Uncategorized Archives - Page 8 of 8 - When I fall on my knees

Letting them spread their wings and fly

I just returned from putting the middle one on an airplane. She is traveling alone for THE VERY FIRST TIME! which strikes a chord in my bosom consisting of maternal pride, vague sorrow, and sheer terror. She is completely ready for this, but I’m not sure I am! How did we get to the point where I could put my child on a plane and have complete confidence in her ability to navigate an unknown airport in another state on the other end? Wasn’t it just yesterday I was wrestling her into her car seat, striving to fasten the straps while she arched her back? Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts and return your trays to their upright position…

I am so excited for her to take this trip. I couldn’t wait for her to experience the rush of the airport, rife with possibilities. I love traveling and I love the airport. I pine for the days before terrorists ruined everything; the days when you could walk practically onto the plane (okay, the gate) with your people and watch it take off. I loved that you could meet dear ones as they stepped off the plane, wearing crazy hats and playing kazoos. The fact that they would walk right by as if they had never seen you before was immaterial.

Here is an awesome secret! (Most of you probably already knew this, but it was news to me!) If you have an unaccompanied minor traveling THEY LET YOU STILL DO IT! All I had to do was ask for a gate pass, and with no argument whatsoever I was in. It was just like the good old days. Except I had to take off my shoes, and stand in a cone of silence while it scanned me for unwanted objects. And then show the TSA agent my ankle??!!! Did it look somehow suspicious? If they are looking for unwanted objects they could have the jiggle in my thighs. I certainly don’t want that, but I guess it isn’t really a foreign object.

The people watching. The moving sidewalks. The information boards clicking off arrivals and departures. I felt like a junkie that had fallen off the wagon.

Clearly, we do not travel by plane very often. My dad did, and I know he grew to despise it. But when it is a rare treat, it is a thrill to be there with all those anonymous people going to mysterious places. Or Omaha. It truly doesn’t matter, it’s the act of GOING that is magical.

However. When you are taking a tall beautiful girl, and letting her go, ALL ALONE, it is a slightly different tale. Okay, she is only going for a week, she is meeting good friends on the other end and spending a blissful week at the beach and Disney. It’s not like I’m shipping her off to China for two years to perform hard labor. It just feels like it. And I challenge any mother out there to look me deep in the eyes and say they would feel differently. Deep in their souls.

But it is time. She needs to take this next step on that road to independence. I need her to take it. It is part of my job to suck it up and let her go. I did stand at the gate until the plane pulled away. I could just see the pilots through the windows, and I Spock-like tried to brain-meld them to BE CAREFUL. PAY ATTENTION. GET THAT BIRD UP AND DOWN SAFELY. Like that’s not their job. Like there weren’t a bunch of other people important to someone on that plane. But MY important person is! As I used to say to my sister-in-law when she would travel long distances with my nieces and nephew Drive carefully. Precious cargo aboard!

I’m not one of those clingy moms who can’t let their kids go. Really I’m not. My dirty little secret is that sometimes I LIKE to see them go. But I still feel oddly bereft. She will now have stories to tell us that we are not a part of. Stories that will be uniquely hers to tell. She is going to gain a self-confidence she never could at home. An opportunity to prove to herself what she is capable of. Remember the first time I flew alone?

I said to Sam last night, I don’t want to go with her (well, maybe a little – not so much about her as my own wanderlust), but I wish I could creep on her just a little bit. Peek around corners and watch as she sees new things, tastes new foods, explores new vistas. Thank heaven above for social media that will allow me to do just that, even if she has carefully curated what I see.

This is just the beginning of the end. It’s not really even that – I’m being a wee bit melodramatic. We send one off to college next year, which I am already pre-grieving. What a good use of my time that is! But this is what we had children for in the first place. To grow up, and fly the nest, and be productive adults that please God. That, and to take care of us in our old age. They are going to love that! Oh, and give us grand-babies. No pressure. Truly.

So my beautiful girl, fly! Enjoy the journey. We will be here in the nest when you come back, ready to listen to all your stories. And just so you know, I stood looking out the window at your plane until you were in the air.

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Sanctification: The Ultimate Renovation

Sanctification. The process of being made holy. God is holy, and he wants us to be holy. The process starts when Jesus buys us back, but then we spend a lifetime having the rough edges sanded off and primed and sealed.

We are doing construction at our house, adding a complete second story, and so these kinds of metaphors are quite at the forefront of my mind. We’ve reached the stage in this seemingly endless project where the contractor has completed what he so picturesquely termed “the vanilla shell” and left the rest of the job in our hands. It is now up to us, literally, to do the finish work. This, my friends, is called sweat equity. Which is also the only way we could afford to do what we wanted to do, but that is another story. (Have I mentioned yet that I don’t like to sweat?)

Our contractor, who conveniently happens to be my brother, is not abandoning us altogether, but is now in a strictly advisory role. In this metaphor, the creator has built the house, and we are making it complete. The house is livable. We abide in it but are constantly working on it to make it finished.

Get it? Get the connection? I want you to know, reader friend, that I have never thought about sanctification being like home building. Ever. (Of course, I’ve never built a home before, but whatever.) I had totally intended to go another direction with this post, but God brought this analogy to me right now while I was writing and THAT IS SO COOL!

Please note, I am not saying any of us are God in this scenario. I am saying that we are LIKE God, to a certain extent, in this story. And sort of like two of the three persons of the Trinity. I can’t quite stretch the analogy to include the third in the case of our house. I’m not quite sure how the Redeemer fits into the word picture.

Anyway. Sanctification. The process of being made holy.

