overwhelmed

This past few weeks have been difficult. Not in a crisis rush-to-the-ER kind of way, but in a nagging, worrying kind of way. Llama Papa and I have been talking through family decisions,** and in the midst of it all, I became just a tad bit overwhelmed. Or maybe a lot overwhelmed.

Somewhere in all of my worry, I cried out to God. It was one of those really articulate prayers that went something like this, “God? HELP!” And while there were no magic answers emailed from heaven (I’ve always thought God should get email), I did begin to loosen my grip on all of the what-ifs. Breathe. Trust.

If you’re at a crossroads today, give it a try. Ask.

If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. (James 1:5)

** edited to add: We're not moving or planning any kind of radical change in our family. It's more day-to-day decisions with the kids that feel big and overwhelming sometimes.

making a difference

I live in the suburbs.

I love my neighborhood and the court I live on, where my boys can ride their bikes around and around while I sit on a bench sipping iced tea. We live close enough to walk to school, and in the summer, we splash in our neighborhood pool. Sometimes we ride our bikes to get ice cream cones at the end of the day.

It’s comfortable here.

When I read about the work other people are doing for Christ, sometimes I feel uncomfortable. Inadequate. I wonder if what I do is enough. Am I really called to the suburbs? I wonder. At times I think I’d rather go to Africa or Asia, anywhere but here, sharing Christ with my neighbors in this comfortable place.

I read about the work Erika Haub is doing in South Central L.A., and weep sometimes at the beauty of her calling. (And I’m not even a crier!)

My long-time friend LeeAnn, a.k.a. FrazzMom, lives in the Bay Area of California, but manages to take her children on missions trips across the globe almost every year.

These people are making a difference in this world.

Am I?

I’ve mentioned before my husband’s call to missions, as a sender. We got a letter yesterday from a family we’ve partnered with for over a decade, and I read with joy that their daughter just graduated from college, and their son is on his way. I can’t tell you how encouraged I am to witness God’s faithfulness to their family.

We’ve supported the work of Compassion International long enough that several kids have grown up sending us letters, and we need to choose a new child to sponsor. When I read about global poverty, I think of the work Compassion is doing around the world to change things, one child at a time. It’s a small thing, only $32 a month, and yet a child’s life is different because of it.

I take care of my boys, loving them and teaching them and feeding them. (And feeding, and feeding, and feeding.) I clean the kitchen floor. I vacuum.

Is it enough? Am I making enough of a difference in this world? Am I being faithful to God’s calling on my life?

Honestly? I don’t know. I hope so.

Why does God care about me?

Does God care?

Don’t we all ask ourselves this question? In light of world hunger, raging wars, and child abuse, why would God care about me––an ordinary, middle-class suburban housewife?

The short answer is, it’s not about me. I'm not any more or less deserving of God’s love than the next person, but He offers it to me just the same. I just need to reach out and take it. Turn from my sin. Believe. It really is that simple.

But I’m guessing this question was asked from a heart filled with despair. A two-in-the-morning-God-has-forgotten-about-me despair we’ve all felt, if we’re honest.

The truth is, most of the time I don’t feel like God cares. But I know He does. I believe scripture is true, and because of this, I believe God loves me. This knowledge is rooted in fact, and not swayed by my day-to-day feelings. This knowledge allows me to trust God and build my life on a foundation of faith, regardless of my emotions.

I have loved you with an everlasting love;
      
I have drawn you with loving-kindness (Jer 31:3).

It’s a leap of faith, I know.

But it’s one I’m glad I’ve taken. And once in awhile, I do have a moment of touchy-feely, God-is-real-and-He-cares-about-me clarity. In the meantime, I walk by faith, and not by sight.

And if you’re my middle of the night googler and you’ve come back again, please leave a comment or email me. My contact email is on the side of this blog. I'd love to continue this conversation with you.

good friday

My husband and I are back from our trip. In a word? Amazing. More on that soon. But tonight, a few thoughts on my grandpa, who passed away yesterday.

In my mind, my grandpa will always be 72. When I was ten, I helped my Aunt decorate his birthday cake, and I remember counting out 72 candles. I laughed and laughed as we carried it out—the whole thing was on fire! My grandpa laughed too, and from that day on, every time someone asked me how old my grandpa was, I told them he was “72.”

My grandpa was my cheerleader. For a variety of reasons, it took me ten years to finish college. I was almost embarrassed to invite people to my graduation and almost skipped it altogether. But he was so proud of me. He hugged me tight and cheered loudly, “Way to go, kid!”

He was a college professor, conductor, husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and friend. At 96, he planned to play the organ for the Good Friday service at the retirement community he and grandma lived in. He passed away peacefully on Good Friday, with my grandma and two of his children by his side.

