Rethinking Surprises

Tomorrow we're taking our four-year-old birthday girl on a surprise trip—to a sanctuary for big cats. She'll be welcomed by 160 well-caged—her mother hopes—tigers, lions, cougars, leopards, and cheetahs. If I had a child's size dose of heart medication, I'd toss it in my purse, because I think tiger-loving Brooklyn might have a massive coronary as she takes it all in.

She knows we're taking her somewhere for her birthday, but she doesn't want to know anything about it. Every time we whisper about it with our older kids, she plugs her ears and runs to a different room. She loves the idea of a surprise.

I'm reading five books concurrently, which I don't recommend. I'm getting so much out of all of them that I can't choose which one(s) to stash away. One of them is about surprises.

A few years ago, a guy named Terry Esau conducted a simple faith experiment, asking one little thing of God every day: Surprise me. Of course God delivered, mostly by making Terry more aware, and the results are chronicled in the book Surprise Me. I haven't read that one, but I'm reading his follow-up book, called Be the Surprise.

I love both of these ideas. I know how much I enjoy planning surprises for the people I love, and I think God must feel the same way. How will He open our eyes if we're on the lookout for His daily surprises? Will we embrace His surprise with the same childlike squeal we're sure to hear from Brooklyn tomorrow? Or will we grumble because it's not exactly what we wanted?

Esau's second book presents an even better question: How will He use us if we open ourselves up to being His surprise in other people's lives? That one really excites me. It also scares me a little. It's tempting to think, "But I'm a mess right now. How's God gonna use me when I can barely stand to sit in a room alone with my own thoughts these days?"

That question has an easy answer: He's going to use me because I'm a mess. When I think I've got it all together, I'm too busy holding it all together to be available to Him. When I'm a mess, I'm desperately dependent on Him. That's when He's most likely to use me.

Terry Esau posits the preposterous idea that God even prefers our failures. Not just tolerates them or works around them, but actually prefers them. Is that the best news you've heard all day or what?

What if we all asked God to surprise us this week? Even just once? (If you do this, you are SO required to tell me what happens.) And what if we asked Him to let us be the surprise? How will we see the world differently if we're open to being God's surprise to other people?

Remembering

7 a.m. April 22. It will always be hallowed ground for me. She's never far from my mind, but it's this special time when I most vividly remember the life that lived briefly inside of me before being swept up to heaven. I love to think of Catherine today. I have irrational pride that a child of mine—my own flesh and blood whose heart once raced inside my core—has taken up residence with the God of the universe. Jesus went ahead to prepare a place for us, a Home that we can only dream of, and Catherine knows all about that place. It's the only home she's ever known. She knows the answers to all the questions that swarm in my mind. She knows love like I'll never know on earth. She knows none of the hurt and sadness her brother and sisters will know all too well. How my tiny little imagination is held captive by the thought of what her life must be like now. 

Having a child who lives with God—even one I didn't know—orients my heart more toward heaven.

Thank you, Catherine. Thank you, God. 

Anyone?

Since the male response to my "Work in Progress" post has been less than overwhelming, I'm wondering if any females have a comment? An idea? A suggestion? I'm compelled to linger on this topic. 

Learning about Men: A Work in Progress

I’m reading Dr. Laura’s book, The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. On the first page, there’s a quote from a man named Dan. Dan should give seminars to women:

“I am a thirty-seven year old man who has seen quite a bit in life, and I can offer this to your search for how to treat a man. We are men, not dumb-dumbs, psychics, or one bit unromantic. We need only clear communication, appreciation, honest love, and respect. This will be repaid by laying the moon and stars at your feet for your pleasure. We live to take care of a wife, family, and home. Just remember that we are men, and know that our needs are simple but not to be ignored. A good man is hard to find, not to keep.”

Husbands have needs—and not just physical ones! Who knew? Dr. Laura boils them down to three: attention, affirmation, and affection. She also throws in good lovin’—and I think we all know what that means.

My husband is the Rock of Gibraltar—even-keeled, reliable, self-sufficient, omnicompetent, stable, strong. He’s our Superman. But I’ve recently discovered his Kryptonite, and that I alone hold it. It comes in the form of my neglect.

Dr. Laura contends that the vast majority of wives are clueless about how inattentive they are to their husbands and how selfishly and disrespectfully they often act. Interesting. Jarring. I’ve sort of always thought that women were selfless, nurturing creatures who had the market on feeling wounded and unappreciated. I think I’ve had a first-class seat among the clueless vast majority.

One more quote from a guy named Edgar:

“I laughed when I heard the title of your new book. I thought, ‘It won’t happen. What woman would buy it? Who cares about us men?’ . . . Prosperity has allowed women to be so independent, and thus so selfish. I always feel as though I come last—my feelings come last, my needs come last.”

