Fearless Craziness

Sometimes I think there is a very thin line between fearless and crazy, one which often gets blurred. My husband, whose tagline for life is, Live Dangerously, believes a person isn’t truly living who doesn’t stare down danger on a frequent basis. On one of the very few snowy mornings this past winter he got himself up early and drove to a mountain in New Hampshire, which he climbed.

By himself.

In ice and snow.

I don’t usually worry about him when he takes risks like this, primarily because I don’t allow myself the luxury of thinking about what he’s doing. I also know he’s in good physical condition and has planned ahead to have the necessary clothing and equipment for his adventure. He has calculated both the risk and reward of his climb and decided the effort was worth it.

 

When Bonnie at Faith Barista suggested the word fearless as a writing prompt I thought about my husband, and others like him, and wondered how they got to be the way they are. My temperament tends toward the other end of the emotional spectrum. I am prone to be more fearful than fearless. Someone once pointed out to me how often I begin a sentence with the words, I’m afraid.

As I was mulling this idea of fearlessness I found myself loitering at a car dealership, waiting for an oil change. I could hear the voice of Dr. Phil in the background, going about his business of fixing people’s lives on TV. I found myself starting to pay attention as a woman described her debilitating fear of riding in cars. She spoke of experiencing physiological symptoms such as nausea, sweating, and shortness of breath every time she got into a car.

The good TV doctor explained that fear is the body’s healthy response when in the presence of danger. Human beings are wired with a fight-or-flight response, an automatic adrenaline rush signaling when it might be a good time to head on out of Dodge.

An unhealthy response, he said, is one which is disproportionate to the danger present.

I thought about fear being a healthy, God-given response. If I am created to react in the presence of danger, then isn’t fear a gift given for my protection? Perhaps, I thought, it’s unrealistic for me to think about aspiring to fearlessness.

Unless this instinctive response is a defect in the way I was originally designed.  In the beginning there was nothing to fear. There was only God and everything he created, all of which was very good. And in God’s presence was perfect safety.

But that’s not the world I live in. Christ calls me to follow him through a world filled with very real dangers, toils, and snares. But he also promises to equip me for the adventure. He offers his perfect love which casts out fear. And he promises never to leave me or forsake me.

Christ asked his followers to do some things that sounded downright crazy. Trust him for daily bread. Lay down their lives. Jump out of a boat. He asked them, and he asks me, to live in this world; to engage it, risk getting my heart broken, and live dangerously.

I doubt I will ever become fearless in this life, but in God's presence my fears can begin to assume their proper proportion. The danger of wind and wave, and the cares of this world, diminish in comparison to the one who bids me to follow. Fear reminds me that I need Him.

Joining Bonnie at Faith Barista:





And with KD Sullivan at Painting Prose:

A Heart Like His

My expectations for life after marriage were probably fairly typical for a young newlywed. I’d found the man of my dreams. I figured we’d get married, find a place to live, and buy ourselves some major appliances. I’d work for a few years, we’d have some babies, and all would live happily ever after. It sounded like a reasonable plan, one which seemed to be moving ahead quite nicely.

Until my body betrayed me.

I’d heard about this thing called infertility and of women who experienced it, but I wasn’t about to accept that I was one of “those women.”  Month after month I waited with hope, only to be disappointed time and again. I prayed. I sought medical treatment. I slammed doors and ate way too many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

I watched as friends welcomed children into their homes while my arms remained empty.  The ache of longing grew in my heart, ripping it wide open. I wasn’t sure healing was possible.

Jesus wept. Two short words penned by the disciple Jesus loved capture Christ’s response to the grief and heartache of this world. Some speculate that the source of the Savior’s tears was the depth of his love for his friend Lazarus. Others believe Christ wept because those standing at the mouth of the tomb couldn’t understand or believe in the possibility of resurrection.

My pastor suggested Christ’s tears were ones of anger—anger at the consequences of sin and the grief caused by it. What grieves me breaks the heart of Jesus. And the only solution to sin and grief was the compassionate heart of the Father sending his beloved Son, that by his stripes we could be healed.

Healing for my heart began through the gift of adoption. God gave me two beautiful children, and I can’t imagine life without either of them. Since they’ve come into my life, however, God has shown me that he was at work doing so much more than merely binding up my wounds.

Several years ago I opened an email attachment from a missionary friend, one who had served in the Philippines for a number of years. I’ll admit it; I’m not always terribly faithful about reading correspondence from missionaries—especially when I’ve got a significant backlog in my email inbox. Which is most of the time.

For some reason I not only read my friend’s message, but was also moved to click on the attachment. I couldn’t believe the opening words:

When we were missionaries in the Philippines a friend from my hometown came to adopt a boy from an orphanage in the southern part of the Philippines. I remember thinking of the incredible significance of his adoption. . . . He received a new name and new hope. . . . How much more is the change for those who are adopted by God the Father?

My story. My son’s story. My friend had used these to illustrate the doctrine of adoption in training materials he was developing, words written to equip missionaries and pastors to spread the gospel. My broken heart story became woven into a much larger story; the story of God’s heart for the entire world.

When Jesus healed my heart, he didn’t make it as good as new. He changed it. I believe the heart once broken and healed by the Savior’s hand becomes tenderer. It feels pain and remembers; much like a limb once shattered and restored senses a dull ache with a change in the weather. Fissures and cracks of brokenness remain in my heart and, I’m sure, in the lives of my children and their birth parents; reminders of emptiness and loss. Our hearts bear scars, as do the hands of the wounded healer.

