Tag: Jesus

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Recalibrating God’s Plan

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?

 

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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.

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How to get old gracefully

 

“Did you see that woman over there?” my husband asked.

I turned my head and tried to subtly glance over to the woman he was referring to.  Her back was against me, but from behind she looked amazing.  Slim, toned and curvy in all the right places.  Then she turned her head and I gasped.

Her face looked like the crypt-keeper.  Pale and taught ghostly white skin was interrupted by strangely exaggerated eyes turned up at the corners.  Her lips were huge and plumped full and it was obvious she had undergone multiple cosmetic procedures to the point of resembling a freakish Michael Jackson wannabe.

I shuddered. Tim smiled at me, “I’m glad you aren’t’ afraid of aging and you would never do anything drastic like that.”

“Hey now,” I said.  “She looks pretty good for a hundred.”

Tim laughed and walked off to lift weights.  But the scary lady didn’t leave my mind.

I secretly stole a few more glances and then thought about my own insecurities regarding getting old. Certainly it’s inevitable and a natural part of life, so why the resistance, the flat-out denial by some folks to step up to the plate and surrender to gravity?

There are certain parts of getting older which I adore. My emotions no longer rule my heart, wisdom has snuck up on me after a multitude of hard knock lessons, and I have an appreciation for relationships and life, like never before.  I have more confidence in my identity, my voice and don’t really care if people like me or even agree with me anymore.

But the parts I don’t like are the parts which resonate with the plastic gym lady. I want to be pretty and in a world and culture that reveres youth, looking old and haggard is less desirable.  I don’t like the weird little age spots appearing on my body, the aches and pains that seem to appear out of the blue after thirty-five, and my metabolism, which is getting slower by the day. These things make me long for my eternal body.

One component of aging that sometimes makes it easier or harder depending on the season, is the personal expectations or goals I place on myself for age thresholds. 

 Twenty-five-married and college degree-√

 Thirty five-have kids-√

Forty-be a successful writer (working on that one)

Fifty-five-grandma-TBD

As I hit the birthdays with my goals checked off, I feel better about myself.  But the year I hit thirty-three and found myself a divorced, single mom, getting older didn’t feel so good.  In fact, the ache was deep and I felt somehow inadequate.  Happy Birthday didn’t feel so happy that year.

I hear the pain in my friends voices when another year passes by without a husband or a child. It’s the same hurt-another year slipping by and another reminder of unfulfilled dreams.

Isaiah once said, “The flowers fade and the grass withers, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

I know in life there will be good years and not so good years, but the years will come, no matter how I try to halt the ravages of too much sun and the gravitational pull on my behind.

But when I keep an eternal perspective and focus my eyes on the road before me, ageing isn’t such a scary place.  If anything, it’s just one step closer to Jesus.

Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Vanity Fair

A woman models a corset in this 1898 photograph.
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Why does irrationality seem to peak in the morning? Rarely do I bite off more than I can chew in the twilight hours. Somehow as the light grows dim, one generally recognizes inherent limitations and waning energy allotments.  But the morning on the other hand, oh the morning is a different animal.  It is new and fresh and all things are possible. 

All things- like running a few miles after a winter of relative lethargy, donning break-a leg high heels to compliment a gorgeous purple bridesmaid gown, and then subsequently roping in one’s waist with a stringent corset to epitomize a romantic heroine of days past. 

It seemed like a great idea at the time.  We gathered at the bride’s apartment, seven ladies in long flowing gowns that laced up the back.  We took turns pulling each other’s stays (corset lacing to those unfamiliar with historical lingo). 

The tightening was subtle.  “Is that snug enough?” lead to, “I think I can cinch it in a little more.”  And finally, “wow girl, look at your tiny waist.”

After a few rounds of pulling, there we stood,a bevy of lasses with reduced waists, exaggerated busts, hips, and of course, little room to breathe.  But vanity had stealthily crept in to our midst, and though I couldn’t bend over or even sit down for that matter, I felt like a beautiful damsel in distress. I’m pretty sure my voice took on a southern belle drawl.

I looked in the mirror and delighted in my pretty dress and va va voom curves.  I was Scarlett O’Hara, Marie Antoinette, and the infamous Gibson Girl of Bygone Days!

