to choose

I believe that love is a choice.

It was embedded in me as a teenager; feelings are fleeting, when I marry someone, I must choose everyday whether or not to act in love toward him.

When I was married, I did not always feel like loving my spouse. Other feelings emerged: anger, disappointment, sadness, and frustration. But love is not a feeling; it is a choice. Therefore, regardless of the feelings that exist, I can still show love. I can still choose love.

Lately, I've noticed that my anger, disappointment, sadness, and frustration has been turned toward God. This does not feel like the good, abundant life I was promised.

This feels sad and hard and lonely.

I doubt His faithfulness and His goodness, His presence and His plan.

But love is a choice.

And just as I was called to choose to love my husband, now I am called to choose to love my God. 

In the midst of my feelings, I choose to love Him. I choose to trust that He is faithful and He is good, that He is present and that his plan for me is not finished.

Psalm 30: 6-12

When I felt secure, I said, "I will never be shaken."

O Lord, when you favored me, you made my mountain stand firm;

but when you hid your face, I was dismayed.

To you, O Lord, I called; to the Lord I cried for mercy;

"What gain is there in my destruction, in my going down into the pit?

Will the dust praise you? Will it proclaim your faithfulness?

Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me; O Lord, be my help."

You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,

that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.

O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever.

love never gives up

I sat at the table in the kitchen, feigning interest in an autobiography. Some other girl's life. Some other girl's problems.

He had returned briefly to retrieve the last of his things. Not everything, just the things he wanted to carry into his new life. Get rid of the rest, he told me.

Exactly three weeks prior, my knees had hit this kitchen floor when he announced that he was filing for divorce. It was the first time that ugly word had crossed between us. 

I listened as he carried boxes down from the attic and rummaged through boxes in the basement. Load by load, packed into his new car. He seemed undeterred, I thought, un-bothered.

Before he left, he turned to me. He reported, without emotion or concern, that he had given up.

I continued to sit with the book in my hands, failing to fight tears and staring into the small, flickering flame. The candle that was received three years ago as a wedding gift, in fact.

I did not have words. No words could fix this.

But I did speak. One more chance.

"As long as I'm married, I'm willing to work on my marriage."

Despite the betrayal and despite the lies, God had formed these words of grace within me. These words that I had practiced and prepared to say.

The words fell on ears, uncaring.

He took his mail and shut the door; taillights disappeared down that dirt road one last time.

So I take the pictures off the walls, rearrange the furniture, repaint the bedroom.

I fall on my knees before God and reach out to every lifeline. And I see God's faithfulness. I know that He has worked behind the scenes in anticipation of each moment to soften the blows, to break my fall. Each day it looks different; a call, a text, a visitor at just the right time to pull me through to the next moment. But each day I feel His presence and lean into the hope that only He can offer.

And I know that this that I have experienced is not love. Because love never gives up.



*written seven weeks ago

the leaves

October found the trees set ablaze. The colors were vibrant, passionate, intense.

It may seem that the leaves have prepared for months for a brilliant, firework display that is alive with color.

On the contrary, these leaves are not bursting with life; they are preparing to die.

Yet, we marvel at their beauty. There are even tours and events just to see them; we stop the bustle to breathe in their last burst of life.

It is glorious grief. The last hoorah. A final display of their life's work.

And then they fall. All the glory and passion is over. Against their will, they are piled in a heap to be burned, destroyed. The vibrant colors are replaced with lifeless grays.

And the world seems dead. For a time.

But the world does not share their grief, and the world does not die with them. Rather, the world accepts their fate. Because it knows that this is a season.

And their will be life again.

an unlikely mission field

The semester is winding down. After one presentation and a few minor papers, I will be rewarded with three weeks off. Then, summer session begins, and we're back at it.

For the last several months, I've been working with a substance abuse therapist at a local community mental health center as a part of an internship. She is very experienced and has a uniquely effective way of relating to the clients. I have learned a lot from her professionally and personally.

One day when I was sitting in her office, I noticed several great Christian books on her bookshelves, such as Love and Respect, The Five Love Languages, Changes That Heal, and The Secret Things of God. I was initially stunned. I mean this is a room where clients come for therapy and there are items indicating Christianity!

I subtly (or not so subtly because I do not do subtle very well) asked her if she uses spirituality with her clients. As she responded, I continued to be stunned. She told me about how she went to a Christian university, and they talked frequently about how to appropriately and ethically use their faith to help clients.

God bless my secular, liberal education.

In fact, she said that she would be remiss if she ignored spirituality. In her ten years at this agency, she has found that faith has allowed more clients to thrive than any other technique or psycho-therapeutic theory. She's not pushy or confrontational. She does not proselytize or have an ulterior agenda. Just like any good missionary, she uses doors that the client opens.

