What David Can Teach Us About Obama

Here’s an alternative to the “Pray for Obama, Psalm 109:8” slogan that’s been going around. These words also come from David, a man running for his life from a jealous king who wants to kill him. It’s 1 Samuel 26:9. Not as catchy on a t-shirt, maybe, but we can learn a lot from David’s attitude toward people in authority.

David had two easy opportunities to destroy Saul. (The other comes a few chapters earlier, in 1 Samuel 24—as good a read as any Hollywood screenplay.) His friends were telling him to just do it already. Here was a man who was making his life miserable, making poor decisions as a king, and it seemed like God was just handing him over to David to bring down. But this is how David responded to his friends:

“Don’t destroy him! Who can lay a land on the Lord’s anointed and be guiltless?”

Saul may not have been a model for upright governing, but he was still the king. The Lord had put him into that position, and David said that it was only God who would remove him. Either the Lord would strike him Himself or his time would come in battle, but the king’s demise would not come at the hand of David. He even went so far as to call out to Saul’s bodyguard, Abner (Sounds like an imposing figure, doesn’t he?), and tell him what a loser he was for not doing a better job protecting the king.

I don’t know if President Obama is “the Lord’s anointed.” What I do know is that God’s sovereignty is alive and well, even in the United States. And that he “sets up kings and deposes them” (Daniel 2:21). Nothing slips by Him. He didn’t fall down on His watch the day Obama was elected, and He’s not now wringing His hands, hoping His people on earth will help undo His mistake.

There’s really not any reason to pray Psalm 109:8 for our president. His days will be few. In God’s economy, even eight years is the blink of an eye. And another will take his place of leadership. That’s guaranteed by our constitution. Not only does it seem like an unnecessary prayer, its context makes it downright nasty. The following verses go on to say, “May his children be fatherless and his wife a widow. May his children be wandering beggars; may they be driven from their ruined homes. May no one extend kindness to him or take pity on his fatherless children.”

I don’t know if anyone is actually wearing the Psalm 109:8 t-shirt. Maybe someone was just trying to be clever and make a buck, and the media picked up on it to stir up controversy. Still, it’s no secret that some of Obama’s most outspoken critics have been evangelical Christians. While I value the privilege of living under free speech, I think we would be wise to review 1 Samuel 26 and stop destroying our president with our words. We don’t have to love what he’s doing, but if we believe God’s got it under control, we don’t have to spend our days angry and mad, trying to bring him down, either.

“Obey your leaders and submit to their authority. They keep watch over you as men who must give an account. Obey them so that their work will be a job, not a burden, for that would be of no advantage to you” (Hebrews 13:17).

She Gets It

I was much better at following God’s command to serve the poor when I understood that to mean on my own schedule and at my own convenience. Now that I’m trying to cultivate a lifestyle of serving the poor at every opportunity, I don’t do it well. I grumble a lot. I’m not sure I’ll ever do it well or stop complaining about the inconvenience of it all. But I’m hoping that serving will come as naturally for my kids as complaining comes to me. I pray it will be a given for them, not something they struggle against.

Last week we put together a Thanksgiving food basket for a needy family in town, and Wednesday was shopping day. We got to Walmart at 8:15 and left at 10. (I'm sorry to anyone who is offended that we shop at Walmart. Talk to me when I don't have cereal to buy for four children.) We had to find items that I’ve never heard of, in addition to all the regular household stuff we needed. The aisles were full of people—and how fun for me that many of them were people I knew, especially since I was wearing my fat-girl sweatpants and my five-year-old was doing the pee-pee dance. (You know the one.)

Our cart was flowing over when we at last made it to the check-out lane, where ten other lovely people stood ahead of us with their overflowing carts. How handy that at least we were only a few yards from the bathroom. Except that it was closed for cleaning. The pee-pee dance intensified until at last we pushed our way past the cleaning lady out of desperation. A half hour later, we were on our way out of the store and on the road again. It’s that bittersweet moment in which you celebrate the conclusion of another Walmart trip, but realize all the work that lies ahead as you attempt to find a home for all these new items in your over-crowded pantry. Ah, life in America.

