Author: kenanewkirk

In September, Jonah made his first trip to Raleigh to visit his grandparents who live there. It was the first of what will likely be many road trips.

Our little guy is blessed to have so many people who love him, and it was exciting to bring my child to the place where I spent my childhood.

While we were there, we played a lot of games, which is pretty typical. At one point, Jonah‘s grandfather, my father, held him in his lap with a handful of cards in front of him. He spoke to him about what the cards meant and made a joke about going “all in.” Granted, the cards we were using were for a particular game called The Mind and had nothing to do with poker.

I played cards a lot with my grandparents growing up. And my father’s father was very insistent that we play using proper etiquette. We were chastised if we cut the deck the wrong way or dealt incorrectly. In fact, I specifically learned to play bridge so we could spend more time together.

When I saw my father fanning out the cards in front of my son, he looked like my grandfather. The torch of grandparenthood had passed.

This thought brought me both joy and sadness because my dad’s parents were recently moved into an assisted care facility. They are in poor health and can no longer manage at home.

My grandparents and my parents have been a remarkable influence on my card-playing as well as faith journey. For example, the tag line I use on my social media pages is a favorite proverb of my Papa:

“There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

Of course, my mother’s role as a youth pastor inspired me to go into ministry. Both of my grandmothers had profound faith and served in the choir and teaching Sunday school. My father taught me Contract Bridge but also how to pray.

It says in Psalms 144:4 that it is the responsibility and privilege for all generations to mentor each other in faith:

One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts.

This means sharing in faith is not a one-way street. We learn about God from our elders, but we also proclaim God’s work in our lives to our elders.

As we begin our lives as parents, I’m looking forward to how all of these older family members, these older generations, will pour into the life of our son. But I’m also excited about all the ways Jonah will celebrate our Creator. He’s already igniting new joys and wonders as we watch him grow. Without words, he is already a fantastic evangelist, proclaiming with his fingers and toes the love of our God.

I anticipate many card games in Jonah’s future. I hope he learns proper card etiquette and loves to play bridge with his Papa. But I know he will learn all about the love of God from his family and church family. And I pray he will continue to be an evangelist, even without words.

I was only in 4th Grade when America was attacked on her own soil for the first time since Pearl Harbor. The teachers were acting strange, and then without warning, my mother picked me up from school to take me home.

She had witnessed the carnage on the news with my older brother at a local restaurant after a dentist appointment. I remember watching the news coverage while sitting on our living room floor when we got home.

Yes, I was young. I was also terrified. I only knew about the World Trade Center from an old Simpsons episode, and I really wasn’t allowed to watch The Simpsons.

Maybe my experience seems less significant because I was young. However, those of us who were young will remember longer. We will be responsible for telling the story when we’re in our 80s and 90s, and it seems like ancient history.

And I remember other things about 9/11 too:

I remember visiting New York for the first time and gazing into the giant pit where the buildings once stood.

I remember visiting the Memorial not long after it first opened and seeing all the names written in stone.

I remember being in college and listening to a lecture on 9/11. Our professor was a volunteer firefighter, and he was concerned that we understand its place in history.

I remember my first graduating class of seniors while working in youth ministry who were born after 9/11. They never knew the world before. Those students like so many others will remember only in solidarity, not in actual practice.

But lately, I remember how united our country was immediately following the incident. I remember the disinterest in partisan politics. Remember the love and concern we had for one another.

That united sentiment didn’t last very long, and a lot of poor decisions were made in the aftermath motivated by fear. But I miss 9/12, as many of you might too.

I’ve also been somewhat disappointed that’s despite numerous tragedies and challenges since that day, division and partisanism in our country have only gotten worse.

I’ve seen posts on social media about how people miss the America of 9/12. I get it. I do too.

However, I think it’s important to remember that division in our country is a choice. We choose to promote intentionally divisive content. We choose to see the world as strictly black-and-white. We choose rejection over empathy, and we’re choosing it more and more each day.

In his speech excepting the Republican nomination for the U.S. Senate in Springfield, Illinois, the future president Abraham Lincoln made reference to a teaching from Jesus Christ. It was at the height of civil tension in our country.

“ A house divided against itself, cannot stand,” he said.

When we choose division, we choose weakness. So many people around the world would like us to choose weakness.

