As a young person growing up in the churches of Christ in the ’90s, I loved the song “Go Tell John” — mainly because it spoke of the power of Christ. My faith was freshly minted and idealistic, and I was convinced I would be willing to die for my Lord and savior.
“Go tell John That the lame have learned to walk That the poor can hear the word of God and the deaf can hear me talk Go tell John That the blind can finally see, oh and Blessed is the man who doesn’t fall away because of me.”
A few weeks ago I was in a nostalgic mood and created a Spotify list with all my favorite Free Indeed songs (IYKYK). Today “Go Tell John” played for the first time on my (3-hour) playlist. And I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, seemingly out of nowhere.
“As he sat there in that prison cell, he knew just how it came about And he knew his life was over and he was never comin’ out But there was just one thing he had to know, he had to make a final plea So he sent his friends to ask the Lord if he was who He claimed to be.”
I’m now a 40-something-year-old who has seen darkness and deep despair. I’ve never been in an actual prison cell, but I’ve been imprisoned by the suffering of both mind and body. And I know that sometimes, we just need the assurance that Jesus is worth it, that He’s worth all the trouble we will face in this world.
“Go tell John That the dead are raised again Go tell John That the lepers now are cleansed Go tell John That the path he chose was right Go tell John That I truly am the light.”
It’s precisely because John’s situation punches the gut so hard that Jesus’s answer is all the more important — and powerful. Doubts, questions, despair, Jesus doesn’t judge. He is gentle with us, promising not to break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick.
“And blessed is the man who doesn’t fall away because of me.”
Jesus tells us that He is the Messiah, that He IS worth it — if we can only hold onto Him. So hold on, friends. No matter the darkness of your prison cell.
[“Go Tell John” written by Keith Lancaster and John Sublett. Original account found in Matthew 11.]
For my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary (which is today, by the way!), my sisters and I decided not to throw a party. I’m not sure my parents would have wanted a party anyway. But we wanted to celebrate them in some way, and we chose two avenues. First, we signed them up to write their memoirs bit by bit through a company called Storyworth. It’s been fun for all of us to read the stories of their life as they arrive in our inboxes week after week.
And second, we decided to put together a book of memories for them from their closest friends and family. These people are scattered across the country, as our family’s story includes fifteen years in the U.S. Army, including four years stationed in West Germany in the early 80s. I knew this had the potential to be a once-in-a-lifetime gift, but I had no idea what its true impact would be on me or my parents.
As the letters started to trickle in, I noticed a pattern. Over and over again, the main thing people remember about Jeff and Mary Hunzinger was the way they served others. Consistent across all their locations—El Paso, Germany, South Dakota, Fort Riley, Red Bridge Church of Christ, Legacy Christian Church—they were just always there for people.
I remember hearing the same themes when my mom’s dad died. People kept talking about how he helped other people, how he was there for them. At the wake someone told a story I’d never heard before of Grandpa helping a man in the community who’d been at risk of suicide and how he’d even gone to his house in the middle of the night. My grandparents were farmers. They didn’t have a lot of money. They didn’t even have high school diplomas (though Grandpa was really proud of Grandma for earning her GED later in life), but people didn’t care about that. All they remembered was how much Grandpa had contributed to the community.
It reminds me of the way people talk about my husband’s parents. Mark and Kerry have been gone for decades now, but the main thing people remember about them was the way they were there for other people. They had this special ability to see where people were spiritually and to speak into their lives. With a dentist’s salary, they also had the means to bless people financially—and often did. But it’s not just Jonathan’s parents who gave us this example; his dad’s parents lived in much the same way.
So I read all these letters about my parents and thought about the legacy I’ve been given on both sides of the family, and I was moved to tears. It made me grateful. More than that, though, it made me want to live into this precious legacy I’ve been given.
My parents didn’t know any of those things when I visited them earlier this summer. I was still acutely ill, but after dinner we sat around the table talking like usual, and Mom was commenting on life. I can’t remember the context, but she said something about how life isn’t all about you, it’s about other people and serving them. Her priorities were clear. She knew the important things in life. But she hadn’t seen any of the letters yet. She didn’t know what people were saying about her and Dad. She just knew how she wanted to live her one beautiful life, following in the footsteps of her parents and in the footsteps of Jesus.
I started to think back over the last several years and see how my health struggles and mental health challenges have just been so all-consuming. I wasn’t always able to see outside myself. I remember pregnancy being the same way. A momma just turns so inward, needing to take care of the little life inside. After a few pregnancies, I remember consciously thinking that it would be good for me to take a break from being pregnant because it’s so inward-focused, trying to take care of the baby and all.
And then I thought back over this past year and how (with the exception of this summer) I’ve had the best mental, physical, and relational health in a long time, probably due to finally being on HRT. Suddenly I could see outside myself again—because service has long been a theme in my life as well.
