This post will make little sense without an EARLIER POST, so head there first if you haven’t already.

In the months that followed January 2010, I entered an internal storm. As always, hindsight is helpful, and six-plus years now provides enough distance to see that what I was experiencing at that time was a wrecking ball. My identity was being deconstructed, and God himself was the one swinging the ball progressively lower until every level of my construction was flattened. At that point, a rebuild would take place. But I lived in that state of demolition for nearly 18 months, and it rattled even my typically-steady nerves.

• What was going on?
• Was I stressed out? I didn’t think so.
• Was I having a breakdown? That didn’t seem right, but something was definitely being taken apart.

At times, I believe that one of my best qualities is a simple ability to “keep trudging”. If I did anything right during that stretch of time, perhaps it was to pray my weak prayers, to find quiet ways to ask friends for support, and to trudge on, trusting God that He was up to something I could not see or feel any hint of.

Somewhere in that span, I began preaching a series on Jesus’ parables. I selected a couple handfuls of the stories I felt most inclined to dive into, striving to include selections all over the spectrum ranging from best-loved to least-known. In that mix was the Prodigal Son (Luke 15), a Sunday-school classic that it simply seemed wrong to exclude. All I had done was created a series outline as reasonably as I knew how. How could I have known my entire landscape was about to shift?

I love the labor of preparing to preach. I love sitting slowly with Scripture, soaking in it and conversing about it and spinning it around and around, in the hope of discovering angles and views that will breathe life into my self and my circles. I feel that pleasure almost every week. Even when I hate preaching, I love it. (Can I get an “amen” from any preachers out there?) But I was not prepared for the grip that Luke 15 was about to wrap around my life.

For months, I became fixated by this parable. It was an outright obsession, as I accumulated books, music, artwork, and more. I felt as though I’d discovered a rosetta stone, capable of interpreting the very-intense-but-beyond-words state of my heart. This story’s message was set to translate the disorientation that I had been living in. Why did my heart feel so off? I had found my answer.

Careful readers of “The Parable of the Lost Son” have long observed that it is more rightly titled “The Parable of the Lost Sons”. The story of the young and rebellious boy, who is received back home by his father, has touched hearts for two millennia. The power of this tale will never wear out for all who feel they are too far gone. And if I’d have told the tale, I’d have closed that portion with, “And they lived happily ever after.”

Except that they didn’t. Or at least we don’t know for certain.

Surprisingly, that most-famous portion of the parable is merely the preface for the real story. Don’t get me wrong: It’s a stunning story. It’s just not the main part of the parable. The heart of this story beats within the chest of the older brother. And by the end of the parable, we are faced with a few stunning considerations.

Apparently there are at least two ways to get lost. The first and most obvious path involves rebellion and running. It is a blatant turning from God, marked by dogged disobedience and desire to be one’s own master. Any reasonable mind expects this path to end a million miles from home, in a pigpen or worse. Everyone knows you can get lost this way.

But there is another path. The parable suggests not-so-subtly that just as one can get lost by trying to do all the wrong things, one can get lost by trying to do all the right things.

One can get lost by being rebellious, everyone knew that. But one can get lost as well by being rigourous. Who knew that?

Shockingly, the son who never stepped outside the yard has strayed farther from home than the one who ran to distant lands. In the closing scene of the parable, we are speechless to behold that the careful son — the measured fellow, the boy who cautiously strove to walk the straight and narrow — has arrived at a point where his heart is closed to the joy of his father. He does not wish to enter it, and he is the lost-est one of all. In fact, he is so lost that the curtain falls without even granting us assurance that he ever joined the celebration of his father’s kindness. What a mind-blowing consideration that the love of the father was sufficient to welcome the scoundrel back into sonship, but we conclude the story with no certainty that the lost-er boy would enter the same seeking love.

It would be impossible for me to express the force with which that story struck my life. Mack trucks have been softer; middle linebackers have been gentler. Scripture describes itself as a double-edged sword, sharp enough to penetrate right into our core. I testify to that truth. I’ve got the scars to prove it.

How does one stay so close to home and yet reach a place of utter lostness? How does one maintain the same mailing address as the Father yet fail to cultivate in himself a heart with resemblance? My experience suggests that one arrives at that place by being more religious than relational, by functioning more as a servant than as a son, by being more bent on duty than compelled by love.

There are numerous Bible characters that I would love to imitate, multiple examples after which I aspire. But five years ago I spent a way-longer-than-was-enjoyable time in a season of unsettling and undeniable conviction: “You are the older brother.”

Gratefully, the Father wants that boy to come home too.

