Peter vs. John: Comparison

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The Bible isn’t known for being a comedy…because it isn’t. But sometimes a little humor sneaks in there, like this:

So Peter and the other disciple started for the tomb. Both were running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. (John 20:3-4)

Commentaries expound on the significance of this moment, that it’s actually an important thing that shows that neither of them entered the tomb alone, etc. But at first blush, it just comes across as humorous, right?

“We were both running to the tomb–I got there first–and then we went in.”

We know that the disciples weren’t perfect, that they sinned and struggled just like we do. And since comparison is a major struggle today, I’m guessing it always has been, even if this particular passage has a further point. But in finishing our church ladies’ study of John last night, we see Peter outright comparing himself to John after learning that Peter’s own death will be terrifying:

Peter turned and saw that the disciple whom Jesus loved was following them…When Peter saw him, he asked, “Lord, what about him?” (John 21:20a, 21)

I love Peter. So much. Over and over, he does the wrong thing or doesn’t understand or charges in where he shouldn’t–but the Lord never gives up on Peter. Even here, when Peter doesn’t like his lot and compares it to another, Jesus basically just says, “Mind your business. I gave you a job; go do it” (my own paraphrase of John 21:22).

John is promised a long life with ample comfort and time to write books, while Peter is promised suffering. Both are good and both glorify God–but these men can’t have both things.

And neither can you or I. Sometimes, I look at other people’s lives and want the ease I see there: family around to help, job security, clear and visible calling. Other times, I read a touching tale of someone clinging to Christ in great trial, and I long for what they have or despair that I’m too weak-willed to walk the road they’ve been given.

This is useless, fruitless, and deadly. If I am looking to the path of another, I am not looking to my own–and then I become useless and fruitless. But God anticipated this and reminds us over and over and over to look to our own:

  • The tenth commandment tells us not to covet possessions, but wouldn’t this extend to the work and lives we’ve been given? (Exodus 20:17)
  • Jesus tells the parable of the workers in the field who receive the same wages for different work–what kindness! (Matthew 20:1-16)
  • Paul instructs the Thessalonians to live quietly and mind their own affairs (1 Thessalonians 4:11)
  • Paul uses the example of a body to explain to the Corinthians that are different roles within the Body and that it suffers without people doing their part (1 Corinthians 12:15-16)
  • Hebrews 11 offers an extensive list of faithful men and women–and they made that list by acting in faith where God had put them

There’s plenty more examples, I’m sure.

Peter, John, and all of the disciples had to rise above their desire for comparison in order to be useful. We need to do the same. need to do the same.

My friends’ struggles and victories can encourage me to run the race before me only if my heart is rightly praising God for His work in and through them–not when I’m trying to insert myself into their (or any other) narrative.

Reframing Our Identity

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Since GHC-Texas, I’ve been reading through You Who? Why You Matter and How to Deal with It by Rachel Jankovic. She spoke about the book during the conference with a no-nonsense attitude; I would even say she came off a bit yell-y. The book doesn’t mince words either.


But this can be helpful, particularly when we look at the world’s bumper sticker wisdom and t-shirt-deep identities. We look to the world to define us and tell us who we are when the Bible has already told us.

So while the question, “Who am I?” is common, an actual answer to it is uncommon…This is because no one wants to hear (or give) the one-sentence summary: “Yeah. Okay. So you are a middle-aged, overweight housewife who lives in Cleveland and has trouble staying on task.” (pg. 80)


But Jankovic goes on in the next pages to set up two different ways of identifying herself; here is a snippet:

I live in Idaho, less than a mile from where I was born. I married fairly young and have seven kids. Life is busy, and I am almost always needing to cook something…My work is often repetitive, but I enjoy it and I love my people…I tend to take on projects and mostly finish them, but occasionally get overwhelmed… (pg. 83-84)

She says that this way of describing herself comes across as boring because we are not made to be the center of our story. She reframes it with God at the center, and it looks like this:

To the glory of God, I live in Idaho, less than a mile from the place I was born. To the glory of God, I have seven children and struggle to keep up with my regular tasks…To the glory of God, I lift up my children. To the glory of God I ask them for their forgiveness. To the glory of God, I have had phases where I had to let go of some of my “dreams,” and to the glory of God, I have had phases where I needed to pick them up. (pg. 84, emphasis mine)

I often struggle to accept that this–this home, these people, this blog to type without a ginormous rockstar following–might be all that God has called me to.

