Dear little girl

You have to understand, honey, that we're different people now. You can't step in the same river twice, not only because the river changes, but also because you change. Entirely.

No one can be your anchor because anyone can change. But you can tie yourselves together to change together, like boats on the same wind. The other can't be your point of reference, but you can build a beautiful space between you. I heard someone call it the zimzum.

Maybe my picker was broken because I always looked for a fixed point, someone who seemed steady and didn't change. But people who don't change are the same who don't grow, don't repent, don't like all the new-ish ideas constantly popping into my head.  I had this romantic idea of being the kite and finding someone to stand on the ground holding my string.

In the short term, I wrongly assumed your dad would be my anchor.  I thought his quietness was strength and bottomless immovability, but it was also fear and insecurity and a little unkindness.  In the long term, my assumption of his strength saved me when I learned to lean hard on him, when threw myself into his arms, tested and pressed him with all the contents of my heart.  But do we discover one another, or do we make one another?

I cannot yet tell you objectively what and how I was. I can only tell you I am not the same. Perhaps some small essence of me sits in my brain, but even that is plastic. I cannot change the lilt of my voice when I comfort my babies--it was ingrained before I can remember, a copy of my own mother.  And my predisposition to seek novelty, I believe, is in the biology of the body I was born with.

But many things I thought would never change, have.  In order to distance myself from the necessary creativity of poverty, I started wearing more plain beautiful clothes instead of the wacky upset ensembles of my youth.  It's silly, yes, to talk about clothes as personality... I suppose that belief hasn't changed!

I am less full of fear than ever before, and yet, when fear is upon me, I am more objectively aware of it. When we were first married, I would provoke him to connect to me by getting angry, crying, making a scene. But if I look at those two kids with some compassion, whenever he showed a little kindness, all her terrors of abandonment came to the surface. The kindness must be too good to be true. He couldn't understand it--neither could she--and he chalked it up to sabotage.

But now everything I see and feel becomes wider and wider, sometimes in traumatizing suddenness, like walking from the cave into bright sunlight. And almost every expansion is plagued with guilt like I am breaking someone's heart. Well, less guilt now. I see the bittersweetness of change.

Yet, although I do not believe in the constancy of personality or belief, yet I still want to be your point of reference. I want to be your light house and haven, the keeper of Home, where you are always loved.  Even though I don't believe in constancy, yet I want to be constant for you.

Perhaps this desire glimpses the necessity of God. Why do I long to be constant for you if there is no constancy in the universe? And why would we have this innate ideal of eternity? Why would we long for immortality if there's no such thing? He has placed eternity in the hearts of men. Faintly, I hope so.

I hope there is a Constant in the universe. I hope there is more consciousness after this short sweet life, even though having one's ashes unceremoniously flushed down the nearest toilet seems most logical. And I hope there is more because, at my end, I want to be able to say to you, I will never leave or forsake you, and for it to be really true.

But if these hopes are folly, I am beginning to see there is still plenty to be thankful for, and each day has plenty of delight of its own to carry us along for now.

When I was twisted up inside with pain, I overplayed the hope to take my mind off the present. But now that I'm learning how to take care of myself, I am not waiting for a magic spirit to blow in and distract me from my pain.  Sorry, Holy Spirit, whoever you are. I don't mean to disrespect you. I hope you are much more than a fairy.

Little girl, my love for you makes me feel bad that I do not love my sons more. I do love them fiercely! But my love for you, my little mirror, is unique. In you I see so many opportunities to love the little girl I was, even though I sometimes worry this is unhealthy. I try to take it as an opportunity to reflect rather than project.

As a mirror you are a wonderful reminder that my heart of hearts is as innocent and beautiful and un-self-conscious as yours, or at least it can be. Yes, I can follow your example: dance in my underwear, laugh on top of sand mountain, sing my heart out. When I see you, I remember... or am I learning new things?

And in you, little mirror, I remember to cherish the best parts of me, to love myself. If you are so lovable and precious, maybe I can believe I am as precious as you.

Daddy hoped to avoid all this with another boy, but I knew you'd be a girl, and I knew you would melt his heart.  And I am learning that I can melt his heart too.

Mr. Responsible and the Prodigal Son

Last year my lifelong faith began to falter. It spiraled into a bleak depression, punctuated with brief reassurances that the Undoing is also a work of God. I had to quit church again. Not because of any personal offenses, but because the prayers and songs and sermons had become hollow. Reading the Bible had become a wrestling match. I had questions that weren’t being answered, and pain that was untouched by well-meaning prayers.

I finally got professional help from a wonderful therapist, and began the journey of unearthing the fear and pain I had buried under “faith.” I took a break from church to untangle my theology, my wrong understandings of Christian love, my compulsive need for approval through service. (I don’t love service, but I never had much luck getting approval in return for my incisive critiques!)

When my boys were younger I prayed with them often, and encouraged them to “hear” God. (A practice of which I have recently become skeptical. I recommend When God Talks Back for an anthropologist’s view.)  My boys would get frustrated that they never “heard” anything. I told them Bible stories and read Proverbs to them and made them sit through many long church meetings.

In my crisis this year, I abandoned teaching my kids much about religion. But in moments when they are afraid, or have questions about God, I still draw on my wells of scripture and experience. And when, in my doubt, I tell them how big and loving God is, when I recite for them “The Lord is my shepherd…”  I believe it a little more myself.

Last night my 9-year-old got out of bed and came to me for comfort. (How many more years will he seek me out?) Someone at school told him about the movie It, and he was afraid.

Important background: I call this child my “Mr. Responsible.” He’s a true first-born--serious, orderly, diligent. He’s been looking out for his younger brother since they were 1 and 3. My husband recently told me, maybe we shouldn’t call him Mr. Responsible. What if he becomes entrenched in that identity and doesn’t learn to take risks? I thought it over.

I have found that the best distractions from fear are beauty and love, especially in stories. (“There’s nothing to be afraid of” is not very effective.)  So I asked my son if he knew the story about Jesus multiplying food. He said yes, and he told me the story.  I asked him about other stories. To my surprise, he told me about Jesus asleep in the boat, Jesus being tempted, and others.

I asked how he knew all these stories!? Last year I gave him the Action Bible, a thick comic book illustrating Genesis to Revelation. Apparently, he read it cover to cover during the summer and I had no idea! His religious education carried on smoothly in my, um, spiritual absence.

Well, the story of the prodigal son was fresh in my mind from a Rob Bell sermon, so I asked him to tell it: The prodigal wastes his inheritance and then goes home ashamed; the father celebrates his return; the faithful, older son is mad about it. My son said the father gave the older son a “lecture” at the end of the story.

“Well, not quite,” I said. And suddenly, the identity of Mr. Responsible rose up in my mind with brilliant clarity: “The younger son believes that his bad choices will make the father not love him, but he’s wrong. And the older son believes that his good choices make the father love him, but he’s also wrong.”

Then I looked my son in the eye intensely to make sure he was listening closely. “The older son thinks the father loves him for being Mr. Responsible, but the father loves him because he’s his son. He would be just. as. loved. if he was not Mr. Responsible.”

My son’s blue eyes drank in my words and his beautiful, crooked lips squished together with emotion. “When you say it like that, I feel all teary!”

“Good! That means it went in!” I grinned.

We talked more about church and the Bible. I told him a little about my recent faith journey, and invited him to visit the Episcopal church down the street with me. "But," I told him, "you’re getting too old for me to force you. It’s ok if you’re not interested. And if you want to go to church regularly--if you want that to be part of your life--I will make it happen."

And for the first time, he nodded and said, "I would like that." When I told him he didn’t have to. When I gave up trying to force him to believe a certain way. Go figure! Maybe I am not quite as lost and confused as I thought.

Leaving church to go exploring

Spring 2017
First, I confess my anxiety at even putting down what I think. I imagine what people will say. I think of all the people who have probably said it better than I can. But oh well, I have to get it out.

When you've lived inside a certain framework for a long time, you don't notice it. You take for granted that everything you know and experience fits inside your understanding of the world, God, faith, humans. Well my religious (and really, epistemological) framework has broken down, and I see that it was small. But the great unknown beyond my old boundaries is terrifying. So I have spent months standing on this broken wall torn between patching it up and blocking out the new view, or to abandon the old structure and venture out.

Some of my elders bristle at this kind of language.  Heretical poetic nonsense! Orthodoxy is safety! Doubt is a slippery slope to hell! Well, maybe their criticisms are harsher in my head than they would be in real life.

I've made a decision to venture out. I've been drawn forth by love and curiosity. The inside of the old frame has become a slow suffocating torture, and I have to get out before I stab some innocent bystander, my fellow faithful churchgoers.

