It's the hardest thing I've ever done: living like a Christian.
Not living like a morally good person. Not living like I have it all together. Not living like I am perfect and you are not. Not living like I have anything to teach anyone. But to live like a Christian- in the Christ sense: the homeless sense. The humble sense. The kind sense. The loving sense. The self denial sense.
This is the hardest thing because it doesn't come natural, this re-convincing of my heart everyday that I am not good. That I have not arrived. That there is someone I owe my life too. And it usually leads me to silence. Because I just don't have anything to add to the matter.
But the silence screams at me to type it out. And so here I am.
I have chosen to believe in Jesus. Yes, with all its controversial beliefs, it's insane death-to-life claims. The seemingly complicated history seared by the skepticism of contradiction pointing to the Great Rescue of Humankind. (These contradictions are the
building blocks of a faith that does not follow a story arc that we can
predict; a science we can't pin down. It is a faith that is tightly woven to bone marrow and imagination, not hymnal flipping and hemlines.)
I believe He is real. I have felt Him. I have talked with Him. I have read his words and felt my heart come to life in ways it can't on its own. Told you, it is very strange.
I have stood at the sink too many times to count with tears cresting over and a baby trying to crawl up my leg. I have poured a glass of wine only to watch it sit on the counter, waiting until I was less desperate to drink it–just to check my heart. Just to make sure that I am trusting God for my peace in the middle of chaos.
And sometimes I don't. Some days peace is far from me, and I shove the Spirit down below the static of anger and self worship and turn up the color of mad. And on those days I take a long hard sip, because I deserve it.
But I don't deserve it. And then I'm back to the beginning. The cycle again of re-convincing. Of re-committing. Of being joyful in the re-calibration, of being small, but not ashamed.
Like C.S. Lewis once said, Jesus coming to earth was like a human becoming a slug. Willingly. We are the slugs. He is the Creator of all things. We should know our lane, and yet we're always trying to jump the median. And often the median-jumping takes us a lifetime, while that gross strip of gleaming goo trails behind us and we call it gold. Because we can't do what the Savior can. Being slugs and all.
So why would I want to debase myself to be a slug, when the world tells me I am a queen?
This: I have seen myself in the magic mirror. With the make up off and the try-harder worn away–I've seen that I'm the monster. I'm the one to blame. (Oh goodness, calm down. Yes, I am a child of the King, but I am talking about humility of heart and of what author Dave Harvey calls "healthy self suspicion".)
I would rather live in light of someone else's perfection instead of trying to manufacture my own. Because the latter doesn't work; like a broken down truck, it kicks and turns and putters me into a ditch.
The truth of the matter (of why we all matter) is that I am being transformed. Right now. Right here–with my dirty floors and an all too often dirty mouth.
It may sound a little spooky, like sci-fi shit: that I am becoming something else altogether. But I might quite possibly be sprouting bony plates beneath my shoulder blades. One day these adolescent bumps may resemble something like wings, crosshatched with veins and tawny and battle scars and muscle.
These wings of heavenly approval were bought with blood soaked splinters. And those very same splinters are splicing apart my heart of stone slowly; "death by a thousand paper cuts"–allowing blood to drain out of places where there was no life.
Maybe life is more like science fiction than a statistic sheet. Maybe there is mystery beneath every mole hill and thousands of stories that surround one little rain cloud. In fact, I am beginning to think that's more of the reality.
Everyone is being transformed that claims to be trying to unpack who this Jesus character really is; those who are growing; growing into less, not into more.
The tension in my heart; the pulling in two different directions: peace and panic–that's evidence of the Holy Spirit working. That's evidence He may be at work in you. To recognize the rub. The forward motion marked by friction. He is pulling me up the mountain, even though I am desperately trying to scoop up boulders to throw in the back seat, to weigh down the ascent.
When I am at the end of myself, Jesus is at his best. He is at His post just waiting for me to stare out the window into my backyard and simply say, "I can't do this without you." Which I do daily. Some days, hourly. Partnering our lives with Jesus is the whole point if you're a Christian. Denying what we think we should be able to do, ought to do, in our own strength.
