracious Savior, bad news is a toothless beastie, tragedy is a pinprick, catastrophe is a mouse’s shadow, and heartbreak is a wound needing little more than a Band-aid. All this is true because, as Saint Paul wrote so plainly, we are justified before God by faith in Jesus Christ (Romans 5:1). The endgame has already played out on Calvary’s cross. Now, everything is endurable by the power of the Holy Spirit at work within us. I’d say, maybe even laughable. Paul explains:

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:1-5).

In conclusion, please don’t think I’m making light of anything you might be enduring right now. I’m not. And neither is our Lord. I’m merely setting a point of origin for steering into all of it. You have hope. God said so.

Absence

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It’s happening. The days are getting shorter.

Those of you who read these meanderings regularly will know that I struggle at summer’s end every year. It’s not so much that the longed-for season of effortless schedules is leaving (although this summer has been anything other than easy), but instead, it’s that the sun begins making less time for us. Moving into autumn, the sun makes drastic changes to its schedule. For one, it gets up late and goes to bed far earlier. Some of us will go days without experiencing its presence, traveling to and from the office in the pitched blackness of its absence. On an occasionally cloudless day, you’ll see it pass by the window—but only if you have a window. If not, it’ll be as if the sun used to exist but does so no longer.

My stomach turns just thinking about it.

Jen posted something on social media last week. It was a snippet from our family’s after-dinner cleanup. Essentially, Evelyn asked, “Momma, did you know there is something called S.A.D.? It’s when people get very sad when summer ends.” She was referring to Seasonal Affective Disorder. And before she even finished her testimony, I was already answering, “Yes. And would you like me to explain it to you?” I wasn’t being snarky. The moment was a jesting one. However, looking back on the moment, I wonder if she planted the question. She knows how disjointed I become in the perpetual darkness of the sun’s absence. I get the feeling she asked Jennifer the question to spare me a momentary cloud while also showing me she is paying attention and understands. She’s like that. She’s mindfully caring.

It usually takes me a few weeks to get into autumn’s rhythm. In fact, by the time I discover myself finally beginning to appreciate fall’s colorful detonation, the snow arrives and covers it. Gripping summer’s absence tightly, I put myself at a disadvantage, resulting in being a step behind other opportunities for joy. Admittedly, I am forever learning a lesson from these things.

Honestly, absence is a tricky thing. John Dryden said that when you love someone or something so much, an hour of absence is like a month, and a day is like a year. Jennifer and I were talking about this one night last week before bed. She mentioned that family dinners will soon be very different. She’s right. Like a curious organism, absence will grow. Right now, dinners together as a family are quintessential to our lives. We do everything we can to ensure all six of us attend. But life’s seasons are changing. Soon six will be five, five will be four, and then four will be three. And then it’ll just be Chris and Jen. For the Thoma family, that’s a big deal. We’re knitted very closely together. When one is absent, it’s as if the world has suddenly become strangely uninhabited.

I get it. At least, I’d better get it. The day is surely drawing near when Chris and Jen will be Chris or Jen. Some of you already know what I’m talking about. Absence—the experience of being apart and missing that person so incredibly much—can be devastatingly palpable. I miss the sunshine during winter. Still, that’ll be nothing compared to an empty nest—or Jen’s empty chair. Personally, and in a selfish way, I hope my chair is found vacant first.

Having said these things, there’s something else to the topic of absence. Christians know what it is.

