Tag: Christianity

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All Fleeced Up

Check out my beret...

For the last twenty-one months I have been hustling –writing early in the morning, at lunch, during baby’s nap and at all sorts of odd times.  I have been jotting down notes in the car, at church, on scraps of paper and sometimes even tapping away on my iPhone to pen some fabulous tale of awesome I might otherwise forget.

And it’s all been for this day. 

Today, I am officially a full-time freelance writer.

I wrote a while back about a big decision we were praying over and how Tim asked for fleece from God and God provided the fleece by miraculously placing a white van on the freeway with a “Got Fleece?” license plate right in front of my car.

God is so stinking creative!

Well, this was the big decision –to go all-out for my dream or stick with the safe and secure route.  In all honesty, moving from a full-time steady pay-check to a life of an eccentric beret wearing writer/artist just scraping by didn’t sound too appealing to my husband. 

But God provided the fleece.

I secured a couple of steady writing gigs and negotiated a deal to do a little contract work for my tech job.

We won’t starve, although I still may wear the beret and start mumbling in French, and read all of the works by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and maybe 50 Shades of Gray (if they offer a PG version).

I am pinching myself this morning and blown away by the grace of God and his mercy. 

Sometimes our dreams do come true with plenty of hard work and spit and gumption.

And a loving God who provides the fleece and doors of opportunity no man can shut.

What is your dream job?  What can you do today to move towards a career that resonates in your spirit and makes you feel alive?

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Not so Compassionate

The other night I spoke to a group of gals at Birthchoice –a nonprofit supporting the parents of unplanned pregnancy.  It was the usual crew of girls albeit a few new faces.

The topic was pregnancy and exercise and the level of interest was slim to none.  I know not every talk I give will raise the roof, but is a small rumble too much to ask for?

One of the new ladies was either mentally disabled or had fried her neurons from excessive drug use.  I was warned by the leader that she had been very disruptive the week before and interrupted the speaker constantly.   I prayed for Holy Spirit intervention or at the very least, enough humor to keep it light.

Every few sentences I uttered, the woman chimed in.  I found out it was her fourth pregnancy and she walked an hour a day and the names of her kids and a thousand other details all while I was supposed to be speaking.

I kept thinking of Henri Nouwen and the lessons Jesus was trying teach me about compassion and empathy but my frustration level subtly rose notch by notch with every interruption.

I asked the girls a few questions to figure out their lifestyle and discern their difficulties in finding balance between exercise and babies, work and education.  

  1. How many of you work?                              None
  2. How many of you are in school?                One

And then I realized how my stupid my questions were and I got pissy and a little defeated.  One of the girls had been showing off her hair extensions earlier and when I looked up, she flipped her glorious locks over her shoulder. 

I think it’s what set off my internal envy switch.

I am standing up speaking and what’s going through my mind is pure evil…This is so unfair!  I want hair extensions for my scrawny tresses but they are too expensive and my kids need new shoes.  Some days I want to stay at home and not work two jobs to pay the mortgage and all the sports fees and endless activities for my kids; so what gives you the right to be lazy and Welfared and sooooo relaxed while I have heart palpitations and still take more time out to volunteer and share with you how to exercise when you are going to laugh at me and eat Cheetos anyway and then just have another baby? (was that a run-on sentence or what?)

After an exhausting thirty minutes, I finished up and exited quickly.  Normally, I hang out and talk with the girls but I needed to sort out my heart and emotions.

Jesus clearly needed to take the wheel back from Satan.

Here is what I discovered once I calmed down and dug into my crusty soul.  Like everything in life, nothing is black and white.  I admire these women for choosing life and not aborting.  I love them as sisters in Christ and I can champion and promote their desire to overcome adversity and grow into responsible citizens and loving mothers. 

But I cannot take on their burden if or when they choose to operate with entitled and lazy behavior, nor will I condone it. 

I volunteer and give because God called me to encourage and love these women and it’s possible only a few will hear the message and respond.  But even if it’s only one or two or even none, they are precious to God and to me.  My agenda is love and to come alongside them -not  to fix.  And in all honesty, at my worst, I am no different.  I too want to be coddled and cared for and take the easy road some days. 

