The other day I was asked by a close friend of mine what happened to make me “dislike” traditional, American approaches to Christmas. I explained it to her briefly but felt like I should expose my Christmas evolution that seems to dismay so many…NO, I am not a scrooge!
As a child, I LOVED everything about Christmas. Now, I wasn’t one of those ridiculously naïve kids who believed in Santa Claus long after it is developmentally appropriate. I was 3 years old when Angie Plaster, an older girl from down the street, broke the harsh news to me. It didn’t “scar” me or ruin Christmas for me. Actually, I matter of factly broke the news to my parents that same year that I knew the “truth” about Santa Claus. I think it was a relief for them too. No longer did they have to come up with elaborate stories about how Santa had “lost” the pattern to the doll (Baby Vicky) that I wanted because she was sold out. Now, they could just say, “Sorry honey, she’s sold out.” No longer did they have to labor all night long in near silence assembling our gifts. Now they could just send us away and tell us to stay out of places. No, Santa wasn’t a disappointment for any of us. In fact, he was barely even ever a part of Christmas for me.
After all, Santa didn’t really affect the more important aspect of Christmas, which was GIFTS. Now there are 2 approaches to gift receiving – quantity and quality. I took the quantity approach, where as my brother took the quality approach. I wanted 50 $1 gifts. For me, it was the more the merrier. My brother was a high ticket item kind of kid and didn’t care if he only got 1 gift as long as he got the one he wanted. Not much changed as we got older. I do, however, remember when my gift giving evolution began. I was in late middle school and had saved all my money from babysitting, birthdays, etc to buy my mom a new set of dishes because she was still using the dishes they received 25 years ago, which were UGLY and brown. I went and picked out a set just for her and spent it all. That’s when I caught the giving bug that would infect me from that point on. Christmas was beginning to go from mass consumption to a challenge to GIVE abundantly…it had only just begun
As a child, the tree was something I ADORED! Decorating the tree was a family event complete with 45’s playing old Christmas music on my parent’s furniture sized record player. We made an event of it and the tree was something of great sentiment. I admit that it wasn’t much to look at in those early years but it was ours and was full of memories. We would sit at night with all the house lights turned out and watch the lights of the tree blink to music while we sipped hot cocoa. It was warm and sweet and perfect. We moved to Temple when I was in 3rd grade and I was given the privilege of choosing the live tree that we would put in our living room. I took this duty VERY seriously and always picked the most ridiculously large tree that would still fit in our house. Given the fact that our living room had vaulted ceilings, it could be quite large. So large, in fact, that my dad would have to anchor it to the wall. When Danny and I got married, I forced him to suffer allergies through 2 years of live Christmas trees. The first one I picked out for our tiny apartment had to be placed against the wall (and anchored) because it was too big. After 2 years though, I had compassion on him and we purchased an artificial tree. About this time, my parents also purchased and artificial tree…and they began decorating it like a “mall” tree. It had no personality. This is where I think the decorating evolution first began…But Danny and I continued to put up and decorate our little artificial tree for the next several years. When we lived in the country, we would put our tree in the bay window. I loved it when Danny would beat me home and the only thing I could see as I drove up the driveway was the brilliant white lights of the tree. Then we moved to Salado. There wasn’t a great place for the tree but we put it up anyways and put lights out front because we were “expected” too. Decorating went from delight to duty and lost its place. The decorating evolution continued… A Christmas came where we were not going to be home. Why would I put up a tree and lights if we weren’t even going to be around? So, we didn’t decorate. It was the most relaxing Christmas I had ever experienced. There was no assembly (and even better) no clean up! Post Christmas was celebratory instead of stressful. Why would I ever go back to stress? I wouldn’t
About that same time, we watched a documentary about the lost boys of Sudan who had been brought to the US. Although Christians, they were absolutely confused by many of our Christmas celebrations and traditions. One of them said, “I do not understand the trees and Santas. In Sudan, Christmas is just about Jesus. Please tell me, what does this tree and this Santa have to do with Jesus?” And it hit me like a ton of bricks! He wasn’t being sarcastic, critical or rude. He genuinely wanted to know…and so did I.
And so my Christmas evolution went into high gear. The evolution that had begun out of convenience had now been moved into conviction. I wanted Christmas to become something that focused my mind and stirred my heart for Jesus…and I wanted that for my family as well. I wanted others to look at the way we approached Christmas and say, “Christmas IS just about Jesus.” Oh sure, we say things like Keep CHRIST in CHRISTmas or He’s the reason for the season, but then we celebrate just like everyone else. Why are we consumed with how the culture approaches Christmas when we don’t even analyze our own approach as believers? After all, ANYONE can decorate and put up a Christmas tree. ANYONE can gather and eat a big meal with family. ANYONE can buy presents no one really wants/needs. ANYONE can teach their kid about Santa Claus. In the end, what do those things really have to do with Jesus and how do those things really point a lost world to Christ? So our mouths give lip service to Jesus but our lives (and hearts) are far from Him. Seems like I’ve heard that in scripture before!
As my own personal Christmas evolution gained momentum, I stumbled upon a thing called the Advent Conspiracy…and I realized that maybe, just maybe, God was trying to speak to the collective church and force His followers to answer some personally and culturally challenging questions. So as Danny and I challenged ourselves personally, we began to challenge the students in our student ministry as well. Here are some of the questions that we began to “chew” on:
• Does the way we celebrate Christmas truly bring honor to Jesus?
• If we’re celebrating Jesus’ birthday, what would He want as a birthday present?
• If Christmas is all about Christ leaving His comfort and glory in order to touch the suffering of the world, wouldn’t He want us to do the same thing?
These are questions we are still “chewing” on as a family and figuring out how we can live them out in front of our precious son, family, friends, neighbors and strangers. Unfortunately, we find church to be one of the most difficult places to do this. The distractions there abound and manifest themselves in different ways – elaborate Christmas parties, white elephant gifts, trees/garlands/lights that overshadow the nativity, wasted money, general “busyness” and the non-stop questioning by believers of what Santa will bring our son. Our response is, “Nothing. We don’t do Santa.” (Our 2 year old likes to say, “Fake like Santa Claus!”) And to this we get gasps of disbelief and disgust in the one place that should be a refuge for focusing on Jesus.
Needless to say, it’s frustrating but we are resolved none the less.
So where am I in this Christmas evolutionary process?
I’m “in process.” As a parent, I work hard at reinforcing to Matthew that Christmas is all about Jesus, but this is VERY hard when everything around us points to other stuff. I work hard about explaining that many of the other things are just distractions, but it’s hard because these distractions are more entertaining and appealing than the simple nativity. (By the way – it is REALLY hard to explain to a 2 year old why we put up lights, trees, santas, etc. Maybe that’s an indication that it really doesn’t make sense!) I work really hard at teaching Matthew that Christmas is about giving, but it’s hard when he gets gifts (even from us) as well. I work hard at providing MANY opportunities for Matthew to be generous and focus on others, but it’s hard when he’s 2. I work hard to balance my “gifts” to others by also giving to a compassion cause in their honor, but it’s hard to do this when they dismiss the gift altogether.
But hard is good because it means it’s worthwhile. In many, I have begun to see God begin a Christmas evolution in their hearts and minds. I don’t expect everyone’s evolution to look like mine, but can you imagine what would happen if followers of Christ really, actually, wholeheartedly made Jesus the focus of Christmas? It would be a revolution indeed!
GIVE MORE SPEND LESS WORSHIP FULLY LOVE ALL
If you are a follower of Christ, I challenge you to answer these questions:
• Does the way we celebrate Christmas truly bring honor to Jesus?
• If we’re celebrating Jesus’ birthday, what would He want as a birthday present?
• If Christmas is all about Christ leaving His comfort and glory in order to touch the suffering of the world, wouldn’t He want us to do the same thing?
Friday, December 17, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
picking weeds
I had great intentions for blogging all the time, at least weekly was my original goal. I still have ideas that run through my head almost relentlessly and yet I struggle to find the time to sit and document how the past and current is being shaped into the story God is writing on my heart…and how it’s forming me into something different. Maybe someday I will be able to streamline my life in such a way that I can blog more consistently, but with my tendency to immerse myself in life and loose myself in projects, it’s just not likely…sorry! With that said, here we go…
One evening in the middle of this past summer, I found myself in the backyard with my husband, two year old son, and three dogs. It wasn’t an unusual setting or situation for our family. Danny decided that he would grill for dinner that evening, something he does regularly. (I’m a lucky woman whose husband likes to cook and almost daily takes dinner on as his service to our family. It really is a blessing.) Matthew enjoys playing and just being outside more than any child I’ve ever been around. Needless to say, we spend hours a day outside regardless of the temperature or weather.
Circumstantially, this evening was not particularly unique or special and yet I learned or noticed something about myself that evening. Perhaps I’ve known it or recognized it all along but the reality of it was thrown in my face that evening in a way I had previously ignored…
So here’s the setting:
My husband is over by the grill graciously preparing our dinner for the evening and intermittently carrying on a conversation with our son. Our 2 year old son is running around in the “good” grass, climbing on his playground, singing worshipful songs (Mighty to Save, Oh How He Love Us) and pointing out the beauty of everything around him (dragon flies, clouds, butterflies, flowers, trees, birds, on and on and on). My dogs are resting next to each other in the shade of our pecan trees. The sun is reaching that glorious spot where it’s still bright but paints the canvas of the sky with colors that words are inadequate to describe.
