Jamie the Very Worst Missionary

Deciphering Missions

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 15 May 2013 15:59:00 +0000

We arrived in Costa Rica on a Thursday, and on our very first Sunday in the country El Chupacabra was standing in a pool helping baptize some guy we'd never met before.

The Baptism just happened to be occurring on the property where we were staying for a couple of weeks before we started language school. When our family (still wide-eyed in shock after leaving the U.S.) stumbled into the celebration by accident, someone invited El Chupacabra to join right in with the dunking. It seemed like the missionaryish thing to do, so he did.

Our first ever newsletter went out with a picture of my husband up to his chest in pool water with his arm around that guy. Big smiles everywhere. In the letter, we proudly declared that God was already using us in amazing and unexpected ways. We didn't lie, of course - the newsletter was carefully worded so as not to mislead anyone into thinking we had done more than just arrive, but it was vague enough to still spark interest for would-be investors, and assure supporters that “The Wrights in Costa Rica” were a wise choice. As for the guy? We never saw him again, never knew his name, and, obviously, had nothing at all to do with his journey toward Baptism. But he sure did make great fodder for our newsletter.

That was when I learned that we would actually spend our first year in Costa Rica learning two languages – Spanish was native to our new home, and Missionary Code was native to our new role.

It's kinda scary when you think about it, but Christian Missions is a billion (that's BILLION, like, with a B!) dollar industry – with virtually no oversight, no standards of practice, and no hiring requirements. To top it off, it's shrouded in a cloud of overly spiritualized language, easily manipulated to allow people to believe that more good is coming from their missions dollars than is necessarily true.

I know this because I learned the formula for missions language early on, and I used it often to mask my own failure, laziness, and lack of desire to engage in the field.

While I was virtually paralyzed by depression and anxiety, I used Missionary Code to turn every innocuous coffee date with a friend into “discipleship time”. Hours spent circling Facebook were important to “support development”, and everyday interactions with grocery store clerks and bank tellers suddenly became meaningful when referred to as “intentional relationships”. Oh, and the things your supporters do in their time off (like running, or taking classes, or hanging out with their kids) are things you get to claim, according to Missionary Code, as work.

Applied liberally, this vague and mysterious language can make even the most worthless missionary seem as though they were plucked by God, himself, from their homeland and delivered to the mission field on the back of Balaam's ass for the betterment of the world. (What. You don't believe there are worthless missionaries out there? I know missionaries working all over the planet and every last one of them can give you an example of someone living in the field, today, who's not doing jack shit for Jesus. Some could tell you horror stories of how missionaries are mishandling their time.)

Missionary Code is like Christianese on steroids.

The thing about Missionary Code is that it magically falls under the protection of the Missionary Code. When you give it the side-eye, it automatically creates an unbreakable loop of vague and mysterious language that cannot be broken without making the inquisitive skeptic feel like a faithless douche who hates the Bible. This almost never happens, because most of the time the “I'm a missionary” statement is followed by outlandish heaps of praise and encouragement, but let me give you an example:

Random guy: “Wow, you're a missionary? That's cool. What do you do?”

Shady missionary: “Well, I partner with the local church to make disciples.”

Random guy: “Oh. How do you do that?”

Shady missionary: “I create inroads through intentional relationships.”

Random guy: “Soooo, you invite... people... to church... in another country?”

Shady missionary: “That. Plus, I initiate interest by engaging in Christ-centered dialog with locals.”

Guy: “... *blink blink*... Wait. What does that even mean?”

Shady: “It's hard to understand from a limited North American perspective, but the Holy Spirit is hard at work in Peru/Italy/Cambodia/PickACountry, and I'm merely there to be a vessel. My job is really to just stay available to the call.”

Guy: “...Aaaand you get paid for that?”

Shady: “The Lord says a worker is worth his wages.”

Guy: “Of course He does.”

Random Guy walks aways with a super unclear idea about what the missionary actually does, but has heard, in no uncertain terms, that the missionary has been “called” by God to this mysterious but important job. That's the Code at work.

Crazy, right?!

I'm telling you all of this because there is blatant fraud going on in the world of missions and in the name of Jesus. And that bothers me. If you support a missionary, if you're a church that supports missionaries, if you're interested in becoming a missionary, you should be pushing for clarity and transparency from the Missions world. Most missionaries will be able to answer your questions without resorting to evasive language and obscure ideas. But if they can't? That should be a serious red flag and you should feel emboldened to push back until you clearly understand what they're doing with their time.

This will probably get me killed by the Knights Templar or something, but I want to decipher a little bit of the Missionary Code for you. I hope this will encourage you to ask good questions when you're contemplating partnership with a missionary or missions org.

~ If a missionary says they're “partnering with the local church” or they say they “work alongside a local church”, ask them what that means exactly. It could be anything from “I attend a local church” to “I occasionally drive past a local church on my way to the pharmacy” to “I regularly admonish the pastor of a local church for preaching too long”. Or it could mean they have a real, legit partnership, like, one that's mutual and beneficial. But I would definitely ask. (I would also ask, “If there's a local church, why do they need missionaries?” - but that's a post for another day.)

~ “I do discipleship.” is also one of those super broad statements that could mean anything from “I teach about the life of Jesus 4 times a day, 6 days a week”, to “I just live my life in an exotic locale on the church dime, hopeful that someday someone will ask me about my faith, so, technically, every person I interact with is a potential disciple.” Find out more!

~ Another one to watch out for? “I host short-term teams.” Yikes!... Just kidding. Some ministries make great use of short-term teams, while others are literally STM mills. So listen carefully, in case “I host short-term teams” really means “I go around looking for [what is oftentimes meaningless] work to let suburbanites get grimy and feel blessed.” Not good. Any time a missionary's primary role caters to short-term missions, get the low down. Find out how many other churches they're partnering with and ask what they do with each team. You might be shocked to find out that the poor little kids your church excitedly runs a Vacation Bible School for every summer actually has to sit through a half dozen VBS programs within a couple months. Trust me, it happens.

A lot of missionaries are self-motivated, innovative, disciplined, and hard-working – but, too many others are passing off purposeless days overseas as necessary and beneficial to the Kingdom of God. If you support a mission or missionaries, you have a right and a responsibility to know if they're actually engaging with the community in ways that make sense and reflect a heart for God's mission. You should know what they do, and why, and you should be able to get a pretty clear understanding of how they do it.

Sadly, not all missionaries are good missionaries. This is a hard reality for the Church because we are absolutely terrified of hurting anyone's feelings, and we're easily held at bay by spiritual double-talk. But, I'm telling you, this is a BIG problem and it shouldn't be ignored. Deciphering the code is the first step in helping our missionaries stay functional and accountable.

Missions should not be a mystery.

… ….. ….

Thoughts?

Or, tell us about a missionary who's doing it well!

I'm giving my shout out to Troy and Tara Livesay. A better example of hard working, local loving, kick ass missionaries cannot be found! Their work takes my breath away -

Jesus is present with them.

Flabby Thighs and Flappable Confidence

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 08 May 2013 20:00:00 +0000

I'm not fat.

Really, I'm not. At 5' 6” and about 134 pounds (yes, I just told the Internet my weight), I'm pretty much average. I'm not tiny, but my doctor says I'm pretty healthy and my husband says I'm pretty sexy, so I should be pleased.

I'm not fat.

But still... when I look in the mirror, I see a fat chick.

It's not my fault.

When I was like 14? I walked into a room just as Pamela Anderson was making a mad dash down the beach on Baywatch (For those who don't know, Baywatch was a 90's TV show where hot people rescued ugly people from the ocean or something). As she ran through the sand - hair whipping, bronze flesh glimmering in the sun – a man in the room hissed, “That girl needs to tone up if she's gonna run in a skimpy bathing suit.” His voice was dripping with disgust.

Pamela Anderson, you guys. Pamela Anderson needed to “tone up”.

If Pamela freaking Anderson was a flabby cow in 1990, what was I to make of my own newly rounded hips and curving thighs; my freshly minted female form? If I ran on the beach, would the flapping of my soft arms and jiggling of my spongy butt make men of all ages throw up in their mouths?

Was I... gross?

All I knew was that I was no Pamela Anderson, and if she needed to “tone up”? Then I needed a Fairy God Mother and a Genie to fall in love and have a baby because it would take a Fairy God Genie to make me beautiful.

And so began the battle that rages within me still; A war between genuine health and perceived beauty. Which, for the most part, has been a losing battle.

It's funny, because I'm a pretty confident person. I don't get intimidated easily. I'm not scared of people who are smarter, richer, or more powerful than I am. I'm not afraid to speak up because there aren't very many people who make me feel insignificant. But I can crush my own spirit to a fine powder by comparing myself to other women. I can kill my own confidence in a heartbeat by coveting the smooth legs and tiny ankles of the girl next to me. I can convince myself of my own low worth in the blink of an eye, especially if that eye happens to fall on the perky boobs and glowing skin of that beeyatch I always see running so fast at the corner of Blue Ravine and East Bidwell. (I mean, seriously Lady? Why can't you go home and run slowly on a treadmill in the dark while you sip a frappuccino with whip like the rest of us?!) It's that easy for me to tear down what God has built up. I swear, the most dangerous place in the world for my body is my mind.

If self-loathing were an art form, I would be the Grand Master. Truly, I can tell you something ugly about every last inch of me ... But I won't. Not any more. At least, I'll try not to.

I've been listening to myself, lately, and I've been listening to the women around me. I've been watching this awkward balancing act we all seem so caught up in; carefully walking the tightrope between announcing our every last flaw, while simultaneously pretending not to care. (Why do we do that?)

This last year, I hit my highest weight ever, barring pregnancy. I hated what I saw in the mirror, but the horrible things I said to/about myself were, in all honesty, no different than the things I said to myself at my lowest weight ever - when my spine poked through my flesh like a dragon and clothes hung off my shoulders like wire a hanger. I know, I know.... Pamela Anderson, eat your heart out.

Now I have some kind of skin condition on my face that leaves white spots, kind of like scars, on my jaw and cheeks. It sucks. And there's nothing you can do about it. But a few months ago, when I was mad googling in hopes of a solution, I came across a pic of Victoria Beckham with the same thing going on. Later, talking to El Chupacabra about it, I was like, “There's no fix! I will be hideous forever... just like Victoria Beckham.” ...*blink blink*...

What a shame, right?

Then I got super chapped lips. They were so cracked and puffy, and when I was, again, complaining to El Chupacabra, I blurted out, “Ugh! My lips are so busted... I look like Angelina Jolie.”

