What a mess.

I’m not talking about my kitchen.  Or my bathroom, or my closet, or even my junk drawer.  If you know anything about me, you know there are rarely any messes in my house.  My junk drawer has dividers and I know exactly what’s in each section.

I do need to brag a bit here, however, and tell you what currently remains intact in my son’s bedroom several days post-construction.  Let’s just say it involves quite a few sets of sheets, a dozen towels, and an entire roll of blue painting tape.  It isn’t the most structurally sound fort, but it takes up at least half of Charlie’s humble abode.  I’ll also let you know the other half of the room is taken up by legos, which are scattered all over the floor in no apparent pattern or organizational method whatsoever.  Clearly, my hundred dollar an hour therapy is working for me.

Unfortunately, the mess I’m talking about has nothing to do with forts.  It has nothing to do with dust or dirt or dishes in the sink or thousands of legos spread out on carpet I’d really like to vacuum. 
The mess I’m talking about is in my mind.  It’s in my heart.  It’s in my life.

I’m a mess.  I’m broken.  I’m damaged.  I’m flawed.  I’m a sinner.  I make lots and lots and lots and lots and lots - I’ll stop there but I could go on until 2064 – of mistakes.

I am a mess.

The truth? 

So are you.

Are your eyes widening in shock as you prepare to defend yourself until your death because, so help you, no idiot middle-aged stay at home mother who’s never done anything very important is going to tell you about your cleanliness?  If so, stop reading.  This post isn’t for you.

On the other hand, if you’ve read the book of Genesis, and you know a little something about the whole apple in the garden ordeal that separated mankind from God and means WE ARE ALL BROKEN, at least until Jesus returns, takes the fruit from that tree of knowledge of good and evil, and makes the most delicious apple pie we’ve ever tasted from it, forge ahead with me into my mess . . . and yours.  Because it’s there.  I assure you.  The Bible says so.

In a nutshell, the first three chapters of Genesis go something like this:  God made the world and everything in it, and it was all totally awesome.  He made a man in his image – his name was Adam - but the man couldn’t remember to pick up his clothes from the dry cleaners on time, so God made a woman from the man – her name was Eve - to be Adam’s helper.  Adam and Eve were living the good life.  They were living in this gorgeous slice of paradise called the Garden of Eden, which I imagine looked a lot like Maui a few centuries ago.  They spent their time running around unashamed, even though they were naked, enjoying all of the interesting and beautiful things God created, while also being in direct contact with the creator.  If you look up the definition of ‘Eden’ in the dictionary, it says Eden is a state of bliss, a delightful place, ultimate happiness. 

Kinda makes you want to visit, huh? 

So, Adam and Eve had it all.  Their lives were perfection.  Until . . . that nasty old snake showed up.  You see, when Eve got finished doing all those things she had to do as man’s helper, you know, cleaning toilets and folding laundry and making dentist appointments, she was hungry.  And I’ll be darned if that sneaky reptile didn’t convince Eve that the only thing she wanted to eat was a piece of fruit from the one tree in the entire garden that God said she couldn’t eat from.  Sure enough, she ate the apple.  Don’t you think Eve and Snow White would have been really good friends? 

The story goes on to tell us how Eve then convinced Adam to take a bite from the same apple.  Sucker.  But folks, the part you really need to understand is that when Eve chose to believe the lies of the snake (AKA Satan), and sink her perfect teeth into that forbidden fruit, we were all doomed. 

Damn her. 

In Genesis 3:14 God says, in response to what Adam and Eve had done, “Cursed are you . . .”   

I know.  It’s harsh.  God goes on to announce all the things that will now be wrong with our lives because of Adam and Eve's bad decision – fights between husbands and wives over how much a pair of shoes should cost, labor pains that feel like a steel cable being squeezed as tightly as possible around one’s stomach, ungrateful children who sneak out of the house at two in the morning to drink beer with their buddies, and on and on and on.

It’s really quite simple, if you think about it.  The story of the fall means we are fallen.  Adam and Eve ate the granny smith and we are a mess because of it.  We.  As in, ALL of us.

Now, I’m not going to get into the whole reason for the fall of mankind, but you really should learn about it if you haven’t already.  It involves this unbelievably cool dude named Jesus who comes to save mankind from their sin, and it’s like, the most incredible story you’ll ever hear.  It’s lengthy, no doubt.  Basically, you have to read the whole Bible to hear the whole story, but I guarantee, it’s worth every second it takes to read.  Mainly because the many seconds and minutes and hours it takes to read is nothing compared to what it’s about, which is eternity.

Still, we aren’t going there today.  Today, we’re sticking with our mess.

You see, what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is . . . we need to be more comfortable with the mess in our life.  We need to be more open about it.  The mess is there.  It’s all around us, all the time.  And it’s dirty.  It’s ugly.  It makes us want to run and hide and pretend we don’t see it. 

We can probably clean up some of the mess.  It might take a great deal of work, serious amounts of prayer, and, if your mess is as big as mine, thousands of dollars worth of chatting with a trained professional.   I believe it is possible for us to make our lives less messy by changing our hearts and minds and actions.  But I don’t think we can clean up all of our mess.  Some of it we just need to accept as who we are.  We need to be comfortable with our mess, because it’s been there all along, in some form or fashion.

Maybe your mess involves addiction.  Maybe it’s about abuse.  Maybe your mess entails an eating disorder or a mental illness or an inability to keep commitments.  Maybe it has to do with overspending or anger management or maybe you’re having a torrid affair with your boss.  

My mess looks like an otherwise healthy wife and mother of two who longs to be counting her blessings instead of struggling with perfectionism, body image issues, insecurity, obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and severe anxiety.   Like I said, it’s dirty.  It’s ugly.  It makes me want to run and hide and pretend I don’t see it.  Most of all, it makes me want to run and hide and pretend no one else can see it. 

I'm not giving in to my mess.  I’m on a quest to clean up the mess in my life every single day . . . for my husband, for my children, for myself.  I think I’m making some progress, but I imagine my quest will be a long one.  In fact, it might be a lifelong one.

