Megashifting

When I told my son about the seriously ill child of a friend, he responded innocently, “So why doesn’t his dad just do a miracle and heal him?” The question tugged at my heart and caught at my throat. Somehow, it evoked other words from long ago:

In the face of a crowd’s hunger: “You give them something to eat.”

In the face of a child suffering from a demon: “I brought him to your disciples, but they could not heal him.”

In the face of the storm: “You of little faith.” I’ve always interpreted that remark as meaning, “You couldn’t let me sleep five minutes longer and deal with a bit of weather yourselves??”

Perhaps my son is more aware of miracles because we’re just past Holy Week, fresh from viewings of our church’s Easter productions, The Thorn and The Crown, complete with miracles. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve been reading my family little stories from Megashift . . . .

“A leper is healed in the marketplace. A paralyzed man leaps from his bed. A small bit of food feeds a large group. Storm clouds turn on a dime. The Gospel is preached in one language, but heard in another. A desperate woman with a flow of blood is healed. A demonized man chained up for years is delivered and set free. The sound of a mighty, rushing wind is heard during a meeting of believers . . . yet there is no wind. Withered limbs are restored. The deaf hear; the blind see. A girl is raised from the dead. And Jesus appears in a vision to one of His chief persecutors. Great historic events by any measure. And all have happened in the last twelve years.”

So begins

Megashift: Igniting Spiritual Power

by James Rutz.

The footnotes for the first chapter alone run more than ten pages, mostly to document Rutz’s sources for the miracles he describes. More than ten thousand people healed of AIDS – those who want to give testimony must present medical certificates to document before and after. Resurrections from the dead reported in more than 52 countries. One ministry in Mexico stopped keeping track some time ago once they got past 300. A lowest-caste Indian street sweeper who has personally been involved with 16 resurrections. Author Jim Rutz said he would be happy to give you her e-mail so you can check this out for yourself, but she has no e-mail. She can’t read. Many of the miracles became a prologue to salvation for entire families or villages. Some of my favorites are stories of transformed persecutors. One militant Hindu tore up a tract offered by a Christian on the street, but that night knocked on the Christian’s door asking to be saved. God had rebuked him loudly in the night “I sent you my truth but you tore it up!” and then gave him directions to the Christian’s home.

No matter what you think of the rest of Jim’s book, every Christian should read at least the first chapter.

As my son said, “It’s good to know stuff like this still happens today and not just long ago.”

Rear View Mirror

Being a full-time working Mom married to a stay-at-home Dad does have its perks. Mitch occasionally tapes for me an Oprah episode which he thinks I will enjoy. One of these was a fashion tips show to help answer that most prevalent of questions asked daily by millions of American women: "Does this outfit make my butt look big?"

As one who has never been able to purchase a suit unless the jackets and skirts are sold separately, I awaited Oprah’s assistance on the edge of my seat.

I watched Oprah’s guest, Stacy Landon (who hosts her own show “What Not to Wear”) demonstrate disappearing-derrierre tricks on several women. My favorite is called “Bisecting the Butt.” This is not a surgical procedure but a sleight-of-wardrobe technique wherein one’s jacket hangs just halfway down one’s rear, thereby producing an illusion of less. Forget about covering up the whole enchilada with really long sweaters, ladies. It merely emphasizes what lies beneath.

I also found useful the whole discussion of a slightly lowered rise in your pants waist, combined with legs which are boot cut rather than tapered, and being careful to avoid hip pockets embellished with snaps, flaps or embroidered butterflies, instead opting for a tailored slash pocket, which she claims produces a trimmer effect.

What fascinated me far more than any of this, however was how each makeover candidate began: “I have always been bothered by my large butt.”

Each of these women looked to me like really normal, attractive ladies of average shape and size. It occurred to me that if most American women obsess about the size of our derrieres (or other parts), perhaps our inadequacies have more to do with perception than reality.

Oh, I do realize that our fast-food culture has delivered super-sized buns with a side of thighs. I recall the dire warnings about chocolate, “If you’re going to eat that, you might just as well smear it on your rear, ‘cuz that’s where it’s going to end up. A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.”

I do frequently remind myself that my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, and in that connection I recognize that the back side of the sanctuary could use some renovations via crunches, leg lifts or whatever moves me. In my ongoing struggle against the world, the flesh and the donuts, the taming of the tush is often in arrears.

I do know all that.

Still, I felt curiously reassured as I reflected on my Creator’s formation of me and all my sisters. We are fearfully and wonderfully (and very, very intentionally) made. Pulling up around the curves merely indicates we are in the presence of magnificent mountainous scenery. People pay a lot of money to live among Colorado’s breathtaking views, as opposed to down in Kansas where the land is as flat as a supermodel’s tummy.

And that’s another thing. King Solomon praised his lover’s abdomen and described it as a “heap” or “mound” of wheat, “encircled by lilies.” Heaps and mounds are not skinny! And I’m fairly certain “lilies” are just a poetic way of describing stretch marks.

Husbands, go give your wife a love pat right now and tell her she’s gorgeous from mast to keel and stem to stern. And for those of you women whose husband is not as forthcoming with compliments as you might like, or for you who call God your Husband during this season, you go get that affirmation from Him right this instant! For starters, read Song of Songs 2:10-13 and all of Chapter 4. Be assured He looks at you with AT LEAST this great an intensity of love and adoration. And He longs for ours in return.

Ladies, let’s stop looking in the rear view mirror, shall we?

Oh, feel free to bisect your butt, buy boot cut legs instead of tapered, and practice other tricks of the trade. I know I will. At the same time, never forget we are beautifully and wonderfully created. And that’s the bottom line.

“Forgetting what is behind . . . I press on for my high calling . . .”

Life is Like Sudoku

Mitch loves his Rubik’s – 3x3, 4x4 and even the Professor’s 5x5. He even wanted a “back-up” 5x5 where the tiles are stickers rather than glued-on real tiles (like his current one) so he can play more freely without worrying about the tiles chipping off and being lost. Around Thanksgiving, I thought this was an unnecessarily frivolous expenditure and naysayed his request. Two days before Christmas with no gift for my husband, I felt differently and walked into Barnes & Noble looking for a Professor’s Cube. Why would I expect to find a Professor’s Cube at Barnes & Noble? I don’t know, I just want things to be easy and be located wherever I’m looking for them.

