Home

I’m not sure why I feel the need to hear every detail of every horrible tragedy, why I glue myself to CNN waiting on baited breath to hear the particulars of why, how and what next, and why I have to discuss it at length with those around me.  And I’m not sure why, in the wake of the Connecticut shooting I cannot tear my thoughts away from those sweet angels and their grieving families even for an instant.  I’m not sure if it’s healthy, normal, necessary or justified.  Some say the media sensationalizes tragedies such as this.  I wouldn’t disagree.  Yet still I can’t seem to turn off the television.  And so, in nothing more than mere curiosity, I pose this question to myself and ask for a bit of guidance from above.  

Perhaps in my anger I want to ensure that justice somehow prevails.  Or on a smaller scale, that we, as a country, learn some grand lesson, affect some sort of change, or alter the course of future tragedies.  Perhaps I, as a mother of two small children myself, feel that if I can grieve just a little bit more it would somehow lessen the unbearable suffering of the ones who lost their babies.  Let’s be honest, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to answer the question of why and so it may be more realistic to tackle the question of where.  Where is God in a horrific tragedy like the massacre of 20 innocent first graders in Newtown, Connecticut and seven other innocent souls?  I think if I can answer this question in a way that satisfies my restless soul, I may be able to sleep for an hour or two tonight.  

It’s funny how I always tend to condense my feelings into four simple words.  Every diatribe on suffering and loss begins with, “There are no words.”  But the truth is there ARE words.  There are words of anger, bitterness and frustration, though they most likely won’t surface until later in the grieving process.  There are words of agony, torment and anguish.  And though it’s tough to admit, there may even be words of desperation and hopelessness.  “How can I go on?  Can I go on?”  I can only hope those words are met with quiet whispers from our Heavenly Father that gently offer solace and hope.  In Psalm 22:24 we are reminded that “...he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help.”  There are words to describe how most of us view the shooter, none of which I can put down on paper.  But if I’m honest with myself and can see beyond the anger to the word of God I cling to in these times, perhaps I can find some words of grace and understanding to deal with those.  The reality is that even the most heinous and unimaginable crimes can be met with mercy and forgiveness in the Heavenly courts.  

The truth is that when tragedy strikes, God is right there in the middle of it.  We need only to call His name and open our eyes.  And when we, in our finite, weakened state cannot find the words, it is then that He speaks to us and through us.  2 Corinthians 4:8-11 encourages us, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair, persecuted, but not forsaken, struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.  For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our mortal flesh.”

So I must say that has always been one of my favorite scriptures, because I love the jars of clay analogy.  It’s true, when we are cracked and broken, the light of Jesus shines through, but we have to choose to allow it to do so and that’s not always easy.  As I typed that verse, the line “not driven to despair” really struck me, because as a mommy it is so easy for me to be driven to despair.  When the innocence of children can be snatched in an instant, when I no longer feel safe sending my babies to school and I’m faced with the grim reality that the two sleeping darlings in the next room could easily have been among the 20 precious angels who lost their lives yesterday, when the fear and anxiety wells up within me to the point that I can barely breathe, despair seems to be the only emotion that fits.  And I suppose the only way I can answer back is to trust in the divinity of a God who is bigger than my fleeting emotions, bigger than the ensuing debate over gun control, bigger than our need to understand and most certainly big enough to fill the hole that’s left behind.  So as I grapple with the “Why” and “How” and “What Now?” and cannot help but picture the faces of those sweet, sweet angels, I’ll remind myself that my God lost a child also and did it willingly, for me.  

We will rightly and eternally mourn the loss of all the victims.  We will pray as a nation for the ones they left behind, for healing, for comfort, and for sweet memories to forever fill the halls of their homes.  And as their mommies and daddies justifiably long for one last smile as they arrive home from school, their Heavenly Father will now greet them at the door.  And I imagine as they gaze upon His lovely face, bursting at the seams they will excitedly announce, “Hi Daddy, I’m home!”  And they are now...home in His presence, home in His tender embrace, home in His kingdom eternally, and home forever in our hearts.

The View from the Middle

There are very few things I can actually control in this life.  For instance, I can totally bypass the dollar section at the bullseye boutique (no thanks to those fabulous higher-ups whose strategic marketing landed it smack-dab at the front of the store!) and save myself $2,117.  I can shut off the tele, spend some quality time with the kiddos, save them a brain cell or two, and let some other mommy keep the network afloat by allowing a super hyper, faithless yellow sponge to babysit her little darlings.  I can even choose to forego a half hour argument over why it isn’t okay to flatten the kitty’s ears while he’s sleeping in exchange for five minutes of me-time.  I cannot, however, manipulate the weather, affect real change on capitol hill (let’s face it, I am a Republican in the state of California after all), force the San Diego Chargers to actually finish a drive on any given Sunday, or convince the princess that the potty is a necessary evil.  But there is one thing I have only recently come to recognize as entirely within my control.  So today I wave my magic wand (which oddly resembles a spatula these days), snap my ponytail, twitch my nose, and wait for the magic to happen.  Wait for it...wait for it...wait for it...sorry, I had to refill my wine glass.  Here it is: you, actually have the ability to change the way you view your circumstances and consequently, tip the needle on your joy meter a bit to the right.  And yes, I said joy meter.  I can say it another way if you’d like.  You can change the song that’s playing in the depths of your soul from “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” to “Here Comes the Sun.”  Some call it a worldview or filter.  I like to refer to it as the gift of perspective.  And believe me, it is truly a gift that we have been given...the ability to look at any situation and process it any way we’d like.  We can control our own capacity for joy based purely on how we choose to see things.  So the next time your dolphin floaties spring a leak and you find yourself struggling to stay afloat, ask yourself, “How’s the view from down here?”

Is the mountain insurmountable, an obstacle so large to even contemplate tackling it would be physically exhausting?  Or is it possible the view from the top is so breathtakingly gorgeous the journey to get there seems like a walk in the park?  Are you a victim or a vessel?  Do you view the challenges of life as suffocating and unbearable, believing the only way to avoid another heartbreak is to become fast friends with your pillow for 24 hours a day?  Are you a seemingly innocent bystander, never quite able to crawl out from under the rock or find a solid footing in constantly shifting sand, always searching for the pity party around the corner in need of a guest of honor?  Or are you a vessel, relishing the tough times as opportunities for spiritual, emotional and intellectual growth?  It is quite possible that in these times, God has given you a rare opportunity to speak on His behalf, to sing praises in the rain - or perhaps, a torrential downpour at times - to send some glory His way and redefine faith.  How do you see things?

Are you certain the homeless man on the corner is really in it for the vodka or is there a distinct possibility he may actually possess enough humility to stand on a street corner with carefully chosen words that never seem to say enough scrawled on a cardboard sign and beg for help, soul exposed to ridicule and judgment from random passers-by who justify their ambivalence by telling themselves, “I don’t have any cash anyway.”  How do you see things?

Have you arrived at the intersection of bitterness and ungrace, certain that the ones who have hurt you - intentionally and unintentionally - are forever undeserving of forgiveness?  Have you hardened your heart so successfully not even the angriest bird can penetrate the fortress you’ve built?  Or by some small miracle, have you seen beyond the betrayal to the hurt in the ones who have hurt you, knowing somewhere deep inside they too are wounded souls longing for someone or something to fill the void?  How do you see things?

Do you see things through filtered lenses, as the world wants you to see them?  As the politicians want you to see them?  As your family wants you to see them?  Or do you see them through rose-colored glasses, tinted red as the blood of Jesus, holy and pure, true and unchanging, powerful and eternal?  Might I suggest there is enough heartache and pain in this life without adding fuel to the fire.  Next time the tendency to fan the flames kicks in, perhaps you should douse it with water instead.  Trust me, there is enough to reduce it to a pile of smoldering ashes - the glass is more than half full in God’s house!  For once, if not always, silence the critics and your own accusing voice and tune in to the sweet, sweet voice you hear when you find yourself falling.  Let the words of a loving savior ring in your ears.   “Be strong and courageous.  Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” ~Joshua 1:9

And because I haven’t met my question mark quota in this little diatribe, I’ve got one more for you.  When your pace slows and your doubt increases, ask yourself, “Am I a weary traveler on a road wrought with speed bumps and potholes or am I wounded warrior whose faith in something bigger simply will not allow me to believe life’s hurdles are meant to trip me up rather than build me up.”  If only for a moment, allow yourself to believe you have a loving Father who desires nothing less than the best for His children, the most coveted glittering prize, a precious gift, an eternity in Heaven with you (yes, you).  His grace is sufficient, His word is true, His love is extravagant, and the view from up there is always unfiltered.

Let the River Flow

It was around 3:37pm yesterday when I began to ask myself if there is an age cut-off for the Safe Haven Act. I think the men in any given firehouse would gladly take the princess in if they knew how minuscule her chances of surviving another day in this house are with the attitude she’s been toting around this week - or my chances of survival, for that matter. Is there a slot large enough for me to surrender myself, I wonder? At the very least, THEY have access to very large fire extinguishers that may come in handy somewhere around the twelfth “snit” of the day, as my mother-in-law refers to it. Now that I think about it, is Safe Haven meant for her safety or mine? Because clearly I am the one in harm’s way these days.