And me? Where could I be found in this picturesque family scene?
Picking weeds.
I didn’t go out there to pick weeds. It certainly wasn’t on my list of things to get done. I’m not an “obsessive” gardener by any stretch of the imagination. It’s actually a triumph if I remember to water the yard. So, why was I picking weeds? I went out there to converse with my husband, play with my son, love on my dogs and enjoy the world God has seen fit to place me in, but I found myself inexplicably distracted by the weeds. In that scene on that day, I missed the beauty of it all because my eyes, mind and energy were instantly drawn to the weeds…and then my son called me out.
“Mommy, don’t pull weeds. Come be with me.” He innocently remarked, completely unaware that God would use those simple words to pierce my very heart. I looked down at the weeds filling my hands and God spoke into my soul the truth of who I am.
It was as if in that instance He said, “Stephanie, you always see the weeds.”
On that day and in that moment, I had to come face to face with the reality that I’m not just distracted by the regular things that have to get done for everyday life to go smoothly. When surrounded by blessings unfathomable, I fixate and obsess on the inconsequential flaws. As a result, I frequently miss not only that which is best, but I fear I often fail to be aware of the very presence and movement of God around me.
Ouch!
So, I dropped those weeds and ran towards my son to embrace him. After a good hug, we sat side by side on the swings and talked and laughed and sang. I called for the dogs to come near so I could pet them. I gazed on Danny with deep heartfelt appreciation. I breathed in anew the presence and favor of the Father. I marveled once again at His creative majesty…and I repented for all the things I had missed because I was too busy “picking weeds.”
I’d love to say that from that evening on, I have been 100% focused and aware of the movement of God. I can’t. I still find myself drawn to “pick weeds,” but I’m mindful and repentant of it now in a way I never was before that night.
In the process of becoming not me, I must continuously let go of those things that distract me and choose that which is best so that I might delight in His presence and live my life in a way that draws others to the ONE who is best…
One evening in the middle of this past summer, I found myself in the backyard with my husband, two year old son, and three dogs. It wasn’t an unusual setting or situation for our family. Danny decided that he would grill for dinner that evening, something he does regularly. (I’m a lucky woman whose husband likes to cook and almost daily takes dinner on as his service to our family. It really is a blessing.) Matthew enjoys playing and just being outside more than any child I’ve ever been around. Needless to say, we spend hours a day outside regardless of the temperature or weather.
Circumstantially, this evening was not particularly unique or special and yet I learned or noticed something about myself that evening. Perhaps I’ve known it or recognized it all along but the reality of it was thrown in my face that evening in a way I had previously ignored…
So here’s the setting:
My husband is over by the grill graciously preparing our dinner for the evening and intermittently carrying on a conversation with our son. Our 2 year old son is running around in the “good” grass, climbing on his playground, singing worshipful songs (Mighty to Save, Oh How He Love Us) and pointing out the beauty of everything around him (dragon flies, clouds, butterflies, flowers, trees, birds, on and on and on). My dogs are resting next to each other in the shade of our pecan trees. The sun is reaching that glorious spot where it’s still bright but paints the canvas of the sky with colors that words are inadequate to describe.
And me? Where could I be found in this picturesque family scene?
Picking weeds.
I didn’t go out there to pick weeds. It certainly wasn’t on my list of things to get done. I’m not an “obsessive” gardener by any stretch of the imagination. It’s actually a triumph if I remember to water the yard. So, why was I picking weeds? I went out there to converse with my husband, play with my son, love on my dogs and enjoy the world God has seen fit to place me in, but I found myself inexplicably distracted by the weeds. In that scene on that day, I missed the beauty of it all because my eyes, mind and energy were instantly drawn to the weeds…and then my son called me out.
“Mommy, don’t pull weeds. Come be with me.” He innocently remarked, completely unaware that God would use those simple words to pierce my very heart. I looked down at the weeds filling my hands and God spoke into my soul the truth of who I am.
It was as if in that instance He said, “Stephanie, you always see the weeds.”
On that day and in that moment, I had to come face to face with the reality that I’m not just distracted by the regular things that have to get done for everyday life to go smoothly. When surrounded by blessings unfathomable, I fixate and obsess on the inconsequential flaws. As a result, I frequently miss not only that which is best, but I fear I often fail to be aware of the very presence and movement of God around me.
Ouch!
So, I dropped those weeds and ran towards my son to embrace him. After a good hug, we sat side by side on the swings and talked and laughed and sang. I called for the dogs to come near so I could pet them. I gazed on Danny with deep heartfelt appreciation. I breathed in anew the presence and favor of the Father. I marveled once again at His creative majesty…and I repented for all the things I had missed because I was too busy “picking weeds.”
I’d love to say that from that evening on, I have been 100% focused and aware of the movement of God. I can’t. I still find myself drawn to “pick weeds,” but I’m mindful and repentant of it now in a way I never was before that night.
In the process of becoming not me, I must continuously let go of those things that distract me and choose that which is best so that I might delight in His presence and live my life in a way that draws others to the ONE who is best…
Monday, August 16, 2010
chasing the boomba
Ura Kathleen Golladay was born on July 7, 1909 to poor farmers in Oklahoma. Her education ended in 8th grade because she had to help her parents with the crops and other siblings. She married and had 2 sons and then had a pre-mature daughter, who survived against all odds, when she was 40. At the age of 54, her husband of nearly 30 years left her for another woman during an era when divorce was social leprosy. After her divorce, she was forced to find a traditional job for the first time in her life and raise her teenage daughter (my mom) by herself. She never remarried. She was resilient.
By the time I was born, she was 69 but she never seemed old to me. Her name, Boomba, was given to her by my eldest cousin. It never even crossed the rest of our minds to change it. It’s the only name that would have ever “fit” her. Grandma, Nana, Granny, etc just seem too cliché and inadequate to describe a woman so uniquely strong that only a non-sensical name would do. By worldly standards, her life was unremarkable (even though she lived during both world wars, survived the devastation of the Great Depression’s Dust Bowl years, and successfully chartered the waters of single parenthood as a divorcee). To me, she was the most amazing person I have ever known…and I have spent the bulk of my life chasing her legacy and hoping that she would be pleased with mine if she were still alive.
Why? What about her challenges and encourages me so much?
There are too many things to list, but here are a few:
Teaching – Whatever she knew, she taught to those she loved. Most people won’t take the time to teach people to do something that they could do more easily by themselves…not Boomba. She included us in everything from washing the car, hanging laundry on the line, “fixing” things, working in the yard & flowerbeds, baking, doing dishes, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and on and on and on. She even taught us how to crochet using our toes as the holder…sure do wish I still remembered how to do that! You name it, she enjoyed teaching us how to do it.
Laughing – Boomba was HILARIOUS! She never took herself or anyone else too seriously. Examples?!?! Boomba was a grandmother who would pass gas (usually loudly) and laugh with us about it. In fact, our joke became that she actually used her gas to talk…to this day, I swear she said hello, bull, and nope with the wrong end. I can remember so many times where we would laugh so hard with Boomba that we were all in tears. Good times!
Loved Church and Bible – Our parents were in the choir, so my brother and I were granted the distinct privilege of sitting next to Boomba and her two besties, Ruth and Rose. But Boomba was far from your average “attendee.” Her life was deeply connected to the lives of the other members in her church in a way I have never seen or experienced. They lived life together. When one mourned, they all mourned. When one rejoiced, they all rejoiced. When one was in need, they pooled their resources to meet the need. They lived life together…and it was beautiful. Boomba also valued scripture and her personal time to study. Her house was small but heating and AC were limited. I can remember Boomba sitting on her toilet next to her little furnace with her light on, Bible open, studying diligently every day…and like everything else, we were invited to share in the learning and the blessing!
Giving – She had little, but she gave whatever she had. I watched her tithe generously out of her poverty to support the kingdom ministry both near and abroad. I watched her support those in need when she herself was in need. The stories are endless about orphans who have clothes, blankets, and dolls because my Boomba stitched them with hands deformed by severe arthritis. Or there are scores of homeless people (which she referred to as bums but my uncles always thought she said bombs) who were given a cup of coffee and a bowl of homemade soup from her own portion of limited rations. Or the countless grieving families that received homemade pies or meals and so she did without. Or the thousand little tokens of affection bestowed upon her beloved grandchildren. Every button or sticker or knick knack became a priceless treasure because I knew how little she had and that every gift required sacrifice on her part.
Compassion – Everyone was of value to my grandmother. By her example, I learned to notice those that normally go unnoticed and to treat them with sincere love and affection. I have fond memories of going to the nursing home with Boomba to visit the “old” people. She always insisted that we greet everyone warmly as if we had come for them, even if we had never met them. When I was about 4, I hugged a delusional woman who inevitably thought I was her daughter. She refused to let go of my hands when I tried to pull away. I panicked, but not Boomba. She came over and spoke reassuring words of love to this woman as she gently pried my hands free. To calm me, she embraced me and told me how important it was that we show love to that woman because no one else probably does…and we hugged her again on our way out.
