Justice

The grass is wet with dew but light begins to fill the eastern sky  and soon enough it will be burnt off by the sun's heat.  Nancy makes her way with the growing crowd to the parking lot between the large stately courthouse and the church.  Pushing through those gathered she looks at the guilty criminal.
Justice will be served today.  Anticipation makes the air thick.  She'd been part of this ancient ritual before and knows the tension will rise quickly and only fall when the deed is done.  Then there would be relief.  Now there is only anger.
The accused sits in the middle of the group, head hung low, eyes vacant, silent.  What could she possibly say to this mob to dissuade their intents?  Aware of her atrocities-even her own heart condemns her.  She wills herself to think of nothing now.  Not the years wasted or of the lives she's ruined, including her own.  She does not think about her children, the ones she left behind or the ways she harmed them.  She certainly does not let her mind stop on the baby.  She knows the crowd is right, that she has no worth and deserves death.  She welcomes it.
Some jeer and taunt her.  "Murderer!" "How could you?" "You disgust me!" "Bet you want your drugs now!" "Animal!" Nancy joins in the feverish ridicule.
The time comes.  Each person in the crowd walks over and picks up a large, hard-bound book from a nearby pile.  They wait. 
A hushed silence spreads over the crowd.  Finally, an Authority speaks.  Strangely, it is not to the accused and it is not to the crowd.  It is to a man standing among them.  Nancy recognizes him as "The Teacher".  He is well respected by many because he speaks with supremacy and backs up his words with his actions.  But some would love to defame him.  The Authority is one of these.
"You know the law says we are to punish her in this way.  Penal Code 12 Article 20 Section 10 clearly gives us our mandate.  What do you say?" He knows The Teacher promotes love.  Would he undermine the law?  If he does, the people will turn on him.  If he doesn't, he will discredit himself.
The Teacher bends down and plays absently with a few pebbles on the concrete-collecting his thoughts.  When he stands up he says, "If any of you have never lied, stolen, hurt someone, wanted to sleep with someone you weren't married to,  or numbed yourself against your own pain, you should be the first to throw the book at her."
The book in Nancy's hands suddenly feels heavier.  Acknowledging that she has done all these things and more, guiltily she hands it to The Teacher and turns to go home.   The crowd drops their books and leaves.
Only two remain.
The only one worthy to throw  the book at her approaches her and helps her to her feet.  The Teacher speaks life into her empty face with one command.  "Here, throw it at me, instead".
And he hands her the book.

The Residuals

She has walked through the valley of death-shade
And seen her Victor reclaim, redeem
Immersed fully in what is
Willed her mind, her heart, her soul to keep going faithfully
Overcome by what was and what might be
The residuals

She has walked through the valley of death-shade
It's sickly pallor shadows  her face
On the other side of what is
They taunt her still in catcalls and whispers, in night terrors and questions
Haunted by what almost was and what almost wasn't
The residuals

The residuals
Attach themselves like stubborn burrs
Which have no rightful place on the garments worn by her and hers
In the reality of what is Real
Where goodness and kindness pursue
She has walked through the valley of death-shade

The residuals
Sloughed off by the Shepherd's hands
She receives His comfort and rest, tentatively lives and trusts again
In the reality of Who is real
Light returns like the dawn
She has walked through the valley of death-shade

9-90

I should be an absolute expert on pregnancy.  My name is even part of the word, for gosh sakes. And I've been pregnant like a million times. But I learned something new today.  And the only reason I'm going to bring it up is because a friend of mine gave me a challenge to interpret and write about the phrase 9-90.  Here's what I came up with.  Caution, you are now entering my thought process.  It could get weird.  Who am I kidding?  It will get weird.
I immediately did what every intelligent, creative, self-thinking master of ideas does when faced with such an opportunity-I googled it.  The 9-90, I mean.  And there was really nothing useful.  Some abstract news stories giving numbers of possible wounded in violent crimes.  Not funny.  Not cool.  Not it.
So, I did the next best thing to finding online inspiration.  I began to think for myself.  Shocking, I know.  It was difficult at first, but after some practice I started to form an idea.  Then it crystallized and I knew exactly what to do!  Make more coffee! Which had nothing to do with my bloggity blog but was at least some direction for gosh sakes!
Back to the writing thingy.  A life.  A life could conceivably go from 9-90.  A ninety year old woman (easiest for me to imagine on account of I am one-a woman, that is, not a 90 year old) has probably reached about the end of it.  A nine year old girl has begun the personal decision making part of hers. One's cognitive, social, even spiritual life could conceivably be measured from nine-ISH to ninety-ISH.
Then I read about pregnancy.
(The thing I am not currently so don't go getting any ideas about why I'm writing about it for gosh sakes.  You know I'd post it on facebook before I'd put it here.  There's a social network protocol to follow after all.  But I ain't so we can just drop the subject of my personal pregnancy, which there isn't-and move on to the broader term which is what I'm trying to talk about anyway and oh forget it, just read on.)
This part gets a little human anatomical, so if the human body makes you squeamish, you might not want to read this part (or look in the mirror cause chances are you have one).  Also, it's a birds and bees kind of quote, so if you don't like nature, you'd better skip this next sentence altogether.  "At the time of implantation, the blastocyst is barely visible to the naked eye, probably smaller than the dot above the letter 'i'. Once implantation happens the blastocyst becomes the embryo." And of course, this happens at about 9 days after conception.  If you have questions on what conception means you can google it yourself.  On second thought, you'd better not.
So, there you have it- 9 days after conception to about 90 years, give or take 9 days on one end and who knows how many on the other.   The span of a life, if it's lucky, or blessed, or just really really stubborn for gosh sakes.

Hands

A few weeks ago I took the kids to a routine appointment to check on our daughter's healing collarbone.  We were all excited upon our arrival to discover the pediatric orthopedic office was well stocked with tvs, video games, books, and interesting decorations. I settled down into a chair and my two youngest climbed on my lap with  books they'd found for me to read to them.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed.  A security guard burst in and told the nurses and receptionists to hold the doors open.  He radioed something into his walkie-talkie about how they were going to bring the patient over to the emergency room.  More uniformed men joined him and then a gurney was rolled from the doctor's office through the waiting room and out the front door.  On it was a mother's worst nightmare.  A tiny baby, maybe a week old, was being given CPR.  His mother was following close behind, wailing and wringing her hands. 
All I could do was pray.  I desperately wanted God to come into the picture and make it all better, the way that only He can.   "Come, come, come, Lord Jesus" I repeated, hoped, demanded.
From what I could see, He did not.

