H: for How Long Will I Spend on This (or Honestly It's Felt Like Decades)

It's been a while.  I have nearly started this so many times over the last 2 1/2 years, but then I didn't know how or I got busier or I forgot or I was scared. 

But writing is in my heart.  It's how I process.  So here I am.

This was meant to be "Month 4: My Peeps" in my journey through Loving My Actual Life.  It started that way back in October 2016, and then I failed miserably.  So I gave myself another month.  And I really did try.

Month 4:
Boy oh boy, do I need this.  Husband and I have both been stressed with work--that makes us both withdraw.  So I have barely spent time with him, Daughters and I are doing a great job arguing, I miss my friends, there is a sweet babe I know who was born sick . . . all I want to do is read, and all I feel obligated to do is work.

So.  People.  The ones I love.  The ones God gave me to do life beside--to love my life with.

Quantity time.

Quality time.

I planned to schedule time in my calendar to be with specific people, send handwritten notes to people, be present with eye contact and no phone, and watch for moments when God put someone in front of me who needed me in that moment.

Y'all, that's where I got stuck.  Once I started looking for them, they were everywhere.

That month started with a phone call from a dear, dear friend I love with a mix of younger sister and niece and daughter telling me her baby boy had been born . . . and hours later had slipped into respiratory distress as a result of a brain bleed.  They were states away, and I fell to my knees.  I spent days staring at my computer monitor watching him in the hospital and praying, pleading, willing him to take one more breath.  Wondering if I should get in my car and drive to them.  Wondering if I'd ever get to meet him. 

That month was November 2016.

Day Nine: Today we sat the girls down to tell them about the election.  We also discussed our family rules and how that means we connect with people.  We look for people on the buddy bench, and we engage with them.  Because we're human.  Because love trumps hate.  I've always known that, but in the faces of my girls I see it.

Day Eleven: I am grieving.  This connecting means actually seeing where people are--actually seeing them.  And sometimes it means grieving.  So I am.

Day Sixteen: It's never-ending, the talking and the thinking.  And apparently the crying.  It's not lost on me that in this month of connecting I am finding myself withdrawing.  This election has truly built a wall . . . It's not lost on me how I am connecting with humanity as a larger part, even while pulling away from people around me.  It's a pity it takes this for us to see how much we need each other and be grateful we have each other.  I am praying that as this month progresses I continue to see and pursue those connections.  Also that I remember the hope and connections President Obama encouraged in his State of the Union: "I believe in change, because I believe in you."
May that be true today.  May I believe in change and in goodness and in love because I believe in myself and my sisters and my kids and my husband and strangers on the train.

Day (thirty)One: I think I need a redo.  None of my intentionality happened this month.  So December will be my peeps...again.  Today I spent largely by myself, with one major exception.  I drove to Kalamazoo in the sleet to place a Cubs pennant by Uncle Johnny's grave.  He would have been so happy they won.  And that made me think.  Part of being present--and loving my actual life--means truly knowing the people around me.  What is their thing?  What is the part of them that will seem important enough to their being that would make it worth standing in a cemetery an hour away from home forcing a baseball pennant into the semi-frozen ground at the base of a 30-year-old headstone in 30-degree sleet?  I want to know that about my people.

And so.  For the past 29 months I have been living a redo.  I've been failing and succeeding and then failing again at putting my phone down and being fully present.  I've written exactly one handwritten note and approximately one zillion text messages.  I've created hashtags and adopted colored hearts and started watching the Bachelor and eaten way too much ice cream and shared too many bottles of wine. 

Along the way a college friend's mom was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, and she died.  Another friend-like-a-father has seen the levels of cancer in his body dwindle and come back with a vengeance, even while his sister died from a years-long battle with cancer and his wife was diagnosed.  A friend from elementary school has courageously fought breast cancer--finally getting to ring the bell at the end of treatments and in remission--while also going through a divorce.  That baby boy nephew/grandson/friend turned two and is running and playing golf and hockey and making us all laugh with his sweetness, perfectly and miraculously healthy. 

I've walked part of these last 29 months with a friend through an eating disorder that left her in residential treatment and continues to call her name, another friend through realized childhood trauma that has eaten away too much of her adult life and threatened to steal her spirit, and the coming out and settling in to who God made them to be of friends and family.  I have been a confidant and a cheerleader and a late-night text and a hug.  I have grieved.  Oh, have I grieved.

I have watched my daughters navigate the end of elementary school and the beginning of middle school.  They have said goodbye to friends and welcomed new ones.  As a country we have endured too many school shootings to remember all their names, and as a mother I have sent my daughter to school because school officials and the school police officer insisted our kids were safe despite a threat of violence. And then I did it again.  And I stood on the sidewalk surrounded by middle schoolers at a March for Their Lives rally my 7th grader helped organize. 

My heart has wandered away from church as I've watched and listened to too much hate spewed in the name of a God who commanded us to love.  And then, in the end, I've wandered back in . . . because people.

I stood on a corner in beautiful Charleston, SC, in disbelief as my husband told me--through the phone and my protestations that I had just sung a song with him the day before--that a vibrant man, the backbone of hospitality in our church, had died that day at work.  I have been to funerals, I have been to support groups, I have intervened in harassment of a sleeping homeless man on a train, I have mothered a drunken college student on a train platform, I have stopped a drunken hair-pulling fight between strangers at a concert, I have born witness to countless stories of trauma and mental illness, I have fought with words and actions for marginalized people, I have marched...and I have loved.  I have loved.

And I have failed miserably at loving. 

I have allowed myself to love those I deemed worthy of my love.

And the others I have judged with a harshness and a disdain and even a disgust.

And, oh, God, I have so much to learn. 

So how long will I spend on month four?  It's become Groundhog Day or Before I Fall for me, a month I'm destined to repeat until I figure out how to get it right.  In truth, these 29 months have been the longest decades of my life.  They have been heartbreaking and challenging and beautiful and life changing.

These 29 months I've spent weaving in and out of intentionality around loving the people in my actual life--in person, via text, over social media--ended in two remarkable and contrasting ways.  Both with death, and, in a way, both with life.

Easter.  It's the dawn after the darkness.  It's the promise that the grave doesn't win and that sin doesn't win and that somehow, some way, what has been turned upside down will be made right again.

And then, days later, Rachel Held Evans died.  How many lives have I pleaded for in these 29 months?  How much healing have I banged on the Throne of Grace for in these 29 months?  Rachel's is included.  My wandering back into church--and the staying power, if I'm honest--began with the words of Rachel.  Like so many others, I am in church #becauseofRHE.  In the hours and days after Rachel's death, I came across this Tweet from @jamieleefinch:

"#BecauseofRHE tweets today I'm struck with the awareness that the greatest thing Rachel may have given all of us was each other."

