Category: Hope

So what is my story anyway?

Published by Daniel on September 1, 2016

As summer ends and school begins, I’ve been in a funk, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’d hoped to make more progress on my new book manuscript before my fall teaching resumes. Maybe it’s because some of my friends are moving on to greener pastures, and I’m a bit sad. Maybe it’s because the upcoming election depresses me.

Maybe it’s because pretty soon, I’ll turn fifty.

Fifty is a landmark. My body is getting older, my pharmacy visits more regular, and the arrival of my first AARP invitation much closer (that last one really creeps me out). I’m starting to do things I never dreamed I would, like gripe about my sore back and say things like, “When I was your age…” More and more, I feel like Old Man Caruthers in the old Scooby Doo cartoons: “If it wasn’t for you darn kids!”

As my birthday approaches, I can’t help wondering: What have I done with these first fifty years of my life? And what will I do with what’s left? Just when I should be planning ahead for retirement, I still don’t know what to be when I grow up.

The best times of my life have involved writing (in my PhD effort) and teaching (at my dream job), but so have my biggest failures (the loss of both). Besides, writing often doesn’t pay much, and I’m still finding only part-time teaching opportunities in my subject areas.

So I face questions—mostly of the “magic 8-ball” variety: What’s ahead for me? Will I find clarity, or just more ambiguity? Will some sort of life purpose finally come into view?

I think what I’m really asking is: So what is my story? You’d think I’d have one by now – but what is it?

In the early 1980s, the philosopher Jean Francois Lyotard wrote a critique of modernity called The Postmodern Condition. In it, he argues that science is limited because it relies solely on knowledge for meaning, but true meaning transcends knowledge. He claims that meaning is found only through story.

So what is my story?

The truth is, my resume doesn’t reflect any standout direction or ability. There’s really nothing about me which excels over anyone else, and in fact there are many things about me which fall short.

But that’s not my story. That’s not who I am.

If I told you my story
You would hear Hope that wouldn’t let go
And if I told you my story
You would hear Love that never gave up
And if I told you my story
You would hear Life, but it wasn’t mine”

“My Story” – Big Daddy Weave

My story is about overcoming my past to make a better future. My story is about beating my low-income, broken-home background to get an education, buy a home, and establish a stable marriage which has outlasted my parents’. My story is about turning my PhD loss – my worst personal failure – into a book, produced by a respected Christian publishing house. And that last fact seems to confirm Lyotard’s point: my efforts at science (researching and interpreting data in a 400-page doctoral dissertation) went down in flames and will never see the light of day—whereas Losers Like Us (my much smaller book about my life story) has gone public, bringing redemption to me and to others.

Now that I think about it, my story isn’t really about me at all. It’s about God, pouring out his grace over my mess.

I am a part of God’s story. God is the main character; God is the protagonist. The whole story arc, with all of its confusing, maddening subplots, glorifies him.

So what is my story?

My story is about grace, mercy, and redemption. It is about a God who loves me despite my failures, and uses my broken life to point others to him.

Others may be unimpressed by my resume – but it’s not who I really am. Your resume isn’t who you are either. No resume can ever reflect the meaning of our lives.

So now, as I face the precipice of my 50^th birthday, I must keep telling my story. And his story. I must keep letting him shine through my brokenness.

That is my story.

It has been my story for this first half-century. Lord willing, it will be my story for the next.

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“Hosanna!”: The presidential election, terrorism, and the state of the world

Published by Daniel on March 23, 2016

Last Saturday in Arizona, protesters tried to silence a presidential candidate while supporters retaliated with fisticuffs.

Hours later, on Palm Sunday, Christians commemorated Jesus’s kingly entrance into Jerusalem.

The next day, in Brussels, terrorist attacks killed over 30 people and injured at least 200 more.

This year has been that kind of surreal.

The elections, the unrest, the terror—all of this craziness makes me feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and afraid.

I can’t quite describe my feelings, but they include anger, horror, frustration, numbness, bewilderment and more, depending on what’s in the news each day.

I am distressed and heartbroken over the terrorism, crying out to God for the victims. But I can’t stop it. So I focus on something closer to home: election year, and how our next president might respond to terrorism and all of the other problems facing us, both here and abroad.

