Friday, April 4, 2014
This one ends with a twist...
Much to my parent's dismay growing up, and now much to Eric's dismay as my permanent roommate, I am an excellent procrastinator. I am motivated by last-minute deadlines, have NEVER done something well in advance, and am typically running just a little late at all times. Growing up, my older sister would come home from school, promptly head up to her room, sit at her desk, do her homework to completion, and then spend the rest of the evening doing whatever she wanted. I would walk by her room, trying to distract her from her studious ways while NOT doing my homework. I'd have an extra snack, watch just one more show, and then around 9:30pm I'd begrudgingly get started on whatever assignements I had. It was not uncommon for me to set my alarm for 5:45am so I could get up and study for the test I'd not studied for the night before because I was "too busy" doing absolutely nothing. Unfortunately I never had enough incentive to change this particular behavior because I never really suffered the consequences of it. I made great grades, participated in sports and clubs, and graduated near the top of my class. I got into every school I applied to and even received a couple different scholarships.
The same was true in graduate school. I'd receive my box of materials for an online course I was taking, which I had 6 months to complete. The box would sit unopened in our room for 5.5 months and then I'd work myself to the bone for the last two weeks as I finally saw the deadline approaching. It drove Eric totally berserk. I, of course, would get totally defensive when he'd call me on it with the same old "Get off my back, I'm getting it done eventually and I get an A every time so back off, chump," response. Procrastination and Defensiveness are two of my favorite bad habits in case you were curious. It honestly never occured to me that my proscrination might negatively impact the people around me. I just didn't quite realize that leaving things to the last minute might make for sleepless nights and frantic behavior and cause Grouchy McGroucherson to take over my body as I raced to the post office trying to get my term paper postmarked by the 5pm deadline, "verbally encouraging" old women and children to get the heck out of my way because didn't they know I had to get this paper turned in?!? Oh man. Clueless. I was clueless. Still am, in so many ways, to how my insistence on doing things my way might affect the people I so dearly love.
I am marginally better when it comes to making sure Harper is prepared for her school day, but not much. I was emptying out her preschool folder the other day, trying to decide whether the picture of the horse and buggy she scribbled on with only brown crayon was, in fact, a priceless piece of art from my daughter's first year of preschool that I should store in some magical wooden box of nostalgia, or if I should just pitch it because it's a worksheet she clearly didn't want to do in the first place. I noticed that all of her pictures were scribbled on with what seemed like very little effort. Now I know that all kids develop differently and she's only four and let kids be kids. Trust me when I say I am not one to "push" my kids too hard. Eric taught both of our children how to walk while I would have just let them crawl until they were 17 because I didn't want to make them feel bad if they couldn't do it right away. Not really, but really.
Regardless, I said to my thumb-sucking little sweetie, "Harper, I think you may need to work a little harder at staying in the lines when you color." She put her hands on her hips, marched over to the craft cabinet, got out paper and crayons and proceeded to draw a giraffe, a monkey, and a picture of a hippo using the potty. Seriously, I pointed to one part of the drawing and asked her what it was, only to learn that it was the hippo's panties down around her ankles. Duh. She continued to get defensive (NO IDEA where she gets that from) and tell me that her teachers don't mind if she goes out of the lines sometimes. I challenged her a little more and told her she needed to be okay with the fact that we all need to work on things to get better at them. Round and round we went, she sulking, me trying to say hard things without her realizing I was saying hard things.
A few minutes later she went and hid in the fort of cushions her daddy had made her in the family room. I pulled her out by her skinny little ankles and made her look me in my eyes and tell me what was bothering her. She finally found the clarity she and I were both after and told me she didn't like that I'd said she was a bad colorer. The lightbulb went off and my heart broke all in that one moment. I had said one thing and she heard something else entirely. This is like Counseling 101, people. We filter what other people say to us through our insecurities and end up hearing something false. I told her to work on coloring in the lines. She heard she was a bad colorer. I said something about a behavior SHE DOES and she heard me say something about WHO SHE IS. I did my best to restore order to her little world, hung the picture of "hippo with her panties down" on the fridge, and we went on about our day.
Casting shadows. Someone told me recently that that's what happens when we insist on our own way of living, or when we turn into our ourselves to figure out who we are and whether we measure up. We cast shadows. When I procrastinate myself into a tizzy and don't take into account the people around me, I cast a shadow. When I, or my daughter for that matter, turn inward to try and figure out if I am worthy enough or smart enough or a good enough "colorer" I cast a shadow. Let me explain. Have you ever tried to read outside with your back to the sun? Your positioning causes you to cast your own shadow out in front of you, darkening the words you are trying to read. Turned away from the light you cannot very well see what's in front of you. Or at least you cannot see it clearly. And so it is when we turn away from the LIGHT that is Jesus and try to do life our way.
In Ephesians 5:8 it says "[That] you were once darkness, but now you are light to The Lord. Live as children of the light." As a believer I have been moved, via the mercy of God, from darkness into light. And in the light, in the presence of Jesus, I can rightly see myself and those around me. I squint at times, my eyes adjusting to the radical truth that comes with the light. And other times I forget. Other times, and most often unknowingly, I turn my back to the light and measure myself against the standards of a world that is very, very dark. I turn my back on the Light that calls me to deny myself and to consider the needs of others, and I serve myself as master. And when I do this I cast a shadow. In the shadow I become overly sensitive or overy critical or overly anxious, tripping and fumbling over my circumstances and relationships. In the shadow I see only what is right in front of me - my needs, my wants, my ways. In the shadow I hear voices that are not from God - voices that tell me that I am not enough, and that what I bring to the world is insufficient. But in the Light, in that warm, wonderful, pervasive light, I can see Him as He is, and thereby see myself as I am - fully known and fully loved.
When I was a child I would often wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. I'd look around my room and stuggle to make sense of the looming objects around me. I knew better than to believe there was a monster crouched by my door so I'd stare down the dark figure until my eyes adjusted. I was furious that this blurry distortion was causing me fear because I knew better. I knew it wasn't real. The me that was familiar with my room in the light of day knew that it held only dressers and dolls. So I'd hold my ground, heart pounding and teeth clenched, until the monster would reveal its true identity as my oversize winter coat hanging on the doorknob. What I knew in the light overpowered what I feared in the darkness.
