May I introduce to you the newest member of the Johnson family: Dylan Thomas.

Dylan was born Friday, January 15th at 12:33 p.m. He was 8lbs 4.6oz, 21.5 inches long, and perfectly healthy.

My wife now officially bears the title of toughest person I know. She did natural childbirth and pushed this new life out in 10 minutes. It was incredible to see so much pain and joy within moments of each other. I never thought anything could be more profound than the birth of my first son, Liam. But this one was beyond amazing.

We’re so thankful to God and to all our friends for your prayers and support.

I’m looking forward to getting back into the swing of things. Not sure how much I’ll be blogging over the next few months as we’ve been blessed with both this amazing new addition to our family and things are really picking up with work. In the last month I’ve landed a book project, two new potential clients, and a large project with a very reputable agency here in town. Additionally, we’re gearing up for the launch of our new website at Praxis and the official roll out of The City. All of this has come at a just the right time, proving God is one who provides.

One of these days I’ll stop being one of so little faith.

It was 365 days ago, around the time in the morning when I am writing this that I received a phone call from my mom.

“Jake,” she said somberly. “Grandpa died last night.”

“I’m coming over,” I said.

Putting the phone down, I quietly got dressed. Holding back the tears, I told my wife what had happened and that I was going to be back in a little while. My three-year old son, Liam, was still sleeping in the other room.

As I drove over to my grandfather’s home, I quietly began to cry. Seattle was experiencing one of the worst snow storms in its history. It was very cold out, and I remember the odd sensation of having hot tears run down my face even as I was shivering uncontrollably, waiting for the car’s heater to do its magic.

I pulled up into the gravel driveway of the house that held so many wonderful memories for me, knowing that this would be the last time I’d ever set earthly eyes on my grandpa. I didn’t know what to expect. I had never experienced death this close. It was a surreal experience to walk through the front door and see him laying there, mouth slightly open, stiff and lifeless.

The time of mourning was very hard for the family. The onset of death, so quick and unexpected. In such a short time, joy turned to sorrow, and the celebration of our Savior’s birth turned into the reality of sin’s consequences.

It was by God’s grace that I was even in Seattle last year. In the summer we were building our first home here in Arizona, and had planned to experience our first Christmas in that home. But as we moved closer to the holidays, I began to feel the importance of coming back home to Seattle to celebrate the holiday with my family.

So we changed our plans.

Grandpa, I think, was holding on just for that. The McElroy family gathered on Christmas day for a great celebration. Grandpa was healthy, alert, and taking in the joy of being with four generations. He was a true patriarch.

It wasn’t but a day or two after that wonderful time that things went down hill quickly.

By December 29th, he was dead.

During this time, I was reading N.T. Wright’s Surprised by Hope. I’d like to believe it wasn’t by accident. In that book, Wright speaks to the hope we all have as Christians in the bodily resurrection of humankind and the redemption of all creation. I took great encouragement from his deep insight into the hope we all have in Christ. And it was comforting to know that one day, our family will once again be together, bodily, celebrating not as just four generations, but as a multitude of generations.

God knew this would happen. He knew my family and I needed to be in Seattle last year. For that gift of providence, I’m eternally grateful. I am also grateful that Grandpa was a believer. Today, he is with our Lord, in a place of no sickness, pain, or death. And one day, we will all be reunited together for a joyful time of celebration once again.

This year, as we observe the first memorial of grandpa’s death, I’m reminded of the cycles of life. My wife is nine months pregnant, and we are anxiously awaiting the arrival of our second son. Last year we mourned death. This year we will be celebrating life. It’s funny how, despite our best efforts at times, life just keeps on marching forward. The realities of death and life, continue to confound us despite our best efforts to conquer them.

I wish my grandpa was still alive to see the arrival of his second great-grandchild. But the reality is that he is still alive, just not with us in the present. And while he won’t be there when my son arrives. He will one day hold him in his arms and give him a great big hug.

Grandpa, I miss you and love you. Say hi to the big guy for me.

Then comes along Noel Piper’s post on why they don’t do Santa over at the Piper household. The post has a lot of the usual reasons you’ve probably come to expect, but this particular section stuck out to me:

Third, we think about how confusing it must be to a straight-thinking, uncritically-minded preschooler because Santa is so much like what we’re trying all year to teach our children about God. Look, for example, at the “attributes” of Santa.

• He’s omniscient—he sees everything you do.
• He rewards you if you’re good.
• He’s omnipresent—at least, he can be everywhere in one night.
• He gives you good gifts.
• He’s the most famous “old man in the sky” figure.