A few years ago I remember sitting cross legged on the floor with one of my dearest mom friends. I lowered my voice and felt the blood rush into my cheeks as I was about to confess something dark. Well, something that directly contradicted what my faith and heart believed.
"I'm not sure I believe in the power of the Holy Spirit in my life."
My friend didn't flinch. I thought for sure she would throw a book at me. I felt like I had confessed that I had been lying my whole life about calling myself a Christian. Theologically, the Holy Spirit is the inner working presence of Christ in the heart that is supposedly transforming Christians into a more perfect version of ourselves if we are consciously being in prayer and submitting our will to God's.
It was too far fetched to apply. Wasn't it? Like I was still struggling too much. Like I wasn't changing fast enough. Like I was a slug.
When Jesus walked the earth he said we would be better off when he left because of the introduction of this spirit:"But very truly I tell you, it is for your good that I am going away.
Unless I go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will
send him to you." In the English Standard Version it says, Helper. "The Helper will not come to you."
I like that. That's the Jesus I've seen. The Helper whose holding a worn-out map of meaning, where he's marked out the short cuts, even though they require scaling terrifying cliff faces.
And this gift, this Helper version of Jesus himself, I was confessing that I didn't feel it at work in my heart. And I was an all-in Christian. Supposedly. The type who–yes–had failed miserably at being a good human being, a trillion times over, but I thought that I was tracking; or at least on my way to tracking what all this belief business was about.
So how could I say that I didn't believe and that I still believe?
That's the transformation stuff I was talking about. The bony plates and tawny stuff.
On that day, I wanted disobedience more that a clear line of communication with Jesus via the Spirit within me. And that's the quickest way to snuff out the whisper of the Helper is just to continually say no with my life. "I love you Lord, but I don't want you to be visible to others who don't know you. I don't want to be that weirdo."
So I hid Him in the closet right next to my jackets; where the Jesus I claim to love searched my pockets for evidences of his sacrifice in my life and instead came out with handfuls of old receipts and gum wrappers.
Monday, January 18, 2016
It's not fancy or sexy, and there are parts of me that wish it was.
The very real side of a pre-mommy me wishes it was overcome or victory or promotion.
Because, I can feel something happening in my life; almost a barricade being built. Something is being weaved together in my heart out of knowing; out of being aware of what's to come; the blessing and the bracing.
Another baby will be here soon.
This is a beautiful and terrifying surprise. It's something I know so many of my friends are longing for or grieving loss over. I know and value the gift that is growing inside of me. But I also know there's a cutting away that takes place to make room for another compartment of care. It can cause breakdowns and breakthroughs, exhaustion and exhilaration. It's the type of work that is wonderful and wearing. Which pretty much sums up all good work.
I've had many years in the past where I've sat down and written out goals for my career, my life and my accomplishments–they were shiny capsules of meaning and progress. Most of the time as the year ran down those goals became shackles instead of being buoys. And ultimately, left me feeling underachieved and empty. This could have something to do with the nature of my goals. Most often, they only benefited me.
Sustain is a word the benefits me as well as my entire family and the circle of people that I'm lucky to share my life with. It is obviously not a goal, but more so a surrendering.
Since becoming a mom over five years ago, I've learned something about creating my own goals: if they don't benefit anyone other than myself they sprout quickly and die even faster. Honestly, the word "goal" actually tastes bad in my mouth. This is coming from someone who used to believe in them with all my heart.
I think it's important to have a plan, of course. But goals infer that we have control over the future-we might for a time. Goals imply that we are the only ones who write the script-we don't. Goals can also become gold-plated and take place of the small moments, the less glorifying ones that have something to teach us; something to say when we sit still long enough to hear it.
I've learned something about progress too: it doesn't move in a straight line. It moves in a circle; up and down, back and forth, high and lows. And what better word to learn from and to put to memory than sustain while the dial of my productive progress might take a few ticks back.
