A Quick Insight, Now to Ponder

I’ve always been a slow thinker – I ponder, mull, then ponder some more. It can take me hours to make a decision, days to develop an opinion, and weeks to formulate my side of a debate I already lost to my husband. I have difficulty stating how I feel, am slow to grasp the overall themes of great literature, and often “get” the punch line only after everyone else has stopped laughing.

SO, when an ORIGINAL THOUGHT comes to me quickly (a rarity, trust me), I get really excited. But it happened. Today. When Burt was preaching.

The sermon was part of our current series on what makes a healthy church. The passage, for those of you who weren’t there, was 1 Timothy 2:8-10. This is the passage where Paul instructs the Ephesian men to pray (with humility and unity) and the Ephesian women to adorn themselves with godly attire and behavior. With the Gospel, certainly, as the agent of change in our lives, Burt challenged the men of community to be the spiritual heads of our church and our homes, and he challenged the women to be meticulously careful in the way we dress.

So here’s the original thought. (DRUM ROLL, please.):

Isn’t it incredibly interesting that the discipline (or at least one aspect of it) that Burt challenged the men to develop in their lives (being the spiritual heads of our church and their homes) is directly related to a huge sin issue for the women (our tendancy to try and control men, Gen. 3:16). And, likewise, the discipline (or at least one aspect of it) that Burt challenged the women to develop (carefulness not to dress in a way which would cause the men to lust) is directly related to a huge sin issue for the men (their tendency to lust).

I’m sure there’s some profound conclusion I should make from this little observation.

It’ll probably come to me in a couple of weeks.

Skeletons

I didn’t often think about the past when I was younger. Now I think about it a lot. (Maybe that’s because there’s more of it than there used to be; after all, I’ll be forty this year.)

What I find myself thinking about most are the skeletons in my closet.

Now I’m not talking about the “skeletons” people are normally referring to when they use that term. You know, the “dirty deeds” we all hope no one will ever find out about. (Hey, I’m forgiven, covered by the grace of Jesus. I don’t have to worry about those things anymore.)

No, the skeletons I’m talking about are the friendships I’ve let die over the years.

Joan Parker – best friend from high school. Her home became a second home to me, and I adored her family. Teachers confused us with one another; we were inseparable.

Dawn Haskew – high school and college friend, and gifted artist. My “do-it-yourself” wedding wouldn’t have been half as beautiful without all her hard work.

Elizabeth Dunn – college pal. She was the sorority sister with whom I had the strongest kinship (the only real kinship, to be honest). Her faith inspired me.

Christine Likens – summer beach project bosom buddy. The day she met me and learned that my boyfriend of four years (yes, Steven) had broken up with me, she told me she couldn’t wait to see what great things God was going to do in my life. Our friendship grew deep fast.

Tracy Hambrick – the neighbor who became so much more than just a neighbor. She and her husband found it difficult to break the news to us that they were moving out of state; when they finally told us, I sobbed.

Robin Cooper – God’s grace to me at BellSouth. In a season of my life where work limited my ability to spend time with women elsewhere, God gave me daily Christian fellowship with this dearest friend.

These relationships span a period of more than 15 years. And you know what’s really sad? In some way, I’ve grossly failed every one of these women as a friend. One went through an emotionally abusive marriage, and I wasn’t there for her. Another’s dad died, and I never sought to comfort her. One sends me cards faithfully (and has for the last 15 years) even though she never gets a response back from me. In some cases, I’ve neglected the friendships and let them fall by the wayside simply because life’s journey has taken us in different directions. And in at least one case, I deeply wounded a hurting friend with my self-righteousness.

There are other friends from my past that I wonder about. But these women are different. These are the ones who were closest to my heart. And I ache for them.

God has blessed me with precious friendships now – true kindred spirits. You might argue, then, that it’s just the past I ache for -- the years that have gone by, the youth that has faded.

I don’t think so.

I think God is teaching me about relationship – the value of it, the beauty of it, the deepness of it. I ache for these women because my heart was connected to theirs -- still is connected to theirs.

Thankfully, these women (I’m certain about all but one) are believers. I’m humbled to know that someday there will be no failures to acknowledge, no wounds of which to repent; I will have glorious, perfect fellowship with these sisters. In the meantime, I’d be happy for a little more imperfect fellowship with them in this life. With a little effort on my part, by God’s grace it will happen.

The Measure of a Life

I was browsing through the bookstore night-before-last, and I stumbled upon an interesting little book. It was only about half the size of a postcard, so its size alone attracted my attention. My interest was piqued even further by the book’s slick-looking cover jacket and trendy illustration (a hip little diva in glamorous clothing and high heels). I read the title, and I was hooked. This little book was going to tell me “What Every Woman Should Do Once.” Every woman, including me.

I have to admit, I’m a sucker for this sort of thing. So I flipped open the little book and began to read.

Make up an alias. Never done it.

Skinny dip. Never done it. (Really.)

Insist on being called Your Majesty for a day. Have thought about it. Never done it.

Sleep under the stars. Not a bad idea, but … never done it.