May we all be mindful of the divisions in our country that people use to gain political power. May we all be held accountable for the divisive choices we ourselves make, which alienate us from our neighbors and make our communities weaker.

But most of all, may we remember as Christians, we are united as one. Neither slave nor free, neither male nor female, neither Republican nor Democrat, neither American nor immigrant.

I will continue to tell the story of 9/11, but I will also tell the story of 9/12 when our country did its best to unite.

A couple of weeks ago, we took Baby Jonah to meet his great-grandmother for the first time. Dorothy Newkirk is 92 years young and lives not far from us.

Like many seniors, she lives alone, and like many seniors, she occasionally struggles with her memory.

We volunteered to deliver her weekly groceries and bring the baby along for a short visit. While there, William did a few chores, and I hung out with her while she held the baby.

Curious, the ways aging affects our memory. On her kitchen table, she had displayed a list of great-grandchildren’s names. She was so happy to meet Baby Jonah, but she kept asking the same questions over and over.

She asked me, “Is he a good baby?” serval times. She also volunteered more than once that her son, Williams’ father, was a good baby, but that her daughter cried frequently.

“Is he a good baby?” She would ask. “By that, I mean, does he sleep well at night? Does he cry a lot?”

“Lyle loved babies.” She said over and over. She told me several times that if it were up to her late husband, they would have had a baby every year and a half.

I could see waves of joy and nostalgia pass over her as she revisited, again and again, these thoughts. Her son was a “good baby.” Her daughter cried a lot. Her husband loved babies and wanted more children, at least once every year and a half.

Some people might feel frustrated that she would repeat herself, and maybe if we’d been there all day, it would have bothered us. But at the moment, it felt like her repeated words served as a chorus, reminding me what was important.

It hit home when she would laughingly say, “I bet you don’t get anything done at home. Don’t worry about all that. Just enjoy it.”

I went home, turning this comment over in my mind. ‘You won’t get anything done…don’t worry, just enjoy it.’ I wasn’t sure if I should agree or disagree. Of course, I’m not getting much done! Caring for an infant takes up so much time. I don’t have time for much else.

On the other hand, you wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff I get done. I’m caring for a tiny human being, and he requires endless hours of feeding, changing, bathing, holding, and play. And this tiny human being will become a full grown adult with his own personality and responsibilities.

Regardless, the repetition of these few comments made them sink deeper into my heart. Repetition is used frequently by God in the Bible to underscore the importance of a message and prompt careful reflection.

In 1 Kings 19:11-18, God asks the prophet Elijah multiple times “what are you doing here?”

In John 21, Jesus asks Peter multiple times, “do you love me?”

And each Sunday morning, we act, called on the repetition of the Apostles Creed and the Lord’s Prayer.

My life has changed radically over the last few months, which I expected. But I didn’t expect everyone else’s life to change radically too. I have found some comfort in the repetition of small things: that first-morning playtime, the end of day bath, the meal I share with my husband just after we put Jonah to bed. There is meaning in the repetition. There are lessons in the redundancy.

These are certainly not exciting times, but there is certainly something we can learn. Our lives today are unique, and I’m trying to learn what God would teach me from life’s current rhythm. I hope you have your eyes and ears open to lean something from God too.

The night you were born was exactly three years after your dad and I were married. Before the doctors came in to deliver you, I passed your dad an anniversary card.

I suppose you were the gift.

When we first met, you were red, splotchy, and screaming. It was an interesting first impression.

That evening they brought you back into our room after the doctors checked you out. They rolled you into the room while we were finally eating dinner. They told us your results look good, and then the nurses left. We were alone with you for the first time.

At this point, it occurred to me that we had no idea what we were doing.

And then you began to cry.

Still numb and sore from delivery, I couldn’t move to help while your father sprang into action. He changed your first diaper.

It was late, and we tried to get some sleep. We wheeled your cart between my bed and the sofa where your father was sleeping. You both drifted off, but I stayed awake looking at you and imagining what this would be like.

I decided that parenting would be like a pilgrimaged. It would be a long journey with high mountains to conquer and low valleys to enjoy. There would be a lot of surprises along the way, and there’s no chance of us anticipating every little thing.

But, like a pilgrimage, it would be a long experience. We will learn a lot, and there will be plenty of joys and sorrows along the way.

