Last month, Elizabeth and I attended a beautiful service for my uncle, John. The following liturgy is adapted from the prayer at the end of the service.
Moments of deep pain and loss sometimes erase words, leaving us wanting to pray but not knowing how. So perhaps, for someone somewhere, these words could offer a guide or starting place for praying in the dark…
Gracious God, we are thankful that we got to witness a life. A life created by you, a life called by you, a man loved by you and by many others.
Thank you for your mercy and thank you for your compassion. Thank you that you call us home, and you remind us of home, and you woo us home. And John is home.
You are a merciful God who knows that we are made of dust and you love us because you have made us.
There is no wrong that you cannot make right, there is no sickness that you cannot heal, there is no darkness that you cannot shed light on.
We long for the day we will see John again, and we will see you face to face.
Sometimes it seemed like John saw dimly through a glass, and although sometimes we see very dimly through glass too, we long for the day when we will see you, we will see reality as it is, we will see so clearly and we will love so well and be loved so well.
Thank you for your everlasting arms. Thank you for your compassionate heart.
Thank you that you do not break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick.
We are your children and we cast ourselves on your care; be merciful to us oh God.
Thank you for this time and thank you for the time we shared with a friend, brother, and uncle; a man loved by you.
Praise your name, now until forever, in Jesus’ name, Amen
To be fair, I’m probably closer to the end than the beginning. And if the CDC’s stats are correct, being 45 years old places me well beyond the halfway point for the average American male (it’s 76.5 years). I don’t feel old, and my goal is not to be too macabre, but if you’ll allow it, I’d just like to share some reflections from this side of things.
Perhaps they’ll remind you, or help you, or clarify some things. In whatever case, and for whatever they’re worth, here are some musings from the middle…
1. You will need the Psalms more than you know.
2. Seasons of doubt will come and may keep coming – this is normal and need not be terrifying.
3. Education is never wasted.
4. Beauty matters a lot.
5. Work hard and build something wonderful, then be prepared to realize that that was only the 1st Mountain (Brooks), the 1st Half (Rohr). There is so much more.
6. Read widely, both chronologically and geographically.
7. Be where your feet are.
8. Remember the orienting reality of eternity.
9. Realize that much additional suffering results from our unwillingness to accept the regular pain and suffering of normal life.
10. Seasons are not the same thing as ages.
11. Look for the people you want to be like and then spend more time with them.
12. Grow with your children.
13. Say yes to lots of things when you are young, but know that the better you get at anything, the more you will need to say no. If you don’t learn the goodness of a no, all the wisdom and expertise you gained from saying yes will be diluted.
14. Not everyone who speaks with confidence knows what they’re talking about.
15. Accept book recommendations and music recommendations from your children.
16. Don’t ever stop playing.
17. Read Chesterton.
18. Adore God.
19. Love people.
20. Walk boldly. All will be well.
“Expect the end of the world. Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.” ~ Wendell Berry
Lord, You know my amygdala— my emotional danger detector, my fear sensor, my fight-or-flight first responder— is overactive.
Perhaps this happened naturally, and I was just born with it. Perhaps it happened over time as difficult life experiences accumulated. More likely it is some mysterious blending of both.
But I believe You made me moldable, malleable, neuroplastic. I believe I have the capacity to change through the power of the Spirit. I believe I can be transformed by the renewing of my mind. I have seen it happen so many times in my life.
So today I pray the peace of Christ over my amygdala. [place fingers on temples/ears, approximately parallel to amygdala]
Father, Wrap my limbic system in the all-surpassing love of Christ. [wrap fingers around thumbs to simulate God’s love wrapping around the emotional midbrain]
Holy Spirit, Give me a new heart and a new mind. [open hands to God as a symbol of opening heart and mind to His power]
Amen.
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With gratitude to Dr. Dan Siegel for his hand model of the brain and to the prayer minister at our church, who taught us the power of laying hands on places that need healing, whether in our own bodies or others’ (with permission of course).
No one else sees the hidden work he does. I do. The way he fixes tech problems at church events, at weddings and funerals. The way he guides people through the process of healing. I may never know the personal stories of his clients, but I get to hear the prayers, theology, practical tools, and existential philosophy behind his counseling approach.
He’s the one who remains calm when the house is in chaos and somehow brings that calm to everyone else. The one who serves in the background when nobody knows. But I know. I see the sacrifice, the secret labor, the invisible support.
