Not Your Average Beauty Blog Post

Hi ladies, how are you?  I’m saying “ladies” because with a title with the word “beauty” at its center, it’s likely that there aren’t any guys reading this.  But, who knows, there could be.  So.  For you random men checking in, perhaps you’ll stick around until the end of this blog post and gain some insight into the psyche of your wife/girlfriend/fiance/adult daughter.

Beauty is one of those polarizing, controversial topics these days.  It’s something that women, that people, aren’t supposed to care about anymore, but one glance at YouTube, Etsy, Pinterest, the check-out line at your local supermarket or pharmacy, the plethora of products on the shelves at Ulta and Sephora tells you that we still REALLY do.  Not only do we care about beauty, we worship it, we strive and spend to prolong it as long as possible.

Yet we aren’t supposed to discuss it.  Women are not supposed to care about or comment upon the beauty they see in another woman, lest it portray them as petty or competitive or insecure.  Men dare not admire or remark upon a woman’s beauty, lest they be labeled lascivious, patriarchal or shallow.  Women are privately maligned or criticized for either not doing enough with their looks, or for paying them too much attention.  And this is one area that all women eventually migrate to in their focus, regardless of their age, ethnicity, career path, religious affiliation, economic status, political preference.

One has to ask WHY that is?  Well, as a woman who believes very strongly in a loving and wise Creator, I think one reason is because God enjoys beauty.  I think it brought (and brings) Him great joy to see the beauty in His creation–in the hues of the sunrise and sunset; the intricate design of each snowflake falling from the sky, of each sand-dollar washed onto the beach; the colors of the trees across a mountainside in the Fall; the regal feathers of the peacock; the patchwork of fields and swirl of mountaintops beneath you when you’re flying in an airplane; the sinewy body of a wild horse, and in the people He has made to carry His image.

Now, this is the part where I usually include some scripture that backs up my opinion.  But this time, I actually couldn’t find anything in the Bible to support my theory that God loves beauty.  I only believe that He does because of what I’ve observed in nature and in my opinion that the design of the human form is inherently beautiful because it reflects the image of God.

If we look carefully, we can see God’s intention in His creation of beautiful things, and the deliberate omission of attention to beauty throughout scripture.  In avoiding the topic, He is making a point: beauty is all around us and is a marker of His glory, it deserves our admiration as it points us back to Him.  But it is not to be worshiped, idolized, or to become our obsession or place of value.  Conversely, it is also foolish for us to pretend that beauty has no place in society when God himself invented the concept.

But we’ve cheapened it.  I’ve cheapened it.  And in doing so, we’re hearkening back to the very thing that got Satan in trouble and bought him a one-way ticket out of Heaven in the first place.  He saw that he was beautiful and he began to worship his beauty, to identify with it and to imbue it with a false power. (Ezekiel 28: 12-19)

And when I read every scripture passage about beauty since the fall of Lucifer, I see a warning.  I see warnings about the focus we place on beauty, the time we spend praising it, seeking it, desiring it, then mourning its loss, denying it, vilifying it, pretending it doesn’t exist.  The warning is repeated throughout scripture, because whether we paint beauty in a positive or negative light, the space and attention it gets in our female minds is space and attention that we are not giving our beautiful Lord.  So that’s another reason I think that we all tend to hone in on beauty–because the enemy tends to use it as a distraction to turn our praise away from the Creator.

And listen, I am guilty of this.  It’s why I’m writing this post, and it is not easy for me to be vulnerable about this topic.  Vanity is a true struggle for me–there, I admitted it.  There are parts of my body that I’ve been proud to have throughout my life.  There are parts of my body that have been the source of much complaining, that I’ve wished weren’t there.  And in recent years I’ve begun to see a change in the physical attributes of mine that I would call “strengths.”  And the change has not been welcome.  As this year marked my 41st trip around the sun, I am seeing the orbital pull on my skin–that it is not as tight, taut, smooth or spot-free as it once was.  My hair is not as thick.  My muscle takes longer to tone and more easily hides behind fat.  My nails are becoming more brittle and my stamina is flagging.  When I was in my teens, 20s and early 30s, I think I secretly believed that I would never show signs of aging.  The realization that it really is happening to me, that the appearance that I have become so familiar with and grown to appreciate is wavering and fading, is a pivotal point.

Here is where I, and many women, grapple.  Here is where I begin to understand the message that Paul preaches about contentment in Philippians 4:10-13.  The world would try to persuade me to prolong my youth, to not let my beauty suffer because of aging.  It pushes medical creams, organic serums, and various aesthetic treatments to try to sell me the lie that I can retain my youth, that I can improve upon something God has designed according to His will.  It turns something God inhibits in Himself into a sinful distraction of discontentment.  (And you can hear that the world also tries to convince us that beauty means youth, not maturity).  But, my choice and my challenge is to listen instead to the Lord, whose message, although I struggle to accept it, is that I’m still imaging Him as I age, in my peaceful acceptance of the order of His design.  The gradual loss of young beauty reveals the condition of my heart and the strength of my identity in Christ.

I did not write this blog post to fish for compliments.  I wrote it to acknowledge the question that every woman asks, either out loud or to herself: “am I beautiful?”  And to answer this question and close this blog post, I think it’s worth our time to turn our attention to the creation story in Genesis chapter 1.  When God created Adam and Eve, the crown jewel of His creation, they were described in this way:

“So, God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them…God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.” (Genesis 1: 27, 31).

That should be enough, for you and for me.  To carry the honor of imaging God in exactly how He made us, knowing that when He sees us, He thinks that we are very good.  We carry His creative fingerprint in the gender that He has assigned to us, the hair we have, the tone of our skin, the sound of our voice, and the natural changes that occur in our bodies as we grow.   To try to downplay or exceed His work is an act of rebellion itself, yet enjoying and appreciating how He has crafted us is an act of praise.

So yes, ladies, you are beautiful because you were beautifully made.   Rest in that fact, but when you begin to doubt, trust the One who made you to reassure you of the wonderful beauty that He sees in you when it seems that the world has turned its gaze to lesser things.

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” (Psalm 139:14

 

 

 

 

Climate-Controlled Christianity–Why It Matters How You Unwind.

I bought a huge bag of oranges from Costco a couple of weeks ago–mostly for school lunches, healthy snacks at home, and soccer games. I pulled a few out of the bag for our tabletop fruit bowl when I got home, then stored the bag with its remaining oranges in the pantry.  Then I kind of forgot they were there.

So when I decided to reload the fruit bowl, I was disappointed to pull the bag out of the pantry and find that at least four of the oranges had turned–they were mushy, smelly and coated in this brownish-green dust that was rubbing off on any good orange they touched.  I managed to salvage some, but even those had to be scrubbed after resting in the bag with the bad fruit. It was discouraging to carry that bag, and a good portion of oranges that were too far gone to consume or just too near the mold, out to the trash in our driveway.  I thought of the money I was throwing away, the fruit that had gone to waste, and realized that I could have prevented it all if I had been just a little more careful about how I stored the oranges.

As I stood there slightly disgusted, a parallel formed in my mind between the oranges and the life of a Believer, specifically in regard to where and how we rest, spend our downtime and “store” ourselves, and how these choices impact our lives and the lives of those around us.

I have heard pastors in various churches preach their ideas of what it means for Believers to be “in the world, but not of the world”.  This exact phrase is actually nowhere to be found in the Bible, but is a summary of a section of scripture from John 17, where Christ is praying the night before His crucifixion.

“...I have given them your word and the world has hated them, for they are not of the world any more than I am of the world.  My prayer is not that you take them out of the world, but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it…As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world.” (John 17: 14-16, 18).

And then in Galatians, Paul explores the “fruit” or byproducts of walking closely with Christ and in step with the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22)

That Christians are called to be a part of the world, rubbing up against non-Christians, living a life that reflects Jesus by the fruit of the Spirit is not ground-breaking.  We all know this to be our God-given role and responsibility. The struggle with this is often in the how we do this.  Just how do we represent Christ while being relevant to our culture, our demographic; how do we maintain that “set apart” aspect of walking as a Believer while forging relationships with people who can have a vastly different world view?

