Christian by Association

Family First.

2013-04-18T08:32:00.001-05:00

This morning my husband got out of bed two hours earlier than he normally would. He did this so he could get to work early enough to be able to leave in time this evening to make our son's 5:30 t-ball game (that will more than likely get rained out). My husband works hard. Long 12 hour shifts in the emergency room, during which he is often so busy that there is no chance to eat or even sit down. And as I felt him stirring around this morning, only a few hours after we had gone to bed, it struck me that when it comes to my husband and the father of my children, I really just lucked out.

I have heard much talk recently about prioritizing "kingdom" work and family time. What should reign supreme in our lives, who should come first, etc. And as I have been chewing on this I have been convicted. Ironically, my conviction has come in the opposite form of what was intended. I am not guilty of putting my family before ministry, I am guilty of the reverse.

I am guilty of putting tasks that others are capable of doing over the one job on this earth that only I can do. Anyone can organize a church potluck. Anyone can head up a new program. Anyone can counsel with a struggling youth. Anyone can teach a Sunday School class. Anyone can serve in a church building.

But I am THE ONLY ONE on this earth who can be a mother to my children.

And I am THE ONLY ONE on this earth who can be a wife to my husband.

Grasping that little nugget has put a lot of things into perspective for me. And as my husband readied himself for a long day and left the house this morning, and I lay in our warm bed with still a few hours left to snore, it occurred to me that while I have struggled with this, he seems to have figured it out. It took me by surprise when I sat at t-ball practice a few weeks ago by myself and my husband showed up. He had left work early to come and watch our son run around a field acting like a crazy man. What motivated him to do that, I wondered. Could it be because every father was once a son, and a son knows, better than any one, what it means to be a great dad?

Days after that practice I attended a funeral for the father of a dear friend. I had never met him, but from the funeral a few things were apparent. One was that he loved God, and the other was that he loved his family. One of his sons stood up to share about his father, and one of the most heartfelt remarks that he made was that in all the years he couldn't think of a single ballgame that his father had missed. What he didn't say was that he couldn't think of a single church program that his father hadn't attended and served in, nor did he comment on how faithfully his dad attended church work days or the like. What stood out to this son, was his father's commitment to him. He had know question of his dad's love for him, and I wonder if his own understanding of God's love didn't flow from that. I would be willing to bet that it did.

So much to ponder, as I sit here listening to my boys discussing the magical happening that is "snacks" at church, I wonder how many times I have hurried off to tend to "kingdom work" when I should have been here serving on this mission field that is my home. My family. Filling the shoes that only I can fill.

There is balance in this, as in all things. Of course we are not exempt, nor forbidden, from ministry work, and that is not what I am saying. But I tend to be an all or nothing kind of person. I don't like to simply wade in the shallow end, I like to dive head first and fully submerge myself in the waters of whatever I'm doing, and that works a little like quicksand. Once you're involved in one area of ministry you begin to see how much more effective ministry on the whole would be if all areas would work together in synchronicity. And so you start to pull threads from other areas and try to weave it all together, and soon you're all knotted up. I think this comes, in part, from limited resources. As is so often the case, there tends to be only a few who are really engaged in service, and rather than delegating things out it becomes easier to just do it yourself. A monster results.

As I type this, the pendulum has swung from one extreme to the other, and I am completely untied from all things. And so I will, soon, begin to seek a way to serve, but I will do so with a renewed sense of perspective. Why am I doing this, and what am I sacrificing in the process? I will be honest with you, for fathers and mothers who have kids at home, in this delicate season of life when we are trying to be effective parents and raise effective human beings, I feel the biggest chunk of our ministry work should take place at home, as we pour into the lives of our children and our spouse. Every thing else is bonus, and should be carefully weighed against the sacrifice of precious family time. Because in the end, there will always be a Sunday School class to teach, a program to serve in, a struggling person to counsel, a bible study to attend, and a potluck to organize, and yes, a blog to write, but we only have one shot with our kids. One chance to raise them.

You are the only mother or father your children have, and the only husband or wife to your spouse, cherish that, above all else.

When the big "D" hits.

2013-03-25T13:56:00.000-05:00

There is a recurring dream that I've had for as long as I can remember. The scenario changes, sometimes I'm young, other times I'm old, sometimes I'm trying to get to something and others away from something. But what remains the same is that I never make any progress. Not forward at least. In the dreams when I try to move forward I begin to float upwards instead. The harder I try to run, the more frantic and desperate I become to move ahead, the higher I float. It is extremely frustrating, because once my feet leave the ground I am helpless, unable to navigate in any direction, all I can do is steady myself until I float back down. And every time, when my feet are once again firmly planted on the ground I try to run. And up I go.

I hate these dreams. I have them often, and they have become the bane of my unconscious existence. They represent a struggle that I never seem to make any progress through. I can gain no more ground in them today than I could twenty years ago. As crazy as it may sound, I would prefer a nightmare. At least when I'm being hunted by a shark or when Freddy Krueger is coming out of my toilet, there is some hope for escape. But when I'm floating, there is none.

This past Saturday was a bad day. My kids were well and happy, my husband was home and as loving and attentive as ever, and there were a hundred things that I could have gone and done, and would have really liked to. And yet, I sat on my couch for the majority of the day and cried. I have these days from time to time. There are different things that trigger them, and I have learned to avoid some of those triggers but others are inevitable. And when these days come, like a dense fog that envelopes an otherwise perfect morning, I feel just like I do in these dreams. I see where I want to go, what I want to do, what kind of mood I want to be in. I want to laugh and play and interact with my family, but every time I try to move forward I am pulled away, and drift into the fog.

Depression. It's a vicious cycle. Because when the big "D" hits me the emotional roller coaster begins to climb skyward on the track. I can feel the chain clanking as it hauls me up, only to fling me over the hill and send me barreling into that downward spiral. And much like my dreams, this struggle is the most present and persistent of my reality. There have been so many times that I've thought liberation would come if I could just reach a certain point life. Once I get through college, once I get married, once I have a family, once I'm financially stable, once I get my life together and I'm happy, this struggle will subside.

Unfortunately, that's just not true. My life has brought me more mountains than valleys, but the fog has climbed those mountains with me. Just days after bringing my first son home from the hospital I stood in my kitchen staring at the wood grain of my cabinets and feeling like someone had hollowed me out. In one of the periods of my life that I would characterize as the happiest, this struggle was still there. This pressing down of my spirit, it just clings.

I am writing this today because depression is not a subject that is widely addressed in our Christian circles. We talk a lot about victory in Jesus and how in his sovereign plan even the bad times bring about good things, but rarely do we hear mention of the moments when your heart and spirit are so heavy that you cannot conceive of anything good. And I'm sure you could come up with some clever little explanation about how God is allowing the pressing down to bring me to my knees so that he can lift me up again and fly me around on angel's wings and the devil will stomp and throw a fit and cherubs will sing and things will be swell. Put a picture of hippie Jesus beside that and it would get a million shares on Facebook, but it's not good for much else.

I am writing this today because I am hanging up the shame. I'm not giving up the fight, I will continue to pump my arms and hunker down and resist the floating. But when it pulls me away I won't deny it. I won't cower behind this fear of judgement, the fear that tells me that admitting that I have this struggle is essentially an admission of sin and guilt, because depression is sin, right? If I were a little less wicked I could beat this thing, right? If I could somehow get a grip on that fruit-of-the-spirit thing, then I wouldn't have to face this anymore, right? Because after all it is sin that keeps punching holes in me and letting the fog seep in, if I could be more spirit-filled those holes would be plugged, RIGHT?!

Wrong.

I am writing this today because I know that I am not alone. This struggle is a big one, widespread and fiercely diverse in who it afflicts. And since it is not a popular topic of bible study conversation or Sunday morning sermons or Christian talk radio chatter, I want to throw in my story. Because at the end of the day, if you are reading this and you yourself are a floater, then it is the story of another that will touch you the most deeply. Not an image of Jesus holding a lamb or a list of scriptures that your concordance tells you refer to hope or encouragement or peace. Those may help, but we have been given more than words and pictures. Every person on this earth, whether they can read, write, or access the internet, every person that lives and breathes has a story. And if we would allow ourselves to break down walls, build relationships with other people, and share our stories, I think we would be amazed at how quickly our lives became intertwined.

So, here goes. My name is Nikki, and in spite of having a wonderfully loving husband, three amazing kids, and an ever-growing relationship with Jesus Christ, I struggle with depression.

What's your story?

A crisis of faith

2013-03-20T09:52:00.001-05:00

If you look down a little dead end road in Keller, TX you'll find a yellow frame house with shutters on the windows and a green screen door. There's a crape myrtle bush in the front yard and a dozen treasures buried across the green lawn for a future generation of scavengers to discover. And there at the front, on the righthand side by the little square porch, there is a window. A window into a little room where once upon a time this all began for me.

It was in that room that I first picked up our family story bible and resolved to read the entire thing. I gave up after Jonah, deciding the author had just copied the Pinocchio story and threw in some god stuff to make it sound bible-y. Later I decided I would just start in Genesis and go through it, King James style. Once I got to Leviticus and determined that eating bacon meant I had to slaughter a baby animal I bowed out again. By the time I left that little room and went out into the great big world I was pretty darn sure that if there was a great big god sitting on a throne in the sky he would find me, though the possibility seemed slight.

God and I battled a lot in that little room, sometimes it was playful banter back and forth between friends, and other time it was an angry teenage daughter screaming irrationally at the father who thought he knew better. But always it was unresolved. We never concluded, we never wrapped up the argument or settled the score. In the wake of a nightmarish week full of vomit, poop, fever, and the struggles of dear and precious loved ones, I have realized that this battle rages on. At some point I had "matured" enough in my faith that reverting back into the angry spiritual teenager with faded jeans and a jaded heart seemed impossible.

But I did it. Last week. When I cursed God.

I cursed him. And honestly, the words rolled off my tongue naturally, hanging in the air as if this were no new thing. At first I cringed, finding myself so close to blasphemy and realizing it had come from my lips. But then, just a sigh. A deep, contented sigh that dawned from the pit of my soul.

As a mother of otherwise healthy kids, there are few worse things you'll face than the dreaded stomach bug. Multiply that by three kids, eight days, and an invasion of personal crap (of the non-fecal variety), and you'll find yourself feeling like you may actually be glimpsing, if not diving straight into, the pit of hell. I have been strained and stretched on every level, and my desperate pleas to the "great physician", the "wonderful counselor", the "almighty prince of peace", seemed like nothing more than fantastic wishes whispered to some distant bottled genie. It seemed they fell on deaf ears. Or worse, imaginary ones. Or, could it be that they are real, but indifferent?

My heart has swelled with faith and hope and peace, and at some point this week I began to wonder if it hadn't become so taut and strained that it finally just burst, leaving me empty, scraping the shattered pieces off the walls to puzzle together again.

That's around the time I did it. I tossed my hair from side to side, shook my fist at him, and I swore I could walk away. I swore I wasn't in over my head, I still had a foothold on life without him, I might just be the same person I was back then. Fuming with righteous indignation and swearing I knew better I let the curses flow. Do something, I screamed. Do something!

But the fires blazed on. I felt hollow. And being quarantined from the world with the worst sickness we've ever experienced wasn't helping matters.

I stepped out for fresh air, deciding that a new approach might be the ticket. I didn't look to the pages I have read so many times, expecting the genie to jump out and blink the troubles away. I didn't fall on my face in tears and hysteria asking to be filled or lifted up or carried across the sand, and I didn't shake my fists and curse. I sat, and rocked, and listened. And I heard nothing. But I felt, for the first time in days, hours, minutes of madness, I felt the stillness that draws you back to sanity. Knowing that it was temporary, and the mess was waiting for my tending, I reveled in the still quiet moments where me and my heavenly pops sat side by side shooting the breeze and laughing at the foolishness of it all, knowing we might soon be at odds again but breathing in the peace nonetheless.

It was a brief reprieve from the battle, but enough to catch my breath and regain my footing, and realize anew why I love my Father. And realizing, in a truly revelatory moment, that this faith process isn't really like that slope we hear so much about, the one you're either climbing or you're sliding down, because the truth is there are moments when we're left to rest and neither climb nor slide, and moments when the avalanche comes and there is no progress to be made. That's when our spiritual teenager will rear her ugly head. Brace yourself for the cheesy metaphor, but I think it's less like climbing a slope and more like a swim in the ocean. Sometimes the water is so calm and still, you can just melt into it without even trying. And yet there are other days when you find yourself giving it your all only to be thrown against the rocks by the crashing waves. And no matter how long you're in it, and how hard you swim, the waves will still come.

But, no matter how long you're in it, and how much you suck at it, so will the calm.

When my son asks "why?"

2013-01-25T13:53:00.000-06:00

As I was putting my 4 year old to bed the other night, he began to protest (rather vocally) claiming that he hadn't been given a fair amount of playtime and couldn't he have just a few more minutes. It's hard as a parent to see the bigger picture in moments like this, and to stand firmly on the no's when those puppy dog eyes are pleading for a yes. I decided to use it as an opportunity for one of those conversations that you hope your kid will think back on when he's old.

We began to talk about the things we have, how much we have, and how little others kids do. We talked about food, water, roofs, warm beds, and after several minutes my inquisitive son looked at me and said, "Mom, if God gives us those things, why won't he just give them to the other kids, too?" He then began to hatch a plan that involved Mr. Incredible and a team of random characters who would band together to distribute necessary essentials (including a copy of "Cars") to all of the children of the world. It was a good plan, and I was proud, but he still wasn't satisfied.

