Yesterday we went to a nearby state park, just me and the littlest. It was one of those summer days that makes me wish every day would be like it and fear that there will never be another as perfect: sunshine, dry air, a breeze, warm. The boy plunged into the cold creek water, squealing again and again. He did a circuit through sand and mud, and then ran in, as deep as he could go. I dug my feet into the mud and listened to the breeze rustle leaves, the water run over rocks, and the boy sing, "You're my best mommy. You're my hero." .
It is easy to see the glass half empty. Some days I can think that this isn't the shape my life was supposed to take. And certainly by now I should have had some time to think my own thoughts and sleep past 5:30 a.m. I should have been helping my older boys figure things out and accomplish what they need to accomplish to set them on the best trajectory into adulthood. I should have been working more, earning more. College is upon us. Instead my days have been consumed by a relentlessly demanding little one. A complicated boy. It feels like he takes everything from me and leaves me with very little for anyone else. I can grow somewhat resentful if I let those thoughts sink it. I worry that the situation makes his brothers resentful, and surely it does sometimes.
But yesterday we went to the creek. We kicked up cold water and searched for shiny rocks. Later we sat on a boulder beneath a tree and just listened. "I like it here," he said. He kissed me and hugged me. I would never have been listening to a breeze, squishing my toes in mud, or splashing in cold water yesterday if it were not for him. My glass is not half empty. It is overflowing. Some days I just need to remember that.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
The Stuff That Burns
During worship on Sunday, I saw a picture in my mind of a huge field of dead grasses. I felt that God was showing me that the dead grass represented the things that have died inside of us. Our dreams. Our hopes. Even the deadness of our very selves — our ability to accomplish what we want or to live the way we want to live. Our failures are dead things. It seemed to me that some of these things had not just died once but had died repeatedly. The child you hope will stop using drugs but keeps getting trapped again. The financial picture that never seems to change. The baby you have been waiting for. The marriage you expected. The dream that once upon a time seemed so real and close to fruition that has instead slipped further and further from your grasp to the point that you no longer grasp for it. Dead. Dead. Dead. Again. Again. Again. Things so dead that you have given up on them entirely. Those dead things.
Jesus died too, you know. He was truly and actually dead, and to my knowledge you can't get deader than dead. You're done for when you're dead, and that's how lost dreams and dashed hopes feel. But here's the good news: dead grass is easily ignited. And that spark that ignites the grass is the Holy Spirit. We don't know when he will drop a spark on our dead grasses, but when he does, they will light up and the fire will burn for miles.
I think most of us regret the dead things in our lives and think somehow we should have prevented them from dying. We should have done better. We should have made it work. We should have prayed harder, had more faith, held on tighter. But that's garbage. God doesn't need our strength or our "perfection" or our good ideas. I also don't think he needs our prayers or our faith or our obedience (at least in the way we think he does), though some would likely disagree. I know he doesn't need our success — we're the ones who need that. As Paul said, "That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." God loves to use our weakness. I think God really wants us to know it's not on us to make things happen, it's on him. This is why he chooses the foolish and the weak. Unfortunately, the way we often learn all of this is by watching a lot of things die.
In God, we can actually embrace the dead things in our lives, thank God for them, and live at peace with them. We can do that because we know the dead things are fuel for life. As Jesus said in John 12: "Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." The life reaped from the death of Jesus is still rippling across this earth and will keep rippling. Don't be discouraged. Someday, I don't know when, what has died inside of you will be ignited and generate more life than you'd planned on. Buckle up. This isn't the ride you were expecting.
Jesus died too, you know. He was truly and actually dead, and to my knowledge you can't get deader than dead. You're done for when you're dead, and that's how lost dreams and dashed hopes feel. But here's the good news: dead grass is easily ignited. And that spark that ignites the grass is the Holy Spirit. We don't know when he will drop a spark on our dead grasses, but when he does, they will light up and the fire will burn for miles.
