Tag: God

Posted on

A Walk to the Hospital

Some people labor in vain, while others are just vain laborers. (quote by Sam)

It started during the morning staff meeting. Just as I reached for the tapitio sauce to spice up my egg burrito, a wave of intense pain rolled around my tailbone then wrapped all the way around to my swollen belly.

I frantically gripped the counter of the church kitchen and panted, “whoo whoo whoo, heee heee heee,” in the breathy way pregnant women are instructed to huff and puff. That is, until the pain gets bad enough for the real guttural groans of childbirth. This is why you don’t ever tell the labor and delivery nurses you are in ministry. That way if an F bomb escapes while you are bearing down to push they won’t stare at you like you’re a hypocrite.

Emily, the children’s pastor, looked at me quizzically. “Are you in labor? Do you want me to get your husband?”

“No, maybe, I don’t know,” I replied. The last thing I wanted was to be an inconvenience to the team or to my busy pastor husband. We were trying to get this new church up and running and I really didn’t have time to fit birthing in on this particular day.

Ironically, it was my actual due date, but baby number three seemed quite content to hang out in the nice warm womb for the full term. Labor wasn’t really on my radar because we had a scheduled induction the very next morning. Wrapping up all my loose ends was on the agenda for today. I had the meeting to attend, a few quotes to do for work, and kids to pick up from school.

Besides, I had it all planned out down to the hour. The two older children were scheduled to spend the night with my ex-in-laws and the renovation on our condo from unanticipated flood damage was to be completed that very night. And most importantly, the baby’s arrival was perfectly coordinated to not conflict with Sunday Service. Our fledgling church was every bit as much as our baby as was the actual child now dropping precariously low between my thighs.

As we moved the meeting into the study, I alternately paced and rolled around on the sofa while the church staff shook their heads at me in disbelief.

“You are so in labor.”

“Uh, Sam, it’s probably about time to head on over to the hospital.”

Defiant, I stared them down, determined to keep my schedule. I picked up the kids from school then headed back to church and to my favorite sofa. Around 4:00pm. A gush of water dampened my seat. I ran to the restroom to check if my water had broken. But when I stood up, it seemed to stop. Embarrassed and humiliated that I had more than likely wet my pants, I kept my mouth shut and continued to deal with the contractions which were growing more painful by the minute.

My husband walked in around dinner time and suggested we head out to find some grub. Now my husband, the soon to be father of the baby on the way, was not the baby-daddy to my two older children, Kyle (eleven) and Faith (eight). So though he was a great step-dad to the kids, he was rather clueless about childbirth.

Planting a church during the pregnancy had required almost all of his time and energy, leaving little room for Lamaze classes or birthing preparation. When the Doctor had told him a few weeks prior I was about ready to pop, he had protested adamantly.

“But, I’m not ready,” he said. “I’ve got two more weeks! I’m just getting used to you being pregnant.”

The doctor and I looked at each other in bemusement. But now, here I was the stubborn one, clinging to my agenda and in complete denial of actually being in labor.

The kids and I piled into my husband’s grey Ford Expedition and we headed over to the Panda Express in Ladera Ranch. It sits dead center in a strip mall of idyllic suburbia. I timed my contractions on the dashboard of the car. They were about four to five minutes apart now. I figured I could make it to three minutes apart before I cried “uncle.”

In we trooped to the restaurant and ordered up our usual favorite fare. But my insides were violently churning and the mushroom chicken I normally adored didn’t look too appetizing. My husband urged me to eat up. “You need to keep up your energy; we are having a baby in the morning. “He decried jubilantly.

I smiled back weakly.

“Oh by the way, “he said, “I need you to drive your car back to the condo, pick up the kids bags and then take the kids over to their grandparents. I have to wrap up some work at the church and then I’ll meet you there.

My eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know if I can do it, I’m really in a lot of pain.”

He smiled his charismatic smile, “Kyle will be with you. He’ll take care of you.”

Mumbling low-grade insults, I drove the thirty minute commute back to Newport Beach in waves of delirious pain. The contractions were holding steady now at four minutes apart. I whined and moaned the whole way home as my son both encouraged and laughed with me at the absurdity of driving in labor.

We walked in the front door to our condo and were greeted by the roar of fans. The construction crew was still on sight, even though it was now after 8:00pm. And all of a sudden, I got grumpy, real grumpy.

I glared at them menacingly. “Hey lady,” the guy in charge said, your husband told me we had to have this done before you brought your kid home from the hospital. We are just doing our job.”

I grabbed the bags, shot the workers a dirty look and headed to the car. We pulled up at my ex-husband’s parent’s home (Mimi and Papa to the kids), a few minutes later. Mimi ran out and invited us in with open arms. Finally, I had found a nice place to relax. I plopped down in their big comfy chair, curled up in a cozy blanket and then “whoosh” another big gush of water burst forth. This time I knew it wasn’t pee.

“My water broke!” I shouted. Just then my husband walked in the door and everyone got very excited. The kids were laughing, the cats were meowing, and the adrenaline was pumping. My husband’s eyes got very big. “It’s time! It’s time!” he said with joy and trepidation.

