Intersecting Plot Lines

Photo credit: Daniel Ansel Tingcungco, Flickr, Creative Commons, cc

It's the tiny clues that hit my subconscious. Triggers of another plotline weaving briefly through mine.

A dark-haired man drives his car around a curve and, in the sixty seconds I see him, he's banging both hands on the steering wheel, and bouncing his body against the seat. Is he angry? Upset? Or dancing vehemently to his favorite song? Snowbanks and buildings hide him from sight.

Two therapists confer beside me about a nameless female client who is battling substance abuse. They role-play questions that will prompt further disclosure, and the older therapist passes on advice to the younger one.

"Has she hit on you yet?" he asks, sipping coffee from a white mug.

"...No? Good, good, that means you're projecting the right..." and the conversation flows on beside me.

Bobbed blonde and brunette nurses behind me share resources for dementia and scannable online time cards.

"Jerry Fisher" swipes a black ipad at the table beside me and leaves a phone message with his name and number. The world suddenly seems so public and open.

Male teen swishes boy bangs to the side, shifting binders and books more securely into his arm as he crosses the street, talking to brunette girl beside him.

Black shirted Native American art pairs with green and brown camo pants. A three-day beard contours up an angular masculine face, topped by a black fleece hat. He strides into view, then disappears.

Redhead in violet jacket unfolds bulging manilla folders from a stroke association fabric bag. "May I sit here?" she asks Jerry Fisher, still on the phone. Surprised, he nods silent assent and taps the table. "Rachel" on the coffee-cup studies her notes and starts leaving her own phone messages, while Jerry gives his phone number to invisible answering machines.

Stories intersect. Grey clouds climb higher and winter temperatures mount. Snow melts sloshy and car after car pulls into the coffee shop: each car a different story; each indoor square table-top a new tale. Plotlines mingle with each lidded cup. 

And then, just like that, silver Sentras, grey Corollas, and red Ford Focuses pull away, and the stories stream away, trailing in the distance.  

Your story and mine? The Writer knows them too, and is weaving those plot lines. 

(Thankful for a story-writing God.)

Shhh, They're Playing Your Song!

Photo Credit: Paulo Vicente, Creative Commons, cc

It's jarring and unexpected. Beer advertisements jangle loudly across my Kenny G saxophone instrumentals every five seconds. The latest in internet viruses seems to be this one, attacking online radio stations with incessant invisible advertisements. More than just the occasional advertisement between songs, these ads soon play nearly non-stop, blocking out all music.

As I look into tackling this computer issue, it strikes me how often our lives are like this too, though. Our Creator woos us, serenading us with songs of love. Too often, our focus is pulled off him. Others' voices, songs, and noises pop up, and soon his song is buried under chaos.

Want to clear away the noise with me tonight? Take a moment to pause life, turn off other distractions, quiet your mind, and listen to the original Singer. He's singing to you tonight.

"The Lord your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love
He will rejoice over you with singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)

Shhh, they're playing your song...

Happy Valentine's weekend, friend. Know that you are loved, pursued, and delighted in, by the Lover of your soul. He's playing your song...

The Love that Leaves Us Breathless

Photo: Flickr User: Daniela Silicz, Creative Commons, cc

There is a woman I know. Blonde hair hangs short on her neck as she races up and down stairs a million times a day, laughing breathlessly at the pedometer she wore for a week to count the steps. Steps that swept in love through peanut butter and jelly toast to a daughter with special needs, steps that answered worried calls from a child who wants to know she's near. My blonde haired friend kneads bread, measures gluten-free alternatives, and makes suppers from scratch, because that speaks love to her family's health. She hikes steps countless times a day, and her love for family tumbles over.