Awww. Poor me.

My teeth are a wonky, like Kirsten Dunst.

My legs are built like stubby tree trunks. Feel me, Olivia Wilde?

My weight is untamable. I'm practically Tyra Banks/Jessica Simpson/Oprah Winfrey/Mariah Carey.

How will I ever survive in this lonely wilderness?!

Theodore Roosevelt said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

And I believe he was right. I've spent too many hours comparing myself to a false sense of perfection. I've wasted too many days wishing I were someone I'm not. I've lost too many moments standing back to back against the women (both real and imagined) I thought were built better than me.

But when I stop comparing and start keeping company, I quickly find that not one of us is near perfect - and none of us is far from it. It just depends on how you look at it. If even the most elite beauties of our culture come in all shapes, colors, and (bra) sizes, then don't you and I also get to hold a place of physical beauty among women? Are we not favored, too?

I don't think God wants me to hate my container - or anybody else's, for that matter - and I don't think He wants me to love it too much. It is, after all, just the wrapping paper for the gift that lies inside. But I believe God wants me to be gentle with myself. He wants me to be kind. He wants me to respect His miraculous creation.

And I haven't been doing any of that.

Comparison stole my Joy. And now I'm taking it back.

I've found myself in such good company, it's almost easy...

... ..... ...

Whose beautiful company do you keep?

Got a booty like Jennifer Lopez? Racked like a Kardashian? Round like Rebel Wilson? Stick skinny ala Kiera Knightly? Horse teeth like a Hathaway? All beautiful...

... just like YOU.

I Survived Women's Retreat!

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 23:21:00 +0000

At the end of every Women's Retreat, they should hand out t-shirts that say “I survived Women's Retreat!” ...That shit is intense.

I'm still recovering.

There were parts that I loved (the view, the speaker, the roommates) and parts that I hated (the food, the craft, the bed, the awkward intersection of women with 23 cats and women with 23 tattoos). Overall, I'm glad I went. It wasn't, like, AMAZING, but it was good.

All I knew, as we drove up Highway 50 toward the retreat center, was that I had five room mates (!) and a head cold. I kept thinking, “This could be bad... This could be really bad...” But, then I learned (through a series of squeally, chickish, emoji-filled texts) that one of the roomies had to bail at the very last minute and one of my favorite friends was taking her place. This may not be true, but it felt a little bit like God was sending me a partner in crime, a fellow cynic with Liz Lemon social skills and moves like Jagger. It gave me a sigh of relief. “Ok. This could be good...”

Everything else went exactly as expected. Though the cafeteria food was super disappointing, the speaker was kickass, the view was incredible, the lady singing was... lady singing. The weather did not disappoint.

Not gonna lie; there were some lows.

Like I said, the food was bad, our bed was hand crafted in Satan's den, my face was filled with snot, and there was a scavenger hunt – not making that up. Oh, and? I had to make a paper doll – TOTALLY NOT MAKING THAT UP. Normally, I would say, “Yeaaaah. I'm not doing that.”, but it was a team thing, so if even one person on your team was one of those competitive, paper-doll-making, social butterfly freak shows, you had to participate. Otherwise, you're the a-hole who ruined so-and-so's Women's Retreat. I did not want to be that a-hole. And, to be totally fair, some of the women really, really, really loved making their paper dolls. Like, really.

And I get that just because I hate something with a venomous passion doesn't mean that it's not really filling somebody else's tank. I get that. I do. To each her own... paper doll.

And there were some highlights, but I can't really talk about any of them. It's one of those "What happens at Women's Retreat stays at Women's Retreat" situations. Ya know?

So let's put it this way; I cannot confirm nor deny that coffee turned to wine as we gingerly made our way to the water to sit under the stars after curfew.

I cannot confirm nor deny that the speaker may have dropped a contextually relevant and totally necessary “F” bomb.

I cannot confirm nor deny that chicks fart, you guys.

I cannot confirm nor deny the weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that may or may not have happened behind closed doors.

I cannot confirm nor deny the laying of hands, the uttering of prayers, the presence of a great God – Merciful and Loving – weaving strangers into friends and friends into sisters and sisters into the living, breathing Bride of Christ.

Can't confirm or deny any of it. I can only say there were highlights.

Perhaps the highestlights.

I'm not sure what's higher than a highlight... Heaven comes to mind. And so, for moments here and there, between bad breakfasts and good speaking, after paper dolls and before moonlit skies, through wine and words and so much laughter, and right beside the broken hearted, I did, to my own surprise, find a bit of Heaven at the annual Women's Retreat thingy. I really did.

At Women's Retreat, I looked into a fiery sunset and found a thirsty soul, I drank from the water of the Word, and then I came home, refreshed.

And I could be wrong, but I think that was the whole idea...

..... .... .....

By show of hands, who here is in need of a bit of Soul refreshing?

Because maybe it won't suck.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 18:17:00 +0000

In a few short hours I'll be breaking an oath I made a long, long time ago. I swore I would never do it again, but here I am, standing at the threshold, palms sweaty, eyes wide with fear and trepidation, because, against my better judgement, I'm headed to my churches annual "Women's Retreat" thingy.

*gulp*

I know. I know. I truly believed when I made that promise to God, 8 years ago, that I would never, ever participate in the madness of Women's Retreat again. Ever. I was opting out for good; turning away from the cafeteria food, the lumpy beds, the crying and hugging, the headache inducing mix of fragrances, the crafts. "No more!", I said. And I meant it.

The last women's retreat I went to, I literally retreated to my room and spent 2 days reading magazines and doing planks with a couple of friends - while the speaker berated women for taking antidepressants, having bad marriages, and raising willful children. She assured us that if only we were spiritual enough, God would relieve us of these obstacles. And, oh, we could buy her book at the back of the room. I was livid. That old lady is lucky I didn't jump three rows of chairs and tackle her to the ground. It was bad.

Now you might be wondering why I'm going, so I made you a list...

Top 10 reasons I'm going to Women's Retreat:

1. My house smells like ass and armpit all day, every day. I need a break from teenage boys. Seriously. A smell break.

2. The speaker is legit. I've heard her before - She's smart, educated, straight forward, and God bless her, completely devoid of that annoying, weirdly romantic, soft "we're praying now" voice.

3. Lady singing. Throw a hundred women in a room with a pitched ceiling and let them sing their hearts out to their Savior. Even if 90 of them can't actually sing, it will be off the chain. I don't know why.

4. The food. I have a strange fondness for mass-produced cafeteria food. I'm not kidding. Love it.

5. This ain't my first rodeo. I know that if I want to I can take a nap, or hide and write, or go for a loooooong walk. I will probably do all of those things.

6. Lake Tahoe. Duh.

7. No way out. Now that I'm practically a pastor's wife, I felt weird telling people I wouldn't be at the Women's Retreat because "I don't do that crap." Anything else would have been a lie. So, the way I see it, my choice was offend, lie, or go.

8. Did I mention the food? Yeah. I don't have to cook or clean up after any of it.

9. Friends. My friends are going and they're super damn fun no matter what. We could be going to prison and I'd still be a little bit stoked to hang out with them.

10. It could be amazing. No. For real...

I'm going to Women's Retreat because maybe it won't suck. Maybe I'll even find God there... yes, even at Women's Retreat. Maybe.

Here I go.

..... ..... .....

What about you? Do you "Retreat"?? (**We used to call the youth guys retreat an "assault" but then one year they were talking about sex and we didn't want them telling everybody they were going on a "Sexual Assault" weekend with our Church. Sooo...yeah.**) You were saying?....

What Would Jesus... Blog?

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 22:19:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, I invited my friend to write for my blog because I knew she would give us something amazing and challenging and I knew she would do it beautifully. But when her bio popped up in my inbox, I have to admit, my heart sank - because I knew that for some people the biggest challenge in Jenna's piece would not be her words, but her life. I knew that for some finding the Truth in her work would be impossible.

Jenna wrote about our very own forefathers, the plight of the enslaved Israelites, the miraculous parting of the Red Sea, and the God we find in the middle of it all; God with us, intimate and close... She wrote to us with words and stories straight out of The Bible, and still, still, after some people read her brief bio, they were unable to appreciate the Truth in her written work, unable to grasp how Jesus could fit into a message from a Jew. Or worse, a gay Jew.

Some were offended that I would allow, let alone invite, my beloved friend to share this little space on the web. They were livid. One even wrote to let me know she was taking her ball and going home. “I'm unfollowing”, she said. And then she explained that she had enjoyed this blog over the years, but sharing my internet home with a gay Jew was just too much. She's outta here. And then she dropped this bomb of internet hilarity:

“Does Jesus love those living in sin? yes! Did Jesus spend time with sinners? yes! Would Jesus invite an unrepentant sinner to post on His blog? no.”

Honestly? I burst out laughing at the thought of Blogger Jesus gazing at his laptop at noon in his pajamas, sipping cold coffee, checking stats, linking his post on Facebook... Hilarious, right?!... But I still had to ask myself, What would Jesus blog? And Who would Jesus let guest post?

I wondered about the Jesus who walks us down the road, from Jerusalem to Jericho, past the Priest and the Levite and draws us into the path of the heathen Samaritan from whom we learn a valuable lesson. I pondered the Jesus who hand picked a posse of twelve sinners; guys who continually competed for power and attention, who questioned and doubted and so often misunderstood. I wondered about the Jesus who asked the man who would ultimately betray him to join him at the table. Would Jesus invite an unrepentant sinner to kiss him on the cheek and lead him to slaughter?

*shrugs* ...Perhaps we'll never know.

Fine. I'm sorry. I get sarcastic when I'm fired up.

But Jesus, the story teller, shows us over and over how to look at the world with different eyes. So when you ask me if I can reconcile the message of my gay Jewish friend with my own faith in Jesus, the answer is – Yes. And it's not hard.

I view everything through the filter of my Faith. I see the whole world and everything in it through the lens of Christianity. I am, lest there be a doubter among you, a Christian. As a follower of Christ, and as a believer in a triune God, I simply find Jesus present. And that's a gift because His presence makes me unafraid to engage the world, unafraid to ask questions, unafraid to answer them, unafraid to pass the wine and break bread with the those who some would slander and burn. Unafraid because “in him we live and move andhave our being”. (⬅ See what I did there?)

