where waves grow sweet

All summer, at least two flies were present in my kitchen. My blood pressure must have risen several points each evening as I attempted to cook dinner amidst their perpetual buzzing and stealthy attempts to land on my food. When particularly frustrated, I threatened them in vicious tones and flung my bony hand at their bodies. The motion (or maybe threats) sent them into frenzied flying patterns for all of a few seconds… before they landed in the exact same spot. The process was repeated and our dysfunctional relationship continued.

When John returned home from work each day, he would grab the fly swatter, nail the pesky buggers, and be done with it. If another dared to appear in his presence, it would not live long. After several months of witnessing this, a revelation occurred:

Why did I let these pests dwell in my home, rob my peace and pollute my food? I, yes I, had the power. A fly swatter, to be exact. And, I suspect, a superior intellect.

So I began to take up my rightful place as daytime fly hunter. Lacking the coordination and experience of my husband, who can kill a fly mid-air, it certainly took a bit of effort. But the payoff was fabulous. Along with the perpetual buzz, went the persistent frustration – and an insidious (and absurd) sense of victimhood.

So I was feeling mighty; warrior-like, even. Slaying the enemy and protecting my turf. Then we had a birthday party for Madison. Despite the heat of the day, it was a lovely evening. We lingered outside, devouring the tasty food my mom had graciously prepared. I tied up the outdoor trashbag that was beginning to attract flies (Take that you defeated creatures!) and left it next to the back door – where it was forgotten for four very long, 90 degree days.

When I finally picked up the trash bag to dispose of it… oh my good lord. Living beneath that black plastic on MY porch right by MY back door was a mountainous pile of pulsating white maggots. A steady stream of the foul creatures continued to pour out of a hole in the bottom of the bag. My body froze, followed quickly by a gag reflex, and then a desperate holler to Cole as I witnessed masses of squishy wiggling bodies dropping beneath the wood slats to safety a few inches below… where, no doubt, they would fulfill their maggot destinies and transform into millions, if not billions, of flies and conquer me with their sheer number.

My dear, dear son came running to my rescue and (without gagging once) calmly assessed the situation. Together, we gathered several cans of raid and liberally sprayed every maggot in site. With the cans wedged between the slats of the deck, we blasted those cowering below. And then we sprayed them again. And again. The wood became host to glistening pools of toxic substances, as maggots squirmed and writhed in the wet poison. It was an all-out war.

Believe you me, we took out the trash that day. I think we added a couple more layers of trash bags to contain the remaining maggots (sorry environment!), tied them thoroughly and closed that lid TIGHT. There was a slight influx of flies for a short while after that adventure – bionic bugs that survived our attack, but nothing this warrior mom couldn’t handle.

But oh my word, can I tell you what I learned about taking thoughts captive? I’m talking about those pesky little thoughts that fly around in our heads, robbing our peace and polluting our nourishment, not to mention reproducing more of themselves to do the same. Many aren’t world-ending (although some are), so we just let them buzz around while maintaining this strange, dysfunctional relationship with them… as if they belong.

Let me tell you straight-up: they do not belong! Oh yes, I know that we can justify the accusatory thoughts that fly in, often undetected at first, and land on our minds. And how there are scrolls of reasons to accommodate the constant droning of self-pity. And how much evidence we’ve accrued to think that fear and anxiety have a right to exist in our dwelling place – or that we don’t have the authority to kick them out. Comparison and envy? All I will say is that they are waaay more toxic than a little fly juice. Each of our minds were created for peace. Without exception. Anything that draws us away from peace and Godly order is a squatter on the holy ground of our minds.

So what the heck do we do? A few suggestions…

1. Use the fly swatter! The foundation of our understanding as to what has value and is true – and our authority to reject all else – is the Word of God. It is our fly swatter (or, as Paul calls it in Ephesians, “the sword of the Spirit”). Let’s use it and become the warriors that we are by annihilating anything that doesn’t line up with His word.
2. Close the door. Thoughts are either given access or they aren’t. There will be times when they sneak in as we open the door to get the mail, but there are also times when we are trying to kill them left and right, without realizing that we have left a door wide open. The Holy Spirit is there to help us discern what each area might be for us and give us the wisdom and courage to slam that thing shut.
3. Take out the trash. Some of the crud lingering in our minds and stinking up the place has been there so long we consider it to be part of ourselves. Maybe it’s a simple realization that we’ve been hoarders who need to reassess what has true value and what happens to be rotten food mistaken as treasure. Then toss anything that does not bear value. If you need motivation, picture the maggots.