We kissed the kids goodbye, thanked the ex-in-laws and headed back to our condo where fortunately the workers had retired for the evening. I told Tim I wanted to take a quick shower before we headed over to the hospital. Honestly, I just wanted to look decent for the round of pictures that I knew would follow. So, I jumped in the shower, blow-dried my hair, carefully applied makeup, and even managed a few curls with the curling iron. The contractions were now about three minutes apart.

At some point, I finally got around to calling my doctor to tell them we were on the way to the hospital. When questioned about my contractions and time of water breaking, my doctor seemed a little miffed that I was not already at the hospital. She sounded a little angry in fact, “Let me get this straight, you have been having contractions for the last fourteen hours, your water broke six hours ago, and you are now just calling me? Get your butt over to the hospital.”

“Ok” I said. We practically live next door. We are on our way”

Tim walked in and said nonchalantly, “Remember that day we were walking around on Balboa Island and we passed the photo shop with the gorgeous pictures of the pregnant woman with her belly showing. You know I always wanted to take some pictures of you like that but we sort of ran out of time. Could we do a few now?”

“Now?” I asked incredulously.

“Just a few, it will take two minutes, max.” he promised.

With a loud “fine,” I walked out to the living room and dropped my meticulously packed bags by the front door. I had packed the special little tie-wrap t-shirts my older kids had worn in the hospital when they were born, the perfect going home outfit for baby, a brand new mini-pacifier, soothing music on the iPod, and my favorite pillow. All the essentials a girl could possibly need for the hospital stay.

Tim lined me up where he wanted to shoot me and then had the audacity to request I change into a black satin top which he thought would curve nicely around my giant belly.

Seriously…a costume change?

I am going to stab you...in the eye.

But I adore my husband enough to play along with his badly timed request. So in the throes of labor, contractions now about two minutes apart, I do an impromptu photo shoot for my hubby. As a former model (yes, I’m serious. It’s how I put myself through school), I pose and smile, in between contractions of course, and make love to the camera with my eyes.

I hate you...

I throw in some more under the breath cussing at my husband for making me do this in the first place. My personality is now teetering between curmudgeon and loving wife.

When Tim is satisfied that he has captured my pregnant essence we head out the door to walk to the hospital.

Yes, I said walk to the hospital. Our condo complex was just down the street from Hoag Memorial Hospital in Newport Beach, so I figured we could save some money on parking and walk. I might have been hallucinating when I thought this was a good idea, but now fifteen hours into labor, I’m not really operating with a full deck of cards.

My husband pulls our travel bags with the rickety wheels across the cobblestone pathway as we make our way over to the hospital. Now reeling in pain, I stop several times and desperately hold on to the stone planter and screech in pain. Then we have two more minutes to walk as fast as I can trot.

Waddle, waddle, howl, waddle, waddle, yelp.

Finally, we arrive in labor and delivery. The nurses crowd around me and bark off directions but I refuse to let them push me in the wheelchair to my room. If I’ve made it this far, I’m not wussing out in the final stretch. I do let them convince me to take the epidural though. I’ve birthed one child drug-free and that was enough pain to last me a lifetime.

Epidural kicked in...I look sooooo out of it.

And so Kolby Grace Keller entered the world. She came out of the birth canal with a true knotted umbilical cord wrapped twice around her neck. The doctors believe Kolby tied her cord up around the fourth or fifth month in-utero. The knot completely blocked all blood flow and nutrients from reaching the baby. She should have died, but somehow the cord fused around the knot to give her just enough sustenance to live.

They said she was a miracle baby. The doctor was so amazed Kolby survived he had the nurse take multiple pictures of the mangled cord.

 

Call me Kolby the Survivor!

 

But it didn’t surprise Tim and I. Not that we deserve a miracle or take God’s grace lightly, but we do believe in a big God whose endless love allowed a little baby to survive against the odds. He is a God who can take the endless knots we tie and lives we so easily tangle and turn them into beautiful things.

Got a good baby story? Share it with me…

Posted on

Martha’s House, Mary’s Village

 

My dear friend Bruce sent me this story in response to my post Helga the Cleaning Nazi.  It was a great reminder to keep the main thing the main thing-namely the love of Christ working through me- and to let go of the little crap that get me all riled up and cranky.

Bruce Carl Aronson is a true spiritual guide to many at Mariners Mission Viejo Church and his wisdom and heart are off the charts!  I am honored to share his story on a woman who I resemble all too often  I really want to be like Mary, but my inner Martha keeps nipping at my heels.

I hope you enjoy this as much as  did…

                                                                                 ***

Martha’s House, Mary’s Village by Bruce Carl Aronson

 

Martha was pissed.

She had to watch over her two hair-brained siblings ever since her mom, Enchania, and her dad, Syro, died.  That blighted tower that fell down in the earthquake, crushing both of the parents, and sixteen others, was the beginning of Martha’s great aloneness.  Her exacting soul found great comfort in clinging to the idea that the disaster was not the punishment of God.  Martha’s father had expected much of his first-born daughter.  At least, if I had been born a son, she thought to herself, I could enjoy that, but now it’s just a talent (for Martha a talent was not a skill or ability but a load weighing 94 pounds, in her day).  Martha saw her brother and sister as hopelessly scattered, and surely without Martha they would be both homeless and starve.