The bystanders are indeed innocent. Their Republican charismatic evangelical framework is working for them and they seem content. It used to work for me, it just doesn't anymore. Part of me wants to tell them about the view beyond--Science is so interesting!--but I don't want to upset them. 

But I have to let some people know that I'm making changes that will affect them, and not all of them will like it. WHY? Why do you need this change, it doesn't make sense. You're better off sticking with the tribe.

Rob Bell has given me courage: "Whenever someone tells me they want to leave church, I say, 'Yes! Go! Explore! We need more adventurers to go questing for truth. Come back and tell us all about what you saw and learned."  (Some of my elders think Rob Bell, another heretic, is dangerous. I hesitate to credit him.)  But, how generous! Can you imagine if pastors and leaders let people go joyfully and asked them to come back with wisdom? 

I was feeling guilty about leaving church again, and a little resentful toward people who caution me against questing. So I watched Moana again today. God, I feel it: Moana is torn between her love for her people and her love for the sea. She feels called to go on a voyage, but her family insists her place is on land. I love my church family.  But the answers I need to find are not in the safety of the village.

Later that year...
Well, I'm still questing and questioning. Figuring myself out. I don't know if I'll ever go back to evangelicalism, but I haven't let go of God. I am still wrestling with him.

Last year I became very depressed, seemingly out of the blue. I started thinking about death often, not suicide, but how short and meaningless my life is. I went forward for prayer at church, but I felt increasingly distant on the inside. Last year's election, in which most of my fellow churchgoers supported Donald Trump, didn't help. I talked my husband into a fabulous visit to France to see a sweet old friend of mine, and even on that trip, I felt bleak. Then I decided to seek real help, but it took another six months of emptiness and misery to make an appointment with a good therapist (who is also a pastor, a pastor with a doctorate).

The therapist immediately dug into my automatic relationship patterns--performance, fear of rejection, placating, to name a few. I'm making progress. I am no longer gripped by a primal terror of abandonment if my husband leaves the room during a conflict--that was a big breakthrough for me. Although some days I feel like a lonely little girl, I am working on going through pain, instead of trying to avoid it. It's better to admit I feel lonely and scared, have a good cry, and start over tomorrow.

I used all my wrong patterns in my relationship with God, but it wasn't working. Paul Young said it took him 50 years to wipe the face of his father off the face of God. I learned to be a good girl for my parents, to support them through the terrible pain of divorce. I tried to be a good girl for God and not ask for too much, but at some point the deep doubt and pain has to come up.

Anyway, I decided that if I am always chasing God like an insecure girlfriend nervous about disappointing him, if I'm always on a mental roller coaster of he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not, if I hype myself up trying to feel loved, do ministry hoping for approval, and love my neighbor out of guilt... If I keep spinning my wheels, I'm not giving him a chance to show himself as the First Mover, the Grace Initiator, or the Good Shepherd. So I have given up, again. My current posture is, Here I am, God. Please find me.

The Mixed Bag of Political Correctness... and of human beings in general

I need to get this off my chest because it's driving me bonkers. But I'll start with some reasonable statements to calm myself down, before taking my wordsmith stick and beating the nonsense like a red-headed step-child. (See what I did there?)

Political correctness is simply a cultural feature. It's a movement, an agenda, an idea that influences culture. It galls me that I have to point this out, but the original intention of political correctness is rooted in treating people with respect and honor. Yep, I used the current evangelical buzzword, honor. 

Political correctness, like so many things  every idea, is imperfect and has potential to become warped. Every good idea, started with good intentions, can have unintended consequences or evolve into something less helpful. Boxing gloves were intended to protect the hands of boxers, but ended up causing increased cases of brain damage. But I digress.

In spite of recent spikes in racial slurs, most Americans still agree that it's unacceptable to use the n-word. I think most of my conservative friends agree, it's a good thing that the n-word has become taboo. But they will chafe if we acknowledge that this cultural trend owes a debt to "political correctness."

In spite of the president's statements about women, most honest Americans do not think it's appropriate to sexually assault women, refer to a woman's menstrual cycle, or imply that a woman's hair color corresponds to her intelligence or temperament. (see what I did there?) Most of us agree on this, left and right. We can thank the influence of political correctness for contributing to a positive shift.

And we as a society have become more aware of how we speak to and about others, whether it affirms or demeans them. You'd think Christians would be on board with this, in general. Love your neighbor and all that.

Alright, the bad: Some versions of political correctness means we cannot criticize someone else's views with respectful disagreement, let alone can we cut to the chase: "that's a dumb idea."  (This is a strong cultural undercurrent here in Oregon--there are no wrong answers!) I can make a positive spin on this about open-mindedness, but I understand how it can be frustrating to those with unpopular opinions, like the school board member in Silverton who is getting roasted for being (crassly) anti-immigrant. (Tangent for another time: Does an employee represent his company every time they set foot outside their home? I mean, does he or she represent the company every time he or she leaves his or her home?)

Speaking of gender pronouns, here is my grammar nazi rant, feel free to skip: We still don't have a working, everyday, grammatically correct way of referring to a hypothetical individual without using a gender pronoun.  So in baby books and blogs, they may refer to "your baby" as "she" in one chapter, and "he" in the next chapter. Or there's those extreme flaming feminists (wink) who refer to the hypothetical baby as "she" throughout, as if to compensate for years of "he" and "mankind" being defaults.

I write the above paragraph smiling. Although I have strong feminist sympathies, fighting battles over grammar seems silly to me. I also sympathize with the conservatives who might say, "nobody cares!"

And then there are the many awkward hang-ups of how to refer to people. Very proper white liberals always say "African-American," but black people I know use the word "black." And I have friends who are African-American in the sense that they moved here from Africa not many years ago. So they are more literally African-American but they don't really relate to American black culture.

I live in a neighborhood full of Latinos, but most of them are Mexican, and refer to themselves as Mexican. I've seen a bumper sticker that said, "Not latino, not hispanic, MEXICAN." Okay, sheesh. When I was a kid, the proper word was "Hispanic," and apparently the state of Oregon still uses that standard, based on how many times I've checked the box, "white non-Hispanic." But I never hear Spanish-speaking people use the word "Hispanic."

(Cheat sheet: the quickest, easiest way to find out how to show people respect is to simply ask them what they prefer. No formula needed.)

How we speak about people matters; we all want to treat others, and be treated, with respect. But it's difficult to just express respect in a natural, warm, human way if we get too hung up on speaking with perfect political correctness. Language is messy; it evolves, and it's easy to misconstrue. There's no way to set permanent standards. And nobody likes having their semantics dissected and criticized when they didn't intend any harm.

More recently, though--and I think this is why some people love Trump--political correctness has taken on a weird shape. There are not only politically correct ways of addressing people in order to show respect, but increasingly, there are politically correct opinions. My earnest liberal friends are fish who don't know they're wet: it just so happens that political correctness, more and more, lines up with liberal ideology. So any divergent opinion, regardless of how logically well-founded, is incorrect. I think this is why conservatives are hopping mad, being dismissed and shut out of debates because they've already been judged as "incorrect."

So now that all my conservative friends are saying, yes, yes, it's so frustrating, I am going to brandish my wordsmith stick. It's a little rusty but it will have to do. And I'm going to point it more narrowly at right-wing Christians, specifically those who spout their political views wrapped in Christian lingo. And even more narrowly, the ridiculous "prophecies" I've seen and heard floating around charismania that the president is "anointed to tear down the spiritual stronghold of political correctness in our country." (At this my liberal friends either have their mouths hanging open in disbelief or they are sitting back in smug judgment.) I use italics because it's the whole reason I put the effort into writing all this:

Political correctness is not a "spiritual stronghold" or any kind of spiritual entity requiring "anointed" opposition. It is a human idea with mixed outcomes, positive and negative.

Furthermore, a man's commitment to destroy political correctness is NOT a measure of his godliness or his positive impact on society. If we're going to talk about morality and the well-being of society, we have bigger fish to fry. And even if you think political correctness as the great demon of our age (eye roll), certainly you must acknowledge that there are many other pressing issues to grapple with??

Anyway, as Christians, don't we have plenty of other true spiritual illnesses--both inside and outside the church--to keep us occupied with repentance and redemption? Greed, judgment, self-righteousness, jealousy, bitterness, fits of rage, neglecting the poor... I don't see how political correctness could possibly top the list of social ills. I do see how it provides a convenient focal point, a demon du jour.

