On the third evening of our desert escape, Toby and I decided to tuck away to secluded setting of the Tuscany restaurant in Phoenix. Sitting outside in a 106 degree oven we tried to convince ourselves that this was the good life.  All around us the desert was bursting with hearty, determined blooms, and the occasional, sun-weary critter would skitter by with what I imagined were exhales of exhausted disgust.

A few weeks ago, Toby and I headed to Phoenix for a trip part-business, part-sweet relief. Days were filled with meetings, but nights were our chance to unwind, restore, and simply breathe. We knew that Arizona was going to be warmer than Alaska, but we were not at all prepared for the onslaught of heat that would overtake us. (We actually packed at the last minute, and brought our wool [...]]]>

A few weeks ago, Toby and I headed to Phoenix for a trip part-business, part-sweet relief. Days were filled with meetings, but nights were our chance to unwind, restore, and simply breathe. We knew that Arizona was going to be warmer than Alaska, but we were not at all prepared for the onslaught of heat that would overtake us. (We actually packed at the last minute, and brought our wool socks to the desert. Seriously. We truly needed a break.)

It took awhile, but finally I braved the heat and found myself down by the pool, reading and sleeping, but mostly watching.

Pool life is a sort of strange phenomenon for me. Growing up in Alaska, and in a highly conservative home at that, I didn’t have a tremendous amount of exposure to watching people who were fairly exposed themselves. As odd as it sounds, at 39, I can’t remember ever enjoying the refreshment or entertainment of a public pool.

As I sat and observed, I felt so freed watching the varieties of people meander by.

I witnessed people parading around in swimsuits and sundresses in all shades of human condition: Short, tall, skinny, large, very large, elderly, children, dark, light, jiggly, solid, wrinkly, scarred, glossy. It was beautiful.

I saw one delightful woman, probably topping three hundred pounds, sunning herself in a corner, laughing at her two healthy boys splashing water on each other; their joy was infectious.

I watched a young, freckled, acne-faced boy so skinny his chest caved in, flirting with three incredibly beautiful girls – completely oblivious of his awe.

I smiled as moms of every fruity shape scurried around trying to catch their teetering toddlers walking toward the edge of the wading pool, all the while begging for help from billowy, swim-sweatered husbands.

I giggled as a strutting teen paraded around and around the park, singing jazz tunes and scatting at the top of his lungs; he was either practicing for American Idol or hoping that a talent scout would recognize his gift and sign him up on the spot. I remembered being him.

All of my life I’ve felt insecure about my body. It’s certainly not a bad body; in fact, it’s fairly decent if I do say so myself. But it isn’t perfect, and that’s what I always felt it should be. Soaking up the sun and diversity, I began to reflect on how many years and moments had been stolen from me by physique intimidation and the assumption that I wasn’t what I should be.

I have also known friends who were so overwhelmed and disappointed by their appearance that anything in life that didn’t go as planned was attributed to the fact that their hair was curly, or they were too thin, or maybe their boobs were too small. Loss of job. Lack of a good deal on a car. No marriage proposals. Marriage breakups. No record deal offers. All because of a flurry of freckles.

The sad part is that so many of us are so desperate to change our lives, that instead of focusing on the internal aspects of what really makes us frustrated, sad or miserable, we turn to the easy, quick fixes of the obvious. We blow money on quick, easy, unhealthy meals, but can’t justify spending extra on high-quality, natural, fresh food. Many will balk at spending $100 an hour at a therapist’s office, but will drop thousands on external attempts of self-worth: new cars, plastic surgery, clothes. Others do whatever they can to stack the deck of the natural appearance through loud clothes, overly-done hair and accessorizing like it’s the Senior Prom.

Poolside, as I saw myself in the images all around me, I began to feel like I belonged to this human race. I wasn’t odd. I didn’t stick out. Slowly, I began to relax, unashamed of my mom-arms, short stature, not so girlie muscles, freckles, red hair and white, “ivory”, almost translucent skin (I’m Alaskan, baby!).