It was around 4:14pm yesterday when I realized there are no ear plugs large enough to drown out the wee voice that once was music to my ears. Wee.No.Longer. And with no hesitation my daily plea has become, “Turn down the main, Skid Row! Can’t you see I’m a woman on the edge???” Indeed calling her the princess has backfired immeasurably. Somehow, somewhere along the way she has come to believe she is no longer a princess, but rather, the queen. And I, a mere servant in her court, a hired hand, a peasant. And so it is from the depths of my weary, defeated, pitiful soul I cry, “Uncle, uncle, I give. Sweet Jesus, hear my pleas. Remove the pint-sized demon from my baby girl and give me back my angel!”

It was around 6:17pm yesterday when I found myself lying in the fetal position beneath a makeshift fort I had fashioned out of a Snuggie, patchwork quilt and Minnie Mouse fleece throw attempting futilely to keep the enemies at bay. I was playing my own version of hide and seek, whereupon I “accidentally” forget to tell them there is a game underway. So there I was, lying in a heap larger than the seven loads of unfolded laundry at the foot of the bed, feeling defeated for the seventeenth time that day, when it suddenly dawned on me. It had been a very long time since I’d had a good cry. Let me be clear. No soft whimpers shall ever grace these halls...or feebly constructed forts for that matter. There is only one cardinal sin in my eyes when it comes to living with a two-year old, self-professed diva. Show.No.Weakness. A true toddler can sense fear and let’s be honest, at this point in time, I am truly afraid of the princess. I am literally afraid that she will be waiting around the next corner with a two-by-four, brass knuckles, or worse, a bad attitude and an insatiable hunger for chocolate goldfish that will not be denied. But I digress. If I intend to show any amount of weakness in this house by doing something as ridiculous as crying, I better really make it count.

It was around 6:23pm yesterday when the floodgates opened and the pent-up frustration and exhaustion of the last several weeks began to flow. It was one of those really freeing, drawn out, physically exhausting cries. And it was magical. I think I may have unknowingly signed up to cry on behalf of mommies everywhere who were feeling the same defeat as I in that very moment. And for one brief moment, nothing else mattered. I was just a girl with a box of tissue, mourning the loss of her freedom and sanity, and everything was right with the world for one brief moment.

It was around 6:49pm yesterday when they found me (and yes, I was still alive - the epitaph will have to wait). And the battle raged on long into the night, but something had changed. I had changed. I was renewed, revitalized, ready to tackle whatever sippy cup came my way (at 97mph, mind you). And God saw what He had done and it was good. And He rested. I, on the other hand, could not sleep, as usual. But it was okay. I actually stole some quiet moments to do a little research on the cost of a share of stock in Kimberly-Clark, the company that manufactures Kleenex (it’s currently $69.82 by the way).

It was around 12:34am this morning when it came to me. “Jesus wept.” ~John 11:35

Man, that guy really was a genius. Even the most perfect man to ever walk this Earth knew that a good cry is worth it’s weight in gold. Hey, if our toddlers can do it and our Savior could do it, why can’t we? And so I leave you with this. Let it out, ladies. And if you need a shoulder to cry on, please don’t call me. I’ll be playing hide and seek with a box of Kleenex and a can of camouflage paint.

Miss Matched

Ok, so here’s the thing. It has become abundantly clear to me lately that the little 2-year old, self-professed heir-to-some-throne, somewhere in America I call my daughter really does believe she is a magical fairy princess. I see it in the attitude that daily screams (implicitly AND verbally), “I am here. Notice me! Bow down to me! Provide goldfish at my beckoned call! And do not even think of saying ‘no’ to me!” I see it in the sweet little, “Nooooo’s” that resound throughout our halls oh, let’s say, about every 6.3 seconds. And I see it in every outfit she meticulously chooses each morning. Oh wait, each hour, because yes, she MUST change clothes every hour, on the hour, as if her little pint-sized life depended on it. And I’m not talking about a new dress. I’m talking 4 new skirts, all at the same time, 3 pairs of underwear and the ONE tank top amidst the thousands that seems to scream her name every.moment.of.every.day. Why??? For the love of all that is holy (and most of her wardrobe is at this point), why can’t she let her mother pick an outfit for her? All kidding aside, let’s delve into this battle I call the Great Wardrobe Debate of 2011.

What’s really at the heart of the matter here? I, being the super organized, ghetto fabulous, mother-of-the-year that I am, seek only to present to the world, a well-put-together, darling, proper, presentable child any mother would swoon over. An honorable intention, right? And she, being the strong-willed, simple minded, new at the way this whole mother-daughter relationship thing works, child, seeks only to destroy me and my good intentions. Sounds about right, doesn’t it? Sounds a bit nutty, if you ask me. Here it is, ladies. Wait for it...we’re nutty if we believe our little mini-me’s can see even a fraction of an inch beyond what we see. ‘Cause here’s how it plays out in our minds. “She is a reflection of me and the job I am doing with her. What will others think if she doesn’t match, look clean, and well put-together?” And here’s how it plays out in her mind. “Purple is pretty. Green is pretty. Put them together, twice as pretty!”

So I have no choice but to dig deep and try to fathom why the mixing of Play-doh colors does not bother me in the least, but an outfit that doesn’t match sends me so far over the edge no amount of therapy can bring me back. So I’ve been mulling it over incessantly and I think I’ve got it. It’s become increasingly obvious to me since I became a parent that the path I deem “appropriate” for my babies is actually the exact opposite of what God intends for them. Bear with me. I’m not calling myself a failure (not today anyway), just exploring and comparing a worldly point of view with God’s truth about the matter. You see, I see my babies as a reflection of me and so, I want them to look composed and presentable to the world. Sweet smelling babies = successful mother, right? The problem is, my view of presentable and God’s view are entirely different. I’ve been conditioned to think that I must appear as if I’ve got it all together, a Superwoman of sorts, able to leap tall-buildings in a single bound, or at the very least, get in and out of the dollar aisle at Target without running over another mommy’s toes with my cart. I must make it to the early soccer game, bring the best hot dish at MOPS and be on time, be met at the classroom door with cheers of, “Junior did an excellent job sharing today,” volunteer to host the weekly playdate, not raise my voice for more than 3 hours straight, have the cleanest toilet on the block, AND make a mean meatloaf. Right? Pause for effect.

Breathe. Here’s the good news. God laughs at my view of presentable. His view looks a little more like this. Are you comfortable and confident in my love for you? If you are, you’re ready to face the world. Go and make disciples of the nations - even if your shoes don’t match. You see, we view our children as reflections of us and God views us the very same way. Scary, but freeing. Ask yourself this...what exactly is it that you are reflecting of your Heavenly Father? Love? Compassion? Grace? And most of all, Need? Do you need Him? Because I truly believe THAT is what He cares about, so much more so than the color of our socks, though frankly, I think he prefers the frilly lace ones with the pom pom balls on the back!

The truth is that most of the time, my outfit looks great (please don’t hunt me down on Thursday to test this one out), but on the inside, my clothes are lying in a pile on the closet floor. And I believe the heart of God would beat so loudly if I let the world peek into my closet rather than glimpse at the false front I so often present to try to make myself feel worthy. Am I raising babies that look good or babies that look to God? You see, in her pint-sized, not yet scarred, 2-year old mind, the princess truly believes when she puts that 4th skirt over the 3rd she has crossed the threshold from little girl to magical fairy princess. What if I believed that whole-heartedly in the reflection God sees in me? That I am so passionately loved despite my appearance? That I am deeply accepted despite the way I feel on any given day? What if the world saw the blood of Jesus rather than the coffee stains on my tank top?

Most days I have to break out the handcuffs to get the princess to let me brush her hair and so, it’s difficult for me to look at those darling little curls and not hear the words, “Child, what happened to your head?” ringing in my ears. Perhaps now I’ll look at her and see a crown of thorns beneath the faux-diamond tiara and remember that my Father does not care if hair number 4,214 was out of place. And when princess insists on her favorite dress (from 2009) and I’m struggling to button the top 3 buttons on the back that no longer close because she’s just had her seventeenth growth spurt, I’ll see the lashes my Jesus endured for me and remember that a perfectly buttoned shirt could never hide that. And when no amount of jelly beans can convince her that shoes are a necessity on the playground, I’ll think of the great sacrifice my loving savior made for me as I’m washing her feet at the end of the day and I’ll smile. Because I believe sometimes when we refuse to listen, our sweet, sweet Father has no choice but to find gentle reminders such as these to whisper in our defiant ears, “I do not care how the world sees you. I see you as flawless, clothed in righteousness, precious and holy, set apart for Me.” Now zip up your jacket and go tell them how much I love them.

