Chapter 12

Tell Me Who You Go With...

There are some sentences that stay with us for a lifetime.

Not because they are profound.

Because they are true.

My father used to say,

"Tell me who you go with... and I'll tell you who you are."

When I was younger, I thought he was talking about influence.

The friends we choose.

The company we keep.

The values we absorb.

He wasn't wrong.

But I now believe he was speaking a deeper truth than either of us understood.

We all become like something.

The question has never been if… Only what.

Some become shaped by fear.

Others by success or disappointment.

Some spend years becoming their wounds.

Others become their achievements.

Still others become the expectations placed upon them by people who never truly knew them.

Whether we notice it or not... we are always being formed.

When the religious leaders looked at Peter and John, they noticed something unusual.

Not polished arguments.

Not religious credentials.

Not impressive résumés.

They noticed courage.

Then they reached the only conclusion that made sense to them.

"These men have been with Jesus."

I have lived with those words for many years.

The older I become, the more beautiful they become.

Because they suggest that the deepest realities of our lives are visible.

Not perfectly… but unmistakably.

People may forget what we believe.

They may forget what we accomplish.

They may even forget what we say.

But they rarely forget how they felt after being with us.

That is a sobering thought… and a hopeful one.

Throughout this journey, we have spoken about stories.

About atmosphere.

About wells.

About trees.

About gardens.

About remaining.

About re-hydrated hearts.

All of them have been pointing toward one simple discovery.

Life is shared.

We become participants in whatever we continually receive.

Perhaps that is why love cannot be faked…

Kindness borrowed for a moment eventually grows tired.

Patience performed eventually becomes strained.

Peace rehearsed eventually reveals its effort.

Only shared life endures.

Only communion quietly becomes character.

I have spent much of my life walking the hallways of hospitals and homes.

I have stood beside beds where words became unnecessary.

I have watched tears speak more honestly than sermons.

I have seen frightened people become peaceful.

And peaceful people become teachers.

Not because they intended to teach.

Because life had become visible within them.

Some of my greatest instructors never stood behind a pulpit.

They lay in hospital beds.

They whispered gratitude while everything around them suggested despair.

They reminded me that the soul is capable of carrying a light no darkness can extinguish.

Perhaps that is the quiet miracle of the Christian life.

Not that ordinary people become extraordinary.

But that ordinary people become transparent.

Transparent enough that Love can be seen through them.

Transparent enough that mercy becomes believable.

Transparent enough that hope no longer sounds naïve.

Transparent enough that another human being quietly says,

"I don't know why... but I feel more alive."

Maybe that has always been the invitation.

Not to become famous.

Not to become admired.

Not even to become successful.

Simply to become available.

Available to Love.

Available to wonder.

Available to interruption.

Available to compassion.

Available to the quiet work of grace.

If this journey has given you anything, I hope it has not been new ideas.

Ideas eventually fade.

I hope it has given you new eyes.

Eyes that notice what hurry overlooks.

Eyes that recognize dignity before difference.

Eyes that see Christ not only in sacred spaces...

but in kitchens...

gardens...

hospital rooms...

shared meals...

tearful embraces...

and ordinary Tuesdays.

Because that is where I have found Him, The Presence, most often.

One day, perhaps someone will leave your presence unable to remember everything you said.

But they may remember that hope felt possible again.

That fear loosened its grip.

That they laughed more easily.

That silence felt safe.

That tears no longer needed apology.

They may never know why.

Neither may you… 

And perhaps that is exactly as it should be.

The Book of Acts never tells us that Peter and John tried to convince people they had been with Jesus.

They didn't need to.

Life spoke first.

It always does.

So now...

allow me to borrow my father's words one final time:

Tell me who you go with... and I'll tell you who you are.

But after this journey...

I think I would gently add one more sentence.

Tell me who leaves your presence with more hope than when they arrived...

...and together we'll discover who has been walking with you.

Sit With This...

As you close this book...

don't ask, "What should I do now?"

Instead, ask something quieter. Who am I becoming?

Then...

Go sit with someone who is lonely.

Listen before speaking.

Forgive before defending.

Notice before judging.

Wonder before explaining.

Remain before rushing.

Love before everything else.

The rest... will quietly follow.

Chapter 11

Becoming a Place Where Others Can Rest

There is a quiet kindness in the shade of a tree…

It asks nothing.

