Where Friendships & Faith Grow Deep

This Summer has been a long year.

I have watched a flesh-eating bacteria run roughshod through a friend’s body forcing 12+ surgeries and months in Trauma ICU just for a chance to survive.

I have cried with a friend after he received divorce papers.

We have buried the beloved patriarch of one family and the elegant matriarch of another.

I’ve prayed with a mom as she plead for her daughter’s life.

My heart has ached for friends who lost a mom and are walking through their sister’s pancreatic cancer, and another family providing palliative care for a mom riddled with cancer.

I’ve prayed with a friend struggling to stabilize two daughters with chronic illness.

I’ve sat in the proverbial dark with a loved one awaiting the results of cancer screenings.

I’ve lost count of the critical surgeries and medical procedures we’ve prayed for before, during, and after.

Most recently, I’ve watched hurricane flood waters rage through dams, roadways, and levees to rise into hundreds of homes, threatening or destroying the property of dozens of friends.

And I’ve seen shallow roots grow deep.

I’ve heard the stories of those who have offered their first prayers for others.

I’ve listened to the testimonies of people profoundly changed by the unshakable faith of believers in pain.

I’ve seen the faces of those experiencing answered prayers.

I have watched political antagonists serving terrified people side-by-side.

Divided families have set their differences aside amid tragedy.

I’ve seen church members gather and worship in a hospital parking lot.

I’ve seen prayer lists reach thousands of friends.

I’ve had a front row seat to watch the most unexpected friendships forged in the most challenging circumstances.

And I’ve watched shallow friendships grow deep.

But isn’t that the way it always is?

Friendships and faith grow shallow roots on bright sunny days at birthday parties. You can’t grow mature friendships and faith on the best of days any more than you can grow corn on a beautiful beach. Rather, friendships and faith grow deep roots in compost. I don’t mean dry, dusty compost. I mean icky, moist, smelly compost that squishes between your toes and leaves a nasty odorous trail - the kind that takes your breath and leaves you gagging.

No one wants to walk through compost.

I worry about the martyrs among us who proclaim their gratitude for cancer, natural disasters, or loss. God does not expect us to be thankful for compost. He calls us to find Him and trust Him in the compost. He calls us to love Him and love one another regardless of circumstances. Though perhaps it’s in the compost where that love shines brightest, and the roots grow deepest.

Have you ever seen a beautiful flower growing in the crack of a dull gray rockface?

The beauty pops so differently than any one flower in a field of flowers. That’s joy. Dallas Willard defined joy as “a pervasive sense of well-being.” By “pervasive”, he meant that no matter what happens, no matter how putrid the compost we walk through, that sense of well-being is present.

Joy is not found in perfect circumstances nor perfect people, but in knowing perfect love. That perfect love is most often experienced as we are met by God and friends in the muck and mire of our compost.

Pain is real. Suffering is real. But the deepest roots of friendships and faith run through the despair to tap into the deepest realities of peace and joy found in Jesus Christ.

Count it all joy, my brothers, 

when you meet trials of various kinds, 

for you know that the testing

 of your faith produces steadfastness. 

And let steadfastness have its full effect, 

that you may be perfect and complete, 

lacking in nothing.

James 1:2-4