"What's Lost Is Nothing to What's found": A Year of Remembering to Remember by Rachel Rin

One year ago this Friday, one of the most impactful people I’ve ever known passed away from unexpected heart failure and a city of two million erupted in fire. I learned of the Paris terrorist attacks as I walked numbly through Wheaton’s campus trying to process the death of Roger Lundin, which is why it took me a few minutes to realize that my sister was at that very moment on her way to see the Eiffel Tower. After getting hold of her and hearing that she was safe (albeit frightened) in her hotel room, I went home. Drained by the emotions of the day, I climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling. It felt much darker inside me than out.   

November 13, 2015 taught me how instantaneously a day can go from being inconspicuous to staggeringly memorable. I did not wake up that Friday morning expecting a beloved professor to pass away—particularly not three days after another professor in the department had passed away from cancer. As Paris reeled from the attacks and the rest of the world blamed each other for blaming each other, my own grief felt not trivialized but accentuated. 

When I reflect on the year-long journey this day commemorates, I realize that November 13, 2015 also taught me something more lasting than grief: it taught me remembrance. With the death of Roger Lundin came the instant transformation of a word from being just a combination of letters to being emblematic of an entire person.

 “῾The clover, remembered by the cow, is better than enameled Realms of notability,’” Roger Lundin would quote Emily Dickinson, and then chuckle as he told us the story of how a student corrected him in class with the observation that a cow remembers a clover by literally re-membering it, digesting it, thus opening for Roger a profound way of thinking about the gospel. “Christ remembers us,” he’d say as he sat atop his desk, a position from which he frequently taught. “A crucified and risen Christ is a Christ who re-members us, piecing us back together in his mercy.”

I think often about remembrance these days. I think about how a God who re-members means that you and I are capable of profound acts of love. It means that we are not limited to our longing—or perhaps, that our longing is itself a powerful act of love. It means that when I picture a six-foot-six professor lying on the classroom floor, covering his laughter with his hands because Mark Twain is just that much of a riot, or else reciting Emily Dickinson’s poem about Christ as the “Tender Pioneer” to a room of students aching to believe in such divine tenderness, I am not simply indulging in nostalgia; I am, in fact, participating in resurrection, resurrection that is a foretaste of what is to come.

As I write these words, I am listening to one of Roger Lundin’s old sermons, archived by his church from when he used to guest-speak. As much as I gratefully gather his words of wisdom, I find myself even more grateful for the audio itself, for the ability to hear the voice of someone who is no longer physically present. I’ve never realized so profoundly how you can hear a smile in a person’s voice. I replay certain sentences again and again, smiling at the smile.

“῾What’s lost is nothing to what’s found,’” he quotes in his sermon, and I pause my typing to let him speak: “And all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.” 

A Rich Table by Cheryce Berg

I gasped at the richness of the table before me. Rose-decorated china edged in gold and ivory lace waited at each place setting, guarded by silver forks. Goblets were surrounded by tiny succulents, solitary pink roses in miniscule bottles, violet hydrangeas and dark-colored pots of ivy. Tea candles flickered up towards Edison light bulbs that dangled down for a view from the high ceiling above. Black-suited servers stood at attention. As we took our seats with the other guests at the wedding reception, drinks were poured and serving dishes of food appeared. A salad of slow-roasted beets, goat cheese, and candied pecans was replaced by grilled rib-eye and black cod. Chocolate cake with caramel buttercream wrapped it all up.

I had never eaten a meal so magnificent in a setting so spectacular, but it didn’t even come close to Thanksgiving at Grandma’s.

As a child, I spent many Thanksgivings on that farm. Grandma and Grandpa lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, in a town of a few hundred, at the end of a gravel road that climbed a large hill blanketed in woods. The best Thanksgivings included snow.  Stuffed into snowsuits and bright orange stocking caps (it was hunting season after all, and we had to be seen), we would careen down the hill on ancient runner sleds, steering around curves and trying to avoid the towering snowbanks that flanked us. There were only two things that could compel us to come inside: frozen toes and dinner.

Dinner was at a long farmhouse table that sat over a cellar trapdoor in a kitchen still heated by a wood stove. The pantry behind the stove was part of the original log cabin built by my great-great-grandfather when he arrived as a young Swede in this country at the turn of the century.  My grandpa had been a boy in that kitchen, and it still put out a marvelous meal.

There were too many of us grandchildren to fit around the table.  Extra stools were gathered, jars of pickles opened, good dishes set out, and we were ready to eat.  But first came a humbling and quieting of our hearts and tongues before the Lord who had so richly blessed us. Grandpa opened in a long prayer full of love and gratitude. His voice rose and fell gently, much like the fields that rolled up to his house, the Swedish tongue of his childhood emerging in his prayer.

