Words from Pastor ANdrew
Faithfulness
When May hits, Sarah and I find ourselves absolutely wiped out. Life, work, church, a dog… I feel like I’m forgetting something… oh yeah, raising our kids. It’s like running a marathon where every step is good, every step matters, but every step also drains you. You’re further down the road, but something’s been poured out. Even elite ultra-runners eventually hit a wall where they just can’t keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Then summer hits.
The first few days of summer feel like stepping into a completely different world. We’re no longer waking up before sunrise, no longer sprinting from school to after-school activities to homework to that never-ending evening routine. No more late night cramming in extra work, replying to emails, prepping for Bible study, and collapsing into bed just so we can do it all again the next day. Suddenly, those days are gone.
For a few brief moments, summer feels like slower mornings, no strict schedule, no hustle.
But then… late July arrives.
21 Years Ago
21 years ago this week, I traveled up to the St. Louis area from my summer job to hang out with Sarah and her family for the Fourth of July. At that point, Sarah and I had only been on one date at the start of the summer… then she promptly left town for four weeks. (She actually went to the Emerald Coast, which felt a bit personal. I didn’t think our date went that badly—but apparently, she needed a month and a coastline to recover.)
13 Years Ago
Thirteen years ago, Sarah was nine months pregnant in a high-risk pregnancy with our son, Foster. We didn’t know the gender and hadn’t picked a name yet, so we just referred to the baby as… well, “Baby.”
Our friends were convinced we should name him “Steven Danger Beard.” (We did not.)
We had been trying to have a child for over five years, and only later discovered that Sarah had some health issues that made pregnancy especially difficult. Doctors told us the baby would undoubtedly come early. So, we were on high alert—weekly appointments, bags packed, life in a holding pattern, anxiously waiting.
Revisionist History
21 years ago, I was helping out this college girl everyone called “Welker” with a music event. She sang. I played guitar and sang badly. After rehearsal, we decided to check out this musician on campus for the May Day celebration.
We wandered over and listened to Howie Day sing Collide. Less than a month later, I awkwardly asked Welker if she wanted to grab coffee. I said, “I’ll pay”—which I figured was obviously code for this is a date…but apparently, she didn’t get the memo.
Worth It.
I love a good story. I love great film and television. I’m a terrible reader when it comes to fiction, but I love the beautiful narrative of biographies and non-fiction. Try to imagine something…and I struggle, but real people in real history, I’m hooked.
Most of us find that we love a good story. We always have. This is why people sat around fires sharing stories of the past, why we love when older family members tell the tales of when they were young, why we are often drawn to incredible stories based on actual events, why we love to get together with old friends and retell that time that one thing happened.
We love a good story.
Again?
Sometime over the past year or so, I’ve spoken about a bird ending up in The Chapel and me desperately trying to capture said bird and release it back into the “wild.”
Also, over the past year or so, I’ve talked about my pizza oven and making a foolish error where I singed some of my eyebrows and eyelashes.
I’m not sure what my deep theological point was in either of those stories… but I’m sure they were meaningful. Likely life-changing.
You won’t believe it…
Last week I was using my pizza oven to roast some carrots. I was flambéing them to get a nice finishing char with a delightful caramelized sauce. And lo and behold, flames shot out of the oven—and I singed my eyebrows and eyelashes again.
I didn’t want to let Sarah know… because I figured she would determine I’m not “responsible enough to play with fire…” So I did the mature thing and didn’t tell her.
Turns out, the fire also singed the hair on my head. I know. My luscious locks.
She immediately noticed.
Then, just this past week—a bird wandered into The Chapel, and I had to catch and release it. Two days in a row.
I don’t know if this bird is trying to draw closer to God, or wants to see the beauty of the space, or if he’s just foolish—but he keeps wandering in, getting caught, and being carried back out.
I’ve now done this three times. Twice this week alone.
And every time—I still get this wild rush trying to catch the bird.
My heart races. I get unusually hot and sweaty. The adrenaline pumps.
I feel like Steve Irwin or Dog the Bounty Hunter…
But instead of crocodiles or criminals on the run… it’s a tiny bird.
Serious Question
Last night at dinner, we had a very serious theological conversation.
Should any food ever touch the palm of your hand?
Weird question, I know—but watch a little kid eat, and you’ll see every food group being palmed like it’s a basketball. Personally, I find that gross…but I’m also not a child, and I’m a recovering germaphobe, so maybe that’s just me.
