Every year, at Christmastime, our family reads The Christmas Story. As a child, my family read it together on Christmas Eve. Now, my children look forward to sharing the reason for the season as we enjoy the traditions of the holiday at our house. It's found in Luke 2 and is the written account of Jesus' birth. There's a verse I love, though have often missed, toward the end of the account. It reads simply, "But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." (19)
Young Mary, a virgin visited by an angel and told that she would be the mother of the Son of God. Traveled, pregnant, on a donkey, to Bethlehem to participate in Caesar's census.
Gave birth in a stable.
Wrapped her child in cloths and laid him in a feeding trough.
Visited by shepherds and angels.
Then, fled to Egypt to escape Herod's jealousy.
Mother of a king.
Mary "treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart". She was a young girl on the brink of a bright future with a new husband, when things turned suddenly awry. In the course of one sleepless night, the outcome of her fate (and ours) changed forever. How do you think she felt?
For the first time this year, we included a Bible verse on the front of our Christmas card. I'm wondering if Mary remembered these verses as she watched God's promise to her unfold? Proverbs 3:3-4 says, "Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you will win favor and a good name in the sight of God and man."
When Mary "pondered", I think she was writing a history of all that transpired on the tablet of her heart. In a song she penned, she declares, "My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me--holy is his name." (Luke 1:46-49)
Clearly, she clung to the promise of Proverbs 3. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I used to read these verses and think that Mary sounded anything but humble. Now, I get it. She understood that when you let love and faithfulness never leave you, when you bind them around your neck and write them on the tablet of your heart, you win favor and a good name in the sight of both God and man. Two thousand years later, we honor Mary for her faith in the face of humiliation and adversity. Additionally, we glorify God because he chose Mary to be the mother of his precious son.
What does it mean to ponder? How do you bind love and faithfulness around your neck? What does it look like to write these things on the tablet of your heart? Reading these words now, I think it's how we remember what God has done on our behalf.
We recognize.
We reflect.
We remember.
Over and over again, and throughout both the Old and New Testaments, we find that God's chosen people offered prayers of thanksgiving and praise. Their love and faithfulness filled their hearts with the message that God keeps his promises, and like Mary, we can say with faith, "I am the Lord's servant....May it be to me as you have said." (Luke 1:38) Many times throughout her life, I have to believe that Mary consulted the tablet of her heart. If she's like me, then she needed to tap into what was written there to remind herself that in the midst of heartache, pain, suffering, and even joy, God reigns. His love endures forever.
May you remember the message of God's love for you this Christmas. He sent his only son into the world to live and die for our sins. He conquered death to live again that you who were lost might find him and accept him and receive eternal life.
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I Believe
If you could ask Santa just one question, what would it be?
My four year old daughter only wanted to know this: "When were you a baby?"
You see, when she thinks about Christmas, she thinks about Jesus. She knows the story of his birth found in Luke 2. God loves her so much that he sent his son into the world as a baby, to grow up and experience life like us, to be tempted and tried and ultimately to suffer and die for us. A tiny baby. Who grew up to be a king. And a servant. And the greatest hero that ever lived.
Now, tell me again, what did Santa do? Well, he's fat and jolly and he travels around the world in a magic sleigh on Christmas Eve to give good boys and girls their gifts.
Better hope you're not on the naughty list!
In the weeks prior to Christmas, children across the country exhibit only their best behavior. Why? Because Santa sees you when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake. Guess what? So does Jesus. But thank God I don't have to worry about being on the naughty/nice list.
How good do you have to be? Ninety-five percent good? Eighty? Just fifty-one percent? No one really knows. We all go to bed with visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads, dreaming (praying) that we won't wake up with a bag of coal in our stockings.
Now, there's some creepy imagery. When I think about coal, I think hot..., pit..., fire...and dare I say it, H-E-Double- Hockey- Sticks? Yikes.
I love Christmas. I love sharing Santa with my kids, but I never want them to confuse Santa with Jesus.
Santa knows about me. But Jesus knows me.
Santa lives far, far away. Jesus lives in me.
I can write letters to Santa, but I can talk to Jesus. God responds to my inquiries through the book he wrote just for me. Best of all, I can read it anytime I want.
Santa's gifts collect dust, clutter shelves, and crowd toy boxes. Jesus gave me the most amazing gift I've ever received. Not only did he give me life, he saved my life.
This holiday, when you say, "I believe", what are you proclaiming? Faith in an old, fat guy who flies through the sky and delivers presents to the whole world by climbing down the chimneys of sleeping children?
Eventually, my young daughter will suspect that something is amiss here. I will not hesitate to tell her the truth. Right now, we're having fun pretending that Santa and his band of tiny elves visit us on Christmas Eve, but not without talking about Jesus' starring role in the whole affair.
Now, who do you want to honor on Christmas day?
Remember, Christmas began with the birth of the baby. James 1:17 says, "Every good and perfect is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created." This year, when you sit on Santa's lap, remember you've already received the perfect gift.
My four year old daughter only wanted to know this: "When were you a baby?"
You see, when she thinks about Christmas, she thinks about Jesus. She knows the story of his birth found in Luke 2. God loves her so much that he sent his son into the world as a baby, to grow up and experience life like us, to be tempted and tried and ultimately to suffer and die for us. A tiny baby. Who grew up to be a king. And a servant. And the greatest hero that ever lived.
Now, tell me again, what did Santa do? Well, he's fat and jolly and he travels around the world in a magic sleigh on Christmas Eve to give good boys and girls their gifts.
Better hope you're not on the naughty list!
In the weeks prior to Christmas, children across the country exhibit only their best behavior. Why? Because Santa sees you when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake. Guess what? So does Jesus. But thank God I don't have to worry about being on the naughty/nice list.
How good do you have to be? Ninety-five percent good? Eighty? Just fifty-one percent? No one really knows. We all go to bed with visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads, dreaming (praying) that we won't wake up with a bag of coal in our stockings.
Now, there's some creepy imagery. When I think about coal, I think hot..., pit..., fire...and dare I say it, H-E-Double- Hockey- Sticks? Yikes.
I love Christmas. I love sharing Santa with my kids, but I never want them to confuse Santa with Jesus.
Santa knows about me. But Jesus knows me.
Santa lives far, far away. Jesus lives in me.
I can write letters to Santa, but I can talk to Jesus. God responds to my inquiries through the book he wrote just for me. Best of all, I can read it anytime I want.
Santa's gifts collect dust, clutter shelves, and crowd toy boxes. Jesus gave me the most amazing gift I've ever received. Not only did he give me life, he saved my life.
This holiday, when you say, "I believe", what are you proclaiming? Faith in an old, fat guy who flies through the sky and delivers presents to the whole world by climbing down the chimneys of sleeping children?
Eventually, my young daughter will suspect that something is amiss here. I will not hesitate to tell her the truth. Right now, we're having fun pretending that Santa and his band of tiny elves visit us on Christmas Eve, but not without talking about Jesus' starring role in the whole affair.
Now, who do you want to honor on Christmas day?
Remember, Christmas began with the birth of the baby. James 1:17 says, "Every good and perfect is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created." This year, when you sit on Santa's lap, remember you've already received the perfect gift.
Monday, December 12, 2011
I'm in the Lord's Army
"God's Army" is on the move!
Those are the words my sixth grade Sunday School teacher used to say to the half a dozen or so of us who sat in the row of folding chairs facing him. Even back then, I found the imagery a little silly. Worse, I don't think I ever fully understood what he meant by the metaphor. It was the mid 1980s. I was 11. I didn't know war. Courage, discipline, and dedication eluded me. Yet, 25 years later, I still remember the message: "The day of reckoning is near. Do what you're told. Do the best you can, and maybe there will be a medal for you in the end."
As time passed, I began to do more and more FOR God. After all, he was the big boss, the commander general, and I was just a lowly private. All my life, I've been trying to work my way up the ranks. How strange that the harder I worked, the more I did, the farther I felt from the the big guy. Maybe he didn't create me to be his soldier. Maybe he created me for something more.
Seven values define the United States Army, including loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity and personal courage.
Hmmm...So, as a Christian, what do those values mean for me? The Army's values are an enviable ideal. Spiritual warfare is real and unrelenting. What does God really expect of me? All seven values work in harmony to produce a well-rounded soldier. As a member of God's army, I often made myself a martyr of just two: duty and selfless service. I would prepare elaborate meals on a weekly basis for families in need, often feeding my own family PB& J or calling "fend for yourself" as I headed out the door with a four course meal for someone else. I ran errands or sat with sick friends, leaving my own children with a sitter. I was often tired and cranky as I spread God's love to others. Is that the life God called me to lead?
When I read the Bible, I find that God commands, "Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." (Psalm 46:10) He further confirms this desire during his visit at the home of Mary and Martha when he gently chides, "Martha, Martha...you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her." (Luke 10: 41-42). Then Psalm 73:28 says, "But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds." In all three of these passages, nearness and stillness strengthen the relationship and showcase God's glory. The more I get to know God, the more I want to tell people about his good works, not mine.
During this season of giving, may you be encouraged to serve wherever you are called. God certainly gave us gifts and talents that they might be used. Remember, however, to pause to give God both the thanks and the glory. I learned a valuable lesson all those years ago. And no wonder I felt far away from God!
Prayer, thanksgiving, and study are all wonderful tools for developing the relationship you desire. Serving and giving are good, but there is something counter-intuitive, something that begs quiet and invites meditation, and that's where the real gifts are. I'm all about doing, but when the doing gets in the way of the relationship, it's time to take a step back. Take a seat. Open your Bible. Say a prayer. Ask God to show himself to you. The best thing you can do FOR God is to allow him to do something amazing THROUGH you. Then you'll be amazed at what God does IN you.
Those are the words my sixth grade Sunday School teacher used to say to the half a dozen or so of us who sat in the row of folding chairs facing him. Even back then, I found the imagery a little silly. Worse, I don't think I ever fully understood what he meant by the metaphor. It was the mid 1980s. I was 11. I didn't know war. Courage, discipline, and dedication eluded me. Yet, 25 years later, I still remember the message: "The day of reckoning is near. Do what you're told. Do the best you can, and maybe there will be a medal for you in the end."
As time passed, I began to do more and more FOR God. After all, he was the big boss, the commander general, and I was just a lowly private. All my life, I've been trying to work my way up the ranks. How strange that the harder I worked, the more I did, the farther I felt from the the big guy. Maybe he didn't create me to be his soldier. Maybe he created me for something more.
Seven values define the United States Army, including loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity and personal courage.
Hmmm...So, as a Christian, what do those values mean for me? The Army's values are an enviable ideal. Spiritual warfare is real and unrelenting. What does God really expect of me? All seven values work in harmony to produce a well-rounded soldier. As a member of God's army, I often made myself a martyr of just two: duty and selfless service. I would prepare elaborate meals on a weekly basis for families in need, often feeding my own family PB& J or calling "fend for yourself" as I headed out the door with a four course meal for someone else. I ran errands or sat with sick friends, leaving my own children with a sitter. I was often tired and cranky as I spread God's love to others. Is that the life God called me to lead?
When I read the Bible, I find that God commands, "Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." (Psalm 46:10) He further confirms this desire during his visit at the home of Mary and Martha when he gently chides, "Martha, Martha...you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her." (Luke 10: 41-42). Then Psalm 73:28 says, "But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds." In all three of these passages, nearness and stillness strengthen the relationship and showcase God's glory. The more I get to know God, the more I want to tell people about his good works, not mine.
During this season of giving, may you be encouraged to serve wherever you are called. God certainly gave us gifts and talents that they might be used. Remember, however, to pause to give God both the thanks and the glory. I learned a valuable lesson all those years ago. And no wonder I felt far away from God!
Prayer, thanksgiving, and study are all wonderful tools for developing the relationship you desire. Serving and giving are good, but there is something counter-intuitive, something that begs quiet and invites meditation, and that's where the real gifts are. I'm all about doing, but when the doing gets in the way of the relationship, it's time to take a step back. Take a seat. Open your Bible. Say a prayer. Ask God to show himself to you. The best thing you can do FOR God is to allow him to do something amazing THROUGH you. Then you'll be amazed at what God does IN you.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Your Story Begins With a Place
My shoes squished as we walked across the cemetery, and yet it had not rained. It was almost as if the ground was moist because of the millions of tears that had fallen there. Over the hill, another family mourned, and I imagined their tears joining ours, soaking the grass, spilling into that deep pit that is grief. As my friends led the way back to the car, I followed with my head bowed. Passing the headstones, I quickly scanned the litanies. A mother who lost two babies within eighteen months of one another, small children whose parents left tokens of their love with the passing of each season, wives, husbands, sisters and brothers slept together in this soggy berth. The heavy hearts of their legacies caused the earth to sink where they lay. I thought of my friends. This place had become their harbor. Now, it's the anchor that will shape their character more than anything else. They will go to the cemetery when they're feeling sad, when there's something to celebrate, and when there's nothing else to do but to "be".
I bet they used to have a different place, but the circumstances of an unforeseen fate have altered the landscape of life as they know it. Beginnings and new beginnings are always hard. Yet, in the midst of the joy (and the pain), there is a place. It's a place where God dwells, "and they were calling to one another: 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.'" (Isaiah 6:3)
As a child, I had a place like that, too. The woods behind my house invited me to play every single day. There, I outlined treasure maps, buried my prized rock collection, climbed trees, built forts, and outwitted bullies. In summer, the trees provided shade and privacy. But fall was my favorite time of year. Crunch, crunch. That's the sound of a crisp, autumn day. It's the sound of running, jumping, playing, and hiding. I knew every tree, and I loved it there. I peeled chunks of pine bark and wrote messages with its brown powder on our back patio.
Now, I'm all grown up, and my place is still those woods. When I look out the window behind the home I now own, I see trees, but the warm memories they evoke are of the ones I tramped as a kid. I watch my kids swing from the branches and climb as high as they can. I remember doing that and thinking, "I'm king of the world!" My heart smiles when I remember the conversations I had with myself as I walked among the trees. There, God confirmed that I matter to him.
When I left for college, I traded the familiarity of my childhood backyard for concrete and buildings. Coming home on an airplane, I loved the descent into Atlanta. Even in winter, the pine trees stood proud and strong...and green. Their limbs welcomed me with open arms.
I guess all stories begin with a place. I wonder where my children's "place" will be? Will it be our warm kitchen, gathered around the large farm table where we meet for meals and to discuss the minutiae of our days? Will it be the rolling hills of the camp they attend? Or the peaceful, sunny beach where we wile away the summers?
Life continues, and the plot unfolds over a landscape that changes with the seasons. Youth gives way to adulthood, and soon old age chases it through a space-time continuum that's bumpy and winding. It can be cold and unforgiving. But there's always a place, a beautiful wonderful place that says, "Welcome home. I'm glad you're here."
I bet they used to have a different place, but the circumstances of an unforeseen fate have altered the landscape of life as they know it. Beginnings and new beginnings are always hard. Yet, in the midst of the joy (and the pain), there is a place. It's a place where God dwells, "and they were calling to one another: 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.'" (Isaiah 6:3)
As a child, I had a place like that, too. The woods behind my house invited me to play every single day. There, I outlined treasure maps, buried my prized rock collection, climbed trees, built forts, and outwitted bullies. In summer, the trees provided shade and privacy. But fall was my favorite time of year. Crunch, crunch. That's the sound of a crisp, autumn day. It's the sound of running, jumping, playing, and hiding. I knew every tree, and I loved it there. I peeled chunks of pine bark and wrote messages with its brown powder on our back patio.
Now, I'm all grown up, and my place is still those woods. When I look out the window behind the home I now own, I see trees, but the warm memories they evoke are of the ones I tramped as a kid. I watch my kids swing from the branches and climb as high as they can. I remember doing that and thinking, "I'm king of the world!" My heart smiles when I remember the conversations I had with myself as I walked among the trees. There, God confirmed that I matter to him.
