I got my first negative comment today on my Everyday Christian blog. Actually I got three of them. I’m pretty sure one of them was from Satan.
The really scary part is they called me “Sammy.” I am blown away by how the commenter knows me so well. It was such an intimate association, and so assumptive to call me by such a fun nick-name. I’m flattered.
Of course, no one actually calls me that. And maybe that’s best, because if they knew my real nick name that would be border-line stalker… and that’s really scary.
I knew this would happen. I figured eventually I would write something controversial enough to stir the pot and piss off someone. Fortunately, it was about my belief in God.
Is it a sin to be proud that you got persecuted for Jesus? Because, I might have a little banner made that says, “I took one for the team,”
So, here’s a little excerpt from my new demonic friend…
“Too bad you were not strong enough to shirk the shackles of fables and myth. In fact, it looks as if you have fully submerged yourself in your chosen fairy tale.
Life is worth living in and of itself, my dear Sammy. No need to give credit to imaginary friends.
There is no hell. There is no god(s). Death is exactly like things were before being born. You simply no longer exist. Why does this scare you so?”
I replied…
It doesn’t scare me. I know where I am going and more than likely will be so overwhelmed by the glory of God that I won’t even remember this temporary pain. I have a hope and a promise of eternal life. It just makes me sad for those that take a different path.
Many Blessings to you and thanks for the comment. Sam
I am afraid I have started a battle. The comments continue to come in.
My uncledied this Thanksgiving. 12:04am to be exact. It’s disheartening when holidays coincide with less than fond memories. Now every year henceforth, turkey will make me sad.
My father called and left a message early in the morning to inform me that he “passed on.” I hate that terminology. It feels like a vacuous attempt to put a pretty spin on death, as if it were a bad cold or an inconvenience. I would rather sink my teeth into the fatality of the moment. Dead is just dead…nothing light or fluffy about it.
Sometimes death is accompanied by sweet relief, if pain or suffering is involved. But not this time. It was sudden. A post surgical infection turned into a fiasco and suddenly poof, death is knocking at the door. Maybe it would be easier if my uncle was close to the Lord, or if I felt confidant in his eternal salvation. But that’s just the thing…I don’t, and it’s eating me up inside.
My uncle was an avowed atheist, determined to live a life apart from God. If he passed on, as my dad suggested, then I can’t fathom where he went, nor do I really want to consider the implications. The big “H” word seems so extreme. And ultimately, so final.
My husband reminded me that God is not limited by our boundaries, that even in a comatose state, my uncle might choose, like the criminal on the cross next to Christ, to turn in a different direction.
This whole idea of someone deliberately choosing an eternal life apart from God has my insides in a tangled turmoil. Free choice notwithstanding, I wish things were different. I can understand when people run from God, keep a distance and live far from him. In this paradigm, there is an acknowledgement of God’s presence coexisting with a willful defiance. But the atheist denies God altogether. It is a much bigger animal than the proverbial prodigal child running from his father.
My uncle was a brilliant man. A professor of anthropology at an esteemed college, an author, a thinker and a contributor to the world of academia. Our conversations were thrilling, and even as a child, I remember probing his mind and uncovering a virtual cornucopia of modern discourse. During my formative years and later as a college student, he challenged me to dive into the greats–Foucault, Niche, Heidegger…to push my brain to maximus exhaustiveness. To ponder, to ruminate, to brood over thoughts and relentlessly search for truth.
But my post-modern studies led me down a different path than the road he traveled. In the absence of absolute truth, in an exhaustive vacuum of subjectivity, my heart longed for something more meaningful than a personal experience to hold onto. As my studies led me further and further away from God, my heart was conversely drawn to Him.
Something in my spirit cried out for more and strangely enough it was my own personal experience with Christ that filled the void. Ironically, “witnessing in a post-modern world” has become material for seminary training, when in all reality, Christ’s light only shines brighter in the hopelessness that shrouds this train of thought.