Why.

I realize that this is a question I've asked my whole life. In Kindergarten we learned about the dinosaurs, and how they were the very first creatures to walk the earth, long before humans. I asked my teacher how that could be, since Adam and Eve came right after the animals, it didn't make sense. I didn't get an answer then, and honestly I still haven't found an answer that really satisfied me. The best would be that the earth is actually very old, and "days" is a relative period of time, much different for us than it was for God. I lean toward the belief that the earth is very old, so this works, but still leaves questions. Many questions.

I remember reading The Diary of Anne Frank in school, and realizing that Anne Frank was a Jew who died in a concentration camp. A very short time later I was visiting a church with a friend and the sermon was on hell. Good people don't automatically go to heaven, the preacher had said, they have to be born again believers; they have to be saved; they have to accept Jesus Christ as their lord and savior. From what I knew and understood of Judaism, that ruled Anne out. Was she in hell? No one could answer me.

In the sixth grade I had a boyfriend who happened to be a different race. I met opposition, and was told that there is a reason God made us different and we should accept that. Why then, I asked, would he have put us all in the same world, why not cast us onto different planets? Why would he make us the same in every other way—the same blood, the same form, the same!—it didn't make sense then, and it doesn't now, and the answer I got was, "That's just the way it is."

Time and again I challenged, and time and again I was given shallow answers that left me frustrated and unsatisfied. Now, I see that same curious nature in my son. When he comes to me with the tough questions, I know that easy answers will not suffice. He will dish out why upon why upon why until I shoot him straight.

This is the hard side of parenting, I see that now. There is much I can do to control my children's behavior, but little to govern their minds, and that is a tough thing to accept. So I can choose to fight against their independent spirits, and in the process insure that they will only ever see me as a controlling thought-Nazi. Or, I can be a safe zone, where they can come with their questions and lay it all out, without fear that their mother will cut the strings and let them fall. I will love them, guide them, and encourage their pursuits.

I believe that is our job as parents. Not to be puppet masters, but guides. Not to stomp our feet and throw up our hands when our children venture onto paths that disagree with our own, but to allow them to discover their own way. That I love Jesus does not insure that my children will, they don't get it through osmosis, so why would I want anything other than a genuine pursuit? Why would I settle for faith that is only in word, but empty in heart? We need to be encouraging the pursuit, encouraging the questions, and willing to give more than empty retorts. Offer truth, perhaps in different packages at different ages, but truth nonetheless. Be willing to say, "I don't know", and willing to share your own pursuit, even if that means letting your children see that messy roads that lies behind you.

When the why's come, be ready with real answers. And enjoy it, for there will come a day, not too long from now, when your children will no longer bring their questions to you. They will have friends with plentiful answers, and they will have Google. You're their Google now, make the most of it.

Guest Post: Woman of Valor

2013-01-19T12:19:00.001-06:00

There are few people in this world that I regard as highly as my sweet Gramma, so when Rachel Held Evans hosted her Woman of Valor contest several months ago I knew who I wanted to write about. I am honored today to have my essay shared on her site. Please go check it out, and while you're there look around a little. If you don't read her blog you need to. It's good stuff. So, back to Gramma...

“Dear God don’t let her see me.”

I hunch over and pull my hood over my head, careful not to turn to either side. If I just look straight ahead she won’t recognize me. Then again, grandmothers do have special powers of observation. Soon I’m caught up in the game and the conversation with my friends, and I forget about the potential embarrassment lurking a few bleachers behind me. Crisis averted.

Or so I thought.

Keep Reading!

The Gospel of Les Miserables.

2013-01-04T10:21:00.002-06:00

I didn't use to cry in movies. Now, if I have the slightest inclination that there may be a tear-inducing scene, I shove napkins in my purse before I even enter the theater. I'm a cryer. I really dramatic, red-faced one, too. It's embarrassing.

So, as I entered the theater yesterday to see Les Miserables, I had napkins in tow. And just as I had expected, it wasn't five minutes into the movie before the tears threatened to fall. Yet they never did. Not because the movie didn't touch, and at times, break my heart, and not because the acting wasn't so superb that I literally felt the emotions and the power of every scene, but because I was moved beyond tears.

The frustration of my life over the past year, has been finally getting to a point where I grasp grace, and having door after door of resistance slammed in my face when I try to pursue that grace. It's a battle, between the liberating force of grace and the brutal shackles of the law.

I felt those shackles fall off of my wrists only months ago, although they've been gone for years I had never stopped feeling their restraint. So once they fell, my heart began to break to see how many people around me still imagine themselves bound. As I watched this movie yesterday there were moments when I wanted to stand up in cheer, moments when I wanted to curl up and weep, moments when I wanted to grab and sword and go to battle, and moments, many moments, when I needed to fall at the foot of the cross.

If you don't know the story and haven't seen the movie yet, I may spoil it all for you so bookmark this and come back after you've watched the movie. I promise that seeing it for yourself is better than having me regurgitate it for you. But, for those who know and have seen, I want to share with you the Gospel of Les Miserables.

First, we have hopelessness and despair. A prisoner set free, having served his time, unshackled yet still bound by a lifelong parole. Not free. Desperation leads to sin, and he again faces a life in chains.

Then comes mercy.

And grace.

Where he expects to find condemnation he instead finds a fresh start. True freedom, and he is reborn.

Seizing the opportunity he begins to live and walk in grace, extending the mercy that he's been shown to others. But through it all, the law is constantly nipping at his tail. The law, also known as Javert, doesn't get it. He sees the world through a fettered lens that says men don't change and mercy is weakness.

There is a journey here, and in that journey a battle. Through it all our prisoner, Jean Valjean, is constantly finding himself at the foot of the cross. Relying only on God's grace, and never resurrecting that old self, even when doing so would end the battle and provide him with the long awaited victory. Even then, he chooses mercy. In spite of all, grace wins out in the end. The law cannot withstand the weight of mercy, and it folds.

And I am left in my seat with a dry napkin, an irrational desire to rally troops and start a revolution, and a renewed passion for God's grace.

Go see this movie. Say what you will about Hollywood, but this time they nailed it.

My own little world.

2013-01-02T12:50:00.003-06:00

It’s always strange to me when I finish a great book and realize that the story exists to others as much as it does to me. The characters that I have spent weeks—or more likely days—coming to know and love, are known and loved by a vast world of people. It feels a little like a betrayal, to be honest. I remember a similar feeling when I was thirteen and I discovered The Matrix. I watched it once and became enthralled by the world, the characters, and Keanu Reeves. I made my mom re-rent it from Blockbuster (these were the days before Netflix) and I watched it repeatedly for days. Then came a day at school when I overheard some classmates talking about the movie, and, as silly as it may sound, I felt a little protective.

It was mine. I had discovered it, and fallen in love with it, and felt a strange kind of closeness with the story, and the stories of the people in this fascinating world. I’ve had this experience a few times since. The next came when I read Atlas Shrugged, and I swore that no one, no matter how passionately they championed Ayn Rand, no one could love this story as much as I. No one could understand its significance, nor love the characters as much as I had come to love them. It was personal, it was mine.

Next I discovered Pink Floyd, and realized that not only were there others who loved the music, but I was several decades behind them in my experience of it. It still felt like it was mine. The lyrics and the music were written and composed for me, even though I was late in the game.

For Christmas I bought myself Ken Follett’s newest book, Winter of the World. He has become my favorite ~~current~~ living author. I fell in love with his writing through the world he created for Pillars of the Earth, then subsequently World Without End. Now this newest novel is the second book in his century trilogy. While I can’t say that I loved it in the same way as the first, I loved it nonetheless. As you have undoubtedly discovered, I am a complete nerd when it comes to books. As I read this new book I found myself actually angry with the author at two different points, because of the grief I felt for the characters, and it occurred to me that this is what the creative process is about. Creating something that is so real, so genuine, and so moving that it has a tangible effect on the ones who experience it.

I have spent so much time trying to write myself into a certain category within a certain world to reach a certain group of people, that I have lost some of the true passion I have for writing. I have dreamed, for so many years, of being a writer, and using words to capture a person’s mind and win their heart in the process. I have dreamed of writing my own Atlas Shrugged, my own Lord of the Rings, my own great novel, and yet somewhere along the line I settled for a spot in the “good enough” seats. Now I’m asking myself, as I toil over every word of the novel I am trying to create, why write something if your only aspiration is to be good enough to get read? Why write something if your goal is not to strike a chord in the heart of the reader, so deep that they will begin a love affair with the work?

I just want to write my heart. By endeavoring to do so I must first accept two things. One, the potential of having my heart completely disregarded. And two, the inevitable rejection. I’m not sure what’s worse, to be ignored or to be hated. It’s a toss up.

But it’s a necessary risk. To produce something real, and something great, I’ll have to stick my neck out. Because no one will ever spend days or weeks immersed in a story that is just “good enough”, and no one will ever come away from that story feeling like they have lived through the pages. No one will say, it is mine.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, or what 2013 will bring to this blog. I have a story to write, and the closest thing I have to a new year’s resolution is to write that story, and to write it well.

A year in review.

2012-12-31T11:00:00.002-06:00

First off, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas. I've been too busy with family gatherings, stomach bugs, and opening presents to do any writing. So, to wrap up this splendid year, here are the top 10 posts on the blog from this year. Enjoy!

10. Feminism, Round 2.

"I don't want to be that person that writes and speaks and reads and does and lives, all for effect. I don't want to be a reaction-driven person in any aspect of my life. Will I get 2,000 people to read my blog if I post something controversial, yep I sure will, but will any of those 2,000 people come away from that read feeling encouraged, uplifted, or purposefully challenged? I know some did, and I will say that is absolutely the result of a very big God." Continue Reading.

9. 10 things a good Christian just would not do.

"We have taken the person of Jesus out of the picture, and replaced him with morality. A list of dos and don'ts, and permission to use those lists as a guideline for who is and who isn't "saved". I can't give you a list of 10 things that Christians would never do, because I am a Christian and I have done some pretty heinous stuff, before and after I gave my life to Christ. To say a Christian would never condone homosexuality, use drugs, "live in sin", have an abortion, vote for Obama, beat their wife, get a divorce, abuse "the system", lie, cheat, steal, cuss, rape, murder, or any other despicable thing you can think of, is to put yourself in the seat of judge, and to take upon your human shoulders the responsibility of discerning hearts, and determining the how and the why of the appropriation of God's grace. That, my friends, is not a seat you want to be in." Continue Reading

8. 5 steps to staying happily married forever.

"Isn't that the case with everything though? When you take the creator away, the creation suffers. So it was God who designed this whole marriage thing, and it is only through Him that we can discover the fullness of it. It's kind of like sitting down to play a video game with the guy that designed the game. You could play it all day long on your own, and you might even beat the game and set all sorts of records along the way. You could become the envy of all your friends for your expertise in that game, but when you sit down with the maker, something cool happens. He begins to show you all of these secrets hidden in the game. An extra level here, a secret move and some unknown surprise over there, and suddenly the game unfolds in a whole new way. And you discover, for the first time, how it was intended to be played. You discover what the Maker had in mind when he designed it, and you know that you'll never go back to the old way." Continue Reading

7. Eat more heterosexual chicken.

"Again and again and again I am here writing about this, and I will continue to do so because I feel it is so important. Arguing over the biblical definition of marriage will do absolutely nothing to save the soul of a person. Telling them to "eat more (heterosexual) chicken" might make you giggle, but its not going to do much at all to show them the love of Christ. There's no grace in that." Continue Reading

6. 10 things you should never do to your step kid.

"It's going to take some time, but if you'll put in the work it will pay off in the end. The best thing you can do is learn to love this kid. Sure, he's not your own, but you can still love him like he is. Get to know him. Take an interest in the things he's interested in. And commit to never, ever, ever, (EVER) let yourself think of him as burden. Don't even go there. " Continue Reading

5. Daughter, love your hips, no matter their width.

"What we should be doing is affirming the true beauty that is in each of us. The beautiful stamp left by a loving Creator. And then, shift our focus from the desperate pursuit of worldly beauty, and begin to seek the divine. The reflection of Christ in each of us, out of which radiates the same beauty that is beheld in sunsets and rainbows and majestic mountains, that lies in the heart of every believer. And, here's the good part, that kind of "beautiful" is more than an adjective." Continue Reading

4. The Pinterest guide to the Christian life.

"My kids eat round pancakes. Never, not once, have they eaten a pancake with a silly face on it, or ears. I've never cut up there cheese and bread into silly shapes and put it on a skewer for sandwich ka-bobs. Nor have I ever made them super hero capes and jet packs to run around the house in. Our meals aren't fun, or colorful, or even healthy most of the time. Our house isn't spotless. My DIY projects never turn out as good as the tutorials. For the life of me I cannot figure out how to put my hair in a bun without looking like a librarian. And, holy potatoes, the only thing I use a bread clip for is keeping the bread closed!" Continue Reading

3. Why Christians should say Happy Holidays.

"Perhaps you didn't know this, but Christmas isn't the only holiday celebrated in December. There's also this little thing called Hanukkah and then there's Kwanzaa, and let's not forget Festivus. December is not just the Christmas season, it is a season of many different holidays, celebrated by many different people, in many different ways." Continue Reading

2. Boobs, bitches, and a bedazzled cross.

"It is time that we toughen up. It is time that we accept the task that is before us, and throw out all the glamorized expectations we've entertained in the past. The expectations of health, wealth, and happiness. Jesus never promised that. The expectations of comfort and ease. Jesus never promised that. He promised a hard, unpopular, uncomfortable, persecution-filled life." Continue Reading

1. 5 Steps to castrating your husband

"Once upon a time the idea of men being the head of the house was not that outrageous a concept. Wives respected their husbands. They honored them. They doted on them. And without shame, they spent a little extra time in the bathroom in order to look good for their man. Undeniably this still happens today, but I would venture to say that it is not the norm." Continue Reading

Do you have a favorite post from the blog this year that isn't on this list? What was the number 1 post on your blog this year?