The Bible says that when we are saved, the Holy Spirit starts getting our house in order. In God’s eyes, ALL of our houses are Fixer Uppers. Like Chip and Joanna Gaines (for those of you unfortunates who have no access/desire/interest in HGTV, this couple are the stars of a show called Fixer Upper. They can really do no wrong in the house business, in my fangirl opinion. Anyway… [Like Chip and Joanna Gaines]) who buy the worst house in a good neighborhood and make it the most beautiful home on the block, Jesus buys back the rundown neglected messy dirty house, that the Creator built, from the tenant that let it fall apart. The Holy Spirit moves into the house and begins fixing it up. (I guess God let me find a way to fit the third person of the Trinity into the picture. Or the second. I’m not sure how or if they are numbered. God’s ideas are SO COOL! I effuse.)

It is a broad process at the beginning. A LOT of demolition happens before reconstruction can begin. Dumpsters get filled. Face masks are worn. Sometimes some dangerous stuff needs to be dealt with. Eventually the debris is cleared, the dust settles, and then the building begins.

I know whereof I speak. Have I mentioned we have lived in this house during the complete process? We have lived here through the demo phase and it is messy. So it is when God clears out the unnecessary detritus of our lived-in lives. It is not always fun, but sometimes it is. There is something satisfying about pitching out the things that weigh us down, the needless muck that must go before anything new can be constructed. As new Christians, we tend to be on a kind of high as our lives change dramatically. Getting rid of the old is exhilarating.

But that wears off. As time passes, and the construction process sloooooooowly continues, it is easy to get impatient, and irritable, and bored. We live in disruption. Things move at a snail-like pace. It seems that nothing is being accomplished. The Holy Spirit moves in and makes what feels like a mess. The Spirit moves stuff around and rearranges priorities and tosses out things we believed to be treasures. Walls are moved. Things don’t look the same. This part of the sanctification process is the least comfortable. This is the time that God gently pries our fingers off trash we hold dear, and politely informs us that we really can’t afford marmoleum and we’d better pick out tile. That the wall we wanted taken out must stay or the roof will cave in.

Reconstruction is both tedious and exciting. New framework goes up. The structure becomes defined and see-able. Drywall is hung to create new spaces. The once-theoretical plan becomes evident and real. Sometimes it is a little like watching a child grow. You really can’t see any change but suddenly they are taller than you.

Some people live in this phase for a very long time. Longer than is probably truly necessary. I may or may not be one of those people.

Eventually, however, the finish work can begin. Our house becomes far more usable. There is sanding and painting and laying of tile and installation of sinks. Flooring is laid and doors are hung. Spoiler alert – the house will never be completely finished as long as we live in it. But it becomes useful. God invites people in for intimate dinners and rollicking parties. He makes it a comfortable and safe place to be. He uses the house to make others welcome and to do his work. He reveals to the world his “Fixer-Upper.”

So to summarize, as I see this analogy.

God builds a house

That’s you and me. Pretty self-explanatory. We are born. We live life.

We let it go to pieces by allowing in an unsuitable tenant

That’s sin. Also pretty self-explanatory but just in case, let’s define sin as anything that separates us from God. This is a list that is too extensive to deal with in a blog post, but basically is anything we have ever done wrong ever no matter how big or small we may think it is. This makes God crazy sad. We are trashing his house!

Jesus buys back the house

That’s salvation. Big concept. Basically we have sold our houses to sin. The wages of sin is death. Jesus, who carries no debt, agrees to pay off the mortgage. He pays the price to redeem us back at the cost of his own life. He now owns us free and clear.

The Holy Spirit begins reconstruction

That’s sanctification.

First comes demo. The Spirit works at getting rid of the bad gunk in our lives, whatever that may be and it is different for each of us. It could be a nasty habit, an addiction, a toxic relationship, or simple negativity. This is transforming work. We are pared back to the framework of our house. Garbage left by the previous tenant (sin) hits the dumpster. A few walls get knocked down which creates the desirable “open floor plan.” The house is given a good cleaning and left fresh and sparkling for the rebuild. Those things that grieve God’s heart get addressed.

Reconstruction. Here the Spirit begins rebuilding our lives by spiritual disciplines. We dig into God’s word. We attend church and Bible Studies. New walls are framed in – new habits and desires. We grow and get to know the new landlord better and better until he becomes a friend as well as the owner of the house. If you want to get really technical, he puts the Holy Spirit in residence as the general contractor to do the work. We get to stay in the house while it happens. The general contractor never moves out, because there is always work to be done. (Okay, this stretches the analogy a bit. If my general contractor, who again, is my brother, were to move in permanently it would probably not be such a great thing. But the Holy Spirit is different. My brother, like me, is a sinful human being and that can only lead to dissension. The Holy Spirit, on the other hand, is GOD. Therefore perfect. Unlike me. No dissension.)

Finish work. Refining us so that we can serve God and others – for me this is constant – finding areas in my life that need to be sanded away so that no one gets slivers. In other words, removing from me those character traits that stand in the way of loving on others as Jesus loves them – traits like impatience, thoughtlessness, etc. This will go on until heaven.

Once Jesus buys the house, it is his. If we are wise, we let his tenant, the Holy Spirit, do the renovations necessary to make us the beautiful home on the block. Then maybe, the neighbors will want to let our contractor reconstruct their dwelling.

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Purpose

As part of my daily discipline, I have been reading through the Bible in a year. Currently, I am well into Ecclesiastes, and have just begun 1 Chronicles. The program I am following has me reading a wisdom/poetry book, and either an Old or New Testament book.

Purpose

Two very separate thoughts collided today. Ecclesiastes keeps reiterating that all is meaningless, good and evil, wisdom and folly. That within the confines of mortal life, every creature on earth suffers the same end, and the work they have done is forgotten.

1 Chronicles begins with a long list of names, a genealogy from Adam until the writer’s time. Chapter 4 contains the “Prayer of Jabez”, a cry to God for an increase in territory, God’s hand to be on Jabez, and to be kept safe from all pain and harm. This prayer has received a fair amount of press in Christian circles thanks to a book by Bruce Wilkinson.

