The clouds were pink. And gold. And kind of orange. We’d left an overcast Nashville and slipped in between the gray and blue to a kind of cotton candy purgatory in the sky. I usually opt for an aisle seat, but this was a commuter plane, so if you were in seat A, you got a window and the aisle. I pulled up a worship playlist on Spotify, popped in my earbuds, and watched the atmosphere turn gold and warm and a little bit surreal. When I tell you I worshiped the Lord on the thirty-minute flight to Cape Girardeau, I mean it. I snapped a few pictures before everything faded into gray. Who can make something like this?
We landed in a deluge. Rain splashed against the tiny windows while we waited for the jet bridge. I pulled up my hoodie and prepared myself to be soaked while exiting on the tarmac. It had been cold in Minnesota where I’d just finished teaching a women’s retreat, unbearably warm for October in Nashville where I killed some time in the airport, and now frigid and wet in Missouri where I ran with my bags on my aching shoulders to my car in the dark airport parking lot while the sky unloaded its contents. Shivering, I turned up the heat in my car and sat for a moment, head against the steering wheel. Raindrops dripped down my face. It had been a great trip, full of good conversations, teaching that felt strong, and encouragement all around. But my body was tired, my brain was past fatigued, and a nagging gym injury had turned into a full-blown rotator cuff issue that I knew would have to be addressed in the four days I was home before boarding another plane for another city and another conference.
Why do I do this? I asked myself for the hundredth time. Putting the car in drive, I thanked the Lord that I was able to fly out of this tiny regional airport. Home was only thirty minutes away. In a week, I’d be making the two hour trek home from a larger airport. Rubbing my shoulder, I drove towards home. Why do I do this, indeed.
What you may not know about the writer’s life is that authoring books invariably comes with invitations to travel and speak on the content of your books. I know writers who turn down every invitation, and I know writers who say yes to them all. I fall somewhere in between. While I am most comfortable in the quiet of my home tapping away on my laptop, I find it impossible to say no when I’m asked to speak on topics like faithfulness, Scripture memorization, how to study the Bible, how to endure suffering. Not because I’m hungry for the stage (I could never step foot on another stage and be perfectly happy) but because this is all I have—this message about Jesus and how His Word sustains us when life is hard, when bodies ache, when suffering is the only thing we know.
On that golden hour flight home, I was thinking about Paul’s words to the Corinthians regarding the resurrection of Christ. If the resurrection isn’t real, then we Christians are most pitiable (1 Cor. 15:12-19). The keystone of our faith is not just the death of Christ but also His resurrection. For His resurrection guarantees our own. This promise of eternal life with Him is everything. We are staking our entire eternities on His promise of new bodies and a new heaven and earth. If Jesus didn’t really rise from the dead, then our faith is in vain. Futile. Purposeless. We might as well live life to the fullest here on earth if this is all there is (1 Cor. 15:32). Practically, though, I think many of us are so consumed with our present reality that we follow Jesus only for what He gives us now. Not what He promises later.
But there is more to following Jesus than peace in this life. There is hope forever. Permanent healing, lack of suffering, absence of sorrows, elimination of sin. The promises of our eternal home with Jesus makes these aching bodies, these lonely hearts, this challenging human existence feel more like a breath and a vapor when compared to what waits for us. Jesus won’t leave us like orphans. He’ll return one day and make all things new.
It’s this hope, this promise that drives the Christian life. The Lord gives us what we need for today, but He has so much more for us later. And we want people to be a part of the later, right? So we work and rest and parent and have friends and worship and give and serve and love and eat and drink and teach and learn—all in a way that speaks to where our real hope lies. The resurrection of Christ. We want people to have that same hope. Because this is all we have. So if we are spent to keep that promise in front of others, then what a way to be poured out for the kingdom of God!
With my arm in a sling, I’m packing a suitcase and going over teaching notes. Between heat and ice sessions, I’m praying for the next few days of grueling travel, intensive teaching, and minimal rest. I’m making meal lists for my husband and finishing the laundry so my kids don’t have to dig for something to wear. And I know that somewhere in all of the work that lays before me is an opportunity to say out loud with fervor and zeal: Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.
Because this is all I have. And I will gladly make it yours.
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.