Christmas Mourning

Grandma smelled like comfort and cold cream when she hugged me. I can’t open a bottle of Pond’s in public because one whiff reminds me that she’s not here anymore. The slip-slip of her feet on linoleum in the morning, the perfectly crustless PB&J sandwiches that she made me, her church hats and bright suits. Gone.

The cadence of her voice when she scolded me, or, ninja-like under the strict eye of my mother, scored me some peppermints. Gone. Her faithful and tone-deaf hymn-singing morning and evening. She unwittingly taught me the words of great songs of the faith, even if I didn’t learn the melodies until later.

Cocoa powder, stirred in frothy, hot milk, but without the sugar. The shock of rich bittersweetness that goes down warm, but thick. Christmas, with its beauty, worship, and goodness, can still be difficult to digest because of notes of bereavement, loneliness, and disappointment.

My grandmother won’t be sneaking peppermints to my son. My husband will never know how proud his dad would be of his strength of character, and tenderness with his own son. Some beautiful friends of mine will have to contend once again with traditions of mistletoe and New Year’s Eve kisses, sticking in the craw of their loneliness, implying that they are incomplete without the husband and the children.

These are punch-in-the-gut reminders that we live in the time between Advents. Times of “Thy kingdom come [right now, please!], Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” because the present circumstances of affliction that Paul mentions in 2 Corinthians 4 seem anything but light, or momentary, and heaven is far, far away.

We are incomplete. All of us. Christmas on this side of Jesus’ birth is a Grand Ellipsis, an uncomfortable and prolonged inhale, an ache for God to be once more with us, face to face.

Paul speaks in 2 Corinthians 4 in light of eternity, because the present was hard to bear. 2 Corinthians 4:7-8 make that clear. Christmas brings our hope into stark clarity; what do we believe about this boy child born of a virgin? What does our future hold beyond the thick bittersweetness?

Resurrection and return. 2 Corinthians 4:13-14 says: “But since we have the same spirit of faith as that shown in what has been written, “I believed; therefore I spoke,” we also believe, therefore we also speak. We do so because we know that the one who raised up Jesus will also raise us up with Jesus and will bring us with you into his presence.”

We will be raised and brought into the presence of Jesus. Again: We will be raised and brought into the presence of Jesus.

We believe, therefore we must speak: Yes, we are all incomplete, yes, we are on the side of things where the loss of loved ones and the death of dreams are all too common; yet, we have the words of life.

Christmas is an opportunity to be mindful that there are hurting, grieving people all around us, whom we have the privilege of comforting, validating, and encouraging (even as we perhaps, suffer the same affliction). We can rob trite traditions of their power with a word of truth, adorning the hurting with the light of hope, scattering darkness. Jesus himself invaded the earth in the midst of silence and darkness, after a Grand Ellipsis. He enters our darkness, too, a Great Light of hope, once wrapped in swaddling clothes, once wrapped in grave clothes, and coming again to wrap us in fresh, gleaming righteousness. We are not abandoned. He’s coming back.

There would not be resurrection without death. As I mourn the 14th anniversary of the loss of my grandmother this Christmas season, I believe the weight of the joy of our reunion in glory will render this present grief as momentary, light and, finally, gone.

For Sale

Our house has been on the market since March (I might’ve just sighed). 

When we put the “For Sale” sign in the yard, the house was immaculate, most of the children’s toys were packed away, the dog was living with my parents, and the closets were completely uncluttered. I would actually make an attempt to tidy up every single morning. I just knew the house would sell so quickly.

Looking around today, I’m not sure there’s any evidence that the house is still for sale except the “For Sale” sign in our front yard.

There’s just something life-changing about fresh anticipation, isn’t there?

Our little family celebrates Advent. We do this every year, and again I am so charged by the challenging reminder that just as He once came, He is coming again! It is a joy to share this season our girls, to read to them from the Scriptures, and whisper beautiful phrases like “encourage one another with these words” to their souls when we talk of His return. I love the look on our sweet boy’s face (he’s 16 months), when the lit Advent candles catch his eyes and heart. I pray the Scripture does the same in years to come…and I pray we can all live with the fresh anticipation of His return all year round, not just when we’re lighting candles as a reminder every night.

This house will sell one day. I need to live in light of that truth (I might’ve just sighed again).

Jesus will come back one day! I need to live in light of that truth! He is going to return, and I want for us all to be ready…like my kids are ready for their daddy to get home from work every single night. Their little souls always communicate loud and clear, “You’re home!! Our world is set right now!!!”

Jesus, this is such an amazing time of anticipation. We remember that You came once as a tiny baby, and that You are coming again as King. Give us hearts that continually jump up and down with anticipation as we wait for You. Amen.

Thanks.Giving.

Thanks.Giving.

Ann Voskamp wrote about the basis of faith--and joy--in her book, One Thousand Gifts. The challenge: live fully right where you are. Give. Thank. And by giving thanks, you suddenly see how blind you've been to the touches of God's grace and mercy all around.

In the picture above, my nephews Jack and Noah, and niece, Tess, camp out to watch a movie while my brother-in-law fixed something in my house. For their sweet lives, I give unending thanks.

