I have to admit it. I am a blog-link clicker. Be warned. If there is an article or blog that is posted on facebook, chances are I've read it. Partially because I'm a writer. Mostly because I'm a reader. I love hearing others articulate and communicate thoughts in new and fresh ways.
Part of my problem, however, is that I can get caught up in the hype. Most of the time, I'm not sure where I stand until I read an opinion expressed elsewhere. Especially if it is well written. Then I'm like, "Oh yeah! The answer to a revival in the American Church is totally Wednesday morning prayer meetings!" And then I'll read another blog. "Wait a second. Changed my mind. The way to a spiritual revival is definitely marching around with swords!"
Clearly the answer to anything holy is simply: Jesus. But at times, I get so caught up in what is being blogged or written or pod-casted that I forget. I forget I need to take my cray cray self to the feet of Jesus. Sometimes it feels as if I'm watching a ping pong match, my head spinning on it's axis as I try to follow the ball. As I try to decide who I want to win. All the while, I'm ignoring the airplane flying overhead with the banner that reads: "Look Up. I am here."
Because all my make believe ping pong matches are outside. With airplanes.
Look up, beloved one. I am here. Yes. When I do focus and sit deeply in Love, all those opinions and trending issues on Facebook fade. The confusion and fogginess that I feel when I am immersed in social media lifts, and as I look at my Jesus, a blanket of peace and rest settles on my shoulders. Things make sense in the presence of God, people. Or they don't, but it's okay. Because all that matters is that I am with the One that created, crafted, and purposed me out from the beginning of time. Good hands to be in.
Jesus asks all of us to come. And then, as we walk with Him, He commands us to go. I know that when He asks me to go, sometimes it means to write what He has laid upon my heart. That is part of my story. His command to go, for others, may be in penning a song of praise. Creating a sculpture. Painting. Crunching numbers for non-profits. Holding the hand of a widow or orphan. The bottom line is that wherever we go, we are responding to Love. We are reflecting that love. That is a posture that should not be taken lightly or sanctimoniously.
It would be easy to sound off on Miley Cyrus and Syria and Proposition 48390483 and that crazy Weiner guy who clearly lives up to his namesake. (sorry. had to.) However, as I abide in Him and step out of that never-ending ping pong match, it becomes clear to me that it is not up to me to sound off on anything. It is not my calling to respond to the world. And who needs another white privileged girl telling the rest of the Church that they are white and privileged? No. No.
What good things do I have to say outside of Him?
For it is my calling to respond to the Love that is inside of me. The end. As God grows me, and I as I seriously cling-to-Him-for-breath-and-life-and-sanity, He will make the going part known to me. And sometimes He'll send me with words. Sometimes with pondering. Lots of times with silence. All the times with stuff to work on.
So. I'm writing this for my own purposes of declaration. Not to rake anyone over the coals for writing popular opinion pieces or for posting favorite recipes. That is between those writers and their God. But I am setting aside this white space on the internet. This little corner of blogdom is for my heart to respond to the One who has made it. This space is to work out my faith in fear and trembling and a little self-deprecating humor.
If this was a house, I would put oil over the doorways or spray it with holy water and invite all my friends over to pray or something. But since Greg wouldn't appreciate canola oil all over the keyboard of his laptop, I will just declare this:
God. Do your thing.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
A love letter to my kindergartener.
Dearest Darling Madeline,
I cannot believe that, in a few short days, you will be taking a deep breath and walking your My Little Pony backpack into kindergarten. I just cannot. I cannot imagine you looking around the room for who you will eat lunch with. Raising your hand to go potty. Laughing and giggling when Miss Meghan sings a silly song.
It's hard for me, as your mom, to imagine another grown up influencing you and teaching you. What if she teaches you something different from what mommy and daddy have taught you? What if your little kindergarten buddies teach you how to swear in sign language? What if you accidentally pee your pants and kids laugh at you?
And also, if I'm being completely honest, I feel like you are the first representative from our weird little family to go public. What if your dad and I haven't adequately prepared you for your introduction to society? Like, is there a song or dance or some kind of secret handshake that all the other kids will know and you won't? Should we have worked on your Spanish or something this summer? I don't know, kid. I just don't know.