Yet it unnerves me to think who We, the people may choose as our next president. I am so un-thrilled by the choices that if I had to vote today, I couldn’t, even while holding my nose. I simply cannot shake the feeling that we are preparing to elect a dictator—because that’s what we seem to want.

I say this because I see a trend of feverish devotion, with several candidates being exalted to nearly messianic status. I understand that in a democratic republic, researching the candidates and trying to support the best one is a good thing. But where is the line between “support” and “worship”?

I’m not sure, but I think we border on worship when we defend our candidates by…

-shouting down or cold-cocking the opposition.

-attacking other candidates’ shortcomings while giving our own candidate a pass for the same offenses.

-name-calling and bullying anyone who dares to question our candidate.

-insisting that our candidate is the only one who has the answers.

All of these could fit the definition of “worship.”

It’s funny how history repeats itself.

In 2008 we elected a president based on a promise of “hope and change”—yet the world is still divided, hate-filled, and violent. Now we are preparing to elect one based on promises of “revolution” or “national greatness.” More and more these days, we seem to believe that the right person will be able to solve everything, and ring in utopia. Yet in truth, any president is lucky to fulfill maybe five percent, at most, of everything promised on the campaign trail (because our laws clearly define what a president can and cannot do—thank goodness for the Constitution’s “division of powers”!). In fact, no matter how great their desire, vision, and ability, none of these leaders will ever be able to save us—as a nation, or as individuals.

It has never happened, and it never will.

Well, except once.

Jesus arrived in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, things were much the same as they are today. Then, as now, people felt a sense of political unrest and unhappiness with the government (and it was a government of brutal Roman occupiers, not their own self-government). Then, as now, many of Jesus’s followers were seeking a social revolution instead of a spiritual one. Then, as now, they despaired when their leader didn’t do what they wanted. And then, as now, people feared forces beyond their control and longed for a messiah to deliver them.

Yet Jesus came in riding into town not on a white steed, like a military hero, but on a humble donkey.

And crowds of Jews spread palm branches before him and cried, “Hosanna!”—a rich, ancient word that we now use only on Palm Sunday. But I’m thinking we should revive it, because its meaning is, “Lord, save us!” (Psalm 118:25)—an urgent and desperate cry for deliverance.

The people were quoting this word from the Psalms. They weren’t welcoming Jesus into their city; they were pleading for divine rescue—as at Passover when God rescued their ancestors from slavery in Egypt, and as at Calvary when he rescued humanity from sin. No one knew it yet, but Jesus was coming to completely and finally answer the cries of “Hosanna.” He was coming to rescue us all.

Ironically, those cries for rescue would be answered just days later, after these same crowds turned on Jesus and demanded his death—the very death which would save the world.

If only they had known.

And now, during this holy Passion Week, we need saving more than ever. We see Americans attacking one another, a capital city recovering from fatal bombings, and a world possibly inching closer to the next great war.

None of this is exactly new (we’ve seen it all before), but it still feels so chaotic, so desperate, so uncertain. I simply do not have answers—nor, despite the politicians’ promises, does anyone else.

I’ve lived long enough to realize that we will never be rescued by anyone on the ballot.

And at that realization, my spirit cries, “Hosanna! Lord, save us!”

Only one Messiah has sacrificed himself for us, instead of for his own political ends. Only one Messiah possesses all of the power, authority, and credentials required to save us.

There is only one Savior.

And he is not currently running for President.

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The gifts of the star

Published by Daniel on December 18, 2014

Of all the symbols related to Christmas, the most meaningful for me is undoubtedly the star.

The star radiates majesty and mystery. Perched high atop a roof or tree, silently overlooking the frenzy of the season, it doesn’t judge, coerce, or demand attention. It is just there, waiting patiently for the world to look up and receive its message of hope.

Mentioned in only one passage of scripture (Matthew 2:1-12), the star seems to appear with purpose and move with intelligence, almost like a living character in the story. When the promised Messiah is born, the star appears to the Magi, but it does not at first lead them to him; instead it apparently disappears or is hidden for awhile, because they have to go to Jerusalem and ask where to find “the king of the Jews” (v. 2). After they learn the prophets foretold he would be born in Bethlehem, the star reappears, to their great joy (v. 10). Matthew says it “went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was” (v. 9).

It went ahead of them, and then stopped at a specific spot? What kind of star does that? It almost seems to have a mind of its own.