I recently stumbled across a Mumford & Sons song that I somehow missed an album or two ago. I've played it on a loop for days now. When the chorus comes I clench my fists like that little girl in her room at night, hell-bent on seeing in darkness what I know to be true in the Light....."Hold onto what you belive IN THE LIGHT, when darkness has robbed you of all your sight....." I added the link below :)
Take a listen if you have a minute (which we all do by the way). And as you do you can also have a good laugh at my expense. You see after my daughter spent a good 20 minutes convincing me I'd broken her precious little heart into pieces with my "color in the lines" comment, she dropped this bomb on me. "Um, mom, you know all that stuff I said early when you told me to work on my coloring?" Yes, dear, of course I do. "Well, um, I was faking all that." I tried to not overreact as I wondered how it was possible for this little slip of a 4-year old to be so manipulative. I quickly asked her why in the WORLD she would do that. Clearly aware that I was not thrilled with her little confession she quickly offered this explanation, "Mom, it's okay, my teachers told me today that on the first day of April it's funny to play jokes on people. It's called April Fools. Funny, right?" Oh. My. Word. A pint-sized con artist is what she is. We laughed hard for a minute or two and I then explained that April Fools jokes probably shouldn't involve feelings or pretending to be hurt. Ever. She agreed. Then she told me I had a bug on my toe. "April Fools, Mommy!" Yes, dear, that's more like it.
Jesus you are the LIGHT by which we make sense of all things. Help us to hold onto what we believe in the Light of Your presencece when we stumble into the shadows that we cast ourselves. And then, Lord, call us out of the shadows. In your mercy, call us out of the shadows. Amen.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
My couch is better than your couch. I'm sorry, but it's true. We are the owners of the best. couch. ever. When we were first married we had no clue what we were doing in regards to much of anything. We thought it was normal for newlyweds to go out and buy a new couch, so that's exactly what we did. We drove ourselves down to a major furniture retailer, picked out this mammoth couch, chose the fabric, and 36 monthly payments later, she was ours. Yes, that's correct. We paid our couch off. Over three years. I told you we had no clue what we were doing. But as foolish as that was, there's no buyer's remorse here I can assure you. We had enough sense to buy something fairly simple, with clean lines and neutral fabric so it's not gone out of style or anything. But what makes this couch partiuclarly remarkable is its size. I am nearly 6 feet tall and if I sit myself all the way up against the back cushions my feet do not touch the floor. You can put a set of twin size sheets on it and it will rival any bed in our house. We have another couch, also ginormous but not quite as spectacular, that sits adjacent to the good couch. In the Winter my husband and I pile up some pillows and blankets on said couches, put on the fire, and start up Netflix with no real intention of finding our way to our actual bed that night. It is that good. When high school girls come over for bible study a couch meant for maybe four people suddenly seats eight quite comfortably, but I suppose that two freshmen girl booties might add up to one average adult booty. When I have had a particularly long day I really just want two things : an unbearably hot shower and to be swallowed up in my couch. When the kids won't eat what I fixed them, the plumbing backs up again (seriously, this has happened two months in a row and I'm pretty sure my plumber scolded me the last time he came as if I was deliberately putting mounds of hair and red thread into my pipes), the natural lighting in my car reveals a rogue facial hair, the grocery bill sky rockets because God forbid I needed to buy toiletries, or I find really old cheese stuck inside a toy train, I run, and I mean RUN, for that couch.
Have you ever heard the word couch used as a verb? So let's say a guy asks a girl out on a date. She is not at all interested but doesn't want to crush the poor guy, so rather than saying, "I would rather coupon for 30 hours a week than go out with you," she COUCHES her response a bit more delicately and simply says, "You know, I just don't think that's going to work out." By the way, am I the only one who is completely unnerved by the whole couponing labyrinth? I mean seriously, as soon as someone starts telling me about notebooks and triple coupons and manufacturer sales and rebates I become completely stupid. It's just too much. Where were we? Oh right, the couch. To couch. It means to sort of "pad" your words in a way, so that your listener hears what you want them to hear. It sounds deceptive but I don't think it was originally meant to be so. Even still, everytime I hear that phrase I just picture whatever is being described suddenly taking place on my big couch. Literal Louise over here. So yes, in the example above, I imagined the poor guy and the disinterested girl having that lovely interchange whilst sitting on my couch. Insert husband's token response, "Krisitn, you are so ridiculous." Yes, dear, and you love me for it!
I do have this little idea, though, of doing a year-long project with my kids sometime in the future called OPERATION LOVE COUCH. Allow me to explain. As we read through the Bible and try and teach our kids about Jesus there are stories that feel, well, kid-friendly, if you will. Noah and the flood. Abraham and Sarah. Jesus calms the storm. Jesus feeds five thousand. Even the cross. The kids are easily engaged and God clearly emerges as the hero. It's awesome. And then there are other stories that we read and halfway into it I hear the words coming out of my mouth and start muttering to myself, "now what, now what, now what?" For example, we are trucking along in the story of Moses and Pharoah and sure, it starts getting a little intense. Locusts. Hail. Boils for Pete's sake. And still, we are hanging in there, you know, trying to let God's Word just do its thing. And then, before I realize what's happening, I'm telling my wide-eyed four-year old that God ordered the firstborn son of every family in Egypt be killed. I read it with a light, melodic tone hoping she might not notice that what just happened. Don't misunderstand me. I knew it was coming. I know it's true. I'm not resisting that, nor am I trying to water it down. This final plague opens the door for the Passover as Jesus, the perfect sacrifice, is foreshadowed so incredibly. I get it. And still, there are parts throughout Scripture where God does things that don't appear, on a surface level, to be the sort of thing that a loving God would do. The reality is that the God of the Old Testament, the one who flooded the earth and all the was in it, the one who allowed Job to be robbed of EVERYTHING he held dear, is the SAME as the God of the New Testament, the incarnate God who walked the earth and did things that were unspeakably loving. I don't have to work hard to see God as love when He rescues the woman caught in adultery and restores her dignity. I don't have to strain to see God as loving when He brings Peter back into the fold after he denied him. But there are other parts of Scripture where it is not so easy. And yet the reality is, it is ALL COUCHED IN LOVE. Every move the Creator makes is motivated by, propelled by, and completed by Love. So that would be the goal of OPERATION LOVE COUCH. We would read through the Bible, the boring and the breathtaking parts, and we would look for how God is love in all of it. Could be great. Could be awful. I'll keep you posted.
That would be a real game-changer, though, wouldn't it? To live with quiet confidence that everything God does is couched in love. When He walks beside me, it's because He loves me. When He seems far, it's because He loves me. When he says yes to me, it's because He loves me. And when He says no, when He withholds a seemingly good things, it is because He loves. He loves me when he gives and when he takes away. When my children are wildly delightful and when they are willfully disobedient, He loves me. When there is joy overflowing, it is because he loves me, and when the grief is too acute to bear, yes, yes it is because He loves me. Going to bed tonight with that hope in mind. With the hope that God would give me eyes to see life this way. To see ALL that He does and ALL that He is as love.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
We are water people. Ocean, lakes, rivers, pools, you name it, we're in. My husband did not begin our marriage as a "beach person." He does not love extreme heat, sand in his crevices, or sharks. Go figure. But twelves years in, and a couple dozen beach trips later he's assimilated quite nicely into my beach-loving family. But if it were up to him, he'd choose river over ocean any day. Our kids are total water babies. It' s kind of like the great equalizer when it comes to athletic ability. The verdict is out as to whether Harper will be an athlete or not, as she currently acts a bit like Bambi on ice, wobbly and uncoordinated. Except she's not on ice. She's on carpet. Flat carpet. But in the water it doesn't matter that she's not grown into her long, lanky legs. She can can just swim and swim freely. The point being that water tends to be a WIN for our family any way you look at it.