Community mental health is the nitty-gritty, the bottom of the barrel. This therapist has struggled here and has had to combat burnout. She has considered moving to a comparatively cushy job in the private sector or a Christian agency. But her calling is to serve the neediest, the least of these.

Community mental health is her mission field.

it takes two

Conflict happens. It happens all of the time really. We misunderstand each other, snap at each other, and mess up. Because we know that we are all sinners saved by grace, we respond to confrontation humbly. We share feelings, forgive, and reconcile. But what do you do when the words cut deeper each time, and the apology is absent?

Quite appropriately, the pastor preached a brazen sermon on conflict resolution this morning. We were reminded of the legendary Matthew 18 conflict resolution process. First, discuss the issue with the offending individual in private. If the conflict still exists, involve a third person to assist with the confrontation.

That's where the sermon ended, and that seems to be where the blueprint ends. But what happens if that doesn't work?  Good or bad, bringing the individual before the church simply does not happen these days. At least, I have never seen it happen.

I briefly talked about forgiveness awhile ago, but on the flip side of forgiveness is reconciliation. After the work of forgiveness is over, after I declare in my spirit that the debt is cancelled and the person that hurt me no longer owes me anything, the opportunity for reconciliation begins.

The dirty work of reconciliation, however, is not often discussed, perhaps because the truth is difficult. Dr. Henry Cloud addresses the issue in his book, Boundaries (READ IT!). 

God forgave the world, but the whole world is not reconciled to him. Although he may have forgiven all people, all people have not owned their sin and appropriated his forgiveness. That would be reconciliation. Forgiveness takes one; reconciliation takes two. We do not open ourselves up to the other party until we have seen that she has truly owned her part of the problem. So many times scripture talks about keeping boundaries with someone until she owns what she has done and produces "fruit in keeping with repentance" (Matt. 3:8). True repentance is much more than saying "I'm sorry"; it is changing direction.

No matter how many times those hurtful words are said, I will choose to forgive. But I refuse to continually place myself in a position to experience blame and shame. And I refuse to ignore it, to stuff my hurt and participate in the facade.

And that's the problem. That's the part that our world does not understand.

When reconciliation efforts fall short, what is the next step? According to Cloud, the relationship dissipates without a willingness to change attitude or behavior. I think it is fair to say that is easier said than done. Still, we can't continue to pretend that our families are perfect and our relationships, pristine. We must approach conflict Biblically and with grace.

And maybe it won't go well. Maybe your efforts won't be reciprocated. Nonetheless, we can't settle for fake, plastic-smile relationships. We must step forward and dare to begin the work that is required for the possibility of genuine, healthy relationships.

Not-so-magic dust

Lately, during my abundant car time, I've been listening to a series of sermons on Jesus' parables. The sermons are from Matt Carder of Commonway Church. I attended the church during college, and I still appreciate the genuineness, practicality, and depth of Matt's teaching. He has a way of taking tired topics and injecting thought provoking truth and new perspective.

It's good stuff. Real good.

The sermon on the parable of The Unforgiving Servant was particularly captivating for me this week. Forgiveness is on my mind and my heart almost constantly lately. If you've got fifteen minutes, and you do, listen to the last half of this sermon.

It's popular in Christian circles to profess forgiveness. As if magic dust has been sprinkled, we forgive, reconcile, and sing kumbaya.  We like to think it is that easy. We say we forgive and forget, but instead, we bury anger and resentment and live in the midst of dysfunction. All in an effort to appear as though everything is ok and all is forgiven.

A guy who has repeatedly been wounded by unapologetic family members told me this week that he does not establish boundaries because he is "just a forgiving person."

A young girl who was violated by an older brother for many years told me last week that she was instructed to simply forgive her brother in order to keep the family together and not attract outside attention. And the abuse continued.

 When the offense is cheapened and the hurt is simply buried, forgiveness loses dignity. The truth is that forgiveness only comes at a cost. I have to cancel the debt; whatever was taken from me is no longer owed. In order to cancel the debt, I have to identify who hurt me and what that person took from me. The process of forgiveness does not erase the incident, but it does eliminate the bitterness.

Right now, you'll find me on the muddy corner of forgiving and reconciling. Despite our great efforts, forgiveness does not imply or require reconciliation. I'll dig through that another day. 
 

In case you're worried about the church

We are in transition around here. Summer is sadly fading, and fall semester will begin next week. Kb's employment was in limbo there for a little while, but last week, he started working a social work type job with adolescent boys. Clearly, we are not dreaming of tropical vacations and shiny cars. It's meaningful work, though, right?