I also wonder if the heart once broken and made tender doesn’t also change in shape. Had my starry-eyed newlywed dreams been fulfilled, I wonder if I would have learned to care as deeply about the work of adoption and the sacredness of human life. Because of the experience I’d had in traveling there to adopt my son, my heart became open to sponsoring a child from the Philippines through Compassion International.

Christ assured his followers that, in this world, we would have trouble. Our hearts will most certainly be broken. But as he brings healing, he enables them to grow and become more like his.

Joining with Bonnie Gray and others, telling stories of broken hearts and healing:

Drink

Delicate Arch, Arches National Park near Moab, Utah

A fundamental rule for hiking in America’s national parks is to leave no trace. In order to protect and preserve the park’s natural resources, hikers are advised to take only photos and leave behind only footprints. My family violated that rule, however, the year one of my children threw up all over Delicate Arch.

It seems this particular family member had neglected another fundamental rule listed in the park’s hiking guide: Be sure to take and drink water. A gallon per person per day is recommended; don't skimp, even on short trails.

Dehydration can set in when hiking in the desert, resulting in headaches and nausea before one even is even aware of feeling thirsty.  As a family, we’ve learned to carry an adequate supply of water and stop frequently to re-hydrate. Neglecting to drink can have serious consequences.

One of the projects listed in Tsh Oxenreider’s new e-book: One Bite at a Time: 52 Projects for Making Life Simpler is to drink more water. Tsh says, “We know we need to drink lots of water, but most of us still don’t. It’s probably not because we don’t have access to it—it’s either because we forget, or because we’d rather drink something else. Our bodies function fully when we’re hydrated, but we often run at less than full capacity.”

Images of water flow throughout the pages of Scripture. Sometimes water is in short supply, and sometimes God’s people forget to drink what is available to them. There seems to be a whole lot of drinking going on in Scripture; some of it good, some of it bad, and a whole lot of it pointing toward God’s abundant grace.

• When God sent plagues upon the enemies of His people, He made their water undrinkable. (Exodus 7)

• The people of God grumbled about not having water in the wilderness. Responding with mercy rather than judgment, God provided water, in abundance, from the rock. (Numbers 20)

• When fleeing from his enemy Saul, David longed to drink from the well of Bethlehem. (2 Samuel 23:15)

• God told the prophet Jeremiah that His people had committed two evils: They had forsaken Him, the fountain of living waters, and had carved out broken cisterns for themselves which couldn’t hold water. (Jeremiah 2:13)

• While in exile, God’s people had to pay for the water they drank. (Lamentations 5:4)

• Yet God continued to invite his thirsty people to return to Him and drink: “Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat!” (Isaiah 55:1)

• Jesus said, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’”  (John 7:37, 38)

During some of my family’s hikes, we came close to running out of water before reaching our destination. It was frightening, feeling thirsty while not knowing how close we were to the nearest water source. Too often I think of God’s blessings as being scarce; mere trickles of water, barely enough to sustain me. I allow myself to wander, thirsty in the wilderness.

But God offers me more than mere trickles. He gave His people water in abundance from the rock, enough to satisfy not only their thirsts, but those of their livestock as well. This He gave to grumbling people through his servant Moses, even though he acted disobediently. Christ offers me living water, enough that rivers of it can overflow from my heart. I can drink this water deeply because Christ drank from the sponge soaked in vinegar (Matthew 27:48) and from the full cup of God’s wrath. (Matthew 26:39)

Christ drank the cup of God’s wrath and offers me, instead, the cup of His blessing.

This year, I’m thinking about taking Tsh up on her suggestion about drinking more water, and I hope to do so mindfully. I have access to water, and in abundance. I never need to worry about going thirsty. Each sip of clean, life-giving water provides an opportunity for me to consider what it means to drink deeply from the river of living water. I want to learn to function more fully in the life Christ offers and begin to cultivate a mindset of abundance, rather than scarcity.

In the year ahead I’m also hoping to be more mindful of those who don’t have access to clean water. According to Compassion International, every day over 4,000 children are dying of water-related diseases such as cholera and typhoid that are easily preventable. I’m hoping that in my year of drinking, I’ll be moved to gratitude for what I have, and to compassion for those who continue to thirst.

My word for 2012? Drink. This year, I’m planning to do some serious drinking. Care to join me?

How precious is your steadfast love, O God!
   The children of mankind take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
  They feast on the abundance of your house,
   and you give them drink from the river of your delights.
  For with you is the fountain of life;
   in your light do we see light.

Psalm 36:7-9

For more information about how you can help provide clean water for those in need:

Compassion International

Blood:Water Mission

(All Scripture references are taken from the ESV)

Linking with Bonnie @ Faith Barista:

And joining the community at One Word 365:

Why I Want More For Christmas

This Christmas, I want more.

I know. I’m a follower of Jesus. I should be focusing my attention on celebrating the season in a Christ-centered way. I see the ads on TV and in my mailbox, the blatant appeals to consumerism and greed. I read about Christmas shoppers trampling one another in an effort to snag this year’s hottest item for a few dollars less. In this country, we celebrate the birth of our Lord by exchanging animal print Snuggies ™ even as children across the globe cry out in hunger and in need of clean water.

So we talk in our churches and across the blogosphere about doing Christmas differently. We want to focus on those things that really matter—the shepherds, the angels; the story. We try to come up with fresh ways of communicating biblical truths to our children, attempting to dispel fairy tales and myths. We try to teach them, and ourselves, to squelch desire and want less.