Eric and I took an anniversary trip this past Summer. We had not taken a big trip, just the two of us, since our honeymoon, and had promised that we'd take one on our 10-year anniversary. Well, ten years rolled around, Baker was an infant, money was tight, and when I casually brought up the idea of this promised 10-year anniverasry trip Eric genuinely looked like he might cry. We barely had the energy to chew food with our mouths closed, much less to pull together a Caribbean getaway. So we broke the mold and went big on our 11-year anniversary. And it was awesome. We went all-inclusive at this incredible resort in Mexico. We wanted ammenities so nice that you would feel no need to leave the resort if you didn't want to. Hiking, water sports, and wild excursions were nowhere to be found on our agenda. Basically we wanted to remain sedentary and uncomfortably full with shellfish for seven whole days. We succeeded. And I bet we spent 95% of our time there next to water. All of the other guests would head in around 5:30 or 6 to shower for dinner and Eric and I would stay by the water. The sun would set and we'd be floating in an infinity pool all by ourselves. We'd peak over the edge of whatever book we were reading to share some unhurried conversation, and then just continue to float. We had nowhere else to be and no one else to be with. It was incredibly sweet. Something about the water though. In the water we forgot ourselves. In the water we stopped striving. Stopped working. Time passed in spite of us as we let the water move us from one place to the next.
I caught myself developing a not so great prayer habit in the past year or so. I've been taught since I was a young believer that God wants us to be honest with Him, to share our desires with Him, to wrestle with Him, even. And I agree whole-heartedly. He is a good Father who lets us come to Him exactly as we are. No need to censor. But in the name of "being honest with God" I found my entire vantage point shifting. I was settling comfortably into a place of self-importance where I grossly overestimated my bearing on the course of my life. I brought my unmet desires to God like a stack of bargaining chips as I wagered the following deal: "God I have been really faithful to you and have given up a lot of things so the least you could do is come through on the following...." I'd then list off my requests, my entitlement masquerading as confidence. I knew surrender was the better option but believed it to be a lose-lose. I'd surrender to God, thus losing my so-called "leverage," and I'd still not get what I wanted. Real pretty, I know.
Then something happened that turned the tide. In late October we lost our friend, Jay. His is the story I have yet to write. Well, that's not entirely true. It is the story I've been writing since this Lenten journey began. And when the time is right, and with his wife's permission, I'll share it. In the weeks after he passed I wouldn't say it was answers I was looking for. I knew those were not for me to know. It was more refuge that I was after. And, yes, I experienced the comfort of The Lord in very real ways. But there was also a reckoning. I'd close my eyes and Jesus would be there. But not in the way I expected. I wanted so badly for him to turn and look at me, to tell me it was all going to be okay. To make it hurt less. But he wouldn't. His gaze was set elsewhere, his countenance unflinching. Who was this man? And where was he going? What was so important to him that he couldn't break character for just a second to give me what I needed? I looked ahead to try and make out where he was heading. It remained blurry for a long, long time. And then one day a shape started to appear. Rugged and familiar. The cross. Of course, the cross. Always, the cross. I looked at it, then back at Him. I mistook it for a crossroads, one where I decided whether or not I would surrender to Him. But it was more than that. And then He spoke. Finally, He spoke, His voice tender, yet unmistakably firm. "You do not decide, dear one. Surrender or not, I am moving forward with great force. There will be tremendous suffering. It will wreck you, body and soul. And then.... AND THEN....I will triumph over it. And oh, the JOY. The unspeakable JOY. Trust me or not. Join me or not. I AM and I WILL." I was so small before Him. So unaffecting. And it was as it should be. Maybe for the first time, or the first time I was aware of at least, it was as it should be. Me, small yet beloved. Him, powerful yet good.
I've been caught in a riptide once in my life and it was an awful feeling. I swam furiously towards the shore, only to be pulled further out to sea. I've learned since then that the best way to handle being caught in a riptide is to lie on your back, parallel to the shore, and to let the current push you towards dry land. Striving makes it worse. It always does, doesn't it? It creates an illusion of control as we swim upstream, leaving us exhausted, sputtering and choking on our own ideas of what's best for us. I talk about "whether I will surrender" to the Lord as if I have any bearing on His will for my life and the lives of those around me. And then I look up to see Him on the riverbank. Compassionate. Resolute. Asking me to turn ever so slightly to let the water do the work.
Lord. Jesus. Mighty River. Take us where you will. Amen.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Much thought has given to naming things in our house. We carefully selected the names of our three dogs. Fisher was named in honor of Eric's deep and abiding love for fly-fishing, Cota was named after Ed Cota, a Carolina pointguard from back in the day, and Lily was chosen because that dog was kind of hideous so we were trying to soften up the rough edges with a really girly name. It didn't work. The first dog died after he got out one day and ate a piece of wire that perforated his bowels. So sad. But to his credit, he first drug home two thirds of a Digornio pizza and a loaf of bread he found in someone's trash can and ate it on our couch. We found the evidence of his little afternoon antics when we came home that evening and trust me, the humor of that was not lost on me. But that's neither here nor there. When we moved into our current home the "naming" continued. Eric wanted to be sure we were on the same page as to what we called each room so that when we shouted across the house, "honey, have you seen the diaper creme and my debit card?" that we would know what the other one meant when they responded, "I think I saw them behind the stained couch in the family room." And of course, much thought was given to the naming of our children. Harper's middle name, for example, is Maryl, which is a hybrid of our mother's names - Martha and Cheryl. It was either that or Chertha. I think we made the right choice. And Baker's full name is Charles Baker, named after his daddy, Charles Eric, and after Pastor Lewis Baker, who performed our wedding and was a pivotal figure in the life of Eric's family. Other contenders for Harper were Parker and Sutton, and if it had been up to me, Baker would have been named Maclean, or "Mac" for short. Now, of course, I cannot imagine them being named anything else. They are Harper and Baker. End of story.
I'm finding the older I get the worse I am at remembering names. This is not good. Particularly as a Young Life leader. It's my job to remember kid's names. To call them by their names. To not just say, "Hey there, freshmen girl with the ombre' hair," but to actually be able to say, "Hey, Sarah, how are you?" Literally every time I go to the high school lately I have to pull aside one or two girls who I know well and we huddle up and I say, "Okay, don't look now, but across my left shoulder is a girl in a red shirt next to a guy in an itchy-looking poncho. What's her name? I think it's either Casey or Cassie." They then inform me her name is neither Casey or Cassie, but Sam. Okay, cool. Sam. Got it. Good to know. I could have asked the girl myself but there's a window of time in which it's okay to ask someone their name again and once that window closes you just look like a total jerk asking again. I sometimes use this little trick - I'll ask a girl how they spell their name so I can put it in my phone. This works great when their name is Caitlin or something because there's lots of ways to spell that name these days. It doesn't work so well when their name is, well, Sam. Then you just look like a jerk. A jerk named Kristin. Not quite sure how I'm going to rememdy this little memory issue but I've got to think of something. Because names matter. They really do.
