Things I'm Thankful For..

My husband’s family owns a tree farm in Wisconsin, a large amount of land in a small town called Kellner. The Farm, as it’s known, is a magical, special treasure. A place that’s hard to find in these times. There are no T.V.’s at the Farm, it’s not wireless, and there are only a few actual bedrooms, and those are claimed first by the Yodi (as the oldest generation are affectionately called) and those with the youngest babes. Everyone else sleeps in the attic’s open dormer, or out in the barn- a converted barn that holds enough bunk beds for the boys and a few brave girls.

I just got back from a weekend at the Farm. This weekend’s theme was “Greek Fest.” On Saturday night we ate lamb with cucumber dressing and feta cheese and tomatoes and olives with pita bread. We wore togas and participated in our own version of “Greek Olympics”; young and old competed in challenges called “Dizzy Mummy” and “Bite Me.” Past themes of “Pirates and Rum” and “70’s Disco” have yielded similarly epic costumes and tables of food. As my mind falls back over the weekend images flash forward. Most involve laughter and happiness and lots and lots of food.

I can see a group of people around the large table on the inside porch, ages ranging from 8 year old Aubrey to 75 year old Byron. Their hands pound the table as one person flashes bunny ears and then a quick scratch of the head. Someone else scratches their head and then shoots an imaginary arrow. Bales of laughter erupt as the arrow receiver’s hands twitch and convulse, unable to think of another signal quickly enough as he loses this round of “Indian Signals.”

I see a table full of food made by many different hands. Amy’s Grecian Squares, Jill’s flaming cheese, Andy’s famous Orzo salad, the leg of lamb Dave spent all evening grilling, bowls of pita triangles and platters of tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, and olives. This table is weighed down by too much food to be consumed by that 26 people standing around it, waiting to dig in.

I see little Brett, a peanut of a 6-year with an impish grin, clad in a green toga he has worn faithfully all night. He bravely agrees to compete in “Dizzy Mummy” and soon he is off spinning like a top, wrapping toilet paper around himself as he spins faster and faster until he tumbles over dizzily giggling.

And perhaps my most favorite moment of the weekend was one that I almost missed. Jim, recently retired from a job he’d worked at most his adult life, comes in the house calling for “Toots.” He grabs his bride by the hand and leads her outside where I can just barely make out their figures, dancing on the porch in the moonlight.

These images stand out in my mind because they are perfect snapshots of what is so wonderful about the farm. The farm is a place where generations gather. Where grandparents play games with children and no one is too mature to make a fool of them self. It’s a haven where meals are events and emails fly around for weeks before divvying up dishes and drinks. It’s a play land where kids are treasured and encouraged to be kids. You can’t be bored at the farm when there are is a go kart named Blue to be driven and a trampoline for hopping and always someone your age to play with. The farm is special because families enjoy each other and marriages last the test of time. It’s rare and somewhat mysterious to me, but divorce has not touched this clan. There are 3 sets of grandparents and 8 sets of married couples- all of which are still together. I don’t know any other family that is like this. Being surrounded by this kind of commitment makes me feel secure. It gives me hope and helps me trust. My husband grew up with a family that valued commitment.

The Farm makes me thankful. I’m thankful Monster will grow up with a place to be a kid. I’m thankful he’ll learn how to chop wood and pee on a tree outside. I’m thankful he’ll have lots of adoring older cousins to dote on him and some his own age to explore with him. I’m thankful for a rich history of people who love each other. Of husbands who stay for the long haul and don’t trade up for a younger and prettier wife. I’m thankful for a group of people that enjoy sitting around a fire together. Who choose a weekend without their blackberries or video games or television shows in favor of silly games with toga wearing cousins and good tunes. They don’t just choose that kind of a weekend, they very much look forward to it.

