I'm just going to start this post out with a revelation that is so simple but so true: God wants you to be happy. Truly, deeply, radically happy. Down to the marrow of your bones. He desires for your natural state to be one of pure, child-like joy. As Eastern traditions phrase it, He wants you to be "in bliss." Really, He does.
To clarify: that does not mean He wants you to be rich, powerful, famous or even particularly successful. He could not care less if you are popular. He doesn't rate your productivity and dole out joy in relation to your output. In fact, if your modus operandi is the pursuit of the above-listed goals, you are probably pretty miserable. I'm not saying you don't have your moments, but more likely than not you are most often stressed out and dissatisfied. At least I was.
I lived the majority of my life exercising my Constitutional right to pursue happiness. In my younger, wilder days this involved mostly the pursuit of selfish pleasure which, I promise you, ironically leads to abject misery and possibly suicidal depression. I had lots of money and a successful career: unhappy. Lots of friends: still unhappy. Lots of stuff: unhappy, unhappy, unhappy.
I'm not talking about the fleeting sensation of happiness. I enjoyed lots of that; I had good times. What I'm talking about is how you feel when you wake up in the morning, even when there are challenges in your life. How you feel when you are stuck in a traffic jam or inconvenienced in some other way. If you feel despair, anger, or irritability more often than not then, no matter how much fun you are having, you're not really, truly happy. To put it another way: if your happiness is dependent on your circumstances, then you are not experiencing joy and bliss on the level you could be. On the level God wants you to be. On the level you were made to be.
Don't believe you were made to experience joy everyday? Blow some bubbles for a toddler. Really, go to the dollar store, pick up some bubble stuff and, if you don't have your own young child, visit a friend's. Blow and observe. That is who you are, deep down inside, who you were created to be. After all, Jesus said the kingdom of heaven belongs to little children. That delight, that wonder can be yours again.
I know because I live in delight and from a worldly perspective, I shouldn't. I don't have very much money (to put it mildly) though I have many debts to repay. My life is far from glamorous. My child, who I loved as if he was my heart itself, is dead. I could go on, but I think that is enough to cause most people to complain or be unhappy. But, as I was driving down the highway yesterday morning, I realized that when I'm in neutral, not really thinking about anything in particular, just sort of hanging out and "being," I'm really crazy happy. Deep down joyful.
I don't worry about stuff any more. I don't fret and if I find myself doing so I am pretty good at cutting it out. I have momentary irritations but they resolve quickly. I don't dislike anyone. People get on my nerves less and less. Things make me smile. I notice how pretty trees and clouds are. I know it may sound corny, but it's true and I want to share it. Because in a season where people tend to be busy, stressed out and downright mean (for example, check out some Yahoo! footage from Black Friday... eek!), my home is peaceful and filled with a contagious joy.
What did I do to achieve such a state, you might ask? I stopped "doing" anything. I took God's nudging and put on the brakes. I got still and knew that He was God. I spent a lot of time breathing. I stopped systematically going down my prayer list and just got quiet and lifted up my heart to Him. I didn't get up early to do this. I didn't find time away from my kids. I did it while I was driving to the store, as I drifted off to sleep at night, while I gave the kids a bath. I stopped having rules for my spiritual pursuit of happiness and started just being spiritual whenever I thought of it, just thanking God while I did the dishes.
This isn't the first time in my life that I've come to this realization. I think, actually, it's the third or fourth. But it's nice to know it never loses its efficacy. That if you lose your serenity it is always re-attainable. Because I'm really, seriously, at peace again. I'm goofy with happiness. I'm floating around on a little pink cloud, Buddy-the-Elf style. And while my feelings are hurt-able, I'm not ever off course for long.
Another amazing thing that is happening is, now that I'm in this state of bliss, I find myself doing more. Effortlessly and from desire, rather than obligation. I cooked a huge Thanksgiving meal from scratch with tiny children underfoot and loved every minute of it. I reorganized my closet and it was fun (really, it was). I'm having a great time writing this blog post. I'm not trying harder; I'm praying more and God is doing more. I'm less of me and more of Him and it's stinking awesome.
So let go and let God. Be still and know that HE IS. Psalm 37:4 says, "Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart." I'm here to testify that it is true! Spend time with Him and you'll discover that it is so easy to delight in Him; He's delightful. Burn your to-do list, shoot your TV. Take sick leave if you have to and get with God. You don't need fancy meditation, just sit with Him and breathe His name. He's going to delight your heart and fulfill every desire. My heart's desires were to walk in faith, to have a peaceful home, and to be happy. Voila! Done, done, done. I also desire to raise my children to love and serve Him, to share His love with others who do not know Him or could know Him better, to pay off my debts, and to provide a healthy lifestyle (food, exercise, environment) for myself and my family. I don't have to do anything to achieve these goals. I'm just going to continue to delight in Him, to seek His will, and these things will be added unto me. It's happening already and it's going to continue. The desire in my heart to take the actions necessary on my part will grow and grow until it's harder not to do these things than it is to do them. I don't want a bowl of cereal anymore (those who know me well will recognize this as a miracle); I want to bake a loaf of homemade bread and cook a strata. I don't want to go shopping and accumulate more stuff (another miracle); I want to go for a walk in the park with the people I love best. I'm serious. It's happening and I'm loving it. I'm loving Him, I'm loving you (really, I am; whoever you are out there), and I'm loving life. Join me; let's get blissed together.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Time
Having children is terribly inconvenient sometimes. There are so many things I would like to accomplish, so many gorgeous little DIY projects I see on Pinterest that I think I might actually be able to create. They do not care that I had images of Martha Stewart dancing through my head as I planned this year's Thanksgiving meal. No, they decided it was a great time to get the flu. And to pass it on. There is just no reasoning with them.
So now as I sit trying to write a blog post, there is a charming little girl wallowing in my lap whining, "Mommy, I want more cookies." There is a suspiciously quiet little boy somewhere in the house no doubt undoing some of my previous tidying if not worse. In the time it took for me to type those sentences, Baby Girl left my lap and I caught her about to add her own embellishments to our ottoman with a pen she swiped from the desk. Artistic endeavor thwarted, she is back begging for cookies.
It's times like these that I really need a break or at the very least a nap. My flu is lingering longer than theirs did because I do not have the time or ability to rest. The endless cups of echinacea tea and the soothing baths upon my husband's return from work are lovely respites but no exchange for the hours of undisturbed slumber that I crave. Add on top of all of this that all I have done by way of Thanksgiving preparation is to move my turkey from the freezer to the fridge, you will see that I have something of a problem.
Or do I? I remember once when Eddie was sick. It was a similar situation, flu symptoms that he happily shared. Sleepless nights, fatigue heightened by a sense of helpless worry. As now, it was a few weeks before Christmas and my mind was on the holidays ahead. His timing was inconvenient and, what was worse, I was beginning to feel the onset of illness myself.
Toward the end of the evening, I really needed a break. Needed to get out of the house. Eddie was lying on our living room floor on a blanket, surrounded by toys as always. I was headed out to the store to get something that seemed essential at the time, something in the "bread, milk, toilet paper" kind of category. As I neared the door, Eddie turned toward me and with his cutest Cabbage-Patch smile, patted the top of his "Where's Elmo?" peek a boo book.
Let me make something clear. Eddie didn't just like his big, puffy cloth "Where's Elmo?" peek a boo book. He loved it. I had read that book and lifted those flaps more times than I can possibly count. I had seen a variation on his wordless request time and time again. And I needed a break. So, I passed. I told him Mommy had to go to the store but that Daddy would read it to him, which he began to do as I was leaving.
When I came home thirty minutes later, Eddie was asleep in his crib and I had a fever. I slept on the couch that night so I wouldn't make Phillip sick or Eddie sicker. When I got up to check on him the next morning, he was gray and hardly breathing. Phillip and I rushed him to the ER. In the car I had to hold him forward, out of his car seat, so that he could breathe. As I gently urged him, "Breathe, baby" Phillip's foot got steadily heavier and heavier on the gas pedal.
We were rushed into the back immediately and they began to bag him, or manually help him breathe. After a flurry of questions and answers, he was admitted, sedated and put on a respirator. He then spent the next thirteen days in the PICU in a medically induced coma from which he was never expected to awaken. (I wrote about this PICU stay in my post "The Sprinter" if you would like to find out more details.)
