In Hope

A park is not the same without the squirrels and the trees
And I am not quite sane without you here right next to me...

I was in graduate school in St. Louis, and my girlfriend (now wife) was finishing her bachelor's degree in Wisconsin. I wrote a lot of poetry then; it was one of the ways I dealt with my longing and desire to be with her. I wasn't always the most eloquent in person, and I can struggle to communicate my feelings in the moment; poetry provided me the opportunity to express something deeper, more profound.

As I looked out my dorm room window into a park filled with overgrown oaks and squirrels, I told her I would write a poem about squirrels. I was meaning it to be funny, but when I started to write, it became a more serious poem about how I felt less than whole when I was not with her.

Now I know what it means to not be whole

Missing a piece, like the grave misses its soul

I'm a body buried beneath a sea of sand

Waiting for you to dig me out and take my hand

I'll stand, and wait, for you, in hope...

I was not a mature person at 22; I didn't have life figured out. I only had the faintest idea of what "love" was. But that is all you need. The faintest idea. And that is the beauty of poetry- it can help you see a faint picture, far ahead of where you are now. And it can lead you into a different place. It can strengthen you as you struggle to make sense of what you are going through. It can empower and enable you to endure the worst life has to throw your way.

I was reflecting on Zechariah 9:12, where it is written, "Return to your fortress, O prisoners of hope." Hope is a powerful thing. Hope is what makes us human- the will to fight and strive and push forward in what appears to be a meaningless and cruel world. We all are prisoners of hope: we cannot escape finding hope even when we are desperate. What are young lovers, other than prisoners of hope? What are lonely widows, other than prisoners of hope? We have to try so hard to crush our will to keep on keeping on. But there is no better place to be than imprisoned with hope. Hope is what can spring us free from despair, anxiety, anger, brokenness. Hope is what can push us forward to the places and people waiting for us.

Then I'll know what it means to be whole
Like the beautiful unity between body and soul
Like the land and sea colliding, mixing on the shore
I'll dance with you, I'll be with you forevermore.
But for now, I'll stand
But for now, I'll wait
But for now, I'll live
In hope.

When I wrote this poem, I was focused on my own situation, awaiting my first love and being married to her. I look back in fondness to these words, and I now think of my mother, who has lost her husband. She is yearning for her love much more deeply than I could have imagined comprehending at 22 years old. These words are for her, too. In my youthful love, I stumbled upon a picture of love that endures. I stumbled upon a reality that is not just for me. I walked into a bigger story, one that might just speak to you, too. A picture that might cast a ray of light into the dark and murky waters of your future.

Like a squirrel burying an acorn in Concordia Park, poetry is meant to sustain us for just a little while. But instead we leave it in our hearts, and it takes root, and it grows into an oak tree which keeps us and countless others going. Prisoners of hope, forever freed.

No one else

Someone else can pen a prettier poem,

Another can build a sturdier home.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can love their wife,

Another can have a fuller life.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can do more to bless,

Another can raise sons with more success.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can have a better year,

Another can create a bigger career.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can write great books,

Another can have finer looks.

Someone else can have more love and grace,

More joy and hope upon his face.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

No one else can hold my line tight,

No one else can fight my fight.

No one else can run my race,

No one else can wear my face.

No one else can let it go,

No one else will ever know

What it is to live like me

Unless you live your life:

                                         Go- live free.

Holy Week Haiku

Holy Week Haiku
To share simply, profoundly,
The cross message, H O P E.

Maundy Thursday:

Don't reject service.

Jesus is not your genie. 

His service starts yours.

Good Friday:

God gave up glory,

The tree of life has been found,

Bloody, cross of death.

Easter Sunday:

Go to the gravesite;

Hell won the fight, lost the war.

Hope is yours, now go.

Experience more:

Listen, pray, watch with others,

Go to church. Yes, you.

www.facebook.com/firstimmanuel for more information on our services in Cedarburg and Saukville.

You Are There

I am my father's son

Same frame, same race to run

I'll look back when I'm done

And know you were there.

Why did you give me life?

To subject me to strife?

This pain cuts like a knife

But I know you are there.

My short days are fleeting

Time left with heart beating

This knowledge- unseating

But I know you are there.

I need you Lord, to save

My mansion is a grave

You know I am not brave

But I know you are there.

You are there- in weakness

You are there- in trials

You are there- in heartache

You are there- in grief

You are there- through it all

Immanuel- with us

You are the God who is there.

H O M E

How did you draw me out, my love?

How did you set my heart free and capture me at the same time?

How did you give me a safe space full of suspense?

Not even a quarter of my life, but the immense amount of memories threatens to dislodge everything that came before you. I have found meaning and purpose in you and with you, something that never existed before that warm night in June. I experienced a fire that was life-giving, warming my soul and lighting the way before us.


You have become home.

You have become family.

Years of wandering, and I found you.

Years together, and we have each other.

No fancy mansion; just two broken and weary-worn parents with love and coffee.

We have become parents.

The next generation lies in our hands and wets our bed.

We are driving through Colorado, staring at stone faces, waking up with Hank the cow-dog. We are smashing roaches, birthing babies, moving. Always moving. Seven times moving. We are living Saturday mornings at farmer’s markets, walking downtown, leading our sons through the parks of childhood. We are living.


And we pause for a second, to look back.

Every step seemed to take so long and demand so much time, care, and attention.

But look how far we’ve come.

We have become a man and a woman.