I replied with this: "#BecauseofRHE I know I am not alone...in my doubts, in my convictions, in my hopes, in my longings.  She gave me Church."

But she gave me more than that.  As I've read so much of what's been written about her, now that we won't get anything more written by her, I have been struck by the grace with which she treated those who belittled and attacked and hated her.  She saw in everyone one truth: the image of God. 

I haven't seen that.

I've allowed myself to decide that certain people have decided to ignore the image of God in themselves and in others they don't like or are afraid of and have therefore made themselves unworthy of love and grace from me.  As if I'm the one who gets to decide any of that.  I have done the very thing I have accused them of doing.  I may choose to let in those traditionally locked out, but I'm no different if I'm pushing others out the door in order to do it. 

Y'all, I want to be loving.  I want to be safe.  I want to figure out how to embrace even those with whom I disagree.  God, let me see You in them.  All of them.  I want to figure out what is important enough to their being that I would stand in the sleet or stay up half the night or storm the Throne of Grace on their behalf. 

"But the gospel doesn't need a coalition devoted to keeping the wrong people out.  It needs a family of sinners, saved by grace, committed to tearing down the walls, throwing open the doors, and shouting, 'Welcome! There's bread and wine.  Come eat with us and talk.' This isn't a kingdom for the worthy; it's a kingdom for the hungry."    - Rachel Held Evans

At the end of the day, we're all the wrong people.  And we're all the sinners saved by grace.  And we're all welcome, because we're all so, so hungry.

 

 

 

F: for Following Through

I met a goal!

Yeah.  Probably not something to brag about (and likely a bit embarrassing to make note of), but this is what we've come to, people.  It is, indeed, noteworthy for me to say I met a goal.

It was at the eleventh hour (actually just into the tenth), but I made it!

A few months ago I received this wonderful book from a friend of mine.  I read the introduction and cried my way through it.  I felt like the author, Alexandra Kuykendall, was speaking to me.  To me.  And why Baker would publish a book written expressly for me I didn't know, but I was so grateful they had.

Then I put the book on my shelf.  I didn't have time for its experiments and its challenges and its hardness.  I always intended to pick it back up, because I intended to do the experiments myself.  I intended to dedicate these next nine months of the school year to loving my actual life.  So, knowing how quickly I get distracted, I figured I should pick it back up.  I wanted to read through it all once before school starts the day after Labor Day and then go through it again, chapter by chapter, month by month.

Once I got started a week or so ago, I realized I needed to start my months a bit sooner.  So I revised my goal to finish the book before the end of July so I could get started on August 1.  Reasons to come in a minute.

It may sound silly, but I had to work to get this finished by July 31.  When the vacations end and the realities of being a work-at-home mom and a work-from-home mom set in, my reading time is relegated to the quickly fleeting hour between when my oldest is tucked in bed and when I should be tucked in bed.  That's also my "catch up on a TV show," "check Pinterest," "write," "tidy up the house," and "figure out the plans for tomorrow" time.  (See why I need this book?)  But this was important to me, and I was going to make it happen.

And I did!

I entitled this post "Following Through" not because I needed an F (though I did), but because that is one of my greatest challenges in life.  I am a fantastic starter.  There are very few people who can prepare and begin as well as me.  That said, most of the projects in my house are still unfinished, I have four started novels that dream of being submitted for publication and an additional five stories I've started for my sisters and friends which are still half untold, my Bible through the year plan has 1/4 of the check boxes empty, I keep gaining and losing the same ten pounds, my tennis shoes and running clothes are still stacked next to my bed, and the majority of the laundry in our house is washed and dried but unfolded in baskets in the basement and laundry room.

I'm a goal setter.  I'm a dreamer.  I'm not a doer.  I'm not a follow-througher.

Until last night.  Now I did it.  I set a goal for myself, I decided to bump it to a shorter time frame, and I did it!  I FOLLOWED THROUGH ON SOMETHING!

Yes!

So now what?  Now I can do it in other things.  That's what I've shown myself.  And I'm going to need that this year.  There have been many books I've thought, "Ooh, I'd like to work my way through this over the next month."  Those books are now dusty on my shelf, most of them more than half unread.  But this one is different.  This one needs to be different.  I feel like my life depends on this one.  At least loving it does.

Alexandra Kuykendall set out on a 9-month experiment to love her actual life, in its chaos and mundaneness and mess and joys.  And she laid out the plan for us to follow.  So I'm going to.  This is the life God gave me, and I think he meant for me to love it . . . not just tolerate it.

She started out with "embracing quiet."  I can see that, and I need to do that.  I need to do all the things, but this is a 9-month experiment.  And I'm going to start where I need to.  With following through.

Month 6 for Alex was Home Organization, but that's Month 1 for me.  There are a few reasons for that.  One is to show myself that I can follow through.  We moved into our house just over a year ago (like the end of the July), and I have several started projects to decorate and organize that I have planned or even begun (is a can of paint still good after one year if I never even opened it?) that are now shoved in a drawer or used as a door stop to keep the cat out of our bedroom (that can of paint is good for something at least!).  So I want to follow through with those, and I want to see progress.  Beautiful progress.  On my walls.  Another reason is because school starts next month.  This is my last month of summer, and I still haven't organized the papers and projects from last school year.  Before I bring the chaos of 2nd, 3rd, and 6th grades into my house I need to get rid of the chaos of 1st, 2nd, and 5th.  Finally, this is where I want to start.  So I might as well make it fun, right?

Month 1: Home Organization

What I will actually do:
Finish two house projects a week.  (Even if I have to hire them done.  Then I need to work that into the budget.)
Pick up items to put away as I walk through a room.
Make sure my bedroom is cleaned before I go to sleep.
Enlist the family's help in folding and putting away laundry so baskets are empty in the laundry room by Monday morning.
Clean up breakfast and lunch before dinner every day--including the dishes (don't judge; I'm bad at follow through remember?).

I'm going to journal my successes and failures like Alex did, and I'll even share some of what I learn here.  Then I'll list out Month 2 as well.  Because half of follow through is knowing someone will check in with you to see how you did.

E: for Entering In (also, for Enough)

I work in a trauma-rich environment.  That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace.  My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager.  I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such.  So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich.  It's the place where I work.

We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.

And here's the thing.  Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust.  In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%.  Think on that for a minute.  Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know.  Someone they trust.  Someone they love.  It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them.  It's someone their parents have let into their lives.  Or it's the parent him or herself.