So, what are you gonna do about it?

2012-12-23T14:23:00.002-06:00

First, this is such a touchy subject right now that a nervous feeling is forming in my stomach as I even approach it. I don't want to offend, but I do want to speak. And so I ask that as you read this you put on your big girl panties, and make a point to understand what I'm saying, and not assume me into an extreme stance. Please, for the next two to three minutes, open your mind just enough to consider a different perspective, and let's hash this out together. We're on the same team, we should be working together, and so I ask that we lay down our arms, and just talk.

As I've watched, and engaged, in some of the Facebook debate regarding gun control, I've found myself having to swallow a hefty chunk of my own words. It's easy to speak out of frustration and emotion, but very rarely is it wise. I have my own opinions on this issue, ones that are certainly not popular in the ultra conservative area of the country that I live in. But this isn't the first issue I've spoke out on that's left me glancing out my windows at night in fear of seeing pitchforks and torches bobbing up my driveway. So, here goes.

Let me begin by saying that I get how defensive we become when someone threatens to take away the rights of law abiding citizens to own a gun. It's the whole self defense thing. I'll be honest, we are gun owners, and my perspective on this changed significantly after I had kids. Before, when the only people in the house were my husband and I, grown ups who are capable of protecting ourselves, I couldn't imagine shooting someone who was in my home. After we had kids that changed, as I realized that I may be the only person between the gunman and my child. At that point I knew that I would be capable of shooting someone in my home (assuming that in that moment of panic I could think rationally enough to remember how to load the gun and shoot the intruder without taking my foot off).

I am not of the mind that all guns should be obliterated. I don't believe a gun can kill somebody without another somebody pulling the trigger. And I do believe that a lot of these tragedies that are popping up across the country have as much to do with mental illness as they do with gun control. Here's my problem:

Something needs to be done. When we hear about the slaughter of 20 children in a Kindergarten classroom, I believe that after the shock has worn off and we have regained our foothold on reality, our first question should be, what can be done to prevent this from happening again. And from there we should enter into dialogues about all the many facets of this tragedy and others like it, and look at it from all the different angles, and together as diverse-minded people with different vantage points and beliefs, we should take strides toward change.

I know, that's a Utopian idea that would never fly in America, and I understand that. However, it should absolutely fly amongst Christian brothers and sisters. Yet, all I have been seeing are attacks. We're like a bunch of 5 year old's arguing over who can jump the highest. We get defensive, and we become so caught up in this idea that we have all of these rights as Americans and we should fight for those rights or else all of this bad stuff will happen, and blah blah blah blah. And somewhere in it all change is glazed over and the tears dry up and the passion fades and we pretty much forget about it all until a few months down the road when it happens again and the cycle repeats.

My question to you, no matter your stance, is simply, what are you gonna do about it? You think this could be prevented through more awareness of mental illness? What are you going to do to promote that awareness? You think guns are safe, we just need to educate people a little more? What are you going to do to encourage that education? You think on campus security is the answer? What are you going to do to make that happen? You think guns should be eradicated completely? How are you going to pursue that?

See, what I'm really sick and tired of right now is all of the good thoughts and prayer promises and sappy memorial pictures and all of the really good passion being drained by cheap talk, rather than poured into something productive. I do it, too, and it makes me want to choke myself when I think of all of the times that I've had an idea and instead of taking action I just sat on it until it was snuffed out.

Something needs to be done. There are strides that could be taken, there are measures of change that could be enacted, to make things like Connecticut, at the very least, less frequent. The only thing hindering those measures is our inability to bend, and to find the balance in this issue. And that is a very sad thing.

So think about this for a moment. Your child was in that Connecticut classroom. You get the phone call from the school, you speed to get to them as quickly as you can, flying out of your car you scan the crowds of frightened children, you never find your child's eyes. Hours later it's confirmed that your kid was amongst those killed. You then agonize over the last minutes of your baby's life. Did they see the gunman? Did they have time to experience the terror of knowing they were going to die? Did they suffer? Was it quick? The minutes, hours, and days creep by, and slowly you realize that it's not a nightmare, it's your new reality. The presents under the tree will never be opened, that college savings account you've been contributing to will never be used, your life and family will never be the same. All because a man with a gun took your child's life.

Now, imagine being in those shoes and getting on Facebook and seeing the gun control debate rage. Imagine seeing comments like, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people". You know, I can only imagine that at that point the bigger concern isn't which side of the debate has the stronger argument, but why everyone is more focused on winning a debate than on preventing another tragedy. Why, for the love of all that is holy, are we more concerned with our rights than with the lives of innocents? And why, dear God why, are Christians the ones I see displaying the least amount of compassion and empathy?

Why are Christians shouting the loudest about their 2nd Amendment rights, when really the only right we are promised as Christians, is the right to lay down our lives in pursuit of Christ? Not the right to take the life of another person in order to save our own, but the right to trust that our life is not in our hands but in God's, and to use every breath in ours lungs to share the love and grace of Jesus with all people. Even people who are pointing a gun at us! Is that crazy? Maybe so, but why then do we so revere those who have lost their lives while proclaiming the gospel? Is it crazy to face your own death without so much as a kick in self defense? Then you probably shouldn't read about the deaths of the disciples, you'll end up writing them all off as nut jobs.

Our focus, our passion, our concern should always be selfless. And I have a hard time seeing the selflessness in statements that begin with, "As long as it doesn't interfere with my right to...".

Just a thought. Let's stop talking, stop arguing, and do something. Write your congressman, become an advocate for the mentally ill, reach out to someone in your community, stop thinking like an American and try to surrender your thoughts to the Holy Spirit. I really don't think he's going to be so much concerned with your right to protect your family (since, really, that's his job not yours). But I do believe he'll be concerned with your heart in this. That's all, you can grab your pitchfork now.

When their world stopped spinning.

2012-12-17T09:39:00.000-06:00

Glancing through my Facebook newsfeed, I knew it had happened again. Reference after reference was being made to the tragedy in Connecticut, the new angels in heaven, and the madman behind it all. Pictures of candles and promises of prayer were already floating around, asking for likes and shares. I didn't have time to investigate, though, I would have to wait to get the facts.

As my husband and I walked up to the school with our little boy, I glanced around the campus wondering about the security. As we walked into the building and up to the desk, I imagined that my son was in one of the classrooms in the long hallway that stretched out in front of us, and a man with a gun was standing where I stood, just twenty feet away. I shook the thought from my head and focused on what we'd come to do.

We walked around, asked some questions and I left feeling good about the environment and the people; it seemed like somewhere I would feel comfortable sending my kids in nine months. Kindergarten is around the corner, and we have decisions to make.

Back home I remembered that something had happened, something awful, and I went to the computer to get the facts. The words jumped off the screen as I tried to process it all, three lingering longer than the rest: the kindergarten class.

So many thoughts began to surge, the first going to the parents. Hoping that their last mornings with their babies were relaxed enough that hugs and kisses were given, and I-love-yous were said. Wondering if, when their world stopped spinning, their hearts stopped, too. Did the air leave their lungs in those seconds when they scanned the groups of huddled children and never met their child's eyes. And how, for the love of God, how did they will their hearts to beat again and their lungs to draw another breath? How will they keep their feet above the ground, when everything in them will want to crawl down below and lie beside their babies forever?

How.

I wonder what they're facing. In the midst of the greatest grief they will ever feel, a grief that our hearts seem incapable of handling. Are they being told that "God just needed a few more angels in heaven"? Are they being patted on the back and assured that they will get through this, God won't give them more than they can handle, and everything happens for a reason?

Dear God I hope not.

I hope they are being given the freedom to grieve. To absolutely fall apart at the seams and demand that there is no purpose in this. To shake their fists in the air and curse the one behind it all. To crawl through the muddy phases of denial and disbelief, to anger and bitterness, and eventually into a peace that surpasses all understanding. It will be a long and ugly process, and it will look different for each family.

Some are better at this than others, I think. If I even try to imagine myself in those shoes, the only thoughts of comfort that I can conjure up are a bottle of whiskey, a bed, and a barrage of f-bombs. I'm sure some will go that route, and who could blame them.

As for me, for reasons I cannot comprehend, I have been, thus far, spared from such tragedies. My babies play around me as I write this, I tucked them into bed last night and fed them their breakfast this morning. As far as I am aware I have a lifetime of hugs and kisses, accomplishments and milestones, victories and failures, to walk through with my children. And I rejoice in that. But I also ask myself what I'm supposed to take away from things like this. Beyond hugging my kids tighter, praying for these families, and pondering the ways such things could be prevented in the future, what do I make of the slaughter of children?

The truth is, I don't.

I can't.

While I've read some good articles and listened to a few sermons in response to this, my little brain is inept. It's in times like this when every ounce of common sense and reasoning tells me to curse God and die, and I would imagine that is all the more tempting for those in the middle of the storm. A choice has to be made, to either give in to that beckoning call to give up on him, because to my human eye the massacre of kindergarteners is a pretty clear sign that this big God-sized plan of his is just a crap-shoot. It's tempting, my flesh leans towards it. But my heart says no.

My heart says to trust him. Trust that somehow that plan that we haven't been given the eyes to see or the minds to comprehend, reconciles all of this ridiculous mess with the sovereign goodness of that big God of ours. It's hard to do, and I won't lie to you, I'm struggling with it, but I'm praying that I get there. And I am praying, for the mothers and fathers, grandparents and siblings, husbands and children, of the victims, I am praying for hope and eventual peace.

Beyond that, I just don't know.

How I learned I don't know jack.

2012-12-11T12:48:00.000-06:00

When I was seven I watched a John Wayne movie with my dad and I came to the conclusion that the only way to die was to catch a bullet in the gut during a gunfight. I imagined myself walking across the open plains, ducking every few feet behind a big rock and watching a tumbleweed roll by before continuing to the next, trying all the while to avoid the bullets. It didn't seem like a practical scenario given the seven years experience I had of life, and the fact that I had never seen a tumbleweed or a random gunfight, but I couldn't think of any other way that a person might die. This was the first time I really thought about dying, and naturally, about what would happen afterward. I'd heard of heaven, but now I wanted to know how to get there.

When I was nine I had a conversation with a fellow nine year old about how to get to heaven. She told me that as long as you confessed all the bad things you'd done right before you died you would get in. I asked her whether I had to confess to the person I'd done the bad thing to, or just to God, or if there had to be some kind of official representative there who wore a collar or a robe or something. She said she didn't know, and we both agreed that it would be best not to die until we found out for sure.

When I was eleven I visited a church with some people (I don't remember who, I just know it was the only time I ever went to that church so I must have been visiting with someone) and the preacher talked about heaven and how it takes more than being a good person to get there. In fact, he said that a lot of good people will go to hell and burn in a fiery pit for eternity. He emphasized the eternity part with a very dramatic "For-ev-er, and ev-er, and ev-er". Then he invited us to close our eyes and say a prayer, and this would insure us a ticket through the pearly gates and we could work out the rest later. So I bowed my head and prayed it. Later I worried that I'd prayed it wrong, and that it didn't actually come from the very bottom of my heart, but maybe just midway down into the depths of my heart, and I wondered if there was some kind of "Sinner's Prayer for Dummies" book I could ask Santa for. It seemed too important a thing to not make sure I was doing it right.

Things really got complicated when I was fourteen. I slept over at a friend's house on a Saturday night and went to church with her family the next morning. There I was introduced to this thing they called the "final purification" of souls, which, to my fourteen year old brain, sounded basically like a pit stop on your way to heaven where you take a fire-bath to get all of the nasty sin-slime off of you. I started thinking about the people I knew who had died and wondering if they were suffering in anguish because I didn't know I was supposed to be doing stuff to help them move on. And, I wondered if if I was destined to end up there.

A year or so later I was at this little home church bible study thing and these people started rambling on in this crazy language, and they explained that it was a sign that a person has the Holy Spirit. I had already prayed the magical prayer that day, so it seemed like I should have the magical spirit and in turn get the magical language, but I didn't. I wondered if I'd missed a step, or perhaps I was supposed to hold my breath and spin around three times before I said the prayer. Or maybe I should say it in a cemetery at night with some candles lit. Was I supposed to sacrifice a goat or something, I think I read that somewhere...

It was all very confusing. Everyone who supported these different views seemed to do so wholeheartedly, which made it all very believable. So rather than shifting from one to the next I just piled the new on top of the old.

I prayed the magical prayer, sometimes daily, with fingers crossed and incense burning and baby cow blood splattered about my the room.

I told my friends to be sure and pray for me and do good stuff if I died so I wouldn't have to hang out in the purgatory-ish place for very long.

I said prayers, lot's of them, inviting the Holy Spirit to come into my heart and to let me know when it got there by speaking some kind of crazy language through me. (I imagined this would look a little like when Patrick Swayze takes over Whoopi Goldberg's body in the movie "Ghost", but I'm glad it never happened because I'm pretty sure that would have scared the purgatory out of me).

