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.
How many of you work? None
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.
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.
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.
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 amakeover.
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?
People keep asking my husband and me if we are knocked up yet. I’d bemoan the lack of modern civility but since I did post our intent to procreate to the entire internet universe –I might have to own this one and take the hit.
So, in all honesty I’m a little conflicted now about birthing another child.
After our recent miscarriage and the most difficult season of parenting I have ever experienced, another baby –even a blond chubby cheeked cutie –represents a future teenager. And it’s enough for me to hide any atrophied eggs at age thirty-nine I have left when my husband gets that gleam in his eye.
We sensed God telling us to try for another munchkin and we obediently tried. It didn’t work. So my thinking is maybe the whole scenario might simply be about listening to God and following his direction. PERIOD. And maybe this is where it ends.
Maybe tragedy can also be MERCY and maybe it doesn’t have to make sense.
Might I need a new equation?
God+ direction=obedience
(Results not guaranteed)
Sometimes the Christian life doesn’t lead to happily ever after and little bow tied Jabez-y blessings.
What if God is more interested in my knowing him and following him than the places and circumstances he leads me to?
They say life is about the journey and not the destination. I think it’s about staying on the heels of the trail guide no matter where he takes you.
I think Jesus is more interested in us saying YES to him when he calls, but it doesn’t guarantee what we say yes to will ever come to fruition.
And isn’t this the mystery, frustration and beauty of the Christian life?
Some decisions are too big to flip a coin over and so we pray and plead and ask the big guy for a sign. But in marriage this gets a little murkier when one person clearly hears God and yet their spouse remains unsure.
So is the case in the Keller relationship. We have a big whopper of a choice to make but there has been disparity between the two of us as to when to pull the trigger. I’d tell you what this big superdeeduper decision is but then I might lose my special agent status and possibly compromise national security.
Anyway, God was clear with me on the details but fuzzier with my hubby Tim.
We faced one another sitting Indian style on our bed one night (certainly the best way to compromise) discussing the pros and cons of our issue and Tim suggested we ask for fleece from God.
Now fleece harkens back to the tale of Gideon in the Bible, who asked for a sign from God after an angel appeared asking him to lead the Israelites in battle against the gnarly Midianites who were terrorizing the Israelite people and forcing them to hide in caves after overrunning their country.
Gideon was understandably freaked out at the angel’s suggestion. He promised to obey the command: but before commencing the battle he oh so casually requested a sign from God that the Israelites were certain to win the battle. The sign Gideon asked for was this –that when he laid a fleece of wool on the ground, if the victory was with Israel, then the fleece would be wet and the ground dry.
He placed the wool on the ground, and taking it up the next morning found it wet, although the ground was dry. So he knew God was saying “get your sword out dude.”
But Gideon was still uncertain. He pleaded with God for a second sign. This time the ground was to be wet and the fleece of wool dry. God, who is infinitely more patient than me gave him the desired sign and then Gideon humbly obeyed and went out and kicked some Midianite butt.
Now Tim –just like Gideon –was requesting fleece. It would appear he was simply asking for a sign, but I know my husband and in the back of my mind, I thought, “OK GOD, YOU HAVE TO PROVIDE FLEECE.”
Maybe a stinky sheep wool sweater or a wet stuffed Easter lamb on the lawn would suffice? I know how literal my husband is and all the various ways God was clearly speaking to me weren’t making an impact on him.
So I’m on the freeway a few days later and I glance up at this white van in front of me and the license plate reads, “GOT FLEECE?”
It was my Evan Almighty moment! My burning bush, my donkey talking! YESSSSSS!
Shaking and laughing, I risked peril and near death to reach for my iPhone and snap a few pictures to prove the sign to my husband.
Tim studied the pictures intently that evening and agreed this was indeed a sign. He gave me that wise pastor look, “Sam, clearly God has spoken through a van on the 5 freeway.”
But then Tim (being Tim) smiled at me and said tongue in cheek, “Ok, now we wait for a second sign.”
Jinkies! I know my husband is willing to follow whatever God calls him to do, I mean the man left his six-figure corporate income to go into ministry. But come on…recognize the awesomeness of the van!