I loved my uncle. I will miss him at Thanksgiving. I will miss his liberal extremism. His loud laugh. His passion for life. His crazy stories about aliens. And on some level, I can thank him for leading me to Christ in a weird roundabout way.
My eyes leak when I think about him.
The sting of death is this…watching someone you love die apart from Christ.
My baby said the word “uncle” today. That’s pretty good for a ten-month old tyke, if I do say so myself. But, ironically, she didn’t say it to my brother, and my husband only has one sister. The momentous words were directed specifically towards my ex-husband, now known as “Uncle Bert.” Welcome to our dysfunctional family.
If “sin” is missing the mark, than “divorce” is a rupture of the spirit. No one gets married anticipating an excruciating dedomiciling, but life happens, choices are made, and sometimes the best couples separate. Our sin nature permeates what God intended to be a beautiful symbol of the relationship between Christ and the Church. The only problem with this lovely metaphor is that people, in all their flaws and selfishness, are part of the equation.
And so we screw up that which was meant to be Holy. Families are ripped apart. Children blow out and bitterness sets in. The lovely bride of Christ is alone, scared and forced to forge ahead into a wilderness of singled exile.
But after the drama recedes, the settlements are fought over, and the custody battle reasonably determined…the fragments of a family must be reassembled. Two roads can be taken-either the road to more disparateness or the less traveled road to what I like to call “functional dysfunction.”
Right before I remarried, my then fiance and I were urged to attend blended family counseling. So, off we trotted to hear words that didn’t settle so well in our self-righteous little paradigm. Because I was the abandoned spouse, my demeanor towards my ex was patronizing at best. I had anger buried deep in my heart and my hostility was only fueled with every poor decision my ex-husband made.
But the counsel we received forced us to reconsider, reflect and move in a counter-cultural direction. We were told that our relationship with my ex-husband would determine our relationship with the children. Our love for their father would be an indirect method of communicating love to them. And that every natural tendency to push him away would only end up shooting us and our children in the foot.
Thus followed a year of moving towards the very thing I wanted to run from. I stopped arguing, stopped sniping, and moved at my ex-husband with brotherly love. When he lost his car, my husband and I made a committment to help drive him to our kid’s games and practices so he could continue coaching our son in football. Leaving work early three days a week to pick up my ex-husband did not come naturally. Every trip was laced with prayer and surrender, but God was moving and my heart slowly softened. As my husband drove him home some night’s after practice, their relationship grew stronger as well.
Later that year, my ex-husband remarried and his wife invited us for a shared Father’s Day celebration. It was a sweet acknowledgement that the war had ceased and two broken pieces were fusing into one reconstructed family, albeit … larger and messier than before.
Now, almost three years later, we have established what I like to call a good working relationship in the parenting realm. We think of my ex-husband as our brother, and care for him like he is a part of the family. Accepting the good and bad as we would any sibling ,and loving the way Christ loves us, without restrictions for our frailties.
I can honestly say my heart has changed, slowly and unwillingly at times, but the process has allowed me to walk free of the burden that so heavily weighed me down for years. And so our new baby, the child of my second marriage, has a new “Uncle” and a big confusing family that someday we will have to explain.
“Sweetheart, your sister’s daddy is your uncle.” Yeah, I can’t wait for that conversation.
But, in God’s economy it seems to make perfect sense!
My interest has been peaked, like most Americans, as the passengers of the Carnival Splendor cruise ship, finally disembark in San Diego Harbor after a four-day ordeal of being stranded at sea and then towed back to shore. One comment in particular caught my eye chronicling a pair of traveling Honeymooners because my own husband and I celebrated our Honeymoon in a similar fashion.
Here is what the bride’s father– Paul Patrick, who purchased the trip as a gift to the newlyweds, had to say about their interrupted vacation.“They’re hungry, very hungry and very eager to get off this ship,” Patrick said. “You can’t ruin a honeymoon, but this came close.” He added: “My son-in-law wishes he’d brought his fishing pole. What else can you do four days on the sea?”