About an hour into the tight lacing, I tried to eat a snack, but my confining attire denied me any sustenance, not even a cracker.  Fortunately, I could drink and so a margarita on ice slid down nicely.

As the wedding hour approached, I noticed a stinging ache down my spine along with the growing compression of my now heaving bosom as the bottom of my lungs began to fill with fluid.  My legs throbbed from post-workout lactic acid pooling in my quads, and my hairpins felt like daggers stuck into my head.  My feet were so swollen I could barely walk.

As I lined up to walk down the aisle, I trembled at the length of what seemed like a never-ending runner.  My husband, the wedding pastor smiled at me like a warm beacon, and guided by his big goofy smile, I tottered towards him semi-delirious in pain but determined to appear graceful and elegant to the large crowd assembled.

After a lovely ceremony, more pictures, and millions of seconds of searing pain, I finally sat down at the dinner table in a heap.  But sitting proved even more restrictive.  An old song played in the background.  It was catchy dinner music tune and in my state of pain induced euphoria I swayed to the crooner’s voice.  Strangely enough, it sounded like the word salad was being repeated over and over. Then again, it could have been my starving belly crying out for food.

“I didn’t know they had such cute songs about salad,” I announced to the table.

My girlfriend Krista, also a corseted bridesmaid, but clearly retaining a few more brain cells than I, shouted, “Did you say salad?  It’s called Solid as a Rock.”

The table erupted in laughter; myself included at the erroneous error, but then along with my laughter came a blackish sort of envelopment.  The table, the guffaws…it all began to fade as I teetered on the edge of fainting.

Indeed, I was a damsel in distress. 

My friend Katherine recognizing my flushed face and dilated pupils quickly steered me towards the lady’s room where she tore at my laces and opened up my lungs for some much-needed air.

Returning to the table, I sheepishly sat down and inhaled my dinner.  Now moderately laced, I was able to eat, dance, laugh and enjoy a big piece of strawberry cream wedding cake without the restrictive garment of my own folly (It wasn’t too much later before Krista was begging me to let her loose too).

I learned an interesting lesson that day.  Vanity is subtly deceptive.  I believed the corset to be glamorous, romantic, and whimsical, but in truth, found it to be agonizing. 

I should know better by now than to be duped by another promise of pretty…but then again, The Lord knoweth the thoughts of man, and they are but pure vanity.(Psalm 94:11 WBT)

Jesus sure has got my number.

“Without vanity, without coquetry, without curiosity, in a word, without the fall, woman would not be woman.  Much of her grace is in her frailty.”-Victor Hugo.

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Whoomp There it is

Whoomp! (There It Is)
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I asked my pre-teen son what he was thankful for yesterday. He paused for a moment, and then replied, “My home, sports, my clothes and family.”

“So, do I rank higher than your skinny jeans?” I inquired.

He smirked and mumbled, “Sure, mom.”

I didn’t get the response I wanted, but then again, he didn’t mention his friends and I know they rank pretty high on the list. Secretly, I wanted him to proclaim his heart for Christ and yet was instead confronted with his passion for fashion. Awesome.

                                           ***

A few weeks ago, my son performed as a rapper for the school talent show.  His rendition of Whoomp There it is was truly engaging.  My fair-haired white boy took the lead solo in a tribute to The Tag Team and owned it with confidence and panache. But it was another child at the performance that ended up stealing my heart.

Sydney, a little seventh grade girl, climbed up on the stage and boldly proclaimed her faith with a simple guitar and a courageous voice.  She self wrote and performed Glow Within Me, a song about her dependence on Christ and the impact His sacrifice on the Cross made in her life.

Tears streamed down my face as I watched this little evangelist rock the stage.  She received the biggest applause of the evening and I have to believe her impact went far beyond the night. 

Personally, it brought up emotions in my own heart that I am still processing. 

Truth be told, I wish I was more like her.  I envied her boldness and strength to stand in the face of adversity.  And lest you think middle school is not a jungle, think again.  It’s a scary place for an adolescent in a cesspool of insecurity, puberty and social drama.  Reputations are won and lost in the battle of Middle School.

Secretly, I also wanted my son to be the one in front of the crowd proclaiming his faith.  I mean he is the pastors’ kid after all! Couldn’t some of my husband’s charismatic for Christ sparkle have transcended to our boy?  Just a tad more Jesus and a little less Usher?