For some, absence means loss. Not just any kind of loss, but permanent loss, as if the person they miss is forever out of reach. One of my favorite texts from God’s Word is “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). I like it because it serves as a capstone statement to Paul’s previous preaching in the chapter that Christ has conquered all things, and by His resurrection, the seemingly impossible obstacle that brings ultimate separation—Death—has itself been massacred and tossed aside in the cosmic contest for our eternal future. As a result, no other enemy stands between us and our God. Christ saw to it. His resurrection proved it handily. From this vantage, one of Death’s offspring—permanent human separation from God and each other—is included in the list of enemies defeated by Christ’s work. In other words, because of Christ’s victory against Death, Christians can’t really even speak of a loved one who died in the faith as absent in the sense of being lost or gone for good. Those who are no longer with us, while absent from us, are not absent from the Church’s eternal fellowship. This means we’ll be with them again in person. Right now, they’re with Christ, and according to His plan, their time of physical separation from us is already on a trajectory of reversal. Their mortal absence might indeed stir sadness. Still, we really can’t justify the kind of sadness relative to permanent absence or being lost. The absence is not permanent. Believers are with Christ in His nearest presence. And if you know right where a person is, how can he or she be lost?

Indeed, in natural time, the sun goes away during autumn and winter. Likewise, the day is coming when either I’ll be without Jen or she’ll be without me. But only for a time. The spring and summer sun will return. Believers won’t be apart from our loved ones who’ve died in the faith for long. Soon enough, there will be an eternal sunrise in an unending time of togetherness outside of time. That’s Christ’s promise to His faithful. Until then, the faithful have another powerful guarantee. The same risen Christ vowed He would never leave or forsake us (Hebrews 13:5). He promised He is with us always, even to the end of all things (Matthew 28:20). That promise meets with right now. While ten thousand sermons could be preached on either of these two texts, all with unique renditions of Christ’s beautiful assurances, each would bear a common thread of consequence: You’ve been won by the person and work of Christ, and now, by faith, no matter what, you are never alone. Interestingly, you can be confident of this because of something Christ cannot do. He cannot break His promises, and therefore, He cannot be absent from those who are His own.

To close, remember these two things during autumn’s darker days, whether that autumn is seasonal or human: Human absence is not our forever, and in Christ, you are never alone.

Father’s Day 2023

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While I can’t quite see the Florida sun from where I’m sitting, I know it’s there. Its morning beams have already gone out to paint the sky like flower girls scattering petals before the bride in a wedding procession. Sunrise is coming. It’s at the day’s gate.

Every year I say I will not write any eNews messages while on vacation, that I will leave everything behind and simply simmer in the joy of minimal obligation. But then I end up doing it anyway. I told Jennifer yesterday at the airport that perhaps I’d fight the urge this year. Truth be told, I had another factor prompting today’s early morning rise. In the house where we’re staying, the same place we visit every summer, the owners got a different mattress for the master bedroom—a horribly cheap mattress. I don’t know why. What I do know is that I have a terrible back, and the new mattress has got to be the worst, most pain-inducing one I’ve ever slept on in my entire life. I’ll try one of the other beds tonight. I’ll sleep on the dining room table if they’re all the same. Or a lounge chair near the pool. Or the bathtub.

Since today is Father’s Day, I certainly have the gem-filled occasion in mind this morning as I sip my coffee and down some ibuprofen. I’ve learned a few things as a dad, many of which have only come to fuller bloom in recent years. For example, as the father of two daughters, I’ve learned that, in a way, I’ll always be my girls’ first love. I mean that they’ve likely learned the type of man they want to marry from observing the man I’ve been. I can promise you the day either of them stands beside a husband-to-be at the Lord’s altar will be a conflicted moment of joy and sadness. I’ll be happy, trusting the Lord’s promise to bless them. But I’ll also be sad, foolishly convinced that no one will ever love my daughters like me.

As the father of two sons, I’ve learned a similar lesson. I’ve learned that any words of advice I’ve given them through the years are of fractional value compared to the things they’ve seen me do. Again, the day my sons become husbands—and by God’s grace, fathers—will be a day of mixed emotions. I’ll be blissful, trusting in the same blessings of God. And yet, I’ll be torn. I’ll know I’ve reached a certain point of irrelevancy in their lives. In other words, they’ll have set sail. Once at sea, a ship’s builder is no longer needed.