And, in an effort to take on Voskamp's challenge to write a list of 1,000 things for which I give thanks, here are my first 10:

1. Noah
2. Jack
3. Tess
4. A friend who exhorts me to write
5. A house to make home
6. Hot, creamy coffee
7. Running water
8. Cardinals--that pop of red--in winter
9. Sleep that restores
10. Sunlight through trees

What are 10 things for which you are thankful? What causes your heart, your home, to feel full to the brim?

A Season to Savor God's Sweetness

This week's blog!

Shadow Acts

This week's blog, here.

9/11 Post That I Had to Share...

... I am beyond words but very grateful for this man's blog post. It was cathartic to read in its sensitivity and beauty. You can read it here.

Golden Calves (and Arms and Faces…)

Here's this week's blog.

Bringing Sacred Back

This week's blog, here.

The Riots, The Help, and the S & P

My Tapestry post: here.

keeping content

Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the appetite.

Ecclesiastes 6:9

Now there is great gain in godliness with contentment, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.

I Timothy 6:6-8

I heard her whine at 5am. I hissed, “Hush up, you!” and rolled over, hoping she would just go back to sleep. Her whine turned into a low moan. If I didn’t get up, she would start barking, and wake the whole house up. Reluctantly I got up and let her outside, knowing that wasn’t really what she wanted. She looked up at me with her big, brown, hound dog eyes, and I knew that she just wanted to come crawl in bed with us. But brand new carpet, a house for sale, and a dog in the bedroom just don’t mix. “I’m sorry, baby. You’re going to have to be content with sleeping in the laundry room for a while longer.” I smirked at my choice of words – looks like discontentment is plaguing more than just my heart here in our home.

Some days it feeds on my soul like an unwelcome guest, yet I open the door every time it comes knocking. With it comes unhappy, unthankful thoughts that roll over my spirit like giant waves kicked up by a hurricane, relentless and destructive. I live with malcontent, and for reasons I have yet to understand, I hold on to it like it’s something precious. I’m not thinking of any one instance right now. Just daily, consistent grumbling in my heart:

Why in the world do they need that?

Seriously, I could do so much if I only had half of what they have.

Good night Irene, could this house be any smaller?

I can’t believe they’re getting another one of those.

Why did we make that decision again?

I wonder if they can do anything quietly.

Biblically, it seems that contentment mainly deals with stuff. It’s being satisfied with what the Lord has given. Trusting that it’s enough. For my own use, I have to expand that definition to deal with more than just stuff…it’s about my attitude toward situations, and people. I have to realize that discontentment is an utter refusal to trust the Lord. It’s doubting His good hand, His good shepherding, and His love and care for me. It’s choosing to grumble, against Him.

So lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about intentionality. In the midst of my days, which often feel thrown together, people who are intentional, purposeful, thoughtful about the way they do things just impress me. The thought struck me that I can be intentional about contentment. I can choose to live satisfied. I can choose to trust that the Lord is working things out for my ultimate good, and His glory. I can decide that what He’s given is enough. Every. Single Time.

On a simpler level, I can just laugh when the noise starts again (my husband and children adore Irish music. Me, not so much.), or go out on an errand or a walk around the block, alone, if I’m in a place where I just can’t laugh. I can choose to be content, and I can decide to find contentment, especially when it seems hard to come by.

Father, contentment is a difficult thing for me. I hate that. I hate that I am not one of those who just delights in enough – hate that I constantly desire more, other, different. It’s offensive. Forgive me, and help me to see the joy, the wonderful gift, in the enough You’ve given. Help me to choose contentment, every single time. And when I don’t, let me see it and repent. Because You have given enough…and SO much more.

Soul-fill

It’s back. It’s all back.

For months I had labored to clear the yard—in preparation for an Easter party—only to uncover trash a former owner had dumped and been too lazy to dispose of properly. A Frisbee. The roof of a doghouse. More shingles. Glass shards. Trash bags. A Skittles wrapper. A plastic cup. A chain grafted into a tree that had once shackled a poor dog. I was appalled that anyone could be so lazy. So irresponsible. So callus as to cover it up as if it was not even there, ignoring the obvious mess. What little regard for others.

Then conviction: I do this, I thought, drawing in my breath.

I tend to be lazy about dealing with what is littering my soul. I cover it up, ignore that it’s there, that I made a mess. How irresponsible of me. How careless, how thoughtless, how disrespectful of others. The buried, covered-up trash we discard in our souls rots there. We can cover it up, but someone will discover it. The consequences of not putting it in its proper place are pollution in our lives—and hurt in the ones we love.

Yet I have filled the broken places with more broken pieces.

Jesus came to make me clean, to gather up the broken pieces, to fill my soul with his life-giving spirit. Just when I am about to despair at the landfill of my heart, I recall the words of Hebrews 9:11–14 that show how Jesus replaced the sacrificial atoning the Hebrew people performed on their own, “B.C.”