His new job is also second shift. So the boys and I have ample bonding time. Kb and I, on the other hand, will need to boost our communication and find creative ways to soak up time together.

I am thankful that Kb and I can still go to church together. This morning, while sitting in the balcony pew, a fear surfaced within me and was squashed in one fell swoop.

It's something that I do not think about much, but now and then, I'll hear a news story or see a headline and get a nervous streak.

It seems as though Christianity is becoming increasingly unpopular. I don't get into all of the political banter, but casual observation proves that governments are assuming more and more control.

I fear that one day Christianity will be eradicated and the Church will be abolished.

How this coincides with the Lord returning is thankfully beyond my scope; however, as that time nears, I expect that I will not be popular or comfortable. I expect that I will suffer.

While that may be true, I need not fear that the Church will cease to exist.

And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it.   Matthew 16:18 

Red letters? Yep, that is Jesus talking. And this Church, this community that gathers all over the world, is His. And no overpowering government, no charismatic individual, and no force of Satan will overcome it. 

The Why

Kb and I are on a mission to pay off our debt. We've been working at it for awhile, and we've come a long way. A really long way. The Grand Canyon of debt has diminished into an Indiana-sized pothole.

And yet, sometimes those potholes feel pretty big.

Sometimes, all this penny pinching and budget following makes me weary. And I just know that a little retail therapy would solve all my problems.

Only, it wouldn't.

Throughout this process, we are bound to lose a little steam, but when I feel tempted to splurge here or buy something extra there, I have to remind myself of the "why."

Dave Ramsey talks about it frequently. When you embark upon a goal of paying off debt, you must have a "why." There must be an overriding reason why you want to take on the great task. The "why" keeps you committed, keeps you going when you hit a snag. Because you will hit a snag.

Kb and I have several "whys."

All of our debt is student loans. One of Kb's loans was co-signed by his aunt and uncle. Kb and I were just dating then, and it was such a blessing that they were willing to co-sign that loan. I know that people have strong opinions about co-signing, and I totally understand and even agree that it is not necessarily wise. Nonetheless, this loan meant Kb could finish school. I was appreciative of the risk that his relatives took, but it was a monkey on my back. I felt like we owed them. It was a wonderful feeling to pay that loan off and get rid of it.

The rest of the "whys" have to do with our future and our dreams.

We want to buy a house. Not just any house, but a house with enough land for my horses and enough space for kids. With our meager incomes, it would be difficult to take on a mortgage when we also have Grand Canyon sized loan payments. Once we have paid off all of the loans, we will also be able to save up an extra large down payment.

We want to go on vacation. Kb wants his satellite tv, and I want more horses.

We want to give much.

Overall, we want to feel free. We believe that living debt free is Biblical. We can better serve God when we are not preoccupied by finances and paying debtors. 

So when I want to go to Target "just to look around" or when I go down the ice cream aisle at the grocery store or when I see friends buying houses and new cars, I have to remember that it's simply not worth it. We are sacrificing now so that in the future, we can pursue our dreams and wisely give, save, and spend the money that God has entrusted to us.

When I Come Home Angry

Around these parts, I do my best to remain positive. I want share what is uplifting and inspiring, not what is cynical and pessimistic.

But, if I'm honest, sometimes I come home angry. I rationalize that it is righteous anger, but it's all the same really.

I'm angry at those parents. The Mommas that give birth to drug addicted babies. The Daddies that hit and shame. The Stepdaddies that molest and abuse.  The addicted, apathetic, abusive, thoughtless, and manipulative.

They take no responsibility and they show no remorse. I hear their lies and their excuses. But even louder, I hear what they don't seem to. I hear their babies' cries. I hear a childhood lost.

I fight to glimpse God amidst the mess. I don't see Him though, and I question if he remembers these precious little ones.

This anger drives me forward. It spurs me on to seek justice. But it can't go further than that. It can't turn to bitterness.

I must forgive. Somehow.

 

Terror

Have you ever been terrified?

I don't mean the adrenaline rush that would come with skydiving or the fear that accompanies seeing a mouse in the house. I mean the terror that is brought about by the threat of evil.

I live on a half mile dirt road. We are the only house on the road and traffic is sparse. 

A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday evening, I was home by myself. The sun was beginning to set and I was lazily dozing on the couch. But when dogs started barking their "intruder bark," I quickly perked up. I looked out the living room window, and I saw a white truck stopped on the road, facing my house, about twenty yards away. Two guys got out of the cab and one hopped off the truck bed. They were carrying guns, yelling words I couldn't understand, and sauntering towards my house.