Adults, on the other hand, tend to keep their food at the fingertips—unless it’s popcorn, nuts, or candy. Those get a pass. Otherwise, palm-to-food contact? No thank you.
Sarah and I made our case. It was clear, logical, and morally superior (obviously). No palm-to-food contact—except for small snacks. Case closed. I even triumphantly challenged the table:
“Name one food that should touch the palm of your hand.”
Keating didn’t miss a beat. “Banana,” he said.
Banana?!
Anybody Else?
I love the sun setting later. I love longer and brighter evenings. I love the lengthening of days and the feeling that spring is inching forward with Summer in the not too distant future.
While at the same time…I hated the way I felt this morning.
Anybody else?
I mean, I travel a bit, my wake up time and bed time adjust regularly, but this morning, was terrible.
Again, anybody else?
Milk and Honey Lattes
Right after we sort out the candy, take down the cobwebs and spooky decorations, and toss the rotting pumpkin from our front porch, Sarah is ready to decorate for Christmas and start drinking Peppermint Mochas.
I, on the other hand, am a traditionalist. I need to wait another four weeks or so, watch Santa glide past Macy’s on a Thursday morning, and eat an unhealthy amount of carbs before I’m ready to prepare my heart and mind for Christmas.
We can’t wait to celebrate and remember Jesus stepping into creation. We jump at the opportunity to look toward the little town of Bethlehem. We love the traditions of counting down the days and indulging in the treats of the season.
But Easter feels different.
Ebb and Flow
I bet that almost all of us have, at some point, stood on the beach at the shoreline and watched the water push in and out. As the tide rolls back and forth, sometimes it goes higher on to the dry sand and other times it barely seems to push in at all. Other times, it pulls out deep into the water exposing new mysteries on the gulf floor. No one can deny this ebb and flow. As well, rarely does anyone think when it pushes in, it will never end or when it pulls out the water is receding forever. We have seen the ebb and flow and we enjoy the ancient back and forth.
Life is a lot like this same ebb and flow. In different seasons it feels busy and chaotic and in other seasons it feels quiet and still. Rarely does anyone think this season will stay forever and honestly we all tend to look forward to the change in pace.
We are about to approach a change of pace here at The Chapel. Between Spring Break, the season of Lent, and other great things happening around here, there are lots of details you need to know. Please read below about the upcoming ebb and flow at The Chapel.
Faithfulness
When May hits, Sarah and I find ourselves absolutely wiped out. Life, work, church, a dog… I feel like I’m forgetting something… oh yeah, raising our kids. It’s like running a marathon where every step is good, every step matters, but every step also drains you. You’re further down the road, but something’s been poured out. Even elite ultra-runners eventually hit a wall where they just can’t keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Then summer hits.
The first few days of summer feel like stepping into a completely different world. We’re no longer waking up before sunrise, no longer sprinting from school to after-school activities to homework to that never-ending evening routine. No more late night cramming in extra work, replying to emails, prepping for Bible study, and collapsing into bed just so we can do it all again the next day. Suddenly, those days are gone.
For a few brief moments, summer feels like slower mornings, no strict schedule, no hustle.
But then… late July arrives.
21 Years Ago
21 years ago this week, I traveled up to the St. Louis area from my summer job to hang out with Sarah and her family for the Fourth of July. At that point, Sarah and I had only been on one date at the start of the summer… then she promptly left town for four weeks. (She actually went to the Emerald Coast, which felt a bit personal. I didn’t think our date went that badly—but apparently, she needed a month and a coastline to recover.)
13 Years Ago
Thirteen years ago, Sarah was nine months pregnant in a high-risk pregnancy with our son, Foster. We didn’t know the gender and hadn’t picked a name yet, so we just referred to the baby as… well, “Baby.”
Our friends were convinced we should name him “Steven Danger Beard.” (We did not.)
We had been trying to have a child for over five years, and only later discovered that Sarah had some health issues that made pregnancy especially difficult. Doctors told us the baby would undoubtedly come early. So, we were on high alert—weekly appointments, bags packed, life in a holding pattern, anxiously waiting.
Revisionist History
21 years ago, I was helping out this college girl everyone called “Welker” with a music event. She sang. I played guitar and sang badly. After rehearsal, we decided to check out this musician on campus for the May Day celebration.
We wandered over and listened to Howie Day sing Collide. Less than a month later, I awkwardly asked Welker if she wanted to grab coffee. I said, “I’ll pay”—which I figured was obviously code for this is a date…but apparently, she didn’t get the memo.
Worth It.