There is a woman I know. Brown curls tease the sides of her face whether she is cracking jokes or sharing about hard days. Wrapping arms round her kids, they pray "in Jesus' big and strong name," bringing all things to him. And on those hard days, when child mental health anxieties flail tiny limbs against a mother's safe body, this woman cushions in silent weeping love. In between occasional childhood angst, laughter rolls across a kitchen that smells deliciously of egg rolls and home made plum sauce, and her entryway screams welcome. I see love spilling across burnished hardwood floors and scattered shoes.

There is a woman I know.

She looks like you.

I see you. I know the way you care for your family on the days that you are tired. I see it in your kids' faces and their zipped up jackets when we pass in the hall or meet in a store. Scrounging creatively for meals after a tiring day, you still have homework to inquire about, spelling words to glance at, and the mystery of three mismatched socks on the floor.

I see you. The way you work to care for your man, striving to see him --really see him!--to love him, to learn his needs, to want the best marriage, even on the hard days. I see you.

Our God sees you too. You are loved, delighted in, prized. His very name means breath, pneuma, and his love for you tumbles over, spilling out, filling us with life.

There is a woman I know. She looks like you, and her love leaves others breathless.

(and counting with Ann at A Holy Experience...)

What God Never Assumes About You

Photo: Flickr User Tripu, Creative Common, cc

 Pool waters sparkle against grey stone. Always the gentleman, he stoops low to ask.

"Do you want to get well?" 

That was the question. And in fact, it really was the issue wasn't it? Because for as much as we gripe and complain about whatever is broken in our day, in our situation, in us, or in a relationship...

...that is always the question. "Do you want to get well?"

Pool waters sparkled against grey stone, as Jesus approached the man with the atrophied legs. He never assumes, this godhead. Because the man hadn't asked Jesus for healing, didn't even seem to know who was standing there before him.

All the man saw were the hurdles -- those obstacles blocking him from healing, from wholeness, from a different life --keeping him back.

Always the gentleman, Jesus stooped low and asked, "Do you want to get well?"

"Sir," said the invalid, "I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me." 

Then Jesus said to him, " Get up! Pick up your mat and walk." At once the man was cured; he picked up his mat and walked. 

"Do you want to get well, Jen? ...Of your bad attitudes, your tension and concerns? Do you want to get well, Jen, from this thing here?"

Yes, please. Yes, thank you.

"Do you want to get well?"

Then do the actions that show that. Stop, get up, walk in that way.

At once the man was cured.

This God who slippped politely up to the man at the pool of Bethesda is the same God who asks us. "Do you want to get well?"

At our response, he will reach in, take our faltering, paralyzed situations, and make them well. He is the God who can grow atrophied muscles, hearts, and relationships. He is the God who transforms brokenness into wholeness. 

"Do you want to get well?"

What Sex Unlocks in Marriage

Photo Credit: Maria Rosaria Sannino, Creative Commons, cc

It's a little bit like showing up to school with no pants on.

You've had that dream too, I'm sure. On a rushed morning getting ready for school, you dash out the door with your backpack and bag lunch. Not until you step out past the long line of orange school buses do you feel the wind on your thighs and realize that you've forgotten to put on your pants. Heart-thumping wildly, we all dash ourselves awake at this moment, our pulses racing as we sit up in a dark room.

I am honored to speak at an upcoming event this week, and love that they chose the "Ovens vs. Microwaves: Issues of Sexuality in Marriage" session of mine. It is one of my favorite workshops. Talking candidly about sex is a bit like showing up to school with no pants on. Yet it's a topic that we Christians need to talk about more often.

Whenever we fall into the notion that "good girls don't talk about sex or sexuality" we have forgotten how bluntly and unblushingly our God talks about sex. Sex was God's idea. He invented it, and us, intentionally sculpting in bundles of nerves throughout our bodies. Nerves that are not needed for the purposes of procreation, but are essential for pleasure.

In Hebrews 13:4, God declares, "Marriage is honorable in all, and the bed undefiled." The Greek word for bed here is koite, which in Latin is coitio meaning sex. Thus God says in Hebrews here that "Marriage is honorable in all, and the sex undefiled."