My heart lept in my chest and my mind raced with uncertainty. As I ran to the kitchen to get my phone and lock the door, I looked out the window that faces the opposite direction. I stopped cold. There was another white truck stopped on the road, mirroring the first truck. Four guys emerged from the crew cab. Two carried guns and all four were hollering at the sky with words that I could not comprehend.

My dogs continued to bark ferociously. I could think of no other scenario besides the obvious: they were closing in on me. My legs began to tremble and scenes from action movies unfolded in my mind.

Before I could think to call for help, I saw three beagle dogs with hunter orange vests run up to the crew cab. The men grabbed the dogs, hoisted them into the bed of the truck, and tore down the road. They left only a cloud of dust and me, a pile of nerves on the floor. I went outside to attempt to calm my dogs but accomplished little with my legs still shaking.

Fear, in my plush American life, does not tread much further than hunters tracking down their wayward dogs.

But lately, it's apparent that violence is real and even threats of violence invoke widespread fear. Bombs in Boston and a threat to kill children in our local schools, filled the news this week.

I recently finished reading The Devil in Pew Number Seven by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo, an autobiography in which Rebecca describes the terror that her family endured. She was just a young child in the 1970s, when her father became the minister at the Free Welcome Holiness Church in North Carolina. The community quickly came to adore her father and her family. However, one member of the community felt the Nichols family was trespassing on his territory and infringing upon his influence in the town and the church. This man took it upon himself to terrorize the family, vowing that they would leave the town "crawling or walking, dead or alive."  Through multiple bombings, sniper shots, and threats, the family felt God's calling to stay and stand strong.

The book was written a couple of years ago and attention was drawn to the story when Rebecca and her brother appeared on The Dr. Phil Show in 2011. So I'm a little behind the times on this one, but I think the story is perhaps even more relevant today. Ya see, the author describes in detail how her family weathered the terror. They clung to Jesus' words, prayed together frequently, and drew strength from other believers.

In this country, we are becoming increasingly familiar with terror. It used to be so foreign to us. So we struggle to cope with our fears and we struggle to reconcile our faith with the emotions that accompany the current events that fill the news. This book portrays a model of how to bear those struggles and fears.

I won't reveal the ending; however, I will say that this book also models how to cope when it appears that the terror (the devil) has won. When God not only allows, but perhaps even blesses us with suffering.

Have we forgotten Matthew 5:11-12?

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Or 2 Timothy 3:12?

In fact, everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted

The author's story is remarkable. But near the end of the book, the author shares what is equally profound: forgiveness. This book reveals the path to forgiveness when untold harm is done. It's not a sermon with five steps that all begin with the same letter. It's not a theologian who has all the right answers. She is a real person who has experienced real suffering, and she is allowing others to peek into her life, her thoughts, and her journey of forgiveness.

You and I cannot walk away from what has been done to us. At the same time, as crazy as it sounds, we're commanded to speak the language of heaven, to forgive as we have been forgiven--generously, fully, and freely. That means we forgive with no strings attached; that may require us to forgive repeatedly. When we do, we shock the world with God's power at work within us. When they shake their heads in wonderment, when they struggle to understand how anyone could forgive like that, we have the opportunity to point them to the Cross, the ultimate act of forgiveness. (pg 198)

Regardless of the circumstances, may we learn from those who have endured and speak the language of heaven.

Kings and Queens

I spent a good chunk of my day with a certain thirteen year old girl. I picked her up from school and we drove here and there. She giggled about Justin Beiber, boyfriends, and Twilight, and pancaked in between all of that, we dealt with some tough stuff, all with the goal of keeping her safe.

As we were driving to our final destination, we were both tired and hungry. The chatty girl grew a little more serious. She quietly announced, "You guys are all so nice." And then, she said sheepishly, "It's like you treat us like kings and queens."


(Be. Still. My. Heart.)

Oh girl, if you only knew that was my goal all along.

Flawed Saints

Some of my favorite books are autobiographies. I enjoy learning about people, their experiences and their cultures. Every person has a story. To have the courage to share that story, with all of its victories and its faults, is inspiring.

Mary Johnson surely put forth an extraordinary amount of courage in penning the book, An Unquenchable Thirst: Following Mother Teresa in Search of Love, Service, and an Authentic Life. I referred to the book in a previous post, and I have learned that I should not reference a book without having read it all the way though. The particular reference still holds true, but I think it's necessary to provide a few more details about the book.

The book is a memoir in which Johnson recounts her life as a Missionary of Charity, a nun, under the tutelage of Mother Teresa. At age seventeen, she felt a calling to become a nun, and she lived that calling for twenty years.  Johnson's description of her journey is utterly genuine, uniquely real. She struggles deeply with the union of her commitment to God and her commitment to be a Missionary of Charity. Johnson questions those in authority and the rules that they follow, yet she places no condemnation and emits no condescension (except for that she places on herself).