While they don’t carry a Professor’s Cube at Barnes & Noble, I did find something I thought would satisfy my husband – a Sudoku book. I had vaguely heard of Sudoku as a current craze, but when I read that it’s being called “the Rubik’s Cube of today” I knew I had a winner Christmas present for my husband.

What I didn’t realize is how much I would enjoy it myself, or that it could become a fun family activity we could do together. I also found a “Rubik’s Sudoku” set which has repositionable colored tiles which you can arrange to form any Sudoku puzzle, then solve. If you’re not fond of numbers and love colors, this set is for you. The tiles have numbers if you need them, but the colors stand out far more vividly.

Sudoku can be easy enough for our ten-year-old son – or for me – and it can be challenging enough to satisfy my Rubikian husband. I read the tips that came with the book and color-tile set, but it was Mitch who helped me see the puzzle differently.

Just in case you’ve never tried Sudoku, you have to fill a 9x9 grid on paper with the numbers 1 through 9 in any order so that every row, every column, and the nine 3x3 cubes within the 9x9 grid each contain the numbers 1 through 9, using each number only once in each row, each column, and each 3x3 cube. The puzzle comes with a few numbers filled in for you, and the rest are blank. You figure it out one square at a time, using pure logic. If you guess and you’re wrong, you throw off your results for the entire puzzle. So you really shouldn’t complete a square until you know for sure that one number and no other should be in that spot.

If you can’t stand numbers, know that this has nothing to with math. You could just as easily use pictures of nine different NFL logos. In fact, I was thinking maybe my 4-yr old would enjoy Sudoku if I could come up with a simpler version say in 4x4 or 6x6, using pictures of different farm animals instead of numbers. It’s the same principle.

Even before I wrapped the book for Mitch, I couldn’t take my eyes off the first puzzle, although I didn’t of course work it since I didn’t want to spoil his gift. After giving it to Mitch, I started “borrowing” it to play myself. I was fumbling along on my first puzzle, enjoying the process but taking rather a long time about it, when Mitch showed me a different way to look at it. Instead of trying to figure out what three or four numbers were missing from a row, which is time-consuming, he helped me look at the rows or columns in groups of three. He was immediately able to solve the simplest squares by just scanning three rows or three columns. If he saw the same number twice, he could often complete that number in the missing column or row. I know this story begs for an illustration, but I barely have time to write about it, much less find pictures that show you what I mean. But if you already play Sudoku you understand. And if you start playing you will quickly get my point as well.

Now here is what really excites me. Coming up to a New Year, I am once again thinking of the zillion ways my life needs to change. Diet changes, exercise, better time management, more time spent in prayer/worship/Bible study/Bible memory; controlling my emotions, keeping up with relationships, making the best use of the few short years we have to disciple our children, working on better ways of communicating with Mitch (less nagging), becoming an empowered person in my home/work/life, calling my mother and my sister more often, contacting my 100+ relatives more than once a decade, dealing with our financial shortfalls, the need to better train our dogs, and the ever-present problem of doing something about all the stuff in my basement.

On and on. It becomes overwhelming to me and then I slip into hopeless “nothing will ever change” mode. And worst of all, Mitch is disappointed by my chronic stressing.

And that is where my life feels like Sudoku, a fiendish level puzzle.

If I look at the entire puzzle, particularly as a novice, I feel overwhelmed by all the blank spots, all the data that doesn’t seem to correlate.

But if I can find a mentor, I don’t need that mentor to give me the answers necessarily, but to help shape my ways of looking at the problems.

I think the number one change I need to make this New Year’s is NOT to have a list of resolutions which I will dump within one week or less, leaving me in the dumps.

Rather, I think I need to do two things in 2007:

1) Look at my life in terms of patterns. Most of the changes I need to make would be affected by one or two areas. Instead of making lists of changes, I’m going to focus on finding “mentors” – friends or book authors – who can help me see the patterns of my life in a more strategic way.
2) Resist the urge to make unsustainable big changes. Instead, make tiny incremental changes which will become habitual. Einstein spoke of the greatest “invention” of all being the miracle of compounded interest. If it works that well in the realm of money, how about in the realm of personal habit?

Like Sudoku, I think solving one square will yield clues to solve other squares, more importantly giving me emotional momentum, encouragement that change is possible.

What would you like to do differently in 2007?

My Big Fat Weird Family

Everyone has weird relatives. If you doubt this, watch any group of unrelated people who will talk freely about how they spent Thanksgiving. You’re bound to hear a tale or five. If you think you don’t have weird relatives, check out the mirror, maybe you’re the one the others talk about when they get alone with friends.

(Disclaimer: If Mitch’s relatives or mine happen to read this, please be assured that I am, of course, speaking only about the other relatives.)

Truth is, you don’t get to pick your family. In our culture, you can select your spouse, and that’s about it. As individualistic and choice-driven as Americans love to be, you just can’t decide who gets to be your Aunt Wilma, or your in-laws (unless you had the foresight to cover this in your spousal interview), or that pierced persona threatening to run off with your daughter. For the most part, you don’t get to pick the people you’re going to hug and condole and congratulate at weddings, funerals, graduations and holidays for the rest of your life. Sometimes I think it’s one of God’s little practical jokes, a gift to enliven us with the unexpected and the uncontrollable, to help us take ourselves a little less seriously. Some people take this reality in stride, while others react by moving far, far away.

(Disclaimer: Mitch & I live in Colorado because we love mountains, not because Colorado is about as distant as you can get from both Georgia and California simultaneously. Besides, the craziest one of all lives just down the road.)

However much you might complain about your kin’s embarrassing eccentricities, you love them because blood makes you family. And you also, if you’re a nice person, accept the ones they chose because marriage and adoption also make you family. That doesn’t mean you approve of them, agree with them, want to spend time with them, or even like them – it just means you’re RELATED and they have certain claims on you in a way no one else does.

Of course, in the best of cases, you do like them and enjoy them and want to be with them whenever you can. I love my family: the straight-laced and the tattooed, graduates of seminary or rehab, veterans and young soldiers, politicians and truck drivers, veterinarians and novelists, home schoolers and public school teachers. I’ve got one relative whose company engineered the sound on movies you’ve watched, and another who cooks on a wood stove by choice and displays more guns than most preachers own Bibles.

Wacky, wild or wonderful, I get warm fuzzy feelings when I think of them all!