Content – She didn’t have much but I never once remember her complaining about what she didn’t have…I only remember her expressing how lucky she felt or how thankful she was to have what she did have. She lived in a small wood frame home that had a floor furnace and an evaporative cooler instead of an AC. To many, it would have been inadequate. To her, it was beyond sufficient. It was abundant. To her, simple, meaningless things were grand pleasures. She loved getting a burrito at Taco Bueno or a fish platter at Long John Silver. A tin can of popcorn for Christmas was a delight she could enjoy for months to come. She judged life by what she needed instead of what she wanted. She marveled at all the things God had blessed her with instead of lamenting and coveting what He had blessed others with. She was content in a way that was hard to find then but next to impossible now.
Forgiveness and Mercy – Boomba was a scorned woman many times over. The stories I gather from my mom and uncles indicate that my grandfather was an unfaithful man for the entirety of their married life…and inevitably left my grandmother as a result of his infidelity. After their divorce, my grandfather basically chose to ignore the existence of my grandmother and mom, for the most part. What would most women do? Live to rehash the story of how they were wronged, work constantly to damage him in the eyes of everyone else and harbor their bitterness until it festered into full blown hate. Not my Boomba. I never once heard her say an unkind word about my grandfather. Even though he died years before my birth, she was resolved to forgive him and to teach us to do the same. When he was in the hospital dying, my Boomba and her oldest son went to go visit him. They were sent away by his “new” wife, who later left him to die alone. When Boomba found this out, she was heartbroken and said she wished she had returned because no one should die alone. His grave was in the same cemetery as many of her family members. As a child, I remember that we would go out to put flowers on the headstones of family members and she would tell us who they were. It always struck me as strange that she would go out of her way to clean and take care of his headstone as well. Her capacity to forgive and extend mercy out of her pain and hurt were astonishing.
So what does all of this mean?
The one person (Boomba) that I have chased after all of my life, I will never become because the one person (Jesus) she chased all her life she never became…BUT by chasing her, I am chasing Christ…and by chasing them both, I am becoming not me and that's a good thing…and maybe someday I will live a life that makes someone want to chase after me (hopefully my son) and they will be able to say that by chasing me they were chasing Christ…
what an incredibly humbling, challenging, and overwhelming thought...
By the time I was born, she was 69 but she never seemed old to me. Her name, Boomba, was given to her by my eldest cousin. It never even crossed the rest of our minds to change it. It’s the only name that would have ever “fit” her. Grandma, Nana, Granny, etc just seem too cliché and inadequate to describe a woman so uniquely strong that only a non-sensical name would do. By worldly standards, her life was unremarkable (even though she lived during both world wars, survived the devastation of the Great Depression’s Dust Bowl years, and successfully chartered the waters of single parenthood as a divorcee). To me, she was the most amazing person I have ever known…and I have spent the bulk of my life chasing her legacy and hoping that she would be pleased with mine if she were still alive.
Why? What about her challenges and encourages me so much?
There are too many things to list, but here are a few:
Teaching – Whatever she knew, she taught to those she loved. Most people won’t take the time to teach people to do something that they could do more easily by themselves…not Boomba. She included us in everything from washing the car, hanging laundry on the line, “fixing” things, working in the yard & flowerbeds, baking, doing dishes, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and on and on and on. She even taught us how to crochet using our toes as the holder…sure do wish I still remembered how to do that! You name it, she enjoyed teaching us how to do it.
Laughing – Boomba was HILARIOUS! She never took herself or anyone else too seriously. Examples?!?! Boomba was a grandmother who would pass gas (usually loudly) and laugh with us about it. In fact, our joke became that she actually used her gas to talk…to this day, I swear she said hello, bull, and nope with the wrong end. I can remember so many times where we would laugh so hard with Boomba that we were all in tears. Good times!
Loved Church and Bible – Our parents were in the choir, so my brother and I were granted the distinct privilege of sitting next to Boomba and her two besties, Ruth and Rose. But Boomba was far from your average “attendee.” Her life was deeply connected to the lives of the other members in her church in a way I have never seen or experienced. They lived life together. When one mourned, they all mourned. When one rejoiced, they all rejoiced. When one was in need, they pooled their resources to meet the need. They lived life together…and it was beautiful. Boomba also valued scripture and her personal time to study. Her house was small but heating and AC were limited. I can remember Boomba sitting on her toilet next to her little furnace with her light on, Bible open, studying diligently every day…and like everything else, we were invited to share in the learning and the blessing!
Giving – She had little, but she gave whatever she had. I watched her tithe generously out of her poverty to support the kingdom ministry both near and abroad. I watched her support those in need when she herself was in need. The stories are endless about orphans who have clothes, blankets, and dolls because my Boomba stitched them with hands deformed by severe arthritis. Or there are scores of homeless people (which she referred to as bums but my uncles always thought she said bombs) who were given a cup of coffee and a bowl of homemade soup from her own portion of limited rations. Or the countless grieving families that received homemade pies or meals and so she did without. Or the thousand little tokens of affection bestowed upon her beloved grandchildren. Every button or sticker or knick knack became a priceless treasure because I knew how little she had and that every gift required sacrifice on her part.
Compassion – Everyone was of value to my grandmother. By her example, I learned to notice those that normally go unnoticed and to treat them with sincere love and affection. I have fond memories of going to the nursing home with Boomba to visit the “old” people. She always insisted that we greet everyone warmly as if we had come for them, even if we had never met them. When I was about 4, I hugged a delusional woman who inevitably thought I was her daughter. She refused to let go of my hands when I tried to pull away. I panicked, but not Boomba. She came over and spoke reassuring words of love to this woman as she gently pried my hands free. To calm me, she embraced me and told me how important it was that we show love to that woman because no one else probably does…and we hugged her again on our way out.
Content – She didn’t have much but I never once remember her complaining about what she didn’t have…I only remember her expressing how lucky she felt or how thankful she was to have what she did have. She lived in a small wood frame home that had a floor furnace and an evaporative cooler instead of an AC. To many, it would have been inadequate. To her, it was beyond sufficient. It was abundant. To her, simple, meaningless things were grand pleasures. She loved getting a burrito at Taco Bueno or a fish platter at Long John Silver. A tin can of popcorn for Christmas was a delight she could enjoy for months to come. She judged life by what she needed instead of what she wanted. She marveled at all the things God had blessed her with instead of lamenting and coveting what He had blessed others with. She was content in a way that was hard to find then but next to impossible now.
Forgiveness and Mercy – Boomba was a scorned woman many times over. The stories I gather from my mom and uncles indicate that my grandfather was an unfaithful man for the entirety of their married life…and inevitably left my grandmother as a result of his infidelity. After their divorce, my grandfather basically chose to ignore the existence of my grandmother and mom, for the most part. What would most women do? Live to rehash the story of how they were wronged, work constantly to damage him in the eyes of everyone else and harbor their bitterness until it festered into full blown hate. Not my Boomba. I never once heard her say an unkind word about my grandfather. Even though he died years before my birth, she was resolved to forgive him and to teach us to do the same. When he was in the hospital dying, my Boomba and her oldest son went to go visit him. They were sent away by his “new” wife, who later left him to die alone. When Boomba found this out, she was heartbroken and said she wished she had returned because no one should die alone. His grave was in the same cemetery as many of her family members. As a child, I remember that we would go out to put flowers on the headstones of family members and she would tell us who they were. It always struck me as strange that she would go out of her way to clean and take care of his headstone as well. Her capacity to forgive and extend mercy out of her pain and hurt were astonishing.
So what does all of this mean?
The one person (Boomba) that I have chased after all of my life, I will never become because the one person (Jesus) she chased all her life she never became…BUT by chasing her, I am chasing Christ…and by chasing them both, I am becoming not me and that's a good thing…and maybe someday I will live a life that makes someone want to chase after me (hopefully my son) and they will be able to say that by chasing me they were chasing Christ…
what an incredibly humbling, challenging, and overwhelming thought...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
mission me
We just returned from our youth mission trip to Atlanta, Georgia…and already I long to go back. My parents just left for a mission trip to Vermont and I’m jealous. Danny leaves for Haiti in 2 days and I long to go with him. Missions always does this to me. It happens to me every time but for some reason the last few times have left a different longing in my heart…and wonderings in my mind.
Don’t get me wrong, nothing about a mission trip with a two year old busy boy is easy. He handled the 15 hour van ride strapped in his car seat better than I did, but let’s get real - it’s less than ideal for everyone involved. I shared an air mattress with him and slept just a room away from approximately 50 teenagers. We slept when we could. We showered when we could. We ate on someone else’s schedule. Most of our day was spent either on the mission sites, work sites, or in the car. He didn’t get a nap. Of course, there were moments of meltdowns on both our parts, but it didn’t change the heart of it…or the way God used it.
Missions was in many ways so much easier before we had Matthew, but it is so much more rewarding now that we share the experience with Matthew. So I started thinking about why that is so true.