I’m sad for my grandma, who has lost her companion of 63 years, but I’m thrilled for my grandpa. Imagine—Easter in heaven! Just think of the celebration! Is he playing the organ? Conducting the choir? Just sitting with Jesus, relishing his new, heavenly body? And he can hear! After all of these years with crummy, screeching hearing aids, my grandpa can finally hear.

On Easter morning as I celebrate the resurrection of my Lord, I thank Him for the life He gives us—both here and eternally. Oh, the hope we have in Christ. He is risen!

chicken

Last week when Twin A was at the E.R., his brothers and I took a trip to the grocery store. Walking by the meat case, I noticed that chicken was on sale. Then I looked at the packages and saw that it was really on sale. The “sell by” date was the next day, and all of the already-on-sale chicken was half off. Bottom line—I got huge value-packs of chicken for two bucks. I threw a bunch of them in my cart, figuring I can always use frozen chicken.

Back at home, I was on my way down to the basement freezer to stash our huge supply of cheap chicken, when Twin B. said, “Mom, look! Our friend is outside.” A neighbor and her two kids were walking back from the park, so we popped our heads outside to say “Hi.” Immediately, all I could think about was chicken. I needed to give her some chicken.

Now, let me back up here and say that I’m not a person who regularly hands out groceries. My sister-in-law? Constantly. “Here! I got this cereal for a dollar a box! Take some!” If I know of a need, I’m quick to give, but to just randomly give someone food? Not me at all.

So here I am chatting with this neighbor and I can’t let it go, this desire to give her some chicken, so I tell her, “Listen. I was just at Dominick’s and I got this great deal on chicken. It was half off of the sale price—only two bucks for a huge pack.” She doesn’t say anything, so I continue, “Do you want a pack? I bought way more than we need.” She hesitates and looks at me like I have three heads. So I go in and get her a pack of chicken. She thanks me and continues her walk.

A few times since then I’ve thought, “She must think I’m a freak. What kind of person hands out chicken to their neighbors just because they got a good deal on it?” But a few days later I got an email from her, thanking me for that chicken. They were out of groceries and she had no idea what she was going to make for dinner that night. Now, I know they’re on a tight budget so she can be home with the kids, but I don’t know if she was out of groceries because they had no money or she simply couldn’t get to the store. (Spoken by a woman with enough money who has gone to the neighbor’s house with two empty sippy cups, asking for milk.) Either way, I am amazed at God’s provision for her.

I’m pretty sure the chicken was a God-thing, and yet it’s hard for me to accept. There are children on the other side of the world who will go to bed hungry tonight; people in the hospital, dying of cancer; refugees, running for their very lives. Why would God care about this particular neighbor’s dinner enough to prompt me to give her some inexpensive chicken? Why would God care about chicken at all in light of all of the need in the world? And the real question, why would God care about me, a middle-class suburban housewife, when He is God? Sovereign, Omniscient, all-powerful God? Surely He has better things to do than think about me. My view of God is expanding, but I still struggle with His care of me, as an individual. Oh, He loves the World, that’s for sure, but me? Really? It’s hard to remember my own moments of despair, running for my life, so to speak, and wonder that God can keep track of chicken prices in Naperville, but not me in my most difficult moments. I choose to believe He does, of course, but the chicken thing is still hard for me to get my head around.

Facing the Giants

“That was a great movie about God and football,” my five-year old son commented after seeing the film, “Facing the Giants” at our church. “God gave everybody what they wanted in the end,” he continued, “it was a happy movie, wasn’t it Mom?”

I have to admit, I didn’t have high hopes for “Facing the Giants.” When our church announced plans to show this movie for free as an outreach to the community, I was skeptical. Would it really attract that many people? As a pinch-hit volunteer in the four and five year old Sunday school class, the answer is a resounding, “YES.” We had eight visiting four-year old boys, and the movie isn’t even geared toward preschoolers.

Sadly, I don’t expect much from Christian movies, so I was surprised to find that it wasn’t completely hokey. It even had moments of genuine humor. But Twin B pretty much summed it up in the above exchange, and he’s only five.

The theme “nothing is impossible with God” really shines through. A young couple choosing to trust God in difficult circumstances sees God work miracles. Wonderful. The downside? It was a little bit like reading a Christian romance novel: you know exactly how it will end as soon as it starts.

Am I just cynical? I believe God can do the impossible. But I also know that life is messy and new trucks from God rarely show up in any of our driveways, even if we really, really need a new truck.

I’m reminded of a friend who, years ago, was on bedrest in the hospital with twins, one of whom was not expected to live due to a severe birth defect. One night I was so grieved for my friend, I prayed until early morning for God to do the impossible. I didn’t pray a polite, “God, comfort my friend” prayer. I anguished for her and cried out for the impossible—for both of her babies to live. Not long after, her daughter was born, lived a few hours, and died in her arms. Is God still good? Of course He is. But there is no simple answer to life’s most troubling concerns, and while miracles are awesome, they don’t often come, even when we have great faith.