In the meantime, I’m learning to share my mess with others because, really, why wouldn’t I?  We’ve already determined I’m not the only person with a mess here.  If I refuse to share my mess with the people I love, I’m shutting them out.  And it works both ways.  If the people I love refuse to share their messes with me, in my opinion, they are rejecting me.  They are proclaiming cleanliness that doesn’t exist, and I don’t want to be a part of that.  I want to surround myself with people who are real, who are honest, who are authentic.  I want to spend my time with people who will go out to dinner with me, and over a glass of wine, tell me how badly they screwed up that day, and the day before that, and maybe even the day before that.  We can get around to counting our blessings too, after the second glass of wine perhaps, because in the end, no matter how big the messes in our lives are, there are always blessings to be found among the rubble. 

I guess what I’m truly after is a life filled with people who are willing to dive into the rubble . . . a life filled with people who aren't afraid to show me their rubble . . . a life filled with people who see my rubble, yet choose to walk inside of it with me, take my hand, pray with me, and help me sort through the mess to find the blessings we both know are there.

I respect most of the fathers I know for many different reasons. 

Some are excellent providers for their families.  They work long hours and often travel to gain financial freedoms that allow them to expose their children to wonderful experiences. 

Some are positive examples for their children because of their high moral standards.  They regularly exhibit the characters they hope to see their children display in the future. 

Some do a fabulous job of demonstrating the value of hard work.  They proudly take care of their homes, their yards, their bodies. 

Some have a teaching spirit, and strive to pass along important knowledge and skills.  They give up precious hours of time to help three year olds learn to kick a soccer ball down a field without tripping over it.

And some fathers have abs like Matthew McConaughy, so good for them.  They’re doing their part to keep their wives happy.  (I really do know a dad like that.  I almost ran off the road one day because as I was driving down the street, he happened to be running down the same street with his shirt off.  Hyperventilating while driving is dangerous my friends.) 

I admire such fathers a great deal.  They love their families and they’re doing the things they must do in order to be the best husbands and fathers they can be. 

My husband is sufficient in all those areas himself.  Well . . . maybe not the part about the abs, but the other things. 

He works hard to be successful in his career and provide for our family.  His actions show he is an honest and decent human being.  He treats all people, including his wife, with enormous respect and unconditional love.  He has even coached tee-ball and basketball teams for kids who could barely catch a ball, much less field a grounder and throw it to a first baseman digging in the dirt for worms.

I’m incredibly fortunate my husband is willing to make the effort and sacrifices necessary to be a good father.  Still, it’s not what he does each day to help our family that inspires me.

It’s his attitude. 

My husband has the ability to remain completely present in his role as a daddy.  He enjoys every moment he spends with our children.  He neglects his own needs to be with them, and the crazy part is, he doesn’t do it because he feels he has to.  He doesn’t do it so he can proclaim he’s making every effort in his power to succeed as a father.  He devotes his entire heart and soul to our family because there is nothing in the world he would rather do. 

Fatherhood never seems to be synonymous with duty to my husband.  When he is playing with our kids, he doesn’t think about the other things he could or should be doing.  He remains invested in the act of each particular moment.  He isn’t worried about what to make for dinner.  He isn’t thinking about a meeting he has the following day.  He isn’t wondering whether he remembered to close the garage door.  He is smiling and laughing and having the time of his life.  He places all his energy and enthusiasm into the enjoyment of his children, without letting life creep in to steal his focus.

I want so desperately to be able to live in the now the way my husband does.  Many days, when I’m engaged with my children, I’m not relishing in it as I should.   I'm physically there.  I'm listening to my children and speaking to them.  I'm answering questions and helping with homework and chatting about plans for the weekend.  But I'm not fully present.  Part of me is worrying about the emails I need to answer.  Another part is making a mental grocery list.  I'm thinking about the past or the future or anything but how precious the gift is that I'm receiving at that very moment . . . to be among the two people I love more than life itself. 

Some nights, when my son asks me to lie in bed with him for “just one more minute,” I decide the five minutes I’ve already spent with him is enough.  I tell him I have work to do downstairs.  I leave my precious boy, all snuggled up in his jammies under the warm covers, and I go downstairs so I can transfer wet clothes from the washing machine to the dryer.  

The tears fall in regret and all I can think is, God . . . forgive me. 

I love my children. I love them with that relentless love only a parent can understand.  I see stars in their eyes and perfection in their bones and magic in their futures.  Sometimes, it's as though the only emotion I can feel is the incredible love I have for my children.  It consumes every other thought or feeling I've ever known and becomes my sole intent for living.  When my children are away from me, I feel as though I can’t function, because my body is no longer mine, but a willing puppet dancing to the songs playing in their hearts.  Sometimes, I look at Charlie and Libby, and everything in the world is just as it's supposed to be.  There is nothing except amazement and joy and gratitude, and my soul swells to the point that I can actually feel it throbbing with passion.

There is only one other person who understands the depth of love I feel for my children.  He understands it because he feels it too.  Because he knows the immeasurable pain that comes when one of them is hurting.  Because when they are filled with happiness, so is he.  Because he can't look at their baby pictures without crying.  Because their giggles are the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.  Becasue they are growing too fast and his heart aches as he feels time slipping away. 

Yes, there is only one other person who understands how much I love my children.  He is my husband.  He is their father.  He is the greatest daddy I've ever met. 

And night after night, he will lie in bed with our son until he falls asleep.  No matter how long it takes.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!

A dear friend of mine (she will be known in this post as 'L') recently sent me the following email.  It's a recount of a conversation she had with her four year old son (he will be known as 'B'). And yes, I realize I need a little help with my code names - they are entirely lacking in creativity. Nevertheless, please read the following transaction of words between mother L and son B . . .

B: Mommy, there’s someone that I’m getting in love with.

L: Really, who?

B: Ummm… a girl. She has yellow hair.

L: Does she go to your school?