What I realized is that God has been forming a heart for loving on people in a tangible way since I was a young child and I want to do the same for Matthew. God has given me the opportunity and HUGE responsibility of raising Matthew so that he will know Him and serve Him. What better way to do that than share with Matthew the passions God is working out in and through my life and opening up to him the very heart of God. I’m nowhere near there yet. God is constantly refining my heart for people and how He wants me to live that out.
These are some of the reminders that He has given me lately…
I remember my maternal grandmother (Boomba) letting me help her make dolls, clothes, and blankets for orphan girls, all the while explaining what and why she was doing it. She had very little, but always found ways to give.
I remember her and my mom taking us to nursing homes to hug on lonely senior adults whose own families didn’t visit them. They were forgotten…but not by us.
I remember hearing stories about how people had generously (and usually anonymously) taken care of the needs of my grandmother (a single mom) and my mom when she was a kid. They always gave the credit to God and people who were obedient to His leading…and told us that we should do the same.
I remember that I couldn’t stop smiling the entire time I served meals my first time at a soup kitchen… and wishing I had smiled more.
I remember meeting the person whose habitat home we were working on and being held so tightly by her gratefulness…and realizing how ungrateful I had been.
I remember not wanting to let go of the hand of a 2 year old precious girl, who, like her mom, had tested positive for HIV…and wishing I could really comfort her for years to come.
I remember my heart racing the first time I boldly knocked on a stranger’s door and asked if I could share Christ with them…and the sinking feeling when the door slammed...but not giving up. My part was to share...
I remember being frozen the first time a man asked me a controversial theological question…and the Holy Spirit somehow empowering me to speak.
I remember the encouragement spoken over me and to me by a missionary who saw in me the potential in Christ that I would have never seen in myself…and being forever changed by his challenge.
I remember how inadequate I felt the first time I planned a trip…and how amazed I was that God made it all work out and used me in spite of me.
I remember feeling really at home the first time I sat with a group of homeless people and actually listened to their stories and shared mine…and saddened because I’ve never felt that same way at church.
I remember crying for the salvation of a homeless man who had given up on the hope of God as I prayed for him…and I remember embracing him but not wanting to let go…His face and name are imprinted on my heart still…
I remember my heart swelling with joy as I heard teenagers speak of their experiences and their love for the lost, forgotten, and downtrodden…and wanting it to last.
I remember deciding to celebrate Christmas, birthdays, and holidays differently in a way that wasn’t about me…and enjoying it more than I ever did before.
I remember taking Matthew on his first mission trip at 3 months old…and thinking this is the life I want for him…
I remember being so frustrated that my plans for sharing Christ and ministering were not working out as planned…and being absolutely overwhelmed by God’s divine appointments.
I remember going to other countries and loving their culture more than my own…
This certainly isn’t everything God has been recalling to my mind recently. So many of the things can’t be put into words…they are faces, moments, feelings, affirmations...
I think the key to all of this is that more than anything, I want my life to be characterized by the love I have for God and the resulting love I have for people. Nothing makes me feel more in His will, loving, confident, peaceful, joyful, and purposeful than serving others physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I feel at home in “that” place in a world that I rarely feel at home in…
What does that mean? I think in the process of becoming not me, God is calling me to a different life than I had ever pictured. I don’t know exactly what that is, but I’m certain that it’s not the “American Dream”…and that frightens and excites me all at the same time.
All I can say right now is that I don’t want to be who I was and I don’t want to be who I am. I just long to be who God is forming me to be, which is not me altogether…
Don’t get me wrong, nothing about a mission trip with a two year old busy boy is easy. He handled the 15 hour van ride strapped in his car seat better than I did, but let’s get real - it’s less than ideal for everyone involved. I shared an air mattress with him and slept just a room away from approximately 50 teenagers. We slept when we could. We showered when we could. We ate on someone else’s schedule. Most of our day was spent either on the mission sites, work sites, or in the car. He didn’t get a nap. Of course, there were moments of meltdowns on both our parts, but it didn’t change the heart of it…or the way God used it.
Missions was in many ways so much easier before we had Matthew, but it is so much more rewarding now that we share the experience with Matthew. So I started thinking about why that is so true.
What I realized is that God has been forming a heart for loving on people in a tangible way since I was a young child and I want to do the same for Matthew. God has given me the opportunity and HUGE responsibility of raising Matthew so that he will know Him and serve Him. What better way to do that than share with Matthew the passions God is working out in and through my life and opening up to him the very heart of God. I’m nowhere near there yet. God is constantly refining my heart for people and how He wants me to live that out.
These are some of the reminders that He has given me lately…
I remember my maternal grandmother (Boomba) letting me help her make dolls, clothes, and blankets for orphan girls, all the while explaining what and why she was doing it. She had very little, but always found ways to give.
I remember her and my mom taking us to nursing homes to hug on lonely senior adults whose own families didn’t visit them. They were forgotten…but not by us.
I remember hearing stories about how people had generously (and usually anonymously) taken care of the needs of my grandmother (a single mom) and my mom when she was a kid. They always gave the credit to God and people who were obedient to His leading…and told us that we should do the same.
I remember that I couldn’t stop smiling the entire time I served meals my first time at a soup kitchen… and wishing I had smiled more.
I remember meeting the person whose habitat home we were working on and being held so tightly by her gratefulness…and realizing how ungrateful I had been.
I remember not wanting to let go of the hand of a 2 year old precious girl, who, like her mom, had tested positive for HIV…and wishing I could really comfort her for years to come.
I remember my heart racing the first time I boldly knocked on a stranger’s door and asked if I could share Christ with them…and the sinking feeling when the door slammed...but not giving up. My part was to share...
I remember being frozen the first time a man asked me a controversial theological question…and the Holy Spirit somehow empowering me to speak.
I remember the encouragement spoken over me and to me by a missionary who saw in me the potential in Christ that I would have never seen in myself…and being forever changed by his challenge.
I remember how inadequate I felt the first time I planned a trip…and how amazed I was that God made it all work out and used me in spite of me.
I remember feeling really at home the first time I sat with a group of homeless people and actually listened to their stories and shared mine…and saddened because I’ve never felt that same way at church.
I remember crying for the salvation of a homeless man who had given up on the hope of God as I prayed for him…and I remember embracing him but not wanting to let go…His face and name are imprinted on my heart still…
I remember my heart swelling with joy as I heard teenagers speak of their experiences and their love for the lost, forgotten, and downtrodden…and wanting it to last.
I remember deciding to celebrate Christmas, birthdays, and holidays differently in a way that wasn’t about me…and enjoying it more than I ever did before.
I remember taking Matthew on his first mission trip at 3 months old…and thinking this is the life I want for him…
I remember being so frustrated that my plans for sharing Christ and ministering were not working out as planned…and being absolutely overwhelmed by God’s divine appointments.
I remember going to other countries and loving their culture more than my own…
This certainly isn’t everything God has been recalling to my mind recently. So many of the things can’t be put into words…they are faces, moments, feelings, affirmations...
I think the key to all of this is that more than anything, I want my life to be characterized by the love I have for God and the resulting love I have for people. Nothing makes me feel more in His will, loving, confident, peaceful, joyful, and purposeful than serving others physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I feel at home in “that” place in a world that I rarely feel at home in…
What does that mean? I think in the process of becoming not me, God is calling me to a different life than I had ever pictured. I don’t know exactly what that is, but I’m certain that it’s not the “American Dream”…and that frightens and excites me all at the same time.
All I can say right now is that I don’t want to be who I was and I don’t want to be who I am. I just long to be who God is forming me to be, which is not me altogether…
Friday, June 11, 2010
sunday lunch
The overwhelming smell of a roast, potatoes and carrots in the crockpot accompanied only by the sweet scent of my mom’s hot rolls…that’s what floods my mind when I think of Sunday lunch as a little kid. I know we had other things to eat, but the memory of opening the kitchen door to that specific aroma is the overwhelming memory of the Sunday lunches of my early childhood.
Then we began to go out from time to time after church on Sunday if my mom didn’t have time to cook or if we were eating with some of our church friends. I remember that Sunday “spot” too. It was Picadilly. I always ordered the “dilly” plate complete with one piece of fried chicken, mashed potatoes & gravy, a hot roll, and a slice of chocolate pie. My grandma always got liver…and it always grossed me out!
But we moved away from our close friends and family when I was in elementary school and Sunday lunches changed. It seems like we almost always went out but rarely with anyone else. Sunday lunch was all of a sudden unremarkable, unmemorable, and just another meal. Nothing stands out other than the fact that we ate out and it was just my immediate family.
I moved off to college and Sunday lunch was the sacred day to eat at some restaurant, usually a buffet, with all of my friends after church. Two locations stand out more than any others; a pizza buffet called Double Daves, which served some amazing pepperoni rolls, and a Chinese buffet that was dirt cheap and spectacular. On a tight budget, it was the one day I was guaranteed to gorge myself on delicious food. But more than that…Sunday lunch was remarkable again because it was about genuine fellowship with friends. We would actually discuss the sermon. (Of course, it didn’t hurt that our pastor was an amazing and quite challenging teacher.) We would be daring enough to discuss what God was teaching us and how our Sunday school teacher had addressed each of us at the very heart of where we were. We discussed other things, of course, but Sunday lunch became a time where spiritual conversations were guaranteed to take place. I still cherish some of those conversations…
Then I got married and my husband took a job at a small country church as their youth minister. Sunday lunch remained sacred though because of the godly example of hospitality provided by our pastor’s wife. Every Sunday, she would prepare lunch for all of the young couples and families in our small country church and open her house to be flooded with people, usually 15 to 20 of us. There were a lot of things she did wrong, but I have never again experienced the sweet hospitality that she so effortlessly offered week after week. Never once did she complain about having to clean the house before we got there or after we had wrecked it. Never once did she complain about having to get up early, stay up late, or spend Sunday afternoon doing dishes while we all napped. Never once did she complain about the cost of the food or the amount we inhaled. It was her gift and she used it to the fullest.