I have been pursuing healing from some of the traumas in my own life.  I believe the theology of an omnipresent God, so I know He was there.  And I believe the theology of an omniscient God, so I know He is well aware of everything going on in my life.  And I believe, too, that He is omnipotent.  Therein lies the problem.  What was this all-powerful God doing, exactly, when I was experiencing suffering? If He was there and aware, what did He do? Just stare? I've looked back on some of the darkest  moments of my life and wondered whether or not He was present and helping me.
From what I could see, He was not.

During a recent prayer time, I dialogued honestly with Him. I realized there was a disconnect between what my head thinks about Him and how my heart feels toward Him.  So, I asked him. "God, where were you when I was experiencing this childhood trauma?"
And He answered.  I saw a picture in my mind's eye of that waiting room.  There was the baby, dwarfed again by the size of the white sanitized bed he was on-the nurse pushing rhythmically on his tiny chest. Her face tense in concentration and hopeful anticipation.  And below her hand I saw another.  Inside, encircling the baby's tiny heart was a strong, gentle hand.  On it's back I saw a round scar. 

Then I knew.  No matter what acted on the outside of my life the hand of Jesus was there, holding my heart.  He does not need to be summoned, He is already, always there. He holds us because we are His and because of who He is.
Is He present in our suffering?

From what I can see now, He IS.

Sequels

God is the God of sequels. While we are caught up in experiencing the first edition, He is working on multiple additions.  He can do this because He is sovereign, creative and good.
This Christmas we have seen Him at work.  It all started (in my mind) when our little girl gave up the opportunity of getting her first American Girl doll in preference for sending the money to World Vision.  She wanted to help save the life of a family overseas.  When she got the thank-you card from them in the mail we found out that her hundred dollars actually helps two families.
I  imagine two fathers waking up.  One with a weight in the pit of his empty stomach.  He must look for work, for food, for charity.  But he knows there is none today just as there was none yesterday or the day before that.  It is grim but he gets up.
The second hears the hungry cries of his baby and his wife trying to console despite the emptiness in her own body.  He's seen his wife waste away over the past years and is ashamed that he has not been able to provide for her the way he promised her family he would.  He prays and gets up to hold them both and remind them that God has not abandoned them.
Two mothers are fighting their own thoughts.  The first is angry-at the system which keeps her handicapped as a woman, at the limited resources that the government disperses to her people, at the horrific choices her neighbors and friends are having to make with their own children.  She tells herself she would never abandon or sell her daughter.  But the decision is not all hers to make, and their choices are running out. She cannot find God in the midst of them.
The second mother wants to believe that God is with them and will provide for them.  But it is hard to feel God's presence over the agonizing hunger pangs wracking her body.  It is hard to hear God's reassuring voice over the sound of the squalling, starving baby. Worse yet are the times when the baby doesn't cry at all because he is too weak-his mother unable to produce milk for him.
I imagine a worker from their church knocking on their door to give them the news that God has indeed provided.  A goat and two chickens means milk, eggs, and meat for them.  It means survival. It means God really does see them and wants to bless them.
 When I try to imagine their reactions, I come up short.  The closest I can get to it is to think about my daughter and her reaction on Christmas Eve when she unwrapped a gift from her best friend.  She tore open the paper and began to open the box.  When she saw what was inside, she froze-an American Girl doll, the one she'd always wanted.  She teared up and shook her head incredulously.  Then she threw her arms around her friend and told her she loves her.  She was overcome for hours that day.  Letting that level of love and sacrifice sink in is no easy thing.  Days afterward, she is still shocked and amazed that her friend would so something so wonderful for her.
And I understand a little bit more about the power of love and sacrifice.  I recognize that God does hear and see and  act.  He is always, always working on our sequels.  When we listen and see and act we are a part of that creative collaboration.  We partner with the Sovereign One and both initiate and receive His goodness.

I am eager for His sequels.

Good-byes

You don't say good-bye all at once
but in starts and spurts
joys and hurts mixed

over time

memories fade, then suddenly SNAP
into crisp, tangible moments you grab out of thin air
hold them, taste them, swish them in your mouth
salty, bitter, sweet

and let them go

making room for more to come
sometimes in waves that knock you off your feet
at other times a peripheral foggy sense of who she was,
how she's stamped indelibly on your life, your heart, your very identity 

you say good-bye again

and again and again.

Deer Me

I couldn't think of a better way to start the day than a brisk morning run.  The cold air froze my nose and my feet crunched loudly on the frosty grass-amplified by the stocking cap pulled down snugly over my ears.  I set out eagerly on trails I'd never seen before-hoping for hills to climb, streams to jump over and the chance to breath the smells of the woods in deeply.
It refuels me-takes me back to my childhood in Minnesota where I spent every minute I could running, hiking, camping, trapping, hunting, exploring, escaping into the forest.  In college and now living in a large city, I've learned to combat the mounting claustrophobia by finding solitude and space in the woods. Sometimes I just need to be free and pretend I'm that little girl again-who's legs never seemed to get tired and who was always able to find adventure.
It started out promising, a hill, a stream, meandering trails.  My sluggish start begins to turn into a rhythm. My muscles warming, my brain beginning to think more clearly, my feet feeling their minimalist shoe (as barefoot as I can get in December) way over rocks, sticks, frozen clods of dirt.  I think I could make this a long run today.
I round a bend and glance up because something is out of place.  He hasn't moved, but a hunter is perched in a tree.  His camouflage clothing whispers that he belongs there-a natural part of the scenery.  His orange hat says that he does not.  His gun screams to me that I do not.