And since I couldn't be sure that there would be a person in a cloak and collar present on the plains when I got caught in the crossfire, I made a point to confess to God all the terrible things I had done every night before I went to bed. I told him about all the lies I had told and about the time I stole a thing of orange Tic-Tacs from Kroger.

As long as I was meeting my daily quota I felt like my odds of getting to the good place were pretty good. Still, I made a conscious effort not to die. Then came the game changer.

I was fifteen when I realized that I didn't believe in God. I liked the idea of heaven, I wanted there to be such a place, but more than that I was scared of this thing people called Hell. When I looked around at the world it seemed far more likely that we would all end up in Hell than that any of us would go to heaven, or even that such a place as heaven could exist. If there was a heaven then there was a God, and if that God would make something as great as heaven then how could he also make something as terrible as Hell? I couldn't comprehend it. And so rather than try and reconcile all of these outrageous ideas into something rational, I decided that it was all just a load of malarkey and I couldn't buy into it.

I stayed in this place for several years, running and fighting and drowning in the process. Then, I was given a new heart and faith. And I started searching again. Still being very careful not to die, and making sure I walked that straight and narrow line that Christian culture told me was the "right way", but also knowing that there was more and that somewhere in the big mix I was missing it. I went on like this for a while, swinging the pendulum into the extremes of conservative Christianity before finally falling back into balance. Or at least, falling nearer to balance.

After years of stressing and searching and digging for "the truth", the "absolute undeniable truth", there came a random day when I woke up and realized that really, I don't know jack, and I'm fine with that.

All of this is a process, and as we progress through it the natural thing to do is look back at the earlier stages and shudder a little at former thoughts and words and proclamations. I do that sometimes when I read old posts on this blog and I realize that I am in complete disagreement with my own words.

And that's okay.

I'm finally in a place where I can enjoy the journey. And in this place I see the opposing views of others less as a threat and more as a conversation starter. A jumping off point for us to dive in and talk and wrestle and sharpen. I wish we did that more.

This post is a little random, and really it's a lead up for the one I'm posting on Thursday. So check back then and we'll talk more about this.

Does uncertainty scare you, challenge you, or liberate you? Tell me why.

A needle in a stack of needles.

2012-12-10T14:11:00.000-06:00

I attended my first Christian concert when I was 18. The artists were Bebo Norman and Bethany Dillon, and another guy whose face I can see but the name has left me (I'll get back to you when Google figures out a way to translate a mental picture into an image search).

It was kind of a weird night for me. I went with a bunch of church people, we road in a church van, we were members of a church group and had a lot of church talk about church stuff. It was really...churchy. And a little out of my comfort zone at the time.

But, the music was good. It was Bebo Norman post-marriage, and we all know that the best music precedes love (too many examples to list), but I enjoyed it and absolutely fell in love with Bethany Dillon and things were good. But the thing about that night that really, really hit me hard was a short testimony that Bebo gave about Compassion International. He talked about visiting his sponsored child and all the blessings and warm fuzzy feelings and rainbows and awesome sweetness that resulted from becoming a sponsor. I didn't have a lot of sweetness in my life at the time. What I did have was $2000 sitting in my bank account that was excess student loan money, and I was anxious to spend it (in hindsight that wasn't smart, I'm still paying that back), so I decided that a hungry kid was a good cause and I needed some warm fuzzies and a good deed. So I signed up.

I chose a kid in Bangladesh with a crazy name and a face that melted my heart, and I started writing letters and sending money and praying and carrying her picture around everywhere I went and telling people about the cute little girl in Bangladesh that gets to eat because I'm sending some money. It was swell.

I still sponsor that little girl today, and in the nine years since I signed up I haven't had a moment of regret, but there have certainly been blessings. I haven't been able to visit her, I should've checked a map that day before picking a country because it turns out you can't drive to Bangladesh, there's a lot of water in the way. But I write her and she writes me and I still pray and things are still swell.

I love this organization, I think they're great and they are fostering relationships that would otherwise be impossible for people like me. So, about a year ago I decided I wanted to be a regular blogger for Compassion, and I signed up for that too. I wrote a few posts in those first months pleading with you, and honestly trying to manipulate you, into signing up as well. But over the past few months I've struggled when the monthly assignments have come in. It's suddenly very hard to find the words to say, and the voice to say them in.

I don't want to manipulate you.

I don't want to sell you on something, or to try to convince you that this or that is what you need to be doing. And I definitely don't want to add something to your checklist. I'd absolutely like to encourage you and point you toward some good resources, but the decision needs to be entirely your own.

And, the reasoning behind that decision, needs to be a good one.

My reason was not. I was absolutely adding something to a checklist, trying to prove that I was doing this whole "Christian" thing the right way. Which is why I felt so compelled to show the little girl's picture to everyone. I liked the pats on the back. I liked it when little old ladies looked at me and smiled and talked about how sweet I was considering the terribly wicked generation that I was a part of. And I liked smiling and nodding back and agreeing that finding a decent young person today is like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles.

So, this is my struggle. I don't see any version of Christianity that does not include helping the poor, being a voice to the voiceless, reaching out to the marginalized, and giving across the board. I know that doesn't coincide well with the "American Dream", but it lines up perfectly with scripture, and the whole "dying to self, following Jesus, picking up your cross" thing. Y'know?

It seems like a given, that the natural progression of our faith would lead us to a point of sacrificial giving, without expectation or agenda, and without needing to be guilted and manipulated into it. I'm not going to tell you about the lives these Compassion kids live or the things they face without the support of sponsorship, and I'm not going to give you stats on how much money we waste in America and how we're all really just a bunch of greedy, gluttonous, well-dressed wretches. No, I'm just going to ask you to consider it.

Consider what scripture says about compassion, love, and giving.

Consider what you're doing in response.

Consider what your motive is.

Consider how you could be doing better.

Because, we could all do better. And we should.

You can find information on Compassion's website here, or you can check out their Christmas Gift Catalog, it's a neat idea that you could do with your kids. Sacrifice one of your own gifts to give to someone on the other side of the world. I realize that as Americans it's hard to see food, water, and medical aid as "gifts", but really, that's exactly what they are.

"Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy."

-- Proverbs 31:8-9

The grass is greener yonder.

2012-12-06T18:04:00.001-06:00

"I am a whore, I do confess, But I put you on just like a wedding dress, And I run down the aisle, I run down the aisle." - Derek Webb

Sometimes I want to run. Away.

Lately, like never before, the urge has been so strong that it's almost overtaking me. Seeping from my thoughts down into my bones, igniting into something I cannot ignore. I glance nervously at my shoes waiting beside the door, the keys not far away and my getaway car beckoning to me. Go, run, leave, the grass is greener yonder.

Breathe easy, set down the gossip lines, I'm not running from my life. Not my children, not my husband, not the home that we've built together in our hearts. It's not my life that I long to wander from, it is my God. And my faith.

It is the church.

Gasp. If you must. Pick up your stones. If you must. Hurl the words at me that we toss so flippantly, wielding like swords in a battle that pits brother against brother. Beat me into submission, if you must. Or, hear my heart.

It is hurting. Drowning. Suffocating under this shroud of perfection. Where no one doubts or questions or challenges or fights or, God forbid, struggles with things like sin and brokenness. I'm suffocating under the facade. Just a puppet, that's how I feel, an actor in a tragedy. Somehow we've missed the laughter and the joy as we have fixed our eyes on the funeral, and missed the wedding.

I lie here gasping for air, grasping for straws, trying to find pockets of air from underneath. Anything to buy me another week, then a day, then dear God just get me through this hour. But the air is growing stale and my lungs are burning.

And I need. I need. I NEED. To. Breathe.

I shift uneasily in my seat, looking at those shoes, that door, that giant temptress that is the "EXIT" sign. I know the slippery slope that lies beyond it, I don't want to slide. Oh, but I want to run.

I imagine standing up and putting on those shoes. Tying the laces with shaky hands, a fearful excitement carried by veins down into my fingers. On uncertain legs I burst through that door and feel the fresh air against my face, filling up my lungs, welcoming me into a new world. The grass is green that carpets this imaginary world. At least I think it is, until I get there, and I see that it was all just a pipe dream. Just a mirage created by my need to believe there's something, somewhere, that's better. This isn't it, this can't be it, there must be something more.

How quickly I discover otherwise.

I could re-write it, of course. I could dream up a new version of Christianity, add an amendment to this faith and life that would give me an out. It would tell me that when all isn't as I think it should be, and when the whole church thing isn't going as I feel it needs to go, and when people aren't doing and saying and being and moving in the ways that I expect them to, well then, run.

Run away.

I pick up my pen and my scroll, I touch the ink to the papyrus, the words flood my mind ready to pour through my fingertips. But something holds me back. I can't get to the words I want to write, before I first tackle the ones I'm scared to face. I realize, I cannot just detach the arm, I have to erase the body.

I cannot run from a piece without leaving the whole.

Sigh. That complicates things. It's the church, the imperfect people that make up this great big body, it's that that I seek refuge from. Facing the reality that they are why I'm here, we're all in this together, we were designed to need one another. That's a bit of a game changer. While it manifests differently, they're broken, just like me, and hurting, just like me. And, more than likely, they're wanting to run, just like me.

I want to run. Some time so much that it hurts. Perhaps some day I will. In a moment of weakness, or fear, or maybe I'll buckle under the weight of it all. And give in to the aching of my lungs, desperate for that good air. Maybe. But for today, I stay. My heels sink a little lower in, I find another pocket of air, I shrug off the secondary and settle into compromise. And I stand, ever so slowly, cautiously removing the shroud and proclaiming the imperfect. I'm broken. I'm dirty. I have so many layers of screwed up that I've lost count. But, I stay. Not reluctantly or begrudgingly, but faithfully. Broken. And surrendered.

*This post was inspired by an evening in a barn in the middle of nowhere. That's not poetry, I literally spent last night in a barn in the middle of nowhere with two incredibly talented singer/songwriters, and about sixty other people. I had the privilege of hearing this song for the first time, and to say that it moved me is an understatement. Take a minute and listen.*

Into the sun.

2012-12-03T10:17:00.002-06:00

I can't remember a time when I didn't feel like a grown up. Even as a kid, when I could barely see the tops of the kitchen counters and figuring out how to tie those stinkin' shoe laces was still the great mystery of my life, I somehow still had a sense of responsibility that foreshadowed adulthood. This time of year brings me back to that feeling. The Santa debates, the twinkly lights, and those blasted Hallmark Christmas movies that I just can't get enough of, it all somehow reminds me of that little girl from once upon a time.

It's funny, the further I get from my childhood the more I begin to see that little girl as a different person altogether. Especially when I catch glimpses of her in my children, and in my dreams, and in those moments when the scars of childhood surface and I am whisked away to the days gone by. Like a flashback in a movie, I'm that little girl again, sitting by the window watching anxiously for the truck to turn down my road, and pull into my driveway. Listening, with my heart in my stomach, for that familiar honk, so I can grab my things and dart out the door. Watching the hands on the clock glide past the seconds and minutes, into "late", wondering at what point I should pick up the phone and call.

Then something brings me back to the here and now, and I realize how little ground I've covered. In all the years, all the progress, all the growth, all the revelations and triumphs, and proclamations of wholeness, there are still so many layers of broken. They linger, like a disease in remission, sleeping quietly in a healthy body until the time when they see a crack in the facade. A tiny window of opportunity, when they can slowly seep out. And wreak havoc. Just like that, I'm that little girl again. Toiling over those shoe laces. Standing on tip toes to reach that prize sitting atop the kitchen counter. The weight of the world on my small shoulders, already too proud and stubborn to shrug it off.

There are things, so many things, I want to tell her. I feel closest to her when I watch my children play, carefree and innocent, completely ignorant of the dark side of life. I whisper into the wind the words I long to tell her, hoping somehow they'll be carried back across the years. To the time she buried an empty box in the back yard behind the shed, hoping that when she dug it up there would be a message in it. In my dreams I go back, and stand unseen as she digs it up and in that box are all the things I've spoken over her. The things I've whispered so fervently, it seems somehow she must have heard them.

There's something fascinating about growing up, and discovering the scars. Not all of them are obvious, like the little circle above my left eye where the chicken pox left their mark. I should have listened when Mom told me not to scratch. Some, or probably most, are below the surface. Deep caves cutting across the heart, disguising themselves so as not to be discovered by cursory glances. I don't realize they're there until I fall into one. And once I do, I feel at home. The walls of the cave are lined with posters of memories and reminders of a time when those scars were only just being made. My perspective shifts, my hindsight fades, growth and progress and proclamations of wholeness turn to mist. And I'm that little girl again.

My hands are smaller, though they're still trying to hold the same amount of life in them. My heart is softer, it hasn't yet learned how to protect itself. It's hard to discern from inside the cave, so I quickly forget the things I've whispered, the ways to guard and protect and prevent the pain. And instead, I face the same things the same way with the same results.

I wonder how much of life is meant to be trial and error. If I could go back, really, and change, would I? If I could repeat the moments so ripe with regret, would I? If I could erase and re-write and undo, would I? Should I? It's so cliche, we say it all the time, how it all made us who we are and we wouldn't change a thing. We don't regret, we're thankful, we're making the most of it, we're using all seasons and storms to glorify God. We're embracing the worst of it. But I wonder, if saying these things isn't just a way to avoid falling in. And facing it all.