I believe the key is found in not our action, but in our inaction, in our rest.  And specifically, the kind of rest and relaxation to which we habitually turn.

In Matthew 6: 33, Jesus said:

But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

And then in Matthew 11: 28-30 He continues:

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

Even when He preached these words thousands of years ago, Jesus was timely and relevant for today.  His audience wasn’t plagued with an overabundance of information, a competitive job market or endless fundraisers.  Yet, they needed rest, and although the advancements in technology have made our lives easier in some ways, so do we!  We 21st Century Believers have so many choices for how we can spend our downtime–at our fingertips this very moment are, more than likely, 15 things we can do today to unwind.  But if you think about it, most of them are simply distractions.

I have been learning this year as my children have gotten older and become more involved in things outside our home, forcing me to become a part time taxi driver (without the pay), that it is so important what I do with my free moments and where my stores of peace lie.   I’m learning to be wary of the things that my flesh thinks it NEEDS to relax. If I reach for my phone, I’m bombarded by images and sounds that could be drowning out the voice of God. If I habitually reach for a beer when I’m sitting alone on the sofa for a rare ten minutes, I’m filling my body with a substance that offers a counterfeit joy, and possibly feeds an addiction.  If I turn on the TV and zone out, I’m surrendering to the fantasy of escapism.

After reading the paragraph above, some may assume that I’m labeling each of these things as evil in and of themselves.  Not true–all of these examples, and others, are indulgences that can be perfectly harmless when relegated to their proper place or occasion.  However, I think it’s worth paying attention to where and how we habitually rest. If we run to the Lord when we need filling, respite, and peace, we’ll be fresh and ripe for the harvest, much like my oranges would’ve been if I’d stored them properly in a temperate refrigerator.  They would’ve stayed delicious and pleasing, enjoyable to everyone. If we begin to depend on these created things that weren’t meant to fulfill us, the things that offer a counterfeit “rest,” they start to eat away at us and spread rot in our lives. What grows in the darkness in isolation and out of God’s ideal climate can never be healthy for us or for those with whom we come in contact.

If you know the Bible well, you’ll notice that I omitted part of the passage I quoted from John at the beginning of this article.  It’s worth noting at the end here:

Sanctify them by your truth: your word is truth.” (John 17:17)

We can never forget this crucial nugget of Jesus’ prayer to His Father the night He was betrayed and sent to die for us.  It is ever so reassuring to me that Christ knew that we would struggle in this world, that it is important for us to know the truth in the midst of our struggles, and that we would recognize the Word (i.e. another name for Jesus) as the truth.  And it is only when Believers are resting in Jesus, seeking Him as our means of true escape, that His essence begins to permeate us to the point that we no longer have to try to image Him to our world–like an essential oil, He anoints us with His fragrance which is easily noticeable to those we rub up against.  May we not succumb to the false fillers of the world as our means of rest, but run to the One who offers rest in its purest form.

 

 

 

The Unpopular S-Word

This post is not for perfect people or those unwilling to get real.

I’m always grateful when the Lord gives me an object lesson to share with you guys. If you saw my story this morning, then you know I had a confrontation with a nasty little critter, a roach, that I had to chase down and kill and dispose of on my own. And it got me thinking about sin. (And I’m using this photo because I figured it’s a little better than a photo of a roach, and also, because sin is black-and-white, serious business).

Sin is an unpopular word today. Non-Christians don’t want to acknowledge it because they don’t believe many things are really “wrong” but a matter of perspective, human nature, or the fault of others. Christians don’t like to talk about it or face it in themselves because it forces them to confront that they still battle it. It makes them vulnerable and reveals how, even with salvation, they fall short of perfection.

Much like the roach that surfaced in my hallway this morning, sin is insidious. It lurks in the darkness and festers where ugly things grow. It’s always around, looking for an opportunity and space where there is no protection or guard to invade your life, catching you by surprise, threatening to spread its disease in your home, life and relationships.

The good news is here, and it really is black-and-white: that all of us have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23), that He has provided a way of escape for us to stand up to temptation (1 Corinthians 10:13), that if we confess and turn from our sin He is faithful to forgive us and cleanse us from unrighteousness (1 John 1:9), and that we are no longer burdened under a yoke of slavery to sin (Galatians 5:1), but are set free in victory.

What this means for you and me is that all the struggles in emotions and relationships that drag us into dispair, that make us feel guilty, that threaten to swallow us—have no true power over us. When I recognize sin in myself, it makes me angry, it repulses me. I can’t ignore or deny it, because it doesn’t belong in my life and doesn’t represent who I now am. Instead, I call it what it is and reach for the weapons that God has given me to fight it (Ephesians 6:10-18). I can’t give in to it and let it bring disaster and decay upon my life, because God has promised me abundant life (John 10:10), so I have to face and fight it, even if I don’t want to, and do what’s necessary to remove it.

But whereas this morning there was no one home but me to chase down, kill, and dispose of the roach, when it comes to sin, I have a Helper. I have someone I can ALWAYS call to fight it for me, because I have to recognize when some enemies are too big for me to battle alone. He never laughs or belittles me when I have to run from the room in disgust. He never shakes His head and rolls His eyes when I come to Him groveling and in shameful tears. And even when I come to Him with a blind and haughty spirit, He lovingly changes my mind, my heart, breaks down my self-worshipping pride and shows me how much I need Him.

So for those who have made it this far—my hope for you is this: recognize the little creatures that attempt to infiltrate your spirit. Be on guard against “roaches” that fit through the cracks in your heart and try to turn it from Jesus, to harden it to His voice. Listen for the “roaches” that creep across your mind and make you doubt His word and His promises (2 Corinthians 7:1). He has fitted you with the power to chase them down and rid them from your life.

Far From Suburbia: What I Learned in Two Hours in the Slums of San Francisco

I was uncomfortable to say the least.  From the moment my Uber pulled over and I stepped out of its pristine cleanliness onto the wet and trash littered sidewalk in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco, I felt my guard go up.  My shoulders tensed and my head swung left to right as I looked for number 232 Jones Street.  The storefronts lined the sidewalk without a break, many of them plastered with posters, decorated with graffiti or marred by cracked glass and rust stains.  Somber faced people passed on either side of the road without making eye contact with me, but somehow I knew they still saw me.  The drone of traffic was occasionally broken up by people 20 feet away from each other shouting jokes, a woman babbling nonsense to herself as she pushed an overloaded shopping cart.

I stuck out like a sore thumb–clutching my purse, wearing clean Nike sneakers, eyes wide and afraid.  This was not my suburban North Carolina sidewalk.  I walked up it a few feet, counting the numbers before deciding that I’d gone too far and then turned around and retraced my steps.  It was nestled in among buildings I’d just passed, and seeing the sign on the door, I breathed in relief:

San Francisco City Impact Mission

Opening the door I was greeted by a smiling young woman who invited me to sit while I waited for someone named Andrea, who had been emailing with me the week before and had given me instructions for meeting her at the City Impact office.  When she emerged and introduced herself, she apologized as she confessed that she’d forgotten who I was and what I was doing there.  I chuckled and repeated what I’d told her over email.  My husband was in San Francisco for a work conference.  I’d tagged along on his trip as a little vacation.  I’d never been to San Francisco before and the trip was mostly pleasure, but I liked to take a little bit of time serving in a local mission as a way of getting to know the city and not spending my entire vacation solely focused on pleasing myself.  Despite my altruistic explanation, there was a slight swell of pride in my chest as I spoke.  I thought of the old Friends’ episode where Joey tells Phoebe that there is no such thing as a selfless good deed and she sets out to prove him wrong.

Recognition came to her face as I explained my presence and she started nodding.

“Oh THAT’S right!  I’m sorry I just totally blanked about why you were here because you didn’t come through our regular volunteer pipeline.  I do apologize.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“We’re so glad to have your help though.  Thanks for coming down.  I’ll take you over and introduce you to Randy and he’ll get you settled.”