My mind doesn't register the danger until I've passed him. My pace quickens. I imagine hunters around every curve now and all I want is to get back to my cabin, to safety.
My best defense when I have done something stupid or am facing mortal danger is to find the humor.  I think about how this will make a great blog story and hopefully my friend won't have to write it for me. I imagine myself mounted to the hood of a pickup truck tongue lolling out of my mouth sideways with cartoon Xes  for eyes.  Or on the wall of a lodge somewhere, glasses askew.  I know it's not really funny, but I can't help myself.
I find myself back at the cabin and feel a sense of relief.  I kick off my moccasins and hang up my deer fur coat.  I figure the only reason I probably didn't get pegged is because of my small antler size.  Just like my writing half the time-no recognizable points.
I'm just glad I wasn't wearing my Target hat.

Why It's Hard Not to Homeschool

We've been teaching our kids from home for 11 years now, formally for 5.  When I say formally, I mean using curricula (it just took me 3 tries to spell curricula...double r, double c, double l?)  and keeping attendance records. Nobody is actually wearing a tux.  

We are decidedly informal in our formal education.  At first my kids were calling me "Mrs. Mom", but the Mrs. was dropped when it was discovered that it takes too much effort to whine it.  "Misssusss Maaah-ummm ..." is much harder to get out in the heat of the various emergencies we face on a daily basis.  People touching each other, putting feet on desks, using someone else's pencil, humming or other disastrously annoying behavior needs (need/needs? stinking nouns and verbs can't even agree) immediate attention.  Someday I fully intend to stop doing these distractions to my children. 

We have a very strict regimen.  By strict I mean not really.  By regimen I mean; well, I'm not really sure what a regimen is (but really want to put a t on the end of it).  We begin promptly at "Whenever We Get Started" o'clock and go until we have completed the assignments for the day or the teacher runs out of caffeine.  One of the Daddy's primary contributions to the success of our schooling is the stockpile of coffee he provides.  There was one day back in aught nine when we ran out.  I sat staring unblinking at the door, humming until the Daddy got home with more, listening to the kids touching each other, putting their feet on their desks, and using others' pencils.  And yes, those are too sounds.

We are able to fit many experiences into our schedule.  Trips to the library, museum, farm,  art classes, and Chick-fil-A  enrich our children's educational palate.  It's important for a child to learn in different settings with a wide range of adult interactions.   At the library they will experience classic literature like A Tale of Two Cities or the Princess Ponies and be shushed by adults other than me.  The museum will expand their minds with post-Impressionist artwork like Van Gogh or the sculpture of the naked man (giggle), and they will be told not to touch things by someone other than myself. The farm will show them the science and industry behind what they eat and/or step in.  Art classes will teach them to enjoy the process of creating and an adult other than I will clean up the mess.  We go to Chick-fil-A because we know  it's important for a child to eat at more than one fast food restaurant as part of a balanced diet.

It would be hard to give up these adventures together if we chose not to homeschool.  I love being there to  learn with my children.  I love the unplanned discussions that we have in the van on the way to and from these outings.  I love our city and the ways our children connect with others.  (I love Chick-fil-A.)  I am so grateful for the fact that I get to be home with my kids at all, and to get to be their teacher in addition amazes and humbles me.   

The truth is that it is hard to homeschool, too.  But for our family, right now it's hard not to.

My American Girl Doll

My daughter has wanted a real American Girl Doll for years.  She's read all the books and loves them.  We've gotten her two cheaper off brand dolls because we wanted to be sure she'd take care of them and actually play with them before getting her the real doll.  She does, and she has lots of clothes and accessories for them.

This year for Christmas we told our kids to pick 3 things they really wanted, and we'd see what we could do.  To say that money is tight in a one income family of 8 is cliche.  So, we wanted them to really think about their requests.  Our daughter asked for one thing only, her long awaited doll.

Her favorite is the Addy doll.  She is an African American growing up in the Civil War days.  Even her choice of dolls shows me the compassion and love for God's diversity that drives our girl.  I still remember when she first came out of her room late one night, upset because she'd been reading about some of the things Addy and her mother had experienced.

Historical fiction can do a terrific job of introducing some hard realities for a young mind to comprehend.  This was one of the first times we really began to talk frankly about why hatred still exists in our city, and we prayed for reconciliation together.   Our girl began to understand social justice that day in a new and personal way.

There have been a couple other issues we have discussed as a family.  Our girl believes that babies are babies from the beginning of their lives and should be protected.  Also, she feel strongly about adoption.  She asked me one day, "Mom, if us kids get the money together, could we adopt a baby?".  How do you say no to that?  Of course, their only income so far is from the tooth fairy, so it may take awhile.  We prayed together for more adoptions to be released in our nation, and for our family's provision and direction as we open our lives to others.

Yesterday, we got a World Vision Gift catalog.  She flipped through it the same way she does her American Girl catalogs when they come in the mail.   She told me that for $100 we could give a goat and two chickens to an overseas family.  She asked me, "Mom, what is the child sex trade?  Does it mean that people pay to..." She trailed off because she knew.   All I could do in answer, through the tears catching in my throat, was hug her and tell her that I was so sorry that the world is full of such awful things.  We prayed with authority against the oppressive forces which destroy children and the innocent in our world.

Then our girl told us that she wanted to give her American Girl gift money toward sponsoring a family this year.  She realized that the gift of a goat and two chickens could save a little girl like her from getting sold into the sex trade; a family from going hungry.  She recognized that she could do something about it. 

She cried when she made this decision.  When I asked her why, she told me that it was a sacrifice.  She's had her heart set on that doll for at least 5 years.  Yet she recognizes that Jesus made the the ultimate sacrifice for her and His presence in her and her faith compel her to obey the mandate to care for the poor.

We joked about how  in heaven maybe she'll have a lot of American Girl dolls, even the discontinued ones. I imagine her playing with them along with the little girl her gift saves.  And I can't hold back the tears.

 My daughter once told me that she wanted to someday be a Mom just like the one I am.  The truth is, I want to be a Mom just like my American girl, my doll. 

Inventions

I have heard it said that necessity is the mother of invention.  But in my experience, mothering is the necessity of invention. 