Here's a shocker: I have deep and meaningful relationships with all kinds of people. I have atheist friends, and Jewish friends, Buddhist, Muslim, agnostic friends. I love them all. I also have gay friends and straight friends, and a few in the middle, and I have married friends and single friends and friends with kids and without. (For the record, I normally refer to them as simply “my friends”. No more. No less. Likewise, and gratefully, I have never been introduced by any of them as “the straight Christian”.) These people enrich my life and challenge me to know why I believe what I believe. My friends enrich my Faith. And I love them for that. Every last one of them is welcome at my table, around my children, into my inner-circle, and ~ you guessed it ~ on my blog.

But don't be disappointed if you don't find me lobbing verses of scripture at them like live grenades. In my experience, I've come to find that people don't generally respond well to being bombarded with Bible Napalm. And, if you're that guy? Stop it! I know you're well-meaning, but you just sound like a dick... When my friends and I discuss the differences in our Faith, we do it respectfully, gently, gracefully. We speak with Love for one another. It takes us far...

Conversations with Jenna are a highlight for me, I so often find God in them. So when she sent me her piece on being stuck in “the middle”, I couldn't wait to share it. I believed it would be beneficial to you. I believed you could be Blessed by it, and indeed many of you were. But some of you let her bio

clog your filter, rendering you blind. You were unable to see the beauty of God to be found in her words because of your own lack of vision. And I wonder how it is that you make your way in the world, afraid to find meaning outside of Christiandom. Have you not been moved by Ghandi? Not inspired by Whitman? Do you not find beauty in the work of Tchaikovsky or Handel? Does Elie Wiesel not just break your heart for the things of God?

Unfollow if you must. I'm cool with that. But I can't help but feel like you're the one who's missing out.

..... ..... .....

Even now, I dread that some of you will try to turn this post into a “gay debate”. Someone will miss the point because someone always does. It's exhausting. Please try to understand what we're talking about before you comment. And keep in mind that my friends are probably reading these comments - so be respectful, or you'll be deleted.

I'm asking.

What do you think? What Would Jesus Blog?

Victory.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 23:03:00 +0000

Everyone has a story...

What's YOURS?

**A million thanks to Danielle for her bravery and to the Production Team at Lakeside Church for telling her story so beautifully. I love our kickass church!**

Sweet Little Baby Prostitutes.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 19:40:00 +0000

I was just sitting here thinking about how I wrote about sex and then I welcomed the (beautiful) work of a gay, Jewish friend (gasp!), and now anything I post will be met with a sad trombone; you know, the bluesy WompWomp of disappointment. Not that I aim to incite a riot every time I post anything, but it just feels weird to be like, “SEX!....GAY JEW!!....KITTENS!!!”

But then I remembered that I have nothing to say about kittens, and also I remembered what I sat down to write about today, and I realized that there's no greater scandal happening on Earth, so it's all good. Crisis averted. Whew! That was close one.

…

So. A little while ago, I got an email from an internet friend. I had been a guest on his podcast a few years back, but this time he was inviting me to do something different. He told me he'd been working with a coalition of groups to end child slavery. He asked if I'd be interested in coming to Southeast Asia, to see their work first hand. “No strings attached.”, he said, “We just want you to see.”

I was intrigued, but I wasn't ready to jump on board.

It's no secret that I'm overly skeptical and I can be an incredibly harsh critic (some might say “uber bitch”) when it comes to the way the North American Church engages the world's problems.

I'm not a fan of poverty tourism. I've seen too many well-intentioned, rich, (usually) white suburbanites streaming in and out of the lives of the poor, the marginalized, the exploited, with cameras in their hands, a false sense of helping, and a giddy kind of torment on their faces. Would there be a purpose behind “seeing” this work? Would there be value in flying across the world to gaze at sweet little babies, bought and sold as prostitutes? I don't think I need to see the places where children are offered up to predators in order to know that it's a living nightmare.

But there's a conversation that needs to begin in my pristine suburban church - one that will make a lot of people uncomfortable. This subject will force a comparison between the lives of our own well-protected children and the boys and girls who are sleeping in brothels, gutters, and alleys on the other side of the planet. And, ultimately - painfully - it will hit us close to home, because I believe this conversation will bridge the gap between what we like to think of as a far away problem and the travesties occurring in our own backyards, sometimes even in our own homes.

We can keep rescuing children from slavery for forever. But if we never address the growing appetite for these kids, it will never end. When we talk about how the people buying sex in India and Asia are often times carrying passports from the U.S., Canada, and Great Britain, we must be willing to admit that they're living in our neighborhoods, working in our offices and, yes, sitting in our churches. With extraordinary Grace, we need to talk about our own sexual brokenness, we need to invite healing, we need to pray for redemption, and we need to bravely call for justice.

So I'm going.

This July, I'm going to South East Asia to see, so that I might speak.

Because it's time to start this conversation. It's time to rescue every last slave on Earth. It's time to Redeem every broken soul. I'm going because it's just time. And we have to start somewhere...

….

I hope you'll follow along on this journey. And I pray that by taking this trip and talking about it boldly, these pages might become a catalyst for conversation and action, not only at my church, but yours, too. I'll be visiting two hard-working groups in Asia (with whom I'm falling in love, for their courage as much as for their humility). I'll share more as we go, but for today, please check out The Exodus Road and Agape International Missions and be encouraged by what they are doing to end trafficking and slavery.

Oh. And pray. Because I'm seriously crapping my pants over all this... I mean, not seriously, but you know... pretty much crapping myself.

....

Will you help spread the word? We're starting a conversation you won't want anyone to miss.

The Middle.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 16:48:00 +0000

Today's guest post comes from my long time/real life friend, Jenna Kemp. (I readily admit to playing favorites; Jenna is mine.) I love the way she thinks...

I’ve been in the middle since the day I was born. I was born in middle of the year, in the middle of two days, in the middle of alive and dead, and I later became a middle child. This is actually a funny story. Nobody really knows when my true birthday is. It was around midnight, going from June 26^th to June 27^th, that I exited my mother’s body. And so the story goes that my lungs were not pulling this new outside air correctly (or at all) and everyone understandably got a little worried. So the doctor took me in his arms, laid me on the table and started doing little baby CPR (or whatever it was) on me. There were several moments/minutes/seconds of tension in which my mom was calling out to my dad to see what was happening, my dad was telling my mom everything was fine, my dad would look over the doctor’s shoulder and ask if everything really was fine, the doctor would say it was going to be ok, and the information would bounce back to the original inquirer. This went on for what probably seemed like way too long for all parties involved, especially me who was busy simultaneously being born and dying. But eventually the doc got my tiny newborn body to work and everyone took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief. Once the tension of my seemingly premature and imminent death was released, the doctor looked at his watch and, noting that it was 12:01 am, declared, “Eh, let’s call it the 27^th.” And that is the story of my (undefined) birthday.

It’s not just when you or your baby might die that the middle is uncomfortable; the middle generally seems hard for people to tolerate. I think our minds naturally want to take the chaos of the human experience and order it, give it meaning, imbue it with some kind of purpose. Through the ordering of the world we get things like religion, mathematics, gender, the color wheel, and the literary motif of the hero’s journey – to name a few. Some people think that these things are inborn, innate, or “True,” but I tend to think that we don’t actually know, so we pretend like we do in order to be able to wake up, take our kids to school, go to work, brush our teeth, buy groceries, fall asleep, and do it all over again without losing our minds or our will to live. Now I’m not saying that some of these things aren’t important – some of them are very important precisely because they do what they were designed to do: they give us purpose.

What I struggle with is when the categories we create get so firm that we forget to appreciate the middle places. Instead we condemn them because they mix up the things on which we so heavily rely. This is why Galileo was persecuted. He mixed up religious categories. This is why books get banned. They mix up racial and ethical categories. This is why many queer people are injured and killed. They mix up categories of gender and sexuality. The reason I struggle with this firmness of categories is because the beauty of life is in the middle places and in the tension between our categories. Beauty, true beauty, God’s beauty, is in the middle, betwixt, between, underneath, and outside of the boxes we create. We live, whether we want to see it or not, right smack in the middle. Existence is chaos and we are in it! What I absolutely love, more than most things, is when the categories we make recognize and celebrate the middle spaces as spaces where we meet something both fully transcendent and completely imminent. The Jewish celebration of Pesach embraces the middle as the place where we meet God.

Pesach is the celebration of the Passover and the Exodus from Egypt. Pesach not only recognizes, but it commemorates and celebrates the middle. The story takes a leader who is in the middle – Moses, who is both a biological child of Hebrew slaves and child adopted into the royal Egyptian court – and follows him as he leads the Hebrew people out of slavery and straight into the middle of the desert. As his people remind us over and over throughout the books of the Pentateuch, they were fine in Egypt. Sure they were doing forced labor, but their lives were predictable and they got enough food and at least they had a place to lay their heads at night! But Pesach says, “You were living in an oppressive place and now you are free to experience the unpredictability of the middle!” Hooray?

Wouldn’t it have been easier and much more comfortable if the Hebrews simply left Egypt and arrived in Canaan? If only it was a story about how Pharaoh listened intently to Moses, and after hearing his argument, recognized his own brutalization of the Hebrew people, wished them well, and released them to serve their God in their own land. It would have been nice, if, upon leaving, the Israelites simply walked into Canaan and lived happily ever after. But God had something else in mind – something that isn’t so… well, boring.

While the middle is uncomfortable and just terrible sometimes, it is in the middle that we experience God and ourselves in a way that is not possible when things are clear cut and easy. The beginning of Exodus walks us through some of this. There are ten plagues that fall upon the Egyptians beginning with their water source turning to blood and ending with the firstborn son of every Egyptian family dying. As the tension of the story builds, we the reader wonder, “Will Pharaoh allow his entire kingdom to be destroyed simply to keep some people in slavery?” By asking the Pharaoh to let his people go, Moses is introducing a middle. The Hebrew people are now living in the tension between Pharaoh – the most powerful man they know – and Moses – a self-appointed representation of themselves. Eventually, when Pharaoh is holding his own dead son in his arms, he brings Moses into his court and says, “Fine. Go.”

The Jewish observance of Passover remembers the tension in this story quite well. Among the Jewish holidays, there are some happy holidays and there are some more somber holidays. At Purim, we read the book of Esther, dress up in costumes, and are commanded to drink so much that we can’t tell the difference between Haman (bad guy) and Mordechai (good guy). I kid you not. Then, there is Yom Kippur on which we literally put on our death shrouds, deny all bodily needs, and repent of our multitude of sins (some of which, I am quite sure, are committed on Purim). However, Pesach is in the middle. We celebrate by having a Seder meal during which we recount the story of the exodus from Egypt. In this meal, we are supposed to drink four cups of wine (not quite the level of Purim, but, depending on your alcohol tolerance, enough to start getting giggly) and remember the slavery from which we came. When we recount the ten plagues inflicted on the Egyptians, it is here that we reduce our joy. As we recount each plague, we dip our finger into our wine and place a drop on our plate. After ten drops accumulate on our plates, we experience the joy of gaining our freedom from slavery, but we simultaneously mourn the loss of life. Our celebration is in the middle.