She worked hard to keep a proper Jewish Home: ordered, clean, and run with a kind of autocratic authority that her sister and brother found withering. 

Now it was even worse, the Rabbi had showed up and nothing was ready.  It was okay for the men to sit around and gab, but a worthy woman washed the feet of each guest, made sure there was plenty of food and drink, and that her guests lacked for nothing.  So that is what Martha did.  It was getting hot outside as the sun was now directly overhead.  Even the cool, dark of her home was permitting some of that heat to enter.  She needed to prepare the biggest meal of the day, after which, everyone but her would take a nap.  She glanced around her home: it did please her enormously!  The family business had prospered, blessed be, permitting them, not the tiny little four room affair that most families squeezed into, but a lavish two-story (with an open third story) wrapped around a small courtyard.  Martha was in the kitchen, which opened on to the first floor looking out on the courtyard, but she could hear the laughing going on upstairs, in the dining room. 

Her hands worked steadily as she plied the pita dough squeezing it, balling it up, and smashing each ball onto the heated brazier above her kitchen fire.  She was squeezing the dough as if to strangle it and when she balled it, she smashed it on the hot metal she was using with rather more effort than the dough needed.  She had just come down from dropping off the last pita’s, butter, and wine.  The previous upstairs deliveries included olives, dates, and apples.  She was tired from carrying all that food up and down the narrow stairs that led to her dining room above.  There the Master was upstairs, on the floor in the center of the woven matt, with everyone hanging on his every word.  He was saying something profound, he always was, but the person who sat directly in front of him now really annoyed Martha.

Mary was not at all disciplined.  Martha wondered, Who would want to marry a girl who did not know her place?  Martha certainly knew her place, but it had done no good: she was now the village spinster at 18.  She had sent Mary up there to fill the water vat, knowing full well it would be a while before she ever came back.  Well, it had been more than a while.  Martha did appreciate Mary’s thirst for learning.  Like Martha, she knew how to stand behind a curtained door or half way up the stairway so as not to interfere with the men’s learning and still partake of it.  Much of Martha’s education had come from deliberately overhearing her father teach.  Now the Master was upstairs with his emissaries, and a few others.  Who was in the middle of all the men?  Mary, of course!

The fourteen year old sibling just did not get that she was not a man and should never sit with them while instruction was going on.  It wasn’t decent.  It wasn’t seemly.  And, no one was asking for her hand, in marriage either.  It was getting late for Mary too.  But, Mary was the pretty one.  Men liked her.  She got a lot of slack because she was gregarious, charming, and had a figure that could not be obscured by the robes she wore.

A cry of anguish slipped from Martha’s lips.  She had not kept her mind on her work and the side of her hand had brushed the hot metal.  She hoped that they had not heard that cry up above!  What would you say about a homemaker who did not even know how to keep herself from being burned as she cooked?  The skin was red all along the fleshy part of her hand.  This was going to hurt.  She was about to plunge her hand in the basin of water that was kept at the ready for such emergencies, when her nose reminded her that something was burning.  It was the pita on the brazier!  While she had been staring at her hand, the pita had blackened.  Now, they were smoking.  Could they smell that upstairs?  She could already hear the gossip at dawn, the next day, at the village well.  “Pitas get away from you, dearie?”  “So much food you can burn it up?  Warming the house with dough these days?”  How they loved to laugh at her!  (Of course, they were all jealous.  That’s all.)

Tears leaked down her cheeks.  Sure her hand hurt, but the shame of everyone thinking you are very competent and then you go and pull a small-minded stunt like this?  Pull it together, girl!  She swept the burned pita down off the brazier and into the fire below hoping that no one was the wiser.  Then, she looked at her hand again.  She thought, what to do?

Catching her completely by surprise, there was the Master scooping up her small hand in his great big ones! 

“Martha,” his majestic, deep voice intoned, “you are working too hard.  Come upstairs and sit with us.”

“Rabbi,” she stared up through her tears, “there is so much to do!”  She knew it was unworthy to complain, but it slipped out, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work myself?  Tell her to get back down here and help me out!”

He reached to her other hand and pulled her up to him, but merely said, “Martha,” as he held both hands.  Somehow his hand was cooling against her burned hand.  The pain seemed to be ebbing away…slowly. 

Martha looked down.  He did have beautiful, massive, well muscled hands.  He lightly turned her hand side up and poured a little olive oil on the burned part.  He worked it in tenderly with a gentle massaging motion.  She still fretted in her heart that he would find her unworthy and stop staying at their home when he passed through Bethany or Jerusalem.

“Martha,” he said again, with such tenderness it made her heart ache with joy.  He fixed his eyes to look squarely into hers.  “You are worried and upset about many things.”

Martha nodded, of course that was true.  She nodded fitfully that she understood.

He continued, “…but, few things are needed…”

She nodded again, transported by his gaze.  Generally, she could not say that he was a handsome man.  Yet, holding her wounded hand like this, he just seemed so beautiful.  Would a man like him ever consider…?