I love a good story. I love great film and television. I’m a terrible reader when it comes to fiction, but I love the beautiful narrative of biographies and non-fiction. Try to imagine something…and I struggle, but real people in real history, I’m hooked.
Most of us find that we love a good story. We always have. This is why people sat around fires sharing stories of the past, why we love when older family members tell the tales of when they were young, why we are often drawn to incredible stories based on actual events, why we love to get together with old friends and retell that time that one thing happened.
We love a good story.
Again?
Sometime over the past year or so, I’ve spoken about a bird ending up in The Chapel and me desperately trying to capture said bird and release it back into the “wild.”
Also, over the past year or so, I’ve talked about my pizza oven and making a foolish error where I singed some of my eyebrows and eyelashes.
I’m not sure what my deep theological point was in either of those stories… but I’m sure they were meaningful. Likely life-changing.
You won’t believe it…
Last week I was using my pizza oven to roast some carrots. I was flambéing them to get a nice finishing char with a delightful caramelized sauce. And lo and behold, flames shot out of the oven—and I singed my eyebrows and eyelashes again.
I didn’t want to let Sarah know… because I figured she would determine I’m not “responsible enough to play with fire…” So I did the mature thing and didn’t tell her.
Turns out, the fire also singed the hair on my head. I know. My luscious locks.
She immediately noticed.
Then, just this past week—a bird wandered into The Chapel, and I had to catch and release it. Two days in a row.
I don’t know if this bird is trying to draw closer to God, or wants to see the beauty of the space, or if he’s just foolish—but he keeps wandering in, getting caught, and being carried back out.
I’ve now done this three times. Twice this week alone.
And every time—I still get this wild rush trying to catch the bird.
My heart races. I get unusually hot and sweaty. The adrenaline pumps.
I feel like Steve Irwin or Dog the Bounty Hunter…
But instead of crocodiles or criminals on the run… it’s a tiny bird.
Serious Question
Last night at dinner, we had a very serious theological conversation.
Should any food ever touch the palm of your hand?
Weird question, I know—but watch a little kid eat, and you’ll see every food group being palmed like it’s a basketball. Personally, I find that gross…but I’m also not a child, and I’m a recovering germaphobe, so maybe that’s just me.
Adults, on the other hand, tend to keep their food at the fingertips—unless it’s popcorn, nuts, or candy. Those get a pass. Otherwise, palm-to-food contact? No thank you.
Sarah and I made our case. It was clear, logical, and morally superior (obviously). No palm-to-food contact—except for small snacks. Case closed. I even triumphantly challenged the table:
“Name one food that should touch the palm of your hand.”
Keating didn’t miss a beat. “Banana,” he said.
Banana?!
Anybody Else?
I love the sun setting later. I love longer and brighter evenings. I love the lengthening of days and the feeling that spring is inching forward with Summer in the not too distant future.
While at the same time…I hated the way I felt this morning.
Anybody else?
I mean, I travel a bit, my wake up time and bed time adjust regularly, but this morning, was terrible.
Again, anybody else?
Milk and Honey Lattes
Right after we sort out the candy, take down the cobwebs and spooky decorations, and toss the rotting pumpkin from our front porch, Sarah is ready to decorate for Christmas and start drinking Peppermint Mochas.
I, on the other hand, am a traditionalist. I need to wait another four weeks or so, watch Santa glide past Macy’s on a Thursday morning, and eat an unhealthy amount of carbs before I’m ready to prepare my heart and mind for Christmas.
We can’t wait to celebrate and remember Jesus stepping into creation. We jump at the opportunity to look toward the little town of Bethlehem. We love the traditions of counting down the days and indulging in the treats of the season.
But Easter feels different.
Ebb and Flow
I bet that almost all of us have, at some point, stood on the beach at the shoreline and watched the water push in and out. As the tide rolls back and forth, sometimes it goes higher on to the dry sand and other times it barely seems to push in at all. Other times, it pulls out deep into the water exposing new mysteries on the gulf floor. No one can deny this ebb and flow. As well, rarely does anyone think when it pushes in, it will never end or when it pulls out the water is receding forever. We have seen the ebb and flow and we enjoy the ancient back and forth.
Life is a lot like this same ebb and flow. In different seasons it feels busy and chaotic and in other seasons it feels quiet and still. Rarely does anyone think this season will stay forever and honestly we all tend to look forward to the change in pace.
We are about to approach a change of pace here at The Chapel. Between Spring Break, the season of Lent, and other great things happening around here, there are lots of details you need to know. Please read below about the upcoming ebb and flow at The Chapel.