But then I am reminded how in marriage we don’t always see eye to eye and his quest for clarity might be a gift from God to balance out my more spontaneous nature.
Two weeks after the honeymoon my new husband cornered me outside the door of our condo and whispered in agony, “The kids never go away, do they?”
I looked at him with all the empathy a former single mother of two small children could muster and shook my head, “No, they are pretty much around ALL THE TIME. Better get used to it babe.”
I really did feel sorry for my husband that day. It’s a big adjustment for a single (i.e. self absorbed and not used to sharing) thirty-eight year old man to get married and instantaneously have two children. Within a year, I was pregnant and then there were three munchkins running around creating havoc.
But to his credit, my husband adjusted admirably and I have watched in both delight and trepidation as fatherhood has transformed my sweetie into a more loving, sacrificial and humble human being, even though, by his own admission, it’s been excruciatingly painful at times.
The truth is kids affect the best of relationships because kids create stress. But it’s truly up to the couple to determine if the little stressors will be a blessing or a curse.
There is an antidote to the grass is always greener adage about relationships; it’s called –the grass is greener where the lawn is watered. If you take care of your marriage along with your children, both will flourish, but if you neglect one for the other, the marriage will inevitably wither.
The biggest shocker when the stork arrives may be the overwhelming demands of children on one’s time, resources, and sleep. While this may seem obvious, it’s still surprising how many people are baffled at what this actually entails- pretty much everything.
Sleep isn’t guaranteed, emotions become fragile due to lack of sleep, and sexual relations (also due to lack of sleep and post-partum recovery) generally take a nose dive during the toddler years.
There is an erroneous assumption all couples make as they stand at the altar and say “I do,” believing their romance will stay the same and transcend the length of their marriage. And it will, if they would continue to woo and romance each other for the rest of their days.
But generally, couples who spend a great deal of time meeting each other’s emotional needs in the early years refocus all their love, time and attention on the children, leaving their marriage high and dry.
The husband (feeling neglected) starts working longer hours and the wife glares at her husband each evening as he arrives home late while simultaneously blowing kisses to the baby (her new love). Little junior replaces daddy’s spot on the bed next to mommy and the internet become’s daddy’s new girlfriend now that he’s been booted to the sofa. Sound familiar?
In an age of child-centric parenting and skyrocketing divorce, many couples forget the best gift they can give their children is a strong and stable marriage. Kids need to know that their parents adore not only them, but each other as well. A child’s sense of security grows as they watch their parents display love, with all its imperfections, struggle, and willingness to choke out an “I’m sorry (even when we aren’t).”
Because I’ve been through a divorce (and don’t want another) there are certain non-negotiables in our marriage that we implemented right from the get-go.
My husband and I intentionally spend time alone catching up –usually over a long rambling walk where we air out both the good and bad. I make an effort to meet his sexual needs (always a challenge) and he tries hard to emotionally connect with my complicated female heart. We vacation together without our children (AKA “sexcations”). We affirm and admire each other and we go to counseling on a regular basis. We are honest with each other and try to always put our marriage first-even before the children.
All of this takes enormous effort and a hearty dose of unselfishness, but the results are a strong and healthy marriage that we both treasure.
Marriage isn’t for the weak or the namby-pamby’s out there, and it’s no walk in the park once the children enter the picture, but I believe it’s a worthy endeavor and if done well, can be a beacon of hope to a world desperately in need of something to believe in. Love –at its core is radical, sacrificial and a choice made every day in the trenches of dirty diapers and temper tantrums.
The greatest compliment my husband bestowed upon me was when he leaned over and whispered, “I know it would be hard with four children, but I would love to have another baby with you.”
*Note* I wrote this piece for a secular magazine. I tried to weave God into it, without being overly preachy. But ultimately, I believe God is love and marriage is a beautiful picture of the relationship between Jesus and his church.
“Ooohhhh, that’s stinky!” said Kolby, crinkling up her pert little nose. “Daddy farted.”
