Fire Fighting

I moved to Colorado Springs in 1993, a 22-year-old with a brand new college degree and little else. I didn’t know a soul here. I rented an apartment a few miles from The Navigators, where I had found a part-time job as a writer. Unable to live on the $11,000 it paid, I eagerly took another part-time job as a secretary in my department so that I could eek out a very modest living.

I felt like a grown-up when I arrived, but I wasn’t. Glen Eyrie, the headquarters of The Navigators, is where I grew up. It’s where I understood the kind of relationship God wanted with me. It’s where I learned to memorize His Word and apply it to my life. It’s where I learned words like “disciple” and “Great Commission.” It’s where I made my biggest blunders and celebrated my greatest achievements. It’s where I learned to do the work I do today. It’s where I met the people who changed the course of my life. It’s where I met my husband (at the mailboxes) and said my wedding vows (in the Castle). It’s where I nearly gave birth—Brooklyn was born 12 hours after I left work one day in April 2004. It’s where I sat on the floor in the hallway with my friends and bawled like a baby the day my job came to an end. It’s where I can barely, just barely, muster up the strength to drive by today, more than five years after my sad departure. Like so many other Navigators around the world, I think of Glen Eyrie as my spiritual home.

The Waldo Canyon fire raging in our mountains leapt down the ridge Tuesday evening and charged toward Glen Eyrie. It’s not the first time the Glen has been in the path of natural disaster, but this is about as close as it gets. I heard today that infrared pictures show the fire line coming right up to the edge of the property—where it abruptly ends. Certainly the teams of firefighters on the property are doing an amazing job defending it. The castle, especially, as the original home of Colorado Springs’ founder, is so prominent in the city that they will not let it go down without a major fight. But I also know there’s another kind of protection that doesn’t need any hoses or shovels. I can’t begin to imagine how many of us are praying for the Glen. How we love to see Him answer in such dramatic ways.

Please keep praying for our city—for the 32,000 displaced residents, for the firefighters, for Glen Eyrie.  This will be a long haul. 

What I've Learned from the French Horn

Until recently, I’ve never thought about what a person’s musical instrument says about him or her. But now that I am the mother of an aspiring French-horn player, I’ve had opportunity to think about it in great depth. For hours. While she’s playing, playing, playing the French horn.

This is my 10-year-old, Addison. She has played the piano for four years and has entertained us with her own original works, such as “Mommy’s In the Shower Cleaning Stinky Body” and “Nobody Cares for Addison.” (The latter is truly amazing, lyrics not withstanding, and I think she should play it for her next recital.) About a year ago, she decided she wanted to follow in the footsteps of her piano teacher/cousin and play the French horn. At that time, I didn’t know a French horn from a car horn, so I set out to learn more.

The French horn is hard to play. For this reason, few people choose to play it. It requires massive wind and a keen ear, neither of which I knew if my daughter had. What I did know was that I would never choose the French horn. I never played any musical instrument at all, and if I had, my two requirements would have been these:

1)    Are my friends playing it?

2)    Is it easy?

And yet I have somehow managed to play a key role in the creation of a child who not only wants to play as many musical instruments as possible, but who wants to play whatever is unique and whatever is too hard for most people. Not only that, but she’s fiercely determined. We went to the music store to try all sorts of different instruments, and she willingly agreed. But it was the French horn we left with. Because it’s hard.

So status-quo-loving me finds herself with a fearless child who plans to spend her life in Indonesia and a determined child who will not be persuaded to take the easy way out. Clearly, God enjoys irony. 

It's the Little Things

It never ceases to amaze me that you can spend a hundred bucks trying to create a magical day for your kids, only to have them pout, whine, cry, and bicker through every part of it. And then there are those days in which you have not a single expectation, and the magic just sneaks up on you.

Last week we were planning to meet my in-laws for lunch, but they got held up, and lunch was delayed. I was already in route when I found out, my van filled with four restless kids anxious to eat and play with their cousins. And now we had an hour or more to kill. I took the first highway exit I saw, and we landed at the furniture store.

As much as I don’t enjoy decorating or shopping, even I think the furniture store is kind of cool. If nothing else, it’s roomy and air-conditioned. The older kids remember the furniture store and were skeptical about its entertainment potential. (And, really, what is life for a 12-year-old except an opportunity to be constantly entertained?) Still, I pressed on with my “Oh, won’t this be fun?” propaganda, and in we went. I always feel a bit like a circus performer when I walk into a quiet place with my kids trailing behind me; there are only five of us, but we’re somehow still a spectacle. We were accosted by no less than four salesmen before we even made it to the first display, but after saying with increasing intensity, “We’re just looking,” they seemed to get the idea and leave us alone.

We made no plans, we paid no money, we ate no junk food, yet the next hour was blissful. We tested the sofas. We rocked in the rocking chairs. We flopped on the mattresses, plopped into the bean-bag chairs, and spun in the spinny chairs. We pulled out the dresser drawers and planned where we would put our treasures and our socks. We pretended to eat the fake waffles on the table and drink the fake Coke on the coffee table. (Where do those come from, anyway?) All of these things would annoy me to death if we were there to actually buy furniture, but instead, I could actually take part in the silliness. I got to spend an hour dreaming with my kids, and not once did I have to say, “No. Put that back. We’re not getting it.” Obviously we weren’t there to haul out a three-piece living room set, so no one even asked for anything. We laughed and pretended and enjoyed each other’s company. Yep, sheer bliss. And you can bet that if I had planned something “fun” that day, it would not have turned out well enough to blog about. Well, not unless it was for entirely different reasons.

I’m not going to make a scrap-book page about our hour at the furniture store, and it’s not likely what our kids will mention when asked what they did this summer. But it’s a memory we won’t soon forget, and I’m thankful for the reminder that it’s the little things that usually end up making the biggest impression.  

The Promise of an Ending

I’m at the gym doing push-ups. Lots of them. Side by side with a class full of other sweaty women. I feel done. Like I can’t do this for another second. Does the instructor even remember we’re here? I know she can do push-ups all day, but doesn’t she care about the rest of us? We’re not like her.

Then she breaks the silence. “Eight more, ladies!”

A second ago, I was done. I couldn’t do even one more. But suddenly, I have new strength. I can do eight more. I just needed the promise of an ending.

How many times have I said, “I’m done,” only to jump back on the horse and ride it home as soon as I see the first glimpse of an ending in sight? I was the restless high school senior who gutted out every day because graduation was coming. I’ve always been a runner who needs to know I’ve only got a half-mile or five minutes left to run. I’m a school mom who needs to know that the craziness of May will give way to the serenity of June. I’m the book editor who knows I can keep getting up at 4:30 a.m. to work because the deadline is just four weeks away.

But today, I’m the woman who lives in the Shome, and there’s no foreseeable end in sight. It’s not that it’s a terrible place—it’s not at all—but, oh, how I yearn for a real house again. A house that feels like home. It seems to me that every good life lesson that could be soaked up from this living experience has been soaked. I feel more grateful, more aware of how other people live, more humble, less demanding, less dependent on stuff. And yes, I feel done. It feels a little like doing endless push-ups. And maybe my Almighty Instructor can do this with me forever, but I’m tired and sweaty and running out of steam.

I’m listening, waiting expectantly, to hear Him break the silence. “It’s time,” He’ll say one day soon. “Just ___ days left.” In the meantime, darn it, I don’t want to be a wimp. I want to finish well. I want to finish joyfully and thankfully. I want my Instructor to be pleased. So I hang on. Up. Down. Up. Down. Waiting for the promise of an ending.