She’s right. Santa is a lot like God, but only partially so. Noel goes on:

But at the deeper level that young children haven’t reached yet in their understanding, he is not like God at all.

For example, does Santa really care if we’re bad or good? Think of the most awful kid you can remember. Did he or she ever not get gifts from Santa?

What about Santa’s spying and then rewarding you if you’re good enough? That’s not the way God operates. He gave us his gift—his Son—even though we weren’t good at all. “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). He gave his gift to us to make us good, not because we had proved ourselves good enough.

When Liam was born, my walk with the Lord was drastically different than it is now four years later. And I’ve got to admit that Noel’s reasoning here has me thinking.

Still, a part of me just thinks Santa is a little harmless holiday fun, and Liam and I talk a lot more about Jesus than we ever do Santa.

Just the other night, after nightly prayers, I was cuddling with my buddy when he said to me, “Daddy?”

“Yes, buddy?”

“Did you know Jesus was born in a barn? Isn’t that wonderful?”

He knows the reason for the season.

So what do you think? Is Santa harmless Christmas fun? Or is Noel right, does he cloud your child’s capacity to know God fully?

Some things I’m thankful for:

• Jesus’ obedience unto death to redeem and reconcile creation and a lost sinner such as me to God.
• Jesus’ resurrection unto life and His victory of Satan, sin, and death.
• My beautiful wife, Collette, who is the love of my life and the toughest girl I know – hang in there, babe! Only a few more weeks to go.
• My awesome son, Liam, and my coming son, Dylan. Not every dad gets to say, “My boys.” What a blessing!
• Our incredible Praxis Church family, who have shown us continually the love of Christ.
• For the Pastors, leaders, and volunteers who work tirelessly at equipping and serving the saints at Praxis Church.
• My family and friends, many of whom I will not be seeing this holiday but wish I was.
• For my Missional Community family, whom I’m so happy God has brought into our lives.
• For grace, which abounds.
• Football, which is of God.
• Food, which I have more than I need.
• Sanctification, which continues daily.
• Books because I’m a nerd.
• An awesome house that is perfectly suited to our family.
• Cars that run.
• My bike, given to me generously by a friend.
• That every day is sunny in Arizona. And that the weather is cooling down.
• I woke up today. So did my son and my wife.

What are you thankful for?

[Photo by futurowoman]

The reason? The Busy Season.

We’ve all experienced a busy season before, and I’m finding that this one is particularly difficult. I’m also finding it to be a great time of sanctification.

About two weeks ago, my beautiful and very pregnant wife, Collette, went in for a scheduled prenatal check-up and found out her blood pressure was too high. They put her on bed rest. As these things always go, it couldn’t have come at a worse time!

First off, I’m naturally worried about my Collette and the baby’s health. I’ve been praying earnestly for good health and a joyous pregnancy. But bed rest, while it is necessary, brings its share of frustrations both for Collette and for me.

So, along with running my company, serving at the church, and keeping up with my online hobbies, I’ve also been Mr. Mom! It’s a good thing I can make a mean roast.

But the stress level has been high, and I’m seeing all the crap I’m so good at hiding float right to the top.

Thankfully, God is gracious, and is working through this time to point out some areas in my life that really need to be sanctified.

Patience

Oh, boy. This is a biggie. I want things done now, and I want them done my way, the right way, the first time. Unfortunately, my three-year old, Liam, doesn’t really care. The reality is that I have too high of expectations for my little guy, especially in times of uncertainty. He knows something is wrong, but doesn’t know what. To top it off, my impatience causes him to lash out in negative ways. The LORD is showing me that I need to become a more patient man.

Control

I’m a take-charge kind of guy who is used to being in control. I pride myself on order, and hate seeing things fall through the crack. As such, I start to quickly lose it when I’m no longer in control, and my veneer cracks. The LORD is showing me that I need to stop worshiping the idol of control, and rest in his sovereignty.

Pride

Because I like control, I am often too prideful to ask for help. Thankfully, I serve alongside Godly and humble men who have reminded me of my need to ask for help. Though it’s hard, I’m grateful for those who have served me and my family during this time. The LORD is showing me that my pride is evidence that I still don’t fully realize that I can do nothing apart from Him.

Above all, the LORD has used this season to remind me that I’m a sinner, and that I must find my righteousness in Him alone. Too often I cruise along, thinking I’m doing pretty well, but as we all know, adversity reveals the impurities in our heart. I thank God for His grace, and am thankful for His sanctification process.

In all this, I find comfort in James’ words, “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kind, 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).