While Eddie was out and while his prognosis worsened, I kept seeing the same image in my head again and again. That beautiful little smile, those sparkling little eyes, as he patted the top of his favorite book, asking me to read to him. I cried about it; I agonized over it. What would it have taken for me to delay my trip to the store by ten minutes? To watch his eyes light up, the delight on his face as we "found" his Sesame Street friends one last time. I prayed that God would give me a second chance to have that moment with my baby boy. That the last smile I saw from him not be right before the moment that I had said that I didn't have time to spend with him.
Thank God, Eddie didn't die in PICU. We had dozens if not hundreds of more occasions to read "Where's Elmo?" together. I got to see that Cabbage Patch grin again and again. I got to remember that no matter how tired I was, no matter how long the day had been, that I was lucky to have time with him. That every single moment was precious, no matter what.
So, I don't have a problem. I have blessings. Two of them that are feeling better and therefore tearing the house apart. That are whiny, unreasonable, demanding and wonderful. They can't imagine that my time has any greater purpose than being spent with them and in some ways they are right. Chances are they will outlive me, but there is no guarantee of that. Even if they do, they won't always be in my lap, asking for a cookie. Before I know it, it will be drivers licenses and prom dates, then colleges and careers, hopefully marriage and their own families. The time I have with them now is precious and ticking away. So it doesn't matter that it has taken me the better part of the hour to write this short post. It has been time well spent.
So now as I sit trying to write a blog post, there is a charming little girl wallowing in my lap whining, "Mommy, I want more cookies." There is a suspiciously quiet little boy somewhere in the house no doubt undoing some of my previous tidying if not worse. In the time it took for me to type those sentences, Baby Girl left my lap and I caught her about to add her own embellishments to our ottoman with a pen she swiped from the desk. Artistic endeavor thwarted, she is back begging for cookies.
It's times like these that I really need a break or at the very least a nap. My flu is lingering longer than theirs did because I do not have the time or ability to rest. The endless cups of echinacea tea and the soothing baths upon my husband's return from work are lovely respites but no exchange for the hours of undisturbed slumber that I crave. Add on top of all of this that all I have done by way of Thanksgiving preparation is to move my turkey from the freezer to the fridge, you will see that I have something of a problem.
Or do I? I remember once when Eddie was sick. It was a similar situation, flu symptoms that he happily shared. Sleepless nights, fatigue heightened by a sense of helpless worry. As now, it was a few weeks before Christmas and my mind was on the holidays ahead. His timing was inconvenient and, what was worse, I was beginning to feel the onset of illness myself.
Toward the end of the evening, I really needed a break. Needed to get out of the house. Eddie was lying on our living room floor on a blanket, surrounded by toys as always. I was headed out to the store to get something that seemed essential at the time, something in the "bread, milk, toilet paper" kind of category. As I neared the door, Eddie turned toward me and with his cutest Cabbage-Patch smile, patted the top of his "Where's Elmo?" peek a boo book.
Let me make something clear. Eddie didn't just like his big, puffy cloth "Where's Elmo?" peek a boo book. He loved it. I had read that book and lifted those flaps more times than I can possibly count. I had seen a variation on his wordless request time and time again. And I needed a break. So, I passed. I told him Mommy had to go to the store but that Daddy would read it to him, which he began to do as I was leaving.
When I came home thirty minutes later, Eddie was asleep in his crib and I had a fever. I slept on the couch that night so I wouldn't make Phillip sick or Eddie sicker. When I got up to check on him the next morning, he was gray and hardly breathing. Phillip and I rushed him to the ER. In the car I had to hold him forward, out of his car seat, so that he could breathe. As I gently urged him, "Breathe, baby" Phillip's foot got steadily heavier and heavier on the gas pedal.
We were rushed into the back immediately and they began to bag him, or manually help him breathe. After a flurry of questions and answers, he was admitted, sedated and put on a respirator. He then spent the next thirteen days in the PICU in a medically induced coma from which he was never expected to awaken. (I wrote about this PICU stay in my post "The Sprinter" if you would like to find out more details.)
While Eddie was out and while his prognosis worsened, I kept seeing the same image in my head again and again. That beautiful little smile, those sparkling little eyes, as he patted the top of his favorite book, asking me to read to him. I cried about it; I agonized over it. What would it have taken for me to delay my trip to the store by ten minutes? To watch his eyes light up, the delight on his face as we "found" his Sesame Street friends one last time. I prayed that God would give me a second chance to have that moment with my baby boy. That the last smile I saw from him not be right before the moment that I had said that I didn't have time to spend with him.
Thank God, Eddie didn't die in PICU. We had dozens if not hundreds of more occasions to read "Where's Elmo?" together. I got to see that Cabbage Patch grin again and again. I got to remember that no matter how tired I was, no matter how long the day had been, that I was lucky to have time with him. That every single moment was precious, no matter what.
So, I don't have a problem. I have blessings. Two of them that are feeling better and therefore tearing the house apart. That are whiny, unreasonable, demanding and wonderful. They can't imagine that my time has any greater purpose than being spent with them and in some ways they are right. Chances are they will outlive me, but there is no guarantee of that. Even if they do, they won't always be in my lap, asking for a cookie. Before I know it, it will be drivers licenses and prom dates, then colleges and careers, hopefully marriage and their own families. The time I have with them now is precious and ticking away. So it doesn't matter that it has taken me the better part of the hour to write this short post. It has been time well spent.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
A Thursday Sabbath
Wow! It has been a long time since my last blog post. Apologies to those who look forward to them. Time got away from me.
In fact, I haven't been managing my time very well lately. I have felt caught up in a cyclone of activities. It seems that every day there is something on the schedule to do: school, birthday parties, church events. I haven't taken the time to just sit, to just be, and for me this can be lethal. Being busy is good in many ways; it is distracting to be sure. But I find that when I'm busy-busy, I lose touch with God. He hasn't gone anywhere; I just can't sense His presence or hear His voice because there is far too much noise in my heart and in my head.
When I start to feel separated, unable to sense God's will in any given circumstance, I start to panic. This is extremely unhelpful. It is similar to asthma. When I have an asthma attack, the worst thing I can do is panic. It makes breathing all the more difficult. I know when I'm suddenly alarmingly short of breath (or out of it altogether) that I need to calm down, relax and try to breathe deeply. It is the same thing with my "spiritual asthma" if you will. When I am short on God and I panic, it makes getting into the quiet, peaceful place where He is always waiting for us all the more difficult. You never see someone meditating and hyperventilating at the same time and there is a reason for that. God meets us when we are still.
Don't get me wrong. He can meet us in our panic. He can do anything He wants. But I have found that most often He wants us to get still and quiet to draw near to Him. And I wasn't doing that very well. Although I had already decreased my activities significantly, there was still more and more that "needed" to be done. I was freaking out. So as another busy weekend began, I felt ill-prepared and irritable.
Friday was another activity filled day. We spent a wonderful Saturday with my stepdaughters at the zoo in Waco. Toward the end of our visit, Baby Boy fell on the playground and hurt his mouth and teeth pretty badly. So the hour and a half ride home was less than pleasant; he had a sore mouth and was sad to leave his sisters. The Operation Christmas Child Thanksgiving potluck our Life Group has every year was scheduled for Sunday. We had been so busy over the weekend that we had not prepared for it at all. Nothing to cook for the potluck, nothing to put in the boxes. We didn't even have ink in the printer to print out labels to accompany our boxes. We were completely unprepared.
The prospect of getting all of it done that evening was overwhelming. Both kids were tired; one of them was injured. I told my husband I just needed a day off on Sunday. I needed a Sabbath, a true day of rest. His lack of enthusiasm was palpable. We look forward to doing Operation Christmas Child all year long and we love the fellowship with our Life Group as well. It seemed inconceivable not to do it. But I was at the end of my rope. We shelved it, deciding we had time in the morning to take care of everything if we decided to go.
I awoke Sunday morning feeling like the world's biggest wet blanket. How could I have nixed our plans for the potluck? True, Baby Boy's lip was swollen and his tooth was loose. True, I was worn down to a frazzled little wire. But I could rally. It would be fun once we got there and I would be glad I pulled it all together. Anyway, Operation Christmas Child benefits underprivileged children and charity work is always a good idea. Right?
