Looking Back Over the Past Decade

To me, the 1990s are like yesterday. Time and math say I’m wrong but I don’t care. You can’t tell me that the 1995 Braves World Series Championship is twenty-five years old. You can’t tell me that the Internet isn’t new. You can’t tell me everything will be okay with Y2K. I mean, you can, I’m just not sure I can believe you. Time can’t possibly move as fast as you say.

Sitting here on the brink of 2020, even I have to face that another decade is coming to a close. The 2010s are almost a complete memory. For me (and probably for you too) there were many that I’ll cherish for a long time, some I wish were never so, and a whole lot of others that were just days in the life that seemed meaningless at the time that appear monumental in hindsight. Here are a few of them.

2010

On May 1st, 2010, I sat at a table in the front of the sanctuary at Immanuel Church. Ray Ortlund was teaching a group of us how to study the Bible. It was raining hard outside and had been all morning. My Bible lay open to the book of Jonah. My pen in hand, paper before me. I mapped out what I saw. I made connections. I learned how to study just one book of the Bible, and it was worth a full seminary degree.

As I said, outside it was raining. I didn’t know it at the time, but the next day, all that rain would find its way into the river by my house and then up to my house and then inside my house. My wife, Sarah, and I were married only two years by then. We had no children yet, just a dog and a little house in Franklin, TN where we made our life together.

On May 2nd, I sat in my car in my parent’s garage and listened to the radio as they talked about landslides. I went inside to see cars floating down I-24. I watched as helicopters rescued horses on someone’s farm. The rain just kept pounding.

The night before, we’d gone home, moved all we could upstairs, and prayed for the rain to stop. It didn’t. Laying in my childhood bedroom that night, my wife rebuked me of little faith. She was right to do so. This was not outside God’s sovereign hand. This was God’s sovereign hand. Didn’t we just see what God can do in the book of Jonah? Didn’t I know that he even cares for the cattle? Why else was there a helicopter saving horses the next day?

For some, the Nashville Flood of 2010 was disastrous. For us, it was redemptive. God used it to wash away all the things we thought we needed. As we tore up the floors and cut out the walls to prevent the mold from growing, God tore something out of us that, if left, would kill. He took the short life we’d built together and tore it apart to rebuild it on a new foundation—him. We didn’t lose our home. We got it back better than ever, with a new focus and a new purpose, to use it for the advancement of his mission rather than a retreat from the world he’d sent us into.

(You can read more about this here)

2011

Months after the flood, we were preparing to go to dinner with one of our deacons at church. I was to take over the finances the next year, and he wanted to show me some things. I got home from work, changed clothes, and came downstairs to a wife unsure of how to break the news. So I just looked at the positive result on the test and hugged her, both tears and fear rising within me.

How could I be a dad? I didn’t know what to do! We smiled at each other. It was overwhelming. We didn’t have time to talk about it. We were due for dinner. We got in the car and drove, saying something and nothing, unsure of how to proceed. When do we break the news to others? When do we go to the doctor? When do we need to get the nursery ready? What if something terrible happens?

Jack appeared on July 6, 2011. Two days before, we spent the day walking around the festival downtown and eating watermelon with our friends on the back porch. Then, it was just the two of us. Forty-eight hours later, it was three of us. I was a dad. Sarah was a mom. We were a family.

2012

Throughout the rest of 2011 and into 2012, we learned how to be parents. We scheduled naps and feedings. We posed for newborn pictures, then three-month pictures, then six-month pictures, and so on. Jack grew from a baby into a toddler, learning to walk and then run. He fell often, hitting his head and causing a bump to appear. But he never stopped. His pain tolerance was, and is still, very high. Nothing discouraged him. Very little does now.

In May of 2012, we took a trip to Vermont to visit our best friends who had recently moved up there. Through the winding hills and beautiful scenery, Sarah complained of car sickness more than usual. I knew something she didn’t but wasn’t able to vocalize. Was I right?

She was pregnant. We found out shortly after we arrived home. We wanted another child, but this one would be a mere 18 months younger than Jack. Could we handle two babies? Too late now. We were about to find out.

So we prepared to make another leap, this time from a family of three to a family of four. We had another room to prepare, another registry to make, and another set of appointments to keep. As the year wound down and Jack celebrated his second Christmas, a new set of hopes began to appear brighter and brighter. Luke was almost here.

2013

Luke arrived on January 14, 2013. He was later than planned. We didn’t know it at the time, but that’s just his way of living. He’s not in a hurry. Even still, we’re constantly waiting on him to leave the house. He’s wandering upstairs trying to find his shoes as we sit in the car wondering what’s taking so long. He’s the one who sleeps in. He’s not worried about time because, in his mind, there’s always plenty of it.

It’s funny that it was 2013 that taught us how short time actually is. There was never enough. Two kids needed to be fed. Two needed to be put to bed. Two needed far more than one, and though there were two of us, two wasn’t enough. Luke required more attention as a baby than Jack ever had. We had to adjust. We had to adapt. What worked with Jack simply didn’t with Luke. He needed to be wrapped, carried, rocked, fed, sung to, and held tight before he thought about going to sleep. If we failed at any one of those, he’d scream for an hour.