B: No

L: Did you meet her at Sunday School yesterday?

B: No

L: Hmmm… how do you know her?

B: I don’t know, I just do.

L: Well, does this girl your “getting in love with” have a name?

B: Yes…. Libby.

After reading this email, I laughed so hard I almost cried. Then, I really did cry.

What a tangle of emotions swirled through my mind as I thought about a boy loving my only daughter. I think my initial reaction was, quite honestly, pride. I want my children to be loved by others and I'm proud when others find them lovable. Especially when those others are non-family members who have absolutely no requirement to love them. Hey, let's face it, even their biological mother (aka ME) can occasionally have trouble finding the lovableness in Charlie and Libby. They're cute and all, but there are days when my daughter walks out the door in the morning and all I want to do is flip her off behind her back. That doesn't sound a whole lot like love if you ask me, but it's hard to find someone lovable after they've complained about every single thing you've done and said and toasted and buttered and sliced and poured and brushed and zipped and tied for them since the moment they woke up.

Damn.  My conscience is screaming at me.  I had all kinds of great ideas for this post piroetting around in my head and now I've been staring at the screen for fifteen minutes while my brain fires blanks.  It looks like I can't go on until I confess, so here goes.

I really did flip Libby off one morning when she walked out the door to go to school. 

Your mouth just dropped to the floor, didn't it?  I knew that would happen.

It's not nearly as bad as it sounds.  I mean, she didn't actually see my finger fly into the air in all it's erect glory.  As far as she knows, her mother only gave her a hug and a kiss and a big, smiley "Have a great day and be your best self and I love you, honey!" when she walked out the door that morning.  My middle finger remained firmly in it's most polite place until the door to the garage was properly shut and there was absolutely no way my daughter (nor her brother or father) could see the obsene gesture I was rudely sending her way.

In my defense, I have yet to forgive myself for doing it.  Still, I can't promise I won't do it again. Because, like all people, my kids aren't always very loveable.

I suppose I haven't actually hit the phase of life when my children have become aware of their need for love from others.  Of course, they've always known love, so why would they have any understanding of the stops we will pull out to make others love us.  And we really will pull out some serious stops, won't we?  We will go to great extremes for love.  We will do and say and plan and buy things we have no business doing or saying or planning or buying simply to win the affections of someone we deem important. 

I remember my first crush in intense detail.  He was older and adorable and a football player with a convertible and . . . he wasn't interested.  He had no desire to take advantage of my longing to make him love me.  At the time, his rejection felt like the precursor to the world ending.  Twenty-two years later, I'm grateful that boy didn't want to love me.  In fact, I shudder to think what I might have been willing to do to retain his love had he chosen to give it to me.

It won't be long before my daughter wants to earn someone's love.  And I'm not merely thinking about  Libby starting high school one day and deciding the junior wide receiver with the bulging biceps and the cool car makes her tummy tingle.  I imagine my daughter will discover her desire for love long before she discovers boys.  Humans, and especially girls, have an inherent need to belong, and I have no doubt there will be another female in Libby's life in the coming years who will have the ability to make my daughter change the way she looks, talks, and acts, all for the sake of acceptance. 

I also realize there will be a day when someone's refusal to love her breaks my daughter's heart.  L's  little boy thinks Libby is beautiful.  He thinks he loves her, and in the way only a five-year-old can, he probably does.  But one day, there will be a boy who doesn't.  One terrible, horrible, awful day, there will be a boy who isn't interested in loving Libby, and my daughter will struggle through a season of life when she feels as though everything about the world is wrong, that she's wrong. 

Surprisingly, it isn't the thought of my daughter suffering a broken heart that makes my eyes fill with hot, heavy tears.  It's the thought of Libby with a full heart.  It's the thought of her with a heart so swollen in adoration it must act; it simply can't go another day without making a public declaration for all to see.  Because further down this road of mothering, after the clicks and the crushes and the unrequited love have made scars on my daughter's soul that will never fully fade, another kind of love will enter her life. A colossal kind of love.  A love that feels right and true and unbreakable.  A love that makes Libby's confidence soar and her body sing and her world spin into an oblivion of happiness.  And when that time comes, my only daughter will make one of the most monumental decisions of her life, and of mine.  She will choose to leave our family and create her own.

The tears fall freely as I think of that day. The day our daughter walks out of our arms and into his. It seems so far into the future, but as my first nine years as a mother have proven, time flies when you're having fun (and as a parent, even when you're not).  Libby will walk down an aisle in the blink of an eye, and while I want that for her, if she wants it for herself of course, I can't imagine what it must feel like to witness your child love like that.  And I think what scares me most is the idea that in order for my daughter to love someone in such an enormous way, and to do it well, she must first love herself.  I have to teach Libby to love herself.

What an immense responsibility.  So huge and daunting, it takes my breath away. 

How do I help my daughter see there is more to her than her outward appearance?  How do I make her realize she is not merely a sum of knowledge and skills?  How do I convince her to understand her worth as a human being can never come from accomplishments and assets?

I suppose there is really just one answer.  I have to teach Libby the truth. I have to instill in her the belief that she is wonderfully and fearfully made by a creator whose love for her is immeasureable and unending. I have to teach my daughter that although she will never be perfect, she was made by a perfect God, and she will always be his.  When other girls leave her out of their games and she's standing alone on the playground without a friend in sight, God loves her.  When the cute boy with the cool car asks someone else to prom, God loves her.  When she looks in the mirror and sees only flaws, God loves her.

The only way Libby can learn how to love herself and love others, is to know what true love is. I simply have to point my daughter towards the one and only author of true love. And while I do it, I have to remember one very important thing . . . God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only son.  He would not condone flipping anybody off. 




  

The words came out of his mouth and the tears instantly sprung to my eyes, blurring my vision and making my throat feel as though it was inhabited by a softball.  I clenched the steering wheel and blinked several times, attempting to focus on the road rising in front of me, which suddenly seemed very long and very dark.  I tried to think of something, anything to say that would sound right, that would make sense, that would force him to understand.  Nothing came to mind.   