But what if Christmas really is about wanting more?

I remember childhood longing, the desire for something better and new. When the glossy, new Christmas catalogs arrived from Penney’s and Sears, my siblings and I took turns poring over their pages. I circled and starred my favorite items, things I didn’t even know I wanted until I saw them on the pages of the Wish Books. I made a list, alternating my hopes and dreams on paper in red and green ink. I noted colors and sizes. I wanted a rock tumbler. A candle-making kit. An outfit that would make me look less dorky when I walked the halls of my junior high school. I remember Christmas as a magical time when I dared to dream big and believe I could have the things my heart desired. I imagined life could be better.

I didn’t know, back then, that my parents could afford few of the items on my list. Usually, by the time I posted it, my parents had already completed their shopping. I received few of the items from my lists. When I did unwrap a gift and find in my hands something from the shiny catalog pages I knew my parents had heard the cry of my heart, perhaps recognizing my desire to appear less dork-like among my classmates.

It didn’t take long, however, to realize that the gifts I had longed for failed to meet my expectations. The new outfit didn’t look nearly as good on my gangly teenage frame as it had on the model in the catalog. I learned that the rock tumbler would take weeks to polish my chunks of granite into smooth chunks of granite. The candle molds leaked when I poured melted paraffin into them, spilling hot bayberry-scented wax onto my mother’s kitchen counters, dripping it into the crack next to the stove. I’ll bet there’s still a pool of hardened wax between the stove and counter top in my old house.

Although the gifts I imagined would bring me joy failed to satisfy my deepest longings, I’m glad my parents didn’t tell me to stop hoping and dreaming. In his recently published e-book titled Discovering Advent, theologian Mark D. Roberts wrote of children and their hopes and expectations for Christmas. He said,

Rather than discouraging these hopes (which is a hopeless task!), I would urge parents to help their children get the “feel” of Advent by relating their hopes to biblical Advent themes.

I don’t want to stop hoping and dreaming, and I’m not sure it’s wise to teach children to do so. Perhaps instead we should recognize desire as a good thing, a holy restlessness for things to be better than they are. I’m not content believing that this life is as good as it gets. Maybe the problem with Christmas isn’t that we hope for too much; it’s that our hopes are too small.

Because what I really want is to live in a world where everyone I love is happy and healthy and whole. I want the entire family gathered around a table, where food and wine are abundant and good, and there is no tension or conflict. I want beauty and lights and music everywhere, and all the time. I want to live in a world where cancer, mental illness, addiction, and abuse don’t exist; where children don’t die of hunger or preventable disease and aren’t trafficked as slaves. I want to see organizations like Compassion International run out of children who need sponsors.

And I fully expect to get everything on my list.

Because all those stories about shepherds and angels remind me that God knows the deepest longings in the hearts of his people, and He keeps His promises. The birth of that baby fulfilled all the promises of the scriptures and the prophets. So when scripture tells me that the Joy of Every Longing Heart is going to return, and He is making all things new, I dare to hope for unimaginably big things.

Because I think wanting more is the most Christ-centered way of keeping Christmas of all.

So I will give and receive gifts this Christmas; some of which will satisfy hopes and dreams, however imperfectly. And I'll support the work of those who offer hope in the name of that Bethlehem baby. But rather than trim my wish list or pare down my expectations this Christmas, I’ll give full voice to my deepest longings and desires. Join me?

If someone asked what your deepest longings were for this Christmas, what would you say?

Joining emily:

 And Bonnie @ Faith Barista:

 

And wishing a happy birthday and hoping for big things for David, my Compassion child who turns five years old today! Click the link for more information about offering hope to a child through Compassion International.

Relevant Gifts

When I visited England with my daughter several years ago, I found this version of a Russian nesting doll in a gift shop at York Minster:

The outside doll represents King Henry VIII, and nestled inside are dolls representing each of his wives in the order they were dispatched: Divorced, beheaded died; divorced, beheaded, survived. I thought I desperately needed one of these quirky dolls until I flipped one over, saw the price tag, and calculated the conversion from British pounds to American dollars. I decided I’d be satisfied with just a picture.

Attending The Relevant Conference was, for me, like receiving the gift of a nesting doll. I didn’t receive a single gift at the conference; I received many, layered within one another. The outer shell, the gift holding all the others inside, was the extravagant one my husband gave me. In paying my registration fee, picking up my expenses, and agreeing to sacrifice the presence of my delightful company for several days, the beloved Swede encouraged me to continue writing and telling my stories. He is a good man, and so much better than I deserve. And as all the ladies at Relevant who saw pictures will attest, he is one good looking Swede.

The next layer, the gift I was most anxious to open, was that of meeting friends I’ve known only through online words and pictures. Hugging Bonnie, our gracious hostess here at the Faith Jam, was a highlight of the conference as was meeting Michelle and Deidra. I met Mary, a new friend in real life, and am now looking forward to getting to know her through her words and pictures online.

We shared stories, laughter, and tears together as friends; we prayed with and for one another. I listened to others, those who have lived stories similar to mine, and I heard their encouraging messages, “Yes it is hard, but God is faithful. All will be well.” I sat with these women and shared meals; we joined our voices together in singing praise. And I know we will do this together again someday.