Why I Now Love Leviticus

I have a confession. I’ve avoided reading many parts of the Bible, mainly the Old Testament. It’s not that I haven’t tried. I’ve committed myself to reading it from start to finish and always end up giving up somewhere between Genesis 33 and Exodus 13. I get bored, I lose my place, I don’t understand anything that I’m reading. But mostly I quit because I have a hard time reconciling that God of the Old Testament with the Christ I know in the New Testament. I get skittish around Bible stories that don’t fit the God I want to believe in. I don’t always trust that the God of the Old Testament is a God that I will love and adore as much as the Jesus I know in the New Testament. As a result I avoid much of the Old Testament. But I am a youth pastor now (or something like it) and I am embarrassed to admit that many of my students have a better knowledge of the Bible than I do. So 2010 is the year that I started a Bible reading plan. Usually I have a little Old Testament and a chapter in the New Testament and maybe a Psalm thrown in there for good measure. It’s a doable amount (less doable is the 3-5 days of catch up I end up doing when I continually get behind…but alas, I’ve got no one to blame but myself).

I’ll never forget the sense of accomplishment I felt when, at the beginning of February, I finished Exodus! I’d never gotten that far before! I understood why I’d never made it to that point before; God was protecting me from the pages and pages dedicated to the description of the tabernacle. In an earlier time, that might have put me over the edge. But I persevered. I powered through. And I was rewarded with…Leviticus. Oh Leviticus. My eyes hurt just thinking about it. But, in some beautiful foresight made by someone smarter than me, my Bible reading plan had me reading Leviticus along side Acts. Thank you Jesus.

I loved reading Leviticus alongside Acts. I love Acts. I love the bold faith, the crazy miracles, the energy of the Holy Spirit. But I appreciated both Acts and Leviticus more when I read them together. As I read list after list of what was clean and what was not in Leviticus, God lovingly brought me back to what He told Peter in Acts 10:15- “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean.” As I read page after page about sin offerings and guilt offerings in Leviticus, I realized through Acts just what Jesus’ death did. In the times before Christ’s life and death people had to make atonement and pay for their sins. They had to kill goats and drain the blood and do all sorts of other gross things. Christ’s death has taken that away. Goats and bulls and lambs do not have to die anymore. Christ paid the price! He freed us from the tiring game of evening up the score. Without Leviticus I never understood just how chained to this cycle of sacrifice and atonement the Jews were. It was a profound moment at Caribou coffeehouse when I realized the full weight of what Christ was freeing the Jews from on that cross and the extent of how life changing that message would have been to the people in Acts.

Leviticus shows me the depth and detail of the law and Acts constantly reiterates how Christ took all that away. It is not through the law, through circumcision and keeping Kosher that we are saved. It is through the grace of Jesus. Leviticus showed me grace in a new way. And so I plug along through the Old Testament, riddled with questions and wrestling to understand who God is in the midst of mind numbingly detailed rules and people being wiped off the earth in a moment because of their failure to obey. I realize that I need to study the Old Testament because I need to know who God really is and trust that I will still really like Him on the other side of it. And revelations like the ones I received in Leviticus and Acts are helping me to do just that.

Who's YOUR Story For?

IWho is your story for?

I love a good story. As a kid I was a voracious reader, devouring books as though they were Hostess Swiss cake rolls (by far my favorite “banned” treat as a child). My favorite part of meeting new people is getting to know their life story, and then, as I get to know them better, learning how that story has shaped and formed them. In my younger days I used to wish for a different story, one with more adventure, grit and danger. I have a pretty picture perfect life story. I’ve been incredibly blessed with two loving parents, family and friends that make life good, and virtually no major disaster or drama. I was a goody two shoes who played by the rules, which was easy because I was never really tempted in the first place. The closest I ever came to drugs was when the smelly kid pulled out a bag of weed on the bus home in 9^th grade. I immediately joined every possible after school activity to insure I would never have to take the bus again. Dork.

Anyway, the white picket fence suburb I grew up in gave me a story that is tame, and safe and would never inspire a made for t.v. movie. I always found myself daydreaming big dramatic moments. Even my conversion to Christ took about three years longer than it needed to because I kept waiting for that “moment.” Something akin to God speaking to me while being held hostage in a bank robbery. Telling me that he would spare my life if I promised to finally give it to Him. A moment that ended with me sharing Christ with the bank robbers who then gave their lives to Him and let all the hostages go. You know, no big deal….dork.