To me, its rare behavior indicates that the star was a supernatural phenomenon, ordered by God to mark a supernatural event—an event like no other in history: the coming of the Savior.

The first-century Jews were in desperate need of a savior. They were oppressed from without by a Roman empire that neither understood nor cared about what was important to them. They were oppressed from within by a system of religious laws which were impossible to keep. It was a time of uncertainty, violence, and hopelessness. God had been silent for four centuries since the last Old Testament prophet. The promise of the Messiah was ancient history, distant and forgotten.

They must have wondered if God had abandoned them—or if he even cared.

Then Jesus was born, and God sent the star to point the way to him.

The world today is also in desperate need of a savior. In our human arrogance, we think we are doing okay—but look at the headlines. We are not okay. We are lost in darkness and brokenness.

But how does that relate to the star? Isn’t the star just an irrelevant symbol of an ancient story? What difference could it possibly make in our dark world today?

I think the star still matters, because it shows God’s love and care. He used it to provide three gifts that are always desperately needed: anticipation, guidance, and the fulfillment of his promise.

First, the star created anticipation. Apparently the Magi had studied prophecies about the Messiah and had connected the dots. They recognized the appearance of the star as such an epic event that they eagerly packed their things, left their home, and traveled for about two years (according to the report in Matthew 2:16) to follow it to the place where he was. Imagine their excitement as they got closer and closer to finding him.

Anticipation creates excitement that God has something good in store. Without anticipation, we have nothing to look forward to.

Second, the star provided guidance. It led the Magi from far-off lands to the promised Messiah, just as the pillar of fire led the Hebrews (Exodus 13:21) from the Red Sea to the Promised Land. Both the star and the fire led their followers to a specific destination, chosen by God. And metaphorically, both showed the way of deliverance, out of darkness and into the light.

Guidance provides a sense that God is leading. Without guidance, we wander aimlessly in the dark.

Third, and best of all, the star marked the fulfillment of God’s promise. From the prophecies, the Magi knew about the promised Messiah, and they recognized the star as the supernatural sign of his birth. The star proved that God, who had seemed to be absent or oblivious for so long, not only makes promises; he also keeps them.

Anticipation, guidance, and the fullfillment of God’s promise—we need those three gifts now more than ever. For the Magi, the star was the light which guided them to Jesus. For us, it is a reminder that God will accomplish his plan for deliverance, even when we cannot see it.

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New life in the zombie apocalypse, part 1: Waking up in the crisis

Published by Daniel on October 5, 2014

Note: I love zombie apocalypse stories because they are a great metaphor for life crises. This blog series on the topic has four parts: 1) waking up in the crisis; 2) defining “alive”; 3) abandoning self-sufficiency; and 4) spiritual weapons and sustenance. All scriptures are NIV unless otherwise noted.

In the 2010 pilot episode of AMC TV’s “The Walking Dead,” Rick (the protagonist) awakens from a coma to find his city deserted except for a horrific new reality: flesh-eating zombies. He dodges them for awhile, trying unsuccessfully to find his wife and son, but the need for safety finally drives him to seek refuge in an abandoned military tank.

In the episode’s final shot, the camera points directly down from above to show several zombies climbing around on the tank, looking for a way in. Then the camera slowly pulls back, widening the scene to reveal hundreds more zombies shuffling toward the tank from all directions.

And then the scene fades to black.

zombies-converge-on-tank — From AMC’s “The Walking Dead” – pilot episode

It is one of rare shots in film that conveys total terror and hopelessness.

That closing shot, that whole episode, resonated with me on a deeply emotional level. It all served as the perfect metaphor for how I had been feeling for over two years—alive but trapped, temporarily surviving but with absolutely no way forward.

In 2008, my world collapsed in utter failure. When I got off the plane after a day’s travel from London, still numb from having my doctoral dissertation rejected just days before, I realized I was facing a whole new reality—one where nothing made sense, every moment was uncertain, and every dream I had tried to form was gone, with a finality for which there was no cure.

I had stepped into my own personal zombie apocalypse.

For months after I returned home, I barely shuffled through the days. I don’t know if I was a zombie or a survivor, but in a zombie apocalypse, both could be called “the walking dead” (the zombies actually are dead, and the survivors’ future is so bleak that they might as well be). So every day I had to choose whether to be a zombie, feeding on baser animal instincts like rage and self-centeredness, or a survivor, determined to cling to higher spiritual values like faith and love.