It’s the same with my bigger family, my two billion brothers and sisters around the world who have individually decided that faith in Jesus Christ is a once in eternity proposition too sweet to pass up. You know, some of these people are really, truly weird. Some of them have annoying habits. Some of them are just plain messed up and should be in rehab. Some just got out of rehab and live with more zeal than prudence.

But you’re my relatives, and I love you all. If you believe Jesus is God, and that he died on the cross to take the heat for every wrong choice you’ve ever made – you’re my family. (And if not, you’re my neighbor.)

Now, that doesn’t mean I agree with everything you have to say, and you might get on my nerves with some of your quirks, oddities, or what I might consider to be unbiblical theology. And no doubt you could return the same sentiment about me. But you’re family, made so by the power of His blood, by our marriage to His son. We are siblings, both by birth and adoption.

A family is not formed by affection alone, however much we might wish to belong. It takes birth, marriage, or adoption. The family of God is formed by all three

And just like my natural relatives, I didn’t get to choose who belongs. I just accept and love the ones God chose to be my family. Every time I go to church (particularly on those occasions when I get to visit a church different than my preferred style), I get this excited feeling inside, because I love the Bride of Christ in all her wild, crazy, wonderful variety and sometimes weirdness.

Love is not the same as unilateral, uniform, unquestioning insipid tolerance. Love celebrates differences, but love also questions inconsistencies, confronts incongruities, gently exposes weaknesses and failings in a spirit of restoration and mutual growth. Love is iron sharpening iron, neither yielding, sparks flying, yet understanding that in the end, we are of the same element.

And that element is blood.

Mehmet Oz and Me

Is your waist less than 35 inches, men? Less than 32.5”, ladies? If not, you may be dangerously exposing yourself to increased risk of heart disease, according to Dr. Mehmet Oz, who appeared recently on Oprah.

My sweet husband lovingly taped this Oprah episode for me, knowing that I could stand to do a slightly better job of living FOR my heart, my physical heart that is. I could only watch a few minutes before feeling overwhelmed by conviction, although Mitch kept assuring me the later part of the show supposedly contains GOOD news.

Dr. Oz tells me I have an organ attached to my stomach – called the omentum - which stores fat. In this picture, Oprah is holding up a healthy omentum. Unfortunately, I think mine looks like the one on the left.

Although many people who know me may not realize this, I am just a couple pounds shy of being officially obese for my height and weight.
Here is one obesity calculator

In 2006 my health plan added an obesity wellness benefit, including extra tests and nutritional counseling for those who qualify. I came home and rather flippantly told Mitch I might be able to get these benefits. He promptly assured me this is not something to be excited about!

One of the positive things which has come out of the recent heartache at my church is that I (and probably you and millions of other Christians) have begun taking inventory of my own life. What weaknesses can I work on correcting? Is my accountability plan adequate to protect me from myself? And so forth.

Shortly after, I read Mark Driscoll’s blog
(thanks to Todd’s Nov 6 post) where Mark talks about women who let themselves go, thereby not helping their husbands any in the battle against sexual temptations. He’s talking about pastors and their wives, but I think it’s relevant for everyone. I promptly went home and related this to Mitch, and told him I want to change. Not only so he can find me more sexually attractive, but so I can live longer to be a blessing to my children and others.

Now Dr. Oz tells me that the number I should be looking at, first and foremost, is not my weight but my waistline. While 32.5 inches may sound do-able for most women, it’s an other-end-of-the-rainbow number for me. Mitch, on the other hand, has gorgeous flat abs that fit in size 31 pants – only slightly bigger than high school – and well within the 35 inches suggested by Dr. Oz for optimum heart health. I’m very proud of him, and wish I could add his waistline with mine and call it a healthy family average. But each of us is responsible for our own chocolate consumption.

Anyone else out there ready to make a change? I know some of us think about this every New Year’s, but this time, I think I need a jump start in November. It’s going to take some serious momentum to trim my omentum.

The Day The Tower Fell

For me, like so many others, Pastor Ted’s agonizingly public exposure and dismissal is one of those events which etch on one’s mind exactly where and how we heard the news. Right before lunch on Thursday, a close friend called me, a disillusioned believer who questions or rejects many of the beliefs we were both raised with. Someone who had once visited New Life Church with me, in 1992.

“Well, I guess you’re going to be getting a new pastor,” he told me, and briefly recounted what he’d heard on the radio. My stomach did flips and churned into knots, then I quickly pulled my thoughts back from the unthinkable. “I don’t believe it’s true,” I told him. “You don’t understand what a huge target this man is.” Most people who know Pastor Ted in person or by reputation immediately assumed the best, and jumped into the ring in his defense. I wrote a blog post titled, “We Believe You, Pastor Ted,” which I almost published, and then I saw the Ross Parsley quote, “Some of the allegations are true.”

Those who rushed to refute the accusations may now feel they’ve been made fools of. I hope not. Pure loyalty is never so truly foolish as sideline skepticism which risks nothing, believes nothing and gives its heart to nothing.

Although I’ve never been a member of New Life Church, for 15 years I’ve held Pastor Ted (and the church) in the highest regard, as one of my heroes and mentors-from-afar, via books like Primary Purpose and sermons like “Five Ways to Pray For the Lost.”

My first memory of Pastor Ted is from a packed-house Change the World School of Prayer, taught by
Dick Eastman at New Life in about 1991. To alleviate those inevitable long lines at the women’s restroom, the church posted signs on all the first floor men’s rooms, reserving them for the women. I remember Pastor Ted, standing in the crowded halls like a rock in the stream, directing traffic loudly and with enthusiasm. Always smiling, always a servant. I had never seen a senior pastor take on the task of crowd control, and it impressed me greatly.

“Jesus is better than cotton candy!” he would tell his Sunday night congregation. “I want to get a big cotton candy machine and sno-cone machine right here in the sanctuary so we can tell everyone that Jesus is better!” Coming from my rather staid religious background, outrageous, contagiously joyful statements like these, delivered with his million dollar smile, kept me coming back for more substantive teaching (of which there was plenty.) Praying through the 10/40 window with the flags hanging overhead, learning to live from the Tree of Life . . .

In fact, the only reason Mitch & I didn’t join New Life is that we felt called to be members of a tiny struggling church up the road. But we often went down for Sunday nights, or special events, like the Carman concert, or “Hell’s Flames, Heaven’s Gates.”