Webster defines the word: 1)To keep from falling; to bear; to uphold; to support; as, a foundation sustains the superstructure; comfort, or relieve; to vindicate.
The Bible says a lot about it, but here's a few:
Sustain me, my God, according to your promise, and I will live; do not let my hopes be dashed. Psalm 119:116
Cast your cares on the LORD and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous be shaken. Psalm 55:22
For forty years you sustained them in the wilderness, and they lacked nothing. Nehemiah 9:21
God promises to do all this for me. For you.
I've been wired by God to want to create and produce. These are tendencies in my soul that I can't deny, and I don't think I've been asked to. I have tried, believe me.
And it always leads me to wanting it even more. On the desperate days, I incessantly check my email for an opportunity that isn't coming. I can hear the voices in my head that tell me that my gifts are like a body quickly losing its ability to exercise. My mind screams that I am in the process of literary atrophy. And behind that, I see my Wizard-of-Oz-ishness trying to create a stage that isn't mine to star on.
On the at-peace days, I see a dimming of my big dreams. The one that used to suffocate me.
And I am thankful for that.
The burden of having to succeed in ways that are impressive to all people has been lifted. But I still grapple with the person I am becoming: a quieter, less sure version of who I used to be. Someone who is hungry for learning, teachable and humble. I've gotten here by failing. A lot of failing and a lot of pausing. Waiting. Embarking and retreating.
But as I see each day stretch out in front of me, I know one thing for sure: I don't know anything for sure. Only one person knows what the future holds and I do trust him, even when I drag my dusty heels in getting to the place he's leading me.
Instead of fighting against these realities of how I've been sewn together, I've been trying to work with them; to let them breathe and be silent, to be stretched and to rest.
As I'm preparing to become a mom for the third time I know that I, my husband, and my two other kiddos are going to be changed. Changed for the better. I'm scared of the reality of chaos coming in, but I am at peace because I will be sustained. I will not fall. I will only be lifted up.
A few months ago I went to the grocery before I found out I was pregnant. Before I could even grab a cart, my son had run quickly into the store to gawk at the plastic-crap toy dispensers. As I maneuvered my daughter into the shopping cart, a woman came up to me I had never seen her before. She got very close to my face and said, "It may be hard now, but he is going to bring you so much joy." I stood there and stammered, "Oh I know." She hadn't seen my son, or maybe she had, but either way that was all she said and she walked away.
At first, it was creepy. But when I remembered it a few days later–staring down at the positive pregnancy test, it sent a quickening shiver through my body. I didn't know if we were having a boy or girl until 5 months after that.
It's a boy.
So today I'm holding onto the crazy and the strange; I'm taking an abstract leap of faith and believing that people can be sustained by a God who rules the universe. That there is a person who is at work inside of me creating not only a new person out of nothing but also creating a new person out of who I used to be.
I can't wait to meet Max Kristoffer. I can't wait for the impact of unexpected joy.
We're in this together,
Saturday, November 7, 2015
My favorite fall jacket vanished into thin air the moment the temperature dipped. I've drove myself insane looking over the same rows of clothes trying to find it. But I can do without it.
Even though it was a Vera Wang jacket that I found at Goodwill for $12. Vera. Wang. And even though it was my best thrift find of all time. I. Can. Do. Without. It. Sigh...
And then just two days ago, a brand new book that I was eating up after a long span of buying books that tasted like sawdust to my soul, Learning How to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor simply took flight from the place I put it on the coffee table. I've looked on every book shelf and in my and daughter's "library" which is a collection of randomly stacked books that she steals from my nightstand. Nowhere to be found. Just gone.
But around the same time as those two trivial things, we lost a treasure of a different kind: my son's beloved and raggedy teddy bear. Teddy has been his constant companion since he was an infant. Five years of comfort, crying, playing and being "best friends" has now disappeared into some abyss where childhood goes to retire. There's this ache in my heart over this bundle of "fluff and stuff"; it feels familiar and there's a glimmer of my own story in there somewhere.
