Shoved and Elbowed by God

Photo: Raul Lierberwirth, Creative Commons, cc license

Drying my hands on my pants, I stepped around the corner. Sitting outside the church sanctuary on hallway benches, a young couple leaned close. Smiling and bending down to hug them, I talked briefly, already hearing the first song playing.

Photo: Theen Moy, Creative Commons, cc license

My friend's eyes were tired, her answers perfunctory although warm, and I saw her young husband stroke her arm. I touched their shoulders again in love, raved about how cute their round-faced baby was, and strode away.

Seven-year old Daniel skipped beside me, gripping his Sunday School papers, while we shook the ushers' hands and stepped into the dimly-lit worship center. It was crowded but we found three seats, knowing Mark would join us shortly. Pushing my hair back, I stood and joined the singing.

"Go back," I felt God say.

"Now? I just got here. Leave worship?"

"Go back. Go now," God shoved me mentally.

"Daniel, I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?" I could see my friend Daisy just two chairs away and knew Mark would be there any minute.

"Okay, Mom," Daniel said, his forty-nine inches so short in the dark room.

In the hallway, her husband was alone as I approached.

"Is she in the bathroom?" I guessed, heading that way.

"No, she went out to the car."

I spun around and bounced downstairs. He called out the car make and model but Honda-something was unfamiliar to me anyway. I walked the parking aisles, looking for a head in a car.

"Lord, help," I asked.

Three passes later, I found her and knocked on the car window, crawling inside. Her eyes were red and she swiped a sweatshirt hand across her cute freckled cheeks.

"Hi, God loves you so much, do you know that? He told me to come back. He knew," I said softly.

We talked and opened up our lives together. Worship in the parking lot looked like praying, raw talks, and reminding ourselves of God's heart.

Thanks, God, that you are perceptive and tender, and that you are good at nudging me hard some days.
 

What the Engagement Books Never Tell You

Our words hung in the air, awkward and heavy. With anger and hurt on both sides, there was no easy fix.

Photo: Ed Yourdon, Creative Commons, cc license

"I have to go. Morgan needs to get to class."

The drive is quiet, somber; a respectful honor in the silence.

Beside a sunny library window, I text words of apology and await his. I journal and rant for several pages before asking God to soften me, to soften my husband, and to bring peace. Help me, God, to choose my words, to use them well, to seek appropriate times for deeper discussions, and to do them honoringly? Erase my anger and his.

We bought a new bed several years ago, my husband and I. Constructed with a layer of memory-foam on top, the bed is designed to conform to your body, offering optimum support. Two years later, we see now that the mattress tells a story of who sleeps where. Here is his side, here is mine, and in between a raised ridge where weight and time don't dwell there as long.

He pulls me near in these cool autumn nights, and in the still-dark mornings, into this middle ground on the bed. And I grin and nestle closer, feeling his chest strong against my back. We move in sleepy familiarity into the spoon-cuddle mode. He moves forward, pulling me next to him, and I wriggle backwards, dipping under his chin. While I pull my long hair high on the pillow, he slides the edge of the pillowcase across my neck, hiding any ticklish hairs, and we sigh. Our breathing slows, matches inhalation lengths, exhaling together.

And perhaps this is how a marriage lasts long? Pushing down any walls that creep between us, asking God's help to soften our hearts, and curling up in syncopated breathing.

Korean Octopus, and You, and Me

"Whoa, octopus! Let's get some."

He's peering in past a frosted glass window to a ten-inch package of purple tentacled octopus legs coiled tightly, their suction cups pointed out at us. In an international Asian grocery store with green tea popsicles and dried mango slices, I love that seven year old Daniel is brave and eager to try new things.

Photo: J. Griffin Stewart, Creative Commons, cc license

"We'll see," I murmur, "I don't know how to cook them yet."

Twenty minutes later in the deli section, we see it, and my husband and I grin to each other. "Daniel, remember how you wanted to eat octopus? They have it here. We'll get some!"

He cheers and skips happily as we edge closer to the counter. Soon we are crowded around a small square table, the three of us sharing a monstrous bowl of soup and nibbling steaming octopus dumplings. He slurps beside us, wrestling with his chop sticks on the miles of ramen noodles, and the beauty of this moment etches itself onto my heart. Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Hmong, and our European blend of German, English, Irish, and Czech whirl and pass in this busy, jumping restaurant, a gorgeous mix of cultures and languages. And I love that I can sip spicy Japanese soup, sample Korean octopus dumplings, and pass tall elegant veiled Somali women on the sidewalk outside.