When Christ came as high priest of the good things that are already here, he went through the greater and more perfect tabernacle that is not man-made, that is to say, not a part of this creation. 12 He did not enter by means of the blood of goats and calves; but he entered the Most Holy Place once for all by his own blood, having obtained eternal redemption. 13 The blood of goats and bulls and the ashes of a heifer sprinkled on those who are ceremonially unclean sanctify them so that they are outwardly clean. 14 How much more, then, will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself unblemished to God, cleanse our consciences from acts that lead to death, so that we may serve the living God!

I am thankful that I live A.D., in a time when Jesus’ work on the cross means that all the striving to rid myself of sin, of death-inducing ways of relating, can be “All Done.” For Christ on the cross means “All Done.” The wages of sin is death—and Jesus paid it with his life. What sins or harmful wounds are you trying to bury or cover? What would it look like if you allowed Jesus to unearth them?

Doormats and Dirty Feet

I’m not a doormat.

But I have lived like one.  I’ve stayed put in situations where I know I should leave. Stood silently when people have spoken out of hatred and discrimination.

I have let people slander, falsely accuse, and violate me; their words like slung mud on my back.

I have acquiesced to going places and doing things in I had absolutely no interest.

I have smiled while men shared misogynistic rancor thinly veiled as jokes.

That’s doormat behavior.

Now wait – I know you’re going to tell me that I should bless those who curse me (Romans 12:14), or turn the other cheek (Luke 6:27-29), or that the meek are blessed and shall inherit the earth (Matthew 5:5). I would say, yes! I agree wholeheartedly.

So what am I talking about, then?

Motivation.

I’m ashamed to say that too many times, my motivation for turning the veritable cheek is not Christ-likeness. Rather, my motivation is acceptance, or fear, or apathy.

That’s doormat behavior. Limp, passive, going nowhere, and getting trampled.

My calling is to be more like Jesus, and Jesus was no doormat. Jesus cleaned feet, yes, but that’s where the similarities end. Jesus willingly, intentionally donned clothes of a servant, knelt at people’s feet, poured fresh water on the dirty and muddy places and made them clean.

Want to know the distinctions I see between doormats and footwashers? Water and work.

When my motivation is spiritual growth, focus on Jesus, and pursuing righteousness, I enthusiastically work to wash the feet of my friends and foes alike by bearing with those who require extra grace, compromising on issues or excursions, or by calling out faulty thinking in order to edify (not embarrass).

It takes work to cover people with grace when their deeds might merit negative exposure. It takes self-control and character to be truly meek.

But more than work, it also takes water. Water, even more than active effort, is what sets a doormat apart from a footwasher, because water thoroughly cleanses, and unlike a doormat, leaves no trace of soil on the either the person serving or being served.

Doormat living thrives on dirt. The soil of passive-aggression to avoid conflict. The soot of absorbing the maltreatment of others because you believe it’s your lot in life. The motivation of doormat living is self-pity and pride. Self-loathing is a crazy hubris; it is believing that even if God says I’m made in His image, He’s wrong…but only about me. It’s attempting to live like we’re just dust even after receiving God’s breath.

We have this treasure, this water, so to speak, in our earthen vessels (2 Corinthians 4:7-12). The treasure is the Holy Spirit (2 Corinthians 3:17-18). This water is the God-given ability to forgive and be forgiven (1 John 1:6-9 is so enlightened by John 13:3-10!), so we can continually walk in peace with God.

No one but God knows the motivation behind our actions; and we can live the façade of holiness while all the while having a heart of a white-washed sepulcher, encasing dead men’s bones instead of living water.

I hate to ask myself this (too convicting), but must, continually: what is my motivation in turning the other cheek, in remaining silent, in pausing before I respond? Is it to be mired in dirt, or to emulate the One who is making me clean?

DTS Chapel, June 15, 2011

Dr. Kreider (one of my fav DTS profs) spoke at DTS chapel this week, and I sang before he preached. You can find it here.

grasshopper

I wasn’t even aware of its existence until it came in my house far too early in the morning, clutching the end of my daughter’s finger like a grubby toddler holding on to a sucker.

“Mom! Look what Dad found last night when he was watering the grass! He put it in the bug box for us so we could look at it!” “It” was an enormous grasshopper, green as Kermit the Frog with none of Kermit’s appeal, and I wanted it out of my bedroom. Thankfully all it took was a grimace from me, and off went my little band of entomologists.

A minute later my 5 year-old returned, a bit awed and flabbergasted. Apparently when the grasshopper had taken flight in the direction of a hedge in our neighbor’s front yard, a mockingbird spied it, and gave chase. A second after the grasshopper took refuge in the hedge, the mockingbird stuck its head in, grabbed it, and had breakfast. Blech…talk about wild kingdom.

That quickly my attitude toward the grasshopper reversed. A minute before, I had wanted it gone…now I just felt badly for it.

Probably says more about me than about the grasshopper, though.

Lately, life has just felt like that. I get out of one scrape just to get clobbered by whatever it is that’s coming around the corner. I know that God loves me, that He has given me all I need in Christ, and that I am blessed beyond measure… but often I just feel rejected, abandoned, and beat up.