I think most of us regret the dead things in our lives and think somehow we should have prevented them from dying. We should have done better. We should have made it work. We should have prayed harder, had more faith, held on tighter. But that's garbage. God doesn't need our strength or our "perfection" or our good ideas. I also don't think he needs our prayers or our faith or our obedience (at least in the way we think he does), though some would likely disagree. I know he doesn't need our success — we're the ones who need that. As Paul said, "That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." God loves to use our weakness. I think God really wants us to know it's not on us to make things happen, it's on him. This is why he chooses the foolish and the weak. Unfortunately, the way we often learn all of this is by watching a lot of things die.
In God, we can actually embrace the dead things in our lives, thank God for them, and live at peace with them. We can do that because we know the dead things are fuel for life. As Jesus said in John 12: "Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." The life reaped from the death of Jesus is still rippling across this earth and will keep rippling. Don't be discouraged. Someday, I don't know when, what has died inside of you will be ignited and generate more life than you'd planned on. Buckle up. This isn't the ride you were expecting.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
A Big Cup
On Sunday I brought the three-year-old up for communion. Our church has a family communion time for the kids before they go to Sunday school, and I appreciate that. When I was a kid, my parents wouldn't let me take communion, despite the fact that I prayed for salvation at least weekly, if not more. I was a fearful kid.
This week during communion, I was struck by how long it takes Son4 to drink the very small cup of communion juice — several swallows — and in that moment, it felt profound. It should take several swallows — the cup of salvation is a big cup. I wonder why, then, we try to make it smaller. Why do we try to exclude people from it?
Jesus died one death, but the blood that flowed then is still flowing. It is for the salvation of all who believe. But for Christians since then, it has often been seen as the cup of salvation for all who believe AND [fill in the blank]. For some of the earliest Christians, it was the cup of salvation for all who believe AND are circumcised and don't eat certain things. For many American Christians these days, it might be the cup of salvation for all who believe AND aren't gay or for all who believe AND aren't pro-choice. I am just saying that some people might see it that way. I am fairly certain that many of us who call ourselves Christians fill in the blank in one way or the other, or at least we used to. I am asking myself how I fill in that blank or how I used to fill it in.
Why do we do that? Why do we try to exclude people from salvation? ... Because, really, I think that is what Christians often seem to think they are qualified to do. Frankly, I am happy to leave that task up to God himself, the only one who could possibly have the required wisdom and understanding.
When I look at Jesus, I see someone who blew away the boundaries of religious exclusion. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Judgment is an exhausting burden. We are not meant for it. So let's drink from the big cup and join Jesus in inviting everyone to drink too.
This week during communion, I was struck by how long it takes Son4 to drink the very small cup of communion juice — several swallows — and in that moment, it felt profound. It should take several swallows — the cup of salvation is a big cup. I wonder why, then, we try to make it smaller. Why do we try to exclude people from it?
Jesus died one death, but the blood that flowed then is still flowing. It is for the salvation of all who believe. But for Christians since then, it has often been seen as the cup of salvation for all who believe AND [fill in the blank]. For some of the earliest Christians, it was the cup of salvation for all who believe AND are circumcised and don't eat certain things. For many American Christians these days, it might be the cup of salvation for all who believe AND aren't gay or for all who believe AND aren't pro-choice. I am just saying that some people might see it that way. I am fairly certain that many of us who call ourselves Christians fill in the blank in one way or the other, or at least we used to. I am asking myself how I fill in that blank or how I used to fill it in.
Why do we do that? Why do we try to exclude people from salvation? ... Because, really, I think that is what Christians often seem to think they are qualified to do. Frankly, I am happy to leave that task up to God himself, the only one who could possibly have the required wisdom and understanding.
When I look at Jesus, I see someone who blew away the boundaries of religious exclusion. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Judgment is an exhausting burden. We are not meant for it. So let's drink from the big cup and join Jesus in inviting everyone to drink too.