So I started walking.

My wife and I are on the cusp of beginning as students at a school called Bethel School Of Supernatural Ministry (BSSM), based in Redding, California. Whether you have heard of it or not is hardly relevant to me, but suffice it to say: Five years ago, I wouldn’t have considered applying to such a school.

That statement begs a very natural question: Then how did you end up there?

The answer is rather lengthy, and I will forgive you entirely if you bail on the next set of posts. I will strive for a balance of concise yet detailed — I can’t guarantee whether I’ll hit either. But for those of you who have been asking for some of the back story on our current season of life, I’ll offer what I can.

A few pieces of background information might help those of you who don’t know me personally. I grew up on the Canadian prairies, attending church at least once a week within a conservative Evangelical denomination known as the Churches of Christ. (Many inside and outside of our movement might debate my use of the words “Evangelical” or “denomination”, but they can sort that out on their own blogs. :-)) This heritage was a real gift, fostering in me a love and reverence toward Scripture, and a desire to seek after the simple Gospel.  My church settings have always been rather small, and even near the age of 40, I’ve never spent significant time in a church numbering more than 200. I was baptized at age 15, and the whole time before and since, I’ve been surrounded by genuinely good people who have desired to seek God’s will with sincerity and follow Jesus in faithfulness. More people than I can count have directed love and kindness my way.

Around the age of 18, I began discerning a call toward ministry as a profession. It began quietly and increased in volume until I could no longer shrug it off, despite my best efforts. I remember quite vividly a “fork moment” when it felt very clear that God was allowing me full freedom to choose my path. Even so, I felt a strong conviction that if I pursued any future other than full-time ministry, I would experience future regret every time I looked across the gap from the path I’d chosen to the path I should have. That was over two decades ago. Certainly, there have been days along the way when ministry has provided mighty challenges, but I’m not sure I’ve ever looked back with regret. I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

As for where I am specifically these days (BSSM), let’s see if I can sketch out the first few steps of that journey before this post is done.

In January 2010, I attended the largest Christian conference in Western Canada. Sitting in a darkened assembly of 2000 worshipers, I sought the Lord in the songs of Irish worship leader Robin Mark. One of his best loved tunes at that point was a song called “Revival”. Its lyrics look like this, as the tune builds from a single wistful voice all the way to its full-on fiddle-fest, whistle-blowing, belt-it-at-full-volume climax:

I hear the voice of one calling, prepare ye the way of the Lord.
And make His paths straight in the wilderness
And let your light shine in the darkness
And let your rain fall in the desert.

As sure as gold is precious and the honey sweet,
So you love this city and you love these streets.
Every child out playing by their own front door
Every baby laying on the bedroom floor.

Every dreamer dreaming in her dead-end job
Every driver driving through the rush hour mob
I feel it in my spirit, feel it in my bones
You’re going to send revival, bring them all back home

I can hear that thunder in the distance
Like a train on the edge of town
I can feel the brooding of Your Spirit
“Lay your burdens down, Lay your burdens down”.

From the Preacher preaching when the well is dry
To the lost soul reaching for a higher high
From the young man working through his hopes and fears
To the widow walking through the veil of tears

Every man and woman, every old and young
Every fathers daughter, every mothers son.
I feel it in my spirit, feel it in my bones
You’re going to send revival, bring them all back home

I can hear that thunder in the distance
Like a train on the edge of town
I can feel the brooding of Your Spirit
“Lay your burdens down, Lay your burdens down”.

Revive us, Revive us,
Revive us with your fire!

By this point in time, I had been working at my current job with the Glen Elm Church of Christ, for approximately 4 years. Since beginning in 2006, they had been a caring congregation with whom I was grateful to spend my days. My wife and I enjoyed a satisfying marriage, with our second child on the way. Life was full of good things, and if you would’ve interviewed me about the state of my heart five minutes before “the moment”, I would have replied, “I’m doing quite well. Thanks for asking.”

“The moment” arrived somewhere in the midst of that song, with not a second of forewarning. It was an experience of revelation. That’s the feeling when a veil gets lifted or a light pierces darkness. You see what you never saw, despite the fact that it might have been right in front of you. Or right inside you. In the singing of the lines “lay your burdens down,”  I was hit  with an overwhelming and undeniable realization: My heart was heavily burdened — bent over and breathing raggedly and in a state of distress. I returned home seeking understanding. Like any person, I had stresses in my life. My wife and I both worked jobs that didn’t really turn off at the end of the day, we were raising a young family, and our church was in a season of change that involved care and wisdom. Still, it boggled my brain that my heart might feel so heavy, while my mind – less than a foot away – was oblivious. If something was so wrong, what was it?