I had been living in this strange existence for over two years before that “Walking Dead” premiere. And that hopeless, terrifying final scene captured every single feeling I experienced at the time.

Zombie stories are my guilty pleasure. I can relate to the desperate plight of the survivors, and the fascinating “what if” questions—questions such as…

– If I were trapped in a zombie apocalypse, what would I do?

– Could I survive? Do I have what it takes?

– Would I choose to “opt out,” as some characters do, by committing suicide?

– What would I look like with a zombie face—would it hurt or help?

It’s not the inevitable gore that draws me to the zombie genre—that would just be weird. Instead, it’s the scenario itself that intrigues me.

Zombie stories almost always start with the protagonist (typically a male, though it could be a female) inexplicably waking up in a zombie apocalypse and slowly realizing that something is not right. Numb and disoriented, he staggers through the landscape, passing through new stages of awareness and struggling to interpret what he sees and hears in this dangerous new world. Suspense builds due to fear of discovery—discovery of new horrors. As the mental fog begins to clear, panic rises at these new realities, then desperation as he remembers his family and determines to look for them. Finally, sorrow sets in as he realizes the finality of it all: his old familiar world is gone, and only this horrific new one remains.

The zombie genre rarely, if ever, explains what caused the apocalypse, or what might happen next. There is no big picture, no answer to “how?” or “why?” Instead, there is only an individual or a small group of survivors just trying to get by. The only question is, “What now?” The protagonist must simply accept the new reality, and learn to survive and remain human within it.

Kind of like life.

The truth is, you will probably never, ever have to answer the questions that confront the protagonist in a zombie story. But we each have to face our own apocalypse. The catalyst could be anything, from a divorce to a serious illness to an unexpected death. Whatever the cause, we awaken in a new reality. We are numb, foggy, angry, desperate, and saddened as we try to put the pieces together. We are forced to get past the “why” question and start to answer “what now?” as we trudge through the new chaos.

However, the zombie apocalypse—whether real or metaphorical—is never completely without hope.

The next episode of “The Walking Dead” opens with Rick still in the tank—but something unexpected happens: a voice suddenly crackles over the radio. Someone is watching the whole scenario from a higher, safer vantage point, offering to guide Rick out of his desperate situation. Immediately, he decides to trust that voice.

Like Rick, we too have a voice that speaks into our situation. It’s the voice of the Holy Spirit—unexpected, higher than we are, and able to see the whole picture. If we are to survive our own apocalypse, we must learn to know and trust that voice without hesitation.

Somehow, I have survived my apocalypse for nearly seven years. My survival skills are far from perfect. But that voice—the wise, loving voice of the Holy Spirit—has helped me limp along.

So get up, clear the cobwebs from your brain, and allow the voice to guide you too.

Welcome to the zombie apocalypse!

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Five seconds on the journey

Published by Daniel on July 14, 2014

As daylight seems to be breaking on my long, dark night, I have been taking some moments to look back and reflect on a few things about all that has happened — my responses to the chaos, my emotional spirals, my relationship with God, and especially my trust in all things Yahweh.

Take that last one in particular. During my dark night, at times my trust in God was definitely strained, uncertain. This issue often came up in my prayers. More often than requests for justice over wrongs done to me, or for a miracle check from heaven to pay off my debts and bail me out of my circumstances (though I did pray for both of those things, believe me), my prayers leaned toward a plea to know the future.

lamp_unto_my_feet_painting_by_madetobeunique-d2xsvcd Typically God doesn’t reveal many details about each person’s individual future. But in my own case, when life sucked, I often wished he would. And during my long, dark bouts of depression and uncertainty, I often heard myself pray a silly prayer: “Lord, let me see five seconds of my future—any five seconds at all. Just let me see that there will be an end to this nightmare.”

My prayer was born of desperation – desperation to know whether things would ever change, whether there was something – anything – to look forward to. Metaphorically speaking, for years I felt adrift at sea, with every land-sighting turning out to be a mirage – taunting me, mocking me. I longed to know if I would ever make landfall again, or if the drifting would go on forever. I longed for the darkness to end.

“Lord, let me see five seconds of my future.” An irrational prayer? Definitely. Because which five-second moment in the future would he show me? A really good one? A really bad one? Would seeing it ease my anxieties about the future, or stir up more of them?