“We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.” (2 Cor 10:5)

Oh the dilemma. A wedding dress of such elegance. Mine, in fact. It clothed me so beautifully that joyful day; its silky under-self brushing my legs beneath the embrace of delicate lace. I loved it from the start. Throughout my wedding day, I was followed by its understated train – walking down the grass aisle to marry my best friend; dancing on hardwood floors, and taking photographs as man and wife on train tracks and sand; dashing across blackened pavement to be whisked off on our glorious honeymoon.

Having no further need for my beautiful gown, I wanted to share it with another bride. But having been dragged along every earthly surface, the dress was dirty; pig-pen dirty. I knew it should be professionally cleaned, but there was the cost. And the hassle. And, as time went on, a diminishing hope of the dirt coming out. So it remained in a garment bag amidst winter coats, suitcases and toilet paper. Every few months, it would be recovered from the closet, briefly contemplated and, since no one in their right mind would want a filthy wedding dress, returned to its home in the closet.

A few days ago, after nearly three years of marriage, I once again retrieved the dress. And once again I felt the shame of not having cleaned it. I could not bring myself to sell it or even give it away in that condition. So I prayed a simple prayer for wisdom and inspected the offending section yet again. With little to lose by a feeble attempt to clean the darn thing myself, I pooled the fabric in my hands beneath a slim stream of water.

To my great surprise and delight, without an ounce of effort, three-year old dirt yielded immediately to the water and filled the sink with its murky brownness. A few spots demanded gentle scrubbing. And the wee bit on the lace required an especially gentle touch. But it came clean. Beautifully clean. I cannot stop looking at its loveliness as it hangs in my room. My heart is glad to know that I can now grace someone else with this dress I love so much.

The experience demonstrated so tangibly how we, created for such beauty and glory, get sullied when we walk on this earth. At times our minds will be dragged along the pavement, darkening our understanding. Our hearts will get bumped along train tracks, leaving them bruised and battered. Sand will become embedded in our circumstances, causing friction and frustration. Splinters will enter our relationships, creating division and, if left, festering resentment. It is easy to accept these things as permanent damage, like a stain on who we are, especially when “too much” time has passed or when the dirt is “too deep” to remove. The temptation is to throw it all back into a dark closet and get on with life. After all, you can’t just throw a tormented mind or broken heart into the washer with some Tide.

But we will find that God is not daunted by a little dirt. Or a lot. As we lay our lives before the water of His word and the purity of His love, what seems to be irreversible damage will be washed away. With gentle kindness, he will tend to every part until we are perfectly cleansed and restored. Not only will we regard ourselves with delight as we radiate with His beauty, but we will bless others with what He has done for us and invite them to shower in His goodness.

“…just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.” Ephesians 5:26-27

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. 2 Cor 4:16

I love getting older. I absolutely love it. I would not go back one day or a decade if I had the chance. It’s not just that life was hard and miserable way back when. Or even that things are so good now. It’s that in between the “then” and the “now,” even between yesterday and today, I’ve gotten to do life with the Lord. It’s been messy and I’ve often taken the long, stubborn route to learning things, but the process has yielded a friendship that I treasure more than anything – even a second chance at doing things better.

What is bugging me, though, is what aging looks like on the outside. I am repelled by the lines branching out from my eyes like crazed lightning, and the deepening creases on my forehead that seem to live a life of their own. Nor am I too keen on the wild gray hairs that defy both gravity and decorum, refusing to lay nicely with the blond(ish) ones. I find myself standing further away from the mirror each year, thinking – like a small child – that if I can’t see it, it isn’t there.

When I was pouting to John the other day, he jokingly asked me if I wanted my face lasered (is that even a thing?). Yes, I want my skin to have the resilient spring of a brand new trampoline. And, yes, I would like to see certain body parts raised up from the grave to resume life where they began their journey. But I am much more interested in having my mind lasered (by truth, that is) so that my entire perception is forever purged of these shallow, critical, lifeless observations.

If beauty is indeed in the eyes of the beholder, things are looking good for me! My creator sees through piercingly pure vision, with each glance beholding the beauty he created in me. His vision can’t be touched by a single thing this world considers an imperfection. I am, after all, a reflection of his perfection. It is the truth of who I am, which as Graham Cooke puts it, goes way beyond what may be “true” about me – like wrinkles, varicose veins, or sagging body parts. So all I have to do is start seeing like he does, beholding myself and others through his unyielding love.