“Mom, you talk about the Bible too much.”

His words didn’t have a harsh tone, and yet, they inflicted a pain I can’t possibly describe.  It wasn’t physical pain, exactly.  It wasn’t as if I’d been punched in the stomach and knocked to the ground and stomped on repeatedly.  It hurt within.  It ached in a place so deep I didn’t know it existed.  It was as if my soul was trembling. 

What if . . .?

What if my prayers don’t work?

What if he goes another way?

What if he makes a different decision; moves in the opposite direction? 

Despite everything I think I’m doing to lead him down the path I believe to be the right one . . . the only one . . . what if my son doesn’t choose God?

It could happen.  It’s happened before.  I imagine it happens every day, in almost every nation on earth.  A mother teaches her child the truth.  She reads the truth and speaks the truth and models the truth in the best ways she can.  And yet, her child doesn’t believe it.  He questions.  He doubts.  He strays and wonders and ends up so far from the truth it seems he’ll never be able to find his way back. 

I will love him forever.  I will love him no matter what.  I’ve told him that many times and I mean it.  I mean every word, every time I say it.  He is my son and I will always love him. 

I want him to choose God.  There will be a cavernous hole in my heart if he doesn’t.  But in the end, the decision is his.  He gets to decide what he believes and I have to accept him regardless of the decision he makes.  Strange isn’t it?  How one person’s choice can have such profound meaning in another person’s life. 

What if my son doesn’t choose God?

I guess the answer is really quite simple.

I will love him forever.  I will love him no matter what.  I will always love him.

And I will never stop praying he changes his mind.    

For I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. (Isaiah 41:13)

I’m fairly certain I could learn something new about the Bible at least once every five minutes.  I mean, the Bible is chocked full of interesting stories, many of which are not only interesting but probably happened at least once on Days of Our Lives.  Seriously, what’s not to learn from Leah, whose father, Laban, convinced her to pretend to be her more attractive sister, Rachel, and sleep with Jacob so he could force ole’ Jake into working for him for another seven years.  There have to be some serious lessons in that particular tale, no matter what soap opera your life looks like. 

Yes, I’m sure I could learn something new about the Bible every single day of my life.  The problem, of course, is that accomplishing this task would require reading the Bible every single day of my life, and as much as I want to be a person who does that . . . I’m not.  I think about reading the Bible every day.  I talk about reading it.  I even make pledges to myself to read it.  And then, life happens.  The bed needs to be made and the counters need to be cleaned and the floor needs to be vacuumed and the toilets need to be scrubbed and, oh yeah, there are a husband and children who need to be helped and fed and disciplined and adored. 

Nope, I don’t read the Bible every day.  Perhaps that’s why I get so excited when I learn something new about it, especially something as totally and completely cool as what I learned this week.

Do you know how many times the Bible mentions something about not being afraid?  I know, you’re thinking this is a trick question, aren’t you?  I get that.  You’re thinking the answer must be some astronomical number that will blow your mind because how in the world can any book be so repetitive.  Strangely, the answer is perfectly simple.  In fact, it’s simply perfect.  Oh, and yes, in my opinion, it’s also mind blowing. 

So, exactly how many times does the Bible mention something about not being afraid?

365 times.

Ahhhhh.  Are you swooning?  Are your eyes filling with tears?  Are you crossing your hands over your heart and looking up in amazement as you realize there are no coincidences? 

Three-hundred and sixty-five times.  Isn’t that utterly amazing?  Isn’t it incredible and fabulous and precious and marvelous and extraordinary and so . . . Him.

How can we possibly think God is not in the details of our lives?  He has said, in various ways, through all kinds of people, that we have no reason to fear anything if we have Him.  And He’s said it the exact number of times we need to hear it.  Once each day, for every day, of every year, for all of time. 

I’m afraid.  I’m afraid a lot.  I’m afraid my kids will get sick or hurt or kidnapped.  I’m afraid my husband will lose his job or his faith or his mind.  I’m afraid I’ll die young or die alone or die without having made a real impact on anyone or anything.  I’m afraid every day.  And I don’t have to be.  I have all the reassurance I need from the One who is in control.  I have His promise once each day, for every day, of every year, for all of time.   

365.

How cool is that?

It was the most precious, perfect word I’d ever heard.  A word I dreamt of hearing for so long . . . since childhood really, when I watched and learned and knew . . . I want that.  I want to hold and cherish and  teach and adore. I want to mold and train and carry and cuddle. 

It wasn’t his first word.  It won’t be his last.  And he’s said it more times than I could possibly count in the last nine years. 

But at that moment, when he looked up at me with those chubby little cheeks and those pale blue eyes and those full, pink lips, and he said the word I’d been longing to hear for days and weeks and months and a lifetime . . .

It was my dream come true.  It was an answered prayer.  It was the fulfillment of a desire so deep I couldn’t remember when it first became the hope of my soul.  It was the most precious, perfect word I’d ever heard. 

“Mama?”

Yes.  Yes, son.  I am your mama. 

It is the most important title I will ever have, the most difficult job I will ever perform, the most terrifying, exhilarating, heart-wrenching experience I will ever know.  And next to Christ, it is the single greatest gift He’s ever given me.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas!!!

Romans 13:8   Owe no one anything, except to love each other, for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.

Dogs are the most interesting little creatures.  Macie has been with our family for almost five months now and honestly, it’s been the longest five months of my life.  Nothing can compare to adjusting to life with a puppy.  Many people say having a puppy is similar to having a newborn, and while that makes sense from a poop cleaning perspective, I must say, after five months of poop cleaning with my newborns, I was still madly in love with them.  After five months with Macie, I’m pretty sure dog people have a gene not present in a single cell of my body. 

Still, in the hopes of modeling an attitude of persistence to our children, we’re keeping Macie, much to my chagrin when she shows up at the back door with mud covering her entire face AND three quarters of each leg.  It turns out our puppy likes to dig. 