But at my best, when someone believed in me –even when I didn’t believe in myself, it allowed me to experience a sliver of hope and to dream of a different and courageous life. 

A life where God can take a selfish and self-righteous girl –despite her complete and utter unworthiness, and allow her the grace to grow and minister to other women. 

 

 

 

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Get to Know God -Real Dude Spiritual Leadership

If Real dude spiritual leadership starts with getting to know God, then what does KNOWING look like?  I hesitate to give any sort of rules or a 3-step plan because I know (all too well) it’s far easier to check off a list than to pursue a relationship, so maybe the first tip simply is this:

1.    Throw Away the Rulebook

Religion is about rules, relationship is two-way engagement. 

Getting to know God is a lot like meeting a best friend or a spouse and the space between the initial spark and eternity.  One day you are alone and the next –a son or daughter of the King.  You have become the bride of Christ (not a super masculine metaphor here) but the point is –you enter into relationship and it is sacred and set apart and it is good.  

Getting to know God starts with a yes.  You ACCEPT his invitation.  You say giddy-up to a grand adventure.  It is jumping into a wild river and not knowing where it will take you.  Faith is your only rope to hold onto.  Grace is your life-preserver.

2.    Seek Him not Stalk Him

As a bookworm-y sort of gal, I determined to know everything about God.  So for the first ten years as a Christian I became what Bob Goff calls a Jesus Stalker.

I read through the entire bible six years in a row.  I attended two to three bible studies at a time.  I listened to preacher pod-casts (actually we called them tapes back in the day) and I memorized plenty of scripture.  I read every Christian book on the market –including the men’s section and the care section and even the exegetical section.  I had a prayer journal with pictures (I used Christmas cards and pasted them in –all pre-Pinterest).  I had a sermon journal and a reflection journal and a “I’m clearly the best Martha” journal.  I even enrolled in seminary.

I chuckle now at my incredible pursuit to learn about and SEEK Jesus –and then slightly vomit in my mouth when I think about how annoying I probably was.  I was a modern-day Pharisee in a mini-skirt running hard and fast on a spiritual treadmill trying to win the approval of God. 

3.    He’s Got Your Back

The problem with the spiritual treadmill is eventually you can’t keep running any more –usually when a monster storm of circumstances hit and you lose your footing and go flying through the air and land in a sorry heap (At least that’s what happened to me)

One day, Jesus determined I had enough head knowledge and he picked up my ordered little universe with highlighted chapters and sticky notes and chucked it against the wall. 

In this season I learned to DEPEND on Jesus and apply everything I had so earnestly learned into a real and working faith.  I learned to listen and not just ask, I learned to be still and rest in him and I learned freaking HUMILITY.  I grieved and wailed and groaned to my God until the tears ran dry and there I remained –somehow still standing before a Holy God.

And I learned he never left.

4.    Don’t be a Martyr (unless Jesus renames you Stephen)

Time marched on and then I married a pastor and we planted a church and like Isaiah I said, “Here I am God, use me.”  Only I forgot to set good boundaries and it came out more along the lines of “Here I am Church, abuse me.”

This was my entry into the Martyr season of my life, unfortunately I to had to crash and burn-out (again) before I listened to what God actually wanted me to do and not want I thought I should be doing.  I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t tell me to work outside the home and lead a women’s ministry and build a freelance writing career and raise three children and start a church all at the same time.

Only Satan could be such a masochist.

But the enemy of my soul didn’t have the last word.   Jesus picked me up –again- and gave me a lesson on boundaries and we started over.  Much of my journey has been trial and error, but certain activities do draw me closer to God.

5.    Spiritual Disciplines that ACTUALLY work

     a.    A life of Prayer

     b.    A life of Worship

     c.    Space to Reflect

     d.    Jesus with Skin On (friends who keep you accountable)

     e.    Occasional Fasting(from food, tech, muffins or anything you obsess on)

     f.     God’s Word

Here is what this looks like in my life…

 I do only what I am called to.  I say no more than yes, but when I say yes I am all in.  I mother, I write, I go to the park and swing in the sunshine, and I have time to love my husband.  I volunteer within my giftedness and serve when I see a need and where God opens a door. I lean into friendships. 

