Genius Friends, Part Two

Y’all, doesn’t it make sense to assume that since my friends are geniuses, I must also be a genius?  I’m thinking it’s a perfectly sound theory, so if no one opposes, I’m gonna go with it.

I recently wrote about one of my genius friends offering me the beautiful reminder that communion with God must be a daily renewal.  (The really smart, computer savvy bloggers know how to insert a link for that post here, but sadly, I am not one of those bloggers.  The post is called Every Day of the Week And Twice on Sundays, if you want to read it). 

So get this, another genius friend of mine said another genius thing in my very same kitchen on that VERY SAME NIGHT.  It could have been the wine, but I’d prefer to think it’s because, clearly, my girlfriends rock, and therefore, let’s once again go with the theory that so must I.

This particular friend of mine is involved with a ministry called Wiphan.  The name Wiphan comes from combining the words ‘widow’ and ‘orphan,’ and the goal of this organization is to “equip widows and orphans for a productive life, offering hope to the hopeless through the love of Jesus Christ.”  Wiphan does most of its work in the compounds of Nkwazi and Mapalo, which are in Zambia, the tenth poorest country in Africa.  The population of each of these areas is approximately 40,000 people, most of whom live in homes built of mud bricks, which often leak during the rainy season.  The people have little or no furniture, no running water or indoor plumbing, and most are without electricity.  A widow and her children typically end up living in such compounds after “property grabbing” occurs after the death of the husband.  This culturally accepted practice allows the deceased husband’s family to strip the widow of all her financial and material resources, leaving her without any means of supporting herself and her children.  Most widows are uneducated and without job skills.  Jobs for unskilled widows are practically nonexistent in an economy with a 50% unemployment rate, and many women in the compounds turn to prostitution for income.

Wiphan has started two schools near these compounds that provide a free education, five meals a week, basic medical care, and uniforms to over 400 children in grades 1-7.  The organization also helps fund tuition for children who wish to further their education beyond seventh grade in government secondary schools, while providing those children with encouragement, discipleship, and academic assistance through their Inshila Program.  In addition, Wiphan offers free skills training in hospitality, jewelry making, and keyboarding to widows and older orphans.  Finally, the organization has partnered with another ministry, Tuli One (We Are One) to develop group homes that provide supervision, care, and protection to orphans who attend the Wiphan schools.   

Please check out this amazing ministry and the incredible work they are doing by visiting the Wiphan website at www.wiphan.org

Now I’ve been trying to write about what this friend of mine told me in my kitchen for weeks, but every time I did, the words just wouldn’t come out on the computer screen like they were making me feel in my mind and heart and soul.  Because the truth is, these words . . . I will NEVER forget them.  These words were life changing. 

I am a guilty person.  I feel a lot of guilt about a lot of things a lot of the time.  If I eat a cookie on a weeknight after working out, I feel guilty.  If I miss a sporting event for one of my children, I feel guilty.  If I am late to a meeting with a friend, I feel guilty.  If I complain about something in my house to my husband who is working so hard to provide for our family, I feel guilty.  I spend a lot of life feeling guilty about my failures, my shortcomings, my mistakes, my selfish desires.  And it’s exhausting.  It’s exhausting and stupid and worthless and the Bible tells me not to do it. 

I do it anyway.

My friend recently spent a week in Zambia visiting the widows and orphans that Wiphan is helping to equip.  During her time there, she had the opportunity to visit one of the Tuli One housemoms, who currently cares for four double orphans – four boys without anyone else to care for them, who all attend Wiphan’s Nkwazi campus. The woman’s name is Lyness. 

Lyness lives in the Nkwazi compound in an area called “The Overspill.”  It’s called by this name because it is on the outskirts of the compound, which is overcrowded, so it literally is the “overspill.”  The address written on Lyness’ house actually says Overspill.

When my friend arrived at Lyness’ home, the woman was doing laundry in the backyard (washing clothes in a bucket and hanging them on tree limbs to dry).  She welcomed my friend into her mud home, proudly showing her around.  Lyness had a nicer home than many in the compound – five rooms large including a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms.  She did not have indoor plumbing or electricity.

My friend quickly noticed that just outside Lyness’ home, she had drawn a large rectangle in the dirt, and on one side of the rectangle, there were two large tree limbs stuck into the ground.  Wondering what all this was about, my friend asked why the woman had such things.  And her response was so unbelievably precious, I can hardly think about it without tears streaming down my face.