The juxtaposition of these two readings intrigues me. Both seem very focused on the four-score-and-ten existence that we are given on this earth, without drawing any real conclusion for the reason behind it all.

The long list of names found in 1 Chronicles is one of those passages in the Bible that I find myself skimming over quickly. Many of the names mean nothing to me. I have no information of what they did beyond being a stepping-stone to an important character in God’s narrative. And yet they were each real people, with real lives, and real struggles and triumphs. Just like me. (Only I think many of them lived in a tent. I am very grateful to not live in a tent.)

In their time here on earth, all that we know of many of them is the name(s) of their children. We are told nothing about their individual gifts, careers, passions, hobbies, favorite foods, quirky habits – all those things on which we focus our relationships. Yet they are named in God’s word, and therefore must have lived lives of some kind of import.

Our culture is consumed with fame. While I believe there has always been some of this – we do have histories and legacies left by significant people, mostly preserved in written word – there seems an unholy desire in our time to be known. People bare their very souls on television, to millions of enthralled viewers on a regular basis. We don’t see just the good whitewashed exteriors, but revel in the dirty awful corners of people’s lives. Misery loves company. And frequently gives us a sense of superiority.

I think humans have always wanted to be known. I think we are wired to be known. And like all good things of God, man has perverted that desire. What I believe we are wired for is to be known by God. We desire relationship, and intimacy, and purpose. We just misplace where we seek these things and grasp at them anyway we can.

But nothing is new under the sun, the writer of Ecclesiastes tells me. So neither is this search for meaning. There is an incompleteness in us that longs for, passionately, purpose.

I recognize it in myself. I vacillate between knowing that what I do matters, and feeling like none of it does. Like I am walking in the will of God, and that it is never enough. That I am in relationship with God and others, and that I am totally alone. That I want my life to have lasting purpose and meaning, and feeling like I live in vain. The sheer insecurity of my existence brings me dis-ease and confusion. Some days I live in the confidence and security of knowing I have a Creator that has a purpose for my life, and other days cry out like the Ecclesiastical writer that all is “meaningless.”

So what do I do with all that? How do I live my life with that constant tension between “it’s all good” and “what’s the point?”

I don’t know.

I have theories.

I could condense it all into a pat little answer that all I need is Jesus. Which is true. All I really need is Jesus. As the old spiritual says, “You can have all the rest, give me Jesus.” I know this is true. I cling to this with all my might. This is what I seek after.

But really, sometimes it is hard. Sometimes I let go of that life-ring and forget. It’s a good thing Jesus doesn’t forget and holds on when I don’t and start floundering. For those times when I’m not walking on water, but sinking fast.

What is particularly odd to me is that in the difficult times it is easy for me to cling to the life-ring. Why is so hard in the everyday living in the land of milk and honey?

Which brings me to Jabez. Jabez prays for three things: to have an increase in territory, to have God’s hand of protection, and to be safe from pain and harm. This prayer comes in the midst of the long list of genealogy, and we know nothing about Jabez except that he was more honorable than his brothers, his mother bore him in pain, and that God granted his request. I couldn’t even figure out precisely where he fit in the genealogy, but I am also not a biblical scholar. This passage appears as a complete non sequitur.

Why is it there? There has been a movement to grabbing hold of this prayer and making it our own, which has received both good and bad press. That is not my focus – if you google it you will find plenty of arguments for both sides of the equation.

What strikes me about Jabez is that he has the audacity, the courage, to ask for exactly what he wants. It is simple, and it is direct, and it is with purpose. If we read between the lines, (and even within them) Jabez was a man who walked with God. Who was in relationship somehow with God. He states his desire openly to God, and in the answer receives not only what he asked for but also a meaning or purpose for his life. Nowhere in the text does it say that if we pray this prayer, it will give meaning or purpose to our lives. This one is for Jabez.

I would love to know what Jabez did when his prayer was answered. What was his response in the land of milk and honey. Did he find meaning and purpose in the answer, in how his life played out post-prayer?

We don’t know. The Bible is curiously silent on that topic.

I think we can infer from this prayer that if we ask for meaning and purpose from God, it will be granted, because by our sheer existence we serve a purpose in God’s great plan. Because of our redemption through Jesus (give me Jesus), the purpose is being served. The purpose may not be fame or notoriety. We may be one of those quiet in-between names that are skimmed over in history. Probably we are. But that doesn’t make us any less important in the great narrative. Our name is there for a reason, EVEN IF WE DON’T SEE IT.

Maybe that is our problem. For the first time in history, we have the time to spend navel-gazing. We have the time to be all-consumed with our own purpose and our own importance and so we actually miss what that is. The Teacher of Ecclesiastes comes to this conclusion: Remember your Creator. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. This is our purpose. What or how we do this is less important. Our purpose is to, however we do it, to follow after God.

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Respecting our teens

I just read a great blog on inCourage entitled Respecting our Children by Sarah Mae. Here is the link if you are interested: http://www.incourage.me/2016/07/respecting-our-children.html. If you are not familiar with inCourage, I highly recommend you take a look. The whole purpose is to encourage women to be “in Courage.” This particular post highlighted how to respect our children in various ways, and it got me thinking. Sarah Mae’s essay was directed more at families with smaller kids, and since mine are older, the focus is different.

I have teenagers – 13, 15, and 17. We are staring down the barrel of young adulthood. We have one more year with our oldest under our roof, and my tendency is to try and hammer home every lesson I feel he needs to learn before adulthood.

NOT A GOOD PLAN! Because here is the deal. Nobody likes to be hammered upon. And, if I have been doing my job (which I sometimes question, but that is another blog), I should be able to start letting go and trusting my children.

I have great kids. They are responsible, trustworthy, kind, funny, and bright. But they are kids, which means that sometimes they do things that leave me wondering about their future survival.