We finish our meal, wipe up our spills, and carry the dishes to a back corner. Paying for the groceries, we drag a metal cart holding our fifty pound bag of rice to the car, and turn towards home. In the car, the Minneapolis skyline dips and whirs past, and the beauty of cultures reminds me of heaven.

Daniel surprised me recently. Sitting on the couch beside me, he said, "I have a Korean friend."

"Yeah, you do," I agreed, thinking of his cousin and several friends from church. "That's cool, huh?"

"I'm a little Korean too," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Really?" I asked, curious to see where this was going, looking at my son's summer-highlighted caramel hair, brown eyes, and peach face.

"Yeah, I have the shirt."

And I laughed to remember that his cousin and his friends had all received the same soccer jersey he had from a recent missions trip. And apparently having identical shirts from overseas makes him Korean.

I hugged him and thought about heaven where the Bible says we will have people from every language and people group around the Creator's throne, and I can't wait. You and me? We're part of an international family. It is beautiful, vibrant, and requires action some days too. 


I have the shirt.

The Call on Line Two

It started last Monday night, but I didn't have the courage to say anything until Tuesday. Well, Wednesday, honestly, if you count non-husband people. Because I whispered it to him Tuesday morning, the shy awkward news about an embarrassing uncomfortable pain.

Photo: Flavia, Flickr user

And you don't want to know. Just nod and murmur comforting noises and we'll leave it at that. Tuesday I grabbed my cell phone and money and headed to the store for medicine. Then I grimaced, moaned, and tried not to aggravate it.

By Wednesday, the pain was worse and I wrestled courage with both hands and stumbled over the words with my children and on the phone to my mom.

"Oh, by the time you're my age, you won't be embarrassed about anything," she laughed and clucked sympathetically. She discussed home remedies, and I listened and nodded. 

"I've decided to pray," I blurted out. "There are so many people with chronic pain or who are suffering more seriously than this." I could picture friends whose relatives were in hospice and ones who lived with daily pain. "I've been using the pangs as reminders to pray," I stopped, then added with a sad laugh. "I've prayed a lot today."

And I did. In between flinches and hobbled walking sessions, I gritted teeth and thanked God that this pain was rare for me, bringing names to my lips of friends, families, and people I knew in pain. Although my ailment was trivial in comparison, I rested in the truth that our Abba Dad God looked with sympathy and love on each of us.

Photo: Deb Nystrom, Flickr user

Photo: Matt 0983, Flickr user

On Friday, my mom, sister, and I walked through the Minnesota State Fair, sniffing buttery corn on the cob, crispy chocolate chip cookies, braised turkey legs, and deep fried pronto pups. I wriggled toes in twinges of discomfort and thanked God for the people I saw and whose names rolled through my mind. "Thanks for these reminders to pray. Thank you that it's getting better too," I grinned at God.

My cell phone vibrated and rang, and Mark's first words flattened my chest. Terse quick sentences, then I raised eyes to my worried sister and mom.

"Daniel may have just had a seizure. I have to go." State Fair traffic flooded and ebbed around us, and my heart hammered, flushing cheeks red.

"Can we pray for you?" my sister asked, wondering if I had a minute. Leaning three heads in close, my mom and sister wrapped arms around me and I fought to follow their words. They talked to the God of the world and I remembered to breathe.

And this chance we have to say another's name aloud to the One who knows us intimately and has never stopped thinking of us is priceless, and it circles happily, unfazed. It's me who forgets in the moment to moment... about God, about friends and families in need, and I need reminders to pray, reminders to think of others, and it's a privilege to stride into God's throne room with a friend's name on our lips. "God?" and he nods, smiling, never at a loss.

Daniel is feeling fine now. (My silly ailments are improved too.) And I type, breathe, grate zucchini, put away clean dishes, and brainstorm supper, whispering names of friends and family who are in pain, thankful that our God has never forgotten. 
 

My Embarrassed Confession as a Neighbor

 

We've moved twice in three years, which is not normal for us. In both homes, we set down roots, spread our plants and dreams across the yards, and planted fruit bushes that require longevity.

In our last house, a square two-story yellow home fronted by purple maples, four pine trees in a row, and bursting raised garden beds, we enjoyed getting to know our Vietnamese neighbors beside us. Sniffing and salivating from the scent of deep-fried egg rolls coming from their garage, we brought over fresh baked cookies and flower bouquets of pink zinnias and orange sunflowers from our yard. They reciprocated with a plate of egg rolls and a sweet brown sauce. We swapped stories, consulted google translate at times for hard Vietnamese-English terms, and sank happy into their friendly warm smiles. 