Monday, October 21, 2013
The Baby on the Side of the Road
Last night, I had a dream. I found a baby in a stroller, abandoned on the side of the road. I took the baby home to keep her safe and figure out how to find her parents. More than a day passed before I went to the police to report that I had found a baby. In that time, I never once picked the baby up, changed her diaper, or fed her. She just sat quietly in the stroller in my house. When I woke up this morning, I remembered the dream and felt disturbed. How had I left that baby all alone and not cared for her?
And then I got it. That baby. She is a representation of a gift I have -- a talent. I invest almost nothing in it. Like that baby, I do not take care of her or nurture her. She just sits there, and I ignore her. She has stopped making noise, if she ever made any.
And the more I thought about it, the more I became sure what an accurate picture this is of the state of things. We like to think our talents are straight-up gifts. A blessing, not a burden. And I think that's where we (or I) go wrong. I have four children, and they are wonderful blessings to be sure. It is amazing to watch them grow up, to see who they are meant to be, and to share in their lives, It is a blessing to be a mom, but kids are a whole lot of work.
Before you are a parent, there is simply no way to understand just how much work children are and how much mundane, nose-to-the-grindstone effort is a part of parenting. Maybe some people wouldn't put it that way, but apparently I do. When they are babies, it is all the feeding, diapering, not sleeping. There is all the lugging around, of baby and the paraphernalia. And then as they grow, everything has to be taught and not all are such eager pupils. They must be taught to obey, taught how to treat others, taught how to use the bathroom, dress themselves, tie their shoes. The basics. As they grow older, they must be taught responsibility for homework, chores, commitments, a job. And there is still all that feeding to do. Kids want to keep on eating! The point is, parenting is a lot of work. There are transcendent moments, to be sure. And lots of joyful moments too, watching your child score a goal, hit a ball, get an A, conquer a fear. I love to watch each of my kids be who they are meant to be, but none of them would be that person without encouragement, help, and correction. And they certainly wouldn't be those people if I never bothered to attend to the drudgery of going to the grocery store, buying food, and then bringing it home to feed them. In fact, a whole lot of work goes on behind the scenes of those transcendent and joyful moments.
I think our talents are the same. It is not just about a song sung on stage, a book published, a painting hung on a gallery wall. Our talents involve work, even drudgery. They must be nurtured, encouraged, taught, and cared for. You might even need to change their diapers. Get rid of the garbage. A talent must not be neglected, as mine has been. The thing about kids is that they won't leave you alone. First they cry to have their needs met, and then they pester you. They won't stop asking for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For most of us, our talents are much quieter, less demanding. They wait, in silence. We walk right by the quiet baby and ignore its needs. But if we ignore our talents and their need for nurture, there will never be transcendent moments. The book will not be published, the painting will never hang in a gallery.
It is easy to push aside the demands our gifts and talents make on us. Our bosses are loud. Our children are louder. They all easily make demands. Somehow I find the time to meet the demands of deadlines and my children. I do my work, and I wash the clothes, go grocery shopping, make the meals, and take people here and there. I do it over and over again. No matter how busy I am or how tired and sick of it all I feel, I keep doing it. I have to. And somehow, I have to see that quiet baby as one fully deserving of attention, help her have a voice and make her own demands, and then make room for it all. I have to accept the reality that even our talents involve work, work, work. And I have to juggle the priorities and make room for this baby, just like I make room for my work and for my kids. I see that baby, neglected in the stroller. I don't want to forget her.
And then I got it. That baby. She is a representation of a gift I have -- a talent. I invest almost nothing in it. Like that baby, I do not take care of her or nurture her. She just sits there, and I ignore her. She has stopped making noise, if she ever made any.
And the more I thought about it, the more I became sure what an accurate picture this is of the state of things. We like to think our talents are straight-up gifts. A blessing, not a burden. And I think that's where we (or I) go wrong. I have four children, and they are wonderful blessings to be sure. It is amazing to watch them grow up, to see who they are meant to be, and to share in their lives, It is a blessing to be a mom, but kids are a whole lot of work.