Randy is a diminuitive man orginially from the Phillipines, a former youth pastor who was now dividing his time between overseeing operations at City Impact and setting up events at the Moscone Center, San Francisco’s convention center.  He took my hand and gave it a firm shake, smiling warmly when Andrea introduced us.

“Great!  Thanks so much for being here.  Come on in and I’ll show you what we’re doing.”

As Andrea said goodbye and turned to go back to the office, I followed Randy inside the meal hall.  It’s a basic cafeteria-style room–tile floor, white walls, folding tables and chairs set up the length of the room, about enough to accomodate a maximum of 50 people.  All the chairs were arranged to face the small stage at the far end of the room, where a simple podium stood in front of a cross mounted on a backdrop of shiplap.

The air inside the hall was warm, close and musty.  I wasn’t sure if the smell came from the bedraggled people already lingering in the room or the crates and boxes of donated produce that were stacked up just inside the door–perhaps it was both.

Several eyes followed me as I followed Randy, who was walking quickly and greeting people just as quickly.  He took me back to the small kitchen behind the main part of the hall.

“So I’m a little disorganized today.” he chuckled amicably.  “Cara who usually runs our meal service isn’t here, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.  But we’re gonna figure it out.”

He introduced me to an older Asian man named Yomo who didn’t speak any English, but who was so accustomed to the flow of the meal services that he didn’t really need to talk or understand what you were saying.  The entire time I was there he rotated from one task to another, filling plates, washing pans, and wiping tables.  I quickly learned that he  was one of those invaluable, behind-the-scenes people who is often unnoticed, but without whom the entire process would crumble.

Randy continued to describe his plan for the meal.

“Since it’s raining today I asked them to make some soup in the kitchen.  That’s a treat, we don’t normally have soup.  We’ll walk over there now and see what else they have.”

I wondered if I looked as awkward as I felt: my small purse clutched tightly against my side, my Columbia rain slicker zipped up to my throat and my wedding ring turned to the inside of my hand so that my diamond wouldn’t be obvious to people who may see me as a mark.  I mentally kicked myself for not leaving my ring back at the AirBnB.

“Is there a place I should put my stuff?” I asked Randy, hoping for a locker of some kind, or a drawer in the internal office that I could see through the window.

“Uh, yeah, you can just stash it in here.”  He gestured to a stainless steel cupboard full of dishes and pots and pans and aluminum tins.  “Alright, let’s go visit the kitchen.  I’m supposed to have more people helping serve here today but I think a lot of them are running behind with the rain…hopefully it won’t just be us!” The smile had never left his face, but he chuckled nervously.

I only considered putting my purse in the cupboard for a moment, but quickly decided against it, afraid that one of the rough-looking men staring into space in the cafeteria would wander into the room and discover it and take my phone and credit cards.

On the way out, an African-American man named Russ (who unfortunately bore a resemblance to Bill Cosby) stopped to talk to Randy, and when Randy introduced me and said that I was there to volunteer, Russ’s eyes went wide and his arm swung open in the direction of the office.

“Well, I’ve glot plenty for her to do!  Follow me young lady.  I’ll put…”

“Um,” I chuckled nervously. “I’m actually here to help Randy with the meal.”

“Yeah, sorry Russ,” Randy said. “She signed up to do the service.”

“Oh! I’m sorry!  I didn’t realize that.  I shouldn’t have assumed.” Russ apologized.

Randy waved him off.  “It’s okay.  We’ve gotta get over to the kitchen.”

As Randy and I went outside and walked around the corner to the kitchen, he asked me where I was from and how I’d found out about City Impact.  In turn, I asked him a couple of questions just to find out a little more about him, but I was distracted by the people on the street–either shuffling along and staring at the ground as though every step was a movement of great effort, or aggressively striding down the sidewalk with a pace that indicated you should not try to stop them or speak to them.  Expletives were flying through the air, horns were blaring incessantly, steam was hissing up from the ground, the occasional used needle littered the sidewalk, but Randy continued smiling and chatting with the ease of someone who had become accustomed to the noise and subliminal intensity that set all my nerve endings on edge.

The kitchen was full of hot food, with not a soul in sight.  It was almost as if it had been prepared by ghosts.  There were at least six huge pans of penne pasta; two vats of an indistinguishable brothy soup (which we later mixed with the pasta); ovens containing four whole baked chickens; two pans of corn-dogs; two enormous plastic bins of salad; one filled to the brim with sliced oranges and another with slices of baguettes; and three metal pans containing what we assumed was meatloaf, which we ended up smothering with barbecue sauce.

As if on cue, a couple of teenage boys showed up and loaded all the food onto a cart with Randy’s help and wheeled it back over to the room we’d just left, which I now realized wasn’t really a kitchen after all, but more of the assembly station.  Randy quickly filled a styrofoam container, showing us how he’d like the food to be presented and then left me and Yomo alone to get started.  About five minutes later, a young Latino man walked in, donned an apron, snapped on a pair of latex gloves and, smiling, introduced himself to me as Allan.

I’m ashamed to admit that my first glance at Allan produced a combination of fear and judgment.  He was dressed in all black, his pants hanging low on his hips, and he walked with a cocky swagger that didn’t fit his childlike, crinkly-eyed smile.  His hair was closely shaved and the sleeves of his baggy black hoodie were pushed up to reveal tattoos that covered his muscular forearms.  I just knew, that in my regular life in my upper middle-class, mostly white neighborhood, if I was ever alone on a street at night and saw Allan approaching me, I’d assume he was trouble and would cross the street to get away from him or look for storefront to duck into until he’d passed.

As these shameful thoughts came to my mind, I intentionally pushed them aside and started asking Allan questions about how he became involved with City Impact, because the fact that he was beside me, already scooping out the mystery meatloaf onto the plates I was passing him and neatly arranging them on a cart without a word of instruction or a glimpse of hesitation, spoke volumes to me about the heart under the intimidating exterior.

“I drive the truck, pick up donations.  And this part of the job is just a kick-back,” he said, still grinning and looking directly into my eyes.  I found myself grinning back–it was impossible not to.

“A kick back?  What do you mean?”

“I get to see these people smile, just because they’re getting a warm meal.  It makes my day.”  It would’ve sounded cliche, fake, except that it came from someone who looked, on the outside, like they wouldn’t care about such simple, yet essential things.  I liked him so much in that moment–he reminded me of my brother, and I would’ve hugged him if I had known him for longer than five minutes, and if I’d known that he’d have let me.

Soon the room was full of helpers: the same lanky teenage boys who had brought the food over from the kitchen, me, Yomo and Allan, and then an Asian woman in her 40s named Jen, who seemed to take on a leadership role once she arrived.  The two teenagers cut up and joked with Allan while our assembly line passed Styrofoam trays, but their joking around never led to idleness.  They were funny and happy and never once seemed to begrudge their time being spent in a soup kitchen.  At one point, I heard one of them tease Allan about prison, and he calmly but firmly said:

“Man I’m never going back there.”

It was then I wondered whether this young man had to have had an experience with God, whether through Randy, someone else at City Impact, or maybe no one connected there at all, that had changed the course of his life.  And he was here out of gratitude.

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Someone turned on some praise music, and as the cart filled up with trays and the talking ceased, I focused on the words to a popular song, “Build My Life”by Housefires:

“Holy, there is no one like you, there is none beside you, open up my eyes in wonder.  Show me who you are and fill me with your heart and lead me in your love to those around me.”

This chorus was one I had just heard for the first time when attending worship with my parents the Sunday before flying to San Francisco.  It was meaningful while standing and singing it, but it was so much more powerful as it rang in my ears in this tiny makeshift kitchen in the slums of San Francisco, working side by side with people I would normally never encounter–people outside my age group, outside my socioeconomic category, outside my preference.  We were there not to be seen, not to be noticed, praised, graded, or critiqued.  We were there because we’d been led by the Father, in love, to serve those around us, regardless of the legitimacy or caliber of their stories.  And it also explained to me how things just seemed to happen in this place without discussion and even when my first impression was that things were completely disorganized: God was so active here, His love so palpable, that people joined in where they were needed without complaint or rush, because they just wanted to be His hands and feet.