I have heard it said: "Not every good idea is a God idea." Baby Girl woke up with fever and, although I was sorry she was sick, I also breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I was in touch with God's will after all. Maybe it was time for us to opt out, even from something fun that we were looking forward to, in order to reconnect with Him and with each other. We took our Sunday as a true Sabbath, doing nothing but resting together as a family. Aside from the stress that accompanies a sick child, it was a pretty good day.
Yesterday was necessarily busy. I had to take care of a traffic ticket and take Baby Boy to the dentist to assess the damage from his fall at the zoo. But I could do it all calmly, because I was back in touch with the source of all peace, all serenity, all direction. Last night Baby Boy ran a fever so we could not go to school today. He awoke happy and healthy so I'm taking it as another Sabbath gift from God and despite the fact that there are lots of things we could do today, lots of busy little things that need to get done, I'm not going to do any of them. I'm going to read my Bible and praise God for His goodness. I'm going to snuggle my kids, build with blocks and color in a coloring book or two. I'm going to take lots of deep breaths and I'm not going to panic. Because God is good, all the time, and I'm going to be still and enjoy Him today.
In fact, I haven't been managing my time very well lately. I have felt caught up in a cyclone of activities. It seems that every day there is something on the schedule to do: school, birthday parties, church events. I haven't taken the time to just sit, to just be, and for me this can be lethal. Being busy is good in many ways; it is distracting to be sure. But I find that when I'm busy-busy, I lose touch with God. He hasn't gone anywhere; I just can't sense His presence or hear His voice because there is far too much noise in my heart and in my head.
When I start to feel separated, unable to sense God's will in any given circumstance, I start to panic. This is extremely unhelpful. It is similar to asthma. When I have an asthma attack, the worst thing I can do is panic. It makes breathing all the more difficult. I know when I'm suddenly alarmingly short of breath (or out of it altogether) that I need to calm down, relax and try to breathe deeply. It is the same thing with my "spiritual asthma" if you will. When I am short on God and I panic, it makes getting into the quiet, peaceful place where He is always waiting for us all the more difficult. You never see someone meditating and hyperventilating at the same time and there is a reason for that. God meets us when we are still.
Don't get me wrong. He can meet us in our panic. He can do anything He wants. But I have found that most often He wants us to get still and quiet to draw near to Him. And I wasn't doing that very well. Although I had already decreased my activities significantly, there was still more and more that "needed" to be done. I was freaking out. So as another busy weekend began, I felt ill-prepared and irritable.
Friday was another activity filled day. We spent a wonderful Saturday with my stepdaughters at the zoo in Waco. Toward the end of our visit, Baby Boy fell on the playground and hurt his mouth and teeth pretty badly. So the hour and a half ride home was less than pleasant; he had a sore mouth and was sad to leave his sisters. The Operation Christmas Child Thanksgiving potluck our Life Group has every year was scheduled for Sunday. We had been so busy over the weekend that we had not prepared for it at all. Nothing to cook for the potluck, nothing to put in the boxes. We didn't even have ink in the printer to print out labels to accompany our boxes. We were completely unprepared.
The prospect of getting all of it done that evening was overwhelming. Both kids were tired; one of them was injured. I told my husband I just needed a day off on Sunday. I needed a Sabbath, a true day of rest. His lack of enthusiasm was palpable. We look forward to doing Operation Christmas Child all year long and we love the fellowship with our Life Group as well. It seemed inconceivable not to do it. But I was at the end of my rope. We shelved it, deciding we had time in the morning to take care of everything if we decided to go.
I awoke Sunday morning feeling like the world's biggest wet blanket. How could I have nixed our plans for the potluck? True, Baby Boy's lip was swollen and his tooth was loose. True, I was worn down to a frazzled little wire. But I could rally. It would be fun once we got there and I would be glad I pulled it all together. Anyway, Operation Christmas Child benefits underprivileged children and charity work is always a good idea. Right?
I have heard it said: "Not every good idea is a God idea." Baby Girl woke up with fever and, although I was sorry she was sick, I also breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I was in touch with God's will after all. Maybe it was time for us to opt out, even from something fun that we were looking forward to, in order to reconnect with Him and with each other. We took our Sunday as a true Sabbath, doing nothing but resting together as a family. Aside from the stress that accompanies a sick child, it was a pretty good day.
Yesterday was necessarily busy. I had to take care of a traffic ticket and take Baby Boy to the dentist to assess the damage from his fall at the zoo. But I could do it all calmly, because I was back in touch with the source of all peace, all serenity, all direction. Last night Baby Boy ran a fever so we could not go to school today. He awoke happy and healthy so I'm taking it as another Sabbath gift from God and despite the fact that there are lots of things we could do today, lots of busy little things that need to get done, I'm not going to do any of them. I'm going to read my Bible and praise God for His goodness. I'm going to snuggle my kids, build with blocks and color in a coloring book or two. I'm going to take lots of deep breaths and I'm not going to panic. Because God is good, all the time, and I'm going to be still and enjoy Him today.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Days Like This
It has been one of those days. I woke up early enough to have my quiet time with God which usually makes for a better, brighter day. No so today. I really needed to drop the kids off at Mothers' Day Out, go home and crawl back under the covers. Since I teach Mothers' Day Out, however, that was not to be. My little pupils were great today; I was just really tired. So at the end of the day, I felt like I needed a nap or at least some "me" time with a relaxing cup of tea.
Have I mentioned that my children are two and three years old? I don't get a lot of "me" time. And Baby Girl was in a mood when I picked her up today. Not hostile or angry. She was very pleasant about the fact that she was unwilling to do anything that I asked her to do. By the time we got to the car she had earned a consequence. Baby Boy got a pack of Dora fruit snacks, but she had none. As I was explaining to her that her brother had made a good choice by listening and that Baby Girl had made a bad choice by not and therefore there would be no fruit snacks for her, she took my face firmly between her hands, looked me straight in the eye, and said earnestly, "Mommy, stop talking!" Yes, it has been that kind of a day.
The last thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping. I did, however, want a hot, yummy meal tonight and as we are on a budget it seemed wise to cook it myself. I did not want to go to our local Walmart (just a personal preference) but in the interest of time and budget, I decided to bite the bullet and go. Both kids were feeling a little tired and cranky, which always makes a trip to the store extra special. I shopped for an hour in a crowded and hectic store. I managed to do all of this without yelling at either child. I was praying a lot.
Finally, I was in the home stretch. The check out line. Both children were contained and behaving relatively well. I managed not to get irritated at the person in front of me who really had every right to buy fifty eight cans of Fancy Feast which had to be rung up individually. I unloaded my items onto the belt, fished out my wallet and looked for my debit card. And looked again. And again...
After apologizing to the very nice check out lady, I pushed my cart, empty except for my wiggly two children, to the parking lot with tears in my eyes. I know I'm not alone in this feeling. Those days when, although nothing catastrophic happens, you just feel worn down to the nub. It is tempting to start an inner monologue that sounds a little something like this: "I just can't do this anymore. It's too much. I'm too tired. I need a break." Sound familiar? There are others available too. Angry ones. Like it is someone else's fault, perhaps even my kids', that I left my card in the back pocket of yesterday's jeans. The thoughts that make it clear somebody is going to pay for how hopeless we feel.
I choose to turn my thoughts to God instead. Every time something similar to those thoughts above popped into my mind, I would gently tell it "no" and pray instead. I loaded up the kids in the car, trying my best to explain why we left behind the bananas they were asking for. I took a deep breath and thanked God that I have choices. Lots of them. And the ability to choose what is right.
Because I didn't have to be angry about what had just happened. As tired as I was I didn't have to yell at my kids. I didn't have to curse either on the inside or the out. I could take a moment and give thanks. I could realize what a privilege it was to be able to go to that annoying store, to load up all that food, and to have the means to pay for it if not the immediate ability. I drove home reflecting on the two wonderful characters strapped into their car seats, slowly but surely getting over their banana disappointment.
The Bible says not to grumble or complain about anything. How tall an order is that? But we can do it or God wouldn't ask us to. It also tells us to focus our thoughts on lovely things. It was hard to find something lovely about my fruitless trip to Walmart, but I did it. And what I found was within myself. I focused on who I am in Christ. The old me would have been horrible today. I would have been nasty to my kids ever since picking them up. The Walmart trip would have been the straw that broke the camel's back and I would have been unbearable to live with, not just on the way to the car, but all evening long. I would have taken all of my fatigue and all of my frustration out on my family and then justified it by my mood.