It’s not that I put him on a pedestal, not that I’m so naïve that I think any one person could never fall. But there are certain people who stand out like Pikes Peak in my spiritual landscape, landmarks we take for granted and expect to see standing come hell or high water. Well, hell came, and for me it feels like there’s a big hole in the Front Range this morning.

Oh, Pastor Ted, my heart is broken for you, for your family, your congregation, and for all of us in the Body of Christ. When one part hurts, we all hurt. Twenty-one years, ended, just like that, in four days. It is beyond comprehension.

Over the weekend, I sought comfort in reading David’s lament for Saul and Jonathan. Like them, Pastor Ted fell in battle. While the responsibility is entirely his own, as he stated, it is obvious to me that his position at the forefront put a bulls-eye on his chest.

Coming on the heels of Pastor Appreciation month in October, the clearest message I hear is the urgency to better protect and care for our pastors, all of whom face attack on many levels and in a variety of ways.

Sunday’s service at New Life (where, after all these years, ironically I just began attending regularly two months ago) is one I will never forget. Pastor Ted’s own wisdom helped put in place the system of outside overseers which dismissed him. This is only the second time in my life where I’ve observed public church discipline. In my opinion (speaking as someone who is more than a casual observer but far less than an insider), it was handled extremely well, with speed, grace, sensitivity, fairness and firmness, with dual goals of protecting the church and restoring Pastor Ted in the long run, albeit to some other ministry in the larger Body of Christ, never again New Life.

The news accounts I’ve read of the service are largely accurate and captured some of the many touching moments. When Pastor Ross opened by saying, “We are a family!” the congregation erupted into a long standing ovation – clearly an emotional release and the first opportunity to express visible unity as a body. In spite of everyone’s hurt, the overwhelming message I heard on Sunday is that God is worthy of our worship and Jesus is the solution to our sin problem. It was almost like the victorious triumphing over sorrow that you see at some Christian funerals – the grief very evident, but also the sense of rock solidity beneath. Even before the service, I had zero doubt that New Life Church will pull through. After the service, I think, even the media now knows this.

On the day the tower falls, God is there to catch us. We can always rely on His unlimited hope, grace and the power of redemption. Because in the end, He is the only strong tower.

Protecting Your Family in Dangerous Times

All of America is heartsick at the recent killings in Amish Pennsylvania, a small mountain town in Colorado, and Wisconsin. When violence happens in urban America, we are no longer as shocked or uncomprehending as we once were. But these places seemed so remote, so protected, so out of the firing line. Unfortunately, bad things can happen anywhere, anytime, to anyone.

Everyone would like to know, “What can I do to better protect my family?”

I cannot think of a better time to recommend the book Protecting Your Family in Dangerous Times.

Published in 2002, this book asks, “What goes through your mind in those moments when your children leave home for another day’s activities? Just how sure are you that God will bring them home safely?”

Most parents do a good job of protecting our children by teaching them common sense: Don’t cross the street without looking, don’t unbuckle your car seat before I turn off the motor, don’t walk on Nevada Boulevard after dark, don’t go out with the kind of boy who is likely to make you a statistic, don’t use substances, if you purchase a crotch rocket, you better pay for your own funeral because your life expectancy is about 18 months, on and on the list goes. We are conscientious, and our teachings help our children avoid countless errors which could take them out of the game early. And this book does include the importance of parental discipline and teaching children to hear God’s voice and obey it.

But what about the things no one could predict, the odds we can't improve?

Kutz gives an example of the Passover which the Israelites experienced in Egypt. In that situation, clear instruction was given as to how to avoid the bad thing, the violence that would pass through the land that night. Israeli families who followed God’s instructions were spared, those who did not experienced destruction right along with the Egyptians. Bad things happened, but in that situation, people were given a choice to receive protection, or not.

A few weeks ago Balkan Brink wrote:

“I would say God is a liberal. Think about it. From the garden of Eden to today he allows us to follow him or not. Even God, at this point of human history, does not force his will on individuals.”

I would play off this and say that God is pro-choice, in the literal and all-encompassing sense of that word as reflected over and over in the Bible:

Choose life – or choose death

By now I imagine that my reader, deeply grieved over the violence and angry at the senselessness of it all, may be asking somewhat cynically, “So, are you saying that if Emily Keyes’ parents and the Amish girls’ parents had read this book, they would still be alive today?”

As Aslan said to Lucy in The Dawn Treader, “Child, I tell you no one’s story but your own.” I can’t know what might have made a difference for them. But it behooves me to ask what might make a difference for me and my children.

I Can’t See Clearly Yet For Seven More Business Days

I experienced a rite of passage yesterday. When all was said, done, tested, and paid for, we went for dinner at Cracker Barrel because I needed comfort food. When Mitch went through this, I’m ashamed to say I made fun of him. Now that it’s my turn, I humbly implored mercy, and he showed enough good character to repay me with kindness.

And not only Mitch but everyone else. At Cracker Barrel, I had to ask the waitress to read the Children’s Menu to me so I could make sure my son wasn’t ordering extra stuff that didn’t come with his meal. My daughter is a big mac ‘n cheese fan, so I pointed to the thumbnail size picture of what appeared to be a plateful of orange grubs, since the caption was obviously typed in a 3-point font.

After months of putting my prescription reading glasses on, off, on, off, straining for my eyes to refocus again and again on objects near and far, I’m finally willing to make the plunge, step over the line, belly up to the bar and take a swing at the ball – if, that is, I can see it coming. (Is that a golf ball they’re pitching?)

Ten years ago, I would have gone to great lengths to avoid asking anyone for help, even if it had been needed. But time softens one’s resignations to life’s harsh realities, so it was with only mild trepidation that I ordered my first pair of bifocals yesterday.

But during the next seven business days, if you see me groping or squinting or feeling my way, have a heart. If you’re still in your 20’s, I promise to be nice to you someday. When it’s your turn.

And Then Nothing Happened

Checking my voicemails this morning, I heard the following message from a frustrated and bewildered caller, spoken not to me, but to a family member in the background:

“Well, I heard her say who she was, and that she looked forward to helping me – and then nothing happened.”

Like many of you, I long ago deleted what I thought were culturally outdated instructions in my voicemail:

“At the sound of the beep, please leave your name and number and I will gladly return your call.”