Randy spoke to the crowd of wet men and women, about 30 of them, and he brought them a message of hope, of challenge.  His diminutive frame seemed to grow larger as he filled the musty air with fragrant truth.  He reminded them that Jesus is able to change their hearts, their desires, to reflect His own heart and then use them for His glorious purposes.  His angle surprised me, because on an average day I would’ve looked at these people as beyond hope, as expendable, as weak.

Their faces lit up as we brought them food.

“Thank you.” “Please.” “Where are you from?” “I used to live in North Carolina–Winston-Salem, do you know it?” “What brought you to San Francisco?”

My own eyes were opened in wonder in those two hours in the Tenderloins.  I marveled, and inwardly praised God, for these reminders and the urging to come to City Impact, so that I could see again how wrong I was and how easily my assumptions block the pipeline for Christ’s life-changing love.  For these people, so easily ignored and looked down upon by the rest of the world because they outwardly wear their struggles, simply reflect what so many of us are like on the inside: broken, tired, slogging through life, hostile, dirty, hungry.  And City Impact was a place where all of these similarities were laid bare.

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The meal wrapped up and the people left quickly, arms full of to-go boxes, heads nodding in thanks.  A couple of them stopped to say a word to Randy or Russ, but most just walked out the door without looking back.  I guess there wasn’t much to say when this place was so familiar to them, such a regular stop in their days.

I helped wipe some tables and then stood up and looked around the room, understanding that my job was finished.  I went back to the mini-kitchen and tossed my rag in the sink and grabbed my belongings out of the cupboard, which, halfway through the meal I’d decided was actually the best place for my purse and jacket after I’d tried to dish out pasta with my purse constantly swinging forward into my arm.  I went back through the cafeteria toward the door and was grabbed by Russ, who apologized profusely for assuming I was there to help him. I assured him it was fine, that I wasn’t offended.

“Thank you Jesus!” He breathed, wiping his brow dramatically.  He then sat down on the edge of the stage and started to give me his testimony, telling me how he became a part of City Impact, and about the biggest roadblocks and problems the mission was experiencing.  Something he kept saying over and over again was,

“It’s bad out here.  People are hurting!”

He asked me to pray for him.  I felt so unworthy to pray for a person, for people, for a movement that was investing in the details of the most difficult environment in San Francisco.  Knowing that they would be back there tomorrow pouring themselves out, and that I would never look back and would eventually get on my airplane and go back to my comfortable furniture; my needle-free, swept sidewalk; my suburban life with an expanse of green grass, put a lump in my throat and I had to fight the shame, the thought that Russ didn’t really need my prayer.

But I prayed anyway.  It was uncomfortable at first, but as he squeezed my hand and agreed with me in prayer, “Mmm-hmm.  Yes Lord, yes Jesus,” my wall crumbled yet again and tears started to well up in my closed eyes, because I felt as though I was praying for a brother.  I knew that I’d made a friend, one only God could’ve brought into my life.

Russ said thank you after I said Amen.  He gave me a quick hug and then jumped off the stage and disappeared.  I shouted goodbye to the rest of the volunteer team, who responded with smiles, waves and a few thank-yous, and then pulled Randy outside for a photo under the City Impact sign.  His smile was still there, even in his eyes, as I walked away and called probably my 20th Uber in San Francisco.

A week or so later I was showing my six-year-old daughter how to pot some pansies for the pedestal on our front porch.  She was eager to help, but she wanted to just pull the pansy out of the plastic container and stick it straight into the pot.  I explained to her that we first had to break the soil that had retained the stiff, rectangular shape of its confined space in the plastic.  She watched as I gently squeezed the soil and freed the delicate roots, turning the rectangle into a mess and then placed the pansy into the waiting bed of soil in the bottom of the large clay pot.

“See honey, this pansy can’t grow anymore if it just stays in the same space.  It needs to have more room to grow, but first we have to break up the soil and expose the roots so that they can grow deeper and stronger, so that the flowers will grow higher and produce more buds.”

I’d like to thank San Francisco City Impact, for being the space that I needed to see, to experience in order that God might break down my comfort and shallow soil, expose the frailty of my roots and give me the nourishment and inspiration that I needed to blossom and grow deeply into His love.

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God, Marriage, and Justin Timberlake

I can almost hear the eyes rolling in your heads right now.  That title couldn’t be cheesier right?  Is this some article by an obsessive fan who thinks that she has some cosmic connection to Justin Timberlake?  No, not really.  I promise that I have a point and it will make sense if you can just hang with me for a little while.  Let me explain…

I wouldn’t call myself a huge JT fan, more of a nominal one.  I was at the perfect age to become a boy-band-crushing-teenager when NSYNC formed in 1995, a year before I graduated high-school, but I was always more of a 98 Degrees kind of girl.  And years later when all those 90s boy bands started breaking up, I really didn’t foresee a solo future for any of those guys.  But low and behold, Justin Timberlake surprised us all with his knowledge about the industry, musicianship, his vocal range and connections to all the right people.

Even as his career took off and matured, I was still a moderate fan.  I’d listen to his music from time to time, and took a break from it for a while when it was on the raunchier side.  Recently though it seems that Justin and I have regained some common ground–we’re only 3 years apart; we’re both parents; both married; both getting pretty reflective about our pasts and carefully considering the trajectory of our futures.

I’ve found more interest in his most recent album as I feel that it talks about “real” life (as “real” as your life can be when you’re insanely talented, an international superstar and a gazillionaire).   Knowing the life-cycle that rock-stars usually have, I also sensed that his career may be peaking, and with a slew of hits under his belt I thought if there was one JT concert tour that I should see, it would be this one.  So when I found out that he was coming to Raleigh, NC, I spent a little more money than I usually do to get General Admission tickets for my husband and me, so that we could be close to the stage for what I thought may be one of Justin’s best, last concerts.

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But my mind went to places that I didn’t expect as I watched the show.  Justin was handsome, yes.  His feet moved quickly and his body was all fluid, precise, smooth motion.  He smiled for cameras, fist-bumped fans, flirted with his back-up dancers, told us that we were the best crowd he’d seen (which of course was a lie), and all I could think was, yeah this is awesome, but then what?

You see, my husband and I were the minority of those crushed close to the stage.  We were surrounded by Superfans–those who buy their babies JT onesies; who follow him from concert to concert; who cry if he comes within four feet of them.  And yes I was woo-hooing with them all, but I walked away from the concert not marveling about Justin Timberlake, but rather about the awe he produced in about 20,000 people in one night, and realizing that he does this night after night with people around the world.

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And it made me think about whether my/our awe has been misplaced?  What if I, what if we, directed even half of that awe, half of that amazement, toward the One who created Justin Timberlake, the One who gave him his talent?  As fans, we cluster to have an encounter with someone we pay to give us two hours of their time.  (And sometimes we pay a silly amount–especially if you’re sitting in the VIP section).  We might get a fist-bump or a high-five, but does that personal encounter really change us?  Does it take away our troubles, give us a sense of peace, a new identity?  Does Justin Timberlake really know any of the people he touched last night?  Will they ever really know him?

Of course, the answer to all of these questions is no.  Nothing about the concert last night has changed my reality this morning, and it certainly hasn’t changed his.  I’m the same person, living the same life with the same ups and downs, joys, sorrows, and okays.  I’m not richer or poorer, and Justin has continued on with his life, climbing into his tour bus bound for another city and another concert in front of another crowd of thousands.

But every day I can spend as much time as I want with the God of the universe, who stepped down out of heaven to, get this, PAY for an encounter with ME.  He gave up everything to be with me, and He offers to make me His for life through His Son.  He’ won’t just entertain me–He’ll hold me.  He won’t flatter me with savvy lyrics that speak to my vanity–He’ll speak the truth that gives life and nourishes my soul.  He won’t ever pack up and leave town–He’ll be my Immanuel, “God With Us.”  When He touched people, they were healed.  When He spoke, mountains rose up out of the sea and people fell flat on their faces in true awe.  When He sees you, you know that you are safe, yet you aren’t ever the same.