Three years later now, that yellow house has been demolished and the green yard is trampled by parked bull-dozers, yellow cranes, and heavy machinery as the city widens roads and adds a water run-off pond there for the large store moving in across the road. 

Several blocks away in our new neighborhood, we have been here almost a year. We're still getting to know our neighbors, swapping bird seed recipes, and gratefully learning how to get rid of crabgrass. We cheered on the neighbors to the right of us as they re-sided their home, and we watched in prayerful concern as the family behind us chopped down a towering cedar pine tree by themselves, sawing it in chunks and dragging pieces down by rope. We prayed, peered out the windows, and wished we could be more helpful.

When we first moved here last August, we printed out our names, address, and a family photograph to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood, leaving those slips of paper in the screen doors of the families nearest us. We walked from door to door, introducing ourselves, and working to memorize their names.

Two weeks ago, though, we failed as neighbors. I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you.

It was the National Night Out, an evening celebrated around the nation when neighborhoods gather to connect with each other. A grey house two doors down from us stapled flyers on telephone poles earlier that week to announce their home as host. They mentioned root beer floats and lawn games. That Tuesday morning we found a taped notice on our door inviting us to come that night from 6:30 - 8:30 pm.

It was the week of our "stay-local vacation," and that night our family had scheduled a special ice cream outing as soon as my eldest got off work. We pulled away before the National Night Out party started, but hoped to be back in time after our ice cream family date.

Can I tell you something I haven't told my parents yet? (Yes, they were part of their city's national night out.) We, um, chickened out.

Driving back from Nelson's ice cream shop, feeling sticky and full, with sweet still creased between our lips, we rolled our car past the National Night Out party and were surprised to see fifty or sixty people mounded across the lawn. The size of the crowd, the sheer numbers of new names to learn, and our sticky hands, shirts, and lips brought a shy introverted feeling to all of us. We waved sheepishly as we passed and then crackled up our driveway, pulling as close to the garage and front door as we could, hoping to be out of sight from the party.

"Do you think it would be terrible if we didn't go?" we wondered aloud.

"Shhh, quick, get inside." And we slipped indoors.

Can I justify it by telling you we were with people all Friday, Sunday, and Monday, hosting several events here? It's true. Does it help to know that?

Yeah, I know. I grin and roll my eyes too. I'm thankful that God laughs and loves us. And I look forward to ongoing opportunities to get to know my neighbors.

(Um, Mom, Dad?...)

When Conflicts Creep in Between Christians...

I love that he accounted for conflict.

Photo: Ed Yourdon, Creative Commons, cc license

My french press Mahogany beans coffee was chilling in the fridge, and the sweetened condensed milk can's metal edges were already cool. I was heading out the door in thirty minutes for a women and kids weekly Park Play-date. I needed to scrounge up an easy lunch for us, but my mind was still on some verses from earlier.

I love that God anticipated the normal ins and outs of relationships. He knew that misunderstandings, grey areas, and disagreements would spring up between people and he wrote that into his book for us.

I've been working my way through the Bible book of Romans, and in Romans chapter 15 this week, I found three tools God gave to help in conflict situations. Now everyone's context is different. For that group of Jesus-following friends, there were some disagreements about foods and days of the week. Who should eat what? What was allowed? What should be outlawed? And we can so easily slap labels on ourselves and others, huh?

Misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and conflict can slide into any friendship or relationship. Sitting on a rock in my flower garden as I read this chapter, two repeated words caught my attention. "Endurance" and "Encouragement" are mentioned in verse four and again in verse five.

After citing the conflicting issues the Italian Roman church friends were having then, God gave Paul three pieces of advice to help resolve their disagreements. First, he pointed to the example of Jesus's death on the cross. Jesus put the needs of others above his own, even dying for his created ones. So, one aspect of working through disagreements and conflict is to carefully weigh the other person's feelings, thoughts, and desires, being willing to put their needs above my own.

Next, God pointed to the Bible-- not only as our source for truth, answers, and wisdom-- but also in the context of solving relational issues. "For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope" (vs.4). Last, the next sentence highlights another resource for defusing conflicts: "May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you a spirit of unity among yourselves as you follow Christ Jesus..."(vs. 5).

Do you have a place in your life where you need endurance?  Do you have relationships where you need encouragement? God specializes in that. For any complicated friendships, church relationships, family dynamics, or co-worker situation, isn't it exciting that we have a God who gives endurance and encouragement? I had never thought of God that way before. This God who gives endurance and encouragement.