                                            ***

Last night, my son and I took a walk along the canyon by our home.  He threw rocks deep into the crevice and I watched him scamper around and laughed at his goofy antics. It was a sweet picture of a boy on the verge of manhood and a mother yearning to direct and guide her son’s heart.

And as we walked, we talked about humility and who we are in light of God…that we are nothing more and nothing less than what He created us to be. Kyle brought up sacrifice and obedience, and his struggle to do the right thing even when it’s hard.  He shared how working with the kindergarten class in Sunday school was a pain in the butt, but he knew how important it was to the church at large and made a conscious effort to suck up his reservations.

The more Kyle talked, the more I was reminded of my son’s character and Godliness.  My desire for him to be something else…more bold, more this, and more that, fell away in the recognition of who he truly is in light of God.  My lesson to him on humility was really a lesson to me.

And so today, I am grateful for my son Kyle (the athlete), who loves his family, his home and has a wicked sense of style, turquoise skinny jeans and all.   No more and no less.

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The Favor of God

The Favor of God

I hear a lot about God’s favor these days in the church.  Some people have it and others less fortunate get overlooked. The favored few rise to the top and those that lack favor end up floundering in the land of mediocre.  And though some might argue that the floundering builds character, sometimes it also builds bitterness.

I get the impression from current theological minds, praying for favor is a cop-out.  It’s the Prayer of Jabez-y (to use my friend D’s term) prosperity touting gospel.  It’s the name it and claim it kind of Christianity which seeks personal happiness instead of Kingdom suffering.

But what if the favor we desire is simply to be used by God?  No one faults David for wanting to be the guy to build the temple.  Even though God said no, his sincere longing for favor was legitimate. What happens when we ask like Isaiah, “Here I am God, use me,” and all we hear is crickets?

Disillusionment with God’s Timing

Some stories I encounter have me scratching my head in bewilderment. What about my friend Jonah, a missionary who felt God’s call to attend Bible College and enter pastoral ministry.  But due to unexpected circumstance, runs out of money for tuition.  When he interviews at church after church for a pastoral job, he is told to finish seminary and then reapply. So, he heads back into the workforce disillusioned. Years later, he is tentatively opening his heart again to be used by God. In all reality, he was a pastor doing Kingdom work as a missionary, but no one in the church was willing to take a risk on field experience vs. academic accreditation. Or did he merely lack favor?

Radical Obedience

I’m watching the Catalyst updates on Twitter as I write this.  Ironically, Andy Stanley is speaking on radical obedience being a pivotal component to Kingdom sized dreams.  Is God’s favor somehow mysteriously intertwined with obedience? 

Stanley suggests, “Often, a single act of courage is the tipping point for something extraordinary.”  He also mentioned the church would have kicked Peter out of leadership, but Jesus, on the other hand, put him in charge.

The State of the Heart

Hmmmm?  I guess that brings me back to favor. If the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much (James 5:16 WBT), then the condition of our heart influences the outcome of our prayers. If we pray for God’s favor regarding doors opening and opportunities to glorify Him, then our will cannot be out of alignment, but the means to achieve this glory may be. To put it simply, we have to want what God wants. 

Courage then, in light of favor, can be seen as the relinquishment of personal agenda.  It is letting go of our expectations and embracing the circumstances of God’s timing. 

And favor, therefore, is the exact moment when our innermost desires meet with God’s timing.

Call me Jabez-y, but I will keep praying for those moments, not only for myself, but for all the Jonah’s out there that want to be used, like Peter, for the Kingdom.  They aren’t looking for a comfortable G6 ride instead of a bumpy broken jalopy; they just want an opportunity to travel down the Kingdom road of favor.

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Searching for “Triple X”

I have this nifty little tool that tracks the words people type into Google, or any search engine for that matter, to find my blog or certain topical areas that I have written on.  The only problem is that “said” nifty tool just happens to also expose the desperately evil “topics” that random people search for.  Let’s just say that there are some sick puppies out there.

I wrote an article, not too long ago, suggesting the Keep a Breast Foundation devalues women battling breast cancer with their I Love Boobies Campaign which targets Jr. High boys.  And because Google bots crawl around and pick up certain trigger words, here are just a few of the  keywords and phrases that people type in, and thus end up in my search box on a daily basis.