I'm not my mood. I'm better than my mood, because I have the light of Christ within me. I came home already feeling brighter. I did not feel up to another trip to the grocery store and the kids were already hungry. So I raided the freezer and scored some chicken nuggets. I stirred up some Tang and called it juice. Perfect parenting? Hardly. But my kids are happy and that makes me smile.
My husband just called to ask if I would like for him to take me out to dinner this evening. I would and I'm glad I wasn't cooking when he called. I feel like God is smiling at me right now which really makes it all so worthwhile. Sitting here, listening to two hyped up kids making a big mess and failing to share their toys, I don't feel tired or overwhelmed. I feel happy, a warm, secure kind of happiness from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. What can I say? It has been one of those days.
Have I mentioned that my children are two and three years old? I don't get a lot of "me" time. And Baby Girl was in a mood when I picked her up today. Not hostile or angry. She was very pleasant about the fact that she was unwilling to do anything that I asked her to do. By the time we got to the car she had earned a consequence. Baby Boy got a pack of Dora fruit snacks, but she had none. As I was explaining to her that her brother had made a good choice by listening and that Baby Girl had made a bad choice by not and therefore there would be no fruit snacks for her, she took my face firmly between her hands, looked me straight in the eye, and said earnestly, "Mommy, stop talking!" Yes, it has been that kind of a day.
The last thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping. I did, however, want a hot, yummy meal tonight and as we are on a budget it seemed wise to cook it myself. I did not want to go to our local Walmart (just a personal preference) but in the interest of time and budget, I decided to bite the bullet and go. Both kids were feeling a little tired and cranky, which always makes a trip to the store extra special. I shopped for an hour in a crowded and hectic store. I managed to do all of this without yelling at either child. I was praying a lot.
Finally, I was in the home stretch. The check out line. Both children were contained and behaving relatively well. I managed not to get irritated at the person in front of me who really had every right to buy fifty eight cans of Fancy Feast which had to be rung up individually. I unloaded my items onto the belt, fished out my wallet and looked for my debit card. And looked again. And again...
After apologizing to the very nice check out lady, I pushed my cart, empty except for my wiggly two children, to the parking lot with tears in my eyes. I know I'm not alone in this feeling. Those days when, although nothing catastrophic happens, you just feel worn down to the nub. It is tempting to start an inner monologue that sounds a little something like this: "I just can't do this anymore. It's too much. I'm too tired. I need a break." Sound familiar? There are others available too. Angry ones. Like it is someone else's fault, perhaps even my kids', that I left my card in the back pocket of yesterday's jeans. The thoughts that make it clear somebody is going to pay for how hopeless we feel.
I choose to turn my thoughts to God instead. Every time something similar to those thoughts above popped into my mind, I would gently tell it "no" and pray instead. I loaded up the kids in the car, trying my best to explain why we left behind the bananas they were asking for. I took a deep breath and thanked God that I have choices. Lots of them. And the ability to choose what is right.
Because I didn't have to be angry about what had just happened. As tired as I was I didn't have to yell at my kids. I didn't have to curse either on the inside or the out. I could take a moment and give thanks. I could realize what a privilege it was to be able to go to that annoying store, to load up all that food, and to have the means to pay for it if not the immediate ability. I drove home reflecting on the two wonderful characters strapped into their car seats, slowly but surely getting over their banana disappointment.
The Bible says not to grumble or complain about anything. How tall an order is that? But we can do it or God wouldn't ask us to. It also tells us to focus our thoughts on lovely things. It was hard to find something lovely about my fruitless trip to Walmart, but I did it. And what I found was within myself. I focused on who I am in Christ. The old me would have been horrible today. I would have been nasty to my kids ever since picking them up. The Walmart trip would have been the straw that broke the camel's back and I would have been unbearable to live with, not just on the way to the car, but all evening long. I would have taken all of my fatigue and all of my frustration out on my family and then justified it by my mood.
I'm not my mood. I'm better than my mood, because I have the light of Christ within me. I came home already feeling brighter. I did not feel up to another trip to the grocery store and the kids were already hungry. So I raided the freezer and scored some chicken nuggets. I stirred up some Tang and called it juice. Perfect parenting? Hardly. But my kids are happy and that makes me smile.
My husband just called to ask if I would like for him to take me out to dinner this evening. I would and I'm glad I wasn't cooking when he called. I feel like God is smiling at me right now which really makes it all so worthwhile. Sitting here, listening to two hyped up kids making a big mess and failing to share their toys, I don't feel tired or overwhelmed. I feel happy, a warm, secure kind of happiness from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. What can I say? It has been one of those days.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
What God Loves
I would like to take a moment to brag about my Baby Boy. Most of these blog posts are about Eddie, which only makes sense. It helps me to share him with you, to give him honor since I can't give him hugs, and his story is pretty much the meat and potatoes of my life's testimony thus far. He witnessed to me the power and majesty of God's love, wordlessly and in an incredibly unique way. All that being said, however, we all have as much to learn from our living children as I did from the one who has gone home before me. As I've said before, our children are our greatest teachers, if we are willing to set aside our pride in ourselves and all our "grown up" knowledge and just learn from them.
I was five months pregnant with Baby Boy when his big brother died. Not surprisingly, two weeks later I had a pregnancy crisis and ended up on partial bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy. I say "partial" but really I was on bed rest. I think my lovely midwife was afraid I would slip into a terrible depression if I was told I could do nothing for the next four months. She therefore avoided the term "bed rest" but was very insistent that I seriously limit my activities for Baby Boy's sake and spend every moment I could at rest. So I was already a little worried about him.
I was also worried about how my heart state was going to affect him. I am a firm believer that the experiences of a baby in utero are human experiences. We "welcome them into the world" when they are born but, especially by the time they are third term fetus, they really are already in the world, hearing and experiencing things through the hopefully safe filter of their mother. I wanted my womb to be such a safe place. I sang songs to my unborn children, told them stories, played them music. I told them how much I loved them and how their Daddy and Jesus did too. I only wanted good things to go on in there. But, I am a human being, and I had lost my child. So while I knew Baby Boy heard the words of love and soothing songs, I knew he was also there for the keening cries and racking sobs of a mother grieving for a lost son. I was afraid he would come out already emotionally damaged, sad, anxious and moody. I prayed about it a lot.
I shouldn't have worried. Baby Boy is characterized by joy more than any child I have ever known. He is just a really, really happy guy. He smiled when he was just a few days old (and, no, it wasn't just gas; I hate it when people say that). He loves with open arms, smiles so big you can see every single tooth, and laughs with great abandon. He loves to sing and dance. Now that he is a "big boy" who will be all of four years old in December, he is also our great encourager. We call him the life coach. Whenever we are doing any activity like a dance party or some family exercise, he says "great job, great job" and often suggests the next move, like a tiny personal trainer. When his sister is having a meltdown, he sometimes tells her to take a deep breath "like this" and models the behavior for her. He's just awesome.
He also has an uncanny grasp of spirituality. Some of this I attribute to the church we attend, where he now goes to preschool twice a week as well. Part of it I know is because of our practices at home. But there is a lot of it that is just Baby Boy's spirit. When I pack his superhero backpack to go see Nana I have to be sure that his Bible goes along, because at some point he will ask for it and want to hear some of his favorite stories. He gets so excited when he sees pictures of Jesus and can recognize him from a variety of images, from the baby in the manger Jesus to the bearded guy in a robe Jesus. He talks about him with the same enthusiasm as he discusses Thomas the Tank Engine or Spiderman.
But beyond that, he is getting the concepts. He shares with his sister, even when I can tell he doesn't really want to, because it is the right thing to do. He shows empathy and concern for the well-being of others. He never fails to amaze me with his retelling of Bible stories and explanations of what they mean to him. But the other day he just blew me away. We were getting clothes that they have outgrown together to take to a women and children's homeless shelter in Dallas. While we we packed them up we talked about what we were doing, that some friends might not have clothes or shoes to wear so we could give them ours. So he and Baby Girl were very happy about our mission on the ride over. When the time came, however, for Baby Boy to hand over his beloved Lightning McQueen slippers, he balked.