In addition to being that source for us, God adds that our aim is glorifying God by our unity among Jesus-following people. Verse Five ends with:  "...So that, with one heart and mouth you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ."

When we let divisions, discouragements, and disunity crumble and cluster high between us, we get stuck in pain and isolation. And the world sees disjointed Christians. Stepping in, God can bring beauty and hope. He loves to give endurance, encouragement, and his tools to unify us in our relationships.

It was time to race out to the park. Pouring chilled coffee and sweetened condensed milk into a mug and grabbing an odd assortment of food, my son and I headed for the park. No specific conflicts loomed large overhead that day, but I found it changing how I prayed for people, for my family and friends, and for my own heart. To the God who gives endurance and encouragement, and practical advice for conflict situations.

I'd love to pray with you this week, if you have something going on in your life. Let me know in the comments below or by email.

Straddling True Relationships in a Busy World

Brassy coronets and high-hat-swinging percussionists ring out Benny Goodman's jazzy Trees. Crescendos echo and fall before Louis Armstrong steps up to croon Let's Fall In Love. Piano keys traipse up and down their black and white board.

Photo credit: Darwin Bell, Creative Commons, cc license

Behind me on the small desk stool, my nineteen year old folds himself up to fit on the chair. Long legs bend around bony knees, feet curled under him. His arms swing excitedly, hands gesturing, as he talks about his day and a new game he is making.

I nod, half-turned sideways to see him, while stirring at the stove. Red pumpkin curry sauce splatters and simmers next to a bubbling pot of rice. I repeat words back, striving to truly listen and focus on him, but am embarrassed to note that I've momentarily stopped listening. He nods and continues, while I slide a fork into a chunkier piece of chicken to confirm the pink is gone.

My timer dings that dinner is done, and four of us gather at a table set for five.

"Let's pray. Morgan will be here soon and John has to go to work," I suggest. My husband Mark and six year old Daniel take turns praying, and the front door clatters.

These moments with the people in our lives are so fleeting. I'm trying to do them well with God's help, but they look differently than I had originally guessed. 

Earlier, my niece and I followed three preschoolers across a backyard. The boys swung sticks, laughed in happy battles, and helped me clear dry leaves from the strawberry bed. My niece and I talked by the swings; talked by the slide; and talked in the kitchen. Wiping mashed black cookie bits from wet faces, slicing up apples, and refereeing pebble squabbles, we grinned and conversed through it all.

In these days of interruptions, how do we narrow in and let loved ones know they are truly seen? 

I'm still acquiring this, and my children can roll their eyes or share laughing stories of some of my comical failures, but here's what I'm learning. We invest in loved ones by following their eyes, by striving to truly hear, and by coming back again and again to the topics at hand. "So, tell me about this film," I asked my niece, and we laughed and resumed our focus.

It looks different than I thought it would, this desire to connect and bond with the people in our lives, but it's worth it. And the relationships are priceless.

When We Stop Seeing the Tape

Coffee and the morning sunshine rush my senses, illuminate the laminated map on my kitchen table, and highlight a few of last night's crumbs. I've been soaking in the words from the Biblical book of Nehemiah these last few months, returning to them again and again as I review for this weekend's women's retreat.

Photo: Chris Devers, Creative Commons, cc license

Yesterday I zipped up my youngest son's jacket and we drove to my sister's house. Working on an overwhelming list of home projects, she was lining up helpers all week. In between minor Lego squabbles between cousins, we prepped her kitchen for painting. Tearing green painter's tape into strips, I carefully hid wooden counter tops from the oncoming paint.

And it's made me smile, remembering my own strips of blue painter's tape that gathered dust on my kitchen counters for over a year. Because sometimes if we leave the tape there long enough, the project gets forgotten. Soon enough, the blue tape strips receded out of my attention and I rarely saw them. I wiped up crumbs from the toaster near the blue tape. I screwed back in an electric wall socket plate above one blue strip. Occasionally, the tape grabbed my attention and I muttered, "Oh, I need to finish painting this!" Yet, days passed, and other projects crept in. When we moved out of that house last month, I finally tore the blue tape off the counters, that corner still unpainted.

In the book of Nehemiah, he is surrounded by people who have stopped seeing the tape. Accustomed to broken home lives, broken communities, broken cities and relationships, they assume that this is the way it is. This must just be how life is. And they stand in the rubble.