Now, I don’t debate that they are hungry, I mean eating spam sandwiches pretty much stinks, but I do have an issue with the next line. What else can you do for four days on the sea? Ummmm… how about have sex?
Now that might sound crass, but if the couple had walked down a road of purity before marriage, their “ruined” trip might have been a fantastic reason to stay in bed and revel in the joys of intimacy, designed by God for marriage.
Oh, it’s such a sad story. The poor husband wishes he had brought his fishing pole to fight off boredom. When my husband and I traveled to the Mediterranean for our Honeymoon and cruised the seas on the Norwegian Jade for 12 days, we did some fishing all right, and strangely enough it didn’t involve any fish (though there was a fantastic sushi bar on the Jade that we enjoyed). After waiting for almost a year and a half to be sexually intimate, we practically skipped down the aisle and into each other’s arms.
This is the difference between shacking up, premarital sex, and all the compromise the world tells you is great…it steals the joy of true intimacy. It robs the bride and groom of a night to remember. It makes four days at sea with your beloved… a yawning bore.
I can always tell the difference at weddings. It’s obvious to me if the bride and groom have had premarital sex. It’s all about the “event” for the jaded bride, it’s a rite of passage, and a big hoopla over the details. For the couple who choose to be pure, it’s all about the relationship. You can tell in their eyes, their smile, their posture…they have waited for a true treasure and they will celebrate and protect something so valuable.
I know the difference. My first marriage started and ended in compromise. But, the next time, God was gracious and gave me a second chance to walk down the path of purity, restoration and healing. When I married my darling husband, a Godly man and a pastor, I knew he loved me for my heart and not for how I made him feel physically. Our relationship, though by no means perfect, stands on a foundation of trust.
So, though I am truly sad for the vacationing Honeymooners whose trip was derailed, when my husband and I slip away for our next cruise, the “Please Do Not Disturb Sign,” will proudly hang on our door!
It seems like it always happens this time of year, fall burn-out sets in. Not just general weariness, but pure debilitating fatigue that has tenuous layers of emotional, spiritual and physical exhaustion. If you scratch the surface, of a parent or child in this state, you just might get more than you bargained for. Raw emotions lurk underneath the realm of the over achievers façade.
It finally dawned on me last week at the mall just how spent I was. The sky was dumping rain and my family was ecstatic. Wet fields meant a reprieve from the kids’ grueling sports schedule. So after almost five hours at church, we headed off for some much-needed sustenance and a little retail therapy…my older daughter’s love language. After pigging out at Ruby’s, my daughter begged to go to Justice for girls, a shop geared for hip tweens and enabling mothers.
So in we trooped to Justice; the baby sleeping in her stroller, my daughter shrieking at the totally cute jeggings, my son running off to Tilly’s and my husband, well…I don’t actually remember where he went. And that’s when I saw it, a music video playing on one of the ten screens placed around the store appealing to the ADHD crowd featuring Taylor Swift. I should have walked away, knowing how utterly prone I was to an emotional hijacking, but I fell for the romance and escape of it all. And so, in my highly fragile state, I was sucked in to Taylor’s compelling story-telling lyrics.
Alas, it was a woeful tale of a child abandoned by her father, and than growing up scared that her own husband would repeat the abandonment of her youth. So there I stood in Justice, a cacophony of mall buzz all around me, and I lost it. Tears began to pour down my face, big gulpy sobs for poor little Taylor’s heart, and I felt a deep well of emotion erupt from my soul. For a moment, the world stopped and I just reveled in the release.
This is what fall burn-out does. It takes high functioning adults, exhausted from work, kids, and sport’s playoffs and on and on… and turns them to mush, in places like Justice, no less. I realized this was a red-light symptom indicating that my cup might be overrunning with too many blessings and leading to detrimental burn-out, not just the tiredness that makes me long for summer and more languid days. So, I added up all the things we are involved in right now as a family. Then I looked long and hard at the list and did a little reflecting.