If I could whisper words of warning and comfort to that little girl, if I could write them on a piece of paper and put them in that box, would I? Perhaps so, but she wouldn't listen. Because she's in the thick of it. While I stand on the hill, shoes clean and dry, she treks through the mud in the valley below. It's all she can see. I scream at her, but my voice is caught up in the wind and she hears nothing. It hurts to watch without running to her. Yet I know if I don't turn around that's what I'll do. I'll run down that hillside and jump into the mud at her side. Somehow thinking that by being there, by getting my own feet dirty I will be able to help her move more swiftly. But it's futile. I only slow her down. And the trek is harder the second time around. The view from the hilltop fades fast, and I risk sinking. But if I turn around. If I take my eyes away from her, and look the other way, to the road not yet walked, the days to come, there's room there to grow. When I face it, the sun shines on my face and beckons me. The first steps are uncertain, as I glance back over my shoulder to check on the girl in the mud. She's still moving. But with each step into the sun the mud is harder to see, and the urge to go back lessens. And so I move.

Forward. To a place in the sun. The scars are still there, they may never go away, but I've learned to navigate around them without falling in. A few trips, a few breaks, that's part of the journey. But each time I find my way out. Out of the mud and out of the cave. Out of the messes of yesterday, and into the sun.

Why CHRISTians should say "Happy Holidays"

2012-11-26T14:56:00.001-06:00

It's that time of year again! The air is growing colder, the clothes are getting fuzzier, and the stores shelves are getting fuller. A brief walk through the local Wal Mart is all you need to get into the ~~holiday~~ CHRISTmas spirit.

I really love this time of year. In part because I prefer winter clothes to summer clothes on pretty much anyone. Something about warm fuzzy boots and scarves always makes me happy. And I like the gifts, giving and receiving, it's just fun. But as Thanksgiving week came to a close and our bellies returned to their normal sizes, a sense of dread began to set in. What could I possibly be dreading during this, the most wonderful time of the year? Well...

I dread the "Keep CHRIST in CHRISTmas" posts that are about to flood my Facebook newsfeed.

I dread the bumper stickers, cards, and buttons that will bark at me that "Jesus is the reason for the season".

I dread the war that Christians will wage against those who they perceive to be waging a war on Christmas.

Friends, Jesus is not a wimp. If you think he's sitting up in heaven with a tissue and a chocolate bar crying because more people are saying happy holidays than merry Christmas, then I'm not sure you've ever met the guy. He's not a middle aged woman watching a Lifetime movie, and the phrases we use to greet people during the month of December is not something that I see him being terribly concerned with. However, I would think it very concerning for him to see his name being tosses around so flippantly, and, truth be told, hatefully. The "Keep Christ in Christmas" campaign is dangerous, in that it has a way of propping us up onto our pedestals where we can look down on the "Happy Holidays" sayers and label them anti-Jesus, while we are of course pro-Jesus which makes us winners and them losers. It is one more avenue that will lead us into the pursuit of Christianity, and we will completely miss Jesus.

Perhaps you didn't know this, but Christmas isn't the only holiday celebrated in December. There's also this little thing called Hanukkah and then there's Kwanzaa, and let's not forget Festivus. December is not just the Christmas season, it is a season of many different holidays, celebrated by many different people, in many different ways.

Jesus was not born on December 25th, y'know? And the origin of our Christmas holiday is (I'm sorry to say) not a very Christian one. The trees, the lights, the stockings, the whole kit and kaboodle, it all has very pagan beginnings. But somewhere along the way we took it and made it our own, designating December 25th as the day that we would recognize the birth of Jesus, and to do so we would spend lots of money on material things, gorge ourselves on popcorn and candy canes, and hang twinkly lights on our houses. Because, after all, Jesus is the reason for the season, and nothing says Jesus like a candy cane.

It all seems so silly. I don't love Jesus any more this month, or appreciate him any more, or want to share him with the world any more, so why would I treat this season like it's something sacred, instead of seeing it as an opportunity to reach the world? After all, is not Jesus the reason for ALL seasons?

As I've been pondering it over the last weeks I've come to the conclusion that not only is it okay for Christians to say "Happy Holidays", but truly it seems to be the most appropriate thing to say. Especially when we're speaking with people who we know are not Christians, what are we achieving by correcting them with a gruff, "Merry Christmas!!!!!"? What are we achieving when we open our coat so that they can see the button pinned to our shirt that says "Jesus is the reason for the season"? Who are we to say that people of a different faith (or of no faith at all) cannot take this holiday and make it their own, just as we took those ancient pagan traditions and made them our own? If we are going to get hostile at the thought of atheists celebrating our CHRISTmas, why are we so bitter when they take Christ out of Christmas and simply celebrate the holiday season?

Jesus doesn't care if you say "Happy Holidays", he cares about how you represent his name to this world. When the girl that rings you up at Target tells you happy holidays because that's what her employer requires, and you respond by hissing, "Jesus is the reason for the season", do you really think you have shared Jesus with her? You've told her this whole season, everything we're celebrating, it's all about Jesus, but what kind of Jesus are you showing her? Are you loving her? Are you reaching for her heart? Or are you just concerned with making a point?

I don't want to make a point, I want to reach hearts. I want to love people. I don't want to be the defender of Christmas, or Christianity, or candy canes, I want to be an ambassador for Christ. And so, this season, when I find myself more in love with Jesus and more in pursuit of him than ever before, I also feel less inclined than ever to be his bodyguard. Instead, I want to be his hands and feet, and I want to share his love. And so...

30 days of thankfulness.

2012-11-22T09:48:00.000-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving, Friends! Since I have only chimed in one time this month for the "Today I'm thankful for" thing on Facebook, I thought I would play catch up and give you 30 things that I'm thankful for today. Be warned, read slowly and thoroughly, and know that you will likely encounter a good bit of sarcasm here and there.

I am thankful that God's grace is bigger than my stupidity, and I never ended up on "16 and Pregnant".
I am thankful that my pro-life convictions were never put to the test.
I am thankful that I have always been attracted to dudes, and that same-sex attraction is not something I have struggled with.
I am thankful for the freedom to say whatever I want about the government, and whether it's true, false, good, bad, believable or absolutely absurd, I don't fear retaliation.
I am thankful for friends who aren't afraid to tell me when I'm being stupid.
I am thankful that my husband is a better man than I deserve, and he stuck around to father and raise all three of our children.
I am thankful for the country I was born in, and that I didn't have to jump through hoops or risk my life to come here illegally.
I am thankful for the clean drinking water that flows from my kitchen faucet, and if I waste more than I drink there's still more to come.
I am thankful for the ability to choose between multiple pairs of shoes each time I leave my house, and that going barefoot is never the only option.
I am thankful for the excess fat cells that have taken up residence on my hips, stomach, and upper arms, they mean I am never hungry.
I am thankful for the ink on my skin that says I have a past, but I don't have to be ashamed of it.
I am thankful for the three healthy humans that came from me, are of me, and tell me God loves me, in spite of all the mess.
I am thankful for the single mother who raised me without welfare, crack, or prostitution.
I am thankful for the father God gave me who taught me passion, courage, and maybe a little impulsivity.
I am thankful for my big sister who often seems more like a little sister but somehow always transitions into the big sister right when I'm needing to be a little sister.
I am thankful for that day when I was 17 and I chose not to go back to Keller High School.
I am thankful for that time I got drunk and missed an exam in college, and how it ended my love affair with alcohol.
I am thankful that I don't have to be on welfare, so I can buy junk food, cigarettes, and lots of booze, without being labeled a charlatan.
I am thankful for the hundreds of dollars in overdraft fees that I have paid banks through the years, and that in spite of all the waste I am financially blessed.
I am thankful for the time I stood up in class and wrongly corrected my biology professor's theology, and how she dealt graciously with me.
I am thankful for the year that I spent living on my own, making minimum wage and smoking lots of weed, and that I didn't suffer nearly as much as I should have for the many stupid choices.
I am thankful that on the multiple occasions during that year when I couldn't make ends meet, the people who helped me didn't drug test me first.
I am thankful that the time I let that strange guy get in my car, he didn't chop me up into tiny little pieces or do any dirty things to me.
I am thankful that that time when I was 17 and I stole from my job, my boss chose to overlook it.
I am thankful for all the times my mother could have said, "I told you so", but chose not to.
I am thankful that in all the times other people said, "I told you so", I never responded violently.
I am thankful that I can put my children to sleep every night without fearing for their safety.
I am thankful that when the doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me I had insurance to cover all the tests upon tests upon tests that were ordered.
I am thankful that I don't have to worry about my children getting polio or whooping cough, because we gave them lots and lots of shots when they were tiny babies.
I am thankful that that time I forgot to buckle my son's car seat I didn't get into a wreck and have to defend myself to all the strangers that would have labeled me a horrible mother who didn't really love her kid.
*Bonus* I am thankful that in spite of being a woman I have the freedom to marry who I want, vote for who I want, speak when and to whom I want, believe what I want, and live how I want, all without fear of retribution.

So there you have it, a lot to be thankful for. What about you, give me anywhere from 1 to 30 things that you're thankful for, I promise I'll read them all.

A parenting lesson from the Big Guy.

2012-11-20T08:08:00.002-06:00

*This is a re-post from the mommy blog I wrote once upon a time. I was reading it this morning and recalling this period of our lives which is now more than a year behind us. Going through it I felt like it would never end, and now here we are, two children potty trained and all eating independently. Even still, I still have moments when I'm just a bottle-fed, tantrum throwing, spoiled baby. Read on to see what I mean.*

The little people in my house are all in the middle of some pretty significant transitions. Which means, I am bouncing back and forth from one to the next in an attempt to make said transitions as smooth and sanitary as possible. As a result, I'm exhausted, and I was just about ready to let them all fend for themselves and see what happened when that ever-present God gave me a swift kick in the rear. Let me explain.

First up we have Lucy, my beautiful 9 month old clone. For the past few weeks we've been focusing on moving from bottles & baby food to sippy cups and table food. She's ready for it, and a very eager learner, but the switcheroo is still tedious. Her chubby little fingers have a hard time grasping at the pasta pieces that she so loves to devour, so I'm not yet able to put them on her tray and let her go to town. Everything takes time & practice, and this is no different. Now, that alone sounds simple, but let's throw a couple more stage-shifters into the mix.

Next we have Asher, my second born and the goofiest one in the lot. If I had to guess which one will end up with a personality most like my own he would be my choice. He's clumsy, silly, and he always has a graham cracker in his hand. Now, Asher turned two a few days ago and we all know what comes with that beloved number. My struggle with him right now is transitioning from a crazed little tantrum-thrower into a normal human being. Of course the only real cure for an unprovoked, sociopathic toddler tantrum is simply to ignore it. That was much more easily done with my firstborn, who now feels like he needs to be right in the middle of his little brother's fits saying, "Are you happy, Boo? Are you happy? Momma, Boo's not happy!!!" That brings us to challenge #3.

Now for Staley, my guinea pig. He seems to be pretty well adjusted so far, but as my firstborn he was naturally the one I figured everything out with. How to transition from baby to toddler, how to transition from toddler to human, and now the issue is how to transition from diapers to potty. He just turned three and has no interest in using the potty at all. I had long ago resolved to wait until he was "ready" before I made any real efforts. Well, I got tired of waiting for him to tell me, "I'm ready" and I made the parental decision that he was. So, yesterday morning I put underwear on him and we hit it hard. He's had 3 accidents since then, and has peed in the potty like a champ the rest of the time. However, that has involved trips to the bathroom every 15 to 30 minutes. Now, are you beginning to see the source of my exhaustion? We're practicing eating skills, coping skills, and potty skills all at the same time. Of course hindsight tells me I might should have paced myself a little, but now that we're in it there's no turning back.

My lesson in all of this came about 45 minutes ago during my "quiet time" with the Lord. All three kids were asleep, the house was quiet, but rather than nap I fell on my face before God and said, "Help!" I prayed for patience, for stamina, and for progress. Of course, it didn't come out that eloquently, and it's hard to call it a quiet time when I was sobbing and shouting, but the important thing is that He answered. While I'm desperately trying to advance my kids from the stage they're in into the next one, I'm so often content standing stagnant in my walk with my Father. He didn't pull any punches today, He laid that out for me quite clearly:

"My Child, don't you see that these are the very struggles I have with you? From bottle to cup? I want the same for you. to no longer be content with just milk and to hunger for the meat of my word. You thumb clumsily through it trying to figure it out on your own, rather than bringing it before me and seeking the wisdom and discernment only I can give you. Coping skills? If only you had them! If only you would realize the tantrums you throw every day. Saying, 'What will I eat? Where will I go? Why can't this be easier? Why don't you help me?' As you're learning, sometimes the best thing for me to do for you is also the hardest: to be silent. You think I'm ignoring you, but just as you hear every cry from your child's mouth, so do I hear you. Ready or not? It's hard to tell, isn't it? You aren't always prepared for the things I have in store, but that doesn't mean I won't still send you. If I didn't give you a shove from time to time you would never go anywhere. My love is not always easy, it's not always convenient, and it's not always pleasant, but it is always right."

Yep, that's a pretty hefty dose of conviction He laid on me today! What struggles are you facing in your life right now that God is leading you through?

From the Vault: Sex, Drugs, & Vampires

2012-11-17T20:20:00.003-06:00

This is a post I wrote last year in response to the "Twilight" phenomenon. There has been much buzz around the Christian blogosphere regarding the movie, and whether or not parents should allow their kids to go see it. Rather than re-hash the same arguments I decided to simply repost my thoughts from last year. Know that I have not yet seen Breaking Dawn Part 2, but have read the books and judging by the increased intensity in the concluding storyline (and the fact that they narrowly escaped an R-rating on this final film), I feel safe in my assumption that my concerns are still applicable.