He smiled as if he knew her thoughts, “or indeed, only…one…”

All the cares she carried seemed to leave like smoke in a wind.  He was such a beautiful man!

He smiled again.  “Mary has chosen what is better.”

Mary, she thought, why is it always ‘Mary this’ and ‘Mary that?’  Then, Martha’s mind became clear. Mary was so deliberate about knowing the Rabbi well.  Carefully, she gleaned all that he shared.  She went out of her way to really understand everything he mentioned –even the obscure stuff.  Martha suddenly saw with clarity that it was not that Mary was younger or prettier (or luckier), it was just that she cared about relationships.  Mary was all about relationships.  Martha, realized (and it stung her) that she all about responsibilities.  Mary and Martha.  Relationships and responsibilities.

Martha lowered her head against the Rabbi’s broad chest.  He whispered in her ear, “It will not be taken away from her.”  But, she knew what it meant.  You do everything so carefully, thoroughly, and well, Martha.  Now, try Mary’s approach.  She nodded to him as if he could hear her thoughts. 

She looked down at her own hand.  The redness was gone.  The pain was gone.  And he was sliding his arm around her back and gently leading her to the narrow stairs.  Up they went.  When they reached the dining room all the men were silent and noticing how the Rabbi was walking with her as if she were an adored daughter.  People moved to get out of their way.  Mary stood and vacated her place on the mat.  Jesus pointed to that open place and indicated it was now Martha’s place.  She realized that while Mary had taken this place, the Rabbi was giving it to her.

And Mary took a tray of empty dishes downstairs.

Posted on

OC Couple Fined $500 for Bible Study- Seriously?

An interesting article came across my inbox this morning from a  friend and I almost fell over. I guess the days of persecution and End Times Big Brother are hitting closer and closer to home.

September 20, 2011 – cbs2.com

MISSION VIEJO (CBS) — An Orange County couple has been ordered to stop holding a Bible study in their home on the grounds that the meeting violates a city ordinance as a “church” and not as a private gathering.

Homeowners Chuck and Stephanie Fromm, of San Juan Capistrano, were fined $300 earlier this month for holding what one city official called “a regular gathering of more than three people” that requires a conditional use permit, according to Pacific Justice Institute, the couple’s legal representation.

The Fromms also reportedly face subsequent fines of $500 per meeting for any further “religious gatherings” in their home, according to the Pacific Justice Institute (PJI).  “We don’t like lawsuits, but we have to stand up for what’s right. It’s not just a personal issue,” Stephanie Fromm told The Capistrano Dispatch. “Can you imagine anybody in any neighborhood, that one person can call and make it a living hell for someone else? That’s wrong … and it’s just sad.”

After city officials rejected the Fromms’ appeal, PJI, which represents both the Fromms and other Bible study participants, will appeal the decision to the California Superior Court in Orange County.

Neighbors have written letters to the city in support of the Fromms, whom they said have not caused any disturbances with the meetings, according to PJI.

Officials with San Juan Capistrano did not respond to requests for comment.

_________________________________________________________________

This blows my mind. A small gathering of people gathered in a home to study and worship God is breaking the law?

What about monthly poker nights, mothers’ play dates, bunko gatherings, holiday celebrations, wine groups, book clubs and my personal favorite, Monday night football groups?  Do all these count as a regular gathering of more than three people? I think so!!!!!!!

Or is it just the name of Jesus that get’s people’s panties all up in a wad?

Bit by bit, our freedom to worship God, is crumbling before our very eyes.

I am generally not prone to getting involved in politics, but I will be writing a letter to the City of San Juan Capistrano in support of the Fromms’ appeal because I certainly don’t want some yahoo calling the cops on me for my crazy Christian shin-digs; like ministry meetings, New Believers picnics and so forth. (wild…I know).

Very soon, Bible Studies may have a cover charge if we don’t stand up to this absurd ordinance. Next thing you know we will be meeting in underground house churches like the Chinese.

(Then again, maybe we need a little persecution to light the church on fire and help us remember exactly who we worship) A Very Big GOD!

Thoughts?

Posted on

Fantasy Football Conspiracy Theory

Useful stats
Image by squidpants via Flickr

I have a conspiracy theory.  Somewhere in the world, in a hidden room decked out with 72’ HDTV’s, endless remote controls, and lazy boys lined up in a row, a secret society of Fantasy Football Illuminati is conspiring to take over the world, one league at a time. 

My husband thought my theory was absurd, until we walked into a local Sports Bar on a Sunday afternoon that was as packed to the gills with screaming Fantasy Football fans dressed in sports attire. The internet connection was down in the restaurant after being bombarded by team owners checking their points on their iPhones. That night we watched a promo for a new show on TV about Fantasy Football called The League.  The next morning the news released a story suggesting that Fantasy Football has become the new Internet Porn for guys at work.  But, the icing on the cake has been the many guys in our congregation who have sheepishly confessed to my husband, a pastor, of their inner torment when debating between attending church or snuggling up in front of the game on Sunday morning.