So this summer I’m challenging myself to remember that my feelings don’t always reflect the truth about my life. I want to (again) learn to consistently and intentionally bathe myself with Scripture so the truths there imbed themselves in my mind and heart. I must give my feelings, so fragile and unsteady, an anchor in something outside myself and my circumstances. My goal is to remember that if I will wait upon the Lord, I’m promised something that’s compared to flying like an eagle, not being breakfast for a mockingbird. Amen to that…

Not Just Anyone

The meltdown I had in the Chick-fil-A parking lot yesterday was hotter than the spicy chicken sandwich I’d driven there to order. The day was hot, 98 degrees, and I was a hot mess. With my forehead on the steering wheel, I gasped for air and cried in loud, serrated sobs to Sharifa. With all the windows down and the noon-time drive-thru crowd stacking up, I poured out to her all that had sparked a full-blown panic attack.

Degrees of friendship are felt in these heat-of-the-moment battles for our hearts. Mine reminded me that we need at least one “not-just-anyone.”

Not just anyone could have said, with conviction and love, that I was acting not out of generosity toward others, but out of self-loathing—saying “yes” to any request because I valued myself so little. What do I have to do with my time? I have no family, no children, not even a dog. I lounge at home and eat the Number 3 Chick-fil-A value meal.

“No,” she said. “It’s blasphemy to treat yourself as if you have no value; God paid too high a cost for you to do that. He loves you—He is for you.”

Days upon days of delighting in my friend’s presence rushed back to me: Sitting on her kitchen floor, talking as she made dinner; Saturday mornings full of pancake-making; Walks through her neighborhood, past the sprawling white house with the upstairs porch, through Texas heat waves; the hours slumped against her arm in silence, stunned at the loss of a love, at the loss of a dream. I ached for her nearness. Not just anyone in the middle of a panic attack could have doused me with such truth—and grace. It extinguished the fire. I found myself laughing as I stuffed salty waffle fries into my mouth, profoundly grateful for a not-just-anyone.

Not-just-anyones remind us that we, too, are not just anyone.

Nelson Mandela—South Africa’s freedom fighter—understood this core of our being:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate; our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. As we let our own light shine, we give other people permission to do the same; as we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

What Mandela understood, Jesus made possible.

Eugene Peterson, in The Message, paraphrased how Jesus transforms people who feel like nothings into somethings: “God knew what he was doing from the very beginning. He decided from the outset to shape the lives of those who love him along the same lines as the life of his Son. The Son stands first in the line of humanity he restored. We see the original and intended shape of our lives there in him. After God made that decision of what his children should be like, he followed it up by calling people by name. Hosea put it well: ‘I'll call nobodies and make them somebodies; I'll call the unloved and make them beloved. In the place where they yelled out, ‘You're nobody!’ they're calling you ‘God’s living children’” (Romans 9:25–26).

When you are walking through fire, do all that you can to let it refine and strengthen you. Shout for help. For you are not just anyone; you are a child of God. So don’t play small; shine.

Wade in the Water

I watched my son’s fingers tremble as he stretched out his arms to greet the stream of shower water for the first time. He couldn’t fathom these jets of wet about to engulf him, but he was willing to reach out anyway. It was irresistible.

His eyes widened as the shower head came closer. I can imagine him assessing the situation: Is this being friend or foe? It’s in Mommy’s hand, but can I trust it? Will it hurt me? Can I bite it? Touch it? Sip it?
He chose to furtively but decisively reach out and touch in wonder and in fear.

My little one taught me a huge lesson during bath time that night; how to trust the Lord in the downpour.
God uses water to remind us that He’s got us during life’s torrents. (Even now as I write, my son’s white noise is echoing in the baby monitor – ocean waves.)

Think I’m coming out of left field? Look at Moses’ life; one day he’s the illegally-born son of Israelites, the next he’s a refugee-turned-heir in Pharaoh’s court. His life changed in the water, when he let the waves of the Nile carry him towards his destiny (come to think of it, that demonstrated more guts on his mother’s part than his own!).  His very name signified the moment he was “drawn out” of the water.

When he flees murder charges and heads to Midian, Moses stops at a…well.

At the epic moment of liberation, when the people of Israel crossed over to freedom from slavery, they crossed the Red Sea. Moses led them.

(The next generation would claim the Promised Land by crossing the Jordan River.

What churning, chaotic element does the Spirit of God move upon in Genesis 1:2? Water. And from that moment until now, God continues to “trouble” the waters in the lives of His people, to bring justice (Genesis 7), to heal (John 5:1-9), or to humble (2 Kings 5:1-14).

Jesus, who has authority that Moses could only dream of (check out Numbers 20:8-13 to see what I mean), demonstrated His power through the water. His first miracle: changing water into wine (John 2:1-11). The symbol of belief in Him: baptism (Romans 6:4). His promise to the Samaritan woman at the well: living water that springs up into eternal life (John 4:13). The care for His bride, the Church: bathing her in pure water so that she is spotless and radiant (Ephesians 5:25-27).