And yet, in one short year, the oldest will more or less be responsible for himself. I won’t be there to do his laundry (he knows how), or make sure he has done homework (I stopped checking years ago.) Or even that he gets himself up and to class. That will be his bailiwick.

He is our practice child. You know what I mean. He is the kid on whom we have tried all our cockamamie parenting ideas. His sisters benefit from the fact that we don’t continue the ones that don’t work.

I know, I know. Each child is different. Boy howdy, are they different. And so no one parenting practice will work.

Except this one.

Respect.

Respect each child. Respect the gifts that God has given them, and help them to develop into what God has created them for.

The oldest child, the practice one, begged to be allowed to play football. I, in my wisdom, said “Uh, NO!” I like his brain. I like it un-concussed and intact. Besides, I find football incomprehensible and mind-numbingly boring. So I suggested cross-country as a viable alternative. Except my child is not built for speed. He is built for strength.

Here is how all that played out:

First day of cross country.

Me: How was it?

Boychild: I hate running.

Second day of cross country.

Me: Did you make any nice friends?

Boychild: It’s hard to talk to people when you are dead last and they are miles ahead of you.

Third day of cross country.

Me: So how did it go?

Boychild (forlornly): I wish you would let me play football.

Hmmm. He tried something based on my desires. He really didn’t like it. So I took a long walk and had a talk with God. What God said back to me, over and over like a broken record in my head was, “Train up a child in the way HE should go…” (Proverbs 22:6, emphasis mine).

Ouch. Not the way I want him to go.

God gave my kid specific gifts. They aren’t the same gifts that I got, or Sam got, or the girls got. He is unique and different, and God wants to use him in a unique and different way, and I need to RESPECT that.

I need to respect that my son is strong, not fast. That he is a big picture guy, and hates the details. That he is social and relational, and needs very little time alone.

And I need to get out of the way. My job is to guide and to coach, not to boss (oooooh, is that one hard.) I am to set reasonable boundaries, and then let my kid make his choices within those parameters. And the older they get, the bigger the boundaries need to be. So that when my arbitrary boundaries are removed, my kids know how to set their own.

So I said to my boychild: Fine. Call the school. I think it is probably too late to join (they had already been practicing for two weeks), but if they let you in, and it’s REALLY what you want to do, you can do it. Wasn’t I oh-so-gracious about it?

They let him in. As a matter of fact, the school called ME to tell me how mature my kid was in handling the whole matter. Respect.

Football is one of the best things that could have happened to my kid in his high school career. Instead of the locker room mentality that I feared, he found some fantastic friends, Christian and otherwise. He has learned how to stand up for his faith. The coaching staff focus not on winning, although they like to win, but on creating men of character. (And what mom doesn’t want THAT for her kid. And to let someone else teach it? BONUS!!!) He has learned that it doesn’t matter if he starts and is the big hero of the game (he doesn’t and isn’t), perseverance and hard work are worth it. Football is helping make a man out of my first-born, using different tools than what we have at home. It has created some great dinner conversations about choices, and ethics, and how to treat other people who aren’t always nice to you.

In her blog about respecting our children, Sarah Mae uses the text “Treat others the same way you want them to treat you” (Luke 6:31) as the thesis for her essay. Isn’t that what we all want? Do I do that with my teenagers? Isn’t that the basis for respectful parenting? My kids just want the freedom to explore their gifts. And so do I. Should I not afford them the same respect that I ask of them?

Sometimes I think we forget that our children are the “others” that Jesus talked about. It’s a good reminder that loving our neighbor might just mean the teenager in the next room. As my kids grow into young adults, it’s important for me to remember that they need to be afforded respect, listened to instead of talked at, and allowed to make their own decisions.

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8 Fixes for a Bad Attitude

8 Fixes for a Bad Attitude Yesterday was not a good day. It started out okay, and really spiraled downward in a great big vortex of awfulness.

Here’s the kicker. I brought it on myself. It started with an innocent text from someone very dear to me, and I did what I caution my kids against all the time: I read between the lines. I created subtext that may or may not have even existed and without giving the sender the least benefit of the doubt, I created a whole dreadful dialogue in my brain in which I came out as the pathetic loser.

And since that really wasn’t enough, I spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself for every perceived wrong in my life that I have ever committed, and how the whole entire world was against me, and really, in general, behaved like an irrational premenstrual adolescent. It was not pretty.

I reveled in it. I wallowed in it. I even cried. Three or four times throughout the day. I hate crying. Everyone says it’s cathartic and will make you feel better, and THAT IS A LIE! I just end up feeling itchy-eyed and puffy. And a little bit snotty. It is truly unpleasant.

What is particularly horrifying about this shameful episode, is that there is no reason on God’s gorgeous green earth for me to EVER feel sorry for myself. My life is sweet. I am smart, healthy, and well-educated. I have a supportive husband, brilliant funny kids, a nice house, plenty to eat, a car that runs… basically I have every amenity and blessing that this country has to offer. We’re not rich by any first world means, but by golly, we have MORE than enough. And more important than any of that, by the grace of God, I am his child. He sent his Son to make things right for me.

All true. But in the whirlpool of emotions, I forget.

I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this. I suspect that almost all of us sink into this abyss once in a while. It is not something to be proud of. But maybe there are a few things we can do to try to offset our bad attitude and “turn that frown upside down!” (Does that make anyone else want to gag as much as it makes me want to? I ~~HATE~~ strongly dislike platitudes.)

May I humbly suggest:

1. Take it to your knees. This should really be the first thing you do. But why so often is it the last? Why do I always seem to wait on this one until I’m sobbing for forgiveness, rather than begging for help? The truth is, that if I would just grab my Bible, open a Psalm, pray it, cling to it, write it on a piece of scrap paper and carry it around, my whole worldview would probably come back to where it belongs. Nothing like a little love of Jesus to re-orient priorities.