We can do that too. After several years or several decades, we tend to evaluate the broken and hurting situations around us as "This is just the way life is" or "That's just the way things are between us." I hear us, friends, saying things like, "He's always been this way, Jen" or "We've been battling this all our lives," or "This is just who I am." And we stand in the rubble.

Nehemiah is an amazing true account of a man whom God called to stand up from the rubble, to stand up in the rubble, and to fight. Fight for your husbands, your wives, your sons, daughters, grandkids, friends, family, and communities. Then Nehemiah delivered the zinger: Don't be afraid. Our God is fighting for us!

Hi friends. I have missed meeting you here like this. You may be a silent reader from email, or from rss feed, or from other places online, but I appreciate these times of sitting down face to face across our computer screens. I bring myself here to you, sipping coffee, opening up, and whispering quietly here with you. Thank you for listening in, and for going on this God-adventure together.

The rubble in your own life... do you see it? Look for the dusty blue painter's tape in the far corners. See it? Let's tackle it together, in our own lives, in our kids' lives, in our deepest selves. God has been gently pointing out those areas in my life too, and I nod. The most exciting thing? The rubble doesn't need to stay that way! Our God is fighting for us.


(If you live near the St. Cloud, MN area and are interested in attending the "Living Life on Purpose" women's retreat, please contact Avon Community Church right away. I don't know if they still have room for registrations, but you are welcome to try. I love meeting you all. Pray with us for God to do amazing things this weekend, will you too?) 

What Blocks You from Living Full and Regret-Free

"Should we tell them what the meat is?" she asked me and I could hear the smile in her voice over the phone.

"No, let's wait until later in the meal," I decided. "They'll be more open to it."

The next day we scavenged chairs from all corners of my house and seated seven of us around the scratched cherry wood kitchen table. We prayed, then took turns scooping steaming rice onto our plates. Mom reached for our dishes and carefully ladled a savory meat sauce over the rice, pressing her spoon lower into the pot for more gravy. Garlic and herbs slow-cooked the meat into fall-off-the-bone tenderness, and we asked for seconds, extracting occasional tiny bones from our food.

"It's good!" my husband and kids agreed. "What is it?" Knowing my family, they were open to any news.

"Squirrel. Dad has five of them in the freezer," Mom said, and my family nodded their heads in little surprise.

"Those squirrels stole almost every apple off my tree," Dad said. "I'm down to just one apple left.  I've killed seven squirrels so far," he said, adjusting to a more comfortable position in the chair and smoothing out his napkin.

 I saw my parents again this weekend, my mom cutting my dad's hair. Him with a towel around his shoulders, silvery hair combed straight above his ears and my mom leaning in.

"Don't move," she warned, stretching the blades wide.

I leaned back against their cushioned kitchen chairs, watching them. Outside curved glass windows, my parents' backyard was a haven of landscaped flowers, ferns, and birds at the feeder. An occasional squirrel raced across the fence near the apple tree bobbing in the breeze, its lone apple bundled in a guarded plastic bag.

Finished with Dad's haircut, Mom wiped up slivers of glinting hair from the table and carefully folded the towel off Dad's shoulders, trapping loose hairs inside.

"Let's eat that apple now!" she decided suddenly. "Let's not wait until frost. Dad should eat his apple now..." she trailed off, and we finished the sentence in our minds.

I swallowed back misting tears and grabbed my video camera.

"...This is the first apple from our tree," my mom stated, giving the date and more information. My video-record light blinked red until she ended, and the wind blew sun-tossed leaves across the yard. Autumn's reds and yellows rained on us, then danced across the lawn. 

And I know you have this too... moments that need to be captured and savored, moments that need to be frozen in time. Because whether you have parents who are ill, kindergartners stepping freshly off the yellow bus each day, or taller loved ones walking into the front entryway each night with their briefcases, purses, or heavy backpacks, we all have moments that are slipping away. 

And our challenge? Our mission is to embrace them, to see them, and to fully step in. Step away from whatever you're working on and look deeply into the eyes of the ones you're with. See them, lean in to inhale their scent, and hug them tightly. Fully present in each moment, I want to look up from facebook, put aside my To Do list, and forget the busy. I want to savor and seize each moment.

Is there anyone you need to call? Any conversations you need to have? Someone you need to pause and truly see? Because the truth is, we all have the same moments, the same chances, the same twenty-four hours. And I don't want any regrets.

Say what needs to be said, my friends. Stop and savor life, and the ones around you. Live life fully, deeply, and in the splendored colors of fall. Don't wait.