I wish this movie had ended without every problem being wrapped up into a tidy package. Maybe they lose the baby they prayed so long for; maybe they adopt a special needs child; maybe their car dies and they both walk a long way to go to work. But this was not a film about “God’s plans are not always our plans,” this was a movie about, “Nothing is impossible with God.”

In any case, eight four-year olds I have never met before heard the story of the Good Shepherd, who cares so much about each of His sheep, He leaves the 99 to go after just one. Many seeds of faith were planted today, and for that, I am thankful.

Authenticity

We’ve all experienced it at one time or another: that uncomfortable moment in Bible Study when someone dares to tell the whole truth. “My uncle molested me as a kid,” or “I had my driver’s license taken away for drinking and driving,” or “I had an abortion when I was fifteen.” Personally, these revelations scare the heck out of me. What am I supposed to say? I start sweating and feel slightly nauseous. Are other people going to start telling their secrets too? And—the real reason for my discomfort—will people expect me to share MY secrets? It’s socially inappropriate, this sharing, but in the context of Christian community, IS it inappropriate? And in the small group setting, isn’t it strangely preferable to praying for someone’s Cousin Susie’s nose job?

I was reading in Mark 5 today, and the first twenty verses detail the account of a man who was demon possessed. I find the story interesting on many different levels—I mean, the guy was DEMON POSESSED. He was thrashing around uncontrollably. His life was a disaster. Jesus sent the demons living in this guy into a herd of 2,000 pigs, who proceed to drown themselves in a nearby river. Can you even imagine? Anyway, here’s the part that really interests me. In verse 18, it says, “When Jesus got back into the boat, the man who had been demon possessed begged to go, too. But Jesus said, ‘No, go home to your friends, and tell them what wonderful things the Lord has done for you and how merciful he has been’” (Mark 5:18-19).

How much easier would it have been for this guy to climb into the boat with his savior and begin a whole new life? How much more difficult to go home, to the people who knew him, and start over? I mean, think about it. This guy has some serious baggage. But Jesus tells him to go home and tell his friends about God’s mercy.

The question that’s nagging at me is this: can we truly share the wonderful things God has done for us without sharing the details of how desperate we were when Christ found us? Am I so concerned about being appropriate that I miss opportunities to share God’s love? And am I really concerned with being appropriate, or am I just trying to protect myself and whatever “image” I may have constructed for myself?

What does it mean to be authentic in the context of Christian community? And, more importantly, what does God require of us?

a living sacrifice

“And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice—the kind he will accept. When you think of what he has done for you, is this too much to ask?” (Romans 12:1)

I start the day reading through a yet-to-be published newsletter for a friend who is looking for editorial suggestions. Detailing the destruction of an orphanage in Kenya, this newsletter breaks my heart. I weep over my coffee, open my Bible and begin to read the above verse in Romans. What does it mean for me, a middle-class, suburban housewife, to present my body as a living and holy sacrifice? To truly worship God today, on this stay-at-home snowy Tuesday?

I consider the orphans in Kenya as I make blueberry pancakes for my own children. I sing along with the worship music on my kitchen stereo:

“Jesus, I’ve forgotten the words You have spoken / Promises that burned within my heart have now grown dim / With a doubting heart I follow the paths of earthly wisdom / Forgive me for my unbelief / Renew the fire again / Lord have mercy / Christ have mercy / Lord have mercy on me / I have built an altar where I worship things of man / I have taken journeys that have drawn me far from You / Now I am returning to Your mercies ever flowing / Pardon my transgressions / Help me love you again” (Lord Have Mercy by Steve Merkel).

After singing the song, I feel spiritual, even though I’m sweeping up uncooked macaroni noodles from the kitchen floor (don’t even ask). I choose not to become impatient with the noisy boys for running circles around the living room and yelping like coyotes; after all, what else can they do to blow off steam on this sub-zero day?

The day goes on and I’m tired—tired of changing poopy diapers; tired of refereeing between the noisy boys; tired of cleaning up the kitchen. I don’t feel spiritual anymore, but decide that must be the point—this must be the sacrifice part, right? I keep working and try to think about Jesus, but my mind is already wandering to the pot roast I plan to make for supper.

The noisy boys are officially driving me crazy, so I turn on Sponge Bob Square Pants and read a few of my favorite blogs. I cry reading CLC’s post about the refugee family she’s helping. I read Ed’s blog and begin to feel inadequate. I think about my friend, For Now , who’s making soup for her church’s food pantry, so the people who come for groceries will have something warm to eat while they wait in line—the same food pantry that Craver serves so faithfully at. And what am I doing? Tending to my baby’s diaper rash and serving snacks to a couple of rowdy preschoolers.