2. Tell Satan to take a hike. Jesus tells us that the thief (Satan) comes only to steal (my inner thoughts) and kill (my happiness) and destroy (my peace of mind) John 10:10 (parenthetical remarks are mine. Any good thing could be put into the parentheses).

Satan loves to first bring us down, and then kick us while we are there. Ever have a thought that goes something like this?

“I can’t do anything right. I am totally useless, fat, ugly, stupid, worthless. Nobody could ever love me. Not even God could love me. I’ll never amount to anything ever. I suck.”

Ever had those thoughts? I have. Yesterday. These are lies. These are lies that Satan delights in whispering in your head and getting you to believe. Satan is a liar. Jesus is the truth-teller. Listen to him. He calls Satan on the lies. Put Jesus in front of you, the armor of God on you, and tell Satan to bug off. The only thing that should suck is your vacuum cleaner.

3. Go for a walk. Or a bike ride. Or a run. Or the Ben & Jerry’s. All the experts tell us that exercise releases all kinds of feel-good endorphins that will completely revolutionize our outlook on life. Unless of course you hate to sweat. Like me. But if you are one of those people, just do it! Even I, who hate to exercise and would only run if a madman were chasing me with a knife (and even then I might just lay down and let him get it over with), find that a walk sometimes helps. And when it doesn’t, dipping a spoon into a pint of Chubby Hubby might just do the trick.

4. Speaking of Chubby hubbies… if the beloved of your heart is not the cause of your distress, or even if he is, maybe especially if he is, a little action on that front might work some wonders. (Trying to keep it clean, people. My children might read this. Nah. But maybe my mom.)

5. Rework the internal dialogue. Even in my most pathetic moment yesterday, I started to laugh a little at myself because it was so ridiculous and I knew it. It was when I reached the “how could God even love me” phase that I knew I had sunk to new lows. What I should have done at that moment was turn the narrative around. Which I did albeit a few hours later. This is a good time to start counting all the graces in your life. Fix your mind on what is true, and noble, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable, and excellent, and praiseworthy. (Phil 4:8) When you think you are ugly, amend it with “but at least the hair on my legs is blonde.” Or “I may be fat, but at least I own some stretchy pants.” Once you start down that path, you realize pretty quickly how ludicrous the negative statements were.

If you are fighting in your head with your spouse/child/boss/neighbor, rewrite the dialogue so that it is positive. The truth is you really don’t know how they would respond to your accusations, so try to put the best-case scenario into play.

6. Get in your car, roll the windows down and crank the Country Western music. Let’s be honest. Either you will totally relate to the lyrics and derive some comfort there or you will laugh your head off. I don’t CARE if you despise country western (I’m an opera singer for pity’s sake), it is the most highly cathartic music ever written. And you can even sing along because it is entirely predictable!

7. SLEEP! Sometimes that’s all you need. A good night’s rest. If brain chatter is keeping you awake, have a warm bath and some warm milk.

8. Get some help. Here is a truth. Sometimes life is hard. Even if we bring it on ourselves. You don’t have to go this alone. Call a friend. Have her join you in any of the above steps. (Except for number 4. That would be immoral. And creepy.) When things are overwhelming, find somebody you can talk to. If you really don’t feel like you have anyone, wander into your local church. They are in the business (or should be) of listening when things are tough. If you are truly in the pit, not just visiting for a day, then talk to your pastor or a Christian counselor. My suggestions aren’t meant to deal with true depression. Just an occasional bad day brought on by a bad attitude.

May the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way. 2 Thess. 3:16.

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Heeding the call

Heed the call So when I was a child, missionaries would regularly visit our home church while on furlough to talk about their work. Generally these folks were from what was then the Congo or Japan or Ecuador, and they would show slides (yes I am dating myself) of the churches they served and the homes they lived in, and would talk about being CALLED to be a missionary.

I would sit there, I kid you not, praying that the phone would not ring. I lived in fear that I would answer and a deep voice would tell me to pack my bags for Africa. Isn’t that how it works? I had absolutely no desire to 1) live in another country in apparent squalor (sometimes those people even ate BUGS!) or 2) speak PUBLICLY about my faith. I would squirm just thinking about it.

Of course, I was in like, the fourth grade.

It never once occurred to my 10-year-old mind that if God wanted me preaching his gospel in a foreign country, he might give me a heart for that. And the skill set.

I am not saying that we aren’t ALL called to work for the kingdom. Christ makes it very clear in his great commission that we are to “go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation” (Mark 16:15) And sometimes it is very easy to get a little too comfortable in our own milieu and think that this mission business is someone else’s job.

But what is our mission? We aren’t all called to head for Ghana. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to go into all the world and preach the good news. It is not specified exactly how that should play out. And we ARE given a choice. We either obey the summons, or we don’t. In the book of Esther, she must choose – does she go before the king and risk her own death, or does she do nothing and allow genocide of her own people on a mass scale?

Obedience must come from love, and respect, relationship and trust. Do I love and respect God? Am I in relationship with him? And if I can say yes to the first three, do I trust God to use me to forward his mission in this world? Do I trust that he will give me the necessary tools to do this? Or should I stick my fingers in my ears and sing at the top of my lungs so that I can’t hear him talking? Or worse, do I let the call go into voice mail and listen to it in my own sweet time?

We don’t have to listen to the still small voice telling us to write a note to a distant friend. We don’t have to volunteer at the local thrift store. We don’t have to sit with a grieving friend that has just buried his infant son. But isn’t this as much God’s call as living in Thailand? And maybe that is how God calls most of us to evangelize.