“That’s where I’m going to add on to my home one day.”

I picture the mud house in my mind.  I picture the woman and the dirt and the orphans and the poverty and the starvation and the illness and the AIDS and the death running rampant in her country and beyond, and the woman . . . Lyness . . . full of holiness . . . overspilling with holiness . . . because she wasn’t thinking about any of that.  She was thinking about having a nicer home one day.

And the tears just keep falling.  Because Lyness and me . . . we aren’t that different. 

Adding on. 

A plan for something more. 

A dream of something better.

Hope.

What a beautiful, glorious word, and yet much of the time, we discard it.  We make it insignificant, even insufficient.  Why?  Why do we forget about the hope we have when it’s such a part of everything we believe and love and hold sacred? 

HE. IS. HOPE. 

And He wants us to be hopeful.

We don’t have to feel guilty about the desires of our hearts, as long as they aren’t the focus of our lives.  It’s okay to dream big.  It’s okay to think about having something better than what you have now.  Being content doesn’t mean you can’t be hopeful at the same time.  Thanking God in every circumstance doesn’t mean you can’t wish for something different, something more, and set your sights on making it happen.  God knows your heart anyway, so why pretend you don’t want to be a better cook, a better wife, a better mom, a better friend?

We have Him, and because of that, we can have hope.  We SHOULD have hope.  Hope like the hope of Lyness, who dares to dream big.  Hope that doesn’t see anything standing in the way of what God can do.

Hope that overspills. 

A First To Remember

As a parent, I have had the great pleasure of experiencing so many monumental “firsts.”  His first smile, his first steps, his first word, the first time he slept through the night at seven and a half months old you’ve got to be kidding me oh no I’m totally not and it was only after I FINALLY relented and let him have his first bottle of formula oh my goodness the little traitor who had been keeping me up all night for months because I thought he was just growing so quickly and so very hungry and trust me he had another bottle of formula every night after that.

“Firsts” are exciting.  They are thrilling and reassuring and pull of pride and joy and love.  But sadly, the special “firsts” start to slow down as infants turn into babies into toddlers into children into big kids who have permanent teeth growing in more directions than you can count.  Of course, the first day of school is always cause for pictures and text messages to grandparents, and I imagine there will be great amounts of emotion expended down the road when we experience his first date, the first time he drives a car, and his first college application.  Today, however, I have to tell you about a “first” I never saw coming.

Charlie started middle school this week. It was quite a roller coaster for my little fellow, as the jubilation he has felt for months about leaving lower school turned into some serious anxiety about three weeks before school was scheduled to begin.  Yes.  Three weeks of ten-year old anxiety.  That meant lots and lots of questions and comments about middle school and what was it going to be like and what if he couldn’t handle it and what if he couldn’t open his locker and what if he couldn’t find his classes and why in the world did his school make kids start middle school in fifth grade anyway?!?!

There were two days of orientation, and that helped . . . a little.  Still, on the morning of the first day of middle school, my Charlie was pacing the kitchen by 6:30 am, worried about his shoes and his socks and his first class and his last class and carpool and . . .

It was a half day, so I picked him up at noon.  There was a smile on his face as he slid into the car, and his entire demeanor was visibly different – calm, relaxed, okay.

He chattered happily about his day on the ride home.  My teachers are nice, I know a lot of people in my classes, it’s not that different from lower school.

We got home and he had homework, because middle schoolers are big time like that.  Now at Charlie’s school, one of the perks of moving up into the middle school is that the students each get their own tablet, which is basically a laptop computer on which they do almost everything.  So my son pulled out his tablet and prepared to complete his first homework assignment of the school year.  His task was to send an email to his math teacher.  And that’s when it happened.  The “first” I wasn’t expecting, but which was just as thrilling and reassuring and full of pride and joy and love as the others Charlie has provided through the years.   

I remember the first time I had to send an email.  I was a student at the University of Georgia, not long before graduation, and much like my son, I was required to email one of my professors as a homework assignment.  In order to do it, I had to drive to campus, find a parking spot, search for the computer lab I’d never set foot in before, wait for an empty computer, figure out how to get the computer to turn on because the person before me had shut it down, wait at least ten minutes for the computer to get going again, and navigate whatever email procedure I had been instructed to use to demonstrate to my professor that I could successfully send a message through time and space using the latest and greatest technology.