I asked Brooka if she would be extra helpful and carry in some of the bajillion bags for me, then piled her up to her eyebrows. As we waddled in the house, she peaked out from under her load and said with cheery determination, “It’s like I’m carrying this for Jesus.”

At that point, I did everything you would imagine. I dropped to my knees. I hugged her hard. I thanked God profusely. “You get it!” I cried. “You get it, Brooka! Oh, I can’t believe you get it. Thank you, God!” I prayed some of that would rub off on me. Then I followed her gaze across the room, wondering why she was giggling. Our ancient relic of a dog—all shriveled 80 pounds of him—was laying on the “good” couch with the newspaper open, looking all caught up on the day’s events.

And somehow, putting all those groceries away wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

When Moving On Means Staying Put

Eleven months ago, we planted a for-sale sign in our yard and buckled in for a wild adventure. We weren’t sure where we’d land, but we were full of faith and following God with reckless (some would say) abandon.

And how’d that work out for us? After scrubbing my kitchen floor more times than I thought humanly possible, we’re right where we started—except with new carpet and a new screen door.

It looks like we’re in the same place, but are we really? Fortunately, no. God made me, and He knows I’ve got to be able to find some purpose in hard things or I’ll just fall over and die. So as I meet with Him, He’s giving me some hint of what these 11 months may have been about:

Faithfulness. I’m very faithful to the things I want to do. But to things that take discipline, sacrifice, and selflessness? Not so much. I think God may have been testing my faithfulness through the little things. Some days I’d be home alone with the kids and have just an hour’s notice to stash the piles, make the beds, load the dishwasher (after unloading it), and everything else involved in showing a respectable home. I’d spend the first five minutes throwing the mother of all fits, screaming (in my head) at God, “I am SO DONE. I can’t keep doing this.” And every time I would hear the same answer: “Yes you can.” And every time it would get done, and I’d feel like a foolish toddler who had just thrown a pointless, selfish fit in front of my Father. It’s easy for me to be faithful to my husband, my children, my TV shows. But God wants us to be faithful in the little things—with the right attitude—before He trusts us with bigger things.

Risk-taking. When we planted that sign in the yard, we had no place to go. We had only a peaceful knowledge that when the time came, God would make a place for us. This is the complete opposite of how I prefer to live my life. I like to know what my kids are wearing to school three days from now, yet I wasn’t even sure where they would be sleeping in the next month. God didn’t call us on it, but I truly think I would have been OK if He had. There’s something about flying without a safety net that makes life richer, that makes relationship with God more urgent.

Surrender. In the past three months, my prayers have gone from bossy requests for God to sell our house (“You put us up to this, Lord, so you better do your part!”) to complete surrender to His will. I thought surrender meant selling our house and giving up our cushy suburban life. But now I believe that surrender only came when I threw up my hands, stopped telling God all my grand plans to serve Him, and finally said, “Whatever.” I think it’s in that whatever place that God can truly work in us. That’s the place I want to stay.

The realtor’s coming to take down the sign this week; we're calling it quits for now (because a sane Christmas is a merry Christmas). Do we feel defeated? Confused? Frustrated? Yeah, a little of all those things. But we also feel pretty certain that we’re right where God wants us, and it’s not a bad place to wait, especially with the new carpet.

The Zone

Illumination came crashing down on me in the middle of a burger joint. It came with such force that Cherry Coke squirted out my nose.

Kevin was out of town, and I took the kids out to dinner. Putting all thoughts of coupons and food sharing aside, I let them go wild with burgers and shakes for everyone. We were there for about an hour, having a jolly time, when I decided it was time to go. Then we stayed for 10 more minutes, and I was REALLY ready to go. Kids were getting squirly, uneaten food was flying through the air, and mommy was done. That’s when I entered The Zone. It looks something like this: I have an agenda. I’m ready to get on with it already. Quickly and efficiently. The kids have an agenda (to have fun) pulling with equal force in the opposite direction of my agenda. I become hyper-focused and irritable and fall more deeply into The Zone. It’s now to the point at which someone could be holding their bleeding, severed toe between their fingers and I wouldn’t even see it. I am blinded and consumed by my own agenda.