In the Biblical book of Song of Solomon, a play with two main characters, a Beloved and her Lover describe in tantalizing detail their desire for each other. On their wedding night at the consummation, a third voice enters the fray, saying quietly, smilingly, "Eat, o friends and drink; drink your fill, o lovers." Bible scholars wonder if this is their Creator telling them to enjoy what he has invented for them.

Gary Thomas, in his article entitled "The Power of a Pure Passion," explores some wild discoveries about sex and marriage, after new research on the chemical interactions of our brain, including the chemical oxytocin: 

The past decade has led to an explosion of understanding about the chemical interactions of our brains, and many insights about love and marriage have become more readily apparent. For starters, that wonderfully transcendent, carry-me-away feeling of infatuation will not last more than about 24 to 33 months. This sudden affection is intense, but it’s a “sprinter,” not a marathoner; it has no endurance, and will begin to fade about the time that most couples come home from their honeymoon.

As the inventor of our brains, our Creator knows this, so He also designed a follow-up act that literally renews a couple’s affection: sexual intimacy. Here’s how it works. At any given time, the female brain contains up to ten times more oxytocin than the male brain. Oxytocin is the bonding chemical that creates feelings of affection and empathy. You want to know why women tend to be more invested in close relationships than men? Oxytocin is one of the reasons.

There’s only one time in human experience when the husband’s level of oxytocin begins to approach that of his wife’s: immediately following an act of sexual intimacy. A man’s brain literally re-bonds with his spouse, making him, at that moment, more committed to his family, more satisfied with his wife, more invested in his home. Wives, why do your husbands want sex with you so often (whether they know this is the reason or not)? It’s because they never feel closer to you than immediately following that encounter.

Need some oxytocin? Does your man?

Take a moment to look across the room at him. Study his broad shoulders and that strong back. Close your eyes and remember his cologne, or sneak up to him and sniff his neck. Feel your lips on his skin. Think about some of the things you love about him emotionally and physically. Then disappear, and know that God is saying, "Have fun. I made this for you."

Hi friends. I love you stopping in. What do you think? What's an aspect of marriage that Christians don't talk enough about? 

(And linking with Ann to count gifts-- thankful for God's invention here today.) 

What Sports Cars and Physics Can Teach Our Families

Photo credit: Maciek, Creative Commons, cc

Sizzling Latino music rumbas through a sunny south-facing living room. Creamy light bounces dazzlingly off white sculpted snow drifts outside to dribble across red pillows and dented couch cushions inside. Wind-carved ledges hang off the roof, drape the deck, and swoop grandly through our yard. Swing-set chains disappear unexpectedly into snow drifts, the seats hidden below.

Photo credit: Carl Wycoff, Creative Commons, cc

My teen age daughter swipes long side bangs off her face, clipping them back, as we calculate physics at the table. Acceleration is calculated by subtracting the initial velocity from the final velocity, divided by time. We lean closer to read the problem about a sports car that speeds from zero to 60 miles an hour in 3 seconds, and I notice how tall she is, my lanky daughter. Fifteen years old looks good on her. We groan despondently at the subject, but grudgingly fill in the equation. Velocity flies by going east for the sports car, and into the future for this woman beside me.

How do you nurture and build memories with your kids on a daily basis? In between dishes, laundry, and physics problems, we sculpt our days at blinding speeds. Dentist trips, part-time jobs, and family activities carve swaths through our weeks, and I don't want it to erode away.

We laughed as we punched numbers in the calculator about initial and final velocity, my daughter and I. It wasn't the math-filled science. We found humor in odd places, and giggled together. Stopping to hug between subjects, we grabbed her notebooks and sprawled across my bed to read her math lecture together. All too soon, the talk of fully simplifying algebraic fractions trailed off, and she disappeared downstairs.