When my son tugs on my arm and tells me how much he misses him, I just break inside. Even though I know it is just a teddy bear. I find myself dreaming of finding Teddy for him. I've looked in every place possible; I called Starbucks (where the lady acted like I was a crazy person), Home Depot and asked my parents to inspect their cars. And yet, I just have this sad feeling that he's sitting in the rain somewhere. Alone.
Teddy meant something to my son. My son gave him purpose. My son gave him a place he was needed. He gave him a name (even if it was unoriginal) and he gave him love.
The weight of losing something we value beyond price flips our perspective upside down; it bleeds into compartments where logic can't go. We retrace steps. We whisper desperate prayers. All the while trying to explain away why we care so much about something that was made in a factory somewhere. In reality, it was just a toy. I know, I know.
Teddy was literally falling apart and had had his arms and head sewn back on. Twice. He had been devalued by the simple act of doing life with my energetic son. And yet, it was his pilled fur and saggy head that gave him worth; that made him alive to us; that gave Teddy a star spot in my son's childhood storyline.
That's what love does. Love takes ordinary, non-interesting things and breathes life into them. Gives them scars and snuggles. Our experiences become their experiences. Our memories wrap around these small pieces of our personal history and our stories become folded in between.
My son has had five wonderful birthdays, and I am thankful for every single one. However, this year when he turned five it was a harder one to throw. He wasn't a little kid anymore. Toddler-dom was gone. I had prayed for this moment. I had longed desperately for easier days, when I wasn't bogged down by his energy and his temperament, where grunts would become sentences and temper tantrums, logical conversations.
And I don't miss my son being little, I just see how much I have changed. How we all have transformed. I see how much my husband and I have changed. In some ways for the better, the deeper and richer stuff, and yet in some spots for the more ragged. We bear the scars, figuratively and physically, of bearing and raising children.
The bags under out eyes are heavier, the tension of being torn in several different directions has left us with stitched limbs and love muscles too. And yet, our love is more valuable, there has been more of an investment, there is more to protect and a harder road ahead of us; one where we have to daily decide not to check out citing the worn out and disappointed places.
And I'm reminded of the rip-my-heart-out scene in Inside Out. The one where my son and I sat sobbing together. It is when the main character's imaginary friend Bing-Bong was left behind in a sea of other "childlike" things. I feel like I was watching every child's rite of passage. I could feel the innocence burning away into the hard realities and all I wanted to do is fashion a life-sized shield to protect my son from what was coming.
But I can't. Not only is it impossible, but I don't see God doing that either. He doesn't stick us inside a bubble so we don't feel loss, anger, oppression or depression. He doesn't construct the road so that we can detour seasons of the missing. Because here's the secret that God has wrapped up in the taking of things or in the losing of them: it is always replaced with something better.
I've learned that God isn't an empty god. He doesn't do exchanges with tokens of nothingness. He is a full God. Full of so many valuable things that have the marks of hard loving all over them. He is full of grace. Full of compassion. Full of mercy. (Psalm 145:8) He is full of forgiveness. (Psalm 103:8) He is full of great love. (Eph. 2:4) He gives increase. (1 Cor. 3:6)
For some reason, we oftentimes think that God wants to take away; to subtract from our lives. We distrust the benefits of obedience. We distrust his vision for us. Holiness and peace seem like wooden nickels in a metal bucket, while the American version of Christianity–accumulation, perfection, constant improvement–sparkles like a room of golden coins; one that resembles what Scrooge McDuck swam in in DuckTales.
And this is the place where some of us are okay with losing the ragged, worn out version of our lives and our loves because it means we can quickly replace it with a brand new something. To take the losses and replace them with bigger and better holds a danger: nothing will ever be good enough.
The marks of hard love, pilled fur, stitched limbs and hearts, ragged bones, and weary prayers should never be seen as valueless. In the reverse economy where God says the poor are rich, these are the choice jewels of life.