Pastoral ministry, running a church, leading 2 Rooted groups, teaching 2 bible studies, a career in tech sales, freelance writing, 2 online magazines, 1 blog, 2 acting classes, fall baseball, cheerleading, Mini Pearls(kids cancer research), Jr. High youth group, commuting 2 hours a day, 3 kids(1 of them a teething baby), no sleep, attempted exercise, running a women’s ministry, school, homework, a football team heading for the West Coast Conference, fantasy football commissioner, and oh yes…another fantasy team, friends, kids friends, family obligations, cheer team mom, little scholar football rep, football chain volunteer, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and oh yeah…trying to remain spiritual, read the Bible, pray, and be blessed to be a blessing.
Just my schedule alone is something like 140 hours a week. That leaves me with an average of about 4 hours of sleep a night. Quite frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t lost it at the Grocery Store or maybe even driven my car into the grocery store.
What the hell am I thinking?
The scary part is that I am pretty sure I am not alone in my race to accomplish, achieve, and appear busy. All of my friends are overwhelmed too. Sometimes I feel guilty for watching TV, annoyed at my husband when he takes time out to play, and frustrated that I don’t have more time to accomplish another 400 items. Sounds a little more like Martha than Mary, and that makes me sad because I want to be more like Mary. But, in all reality, we live in a Martha world and sitting on the floor like Mary at Jesus’ feet is counter-cultural. It takes an inordinate effort to swim against the current of identity defined by productivity.
What is this psychotic expectation of achievement that we have all bought into? I thought I could confidently say that I found my meaning and significance in Christ, but if I am honest, my agenda belies my statement of faith. Rest doesn’t feel like rest anymore, it’s more a catatonic expression of paralysis. Too tired to move, too tired to talk, we zone out and veg.
I think it’s time to stop the madness and climb off the hamster wheel. The hard part is figuring out how not to get thrown off the wheel. The world sucks you in and then spits you back out. Oh, but my inner hamster both loves and hates the wheel. While I want to jump off it’s also scary to think of not running so fast.
There’s an old saying that comes to mind…if the devil can’t make you sin, then he’ll make you busy.
So busy, that I imagine he has a field day with us when our defenses are down.
Today my kids and I went on an unusual adventure. After church, I packed up my little tribe and hustled them to the car, explaining that we were heading over to the Vintage Sr. Center for a high tea and a little socializing with our elderly neighbors. My twelve-year-old son, who is generally amiable and warm-hearted seemed up for the occasion, though he did comment under his breath that old people smell. My nine-year old drama queen on the other hand, ran and asked her dad if she could stay at church to clean up, tried to arrange an impromptu play-date and looked for any loophole possible to avoid accompanying us. The baby was on board, but then again, at nine months old, she didn’t have much of a choice.
I dressed the girls in costumes, both for Halloween’s s sake and because I thought the Sr. residents of Vintage would enjoy seeing a cute baby dressed as Wonder Woman and my older daughter decked out as an 80’s style Valley Girl. But poop happens, and the baby had a blow out all over her costume and the left half of my body as I walked into church. I cleaned myself up, but I reckon if you sniffed real close, I was borderline stinky. It was one of those days.
So, in we marched to Vintage Sr. Center…a weary mom, a hyper baby, a reluctant pre-tween in a pink tutu, and my easy-going son. We stopped on the patio and greeted a few seniors who were taking some air. They oohed and ahhed over the baby and we smiled and made small talk before heading in.The Sr. Center was surprisingly lovely. I was caught off guard by the soothing decor, calming fountains, and tableaux of lush flowers and inviting spaces. The communal area was set up for the tea with tables decorated in harvest linens and china resplendent with tiny sandwiches, fresh fruit, and sweets.
