ungrind

Communication Gone Wild

Ted Slater — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 20:45:50 -0700

By Marian Green

I am odd combination of a firecracker and a people-pleaser. I have a streak of opinion that burns and smile that never fades -- until I am home, alone. I desire authenticity and healthy relationships, but I am often unsure of how to render the two. There reaches a point where I am unwilling to compromise my values and they end up causing conflict of varying magnitudes in my life.

It can look like this: My son no longer thinks girls are gross. Instead, he thinks they are rather cute and definitely worth his attention. He's only twelve. The girl next door has caught his eye and from what I can tell, she might feel the same. Did I mention they are twelve? So I, being the great mom I am, took "crush"ing matters in my owns hands, and I texted (yes, I am ashamed) the other set of parents: These kids are out of control and I think the girls should head home. Later, I sat down with my son and gave him a talking-to concerning his lack of permission to date and the disrespect he was showing with all these flirtations.

I'm not claiming to be a parenting guru, and I'm sure I failed in so many ways here, but I did convey my message clearly, and my son seemed to understand. The other set of parents? Not so much. That evening on Facebook (how I love that world) there was a comment on the mother's page reminding people who live in glass houses (ahem, pastors' families) not to throw stones.

Oops. Enter neighborly conflict and a display of firecrackers between houses. At least with all my windows, I had a lovely view, yes?

I can joke now, but the truth is that conflict hurts. Most of us recognize that when someone appears frustrated with us, it consumes considerable amount of our mental and emotional energy as we dissect the situation. Whether or not conflict resolves quickly depends on what sort of communicator style you prefer.

My husband is amazing. He'll walk up to someone who he thinks is frustrated with him and he'll just ask, "Have I done something to aggravate you? Is there something we need to talk about?" He'll shoot straight and walk away still standing, with another healthy relationship swinging from his holster.

I am not like my husband. I will take the conflict and I will examine it from all different directions, talking myself and my reluctant husband through the ins and outs of this unjust offense. I go through stages:

I can't believe this person would take offense. What is her problem?

I can't believe we aren't talking; I guess that's one less friend in my camp.

I can't believe I hurt her. I hope she's doing OK.

Oh, I remember the time we spent a girl's day in Denver ... I sure do miss her.

I can't believe she hasn't called me. Maybe we weren't such close friends.

Ugh, I remember the time she told me I [insert negative comment here]. Maybe the relationship was never healthy to begin with.

I'll never have healthy relationships no matter where we live or how much I grow.

I’m going to call her and apologize for how much of a jerk I am.

So I call and apologize for every horrible thing I have ever done in our relationship and hope that apology is enough to repair the damage. Most often it is, except this isn't healthy either.

Conflict isn't resolved by apologizing for every short coming I have. This is me trying to fix something at all cost to myself. Instead, conflict is resolved by honest and open communication about the situation at hand. I tend to go the distance historically, when I need to be examining the depths of this singular situation and seeing if there is a tap root, allowing growth to a larger problem in the relationship.

Otherwise, I have only fooled myself into thinking I am keeping the peace when really I am further fanning the fire. Given enough time, another conflict will arise and if I continue to band-aid the surface wounds without ever noticing the infection, I haven't healed anything.

There is another way I "solve" conflict. I stop making public appearances. As ridiculous as it sounds, I stop reaching out to people -- stop making connection -- and hope that the isolation heals the hurt of conflict. I liken these seasons of my life to that of a turtle, pulling back in my shell, praying for invisibility. If no one can see me, then conflict doesn't actually exist, I have disappointed no one, and life can move forward as a façade of perfection.

Communication never occurs, because I am busy pretending conflict doesn't exist and my social connections are on indefinite hiatus. I use this tactic most often when the conflict proves to be too weighty for me to put into words.

Recently, my mother and I took a break in communication for four months. I had no idea how to approach the conversation in a way that would honor her and stay true to myself. The first couple months were alright. I was frustrated enough that the anger fueled my silence. The third and fourth month weren't as easy. A softness entered my prayer time regarding the situation and I found I was able to forgive the things I deemed "offenses." This left me no room to stay silent.

The next dilemma entered when I realized the silence needed to end, but that the issues needed resolution. When we finally met for coffee, we both admitted our stomachs were in knots. And while neither of us believed a lifetime of communication issues could be solved in one afternoon behind a bookstore, we were willing to start the journey through conflict.

I am a firecracker and a people-pleaser, but more than that, I am a disciple. Because of this truth, I am required to step outside my comfort zone and learn to love others. I don't think this means to love others when they are easy to love, but to love them when they are hard to love -- to be loving when we want nothing more than to be outraged and cry injustice.

Jesus said to love our enemies and I believe this includes real enemies as well as perceived enemies. According to the scripture, it would appear that love is the agent that shifts our perspective.

Not too long after my neighborly, Facebook, passive-aggressive duel, I noticed her dryer had broken. She'd been forced to take three adolescent children to the laundromat to wash and dry clothes. I can't even imagine how lovely that experience was. I turned to my husband and mumbled, "If she was speaking to me, she could have just come over here." He said, "Why don't you tell her that."

Was that a challenge? I decided to accept. And with one small sentence, she responded with the sweet words only a friend can say: "I've missed you."

Conflict resolved. For now.

______________________________________________________________________

Marian Green resides in Charlottesville, Virginia, with her husband and three sons. She assists her husband with his pastoring of a local church, co-directs their wilderness adventure ministry, Liquid Earth, and is slowly finishing her first novel. In between it all she takes a deep breath and realizes, none of this was what she had planned in life…and she loves it.
_______________________________________________________________________

Copyright © 2011 Marian Green. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on December 6, 2011.

The Journey of Singleness

Ashleigh Slater — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 20:39:48 -0700

By Sharon Hodde Miller

Soon after I graduated from seminary, I spent two years working as a college minister. I was still single at the time, and one of my favorite memories is a conversation I had with a freshman girl about her own single status. We both sat in my office as she bemoaned the fact that she'd never had a boyfriend, and wondered aloud if she would ever get married.

At the time, I was 28 and newly engaged. I decided to share with her the story of my own journey through singleness, the good times and the bad. Sure, there were seasons of sadness and uncertainty, but throughout it all I had determined not to waste my singleness, and I'm glad I did.

My motto as a single woman was, "No regrets!" I wanted to do as much as I could for God and His church while I still had the luxury of freedom and time. I did not want to spend those years waiting for a husband whose arrival could be anywhere from a week to ten years away. I instead made the most of my single years by traveling around the world on mission trips, earning a Master's degree, becoming a college minister, discipling many of the college women at my church, mentoring a local teen for eight years, and making amazing friends along the way. I had a lot to show for those years, and I didn't regret a thing.

I shared this pep talk with my distressed student, hoping it might inspire her. "My single years were actually pretty great!" I concluded. "I wouldn't change a thing."

For a moment she processed my words silently, then she slowly stood up to leave for her next class. But just before she closed the door behind her, she wheeled around and exclaimed, "I just hope I don't have to wait until I am 28. That would be HORRIBLE!"
Then she was gone.
That story makes me laugh every time I think about it. My grand tales of adventure as a single Christian woman had clearly fallen flat, but I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. In spite of my many incredible experiences as a single woman, it is also a very difficult season of life. As each friend gets married off and one's pool of single peers grows smaller, it can be genuinely terrifying.

I make that statement as one who not only struggled with singleness throughout my 20's, but who has a number of friends still walking the path of singleness today. In the past month, I have spoken with three different single friends, all in their late 20's and 30's, and wept as I listened to their stories. Each beautiful woman voiced a terrible fear that she is somehow unlovable, and that no man will ever turn his heart toward her. Each one of these women is undeniably exceptional, which is why I was so devastated by their pain. I felt helpless as they grappled with the fears that accompany their particular path.

Married Christians sometimes respond to the struggle of single Christians by speaking of singleness as a "gift." However, it is often a gift that nobody wants, like a pink knitted teddy bear sweater from your Great Aunt Pearl. I will not be so naïve or insensitive as to use that language here, but I would like to offer two encouragements to women who find themselves on the journey of singleness. I will also offer one encouragement to married women who love their single friends.

Don't Waste Your Singleness

As I once shared with my young student, this phrase became the mantra of my single years. It is also a mindset that has remained with me ever since. I dedicated my single years to pursuing God with abandon. I didn't know what the future held, so I drained the marrow out of life in the mean time. Now when I look back on those years, I know I was a good steward of the unique resources I possessed.

This past year I attended two weddings in which both brides were in their late 20's. During that same year, I had two friends marry in their mid-30's, and another in her 40's. I share these stories, not to strike fear in the hearts of women in their 20's who want to get married now, but as a reminder that every woman's path is different. No woman knows when or if she will get married, so it is easy to miss out on special appointments from God in the present when we are too busy looking toward the future.

Don't Worry About Tomorrow

In singleness, in marriage, and in every season of life, the unknown future can occupy much mental energy in the present. That is why Jesus warned Christians against this kind of worry in Matthew 6:34, instructing us to instead worry about today. I suspect he said this to protect us from ourselves! I can become so caught up in waiting for the next big thing -- a husband, a job, a house, a baby -- but none of these good things ever extinguishes the longing for more. This mentality instead produces a life defined by waiting, bitterness, and never fully living.

Encouraging My Single Friends

Now that my journey has shifted into marriage, God has continued to impress those lessons onto my heart. I continue to learn them each and every day. However God has also added to my instruction, now teaching me how to care for my single sisters.