So along this journey we promise you a few things:

When you are happy, we will be happy for you. When you are hurt, we will mourn.

When you fall, we will help you get back up and help you learn how to walk again.

When you’re lost, we will come find you. When you wander off the path, we will wait for you. When you mess up, we will forgive you. When you triumph, we will celebrate you.

We will teach the things you need to know, and even somethings we just like teaching.

We will surround you with other pilgrims, family and friends, to support and cherish you. Some will stay with you the whole journey and some just for a few miles.

We will provide you with everything you need, somethings you simply want, and a few things you don’t want but should have anyway.

We will be a soft place to rest, but never a place to become complacent. We will encourage you, empower you, and find things that inspire you.

We will show you how much we love each other, so you understand how much we love you.

And we will raise you up in the faith, giving you a head start on the journey God has planned especially for you.

After a while, you began to cry. Again, your father got up to change you. Then I nursed you.

Jonah, we love you. We look forward to this journey with you. Thank you for making us parents.

On Saturday morning, William and I completed our online Zoom birthing class. In addition to all of the standard information, we were also informed about all the COVID-19 protocol. By the end of the course, I started feeling the pressure to get everything in order, especially packing our hospital bag.

One implication of COVID is that food options are limited at hospitals now. Vending machines carry germs, and the gifts shops are closed. So we were advised to pack a lot more snack options. I also needed a baby thermometer and some postpartum supplies. I don’t get out much, usually just the doctor’s office, but I decided to mask up and head to Target, where I could get everything on my list.

Not long after I arrived, an announcement came on telling us Target would be closed in 30 minutes. It was only a little after 6 pm, but I thought maybe this was some new COVID protocol to clean the store. While I was there, three more announcements came on urgently, telling us to leave the store. While I grabbed my last snack items at the back of the store, I had three associates urge me to go to the front. There, every register was opened to rush people out the door. That’s when I realized they were preparing for protesters. This was the first night of curfew, and I wouldn’t get the push notification from the government for a few more hours.

But there I was standing in line, crazy pregnant, mask on, and now being rushed out the door by security, associates and police and told to head home.

For a brief moment, I felt sorry for myself. Looking around at the craziness, the scene was dystopian, borderline apocalyptic. I was mad that I couldn’t have a normal pregnancy. I have been practically homebound for months to keep my baby safe from COVID. Then, the first time I dare go out to get supplies for the hospital and postpartum, I’m rushed out the door in a panic.

For a brief moment, I felt sorry for myself.

But then I started to think about all the ways I need to prepare to raise and to teach my child, not just feed and clothe him. The protests are a reminder to me that hatred and bigotry are not learned. Racism is taught and often legislated. It’s a choice.

But apathy and ignorance are also a choice. White people can choose to raise their kids away from issues of race and justice because they have that option. People of color do not.

I have been very encouraged by the number of my former students who have been taking part in peaceful protesting and educating themselves on civil rights issues. I have also begun to think about how I will raise my son to be engaged in matters of social and racial justice. I am thankful there are resources available for kids of a young age. I am also grateful that I have a partner who is dedicated to these issues as well.

Quarantine and curfew have not been ideal. I’ve had fewer opportunities to buy cute onesies and satisfy pregnancy cravings. But I have a lifetime opportunity to raise a child in the faith of Jesus, full of compassion and justice, who sees everyone as a child of God with sacred worth. I pray for the man he will become, and I am thankful for the opportunity.

Resources for Educating Children on Racial Justice from The UMC Publishing House

“For this child I prayed; and the Lord has granted me the petition that I made to him.
‭‭1 Samuel‬ ‭1:27-28‬ ‭NRSV‬‬

A few weeks ago, I was blessed to celebrate our growing family through the wonder that is modern technology. Because gathering in person is not considered safe, my mother and friends hosted a virtual baby shower on Zoom.

It worked quite well! Though I had been looking forward to all the dainty hors d’oeuvres, which tend to be found at traditional showers, it was beautiful to see so many smiling faces from all over the country.

I was most blessed by the prayers and well wishes offered by each person who called in.

Towards the end of the weekend, I received a last-minute gift that didn’t make it to the actual party. It is a hand-lettered Bible verse preserved in a simple frame. The passage is from 1 Samuel, and the speaker is a woman named Hannah, mother to the prophet Samuel.