That's trauma-rich for you.

Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care.  Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not.  At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in.  It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating.  I know, right?).

Entering in.

Experiencing the feelings.

Not numbing them.

Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.

Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.

So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear.  And then the whole cycle starts over again.

And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.

But there's a bigger problem.  And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals.  Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good.  You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure.  At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said.  She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable.  It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it.  And she says it's impossible to connect without that.

As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something.  In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that.  What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right?  So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.

And I made it through.  And I didn't cry so much.  And then I realized I didn't cry at all.  And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write.  And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream.  So I quit taking them.  In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create."  But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again.  I wanted to feel.

{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do.  I needed to feel.  BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something.  Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in.  And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends.  Please.}


Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer.  A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread."  Our daily bread.  What we need for today.  He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna.  That "what is it?"  That literal daily bread.  Just enough for the one day.

I have so, so much.  And I still want more.  But He gave me Enough.  Because that's who He is.

Enough.

Not more than I need.  Not less than I need.  Enough.

During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most?  What do you ask God for?  A life of ease?  A life of plenty?  Or for your daily needs to be met?"

That really hit me.

Do I complain about not having enough?  Do I complain about disappointment?  Do I complain about discomfort?  Or do I ask for my daily bread?  Do I ask for justice?  Do I ask for God's will?  Do I simply ask for more God?

Do I ask for Ease?

Or do I ask for Enough?

When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with.  That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.

Oh, it won't be easy.  And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me.  There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human.  There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop.  But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.

And I will laugh.

And I will cry.

And I will write.

And I will live.

(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)

Reviewing: A Glorious Dark

A Glorious Dark: Finding Hope in the Tension Between Belief and Experience
A.J. Swoboda

When I read a book, be it fiction or nonfiction, and I come across something that strikes me—a turn of phrase or an important point—I fold the corner of the page over, marking that spot.  Then, when I’m finished with the book, I go back to that page, reread it, and see if something strikes me again.  If it does, I must have really meant it, and I underline it. 

In A Glorious Dark, I had 23 pages folded over.  In a 15-chapter book.  And I almost skipped the folding over and went straight to the underlining.

A.J. Swoboda has a way with words.  He mixes humor with heartfelt vulnerability and thought-provoking seriousness, and he does it all against a backdrop of Good Friday, Easter Sunday, and the in-between Saturday. 

It has been said, “It’s Friday, but Sunday is coming.”  That is almost always spoken to move us quickly from the trauma, the sadness, the fear of Jesus’ death and into the celebration of His resurrection.  And Swoboda does start with Good Friday.  He starts with Jesus’ death, and he asks us to sit there in the numbness of it.  But then he doesn’t rush from that into the joy and celebration.  He calls us to pause and fully enter in to Saturday first.  Saturday, when Jesus had been killed and was dead in the tomb.  Saturday, when nobody knew Sunday was coming.  Saturday, when it seems like my life is falling apart, and I can’t even find a friend let alone God.  Saturday, where we live a good portion of our lives.  Saturday, where Jesus may have lain dead in a tomb but, just like a river in the winter, there is a glorious dark underneath.

I have truly never read a book like this.  It is with regret that I can only recommend A Glorious Dark to anyone who reads this review, and I can’t actually go out and buy a copy for every one of my friends, my family members, and people I don’t even know very well.


 Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html.

Everything We Need to Know We Learned While Training Dragons

I meant to share this a while ago, when I first took my three daughters (and my dad) to see "How To Train Your Dragon 2" over the summer.  But then life happened (or laziness ensued or distraction set in or insert any other excuse here), and I didn't get around to it.  Then my nieces watched it during our family Christmas celebration, and news events happened in our country, and I was reminded.

So, in the theme of things as I close out 2014, better late than never.

While I was watching "How to Train Your Dragon 2," two themes kept coming to mind.  They, coupled with something I listened to myself whisper as I held my frightened four-year-old daughter on my lap, made up three truths about life I've learned over the last several years.  And, as I watch the news each day, I see how essential it is that I teach them to my girls.

It's been too long for me to give specific references to the film, and maybe they aren't even as important as real-life examples, so here goes nothing.

1) Talking and getting to know new people is better than fighting.
Our country is on the cusp of something major.  In college I studied the Civil Rights Movement, and in the cry of silent protesters and angry crowds I see so much history being repeated.  On another front there are lines being drawn about gay rights and transgender individuals and what is Christian and what is right. Then there is addiction--both the addicts themselves and the people who desperately love them and want to be enough for them . . .

We're in a mess of hurting people, and "we" as the Church are too often stepping up to the wrong side of those lines.  Yes.  There is right and there is wrong.  But God never asked us to judge the heart of man.  He asked us to love His children.  If I insist on pointing out the right and the wrong and ignore the brokenness and desperation, am I doing that?  No.  So.  Talking and getting to know people is better than fighting.  We need each other.  We need each other for what we can learn from people who are different than us, and we need each other for what we can share with people who are different than us.  And, most importantly, we need each other because without each other I'm not sure we can ever see a true picture of the God who created each of us.

2) Work together to fight the bullies.
Maybe this lends itself to #1 up there.  We. Need. Each. Other.  Period.  There's nothing more to it than that.  There are bullies in this world.  Some of them are big and physically violent.  Some of them are small and insidious.  Some of them are in the pews next to us in our churches.  Some of them stand in our capitol buildings.  Some of them wear a badge and carry a gun.  Some of them work on our news stations or in a cubicle next to us.

But, it's important to remember that not all of the people in those roles are bullies.

As I'm involved in a Global Learners' Initiative through my daughters' school district I have learned one important lesson: NEVER go alone.  Find a friend.  A buddy.  Someone who has your back.  Because here's the thing.  The bullies are tough.  Their insecurities and ignorance and hatred make them formidable, and their desperation makes them dangerous.

So don't go alone.

Let's join together.  Alone we can get killed.  Alone we can bend and break under the pressure.  Alone we can get laughed out of the room.

If you see a bully who needs to be fought, ask a friend to join you.  If you see a friend who's fighting a battle, join in.  Don't quarrel about differences in technique or philosophy or theology or interpretation.  Just fight alongside someone who needs it.

Fight the bullies with truth and goodness.  Maybe we'll get beaten in this battle.  But we'll win the war.

3) "It might get scary, but it will be okay."
This one is my favorite.  During the great battle scene at the end of the moview, my youngest daughter crawled onto my lap and whispered that she was scared.  I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tightly, and whispered back, "Baby, it will be okay.  It might get scary, but it will be okay."

There is truth to this, I realized as I heard my words.  That's life, friends.  It gets scary sometimes.  But it will be okay.