I remember being too pregnant to bend over and put my socks on.  It was so embarrassing to ask for help.  Especially after the 7th or 8th time, when 911 dispatch told me to stop calling.  Not a true emergency!  So, I decided to invent Step-in Socks.  They just sit in your shoes and you step into them; assuming you can find them over your ginormous baby belly.  Which I never could.  Fail.

When our newborn was finally ready for her crib, er, when we were finally ready to put our baby in her crib, okay, when our toddler was too big to sleep with her toes in our ears on our bed anymore, we began the dance.  "The Dance" looks like a sweet, parental art-form, but is in reality a cross between  science and superstition.  It appears to be a beautiful bonding moment, but has more cold, calculated, choreography than most parents will readily admit.

The Dance starts with a sleepy child and preferably non comatose parent.  Essentially, there are two schools of thought with how to get your child into their rightful place at night.  There is either the gentle, gradual placement or the dump and run method.  We used a combination of both.  We would  hold the child and sing them a lullaby while swaying in front of their crib.  These tender moments often were infused with  the horrible smell of rotten milk and soiled clothing, but I knew that was just me.

The child fully asleep now, (I could tell by her weight increase and the drool saturating my shirt), it was time.  I slid carefully closer to the crib, and she stirred.  With a quick sway, sway, hum, hum, I staved off a close call.  She was out.  I carefully moved her in a tight, fluid arc into her crib, held my breath as she was suspended briefly over the rail, and released it as she settled without a sound onto the mattress.  Success!

From past experience, I knew the door was the final obstacle between me and my sleep.  It wouldn't creak, because I had heavily oiled it, but the doorknob made a sound when turned.  It probably wasn't very loud under usual circumstances, but sleeping babies are a natural sound amplifier.  I was convinced that even the change in air pressure in the room when I opened and closed it woke my baby up.  So, one would think my choices were clear, stay in the room and sleep on the floor or risk using the door.  Thanks to my invention, a third option existed, to use the Mommy Door.  So, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through.   It silently swung back into place as I pulled my feet through.  Success!

A few days later, I told my husband all the steps in the dance, exactly how it worked, and went out for coffee with friends.  When I got home, I heard the wailing before I even got in the front door.  The baby was still sound asleep in her swing in the living room.  The Daddy was yelling for 911, Crisco, and a crowbar.  Fail.

Running out of milk might not be considered a natural disaster, but it sent me into panic mode when my 6 kids were younger.  The oldest was 7, then 6, 5, 3, 2, and newborn.  The days of running to the store quick were long gone.  It felt overwhelming to think about putting on all those shoes and coats, getting kids into the van, driving across town to the store, waking up no less than two of them, putting some in a cart, wheeling them through the grocery store, the whining, asking for stuff, arguing, wandering off,  climbing out of the cart, pooping themselves, grabbing everything as we passed by, sitting on the eggs, or saying embarrassing things to perfect strangers like, "My Mom fell asleep on the toilet this morning", or "Are you a man or a woman?".

Luckily, my last invention solved this dilemma.  Instead of having to hear one more person say, "You sure got your hands full" I simply drove through a Drive Thru Milk Mart and ordered my necessary items through the window.  "Yes, I'd like a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread."  The kids were sleeping peacefully in their seats behind me.   I imagined driving around a little, drinking my Pepsi and enjoying some quiet time before heading home.

I reached into the pneumatic tube for my groceries and pulled out a pint of milk, two eggs and a slice of bread.  Apparently that's all that could fit into the capsule.  Fail.

Back to the drawing board. 

My Thoughts on Heaven

It's never been easy for me to imagine heaven.  What I think it will look, feel and be like has changed significantly over the years.

When I was a kid I thought of it as a rather cold, ethereal place.  Pearly gates opened into streets of gold.  Cinderella type castles and other, nondescript, imposing buildings rested on top of big white fluffy clouds, much the way the giant's house in "Jack and the Beanstalk" did.  I thought of  God as either a George Burns or Morgan Freeman kind of character.  Heaven a la fairy tales and Hollywood. 

My Sunday school teacher began to answer some of the questions I had.  She told me there would be no sadness in heaven, or bad people.  I guess she knew I needed to hear that.   It was only moderately comforting, because I was still firmly living in a childhood where there very much were those things.  But it did give me hope.  And it was the beginnings of a theological understanding of a real, tangible place.  Heaven a la wise teachers.

In college, I learned more.  God's throne is there.  Jesus sits at the right hand of God.  Angels gather around the throne and sing eternally, "Holy, holy, holy."  I wondered how I'd fit into this majestic presence.  I imagined myself mostly as an observer, standing or kneeling in awe, using hushed tones like in the library.  Heaven a la theology discussions and hymns.

Jesus returned to heaven to prepare a place for us.  He spoke of His father's house as having many rooms.  I took this literally, like He was some sort of holy interior decorator.  Still not a very personal view of what heaven means for me. Heaven a la DIY Network.

To really understand my Father's house better, I've had to begin to understand my Father better.  He is equally the righteous judge sitting on His holy throne and compassionate, forgiving Father; picking up his garments and racing out to meet the prodigal daughter with an embrace.  He is the same yesterday, today and forevermore, yet who He is to me changes with the seasons of my life.  My redeemer, my teacher, my father, my healer.  His house is a place of awe and intimacy.  Heaven a la paradoxical truths.

Modern music talks about a "big, big house with lots and lots of rooms".  There is a "big, big table with lots and lots of food".  Also, there is a "big, big yard, where we can play football".  The song is fun and at first glance seems to understate the awe of heaven.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize the profundity of their words.  Heaven a la Audio Adrenaline.

Heaven really is more than a physical place for me.  It is the culmination of all the relationships in my life both long developed, and longed for.  This big house with lots of rooms houses the people who've loved me and I've loved best.

The big table is filled with foods from every nation.  Sweet, spicy, rich and colorful; a wedding feast and celebration of God's creativity and passion for His people.  All are invited.  Best of all for me, I am invited.

The big yard has already been given to us, and the opportunity to play together.   All of us have an important position to play on this "football" team.  I'm trying to let God coach me as I play mine.