When I left for college, I traded the familiarity of my childhood backyard for concrete and buildings. Coming home on an airplane, I loved the descent into Atlanta. Even in winter, the pine trees stood proud and strong...and green. Their limbs welcomed me with open arms.
I guess all stories begin with a place. I wonder where my children's "place" will be? Will it be our warm kitchen, gathered around the large farm table where we meet for meals and to discuss the minutiae of our days? Will it be the rolling hills of the camp they attend? Or the peaceful, sunny beach where we wile away the summers?
Life continues, and the plot unfolds over a landscape that changes with the seasons. Youth gives way to adulthood, and soon old age chases it through a space-time continuum that's bumpy and winding. It can be cold and unforgiving. But there's always a place, a beautiful wonderful place that says, "Welcome home. I'm glad you're here."
Friday, November 18, 2011
Thank God!
I've been avoiding this thankfulness bandwagon for awhile now. It's not because I'm not thankful. I just feel like something this important should be intricately woven into every breath I take. When did gratitude become trendy?
2 Thessalonians 5:18--Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.
In everything?
Yes.
Always? Absolutely.
Yet, I have to admit that finishing a Bible Study today caused me to take pause and reflect over the sum of my life. Surely, I am grateful for it. For all of it. All those "I should have done that differently" times God has used to bring me to this place. The forks in the road of indecision, the intersections of my life's relationships, the stop signs, where God gently whispered, "Not yet. Not now." I am thankful for all of it.
Sometimes, I feel like I am careening down the interstate of parenthood, begging God to let me off at the next exit. And just when I think I'm never going to get where I want to go, I crest a hill and see a beautiful sunrise brimming over the horizon. That's where I am now. The scenery is breathtaking. The company is energizing, and the sun is warm. I welcome the bends in the road, the potholes, and even the blind driveways. In those, God surprises me with things I never thought possible. Thank you, Lord, for your many gifts.
2 Thessalonians 5:18--Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.
In everything?
Yes.
Always? Absolutely.
Yet, I have to admit that finishing a Bible Study today caused me to take pause and reflect over the sum of my life. Surely, I am grateful for it. For all of it. All those "I should have done that differently" times God has used to bring me to this place. The forks in the road of indecision, the intersections of my life's relationships, the stop signs, where God gently whispered, "Not yet. Not now." I am thankful for all of it.
Sometimes, I feel like I am careening down the interstate of parenthood, begging God to let me off at the next exit. And just when I think I'm never going to get where I want to go, I crest a hill and see a beautiful sunrise brimming over the horizon. That's where I am now. The scenery is breathtaking. The company is energizing, and the sun is warm. I welcome the bends in the road, the potholes, and even the blind driveways. In those, God surprises me with things I never thought possible. Thank you, Lord, for your many gifts.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
May I Have a Word?
As a little girl, I clutched a treasured picture book. I still remember the bright yellow background and the red ink outline of a chicken and an egg on its cover. The tattered corners betrayed my selfish possession of it. I loved this story without words. Though many other books crowded the shelf in my room, I retrieved this one most often. And despite the lure of Dick and Jane and Dr. Seuss and all the Little Golden Books, I preferred to narrate the illustrations myself. I didn't need my mom or dad to make time to share it with me. I could "read" this book all by myself!
As I grew older my verbal capabilities matured, but because I could not yet write, this little tale became my very best friend. Soon, I mastered my letters, and in time written words and sentences emerged. One day, I grabbed the book and wrote my own story, marking up those pages filled with promise with a beginning, middle, and end all my own. The mystery and the magic faded as I directed the plot's outcome. But a new story unfolded--one I had created and could now share with anyone willing to open the book and find what I had already discovered and recorded.
Even now, I love words. I love how they have the ability to inform, influence, and inspire. A series of sounds strung together describe events, arouse desire, and foster encouragement or dismantle it. They shape our thoughts. They wrap us in warmth. At the same time, we discover things about the world that chill us to the bone. What power they hold!
Nathaniel Hawthorne was exactly right when he said, "Words — so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them."
As I grew older my verbal capabilities matured, but because I could not yet write, this little tale became my very best friend. Soon, I mastered my letters, and in time written words and sentences emerged. One day, I grabbed the book and wrote my own story, marking up those pages filled with promise with a beginning, middle, and end all my own. The mystery and the magic faded as I directed the plot's outcome. But a new story unfolded--one I had created and could now share with anyone willing to open the book and find what I had already discovered and recorded.
Even now, I love words. I love how they have the ability to inform, influence, and inspire. A series of sounds strung together describe events, arouse desire, and foster encouragement or dismantle it. They shape our thoughts. They wrap us in warmth. At the same time, we discover things about the world that chill us to the bone. What power they hold!
Nathaniel Hawthorne was exactly right when he said, "Words — so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them."
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Sensory Overload
The boys bicker and tumble during an indoor football game.Upstairs, a herd of elephants threatens to plunge through the ceiling.
My daughter coughs and snorts. She blows her nose a hundred times.
The toddler tugs my shirt, providing commentary on everything from breakfast cereal to today's dance lesson.
Toys and clothes lay in a scattered heap.
My husband wants to know why I'm riveted to this spot.
Someone just asked me to tell them the answer to 7 x 8.
Someone who should know.
The dog whimpers at my feet. Now, what does he want?
I just want to sit here and write.
Alone.
In the stillness.
In the silence.
Yet unrelenting noise karate chops even the tiniest moments.
The constant noise threatens to envelop my withering body. As I write, imaginary headphones slip over my frazzled hair, but unfortunately they miss my ears. My body cringes as my shoulders tighten. I want to curl up in a little ball and roll myself right out of here.
Earlier today, I took a shower and dried my hair, then plugged in both a straightening and a curling iron. The outlet switched off, and I had to push the "reset" button. Sometimes, I feel like I wish I had one. No button here. The buttons people press just set me off. In a bad way. I have sensory overload, and I don't know what to do about it.
I feel like I need a solid two hours a day just so I can reset my attitude and reprogram my heart. When my kids were little, life was hard, but naps came every afternoon at 2:00. Now, I have a young son who sets his alarm for 6:00 AM and an older daughter who often doesn't finish homework until nearly 10:00. In all that in-between time, a little person follows me wherever I go. And though I welcome my children with open arms, I realize sadly that I often don't give them my very best. Like a laboratory rat, I'm poked and prodded, and I feel so...prickly. These sixteen hour days are enough to send an introvert like me straight to the funny farm.
So, what can I do when I don't have time to do the things I want?
For one, I can choose gratitude. I can choose to be thankful for this season of life. After all, it is "just a season". Another trip around the sun, and maybe the boy will choose sleep instead of an early morning cartoon. Maybe the girl will figure out how to get her work done without so much emotion mixed in. And of course, even sooner than I think, the little one will be in school everyday. Everyday. Am I really ready for that?
Secondly, I need to make a conscious effort not to waste the time I do have. If that means getting up at 5:00, then that's exactly what I'll do. That precious hour gives me time to exercise or pray. Or both. Before chaos ensues and in between the moanings of the tweenager, I can engage in real conversation with another adult or lose myself in the pages of a book. I love this quote by Marilyn vos Savant: She says, "Be in the habit of getting up bright and early on the weekends. Why waste such precious time in bed?" Oh, I do love to sleep! Yet I need to decide which reaps the best benefit: time spent alone or time spent in slumber. The challenges of the weekend will determine my choice.
Lastly, I want to plan intentional time away, to give myself a little space to recharge. If that means missing a football game or scheduling a sitter to take a child to a friend's birthday party, I just may need to do it. Pulling back momentarily saves me from getting overloaded. I don't want sparks to fly in our house because of me. Getting out resets my attitude like nothing else. These four walls threaten to suffocate me, so sometimes I just have to open the door and breathe deeply of the outside air. It's vital.
We ordered pizza tonight. I saved an hour by not having to cook and those precious minutes, though still pretty raucous, gave me the pleasure of being able to pen this post. My fingers pressed the keys, each one a little reset button for my soul. The football game is over. The multiplication dilemma has been solved. The dog is sleeping peacefully in his bed. And I'm ready for tomorrow--fully charged.
My daughter coughs and snorts. She blows her nose a hundred times.
The toddler tugs my shirt, providing commentary on everything from breakfast cereal to today's dance lesson.
Toys and clothes lay in a scattered heap.
My husband wants to know why I'm riveted to this spot.
Someone just asked me to tell them the answer to 7 x 8.
Someone who should know.
The dog whimpers at my feet. Now, what does he want?
I just want to sit here and write.
Alone.
In the stillness.
In the silence.
Yet unrelenting noise karate chops even the tiniest moments.
The constant noise threatens to envelop my withering body. As I write, imaginary headphones slip over my frazzled hair, but unfortunately they miss my ears. My body cringes as my shoulders tighten. I want to curl up in a little ball and roll myself right out of here.
Earlier today, I took a shower and dried my hair, then plugged in both a straightening and a curling iron. The outlet switched off, and I had to push the "reset" button. Sometimes, I feel like I wish I had one. No button here. The buttons people press just set me off. In a bad way. I have sensory overload, and I don't know what to do about it.
I feel like I need a solid two hours a day just so I can reset my attitude and reprogram my heart. When my kids were little, life was hard, but naps came every afternoon at 2:00. Now, I have a young son who sets his alarm for 6:00 AM and an older daughter who often doesn't finish homework until nearly 10:00. In all that in-between time, a little person follows me wherever I go. And though I welcome my children with open arms, I realize sadly that I often don't give them my very best. Like a laboratory rat, I'm poked and prodded, and I feel so...prickly. These sixteen hour days are enough to send an introvert like me straight to the funny farm.
So, what can I do when I don't have time to do the things I want?
For one, I can choose gratitude. I can choose to be thankful for this season of life. After all, it is "just a season". Another trip around the sun, and maybe the boy will choose sleep instead of an early morning cartoon. Maybe the girl will figure out how to get her work done without so much emotion mixed in. And of course, even sooner than I think, the little one will be in school everyday. Everyday. Am I really ready for that?
Secondly, I need to make a conscious effort not to waste the time I do have. If that means getting up at 5:00, then that's exactly what I'll do. That precious hour gives me time to exercise or pray. Or both. Before chaos ensues and in between the moanings of the tweenager, I can engage in real conversation with another adult or lose myself in the pages of a book. I love this quote by Marilyn vos Savant: She says, "Be in the habit of getting up bright and early on the weekends. Why waste such precious time in bed?" Oh, I do love to sleep! Yet I need to decide which reaps the best benefit: time spent alone or time spent in slumber. The challenges of the weekend will determine my choice.
Lastly, I want to plan intentional time away, to give myself a little space to recharge. If that means missing a football game or scheduling a sitter to take a child to a friend's birthday party, I just may need to do it. Pulling back momentarily saves me from getting overloaded. I don't want sparks to fly in our house because of me. Getting out resets my attitude like nothing else. These four walls threaten to suffocate me, so sometimes I just have to open the door and breathe deeply of the outside air. It's vital.
We ordered pizza tonight. I saved an hour by not having to cook and those precious minutes, though still pretty raucous, gave me the pleasure of being able to pen this post. My fingers pressed the keys, each one a little reset button for my soul. The football game is over. The multiplication dilemma has been solved. The dog is sleeping peacefully in his bed. And I'm ready for tomorrow--fully charged.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Straight Talk On A Curvy Road
One morning, a few weeks ago, Gavin and I hiked to a place called the House of Dreams. It's a three mile hike to the top of the mountain. All along the way, there are teasing signs that signify the top is close at hand. We approached a small clearing. Light poured through the trees. As I treaded closer, I thought, "Oh, I'm there!" But no, that clearing teased me. We continued to circle the mountain. A little while later, we crested a small hill, and a stone wall emerged. Surely, this was the entrance to the House of Dreams. And yet the top of the hill still eluded us.
Walking hand in hand, we continued our journey. I didn't mind the steady climb. Gavin told me about some boys at camp who are "tapped out" for a special assignment called the The Little Chief Test. The boys undergo a 24-hour challenge that includes a silence ban, building a fire with one match, and a run up this mountain, among other things. They begin the test at midnight the night before and start the run covered in smut from their fires and exhausted from lack of sleep. As we continued our walk, Gavin pointed out various landmarks. He showed me where the various "legs" of the run began and also where many of the boys often give up.
As he was explaining this, we trampled over one last gravelly incline and there ahead of us stood the driveway to the House of Dreams. Finally! The house was modest, yet breathtaking because it's surrounded by lush grass, a lovely garden and a beautiful view of the surrounding mountains. As we crested the hill, my eyes drank in the beauty from the perspective of that secluded hilltop. I could see for miles! The clouds blanketed the horizon in billowy beauty. We perched ourselves on a quaint old tree swing, basking in the breeze of a gorgeous fall day. If only those boys had known that they were that close, I bet they wouldn't have given up!
I began to think back through the years--projects I began but never finished, friendships I pursued but didn't cultivate, and dreams I played out in my head, but never realized in life. I wonder how close I had been to the end? I wonder what I missed because I gave up too soon. I reflected on the obstacles and wondered if I made the right decisions.
Proverbs 3:5-6 says Commit thy way unto the Lord and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.
I have always loved that verse, but it took on new meaning for me that day. How many times had I committed to a project or made plans to pursue something based on my own understanding of what lay ahead of me? How many times had I become sidetracked, strayed off course, or stumbled across a roadblock in my pursuit of success and happiness? Like those boys, I couldn't see the future. I felt tired. My legs couldn't carry me to the top of the mountain. I wasn't where I was supposed to be because I didn't ask God to show me the way.
The good news is that in the last three years, I have seen God answer my prayers by showing me clearly the way he wants me to go. I've prayed, "God, show me my place here" and he has done it. I've prayed, "Lord, give me friends who will help me be more like you" and he has done it. As I have leaned in God's direction, he has made my paths straight. When I look at him, I can see more clearly where to go. The path isn't curvy, and I can begin by going confidently in the direction of his leading. I'm not scared. I don't worry about what I cannot see. It's enough for me that God sees, and he is with me.
Walking hand in hand, we continued our journey. I didn't mind the steady climb. Gavin told me about some boys at camp who are "tapped out" for a special assignment called the The Little Chief Test. The boys undergo a 24-hour challenge that includes a silence ban, building a fire with one match, and a run up this mountain, among other things. They begin the test at midnight the night before and start the run covered in smut from their fires and exhausted from lack of sleep. As we continued our walk, Gavin pointed out various landmarks. He showed me where the various "legs" of the run began and also where many of the boys often give up.
As he was explaining this, we trampled over one last gravelly incline and there ahead of us stood the driveway to the House of Dreams. Finally! The house was modest, yet breathtaking because it's surrounded by lush grass, a lovely garden and a beautiful view of the surrounding mountains. As we crested the hill, my eyes drank in the beauty from the perspective of that secluded hilltop. I could see for miles! The clouds blanketed the horizon in billowy beauty. We perched ourselves on a quaint old tree swing, basking in the breeze of a gorgeous fall day. If only those boys had known that they were that close, I bet they wouldn't have given up!
I began to think back through the years--projects I began but never finished, friendships I pursued but didn't cultivate, and dreams I played out in my head, but never realized in life. I wonder how close I had been to the end? I wonder what I missed because I gave up too soon. I reflected on the obstacles and wondered if I made the right decisions.
Proverbs 3:5-6 says Commit thy way unto the Lord and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.
