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.  

Sign Me Up For Next Summer

There were years of my life when I looked forward to summer.  Decades, in fact.  I attended elementary school, middle school, high school, and college, and then taught kindergarten for seven years.  Summer?  Yes, please. 

Now, I have two children, and in the name of brutal honesty . . . summer isn’t what it used to be folks.

When my kids were in preschool, summer lasted almost half the year.  The kids got out of preschool in May and went back in September, and all those months in between - the ones where it’s too hot to go outside unless you’re within ten steps of a large body of water – well, they grew and stretched and became so daunting to fill that making it to nap time every day felt like a major life accomplishment.  The days were never ending and the hours spent in a constant re-creation of those that came previously.  I can distinctly remember staring down at a particular puzzle one steamy July day (a cute and very educational puzzle in fact), and wanting nothing more than to tear every piece of it into ten zillion shreds, each one representing the number of days left until I could drop both of my children off at the same place for three whole hours and do WHATEVER I WANTED.  We still have that puzzle.  I fully intend to put it together with my grandchildren one day.  And by one day, I mean ONE day.  Not every day, ten times a day, while the sun beats down and the temperatures rise and the preschool doors remain locked and bolted with a sign screaming “HA, now see what a good mom you are lady!”

Our family enjoyed some great summers in more recent years.  Ones I even called ‘relaxing.’  The kids were no longer preschoolers and had learned (on occasion) to do the one thing preschoolers won’t – entertain themselves.  Of course, that usually meant a lot of clean-up for mom, but hey, washing a dozen towels that were used to make a fort in the basement was a small price to pay for an entire sixty minutes of uninterrupted quiet. Charlie and Libby played well together, and the days didn’t drag on as they once had.  They could swim by themselves and read books in their rooms and watch educational television shows when it rained.  The three of us could do fun activities together – play board games and bake bread and hike through the woods in our backyard.  We could even tackle the everyday tasks of living - taking two children to run errands was no longer a chore – we could have interesting chats in the car and the kids were helpful at the grocery store.  We all enjoyed the down time summer provided.  My son and daughter found refuge in lazy mornings spent lounging in pajamas, and I found the absence of structure a lovely change from the busy pace of the school year.

This summer, however, we’ve turned a corner, and the road we’re currently meandering down . . . it has not a relaxing thing about it.  

There are many little reasons this summer will not rank up there with my favorites - I've been sick, Libby's been sick, we've had some extended family issues, we didn't go on vacation, our dryer had to be replaced, our undermount sink is falling out of the granite (????) -  but there are several big ones that have really had an impact.  The first . . . the ten year-old boy and the seven year-old girl I live with?  Yea, they don’t have much in common these days.  Charlie has clearly decided his masculinity can no longer tolerate playing baby dolls and Libby has zero interest in learning to catch a lacrosse ball.  There is a HUGE difference of opinion on what constitutes fun around here this summer, and it translates into lots of “Moooommmmmm, there’s nothing to doooooooooo.”  I came up with what seemed like a great solution - I had both kids make a list of all the fun things they could choose to do when they couldn’t find anything to do.  Y’all, they spent more time making their lists than they have doing ANYTHING on them.

The second reason our summer is creeping by has to do with the fact that my children no longer consider hanging with mom a desirable activity.  When I ask my kids to go to the grocery store, it’s as though I’ve asked to give them a hundred shots in sixty seconds.  Their arms flail and their faces contort and the sounds that come out of their mouths as they contemplate a forty-five minute excursion to buy food they will eat for the next few days is nothing short of hilarious.  At least it would be if I didn’t have to then force them into the car to make that forty-five minute round trip because, hey, food is kind of a necessity.  I don’t know what is going on at my local Publix, but apparently, the employees are finding a way to torture my children behind my cart as I stroll through the aisles. Not to mention the fact that any and all car rides have become my own form of torture, and since passing the time with mom is no longer a valid option for my kids, I have spent the majority of this summer carting them around to the many places they want to go.  I drive all over town while they sit in the back seat and tell me the music I listen to is awful, I drive too slow, and my car is boring.  Good times, my friends . . . good times.    