About twenty elderly ladies were assembled for the tea and we jumped in to join the festivities. I made the rounds with the baby, and let her simple charm and utter innocence bless the ladies. And the baby obliged, smiling and giggling, while proudly showing off her two new teeth. She clapped and waved, danced and performed for her audience of approving grannies, reveling in their attention and genuine delight. But babies have limited attention spans, and after a while she whimpered to get down and explore on the ground.
Like lightening, the baby crawled over to the one solo male, sitting alone with a walker in front of him. She climbed up on the side of the walker and to her surprise, it moved. On the cusp of walking, the baby had found a strong sturdy aid to help her take her first steps. I glanced up at the man, hoping he wouldn’t mind that the baby had absconded his only source of mobility, but he seemed enthralled by my wee tyke now making circles with the walker.
He leaned over and said in a raspy voice, “You know, I never thought I would walk again, but I’ve been working hard with the physical therapist to strengthen my legs and I can even do the stairs now. Soon, I should be able to get around with just a cane.”
As the baby made circle after circle with the walker, fiercely determined to take one step after another, the man talked about losing his good friend to a stroke only a few days before. His matter of fact demeanor appeared callous at first, but then it began to dawn on me that in this environment, he was getting used to loss. I scooted close to listen, recognizing the sacredness of an open heart and a lifetime of wisdom being shared.
He told me there were two types of residents at the Sr. Home, the terminal and those in transition. The transitional folks were there for a set period of time to recover from a surgery or a fall while their families arranged a way to bring them home with assisted care, but the others were there until they died. It was their final home on this earth. He said it made all the difference in the world how the residents identified themselves. He said the terminal were hopeless and sad…their spirits bitter and hard. But the transitional residents had a promise of recovery and home, a reward at the end of a long and painful journey.
The man smiled at me and proclaimed,” I am going home again when I can walk. Just like that baby forging ahead, I refuse to end my life here.”
I caught my son’s eye and winked; delighted he was engaged in helping set up the slide show for the poetry reading. Then we drank tea, listened to Casey at the Bat and enjoyed cupcakes. I saw my older daughter drawing pictures and presenting them to the elderly ladies, smiling and preening in her costume. Eventually, the baby grew tired of her game, crawled into my arms and fell asleep.
As I gathered up my kids to go home, and hugged my new friend good-bye, I asked him if I could come back and play cards with him. He nodded “yes”, excitedly muttering something about Gin Rummy.
I drove off pondering his statement about the two types of residents at the Sr. Home. I was struck by how profound his observations were and how it also applied to a much bigger realm than just the Vintage Sr. Center.
Our perspective on life, our very identity rests on how we view ourselves on this planet, either as transitional–with the hope of eternal life and a greater kingdom awaiting us, or as terminal—life consisting of a limited time and place, with a beginning and end, and then no more. Even the most decadent Sr. Home in the world would feel like hell, if you looked at as your last step to the grave.
The man knew that to have a life, he had to change his perspective.
Later that night, I asked my son if he enjoyed himself at the Sr. Home. He responded with a decisive, “Yes! They didn’t smell bad at all, but you on the other hand, need to take a shower.”
About ten years ago at a Christian rock concert, I was introduced to the humanitarian group called “World Vision” and felt compelled to be a part of their mission. World Vision is dedicated to working with children, families and communities worldwide to reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty and injustice. Basically, my involvement would be in the sponsorship of a child in need through monthly giving. My children were very small at the time, but I envisioned picking a child that they could connect with and learn about giving and social awareness. The little boy I chose had the same name as our family and “Adam” became a subtle reminder to us, all over the years, that in the smallest of ways we were all a part of the same global community of faith. We received pictures from him and letters updating us on his growth and education. We laughed when he sent us a picture of his new goat and my little ones drew him pictures of our family. Ultimately, Adam became a goat herder and grew up and out of the program. But Adam had touched our lives in more ways than he would ever know.
When I suddenly became a single mother, and struggled financially to provide for my children, I was challenged to believe that God would provide for not only us but Adam as well. Sometimes I would look at my stack of bills and then at his picture and laugh. He never knew how many times I almost gave up on him in my own desperation. I learned much about sacrificial giving through a little boy from Ethiopia and my children learned about staying the course and having a double fisted faith in God’s promise to take care our basic needs.