I have always loved that verse, but it took on new meaning for me that day. How many times had I committed to a project or made plans to pursue something based on my own understanding of what lay ahead of me? How many times had I become sidetracked, strayed off course, or stumbled across a roadblock in my pursuit of success and happiness? Like those boys, I couldn't see the future. I felt tired. My legs couldn't carry me to the top of the mountain. I wasn't where I was supposed to be because I didn't ask God to show me the way.
The good news is that in the last three years, I have seen God answer my prayers by showing me clearly the way he wants me to go. I've prayed, "God, show me my place here" and he has done it. I've prayed, "Lord, give me friends who will help me be more like you" and he has done it. As I have leaned in God's direction, he has made my paths straight. When I look at him, I can see more clearly where to go. The path isn't curvy, and I can begin by going confidently in the direction of his leading. I'm not scared. I don't worry about what I cannot see. It's enough for me that God sees, and he is with me.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Think About It!
"Go get your Rapunzel costume," I told my youngest daughter this morning.
"No, Mommy. I'm not wearing it. I want to be a cheerleader today."
I was mildly irritated. I spent a pretty penny on Rapunzel, and this was the second day in a row Cari Jill had had the opportunity to get our money's worth. Instead, she decided to be something else, simply because she could.
Because Rapunzel was for Halloween.
And anyway she couldn't dance in Rapunzel.
And she didn't want to use bobby pins to attach the wig to her head.
And it was hard to buckle the car seat in that big dress.
And she didn't want to step on the hem during the school's parade of costumes.
Obviously, she had really thought through the costume dilemma.
As the little cowboys, pirates, firefighters, princesses, doctors, and cheerleaders filed past, I smiled and waved. Their precious costumes brought back fond memories of my older children and my childhood. Dressing up and pretending to be something awesome made for adventurous times.
My rugrats began planning their elaborate ensembles at the beginning of September. And it's no wonder. Almost as soon as summer ended, the dentist, teachers, neighbors, and even the family exterminator began asking them what they planned to be. Similarly, when someone meets my kids for the first time, a common question is often, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" And now that I'm a grown-up one of the first questions strangers ask me is, "So, what do you do"?
I hate that question, and it's not because I don't have an answer. I certainly DO! I'm an investment manager, mentor, professor, personal chef, innovator, and change agent. What I do on a daily basis impacts the future of infinite generations. So it's not what I DO that leaves me stuttering; it's explaining what I do. You see, what I do is intentional, intuitive, purposeful, and most of all, reflective.
Notice that I said REFLECTIVE, not reflexive.
How we think and what we think about determines who we will become in a world that defines us primarily by what we do.
Our thoughts are private, secret waterfalls. They build strength as information assimilation accumulates. Our dreams can alter our belief system to direct the progress of our lives. That's why our family spends time talking about the issues that affect us. We ask questions like:
Why?
How?
Tell me more.
Do we always get back an answer that we like? Heck, sometimes I don't get an answer at all! But I'll take a mumble or a grunt for now. These kids are my work in progress. It's unacceptable to say, "I don't know." That phrase is akin to "I don't think". And I know that's not true. Kids are always thinking. Sometimes, I bet their little noggins are whispering, "My mother's a lunatic." Oh, well, I'll take it. At least they're thinking.
Our brain consists of about one billion neurons. Each neuron forms about 1,000 connections to other neurons, amounting to more than a trillion connections. If each neuron could only help store a single memory, running out of space would be a problem. You might have only a few gigabytes of storage space, similar to the space in an iPod or a USB flash drive. Yet neurons combine so that each one helps with many memories at a time, exponentially increasing the brain’s memory storage capacity to something closer to around 2.5 petabytes (or a million gigabytes). For comparison, if your brain worked like a digital video recorder in a television, 2.5 petabytes would be enough to hold three million hours of TV shows. You would have to leave the TV running continuously for more than 300 years to use up all that storage. (http://blog.growingleaders.com/leadership/help-my-brain-is-full/) Wow! There's no excuse for not being able to think!
Our kids can be anything they want, but I just want them to be able to think. I want them to work hard to understand the world, to discover ways to make it better, to be brave enough to implement their ideas, and strong enough to innovate when failure prevails. Cari Jill changed her mind about her costume. I'm glad. She just proved to me that she knows how to think. She's not afraid to share her opinion. She's human. Her ability to DO is magnified because of her capacity to THINK.
"No, Mommy. I'm not wearing it. I want to be a cheerleader today."
I was mildly irritated. I spent a pretty penny on Rapunzel, and this was the second day in a row Cari Jill had had the opportunity to get our money's worth. Instead, she decided to be something else, simply because she could.
Because Rapunzel was for Halloween.
And anyway she couldn't dance in Rapunzel.
And she didn't want to use bobby pins to attach the wig to her head.
And it was hard to buckle the car seat in that big dress.
And she didn't want to step on the hem during the school's parade of costumes.
Obviously, she had really thought through the costume dilemma.
As the little cowboys, pirates, firefighters, princesses, doctors, and cheerleaders filed past, I smiled and waved. Their precious costumes brought back fond memories of my older children and my childhood. Dressing up and pretending to be something awesome made for adventurous times.
My rugrats began planning their elaborate ensembles at the beginning of September. And it's no wonder. Almost as soon as summer ended, the dentist, teachers, neighbors, and even the family exterminator began asking them what they planned to be. Similarly, when someone meets my kids for the first time, a common question is often, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" And now that I'm a grown-up one of the first questions strangers ask me is, "So, what do you do"?
I hate that question, and it's not because I don't have an answer. I certainly DO! I'm an investment manager, mentor, professor, personal chef, innovator, and change agent. What I do on a daily basis impacts the future of infinite generations. So it's not what I DO that leaves me stuttering; it's explaining what I do. You see, what I do is intentional, intuitive, purposeful, and most of all, reflective.
Notice that I said REFLECTIVE, not reflexive.
How we think and what we think about determines who we will become in a world that defines us primarily by what we do.
Our thoughts are private, secret waterfalls. They build strength as information assimilation accumulates. Our dreams can alter our belief system to direct the progress of our lives. That's why our family spends time talking about the issues that affect us. We ask questions like:
Why?
How?
Tell me more.
Do we always get back an answer that we like? Heck, sometimes I don't get an answer at all! But I'll take a mumble or a grunt for now. These kids are my work in progress. It's unacceptable to say, "I don't know." That phrase is akin to "I don't think". And I know that's not true. Kids are always thinking. Sometimes, I bet their little noggins are whispering, "My mother's a lunatic." Oh, well, I'll take it. At least they're thinking.
Our brain consists of about one billion neurons. Each neuron forms about 1,000 connections to other neurons, amounting to more than a trillion connections. If each neuron could only help store a single memory, running out of space would be a problem. You might have only a few gigabytes of storage space, similar to the space in an iPod or a USB flash drive. Yet neurons combine so that each one helps with many memories at a time, exponentially increasing the brain’s memory storage capacity to something closer to around 2.5 petabytes (or a million gigabytes). For comparison, if your brain worked like a digital video recorder in a television, 2.5 petabytes would be enough to hold three million hours of TV shows. You would have to leave the TV running continuously for more than 300 years to use up all that storage. (http://blog.growingleaders.com/leadership/help-my-brain-is-full/) Wow! There's no excuse for not being able to think!
Our kids can be anything they want, but I just want them to be able to think. I want them to work hard to understand the world, to discover ways to make it better, to be brave enough to implement their ideas, and strong enough to innovate when failure prevails. Cari Jill changed her mind about her costume. I'm glad. She just proved to me that she knows how to think. She's not afraid to share her opinion. She's human. Her ability to DO is magnified because of her capacity to THINK.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Why Wait?
What does "WAITING" mean to you? When you hear that word, do you think of long lines at the grocery store, Christmas morning, or a watched-pot of (almost) boiling water? Waiting means something different to each and every one of us. Whether we're waiting for a medical lab report or for the alarm that wakes us, the tick-tock of the clock serves one very important purpose: It reminds us that we are not in control.
Have you ever prayed a prayer to God and felt like he just ignored you? The clock's seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months ticked by, and that's literally all you heard--the empty sound of a silent God? It's frustrating to find yourself opening up to God only to find that he doesn't reciprocate your efforts.
Reading Lamentations tonight, I came across this verse: He has blocked my way with a high stone wall; he has made my road crooked. (3:9)
If I had stopped there, I might have been tempted to say, "Yeah, you tell 'em, Jeremiah! Blame it on the big guy! I feel your pain." But luckily, I didn't. I kept on reading, and I'm so glad I did:
Lamentations 3:21-26: Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning. I say to myself, "The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in him!" The Lord is good to those who depend on him, to those who search for him. So it is good to wait quietly for salvation from the Lord.
Waiting is hard, to be sure. When I read through these verses, though, I gained a new perspective on why we wait. Waiting definitely produces perseverance and character and hope and all those other wonderful qualities that we read about in the New Testament, but beyond that, our trust in God is strengthened. I like to see progress. I like change that can be measured. When I have an idea, I want to see immediate results. I have a hard time being patient with what God is doing in me. And unfortunately, he has a whole lot of work to do! That last verse says that the Lord is good to those who search for them. Searching takes time. Searching requires a map. Searching can be frustrating.
In the early 1970s, a famous professor from Stanford University conducted an experiment with four year old children to test their ability to delay gratification. Each child was given a marshmallow, then the professor left the room and told the child not to eat the marshmallow. If they could wait until the professor returned, then the child could have two marshmallows. You can imagine a little four-year old sitting at the table staring at that lonely marshmallow in front of him. How tempting to eat it! How sugary and delicious it looked! If he ate the marshmallow before the professor returned, then he would not get a second marshmallow. It's no wonder that the children who were able to delay gratification in the simple marshmallow experiment grew up to be more successful adults.
And so it is as we wait on God. He's our professor. We can eat the marshmallow now. It's tempting. After all, how do we know that we can trust him to do what he says and bring two marshmallows when he returns? That's why we wait. We wait and we see. God shows up and we see. We wait and we remember. God showed up! All that waiting is time spent building a track record of events that fill the gaps between the tick and the tock, between the "Will he?" and "Why isn't he?" questions that dominate our prayer life.
Like a little child, God sometimes has to say to me: "My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts....And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine." (Isaiah 55:8). Those words are hard to swallow. They're the equivalent of my mom chiding, "Because I said so, that's why!" But I take comfort in knowing this (Ephesians 3:20): "....By his mighty power at work within us, he is able to accomplish infinitely more than we would ever dare to ask or hope.
Yes, sometimes it seems like God places a stone wall on a crooked path. But maybe that's because I'm not praying the right prayer. I'm thankful for a God who knows better than I do what's best for me. I can trust him because he has shown himself to me in times past. Waiting is never easy, but when I think about what I can accomplish on my own, and what God can accomplish through me, I'm willing to wait. Two marshmallows are always better than one.
Have you ever prayed a prayer to God and felt like he just ignored you? The clock's seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months ticked by, and that's literally all you heard--the empty sound of a silent God? It's frustrating to find yourself opening up to God only to find that he doesn't reciprocate your efforts.
Reading Lamentations tonight, I came across this verse: He has blocked my way with a high stone wall; he has made my road crooked. (3:9)
If I had stopped there, I might have been tempted to say, "Yeah, you tell 'em, Jeremiah! Blame it on the big guy! I feel your pain." But luckily, I didn't. I kept on reading, and I'm so glad I did:
Lamentations 3:21-26: Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning. I say to myself, "The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in him!" The Lord is good to those who depend on him, to those who search for him. So it is good to wait quietly for salvation from the Lord.
Waiting is hard, to be sure. When I read through these verses, though, I gained a new perspective on why we wait. Waiting definitely produces perseverance and character and hope and all those other wonderful qualities that we read about in the New Testament, but beyond that, our trust in God is strengthened. I like to see progress. I like change that can be measured. When I have an idea, I want to see immediate results. I have a hard time being patient with what God is doing in me. And unfortunately, he has a whole lot of work to do! That last verse says that the Lord is good to those who search for them. Searching takes time. Searching requires a map. Searching can be frustrating.
In the early 1970s, a famous professor from Stanford University conducted an experiment with four year old children to test their ability to delay gratification. Each child was given a marshmallow, then the professor left the room and told the child not to eat the marshmallow. If they could wait until the professor returned, then the child could have two marshmallows. You can imagine a little four-year old sitting at the table staring at that lonely marshmallow in front of him. How tempting to eat it! How sugary and delicious it looked! If he ate the marshmallow before the professor returned, then he would not get a second marshmallow. It's no wonder that the children who were able to delay gratification in the simple marshmallow experiment grew up to be more successful adults.
And so it is as we wait on God. He's our professor. We can eat the marshmallow now. It's tempting. After all, how do we know that we can trust him to do what he says and bring two marshmallows when he returns? That's why we wait. We wait and we see. God shows up and we see. We wait and we remember. God showed up! All that waiting is time spent building a track record of events that fill the gaps between the tick and the tock, between the "Will he?" and "Why isn't he?" questions that dominate our prayer life.
Like a little child, God sometimes has to say to me: "My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts....And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine." (Isaiah 55:8). Those words are hard to swallow. They're the equivalent of my mom chiding, "Because I said so, that's why!" But I take comfort in knowing this (Ephesians 3:20): "....By his mighty power at work within us, he is able to accomplish infinitely more than we would ever dare to ask or hope.
Yes, sometimes it seems like God places a stone wall on a crooked path. But maybe that's because I'm not praying the right prayer. I'm thankful for a God who knows better than I do what's best for me. I can trust him because he has shown himself to me in times past. Waiting is never easy, but when I think about what I can accomplish on my own, and what God can accomplish through me, I'm willing to wait. Two marshmallows are always better than one.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
God Thinks You're Beautiful
Sitting at my computer, I typed frantically, trying to get the words down before I forgot them. I was oblivious to everything going on at home. I needed to get my work done. My youngest daughter tapped my leg. She bounced up and down. "Mom," she said, "Do you know that God thinks you're beautiful?"
I paused for a second. God thinks I'm beautiful? I bent down and gently kissed my daughter's forehead. I felt a smile creep to my lips. What a wonderful interruption! What prompted it?
At the moment, I felt neither ugly nor beautiful, but I welcomed the pause. My other daughter is in middle school, and she would never admit it, but she often feels awkward and gangly. The girls in her class judge each other ruthlessly. She agonizes over her clothes and hair and who she will sit with at lunch. I hope she remembers that God thinks she's beautiful. I hope that God interrupts her negative thoughts and reminds her that he thinks she's beautiful. He made her, he loves her, and he thinks she is beautiful.
And on days when I'm feeling ugly, I pray I'll remember that God thinks I'm beautiful. When I'm short with my kids, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I'm behind on my chores, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I compare myself to other moms, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I over-commit and under-deliver, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I'm tired and grouchy, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I am anything but beautiful, God thinks I'm beautiful.
Psalm 139:14
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
I love that verse. It's a reminder that our duty is to praise God for what he has made. Each and every one of us is a wonderful work of art. Let's all be as candid and frank as the toddler: "Do you know that God thinks you're beautiful?" Yes, he thinks you're beautiful. Just the way you are. You are not defined by your wrinkles, your gray hair, your husband, your job, or your kids. You are exactly as you should be, wonderful because the one who made you is wonderful, beautiful because the one who made you is beautiful.
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this song by Gungor--whenever I need a little reminder.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=OR7VOKQ0xJY
I paused for a second. God thinks I'm beautiful? I bent down and gently kissed my daughter's forehead. I felt a smile creep to my lips. What a wonderful interruption! What prompted it?
At the moment, I felt neither ugly nor beautiful, but I welcomed the pause. My other daughter is in middle school, and she would never admit it, but she often feels awkward and gangly. The girls in her class judge each other ruthlessly. She agonizes over her clothes and hair and who she will sit with at lunch. I hope she remembers that God thinks she's beautiful. I hope that God interrupts her negative thoughts and reminds her that he thinks she's beautiful. He made her, he loves her, and he thinks she is beautiful.