Please know that every part of my mommy being wants to go all Rapunzel on you and stick you in this house for the next thirteen years. I really do. Because you are my babycakes, my darling, and this home is all you've ever known. I want to wrap my life around your heart so that you don't get hurt, discouraged, or hardened to the beautiful things in life.
But when I lift these concerns to God, I am reminded. You, darling girl, are not mine. Your dad and I have said all along that you belong to the One who made you and has called you by name. And He will be going before you in that classroom, shining forth from your heart, and blessing others through your sparkly blue eyes, your sharing hands, and the kind words you speak so effortlessly. I know that Jesus will become more and more at home in your heart when you are brave for Him in that classroom.
If we kept you home, the world would be missing out.
If we kept you home, we, as your mom and dad, would be missing out on the chance to see what God can do outside of us. We would be missing out on the opportunity to talk about hard things and hold you when you cry because you weren't invited to that one girls birthday party and remind you gently that God works everything out for your good and His purpose.
So, this will be hard for you, and it will be hard for me. But it will be good for you, and it will be good for me. Just remember that, when you walk into that classroom on the first day, the God who holds us together will be in your heart. And mine. And He will love you and teach you in your kindergarten classroom, and He will love me and teach me in our little yellow house. And when you come home, we can love each other and teach each other about Love and life and glue sticks and story times.
Just tell your teacher not to scream if she sees a strange blonde lady peering through the window with binoculars. It's just your mom.
I love you darling.
Momma
I cannot believe that, in a few short days, you will be taking a deep breath and walking your My Little Pony backpack into kindergarten. I just cannot. I cannot imagine you looking around the room for who you will eat lunch with. Raising your hand to go potty. Laughing and giggling when Miss Meghan sings a silly song.
It's hard for me, as your mom, to imagine another grown up influencing you and teaching you. What if she teaches you something different from what mommy and daddy have taught you? What if your little kindergarten buddies teach you how to swear in sign language? What if you accidentally pee your pants and kids laugh at you?
And also, if I'm being completely honest, I feel like you are the first representative from our weird little family to go public. What if your dad and I haven't adequately prepared you for your introduction to society? Like, is there a song or dance or some kind of secret handshake that all the other kids will know and you won't? Should we have worked on your Spanish or something this summer? I don't know, kid. I just don't know.
Please know that every part of my mommy being wants to go all Rapunzel on you and stick you in this house for the next thirteen years. I really do. Because you are my babycakes, my darling, and this home is all you've ever known. I want to wrap my life around your heart so that you don't get hurt, discouraged, or hardened to the beautiful things in life.
But when I lift these concerns to God, I am reminded. You, darling girl, are not mine. Your dad and I have said all along that you belong to the One who made you and has called you by name. And He will be going before you in that classroom, shining forth from your heart, and blessing others through your sparkly blue eyes, your sharing hands, and the kind words you speak so effortlessly. I know that Jesus will become more and more at home in your heart when you are brave for Him in that classroom.
If we kept you home, the world would be missing out.
If we kept you home, we, as your mom and dad, would be missing out on the chance to see what God can do outside of us. We would be missing out on the opportunity to talk about hard things and hold you when you cry because you weren't invited to that one girls birthday party and remind you gently that God works everything out for your good and His purpose.
So, this will be hard for you, and it will be hard for me. But it will be good for you, and it will be good for me. Just remember that, when you walk into that classroom on the first day, the God who holds us together will be in your heart. And mine. And He will love you and teach you in your kindergarten classroom, and He will love me and teach me in our little yellow house. And when you come home, we can love each other and teach each other about Love and life and glue sticks and story times.
Just tell your teacher not to scream if she sees a strange blonde lady peering through the window with binoculars. It's just your mom.
I love you darling.
Momma
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Because I'm taking my summer back.
There's something so fantastic about summer. I love the absence of routine, and the endless options of outdoor events. Everyone seems to have a spring in their Sperry's, and I totally get it. Summer brings us all back to our good old school days....when that last bell rang and we flew out of those front double doors, anticipating what the next twelve weeks of freedom held.