Heaven is often a comfort to me.  When wrestling with injustice and the atrocities which plague our time and world, I hear God tell me that He will restore justice. During the times when I wish I could remember every detail of the history of my children's lives, the cute things they have said and done, I hear God tell me that He will restore memories.  After thinking of a loved one who's been too far away for too long, I hear God tell me that He will restore relationships. 

All of this He will do completely in heaven.  Yet I know Him to be the personal, involved God who is already beginning these works today.  "Your kingdom come, Your will be done on earth, as it is in heaven."

For all of the longings in my heart, I hear His answer, "I will".

For all of the longings in His heart, I hear Him answer, "I AM."

The peaceful, relational home, the satisfying table, the actualization of our purposes are the promises of heaven. And heaven is really the completion of being fully in Him and fully in His presence. It is the ultimate combination of worship and relationship.  Completed and perfected sometime in the future, begun at the very beginning of time and  accessed through Jesus.

Thank-you, Jesus!

My Job

I am not a maid
By definition, she gets paid.

I am not a nurse
But I've got band-aids in my purse

I am not an electrician,
a plumber or repairman

I am neither cab nor cook
But look

I do all the jobs above
With love

I'm All In

Our four girls were set to be baptized yesterday. They each gave a short testimony and then their father and our pastor did the dunking. Each child had a very unique experience.Their profound words and actions have gotten me thinking.

Our oldest daughter spoke about how she was giving all of herself to God, Jesus asked His followers to be baptized, and He Himself was baptized. The words of a surrendered, intellectual, obedient child of God.
She then went backward into the water while favoring her broken collarbone. The one God held His hand on so she could raise her arms in worship at an intercession conference we went to. The shoulder that was recently in a sling but is healed to the level where she could go on with her plan to be baptized. When she came up out of the water, it was with a sense of fulfilling a rite of passage that validates her into the bigger "church", and it was without pain.

Our second girl went up to the microphone and got nervous. In answer to the question on why she wanted to be baptized, she blurted out, "Because it's who I am". Short and sweet, but not simple. The 'it' runs as deep as her compassion. Self-aware and secure in her position in Christ.
Her father had told her to hold her breath, and she kept trying to time it right before going backward into the water.  She came up all smiles and hugs. Because that's who she is.

Our third-born confidently went forward and began to preach about how she is "following the One True God because HE LIVES!"
She got into the big tub and was so eager, she almost baptized herself! She came up out of the water with eyes as wide as saucers. Alive in the One True God!

Our fourth daughter told everyone she wanted to show God that she "truly, truly loves Him". She got into the water but was too afraid to go under. She began to cry, so we pulled her out, hugged her, and reassured her of two things. The first is that God knows she truly, truly loves Him. The second is that before her next attempt we will have "baptism practice" by helping her learn to go underwater.

I keep coming back to the words she said as she stood in that big, water-filled tub. "I don't want to go down all the way!" I think about how scary that is for someone who's never done it before. Will I drown? Will I be able to get back up and breathe? What's under that water? Will I be safe?

And I know it's the same for grown-ups, too. We are also sometimes afraid, or unwilling, to go 'all the way under' in our faith.

I remember a dream I had a number of years ago.

In it, I was out in the ocean, looking toward shore and noticing there were many believers who were lounging around on the beach. I knew we were supposed to all be in the water, going deep with God and doing the work of His Kingdom. So I started calling out to them to come out to where I was.

"Go deeper! Go deeper!" I screamed at them. 

As my frustration and judgement mounted, I heard God tell me to look down. The water barely went up to my ankles.

That was a long time and a much different person ago. Since then, for some of the same reasons my daughters proclaimed,  I have gone all the way in.

Puppy Intervention

There was no reason to think today would be unlike any other. No omens, no signs, no "funny feelings" nagging at the rear of her subconscious; nothing out of the ordinary. But if she'd known what waited for her at home, she probably would have done anything to avoid it.

As it was, without giving it a second thought, she turned onto her street. Scanning ahead for a parking spot in front of her house, and finding them all full, she kept driving. Mildly annoyed, she drove on until she found an opening half a block away.

Before she got to the front gate, she noticed it wasn't latched. She brushed her concern away, thinking that maybe the mailman or one of the kids had left it open. She walked up her steps and reached for the door. It wasn't locked. Alarm bells beginning to sound in her head, she opened it. And there it was. The ambush.

She turned to escape the way she'd just entered, but he was too quick. Her husband closed the door and told her they needed to talk. Feeling cornered, she stormed to the back door and tried to exit. But they were smart, these conspirators, and dirty. The smell of a fresh pot of coffee assailed her senses. Her feet stopping in their tracks without her permission, she stood dumbly in the kitchen, having forgotten completely what she had intended to do next. An all too common experience, this time she was snapped to attention by a familiar voice.

A smiling person she'd always considered a close friend thrust a steaming mug into her hands, "Let's go sit down. Everyone here is on your side. We love you and we just want to talk." Intoxicated by the kind words and good brew, she followed Marcia into the living room and sat woodenly on the couch.

Maggie took the lead, "We just want to start by saying that you are really important to us, and we all want what's best for you. We are concerned about you and some of the decisions you have been making. We want to help you see that they are affecting others in your life, and so we will each now share and then let you make your own conclusions about what happens next. Is that okay with you?"

She nodded her consent, eyes downcast. She sipped her coffee and bravely looked up as the group gathered in her house began to speak. First was her own husband.

"Your behavior has negatively affected me in the following ways...It was okay when you allowed just one into our bed, but you keep letting in more and more. I squeeze myself against the wall and try to ignore all the legs kicking me, but the chewing...oh, heavens to Betsy! The chewing!" He sobbed quietly, face in his hands, while he tried to regain his composure. "The chewing. They play tug of war with my hair and mistake my ears for rawhide. I can't take it anymore. If something doesn't change, I'm leaving you...a very firm note or something."

Next was her daughter. "Mom, I speak for all of us kids when I say that we don't see anything wrong with you getting us lots and lots of puppies. In fact, we were hoping you'd get us more. We promise we'll take care of them!"

Whispers of "Get her out of here," were followed by a gentle but firm escort out of the room by a three year old boy brandishing a scowl and a plastic sword.

Around the room, friends each gave their concerns...