What a year my family had closing out 2013 and throughout 2014.  We were betrayed by friends--publicly.  Lies were told.  Tears were shed.  Curse words were uttered.  Truth is still taking its time stepping into the light.  In the middle of all of it, a brother ended his fight with PTSD.  And now, at the end of it (we thought), my dad has been diagnosed with prostate cancer.  His prognosis is good, though the cancer is aggressive.  Still, it's cancer.  There will be surgery and, depending on what the doctors find, maybe treatments.

It might get scary, but it will be okay.

We have faith.  And we have God.  And we have each other.  And we have grace.  And we know that in the end, it will all be okay.


Let these three lessons carry us into the new year, friends.  Let this be the year that the Church stops caring about semantics and starts caring about the heart of Christ.  Let this be the year that the bullies are fought against and that the bullied find us standing with them.  Let this be the year of hope in the midst of the fear that everything really will work out in the end.  And, in the middle of it all, let us find grace and love and joy.

Reviewing: The Making of an Ordinary Saint

The Making of an Ordinary Saint: My Journey from Frustration to Joy with the Spiritual Disciplines
by Nathan Foster

Three brief moments of disclosure before I begin:
1) This book took me months to read. That was all on me.  I slowly and carefully digested each word.  I'm certain it could have been read faster, but I couldn't do it.
2) I haven't read Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster.  Still, I have my preconceived notions about the spiritual disciplines and Richard Foster's beautiful (and comical) use of antonyms in his title.
3) One of my dearest friends edited this book.  She knows me well enough to know that means nothing as to my liking this book.

Now.  On to the review.

Nathan Foster is the son of Richard Foster, whom I have always referred to as "The Disciplines Guy."   Richard's famous book Celebration of Discipline was published when I was one year old and has always felt like a daunting, "must-do" task for me if I want to be a true Christian.  I'm not sure anyone put that on me besides me, but it has always sat there nonetheless.  So, when my editor friend told me what she was working on, I was skeptical and intrigued.  Then I got my hands on the book.  And I spent the next three months eating, chewing, laughing, wiping away tears, nodding my head, and shaking my head in amazement.

For starters, I was glad to find out I wasn't the only one who found the concept of the spiritual disciplines as a formidable but essential checklist in order to reach true Christian status.  Richard Foster's own son felt that way too!  And, in much the same words my own pastor father would use, Richard gently explained to his son (and to the reader--in a coup we get "The Spiritual Disciplines Guy" AND his "Skeptical About the Disciplines Son"!): "This isn't supposed to hurt.  It's not supposed to be a checklist about succeeding or failing.  It's supposed to be about choosing God."

With candid honesty, vulnerable humility, and well-sprinkled humor, Nathan Foster details his four-year journey with the spiritual disciplines.  It's a journey from fear, trepidation, and duty to freedom, love, and joy.  Through his journey, Foster makes approachable what has long felt daunting.  And he helps his reader see the secret Richard Foster tried to share with us all along:

It isn't about twelve rigid practices; in fact, as I go about each day, there are so many simple ways I can intentionally direct my will and actions toward God.  While the categories are helpful, they are only constructed to enable us to frame our experiences.  In a sense there is only one discipline: an active response to a loving God. (p191)

And, in that learning to actively respond to a loving God, through Richard Foster's introductions to each chapter, Nathan Foster's prosaic explanations of his practical implementation of each discipline (sometimes accidental, always simple, and never with mundane results), and a brief essay on a "mother or father" of the faith who lived that discipline daily, we see that this really is practical.  It really is about responding actively to a loving God.  It really is about choosing joy and choosing love and seeing God and needing Him and wanting Him more than anything else.

I'll read this book again.  Next time it won't be for an assignment or with a deadline I already missed.  It will be with a journal and a plan to actively and intentionally walk this journey on my own.


Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers (www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers) program.  The opinions I have expressed are my won, and I was not required to write a positive review.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 (http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html).

Finding Hope

I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.  It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter.  (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me.  Any time I'm around books.)

It's a long, long book.  Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read.  Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else.  At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long.  And then he says it.  On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

And that's it.

That's what all these things have in common.

And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers.  Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research.  And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza.  Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.

"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years.  The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds.  But they have hope.

I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD.  He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was.  But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.

For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me.  It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it.  Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it.  Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings.  Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School.  We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died.  And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere."  Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.

As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction.  And all I have to offer them is this.

Life is messy.

Life is violent.

Life is confusing.

But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.

Oh, my God.  He will not delay.
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always.  Always.

{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}

When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .

We used to be a bit more innocent.  A bit more naive.  A bit more trusting.  And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two.  Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.

My last post was in May. Early May.  That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down.  I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party.  We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family.  It was busy, and it was fun.

And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail.  It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone.  He asked me to call him back right away.

My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car.  So I prepared myself for that.

Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."

Robbed.  Awesome.

Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken.  We also determined our back doors were both toast.  And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.

So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen.  We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done.  And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door.  And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them.  We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers.  And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.

Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace.  There are also emotional ones.  There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing.  There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police.  There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank.  And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids.  Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.

We've installed a security system.  And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects.  And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.

But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson.  Or maybe relearned it.  There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God."  (Ps 20:7)

And I know He won't let us down.  Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal.  I trust in the name of the LORD my God.

Theology from Veggie Tales

The other night our two youngest girls asked if they could watch a "show" instead of read a story for bedtime.  It was sort of a hectic night (our oldest, my husband, and I were just sitting down to eat supper at 7:00 p.m.), so I said yes.  I fired up the Wii, searched Netflix and Amazon Prime for the requested "Charlie Brown."  Nothing for less than $1.99.

I draw the line at paying for bedtime stories, when I'm already paying for the subscriptions to online movie channels, so I searched for something else.  Aah, Veggie Tales.  Most of the episodes were over an hour long or had been watched ad nauseam, so I settled on something about Snoodles.  Whatever.  Like a good mom I wasn't going to watch it with them.

Now, in my defense, it should be noted that I know how long it takes to read a novel when working nearly full time outside the home; being an at-home mom to a preschooler; staying involved as a volunteer in my Kindergartener's and 3rd grader's classes; trying to write a novel; and keeping up with my responsibilities as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, and church member.  (I was told recently via a blog post I didn't have the time to read that we should stop highlighting how busy we are, because it's neither healthy nor helpful.  So pretend none of that just happened.)  Anyway, here's how long it takes: more than nine weeks.  I know that because I'm one week from my library book being due--after my allotted two renewals--and I'm still only half way through the sucker.  You don't get to read through it very quickly when you only read a chapter at a time . . . on a good day.

