Orlando

When I was pregnant with Phoenix, Josh and I watched all the available seasons of Dexter with amazing speed - to say we binged is really an understatement. One night, after a marathon of episodes from season four (the Trinity season, for fellow fans), I got in the shower feeling really unsettled. I have a high threshold for fictional blood/guts/crime (not really sure what this means about me), but I was deeply shaken by the particular form of evil personified by John Lithgow's character 'Arthur Mitchell.' As water fell from my downcast eyes onto my swollen belly, it occurred to me for the first time that we would be introducing our child to a world wrought with evil and destruction. Why would we bring a child into a world like this? A world where evil seems to have free reign, where one is always at risk of bearing the soul-deep consequences of someone else's depravity? How could we possibly protect a child from such present, subversive, expansive evil?

Obviously, it was a little late to ask such an important question. Like it or not, our growing child already had traction in this world, and the question changed from "Why would we raise a child in this world?" to "How will we raise a child in this world?" 

Sunday, upon hearing the news of what happened in Orlando, I was freshly disturbed by the realities of this world. And this evil was not fictional - it was real in the most profound sense of the word. 

Phoenix, now five, is at such an amazing age -- the whole natural world feels like a gift that I get to help her unwrap. She notices all the variations in the clouds, she instantly internalizes the names and habitats of ocean creatures, she overturns rocks to see what she might discover underneath. But those tangible expressions of Glory that she's constantly encountering are only a small portion of the world she will continue to explore. This week, I weep that giving her the world means she will inevitably be hit over the head with pain and grief and tragedy and unspeakable evil. 

Forty-nine mommas lost their babies this week. I wish more than anything that there’s a way I could ease their suffering, ascribe meaning to their loss, or offer small graces like a hug or a meal. But I can’t. There's nothing that can undo or reverse this horror.

What I can do is keep answering “How will we raise a child in this world?” with a resounding commitment to empathy. I cannot bring back lost lives, but I can fight for character in the lives of the two small people in my home. They are my sphere of influence for this season, and I can affect the trajectory of our world by the way I teach them about loving others. It is no easy or small thing to really understand and internalize the experiences of another human being, to see them with your whole attention and value them despite glaring ideological differences. It is no easy thing to set aside agendas, to find the smallest square of common ground and to contruct a relationship built first on love. It is no small thing to intentionally change words, phrases, behaviors and habits for the sake of honoring someone else’s experience. 

None of this comes naturally to me, so thankfully I have access to the greatest example of empathy in the Incarnation. Christ (quite literally) took on the form of those he meant to serve and love, experiencing the spectrum of our temptations, our hardships, our pain and our joy. Setting aside his glory, Jesus humbly walked among us, getting his hands dirty on the front lines of love. With no concern for social norms and no tolerance for religious spectacles, Jesus locked eyes with the misunderstood, the ostracized and the forgotten.

I am praying that my children are leaders in a generation marked by empathy. I cannot gift them a hate-free world, but I can foster the bravery and kindness that will change the tide. 

To the LGBT community - I weep as you weep. 

To the families and friends who lost someone they love - I weep as you weep.

And to the rest of us - let’s fight first in our own hearts and then in the world for the empathy that can prevent such senseless acts of violence.

Mourning in my Kitchen

Not long after receiving the call that my grandma was in the hospital, I found myself in the kitchen. An unfortunate by-product of having a family is feeding them. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Normally there is a fair amount of drudgery in the dinner experience for me; trying to cook amidst squeals and screams, force-feeding my small people, and then immediately cleaning up the inevitable messes. Not my favorite.

But something was different on that particular evening. 

It was almost an out-of-body experience, my senses both heightened and dulled by the news of potential loss. Peeling carrots, shredding cheese, whisking a roux - small moments of normalcy intoxicated with the immanent.

Since that call, I have found myself acutely aware that we live in the “now and not yet.” The kingdom of God was surely inaugurated in the first coming of Christ, but it has not yet found its fulfillment. Death has no ultimate power over those who know God, for we are promised resurrection bodies and eternity with Christ. But that happy truth is tethered to the inescapable presence of Death among us in this present age. 

To love someone on the brink of eternity is a strange and holy thing. It is a stark and obvious intersection of the temporal and eternal, which brings into focus all the other ways that heaven breaks into our everyday. It gives one fresh eyes to see the sacred in things that have become overly familiar. The last traces of baby smell that linger on Jericho’s skin, the perfect turn of Phoenix’s curls on a humid day, the crisp blue of Josh’s eyes … these things became miracles. 