I think it is time to stop feeling guilty that I am not hopping on that plane. I think it is time for me to accept that God uses me – us – in ways that are as unique as we are. Paul talks about this in 1 Corinthians 12 and 13. “So the body is not one part but many. If the foot should say, ‘Because I’m not a hand, I don’t belong to the body,’ in spite of this IT STILL BELONGS TO THE BODY.” (1 Cor. 12:14-15. Emphasis mine.)

I’ve always viewed this extended passage as an admonition to not think that some spiritual gifts or jobs are better than others and therefore feel that my job is more important. Wouldn’t want to get a big head! But can’t it also be viewed in reverse? What I am called to do IS important, AND it still makes me part of God’s kingdom work. So I shouldn’t feel like I’m missing some spiritual boat if I’m not on one to Tanzania (or is that land-locked? I’m a little foggy on the geography of sub-Saharan Africa. Hey, I just looked it up – bless the Internet – and I could take a boat there! Google really is a blessing to the mind of a mother of teenagers. But I am off track. Which is also not uncommon to the mind of a mother of teenagers.)

What Paul really wants to emphasize is that whatever we do, we need to do it out of love (1 Cor. 13 – the whole thing!). Not out of guilt or shame or fear of a phone call.

Aren’t all the following examples of heeding the great commission call?

A group of women help a single mom pack up her house to move, a job that, if done alone, might leave her rocking in a corner in the fetal position.

A bunch of teenagers band together to rake an elderly woman’s yard.

A pastor makes it his private little mission, in addition to all his other duties, to make sure the ice-cube tray in the church kitchen is always filled.

A couple of elementary school kids hold a lemonade stand – free lemonade but donations gratefully accepted for the local food shelf.

A neighbor’s pet dies, and my husband and son help bury it.

A caravan from the church heads to a reservation to help mend roofs and teach VBS.

My middle child, unasked, unloads the dishwasher for her sister.

An introverted mom-to-be stands up in front of the congregation to tell her story of miscarriages and God’s faithfulness.

The call to mission comes in many different ring tones. As many as there are of God’s children and their inherent gifts. So we shouldn’t fear to answer. God doesn’t cold-call. God only calls those he loves best. And he loves us all best.

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Contentment

satisfy us

A good friend once said, “You know what’s great about us? (love her!) We are content but not complacent!”

This was a long time ago. We were young – so young in fact that we still had beautiful skin. Even then I loved the idea. To be content, to be comfortable with my circumstances whatever they were, but to not be so comfortable with the status quo as to stop moving.

Contentment, it seems to me, is a choice. Just as I choose to love my husband (love is a verb, in my humble opinion, not a feeling), so I can choose to be content. But, uff da, our culture makes it hard.

One of my favorite vices is to watch HGTV. I have my favorites (Chip and Joanna Gaines can do no wrong), but pretty much I’m a junkie and will watch whatever happens to be on. Before you judge, let me first state that in our house we have no cable, and so my addiction can only be satisfied in hotels or other people’s homes. Okay, and occasionally an old season on Netflix or Hulu. I love watching HGTV. I love that these experts can take a lump of coal and create a diamond. In one short hour! The distress at the beginning of the show is resolved in tears of joy at the end. I might mock it a bit, but the truth is I love seeing people discover what is “home” for them.

For 20+ years, I have lived in the same little rambler. 1800 square feet of inefficient space. It was awesome for a single person, great for a young married couple, swell to bring a first baby home to. After that, it started getting tight, and for years it has housed 5 adult-ish sized people, two dogs and a small menagerie of additional pets. With the occasional guest. It started with three bedrooms and one bath. We added a fourth bedroom and 3/4 bath when we finished the basement.

I have a strong sense of place laced with sentimentality. I loved that little house. I brought my husband and all my children home to it. We have pets buried in the woods. We built a chicken coop in the backyard, for pity’s sake. It is our little acre of Eden. I have been incredibly content in this house, but clearly not complacent. We have adapted it to suit our needs for as long as was possible, but we’ve outgrown it plain and simple. It is no longer bringing the peace and sense of home that I crave for my family. (Am I in danger of being discontent? Or is this just another example of lack of complacency? Heart question!)

So we house shopped. I felt just like one of those couples on House Hunters, except I never commented on paint color. Come on, people, that is an inexpensive fix! We found nothing. Everything we looked at needed so much work. Or wasn’t as nice a location, or or or…

To any good HGTV crackhead, the only logical choice is to add on. Which we have done. Or rather, are doing. I’m sure, gentle reader, you will hear more about the process in a later rant. It is an ongoing process as we are doing most of the finish work ourselves. I love me some sweat equity! But for now, here are the specifics.

We have added a full second story. And lived through it. By living through it, I mean that we have STAYED IN THE HOUSE even as the roof was ripped off over our heads. In November. In Minnesota. We survived dry wall dust, strange men waltzing in and out of our house at all hours, shared bedrooms, a truly “open living concept” – when there are no walls, you are definitely living in the open! If I could have a nickel for every time someone commented on the insanity of that, I could have paid for the renovation!

But here is the thing. We are content, but not complacent. Living through this process has really been more of an adventure than a trial. Much of it has to do with how you view your circumstances. We can spin almost anything anyway we choose. We can see a catastrophe or an opportunity. We have a roof (now) over our heads. We GET to experience the mess, because we have the means to add on. We GET to learn new family coping skills, because we have a place to stay. Sure there is dust, and chaos, and I have absolutely no idea where my summer sandals or wok have been stashed. But really, does it matter? As Paul so wisely put it, “I have learned to be content, whatever the circumstances” (Phil. 4:11). I don’t have this down perfectly. I have my moments. But mostly, I am content.

AND THIS IS THE REASON: I am satisfied, anew every day, with the unfailing love of God. Not with the condition of my living room. Not with the relationship with my teenager. Not with whether or not my skinny jeans fit. I am satisfied with the unfailing love of God. This does not come through my own power, or will, or hard work, or attitude. It comes from God himself. It is enough.