Two.Years.Old.

Nuff said!

Stuff on my kids #3, #4, probably #5, not sure how many!

It's been awhile folks, so I have some serious catching up to do. I find myself more the blog follower these days than the blog writer. But alas, enjoy! And sorry about the lack of Bubba pics. He's not quite the ham the Princess is these days.

Run for Your Eternal Life

I posed the question to myself recently, “If you could choose one word to describe yourself what would it be?” And the only answer I could surmise was, “Defeated.” Simply stated, I am losing. I’m losing the battle for sleep. I’m losing battles with my children on an almost daily basis. I’m definitely losing the battle of the bulge. And I’m sure to lose what little I have left of my mind any day now. There is no pit boss belting out my name in response to, “Who’s the big winner?” I’m more likely to be the one face down in the glitter gulch – the big loser, that’s me. Give me an inch, I’ll probably take a centimeter, because that’s about all I’ve got room for right now.

So I think it’s time to stop throwing for the end zone and take a knee. So that’s it. I’m closing my play book and heading to the locker room. And it is at this point my Jesus whispers, “Sweet child, take your hands off your ears and listen closely. I have you right where I want you. Stop pining and check your back pocket. You’ve already won.”

Make no mistake. There’s no white flag of surrender in my rearview mirror. I firmly believe I’m called to “press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.” (Philippians 3:12). But the finish line at the end of the race looks a little different from this angle. There won’t be a gold medal around my neck, only a garland of grace to adorn my head. And there won’t be a trophy engraved with “Best overall,” but rather a book with my name written somewhere around page 6,327. And I will not be the one waving from atop the highest step on the podium. I’ll most likely be the one on my knees, weeping uncontrollably. Yep, the race is pretty clear to me now. I crossed the finish line years ago when I said, “Take my heart.” And I claimed my prize that very same day, a prize I did not deserve, but humbly accepted. The redeeming work of Calvary was and is enough. Let it be, girlfriend! There once was a man who loved His children so much He gave up the one thing any parent simply could not bear to lose. And to this I am called, to throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and run with perseverance the race marked out for me. And now I run only because my heart knows no different, because I long for better days, because in my loss, there is great victory.

And the beauty in the race is this. When I look in the mirror and see a big loser, somewhere in the back of my self-deprecating mind, I hear a voice that drowns my own and reassures me, “You are the one Jesus loves.” Oh, to live in that love! To think half as highly of myself as Jesus thinks of me. To feel the joy He feels when His daughter comes running home and falls into His arms begging for mercy, forgiveness, and rest. I have always fancied myself the prodigal’s daughter, testing boundaries, pushing limits, and going it alone until I finally make my way home again. And then it weighs on me like a forty-three pound toddler, “Why am I running again?” I have already won. I received my prize a long, long, long time ago, on a hill, by a tree, where I met my first love, my Savior, my Jesus. Game over!

Heavenly Father, bless my friends and family with perseverance and rest, strength and weakness, joy and pain. Reassure them that though the faces they see in the mirror might not seem appealing, you see them as flawless, as you intended them to be. Amen.

Remember, if only for today, YOU ARE THE ONE JESUS LOVES!

Dazed & confused...but slightly encouraged

I was highly encouraged by a guest speaker to my MOPS group this morning whose words gently reminded me that I hold the keys to both my husband and my children’s hearts. Let me get this straight. I am not only charged with feeding, clothing and meeting the basic needs of bubba and the princess, but I am also responsible for the maintenance and care of their souls as well. Ugh! Of course, at the end of the day they will rest safely in the palm of my Heavenly Father’s hand, but in the interim, little ole me has the power to make or break their spirit in a thousand different ways. I am the guardian of their tender little hearts. What a terrifying thought! I might even go so far as to say that it feels a bit burdensome. So as I ponder the way I have raised my children thus far I am left with no other option than to throw up my hands in shame and disgrace and cry, “Dear Lord, what on Earth were you thinking?!”

Psalm 8:3-5 When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?

And who am I that you find me even vaguely capable of molding and shaping your precious little ones into fully functioning adults, putting their faith and trust in you always and seeking your face all the days of their lives? I mean, are you kidding me? Most days I can barely muster the wherewithal to brush my own teeth let alone find the time, patience, and at the very least desire to not irreparably damage my children for all eternity. The responsibility of “training my children in the way they should go” weighs so heavily on my heart and chest I can barely breathe, but for some reason you have planted these seeds in my life and deem me worthy and capable of watering them on a daily basis. And so, I humbly, but more often hesitantly accept the challenge and set about on this journey of motherhood once again, and today, Thursday, October 14, 2010 (one for the record books) I believe I may have actually done more good than harm to these two little munchkins that sit before me watching Alvin and the Chipmunks as if they were Jesus, Mary, and Joseph themselves.

There is something very profound that occurs when God assembles a group of ten women with very different upbringings, ideas and temperments and they each exude the courage to be vulnerable and honest from the get go, laying their souls bare for each other to examine. A divine appointment, if you will. And so I have been more than blessed today by my new girlfriends whose willingness to share parts of themselves they find unsavory at best touches my heart on the deepest level. I have always been a bit of an over-sharer myself, lacking the filter that says, “Hold that one back for awhile. You don’t want to scare them.” But I truly believe my ability to get to know others is solely based on my ability to let myself be known. If I get real with them, they feel a sense of relief and comfort knowing they can get real with me. Perhaps the fear of judgment is left out of the equation and the playing field is leveled. Needless to say, I left my group this morning feeling rejuvenated and encouraged, ready to spend some quality time with my babies, investing in their souls, if only for a few hours before naptime.

We built a fort in the living room and plopped ourselves down on a tower of pillows to watch a movie. And there on the floor, snuggled by my side, my darling PJ turned his precious face to me and whispered, “Momma, I like you. I had a great day.” My heart wept. What have I done to these children to make an hour on the floor feel like a day at Disneyland? Has my screaming and yelling and lack of patience traumatized them past the point of return or is there hope for me yet? Does God trust me that much with their future choices, actions, path in life, and even success as a husband or wife? Or at the heart of the matter, am I really just responsible for their general well-being and how they feel about themselves at the end of the day? I’m not sure which idea scares me more. I think I’d like to use a lifeline. Hello, Jesus, are you there? Help a mother out, would ya? These kids are going to need all the help they can get. So here I sit, praying for a miracle and feeling overwhelmed. And once again, with nowhere left to turn but back...all the way back to the beginning, the Bible.

2 Corinthians 4:6-7 For God, who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

I’m going to try to break this down to the most fundamental level. My hope, my help, the wisdom, the patience, and the power to love my children and care for their souls comes from above. How blessed my children would be if I daily tapped into the Heavenly resources that so freely await me anytime I ask. Why is it that the “doing” is not quite as difficult as the “remembering to do?” I can remember to put gas in the car and change a diaper every few hours, but remembering that my babies hang on my every word and look to me for security and acceptance is far too great a task. What a sad, sad world I’ve created for myself. The power to become the mother I so desperately long to be God says is already within me, a treasure found in a jar of clay, cracked and flawed to let the light of a loving Father shine through for the world to see. I guess that’s a visual aid I can wrap my hands around. You know, the Bible speaks of clay again in Isaiah, as God is described as the potter and we, putty in His hands, so to speak.

Isaiah 64:8 Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.

Really, Father, really? I am putty in your hands, ever-changing, far from perfect and now I am expected to be the potter and take a spin on the wheel, molding my children from the ground up? Most days I’m lucky if I can carve a donut out of a can of neon pink Play-Doh and now I’m supposed to turn these two little mini-me’s into priceless works of art? God has quite a sense of humor, but I’ve heard it said that He does not call the qualified; He qualifies the called. So again, I wipe the cobwebs from the jar of clay collecting dust on this shelf I call my heart and offer up this simple prayer. I can only hope to someday fashion treasures not perfect and refined as we will someday be, but loved and loving, worn and weathered, flawed just enough to let the beauty and wonder of your love shine through for all to see. The treasure we claim in our jars of clay is not the work of our hands we pridefully exhibit to a world hungry for success, but the work of the cross we humbly preach to a world thirsty for redemption.

I woke up this morning pondering what lessons I would teach my children today and found instead, that I am learning more from them on this journey than they are from me. In their eyes, I’ve seen fear and anxiety, anticipation of what their day will look like based on my mood. I’ve seen the reflection of a tired, worn down, impatient girl longing for some quiet time who now understands that I am no longer just the clay, I am a potter as well. I am a sheep and a shepherd. I am a child and a mother. I am a canvas and an artist. There is one thing my children did learn from me today though. I taught them that their mommy has a lot to learn, but she is a humble “student,” a blank slate, an empty page, and God is the author and perfector of her faith.

Lord, teach my babies that though their mommy is finite, You are infinite – in wisdom, in love, and in boundless grace. Amen.

Stuff on my kids #2

Oops! I missed one and how could I forget this...