But thankfully, when we pray, God hears our need – not our rationality. He knew my prayer was like the plea of an injured child: “Daddy, make the hurt go away.”

And I began to notice that he did answer me. The answer I heard was always the same: a verse from Psalm 119 – the longest poem in the Bible: “Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path” (Psalm 119:105).

Not very specific. No details about the future. And definitely not the revelation I was seeking.

Yet during those long years of darkness, I had plenty of time to think about it. And I realized that for someone like me, in the middle of a “dark night” experience, that verse was very appropriate.

I came to understand that the “lamp for my feet” is not a high-powered flashlight, shooting a beam far into the distance. It doesn’t show me every perilous ledge, rushing river, or wild beast awaiting me up ahead. Instead it’s more like a lantern with a soft orange glow, illuminating only my immediate surroundings. It provides enough light to keep my next step safe. Beyond that, however, there is still darkness. And there’s no promise of future knowledge – only “your word.”

What is that “word?” To David, it was the Law of Moses – the first five books of our current Bible. To contemporary Jews, it is the whole Hebrew Bible (the Christian Old Testament). But to Christ-followers, it is much more: it is the Old Testament, the New Testament, and Christ himself, the living word. He is the lamp for our feet and the light to our path. For the light of that word to guide me to safety, I must constantly meditate and depend upon it—upon him.

If we pull back from that verse and consider the rest of Psalm 119, this whole poem is unified by a single theme: the word. And within that theme is the continual plea for understanding. Because in Psalm 119, deliverance from darkness comes through a deeper understanding of God’s word.

In the last stanza of Psalm 119, David prays:

May my cry come before you, Lord;
give me understanding according to your word.
May my supplication come before you;
deliver me according to your promise. (Psalm 119:169-170)

During my deepest darkness, the silly prayer I mentioned was met with a verse promising light to guide me through it, one step at a time. I was never shown the outcome of my journey in any detail. Instead I was given just enough light to keep me from stumbling or straying off the path. But that light came by hanging on to the written word of scripture, and also the living word – Christ, the light of the world, who will lead me safely down the path.

Through the darkness.

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Saturday in limbo

Published by Daniel on April 20, 2014

As I write this, it’s a gray Saturday morning, with the rain pounding against my window. Today is very different from yesterday, which was a sunny Friday. Specifically, it was Good Friday.

Just hours ago, I attended my church’s Good Friday service. As always, it was an unsettling time. A time to do three things: Remember Jesus’ death. Eat the elements. Go home.

There was no message about the resurrection. No announcement about Easter Sunday activities. No promise of coming hope.

Not that I’m complaining. In fact, I think Good Friday should point to the cross, not the resurrection. Because Jesus’ death is too important to forget. And it’s only bearable because in hindsight, we know it wasn’t the end. When Jesus spoke his last words – “It is finished” – he meant his work on earth in the flesh, not his whole story.

But back then, no one knew that.

Good Friday leaves Jesus’ followers – both then and now – walking away from a bloody corpse and wondering what just happened, yet knowing deep down that we are somehow responsible. You know: Jesus is dead. Because of me. Have a nice day.

And after yesterday’s Good Friday service, although I walked out into bright spring sunshine, I felt only that raw blackness of death – the emptiness of limbo – with no ray of hope.

Imagine Jesus’ followers on this same Saturday back then, locked away in a dark room, listening for footfalls outside that might be coming to take them. The previous three years with Jesus must have seemed so remote, so unreal. By now, Judas is rotting in a lonely field, and Peter is haunted by a rooster’s crow and the now-hollow words of the one he had called “Lord.” Maybe Thomas is picking at a thread in his robe, wondering how even he, the skeptic, could have been taken in. On this Saturday, their great leader, the one they trusted, is dead. Obviously he must have been a fake.

Yes, the disciples had seen his “miracles”. They had seen him heal the lepers, walk on water, and bring the dead back to life. All trickery? Wishful thinking? Dumb luck? How had this now-lifeless body fooled them so badly? Had they just wanted a messiah so much that they settled for the one with the coolest tricks? Were they really that desperate? I’m sure they asked themselves all of these questions and more.