Why do my hormones need to be in balance in order to serve the God I’ve loved since I was a little girl? Why do my neurotransmitters need to be in balance to be the person God made me to be? Because I know who God made me to be—I’ve known that for so long—and loving Him and loving ministry and caring for my family and for people in the community has defined so much of my life.
And then perimenopause and re-entry (not so affectionately called re-entrypauseTM in our household) just sideswiped me. I look at who I am when my hormones are out of balance, and I have a hard time believing that’s God’s intention for me. Self-centered and irritable is not who He made me to be. He made me to be joyful, patient, curious, nurturing. This years-long process has shown me that sometimes these mortal vessels need medication for us to be the person God created us to be.
Re-entrypause shifted my ability to listen to God, to see other people outside myself, to see things in reasonable and rational ways. My thinking got all twisted up on so many levels. I’m thankful for modern medicine that can restore the circuits in my brain to be able to look outside myself and to serve other people again—and to want to do that for the rest of my life. I just had a birthday this past week, 45 trips around the sun. I’m already halfway to the end, if not more than that. For the second half, I want to return to the way I tried to live most of the first half, in service to God and others.
So these days you’ll find me singing the words of that old camp song, “Make Me a Servant.” I pray the song, and I think about my parents’ legacy, so that when I get to the end of my life, what people remember is how much I poured out, not how much I took. I want to live a life that flows outward, not inward. A life that points to God’s love, not one that points to myself. And the only way to do that is through the blood of Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit.
I’m over at Velvet Ashes this week, talking about the pain of re-entry and how it affected my relationship with God.
My re-entry story began with an unplanned return in the midst of COVID-19. I wasn’t the only one—it turned out to be such a common experience. But at the time it seemed like just about the worst thing that could happen to me.
I loved my life overseas. I felt called to it. I found God there, amongst the power cuts, heat waves, dirty streets, and endless needs. Amongst the palm trees, rain clouds, frangipani, and deep sense of purpose.
We had scheduled a regular furlough that year but ended up leaving early, convinced we would be able to fly back to our Cambodian home in a few short months. Paperwork and the pandemic had other plans. And when our overseas life fell apart, I did too.
Pain permeated everything. It was in my heart as I bid farewell to a country and a beloved community without actually saying goodbye, without hugging people and crying in person. But it was in the hearts of others, too, as their lives were similarly uprooted, whether by relocations, pandemic restrictions, or tragic deaths. Why was an all-powerful God allowing such pain?
This God seemed responsible for the anguish and upheaval in my life. I was angry with Him, and in my anger, I refused to speak to Him. At different points during the next couple years, I even considered the idea of not believing in God anymore. If I no longer believed in the Person who caused my pain, the pain would go away, right?
Though I, like Paul, feel like the least deserving of all God’s people, the worst of sinners— and though I, like Paul, lament my thorn in the flesh and must resign myself that You are not removing it— help me, like Paul, to trust in your grace for me and my many weaknesses and to boast only in the power of Christ.
Help me, like Paul, to press on toward the goal and not get trapped in ruminations over the past or over my inherent inadequacies, but to set my sights on things above, where Christ is seated on the throne. And help me, like Paul, to learn contentment in all situations— even the situation of being me.
For I am who you made me to be. You knit me together in my mother’s womb and saw all my days. You knew I would struggle. You knew I would be incapable in so many ways. And yet You still made me. You still gave me life, still gave me Christ.
You made me complex even as I wish for simple. Still, Your thoughts about me are precious. Help me to trust in your unfailing love, for You are always with me. And You are always good.
Though my sins are many and my regrets are great, You take them far away. You remember that I am dust and fill my life with tender mercies, renewing my strength day by day, hour by hour.
In a world that tells us we don’t need You, I confess that I have always needed You. All I have been given comes from you. All I have been able to achieve comes from You. Even my desire for You comes from You.
Lord, you are Father to your children, and Your love remains with us forever. Let everything within me return Your love. Let everything inside me rely upon Your strength. Let everything that I am praise You all my days.
I was sick for a while before I knew I was sick. I’d been tired. So tired. I’m normally a lower-energy person who needs more rest than others, but this was extreme. I supposed it was more perimenopause.
I had aches and pains. By the end of the day, I felt like I had the flu. I couldn’t wait to relax in a warm shower for a few minutes and then lie flat in bed. I used to take a walk in the evening, but I didn’t even have the stamina for that anymore.
I assumed it was aging. I’ve heard you get a lot of aches and pains as you get older. I thought this was just my life now, a life where everything hurt all the time. I simply had to get used to it.
I was having a lot of what I believed to be hot flashes, even though I’m on HRT. My face would flush, and I would overheat, sweating profusely, sometimes while on a work call. It was just menopause, though. Right?
I was so tired, I could barely work. Even when I was awake, I struggled to focus on the task in front of me. I knew menopause came with brain fog, but this was next-level. Would I ever be able to concentrate again?