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Trusting the false gods

“Is it because there is no God in Israel that you are going off to consult Baal-Zebub?” 2 Kings 1:3

Every morning I have a little routine. Sam (best of men) brings me a cup of coffee, I groggily sit up and grab my Bible, and I read a portion of Scripture. This, my friends, is what I like to call a “spiritual discipline”. Which is a way of saying that sometimes I just do it because it is supposed to be good for me, like squats or eating right. Which also means that sometimes it is very difficult to harness my thoughts and focus on what God is trying to say to me. My mind wanders to what I’m going to wear, what I need to get done, what color to paint the mudroom…

I am not a morning person. But I also know that if I don’t do this little act of obedience/discipline now, I probably won’t get to it today. And as clichéd as it sounds, starting the day with God always makes it go better. Even if I am sort of just phoning it in.

My spiritual discipline for time with God this year (I try to start each year fresh), is to read through the Bible in a year. I have done this before – for a while I was doing it every other year. The problem with so many of these read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year programs (at least for me) is that they are so very regimented as to be overwhelming. Reading becomes the “have-to” instead of the “get-to”. There is JUST SO MUCH. Experts tell you that to read through the Bible in a year “takes only about 15 minutes a day!” (imagine the falsely cheery advertising voice). Some days it does only take that. Some days one is reading Leviticus. Or long lists of geneology. It may only take 15 minutes but it feels a bit like an eternity. I know each of those names is important (after all, I believe the Bible to be the inspired, inerrant word of God – which means I don’t really get to pick and choose what is important and what is not. God did. Because He is God.)

The program of read-through-the-Bible that I am using this year seems much more doable for some reason. I’m not sure if it is the way it is structured (a passage of OT, or of NT, it jumps back and forth – you read a book, then move to the other Testament, read a book, etc. and a wisdom chunk – Psalms, Proverbs… a day), or if it is that it allows for days of reflection (every 7th day is a reflection day. Or in my case, a catch-up day.) But this time I have more or less stuck with it. Even through Leviticus.

This has all been a very long preamble to the meat of this post. Setting the stage for you.

At the beginning of each quiet time, I have gotten in the habit of asking God to let me know what He wants me to get out of the reading for that day. Currently I have just begun 2 Kings after a refreshing dive into the very short book of Philemon. I have mixed feelings about Kings. I love history. I love knowing stories – narrative is one of the best ways for me to connect to concepts. So the history in the Kings books should draw me in and fascinate me. Except I don’t love history about war. Talk of battles and campaigns is a sure-fire cure for insomnia. I like history about people’s lives – what they did, what motivated them, what did they EAT! Kings gives a little of that, (let’s face it – Ahab and Jezebel are a fascinating example of a completely dysfunctional marriage and parenting) but there is a lot of who killed who where in what battle that is very hard for a layman like me to keep straight.

I digress.

So this morning followed every other habitual morning. I woke up, drank some coffee, grabbed my Bible, prayed my “show me” prayer, and got three short verses into 2 Kings and was so struck by the verse at the top of this post, that I had to write.

Background: Ahaziah has ascended the throne of Israel, the northern of the two kingdoms, following the rather gruesome death of his nasty dad Ahab. God has already warned Ahab that things were not going to go well for Ahaziah as a consequence of a long family lifestyle of worshipping Baal instead of God. At some point following his ascension, Ahaziah has taken a tumble through the lattice of his private apartment and injured himself, apparently quite severely because he is unsure if he’s going to make it.

So he calls to his minions and says “Go and consult Baal-Zebub, the god of Ekron, to see if I will recover from this injury.” (2 Kings 1: 2)

Hmm. A few red flags in the narrative here. First, Ahaziah is an Israelite. The God of the Israelites is GOD. He must have been around when his dad tried to bring rain by calling on Baal. Didn’t work out so well for him. Four hundred fifty of Baal’s priests were unable to accomplish this task (and ultimately wound up dead as a result of God’s wrath). Elijah (who really is the central character for a good chunk of this narrative) is a true prophet of the one true God. He calls on God to show his mighty power, and God delivers in a major way (see 1 Kings 18 for the full story). Even if Ahaziah was not there, surely the story was passed on. This isn’t the kind of event that is easily forgotten.

So first red flag. Forgetting that God is God.

Second red flag. Ahaziah doesn’t ask to be healed. He just asks if his time is up. And back to red flag 1, he doesn’t inquire of God, but of Baal-Zebub. (Side note: remarkable resemblance in this name to Beelzebub, another name for Satan. Which I’m sure makes total sense to a Hebrew scholar and would be a very interesting topic to explore. Just not now.) On their way, the minions meet Elijah who tells them to return to their king and tell him he is going to die.

Third red flag. This makes Ahaziah, not repentant, not sorrowful, but mad. He sends several companies of soldiers to fetch Elijah. Two of these companies are struck down dead by fire of heaven. The third captain begs for mercy, so Elijah goes with him, delivers the message about death in person to Ahaziah, and Ahaziah dies.

So what is the take away for a middle-aged mom of teenagers several millenia later? It is so very easy for me to complacently judge Ahaziah from my audience seat in the drama. Why? Why wouldn’t he remember the previous actions of God? Why wouldn’t he ask for healing? Why just ask about the outcome? And for sure, why ask Baal-Zebub? Is this guy some kind of moron? And finally, when he hears of his death-sentence, why does he just get angry?