And now it’s Saturday. Life goes on, and they must live with the consequences of their choice to follow him. They must not only watch their backs lest they too be killed, but they must also, I believe, face the torment inside their own heads: “What happened? How could I be so gullible? What now?” They must live with the regret of falling for Jesus’ scam. He’s gone, and with him the hopes and dreams of the last three years of their lives. Until they die, they will be perpetually stuck in limbo.

I understand the limbo of Saturday. I have lived in that limbo for six years. My postgraduate work died a permanent death, and there was no CPR or shock treatment that could jolt it back to life.

In this limbo there is no direction, no vision, no purpose. Like the disciples, I have locked myself away, paralyzed by fear and shame. Like them, I have sat in silence and replayed the past, trying to determine where it all went so wrong, where I missed the signs that should have told me to stop. And there’s no glimmer of resurrection because I can’t yet see Sunday, when the empty tomb is exposed, when the women come running and shrieking that he is alive.

So here’s my question: On that Saturday, why did the disciples hang around? Why didn’t they scatter in all directions? After Jesus’ death on Friday, the Jewish leaders who killed him would have been home celebrating the sabbath. A perfect chance for each disciple to flee the city and escape with his life.

But they didn’t. On Saturday, in the stunned silence after Friday, some crazy, inexplicable thing kept them in Jerusalem, gathered together.

What was it?

I think it was hope. A deep, unspeakable hope. Something inside each one made them stay.

Once, Peter even voiced this subconscious hope. Jesus had just given the hard teaching that his followers must eat his flesh and drink his blood (John 6:53-58), causing many to feel so confused and creeped out that they left him. So Jesus turned to those who remained and asked, “You do not want to leave too, do you?” (v. 67). And Peter’s answer betrays both uncertainty and conviction: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God” (v. 68).

On this Saturday, after the horrors of Friday, I believe those words are still ringing in Peter’s ears, piercing through the pain and bewilderment of Jesus’ death.

I so desperately want to jump ahead to Sunday – knowing, as the disciples didn’t, that Jesus does rise again. But more often I must live in the limbo of Saturday – with Jesus still dead – and echo Peter’s words through the darkness.

Tomorrow, on Sunday, I can shout, “Jesus is risen!”

But today, on this rainy Saturday, I can only say: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

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Hope in the sting of loss

Published by Daniel on March 4, 2014

February is always a difficult month for me because it marks the anniversary when my doctoral dissertation died a sudden and violent death. February is the month that I flew out of England for the last time.

This February, like the last six, was not a happy time. I approached it with a sense of dread, grief and sadness, still feeling the pain of the loss of my work. This February, though–the sixth since my postgraduate research went sideways–I had the joy and thrill of a recently-signed book deal, and with it a sense of newness. It is a new chapter. Perhaps a sense of hope. Yet I continue to grieve. The loss still stings.

I feel a little like Job–specifically, Job in the final chapter (Job 42). Job’s ordeal is over. He has had his audience with God (although God’s response was basically that he is God, and he does not have to explain anything to us). Job’s friends have been directly rebuked for giving him such crummy, off-target advice in claiming his trouble was due to sin (with Job, ironically, then interceding on their behalf). His wealth has returned and his siblings have joined him in a feast.

And he has ten sparkling brand-new children—seven sons and three daughters—the exact number of children he originally lost, crushed to death under a collapsed roof. Further, to take the whole reward thing up a notch, these three daughters are described as the most beautiful in the land (verse 13).

This epilogue bothers me. It smacks of a “happily-ever-after” fairy tale. It wraps up the drama in a package that’s just a little too neat. Did Job stop grieving simply because he was divinely upgraded to a better, more beautiful Family 2.0?

A new blessing doesn’t lessen the grief of loss. And continuing to grieve in a time of blessing is not short-sighted or sinful.

For a plant to live, the seed must die. That doesn’t mean the seed never existed. Out of the death of my doctoral dissertation was born a book deal. And this book may end up being more widely read than a dusty old dissertation in an obscure university library.

Still, I grieve the loss of those seven years of work. And I celebrate. Typical of the God of resurrection, this God brings life out of death. For Job, his new children were born out of death, perhaps a metaphor for a new chapter in his life: reminders of hope in a context of death. That doesn’t mean his other children never existed. Perhaps, when he surveyed the second batch of loving faces around him, he was able to fondly remember the first batch—and perhaps, in grief, to celebrate.

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