Life is much quieter now –more simple and yet far more abundant.  I pray constantly but it’s more like breathing and talking to my best friend instead of me picking verses and promises and expecting God to move in my time.  I journal when I want to probe my heart.  I read to grow deeper and I try to find solace and encouragement in the scriptures –not as a to-do list or a way to gain the approval of God.

Part of getting to know God was also getting to know myself and the depravity of my own heart. 

So when I reflect on getting to know God –I can only describe it as a long journey with a good friend who just so happens to be the creator of the universe. 

And the Real Dudes I see who are near to God seem to roll with the Big Guy too.

.

 

 

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Real Dude Spiritual Leadership

When Christian husbands hear the words Spiritual Leadership they often cringe and move into an emotionally defensive ninja posture. They cover their ears and hum “nu nun nu nun” to drown out the sound of the “oh so subtle” but fully loaded assault they know their wife is about to lob at them.

“Did you hear what Pastor Awesome did for his wife for their anniversary? OMG…he flew her to a chapel in Tuscany where they ate biscotti and strawberries dipped in crème fraiche. Then he knelt before her, gave her a monogrammed gold leaf bible and prayed for world peace. Wow, what spiritual leadership!”

And then this sweet, loyal and loving husband, who goes to work every day, provides a home and provision, plays horsie with his kids, coaches baseball and takes his wife to brunch every Sunday after church hunches his shoulders, looks morose and feels completely inadequate.

And the reason he feels like a schmuck is because too many women confuse Spiritual Leadership with a cross between Fabio and their youth pastor –a Jesus-y James Bond sort of guy with a golden tongue who waxes poetic spiritual metaphors about car-care and the football draft from his pre-dawn quiet times with the Lord.

All too often, Christian wives inadvertently adopt a distorted idea of Christian manhood as a spiritual measuring stick for their husband. They take a few examples of biblical application regarding humility or faith (or any fruit of the spirit for that matter) from the pastor’s Sunday message and apply it with a broad stroke to beat their husbands up with after the service.

They don’t envision a real man, a real life and the day-to-day decisions which encompass true spiritual headship of a family. Pastors aren’t all saints or perfect husbands (although my man is a rock star) and a guy doesn’t need to work for the church to be a true minister of Jesus Christ and strong spiritual leader to his wife and kids.

What men do want to aspire to (and their wives can gently encourage them to) –are spiritual disciplines which will help them develop a closer relationship with God and therefore build strength and leadership within the marriage. So, I’ve got a few ideas culled from the plethora of awesome men I have the privilege to know (and yes…I’m talking about you Mariners MV men) . These are the traits and attributes I see exhibited in their lives which bless the socks off their adoring ladies!

Sam’s Tips to Develop Real Dude Spiritual Leadership

1. Get to Know God

2. Pray with your spouse

3. Intimacy (Christian code word for SEX)

4. Serve One Another

5. Parent with Purpose

6. Rethink Love as an Action Verb

The next six blog posts will address these traits and give helpful suggestions for Christian couples who are honest enough to pull out the jammed logs blocking their vision and get real about their marriage, the state of their own heart and what it means to love like Christ did.

And just in case you think this is a series written only for men…I want to challenge you with this.

I believe, above all these tips, the most important factor in a man’s spiritual leadership is his wife’s ability to AFFIRM, stop nagging, pray, forgive, and become her husband’s biggest champion allowing God to transform her husband into the man of her dreams in his time.

Care to join me on the journey?

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About William

There’s one thing I can count on for sure each and every evening –my two-year old Kolby’s non-wavering answer to “What was the best part of your day?”

She can barely contain herself as we start Peak and Pit during dinner.

“Mama, mama.  What about me? Best part is…”

“Sshhh sweetie, wait for your turn,” I reply gently.  “Try not to interrupt your brother.”

Finally, it’s Kolby’s turn.   “What is the best part of your day Kolby?”

“William!” Kolby says with a grin.

“What did you today?” asks daddy.