I suppose these concerns are ridiculous. Of course, someone can love my daughters like me. Maybe even better. And certainly, I won’t be irrelevant to my sons. They’ll meet with situations that, even as husbands and fathers themselves, will prompt them to ask their own dad’s perspective. I know these things. And I know they’re all a part of one generation carrying on to the next.

“…one generation carrying on to the next.”

Now and then, when I write something, I must examine my own words. Plenty in God’s Word describes how that carrying on is to happen. There is plenty more revealing what a parent’s truest goal in the process must be, namely, to raise their children in the faith. Still, one text resonates more with me this morning than the others. Psalm 103:13 reads, “As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.”

Firstly, an underpinning of this text has to do with demonstration, of learning behaviors from someone else. Secondly, the text isn’t teaching a single step in a broader course but instead is looking at every stage and showing what’s necessary to each—what’s actually binding each of life’s efforts to the next. Interestingly, it does this by way of three assumptions. The first assumes that fathers will show compassion. The second considers the Lord’s compassion as the standard to replicate. The third believes the Lord’s compassion will be given to those who put their faith in Him. That’s His promise, and it can be trusted.

At the root of the denominative verb used for “shows compassion” is the noun “racham.” Chasing this word around the Old Testament for a few minutes this morning, I discovered other interesting uses relative to sympathy, nurturing, brotherly fellowship, and the like. One of the more unique connections has to do with a mother’s womb and the reality of birth. This connection matters most to me this morning, especially as a parent with a mind for Father’s Day. Although, it might not be for the reason you’re thinking.

I think it matters most because, even though I’m the one God put in place to shepherd my children, I’m no different from them regarding human birth. We’re all born into the sinful predicament of human dreadfulness (Romans 5:12-18). As a dad, when I observe their failings, I must be aware of my own. I must recall my place beside my children in this rumpled and grimy world, where I own just as much Sin-stained guilt as the next person. In other words, I must parent them, realizing we’re in this together. We’re standing before God on the same footing and need something.

Admitting this, I’m drawn to remember what that “something” is. Nicodemus’ conversation with Jesus in John 3:1-21 frames it. It was there Jesus told Nicodemus—a man who’d soon experience faith’s stirring to defend Jesus in John 7:50-52 and then assist in His burial after the crucifixion in John 19:38-42—that even as one is born of the flesh, God is compassionate, and a rebirth is possible. Most people today use the phrase “born again,” but it’s really better translated as “born from above” (γεννηθῇ ἄνωθεν). In other words, just as a child can’t choose to be born, the rebirth of faith is God’s laboring. He births us into His family. It’s no wonder the same disciple who recorded this interaction with Nicodemus also wrote in 1 John 4:7 that a believer who truly demonstrates Godly love—a person who shows compassionate care—proves “out of God he has been born” (ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ γεγέννηται).

I was born in the flesh, but I was also reborn in faith. From this vantage, I can clearly see the Lord’s fatherly demonstration of compassion, and I can carry that demonstration to my children. God did not give me what was owed for my crimes. He loved me. He had mercy, and He birthed me for something better. Child or adult, did I suffer the natural consequences of certain behaviors? Yes. But am I eternally condemned by them? Have I crossed beyond the border of God’s compassion? No. That’s the most reliable assumption woven into Psalm 103:13. For those who, by repentance and faith, know their Sin, they’ve been reborn to know a God who stands ready to receive them, One who promises never to leave nor forsake them (Hebrews 13:5). He is compassionate. He demonstrated it fully through the person and work of His Son, Jesus Christ. He moves Godly fathers to emulate the same compassionate care, principally as they introduce their children to Christ for the sake of salvation but also as they demonstrate the humility of repentance and trust in Him. It’s God’s will for this powerful Gospel display to surge forth from one generation of fathers to the next.

I want to instill these reliable assumptions in my children, both in their relationship with Christ and in their relationship with me. The time is coming—very soon, in fact—when they’ll work to instill the same unfailing assumptions in their own families. God willing, I’ll be here to help when they ask and for as long as the Lord allows.

Happy Father’s Day. I pray it’s an enjoyable one for all.