It proves nothing.

It simply stands where it has learned to stand, and because of that, weary people find relief.

The tree never announces its generosity.

It simply offers what it has become.

I wonder if human lives can become like that:

Not famous.

Not extraordinary.

Simply restful.

The kind of presence that lowers another person's shoulders.

The kind of conversation that reminds someone they don't have to pretend.

The kind of silence that doesn't feel empty.

The older I become, the less I admire people who have all the answers.

I find myself drawn to those who have become safe.

Safe enough to tell the truth.

Safe enough to admit uncertainty.

Safe enough to listen without needing to rescue.

Safe enough to love without controlling.

Perhaps safety is one of Love's most beautiful languages.

Hospice has been my greatest classroom.

Not because it taught me about dying.

Because it taught me about living.

I have watched people who had every reason to become bitter... choose gratitude.

I have watched families discover forgiveness with only hours remaining.

I have watched tears become prayers without anyone speaking.

And I have learned something I never expected.

Peace is contagious.

So is fear.

So is hope.

We are always giving something away.

That realization has changed the questions I ask myself.

Not... "Was I persuasive?"

Not... "Was I impressive?"

But... "Did someone breathe a little easier because I was here?"

That question has become enough.

When Jesus said, "Come to Me... and I will give you rest,"

Perhaps He was doing more than making a promise.

Perhaps He was revealing the atmosphere of God:

Not pressure… Rest.

Not anxiety… Rest.

Not performance… Rest.

Those who remained with Jesus slowly began carrying that same atmosphere.

Perhaps that is why people kept coming back.

Not because every question had been answered.

But because their souls had finally found room to exhale.

There are people whose names history will never remember.

They never stood behind pulpits.

Never wrote books.

Never led movements.

Yet generations have been changed because they quietly became places where love could rest.

A grandmother.

A neighbor.

A teacher.

A nurse.

A friend.

The Kingdom has always grown through people like these.

Perhaps greatness has never been measured by influence.

Perhaps it has always been measured by hospitality.

Not the hospitality of beautiful homes…

The hospitality of beautiful hearts.

The ability to welcome another person without first asking them to become someone else.

This, I think, is the hidden beauty of Acts 4.

The courage of Peter and John was not borrowed confidence.

It was the natural fragrance of lives that had lived near Love.

You can almost imagine people leaving their company thinking,

"I don't know exactly what happened..."

"But I feel less afraid than I did before."

Maybe that is all any of us are really called to become.

Not experts.

Not celebrities.

Not heroes.

Just ordinary people who have learned to carry an extraordinary welcome.

Sit With This...

Think about someone who has always felt like home to you.

What made them that way?

Now don't try to imitate them.

Instead, 

…simply ask,

What has Love been patiently growing in me?

Trees do not all give the same shade.

Every life has its own gift.

Perhaps yours has been quietly growing all along.

Chapter 10

The Face We Almost Missed

There is something mysterious about recognition.

Sometimes we are looking directly at someone... and still fail to see them.

It happens more often than we realize.

We become so accustomed to familiarity that wonder quietly slips away.

The extraordinary stands before us dressed in ordinary clothes.

I have often wondered why so many stories in Scripture involve delayed recognition.

A gardener who is mistaken for someone else.

Travelers walking beside a stranger.

A voice heard before it is recognized.

Eyes opened only after bread is broken.

It seems that Love is rarely hidden by distance.

More often, it is hidden by expectation.

We keep looking for the remarkable... while heaven quietly arrives disguised as the familiar.

Perhaps that is why we overlook so much beauty.

We expect revelation to interrupt life.

Instead... it illuminates it.

The kitchen table becomes an altar.

A shared meal becomes communion.

A hospital room becomes sacred ground.

A quiet conversation becomes holy.

Nothing has changed…

Everything has changed.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that God has never struggled to be present…

It is we who have struggled to notice.

Not because we are inattentive people.

Because life has taught us to hurry.

We rush past the ordinary in search of the spectacular.

Meanwhile... the Eternal patiently waits inside the ordinary.

Hospice has given me countless moments like this.

A daughter gently combing her father's hair.

A husband falling asleep while holding his wife's hand.

A nurse adjusting a blanket with such tenderness that no one else in the room even notices.

Nothing dramatic happens, yet something eternal becomes visible.

Love has taken on flesh again.