And you know what? It just might be. And that’s His call and I would do well to get on board with his program than trying to go my own way. A foot trying to be an eye will not serve the body–or itself–well.

So, to the glory of God I am a 31-year-old mother of three. To the glory of God, I am homeschooling them, doing my best to teach them knowledge and wisdom. To the glory of God, I have a husband to work beside, a home to keep, and people to serve and be served by. I love books and words and spare time to tinker with both–and to the glory of God, I have that, in differing amounts per season.

In the world’s estimates, this is not much. But in God’s economy, it is enough and will be enough until He calls for something else.

On Chasing and Being Chased

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Lately, my little people want nothing more than to be chased. “Mama, chase me, chase me!” rings out from all corners of my house.

With my new prosthetic, I’m more inclined to chase them at the park and today, I soaked up their smiles and shrieks of laughter as almost-spring sun streamed through bare branches.

And I realized: we’re all desperate to be chased. People don’t really change.

In high school, I thought that if I could get a boy to fall in love with me, that would be the marker that I was enough, something worth chasing. Looking back, God used some ridiculously low self-esteem to save me from ever putting myself in a bad situation in pursuit of a guy.

And then, God sent Matt into my life. He asked me to prom and I knew he was a catch when he laid out his plan to keep my updo from being ruined if it was raining when we left the restaurant.

Funny thing, though: his pursuit of me, while delightful, was not enough. This gaping hole that I’d been trying to stuff with achievement and friends and adventure and even a boy still yawned in front of me.

And then that skinny, bespectacled boy laid out the gospel and that was it. The answers fell into place, the hole was filled.

It’s so upside down (doesn’t He always work that way?): once I finally caught the answer I’d been chasing, I realized it wasn’t enough, but that Someone had been chasing me the whole time.

And I still run: I doubt, I’m selfish, I do wrong. And still, he pursues and pursues and pursues. It’s not all fun and games like a day at the park, but the feeling of being loved and held is there–and it’s greater.

Measuring Life in Sundays

I went through a Rent phase; the song Seasons of Love has really stuck with me:

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife

The answer the song gives is love, which I’d agree with–except not their definition of love, the kind that is entirely driven my feelings, which are subject to change from season to season.

And it made me realize that, as my life moves from the daily, grinding time warp of babies/bottles/diapers to history readings and math lessons and meeting friends, time moves a lot faster now. Days don’t drag on with the novelty of first words and steps and misadventures in potty training.

So what am I measuring my life in when, as my workaday husband says, “one day bleeds into another”?


It seems like every time I turn around, it’s Sunday again. Time to make sure everybody is clean-ish, fed, and paid out allowance for the week (it’s sweet to watch their faces as they drop their quarters in the offering plate).

And it seems like, more and more, there comes a point during the singing where I come undone. My throat catches at some beautiful, perfect phrase about the love poured out for me–me, the mom who lost her cool all week or put herself first or whatever sin or struggle that comes to mind.

And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ

I can’t sing for a while after that. The voices of my brothers and sisters have to carry me and I work to wipe a at tears like a five-year-old who knows she’s too big to cry but can’t help it.

I can’t help it. My need is great and my Savior is greater and that kind of Love is overwhelming.

What patience would wait as we constantly roam
What Father so tender is calling us home
He welcomes the weakest, the vilest, the poor
Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

But if I have to measure my days, I can’t think of a better way to do so.

This is a bad blog post

With Paris out of the picture and the (wonderful wonderful wonderful) homeschool conference behind me, I must recommit to daily writing–even on days like today that are full, full, full as Eloise’s nanny would say.

At the conference, ND Wilson did a session called Fantastical Wordcraft. There is so much that I could share and unpack from that, but he said at one point that we need more Christian writers. He asked if we could imagine 20,000 Christian novelists, that many “points of light” in the darkness of this world.

And so, even with nothing left in the tank, here I am, with a tiny going of light into the darkness: after a season of max effort and great sea change, God is still there manning the ship. And still the star worth orienting to.