“Ve dank de, Lord, for dis food, for dis family, for dy goodness to us.”

With his gentle “Amen,” Fiestaware dishes of potatoes, carrots, peas, beans and corn—all harvested from Grandma’s garden—were passed from hand to hand. Hot rolls, pitchers of cream from the morning’s milking, stuffing and Jell-O salads were squeezed onto the table around the turkey. Dessert was pumpkin pie, of course, washed down by coffee.

Everywhere there was warmth. At this table, book-ended by grandparents who loved and lived for God’s glory, we were truly blessed. It was where I came away full every time.

 A table where God is celebrated is a truly rich table.

Putting a Face on the Persecuted

Does prayer for persecuted Christians far away really make a difference? A direct and immediate impact on those who suffer would be hard to prove. We do know, however, that some Iranians upon release from their ordeal of an Iranian imprisonment have spoken of sensing at times a “wind” of the Spirit that gave them new hope amid their suffering. 

Recently the College Church Friday prayer time for persecuted Christians has been following the challenges facing “Siamak,” a businessman from a closed country whom I met in a small Istanbul hotel over two years ago. Siamak had heard me talking with another hotel guest and concluded that I must be a follower of Jesus. After breakfast as I went out the entrance way for the day Siamak followed me a short distance and stopped me to ask if I could teach him something about the Christian way. That evening we met in his hotel room for a lengthy and serious discussion and met again briefly the next evening before he left for his home country. 

Months later we began regular reading and discussion of Bible passages on Skype. By the end of the year, first, Siamak and then his wife were able to make the profession of Romans 10:9-10 that the risen Jesus is Lord. But then came long periods of communication breakdown and only brief email exchanges. Questions came to mind: Was his faith genuine? Had he put it aside encountering rejection and threats? Or had he been incarcerated? 

Our Friday prayer group began to pray for Siamak by name. We were encouraged that a Skype chat occurred in which he said he and his wife were continuing to read a copy of the New Testament they had gotten hold of. Just two weeks ago, Siamak again Skyped to say he and his wife had been hosting a reading of the Gospel of Matthew with three of their friends. But Saturday, October 29, he phoned to say he had been summoned by the police for extensive interrogation about his activities. I again assured him a group of Christians was praying for him every Friday at noon. Then Thursday this week he emailed that his brother had learned of his summons and commitment to Christ and was putting great pressure on the two of them. Gladly, the next day, an hour before our prayer meeting, he emailed that he and the circle of friends had met the same day for their regular gathering at a neutral place since their home was now being watched. Indeed, his faith is genuine! 

Does praying for those being persecuted make a difference? Siamak would say it does. Join us in prayer for the man I call Siamak. Our Lord knows Siamak by his real name and the names of those who meet with him. 

Glenn Deckert

Even though I've never met Siamak, I pray for him, and I am thankful when Glenn tells our Friday group of how God is working in his life. Then there are the other Christ followers that we pray for—some by first name or just an initial, others are not identified at all—and we may never hear updates about them, but know deep in our hearts that the world is not worthy of them. This Sunday evening, we will have a time of prayer for the persecuted church. Also, we will always make room for you at the table at the Friday prayer group for the persecuted church.

A Psalm of Repentance

The road to an apology

is fraught with theology.

The twists and the turns

are the bumps and the burns

of a heart in the throes of agony.

The words an illusion

of my soul’s contusion.

I continue to stumble

with each word that I mumble,

and I am slave to my endless confusion.

The relief that I seek

is on Mercy’s peak.

My struggle to the top

made worse by each drop,

until I am sufficiently shown I am weak.

The wind reaches down.

I am given Your crown.

When my silence is silent,

I am released from the Tyrant,

and I am clothed in a new white gown.

Forgiveness cannot be obtained,

as my old gown cannot be unstained.

The renewal comes from You,

as a gift, it is true,

and through it, my heart you have claimed.

by Alyssa Carlburg

Scared Silly by Lorraine Triggs

You are traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of the imagination. That's the signpost up ahead—your next stop, the Twilight Zone!

I hated, truly hated, every minute of every Twilight Zone episode my middle sister forced me to watch with her when we were children.

Ever the dutiful younger sister, I'd sit on the sofa in the living room, eyes down and focused on the not scarey book on my lap. The creepy Twilight Zone theme played in the background.

I'd have nightmares, especially about the one episode that scared me the most, "The Eye of the Beholder." Fortunately for me, our mother would intervene and chide my sister, "Stop scaring your sister silly."

Actually, my sisters and I and a few neighborhood friends figured out a way to make money off of scaring other neighborhood kids silly.