So, like any good mom  normal mom sane person I took the Snoodles time to eat my dinner and read my book.  One sandwich and five pages in I felt that all-too-familiar feeling.  Cue the guilt.  Cue the "here's your chance to be an involved parent while expending almost no energy, and you're sitting here reading."  Cue the self-imposed judgement.

I put in my bookmark and crawled onto the sofa with three of my family members (four, since the youngest always insists on including the cat), took a deep breath, and started watching the Snoodles.

I'll be honest, my mind was on my book, so I wasn't paying the closest attention through most of it.  All I noted was that the story sounded a lot like a Dr. Seuss book (so did Larry, apparently, because at the end he told Bob he was thinking he wanted to eat some green eggs).  And then the littlest Snoodle who'd been carrying around all these drawings people had given him of what they saw when they looked at him showed up at a little shack.  Inside, he found a stranger.  The little Snoodle told him how upset he was and how weighed down he was by the artwork he carried.  So the stranger said, "Let me paint what I see."

"Oh, great," thought Little Snoodle.  One more person to point out how I don't measure up.  How my dreams are silly.  How my clothes don't fit and they don't match and no one likes me anyway.  How nothing about me is right or will ever be right.

The stranger painted.  And he painted.  And then he unveiled his painting with a flourishing withdrawal of the cloth and an, "It's time that you learned what you really look like!"

Little Snoodle saw a boy who was older and strong.  He had wings that would help him fly.  His eyes showed courage and freedom.

And Little Snoodle said, "I'd like to believe it, but I'm afraid to."

What was the stranger's response?  "I know who you are, for I made you."

I.  Made.  You.

Friend, there is Someone who made you too.  So He knows who you are.  Those people handing you pictures of who you are, what you're good at, what they see when they look at you . . . they don't know.  They.  Don't.  Know.

He knows.  He made you.

As the stranger, no, the Creator, says to Little Snoodle, "I gave you those wings so you can soar."  Little Snoodle replied that the picture from the Creator was too big, and it would weigh him down like the others had done.  Instead he was told that if he carried that picture, if he remembered what it showed about who he really was, he would find it actually made him lighter.

And, lo and behold, he looked down and saw that he was flying.

God gave each of us wings, too.  And He wants us to soar.

It takes more than nine weeks for me to read a book.  I often park my kids in front of the television because I'm exhausted.  We have eaten out more times this week than anyone should.  We haven't had guests in our home in too long, and I haven't spoken to my best friends--more than a quick wave and a stolen chat from a car idling in the middle of the road--in weeks.  I so often feel like I am failing at everything I'm trying to do.  But none of those things are the picture of what the Creator made me to be.  He made me brave.  And free.  And He wants me to soar.

A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.

Overexposed

This is me.  Baring my soul.  It's easier to do when I'm sitting at Starbucks and you're wherever you are, and I don't need to look at you.

For a while now I have been thinking about writing this.  Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief.  I love them anyway.  Because it's weird.  Like face blindness and other random mental disorders diseases conditions, a lot of people don't think I'm telling the truth or think it's just an excuse or something everyone lives with. 

Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails.  I can't wear nylons.  When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something.  I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms.  When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out.  I have a sensory processing disorder.

Most of my life was spent in the dark about it.  I thought I was just sensitive.  My parents thought I was just being dramatic.  People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide.  Or hit someone.  Or throw up.  Or just sit down and cry.

Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me.  It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight.  He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me.  I read it.  And I cried.  For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real.  That I could trust what I was feeling.  And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it.  And I could tell people about it.

I've spent the last several years doing that.  Telling people.  Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me."  Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me."  Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please.  I'm overwhelmed right now.  I need a break."  For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has.  Some people even want to know how they can help.  But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too.  I just shut them out."  or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right.  You just always need things to be your way." 

Listen, that's hurtful.  I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could.  I wish I could eat spicy things or onions.  It would make me feel like less of a problem.  I wish I could sit in a hot tub.  I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening.  I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater.  I would be able to wear the latest fashions then.  I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed.  I would feel like a better mother.

At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up.  Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else?  Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors?  Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls?  Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins?  Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot?  Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses? 

When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say.  I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response.  Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay.  All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break. 

Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan.  Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does.  On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard.  She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty.  Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."

Ah.  There you have it.  That is normal.  The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them.  But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once.  Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down. 

It's real.  And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time.  Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky.  My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation.  Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long.  The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink.  It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting.  The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it.  Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing.  Loudly.  I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle. 

I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate.  Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day.  And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this.  I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder.  It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash.  But I'm learning to cope.  And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up.  There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.

I Almost Missed It Too

No doubt about it!  God is good--
good to good people, good to the good-hearted.
But I nearly missed it,
missed seeing his goodnesss.
I was looking the other way,
looking up to the people
At the top,
envying the wicked who have it made,
Who have nothing to worry about,
not a care in the whole wide world.

Psalm 73:1-5, The Message


What a reminder, early this morning, as I sat on the too-small front porch of a house I want to sell as I looked out at two vans that just aren't quite as cool as the Land Rovers I see every day and listened to my too-close neighbors begin their days while their dogs bark incessantly.

Maybe it's a first-world problem, or maybe it's an American one, but I'm certain it's not just mine.  Isn't it easy to envy other people who seemingly have it made?  Isn't it easy to be discontent with the car I drive or the house I call home or the neighborhood where I live or the gifts and talents I have or everything else about my life that just isn't good enough?  Isn't it far too easy to feel like other people "have it made, piling up riches" while we are "stupid to play by the rules" (vs. 12 in The Message)?

I have often said that the greatest disservice my mother ever did me was to teach me that I wasn't any more important than anyone else.  It makes me wait in line longer than other people do, it makes me give money to church and to other people who need it, it makes me spend some of my free time working for others.  It forces me to be a little bit less selfish.

Yet, I still forget.  I still look at other people and all that they have and wonder if--how--I can get my hands on some of it.

And then I'm reminded.  Whether it's by a blown call in a football game, giving a touchdown to someone who must know he didn't score one, or an artist selflessly offering to create something to benefit other people, or a few verses from a Psalm that I've read many times before.  I'm reminded.

"No doubt about it!  God is good . . . But I nearly missed it."

God, today, please open my eyes.  Let me focus on the higher purpose.  Let my focus be You and Your goodness.

You're all I want in heaven!
You're all I want on earth!
When my skin sags and my bones get brittle,
God is rock-firm and faithful.
Look!  Those who left you are falling apart!
Deserters, they'll never be heard from again.
But I'm in the very presence of God--
oh, how refreshing it is!
I've made Lord God my home.
God, I'm telling the world what you do!