In our fast-paced culture it's not too often that we actually hear our own names spoken. Seriously, think about it. We text a lot, so we are definitely not HEARING our names said in that scenario. If we see folks in person we usually offer a quick, "hey, how are you?!" We call each other girl, brother, friend, pretty lady, hot stuff, whatever. But we rarely say each other's names. And I have to say, I like hearing someone say my name. I particularly love when Eric says my name. Well, unless it begins the sentence, "Kristin, why is Baker smearing a popsicle in the TV?" But other times, when he addresses me by name, tenderly, I come undone. It lets me know he sees me. I mean, really sees me. We spend the day tag teaming the kids, cutting crusts off of peanut butter sandwhiches, meeting folks for lunch, running to the gym, checking off our to-do lists and we do so as wife, husband, mother, father, friend, Young Life staff, or whatever the situation calls for. But in that moment, when he says my name, I am reminded that I have an identity that transcends all of those. It reminds me that I have value completely independent from what I am able to do. And gosh I have GOT to be reminded of that. To rest, for just a fleeting moment, in my identity as Kristin, redeemed and rescued, child of Abba, Father. If I'm not hunkering down in this particular sense of self-worth then all of my other roles in life are in jeopardy. It's ironic really. If I identify myself primarily as a mother, for example, I will inevitably handicap my ability to love my children well. I suddenly begin to view them in relationship to my own satisfaction. So when they disobey or embarass me in public it feels personal. It feels like failure. Or worse, when we find other mothers are doing things differently with their kids we begin to panic, afraid that perhaps we've been doing it wrong and our kids won't turn out to be the perfect humans we were so sure they were going to be. And so, instead of considering that maybe there are lots of ways to do the right thing, we judge them. We put them on the shelf with all the other things that challenge our fragile identities. It's exhausting, really. To maintain an identity based on what you can do and how well you do it. Whether it's in your job, your friendships, your appearance, your income, whatever, it's exhausting. It makes every interaction, every success, every failure, feel so much more paramount than it really is.
Scripture talks a lot about "upright living." And it always makes me uneasy. I just have so many negative connotations associated with this image - images of strict morality, rigid thinking, and dry religion. Now, the problem lies with me. Not with the Word. I understand that. I bring my own set of baggage to the table when I read the Bible, we all do. And I'll spend the rest of my life letting that baggage go until I can see the Word with total clarity, as it really is and not as I perceive it to be based on my experiences or feelings. I wonder, though, if this whole notion of "upright living" has a lot to do with righting our sense of self. Remember those old V8 commercials where the actors would seemingly walk at an angle, unable to stand upright until they drank their V8? Their whole being was askew because it lacked the necessary nutrients found in this wonder drink. I think this is awfully close to how I must look to God when I am defining myself by anything other than His love for me. He sees me chasing mirages of success and happiness until I fall flat in the dust, thirsty and tired. And then He enters in. He calls me by name. He takes me by the shoulders and puts me on my feet and says, "Stand up straight, Kristin. Stand up and look me in my eyes and be confident in this: I have won you back to myself so that you will know beyond any doubt that you are worth it to me. You are my child worth saving, my beauty worth redeeming. Be defined by nothing else."
So I hope the next time I go to the high school I remember Sam's name. I hope that the next time I see you I remember to call you by name. I hope tomorrow morning I'll remember to say my husband and children's names with a tenderness that lets them know I am so very glad that they are mine. I hope that when that moment comes, and come it will, when I am face to face with my false self, my forgetful self, the one that searches in vain for worth in what I am to others rather than who I am to Him, that I would listen hard to to hear his voice, calling me. And calling me by name.
Monday, March 17, 2014
I wish you could all know my friend, Liza. I have known her since she was a freshmen in high school, had the privilege of being her Young Life leader, and here we are, nearly a decade later, and she is one of the greatest treasures in my life. Truly, Eric and I TREASURE her. She is easy to love. Easy to be with. Easy to root for. She has been in my children's lives since they were born and cares for them so beautifully. And above and beyond all that she is our partner in the Gospel. Liza led with us here in Surry County for a couple of years and, just recently, was affirmed to be a part of the Young Life staff here in our region (which spans from the mountains to the coast). I feel a palpable sense of encouragement knowing that she is somewhere, not too far from here, pursuing Jesus and pursuing others. We are indescribably proud of who you are, Liza. And if that weren't enough, we share a deep and abiding love for....
all things entertainment!!
Not the climax you were hoping for? Well, sorry people. It's true. When it comes to TV, movies, Broadway, and music, we are a perfect match. Nothing like having someone else confirm that you have good taste, right? So for the past 9ish years we have been compiling a list. A guest list, to a hypothetical dinner party that she and I are hosting. The table seats 12, including us, which leaves 10 spots open. Now the goal of this dinner party is not to change history or heal the world. The goal is not even to share company with the people who have. While I'm sure that would be a fascinating evening, discussing the invention of the printing press or how you just stumble upon pencillin, it's not what we're after. No,no, our goal is much simpler and self-serving. We want to have great conversation with funny people who are good at what they do (and yes, some of them are easy to look at, but I'm going to go ahead and peg those on Liza. I'm a married woman for goodness sake). Now you don't have to fit all of these critera to be invited. But you need to meet one or two, and have potential for great chemistry with the other guests. And before I reveal this well-crafted guest list, please bear in mind that we are not saying that we agree with everything about these people in terms of their life choices and careers. Relax. We just want them to come over for dinner. And so, in no particular order, our "Best Freakin' Dinner Party of All Time" guest list includes:
1. Jimmy Fallon
2. Meryl Streep
3. Tim Gunn
4. Adam Levine
5. Ellen Degeneres
6. Andy Cohen
7. The Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith)
8. Bob Costas
9. Bradley Cooper
10. Bear Grylls
And because we are thorough people, we have also considered who will prepare the meal (Top Chef executive judge, Tom Colicchio) and who will provide a little late evening entertainment (Mumford & Sons). Now, really, how fun does that sound?! Can't you just see it?! Maggie Smith flirting with Bradley Cooper while Bear teaches Meryl how to make a lean-to out of the centerpiece? Meanwhile, Adam Levine keeps turning his dinner chair every time Ellen says something funny, which is always, as Bob Costas and Tim Gunn admire each other's perfectly round specs. Ugh. It's so great. I would say you're all invited, but, well, you're not. We have limited seating, even after we put both leaves in the table, but maybe you could come over for coffee and Mumford because I'm sure we'll head outside for that.