Teddy is gone and that's terribly sad. Eventually, I will get my son a replacement, because every kid needs a teddy bear. But even so, I am looking forward to the day when his new bear is ragged, worn out, tired and broken in. Love looks used, worn in and out, adored and abused.
Just look at the cross.
We're in this together,
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
For me, embracing quiet seasons can not be hinged on remaining quiet. If I do that, I resist change. Writing changes me. I process. I admit. I explore. I confess. In ways I don't in everyday life. In ways I can't. I was made to be a writer. I can't really do much with a blank page if I leave it blank. I have to keep writing the story even when it seems like the plot is thinning.
I think I thought if I was just silent, I would come to a point of clarity. I thought I would find a secret spiritual superhighway and afterwards I could come back to my writing ready to impart something of worth. But I am not like a paleontologist who has been dredging the Egyptian desert poised to unpack rare and one-of-a-kind truths about the nature of God: I just know what I have always known.
I am so glad I am not God.
One of my New Year goals was to make this year a wisdom warpath for me.
My quest looked a lot different. Epiphanies didn't abound. I have the same struggles. I have the same hesitancy's, tendencies and inclinations.
I set out to seek him out. I dove into the Old Testament, Psalms, James and Revelation. And I have found wisdom, but not in the way I envisioned. I thought it would come easier, like skipping in a field laden with golden nuggets ready to drop into a deep velvet sack. I thought if I just "knocked" that my world would then be rained down with enlightenment from heaven, but it feels more like I've been chipping away at the same rock and discovered I am sitting on a pile of man made rubble.
I've been trying to fit God into my story, instead of giving God my story.
You guys, there are so many days where I don't get it. I look around this world and I can't see past my own ideas. Some days I have drastically missed the memo. I have looked for God in super structured Bible studies, small groups, one on one vulnerable conversations, serving meals to the sick and giving my time away generously to those who ask. Not bad things, but I don't need to look for him anywhere. He is already here. He is already doing his work. I can choose to be an active part of that or not.
There are periods of time where I've just opted out. When motherhood wears me to a nub. When my dreams feel as if they belonged to someone else and I see them like little hollowed out plums, shruken and soft.
I still feel the same way: I want Jesus. I want the man who said he wanted me. And yet I dance around his presence on the daily like I shadow I refuse to give skin to.
I want to unearth the character of God. Not a big picture character diagram where I dissect words in the Greek or Latin and study intricate subtexts. Sound theology is necessary, but life is often lived between the places of longing and apathy. I want to be an addict for the word, to cling in my storms to the small, minutiae Jesus where in every breath I feel him and I listen to him.
This is what I have learned about obedience: it breeds patches of quiet. It isn't followed by fanfare. It doesn't get applause. It gets slow and steady movement towards the heart of Jesus. It's ditch digging work, where we just keep going. I wish it would feel more magical. I wish I could say that I discovered that I am in fact a unique and favored snowflake that God is crazy about no matter how much I don't obey or don't give him any real skin in my game.
He calls us to be obedient servants. To stop numbing out. To stop judging. To stop the sideways glances. To stop pretending.
You know why?
The joy. The joy that is found. And this joy isn't the disingenuous brand that most church institutions propagate. It isn't silly, happy faces and jubilant handshakes. Joy is looking truthfully at the broken pieces of who you are and crying thankful tears into the stiches sewn by blood rusted nails.
I'm thankful. I'm thankful I believe in something as crazy as Jesus Christ. I can't imagine the mess I would be in if all I had at the end of the day was this pile of man made rubble. Keep digging.
We're in this together,
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
I haven't written in a long time.
I've had a couple of people ask me why (and by a couple of people, I really mean one person unrelated to me), but regardless, I am not entirely sure why. Today, I read this Relevant article by one of my favorite authors Shauna Niequist and it sparked something inside of me that called me to the keys.
So here I am.