Oftentimes, I feel rather inhibited in the comfort I can offer single women. I am no longer "in the trenches" in the way I used to be. Even so, it is crucial that I continue persevering with my single friends as they walk forward on their journey, and Exodus 17 always reminds me why.

In this chapter, Moses is charged with the task of holding his staff high in the air to insure the Israelites' victory in battle. As long as Moses held his hands high, the Israelites would continue to win. After awhile, however, Moses became weary and could not raise his hands any longer. The Israelites' future was suddenly in jeopardy, so Moses' friends stepped in. Aaron and Hur brought a stone for Moses to sit upon, and then each man lifted Moses' hands for him. With the help of these two friends, Moses held his staff in the air and the Israelites won the battle.

This story is a wonderful reminder to married women like me. Like Aaron and Hur, I cannot remove the burden my single sister bears, but I can certainly make it lighter. I can include her in my family and daily activities. I can pray for her and speak biblical truth into her heart. Rather than offer cliché advice, I can offer a listening ear. I can weep when she weeps and rejoice when she rejoices. On a journey that is plagued by loneliness, I can remind her with my loving presence that she is not, in fact, alone.

As I have journeyed from singleness to marriage and onward, my goal has essentially remained the same. I continue to use each new day to its fullest. God has given me a finite period of time on this earth to glorify Him, and I intend to use it all. No matter the type of journey, my destination is to be found in Christ alone. So, I press on toward the prize to which God has called me, and I will encourage my single sisters to do the same. What I won't do is ask them to walk that journey alone.

______________________________________________________________________

Sharon Hodde Miller is a thoroughly Southern girl who has relocated to the Chicago area with her husband. When she's not trying to dethaw from the Siberian-like winters, she is working on her Ph.D. in Educational Studies with a focus on Women's Ministry. For more of her writing, you can check out her blog at She Worships. All of Sharon's Ungrind articles are available on one page.
_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Sharon Hodde Miller. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on December 6, 2011.

Untamed Waters

Ted Slater — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 20:20:38 -0700

By Darla Brown

At the prow of my ship, I bask in the warmth of the sun, smell the thick salty air, and feel the cool spray of the sea on my face. I gaze at the gleam of sunlight reflected on the waves rippling in shimmering splendor.

My two-year-old, Liana, and my 10-month-old, Chloe both had their naps and snacks. They giggle as they play hide-and-seek under the table.

With the girls happy, it's a good time to start dinner. Ooh, and I actually remembered earlier to take the meat from the freezer and it's all thawed out. Dinner should be quick and easy.

Ah, life is good.

But then, a shadow looms over the sun and in seconds dark heavy clouds gather overhead. I find myself in the midst of a tempest and a torrential downpour.

In the middle of cooking dinner, I realize I need another pot. Not only is the pot dirty, but there's rice caked on it.

Just as I'm scrubbing, the phone rings. I dry my hands, grab the phone, and go back to washing the pot while I chat.

I begin to sense the sea around me swirling.

A wail comes from Chloe. With the phone still in hand, I run to check on her, but nothing appears to be wrong. Liana offers no explanation. I instruct her to be nice to her sister, pick up Chloe to calm her down, and apologize to my long-distance friend, asking to talk later.

Suddenly, I notice that the pot on the stove boiling over. I put Chloe down to rescue the veggies and she starts to cry again. Dinner is almost done except for the other quarter of it that needs the rice-caked pot I still haven't finished washing.

In the midst of Chloe's crying and the unscrubbed pot, I realize my husband's work clothes have been sitting in the dryer for hours, accumulating wrinkles by the minute.

At that moment, I feel the full force of the storm attacking my ship. The gales are out of control and I've lost all sense of direction.

In the intensity of the storm, I start to lose hope and give way to the raging waves of discouragement and accusations from myself and comments of others in the past.

"You're not doing good enough!" they thrash onto the ship, soaking my feet.

"You're not disciplining enough!" They knock me over and I'm wet through.

"You're not feeding them enough!" They slap me in the face.

"You don't clean the house enough!" They wash away my belongings.

"You're a terrible wife and a horrible mother!" I feel like throwing up.

"You don't even deserve this ship!" Together the waves almost capsize my ship. Almost.

Then a small whisper in the wind gently drifts to my ear, saying, "Be still, and know that I AM. I am enough for you. You don't have to be enough for anyone else but Me. My love covers all 'not enough's.' I don't give you this ship because you deserve it; I give it to you because it is a gift of My love to you."

Slowly it dawns on me -- Jesus has already shown me what to do in a storm. I stagger to my feet and face another wave about to hit. "NO!" I shout at it. Immediately, it stops in place. "You can't have my ship! This is MY God-given domain -- my family, my household, my career as a stay-at-home mom. I am good enough to own this ship because God placed me here."

I refocus. Ignoring the things that are less-than-perfect around me, I turn my attention to what's most important at the moment.

Chloe's howls pierce through my thoughts. I turn all the red burners down to low, hand Liana her favorite books, and carry Chloe to a quiet room to nurse. She falls asleep within minutes. I put her down in her crib and watch her sweet sleeping face.

In the living room, Liana is quietly looking at her books on the couch. I give her a hug and kiss, reminding her of my love.

Then I tackle the rest of dinner, in no rush.

The waves descend back into the sea as quickly as they sprang up. The dark clouds scatter, the winds calm, and I can feel the warmth of the sun again.

I don't worry about the mess of toys scattered everywhere, the laundry continuing to wrinkle in the dryer, the pile of dishes, or getting dinner done by 5:30. Everything will get done eventually.

As relieved as I am that the storm is past, I know this journey is far from over. There are many more storms to overcome. But it is exactly that -- a journey; a process through which I grow and learn in both smooth sailing and in the rough, untamed waters.

With each passing storm, I'm taught to look to God for help and to listen for His voice. And though my ship and I are slightly battered, I'm beginning to appreciate the scuffs and bruises. These battle scars remind me that I'm vulnerable and am in need of His Greater Power to rely on.

As the sky opens, it is clear which direction I must go -- toward the Sun. Always toward the Sun.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Growing up first as a pastor's kid in Wisconsin, then as a missionary's kid in Jamaica, Darla Brown has made a loving home with her husband and two daughters in the middle of the two, in Springfield, Missouri. When she's not running around with a baby and a toddler, she's reading, writing, or enjoying a cup of chai with friends. As she also enjoys drawing and painting, her dream is to write children's books and illustrate them herself. Never satisfied with her spiritual state, she desires more of God and to be all that He wants her to be.

_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Darla Brown. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on December 6, 2011.

Graceless Grace

Ashleigh Slater — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 19:43:43 -0700

By Patrice Gopo

The passions that took root during my early twenties convinced me a life devoted to social justice would be my future; a future immersed in helping to restore dignity to communities long abandoned, shunned, or ignored. Words such as "justice," "mercy," "intentionality," and "community" peppered my everyday conversation as these concepts deeply resonated with my soul.

In the midst of a year-long study abroad in London, God profoundly moved in my life showing me how my compassion for the plight of others intertwined with my desire to serve Him. In that year, God's grace hit me in a way that left me forever changed. My eyes were opened to the truth that loving Him meant being radical for Him. It meant loving the people who didn't typically walk through the doors of a church. It meant leaving my comfort zone in order to care about the needs of those people society had effectively discarded. It meant extending mercy and pursuing justice.

The next few years were filled with further refinement of my vision for serving God. He took me on a journey that expanded my understanding of what loving His people looked like. The journey included outreach to the homeless, overseas mission work, ministry in urban areas, and further studies in community development. I identified myself as an individual excited about how God's grace overflowed to the world and passionate about looking at others through the lens of Christ.

God's call for justice seemed so fundamentally clear to me. I desperately wanted those around me to also grab hold of what God was showing me about His heart for the world. In a variety of ways, I sought to convince others that the call to follow Jesus was a radical call to extend God's grace to those oppressed or ignored by the world. It meant leaving a comfortable life for the sake of caring for others. It meant seeking justice and working to empower the materially poor.

All good stuff, right?

Well, yes and no. Certainly, God does desire we as His people care about the plight of others and work towards justice. My problem was while my passions for serving the "have nots" in society continued to grow, my heart was simultaneously cultivating a judgmental and critical spirit towards the "haves" of society.

It felt remarkably easy to have compassion for people who seemingly deserved grace. The people broken by society, the people oppressed by choices and decisions far out of their control. I wanted to fight for justice and demonstrate mercy towards these hurting people and broken communities.

I thought my life echoed God's call to walk humbly with Him as my heart appeared focused on serving others. Honestly, in retrospect, I know pride flowed readily through my veins. I often considered myself better than those who hadn't grasped the vision I self-righteously had for living this Christian life.

Yet God, in His sovereign wisdom, saw fit to put my dreams for loving others on hold. Through a chain of choices, many of my plans slowly came to a halt. The people I had become used to serving, the soapboxes I had grown accustomed to standing on, and the issues of justice that rapidly fell from my lips were no longer part of my daily life. In their place, God exposed my own ungracious notion of grace.

In a foreign country filled with millions who fit the profile of those I felt called to serve, I was sharing life with people considered part of the privileged middle class. It was here I came face to face with my twisted belief that some people really deserve God's love and grace and others don't.

Why was it so easy for me to care for the homeless and fight against oppression while my heart felt judgmental and superior to those who didn't fully embrace my view of what living radically for Christ entailed? Why was I was so interested in meeting the material and spiritual needs of someone without money or resources, but I easily overlooked the needs of someone who possessed relative wealth?