This book called into question the widely held impressions of Mother Teresa as faultless and beyond reproach. While this may be controversial ground, let me just say that we are all humans. We are all flawed, from Mother Teresa to me in my striped pj pants.  Despite admiration, position, or acts, God shows no favoritism.

Also, there is no doubt that Mother Teresa blessed and inspired so many with her commitment to care for the poor and orphaned. She did much good. But it would be easy to stop there and not consider that there could be another side, a distinctly human side. A side that ignored sexual assaults within the convents. A side that responds to sisters in Beirut who were under fire and in danger by saying, "Are you dead yet? Call me when you are dead." While the book is not primarily about Mother Teresa, the references to her stand out simply because of her stature, and because Mother's influence weighs heavily upon Johnson.  

Don't read this book if you hold saints to a super-human standard of virtue and righteousness. You will be disappointed.  Also, don't read this book if you have conquered human temptations and cannot relate to the pursuit of purity. Johnson's openness about her faults, even her sexual ones, will appall you.

Do read this book if you believe that we are all sinners in need of abundant grace. Not only will you gain insight into life in a convent, you will be inspired to seek God, striving to live a life that is pleasing to God and pushing against the forces that threaten your freedom in Christ.

The Struggle

There are 39,000 different Protestant denominations. Plus, there are all of those non-denominational churches that are too good to join a group. Just kidding; non-denoms are cool, too.

They are all different, yet they are the same. They have some different beliefs, yet they all claim to be Christian. They don't all get along, yet they serve the same God.

How can that be?

One of my youth pastors encouraged us to separate issues and beliefs into two categories: salvation issues and non-salvation issues. Obviously, the salvation issues are the important ones, the ones that matter.  Believing in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ and acknowledging that Jesus is the only true God are salvation issues. The style of music (or even the presence of music) during a service and the color of the carpet in the sanctuary are not salvation issues.

I thought I had this idea down, my faith squared away and divided into nice little categories, until I went to that fancy Christian university in Texas. I quickly found out that they believed that you are not truly saved until you are baptized. Well, I wasn't baptized. I was raised in a church denomination that encouraged baptism, but did not view it as a requirement for salvation. Two of my professors, in particular, made sure that I knew that I was going to hell if I did not get baptized immediately. One of them was so concerned that he gave me a book that he had written on the subject.

This is how thousands of denominations are formed: disagreements about what truly matters to God.

I'm in the middle of the book An Unquenchable Thirst by Mary Johnson. It is a memoir in which Ms. Johnson recounts her experiences as a Missionary of Charity, a nun, under the leadership of Mother Teresa. I have really enjoyed the book thus far. It's awfully interesting to get a peek into the life of a nun. And to be honest, it's not quite what I expected.

But talk about an entirely different sort of denomination. Maybe everyone else is wrong and the convent is the place where Christians should be.

I'm not convinced that is what God desires either.

However, through the pages of this book, I have been reminded of one thing that I think God desires. He wants us to become immersed in the struggle. I'm convinced that this Christian life is primarily about a refinement through the process of our individual struggle to find, understand, and hear from God.

The internal battle to continually live a life of which God is pleased. The push for a faith that is not arrogant and allows space for change. The struggle to distinguish God's voice and not remain stagnant.

Even though she was a respected nun and well-versed in tradition and obedience, Ms. Johnson experienced this struggle of determining what is important to God and what is not,

"I had no trouble convincing myself that I lacked refinement--that was obvious. It was harder to shake the feeling that the Lord stood far less on ceremony than Sister Priscilla did, that the fuss about the right words and the proper gestures was a huge waste of energy, that the Church had room for both the refined and the common."

May we not blindly follow the lead of man, but may we have the courage to engage in our own struggle. And may we treasure the process.

The Unpublished Crisis

The big church is in the midst of a teaching series that provokes thought and demands action (just as any good series should, right?). The leadership is confronting an issue that is kinda scary. The issue has been labelled as the "Unpublished Crisis." It rests on a statistic that's been repeatedly documented: 40-60% of students who were active in their youth groups in high school become spiritually disengaged in college. (Source: Sticky Faith)

That is staggering. Half of the students in our churches and filling up our youth groups lose their faith in college.

This series has led me to think about my own time in college. Scary, right? My college experience was unique. I started off at a private Christian university and transferred to a public party school. Two colleges, opposite ends of the spectrum. Neither was easy; each school brought a different set of challenges and temptations.

So what allowed me to make it through college, still clinging to my faith? What did I have in my life that the other 50% didn't?

I've come up with some components...

