What do you do when God undoes a miracle?
After our foundation repair was finished in January 2020, we set out to repair the significant external damage to our home. We prepared with a contractor to replace all of the siding on our house which had been cracked and warped over decades of floating on liquid earth, and needed to demo and rebuild our front porch.
As church communities often do, we were surrounded by the generosity of willing helpers, and workdays turned into great memories as we pried wood panels off with crowbars to prepare the exterior for the contractors to add new siding. No less than eight bats were discovered nesting among the splintered cedar planks during this process, so I can now tell you which of my friends do and do not suffer from chiroptophobia.
I'll never forget pulling into the driveway from work on that last day of this home project where the exterior paint job had just been finished and the newly stained wooden porch filled the air with the aroma of turpentine. My wife stood there gazing at the home and turned towards me, an iconic smile of pure joy painted on her face, set against the backdrop of a house that now looked brand new. After all the suffering she had endured in this endless season of domestic dread, she stood radiant before the symbol of our deliverance: our home, finally renewed.
How could I tell her that we were going to lose the house?
All Things New
"I wish there was a way to know that you're in the good ol' days before you've actually left them." -Andy Bernard, The Office
From 2011 to 2020, I worked for a church in Oregon, starting out my second full-time youth ministry job, eventually transitioning into another ministerial position for adult groups.
I began my nine-year career there in my early 20s, a time I can only look back on and be thankful that anyone would put up with me! I had the privilege of working under some pastors who saw something in me, and many times over that decade of life, they fanned that flame, coached me along, corrected me when I was being foolish, and exercised patience with me when we butted heads. I've always loved to have my toes stepped on by people I can trust, and a few times I got flattened because I needed to be.
My senior pastor became a deep mentor in my life, in some ways even like a father--my real father, who is an incredible dad, still had the handicap of living 2,000 miles away in Texas! This pastor was a man of sincerity and genuinely loved the staff who worked under him, always finding ways to praise our efforts and to help us see in ourselves all that he saw in us.
One thing our special relationship afforded us was the ability to go to war with each other, then negotiate peace by the time we clocked out. Nondenominational churches have the disadvantage of lacking a certain doctrinal mooring that is enjoyed elsewhere, and this created innumerable opportunities for our pastoral team to divide over our differences regarding vision, values, and general ministry practices. I respected this mentor greatly, but in certain moments we almost needed an octagon to resolve these things.
Still, we always managed to settle our difference of convictions with a handshake of honor, even in the middle of the bloodied mat.
When this senior pastor began the final phase of his retirement from 30 years of service to our church, it was evident that some sort of change was coming. I lamented to see my friend go, yet I longed for what changes might be possible.
I had briefly submitted myself for consideration to become his successor, which would certainly be the most obvious way to lead our church toward a future that would reflect my own convictions. But ministry isn't about the minister, and this opportunity was not about the fulfillment of my own destiny nor my dream for this church. Ultimately, I did not feel the distinct and divine call that is befitting of such a role, and the Elders of the church concurred, pursuing other candidates.
The future of our church stood on a knife's edge, ready to tip one way or another.
Which direction it went would mean everything.
No More Church
The week before our new pastor's start date, our church and every church in America received notice that we were not to have a public gathering that Sunday. Today we can sit here and read this with clear recall about how this would be the first of many such Sundays and how COVID would reshape and unshape our world from that day forward. But at that moment, no one owned a mask, and "pandemic" was not a part of our cultural vernacular.
We knew so little.
This certainly reshaped the standard process of adapting to a new boss. For the first three days, I almost didn't see him at all despite working two doors down the hall. I could only imagine all the things he was untangling that outweighed a get-to-know-you with his new staff.
Finally, I had my first meeting with him on his third day. I don't really remember what was said at the start of that meeting, just the thing that was said to me in the middle of it.
"I think you should be a pastor at another church."
There's a brief, numb moment of shock at this moment before your brain starts frantically puzzling together all of the pieces of what has been said and what hasn't been said, followed by immediate and concrete recognition of the finality that comes along with someone willing to say such a thing in the first professional interaction we've ever had.