Layered deeper inside the conference I found the gift of challenging, thoughtful words from so many. Like so many others, I’d come to the conference eager to hear from Ann Voskamp, she whose life-giving words I’d found during dark days in my life. As humble and gracious in real life as she appears in her writing, Ann eschews the very notion of fame. Yet in response to God’s call to sacrifice the quiet anonymity of Canadian farm life, she offers to Him her words for the feeding of many. Blogging, she reminds a room full of women, is not about us, but about “washing the feet of your sisters.”

Singer and songwriter Shaun Groves, who organizes trips for bloggers on behalf of Compassion International, spoke about the power of words to keep God’s mercy in view, even amidst the reality of devastating poverty. Shelly Noonan, in telling her story of walking through pain, reminded us that “even our pain doesn’t belong to us,” but can be offered for the healing of others. Laura Booz encouraged us to believe, “You become passionate about Jesus when you understand His passion for you.” Tsh Oxenreider spoke about “finding our sweet spots,” the intersection between our skills and our passion.She also showed us some pretty happening tools for navigating the world of Twitter.

I unearthed layer after layer of gift during my weekend among fellow bloggers at the Relevant Conference and also received a hefty gift bag filled with books and other treasures. I’m sure I received gifts I have yet to discover as I read back through my notes and chew on words I heard. I came home from the conference deeply convinced of the power of story. My stories matter, and so do yours. They are gifts we offer to one another.

Linking with Bonnie and high-fiving her on the news of her new book contract!

Also adding my link over at The Relevant Conference Blog.

Friends Help Us Finish the Song

There is a video making its rounds on the internet, of a young man with autism singing the National Anthem at the beginning of a Boston Red Sox game. Midway through the song, the young man began stammering and fumbling his way through the words. The performance could have turned into an embarrassing disaster. Instead the crowd at Fenway joined the young man in singing the familiar words, and he was able to finish his song triumphantly.

Throughout the pilgrimage of faith I often stammer and fumble, even when the way is familiar. From childhood I have known the Holy Scripture which is able to make one wise unto salvation. Psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs are lifelong friends; I know many of their words by heart. “I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.” 2 Timothy 1:12, KJV.

But sometimes the way of faith becomes hard. The road turns rocky and steep. I grow weary and my steps begin to falter.

In Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan wrote of two friends—Christian and Hopeful—who journeyed together on their way to the celestial city. They relied on one another to keep from falling into weariness and slumber.  Along the way, Hopeful sang this song:

When Saints do sleepy grow, let them come hither,

And hear how these two Pilgrims talk together:

Yea, let them learn of them in any wise,

Thus to keep ope their drowsy, slumbring eyes.

Saints' fellowship, if it be managed well,

Keeps them awake, and that in spite of Hell.

Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan, [1678], at sacred-texts.com

The One who created us and invited us to walk with Him in a pilgrimage of faith never intended us to journey alone. The One who has eternally existed in communion with Himself as Father, Son, and Spirit calls us to walk in community with one another. Three times a year the people of God journeyed together to Jerusalem to climb holy Mount Zion. They climbed together; the older helping the younger, the strong encouraging the weak. Together they sang Psalms of Ascent, joining their voices in praise while helping one another remember the familiar words of faith.

I am grateful for those friends in my life, the ones who rejoice with me in my triumphs and weep with me in my sorrows; the ones who have been there to share with me the joys and challenges of parenting. The ones I can call in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep. The ones who laugh with me about embarrassing medical procedures we have had or are about to have. The ones who sit in silence when there are no words.

A faithful friend comes alongside to say, “I know it’s hard for you to believe right now. I will believe for you. I know you can’t find the words for prayer right now. Let me pray them for you.  I know the path is difficult right now. Grab hold of my hand until your weak knees regain their strength. The one who says, “I know you know the song by heart but are too weak to sing it. Let me sing it for you—at least until you begin to remember the words.”

A faithful friend helps us finish the song triumphantly.

Joining Bonnie at Faith Barista who has invited us to share thoughts on Faith and Friends. Click the link below to read more thoughtful posts on this topic.

And with emily at imperfect prose:

(Thanks to Deb Colarossi for sharing the video link)

Walking As Worship

You’re a Christian? Really? I had no idea.

I had been taking aerobics classes with Perky Fred, an outspoken follower of Christ, for nearly two years. Evidently, while sweating my way through grapevine, v-step, and jumping jack routines, I hadn’t come close to demonstrating the joy of the Lord. Not even once.

I began taking aerobics classes following my father’s death from a brain tumor. Having spent more time on a cancer ward than I wanted to ever again, I learned what cancer looked like, sounded like, and smelled like. I learned that, although there is no known cause for some cancers, they are often spread through fat cells in one’s body. Although I knew, ultimately, I had no control over whether or not I got cancer; I had no intention of allowing it to hitchhike throughout all five feet, eleven inches of me.

I signed up for Fred’s class through my town’s recreation department but wasn’t happy about it. I went home and told my husband, “The instructor is a guy. And he’s perky.”

I think it’s wrong for people who are torturing others to be perky about it.

I went to Fred’s class faithfully for a number of years and also had a walk mapped out which gave me a good workout. My kids were young, so my husband and I worked out a routine that allowed him to be home so I could exercise on a regular basis. I learned to work alternating muscle pairs. I learned where the gastrocnemius muscle was and how to pronounce it.  I got in shape. I looked good. But never, not once, was I perky about the whole enterprise.

Life changed, we moved, and the routine got disrupted. I now find myself in that unhappy state known as “having let myself go.”