"All you talk about is dogs anymore. I miss having conversations about other things, like we used to. Things like your endless piles of laundry or the ways you clean out your household appliances in the hopes of improving their efficiency. Well, actually, I don't really miss those specific conversations. But there were others, I think..."

"You smell like poop and you get it all over my home when you come over. You were the inspiration for my 'no shoes in the house' rule. Worse yet, I'm not sure the last time you tracked stuff all over my carpet and furniture you were even wearing shoes."

One by one, they cited other issues; fleas, wasting money on dog food, not getting enough sleep, the never ending doggie land mines all over her yard and often house.

She turned as a soft voice meowed beside her. It was the family cat, Oscar. He just looked at her and slowly shook his head.

Scratching feverishly behind her ear, she spoke up. "I appreciate you all coming to talk to me today. I'll admit that in the past I have gotten a little carried away, but that was a long time ago. I haven't gotten any new puppies in a long time. I totally have things under control now. So, while I appreciate your concern, you have wasted your time."

Suddenly, her purse moved. Then, a lump in her pocket.

"You brought two more home, didn't you?" her husband accused.

"No, what are you talking about? Of course not. I have plenty of puppies already, I just told you that!"

Now noises were coming from her backpack and coat.

Maggie threw her hands up in the air, looked at the others and said, "Let's go. Obviously this isn't working."

Marcia came over and pulled the coffee cup out of her hands in disgust, then followed everyone else out the door.

Even her husband exited angrily, pen and paper clenched in his fist.

Sitting there in shock, she wasn't sure how to react. The little critters got her attention and she went to get the new pets out of their hiding places. From her pocket, her purse, her backpack and coat she pulled out four bunnies, and got ready to introduce them to the rest of the four footed family.

Oscar approved.

Normal

I am always guessing at what normal is. It is a textbook issue for people who were raised in the kind of environment I was. Sometimes it feels residual; a thin layer of insecurity that I am able to wipe away with truthful affirmations. Sometimes it is a deep root that can only be pulled out with much force and by someone with more strength and wisdom than I.

Every kid starts out his or her life with a certain level of isolation and inexperience. This is magnified in a home full of secrets. The typical people in my life were living lives of addiction and chaos. I didn't really understand how different my family was until I began to socialize outside of our culture. To me, stability, intact families, joyful interactions, and faith were the aberrants. It took a long time for me to notice they existed, longer for me to realize they were desirable, and even longer to recognize they were possibilities for my own life.

All that to explain why my views of normalcy are skewed. My basic assumption is still that I am probably not, and everybody else probably is.

The truth is that we are probably all not. Or that we probably all are. If we all aren't, than that means I am. And if we all are, than that means I certainly am not. Because I do a lot of things that can't be normal. Or maybe they are.

I have a family of my own now. We are pretty stable and very committed to loving each other well. There is a lot of joy in our home, and we are faithfully following God's lead as best we can. We are recovering from our hurts and hangups rather than hiding from them. Still, we have problems to fix, failures to be forgiven, messes to clean up, fears to be faced, and questions to be answered. Questions like, "Where is my dang hairbrush?", and "Are we normal?"

The answer? It's probably under the couch.

And yes, I think so. Or maybe not.

An Apology

Christian means "Christ follower". I became what I thought was a Christian when I was 18. If you were one of my friends or in my family, you know this. I was very outspoken about it, and probably tried my best to convert you. Everything about me changed very quickly. I stopped doing many things that I thought were wrong, and began doing more things that I thought were right.

This personal, dramatic change gave me the right to judge other people's behavior and thinking.

I went to Bible college; wanting to be prepared for a lifetime of service to God; ministry. I began to get a solid base in understanding the Bible, but I really didn't know how to connect with people very well. With other Christians, it was easy, since we had some obvious things in common. But with those who didn't think or act like me, it was much more difficult.

This intellectualism and awkwardness made it necessary for me to condescend and separate myself from other people who were different than me.

I married and had children. I have a nice home and nice stuff. I go to church and vote. I drive a minivan, love America and there is a portrait of Jesus hanging in my living room.

These things combined validate my membership in the exclusive social club of American Christianity. For me, it can be a safe and somewhat boring club; and I've mostly stopped trying to get anyone else to join. I guess I can sense how lifeless it really is.

And then there is Jesus. Not the portrait on my wall...the living, breathing, history changing Man who was born and lived a life of sacrifice, love, adventure, excitement, surrender, victory; a life of abundance. He had rich relationships with people from all walks of life. He touched people and the power and presence of God was unleashed; they were changed from the inside out. He anguished and died so that I could be inwardly freed, healed and released to love God and be loved by God.

Some time ago, I began to be turned inside out. It is a painful, exhilarating process. I have surrendered the identity bound up in being what I thought a Christian should be. I am just trying to follow Jesus. It is not enough for me to ask "What would Jesus do?". I am asking "What is Jesus doing and how can I join Him?"

And the apology? It is to others. I'm sorry I've judged, I'm sorry I've condescended, I'm sorry I've missed opportunities to point you to the joy and freedom found in the Kingdom of God.

And it is to myself. I'm sorry for the ways I've limited God in my life. I'm sorry I put aside gifts He's given me. I'm sorry I've wasted so much time pursuing safety and contentment in this world, or even in my religion, when they can only be found in God.

Don't try to join me in the club, I've left it. Once satisfied with being considered a good Christian woman, I am now unapologetically, a follower of Christ.

Dear Coffee

My Dearest Coffee,
Hello. I love you.
I love you more than I love tea. Tea is weak and delicate and decidedly un-American. You are strong and bold and cowboys drink you while they clean their guns.
You are what gets me up in the morning. Well, specifically, this morning it was you and the dog barfing, but usually it's just you.
You've gotten me through some really rough patches. I remember this one time when I was sleepy, and I wasn't sure what I was going to do. You woke me up! I was alert for like 20 minutes!
Or the time I was kind of cold; remember how you warmed me up? Without your intervention I would have needed a coat or a blanket or a cup of hot (shudder) tea.
Yours

Nubby

They called her Nubby. The townspeople, that is. If anyone took the time to think about it, they'd realize that wasn't really her name, but nobody did. To them, she'd always been Nubby.