Aren’t you jealous?

The funny thing is . . . I’m receiving an education from our little Macie.  She hasn’t cured my OCD yet, even though that was one of the reasons I agreed to get her.  (Leave it to me to count on an animal with a brain the size of a walnut to work through all my issues and make me normal.)  Still, I am learning quite a lot from our Christmas puppy.  She has become somewhat of a teacher in our home, going about each day imparting little lessons on life.  I guess she got that whole teaching thing from me, huh?  The desire to educate and a love of sitting directly on the vent when hot air is blowing out.  Too bad she didn’t inherit my dislike for dirt too.

Yes.  Our Macie, the pooping, digging, dirt-loving puppy who literally makes me want to turn back time and make a totally different decision that would involve an aquarium instead of a leash, is providing me with a great deal of insight into the humans in my life. 

This might sound a little crazy, but hey, if you’ve read anything I’ve written in the last few years, you know crazy is par for the course.   So all insanity pushed aside, I happen to believe Macie knows a bit about self-esteem.

I know, I know.  Dogs don’t watch their weight and color their hair and consider paying hundreds of dollars for rat poison to be injected into their face.  They don’t compare themselves to others and search all over town for the perfect outfit for that big night out and wear a pair of heels that pinch their paws into oblivion just because they happen to be the perfect shade of taupe.  They don’t even know how to use a mirror, or a scale for that matter.  Dogs can’t possibly know anything about self-esteem. 

Yet . . . I beg to differ.

Maybe it’s because she’s my dog.  Maybe it’s because I know a thing or two (or twenty million) about self-esteem. Maybe it’s because I watch my weight and color my hair and am currently considering paying hundreds of dollars for rat poison to be injected into my face . . . again.  Maybe it’s because I compare myself to others and hunt for the perfect outfit and own several pair of shoes that are worthy of being called torture devices.

Or maybe. . . it just might be . . . I mean it’s possible . . . yea, okay, I suppose Macie might know a little something about self-esteem because hers was destroyed when I looked deep in her eyes and told her she sucks. 

Yes.  I really did that.  I know you dog people hate my guts right now and plan to report me to the Animal Rights Coalition first thing in the morning, but when your puppy whines at the door to go out for the one-hundredth time in an hour and you know she does NOT need to go potty, you really do think she sucks.  And sometimes, your fuse is just short enough to tell her so.

The vet gave me a rather interesting piece of advice during one of our many expensive puppy check-ups not long ago. I was telling the good doctor that Macie wouldn’t go up and down stairs by herself, and that she absolutely hated to leave our yard to go for walks.  I thought it was cute.  I thought it was because she was so little and inexperienced and because she didn’t like wearing a collar.  The vet responded by telling me I should be sure to pet Macie from her nose to her tail.  She said mama dogs show affection to their puppies by providing them with touches all over their bodies, and that it would help build confidence in our puppy if we rubbed the entire length of her body on a regular basis.  

Honestly, I laughed like someone watching the top ten funniest Saturday Night Live skits of all time when she said it.  Not out loud, of course.  Out loud I said, while nodding my head in vigorous understanding, “Wow, that’s really amazing.  I’ll be sure to do that.”  But inside, I was laughing.  I was throwing my head back, clutching my stomach, gasping for breath by snorting air through my nose laughing. 

And then I went home.  And I lived my life for a few days.  And I was a mama to my own two little puppies.  And I realized . . . the vet was serious, and it was no laughing matter.

People are just like puppies.  We need to be loved completely.  We need to be loved from head to toe.

I can’t love only the intelligent, obedient, respectful parts of my son and neglect to love the rest of him.  I have to love ALL of him.  I can’t love only the helpful, caring, thoughtful parts of my daughter and neglect to love the parts I would change if given the chance.  I have to love ALL of her.  When my husband is bald and wrinkled and has hair growing out of his ears, I have to love his shiny head, aging skin, and furry body.  I have to love ALL of him.  Every single bit.  From head to toe.  I have to love the people in my life completely. 

Sometimes, it’s hard.  Sometimes, I see things in the people I love that, for a time at least, make them seem a little less lovable.  I see selfishness and pride and greed and the inability to pick up a towel from the bathroom floor and take it to the laundry room where it belongs.  I want to tell them, “I love you, but . . .” 

I love you, but I would appreciate it if you would follow directions the first time I ask. 

I love you, but I need you to take the trash out on time and help me with the laundry.

I love you, but I don’t want you to use that tone of voice when you’re speaking to me.

What am I telling the most important people in my life if every time I declare my love for them, I finish the statement with something I’d like them to do differently?  What message are they hearing if I claim I love them, but only if they are willing to change, to do things my way?

If I truly want to follow the example of unconditional love God demonstrates for us every single day, I have to share my love for the people in my life when they are at their most unlovable.  When Charlie is cranky and irritable and I’m so frustrated with his ingratitude that I want to send him to Africa to see what it’s really like to know sorrow, I need to take him by the hands, look him in the eyes and say . . . Oh, my son, oh how I love you.  When Libby is sassy and emotional and I’m so angry at her impatience that I want to send her to boarding school for eternity, I need to wrap her in my arms, squeeze her tight and say . . . Oh, sweet girl, oh how I love you.  When my husband is messy and forgetful and I’m contemplating the idea of tossing his golf clubs into a very deep lake, I need to press my forehead to his, run my fingers through his hair and say . . . I can’t possibly describe how much I love you.

Because the thing about unconditional love is that there can’t be a ‘but.’  There can only be . . . I love you.  Period.  End of story.  Forever.  Always.  No matter what.

I.  Love.  You.

Jesus didn’t say, “I love you, but you’re a sinner.”  Jesus said, “I love you because you’re a sinner.”  Jesus said, “Not only do I love you, I love you so much I’m willing to die so that your sins will be forgiven.” Jesus walked on the earth for less than four decades, but the central theme of his life, the core of his message to all mankind, can be wrapped up in three simple words. 

I love you.