Jesus told a parable in Luke 18:9-14 that in many ways reminded me of myself:

To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else, Jesus told this parable:

"Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other people -- robbers, evildoers, adulterers -- or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.' “But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.' "I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

Christ's stinging picture of the Pharisee could have been my mirror image. In many ways I was so thankful God have given me a desire to serve and care for people on the margins of society. I felt blessed God allowed me to see ways in which I could fight against injustice in His name. All the while, pride festered in my soul and contempt seeped from my conversation.

The reality of my ungracious heart convicted me deeply as I saw how I had painted a mental picture of who I should serve and who I should be critical of. The truth is no one deserves God's grace. Not the people broken by society and oppressed by others. Not the people doing the breaking or oppressing. Not the "have nots." Not the "haves." Not the people desiring to act justly and love mercy. And definitely not me. None of us are deserving of God's grace.

By watching God put my passions on hold, I understood I had become so entrenched in how I wanted to serve God, I ultimately lost sight of the astounding love God has for every single person. His grace flows freely to all. Despite our status as undeserving, we are all invited to sit at His feet and follow Him.

In Christ's drastic kingdom, loving the "have nots" is not an option. However, the deeper truth is loving all people as Christ loves them is not an option. Regardless of wealth or position in society.

Now in my thirties, my days involve managing life in my suburban house while playdates and moms' groups happily eat up much of my free time. The people I thought I would serve often seem a distant memory from my current life. My daily existence feels far from the frontlines of fighting for social justice. In many ways, I have morphed into someone who historically would have been a recipient of my criticism.

I see the sovereign humor of my Lord; a God who would take me on a journey where I end up living a life that is far from my previous plans. A God who was more concerned with my heart as His follower than with the actual things I did to serve Him. As I glance back over the last decade, I see more deeply what God's grace is and how that reality motivates me to love others with God-centered gracious grace.

The journey is long and the road continues to wind. With each passing day and with each person God brings across my path, I understand with greater clarity He desires for grace, mercy, and humility to be the overflow of my heart. As His child, God wants me to fully abandon any hint of contempt and consistently demonstrate God-rooted compassion towards all people at all times.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Patrice was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. She and her family recently moved from Cape Town, South Africa, to Charlotte, North Carolina, where they are slowly settling into a brand new life. After a decade of traveling the world, pursuing further studies, teaching business courses, and other random adventures, Patrice considers herself blessed to be on one of the best adventures of her life: being wife to Nyasha and mother to Sekai.

_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Patrice Gopo. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on December 6, 2011.

Perfectionist Anonymous

Ashleigh Slater — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 19:14:48 -0700

By Sarah Jaggard

Hi, my name is Sarah and I'm a perfectionist.

It's true -- perfectionism is my disease. My addiction. If I ever start a recovery program it will be called PA (Perfectionists Anonymous), and that is precisely how I will introduce myself. The first step in any recovery program is acknowledging that you have a problem and your life has become unmanageable as you have been living it.

That's me, and that's been me for as long as I can recall.

This disease was evident in my behavior even as a young child. I have vivid memories of writing in my diary and putting white out on any spelling errors or scribbled mistakes. If a page of my diary was too messy or if sentences bent downward towards the bottom of the page, I would rip the page out and dispose of it. There were times I even burned the pages I ripped out in order to completely rid myself of the sting of my scribbles and misspellings. I would also do things like re-lace my pink Barbie sneakers every day to make sure they were even and looked exactly the same on both the left and right shoe. I needed them to look exactly the same. If I was given directions by anyone at all I followed them to the fullest degree.

My disease was furthered by my Eldest Child Syndrome as the oldest of four daughters. Responsibility was expected and I was supposed to be an example to my sisters. As wonderful as my parents were, my dad would attempt to encourage me in my education by telling me, "an A is good but an A+ is better." He didn't mean any harm by saying that to me but it impacted me and fed a beast that would soon grow to be one of my greatest enemies.

The pressure of perfectionism came from outside and inside of me and it grew deep roots.

It might sound strange to suggest that perfectionism is a "disease," but there is no other way for me to explain it other than saying it feels as though it pumps through my veins thicker than blood. Alcoholics Anonymous describes alcoholism as an addiction that is driven by a real disease. By that definition, perfectionism is my addition and it has ruled most of what I have done for most of my life. While there is a healthy benefit in doing things well, there is no such thing as perfectionism, which makes working for perfectionism similar to a hamster running circles in its squeaky wheel.

Around.

And around.

And around.

This reminds me of Albert Einstein's definition of insanity: "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." That has been my process with striving for perfection.

This is one wall I'd like to stop hitting my head against.

Perfectionism is a battle I fight to every single day. I usually wake up subconsciously believing I can accomplish perfection. When I don't meet my admittedly unrealistic expectations I beat myself up over the one or two bunk things I did that day while ignoring the 100 things I did right.

I can articulate that no day is completely full of wrong decisions (though there may be quite a few) but boy-oh-boy do they stick out to me like black and white. I obsess. I worry. I work really hard to get things right.

Did I mention my name is Sarah and I am a perfectionist?

I'll let the recovery parallel rest here, but I will say that I think one way to quiet the voices of perfectionism is to start meditating on the 100 right things I do each day. Right Thing #47 I’ve done today: Written this entry.

By the time I go to sleep tonight I will have purposefully counted all of the good (even imperfect) things I've done today be a healthy person. This is part of my process of keeping sane and holding my feet to the ground. Reality does not include perfection or perfect people.

My drive for this unrealistic standard is rooted in fear entirely. I fear that imperfection brings about disappointment, anger, and loss. Those fears came from very real places of pain from my upbringing, but through my relationship with Christ I can learn to let go of those fears that hold me back from being a free spirit that lives in God's grace and mercy.

Galatians 5:1 states, "It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery."

Every time I give in to the fear of not being perfect I am literally allowing myself to be a slave to fear, and that is not the life that God has called me to. Luckily, God does not demand perfection from me. As my pastor has said to me many times, "God's not taking auditions today." I am so glad He isn't.

______________________________________________________________________

Simply put, "Sarah is a force of nature wrapped in a small package." A native to Southern California, she's been born, raised, and educated in Los Angeles. Dramatic communication has been a passion of hers since she was five years old and her father told her she would make a great lawyer or award-winning actress.

While Sarah never pursued either of those options, she does hold degrees in Communication and Theology. Her journey has led her through working at Disney, serving on the pastoral ministry team at Mosaic, and teaching public speaking at Biola University and Pepperdine University. Additionally, she has consulted for the Style Network, World Vision, and the Gallup Organization in various capacities.

In her spare time, she enjoys hiking, baking, writing, traveling, and doing public speaking of her own. She has a mostly joking obsession with Phil Collins. (But really, she loves Phil Collins.) Read more of Sarah's Ungrind articles here.
_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Sarah Jaggard. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on December 6, 2011.

Underneath the Steeple

Ted Slater — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 13:26:54 -0700

By Esther Imler Schmidt with Ashleigh Slater

Esther Imler Schmidt, my maternal grandmother, always wanted to be a writer.

I never knew this about her.

Well, maybe I did. Truth is, as a child, teenager, and young adult, I may have been too self-involved to take notice of her life-long dream. It came as a surprise to me, then, when my mom shared this information with me after discovering my grandma's memoirs titled, Underneath the Steeple.

Esther was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She attended Fort Wayne Bible College where she met my grandpa, Lysle Schmidt. They married in June 1953, and began their married life living above Amstutz's Chicken Hatchery in Celina, Ohio. After graduating college, Lysle served as pastor in a number of churches and Esther served as a pastor's wife, Sunday School teacher, piano player, nursery worker, and wherever else she was needed. In the early 1970's she started the Women's Prayer Breakfast in Celina, Ohio, which still continues today.

After living with Alzheimer's for the past six years, Esther quietly went to be with Jesus this summer. In this life, as her memory deteriorated, she held on to one constant: she loved Jesus and He loved her. This truth never seemed to escape her. And when she finally passed from life to life in her sleep, this constant faith became sight as she met her Savior face-to-face.

Even though she never saw her dream realized while she walked this earth, it's realized now as my mom and I publish this excerpt from her memoir. It's a humorous look at her engagement and wedding to my grandpa -- her husband of 52 years.

During my first year at college, I had the usual amount of boyfriend trouble -- I couldn't find one! No, seriously, I had a few ... very few.

I met my future husband my second year at college. He was not in any of my classes, but I knew his name and where he was from, but nothing else. On Friday nights we always had a candlelight supper.

I was at one end of the table and he was at the other. Neither of us could see very well by candlelight, plus I' m nearsighted. Within one month we were engaged, six months later we were married, and 10 and a half months later we had our first child.

At our college, permission had to be granted in order to marry and remain in school. My future husband went to the Dean of Men's office, but do not believe he used the right approach. He said, "Esther and I want to get married in June; we are getting married with or without your permission."

Needless to say, we didn't get permission and my husband had to go to another college the next semester.

The last semester of my college life, I moved home with my parents in order to save money. My home was only a few miles away from school. My fiancé lived off campus in a furnished room. Even under these circumstances we were not supposed to be in a car together without permission.

So each Friday night we had a Missionary service. Afterward, I had no desire to wait on a dark street corner for a trolley so my fiancé took me home in his car. Our undercover transportation method consisted of: After the service, I walked out ahead of him to the car, which was parked across the street. He followed shortly. I sat way down in the front seat so I couldn't be seen.