“William…”

What game did you play?” big brother Kyle inquires.

“I play hit William,” giggles Kolby.

It’s the same scenario every night, though sometimes the details about William change.  There are days he gets put in time-out.  Sometimes he gets a boo-boo and band-aid.  Occasionally William is absent and Kolby is sad.

But one thing never changes –Kolby’s epic love for her friend William.

Ms. Maggie (Kolby’s pre-school teacher) says they have to separate the two at times because they are so overly affectionate.  Kolby and William hold hands, rub each other’s back and sit as close as possible. 

There is something so precious, raw and innocent about the love these two-year olds have for each other.  Kolby can’t contain her emotion for her beloved.  It spills out of her.  Her love for William interrupts life.  She bursts with joy at the sound of his name and William is always the best part of her day, even when she doesn’t see him –he is still so close.

I think Kolby is on to something.  This tiny girl of mine knows innately how to love with abandon. 

No image.  No games.  No William in a pre-school box.

It’s all about William.

And this is how I want to be with Jesus. 

I don’t want to evangelize at the mall, have an agenda with everyone I meet, or have to bother with fishing out the four spiritual laws out of my dirty purse and drawing a cross and a bridge on a napkin at Starbucks.  I don’t want to share formulas about my faith or even rules about sin –though I am the worst of these.  I simply want to wear Jesus on my sleeve.  I want my love for him and his people to squeeze out at the seams.  I want it to be so obvious people know something is different about me before I even open my mouth. 

In a seminary class on evangelism many years ago the professor’s first words were to us, ‘We will spread the gospel of Jesus Christ and use as few words as possible.”

I was as stunned as the rest of the class.  And then I let it wash over me and slowly change my Jesus paradigm.

Kolby has it figured out.

It’s all about the ONE WE LOVE.

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Is God Real?

I didn’t grow up a Christian. Pagan might be more appropriate title. I thought Jesus was related to Santa and as far as I knew, he lived in the mythical world of leprechaun’s and Easter bunnies.

But if I’m honest, I’ve always known God. I just wondered if he knew me.

It started in high school with the Christian Club. Mildly curious, I snuck into the back of a meeting one day, but when I saw who gathered, I turned on my heels and fled. It was the goody-two shoe kids –the ones who smiled to my face and gossiped behind my back. I was pretty sure their beaming faces were not motivated by the love of baby Jesus, but were masking a snarky agenda. Beyond skeptical, I figured they were merely looking for a new sucker to clap and sing along so they could get a new patch to stitch on a shiny Jesus vest.

So I kept my distance –I played it safe.

In college, the whole Jesus phenomenon was catching on like wildfire, but once again I held back, despite being surrounded by a posse of friends all dying to drag me to the Harvest –whatever that was? But I watched those who claimed to follow Christ –like a hawk.

Secretly, I struggled with the idea of how someone could say a prayer to Jesus and then all their problems would be magically resolved. A + B = Easy Life. It seemed too simple and trite. Besides, I liked brooding, emotion and drama, and these happy Christians types annoyed me. I perceived phoniness in “my grandma died, my dog died and I ran out of money…but praise the Lord” rhetoric. I didn’t want to be anyone’s project and then there was my irrational fear of being hijacked by a cult of ghastly Sunday singers with tambourines.

I’m not musical.

But one day I ended up in church, because a guy I liked wanted to go, and it wasn’t the saccharin-y sweet crowd I expected. I didn’t have to check my intellect at the door or even sing if I chose not to. It wasn’t the Happily Ever After message –it was simple and straight forward and the words connected to my spirit.

It didn’t feel like a traditional church, but more like a movement. The people wore jeans and flip-flops and offered genuine smiles. The music was like nothing I’d heard before and formed a knot of emotion in my belly – it embraced me like a child holding out soft pudgy arms for a squeeze. And they offered to give me a free book –a big navy blue bible, which I cracked open that evening. For the first time, I tentatively approached Jesus one baby step at a time.

I was in my Jr. Year at UCLA studying history and political science with my head immersed in the postmodernists –reading Nietzsche, Foucault, and Heidegger right around the time I began this tentative dance with faith and hip Christians and wacky liberals. The cacophony of voices shouting for my attention blended into a dull roar in my head.

