Chris Heck

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ve been thinking about interruptions all wrong. I tend to get frustrated when life throws unexpected detours my way—plans get derailed, schedules shift, something or someone demands my attention when I’d rather be doing something else. I catch myself thinking, If I could just get past this distraction, I could really get on with life. But what if these aren’t just interruptions to life? What if they are life?

C.S. Lewis wrote, “The truth is, of course, that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life—the life God is sending one day by day.” That quote hit me hard when I came across it this week. Because if I’m honest, I spend a lot of time resisting the very moments that make up my actual, lived experience. I have a tendency to see real life as something just beyond my reach—waiting for me once I finish my to-do list, once I solve this problem, once I feel better, once I get past whatever today’s inconvenience happens to be. But what if this—the mess, the unpredictability, the unplanned conversations, the detours, this sickness and pain—is exactly the life I’m meant to be present for?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in light of my recent hospital visits and medical issues. None of that was part of my plan. It was inconvenient, frustrating, even a little scary. I wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else. But looking back, I can see that those experiences weren’t just obstacles to get past—they were moments that shaped me. The forced stillness, the conversations with doctors and nurses, the unexpected grace of people showing up for me—those weren’t just disruptions; they were reminders of what really matters.

Jesus seemed to understand this better than anyone. So many of the moments that changed people’s lives happened in what looked like interruptions. He was on His way somewhere when a woman reached out to touch His garment. He was traveling when a blind beggar cried out to Him. He was teaching when children ran up, and instead of shooing them away, He welcomed them. From one perspective, His whole ministry was just a series of interruptions. But He didn’t treat them as distractions from His real work—He made them His real work.

Lately, I’ve been participating in a Bible study at church where we’ve been working through the book of James, where he urges believers to “Consider it a great joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you experience various trials,” (James 1:2). That’s a radical statement—joy, in trials? But James isn’t saying we should force a smile through hardship. He’s pointing to something deeper: the idea that trials refine us, shape our character, mature us in our faith, and deepen our dependence on God. Maybe these so-called interruptions—these unexpected moments of difficulty—are actually the very means by which God is forming something in me that wouldn’t exist otherwise.

So what does that mean for me? For you? I don’t have an easy answer. But I wonder how different life might feel if I stopped resenting and resisting the things that disrupt my plans and started receiving them as invitations. Invitations to grow, to listen, to be fully where I am instead of wishing I were somewhere else. Invitations to trust that even in the moments that feel inconvenient or frustrating, something meaningful is happening.

I don’t have this figured out. I still get impatient. I still wish things would go the way I expect and desire. But I’m trying—trying to hold my plans more loosely, to embrace the interruptions instead of resisting them. Because maybe, just maybe, they’re not interruptions at all. Maybe they’re the very moments through which God is teaching me joy.

Hope is a powerful thing. As someone traveling the road of faith, I’ve long understood its importance, but today I was reminded just how tangible it can be.

At a doctor’s appointment, after a rough six days, we discussed a new plan—one that included different medication my doctor believed would better manage my pain. She explained why she thought it would be more effective, and I noticed something: even though I hadn’t started taking it yet, even though we don’t know for sure if it will work, just hearing that there was a next step—just the hope of relief—shifted something in me. My pain didn’t change in that moment, but my outlook did.

It struck me how often hope works this way. It doesn’t erase the struggle, but it changes how we carry it. Sometimes, just knowing there’s a path forward makes all the difference.

I spent some time reflecting on last week’s sentencing hearing. Throughout the three hours in the courtroom, the judge maintained a stoic demeanor, silently listening. However, towards the end, after delivering sentences to the two defendants who took my sister-in-law’s life, the judge shared some words of comfort with our family. She acknowledged a painful truth – that we don’t have a “justice” system capable of bringing Lori back to life. Instead, we operate within a “legal” system that simply guides her decision on the duration of the defendants’ imprisonment.

In a poignant moment, the judge directly addressed my young daughter, who earlier had bravely expressed the impact of her aunt’s murder. The judge wanted her to understand that, despite the tragedy, the court also plays a role in happier events like adoptions and marriages. (Ironically, as we left the court that evening and stepped off the first-floor elevator, a large wedding party in the foyer was capturing joyful moments.)

The judge then shared a quote attributed to Anne Lamott:

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken. The bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

In the context of the hearing (both through some of the victim impact statements as well as photos of Lori) the judge picked up on the fact that Lori enjoyed dancing. Lori was known for spontaneous dance parties, using them as a vehicle to express her joy. The judge encouraged us to honor Lori by learning to dance with a limp – acknowledging our wounds, feeling the pain, and adapting our moves. Even if it’s not the same, she urged us to keep dancing.

The truth is, living on this earth brings inevitable limps – physical, emotional, or spiritual. Most of us are already walking with a limp; I certainly am. Yet, I realize the need to dance more. To actively seek joy in every moment and, when it seems elusive, to strive to create it—for myself and others. And when I do, perhaps, just perhaps, I need to dance and think of Lori.