This is as good as it gets, and it really is good.

Psalm 139:14 says that by God, we were all “fearfully and wonderfully made”. In The Message, it says,

“Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day.”

I had heard it all before. But, somehow, now I know this. I should have known this years ago. But, that’s okay. Better late than never. No harm, no foul. I’ll take this new discovery of self-acceptance with me into the next 40 years.

Okay, so I know it’s a bit odd, but I love signs. Buildings. Posters. Road signs. Especially, Arizona road signs.

Last week as Toby and I sped through the desert, we were captivated by the mystery of the scenery. Rolling, cactus covered hills. Flat, scarred plains. Brilliant red rocks climbing upwards and piercing the burnt sky.

But my favorite were… the road signs.

The names were captivating. Better than Jones [...]]]>

Okay, so I know it’s a bit odd, but I love signs. Buildings. Posters. Road signs. Especially, Arizona road signs.

Last week as Toby and I sped through the desert, we were captivated by the mystery of the scenery. Rolling, cactus covered hills. Flat, scarred plains. Brilliant red rocks climbing upwards and piercing the burnt sky.

But my favorite were… the road signs.

The names were captivating. Better than Jones Boulevard, or Winston Highway, these signs didn’t beat around the bush or pretend to have it all together. They were raw and honest, and told a story. They were markers in time, whispering the stories of what once was, or perhaps hinting a glimpse of adventures to come.

Quickly, I grabbed my camera and began trying to capture the signs as they rushed me at eighty miles an hour. Bucket of Blood Road. Big Bug Creek. Dead Mans Wash. Horsethief Basin. Happy Valley.

It was impossible to pass by and not instantly conjure up visions of the stories: horses, outlaws, showdowns at high noon. Was it history? Was it a memory? What it prophetic?

These unpretentious titles captured reality and announced life in a way that was poetic, mysterious, and blunt. I couldn’t help but think about how awesome life would be if we all had names and life seasons titled like Arizona road signs.

Instead of our “forties”, we would head into “finally getting it together”. The year “2013” would become “the year of the dream job”. The “teens” could be “life sucks, but at least I’m are smarter than everyone else.”

As I grew to love the idea, I thought about how the people of this desolate land tended to capture the same concept with their own names. There were no dodgey, concealed identities like “Sue”. Instead their names illustrated who they were: Wild Bill. One-Eyed Joe. Two-Step Thelma.

Maybe the rest of us could get descriptive names like this. We’d get a heads-up if we met “Take Everything Out of Context Tom”, “Watch Your Back Susan”, “Big Bag of Crazy Clarice”, and “Overly-Sensitive, Exhausted, Mom Mandy”.

In Donald Miller’s book, “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years”, he tells the story of a woman whose husband affectionately refers to her as “Sweet Maria”. When I read this passage, I loved the idea. I wished Toby would have a nice description of me, but as soon as I mentioned it to him, I knew it was the wrong idea. Sure enough, his loving sarcasm got the better of him and he went off on a tangent of ridiculous names, none of which captured what I was hoping for: Agreeable Ellen. Too-Busy-To-Sit-Still-Ellen. And Ellen-Where’d-I-put-my-keys?. (Apparently, his image of me isn’t at all what I see in the mirror.)

As I digested this genius idea further, I began to wonder if the warning and promise of descriptive names were worth it. Sure it’d be nice to know which roads and people lead to chaos and potential bloody messes, but not at the cost of losing out on life’s mysteries and wonder.

So, I suppose I’ll stick with my plain and simple, mundanely named world: Smith Lane. Ellen.

Sure, there aren’t any flashes of excitement that strike when you hear them, but at least there isn’t a predefined future and there is the draw of the unexpected joys that lie beyond.

And that simple adventure is always worth exploring a new road.