The two worlds of church and Godless academia could not have clashed more. Every day at school I was exposed to the belief that all truth was subjective and the study of history was not about exploring factual evidence, but rather acknowledging the perspective of certain cultures or a person throughout time.

In this scenario: NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE.

Many narratives of the same story (i.e. told by the soldier, the general, the historian and the token woman) gave credence to a historical account, but in a vacuum of certainty everything was up for reinterpretation. My paradigm for accepting knowledge was deeply shaken and subconsciously I began to question everything –not a good place to be when you’re already an over-thinker.

Postmodern thought breeds skepticism, tolerance, distrust, and disrespect for authority. In the absence of truth, faith becomes a childlike malaise that one needs to cure by throwing more knowledge at it. Reading excerpts of Nietzsche is hauntingly similar to the words of Solomon. Everything is meaningless under the sun.

But Nietzsche forgot the “Without God” part.

And that messed with me!

Postmodern thought is completely satisfied with leaving out the conclusion that nothing makes sense without God. To Postmodern teaching, nothing makes sense period!

I couldn’t sleep at night thinking my existence in life was a random accident.

I was twenty-two years old when I decided to hedge my bets on a carpenter from Nazareth. Each Sunday I drove seventy miles from West LA to Newport Beach, CA to attend Mariners Church to learn a little bit more of the person and the message of Jesus Christ. I might have been dragged there the first time but I came back because I heard something different and terrifying.

A STILL SMALL VOICE OF LOVE

I began to consider a life guided by one truth, one absolute, and one savior. Against all my faculties, my heart and mind waged war against the simplicity of the Gospel.

I had constructed a life built on achievement –do more, be more, shine the brightest (and hide the bad stuff) and this tore apart the very fabric of my foundation. I didn’t need a rescuer because I had it all figured out.

But late at night, in the recesses of my soul there was a ravaging fear that I was alone, unlovable, and unworthy.

But Jesus –not religion, or formulas, or a magic pill –changed everything.

Once exposed to the truth it chased me down. God pursued me. Even though the Bible contradicted all that I considered to be true about relativism, something within me responded when called.

I’ve been walking with God now for eighteen years and here is the ONE THING I KNOW TO BE TRUE –God’s love is radical and it’s for you and for me and the redemption of the world.

Tambourines are optional.

God’s word tells me I was created to rest and abide in a relationship with him finding value, meaning and mission. He tells me I am forgiven and loved and worth dying for.

But how do I translate the truth about this reckless love into a culture bombarded by strategic assaults on our very method of interpreting truth?

The postmodern culture or relativist pluralism that I encountered fifteen years ago in college has morphed into a similar but different animal after 9/11. The irrational idea that all opinions or views are equally valid is now juxtaposed with an emerging awareness of “being”.

Threatened with terrorism, a blatantly consumerist culture, the organic backlash of the Occupy movement, and a burgeoning environmental consciousness; modern thought has turned introspective and idealized.

While no one wants to live in dire poverty, our children yearn to live in a more enlightened state of consumption than we did. They are aware of social injustice and their place within a global paradigm. Diversity no longer means a scholarship in the NCAA, but it is the acknowledgment of the marginalized in society. Women, homosexuals, the oppressed, children in Uganda…these voices are being heard by a new generation.

Because of this massive shift, I believe the church therefore needs to adapt and catch up to the culture. It’s not that the message of Jesus needs to change, but maybe the methodology in which we articulate Christianity needs a makeover.

When we view Christianity as a movement and not an institution it changes everything. We don’t have to have all the answers or put God in a Sunday box. It means our faith is dynamic, evolving, and always in flux.

It means Christianity is like the love of a lifetime not a one night stand. It’s the high of racing down the aisle to marry my beloved and the crushing disappointment of day-to-day drudgery as life marches on. It’s the achievements met together, the shattered dreams unrealized and the weary acceptance as I realize conflict is inevitable. It’s looking into the eyes of my aging spouse and aching for something more –an intimacy dependent on the mysterious. It’s the brief moments when our souls make contact and God reveals himself like thunder and rain washing over my heart and I know I am his and he is mine.