The third reason summer sorta sucks (sorry, I said there would be brutal honesty), can be summed up in one word that has never been discussed so much by Atlanta residents as it has in the last few months.  WEATHER.  I’m pretty sure it’s all my fault.  I got a puppy, and since then, it’s rained.  It’s rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and there are muddy paw prints all over my kitchen every day of every week and the backyard is like soup and the pool is always closed because of thunder and the fireworks on July 4^th had to be rescheduled for the first time in my entire life and for the love of all things hot and sunny WHEN IT IS EVER GOING TO STOP RAINING?????????????????

The fourth reason our summer has been a bust is also my fault.  My usually adept planning skills failed me this year.  My brain was not functioning properly as I prepared for the summer months, because I neglected to schedule even one day in which both my children would be occupied with activities that didn’t include me.  I wanted some one-on-one time with each child this summer.  “They’re just growing so fast,” I told my family and friends, “I don’t get enough time with them during the school year."  Yep.  I said that.  All my fault.  Both kids did attend camps in June.  They just never went at the same time.  NEVER.  One of my children has been with me almost every minute of the summer - talking, needing, begging at high decibels for me to fill his or her time with the most exciting activities ever created while avoiding any and all trips to the grocery store.  Trust me.  I will not let this happen again.  One-on-one time is overrated.

There is a final reason I’m not diggin’ the summer of 2013.  It is a device with a name.  The name starts with an ‘I’ and ends with a ‘Pad’ and I want to kill it.  I want to strangle it and mangle it and destroy it.  I literally daydream about running the thing down with my car – back and forth, over and over again like it’s a venomous five foot snake in the driveway threatening the existence of my offspring.

Parenting is hard, y’all.  My children are the greatest joys in my life, but they are also the greatest challenges.  They have brought more smiles than I will ever be able to count, but the tears they’ve brought are almost as plentiful.  There is only so much energy a mom has.  Only so much patience and enthusiasm and courage to do the right thing even when it’s not the easy thing.  And if there was ever an invention that has made parenting more difficult, it is the invention of the ‘I’ _____ (fill in the blank with whatever ‘I’ device your children constantly want to use no matter how many times you’ve told them no). 

Please don’t tell me about all the great educational games the IPad has to offer.  My kids don’t want to play those games.  They are old enough to know that math problems are not fun just because you can solve them on a touch screen.  And yes, I know all about the parental controls and firewalls you can set up on your ‘I’ devices - we’ve done that.  Our kids know our own rules as well, in case you were about to mention the idea of setting limits.  Basically, they’re only allowed to use the IPad to play useless games that interfere with quality family time and promote the need for instant gratification.  We don’t allow Charlie and Libby to use the IPad without asking or to take it to their rooms.  We don’t allow them to do searches of any kind or peruse UTube.  We don’t allow them to text their grandparents or cousins without permission, or have email or Instagram accounts.  They aren’t allowed to download games or music without talking to us about it first. 

But here's the thing . . . it doesn’t matter how many parameters we set or how diligent we are in monitoring our children, our attempt to control their exposure will never take away the fact that when you hand your child a machine that provides them with access to the entire world, you can never fully relax when they are holding it.  And you can count on their desire to hold it as often as possible.    

Well.  There you have it, friends.  The doom and gloom of my summer just came crashing down all over your lemonade stand.  Please forgive me.

Next year, summer will be different.  Next year, I will lower my expectations when it comes to sibling rivalry.  Next year, I will plan camps that coincide.  Next year, I will vacation in Seattle for the sunny weather, do all my grocery shopping on weekends, and secretly tamper with all ‘I’ chargers so the IPad hovers at 0% power.  Next year, summer will be absolutely amazing, and one month from now, when the alarm has to be set every morning, the homework has to be completed every night, and I miss my kids terribly because they are gone every day, I’ll be counting down the months until summer 2014 arrives. 

Until then, I'm going to rest on this verse from James 1: 

Consider it pure joy, brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know the testing of your faith produces perseverance.