A short while back, I posted a piece about the methods people use to share their rightly-deserved and varied political and moral beliefs. Initially, I wasn’t trying to state a political opinion, but was merely trying to vent my frustration at seeing my own children’s reaction to the bloody bodies of little babies alongside a road. So, I was struck by surprise at the firestorm that ensued from my little rant.

Thankfully, many [...]]]>

A short while back, I posted a piece about the methods people use to share their rightly-deserved and varied political and moral beliefs. Initially, I wasn’t trying to state a political opinion, but was merely trying to vent my frustration at seeing my own children’s reaction to the bloody bodies of little babies alongside a road. So, I was struck by surprise at the firestorm that ensued from my little rant.

Thankfully, many of you responded with comments and emails to share your take on the rights and wrongs of the methods. Others ventured down the road of whether the beliefs were accurate or justified. Some even called into question my qualifications as a mother and doubted that I was a Christian, even praying that I was not truly a pastor’s wife (something I actually found quite hilarious). A few responding were non-believers, but most were people who espoused Christian beliefs at one level or another.

As I went through all of comments, my thoughts began to twirl and twist, and soon a question loomed into view: Political action. Social justice. Would Jesus get all worked up in a tizzy about this? I just don’t think so.

Often, Christians latch onto one idea in scripture and cling to it as though their entire life depended on it. Abortion. Gay Rights. Welfare. Homelessness. Anti-War. War. Holiness. Taxes. Theology. All of these are valid issues to find a stance on, but the challenge is how to communicate that stance.

cleaning house and taking names
Sadly, I find that many Christians promoting rigid political/social ideology use the story of Jesus clearing the temple of shopkeepers to mirror their radical methodology. More than once, I’ve heard people state that Christ’s righteous anger in this story justifies their own brutish, harsh actions.

But, Jesus wasn’t politically, or even socially, motivated. He was solely driven by reaching people and setting their lives free from a tyranny of pain and darkness. That day in the temple, as He swept through the people, clearing out the corrupt clergy and life-sucking profiteers, His motive wasn’t political or economic change; He merely wanted to clear the path so people could find God. He was enraged. He did knock over tables and throw the temple entry into a state of complete chaos. But, He was passionate because people were overwhelmed with a barrage of distracting, political, economic and cultural crap, blocking the clear route to God. Pure and simple.

teachings of Jesus. expiration 215 AD
Nowhere in the scriptures can I find Jesus encouraging people to promote huge system change. In fact, I see where He encourages slaves to be good to their masters, and masters to be good to their slaves. He encourages men (in a male-dominated society) to be loving to their wives, and women to be good helpers and maintain their peace.

Was He pro-chauvinism? Was He pro-slavery? Absolutely not! All of the principles He taught filled humanity with the promise of equality and the hope of restoration. However, He encouraged people to live appropriately in the culture and life in which they found themselves. By embracing these teaching, in time, the culture and life would shift and equality would be found and restoration realized.

There were plenty of opportunities for Jesus to focus his life on politics: slavery, foreign occupation, racial and gender equality, and more. Had Jesus anchored His life teachings on cultural or political causes, He would have placed an expiration date on His ministry; his influence and teachings would have become irrelevant once these issues were overcome. Once foreign occupation ended, so would have the cause of Christianity. With the rise of equal opportunity, would have come the decline of His teachings.

Instead, Jesus focused His entire life on timeless principles that pertained to all generations of all cultures. He taught us to live lives that honored people, wherever they were and however they believed. He taught that we should care about the poor and fatherless, “who you will have with you always”. He taught to seek a life that pursued God and was dedicated to honor him.

Considering the fact that the Old Testament clearly establishes guidelines about the value of life and how we should live it, in light of the fact that the New Testament clearly establishes that our intent and motive should be to pursue Christ and not cause division, again I ask…

What would Jesus do? (Ugh! I hate how cliche that is.) But, seriously… would Jesus be a political activist?

Have you ever heard the skies whisper your name?

Hints of what may come.  Promises of what could be.  Flickers of light revealing answers, or maybe just more questions.