Psalm 73:25-28, The Message

Getting Back On Track

Ah, the lazy, hazy days of summer.  A little too hazy and humid this year for my taste, but still, they were lazy days.  And, if I'm honest, they were way too lazy.

Summer is the break we all need, right?  For as long as I can remember, my life has been divided into "school year" and "summer break."  Even now that I've been out of college and working at a "real job" for 13 years(!), that hasn't changed.  Most years I welcome the break and the change in pace.  This year, it's thrown me for a real loop.

I began the year with wonderful and lofty goals.  Goals I've been longing to achieve for most of my adult life--writing more, reading my Bible more, eating better, losing weight.  They have always required more discipline than I could tap into in my feeble brain, so I've always failed.  This year was going to be different.

And it was!  For the first month, I did great.  The second and third months wavered, but I still tried and was still committed.

Then, those lazy, hazy days of summer arrived.  The kids got a break from their routine, and I took one too.

Now, I find myself nearing the last quarter of the year, weighing the same as I did when I started, eating poorly, my gym card gathering dust, my Bible reading plan crossed off through June, and my blog updated once a week . . . maybe.  (I am ahead on my book reading goals, but I'm not sure anyone other than the Grand Rapids Public Library should be proud of that.)

So now I find myself trying to get back on track.  A series of books I just finished, the Chaos Walking trilogy, truly does contain some perfect lines (thanks, Amy), and one of those weaves its way through each of the three books: "It isn't whether you fall down, it's whether you get back up."  So, here I am.  The measure of Beka in 2012 isn't whether I fell down.  I've fallen down every year that I've tried to better my life.  The measure of Beka in 2012 is that I'm getting back up.  I've never done that before with these goals.  The other measure is that I'm doing it bathed in prayer and begging God to drag me back up.  Maybe I learned more by falling down than I would have by staying on my own two feet.  Isn't that always the way?

So, here I am.  At the demands of my dear friend Julie (who won't read this, because she never does), I am not looking backwards at where I would be today if I hadn't fallen.  I'm looking forward at where I can get by keeping my hand in His and moving.  I have a plan to continue (and finish!) my journey through the Bible in 2012.  I will accomplish it, because I want to, and because when I don't want to, I'm begging God to make me want to.  I have a plan to write more--maybe on my blog or maybe on secret projects to get DearEditorFriend off my back--and I have a plan to eat better.  I need to make a plan (ie. a schedule, so I don't just sit and watch TV) to work out and still manage to get my house clean and my kids to school in time.

It's a busy life, to be a mother.  It's a busier life, to be a mother with a dream.  So when I fall down, I'm going to get back up.  Because it's a sad life to spend all your days in the lazy, hazy days of summer.

The Most Important Lesson We Can Learn

I have three beautiful and amazing girls.  They like to giggle together.  They like to snuggle with each other.  They like to play Little People together.  And they love to fight.  Around my house, there is a lot of playing noise that quickly turns into yelling and screaming noise.  And then crying.  And then (usually when they've been reminded), there is a quiet and sad noise:

"I'm sorry."

Immediately following, and always unprompted, there is an equally quiet and sad noise:

"I forgive you."

The volume and the emotion behind it generally suggests that while not all is forgotten, and the pain still exists, the offense is forgiven.  It won't come between them anymore.  And, within minutes, they are giggling together.

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.

I work at a children's advocacy center.  We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.  National statistics tell us that 90% of the children who are sexually abused are victimized by people they know, love, and trust.  In the county where I live, it is closer to 99%.  We're talking fathers, stepfathers, mothers, cousins, Dad's best friend, step siblings, babysitters.  The other day, the mom of one of our clients was speaking with a group of people.  She said, "My daughter is an inspiration to me.  She teaches us all so much.  And I know the biggest reason for her freedom and joy is something that she is teaching me: she forgave the man who did this to her." 

She forgave the man who did this to her.  She forgave the dear family friend who sexually abused her when he thought she was sleeping.

At the same time, there is a couple I know who are in the process of getting divorced.  The reason?  She had an affair.

I understand that having someone cheat on you is a horrible thing.  The betrayal, the disappointment, the fear, the rejection.  It is, according to many people I know, unforgivable.

And, in the case of this couple, it destroyed their marriage.  Or did it?  You see, she had her affair--and ended it--at least fifteen years ago.  She came clean to her husband, they recommitted themselves each to their marriage and each other, and they moved past it.  Or so she thought.

What really ended their marriage?  Not forgiving.  When he asked her to leave, he told her it was because he had never forgiven her for what she did fifteen years ago.  Talk about betrayal, disappointment, fear, and rejection.  Can you imagine believing that the man you love has extended grace and forgiveness--which you, self admittedly, did not deserve--only to find out that he has held on for fifteen years?  That slowly, his deception has been eating away at the vows you took before God and your family and friends?

That's what not forgiving does.  In Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott wrote, "Not forgiving is like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die."  Amen.  And then amen again.

Not forgiving destroys marriages.  It robs joy.  It erases freedom.  It brings a slow and painful death.

Forgiving brings life.  It causes joy and delivers freedom.  It's hard.  And it may be quiet and sad, because it's not easy, and the pain is still there.  But, it says that nothing will come between us. 

Spend a few hours at our house, and you will learn many lessons.  You will learn how a small person with mere inches of water in the bathtub can make every square inch of the bathroom wet.  You will learn that ketchup, cheese, mayo, pickles, and two slices of bread make a terrific lunch.  You will learn how to giggle, transform plastic tubs into cars, and use Mom's cell phone to watch Curious George.  You will also learn how to apologize.  And, most importantly, you will learn how to forgive.

Cheating People

This morning, in the coolness of my bedroom (okay, it was probably about 80 degrees--but that's cool if you'd entered the room the night before at about 95), I read Acts 13 in The Message.  I've always enjoyed Eugene Peterson's translation as I find him to be sassy, honest, and practical.  This particular section is referred to as "Barnabas, Saul, and Doctor Know-It-All."  (See what I mean about sassy?  You should check out Job!)

As I was reading, I was struck especially by the section for verses 7-11:

The governor invited Barnabas and Saul in, wanting to hear God's Word firsthand from them. But Dr. Know-It-All (that's the wizard's name in plain English) stirred up a ruckus, trying to divert the governor from becoming a believer. But Saul (or Paul), full of the Holy Spirit and looking him straight in the eye, said, "You bag of wind, you parody of a devil—why, you stay up nights inventing schemes to cheat people out of God. But now you've come up against God himself, and your game is up. You're about to go blind—no sunlight for you for a good long stretch." He was plunged immediately into a shadowy mist and stumbled around, begging people to take his hand and show him the way.