 I look forward to having perseverance, Lord.  Thank you for testing my faith this summer.  Thank you for allowing me to be home with my children even when I'd rather be anywhere else.  Thank you for the life-giving rain.  Thank you for the incredible blessings of an automobile to get us where we want to go and the financial ability to purchase food.  Thank you, Lord for providing trials that might one day make me more like You.  I love you.

P.S.  If you could make all 'I' devices all over the planet simultaneously disintegrate today, that would be fabulous.:)  Amen.

Happy Independence Day

Freedom. 

It’s a word filled with meaning in a world with too little of what it means. It’s a word that conjures images of eagles soaring, soldiers standing at attention, the stars and stripes blowing in the breeze.  In America, ‘freedom’ is a word we claim to understand, actively acknowledge, and openly celebrate.  And yet, the freedom we enjoy, and so easily take for granted, is not true freedom.

The freedom we experience in the United States is awesome and grand and splendid and humbling.  It’s an honor and a privilege and has forever depended on the sacrifice of hundreds of thousands of men and women.  It springs from the undeniable bravery of human beings we will never meet wielding weapons we will never see.  And I am grateful.  I am grateful we can choose our spouses and our jobs and our homes and our lives.  I’m grateful we can say what we feel, vote for the leaders we deem worthy, decide what is best for our families, worship in safety.  I am grateful for the mother who leaves her young children to fight for me on the other side of the world.  I am grateful for the young man who leaves his parents and his college and his easy opportunities to battle with a nation who hates everything I love.  I am grateful for those who volunteer to labor in frightening, faraway lands so I may wake up each morning to peace.  I am grateful.

And yet, this freedom . . . it is not true freedom.  True freedom doesn’t come from the power and might and resolve and courage of a thousand armies of men willing to give up their lives in the name of patriotism and protection.  True freedom comes only from the One who gave up His life in my name, and in yours.

Thank you to those men and women, past and present, who provide me with the blessing of freedom on earth today.

And thank you, Jesus, for dying on the cross so I could be free forever.

My chains are gone,

I've been set free,

My God, my Savior,

Has ransomed me,

And like a flood,

His mercy reigns,

Unending love,

Amazing grace.

 

Happy 4th of July!!!

 

 

 

 

Off to Camp

It certainly wasn’t his typical stomping grounds.  In fact, it wasn’t typical stomping grounds for any of the over-privileged children that fill my life, and his.  Like most of the mothers I know, I’m doing my best to help my son understand just how blessed we are, but that doesn’t make him any less over-privileged.  The wealth of suburban America surrounds the child in every direction – at the private school he attends, in his upper middle class neighborhood where all the kitchens have been updated and every two-car garage is filled to capacity, at the country club where he sits in a chair beside an Olympic sized pool and complains because there isn’t anyone to play with.  The majority of Charlie’s life experiences have taken place among well-manicured lawns and people with full bellies and fuller pocketbooks.  This is neither responsible nor right, but it is reality.  So, as I said, this wasn’t his typical stomping grounds.

There was more dirt than grass, and weeds . . . lots of them.  There was a faded tennis court with a rusty fence.  There was a lake with leaves littering its surface.  There were cracked sidewalks, worn out buildings, and a dining hall in serious need of a paint job.  And in his cabin, the one with the bathroom that hadn’t seen a can of Lysol in months and the mattresses that might actually have been purchased before my own mother was born, there was a hole at least the size of a small raccoon in the window (aka screen).

This was camp.  And I was leaving him there for a week.

Letting go isn’t one of my strengths.  People with OCD like to have control of everything, especially our children.  I realize I’m losing control at a rapid pace as my son ages, and honestly, I’ve never really had the control I deem so vital in our parent-child relationship.  It’s been an illusion from the start and continues to fade with every act of independence he takes.  Still, Charlie is over ten years old and I’ve never spent an entire week away from him.  And while I understand it’s not a loss of control that makes each day he’s gone feel so bizarre, the not knowing is still wreaking havoc on my heart.   Seven days of not knowing what he’s doing or eating or saying.  Seven days of not knowing what time he went to sleep and woke up, whether he was polite to adults, if he wore sunscreen, washed his hands, brushed his teeth. 