If you are going through a hard time, I encourage you to seek God and count it joy that He is allowing you to grow in your faith in Him. It can be hard, but the end result is a character that is more conformed to the character of Christ. I thank God, that He continues to work in me.

Please keep us in prayer, as we go to the doctors tomorrow to monitor Collette’s blood pressure.

Prayer

Heavenly Father, in you we live and move and have our being: We humbly pray you so to guide and govern us by your Holy Spirit, that in all the cares and occupations of our life we may not forget you, but may remember that we are ever walking in your sight; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

And this makes good sense. During his life, my grandpa poured himself into his home. He expanded it with new rooms, built an garage, constructed a sun room (in Seattle no less!), painted again and again, rearranged the landscaping, busted walls, rebuilt walls, and continually remade his surroundings as he continually remade himself.

A week before his death, grandpa, Liam, and I enjoyed a few hours together. I wasn’t supposed to be in Seattle that Christmas, but God sovereignly had other plans.

It was that house that I used to ride my bike down to at five in the morning, speeding on East View Ridge Drive, down onto the steep, exhilarating incline of Olympic Avenue, and into the gravel drive with a slam of my breaks and an epic skid only an eight year old boy could appreciate, giddy with expectation as I prepared to caddy for my grandpa at one of the local golf courses. It was in the warm kitchen, smelling of coffee and melted butter, that I sat down to eat the smiley face pancakes, a McElroy tradition. It was in the warmly lighted family room, where we sat around the dinner table and talked into the night, telling long and rambling jokes and playing board games. It was that house where my mom, my uncles and aunts, me, and my cousins grew up. Good memories and bad, that house that was his and ours.

I was not able to make it up for the spreading of grandpa’s ashes, and in a way I’m glad. I paid my respects, kissing his cold forehead for the last time in the living room of the very same house in which he lived and died on that frosty December morning almost a year ago. But part of me wishes that I could have been there, to see just one last time the remains of the man I loved, even if they fit in a Chinese take-out box instead of one of his spring-fresh laundered v-neck undershirts. To gather as a family one last time around a man who had been a center of our life for so long. But in the end, it is his memory that sustains my love, not ashes. And those still burn strong.

Yet, there are days when I miss him terribly. Today is one of those days.

Rest in peace, Ronald McElroy. Rest in peace, grandpa.

The Foolishness of Children

Now at the age of thirty-one, listing to Blind Pilot, drinking an IPA, and missing my days of smoking Nat Sherman cigarettes, I realize what a fool I was to enjoy such pedestrian music, and what a douchebag Carmen really is. I should know. I’m co-founder of the #db4jc hash tag on twitter (if you can’t figure out that 1+1=2, then you’re a #db4jc too).

You see, as a young child I was too innocent. I can’t believe I enjoyed such culturally irrelevant music that condemned the prevailing culture in no uncertain terms – all in a stout Jersey accent to boot. There are two things clearly wrong with Carmen’s music:

1. It doesn’t utilize pop-culture, pseudo poetic metaphors. It’s all brute force.
2. He doesn’t have tattoos. (OK that’s not really a problem with his music, but just a personal problem.)

Clearly, Carmen isn’t, and never was, used by God. In fact, he’s doing Christianity a disservice – and he should be mocked for doing so.

Who’s Carmen?

Most likely you’re asking, “Who’s the Carmen fellow?” And if so, I’ll admit you’re lucky. My point is that as emerging, emergents, neo-calivinists, young reformers, or whatever buzzword you can find, we’re quickly becoming the young and the mocking. From where I sit, convicted too often of my own participation, our greatest weakness (and the possible cause of our future fall from grace) is our arrogance. And it’s not even an arrogance that’s rooted in solid theology – I’m well-aware of the oxymoronic subtleties of that statement – but instead on our cultural relevance. And you know what? That’s just silly.

Admit it. You’re Angry.

I think it’s time to come to terms with the fact that we’re pissed about having to watch TBN and giving up our He-Man toys (by the power of Greyskull? I think not! We live by the power of Jesus!) when our mom came home from the pentecostal church “saved” and ready to live her life for Jesus! Oh, wait…was I projecting?

Let’s face it, you probably have some sort of similar horror story about “uncool” evangelical Christianity crimping your style. And that’s cool. The Bible is full of Lamentations. There’s even a book by that name. But they were complaining about losing their homeland and watching their loved ones run through by a sword. But I’m sure your having to give the Chronicles of Narnia (evil Christian apologists!) back to your aunt on Christmas because it had witches is a modern equivalent. Wait…was I projecting again?!

Yeah. I’m a hypocrite.

