“The world is made up of two kinds of people. The ones who

think they’re normal and the ones who know there’s no such

thing.” - Will McAvoy on The Newsroom

 

Our Charlie is the best little boy ever. I love that kid so much I think I might actually die the day he leaves the nest. I honestly don't believe I can survive more than a few days without him.  He's smart and funny and adorable and determined and, mostly . . . he's comfort. Life is just right when he's sitting next to me, drawing or reading or breathing.

 Still, sometimes I feel so bad for my little guy, because he totally reminds me about that whole apple falling from the tree thing.  Yea. It doesn’t fall far folks. It doesn’t fall far at all.

Poor kid.

My mother gave Charlie a snowman to put on his nightstand on Thanksgiving Day. It’s only a few inches tall, but it has those LED lights inside, so Mr. Snowman glows all sorts of fun colors when you turn him on. Now, before I continue, I need to tell you that we left to go out of town on the day after Thanksgiving and we returned home on Sunday afternoon. If you do the math, you will realize that as of bedtime on Sunday, Charlie had slept with the light-up snowman beside his bed for exactly ONE night.  And yet, just after he crawled into his bed to go to sleep for only the second night with his new snowman friend glowing cheerfully beside him, my poor little apple son had this to say:

“I love this snowman. It turns red, green, purple, yellow, blue and pink. That's the order every time. And it stays red, green, purple, yellow, and blue for four seconds each. Then the pink stays on for eleven seconds. And then it starts over with red again.”

I should probably also mention that right before Charlie quoted the above statistics, he patted the “special place” on his pillowcase two times.  He does that every night, right before he puts his head on it. 

Like I said . . . poor kid.

One day, I’ll have to explain to Charlie that apples don’t far fall from their trees.  And then, I’ll have to tell him what OCD is.:)  For now, however, I’m going to lie next to him in bed and watch the snowman change colors. 

Well, the leftovers have been put away, the guests have gone home, and football has become the main event.  I thought about venturing out to hit the post-feast sales, but my feet begged me not to, and apparently my feet are psychic, because - stop the presses – I’m sitting on the couch right now while my nine year old son rubs them. 

It was my first foray into hosting Thanksgiving and I’m quite pleased to tell you it was a rousing success.  After much debate over the menu, I think our feast was delicious.  People with anxiety spend way too many hours trying to decide between turkey tenderloins and an attempt at the whole bird, but in the end, my husband convinced me if we were going to do this hosting thing, we needed to do it right, and out he went to buy an entire turkey.  When he returned home with it, I convinced him that since he was so sure a thirteen pounder was the way to go, he could be in charge of said fowl. 

He grilled it, because how in the world would I cook the fixins if a turkey occupied my oven all day?  I admit I was skeptical (hey, even people without anxiety worry about the main course when they are hosting their family for Thanksgiving for the very first time), but my husband came through with flying feathers . . . I mean colors.  Even my children asked for seconds of turkey, and they are borderline vegetarians they eat so little meat.  The fixins were not bad either, if I do say so myself.

And now, with my crew safely gathered around, I can count my blessings.

I’m pretty good at remembering to be thankful for the big things - you know, those REALLY important blessings – the ones I thank God for every night because I know I could never live without them.  Adam, Charlie, Libby.  My family.  My friends.  Health.  Our home and food and freedom and Jesus.

But what about the little things?  What about all those precious moments in my life that I let pass me by without an ounce of gratitude for what they mean? 

What about the way Libby looks when she’s sleeping.  What about the way Charlie asks me to crawl under the covers with him at bedtime and then leans his head against my shoulder while we talk.  What about the way Adam’s eyes meet mine when one of our children does something cute and an unspoken understanding passes between us that no one else in the entire world could possibly grasp. 

What about hot chocolate that’s overflowing with marshmallows, the smell of burning leaves in the fall, water that becomes warm with the twist of a knob.  What about a sky glowing pink at sunrise, a text message from a friend at just the right time, a hug from someone you haven’t seen in ages.  What about a soft robe, new shoes, clean sheets.  What about electricity and pillows and dishwashers and toothpaste.

 
And what about the things that are harder to be thankful for?  What if I could find gratitude when I'm feeling anything but grateful.  What if, when my children are arguing, I could remember it's because God answered my prayers about becoming a mother . . . twice.  What if, when I'm stuck in traffic, I could remember it's because I'm lucky enough to live in a thriving city.  What if, when the laundry is piled so high I think I'll never get to the bottom, I could remember it's because I'm blessed to have plenty of clothing for every member of my family. 

I have so much to be thankful for.  Today and every day.  I don't have to look hard to find the many blessings in my life, because there are too many to count.   They are all around me, all the time.  I simply have to accept them as gifts, even when my first instinct is to think of them as burdens.  I have to choose to be thankful, and not just for the big things . . . the easy things.  I have to be thankful for everything, because every encounter, every circumstance, every day . . . is a blessing.    

May you and yours find much to be thankful for today, and every day after.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

 

     

“I like your Christ.  I don't like your Christians.  Your Christians look nothing like your Christ.” - Ghandi

Dang y'all.  That's harsh.  It kind of makes me want to put on my boxing gloves, you know?  Get out there and rough someone up in defense of Christianity.  Quote some scripture, point out some awesomeness, hollar a few statistics. 

Ephesians 2:10 For we are his workmanship, created in Christ for good works.  BING.