I'm curious, who would be on your list? It's a telling question, no? Our list is a mixed bag of folks - some who've had long and impactful careers, others who have yet to prove their staying power. And while each of them isn't necessarily doing something particularly impactful with their lives, what they are doing they do really well. And I love bearing witness to that. To watch someone do exactly what they were created to do. It's what gives way to a level of magnetism that people have when they are filling their niche' so perfectly that nothing is lacking. And I'm certainly not just talking about entertainers here. On the contrary. I'm talking about you and me. I'm talking about guys like Ken. The Arts Council in our town employs a man named Ken. I've seen Ken hard at work probably every week since we've lived here. He changes the marquee sign outside of the local playhouse, making sure each letter is just so, and fills popcorn bags at the downtown cinema with careful precision. But it's more than that. He does these tasks with pride and with a level of kindness that leaves you a little softer, and less hurried than you were before you locked eyes with Ken. Imagine a big 'X' marking the spot under Ken's feet as he goes about his day, signifying that he is standing right where he should in the world. Ken, you see, is filling his niche'.
It's a very cool thing that God has created us this way - uniquely gifted and with a space to fill. He didn't have to do it that way. He could have executed His redemptive plan all on his own, with us just sort of standing around as stunned onlookers, wanting to take part but not knowing how. He didn't need us at all to tell His story. But, in his mercy, He chose to let us in. He let's us participate. He let's us partner with Him, come alongside Him, hear from Him, call Him friend. It really didn't have to be that way. And I wonder if it doesn't work best when we all just fill our God-given space. Our spaces look similar in some ways as we are all called to know Him and to follow Him with everything we've got and to love others as the natural outpouring of this kind of KNOWING and FOLLOWING. This is what gives our space perameters, it's what gives it shape. It's what keeps us from bleeding into places we were never meant to go. And in other ways our spaces will look quite different. The point is that we fill them and fill them well - with grace, and humility and the all-important sense of humor.
So the next time you see someone doing exactly what they were made to do - whether they are singing in perfect pitch, offering sound advice to a hurting friend, or proudly taking tickets at a small town theater - be encouraged. Be encouraged that you, too, have a niche' to fill that is just yours and it IS sufficient.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Just finished watching The Voice and man, do I love that show! I just started watching it a few weeks ago and I'm totally hooked. I know a lot of people who say "you know, I just don't have time to watch TV." To which I say, "you know, I just don't have time to watch TV but I watch it anyways." I mean, really, let's have our priorities in order here! Also my kids are alseep at a decent hour which is awesome. Daylight savings threw them for a big ol' loop and they've been up way, way, way too late the past few nights and mama is not having that. So although we all woke up a little sleepy today, I knew it would all be okay because it's Tuesday. You see, on Tuesday mornings a total miracle occurs at the Leathers house - I am home alone for 2.5 hours. Seriously, just me. It is the one day they are both in school and it's a beautiful thing. I'm sure I should be getting a lot done in this precious chunk of time like meal-planning or laundry-folding or something life-sucking like that, but I don't. I might put the 18 dirty sippee cups in the dishwasher but that's about it. On most Tuesdays I choose instead to set up camp in my house somewhere and do a whole lot of nothing. If it's cold outside, which sweet Jesus it sure has been lately, I put on the fire and sit unusually close to it. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I journal. Sometimes I pin (as in Pinterest, ha!). And while this may look like a waste to some, it is a total victory for me.
Lately, I've been pipering. Okay, that's not a word. What I mean to say is that lately I've been listening to John Piper. Piper is one of our favorite authors and lucky for us, you can listen to his sermons online. He is a total wordsmith, which is not lost on me. And his passion for the Gospel hits all the right notes. So for the past 3 Tuesdays I've been downloading his sermons and laying my head on my pillow and letting it soak in. It's really rare that I get to play such a pleasantly passive role in my life. Even at church I'm taking notes or talking to folks or thinking about whether my child is still crying in the nursery. But on these mornings I do none of that. I don't usually even keep my eyes open. I just lay there, listen, and pray for osmosis to kick in.
Piper is getting ready to retire as lead pastor at his church, which seems to have made him even more feisty than normal, which I totally love. He hammered home some incredible, incredible points about joy in suffering. Not even a secondary point, but one that caught my attention, was his mentioning of churches that try to market the Gospel by creating worship services that are full of flashing lights, lame jokes, and very little truth. Some friends, who live a very similar life to ours in a small town in eastern NC, told us of a time they visited a church. They entered the common room where the service was being held because I think it took place in a YMCA or something (which is totally fine) and they took their seats in their folding chairs because there wasn't permanent seating (again, totally fine), and then had to take cover as the worship team launched brightly colored frisbees into the audience to try and get them hyped up (NOT fine). I also vaguely remember a church experience where the associate pastor raffled off a pair of Oakley sunglasses (back when those were the deal, which, if you still are rockin' the oakleys, by all means, rock on) in an effort to draw more people in. And since I hope to dedicate an entire blog post to the HILARIOUS church signs that dot the highways and backroads of the south, I won't go into it just yet, but just remember when Halloween rolls around to not let Satan TRICK you into sin, but instead let Jesus TREAT you to salvation.
Oh. Help. Us.
But here's the deal. As much as these misguided attempts to draw people to the Christian faith make me cringe, whince, and want to make apologies to the masses, I kind of get it. I get that they're just trying to bring folks in the door and shed a little light. And good for you for that. I just don't know if neon frisbees and cheesey slogans are really going to do it for someone who has a genuine need for something more in their lives. The intentions may be good (well, almost good), but I wonder if it doesn't set people up to fail. I wonder if, when we peddle the Gospel as a fun, prize-winning, lights flashing kind of life, are we not setting folks up for radical disappointment when they face real trials and all we've offered them is a frisbee that says "God loves you." I sound critical, and I don't mean to. In Young Life we go to great lengths to draw folks in, to create a dynamic atmosphere where they feel alive. And this approach may not seem that different than the ones I'm poking fun at. But I hope, I really really hope, that we only do these things in an effort to bring them closer, inch by hard-fought inch, to Jesus. And I hope, and I mean really, really hope, that once we get them there we are telling them about Jesus AS HE IS and not as we think they want him to be.
I know too many people who said yes to Jesus sometime ago, who tried hard at the Christian faith, and ended up in state of relative apathy. They wanted it to work out, but it just didn't. Perhaps they had a bad experience with a Christian friend or leader. Perhaps they felt burned by a church or a ministry. Or maybe they signed on for the full, abundant life they were promised and their life since then has been anything but full and abundant. Now granted, there are countless factors that play into someone's faith journey. There are issues of entitlement, there are prosperity gospels being handed out left and right, and the list goes on. But I wonder if it also has a great deal to do with how the Gospel was presented in the first place. We think we are doing right in our eager attempts to bring people into the faith. I mean, eagerness is a good thing, right? But sometimes eagerness is really just nervous energy motivated by guilt. And what we end selling people are a whole lot of half truths that all add to this one false notion: God loves you and therefore wants you to be happy.
