We just noted that a main theme of Hebrews is “Stay with it,” and Sahil Bloom recommended a fantastic article that’s too good not to share: Repair and Remain: How to do the slow hard work of staying put by Kurt Armstrong. It’s long and worth the read in its entirety. Here are Sahil’s takeaways:

• Repair the small things before they become big things.
• Make the minor upgrades that keep your life feeling fresh.
• Work with what you’ve got, learn to appreciate what you’ve got, and don’t fall for the “shiny object” trap.

The following snippets jumped out at me:

…for twelve years now I’ve had a hybrid operation, juggling a one-man autodidact home-repair business and part-time lay ministry at a little Anglican church in Winnipeg. My basic MO in both roles is simple: repair and remain.

Note: home-repair business and part-time lay ministry. He juxtaposes these in the remainder of the essay.

…Odds are the house you’re in right now needs a few updates and minor upgrades, and I’d be happy to help with whatever you need done: add some new windows, open up some walls, replace the old basement stairs, tile the backsplash. Repair and remain.

Same with pastoring: no point thinking you need a brand-new life, but, well, let’s not kid around—you could use some serious updates and upgrades yourself.

Let’s say time comes to gut and renovate your bathroom: I can help you with that—demolition, framing, reworking the plumbing, moving some electrical, installing some mould-resistant drywall, maybe some nice tile for the floor and some classic glazed ceramic three-by-six subway tile for the tub surround. Should take a month or two, depending on what all’s involved. And as for you, hey, for the sake of your wife and kids, I think you better quit the flurry of furtive late-night texts to the sexy young co-worker and cut back a bit on your recreational drinking because wine is a mocker, so goes the proverb, as if those Facebook posts of you at the bar last week weren’t proof enough.

Repair and remain. Work with what you’ve got. Sit still for a moment, take stock, make some changes. Big changes, if necessary.

…

Over the past dozen years I have had hundreds of pastoral conversations, mostly with young men, about the challenges of family life. They tell me it’s exhausting, that there’s no more free time, that they’re having a hard time setting aside their dreams and wishes, that kids can be unbearably frustrating. I get it. They tell me that the marriage isn’t what it used to be, that they don’t really have anything in common anymore, that the passion’s gone, that she isn’t who she used to be, that the sex isn’t what it used to be, that they’re tired of all of it. I sip my coffee and nod in agreement with every word. I understand. I feel it too. It’s the same at my house. Marriage is hard.

But when they say, “I’m thinking of leaving,” I think, Now hang on a sec. You had me right up to that last bit. Fine: you’ve changed; she’s changed; life has changed. And the kids—well, they’ve disrupted, interrupted, confronted, confounded, and otherwise fundamentally altered everything. All very, very hard. And yes, sometimes it feels impossible. I know what it’s like to feel trapped, and my wife undoubtedly knows what it’s like to feel trapped, because she’s stuck with me, the more irritable and moody ingredient in our marriage. But you’re thinking of leaving? What is that going to fix?

We have, all of us and to varying degrees, been duped by the sales pitches, the flashing cascade of advertisements traipsing through the sidebar. That jam-packed flow of ads is full of shiny new things, new techniques, new experiences that promise to finally alleviate the so-far insatiable, burning, lonely, primordial ache. Bono laments, “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.” Springsteen cries out, “Everybody’s got a hungry heart.” k.d. lang bemoans the “constant craving.” Augustine says, “Our hearts are restless.”

…

So it goes. I’ve said it more than once to some guy across the table who tells me he’s planning to leave his marriage: You should stay. Sit in the awful, agonizing sorrow of it all, and figure some things out. Your life is very hard. I know you’ve thought it through more than I can imagine; I know you’ve calculated the cost-benefit, weighed your options; and all that is fine and good. There is no way of knowing how this will play out in your very real life. Nobody can predict the future. Something has to give, yes. But it doesn’t need to be this. I think you should stay.

It’s a tough sell. I understand, because my undisciplined imagination, formed like everyone else’s by countless half-minute ads and building-sized billboards, frolics among fantastic, glamorous possibilities of something other than what I’ve already got. It’s a cornucopia of options, with countless cathedrals and priests promising salvation at the marketplace, be it a new app, new phone, new car, new house, new job, new city, or new spouse. The promise is always the same: this thing will make you happy. Never mind trying to fix what you’ve got. Just get a new one and start over.

Repair and remain sounds simple because it is. But simple is not the same as easy. “For better, for worse,” we say, and everyone likes to stay when it’s the better. But staying through the worse—that’s the whole point of the vow, for Christ’s sake.

Mostly they do what they’ve already decided to do, and they leave. My track record for counselling couples to stick it out is pretty poor. I still think the better part of wisdom says stay. Endure. Wrestle. Suffer. Struggle. Keep working. Your heart is restless, my heart is restless, all our hearts are restless, “until they find their rest in Thee”—a rest that may well be found in full only after our death. So be it. Until then: stay.

Repair and remain.

Repair and remain.

Repair and remain.

– End of article –

The author’s primary application to “repair and remain” is marriage. But remember, Sahil’s applications were broader than that. And if the marriage counsel is not for you right now, it might be for someone you know. I’ve had these conversations. About 30 years ago, a brother had a wife who was given (as he told it) to temper tantrums. She would throw things. He told me, “I can’t take it anymore.” I looked him in the eye and said, “Yes you can.” And he did. I’m happy to report they are happily together today.

So don’t throw it all away now. You were sure of yourselves then. It’s still a sure thing! But you need to stick it out, staying with God’s plan so you’ll be there for the promised completion. (Hebrews 10.35 – 36, MSG)