Perhaps that is the continuing mystery of the Incarnation.

It did not end in Bethlehem.

Nor at the empty tomb.

The life of Christ continues wherever Love becomes visible…

Where mercy interrupts judgment.

Where forgiveness overcomes resentment.

Where hope quietly refuses to surrender.

The Word continues becoming flesh...

not because humanity replaces Christ...

but because His life is freely shared with those who remain in Him.

This changes the way we see one another.

No longer as interruptions.

No longer as categories.

No longer as enemies.

Every face becomes a place where dignity waits to be discovered.

Every conversation becomes an opportunity to honor what fear has often hidden.

Every stranger becomes someone carrying a story we have not yet been invited to hear.

There was a time when I believed spiritual maturity meant seeing more clearly where people were wrong.

Now I wonder if maturity looks almost the opposite.

Seeing more clearly what Love has never stopped believing about them.

Not denying brokenness.

Not pretending suffering isn't real.

But refusing to let either become the deepest truth about another human being.

Perhaps this is why Jesus looked at people so differently.

He never ignored the wound.

He simply refused to mistake the wound for the person.

He spoke beneath shame.

Beneath fear.

Beneath failure.

 

He addressed our identity that had never been erased… 

Beloved.

Deeply loved.

Deeply valued.

Highly Prized.

I wonder if that is what true vision always does.

Then I remember the words that first began this journey.

"They took note that these men had been with Jesus."

At first, I thought those words were about Peter and John.

Now I think they are about recognition.

The religious leaders recognized a familiar atmosphere.

A familiar way of seeing.

A familiar way of loving.

A familiar freedom.

Not because Peter and John had become copies of Jesus.

Because His life had become visible in theirs.

Perhaps that is the invitation waiting for every one of us.

Not to become someone impressive.

Not to become someone admired.

But to become so quietly at home in Love...

that others begin recognizing its fragrance before they ever hear its name.

Sit With This...

Today... before you try to change anything... simply notice.

Notice the face in front of you.

Notice the kindness that almost went unseen.

Notice the ordinary moment asking for your attention.

Perhaps recognition begins there.

Not by finding God in extraordinary places...

but by discovering that He has never stopped meeting us in ordinary ones.

Chapter 09

The Quiet Revolution

Not every revolution begins with noise.

Some begin with a whisper.

A single thought.

A moment of forgiveness.

A decision to remain kind when bitterness would seem easier.

The deepest changes in history often begin where almost no one is looking.

Perhaps the same is true of the human heart.

We tend to imagine transformation as dramatic.

Lightning.

Mountaintops.

Turning points.

Those moments certainly exist.

But most of life is lived somewhere else.

It is lived in ordinary Tuesdays.

At kitchen tables.

In hospital rooms.

On long drives home.

While washing dishes.

While waiting for a phone call.

The soul is usually formed in places history never records.

I have often wondered why Jesus spent so much of His life in ordinary places.

Most of His days were not marked by miracles.

They were marked by meals.

Walks.

Conversations.

Listening.

Children.

Friends.

Interruptions.

If we removed those ordinary moments from the Gospels, very little would remain.

Perhaps that is the miracle.

The Eternal One was never in a hurry to escape the ordinary.

He filled it… 

That’s Presence.

There is a quiet temptation in every generation.

To believe that significance belongs somewhere else.

In another city.

Another career.

Another season.

Another life.

Yet love has an unusual habit of beginning exactly where our feet are planted.

Not someday… Today.

Not somewhere else… Here.

Hospice has taught me that extraordinary moments rarely announce themselves.

A daughter brushing her mother's hair one last time.

A husband whispering, "Thank you."

A grandson climbing into bed beside his grandfather without saying a word.

No audience.

No applause.

Yet something eternal is happening.

Love is becoming visible.

Perhaps heaven is not only a destination.

Perhaps it is every moment in which love is given room to breathe.

Every act of mercy.

Every unnecessary kindness.

Every forgiveness that interrupts the cycle of pain.

Every quiet "yes" to compassion.

These moments rarely make headlines.

Yet they quietly change the world.

The older I become, the less interested I am in impressive lives.

I find myself drawn instead to faithful ones:

People who show up.

People who listen.

People who remain.

People who make others feel seen.

The world has never had a shortage of remarkable personalities.

It has always needed more faithful presence.