Charlie’s homework wasn’t quite so complicated.  And within weeks, I’d be willing to bet he won’t even recall doing it because he will have sent so many emails since then.  I, on the other hand, will remember it forever.

I will remember the way his face lit up.  I will remember the way he threw his hands in the air and squealed like the child he is.  I will remember the exhilaration in his voice when he hollered, “I DID IT!” 

The kid was absolutely giddy.  He had sent his first email.

I guess that’s 2013 for you, huh?  We just keep adding things for parents to pray about. 

Lord, please let my son use email wisely and appropriately.  Please watch over him as he navigates the world of technology, which gives him access to all the things I hope he never wants to Google.  Lord, please let my son send and receive only positive, uplifting email messages from now until the end of time.  Amen.

I can’t wait to see what Charlie thinks when I start emailing him.  I’m thinking maybe a Bible verse of the day . . .

Think his face will light up every time he opens it?

Every Day (And Twice On Sundays)

I don’t think my friend intended to be profound when she made the comment she did.  She’s far too humble to think of herself as someone who makes important statements on a regular basis, though she does, with both ease and grace.  Still, her comment struck me in such a way that I’ve thought about it every day since. 

We were in my kitchen surrounded by other women, sipping wine and sharing summer stories.  Our conversation turned to houses, and I began complaining about the fact that I can’t seem to find contentment in my house no matter what.  I always see the things I want to change and I’m constantly striving to make our home more beautiful, more updated, more functional.  I want every single part of my home to be perfect, but I don’t have the budget to do everything I’d like to do, and even the things I can do can’t be done all at once.  So our refinished floors looked great for a few years while we saved up to renovate our bathroom, and now our master bath looks awesome but our hardwoods need to be ripped out and replaced.  I told my friend I couldn’t understand why God wasn’t providing the contentment I’d been asking him to provide.  I was being sarcastic . . . sort of. And she responded, in her always calm, sweet, and empathetic way, “I know, I know.  It’s a daily renewal, isn’t it?”

A daily renewal.

Daily.  As in . . . every day.

I pray for many things every day, but they usually have to do with the health, safety, and happiness of my family and friends.  Sure, I throw out frequent requests about my desire to feel content in my circumstances, but although I know God cares about my desires – hard to deny that when he gave his one and only son to have a relationship with me – I find it hard to believe he wants to hear about my wish to walk by the chipped travertine in our laundry room without cringing.

The thing is . . . God sees that chipped travertine too, and he knows it bothers me.  I’m guessing he could easily fix it in the middle of the night while I was sleeping and boy wouldn’t I be able to testify that GOD ANSWERS PRAYERS to all those other perfectionists in the world who get the Houzz.com weekly email update and save dozens of photographs to their idea book and who knows how many homeowners and contractors and interior decorators would come to Jesus after they heard my story?!?!?!

Of course, that’s not how God works.  He performs miracles every day . . . every second, in fact, if we just take a look around . . . but repairing tile flooring at 2 am is not likely on his list of miraculous to-dos.

You see, God doesn’t want me to ask Him for help with something that’s bothering me every once in a while.  He doesn’t want me to ask for forgiveness or patience or happiness or contentment or a stainless steel French door refrigerator when the mood strikes me.  God wants to me to come to him every single day for every single thing. 

Daily renewal.

What God wants most is to show us how much he loves us, to show us he is always by our sides, to show us his unrelenting care and concern for our lives.  And since he knew we were sinners and sending his son to die on a cross for our sins wouldn’t be enough to completely convince us of all those things, he designed us with a deep yearning to be in a constant relationship with him.  A relationship of daily renewal.

We can’t simply need God when we’re feeling low.  We can’t need him just when we get stuck or sick or find ourselves in the midst of suffering.  And it’s not enough to go to him only in thanksgiving.  We can’t call out to God simply to praise him for the blessings in our lives when they seem abundant.  

God wants ALL of us, ALL the time. 

He wants to hear from me when I’m low.  He wants to hear from me when I’m stuck or sick or suffering.  He wants to hear from me when all I can do is worship him for his glorious splendor and goodness and mercy and grace.  He even wants to hear from me when I’m asking him, AGAIN, for contentment in a home that doesn’t have the kitchen of my dreams.

When we go to God for daily renewal . . . when we let go of our pride and our busyness and our need to control . . . when we kneel before Him and fully surrender. . . that’s when we share with him our desire to let him work in our lives.  To change our hearts.  To transform us into the people we are meant to be.  People who choose peace and radiate joy.  People who serve others and create love.  