Shauna wrote of how we all go through seasons in our faith. And in those seasons she writes about how God sometimes speaks to us in different ways than He used to. How he goes silent where he used to be prolific and how he can start using new languages that we aren't entirely attuned to yet. Or maybe we just miss the memo altogether because we are distracted by The Voice. That could just be me.
Either way, it is pretty obvious if we just take a cue from creation. Seasons sprouting and fading around us show how intrinsic change is to growth. It is comforting to know that God speaks in all kinds of places and spaces. He can speak to us in bold strokes and big ideas–through consistent cushion warming in Sunday services. Or he can speak to us while we are waiting for a milkshake at Dairy Queen or when we are chasing our kids through those anxiety-inducing trampoline places.
Other times–and this is where I think I may be now–He turns down the volume and simply lets us feel Him in random moments: a slice of dusty sunshine, a trill of a spring bird, a kindness from someone in traffic or an understanding smile when you're kids are flipping out in the grocery line.
This season feels like a delicate, pale pink sort of faith for me; a simplicity of life I am enjoying while I'm hobbling in step with him–I think this may be what Paul Tripp refers to as a "God Awareness". He shows up in the most random places for me. A pair of mismatched shoes on my two-year old. My son asking all kinds of questions about theology through things like Star Wars and ninjas. My husband picking up my favorite banana peppers from the store.
You see, life is screaming very loud for my attention and yet I am just not really that interested in what is being offered. Even though I haven't felt like writing I've still had hundreds of thoughts on marriage, Jesus, motherhood and identity. But the thoughts are still being filtered through who God says I am. I am still transitioning; being sifted like flour over a rolled out piece of sticky dough. The old me and the new me is being refined, newly shaped.
Kind of like when you first write a song, you can see the shape of something waiting to be created but it just isn't speaking loud enough to bloom into becoming. So you let the broken melody hang in the air and know you will come back to it when you know which notes should come next.
I've had much to say. But when I boil it down inside, it really has been a season of silence that has felt like the best fit for me. A season of quiet conversations with a small group of friends and family that are helping me to unpack this backwards evolution. I've gone from the front stage to the background. I have turned off the spotlight and settled for a reading light. I feel as if I am being reconstructed.
And just like the Don Schlitz song that Alison Krauss made famous goes:
"It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart
Without saying a word you can light up the dark
Try as I may I could never explain
What I hear when you don't say a thing"
You guys. That's God. He does that.
My mantra as of late is Romans 12:2, and it's the first verse I've put to diligent memory since I don't know. It's super sweet to the silent soul.
Do not conform to the pattern of the world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is. His good, pleasing and perfect will.
Do not conform to the pattern of this world: while some people think that means to not watch movies made after 1954 or to swear off Chardonnay like it's cocaine, I think Jesus would say something different. He loved loving those on the fray. I think somewhere in there that "pattern" that Paul is writing of may resemble the reality of today's hamster wheel; the weary speed walk of killing ourselves for something that isn't worthy of our undying attention. Like shiny stuff or new carpet, and sparkly shoes or brand name tags that are too complicated to throw in the wash. But the beauty is to be found in "the renewing of your mind"...I love that.
Keep on updating your Jesus news feed. Keep on downloading his word. Keep on seeking him, pursuing him, and stretching your faith muscles. It may not look like much is happening. And that's a good thing. Because his will may look very different from yours. Wait it out. He's got good things going on inside that lump of uncooked dough my friend.
We're in this together,
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
I am a screw up.
Sometimes it just needs to be said.
For me, it just feels good to admit the obvious. Go ahead and say it out loud if you want: I am a screw up.
Well of course, unless you aren't. And in that case, you should stop reading now. But for my fellow drop-the-ball, wait, what-ball? Hold-the -phone, I-am-playing-ball?! friends: Guess what? It's okay.
I met with a couple of my friends last week over wine and Chia seed muffins (go Seattle!) and we were talking about this basic idea: of being a saved screw up. And one of my friends, nodded in understanding, "I know. It's like the more you learn about God the more you realize how much you suck."