I fully embraced the beginning of summer. Like, with both arms and my legs. I was ready for a change of pace. I was also ready to karate kick our schedule in the face. Sometime around May I started loathing all of our commitments. Things like the fact that I had to take my daughter to school and that my kids had to brush their teeth. I was annoyed that my children couldn't just run around in diapers and eat Cheetos all day. The nerve.
So, when the beaches opened and the outdoor movie theaters lit up again, I was the first in line. Road trips? Four down, four to go. I've made approximately 5934893 jello, potato and broccoli salads to accompany us to BBQ's. My two year old makes a beeline at the farmers market to the tent that has the lollipops. She knows the guys name. My five year old wakes up asking, "Can I just get in the car in my pajamas this time?" Our summer has been a blur of sand in our suits, freeze pops, and belly laughter with those whom our hearts love.
Summer is magic. For our family, the magic is in not keeping a schedule. My girls roll out of bed, usually breathe on me and stare at me until I wake up (startled. every. time), and we snuggle, eat cereal out of the box while we watch Littlest Pet Shop and then try and decide what we'd like to conquer that day. Greg takes the girls to the beach after dinner at least twice a week, and sometime during the day, every day, we all end up on the couch, reading together. It is lovely.
But somewhere between the fireworks and my tenth serving of beef brisket, I began to feel homesick. At first I thought it was my sunburn talking. But I also noticed the fine layer of dust collecting on my Bible. Then my scale chimed in. And by chimed in I mean almost broke. And when I looked at our calendar, I realized it had been WEEKS since we had worshiped with our church family. I realized that I hadn't had my weekly check-ins with women who were so life-giving to me. I felt tired, anxious, and untethered.
And it karate kicked me in the face: Oh my word. I want a schedule again. All this Yolo stuff is for the birds. I MISS MY GOOGLE CALENDAR APP.
Some people can thrive when the confines of a schedule are lifted. My husband is one of them. I, however, am just not that great at saying no to myself. I am really, really good at saying yes. Yes to fun. Yes to elephant ears. Yes to Facebook. Yes to cheesy television series on Netflix (Has anyone else ever been sucked into the vortex that is Hart of Dixie? No?) There really isn't such a thing as moderation for me. My emotions be damned...they are my trump card. So whatever I feel like doing is what gets done. In the name of lazy summer-ness, I have lost sight of intentional living.
You don't even want to know what my laundry room looks like right now.
I've slowly come to realize that the things I value, the Things that God has placed on my heart, will not just happen to me. I cannot just sit in my Snuggie with my eyeballs glued to the saga that is Dr. Zoe Hart's life and expect God to transform me. These are gifts and revelations that will take work, will take discipline, will take me saying no to myself more and yes to hard and holy things. Even things I love, like writing, require that I sit my sunburned bottom in a chair and do work, son.
So. I'm taking my summer back. I kind of feel like the throne room of heaven is a good place to start. You know. I'm cracking open my Bible, laying my precious summer minutes and hours at the feet of Jesus and going from there. I'm going to say no to every other fun thing so that I can do more right and holy things. Greg and I are committed to praying together every night, even if we have toothpicks in our eyelids and our retainers in. So far we are 3 for 7, but that's a start.
When I am abiding in His steadfast love for me, I feel like I can take on the world. And I can. Cause it's not me. And it's not about me. Halleluyer. I can get up at 4:45 to exercise. I can sneak my oldest out of her "rest time" so that we can bake cookies, play My Little Ponies, and color until the cows come home. I can check in with dear friends to know that they are loved and valued. All things. Through Him. His strength. Amen.
While my love affair with summer is so not over, I am approaching the rest of my summer with both feet on the ground. I'm not going to stop building sandcastles with my girls at our beach. I will still be first in line for the double feature at our drive-in theater. I will still sit outside with my love, a glass of Moscato in hand with our bonfire flames reaching the summer sky. But I will also be giving my days over to Jesus more, and allowing Him to make them even more magical than I could ever imagine.
Because that sounds like a perfect summer to me.