Corporate voicemails still say that, and now I know why. Very few personal voicemails do, and if they do, others mock them for stating the obvious, much like we mock the instructions to not drink the battery acid, or a warning that the Superman pajamas do not actually enable the child to fly. As my Gen Y co-worker and I discussed this morning, it is absolutely incomprehensible to us that someone would hear the “beep” and not understand what to do next.

Yet this is not the first such voicemail I have received. The previous one was mercifully anonymous as the caller chatted to a family member about the meetings they were attending and the food being served, while expressing frustration that I had not answered my phone.

As someone whose title, education and identity are all emblazoned with the word “communications,” it clearly behooves me to update, or retro-date my voice message for maximum effectiveness. The rest of you will just have to sit through the redundancy.

But as someone who truly cares about helping people, I am nearly as frustrated as they are when this happens – I wish I could reach through the phone line and reassure them that I am listening, that I do care about solving their problem. In fact, nine times out of ten, I could easily have answered their question and alleviated their concern within minutes, had they just understood how the system works to get their message through.

Suddenly I get this mental image of God checking His voicemails and hearing the following, spoken not to Him but about Him to a friend:

“I’ve prayed and prayed about this but God doesn’t answer. I’m still (broke/sick/single/miserable) so I guess it must be God’s will for me to stay that way. I guess God doesn’t care about my problem.”

I can almost begin to comprehend what must be His frustration. I can imagine a teardrop fall on a nail-pierced hand.

My Cousin Jud

I know I've been blogless for weeks on end but here's an oh-so-linkable post from someone many of you would enjoy. For Dr. Dolittle & other missionary parents - be thankful YOUR kids TELL you about all that stuff they do when you're not around!!

At least . . . let's hope they're telling you . . .

They say everybody's got a crazy family and here's one of mine:

With love from CO to GA - and OK, CA, HI, WA and everywhere else I've got family, please meet

My Cousin Jud

Grandma's Gone to Glory

“Please eat while we’re gone so we can see you in a couple of weeks,” I told her, the morning we left for Georgia. And then softly, in her ear, “Thank you for giving me Mitch. He’s the greatest gift you could ever have given.” And then we were gone.

She couldn’t wait two weeks, not even one. Right about the time we turned from one North Georgia highway onto another, she was already past the Milky Way, and by the time we pulled into my parents’ driveway, she’d already spent 30 minutes in her new home.

Time enough, as time goes there, to catch up with her husband, sister, parents, and all the rest. Time to take a few running galaxy laps, just for a bit of a stretch, then settle in to compose a couple of oratorios and organize choir rehearsals. Time to curl up in Jesus’ lap and ask all the why’s she still cares about, if any.

As we told the kids, “Grandma just closed her eyes, sleeping like she has been in her chair, and next thing she knew, her eyes opened and she might have thought to herself,

“This isn’t my room. As a matter of fact, this doesn’t look like any place on earth I’ve ever been.”

Next she might have realized that nothing hurt and everything worked, her speech, walking, full range of motion restored, withered forearm and clenched fist uncurled and relaxed, and ready to take the hands of a couple of angels who flew up right then and said, “C’mon, there’s people lined up to see you.”

That at least she would be used to. All her life, people connected with Mom and she with them. As a customer service supervisor for a large ministry, she had a stream of employees in and out of her office getting coaching, counseling, prayer, problem resolution.

Once, I suggested she could try to think of the caregivers in the same way. “Only this time, they’re coming into your office to ask how they can help you.”

Strong-willed to the end, she never lost her core qualities reflecting out of her deep blue eyes, although she lost everything else. Even the caregivers who came in the last year, who never heard her say one word, developed a strong connection with her.


Sanguine, sassy, spicy all her life, she retained that as well. Never shy and often ornery, she would sometimes express herself in the few ways she still could. Once a caregiver was late, and told Mom she was sorry. “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Mom shot back. Our friend loved it and retold the incident for days.

But Mitch and a few caregivers could still make her laugh by clowning.
“I must have been a beautiful baaaby,” Mitch would sing, rolling his eyes, and pinching his cheeks. She would shake with mirth, making small choking noises in her throat that let us know she was laughing – or crying as the case may be.

Shades of her busy office, she still loved being the center of attention. One caregiver would “dance” with Mom while maneuvering her in and out of bed, joking about good-looking Tom Jones. Another would kneel by her side, holding her hand, and pray for her each morning. You can’t buy help like that, but we received it over and over again.

“Giver-Givers,” my three-year-old called the ladies who came into our home four times a day to feed, bathe, dress and care for Mom, and the name fit well. Many became like family, preparing Mom’s food in the kitchen side by side with me as I cooked for the rest of us. Several bought her gifts, new pj’s, slippers, a pillow for her back. A year ago when she could still barely speak, one caregiver would cajole her into saying “Walla Walla Washington,” then they’d both collapse in giggles.

Mom always loved her family and friends. My children would go downstairs and lay on her bed, next to the Lazy-Boy where she spent all her waking hours and, as time wore on, many more napping hours as well. They’d watch cooking shows or kid shows with her. I know this brought her a lot of joy, so I let the kids get away with more TV than they would have upstairs.

We are so glad we kept her in our home, and that she was able to stay here until the start of her next journey. That’s what she wanted. Her leaving marks the end of a journey for Mitch and me as well, in a sense. Thankfully, one day at a time, it worked. I think it could have continued working for as long as she needed us, had she stuck around for another few rounds. But we’re glad she left while her clear blue eyes still told a story her lips could no longer manage, and that her mind still understood all we said. Most of all, her heart still gave and received love.

The best of caregivers are vulnerable because they do not keep those tidy professional boundaries. They really bond. And at times like these, they really, really hurt.

And of course, Mitch is deeply sad. Although it’s been many years coming, one step at a time, the finality is different. I did not realize how different it would be for him. Having not yet lost a parent, I’m trying to enter in, to feel his heart in all of this.

Right now we are on a sorrowfully-sweet journey of a different kind – rediscovering Mom and all our family history and roots. In preparing for the memorial service, we’re spending many, many hours digging into old photo albums, tracing family trees, trying to figure out how to turn Mom’s favorite big band, swing jazz and Gospel CD’s into MP3 clips to accompany photos of her.