Many women in the Old Testament struggled to conceive children, as many still do today. But what was unique in Hannah’s situation is the kind of fervent prayer she offers to God in petitioning for her child.

Hannah’s is the first instance in scripture in which someone prays silently. It was such an unusual phenomenon at the time that the priest nearby thinks she is out of her mind drunk.

Hannah understands, in a way no one before she had understood, that God is big enough to hear unspoken prayers. She is so earnest and anxious in her petition that the sound of her voice fails, and she simply pours out her soul to God.

It is her concern for her child that drives her. And though my unborn child has been prayed for, I look forward to all the ways that he will be prayed for throughout his life.

Prayers for children, either with a child born or unborn, grown or half-grown, adopted or even not yet convinced, seem to be characterized by the same earnestness and anxiousness found in Hannah’s prayer. A parent’s heart cares so deeply.

God, our Father, cares so deeply. Though we might not always audibly hear his voice, his desire is for us and our wellbeing, like any good parent.

Hannah thanked God for answering her prayer. And today, I thank Hannah for showing me how to pray.

Easter is not how we imagined it this year. It’s not how we usually do things. But, Lord, you have mercy for all of us just the same. You have joy for us just the same. You have glory for us just the same.

For those who have kept the fast this season, for those who have lapsed, and for those who have given up more than they ever expected, Lord, we thank you.

For those who put that extra effort to make things seem a little more normal, a little more cheerful, a little more beautiful, Lord, we thank you.

For those who dress in their Sunday best and gather the family around to stream the Easter service, Lord, we thank you.

For those who stay in their pajamas and sing hymns in front of their computer screens, Lord, we thank you.

For those who are tired and reluctant to celebrate the resurrection while still feeling trapped in the tomb of isolation, Lord, we thank you.

For those who have brightened this world with chalk drawings, encouraging posters, contactless gifts, and parades, Lord, we thank you.

For those whose fingers are tired from sewing masks, hands are fatigued from writing letters, and arms are exhausted from the lack of hugs, Lord, we thank you.

For those who have worked to supply, feed, treat, serve, and protect the rest of us, Lord, we thank you.

For those on the front lines of healing this terrible virus, who are risking their life and health to keep people alive, Lord, we thank you.

For every other day of this challenge, we come to you with prayers we desperately need to be answered, with hurts than need healing, with anxiety that needs soothing. But today, Lord, we come to you to give thanks for what you have done on the cross for us, and what you are already doing in this world for us.

For in your sacrifice we have victory! In your triumph we have life! Death, which lurks around every corner, has lost its sting on this day, and we can now taste eternity.

Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is risen, and life reigns! Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in a tomb!

We give thanks, and we celebrate that you walked out of that tomb. And we know, dear Lord, that we, too, will walk out of this and every tomb that comes our way.

Amen.

I don’t have to tell you that the last week and a half has been rather extraordinary. It’s not every generation that a crisis disrupts the entire human population. Like many others, I am now homebound, leaving the house only to walk the dog and occasionally go to the grocery store. My calendar full of ministry and social events has dwindled to nearly nothing.

Making things worse, the news is full of alarmist predictions and panicked uncertainty. There is a delicate balance to be struck between being informed and being overwhelmed.

Making things more confusing social media seems overburdened with opinions of all sorts, voices shouting to be heard over one another. I’ve seen many people jump at the chance to offer encouraging words and distracting activities. The occasional positive anecdote punctuates the opinionated post. I have started to think that sifting through for the cheerful stories isn’t worth the effort.

A week ago, we received in the mail a wooden finger labyrinth made by talented woodworking, pastor friend of Williams. I was thrilled by the surprise gift, and it got me thinking that lately, my life feels a lot more like a labyrinth.

A labyrinth, unlike a maze, has only a single path you can follow. There are no false paths or dead ends, and there are only one entrance and exit.

Like a labyrinth, I begin and end my day in the same place. I only navigate the relatively small area of my home, weaving back and forth from room to room. I have just a few tasks to do and a lot of time in which to do them, which leaves a lot of time for thinking.

Sometimes these thoughts are positive and optimistic. Sometimes my thoughts are of thanksgiving for those on the frontlines of healthcare. Sometimes I am encouraged by the positive messages and creative encouragement from friends online.