But the story doesn’t end with the plagues and our subsequent release. After Moses (with God’s help) eventually wrestles the Hebrew people from the firm hand of Pharaoh, and before he leads them into the middle of the Sinai Peninsula, he leads them into the middle of the sea. As Moses holds his staff over the waters, the sea splits right down the middle, and the Hebrew people are able to walk through the muddy, wet birth canal of the Sea of Reeds. It is here, between Egypt and Sinai, between slavery and freedom, between the womb and fresh air, between the death stench of Egypt and the promise of new life that the Hebrew people learn who their God is. As Moses and his people cross through the middle, the waters crash down on top of the Egyptians behind them and hundreds, if not thousands, of men are killed – crushed by walls of water – in order that the Hebrew people might be able to cross from the middle place of Egypt to the middle place of the sea to the middle place of Sinai. It is here, after experiencing the oppression in Egypt, after witnessing the death toll and after gaining liberation by crossing the Sea of Reeds, that Moses speaks one of the central prayers of Jewish practice. He asks, “Mi camocah bah’elim Adonai? Who is like you, oh Adonai, among the gods? Mi camocah n’edar baqodesh nora tehilot oseh pheleh? Who is like you majestic in holiness – one who is awesome in splendor, doing marvelous things?”

It is when he looks back on the middle-ness he has just experienced that he recognizes that which is inconceivably larger than himself and his community. And this something – this God – this awesome-wonder-doer – this thing that stands above and apart from everything he has ever known – is that which is intimately with him. God stands as a pillar of fire and a cloud of smoke; God stands visible to the community. God is involved, and what causes Moses to most recognize it? The middle.

And here’s a fun secret: the story is not over. Though Moses and the Hebrew people have crossed through the middle of the plagues and through the middle of the sea, they have yet to cross through the middle of Sinai and enter the land. And here’s the thing about the land. They have to work to stay in it (and we learn that they don’t do a very good job). The promise of land is the promise of more middle.

When we think we’ve arrived, we’ve arrived into the middle. When we think there is such a thing as resolution, we are fooling ourselves and are in for a major disappointment. Life is the middle. Life is the tension. Life is the cycle of slavery to freedom to Sinai to land to exile to return to Diaspora. We are never settled. If we are to meet God or to meet meaning or some semblance of truth in this life, it is in this unsettled existence of the middle. It is when we reflect upon our middle experiences that we can look back with wonder and say, “Who is like you, oh Adonai, among the Gods – you who are wholly inconceivable and you who are intimately present?”

..... ..... .....

Jenna Kemp is currently working on her MA in biblical studies at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California. She focuses on literary readings of narrative in Hebrew Bible and for her thesis is working on the Jacob cycle in Genesis. While she grew up in the Evangelical world of Christianity, she is currently studying to convert to Judaism (a one year process) at a local synagogue. She lives in Oakland with her partner Malka and their dog Leviathan. All of them love Jamie the VWM.

*Jamie loves them, too.

.... .... ....

Are you celebrating the middle places?

Sex.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 22:46:00 +0000

My youngest son is about to turn 13, so for the next 9 months, until my oldest turns 20 (holy ape balls!), I will be Mom to three teenage boys.

That means our dinner table feels like a locker room... if locker rooms were full of nerds. The conversation tumbles easily from Xbox to music to girls to MineCraft to push ups to girls to movies to farts to money to girls to YouTube, and then back again, in an endless loop, so that over the course of one meal we come around to the subject of “girls” at least 9 times.

At least.

Girl talk inevitably leads to sex talk. And, let me tell you, if there is one thing these guys like to talk about more than girls? It's sex. So we talk about sex. Kind of a lot. And since (as far as I know) none of my children have gone and gotten married, we're mostly talking about sex of the pre-marital sort; y'know, Virginity and stuff. The Big “V”. The Sacred Gift. The Golden Ticket.... These chats are exactly as awkward as you imagine.

Obviously, my children know that I had sex before marriage because I had a kid before marriage, so there's really no getting around it. That same kid towers over me now; a full two years older than I was when his own fluttering heartbeat wound itself into mine. These days, I look at him and I think, “He can't even keep his own room clean - how the hell did I manage an infant and a full time job at that age?!”

So, yeah, I was an unwed teenage mother. Classy, I know.

But oh, it gets worse, because before I invented MTV's Teen Mom, I was a little bit of a ho-bag. Yup. I willingly did regretful things with my body, and I allowed myself to be used in regretful ways by some regretfully sleazy douchebags, perverts, and (in retrospect) probably pedophiles. Gross, I know.

I believed that sex was the best thing I had to offer the world. It was the only thing about me worth loving. And I learned, too young, that I could leverage sex to get what I wanted. My female parts had become my greatest asset.

Then I found my way into the Church, 19 with a baby on my hip, and while I lingered on the outskirts of the Christian bubble, guess what I learned... I learned I was right! Apparently, even God was super concerned with my vagina, and where it had been, and what it had touched. Apparently, my genitals were like a portal that led straight to my soul. I had been muddied - and everybody knows that once you muck up clean water, you can't unmuck it.

It took me a lot of years and a lot of conversations with God (and with people who know more about God than me) to understand that everything I believed about my own sexuality was built on two huge lies.

The first comes from our culture, and it tells us that sex outside of marriage isn't a big deal.

The second is from the Church, and it tells us that sex outside of marriage is the biggest deal of all the deals ever.

One allowed me to give it away freely, convinced I would carry no burden. The other forced me to carry a spirit crushing load.

Both are complete crap.

Sex matters. It's the most vulnerable thing you'll ever do with another human being. Commitment breeds intimacy, and intimacy is what makes sex freaking amazing. I'm not gonna lie, you can have hot sex outside of a committed relationship – but mostly it's gonna be like... clumsy... and goopy... and ew. The better you know your partner, the better your sex will be. So basically what I'm saying is that wedding night sex is kinda “Meh.”, and five years sex is all “Yes!”, but 18 years sex is like “WOAH!!!” So go ahead and wait. Wait and enjoy the waiting, and then bask in all those learning experiences with your most trusted friend.

But.

If you've already gone down that path, you knocked boots, you got 'er done, you did the nasty.... and now you're not sure, or maybe you feel dirty and you're rocking the walk-of-shame-face day in and day out, you need to hear this -- I mean it, you really need to hear this...

You've had sex outside of marriage? *gasp* So what! You are so much more than your sexuality. And the God of the Universe, the one who turns whores into heroes, and drunks into prophets, and liars and murderers into leaders and kings - that God? He made peace with you and me and our promiscuous, pathetic attempts at love a long, long time ago. He gave you a Redeemer. Shame is no longer your burden.

...

Do I want my boys to wait? Absolutely. And they know it! But I refuse to tie their value as a human being to their junk like a shiny red balloon.

I want them to know that sex is sacred. And I want them to believe that it matters. I hope they will esteem the bodies of the girls in their lives, as they hold their own bodies to the same high standard.

But I also want them to understand that the kind of sexual purity the Bible calls us to doesn't begin or end with Virginity - It's way bigger than that. It's way more significant. And it's way harder to hold on to.

… ….. ….

To wait, or not to wait? That is the question...

Nine months later.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 20:34:00 +0000

It's been about nine months since we replanted ourselves in the rich soil of good ol 'Merica -- nine months since Costa Rica was was the place we called “home”.

Sometimes I can't believe that we went, we did life there, and we returned. Honestly? Sometimes it feels like a dream.

But then my sister calls out of the blue, like she did just now, and asks me what such-and-such means in Spanish, because one of her sweet munchkins picked up a new word on Dora. When (by some small miracle) I know the answer, it fills my spirit with such relief. It wasn't a dream at all. I was there. I speak Spanish.

Arcoiris means rainbow, I tell her...

And, even though I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, it stirs up a longing for the country I loved and left.

... ... ...

Know what I mean?

Because I owe you one.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 19:17:00 +0000

Pretty sure it was Andy Stanley who came up with the ever popular slogan:

"Do for one what you wish you could do for everyone."

And, if you really think about it, that is a darn good idea.

I know, I know. It totally goes against what they drilled into our little heads in elementary school about sharing; when we were told that sharing is good - but only if you have enough for EVERYONE.

And I can distinctly remember being called out by a teacher for giving a Ritz cracker to a friend. She said, loudly, "Jamie, will you be giving everyone a cracker?"

I believe I looked up at her with all the innocence of a 7 year old, and thought, "This teacher is so effing stupid. I'm holding THREE crackers in a sandwich bag. How could I possibly have enough for everyone?"

And then she made my friend give the cracker back! Because the world is CrazyTown.

Anyway.

All that to say that today I'm giving away a t-shirt. Yes. ONE t-shirt. To ONE of you. Because I love you ALL. But one t-shirt is what I can do. (See that? I'm doing for one what I wish I could do for everyone. Andy Stanley is probably beaming with pride right now.)

So, what I wish I could do for everyone is go over to TrulySanctuary apparel and buy every last one of you a kickass t-shirt. But I can't. I can, however, give ONE of you the kick-ass shirt of your choice. (mens/womens/youth/toddler/infant)

Seriously...

You can thank me later.

>>>I feel it's important to note that I've met Ron and Bethany (the owners/designers behind TrulySanctuary) in real life when we were all doing our thing down in Costa Rica, and I LOVE them. Like, for real. They have one of the most unique, incredible, redemptive stories I've ever heard - and I don't want to tell you anything about it because BETHANY NEEDS TO WRITE IT ALL DOWN IN A BOOK! - but these guys are the real deal. Their love for Jesus and the world and living life well inspires me. So there's that. <<<

Indeed.

Ok. Here are the rules:

> First, leave a comment. You can say whatever you want, or answer this question - If you could put anyones face on a T-shirt, whose would it be? (Some of you may have to de-lurk. Sorry.)

> Then, (in a nod to my cracker-nazi 2nd grade teacher AND because if you can share with everyone, you should - share this post on Facebook and/or Twitter.

> That's it. That's all you have to do. Cool, huh.