He’s the one with the crazy ideas, and for twenty-six years I’ve been happy to be the armor bearer of the Trotter family (in the mold of 1 Samuel 14). The truth about us is that he has leadership skills I don’t have. He’s farsighted, farseeing, blessed with long vision. I might miss the forest for the trees sometimes, but once I catch that vision, I have implementation skills. And let’s face it, a leader isn’t a leader unless someone else is following.
I’ve said yes to a lot of crazy ideas not everyone would say yes to, and we’ve made it work. Together. Because he’s never once done something without me or my full support — and because he believes I’m his equal partner, à la 1 Peter 3:7.
We’re getting closer to the empty nest years, close enough that we can almost taste what it’s going to be like. This picture is of a recent road trip without kids. It reminded me of weekends with him when we were younger. We would literally spend the entire weekend together, walking, talking, eating pizza (back when I could eat gluten — oh the days), watching movies. Sharing our hearts. There’s something about spending long periods of time together that unlocks something in both of us, and we can go to the deeper levels of our souls with each other.
These days we try to spend as much time together as possible, but it wasn’t always easy the past few years. In the middle of launching our kids my brain and nervous system was so confused. I couldn’t see it at the time; I can only see it looking back. At the time all I could see was my former life—a life I had loved and poured my whole self into—disappearing. I couldn’t grasp what was next, and what had been was slipping away.
That middle period was incredibly discombobulating, and sadly I wasn’t the best partner to the oldest friend I have. I’d been so singularly focused while our children were growing up that I couldn’t see past that stage. I didn’t want to “grow old together” because that meant losing this precious part of family life, this defining part of myself.
But this guy. He waited.
He waited for my brain to settle and my hormones to normalize. He waited till the girl he fell in love with came back to him. This most recent road trip didn’t feel like we were entering a new phase. It felt more like returning to the early days of our marriage, to the way this family got started. In a curious mirror of our early years, this life still holds the hope of future babies — though this time they won’t be ours.
So, my dear Jonathan, I want to grow old with you. Who knows? In the end it might be more like growing young with you, just with more aches and pains. But wherever you go, I’m going too.
For more reflections on marriage and motherhood, read my book, The Hats We Wear.
I finally got started on Substack! I’m still in the process of figuring out how to share my writing both on this blog, which has been our online home for over fifteen years, and on Substack, but if you’re someone who prefers that platform, I’d love it if you would head over there and subscribe and follow!
As time goes on, I’ll be sharing my thoughts on motherhood and homeschooling, launching kids, creativity and AI, and the spiritual life. For now, I wanted to give you a feel for what kinds of thoughts I’ll be sharing over there, so I’m including my first Note down below.
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I’m a late adopter of most new technologies (case in point: I only joined IG this year). But my daughters tell me Substack is the place where writers and readers gather, so until I can figure out what else I need to know to keep up with this platform, I thought I’d begin by sharing about books that have shaped me and are continuing to shape me. Books are friends, after all.
Today’s books are both from authors I was initially dubious of. Authors whose first books I encountered did not connect with me. But I gave them another chance anyway, and I’m so glad I did—because they are remaking me.
First up, Tish Harrison Warren’s What Grows in Weary Lands: On Christian Resilience. Years ago I tried Liturgy of the Ordinary and couldn’t finish it. It felt too surface level and just didn’t draw me in. But when a dear friend told me she was reading Harrison’s newest book and told me a bit about it, I was intrigued and thought it might be just what I needed.
It was. I was in tears in the first chapter and underlined most of it, so accurate was her description of life these last several years. Our 40s can be a desolate time. And Tish’s “cure” for what ails is now posted all over my house: “Stay in your cell.” You’ll have to read the book to find out what she means by that.
Next up, John Mark Comer’s Practicing the Way: Be with Jesus. Become like him. Do as he did. I didn’t like the first Comer book I read. The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry didn’t teach anything I disagreed with, but it was written in a style that pained my creative and editorial heart. I didn’t think I’d be reading any more Comer.
But then our church started going through his Practicing the Way course on Wednesday nights, and I thought I’d give it a try. I’m always looking for transformation, after all. That first video session was contemplative and careful, not pithy and punchy—enough of a shift to convince me to buy the book based on the course.
And oh how glad I am. The book digs much deeper into the course concepts, has shed the breathlessness of that 2017 book, and speaks my innate spiritual language—giving words to truths I somehow already knew in my heart yet just didn’t know how to apply.
Books, and their authors, are friends and guides. They form us and change us and can illuminate the path before us. And just as with real-life friends, first impressions are not always correct. Sometimes you have to give someone a second chance. And when you do, your life just might be changed for the better.
Just ask Elizabeth Bennett.
My morning time spot, one of the main spaces where transformation takes place in my life.