At some point, I got his attention and a begrudging acknowledgement from him on my tongue in cheek theory.  This has opened up a great dialogue as to the many reasons why the game has recently gained a disproportionate amount of popularity among mainstream American males. So, maybe the secret room (in all reality) is full of ad executives from ESPN, but there is no doubt that a movement from within our culture has changed the face of sports fans and what used to be a hobby for a dedicated few, has turned into a phenomenon.

Exactly how many dudes are we talking about? Well, there are about 30 million fantasy players in the U.S. and Canada, which is an increase of 54 percent from just two years ago.[1]  According to Tim Keller, commissioner of The Men of Mariners League, part of the growing interest in Fantasy Football may be attributed to the growing availability of free game software.  In the beginning of the Internet boom, sites like Commissioner.com and RotoNews.com charged a hefty fee for commissioners (up to $300) which made the game cost prohibitive for the average NFL fan.  Most commissioners spent an inordinate amount of hours hand entering stats into an excel spreadsheet.  It was a job that only the dedicated and few could maintain.

That changed in 1999, when Yahoo began offering a free simplified version of the league software, but it was lackluster at best, and if you wanted the Stat Checker you had to pay extra. In 2009 Yahoo made an even more impressive move by offering their formerly Premium Services for free. ESPN followed suit, and all of a sudden Fantasy Football became available to the masses.  In a time of economic downturn, this little gift is akin to trading the injured Clinton Portis for Adrian Peterson.

Another factor driving the venerated game is quite simply—camaraderie.   Guys enjoy having a common purpose and goal.  The heckling at the water cooler, the taunts, the late night trades and the draft party take alienated men who struggle with relational skills and transform them into skilled negotiators.  After approaching my husband about drafting my own team this year, I was surprised at his vacuous response.  After some probing, I realized he didn’t really want me to join his league or any other for that matter.  He associates Fantasy Football as a “guy thing” and subconsciously wanted to protect one of the last bastions of inherent maleness.  I respect his stance of inclusiveness, and though I may still draft a team on Yahoo next year, I won’t push him to let me join the guys.  I will go after his drafting stats though because they are a work of art (a complex algorithm he created on a spreadsheet)!

Then there is the sheer fun of the game.  Like any hobby or recreational activity, Fantasy Football is an escape from reality. No mindless waste of time here, drafting a team requires gut instinct, intense preparation, knowledge and yes…mad skill. Managing a team, tracking free agents, monitoring injured players and figuring out what players to start each week is a labor intensive activity. 

Is it any surprise that over half the players surveyed admitted they spend at least one hour per day thinking about their fantasy football team.[2] Another study from the Fantasy Sports Trade Association revealed that fantasy sports participants spend about three to four hours on the Internet per week, with nearly 1.2 hours of that time at the office.  This too has become a controversial subject. 

Those who argue against it suggest it is the new Internet porn for a generation of upwardly mobile, white-collar professionals[3], while players shot back with some research of their own. A 2006 Ipsos Survey found that 40 percent of respondents said fantasy sports participation was a positive influence in the workplace. One in five said their involvement in fantasy sports enabled them to make a valuable business contact.  As a wife, I tend to argue the upside…Football or Porn?   Umm, how about Football!

Thumbing through a Fantasy Football magazine, I was struck dumb by the wording of this advertisement.  Fantasy Football is fun.  You can play God with your players. Control their destinies.  Draft them…Trade them…Fire them![4] These are some loaded words, but I think they touch on something deeper than the obvious power play.  Men are dying to break out of their mundane lives and do something extraordinary. 

Fantasy Football is a safe outlet for a serious adrenaline rush.  It is modern warfare at home in front of the TV.  A guy can scream at the screen, take big risks with low-cost, and have a sense of control in a world where his job is uncertain or his kids are blowing out.  Every guy yearns for a sense of purpose, to be fully alive and to feel his heart pumping.  These are God-given desires, embedded in the male DNA…and while I don’t suggest trying to play God, I would suggest that God delights in men playing. 

So, enjoy the affirmation when you make a good trade, revel in your team’s domination and whine with other dudes when you’re running back tears an ACL. But, always be cautious of ad executives exploiting your childlike fun with promises to make you millions betting…and please, no matter how awesome your draft is, don’t quit your day job!

Article first published on Technorati, Oct 14, 2010

[1] Fantasy Sports Trade Assn.

[2] study conducted by outplacement consulting firm Challenger, Gray & Christmas

[3] http://www.businessweek.com/magazine/content/10_38/b4195081511463.htm

[4] Jim Hurley’s Network  336 N. Broadway, suite 410., Jericho, NY 11753

Related Articles
Posted on

Big Judgement and Short Sticks

I opened up my tattered Oswald Chambers’ devotion early this morning for a little Holy Spirit self-examination. There is something about this old guy, some super-duper Jesus power he has to make me feel both wretched and sorely convicted every morning.

It’s my favorite masochistic book; I feel terrible and yet continue to come back for more.  Today’s lesson did not disappoint. It was on judgment, something I barely struggle with (yes that was sarcasm).

“Judge not, that ye not be judged.” (Matt. 7:1)

Whoa, now, slow down there Mr. Chambers, are you telling me God says the stick I measure others with will be used to measure my faults? Because I have a pretty short stick for those I deem to be idiots.