I fully embraced the beginning of summer. Like, with both arms and my legs. I was ready for a change of pace. I was also ready to karate kick our schedule in the face. Sometime around May I started loathing all of our commitments. Things like the fact that I had to take my daughter to school and that my kids had to brush their teeth. I was annoyed that my children couldn't just run around in diapers and eat Cheetos all day. The nerve.
So, when the beaches opened and the outdoor movie theaters lit up again, I was the first in line. Road trips? Four down, four to go. I've made approximately 5934893 jello, potato and broccoli salads to accompany us to BBQ's. My two year old makes a beeline at the farmers market to the tent that has the lollipops. She knows the guys name. My five year old wakes up asking, "Can I just get in the car in my pajamas this time?" Our summer has been a blur of sand in our suits, freeze pops, and belly laughter with those whom our hearts love.
Summer is magic. For our family, the magic is in not keeping a schedule. My girls roll out of bed, usually breathe on me and stare at me until I wake up (startled. every. time), and we snuggle, eat cereal out of the box while we watch Littlest Pet Shop and then try and decide what we'd like to conquer that day. Greg takes the girls to the beach after dinner at least twice a week, and sometime during the day, every day, we all end up on the couch, reading together. It is lovely.
But somewhere between the fireworks and my tenth serving of beef brisket, I began to feel homesick. At first I thought it was my sunburn talking. But I also noticed the fine layer of dust collecting on my Bible. Then my scale chimed in. And by chimed in I mean almost broke. And when I looked at our calendar, I realized it had been WEEKS since we had worshiped with our church family. I realized that I hadn't had my weekly check-ins with women who were so life-giving to me. I felt tired, anxious, and untethered.
And it karate kicked me in the face: Oh my word. I want a schedule again. All this Yolo stuff is for the birds. I MISS MY GOOGLE CALENDAR APP.
Some people can thrive when the confines of a schedule are lifted. My husband is one of them. I, however, am just not that great at saying no to myself. I am really, really good at saying yes. Yes to fun. Yes to elephant ears. Yes to Facebook. Yes to cheesy television series on Netflix (Has anyone else ever been sucked into the vortex that is Hart of Dixie? No?) There really isn't such a thing as moderation for me. My emotions be damned...they are my trump card. So whatever I feel like doing is what gets done. In the name of lazy summer-ness, I have lost sight of intentional living.
You don't even want to know what my laundry room looks like right now.
I've slowly come to realize that the things I value, the Things that God has placed on my heart, will not just happen to me. I cannot just sit in my Snuggie with my eyeballs glued to the saga that is Dr. Zoe Hart's life and expect God to transform me. These are gifts and revelations that will take work, will take discipline, will take me saying no to myself more and yes to hard and holy things. Even things I love, like writing, require that I sit my sunburned bottom in a chair and do work, son.
So. I'm taking my summer back. I kind of feel like the throne room of heaven is a good place to start. You know. I'm cracking open my Bible, laying my precious summer minutes and hours at the feet of Jesus and going from there. I'm going to say no to every other fun thing so that I can do more right and holy things. Greg and I are committed to praying together every night, even if we have toothpicks in our eyelids and our retainers in. So far we are 3 for 7, but that's a start.
When I am abiding in His steadfast love for me, I feel like I can take on the world. And I can. Cause it's not me. And it's not about me. Halleluyer. I can get up at 4:45 to exercise. I can sneak my oldest out of her "rest time" so that we can bake cookies, play My Little Ponies, and color until the cows come home. I can check in with dear friends to know that they are loved and valued. All things. Through Him. His strength. Amen.
While my love affair with summer is so not over, I am approaching the rest of my summer with both feet on the ground. I'm not going to stop building sandcastles with my girls at our beach. I will still be first in line for the double feature at our drive-in theater. I will still sit outside with my love, a glass of Moscato in hand with our bonfire flames reaching the summer sky. But I will also be giving my days over to Jesus more, and allowing Him to make them even more magical than I could ever imagine.
Because that sounds like a perfect summer to me.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 32.
Which makes me a decade older than Taylor Swift, but who is counting? Bless it all, I am.