I received cards from the associate pastor of a church back home that I had all but written off. The card was usually generic, something along the lines of "were praying for you" or "we're thinking about you." And it contained a $5 gift card to Subway every time. Whenever I picked up the card from the mail, I was confused. Why does this pastor do this? I had stopped attending that particular church and disagreed with decisions that other members of leadership made. But the fact that the associate pastor took the time to send a card, did not and could not go unnoticed.

My grandparents would call me periodically. The conversations were always surface level and light-hearted. But each time, they reminded me that they prayed for us grandkids at the breakfast table every morning.

When I was in youth group my church went through four youth pastors in about as many years. This alone could have sent me packing. But my junior year, the youth pastor was different. The church board wasn't too sure about him, and he wasn't exactly the parent's favorite. The pastor and his wife were young, fresh out of college. And they made us think. He welcomed our questions, our doubts, and we discussed them together through the lens of scripture, tradition, experience, and reason. (He also taught us about Wesley's Quadrilateral.) Inevitably, my faith got tested as a college student, but I was prepared. I had already had an arena to safely question and wrestle with my faith. As a result, my faith was not fluffy and fake or just a list of do's and don'ts. It was the kind of faith that is worn, devoted, and real.

I made the decision to transfer to the "party school" too late to make any sort of roommate commitments. Besides, I didn't know any girls at the school. So I signed up to be paired with a roommate in the dorms. Ordinarily, this would be a disaster waiting to happen, but I'm convinced that the prayers of my grandparents and others made a difference. I was paired with a Christian woman who became a great friend. My roomie got me involved in her church and welcomed me into her circles.

These are a few of the ingredients that encouraged me to come through college with a faith that may have been a bit battered but still intact. Obviously, there is no perfect formula, but the continuation of this trend is concerning. It's worthwhile to consider the ups and downs of our own college experiences.

What led you on or steered you off of the narrow road in college?

Grandpa

This week has been difficult. My Grandpa Herb passed away. I've struggled with how to convey this, but I can't simply gloss over it. I have been shielded from death for much of my life. I've only been to three funerals in my life, two in the last three months. This is a strange sort of grief. It's the kind that leaves me baking a big pan of mac and cheese at 9 PM just because I want some. It's the kind that finds my whole family lingering around a grave site in the cold. Tears are abundant, but there are also pockets of laughter and joy, celebrating a life well lived.

Today in Sunday School, we were asked to sum up our current attitude in one word and discuss it with those at our table. Obviously, many words floated through my mind, but one word rose to the top. I realized that I am grateful.

I am grateful for the 700+ people that waited in that long line at the visitation to greet my family and give tribute to Grandpa. Whenever I went anywhere with Grandpa, inevitably there would be people who knew him. As I was standing in the church, I realized that these are all of those people that we stopped and talked to.

I am grateful for the opportunity to hear all of the stories those people shared, stories of generosity, humility, and leadership. I learned that Grandpa was never hesitant to give, even when the recipient was undeserving or unappreciative. When you made mistakes, Grandpa was the one that you could come back to no matter what. Grandpa was in leadership on school boards, church boards, the 4-H fair board, the homeowners association, and others I'm sure. One man who served with Grandpa on a few boards said that you always knew things were going to get done when Herb was on the board. Grandpa owned the Farm Center for 40 years, but the business closed in the early 90's. I met many of his former employees, even an employee that was let go. What a testament to his leadership. Who attends the funeral and has only positive remarks of a boss that fired them 25 years ago? The stories were abundant and an incredible blessing.

I am grateful to be a part of his family. As I have gotten older, I have learned that this family is unique and wonderful. We depend on each other, help each other, and love each other well.

I am grateful to have been his granddaughter. What an honor it was to be his granddaughter. Even though Grandpa was involved in so many other areas, he succeeded in making each grandchild feel special. His mantra, after all, was that family comes first. Many people say that, but he actually lived it. Some of my fondest memories are sitting on the picnic tables at the upper deck of the Overholt Arena watching the Bulls and Barrels competitions. We'd guess the scores of the eight second rides, and debate the accuracy of the judges. I loved going to any rodeo with him, but the little Overholt rodeos were my favorite. The annual family retreat was always an incredibly fun and special time, and Grandpa made that happen. For our birthdays, he and Grandma took us out to eat anywhere we wanted. When I went off to college, I appreciated his regular phone calls where he was "just checkin in." He always reminded me that he and Grandma prayed for me and my cousins every morning at breakfast. Grandpa enjoyed leather work, and one year, he made me a leather picture of my horse, Clyde. It was so meaningful.

I am grateful for the opportunity to carry on Grandpa's legacy. It's not only an opportunity; it is a responsibility.