He didn’t look back when we left him.  I did, over and over, wishing I could hear what he was saying to his friend as they walked towards cabin number six.  There was no reason for him to turn around.  We had said our good-byes, given our hugs, declared our love, offered our reminders.

He was ready, excited.  He was the one who had initiated this life event after all, two years in the making since the first time he asked to attend sleep away camp.  I declined then, immediately, silently making ridiculous promises to God if he would just make sure my child never asked to leave again.  God denied my request.  He knew I could never keep the promises.  He also knew that even if I could, it wasn’t what he wanted for me anyway.  What he wanted was to provide a lesson in letting go. 

There have been many such lessons along the way.  There will be many more ahead.  They are the hardest lessons I’ve ever had to learn.

He didn’t look back when we left him.  He smiled and gestured, not the least bit disillusioned by the weeds, the cracks, the holes.  I held back tears as the space between us grew, have every day since, especially at night, when the house feels all wrong because one family member is missing from under its roof.

He will walk away again.  He is much better at this letting go thing than I am, and while it pricks my heart with the knowledge that his leaving has forever been inevitable, I am thankful.  Because although it’s a difficult prayer to lift up to the only One who is in control, I know it’s the right prayer for a mother . . . and I will continue to say it every time my child leaves.

May the Lord be with you as you go, my sweet son.  May you go with a smile.  May you go with a friend.  And may you go with complete certainty that the path you are on is the right one, so that you never, ever have to look back.
 

Happy Mother's Day

It’s only been ten years since I became a mother, but in that most significant decade of my life – the one where every word and deed became about someone else – in that most demanding and magnificent and beautiful decade of my life, what I’ve learned is that motherhood is often about loss. 

You lose your body first.  It begins to feel all wrong and look completely different and defy everything you once believed about what it must mean to carry another human being inside of you.  You shop for maternity clothes and feel the flutters and you can’t imagine ever being happier, while deep within, things are changing that can never be reversed.  The miracle of life, of God creating a son or daughter who bears His very image, has taken over.  Your body has done just what God meant it to, and it will never be the same.

A pregnancy goes by and then, that very image of God, that precious son or daughter arrives in a rush of fear and pain and exhaustion and the most complete wonder and jubilation you’ve ever known.  And the loss continues.  He opens his eyes just for a moment and looks so intently into yours that you’re certain he sees all the way to your soul.  His tiny hand wraps around your finger and his lips meet your skin and your heart is lost forever.  It enters him and becomes him and you know without a doubt that it will never again beat without the knowledge that all is okay with him. 

Within days, your body and heart now wholly given over, you lose the rest of yourself.  You were once a daughter, a teacher, a wife, a friend.  Now, the days and nights run together with the relentless responsibilities and you don’t think you’ll ever be anything again except his mother.  The one who feeds him.  The one who holds him and rocks him and can’t stop staring at his precious, perfect face.  The one who gives up everything else to pour herself into the helpless image of God who never stops needing.

Days become weeks, and in the middle of a dark, endless night you realize not only have you lost yourself, you’ve lost your husband.  Not completely and not forever.  You simply understand there is another source of his adoration and his cup runs over with the joy of it, and you’re glad for that.  You’re grateful he has accepted the call of fatherhood with such enthusiasm.  Yet, you know a part of your husband now belongs to his son, and while you’re glad for that, you feel the loss, and it stings.

The loss doesn’t end there.  You lose sleep worrying about him.  You lose energy trying to keep up with him.  You lose confidence trying to understand him.  You lose patience trying to teach him.  You lose your faith when he’s sad or hurt or flailing in all his imperfections.  You lose your pride as you watch your own mistakes pile up so high you can’t see through them.  You lose your mind trying to make all his dreams come true.

The losses pile up one after the next as the weeks become months and years and all you can think about is how you keep losing time with him and conversations with him and opportunities to influence him and . . . him.

He’s meant to go. 

I’m meant to let him. 

There is so much delight and pleasure and enjoyment in the blessing of motherhood.  His voice, his smile, his laugh, the way he breaths when he’s sleeping.  The elation motherhood brings comes suddenly, and frequently, filling me with so much joy it’s hard to contain.  The happiness I receive from being a mother has existed as the focus of parenting from the very beginning, and I imagine it always will.  Still . . . underneath that constant joy, the loss remains.  