Now in my defense, my measuring stick has certainly grown over the years for family members and friends.  I am far more patient and loving then I used to be, but I must confess passing criticism on my enemies far too often then I would like.

“Sam, what sort of enemies do you have?” you ask. Generally, sweet pastor’s wives aren’t out marauding or pirating and making enemies.

And while this is true, I certainly don’t go looking for trouble, I do have opposition.  Every writer pisses someone off eventually. 

In my case, I have the atheists who hound me with nasty comments, the puritanical swim trouser folks who find me indecent, and a few random blokes who spam me incessantly. (Ok, maybe they aren’t true enemies, but I don’t like their evil antics.)

Then there are the worst offenders, those few who simply don’t like me for no reason that I know of. This is where my judgment button kicks in to high gear.  I don’t really care if they don’t approve of me, because in recourse, I simply write them off as having ridiculously poor taste. 

Bang-judgment!

I’ve read the biggest reason people don’t like other people are because they sense the other person doesn’t like or appreciate them.  Yep, that rings a bell.

Oswald reminds me, “There is always one fact more in every man’s case in which we know nothing.”Basically, he’s saying to give them the benefit of doubt. This is so hard!

I can choose to give the atheists grace, because though their words are poison, it’s obvious I have been given grace far beyond measure. And the bikini bashers, I will choose to love them but not agree with them. (By the way, I’m not referring to the modesty crowd here, I’m talking about the over the top ones who steal my articles and insult me.)

But to give the haters mercy, well…this one is more tricky. I have to acknowledge most importantly, what an idiot I was until God picked me up out of the miry pit, delicately brushed me of, and set my feet back on solid ground.

I’m glad Judgement Day won’t be here until October now, because Oswald and me have got some more work to do.

Posted on

“First Baby” and other labels

My First Baby is officially, as of May 23rd, a double-digit midget (translation-Faith turned ten-years old). Now that might be confusing to some because it makes absolutely no sense if you know the birth order of my kids. 

Faith Whitney is my second child (out of three) and now carries the middle child banner after almost a decade of being the baby.  After that long, you would think the middle child traits would be nominally apparent, but jealousy is such a strong emotion and even the most secure kid gets rattled when their role is replaced.  

I’ve noticed Faith fights to claim her place, postures for attention and vacillates between big girl and lisping baby talk–all symptoms of a classic middle child.  It’s tough being the sandwich kid in between the studly athletic older brother and a ridiculously cute toddling baby sister.  I think of Jan Brady and her silly wigs, just trying to fit in and find her place.

So, as chief mother and encourager of my little tribe, I have decided to break with tradition and give her a new nick-name, First Baby.  For many years Faith was indeed my baby, and instead of taking on the bitter and sassy middle child identity, I have decided to give her a new title, allowing her the distinction of feeling treasured instead of lost among the birth order.

Now, while this might sound coddling to some, I do confess a certain degree of parental guilt when it comes to juggling three kids.  My position recognizes the recurring nagging feeling of mommy guilt because I haven’t been able to give my middle child the attention she craves now that there are three.  The truth is I am outnumbered and Faith has genuinely lost some time and attention from the mommy bucket. 

But, even though my hands are full, as all moms know, my heart has an endless amount of love for my little girl.  So one of the things I decided I could do was to give her a special name.  And when I hold her in bed at night as we cuddle and say prayers, I sense my effort is appreciated.

Clearly she is still the middle sister.  Faith’s role has not changed, but her title has been tweaked a bit to boost her security as my beloved child.  It’s a beautiful picture of what God does with us.  The world calls us certain labels and He in turn tells us we are chosen, redeemed, and cherished.  The circumstances in our lives don’t change, but the image imprinted on our heart, (if we choose to believe what God says is true about us) begins to define us more than the other titles. We operate differently because we are secure.

A recent story in the news caught my eye about a family who has refused to announce the sex of their child.  The baby named Storm will be allowed to pick its own gender.  On a million levels this disturbs me but mostly because we are created in the image of God, male and female he created them. 

Little Storm will grow up without labels, without a gender even.  His family, in an extreme effort to avoid the world’s identification and labels, has created even more insecurity for the child.  In my opinion, this seems like another misguided attempt to play God and redefine the created order into some PC perversion of an alternative reality. 

I understand the desire though.  It’s the same reason I go out of my way to make up silly nick-names because I love my kids.  It’s the yearning to experience the paradise we were created for. Something deep within our spirits strives to recreate that which was lost. Of course not being God, we distort in our effort to recreate beauty or in this case a world without labels.

Strangely enough, I imagine in about a year or two, the last thing Faith will want me to call her is a baby.  And Storm in a few years will probably figure out his or her sex, despite his parent’s shroud of secrecy.  Hopefully, both will find their true identity in Christ alone and ultimately that will be enough.

Posted on

beautiful mistakes

There is nothing quite like a captive audience (even if you have to bribe them to be there). Tonight I am so excited to speak for the second time at Birthchoice. For those of you unfamiliar with this nonprofit, they are a pro-life health clinic dedicated to helping and equipping young moms (and even a few single dads) with parenting and life skills, as well as preparing them to have healthy relationships.