But it isn’t always easy to believe what the Lord sees over the aging process unfolding in the mirror, or to listen to his quiet voice over what is shouted at me in Orange County, this ever-so-slightly vain place in which I live. It takes trust. But this wonderful God has been with me to hell and back. Our ties run deep. What he has told me has always been true. So I’m going to trust. And I’m going to be free. So get ready to go deep, you laugh lines!

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? Isaiah 43:19a

While I realize that January 1st is technically considered the new year, it feels like an interruption to something already begun; an attempt to redirect an already-flowing current. For me, the beginning of the school year is when things are truly new. It is the time of year when routine gets established and the pace is set for the following 10 months, holding everything together until the structure has grown old, begins to crumble, and can’t help but give way to the refreshing free form of summer.

But this special nugget of time – right now – is possibly my favorite time of year. It is for me “a world between the woods.”* The party of summer has yielded to a certain quietness that draws me in and calms me down. Guests have gone, trips have ended, anticipation of sweet times has been fulfilled. Yet time is still free and easy; the days remain warm and playful. The crunch of real life and its list of demands hasn’t set back in. This is a time of reflection for me. To honestly evaluate what matters. To decide what should fall away and what should be pursued. To make new year’s resolutions. My version, anyway.

I don’t have any to offer up quite yet, apart from a longing for simplicity and focus. I’m thinking and praying about what that will look like. But I am excited about this new year and fully believe it will surpass all the ones that have gone before. I’ll keep you posted… assuming that makes my list of resolutions. 😉

*The “world between the woods” is a reference to a hushed place of trees, light, and pools of water from The Magician’s Nephew (one of the Chronicles of Narnia). It is not a world in itself, but a link from one world to another.

Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above… James 1:17

I took Chase to the doctor when he was three months old. He seemed to be in so much pain, especially at night, making sleep elusive. No mom wants to see her child hurting, especially when her comfort proves short-lived or ineffectual. And, truly, no mom wants to wake up every hour and a half for months on end, particularly if there is some method, magic pill, incantation, or other path to rest and sanity.

Dr. Basu, our wonderful pediatrician, checked out Chase’s little body and noted his excellent health. She said, “Often what seems like pain is really a tired kid who doesn’t know how to get to sleep.” It struck me as the most profound thing I’d ever heard. Of course he was tired! He’d spent his life thus far without any considerable stretch of sleep. In the beginning, there was clearly tummy trouble and discomfort, but as I reflected on our doctor’s comment, I realized that those symptoms didn’t exist anymore. At this point, comforting him was just a habit based on what had been, and though a good thing in its rightful place, it was actually hindering him from getting what he needed now… which was sleep, not comfort.

Our outlook was changed that day. We realized that Chase had to experience discomfort for a short time in order to have what would bless him for a long, long time. It was rough on this mama’s heart. Fears arose that I would lose his trust or damage him or make things worse for both of us. But I kept going back to what I most wanted for our little guy – to give him what he needed. So I pressed on through my own discomfort, which was probably far greater than his, and got to experience the benefits. Though it took a little while, I’m happy to report that we now have a baby who falls asleep on his own, almost always sleeps through the night, and wakes up talking and laughing. He is healthy. He is happy. He is rested. And he is loved.

I know there will be many more opportunities that will test my inclination to give Chase what comforts or pleases him, rather than what is best for him. Having raised a 17 year old son, I know this all too well. But as I (hopefully) grow in wisdom and love, I will not only be able to better discern the actual needs of my kids, but I will be able to set aside my own emotions to act in their best interest – not just for the moment, when a “yes” would make us both feel good, but for the long haul as their character and habits are formed. And I will be better able to set aside my own desires as I allow my Father in heaven to discern what is best for me and act on my behalf. He hasn’t always given me what I’ve wanted, but he has always given me what I’ve needed. I am healthy. I am happy. I am rested. And I am loved.

We got a high-end vacuum as a wedding gift that was specifically designed to contend with animals, like our freakish fur factory of a dog. The vacuum was nice, no doubt about it, but it was finicky from the beginning. Sometimes it would start immediately, as you would expect of any vacuum (expensive or not), but usually it required a little coaxing – perhaps a few extra taps of the power button, a prayer, some begging, or the occasional harsh word. Spending so much time on my relationship with this household appliance did not bring me joy, but we were working things out.

Until it wouldn’t start at all. I stuck the useless betraying machine in the hall closet and hoped it would get into a better space. In the meantime, I redistributed the fur on the hardwood floors with a broom and pretended there were not untold things gathering on the carpets. Finally, I did what any sane person might have done at the first sign of trouble, and called the company that made the darn thing.

