I saw Hamilton for a second time last Friday. My heart moved to the core yet again, in ways anew, this time around brought intricate insight from inexplicable angles. While I had rested from its influence for a time, with Hamilton lyrics merely hovering out on the perimeter, seeing it onstage once more brings it front and center to my mind, being the filter through which I view my current events.

Just 12 hours after the final musical note rang out and I stood in ovation, I received a text: a mentor of mine had passed away. Unexpectedly. Seemingly he had been in good health; this was a shock of news to receive.

This followed mere days after another shocking death, when a couple we know suddenly lost their 10-year-old daughter to a rare mix of several infections that struck her.

“The Lord, in his kindness . . . he gives me more—time.”

Times like these bring self-reflection. What do we do with the time we have when we aren’t promised tomorrow? Even more jarring: what do we do, knowing that our time with those we love is not promised tomorrow?

• Let’s tell others what they mean to us now. Don’t let it be only in memoriam.

• Let’s put aside the petty and focus on what matters. We can work through our differences.

• Let’s share God’s grace. Because we all need it.

“You have no control who lives, who dies, who tells your story.”

I always found it powerful that with Aaron Burr as Hamilton’s musical narrator, we follow Alexander’s life through the eyes of his frenemy. Alexander has no control over what Burr says. And Burr has biting descriptors throughout.

But watching again, I found it especially gripping that Eliza, Alexander’s dear wife, took over the telling of the story in the end. Putting herself back in the narrative, she could speak with depth of the Alexander she knew—yes, his sins were readily evident, but she shone the light on his victories and aspirations and the support of those who surrounded him.

When all is said and done, isn’t that what we want—someone who loves us enough to forgive the grievances we’ve caused and instead focus on the goodness they saw in our heart? God’s grace unending.

Yet two more things to ask ourselves:

• Whose story needs us to tell it today?

• When our own story is told, what will they say?

“Oh, I can’t wait to see you again. It’s only a matter of—time.”

(photo above: my copy of Hamilton: The Revolution by Lin-Manuel Miranda & Jeremy McCarter)

It seems that here in the final quarter of 2018 I’ve done a tremendous amount of writing, yet those words have been sent out to others, leaving a void here on the pages of Editor of Life.

Not to be remiss with those who visit here—and I am so grateful you have stopped in!— I want to share with you some pieces I’ve crafted of late that are near and dear to my heart. (You can also find these and other published writing of mine anytime on my Published page.)

• The Waiting (a spoken word poem crafted for and shared aloud with Echo Church to set the tone for our Advent season)

• Waiting. Together. (a story I’ve not shared until now. It had been on my heart a while and I shared it aloud at Echo Church and in print on the pages of Rivulet Collective, a space I created at the beginning of 2018 for people to gather and to share. Scroll around and read some items, if you would. There are so many perspectives there. I edit all pieces published on Rivulet; please contact me if you’d like to grace the site with your own story.)

• Jesus & Women [video or audio] (a sermon I taught at Echo Church; I’ve been teaching there regularly, and what a challenge it’s been to shape my writing in this way. This was my favorite from 2018.)

All these, I just noticed, involve Echo Church in some way. It’s a family of believers my husband and I and a handful of others founded over 13 years ago. My role serving our church family has shifted and grown over the years, and I’ve been blessed of late to be able to regularly participate on the Teaching Team.

Thanks for visiting. See you in the new year.

though I cling to its very last moments
I must recognize
the time has come—
summer is at an end

I feel its waning hours
in the depth of my soul
and I admit—
a sorrow silently persists

yes nature in beauteous array
arrives in autumnal splendor
and when cooler air prevails—
I hearten

yet with fall at hand,
the slow rhythms—
late nights, late mornings,
sweet summertime—
come to a close
and I miss its comforts

I am refreshed, relaxed, renewed
in summer
gone is the stress
gone is the regular routine

I am sabbath—
and I wear it well

I laugh with friends & family
laid back conversation
trips off the tongue
no place to head next
we take our time

in the space we find our voices
things silenced the rest of the year

in fall, in winter, even spring
no time to stop
no time to listen
on to the next thing
our to-do list demands

but in summer
we take time
to see one another

but in summer
stress melts away
and our walls come down

but in summer
life is a little less heavy
our spirits brighter

maybe in summer
I find the best in myself
maybe in summer
I find the best in all of us
and that is what I miss

maybe if these summertime lessons
could take root
just maybe the best in us
would last the whole year through

 

Photo by David Lezcano on Unsplash