Oh, and the storms. Jesus – He’s got control of that, too (Mark 4:35-40). How many times have I thought the Lord must be napping while I’m going under? Buffeted by the bills, the worry, the loneliness, the bereavement, I have cried to the Lord.

And only God can turn the major storms in life into a path of victory (can I get an “amen”?). What was an obstacle becomes a vehicle to faith. I know the Israelites that walked on dry land in the middle of the Red Sea that would later drown their captors can testify to that (Exodus 14:21-29). I know Peter, who was sinking in the stormy waters, and then walked on them through Jesus’ encouragement, can testify to that (Matthew 14:28-33).

I pray that God uses the image of my baby boy, trembling but willing to get wet (and now he even enjoys the spray!), to remind me of His lovingkindness towards me. The sea and storms of life are tools in His sure hand. And He is making me clean.

And Now for Some (Crass) Humor: A Haiku on The Affects of Aging

well, this is humbling
what's this I see? a grey pube
staring back at me?

Time Will Tell: An Open Letter to Harold Camping Regarding the Church and May 21, 2011

You can find my post on the Tapestry blog today.

raw

So this year, Mother’s Day just feels…raw. Not because I’m not a mom (I proudly bear that title). Not because I didn’t get breakfast in bed (I didn’t, but that’s another blog altogether). But because of a conversation I had yesterday with someone incredibly close to my heart, who would love to be “mom” to somebody, but for too many different reasons, isn’t.

She told me that last week in church, they had Baby Dedications. She unexpectedly found herself sobbing. Because she’s married to one of the sweetest guys I know, as soon as he saw her tears, he joined her. I warned her that Mother’s Day might be tricky, because churches aren’t always super-sensitive about the whole “I’d love to be a mom but I’m not” issue. She just said she’d bring extra tissues.

*sigh*

So today, I’m just feeling sad. I don’t understand why some who would love to be married and have children still find themselves single. I don’t understand why some whose arms long to cradle their own sweet-smelling babies find their bodies repeatedly betraying their hearts. All I know to do is cry, and pray. Because He knows our heartaches, and even though right now it feels really disconnected to today’s reality, one day those tears will be wiped dry.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."

And he who was seated on the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things new. Also he said, "Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true."

Revelation 21:1-5

SO stupid

Started innocently enough… I heard 3 big sneezes in a row come from the bathroom, so I peeked in on my way to the kitchen, and saw a big nasty trail of yellow coming from Kitty’s nose. “Go clean up your face with a tissue, and BLOW, pumpkin!” 5 seconds later, I breezed back by, and peeked in again. Kitty still standing in the same place, no tissues anywhere around, and the yellow was GONE.

(Here my stomach lurched the first time).

“Kitty, did you blow your nose like I asked you to?”

Kitty squirmed. Her arms, fingers, legs and feet started to twist into knots, along with her mouth.

“Kitty, answer me.”

Tiny little face looked up imploringly, every gesture saying “PLEASE don’t make me say it, mom.”

“Kitty… did you eat that?”

Lip started to quiver. Tiny “yes” escaped the knotty mouth. Stomach lurched the 2^nd time, and I grabbed the edge of the tub to stay upright (never have been good with little kid gross stuff, if you can’t tell).

“To your room, pumpkin. We need to talk.”

I gave myself a few minutes to settle the stomach down, and find composure. Then, the discussion. First point, “Gross, baby!! So germy & bad for you!!” Second (and most important), “Baby, you flat out disobeyed me.” At this point, she started screaming “I’m SO stupid!!” over and over and over again. All I could do was gather her up in my arms, and tell her over and over and over, “Pumpkin, you are NOT stupid. You were wrong. You were disobedient. But not stupid.”

And I looked into her big blue eyes, and I saw my reaction EVERY single time I disobey, every time I am blatantly wrong. It’s easy to say “I’m stupid.” So hard to say “I’m wrong. Please forgive me.” Not sure if there’s a Divine equivalent of the stomach lurch, but if there is, I can only imagine the gross things I’ve done that have given Him cause to feel one

So it’s a big deal, and super-hard, to learn to be wrong in a healthy way. I know I don’t have it down. In our home we use the following paradigm to ask forgiveness: “I was wrong to _____. Will you please forgive me?” Those are extremely difficult words to say. I’m BAD at saying them, even when they need to be said. “I’m so stupid” is so much easier. But thankfully there are people in my life who give me grace so I can ask for forgiveness safely. And they don’t rub it in when I do it badly…

…but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us…

 Romans 5:8

Not Mourning

I used to ride the PATH from Jersey to the station underneath the Twin Towers. I celebrated my 22^nd birthday at Windows on the World. When I got lost somewhere in Manhattan, I could just look up, and the World Trade Center’s skyscrapers assured me of which way was south.

When I moved to Dallas, I would still fly back to New York City often. I knew I was home when the plane would coast over the tip of Manhattan, and I caught the rare bird's-eye view of the World Trade Center.

The first time I flew home, just two weeks post-9/11, I was wanded by security. (I would be constantly called out for frisking or “random” baggage checks for the next three years. My name is, after all, Arabic.) People sat frozen in their seats, white-knuckled, eyes closed. We did not fly over the site of the Twin Towers.