The winner will receive one item of their choice from TrulySanctuary, and will be chosen randomly on Monday, March 11, 2013. I'll announce it right here ⬇, at the bottom of this post. (Be sure to come back and see if it was YOU!)

Hey. I eat rich kids, too!

Ready... Set... Go!

.... .... ....

Want a simple way to support rad people? Follow TrulySanctuary on Twitter and Facebook.

And the winner is....... Nicole (who never wins anything)!!! Holler at me Nicole!

Not the Crappiest Day.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 23:54:00 +0000

My day started with not one, but two little girls walking through dog crap on their way into my house.

The trail of doom was extensive.

Crap on the porch.
Crap on the welcome mat.
Crap all over the entry... and the area rug...and the ottoman.
Crap on the sofa.
Crap on the stairs.

Somewhere between the car and my living room those two little sets of pink sneakers had become weapons of mass destruction. Poop stamps.

I swear, it was no more than twenty seconds between the time they arrived and the time I realized we were smack in the middle of the Great Poop Debacle of 2013. Apparently, twenty seconds is all it takes for two small girls in pigtails to make you want to burn your house down.

So I spent the morning on my knees, doing biohazard removal. Lucky me. Praying not to barf. Praying not to take my cheap Ikea rug too seriously. Praying for the health and well-being of all who enter my home, now laced with e-coli, doused with bacteria, swimming in... worms. Yeah, pretty sure worms.

Anyway. I cleaned and I prayed, bent and low, swaying the way one might if they fell to their knees in despair. I begged for relief, for help, for a strong stomach. I complained. I whined. And then, finally, I remembered who I am in Christ. This was my path to the Western wall, a sacred ceremony of sorts; swiping at poopy prints to force a humble posture. A simple, stooped reminder that I am but a servant to this world.

I will clean up shit.
Willingly.
Maybe even happily.
I will remember, between dry heaves and fresh paper towels, that God has delivered me.
And when He did, He created a foot washer. Even if those feet just flattened a gooey turd.

So this was not the crappiest day, although it was filled with crap. It was a sweet ~albeit smelly~ reminder that our posture in these matters matters.

Heh.

.... .... ....

Will it take a Poop Debacle to force you to get down low? Do you think posture matters?

Can you imagine?

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 18:02:00 +0000

This is a REPOST from ages ago. A reminder to myself of why I write...

The Parable of the Flying Naked Baby

Can you imagine?” She kept saying that. Can you imagine…

That’s what we say when there are no other words to express our utter astonishment. Or to convey our harsh judgment without actually saying “I would never.”

I met a woman and her kids at the park where we had both arrived early to beat the summer heat and exhaust our young children to tears. My younger boys were still little, barely 3 and 5 at the time. Young enough for naps, and animal crackers, and still small enough for me to laugh inappropriately, looking sideways to compose myself before disciplining them when they acted like little turd balls. As our kids played, swinging and climbing and digging for China, we struck up a conversation. And I don’t remember how it came up, but she began to tell me the most incredible story. She said it happened right there in our own neighborhood, just a few weeks before.

She was wringing her hands as she told me about a little boy, a toddler, who had fallen out of his second-story bedroom window. She said his mother was in her own room getting dressed after a shower and the kids were playing down the hall. There was a scuffle between the little guy and his big brother, ending with the brother giving him a shove. But the two were standing on a bed at window height and the little boy ended up falling backward against the screen, which gave way, letting him tumble freely to the driveway below. Can you imagine?

She said the older kid ran screaming to the Mom, who went screaming to the baby - knowing as she ran that she would find her little boy mangled, or worse. Can you even imagine? So the Mom throws open the front door and leaps off the porch, racing toward her baby, who, to her complete surprise, comes walking around the back of her car, crying, but otherwise unharmed. The mom fell to her knees as she scooped him up because she was shaking so badly she couldn’t stand. It was like a freaking miracle! Can you imagine? A miracle!

It turns out that the night before, the mom was bringing in the garbage cans, and because of some commotion in the house with kids and pets and dinner, or whatever, she had left the big plastic trash can sitting in the middle of the driveway, directly under that window. Her little guy had literally bounced right off the lid of the can. It saved his life!

As she finished the story, the lady in the park said it one last time with one hand covering her mouth and the other touching her heart, “...Can you imagine?”

“No….I can’t imagine.” I told her. And I thought, "Because I don’t need to. I was there.”

She had told my story back to me, the story of my son falling out of a second story window and walking away virtually unharmed. That was my terror, my amazement, my miracle.

And she told the story with remarkable accuracy, leaving out only the most minor detail - which also happens to be the best part of the story - how my kiddo was bare-ass naked when he fell. Naked. Can you imagine? A naked little person popping out of a second story window like a cherub falling from a cloud? I can only laugh about it because the outcome was so great, but that is kinda funny, right?! (Apparently, while I was in the shower, my little man stripped down, unlocked and opened his window, and picked a fight with his brother. He was a busy toddler.)

The conclusion that my new friend had drawn was that this child had been set apart by God to do something very special for the world. I looked across the park at my chubby, tow headed kid, scooping handfuls of sand laced with cat poop into his mouth, and thought ”Meh, it’s hard to say...but, yeah, maybe....” I didn’t really need my baby to have a brush with death in order to know that he was special. Nor do I particularly agree that the children who happen to survive their ordeals are the ones set apart by God. But we did talk for a long time, that near stranger and I, about God and His hopes and dreams for our children...and for us.

The whole thing was just weird. Ya know?

But that’s the day I realized that our stories are so much bigger than we are. They can travel farther than we can. They can talk louder. They can touch people deeply when we’re not even in the room. And I love that.

It gave me a new appreciation for Jesus’ parables, for His knack for storytelling, and His gift for talking about everyday things in a way that makes a seemingly invisible God more tangible to regular people, like, people that have never been to seminary…or to church. I think that’s one of the things I love most about Jesus. He picked the most common things and made them extraordinary. He took the most relatable themes; agriculture, debt, justice, parenting, and the most common items; wine, figs, seeds, and…like…baking soda and stuff, and he spun them into stories that help us better understand who we are in relation to God.

And I think that’s so important to me because I know that apart from Jesus I’m just so common. But when I remember that He is part of my story, it becomes something truly extraordinary. I mean, I am the mother of the child that fell naked from a two-story window, the wife of an ex-cop/now international project manager, the child of an atheist turned Christian missionary. It sort of blows my mind. I mean, can you imagine?

Yeah.

Neither could I.

Jesus or Zoloft?

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 22:33:00 +0000

I'm depressed.

There. I said it.

Happy freaking New Year.

2012 really kicked my ass. And now those six or seven major life events and that international move seem to be catching up to me. I've found, coming off a nine month adrenaline high, that I don't really want to get out of bed.

I got my kids off to school on Monday morning and then I curled up on the couch with a blanket over my head and slept until noon. When I finally got up, it was only because my cat was sitting on my face. What?! That's how he tells me he's hungry. Anyway. Here's a newsflash - If you sleep more than your cat, that may be a clue that you've come down with a smidge of the depression.

Yesterday, I got dressed at, like, 3 o'clock and it felt like a major victory. (Over-celebrating simple daily tasks? Yeah, that's clue #2.)

This morning I shuffled around my house looking for some unknown thing, circled the internet in search of nothing at all, and told myself repeatedly to “get it together”. When none of that got me anywhere, I prayed, telling God repeatedly to “get it together”. I need to write, I said. I need to cook. I need to buy toilet paper. This grimy, stupefied, agoraphobe thing isn't really working for me. I don't have time for mental illness, I told him. You're gonna have to make it go away.

And then I remembered the one thing some Christians will never admit out loud, which is that sometimes Jesus isn't all you need. Sometimes you need Zoloft.

I've fought with anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember (seriously, like since I was a small child) and I know the things I need to do to escape this ditch. For me it requires healthy food, sunshine, exercise, safe friends, and, yes, Faith in my Healer and Counselor.

But, sometimes, it also means addressing the chemical needs of my body.

Sometimes it means popping a little blue pill.

And guess what? It helps!

Guess what else? Depression is not a sin.

It's true that our brokenness can enhance those feeling of lostness, loneliness, and hopelessness; our transgressions, screw ups, and failures can work to further deepen a nasty depression (and vice versa!). And it's true, I believe, that we need Jesus to be whole.

But, I'll say it again, Jesus is not all you need.

Sometimes you need a Doctor. Sometimes you need medication. There's really no crime in that.

The real crime would be to live your God-given life with your head under a blanket, or your face under your cat's butt... ooorrr, y'know, whatever... when, instead, you could get help and come back to life.

Do I need Jesus, or Zoloft? For today, I think I need need both. Maybe you do, too.

…. ….. ….

Ever been depressed?

Are you a pill popper or a prayer apologist? Or both?

This.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 04:19:00 +0000

The whole "holiday season" thing has me on edge.

I'm tired, I'm broke, I'm a terrible gift giver, I'm a super procrastinator, and when you add all that together, you get a stomach ache and a bad attitude and a bunch of people calling you a grinch (which we all know is just a polite way to tell someone they're an a-hole).

But I can't help it. I just feel like the commercialization of Christmas has stolen too much, and now it's a mere shell of what it ought to be. It makes me squirm when people say, "Jesus is the reason for the season!"

I want to say, "It's hardly fair to blame this mess on Jesus."

Perhaps I'm alone in my frustration over what Christmas has become; a circus of overindulgence. Maybe I'm the only one wondering what the hell I'm doing as I circle the Target parking lot in the rain at 10pm to pick up "one last thing". Maybe my disdain for this horse and pony show is mine alone; buying gifts for near strangers, running my ass off to get from brunch to tea to dinner to dessert (How is there a party for every hour of the day, anyway?!), rolling my eyes behind the lady in line who loudly exclaims how much she spent on stocking stuffers for her daughter as she swipes her credit card. Yeah, lady, we get it. Your daughter is soooo lucky.

Seriously. What a Crapfest.

Maybe I'm the only one who can't sleep because my horrible personality mixed with The Most Wonderful Time of the Year creates some sort of toxin that seems to linger in the air. I swear, it's like a big emotional fart. So I lay in bed, awake and unhappy, and I ask God, " What am I doing?!...This isn't what Christmas is supposed to be! This is chaos. This is wasteful. This is crap!"

And, in the dark, I want to think His silence equals approval, but it doesn't. I know, because His answer comes later.

Later, when I'm belting out "GloOOOooOOOooOOOooria!" in the kitchen with all three of my boys. And it's, like, really bad. We're using candy canes as microphones, and even though we sound awful, we don't care because our joy is wild. So we keep singing, and somehow through that off key disaster, I can feel Him whispering to my soul, "This..."