Motherhood is often about loss.  

Motherhood is mostly . . . about love.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there – may the love of watching them grow always overshadow the loss of watching them go.

I’ve been feeding people lately.  Lots of people.  They were good people I was feeding, no doubt.  Artists and volunteers working together to provide beautiful things for a privileged community.  I fed approximately 150 people for breakfast, lunch, and heavy snacks for three days straight.  Oh, I had tons of help.  In fact, I didn’t have to cook or bake a thing myself – it was all done by a mass of amazing volunteers who showed up with the items I requested at regular intervals, and then assisted me in distributing those items.  I am beyond grateful for their support.  I'm also tired, sore, sick at the idea of setting foot anywhere near a grocery store, and, quite honestly, a bit disgusted with myself.  

Because here’s what happens when a mind is trying to lean into God, and that’s what I’m doing, right?  That’s what I want to do.  I want to become more like my creator, which means I should think like him and act like him and want with everything I am to serve like him.  And so, when I’m feeding hundreds of people a day, and watching them enjoy the delicious coffee and salads and breads and appetizers and desserts and . . . the list goes on and on and is filled with all those yummy things you crave when trying to lose a few pounds . . . when I’m feeding all those people all those things, I can’t help but think of the people I’m not feeding.  The ones who don’t need to lose a few pounds.  The ones who haven’t eaten in days, whose bellies are round and swollen from malnutrition, whose legs are deformed from a lack of the minerals and vitamins essential for human existence.

The ones who need me to feed them.    

The Bible defines injustice as the abuse of power – when a stronger person abuses his or her power by taking from a weaker person what God alone has given the weaker person (life, liberty, dignity, fruits from love and labor).  That's easy to understand.  Of course, the Bible is even clearer on how we should be responding to injustice.  God calls us to love those who suffer injustice (Hebrews 13:3).  He commands us to “seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”   

I recently read a book by Gary Haugen called Just Courage. Haugen claims that at the center of almost all suffering in the world is the problem of violence.  We can provide food, shelter, schools, and medicine to people who are hungry, homeless, uneducated, and sick, but those things won’t meet the needs created by the root cause of all their problems – violence.  Someone has violently taken their businesses, their homes, their freedom, their dignity, their livelihood.  Someone has been purposely unjust, and those suffering from the injustice don't need our charity.  It's wonderful to provide them with a meal or a pair of shoes, but we will not permanently change their lives unless we assist them in providing those things for themselves.  What they need is for the violence being committed against them to stop.  They need justice to be served. 

We’ve all heard that saying, “One doesn’t believe something by saying it is true or even by really believing it is true.  One believes something when they act as if it is true.” 

Why do I fail to act on what I claim is true?  I announce to the world what I believe, and then behave differently.  I want to follow Jesus.  I want my life to mean something, to make a difference in this broken world.  Yet, most of the time, I live as if I'm scared of where Jesus might lead me to actually make that difference.  Or I convince myself there is simply too much injustice in the world, that I can’t possibly make a dent in it, so why bother?  I use my fears and inadequacies to stop me dead in my tracks. 

Nothing stopped Jesus.

He did just what God sent him to do.  He paid the price for me, for us.  But make no mistake friends.  There is still a price to pay.  We are not being honest with people if we don’t make sure they understand there is a price to pay for following Christ.  Because there are battles left to fight - against hunger, against suffering, against evil, against sin, against injustice.  I can’t sit back and rest in the joy that comes from knowing I’ve been rescued.  I must now become a rescuer of others.       

Facing injustice is scary.  It’s overwhelming.  I don’t want to see the hunger and the poverty.  I don't want to see the swollen bellies.  I don’t want to see the deformed limbs.  I don’t want to see the sex trafficking and the slavery and the brutality inflicted on men and women and children.  But He has asked me to. 

Edmund Burke said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men and women to do nothing."

Lord, help me lean into you, hold onto you, trust unto you.

Lord, don’t let me be a good woman who does nothing.