By now you’re probably forming your argument that goes something like this, “If you’re so against mockery, why is this whole damn blog post full of it?” Good question. I guess the only answer is that it’s mostly self-mockery, and I’m a hypocrite. But does that make it untrue?

And I guess that’s the rub. I probably could have skipped this whole diatribe and simply quoted our good friend, St. Paul:

“Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak the truth with his neighbor, for we are members one of another. Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil. Let the thief no longer steal, but rather let him labor, doing honest work with his own hands, so that he may have something to share with anyone in need. Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, by whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.” Ephesians 4:25-32

I’m Not a Hippie

So, where do we go from here? What exactly am I advocating? I’ll admit, this post was inspired by @_stew_’s (whom I actually think is a great man of God and a very interesting follow on twitter) series of salty tweets earlier this week (see examples here, here, and here), but mostly it was inspired by my own spirit of mocking at the Christian sub-culture. I’m truly convicted by my mocking spirit towards my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, people whom I’m called to love and serve with every fiber of my being. People who, if I’m honest with myself (as in the case of Carmen) actually were used by God in my own life and many others – even to this day.

So here’s what I’m saying, and what someone astutely said in response to @_stew_, let’s focus on tearing down the strongholds of sin in our culture, not the “irrelevance” of Christian sub-culture, and we will do just fine. Because at the end of the day, is it our delivery or the power of the Gospel as illuminated by the Holy Spirit that is the power to save?

Let’s move beyond the young and the mocking.

Grace and peace.

We’re having another BOY!

And he has a perfect bill of health.

As soon as the doctor told us, my mind began traveling into the future, picturing great times hanging out with my boys! Rough housing, kidding around, shooting hoops together, watching ball games… the whole lot. I’m very thankful to God for blessing us with another son, and for keeping the baby healthy during development. Plus, everyone else at Praxis Church seems to be having girls. So, little Dylan Thomas (as we are currently calling him) will be in good shape come later in life.

Please keep us in your prayers for continued healthy development, and for a perfect birth.

My grandpa died just a few days after Christmas. I’m glad that I got to see him one last time, and that by God’s providence I made the trek to Seattle with my wife and son for the Christmas holiday. But it was strange going through those emails beginning in early December, filled with joy, hope, and expectation centered around our family gathering, and then in the space of literally minutes going through emails from late December and early January, filled with grief, pain, and confusion, centered around the death of my grandpa and the details for his memorial.

Technology is a weird thing. Ten years ago, I would never have had an experience quite like that. Nor would I be blogging about it. Yet, here we are, engaging in this medium, not even sure how it really effects us mentally or emotionally.

Anyway, I wrote an essay about my grandpa, which I read at the memorial a couple months ago. I’ve been asked to share it by a few folks, and my email project inspired me to go ahead and post it. It’s long. No need to read it through, or at all for that matter, but at least it’s here. A digital relic for a dying age:

Brand My Memory by Jacob Johnson

You enjoy work and will love your grandchildren, and somewhere in there you die.
-    Annie Dillard, “How to Live”

Personally, I’m a bit of a bull-shitter myself.
- The cartoon bull on a poster in Grandpa’s garage

Death, as we know, is the great equalizer. It is a cold shower, a sobering and shocking dousing, at best vaguely expected, at worst a horrible surprise. Like all good shocks, it get’s you thinking. What is right and important? How is life to be lived? Often it is as introspective as it is objective. The experience of mourning and remembering and wishing and hoping is a personal one, as much about the lover as the loved one.

And that’s ok. We need to push and pull, laugh and cry, to accept that we lost more than just a person, but a part of ourselves. And we ache and we hurt, and we smile and we cry as we reminisce and run into tender memories at every corner. This, I suspect will last for quite some time.

And death carries with it great mythos. My, oh my, it is a heady topic. A frosty glass of porter on a cold winter’s day. To be dwelt on, savored, sipped. It must be explored, not flown over. Pushed and prodded. Search out its corners; put your hands down the crevices. As Shakespeare said, it is the undiscovered country.

We don’t know what happens after death. We have our ideas. But in the end they are speculation, a veiled realization – a hope to which we are attached like a lifeline. The only certainty we have about death is that it happens. And it will one day happen to us, and to those we love.

Still, we try to forget this inconvenient truth. We live our lives in the illusion of permanence. And for good reason we go about acting as if this ultimate reality doesn’t exist Otherwise we would be paralyzed with fear and contempt, or we would waste our lives in revelry. Instead, we work hard for whatever we believe will make life worth living: wealth, fame, family, or God – or some combination thereof. And we live, quite happily, in the illusion that these things will be a part of us, with us, forever.
But every so often there is an interruption. Things we deemed reliable fail us. Surprise events breach our walls of expectation. Life throws us a curveball. These are often minor things, quickly forgotten. A light switch not working, or the cable going out. These, we think, are flukes – errors in an otherwise wholly reliable program. Surely, they are not the norm because they are random and happen so little – to us.