Daddy looked dismayed. “I did not fart! Kyle farted,” Tim adamantly replied.
A guilty look crossed (my teenager) Kyle’s face. “Nope, it wasn’t me,” he playfully teased, even though we all knew his butt smelled like day old broccoli.
Baby Kolby looked confused, but then a brilliant thought passed through her emerging toddler paradigm, “I know,” she said very seriously, “Mickey Mouse farted!”
And how could we do anything but laugh –because at the tender age of twenty-three months, Kolby is already learning the blame game.
We blame being late to church on traffic or cranky babies, not finishing home projects on illness or injury (like back pain, sprained ankles and the endless cold…I’m just referring to random people dear, not you).
We blame our overspending on the bad economy, our addictions on stress, and our wine habit on the kids (this is a generalization, not a confession. I do not have a wine habit, though I do like a nice Cabernet occasionally if you would like an idea for a Christmas gift)
I personally get frustrated when my pants don’t fit and blame it on hormones, getting older, and my parents for being tremendous cooks. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I have only exercised less than a dozen times since I came back from my cruise in July. Or, that I put whip cream on my coffee every day and that since Casa Ranchero has opened (my favorite Mexican restaurant) I have demolished about 52 baskets of chips with an accompanying margarita (that’s over the last year -not all at once)
Blame has been around since the gardening days of Adam and Eve. Adam said the woman made him do it, while Eve blamed the serpent for her lust of the forbidden fruit. (I wonder what would have happened if they had just owned it?)
“Uhhh yeah God, I wanted it, I thought you were withholding and I ate it.” (We might have gotten lighter curses…just saying)
So, I’m thinking about what it would mean to me if I admitted more of my stuff.
Is it rude to say I’m late because I dawdled around and read just five more pages of the Hunger Games(which is AMAZING) before getting in the shower (i.e. I’m selfish and don’t care that much about your time) or how about I’ve gained five pounds because I like pie and the reason I’m walking like a duck is because I worked-out the last four days in a row and I can’t sit because my buttocks ache –all because I ate the pie, can’t afford a new wardrobe and I hate having a muffin top.
Not sure how that would go over? Our culture seems to embrace the little white lie as a requisite of good manners.
Hmmmm? Regardless, we now have a new friend in the house to blame our farts on (and yours too if you visit).
So if it stinks in the Keller home, blame it on Mickey Mouse. (Apparently, he’s related to MVE–our dearest and fartiest friend)
“That’s my mama,” says Kolby, pointing to me as I drive while talking to her sister. My toddler’s burgeoning vocabulary makes me chuckle and I glance at them in the rearview mirror.
Faith smiles at Kolby. “Yes, that is Kolby’s mama,” she agrees. “But its Faith’s mama too.”
Kolby narrows her gaze into a territorial sneer, “No Faith. That’s Kolby’s mama. Not Faith’s mama.”
And so Faith volleys back and the next thing I know the car is filled with the wails of an almost two year old and her ten year-old sibling bickering over who has claims to me.
“Mine.”
“Ours.”
“No Faith, mine mama.”
It was funny at first –this cuteness of a toddler ensconced in a world where everything belongs to her; where sharing is optional and highly overrated (in Kolby’s opinion).
But as we move into the holiday season and I reflect on our culture, I don’t know if the world operates much differently than an entitled baby fighting over her mama.
Last week’s Black Friday headlines have left me scratching my head and wondering what the hell is wrong with our country?
And even though I love Target and Wal-Mart, (as much as the next women out there who can pick up power tools and Goldfish all in one store) I have to wonder what kind of ideology I am buying into when the Target add on TV depicts a woman training for the super athletic event of shopping.
After this year, maybe next year’s ad could show the woman training with weapons, like the lady in Walmart who pepper sprayed a group of shoppers to get to an X-Box?
Or they could show her at the gun range learning how to protect her loot, maybe jousting with a waffle iron, or learning ninja smart phone skills to take down those pesky people who get their grubby hands on your goods.