However, I still feel the need to lament. I don’t want to get stuck in a place of darkness or hopelessness, but I want to be honest about my feelings and not just gloss over them with forced happiness.

But I am sad. I want permission to be sad, and I know others are sad too. There are brides that have postponed their weddings, seniors that have missed out on prom, new mothers who are not allowed visitors, churches that won’t have Easter egg hunts.

We all understand that these sacrifices are necessary to keep people safe. But they are still sacrifices, and they do hurt.

We need space to feel the hurt and loss caused by this crisis, and the labyrinth, either real or imagined, provides a limited space to lament. The labyrinth allows us to travel inward, in order to dwell on those things that are deep and meaningful. On the way in, we can spend in mourning what we have lost and acknowledged our feelings. We can speak our fears aloud to God, as petty and as foolish as they may seem.

We can spend some time on these things, but we’re not supposed to get stuck there. We have to move back out.

On the way out, we are encouraged to celebrate God’s goodness. We can begin to celebrate more time at home, the flowers of springtime, and the opportunity to learn and do new things.

If you need the space to mourn, extend yourself some grace. Embrace the labyrinth in which many of us now live. Be sad if you need to and let those around you be sad too. Then, when you’re done, take a breath and find your way back out again.

I studied religion in college, and one professor, in particular, was especially challenging. His tests were difficult, and his standards were high. Moreover, he was the most respected professor in the department.

His wisdom and dry wit gave him a certain Yoda-like quality. This impression was only enhanced by his age and a medical condition which made him dependent on a motorized scooter and microphone to teach.

In our class on John, we were assigned an exegesis paper as our final project. I immediately went to the library to get all the books I would need before the stacks were cleared out by my classmates.

I stuffed a dozen books in a sack, then proceeds to carry the sack around for a month, squeezing in reading and writing in every spare moment. I had never before worked so hard on an assignment, and I was incredibly anxious the day I turned it in.

A week or so later I visited my professors office to receive my final grade and look over my notes. I was elated to find a final grade of 98 scrolled in the corner of my well worn essay. But nothing compared to the smile he game me when he said the words ”Kena, your paper was splendid!”

That moment was a mix of relief, joy and pride. I left his office misty eyed, and I have often thought of his simple words and kind smile.

In Matthew, Jesus tells a similar story about servants of a rich man who were entrusted with gold to invest. Two of the servants were successful and received from the master loving praise: Well done, good and faithful servant!

Like the master in Jesus’s story, my professor’s words were powerful. The praise was not just critical because it was positive, but because it was earned through hard work and came from some with authority and great respect.

In our world of likes, upvotes, and comments, others are continually judging us. It’s difficult to sift through the voices and strive for the praise that matters, but it is so worth the challenge to hear words praise from someone who knows what they are talking about.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of getting to know our confirmation on retreat to Saint Simons Island. It’s a long, wonderful weekend spent learning about spiritual gifts and bonding through team building.

I taught our young glass several new games and led them in writing their class creed. Each new session of recreation or education was, of course, met with enthusiasm and frequently a lot of extra chatter.

It’s a tradition for this group to have an intimate time of sharing at the end of the weekend, and for this retreat, that means taking turns talking about each other’s spiritual gifts. Adults and leaders participate too, and when it was my turn, one young girl said something very insightful.

“I think you’re a good teacher, Kena, ” she said. “And I like how you say to us ’are you listening’ when your teaching because it makes me think ’am I listening?’ And then I think ’no, I’m not.’ So then I listen!”

I was both amused and amazed by the young girls honestly. Every teacher has a trick or phrase they use to get the room’s attention. Though I had only meant to use the phrase to quiet the rowdy bunch gently, it had sparked a brief moment of introspection for her, which I thought was rather interesting.

It’s funny when Jesus had one of those teacher phrases too. Over and over, he uses the phrase: If anyone has ears to hear, let him hear.

Mostly, when I read, I skip over that phrase. It sits as a kind of filler text before or after relevant teaching. But entering into this season of lent I am struck by my tendency not to listen. Not to listen to God and not to listen to other human beings.

Among other spiritual disciplines, I’ve decided to make that small question my internal refrain for the season on Lent. The phrase “are you listening?” will sit as a gentle reminder to be open to the things of God instead of preoccupied with my agenda.

I am thankful for my student’s reminder that we do indeed have ears to hear if we would simply quiet down.