The first part of that statement is true. God loves you. Yes, yes He does. As Baker would say, "dis I know, fo da bible tell me so." But please hear me say this: you should expect SO much more from the God of the universe than just someone who wants you to be happy. My hairdresser wants me to be happy. My mailman, Gary, wants me to be happy. I don't need someone else in my life who wants me to be happy. I don't even need someone in my life who can MAKE me happy, although God certainly could do that if he wanted to. I need someone who can make me FREE.
So what if, instead of making clumsy attempts to sell people a manufactured Jesus who is part Santa Claus and part male model, we just told them the truth. What if we told them that it's going to be unbelievably difficult. What if we told them that following Jesus will, in no way, safeguard them from difficulty. What if we told them that blessings do not equal shiny new toys. What if we told them that other Christians will probably hurt them and let them down. But what if we also told them that Jesus will use every moment of every day, every single part of our lives, to make us NEW and to make us FREE. What if we told them that they needed to lose their life. You know the life I'm talking about. The life where you have to micromanage your pain and anxieties and unmet desires by whatever means necessary. The life where you have to work tirelessly at meeting your own needs, because no one's gonna do it for you. The life where you are defined by the opinions of others. What if we told them that they needed to lay down this life. But what if we also told them that when they do this they will not be laid bare for long. What if we told them that Jesus will give them new life in its place - life that offers them a bedrock of truth to stand on that is a thousand miles wide and a thousand miles deep. What if we told them that that God doesn't want them to be happy. But what if we also told them that He wants infinitely more for them. He wants them to have joy that withstands great adversity. What if we told them that because Jesus actually conquered death, that all of God's promises to them are YES in Christ Jesus (2 Corinthians 1:20). What if we told them that a risen Jesus means we not only can see God, we can KNOW Him and know Him well. What if we told them that "we have this HOPE as an ANCHOR for the soul, firm and secure." Hebrews 6:19.
And then we get out of the way and let them count the cost. Moreover, we trust God to draw them to Himself however and whenever He wants. What then?
More truth and less frisbees. That's what I'm hoping for tonight. For myself and for my friends who've gotten a little lost along the way.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Closing down a beautiful Sunday. We spent the majority of the day out front watching our children play make believe in our thawing front yard. Baker's post-nap self had him wearing nothing but a diaper and some heart sunglasses, delivering invisible mail out of his one-door cozy coupe. Harper wore her pink bathrobe as "lion fur" and climbed the tree in our neighbor's front yard, which is really a glorified bush, but we won't tell her that. Having a son and a daughter I've often prayed for common ground on which they could play together. I've wondered if my twirling, whirling, fairy-winged little girl and my muddy waters, mischief-making, bulldozing boy would ever meet when it comes to play. Lately, and particularly after days like today, I'm beginning to think that make believe will be their common ground. Don't get me wrong, they are really good at being together. Sure, they scream at and hit each other once or twice a day, but it's mostly as a result of them trying to being in other's space and just not knowing how to go about it. So my question has not been whether they like each other. My quesiton is whether they would ever be able to waste away a Summer afternoon building a bridge to Terabithia. The verdict is still out, but I'm hopeful that they will because they both love to make believe.
It's a funny phrase, isn't it? To make believe. To create belief. To conjure up a setting, a character, a plot, and to believe it to be so. We mostly associate this activity with children, and rightfully so. Kids are great it. Their little minds wander freely from jungle treetop to princess castle as sticks become swords and kitchen towels become wedding veils. They are brimming with the promise of what could be. Adults do their fair share of make believe as well, perhaps just with a different motive. More often, they are wishing for a life different than the one they are living. We enter sweepstakes, try our darndest to come up with the next great invention, or plan our exodus to New York City because someone, somewhere convinced the better part of the world that that's where dreams come true. But at the heart of their make believe, for both the daydreaming child and the disillusioned adult, is HOPE. Hope that there is something more. Their hearts cry out for adventure and belonging and HOPE is what keeps them searching. It's what gives them the courage to MAKE believe.
Harper's imagination is running at full-speed within about 30 minutes of her waking up. She snuggles for a bit, drinks her morning cup of chocolate milk, and then starts a sentence with "Let's pretend that you're_______, and I'm ___________." And off we go! I've got to be honest, it's exasperating. I've been a cheetah, a fairy godmother, an Indian chief, and a pet store owner before most people finish their egg whites. I'm sure I give in to her imaginary whims a bit too often and I'm sure I'm a total pushover, but what I'm more sure of is that I want to do whatever it takes to have my daughter's heart. I want to be an expert at entering her world and at this particular juncture in her little life, one does not enter her world without a costume. I'm banking on the fact that if I speak her language now, albeit an imaginary language called Abasidia, that I will be able to speak her language when she's speaking angry teenager who just got her heart broken when the boy she liked teased her for having legs like pipe cleaners.
A few years ago a professor of mine told me something that has been incredibly freeing for me as a parent. He talked about the often-quoted verse that says, "Train up a child in the way they should go, and when they are old they will not depart from it," Proverbs 22:6. Lots and lots and lots of pastors, authors, and parents talk about this verse. And I get it, I really do. Our children need training. They do not come out knowing how to behave or how to treat others, much less knowing how to honor The Lord. But it's more than that. The professor went on to explain that this verse may have been better translated as "train up a child according to their bent." God has created them to go a certain way, and while this has to do on one level with morality, on a deeper level it has to do with becoming. Our children are becoming who God created them to be and it is our privilege as parents to encourage that process all the more. And we do this by entering in, and honoring whatever it is that we find that also honors Jesus. When we go against their natural bent, putting a bookworn in a pageant dress for example, we run the risk of breaking them.
This notion has freed me up to let my children be themselves unapologetically. It has also freed me up as a parent who wants their kids to know Jesus. We have told our children the incredible story of the Gospel. And we will continue to do so. We couldn't not. But I don't think I'm supposed to give them the Gospel in some generic, one-size fits all approach. That feels a bit like playing pin the Jesus on the kid, where we say the right things and hope it sticks. We may end up with obedient kids who can yes ma'am you to death, but their hearts remain unaffected. What if, instead, we get to offer them the Gospel in their context, according to their bent. Even more, as a mother, I get to to share the Gospel with them according to my own bent! God allows me to teach my children about Jesus in a way that fits my personality and suits their needs all at the same time. Most days I have no idea what that looks like but it's a trajectory I feel good about, so that's something! So while my two little ones are masters at make believe, I cannot MAKE them believe. I present them with the setting, the characters, and the plot of the most incredible story that ever was, but what happens next is not up to me. What I can do is pray, and pray hard, that I would know how to give them the Gospel with their bent in mind. Oh that I would know them well enough to love them in a way that is tailor-made to their bent, so that when they come under the sound of the Gospel it would resonate deeply in their hearts. So play on darling children of mine. Build your forts and slay your dragons. Continue to make believe until one day you find the One your heart has been longing for all along. Because once upon a time....