Recently, World Vision sent us a picture and bio of a new child to replace Adam. Ironically, once again we are being challenged by our World Vision child. My son, now twelve, and my daughter, now nine, were excited to open up the package and see who God had chosen for us. My husband was now also part of our little group and as we tore into the envelope and read his name we were shocked to learn that he was called “Jihad.”
Our first reaction was one of confusion. World Vision is supposed to be a Christian organization and clearly this was a Muslim child as indicated by his papers. This raised many questions in our home about what it meant to be the hands and feet of Christ, even in the face of our enemies. This child may never know he has been named after one “striving in the way of Allah,” but his needs for food and clothing are probably all too real. Tim and I considered asking for a different child, but finally decided to continue supporting him despite our conflicting feelings.
While I don’t know if I am supporting a child that may someday fight against my own children or all that I believe in, I do want to be open to what God is doing in my life. Jihad’s picture is penned up on my desk at work beside my children and husband. He is slowly growing on me, though I do feel more of a sense of obedience than any natural affection. Once a month as I write out his check, I look at him and laugh and can only wonder what the Lord is doing in my heart through this boy.
As a writer, I often wonder if my words connect with my audience. Am I making a point, eliciting an emotion or provoking a response, that changes one’s paradigm, even momentarily?
As a follower of Christ, this question becomes even more pronounced… because in the art of losing myself to glorify Christ, I write to tell His stories, but then secretly wonder if anyone listens???
Often when I write I feel as if I am inspired by the Spirit. Words flow like water. My fingers tingle, I am in my element because I am operating within the giftedness I was created for. Other times, I am at an impasse, relying on my own cleverness, or lack thereof, trying to find words when there are none.
Some might call it a writer’s block and try to push through it. I tend to file these articles away for another day when my eye is fresh.
Ralph Waldo Emerson put it this way, “The torpid artist seeks inspiration at any cost, by virtue or by vice, by friend or by fiend, by prayer or by wine.”
While wine sounds attractive, prayer must be my muse, or I am tempted to think of my art, writing in this case, as a gift in and of itself, versus an offering to the Giver of all good gifts.
If humility is recognizing who we are in light of God, neither overestimating or undermining our worth, then writing with humility allows us to release our work and give credit where credit is due. We can let go of the insecurity of penning a masterpiece that may or may not be universally well received.
If our pen has been moved by the Spirit of God, and we write for an audience of one, have we not in all reality hit the mark?
But if we are merely trying to stroke our ego or gain a following to prove our prowess with the pen, then our words are vain folly.
In all honesty, much of my writing attempts are like hurling darts into Jello. I aim, I throw, and then comes the distinctive sound of jello– blu..blu…blump.
Maybe no one cares or takes interest in something I thought was riveting. Other times, I aim and hit dead center. I am praised and feel loveable for my contribution.
Once again, the achievement ladder has stealthy crept into my sincere desire to create.
I…we… must constantly surrender to the Spirit–allowing God to take both the triumphs and the catastrophes, freeing me up to simply use the gifts and talents he has given me for His glory, and hopefully, someone else’s benefit.
My family moved into a suburban neighborhood like no other this last year.
It is akin to Wisteria lane on steroids.
Currently there are 49 children on our block. Our home, a taupe colored shingled Craftsman, sits on the corner with a large wrap around porch and is dead center in the hub of activity.
Summer nights are filled with shrieks and laughter, street barbecues and ditch’em, hide and seek and babies in diapers crawling around on the grass as mommies linger outside to milk in the last rays of light.
Every fantasy I envisioned of a loving community of people doing life together has been more than fulfilled when I look out my window in the morning and see neighbors smiling and waving.
Coming from a cramped condo with three kids, there aren’t enough words to describe this bliss. Now as Fall approaches, we are being indoctrinated into a new series of neighborhood rituals.