She served more than food though. Something special happens in homes that can never happen in a restaurant. It’s personal, vulnerable, and exposed. By opening up her home, she knit a group of disconnected young adults together as a family. It was this group that gathered around me when I became inexplicably ill and later diagnosed with a rare, incurable kidney disease. The members of this group would not only offer us prayers, food, and physical help but would offer their very own kidneys if necessary. We appreciated the meal at the time but it would take years for me to truly grasp the depth of what she had done for us and as a result in us.
We graduated and moved to serve in other places. While we have had good friends that would occasionally invite us out to Sunday lunch with them or even to their house on special Sunday celebrations, we have NEVER again experienced the sweet fellowship and community that Sunday lunch can and should offer. It hit hardest when we were living hours away from our family in East Texas and ate Sonic for lunch by ourselves on Mother’s Day and Easter because no one thought to incorporate us into their family.
Now we have a 2 year old of our own and live near family so Sunday lunch is either a rushed meal on the way home or a chance to see our parents …but God just keeps stirring in my heart and mind that it should be so much more.
As I sit at the restaurant (or go through the drive through), I cannot help but ache over the reality that my lazy habit of eating out may be keeping those who are serving me from worshipping with their own body of believers. If you look around on Sundays during lunch, it’s all “church” people. We are the ones making it necessary for people to work on Sundays immediately after complaining that they aren’t at worship…And there is a discomfort in my spirit.
I complain about disconnectedness within the church body (in general) and our church body specifically. As my family rushes home to scarf down food and get into our comfy clothes, my mind questions the depth of my resolve since I’m not making any genuine effort to connect…And there is a discomfort in my spirit.
And I realize one thing, Sunday lunch is unremarkable mostly because I am selfish and focused primarily on what makes my life easy…But that is NOT what Christ has called me to.
Christ has called me to a life of sacrifice, service, and connectedness. So, what does that mean in a practical sense?
It means that I should value the Sabbath and the opportunity for others to worship as much as I value it for myself and my family. So, I shouldn’t eat out anymore and I should encourage others not to as well.
It means that I should follow the example of our pastor’s wife from that small country church and offer genuine, sweet hospitality. I need to clean my house, cook a Sunday lunch, and serve those with whom I worship and those who are in need.
It means that I should push conversations past the comfortable, casual and superficial and into the difficult, spiritual and meaningful. Only then will we truly connect with one another.
None of these things will be easy for me and I make no promises that I will be perfect in keeping them…But, in the process of becoming not me, I am realizing that I must let go of my comfort and convenience because there is something greater at stake…and I want that which is greater.
Then we began to go out from time to time after church on Sunday if my mom didn’t have time to cook or if we were eating with some of our church friends. I remember that Sunday “spot” too. It was Picadilly. I always ordered the “dilly” plate complete with one piece of fried chicken, mashed potatoes & gravy, a hot roll, and a slice of chocolate pie. My grandma always got liver…and it always grossed me out!
But we moved away from our close friends and family when I was in elementary school and Sunday lunches changed. It seems like we almost always went out but rarely with anyone else. Sunday lunch was all of a sudden unremarkable, unmemorable, and just another meal. Nothing stands out other than the fact that we ate out and it was just my immediate family.
I moved off to college and Sunday lunch was the sacred day to eat at some restaurant, usually a buffet, with all of my friends after church. Two locations stand out more than any others; a pizza buffet called Double Daves, which served some amazing pepperoni rolls, and a Chinese buffet that was dirt cheap and spectacular. On a tight budget, it was the one day I was guaranteed to gorge myself on delicious food. But more than that…Sunday lunch was remarkable again because it was about genuine fellowship with friends. We would actually discuss the sermon. (Of course, it didn’t hurt that our pastor was an amazing and quite challenging teacher.) We would be daring enough to discuss what God was teaching us and how our Sunday school teacher had addressed each of us at the very heart of where we were. We discussed other things, of course, but Sunday lunch became a time where spiritual conversations were guaranteed to take place. I still cherish some of those conversations…
Then I got married and my husband took a job at a small country church as their youth minister. Sunday lunch remained sacred though because of the godly example of hospitality provided by our pastor’s wife. Every Sunday, she would prepare lunch for all of the young couples and families in our small country church and open her house to be flooded with people, usually 15 to 20 of us. There were a lot of things she did wrong, but I have never again experienced the sweet hospitality that she so effortlessly offered week after week. Never once did she complain about having to clean the house before we got there or after we had wrecked it. Never once did she complain about having to get up early, stay up late, or spend Sunday afternoon doing dishes while we all napped. Never once did she complain about the cost of the food or the amount we inhaled. It was her gift and she used it to the fullest.
She served more than food though. Something special happens in homes that can never happen in a restaurant. It’s personal, vulnerable, and exposed. By opening up her home, she knit a group of disconnected young adults together as a family. It was this group that gathered around me when I became inexplicably ill and later diagnosed with a rare, incurable kidney disease. The members of this group would not only offer us prayers, food, and physical help but would offer their very own kidneys if necessary. We appreciated the meal at the time but it would take years for me to truly grasp the depth of what she had done for us and as a result in us.
We graduated and moved to serve in other places. While we have had good friends that would occasionally invite us out to Sunday lunch with them or even to their house on special Sunday celebrations, we have NEVER again experienced the sweet fellowship and community that Sunday lunch can and should offer. It hit hardest when we were living hours away from our family in East Texas and ate Sonic for lunch by ourselves on Mother’s Day and Easter because no one thought to incorporate us into their family.
Now we have a 2 year old of our own and live near family so Sunday lunch is either a rushed meal on the way home or a chance to see our parents …but God just keeps stirring in my heart and mind that it should be so much more.
As I sit at the restaurant (or go through the drive through), I cannot help but ache over the reality that my lazy habit of eating out may be keeping those who are serving me from worshipping with their own body of believers. If you look around on Sundays during lunch, it’s all “church” people. We are the ones making it necessary for people to work on Sundays immediately after complaining that they aren’t at worship…And there is a discomfort in my spirit.
I complain about disconnectedness within the church body (in general) and our church body specifically. As my family rushes home to scarf down food and get into our comfy clothes, my mind questions the depth of my resolve since I’m not making any genuine effort to connect…And there is a discomfort in my spirit.
And I realize one thing, Sunday lunch is unremarkable mostly because I am selfish and focused primarily on what makes my life easy…But that is NOT what Christ has called me to.
Christ has called me to a life of sacrifice, service, and connectedness. So, what does that mean in a practical sense?
It means that I should value the Sabbath and the opportunity for others to worship as much as I value it for myself and my family. So, I shouldn’t eat out anymore and I should encourage others not to as well.
It means that I should follow the example of our pastor’s wife from that small country church and offer genuine, sweet hospitality. I need to clean my house, cook a Sunday lunch, and serve those with whom I worship and those who are in need.
It means that I should push conversations past the comfortable, casual and superficial and into the difficult, spiritual and meaningful. Only then will we truly connect with one another.
None of these things will be easy for me and I make no promises that I will be perfect in keeping them…But, in the process of becoming not me, I am realizing that I must let go of my comfort and convenience because there is something greater at stake…and I want that which is greater.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
playing in the rain
In Amarillo, the spring and summer rains came hard and fast. They didn’t last long, but when they were there, the flat terrain of the streets created the perfect water playground. The gutters would fill up so quickly that the drains couldn’t empty the streets fast enough. The water would lap over the side and rise even with the yard or sidewalk. I loved it when it rained. My brother and I would run out into the midst of the storm as fast as our young legs could take us. We didn’t put on shoes or worry about our clothes. There wasn’t time for any of that. We didn’t want to waste a moment. We were driven to splash, jump, dance, spin, twirl and just flat out enjoy the rain as it poured down on us. We delighted in it. When it was over (or getting dark), my mom would greet us at the door with a towel for each of us in her hand. We would wrap ourselves in the towels but leave a trail of muddy water all the way to the laundry room where we’d leave my mom a pile of rain-soaked clothes. She never complained or scolded us. In fact, I think she may have enjoyed it as much as we did…
And then I grew up I guess…and rain became either a grand annoyance or a useful necessity instead of a wondrous delight. I don’t remember the age I first looked out on the cooling summer rains with disinterest or the first time I reached for an umbrella. I don’t remember the first puddle I stepped in that raised within me the feeling of UHHHH instead of excitement. BUT it happened and with it I lost something…but not today!