I was out of breath all the time, pulling back on exercise, and it seemed not even sleep could restore my strength. I remember one weekend in particular we were going to have a family night, and after my nap I could barely lift my hands. What was wrong with me?
I was discouraged because I had just finished this beautiful month of semi-sabbatical in May. I’d spent time restoring my relationships and renewing my creativity. I had ideas and energy for moving forward in life, then bam! Hard stop.
You know how moms take their kids to the doctor — or at least call the doctor — at the first sign something is wrong, but we don’t always take ourselves? Um, yeah, that was me. Until I could barely sleep, swallow, or move for the pain.
So one morning I finally dragged myself to the doctor. I feared an autoimmune disease. They happen more to women in their 40s and 50 — and more to women in general. And I know enough of the medical world to know that sometimes people contract viruses such as Ebstein-Barr (which causes mono and which I got tested for) and never recover. They remain ill, sometimes bedbound, permanently.
Thankfully it didn’t look like my tests were pointing to anything permanent or autoimmune, but to something else: thyroiditis. The pace of recovery would be slow. Sometimes there would be no improvement day to day, and I would only notice improvement from week to week. Sometimes I would get worse instead of better, as progress turned to regress. And truth be told, I’m not fully recovered yet.
I’ve been seriously ill before, but it’s been many years. Most of the time when I get sick, I’m down for a couple days, and then I recover. And although I had lots of people praying for me this time around, I have to admit I wasn’t always very patient in waiting for improvement or healing. Whenever I was conscious, that is.
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Several months ago I asked God to expand my horizons. One Sunday during communion I went forward for the bread and the cup, and when I returned to my seat, a prayer from long ago popped into my mind, and I prayed it.
I hadn’t thought of the prayer of Jabez in a quarter of a century, and I certainly wasn’t praying it in a prosperity-gospel type of way. Still, although I’d intended the petition for one area of my life, God seemed to be answering it in other areas. He opened invitations and pathways I didn’t see coming. Stirred my heart to long for more depth, more fruit, more of Him in my life. I started seeking, pulling on the threads of my desires.
Until I got sick. I lay on the recliner for weeks. I had a little supply bag — books, phone, sudoku, water or rehydration mix, sugar-free mints. Still, most of what I did was sleep. Monitor temperature and heart rate. Manage pain and pills. I basically lost the month of June; my children can attest to this.
As I recovered, I knew I needed to rebuild my capacity. Slowly begin small amounts of work. Slowly start to move my body more. Keep resting a lot, trying not to overdo anything or push myself too soon.
But as I continued improving, I remembered all this deep work I’d done before my health declined. And I suddenly saw that the daily habits of my life weren’t sturdy enough to support the spiritual, creative, and vocational expansion I was longing for and starting to step into. I needed better scaffolding for my life, a better structure to hold all the plans and dreams that were being birthed inside me.
If I wanted to be more fruitful, I needed a healthier support system to cultivate that growth. I couldn’t just rebuild my former capacity. I needed to build more capacity than before.
And so I outlined ways to make that happen. I scrutinized my daily schedule, figuring out where I was losing time to news reels, task switching, internet scrolling. Ascertaining how to stack the daily routines of meal prep, personal care, household tasks. Learning how to bundle and batch, streamline and save.
Turns out, I was scattering my tasks simply because I could. Because I work from home and can do anything at any time. And also because my midlife brain is so distractible. But then again, this is how I lived for years as a homeschool mom, flitting from one need to the next, never knowing if I would finish a task before a child needed me for something else.
I hadn’t realized that I was fissioning away my days. I had to do nothing for a month to realize that I could do more than the somethings I was doing before.
But I also know I recoil from strict schedules. I do much better being able to finish a task before moving onto the next, even if the clock says it’s time. The perfectionist in me hates a schedule. I thought back to the early days of homeschooling and how I’d approached our days. I’d developed a routine for ourselves — a particular order to our tasks and a general time placement for them, whether before breakfast, before lunch, before dinner, or before bed.
Something too structured, and I collapse in fear of failure. Something too loose, and I don’t accomplish enough. The concept of scaffolding seemed spacious enough, sturdy enough, to balance these competing inclinations and still hold my dreams and desires.
Even before I got sick, I’d had a hunger to go deeper into the spiritual life, the creative life. I’d been working through books and chatting with friends about these things. I’d been a little bit wander-y, of course, but I’d been on the right track. I feared I’d lost the momentum with this illness.
But that doesn’t have to be true. I can build a better scaffolding to support the bigger, more expansive life I’m dreaming of. I’ve always had limited capacity, and even more so in midlife, but as I heal from physical sickness, I’m reaching for more capacity. I guess that’s what dreams, visions, invitations will do to you — prompt you to alter things that aren’t working so you can open your soul to something new.
Seen in this light, I suppose even sickness has its upsides.
Jonathan & Elizabeth Trotter 