Within two minutes, a kind person had not only apologized for the inconvenience, but had submitted a request to a local shop where our vacuum – which was still under warranty – would be repaired for free. Two days later, my very nice vacuum was returned in perfect working order at no cost to me. It was a simple fix that was easily diagnosed. And I had waited a year because….?? Well, because I had assumptions that the issue was somehow normal. Or it would work itself out. Or maybe my warranty had expired. But not one of my assumptions was true. The serial number that verified my warranty was on my vacuum (albeit in a secret place that required genius to find), and the rest followed with incredible ease.

While this process clearly reveals my utter dysfunction as a housewife, it also points to the way I handle other things in my life that aren’t working quite right – bad habits, broken mindsets, and tweaked emotions. I make similar assumptions, like it’s just the way it is. Or it will work itself out in time. Or it’s not as bad as it could be. So I develop complicated relationships with my sin and hope for the best. After all, it’ll probably work itself out in time… and it’s really not as bad it could be.

But is it as good as it could be? Am I thinking and functioning and feeling the way I was designed to think and function and feel? If not, I have a couple of options. The first is to continue creating inconvenient and inconsistent work-arounds, like I did with my pain-in-the-butt vacuum. I’ve recently determined this to be a crappy approach. The other is to get fixed or, better yet, transformed so I’m able to live my life fluidly and freely, without encumbrances. Then I’ll be able to fulfill the purpose for which I was created, and God will be able to use me as easily as I now use my vacuum.

The second option is more easily accomplished than I sometimes anticipate. I already have my identity as a lovingly created child of God (which is as specific as a serial number but way more personal – and far simpler to find), and my lifetime warranty provided by the cross of Christ (which covers anything and everything I will ever encounter). My only responsibilities in the whole deal are to recognize that something is broken and to call on God to help me. He works out the rest or directs me how to do it. So many problems that I’ve magnified and dragged out have been quick fixes. I’ve kicked myself for not acting on them sooner. There have also been some major repairs that required the dismantling and rebuilding of my insides. I’ve kicked myself for not acting on those too. Because nothing has changed for the better by ignoring or managing it. And even when it’s not as bad as it could be, I’ve decided I’d rather have it as wildly good as it could be.

In everything I did, I showed you that by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ Acts 20:35

I would like to announce (in a very belated fashion) the arrival of my beautiful baby boy, Chase William, born on a peaceful Sunday morning in September; the twenty-third to be exact. It hasn’t been easy, but love is funny that way. It doesn’t seem to mind too much. And, really, I was smitten from the start.

Sleeping peacefully on Christmas morn

The day after Christmas I called my Grandma, who was in the hospital bravely recovering from open heart surgery. She asked how Chase had enjoyed his first Christmas. He was clueless, I told her. We had excitedly opened each present for him, narrating the process with animated voices of the highest pitch while he sat in his Santa jammies, staring blankly at his new toys or nothing in particular. As I said, clueless.

Huh?

Grandma, always quick to see a deeper parallel, pointed out how similar we are as oblivious children of a generous God. I hung up the phone and continued to think about this for a while. What struck me is the natural progression of kids as they grow – from clueless to aware to greedy. At some point, every kid thinks Christmas is all about them. The interruption of meals or other people’s gifts are quite an annoyance. Unfortunately, some people get stuck there. But somewhere along the way – bit by bit – something will change for most. They will start to appreciate the thought behind the gift or think about the trouble someone went through to track it down. They may even come to realize that the real fun is in getting presents for others, delighting in the anticipation of someone else’s delight.

My sweet boy

Back to Gram’s parallel. Wow, how long I lived like a grown-up newborn, oblivious to the gifts God was unwrapping right in front of me! But he was patient with me as I got bigger in my faith… learning to say my ABC’s, tie my own shoes, and become aware that he wanted to give me great stuff. Admittedly I spent time spiritually stuck as a greedy ten-year old at Christmas time, making lengthy lists of all the things he should give me and keeping watch over the growing pile under the tree. All the while, he just kept on loving me and giving beautiful gifts, albeit not always the ones on my lists. Somewhere along the way, my eyes were opened to these gifts as tokens of his love and I could see beyond the gifts to the Giver (see Princess Bride clip below). His kindness toward me melted my heart and deepened my gratitude. And now, as I approach 40, I’m beginning – just beginning – to understand that it’s not about hoarding every benefit of this relationship for myself, but about taking thoughtfully considered pieces, wrapping them up with the most beautiful adornments, and giving them away with the sweetest abandon. This is, without question, the greater joy.