When the young parents attend a class they earn points which can be used towards diapers and baby clothing. Therein lays the beauty of the scenario…a group of teens and young adults, all paying rapt attention. This is virtually unheard of in most realms.

One thing I learned from my last class is teen moms are just like all moms, but younger (profound, I know…).  No matter what the topic, all they really want to know about is labor, pain and nursing. And this ultimately, is what all expectant mom’s want to know about because it’s the big scary unknown.

I could have spoken on car seat installations and the first question would have been, “How bad does nursing hurt.” (Then again, maybe they weren’t paying attention?)

Of course, being the great instructor I am, I was completely honest and told them it hurts like hell.

One smarty-pants girl retorted, “Only if you’re doing it wrong.” (La Leche clearly has a new advocate)

Honestly, I was a little scared the first night I showed up. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked in the room and encountered all these curious eyes staring at me.

I didn’t know my heart would pound so nervously before I spoke, or how much I would enjoy bantering and playfully razzing the group. I certainly didn’t anticipate my spirit swelling with a profound ache.

Their courage was tremendous and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I wasn’t that brave at their age. I made mistakes.

I believe abortion is often (though not always) the quick fix and the easy way out.   I know that’s a loaded statement and many will disagree. I also know there are situations where rape and incest are involved and that certainly changes the parameters.

But this group of kids, despite the circumstances, were willing to take a risk, even though it was by far, the more difficult (at least initially) of the two paths.

I imagine few will ever regret their decision, while another generation of young women and men will struggle with shame and remorse for making a different choice.

I am humbled by their bravery.

We all screw up eventually, but few will choose to make beauty from ashes.

And a baby just might be the most beautiful mistake ever made.

Posted on

A Picnic with Frank and Chuck

Continue reading “A Picnic with Frank and Chuck”

Posted on

Gas Stations and Beggars

“Sometimes I would like to ask God why he allows poverty, suffering and injustice when he could do something about it.”

“Well, why don’t you ask Him”

“Because I am afraid that He would ask me the same question.”-Anonymous

                        ***

“Do you have any change? I ran out of gas and my kids and I are stranded,”

Startled, I backed up as the unfamiliar woman cornered me by my car as I filled it with gas.  It seemed like she had appeared out of nowhere and was now only inches from my face. 

“I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any money on me,” I explained, “Just my credit card.”

Sheepishly, she turned, and I started to breathe again when I realized she wasn’t going to rob me. She walked over to her car and my eyes followed her. She climbed in the front seat of a truck and I strained to see if there were kids in the vehicle with her. I didn’t see any, but I certainly wasn’t going to argue with her to cough up the kids before I gave her assistance.

I finished up at the pump and then started to frantically dig through my messy car to see if there were any quarters in the center console I could find for her.

My back was turned to the outside as I frantically looked for the coins, when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.  The hair on my neck rose as whipped around again.

In front of me stood a young blonde man, disheveled and in tattered clothes.  With a sad smile he asked me, “Do you have any money? I am trying to get to the beach.”

I shook my head no and climbed in my car and quickly shut the door.  Overwhelmed and feeling slightly hounded by all of the desperation, I started the car and drove off feeling conflicted and very much like Peter before the rooster crowed.  I suspiciously looked around for a third beggar.

“Ok God, I see them,” I muttered. “I see your people.”

I knew what God was up to. I had recently prayed a scary prayer.  Not the patience prayer (I am not that dumb) but the Bob Peirce prayer (the founder of World Vision). 

I had prayed with determined trepidation (like the great wuss I am) for my heart to be broken by the things that break the heart of God.

And now He was doing it.

Only the night before, I had shared with my husband how I felt God was stirring up in me compassion for the poor and needy.  I felt a sadness and burden for the oppressed that was rather foreign to my crusty and self-absorbed heart.  Every day, disturbing stories were coming across my path that brought me to my knees and a fire of righteous anger was beginning to slowly build inside my belly.

My husband asked me what my part was in this revelation.  I said there were two things.  I felt a tangible distance, almost desensitization from the magnitude of suffering in the world and secondly, I sensed God wanted me to write about it. 

The gas station, by the way, was in Anaheim, not some seedy part of Los Angeles or Santa Ana. Lately, I’ve been approached by beggars in the parking lot of Target in Mission Viejo, and repeatedly by a mother toting a little boy inside the Starbucks in Ladera Ranch.

The tentacles of poverty are spreading closer and closer to the insulated bubble communities we’ve built to keep it out. 

And suddenly, I can’t compartmentalize it all anymore; this mental box of poverty I’ve created that includes mission trips to Mexico and the sad little faces of children in Africa.  It’s not the separate place I make it out to be so I can sleep better at night.  Poverty is all around us and it’s too blatant for me to put it back on the shelf or cross off on a list of benevolent activities I do on a quarterly basis.

Honestly, poverty scares me. More than anything I think it’s the desperation.  Somehow, I’ve equated the poor with violence, and while they often do go together, I know they aren’t the same. Poverty seems to be more about limited options than aggression. But they get mixed up when I avoid the issue altogether.