At this point, my liberal friends who are reading this are probably saying, Where the fuck does this come from?? (Cuz we like to be incorrect when it comes to the language taboos of conservatives, we just don't like them to use our language taboos. Wink.) Well, I'll tell you. The notion that political correctness is Ev-ill comes from a world where spiritual leaders have no boundaries between their political and religious views, but mash it together into a toxic cocktail and demonize anyone who says differently. (There are toxic mash-ups on the left too, but I'm not in deep enough to criticize them in detail.)

In this world, sermons are re-runs of Sean Hannity hyped up into spiritual language with Bible verses peppered in (maybe). Somehow many of the "prophecies" just so happen to exactly line up with conservative talking heads. Such prophets will ignore their man's literal actions, and accuse anyone who questions their pronouncements of blessing on the anointed one. (I was told I must have a "religious spirit" for questioning the president's "anointing.") It results in homogeneous churches where they say they want to love "sinners," but alienate anyone who doesn't share their political views.

In that bubble, my conservative friends are also fish who don't know they're wet. They stay insulated from any idea that is contrary to their favorite prophets and spiritual leaders. When I'm in that world, sometimes I want to scream, "The emperor has no clothes!!!"

BUT, my dear liberal reader, the reason I don't scream is that I know these people. I know their big hearts, their good intentions, their sincerity. Although I feel it's important to stem the tide of nonsense with my small voice and small tools, I cannot put these sweet people in a basket of deplorables. I know so many die-hard conservatives whose ideology I find stupid, yet I know they would give me the shirt off their backs and always offer a shoulder to cry on. We're human. We're mixed bags!

Here is the current nature of western public discourse as I see it: boil things down to very simple choices of for or against. Ignore complexity; pick a side. Divide people (and governments, and institutions, and businesses) up into bad guys and good guys. Refuse to acknowledge good in people on your "bad" list. Refuse to acknowledge bad in people on your "good" list. Champion the good guys, demonize the bad guys. Shout at your enemies, comfort your friends.  But I'll say it now and many more times: there are no precious few true good guys and bad guys. Most humans, including politicians, pastors, talking heads, religious folks, flaming liberals and religious flaming liberals, are mixed bags. A single person can have wonderful and terrible ideas. Can have a mind for justice on one issue and glaring blind spots on another.

So everyone, please, right and left: political correctness is neither an angel or a demon. It is what it is: a cultural trend with potential for good and harm. We can set out to correct the excesses without demonizing the whole thing. And we can defend the positive outcomes without getting butt-hurt over legitimate criticisms. Although I don't mind using a big stick on stupid ideas, I refuse to demonize people, right or left, and I keep appealing to reason. As my smart friend Ben Curry said, "Come to the center. We have cookies."

On Friendship

My friend just left my house after a sweet visit. We hadn't spent time together since I had just one baby; now I have a toddler and two big kids. A lot of crazy things swirled around us winding down to the end of our friendship and I didn't understand her or our other friends... I just shut down, shut them out, and crawled into a self-righteous cocoon (i.e. ministry) for a few years.

I have said lots of stupid and hurtful things over the years to various people. Sometimes they were acid and I knew it; other times I just spoke from my heart without thinking of how it would come across. I've hurt lots of people. I've apologized to lots of people. I've seen various responses.

Obviously the most precious and healing responses are "thank you" and "I forgive you." (Hint: you can say "thank you" even if you're not totally over it.)  Many people cautiously forgive and act cool, but don't open opportunities to rebuild trust and restore closeness. There's just a little extra distance in the relationship ever after. Some people don't respond at all to an apology, they just withdraw for a while--a couple weeks, or a couple years--to get over it on their own and then act like nothing happened. And I can't blame them--sometimes it takes me weeks or years to cough up the apology.

I had thought of contacting my old friend many, many, many times. We shared a locker in high school. She was a Biggest Fan friend, who encouraged me no matter what I did. We stayed in touch through college. She prayed for me like crazy while I went through family drama. She helped with my wedding. But then the breakdown, and the years of silence... I always thought of her on her birthday. I creeped on her Facebook page once in a while to see what she was up to. But I was too ashamed to get in touch.

In all the times I have apologized for being an asshole, this is the first time someone responded so kindly: "That must have been difficult for you." I wronged her. I withdrew my support for my friend in a difficult time. And now that I finally apologize eight years later, she calls my apology courageous. It makes me want to cover my head and weep.

She was in my heart as I reflected on a recent "find out who your friends are" experience. I tried to accommodate friends I hoped to make, over the friends I already have, and regretted it. It got me thinking about cherishing the friends I have, the ones who stand by, the ones who are there. The ones who tolerate my devil's advocate speeches, the ones who are glad that I tell them the truth, the ones who loan me sweatpants when I don't want to stay in my booty shorts to hang out with friends after the gym. I am realizing (very slowly) that good friends are not so easy to find... especially for a big mouth like me!

(Nothing against the potential friendships that don't quite work out. Sometimes it's just lack of time, or chemistry... Some people are not ready to invest. Some people are just full up on friendship and don't have time to add one. That's ok. It's disappointing, but it's not personal. It is what it is.)

It's a bit like Marie Kondo's big epiphany in The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: instead of focusing on what to get rid of and what is not there, focus on what is there. Focus on what is left when you've cleaned up, those things that have made the cut and stayed with you. Enjoy what is there.

I couldn't decide on a New Year's resolution, and it's very late, but maybe I could make it a Lent resolution, a Lent-and-the-rest-of-my-life resolution. Cherish the ones who are there. Cherish the sister who does call instead of fretting about the one who doesn't. Cherish the friend who helps instead of resenting the ones who don't. I'll leave the door open for new friends, but this year I'm going to make it a priority to invest in my friends who are already tried and true.

Sad Bananas

This is the face I make when I visit Etsy looking for some fresh cool "tiebacks" for my grown-up curtains in my grown-up house, and I see burlap straps with an old black fabric button.

I just learned the words "tieback" and "finial" last year visiting Anthropologie for the first time. (I want one of these beautiful doorknobs, I said to my friend. Those are tiebacks, she said. Oh.) I learned writing this post that tieback is one word. I am 33. Also, I just bought my first-ever pair of red rubber boots for stomping around outside in the rain, so I'm not totally sure if I am maturing or regressing.

But one thing's for sure, after being poor for most of my life, repurposed trash for sale doesn't often impress me, it usually just makes me sad. I still get a creative kick out of recycling stuff and working with what I have, but that's just for my own enjoyment of using my brain. I don't try to *sell* the kids' crowns I make out of cereal boxes, no matter how brilliantly resourceful I feel making them. Out of the hundreds of tie-backs for sale on the internet, someone paid Etsy to sell a piece of burlap with a black button. Sad bananas.

Yes, it's true, I'm a burlap hater. It's heavy on shabby and light on chic. Yes, I am crafty. No, I do not want to wrap burlap around vases for your wedding. Maybe it's because I'm anti-popular and the trend has run as wild as a toddler fresh out of the bathtub. I'm sorry, I just can't. Please make the burlap stop. The rustic hay bales can stay, but the burlap has to go.

I don't have anything else to say, I just thought it would be funny to post my sad bananas face when I realized I was cringing scrolling through Etsy.

If you know where to find some modern, pretty, hook-shaped, not-going-to-draw-blood tiebacks, let me know. Also, if someone would design a blocking app to create my own personal Burlap Safe Space, that would be greaaaaaat.

Who says that!?

My husband and I just bought a house. We plan to be here for a long ass time, and I got past my commitment anxiety (a recurring theme) and decided I want to really put down roots in this community. So I started looking for opportunities to meet the neighbors. 

I prayed for some extra grandparents for my kids. My in-laws are wonderful, but my parents recently moved far away. Both of our next-door neighbors are grandmas, check!  And a sweet friend who is old enough to be my mom is just around the corner.

I also have been praying/ wishing/ hoping for friends for my husband and me. We both have friends, but we don't have many friends in common, especially couples. Sometimes I have to hunt a little to find my tribe. But finding another couple that we can hang out with comfortably, in which all four of us enjoy one another's company, without any sexual tension.... that couple is a needle in a haystack. Especially for a couple of weirdos like us--I'm very outgoing but I get bored easily with small talk, and my husband prefers the company of his FE motors to the company of human beings.

When we were looking at this house, I spotted my husband's new best friend (according to me)--behind the wheel of a late 70's Ford pickup in the driveway across the street. After we bought the house, the guy came over to help my husband move a motor in, and they got shop talking. His wife walked over to say hi. She is beautiful, red-headed, with a little girl about a year younger than ours. She smiles a lot.