We'd rig up bedsheets to the backyard clothesline to create a narrow haunted hall, plug in extension cords that went from the house to the yard to our record player in order to play our "Haunted House Sound Effects" LP, peel grapes for eyeballs and cook (and cool) spaghetti for brains. We made blood to drink (red Kool Aid) and bones to crunch (skeleton cookies). And we charged 25 cents to go through our haunted hall, 50 cents if you wanted refreshments. 

But, what about when real life, or at least real-life fears and anxieties, are more scarey than even the scariest episode of the Twilight Zone? A prodigal son and nephews, the dark shadow of malignancy, an aging brain that doesn't function as well as it once did, too many sleepless nights in a row, fractured relationships—insecurities and anxieties on all fronts that assult us after midnight.

If we listen close enough, however, we will hear God's theme music in the background of life. It's the music of God's Word, speaking into our fears.

I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,

my God, in whom I trust.”

For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler

and from the deadly pestilence.

He will cover you with his pinions,

and under his wings you will find refuge;

his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.

You will not fear the terror of the night,

nor the arrow that flies by day,

nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,

nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.

(Psalm 91:2–6)

And by God's amazing grace, the next time those midnight assaults attack me or that stray arrow of anxiety takes aim during the day, they don't have quite the same effect on my soul as they did the day before.

A Psalm for the Hidden Church

Monday:

For those who clean the kitchen,

put away chairs,

record prayer requests and areas of interest—

we bless you, Lord!

Tuesday:

For Adam, who delivers our just-roasted coffee;

for Cindy, who pays our bills and helps keep us on track;

for Ladora, our faithful and friendly mail carrier,

we bless you, Lord!

Wednesday:

Thank you, God, for teams.

For the team that paints arrows for parking,

keeps bathrooms clean,

light bulbs burning,

windows sealed and so much more,

we bless you, Lord!

Thursday:

For those who who gather and organize for retreats and events,

for those who print and fold our worship folders and newsletters every week,

for our photographers and videographers,

we bless you, Lord!

Friday:

For those who put up posters and newsletters,

for those who cook such good food,

for those who fold and collate week after week,

we bless you, Lord!

Saturday:

For those who give themselves—

to make our gardens lovely,

to patch our ceilings and walls,

to catalog books for our library,

we bless you, Lord!

Sunday:

For those who help us park, we bless you, Lord!

For those who serve us coffee, we bless you, Lord!

For those who greet us at the door, we bless you, Lord!

For those who help us find a seat in worship, we bless you, Lord!

For those who greet and help our newcomers, we bless you, Lord!

For those who sell us books, we bless you, Lord!

For those who teach the Bible, we bless you, Lord!

Have You Ever Looked at Water

by Vikki Willams

A:

Have you ever looked at water?

Have you ever looked at glass?

Have you wondered if you ought to

stand and wait the storm to pass?

B:

Have you seen a faded red rose?

Have you seen when summer’s passed?

Have you wondered at the day’s close

Why the time should even last?

C:

Have you ever felt the ice-wind?

Have you ever felt the fire?

Have you ever had your arm pinned

‘Twixt the blizzard and the pyre?

D:

Have you laughed among the happy?

Have you laughed among the lost?

Have you felt the current lapping

'Round your ankles for the cost?

E:

Have you ever cursed the sunshine?

Have you screamed into the rain?

Have you crossed a bloody fault-line

just to staunch a spreading stain?

F:

Have you learned an invocation?

Have you learned to read some Psalms?

Have you pled for our salvation

Holding outstretched, empty palms?

F’:

You have known the disappointment.

You have known the state of shock.

Can you keep your next appointment

If you cannot use the clock?

E’:

Have you tasted of the honey?

Have you eaten of the pods?

Have your hunger and your thirsting

Brought you back from other gods?

D’:

Have you wept among the lonely?

Have you wept among the weak?

Have you wandered looking only

For the blessing that you seek?

C':

Have you ever felt the wind's tail?

Have you felt the winter's snows?

Have you ever seen a child fail,

and then wonder how it grows?

B':

Have you ever watched the sun rise?

Have you watched it as it set?

Have you wondered when the lark cries

Why your need to rest is met?

A':

Have you looked upon the ocean?

Have you looked upon the shore?

Let us journey up the mountain

Though our feet be scarred and sore.

A note from Vikki: "Have you ever looked at water?" is an intense poem about beauty, loss, the yearning for redemption, and the not-so-easy path to capture it. All this is fitted into a roughly chiastic structure. (That is, when verses are in the sequence A, B, C, C', B', A', the verses A and A', etc. form a pair.)

Hope

by Liita Forsyth

This isn't the first time artist Liita Forsyth has shared her work with College Church. She and her husband, Paul, were members here before they moved to River Forest, where they now attend Calvary Memorial Church in neighboring Oak Park. OneWord Journal is pleased to feature Liita's art once again.

Says Liita, "The idea in this piece is HOPE, which the psalms are full of . . ."