I think that’s why I love Paul’s story. Oh the drama and excitement! My overactive imagination could not have written it better myself. You have this hardcore Jesus hater, on his way to relentlessly hunt down the people of “the Way,” struck blind as he hears the voice of Jesus. By the time God restores his sight he is not the same. Saul became Paul. He is now in the temples, preaching that Jesus is the son of God. He has become like those he once hunted.

I love in Acts 22 when Paul speaks to the Jews who are trying to arrest him. He clearly shares his story with them, boldly telling of what Christ did to him, for him and through him. Paul was the perfect person to share this testimony to this group of people because of who he was before Christ changed his life. He was once like them. As Saul, he would have been in that crowd, calling for the death of the one who proclaims Jesus as the Messiah. If anyone’s story had a hope of softening the hardened hearts of this crowd it was Paul’s. The scene makes me imagine a modern day picture of Bill Maher attending some atheist convention as a changed man, sharing with the crowd his and God’s story, impacting them as only he could.

It also makes me wonder whom my story is for. Tame as it may be, it is the story God and I share and it has potential to impact someone. Who is your story for? Does your story contain parts you are ashamed of? Segments you wish you could edit out? I’m sure Paul cringed when he thought of the damage he caused while he watched Stephen being stoned to death. I’m sure he would have liked to gloss over why he was on the road to Damascus in the first place. But who Paul was is what makes his story so compelling. What Christ redeemed and saved in you is what will give hope to others. And if you’re like me, wondering if you would have a greater impact if your story had a bigger rock bottom moment, or some crazy loud message of hope and redemption…well, there are so many people who’s lives haven’t been so rocked to the core that they have no place to turn but God. Maybe those people need to hear how God works in the mundane moments of life and woos ordinary people in ordinary ways. Maybe those people need help becoming aware of the voice of God in the tamer moments of life. You are unique. God has worked uniquely in your life. Who can be impacted by your unique story?

Mother Fears....

I'm going to be a mother. I'm, technically, already someones mother I suppose. And it brings up all sorts of crazy feelings in me. There are the selfish ones: fear of too much weight gain, a constant obsession about the size of my expanding waist, fear of gaining weight too soon, worry about how much I'm eating, fear of gaining weight... I mean really- after years of avoiding weight gain at all cost how do they expect you to just be ok with it? There is the abundance of hormone induced feelings: I cry, I'm easily irritated, I have even less patience than normal. Then there are the overwhelming feelings: the crazy sense of huge significance when I talk to the baby, the wonder of what our kid will be like, the awareness of what a gigantic responsibility lies ahead of me, the realization that I will never sleep normally again.

There is another emotion that runs in a soft, underlying current throughout my day. Fear. All soon-to-be mothers talk about fear. There is fear that something will go wrong with the pregnancy, delivery, next 18+ years. And I have all those fears. But I have a stronger fear that I'm finding hard to articulate. It started with the intervention. My husband's family had an intervention for a family member. It was messy and hard and good in all the ways significant life events are. At the time of the intervention I was about 8 weeks pregnant- hardly anyone knew. And I sat there, my hand around my abdomen, watching this family member lash out at her mother, the woman who loves her child more than anything, who loves her child enough to tell her the truth. As I sat there clutching the space that was growing life inside of me I couldn't help but think about my child, and the inevitable day when he or she will break my heart. I thought of how much I loved this little peanut already and how much more I will love him or her. And I thought of the devastation I would feel if my child ever said those same things to me. I think that's when the fear began.