Maybe it’s a warning of a coming storm.

Maybe it’s just their turn to show off colors and light and power.

I love when the skies whisper my [...]]]>

Have you ever heard the skies whisper your name?

Hints of what may come.  Promises of what could be.  Flickers of light revealing answers, or maybe just more questions.

Maybe it’s a warning of a coming storm.

Maybe it’s just their turn to show off colors and light and power.

I love when the skies whisper my name.

We’re moving!

While we’ve loved hanging at this site for the past five years, it’s time to move on to greener, more creative pastures.

So, be sure to change your RSS subscriptions to reflect the new site name change.

See you on the other side!

ellen www.ellosy.com

How do you teach personal finance to boys who refuse to work, panic if they don’t have money, and spend every dime on gum and Pokemon cards?

Still trying to navigate this “parent” thing, I haven’t yet found a successful, positive method of assigning chores, paying allowance, or discipline. Once I do, I’ll be sure and share it. However, I have discovered a great way to help encourage the boys to save money.

He woke with a certain sense of confidence; an assurance that everything was going to be okay.  Toby is normally extremely positive and upbeat, but this was beyond the norm. When I asked what happened, he told me.

He had a dream last night: a God dream. One of those where God speaks to you with insight and encouragement. In the dream, God spoke peace and light into our situation giving Toby the [...]]]>

He woke with a certain sense of confidence; an assurance that everything was going to be okay.  Toby is normally extremely positive and upbeat, but this was beyond the norm. When I asked what happened, he told me.

He had a dream last night: a God dream. One of those where God speaks to you with insight and encouragement. In the dream, God spoke peace and light into our situation giving Toby the confidence that all would be well. It was an amazing gift and well-timed. The coolest part? God was a hippo!

Awhile back, my friend Wendy had a God dream. I don’t know what he said to her, but it was obviously impacting. And in her dream, God was Donald Sutherland.

Now, I fully believe that God speaks to people today, and I know he often uses dreams to connect with us. I’ve heard person after person tell me stories about God coming to them and speaking in their night. In these moments, God speaks to us in a way that resonates within us, that communicates in a manner that we can hear. But, as talking animals and movie stars? Seriously? How awesome is that?!

I seemed to get ripped off.

Every night, I dream about rescuing people from burning buildings, stopping hijackers on planes and tearing kids out of the grips of traffickers. I wake up exhausted, with sore muscles, having battled all night long. I’m certain there is a reason I have these action-packed, thriller dreams, and I’ve often thought I could certainly draw on my midnight experiences to write an award-winning screenplay. But they do wear on me.

Every once in awhile, I’d like a God dream; a nice, calm inspiring one. And I’m completely okay with white-haired movie stars and talking animal God-characters.

One night, maybe he will show up in my adventures. I’ll be trapped, trying to figure out which wire to cut on a ticking bomb and hear a voice speak to me. Ellen. Ellen. I’ll turn and see a beautiful butterfly land on the red wire. Follow me. I will lead you into all understanding and peace. Then, I’ll cut the red wire. The digital readout will stop. Silence.

Then maybe I’ll finally, truly sleep.

Until the next dream.

Unexpectedly, my carefully constructed fortress crumbled. Fears and anger, loss and blame poured out of me, unfortunately in the direction of my innocent husband. Soon, frustration became tears and a years worth of buried stress billowed out of me.

I crumbled in the corner of the garage, perched on a paint-splattered stool, ripping open my soul. As I was spewed, I tried to stop myself, knowing it wasn’t fair and certainly not deserved; [...]]]>

Unexpectedly, my carefully constructed fortress crumbled. Fears and anger, loss and blame poured out of me, unfortunately in the direction of my innocent husband. Soon, frustration became tears and a years worth of buried stress billowed out of me.

I crumbled in the corner of the garage, perched on a paint-splattered stool, ripping open my soul. As I was spewed, I tried to stop myself, knowing it wasn’t fair and certainly not deserved; but, I couldn’t stop. Tears. Questions. Challenges. Hopelessness. Anger. It came like waves.