Crimson and yellow climb up the trees around me, ricocheting off the blue sky. September's heat burns brilliantly, while autumn slips in quiet.

Slowing Summer Down & Speeding Up What Matters

Photo: Ron Doke, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Dennis Larsen, Creative Commons, cc license

Throaty Bryan Adams'-style singing drifts over from the church nearby. Flashy classic, sport, and muscle cars line up in rows, hoods propped open, motors gleaming at an annual summer car show. Live music streams past the aroma of grilled hot dogs, steaming metal in the sun, and aerosol spray cans.

"Soo, I sorta did my hair," my nineteen year old son texts me in droll nonchalance. I grin and ask for photos, already picturing red, green and blue dye on a temporary spiked hairdo from last year's car show.

My husband straps on sandals and holds the door open for our six year old. The door blows shut behind them as they walk to church too.

I'm grabbing my green water bottle and jumping into time with you, friends. The counter behind me is lined with half-done dishes, crimson watermelon slices in a bag, and last night's coffee press.

Can you smell the campfire? Wood smoke still emanates from my skin, hair, and clothing. Pony tails hang down my shoulders to rest on my chest, and can you feel it here with me? This slipping away of summer?

Thirty of us teens and adults piled up bikes in a friend's driveway and dropped sleeping bags in the yard for yesterday's Bike and Camp youth event. Bike riding, backyard volleyball, and cooking over a fire brings people together. Tin foil-wrapped packets of potatoes, carrots, and onions smoldered beside ground hamburger, and night fell before we pulled out the marshmallows and chocolate.

"Lord, give me a great love for these teens and for these people in my life," I asked him at one point, slipping quiet under a variegated green maple.

He does, and we all show love in different ways. Whether extrovert or introvert, no matter our personality styles, we slide into familiar ways of relating to the people around us. Some friends love the people around them by scraping eggs on a heavy skillet over smoking fires. Others shake dice in a cup game for hours, bluffing with a smirk; or start up dozens of conversations.

On top of blue trampolines while bouncing and ducking, or on wooden picnic benches beside the blueberry crumble bars, these one on one times with others are what God uses most often to grow deeper love within me for people. I love those chances to see into people's eyes, to hear their stories, and to get beyond the noise and busyness into greater depth.

Sunshine filters through fern-like branches outside now, and my husband and youngest son have returned. Noise commences. Highway hums whine into the distance, dissipating quickly, and a cardinal trills nearby.

Summer slips by, and our moments with the people in our lives flit by too. Grab today with me?

How to Never Have to Prove Yourself Again

Photo: Leigh Righton, Creative Commons, cc license

I'm sipping French pressed coffee and munching on red licorice, a breakfast of champions. In my ear a computer customer service agent talks me through steps to establish my identity for an annual renewal program. It's convoluted and frightening, the blue screens circling endlessly, dead-ending on the same screen each time.

And what is it about proving our identities that lands us in this same cycle? I see it in marriages, in sibling-parent relationships, and in boyfriend-girlfriend cycles. Too often we fall into loops of behavior or relating to each other that dead ends, bringing us back to the same blue ending. 

And I see it often, how we use words and facial expressions to send messages, but how frequently they are decoded wrongly and misunderstood. It can cause laughter, or raised eyebrows, raised voices, hurt, and frustration. Do you see it too?

I see it in my home sometimes also, sadly, and we're working on that. My man and I are carving our way through this new season. Choosing daily to try gentle tones, respectful voices, and affirming yet assertive communication, it is harder than it would seem, and we crash miserably in some conversations.

Sunday, while splashing dishes in the sink and planning our day, words sliced and cut in ignorance. We stood, recoiling, wondering how to retrace, recapture, restore. Water slid from the faucet and all was quiet. Fiery minds struggled for words, God's spirit whispered balm to both of us, and we raced through memory rooms for any psychological tools we could find.

A timed departure halted further forays, and we retreated, replaying sentences in our minds, striving to say them better, flushed faces still hot.

The temptation in that moment was to turn inward, replaying the hurt, and rekindling the fire. My battle (perhaps yours too, friend?) is to stop, remember who I really am, and to respond. Because my identity doesn't need to be fought for, proven, or carved out. It has been established, created, and sculpted by a Master Artist. I simply need to remember it, and live clothed in it.

Several hour later, my man and I sidled close in the kitchen, toes touching across the linoleum. Strapping on psychology tools and the Creator's guidance, we spoke again, expressing ourselves, re-stating some things, extending apologies and gentle grace.

