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Uncle John loved medium rare steaks, red wine, Jesus, and his family. "Shu Shu (Uncle John) is the most patient man I've ever met," his wife said affectionately upon first describing him to me when I moved into their home. There's a gentleness to him that I could never quite put my finger on. It was hard to imagine him as the motorcycling long haired stud who went out dancing and drinking on the streets of Taiwan. But then, I saw glimpses of it as he sat around a table surrounded by friends, quipping about the old days. I listened eagerly as Aunt Joni told me they grew up in the same neighborhood, but he never noticed her. She pushed her way into his life, bringing over food and tidying up his room (even when he wasn't there haha) until he saw her, really saw her, and by then he couldn't look back. They were like fire and wax, her fast, him slower, steadying her while she molded him, nudging him towards Christ.
I knew Uncle John for one year. He was sick for six months of that year. Cancer. Even then, his gentle nature never changed. I didn't know him well, but I knew enough to know that I will miss him. Until we meet again in heaven.
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And grandpa. I miss you so much, and it hits when I least expect it. When I smell mothballs, when I think of the garden, or when I see ketchup packets and remember how you kept a pile of treasured condiments, collected from restaurants and long expired, next to your seat at the table. I wear your red plaid shirt when I'm feeling down just to give me a little pick me up. Sometimes it works, sometimes not, but it's good to feel like you're near. You are so often on my mind. I can't wait to tell my future kids about you.
There have been losses in other ways too..ones that have forced me to take a good hard stare at my sin and how it affects other people. Its been a season of confession, of regret, of aching and bruising. I am in such need of God's grace and mercy, because I can't erase what I've done wrong. No matter how many times I say "I'm sorry," it is never enough to make the wrongs right. I am selfish, hypocritical, negligent, jealous, and so often I do what I do without knowing what I do. When I do finally see, I know that it is only a tiny glimpse of how deep my sin runs. It is then that I think of Jesus on the cross, when the Father's wrath was poured out on Him on the behalf of sinners like me, and Jesus uttered these words of compassion while blood poured down his face, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." What deep, unfathomable love could compel such words while he was being beaten, mocked, and hung to die? I am so undeserving and so so grateful.
Jesus doesn't want my empty, polite words. He sees right through it. He wants my heart, and as painful as this pruning season is, I can rejoice in the knowledge that God will not leave me as I am. He has not left me where I was.
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And grandpa. I miss you so much, and it hits when I least expect it. When I smell mothballs, when I think of the garden, or when I see ketchup packets and remember how you kept a pile of treasured condiments, collected from restaurants and long expired, next to your seat at the table. I wear your red plaid shirt when I'm feeling down just to give me a little pick me up. Sometimes it works, sometimes not, but it's good to feel like you're near. You are so often on my mind. I can't wait to tell my future kids about you.
There have been losses in other ways too..ones that have forced me to take a good hard stare at my sin and how it affects other people. Its been a season of confession, of regret, of aching and bruising. I am in such need of God's grace and mercy, because I can't erase what I've done wrong. No matter how many times I say "I'm sorry," it is never enough to make the wrongs right. I am selfish, hypocritical, negligent, jealous, and so often I do what I do without knowing what I do. When I do finally see, I know that it is only a tiny glimpse of how deep my sin runs. It is then that I think of Jesus on the cross, when the Father's wrath was poured out on Him on the behalf of sinners like me, and Jesus uttered these words of compassion while blood poured down his face, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." What deep, unfathomable love could compel such words while he was being beaten, mocked, and hung to die? I am so undeserving and so so grateful.
Jesus doesn't want my empty, polite words. He sees right through it. He wants my heart, and as painful as this pruning season is, I can rejoice in the knowledge that God will not leave me as I am. He has not left me where I was.