One night after traveling a few blocks from the college, we stopped for a red light. Thinking the coast was clear, I sat up and we talked while waiting for the light to change, I glanced over at the car beside us to see the president of the college!

We were married on June 21, 1953. I was late to my own wedding, after dressing at my grandmother's apartment, which was near the church. Dear Grandma thought it was fashionable to be late to one's wedding, so she set the clocks back.

The guests at church thought I had "chickened" out, as they sat sweltering in the 90 degree heat, and the poor soloist got tired of singing the same song over and over again as they waited.

Finally arriving at the church, I got down the aisle without incident and my dad didn't even cry, although he was sure he would. And all went well until we knelt at the altar. The soloist was to sing "Savior Like A Shepherd Lead Us," but his book opened instead to "Rescue the Perishing."

After the ceremony, when my husband pulled my veil back to kiss me, my tiara started to fall off. I grabbed it with one hand and held it on desperately as we started to walk down the aisle but only managed a few steps as my sister (and Maid of Honor) was standing on my train!

As our guests passed through the receiving line they said, "It was a nice wedding anyway."

It's been 18 years since I was first published. I'm living my grandmother's dream, just as my mom has. My footsteps follow in those of two women who have impacted my life deeply. And perhaps, one of my daughters will embrace writing in the years to come. In the end though, I hope that the legacy I continue to pass on through the generations isn't one of writing, but is instead the one my grandma held tightly to: I love Jesus and He loves me.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Ashleigh Slater is the editor of Ungrind. As a wife and stay-at-home mom, she enjoys moonlighting as a freelance writer, proofreader, and editor. Her writing has appeared in print and online in publications including Marriage Partnership, Thriving Family, MOMSense, Brio, Brio & Beyond, Guideposts' Angels on Earth, Focus on the Family Magazine, Radiant, Campus Life's Ignite Your Faith, Focus on Your Child, Clubhouse, Jr., Small Group Exchange, and Sunday/Monday Woman. She spent five years as a media critic for LinC (Living in Christ): Youth Connecting Faith and Culture and two years writing music reviews and artist bios for All Music Guide. She graduated from Regent University with a M.A. in Communication. She currently lives in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri with her husband Ted and four daughters. All of Ashleigh's Ungrind articles are available on one page.

______________________________________________________________________

Copyright © 2011 Esther Imler Schmidt and Ashleigh Slater. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on November 13, 2011.

Stretch Marks

Ted Slater — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 19:21:58 -0700

By JoAnn Kelly

Like thousands of other births, the drama and hours of pain ended in the beauty of the emergence of a perfect little body. The real boy from the ultrasound made his appearance in a small hospital with a midwife, and I got to witness my first live birth from a different vantage point. This time I was in a standing position with a camera in hand. It was a unique place to be. Especially considering that was my teenaged daughter giving birth.

The shock and disappointment of the many details that swirled through our lives in the previous eight months came to an abrupt stop. Awe and love were thick in the room. I took up the task of getting out of the way so the work could be done to give baby son to mommy. My camera quietly captured the miracle.

Almost eight months to the day earlier, the call that started this new journey for our family began and ended in many tears. I didn't think a healthy Christian family was supposed to grow through a teenaged pregnancy. And I most certainly never imagined my family growing through the birth of my unwed daughter's son. I'd had an idea of how our family should look -- and this didn't fit.

I remember looking around at other families and other parents raising their families, especially families at church. I was sure that no one would ever understand or relate to the news our daughter had thrown at us. We carried our secret for a couple of very long months. Even though I wanted to explode and tell someone, I didn't feel safe. It wasn't that I was afraid of someone judging me ... I just didn't want them to judge her. I tried to protect her from what I assumed would be unfair, critical, and pious judgment.

I took time to figure out how God was looking at me and my daughter and our family. I asked Him to help me see us how He saw us.

I began to see a counselor and slowly tell extended family and friends. I was the recipient of opinions, recommendations, and compassionate hugs. And although I came to appreciate the help and advice, in the end, the decisions for our family were solely ours.

It wasn't long until those critical decisions were made. Surprisingly, the choices became pretty straightforward. Oh, there were many moments that were extremely tricky and complicated, but God gave us an ability to see our family differently. And it wasn't all that bad after all. When the choice was made to let our daughter and her baby -- our grandson -- live with us, I had no idea how we would do it. But she was counting on me. She was counting on all of us. I knew that little guy was counting on us too. he needed to know that she had a safe place and they had a safe future.

"Simple" wouldn't be a word I would use describe the next months as we watched our daughter's tummy grow. But our family grew amazingly close. Our three other younger teens watched it all with eyes wide-open, and gave friendship and love to their sister that made me proud.

The night she came into my room to tell me she was in labor put made everything so real. I had a job ahead of me as a mom that I didn't know existed: to be the labor-coach and partner to my oldest daughter. By this point I saw that as nothing less than one of the greatest privileges I could have been given.

The diapers, bottles, and loads of baby stuff soon became a regular part of our once all-teenager-gear house. Built-in babysitters and assistants to hold and spoil the newest addition to our family were common in a world of high-school-aged siblings and friends.

Our new normal was easier than I thought it would be. Outsiders were kinder and neighbors more understanding. Walking with a stroller down the same streets I had walked with my own little ones didn't carry the shame I thought it would. We shared our story, showed our determination to remain a strong family, and it brought with it respect and friendship. I believe it showed a tiny picture of God's grace to people who needed to see it.

Following an unexpected pregnancy, family life -- and life in general -- didn't turn out exactly like I thought or planned. But determining to live out the kind of love and grace that God reaches down to give us -- especially through the challenges that gave our family a different "look" -- has brought the greatest rewards. Life in our family really did become sweeter and stronger because of the very thing I thought would have made us weaker.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

"Grama" is JoAnne's favorite hat to wear these days, with one grandson and a granddaughter coming soon. A Canadian by birth and choice, she is an adoptive and birth mom to four incredible grown children. Her kids reside everywhere from Toronto to Sydney, Australia, these days, giving her lots of reasons to do some of the things she loves most: taking lots of photos and writing an abundance of journal entries all while traveling. Add to that a love for gardening, making old things pretty, and her husband of almost 29 years, Paul, and you see why she is grateful for God's incredible faithfulness in her adventure-filled life.

_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 JoAnne Kelly. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on November 7, 2011.

Sun in the Afternoon

Ted Slater — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 18:53:30 -0700

By Patrice Gopo

I never liked avocados until I was pregnant with my daughter. The mushy consistency and seemingly bland flavor that threw me off for my first 29 years of life became a nonsensical, passionate craving.

I chose to say my wedding vows in a breathtakingly beautiful and shockingly scarlet dress. My unusual choice fit my personality for many reasons including my not so humble opinion that red makes me look amazing, and white does nothing for me.

I spent my junior year of college living in London where month by month God slowly began to transform me into the woman I am today: a woman deeply passionate about serving God and serving others.

And truthfully, I want the people around me to know these things.

Not everyone. But at least a few people who have knowledge or connection with the stories that form my past. Not so much because the stories are so important, but rather because knowing the stories mean people more deeply understand me.

Back in the days when I used to think about the type of man I would marry, I hoped that my future husband would be from a huge extended family. My dreams envisioned being part of the connectedness I associate with numerous, closely-knit relatives. My childhood occurred remarkably far away from most of my extended family. The connections were few and far between. Those visits made me wish harder that in my married life, family wouldn't be something far off but rather something next door or across the street or down the road.

I got my wish. Numerous aptly describes my husband's relatives. The only problem is that they live far from us just like my own family. Between our two families, we literally connect to a map of the world as our blood relationships span states, countries, and continents.

With relatives in so many far-flung locations, the importance of community becomes increasingly evident. So in this context, my husband, my daughter, and I strive to put down roots in the city we have lived in for less than a year. The process feels like a lazy flowing stream, slowly moving, and I wish for the speed of a mighty river. I long for deep roots. I long to be known. I long for a network of friends that are like family to us. I long for people who know about my recent avocado love, my red wedding dress, and my life-changing year.

At our farewell party in Cape Town prior to our move to Charlotte, North Carolina, I glanced around at the people present who had become connected to our lives. Despite challenging beginnings, the end result was the sweet realization that we were known and we knew others; the sweet realization that our lives intertwined with the lives of those around us. During our time in Cape Town, we tasted the edge of what it feels like to live in a community that is our family.

Less than a year later, we try to recreate what we had. Or, rather, build afresh in the aftermath of upheaval, resulting from even a much-desired move.

Several months ago, a massive storm dominated and destroyed during the sleeping hours of our town. The city awoke to trees horizontal to the ground, branches in the roads and roofs ruined. Morning showers and debris reminded everyone of the chaos from the night before. As I cautiously drove through intersections without working traffic lights and roads strewn with broken branches, I heard the weatherman on the radio report the storm had passed, the showers would end by late morning and the sun would shine that afternoon. It didn't seem possible looking around at the falling rain and remnants of the storm, but the radio said with confidence the sun would shine.

This journey feels like that storm. Those cyclonic first few weeks in Charlotte moved violently through our lives, and the morning has come where the storm has moved on. The remaining downpour is gradually shifting to sprinkling showers and by the afternoon, the sun will shine. The sun will shine!

I think after nine months, I can glimpse the beginnings of shining sun. In moments of clarity, I see what it might be once the lingering rain subsides and the afternoon sun bursts forth. I imagine children who are like sisters and brothers to my daughter and friends who are as comfortable in my kitchen as I am in theirs. But some days I wish this sense of being deeply rooted in a community already snugly fit in each corner of my soul. In these moments, the grey rain clouds settle back in my heart, and I imagine this desire isn't possible. Not even close.