Well, as an ambitiously friendly neighbor, a week later I washed a jacket that my 2-year-old had outgrown, and took it across the street. I was very excited to have somewhere to send my adorable little girl's adorable hand-me-downs. And I am trying to hold back my imagination, but I imagine this being the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

But what do I do? I give her the jacket saying it's the first of many, if she wants. She thanks me and says "That's so sweet!" And then I run my mouth. "I don't know if you already have plenty, or if you also like to shop, but I love to buy girls' clothes. I have really nice hand-me-downs." It comes out in a tone like I'm bragging. She just smiled and thanked me again.

As soon as I got home, I said to myself, you idiot! Who says that!? "I have really nice hand-me-downs." What an obnoxious thing to say.  Then I remind myself not to over-identify (more on that another time) with the emotion of the moment and just forget about it. (Clearly I didn't, because here I am writing about it.)

You may also be wondering, yeah, who talks like that? Well, you'll sympathize a little more when I tell you, most of my life I have been on the receiving end of hand-me-downs, and they are often shitty. I am very pleased to be able to give very nice hand-me-downs, that do not have stains, holes, or worn out elastic.  I also wanted to reassure my potential friend that I would not be giving her junk like a lot of people do.

I wonder if she remembers what I said, or what kind of impression I made. Hopefully she has not thought about it nearly as much as I have. I wonder how we could get to be friends. But I should probably play it cool. I hate it when I try too hard.

I Don't Know

I've often thought I should start a new blog page titled What I Really Think. It would have many of the musings and thoughts that I write on Facebook and then quickly delete, worrying about what people will think and who I might offend.

What I Really Think would have my true opinions about all kinds of things--religion, politics, relationships, parenting... Usually I have thought it over from several angles, and usually people say I have an interesting perspective. What I Really Think would be cathartic, but I would probably alienate most of my friends sooner or later.

I have a dozen drafts on different topics, in the spirit of What I Really Think, but they always fall apart before I finish. I start to see the holes or the unanswered questions and abandon it before writing the conclusion.  Perhaps it's my laziness not to follow my logic through; perhaps I'm pretty terrible at logic and my opinions are crap. Or maybe it's my reluctance to commit to an opinion--I blame that on my Pacific Northwest culture. Open-minded and open-ended to a fault.

Well who cares. No one wants my judgments, do they? Occasionally people ask what I think, but more often they say, "That's a good question." Today it struck me--good questions are far more interesting than concrete answers anyway. Again, I'll credit Oregon culture, but isn't it more valuable to turn something over in your mind often, to continually examine, than to speed toward some conclusion?

So I'm going to start writing more honestly. Maybe if I don't have some polished gem of truth to write about, I can at least write about my process and my questions... and my little tiny speck of an ordinary life that is a whole world to me.

Love sees beauty

One of the sweetest things about leading worship in a church is having a perfect view of all the beautiful faces singing to God from their hearts. Sometimes there are tears; sometimes I see struggle on their faces as they pray. But I always see beauty.

I imagine God sees a lot more beauty than me, since He is also looking deep into the shining heart who wears a quiet face. Sure, He also sees more junk than I do, I can see a little of it. But if I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the saints from my corner of the platform, how much more is He? God is love--love always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

"I look across the room and I see Jesus in your eyes," my pastor said a couple weeks ago, beaming with her mother heart of love. She saw beauty.

When I see God's people during worship, I see weakness but also earnest faith. My heart swells like a mother who longs to encourage a struggling child. This is God--He loves to love, His selfless love is so abundant He pours it out on whomever will receive it.

Sometimes the faithful feel small, but His goodness is all around them and in them. Oh, with eyes to see, we would see His glory shining upon us! We would see the Kingdom of God already in our midst. "The saints in the earth, they are the majestic ones in whom is all my delight," the Psalmist wrote. If a man may take such delight in the saints, how much more does God delight in the ones He redeemed with His own Son?

As I was meditating on these things, I thought of the verse that says, "You are His workmanship." So I looked it up and saw--I hadn't realized--this statement appears right alongside those famous verses in Ephesians, "By grace you have been saved through faith, and that is not of yourselves, it is a gift of God; not as a result of works, that no one should boast."

I had a light bulb moment: We are not saved by our works--we are His work! What beautiful things He does! How wonderful His handiwork! Everything He does is excellent and good! Like that Kevin Prosch song says, "You do all things well! Just look at our lives."

And here is the rub, when these words are hard to say. We don't always look or feel like excellent handiwork. It's easy to look at a sunset and say to God, "You do all things well," but not so easy say while looking in the mirror.

Yet we must. What other choice do we have? Everything He does is good--goodness flows from His nature and character.  He is the definition of goodness. He cannot not do good! If we are His, then we are His work, and all His work is good, so we are good work.

To refuse to believe that you are a good work is to say He is not a capable craftsman, or He is not good. Are His hands tied? Is the One who designed the universe stumped by our problems? Certainly not. He is the visionary of all visionaries--He sees great beauty on the empty canvas, the half-finished canvas, the blood-smeared and tear-stained canvas.

Precious saints, how lovely you are! You are lovely to me, in your earthiness and foolishness and stumbling earnest. How lovely are you to the Father?

"How lovely are Your dwelling places, O Lord of hosts," the sons of Korah wrote in Psalm 84. Isaiah said the Messiah would be Immanuel, God With Us. And this is the already-but-not-yet truth of it: "the tabernacle of God is among men" (Revelation 21).

The Sons of Korah served before God's Presence in David's tabernacle. It seems like they were probably writing about that "dwelling place." Some translations change it to singular to make it sound better, but it is plural. God's dwelling places are beautiful. We are His beautiful dwelling places! And He fills the temple with glory. We are not so lovely on our own--sin distorts the image of God into wretchedness-- but the redeemed are filled with the light and presence of God, clothed in beauty, dignity and strength.

Precious saints, what a lovely dwelling place you are. How beautiful the Spirit of grace dwelling in you and covering you. Though you feel the brittleness of being an earthen vessel, yet the power of God abides in you. Just as an ugly face is beautiful in candlelight, just as a covering of snow makes mundane things beautiful and clean, the Spirit of God shines on you and clothes you in grace.

His lovely dwelling place is not an imaginary temple, a place far away, a place we go to when we feel spiritual. We are His lovely dwelling place, the home of God.

Father, I believe I am Your home, Your lovely temple. You make us beautiful; Your grace shines on us. Let me walk, now, beaming with confidence in Your grace. I repent for heaping shame on myself and putting myself down. I am Your workmanship, and You have good works prepared for me. Give me grace to trust Your work and Your Spirit in me. Give me wisdom to have confidence in You without arrogance or presumption in my heart. And help me, Father, to see Your people the way You see them, as lovely dwelling places, homes of Your Spirit. Give my heart delight in the saints, the majestic ones, so I can honor You by honoring them.
♡ Amen.

Unconditional Love

I am smitten. Hopelessly intoxicated with affection for my little girl who was born in December (she's going on 4 months old). I know it's biology--oxytocin, the love and bonding hormone, released into my brain when I nurse, when she whimpers, when she smiles, even when I just stare at her angelic little face.  But since I am a believer in things that cannot be measured, I believe love is more than biology.

And she is more than biology, this little bundle of new flesh, helpless yet strong. She looks like a different creature each week, becoming herself. That is the journey of life, right? The journey I am still in, becoming myself. And I love her through every little transition and am willing to do whatever necessary to help her along.

I want to compare my mother love to God's love. Now, don't be alarmed; I am well aware that He is holy and He is other than weak little me... and yet, He created me in His image. All of natural life is full of pictures and parables pointing to Him. As the skies and oceans make us feel small enough to contemplate a Creator, the natural love of parents toward children points us to the greatest and most loving parent of all. I try not to presume, but I think it is reasonable to say, if humans are capable of great love, how much greater is God's love?

God's love is underrated, often painted as abstraction, or taken for granted... but we can never tire of mentioning His love. Like the hymn says, if the sky was paper, the oceans ink, and every man a scribe, the oceans would go dry and the paper would be too small to tell about the love of God.

So I am in love. My baby girl doesn't have to do anything for me to love her. I mean absolutely nothing! Even if she cries inconsolably for what seems like an entire afternoon, I am more often frustrated with my inability to meet her needs than with the inconvenience her needs present. I got irritated more easily with my first-born, but I've become a little more patient and a little less selfish with each baby. (She is my third.) How much more does God love us unconditionally, regardless of whether we appreciate Him or love Him back?

Sometimes I am lazy or cold hearted, and don't respond right away to a child crying. Sometimes I delay on purpose to give them a chance to practice calming down on their own, but often it's my sheer indifference. But God is not like me that way; He doesn't get lazy or apathetic toward His kids. His heart is always for us, always with us, always responsive and connected. He does not resent inconvenience. (The cross, after all, was pretty inconvenient.) He hears when His children cry and responds perfectly.