Faith –just like love is fragile enough to be lost but strong enough to stand eternity on.

If indeed our faith in Christ is a constantly evolving paradigm, how do we, as ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ, walk on the rushing water of a raging river instead of planting ourselves in a stagnant pool?

These are the questions that plague me.

Join the conversation…

;

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Perk and Joe

When I was in the hospital a few weeks ago the nurse blew up a plastic glove, drew a carton face on it and handed it over to my two-year old Kolby who promptly named it “Perk.”

I like this name –Perk.

It’s chipper and cheery –rather an invigorating moniker. It reminds me of strong coffee and laughter and liveliness. In a sterile hospital ER, Perk just might be the perfect name for a balloon friend.

Perk had big eyes with long lashes and a five finger-hawk for hair. She was a bit edgy, unpredictable –as far as balloons go and slightly mysterious. In all the craziness of EKG’s and CT Scans, Perk and her friend Joe made my day a little brighter.

Joe was daddy’s creation. The first balloon/glove creature met an untimely pop, so Tim decided to pirate a hospital glove and make his own version.

(I love how both the balloons have coffee references –it’s like these people know me)

Joe turned out to be a survivor. After three weeks, he is still going strong although I do expect to come home one day and find nothing but fizzled plastic and a choking hazard lying where he used to be.

I will always treasure Perk and Joe because they brought me comfort on a scary blue day.

I love balloons!

Their sole purpose on this planet is to garner a smile (please don’t bring up landfills here and rain on my freaking parade).

Balloons are for celebrations and surprises and I don’t know what to say so get yo’ butt better soon!

They are a bundle of “I’m sorrys” in shiny cellophane, vibrant airbags of kisses, and a thousand floating prayers with curly strings.

Balloons mean something.

I imagine Jesus has a few balloons in the back pocket of his purple robe. He probably pulls them out and creates ridiculous balloon animals like rhinos and octopi. I bet he plays around and prototypes new animal creations before dropping them on a remote island to mess with Darwinian scientists.

And sometimes, he helps a little two-year girl in a hospital name her balloon friend Perk to cheer up her mommy.

Jesus is cool like that…

Who can you give a balloon to today?

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What Not to Name Your Kid

My middle child’s name is Faith. I thought I gave her this moniker because it affirmed God’s grace and our double fisted faith for her safety during an arduous pregnancy.

But God has a sense of humor.

I’ve now realized naming your kid Faith is like praying for patience. You never pray for patience because then God will give you opportunities –terrible, brain numbing opportunities to develop your patience.

Holy Cow! I am so dumb!

I inserted some sort of weird blessing/prophecy on my kid –and now I am getting the chance to get faith like Abraham as my daughter hits puberty.

Like this weekend for example when I headed into the land of Canaan –I mean the Mission Viejo Mall.

We ventured over to Macy’s after church to pick up an Easter dress for Faith. It had to be Macy’s because I have a gift certificate from my parent’s for Christmas and I’m strapped enough to tap into all available resources. I know, I know…what I sacrifice for my kids.

Faith picked out a few dresses and went to try them on. Tim, Kyle, Kolby and I waited outside the dressing room to view the frocks on display as Faith came prancing out.

First dress –It was ok, nothing to write home about.

Second dress –Youza! It was a beautiful color –a sky blue number, silky, and way too grown up. It was seductively subtle, a little too short with tiny spaghetti straps and just a smidgen too low in the chest.

My daughter is already beautiful but in this dress she was dangerous.

And here is where I screwed up.

Faith-“Mom, what do you think?”

Me- “It’s really pretty.” (Rewind and take this back you idiot)

Tim- “It’s too sexy. No way. She is almost eleven not twenty. Not an option.”

Me- “You’re right. Sorry sweetie.”

Faith- “Waaahhhhhhh! Then she ran into the dressing room and sobbed for ten minutes. “You said it was pretty! It’s all Tim’s fault.”

When in doubt, always blame the step-dad.