But while I'm at it, the bear suit made an appearance way back in January.

More to come...

A New Series

Allow me to "steal" an idea, if you will. I've come across several recent blogs in which the author has created a series to which they add when an opportunity arises. One friend blogs occasionally about "things she loves," my sister told me about a blogger who consistently writes about "things he wants to punch in the face," and one of my all-time faves is a guy who posts about "stuff on his cat," literally, he takes pictures of his cat with things stuck to it. And so as I thought about a common theme in my life, the only thing that came to mind was my kids' obssessions with trying stuff on. And so, when I say "steal," I mean kindly "borrow" the latter blogger's idea and I will call my new segment, "stuff on my kids."

Allow me to demonstrate with photos of the last several months in which my darling babies have taken their fetishes and ran with them. There is this little ditty in which my beanie babies test out their winter hats.

This gem of my sweet, and let me affirm, very masculine son, bubba.

And of course, the princess getting ready for her debut in the shower.

Ah, but lest I forget the most recent snapshot of little princess testing out her brother's new suit of armor.And thus begins the first of many posts of "stuff on my kids." Let the games begin, folks. Much more to come...

Here's where the story begins

Do you ever ask yourself...

Have I let it sink in, or has it merely scratched the surface? Have I taken stock and counted each and every blessing today? When I tell them “I am the one Jesus loves,” do I live in that love, or am I still pining for it? Have I come to the place of rest in the shadow of your wings, or am I still toiling on the ground? Do I lie awake at night thinking of how I will protect my babies when the enemy comes near, or do I recognize that they are yours and yours alone, entrusted to me for only a short time? Have I surrendered, or am I still behind the wheel? Have I even remotely grasped the magnitude of your power, the abundance of your grace, the depth of your love, and the lengths you would go to – and have gone to – to call me daughter and friend? Have I been changed, as you stand unchanging? Have I forgiven myself, as you have forgiven me and made me pure?

Today was emotionally exhausting in the best way possible. As I listened to the testimony of one you call your own, I heard the pain that still lingers, saw the hope as it unfolded, felt the joy of things to come, and fought back tears. I felt as though I was looking in a mirror and took a good, hard look at where I stand on this journey. A thousand questions came to mind, and though I can’t say I was thrilled with all the answers, I am at peace knowing that I am right where I am supposed to be. Your timing never ceases to amaze me. Lord, you have my heart, you know my story, and I am confident that you will not stop writing until every chapter is complete, every wound is healed, and every tear has been bottled.

When Toddlers Attack

I’ve spent the last month trying to come to grips with the fact that my sweet angel, PJ, has finally fallen into the trap of the “terrible twos” that I was so certain I had miraculously avoided. Now in all fairness, bubba is also contending with an ear infection, lack of sleep, and a somewhat new baby sissy and simply cannot understand why he is no longer the center of everyone’s universe (though I’d like to tell him secretly that he is, indeed, still the center of mine and will always be “my special son”). And so I find myself, once again, dealing with a very strong-willed, stubborn and let’s face it, just plain HUGE physical force that I can no longer control. Let me illustrate. On a weekend vacation visiting with in-laws, we thought it would great fun to visit the aquarium and zoo on consecutive days. Both did not end well. I spent the day at the zoo trying to corral perhaps the wildest animal that place has ever seen. Seriously, even the lions were begging me to remove him. My solace came around 2 o’clock, after a peanut butter sandwich and some chocolate milk. The aquarium did not go quite as well. The trek from the puffer fish to the second level of the parking lot carrying my 42 pound son, kicking and screaming, was made even more enjoyable by the pouring rain and starving baby girl that awaited me in the back seat of the car. And for the third time that week, I locked the doors and waited for close to an hour for PJ to stop fighting and give in. He did not. I climbed in the back seat and held his seat belt closed long enough for the drive home while Grant drove. Those were, however, the worst days thus far (if you don’t count the trip to the pediatrician’s office today, wherein two nurses and myself fought diligently to hold him down long enough for the doc to check his ears and I might have caught every sixth word she said amid the wailing and screaming and repeated attempts to flee the room or at the very least, kill the lights). A typical day, on the other hand, consists of a mere 4-5 meltdowns and numerous attempts to sit on, kick, or knock over the princess for no apparent reason.

I have spent hours upon hours trying to reason with my child, all the while forgetting that even though he uses words like “impressive” and “fortunate” and calls me a “genius” when I suggest lotion for his dry cheeks, he is still a two-year old child. I have spanked and I am not afraid to admit, purely in frustration. I have forced numerous “time outs” to no avail, taken away all of his favorite toys, which I found he really CAN live without, and have locked him in his room and watched incredulously as he broke the childproof doorknob lock off again and again. And now, way beyond my breaking point and purely at a loss, I throw my hands up in surrender and cry, “I give!” You win, my sweet, sweet, boy. You are the master manipulator, the king of the castle and I simply cannot compete.

So here, at the end of my rope, I am now seeking the advice of professionals. My pediatrician had little to say on the matter and referred me to a child psychologist who affirmed what I have since discovered on my own. The only way to survive this period is to simply not react. I am currently “attending” to my child (positively reinforcing without instructing or asking questions while we play). I cover my mouth when I feel the urge to cry and instead, find myself laughing. Let’s face it, at times like these, is there really anything else we can do? And I’ve noticed small improvements already. Here’s what I really struggle with. Why do mommies take everything so personally? I have called every friend and mommy I know to vent, hoping all the while to hear them tell me that indeed, I DO have the most difficult and challenging child on the face of the Earth. Believe me, I know there are much worse situations and I am now praying diligently for the sanity and safety of those mommies and their babies. But it just seems that if someone would validate how tough my struggle is at the moment, I might not feel like such a failure as a mommy or that I somehow caused this behavior in my frustrated, little angel of a son. The truth is, I put so much pressure on myself to be a good parent and what I’m failing to realize is that I am a good parent, simply because I love them both so much and have the desire to do right by them. Don’t we all just want happy, healthy, well-adjusted children who will grow up to be the same in adulthood? Don’t we all just want them to love us unconditionally as we love them? And truth be told, don’t we all just want a spa weekend in the Hamptons with the nearest diaper thousands of miles away? I guess what I’m really learning on this journey is that it isn’t about PJ’s behavior at all. It’s really about my response to it and what I am supposed to be learning at the moment. Don’t they say that it’s actually our children who teach us life lessons? So what is it that I am to glean from this challenging period? At the end of the day, I’m not as big of a failure as a mommy as I sometimes feel. I mean, they both still want me 24/7 so I can’t be that big of a downer, right? It is not my job to raise the perfect child. It is my job to love my children the best way I know how and to seek guidance and wisdom from the only one who does love my children perfectly, my Heavenly Father, my hope, my Jesus.

And let me just say, straight from my heart and completely unabashedly, the one thing I have been lacking in my parenting is peace and I have known all along where to turn for that. Emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted, I come on hands and knees back to my first love, back to my Jesus and cannot wait for the intimacy I’ve been missing for way too long. It is time to draw near to the one who’s been waiting to hear from me. It is time to draw upon the strength that will carry me through these trying times. It is time to give my babies what they’ve needed all along – a mommy who loves them so much that she would carry them kicking and screaming ten thousand miles in the pouring rain if that’s what they need to feel her love.

One final thought, the best advice I’ve received so far is to nurture your child’s heart first and the behavior will follow. What a concept, right? So simple and yet so packed with truth and wisdom. And now my “and on the bright side” moment for today…as I was putting the finishing touches on bubba’s PB&J today, he began to scream as usual, “MOMMA, I WANT…” and stopped mid-sentence. He got up and came into the kitchen and quietly stated, “Um, 'scuse me, momma, can you please put my bib on?” My darling little angel is already on the road to recovery, or better stated, I am on the road to recovery and bubba is waving furiously from the sidewalk, waiting for me to catch up.

Life isn't always good in the mother hood

So today is a good day to be a mommy and I am thankful that there are no messes to clean up, boo boos to mend, or tantrums to tune out, and as I relish this moment, I am thinking about my dear friend who rarely has days such as this. My “I love being a mommy” days are pretty few and far between and I am so not afraid to admit it. And so I sit here wondering, “Why do we feel like we’re bad mommies when we so much as hint that we are not enjoying every moment?” Let me lay some groundwork. I am not one of those women whose sole purpose in life is to be a mommy. I wish I could say that I want nothing more and nothing less, but I’m no liar. The truth is that I wanted a family and would never in a million years change my life as it is today or regret my decision to have children in any way, but I have other dreams and aspirations waiting on the horizon for me to wave the burp cloth of surrender and pursue them. I simply do not want to be a mom who has no life outside of her children. Yes, my children are a giant part of my life now, but there are other facets to that life as well, other talents, other gifts, and other desires I’d love to explore someday.