Meanwhile, I’m re-gathering my earlier, pre-stroke memories of Mom – the time she comforted me when Mitch first hurt my feelings in our dating days, the great mind connection she and I had as partners in a round of Taboo, her weeping joy when she unwrapped a tiny pair of baby shoes we gave her at the Villa in Palmer Lake, in 1996.

This will be a service not run by ministers but a gathering of friends, each of whom we hope will share a memory, a song, a prayer, a verse.

Once again, on August 19, Mom will be the center of attention. And we’re working very hard to make sure it’s one sweet party.

Decompression on I-70

“You’re going to drive??” a couple of friends asked, politely raising eyebrows at the thought of fifteen hundred miles and nine states in three days, enclosed in a small space with two small children. Sure, it saves money, although perhaps not enough to make it worth my time, figuring gas prices and lost work days. No one else will have to listen to the four of us belting out “I love peanut butter – and jelly!” And no one will examine us or our luggage in a paranoid manner.

But really and truly, the reason I drive is to reconnect, both with myself and the land I love. Driving across America brings dozens of chances for small interactions with fellow Americans. Most friendly, a few rude. Mostly honest, a few cons. All part of the tapestry that makes up America, my America. I want my kids to sense how big it is, something a 9-year-old just can’t fathom from passing through the clouds above.

I heard of an explorer in Africa, nonplussed when, in mid-trek, his native guides insisted on sitting for one full day before proceeding further. “We need time for our souls to catch up with our bodies,” they told him. He had no choice but to wait for his soul to catch up too.

When you fly, your worries can make it past airport security and stowaway in the overhead compartment. Four hours later, you find yourself in the same state of mind, set in a different location.

When I drive, those same cares and worries just can’t seem to hang on the outside of a vehicle going 70 mph. Somewhere in the cornfields between Hays and Wichita, one by one they lose their grip and slip screaming off into the Kansas sunset, leaving you lighter as they go.



Like a deep sea diver who gets the bends if he surfaces too quickly, I need time to transition from my world to that of my relatives. It’s not like I won’t find stress and worries in plentiful supply there: the heart is the same, it’s just a different twang. But at least I don’t have to bring my own.

So at least for this trip, you can keep your Travelocity and Expedia. I’ll just decompress on I-70, and then I-64, I-57, I-24 and I-65 – for me, the Land Between.

We’ll stop when we get tired and ask if they’ve got a room, pool mandatory. After a peremptory inquiry about discounts, I’ll pay whatever they charge. Tomorrow I’ll wake up, eat their sugary donuts, drink their watery coffee, and drive on.

My soul is decompressing right on schedule.

(Note: I wrote this two weeks ago at start of vacation, far from internet access. Now I'm back ready to post again.)

Unprepared

Opera House Red and that's just her living room walls (until her husband makes her paint it). Kim's got more color in her life than a fruit salad, mixed in glorious chaos with elegance, wit, perseverance and unshakeable conviction. She doesn't like to talk about integrity because she's too busy living it. She's passionate, obstinate, and sometimes sounds like Whoopie Goldberg on truth serum. I've loved her dearly for nearly thirty years. Read her own blog: Mountain Home Companion, but today enjoy her guest post here:

Ordinarily I find my monthly reminder of the curse bearable. I know what to expect. A couple days of irritability and depression and the strong urge to cry, probably a day of really bad cramping followed by a lightening of mood that is nearly euphoric because it follows hard upon such a depressive low. Generally I manage not to act out too much because I know what to expect and I know the feelings are hormonal, and thus are a magnification of small disappointments, hurts and sorrows. I deal by keeping my mouth shut and warning people when I am on edge a bit, and by apologizing a lot when I over-react. This past week I found myself floundering, not because anything was that terrible, but because my expectations weren’t met. Guys may age with thinning hair or an ever-increasing forehead, and I’m sure some of what they go through stinks, but I find the hormonal changes at this early age unexpected and really annoying.

This month, for added fun, the cramping and depressive mood hung on for days. Five very long days. Ask anyone in my house. It was a very long week. Oh not the first day, which I expected, but when the expected mood lightening didn’t happen, and I never felt that wonderful lift in spirits I have come to expect over the last several months, I gave in to the black mood. I had geared myself up for a short sprint and used up my strength, having no idea that this was going to be a cross-country run.

I would love to tell you that I turned to the Lord and allowed him to empower me with his strength, but I didn’t. Even the wonderful joy I experience being part of the worship team, and the excitement and pleasure in singing praises to God didn’t reach the deep level of exhaustion and weariness. One day this week, finally realizing that I could not continue as I was, I headed out to a friend’s house several miles and a world away. When I called to ask if I could come I heard the hesitation in her voice, but then she said “If you don’t mind if I work.” She had to give haircuts to 13 of her 50 goats, the ones she is showing at the Boulder County Fair this coming weekend.

I rushed home to change into clothes that can get stinky, dirty, and torn without causing me any distress and headed out. It was mid-afternoon and I had put in several work hours already, but had been relatively unproductive. It was a hot, humid afternoon, and the barn smelled of goats, hay, manure, and sweat. Not a bad smell, but earthy.

For the next several hours I swatted flies away as I watched my friend shave one goat after the other in the sweltering barn. We were able to catch up a bit, and in the sharing, the heat, the sweat, the animals, and the fresh, albeit “earthy”, air, running the goats out to pasture for a bit, watching them feed, petting, playing, and having several goats chewing on the hem of my shirt, my good humor returned.

The tension and anxiety I’ve felt building lately, that had only gotten worse with my monthly visitor, was washed away, and I slept better than I have in ages. Even tramping through a field of ragweed and the headache that followed didn’t dampen the effects of simply being with my friend in her simple but hard-working life.

Today I find myself thinking about Elijah, who had his time of discouragement just after God has done a mighty work through him against the prophets of Baal. In a very public triumph, God showed himself powerfully, but upon the completion of that task, and after watching God do mightily, Elijah showed his human weakness. But God did not scorn him, he cared for him and sent ministers to him, revealing himself in a still small voice. There is such comfort to me in my own times of weakness and depression in how God treated Elijah. Were there recriminations? No. There was restoration for body and spirit.

