It was a startling slap across the face and a knee punch – right there in the pit of his stomach—and I watched my husband double over in pain and heave sobs. A mentor/teacher/coach/friend, his boss with whom he’s worked side by side for over seven years took his own life. Took. His. Own. Life. A week later our heads are still spinning and our hearts aching for the loss (especially for his family), and I watch my husband vacillate between anger and sadness, frustration and devastation.
When all the talk has been talked, the prayers lifted, and hope revitalized because we know the ultimate victory is ours in Christ, the practical, real-life day feels a little different these days. Ironically, in the wake of confusion, many things have instantly gotten simpler—at least my perspective has. There are so many things that DO. NOT. MATTER. Isn’t that what life-altering things do to us? The punch in the gut somehow cures our bad vision. We can now see with greater clarity what’s eternally significant and what’s not, what’s loving and what’s selfish. (Side note: I wrote a whole post on why the little things do matter, but what I mean is that there are some things –both big and little—that we get worked up over that simply have no eternal value.)
Paul’s prayer for the Philippians has become my prayer—for myself. “I pray that your love will overflow more and more, and that you will keep on growing in knowledge and understanding. For I want you to understand what really matters, so that you may live pure and blameless lives until the day of Christ’s return” (Phil. 1:9-10 NLT).
What really matters is what Jesus boiled it down to when a cocky Pharisee tried to trip him up:
“Jesus replied, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it; love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments’” (Matthew 22:37-40 NIV).
I’ve found myself in this reflective state the past week when I interact with my children, my husband, my friends, strangers even, asking myself, “What does love look like here?” And whatever the answer to that question is, is where I want to be, how I want to respond. (Of course, we cannot possibly be all things to all people. Even the most energetic of us are limited by time, space, physical needs. But what matters is that our hearts are tuned to the Spirit who shows us where to give our loving attention if we listen. I certainly don’t want to heap guilt on any of us for feeling like we’re not being “enough” because we will never be “enough.” Instead, we are to be His. And He is always enough—more than “enough” for us.)
If we’re late to choir practice (again), if our socks don’t match, and our kids' shoes are on the wrong feet (again), if the kids wouldn’t eat any vegetables (again), if we missed the sign-ups for t-ball (again), it’s really ok. Breathe. What does matter is how I talked to my kids, how I listened, how I reacted, how I loved.
This experience has also reminded me that people of every age, of every walk of life, are so very fragile, as fragile as each of the tiny babies I’ve brought home from the hospital, utterly helpless and dependent on their mama to love them and to keep them alive. Though flesh and bones grow larger, the fragility of humanity is always there. We’re all utterly dependent on God, whether we know it or not. We often don’t know what struggles are behind smiling faces or angry glares. I simply want to be cognizant of the fragility behind the facades. As C.S. Lewis says, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal” (The Weight of Glory
). I want to look into the eyes of the people with whom I interact and every time remember I am looking into the face of an extraordinary, immortal soul with the imago Dei (image of God) stamped on the human heart . . .
). I want to look into the eyes of the people with whom I interact and every time remember I am looking into the face of an extraordinary, immortal soul with the imago Dei (image of God) stamped on the human heart . . . 
It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree helping each other to one or the other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all of our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations - these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.
― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
. When “And Can it Be” comes on, my girls say, “Mama, this is your song.” (See lyrics below.) My children are hearing some great theology through the hymns, and one day I trust it will deepen their walk with Christ.
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