Ladies? Friends? Are we listening to Edgar? (If you’re silly like me and having a hard time getting past Edgar’s name, substitute your husband’s own name. He probably feels the same way.) Whose needs do we put first? I know my answer: My kids. Then my own. Then whoever needs me most: friends, coworkers, extended family, strangers in crisis. But my husband? Nah, he’s Superman.

So I’m wondering if my three male readers (OK, and maybe one or two others I don’t know about) have any thoughts on this. Do you identify with Dan and Edgar? Help us out here!

Matters of Life and Death

Did anyone catch the Barbara Walters special last week called “Living to 150”? It caught my attention because of my friend Jim. He’s closer to 150 than anyone else I know, although he’s only 94 ½. He and his wife live alone in a big, beautiful house, and their marriage has outlasted the average person’s life expectancy. Not only does Jim drive, mow his sizable yard, and hang his own Christmas lights, but he travels extensively—including recent trips to Africa. He’s not going on safaris; he goes to train young Africans how to spiritually multiply their lives.

I forget Jim is 94. Then I do the math and realize he was nearly 30 when his ship, the USS West Virginia, was torpedoed in Pearl Harbor. Yep, sure enough, he’s 94. And has the man ever seen some history, without forgetting a lick of it. I can only hope to be so sharp at 40!

My swan song project at The Navigators was a book with Jim. Buried amongst the pages was a reference to a “white elephant.” I know what a white-elephant gift is, but he wasn’t using it in the context of cheesy Christmas gag gifts, which left me confused. When I questioned him about the meaning, he did what any nonagenarian would do. He found the term on Wikipedia, highlighted the relevant passages, and sent it to me by e-mail. He refuses to become extinct. I love it!

Jim and I have talked about collaborating on a “finishing well” book. As one who is not just enduring his last years but living them to the fullest, Jim has a message to share with the world. He has hope to offer the hopeless people Barbara Walters interviewed—people who “invest” their life savings to have their bodies frozen after they die, hoping someone down the road will be able to restore them to life. Or the researchers who are banking on cloned organs to preserve our lives for decades if not centuries. In these people, I find desperation to cling to a life that was never intended to completely fulfill us. Our hearts are designed to long for Home. Jim has none of this desperation. He has expectation. He’s lived a very full, very interesting life, but he’s keenly aware that it all pales in comparison to what awaits him after death.

150? No thanks, Barbara. But I’ll take being like Jim—at 90, 70, or 37—any day.

Whoa, Nellie!

From a book on prayer I’m reading during my devotional time:

“We often race through life without processing all that we are experiencing. We need to wait on God so our hearts can catch up with our actions.”

Efficiency and fast moving have always been two of my highest values. I’m not Type A, but I was raised by one, and it affected me greatly. I hate being late. I like things to clip along. The phrase “cut to the chase” ministers to my soul.

Kevin and I were newly married when we traveled to Texas with his family—10 of us at the time—to attend his grandma’s funeral. After driving all day, we arrived at our hotel a little before midnight. I was not driving or tending to young children like my sister-in-law, but I was exhausted. In my family, you check into a hotel, stroll your luggage briskly to your room, settle in as quickly and efficiently as possible, and fall into bed. Even if the only place we were going was to sleep, we made good time doing it.

This was not how it worked in Kevin’s family. We stood in the hotel lobby for about a half-hour. There was no trouble checking in; we were just loitering there in the lobby. We watched some TV. Some of the men went outside and tossed a football around. At midnight. Finally, we moseyed casually to our rooms, lingering again before shutting our respective doors, and at last called it a day. It drove me nuts, and I was sure all that lollygagging had caused my poor father to roll over in his grave—rapidly and efficiently.

As I’ve prayed for patience over the years, I’ve thought of it in terms of patience with other people and circumstances. It had not occurred to me that my biggest test of patience is with God.

I’ve been on a dead sprint the past eight or nine years. Certainly four children have slowed me down, but they’ve also contributed to my frantic pace. When you’re juggling kids, a husband, a home, friends, and a consuming—though wonderful—job, there’s not a lot of time for smellin’ the roses. I was thankful the roses were there and occasionally gave them a backward wave as I dashed by them on my way to a meeting. God did a lot of work in my heart in those years, and I was aware of some of it, but I didn’t give myself time to stop and rest in it. Even my lessons I want to learn quickly and then get on with it. (Whatever “it” is.)

I also read today: “What may look like a loss of time is really only time multiplied on your behalf. God is able to do things with more efficiency than you are.” (Really?!)

“It is in waiting that we make room for God.”

God is calling me to wait on Him. To be patient with Him. To unlace my track shoes, slow my sprint to a saunter, stop looking for the next big thing, and simply wait. Anybody need to join me?