I felt disoriented. I worked my way down to the southern tip of Manhattan – but this time, I could tell where south was because of the smoke. The site continued to smolder. Surrounding skyscrapers, covered with ash, the gates, bus stops, windows, draped with American flags and scores of pictures of the disappeared. Brazen hawkers sold postcards of the Towers in flames. I wonder if anyone bought them.
I held my breath for as long as I could. I distinctly remember thinking that the air was too sacred to inhale because the dust and ash were all the remains of people. I talked to a local merchant who had been in the area for years; he was going out of business, but that wasn’t his chief concern. “I’ve seen things. Things no one should ever see.” His eyes looked watery. Glazed. Terrified.

Osama bin Laden is dead, and I am not mourning. I am relieved. I do not believe that it is against the tenets of Jesus for me to feel relief, just as I do not believe that it is suitable to mimic the mob-like post-murderous glee that I have seen modeled by Al Qaeda or the Taliban.

According to statistics, 3000 people perished on September 11, 2001, and 47,000 troops have been killed or injured in the subsequent war on terrorism. It’s Christian to talk about bin Laden’s soul, and he was made in the image of God. So were the 50,000 Americans that he infected through terrorism. So are the many thousands of people who every day must live with bin Laden’s Al Qaeda legacy like a foot on their backs.

I’m still struggling with the Christian response to hearing of bin Laden’s death. I certainly don’t feel like justice was done, because his death won’t bring back the many lives lost and damaged in the mission to squelch his movement. And hearing Christians openly relish his eternity in hell – eternity – just cheapens the gospel and the grave consequences sin holds for any of us. Hell is not a punchline, nor does it make for a clever status update. Sorry, friends. Don’t mock the sacrifice of Jesus for me, for you, for humanity, by making light of a man’s damnation.
But…I am not mourning. I know someone is missing Osama bin Laden today; but it isn’t me.

The Five-minute Seed

“If all you can do is to be kind to yourself for five minutes, even one minute, a day, do it. Rejoice in those five minutes.” My counselor sat across from me in her small office with the soft yellow light. I thought about her curly hair and about her baby on the way.

“I’ll try,” I said, standing. “But what the heck does that actually look like?”

I went home to my little house in Villa Heights. Despite its elegant name, my hood knows only two dances: down-home two-step, or the fast-foot-shuffle-from-the-fuzz. Grabbing a shovel, I walked out into the yard, inhaled the warm air, and stared at the evidence of someone else’s neglect: the azaleas overtaken by ivy; the back-broken, barbed-wire fence; the trees with dislocated limbs. I cannot do this by myself, I thought, feeling small and alone, not knowing where to start.

The Apostle Paul wrote a letter to some Romans (chapter 8, verses 22–27) who believed that Jesus was just the man for such jobs. He compared the earth to a woman groaning in labor. What does a mother want when she is in labor? Deliverance from pain—and the joy and relief that comes when the anticipated one finally arrives.

Paul said our souls groan in the same way. We ache for secret longings; for someone to deliver us from pain; for joy, for relief. Jesus lived and conquered death for one reason: that we would believe that he is real and that he will do what he said he will do … rescue us.

So we work, and we wait.

In this in-between time, Paul said that Jesus’ spirit translates our groaning and desperation into words we can’t express on our own. As I sliced the earth in my front yard with the shovel blade, I thought about how five minutes of kindness might be a similar kind of prayer. Why uproot lies and replant kindness? Why clear ivy, mend fences, or reset bones? This blog is an invitation to take up the task of tending to your soul—even if for five minutes of beauty a day—until the anticipated one finally arrives. This is a place where you can start replanting.

Terry Jones...Again?

I can’t believe I am writing about Terry Jones again. The pastor who threatened to burn Qur’ans last year made good on his word last month. Apparently the reasons to abstain from this particular public display (public safety, protection for our troops) were outweighed by the importance of the message of warning the world against Muslim extremism.

On the other side of the world, at least a dozen people have been murdered as a result of riots in Afghanistan in reaction to Jones’ Qur’an burning.

I am dumbfounded that one act by one man in Florida can spark incendiary ripples that influence people he’s never seen or met in Afghanistan. I am grieved and disappointed by how he chose to use that influence. We live in a country where the right to burn Qur’ans is protected, even if not condoned. At the end of the day, Terry Jones can burn whatever books he wants.

But that doesn’t mean he should.

In reading and listening to interviews with this pastor, I have been disturbed by his automaton-like response to the deaths of UN workers – “The responsibility should be laid upon the people who committed the acts….The recent events are an example of the violent nature of Islam. Just because a book was burned, they used this as an excuse to retaliate.”

This “see! They are violent!” response lacks any compassion for the people who were killed, deflects any responsibility for inciting the riots, and ultimately preaches a “gospel” of passive-aggressive hate-mongering. This is a far cry from what Paul spoke of in 1 Corinthians 9:19-23. Paul is free, and he uses his freedom not to burn books, but to become a slave to all so that he might be a participant of the Gospel.