Boy, I was about to find out.

A number of you expressed interest to read the “how we got here” posts I promised in my last entry. Those are coming, but I confess that they will involve more work than I’ve cared to tackle this past week. So for now, allow me to share a few observations from our first week HERE.

School is in.
On Monday, our two oldest began second and first grades at Bethel Christian School. On Tuesday, our youngest started at the same-leadership-but-different-location preschool. It’s Friday, and we have three happy girls! Really, we’ve been quite impressed with everything on this front. The schools are well-run, faith-focused, lovingly-staffed — easy places to entrust one’s children to others. I have no doubt that there are good schools everywhere, but since we’re here this year, allow me to say that we think these ones measure up very well! In addition to regular classes, the oldest girls will stay for an hour-plus of “daycare” afterward, once Shannon and I begin our classes in September. Their four-year-old sister simply has a longer day of class, meaning she has jumped from a ten-hour class week last year, to a thirty-two-hour class week this year! And she’s all over it! In great wisdom, the state of California legislates nap times into such schedules, so she comes home hoppy and happy at the end of each day.

Schedules are forming.
With school now providing a framework for life, the most obvious change here is that days start early! The oldest girls are considered late if they’re not in their desks at 8 AM, so they are generally dropped off around 7:45. Then I head to the preschool to drop the youngest right after. Needless to say, our alarms are set for earlier than they used to be, and our bedtimes have adjusted accordingly — most of us! I’ve renewed my efforts at an exercise routine (with encouragement from my better-at-it wife) so school drop-offs are followed up with a DVD workout that forces muscles to strain, limbs to stretch, and sweat to flow. If sports opportunities arise down the road, those would be more fun, but a guy has to start somewhere. Daytime hours are still being spend on sorting some life-in-a-new-place details, but we did receive our first letters in the mail last week, so thanks to sweet friends who have confirmed that our mailbox is officially locked and loaded! (Upon re-reading this draft, I’m seeing that last sentence features a poor blend of Second Amendment meets “going postal”, but I’m leaving it in as an honest new-to-America accident. 🙂 )

Time to prepare.
As the year unfolds, I’ll continue including some daily details from our family in these updates. A number of those who read are folks who have loved us for a long time and care about such things. But I imagine that future updates — particularly once our classes begin — will involve more sharing of the truths we’re tasting and the responses that are brewing inside of us. The past few days have provided us with some precious child-free hours. Besides house-stuff and life-errands, we discovered a very tasty India lunch buffet for a daytime date. I’m sure we’ll return! But beyond even tandoori chicken, we’ve designated some of those hours for quiet.

Some is task-oriented: We know a number of the books we’ll be assigned in the year ahead, and we want to get a jump. But some is just about placing ourselves before God in quiet — Scripture, music, worship, prayer, journaling. There were so many levels of logistics to wade through just to make this trip happen that I somewhat-intentionally neglected any focused soul-prep until later. And later is now.

We’re here for a season of restful listening to God and receptive learning from His people, whatever He has to say and whomever they may be. We’re trying to be available and attentive and adventurous, and it’s all a very profound privilege. But I’m still all-too-often all-too-poor at such things. I hesitate, I ride my brakes, I overthink, I drag my feet, I slack off, I get scared — I’ve got a bunch of unhelpful tendencies that I can sometimes hide in my average flow of life. But I feel as though they are going to be pulled out into the light this year, and that makes me uneasy. See — more foot-dragging.

But my slowness to plunge in is also being offset with a building anticipation for a year of learning. I love school and Scripture and spiritual formation, and chances to blend all of those have marked several of my best seasons of life. So I do have expectations of good things. That said, I feel a pleasant freedom from pressure. I actually have a healthy dose of what was described in a friend’s thoughtful text the day after our church family lovingly sent us off:

A note for you as you drive. A strange thought popped into my head yesterday [at church] that I thought I’d share with you. That thought: “I hope Jay & Shannon don’t feel any pressure to have an amazing experience in Cali!” There was so much talk yesterday about excitement, and how great this experience is going to be. And that’s all good. We share some of that excitement for you! But for some reason I felt the need to clarify. Whatever experience God gives you in Cali will be good enough. Even if it’s not earth-shattering. Our prayers go with you! We’re sad to see you go but know that God’s called you to Cali for a purpose.