I was not surprised. For one thing, he is three years old and he loves those slippers. Although they are too small, he still carries them around sometimes or shoves his feet, toes curled, into them for a few moments. He was the one who surprisingly enough added them to the pile in the first place. For another, isn't that how we all are? It is so easy to give the stuff we don't really care about. The clothes that don't fit us anymore or are out of style, the broken household items, the furniture with stained upholstery. These items get sent to Goodwill with glee as we make room for better, nicer stuff. And we count that as charity and give ourselves a pat on the back. After all, it might all have brought us a few bucks at a garage sale and we gave it away. Yay us!
I am not saying that we should not engage in this kind of giving. It is a blessing to others. I've been on the other end of it on more than one occasion and felt incredibly blessed by what someone else had given up, probably from their garage, attic, or the back of their closet. But I think Jesus calls us to give beyond this comfortable kind of giving. Let me rephrase that: I know Jesus calls us to give beyond it. He said so. We are supposed to be willing to give up everything we own to Him. He even wants us to give to those who take from us. In Matthew 5:40 He says that if someone sues us for our coat we are supposed to give them the shirt off our back also. Let that sink in for a moment. Not only do we give until it hurts, we are supposed to do it cheerfully. 2 Corinthians 9:7 says that God loves a cheerful giver.
Anyway, it was a very human moment when Baby Boy clutched his slippers to his chest. I want to teach my children to give, but I want them to give the way God wants them to: not reluctantly, not under compulsion, but cheerfully. There is no value in learning, "I give because my mom makes me." So I gave him the choice. I reminded him that we were going to give those to a little boy who did not have slippers, but that it was up to him. If he was not ready to give his slippers to a friend yet, he did not have to. They could come home with us and we would put them back in his closet. He looked at them long and hard for a moment. Then with a sigh and a smile, he handed those cherished little red slippers to the shocked and impressed volunteer who assured him that she knew a little boy who was going to love them.
As we left the shelter, Baby Boy was skipping and smiling as usual, asking where we were going next. In the car a very choked up Mommy told them both how proud I was of them. That they had given clothes and shoes to people who didn't have clothes or shoes, just like Jesus asks us to. Then Baby Boy said, pointing out the window, "Yeah and He make the clouds and the flowers and He give 'em to me."
Wow. Can I get an "Amen?" You see, I struggle with the whole concept of giving. The fact that we reluctantly hand over a ten percent tithe (or not) and grumble at the toll it takes on our bank account. Yet, when asked, Christ said the path to true discipleship is to sell all of our possessions and follow Him. Indeed, when He called His disciples they dropped everything in an instant, leaving their lives behind and starting on their new exciting journey without so much as a carry-on bag. That kind of thing seems unheard of in our day, but the nature of God has not changed. The question is: are we willing to give up our stuff, not just our junk and hand-me-downs, but the stuff we still love and cherish for the sake of the One who gives us everything? To the one who makes the clouds, the flowers, and the air we breathe? If someone sued us for a thousand dollars, would we willingly give them the title to our house for His sake? Are we capable of trusting that the One in whom we believe is going to bless us and provide for us above and beyond our greatest expectations in exchange for our radical obedience to His call to us to give freely, openly and happily? What if, when faced with a person sitting out in the cold, we gave them the coat of our backs instead of the spare change in our pockets? It seems so radical to us, because very few people do it. Nonetheless, it is what Christians are supposed to do, who we are supposed to be.
I am so grateful to have little people in my life to teach me big truths. To show me what a cheerful giver looks like. Not someone who hands over something he doesn't want anymore with a smile, but rather someone who feels the uncomfortable tug of a selfish desire to keep for himself, but then voluntarily surrenders to the greater call with a heart full of gratitude for what has been given to him by a generous God. Because while God will use our easily given gifts to bless others, He will use our sacrificially given gifts to bless us. To give us hearts for gratitude and eyes that see blessings. I see one right now, wearing camouflage pajama pants and a big grin, my little cheerful giver, who I love.
I was five months pregnant with Baby Boy when his big brother died. Not surprisingly, two weeks later I had a pregnancy crisis and ended up on partial bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy. I say "partial" but really I was on bed rest. I think my lovely midwife was afraid I would slip into a terrible depression if I was told I could do nothing for the next four months. She therefore avoided the term "bed rest" but was very insistent that I seriously limit my activities for Baby Boy's sake and spend every moment I could at rest. So I was already a little worried about him.
I was also worried about how my heart state was going to affect him. I am a firm believer that the experiences of a baby in utero are human experiences. We "welcome them into the world" when they are born but, especially by the time they are third term fetus, they really are already in the world, hearing and experiencing things through the hopefully safe filter of their mother. I wanted my womb to be such a safe place. I sang songs to my unborn children, told them stories, played them music. I told them how much I loved them and how their Daddy and Jesus did too. I only wanted good things to go on in there. But, I am a human being, and I had lost my child. So while I knew Baby Boy heard the words of love and soothing songs, I knew he was also there for the keening cries and racking sobs of a mother grieving for a lost son. I was afraid he would come out already emotionally damaged, sad, anxious and moody. I prayed about it a lot.
I shouldn't have worried. Baby Boy is characterized by joy more than any child I have ever known. He is just a really, really happy guy. He smiled when he was just a few days old (and, no, it wasn't just gas; I hate it when people say that). He loves with open arms, smiles so big you can see every single tooth, and laughs with great abandon. He loves to sing and dance. Now that he is a "big boy" who will be all of four years old in December, he is also our great encourager. We call him the life coach. Whenever we are doing any activity like a dance party or some family exercise, he says "great job, great job" and often suggests the next move, like a tiny personal trainer. When his sister is having a meltdown, he sometimes tells her to take a deep breath "like this" and models the behavior for her. He's just awesome.
He also has an uncanny grasp of spirituality. Some of this I attribute to the church we attend, where he now goes to preschool twice a week as well. Part of it I know is because of our practices at home. But there is a lot of it that is just Baby Boy's spirit. When I pack his superhero backpack to go see Nana I have to be sure that his Bible goes along, because at some point he will ask for it and want to hear some of his favorite stories. He gets so excited when he sees pictures of Jesus and can recognize him from a variety of images, from the baby in the manger Jesus to the bearded guy in a robe Jesus. He talks about him with the same enthusiasm as he discusses Thomas the Tank Engine or Spiderman.
But beyond that, he is getting the concepts. He shares with his sister, even when I can tell he doesn't really want to, because it is the right thing to do. He shows empathy and concern for the well-being of others. He never fails to amaze me with his retelling of Bible stories and explanations of what they mean to him. But the other day he just blew me away. We were getting clothes that they have outgrown together to take to a women and children's homeless shelter in Dallas. While we we packed them up we talked about what we were doing, that some friends might not have clothes or shoes to wear so we could give them ours. So he and Baby Girl were very happy about our mission on the ride over. When the time came, however, for Baby Boy to hand over his beloved Lightning McQueen slippers, he balked.
I was not surprised. For one thing, he is three years old and he loves those slippers. Although they are too small, he still carries them around sometimes or shoves his feet, toes curled, into them for a few moments. He was the one who surprisingly enough added them to the pile in the first place. For another, isn't that how we all are? It is so easy to give the stuff we don't really care about. The clothes that don't fit us anymore or are out of style, the broken household items, the furniture with stained upholstery. These items get sent to Goodwill with glee as we make room for better, nicer stuff. And we count that as charity and give ourselves a pat on the back. After all, it might all have brought us a few bucks at a garage sale and we gave it away. Yay us!
I am not saying that we should not engage in this kind of giving. It is a blessing to others. I've been on the other end of it on more than one occasion and felt incredibly blessed by what someone else had given up, probably from their garage, attic, or the back of their closet. But I think Jesus calls us to give beyond this comfortable kind of giving. Let me rephrase that: I know Jesus calls us to give beyond it. He said so. We are supposed to be willing to give up everything we own to Him. He even wants us to give to those who take from us. In Matthew 5:40 He says that if someone sues us for our coat we are supposed to give them the shirt off our back also. Let that sink in for a moment. Not only do we give until it hurts, we are supposed to do it cheerfully. 2 Corinthians 9:7 says that God loves a cheerful giver.