I was in yoga class on a Monday when a YMCA employee came to tell me that Josh was in the lobby. As I quietly rolled my mat and slipped out of the room, I imagined all possible reasons for this interruption. Our minds are amazingly complex … I knew exactly what he’d come to tell me, but I deceived myself in entertaining other possibilities. 

After a lifetime of faithful service to Christ, my grandma took her last breaths that Sunday night, January 10th.

Mourning her loss means allowing Grief to be my ever-present passenger again for a season.  Having been introduced before, I thought I would know exactly how to navigate our relationship. But, as it turns out, grief is not that consistent. Mourning a particular person in a particular season brings a very particular pain. For me, this time, I started stuck in the mire of numbness and emotional volatility, which admittedly made me a miserable person to be around. 

And, for some reason, the loss seems to strike me afresh when I'm in my kitchen. Not every time I cook - only those times where I find a strange balance between focus and contemplation. Grating ginger, carefully avoiding my fingers while simultaneously basking in the sharp, herbal scent that my grandma loved so much. Watching swirls of sour cream slowly disappear as I mash potatoes, remembering all the Thanksgiving dinners where my grandma would stand at the stove whisking gravy. Sprinkling freshly cut tomatoes with herbs and garlic to roast for spaghetti, thinking about how she relished in beautiful produce (and anything else that grew from the Earth). 

The tediousness of cooking for my young family has been imbued with new meaning for me - largely because I know that my efforts in the kitchen would make my grandma so proud. The ways she loved were not grandiose or extravagant; she loved with meals, with presence, with a listening ear, with understanding, with greenery, with prayer. She wasn't changing the whole world, she just showed up every day to care well for her people. I'm learning the eternal significance of seemingly small acts of love, and Grief is a patient, long-suffering teacher. 

To My Coworkers

I have an eavesdropping problem.

In all fairness, it's almost impossible NOT to eavesdrop in the break room at work.
[For those of you who don't know, I work at the local bookstore a few hours a week. Extra cash + adult conversations + a reason to wear real clothes = sanity.]

On Saturday, I was actively trying NOT to eavesdrop. I had only a thirty minute respite from the chaos of weekend retail work, which included a children's choir loudly performing in the middle of the store, so I wanted to sit in peace and read my book. Two of my coworkers struck up a conversation, though, and I was unfortunately positioned in-between them.

It started as a general conversation about social media - which platforms they use, how often they log on, who they like to keep up with.
And then the conversation turned to the type of Facebook friends that annoy them the most.
It went something like this:
"Ugh, I have so many friend who are religious now. They used to drink and cuss with me, but now their status is always something like, 'Hello Tuesday! I'm so blessed!' or "So thankful for this Monday!'"
"I know. And I'm over here like, 'My life is a shit sandwich!'"
They laughed, and then kept joking about all the things that are inevitably going wrong in their lives.

I didn't say anything.
But here is what I wish I'd have said:

"Y'all ... I can't handle those Facebook friends either. I get where they are coming from - they are working hard to cultivate gratitude, a legitimate discipline. But when all they offer to the world is their mustered-up goodness, it can be offputting. That's "religion" all right ... sickeningly whitewashed.

Let me tell you something. I believe in God, but you know what? Sometimes my life is a shit sandwich too. My cars break down too (ALL. THE. TIME). I get burned by friends and family too. I experience paralyzing loss too. My house falls apart too. My kids can be little hellions too. Customers make me want to simultaneously cry and punch a window too. I feel lonely too. My marriage can be a hot mess too.

Here's the only difference between you and me: while you are fighting to subsist off the shit sandwich that you're often served, I'm over here feasting on the Bread of life.
Turns out, shit isn't satiating or substantial, and I'm thankful for an alternative source of sustenance. Following Christ does not insulate you from painful circumstances - in fact, it often ushers in suffering. It also doesn't make those circumstances perfectly easy to swallow.
But I sit at the Table with Christ. God intimately knows my hardships (large and small), many of which are my own making. God knows not just my circumstances, but the (very) shitty condition of my heart. And through it all, through my suffering and refining, I am deeply loved. I am valued, cared for, fought for, sung over, befriended and wholly known.

If you want to go get a margarita and cuss up a storm, give me a call. I'm your girl. We can talk (and laugh) about all the things that are hard to bear in this life. And I hope you'll give me the chance to tell you how perfectly you are loved."