Elkhart Truth article

Goshen News article

We Need Foster Parents

There is a need in our area that many people do not know about. And I am convinced that if only people knew, things would change. This area is too generous, too kind to let this need remain unfulfilled.

People, we need foster parents.

This becomes very apparent when I spend hours calling families and agencies, all but begging them to take in a child or a sibling group. Most of the time, when I do find a home, it's out of the county. The child has to change schools, get acquainted with a new community, and travel farther for visits with mom or dad.

Obviously, being a foster parent isn't for everyone, and it can be difficult at times. But you don't have to have a house full of ten kids, perfect discipline techniques, or be a stay at home mom. All you need is a little extra space in your home and your heart. You are also compensated for the children that you foster, whether you have the children for one week or one year.

Having a lack of foster homes is a problem that only members of the community can solve. In Lubbock, Texas, foster children have had to sleep at the CPS office due to a lack of homes. However, in another part of Texas, a movement began. People stepped up and cared for the children in their community who needed them most.

These kids have been bruised and scorned. They are right here in our community. And they need you.

Give

I have a confession.

Since Kb and I have been married, we have not tithed to a church.

I've got plenty of excuses. Primarily, I haven't known where to tithe. We've been bouncing from church to church, and we are still in a process of deciding where to land. I don't enjoy the process, but that conversation is for another day.

One of the churches that we have landed on often is big. Really big. I don't especially care for the bigness, and I get this scathing thought that they don't need our money. Really, our contribution wouldn't be much, and it seems like they have plenty.

Lately, I have felt convicted of our lack of giving. (Finally, right?) I have been praying that God would show me where to give, whether it be a church or other organization.

Yesterday, whilst going about my business, I got a nudge. I don't know what to call it. But I realized that the circumstances don't matter. The command is simple and straightforward: give ten percent. It doesn't say to give if you have a home church that you've attended for years or if your church is financially in need of your money. God commands us to give.

So give we will. 

Wallow

I had an all-day training in Indy today. Last night, I decided that I should find some CD's to play on the drive to pass the time and keep me awake during the early morning.

I bought a new-to-me car back in March. It has a CD player! For some reason, I have just now decided to utilize this amenity.

It's been years since I bought CD's. I had to dig in the back of my closet for the box of my favorite CD's from my late teen years. Looking through the box brought back a flood of memories. Many of the songs on those CD's are tied to specific moments. Like most teens, I had some difficult times. The songs helped to pull me through those times. They were played on repeat through my headphones late into the night or they were blasted through the car speakers and sung with tears. It's the good old Bethany Dillon, Casting Crowns, Superchick, and Jeremy Camp kind of stuff. Remembering the songs and the difficult memories, strangely brought me some comfort. I picked out a few CD's and looked forward to listening to them on my drive to Indy. Strangely, I anticipated reliving those difficult times. It brings me comfort to know that I was at once in that low place and, with God's strength, overcame.

This week, I sat with a mother in the only available seat in the house. She admitted to being a hoarder and that the house was very dirty. Sometimes, I get involved with families at work because the home is in such poor condition that it is a health or safety hazard for the children. It's difficult for me to imagine how people live in homes that are infested with bugs, have dog feces all over the floor, and stacks of garbage all throughout the home. Regardless, I have to maintain a level of respect for them and their home. Often, these cases are difficult because the real issues are hidden beneath all of the layers of garbage. The condition of the home is a symptom of a much larger, yet underlying, need.

This mom told me about how ten years ago, she and her husband had a very difficult year. During that year, they experienced major and minor health issues, financial issues, and family issues. It seems like it was indeed an incredibly difficult time. The mom became very emotional as she recounted each setback in surprising detail.

As she was nearing the end of her story, I had to remind myself that these events were crippling, but they happened over ten years ago.

She needs to let go. The past has paralyzed her present.


This morning, I started off to Indy, armed with my CD's. But the CD refused to go into the CD player. Apparently, the CD player in my car does not work. If anyone is familiar with my new-to-me car, that should not come as a surprise. As I kept trying to push that CD into the slot, I felt a nudge to stop and let it go. I felt a nudge to move on.

I wasn't meant to wallow today. Its great to look back on life and see how God has helped me overcome difficult times. But that stuff happened years ago. I need to be experiencing God now, not relying on my past experiences to feel God's presence.

A Better Story

I had the day off today. There are a few perks of being a state employee. My election holiday did not consist of much. I had a whole day with no responsibilities. Awesome, right? I slept in and vegged on the couch. Before noon, I ate couscous and chocolate ice cream but not at the same time. While perusing the internet and halfway paying attention to the political news on the tv, a cover of uselessness suddenly fell over me. Sitting there on the couch, I got cranky and despondent.
It's not the first time that has happened. I set out to have myself some lazy, do nothing time, and I end up feeling worthless.