The process seems to inch forward and then move a centimeter back. Every inch forward hints at what God is building in His time. Every centimeter back reminds me we aren't there yet, and I wonder if I will even know when "there" arrives.

During those two years in Cape Town, God engraved the words of the Psalmist on my heart: "God sets the lonely in families." He created our Cape Town community that became like our family. Not immediately, but in His timing. So in this new place, we take small steps forward as we have become part of a church, joined Bible studies, hosted social events with our new neighbors and friends, and participated in community groups. And I take baby steps back as I reflect on my grey moments and realize so much of my story is still unknown.

Yet, truth reverberates in my head: God sets the lonely in families. Families are created, communities are built because the Master Builder intentionally places people together. I can trust that God is at work because I serve a triune God. As Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, He defines community. Brick by brick this same triune God is building our community and setting us in a family. In time, I will see in the faces of friends who know my stories and whose stories I know, the mighty and powerful hand of God.

The storm clouds have passed, and we are now living in the midst of the remaining showers. I know the sun will shine again in its full God given glory. This longing for deep connection is more than possible. It is the very nature of God. One day, perhaps soon, or perhaps in the far off future, I will awake and realize we are entrenched and intertwined in a community that is our family.

I may not fully realize when the afternoon sun starts shining. I will, however, know it shines by the grace of my God who loves community and family.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Patrice was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. She and her family recently moved from Cape Town, South Africa, to Charlotte, North Carolina, where they are slowly settling into a brand new life. After a decade of traveling the world, pursuing further studies, teaching business courses, and other random adventures, Patrice considers herself blessed to be on one of the best adventures of her life: being wife to Nyasha and mother to Sekai.

_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Patrice Gopo. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on November 7, 2011.

The Heart Sweeper

Ashleigh Slater — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 20:08:42 -0600

By Sarah Forgrave

If there's one household chore I despise above all others, it would be sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor. I mean, is there any job more pointless for a mother of young children?

I can spend an entire day swishing my broom across every square inch of hardwood and then get on my hands and knees and scrub for an hour. But when lunchtime rolls around, my sweet babies will sit in their seats and munch on their grilled cheese sandwiches and their Spaghettios. And inevitably, bread crumbs and clumps of cheese and splotches of red sauce will land on the floor beneath them. In a matter of minutes, all my work will have gone to waste.

Or will it?

I suppose at least that corner behind the trash can won't have a cobweb anymore. And the dried milk spot from last night's supper will be gone. And maybe -- if I’m lucky -- those spots won't reappear until tomorrow. So like a good mother, I'll wipe up my kids' mouths and hands, and then I'll grab the broom again and sweep, sweep, sweep. Then I'll grab a washcloth and scrub until the red spots are gone. And I'll do this after every meal. Every day.

I recently had an epiphany that the spiritual condition of my heart isn't much different than my kitchen floor. It all started when I allowed my priorities to get out of whack. Like any mother, I was struggling to juggle all the responsibilities on my to-do list. As each day passed, I spent less and less time in God's Word. I read my Bible, but it was a cursory five-minute exercise in the morning, and I didn't remember what I'd read an hour later.

And my prayer life? Well, it consisted of a short "Thank You for this food" before meals and that was it. I'd allowed every surface of my heart to collect months' worth of cobwebs and dust and food scraps. It's no surprise that under those conditions, I didn't feel close to God. And I certainly didn't feel much love or joy in my relationships with my husband and children either. I became clogged with so much gunk that I was on life support.

Then one day, I got sick of it and decided to do something about it. I opened up some books that have redirected me in the past, and I lapped them up. As I read, a desire started growing in me -- a desire to get rid of the dust in my heart. A desire to be clean again before the Lord and experience His peace and joy.

And so I dropped onto my knees and confessed my shortcomings to the Father. I begged Him to infuse my life again, to become the Lord of everything, to become my top priority. Filled with a renewed determination and hunger, I sought Him in His Word. I started a prayer journal and wrote in it every day. And the dust started to clear.

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

But one day wasn't enough. Soon I discovered that each day had to start just like the last -- with the same priority of meeting with God first. Because on those days when I didn't sweep out my heart, when I let the busyness of life and the lures of sin and complacency clutter my heart, I was dropping the red splatters of Spaghettios on my heart's floor. And those spots would remain there until I met with God again and wiped them away. Every day.

I recently heard a sermon about Elijah, recounting the time he'd faced off against the prophets of Baal. He challenged them to call on their god to set fire to an altar they'd built. But their god remained silent. Then Elijah set up his altar and went as far as dumping water all over it. And when he called on the name of the Lord, fire flashed down from heaven and burned up the altar and everything in it.

This was a spiritual high for Elijah. He was invincible after seeking God's power and watching it at work. His heart had been swept clean until it sparkled.

But in the very next chapter (1 Kings 19), he learned of Queen Jezebel's plan to kill him, and he fled for his life, wishing himself dead. Right after this huge spiritual accomplishment, he fell to the bottom.

There are many reasons why he could have dropped to this spiritual low, but if his life is anything like mine, he may have given into the trap of complacency. He may have thought, "I just swept out my heart last week when I burned up that altar. So I should be good for a while." Or, "I'll skip my prayer time today. I know God is with me; He just proved it back there with those prophets."

How many times do I make those same excuses? How many times do I think, "I learned so much from the sermon on Sunday, I don't need to read God's Word this morning. I'll just let the sermon simmer for a while." Or, "God already forgave me for the time I gossiped last week. I don't need to tell Him about how I gossiped again today at lunch."

But in letting the daily priorities of Bible reading and prayer slip, I'm letting that dust accumulate all over again. And until I seek Him first, nothing will get swept.

The pastor who preached about Elijah also shared this comment: "We must never presume that yesterday's sacrifice is twice enough for today's blessings."

As I thought about his words, I returned to the image of my kitchen floor. What if I spent two hours scrubbing it yesterday, waxing and polishing and buffing? Does that mean it will be clean today when the dust resettles and the crumbs fall and the cobwebs reappear? Can I just sit in my chair and pretend those crumbs will disappear since I swept them up yesterday?

If I took that approach, my floor would be a sticky and dusty mess by next week.

The truth I've learned is that keeping my heart clean comes down to priorities. The more I meet with God, the more He can take His broom and sweep out those dusty corners. And as I allow Him to do this daily, He will wipe my heart's surface until it is sparkling clean, putting me one step ahead when the next mess comes.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Sarah Forgrave is a freelance writer who feels blessed to follow God's calling for her life. In addition to articles, Sarah writes contemporary romance novels for the Christian market and also blogs at her two homes in the blogosphere: Her group blog, The Writers Alley, and her personal blog, where she hosts monthly giveaways. When she's not in front of the computer writing, she enjoys being a stay-at-home mom to her two young children and cheering on Colts football with her husband in their Midwest home. All of Sarah's Ungrind articles are available on one page.

_______________________________________________________________________

Copyright © 2011 Sarah Forgrave. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on October 17, 2011.

Faith Seeds

Ashleigh Slater — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 19:53:08 -0600

By Melanie N. Brasher

My preschooler and I awake to a soft pitter-patter.

We watch as God wrings cotton ball clouds over thirsty garden bed. Droplets trickle down pane and sink into blackened earth, turning cracked soil play dough and wilting stems rulers, and right before our eyes, the silky water transforms the landscape.

"Read a story." My son chooses our rainy day activity.

"Which one?"

"Jesus died cross."

I search his face. He's sprouting another inch and growing a vocabulary. When did my firstborn become a real boy? A running, tickling, squealing, ball-kicking, bug-finding, inquisitive boy? Wasn't he just my baby? Like the six-month-old I hold in my arms? Before I can blink, the scene's changing like my cilantro plant flowering white.

Did he just ask for the crucifixion story?

I'm surprised. But should I be?

Almost every night my husband and I plant seeds in our son's mind. His tiny heart. Under soft light of lamps and twinkling stars, we read stories from the Bible. Tales whispered and retold for generations: The fall of Adam and Eve, Abraham's faith, Joseph's dreams, David's victory, Jonah's reluctant obedience, Daniel's escape from ferocious lions -- the collective stories that tell of God's grand pursuit and love for humanity, and ultimately point to Jesus Christ's death and resurrection.

And this past Lenten season, we spent forty days nourishing our body with brown rice and Scripture passages on Christ's journey to the cross. We watched snippets of the Savior's life in the Jesus film. And when Easter arrived, we celebrated the empty grave— -- he resurrection -- with roasted chicken and vegetables.

Could it be tiny shoots are now sprouting in our son's inner chambers like perennial chives pushing out of frozen ground? For on this drizzly day, it amazes me that our son chooses the crucifixion story over all his picture books. Is it possible our son's ready to accept Jesus as his Savior?

I pull out the Bible our son received on his dedication, and we flip to the familiar pages. I read. He listens. He points to Jesus' hands and feet, the cross, dark clouds. He repeats the word "angel" when I read of the empty grave.

"Turn the page." He urges me to read more. "Again."

I read the pages like a song on repeat, and he's curled up on my lap, engrossed in the illustrations. His chubby finger points to the pictures as the rain streaks down the bedroom window.

"We all do naughty things -- it's called sin." I seize the opportunity to expound the story, stumbling over words. "This sin separates us from God ... uh ... because God's holy. But the good news is Jesus took your punishment. He died on the cross for you."