They tell you being a mother is hard. They tell you you’ll spend countless nights without a minute of rest. They tell you you’ll be an emotional wreck from time to time. What they don’t tell you is that you’ll likely feel ashamed if you don’t enjoy every minute of it. Maybe I’m the only one, but as much as I love my babies, I think motherhood is a fairly thankless job, at least in the early years. You exist to meet the needs of another human being and get very little in return. You are stretched to your limits, pushed to your breaking point, and then asked to give just a little more. Yes, it’s difficult, but in ways I never imagined. And I guess I’m just tired of feeling “less than” for not being afraid to admit that.

I watched that movie, Marley and Me a few days ago and in one scene, Jennifer Aniston tearfully relates that she has given up every part of herself that made her who she is for the sake of being a mother. I swear I’ve had that conversation verbatim with my husband. So many of the things he fell in love with disappeared when I became a mommy. They should warn men of that; perhaps the divorce rate would be much lower. Hey guys, your wife will change drastically when she has children. She must be all things to all people and that means, many of the things you adore about her will fall to the wayside for a while. But I have to believe they return as our children grow up. I have to hold out hope that I will one day be that carefree, risk-taking, free-spirited, independent woman I once was.

And in the meantime, I think our society needs to be a bit more forgiving of the moms who don’t constantly boast of the rewards of being a mother. Sometimes those rewards don’t surface until much later. I think we need to temper our stories of success and our moments of joy with the moments that we’d care to forget. Chances are, when you are on your 375th cry of, “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me,” there’s a very good chance thousands of other mothers are mumbling the very same thing at that very same moment. What every mommy needs is a little encouragement, a little understanding, and a whole lot of, “Oh yeah, me too” words of comfort. It’s okay to be less than perfect. It’s ok to have 67 frustrating days for every 3 joyful days. It’s ok to wish you could just sleep when you want to sleep, take a sick day every week, and eat a meal while it’s still hot. What we do is no small feat. Let’s face it; sometimes it’s trying, at best.

Hang in there mommies, you’ll survive the early years. Soak up every fleeting moment of contentment, share the little things that make you smile and the huge things that make you wish there was a vineyard in your back yard. And if you intend to give yourself any chance at all, ask God to be your guide, because Lord knows none of us can do it without Him. And when you feel like the worst mommy ever, give yourself the grace He gives you and know that you are not alone. And with that, this morning I sat down to read my Bible for the first time in like, a hundred years and my darling PJ came running out of the room yelling, “Mama, what doing, mama?” He then proceeded to sit beside me, hold my hand, kiss me and say, “I wuv you Mama.” And that ladies, is why we do it.

Get up and dance, already!

From my all-time fave, Almost Famous: “They don't even know what it is to be a fan, you know? To truly love some silly little piece of music, or some band, so much that it hurts.”

I have recently become a fan of a fairly new band called Jack’s Mannequin. Already a huge fan of The Fray, I had been intermittently checking their website for upcoming concert dates and almost fell out of my chair when I saw that they were finally touring on the west coast AND were playing with Jack’s Mannequin at Irvine Meadows (yes, it will always be Irvine Meadows to me, just like The Big A will always be Angel Stadium). And so, I rallied the troops (Stacey) and we went to see the show two days ago.

I found it intriguing that me, a girl with quite possibly the least amount of rhythm in all of Orange County could barely contain my excitement and so, I was forced to tap my feet and even sway a bit from time to time. I said I lacked rhythm; did you think I’d actually even attempt to launch into full dance mode? And then I saw them, two rows in front of us and just a few seats down, two of the most excitable, young, teenage girls I had ever seen at a concert. They were dancing and singing and screaming in their shrill, girlie voices at the top of their lungs, every word to every song. And I, as I had done many times before at many different concerts, should have launched into attack mode immediately, verbally, and even physically mocking their every move. But something was different this time. I started thinking about those girls who broke into hysterics at the mere mention of The Beatles. And then it occurred to me. I think I secretly am one of those girls. I mean, in all fairness, it was never really just a band that got me choked up so much as my intense love for their music, and I could easily see why these girls were so excited. I suddenly realized that all my previous mocking was most likely pointed at myself, at my own inability to just let go and let myself celebrate something that moved me.

I’ve always been so acutely aware of everyone around me, and so terribly concerned of what they will think if I look silly that I fail to allow myself to fully enjoy even the best of shows. Well, short of the Go-Go’s concert before I became so completely self-aware. I’m one of those girls who has to have a fair amount of liquid courage before I hit the dance floor, and by fair amount I mean depleting the bar of its entire stock of Vodka, sprite and sweet-and-sour mix. I refuse to leave the house without a shower. And forget about public speaking, even if I could claim the title of Nobel Prize winner on a particular subject. Let’s face it, I don’t even like opening gifts at my own parties because I can’t stand the thought of all eyes on me. Those things are neither here nor there I suppose, but when it comes to dancing, I don’t think it’s a confidence issue so much as I have no delusions about my inability to move with even a trace of fluidity. Seriously, even that old guy on the Magic Mountain commercials puts me to shame. Now I know some of you could actually bring back the cabbage patch and be labeled “innovative.” I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my people now. I’m talking to the Ronald Millers of the world, the ones who believe strategically waving both arms above your head for an entire set makes you a pretty good dancer. It doesn’t. And just so you know, mocking famous dances of the past is pretty transparent too. Come on people, you know who you are. You’re the wedding guest who revives the running man and the kid-n-play under the guise of a joke, hoping to fill time on the dance floor until others figure out that you simply can’t dance to save your life.

And so I wonder, how much joy have I missed out on by not allowing myself to get caught up in the moment and just let go? How many times have I restrained my enthusiasm to remain cool and collected? I mean, doesn’t the same principle of, “’Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt,” apply here? And the conclusion I’ve arrived at is this, yes, it is better to remain a wallflower than to be a laughing stock and the subject of many future jokes. It is better to keep some shred of dignity than to deem yourself “that girl.” Don’t get your panties in a bunch, kids, I’m just kidding. No, I don’t believe it is ever a better decision to censor yourself when it comes to passion and your love of basically anything (well, anything pure and honest and legal anyway). Think about it. God does not want us to hide our passion for Him, does He? Doesn’t He desire that we let our light, our love for Him, shine? Does He not ask that I be a city on a hill? And if, in fact, He wants me to express my enthusiasm for Him, His word, His grace, etc. in that manner, why not my love and passion for the simple things in life that He has so graciously surrounded me with as well? Why not stand up and sing or even dance when you hear a song that makes you smile from ear to ear. You know, the songs that remind us of a particular time in our lives, the songs that flood us with sweet memories and choke us up so fervently that we can barely manage to continue to sing along? Seriously, next time you feel the urge to stand up and act a fool at a concert, allow yourself to forget that you are surrounded by thousands of others who will likely point fingers and laugh at your antics and imitate your less-than-smooth moves. Chances are those people are wishing they had the guts to do the same.

Oh, and on a side note to Jack’s Mannequin, now that I know you are originally from Dana Point, I fully intend to stalk you (in a very non-threatening, legal manner, of course) every free minute I get. Your music seriously makes this self-professed Ronald Miller want to stand up and dance.

What A Friend We Have

I sang the songs of yesterday,
And let them wake my heart.
And in the words I’d held at bay,
Discovered who you are.

Jesus, Savior, Nourisher,
Teach my soul to trust.
Counselor, encourager,
Who raised me from the dust.

Son of Man, whose grace abounds
In morning, noon and night.
Holy God with nail-pierced hands
That steered my wrong course right.

Chorus
What a friend we have in Jesus.
Faithful friend who never leaves us.
What a friend who truly sees us.
Loving friend who daily frees us.

Father of the weak and poor,
Lover of the lost,
Son whose mercy opens doors,
Bearer of another’s cross.

Shepherd of a wandering flock,
Cornerstone on which to build,
Humble servant, solid rock,
Vision of promises fulfilled.

Chorus
What a friend we have in Jesus.
Faithful friend who never leaves us.
What a friend who truly sees us.
Loving friend who daily frees us.

Remover of all obstacles,
Deliverer, with lives to mend,
Redeemer of the prodigals,
Mighty King, forever friend.

May songs I sing, with heart unbound,
Be praises to my faithful friend,
For what an honor to be found,
And know what lies around the bend.

The Golden Rule

So after the recent election and the way this country, and my heart, were so divided, I took a long, hard look at the root of my discontent and I came up with two basic truths.

First, when asked to search our souls and arrive at a decision that is of a political nature, I believe we have fallen far short. Make no mistake, I firmly believe your faith should guide EVERY decision you make in life, including those of a political nature! You may try to separate your politics from your faith as best as possible, but you will fail miserably, for you cannot claim faith and trust in God and not allow Him to permeate all areas of your life. Why would a God who desires your WHOLE heart wish to be left out of certain aspects of your life? So my first truth is this: as Christians, I believe we too often attempt to interpret Christ through the world's eyes rather than interpreting the world through Christ's eyes. Case in point: when facing a tough decision, we are implored to consider, "What would Jesus do?" We consistently try to make sense of challenges and opposition by trying to understand Christ. But the truth is, Christ is not that difficult to figure out. He loves you, He wants what is best for you, He was clear about what He detested, and He asked you to take a stand on the side of purity and grace. When something seems confusing to me, it does not do me much good to look through my worldview glasses for truth and clarity, but rather to read the Word, ask God for guidance and consider the following. It isn't really about what Jesus WOULD do. It's about what Jesus DID do. And it's all right there in God's own words. He didn't leave some stuff out for us to second guess Him. He let His wishes be known.