I am afraid of changing and drawing close, but I am more afraid of doing nothing now that my eyes have been opened.

I wish I had some money with me in the car the other day. Although, reflecting on it later, it’s not like I couldn’t have bought the woman gas with my credit card.  My fear at times is paralyzing.

But next time, well…next time, I’ll be ready for the little tap on the shoulder.  In fact, I’ll be expecting it.

Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Posted on

Can’t Buy me Love

Without money
Image by Toban Black via Flickr

I was born with the blessing or possibly the curse of champagne taste. Either that or I read too many Jackie Collins novels at a young and impressionable age. Regardless, I like luxury, pampering and pricey elegance.  I am certain without the influence of God, money would be my master. 

And there were many years, as a follower of Christ, that I managed to justify materialism and consumption as markers of a successful and affluent life.  It was a large gaping blind spot in my faith. Acquiring wealth was my impetus to achieve, but when I married a pastor, my paradigm imploded when confronted with the idea of true financial stewardship and sacrifice, a concept far beyond the proverbial ten percent tip( tithe) to the Lord.

I remember the exact moment I let go of the American Dream.  It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was watching Oprah and The Secret (a new-age self-help book/movie) was the feature.  I sat there glued like a freight train.  I knew, theologically speaking, it was a bunch of baloney, but emotionally the message triggered an off the chart response in my heart. 

And it was this yearning for something more, for love so deep and raw, that I was willing to walk away from all the perceived security of money and risk my life for something better.  Something that felt right and something that whispered of God.

All my best laid plans to marry a rich man, my scheming and striving (for beauty which equals power which attracts…you guessed it-money), were put to rest, when I made the decision to open my heart to a man who cared more about people than things, hearts and not cash, and building a community  instead of building wealth. 

Simply put, I said yes when Jesus called.  And there was no going back.  The next day during church service, I leaned over and nuzzled Tim.  His eyes were wide with shock because I had been avoiding the conversation about our next step in the relationship.  “You can’t do that unless you are my girlfriend,” he exclaimed, ever the appropriate pastor with physical boundaries.

I whispered in his ear, “So ask me.”The smile on his face was from ear to ear, and less than a week later, he formally asked if he could court me and pursue marriage.

Ministry is a unique calling in that it requires the relinquishment of financial striving.  Pastors generally don’t have the newest, latest and greatest (unless it’s an iPad).  And if they do, eyebrows are raised and assumptions are made about misuse of offerings.  So playing it modest becomes de rigor and it was a huge relief to stop the comparisons.  It was if someone handed me a pass to not have to keep up with the Jones’. 

 And to my utter surprise, I (usually) enjoy being chic and a little shabby; wearing my clothes and shoes to threads, not feeling the pressure to be fashionable, and living simply without the need to find acceptance through my image in the material realm.  I like hand me downs, clothes from Target, and the less is more mentality.  Once I embraced simple abundance I couldn’t go back. 

But that being said, it’s hard to struggle financially.  Our family has two modest incomes and five mouths to feed and we honestly have a tough time juggling it all.  I catch myself feeling entitled to things like a gardener and bi-monthly housekeeping.  I can justify the expense because I devote all my extra time to ministry, but the truth is, cleaning the house makes me dang grumpy. 

I try to make these little bargains with God, “I’ll serve you some more if I can just get a little help around the house, please.”

 I can just imagine the Lord saying, “Sam, let me teach you to serve me by cleaning the house I gave you.”

 I just love those conversations

Then there are those moments of “if only I had…”  I am human after all and a woman.  I still love True Religion jeans, but I try to remember that true worship involves a sacrifice of obedience, and jeans that cost an arm and a leg could probably be better spent on saving someone’s arm and leg in Haiti.  So, when I am at the mall, it’s best to repeat “Haiti,” over and over until the temptation passes,

My bigger struggle is my desire to stay home with my kids.  This burden didn’t go away when I married Tim, though it became less important.  My income is necessary for our family’s very survival.  This is what draws me closer to the Lord because He hasn’t delivered me out of my deep longing.  The desire remains and I live in the tension between wanting and needing, knowing that God knows the difference and trusting him to make the call.

Materialism and financial discontent (always wanting more) are like a large glass of water with little leak.  You can’t see the water disappear, but your cup is never full.  I carried this discontent around with me for years without fully understanding the deeper desires of my heart; security and contentment.  But as I began to understand the greater meaning of living simply, putting my treasure where my heart is, it meant I had to reevaluate what I treasure. 

Do I really believe my treasure is relationship with God?  Do I serve and love my neighbor?  Does it radically affect my decision-making process?  Do I want what I have or do I always want more?  And if I choose to wear fancy jeans that are the dollar equivalent of supporting an impoverished child for a year, can I even sleep at night? 

I have to believe, even though the journey is hard and the road is fraught with diversions, that I am better off choosing to live counter-culturally, even though it’s tough to keep your eye on the prize when the Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale is fast approaching

So, don’t be surprised if I drool at expensive denim and make little squeaking noises when a Gucci purse passes by.  I’ll just be over here praying through my weakness and slight envy issues…(Haiti, Haiti, Haiti)

No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money. Matthew 6:24

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...