Luke was the kid that came in and taught us we weren’t the all-star parents we thought we were. It wasn’t that he was bad. It was that he was different. Babies, it turns out, aren’t robots. God has a thousand ways to keep parents on their toes, dependent on him alone, and personality types is game plan number one.

We settled in and Luke grew and grew. Soon, he was nearing the size of his brother, in weight, if not yet in height. He would snuggle with us on the couch and watch a show, content to be in your arms. He would eat, and eat, and eat some more. He had different likes and dislikes. He filled our house with a joy we didn’t know we needed.

I remember waiting those long extra weeks for Luke to arrive. I wondered if I could love another child as much as I loved Jack. Then Luke was here and I wondered how I ever wondered that. He had my heart. He still does. He always will. Love, as my dad said once, doesn’t divide. It multiplies. Luke proved that to me.

2014

In March of 2014, Sarah and I were learning how to raise our two kids. We were serving in our church. Sarah was making our house a home. I was working hard at my job. And about 45-minutes down the road, my grandfather was dying.

In reality, he’d been dying for a while. His heart just wasn’t strong anymore, and nothing would strengthen it. The time was coming. We all knew it. So one Saturday, my parents, my sister, and my family went out to his house. We ate dinner with my grandparents and my aunt and cousins. We sat downstairs because Granddaddy couldn’t climb the stairs anymore. His spot, secured by his remote control and container of peanuts was still there, but he wouldn’t sit in it again.

My sister took Jack outside. It was a sunny day in early spring. The tulips were up. Jack found a yellow one and picked it. He brought it in the house, walked to his great grandfather and handed it to him. I snapped a picture of Granddaddy sitting there holding the tulip my young son had just given him.

Jack would never have the privilege of eating Granddaddy’s fried catfish. He wouldn’t pick him up and take him to McDonald’s for hamburgers. There would be no trips to Dairy Queen for dipped ice cream cones. But those were my memories with him. They couldn’t be Jack’s.

But as he sat there holding that flower, I grieved for the things I had that my kids would never see of him. If they remembered him at all, which I knew they wouldn’t, it would be one of weakness. It would not be that of summer days in the creek, the cold water up to our knees looking for fish and frogs. It would not be sweating on the bank of the pond, waiting for that catfish that would make the perfect dinner. But again, those were my memories. They weren’t meant for them, no matter how much I wished they would be.

This was the year I would first taste the sorrow of death. Granddaddy died just short of his 80th birthday. On Tuesday, March 18th, I stood beside his grave and conducted my first funeral. I had no idea at the time that the next few years would usher in more than I wanted of death. But that day, I stood and told of the days gone by, of Granddaddy and me in the creeks and beside the ponds. I told people of the hope we can find in Jesus in the face of death. And I reminded us all of the words of Saint Patrick, because Granddaddy’s birthday fell on Saint Patrick’s death day, and he almost made it full circle. “Christ beside me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me.”

2015

As spring morphed into summer and summer gave way to fall and fall ushered in winter, the clock rang in another year. We were half-way through a decade.

In many ways, I could break the decade into two halves centered on the two churches we served. The first half was comprised of Immanuel Church in Nashville. We began attending in only their second year as a church. We jumped right in, growing like weeds under the ministry of Ray Ortlund. Sarah was discipled by his wife, Jani. We served in about every capacity we could and we loved every minute of it. We had no plans to ever leave. But our plans are nothing compared to God’s.

In the summer of 2015, I sat in a restaurant’s private room with the other elders of Immanuel. We were interviewing a guy from Louisville who planned to plant a church in Franklin, just a few minutes south of Nashville and my hometown.  I was so glad to meet him. I wanted to see a new church planted in Franklin for years, even considering if God was calling me to do it myself.

As the conversation progressed, it became clear that we could help this pastor. We hired Dustin as the Church Planter in Residence. A few months later, we began talking. I had no plans to leave Immanuel. Sarah wouldn’t even entertain the idea. And then something happened. God called and we answered. He was telling us to go—to leave the church that grew us and matured us and to begin again with new people in a new location in a new church. I remember feeling the stirring in my own heart and, eventually, I asked Sarah, “What do you think about going with Dustin?” Her response told me all I needed to know. “I’m open to it.” I knew then it was a done deal.

We didn’t officially leave Immanuel until 2016, but it was 2015 when the work began. Refuge Church was born. We were there at the beginning. We’re still there.

2016

2015 was a year of accepting change. We were changing churches—on the best of terms, but still hard. And we were also changing as a family once again. Sarah was pregnant with Andy, due right around Luke’s birthday.

