A Little Bit of Impossible.

I write to bring people hope.  That’s my calling.  That’s why I do what I do.  It may come in the form of a novel or a blogpost.  Perhaps a booklet on grief and loss.  A talk at a coffee shop or library. Sometimes the subject matter might spark a reader’s interest. Sometimes not. But all things considered, I tend to hang myself out on the line in plain view of others.  I guess it’s my style.  The good. The bad.  The broken.  And what common thread do I aim for?  The target?  What do I wish people to see when they read words written by Chuck Carr?

May people read words of hope. 

Hope.  The driving force that keeps us moving forward.

 

And this particular post is no exception, for it is rooted and grounded in the deep soil of a painful past.  But don’t we all have that?  The snapshots of our life history that we aren’t so happy with?  The polaroid prints lying on the bottom of the shoebox that aren’t looked at so often?  They are the times in life, the pages of our life’s book of which we wish to turn a bit quicker.  We turn those pages, doubling them.  Skipping large sections of time in great attempts to avoid the pain.  Trying hard to quickly get through our own life story to something more enlightening.  Inspiring.  Maybe even . . . happier? 

We all have those times in life, friend.  And I’m no exception either.

For some, the years after a loss have become so painful that the mind has blanked the memory of things away.  The mind can do that. There are events in my life that I cannot remember.  Occasionally, people speak to me about things of which I don’t carry the slightest token or souvenir of.  Apparently, my mind has erased things during the crazy years.  I have zero recollection that my brother once had a dog or a motorcycle just like mine.  Due to pain, the brain can lock segments of life under lock and key in a place without remembrance.  Even good things like a motorcycle can be erased during bad times. Your pain might come in the form of a divorce.  A breakup.  A health issue that robbed you of the flower of your youth.  In my case, a fifteen-year span of time with tremendous heartache and pain brought losses of many faces.  One after another.

And if that’s where the story ended, I wouldn’t be a writer of hope.  Would I?

Some of you can testify that my life was at one time . . . dare I say, easy?  Those years of my life are described well as “before the storm.”  And many of you also know that during those years I had a tremendous testimony.  With my wife at my side, I was teaching as one of the youth ministers of our church.  The ministry was flourishing.  I was able to use the creativity God wired me with to reach teenagers for Jesus.  But for one reason or another, all that came crashing to a halt.  After enduring a storm of suffering and pain, a little bit of hardship, and a lot of “why is this happening to me?” I was left scratching my head wondering how life would, or could, ever regroup.  It didn’t seem right.  It didn’t seem fair.  My wife, Becca, passed away in 2008.  My involvement in ministry ended shortly after that when a church split occurred, and the teenagers went in every direction.  Many teenagers felt as though they lost twice in a short span of time.  I know I did. Personally, I was made to love.  I was made to teach.  And yet, standing as a broken, shaken, and confused man, I held neither in my hands any longer.

We all have those fond memories of what once was.  I look back from time to time as well.  One of the most anticipated events of the youth group when I was teaching was an annual Lake Erie Beach Trip.  For those of you who live near the ocean you might not understand my nostalgia.  But for us—landlocked in Southwestern Pennsylvania—it was a perfect day trip.  The teenagers loved going.  I loved going.  It was the highlight of the summer for our church group.  Year after year the teens came and had a blast.  Year after year—before the storm—my wife, Becca, and I were captured in photobooks as our two boys grew from babies to toddlers to young kiddos.  The youth group grew.  Our family grew.  Memories were made.  The photos in the album multiplied.  It soon became a tradition that was synonymous with who we were.

But that all is in the past.  Memories longed for.  Things hoped to still partake of.  Things just a fingertip out of reach, yet a mile away.  Life moves on.  It never stands still.  And sometimes the pain of what was tries to swallow you whole.

The tradition ended.  My family was dismantled, as one member entered heaven.  The church was dismantled with a split.  Teenagers were hurting, looking for answers as they processed these losses as well.  And I stood.  Perplexed. Scratching my head.  Wondering.  Doubting.  Questioning.  Nothing made sense.  The pain of moving forward was too much to bear.  “Do you even see me God?  Can you hear my cry?”

Can you relate?  Are you still longing for some of those “best things in life?”

And yes, there is hope.  That is why I write.  Hope has a way to find you when there’s nothing left to look for.  It is that one flicker of candlelight that gives your soul a life spark and says it’s worth the effort to take another step.  Hope is the last ray of sunshine before the dark closes over.  The whispered voice in the dead of night.  The moment when all is not yet lost.