Okay, I know that dealing with the monthlies is not the same as battling the prophets of Baal and their wicked queen, but we battle many things in this life that are discouraging and try to sap our spirit. For me it is physical disability, financial distress, family discord, and sometimes just the feeling that I am very alone in this world with few to understand me. It may be spiritual warfare, lack of visible improvement in situations we pray for, whatever. Perhaps for you it is the daily battle to remain true and upright in a godless workplace, trying to stand for righteousness without being self-righteous, being gracious in a graceless society, or living out grace and mercy in a church that preaches it but doesn’t live it. Perhaps your family doesn’t share your faith, so you are constantly being tugged in two directions. Perhaps you are raising kids on your own after the man/woman to whom you pledged your life walked out the door. Perhaps you are mourning the loss of a loved one. Perhaps you are dealing with your own failures, bad choices, missteps and misdeeds. Or perhaps, like Elijah, you have just come through a time of seeing God work mightily through you, and now that the work is done and you have come down off the mountain, normal life is overwhelming you and depression

Perhaps your restoring time won’t be on a goat farm, but I pray that you will have that time. It can be alone with God, where his simple presence heals and restores your spirit or it can be when you are with someone who shares your faith and lets you fall on your face without judgment. Perhaps it will be simply being with those who believe in the God who cares and who can remind you that even when life is at its worst that you are loved. May you have your time of restoration.

Blessings on your head.

Sterling Silver

Julie is at once the most gentle and unassuming, quietly courageous person I know. We've prayed mountains together for five years. You can read Julie's own blog
Truth, Justice and the American Way, but today I asked her to guest-post on Living From Her Heart.

Some people might say he shouldn’t have been born. His mother is confined to a wheelchair, abandoned by the man who got her pregnant. With no father to provide and a disabled mom, what kind of future could this child possibly have? Quite likely, he would grow up in poverty. And think of the burden he would be to his mother—not to mention society. Wouldn’t it be kinder just to abort him?

But his mother made a life-giving choice, and Sterling came into the world. The first time I saw him, he was in diapers. When his mom turned her back, he opened a drawer filled with kitchen knives and had the sharpest and longest one in his hand. I was ready to yank it out of his grasp, but my husband knelt down behind him. Gently putting his arms around the two-year-old, Alex said in a soft, sing-song tone, “Sterling, be a good boy and give me the knife.” Disaster was averted as Sterling relinquished his prize.

Today, Sterling is eight. His attraction for kitchen knives has matured into a full-fledged passion for swords. “Let’s play sword fight!” Sterling would say to Alex whenever he saw us coming out of our house. Over the years, I’ve watched the two of them play catch, build snowmen, hunt for frogs, and curl up in front of the TV watching movies about—you guessed it—sword-fighting swashbucklers.

Although his last name isn’t really “silver,” I like to call him that because of what he has meant to us over the years. We met him and his mom after leaving a gospel tract on their doorstep, inviting them to our church for Easter. We included our phone number, and she invited us over to get acquainted. Although attending church would be difficult because of her disability, she agreed to study the Book of John with us in her home. We also introduced her to our church family, who welcomed her into their lives.

While in first grade, Sterling told his mother he wanted to go to church, so she arranged for the local Salvation Army to take him to their children’s service. But Sterling had never gotten on a bus by himself, and when the church bus arrived, he was too scared to get on. When his mom told us what happened, we knew this was a God-sized opportunity. “We’ll take him to our church,” we said.

This became a weekly ritual that included a visit to McDonalds or the park afterwards. As we watched Sterling play with other children, we saw him develop godly character traits and a heart for the weak. One day, a group of siblings from another ethnic group wouldn’t let him play ball with them, and he gently chided them, “You should share.” Moments later, their younger brother, a toddler, lost his grasp on the ball, and it rolled away. The boy started crying, and Sterling retrieved the ball and gave it back to him. The children’s parents were visibly moved.

One of our most treasured memories from our days with Sterling was when he accompanied us on the Walk for Life for the local crisis pregnancy center. His mom informed us that he had signed up for event at church, but she felt uncomfortable with his participation because she’s pro-choice. When she tried to talk him out of it, Sterling said, “But Mom—it’s for babies.” She was at a loss

I assured her that the proceeds for the walk would be used to help unwed mothers and their little ones, so she agreed to let him go. Sterling has no idea of the political ramifications surrounding a walk for life; he only knows he loves babies.

And he knows the love of his Heavenly Father, even though his earthly father rejected him. In his school journal he has written volumes about the love of God, saying things like, “God is my friend.” An assignment for school asked Sterling to write about a boy who was happy. He wrote, “My name is Sterling, and I’m happy because Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so!”

Since we moved to another part of town, we don’t see Sterling as much as we used to, and he doesn’t seem interested in going to church anymore. But we know that God brought him into our lives for a reason, if only for a brief season. We stay in touch with his mother, who now has a hand-operated van that a believer donated to her. Our prayer is that someday, she will drive into the church parking lot with Sterling next to her.

Meanwhile, Alex and I pray that the seeds we planted in their lives will blossom and bear much fruit for the Kingdom.

Oh, I Wish I Was in Dixie!

When I was nearly six, my family drove from British Columbia to Georgia. I had left Georgia at the age of 11 months and learned to walk on the boat en route to Tokyo. So on that first trip back, I really couldn't remember Dixie much less the "old times there ne'er forgotten." Nevertheless I belted out "Dixie" mile after thousands of irritating miles, much to the annoyance of my elder siblings and parents. I thought this would be a good time to teach that song to my kids now as we undertake the ol' familiar sojourn to my Southern roots and family. Irritating one's parents OR children on road trips is a time-hallowed tradition.

Among other family reunions, with my co-worker Karen's permission to do this without her in attendance, I plan to hold a meeting of the Pastor Luke Fan Club, Southern Division, at Jim 'n Nick's BBQ.

And Pastor Denny, I will wave as I drive by. Maybe another trip we can do lunch in Wichita!

You know, I think people are amazing, and my friends are amazing. Few things make me happier than sharing my friends with my other friends. While I am away, please welcome some of my nearest and dearest, old friends and new, who will be guest-posting on both my blogs, Living From My Heart and Healing School.

I guarantee you will be blessed.

Spring Fever Colorado-Style

Warmer weather affects us Coloradans in a variety of ways. One day, not so long ago, the conversation went like this:

“I’ve got some Black Angus heifers.”

“Oh? You going to rent pastureland down in Alamosa?”

“No, I’m putting some electric fence up behind the house.”

“But you live on the side of a hill!”

“It’s OK, cattle can pick their way up a steep slope.”

“So when will you get them?