I'm midway through a book by Donald Miller entitled A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, courtesy of my coworker's library card. In the book, Miller describes the process that he engaged in while creating the movie version of Blue Like Jazz. But it's so much more than that. In the process of making the movie, Miller realizes the correlations between living life and creating a story worth telling.

His writing style is quirky and somewhat random. It turned me off at first, but I kept reading. Miller is profound in a way that catches you off guard. And while I was sitting on the couch this morning, I could not help but think about my story.

"You can call it God or a conscience, or you can dismiss it as that intuitive knowing we all have as human beings, as living storytellers; but there is a knowing I feel that guides me toward better stories toward being a better character. I believe there is a writer outside ourselves, plotting a better story for us, interacting with us, even, and whispering a better story into our consciousness."     - Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

Ice cream, a comfy couch, access to the world wide web, and a day with no responsibilities. Isn't that something people desperately want?  Perhaps not. Perhaps that despondence I feel when I'm camped out on the couch eating chocolate ice cream is a yearning for something more, a better story. 

"Humans are designed to seek comfort and order, and so if they have comfort and order, they tend to plant themselves, even if their comfort isn't all that comfortable. And even if they secretly want for something better."   - Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

In an attempt to resurrect the day, I exercised and swept the floor. I paced the newly harvested field looking for rocks to edge the flower bed, and I discarded the newest creature that Bo drug up to the house. And I prayed.

Last Sunday, I sat around the dinner table with Kb and my parents. We talked about the respective church services we attended and the sermons that we heard. Kb and I are still searching for a "home" church. I don't like the process. Anyways, I told my parents about how the church Kb and I attended that morning was going to pack and send out two million meals around the world for the organization Feed My Starving Children. Eight thousand volunteers were required for the project. As of Sunday, they needed about two hundred more. My mom does not attend the church, but she had heard of the church's two million meal mission. Right away my mom asked what shifts needed additional volunteers and how to sign up to volunteer. My mom was all set to get to work to help a church that she does not even attend. I was taken aback. Not at my mom's willingness to serve, but at my own capacity to selfishly ignore a need.

"If I have a hope, it's that God sat over the dark nothing and wrote you and me, specifically, into the story, and put us in with the sunset and the rainstorm as though to say, enjoy your place in my story. The beauty of it means you matter, and you can create within it even as I have created you. I've wondered, though, if one of the reasons we fail to acknowledge the brilliance of life is because we don't want the responsibility inherent in the acknowledgment. We don't want to be characters in a story because characters have to move and breathe and face conflict with courage."  - Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

 Like Miller, I find myself falling asleep on life, not participating in the greatness of the story that He is whispering into me. Kb and I are at this point in life where we can take our story anywhere. But regardless of where we are geographically or what passions we pursue individually and collectively, I must have the courage to strive for and engage in a great story.

Offended

I don't claim to be up on current events. I don't particularly care for the news. Strangely, I do enjoy watching the Today show in the mornings from 7:00 to 7:20 while I eat my bowl of cereal. I blame it on my mom. But that's the extent of my knowledge of what is occurring beyond my backyard.

Through my limited news exposure, I've caught wind of a particular trend.

People get offended quite easily.

And when they become offended, they don't tend to keep it to themselves. They want the world to know in one way or another. Maybe this is nothing new; it's very possible that I'm behind the times. However, the trend seems amplified as of late.

Recently, I've heard that some guy in the Middle East created this anti-Islamic film. In response, others in the Middle East are killing people and rioting. Dumbed-down, yes, but the principle is there.

I don't expect everyone to agree with me and neither should you. I'll admit that my opinions and worldview probably seems pretty wonky to some people.

But that's ok.

I don't claim to have it all right. Some of my opinions are more like a working thesis. As I get older and gain life experience, my views on some things have and will change. On other issues, I find myself atop the fence, quietly observing the squabbling on either side. It seems awfully prideful to claim to have it all together, to believe that your particular opinions on every issue are the only permissible opinions.

Simply having an opinion does not harm anyone. However, lately when particular people have shared their opinions, it sparks outrage. We get offended if someone's beliefs do not line up with our own. Maybe we don't go to the extremes of killing people, but we picket, protest, boycott, and incite our friends to do the same.

Chik-fil-a anyone?

Settle down; breathe. Don't take others' statements as a personal attack against your own belief system.

We are a crazy collection of people that never have and never will agree on everything. Why do we, all of a sudden, feel as though we must?

Now gummies? That's one thing we can all agree on. At least in this house.