Terry Jones didn’t pull a trigger. He didn’t lay hands on people and murder them. It would be condescending to suggest that the murderers who did this are so incapable of independent thought that they are absolved of responsibility. Hear me: they are culpable. They are despicable.

But Terry Jones has influence, God help him. And what did Terry Jones do with his influence? Did he share the Gospel of Jesus Christ, His grace and salvation? Has the word “Jesus” even come up at all in any of his interviews? Let’s say people watch Terry Jones burn Qur’ans and somehow are led to accept the message that Islam is violent. Then what? What are they turning to?

In Acts 19:23-46, Paul is involved in inciting a riot, and this is the kind of influence I pray that believers strive for. Businessmen and shrine makers are disturbed by Paul’s message because people are being pulled toward Gospel and away from the shrine of Artemis. Paul didn’t hold a public shrine-burning. Paul preached the Gospel.

Terry Jones’ message is more about sensation than salvation, more condemnation than compassion. Our quest as Christians is to aid in saving lives through sharing the healing and transformative message of the Gospel.

sticks & stones

Last week…..was crazy. Not just a little crazy, but CUH-RAZY, with a lot of heartbreak and exhaustion thrown in. But FRIDAY was coming…with a great big gift of 2 whole hours in the morning all to myself, hanging out with some fabulous women, getting to hear a fantastic speaker, while the children were safely tucked away in childcare. I was a little giddy.

But giddy quickly turned to grumpy, because the speaker (for me) was a punch in the gut dressed in pink. Hear me, I don’t think it was her intent to discourage…she meant to motivate. But here are a few of the things I heard, and the way my thought process interacted:

We were married for 35 years and had only had 5 fights (we had that many yesterday).

Don’t ever wear shorts & t-shirts to bed, because he needs to be reminded that you’re not just one of the guys (I think he’s aware, even if I crawl in bed in a paper bag).

Be sure to keep the pounds off, because he notices those things (and I don’t?).

And it was all backed up with Scripture…it felt like the Word handled in such a way that it was thoughtlessly slicing me to pieces, instead of surgically removing the way Hebrews 4:12-13 has in mind (thank you for planting that image in my brain, Sharifa!). I had to leave early. It was just making me cranky.

A good reminder for this chica that WORDS count. They mean something.

Had the chance to visit with my first grader’s teacher this week. She asked us to help Kitty with her words…because her “big sister” role was showing with the other kids in the class. “She just has the tendency to be harsh when something needs to be corrected.” SIGH. “She’s just doing what she sees her mother doing,” I managed to convey to the teacher, anguished once again that (in addition to handing down their sin nature) I model many specific sins very clearly for my kids on a daily basis. (I did get a BIG hug from her teacher at this confession, and real encouragement).

So, a reminder. Words count. BIG. Proverbs talks about the fact that our words can heal, or destroy. I Corinthians reminds us that, even if we have the most beautiful, most thoughtful, most excellent things to say, if they are said without love, they’re just NOISE. The old sticks & stones adage – it’s garbage. Words cut…they bruise…and they can ruin perfectly good weekends.

God - Is There an App for That?

I remember waiting for the 25^th Anniversary Motown Special to air on TV. My favorite performer, Michael Jackson, would be gracing the stage. I was beside myself with excitement. My first record was Thriller, and if I had my way, I would be rocking a Jheri Curl, red leather jacket, crisp white socks and black leather loafers, dancing and crooning all the while. I parked myself in front of the TV and would allow no one to turn the dial until the show was over.

When the show finally aired, I was ecstatic. Then: enter Michael Jackson. I felt like all the world held its breath as Michael glided effortlessly across the stage. The Moonwalk. The single sequined glove. Magical. It was worth the wait.

We live in an on-demand age; from consumer products, to instant YouTube fame. From how we attend classes, to where and when we watch movies or play video games. There’s an app for just about anything; slicing fruit like a ninja, touring Paris and learning French, monitoring your home and turning on your lights.

When there’s always “an app for that” in this on-demand era, what do we wait for? How does this change how I see God? He’s not an on-demand Lord; He instead insists that we wait for Him. Oh, boy – how many “appointed times”, “fullness of times”, “at the right times,” and “in a little whiles” have you seen in your Bible?

How many years did the people of Israel languish in slavery before Moses came along?
 
How many years did it take for Moses to be commissioned by God for the task of liberating His people?
 
How long did God silence the prophets between the book of Malachi and the coming of Messiah?
 
How much time had passed between when God had Samuel anoint David as king, and when he actually assumed the throne?
 
And how many years has it been since Jesus promised that He would return?

(Answers? 430, 40 - or 80 if you take Moses' entire lifespan up to that point into account, 400, 10, and 2000+ years.)

I need to adjust my expectations a wee bit, it seems, when He hasn’t answered my plea for justice, or a husband, or a baby, or the healing, or the money, or the vindication. Or when I don’t like the answer He did give. I want to see God’s hand, hear His voice, and see His face. Now.