Or, later, when I can see my breath as I walk around the block leaving peppermint goodies on doorsteps - y'know, loving my neighbors, and all that. In soft steps, and wind blown hair, and pink cheeks, flushed with cold, He breathes, "This..."

And, later, when I'm frantically cleaning my house before guests arrive, and in my fury to conceal my piggish ways, I knock over a stack of books and one flips open... So I stop and pick it up... And I read...

"Do not be afraid, for behold,

I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.

For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior,

who is Christ the Lord.

And this will be the sign to you:

You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger."

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying:

"Glory to God in the highest,

And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

~Luke 2

And then I remember. Oh, yeah. This...

This is kind of a big deal.

...

Feeling grinchy?

So, you wanna be a missionary...

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 06 Dec 2012 21:38:00 +0000

Despite the fact that I have made my failings at being a missionary quite clear, younger folks still ask me for advice pretty often. It's like they go, “I have questions about being a missionary. Hmmm... I know! I'll ask the very worst one!” …. Ooookaay.

So here's the Very Worst Missionary's Very Best Advice for Missionarying:

Are you ready for it?

Get a job!

Then? Work the hell out of that job for three years.

Honestly, this is the best advice I can give you.

I know. So disappointing.

But here's why:

A “real job” - yes, that's what people in ministry call work outside of the church. Scary! - anyway, a real job will teach you things you'll need to know in the mission field. Important stuff, like work ethic, sustainability, productivity, and value.

A real job can expose you to real conflict management (and not the shitty “Christian” kind they'll teach in missionary training. Honestly. Our track record at dealing with conflict is pretty horrible).

A real job will teach you to live on a real budget. Because if you say to your real boss, “Hey, can I have some more money for a new car this week?” They'll say “Um...No.” And then you'll have to save your money, like a normal person, and buy the car later. Or not buy the car. … I know. It's cRaZy!

A real job will help you learn not to be an entitled, self-righteous bunghole. Because if you act like that at a real job, they will kick your ass to the curb.

A real job will help you understand time management. Because, your real schedule will not likely allow you to spend three hours every Friday afternoon with your friends or your kids, - even if you call it “discipleship” on Facebook. Actually, that reminds me, your real job won't let you call any time you spend on Facebook “work”. Not “support development”, not “communication”, not “team building”... Nope. No matter how you say it, Real Job does not approve.

A real job will allow you to support a missionary. Yeah. You should know how that feels.

But, most important?... A real job is a real mission field. So learn some freakin' respect.

And the other thing I tell people is this (and it's a doozie!):

Understand the difference between wanderlust and

wanting to be a missionary.

The world is AMAZING! God's creation is simply ASTOUNDING! It should be seen and respected. But there is a big difference between seeing and serving. And the Church does not exist to fulfill your desire to see the world.

I totally believe that this planet, this place God spoke into being, deserves our reverence. If it's calling out to you, then go, and revere it with all your heart! But don't use the Church to pay your way. And don't use your participation in weak or broken ministry as a means to collect stamps in your passport.

Get a job. Save your money. And then take a trip to somewhere incredible. Trust me, your tourist dollars will be greatly appreciated!

And this is where I bail, because, beyond what I've just said, I think the journey to becoming a missionary is highly unique and personal. It's spirit-led, prayer dependent, driven by hard work and perseverance, and it's not always awesome or easy.

If you still want to be a missionary, then maybe it's time for you to find a healthy ministry (which means asking lots of good questions and being mindful of the answers) and ask them how you can get on board with what they're doing.

That's my advice. ....What?! I never said it would be good advice.

So, Blessings as you go.

To work.

Aaaat a real job. ;)

.... ..... ....

Have you ever wanted to be a missionary? ~ OR ~ Got any advice for wannabe missionaries?

The Calm in the Storm

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 28 Nov 2012 15:30:00 +0000

About a month ago, I announced on Facebook that we had become foster parents to an 8 year old boy.

Honestly, it was pretty surprising. Everybody (like my Mom) was all, “Say what?!”, because I had never even mentioned foster care before. What can I say? I am a woman of mystery and intrigue. I'm unpredictable. I bake pies into cakes, people! Who knows what I'll do next?!

But this foster care thing really did happen overnight. We got a call on Saturday about a child in need, and on Sunday we got a child.

Just in case you're wondering? That's not how foster care usually works.

Usually there's a lot of paperwork and classes and forms with scanned fingerprints, home visits from social workers with long grueling checklists, brown paper packages tied up with string... no, wait...

Anyway.

We didn't do any of that. I mean, we did, but it was different.

We partnered with an organization that places children in need with safe families while their parents work to better their living situation. It's a voluntary foster agreement – the kind that helps keep kids who might otherwise fall into the abyss of state care (while their parents get clean or find appropriate housing) out of “the system”. It's all very legal and official, and it's done under the supervision of a legit foster care agency, but it's not bound by the same letter of the law, nor the super strict guidelines of the government, so the application process is streamlined and the requirements are more reasonable. Get it?

So that's what happened.

Someone called and said, “We have an 8 year old boy who needs a home.”

And we were like, “We don't really have time, or space, or money. Soooo... we'll take him!” And then we did. I've never made an easier decision in my life; Child needs a warm and loving home? Done.

Just like that, we swept him into our clan and, for one fleeting month, we became the calm in his storm.

Now, I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but I'm not exactly the world's most laid back person... I'm kind of high strung. And twitchy. And I'm super disorganized. Plus? I'm moody. Come to think of it, usually, I am the storm.

So you can imagine my shock at finding that somehow my crazy, busy, silly existance had become a place of peace and rest and security for someone else's.

I'm not gonna lie -- It wasn't a month full of unicorns and rainbows. It was more challenging than I expected it to be in a lot of ways. Certain days really sucked. A few nights dragged out way too long. It was surprisingly hard on my kids. Even my cat, Knives, made himself scarce.

And in the end, saying goodbye was way harder than I anticipated. It's possible that you don't know this, but I fall in love faster than Taylor Swift at a One Direction concert. And fall in love, I did.

So when people ask me if foster care was hard, I tell them yes. When they ask me if it was good, I tell them yes. And when they ask me if I'd do it again, I tell them abso-freaking-lutely!

Because, well... because.

Because this is Mercy, come to life; that I offer my own hand to the weary.

Because this is Hope, believed; that I know one month of calm can change a lifetime.

Because this is Christ, in me; that I can raise my arms against a storm and say to the wind and the waves... “stop”.

And they will.

.... .... ....

If you find someone who's drowning, offer them a hand... And then be the calm in their storm.

The Story of Church.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 21:04:00 +0000

Remember when I was all, “I don't like cry babies, so don't ask me to serve in the nursery!”

Well, thankfully, nobody has. Granted, it's probably because they're afraid I'll teach the toddlers to shout obscenities and draw Sharpie tattoos on their necks. (Oh, come on. Nothing screams “Sunday School” like a 2 year old with NORCAL THUG scribbled across his throat. Am I right?!)

Anyway. I won't have to touch the sticky children ~*huge sigh of relief*~ because I've found another area to serve; somewhere safe from boogers and diapers, where I'm a little more comfortable making a contribution. So, basically, it's a win-win.

A few weeks ago, I sat down with the leadership of our church and together we asked, “What if we could create a space for the people of Lakeside Church to tell their story? What would it look like? Who would contribute? What stories would we tell?”

For me, this was a super exciting conversation – mostly, because of you.

See, writing The Very Worst Missionary has taught me that a blog can be more than just words floating around in a vacuum of internet space. It taught me that we are connected by our most honest stories, and it showed me, first hand, how God can use one man's story to change another man's life. Through your comments, encouragements, and thoughtful responses, I've learned that our stories allow us link arms and stand together – even from across the world.

So this week our church launched a new blog, and I had the honor of writing the very first post. We're calling it "Lakeside Life", and we're hoping to see the story of a Church unfold in its pages.

I'll be a regular contributor there, so feel free to follow along. As far as I'm concerned, y'all are the best commenters on the planet(!) – so please feel free to get in there, and show the people how it's done. :)

Oh. And thank you.

Thank you for showing me the value of a story.

Thank you for telling me over and over and over again that I'm a writer.

And thank you, thank you, thank you for making me a blogger and saving me from the clutches of all those miserable babies.

You guys are the best. I mean that... YOU'RE THE BEST!

…. ….. …..

Did you check out my post on Lakeside Life?

How is God using your story?

Jesus in Cougar Town

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sun, 04 Nov 2012 18:58:00 +0000

While I waited for a friend at a coffee shop, I watched a woman in her late forties flirt shamelessly with a young, good-looking firefighter.

He was doctoring his coffee with cream and sugar while she smiled and giggled, and twirled her hair, bending to show him a little bit more of her aged and freckled cleavage. He looked uncomfortable. Hell, I think we all looked uncomfortable - everyone in a fifteen foot radius was squirming in awkward discomfort.

Surely my mouth gaped at the sight of this real live Cougar. I know it's rude to stare - but really?! I could not avert my eyes. This was just too good, too hilarious, too outrageously stereotypical to ignore. I was taking in the whole scene with inappropriate delight when another firefighter popped his head in the door and told the guy to hurry up. The dude looked relieved and the Cougar looked super bummed; like she was just about to ask him if she could feel his biceps and then jump his bones on top of his firetruck in a pile of hoses like in that 90's movie, Back Draft... *shudder*

The object of her peri-menopausal desires made a hasty exit, and then a little girl, just 11 or 12 years old, walked up to the dejected temptress. “MOM! That was SO embarrassing!”

And suddenly it wasn't really funny anymore.

It was sad.

She looked ashamed. And lonely. And she slowly twisted the gold band around her ring finger until a big, sparkly diamond rounded the corner, no longer hidden against the palm of her hand.

The suburbs are weird like that.

This place is overflowing with people who have full closets, full bank accounts, full bellies... and empty hearts.

I always think it's interesting when people pat us on the back for being missionaries to Costa Rica. Perhaps they think we were doing something difficult because they don't know that in Costa Rica there's a bleeding-Jesus-in-a-crown-of-thorns bumper sticker on every bus, taxi, and pizza delivery scooter. You can easily engage nearly every person you cross paths with in a conversation about God or Jesus or Faith or whatever. It's really not hard. Every town has grown up around a church, faith is taught in public school, and there's pretty much a missionary on every corner. In Costa Rica, “Jesus” is generally a familiar and comfortable word – not an instant conversation killer.