Isaiah 43:1,  “…this is what the Lord says–he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.”

Matthew 28:20, “And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

John 10: 14-15, “I am the good shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.”

I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with spending money to see your favorite singer for a couple of hours.  I think music, dance and fun are gifts from a Good Father who loves to see His kids enjoy life.  I also disagree with those who say that there’s nothing beneficial or edifying that comes from the secular world of entertainment.  Simply because, God can do exceedingly more than we can ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20), and I believe that if we are walking closely with the Maker and Sustainer of all things, that He can use most any setting, environment, crowd and subject to remind us of His presence and His glory.  I don’t think it’s a stretch to suppose that one other person could have experienced an awakening by the Living God last night during the Justin Timberlake concert, because God really is in the business of taking our wisdom and ideas of what we think we know to be true, and flipping all of it upside down to reveal HIS truth.  And if just one person entered into relationship with Jesus last night, then Heaven is certainly rejoicing just as loudly as it would after an Elevation or Lauren Daigle concert, and that makes it all worthwhile.

I not only reflected on Jesus last night at moments during the concert, but I also looked to my left at the handsome man that I call “Husband,” and remembered for about the 10,000th time why I’m so blessed to have him.  Bryan doesn’t really care for JT.  He only knows a song or two and we got into a pretty heated argument right before we left the house yesterday, but instead of refusing to accompany me and making me go alone, he got in the car.  That was humility.  He sat with me cheerfully and kept me company during the three-hour wait outside.  That was kindness.  He walked to a nearby restaurant and got us food and drinks so that we wouldn’t be starving after the show.  That was graciousness.  He stood beside me the whole time even though his calf muscles were knotted up and painful after a long run yesterday.  He even danced with me a little.  That was sacrificial.

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I told Bryan before the concert began that even though I might scream and yell at Justin as he danced down the stage, I still think he’s hotter.  He replied, “yeah right.”  But as the concert ended, I knew I meant every word.  Because although Justin is certainly cute, charming and coordinated, he’s a stranger.  Yet Bryan, like Jesus, has demonstrated over and over again that he truly loves me.  He knows me. He takes care of me.  He does all of this so well that he’d even stand beside his wife as she snaps photos and videos of another man.  And he went home with me and was still there when I woke up this morning.  That’s a gift of faithfulness that God and Bryan have both given me, that is far more valuable than any concert ticket.  They make me feel like a VIP.

So Justin, if you read this, (doubtful, but a girl can dream) I want to say thanks for being a vessel for yet another Jesus-takeaway.  I’m sure that’s not what you expected, but I suspect you’d be amused.  Hope you have a great rest of your tour, and hurry home, I’m sure your wife wants you beside her too.

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My silly-creepy “selfie” with JT.

 

 

The Week That I Was Glad to be Wrong

Flomaton is an easily overlooked town in South Alabama.  It’s the type of place where there’s only one church to notice, and its steeple rises high above the modest ranch homes and one-story mom-and-pop storefronts.  It’s the type of place where you use landmarks instead of street signs to mark directions for newcomers (although there are rarely any of those), because there is only one chicken place, one supermarket, and one Subway sandwich shop in the whole town.

But it’s also where people live their whole lives as neighbors.  Where they remember the day you were born, the tree you were hiding in when you shot fireworks at passing cars, the day you met your husband or wife, and where your relatives are buried.  It’s the town where my grandparents proudly made their home and raised their four boys.  It’s where this story begins.

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John and Shelmerdene Folsom with their sons (from left): Kenny, Mickey (my dad), and Johnny.  Baby Chris was born years later.

After serving in the Second World War my grandfather, John Folsom, took a job as a high-school principal at Flomaton High School.  He was known for his strict but fair leadership and disciplinary styles and was even known to dole out spankings to his students with a paddle, back when spankings were still acceptable in school.  This was back when girls’ skirts were very long, and boys’ hair was very short.  My dad tells a story of when he was sent to the principal’s office (or dad’s office) for sticking lizards on his ears to frighten his teacher and claimed that it was the only time he saw his dad crack a smile while disciplining a student.

John Folsom may have been tough on the job, but he was also caring.  He wanted to see kids succeed and do their best and expecting a lot out of them instead of viewing them as teenage disappointments earned him their respect.  He was generous—creating jobs for people who needed extra money and serving tirelessly at church and on various mission trips.  He was moral—practicing a high work ethic that stemmed from his upbringing and faith in God.  He was enthusiastic—boisterously singing hymns from the church pews or the Flomaton Hurricane fight song from the bleachers at football games.

About two years ago my grandparents, whom I affectionately call Paw-Paw and Mamadene, moved from their beloved home in Flomaton to an assisted living facility close to one of their sons, in Malbis, Alabama.  The move was emotional and a difficult step to take, but it was necessary at their life stage.  At 90-years-old, Paw-Paw was the last surviving member of his family of origin, the baby of 10 children in a typical Depression Era family.

Paw-Paw settled in well at his new home, happy as ever to just have people around him.  To him it didn’t much matter that he and Mamadene were confined to one room, if he still had his recliner and her in bed beside him at night.  It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember his kids and grand-kids when they stopped by to visit him or take him to church, as long as he had people to talk to, although from time to time you could see a glimmer of recognition in his eye.  Even if he didn’t know your name, his mind seemed to recognize that you were his family.

This is what I saw in his eyes when I visited him in the hospital in Fairhope, Alabama last week.  It had been two years since I’d seen my Paw-Paw, on his 90th birthday and shortly before he and Mamadene relocated to The Blake.  Fortunately for Facebook, I’d seen pieces of his life down South—enough to know that he was enjoying being fed rich Southern cuisine and singing his favorite songs with his visitors.  But all of us knew that the day was coming when we’d get “that” call—the one that we didn’t want, that told us that Paw-Paw was no longer doing so well.

So, when my parents, who live near me and my family in North Carolina, called and told me that they felt it was important to get down to Alabama as soon as possible, I immediately felt an urge to go along.  I looked at my husband with pleading eyes and he insisted that I join my mom and dad on the 10-hour drive, practically shoving me in their car when they arrived at our house.  I thought about my Paw-Paw’s legacy the whole drive down–remembering the joy in his hearty laugh; the passion in his voice when he talked about the way things should be; his tradition of passing Certs down the pew, mid-service, to all the grandchildren in church; the way he pushed Heavenly Hash ice cream on me when I was a teenager.  I felt sad again, and somewhat cheated, that I didn’t get more time with my grandfather as a child because I was raised in an Air Force family, so I replayed the blocks of memories stored away in my mind from my brief visits with my grandparents and tried to refresh them.  I don’t know if I was using these memories as support for the potential pain that awaited me at the hospital, or if thinking of Paw-Paw that way was a connection to something deeper, to my roots and the people whose stories had contributed to my own.

Either way, I was not prepared for the emotion that rolled over me when I walked into his hospital room the next day.  I’d gotten three hours of sleep, and at 6:30am my mom and I received an ominous phone call from my dad, who’d gone straight to the hospital to sit with Paw-Paw during the early morning hours.  I choked back tears as I surveyed the scene. In his bed, Paw-Paw’s head was practically falling off the pillow.  His breathing was ragged and weak and he couldn’t stop coughing.  He was talking nonsense and not comprehending anyone’s questions or demands; he didn’t even know there were people in the room with him.  He was listless and drawn.

I was convinced that he would be gone that morning.  I started talking to my mom about plans for a service.  I wondered aloud where all the family members would stay in the tiny town of Flomaton.  I cried quietly as I considered that Paw-Paw’s death would mean the end of a family.  I listened to the hymns that my cousins and uncles and aunts sang around him with a feeling of finality.  When I placed my hand on his shoulder and sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” it was not with a heart of hope, but with the intention of saying goodbye in a way that would somehow speak comfort to Paw-Paw’s retiring mind, because I knew that he always loved music.