I had no idea how much Sarah wanted another child until we found out we were pregnant again. I wasn’t so sure. How could we raise three kids? Would it be too much? Little did I know, Andy was the joy we needed (and still need) because dark times were coming. I don’t want to place too much on a boy, but Andy has been a continual bright spot in our lives—a blessing we would never for a second claim to deserve. All our kids are.

A week before Andy was to be born, we were sitting at home. Sarah was on the floor with Jack and Luke, her belly ripe and ready. Sarah’s mom called my phone. I didn’t answer in time. I thought it was odd. They were on vacation. Why would she call me? And if she needed something, why not call Sarah?

A voice mail popped up. I listened. It was Sarah’s mom’s friend, the one they were visiting. My heart sank. Something happened but I didn’t know what. All she asked was to call her back. I feared the worst. Were they in an accident? Were they both gone? What happened?

I called back. It was bad news. After dinner that night, they went back to the house and were enjoying a nice evening on the back porch. Suddenly, Nick, Sarah’s step-dad, grabbed his chest and fell to the ground. In a flash, he was gone. He went to Florida for vacation but he wasn’t coming home.

I remember Sarah heaving on the floor. I thought the baby would come out that night. I held her. My sister came over to watch Jack and Luke. They didn’t understand what was happening, thankfully.

I called our pastor, Ray. I’ll never forget his first words after hearing the news. “Oh, I’m so glad he knew the Lord.” He was right. Nick did know Jesus. He wasn’t coming home. He was home.

That night was filled with heaviness and tears. Eventually, we gave in to the sadness and fell asleep. The next day, I knew I had to break the news to the boys. I just didn’t know how to do it.

I sat my boys down and said we had something to tell them. They didn't remember the tears in our eyes from the night before. They didn't know why my sister came over to play with them until bedtime as their mom and I withdrew together. They thought good news of a fun-filled day was coming. I wish it was, but that day had to wait. Death had approached our doorstep, crashing its way from Florida with the speed of a trembling voice on the other end of the telephone. Their Pops was gone.

(You can read more about this here)

2017

2016 was a difficult year, to say the least. Andy was born, and his birth brought joy into a sad world. As he grew, we only saw the joy grow with him. He still smiles more than he cries. His eyes light up with excitement about nearly anything.

2017 was unremarkable in comparison. There were no births and no deaths in our little family. We just learned to live and grow with new realities. One of Sarah’s parents now missing, and three little mouths at our table.

That was the year Jack started Kindergarten. We entered a new era. Like every parent, there were fears and tears for our child. Would he be okay? Would he make friends? Would he miss us? The answer, it turns out, is yes to all of those. But the last one isn’t nearly as bad as you’d think. We missed him far more than he missed us.

2018

2018 started normal enough. Jack was doing well in school. Luke was soon to join him. In August, we found out we were pregnant yet again. This one was a total surprise. More about that later, because there’s another story about another child that needs to be told first.

Finn was nearing his fourth birthday, but he wouldn’t make it there. He and his family moved from New York a few years before. They joined our church, arriving just as we launched and never left. A few months after they joined, we received the tragic news of Finn’s cancer. It was rare and aggressive and, ultimately, deadly.

As autumn drew near, the winter of Finn’s life came blowing in like a New York snowstorm. A planned surgery revealed more tumors than the doctors ever imagined. There wasn’t anything else they could do for him. They sent him home to rest, but his parents couldn’t. They searched and searched for a cure but everything was too little and too late. In early December, when we all knew the time was near, I was preparing for church one Sunday morning and received a text from Dan, Finn’s father. He was gone.

A week later, we gathered to remember his life. The next day, we buried him in the ground. It was yet another funeral, this time far more tragic, this time one that was hard to make sense of. So we gathered and looked to Jesus and his gospel. We put our hope in the resurrection promise. We cried and we mourned and we still do.

My kids had lost great-grandparents and grandparents. Now they had lost a friend.

(You can read more about this here)

2019

As 2018 gave way to 2019 and we neared the end of the decade, we moved. It wasn’t far. But it was still a big deal. The house we bought in 2008 was no longer our home. It was sold to an investor who already was looking for future tenants.

We loved our house. We loved our neighbors and neighborhood even more. But we were out of space. Another baby was coming, this time a little girl. It was time to move on, even though that was hard to accept at first.

In mid-January, we watched as movers took all our stuff to a big truck and drove it across town to our new house. We settled in and waited for April, and Kate, to come. She finally did on April 12th. At last, our little girl—the one we’d always wanted but would never confess to that desire—was here. And she’s amazing.

(You can read more about this here)

Looking back now, my decade probably wasn’t too different from yours. Babies were born. People died. Life was lived. Tears and joy mingled to make a portrait of something bigger and more complex than we could ever imagine.

Standing on the brink of a new decade, we can’t imagine what will take place. We can know only one thing: Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The grace of God has not yet run out. His mercies are new every morning. And no matter how dark the night gets, joy comes with the morning. Throughout the next decade, for those in Christ, all that’s guaranteed is day after day of the love of God. That’s all we can know for sure. And it’s enough.