And on days when I'm feeling ugly, I pray I'll remember that God thinks I'm beautiful. When I'm short with my kids, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I'm behind on my chores, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I compare myself to other moms, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I over-commit and under-deliver, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I'm tired and grouchy, God thinks I'm beautiful. When I am anything but beautiful, God thinks I'm beautiful.
Psalm 139:14
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
I love that verse. It's a reminder that our duty is to praise God for what he has made. Each and every one of us is a wonderful work of art. Let's all be as candid and frank as the toddler: "Do you know that God thinks you're beautiful?" Yes, he thinks you're beautiful. Just the way you are. You are not defined by your wrinkles, your gray hair, your husband, your job, or your kids. You are exactly as you should be, wonderful because the one who made you is wonderful, beautiful because the one who made you is beautiful.
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this song by Gungor--whenever I need a little reminder.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=OR7VOKQ0xJY
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
5 Things That Will Revolutionize Your Friendships
Trust
This one is obvious. If you can't trust your friends, what's the point of having them? You want to be able to share your secrets and confess your fears in confidentiality. When someone says, "Your heart is safe with me" and means it, you know that you can trust them. Hang on to that person. A trustworthy person is a mature person.
Accountability
Accountability equals responsibility. And this simple principle works both ways. When you're working toward a goal, your accountability partner will help you pursue what's important. The friend that values accountability will not allow you to stray too far off your projected course.
Encouragement
No one has ever complained that they were over-encouraged. We all want someone to believe in us. Henry Ford once said, "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right". Make friends that believe the best about you.
Inspiration
Music, books, and even TV and movies can all serve to inspire people to do great things. But I think real people probably do more to inspire others to join them in changing the world than anything else. If someone else can do the impossible, then by golly, so can you!
Challenge
Growing people change. A good friend will challenge you to expand your horizons. He/she will push you to increase your capacity. Surround yourself with people who understand your strengths and challenge you to use them to do more, give more, be more. Lucky is the person who has been double-dog dared to dream big dreams.
This one is obvious. If you can't trust your friends, what's the point of having them? You want to be able to share your secrets and confess your fears in confidentiality. When someone says, "Your heart is safe with me" and means it, you know that you can trust them. Hang on to that person. A trustworthy person is a mature person.
Accountability
Accountability equals responsibility. And this simple principle works both ways. When you're working toward a goal, your accountability partner will help you pursue what's important. The friend that values accountability will not allow you to stray too far off your projected course.
Encouragement
No one has ever complained that they were over-encouraged. We all want someone to believe in us. Henry Ford once said, "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right". Make friends that believe the best about you.
Inspiration
Music, books, and even TV and movies can all serve to inspire people to do great things. But I think real people probably do more to inspire others to join them in changing the world than anything else. If someone else can do the impossible, then by golly, so can you!
Challenge
Growing people change. A good friend will challenge you to expand your horizons. He/she will push you to increase your capacity. Surround yourself with people who understand your strengths and challenge you to use them to do more, give more, be more. Lucky is the person who has been double-dog dared to dream big dreams.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
I've Got A Secret
Secret hiding place. Club. Handshake. Password. Recipe.
Secrets. When we're the subject, we hate them, but when we discover one, we're on top of the world. Unlocked secrets bring forth treasures untold. It's why we pry, poke, bait, and bribe. Mysteries were meant to be solved, and secrets were meant to be shared. Or were they?
For years, my family has been trying to unlock the secret of my chocolate chip cookie recipe. I have promised to bequeath it to the most trustworthy child, but for now, it's in a vault. I admit that a little intentional investigating could probably do the trick in reproducing it. But if I'm being completely honest, I love that there's something I know that nobody else does. It belongs only to me. And of course that's the most selfish thing in the world! I can only make and distribute the number of cookies proportional to my budget. Flour, sugar, butter, and chocolate all cost money, and so the gift is severely limited by my personal purchasing power.
Sharing the recipe would allow unadulterated cookie joy to be multiplied across the population. There's a teeny tiny part of me, though, that actually thinks no one else could do it proper justice. They wouldn't beat the dough for the appropriate amount of time, their oven wouldn't be properly calibrated, they couldn't accurately manage the baking time, or they wouldn't use the correct chip ratio. My secret would be wasted on them, and worse my reputation would be at stake. The horror!
But of course that's not true. Intellectually, I know that. But I am irrational. And so I keep this secret.
Every single person in the world is a compendium of secrets, and authentic friendships are rare. Mistakenly, people assume that their secrets make them less valuable, not more. I meet people who I really like, but our conversations are superficial. All our interactions are an arms-length away. "Don't get too close", they seem to say. "You might not like what you see". But the reality is that the opposite is true! The more that is revealed to me, the more I long to discover. Like my cookie recipe, they don't want to trust me with their secrets. I might not do their hopes, fears, dreams, and loves true justice. Authenticity is too risky!
A lot of people treat their secrets like Samson (from the Old Testament) treated his. His secret was the source of his great strength. When he revealed it, unfortunately, it was used against him, and ultimately led to his personal downfall. That's the risk we take when we invite people to take a peek at the layers that make us who we are. It's the secrets that make us special. That make us genuine. That make us vulnerable.
Judges 16:6: So Delilah said to Samson, "Tell me the secret of your great strength and how you can be tied up and subdued."
Judges 16:16: With such nagging she prodded him day after day until he was tired to death.
Judges 16:19: Having put him to sleep on her lap, she called a man to shave off the seven braids of his hair, and so began to subdue him. And his strength left him.
Judges 16:20: Then she called, "Samson, the Philistines are upon you!" He awoke from his sleep and thought, "I'll go out as before and shake myself free." But he did not know that the Lord had left him.
Tragically, Samson did not know that he had betrayed his calling. He had permitted a Philistine woman to rob him of the sign of his special consecration to the Lord. And the Lord was the ultimate source of Samson's strength.
We think if we tell our secrets, our friends will leave us. Or worse God will leave us. Our secret will be used against us-- mocked, twisted, and disclosed.
That's not the message of the New Testament. Though there is a secret, it is beautiful and available to everyone. As Christians, we're encouraged to tell the whole world about this great gift. CHRIST IN US is the secret. To squirrel it away would be a tragedy. Like Samson's hair, CHRIST IN US is our strength. But unlike Samson's hair, God's gracious gift cannot be taken away.
I love Colossians 2:2-3: "My purpose is that they may be encouraged in heart and united in love, so that they may have the full riches of complete understanding, in order that they may know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge" (emphasis mine).
I have some secrets, to be sure. And as you already know, my most treasured is the secret chocolate chip cookie recipe. It's legendary, and though it's not really that complicated, I know the secret is what makes them special. That's why I would have to kill you if I typed it here now.
The secret of the New Testament is what makes us special, too. For, "To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is CHRIST IN YOU, the hope of glory." (Colossians 1:27) Christ is in us, and he is full of wisdom and knowledge. I wouldn't want to keep that to myself. I can't keep it to myself! Surely, I've let God down. Christ might be in me, but unfortunately I've got a lot of other junk in there, too. One of the main ways God introduces himself to people that don't know him is through authentic relationships. As my secrets come out, so hopefully does Christ. If ever God felt like I wasn't worthy to represent him on this earth, he has never done anything but encourage me otherwise. And I hope he will encourage you, too. There's no sense in us all keeping all our juicy secrets to ourselves!
Secrets. When we're the subject, we hate them, but when we discover one, we're on top of the world. Unlocked secrets bring forth treasures untold. It's why we pry, poke, bait, and bribe. Mysteries were meant to be solved, and secrets were meant to be shared. Or were they?
For years, my family has been trying to unlock the secret of my chocolate chip cookie recipe. I have promised to bequeath it to the most trustworthy child, but for now, it's in a vault. I admit that a little intentional investigating could probably do the trick in reproducing it. But if I'm being completely honest, I love that there's something I know that nobody else does. It belongs only to me. And of course that's the most selfish thing in the world! I can only make and distribute the number of cookies proportional to my budget. Flour, sugar, butter, and chocolate all cost money, and so the gift is severely limited by my personal purchasing power.
Sharing the recipe would allow unadulterated cookie joy to be multiplied across the population. There's a teeny tiny part of me, though, that actually thinks no one else could do it proper justice. They wouldn't beat the dough for the appropriate amount of time, their oven wouldn't be properly calibrated, they couldn't accurately manage the baking time, or they wouldn't use the correct chip ratio. My secret would be wasted on them, and worse my reputation would be at stake. The horror!
But of course that's not true. Intellectually, I know that. But I am irrational. And so I keep this secret.
Every single person in the world is a compendium of secrets, and authentic friendships are rare. Mistakenly, people assume that their secrets make them less valuable, not more. I meet people who I really like, but our conversations are superficial. All our interactions are an arms-length away. "Don't get too close", they seem to say. "You might not like what you see". But the reality is that the opposite is true! The more that is revealed to me, the more I long to discover. Like my cookie recipe, they don't want to trust me with their secrets. I might not do their hopes, fears, dreams, and loves true justice. Authenticity is too risky!
A lot of people treat their secrets like Samson (from the Old Testament) treated his. His secret was the source of his great strength. When he revealed it, unfortunately, it was used against him, and ultimately led to his personal downfall. That's the risk we take when we invite people to take a peek at the layers that make us who we are. It's the secrets that make us special. That make us genuine. That make us vulnerable.
Judges 16:6: So Delilah said to Samson, "Tell me the secret of your great strength and how you can be tied up and subdued."
Judges 16:16: With such nagging she prodded him day after day until he was tired to death.
Judges 16:19: Having put him to sleep on her lap, she called a man to shave off the seven braids of his hair, and so began to subdue him. And his strength left him.
Judges 16:20: Then she called, "Samson, the Philistines are upon you!" He awoke from his sleep and thought, "I'll go out as before and shake myself free." But he did not know that the Lord had left him.
Tragically, Samson did not know that he had betrayed his calling. He had permitted a Philistine woman to rob him of the sign of his special consecration to the Lord. And the Lord was the ultimate source of Samson's strength.
We think if we tell our secrets, our friends will leave us. Or worse God will leave us. Our secret will be used against us-- mocked, twisted, and disclosed.
That's not the message of the New Testament. Though there is a secret, it is beautiful and available to everyone. As Christians, we're encouraged to tell the whole world about this great gift. CHRIST IN US is the secret. To squirrel it away would be a tragedy. Like Samson's hair, CHRIST IN US is our strength. But unlike Samson's hair, God's gracious gift cannot be taken away.
I love Colossians 2:2-3: "My purpose is that they may be encouraged in heart and united in love, so that they may have the full riches of complete understanding, in order that they may know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge" (emphasis mine).
I have some secrets, to be sure. And as you already know, my most treasured is the secret chocolate chip cookie recipe. It's legendary, and though it's not really that complicated, I know the secret is what makes them special. That's why I would have to kill you if I typed it here now.
The secret of the New Testament is what makes us special, too. For, "To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is CHRIST IN YOU, the hope of glory." (Colossians 1:27) Christ is in us, and he is full of wisdom and knowledge. I wouldn't want to keep that to myself. I can't keep it to myself! Surely, I've let God down. Christ might be in me, but unfortunately I've got a lot of other junk in there, too. One of the main ways God introduces himself to people that don't know him is through authentic relationships. As my secrets come out, so hopefully does Christ. If ever God felt like I wasn't worthy to represent him on this earth, he has never done anything but encourage me otherwise. And I hope he will encourage you, too. There's no sense in us all keeping all our juicy secrets to ourselves!
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Noises in the Night
I've heard a lot of talk in recent years about really listening to God's voice. Super-Christians would begin sentences by saying things like, "God told me to...." And I always wondered how they knew it was God's voice telling them to do that thing. I wanted to be able to hear the voice, too.
It's funny that when God begins to speak to you, it can be a little scary. It's scary because you don't recognize his voice... yet.
I remember being a kid and laying in bed one night listening to the sounds of the night. It was eerily silent, and everyone was asleep. But from my lonely room on the other side of the house my ear was tuned to a creepy sound. It was like a zombie dragging his chains down the hallway. I was frozen under my covers, paralyzed with fear. That zombie was coming for me! "Squeeeeeek-thump, Squeeeeek-thump, Squeeeeeeeek-thump", was the sound I heard until finally my tired eyes could take no more and I drifted into slumber. The next morning, when I woke up and went into the den, I saw clearly the source of the previous night's angst--my grandmother's parakeet swinging on his perch. In the light of day, suddenly everything was illuminated. There was nothing to fear. It was a little parakeet. In a CAGE, for crying out loud.
Another night, I heard a tap-tapping at my door. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The blanket pulled tightly around me, my heart racing, again I laid there paralyzed with fear. Daring to peak over the covers, a sliver of light peeked out from under the door...along with a pair of furry gray paws--our cat, who just wanted in so he could curl up and go to sleep on the end of the bed. It wasn't the bogeyman. A prowler to be sure, but seriously--it was only a cat.
I think sometimes we hear God talking to us, but it's like we have our fingers in both ears, and we're saying as loud as we can, "lalalalalalalalalalala" because we're afraid of what he might tell us. It's easier to stay in the dark, hide under the covers, frozen with dread. Why take a step? Why turn on the light? To confirm our biggest fear? What if our biggest fear was our greatest opportunity?
Satan wants to keep us in the dark, a slave to our tremblings. If he can keep us there, then he can make us think that a harmless parakeet is in fact a frightening zombie. He can convince us that the kitty is the killer. Step out into the light. Jesus is calling. He can cage the parakeet and tame the cat, and he can give you the courage to listen to his voice, to recognize it, and act on it, even when you think you're in the dark. He will never lead you astray.
It's funny that when God begins to speak to you, it can be a little scary. It's scary because you don't recognize his voice... yet.
I remember being a kid and laying in bed one night listening to the sounds of the night. It was eerily silent, and everyone was asleep. But from my lonely room on the other side of the house my ear was tuned to a creepy sound. It was like a zombie dragging his chains down the hallway. I was frozen under my covers, paralyzed with fear. That zombie was coming for me! "Squeeeeeek-thump, Squeeeeek-thump, Squeeeeeeeek-thump", was the sound I heard until finally my tired eyes could take no more and I drifted into slumber. The next morning, when I woke up and went into the den, I saw clearly the source of the previous night's angst--my grandmother's parakeet swinging on his perch. In the light of day, suddenly everything was illuminated. There was nothing to fear. It was a little parakeet. In a CAGE, for crying out loud.
Another night, I heard a tap-tapping at my door. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The blanket pulled tightly around me, my heart racing, again I laid there paralyzed with fear. Daring to peak over the covers, a sliver of light peeked out from under the door...along with a pair of furry gray paws--our cat, who just wanted in so he could curl up and go to sleep on the end of the bed. It wasn't the bogeyman. A prowler to be sure, but seriously--it was only a cat.
I think sometimes we hear God talking to us, but it's like we have our fingers in both ears, and we're saying as loud as we can, "lalalalalalalalalalala" because we're afraid of what he might tell us. It's easier to stay in the dark, hide under the covers, frozen with dread. Why take a step? Why turn on the light? To confirm our biggest fear? What if our biggest fear was our greatest opportunity?
Satan wants to keep us in the dark, a slave to our tremblings. If he can keep us there, then he can make us think that a harmless parakeet is in fact a frightening zombie. He can convince us that the kitty is the killer. Step out into the light. Jesus is calling. He can cage the parakeet and tame the cat, and he can give you the courage to listen to his voice, to recognize it, and act on it, even when you think you're in the dark. He will never lead you astray.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Margin-(al)!
Remember being a kid and wailing "I'm boorrreeddd!" like every ten minutes? It would drive your parents crazy, but not really because they would just say something like, "Go outside and find something to do," and the crazy thing was that you actually would.