Mine. Mine. Mine,
How about practicing the art of the trample? There’s a nice pastime to usher in the Christmas spirit (and yes this is pure sarcasm because I know I will get a comment or another blogger posting Samantha Keller advocates trampling. I do not nor have I ever trampled…just to be clear!)
But I am appalled at the greed and inhumanity Black Friday reveals about the state of our hearts. Clearly, some Americans feel so entitled to a get a good holiday deal they will even kill for it. Really?
We now have two holidays that have mutated. What are we going to lose next?
Halloween –dress like a slut day and Black Friday –act like an animal at the mall day. (Use violence if necessary)
I’m taking a stand and reclaiming this Christmas.
It’s not about Santa or the “Christmas Spirit”, the lights (though they are fun), the presents (which are grand) or the food (even though I sure love pie).
Christmas is about a baby, born in a manger and a big God who made himself small to be with us.
And this Jesus is mine. And yours. And ours.
Buy less stuff! Instead of “Go Big or Go Home,” how about “Go Small and Go Home (and be with your loved ones.)
I heard the crunch of metal before it registered to my thick skull that I had just hit a parked truck. As if on cue –the waterworks turned on and then I had to navigate un-sticking my car from the truck I was now glued to. Blinded through tears, I inched my car forward as metal screeched against metal.
“Oh nooooo, let’s try backward,” I whispered to baby Kolby as she whimpered and looked around eyes wide with uncertainty.
I swiveled the wheel and backed up, heard a loud pop and then watched in awe as a piece of my bumper flew high into the air. Thankfully my car released from the truck and I pulled forward and parked. I took the baby out of her car seat, calmed her down and walked back to assess the damage.
In one careless second, I had successfully scraped and dented the chrome bumper of a random stranger’s truck.
So I did what I always do in these scenarios. I called my husband/hero and choked out my predicament between wails. He promised to come quickly to my rescue.
Meekly, I walked up to the door of Kolby’s pre-school “Maggie’s House” and Mr. Mark, the owner of the school, opened the door with a smile and a spirit of laid back ease. “Hey Mark. Do you know whose truck that is?” I painfully inquired.
“Yep, it’s mine. Why?”
This was the moment of terrible. The tears started raining again like the synchronized fountain at the Bellagio. “I’m so sorry, I was rushing and the wheel slipped and I’m so sorry and I hit your (sob, sob, hiccup) truck.”
A concerned look crossed his face. “Sam, it’s ok, it’s just a truck. Let’s go check it out.”
His niceness only made me feel worse. I didn’t know what to do with his grace. I honestly think I expected to be yelled at or have pre-school pilgrim hats thrown at me. This care for my heart and the safety of baby Kolby was relatively foreign in a world of angry litigious people who scream and sue you for neck injuries in a parked empty car.
My husband pulled up just about then and the three of us walked out to the street. Tim picked up the rubber bumper pad off the ground, the one that flew through the air, and went back around and snapped it in. The damage wasn’t too bad, but there was some. Both cars were scraped and dented.
Mark gently smiled and shook his head. “Please don’t worry about it. You don’t have to pay for it. It’s a truck and trucks get dinged up.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I pleaded with him to call our insurance, make us pay, anything to give him restitution. But he wouldn’t hear of it.
I left my husband to talk with him and I drove off to work, now late, in a self-condemning fog.
I wanted Tim to make Mark understand that I deserved to pay the penalty. I was careless in my haste to get to work on time and I screwed up.
As I headed up the hill to the toll road, I sensed God nudging me to stop berating myself and draw close. So, I confessed my frustration and pleaded with God to help me feel content and thankful, even in this difficult moment.
Just then, I glanced over to my right and saw a family –a mom, dad and three children with shovels, flowers and a cross by the side of the road. I could only assume that a car accident had taken the life of their loved one.
And I felt God’s grace wash over me –this lavish and unrelenting love for a silly rushing mother.
His protection. His mercy. His Favor.
And so I cried even more.
But these tears were for a hurting family on the side of the road.
In light of God’s perspective my screw-ups didn’t seem so big anymore.
(Of course my son wasn’t too thrilled, because this is the car he gets in a few years to drive. I told him I was breaking it in for him)