Just as the largest of the tsunami waves gathered from afar, ready to wreck permanent damage on my bruised shore, Toby whispered to me.

“Ellen. Ellen. Please. Just take a breath. Listen to me. Now, don’t get upset with what I’m about to say…”

“Toby,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean this. I’m just overwhelmed, and feel like I can’t breathe, and…”

“Ellen. Listen to me. Please. Stay calm when I say this…

there is a little brown mouse circling your foot.”

Seconds later, as I found myself bravely scaling the ladder in the middle of the garage, my mind was clear and I was reminded of the amazing gift of my husband.

In our time together, we have had arguments and fights, just like every honest couple on the planet, and we’ve have certainly had our share of misunderstandings and miscommunication.

The challenge has always been to fight fair, to share honestly, to accept responsibility, and understand timing. Often, we need to tear apart a problem to uncover the solution. Occasionally, we need to reveal our pain in order to heal. Lately, we simply need to vent, and listen, and know that it isn’t personal… it’s life.

In those times, we also need to know how to pull each other from the mire of emotion that surrounds us. Sometimes, it’s with an encouraging word. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet, knowing smile.

Sometimes, it’s with a mouse.

The lights were out and we were all gathered together, sprawled out on the bunk beds, diving into the bedtime story, reading by the light from our headlamps.

It was a riveting tale of soldiers, courage, danger and espionage; something for every young boy.

I read the story with great drama, excited that all three were captivated by the tale of a young soldier hoping to serve her country by volunteering to become [...]]]>

The lights were out and we were all gathered together, sprawled out on the bunk beds, diving into the bedtime story, reading by the light from our headlamps.

It was a riveting tale of soldiers, courage, danger and espionage; something for every young boy.

I read the story with great drama, excited that all three were captivated by the tale of a young soldier hoping to serve her country by volunteering to become one of the first spies in United States history.

For thirty minutes, we read about the girl’s struggles as a young woman with an abusive childhood, her difficulties leading her to becoming a runaway, and finally the decision to disguise herself as a boy and join the army. The turning point came when she discovered that her best friend had been killed in the Civil War, provoking her to become a spy.

As we talked about the danger of spying and how captured spies were often killed, the boys’ eyes got bigger and bigger and they edged closer and closer to my side.

Finally one asked, “But, why would the Yankees kill someone?”

“Well, honey, this was war. Terrible things happen in war.”

“But, how would the Yankees do it? With bats?”

“No. I believe they would use their muskets and canons. That’s primarily what they used back then.”

“That’s not right. It’s not fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“To kill someone. Over a baseball game.”

“What?  Oh… right. Okay, let’s go back to the beginning…”

My Own Yankee Confusions
The next day, I began thinking about how many times I have misunderstood, assuming something to be true only to be confused later.

As we take information into our world, we understand it based on our experiences, presumptions, and beliefs. But, what happens when we realize that some of those definitions or experiences are assumed or second-hand knowledge?

As a kid, I remember my father preaching and telling us to verify his teachings by studying out the scriptures for ourselves. “Don’t take my word for it,” he’d say. “Look it up. Study it out. See what the Bible has to say for yourself.”

As I’ve gone through my life gratefully following that wise advice, I’m continually overwhelmed by the joy in digging out truths through the dust and decay of my understanding. Sometimes, I discover that beliefs I had always known to be concrete, were not. At other times, I’m relieved when something I’ve always questioned becomes clear. Often, my study simply confirms the faith foundations that have been apart of my life for years.

Whatever the case may be, the image of stripped uniformed Yankees wading through swamps carrying muskets, baseballs and secret messages, will now be the wonderful trigger in my mind to make certain that my beliefs and understanding are complete, full and true.

Just one more reminder that I can’t leave my faith up to assumptions.

I mean, we all know what happens when we assume.  :)