He did.  He does.  He will never stop.

There are no ‘buts.’

I rub Macie from her nose to her tail many times a day now, and she is no longer afraid to go up and down the stairs or to leave our yard.  In fact, I might have taken the vet’s advice a bit too far, because I’ll be darned if that monster, I mean puppy, didn’t decide last week that she was going to squeeze right through the bars of the outrageously expensive wrought iron fence we bought just for her.  Let’s just say the “you suck” comment was nothing compared to what I said to her after that escapade.

I’m trying to love the people in my life from head to toe as well.  It’s not always easy.  Unfortunately, Jesus and I have very little in common at this point.  But I want to follow him.  I want his life to guide mine.  I want to use his example as the driving force in all of my words and actions. And if I’m going to follow Jesus, I have to love like he loves.  I have to love without any ‘buts.’ 

I have to love . . . completely.   

As far as stories go, this one’s a page-turner from the start.  You know the kind.  It’s one of those stories that, as a child, had you huddled under your sheets at one in the morning with a flashlight.  It’s a story that, as an adult, has you furiously flipping pages at every red light on the way to pick up your kids in carpool. 

It begins with a young girl named Mary who is engaged to be married.  Well, the story really starts long before this girl, but we don’t have time to go into the whole snake in the garden, burning bush, parting sea, ark filled with animals shebang.  That part of the story is in book one or, as most folks like to call it, the Old Testament.  This story starts with Mary, the girl who is engaged. 

So Mary’s out minding her own business one day, probably thinking about whether or not she wants to serve shrimp cocktail in the buffet line at her reception when, out of the blue, this guy named Gabriel pays her a visit.  Now, Gabe isn’t just any old fellow.  The dude’s got wings.  And a halo.  And get this, Gabriel tells Mary that although she’s a virgin, she’s pregnant with God’s son. 

A virgin . . . pregnant?   Wait a minute.  The story is only a few pages in and already it’s getting interesting.  Chapter 1 has sex-ed teachers all over the world wondering why they’ve been demonstrating the condom roll-down move on cucumbers while thirteen-year-old boys giggle in the back of the classroom.   Mary’s never even seen a cucumber, and . . . she’s pregnant?  Whoa.

You’re already hooked at this point, aren’t you?  I mean, it’s no Fifty Shades of Grey, but you’re intrigued in a completely non-erotic  way.  (Just for planning purposes, there is no erotica in this story so if you’re sitting by the pool, you can keep reading, and if you haven’t read Fifty Shades yet, buy it immediately but don’t go anywhere near the pool while reading it.  Stay in your bedroom, preferably with your husband very close by.)

Okay, so Mary’s pregnant with God’s son, according to the guy with wings and a halo.  But wait . . . it gets better.  Gabriel doesn’t just tell Mary she’s going to have a baby and she’s not allowed to come up with his name – it has to be Jesus - he also tells her, and this part’s flat out funny, that her fiancé is going to be okay with it.  Are you kidding me? 

Now skip ahead a bit.  Mary and her fiancé (yep, ole’ Gabe was right – he stuck around to watch his virgin bride give birth) are heading to Joseph’s hometown to be counted for a census.  They’re travelling by donkey.  Doesn’t that sound like a good time?  My king size bed with a pillow top mattress and silk sheets was uncomfortable when I was eight months pregnant.  I’m thinking a ride on the back of a donkey couldn’t have been a real treat for Mary, but hey, I’ve never ridden a donkey.  So they get to town and need a place to stay, and since this story takes place long before travelocity.com was up and running, Mary and Joseph go door to door asking for shelter.  The plot thickens a bit here folks, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s a bit of literary irony going on when the couple is repeatedly turned down by the townspeople.  Clearly, there’s a need for someone to teach these people the whole “love your neighbor as yourself” lesson. 

So, what do Mary and Joseph do?  They find shelter in a barn, with hay on the floor and, I imagine, some fairly large spiders in the corners.  And in that barn, without a nurse or a doctor or, heaven help the poor woman, an epidural, the virgin named Mary gives birth to a baby boy, just as Gabriel told her she would.  She named him Jesus, as instructed.    

I’m not sure about you, but I’m pretty sure who the heroine in the story is so far.

Well, baby Jesus is quite a draw, and not simply because he was born in a stable in Bethlehem to a virgin with no royal pedigree whatsoever.   This baby, this Jesus, has followers immediately.  Granted, the followers hang out with sheep all day and track stars at night, but they are followers nonetheless.  If the story was about a rock band, they would be called ‘groupies,’ and who wouldn’t like to have a few of those.  Anyway, these followers come from afar to bring Jesus a Baby Einstein CD, a monogrammed silver cup, and a diaper genie.  Okay, okay, I know that’s not exactly how the story goes, but I’m guessing the gold, frankincense, and myrrh made up quite a care package back in those days.   Either way, the important plot line here is that Jesus was so important a new star began shining in the sky to direct people to him, and the people that came treated him like a king, which indeed, he was.

Fast-forward thirty years.  I realize that’s a rather big jump to take, but you gotta figure life wasn’t changing at warp speed two-thousand years ago.  It wasn’t like the people were talking on telephones with cords that took ten minutes to dial and then, three decades later, they were taking videos of their children on phones with no cords and downloading them, with music, for their relatives to see on the other side of the globe all while driving in their brand new electric car.  In Jesus’ time, thirty years meant your donkey got old and you might need to trade for a new one. 

The story gets truly exciting now as Jesus begins travelling the land doing all kinds of crazy things that make people either love him, or fear him.  He makes a blind man see.  He makes a lame man walk.  He raises a girl from the dead.  Yes, you read that right.  The girl is dead.  Jesus makes her . . . not dead.  How could you possibly put this story down?  It’s unbelievable.  And it doesn’t end there.  Jesus does some things that are even crazier than raising the dead.  He encourages people to love one another as they love themselves.  He reminds people they shouldn’t look at the appearances of others, but at their hearts.  He tells people it’s better to give than to receive. He instructs people to forgive one another.  Like I said, this man was certifiably nuts. 