Anyway, it was a very human moment when Baby Boy clutched his slippers to his chest. I want to teach my children to give, but I want them to give the way God wants them to: not reluctantly, not under compulsion, but cheerfully. There is no value in learning, "I give because my mom makes me." So I gave him the choice. I reminded him that we were going to give those to a little boy who did not have slippers, but that it was up to him. If he was not ready to give his slippers to a friend yet, he did not have to. They could come home with us and we would put them back in his closet. He looked at them long and hard for a moment. Then with a sigh and a smile, he handed those cherished little red slippers to the shocked and impressed volunteer who assured him that she knew a little boy who was going to love them.
As we left the shelter, Baby Boy was skipping and smiling as usual, asking where we were going next. In the car a very choked up Mommy told them both how proud I was of them. That they had given clothes and shoes to people who didn't have clothes or shoes, just like Jesus asks us to. Then Baby Boy said, pointing out the window, "Yeah and He make the clouds and the flowers and He give 'em to me."
Wow. Can I get an "Amen?" You see, I struggle with the whole concept of giving. The fact that we reluctantly hand over a ten percent tithe (or not) and grumble at the toll it takes on our bank account. Yet, when asked, Christ said the path to true discipleship is to sell all of our possessions and follow Him. Indeed, when He called His disciples they dropped everything in an instant, leaving their lives behind and starting on their new exciting journey without so much as a carry-on bag. That kind of thing seems unheard of in our day, but the nature of God has not changed. The question is: are we willing to give up our stuff, not just our junk and hand-me-downs, but the stuff we still love and cherish for the sake of the One who gives us everything? To the one who makes the clouds, the flowers, and the air we breathe? If someone sued us for a thousand dollars, would we willingly give them the title to our house for His sake? Are we capable of trusting that the One in whom we believe is going to bless us and provide for us above and beyond our greatest expectations in exchange for our radical obedience to His call to us to give freely, openly and happily? What if, when faced with a person sitting out in the cold, we gave them the coat of our backs instead of the spare change in our pockets? It seems so radical to us, because very few people do it. Nonetheless, it is what Christians are supposed to do, who we are supposed to be.
I am so grateful to have little people in my life to teach me big truths. To show me what a cheerful giver looks like. Not someone who hands over something he doesn't want anymore with a smile, but rather someone who feels the uncomfortable tug of a selfish desire to keep for himself, but then voluntarily surrenders to the greater call with a heart full of gratitude for what has been given to him by a generous God. Because while God will use our easily given gifts to bless others, He will use our sacrificially given gifts to bless us. To give us hearts for gratitude and eyes that see blessings. I see one right now, wearing camouflage pajama pants and a big grin, my little cheerful giver, who I love.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Peter
I love Simon Peter. For those of you unfamiliar, he is one of the twelve apostles, the twelve guys who hung out with Christ on a regular basis, also known as the disciples. He is far and away my favorite of the twelve (Judas Iscariot running a far 12th) but beyond that he is one of my top five favorite Bible characters. If they had posters and trading cards for apostles, I would have the Peter collection. I'm a big fan.
I'm a fan because he is so enthusiastic and yet so imperfect. He is the "ready, fire, aim" member of the group. He pops his mouth off inappropriately all the time but it stems from an overwhelming enthusiasm for what he is doing, for who he is following. He is impulsive and passionate and he makes huge honking mistakes. I identify with Peter.
He is one of the first called by Christ. He is fishing with his brother, Andrew, and drops everything, his nets, his livelihood, his plans, everything, in a split second and follows Jesus. He is the one who, when he sees Jesus walking on the water, has enough faith to step out of the boat and begin walking to Him on the waves. He is the one who, boldly and without hedging any bets, answers the question, "Who do you say that I am?" with "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God." The the one who, when Christ has risen and appears on the shore, loves him so much that he jumps out of the boat and swims to Him. He is vehement about his love for Christ. He asks questions, sometimes stupid questions, but he always is wanting to know more, always seeking. And he is greatly rewarded. Jesus says to him, "...you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom..." Peter gets to go up on the mountain and see Jesus transfigured, see Him glow in His glory, meet with Elijah and Moses, and hear the voice of God. Jesus asks him questions and confides truths to him. The honor and privilege Peter must have felt at these moments is unimaginable!
But, still, he suffers massive failures. The Lord who he loves with such abandon and who blesses him so richly, also rebukes him when he speaks foolishly. Although he does step out of the boat and walk toward Christ on the water, eventually his fear overtakes his faith and he has to cry out, sinking, for Christ to lift him up. He accompanies Jesus to the garden of Gethsemane, right before Jesus is arrested and sacrificed. Jesus, being both fully human and fully God, asks for steadfast friends to keep watch for Him while He prays. It is a simple request, but despite any good intentions, Peter falls asleep not once but three times rather than being vigilant and steadfast for the Lord. Finally, against his violent protestations and insistence that he would die rather than deny Jesus, Peter denies Him three times after His arrest, just as Jesus predicts. I don't know about you, but after all of that, I think I would be questioning Jesus about the whole "rock" thing. I would feel shaky as sand and completely inadequate to act as the cornerstone of anything, much less the entire Christian faith.
God isn't looking for perfection. He is perfection. He doesn't require us to be. What is he looking for? I think the answer is found in His conversation with Simon Peter after the resurrection. He makes the apostles breakfast (seriously, he does; isn't that cool?) and, after they are done eating, He talks to Peter. This is the first one-on-one conversation they have had since Peter denied any knowledge of Jesus, much less that he believed He was the Christ or that the was one of His followers. After Peter, who had loved Him, followed Him faithfully, and promised that he would die for Him had looked at Jesus, arrested and disgraced, and said, "I don't know that guy." Peter knew Jesus knew about that. He must have felt so ashamed.
But Jesus doesn't look at him and say, "So, have anything to say for yourself?" He doesn't say, "I told you so." He doesn't say, "You remember all that stuff about the keys to the kingdom? Yeah, you can forget about that." He doesn't call him out. Instead, he asks Peter, not once but three times, if he loves Him. The repetition hurts Peter's feelings; he keeps saying, "You know that I love you!" And Jesus does know it. He isn't repeating himself out of disbelief, but for emphasis. Because this account is going to be read for some two thousand years and counting and He wants us all to know: this is the question that counts. A three time repetition is the Biblical equivalent of a double exclamation point!! See what I mean?
Jesus doesn't keep score. He doesn't care how far you've fallen short or how many times you have failed. He doesn't care if you have denied His very existence either by word or by practice. What He cares about is, now, in this moment, do you love Him? I know I may be beating this topic to death right now, but it is on my heart: It's about relationship. Not rules, not dogma, not good works. It is DO YOU LOVE GOD with all your heart, your soul and mind? He wants nothing more and nothing less from you.
I think that is why He chose Simon Peter be the rock, the foundation, of His church. Because Peter wasn't the wisest man in the world. He didn't have Paul's gift for words. As discussed, he was far from perfect. But he loved Jesus, passionately. He loved Him so much he flung himself into the water, on two occasions, while everyone else stayed on the boat. It was because of this love that he had the boldness to say what the rest of them knew: that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God. He stumbled and fell, he failed and he sank. But he loved.
I love Jesus. I mess up all the time. I say stupid stuff; I have too much pride. I want things He doesn't want for me and sometimes, when things get uncomfortable, I "tone down" a little and thereby deny Him. I fail. But I love Him. I love Him so much it makes me weep to type it. I love Him because He doesn't care that I'm not perfect. He sees my heart and smiles. I love Him so much that I just want to fling myself into His loving arms. I don't care if everyone else in the boat thinks I'm crazy. I just want Him, more of Him, everyday, all the time. If you don't love Him this much, get to know Him. Because you know that crazy feeling you get when you first fall in love with someone? Yeah, it's like that and it never has to stop. He is the same, yesterday, today and forever. I invite you to get to know my Jesus, Peter's Jesus, and fall in love all over again.
I'm a fan because he is so enthusiastic and yet so imperfect. He is the "ready, fire, aim" member of the group. He pops his mouth off inappropriately all the time but it stems from an overwhelming enthusiasm for what he is doing, for who he is following. He is impulsive and passionate and he makes huge honking mistakes. I identify with Peter.