And the cycle stopped, the blue screen disappeared, and life was well again, at least in real life.

(My computer problems still exist. Aiye! Pray?) 

The Ambushing Joy of No Cosmic Carnival Bell

Photo: Thomas Totz, Creative Commons cc license

Banana muffins sheen from melted butter and I'm on my fourth one. Hot from the oven, they steam when opened and glisten moist on a hot muggy May afternoon. A friend has just left, our tea cups and dishes still line the counter.

This afternoon, listening to my niece wash dishes behind me and my youngest play Legos before me, I scribbled lines in my journal and pulled my Bible closer to me on the kitchen table. A glossy plastic-covered map beneath my books showed me the Middle East and Asia, but all the verses I read pointed in towards me.

Reading of another one's healing, some verses hit me about my own life. I switched some pronouns and read, "By faith in the name of Jesus, this [woman] whom you see and know was made strong!" The next line continued, "It is Jesus's name and the faith that comes through him that has given this complete healing to [her], as you can all see."

I've been marking time, paying attention to date markers to track how God is healing areas in my life. Head and heart wounds, traps of thinking that have wrapped and twisted me some days have been slowly unwinding. Days following days of retraining my mind, of rejecting the lies we can all too easily whisper to ourselves and believe. Month slipping after quiet month, and most traces have all but disappeared.

It surprises me now, how thoroughly joy crept in. Healing, hope, and peace have ambushed us, and we are no longer the same.

And the humbling shrug-the-shoulders, can-take-no-credit-for-it-part? It's cryptically there in Acts 3:16, "It is Jesus's name and the faith that comes through him that has given this complete healing." The result is never truly about how much faith we can muster up. The result is not about rallying enough faith to ring some cosmic carnival bell, signaling Enough. The God-Man kindly, gently hands down the faith to us, giving us what we need to believe. And He... He is enough.

It surprises me now, how thoroughly joy crept in. And for you, my friend? He is enough for you too, whatever your story, your calendar marks, your wonders. He is enough, and he is handing down faith for you too.


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Do You Feel It Calling You?

Artist Thomas Rousing, Creative Commons, cc licensing

Can you remember it? The first time someone pointed it out to you or the first-time you noticed that feeling in your chest?

It might have been the way you caught that football pass while diving into the grass, or after they caught you belting out a song when you thought you were alone. It might have come in a teacher's scrawl at the bottom of a writing assignment, words that said, "You have talent. Keep going."

Was it about your drawing skills, or your speed in math, or how you are able to hold captive the attention of twenty children's eyes in elementary school and Sunday School?

Whether someone else noticed it yet or not, there is something you do that brings you joy. There is something you do that grabs your attention, gives you a little lift, and makes you want to strive all the more.

Famous Olympic runner Eric Liddell once said, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run, I feel his pleasure."

What is it for you that brings you joy, that calls you out to pursue further? For me, words and teaching grab my heart. I love learning new things, and then turning those concepts over and over in my mind, wrestling with how to best capture and describe them, linking them with other ideas. I love most of all learning about our Creator God, seeing his heart for his world and the transformative work he does. His artistic sculpting of people's lives and history amazes and delights me.

This weekend I get to join talented women like Angie Smith, Dee Brestin, Susie Larsen, and many more from across the nation to speak at the Set Apart Conference in St. Paul, Minnesota. These are women who love God and are passionate about using their words to share God's wild chasing love for his creation. And for me, I am honored to speak alongside them. When I get to talk about God, it feels like worship to my King.

If you are near the Minneapolis-St. Paul area and wish to join us, feel free to click here for any last-minute tickets. Join thousands of women from across the Midwest to get to know this God of hope, our Artist God. Feel free to come see me too. I would love to meet you and talk more. I am sharing "The Seven Needs of a Husband" in sessions A and B, on both Friday and Saturday.

What is it that brings you joy? What do you do that excites you? Would you join me this week in saying, "This thing, God? I'm doing it for you. It's worship to you."

I'd love to hear what yours is.

Camp David and a Danish

In an espresso-steaming coffee shop, all the tables are crowded. There are no vacancies except at the tall table in the corner. Three of us stagger ourselves respectfully amidst five close-proximity chairs, wielding our bags and books into puzzle-like-precision placements.

A cheese danish tantalizes me from a wrapped paper bag, while Komodo Dragon coffee and cream scald my throat deliciously. Warmth steals through my hand and body. The danish waits, however, while I resolve a relationship issue.

