Flourishing

Every Sunday evening we gather. In the warmer months, like now, we meet at the park. We circle up our colorful array of lawn chairs and blankets and spread out our respective dinners packed inside coolers, picnic baskets, and fast food containers. Cans of soda and seltzer water pop open, juice boxes are punctured, and familiar greetings fill the air. We settle in under the shade of the trees and watch contentedly as our children run off to the playground or race down the sidewalk on their scooters. I breathe in deeply and shrug off the weight of the week. I root my toes into the grass beneath my feet, relaxed and ready to flourish.

I look around our circle and I marvel at the diversity. We’re a bit of a motley crew. Among us there are newlyweds, couples on their second marriage, and couples who’ve been married since the rest of us were school-age. Some of us have young children, some are empty nesters, some are grandparents. We have a pastor, a real estate agent, two teachers, a bus driver, a few students, a couple of writers, and others with jobs I won’t pretend to understand. We are all believers, all attendants of the same church, but our longevity of faith varies from story to story. Some of us are walking with Jesus and some are still learning to crawl. Our backgrounds are just as eclectic as our ethnicities. We are Filipino, European, Korean, Mexican, and everything in between. We hail from all corners of the U.S. and the world over. Collectively we look much like the dinners we pack and bring to our weekly gatherings: thrown together with no obvious rhyme or reason, sometimes healthy and sometimes not, mild or with a little kick, but especially satisfying and enough to sustain us for the long week ahead.

We are quick to laugh together and respectful of our disagreements. We tease and tell jokes that those passing by would never understand (and maybe even find a bit off-color for “church folk”). We are aware of our shortcomings, and how we differ from one another, and we humbly admit we don’t have all the answers. We have cried together in both grief and joy. We have laid hands on one another in prayer one night and danced the night away the next. We have clinked glasses, passed around tissues, and offered up wisdom, mechanic referrals, recipes, book recommendations, and plenty of hugs.

We don’t do life together so much as we redefine it as a collective body in need of all its parts (Martin). There’s a reason our chairs circle up rather than line up on our Sunday evenings at the park. We understand community is just that, communal. To connect we must commune, and to commune we must face one another, seeing the gifts, strengths, and testimonies each of us brings to the table. This is our life group, and it did not come easy.

The connection taking place on our Sunday evenings at the park didn’t just happen. It’s a slow-burning flame that’s taken nurturing and patience. It took over a year of families coming and going before our “core” group was established, and even in recent months, we’ve pieced together new additions and patiently endured the inconsistent few. We’ve learned to trust that whoever shows up is exactly who God intended to be there, and the fellowship that occurs is God-ordained.

My husband and I have been participating in life groups since our first year of marriage, and like any long-term relationship, there have been seasons of abundance and drought. We love it when our life group is consistent, made up of a faithful few who prioritize community and are open to forming deep bonds. Those seasons are sweet and life-giving, but more often than not, attendance is sporadic, the door is ever-revolving, and the effort we put forth reaps disappointing rewards. We’ve been in life groups that have fizzled after a few short weeks and those that started out strong only to dissolve as soon as the busy season hit. We’ve felt the sting of those we loved bailing out without warning and we’ve felt disregarded and disrespected in our home by those we graciously invited in. We’ve been shocked to see behind the curtain of marriages we thought we knew, and we’ve felt the pang of jealousy and comparison more times than we’d like to admit. Doing life together isn’t always easy because neither is life. Shannan Martin puts it well in her book, The Ministry of Ordinary Places: “They don’t call it ‘building’ community for nothing. It is positively taxing work, the sort of grind that demands to be seen as necessary.” Community is hard-earned. It takes perseverance and sometimes a thick skin. My husband and I have always been in a community, sometimes pieced together or hanging on by a thread, but we’ve been in it nonetheless. Faith and flexibility are the basic requirements for any community to flourish (Martin).

Looking back on the life groups we’ve called ours, we see God’s hand perfectly orchestrating our relationships for our good and His glory. Whether they were short-lived or long-lasting, planted in shallow soil or rooted deep down, each community we’ve shared in has served a holy purpose. In every season of our married life, we have never been alone. When we were just newlyweds we opened up our first home to other young couples like us. Together we dreamed and made plans for our futures over game nights, Bible studies, and blissfully free weekends. Later our community shifted to young families, all of us in the throes of diaper changes, nap schedules, and potty training. Our children bonded over playdates, splashing together in wading pools, and taking turns on the slide. Together we found joy sharing in the struggle of raising tiny humans.

Our seasons of life have continued to shift and grow, and with it so has our community. Every life group we’ve been part of in the last seventeen years has served our family and our marriage, if in no other way than assuring us we are seen. When we have suffered, our community has wept bitter tears alongside us. When we have grieved, our community has comforted us. When we have celebrated, our community has cheered for us. And when we have moved forward, our community has sent us off with blessings and reassurances of God’s goodness in store for us. When our community sees us, we know that God does too. This is how God intended it.

All throughout the New Testament we read encouragement to remain in community. (I imagine if it were easy, so much encouragement wouldn’t be necessary.) Hebrews 10:24-25 says, “ And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” I’ll admit, I’ve been tempted to give up on meeting with our life group. There are weeks when Sunday evening rolls around and the last thing I feel like doing is socializing. The week has been long and hard, and my pajamas start to look real good. There are times when I’ve wanted to throw in the towel, frustrated at the way others in the group don’t seem to prioritize our meetings the way we do. When they bail out at the last minute, sometimes I feel a bit jealous. I wish we could bail out, but we’re hosting, so how would that look? Sometimes the weekly gathering just feels like too much for our already full calendar. And then there are the weeks I don’t want to meet because I don’t want to be vulnerable. I’m not ready to share how I’m really doing. I’d rather stay home and deal with my issues myself, or ignore them altogether. Or maybe my kids are exhausted or our favorite team is playing on TV and well, there’s always an excuse if I can think on it long enough. But it’s there when I’m tempted to give up, that I need to be spurred on the most. I need encouragement more than ever. The enemy would have me isolate, withdraw, and pull away from those that would push me toward love. On the days I’m tempted to desert my life group, I need reminding that faithfulness and flexibility are the requirements for a flourishing community and that community is hard-earned. And so I stay faithful and I stay flexible. And do you know what? I never regret it.

Everyone rarely shows up on any given night, but those of us who do are fully present. We may have come dragging our feet, but whatever burden we overcame to get there is made lighter now that it can be shared. I have never returned home from the park wishing I’d never gone. Not once have I felt my time or words were wasted. My empty cup always returns full. When I lay in bed on Sunday nights, thinking back over conversations I had, words of prayer I spoke over my friends, and encouragement I received, I’m so grateful for the faithfulness and flexibility of my community. With them, I am flourishing.