Past searches include:   “boobies”, “I heart big boobies”, “saucy boobies” “pile of boobs, ““Jr. High girl’s boobies”, and my personal favorite…”grandma and child hot sex.”

Really? Do people really type in this filthy tripe?

I know, I know… wake-up check,  “oh sheltered wife of a pastor.”

But, sometimes I forget, maybe on purpose,  how depraved people really are.  I put blinders on and plug my ears from the noise.  I live in a Christian bubble of nice people and vanilla pleasantries. Everyone is pretty and well dressed, smiling and socially aware of maintaining the “good” facade. Certainly, everyone minds their manners around the pastor and his wife.

And so, I am surprised and shocked when sins are so blatant and in my face, even though I am painfully aware of my own hidden darkness.

My baby illustrates how good we are at the game of image management.  She is always watching and always copying mama and daddy.  Her second sentence was, “How are you?”

If you ask baby the same question she will respond, “Oh, fine.”

She mimics what I do everyday.  The subtle pretend that we all do.  If I were honest, my baby would answer,”Oh, a tad bitchy, exhausted, overwhelmed, and pissed off at that idiot who just cut me off.”

I point my finger at the sick puppies, even though, I am constantly aware of my own nasty sin-nature and inequity apart from Christ.  It’s just so easy to call “that” guy a pervert and justify my own wicked heart.

So when “Mr. Obscene,”  who types in “Grandma and child hot sex” ends up reading my blog.  He searches for the darkest of porn and finds my simple little blog instead, the one that talks about faith, Jesus, and our desperate humanness embroiled in sin. But hopefully, he also finds someone who understands loneliness and the void in life when hope is dim.

Now, that is food for thought.  And maybe, just maybe, God uses this nifty little keyword tool to lead people into His light when they get lost along the way.

So, here is my message to those who read this post “accidentally.”

I’m glad you showed up. 

Sinners and perverts are welcome.

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The real housewife vs the “Real Housewife”

Pink nail polish.
Image via Wikipedia

For the third time this year, I got a pedicure.  I divulge this not so you will think I have sad and neglected toes, but as a pastor’s wife, I always feel like I have to justify frivolous spending. So, there I am, sitting in my bucket seat with my feet soaking, reveling in the sheer sacredness of sitting still, when in struts a “glamazon” otherwise known as “A Real Housewife from Orange County,”  a reality show on Bravo that claims to follow real women in the OC.  Now there are many words I would use to describe this woman, but “real,” wasn’t one of them.

I tried not to stare, but I honestly couldn’t help myself.  The woman, quite simply, commanded the room.  She was striking, toned, tanned, enhanced (and I do mean enhanced), luxuriously clothed, styled, over made-up and had a slight air of arrogance. I imagine she is used to be ogled and gawked at, so it’s not surprising that she would be a tad defensive in her demeanor (and yes, that was me again trying to justify that I just called someone arrogant…bad pastor’s wife, bad!).

I confess, as I sat there in my sweaty workout clothes and ratty pony-tail with baby snot stains on my arm, I felt a tad underdressed for the occasion of nail grooming.  The “Real” beauty, on the other hand was camera ready, ensconced in a black silk jumpsuit, roped in at the waist with a big chunky belt, delicately flowing down to skim the top of her sky-high heels that she peeled off and placed in the soaking water.

Her earrings were the size of my fist and I was mesmerized, like a deer in the headlights at the surreal glamour of her very presence.  Her make-up alone, looked like it took hours to apply and it wasn’t even noon yet.  It was TV “reality” juxtaposed into my reality, strangely an oxymoron, because in all reality, people always act differently, good or bad, when the camera is rolling.

Strange emotions erupted in my belly as I sat in my chair feeling very small.  As a former model, my pride and competitive spirit kicked into high gear.  Apparently, the Holy Spirit was quenched for a few minutes as my devious sin nature took over.  The demon sitting on my shoulder whispered, “Now, if you only had those clothes, a makeup artist, a mystic tan and that purse, you could give that chick a run for her money.  You could make people stare.”

Surprise, surprise…vain people really do think like this, though I might testify on the stand that I was under the influence of nail polish remover.  But the truth is, that even after seventeen years of following Christ, with all the spiritual leaps and set-backs of a long and arduous journey, I still struggle with image management, even though I know the truth that sets me free. 