Tapping thumbs into a red and black cell phone, I text, "Hi, love, sorry. I did it right today when I worked at not criticizing. I messed up when... Will you forgive me?"

He responds gently and we start anew. With a click, the screen is cleared, and I proceed to my danish and books, feeling peaceful and relaxed.

Resentments in relationships can accumulate too easily, building up walls, brick by brick. In this new season of relationship, we're striving to stay soft-hearted, to be quick to apologize, and quick to forgive.

Do you have someone you need to talk to today? Leave the coffee, the danish, and grab a phone or a pen.

Linking with Duane at Scribing the Journey and Emily of Imperfect Prose. 

The Slushie from a Stranger

“Remember me?” he asked. The biker in yellow reflective jacket parked his bike at the end of the driveway, and started towards me. 

“Hi, I do.” I grinned amicably to the older gentleman behind me. I first met Carl the Can Man a few weeks ago—then too I was prying stubborn weeds from between my driveway’s stone pavers. That day, he had pointed to a can protruding from the recycling bin behind me. “Can I have that can?” he asked. 

“Sure,” I stammered, taken aback by a stranger marching up my walkway. 

Striding to me, he placed a business card in my hand. “Carl the Can Man,” it read with an address and phone number as well. 

“Nice business cards,” I told him, smiling. 

“My wife ordered these as a birthday present for me,” he replied. All business, he reached into my bin, retrieved the can, and headed back to the street. We spoke for a few more minutes while I introduced myself and asked him more about himself, and then he pedaled away, the yellow jacket bouncing sunshine as he disappeared down the road. 

Today, he stood at the foot of my driveway, asking if I remembered him. Yes, I did. Turning to look behind me, I scanned my recycle bin for any visible cans. 

“I don’t think I have any cans for you though today. Sorry.” I swiveled back to face him, expecting to see him. Instead he had walked up behind me already and was setting something down on the asphalt near me. A tall red gas station slushie stood beside my dusty metal trowel. 

“That’s for me?!” 

“Yep.” With no further explanation, he hopped on his bike, picked up his own gas station cardboard coffee, and steadied his bike.

“Wow, thank you. That's really sweet of you.” I picked up the plastic cup, felt the fresh chill of it hitting my fingers, and turned to look at him as he biked away. 

Food from a stranger. Childhood and parental warnings raced through my head, and yet I couldn’t discern any possible motive for danger. Three and a half hours of heavy weeding and landscaping had passed in a flash for me, while bikers and cars hummed forgotten behind me. Suddenly, it was 6:45 pm, a stranger had handed me a slushie and it was time for me to go inside and make a fast supper.

Grabbing the cherry slushie, I laughed, called Daniel in, and put the tools away, all while wondering, “Food from a stranger… to drink or not to drink…?”

What do you think I did? What would you have done?

Hi, friends. I enjoy sharing life with you, and always love hearing from you.  If you are reading this from an email and wish to join the conversation, click here.

How have you been enjoying your August weekend? 

Photo credit

Roses and Sit-ups

Somewhere between mincing onions and stirring rich yellow curry sauce, it happened. Hurtful words sliced deep. A quiet heart in a bustling room, tears held back. After supper, I grabbed my shoes and jacket, slipping out the door to the night.

The dark enveloped me. A rural sleep, so silent compared to my suburban home, muffled my steps. "Why, Lord?" Moonlight touched dark houses.

Sometimes marriage is romance and roses. Other times it seems more like situps and running the hard laps. Breathe, keep going, breathe, you can do it, breathe, this is worth it, breathe, the hard work pays off, breathe, this will be beautiful afterward.

In the pre-marital counseling sessions we do with young couples before they get married, we talk honestly about the great days of marriage and the hard days of marriage. We share that love is a choice, a commitment, and that in the hard moments when we may not even feel like we "like" each other, we need to race to God, ask him to soften our hearts, humble ourselves, and then choose to find the good, loving anew, having the hard talks.

I am passionate about strong marriages. I am in love with my man, and am so proud of him. He is a great youth pastor, wonderful dad, tender husband.

Walking under that night sky, I talked with and listened to God. "This is obedience to you," I said. "This is to make me more like you, right?" Too often I fall into focusing on what makes me feel loved, rather than on what shows love to my Creator (first), and then on what makes my husband feel loved.

Breathing deeply, inhaling the chilled night air, I grabbed the door handle. We made eye contact, and my heart softened. We cuddled into each other. Later we talked humbly in our dark room, apologizing, revealing, committing to look for ways to serve, build up and love each other.

The romance and roses returned, and the hard work paid off.