And that brings me to my second truth. I don't believe this world is hurting because we have had a Republican in the White House for too long and I don't believe we will sink deeper into despair because we will now have a Democrat in the White House. I believe this world is hurting because we have left Jesus out of OUR homes for too long. I feel like He's been knocking on our doors, especially mine, for quite some time and maybe my music's been up too loud or something, but I certainly haven't heeded the call! Now, I'm not one of those people who chooses to guess the time when my loving savior will come to call me home (assuming I'm so lucky) or try to label how far into the end times we have traveled, but I do know this. We are called to always be ready and that means NOW! Notice I stated earlier that I believe Jesus wants us to take a stand on the side of purity and grace. I think grace is the bigger part of that equation. When we let Jesus direct our steps, He does so not with a heavy hand, iron fist, or angry voice so much as He does so with grace and we are to do the same. Somehow, some time ago, Christians became known as self-righteous hypocrites and I'm not so sure we didn't somehow earn that title. The truth is, if we are claiming to live without sin simply because Christ has found us, we truly are hypocrites. If, however, we are claiming to follow Christ in hopes that we will SOMEDAY live in the absence of sin, and treating others with the same measure of grace, we are spot on! People, we follow no man further than he follows Christ. I don't do as other Christians do (except for the whole sinning thing). I do-or try to do-as Christ did.
Philip Yancey begs the question, "What's so amazing about grace?" and I loooove His work. So what is so amazing? Well, let's see, what's not??? Grace is unwarranted, grace is not fair, and grace is so beautiful. When we sin, we are not fallen Christians, because as Yancey states, "The opposite of sin is grace, not virtue." We are simply Christians, saved by grace. How can we not approach a fallen world with the same measure of grace that is extended to us daily by a loving God? Yancey also states, "The sense of sin is the measure of the soul's awareness of God." Essentially, you cannot know God without knowing that you are a sinner. Hallelujah people! I'm not giving you a free pass to sin so that you can get to know God a little better. I'm just saying, remember the golden rule. Come on now, search waaaay back to kindergarten when you were firts taught to do unto others as you would have done to you. When did that stop being applicable, huh? If God loves us in our failures, how can we not love others in theirs. And now, I'm gonna hit ya with the tough stuff and I'll say it as simply as I can. You gotta repent! God has no place for a sinner who refuses to repent. And that's it. Love those little backsliders as much as possible (including yourselves - a little forgiveness for ourselves goes a long way), show them what a penitent heart looks like, and maybe they'll catch a glimpse of God in there somewhere!

Truth tempered with grace

I have always considered myself a very liberal Christian, “careful” so as not to upset anyone (believer or non-believer) and so afraid of turning people away from Christ that I’ve likely missed many opportunities to turn them toward Christ. And so, as those of you who know me will attest, for me to actually sit down and write about an issue of faith that is proving to be more divisive than unifying among Christians, I must actually feel quite passionate about it. Alas, I’ve held my tongue long enough. Let’s discuss Proposition 8, shall we?

I will preface by saying that I have had many friends who are homosexual and I have and do love them all dearly and treat them no different than of my other friends. I have always struggled with the idea of tolerance and have more often than not compromised my faith to avoid alienating non-believers. I don’t struggle with the idea of homosexuality. God leaves no doubt that it is an issue of sin and if I tow the line on this one, where DO I draw the line? I have always steered clear of moral debates, never wanting to appear holier than thou. And now as I take a stand in favor of Prop 8, I do so, not feeling morally superior to others, but simply because God has asked me to speak the truth IN LOVE. My calling may not be the same as 90% of this country, but does that mean I should abandon all that I know to be true in my heart to fit in? Being a Christian does not mean winning a popularity contest. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. But God warned of this many times. Christians will suffer in this world. We will be persecuted. Those who went before actually died for their faith and yet we struggle with checking a box on a ballot. Most of us aren’t even called to be martyrs, but simply to speak the truth and yet, we are failing to do so.

I went to a new church this past Sunday (and no, I did not implode upon entering – God still has room for a prodigal’s daughter) and the message spoke loud and clear. How do we share our faith? Truth tempered with grace, right? Absolutely! I will be the first one onboard the grace train. I will gladly extend grace to any sinner who desires it and would hope that God and others deal with me accordingly, but the presence of grace does not roll out the red carpet for the acceptance of sin. And at the core of the issue, I do believe homosexuality is a sin. You cannot have an honest discussion about faith in God without discussing sin (and I firmly believe this conversation should always begin with my own personal sin). Without the acknowledgement of sin, there is no room for a message of redemption and our biggest fears would be realized. The Bible would truly become just a book with a series of great stories, legends, and songs. But the Bible is more than that. The Bible is hope, salvation, and absolute truth. It isn’t a collection of opinions, some of which we may choose to adopt as our own and others we can sidestep as we see necessary. I’ve told my husband (who is not a Bible believer) on many occasions that I don’t necessarily like everything God calls me to stand for, but I don’t get to pick and choose. If I claim it as truth, then I claim ALL of it as truth. And he has told me countless times that he would not respect me if I didn’t.

At the heart of the matter - to me anyway - is this: I refuse to be a moral drifter and I am not saying my morals are right or wrong, but they are my morals and I must defend them at all costs. I was not put on this Earth to make a million friends. I was put on this Earth to serve a loving God and share His message in duality. Truth without love is brutality, but love without truth is disobedience. To stand idly by and allow what I believe to be sin to creep into society is to disobey God.

I’ve been told to just not vote at all, because in essence, the lives others choose to live do not affect mine. I believe drunk driving is a sin also, and pedophilia, abortion, etc. The list is endless, I could even add arrogance, pride, and greed to that list. If there were a proposition to legalize any of these things, I would vote against it as well. In my eyes, if anything I deem sinful crosses my path and I have been given the freedom to speak out against it, it is my duty as a Christian to do so. Suppose Martin Luther King “just didn’t get involved?” There would have been no civil rights movement. The fact that gay marriage has already been legalized in California in the first place says to me that someone got involved! It is my privilege and obligation as a citizen of this country to do the same. I make no apologies where this is concerned and I would expect people on both sides of this issue to do the same. We have been given many choices in this life; what we do with them is one of the few things in our lives we can actually control. And if I choose to take no stance on sin, I’m not leaving much room for God to work. Without sin, Jesus was a great prophet. But with the acknowledgement of sin, Jesus was and is a loving savior. If I chose to abuse my darling little son, I would hope others would not simply turn the other cheek and allow me to live my life the way that I see fit. I would hope someone would send my little angel a savior to rescue him from the darkness. And that, my friends (hehehehe) is what I believe God has called His children to do. I’m not claiming to be anyone’s savior, but I know someone who is and I’m pretty certain He won’t be standing outside the voting booths whispering, “Shhhh, now is not the time to tell them about me.”

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle - Jesus did with you!

Did you know that Christians do not care about preserving or nurturing the environment? It’s true, you know. I found that out as I watched a documentary on Idaho Public Television last Wednesday night. Through an expose on evangelical Christians and their views about the environment, Bill Moyers attempted to tackle the question, “Is God Green?” The show featured interviews with Pastor Tri Robinson of Vineyard Christian Fellowship in Garden City, Idaho. Robinson is being hailed a “hero” of sorts for his bold assertions that Christians should actually take an interest in this Earth that we live on, even going so far as to say that it is a “Biblical imperative of stewardship.” Can you believe that? Apparently, we, as Christians, are to be concerned about things that non-believers have cared about for years. Absurd!

But here’s what I find truly unbelievable (and if you haven’t figured it out yet, that whole diatribe I just laid out was sarcasm)…I don’t know any Christians who believe they should “ignore” environmental issues or who fail to acknowledge that EVERY human being has a duty to take care of God’s green Earth. Yes, I believe God is green and perhaps a bit red with embarrassment when he sees the media portray his children from such a pitiful perspective. I don’t even know where to begin with this one.

Cheers to Pastor Robinson for his brave efforts to address an issue that has unfortunately been swept under the proverbial rug for way too long. Cheers to Pastor Robinson for even laying out a biblical foundation for our calling to environmental preservation. Cheers to Pastor Robinson for seeking to dispel a common myth that Christians believe the Earth is “gonna burn,” therefore, asserting that any attempts to preserve it are futile, at best. Did you know that? Did you know that Christians actually refuse to recycle on the basis that the whole Earth is going down, even the aluminum cans? Hmm, I don’t know about yours, but my God is a God of second chances, even for the tin cans and the plastic bottles (hehe – sorry, the whole thing is absurd, isn’t it?)!