Argh. The gospel's sounding like algebra. How is my three-year-old supposed to understand my Christian jargon? Only I can turn something so simple into the quadratic equation. I may as well throw in the theological terms of atonement, propitiation, and redemption. How do I tell my son that Jesus died for his sin? Took his place? How do I explain the gift of salvation? My heart wrings like the clouds outside, as I will for him to grasp, know, and understand the good news.

I take a deep breath to try explaining again, but my son's high-pitched voice interrupts my thoughts.

"Jesus got owies." My son points to the holes in Jesus' hands and feet. My heart quickens. Of course. Owies. It's the perfect word. "Yes, Jesus took owies in his hands and feet for you and me."

The next few minutes, I manage to find simple words. And this time, I'm positive it all makes sense. I'm sure he comprehends. But just when I think he's ready to receive, he jumps up to play with his toy car. Did anything sink into his heart? Did my words fail? Could I have explained it even better? Will he ever understand his need for a Savior?

The rest of the morning is a flurry of activity: play, quiet, snack, and lunch time. Yet, in the midst of the bustle, I see a tiny shoot.

"Jesus loves you." I remind him during one of our activities.

"Yes." My son surprises me, and I marvel at his belief.

Is this what it means to have child-like faith? To say "yes" even when you don't fully understand? Though my son doesn't understand the entire gospel, he knows he's loved. God is at work in his heart. It's a process. A journey. Why do I worry?

At naptime, I watch my son drift to the land of nod, witness the steady rise and fall of another morning past, and notice the rain has stopped. Outside, the sun's rays push the clouds away. The foliage is damp with precipitation. The ground nourished wet. The plants in my garden drink deep to the roots. Is it me? Or are my basil plants an inch taller right under my nose? For, every spring, after sowing tiny seeds into blackened earth, I ask the same question. Will my garden grow? And every summer, God transforms the tiny seeds into full grown plants, complete with fruit and flowers. I plant. The Creator transforms. It's an annual miracle.

It occurs to me that the same miracle in nature can happen in my son's heart. I don't need the right set of words, or fancy explanations. I must continue to read the stories and pray, trusting the living water -- the Son -- will sprout life in my son's heart.

The sky clears, and my heart's as light as the drifting clouds. I smooth back my son's hair, planting a kiss on his forehead. "Jesus loves you." I bury truth deep in his inner lobe. And as he sleeps, I watch my garden grow seeds of faith.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Melanie N. Brasher is a full time mama of two boys and wife to an incredible husband who understands her bicultural background. She moonlights as a fiction and freelance writer, crafting stories and articles toward justice and change, and dreams of becoming a voice for the unheard. She's a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, and a contributing blogger for Hoosier Ink. She contemplates faith, family and writing at her personal blog. Though she's an aspiring author, she'll never quit her day job.
_______________________________________________________________________

Article copyright © 2011 Joy N. Malik. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on October 17, 2011.

The Value of Contentment

Ashleigh Slater — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 19:46:20 -0600

By Sarah Jaggard

When I was working in my first full-time job post-college, I experienced what I now clearly identify as "burn out." Maybe you've heard of it? It's usually signified by feeling strained, exhausted, and generally overwhelmed with even the smallest tasks.

I was working in a pastoral leadership position at a fairly influential church in Los Angeles and I didn't realize that ministry is not a "job," it’s a lifestyle. I was having trouble managing my life, and if my life were likened to a plane it was going down in flames fast.

I met with a mentor one day at a Starbucks down the street from my office. I was hyper vigilant about anyone from staff hearing about my near-nervous breakdown, and since we were at the favorite coffee stop of most staffers, I had to make sure our meeting area was safe from anyone I knew. After surveying the coffee shop and making sure no one I worked with or served was there to overhear my outpouring, I broke down in tears.

"I can't do it anymore!" I cried to her.

She looked at me with understanding in her eyes and she said, "Maybe you can do it, you just can't do it all."

Can't do it all? What did she mean? Of course I can. I have always had a full plate and I've done just fine. [Insert obvious denial here.]

"Sarah, what are your values?" she asked. Values? It was like she was speaking another language to me.

"What do you mean?" I said with a furrowed brow.

She kindly began, "Values are the basic guiding principles all people live by; everyone has them whether they are aware of it or not. Values influence how we make decisions and what we choose to give our time and energy to. Having a clear, conscious understanding of our values helps us make healthy choices and helps us live the life we want to."

That conversation opened a new door for me; I had never thought about my values before. As I spent time dissecting the question posed to me, I slowly began to unwrap what those deeply seeded desires of my heart were. It's taken me the better part of ten years to discover and establish my values on a grander, life scale, and they are almost constantly being refined.

I think my most significant value is focused around the idea of contentment.

What was true of my that one day sitting across from my mentor at Starbucks still rings true for me today: I usually try to control my environment and surroundings in ways that I believe will make me happier and more content. As I am struck with the human condition of an insatiable spirit, I try to fill the void. Sure, I have a relationship with God but I like to take things into my own hands. I don't tend to trust God with my needs, especially with my desperate need for contentment.

So I work tirelessly to try to empty the ocean with a cup -- an impossible task. I make lists and check off tasks I've accomplished to make me feel successful, I pursue new relationships with people to ease feelings of loneliness, and I'll make purchases of things I think I "need."

My longing for contentment runs so very deep. It's a "value" for me but it's often misled. I tend to miss the source of where contentment actually comes from.

I'm not sure I can fully wrap my head around the idea of contentment but it seems like Jesus was clear that it comes from him alone. All through Scripture, authors point to contentment through Christ, and the freedom that it brings.

Contentment means lack of control.
It means freedom of expectation.
It means acceptance of what comes.

Ugh. I wish that were not a struggle for me.

Over the years, my value for contentment has evolved and I believe it's beginning to get on the right path. I've spent particularly the past few months meditating heavily on the promises God offers through Scripture, because no matter what life throws at me I know I can stand firm -- content -- knowing that God will make good on His commitments to me.

How does this look fleshed out for me? Well, I try hard not to make my own list of things I think will make me happy and I focus on God's list. What does He promise?

God promises He will give me a hope and a future.
God promises He will never leave me or forsake me.
God promises He will always provide for my needs.
God promises He will always forgive and always comfort.

With a list like that, it gives me the freedom to make decisions without fear and without expectation (on my best days, admittedly). If I focus on God's values for my life, it releases me of the pressure to "do" life a certain way, over commit, or to stress over temporal circumstances.

My main value in life right now is contentment. It's my main priority, and it comes through slowly releasing my sense of control. No list, decision, or relationship can bring satisfaction like the abundant love and promises of Christ.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Simply put, "Sarah is a force of nature wrapped in a small package." A native to Southern California, she's been born, raised, and educated in Los Angeles. Dramatic communication has been a passion of hers since she was five years old and her father told her she would make a great lawyer or award-winning actress.

While Sarah never pursued either of those options, she does hold degrees in Communication and Theology. Her journey has led her through working at Disney, serving on the pastoral ministry team at Mosaic, and teaching public speaking at Biola University and Pepperdine University. Additionally, she has consulted for the Style Network, World Vision, and the Gallup Organization in various capacities.

In her spare time, she enjoys hiking, baking, writing, traveling, and doing public speaking of her own. She has a mostly joking obsession with Phil Collins. (But really, she loves Phil Collins.) Read more of Sarah's Ungrind articles here.
_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Sarah Jaggard. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on October 17, 2011.

An Undistracted Life

Ashleigh Slater — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 19:45:05 -0600

By Jessica Boling

Technology steals my time.

I'll quickly check Facebook, I tell myself. But a quick check becomes an hour-long foray: scrolling through status messages, chatting with a friend who happens to be online, and skimming multiple photo albums. Coming to my senses while clicking through photos of people I don't know, I feel alarmed. What am I doing? How did technology become an unconscious priority, soaking up time like a thirsty sponge?

I feel numb. At the end of a long day of teaching and completing household chores, the numbness is a relief -- for the moment. Later, I'll wish I had chosen an alternate way to decompress. The distractions of our instant world do nothing to lower my stress level. They escalate it. I bury my priorities, stuffing them into an unseen corner of my mind and enjoying the brief numbness of the distracted life.

If asked what I value most, I would reply without hesitation: "Relationships." Relationships with God and other people deliver the most satisfying experiences. The deeper the relationships are, the more honest and truthful they are, the more real they are, the more satisfying they are. I desire deep relationships with God and with the people around me, but often I neglect pursuit of them. I even neglect my own emotions and needs, choosing to retreat into technology-induced numbness.

Technology is a useful tool -- and a threat to my priorities. It links me with far-off friends, but keeps me from those who are closest. Socially, the internet creates an illusion of intimacy with others while maintaining insurmountable distance.

It is easy, in some ways, to be vulnerable with others via internet chats or text messages. I type things that I have no courage to say aloud. But is such communication equivalent to face-to-face talk? Text messaging can't convey body language, emotion, and eye contact. It'll never be as real as sitting with a friend, listening to the rise and fall of her voice, and nodding when I empathize with her words. Tone cannot be communicated via text. Neither can pain. I can hide behind the computer screen, avoiding honesty and vulnerability.

In Ephesians 4, Paul uses the metaphor of a human body to describe the Church. His imagery is vivid: we are to function as one body, communicating clearly with each other, and maintaining true relationships -- "speaking the truth in love" so that we will "grow in every way into Him who is the head -- Christ" (4:15).