Truthfully, how am I all that different? I have seen God work amazing wonders in my life, the lives of those around me, and in this 21st century world. And still when I face even a minor crisis, do I remember first that God is God? Or do I try to solve it myself? Or hash it out with a friend? I may not go marching to another “god”, but I’m not always falling to my knees either. And am I asking for the right thing? Do I seek healing, or do I just want to know how it is all going to turn out so I can steel myself? There is an old proverb saying “hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.” Isn’t that what I really do? And by so doing, am I really hoping? I so struggle with wanting to micro-manage things, to be in control of a situation, and the truth is, THERE IS NO CONTROL!!!!! (This is clearly a lesson I have a hard time learning because I am given so many opportunities to practice!) And when I don’t get what I want, I get angry. I pout. Or worse, grow silent. I maybe don’t send a company of soldiers to kill the messenger, but don’t I do that as effectively myself with my words or lack thereof? How dare I judge Ahaziah. Learn from him, would be the wise path. Put my trust where it really belongs, not in my marriage, or good job, or comfortable house, or dear friends. I need to be willing to ask the RIGHT person, the one true God, for what I really need, not for what might be an outcome. I need to be able to repent, to say I’m sorry, and ask for forgiveness instead of just pouting if the answer isn’t what I wanted to hear. Mostly, I need to remember that God is God.

Commencement

graduation-1230325__180 I’m looking, weepily (is that a word? It should be.), at the side of my fridge which is artfully decorated with graduation announcements. They have replaced the crayon artwork of indeterminate objects amid unsigned permission slips and school pictures that once hung there.

It is the season of commencement, of moving on, of starting something new, a time when something begins. These are not my children – I have a whole year left to prepare for that – but rather the children of my dearest college friends. Most of these friends I made my freshmen year, entering the dorm in barely concealed terror. I didn’t dare let any of THEM see that I was completely unready for this new adventure.

I first met Katie, who became my roommate for the next three years, bounding up the stairs in a pink polo shirt, plaid shorts, and carrying an armful of some kind of faux fur. She was beautiful and polished and thoroughly intimidating. I was sweaty from hauling furniture up three flights of stairs on a humid August day. I was definitely not beautiful and not polished, and certainly not even remotely intimidating. I’m pretty sure I didn’t smell so great, either.

But we became friends, even though we were wildly different. We met others, and decided by our senior year that we would apply for an Honor House. According to the college website “Honor houses allow third- and fourth-year students to live with peers who are working toward a common academic goal or service/special interest project.” I have no memory of our academic goal or service project. I do remember that the one event we organized had to do with time management. We were late.

The house was named in honor of a former Professor of the college, O.G. Felland, and we titled ourselves the Felland Lovelies. I think we hoped it would be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

There were twelve of us and one shower. Yes. Twelve… One… And we all still like each other.

We didn’t know going into that freshman year what awaited us, and that is good. We were full of fresh-faced optimism, cheerful natures, and we owned the world. By most accounts, we have had happy fulfilling lives, but everyone has some sorrow, and ours started early. Halfway through our senior year, Anne’s parents died suddenly on an icy road in southern Minnesota. This one tragic accident bonded us in a way most college kids don’t have to experience. Along the way, there have been miscarriages, premature babies, babies that didn’t survive, dying parents, a dying friend. When I look at it, we’ve experienced a lot of death in general. But there have been weddings, births, published books, TV appearances, careers, raucous laughter, and a million small precious moments of joy that add up to faces that have aged well and beautifully.

Back to the pictures on my fridge. These children, young adults really but they LOOK so young!, are commencing that same adventure. They appear much more confident and put together and worldly-wise and sophisticated than I felt at their age. More like Katie. But in them I so clearly see their mothers. It is like looking at an updated version of ourselves; Felland House 2.0. They lack the Izod polo shirts and Farrah Hair, but are so familiar and dear that it makes me cry.

I love these children, although I don’t know most of them very well. We’ve spread so far over the country that our paths don’t cross often, and usually sans kids. But I love what is best of their mothers in them. I love Amy’s ready wit, and Sherri’s gentle kindness, and Heidi’s loyalty, and Anne’s positive outlook. I love Mari’s educator’s heart, and Katie’s bohemianism, and Julie’s insightful way of looking at the world. I love Jody’s practicality, and Sara’s compassion, and Jill’s optimism. And I miss every single day Kristi’s wicked sense of humor.

I look at these announcements, so full of hope for the future and so full of the accomplishments of their short pasts, and I see the women who have shaped me and helped me become who I am. I see the faces, unlined and untested, of my sweet friends and I am grateful.

Hello world! Prepare for the ride…

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And so it begins. I have no idea where it will end, but I have felt more and more compelled to write down my thoughts, to find a way to express all the ideas that percolate and whirl around my head like water through coffee grounds. And I love me some good strong coffee!

This blog will be a hodgepodge of interests and ideas, stuff that motivates and intrigues me. “When I fall on my knees” comes from the old communion hymn.

When I fall on my knees, with my face to the rising sun,
Oh Lord! have mercy on me!

Mostly I’m naming it this because for years this name has run through my head. All my best ideas seem to come to me (at least when my kids were little) when I was down on the floor wiping up spilled milk or dog vomit or picking up crayons or stinky socks. I always felt closest to God down in that position too – and it came to me that when I fall on my knees I might as well pray because I’m down here already. So this corner of the web will be musings about Motherhood, Mayhem, and God’s Great Mercy.

A disclaimer up front. I am not a theologian. I’m just a Christian trying to stumble through. I won’t get it right probably half the time, but if I’m thinking it somebody else probably is too and maybe by writing it down I’ll come to some conclusion. Or not. Maybe I’ll make you think too. Or not. I hope to make you laugh or cry. Or not. What I’m trying to do is be obedient to that still small voice that has been nagging me to write for a long time. And the once a year Christmas letter just ain’t cutting it anymore.

So, Web-friend. Hello. Be kind while I get the hang of this thing. Check in once in awhile if you are in the neighborhood. Or if you are bored. I’ll try to be thought-provoking or entertaining. Or both. The time has come, so fasten your seatbelts and prepare for bumpy ride. Or throw your hands up in the air and scream with wild abandon. The ride is about to start.

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