And this is when the story begins to take a bit of a dark turn.  You see, as I mentioned, some people are afraid of this man called Jesus, and they don’t just think he’s in need of some Zanax and a good therapist.  They think he’s a phony.  They think he’s a liar.  They think he’s a criminal. 

Of course, the most twisted part of the story is the fact that Jesus knows exactly what’s going to happen next.  He’s like the girl in the horror film who hears a strange noise in her bedroom closet and waltzes right in there to check it out anyway.  Jesus knows what’s coming and yet, he doesn’t change a thing.  He rides into Jerusalem on, what else, a donkey, as the people who do believe he is their king place palm branches in his path.  He treats his friends to one last supper, during which he explains his body and blood are going to be given for them.  He stands silent as one of those friends betrays him.  He stands silent as one of those friends abandons him.  And in a single moment of humanness, he kneels in a garden and prays for his Father to change the story, to give it a different ending, even though he knows it is not to be.  The guards come.  They put Jesus before the one man on earth who can save him.  Despite the desperate pleading of his wife, the man allows an angry crowd to decide Jesus’ fate instead.  You can’t read the story fast enough now, can you?  You have to know what’s next, but . . . be prepared.  It’s ugly.

Jesus is beaten.  Jesus is tortured.  He’s forced to carry a heavy cross on his back while a crown of thorns pierces the flesh on his head.  Then, Jesus is nailed to the cross.  He is hung on a hill and left to die, slowly, in front of the people who have refused to believe he is the one he claims to be.  And when he takes his last breath, this baby born of a virgin, this child called the Son of God and man, this teacher of love and peace and patience and kindness, when he breaths his last, the whole earth trembles and everything changes forever.  Because in that moment, the veil is torn and God is no longer unapproachable.  He becomes . . . mine.  He becomes my Father, my comforter, my healer, my strength, my provider, my Lord.  He becomes the God of grace who forgives my every sin.  And I am a sinner.  I sin every day.  I’m judgmental and selfish and impatient and prideful and lustful and envious and, because of Jesus . . . I am forgiven.  His blood poured out for me.  His blood poured out for you.  

Surprisingly, the story doesn’t end there.  God is a God of miracles after all, and Jesus couldn’t possibly play such an important role in such an incredible story and then just disappear.  There’s a tomb and a rolling stone and a missing body and some very freaked out women and, in the end, Jesus rises.  He conquers death.  He ascends into heaven and, at this very moment, he sits at the right hand of God and lives to intercede for me, and for you.  He also lives inside my heart, reminding me in very real ways of all those things he was trying to demonstrate while he was on earth.  Jesus is alive.

I told you it’s a page-turner.  Eat your heart out, Twilight - this story trumps vegetarian vampires any day of the week.  Because this story isn’t just a page-turner.  It’s a life-changer.  It’s the single greatest love story ever written, ever told, ever lived.  And the story, and the love, continues.

Happy Easter.

The differences between men and women astound me.  I just listened to my husband have a cell phone conversation with a friend of his from The University of Kansas.  They hadn’t spoken in years, but recently reconnected because of the Facebook of the business world, i.e. Linked In, the classy way to spy on people you used to know or wish you did.  Of course, I could only hear one end of the conversation, but this is what it sounded like to me:

Adam:  “Hey, what’s up?”

Friend:  Something about the Kansas game that was on the previous night.

Adam:  “You’re out of your mind.”

Friend:  Something else about the Kansas game from the previous night.

Adam:  “That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say”

Friend:  Something about the picture Adam posted of himself on Linked In.

Adam:  “Please.  That picture was taken less than a month ago.  You’re just jealous because you’re old, fat, and bald and I look better now than I did in college.”

Friend:  Something to repute the extremely rude comments my husband just made about his attractiveness.

Adam:  (laughing) “Yea right.  Okay.  Yep.  Talk to you later, man.”

And that was it, folks.  Forty-five seconds and that was the entire conversation between two men who used to consume massive amounts of beer and pizza together, but who had fallen out of touch because of jobs, wives, kids, and the fourteen hundred miles separating them. 

Now, let’s replay a conversation you might hear between two women who have been out of touch for a few years.

Female number one: (in a very high pitched voice filled with immeasurable levels of enthusiasm) “Oh honey, it’s soooo good to hear from you.  I can’t believe it’s been so long since we last spoke.  I have missed you SO much.  I saw you on Facebook and you look absolutely amazing.  Seriously, you haven’t aged a bit and I love your new hairstyle.  Too cute.  And your kids . . . wow.  They are gooorrrrgeous.  They look exactly like you.   So, how are you?  Tell me EVERYTHING that’s been going on in your life.”

Female number two:  (in an equally high pitched and enthusiastic voice) “Girl, I’m so excited to talk to you.  It really has been too long.  I feel terrible we haven’t kept in touch after all the fun we used to have together.  You were suuuuuuuch a good friend to me and I think of you all the time.  I saw you on Facebook too and you look incredible.  Are you working out five times a day or something?  Seriously, you look better than ever.  Oh my goodness, I have so much to tell you but the suspense is killing me.  I just can’t wait to hear everything you’ve been up to, so you go first.  Fill me in on the last two years of your life.”

And an hour later, the conversation shows no sign of ending.

Could men and women be any more different?

I gotta tell ya, the rat race is thriving in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.  I know this because sometimes, I sprout whiskers, and on my worst days, a tail long enough to be worthy of a subway track in Brooklyn.  I also know this because every day of the week, I get behind the wheel of my car and drive somewhere. I might not go far.  In fact, some days I only drive the two miles to and from the kids’ school.  Still, there is evidence of the rat race at every red light I hit in that two mile stretch, and it has little to do with the array of expensive SUV’s stopped both in front of and behind me.  No, it isn’t the fact that despite ridiculously high gas prices and the sad reality of global warming, one out of every three cars in Atlanta is one of the biggest cars on the market.  It’s the mobile resumes displayed ON the cars that remind me the “keep up with the Jones’” mentality is alive and well in my hometown.