Persona Non-Grata. In a moment I was unwelcomed from my workplace of nine years by someone who had not been there nine days. And I didn't need anyone to explain to me the elements of leverage or finality that governed that moment, as this pastor's role held all the power of CEO in our church.
The implications of losing a ministry job almost always mean losing your home, town, friends, profession. I grew up in a pastor's home, and I'd seen firsthand how different a ministry transition is from almost any other job. There's not another church down the street with the same doctrine, who can pay a livable wage, heck, who even has a job opening!
This chapter of my life had been slammed shut, and it only took ten words.
Not For Me
That same day, our seven years in the making house repair project was finished, down to the last touch of paint. I pulled into my driveway to see it for the first time, to see my wife's elation, and I couldn't share in any of the joy. I was like a husk, the very shape of the creature I'm meant to be, only nothing alive inside.
"Hi, honey."
"Yes, that's wonderful."
"Oh, I am."
She wondered that day, often aloud, why I couldn't offer more than a reserved smile towards the greatest thing that had ever been done in our life. I willfully kept her at arm's length from the information I carried--something I never do--then finally, that night, I gave in and told her what had happened at work that day. I watched my wife's spirit be crushed, right before my eyes as she too came to recognize that this great deliverance was not for us, not to be enjoyed for a moment.
The conclusion of Lord of the Rings finds Frodo standing at the shore with his hobbit friends as his Uncle Bilbo and sage guide Gandalf prepare to board a ship to sail across the sea to the Grey Havens, the sacred home of the Elves. But, to the surprise of all, he turns and bids farewell not to Bilbo and Gandalf, but to his fellow hobbits, revealing his plan to leave his home in the Shire forever.
Sam: I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire too, for years and years after all that you had done.
Frodo: So I thought too, once [...] I tried to save the Shire, and, it has been saved...but not for me.
Frodo's journey is an allegory for the brave soldiers of WWII who fought the blackest evil and were victorious. And yet even those who lived to return home...nothing would be the same ever again.
For Mandy and I, a part of each of us died that day and has never been revived. It's hard to tell if what we carry now can even be called a scar, if this wound might ever heal. We've watched dozens, maybe even hundreds of people celebrate the story of our house, the restoration of our foundation, the great and generous gift. But since the very day it came to completion, we have felt unable to share in the joy and the gratitude of this miraculous moment of which we ourselves were the very center.
The home that was saved. But not for us.

The proceeding weeks and months went about as I expected at work. I found myself increasingly on the outside of things, every effort on my part to contribute or go along only brought more sourness and withdrawal. COVID tightened the screws on every pain point of my existing job, and painted a foreboding picture of what other options I had in a world where thousands of churches were permanently closing their doors every week.
As new changes circulated in our church, I recognized that this place that had been dear to me for so many years was becoming something else it had not been before--something I didn't believe in, and certainly no longer held a voice to influence. It became undeniable that one way or another, I had no future there. Not wanting the decision to be made for me, I tendered my resignation with no prospect of work on my horizon.
God will provide.
Right?
Objects In The Rearview Mirror...
I would not find another job in Roseburg. I would not find another job as a pastor. From July 2020 onward, my life has taken a completely different trajectory than anything I have ever planned for or desired.
I have a thousand if only's about how all of that went. I look back constantly and dissect what came of that departure from Oregon and our church and wonder how we might have taken a different road. Some things I don't feel regret about, like ending up separated from that church, or not being appointed as Senior Pastor there myself. I've got peace about all of that.
But the things that have happened since, the things that have happened because of this event, and the person I've become...I don't know what to make of it all.
I just know that life only moves forward, and towards an end. The sand is tumbling through the hourglass, and you don't get to turn it back over. We should all live a life we'll be grateful for in the end. We should, along the way, be a person we can look back and be proud of.
I was there once. I was that person once.
I can't go back.
I'm just trying to find my way forward.
Kory I appreciate your words.
God has preceded your family every step of your life.
This does not mean that we won't all starve.
It does mean that he will be with us, never leaving or forsaking his beloved children.
And I remember your faithful handling of Scripture, your belief in community. Your pastoral service is not over - unless I am much mistaken - but this season of discipline is hard.
Steve Harris ~ Rsbg