Now, you're the one who's married with a couple of kids, but you've never heard those words because your child takes dance lessons, plays soccer, is a girl scout, and participates in an after-school Spanish class. Who has time to say, "I'm bored"?
You know I'm kidding. You've heard those words, but when you tell your kids to go outside and find something to do, they can't. They don't know how. Since the day they were born, you've been scheduling every hour of their day. It started with a bottle every three hours, a nap twice a day, tummy time, and a baby music class and has progressed to school, lessons, sports, homework, etc.
It's a widely accepted notion that creativity happens in the margin of our lives. Books and blogs and seminars have all been written about the in-between space of our lives where the best ideas and projects emerge. We want it so badly, but we're afraid if we don't do all this stuff, life is going to pass us by.
What if, instead of it passing you by you were able to lead the way, and by doing so embrace the life you've always wanted?
I think that's why we always see college kids and young adults forging the path of innovation. It's the over-40 crowd that has become stuck in their ways, unable to adapt.
Long ago we met someone, perhaps the love of our lives, and suddenly the bicycle built for one became a bicycle built for two. Before we knew it, our comfortable cruiser gave way to one with a child's seat and an alley cat on the back. Riding used to be easy. You could explore wild terrain and take risks with no hands, but now there's all this responsibility. You don't want to screw it up; you're an achiever for goodness sake! You lead your child's scout troop, become the room mom, team mom, and carpool mom. You have all these commitments, but you're over-committed. Over-committing means just that. You've OVER-committed. You missed the mark. And unfortunately you haven't really committed to anything.
The worst part is that you're missing out on so much more than the obvious extra time. The whole Bible can be summed up in these two sentences: Love God. Love others. We think that's what we're doing by volunteering to attend every meeting, providing free childcare and snacks for every kid in the neighborhood, and organizing every team roster. None of these things are inherently wrong, but by filling your plate with a big 'ol pile of urgent stuff, you don't have any time left for what's important.
I used to be the biggest culprit of all. Since I made the decision to be a stay-at-home mom, I convinced myself that if I didn't stay busy 100% of the time, I was wasting time. I didn't need one more reason to receive a patronizing look from a mom with a job. Instead, I would make my family my career, and so like any good employee I began looking for ways to be productive. I wasn't punching a time clock or participating in an annual review, but all the things I was doing served to fill my "mom" resume. I could cook and clean AND organize a class party. I could do the shopping and pay the bills AND lead an after-school activity. I could wash the clothes and walk the dog AND volunteer for a civic organization.
I wasn't wasting time, but I was wasting away. When school started this year, I resolved to get serious about the things I wanted to do. The white space on my agenda is akin to the most beautiful art I've ever seen. My youngest is in school three mornings a week. One of these days is reserved to volunteer or visit with a friend, one is for Bible Study, and one belongs to me. I look forward to every single day because I know that I'm doing not only what I want to do, but also what God has called me to do. That big white spot on my calendar beckons me to write this blog, or to bake my favorite cookies, or my personal favorite--take a little nap.
As my margin gets bigger, I am able to see more clearly the other things that are written there. I am able to devote more of myself to each and every one of them. I stand amazed that I actually have more time, not less. Best of all, I don't need to prove myself to anybody.
Now, you're the one who's married with a couple of kids, but you've never heard those words because your child takes dance lessons, plays soccer, is a girl scout, and participates in an after-school Spanish class. Who has time to say, "I'm bored"?
You know I'm kidding. You've heard those words, but when you tell your kids to go outside and find something to do, they can't. They don't know how. Since the day they were born, you've been scheduling every hour of their day. It started with a bottle every three hours, a nap twice a day, tummy time, and a baby music class and has progressed to school, lessons, sports, homework, etc.
It's a widely accepted notion that creativity happens in the margin of our lives. Books and blogs and seminars have all been written about the in-between space of our lives where the best ideas and projects emerge. We want it so badly, but we're afraid if we don't do all this stuff, life is going to pass us by.
What if, instead of it passing you by you were able to lead the way, and by doing so embrace the life you've always wanted?
I think that's why we always see college kids and young adults forging the path of innovation. It's the over-40 crowd that has become stuck in their ways, unable to adapt.
Long ago we met someone, perhaps the love of our lives, and suddenly the bicycle built for one became a bicycle built for two. Before we knew it, our comfortable cruiser gave way to one with a child's seat and an alley cat on the back. Riding used to be easy. You could explore wild terrain and take risks with no hands, but now there's all this responsibility. You don't want to screw it up; you're an achiever for goodness sake! You lead your child's scout troop, become the room mom, team mom, and carpool mom. You have all these commitments, but you're over-committed. Over-committing means just that. You've OVER-committed. You missed the mark. And unfortunately you haven't really committed to anything.
The worst part is that you're missing out on so much more than the obvious extra time. The whole Bible can be summed up in these two sentences: Love God. Love others. We think that's what we're doing by volunteering to attend every meeting, providing free childcare and snacks for every kid in the neighborhood, and organizing every team roster. None of these things are inherently wrong, but by filling your plate with a big 'ol pile of urgent stuff, you don't have any time left for what's important.
I used to be the biggest culprit of all. Since I made the decision to be a stay-at-home mom, I convinced myself that if I didn't stay busy 100% of the time, I was wasting time. I didn't need one more reason to receive a patronizing look from a mom with a job. Instead, I would make my family my career, and so like any good employee I began looking for ways to be productive. I wasn't punching a time clock or participating in an annual review, but all the things I was doing served to fill my "mom" resume. I could cook and clean AND organize a class party. I could do the shopping and pay the bills AND lead an after-school activity. I could wash the clothes and walk the dog AND volunteer for a civic organization.
I wasn't wasting time, but I was wasting away. When school started this year, I resolved to get serious about the things I wanted to do. The white space on my agenda is akin to the most beautiful art I've ever seen. My youngest is in school three mornings a week. One of these days is reserved to volunteer or visit with a friend, one is for Bible Study, and one belongs to me. I look forward to every single day because I know that I'm doing not only what I want to do, but also what God has called me to do. That big white spot on my calendar beckons me to write this blog, or to bake my favorite cookies, or my personal favorite--take a little nap.
As my margin gets bigger, I am able to see more clearly the other things that are written there. I am able to devote more of myself to each and every one of them. I stand amazed that I actually have more time, not less. Best of all, I don't need to prove myself to anybody.
Friday, September 16, 2011
What's On Your Mind?
"What's on your mind?"
A penny for your thoughts. And that's the million dollar question. It's the question Facebook asks me every time I open up the application, and its the question that made the inventors rich. What I've found, though, is that the thoughts that dominate most people's days are pretty mundane. Especially on the weekend. I know. I'm a loser for even looking at Facebook on the weekend. So this weekend I'm writing about it instead.
It bothers me, though, that with a daily opportunity to tell the world what's going on in our lives, so often we use it for self-promotion, the dreaded "face-bragging", or a general commentary of our daily activity. The worst kinds of messages are the ones that don't say anything at all. For example,
"Praying for the Smith family today after the horrible tragedy that occurred last night."
What? There are a couple of problems with this post. First of all, I don't know who the Smith family is, but most importantly, I'm suddenly sad that something awful has happened to them, yet I have no idea what it is, and worse, I'm powerless to do anything about it. And so...there is a litany of comments that go something like this:
"So sad."
"Yikes! What happened?"
"Is everyone OK?"
"Is there anything we can do?"
"What's going on?"
Usually, the "friend" doesn't respond to all these questions, and we are left wondering why he posted it in the first place. Does he just want to see how many people will comment? And what about the Smith family themselves? It's a mystery, but they are strangely silent on this day. I guess, dear friend, they don't want you to publicly share their private pain with 548 of your closest friends.
I love, though, that everyday on that site I come face-to-face with a community filled with insight, awareness, and inspiration. As Facebook has evolved, so have the posts.
Three years ago, when Gavin introduced me to it, he highlighted one friend's page:
"Joe Jones is... bored."
"Joe Jones is... taking a nap."
"Joe Jones is... craving a hamburger and french fries."
"Joe Jones is... going to work."
Joe Jones is not his real name. But since that day, Joe Jones actually met a nice girl and got married and has grown up a lot. I know all of this, of course, because I have been following him on Facebook.
At the time, I think my response was, "And why do I care?" Of course, I created a profile and Joe Jones became one of my first friends. And everyday (sometimes several times a day) I would look at my News Feed and see not only what Joe Jones was doing (or not doing) but hundreds of other people as well. Who knows the countless hours I, dare I say it, ...wasted..., doing this?
Facebook brings out the best in me.
Facebook brings out the worst in me.
For starters, I smile every time I see a precious photo of someone's child or learn of someone overcoming obstacles to reach goals. But when I hear of people's fabulous vacations, sometimes it seems like they are saying directly to me: "Are you jealous?" Yes, yes I am. I am very, very jealous.
Or how about when someone posts what they're having for dinner? It seems what they're really saying is, "Hey, don't you wish you were invited?" Sorry, pal. Not tonight. Not ever.
If I had still been in college when Facebook came around, I think I would have been mortified that my parents, though three hundred miles away, could stalk me there any time day or night. Even now, at 37, I'm sometimes horrified by the thought. And I have nothing to hide. If I would let five hundred friends (strangers?) see what I'm doing everyday and speak into my life, why am I hesitant to allow my own parents to do the same thing?
What's on my mind doesn't seem so significant when shared with strangers, but the people who love me who see into my heart, that just seems so intimate--almost like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Remember, how she didn't want to kiss on the lips? Too personal, too intimate. Ewww....
Words are powerful. When you share what's on your mind, consider this: "Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building other us according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." Ephesians 4:29
I wholeheartedly believe in social media, but with great power comes great responsibility. In a venue where teenagers have cultivated mortal enemies and adults scandalous relationships, we all would be wise to heed the words found in Proverbs 12:18: "Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing."
What are you doing to promote love and foster a spirit of shared friendship on the social media sites that represent you? In my opinion, if you can make me think or make me laugh, you got the words exactly right.
A penny for your thoughts. And that's the million dollar question. It's the question Facebook asks me every time I open up the application, and its the question that made the inventors rich. What I've found, though, is that the thoughts that dominate most people's days are pretty mundane. Especially on the weekend. I know. I'm a loser for even looking at Facebook on the weekend. So this weekend I'm writing about it instead.
It bothers me, though, that with a daily opportunity to tell the world what's going on in our lives, so often we use it for self-promotion, the dreaded "face-bragging", or a general commentary of our daily activity. The worst kinds of messages are the ones that don't say anything at all. For example,
"Praying for the Smith family today after the horrible tragedy that occurred last night."
What? There are a couple of problems with this post. First of all, I don't know who the Smith family is, but most importantly, I'm suddenly sad that something awful has happened to them, yet I have no idea what it is, and worse, I'm powerless to do anything about it. And so...there is a litany of comments that go something like this:
"So sad."
"Yikes! What happened?"
"Is everyone OK?"
"Is there anything we can do?"
"What's going on?"
Usually, the "friend" doesn't respond to all these questions, and we are left wondering why he posted it in the first place. Does he just want to see how many people will comment? And what about the Smith family themselves? It's a mystery, but they are strangely silent on this day. I guess, dear friend, they don't want you to publicly share their private pain with 548 of your closest friends.
I love, though, that everyday on that site I come face-to-face with a community filled with insight, awareness, and inspiration. As Facebook has evolved, so have the posts.
Three years ago, when Gavin introduced me to it, he highlighted one friend's page:
"Joe Jones is... bored."
"Joe Jones is... taking a nap."
"Joe Jones is... craving a hamburger and french fries."
"Joe Jones is... going to work."
Joe Jones is not his real name. But since that day, Joe Jones actually met a nice girl and got married and has grown up a lot. I know all of this, of course, because I have been following him on Facebook.
At the time, I think my response was, "And why do I care?" Of course, I created a profile and Joe Jones became one of my first friends. And everyday (sometimes several times a day) I would look at my News Feed and see not only what Joe Jones was doing (or not doing) but hundreds of other people as well. Who knows the countless hours I, dare I say it, ...wasted..., doing this?
Facebook brings out the best in me.
Facebook brings out the worst in me.
For starters, I smile every time I see a precious photo of someone's child or learn of someone overcoming obstacles to reach goals. But when I hear of people's fabulous vacations, sometimes it seems like they are saying directly to me: "Are you jealous?" Yes, yes I am. I am very, very jealous.
Or how about when someone posts what they're having for dinner? It seems what they're really saying is, "Hey, don't you wish you were invited?" Sorry, pal. Not tonight. Not ever.
If I had still been in college when Facebook came around, I think I would have been mortified that my parents, though three hundred miles away, could stalk me there any time day or night. Even now, at 37, I'm sometimes horrified by the thought. And I have nothing to hide. If I would let five hundred friends (strangers?) see what I'm doing everyday and speak into my life, why am I hesitant to allow my own parents to do the same thing?
What's on my mind doesn't seem so significant when shared with strangers, but the people who love me who see into my heart, that just seems so intimate--almost like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Remember, how she didn't want to kiss on the lips? Too personal, too intimate. Ewww....
Words are powerful. When you share what's on your mind, consider this: "Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building other us according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." Ephesians 4:29
I wholeheartedly believe in social media, but with great power comes great responsibility. In a venue where teenagers have cultivated mortal enemies and adults scandalous relationships, we all would be wise to heed the words found in Proverbs 12:18: "Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing."
What are you doing to promote love and foster a spirit of shared friendship on the social media sites that represent you? In my opinion, if you can make me think or make me laugh, you got the words exactly right.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sit Here for the Present
Growing up, my favorite author was Beverly Cleary. I especially loved the character of Ramona. Ramona the Pest introduces Ramona Quimby and her experience at school the first day of Kindergarten. When Ramona's teacher tells her to "sit here for the present, " Ramona assumes that if she keeps her seat, her teacher will give her an actual present. Poor little Ramona, sitting there so sweetly hoping for a gift from her new teacher, but the gift never comes and so, with each passing minute, Ramona becomes increasingly dejected. Meanwhile, the classroom is alive with games and opportunities.
How many times have I felt just like Ramona! A friend comes to visit, and while sitting there chatting, I am itching to leave my seat, not because I'm not enjoying the company but because there are so many distractions. I am thinking of the laundry or the dishes. I argue with myself that I can surely do both--why not share a cup of tea while also rinsing out the pot that made it? Why not sort that basket as we exchange stories in the living room?
I'll tell you why.
It's because I might miss the present. Being fully present is the present.
I have some dear friends who know how to do this well. They never look at their clocks. When circumstances intersect the highway of their day, they welcome the interruption. To them, it's not an interruption. It's an opportunity--to share, connect, and grow.
Luke 10:38-42
As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"
"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her."
Oh, it's so hard for me! But I must remember that whenever I carve out a portion of my day to invest in another person, I will not be disappointed. If only because God made her, my presence in the present will be a present--either to me or to her. I have never regretted time spent basking in the sunshine of someone I love.
How many times have I felt just like Ramona! A friend comes to visit, and while sitting there chatting, I am itching to leave my seat, not because I'm not enjoying the company but because there are so many distractions. I am thinking of the laundry or the dishes. I argue with myself that I can surely do both--why not share a cup of tea while also rinsing out the pot that made it? Why not sort that basket as we exchange stories in the living room?
I'll tell you why.
It's because I might miss the present. Being fully present is the present.
I have some dear friends who know how to do this well. They never look at their clocks. When circumstances intersect the highway of their day, they welcome the interruption. To them, it's not an interruption. It's an opportunity--to share, connect, and grow.
Luke 10:38-42
As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"
"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her."