Things were beginning to get pretty depressing. According to the law of averages, my life was half over, and I hadn’t done any of the things every woman should do.

Then, glory of glories, I found one:

Dance on top of a bar. Yep, that one I’d done. Never mind the fact that I was only about five years old at the time, the bar was owned by one of my mom’s friends, and my little performance (which Momma and her friends found very cute) occurred while the bar was closed. I was encouraged.

I turned the page and kept reading, reserving judgment on the fullness of my life until I’d gotten further through the list.

Now, honestly, some of the ideas really did sound fun. I’d like to learn to tango, create my own holiday and celebrate it every year, and wear a feather boa and movie star glasses to the grocery store. And what woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to go on a carriage ride in Central Park?

But the more I read, the more heartbroken I became.

Write your acceptance speech for the Woman of the Year Award.
Date a guy you met on the Internet.
Audition for reality tv.
Give someone famous your autograph.
Buy a round for everyone at the bar.
Be the boss.
Send yourself a dozen roses.
Have a three-martini lunch and go back to work refreshed.
Call in sick and spend a whole day shopping with your best friend.
Dye your hair blonde, and see if they really do have more fun.
Kiss a guy from every state.
Forget about what your mother would think.
Try an extreme sport.
Make a voodoo doll of your ex.
Taste every variety of margarita.
And my personal favorite …
Have an anonymous encounter.


The book was meant to be given as a light-hearted, happy (albeit serious) little gift. What broke my heart was the view of life it advocated – and which I see advocated by so many things designed for women today.

Sure, the editors threw in some politically correct ideas for good measure (volunteer at a homeless shelter, adopt a pet, run for a worthy cause). And there was an occasional gem of an idea (like the carriage ride in Central Park).

But for the most part, the ideas were self-serving, self-gratifying and shallow. In fact, I found the list to be sadly ironic. Instead of the full and robust life the book’s title suggested, I couldn’t help thinking what a hollow existence any life measured by this list would be.

Quote of the Week

Community is always poised between two poles: solitude and togetherness. Without togetherness, community disperses; without solitude, community collapses into a mass, a crowd.

David Steindl-Rast

Holiday revelation

Two oddball places God gives me some of my greatest revelations:

(1) the shower, when the water's heating up my brain, and

(2) the check-out line at Wal-Mart.

Now, there's no rhyme or reason to my shower-induced revelations. Topically, they run the gamut, from new homeschool strategies to scriptural insights to child psychology.

The revelations I've had in Wal-Mart's check-out line, on the other hand, almost always have to do with my personal shortcomings. Here are a few examples:

"I'm an impatient/inconsistent/terrible/etc. mother." (That one hits me whenever I scream at, threaten or, maybe worst of all, lose my children while unloading the grocery cart).

"I'm a total idiot." (I arrived at that little jewel of self-insight after shopping for $200 worth of groceries only to discover that I'd left every form of payment in some other purse at home).

"I will never live within a budget." (That, after spending over budget AGAIN because I just couldn't live without that Josh Groban CD.)

See what I mean?

But I had a very different sort of revelation in the Wal-Mart line just a few days before Christmas. It came as a result of a conversation I had with a really nice, professional-looking gentleman. Just as I finished filling the conveyor belt with my groceries, the man came up behind me. He could see that my transaction was going to take a while, so he asked the other guy with him to go over to customer service and purchase the gift cards they needed. Remember, Christmas was only days away.

Here's how the conversation went:

Gentleman, somewhat loudly, to the other guy as he walked away: "18. Tell them we need 18 100-dollar gift cards."

Me, jokingly: "Go ahead and make it 19, if you don't mind."

Gentleman, laughing: "From the looks of things, you'd spend it all right now."

Me: "Not hard to do, when you're feeding a family of six."

Gentleman: "I can't even imagine."

pause

Gentleman again: "So, what's the age range of the kids?"

Me: "12, 10, 5 and 3."

Gentleman: "Great. So you have at least two believers, then."

Me, surprised and excited at his question: "Yes, we do."

Him: "What about the 10-year-old?"

Me: "Oh, yes, he joined the church just a few weeks ago."

long pause

Him: "No. No. I mean't believers in Santa Claus."

Now, I wish I could report that I shared the gospel with him at this point or at least said something semi-spiritual. I didn't. Instead, I explained away my own response ("We don't do Santa Claus, never have. My husband works in full-time ministry, so my mind naturally goes that direction."). Then I paid for my groceries and headed out the door, beating myself up again: "I am such an idiot. I should have known what he was talking about. Do I even have a brain?"

And then the revelation hit: "My mind doesn't naturally turn to spiritual things; that's the Holy Spirit's doing. The Holy Spirit is turning my heart away from the things of the world and toward the things of God; that's why it didn't occur to me that the man mean't Santa Claus. God really is changing me, he really is changing his children. We are in this world, but we are not of it!

Identity Crisis

A little over a week ago, a momentous event took place in my life. After five years in seminary and a grueling round of examinations, my husband was ordained.

Shock has worn off. Reality has set in. I am a pastor’s wife.