It was a cruel and accurate name. Her arms were deformed. Nobody knew how or why they'd shriveled and lost their use, but there they were; hanging lifelessly. She manipulated them like fixed weights, somehow wedged a broom under one shoulder and pushed down with her other arm; back and forth, back and forth.

It's how she made a living. She swept every day, all day long; mechanically keeping the sidewalks clean. It is all she did.

She did not speak, or seem to hear or understand when spoken to. Folks had stopped trying to engage her long ago. If an outsider asked about her, they'd tell him, "Oh, that's just Nubby."

One day a stranger passed through town. He spotted her sweeping past the diner window, and he was intrigued. So, he went out to meet her.

He tapped her on the shoulder gently to get her attention, but she kept working. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself, but she ignored him. He planted himself directly in front of her, but she just turned around and swept the other way.

Her reactions strengthened his resolve. He got more creative as the days went on; presented her with a pretty flower, which she didn't seem to notice. The cup of coffee he brought on a brisk afternoon cooled quickly as she passed it by.

He persevered, day after day. And she gave him no response.

Until he joined her. Early one morning he brought his own broom and set to work. As silently as she, he swept. Midway into the day, he realized there was a rhythm to their movements. At the end of the day, he saw her glance at him.

The music of their instruments continued; swish, push, swish. The glance became a look, the look became a curious gaze. The gaze turned into a delighted recognition. He always talked to her as they worked. His words and laughter became lyrics.

She spoke. Seemingly random, as every unexpected thing is, she said, "Ann". He told her she had a pretty name and kept working. Filled with joy, he wanted to ask her more, yet somehow he knew it would be better for her to volunteer it.

She did. He learned much about her; that she'd suffered and shut down part of her long ago. Like a body without a torso, she had been walking through life mechanically, lifelessly.

Until his friendship awakened her. Where there once had been silence, there was now the beginning of a song.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

6 am... I am stealthy and quiet. No one knows I am awake. I use the bathroom and consider the cost of the flush. Will it wake them? I take the risk, a little nervously. Coffee is done brewing. The cupboard is booby-trapped again; a saucer perched precariously on top of a bowl on top of another glass, in front of the cup I need. Kids have put dishes away again. Or maybe the husband. I don't have time to decide. With the hands of a surgeon, (a shaky, coffee-withdrawn surgeon), I carefully extract my mug.

7 am... A whole hour of quiet. My coffee and I have read a little, prayed a little, written a little, stared into space a lot. The sum of it is, I am on top of my day. For this one hour; 60 brief minutes, I have done whatever I wanted to, completely in my time frame, and without interruption. I feel like a grown up, and I feel free. I am confident and full of faith that God, my coffee and I can handle anything that comes our way today. I stare into space some more.

8 am... Good morning to my sweet little angels! I greet their cherubim faces with smiles and hugs and tell them how beautiful they look this morning. And the boy is handsome and strong, of course. And hungry. He pulls me away from my morning reverie with a demanding, "Breakfast!" Dutifully, I make it.

9 am... Time for school. This is the portion of my day when I recognize that I am clearly not in control of these people. One student loves to correct me, "Is that really how you spell that?" Another complains about every assignment, "It's too haa-aard!". One girl throws a huge fit, "I'm not going to do it!" Another disappears randomly for what seems like hours, "I was in the bathroom". One preschooler colors on every single piece of paper in the room while the other throws toys all over. I consider it a successful day if I am at least in control of myself. I imagine putting up an industrial sign that says, "_____ days without a Mommy blowup"...but I won't. Why not? "BECAUSE I SAID SO!" That's why.

3 pm... The day is a blur, but I vaguely recall lessons in history, anger management, science, home-economics, grammar, conflict resolution, spelling, puppy training, math, hygiene, reading, putting shoes away, handwriting, shutting doors when not in use (if it's the fridge), or when in use (if it's the bathroom). Recess! More coffee, more staring into space.

6 pm... Thank goodness for Daddy. The fact that he comes home. And helps. And stuff.

8 pm...Clearly no longer eloquent (assuming I ever was), the mission now is clear. Get these children to bed. I have spent it all today and am running on empty. We read and pray together and tuck our sweet ones in. Hopeful and dubious, we tiptoe to our designated meeting place and ready ourselves to field the last attempts at stalling, avoiding, and manipulating bedtimes. This is not a drill.

10 pm... A jubilant second wind sweeps through our living room. It is done...another day of parenting. Now I can again do whatever I want, completely in my time frame, without interruption. I want to go to bed.

She Asked Me For Money

We must have met at the homeless shelter. But I don't remember that. I've met so many women on our outreach nights, and recall only a handful of names. Hers was not one of them.

I didn't see her.

After she got into her own housing, she kept coming to our downtown church faithfully. I began to sit next to her and we made small talk. It always ended with a quiet, almost shy request, "You don't have any extra money for the bus, do you?". My answer,"No, I don't have any cash on me" was both honest and relieved, because I really didn't feel comfortable giving her money. What would she "really" use it for? Did she have an addiction? Wouldn't I just be continuing a cycle of dependence? Amazing how prudent I can be when faced with the thought of parting with my cash.

I saw her as a toll booth operator; she was going to ask me for something every time I passed.

One night, things changed. I prayed with her. As I asked God to put her into a family, I knew it was meant to be ours.

I began to see her as a person.

She asked me for money for her medicine. So I took her to the pharmacy and bought it for her. She was grateful but couldn't help but ask me for more when I took her home; the automatic reflex of a person who'd lived on the streets for a long time. She apologized after asking, "I'm sorry. I've been alone for so long, I forget how to act. Thank-you for helping me today."

I saw her as a survivor; and I understood.

She asked me for money to do her laundry. So I took her to my house to use our washer and dryer. The first time, she had a truckload of clothes to wash, and in between loads she napped on the floor, as if tired from wearing them all. When I took her home, she said, "Thank-you so much. It was so nice to just be in your home and rest. You all been real good to me."

I saw her as a woman with a story worth knowing; and I related.

She asked me for money for cigarettes. So I prayed with her for release from an addiction she does not want in her life.