When my little one is satisfied with my comfort, when she eats herself into a breastmilk coma-- I am truly delighted. I feel proud and powerful--in a good way--sustaining her existence with my own body. I am satisfied because she is satisfied. (If you're a mom who couldn't breastfeed, no judgment here.)  How much more is God willing--even delighted-- to meet our needs? How much more does He take joy when we are satisfied with His provision and care?

You've probably heard, breastmilk is miraculous stuff. It's a perfect balance of nutrients--protein, fat, sugars, water, vitamins, living probiotics, immune boosters, literally everything a baby needs for the first six months of life on the outside. The supply matches the needs of the baby, the supply and demand constantly fluctuating, constantly synchronizing. Breastmilk even delivers like a three course meal, with the lightest milk first and the sweetest, fattiest milk last.

One of God's names in the Bible is Shaddai, the breasted one. If that grosses you out, too bad! He is not embarrassed. After all, He personally designed the amazing female body to bear His image alongside the male. As the breasted one, He sustains us Himself, every breath, every meal, every heartbeat. His nourishment is miraculous and sufficient; His supply to us matches our need perfectly.

Sometimes I am lazy or hard hearted and don't respond right away to a child crying. (Sometimes I delay on purpose to give them a chance to practice calming down on their own, but usually it's sheer laziness.) But God is not like me that way; He doesn't get lazy or apathetic toward His kids. His heart is always for us. He does not resent inconvenience. (The cross, after all, was pretty inconvenient.) He hears when His children cry and responds perfectly.

If you are thinking, Wow, her version of God sounds like a sissy, let me say a few things. First, God is also the wisest parent and I do not mean to say He is a pushover. He perfectly discerns needs, wants and the gray areas in between. He always meets our needs and sometimes witholds our wants to help us become mature in self-control, humility, generosity, etc. But through it all, His heart is for us, wanting good for us.

Second, I know in part and prophesy in part. We cannot really grasp all of God's facets at once. I just wanted to look at one facet of God's mother-like love, one that is not often mentioned in communities where God's masculinity is strongly emphasized. He is masculine too. He is both; male and female He made us in His image. God is full and perfect in every facet--as King, as Shepherd, as Friend, as Deliverer... I want to see all of Him, but rather than try to stand far enough back to see the whole mountain that fills the earth, sometimes I like to look very closely at one little part. His love is vast; I am just illustrating one little part.

Meditating on God's perfect love reminds me of some lines in a Jason Upton song: "Frustrated, I try to make it, 'cause I've just got something to prove. Smiling, He says, 'Son, come here. Won't you let me just help you?'" Like a parent, He is intimate in His love for us, and willing to be close to us. I am not suggesting that we go through life acting like helpless babies, but I am suggesting we receive God's love with childlike trust, un-self-conscious and dependent, making our needs known without shame. I love my little girl more than she knows and I am undone by my love for her--how much more does God love me? My little girl depends on me for her life; certainly I can depend on God for mine.

Trusting God with my heart's desire

Fear and worry are sort of my favorite enemies to pick on; I savor every victory. This particular battle was a bit longer than usual, though. When my daughter was in the womb I worried more than I had worried for my sons. I had those normal but disturbing nightmares about giving birth to a pile of rocks, to a wooden doll, to a tiny creature that fit in the palm of my hand and then shrunk and disappeared.

Maybe I was just more anxious because I wanted her so much. I loved my two boys but I wanted a girl so badly, and my husband and I agreed this was going to be our last child. When I found out I was pregnant, long before the ultrasound, I bought a sweet little girl's pajama, whispering a prayer that I believed God was giving me the girl I asked for. I hid it in my closet because I didn't want my husband to think I was foolish. Months later at the ultrasound, my heart beat faster when the technician asked if I wanted to know the gender. Had i been a fool? Was it just chance and biology? Does God care about these things? Tears sprang in my eyes when she told me it's a girl. No one else has to believe-- I know there was a 50% chance of having the girl I wanted, but in my heart I chose to believe it was God's doing.

One night while I was pregnant I woke up and didn't feel her moving. (Babies in utero sleep a lot--no need for concern unless a couple hours go by with no movement.) I practically held my breath waiting for her to wake up, unable to go back to sleep until I was sure.
While I laid in the dark waiting, fear welled up in my heart. What if God gave me the girl I asked for, only to take her away and break my heart? What if He just wants to test me? Will I still believe in Him? I reluctantly concluded, yes, I would still believe... Helpless sadness began to settle into my heart as I resigned myself to a capricious God, arbitrary and heartless as He tests His followers. Vaguely I was aware of some questionable doctrines I had somehow picked up along the way-- if you love something or someone too much, God will take it away from you in His jealousy.  Vaguely I thought, Wait, that's not right... That's not right!

Suddenly my heart and spirit came wide awake as I shook off fear. Boldly I prayed --whispering, because my husband was sleeping, but in my heart I was shouting-- "No! My Father is not cruel! He cares about the desires of my heart! He cares about me! He would not give me the child I asked for and then destroy her. I trust You! The enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy, but You came to give life! I trust You to take care of us! Watch over my body, watch over this child, Father!"

Over the rest of the pregnancy I still struggled with fear and worry, but I had confidence in the goodness of my Father, and I continued to pray believing He is for me and not against me. Never again did I beg for Him to have mercy as if He were a cruel master. As my due date drew near, my water broke partially with no contractions. My midwife said the baby had plenty of fluid left, but we needed to be vigilant against infection. I still worried and prayed and fretted.

Days went by and I wrote to my church's prayer team:  "Asking for prayer that the baby gets in optimal position and the Lord's perfect timing. And also asking prayer for me, for peace and confidence. For some reason I have struggled with fear and worry for this baby all through my pregnancy. But I am choosing to trust God's good intentions."

Mike Brink, the prayer team leader, responded: "Lord, bless Aurora. Fill her with Peace. Put peace into her amniotic fluid, all thru the sac, and into the umbilical cord and baby. Bring peace, acceptance, and welcome to Baby. Bring peace into the whole process. Banish all fears and let your angels minister all the touches of peace and health and love that Baby and Mother both will need throughout and after."

That night, rather than another birth nightmare, I dreamed about a beautiful white home full of colorful books and artwork--including children's handprint art. Outside was a garden bursting with flowering vines, a cherry tree in bloom, and flowers everywhere, as if, unlike earthly life, all the plants were flowering at the same time.

The next day I was full of peace. I stopped doing exercises to get her in optimal position, I stopped taking the evening primrose supplement that was supposed to help labor start, I took the day off from worry, and sat around watching tv--not very spiritual, but that's the truth. She was born the following morning with no complications. However, as my midwife checked the placenta, she discovered that the umbilical cord was barely attached. Normally the tough gristle-like tissue surrounding the precious blood vessels is firmly anchored to the center of the placenta. But the vessels were only attached at the outer edge of the placenta, and the tough protective tissue wasn't connected at all. If the baby had got the cord wrapped around a foot and kicked, she could have died. We looked at Mike's prayer again and felt chills. My midwife said, well, you had good reason to be worried.

The day she was born, my husband said he wanted to name her Rosalyn ("pretty rose"). I had worked on a list of my favorite names, and Rosalyn was not one of them. But when he said, with a matter-of-fact shrug, "She's a rose," I remembered my garden dream and agreed. I realized that most of the names I had chosen were about me, not her. I felt God telling me that she will be different from me, reserved, a caretaker, a gentle gardener. So I chose another garden feature for her middle name, Ivy, which represents "faithfulness."

So my heart is full. I was going to write about my love for my daughter, even though she has done nothing--absolutely nothing!--to earn it. And I was going to say, how much more does our Father God love us unconditionally. But I guess I needed to tell this story first, about God's faithfulness to me and my little rose.

A different angle of abiding

In October, I was at a small house of prayer conference. As we prayed before the service, I saw in my mind's eye a couple face-to-face like lovers: Jesus and His people, especially the people who emphasize "intimacy with God." Then I saw the faces move so that they were side by side, so closely connected that their minds and hearts were in unity. They looked forward together. I shared my impression with the worship team and believed God was going to do a change in us, a shift in our relationship with Him.

 Here at the end of December, I wonder if I am doing something wrong. I don't have near as much face-to-face time with God in prayer and worship as I used to. I don't feel backslidden; love is alive in my life and maturing. I feel His presence when I practice goodness and kindness and humility. But this other rhythm of life is uncomfortable. I don't feel guilty for abandoning all the vigorous meetings I used to attend. And I don't feel guilty for not reading my Bible every day. I am glad when I read it and content with what I have hidden in my heart the rest of the time. Is it ok that I am ok with this? I had to think it over in poem.