Oh, it's so hard for me! But I must remember that whenever I carve out a portion of my day to invest in another person, I will not be disappointed. If only because God made her, my presence in the present will be a present--either to me or to her. I have never regretted time spent basking in the sunshine of someone I love.
Monday, September 12, 2011
What's Really Killing America's Families
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it's not what's killing America's families. The real demise of this country's family unit: Public school's love affair with homework. Yes, and I can prove it.
Homework makes me ugly, inside AND out. In the last few years, my youthful complexion has given way to a highway of fine lines and dark circles. My hair is a wiry, tangle of white strands--the latent effects of stressful afternoons spent re-teaching long-division and Shurley-method grammar, reviewing math facts and reading books. Even though I love my kids and feel like I have spent hours of intentional instruction pouring into their character, I have just about ruined it all by the way I approach an afternoon of after-school busy work. I don't know who's more frustrated: me or them. A monster lives inside me, though, and he likes to rear his ugly head about 4:00 in the afternoon.
I hesitate to use the "When I was a kid..." argument, but truly when I was a kid, I had no homework until at least the fourth grade, and even then it was only to study for the weekly spelling test and prepare for the occasional book report. The Georgia Performance Standards are overwhelmingly confounding, and in an effort to squeeze in so much information through identification, analysis, and computation, tiny little hearts have been hardened to the world of possibility available only to the properly educated. My little second grader cries nearly every day when he gets off of the bus. And I don't blame him; I want to cry, too! He's been holding it all together since he got on the bus at 7:02 AM. Now it's 2:27, and instead of embracing him with the warmth of a happy hug and a plate of homemade cookies, I'm the drill sergeant who barks, "Find something to eat quick, and let's get started!"
A typical week's homework sheet looks something like this:
Reading:
Practice Workbook pages 57 and 60
Read at least 20 minutes each night
Be prepared to take two accelerated reading tests this week.
Grammar
Complete attached worksheet, front and back.
Math
Math Homework book pages 33 and 34
Complete the attached worksheet, front and back
Complete three optional activities from your choice-activity sheet
Practice math facts for 20 minutes daily.
Spelling
Correct dictation sentences from last week's spelling test.
Complete three optional activities from the Spelling choice-activity sheet
Be ready for Spelling Test on Friday
Other
Complete Creative Writing Project and turn it in on Thursday
His teacher is our school's Teacher of the Year. I know she's amazing. I don't want to "throw her under the bus" (Really, I don't!), but I am overwhelmed by all this work...In the background, the dog is barking because someone is at the door, I am responsible for keeping this young one focused, checking the work, preparing dinner, entertaining the pre-schooler, and helping my two other kids with their homework, one of whom is a pre-pubescent nightmare (God help me!).
Worst of all, these daily to-dos interfere with precious, quality family time. Both boys play football, and my daughter is a soccer player. Three days of weekly practice, twice-a-week tutoring, and music lessons mean that almost as soon as homework is complete we are wolfing down a quick dinner and headed out the door, so the kids can release some of that pent-up energy with other kids their age in the arena of organized sport.
Once upon a time, (for it surely seems like a fairy tale from long ago), we ate dinner together every night. Conversation was light and happy, as we talked of our day and enjoyed each other's company. Every Thursday was "Current Event" night. The kids would find a news article, summarize it for the rest of us, and we would ask questions about what they read. Sometimes we would talk through our weekly Parent Connect ideas from church on Sunday. Occasionally, we would tell jokes, do tricks, or laugh through "Would you rather....? questions. No matter what, we were never in a hurry, there was always time for seconds, and our family was together, managing the day's tension and demonstrating love and stability before bedtime.
Since I've already bitten off everyone's head, chewed them out over disorganization and lack of focus, and swallowed hard before gearing up for a fresh round of nagging, I'm rarely very hungry by dinner-time and it seems no one is ever very excited over what I have made anyway. Slowly, homework has devoured us, and I have nothing left to serve--certainly not the gentle and quiet spirit I was hoping to foster this week. No one here is winning "Mother of the Year." I am a miserable failure.
Homework is killing our family. It's a slow and painful death, shrouded in the guise of intellectual promise and future success. I wholeheartedly believe in reading everyday, even practicing those mundane math facts, but between a litany of pesky word problems and comprehensive reading exercises, I'm doing a horrible job of keeping up with the rest of the household responsibilities. We sometimes try to do the math facts thing during bath time, but isn't that supposed to be a time of refreshment and rejuvenation? True to their word, Johnson's Calming Baby Bath does not invigorate the brain. By the time those little ones are tucked in their beds, their heavy eyes struggling to comprehend the pages they are supposed to read before drifting peacefully to sleep, I am cursing public education and writing scathing blogs.
My real homework is suffering miserably. Toys are askew, the laundry needs folding, I'm behind on my filing, and what I really want to do is sit on the sofa with my husband and have a decent conversation; I don't even care if it's about home or work, but please God not HOMEWORK.
Anything but homework. I'm worn out and worn down. If you can underline the subject and two verbs in that sentence and compute the amount of time I spent writing this essay, and determine the main idea and write an alternate ending, you deserve an A+. As for me, after I get the lunches made, agendas signed, and pack some supplies for tomorrow's special science project), I'm going to bed. I have to do this all over again tomorrow.
Homework makes me ugly, inside AND out. In the last few years, my youthful complexion has given way to a highway of fine lines and dark circles. My hair is a wiry, tangle of white strands--the latent effects of stressful afternoons spent re-teaching long-division and Shurley-method grammar, reviewing math facts and reading books. Even though I love my kids and feel like I have spent hours of intentional instruction pouring into their character, I have just about ruined it all by the way I approach an afternoon of after-school busy work. I don't know who's more frustrated: me or them. A monster lives inside me, though, and he likes to rear his ugly head about 4:00 in the afternoon.
I hesitate to use the "When I was a kid..." argument, but truly when I was a kid, I had no homework until at least the fourth grade, and even then it was only to study for the weekly spelling test and prepare for the occasional book report. The Georgia Performance Standards are overwhelmingly confounding, and in an effort to squeeze in so much information through identification, analysis, and computation, tiny little hearts have been hardened to the world of possibility available only to the properly educated. My little second grader cries nearly every day when he gets off of the bus. And I don't blame him; I want to cry, too! He's been holding it all together since he got on the bus at 7:02 AM. Now it's 2:27, and instead of embracing him with the warmth of a happy hug and a plate of homemade cookies, I'm the drill sergeant who barks, "Find something to eat quick, and let's get started!"
A typical week's homework sheet looks something like this:
Reading:
Practice Workbook pages 57 and 60
Read at least 20 minutes each night
Be prepared to take two accelerated reading tests this week.
Grammar
Complete attached worksheet, front and back.
Math
Math Homework book pages 33 and 34
Complete the attached worksheet, front and back
Complete three optional activities from your choice-activity sheet
Practice math facts for 20 minutes daily.
Spelling
Correct dictation sentences from last week's spelling test.
Complete three optional activities from the Spelling choice-activity sheet
Be ready for Spelling Test on Friday
Other
Complete Creative Writing Project and turn it in on Thursday
His teacher is our school's Teacher of the Year. I know she's amazing. I don't want to "throw her under the bus" (Really, I don't!), but I am overwhelmed by all this work...In the background, the dog is barking because someone is at the door, I am responsible for keeping this young one focused, checking the work, preparing dinner, entertaining the pre-schooler, and helping my two other kids with their homework, one of whom is a pre-pubescent nightmare (God help me!).
Worst of all, these daily to-dos interfere with precious, quality family time. Both boys play football, and my daughter is a soccer player. Three days of weekly practice, twice-a-week tutoring, and music lessons mean that almost as soon as homework is complete we are wolfing down a quick dinner and headed out the door, so the kids can release some of that pent-up energy with other kids their age in the arena of organized sport.
Once upon a time, (for it surely seems like a fairy tale from long ago), we ate dinner together every night. Conversation was light and happy, as we talked of our day and enjoyed each other's company. Every Thursday was "Current Event" night. The kids would find a news article, summarize it for the rest of us, and we would ask questions about what they read. Sometimes we would talk through our weekly Parent Connect ideas from church on Sunday. Occasionally, we would tell jokes, do tricks, or laugh through "Would you rather....? questions. No matter what, we were never in a hurry, there was always time for seconds, and our family was together, managing the day's tension and demonstrating love and stability before bedtime.
Since I've already bitten off everyone's head, chewed them out over disorganization and lack of focus, and swallowed hard before gearing up for a fresh round of nagging, I'm rarely very hungry by dinner-time and it seems no one is ever very excited over what I have made anyway. Slowly, homework has devoured us, and I have nothing left to serve--certainly not the gentle and quiet spirit I was hoping to foster this week. No one here is winning "Mother of the Year." I am a miserable failure.
Homework is killing our family. It's a slow and painful death, shrouded in the guise of intellectual promise and future success. I wholeheartedly believe in reading everyday, even practicing those mundane math facts, but between a litany of pesky word problems and comprehensive reading exercises, I'm doing a horrible job of keeping up with the rest of the household responsibilities. We sometimes try to do the math facts thing during bath time, but isn't that supposed to be a time of refreshment and rejuvenation? True to their word, Johnson's Calming Baby Bath does not invigorate the brain. By the time those little ones are tucked in their beds, their heavy eyes struggling to comprehend the pages they are supposed to read before drifting peacefully to sleep, I am cursing public education and writing scathing blogs.
My real homework is suffering miserably. Toys are askew, the laundry needs folding, I'm behind on my filing, and what I really want to do is sit on the sofa with my husband and have a decent conversation; I don't even care if it's about home or work, but please God not HOMEWORK.
Anything but homework. I'm worn out and worn down. If you can underline the subject and two verbs in that sentence and compute the amount of time I spent writing this essay, and determine the main idea and write an alternate ending, you deserve an A+. As for me, after I get the lunches made, agendas signed, and pack some supplies for tomorrow's special science project), I'm going to bed. I have to do this all over again tomorrow.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Thorn in my Side
The Bible tells us that Paul battled a "thorn in his side." I don't mean to minimize or make light of it, but I have a thorn, too, and as ridiculous as it is, I am being completely honest with you when I tell you that it brings me great anguish. I've harbored this thorn since the day I was born, although it has taken various forms. As a tiny baby, I could have been called "Onion-head," for I was as bald as a bat. As a three year old, I wore a blanket on my head and even tied it in pig-tails in an effort to give myself the appearance of long hair. Then, as an elementary school student I envied the straight, long tresses of my friends. Mine wouldn't grow and what did was a wild tangle of frizzy locks. As a freshman in college, I yanked out my first gray hair, and my battle with the mop on top continued in a whole new way. I began a strict color regiment, and then just over a year ago began permanently straightening it. The color quickly fades, and the permanent straightening process is a joke. My stubborn coiffure maintains it's curly quirks, despite my best efforts to the contrary.
And so this is what our friend Paul says to the Corinthians, "To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me". (2 Corinthians 12:7-9, NIV)
I hesitate even to bring up this passage, because to compare myself to Paul is beyond ridiculous. You may be reading this blog post, and thinking, "Is she FOR REAL? This is what she has to deal with...curly hair? I would LOVE curly hair." And that's true. Many people would love to have curly hair. I assure, you, however, that you would not want mine. The time and effort required to give it any semblance of manageability, in addition to the sheer amount of product consumed to tame the mane is enough to fill a cesspool two acres wide. I don't even want to consider the amount of money I have spent on relaxers, conditioners, balms, sprays, oils, mousse, gel, and restructuring cremes. I tell you, my cabinet is a filament graveyard, filled with half-empty bottles of stranded promises. I'm no longer bald or gray, but my locks are a far cry from beautiful.
As I write this, I am contemplating additional treatments and a drastic haircut that I fear will make me look like the stereotype I've been fighting for the last twelve years: MOM. I love being a mom, so like my mini-van, perhaps my hair can serve as an additional badge of honor. Accept the burden and embrace the blessing. Right? My husband whispers this verse in my ear, and even though my vanity tries to drown it out, I know the words are true:
I Peter 3:3-5: Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. 4 Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight. (NIV)
I do so desire that gentle and quiet spirit. To be valued by God is so much more desirable than that of the world. The peer pressure (which, by the way, does not end when high school is over) is so overwhelming, though, that I am having a hard time keeping this verse at the forefront of my thoughts and prayers. Inner, unfading beauty...beauty that doesn't need special treatment and that instead rests in the quiet understanding of what God is doing in me is my hope.
I just hope I don't lose any hair over it.
And so this is what our friend Paul says to the Corinthians, "To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me". (2 Corinthians 12:7-9, NIV)
I hesitate even to bring up this passage, because to compare myself to Paul is beyond ridiculous. You may be reading this blog post, and thinking, "Is she FOR REAL? This is what she has to deal with...curly hair? I would LOVE curly hair." And that's true. Many people would love to have curly hair. I assure, you, however, that you would not want mine. The time and effort required to give it any semblance of manageability, in addition to the sheer amount of product consumed to tame the mane is enough to fill a cesspool two acres wide. I don't even want to consider the amount of money I have spent on relaxers, conditioners, balms, sprays, oils, mousse, gel, and restructuring cremes. I tell you, my cabinet is a filament graveyard, filled with half-empty bottles of stranded promises. I'm no longer bald or gray, but my locks are a far cry from beautiful.
As I write this, I am contemplating additional treatments and a drastic haircut that I fear will make me look like the stereotype I've been fighting for the last twelve years: MOM. I love being a mom, so like my mini-van, perhaps my hair can serve as an additional badge of honor. Accept the burden and embrace the blessing. Right? My husband whispers this verse in my ear, and even though my vanity tries to drown it out, I know the words are true:
I Peter 3:3-5: Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. 4 Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight. (NIV)
I do so desire that gentle and quiet spirit. To be valued by God is so much more desirable than that of the world. The peer pressure (which, by the way, does not end when high school is over) is so overwhelming, though, that I am having a hard time keeping this verse at the forefront of my thoughts and prayers. Inner, unfading beauty...beauty that doesn't need special treatment and that instead rests in the quiet understanding of what God is doing in me is my hope.
I just hope I don't lose any hair over it.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Lessons from the Football Field
There's almost nothing in the world I like less than football. I wish I liked it. I wish I loved it. I have two boys that play, and they eat, sleep, and live football everyday all the time all year long. I think I dislike it because I don't understand it. In high school, I learned what "first and ten" meant, and then after that I stopped paying attention. The announcers speak a foreign language and the players are like bees doing a secret dance. I just don't get it.
I love hearing of families getting together over the weekend to cheer their favorite team on TV and share a bowl of chili. My family never did that. My dad is a runner, which is a fairly solitary sport, and my mom is only a fan of the rivalry that occurs in the context of a daytime TV courtroom. Thus, I never sported a colored jersey or painted my face in an effort to spur the local team to victory. I longed to be a part of that sacred season because it always looked like everyone was having such a grand time, slapping each other on the back and high-fiving it all over the place. Whenever I did get invited to a game party, I sat on the couch stuffing my face full of all the yummy snacks just so I would have an excuse to get up and refill the other plates in the room. Something to do, you know.
I wonder sometimes if that's how people feel who don't go to church. Because they don't understand it, they stay away. There they are, sitting quietly in their seat in the audience, and they have no idea what's going on. On stage, a few musicians might be leading a song and in front of them some people are waving their hands in the air. Then they sit down, and a bucket is passed. The pastor prays for God to bless those that have decided in their heart to give, leaving those that haven't and don't understand the real reason for the bucket wondering, "Will God bless me, too"? After a message peppered with history and logic, they file out the door with the rest of the crowd, uncertain what to do with the information and vowing never to return.
