"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.
Friday, September 16, 2011
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?
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