So, we choose not to focus on these interruptions. Instead, we work hard. We build a better light bulb. We invent digital cable. We get a promotion. We improve and invent and push and strive. We seek control and grasp sand.
Yet, impermanence is not a fluke. It is the norm. The better light bulb burns out. The union job gets phased out. The cable gets cut – usually during the football game. The flower withers. The tree falls. Lakes evaporate. Rivers run dry. And people you love most pass on.

But impermanence is, of course, not the whole story. It is only half. There is also permanence. There is love, laughter, family. There is always a new light bulb to be found. The cable comes back on. You get a new job. A new tree grows. New lakes form. Rivers carve out new winding ways. And the memories of those you love remain, and the bits of soul they planted in you are passed on to others – your children or your friends – to those that know that you are not a whole but a sum of parts.

Tonight as I was eating dinner, I used a torn piece of bread to scoop food onto my fork, and I got to thinking how I’d seen grandpa do that a million times. Now I was doing it. Sometimes I’ll catch myself telling stories like grandpa does, long, drawn out stories that you know have a punch line, but you can’t guess what it is or how you’re going to get to it; or I’ll see myself in the mirror and catch a phantom drift across my face, a merging of the past with the present, when the Irish blood flowing in my veins is magnified, and all I’d need would be a sailor suit to be him. When I smoked Camels, the brand he smoked for over sixty years, I caught myself putting the tip of my tongue out to wet my lips and putting the cigarette to my lips, my forefinger and thumb cradling the filter, the rest of my fingers raised slightly in the air, holding in the smoke and surveying the world around me, knowing I’m not perfect, but that I’m here; I’m living.

See. Little bits of soul.

And then there are the memories.

Prior to his death, they would often float lazily like a piece of driftwood into my consciousness and settle on the sand of my mind to be discovered unexpectedly, a long forgotten moment of joy. And I would pause. And dwell. And cherish.
Now, after his death, they come on like a flood.

I remember smiley-face pancakes at five am. I remember the bed bugs song, and the whiskey river. I remember long drawn out stories – but not the stories themselves. I remember warmth and generosity and toughness. I remember finding golf balls in the rough, teeing off when the marshal wasn’t looking, stories about his pal Brown, V-neck sweaters, the way his shoulders shook when he laughed, the firmness of his handshake, the fresh smell of his clothes, and the age spots on his face. I remember his goodness and gentleness. I remember him as a man I want to one day be like.

I will say this. Grandpa’s death has taught me something about life. I’ll never forget returning to my mom’s house after seeing grandpa’s still body, cold like the snow on the Everett streets, having kissed his forehead for the last time, the hot tears traveling down my cheeks, and the staleness of the air still burning in my nostrils; how my son, Liam, with joy and expectation on his face ran into my arms, and told me about his morning adventures, blissfully ignorant and totally enthralled with me.
And I thought, this is a moment grandpa would appreciate.

And as I bent over, picked Liam up, and whispered in his ear, “I sure missed you. You are my favorite,” I felt a joy unspeakable enter my soul, and the weight of the day was gone. In that moment grace and peace, the very presence of God, entered into the room. And I knew my grandpa Mac wasn’t gone. His legacy lived on, in me and in you.  In the everyday actions we take, and in the way in which we approach the world.

I always thought that Liam would learn all the jokes and songs and stories from the source, from early morning breakfasts and after-dinner table talk. I assumed that he would know the man. I had comfortably settled into permanence. And now that impermanence has settled itself in the house, taken off his shoes, and peeked in the fridge, maybe even rearranged a few pieces of furniture, I’ve reassessed what it will mean for my son to know my grandfather – his great-grandfather, in more ways that one.
Sure we have pictures, and yes, there are videos. But how will he really know him? Through me. In the way that I love, talk, share, and teach. In the faces I make, the way I too say, “Hey,” loudly and boisterously when Liam walks into the room, the things I laugh at, and the jokes I tell. By personally being a bit of a bull-shitter myself. Liam may not recognize these things as my grandfather, but I will. And I will see those things in my son as he grows. Little pieces of soul.

We are the permanence of those who have poured into us. We are the living, breathing relics of our ancestors. We do not pass on; we pass forward. A branded memory.

Thanks be to God.