Me- “No Faith, it’s my decision. It’s a lovely dress but it’s a very sexy dress and not the best one for you.”

Repeat tears and howling wails for another twenty minutes.

I storm out of dressing room with my eye twitching.

During this time I go and purchase a pair of jeans with my son. When I come back Faith is moping and half-heartedly looking for another dress with Tim.

The boys go home and Faith and I continue to look. Finally, about three hours into the shopping nightmare she tries on a gorgeous and modest dress we both like.

Despite it being more money than I want to spend, I buy the darn thing and escape home.

Next time I will bring:

  1. Imitrix for the migraine headache I will leave with.
  2. Anxiety medicine
  3. A Flask
  4. A team of prayer warriors who have previously fasted and have experience with pre-teen demons.

(I’m kidding about the first two)

Upon arriving home, Faith runs up to her room, puts on her new dress and models it for the family.

She twirls in front of us like a lovely princess.

The Compromise...Lovely Faith

Faith- “Isn’t it the most beautiful dress you have ever seen?”

I am staggering, on the edge of tears, frustrated and overwhelmed, “Sure sweetie,” I choke out.

Can someone tell me how to defend my daughter’s honor without going freaking CRAZY?

What I want to say is, “Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Have the confidence to rock your inner beauty. Don’t buy into the world’s lies that sexy defines your worth.”

But it never comes out the way I want and it gets all stuck in my throat. I don’t sound like cool mom I sound like lame mom. And even though I think we have these awesome mother-daughter chats –nothing sticks. She ignores me and forges her own way. I wonder where she got this stubborn trait?

So my friends…this is how I develop faith. I am tested beyond all sanity.

Want to know the really scary part? Kolby’s middle name is Grace.

I can’t wait to develop this muscle.

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Teens, Jell-o, and Why Animals Eat Their Young

 

I always thought this quote was terrible –“Mothers of Teenagers Know Why Animals Eat Their Young” and yet now I can honestly chuckle and relate.  OK, I’ve never really thought about eating my kids but military school and/or a nunnery might be an option.

It cracks me up when parents of toddlers and small children insinuate because I have two older children –ten and thirteen along with my two-year old, that parenting must be easier.  I nod my head, hold my tongue and silently think, “Oh boy, you are going to eat those words someday oh parenting Yoda of a one-year-old.”

I’m not sure which part is easy?  I don’t even get the benefits of my kids dressing themselves.  I still have to check every article of clothing my daughter wears out of the house lest a hoochie mama try to slip by.  Then there is my son who tries to pull his pants halfway down his behind and wears jeans so tight skinny could be defined as the new loose. 

I get wrinkles from being up with a cranky toddler all night and then face a daily mental battle from my tween and teen.  Sick babies might be a pain in the you know what but they don’t even come close to the never-ending onslaught of brain cell destruction that parenting older children requires.  I feel like I need a graduate degree in reverse psychology and teen Latin (AKA kid speak) to get by.

How do I get my kids to not do stupid stuff when we all did stupid stuff at that age? 

I cringe when my kid’s start probing into my past.  “Mom, were you pure?  Did you French kiss?  Did you pray every day? How old were you when you first had sex, smoked, and stole your parent’s car for a joy ride on Balboa Island?” (Thanks dad for sharing that information with them)

Ummmmmm?  Is this a multiple choice question?  WWJD doesn’t seem to be cutting it anymore and I can’t repeat the acronym I am really thinking…

Sometimes at night, I hold little Kolby close and breathe in her innocence and thank God she is two.  I smile in delight at her temper tantrums and bossiness and adorable pouty face when she sits in time-out.  And I sing praises every morning because I can still dress her in whatever I want and put girly bows in her baby curls. 

Mostly, I thank God she likes Mommy better than all her friends.  Yeah for me! I appreciate this all the more because I know these moments expire around eleven -give or take a few months.

It’s difficult as a pastor’s wife.  People expect me to do it right and have all the answers.  The truth is, the only thing I have figured out is a reliance on the one who does –Jesus. 

I’m the one in church raising her two wimpy arms high in worship, not because I am spiritual, but because I am begging and pleading for direction.