Okay, okay. So I can already tell that this isn't coming off like a great read. But the idea I am finding freedom in is this: we can make mistakes and move upward. And I have found that the faster we do that moving upward the better; when we run towards God instead of away from him, the likelihood of retreating into that the same muddy hole that we used to think was home, diminishes. Little by little we become further and further away from the same dirt that used to define us.
Speaking of dirt, I have been obsessed lately with gardening. I honestly just want to see dirt under my fingernails and edge and pull weeds and create order in the chaos that is my yard. I think I am going through something. Mainly I'm learning to define my stubbornness for what it is: stubbornness. And I find this is even more true when I garden.
I recently found out that I have Scoliosis. I can't say for sure–because I am not a doctor–but I think that means that I am 80 years old inside. This truth means one thing: I should NOT BE gardening. I am not qualified to garden. It is actually making things worse for me. For my back. For my insurance. For my sleep habits. But more than ever, I want to lift large rocks, rip out moss, unload thousands of pounds of mulch and literally mimic the reality that I feel going on in my heart in my silly little yard. Mainly because someone told me I shouldn't. Alas, the stubbornness.
I desperately want to uproot and replant; which seems to mirror the desire to uproot the screwed up pieces of me that keep trying to re-grow. I keep praying and reading and dying to myself in hopes for some kind of Jesus characteristic to bud in the place of what is always trying to overtake.
Pride for humility.
Anger for understanding.
Selfishness for generosity.
Vanity for contrition.
Apathy for compassion.
Laziness for wisdom.
I want to load all of my screwed up bits into my rusty wheelbarrow and set it on fire alongside the dead rose bush garden I stumbled across today. Brittle thorns and all.
When I garden I can smell the rain. I can smell things changing. Everyday when I venture out into the dirt there is something new that has grown or died. It is visual proof that something is taking place. An exchange. And because of that, I am falling in love with this whole plant, grow and tend business.
You see, I haven't wanted to write lately. First, because I am not entirely sure I have anything of worth to say. And secondly, because out of all the people in the world, I am the least likely to be a gardener let alone someone who dare attempt a life following in the footsteps of Someone who never sinned.
But these truths don't make me any less a gardener in training or a Christian in training. I may be crooked from my back to my heart, but I am called to the mission of uprooting and replanting and so that's what I plan to do–even if it means I never fully straighten up.
We're in this together,
Saturday, January 24, 2015
As it usually does in my house these days.
My son (the Lord of the Lollipops) is a wonderfully charismatic and uphill-my-way-or-the-highway warrior poet and my lovely daughter who follows him (and his tendencies) like a love-sick puppy arrive here at least once or twice a day; stuck within the gory grind of the candy conundrum.
Candy has become a major trigger in my household. And lately, I believe that a lollipop is nothing more than a gooey, fake-colored Satan stick that causes irrational purple-faced meltdowns that I am expected to manage as a good mom who shouldn't allow her children to have such a deep addiction for Red 40. I should protect them like a mother lion. Rawr.
But here's the deal: I like candy too. Sometimes I want something sweet. And no, I shouldn't let my son have candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner–which is often the request. But there are times to treat my kids. I like to treat my kids. Oh and just so you can sleep at night we do have a strict no-candy before 10 a.m. rule in this house. I know, I'm such a stickler.
But as I think on this, I don't think my answer to candy should always be "no".
For instance, my absolute favorite time to give my "spirited" son candy is when he is least expecting it. I love to sit him down in a serious manner and ask him, "Would you like a lollipop?" This happens in the same tone as I would when suggesting he pick up his toys or when I ask him if he wants to take a bath.
His eyes get wide. He glances over his shoulder as if looking for a hidden camera. His grin spreads from ear to ear. And he half-giggles in disbelief before answering with a resounding, "Yes, momma. I would."