Lent is reminding me that there are some things that are worth the wait. When I want to see God’s hand, hear His voice, see His face, I have His word to sustain me. “For now we see in a mirror indirectly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, just as I have been fully known.” There is a time of consummation coming, but not yet. There’s no “God app” to speed up the Lord’s return and zap me into a place of perfect peace and healing, without going through the trials.

But God’s timing is worth the wait.

gaga for you girls!

So, chicas, I had to laugh... I got a People magazine for the drive home (yeah, don't throw rocks. I really like reading People magazines & the like on road/plane trips), and who else had something similar to say about 5 minutes of kindness than Lady Gaga herself.... So, I'm just gonna type it out, cause tonight that's just easier (for anyone interested, this is from People magazine, March 28, 2011, pages 148-150). She's having to fill in the blanks.

The first thing I do in the morning is ___. My yoga instructor tells me to do this: Try to think compassionate thoughts about yourself for five minutes. I don't always do it, but I try to, and I encourage everyone reading this to try. There's a lot of criticism and scrutiny in anyone's business, so just spend five minutes thinking nice thoughts about yourself. 

So, never EVER thought that I'd really have anything much in common with Lady G herself, but here it is. She struggles to think kindly about herself, too...and is using the 5 minutes idea first thing in the morning. Now, I can say most assuredly that I have NO idea what compassionate things she thinks about herself (maybe something to do with wearing less meat?), but my kind thoughts have to be rooted in Scripture, or they get shaky FAST. Pretty sure that I'm not even that good at it yet...the tape playing in my brain is mainly Debbie Downer kinda stuff...but I know that in order to be the best me I can be for everybody my life touches, that has to change. So, here's tomorrow morning's thought tonight, from Colossians 3:

 ¹²So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience; ¹³bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, whoever has a complaint against anyone; just as the Lord forgave you, so also should you. ¹⁴Beyond all these things put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity. ¹⁵Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body; and be thankful. ¹⁶Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God. ¹⁷Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.

Tangled Up in Technology

Finally! Sharifa helped me--who cannot figure out all things technology--how to post my first blog ever. Maybe a decade later than when it was cool. But here I am. This is my five minutes of kindness.

Runny Mascara Days

Do you ever have one of those days where you dangle your legs over the precipice of tears, but never actually take the leap? Where your eyes burn, but there's the next bottle to be made, or the next client to meet with, so you put on the Mask of Competence and keep on truckin'? So you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and walk away from the Precipice and promise yourself to give in to the emotional release later. When it's more convenient, the problems are all solved, and you've removed the makeup off your face and life.

I don't know about you, but my Precipice Moment never comes when I want it to. My tears want to flow when my mascara is fierce, when I'm about to go on stage to sing. When I'm late and sitting at a red light, or when the checkout person at the CVS is mean. 

So today, I thought I would give my Precipice some reverse psychology; I put my baby in his happy place - his jumparoo - and turned on the shower so that I could cry without startling him. But all I got was clean. So after checking on my little one placidly jumping, I decided to put on makeup even though I had no plans to leave the house. And I lacquered on the mascara. My tears love mascara! But then, nothing.

It was time to cuddle and change the little one before nap time. I thought, "I will have my Precipice moment when the little one is safely napping." So I scooped him up. And then gagged. Oh, the blowout was huge. All the way up the back. All over the clothes. Suddenly I'm feeling a lot less clean. And I discover that my tears apparently are attracted to blowouts. And it turns out that the baby isn't scarred by my tears.

I don't know if I have a moral to this story. There are times where I must push back tears to accomplish the next task - and discerning the right time is a marker of emotional maturity. But I'm realizing that many of those times where I have backed away from the Precipice may be times where it would have been healthier to leap.

A tapestry post: here!

*That* Mother

So, as of Sunday, I am that mother.

Not the "bad mutha-shut-yo-mouth!" kind.
Not the mother with the dewy skin, skinny jeans, and high-school body.

Nope. I'm the mother with the infant screaming bloody murder on the airplane during the final minutes of its descent. The one that you glare at. The one you wish would take control of her child's emotions. The one you wish would just make that baby shut up. Yeah, that's me! For all of you who were on AA flight 636 on Sunday...sorry. Stuff happens.

On behalf of all of the That Mothers out there, let me say this: it's not our dream to be glared at by an entire plane while our child melts down. It's not a great feeling to watch helplessly as the baby I bore endures pain and, in the midst of it, refuses to receive salvific help. Piercing glares won't solve any problems. Neither will the pity stares.

The woman sitting next to me on the plane gave me the sweetest encouragement: "my granddaughter came in on a plane from Korea to Seattle when she was just a few months old. Her ears couldn't take it, and she screamed all the way home. Your sweet baby just reminds me of my little granddaughter. I know this must be so tough for you. You're doing a good job."


Her words brought such relief. Then...the plane landed. My little one fell asleep as soon as we touched down. Life continued. Even the glarers on the plane found their carry-ons and went about their business.

We all will be a "That Person" some time; whether it's because of a failure at work, stumbling over a crack in the street, or spinach between our teeth. When I was That Person, I longed for grace and kindness,and was blessed enough to receive it. Hopefully, I will have the compassion to do the same.