Beautiful People Don't Just Happen

The pressure and the heat of difficulty.

I always loved science class. Math? Not so much. I loved science until it joined forces with math and had a baby named physics. Biology and chemistry were beautiful. Learning how our world was made—beyond our explanations and only in the mind of a Creator—fascinated me. Worthless carbon turning into something of inestimable worth is wild. Somewhat valuable gold made more valuable by fire and heat. Pearls formed from worthless sand in the shell of an oyster at the bottom of the sea.

In seasons of difficulty and pressure, I think about these three pictures—the pressure of diamonds, the fire of pure gold, and the waiting of pearls. Pastoring in the same place for nearly three decades, I’ve seen people face pressure, heat, and time. Living as a disciple of Jesus, who in turn disciples others in the way of Jesus, I’ve experienced the same.

Growing up, we moved every 3.5 years. Sometimes longer, but not much longer. Sometimes shorter, but not much shorter. I still remember watching the power poles and fence posts of Middle America whip by at 70 miles per hour, staring out the window of our U-Haul, trying to plot the person I wanted to pretend to be in the next town. I knew I had months, not years, to make friends.

Knowing people for three or four years, you only saw a slice of their life. You went to a birthday party or two but never a funeral. Sometimes a wedding, but never a benefit. We blew into town and breezed out. We made connections but never stayed long enough to mourn with those who mourn or weep with those who weep.

Becoming the third owner of a small Cape Cod house was an achievement. When we moved in, we were kids on a street full of older people. One by one, every yard gnome was replaced by a swing set. Twenty-five years later, our starter home has become the place where we brought all our kids home from the hospital, taught them to ride their bikes, and cut down trees so forts could be built.

The beauty of place takes time. It requires choosing to remain in a town that bears the scars of loss—left behind by malls and supercenters. It demands clinging to the sand of place when the rip tide of the American dream tries to pull you into the deep of more and better.

Because of my childhood’s perpetual movement, I knew the pain of leaving. To this day, I can’t handle the smell of Twizzlers. It was my dad’s road trip food of choice. The scent of sugar-infused strawberry would fill the cab of our U-Haul, and it became the smell I associated with losing all my friends—again.

After twenty-eight winters, I have learned the pain of staying. Friends I’ve had since the beginning—some lost. The current tree ring of my life is marked by fire and damage. The external wounds of sorrow and loss have been mitigated and transformed by the power of God’s story and by the prophets He has sent my way to proclaim, echo, and announce His story in theirs.

It’s not an endless parade of successes that teaches people to treasure Christ and grow to look like Him. It’s the daily cross-bearing—one of the most unique features of the Christian faith. In our weakness, we are strong. In our weakness, we more fully place our weight on His incorruptible strength and are held when all else shakes.

The more I turn from my sorrow to Christ, the more I find unexpected joy—joy held for me. Not as a consequence of my dreams coming true but in relinquishing my dreams to the Giver of those dreams. The end of striving for the American dream in exchange for the one He holds for me—a dream found only in giving, never in acquiring.

Christian grief is sweetened and deepened by the coming of Jesus and the promise of His return. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, known for her work on grief, said:

"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of those depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen."

Beautiful people do not just happen.

Elisabeth Elliot once said to Joni Eareckson Tada, a quadriplegic since the age of 17:

"Suffering is never for nothing, Joni. It’s never for nothing."

This admonition comes from someone who lived that truth for years to someone who has known that truth for decades.

When life goes sideways—and it will. When things don’t turn out how you planned—and they won’t. Remember: beautiful people do not just happen. They are forged through the pressures of life and the heat of difficulty over time. The way out of disappointment and sorrow isn’t found in bootstraps or stiff upper lips. Joy and courage come to us in the middle of cloud-covered days.

His beauty for our ashes.