The Salvation Army provides aid to over thirty million people a year.  BANG.

Samaritan's Purse has sent thousands of doctors to help meet the physical and spiritual needs of people in impoverished nations.  BAM.

Ninety-one percent of Christians donate to charities.  BOOM.

There. 

Hook. Jab. Cross. Uppercut. 

Take that sucker.  Uhhh, I mean, Mr. Ghandi. 

Then . . .

I read his words again.

"Your Christians look nothing like your Christ."

And you know what?  My boxing gloves fall to the ground as I realize . . . Ghandi's right.

When have I ever looked like Christ?

Colossians 3:12-15  Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Bear with each other and forgive one another.  And over all these virtues, put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

If I want to look like Christ, Colossians 3 tells me exactly which traits I have to exhibit.  I can go to weekly Bible studies and offer to pray for friends and wear a cross around my neck.  I can announce to everyone I meet that I'm a Christian.  But those displays will never mean anything if I don’t show people Christ. 

I have to be compassionate.  I have to be kind.  I have to be humble and gentle and patient and forgiving.  And more than anything, I have to love.  If I want to live like Jesus, I have to love like he did, and Jesus loved BIG. 

He loved so big he fed thousands of people with a single basket of bread and fish.  He loved so big he calmed a stormy sea.  He loved so big he healed a blind man, and a deaf man, and a paralyzed man, and a mute man, and a leper, and a bleeding woman, and a demon-possessed girl.  He loved so big he brought dead people back to life.  He loved so big, he suffered . . . and he bled . . . and he hung naked and nailed to a cross . . . just so I would know how wide and long and high and deep his love really is.

 

Such BIG love.

I wonder how many people I've come across in my life who have never had the opportunity to glimpse Christ.  I bet hundreds of people have crossed my path who have never seen Jesus in a church or in a Bible or, sadly, in a Christian.  What if . . . I shudder to think of the missed opportunities . . . what if people could glimpse Jesus in me?  What if I lived and loved in such a way that I consistently showed others what Christ looks like?

Christians have the power to change the world.  I believe that.  But we'll never do it thinking about Jesus or reading about Jesus or preaching about Jesus.  We can study Jesus all our lives, but if we never serve like he did, if we never live and love like he did, all our knowledge is wasted. 

Jesus died on the cross for our sins, and that's amazing and wonderful and extraordinary.  It means we're forgiven and free.  What a blessing and an honor. 

But it's not enough to accept Jesus as just our savior.  We also have to allow him to be our example.  Yes, Jesus redeemed the world on the cross. Yes, the grace he provided is the most beautiful gift we can ever receive.  But the cross is only one part of a bigger story.  The life Jesus lived is just as important as the death he died.  We can't only look at the cross if we want to follow Jesus.  We have to live our lives the way he lived his. We have to be compassionate.  We have to be kind.  We have to be humble, patient, gentle and forgiving. And above all, we have to love.  We have to love BIG.  So big that when people see us . . . they can't help but see Jesus too.

We have to prove Ghandi wrong.

1 John 2:6  Whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked.

There’s just something about election day in America. 

I woke up to much colder than normal temperatures and lots of rain in suburban Atlanta this morning.  Not a great day to get out and place a vote, in my extremely warm-blooded opinion. There had been much talk in recent weeks about hours of waiting, so anticipating the worst, I bundled up in my finest winter gear and begrudgingly headed to my local elementary school, prepared for a long and frustrating morning.  I found a parking space more easily than I expected, and headed towards the door holding my broken umbrella at just the right angle to ward off the rain. 

What a pain, I thought, I could be sipping a warm cup of coffee in my coziest robe right now.

Only minutes later, I was surrounded by strangers turned friends, smiling and chatting as we prepared to exercise our right . . . our privilege . . . to participate in choosing the next leader of our great nation.  No one complained about the rain.  No one fussed about standing for an hour in a long line.  We weren’t male or female, old or young, rich or poor, white or black.   It didn’t matter who was voting for Obama and who was voting for Romney, and honestly, it shouldn’t.  God knows exactly who will win the election today.  He wrote it as part of that man’s story and as part of the greater story – His story.  The man who is named our next President will simply play a role in fulfilling God’s plan for the United States, whatever that may be.

Hopefulness abounded in the precinct I visited this morning.  It was palpable. I could feel the patriotism running through my veins.  I actually had goose bumps as I walked forward to make my selections in my personal voting booth, coat in hand, rain boots clunking on the cafeteria floor.  And to think I allowed a little bad weather to make me consider skipping this remarkable event? 

Shame on me. 

I am proud to be an American.  I am grateful to live in a country where the citizens have an opportunity to make their voices known.  I am thankful there are two men who want the incredible responsibility of leading over three-hundred million people for the next four years – what a daunting desire.  

Whoever wins the election of 2012, I will celebrate the fact that I had the chance to choose his name.  Because I know the next President of the United States of America, whether his name is Obama or Romney, wants only what is best for our country.  Lest I forget . . . it’s his country too.  Our next President is a husband and a father and an American.  I will agree with some of his ideas and disagree with others.  Some of his policies will make me smile and some will make me cringe.  He will do many good things and make many mistakes.  I will love him or hate him, but above all, I will respect him.  And tomorrow . . . and every day after . . . I will pray for him and for our country.  

1 Timothy 2:1-2  First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people,  for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way.