Before you are a parent, there is simply no way to understand just how much work children are and how much mundane, nose-to-the-grindstone effort is a part of parenting. Maybe some people wouldn't put it that way, but apparently I do. When they are babies, it is all the feeding, diapering, not sleeping. There is all the lugging around, of baby and the paraphernalia. And then as they grow, everything has to be taught and not all are such eager pupils. They must be taught to obey, taught how to treat others, taught how to use the bathroom, dress themselves, tie their shoes. The basics. As they grow older, they must be taught responsibility for homework, chores, commitments, a job. And there is still all that feeding to do. Kids want to keep on eating! The point is, parenting is a lot of work. There are transcendent moments, to be sure. And lots of joyful moments too, watching your child score a goal, hit a ball, get an A, conquer a fear. I love to watch each of my kids be who they are meant to be, but none of them would be that person without encouragement, help, and correction. And they certainly wouldn't be those people if I never bothered to attend to the drudgery of going to the grocery store, buying food, and then bringing it home to feed them. In fact, a whole lot of work goes on behind the scenes of those transcendent and joyful moments.
I think our talents are the same. It is not just about a song sung on stage, a book published, a painting hung on a gallery wall. Our talents involve work, even drudgery. They must be nurtured, encouraged, taught, and cared for. You might even need to change their diapers. Get rid of the garbage. A talent must not be neglected, as mine has been. The thing about kids is that they won't leave you alone. First they cry to have their needs met, and then they pester you. They won't stop asking for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For most of us, our talents are much quieter, less demanding. They wait, in silence. We walk right by the quiet baby and ignore its needs. But if we ignore our talents and their need for nurture, there will never be transcendent moments. The book will not be published, the painting will never hang in a gallery.
It is easy to push aside the demands our gifts and talents make on us. Our bosses are loud. Our children are louder. They all easily make demands. Somehow I find the time to meet the demands of deadlines and my children. I do my work, and I wash the clothes, go grocery shopping, make the meals, and take people here and there. I do it over and over again. No matter how busy I am or how tired and sick of it all I feel, I keep doing it. I have to. And somehow, I have to see that quiet baby as one fully deserving of attention, help her have a voice and make her own demands, and then make room for it all. I have to accept the reality that even our talents involve work, work, work. And I have to juggle the priorities and make room for this baby, just like I make room for my work and for my kids. I see that baby, neglected in the stroller. I don't want to forget her.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Waiting
I am waiting for spring to come with something approaching desperation. It hasn't been the coldest winter, and it certainly hasn't been the snowiest, but it has been gray and dreary and rainy and long. Does sunshine even exist? Is there such a thing as a warm breeze? Is there anything but this flat light and this thoroughly drenched, cold, muddy ground? Spring seems impossible — a fantasy. I am waiting.
This morning I read Psalm 130, and this verse struck me: "I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning."
I am not big on the waiting. I tend to take the short view, focus on the now. I am an American Christian, immersed in my culture. We don't wait.
But lately I have been pondering the ways that God is reflected in the realities of daily life. If we would pause and reflect, we might see a bit more clearly. So this morning what I see is that it is possible to wait for God, for heaven, for the real life — the life to come — with true yearning and desperation. This is winter's lesson for me this morning. "I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope."
This morning I read Psalm 130, and this verse struck me: "I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning."
I am not big on the waiting. I tend to take the short view, focus on the now. I am an American Christian, immersed in my culture. We don't wait.
But lately I have been pondering the ways that God is reflected in the realities of daily life. If we would pause and reflect, we might see a bit more clearly. So this morning what I see is that it is possible to wait for God, for heaven, for the real life — the life to come — with true yearning and desperation. This is winter's lesson for me this morning. "I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope."