Some pretty remarkable things have happened for me since 22. College graduation. A job. Marriage. Then the baby carriages. So many breath-taking things in such a short time span. And too many mistakes, fumbles and learning curves to count.
One of the ways I responded to all these beautiful milestones was trying to be a grown up. Or my version of a grown up. Grown ups did the right thing. Always. Grown ups were strong and didn't ask for help. Grown ups made meatballs from scratch, even when babies were crying and sleep was a distant memory. They dusted their baseboards at ten pm when company was coming the next morning. They wore sweatpants and took showers every third day.
And the kicker: grown ups didn't chase dreams. They just didn't. They needed to be fully invested in the reality of jobs, children, and keeping up on laundry. There was no time for dreaming, unless it involved the American dream of picket fences and 3.2 kids.
There were parts of me that I kept stuffing down into my shoes every time they surfaced. My creative person. My spontaneous person. My funny person. They would well up, at times, and yell, "remember me?" I'd be like, "no habla ingles," and promptly drown out their sound with my vacuuming. They were all too much for me in my twenties. I was too overwhelmed with keeping it all together to let them come out and play.
But God. My whole life story can be summarized in this magical phrase. I am a wiener, but God. I try to be perfect, but God. Thank God for the but God's. Jesus, in His originality, began to transform my ideas of what being a grown up looked like. It was not running after the ideal grown up that I had frantically painted in my head.
It was allowing who He has made me to be to settle in. All of me.
When God purposed my little life out, He didn't include the long legs I have wished for. He didn't make me as tall as I'd like. He threw in a mind that races like a hamster in a wheel, a disposition that makes me slightly awkward in large group settings, and hair that will just not stay straight. For the love.
And while I know the list of all the things I have not, He has opened my 32 year old heart to notice the things I am. Work with what the good Lord gave you, and so forth. I am realizing, more and more, that being a grown up is the greatest balancing act of all. It's the act of reconciling all the parts of myself to one another and fitting them together in a way that says: I don't care. I love it. I love this. I love me. Thank you God.
It feels like, finally, I've gathered all the little versions of myself and have told them to get in my belly. I'm no longer putting my pre-teen awkward self in a time out. I'm calling the part of me that needs more sleep up out of the basement and back into my bed. I need eight hours folks. I just do. The attention seeking part of me is okay too. I've learned how to work with her. Wow. So many parts and persons in this shell of a body. We'll need a special handshake or something.
I needed to walk through my twenties to get to this grand place of 32. I feel settled into myself, finally at peace with who God has crafted me to be. I also know that it's not over. I know that decade from now, I will feel even more resolved to live my one and only precious life with this stretch marked body, this quirky mind, and the genuine spirit God has given me.
So, to all of my twenty something friends who are dreading the big 3-0: Run towards the light that is your thirties. You are getting older. There is absolutely nothing on God's green/polluted earth you can do about it. But, along with those fine wrinkles forming at the corners of your horrified eyes comes an understanding of yourself and your God that only time can bring. Hug it.
Some pretty remarkable things have happened for me since 22. College graduation. A job. Marriage. Then the baby carriages. So many breath-taking things in such a short time span. And too many mistakes, fumbles and learning curves to count.
One of the ways I responded to all these beautiful milestones was trying to be a grown up. Or my version of a grown up. Grown ups did the right thing. Always. Grown ups were strong and didn't ask for help. Grown ups made meatballs from scratch, even when babies were crying and sleep was a distant memory. They dusted their baseboards at ten pm when company was coming the next morning. They wore sweatpants and took showers every third day.
And the kicker: grown ups didn't chase dreams. They just didn't. They needed to be fully invested in the reality of jobs, children, and keeping up on laundry. There was no time for dreaming, unless it involved the American dream of picket fences and 3.2 kids.
There were parts of me that I kept stuffing down into my shoes every time they surfaced. My creative person. My spontaneous person. My funny person. They would well up, at times, and yell, "remember me?" I'd be like, "no habla ingles," and promptly drown out their sound with my vacuuming. They were all too much for me in my twenties. I was too overwhelmed with keeping it all together to let them come out and play.