The scenario I just described is not what happens at my church. Even though we sing, pass the bucket and listen to a message, I feel like we do a really good job explaining WHY we do them and giving people space to ask the questions that will help them figure out God and his role in their lives. We strive to be a church that un-churched people love to attend. Everything we do is filtered through the lens of the answer to this question: "Will ________ help lead people into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ?" I love being a part of a movement like that. Together, we are all trying to figure it out, and I am praying that even the ones that begrudgingly sit in the audience will come away with their very first piece of "first and ten" knowledge, knowledge that will tease them into coming back for more.
Apparently, I have a lot to learn about football, but if the world can get excited about a bunch of boys in matching uniforms scrambling over an oblong leather flotation device and ramming each other in the head with metal helmets, I'm pretty sure a Spirit filled church can inspire people to come back week after week to hear God speak on the rivalry brewing since the beginning of time and to witness miracles beyond what has ever been seen between the goal posts. This is no "holy huddle"; this is the brilliant story of humanity, of you and me, and God's plan to redeem the world unfolding as we each begin to understand our own personal playbook under the direction of the greatest owner, coach, and manager of all time.
In the bleachers at my sons' football games, I may not be able to follow the ball or understand calls like "holding" or "fumble". I go to the games because I love my boys and I see the joy in their eyes when they're playing their favorite sport. I want to share a little bit of that with them. With a few caring people alongside me explaining things as we go along, I am praying that I become a raving fan. Maybe one of these days, when they ask for volunteers to call the games over the loudspeaker, I can raise my hand and come forward.
And that's exactly what I'll do with the friends who visit my church. When they have questions, I will join the conversation. I don't ever want to hear someone say they hate church, especially when the reality is that they simply do not understand it. I want people to see the joy that overflows that room, touching the lives of those leaving and living, and thinking, "OK, I didn't totally understand everything. But that was fun, and I learned something new, and so I'm coming back next week."
See you there.
I love hearing of families getting together over the weekend to cheer their favorite team on TV and share a bowl of chili. My family never did that. My dad is a runner, which is a fairly solitary sport, and my mom is only a fan of the rivalry that occurs in the context of a daytime TV courtroom. Thus, I never sported a colored jersey or painted my face in an effort to spur the local team to victory. I longed to be a part of that sacred season because it always looked like everyone was having such a grand time, slapping each other on the back and high-fiving it all over the place. Whenever I did get invited to a game party, I sat on the couch stuffing my face full of all the yummy snacks just so I would have an excuse to get up and refill the other plates in the room. Something to do, you know.
I wonder sometimes if that's how people feel who don't go to church. Because they don't understand it, they stay away. There they are, sitting quietly in their seat in the audience, and they have no idea what's going on. On stage, a few musicians might be leading a song and in front of them some people are waving their hands in the air. Then they sit down, and a bucket is passed. The pastor prays for God to bless those that have decided in their heart to give, leaving those that haven't and don't understand the real reason for the bucket wondering, "Will God bless me, too"? After a message peppered with history and logic, they file out the door with the rest of the crowd, uncertain what to do with the information and vowing never to return.
The scenario I just described is not what happens at my church. Even though we sing, pass the bucket and listen to a message, I feel like we do a really good job explaining WHY we do them and giving people space to ask the questions that will help them figure out God and his role in their lives. We strive to be a church that un-churched people love to attend. Everything we do is filtered through the lens of the answer to this question: "Will ________ help lead people into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ?" I love being a part of a movement like that. Together, we are all trying to figure it out, and I am praying that even the ones that begrudgingly sit in the audience will come away with their very first piece of "first and ten" knowledge, knowledge that will tease them into coming back for more.
Apparently, I have a lot to learn about football, but if the world can get excited about a bunch of boys in matching uniforms scrambling over an oblong leather flotation device and ramming each other in the head with metal helmets, I'm pretty sure a Spirit filled church can inspire people to come back week after week to hear God speak on the rivalry brewing since the beginning of time and to witness miracles beyond what has ever been seen between the goal posts. This is no "holy huddle"; this is the brilliant story of humanity, of you and me, and God's plan to redeem the world unfolding as we each begin to understand our own personal playbook under the direction of the greatest owner, coach, and manager of all time.
In the bleachers at my sons' football games, I may not be able to follow the ball or understand calls like "holding" or "fumble". I go to the games because I love my boys and I see the joy in their eyes when they're playing their favorite sport. I want to share a little bit of that with them. With a few caring people alongside me explaining things as we go along, I am praying that I become a raving fan. Maybe one of these days, when they ask for volunteers to call the games over the loudspeaker, I can raise my hand and come forward.
And that's exactly what I'll do with the friends who visit my church. When they have questions, I will join the conversation. I don't ever want to hear someone say they hate church, especially when the reality is that they simply do not understand it. I want people to see the joy that overflows that room, touching the lives of those leaving and living, and thinking, "OK, I didn't totally understand everything. But that was fun, and I learned something new, and so I'm coming back next week."
See you there.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Leave Your Mark
Every morning, I take my dog Hammy for a walk. This morning, there were a few other dogs playing together at the end of the street. Hammy stopped, they all sniffed each other, and we continued on our way. On the way back down the street, thankfully we did not encounter the other dogs. There's actually quite a little canine hierarchy--Hammy barks at Wimberly, Georgia snaps at Hammy, Trestle chases Hammy, and Hammy abuses Hazelnut. To my great relief, they had all gone home for breakfast. Still, Hammy stopped where they had been, sniffed, then promptly peed on that tiny piece of earth. He just had to leave his mark.
It's the same way with our kids. As they grow older and work to distance themselves from us, what they're really doing is screaming, "I'm here!" They're territorial over the things that belong to them and work tirelessly to prove that they have their own style and sometimes even their own language. I don't mind it. I don't always understand it. But I don't mind it. I want them to spend the years they have with me figuring out who they are and their purpose in the world. Better to do that now when Gavin and I can help guide them than when they leave our home for good and find the world a cold and selfish place.
I guess all living creatures share a desire to "leave their mark." We all want to make a difference in the world. I think that's one of the reasons why it's so patronizing for a stay-at-home mother to hear the words, "You have the hardest job in the world. You are right where you need to be." Those words carry some truth, but in addition to leaving my legacy to my children, I also have a desire to do something great in the world.
To that point, I am in the midst of a fascinating book called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Lacks was a cancer patient at Johns Hopkins in the 1950s when her cells (named HeLa) were taken without her knowledge, then grown and sold and multiplied a million times over. Her family, living in poverty and without health insurance, found out about the cells more than twenty years later. In this book by Rebecca Skloot, they assert that what they now want most of all is for the world to know that Henrietta Lacks was a real person. Her cells made her famous, but to her children, the heart and soul of the woman they knew as "mom" matters most of all.
The Bible teaches us that God is enough, that we don't have to spend our days proving to ourselves or anyone else that we are capable of great things. Even though I know that's true, I've also always felt the faintest bit of discontent. It's one thing to know that God is all I need, but it's quite another to realize that he made me to do something and to be something. Just because the Holy Spirit lives in me doesn't give me permission to sit around on my rear all day and contemplate life. Quite the opposite. The Holy Spirit in me should literally be inspiring me to be everything God intended.
One day, my children will want to know who I was and what I did. What did I care about? Who did I love? What did I fight for? How did I live? I want them to know that God was and is enough for me and that all the things I ever did were not in an effort to please people but to experience for myself and share fully with others the blessings God gave to me.
Where will you leave your mark, and how will you make it count?
It's the same way with our kids. As they grow older and work to distance themselves from us, what they're really doing is screaming, "I'm here!" They're territorial over the things that belong to them and work tirelessly to prove that they have their own style and sometimes even their own language. I don't mind it. I don't always understand it. But I don't mind it. I want them to spend the years they have with me figuring out who they are and their purpose in the world. Better to do that now when Gavin and I can help guide them than when they leave our home for good and find the world a cold and selfish place.
I guess all living creatures share a desire to "leave their mark." We all want to make a difference in the world. I think that's one of the reasons why it's so patronizing for a stay-at-home mother to hear the words, "You have the hardest job in the world. You are right where you need to be." Those words carry some truth, but in addition to leaving my legacy to my children, I also have a desire to do something great in the world.
To that point, I am in the midst of a fascinating book called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Lacks was a cancer patient at Johns Hopkins in the 1950s when her cells (named HeLa) were taken without her knowledge, then grown and sold and multiplied a million times over. Her family, living in poverty and without health insurance, found out about the cells more than twenty years later. In this book by Rebecca Skloot, they assert that what they now want most of all is for the world to know that Henrietta Lacks was a real person. Her cells made her famous, but to her children, the heart and soul of the woman they knew as "mom" matters most of all.
The Bible teaches us that God is enough, that we don't have to spend our days proving to ourselves or anyone else that we are capable of great things. Even though I know that's true, I've also always felt the faintest bit of discontent. It's one thing to know that God is all I need, but it's quite another to realize that he made me to do something and to be something. Just because the Holy Spirit lives in me doesn't give me permission to sit around on my rear all day and contemplate life. Quite the opposite. The Holy Spirit in me should literally be inspiring me to be everything God intended.
One day, my children will want to know who I was and what I did. What did I care about? Who did I love? What did I fight for? How did I live? I want them to know that God was and is enough for me and that all the things I ever did were not in an effort to please people but to experience for myself and share fully with others the blessings God gave to me.
Where will you leave your mark, and how will you make it count?
Monday, August 29, 2011
What My Child Taught Me
Every night either Gavin or I give our youngest daughter a bath. Tonight, it's my turn, and I am watching her dance and twirl as the water runs. Happy and carefree though she is, I can hear the nightly news in the background. The talking head drones on, and I am vaguely aware of what he is saying. Hurricanes and tornadoes and terrorism and war, and I wonder at what point a child ceases to be such a free spirit and instead is taken hostage by all that is wrong with the world. I thought to myself, Right now, I am all that to her. Everything she knows about the world is what I have taught her, but most importantly what I have shown her. By my example, am I demonstrating love and compassion, hope and stability? Have I prepared her to navigate uncertainty, selfishness, jealousy, greed, and loss?
To twirl with such abandon, drunk on her own happiness, dizzy with creativity and brimming with sweetness is God's gift to children like her. And although many of the world's children live in poverty and abuse, and might only wish to dance and sing, little Cari Jill is not one of them. I have been given an amazing gift, and the gift brings with it an enormous amount of responsibility. As she grows, so will her circle of influence. It is my job to make sure that the center of that sphere is as strong as it can be. That way, when the yuck of the world surrounds her, what centers her will be the foundation of her years as part of our family. Sure, there will be disappointments. Even failures. But my most trusted source of comfort is that Gavin and I don't have to raise our children by ourselves. Our church partners with us to guide us every step of the way. This week, they taught her this:
"As for God, his way is perfect."--Psalm 18:30
Is there anything else she needs to remember?
To twirl with such abandon, drunk on her own happiness, dizzy with creativity and brimming with sweetness is God's gift to children like her. And although many of the world's children live in poverty and abuse, and might only wish to dance and sing, little Cari Jill is not one of them. I have been given an amazing gift, and the gift brings with it an enormous amount of responsibility. As she grows, so will her circle of influence. It is my job to make sure that the center of that sphere is as strong as it can be. That way, when the yuck of the world surrounds her, what centers her will be the foundation of her years as part of our family. Sure, there will be disappointments. Even failures. But my most trusted source of comfort is that Gavin and I don't have to raise our children by ourselves. Our church partners with us to guide us every step of the way. This week, they taught her this:
"As for God, his way is perfect."--Psalm 18:30
Is there anything else she needs to remember?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Experience Necessary
I attended a fundraising dinner last night for a local non-profit. It was a beautiful dinner and clearly a thoughtfully planned event. Yet, in the last fifteen years of which I have been a part of this organization, this dinner has been dreadfully predictable. I was sad to learn that the services they are able to provide have been cut and many families must be turned away due to a lack of funding. I was waiting for an engaging presentation by the executive director and a couple of live, personal stories from friends of the organization. These were not to be, and so I waited for the big draw, the one thing that really drives people to these events...not the food, not the silent auction, not the opportunity to write a check on their behalf, but the KEYNOTE SPEAKER!
This particular speaker spoke with the cadence and force of a former trial lawyer. I don't know anything about law, but perhaps in the context of a courtroom scenario it is beneficial to jump all over the place in the notes. Maybe the technique confuses the jury and so sways them toward a more favorable verdict. At any rate, this woman obviously lived a fascinating life and out of her mouth her heart spilled the stories of some of the amazing things she has seen and done. Captivating and entertaining were these stories, to say the least, but I really wanted her to share with me the answer to these two basic questions:
1. How have your life experiences affected your life both negatively and positively?
2. How have your responses to your life experiences shaped who you are today?
If she had answered those two questions, then I could have answered two for myself.
1. Based on what I heard today, what can I learn from you?
2. How will I behave differently?
In the end, I think her speech had something to do with setting goals and being a hero. Her impassioned words, however, meant nothing in light of these unanswered questions. Contemplating this tonight, I was thinking of my own life experiences. Based on a recent interview by our life insurance underwriter, both my husband and I lead pretty boring lives. Yet every singe time a choice is presented to me, every single person I meet and engage in conversation, every single book I read and reflect on its truths, every time I make a choice between two opportunities, I am shaping my unique future. If I view every single decision I make in light of the outcome of my choices, the potential for personal growth is unstoppable. It's time to be more intentional.
This particular speaker spoke with the cadence and force of a former trial lawyer. I don't know anything about law, but perhaps in the context of a courtroom scenario it is beneficial to jump all over the place in the notes. Maybe the technique confuses the jury and so sways them toward a more favorable verdict. At any rate, this woman obviously lived a fascinating life and out of her mouth her heart spilled the stories of some of the amazing things she has seen and done. Captivating and entertaining were these stories, to say the least, but I really wanted her to share with me the answer to these two basic questions:
1. How have your life experiences affected your life both negatively and positively?
2. How have your responses to your life experiences shaped who you are today?
If she had answered those two questions, then I could have answered two for myself.
1. Based on what I heard today, what can I learn from you?
2. How will I behave differently?
In the end, I think her speech had something to do with setting goals and being a hero. Her impassioned words, however, meant nothing in light of these unanswered questions. Contemplating this tonight, I was thinking of my own life experiences. Based on a recent interview by our life insurance underwriter, both my husband and I lead pretty boring lives. Yet every singe time a choice is presented to me, every single person I meet and engage in conversation, every single book I read and reflect on its truths, every time I make a choice between two opportunities, I am shaping my unique future. If I view every single decision I make in light of the outcome of my choices, the potential for personal growth is unstoppable. It's time to be more intentional.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Of Pride and Pain
My older daughter had braces put on her teeth today. I thought we were headed to the orthodontist for a quick consultation, but to my surprise, a rare open schedule on this particular day brought with it an opportunity to fill her mouth full of metal and wires. The staff presented us with a choice: do it now or re-schedule later. Either way, we were doing this thing. Because I had no plans, and my daughter thought it fortuitous that she would miss P.E., we decided to go for it!
Actually, I am very proud of Christiana for choosing to begin the grueling eighteen month long process of tug-of-war on her teeth. Truly, the decision took a fair amount of fortitude on her part. She often procrastinates and has zero tolerance for pain. Since the day she was born, she has cried every day of her life. I fill my prayer time by begging God to give me the patience to endure it and to work with her to build both the relationship I have with her, as well as the one she has with her heavenly Father. She is tender-hearted and sensitive but also full of angst and sadness. And because she is in Middle School, her perspective on life in general is a little skewed, to say the least. I love her madly, and I see glimpses occasionally of the woman she will one day become. Today's bravery ranks as one of those, and I made sure to congratulate her on such a grown-up decision.
Of course, tonight her eyes brim with tears, and through the mumbling of clenched jaws, I cannot understand a word she says. I gather, however, that she is starving and can neither do her homework nor go to sleep. Two steps forward. One step back.