I wonder if this is what Jesus meant when He called His followers light.

Light never argues with darkness… It simply appears.

It doesn't force itself upon a room… It quietly reveals what was hidden.

Perhaps we spend too much energy trying to defeat darkness...

when we were always invited to become light.

The religious leaders saw courage in Peter and John.

I wonder what everyone else saw…

Did children feel safe near them?

Did strangers find hope in their company?

Did grieving people discover they were not alone?

Scripture doesn't answer those questions.

Life does.

Because we have all met people whose lives quietly made us believe that goodness is still possible.

Maybe that is the quiet revolution.

Not changing the whole world in a single moment.

But refusing to let fear determine the atmosphere we leave behind.

Refusing to let resentment become our native language.

Refusing to believe that love is naïve.

Every act of genuine love pushes back the borders of despair.

Not loudly… Faithfully.

The Kingdom, I think, grows this way.

Not like an empire.

Like a garden.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Almost unnoticed.

Until one day, someone pauses... looks around...

and realizes that everything has become greener.

Sit With This...

Who made your world gentler?

Not by changing your circumstances...

but simply by the way they lived.

Now ask yourself one quiet question.

Who might experience that same gift through me today?

Not through something extraordinary.

Simply through my presence.

Chapter 08

When the Eyes of the Heart Begin to Open

There is a remarkable difference between looking... and seeing.

We can pass the same tree every morning without ever noticing the way sunlight finds its branches.

We can drive the same road for years and miss the small stream quietly flowing beneath the bridge.

Familiarity has a curious way of making beauty invisible.

Not because beauty has disappeared.

Because we have stopped expecting to find it.

Perhaps the same is true of people.

We become accustomed to names…

Faces.

Occupations.

Appearances.

Successes.

Failures.

Soon we begin seeing labels instead of lives.

We no longer meet a person.

We meet our conclusions about them.

I wonder how often this happens with ourselves.

We look into a mirror and see accomplishments…

Regrets.

Aging.

Mistakes.

The opinions of others.

Rarely do we see the quiet dignity that has been there all along.

Perhaps the hardest face to see clearly is our own.

Years ago, I met a woman whose husband was nearing the end of his life.

She apologized because she was crying…

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I should be stronger."

I remember wondering...

Who taught her that tears were weakness?

Who convinced her that love should look composed?

As I watched her hold her husband's hand, 

I didn't see weakness,

I saw courage wearing tears.

How different our lives might become if we learned to see beneath appearances.

Anger may be protecting fear.

Silence may be carrying grief.

Control may be hiding uncertainty.

Confidence may be covering loneliness.

Kindness may be the fruit of suffering no one else ever noticed.

Every person is more than the moment in which we meet them.

The older I become, the more I believe that wisdom begins with refusing to reduce people.

No one is their worst day.

No one is their greatest success.

No one is the label placed upon them.

Every human being is a story still unfolding.

This may explain something that has always fascinated me about Jesus.

He seemed almost incapable of seeing people only as they appeared.

Others saw a tax collector… He saw a future friend.

Others saw a fisherman… He saw someone who would strengthen others.

Others saw a woman surrounded by shame… He saw someone still worthy of dignity.

Again and again, He looked past the obvious without ever ignoring the real.

Love has extraordinary eyesight.

Perhaps this is what Paul meant when he wrote,

"From now on, we regard no one according to the flesh."

No one, “from a worldly point of view.”

For years I read those words as theology.

Now they feel like an invitation.

An invitation to see beneath fear.

Beneath failure.

Beneath reputation.

To meet people where Love has always known them.

Seeing this way changes more than relationships.

It changes the person who is seeing…

Judgment begins losing its grip.

Curiosity quietly takes its place.

Compassion grows.

Listening deepens.

Patience becomes possible.

Not because people have become easier to love...

Because we have begun seeing them differently.

There is a quiet miracle hidden in every genuine encounter.

For a few moments...

Someone is no longer an interruption.

Or a problem.

Or a stranger.

They become a mystery.

And mysteries are never conquered.

They are received.

Perhaps this is why Presence matters so deeply.

Presence slows us enough to notice.

And noticing is often the first act of love.

Sit With This...

Think of someone you find difficult to understand.

Don't try to solve them.

Simply ask yourself,

What part of their story might I not be seeing?

Sometimes compassion begins, not with an answer...

but with a different way of looking.