Seek the Kingdom

If I’m fortunate this morning, I’m sitting on my deck in a bright yellow Adirondack chair, beginning my day with a cup of Earl Grey. I’m hearing the cardinal’s quick, cheerful chirp. If I’m exceptionally lucky, I see the flash of a ruby chest triangle on a rose-breasted grosbeak at my feeder. I look out over the backyard, where the crabapple trees have exploded in fuchsia clouds, and breathe a prayer of thanks for that annual sight. It’s a quiet start to the day in this, my seasonal home office. Of course, being May, the morning could reward me with torrents of rain instead, and I could be looking out a window at the feeder. Maybe it’s the very unpredictability of the month that makes it my favorite.

Either way, as the warm weather arrives and the world begins to reopen, I’m noticing that the long winter—both the literal frigidness of the season in Chicago and the cold sadness and isolation that’s settled into our lives—has sharpened my senses. Let me take you on a tour, from this deck chair, of the world I’m discovering now as we all begin to venture back to “normal.”

I can smell lily-of-the-valley if I get out of the chair long enough to bend down to the tiny white bells and breathe in their scent. They carpet part of the front shade garden, but I won’t notice their blossoms, let alone their smell, unless I get on their level. Now, I want to get out of my chair long enough. I want to have learned to make the effort. The smell is powerful and sweet, and I would miss it if I stayed comfortable.

A willingness to bend to see, hear, smell what I haven’t been paying attention to is a gift I unwrapped in the last year. Sometimes it’s hard to bend over. Pain shoots down my back if I’m not careful. So noticing the hard things of the last year—racism, sexism, loneliness, and mental illness—can be painful. Many of us would rather stay in the chair. But we’ll miss a big reward if we do that. The scent of repentance, reconciliation, and rebuilding in the air is far more beautiful than any flower’s.

What if Jesus’ first message to us—“Repent of your sins and turn to God, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near!” (Matt. 4:17 NLT)—wasn’t a threat but a promise? What if Jesus was inviting us into kingdom work, but repentance—the act of noticing what we haven’t noticed and being sorrowful about it enough to change—comes first? Lord, make our lives a Christ-like fragrance rising up to you (2 Cor. 2:15 NLT).

Sitting here, I can see those bright crabapple blossoms playing off the pink tulips beneath them. It’s a picture I never tire of seeing every spring, but it feels a long way away in January. I’ve learned this year to look past the Januarys of life in ways I’ve not previously understood. Some days, the only thing that can offer hope is the vision of a time when it will no longer be like it is now. Locked up in my house, unable to see both church family and immediate family,

I’ve had to lean on the knowledge that this isn’t the way it will always be. Joy does come in the morning (Ps. 30:5). I’ve had to learn to say, with Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” I’ve learned to mean it.

Now, looking at those trees and tulips, I want to continue believing in a vision of a better tomorrow. I intend to keep looking at the long picture. As I dream of those trees all winter, now I dream of a church that welcomes the immigrant, poor, and hopeless. I dream of a space where people of color and women are fully heard and included in kingdom work. I imagine a ministry that sees the lonely and the anxious or depressed and offers not to “fix” but to walk with. These are lessons in vision I’ve gained this year, and I don’t want to forget them as I sit watching the world open.

From the elm tree, I hear that grosbeak singing. It’s the most beautiful of birdsongs. I read a description once that compared it to a robin who’d had opera lessons. Though I’m not a fan of opera, the analogy holds. It’s easy to miss the individual birdsongs in the multitude of surrounding trees. I need to focus in on the one to know it’s there.

I’ve learned this year to hear voices I’ve not truly listened to before. I’ve read so many Black and Latinx writers who have tried to tell me their experience, but I’ve been too busy and too self-centered to pay attention. I’ve spoken with people whose hurt from the church runs deep and wide, and I’ve let their words enter my mind and ministry. Sometimes, people who are frustrated from being silenced sound jarring to those who find it relatively easy to be heard. Other times, we have to focus on a voice that is hiding, afraid to sing out loud, and encourage its talent and words. Listening to each one sing its song gives us the entire symphony God has in mind.

This backyard office space reminds me of the things I want to carry into the rest of this year and further. I don’t want a return to “normal.” All my awakened senses beg me to, instead, “Seek the kingdom of God above all else” (Matt. 6:33 NLT). Imagine all the things God might add for us in the seasons ahead.

Jill Richardson is a writer, speaker, pastor, mom of three, and author of five books. She likes to travel, grow flowers, read Tolkien, and research her next project. She believes in Jesus, grace, restoration, kindness, justice, and dark chocolate. Her passion is partnering with the next generation of faith. Jill blogs at jillmrichardson.com.