Today there was that weird combination that only happens with summer rains. The sun shone brilliantly but rains fell in large cooling drops. My 2 year old wanted to go outside. I said, “No, it’s raining.” He looked at me, shook his head and said, “Not dark.”
And all of a sudden I remembered the puddles of my youth and we both went running into the backyard. We didn’t put on shoes or worry about clothes. There wasn’t time for any of that. We didn’t want to waste a moment. We danced and jumped and spun around. All of a sudden, I was 6 again and rain was a mysteriously wonderful delight. When it ended, we were soaking wet and grassy but I didn’t mind…
And I enjoyed it as much as he did…I got something back that I had lost. Now, I don’t plan to give up my umbrellas or play in every storm but in the process of becoming not me, I’m beginning to learn that wonderment stirs my affections for God and I become renewed when I free myself enough to dance in the rain.
I should do it more often…what about you? When was the last time you played in the rain?
And then I grew up I guess…and rain became either a grand annoyance or a useful necessity instead of a wondrous delight. I don’t remember the age I first looked out on the cooling summer rains with disinterest or the first time I reached for an umbrella. I don’t remember the first puddle I stepped in that raised within me the feeling of UHHHH instead of excitement. BUT it happened and with it I lost something…but not today!
Today there was that weird combination that only happens with summer rains. The sun shone brilliantly but rains fell in large cooling drops. My 2 year old wanted to go outside. I said, “No, it’s raining.” He looked at me, shook his head and said, “Not dark.”
And all of a sudden I remembered the puddles of my youth and we both went running into the backyard. We didn’t put on shoes or worry about clothes. There wasn’t time for any of that. We didn’t want to waste a moment. We danced and jumped and spun around. All of a sudden, I was 6 again and rain was a mysteriously wonderful delight. When it ended, we were soaking wet and grassy but I didn’t mind…
And I enjoyed it as much as he did…I got something back that I had lost. Now, I don’t plan to give up my umbrellas or play in every storm but in the process of becoming not me, I’m beginning to learn that wonderment stirs my affections for God and I become renewed when I free myself enough to dance in the rain.
I should do it more often…what about you? When was the last time you played in the rain?
Monday, May 17, 2010
daddy's little girl
Most girls are called princess, sweetheart, darling or some other femininely affectionate name. He always called me Pumpkin. I know, it doesn’t really seem like a very fitting name for a petite little blond hair, blue-eyed girl who was born on Easter, but that’s what I was. I was his Pumpkin.
From what seems like the very beginning, I was Daddy’s little girl. Don’t get me wrong: If I was hurt, sick, sad, or in need…I wanted my mommy. She was the caretaker, comforter, and person who made the world just right…but I was still Daddy’s little girl.
Maybe every girl who has a decent father feels this way, but I can remember from a very young age feeling as if I was his prize, his joy, the object of his affection and the capturer of his attention. He was the one that carried me on his shoulders. He was the one that let me model all of my new outfits. He was the one that I believed when he told me I was beautiful, smart, funny, and talented….somehow, it seemed that he got me in a way no one else did… and that connected us.
If you know me now, you know that I am sarcastic, cynical, comically animated, LOUD, and quite demanding. I wasn’t much different as a child. I was the “entertainer”. I said/did things as a small child that most fathers would probably cringe at. My Daddy took it all in stride, usually laughing at how witty I was for my age. Here are a few early examples I either remember or have been retold to me…
• When I was 2 or 3, our dog died in the backyard. So that my brother and I didn’t really have to see or deal with it, my Dad very lovingly put the dog in a black trash bag, called someone to pick it up, and put it out front. This was traumatic for all of us. I, however, would go around telling everyone that my Daddy had put my dog in a trash bag and thrown it away. People were appalled…His response – he gave me the nickname “Jabberjaws” because my jaws were always jabbering about something.
• We got a new dog. My Mom and I picked it up and were going to “surprise” my dad and brother with it when they got home from work and school. Of course, my parents had already talked about it and Dad had agreed to it but I didn’t know that. He comes home and I run to greet him with this tiny puppy in my arms. In an attempt to “kid” with me, he acted like he didn’t want the dog and that we needed to get in the car to take the dog back. As the story is told, I gently set the puppy at my feet, looked up at him with my loving blue eyes and said, “I’ll get your gun and shoot you.” His response – laughter and jokes about the hierarchy of importance in my life. We had that dog for 14 years.
• He was watching TV but I wanted him to watch my cartwheel or listen to me or something. With all the sass a 4 year old can muster, I walked over, turned the TV off, put my hand on my hip, looked him square in the eye and said, “I said LISTEN.”…and he did
The stories go on and on…during my teen years, some of them weren’t so funny, but my dad’s response never varied too much.
He has always provided for my needs (and taught me the difference between a need and a want). He has always delighted in my accomplishments (and helped pick me up when I failed). He has always encouraged me to do more or go further (even when I expected little of myself). He has always helped teach me how to do the things he wants me to do (and then worked beside me as I try). He has always disciplined me with love (and not held an account of my bad behavior). He has always found the good in me (even when there wasn’t much good to be found). He has always embraced my personality (even though it can be obnoxious and critical at times). He has always found the humor in my antics (even though they can be annoying and inconvenient). He has always made me feel valued and valuable (even when I didn’t value myself). He has always been there (even when I pushed him away).
Although my Daddy is far from perfect, there are things that I have learned about my heavenly Father because of my earthly father. I don’t think he set out to “teach” me these things…but he did…and I have learned that all the things I love and appreciate about my Daddy are mere shadows of the abundant love of MY FATHER.
I will always be Daddy’s girl…but in the process of becoming not me, I am learning to embrace my role as my heavenly DADDY’s girl just as much…
From what seems like the very beginning, I was Daddy’s little girl. Don’t get me wrong: If I was hurt, sick, sad, or in need…I wanted my mommy. She was the caretaker, comforter, and person who made the world just right…but I was still Daddy’s little girl.
Maybe every girl who has a decent father feels this way, but I can remember from a very young age feeling as if I was his prize, his joy, the object of his affection and the capturer of his attention. He was the one that carried me on his shoulders. He was the one that let me model all of my new outfits. He was the one that I believed when he told me I was beautiful, smart, funny, and talented….somehow, it seemed that he got me in a way no one else did… and that connected us.
If you know me now, you know that I am sarcastic, cynical, comically animated, LOUD, and quite demanding. I wasn’t much different as a child. I was the “entertainer”. I said/did things as a small child that most fathers would probably cringe at. My Daddy took it all in stride, usually laughing at how witty I was for my age. Here are a few early examples I either remember or have been retold to me…
• When I was 2 or 3, our dog died in the backyard. So that my brother and I didn’t really have to see or deal with it, my Dad very lovingly put the dog in a black trash bag, called someone to pick it up, and put it out front. This was traumatic for all of us. I, however, would go around telling everyone that my Daddy had put my dog in a trash bag and thrown it away. People were appalled…His response – he gave me the nickname “Jabberjaws” because my jaws were always jabbering about something.
• We got a new dog. My Mom and I picked it up and were going to “surprise” my dad and brother with it when they got home from work and school. Of course, my parents had already talked about it and Dad had agreed to it but I didn’t know that. He comes home and I run to greet him with this tiny puppy in my arms. In an attempt to “kid” with me, he acted like he didn’t want the dog and that we needed to get in the car to take the dog back. As the story is told, I gently set the puppy at my feet, looked up at him with my loving blue eyes and said, “I’ll get your gun and shoot you.” His response – laughter and jokes about the hierarchy of importance in my life. We had that dog for 14 years.
• He was watching TV but I wanted him to watch my cartwheel or listen to me or something. With all the sass a 4 year old can muster, I walked over, turned the TV off, put my hand on my hip, looked him square in the eye and said, “I said LISTEN.”…and he did
The stories go on and on…during my teen years, some of them weren’t so funny, but my dad’s response never varied too much.
He has always provided for my needs (and taught me the difference between a need and a want). He has always delighted in my accomplishments (and helped pick me up when I failed). He has always encouraged me to do more or go further (even when I expected little of myself). He has always helped teach me how to do the things he wants me to do (and then worked beside me as I try). He has always disciplined me with love (and not held an account of my bad behavior). He has always found the good in me (even when there wasn’t much good to be found). He has always embraced my personality (even though it can be obnoxious and critical at times). He has always found the humor in my antics (even though they can be annoying and inconvenient). He has always made me feel valued and valuable (even when I didn’t value myself). He has always been there (even when I pushed him away).
Although my Daddy is far from perfect, there are things that I have learned about my heavenly Father because of my earthly father. I don’t think he set out to “teach” me these things…but he did…and I have learned that all the things I love and appreciate about my Daddy are mere shadows of the abundant love of MY FATHER.