But God. My whole life story can be summarized in this magical phrase. I am a wiener, but God. I try to be perfect, but God. Thank God for the but God's. Jesus, in His originality, began to transform my ideas of what being a grown up looked like. It was not running after the ideal grown up that I had frantically painted in my head.
It was allowing who He has made me to be to settle in. All of me.
When God purposed my little life out, He didn't include the long legs I have wished for. He didn't make me as tall as I'd like. He threw in a mind that races like a hamster in a wheel, a disposition that makes me slightly awkward in large group settings, and hair that will just not stay straight. For the love.
And while I know the list of all the things I have not, He has opened my 32 year old heart to notice the things I am. Work with what the good Lord gave you, and so forth. I am realizing, more and more, that being a grown up is the greatest balancing act of all. It's the act of reconciling all the parts of myself to one another and fitting them together in a way that says: I don't care. I love it. I love this. I love me. Thank you God.
It feels like, finally, I've gathered all the little versions of myself and have told them to get in my belly. I'm no longer putting my pre-teen awkward self in a time out. I'm calling the part of me that needs more sleep up out of the basement and back into my bed. I need eight hours folks. I just do. The attention seeking part of me is okay too. I've learned how to work with her. Wow. So many parts and persons in this shell of a body. We'll need a special handshake or something.
I needed to walk through my twenties to get to this grand place of 32. I feel settled into myself, finally at peace with who God has crafted me to be. I also know that it's not over. I know that decade from now, I will feel even more resolved to live my one and only precious life with this stretch marked body, this quirky mind, and the genuine spirit God has given me.
So, to all of my twenty something friends who are dreading the big 3-0: Run towards the light that is your thirties. You are getting older. There is absolutely nothing on God's green/polluted earth you can do about it. But, along with those fine wrinkles forming at the corners of your horrified eyes comes an understanding of yourself and your God that only time can bring. Hug it.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Arrival.
Ten years into marriage and I am still buying the whole love language thing. Time after time our marital tension boils down to one simple indiscretion: I am not loving him the way God designed him to be loved. And he is not sitting down on the couch and processing/analyzing/discussing every nuance of our life with me.
My poor husband. Especially on road trips. I look at him, after the car is packed and the girls are strapped in and stuffed with goldfish, and say: You are MINE. Then I promptly pull out my mental list of all the things I'd like to discuss with him.
By the second hour, Greg is usually like, "Are you tired? You look tired. You should totally take a nap."
Gah. I don't know what it is about me, but I don't understand myself until all streams of consciousness have left my brain via my mouth. I need my words and thoughts free, so I can run after them with a net and keep the ones that make sense. It's kind of like elementary school, where the teacher would scramble a sentence on the chalkboard and we would take turns writing it out correctly.
I need the time and space to think aloud until I arrive. It's how I roll.
I understand, that for most men, pointless talking is like a form of Chinese torture. Men are designed to have conversations that are efficient. You know. With conclusions, game-plans, and bullet points. Greg, bless his heart, is forever trying to meet me where I'm at in my thought process. Most of the time, however, he gets off the hook. He is a lucky man.
Because I have my sisters. Oh, those saintly psychos that I am blessed enough to call friends. With these women I have room to ponder, reflect, and whine until I make sense. There is time for the arrival. They understand that getting there is just as important as the conclusion. They are able to speak truth into the process, and patiently hold my hand so I don't trip on myself.
Which is why I value coffee and dinner dates just as much (ok, a lot more) as the play date. I love doing life with my friends who have young kids, but conversation at it's best is choppy and unfinished. There's always a nose or bottom to wipe. That's the reality of most of our lives right now. And it's beautiful.
But there is something to be said about stepping outside of our fruit-snack realities and into deep and messy conversations with one another. It is so worth it. It is worth the shots of double espresso or the cheese fries or whatever it takes to stay awake enough to have meaningful and intentional time together. I meet one of my dearest sisters at six in the morning and we pound french toast like you wouldn't believe. It's the only time that works for us. Therefore we make it work.