Tired this evening. It's 9:18pm on a Friday night. I can hear my little boy talking up a storm from his crib. So far I've heard about 23 different version of "Wheels on the Bus" and something about a fox going up "so, so high!" I put him to sleep around 7:45pm, which may sound like a cruel amount of time to leave a toddler in his crib, but trust me, he is JUST FINE. Baker spends zero time alone during the day except for naptime. He is social to the core and spends the majority of his time latching on to me, Eric or Harper in whatever we are doing. He's a joiner that one. Love him for it. So some time playing alone in his crib in the late evening is probably good for him. Harper is alseep after telling me in great detail about the zoo she will own with her husband someday. It will include peacocks, tigers, honeybadgers and king snakes. Her dad will work there as the animal cleaner. I am also allowed to work there but she knows I'm deathly afraid of snakes so she will just let me hang out near the peacocks. As for me, I hit a wall at about 7:44pm. This is not uncommon for me as of late. I am recovering from shingles. That's right, shingles! I mean really, who gets shingles at 33?! And for the second time? (I'm 98% sure I had them when I was 12, on the same nerve tracking from my left ear forward to my mouth. I couldn't go to some girl's pool party because of it and one does not forget such a disappointment). I'll dig more into the lovely details of the most recent shingles debacle some other time, but I can say that the symptoms have a tendency to linger. Nothing awful, which I'm grateful for. I have heard stories of waaaaayyyy worse. But I'm just pretty zapped. But as tired as I am, I'm also struggling to fall asleep and stay asleep, which is a wonky combination. I am NOT one who struggles to sleep. Ever. Me and sleep, we are tight! Always have been. But I hear this is normal and will resolve over time. And honestly it's a little hard to tease apart what is causing me to be sleepy lately. Sure, I have two quite small children and we do full time ministry, but those factors have been present for a while now. Nothing new there. The reality is it has been a long, difficult 6 months. And I am weary. I am very sure that part of this writing journey through the Lent season will be, for me, a necessary part of a healing process. The past 6 months of our life has been marked by loss. Loss upon loss. I am tempted to detail these losses right here and now, but I can't. I just can't. It's not because it's too painful, although it could be. It's not because I'm in denial. I am not. I just know now is not the time. When I've tried to force myself to process my emotions about the loss it's like trying to squeeze juice out of unripe fruit. I get a few drops here and there but end up mostly frustrated. But there have been other moments that have come upon me like an unwelcome wave and knocked me off my feet. Grief is like that, I suppose. It comes when it chooses and leaves when it's ready. And I have very little say in the matter. This frustrates me more than I've been willing to admit, this inability to control the grief process. I know how important it is to process emotions. I really do. As a counselor I know it to be true but more just as a human being. Picture with me the different emotions that we might experience throughout a given day or season in life - joy, sadness, disappointment, anger, anticipation, frustration, elation, fear. Some of them are pleasant, welcomed, feelings we don't want to go away. Others feel awful, make us squirm, and we resist them. But they are both necessary. They are the necessary parts of our construct by which God brings us through a world that is horribly broken and being fully redeemed all at once. When we allow ourselves to feel the emotions as they are, even when they are painful or uncomfortable, we allow that emotion to do its part in transforming us. It stays however long it needs to, poking and prodding. Joy awakens sleepy souls. Fear stands to move us into deeper waters where we find we are not drowning after all. Disappointment sobers us and brings us back to the only One who can satisfy. Frustration sharpens us, teaches us to wait. We let the emotion run its course and we find Jesus, our champion and brother, carrying us from moment to moment, day to day, season to season, as we become more and more and more free. When we resist the emotion, hide from it, run from it, or deny it all together, we are far from free. Emotions that were meant to be passing through take up permanent residence in our souls. Sadness turns to depression, anger to rage, disappointment to disillusionment. And they dig in deep, like rocks that settle into a riverbed and alter the way the water flows. We cannot make sense of life or relationships when this happens. Our perspective is murky and our hearts calloused. And we are very, very far from free. The good news is Jesus perseveres with us even still. He can take the most detached of people and bring them to new life in a moment. I've seen it happen. Thank you, Jesus, for not growing weary with us. But grief has been tricky for me. I can't seem to get ahead of it. I can't seem to be put words to it in any way that seems sufficient. I can't seem to make it fit into my daily life which requires me to wake up and go. I can only open the door when it knocks and let it in. And to not be afraid. So bear with me, and in time, I'll tell the story. I'll remember the friends that we've lost. I'll let the river flow and flow freely. And maybe.....no, not maybe....SURELY I will be more free for having done so.