Above all, Parents, I urge you to be cautious, and guard the heart and mind of your young daughters just as carefully as you do your sons. Please, read on.

I hope that at this point those of you who are returning readers have come to know my heart, a little, and know that my goal here is never to incite or offend. Whatever wisdom or insight I may have is all by grace, it has nothing to do with me. Passing it along isn't about building myself up, it's about being obedient even when asked to deliver tough messages. Controversial messages. Offensive messages. That's just part of the job. Since the birth of this blog in February there have been 3 posts that I've deleted, all because they were written from flesh and not Spirit. They were written out of frustration and not a humble, prayerful heart. I say all of that to say this, I am going to write this post very candidly, and very boldly, because that is how it is being laid on me. If at any point while reading this you find yourself becoming defensive, or you feel personally offended, stop reading and pray. I'm writing this out of deep concern, and if it applies to you focus on what the Spirit is telling you, not what your flesh is saying.

Now that the disclaimers are laid out we can get to the point. A few years back a phenomenon called "Twilight" swept across the country. It began as books, and naturally ended up on the big screen in Hollywood. I have read the books and I have seen the movies, and I have kept my objections down to a whisper, until two weeks ago when I saw Breaking Dawn Part 1. I have heard parents object to this film for the obvious reason: sex, violence, vampires, but the problem as I see it goes much deeper than the obvious. The problem with these films and others like them is the subliminal effect they have on girls. Really, females in general. I've often heard it termed "romantic pornography", but I'm going to call it "girl porn", and I believe it is just as dangerous for young girls as "traditional" pornography is for boys. Before you write me off as being dramatic hear me out.

When the issue of teenage boys and pornography comes up we hear and pose objections such as, it teaches them to objectify women, it creates an unrealistic expectation of how women are and what relationships will be like, it fosters perverse fantasies and desires, it exposes them to adult situations prematurely, etc. and so on. All very valid objections. We've all heard it said that men are visual, and once these images enter their brains it's very hard to erase them. Well, there's a flip side.

Let's take a typical 13 year old girl and consider what effect something like Twilight could have on her. The stories are all about fantasy, and the vampire/human fantasy is not a new one. At it's core it's extremely erotic, and extremely appealing. At the awkward age of 13 girls are susceptible to all sorts of influences. They're only beginning to determine what they find attractive in boys. Take that vulnerable kid and plunge her into an alternate reality where the boys are superhuman, the love is everlasting, the passion is palpable, and the happily-ever-after is inevitable, and suddenly you have exposed her to the very same dangers that 13 year boy faces at his computer desk. Suddenly her mind is caught up in the excitement and wonder of that world, and what is she now facing? Unrealistic expectations of how men are and what relationships will be like, unnatural fantasies and desires, premature exposure to adult situations, and, oh yes, the objectification of men!

Here's the kicker, this isn't just a danger with 13 year old girls, this is dangerous for any women at any point, just as porn is and always will be for men. What has amazed me most about these books and movies isn't how girls have responded. Teenage girls have always and will always go crazy over pop culture phenomenons like this. They'll trample over one another to get a glimpse of Justin Bieber, just as their mothers did with Bon Jovi and their grandmothers did with Elvis. They're wired that way, which is why mothers have such a huge roll in protecting these girls from themselves, just like we do our sons. The problem comes in when the mothers are just as caught up in it as are their daughters. Just like a young girl who's dreaming of days to come can get easily sucked into this world, so can a middle-aged woman who is longing for days gone-by. Life isn't as spontaneous or as exciting as it once was, but this new fantasy reality provides a glimpse into what she's been missing. Before she knows it those fantasies will become a stumbling block for her in her marriage just like pornographic images could for her husband. I hope you're picking up what I'm putting down because I really don't want to up the rating on this blog in order to get more graphic.

Alright, I'm going to try to land this gently. As I said I have read the books and seen the movies, and I enjoyed them. I found it very entertaining, but I was aware of the danger zone the entire time I was engaged in them. Just as I am when I watch any kind of "chick flick", I have to be conscious of how I'm processing it. In other words:

"Casting down arguments, and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ;" -2 Corinthians 10:5

Self control is key here, which is why I'm appealing to mothers and not the girls themselves. The bible likens a person without self control to a city with broken down walls, in other words, with no defense. You see our self control is our defense against the flesh, when it's up and it's strong it holds everything else in: love, peace, patience, joy, kindness, faithfulness, and goodness. But once that wall falls it's a free-for-all. Children do not have the ability to keep their walls up, their scope is too narrow to see the importance of it. That's our job as parents. My 2 year doesn't have the self control to keep himself from throwing poop at his brother, so it's my job to be that wall for him until he's built up his own. Your 13 year daughter cannot comprehend the danger of girl porn, so it is up to you to be her wall, or else to leave her defenseless. It is up to you to tell her "No". If you, the mother, are struggling with your own defenses then the first step is to flee from the battle while you work on re-building. If this is something you've struggled with don't test yourself by going to the movies, but rather turn around and run in the other direction. Flee from temptation, and cling to the Redeemer; your refuge is in Him.

"And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." -Philippians 4:7

Ladies, be on guard. Our society likes to make men out to be nothing more than big, dumb animals, but if that's the truth then we as women are merely smaller, but equally dumb animals. We are designed this way for a reason, but we have to stop exploiting it and realize how to use it the right way. I pray your heart is humble as we conclude, and that you know that I have spoken in love.

Why you're a whore, and so am I.

2012-11-16T14:25:00.002-06:00

In my post on Monday I pretty much called you all whores. Sorry 'bout that. Now, if you'll give me just a minute I would like to explain why you're a whore, and so am I.

I have done some googling and found a surprising variety of definitions for the word whore. In a nutshell, a whore is a person who is promiscuous; a person who pursues multiple lovers and/or idolatrous desires.

If you have never read the book of Hosea I highly recommend it, it is a beautiful picture of redemption. Basically what happens is...

"The LORD said to Hosea, 'Go, take to yourself a wife of whoredom and have children of whoredom, for the land commits great whoredom by forsaking the LORD.' So he went and took Gomer, the daughter of Diblaim, and she conceived and bore him a son." - Hosea 1:2-3

So they have some babies with very unfortunate names and then...

"The LORD said to me, 'Go again, love a woman who is loved by another man and is an adulteress, even as the LORD loves the children of Israel, though they turn to other gods and love cakes of raisins.' So I bought her for fifteen shekels of silver and a homer and a lethech of barley. And I said to her, 'You must dwell as mine for many days. You shall not play the whore, or belong to another man; so will I also be to you.'" -Hosea 3:1-3

So here we have Hosea, the faithful husband, and Gomer, the adulterous wife. Hosea loves his wife, he pursues her, and in the end Hosea buys Gomer for a homer and redeems his bride. Seriously, this stuff is too good to make up.

Now this is all very beautiful and symbolic, but I'm not sure that we really grasp the meaning. We are the Bride of Christ. I have been pondering this all week, preparing to write a follow up post explaining why I'm a whore and you're a whore and we're all just a bunch of whores. And then last night I was super blessed by the message I heard by our youth pastor and all of this really came together for me. He brought us to James 4:

"What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? You desire and do not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel. You do not have, because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your passions." (vs 1-3)

This is a pretty apt description of us, wouldn't you say? I mean for real,
who writes this stuff? The kicker comes in the next verse as James addresses
the readers with a lovely little pet name:

"You adulterous people!"

I guess it sounds a little nicer when you put it this way, but he's basically saying,
"You whores!" The relationship that God is inviting us into is so special, so
intimate, that turning our focus elsewhere, and pursuing things that take away
from that relationship, is the equivalent of adultery. As our youth pastor put it,
we are seeking out other lovers. We're playing the whore.

And so maybe you're thinking I'm still wrong for putting this label on you because you don't worship other gods, but my response to that would be, are you sure about that? Perhaps you don't pray to Buddah or Allah or Abraham Lincoln Vampire Slayer, but are you certain there are no idols in your life? See, Satan likes to camouflage them, but I'll share some of the ones that I've seen in my own life. How about a list, we like those don't we? Here are 4 big ones:

1. The "Christian" label - When we're driving in our Christian car, listening to our Christian music, wearing our Christian clothes and chewing our Christian gum and thinking our Christian thoughts on our way to visit our Christian dentist so we can get new Christian teeth to perfect our Christian smile so our Christian friends will be able to recognize us when we are outside of our Christian bubble, I fear we've made an idol of our "Christian" label. The very word has lost so much significance, as it has come to represent the pursuit of religion and moralism, rather than the pursuit of a relationship with Jesus Christ. We have made a idol of Christianity.

2. Ministry - I am oh so guilty of this one. It's easy to get caught up in the flare, the programs, the events, the bible studies, and in the process to lose sight of the purpose and goal. I started out right, hungry to serve and do and challenge and change and inspire and all of that good stuff, but somewhere in the mix I let myself get more caught up in "doing ministry" than in pursuing my relationship with Christ. I neglected my prayer time, my one on one with Jesus time, and instead threw myself full force into planning and carrying out ministry work. And, truth be told, I neglected my most important ministry which is my family. Then one day I realized that I had made my faith more about what I was doing than what Christ had already done. I was no longer pursuing my intimate relationship with him, I was pursuing the praise and accolades of other believers. Not good.

3. Morality - As I said earlier in the week, American Christians have a love affair with morality. We want Christianity to be a perfect little box with no coloring outside the lines. But the problem is, following Christ is messy. Making a god of morality again puts the emphasis on us, our actions, our hands, our abilities, and strips God of the glory. Never mind the fact that we're really just a bunch of dirty little creatures who are hopelessly inept. We cannot, and so He did, and yet we are still trying to take the credit. I mean, isn't that what all of this stems from anyway? Eve, in the garden, feeling like somehow God was holding out on her, not sharing his knowledge and power with her. The rest is history. In the same way, we pursue morality, because checking off a list is easy and gives us an immediate sense of accomplishment. Unfortunately, it also makes us whores. Bummer.

4. Scripture - Don't stone me, for real, I love Scripture. But, Scripture is just one of the tools that we have been given to learn about God, and to enhance our intimate relationship with Him. Just like there are various avenues through which a husband and wife can enhance their intimate relationship, God has given us different resources through which we pursue Him, learn Him, joy in Him, and ultimately develop oneness with Him. It makes me laugh a little when someone scolds me for writing in my Bible, much like how hostile some get about wearing hats in churches or letting children run through the sanctuary. God does not dwell in those pages, nor in our church buildings, He dwells in the hearts of His people.

Certainly there are others, but i'm trying to keep this brief (too late, right?). I want to conclude by taking you back to Hosea for a minute. Remember, Hosea restored his wife. He paid the price and bought her, so she would be his own. Fast forward a little ways and Jesus comes on the scene. Now we have God, the faithful husband, and Israel, the adulterous wife, and again we see the husband's relentless pursuit of his bride. And in this case, the price of redemption is blood.

The precious blood of Jesus Christ.

That price was paid. So we, the dirty little whores that we are, can now don a white dress on our wedding day. We are spotless in His eyes. That's pretty great, huh? So yeah, I called you a whore, and that's a pretty strong label to put on someone, but it's the truest picture that we can paint of our human state. And it is that picture that best highlights the goodness, and greatness, and absolute graciousness of God.

So get out of the brothel, stop pursuing idols, they will only ever leave you wanting more. The world will offer you a cheap version of the fruit of the Spirit, but why would you settle for a cheap knock off when you are being offered the real deal?

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.
If we live by the Spirit, let us also keep in step with the Spirit.
(Galatians 5:22-25 ESV)

10 things a good Christian just would not do.

2012-11-12T22:42:00.000-06:00

Image by David Hayward

I'm tired. Weeks are going by and I'm just growing more and more tired. I keep waiting for things to simmer and smooth out, but with every glimmer of peace another wave comes. And day by day by day I'm on my face, pleading:

"Yo! I'm weary, I'm heavy laden! You're right, I don't know what laden means, but I'm pretty sure it's applicable here, and I'm ready for some rest, Jesus. I want that easy yolk you were talking about, I want that light burden, I know your timing is perfect, and it sure seems like now is the perfect time for all of this awesome lightness to kick in. Y'know? Jesus? Holler if ya' hear me..."

Reverent, I know, but so far, he's still withholding. I'm not gonna lie, it's frustrating. When you find yourself in a test, and you know that you know that you know that it's a test, and you know that you know that you know that God is bigger and smarter and so much better at planning your life than you are, the challenge becomes maintaining your focus. Setting aside speculation and worry, and choosing to trust, and press on.

After a rather unpleasant interaction via the Facebook last week, I needed a break and some fresh air. I took the kids outside and I sat down and read. I was recently given a copy of Donald Miller's book, "Searching for God Knows What". I'm not even kidding, it's the greatest book I've ever read. You'll either love or hate his writing style, but for me it was love. I've been tempted to quote whole chapters here for you in lieu of blog posts, but I've heard about this thing called plagiarism, and I'm pretty sure it's illegal, so just go buy the book. But I want to share this tidbit that I read that afternoon while my kids played and the wind blew and I was momentarily in this really peaceful state of mind.

"Maybe the gospel of Jesus...is all about our relationship with Jesus rather than about ideas. And perhaps our lists and formulas and bullet points are nice in the sense that they help us memorize different truths, but harmful in the sense that they blind us to the necessary relationship that must begin between ourselves and God for us to become His followers. And worse, perhaps our formulas and bullet points and steps steal the sincerity with which we might engage God. Becoming a Christian might look more like falling in love than baking cookies."