My agenda was to leave the restaurant. Brooka’s agenda was to find a mint in my purse. So while I’m picking up trash and hosing down the chocolate-faced two-year-old, out come my wallet, my keys, my phone, my lipstick, and various and sundry other personal items from my purse. The dialogue goes something like this:

Brooka: Do you have any mints in here?
Me: I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face.
Brooka: But I want a mint. Don’t you have any?
Me (now working on the ketchup layer that was hiding under the chocolate layer on the two-year-old’s face): I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face.
Brooka: Why can’t I find any mints?
Me: I-DON’T-KNOW-WIPE-YOUR-FACE!!!

Now here’s the scary thing. I don’t actually recall saying anything about the mint or her face. I remember the face chiseling and passing out wipes all around, but I had no idea what words—or, more important, what tone—was coming out of my mouth. Braden, my 10-year-old, was kind enough to help me. He said something like this:

Braden: “What’s your phone number?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
“What’s the capital of Argentina?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
“What’s the square root of 91?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”

I laughed hard enough to induce my own style of Coke snorting. I laughed so hard that I cried, so hard that my kids thought I had lost my mind because to them, it wasn’t all that funny. Truthfully, while it was funny, it was sad more than anything else. It was a sad revelation that jerked me out of The Zone and brought me face to face with the ugly truth of it: I want what I want. I want people to do what I want them to do. I want it done now.

But that’s not the way the world works. God is too kind to give us our way. He’d rather make us better than satisfied. Ouch.

Ironic end to the story: As we made our way to the van (picture me carrying five drinks and a kicking toddler with an agenda of her own), a young mom came up to me and said, “I was watching you inside. You’re really good with them.” Ugh.

People are watching. My kids are watching. God is watching. It’s time to get out of The Zone.

One in a Billion

Have you ever seen a billion of anything? All at once?

Maybe I have, but blades of grass and grains of sand all just run together; I’ve never been aware that I was seeing a billion of anything before. And then I went to Fort Myers Beach in southwest Florida. I’m a beach girl and I’ve been to quite a few of them, but I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s made up almost entirely of seashells. The great majority are just fragments, but if you scoop up a handful of “beach,” you’re going to end up with dozens of whole shells, too. And the beach goes on and on for miles. Billions of shells, all there for the crunching or collecting, whatever your preference.

We saw lots of people walking with bags and buckets, gazing intently at the ground for just the right find. They all looked sort of the same to me, but apparently not to the hard-core shellers. I’d see a collector picking up a fragment of a shell, examining it and smiling as she held it in her hand like it was the only one in the world. “What’s so special about that one?” I thought.

Then I started thinking about all the people in the world. What if each of these shells represented one person on earth today? This is what we’d all look like if we could be shrunken down, stacked up, one on top of the other, and compressed into one tiny area. The feeling of insignificance was a little disheartening. But then I pictured God rooting through the millions and billions and pulling out just one. Me. God chose me. He somehow distinguished me from all the rest and selected me for His own.

I met a guy a year ago who said something I’ll never forget. He said that sometimes he tries to imagine that there are only a couple hundred people on the whole earth. He imagines what it would be like to bump into another human being. What if that janitor in the hallway was the first person you’d seen in many months? How would you respond? You’d probably grab him, hug him, and ask him all sorts of questions. That janitor, that three-year-old child in the park, that toothless beggar on the street would be precious to us.

I love it. I don’t know how you could go through life treating everyone that way, but I love that he even came up with the idea of it. And actually, it was God’s idea first. To Him, I’m not one of billions. I’m special. And I’m all His.