We've been back in the NorCal suburbs for a whole three months now, and all I can say is that ministry is way harder here than it ever was in Costa Rica. Being an agent for Love and Grace in a place where people truly don't recognize their own need is really tough. Watching a married woman angle for an affair with a younger, hotter man while her daughter looks on is gut-wrenching. ...And sorta hilarious.... But seriously? Gut-wrenching.

I believe Jesus has competition in the American suburbs like no place else on Earth. Everyone here is surrounded by so much shiny new stuff, it's hard to see the Light. Here, depravity is hidden behind tall double doors, and the things that separate us from God often come gleaming, right out of the box. The contrast between Dark and Light has been cleverly obscured by the polish of materialism and vanity.

Here, poverty is internal, hunger is spiritual, and need feels non-existent. But it's there.

Behind the facade of perfection in Cougar Town, past the fake boobs and fancy cars and fat paychecks, and at the bottom of aaalll thoooose wine glasses, there's a need so desperate, a loneliness so great, and a brokenness so crushing that you can practically hear the collective cry for Redemption. But the beautiful thing to be found in all of that mess is that there's a Savior here, too, and He's ready to fulfill his promises.

Jesus is here, in Cougar Town.

And for the first time in my life, I feel like maybe I'm supposed to be a missionary...

.... .... ....

What is the Light competing with in your town?

A Halloween(ie) Recap

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 01 Nov 2012 19:08:00 +0000

Last night marked the return of Halloween to our family's annual activities.

It's been five years since the last time we debated costume choices, lectured on street safety, or demanded our children be polite as they raced door to door to beg candy off the neighbors.

When we left the U.S., they were all still young enough to trick-or-treat. They were still innocent enough to want to dress up as ninjas and pirates. They were still pliant enough to be convinced they'd need a jacket over their costume to combat the chill of Autumn at night.

Now?... Well.... now things are... different. Five years is like a lifetime of difference in childhood. Last night I was reminded that we left with children and came back with young men. And, much to my Mama-bear dismay, none of these young men wanted to be Luke or Obi Wan for Halloween. They wanted to be scary. Or cool. Or... *ahem*...sexy... but they were no longer interested in incarnating their sweet childhood dreams of Knights and Super Heroes.

Instead, we had an Undead Boy Scout...

... an Uber-hipster...

...and... um...

THIS.

Yes. It's Sexy Mario and Luigi!

A creative (if not totally obscene and terribly inappropriate) response to all the "Slutty Nurse/Pirate/Kitten/Princess/Mummy" costumes they've been forced to endure from their female counterparts. Get it?! It's ironic Halloween fun. And a painful reminder that my 18 year old is 18 years old. An adult. A man. A scary, independent, super-confident, hilariously bold MAN (who will never have a girlfriend if he keeps dressing like this).

And then, of course, we have Knives...

...He was supposed to be Taylor Swift, but he refused to wear the pleated skirt and knee high socks.

You are a Halloween kill-joy, Knives!

This year my younger boys trick-or-treated without an escort. They just ran off into the night, with no one behind them to call out, "SAY THANK YOU!", and they collected an unholy amount of candy. I mean, a seriously disgusting volume of crap. My older boy/man went out with friends - half-naked and without a jacket. And I stayed home, where I spent the evening admiring the cute costumes and good manners of tiny witches and chubby dinosaurs, and where I fell a little more in love with the stage of life and independence we've found ourselves.

Even though it's scary to have kids who are old enough to choose how they'll live, and what they'll wear, and how they'll treat themselves and others - I love it. I love it because this is where we're starting to see how God is moving and shaping them, and how, as parents, He has used us in that process. This is where we get to see them own their character and their Faith. This is where it all gets real.

It's thrilling.

And a little nauseating.

So, I guess it's a lot like Halloween.

.... .... ....

Sooo... What did you do last night?

Enough

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 19:09:00 +0000

The other day some friends stopped by to drop something off and my husband invited them in. He offered them a seat and then he glanced toward me and suggested we make a fresh batch of coffee.

I looked back at him with my mouth pressed shut and those eyes women make when they're trying to convey an important message without words, and then I shook my head “no”, ever so slightly. You'd think that since we've been married forfreakingever he would immediately know that I was trying to quietly discourage him from offering coffee to our guests.

Instead, he blurted, “What. Is there no coffee? Do you not want to make coffee? WHAT IS IT?!”

And then I got all huffy because he sucks so bad at reading my mind and I said, “We only have ONE coffee cup!” (Which is a lie, because we have two, but my coffee was already in one of them.)

The point is, we didn't have enough to go around and, in the end, we had to manage with the two appropriately sized mugs and two tiny tea cups which I had recently picked up at a thrift store for 50 cents. All because, somehow, for the three months since we've been back we've gotten by with only two mugs. That's just all we needed.

See, our family has been liberated from material possessions twice in last five years - And it was good. It was very good. So, upon reentry to the U.S., we have been really careful not to accumulate a bunch of crap just for the sake of having a bunch of crap. That means we don't have an extra anything; not a sheet set, not a mixing bowl, and not a coffee mug. There's room in our closets, space under our sinks, and a few empty drawers in our little house. Some of our cupboards are literally bare.

Yet, somehow, in the last few months, we've hosted overnight guests on three occasions, we've shared plenty of meals with family and friends, and we've opened our home to a child in need. And, somehow, we did it without enough coffee cups.

It's, like, pretty much a miracle. Like, loaves and fishes and junk...

Yes, we've had to get creative. And, yes, we've had to call on our community to lend a blanket or pillow or a casserole dish, at times. But we're learning to live with enough, and when you start to learn that lesson, then living with excess starts to feel kinda... gross.

Don't get me wrong, we have a few nice things and a chill little house in the suburbs. If you walked in, you'd probably feel like we're living pretty well. Because we are. Just don't ask for a toothpick, or weed whacker, or a pancake griddle - cause we've been managing without 'em til now, and we're pretty dang serious about this whole “living within our means” thing.

You can, however, ask for a cup of coffee... if you come alone.

.... .... ....

To be honest, I'm still struggling to figure out what is enough. How about you? Ever wish you could just ditch all your crap and start from scratch?

Fortune Cookie Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 04:54:00 +0000

I bought chinese food for dinner at a grocery store deli the other night.

It was pretty bad. But you probably could have guessed that, y'know, since it was “Chinese” food made by a grocery store deli and not, saaaay, actual Chinese people. Nevertheless, we filled our bellies with soggy noodles, greasy rice, and a hearty serving of MSG - and when we were done we reached into the bottom of the plastic bag it came home in, past no less than 30 packets of soy sauce and a pile of crumpled napkins, to fish out our fortune cookies.

Man, we love fortune cookies! Actually, we just love the fortunes... the cookies are sort of meh.

Anyway.

One by one, we cracked our cookies and slid out those little strips, filled with words of wisdom, to take turns reading our fortunes aloud. As it turns out, according to the cookies, one of my boys is “destined for greatness” while his younger brother will “fall on hard times”. Bummer for him, huh.

My oldest got some life advice about being a good friend, and then I got his little gem...

And at first I thought, “That is too true, Fortune Cookie. Too true!”

But then I was like, “Wait a minute... What if I take up jogging and give up meth?!”

And then the wisdom of the fortune cookie broke down before my eyes. All those lucky numbers and pithy prophecies went right down the drain as I came up with one example after another of things in the "take up/give up" equation that could actually enrich my life:

What if I take up golf and give up doughnuts?

What if I take up knitting and give up abusing small animals?

What if I take up an instrument and give up poison blow darts?

What if I take up reading and give up Bejeweled Blitz... I'm kidding, of course. That would be ridiculous.

But you see what I mean? The statement itself, while initially good, just doesn't hold up to any kind of scrutiny. Naturally, this isn't a huge surprise because, really? It's a fortune cookie. And fortune cookies probably shouldn't be taken too seriously.

I'm telling you this because sometimes, (between posting love letters to food and pictures of my cat) I say dumb things on Twitter and Facebook; like little quips about faith and life and junk... And sometimes people want to turn those 140 characters into more than they were ever meant to be. Sometimes people want to get into theological debates over silly things that weren't intended to do more than, maybe, stir a man's soul a bit.

I'm pretty sure I've never read a life changing tweet. Not one. And I'm certain I've never written one.

That's because the fullness of the Gospel will never be captured in a single sentence. Or a paragraph. Or a clever blog post. Or even a tacky three page Bible tract.

Instead, it lays itself out over a lifetime; threading its way between morning and night, quietly abiding our self created chaos and gently bearing our indiscretions. It seeps into our bones over time. It nurtures us slowly, whispering light into our dark places and shoring up our weak spots.

Grace doesn't fit in a fortune cookie.

And the whole grand scope of Redemption can't really be conjured into a couple of words on the internet.

My life, your life... our real (everyday, sucky, messed up, occasionally super-rad, and awesome) lives are the true flag-bearers of our Faith. And that's HUGE. Too huge, in fact, to pack inside familiar platitudes, snarky @replies, or delicate golden cookies.

I'm so cool with tweeting and blogging about Faith. I love it. I really do. But we should all be careful not make how we're talking about it bigger and more important than how we're living it.

Now, please RT this. *snickers*

.... .... ....

Ever had a random fortune cookie change your life? (Not gonna lie; it would be kind of awesome and hilarious if someone said "yes".)

The Very Worst Pastor's Wife.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 26 Sep 2012 21:10:00 +0000

So I'm... like.... a pastor's wife.

It's ok. You can laugh.

I'm not technically a “Pastor's wife” because my husband is a Director, not a Pastor. But his role is pretty pastorly, y'know, with the whole “leading of the flock” bit. And he does pastor duties, and he reads pastorish kinds of books, and a lot of church people call him “Pastor El Chupacabra”, or something like that. So he's like almost, pretty much, very nearly a pastor.

And that makes me very nearly a Pastor's Wife... or, *ahem*... a “PW”, as we like to call it in the business.

MTV should totally make a show about us. Like “Mob Wives”, but with less vodka and leopard print bras, and more iced-tea and denim dresses. Doesn't that sound exciting?!

But, seriously, there should be a rule book or something for us newbie Pastor's wives. A pocket-guide for navigating those first few months.

Some things are obvious; Like, I'm aware that I should only use friendly swear word stand-ins when I'm chatting it up with strangers in the lobby. I mean, Duh!