But there is something to be said about stepping outside of our fruit-snack realities and into deep and messy conversations with one another. It is so worth it. It is worth the shots of double espresso or the cheese fries or whatever it takes to stay awake enough to have meaningful and intentional time together. I meet one of my dearest sisters at six in the morning and we pound french toast like you wouldn't believe. It's the only time that works for us. Therefore we make it work.
I feel like this is one of the good and perfect gifts that God has given us. Untangling life through conversation and prayer with a sister. It could also be so the men in our lives don't go insane from non-stop dialogue. Greg loves when I share insight garnered from a heart to heart with a friend. Probably because it saved him four hours of his life. But still.
Long live the girlfriend.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Outsourced.
I'm a little hesitant to even try and camp on such huge grounds with my tiny vocabulary, but the wrestling in my heart won't give my fingers peace until I try. So darn it all, here I go.
Outsourcing. Tiny pet peeve of mine. When I call a customer service number and end up speaking with a very nice (albeit hard to understand) person in Pakistan; I usually end up getting off the phone because:
A. I feel rude after asking them to repeat themselves and I don't want to hurt feelings
B. My kids are punching each other in the eyeballs with crayons
C. I just want to talk to the source. Just please. Put me on the phone with whoever
created this cell-phone, this credit card, or this dishwasher.
You guys. The abiding life in Christ Jesus is being outsourced. We are exchanging His words for blogs (oh the irony), sermons, podcasts and relevant Christian magazines. We are devouring books on Christian living, fist pounding at the Toby Mac concerts, and aligning ourselves with politicians who believe as we do. We chase after whatever is trending. I hear this year it's riding Schwinn bicycles and composting. So there's that.
We are creating a sub-culture where the middle man becomes more important than the Man. We flock to our spiritual heroes in times of crisis, despair, and political brouhaha. We beg them: tell us your thoughts! How should we feel about Boston? Where should we align ourselves on marriage equality? We chase down our Pastors and Christian radio-talk hosts to help us crawl out of spiritual valleys, relational mire, and financial bogs. We scream for steps, diagrams, and plans.
Someone just give us a freaking plan.
One of my dear friends likened it to a sugar addiction. We need our fix. Our spirits have become accustomed to tidbits of holiness, packaged and presented in other peoples words and revelations. We want to Cliff's notes version on Christianity, thank you very much. Trudging through the Word of God on our own and sitting in a dark closet waiting for Him to speak is just far too laborious.
If someone could just chew up my food and spit it into my mouth, that'd be cool too.
For, if we substitute these good things for the Best Thing, then no wonder the world is confused by us. If, when people come to us, asking about our Jesus and Who He is, and we bring them to church, point them towards a Francis Chan book, or tell them to listen to K-Love...aren't we just like those difficult to understand Pakistani phone calls? Are we always ready to give an answer for the hope that is within us, or are we ready for Shane Claiborne to do it for us?
People are asking US for a reason.
Are we daily searching the Word of God, hiding it in our heart? Do we even realize that is is living and active? That it will cut some of the holy tension and confusion we feel while wandering this planet? That, even the stories we swear that we could recite from memory or Mrs. Andersons 2nd grade Sunday school class can still breath God's promises to us in new ways? And prayer. Oh, the power of hitting our knees, crying out to the Source of everything. Lifting up our voices on the behalf of the week, needy, and lonely ones. Waiting in silence, allowing God the space to do as He may.
Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation, now that you have tasted that the Lord is good. 1 peter 2:2-3
We need to grow up into our salvation. We have tasted that the Lord is good. Now it's time. Time to hit it hard. He has given us his Holy Words, you guys. No middle man needed. Let's take full advantage of our royal priesthood status, and enter the holiest space of all...a life in community with God. A life lived to know Him and make Him known.
Please understand. This is coming from an area of personal conviction. I love reading others stories and how God has inspired them. But those stories are not my own. And the Author of my story is waiting, patiently and long-sufferingly (it's a word now) for me to live out my own. I am ever learning.