I will always be Daddy’s girl…but in the process of becoming not me, I am learning to embrace my role as my heavenly DADDY’s girl just as much…
Monday, May 10, 2010
I still hate Mother's Day
This will be a little break in my chronological ponderings just because it’s fresh in my mind. I would have written and posted this yesterday (on Mother’s Day), but I felt it would be sacrilegious and irreverent so I delayed my rantings and ponderings until today. My hope is that this will make everyone more mindful of how they celebrate…if they chose to continue to celebrate…
As a young child, I loved Mother’s Day. It was a day I spent hours preparing for by making ridiculous cards, helping Dad pick out an outfit to buy for my mom, and helping cook food that was probably barely edible. I would gather bouquets of flowers out of my mom’s garden and present them to her in either a Dixie cup or wrapped in a paper towel. She always joyously received whatever various gifts my brother and I gathered for her, even though the gift may have absolutely ruined her garden, kitchen table, or living room carpet. We would spend every Mother’s Day at our church, which my maternal grandmother also attended and then have lunch at my grandmother’s house with what seemed to be all my family. It was always a great day until…
We moved 8 hours away from my family when I was 8 years old. That was the first year I saw my mom be robbed of her joy on Mother’s Day and somehow that robbed the joy for us as well. No one except us knew it or felt it. She appeared strong, happy, and satisfied but it didn’t seem to matter how much we gave her, did for her or loved on her, joy could not be found for her on that day because she could not celebrate with her mother on that day. She still gave us heartfelt thanks. She still embraced us with loving arms. She was still the most amazing and gracious mother on that day, but she was missing her mother and we were too. It was only a foreshadowing of the pain that would come when I was 13 and my grandmother (whom I will do a post about later) went on to be with the Lord. If I thought Mother’s Day was difficult when we moved, it became heartbreaking after my grandmother died. The first Mother’s Day after my grandmother died was filled with the most obvious attempt to cheer her. My brother and I (both teenagers) had forgotten to order her a corsage so we bought some flowers at the grocery store and stayed up pretty much all night trying to make one. I know without a doubt that it was hideous. I’m sure we broke all the flower color etiquette for Mother’s Day corsages. But it brought us together and lightened her heavy heart at least for a little while. Although pleasant and “happy”, there was always pain in my mom’s eyes and voice…and that would last for years to come. She still chokes up about my grandmother on Mother’s Day…so it’s bittersweet for her and those that love her.
For me, though, Mother’s Day became a personal struggle. For nearly 10 years of married life, I watched as everyone around me had children of their own, all the while doubting that the privilege would ever be mine…and Mother’s Day was the world’s cruel and inescapable reminder. Although there were many days of heartbreak during those 10 years over not having a child, Mother’s Day was by far the hardest to stomach. On that day, my arms felt emptier, my mind questioned further, and my heart sank deeper. It was the one day of the year I didn’t want to see anyone, but as the good minister’s wife, I would put on my game face and sit while all the other women stood to be honored. As the good sister-in-law, I would give warmest wishes with a smile on my face and deep angst in my heart…
And then came my beloved little boy, Matthew. That should have cured all of my issues with Mother’s Day. After all, my day had finally come. While there was joy on that first Mother’s Day (and every one since) for me, there remained an overwhelming amount of sorrow. I now had this precious child, but I knew the deep pain felt by those who couldn’t really celebrate this day for one reason or another.
For some, Mother’s Day is a stark reminder of what they long for but do not have. For others, Mother’s Day is the realization that their mother is not a mother that deserves to be celebrated. And for still others, Mother’s Day is the piercing celebration of a person they have lost, most tragically for children and teens. Just imagine at church the junior in high school who has recently lost her mother listening to lesson on honoring your mother or the 5th grader watching in silent agony as her class makes a Mother's Day present. Why would we do this to those precious, hurting children? Why would we do this to anyone?
During my walk through life, I have come alongside people from all three categories and although there is now joy for me, I weep for them. For all of these, Mother’s Day is unsalvageable. While the rest of the world celebrates, they smile but wither from within.
Early on, my distaste for all things Mother’s Day was a cynical coping mechanism to deal with my own unfulfilled longing but that is no longer the case. In the process of becoming not me, my selfish bitterness has been turned into a genuine brokenness for others.
Mother’s Day has finally ceased to be about me in the process of becoming not me…
As a young child, I loved Mother’s Day. It was a day I spent hours preparing for by making ridiculous cards, helping Dad pick out an outfit to buy for my mom, and helping cook food that was probably barely edible. I would gather bouquets of flowers out of my mom’s garden and present them to her in either a Dixie cup or wrapped in a paper towel. She always joyously received whatever various gifts my brother and I gathered for her, even though the gift may have absolutely ruined her garden, kitchen table, or living room carpet. We would spend every Mother’s Day at our church, which my maternal grandmother also attended and then have lunch at my grandmother’s house with what seemed to be all my family. It was always a great day until…
We moved 8 hours away from my family when I was 8 years old. That was the first year I saw my mom be robbed of her joy on Mother’s Day and somehow that robbed the joy for us as well. No one except us knew it or felt it. She appeared strong, happy, and satisfied but it didn’t seem to matter how much we gave her, did for her or loved on her, joy could not be found for her on that day because she could not celebrate with her mother on that day. She still gave us heartfelt thanks. She still embraced us with loving arms. She was still the most amazing and gracious mother on that day, but she was missing her mother and we were too. It was only a foreshadowing of the pain that would come when I was 13 and my grandmother (whom I will do a post about later) went on to be with the Lord. If I thought Mother’s Day was difficult when we moved, it became heartbreaking after my grandmother died. The first Mother’s Day after my grandmother died was filled with the most obvious attempt to cheer her. My brother and I (both teenagers) had forgotten to order her a corsage so we bought some flowers at the grocery store and stayed up pretty much all night trying to make one. I know without a doubt that it was hideous. I’m sure we broke all the flower color etiquette for Mother’s Day corsages. But it brought us together and lightened her heavy heart at least for a little while. Although pleasant and “happy”, there was always pain in my mom’s eyes and voice…and that would last for years to come. She still chokes up about my grandmother on Mother’s Day…so it’s bittersweet for her and those that love her.
For me, though, Mother’s Day became a personal struggle. For nearly 10 years of married life, I watched as everyone around me had children of their own, all the while doubting that the privilege would ever be mine…and Mother’s Day was the world’s cruel and inescapable reminder. Although there were many days of heartbreak during those 10 years over not having a child, Mother’s Day was by far the hardest to stomach. On that day, my arms felt emptier, my mind questioned further, and my heart sank deeper. It was the one day of the year I didn’t want to see anyone, but as the good minister’s wife, I would put on my game face and sit while all the other women stood to be honored. As the good sister-in-law, I would give warmest wishes with a smile on my face and deep angst in my heart…
And then came my beloved little boy, Matthew. That should have cured all of my issues with Mother’s Day. After all, my day had finally come. While there was joy on that first Mother’s Day (and every one since) for me, there remained an overwhelming amount of sorrow. I now had this precious child, but I knew the deep pain felt by those who couldn’t really celebrate this day for one reason or another.
For some, Mother’s Day is a stark reminder of what they long for but do not have. For others, Mother’s Day is the realization that their mother is not a mother that deserves to be celebrated. And for still others, Mother’s Day is the piercing celebration of a person they have lost, most tragically for children and teens. Just imagine at church the junior in high school who has recently lost her mother listening to lesson on honoring your mother or the 5th grader watching in silent agony as her class makes a Mother's Day present. Why would we do this to those precious, hurting children? Why would we do this to anyone?
During my walk through life, I have come alongside people from all three categories and although there is now joy for me, I weep for them. For all of these, Mother’s Day is unsalvageable. While the rest of the world celebrates, they smile but wither from within.
Early on, my distaste for all things Mother’s Day was a cynical coping mechanism to deal with my own unfulfilled longing but that is no longer the case. In the process of becoming not me, my selfish bitterness has been turned into a genuine brokenness for others.
Mother’s Day has finally ceased to be about me in the process of becoming not me…
Thursday, May 6, 2010
the arrival
It should be noted from the beginning that I do not consider myself to be a great writer, philosopher, theologian or storyteller. If you are here looking for any of that, you should probably find another blog. I am simply a person whose thoughts are relentlessly wondering, an insomniac that composes ceaselessly in her head at night as she lays in bed, a constant thinker…or overthinker.
I set out to post once a week. It hasn’t been a week yet, but my mind has been in overdrive, absolutely flooded with ideas, thoughts, ponderings…so I am compelled to write in a way that almost seems like I HAVE to in order to silence the composition in my head.
I didn’t know quite where to begin making sense of this life that’s been given to me, but an honest friend of mine encouraged me to begin at the start and work my way from there…so here we go.
the arrival
It doesn’t get any more “beginning” than birth. (I guess it does, but no one wants to think about that!) Over the years, I have pieced together in my mind the stories different people have shared with me throughout the entirety of my life thus far regarding my birth. In a word, I would describe my grand arrival into this world as contradictory, a birth idiom of sorts. Not that people have conflicting stories of my actual birth but that certain things in my birth seemed to be in direct contradiction to other things.
I’ll start simply…I was two weeks late. On my birthday, my mom went to the hospital in the mid-morning because of her contractions. The doctors assured her that I would not come on that day and sent her home. Of course, I arrived late that evening, beating the clock just to prove them wrong. Did even my birth foreshadow some realities of the way I would live out my life? I am typically running late, not usually two weeks late, but late nonetheless. BUT if someone verbalizes a “challenge” to beat, I am sure to rise to the occasion. In general, if you want me to do something then you should tell me that you doubt I can actually do it. I can almost guarantee it will get done.
