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!
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
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?
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