I know that what looks like success to the world-beauty, power, wealth, and status… is death to the soul.  Before I accepted Christ in my early twenties, it almost destroyed me, as I struggled with an eating disorder and a compulsive addiction to control my appearance.

Recently, I stole my husband’s copy of Why Guys Need God, by Mike Erre. And though I’ve always known that our society has done a disservice to our young women by portraying these images of perfection, I never really understood “the why”, beyond the inherent sinful nature of man. But Erre shed light on this perversion of beauty by tying our culture’s destructive behavior back to Genesis 1 and the curse on humanity.

 Erre describes this consumptive and objective mentality towards women as an assault on the very heart of femininity. As cursed men run from human weakness and overcompensate by trying to control things (women included), it has distorted the relationships between men and women.  If a woman is objectified, and her worth and honor stripped, then a man has control over her and subsequently, a world of detached men and women hungry for connection is born.  Generations of women, starved for attention by the distant men in their lives have created a culture of constant striving to somehow obtain the elusive power to heal the gap of loneliness, not recognizing that the striving only leads to an endless cycle of more detachment.

 Erre suggests that because “real” women can never measure up to images of the world, they either give up or continually compete for the illusive ideal,  starving and distorting their bodies (through surgery or other “treatments”) to create an image subject to the whims of  fashion and man’s desire.  

As a young woman, I fell into the striving category.  Now, I guess you could call me a recovering “striver.”

And so as I sat in the salon, and stewed in thoughts of negativity, the Spirit inside me burst forth, and I turned a proverbial spiritual corner.  Closing my eyes, I took a long breath and prayed for Jesus to comfort me.  I clung to His truth that illuminates the insidious evil of seduction and the temptation to compare and envy, forcing myself to remember that my appearance does not define my worth and that I am beautiful in the light of Christ’s sacrifice, never subject to the world’s obsession with youth and flawless perfection.   

I relaxed into my seat and smiled at the girl tending to my toes. Fortunately, she had no idea of the spiritual battle I had just waged in my head, and then I turned and smiled at the not so “real” woman next to me.  Empathy and understanding crashed over my heart like thundering waves as I realized that my battle was her battle, and that the great deceiver was whispering in her ear too.

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In the Shadow

Panoramic Night Vision Goggles in testing.
Image via Wikipedia

There is a simple truth about our culture that can only be found in the midst of suffering.  When great things happen, we rejoice, when good things happen we celebrate, from our normal mundane living, well, we escape, and when bad things happen, we generally do our best to avoid the pain. 

And this rampant avoidance applies not only to ourselves, but those around us as well. It’s only when you are smack dab in the middle of pain do you see, really see, as if you had special goggles,  how uncomfortable everyone else is with it. 

Ever notice how people are afraid of catching pain? It’s as if divorce, depression or death were viral.   So instead of leaning in and being present in the messy, we stuff it, hide it, and put on the Christian happy face.  We all too quickly forget that joy in Christ doesn’t mandate a perpetual façade of gooey sweetness.

We avoid the old folk’s home, complain about the smell, hide from the abandoned wife at church, and quarantine ourselves away from illness, regardless if it is contagious.  We sanitize empathy down to a Get Well card or some flowers and remain aloof from intimate relationship in the darkest moments. Genuine and heartfelt mourning seems to be so passé, as if they were thrown away with the old traditions of widows wearing black and communal lamenting

My husband has a dear friend who is extremely ill, and the other day, they had a long visit in the hospital.  By my husband’s own admission, it was a visit that was long overdue.  My husband didn’t want to admit or acknowledge that his friend wasn’t doing well, because it was easier to live in the land of hope, where everything remained in the status quo. Fortunately, another friend intervened, and he was forced to confront both his own avoidance and the reality of the situation.

Somehow my husband missed out on the blog that his friend started. It’s an online journal, that keeps his friends and family updated on his condition, and though it chronicles his physical journey with cancer, it also gives voice to his spiritual battle with this unseen and vicious enemy attacking his blood.

After recalling his emotional day, my husband mentioned that his friend noticed an unusual occurrence with his blog. When he updates positive news on his status, the comments and prayers come in abundance, but when the news is dire, which has been more the case recently, very few if any comments show up in the guest book. 