Jesus wants to lavish us with good gifts. He wants to surprise us when we least expect it. Even when he promises us good gifts we don't fully believe it. We try to manage the timeline. We ask before it's due. We rob him of the opportunity to bless us by succumbing to our obsession and addiction with controlling our own lives.
So here is what I am hoping for 2015: a lot of unexpected lollipops from God. God loves doing the unexpected. He likes tumbling walls down with nothing more than the blast of trumpets. He likes to involve the most unexpected characters in his greater plan. (Joshua 6)
My goal this year is one thing: to run after God with sweat dripping down my temples. I want to dive into his word and swim with understanding strokes. I want to test his truths. I want to wait for his gifts. And I want to prove him a righteous, good and loving God.
I have spent too many years learning the language of fluent warble. I have allowed my soul to speak or sing in uneven quivering tones. I have spent too much time taking unsteady and uncertain steps with a bruised and scared heart just waiting for God to snatch the lollipop from my sticky stubborn fingers and to scold me with a disapproving tone.
That is not our God.
If you run in the direction of him you will find amazing gifts. And so I fully plan to spend this year testing this theory. I am no longer going to spend time wondering what I lack as a mom and a wife that leads to my constant state of life uncertainty. Because upon further examination in these last few months I've unearthed a shocking discovery. I'm lacking everything. Absolute everything.
And on the days where I trick myself into thinking that's not the case, I find myself stepping out onto a plank dipped in fake confidence and I fall headlong into a spiral of action and reaction.
It is out on this wobbly space and in the blankness below, that I make decisions that I shouldn't. I flare my temper when it should let it fizzle. And I embrace my abilities instead of fully surrendering my disabilities. When I do this I reduce God's margins for miracle making to nothing more than a sliver on the pie chart; he becomes a measly afterthought on how I shape the rest of my life.
And, yet by grace, he still uses the tiny spaces that I give him in my heart for change. To benefit others. To love my husband and my kids well. To serve the women in my life.
2014 was a hard year for me. Not anywhere near tragic. Just rough; a series of shedding skins, until I was raw and ready for God to show up. It was also a glorious year of reinvention and redemption. I finally got the job I thought I always wanted only to lose it in a heartbreaking yet, necessary way. I juggled raising two kiddos under four, who are amazing, and yet so very different.
I've spent many days in the tension between my daughter wanting to snuggle me and my son wanting my undivided attention. This usually results in me carrying around a pig-tailed little miss while a determined son vies for my eye line. I end these type of days empty. And yet so full. And yes, tired.
So the goal list for this year is in the trash right next to the crumpled up lollipop wrappers. I am not going to tighten the legal lines between God and myself. I am not going to develop a budget plan or execute a new laundry schedule. These are all great things, but they aren't the best things. I'm reading The Best Yes by Lysa TerKuerst right now and it's so powerful.
A wise friend of mine once told me, "When you say yes to one thing you invariable say no to another." And while that seems obvious, I've intentionally left spaces in my life lately to allow myself to be available when God calls me to stop and act. To invite that person over for dinner. To allow a quiet night to call me to him. To stop by a certain person's house with coffee or a card. To have a glass of wine with a great friend. To enjoy my husband and not watch the clock like a sleep deprived troll.
This year I have one aim: to hook my soul up to a scripture IV. I want wisdom. I want to grow. I want to put down thick roots into that spring of living water. I want to see the power of the Holy Spirit play out in real time. I want to believe more. I want layers upon the layers I already have.
I am going to continue to run in the direction of where God is. Not just on Sundays. Not just when I screw up. Not just when I feel grateful. Not just when I do the right thing. But in the middle of a curse word. In the middle of one glass of wine too many. In the middle of the rain, the sleepless nights, the I-don't-know-what-to-do moments, the selfish moments, the botched bleached laundry moments. And most important: the unexpected, beautiful lollipop moments.
I want this to be the year I get real with Christ. If I run towards figuring out who he is, then I won't have to wonder who in the world I am supposed to be.
We're in this together,