He is one of the first called by Christ. He is fishing with his brother, Andrew, and drops everything, his nets, his livelihood, his plans, everything, in a split second and follows Jesus. He is the one who, when he sees Jesus walking on the water, has enough faith to step out of the boat and begin walking to Him on the waves. He is the one who, boldly and without hedging any bets, answers the question, "Who do you say that I am?" with "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God." The the one who, when Christ has risen and appears on the shore, loves him so much that he jumps out of the boat and swims to Him. He is vehement about his love for Christ. He asks questions, sometimes stupid questions, but he always is wanting to know more, always seeking. And he is greatly rewarded. Jesus says to him, "...you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom..." Peter gets to go up on the mountain and see Jesus transfigured, see Him glow in His glory, meet with Elijah and Moses, and hear the voice of God. Jesus asks him questions and confides truths to him. The honor and privilege Peter must have felt at these moments is unimaginable!
But, still, he suffers massive failures. The Lord who he loves with such abandon and who blesses him so richly, also rebukes him when he speaks foolishly. Although he does step out of the boat and walk toward Christ on the water, eventually his fear overtakes his faith and he has to cry out, sinking, for Christ to lift him up. He accompanies Jesus to the garden of Gethsemane, right before Jesus is arrested and sacrificed. Jesus, being both fully human and fully God, asks for steadfast friends to keep watch for Him while He prays. It is a simple request, but despite any good intentions, Peter falls asleep not once but three times rather than being vigilant and steadfast for the Lord. Finally, against his violent protestations and insistence that he would die rather than deny Jesus, Peter denies Him three times after His arrest, just as Jesus predicts. I don't know about you, but after all of that, I think I would be questioning Jesus about the whole "rock" thing. I would feel shaky as sand and completely inadequate to act as the cornerstone of anything, much less the entire Christian faith.
God isn't looking for perfection. He is perfection. He doesn't require us to be. What is he looking for? I think the answer is found in His conversation with Simon Peter after the resurrection. He makes the apostles breakfast (seriously, he does; isn't that cool?) and, after they are done eating, He talks to Peter. This is the first one-on-one conversation they have had since Peter denied any knowledge of Jesus, much less that he believed He was the Christ or that the was one of His followers. After Peter, who had loved Him, followed Him faithfully, and promised that he would die for Him had looked at Jesus, arrested and disgraced, and said, "I don't know that guy." Peter knew Jesus knew about that. He must have felt so ashamed.
But Jesus doesn't look at him and say, "So, have anything to say for yourself?" He doesn't say, "I told you so." He doesn't say, "You remember all that stuff about the keys to the kingdom? Yeah, you can forget about that." He doesn't call him out. Instead, he asks Peter, not once but three times, if he loves Him. The repetition hurts Peter's feelings; he keeps saying, "You know that I love you!" And Jesus does know it. He isn't repeating himself out of disbelief, but for emphasis. Because this account is going to be read for some two thousand years and counting and He wants us all to know: this is the question that counts. A three time repetition is the Biblical equivalent of a double exclamation point!! See what I mean?
Jesus doesn't keep score. He doesn't care how far you've fallen short or how many times you have failed. He doesn't care if you have denied His very existence either by word or by practice. What He cares about is, now, in this moment, do you love Him? I know I may be beating this topic to death right now, but it is on my heart: It's about relationship. Not rules, not dogma, not good works. It is DO YOU LOVE GOD with all your heart, your soul and mind? He wants nothing more and nothing less from you.
I think that is why He chose Simon Peter be the rock, the foundation, of His church. Because Peter wasn't the wisest man in the world. He didn't have Paul's gift for words. As discussed, he was far from perfect. But he loved Jesus, passionately. He loved Him so much he flung himself into the water, on two occasions, while everyone else stayed on the boat. It was because of this love that he had the boldness to say what the rest of them knew: that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God. He stumbled and fell, he failed and he sank. But he loved.
I love Jesus. I mess up all the time. I say stupid stuff; I have too much pride. I want things He doesn't want for me and sometimes, when things get uncomfortable, I "tone down" a little and thereby deny Him. I fail. But I love Him. I love Him so much it makes me weep to type it. I love Him because He doesn't care that I'm not perfect. He sees my heart and smiles. I love Him so much that I just want to fling myself into His loving arms. I don't care if everyone else in the boat thinks I'm crazy. I just want Him, more of Him, everyday, all the time. If you don't love Him this much, get to know Him. Because you know that crazy feeling you get when you first fall in love with someone? Yeah, it's like that and it never has to stop. He is the same, yesterday, today and forever. I invite you to get to know my Jesus, Peter's Jesus, and fall in love all over again.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Bread
I baked bread yesterday. Not in the bread machine or a quick bread from a mix. I made Scots baps... from scratch. (And, yes, I am disproportionately proud of myself for this fact.) I haven't attempted anything quite this ambitious in the kitchen in a while. I usually cook from books that involve short cuts and quick fixes. I heat up a frozen entree prepared by Stouffer more often than I would like to admit. I have an excuse; I have preschoolers. Still, every time I serve up Shake-N-Bake chicken with a side of Rice-A-Roni, I feel a twinge of guilt. Because I know that even though my days get busy, I really can cook. I'm good at it. No matter what the excuse, if something comes out of the freezer or a cardboard box, I'm being a little lazy.
I approached this weekend with an eye toward rediscovering my inner Julia Child. I cracked open my nicer, fancier cookbooks and picked out recipes that I wish someone would cook for me. I almost skipped over the book entitled The Art of Bread, thinking that would be biting off way more than I could chew. But you have to know something about me: I don't just love bread, I luuuurrrrrrvvvvve bread. Not the pre-sliced stuff from the supermarket. Rather the kind displayed in row after delicious row at Central Market or local bakeries. I love to thump the bottom of a gorgeous artisanal loaf and hear the glorious, hollow echo. I love the crispy crunch noise when you rip into a fresh baguette. Good bread is something of an obsession.
So I found a recipe that not only seemed simple, as far as bread goes, but also brought to the surface lovely memories of my childhood years in Scotland. Baps, these flour-dusted little ovals rolls, that were often served when we dined at people's homes or that my mother would bring home fresh from Robertson's bakery on High Street. I said a little prayer that my rusty culinary skills would not fail me and I got to baking.
They were wonderful. Just as I remembered them. It was awesome to be able to share them, both with my nuclear family, who had never had them before, and my family of origin with whom I also share those fond memories. But the process was wonderful too. The kneading, the shaping, the wonderful yeasty smell as they rose and baked. There is just something magical about bread.
Eddie's first New Year's Eve was celebrated in the NICU of Brackenridge Hospital, Austin, Tx. It was a big day for me. I love New Year's anyway with its promise of fresh beginnings and new leaves. And I was ending the most dramatic year of my life: the year I got married, had my first baby, and came to know and trust God in a way I had never imagined possible. It was also the first year Austin would be having a First Night celebration. It was to be a family friendly parade, an alternative to the party scene at galas or bars. It was modeled after a similar celebration in Boston and was a celebration of life, the city, and the arts.
Phillip and I decided to go. Eddie had his primary nurse assigned to him that evening, an angel named Francesca, who we loved and trusted. We knew this trust was well placed when she arrived for duty with a miniature top hat and party blower for our little Ed. We spent very little time away from him in those days, the odd dinner out here and there, but mostly our time together was either in the NICU or sleeping at the Ronald McDonald House. So our decision to head down to Congress Street early that evening before returning to NICU for the official ringing in of the New Year was a big deal for us.
The weather was beautiful. Short sleeve and jeans weather but with a brisk wind that kept whipping down the wide avenue, bringing with it a cloud of black birds that perched in the trees only to be swept up in the next great gale. I was exhilarated even before the festivities began, my soul dancing in the wind with those little birds, thrilling in the majesty of God.
The young woman standing next to me felt differently. Every time the birds would take flight, weaving and creating patterns with their flock, she would cringe and say things like, "Eww! Flying rats!" (I feel this way about bats, as you may know, so, really, I'm not judging... much.) But I didn't let her lack of enthusiasm dampen mine. The parade began and my husband and I rejoiced, enjoying the colorful performers and floats.