I was born with red hair that quickly all fell out to be replaced with tufts of hair so blonde that it was practically invisible. I’m not one to classify personalities or attitudes by hair color, especially not in this day and age where most people can’t accurately describe their natural hair color. BUT if I had to box my personality or attitude into a hair color, I would say I am a redhead at heart. I am fiery, passionate, stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed, temperamental, and intellectually driven. Aren’t blondes supposed to be lighthearted, ditzy, fickle, and flighty? Born a redhead but naturally a blonde…Is there really a redhead hidden deeply beneath my goldilocks mane?
Upon my grand entrance, I was…silent. Our family joke is that my birth was probably the last time I was actually silent. The doctor gave me the not so gentle nudge and my response was the loudest cry those in the room claim they have ever heard. Loud would be something used to describe me from that day forward. My voice carries out of my small 5 ft 2 in frame in a magnitude even I can’t comprehend but can certainly appreciate. I was once described as “little person…HUGE voice.” I embrace it.
I was born almost exactly a year to the day that my mom miscarried her second child. It’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I think only people who have experienced the birth of one child so closely after the loss of another can actually grasp what I’m about to say. I know without question that my mom was overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t for a moment doubt her love, BUT I have often wondered if there weren’t mixed emotions on that day. Was the relief of hearing my piercing birth cry accompanied with angst over the child she never heard? Was the fulfillment she experienced from holding me in her arms accompanied with the emptiness of a child never held? When she named me, did she long to say the lost child’s name as well? Did the rawness of her joy make the pain of her loss all the more real? I’ve never really discussed anything with her about the lost child other than the straight facts. In her mind, I think she would fear that I would feel somehow less. But this could not be less true. Even if she were split emotionally on that day, it would not diminish the genuineness of her joy and love for me that was lived out every day since then.
I was born on Easter. It’s a fact that I loved as a child and love even more as I grow up. As a child, I liked to use in “two truths and a lie” type games. Even people who knew me and knew me well would pick it as a lie. After all, how often is Easter in March? Not often. So, why is this contradictory? Easter for most people I know is an excuse to get a new outfit, eat some chocolate bunnies, take a picture with the creepy mall Easter bunny, and dye and hunt some eggs. I would guess probably most families, even on March 26, 1978, celebrated Easter in that way. Most of my Easters would be spent in such fashion, but not that one. For my family, that Easter was about change and new life…the same would happen on another Easter (story coming later). The only son became the big brother. The parents of one were introduced to the world of having a girl and life would be different.
Never one to overanalyze…I realize that God even had a purpose in having my arrival occur on Easter. He knew that to constantly humble me; I would need to be reminded that even the day of my birth wasn’t about me but was instead about Jesus…and that every day in between birthdays is really about Him too. He knew that as I walked through the difficulties of this life, I would need to be reminded of the reality that the day of my birth was really a day celebrating His victory over death…and that when death or loss or pain or angst or uncertainty loomed over me, I could cling to the truth that He is victorious over it all.
It was my start in the process of becoming not me…
I set out to post once a week. It hasn’t been a week yet, but my mind has been in overdrive, absolutely flooded with ideas, thoughts, ponderings…so I am compelled to write in a way that almost seems like I HAVE to in order to silence the composition in my head.
I didn’t know quite where to begin making sense of this life that’s been given to me, but an honest friend of mine encouraged me to begin at the start and work my way from there…so here we go.
the arrival
It doesn’t get any more “beginning” than birth. (I guess it does, but no one wants to think about that!) Over the years, I have pieced together in my mind the stories different people have shared with me throughout the entirety of my life thus far regarding my birth. In a word, I would describe my grand arrival into this world as contradictory, a birth idiom of sorts. Not that people have conflicting stories of my actual birth but that certain things in my birth seemed to be in direct contradiction to other things.
I’ll start simply…I was two weeks late. On my birthday, my mom went to the hospital in the mid-morning because of her contractions. The doctors assured her that I would not come on that day and sent her home. Of course, I arrived late that evening, beating the clock just to prove them wrong. Did even my birth foreshadow some realities of the way I would live out my life? I am typically running late, not usually two weeks late, but late nonetheless. BUT if someone verbalizes a “challenge” to beat, I am sure to rise to the occasion. In general, if you want me to do something then you should tell me that you doubt I can actually do it. I can almost guarantee it will get done.
I was born with red hair that quickly all fell out to be replaced with tufts of hair so blonde that it was practically invisible. I’m not one to classify personalities or attitudes by hair color, especially not in this day and age where most people can’t accurately describe their natural hair color. BUT if I had to box my personality or attitude into a hair color, I would say I am a redhead at heart. I am fiery, passionate, stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed, temperamental, and intellectually driven. Aren’t blondes supposed to be lighthearted, ditzy, fickle, and flighty? Born a redhead but naturally a blonde…Is there really a redhead hidden deeply beneath my goldilocks mane?
Upon my grand entrance, I was…silent. Our family joke is that my birth was probably the last time I was actually silent. The doctor gave me the not so gentle nudge and my response was the loudest cry those in the room claim they have ever heard. Loud would be something used to describe me from that day forward. My voice carries out of my small 5 ft 2 in frame in a magnitude even I can’t comprehend but can certainly appreciate. I was once described as “little person…HUGE voice.” I embrace it.
I was born almost exactly a year to the day that my mom miscarried her second child. It’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I think only people who have experienced the birth of one child so closely after the loss of another can actually grasp what I’m about to say. I know without question that my mom was overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t for a moment doubt her love, BUT I have often wondered if there weren’t mixed emotions on that day. Was the relief of hearing my piercing birth cry accompanied with angst over the child she never heard? Was the fulfillment she experienced from holding me in her arms accompanied with the emptiness of a child never held? When she named me, did she long to say the lost child’s name as well? Did the rawness of her joy make the pain of her loss all the more real? I’ve never really discussed anything with her about the lost child other than the straight facts. In her mind, I think she would fear that I would feel somehow less. But this could not be less true. Even if she were split emotionally on that day, it would not diminish the genuineness of her joy and love for me that was lived out every day since then.
I was born on Easter. It’s a fact that I loved as a child and love even more as I grow up. As a child, I liked to use in “two truths and a lie” type games. Even people who knew me and knew me well would pick it as a lie. After all, how often is Easter in March? Not often. So, why is this contradictory? Easter for most people I know is an excuse to get a new outfit, eat some chocolate bunnies, take a picture with the creepy mall Easter bunny, and dye and hunt some eggs. I would guess probably most families, even on March 26, 1978, celebrated Easter in that way. Most of my Easters would be spent in such fashion, but not that one. For my family, that Easter was about change and new life…the same would happen on another Easter (story coming later). The only son became the big brother. The parents of one were introduced to the world of having a girl and life would be different.
Never one to overanalyze…I realize that God even had a purpose in having my arrival occur on Easter. He knew that to constantly humble me; I would need to be reminded that even the day of my birth wasn’t about me but was instead about Jesus…and that every day in between birthdays is really about Him too. He knew that as I walked through the difficulties of this life, I would need to be reminded of the reality that the day of my birth was really a day celebrating His victory over death…and that when death or loss or pain or angst or uncertainty loomed over me, I could cling to the truth that He is victorious over it all.
It was my start in the process of becoming not me…
Sunday, May 2, 2010
here i am
Like ALL of my friends, I tried to start a blog when my son joined our little family so everyone could stay updated to all the glory of our life together...I made one post and never returned to the site. I don't know why, but I wasn't passionate about it. I would much rather cuddle my wonderful miracle than write about him...
So, here I am two years later with a "different" type of blog. Although my family will most certainly be a highlight of my blog because they are such an integral part of my life, they won't be the focus...at least not for awhile.
After cleaning out, I have come to the disappointing realization that I have a tendency to write thoughts, revelations, questions, poems, rantings, and so forth on scraps of paper and in random journals. For some reason, I feel compelled to string them all together in one place now to help me make sense of my story...to see where I've been and where I'm going.
This blog will be my story of how God has and continues to weave my life, heart, and circumstances together to make me something different altogether. It may be filled with life stories, apologies, confessions, convictions, poems, soapbox rantings, songs, and even ponderings from scripture...I'm not really sure right now, but I long to make sense of it all, to see it tie together, to be authentic, to be challenged, and to be changed.
After all, anyone can be who they were but I'm in the process of becoming not me...
So, here I am two years later with a "different" type of blog. Although my family will most certainly be a highlight of my blog because they are such an integral part of my life, they won't be the focus...at least not for awhile.
After cleaning out, I have come to the disappointing realization that I have a tendency to write thoughts, revelations, questions, poems, rantings, and so forth on scraps of paper and in random journals. For some reason, I feel compelled to string them all together in one place now to help me make sense of my story...to see where I've been and where I'm going.
This blog will be my story of how God has and continues to weave my life, heart, and circumstances together to make me something different altogether. It may be filled with life stories, apologies, confessions, convictions, poems, soapbox rantings, songs, and even ponderings from scripture...I'm not really sure right now, but I long to make sense of it all, to see it tie together, to be authentic, to be challenged, and to be changed.
After all, anyone can be who they were but I'm in the process of becoming not me...
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