Between Sundays
“Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go … I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” ~ Genesis 28:15
I went down a bit of a rabbit hole this week, looking up the little village in Germany where my family lived when I was small, back when my dad was stationed there. That search stirred up an old family story, and it is the kind of story that fits this particular week perfectly.
There was a chapel on that base, and that chapel had a nursery. And on the door of that nursery, according to my mother, there were scratch marks. My scratch marks.
Evidently, I did not care to be left in the nursery. At all. I have no memory of it, but my mother assures me I made my feelings loudly and physically known, clawing at that door as though my little life depended on getting back to my parents. I feel genuinely sorry for the poor nursery workers who had to care for me through what I can only imagine were some truly spectacular tantrums. Because here is the thing about that little girl at the door. She did not understand that her parents were coming back. She did not know that the people she loved most had not abandoned her, that they were just on the other side of the wall, that she was safe, and that in an hour or two she would be scooped right back up into their arms. All she knew was that they had walked away, and she was going to scratch her way back to them if that was what it took.
I have been thinking about that little girl all week, because this week we kicked off our Calvary Weekday School year.
Our Kindergartners have found their footing after a week, but now the three and four year olds are trickling in, and friends, it is all hands on deck. There are tears. There are wails. There are little ones at the door who, just like I did, do not yet understand that mom and dad are coming back, that this new place is safe, that they are going to be okay. It is one of the hardest and holiest things a small person ever does, letting go of the hand they trust most and stepping, terrified, into something new. If you have dropped off a crying child this month and driven away with your own heart in your throat, you are in very good company. It is holy work, this letting go, on both sides of the door.
And it is not just the little ones, is it? We all know that feeling. The transitions do not stop when we grow up. We just get better at hiding the tears. The new school, the new job, the empty nest, the move, the diagnosis, the loss. Every one of us, at some point, finds ourselves standing at a door we do not want to walk through, being asked to let go of something familiar and trust that we will be okay on the other side. Some of us, if we are honest, are still leaving scratch marks.
This is exactly where Scripture meets us. When Jacob left his home, frightened and alone and unsure of everything, God met him with a promise. I am with you. I will keep you wherever you go. I will not leave you. Not you will never be afraid. Not this will be easy. Simply, I am with you, and I am not going anywhere. That is the promise underneath every hard transition we will ever face, and it is the promise those crying three year olds are learning for the very first time, that they are held, even when it is scary, even at the door.
So to every Weekday School family wiping tears this month, to every student adjusting to a new year, to everyone in this congregation standing at a threshold you did not choose, hear this. You are not being left. The people who love you are closer than you know, just on the other side of the wall. And the God who meets frightened children at nursery doors is the very same God who meets us at every door after that. That God does not walk away.
One last thing. I later learned that of everything on that old base, nearly all of it torn down and built over now, the chapel tower is said to be the one structure still standing. I cannot confirm it with my own eyes, but I love that it might be true. Everything else changes and comes down. The house of God, and the God who meets us there, endures, still keeping watch, still holding the door, still whispering to every frightened one of us, I am with you, wherever you go.
Until Sunday, and all the days between,
Dr. Hutton