And I write to spread that hope.

For those who still have the breath of life within your lungs, the Lord is more than capable of doing the impossible.  For me, that meant submitting to God so he could do something with my broken and shattered pieces.  When I did, God took a fifteen-year time period that nearly destroyed me and used it for something good.  God is like that.  He can take our ugly, our broken, our messed-up, our shattered, and our fails.  He’s merciful.  He’s loving.  In his hands, what the enemy meant for evil he reshapes, recreates, reorchestrates, and rewires into something beautiful.  He does it all the time.  He’s never lost a battle yet.  And if he hasn’t lost yet—considering all the messed-up people he’s patched up and pushed on to greatness before I came along—I don’t reckon I’m important enough to be his first loss.  Just kidding!  There will never be a first loss.

God takes “All That the Locusts Have Eaten” and does amazing things.  And that is why I write.  To bring you hope.  And that is why I’ve written this post.

If you and I had met ten years ago on the street, and you shook my trembling hand and looked me in the eye . . . if you would have told me ten years ago that I would once again be taking a wife and kids to Lake Erie on a youth group beach trip, well, I’d have thought the town was painted crazy. 

Yet here I am.  It’s 2022.  I’m now remarried to a beautiful woman, Faerie, who God saw fit to cross my path with.  In a miraculous turn of events, we were plugged into another local church where we are currently teaching teenagers each Wednesday evening.  On August 20, 2022, Faerie and I jumped on a bus and headed to the beach with our church—the youth group—and spent the day soaking up the sun at Presque Isle, Lake Erie. And the boys who used to tag along on youth group trips in years past, our sons, jumped on the bus as well.  They are grown to nearly my height now.  What a time lapse, no?  And yet God doesn’t stop there.  On this trip, we now have another.  Our youngest is age six.  And he is experiencing it just like his older brothers did.

We had a blast.  We ate well.  Fun to the max.  We even had three baptisms right out in the lake.

I write to give people hope.

Did the thoughts of the past come knocking on my door?  Am I human?  Would I be writing hope if they didn’t?

Yeah, the thoughts of a past did tap me on the shoulder.  In a beautiful way.  A sweet one. One that went hand in hand with the beauty of what God is doing in my life right now.  The mind can forget things easily, remember?  It blocks memories when we aren’t watching.  But catching me off guard, it was as if Becca showed up to smile at me that day.  A memory was triggered.  An unexpected memory unfiled from my mind’s cabinet.  And during that moment, I felt a smile from her.  Like she could see me.  Pleased.  The gentle sense of her presence somehow joining the moment.  A healing.  A bringing together of many things.  A past that can be respected and honored.  A future that can be cherished and enjoyed.  The brush of touch from one who is thought of. 

Me moving me forward into what God has in store. 

And that is ok.  God knows what he’s doing.

And he’s doing a mighty fine job of it.

My challenge to you today is to grab hold of that last matchstick of hope and strike it for all you can muster.  Don’t give up.  There is a life ahead of you that you know nothing yet about.  A good life.  One filled with hope.  And purpose. One in which God can take the broken pieces and fit them back together in a way that brings beauty to both the past and the present and the future. 

I’m living it.

My challenge to you is to call to the Lord.  The same God who, fifteen years after all my heartache and brokenness, brought me to a place of healing and put me on my feet to help people once again.  Can you imagine how blessed I feel to be teaching teens once again?  With my wife and family there to witness? I want you to know that God is more than capable of writing your story.  A good one. He can use the pain of your life and do something good with it.  He is more than capable. 

Yes.  I remembered the past.  But I also have a hunch that when I get to heaven, Becca and Faerie are going to have a cup of tea or coffee together and catch up on the wild adventures that went on during these crazy years. 

For those who have bought my books in person, you’ve noticed I sign my name under the words “Romans 8:28.”  It is the truest verse of the Bible I know.  One that I’ve lived to testify of.  It says: “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” 

There were many times when I was ready to give up. 

But I didn’t.

I love God.  I’m called according to his purpose.

God saw me through.

God can take what the enemy meant for evil and do something extraordinary with it. 

And that is why I write to you.

On August 20, a little bit of the impossible just occurred.

In more ways than I can count.

By Chuck Carr

For more information, or to read more about the book All That The Locusts Have Eaten, click this link