Those italics there are mine, because that's the part that jumped out at me.  "Why, you stay up nights inventing schemes to cheat people out of God."  Wow.  Now, this "Dr. Know-It-All" was a wizard.  He truly did spend his time trying to distract people from the Gospel message that Paul and Barnabas were trying to share.  And he paid for it dearly, with his sight.

But that really got me thinking--about me.  I'm certainly not a wizard (no amount of waiting has resulted in the delivery of my acceptance letter for Hogwarts), but I can tend toward being a Know-It-All.  I have the answers or I have the challenge to what people want to do.  And, I don't stay up nights inventing schemes.  I tend to stay up nights praying for a breeze so I can actually fall asleep.  But do I still cheat people out of God?  Can someone who loves God and has every good intention to serve Him do that?

Wouldn't that be a horrible message for a Christian to receive?  "Why, you . . . cheat people out of God."  Ugh.

But, if I'm not living as He called me to--if I'm not loving my neighbors, if I'm ignoring their needs, if I'm not participating in my church's work, if I don't have time to listen to a friend's heart, if I say I'll pray and don't, if I'm stingy with the resources God has entrusted to me, if I'm too paralyzed by fear to step out in faith to do what I know He has for me . . . am I cheating people out of God?  Because, really, if we're whom He has left on earth to do His work, to be Jesus to the people we meet, then if we aren't doing that are we any better than Dr. Know-It-All?

Breaking the Silence

This may be the longest break I've taken from blogging since 2012 and my new goals began.  Now that we're (more than--how did that happen!?) half way through the year, it's worth an update.  Or at least a post.

Summer makes life hard, doesn't it?  For some reason I always think the break from school will mean a break from the busyness, and that's never the case.  This summer has brought with it intolerable (for most of us anyway) heat.  That has led to me not sleeping at night, which has led to me not waking up at 5:00 a.m. to go to the gym and come home and read my Bible.  Which leads to most of my goals not being met.

My girlies and I just returned from a two-week vacation at my parents' cottage where we (thankfully!) had air conditioning to make it through the hottest temps in decades or even centuries.  We brought back with us suntans, certificates from passing to a new level of swimming lessons, a renewed commitment to achieving our goals, and a serious head cold.  Which again means I'm not sleeping, not working out, and . . . not eating!  I have no appetite, so this has been a great time to force myself into more salads and fruits.  After all, if I don't feel like eating but I know I need to eat, I might as well make it healthy, right?  So now I've lost 2 1/2 pounds since I returned home.  I'll take it!

On vacation, I also rediscovered the blog of a friend of a friend who has now lost two unborn babies.  They had the funeral for their second daughter two months ago.  Since I had the time, I read through all of her blog posts from her miscarriage of their first daughter, Eden.  What a beautiful gift for this mama who still grieves her baby Zion.  You'll find updates for them in my blog roll (Sprinkles & Wrinkles).  If you've ever lost a baby, or even if you haven't, she is an amazing writer who truly captures joy and peace in the midst of grief.

Then, at the end of vacation, my family learned that an old friend of our family's--and a former babysitter whom my sister bit :D--was just diagnosed with breast cancer.  I added her blog (Stacey's Boobies) today and will stay updated for prayer and the self-discovery and learning that inevitably comes with reading about someone's journey through the valley.

There were also happy times:
* The girls and I took my dad to see "Brave" at the movie theater.  They didn't like the scary bears, but we all agreed that mommy can be a bear sometimes but that doesn't mean mommy doesn't love them fiercely too.
* My friend Shannon and I went to see two movies: "Rock of Ages" and "Magic Mike."  The acting was terrible in "Magic Mike," and they were both cheesy comedies, which I think only one meant to be.  I'd recommend one over the other.  I'm sure you can guess which.
* I went to see "People Like Us," which I have been waiting for since filming began and it was still known as "Welcome to People."  I'm a huge Chris Pine fan, and he did a great job.  Michelle Pfeiffer was also splendid, and I appreciate that she looks her age.  I liked it far more than most of the reviews suggest I should.
* I learned that the son of a former classmate of my parents (at Kalamazoo Christian High School) will be representing the USA in steeplechase at the London Olympics in a couple of weeks.  Go USA and go Evan Jager!  (Now I guess I need to find out when steeplechase will be run . . . and dove and leaped and all the other things it is.)
* I discovered Words with Friends.  Which is probably why I haven't blogged at all.
* I read several books and made it through 1 1/2 grocery bags worth of old magazines.  Yes, I recycled them all.
* I had the opportunity to get almost caught up in my Bible reading.  Job in The Message is fantastically sassy and well-written.  And Jeremiah might be crazy.  Or at least long winded.

It was a great vacation, but I'm glad to be home, even with this cold.  Now that I'm back, I'll try to be better.  Or at least make an effort.

Being a Monument

I love Washington, DC.  It is one of my favorite cities, and one of my favorite places to be is sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial as dusk falls on the city.  The lights on the Washington Monument, the White House, the Vietnam Veterens Memorial . . . it's all so beautiful and poignant.  I love what it represents, and I love to be in the middle of all of that history.

Our country is big on monuments.  DC is obviously full of them--they're all so different and the artists have done so much to capture the moment, the memory, the people, the commitment, the struggle, the honor, the beauty.  Everywhere you look in that city, you are reminded of the wars we have fought, the freedom we have won, the men and women who sacrificed so much for us.  Downtown in my city, monuments remind me of a woman who refused to move from her seat on the bus to a seat that society demanded she take.  They remind me of a president who was our "native son."  In Oklahoma City and New York City, they remind us of the horror that men can inflict on other men--and of the heroes who will always step in to help.  In Rapid City, SD, they represent the first 150 years of our nation's independence.  We flock to them, and they become tourist attractions (you can even buy them on a keychain so you never have to forget!).

Monuments. 

Merriam-Webster defines a monument as "(1) : a lasting evidence, reminder, or example of someone or something notable or great (2) : a distinguished person b : a memorial stone or a building erected in remembrance of a person or event."

It turns out we Americans aren't the only ones who love monuments, either.  In The Message, Eugene Peterson translates Psalm 148:13-14 as follows:

Let them praise the name of GOD--
it's the only Name worth praising.
His radiance exceeds anything in earth and sky;
he's built a monument--his very own people!