Outsourcing. Tiny pet peeve of mine. When I call a customer service number and end up speaking with a very nice (albeit hard to understand) person in Pakistan; I usually end up getting off the phone because:
A. I feel rude after asking them to repeat themselves and I don't want to hurt feelings
B. My kids are punching each other in the eyeballs with crayons
C. I just want to talk to the source. Just please. Put me on the phone with whoever
created this cell-phone, this credit card, or this dishwasher.
You guys. The abiding life in Christ Jesus is being outsourced. We are exchanging His words for blogs (oh the irony), sermons, podcasts and relevant Christian magazines. We are devouring books on Christian living, fist pounding at the Toby Mac concerts, and aligning ourselves with politicians who believe as we do. We chase after whatever is trending. I hear this year it's riding Schwinn bicycles and composting. So there's that.
We are creating a sub-culture where the middle man becomes more important than the Man. We flock to our spiritual heroes in times of crisis, despair, and political brouhaha. We beg them: tell us your thoughts! How should we feel about Boston? Where should we align ourselves on marriage equality? We chase down our Pastors and Christian radio-talk hosts to help us crawl out of spiritual valleys, relational mire, and financial bogs. We scream for steps, diagrams, and plans.
Someone just give us a freaking plan.
One of my dear friends likened it to a sugar addiction. We need our fix. Our spirits have become accustomed to tidbits of holiness, packaged and presented in other peoples words and revelations. We want to Cliff's notes version on Christianity, thank you very much. Trudging through the Word of God on our own and sitting in a dark closet waiting for Him to speak is just far too laborious.
If someone could just chew up my food and spit it into my mouth, that'd be cool too.
For, if we substitute these good things for the Best Thing, then no wonder the world is confused by us. If, when people come to us, asking about our Jesus and Who He is, and we bring them to church, point them towards a Francis Chan book, or tell them to listen to K-Love...aren't we just like those difficult to understand Pakistani phone calls? Are we always ready to give an answer for the hope that is within us, or are we ready for Shane Claiborne to do it for us?
People are asking US for a reason.
Are we daily searching the Word of God, hiding it in our heart? Do we even realize that is is living and active? That it will cut some of the holy tension and confusion we feel while wandering this planet? That, even the stories we swear that we could recite from memory or Mrs. Andersons 2nd grade Sunday school class can still breath God's promises to us in new ways? And prayer. Oh, the power of hitting our knees, crying out to the Source of everything. Lifting up our voices on the behalf of the week, needy, and lonely ones. Waiting in silence, allowing God the space to do as He may.
Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation, now that you have tasted that the Lord is good. 1 peter 2:2-3
We need to grow up into our salvation. We have tasted that the Lord is good. Now it's time. Time to hit it hard. He has given us his Holy Words, you guys. No middle man needed. Let's take full advantage of our royal priesthood status, and enter the holiest space of all...a life in community with God. A life lived to know Him and make Him known.
Please understand. This is coming from an area of personal conviction. I love reading others stories and how God has inspired them. But those stories are not my own. And the Author of my story is waiting, patiently and long-sufferingly (it's a word now) for me to live out my own. I am ever learning.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Remind me.
I thank you, Lord Jesus.
For when you descended to the depths of Sheol you brought
my junk with you
You brought with you the part of me that wants to promote
myself through my parenting
You took with you the way I count beans with my husband
You went down with my trappings of appearance
You lugged my endless battle of idealism
You sank under my wasted time on social media
You descended with my tendency to find flaws in everything and everyone
You descended with my tendency to find flaws in everything and everyone
You carried my pride. My doubt. My jealous heart
The weight of my filth crushed you, like an anchor
Dropping you into the deepest grave of all.
Dropping you into the deepest grave of all.
The effortless way that I give into myself over and over
again
Pushed you down further, deeper, and held you there
And you left it there
You did battle for me
Because you went, I will never have to
Please.
Remind me, that when you rose, I rose
I stepped out of that grave with you. Unblemished
Clothed in white, no longer sitting in my own filth
Clean because you did my laundry
Remind me, it's already done
Let my little life exhaust itself in gratitude
My hands become calloused in thankfulness
Not because I need to prove myself to you
But because it is finished.
But because it is finished.
Thank you Jesus.
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