I saw her as a follower of Jesus longing to be more free; just like me.

That was the last time she asked me for money.

One day, things changed again. I blessed her. She asked me for hair dye.

I wrestled.

I told her I'd rather she just get groceries with the $20 I had to share with her. So she put the hair dye away. I kept shopping, but it nagged at me. She didn't "need" hair dye, right? She needed food.

And then I knew. I thought of the woman who poured out her expensive perfume on Jesus' feet. His friends were upset because they thought so much more good could have been done with the money from selling that perfume. But Jesus was blessed and honored by her sacrifice. She had worshiped Him by giving Him her best.

Somehow, hair dye didn't seem quite as extravagant.

I saw my friend as a worshiper; same as me.

Her desire to do something pretty with her hair was not out of a place of vanity, but of worship. She wanted to reflect the beauty Jesus sees in her.

He sees and loves people well.

And I am beginning to.

The Bike Ride

I got in line for my first bike ride registration.
I had no idea what 33 miles on a bike meant, because the most I'd done before was maybe 15. So, I had no choice but to feel a strange mixture of terrified and grandiose about the whole thing. "Yeah, I got this mixed with Oh, crap"...a common state of being for me, actually.
We couldn't have asked for more beautiful weather. Warm, dry, almost no wind. The leaves were cliche...oranges, yellows, reds created a backdrop for the harvest, which was in full swing. At one point I passed a combine crossing the road and truly did not know who had the right of way, but I figured it should probably be the 122 ton vehicle.
The route started with a hill, and my fresh legs made quick work of it. Excited now, because I felt strong and athletic. We got to our first covered bridge and stopped for a minute to admire it. 1904. Cross at a Walk. Paul loves Sheila. People always put the most interesting things on bridges.
Snap a couple pictures and we're on our way. My riding buddies are much more in shape than me. This could be a problem, my fearful inner voice whispers. Or I could hang with them, my confident inner voice retorts, in more of a question than a statement, because this ride is getting more real.
After the first rest stop things get tougher. I fall back a bit while fumbling with my headphones, but this is okay because I wanted to sing anyway. And I do. Tentatively at first, lest I am actually louder than I think I am, (one never can tell while one is wearing headphones), but pretty soon I am belting it out. I've got The Heritage on, and "my soul it overflows, it's echoing the sound of your heartbeat, sound of your heartbeat". I imagine I sound as cool as the lead singer and laugh, partly because I know better but mostly because I'm having fun. And I keep pedaling.
Always the pedaling. After the second rest stop I don't pretend to try to keep up with my friends anymore. My ego says I could if I really wanted to. My body says nothing, probably because it is too busy pedaling. And watching the distance between us increase.
Now I'm singing about God's desire "to break every chain, break every chain", and somebody passes me. I want to shout out, 'not that kind of chain', but i laugh instead. And I think about how ludicrous an eternal, omnipotent God looks when stuffed into our minutiae. And I want Him to spill out of the edges. That is my only deep thought during this trip. Unless you count my musings on bike seats and shocks and padded shorts, which were probably just more relevant than they were deep.
Worst of all are the optical illusions. The terrain looks flat to the naked eye, but my increasing need to downshift often can only mean one thing...ghost hills.
Not to mention the real hills. I must have gotten lighter, because I can't even stand and use my body weight to push the pedals down anymore. So I walk up the last two hills. My Jello legs don't even want to do that, but I force them to wobble their way up, because I am in charge of my legs. My hair, not so much.
Suddenly, I'm done. No fanfare, no medal, no one even notices me. I coast in and lay my bike next to my friends' bikes. I hobble triumphantly up the last hill.
And I get in line for my pulled pork sandwich.

Phone Calls With My Dad

My Dad calls me every week.There is usually nothing too profound in our banter.
"Hey kid, glad I finally reached you.Thought you were mad at me or something." He usually has left a couple of messages trying to get a hold of me. I have not returned them because either my children have purposely inadvertently locked me in a closet or I have voluntarily accidentally locked myself in a closet.
I am not mad at him. Not anymore. Not even a little.
We tell each other fake daily affirmations. "Wear your underwear for gosh sakes", "Never stick your finger in a light socket more than once", "Be kind, rewind". They are really dumb, but we laugh a lot.
We talk about our lives. There are some similarities, "Went for a run", "Read a good book", "Went to church", "Sitting on the porch enjoying the night air".
There are some differences, "Worked on my Harley", "Poured concrete all day", "Got asked for my phone number". This last one happens to my Dad often. To me...never. Which is fine with me, because the last thing I need from my closet is another phone call to return.
Sometimes my Dad quotes me, "You said something that I never forgot...". Sometimes I quote him, "I forget what you said exactly, but..." It's not that I wasn't listening, it's just that there is a cost to living in a state of constant over-stimulation of sound and activity. So much goes in my head all day that some information invariably leaks out. It's probably under my couch cushions or stuck to the kitchen floor somewhere.
He listens as I fill him in on our lives. He gets excited about our adventures and he gives tender advice on our struggles. He laughs at our kid's antics. Our running joke is that all of our kids are going to gang up on him and use him for home plate, doddering old man that he is. I imagine them hitting the ball with all their might, racing around the bases with pursuers hot on their heels, frantic faces concentrating on getting to the goal, last second decisions to slide into the finish. A grunt and shout from Grandpa Home Plate, "Safe".
I wish I had known this man when I was a kid. You know, when I needed a home plate.
Nothing too profound, but the sum of it is nothing short of miraculous. My Dad calls me every week.

P.O.M...a cute poem about neglect

I really want to help you, your problem I can see.

I just can't now; there's a Puppy On Me.

You want a drink of water but you can't reach the sink

You wrapped a string around your finger, now it's pink

Your diaper's wet, you stubbed your toe

You ate up all the cookie dough

What kind of mother would I be

Not to help, but I'm P.O.Me

Now you've lost your brother, he ran out the front door

You're watching a movie full of violence and gore

You haven't had your dinner yet, nor breakfast, nor lunch

You're dropping plates off the roof just to hear them crunch

You took a bath and nearly drowned

You drove my car around the town

Well, always here for you are we

Your mom and the Puppy On Me.