After that I began to have an unnatural fear about what the limits or depths of my love would be in the face of horrific adversity. I saw an Oprah episode with a woman whose father was a serial killer. And suddenly I thought- what if my kid is a sociopath? What if my child starts torturing animals at the age of 8? What if she kills someone? What if, no matter how much I teach my child to be kind, to regard others with dignity and compassion and love, what if he still becomes selfish and angry and without compassion? And my fear sets in. I don't fear that I won't be able to love him; I fear that I will love him too much. I fear the knowing- knowing that something is wrong with your child. Knowing that they are trapped in a world inside their minds that I can't help them escape from. Loving them so much and yet being horrified by their behavior. What if I can't save them from themselves and can't save myself from my love for them?

I fear the strength of this love because I know, no matter what decisions my future children make, I cannot stop loving them. But I also cannot feel anything but revulsion for the extreme possibility of decisions they could make. I have a sudden empathy for all the heartbroken mothers whose sons and daughters have done something heinous or horrific. In stories of good guys and bad guys, I find myself wondering what I would do if I was that bad guy's mother. I wonder if there is anything that could put a dent in the depth of this love. And I feel the weight of responsibility for the bad guy's victims. I find myself constantly asking myself what would I do if that were my child?? What would I do if this one I am carrying did that? It is a bizarre and persistent fear, an inner conflict that I find my mind returning to again and again. I don't think there is any worry like a mother's worry. Does God worry like this?

The Wonderous Tale of Helga the Hippo and Stevie the Spider Monkey

When I'm starting something new, I inevitably have that moment of overwhelming anxiety over where/how/when/what to start. Then, that song from "The Sound of Music" pops in my head. You know the one where Julie Andrews teaches the children to sing. Specifically, the part where Julie Andrews sings, "Let's start at the very beginning/ A very good place to start./ When you begin to read you start with A-B-C / When you begin to sing you start with Do-Re-Mi." And for most "somethings new" that I start, I can merely sing that song in my head and move forward, starting with whatever needs to be started first.

But today, I'm in the middle of my fourth week as a youth pastor. I've spent the past year as an intern where I had enough responsibility to feel like I was actually doing something, but not enough responsibility for me to do any serious damage...I hope. But now I'm actually calling the shots. Now I'm in charge- the only one in charge. I am the only student ministries staff member, the only student ministries worker period as I have no volunteers yet, and because the new music director has not yet started and the senior pastor has been on vacation for 2 and a half weeks I am really alone. For the morning hours the church hosts a few members who are in and out doing various "church work," a secretary, and a husband-wife janitor team all of whom generally leave by about noon. Which leaves me, alone, and incredibly uncertain of what to do. The hardest part is that our student ministries program doesn't start until September 20th. Weeks away. So while I've tried to meet as many students as possible after church on Sunday, there is very little I can do to connect with them, aside from stalking them all on facebook by using the Sunday School roster (which I've considered...and started doing...unfortunately none of them are getting back to me). And I feel hesitant to start planning a year of ministry without at least sort of knowing the students I'll be working with. So I just sort of feel...stuck.

Don't get me wrong, I'm earning my keep...or at least trying to. I'm spending my hours reading all those student ministry books I've been collecting, taking notes, recording ideas, making lists of the things I should pray for, making notes on my to do list to pray for all those things, cleaning and organizing my office, imagining what color I would paint the youth room if I could redo it, trying to remember the names of the people I've met, etc., etc. But underlying all of this "work" is a growing anxiety with a dash of excitement and anticipation. The anxiety is looming, gathering power like a summer storm that rolls in deeper and darker with each passing hour until the thunder cracks and the lightning splits. I can feel it as I read the words written by all of these "youth ministry experts," taunting me and fanning the "I'm not equipped/talented/devoted/faithful enough for this job" flames that really are quite strongly burning without any help thank you very much. I can feel it as I sit at my desk helpless and distracted. I can feel it when I get ready for work, already discouraged with a pitiful "to do" list. It makes me feel like a hippo, stuck in the mud, held down by her own massive weight, knowing vaguely that she can move, but not really sure she wants to put forth that much effort to take the first steps.