One group was carrying a sign ahead of them that said simply, "Bread." They were dressed in neutral colors but looked rather medieval and festive all the same. They were handing out big, fat loaves of artisanal bread to those of us in the crowd. As I held my hands up hoping to gain a loaf, the bird-hating lady next to me did as well. She went as far to say: "Give me some!" One of the ladies from the parade walked over and placed a generous loaf of sourdough in my outstretched hands. I smiled and thanked her and then, Christian that I am, offered to split it with the woman beside me. She recoiled as if I had just offered her a pet black bird. "Oh, no," she exclaimed, aghast. "I don't eat it."
This experience sticks with me for a number of reasons. As a whole, the First Night parade stands in my memory as a time when I was able to celebrate with an open heart. I was able to embrace life at a time when mine was very hard, to throw my arms open wide to a world that God created and love it with every fiber of my being. To laugh, to soar, to dance. When the parade was over, we walked down Congress, enjoying our fill of delicious sourdough before passing half of our loaf along to a man who most likely had missed a few meals. He smiled and took it with as much joy as we felt in offering it. Then we went back to our first born son, counted down the minutes to a new year with him and with a staff who loved him like one of their own, and raised a glass of sparkling juice in his honor. It was a wonderful, beautiful night.
I am grateful that God gave me a moment of contrast in the midst of it all. I think it was no mistake that I stood next to this young woman, who could not have been older than thirty, attractive, dressed fashionably with great hair and makeup. I don't know what her life looked like on the inside, but she certainly wasn't impoverished and I feel rather safe in assuming that she did not have a terminally ill child in the hospital a few miles away. But still she had so little gratitude. She was so imprisoned by her life that she could not see majesty in nature, that she would ask for a loaf of bread but recoil at the idea of eating it. I pray for her every time I think of her.
Jesus said, "I am the bread of life." I know Him and He is not the 89 cent, pre-sliced sandwich variety. He is sustenance, but beyond that He is rich, dense, organic, and beautiful. He is sweetened with honey. He can be experienced with every sense. Psalm 34:8 says, "Taste and see that the Lord is good." And He is. All the time. He is the Bread of Life. And I feel that there are far too many people out there like the bird hating, bread eschewing woman, who recoil from experiencing Him, fearful of what would happen or who they would be if they let go of all of the rules and embraced a living God. Who are standing with their arms out and hands open, needing to be loved, needing to have peace, wanting to be happy, but then rejecting the free gift that God is offering them. Not realizing that if they would only taste and see, they would know a freedom and a joy that is unimaginable and inarticulable.
He is with us. He was with me yesterday, smiling I think, while I was kneading the dough for my baps, while I was allowing the first taste to fill me with precious, comforting memories of days gone by. He was with me, laughing, on that First Night when I told my worldly circumstance to go to hell and worshipped God with complete and utter abandon. He is the Bread of Life and there is just something magical about bread.
I approached this weekend with an eye toward rediscovering my inner Julia Child. I cracked open my nicer, fancier cookbooks and picked out recipes that I wish someone would cook for me. I almost skipped over the book entitled The Art of Bread, thinking that would be biting off way more than I could chew. But you have to know something about me: I don't just love bread, I luuuurrrrrrvvvvve bread. Not the pre-sliced stuff from the supermarket. Rather the kind displayed in row after delicious row at Central Market or local bakeries. I love to thump the bottom of a gorgeous artisanal loaf and hear the glorious, hollow echo. I love the crispy crunch noise when you rip into a fresh baguette. Good bread is something of an obsession.
So I found a recipe that not only seemed simple, as far as bread goes, but also brought to the surface lovely memories of my childhood years in Scotland. Baps, these flour-dusted little ovals rolls, that were often served when we dined at people's homes or that my mother would bring home fresh from Robertson's bakery on High Street. I said a little prayer that my rusty culinary skills would not fail me and I got to baking.
They were wonderful. Just as I remembered them. It was awesome to be able to share them, both with my nuclear family, who had never had them before, and my family of origin with whom I also share those fond memories. But the process was wonderful too. The kneading, the shaping, the wonderful yeasty smell as they rose and baked. There is just something magical about bread.
Eddie's first New Year's Eve was celebrated in the NICU of Brackenridge Hospital, Austin, Tx. It was a big day for me. I love New Year's anyway with its promise of fresh beginnings and new leaves. And I was ending the most dramatic year of my life: the year I got married, had my first baby, and came to know and trust God in a way I had never imagined possible. It was also the first year Austin would be having a First Night celebration. It was to be a family friendly parade, an alternative to the party scene at galas or bars. It was modeled after a similar celebration in Boston and was a celebration of life, the city, and the arts.
Phillip and I decided to go. Eddie had his primary nurse assigned to him that evening, an angel named Francesca, who we loved and trusted. We knew this trust was well placed when she arrived for duty with a miniature top hat and party blower for our little Ed. We spent very little time away from him in those days, the odd dinner out here and there, but mostly our time together was either in the NICU or sleeping at the Ronald McDonald House. So our decision to head down to Congress Street early that evening before returning to NICU for the official ringing in of the New Year was a big deal for us.
The weather was beautiful. Short sleeve and jeans weather but with a brisk wind that kept whipping down the wide avenue, bringing with it a cloud of black birds that perched in the trees only to be swept up in the next great gale. I was exhilarated even before the festivities began, my soul dancing in the wind with those little birds, thrilling in the majesty of God.
The young woman standing next to me felt differently. Every time the birds would take flight, weaving and creating patterns with their flock, she would cringe and say things like, "Eww! Flying rats!" (I feel this way about bats, as you may know, so, really, I'm not judging... much.) But I didn't let her lack of enthusiasm dampen mine. The parade began and my husband and I rejoiced, enjoying the colorful performers and floats.
One group was carrying a sign ahead of them that said simply, "Bread." They were dressed in neutral colors but looked rather medieval and festive all the same. They were handing out big, fat loaves of artisanal bread to those of us in the crowd. As I held my hands up hoping to gain a loaf, the bird-hating lady next to me did as well. She went as far to say: "Give me some!" One of the ladies from the parade walked over and placed a generous loaf of sourdough in my outstretched hands. I smiled and thanked her and then, Christian that I am, offered to split it with the woman beside me. She recoiled as if I had just offered her a pet black bird. "Oh, no," she exclaimed, aghast. "I don't eat it."
This experience sticks with me for a number of reasons. As a whole, the First Night parade stands in my memory as a time when I was able to celebrate with an open heart. I was able to embrace life at a time when mine was very hard, to throw my arms open wide to a world that God created and love it with every fiber of my being. To laugh, to soar, to dance. When the parade was over, we walked down Congress, enjoying our fill of delicious sourdough before passing half of our loaf along to a man who most likely had missed a few meals. He smiled and took it with as much joy as we felt in offering it. Then we went back to our first born son, counted down the minutes to a new year with him and with a staff who loved him like one of their own, and raised a glass of sparkling juice in his honor. It was a wonderful, beautiful night.
I am grateful that God gave me a moment of contrast in the midst of it all. I think it was no mistake that I stood next to this young woman, who could not have been older than thirty, attractive, dressed fashionably with great hair and makeup. I don't know what her life looked like on the inside, but she certainly wasn't impoverished and I feel rather safe in assuming that she did not have a terminally ill child in the hospital a few miles away. But still she had so little gratitude. She was so imprisoned by her life that she could not see majesty in nature, that she would ask for a loaf of bread but recoil at the idea of eating it. I pray for her every time I think of her.
Jesus said, "I am the bread of life." I know Him and He is not the 89 cent, pre-sliced sandwich variety. He is sustenance, but beyond that He is rich, dense, organic, and beautiful. He is sweetened with honey. He can be experienced with every sense. Psalm 34:8 says, "Taste and see that the Lord is good." And He is. All the time. He is the Bread of Life. And I feel that there are far too many people out there like the bird hating, bread eschewing woman, who recoil from experiencing Him, fearful of what would happen or who they would be if they let go of all of the rules and embraced a living God. Who are standing with their arms out and hands open, needing to be loved, needing to have peace, wanting to be happy, but then rejecting the free gift that God is offering them. Not realizing that if they would only taste and see, they would know a freedom and a joy that is unimaginable and inarticulable.
He is with us. He was with me yesterday, smiling I think, while I was kneading the dough for my baps, while I was allowing the first taste to fill me with precious, comforting memories of days gone by. He was with me, laughing, on that First Night when I told my worldly circumstance to go to hell and worshipped God with complete and utter abandon. He is the Bread of Life and there is just something magical about bread.
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