Of course, the Father expects faithfulness and devotion from us, but those are our responses to the His initiations in our lives. He moves first, He initiates contact, He issues invitation, He makes things happen. And that’s the pressure I feel pleasantly free of: I don’t need to make anything happen. I don’t need to force anything or strive beyond myself. But I do need to receive, and then I do need to respond. And that’s not a sabbatical-specific pattern. God always works that way, and the temptation to seize control or charge off ahead of His lead has been in our hearts since Eden.

It’s here in Redding too.

I have moments of self-centred thought-floods. Mixed in with the desire to pursue God with purity and passion is this reality: I waste brain cells and heart beats on where I’ll fit in the “pecking order” of my class. Will people be impressed by me? Will I appear as smart or skilled or likeable as I hope to be? Will I appear authentic and genuine? Is there a safe way to appear as authentic and genuine without actually taking the risk involved in being authentic and genuine? Is there a place here for me, the real me, the one who’s not entirely sure he’s going to fit here? Some moments, I’m peaceful about it. Our being here has God’s fingerprints all over it — I’ll still aim to tell more of that story in future posts. But some moments, my own hands are too eager to get graspy and grabby.

Sitting quietly with oneself can be surprisingly loud.

And it’s not always as tasty as butter chicken!

When I posted my last entry on this blog, I had neither idea nor intention to wait over a year before posting again — wow! That’s unreal.

But it seems like a reasonable time to get back at it. For starters, I’ve missed it. I love to string words together toward some form of meaningful sharing. Secondly, our family is queued up for a very different-than-usual year. Who knows? Perhaps there’ll be something worth writing about. 😉

So what are we up to?

In a sentence: I’ve been granted an eight-month sabbatical from my ministry position, and we’ve determined to spend it in northern California.

What will we do there?

Another sentence: Shannon and I will attend a ministry school operated by Bethel Church in Redding, while our girls all complete a year of school here (Gr 2, Gr 1, and Pre-K).

So how did this plan come about?

That will take way more than a sentence. Those of you who live closely with us will know much of that lengthy story already, but for others who care, I’m aiming to post portions of our journey over the coming weeks, before our classes begin in early September. For now, allow me to make some more mundane observations about our first few days of life in Redding, CA.

It is stunningly hot here!
We’ve been in the mid-40’s since we arrived on Tuesday, and the locals say we’re not at the top of the scale yet. Our suite is part of a complex that has two pools — we plunged into one for the first time today. And then we wondered why we waited so long! Seriously, the “most comfortable place in town” by Shannon’s delirious description. It’ll likely be on the list again tomorrow. And Saturday again.

Getting set up takes work and dollars.
It’s been a while since I walked into an empty home and began again. While our eight-day trip down here was vacation-like, as much as 28-ish hours in a van can be, it’s been fairly work-like since arriving. Steady attention has gone into tracking down basic furnishings to make this place feel homey, setting up accounts for utilities and mail and internet and more. Today we had meet-the-teacher time with our oldest two daughters; tomorrow we’ll do it again with our youngest. Both of their schools (the elementary and the preschool) have orientation processes and parent volunteer hours to fulfill, so we’re wading through info at a quick pace these days. And between those tasks and keeping children happily alive, we’re getting a feel for the city and its layout and visiting Target and Dollar Stores way too much!

There are lots of good people in lots of good places.
Even in a few short days, I’m impressed at fine folks we’ve met: The oh-so-helpful techie who set up our TV and internet today (he’d worked an earlier season of his life in Colorado with a bunch of Canadians following an oil boom); two friendly neighbour boys, Umberto (12) and Omar (18), who came to introduce themselves; Jan, from Florida, who sold us a futon (if you’re visiting, we’ve got your bed) and then shared some fantastic insights about her past experiences at the ministry school; and Paul & Rachel, a retirement-age New Zealand couple from whom we’ve bought some furnishings and who spent an earlier season of life in Moose Jaw and a more recent season helping international families settle into Redding. We’ve also meet a handful of folks who will be our classmates this year, ranging from hometowns in San Diego, CA and Eugene, OR and Steinbach, MB. As humans, we live in a small world, and as Christians, we live in a grand Kingdom. Even my first few days here have confirmed that we are set to spend the year surrounded by folks who love the Body of Christ, who long to see the Church built up, and who wish to see His Kingdom come. And they use capital letters on all those words, not just in spelling but in living. And that just seems a steady mark of the great folks I know everywhere I go. Thanks to so many of you who have blessed my path by “teaching me which words to capitalize” too. 🙂

Allow that to suffice for tonight. I’d love to hear from you — long-time friend or first-time reader or anyone in between. Stay tuned for more from one Canadian family seeking God in the burning-up city of Redding.