We have changed-- I know I have grown
I look in your face less often now
Yet you seem more near, familiar, ever-present
I used to try to always look for your eyes
Now it seems like I have your eyes
I am seeing what you see when I stop for the one
I feel what you feel when kindness for the little ones surges up inside me
Your diligence is chipping away inside me
As I chip away at housework, smiling a little more
I dont often have the euphoria of encounter these days
But I feel slow love at work, steady as a mountain, filling the earth
I have no ambition but to love, having laid down my arms
Oh rest! To have no agenda but to be available to love
My left and right hand hidden, no programs to build.
Someday again it will be time to plant and build
Something alive and clean
But now is the year to let the field rest
While microbes and worms and unseen helpers turn the dirt
Renewing its capacity to sustain roots
This year, let weeds and wildflowers jostle on the surface
And when they fade fold their small strength under the earth
Preparing for new seeds and new crops ahead

It is against my training to neglect the ecstasy of worship:
I have been told it's the reason to be alive, to encounter God
I often thought it was my only purpose
But now I have to be about my Father's business,
I cannot live for spiritual ecstasy
At the same time I have renewed my commitment to ecstasy at home
How strange, when once I longed for worship times and shunned my husband,
And now my worship has changed and i have welcomed my husband into my heart at last
I have pondered this switch; I believe it is good.
Maybe I have stopped "worshipping worship,"
Maybe I was addicted to the emotional experience and not God Himself
Because now the worship emotions have changed
And I still have Him near and dear

Yesterday I saw Akiane in a video say,
When I was younger God talked to me face to face
But now that I am older I just know he is with me, in the paints
In the creating, I know he is with me all the time.
Then I remembered what i saw
Changing from face to face to side by side
Close, side by side, almost one, like a siamese twin,
overlapping like those photos on Gungor's new album
And now I think I am on the right track
It's ok for me to be ok with this.

I'm sending my five-year-old to public school in a poor neighborhood

Some months ago, a dear friend was lamenting again how she wants to move. I pointed out that as long as I've known her, wherever she lives, she always wants to move. But wherever you go, there you are. She protested that this was different, she wants a better school for her kids, fewer drug addicts in the neighborhood... Her bland apartment, smashed in next to dozens of others, with children always traipsing through each other's unfenced yards, is not so bad. It's not unsafe. It's just not nice. And the people aren't all nice, just average sinners, some swearing and drinking, with occasional marijuana and neglect... All the kids love to come to my friend's house, because she was born to be a mother. Her compassion grows with every (unplanned) child she bears. As we talk, her beautiful petite frame is filling out with number five. She practices kindness and patience with the neighbor kids, and shares from her consistent supply of goldfish crackers, the same way she used to put them in a cute mug for me when I first met her. I've eaten a lot of goldfish crackers at my friend's retro kitchen table, and so have the kids in her neighborhood. But she worries. Maybe this neighborhood isn't "good for" her kids. As long as I've known her, she's wanted more, always restless. Her poor husband is always scraping through to feed all the mouths and keep them under one roof. I had an epiphany while I was listening to her. Someone saddled my friend with the idea that in order to please God, you must live in a nice neighborhood and your kids must grow up in safety, with plenty of opportunities. I suddenly felt a little ire at this great and prevalent lie, that God's will is the American dream. I got on a soapbox and said something like, "You don't have to live in a nice neighborhood to be a good Christian! If that were God's will, then most of the world wouldn't be able to attain it! And what about the missionaries living in some remote place laying down their lives for love? Bet their kids don't get a lot of "opportunities" as Americans think of them. Maybe God put you here in THIS apartment complex to love and show compassion. If you love your neighbors and teach your kids to love, they will be fine. Show them that you are content in God's will. They don't have to go to a nice school, they just need to know they can trust God and love people!" My friend couldn't argue with my point, and admitted she needs to trust God more, otherwise how can she teach her kids in that way? She also seemed a little relieved to hear that God didn't expect her to figure out how to improve her status in order to be acceptable to Him. ...... Today this conversation rushed back into my mind, as I looked at the tuition prices of a Christian school. Because I'm worried. Worried that the elementary school across the street won't be "good for" my kindergartener. Will the Mexican neighbors who pick on him in the front yard treat him even worse at school, when I'm not close by? I tell my sons to love their neighbors. All the time. Love, love, love. And tell the truth. Not just "be nice," or "behave." Love from the heart and forgive; if you can't, ask God for help. But in my heart, I am afraid to send them out into the world where they will certainly encounter mistreatment. (And all the experienced moms, who have already sent children away to school and college and marriage, will smile gently and chuckle at my fear, because they remember it so well.) Of course, I don't want my sons to volunteer for abuse, but l have only taught them the armor of love and truth. The armor of fear and isolation (or at least pre-emptive rejection of strangers) would be a lot more safe and predictable. I see other little boys Lachlan's age who have already learned to swagger like their fathers and hold their heads up, and look for their own advantage. Lachlan still has no swagger, no pride, no pretense. He's tender-hearted and vulnerable; I don't want him to learn hardness and lying.

I looked up a local Christian school I had seen. $200 a month for tuition. And tears sprang to my eyes because that price is impossible for us right now. And then I recognized the same mentality my friend was struggling with--this is what it means to be a good Christian American family: You're supposed to own a house, one or two cars that don't break down, send your kids to Christian school or home school, live on only one income, have dinner together every night. Well what if you're poor!? Then you need to work harder so you're not poor anymore, then you can be the kind of Christian God is looking for? What a pile of crap.

And on the other hand, I know what's "good for" most people---a healthy dose of challenges and trials, passed through with patience and faith. Humans are always trying to avoid pain; some Americans seem to take any pain or difficulty as an infringement on their rights. Doesn't the Bible say something about being "patient in affliction"? It's sort of un-American, but it's definitely part of basic Christianity. So, then, perhaps the "best" thing for Lachlan will be to go to a school where he is part of the racial minority. Perhaps the best thing I can do as a parent is to strengthen him to endure a little rejection and mistreatment, to pass through it with dignity, confidence, and patience. Will the armor of love be enough? I hope so.

Freely I have received

As I have been practicing giving cheerfully, and not under compulsion, it seems that every time I give I receive back something unexpected. I never give because I want to selfishly gain money, but it's wonderful to receive so that I can give more.

My friend and step-cousin, Jordan Bentley, recently became a full-time staff member at a local prayer house, where he has to raise his own financial support. After being on a worship/prayer team with him for more than five years, I know him to be faithful, diligent, and patient. He's also smart and a great musician, a great contribution to the house of prayer staff. I could brag some more, but to summarize in a cliche, he's worth his salt. A year or so ago, I asked him if he ever intended to go on staff, and he said yes. At the time I was staying home with the kids and my husband was unemployed, but I gave Jordan a (measly) $5 and said, “Here is the beginning of your support.” Less than a year later, he became a full-time staff member at the house of prayer. Since I became a waitress last fall, we work literally across the street from each other, so I can just walk over and drop off some cash with him--effortless! It gave me such joy to give, especially because I hadn't really been in a position to give for several years. I love it! I get excited to bless him. Sometimes I give what is convenient and sometimes more sacrificially—I just give what I can give cheerfully. (I don't have a system or formula to offer---sorry!)

On Thursday, Feb 7, I checked my email. I saw a message from Josh Garrels, which reminded me I had wanted to send him money. Josh Garrels lives in Portland, Oregon, and he is changing the culture of music. His last album he gave away for free online, and he is building a studio with the intention of giving opportunities to broke, unknown artists. My impression is that the studio is pretty much being built by donations. Anyway, I found a physical address on the email, so I got an envelope, wrote him an encouraging note, and went to my tip jar in the cupboard. I thought of giving him $40, or $100, but I settled on $50. I sealed the envelope but didn't have time to stick it in the mail before I had to go out the door. That night at work, I made over $100 in tips, which was a record for Thursday night (usually I make $30-$60 in tips on a Thursday evening.) It did not even make sense--we were not very busy, and I didn't wait on any particularly big/expensive tables. But everyone I waited on tipped me 20% or more. My boss even double checked the credit card tips and asked me about it, because it seemed like a mistake to her, but all the numbers were right. I was delighted, and thought, maybe I should have given Josh Garrels more!

The next day, Friday, February 8, my husband called to say we had received our federal tax refund. He told me to give $400 to Jordan first. I got really excited to give him a bigger gift than my usual $20 or $40; I knew it would really help with his finances. I was looking forward to my lunch break when I could walk to the bank and then take the gift to him at the house of prayer. As I got excited, I told one of my co-workers (Leo from Guatemala) that we got our tax refund and I'm going to give to my friend who works/volunteers across the street. I told him, when I give, then I receive more. I told him about the gift I set aside on Thursday, and how I made twice as many tips as I expected that same day.