The Halloween decorations are beginning to pop up…pumpkins and spiders, webs and ghouls. The trees are glowing with orange jack-o-lantern lights and scarecrows smiling at sinister zombies.
Our street is reminiscent of a Normal Rockwell painting juxtaposed with cheap Costco decorations. It is Americana at it’s finest…awesome and over commercialized.
A few nights ago, I was at home cuddled up on the sofa writing. My older kids and husband were at sports practice,while the baby played at my feet and dismantled the neatly kept playroom, one toy at a time. Out of the blue, the doorbell rang and I heard leaves crunching, feet running away and heavy breathing.
I nervously peered out the peephole, and saw nothing but ominous darkness. Wisteria lane had become Hysteria Lane in my mind as I conjured up home invasions and kidnappers. I bolted the door and walked to the window. Then it rang again, but this time I spied little feet running away and ascertained that it was a small child and probably not a big threat. I slowly opened the door and looked around. In front of the doorstep was a big bag filled with goodies.
Inside the BOO bag were Halloween crafts, pumpkin decorating tools, outdoor decorations, candy, shoelaces and a letter. It explained that we needed to display an orange pumpkin cutout that said BOO on our home and within two days repeat this activity to two neighbors. If the plan worked, by Halloween our whole neighborhood would be a BOO friendly zone, and every child would share in the excitement.
My kids were so excited when they came home and quickly dug into their booty. Then we plotted and planned who would be the recipient of our booing.
Choosing which neighbors to BOO was the hard part, but we unanimously decided upon the new family across the street, with two little ones and our neighbor behind us, who is a widowed father. First we assembled the bags. Dog bones, pretzels, ghost marshmallows, assorted candy and freshly baked cookies for the neighbor behind us. For the young family we found Halloween cut-outs, plastic spiders, candy, cookies and toy boats handmade for their toddler boy. We giggled and delighted in our efforts, then headed out the door on a mission to spook our neighbors and bless them.
First, we hit the neighbors with the little kids. They live in a beautiful yellow clapboard home with a white picket fence and large front yard. A little red baby swing hangs from the eaves of their porch and toys are scattered askew.
My son slowly opened their front gate, tip-toed up to the door, rang the doorbell and bolted. The baby and I watched from our front window, while my daughter hid behind a car in their driveway with my son. The young dad peered out his front door, but didn’t see anyone. They have a beveled glass top door, so we were fortunate to be able to watch his reactions.
He looked around suspiciously, then slowly opened the door and spied the BOO bag. He looked around again as my kids, hiding in his driveway stifled guffaws, then picked up the bag and upon realizing it was a surprise, called out for his little boy and they happily tore into the bag. Mission accomplished! We tricked them and then treated them…mmmm, I wonder if that’s how it all started?
House number two was a different type of BOO. Not long before we moved in, our neighbor behind us had lost his wife to cancer. He was still living in her dream home, a romantic Spanish style abode with a lush yard and arched entryway. His daughter, a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, had moved home to help with her mother’s care in the last days. She is still living with him, and slowly recapturing her spirit after the devastation. The younger son is in college but also lives at home. He doesn’t smile much and keeps his distance. They are fragile, at best, and we desperately wanted to make things better. So we BOO’d them. A simple but intentional move to show them we cared.
Our plan was to plant our nine month old baby on the doorstep, armed with a glow stick and the BOO bag. I hid closely behind the arch as we rang the bell. But in our sneaky plans, we forgot about their dog. Bullet, a large Siberian Husky bounded up to the door barking furiously. In a flash, I grabbed the baby who started crying. Tim opened the door and there I stood…with a crying baby, a BOO bag, and two older kids yelling at me, “abort, abort.”.
I was a BOO failure!
Then Tim called the dog off and asked me what I was doing. Before I could say anything, he saw the bag. “Are you BOOing me?” he asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t do a very good job,” I said.