Paul and the early Church never dreamed of the technological wonders of our culture, but the spirit of his words convince me that he speaks of a closeness between believers that is hardly attainable via status messages and blog comments. The internet is a helpful link, but it does not replace the reality of connecting with people.

The closer I get to another person, the more we grate upon each other's nerves. We have to talk about difficult things. We see each other's faults: what can be easily hidden online is soon revealed in person. Paul describes a Body of Christ that is ragged, uncomfortable, and imperfect -- yet with hope of redemption. Miraculously, through experiencing the uncomfortable facets of close relationships, I become more like Christ. From annoyance I learn patience. From doubt I learn to trust. From disputes I learn unconditional love.

Another peril of instant communication is its threat to quiet reflection. Armed with cell phone and laptop computer, I expect constant interruptions during my work or quiet time. It is difficult to break away, to leave the laptop at home and silence the cell phone ringer, when I'm aware that urgent messages could be arriving in my absence from the technological world. Snippets of information and communication crowd my mind, interrupting quietness.

In today's culture, it takes tremendous effort to seek and find time for contemplation. I snatch it in five-minute packages, wondering how medieval monks could spend hours in prayer. Hours? I am fortunate to find ten minutes. And even if I find it, isolating it and pinning it down -- sitting in silence before God with no interruptions -- is extremely difficult. It doesn't happen naturally; I have to fight for it. I must ignore the distractions because they never go away.

Technology threatens my relationships with other people and easily robs my time for quiet contemplation. It also distracts me from the reality of relationship with God. My prayers are like twenty-word text messages when they could be warm conversations with my Father. I send quick, thoughtless requests to Him and expect immediate answers in similar form. Then I wonder what's wrong because God doesn't text me back. I want Him to conform to the expectations of my society, to make Him into a compliant deity who interacts on my terms.

But God doesn't want a virtual relationship with me. He wants me to know Him, deeply and fully, as He already knows me. He wants us to have long, loving conversations. He wants me to see Him not as a vending machine, shifting circumstances according to my whims, but as a Father who disciplines and corrects, yet holds and loves. If I restrict my prayer life to blurted one-sentence requests and take no time to dig for the answers my soul craves, I will never grow close to God. Instead, I will keep Him at a safe distance, as if I am hiding behind a screen instead of conversing with Him face-to-face.

I am glad that my soul craves answers, because the craving tugs me away from distractions. Difficult circumstances stretch and pull until all I can do is ask, "Why is this happening?" When I am in pain, the distractions of technology lack their former power to numb my senses. The endless flow of information and communication through phone, television, and internet seems meaningless. My vision clears, and I see that technology is helpless to heal the brokenness of my spirit, heart, and mind.

I close the window of my Facebook page and breathe deeply. The last rays of a gorgeous sunset pour through the window above my desk. I lift my eyes to the plethora of colors: reds, oranges, and yellows painted across the sky. Closing my laptop, I put it away and step outside to see the painting and talk with its Artist. Tempted to feel guilty for wasting another hour of my life, I recognize that there is plenty of grace to cover this and other shortcomings. Standing in the cool breeze of an autumn evening, I feel a renewed desire to live an undistracted life.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Jessica Boling spent the first 23 years of her life in Tennessee, and the next two serving as a resident assistant at a missionary boarding school in Germany. Now back in Tennessee, she lives in a little yellow house and works a plethora of part-time jobs. Her favorite is running a homeschool cooperative based on Charlotte Mason's educational ideals. Learn more about Jessica by visiting her blog, I Wonder as I wander.

_______________________________________________________________________

Copyright © 2011 Jessica Boling. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on October 17, 2011.

Forgiving Me

Ashleigh Slater — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 06:33:29 -0600

By Patrice Gopo

Not surprisingly, my mistakes are many and varied. While I strive to be calm, during moments of frustration, I can easily snap at my husband. I see the look on his face, and I wish I could grab my words and stuff them back into my mind rather than letting them escape from my tongue. The sadness in his response confirms that I have recklessly hurt him deeply.

Sometime last year, I was watching my friend's little boy. As a mom of one, tossing another child in the mix tends to bring a bit of chaos to my day. At one point both children were crying for reasons that weren't clear. My quick mommy analysis assessed that my friend's son's sobs were louder and more concerning than my daughter's. Into my arms he went with a rocking hug motion to soothe his tears. After they subsided, I picked my daughter up only to discover blood. She had cut herself, and I had triaged the situation incorrectly. For the remainder of the day, feelings of inadequacy and self-anger held me captive.

Several years before I married my husband, I lingered in a relationship that should have been over from nearly the start. Our values weren't aligned. Our goals didn't mesh well. Arguments were prevalent. Our faith in Christ didn't transform our lives in similar ways. The proverbial red flags were everywhere. Yet, I stayed hoping that things would change and wanting him to be "the one" even though I knew he wasn't. When we finally went our separate ways, I was angry that I had clung so long, upset that I had been so unwise, and frustrated that it took me several years to find the courage to walk away.

As a human being, mistakes will inevitably find me. Either through misjudging a situation (picking up the wrong baby), making unwise choices (dating the wrong guy), or giving in to my own sinful nature (using harsh words), situations are constantly arising that I wish could have gone differently.

In varying degrees, the outcomes plague me long after the situation has past. Phrases ripe with self blame play on repeat in my head: "You are so silly," "That was a dumb thing to do," "Why couldn't you find kinder words to say?" "Why can't you control your temper?" "Why are you here all over again?" I find myself dealing with regrets about making a mistake or a poor choice. In those moments, I believe that I have failed to live up to my expectations of myself.

And what are those expectations?

I expect that I will always make the best decision. I expect that I will always make the right decision. I expect that I will always make the wise decision. I expect that I will always make the decision that yields a good outcome.

In a phrase: unrealistic expectations.

Long after my baby's tears have dried and her cut has healed, long after my husband has wrapped his arms around me graciously extending words of forgiveness, long after a wrong relationship is a thing of the past, my anger at myself continues to remain in dark corners of my mind. The next time I find that I am not living up to my own expectations, my mind can readily find previous examples of personal shortcomings, sin, and mistakes.

So maybe I can be just a little bit hard on myself. Is that really a problem?

Absolutely. This tendency to ruminate on my own past sins and mistakes has effectively made my own opinion of me more important than God's opinion of me. While God is looking at me through eyes of grace, I'm looking at myself through eyes of impossible perfection.

Perhaps this is why I am drawn to the disciple Peter's story of imperfection, forgiveness, and restoration. His clear love for Christ contrasted with denying his Lord, not once, not twice, but three times. Denying Christ three times after being warned that he was going to do that. This failure seems like an example of the perfect opportunity to remain angry with yourself, berate yourself for falling so short of your own expectations, and wonder if Christ could possibly forgive you.

Peter's denial of Christ was a wrong decision, a significant mistake, and ultimately sin. And yet Christ forgave Peter and restored him. What if Peter had chosen to beat himself up about his failure? What if he replayed his decisions and constantly recreated his error? Would he have been expecting perfection out of himself rather than gazing on the perfection of Christ? Would ruminating over his failure have effectively been denying Christ's extension of forgiveness?

Peter's story of sin and restoration remind me that my heart should be focused on God's expectations of me rather than my own expectations of self. Micah 6:8 states:

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.

The phrases "do justice" and "love kindness" remind me that through the power of God I should strive to live as Christ wants me too. I should desire to make wise choices and overcome areas of sin. I should keep growing daily to be continually transformed to be more like Christ.

However, in the problem area of falling short of my own expectations, it's the last part of this verse that brings about the greatest conviction. God commands me to walk humbly with Him. Part of walking humbly with my God is accepting His perfect forgiveness for my sins, my mistakes, and my shortcomings. Accepting God's forgiveness means choosing to also forgive me. Part of understanding God's forgiveness is recognizing that perfection will never find me in this life.

Christ's blood shed on the cross covers all of my sins. The ones I've done and the ones I have yet to do. His gift of grace is an extension of forgiveness. How can I not forgive me, when God has given His son for the forgiveness of my sins?

Forgiving me means letting go of my expectation that I won't mess up, that I won't make mistakes. It is choosing to believe that God fully forgives me when I stumble, fall, or even dive into sin. That He forgives me for dating the wrong guy for too long, snapping at my husband, or not being there when my daughter needed me. In this, there is freedom to release my expectations of perfection and instead cling to the perfection of my Savior.

And Peter? I imagine after Christ told him to feed His sheep, he focused his eyes ahead as he used his own experience with Christ's forgiveness to build God's kingdom. God's redemption and restoration message were permanently imprinted on his heart. God's forgiving grace ultimately gave him the power to forgive himself.

So I choose to say goodbye to unrealistic expectations of perfect decision making and never messing up. In its place, I choose humility before the throne of Christ; humility to fully accept and believe that God's overwhelming grace and forgiveness enable me to move forward rather than hold me hostage to my past.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Patrice was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. She and her family recently moved from Cape Town, South Africa, to Charlotte, North Carolina, where they are slowly settling into a brand new life. After a decade of traveling the world, pursuing further studies, teaching business courses, and other random adventures, Patrice considers herself blessed to be on one of the best adventures of her life: being wife to Nyasha and mother to Sekai.

_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Patrice Gopo. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on September 25, 2011.

Dinner Impossible

Ashleigh Slater — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 14:26:57 -0600

By Sarah Winfrey

I didn't have high expectations when my daughter was born. Really, I didn't. I wanted her to be herself, to get to know her, to learn who she was on her own time. I didn't need her to be smart or funny or especially coordinated. I didn't dream of her playing varsity sports or getting into an Ivy League college, or even getting straight A's.