In my quest for truth, I came across an author who put it this way. As Christians, our bodies will soon perish, but yet, we take care of those, don’t we? So why not the Earth? It has been entrusted to us in the same way that we have been admonished to care for our bodies, which are “temples of the Lord,” right? We’ll spend countless hours on the treadmill, but we won’t spend 2 seconds tossing our Pepsi can into the blue trash bin instead of the black one? A heartless lot, aren’t we? No, we are not, at least not all of us. So here’s what really sits uncomfortably in my soul when I watch these programs. What happened to truth in broadcasting? Not all evangelical Christians are racing for the finish line to claim the prize (which we already have, by the way). Not all of us are standing on the highest sky rise with our arms outstretched waiting for the spaceship to land. And certainly not all of us are impatiently searching the horizon for some plume of smoke that signifies the lake of fire is just around the corner! Some of us actually would like to do some good or leave some mark while we meander through this life. So again I say, yea to Pastor Robinson for showing the world that Christian environmentalists exist and though we are few (she says in jest, with a mischievous smirk), we are ready, willing, and able to act in whatever means necessary, even if it means, Heaven forbid, sacrificing a perfectly good minute on a Sunday afternoon to bend down and pick up a candy wrapper that has fallen by the wayside!

If you haven’t noticed, I’m really quite sick of it! I would rather jam a pencil in my eye than watch another expose on the crazy lives of evangelicals. Why don’t they do a piece on Muslims and their views on the environment? Or the Hare Krishna’s, now THAT, I’d watch! Why is it always those crazy Christians? I’ll tell you why. Because my Jesus is a threat to people who don’t believe in Him. My Jesus was a pacifist and an activist, a politician and a law-abiding citizen, a student and a teacher. My Jesus was specific about how we ought to live our lives here on Earth, but vague about when we would see him face to face. People don’t know what to make of that. They don’t want a community of people who tow the line. They want you to take a stand and fight till the death to defend it, even if it means climbing the ladder of self-righteousness to reach the judgment seat. But with Jesus, there are some shades of gray, whether we choose to believe it or not. We are called to believe the impossible, to deny our instincts, to admit to our imperfections and accept undeserved forgiveness. We are called to believe unabashedly that what seems upside down is actually right side up, and what our hearts tell us is senseless, our eyes will one day confirm. I truly believe that if you are so defensive about the views of another that you must go on the offensive to attack, there must be some seed of conviction deep within that you are trying to stifle.

Now I’m not saying this particular documentary was challenging Christianity or portraying it in a negative light. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I guess it’s what wasn’t said that really bothers me. What was missing was the fact that the majority of Christians do not believe we are to overlook environmental issues, global warming, etc. And to praise one pastor who is doing his part suggests, to me anyway, that most of us are not. My husband was watching this show subconsciously absorbing a story line that reads something like this: Christians roam the Earth like packs of wolves devouring aluminum cans and hurling them by the thousands into the nearest ocean, all the while spraying Aqua Net in an endless stream into the sky, which unsurprisingly is now a dirty shade of blue from which birds plummet to their death at an alarming rate. Don’t count me out yet; I did e-mail this to save paper, didn’t I? Ok, I’ll lose the dramatics now and simply say this…I love my home (San Clemente, the United States, and the Earth) and I’d no more like to see it perish than I’d like to spend an evening on the receiving end of a frontal assault by my demon-possessed cat. I care about the Earth and I know some other Christians who do too. There’s prayer because we care (the new motto of Christian activists), and we believe in a God who makes things happen. I do not believe I am free and clear of responsibility to Mother Earth simply because one day I will leave her and I know a few others who feel the same way. For the love of all that is holy, I married an Environmental Resource Specialist, tree hugging, granola-eater; I couldn’t litter if I wanted to!

There is one other thing I’d like to address and you may totally disagree with me on this one, but for the longest time, I’ve wondered why it disturbs me so intensely when I see a church or a pastor or any Christian for that matter on television discussing what they are doing for the Lord. And though this is a non-essential tenet of the faith, I have a very strong opinion on this one (tune out now if you don’t care to hear it). Matthew has much to say about service to the Lord in Chapter 6 and states, 2”Therefore, when you do a charitable deed, do not sound a trumpet before you as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory from men. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. 3But when you do a charitable deed do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, 4that your charitable deed may be in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will Himself reward you openly. 5And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth; they have received their reward in full. 6But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you…17But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, 18so that it will not be obvious to men that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”

Not for one moment am I presuming to know the motives of one man’s heart, nor do I believe his intentions were anything but pure. In fact, I might even go so far as to assert that it is the media that seeks to call attention to Christianity today, but I think in light of Matthew’s admonitions, if I were ever to find myself the interest of a media frenzy – don’t laugh, it could happen - I would gracefully bow out and leave the convertin’ to Jesus! I am fairly certain the intent of most Christians who take center stage in the public arena is to point a finger at the grace, forgiveness and love of God, but unfortunately, there is much more interest and much higher ratings in jumping on the bash-Christianity bandwagon. The lights I’ve seen shed on my faith time and again are less than flattering.

I’ve watched hour-long shows about my faith and failed to hear even one mention of Jesus Christ. My favorite author, Donald Miller, tells a story about a class he taught to a group of Christian college students. He asked them to describe the tenets of their faith and they nailed it. They spewed out everything from service to worship to moral absolutes to spiritual gifts, but forgot to include that Jesus guy. Ouch. That’s like trying to describe the ocean without mentioning water. In another interview I read recently, Reverend, Richard Cizik, gives the following definition of being “born again.”

“Well, it's pretty hard to define. Every individual has their own definition, their own existential experience, so to speak. All [born again] means [is] that you submit yourself to the authority of Jesus Christ over all of your life. He becomes the most important thing to you. It's not obedience to some laws or the Old Testament Ten Commandments. It's obedience to what Jesus wants, as authoritatively stated in the Scriptures, and that changes one's life.”

Ok, Richard, I’m halfway there with you. I wholly agree that everyone does have his or her own definition and I’m way on board with the idea that it has little to do with obeying some laws that were etched in stone some fifty gazillion years ago, but I’m going to take it a step further. Being born again, to me, has a whole lot to do with repentance and forgiveness and not necessarily in that order. It’s that whole idea I alluded to earlier that God is a God of second chances. And Richard, I second the notion that obedience to what Jesus wants changes lives. So what DOES Jesus want? I believe He wants to love me, and wants to hang out with me on Sunday afternoons (sometimes even on weekdays), and I believe, more than anything else, He wants me to acknowledge what He did for me on a hill awhile ago and maybe even tell some people about that. But here’s the stone, cold truth…there aren’t a whole lot of people who want to hear about that these days, least of all, the people on TV. And sometimes I think if we allow ourselves to entertain the idea of “getting the word out” by stepping into the public limelight and being broadcast through the media, there’s a good chance that Jesus guy won’t make the cut. Whenever I happen to nurture the desire to serve God in the smallest way and whatever I manage to do for Him when I’m not out shopping or at home torturing my kitty or screaming obscenities at the TV on a Sunday morning when the Chargers are down by a field goal (I love you, LT!), I think I’ll just do in silence and not give anyone ammunition to hurl back at me when I’m face down in the glitter gulch mourning the loss of my innocence!

But I digress. Some Christians care about the environment and the ozone layer and the fishes in the sea. But some of them really don’t and do you know what else? Some of them don’t like chocolate or the beach or (God help them) cats. Yes, some Christians suck. Ok, all of them do in one way or another, but so do all Catholics and all Muslims and all Jews and all Amish and all Buddhists and all Mormons, whether they believe it or not. We are all inherently bad (that whole “fall of man” thing). So can we stop focusing on the Christians for once and just play a rerun of Law and Order, or something?! Now that’s good television!

Heavenly Father, we recognize that being a child in your family means caring about other people, even the ones who don’t know you. We like what you’ve done here and even though we can’t wait to see you face to face, we promise to do our best to keep this place clean and beautiful and safe for all of your children. And Father, when we decide we’d like to be movie stars for a day, please help us to act out a story of love, and grace, and friendship and let the truth be told!!!

The Greatest American Hero (uh, that'd be Jesus)

So I was thinking today about those pastors who fall from their pedestals in the eyes of the church when they find themselves (oops), in the throws of adultery, or the bonds of addiction, or heaven forbid, entertaining a notion that challenges church doctrine. My knee-jerk response to this sort of situation is to belt out in utter amazement, “Wow, and he was such a great man of God!” Excuse me while I climb back into the chair I just fell from and regain my composure.

A great man of God…is there such a person? And if there is, how does one achieve such a status? I am hesitant to even utter the phrase out loud, but if I were to even skate along the edge of belief in such a person, I would offer the following definition. A great man of God is not the one who can yell loudest, but the one who can listen most intently. A great man of God is not the most dynamic in the crowd, but the most humble. A great man of God does not boast in how much he has to offer, but delights in even the smallest gain. And most importantly, a great man of God recognizes that he is not inherently great, but attributes his value to God alone. More simply stated, the greatness of man is that he is “of God.”