My husband has exercised regularly for as long as I have known him. He’s like a fitness machine and struggles, I think, to understand why I won’t do something he believes would be so good for me.  He tells me I will have more energy if I exercise on a regular basis. I shoot him a look that says, “That is a lie straight from the pit of Hell.”

I have never felt increased energy from exercise. I have never experienced a runner’s high is. I think I may, possibly, have been born without endorphins.

Last week I dug to the bottom of a drawer, found some high-tech wicking workout wear, and strapped on a pair of Nike’s. I began walking again. In the past I have tried; I truly have, to find the motivation to get myself back on track. Attempting to set a good example for my kids didn’t do it for me.  Neither did the incentive of wanting to look fabulous in my uber-expensive mother-of-the-bride dress. Here’s what got me to do the thing I hate:

I began to think of my inaction as sin.

I learned when I was young, about sins of commission and sins of omission—things we do that we know to be wrong, and things we fail to do that we know are right. There are sins of commission that hold no particular temptation for me: drug abuse, pornography, gambling. Yet I know how hard it can be, for those who struggle with these particular sins, to see real change in attitude and behaviors.

My sin is one of omission, of failing to care for the body God gave me. As much as I hate exercise, however, I found myself strangely intrigued by L.L. Barkat’s series at The High Calling: The Miracle You Can Have Every Day. In response to one of my comments, she wrote:

Our souls are embodied. We have real needs that get all tangled up in our physiology. I think it's good to consider our physiology as something to be cared for as a way to care for our souls.

I suspect I will never grow to love exercise, and maybe that’s the point. I don’t understand why some sins are hard for others and, I’m sure, others don’t get why exercise is such a struggle for me.  I don’t like having to make time for it during my day, I don’t like the way it makes me sweat, and I don’t like having to do the extra laundry generated by the addition of work-out clothing.

I’m starting to think God is asking me simply to acknowledge that soul and body care are hard things for me, ones requiring me to admit my weakness and cling to Him. Maybe He’s asking me to surrender my laziness and sloth as an act of obedience and begin walking as an act of spiritual worship.

I’ve begun again, and I know it’s going to be hard, so please extend me some grace along the way. Because I really can’t promise I’m going to be perky.

At Faith Barista, Bonnie is asking: What is one area you’d like a refill of encouragement? (e.g. work, parenting, marriage, friendship, ministry, faith, health, finances, or ___? ).

(Update: This piece has been re-posted here over at The High Calling. So honored to be included among this community of thoughtful, talented writers)

Dad: Eulogy

Bonnie @ Faith Barista has invited us to share our thoughts on Father’s Day:

 

Every couple of weeks that year, I strapped my two-year old daughter into her car seat in my old Toyota Camry for the eight-hour drive to western Pennsylvania. During long stretches across Interstate 80, my mind began composing lines, rearranging words, and editing sentences. I was writing my father’s eulogy.

We knew he was dying. The words brain tumor have got to be two of the scariest in the English language, and the one assaulting my father was the nastiest kind known to medical science. My family sought treatment for Dad; we wept, we prayed, we kept hope as best we could, but each of us was brought to the point of acceptance and of letting go. And the only way I knew how to let go was with words—words that would bear witness to the daddy I loved.

Donald Charles Owens, October 24, 1928 - December 11, 1992)

I asked my mom and siblings to share some of their favorite memories about Dad. My mom remembered the way Dad, a meat cutter by trade, used to like to stop by supermarkets while on vacation to check out the displays in their meat departments. My sister talked of Dad chaperoning her high school trip to Quebec. She also remembered the time she walked to the store where Dad worked and, in tears, begged him to allow her to get a kitten. One brother’s memories centered mostly on the game of baseball. He remembered Dad coaching him in Little League, playing catch with the neighborhood kids, and sending him clippings from the sports pages. My other brother recalled the time Dad wanted desperately to help a local boy in need of a bone marrow transplant. Since he was ineligible to be a donor, Dad called my brother and asked, rather sheepishly, if he might consider being tested as a possible match. Dad had a big heart for the underdogs in life, those who struggled and were in need of encouragement or a helping hand.

I wasn’t sure I would be able to deliver Dad’s eulogy, but I am thankful that God gave me the grace to do it. In part, this is what I read:

I remember vividly the night we began having family devotions. Coming home from a Sunday evening service, Dad responded to the pastor’s challenge to fathers to assume responsibility as the spiritual head of the home. Even as his tumor progressed, impairing his ability to read and speak, Dad persevered to read from scripture during those nightly family devotions.

Even after Dad had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, he prayed for those who were most dear to him. He struggled to pray for each of his grandchildren by name. He asked the Lord to help him be a good husband to his wife.

Dad faced his illness bravely and with dignity. While many of us grieved and pondered the seeming unfairness of Dad’s illness, he never gave in to bitterness or despair. He maintained hope and fought for as long as the Lord gave him strength.

I suppose that, by many standards, Dad’s life would be considered far from glamorous. I am sure that there were many things he would like to have done but was not able. Yet the words of the Apostle Paul to the Thessalonian church seem a fitting account of Dad’s life:

Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody. I Thessalonians 4:11, 12 (NIV)

Dad did not pursue a life of pleasure and ease. He acknowledged his need for God’s mercy and forgiveness, and gave himself to those things which were honorable, noble, and of eternal significance. He was a faithful husband. He worked hard and cared about others. He honored his commitments and encouraged his family in the knowledge of the Lord. For these things he has won our respect, our thanks, and our love which is stronger than death.