He didn’t say anything more, took the bag from my hands and slowly shut the door. Just before it closed he looked up at me and smiled.
So , maybe our covert operation was more awkward than finely tuned, but our hearts were full and our souls nourished as we headed home. The BOOing had allowed us, for a moment in time, to be a part of something bigger and to step out of the ordinary and mundane in our lives. We learned that being a neighbor isn’t just about living in a neighborhood…it’s about engaging in the stories of humanity. Mr. Rogers put it this way, “If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”
And as I drifted off to sleep that night, a familiar song of childhood came to mind… “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Won’t you be my neighbor?”
There is a song that came out a few years that still makes me weep (It’s been played so many times on the FISH it might make you cry too). It asks me to imagine what I will do when I am confronted with Jesus face to face. Will I even be able to stand in his presence or will I fall to my knees overwhelmed by his grace? It is a provocative question I don’t ask myself enough because I would rather envision Jesus pursuing me. I am comfortable with an image of him walking alongside of me and holding my hand. I am a little girl and he is a loving father. But, the thought of coming boldly to the throne of God makes my knees wobble and my heart quake with fear. Like Isaiah, I imagine calling out “woe to me, I am unworthy and inadequate.”[1] I struggle to put together the image of God the Father with God the Son. Jesus is accessible and near to me while the Father is Holy and immense. Somehow, I have associated God the Father with performance and Jesus with unmerited grace, forgetting all too often that they are one. If spirituality is the means by which we develop an awareness of the Spirit of God in us and the processes, by which we keep that awareness alive and vital, then these questions and contemplations must not be avoided.[2] My interior life demands examination if I am to minister effectively. As the Father and the Son are not separate, my spirituality and service in ministry are also inexplicably tied together.
This last year has provided many opportunities for spiritual growth and transformation as my husband and I left our church after sixteen years to start a satellite church, under the umbrella of the mother church. Because I have been immersed in almost every facet of the church plant, either directly or indirectly through my husband, a new obstacle has reared its ugly head…finding rest in the midst of exhaustive church planting. Where is the line drawn from the demands of ministry and my own need to develop authentic spirituality? How do you leave your work at the job if your church is the job? Where do pastors and leaders go to replenish their spirits if they can’t do it at church? Is this where the desert experience calls out to us? Church used to be a safe and comforting setting where I could hide from the world and now, at times, it feels like a minefield of power struggles, mostly within my own heart. It is a massive paradigm shift for me to move the church out of the place where I experience God to a place where I am simply doing God’s work. The two don’t go together anymore. I must encounter God on my own without the guidance or aid of an institution. I think God allowed me to see the physical boundaries of Church as a safe stronghold while he built a firm foundation of his Word and Spirit within me. Now, almost two decades into this journey, he has removed my attachment from the buildings I thought I needed to grow closer to him. My ability to minister effectively is dependent only on the depth of relationship I experience with him…a reflection of His transforming work in a willing spirit and my tiny mustard seed of faith.
If the extent one is willing to incorporate the spiritual disciplines or means of grace into one’s life will determine the effectiveness of their ministry,[3] then I am forced to find rest amidst the chaos. This has meant intentional times of solitude, painful reflection and major adjustments as I look differently at the way I give back to God. Once again, God is calling me to move out of my comfort zone and into a place of greater dependence. Any ministry that is beyond our effort requires that we abandon ourselves to the mysterious action that God is able to work in us, and then through us. But this involves a stripping away of the last vestige of hope that we can somehow accomplish the task on our own.[4]
I believe the essence of spiritual growth is this-our journey is like an onion peeling. Every time you pull off a good chunk there are more layers waiting to be uncovered. At the core of the onion, is a tender childlike faith that has been covered over the years with wounds, pain and fear. As we peel, tears sting our eyes, and we become raw, discarding the very things we have clung to for security apart from God. But our reward is this…to see our Father clearly, without the veil of darkness hindering our vision, moving from blindness into His glorious light.
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