I kept expecting the worst, because to me, he was now 92 and it would kind of make sense if this was his time to go.  He’d lived a wonderful life—he’d traveled the world, even flew to Nicaragua in his late 80’s to see his oldest grandson get married.  He’d been a role model to young men in his community, a loyal husband, a cheerful giver.  It never occurred to me that first day, watching my bed-ridden grandfather, that he might have more life to live.

More family poured into the room.  More hymns were sung.  On Facebook people were asking for prayer for John Folsom.  People were already telling stories about what he’d meant to them, and as I read them or heard them read aloud to Paw-Paw, I saw them all as eulogies memorializing a great man, not an encouragement to boost his spirits.  But I was so wrong.

 

24 hours later Paw-Paw was more responsive.  He noticed us when we stood by the bed, although he still didn’t recognize us.  His eyes were clearer, and he expressed a desire to write notes, he said he was hungry, he laughed when something was funny.

And he sang.  Oh, did he sing.  What I realized sitting in that hospital room was that even though Paw-Paw couldn’t remember people, he could remember lyrics, and it seemed that he used lyrics of songs to communicate his feelings, and to me it was as though God was using these songs from Paw-Paw’s life to communicate to us that Paw-Paw still had hope, that his faith was alive, and that God was watching.  When we asked him what his favorite song was, his eyes lit up like a child’s and he launched into the Flomaton high-school fight song:

“Fight, fight for Flomaton High,

Always say fight, never say die.

We can win if we will try

So, fight on for Flomaton High.”

And over the next few days I started believing that the lyrics to that song had a deeper meaning to Paw-Paw than just being the fight song for the school where he’d been a leader for 30 years.  They seemed to be the very words of his soul, a sort of rallying cry—urging him to fight, to get better, to show God’s healing power in his aged body.

And I was proven wrong over and over in those few days.  I didn’t believe that the wheezing in his breath would go away, but it did.  I didn’t think that he would start eating again, but he did.  I didn’t think he’d be strong enough to stand up, but he did.  And before any of us knew it, the hospice evaluators were telling us that he no longer qualified for their care, and the doctor directly referred to Paw-Paw as “the miracle man.”

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At some point in all the sitting around at the hospital, someone mentioned that Flomaton High School’s football team was in the state championship playoffs that very week.  In the school’s history, since it opened in 1925, it had never gone farther than the quarter finals.  My uncle and cousin promised to get the game on TV so that Paw-Paw could watch, although when they first brought it up, several of us were skeptical that he’d still be alive to see it, or conscious enough to know it was even playing.

Paw-Paw was transferred to a local rehabilitation facility on Wednesday, December 5, and on Thursday, December 6, my mom and I walked into the Westminster Skilled Care center in Spanish Fort, Alabama and saw my Paw-Paw sitting up in a chair for the first time in a week, eating some mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese, and watching the Flomaton Hurricanes play their hearts out.  As I listened to the drawl of the local announcers and watched each play inch the Hurricanes closer to a state championship, I allowed myself to marvel over the miraculous events that were too perfectly arranged to be called coincidence.  I felt ashamed that I’d been so doubtful, so ready to assume that my grandfather’s life was over, when God clearly had other plans and others around me had demonstrated more hope than I.  I was also relieved and touched, that the Lord would be so good to give my Paw-Paw even a day longer than we had imagined, that He’d been good enough to include me as a witness to His work so that my faith would increase.  And as the Hurricanes caught a victory-clinching interception, I smiled that He loved my Paw-Paw so much that He would strengthen his body enough to sit up and watch his hometown’s football team win their first ever football championship.

We sang the fight song, together, for the camera.  And my Paw-Paw finished it with a smile and a hip-hip-hooray.  And a swig of sweet tea.

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Party On–Joy in the Face of Judgment

I have an annual tradition for Mother’s Day that began about five years ago.  Every year, I throw a party for my local mommy-friends.  We gather without husbands and children with no purpose other than to celebrate the one thing that we all have in common—being mothers.  I can always tell that those who are new to the party aren’t sure what to expect because there’s no agenda at all.  I’m not trying to sell Pampered Chef, Norwex or Lula Roe.  I’m not raising money for a charity.  We’re not throwing a baby shower for anyone, and most difficult for these sweet women to wrap their heads around is that I don’t need them to bring anything.  They are so accustomed to helping and serving that showing up to something empty-handed, and then consuming food and drink, seems selfish.

And that’s exactly why I do this.  Moms throw parties for their children.  They bring food to families welcoming newborn babies, struggling with serious illness or recovering from surgeries, or mourning a loss.  They are always so busy working, working working—inside and outside their homes, that they often forget how it feels to enjoy their own brand of fun.

My Mother’s Day parties have varied in their style and size over the years.  One was a fancy brunch, several were evening parties with lots of snacks and wine and a chick-flick about motherhood.  We’ve played funny ice-breaker games at a couple, and at my first one I asked everyone to bring photos of them with their mothers or of them with their children.  But one thing that all my parties have had in common is an interesting blend of women.

My friendship spheres sometimes intersect, but many times they don’t, and what I love about my parties is that they are comprised of women from many different countries: Americans, Brits, South Africans, Canadians, Swiss, Australians, Luxembourgers, Belgians.  They’ve been comprised of women with different religious beliefs: Atheists, Christians and Muslims.  I’ve invited moms I’ve met through church, mom’s groups, the gym, my neighborhood, my children’s’ school, and through some very random connections.  I’ve invited women from different ethnic backgrounds.  And the beauty of this gathering is to see them begin to open up to one another as they laugh and relax, to watch them discover the things that they have in common with each other as they gather as mothers.  In a world where we tend to congregate with those groups of people who are most like us, what I seek to provide in this environment is an opportunity for the Lord to reveal His nature in the surprise that comes when we find a kindred spirit in someone we may never have spoken to otherwise.

But this year, when I decided to go with a Zumba theme for my party, I discovered that Phariseeism is alive and well. I know that my party idea this year was a little unusual, but it’s very frustrating when people assume the worst about something you’re doing simply because they misjudge your intentions.  Because I know that God desires hearts and community, I knew that He could even use my Zumba party to spark conversations about Him, and to build friendships that can lead to testimonies of His goodness.

On the outside looking in, apparently that wasn’t the conclusion for some people.  They questioned the holiness of Zumba-style dancing—even though there were no men around for women to grind on, and no children to influence one way or another.  They questioned the lyrics of the song choices—even though I went over and over the playlist to ensure there were no offensive curse words or extremely suggestive lyrics.  They questioned the fact that I served alcohol—even though almost every gathering in the Bible involved wine because it’s a social beverage, and I barely served enough for my guests to have more than two drinks.

And I don’t know what judging a fellow sister in Christ for throwing a dance party will profit anyone.  Does it make the judge happier to declare the party unholy or inappropriate?  No, it just divides the family of God even more because it pits one person against another over something that’s really a gray area.  I bet if I asked those critical of the party if they really thought that Jesus loves them more because they think my party was a bad idea, they’d honestly say no, so why bother judging?

Would it benefit me to argue with people to try to convince them that my way was right, that my party was okay?  No, because it’s not my job to try to win an argument and allow myself to be distracted by someone’s opinion of me.  And to get wrapped up in defending myself would waste energy that I could be spending loving on people, and it would make me angry instead of filling my heart with compassion for those who are picking my choices apart.

Would it be better for the party not to happen and for none of these women to interact and socialize?  I say no, because God is all about seeking people out and building relationships and opportunities to share the gospel.  So by now, the ladies who came to my soiree and are still reading, have learned that my surface goal was to have fun with my menagerie of friends from my life here in Raleigh, NC, but as usual with me, there was an underlying purpose, which was to serve up just a taste of the goodness and extravagance of the Lord’s love by loving on my friends.  To show them what joy and fellowship and diversity exists in the kingdom and family of God.  And I don’t think that any Pharisee could argue with that.

And you know what?  I suspect that Jesus loved a good party, and maybe even a little dancing.