I did, however, expect that she would want to eat.

I'd always heard how voracious babies are. My friends told me horror stories of children who woke up every hour-and-a-half for six months, demanding to be fed. They told me about having their milk sucked dry during growth spurts and about all the unlikely places they'd had to stop along the side of the road because the baby got hungry.

No one told me stories about newborns who weren't interested in food. They didn't tell me about the kids who would much rather sleep than eat, about the ones who had to be tickled with ice cubes to get them to bother suckling at all.

When I realized my daughter wasn't eating in the ways I'd been taught to think of as "normal," I panicked. Postpartum hormones combined with new mother worries to produce the perfect storm of anxiety. I began to dread being home alone with my girl, not because I didn't enjoy her, but because then the awful responsibility of making sure she got enough to eat sat only with me, and I didn't know if I could get the job done.

Still, my baby grew. Sluggishly, perhaps, but she did get bigger. That didn't quell my concerns, though. I felt like I had to keep fighting to get her to consume more or the doctors might think something was wrong. I didn't want that. I wanted to be a decent mother, to be able to nurture my child, to at least succeed at the basics like making sure she had enough food and fluids.

My expectations, small as they were, got the best of me for a while. As she got older, our days revolved around mealtimes, around finding something (anything!) that she would enjoy for more than a few bites. I felt myself shrinking as my world revolved around the number of tablespoons consumed and ounces drank. I stopped going out if it meant being gone over a meal, because I could best control what she ate and make sure she got "enough" when we had all our food at home.

I got sucked into a bad place. My daughter's eating became a vortex, and it inhaled more than just the two of us. Anyone who was around during mealtime got taken into its swirl. Even worse, most of the people I talked to regularly knew all about it. I couldn't stop thinking about it and worrying that things might not be OK.

It was during one of my many conversation about my baby's size and eating habits that my eyes were opened to what was really going on. "So she's not a good eater," someone said. "Doesn't she exceed your expectations every other way?"

"I didn't have any expectations," I said. "I just wanted her to eat."

My interlocutor was gracious enough not to point out the contradiction inherent in my statement, but I saw it for myself as I said it. True, I didn't have certain types of expectations, but I did plan for my baby to be certain ways and not others. As much as I hated this truth, it seemed that I had expectations for my daughter after all.

But my expectations didn't just focus on her. They were, in fact, two-fold. I expected her to eat, but I expected to be able to cajole her into it when she didn't want to. I expected myself to be a good mother, and making sure my child had enough food not only on her plate but in her stomach seemed fundamental to that.

These realizations proved a turning point for me in my relationship with my daughter. Once I could see my expectations as expectations, I could begin to let them go. Until then, I didn't know what to do with the part of me that felt consumed with her eating. I didn't know what drove me, and so I couldn't tell where all the stress was coming from.

Still, letting them go wasn't easy. I began to pray for wisdom, to see my way through to a place where I could both care for my girl and not become obsessed with it. Eating is essential for life, so I couldn't walk away from the project entirely, but seeing my expectations exposed helped me do something that many parents struggle with. I began to take all my negative feelings to the One who created both she and I, and ask Him for help.

I believe that children are a gift from the Lord, but I don't think that means they cease being His when he chooses to share them with us. Instead, we're given part of something very special to hold. But in the end, it's His arms that encircle us all. He is still the Change-Bringer, the one who can make tomorrow's situation different from today's. As I sat with this truth, I came to see that He holds both my daughter and I in the palm of His hand, and we can either rest in what He gives us there or we can struggle to carry the situation ourselves.

My daughter is 18-months-old now. Meals are still the diciest parts of many days. But she's not just my baby. She's also Jesus' little girl, and He'll take care of her where I can't. He's proven over and over that He will always exceed my expectations, even if it's in ways I never would have planned.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Sarah Winfrey is a freelance writer and a mother, though not necessarily in that order. She learned to love both Jesus and words early in life, and now she's working to combine those two loves with passion and creativity. Her blog, Blessings Like Winged Horses, reflects this growing edge. Right now, she resides in Centennial, Colorado, where she's coming to appreciate the cold again.

_______________________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2011 Sarah Winfrey. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on September 18, 2011.

The Comparison Monster

Ashleigh Slater — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 08:43:09 -0600

Melanie N. Brasher

Most days, I believe my seventeen-month-old is doing just fine.

He seems to be on track developmentally. He's discovering the freedom of walking, giggling at his mommy's silly songs, playing with his toys, and conversing with my husband and me in various consonants, diphthongs, and the occasional semblance of a word. He's growing taller, eating well, and thriving. In fact, all is well ... until I take him to play group. In a room full of little people, I measure my son against his peers and feel the capabilities comparison monster emerge within me.

"Simon recognizes his letters," one parent's chest swells as little Simon-smarty-pants walks around the room saying "cat," "dog," "mouse," "house," and other cutesy English words. As I watch Simon, I wonder why the only recognizable word from my son is a repetitive "this, this" in the form of a question. This thought leads my mind on a spiral toward future reading remediation and speech therapy. I better drill the alphabet tomorrow and read the current research on how to teach your toddler to read.

As my eyes scan the play center, the comparison monster festers and digs his razor claws inside my mind.

Across the room, Fanny-figure-out-all-toys stacks all the rings on a pole, puts puzzle pieces in the right places, and sorts all of the blocks -- all within a matter of minutes. Meanwhile, my son repetitively bangs a stacking ring on the hardwood just to hear the loud sound. I watch as one ring flies across the floor and lands with a loud WHACK.

I'm now positive all eyes are on my boy and his improper use of this toy. Worse. All eyes are on me and my inability to teach. Or parent. I feel blood rush to my face. I wipe my palms against my pant legs.

"Put the ring on the pole," I tell my son in a taffy sweet voice, but inside I feel like a ship tossed on a boisterous ocean. The emotional storm's rising.

My son looks up and smiles, but instead of doing what he should, he shakes another ring in his hand and throws it down again. "Is that a crashing wooden ring or your son's future S.A.T score?" The monster jeers.

I am going to demonstrate how to use these toys properly. I make a firm resolve.

As I continue to watch the other kids, and hear parent's describe their abilities, I feel the comparison monster taunting me. Soon I am measuring every kid against my son. Susie-sign-language says "please," "thank you," "more," and "all done" with perfect gestures, while I still have to help mine do the actions. Tony-throw-and-catch-the-ball runs around the room, while my son teeter totters around my leg, tripping and falling down many times, or so it seems.

Today I compare simple vocabulary and dexterity, but tomorrow I see reading levels and athletic ability. And so what if he can't stack blocks, at least he's the cutest boy present -- or is he? The list is endless, and soon my mind is a spinning top. In a matter of minutes, my son's future crumbles like the Roman Empire.

"Why can't your son do this?" I hear the comparison monster's voice echo through my mind. "Is he normal? Is he developing properly?" The voice is relentless, and I go home feeling like I have been fighting a defeated battle.
"Honey, is there something wrong with our son?" I flop down beside my husband. His quizzical brow and questioning eyes encourage me to share my comparisons, and I find myself emphasizing all of the things our son is not doing at this time. After a few moments of silence, his answer surprises me.

"We tend to focus on the capabilities of our children, but how often do we focus on character? Let's teach our son character -- it's far more important." His gentle wisdom astounds me.

"Character vs. capabilities," I whisper under my breath, and truth begins to fill my mind. Suddenly I remember these words from Proverbs: "Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it" (22:6). I have a feeling this verse is not talking about counting to ten or singing the alphabet, but perhaps about teaching a child to obey his parents and ultimately his God. Perhaps it's about teaching him discipline, integrity, contentment, and love by praying greatly, and relying on the Holy Spirit. As I let this truth sink into my heart, I feel the monster lose its grip.

My husband reminds me that by the time our son is eighteen he will most likely be able to talk, read, write, solve problems, run, and heck, even dance if he wants to, but what about his character? Will we have modeled love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, and self control -- the abundant fruit of the Spirit? Will we have taught him a passionate and obedient love for Jesus by our example? Will we have instilled in him a desire to give and serve? Perhaps asking these questions before God is the path towards training our son in the way he should go.

Later, I sit down to play with my son and he surprises me. He puts a puzzle piece in the correct spot. I jump up and down, clapping my hands and cheering him on. We play a game of "where is this or that," and he responds by pointing to the various things. As we interact, it dawns on me how God created this boy with his own unique personality, special talents, and gifts. He isn't a clone, or a machine, but he is a dynamic person, and he will learn at his own pace. I feel so blessed to be his mother, and once again I realize, that by God's grace, my son is growing well.

I am certain that the comparison monster will strike again, maybe even tomorrow. And perhaps next time he'll tempt me to compare spiritual growth and Bible verse memorization? Whatever the case, I will cling to God's truth and grace to develop my character.

To discuss this article, visit our blog, Fresh Brew.
______________________________________________________________________

Melanie N. Brasher is a full time mama of two boys and wife to an incredible husband who understands her bicultural background. She moonlights as a fiction and freelance writer, crafting stories and articles toward justice and change, and dreams of becoming a voice for the unheard. She's a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, and a contributing blogger for Hoosier Ink. She contemplates faith, family and writing at her personal blog. Though she's an aspiring author, she'll never quit her day job.
_______________________________________________________________________

Article copyright © 2011 Joy N. Malik. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on September 10, 2011.