Why is it that our praises seem to dry up when circumstances go down the drain?  And when there are no words left, we conveniently disappear, because suffering interferes with our busy agendas. Mourning, compassion, empathy… the sheer ability to be present in the Valley of the Shadow of Death with anyone, even sometimes those closest to us, seems desperately lacking in our society. 

When I look at Middle Eastern culture, I envy their ability to emote, to wail like banshees and cry and grieve with passion.  It seems so much more acceptable to feel emotions.  The tough guy American demeanor never drops a tear.  It’s probably why I always apologize when I cry, as if tears were an affront to good manners.

Is it our fear of the dark, of death and the unknown that causes us to push away and to hide?   Could any temporary relief of an awkward moment or an uncomfortable confrontation ever be worth the loneliness and abandonment of those dear to us?

Yesterday my husband wept, prayed and laughed with his dear friend.  The cancer was only a reason for their relationship to grow deeper.  They mourned and looked to Christ, unsure of His plan, with unanswered questions and heavy hearts, but resolute in their double fisted faith of a Holy and mysterious God. 

They were precious moments, stolen and sweet, because time has become like gold as the shadow deepens.  These were moments of friendship, based on eternal brotherhood and bonds forged on Christ’s sacrifice.

And so my husband’s friend has hit on a profound truth, we are a culture of avoiders when it comes to pain.  And as the lines between heaven and earth blur for him, clarity comes like waves as he assesses his life.

The Psalmist proclaims that “though weeping may last for a night, joy comes with the dawn.” (Psalm 30:5)

True joy, it seems, can only be discerned on the other side of the deepest pain. For how would we recognize the light if we had avoided the dark?

Rom. 12:5 (NIV) Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn

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Giligan’s Journey

Christmas Eve was a day of perpetual mishaps.  The best laid plans were best laid to rest…because chaos reigned supreme. 

The older kids were at Grandma’s and it was time to rendezvous with my parents to bring them home.  And so my little one hour jaunt turned into Gilligan’s three hour tour.  The baby and I set off and not fifteen minutes into my journey, I heard a strange clicking  and within seconds a loud bang erupted from under the car and the front tire on my Xterra exploded off the rim. 

My car shuddered ominously, which happens when you are traveling at 75 mph, and so, I prayed, wailed and held on for dear life.  Fortunately, I managed to pull over, traffic rushing by me on the toll road, and rolled into a small inlet off the side of the road. All this happened as I was “multi-tasking” on my cell phone to my husband who heard the whole fiasco on speaker-phone.

Ever the Eagle Scout, my husband told me to sit tight and he would be there shortly.  Thirty minutes later, he pulled up.  We moved the baby into his car, he pulled out the jack, and off I set again to bring back our kids from Grandma’s. 

After giving him a big kiss, I left my husband on the side of the road changing the tire.  Only fifteen minutes later, we were diverted off the toll road because of mud slide damage from the recent storms.  After a thirty minute alternate route, we finally got back on track.

Then the crying started.  I had left the baby’s bottle at home in my haste to pick up the kids, and baby was hungry.  Already an hour late for the pick-up, I had no time to stop for food, so in my best soothing voice I kept repeating, over and over, “Just a few more minutes baby. “

 Then the next freeway closure hit from storm damage, and once again we were re-routed for another thirty minute detour.

As we pulled up to meet my father, two hours late for our pick-up, I pulled a hysterical baby out the car.  On the verge of tears myself, my dad rushed us over to Chili’s for some R & R.  As I quickly made the baby a bottle, sad little sobs erupted and her body shook with frustration.

As I handed the baby a makeshift bottle, she leaned back in my arms, looked deep into my eyes and said “Thank You.”

This is my eleven month old baby.  An exhausted, starving baby who had endured suffering for the first time in her life, and her response when finally fed was to say, “Thank You.”

She didn’t hit me, turn away in anger, refuse to eat, or play passive aggressive baby.  She simply took the food and thanked me.

I reflected on the last time, or any time for that matter, that I had thanked God for the circumstances in my life that tested my spirit and lead to patient endurance.  Just thanked him for the character defining moments I hate because I am forced to grow, despite my unwillingness to change.

My baby inherently knows what I often forget…to have a childlike trust in God, a simple dependence, and a thankful heart. 

Then the little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them.  But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.  Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

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