A few weeks ago, I gave Jordan $100 on a Thursday or Friday. On that Saturday night, I made more tips than I had ever made in one shift--$200! But today, the Lord set a new record for me--and a new record for the restaurant, I think!

Tonight I waited on a table with two men--one in his 30's perhaps, with glasses and I thought he was kind of funny-looking, but seemed very sweet. The other man had white hair. He was pleasant but not remarkable or particularly memorable. They had their tea, their food, and then they ordered a couple dishes to go, following the chef's recommendation for the spiciest dishes. I worked hard to serve them well, but waiting on them was uneventful until I took their payment. The older man paid--I saw that it was cash, and I asked if he needed change. He firmly said no. I took the money to the register, and the tip was $130! Embarrassed, I took a receipt to him and asked sheepishly, are you sure you don't need any change? He firmly said no again, and said, "I know what I put in there, it's for you. You might think I'm a fool, but 'a fool and his money are soon parted.'" I was flabbergasted and stuttered a thank you. I went to get their to-go food, and almost felt embarrassed to go back to the table. I immediately recognized that the Lord was already giving me more to give. I told the man, stumbling on my words and almost choking up, that I have been practicing giving and I just today gave someone a large gift (maybe I told him it was $400, I don't remember) and this is amazing to already receive more. Somehow I think I communicated that I thought this was a blessing related to the gift I had just given. The man said cheerfully, "well, enjoy your weekend!" with a twinkle in his eye. I replied, "I'm going to have fun giving some more!"

Oh but the story gets better. As I am delivering food to another table, I cross paths with the giver on his way out the door. He says loudly, “Miss, would you stop a minute?” So I pause, and he says, “This is also for you,” and he sets down some folded money near me. I quickly put the plates on the table a few steps away and rush back to grab the money. I see another $100 and I stuff it in my pocket, again blown away and slightly embarrassed. I tell my co-workers he gave me another $100, and I tell them how I have been practicing giving and I keep receiving. My Thai Buddhist manager acknowledges that buddhists also believe that if you give, you will receive. And, she says, "it works."

It's near the end of my shift, so I finish the paperwork for my credit card tips and get cash for them. We are supposed to tip the kitchen 15% of what we make, but it's split between 3-5 people. On a good night, they get $10 each and the servers get $80 each. I often feel bad that I make so much more money than the cooks, who work as hard as I do, so I often tip them more than I have to. On this night, thinking I have earned about $300 in tips, I give the four cooks and one dishwasher $20 each. I did not intend to get attention for it—I just feel happy to share the blessing! My co-workers, who were amazed at my large tip, are also stunned when they see all the cooks' tip buckets (in plain view) with $20 bills.

I told Leo in the kitchen about the big tip and he joked, I don't believe you--you must be kidding me. So right before I left, I went into the kitchen and pulled out the two $100 bills for him to see, but when I unfolded the bill I had shoved in my pocket, there were TWO and not one! I gave $100 to the kitchen and then discovered I had $100 more than I thought! This last discovery, I did not share with all my co-workers that night. It was too overwhelming. The server who has been there for 12 years, very hard working and good at her job, seemed more bewildered than anyone. She kept saying, I don't understand--why did he give that to you? The youngest server, who is a believer like me, knew that it was God's hand. Before I left I said to her, "I cleaned all my tables but I didn't set them. Do you need me to set them before I go?" She replied, "I don't even care! I'll do anything for you! You just got a huge tip and I can't stop smiling!"

Cheerful givers

"Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity." 2 Corinthians 8:2

I lead a small worship and prayer meeting on Monday evenings. When I say it like that, it sounds dry and church-y. But it's one of the highlights of my week--being in the presence of God together with my friends fills my heart with sweet light. I anticipate this meeting as a time to be refreshed and renewed; we usually go home glowing. But sometimes, I want the sweetness to last a little longer, i.e. social time after the meeting.

Recently I invited my friend, Kara, and her son, Tommy, to go out for dessert afterward. My only agenda was just to continue the fellowship of the Spirit we had during our prayer time; it just felt so good to be together. Kara is a gift of honest, free fellowship. With a grin, she often bursts out, "Koinonia!" during our delightful, intriguing and sometimes challenging conversations.

Kara and Tommy cheerfully said yes to dessert at 10:30 pm on a Monday evening, when almost nothing in Salem, Oregon is open! I called my husband to say I'd be home late, and he said I should come home and get some cash because we didn't have money in the bank for me to use the debit card.  My friends overheard me and said not to worry, they would pay for it.

After driving to a few different places that were already closed, we found a restaurant that was open. As we looked over the menu, they calculated. All the money they had in their possession was $12 in the bank, and Tommy had $2 in his wallet! I suddenly felt terrible that I hadn't gone home to get money. My husband still had a wad of cash in the cupboard leftover from our tax refund. I usually get very uncomfortable when I don't know if I will have enough money to pay my share in a social situation. I usually pretend to be fine but make worried calculations in my head. I would never volunteer to pay for someone else if I only had $14 in the whole world!  


But Kara and Tommy were completely relaxed and cheerful, not even embarrassed!  They used a phone calculator to figure out what they could afford. The decided what they were getting, then they encouraged me to choose a dessert, since I had asked to go out to dessert. I knew I had some cash in my wallet, but I underestimated how much. I dug out two or three dollars, mostly quarters I had been saving for laundry.  I protested that they didn't need to spend their last five dollars buying me dessert! "No, we're definitely spending all of it!" Kara said. I argued that I didn't really care about dessert, I just wanted an excuse to be together.  I really didn't mind drinking water and sharing the tater tots.  But Kara insisted--insisted!--that I choose a dessert.

It's hard to explain, because I have never seen it before--but this was not your standard polite arm-wrestle for the bill, where some of the motives are tangled up with social expectations and the desire to appear generously in-control. There was also no hint of martyrdom in my friend's cheerful that-settles-it argument: "God takes care of us each day, and He said not to worry about tomorrow." I had some social guilt too, because I initiated our outing and then came up empty-handed! You're not supposed to invite people to go out unless you are prepared to at least pay for yourself.  But, trusting my intentions completely, Kara cheerfully brushed past my social mistake. I had no choice but to order the decadent brownie topped with nuts and ice cream. And enjoy it as freely as I had received!

Not only were they happily un-embarrassed to do the math in front of me, but when it came time to pay the bill, they were equally unashamed to ask the waiter to put $12 of the bill on the debit card and we would pay the rest in $1 bills and quarters!

Now I can happily say I know what it looks like to "give cheerfully"!

Vision for Fullness

This is a dream I had a year ago; I happened to dig it up today. These are the raw notes I wrote when I woke up, with my own comments in italic. I dreamed....

A father was given a party in his honor. He saw his daughter and son sitting in the driveway in their car, and wondered why they weren’t coming in.  I said, they’re probably arguing.
Have you ever missed out on God's celebration because you were too busy fighting?

Then the father brought out a huge flag and waved it at them:  it was as wide as he was tall.  He got down on one knee and spread out his arms to hold it up.  It was a white flag with an outline of a man, half of him was black (left side) half red, but the outline wasn’t filled in solid, rather it looked like veins or a sponge.
His banner is love, and His love is as deep and wide as He Himself... but this is also a white flag of surrender. A call to surrender.  The way of the Kingdom of God is voluntarily laying down our rights for the sake of love and unity. Not under compulsion, but as a response to the invitation of love.  Maybe the black and red man illustrates the two natures within us at war, spirit and flesh. We are being renewed in this life, constantly growing in the Spirit and putting to death the ways of selfishness and corruption.  Since the outline is not yet filled in, there is much still to be determined in this struggle.  Which will flow like a river in our lives? The sin nature or the life of the Spirit?

Then like a commercial in front of me, his voice boomed, and it was like Kirk Bennett’s voice but also like the Lord’s --and the words were white on a black screen, “Do you have vision for the fullness?” There were more words I don’t remember, but I also remember this part (not exactly word for word):  “We have touched and held things that have burned our members.“ In the dream, I thought this statement referred to the things of God that had scorched the flesh.
When we begin to grow and draw near to God, He begins to expose darkness in our hearts in order to deliver us from it. At this point, some people become discouraged or turn away.  But "our members" also refers to community, since we are the Body of Christ with many members.  The work of deliverance that God does privately in our hearts can be painful, but the relationships that He ordains also include pain. Both the pain of hearing the truth (from God) we did not want to hear, and the pain of each other's failures and shortcomings.  You see, God can use your shortcomings for my good.  Even your sin and weakness--your short temper, your flakiness, your coldness--is God's kindness toward me to help me grow in humility, kindness, patience and grace.  I will do what I can to help you, but in the meantime God wants to use the wounds among us for our own good.