But, I went to a Women's ministries thing a few weeks ago, and there was a raffle. So, without even thinking, I put my stupid card in the stupid basket, and then, when they started pulling names and giving away prizes, a wave of panic washed over me because I realized that I was a freaking pastor's wife now and if I walked away with a prize I would feel like a real douche. I don't even know why... I just felt uncomfortable about it. I sat there, imagining how I'd react if I won. For a second I thought, “Oh, I'll just say 'no thanks' and tell them to pull another name.” But then I thought, “It's all good! If I win, I'll just run up there, grab my prize, and shout something funny". And then I got to thinking about how what I think is funny isn't always what everyone else thinks is funny and how other people might not be amused if I shouted, “HELL YEAH, I WON! I'M A PASTOR'S WIFE, BITCHES!!!” By the time I was done completely overanalyzing the situation, the raffle was over and I hadn't won. Thank God!

But if there was a manual, I could have just referred to Chapter 3 of Section 1; “Navigating the Ginger & Pear Scented Air of Women's Ministries, where I would have found an answer and moved on with my life. But no. I just sat there, worrying about how I might actually slip up one of these days and refer to the group at the Ladies Fellowship Christian Brunch thingy as “my bitches”.

Siiiiigh.

See how hard this is? I don't even know what I'm doing!

I need a rulebook with a foldable tear-out of handy tips that I can keep in my purse. I need advice. Like:

NEVER say 'nice to meet you' while shaking hands in the Church lobby, as you've probably already met this person 11 times.

NEVER snicker when the head pastor prays that you or anyone else will be “penetrated by the Holy Spirit."

NEVER ask the coffee servers for a bigger coffee cup because your addiction is 'off the chain'.

NEVER admit you were late for church because your teenager was 'being a total A-hole' and you spent the last 25 minutes screaming at him to change his punk-ass attitude.

NEVER try to embarrass the dirtbag who let one rip during Communion by loudly wondering, “WHO FARTED?!” or angrily exclaiming, "OMG, I CAN TASTE THAT!"

And?

ALWAYS feign an appropriate amount of interest in the blah blah blah of people who are being unusually nice to you because they think that if you're friends, your husband will fund their ministry ideas.

Now, that's all just crap I've picked up from experience in my first 8 weeks!

Moving forward I could use a chapter on how to dress like I'm poor and I don't care, how to pretend I'm nice, and how to wear my PW hair. Also, I really don't like dealing with other people's goopy miserable kids, so I won't be volunteering in the nursery - I need to know what the appropriate alternatives are.

Rules. Guidelines. I need some structure, people.

...But, really, who am I kidding?... I'm not about following the rules. And they knew that when they hired me.... erm... my husband.

.... ..... .....

Anything you've learned (from being a Pastor's wife, or from interacting with Pastor's wives) that I need to know?

C'mon. Help a sister out!

Read between the lines.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 17:51:00 +0000

Welp. Yesterday was my birthday. Again. *sigh*

The years seem to be going faster, don't they?

I don't know how that works, but let me assure you; it's a thing. As you age, time passes more quickly, gravity actually gets heavier, and your bladder shrinks to the size of a peanut. Before you know it, you wake up one morning and you're thirty-effing-seven, droopy all over, and living your whole life on the brink of wetting yourself. I'm sorry. That's just how it is. There's nothing you can do about it.... unless you have lots and lots of money... Ok. So there's nothing I can do about it.

Oh! And - as if being wrinkly, damp, and nearly dead isn't insulting enough - people keep calling me “Ma'am”. What the hell, you guys?! Ma'am??? Psssshhh! How rude is that?! They might as well be calling me “you old bag". “Thank you for shopping at Safeway, you old bag!” When the Starbucks barista says “Here you go, Ma'am”, she's lucky I don't throw my steaming latte right in her wrinkle-free face. I just cannot abide by being told so politely that I'm old and haggard.

So I have a furrowed brow and flesh like an old paper sack. So what?! This face, this hot mess, this puckered mug - this is a freaking badge of honor.

My face tells the story of an incredible life. It's like a diary, a journal I've kept since the day I was born. My face can tell you everything about me...but you'll have to read between the lines.

If you can read between the lines, you'll see me squinting into the sun. This is what eyes look like after they've watched a ball of fire rise over the Caribbean and set over the Pacific, burn the morning mist off the Grand Canyon and slink off to hide behind the Sierras. I've stood in the shadow of pine trees and palm trees and giant oaks, dripping with moss, while the rays of the sun etched these lines around my eyes, themselves like little sunbursts, to remind me of the places I've been. These wrinkles are a road map, plain and simple, to a world that has moved me and shaped me.

Read between the lines and you'll practically hear the sound of laughter. In the lines around my lips you'll see a gazillion words have slipped by, good ones and bad ones and all the ones in between. The upturned corners of my mouth tell their own tales, in Spanish, while whispered prayers and belted-out love songs, mercy and judgement, truth and lies, condemnation and grace, all weave into the fabric of my face. It's all there - plus a divot in my bottom lip, chewed away by years of worry. These are the deep creases and soft folds of a mouth that speaks its mind, tells stories, shares from the heart, and pouts mightily when it doesn't get its way. But around these parts, the smile line reigns supreme, laughter is king, funny trumps all – so says the valley that separates my cheek from my nose. This mouth betrays my 37 years. It looks 40. I just know it.

If you read between the lines, you'll find this heavily furrowed brow is the mark of a marriage fought and died for. It's the deepest line on my face, for good reason; To die to yourself is the hardest and greatest of life's lessons – and selfishness deserves a gravestone. I carry mine right between my eyes. It's not a wrinkle, it's a scar, a reminder of my own woundedness. And it makes me look pissed, but I'm not. When people ask me what's wrong (And they do. All the time.), I want to say, “Nothing. This is just what happens when your internal battle leaks onto your face.”

If you'll read between the lines, you'll see how these rolling waves across my forehead are the flagship of motherhood; each wavy line dug in by the surprises brought by maternity. “How did you pee that far?” “Who poured honey on the dog?” “Why is the toaster in the dryer?” I know it's not ok to scream “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?!” twenty times a day, so my creased and wrinkled forehead says it for me. This raised eyebrow conveys a myriad of emotions, all useful in propelling boys toward manhood. I'm confident that of all the good reasons I've given them, this cocked brow will surely be the thing that sends my kids to therapy. ...Yes. It's that good.

If you read between the lines, you'll see I'm 37.

Older than Jesus.

And I'm okay with it.

This shrunken face, and tiny bladder, and droopy everything are just part of life. This is my body, broken for... just kidding. But when I think about what it would take to make it to 37 wrinkle free, I can see that I would have forsaken all of the things that have made my life great.

So here's to another year, well lived under the sun! Here's to the trials that shuffle our brows and scrunch up our noses! Here's to the joys that get us grinning from ear to ear and laughing til our cheeks hurts! Here's to life! And here's to owning our old and haggard faces!!!

Happy Birthday to me. I'm old-ish and I'm pretty much cool with it.

But. If you call me “Ma'am”, I might offer you three fingers and ask you to read between the lines.

.... .... .....

How old are you? What can your lines tell us?

Settling in.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 11 Sep 2012 21:00:00 +0000

Hi. Remember me? I'm Jamie and, uh, I used to blog here.

I haven't been around because I was super busy... y'know, settling in.

I'm not really sure how long it lasts, this “settling in” thing. All I know is that when people ask us how we're doing, that's what we say.

“We're settling in.”

Two months ago we made a big, fat, international trek from the suburbs of Costa Rica to the suburbs of California, and since then we've just been busy, busy, busy – settling in.

At home, “settling in” meant finding an affordable everything. It meant collecting beds and sheets and dishes and towels and all the stuff to keep all that other stuff clean and put away. It meant taking care of the basics. (That's code for 'buying a toilet plunger'. Trust me. You aren't settled in if you don't own a plunger.) Fortunately, we took care of the basics right away, because then “settling in” meant spending our last dime on a new air conditioner. Which sucks! But when you're trying to “settle in” during a triple digit heat wave in August, having air conditioning trumps having lamps/dressers/hand soap/bandaids/muffin tins aaaaand just about anything else you can think of.

“Yes, everything else is worthless when compared with the infinite value of Air Conditioning. For its sake I have discarded everything else, counting it all as garbage, so that I could gain [fresh smelling armpits and a good night's sleep].”

~ See? It's, like, practically in the Bible.

For me, “settling in” at home means creating a space that my family loves to be in. Honestly, I'm still working on it. There's still a lot of scrubbing to be done, repairs to be made, walls to be painted, and I've got this ugly-ass white laminate 90's kitchen just longing for a super-cheap-but-awesome facelift. But my biggest priority has been my kid's rooms. More than anything, I want them to feel “settled in”. I want them to feel at home here. I want this house to be where they come to retreat, rest, and redeem these inevitably hard days. I want my boys to have a place to invite their new friends, a place to organize their newly homework-driven lives, a place for them to be comfortable in their own skin while they adjust to being comfortable in a new community. So (instead of blogging), I've been doing all kinds of domestic arts and crafts and junk. ….

I decoupaged a bunk bed, people. A BUNK BED.

At work, “settling in” for El Chupacabra meant setting a schedule and learning to abide by it. He's now honoring his day off, which I like a whole lot. It meant hiring an admin (Woohoo! We love you, Kim!) And it meant jumping in with both feet, getting in way over his head, and drowning in work, meetings, budget, and vision – only to come out on top and do a kickass job - because he's El Chupacabra - that's just what he does. Eight weeks in, and everywhere I go I'm reminded by others that I married an amazing guy and I get to confirm that, yes, he really is a man after God's heart. What a privilege that I'm able to see this life unfold, day by day, and have for 18 years...

Sorry, ladies. That beard is aaaaalll mine.

So that's where we're at... still “settling in”.

Our house feels more and more like ours; the chaos and conflict of daily life is returning. We yell about dumb stuff, our kids bicker like know-it-all-jerks, we act like slobs, and I burn dinner, give it a fancy name, and serve it like it's supposed to be black. “Oh, this?...This... is... Crusty Smoked Blackened Tri-tip a la Flambe Brulee. Enjoy!” Then they eat it, cuz they're cool like that.

And my heart settles in, all the more.

I lay down at night, my beloved air conditioning whirs around me, and I breath it all in. I close my eyes and thank God for this place, this church, this community. And there, in the quiet of night, I can feel my Soul, Oh, my Soul, it settles in at the foot of the cross; the very place it found Peace so long ago.

And then I remember the thing that's so easy to forget when one is busy settling in...

...I'm already home.

.... .... ....

So, it's been awhile, friends. How have you been?