“They’re here already. They’re in the Great Danes’ kennel until I get them up the hill.”

“OK, I'm afraid to ask - where are the Great Danes?”

“In the cattle trailer – where else?”

“And how will you get the heifers up the hill?”


(The hill slopes on a 45 degree angle, full of boulders, pine and scrub, interspersed with cactus and yuccas. If it had a trail, a tractor might climb it. Not a cattle trailer.)

“Oh, I built this contraption. It’s pure genius.”

At this point, I should probably disclaimer this as an apocryphal e-tale.

It’s not like I would have the slightest hesitancy in acknowledging acquaintance with the sort of person who would attempt to maneuver an ornery 600-lb Black Angus up a hill using a portable corral carried by three people, two of whom have less knowledge of cattle than Billy Crystal.

“Pure genius,” the backyard rancher told me. Pure hilarity, I’m thinking.


But then I’m not the one cowboy-surfing the hill with a rope wrapped securely around one forearm, Angus-propelled and airborne, but not quite clearing the cactus. Roadburns slightly smaller than the state of Texas. And this cow was mad, not in the pathological sense, merely ornery and more than customarily put out. I’m confident the heifer is healthy, but the rancher might need some kind of testing.

Incredibly, one bovine (the smallest and most docile) was indeed ushered to her hillside paradise in this manner. As for her companions . . . well, there’s been a change of plans. Seems the grass is greener downhill, by the mailbox, where the anti-Alpine critters can be trucked.

Still, as they say, the worst day wrangling your own cattle is better than the best day warming a desk chair for somebody else.

Perhaps the backyard cowboy is the sane one, after all.

National Office Bird Sanctuary

I saw it as I reached for the handle to open the heavy glass doors of the National Office, coming in to work Friday. An insignificant emerald mite, hanging at my knee level on the pebbled wall surface, just outside the entryway. I’m no expert on hummingbirds, but I’d never seen one sitting still. Normally their little wings look like ceiling fans in motion. I don’t like to get involved in other creatures’ malaise any more than you do, probably less, and I had no idea how to care for it. But I love hummingbirds, and at least thought I would kneel for a closer look.

It flew onto my head.

A cry for help, for sanctuary, I thought. Later, I realized her desperate burst of flight was aimed at my purple hair scrunchy, which she hoped to be of the nectar-containing variety.

And if that isn’t remarkable enough, within 30 seconds, Astrogirl came walking up the steps – quite possibly one of the few in the building who might have known what to do.

“Deb, do you know anything about hummingbird?” I asked her urgently. She answered in the affirmative, and I said, “Good, because there’s one on my head.”

Deb is on my Most Intriguing People list because she possesses astronomical knowledge, so to speak, on a wide span of topics, including, as it turns out, how to feed a starving hummingbird.



“It’s torpid,” she explained. “You mix one part sugar with four parts water.” I kept asking her, isn’t it going to die? It huddled listlessly on her open hand. I mixed the magic brew and she dribbled some on its beak, then gently submersed it. She assured me it would be fine, just needed to regain energy. Although clearly it would have starved to death had we not intervened. Deb knew by the tiny spots on its breast that it was probably a juvenile, perhaps inexperienced in food-gathering.

Incredibly, I could see the infinitesimal rippling of the water as its tongue (the same length as its beak) drank. We did this several times and just allowed it to rest on our hands. Like holding a cotton ball with a toothpick attached.

Deb crooned to the little thing. We watched as its eyes grew brighter.

Then, all at once, she was airborne, hovering right on the ceiling and touching the tiles with her beak. We opened the outside door, and after a few moments, she found her way out and was gone.

You might just find a torpid hummingbird sitting on your front step today. I don’t mean a bird. I mean a hurting co-worker or friend, someone who’s just used up all his or her fuel, maybe from flying around helping others.

Take a minute, give them a little sweet encouragement, let them rest on your strength. Soon they’ll fly off and leave you, recharged. It doesn’t cost much. Be a sanctuary.

Can You Hear My Love Now?

We snuggled close at bedtime, and she leaned her head against my chest, then looked up at me.

“Mama, I can hear your love!” she told me.


“I can hear because you love me sooooo much!”




How about you, and those you work with, serve, live with or preach to – can they hear your love?

They can . . . if you let them close enough.

Mundane Monday

I'm fighting discouragement today, just seems like I'm constantly overwhelmed with all there is to do. I try to tell myself to look at all I have gotten done instead.

Had one breakthrough moment last night during a conflict with Mitch. To put it in a nutshell, I like to talk through (often in repetitive circular motion) to reach resolution, he likes to quickly take action to reach resolution.

So a recurring pattern is that I'll say one thing, meaning to vent, and he'll quickly respond with a decision, when that wasn't what I intended at all, plus I feel short-circuited, shut-down.

Last night it finally occurred to me during one of these that he doesn't mean to shut me down and he isn't being spiteful to respond so quickly, he's just seeking resolution. And I tried to explain to him that I need to hash through things, and I need him to stay and listen to the whole thing and just process through it. He's not real big on that.

But the good part is that for one fleeting second, instead of feeling abandoned and hurt, I caught an insight that it's just his temperament and not trying to hurt me.

I've been thinking lately that married people don't reveal enough about our conflicts, so single people may think we're just more spiritual and perfect than them, and younger couples don't learn as they could from more experienced couples. So I've been thinking I should blog more about marital conflict. But it's obviously touchy, one doesn't want to say EXACTLY what one is thinking, right at the time. But if you never say anything at all, then how can we learn and grow from each other?

So for you who like "raw" blogs, there's my bit of sushi for a Mundane Monday.

A Neighborhood Fourth

One of the million things I love about America: Small neighborhood get-togethers.
Two of my neighbors organized a bicycle parade, inviting everyone to decorate bikes, strollers, and wagons. We had dogs, roller-bladers, flags waving, and a pair of balloon-decorated SUVs fore and aft to keep the kiddies safe from any traffic. Neighbors watched on lawn chairs as we marched by. People yelled "God Bless America" and "Happy Fourth." One SUV blasted Lee Greenwood's God Bless the USA on repeat. I didn't mind. I never get tired of it.

Afterwards - lemonade and cookies for all at a driveway lemonade stand. The sign proclaimed "25 cents" but the host dad waived that for those who didn't bring cash.

What a great chance to meet neighbors and celebrate our freedom, and our common joy in our children.