People who reflect Him.

Every day.

 

Romans 12:2

. . . be transformed by the renewing of your mind . . .

Windy City Love

I don’t travel well.  It’s not that I’m scared of flying or get carsick, although I am and I do.  It’s that my fear of . . . contamination, we’ll call it, makes it hard for me to enjoy a trip more than a few miles out of my greater Atlanta bubble.  I think airplanes are the most disgusting things on the planet, and are only equal in nasty dirty grossness to cabs, hotels, and public restrooms. And handrails on escalators.  And doorknobs.  And elevator buttons.  And . . . I should probably stop there.

The truth?  I love the idea of seeing the world.  I want to go to London and Paris and Australia and Northern Italy and Yellowstone National Park.  I’d just like to drive in my own car and stay in my own house when I get there.  My husband says there might be an RV in our future and I’ll admit . . . I kinda dig that idea.  London, Paris, Australia, and Northern Italy are out, but Yellowstone, here we come!

The thing about traveling is that it makes me hate myself.  I want so badly to enjoy it.  I want so desperately to overcome my OCD and rid myself of my irrational concerns and set foot on an airplane and in a taxi and in a hotel like a normal person, but I can’t . . . yet.

I am working on it.  I’ve gone back to my past to sort through what has caused my intense need to control every aspect of my surroundings, and it’s been a wildly intriguing process, as fascinating as it is disturbing.  But I have a long way to go, and so when my mother-in-law offered to take Libby and me to Chicago for a few days in honor of her upcoming eighth birthday, I took a deep breath, smiled, thanked her for such incredible generosity, and told her my daughter would be thrilled.  Then . . . I worried about the trip for weeks as we prepared to go.

I'm not completely distressed when I travel, but there is always an underlying current of anxiety limiting my ability to fully embrace the experience.  I find joy when I visit new places and discover all that makes them unique, but the joy comes with a hint of grief over what could be, if I was able to focus on the fun and not the foreign, if I could ignore my insatiable longing to be home. 

We stayed in my aunt-in-law’s beautiful new downtown condo in Chicago, so that helped.  Libby is older now, so that helped too.  She knows her mom is nuts and patiently uses the disinfectant wipes I doll out to her throughout the day without complaining.  She did, at what might go down as the lowest point in our relationship, ask when we could get in a cab again because, “Mama, they smell so good.” 

I was shocked, stunned, speechless . . . even slightly offended by such a preposterous declaration from a child who is supposed to have my blood running through her veins.

Our next cab ride cured my daughter's insanity within seconds.

We had a great trip.  Everything went smoothly and Libby relished in being on a girls’ excursion in which she was largely in charge of choosing the adventures.  We hit Lincoln Park Zoo, Navy Pier, Shedd Aquarium, and of course, our main event – we dined and shopped at the amazing American Girl Store on Michigan Avenue.  Libby had popsicles before lunch and ordered Sprite at dinner.  She had her doll’s ears pierced and went swimming in a rooftop pool overlooking the city.   It was a whirlwind forty-eight hours, and I believe we created some very special memories.  I’m sure Libby will remember dipping her toes into Lake Michigan, touching a stingray, riding the ferris wheel.  What I will remember most, however, took place after all the activities of day one had ended.

My daughter and I were lying in the bed we shared on the seventy-first floor, showered and clean and worn out, reading books before turning the lights out on our first day of travel.  My elbow ached from holding my book, so I stretched my arm over the expanse of bed between us.  Her little hand instantly covered mine, warm and soft and unexpected.  And in that moment, it didn’t matter that I hated myself.  It didn’t matter that while she was flitting about the city fulfilling her role as the center of attention, I was secretly counting down the hours until we returned home, to the one and only place I feel comfortable and safe and right.  It didn’t matter that I have OCD and I don’t travel well and I might never go to Paris and London and Italy.  In that moment . . . that precious, unforgettable moment . . . nothing else mattered.

She rubbed her fingers over mine, gently, reassuringly . . . as though she understood everything she never will about me . . . as if she realized how hard I worked to keep her unaware.  One day, she might look at me and past me and blame me and maybe even hate me because of the way my issues have caused her own.  One day, the space between us might be too wide to cross with the silence of an outstretched arm.  But on that day, in Chicago, my daughter reached for my hand across the bed, and covered it with grace.