But there's also the dash of excitement and anticipation. Since I've made this switch to youth ministry my heart has been more and more certain that this is where I want to be. I love students. I love God. Putting those two things together seems too good to be true. In this interim "getting started" period I am also left feeling that within me exists a caged spider monkey. One that should not be caged and should be allowed to run free, flying from tree to tree, doing all things spider monkeys were created to do. And the monkey knows that she's about to be set free soon, so she's pacing, excited to stretch her legs and anticipating the rush of freedom that comes when you do what you were created to do.

And I'm now sitting in the tension of the hippo and the spider monkey. Bouncing my leg with excess energy, yet unwilling to do what comes next. Scared to death and yet bursting with a dangerous amount of passion for Christ. Waiting to figure out which creature wins. Desperate for action but paralyzed by fear. Needing to lean on the One who knows my heart and these wild animals inside of it.

What's on your mind? God is ready for some commitment.

I have a group of girlfriends I became close to when we all lived in New York City. These women are tremendous people, and truly great friends. And what is so wonderful and comforting about these friendships is that despite the fact that we all live in different cities, rarely ever connect on the phone, and only see each other but once a year, no matter what these friendships pick right up where they left off. We keep up with the basics via facebook and email and leave the heart stuff to when we get to be together. And when we do, there's no awkwardness, not need to re-enter the friendship slowly, like you would get into a very cold pool, one toe at a time. We can dive in head first and laugh and share and go deep immediately.

Wouldn't it be great if God were like that long-distance friend who you don't see very often, and only speak to like, once a month, but whenever you do the two of you just pick up right where you left off? Wouldn't it be so sweet if you could check God's facebook page while you're killing time at work to get a sense of what's going on in His world, knowing that he can do the same for you, and then go about your day, looking forward to when you next get to connect with Him, but not feeling overly burdened to call him as soon as you leave work. Wouldn't that be an easy relationship with God to maintain? I've noticed that I've lived most of my life with God trying to make my relationship with him like this. It's an endless cycle of trying to connect with Him briefly once a week or so and being so frustrated that I don't have a close, life-giving relationship with Him. Being frustrated that I always feel like I don't know Him like others know Him, that I don't connect to Him in the ways that I want. And yet my well intentioned time set aside to be with God always seems to be snatched away by laundry and coffee dates with friends and Bravo TV.

I was struck by a thought today that my relationship with God is meant to look more like a marriage than a long-distance friendship. I've only been married for 2 years, so I can't claim to be an expert on marriage, but I thought about what my relationship with my husband Tommy would look like if I treated him like a long distance friend. If I only talked to him every couple of weeks to catch each other up on the ins and outs of each others lives, our relationship would fall apart- there wouldn't be a relationship. If I only saw him once a year, but when we did get together it was just as fun as the last time, it still wouldn't be a relationship. Besides the obvious reasons (physical intimacy would be pretty hard if I only saw him once a year), there were a million reasons why our relationship would fall apart if I connected with him they way I try to connect with God. I talk to Tommy a couple of times a day. We spend most evenings at least together. And if it's been a while since we really spent intentional time connecting, talking, being with one another, we set aside time to go out on a date and we stick to it. And beyond the connecting part, my relationship with Tommy is something I talk about with others. When things are going well, I brag about him: how much I love him, how awesome he is, why being married is the best thing ever (and other annoyingly lovey dovey things that make others nauseous). When things are tough, I talk about it too- sometimes almost obsessively. When we aren't connecting I work at it- we talk about what's wrong and we (ok sometimes just me) are relentless (sometimes to the point of aggravation) in fixing what's wrong and reconnecting. In short, we work at our relationship.

And yet, I don't work that hard with God. I expect myself to be able to just come in and out of His presence on my terms, whenever I want/need, and like a long distance friend, He's supposed to just take it. But God hasn't created our relationship to thrive under these conditions. And so the cycle continues. Just as soon as I've gotten into a good rhythm with God, one where I'm connecting myself to the vine regularly and feeling the fruit of that connection, I let life get in the way and days go by without even a thought or prayer (besides a please, please, please don't let me get a parking ticket for illegally parking my car in this spot for the next hour). And then, once I'm ready to connect again I find it clumsy. I don't know what to say, I'm distracted, and I almost don't want to connect back to the presence of God.