Walking back into the main rooms, a To-Do list spirals long in my mind, toys scatter my floor, and dirty dishes lean hazardously on my counter.

"Mom, play Uno with me?" my petite five year old asks softly. Shiny red Spiderman decals curl off his shirt. Tiny shoulders wait expectantly.

Snow spirals glitteringly away out the window behind him, as the wind swipes more of it. An afternoon sun slants shadows long across my carpet, climbing further up the red pillows.

He waits still, eyeing the black cards on the floor.

"Sure, bud, let's play some Uno."

And the snow drifts high on my deck, resisting the wind.

To the Peach Pie God

Photo credit to Curtis Palmer, Creative Commons, cc

The news from the big box company who wants to move in across the road from us and the pertinent land owner strikes fear in us. We look at cold hard facts and know that we can no longer stay in this home, but the realization leaves me heartsick and tight-chested. We worked for years to get this property, and have sunk in deep roots in the year and a half we've been here. I stare out the windows at my raspberry, strawberry, and rhubarb beds frozen under snowdrifts, and wonder if I'll have time to safely export them with me. Tulip and daffodil bulbs lie within reach of future bulldozing easements, locked from me in frozen earth.

A deadline decision looms just a week away, so we crunch numbers, scrunch foreheads, and seek wise counsel. And in between the inevitable, the fear, and the worrying grief, we hug long, and whisper truth to ourselves, to each other, and to our children.

"God is good, he can be trusted. He has always taken care of us, even lavishly, generously caring for us. He is the Peach Pie God, sending us a peach pie through teens when we were discouraged about youth ministry years ago. He is the Ball Road bliss home God, the marriage-redeeming God, the garden-creating God, the children-giving God, the Scene-striding God who knows the words to sustain the weary." 

At church yesterday, we admitted each apprehension our hearts threw out, and assured ourselves with truths of who God says he is. And yet, grief is allowed, and we God-followers are allowed to ache and say, "This is hard." In rawness, I stood to sing, and God sent lyrics for me. Tears fell as I sang,

"...Even when I'm caught in the middle of the storms of this life,
 I won't turn back I know you are near, 
And I will fear no evil, for my God is with me, 
And if my God is with me, whom then shall I fear, whom then shall I fear?
Oh no, you never let go, through the calm and through the storm,
Oh no, you never let go, in every high and every low
oh no you never let go, Lord you never let go of me

And I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on
and there will be an end to these troubles but until that day comes, 
still I praise you, still I will praise you..." (Matt Redman, "You Never Let Go")

The next song's lyrics said,

"...Troubles surround me, chaos abounding, 
my soul will rest in you, 
I will not fear the war, I will not fear the storm, 
my help is on the way, my help is on the way

Oh my God, he will not delay, my refuge and strength always, 
I will not fear, his promise is true,
my God will come through always.

...I lift my eyes up, my help comes from the Lord ..."(Kristian Stanfill's "Always")

I clenched my jaw against crying, wiped silent tears, and continued my conversation with God in song,

"Nothing formed against me shall stand, 
you hold the whole world in your hand
I'm standing firm in your promises,
you are faithful, you are faithful, you are faithful.

...I know who goes before me, I know who stands behind,
the God of angel armies is always by my side..." (Chris Tomlin, "Whom Shall I Fear?")

Sound and tech crews in the back flashed a pre-determined verse on the screen, and God whispered back,
      "Look to the Lord and his strength;
       seek his face always" (I Chronicles 16:11).

I don't know what your weekend has been like, or what you are going through, but our God loves you and is faithful. He has words he wants to tell you. Would you ask him, friend? Speak your worries, your wonders, your fears and excitements. Then sit back and wait. He wants to answer you, and will: through a song on the radio, through his words in the Bible, through a friend, a sermon, or an online note. You are loved.

I'd love to hear what you are thinking today, friends.

(And linking to count gifts with Ann. For his trust-worthy heart and for his whispers through song.)