The Light That Once Was

The Preacher and I attended a conference on Jekyll Island this past June.

Four days of worship, teaching, learning, remembering. After more than thirty years in ministry together, conferences like this carry their own kind of nostalgia. They’re a mixture of longing and belonging. There’s nothing quite like gathering with other believers to worship Jesus. There’s also nothing quite like being among leaders - fellow pastors - shoulder to shoulder in both giving and receiving. Equipping and being equipped.

A rhythm we’ve known for decades now.

For most of our ministry life, we had a mentor. His name was Pete Beck. A former trial lawyer in his “BC” (before Christ) days, he came to the Lord in the early 60’s, before I was even born, and he did so with that same courtroom precision and passion. He would ultimately live past ninety.

Pete loved the Crimson Tide with a vengeance and I, ever the Tennessee girl, gave him no end of grief about it. We had the funniest, friendliest rivalry. The most brutal jabs. He was always quoting Bear Bryant or telling some tale from his days at the University of Alabama.

But the real stories, the ones that mattered most, were told in quiet moments. With tears, shed by us and him. In hard seasons. In leadership crossroads when The Preacher and I needed counsel and Pete offered it, full of Scripture and sharp humor. He was a theologian through and through, brilliant and unflinching.

But the thing I realized I missed most about him, the thing that caught me off guard at the conference last month, was something much softer.

Our dear Pete Beck

Pete always lit up when I walked into a room.

Not in some grand gesture. Not in any way inappropriately. Not with fanfare. But in a way that made me feel known.

Like I was a favorite.

Like he was truly glad I existed. He loved my husband - oh, he was staunchly in Tims corner - but he also saw me. There was a lift in his eyes, a warmth in his smile, a kind of deep-felt delight that can’t be faked or forced. I know I was not the only person in his circle of influence who he “favored”, but he sure made me feel like I was.

Pete went to heaven in 2021. The loss was quiet, but it lingers.

Friends…

At that conference on the beach a few weeks back, we found ourselves meeting new friends, and reconnecting with couples who have now become our old friends. I was also kindly greeted by the pastor (and prolific author…and former dean of Charis Bible College in Colorado) “Pastor Greg Mohr”, who now serves in Pete’s place, both in our lives, and on our church’s oversight team. He is seasoned. Kind. Wise. We are so grateful for him.

I know he likes us. And I know he likes me, well enough.

But as the days passed, I noticed a gentle sadness sitting inside me. I didn’t understand it at all. Not until I found myself alone on the beach one evening, the waves rolling in quiet succession, the whole shoreline mine.

Thats when it broke open. The ache. The tears.

What I missed wasn’t guidance or affirmation.

What I missed was the light.

The way Pete’s demeanor changed ever so slightly when he saw me coming in the door. The way delight danced at the corners of his mouth. The way he made me feel favored. Special. Simply because I was me.

It sounds silly and selfish, I know. This is quite the vulnerable post. To say out loud, at almost sixty years old, that I miss being someone’s favorite.

Trust me, I feel low-key ridiculous to miss that. But I do. I, Sheila Atchley, who am now a grandmother, miss being someone’s favorite.

Not someone’s obligation. Not someone’s respected peer. And certainly not just…some pastor’s wife from Tennessee that someone else is acquainted with.

Someone’s delight.

(my sold painting on the subject of grief, titled “His Bottle, His Book”. My tears are placed in God’s bottle, written in His book.)

Listen to me. I know Jesus delights in me. I know that.

But when a person thinks you’re great…well, it’s a rare thing, you know, to be delighted in. To be received with that sparkle that says: I see you. I know you. I’ve watched you become.

And even more rare to appreciate being delighted IN. It is even more rare to realize that no one else quite fills that space. That the ones who knew you “when” are fewer than they were last year.

That morning on the beach, I crossed an invisible line.

It’s my turn now.

It’s my turn to favor a few someones. My turn to delight in a handful of young ministers who don’t yet realize the sacred weight of what they’ve been given. I am the one who must light up now.

And I do.

I am now the one who makes space. The one who remembers.

I only wonder…will they notice?

Will they recognize what it means, when someone older is so very glad to simply see them coming?

If you’re in the over-50 crowd, like us…do we realize that half of our whole job is to simply be glad to see people? Do we realize what it means at a yearly conference, to be delighted to catch up with some random pastor and his wife? The really important things go so far beyond our teaching outlines or sermon notes.

And if you're younger, if you're in the thick of becoming, hear this from someone a little further down the road: If even one person lights up when you walk into the room, if even one older voice calls out the gold in you with no agenda, if even one seasoned soul seems genuinely glad to see your face….stop. Take note. Let it land.

Because that is no small thing. That is favor. That is a holy gift.

Don’t rush past it. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t count it as small.

Receive it.

Remember it.

And when it’s your turn, don’t forget how much it mattered.

If You’ve Left, Now is the Time to Return

There’s something Biblical about returning.

Not just to a place, but to a posture. Not to pretend nothing ever happened, but to come back to what we first loved, and find that we are wiser, even though wounded.

Many in midlife have wandered, willingly or not, from the structures and stories of our early faith. We’ve had hard losses and asked hard questions.

Some have quietly deconstructed. Others have loudly walked away and stood outside the door of the church and said, “I’m not sure you’re still for me.” Some have walked away from particular churches, and now there has been so much water passed under the bridge, so to speak, they cannot imagine coming back.

But what if midlife is the precise moment we’re meant to turn, not away from church, or even a church, but toward it again?

Not to the church of our childhood, all paper bulletins and pretend smiles. Not to a church that is comfortable and calm. And not to a church that demands production or performance.

But rather, to a real, rooted, ancient Church. To wind, fire, and the disconcerting assurance that tells the world, “These people are not drunk, at least not like YOU think…”

There is even now a re-membering, a bringing back together, of things we’ve forgotten. There is a re-membering of the church, the kind that can survive plagues, persecutions, midlife crises, and modern distractions.

The bride still carries the wisdom of the ages in her bones.

What if returning to the church is not regression, but the radical act of obedient re-integration?