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When Being in Control Controls You

Come with me for a moment and picture this—you’re sitting on the bow of a boat in rough water.  The boat moves steadily toward an approaching wave.  It’s big, and you know when you reach it the boat will tilt upward and slam down hard on the other side of the wave.  It may hurt, it may jolt you from your seat, so your body tenses in anticipation.  You grab onto your towel and the handle beside your seat.  And sure enough, you feel some pain after that wave.  You may come away with some bruises from knocking sideways into the hull.  But here comes another wave, and another, and soon your jaw hurts from clenching your teeth so hard every time the boat crests the water.  So you decide to let go, and when the next wave approaches and the boat rolls over it, you intentionally relax your muscles, loosen your grip, and allow the movement of the boat to pass through you.  The downward dip doesn’t seem as steep, you haven’t lost your place and you find yourself leaning forward, ready for the next wave.

Trying to maintain control of forces and people out of your control is like the above scenario.  Over the last ten years, I’ve been noticing and pondering the differences in people’s reactions when things don’t go their way.  When someone realizes that they have no control there are a myriad of ways they can respond.  Perhaps they’ll be angry and bitter, frightened and immobilized.  They can become withdrawn and uncommunicative.  Or they can step back and take stock of the situation, understand they have something to learn or some plans to adjust, and they can change course and sail on.

What makes the difference for people in how they respond to drastic change or loss of control?  For so much of our lives we are taught to become independent, to set goals and make plans, but I think there’s a flip-side to setting goals that you can only learn through failure.

Teddy Roosevelt said, “there is no effort without error and shortcoming, so that doers shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory or defeat.”  Teddy Roosevelt talks about action, about effort and perseverance.  Truly, it’s a mark of maturity to work, to plan for our futures.  To sit idly by expecting fortune to smile upon us is vain and irresponsible.  There is definitely a time to plan, to rebound and be a “doer.”

But it’s also a mark of maturity for us to be at peace in the midst of adversity and unwanted change.  There is an element of humility and trust that goes along with remaining flexible and teachable.  The book of James speaks about contentment, perseverance, generally a humble and positive perspective toward life, but what I really like is this remark about making plans.

“Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow.  What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.  Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.’  As it is, you boast in your arrogant schemes.  All such boasting is evil.” James 4: 13-17

Ouch, that stings a little, doesn’t it?  How many of us have laid out blueprints for our lives only to see the colors smear and run when rain begins to fall?  Yet, these are good precepts to keep in mind.  As far as I know, there is only One who knows exactly how my life will turn out.  And after moving 14 times in my 39 years of life, being a victim of abduction and sexual assault, suffering three miscarriages, watching friendships die, dealing with personal temptation and sin, I can say with certainty that my life has not gone the way I expected.

Yet, I have a wonderful life.  I can only be grateful, and it’s because of my trials, defeats, failures, that I can recognize today’s blessings.  It’s because I have tasted humility and sorrow and heartache that I can have compassion, acceptance, and empathy for others when they are tempted to withdraw or lash out because their lives take a dip.  If I had never experienced these dips in life, I wouldn’t see when I’ve crested the waves.  And because I have gratitude, I have perseverance, because I know there’s always hope.  This gives me the courage to not remain defeated.

A recognition of my lack of complete control also prevents me from giving full reign to judgment.  Because of my past struggles, I know that at any moment, everything that I hold dear could be taken from me or I could make a mistake that would cost me peace and stability.  This last year I’ve seen good friends suddenly lose loved ones.  I’ve talked to people whose lives have changed drastically in mere hours due to hurricanes, health diagnoses, marital bombshells, and more.  And as I get older, these things seem to happen more frequently.

When days and weeks and months of comfort go by, I count my blessings.  I know that they come as a gift from my good Father.  But I must confess that I am tempted to soak in that comfort and look down my nose at others who are struggling and wonder what they could have done to earn these difficulties It’s tempting to judge people, to sit back and analyze and smugly prescribe a solution for someone’s problem.  My compassion weakens.  My humility suffers.  And I don’t like myself that way because it means that I’m starting to worship my blessings more than the One who blessed me.  I forget that “every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” (James 1: 17).

I have a trick for bringing myself back to earth when I tend to mentally boast in how “together” I am.  To me, the ultimate test for how I’d handle utter lack of control, human dependence and find out for sure how much I depend upon the Lord would be if I suddenly lost my husband.  There have been nights when he’s been late getting home from a business trip and I’ve wondered: is he okay?  Is he alive?  And then that gets me thinking, what if he doesn’t come home tonight?  So, every once in a while, I’ll allow myself to ask the “what if” questions.  What would I do, how would I respond if I no longer had Bryan?  How would I live if my bread-winner was gone?  Would I trust in the Lord for my daily bread?  How would I sleep at night and feel comforted if my lover wasn’t in bed beside me, holding me?  Would I cling to my Comforter and the Lover of my soul?  Would I remember that no matter how quickly my life changes, my Father does not change?

It’s these “what-if” questions in life’s comfortable moments that turn into living, breathing “what now” questions in life’s terrible moments.  Because the fact is, as much as we like to pretend that we do, we don’t have absolute control over our lives.  And living under the pretense that we do makes us self-focused, fearful, judgmental people.  We grip so tightly to whatever is in our reach, whether that’s diet control, health control, emotional control, child control, spouse control, calendar control, to the point that we bring ourselves more pain, more fear, more reluctance to let go and ride the wave.

Life is an unpredictable sea rich with depths and storms and doldrums and peaceful currents.  At times we will cruise comfortably, but rough waters are always a possibility.  Then we will get jostled.  Things around us will roll and tumble and fall.  We can fight the wave and come away bruised and weakened, dreading what comes next.  Or, we can loosen our grip and trust the boat to carry us over the swells to smoother waters once again.  Either way, we will reach them, but our approach to the next swells will largely depend upon our posture in the past, and who we trust more, ourselves or the boat.

I trust the boat every time because it has an Anchor, a Life Preserver, and a Captain.  Only He is fully equipped to guide me safely across the sea.

The Slavery of Secrets

John 8:32, “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

In grade school you’d hear it when you and a friend were caught whispering and giggling to each other— “secrets don’t make friends!”  It was a chastising idiom that reminded you to not exclude others.  Because when you lifted your hand to hide your mouth as you whispered into someone’s ear, while throwing glances around to see who was watching, you automatically gave the impression that you were hiding something at best, or at worst, stirring up trouble.

It’s one thing to keep someone’s confidence and trust.  Those kinds of secrets can build relationships and lend silent support when someone who trusts you is going through a challenging time.  But, what I’ve noticed recently about American culture is that we tend to hide too easily.  We are very good, especially in American Christian spheres, about putting on our makeup, our best smiles, and pretending that our lives are perfect while we struggle privately.

And I know why we do it.  We don’t want to look weak.  Sometimes our struggles are too painful and personal to discuss.  Perhaps they are too embarrassing and reveal parts of us that we’d rather not show.  Maybe we know that our problems are not easily fixed or could last a while.  In some cases, we may even secretly enjoy something that we know we shouldn’t enjoy, and speaking of it would require us to acknowledge a sin that the Lord needs to remove from our lives.

The snow has been falling steadily today as I’ve written this.  It collects little by little—just tiny flakes that settle on the ground, lawn chairs and children’s garden toys until they are a nebulous conglomerate of snow that turn recognizable objects into unidentifiable lumps.  It’s hard to know or remember exactly what’s covered up by all the snow.  When the blanket of white is that thick, it can be dangerous to walk around my own backyard because I might stumble over a rock or root that I can’t see anymore.

Secrets can be just like this—they disguise the truth of what’s under the surface.  They cover up our flaws with a pleasant, soft layer which is far more fragile than we want to acknowledge.  They can turn familiar ground into dangerous, sensitive territory.  Sooner or later, they must melt away, and we must acknowledge the raw and real materials left behind.

In the last couple of years, many of my friends have experienced great trials in their marriages and families.  I have grieved with many over the shock and loss of peace in their home, and have rejoiced with others as they’ve experienced restoration that only Jesus can bring to their lives.  But in the moments when they revealed their secrets, two things happened: 1) They talked about loss—loss of peace, safety, security and belief in someone or something.  2)  I felt compassion for them—a need to pray for them and a desire to help in any way that I could.