As you wish…  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbX1U1tx9aw

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake. Psalm 23:1-3

I can’t even remember the last time I wrote a blog post. It has been several months, I know. But here I am, eight months pregnant with doctor’s orders to rest, a computer in my lap, and a happy heart for the somewhat forced opportunity to set aside all the things I would like to accomplish and write again.

That is not exactly what I felt yesterday when the “rest” portion of my orders was reiterated and it was clarified that brief respites in a busy day didn’t count. I got in the car and cried hard, overwhelmed at the impossibility of setting down my busyness. Throughout the rest of the day, every time it came to mind, the tears poured freely again. I know this sounds ridiculous. It did to me too, especially considering the absolute trust I felt when some bigger issues recently arose in my world. But there is clearly something the Lord wants to do here and I am so grateful.

What comes to mind is a statement made by Graham Cooke in a message I heard years ago. He said that God doesn’t want to give us strength; he wants to be our strength. If he were to give us strength, we would take it and run (most likely in our own direction) until we had exhausted it, and end up right back where we started. How very true that is of me – wanting both strength and autonomy, so often spending what the Lord has given me as I please, growing weary and sometimes lost in the process, and ending up back at his feet in desperation. It serves the purpose of coming to understand my dependence, but it’s not as the Lord intended it. He wants to be our strength so that we will always be led along right paths, through every dark valley into green pastures, spending our energies on what truly matters, and be perpetually replenished by his presence.

As we learn to trust more in him and less in ourselves, we will never need to return to his feet in desperation because we will never have left. How intimate a relationship; how deep a trust! We will continue to grow stronger and even the valley of weeping will become a place of refreshing springs (Psalm 84). It is a different kind of strength; one filled with joy and a sense of inner rest, despite any outward activity or even painful circumstances. I’ve tasted it before and it is… oh my, so simple and yet so beautiful.

So I enter this season of rest with joy as he refreshes my soul, lacking nothing because my good shepherd has provided all I need. And I pray that you also would be led to green pastures and into the deepest rest for your soul. I missed you!

“What joy for those whose strength comes from the Lord, who have set their minds on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs. The autumn rains will clothe it with blessings. They will continue to grow stronger, and each of them will appear before God in Jerusalem.” Psalm 84:5-7

We love him, because he first loved us. 1 John 4:19

A passage follows from a book called Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle, a Jesuit priest with a big ol’ heart for the gangbangers of LA:

At three o’clock in the morning, the phone rings. It’s Cesar. He says what every homie says when they call in the middle of the night, “Did I wake you?”

I always think, “Why no, I was just waiting and hoping that you’d call.”

Cesar is sober, and it’s urgent that he talk to me.

I gotta ask you a question. You know how I’ve always seen you as my father – ever since I was a little kid? Well, I hafta ask you a question.

Now Cesar pauses, and the gravity of it all makes his voice waver and crumble, “Have I… been… your son?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” I say.

“Whew,” Cesar exhales, “I thought so.”

Now his voice becomes enmeshed in a cadence of gentle sobbing. “Then… I will be… your son. And you… will be my father. And nothing will separate us, right?”

“That’s right.”

In this early morning call, Cesar did not discover that he had a father. He discovered that he is a son worth having. The voice broke through the clouds of his terror and the crippling mess of his own history, and he felt himself beloved. God, wonderfully pleased in him, is where God wanted Cesar to reside.

I wept when I read this, both for Cesar and myself. You see, while I’m quick to identify God as my father, I relate to the hope – and the doubt – that he sees me as his very loved child. I often feel more like a student trying to please an admired teacher by shining in the knowledge he’s imparted. When it seems I’ve done well, I radiate with joy and lock twinkling eyes with him like we share some special bond. When it seems I’ve failed, my soul plummets and I try to hide, too ashamed to be in his presence or receive his attention.

But sonship came for Cesar, not because of his performance as a great kid or worthy student, but simply because the father loved him. That love was extended independently of Cesar’s life or choices. It continued, not because the kid – now a recipient of love – was able to measure up to the imagined demands of love, but because the father’s heart toward him was unchangeable. Cesar’s only role in this whole thing was accepting sonship. It was at this point that the relationship found true intimacy.

As I was sitting in church on Sunday, in a non-shining moment, I saw the face of the Lord draw close to me. My eyes, which had been avoiding his, couldn’t help but return the gaze. There was not a trace of disappointment in his expression. All I saw was love and kindness. It was like he was crushing every doubt about my place as his daughter with the gentlest, “oh, hell yeah” you’ve ever heard. All I wanted to do was put my hands on his cheeks, like a little girl does to her daddy, and be as close to him as he was to me. “And nothing will separate us, right?” “That’s right.”