You’ve seen those mobile resumes I'm speaking of, haven’t you?  You know . . . the stickers.  Yes, those stickers all over the sides and backs of cars presenting tell-all declarations about the people inside.  There will probably be a collection of family stick figure stickers on the bottom left or right corner of the back windshield, so you’ll want to look for those first.  That way you’ll know exactly how many people are in the family riding around in front of you. In my neck of the woods, the stickers might show a father carrying a golf bag, a mother holding a tennis racquet, a boy with a soccer ball at his feet, a girl in a tutu, and a baby with a bottle in his hand.  You’ll know the baby is a boy, by the way, because he is wearing a blue diaper.  Of course, the display doesn’t end with the announcement that the car holds a family of five that includes two adults and three children.  There are important details to notice as well.  The stickers might show the non-human members of the family.  Some even show the adults wearing shirts or holding banners with their college teams written on them.  I can pull up behind a Honda Odyssey at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle and immediately discover that the family riding in front of me is comprised of a dad who graduated from Auburn, a mom who graduated from Florida, twin boys who play football, a little girl who likes gymnastics, a dog, two cats, five goldfish, and a hamster. 

But wait . . . there’s more.  If the red light is long enough, and in metro Atlanta they usually are, you will likely get to know even more about the family who is introducing themselves from the back of their car – simply look at the rest of their stickers.  Within seconds, you will learn that someone in the family has completed a marathon, someone in the family likes to cycle, and no one in the family voted for Obama.  Another couple of stickers and you’ll know where the kids in the family go to school, whether or not those kids are in the honors program at their school, and whether or not their parents donated money to the annual fund at their school.  Keep looking and you’ll find out what sports the kids in the family participate in (and whether or not they made the all-star team), where the family likes to go to church, and the family’s favorite spot to vacation, IF you can figure out what those pesky initials stand for.  Amazing.  All that knowledge about a family gleaned from a collection of stickers on the rear windshield of an automobile. 

Atlanta is full of these mobile family resumes and I enjoy seeing them.  I really do.  Honestly, if I didn’t have that OCD issue I’ve mentioned in many of my previous posts, I might even have a few stickers displayed on the back window of my own SUV.  But alas, that OCD just won’t go away and stickers on the back of my car would just look like clutter to me.  I HATE clutter.  Still, I get a kick out of reading the resumes I see as I’m driving around town each day.  Sometimes I’d like to smile and wave at the family in front of me because I think we must have a lot in common.  I want to roll down my window and shout, “Hey there!  So nice to meet your family.  I used to go to your church and we thought about sending our kids to the same school your kids go to and what do you think of lacrosse because my son’s been asking to play and congratulations on your alma mater’s new football coach and are you training for another marathon because I’ve always wanted to run one myself and I’ve been to Amelia Island too but it was years ago and . . .”

Of course, then the light changes and everyone has to get where they need to go.  I step on the accelerator and move on, never knowing if I will see that particular family at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle again.

I think the real reason I enjoy reading these mobile resumes, however, is because they help me remember I’m not alone.  The stickers remind me there are thousands of other women in my community trying to do the best they can as wives and mothers.  They remind me I’m not the only one trying to find balance in my own life and create it in the lives of my children.  Most importantly, they remind me of my intrinsic need to connect with others – to mean something.

Why are we so desperate for significance?  I’m not talking about a quest for love here, folks.  I think most of us get plenty of love.  Our parents love us, our husbands love us, our children love us, our friends love us.  Yet, despite the fact that we are well-loved by the people who matter most, we still have this burning desire to tell others . . . strangers even . . . who we are and what we’ve done and where we’ve been. 

Please don’t think I’m pointing fingers.  I mean, I totally am, but only when looking in the mirror.  Trust me.  I get it.  There are a zillion informative blogs out there about cooking and health and party planning and parenting and furniture and fashion and decorating.  I’m writing a blog about nothing, for goodness sake, so if anyone gets it, I do.  I may not have stickers on my car creating a colorful billboard about my life, but I want someone . . . anyone . . . to find me interesting or funny or helpful or at the very least, memorable.  I want to be seen.  I want to be noticed.  I want to be known.  The question is . . . why?

Why do I have this desperate ache to find significance through the eyes of others when I’m significant in the eyes of God?  Why do I feel the need to earn the approval and acceptance of people I might never meet when the one who created me approves of and accepts me the way I am?  Why do I want strangers to know things about me when the only one who knows everything about me, even the dark and dirty yuck that resides in my heart, loves me more than anyone else ever can? 

I will never be significant enough to others.  They have their own aches and needs and wants and dark and dirty yuck.  But I will ALWAYS be significant to Him. 

Psalm 139:1-4 says, O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.  You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.  Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, O Lord.

Romans 8:38 says . . . neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.   

These two verses seem so contradictory to me.  I mean seriously, how can God know me so well and yet, still love me that much?  He sees me when I judge strangers.  He sees me when I’m insensitive to my husband.  He sees me when I’m impatient with my kids.  He sees me when I envy my friends.  He sees me.  He notices me.  He knows me.  And yet . . . He loves me?  He loves me anyway?

If I could kick this OCD issue of mine and create a mobile resume on my own car, my stickers would be just like all the others – they would be about the things I hold dear – my children, our church, vacation, family.  My husband would have a golf club in his hand and I would have on workout gear.  My son would hold a lacrosse stick and my daughter would be in a leotard.  I would even have a dog sticker, much to my own surprise.  

But my stickers would never tell the people driving around Atlanta with me who I really am.  They might see that I’m a mother, learn where my kids attend school, and discover how much I love visiting Lake Oconee, but a mobile resume would never make the one declaration that truly matters.  I would need a different sticker for that.  I would need a sticker that said “Child of God.”  Because that’s what I am.  That’s all I’ll ever be.  And it’s enough. 

It’s enough to be significant to Him.