This is what honesty and openness does—it brings people closer.  It breaks down façades and walls and reminds us that we all struggle.  It provides opportunities for us to show compassion and love.  Being vulnerable is risky, but it also gives us the ability to admire people without idolizing them and assuming they “have it all together.”

And it’s also this openness that shows us how much we need a Savior.  Jesus said in Mark 2:17, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.  I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”  I am grateful for those people who have allowed me to enter their mess, because it strengthens the bond of community that we have as people who need the healing, restorative work of Jesus.  I’m glad that I don’t believe that lie that anyone is perfect, because then Jesus would be inconsequential and unimportant.  And once we allow Him to shine His light onto our darkest secrets they stop looking so scary and destructive.  They lose their power and we begin to take steps in freedom.  What was once a secret that enslaved us becomes a testimony of hope and deliverance.

This happened for me lately too.  I was keeping something to myself for about a year and a half.  I wrestled with something, prayed about it, tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, until I was faced with it again and realized that keeping it private was making the problem bigger than it really was.  I was afraid to confess to my husband, fearing his anger and rejection.  But a beautiful thing happened when my silence began costing my peace—I sincerely asked God for a way out and He gave it to me.  I told my husband about it, in tears, and he showed me compassion and grace.  He prayed for me and comforted me and expressed understanding, not condemnation.  His reaction did two things: 1) it made me more grateful to the Lord and more aware of the power of confession, and 2) it reminded me of why I love my husband so much—he freely offers me the forgiveness of Christ and loves me just as I am.

So, let’s say that your life suddenly changed yesterday, or three months ago, or last week.  Or maybe it will tomorrow, or five months from now because of someone’s poor choices, disregard, sin, negligence, distraction.  Maybe it’s your own problems that got you into a mess.   If you’re tempted to hide and stew over your anger and sadness and shame—don’t.  Let God shine His holy spotlight onto your secret.  I know from experience—it won’t seem as daunting once it’s exposed.  Watch your secrets melt away under the warmth of His love.  You’ll be amazed by the beauty they uncover.

Bigger Clothes, Bigger Problems: Hot-Button Issues with My Daughters

girlsIn the very first days after my eldest daughter was born, I remember grieving my loss of sleep and discussing my exhaustion with my mom.  She empathized with me and then said something that has stuck with me as I’ve navigated the twisted roads of motherhood.  It went a little like this: “When your kids are very young they need your energy and constant attention because their problems are frequent but small.  They are easy to fix but they happen repeatedly.  When they’re older, your kids need your wisdom and your heart because their problems are fewer, but they’re bigger and there is less you can do on your own to fix them.”

Vivienne turned seven this month and her younger sister Georgia recently turned five, and although they still have many years head of them, I’m astounded at the depth of our conversations at this point in their lives.  I’m always a little sad when I realize they are old enough to comprehend that the world isn’t perfect, that some people are mean or that I can’t give them every answer to soothe their tender emotions or settle their confused minds.

All moms are familiar with the gut-sinking-bitter-sweetness that comes when you discover that your kids have outgrown their clothes and need an entirely new wardrobe.  There’s a double-whammy that hits while weeding out old clothes and buying new ones for our children.  The first punch goes to our checking account—time to budget for clothing this month!  The second punch goes to our hearts—our babies are getting bigger.  And bigger.  And as their bodies grow so do their minds.  Their brains fill with new information, new concepts.  Their eyes notice behavior and social structures.  Pretty soon these children start to ask very good questions, very challenging questions that make us stop and consider, “Hmm, how am I going to answer/handle this?”

And what complicates this for me even more is that my girls are SO different.  They have shared a room since my younger daughter was five-months-old, a bed since she was two, and they are the best of friends.  But they could not be more opposite if they were characters in a story.  Often a tactic or method or even tone of voice that I use with one does not go over well with the other.  I must get creative with tailoring much of my mothering-methods to each of my three children (because my youngest is a boy—talk about different!) and their personalities, while maintaining the convictions and ideologies that my husband and I feel are important for our family.

My night-and-day daughters have tested me lately in my ability to succinctly yet thoroughly answer their concerns in a way that will assuage their fears, teach truth and be considerate of their immature emotions.  My oldest daughter is very into science and dinosaurs.  She has just learned to read and will devour any text about dinosaurs that she can find.  But not all these books agree about exactly when dinosaurs existed, how long they lived and how they became extinct.  My husband and I are Christians and believe in Creation, but we are old-Earth Christians, so we tend to agree with scientists who maintain that the earth is much older than the 6,000 years that the new-Earthers claim.  We happen to own a book about dinosaurs by one of these new-Earth apologists, Ken Hamm, that we picked up from our local consignment store before we realized its angle.  He claims that dinosaurs were roaming the Garden of Eden with Adam and Eve.  But just last week, Vivienne came home with a book about dinosaurs from her school library which supports the traditional scientific view that dinosaurs predated humans and even evolved into birds!  (An entire blog-post could be derived from this example about different schooling options for Christian families, but I’m not going to go there right now).

vivi dinosaur

You can imagine Vivi’s confusion when she read these two conflicting accounts.  I pointed out to her that the school library book was aging the earth at millions of years old, whereas Ken Hamm’s account ages it at around 6,000 years.  I asked her what she thought.  She said she agreed with the library book from the school because: “There’s no way people and dinosaurs could have lived at the same time because the dinos would have crushed or eaten the people!”

(Amazing the logic of little kids sometimes.)

So, I ended up encouraging her to take a faith-filled posture on this one.  I explained to her that there are some things we will never know this side of heaven.  But what we do know is that everything comes from something.  Every creation has a Creator, and the timing is mostly irrelevant.  We believe that God created all things for His glory and purpose, and that science helps us to learn about His creation and to reveal Him within it.  She seemed satisfied with that.  I believe her very words were, “I know that Mommy.”  And then she waved me away so she could continue reading her book on her own.

Georgia’s interests are not in science.  They are in performance, dancing, play-acting and looking pretty.  I think that this is a confusing are for girls and women in our current climate.  On one hand, people spend way too much money and time worrying about being beautiful.  Just the number of YouTube make-up tutorials, Pinterest pins and beauty products is overwhelming.  On the other hand, there is a growing movement among feminists which is telling females that beauty is shallow and unnecessary.  This perspective suggests that beautiful women who take care of themselves are enslaved to some patriarchal system, and that they are brainwashed ignorant bimbos.

I believe both groups are wrong.  I believe that my God loves beauty—it’s all around us in the animals we admire, the gardens that we cultivate, the mountains upon which we gaze, and yes, the diverse patchwork of humanity across this globe.  So, my task with Georgia is not to squelch her interest in beauty and the pleasure she takes in looking pretty.  My task is to put beauty in its proper place, to encourage her to focus more on cultivating a beautiful spirit and heart than on wearing an outfit or a hairstyle that others will notice.

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She threw a fit the other day when I would not allow her to wear her play make-up to school.  Now, the child is five, so it’s not like she was going to be in full super-model make-up anyway.  But I know that she sees me wearing make-up most days, and she has asked me why I do it.  I must be very careful about my answers because I don’t want her to ever think that her value lies in her beauty.  And she is lovely—she has creamy white skin, big blue eyes and light blonde hair.  She is blessed with a lean, muscular frame and her muscles are well-defined without that much physical effort.  But I know that God created us in His image, and all beauty is ultimately there to point to Him.  It’s nothing we can claim on our own because it was given to us.  I also know that nothing spoils beauty in a person like an ungrateful and selfish heart.

More questions and explanations are sure to come.  I hope that God gives me enough wisdom to communicate what He’s taught me, and that He’ll help me to tap into His grace when I get things wrong.  Please pray for me as I continue to nurture these feminine souls, knowing the struggles and expectations that are waiting for my girls as they grow.  Now my son, Roman, well…he’ll be an entirely different ball of wax!