And now that his flesh and heart have failed

                And mortal life has ceased,

He doth possess within the veil

                A life of joy and peace.  (Amazing Grace, adapted)

Contagious Encouragement

I have the best mother-in-law on the planet. This is not a disputable claim; it is established fact confirmed by the testimony of a host of credible witnesses. I could ramble on for paragraphs about what a remarkable woman Mom is, but one of the most concrete examples I can point to is her extraordinary gift for encouraging others.

My mother-in-law notices people. She pays attention and sees the hard work others are doing and hard things they confront. For many years, my mother and father-in-law ran a bed and breakfast together. Gracious and hospitable, Mom worked long hours to serve her guests well and make sure they were comfortable. She blessed many through her hospitality, and a number of her guests became friends. Mom knows what hard work is and how demanding it is to be attentive to the needs of others.  She recognizes those efforts in others when they serve her and makes a point to thank them. I have seen her stop to thank a bus boy, hands grimy from scraping away the remains of an elegant dinner, and thank him for his hard work. I often think about the blessing my mother-in-law’s encouraging words have been in the lives of those who, perhaps more frequently, receive only criticism or complaint.

Not only does my mother-in-law notice those around her, she follows through when she sees someone in need of encouragement. My in-laws are now retired, but I sometimes have a difficult time getting ahold of them. They are very busy and active, often visiting friends in the hospital or a nursing home, delivering soup to someone who is sick, or attending recitals and sporting events in support of their grandchildren or other friends. My mother-in-law’s circle of encouragement is broad. Not only does she encourage her own friends and family, but she reaches out to my friends as well. Several times, when a dear friend of mine was going through breast cancer treatment, I’d stop by to visit her and she’d say, “You have to listen to this voice mail your mother-in-law left for me! I saved it so I could play it for you--I listen to it over and over.  What an amazing woman!”

When I see the ways Mom blesses so many through her gift of encouragement, I am encouraged to do likewise. By God’s grace, I want to be more like her. I want to see others the way she does and follow through as she does, offering words and acts of kindness that bless. Each person I meet, whether the person ringing up my groceries in the checkout line or bussing my dishes in a restaurant, presents an opportunity to speak a word of blessing or of discouragement.  Of the people I encounter each day, I know the back stories and life situations of few. I have no idea which are barely making ends meet, or which go home at the end of a demanding shift to nearly impossible life circumstances. I can go about my business treating others with impatience or indifference. Or I can pray for eyes to see them as my mother-in-law does, as God’s image bearers to whom I can offer the gift of encouragement, blessing, and hope.

My mother-in-law has shown me that encouragement breeds encouragement. Discouragement tears down; encouragement builds.  And  I want to grow to be more like her, one of those who build.

Linking with Bonnie @ Faith Barista discussing the power of encouragement:

New Life and Springs of Joy

Watching spring flowers open into bloom is always a joy but more so, I think, when the winter past has been especially brutal. Which this year's was. I've always been a fan of beautiful yards and gardens, but not so much the yard work and gardening. I'm sure there's a deep spiritual parallel in that sentence somewhere, but it escapes me at the moment.

Bonnie at Faith Barista has asked us to publish a photo journal reflecting things that speak of joy.Though I'm no better photographer than I am a gardener, here goes:

Because I'm not much of a gardener, I was happy to move into a house which had been landscaped beautifully by its previous owners. The year we moved in, everything had just begun to bloom. Watching flowers and bushes and trees follow one another into blossom was like listening to a beautiful symphony as each would rise and fall, giving way for the next to echo the theme of beauty.

Snow Fountain

One of my least favorite yard clean-up jobs is raking dead leaves and branches out from underneath this tree. Under the tree, next to the driveway is some kind of low growing pricker bush. To clean up that section, I have to get down on my knees and untangle matted down debris by hand. I always seems to feel a sense of urgency about getting this job done, however, because this tree's blossoms go by so quickly. It seems that its petals start to fall as soon as the branches have reached full bloom. Sometimes I get only a single day to enjoy this tree at its peak, and I don't want the joy of that day diminished by the knowledge that my least favorite job is still looming ahead of me.

Last night, I walked out into the yard just to take in and enjoy the sight of my tree in almost-near-full bloom and was surprised to see my first hummingbird of the season hovering within its branches. I've long considered hummingbirds as love notes sent from the hand of my Father, and I gave quiet thanks for this gift of joy. I saw the hummingbird again in the morning, hovering just outside the window to my front door. I walked out, intending to drink in more of the beauty of the snow fountain, and found this nestled in a branch near my front door:

Remind anyone else of a lovely book that has helped so many re-discover joy?

Surprise!

While doing my yard clean up, I took a pile of leaves, sticks, and debris to dump into the woods. There, I found these growing out of last year's leaf pile.I'd bought several mini-daffodils in late winter of last year just as soon as they showed up in the florist department of my grocery store. I placed them on the windowsills in my dining room, hoping to coax spring out of hiding. I must have pitched them into the woods after they'd finished blooming, and a year later they came back to surprise me.

Anyone know what this is?

This is one of the first plants that blooms in my yard each spring. Although I've lived in this house for seven years now, I still have no idea what it is. It's a low-growing ground covery kind of thing with waxy leaves. Each year I make sure to clean out this flower bed as soon as the weather starts getting nice so that I don't accidentally lop off the flowers with my rake. Any horticulturally gifted bloggers out there who care to help me solve my mystery?