Grace for the Process

I've been reading through Job this week.

Honestly, this is one of the only times I've read through this book during a season of stability. Normally, I turn to this book as an act of desperation, when my own calamities (admittedly very mild compared to those that plague Job) leave me looking for a word from God. It works for me. Chapters 38-42 are quick to put me in my place, leading me to renewed repentance and trust.

But I'm seeing it with different eyes this time around, perhaps because I don't feel the need to superimpose my own sorrow on the text. I can see Job's story as his own.

Around chapter 10, I was starting to get mildly annoyed with Job. I understand his grief was immense, his suffering was vast. But, at this point, he seems to have cast himself as the protagonist in a Shakespearean tragedy, declaring "my eye will never see good again" (7:7). He is stuck so deep in the mire of his circumstances that he wishes he had been stillborn: "Why did you bring me out from the womb? Would that I had died before any eye had seen me and were though I had not been, carried from the womb to the grave" (10:18-19). Kind of dramatic, eh?

With the sour taste of Job's attitude in my mouth, I then read this verse in James:
"Behold, we consider those blessed who remained steadfast. You have heard of the steadfastness of Job, and you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful" (5:11, emphasis mine).

Wait ... what?!? The steadfastness of Job? Did James and I read the same book? Job clearly succumbed to the temptation of despair - shouldn't that disqualify him for a descriptor like "steadfast?"

What at first seems problematic opened up to me as a promise. Job despaired, but his life was not characterized by that despair.
My attitude in any one moment does not define my life. The failures of any one season do not comprise my legacy.

God has spent the last few months opening my heart-eyes to a lot of ugliness that exists in me. More than normal, I'm acutely aware of my failures, temptations and apathy. And, if I allow it, this depravity-acknowledgement can be discouraging.

That's why I'm thankful for this spoonful-of-sugar lesson from God. The spirit-refining medicine that God administers is important and ultimately kind, but can be oh-so-difficult to swallow. It was good to be reminded that who I am in this moment is not who I am. The heart snapshot of today is not permanent, and God has great forward-looking grace with me. And I need to have this grace with myself too. I do not excuse myself, but humbly admit I'm a weird, lumpy piece of clay in the hands of a brilliant potter. 

I hope this reminder is a soul-salve for you too. Your anger, your dismissiveness, your lack of self control, your fear, your depravity in its various forms; these do not define you. They are an indication of your humanity, but remember that divinity is at work in you. Have grace and patience for the process!

Creators, Not Consumers

I've been listening to Colony House's CD "When I Was Younger" non-stop since it arrived in the mail on Tuesday.
I was fortunate enough to attend Catalyst (a Christian leadership conference) in Dallas this past week, thanks to a dear friend's connections. Colony House played live at the conference on Friday morning, and I was in awe. I love and appreciate music, but I don't think I've ever been so instantly drawn to a sound like I was when they played. They are a rock band, and somehow they still captivated a room of middle-aged, sleep-deprived pastors early in the morning. That alone speaks to their skill.
Their album is more than music ... it's Art.
I think that's why I'm addicted - because the instruments, the melodies, the lyrics subtly, yet forcefully, appeal to the Creator.

As it turns out, two of the band members are sons of Steven Curtis Chapman.
My brain won't rest thinking about that connection, about the implications of my decisions in the lives of my children.

Those two boys grew up watching their dad create. I'm sure it wasn't always pretty, either - they had a front row seat to the hardship, the self-discipline, the tirelessness involved in pursuing creativity with one's life. And I'm sure there were days that they resented their dad's creative pursuits, when music drew him away from their home. But SCC's creative legacy now extends beyond his own songs. His sons, from intimate contact with a creative soul, knew why and how to pursue creativity in their own lives. And, as witnesses to creative dreams fulfilled, they believed enough in their own creativity to pursue it as a livelihood.

This is one of my great dreams as a parent: that my children would see their dad and I functioning as co-creators with Christ, pursuing (in some capacity) the creative impulses of our souls for the glory of God.
Of course, this much easier said then done. Shopping, watching TV, constantly checking social media and general self-indulgence are all habits that (in excess) suggest a consumer-heart instead of a creative-heart. I'm learning that creativity is indeed an uphlill battle - coasting as a consumer requires a fraction of the effort involved in getting off the couch to contribute something beautiful to the atmosphere of the world.

But I want to fight for that. I'll fight for it because creativity is a gift meant to be returned to God. I'll fight for it because creativity feeds my soul that's desperately famished endless consuming. I'll fight for it because I want a legacy that extends beyond myself, that I may watch my children flourish in their own creative pursuits.