Having a daughter and a son people have often remarked "Isn't it great to get to experience one of each?" To which I quickly respond Yes! Of course it is. I'm sure there are total treasures to having a house full of wild boys or dripping with darling daughters. But yes, I'm thankful for the chance to get to experience a boy and a girl. The joy of this experience often turns to dumbfoundedness when Eric and I become keenly aware of the fact that we are parenting little miniature versions of ourselves. Seriously, ya'll, they are just like us. Harper is me. Baker is Eric. I don't say that often in front of them because I'm not trying to set them up to feel like they need to become like Eric and I and of course they are nuanced in a thousand ways that are different than Eric and I. But really, for the most part, JUST like us. One of the coolest ways we have watched this play out is in the way they interact with each other. The things that drive Eric and I crazy (crazy as in pushing your buttons crazy) about each other are the same for our kids. He wants to engage her and she's lost in thought. She wants her space and he's all up in it. She went to her room to be alone yesterday and Baker sat weeping at her door wanting to come in. Necessary pause here - I do not spend my days running from my husband! But as an introvert at heart I crave time alone, which is scarce when you care for little people who want to sit on your lap while you are using the bathroom. Eric, the truest of extroverts, would spend 90% of his time around others and would probably have us living in some hippie commune if it were up to him. I don't think he's ever asked for space. He likes his space filled with the people he loves. I sleep with one pillow and one sheet and a one feet perimeter of empty space around me. He sleeps with five pillows and a heavy quilt so as to feel what I can only imagine as smothered! If I'm feeling worn out I most likely need to take a few hours at a coffee shop by myself. If he's feeling worn out he needs people, people, and more people. And our dynamic is not unique. So many couples we know and are close to would also describe themselves as profoundly opposite when it comes to these types of personality traits. It's challenging. It requires us to stay mindful of the other person, to maintain that discipline of REMEMBERING that they are not like us and we are not like them and it is not a bad thing to be different. On our hardest of days in marriage I most often think something along the lines of "If you were just more like me this would be so much easier." Anyone else? Okay, good. But man is that false. God drew me to someone who is so "other" than me. Eric is free when I'm restricted. Loud when I'm quiet. Intrusive when I'm withdrawn. Honest when I'm skirting the truth. Bold when I'm fearful. Tender when I'm harsh. And so am I to him. Soft when he's edgey. Thoughtful when he's impulsive. Consistent when he's sporadic. Patient when he's unnerved. I have what he needs. He has what I need. Complimentary. And when two people are complimenting each other well it's fluid and so very good. And when they are resisting each other's differences because they just don't have it in them to see life from their point of view one more time, then the rub is real! And we experience both. And you're going to think I'm crazy for saying this, but so do our kids. Baker knows somewhere in him that his sister is special. He wants her approval. He includes her on everything he sees and experiences. If we are riding in the car and he sees a tractor or a bird or a jeep he shouts, "Harper, jeep! See it jeep?" And she, thumb in mouth and gaze elsewhere, would probably just ignore him. Not deliberately, but because his inquiry is not quite enough to pull her out of whatever thought she is in. But Baker is relentless. Like a scratched record he cannot, and I mean CANNOT move on from that moment until his sister has acknowledged him. So I have to say to her, "Harper, honey, just say 'yes, brother, I see that jeep." She repeats whatever line I feed her and just like that, her brother is satisfied. He cannot experience something on his own. He has to involve someone else. And so often it's his sweet sister he wants along for the ride. Harper is drawn to her brother's freedom. He is loud, funny, and effortlessly charming. He is fearless and aggressive but incredibly tender. She admires the way he goes through life at full tilt. She's become quite the spokesperson for our family, telling strangers when we are out and about what her full name is, where her middle name comes from, and all about her brother. Nine out of ten times she will end her description about Baker with "he sure is a crazy boy." She loves that this crazy boy, this wild blonde-haired creature, is HER brother and no one else's. It means something to her. Baker is a mimic. And he's quite good at it. I call Harper a whole slieu of pet names and the other day in a parking lot I said to her "hurry up, Sugar Bean." Baker repeated this line in his unbelievably cute voice. "Hurry up, Sugar Bean," he said to her through his toothy grin. She laughed and climbed in the van. Later that evening Harper was tired and sad after having gotten in trouble for something. She sat all slumped over on the couch, insistent on her bad mood. Eric and I hear Baker in there trying to cheer her up. He got up in her face, patted her back and said "it's okay, Sugar Bean." We smiled at each other and filed that moment away in the archives of all things priceless. Eric and I do not get everything right when it comes to life. We could probably clip more coupons and order less takeout and keep better daytimers. We could do better at remembering people's birthdays and seeding our lawn. But one thing we get right is knowing when we are smack dab in the middle of the good stuff when it comes to our kids. To the best of our ability, I don't think we are taking them for granted. We know that we have been given two of the most wonderful creatures in our son and daughter. We know that this time that they are little is exasperating and limiting and demanding, but oh so fleeting. We know that we do not deserve them - our wild boy and our sugar bean - we do not deserve them. And yet they are ours. Two opposite personalities who need what the other one has. So very grateful for them this evening. And for my wild boy husband and all the ways he is exactly what I need. Day 2, check.
A few years ago I jumped on the blog bandwagon. I kept it up, sporadically at best, and then fell off said bandwagon. Or perhaps I just jumped onto a new bandwagon all together - the "I started a biog but never kept up with it" bandwagon. Sheesh. And just when I was about to shut down the blasted thing all together I decided to give it one last go. And this time, with a real, actual, centuries old motivator. Lent. So I've never been good at Lent. Meaning I don't ever put too much thought into it and my caffeine addiction is so far gone that it's not even an option (hang on, let me take a sip of my coke zero. Yum.) So what then? It's a practice I know is good and one I want to see the fruit of, but can't quite seem to pull it off. I was reminded that during Lent you can either take away something or add something. Take away TV or add a daily jog for example. The overarching point being the slight change in behavior that stretches you, challenges you, enhances your ache, if you will, for more Jesus in your life. I've had several conversation with friends recently about gifts. Not wrapped gifts or blessings, but giftedness - how God has made us uniquely, with a unique set of gifts. When we can identify these gifts, embrace them, and live out of them, we find ourselves full of life and more fully alive. Your gifts are different than mine. My gifts are different than yours. And that's not the point. Well, actually it's exactly the point. When I can find the courage and clarity to live out of my own gift set - a set that God has crafted uniquely in me and for me for the purpose of reflecting Christ to others - then I stand a really good chance of, well, having the wind put in my proverbial sails. If, on the other hand, I get stuck trying replicate someone else's gift set because it looks cooler or better or easier then I stand a really, really good chance of having my sail crumple into a sad little pile after my sad little boat went absolutely nowhere. Since that little boat analogy wasn't so hot, let's try this exercise out. A really sweet and smart lady whose name I can't remember led a seminar on this exact topic at a Young Life women's conference I went to recently. She had us take a pen in our dominant hand and right the word Jesus as many times as we could in 5 seconds. Yes, please, go ahead and try it. My speedy, albeit illegible script, cranked out the word Jesus 5.5 times. Not too shabby. She then had us put the pen in our other hand (so for me, my left hand) and do the same exercise. I'm pretty sure I only managed to write the word Jesus 1.25 times and it looked remarkably like my preschool daughter's handwriting. The point being fairly obvious but no less spot on - that when we live our lives true to how God created us, authentically and humbly, we will reflect Jesus with as much ease and effectiveness as is possible. But when we try to live out of the expectations of others, whether they are actual people we can name or that darn imaginary audience so many of us come up against, then our ability to reflect Christ to others will be labored, effortful, and lack that genuine quality that is so characteristic of someone living in the Spirit. This concept has resonated deeply with me in ways that are both frustrating and freeing as I try to embrace the gut check that came complimentary with this little exercise - am I living out of my genuine, uniquely created self? In my friendships? My marriage? My mothering? In ministry? Hoping to unpack that over the next few weeks Oh, right! I forgot to mention that little tidbit. I've decided to "add" a discipline to my life for Lent this year and I'm adding writing. As often as possible. Throughout Lent. Yowzers. Not yowzers because that's anything earth-shattering but yowzers because that's a long road to walk for yours truly, who apparently falls off bandwagons with ease. But writing is just such a thing that brings me life. It is a thing that I never regret doing but often regret not doing. And when I do it with any amount of consistency I find that the clutter of my life starts getting elbowed out. So feel free to join me, to read along, or not. Your call. My hope is NOT to impart wisdom or share clever recipes or DIY projects. That would be over-reaching my friends. My HOPE is simply this: to just do it and do it until I cross the finish line. To keep my pen in my right hand with the hope that the wind will, in fact, fill my sails and take my boat to places where the water is very, very sweet. Day 1 is in the books!