Photo credit: The beloved Swede

While spring in New England is lush and green and filled with beautiful blossoming plants and trees, I find a deeper, quieter kind of joy in seeing desert plants grow and bloom. Being in dry wilderness places in my own life has helped open my eyes to find beauty in unlikelyinhospitable places. I find the promise of hope and joy in seeing plants nourished by streams in the desert.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with singing...For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water...and the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.  Isaiah 35

Napping Under a Broom Tree with Elijah

For years, the beloved Swede has been trying to convince me that exercise will give me more energy and help me feel better.  He says it has something to do with endorphins.  I have to admit, I’m a little skeptical of people who say they enjoy exercise.  When I work out, my muscles become sore, my knees hurt, and I just end up being sweaty.  The feeling is pretty much the complete opposite of energetic.  Maybe I was born without endorphins.  My dear husband keeps insisting that, if I just kept at it, I really would start feeling better.  I just keep looking at him thinking he’s nuts.  Cute, but nuts.

Getting adequate rest is one of those things--along with exercising regularly, flossing our teeth, eating a diet low in sodium and saturated fats, and taking a multivitamin--we all know we should do, at least theoretically.  We hear Jesus’ words, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”  Matthew 11:28, NIV, and most of us smile and nod in agreement.

“Yes, that’s a nice sentiment, a nice gesture,” I think to myself.   Rarely, however, do I ever change my behavior, and reach out to accept that gift.  I mean, I appreciate the offer, but seriously?  Doesn’t God know I have important things to do?  I have a family to raise, laundry to wash, groceries to buy, emails to return, writing projects to finish, relationships to maintain, and appointments to keep.  I have duties and responsibilities at my church and a Bible study lesson to finish.  And while I’m at it, I’m always open to the possibility that I might be called upon to step up and save the planet, just as soon as I get to the dry cleaner to pick up my super heroine cape.

Resting just doesn’t seem to be a noble activity, one that adds value to my life or the lives of others.  It feels self-indulgent and lazy.

And yet.  I think back to the days when my children were young, when naps were an essential element in the rhythm of our days.  I look at young mothers in grocery stores, exasperated because their children are screaming and crying inconsolably, and I think, “That baby needs a nap.  Or a bottle.  Maybe both.”  We know that rest and refreshment are good for our children; they are necessary and restorative.  We’ve probably all seen the child who defiantly refuses to nap, who screams and thrashes and flails; arching her back and resisting the comfort offered near her mother’s heart.

Not long ago, after many years of home schooling my children, I found myself physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.  I spent some time talking with my pastor and telling him I understood how the prophet Elijah felt--how he wanted to just curl up under a broom tree and never wake up.  I don’t mean to suggest that my efforts at home schooling were roughly the equivalent of Elijah’s ministry.  I never had to do battle with the prophets of Baal or call fire down from heaven, but I’m telling you—we had our days.  And at some level, those of us who are trying to live faithfully and responsibly in the midst of a faithless generation sometimes feel as though we are out in the trenches doing battle with false prophets.  It’s exhausting.

I'm encouraged that God didn’t scold Elijah for lying down under that tree; He didn’t tell him to stop whining, pull himself up by his bootstraps and get back to work.  God let him rest.  Then, sending food by the hand of an angel, God fed him.  Once more Elijah slept and, once more, God sent food to nourish him.  After Elijah rested and was fed, he had the strength to continue on to the mountain of God.

Oftentimes in my exhaustion, I think I just need to stop whining and try harder, to engage in more disciplined prayer or study of scripture and get back to work.  Sometimes, those things may be true.  But sometimes this old body might just need what Elijah and my babies both needed.  Sometimes I just need a nap.  Maybe a bottle.  Maybe both.  I need to stop acting like a petulant child, thrashing and flailing and arching my back when God is trying to draw me close to Him in His offer of rest.  I need to learn to receive with gratitude this gift God has offered and recognize the restorative value in it.  And, just as I recognize disobedience in the child who refuses to lie down and take a nap, I need to see my refusal to rest as equally disobedient.

So maybe, after I’ve finished this piece, proofread and posted it, I’ll take a few minutes and close my eyes or simply sit and receive some music, beauty, or words from God to nourish my soul.  After all, that sounds much better than doing crunches, right?

Joining with Faith Barista in her conversation on rest, and with emily and her community of writers and artists whose work feeds my soul.  (And, because there's a really cute picture of my baby girl in my post)

Room for Growth

Linking with Faith Barista, joining her conversation on forgiveness:

I was mad at my church for two years.

I was mad at my church because I didn’t agree with a decision that had been made, nor with the way it had been made.  People I cared about had gotten hurt.  And, boy howdy, I knew my Bible and I knew my Book of Church Order, and I was angry at those sitting next to me in the pews.  In my humble opinion, those people weren’t exercising spiritual wisdom and maturity.

Like I was.

I’d like to say that my heart was softened toward my brothers and sisters in Christ after I’d engaged in a period of disciplined spiritual practices—prayer, fasting, engaging scripture, repentance, solitude, walking a labyrinth—something like that.  I didn’t find healing for my angry heart while on silent retreat in a monastery, however.  My heart began to thaw and I began to find forgiveness and peace, oddly enough, after finding these words in a mediocre chick-lit book which I read while floating in my pool:

“Sometimes people just don’t get things right.”  Gran began picking up the plates from the table and carrying them over to do the washing up.  “Did you hear me?  People sometimes don’t do the right thing.”

“So then what?”  Georgia’s tone made it clear that she wasn’t satisfied.