That has stuck with me since I read it in my morning devotions several days ago.  "He's built a monument--his very own people!"  We are a monument.  Us.  Apparently God wanted to create "a lasting evidence, reminder, or example of Someone notable [and] great."  (capitalization mine)

What an incredible thought.  As with the monuments erected on this earth, the Artist has created us all unique--yet He has captured the moment, the memory, the people, the commitment, the struggle, the honor, the beauty.  My testimony, my life, my story, is a living monument to the glory of God.  When people see me, may they remember.  And may they praise the name of GOD, because it's the only Name worth praising.

Accepting the Bad With the Good

At one point or another in my life, I imagine I have read the entire Bible.  I remember being in high school (probably middle school, too) and reading a chapter or two with my family after dinner each night.  (Remember when families actually ate meals together every night?  And then they did devotions?)  Like most people, I find some chapters of the Bible--some books of the Bible--more meaningful interesting easy to read than others.  And, like most books I've read, some have become my favorites.

I love Philippians.  Some day I'd like to commit it all to memory--I have a good start because of Aaron Wetzel and my days in Higher Ground.  As crazy as it sounds, I'd have to say that Job is my second favorite book.  It's long, and there's a fair amount of doom and gloom, so I'm not committed to memorizing it, but it's good nonetheless.

As I'm continuing to catch up to the end of May (how did that happen?!) in my Bible reading plan, I finally arrived in Job.  And, like every time, I was struck by its beginning.  Not by the part where Satan and God are talking, and God is bragging up Job.  Not by the part where God allows Satan to--with some parameters--strip Job of all of his security and wealth and love.  The part where Job says (as written in The Message):

Naked I came from my mother's womb,
naked I'll return to the womb of the earth.
God gives, God takes.
God's name be ever blessed.
(Job 1:21)

God's name be ever blessed.  Ever blessed.  No matter what.  No matter what my life looks like or how much money I have in the bank or how healthy I or my children am.  No matter what; God's name be ever blessed.

I know that I've shared this before, but I have a child who resides in heaven.  Baby Zion would be two years and seven months old if it had lived.  Addison, Zion's twin, is that old.  She is exuberant and loving and adorable and giving.  She is so grown up.  She is life, where Zion is not.  I have to remember, some days, that Zion was God's to give and God's to take away.  Like everything else in my life, God gives, God takes, and God's name be ever blessed.

The important thing to note from Job is that while he is committed to blessing God's name--no matter what--he isn't committed to a grief-free life.  He isn't committed to never crying, to never tearing his clothes and sitting in sackcloth and ashes.  He isn't committed to laughing in the face of death and destruction.  He's just committed to God. 

So am I.  There are days, moments, that I still cry.  Last night, my two oldest girls gave me mini pink roses from a neighbor's miniature rose bush.  As with the last time I received two pink roses, one was open, and one was closed almost to a bud.  That was a celebration of the birth of Addison and (unknown to the giver) a memorial to a baby who didn't live.  My girls knew nothing of that and were each given a little rose to give me.  It just happened to bring a tear to my eye.  That happens, and it will continue to happen.  I get to cry about it, because part of my heart isn't here.  My family isn't all together.  God gave, and He took away.  That hurts.

We are told repeatedly that Job never sinned. He never cursed God or turned against Him. So the sin isn't the crying or the loss or the grief. The sin is in turning my back on God.  I don't understand His ways.  I don't understand why He would tell us that we had lost our child in the same breath that we were told we'd had a second baby.  I don't get it.  And it hurts.  But may God's name be ever blessed.

Who I Am In The Dark

This is for my pastor, who took me to task for claiming there were lots of thought-provoking moments from our service on Sunday and then only posting a video from someone else.  (It was a jest-filled taking to task, like much of the evening was, but I still feel I owe him one.)  So, Pastor Tim, this is for you.

For the past several weeks, our pastor has been delivering messages about community and truly caring for each other:

• On April 15, we were challenged by John 21:1-19 when Jesus calls Peter to demonstrate his love for Jesus by feeding His sheep.  It was explained that Jesus had taken His disciples full circle.  He called them to Himself by making them fishers of men.  He called them, Pastor Tim said, to bring people from one kingdom into another--they were to rescue them from the sea (representative of chaos and despair) and bring them into peace and joy.  After His resurrection, Jesus again calls them to Himself by telling them to feed His lambs.  He called them to carry on His work of being an unconditional and true friend to to the broken by meeting their deepest needs.
• On April 22, Dr. Branson Parler filled in for Pastor Tim, and he preached about freedom.  His text was Galatians 5:13-6:2, and he spoke about the truth of freedom.  So often we consider Christianity as a list of don'ts, and we want to rebel against that.  The truth is that through Christianity, we are free to be whom God has actually created us to be.  We want to be free from others when God is calling us to be free to be with others and to care for them.
• This past Sunday, Pastor Tim taught on integrity.  Webster defines "integrity" as "firm adherence to a code of especially moral . . . values; un unimpaired condition; the quality or state of being complete or undivided."  I like the way that dictionary.com states that final definition: "the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished."  Being whole . . . undiminshed.  God calls us to a whole and undiminshed relationship with Him, and with others.  It does no good for anyone for me to pretend to be someone other than who I am.  When I do that, I'm hiding something--I'm in bondage to a facade, an act--and I'm not free to fully love others.  There's freedom in Christ.  There's freedom in the humilty of falling on my face at the cross and saying, "God, I don't have it all together."  There's freedom in admitting that same truth to others.  There's freedom in integrity, in being whole and undiminished, complete and undivided.

So, who am I in the dark?  Who am I behind my husband's back, my friends' backs, when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?  There's the true answer, and then there's the answer I'd like to give.  How is that for integrity?  Or maybe I can just let you in on my little secret.  I'll quote Douglas Coupland (in one of my favorite books, Life After God) to share it right:

Now here is my secret; I tell it to you with an openness of heart that I doubt I shall ever achieve again, so I pray that you are in a quiet room as you hear these words. My secret is that I need God--that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem capable of giving; to help me to be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love.

That's who I am in the dark.

But there's something more that hit me. 

"Who am I . . . when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?" 

Maybe that's one of the other reasons I need to keep my doors open to let my neighbors in.  If they're in, then I can't be someone else, can I?  Because I can't hide.  I'm not in the dark if I'm always willing to walk in the light--with Jesus and with others.

So this is the truth, who I am in the dark.  The truth is that I need God.  I am sick, and I can't make it on my own.  I need Him to help me give and be kind and love.  The truth is also that I need others.  Even when I want to be apart from them, I need them to keep me accountable and help me to be who I truly am.  Whole and undiminished.

The Nineteenth Sabbath

A different sort of hymn today: "Why I Hate Religion But Love Jesus."