A few weeks ago Tommy went on a missions trip with the students at his church. For various reasons I could not go either. This week long trip was jam packed with events, work and time where he had to be with the kids. As a result our only contact were 3 minute exhausted conversations at the end of each day (literally 3 minutes- I obsessively checked my cell phone at the end of each conversation). What struck me about all of this were the broad spectrum of emotions that swirled through me on the day he was to return. At the core I was excited- I had missed him a ton and couldn't wait to see him again. But I was also dreading it on some level. When Tommy did finally walk through the door I found myself awkwardly bouncing back and forth between giddy excitement and an inability to know how to act around him, what to say to him and how to connect to him. And this was only after he had been gone for a week!

And I wonder why I am clumsy about spending time with God after I've been away for a while. What I know for sure is that God is God- he loves me the same if I spend every second of every minute of every hour basking in his love and presence or if I go weeks without so much as a begging plea for the stain on my shirt to come out. But I am human, and I cannot expect to be able to pretend a marriage relationship with God can be maintained like that of a long distance friend. I can't do it. I wasn't created to relate to God that way and trying to do so stunts what should be the most vibrant, thrilling, life-giving, beautiful, passionate, adventurous relationship of my life.

God Likes His Bacon Crispy...

I think God came into my diner today. Ok, not really, but a customer did come in that shed light on God for me. I'll explain...

I work twice a week at a diner. A real old school diner with a cash register that doesn't go any higher than $5.99 and certainly doesn't take credit cards. A diner with a counter, and regulars and the "everybody knows your name" feel. On Monday's my station is the counter. The counter is both the best and worst station. You can always count on the regulars who come in once or twice a day; and they generally order the same thing every time, so it's easy to take care of them. But beyond the regulars you have no idea who will sit down at your counter, or if anyone will sit at all. So you could wind up with the creepy creepers who sit creepily leering at you and creepily sipping their coffee. Or, you could wind up with no customers. Or you could wind up with 12 people who all sit down at the same time and wanted their coffee like, 6 minutes ago. Oh, and when you work the counter you also have the boss, Bill, breathing down your neck, watching your every move, and shouting your name the second your food hits the window. In other words: life on the counter is a barrel of monkeys.

So there I am, minding my own waitress business, when a very unassuming older gentleman sits down at my counter. And by almost all accounts he is unremarkable. I don't mean this in a bad way, by diner standards that's probably a compliment. Remarkable usually means creepy. But there was something about him that stopped me. He had this weird look on his face. He looked at me almost as though he knew me, knew all about me, and was so excited to be sitting across the counter from me. There was a weird excitement that seemed uncontainable. And none of this had a sleazy or shady affect to it. All right, it was weird. And if I hadn't made the following connection, I would have written the whole thing off as a awkward encounter with a slightly creepy old man. And while I can't quite put the look on his face into the right words, all I could think in the 30 seconds after that brief encounter was that something about the look in his eyes and the excitement on his face made me think of God. For some reason I imagined that this is the look God would have on his face if he were to meet me face to face. There was that uncontainable excitement that I can only hope God has on his face when He sees me.

I've been learning a lot about God's love and experiencing it in whole new ways. And there is something almost unbelievable about it for me. Something maybe I just don't dare to believe. I have an amazing friend/mentor, Bryan, who has spent the last year trying to help me believe that when God looks at me, He smiles. And I have another beautiful friend, Devon, who thinks that God "gushes with love" when He thinks about me. And when I really stop to think about that, when I try to hold those thoughts in my head, it almost feels too good, too impossible to believe. But that guy in the diner (God perhaps?) gave me a glimpse of what that would actually, literally look like. So while I hope that a face to face encounter with God will be a little more profound, I can't ignore the encounter God used with an ordinary man to bless me today.