“So then you’re left deciding how you’re going to react to what they offer.  Because you can’t make them change.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, then”

(The Knitting Club, by Kate Jacobs)

I was reminded of this exchange while participating in a workshop about worship during the recent Jubilee Conference.  The audience in the room represented a wide array of denominational affiliations and worship styles.  The speaker was making the case for the necessity of five core practices for God-centered worship.  While the entire presentation was excellent, a single side comment which the speaker made caught my attention.   He pointed out that different churches will emphasize some of these practices more so than the others, while in the remaining areas there exists room for growth.

I thought that was just about the most generous description of the church I’d ever heard.

Too often I have been critical of the church, of the actions, decisions, and attitudes of the leadership and of my fellow church members.  I hold high and lofty expectations of what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ.  There are things we should do and we should do them well, I think.  And sometimes, I’m just plain-old self-centered and want to have things done my way.  In the process of doing life alongside others within the church, however, I’ve come to recognize truth in those chlorine-soaked words offered by Gran: 

Sometimes people just don’t get things right.

Sometimes I don’t get things right.

Sometimes my church doesn’t get things right.

Sometimes entire denominations don’t get things right.

So then what?  So then I’m left deciding how to react.  I can react in anger, bitterness, and frustration toward others and myself.  I did that for two years.  I did that and lost sleep and missed out on sweet opportunities for fellowship and encouragement from my brothers and sisters, image-bearers of God who are  every bit as broken and flawed as I am.

Or I can choose to extend grace, to acknowledge that in every one of us who make up the church of Jesus Christ there is room for growth.

In writing to the Ephesian church, the Apostle Paul reminded them that God had given apostles, prophets, evangelists, shepherds and teachers to build up the body of Christ, until they grew in unity, to maturity and to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ.  (Ephesians 4:11-13, ESV)

I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve got a long way to go in reaching the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ.  And if that’s true about me, it’s most likely true of every man, woman, and child, church leader and congregation member sitting in the pews surrounding me.   I want them, my brothers and sisters in Christ, to be patient with me; acknowledging that in my walk with Jesus there is room for growth.

May God give me the grace to see them likewise.

Flannery Was Right--A Good Man Is Hard To Find

This week, Faith Barista has asked us to share our thoughts on the topic, "What I Wish Someone Told Me About Dating."  This is an edited re-post of an earlier piece I'd written.

There is a group of beautiful, godly young women in my church who take seriously the words from Titus 2.  These young ladies seek out wisdom from the older women in the congregation, and sometimes I think they mistake my full head of gray hair for wisdom.  Whether because of my hair or the fact that I’ve been married to the beloved Swede for more than twenty-five years, they invited me to meet with them. They wanted to know about male/female relationships and about marriage. Their questions were honest and simple and sweet; they were holy. But I think the unstated question most wanted to ask was this, “How do I find a godly man to marry?”

Were I to have answered that question honestly, I’d have had to have said, “I haven’t got the foggiest idea.”

I certainly couldn’t point them to my own experience because, according to most popular Christian authors writing authoritatively on the subject, I had clearly gone about it all wrong. As a young girl, I knew my King James told me not to be unequally yoked, but I took one look at the young men in my church’s youth group and knew there was nothing for me there. Not that any were interested, mind you. So I dated a few guys in high school about whom, if I stood back far enough and squinted my eyes, I could tell myself that although some may not have actually been Christians, I could see how someday they might be and thus convince myself that I wasn’t truly backslidden.

Then there were the blind dates. I’ve lost count of the times well-intentioned friends tried to fix me up with acquaintances using this description, “You’ll like him. He’s tall.” Having reached the Amazonian height of five-eleven by the sixth grade, it became important to me to find a young man I could look up to. Literally. Even if he had disgusting personal habits or was an axe murder. Just so long as he was tall.

There is a prominent voice in the homeschooling community who articulates a very convincing argument that courtship is God’s only way of finding a spouse. Normally, whenever I hear a speaker or author advocating anything he or she has written as being God’s way of doing anything, I clap my hands over my ears and run screaming from the room. This writer, however, is highly intelligent and puts forward a very compelling argument, and I guess I was seduced into thinking he was smarter than I was. So the first time a young man expressed interest in spending time with our baby girl, the Swede and I resolved to follow this author’s advice as neatly detailed on two pages of his book, including ample white space and margins.

Problem was, the young man and his parents--good people who were also trying to be faithful followers of Christ--hadn’t read the book. They thought we were nuts. And, real life, and particularly male/female relationships tend to be messy and not easily defined by words on two pages of a book, especially with white space and margins. Trust me, the experience wasn’t pretty.

My in-laws celebrated fifty years of marriage this past December, having told their parents they wanted to marry during Dad’s graduate school vacation, two days before Christmas. My grandparents eloped across the Pennsylvania state line. Other godly, intelligent, hard-working, faithful couples I know married while still students and without a job in sight.

So how did I find the beloved Swede? I like to say that he blindsided me. While I was busy scanning the horizon for tall men who weren’t axe murders, he emerged from a group of mutual friends and asked me out. It’s probably closer to the truth to say that God threw him at me, as if to say, “Here. You obviously don’t know what you’re doing. Here is a good, good man--better than you deserve.  My gift to you.”

And I think that really is my answer to those young ladies who were gracious enough to listen to my ramblings about life and relationships and marriage. You don’t find a good man. Sometimes God throws one at you.  Sometimes you trip over him.  Sometimes like Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe, he's been there all along.  However you find the love of your life, remember--he’s a gift. And I treasure mine.

And he really, really likes my gray hair.