Chapter 8: Life Happens
Looking back at the early years of our ministry in Utah, our goal was to make the church a place that would draw our neighbors. We tried many things to encourage visits, but the real reason the church grew was that we began building an invitational culture where people said to friends and family, “Come and see.” Over time more people caught that vision. Nobody embodied it like Sara. Sara has a true gift of hospitality—she simply makes people feel welcome.
One reason I wanted to do a second edition of this book is that I failed, in the first edition, to adequately convey how impactful her role had been. In Chapter 3 I described how Sara influenced our decision to come to Utah. She also played a huge role in keeping us here. She was not a passive participant in the vision; she lived and breathed it. As a registered nurse, Sara could have worked outside the home and the church—yes, the income would have helped—but she devoted herself to being a full-time mom and then poured the rest of her energy into serving the church however it was needed. At different times she ran the nursery, headed children’s ministry, led our women’s ministry, and opened our home to countless people who became part of our lives.
Along the way she was also the one who told me the truth when I needed to hear it. One such time was when I had begun to take her role for granted. We had been here about five years. It was Saturday night, and I was doing what I always did—trying to finish a sermon. Some pastors can finish their messages on Thursday and not look at it again until Sunday morning. I couldn’t do that. I was never truly finished preparing until I stood up Sunday to deliver it.
That Saturday night, Sara seemed quiet and I could tell something was wrong. She went to bed while I continued studying. After a while, I went upstairs to check on her. I asked if she was OK. I don’t remember everything she said, but one line cut through me: “You and I do not have a lot going on right now.” She told me the reason I had come upstairs to check on her was if I knew that she was all right and then I could go back to finish my message—so the next morning people would tell me how well I’d preached.
Preparing to preach had looked like a noble, godly task, but the reality was that I had made ministry all about me. I was really after people’s approval. Sara felt used. Her words stopped me in my tracks. I realized ministry was creating a wedge between us. A lot was said that night, and for the first time I told her I was willing to give up ministry if that was best for our marriage and our family. She did not want that. She believed in what we were doing, but she wanted to do it with me.
The next morning, I threw away everything I had prepared and gave a different message. It was time to get real with our church. A word here about preaching. We live in a day where a high value is placed on authenticity—where pastors sometimes expose everything going on in their lives. I try to caution pastors to be careful how they talk about their families and marriages. There have been times I shared too much; for the pain that caused my family I am truly sorry. That night had made one thing clear: the relationships I cared for most were those within my own family, and I needed to make that clear to our church.
I’m not sure how wise my approach was, but the next morning I stood up and told everyone I had been having an affair. That got people’s attention. Very quickly I added that the affair was not with another woman—it was with the church. I had been called to shepherd people, but the most important people in my life were my wife and family. I had taken my wife for granted. I could be a smashing success in leading and growing the church, but if it came at the expense of my family, it would all be for nothing. That was a clarifying moment for me and for our church.
One practical step we took was to plan time away from the church with our family. We took a seven-week sabbatical in the summer of 1996 and traveled around the country. Looking back, we have so many incredible memories from that time. Through the years I wish we had done it more. When we returned at the end of summer, the church was waiting.
People were anxious when we came back. Attendance always drops over the summer, but it had fallen sharply while we were gone. Various people let me know that we could not afford to be away too often. I did not apologize for taking time off, but it was true that the church needed hands-on leadership. I was excited to do so. In the fall of 1996, we dove back into church life with renewed energy. I had all sorts of ideas and fresh vision. Then life happened.
In October, Sara was diagnosed with breast cancer. It rocked our world. As we moved through treatment, the news worsened. She had surgery, and of thirteen lymph nodes examined, eleven were cancerous. Sara was only thirty-nine. The oncologists at the University of Utah made it clear—this was serious and life-threatening.
The doctors threw everything they had at it. She had radiation, chemotherapy, and a stem cell transplant. All of this happened while our oldest, Ginny, was sixteen; Annie, fourteen; Robbie, eleven; and Christy, eight. It was an extraordinarily difficult time for our children. It was incredible to see the grace with which Sara led them through it.
It became real for the kids after Sara started chemo and her hair began to fall out in clumps. She gathered the children in the kitchen and said, “Kids, the hair is all going to fall out, so let’s take care of this now.” Her brother Joel was there; she asked him to get clippers and shave her head. As Joel shaved her, I watched my wife smile at our children in a way that told them she loved them and everything would be okay. In that moment I thought, “This is what greatness looks like.”
In private she was not always sure things would be okay. One morning she told me about a dream: it was night, and she was outside our house looking in through the window at me and the kids sitting around the table, eating soup from cans. Some dreams are hard to interpret; this one was not. After telling me about her dream she said, “I have to live for my kids’ sake!” She did not trust my ability to raise the children without her—and she was right.
Sara lived, and she continues to do well. At follow-up visits, doctors tell her that with the kind of cancer she had she’s not supposed to be here. That season drew us together as a family. 1996 and 1997 were rough years. Sara spent close to two months at the University of Utah hospital for the stem cell transplant. I spent a lot of time on the road visiting her and trying to keep things together at home with four kids. People in our church stepped up. I think they began to realize it couldn’t be all about the pastor. The church actually grew and became healthier as a result of that season.
There was another hardship that made the season harder. Six months before Sara’s diagnosis, my brother Keith was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Keith and I were as close as two brothers could be. He was a pastor married to Joanne, and they had four kids. Keith died in April 1997, at a time when Sara’s long-term survival was uncertain. It was a sad time. As a pastor, it changed me. I had let being the pastor of a growing church in a difficult area define me. Through that time I relearned that I was a lot of things before I was a pastor: a child of God, a husband, a dad, and a brother. I learned to hold things at church more loosely.
Meanwhile, life kept moving. In 1998 our daughter Ginny graduated from high school and went to Trinity International University in Chicago. We had entered a new phase of life. Over the next eight years our children would all graduate and at some point leave home. I found myself mourning as they took wing. I worried they might move away from Utah; the thought of not being near them was painful. Those years went by so fast. Our kids are now all grown and have given us sixteen grandkids. They are doing important things, and we are so proud of them.
In the end, as much as we loved raising them, what Sara and I have left is the greatest blessing of all: we still have one another, and that is a gift I never want to take for granted.