This is profound in that it's so obvious it's a mystery why we even need someone to point it out to us! But we do, sad I know. He goes on to say:

"I realize it all sounds terribly sentimental, but imagine the other ideas popular today that we sometimes hold up as credible. We believe a person will gain access to heaven because he is knowledgeable about theology, because he can win a game of religious trivia. And we may believe a person will find heaven because she is very spiritual and lights incense and candles and takes bubble baths and read books that speak of centering her inner self; and some of us believe a person is a Christian because he believes five ideas that Jesus communicated here and there in the Scriptures, though never completely at one time and in once place; and some people believe they are Christians because they do good things and associate themselves with some kind of Christian morality; and some people believe they are Christians because they are Americans. If any of these models are true, people who read the Bible before we systematically broke it down, and, for that matter, people who believed in Jesus before the printing press or before the birth of Western civilization, are at an extreme disadvantage. It makes you wonder if we have fashioned a gospel around our culture and technology and social economy rather than around the person of Christ."

Whoomp. There it is.

I know the title of this post is "10 things a good Christian just would not do", and you're probably wondering when the bullet points are going to begin, but the truth is the title was just a ploy to get you to click and read. See, one thing I've learned since starting this blog is that people like lists. I have utilized that in the past, and I probably will continue to do so, there's nothing innately wrong with a list. The thing is, lists are limited. You can't squeeze the Christian life into a list, because the gospel cannot be contained within man-made boundaries.

In this book Miller addresses this multiple times. Our need for lists and formulas and 12 step programs. We function well within safe, comfortable little parameters. But dare us to step outside of those parameters and breathe the air beyond them, and suddenly we become desperate and afraid. We miss our lists, we miss our formulas, we need steps and guarantees and something firm and certain beneath our feet. That's why our Christian culture has such a love affair with morality.

We have taken the person of Jesus out of the picture, and replaced him with morality. A list of dos and don'ts, and permission to use those lists as a guideline for who is and who isn't "saved". I can't give you a list of 10 things that Christians would never do, because I am a Christian and I have done some pretty heinous stuff, before and after I gave my life to Christ. To say a Christian would never condone homosexuality, use drugs, "live in sin", have an abortion, vote for Obama, beat their wife, get a divorce, abuse "the system", lie, cheat, steal, cuss, rape, murder, or any other despicable thing you can think of, is to put yourself in the seat of judge, and to take upon your human shoulders the responsibility of discerning hearts, and determining the how and the why of the appropriation of God's grace. That, my friends, is not a seat you want to be in.

"For with the judgement you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you." - Matthew 7:2

Whoa, Buddy, them's fightin' words!

I can't judge a man's heart, any more than I can look at his clothes and know what kind of laundry detergent he uses. That's not my job. I absolutely believe we have a responsibility to hold our brothers and sisters accountable, and I absolutely believe that we should lovingly confront sin, but let's not overlook Jesus's crucial pre-requisite to sin-inspection:

"How can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me take out the speck that is in your eye,' when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother's eye.'" - Luke 6:42

Yeah, we tend to forget that part don't we? We get so excited about the fact that our brother is in sin and we just love them so much that we're going to dare to be bold and confront that sin and pray with them and encourage them out of that sin and, sure, maybe lose the friend in the process but that's all part of counting the cost and following Jesus, and somewhere in the midst of all the excitement and good intentions we neglect to see the nasty human starring at us in the mirror. Or maybe we're not nasty. We don't lie or cheat or cuss or do gay things or have sex outside of marriage or kill babies or listen to secular music or any of that, we're "good". Never mind the fact that we're greedy, gossipy, self-righteous whores, we're moral and that's what matters.

Mmmkay.

And the thing is, I can't even say that a good Christians wouldn't be a greedy, gossipy, self-righteous whore, because this faith and life is a process, and smoothing out the wrinkles is the work of the Spirit. So just stop making lists. Stop looking for formulas. Set aside human reasoning and the relentless desire to be "right", and just pursue a relationship with Jesus. For crying out loud, that's what he wants. No one ever gushes about how in love they are with a set of rules. No one runs around shouting praise to a system that simply approves of them. No one.

But out of love (out of the abundant love and joy of our hearts!) the mouth cries, "Hallelujah!".

A little perspective.

2012-11-08T08:34:00.004-06:00

My heart is heavy this week, and I have struggled to find words to share with you. I'll admit, I have been a tad bit bitter. I don't know about you, but my little Facebook community this week has been pretty much consumed with all of this election nonsense.

I have watched my brothers and sisters tear each other apart. I have watched them stretch the lines that contain Christianity in order to let in one man, while in the next breath restricting those very same lines to squeeze the other out. I have watched them spread propaganda, the really ridiculously unfounded malarkey you can't imagine anyone actually believing. I have watched them worry and stress over the outcome, preparing themselves for either the greatest victory or the ultimate defeat depending on which way the votes would swing. I have watched them abandon the hope that we have in Christ and place it in men.

But the worst thing that I have seen, is the absolute distraction of believers. Satan has been busy this week. He has been whispering in ears and deceiving hearts left and right. And I for one am fed up with the whole blasted thing.

It's weird how things happen. A couple of weeks ago I told you about a girl that I go to church with, she was in an accident 8 years ago that left her paralyzed from the chest down. That girl's name is Casey, and when I began writing that post I didn't intend to say anything about her, but as the words came out so did her story. This past Sunday Casey laid down for a nap and never woke up. She was 28 years old, and she leaves behind a husband, a one year old little boy, and a family and friends who are now grasping for sense in all of this.

This, my friends, is a real tragedy. One that makes you feel like the world might literally stop spinning, time may actually stand still, and life may never be the same. As I awoke yesterday morning and realized that a new day had come, the world had not ceased to be, I was reminded of the words of Casey's mother, "We just have to trust Him. His plan is so much bigger, so much greater, He wants us to trust that."

After visiting them on Monday night I came home full of raging emotions. Of course asking the big "Why God". I had stood in the room watching her husband and mother overcome by grief, and I just knew that any minute Casey was going to get up and walk out of that bed. But she didn't. I struggled to wrap my mind around it, knowing of course that God is big and he's got all of this, but still needing just an ounce of understanding. None came. I got home thinking of that husband who was watching his wife's light grow dimmer and dimmer, and that mother who was clinging to the last moments with her girl, and that baby who would never know his precious mother, and I felt that somehow all of this other crap, taxes and welfare and gas prices, was so insignificant that surely people would take a step back and just breath. Surely people would gain some perspective.

But the war raged on. Brothers and Sisters still tore each other apart for their political ideology. The name of Christ was still tossed out as a banner for Republicanism, and a battle cry against entitlement. We were still championing division, and Satan was grinning from ear to ear.

It hurt my heart. I realize that my approach to politics may seem a little apathetic, but it's really not. I voted, probably not the way that you would consider "legitimate", but I exercised my right. I watched the results pour in on Tuesday night along with the rest of the country. But all the while I trusted that whoever won it was God's doing, not ours. And all the while I was reminded that this is not what is important. This was actually so far down on the list of what is important, that I wanted to grab everyone and shake them.

The loss of election is nothing compared to the loss of a daughter, the loss of a wife, the loss of a mother. The loss of your life. Friends, all is as it is because God ordained it to be. Please, for the love of God, please stop pointing fingers and drawing lines. Put on your big girl panties and move on. Hug your kids. Play with them. Spend time with your wife. Give your husband some booty.

Feed a hungry person, meet a need, enable someone in their entitlement, let yourself be taken advantage of, compromise your American rights, forfeit your American dream, give of yourself, sacrifice until you feel it, stop whining, stop bickering, refocus and realize that passion is good, but if it is not targeting the hearts of others, it is misdirected.

The president did not change, and neither has our job as believers. Preach the Gospel. Live out our faith. Love people. Love God. Cherish the moments that we have, and remember that all of this is fleeting.

A little perspective goes a long way. Get some.

Just Friends: Guest Post

2012-11-06T07:51:00.002-06:00

I'm back at ChurchLeaders.com today with a guest post, but before I tell you to go over there and read, comment, and share, I want to say a quick word about today. If you haven't voted, I encourage you to do so, because it is a right that not everyone has and one that many fought for, so don't take it for granted. With that said, I also want to urge you to not get caught up in it. Vote, but don't put your hope in that vote. Far more important that who you put on that ballot or who wins tonight, is knowing that God is in control no matter the outcome. Trust in that, hope in that, have peace in that. The end.

Okay, so you may have read this post a few weeks ago when I wrote it, but jump over and leave a comment for me (good or bad). I'm talking about opposite sex friendships, here's a snippet:

""When two people who thus discover that they are on the same secret road are of different sexes, the friendship which arises between them will very easily pass—may pass in the first half hour—into erotic love. Indeed, unless they are physically repulsive to each other or unless one or both already loves elsewhere, it is almost certain to do so sooner or later." —C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

This is such a nuisance.

Honestly, wouldn't it be nice if once we found our spouse our eyes were somehow veiled and every other member of the opposite sex turned into a gruesome, disfigured freak? Imagine! There would be no need to worry about where your spouse's eyes may roam when he or she is away from you. If only.

Unfortunately, that's not the case.

In fact, I think it can sometimes be the other way around. It's kind of the "grass is greener on the other side" mentality. After looking at the same face for 10 or 20 years, it might not take a lot to catch your eye. Especially if that face has started to age.

I have danced around this problem like a stinkin' ballerina, and like I said, it's a nuisance."

Click here to keep reading!

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

2012-11-03T11:14:00.000-05:00

I have always been irritated by the whole, "These are the last days," rhetoric that evangelicals like to throw around. I don't like it, and honestly I think it's a terribly optimistic thing to say. I'll be the first to tell you that eschatology is not my expertise, I've done only enough studying to know that I believe Jesus will return at some point, but before he does a lot of crap will have to first hit the proverbial fan.

Most of the time when someone starts talking along these lines they cite things like gay marriage, increased abortions, and popular culture's general rejection of all things Jesus, as examples of the impending "rapture". I mean, forget being burned at the stake, or speared to death for our beliefs, we have to suffer through a culture that doesn't like us, if that's not true persecution then I don't know what is. Of course it isn't only Christians who believe the world is going to end, there are countless films depicting the end of the world; the end of mankind; the end of civilized life on this planet; the end of a normal human species; the rise of zombies or vampires or ape-men (did I use those semi-colons right?). No matter how you flip it, "The End" is a pretty popular concept, and one that I find fascinating to consider.

Again and again we see people in Scripture questioning the "when", wanting to know how long and how they'll know and all that will lead up to it. And again and again Jesus gives the same response, "Don't worry about when, just be ready." With all of this severity with which people reference these "signs" and the impending doom that lies ahead for all unbelievers, one would think that a general readiness would result. I mean, if we're serious in our talking about the end drawing near, we should be just as serious about our preparation for it. But, alas, we are not.

I am a big John Cusack fan, which is the one and only reason I suffered through the 158 minutes of "2012". Big shocker, the movie wasn't that good, but it did give me a lot of food for thought. I wondered how seriously people would take this notion that the Mayans had all of this figured out and the world would, indeed, end according to their little cave wall schedule. I remember the hysteria leading up to the last days of 1999 when it was thought that the whole world would sort of shut down because of some kind of computer programming glitch. I've got to admit, I was a little bummed when nothing happened on that one.

Over the past week I've been doing a lot of thinking about this. It's really easy to predict that Jesus will return at any time, and when he does it will be when we least expect it, because the truth of the matter is that very few of us really expect it at all. If we did, we wouldn't be so focused on the question that Jesus wouldn't answer (the when), and ignore his emphatic command to just be ready?

Maybe the Mayans just ran out of space on their wall and couldn't continue their calendar, who knows, but that doesn't mean the world won't be ending. December 21st could very well be the day, but not because they predicted it to be. Jesus could return any day, any hour, any minute. He could come back before I finish writing this post. The planet is groaning, and crying out for its own redemption, in case you haven't noticed. These wicked tornado and hurricanes and droughts and all around crazy weatherness (weather craziness?) are all indications of how fallen our world is. The people are living in desperation. Some days I think the "lost" might be more "at peace" than the so-called Christians around me (terrible theology, I know). Constant turmoil swirls around us like a nasty storm preparing to wreak havoc.

Where is the peace?

I would imagine that if we truly took this whole "Jesus coming back at any hour" thing seriously, our lives would look very differently. And while I think that our lives and our so-called persecution could get so very much worse before it actually resembled a Revelation-esque world, that doesn't mean it will, and so it's worth exploring. If we knew the end was around the corner, there are many things we wouldn't waste time doing.

Like exercising, shopping, worrying, saving money, planning for the future, playing Words with Friends, checking Facebook, DIYing, gossiping, daydreaming, holding grudges, forming grudges, constantly eating, organizing, watching TV, sitting, sleeping in—the list goes on and on. I don't think we would see any of those things as worthwhile uses for our time, once we realized our days here were numbered.

And I think those things would apply across the board, to believers and unbelievers, there would be a great re-prioritizing of our time and efforts. But what about us, the ambassadors for Christ, left here to be His hands and feet. What would we do if we knew that our window of opportunity was narrowing?

Would we board a plane to Africa and start feeding hungry children, and telling them about Jesus?

Would we erase the battle lines we've drawn between ourselves and our gay friends and family, and use those last weeks and days to just love them?

Would we set down our agendas, and start loving and giving and sharing in spite of who "deserves" it?