So whether its a meal, music, a piece of furniture, a poem, a beautiful space, a painting, a photograph, a letter, a song, an act of service, or something I can't even envision, fight with me to make a space (however small) for creativity in your life. 

Haven

I've been thinking a lot about this upcoming year - what I want to accomplish, who I want to become, and where I want to allocate my time. I know I'm not alone: the new year seems to push a reset button in our souls, though we're often quick to dismiss or trivialize a fresh start.
I've devoted more attention to this goal-setting inclination than in the past, largely because of the Storyline conference I attended this fall. There was a lot of discussion about dreaming BIG for the Kingdom, and then breaking those dreams down into more tangible month-to-month, day-to-day, and moment-to-moment goals.

My list of 2015 goals is still a work in progress. Actually, that makes me sound much more put-together than I am. I have a jumbled mess of priorities, dreams, timelines and minutia in my head that will hopefully morph into a list at some point.

During small group yesterday, my friend Rachel was telling us how her mother prompted her to choose one word as a goal for 2015.
Rachel didn't overtly prompt us to do the same, but I immediately knew what my overarching word for this year will be.

Haven.

Two of my more tangible dreams for this year (buying a house and getting trained as foster parents) have my thought-life already gravitating towards this word. I want to really craft a home, where people (friends, family, foster children, etc) feel safe, warm, loved, cared for, nurtured and valued. And the more I've thought about this word, the more God seems to suggest that in order to make my home a haven, I need to have a haven-heart. I want my soul, my spirit, my personhood to give that same feeling of safety and value.

So while I've started to notice spaces that feel like a haven, I'm also noticing the haven-hearted people in my world. And I'm going to start taking notes, asking for help, praying desperately for the intervention of the Holy Spirit. More often than I would like, I find my soul-ground to be either very desolate or very tumultuous. I'm praying that changes this year.

So while I have yet to hash-out some of the details of my 2015 goals, I know what direction I'm headed ... towards a haven.

My Christmas Babies

December 24, 2010 - I took a pregnancy test that turned out positive
December 23, 2013 - We got the call that Jordan had chosen us as adoptive parents

If you think you are sentitmental about your kids at Christmastime, you have no idea.
I very much believe that God was intentional in timing the news of my coming children - their hearts were gifted to me in the same season that God gifted Jesus to the world.

When I was pregnant with Phoenix, I needed to know that God was orchestrating something larger in my life, and Mary's story rung hope-bells in my heart. I wrote this a couple years ago about the night we found out:

During the Christmas Eve service, I was (understandly) a litte absentminded. The weightiness of my pregnancy hadn't hit, but I knew on some basic level that my whole life has just changed. I was already starting to worry about what this meant for my life, and was desperate for a word from God. And then, during one song, it occurred to me: my Christmas gift was not unlike Mary's. Granted, there were some significant differences - I was married, I wasn't especially saintly or surrenderd in obedience, there was no immaculate conception, and my baby was certainly not divine. But the unplanned, life-altering pregnancies? Mary and I most certainly had that in common.

That night, during that service, I distinctly felt myself a part of God's metanarrative. The story that began with Genesis included me and my unborn child. The character of God, as revealed in scripture, was being disclosed to me, and God's working in the world felt remarkably consistent. I felt an incredible kinship with Mary, and it was strangely comforting to know that the whole unplanned-pregnancy-thing had worked out well for her. Not that it was easy, but she was a part of God's redemptive plan.

When we were waiting for Jericho, I needed a very different word. Instead of being desperately afraid of having a child, my whole personhood ached to welcome another baby to the world. And, as I wrote last year, God used the Christmas season to re-fix my eyes on Christ, and to remind me that God does not withhold the greatest gifts from his children.

I read this (written by William Willimon) in my advent book a couple of weeks ago, and it seems an appropriate expression of how those two pajama-clad babies have wrecked and made my world.

"This is often the way God loves us: with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we don't necessarily want to be. With our advanced degrees, armies, government programs, material comforts,  and self-fulfillment techniques, we assume that religion is about giving a little of our power in order to confirm to ourselves that we are indeed as self-sufficient as we claim.

Then this stranger comes to us, blesses us with a gift, and calls us to see ourselves as we are -- empty-handed recipients of a gracious God, who, rather that leave us to our own devices, gave us a baby."

Merry Christmas, friends.