(Ok, assistant pastor’s wife, but that’s a technicality.)

In one respect, nothing changed. We didn’t have to pack our bags, didn’t have to sell our house, didn’t have to journey to a new city, didn’t have to worship in an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar church family, didn’t have to say goodbye to family and friends, didn’t have to step out of our comfort zone.

In another respect, though, everything changed. And it took me completely by surprise. When my husband took his vows, he took on an enormous spiritual responsibility. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you that he felt out of his comfort zone after all. And I – well, I suddenly lost my grounding – who I am, what my role is.

You see, all through this journey in seminary, I have come to think of “our” ministry at CPC. But when Steven stood up and took those vows, I suddenly felt very separated from him. Think about it. Every other vow we’ve ever made, we’ve made together. We joined CPC as a couple; we made vows. We got married; we made vows. Had our babies baptized; we made vows. “Entered the ministry”; he made vows. I wasn’t prepared for how this would affect me.

My “identity crisis” was valid – the insecurity I felt (and still feel) was “real” and maybe even understandable.

But, I must confess, my identity crisis was also the culmination of a month-long, self-indulgent pity party. I wanted this ordination to be about “us.” When a friend baked Steven brownies during “his rough examination week,” I wanted to scream, “What about me!?” (Sorry, friend.) When everyone congratulated him after he passed his oral examination, I wanted to scream, “What about me!?” More times that I want to admit during the month leading up to his ordination, I wanted to scream, “What about me!?”

And then, to my great shame, Burt drew attention to me. He called me up in front of all these precious people who had come to witness my husband’s ordination, and he honored me. And I didn’t deserve it.

I’m not fit to be a “pastor’s wife.” I know I never will be. But by God’s glorious grace that is exactly the role in which he has seen fit to put me. It doesn’t look like I imagined it would. My heavenly Father has a lot to teach me. I was naïve to think that the journey would be over when “we” graduated from seminary. In fact, the journey has only just begun.

That smells ... heavenly?

So I was sitting on the sofa the other day, reading (actually, re-reading) this really great book called I Capture the Castle. Seventeen-year-old Cassandra (the novel’s penniless heroine) and her older (equally penniless) sister Rose have traveled from their dilapidated old castle in the English countryside to the bustling city of London. Their quest: to collect much-needed clothing inherited from their ancient, eclectic (and newly deceased) Great Aunt Millicent. Among the items, they learn, are four rather unusual furs (beaver, bear, sealskin, you get the idea) which they must collect from storage at a local furrier. Not having visited the city in more than three years, they find themselves mesmerized by the wonderful shop.

“We went in by way of the glove and stocking department, but there were things from other departments just dotted about; bottles of scent and a little glass tree with cherries on it and a piece of white branched coral on a sea-green chiffon scarf. Oh, it was an artful place – it must make people who have money want to spend it madly! The pale grey carpets were as springy as moss and the air was scented; it smelt a bit like bluebells but richer, deeper. 'What does it smell of exactly?' I [Cassandra] said. To which Rose replied: 'Heaven.'"

Now I’ve wondered a lot about heaven since I’ve been a Christian, but here’s one question I’ve never thought of: what exactly will heaven smell like? Will it have the homey scent of fresh-baked apple pie? The natural woodsy smell of pine? Freshness of a newborn babe? The intoxicating fragrance of my husband’s aftershave? Come to think of it, I just betcha heaven’s aroma will be all those delicious fragrances combined: it will smell homey, and natural, and fresh, and – oh, most definitely -- intoxicating.

To Tell the Truth

I have been hesitant to start a blog.

Truth is, I am afraid of writing. Someone who got paid big bucks to write ought to be able to write well. Who cares that a blog would expose my innermost thoughts and feelings; what really matters is that it might expose my total inability to express myself.

Truth is, I am afraid I may find it impossible to continue. The “blog-site” might begin to haunt me same as the unfinished ponchos I began to crochet last year, the unscrapbooked photos from twelve years’ past, the untended garden I planted in the Spring, and the incomplete Bible study (scratch that, studies) on my bedside table.

Truth is, I am afraid having a blog will increase my tendency toward self-focus, instead of Christ-focus. “I am like a frog which, no matter how high it leaps, always finishes up back in the mud. No matter how hard I try to escape from myself, I always come back to myself and my self-love.” (That’s from Eighteenth-century Italian priest, missionary and theologian Dominic Barberi -- see, only paragraphs into it, and I’m already guilty of plagiarism.)

Truth is, I am afraid of failure. I have begun to lose sight of who I am – a woman bathed by the blood of Jesus, a woman drenched in the overwhelming love of God.

And so I begin this blog. Knowing full well that in some way I will fail. Believing, at least for the moment, that by God’s grace it doesn’t really matter.

“Whom have I in heaven but Thee?
And besides Thee, I desire nothing on earth.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
… the nearness of God is my good.”
Psalm 25-26, 28a

My prayer is that God will be honored in this blog, and that through it both I and those who read it will be moved into a deeper relationship with him.

O high and glorious God, light up [our] hearts.
St. Francis of Assisi, paraphrased by me