Romans 5:3-4: "...but we also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character, and character, hope." Suffering, at its best, is uncomfortable and at its very worst, unbearable. Regardless of our temporary perspective, however, this unpleasant sensation in us yields abundant fruit.
The first time I felt true suffering was during the labor of my first child, the very one of whom I am writing now. Breathing through the contractions, I noticed a cartoon on the wall. "
Honey", I said, "read me that cartoon. It looks funny." Anything to take my mind off the contractions.
Gavin squinted at the wall, and said, "I don't think you want me to read that cartoon."
But I persisted. "Yes, I do. Read the cartoon. NOW!"
The cartoon in question was actually a copy of the hospital's face pain chart, a handy little reference of facial expressions rated on a scale of 1-10 and designed to represent a person's felt pain. The first one depicted a perfect little happy face and the last a distorted monster of one. Not funny.
I persevered through the pain, and when my tiny baby girl was delivered into my arms, I felt an enormous surge of power. The next three times I endured labor I was able to withstand it and each time I think my character developed a little more fully because I had the hope that once again a precious little child would soon join our family.
Braces are a minor thing. She is not dying. She is not paralyzed (although she may think she is). She is not confined to a wheelchair for life. We are simply putting a little bit of pressure on her teeth in an effort to straighten things out a bit. Outwardly, her appearance will change. Inwardly, I want her to character to evolve. She is not suffering, any more than I was as I was breathing through those contractions all those years ago. But I want her to understand that this first baby step in a direction that seems uncomfortable brings with it great rewards down the line.
Actually, I am very proud of Christiana for choosing to begin the grueling eighteen month long process of tug-of-war on her teeth. Truly, the decision took a fair amount of fortitude on her part. She often procrastinates and has zero tolerance for pain. Since the day she was born, she has cried every day of her life. I fill my prayer time by begging God to give me the patience to endure it and to work with her to build both the relationship I have with her, as well as the one she has with her heavenly Father. She is tender-hearted and sensitive but also full of angst and sadness. And because she is in Middle School, her perspective on life in general is a little skewed, to say the least. I love her madly, and I see glimpses occasionally of the woman she will one day become. Today's bravery ranks as one of those, and I made sure to congratulate her on such a grown-up decision.
Of course, tonight her eyes brim with tears, and through the mumbling of clenched jaws, I cannot understand a word she says. I gather, however, that she is starving and can neither do her homework nor go to sleep. Two steps forward. One step back.
Romans 5:3-4: "...but we also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character, and character, hope." Suffering, at its best, is uncomfortable and at its very worst, unbearable. Regardless of our temporary perspective, however, this unpleasant sensation in us yields abundant fruit.
The first time I felt true suffering was during the labor of my first child, the very one of whom I am writing now. Breathing through the contractions, I noticed a cartoon on the wall. "
Honey", I said, "read me that cartoon. It looks funny." Anything to take my mind off the contractions.
Gavin squinted at the wall, and said, "I don't think you want me to read that cartoon."
But I persisted. "Yes, I do. Read the cartoon. NOW!"
The cartoon in question was actually a copy of the hospital's face pain chart, a handy little reference of facial expressions rated on a scale of 1-10 and designed to represent a person's felt pain. The first one depicted a perfect little happy face and the last a distorted monster of one. Not funny.
I persevered through the pain, and when my tiny baby girl was delivered into my arms, I felt an enormous surge of power. The next three times I endured labor I was able to withstand it and each time I think my character developed a little more fully because I had the hope that once again a precious little child would soon join our family.
Braces are a minor thing. She is not dying. She is not paralyzed (although she may think she is). She is not confined to a wheelchair for life. We are simply putting a little bit of pressure on her teeth in an effort to straighten things out a bit. Outwardly, her appearance will change. Inwardly, I want her to character to evolve. She is not suffering, any more than I was as I was breathing through those contractions all those years ago. But I want her to understand that this first baby step in a direction that seems uncomfortable brings with it great rewards down the line.
Season of Contentment
God is the creator of the universe, the ultimate wellspring of creativity, and I believe he bestows on people all the ideas for beauty and change in the world. He plants these little seeds in the minds of many people, knowing that someone somewhere will choose to act upon that little nudge that really is God's voice inside his head . Although this blog is a tiny thing I write primarily for my own benefit, for me, it is a response to that little nudge. Somewhere, a long time ago, I loved to write—stories, poems, short plays---and read, too, anything I could get my hands on. I devoted whole days to writing and reading, and I never wanted to stop. But somewhere along the way, LIFE got in the way, and the excruciating minutia of everyday living sucked the life right out of me. I got married, got a job, got pregnant, and got pregnant, and got pregnant, and got pregnant. Now, fifteen years and four kids later, there is time for little else but cooking, cleaning, washing, and serving. The ME person has begun to wither, as the little mini-MEs have begun to thrive. It is a beautiful time and a dark time. I think sometimes about that person that once was me and wonder where she went. Although it may be true that “Practice makes perfect,” sometimes I feel that I am JUST TRYING TO KEEP UP. There’s no time for practicing. This idea of practicing to make perfect has begun to haunt me. If I COULD practice, what would it be that I would be working on? What could be my thing? And wasn’t a little bit of practice better than no practice at all? And so here I am. Writing a blog to myself.
We live in a very large neighborhood, and so to get from place to place I often drive our three-seater golf cart, (known affectionately by our friends as a "people transporter"). Today, as I was shuttling kids around the neighborhood during an afternoon ride, I ran into a new friend. She is starting her own business, partnering with two local businesses to do what she loves and what is clearly her gift during this season of economic instability. I felt energized after our conversation. Here lives a very talented and gifted person, with a husband and three kids, affluent, and who clearly doesn’t HAVE to go back to work. For her, this new opportunity is not work. Instead, it is an outlet for her God-given creative genius. She can’t NOT do this. The creativity is bubbling over. It’s eeking out of her pores. Her season is sprouting, and in the process those dormant buds that had been there all along are finally being tended and watered. Guess what? She’s blooming. Yes, she’s blooming where she’s planted!
Another friend in another town, equally as talented, equally as gifted, also has three kids. She’s frustrated by the incompleteness of her children’s public school education. She’s one of the most innovative and creative people that I know. She’s the kind of person who throws theme birthday parties that are beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. She dreams of bringing people together—through book clubs, wine tastings, vacations, etc. She sees the potential in people and capitalizes on their strengths, encourages them in their weaknesses, and in the process emerges herself as an inspirational leader of a rag tag group of women. Her frustration with the public education system has caused her to design a new, more innovative system that partners with parents in ways most people never even thought possible.
I have another dear friend who would love to have four kids, but instead, after a very difficult and dark season of infertility, embraces only one natural born child. Longing for what could be, she has not allowed herself to wallow in what may never be. Instead, she immersed herself in this season doing what she loves most—tirelessly working to bring God's love and provision to a remote village in Uganda, Africa. Here she is in an uncomfortable season, but with the resources and time to do the very thing that makes her feel most alive, she multiplies the investment of God's creativity in her. Meanwhile, she has been working to bring an adopted daughter home from Ethiopia. Trials and setbacks only made her praise God more fervently, allowed him to work in her more completely, and just yesterday she claimed her little girl as her own.
These are the people that inspire me. For now, though I write of a “season of contentment”, content is not something I feel every day. In fact, in the midst of the chaotic rough and tumble household that I call “home”, I sometimes feel the very OPPOSITE of content. Contentment is something I have to CHOOSE. It is a conscientious choice that I make every single morning. Rising before the sun rises, never stopping until the last child is tucked safely in her bed and the dishes are washed, the clothes are folded, the family room is straightened, and the next day’s lunches are packed, I have to choose to be OK with life’s messiness. I know that one day I will miss the dusty footprints and greasy fingerprints. I pray the imprint they leave on my soul, though, will last a lifetime. If a little bit of me must die so that each of them can thrive, I will do it. I CHOOSE contentment. The reward is eternal.
We live in a very large neighborhood, and so to get from place to place I often drive our three-seater golf cart, (known affectionately by our friends as a "people transporter"). Today, as I was shuttling kids around the neighborhood during an afternoon ride, I ran into a new friend. She is starting her own business, partnering with two local businesses to do what she loves and what is clearly her gift during this season of economic instability. I felt energized after our conversation. Here lives a very talented and gifted person, with a husband and three kids, affluent, and who clearly doesn’t HAVE to go back to work. For her, this new opportunity is not work. Instead, it is an outlet for her God-given creative genius. She can’t NOT do this. The creativity is bubbling over. It’s eeking out of her pores. Her season is sprouting, and in the process those dormant buds that had been there all along are finally being tended and watered. Guess what? She’s blooming. Yes, she’s blooming where she’s planted!
Another friend in another town, equally as talented, equally as gifted, also has three kids. She’s frustrated by the incompleteness of her children’s public school education. She’s one of the most innovative and creative people that I know. She’s the kind of person who throws theme birthday parties that are beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. She dreams of bringing people together—through book clubs, wine tastings, vacations, etc. She sees the potential in people and capitalizes on their strengths, encourages them in their weaknesses, and in the process emerges herself as an inspirational leader of a rag tag group of women. Her frustration with the public education system has caused her to design a new, more innovative system that partners with parents in ways most people never even thought possible.
I have another dear friend who would love to have four kids, but instead, after a very difficult and dark season of infertility, embraces only one natural born child. Longing for what could be, she has not allowed herself to wallow in what may never be. Instead, she immersed herself in this season doing what she loves most—tirelessly working to bring God's love and provision to a remote village in Uganda, Africa. Here she is in an uncomfortable season, but with the resources and time to do the very thing that makes her feel most alive, she multiplies the investment of God's creativity in her. Meanwhile, she has been working to bring an adopted daughter home from Ethiopia. Trials and setbacks only made her praise God more fervently, allowed him to work in her more completely, and just yesterday she claimed her little girl as her own.
These are the people that inspire me. For now, though I write of a “season of contentment”, content is not something I feel every day. In fact, in the midst of the chaotic rough and tumble household that I call “home”, I sometimes feel the very OPPOSITE of content. Contentment is something I have to CHOOSE. It is a conscientious choice that I make every single morning. Rising before the sun rises, never stopping until the last child is tucked safely in her bed and the dishes are washed, the clothes are folded, the family room is straightened, and the next day’s lunches are packed, I have to choose to be OK with life’s messiness. I know that one day I will miss the dusty footprints and greasy fingerprints. I pray the imprint they leave on my soul, though, will last a lifetime. If a little bit of me must die so that each of them can thrive, I will do it. I CHOOSE contentment. The reward is eternal.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
My Recurring Dream
My bed is my refuge. I love crawling between the cool sheets in the darkness of night, laying my head on my favorite pillow and drifting silently into dreamland. But my nightly dreams aren't always of the sweet variety.
I have a recurring dream. It's unlike other dreams of which I am familiar. I don't dream about public speaking in my underwear or missing important tests. Rarely, do I dream of being chased, falling, or losing my teeth. Maybe my dream isn't all that unique, but I have it so regularly now that I do feel lit belongs to me particularly. It's a vision that has evolved as the years have passed, and I am desperately trying to figure out what it means.
In the dream, an animal approaches me and puts his teeth on my hand. He doesn't clamp down, but just barely touches his teeth to the skin of my hand. I am paralyzed with fear. I'm afraid to jerk away because the animal might clamp down even harder. I remain rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to scream. The animal varies, but this scene is the same. At first, my animal tormentor was a bear, then a hyena, a wolf, and, because the animal's size has been trending downward, eventually a dog. I have been having this dream for years, and most recently, the animal was only a tiny chipmunk. In spite of my sub-conscious recognizing the situation, my instincts prevailed, and I flung the animal across the room. Only this time, he attacked me more ferociously, more tenaciously. Try as I might, I could not shake him away the second time.
Whatever it is that has its hold on me is getting smaller, yet, the grasp remains firm. I wonder if it's a fear I need to overcome? Maybe it's a sin of which I need to repent. I don't know. The funny thing is that if I do determine what it is that has me in his jaws, I almost fear the dream will go away. Ironic. Truly, it is a nightmare, and yet it is so familiar to me that if I never have the dream again, I think I might miss it.
I John 4:18-19--"There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because he first loved us."
When I read this verse, I felt a little disturbed. Fear and love. I never put the two together before now. Maybe it's not something I fear that is causing the dream. Maybe instead it's something I don't love. Don't love? I am a Christian. I am supposed to love everyone and everything. And yet I fear that perhaps there is something or someone I don't. Today, I pray that God will reveal his truth to me in the light so that what haunts me in the night will no longer have power over me.
Thinking about this now, I realize that that's the way it is with sin, too. I've met so many people who are afraid to come to Christ, because for them it means giving up something that is familiar to them--maybe something big like excessive drinking or gambling. But sometimes, giving up something small like a TV show that isn't helpful can be just as difficult. We fear the sacrifice because we think we're being punished, even though the reward is amazing. I love that this verse in I John holds a promise--"Perfect love drives out fear". Jesus Christ is perfect love, and because he fills us, there is no room for fear. Fear and love. Opposites. Antagonists. Us against God. He loved me first. I can give in, give up, or give it my all. If this evening I experience another episode of Night of the Killer Chipmunks, at least I have some scriptural ammunition to use in my counter-attack.
I have a recurring dream. It's unlike other dreams of which I am familiar. I don't dream about public speaking in my underwear or missing important tests. Rarely, do I dream of being chased, falling, or losing my teeth. Maybe my dream isn't all that unique, but I have it so regularly now that I do feel lit belongs to me particularly. It's a vision that has evolved as the years have passed, and I am desperately trying to figure out what it means.
In the dream, an animal approaches me and puts his teeth on my hand. He doesn't clamp down, but just barely touches his teeth to the skin of my hand. I am paralyzed with fear. I'm afraid to jerk away because the animal might clamp down even harder. I remain rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to scream. The animal varies, but this scene is the same. At first, my animal tormentor was a bear, then a hyena, a wolf, and, because the animal's size has been trending downward, eventually a dog. I have been having this dream for years, and most recently, the animal was only a tiny chipmunk. In spite of my sub-conscious recognizing the situation, my instincts prevailed, and I flung the animal across the room. Only this time, he attacked me more ferociously, more tenaciously. Try as I might, I could not shake him away the second time.
Whatever it is that has its hold on me is getting smaller, yet, the grasp remains firm. I wonder if it's a fear I need to overcome? Maybe it's a sin of which I need to repent. I don't know. The funny thing is that if I do determine what it is that has me in his jaws, I almost fear the dream will go away. Ironic. Truly, it is a nightmare, and yet it is so familiar to me that if I never have the dream again, I think I might miss it.
I John 4:18-19--"There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because he first loved us."
When I read this verse, I felt a little disturbed. Fear and love. I never put the two together before now. Maybe it's not something I fear that is causing the dream. Maybe instead it's something I don't love. Don't love? I am a Christian. I am supposed to love everyone and everything. And yet I fear that perhaps there is something or someone I don't. Today, I pray that God will reveal his truth to me in the light so that what haunts me in the night will no longer have power over me.
Thinking about this now, I realize that that's the way it is with sin, too. I've met so many people who are afraid to come to Christ, because for them it means giving up something that is familiar to them--maybe something big like excessive drinking or gambling. But sometimes, giving up something small like a TV show that isn't helpful can be just as difficult. We fear the sacrifice because we think we're being punished, even though the reward is amazing. I love that this verse in I John holds a promise--"Perfect love drives out fear". Jesus Christ is perfect love, and because he fills us, there is no room for fear. Fear and love. Opposites. Antagonists. Us against God. He loved me first. I can give in, give up, or give it my all. If this evening I experience another episode of Night of the Killer Chipmunks, at least I have some scriptural ammunition to use in my counter-attack.
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