I go back to Romans. “Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will know what God wants you to do, and you will know how good and pleasing and perfect his will really is” (Romans 12:2).

Is it God’s will for me to reach out to the poor and speak out against injustice? Absolutely. And as I allow him to transform my mind and heart, I’m praying He’ll give me concrete ideas as to how I might begin to do this in the midst of this season in my life. Meanwhile, comparing my life to the lives of others really serves no useful purpose. Today, God has called me to serve my family. To change poopy diapers, organize crafts, and fix pot roast.

And so this day ends over chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven and hot cocoa. A quiet moment with my noisy boys; a cuddle with the baby; a conversation with my husband.

I’m still not sure what it means to be a living and holy sacrifice, but I pray that my work and my heart were pleasing to God today.

On the bright side

Thank you, kind readers and dear friends, for your thoughtful notes and emails during this past week. (Not to mention the lasagnas, pizzas, and other yummy food you've sent my way!)

Things are looking up. The pain is significantly less than it was; I can lift my baby again, as long as I don't do it ALL day, and while I'm still taking people's offers of meals and babysitting, I'm not as dependent on it as I was last week.

Here's a little bit of what I've been thinking about and learning:

1) I'm lousy at asking for and accepting help. This week has stretched me in this area, which is a good thing.

2) Community is valuable and worth the investment of time and energy we put into it.

3) My 5-year-old noisy boys are more flexible and independent than I thought they were. I'm such a "routine" kind of Mom, and it was good for me to see how easily they rolled with the punches. (Twin A, who if given a choice would have spent the last five years of his life never leaving our house, excitedly asked me, "So, what's my schedule today? Who's taking me to preschool? Will I have a playdate after school?") It does my heart good to see them able to connect with other people in their lives and be fine, even without ME to take care of their every need.

4) I am really, really grateful to have such a happy, easygoing baby. Enough said.

5) My identity is more wrapped up in my role of Mom and Wife than I thought it was. Take away my ability to take care of everybody, and I'm pretty unhappy. I know my identity needs to be found in Christ, but it's not. Pray for me.

6) Doing my job is exhausting and in "normal" day-to-day life, I'm too hard on myself. Watching my husband be "Super Dad" all week wore me out as I objectively watched him do the million things I normally do, and collapse on the couch at seven o'clock exhausted. Raising three kids and taking care of our household IS a huge job, and at this stage of the game, I'm never caught up on everything. But that's okay.

7) God has blessed me with a wonderful family. I complain about the chaos too often on this blog. I love our family full of noisy boys, and--even more surprising--I really do love my job as a stay-at-home Mom. When the twins were babies, I used to dream of putting on my pantyhose and going to work at a "real" job. It felt like a huge sacrifice to be home with them and not pursuing my own career interests. It doesn't feel like such a sacrifice anymore. I like where I'm at in life, and the people I share life with.

8) This blog has become too self centered. Seriously. As I ease back into life, I'm sure I'll have more intersting things to write about than ME. :-)

maybe there is a God

I’ve been a Christian for seventeen years now. Well, longer if you count the five-hundred-and-eighty-five-plus times I prayed the “sinner’s prayer” as a child, for fear of going to hell if I didn’t. But the definitive moment for me, that moment when everything and nothing changed, was in a Crisis Pregnancy Center seventeen years ago. My faith in God became my own, and my journey as a follower of Christ began.

And what a journey it’s been. This morning I was reading in Matthew, and the end of chapter 14 finds the disciples on a boat, terrified and trapped in a storm. Jesus walks on the water toward them, and at Peter’s request, calls the disciple to come out on the water with him. Peter walks toward Jesus, then gets scared and sinks. Jesus pulls him up and climbs into the boat. Instantly the storm stops. The disciples’ response? They worship him and exclaim, “You really are the Son of God!”

These are the disciples! They lived with Jesus. They observed and participated in his miracles. Just that day they had seen Jesus feed over 5000 people with five loaves of bread and a few fish. And yet doubt lurked in their hearts. When placed in a boat and tossed into the middle of a storm, their faith waned.

This morning, I find the disciples response to Jesus strangely reassuring. My own heart is fickle and riddled with doubt. If there is one thing that has characterized my own spiritual journey it’s doubt and a lack of faith. And yet I’ve seen God undeniably at work, even in my own life. And too often my response has been, “Maybe there is a God!”

Flannery O’Conner once said, “It’s much harder to believe than not to believe.” This has been true in my own life.

Jesus knew his disciples and their faith struggles, just as he sees the struggle within my own heart. Recently I’ve had a shift in thinking that has resulted in greater faith. And while I’m grateful, I’m also aware that tomorrow could find me in a boat tossed by waves and afraid for my life. “Lord, I do believe, but help me with my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24)