How about this, would we stop bickering over our different theological differences, and just join hands?

Or, would we persist in our pride? I'm sure some would. I can only imagine the fights that would go down in those last hours as the eschatological debates took on a new fervor. Will there be a millennial reign? Will "the rapture" be pre-trib, mid-trib, or post-trib? Who will go and who will stay? The avenues for debate are many. And yet, what I cannot imagine is Jesus showing up on that day and saying, "Divide up into groups according to your different denominations, after which I will tell you who was 'right' and that group will come with me."

No, I don't think that's how it will go down. What would be more likely is that the sight of Jesus would be more than we could bear, and as we shielded our eyes and cowered to the ground, the veil of our ignorance and pride and the immense falleness that we are now consumed with, would be lifted. And without a word from Him we would be aware of our foolishness. No more would we worry about the "right" and the "wrong" of it all, but rather the glory of our King. The same glory that should be our all-consuming passion right now.

So if these are the last days, and everywhere we look we see proof of that, why are our priorities so jacked up? Why do we waste so much precious time on things that will fade along with the world? We are so distracted. Brothers and Sisters, I am urging you to pray that God will bring those distractions to light, so that you can determine what they are and how to re-focus away from them. We have to stop wasting our time on morality, and theology, and on checklists filled with empty actions and deeds. Together, hand in hand, differences set aside, we need to get ready for battle. Not a battle for lifestyle change or theological synchronicity but a battle for the heart, in which our goal is to be the hands and feet of Christ, and to carry out His work, for His glory. So let's do it.

Stop worrying about the "when", and just get ready.

Evangelism: Beyond words and propaganda

2012-10-29T08:12:00.000-05:00

e·van·ge·lism/iˈvanjəˌlizəm/

Noun:

The spreading of the Christian gospel by preaching or personal witness.
Zealous preaching and dissemination of the gospel, as through missionary work.
The preaching or promulgation of the gospel;the work of an evangelist.

Can you recall the last time you met someone who had never heard the name of Jesus? I ask because I have been trying for two days and I cannot remember the last time I did. I can think of many who don't believe in Him, or who haven't heard the true, unadulterated Gospel, but they are all familiar with Jesus, at least in name.

While I'm sure it's possible to live in this country and avoid the name, it's also unlikely. It's tossed around too much. The name of Jesus is used as profanity, as the punch line of a joke, as justification for our actions, as a source of condemnation, as a blessing, as a curse, as a child's name, as a representation of all that is good and holy, as a synonym for lunacy and foolishness—I'd say it's a very popular name.

Over dinner with a friend the other night we began discussing evangelism—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and she made a comment that really struck me, she said, "They've heard about Jesus, most of them have heard all their lives, now they need to see Him."

For those of you who don't know, I live in East Texas. There are thirty baptist churches in my town. Add to that a dozen Methodist, a handful of non-denominational, a few Church of Christ, Pentecostal, Episcopalian, Presbyterian, and Bible Churches, and I'd say we've got a fair amount of representation for the name of Jesus in Henderson, TX. With that many churches, and exponentially more individual members, a population of merely 11,000 people (such as Henderson has) should be Gospel-saturated, don't you think?

Now, I'm going to be really honest with you, I don't make a very good East Texan. I was not born here, Southern/Republican/Texas pride does not flow strongly through my veins, and I do not see the world through Red, White, and Blue eyes. I struggle with a lot of things living here, but my biggest struggle of all is summed up in those simple words from my friend.

They have heard, but they need to see.

I have told you before that I am very Calvinist-leaning in my understanding of Scripture. Since making that confession I would say the biggest question that I have been presented with is (in a nutshell): If you believe in unconditional election then what incentive do you have to evangelize?

This bugs me on several levels. One, I feel like it puts the emphasis on results rather than motive. If I believe that the salvation of others in contingent upon whether or not I evangelize, and therefore my incentive to evangelize is to save others from hell by sharing the Gospel and winning them for Christ, then I run the risk of A) Measuring my success in terms of results, and B) Boasting in that success as if it were my accomplishment rather than God's. Both of these are slippery slopes. If I measure my success in terms of results, then I become results-driven, so either I am an evangelical super-star or a complete loser. By this model, Isaiah was a loser, as was Jesus. Jim Jones, on the other hand, was a super star. Likewise, if I see success (ie. conversions) as my success rather than God's, then I am taking on the responsibility of changing hearts. Here's what I mean:

I set out to convert, using my knowledge and my words and yes the Spirit's leading, but my obedience to the call. And then I pour Scripture and prayer and hope (and maybe a little propaganda) into this person's life. We share, we laugh, we cry, we scream, and then comes the moment of truth, when I lead this person in a prayer and they accept Jesus into their heart and surrender to Him and begin to walk the Christian walk, and I give them lots of books and maybe some test-a-mints, and a Lifeway gift card and I invite them to come to church with me, and I begin to disciple this person by telling them to "Follow me," and angels rejoice and a rainbow appears in the sky and unicorns run around us and a general sense of warm fuzziness overtakes us both. And this person thanks me, and I smile (humbly) thinking of the illustration I recently heard about rescuing someone from a burning building, and what a beautiful example that was of leading someone to the Lord, and saving them from eternal hell fire. Woohoo. Fist pump. Thank you, Jesus.

Sorry, I get a little carried away when unicorns are involved. My point, sarcasm and smart alecness aside, is that we make ourselves way too important. God does not need us, nor has he given us an equal role in the carrying out of his sovereign plan.

With all of this in mind I am now pondering the "what", the "how", and the "why" of evangelism. What is it, how should it look, and why should we do it? Now, I'm stepping out on a limb here, and daring to think out loud, in hopes that we will generate some discussion today. Read, think, and pray before you pick up your stones.

So, what is it...

Evangelism, in a nutshell, is sharing the Gospel, right? The hang up comes when I step back and realize that the Gospel has been shared, and though many have yet to grasp it and understand it and fall in love with it, it has still been proclaimed. The words have been spoken. But talk is cheap. If you tell me you are passionate about ending extreme poverty, I might respond with admiration for your bleeding heart. I might even vow to get involved. But, if I see you making sacrifices, giving up things you love, devoting your time and energy and resources, to the cause you've claimed to love, that's going to spark more than admiration in me. It's going to spark curiosity. Why would they do that? I will begin to think that this is more than an empty cause, this is something you truly believe in, and that kind of belief is infectious. And I know I'm dancing around the cliche so I'll just say it, actions do speak louder than words. There are not words that can fully convey Jesus to someone. We have to live the Gospel in order to really proclaim it. Which brings us to the "how".

We are here to love, as Christ did, and to point others toward Him, not toward ourselves. Hearts are his job, results are up to him, our job, our blessing, our privilege, is to continue the work that he started— to build relationships, to encourage, rebuke, and disciple one another. To feed the hungry, to help the needy, to reach out to the marginalized. To love big, to love passionately, to love in spite of. To be taken advantage of, to be under appreciated, to be persecuted. To abandon our rights and causes, to be champions of grace, to be servants of people. Our invitation should never be, "Follow me", but rather, "Follow Him". I believe we do this by first, setting down our agendas. Success isn't about the number of converts, because our success isn't about anyone but ourselves. Say this with me, "We are not responsible for anyone but ourselves." So the idea that our help has to be coupled with a sermon and a commitment to good, clean living, and an appropriate level of gratitude shown by the recipient, is (well intentioned) self-centered propaganda. There is a time to speak, and there is a time to shut up and serve, but the motivation behind each should be the same: love.

So why do we do it?

If we really can't change hearts, and it's all predestined, why wouldn't we just spend all of our time behind closed doors, praying and praising God? Why even bother with the rest? If you're asking that question (not just trying to make a point, but really wondering) then you haven't experienced the fullness of life in Christ. We share the Gospel because it spills out of the abundance of our hearts. We share the Gospel because it cannot be contained inside of us, it has to flow out! We share the Gospel because for whatever reason we are the tool that God has chosen to use to spread the message of Jesus Christ. We share the Gospel because that is part of this eternal life that we experience in Jesus. We share the Gospel because God, in his infinite grace and mercy, allows dirty little creatures like you and me to have a role in all of this, when he could just as easily bring us home at the moment of conversion and be no less just for doing so!

And so we set out to serve others. No longer are we focused on the results, instead our mission is simply to love, and we quickly realize that this takes on many different forms. But soon relationships begin to develop, and opportunities present themselves, and questions arise, and we begin to notice little moments when the Spirit is moving in and around us, and guards are let down. But there is no defining "moment of truth", just a progression of life. There are ups and downs, good days and bad, two steps forward and ten back, but through it all there is growth. Ours and theirs. Then comes a day, after months or maybe years, when some of those we've served are now serving along side us. And we praise God, together, because we know that even the setbacks and the "failures" have somehow brought Him glory. We're no longer concerned with understanding the "how", we just surrender to the "why". And through it we begin to see what silly little creatures we are for creating such complexity, when really, in the end, it's simple: Surrender to the Spirit's current, and God will move the mountains.

Woohoo. Fist pump. Thank you, Jesus.

Thoughts?

Daughter, love your hips, no matter their width.

2012-10-24T14:23:00.001-05:00

I have a daughter, and she's beautiful. Breathtaking really. So much so that we are considering putting our boys in karate; with a sister as beautiful as theirs they will definitely need to be able to kick some butt.

At twenty seven years old I can only think of a handful of times in my life when I have felt beautiful, which I think is rather unfortunate. The rest of the time I've felt fat, average, awkward, less-than, frumpy, not-quite-right, and a million other negative things. My self-image, quite frankly, is horrendous.

A very wise woman brought to my attention, that when we as women spend an hour in the bathroom getting ready, we are not getting all dolled up for men, we're doing it for women. Not in a "boys on the side" kind of way. No, what we do is more like "Mean Girls", with our unwritten rules and our imaginary boundaries, we are desperate for affirmation from other women. No, no that's not it.

We are terrified of being rejected by other women.

Or judged, or looked down upon, or whispered about, or somehow someway deemed "less than".

I want my daughter to know that she is beautiful. But therein lies the problem.

What is beautiful?

Several years ago a girl in my area was in an awful accident. In the days and weeks following, there was much uncertainty. Would she walk again? Would she be the same mentally and emotionally? Her family waited by her bedside, unsure of whether they would ever again hear her voice or see her smile. It was in this period of helpless waiting that I began to pick up on a different concern from the people around me. I realized that when someone told a stranger about the accident, they would almost always make the comment that, "She was so beautiful."

And she was. And while I realize that the accident had altered her appearance, and there was no way of knowing at that point whether she would ever look the same, I couldn't help but be bothered by the fact that (all else considered) this was even a point of concern. I don't mean to fault the people that said this, they meant nothing by it, but it is an example of our human priorities. For us, the loss of physical beauty is often seen as a tragedy in and of itself.

Now, years later, I look at her and say confidently that she is physically every bit as beautiful as she ever was. Quite stunning really. But also, what I see in her today, is a different kind of beauty. The beauty that I want my daughter to strive for. Not something that is defined in fleeting terms or by human standards.

A living, breathing, active beauty.

It sickens me to see how we as women critique one another. My best friend has a very different body than I do. In fact, before we could officially become friends, we had this conversation, in which we both acknowledged our different body types. She is naturally petite and thin, and I am, well, not so much. One thing that has always bothered me is when women who are quite obviously smaller than I am make comments about how fat they are, in my presence. It leaves me thinking, "If you're fat then I'm a whale!"

But, something my friend has helped me to see, is the flip side. She has the opposite weight struggle that I do. There have been times when she has struggled to gain needed weight (such as while nursing her baby). And what happens when she tries to share this struggle with other women? She gets chastised. She hears things like, "Oh I don't even want to hear about it!"

Do you see what's happening here?

If I look at a thin woman and assume she's anorexic, and she looks at me and assumes I'm a lazy slob, equal fault lies with us both. The source of the criticism and snarky remarks is the same: insecurity.

Somehow, as long as their is someone that we can pinpoint who is a little chubbier, a little more gap-toothed, a little more gray-headed, a little less curvaceous, a little more pimply, a little less beautiful, then we feel better about ourselves.

Sisters, God help our daughters if we are passing this on to them. It needs to stop. Our rhetoric needs to change, as does our presentation of beautiful.

We did not create beauty, therefore we do not define it.

What we should be doing is affirming the true beauty that is in each of us. The beautiful stamp left by a loving Creator. And then, shift our focus from the desperate pursuit of worldly beauty, and begin to seek the divine. The reflection of Christ in each of us, out of which radiates the same beauty that is beheld in sunsets and rainbows and majestic mountains, that lies in the heart of every believer. And, here's the good part, that kind of "beautiful" is more than an adjective.

It is a way of living.

This is the beautiful I want my daughter to embrace. The beauty of Christ, who we know was not handsome by worldly standards, but that's irrelevant. How he loved, and led, and befriended, and encouraged, and pursued the people that the world deemed unworthy...the ugly people...

that is beautiful!

So the next time you look in the mirror and begin to scrutinize yourself, consider the message you are sending to your daughters, or to yours sons. When you step on that scale for the tenth time in a day, or flippantly remark about another woman's weight gain (or loss), I urge you to redirect. Get off of the physical, and look at the heart. Yours included.

How are you loving the people you have been called to serve? How are you reaching out to the unworthy, the rejected, the downtrodden, the "ugly"? How well are you following the beautiful example of Christ? That is what counts, Sisters.

How do you define beauty? Have you struggled with this in your own life? What advice do you have to mother and fathers on how to teach our children about true beauty?