I literally prostrated myself on the ground of the floor in my closet a few weeks weeping and crying out to for God to guide my family through these difficult years of high school and Jr. High.  Even though I have amazing kids whom I lavishly love and adore, navigating emotions and hormones and temptations is like nailing Jell-O to a tree –pointless and frustrating.

I guess if I am honest, I can thank God for these awkward puberty years too, because it certainly draws me closer to him. 

On my knees close.  Kissing the ground close.  Flat on my face close.

I sure miss the days when a crisis could be resolved with a Hello Kitty band-aid and a kiss.

Do you have teens?  Can you relate?

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The Homeless and the Role of the Church

“Excuse me, are you in charge?” I asked the elegant woman who was setting up a serving table of hot pasta and bread.  A long line of people snaked around the corner and were already pushing and shoving, impatiently waiting to be fed. 

I smiled and stuck out my hand which she ignored.

“Why?  What do you want?” she responded snappishly.                                                                         

“It’s our first time here.  We’re from Mariners Church in Mission Viejo and we brought some food and clothes too and we don’t want to get in your way.”

The lady rolled her eyes at me and turned her back.  “Do whatever you want,” she barked.”

I was confused.  I had just arrived at the park near the courthouse in Santa Ana notorious for its large homeless population.  Why did this churchy lady who was supposed to be helping the poor act like I was a dog pooping in her yard? 

It wasn’t about a lack of need.  The need was OVERWHELMING.  There were about two hundred people in the small park meandering around.

My group chose another spot on the opposite side of the lawn and set up our tables.  Within seconds another fifty people were crowding around us.  I asked my Marine friends to stand guard while we tried to find a modicum of organization amidst the chaos. 

All of a sudden a frustrated homeless man started shouting there were scammers crowding to the front of the line.  He yelled out “They ‘aint homeless!  You come here to feed us cuz we got no homes and they take all our food and go home to their houses.  They are cheating.  They’re going to steal the clothes you brought for us and sell them at garage sales AT THEIR HOMES.”

Certain faces in the crowd –certain VERY clean faces stared at the ground in shame.

We did our best.  We tried to bring the folks with tickets from the police for sleeping outside to the front of the line and help them out first.  People argued and shoved and I tried to be stalwart when my heart-felt like a squishy noodle.

A little later some of the homeless girls I was chatting with pointed to a woman with four nicely dressed children taking off with about six bags of our clothes. They claimed she was a known garage sale scavenger and in her arms was my prized collection of baby clothes. 

NOOOOOO!

They were Kolby’s first sleepers and handmade diaper cloths and I actually cried while packing the bags –trying so hard to trust God and to let go of stuff. 

And now here was this lady –this garage sale troll stealing my baby clothes from the people in need to sell them for profit. 

So I confronted her.  She played dumb and pretended to not speak English and I stood there feeling pissed off and helpless. 

Do I take my clothes back or do I trust God for justice?

And so I let them go but my spirit started churning.

When I got home I debriefed with my husband and he explained the reason why the other church didn’t want us at the park was because they make the homeless sit through a gospel session before they are allowed to eat.  And here we were just giving away food and clothes for free.

How dare we intrude with no agenda?  No Jesus shoved down their throats.  We had the audacity to just hang out and meet a microcosm of the need at hand.

It makes me sick to my stomach and yet…

I want to go back with a desperation I don’t understand.  I am dying to return to this septic tank of poverty where people are robbed and beaten up for the clothes we just gave them.  Where the homeless are force-fed Jesus by stupid and obtuse churches.  Where predators exploit the poor and use the system to get free inventory for their garage sale business.  And people without homes are treated like criminals and ticketed while the corrupt steal from them daily.

I want to go back to see Gloria who was so sick she could barely stand and to hang out with Princess who fled an abusive husband and to connect with Joe, the sweet filthy man who did everything he could to take care of his friend before helping himself. 

Joe pointed up to the sky as I left and then pointed to me.  I smiled weakly, not really feeling very Christ-like.  I was furious and resentful at the unfairness of life.

And in this awful place where I wonder where God is…maybe Joe reminded me. 

Sometimes it’s just about showing up.

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