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Words and Ways
Shortly after the election I read somewhere that the word Christian had become a political term. This was the writer's opinion of course, and I found myself agreeing. In the greater public realm, Christian has come to convey a lot of bigotry and judgment, because Christians have sounded -- and been -- bigoted and judgmental.
I wonder why it's so hard for us to let people just be, to acknowledge that each person, every one, is on a journey. Each day we travel. Sometimes we get stranded and stuck, but that, too, is part of the journey. Have you ever been on a trip and had your car break down? Are you still there -- on the side of the road in your broken down car? Or did you deal with it and move on? And if so, didn't the breakdown become part of the story of that particular road trip?
Why do some of us think we've got this whole life thing locked up, all figured out? Some people think that not only do they know where they are going and just how to get there, but they know where everyone else should be going too and the road they should travel to reach their destination... They heap judgment on others' journeys when they've never even been on that road.
I wish that we could all just see ourselves as pilgrims and appreciate the fact that every person is just looking for the way. I wish that we all could experience the communion of our common humanity, be in it together, rather than thinking we have to tell each other what to do. Jesus said that he was the Way, the Truth, the Life. And early Christians referred to themselves as followers of the Way. I like that because it implies that we are on the road.
While we live on this earth, we journey. We have not arrived at our destination. I can help you find your way, but only if I get on the road with you and stand in your shoes. I can't stand over here where I am and tell you where to go. My map doesn't look like yours because we're on different roads. If you try to follow my map from where you stand, you will get lost.
Fortunately, Jesus. a.k.a God with Us, is the Way. He stands with me on my road, and he stands with you on yours. The only people who can help us find the way are the ones who are willing to stand with us right where we are. This is why judgment is such an affront. It is the opposite of all that Jesus is. He entered into this painful life, full of suffering, so that we would not be alone. He did not stand far off and point and gesture and yell, trying to get us on the road, and then judge us when we didn't hear him because the distance was so great. He came near. He still comes near. He stands with us where we are so he can show us the way.
I wonder why it's so hard for us to let people just be, to acknowledge that each person, every one, is on a journey. Each day we travel. Sometimes we get stranded and stuck, but that, too, is part of the journey. Have you ever been on a trip and had your car break down? Are you still there -- on the side of the road in your broken down car? Or did you deal with it and move on? And if so, didn't the breakdown become part of the story of that particular road trip?
Why do some of us think we've got this whole life thing locked up, all figured out? Some people think that not only do they know where they are going and just how to get there, but they know where everyone else should be going too and the road they should travel to reach their destination... They heap judgment on others' journeys when they've never even been on that road.
I wish that we could all just see ourselves as pilgrims and appreciate the fact that every person is just looking for the way. I wish that we all could experience the communion of our common humanity, be in it together, rather than thinking we have to tell each other what to do. Jesus said that he was the Way, the Truth, the Life. And early Christians referred to themselves as followers of the Way. I like that because it implies that we are on the road.
While we live on this earth, we journey. We have not arrived at our destination. I can help you find your way, but only if I get on the road with you and stand in your shoes. I can't stand over here where I am and tell you where to go. My map doesn't look like yours because we're on different roads. If you try to follow my map from where you stand, you will get lost.
Fortunately, Jesus. a.k.a God with Us, is the Way. He stands with me on my road, and he stands with you on yours. The only people who can help us find the way are the ones who are willing to stand with us right where we are. This is why judgment is such an affront. It is the opposite of all that Jesus is. He entered into this painful life, full of suffering, so that we would not be alone. He did not stand far off and point and gesture and yell, trying to get us on the road, and then judge us when we didn't hear him because the distance was so great. He came near. He still comes near. He stands with us where we are so he can show us the way.
Monday, December 10, 2012
My Father Is Disappearing
I try to call my dad every few days. Lately it requires a deep breath before I make the call. I never know exactly how he'll sound, at least not anymore.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
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