I felt challenged by this--would I have vision for fullness? Would I be willing to endure pain for it?

Hunger

I remember hearing a missionary in Mozambique say, “I don’t fast to become more spiritual.  I fast so that I know what it’s like to be hungry.”

The last few days I was hungry.  The little food we had, I was trying to save for my kids.  We had spent a lot of my husband’s first paycheck moving into our new place, and didn’t have much left.

Hunger is humbling.  Hunger reminds us that our frame is just dust.

Yesterday, I bought a cart load of groceries--thanks to the State of Oregon--so that we can eat like kings until the next paycheck catches us up.  I felt a little shame “spending tax-payer money” to feed my family fresh fruit and vegetables, but since shame accomplishes nothing I decided to be thankful.

After feeding the kids and giving my husband a plate in the living room, I sat at my kitchen table alone surrounded with half-empty moving boxes, looking at my plate of asparagus, pasta and sausage.  I don’t faithfully pray before every meal, but this time I remembered. "Thank you, Jesus, for this food," I said over and over. "And bless the State of Oregon and the taxpayers who paid for it."

I thought of all the people in the world who don’t have a government or a neighbor or a relative they can ask for food. So I prayed a childish prayer: “God, please feed everyone in the world who is hungry.”

What can I do?  I can send some money to my friends who are rescuing babies in China. I can freely give to people I know as I have freely received.  I can buy a cup of coffee for one of my homeless friends.  I can support my friends‘ businesses.  "I can make a difference!"

But maybe the childish prayer is good.  God, please feed everyone who is hungry.  And use me.  Many are hungry, in many different ways.  Hungry for love, hungry for significance, hungry for redemption. And just plain hungry for food.

In the imminent future of God’s Kingdom coming to earth, for the ones who hang all their needs on God Himself, there will be no more crying, no more sighing, no more sickness, "and He will wipe every tear from their eye." Soon He will erase sickness, pain, and hunger, too.

It’s my honor to help feed the hungry, but only the wise, good, and generous King will solve hunger once and for all. My faith is in Him, not humanity.  The ones with faith in humanity will call me naïve, but I take comfort in His justice. The meek will inherit the earth, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled, in every way.

My Favorite Place: Scribbles from Thursday in the House of Prayer

I have found the path into God’s Presence.  I return again and again, like a deer cutting through brush to water.  Each time the path becomes a little easier, and now I can follow it even in the dark.  I have this path in my heart, and I am blessed.

We talk about God’s Presence as a place: we “enter” worship and we “come before” God. Yet the Presence is not a place like a building is a place--it's more real, more permanent than a building. All other beautiful places and spaces of this life are quickly-fading shadows of the Place of God’s Presence.

Last Thursday we were singing about the new Jerusalem John saw (Revelation 21), and God said He would dwell with us.  And in the midst of the song and meditation, my heart started moving toward Home--my eternal home, the far country, the motherland, Jerusalem above, where I am truly a citizen, beloved and fully known.  Jesus says the first things will pass away, and He makes all things new. The building we use for worship will pass away, but our Place worshiping God in His Presence will endure into the age to come.  Every time we enter His Presence, every moment we spend in His shadow, is a glimpse and glimmer of that day, when our Place of prayer in this life will seamlessly join the age of unveiled unbroken loving union.

Mind you, I am not wishing for death in any morbid way, and I am not twiddling my thumbs waiting for Jesus to return. The Spirit and the Bride say, "Come, Lord Jesus," but every moment in the Presence catapults us toward the consummation.  In prayer and worship (I use these interchangeably) I touch eternity. Really.

I could not resist this tangent: Not only is my Place of prayer a real place, but the relationships formed through prayer are eternal.  My fellow pilgrims who go with me into the Presence, the ones who walk beside me as we follow Jesus--we will go together into the Presence in the new Jerusalem.  The love we have now will be multiplied, cleansed of selfishness and shame, and full of glory in the age to come.  When we’re in the Presence together now, I already feel little pangs of heavenly love for the dark but lovely children of the new Jerusalem, the gems hidden in earthen vessels, the majestic ones in the earth.

I especially feel tenderness toward my gracious brothers, Stephen Suing and Jordan Bentley, who have helped me beat down the path into the Presence every Thursday for years.  I love to imagine the age to come with them.  Since we will worship for all eternity, I think eventually it will be our turn to lead worship there as we have here on earth. Of course, the instruments and music will be infinitely superior, and I won’t miss a note, but I think we will still have some of the same style and passion we have now. All the glory we experience in this life is a shadow of the age to come, so I think we will still have the same joy of music, friendship, and encountering our Magnificent Obsession… only it will be even more joyful, delightful, and glorious than we ever imagined!

I love mulling over these thoughts, letting them blow my mind until I can only laugh.  The Presence of God is my favorite Place.

P.S.  If you want to know how to get the path to Presence in your heart, I can tell you!  I found it slowly through practice and grace, not by accident and not because I'm more special than you.  I'm not.

Stillness: Scribbles from Thursday in the House of Prayer

There’s a wonderful empty space between my thoughts and Yours, a field of peace yawning to the horizon.  When my striving drains out, when I feel the stillness of an empty heart, then I also feel Your life and breath permeating me.
Your words are always welcome, but in this stillness between my small words and Your bottomless wisdom, between our words is the sweet place of molding where I learn to relax in my weakness and wait for You.
Here there is peace beyond words and strength swells up like a silent unbroken wave.  In this lovely quiet, words are too small to be part of our great exchange.
It’s hypocritical, I know, to try to spend words describing a stillness beyond words, but words are where I dwell most of the time.  I just wanted a reminder to myself, in my world of words, a reminder of that other place without words.  I hope I will find my way back soon.
~November 3, 2011

Surprising Kindness

In college I experienced a classic crisis of faith.  I attended University of Portland, a Catholic school, run by Holy Cross priests.  I’m Protestant.  Public universities have a reputation for rooting out faith like a weed of ignorance; I chose UP so I could use my brain but keep my faith.

As a freshman, one of my friends was taking a course in religion and science from an old priest, Father Hosinski.  My friend told me all about the class, especially the alternate explanations for miracles in the Bible.  It was psychologically traumatic for me; my faith was still immature and narrow.  My friend kept preaching, “Father Hosinski says…” and delightedly kicking legs out from under me. So I went to confront Father Hosinksi with my bitter pain and questions.

I will never forget the wrinkled old priest’s gentleness and ease--he was not interested in destroying anyone’s faith.  His life of poverty, chastity and obedience had worn away any sharp edges.  He had no agenda.  He refused to tell me which way to turn or what to believe. He seemed to be looking at me in a much wider picture.  In this narrow moment, I was gripped by fear of losing my faith anchor, but he seemed to lean back, take in a grand view, and assure me that God would find me and I would find God. 

He did not say those words out loud.  I don’t remember exactly what he said or what I said, I just remember his smile, the happy house plants draped around bookshelves and filing cabinets in his dim little office, and how some of my fear drained out that day.

My own lens widened a little when I took Father Hosinksi’s religion class.  Although he is a “man of science,” he told the class he believed in Jesus’ literal Resurrection, “because nothing else could explain the change in his disciples.”  He also choked up in front of the class when he read the story of the Prodigal Son, and told us, his voice cracking, how God had been his Father.

Sometimes I again find myself absorbed in a moment.  My faith is not in crisis, but I still feel the restless fear and frustration I packed into Father Hosinksi‘s office that day.  

I am a mother of two.  I always thought I would want to have a "bunch" of children “someday.”  Now that I’ve begun, I am having second thoughts.  My life is filled with diapers and potty-training and runny noses… and the bewildering questions of how to handle the original sin rising up at 2 and 3 years old.  I can’t just kick them out of the garden; I have to keep living with them.

But my life is also full of sweet moments when heaven breaks in and I can see more widely.  This morning, I was reading Matthew 6. Jesus says not to worry about what you will eat or drink or wear, because your heavenly Father knows what you need before you ask…  I think of how I know when my children need to go to sleep or eat something or use the bathroom--before they do.  And they don’t like it, but I really do know better.  And I think of how they make their needs known and trust me to take care of them.  They don’t worry about whether there will be food tomorrow. And when they are tired they whine and cry, but I can sit back and look at the big picture, and smile because I know that soon they will sleep peacefully with all their needs met.  So I say to God, I want to be like a little child who trusts You.  I fuss and fret and cry, but He sits back and smiles because He is doing what’s best for me.  He sees the wide picture, lets me unload my fears, and says, don’t worry, you’ll find Me and I’ll find you.