We have become a husband and a wife.

We have become one.


We have become a home.

The First Christmas

On December 20^th, 2017, my father got diagnosed with brain cancer. They scheduled him for immediate surgery on December 23^rd. On December 24^th, I was scheduled to lead two of my congregation’s four Christmas Eve services as well as the Christmas Day service. On top of that, my dad was 1,000 miles away from us, heading into a surgery which would be life-altering. I was overwhelmed. Thankfully, his surgery got postponed to December 26^th and my congregation graciously allowed me to leave to be with him. Instead of preparing to preach to a full church, I packed my family into our vehicle and drove across six states. Last year, I had my last Christmas with my dad.

Christmas 2017, all of us gathered together with Dad

My whole family piled into my brother’s house for Christmas Eve. I had brought a bulletin of the service I was supposed to be leading that evening in New York, and my 8-year-old nephew did all the readings. We sang the Christmas carols, we cried, we exchanged gifts, and we cried some more. My dad tried to tell us all how much he loved us, but the hug and the passionate look in his eyes said much more than words ever could. I will never forget that Christmas, the last Christmas.

My dad put up a valiant fight with an infection and growing tumor, still finding joy in his family. After months in the ICU and then hospice in home, my father died on March 20th. This year, we will celebrate the first Christmas without my father. It will be emotional, painful, tear-full. It will be a hard day, but a day still to celebrate. A day still to gather around gifts and food, family and friends. A day still to sing and pray, laugh and cry.

I am sure I am not alone in having a first Christmas this year. Maybe it’s yours, too. The first Christmas without Grandma. The first Christmas with a new child. The first Christmas in a new home. The first Christmas without a job. The first Christmas after the divorce. Pain and heartache mixed with joy and happiness await many of us during the holidays. It can make the excitement of Christmas dreadful. We get caught in a confusing world of joy and pain, an we struggle to sort out our feelings.

Thinking back to the first Christmas, though, it makes sense. After all, the first Christmas came as a complete shock to everyone. Shepherds in the field, a crowded city, first-time parents forced to travel late in pregnancy. The first Christmas was, in so many ways, not pleasant. Those shepherds had left their families at home and were sleeping on rocky soil with smelly sheep surrounding them. Mary and Joseph couldn’t find a comfortable place to spend the night. But on that night, heaven touched earth. On that night, angels bent low with sweet songs. On that night, a baby was brought into the world with the agonizing joy of a first time mother. The first Christmas was joy coming to a broken, chaotic, lost, and dying world. On that night, God was born in a barn and embraced humanity more fully than we could ever comprehend. As Phillips Brooks wrote, “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.” 

All the years… Each Christmas is truly the First Christmas, filled with the tension between living in the moment and awaiting eternity. It is a day where we always do the same thing, sing the same songs, hear the same readings. But each year we experience them in a new way, with a new depth and richness. Each year brings new experiences, new sadness, new hope, new longings. We gather together with those closest to us in the agonizing joy of this life which God has given us, awaiting the ultimate present of eternal life in God’s presence. We embrace the pain and the joy and hold them in tension, as a new mother embraces her baby through the pains of childbirth.

There will be a day with no more pain, no more tension. Christmas will come to fulfillment in that Last Day, but not before. Until then, let us celebrate the First Christmas every year, embracing the hope that comes from trusting in the Immanuel, God-with-us, the God who loved us first and promises to fill us with love, joy, and peace forever.

Giving thanks in the midst of suffering

On December 20th, my father went into an Emergency Room in Monroe, WI, with some slurred speech. They found a mass in his brain after a CT scan, and thus begun a rush to get him into surgery and work on getting rid of a tumor that was found.
On February 20th, after two short months of battling a tumor and surgically-acquired infection, my father got the devastating news that the tumor had grown back- as big as it was before the surgery. He was put on hospice; I was able to get back to Wisconsin on February 24th and help get him from a nursing home into my parents' home. He has been home now since February 28th, and it has been 10 days since he has eaten or drank. His battle with a brain tumor is wearing him down slowly, and we pray peacefully.
Dying is one of the hardest processes we as humans will go through, and it is universal. We will all go through it, and chances are high that we will watch someone else go through it as well. God has something profound for us to learn through dying; in fact, dying was a central theme of Jesus' teaching: "If anyone will come after me, he must deny himself, pick up his cross, and follow me."
Losing my father is something I was not ready for and am still not ready for.  But here I am.  And being here by his side is a privilege and an honor.  Being your Pastor is a privilege and an honor.  I have felt torn between two places I call home, two communities my heart desires so strongly to serve.
Even in the midst of pain and suffering, I am thankful to be here with my father, and our family must thank you as a congregation for allowing us these last moments with him here on this earth.  We are humbled by your understanding, your outreach to our family, and the unity you all have with one another and Christ. We look forward to seeing you all again soon, knowing that my father will at last rest peacefully with our Lord.
My father has been a man of God and an example in the faith for me and many others. He has embraced Wisdom, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it." He led me in Sunday School and adult Bible studies, and he has modeled a servant heart both in the church and outside the church. There will be a dad-sized hole in my life, and I will miss him dearly.  But I am filled with the hope that transcends knowledge and experience: the hope of eternal life, that death is not only the end of life, but the beginning of a new life together in the presence of the Lord.

I put together a short video over the last couple weeks, to capture some of our memories. Feel free to watch it here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=h4wwsing9a8