When I think about my best friends, the ones I believe to be truly great, I define them in this way: they are not the ones who know what’s best for me, but the ones who WANT to know what’s best for me. They are the ones who are willing to walk beside me as I figure it out. They are not preaching from the pulpit about the error of my ways or weighing me down with burdens I cannot carry, otherwise known as “should-haves” and “ought-tos”. They are not boasting of their position in my life, but are content with my friendship. My greatest friends are not great at all; they are merely faithful.

The greatest men of God are fundamentally the same. They do not recognize their greatness and if it should surface, it is attributed to God and God alone. So even though there may exist some form of greatness in man, I would prefer to address it in another way. Perhaps greatness could be defined more appropriately as simply, faith. The spiritual icons of the Bible were not great men of God; they were great men (and women) of faith. They were the ones whose lives elicited greatness as a result of their belief, and hope, and trust in a loving God. They beat the odds, cheated death, astounded the masses, and emerged from the most impossible circumstances unscathed. They were not great; they were rescued. They believed in the greatness of God and clung to His promises.

And here’s a further definition and a thought you’ll likely loathe. The greatest men of God are those that have been wounded. Wounded men are useful. They are of great value in the kingdom of God. I love this one…

An excerpt from “To Own a Dragon” by Donald Miller:
“The TRC was a commission established by Nelson Mandela to listen to and attempt to reconcile the country after the atrocities of apartheid. It was a sobering account, a group of men and women listening to their countrymen, endless hours of testimony so gripping and gruesome as to beget feelings of hopelessness.

Before the commission was established, government officials asked Bishop Desmond Tutu what sort of person should be considered for a position on the commission, and Tutu responded, essentially, that the commission should be comprised of victims, of people whose lives had been ripped open by the horrors of oppression. But not arrogant victims, he sated, not people looking for vengeance. Instead, Tutu said softly, these should be people who have the authority of awful experiences, experiences that educate them toward empathy, and yet still have within themselves hearts willing to forgive. This, he went on to clarify, could be accomplished only through a deeply buttressed spiritual life. The people will be wounded healers.”

Wounded healers, I like that. We’re qualified to act as healers on the basis that we were once, and will always be, in need of some healing of our own. It has been said that God does not build a man; He breaks him. If you are asserting that God has made you great based on the experiences you have had, you are walking a dangerously thin tightrope. By carrying you through trials and tribulations, God has not given you success and self-worth so much as He has given you tools. You are now qualified…to be a healer, to be a brother or a sister, to be a friend.

I’ve heard people say that they have no regrets about the decisions they’ve made. They claim that their experiences have shaped them and made them who they are. Perhaps, but I believe God made me who I am when he formed me in the womb and the experiences I have had have done nothing more than qualify me to be a healer. Who in their right mind would not choose the path of least resistance if they could do it all over again??? Certainly not me!

God does not say that we will reach our fullest potential by enduring life and learning hard lessons. He did not create a blank slate in me that will become a glorious work of art as I encounter various experiences and travel many roads. I was a masterpiece at birth because I am the work of His hands. Jer 29:11”For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” There is no need for me to plan my way; God has done that for me. It is not my job to clear a path; it is my job to remain on the path that He laid for me, essentially, to keep my eyes fixed on Jesus. There may be many roads for me to wander aimlessly down, but there is only one that leads to the cross.

A final thought…when I make a bad decision or choose a path that leads me away from God, it does not change who I am; it merely changes where I end up. If I happen to emerge stronger, wiser, or even richer, it is because God loves me enough to bless me in spite of myself, not because He is rewarding me for my suffering. I have many regrets about my choices and would definitely do many things differently if given the chance. I will say this though – in every single circumstance where I went horribly wrong and chose the wrong path, there is only one thing I would have done differently. I would have trusted in God’s greatness a little bit more and in my own a little bit less. I am not a great woman of God; I am a woman who trusts in a great God.

Give that guy a Sharpie!

Ephesians 4
17So I tell you this, and insist on it in the Lord, that you must no longer live as the Gentiles do, in the futility of their thinking. 18They are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts.

20You, however, did not come to know Christ that way. 21Surely you heard of him and were taught in him in accordance with the truth that is in Jesus. 22You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; 23to be made new in the attitude of your minds; 24and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.

30And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption.

Ok, so I was watching that crazy guy with the gray hair last night. You know, the one who writes all those random scribbles on a white board while he’s giving his “message,” none of which you can actually read? Well, I found myself drawn to him (no pun intended) for some reason, like watching a train wreck, but the train actually pulled into the station in the end and I was pleasantly surprised. He was talking about grieving the spirit, and not only had I never heard this topic preached before, but certainly not like this. I gotta be honest; I have absolutely no idea what it means to grieve the spirit, but his take on the issue sounded pretty good to me. And so, I’ll share.

Now if I had to take my best guess as to what it means to grieve the spirit, I’d guess something along the lines of doing bad stuff that makes God sad. Hehe! Silly me! With a little help from my gray-haired friend, I’m leaning toward an entirely different perspective now. His sermon was actually about tithing, but his comment about grieving the Holy Spirit stuck out more to me. It was something along the lines of, “If you are defensive about your giving, you are defensive about God’s grace.” Huh? I missed the first half hour or so of his little program, but I drew my own inferences and I think I may have actually caught his drift, despite the mess of Sharpie markings and meaningless doodles in the background. You see, when you actually understand the measure of God’s grace and how much you’ve been forgiven, giving almost seems like a natural way to say “thanks.” It’s possibly the only way some of us can express our gratitude. And yes, I know it won’t ever be enough, nor does God expect anything in return (short of our faith and trust in Him), but it’s a physical reaction to an overwhelming emotional feeling we get when we are hit with God’s boundless love for us.

So I think the point the crazy scribbler was trying to make when he made that comment about giving was that if we are defensive and feeling guilty about our giving, it may be because we have not fully experienced God’s grace in our lives. In other words, when we hesitate in our giving, we are likely not doing so out of a spirit of thanksgiving and gratitude. If we’re feeling negative emotions about giving to God, it’s probably because we don’t feel particularly appreciative about His sacrifice and love for us. How can you grasp the magnitude of being loved despite the ugliest and most unpleasant parts of you and NOT feel some sort of desire to say “thanks?” If you don’t feel thankful, you don’t feel loved and accepted and that’s a pretty big problem. So when you’re “grieving the spirit,” you aren’t making HIM sad, you’re making YOU sad because you’re missing out on something, namely, God’s grace and intimate friendship.

Ok, enough with the crazy gray-haired scribbler; cut to the Apostle Paul. In the Ephesians passage, Paul says the Gentiles are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the futility of their thinking. Hmmm…they don’t understand because their thinking is limited. Perhaps their thoughts are on things that don’t matter? Maybe they’re thinking about what’s for dinner or how they need to break in their new sandals or about those cute little shepherd girls on the next block? Maybe they should be thinking about things above, like God’s faithfulness to them or His providence in their lives. Perhaps if they shift their focus, they might gain a little understanding. Then Paul goes on to say that when we come to know Christ, our minds are to have a new attitude. Our minds…those things we use from time to time. Those things are supposed to have a new attitude. And what exactly could that be? Um, how about…gratitude? How about contentment? Maybe even a little bit of joy? I think the point Paul is trying to make is that the state of our souls matters a little more than the state of the nation. What God is doing within us counts a little more than what God is doing around us, don’t you think? And if we’re too busy worrying about life, we probably aren’t spending enough time living in love. What would it look like if we actually did live in a constant awareness that we are loved and forgiven (for our past mistakes, our future mistakes, and even that thought we’re thinking right now)? Our minds truly would have a new attitude, our understanding would reach its full measure, and our souls may actually feel at rest for a moment or two. How could anyone feel anything but joy when they are walking hand in hand with a king, a counselor, and a friend of sinners?

In verse 30, Paul advises us not to grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom we were sealed for the day of redemption. I think the key here is the part about redemption. If we could come to a deeper understanding of the idea that we were sealed for redemption, grieving the Holy Spirit wouldn’t even be an option. Honestly, once we believe that God is who He says He is and Jesus did what He said He did, we are sealed for all eternity and that seal can never be broken. We have been and will be eternally redeemed! You can’t be sad about that, can you? Besides, the Holy Spirit doesn’t need to do any grieving over our actions; we do enough of that ourselves.

Once more for the masses...I don’t believe God is grieving what we do. I believe we’re grieving what we do, and simply stated, that means not letting grace in.

God, please help me to let grace in. Love me as only you can and remind me that I have no reason to grieve your absence, for you are ever-present! Help me to care more about what you are doing in me and less about what is going on around me. Let my thinking be limited and my giving be unlimited. And please do the same for my friends and family.