My 2017 Book List

MY FAVORITES

The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert: An English Professor’s Journey into Christian Faith by Rosaria Champagne Butterfield. The gap between evangelical Christians and the homosexual community has never been wider. If both sides would sit down together and read the first part of this small little book, we would learn volumes. The author was a liberal feminist college professor and outspoken lesbian when she formed an unlikely friendship with an elderly pastor and his wife. Her journey to Christ cost her everything; she calls her conversion a “train wreck” and makes us understand why. If we want to draw gay men and women to the gospel, we’ve first got to understand them. We’ve got to learn why they define themselves by their sexuality. We’ve got to know what it looks like to love them while speaking the truth. This book is a great start. The latter part turns into the author’s advocacy of adoption, homeschooling, and certain doctrinal issues—still interesting, but not as helpful as the first part.

Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age by Sherry Turkle. Face-to-face interactions are changing rapidly, and this MIT researcher tells us how. Turkle writes,"The thing I hear most is that going to your phone makes it easier to avoid boredom or anxiety. Through our devices, our brains are offered a continuous and endlessly diverting menu that requires less work. We haven’t stopped talking, but we opt out, often unconsciously, of the kind of conversation that requires full attention. Every time you check your phone in company, what you gain is a hit of stimulation, a neurochemical shot, and what you lose is what a friend, teacher, parent, lover, or co-worker just said, meant, and felt.” Turkle has scientific evidence for all the vague suspicions and concerns I have about social media. She is not chicken little; the book is more balanced that you’d think. It’s also intended as a wake-up call for parents—not just to be careful with their kids’ technology, but with their own. An example: “Fifteen-year-old Hillary says that when it comes to personal matters, she would rather turn to her mother than the network, but ‘when my mother is texting, she can’t be reached.’ And she doesn’t know how to get her mother’s attention. But on Instagram or Facebook, someone is always listening.” This is a book we would all be wise to give our attention to. 

Run with the Horses: The Quest for Life at its Best by Eugene Peterson. Peterson had a rough year, but I’m still a big, big fan. This book about the prophet Jeremiah, originally written in the 80s, is as relevant as ever. Peterson’s angle: Why is it that those who live badly are the ones living in the limelight? Why is it so difficult to publicly identify the few who are living wise, thoughtful, meaningful, selfless, humble, beautiful lives? Those are the people experiencing what it means to be fully human. I learned so much about Jeremiah in this book that still felt completely relevant and modern. And no one writes like Eugene Peterson. I need to keep a dictionary handy as I read his work, as well as a journal that is rapidly filling up with brilliant Peterson quotes.

Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus by Nabeel Qureshi. This is an apologetics book—Christian and Islam apologetics—written in first-person story form. After 9/11, this devout Muslim college student began delving into the foundations of both faiths and realized that his own came up wanting. With everything to lose, Qureshi turned to Jesus in the face of evidence he could not deny. His story is captivating, and I can't imagine a better book for a Muslim who is seeking to know more about Jesus. Qureshi died of cancer at age 34 in September. This is one of three books he left behind.

MY ATTEMPT AT UNDERSTANDING THE WORLD

Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right by Arlie Russell Hochschild. In my ongoing attempt to make sense of the Rust Belt Trump voters, I persevered through this book. A liberal Berkeley sociologist spent five years interviewing and living among residents of Lake Charles, Louisiana, to discover answers about what she calls the Great Paradox: Why do people in one of the poorest, most polluted states continue to vote for anti-regulation, big-industry focused political candidates? Not surprisingly, the author didn't check her biases at the door and gives a stereotypical, negative portrayal of Christians. I struggled to get through the book, but the many stories and some insightful conclusions kept me going.

Much better was...

Hillbilly Elegy: A  Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis by J.D. Vance. This one I highly recommend. Much more engaging than Strangers, Vance tells his story of going from a single-parent household in "hillbilly" country to earning a Yale law degree. Not only is his personal story fascinating, but his observations about poor, rural culture were exactly what I was looking for. He explains a mentality that I haven't been able to grasp up to this point. Definitely worth reading.

The Strange Death of Europe: Immigration, Identity, Islam by Douglas Murray. This British author is a divisive figure, and his anti-immigration biases were clear throughout the book. But he’s got some really good points. When Europe became too “enlightened” for Christianity, a huge religious and cultural vacuum resulted. When a strong religion/culture finds a vacuum, it fills the space. This, Murray argues, is what has happened with Islam in 21^st century Europe. I learned that 70% of all students in Catholic schools in the famous Seine Saint-Denis region of France are Muslim. What?! Murray argues that the continent that imports the world’s people will also import the world’s problems and cites dozens of examples from across Europe. His thoughts on immigration were interesting, but I was most fascinated by his perspective as a “post-Christian” hungering for truth, meaning, purpose, and hope, and wishing he could return to the faith of his grandparents. Hmmm.

The Invention of Russia: From Gorbachev's Freedom to Putin's War by Arady Ostrovsky. I picked this book up while looking for a quick read on how Russia got to the place it's in today. Of course Russian writers don't know how to do "quick read." The focus of this book is the role the Russian media have played in the past 30 years and how the government harnesses the media for its own propaganda purposes. In July 2014, Russian TV "interviewed" a Ukrainian woman who said she had witnessed the torture and "crucifixion" of a three-year-old boy at the hand of Ukrainian fascists, followed by the dragging death of the boy's mother behind a military tank. The story was completely made up, and yet it fueled the Russian people's anger against Ukraine and led to overwhelming support of the Crimea annexation. Similar propaganda propelled Russia into Syria. The author states, "The notion of television as a weapon lost its metaphorical sense. It was the real weapon causing real destruction. Never before had wars been conducted and territory gained primarily by means of television and propaganda. The Russian media did not just distort reality—it invented it." My appreciation for the American free press, flawed though it may be, soars in light of this. 

The Gene: An Intimate History by Siddhartha Mukherjee. I am no scientist, but I have a a somewhat morbid interest in biogenetics and the future of gene manipulation. This was the perfect book to answer all my questions. The author, a physician and cancer researcher, addressed the moral side of genetic technology as much as the actual technology itself, and that is where I tuned in the most. I did have to gloss over many pages filled with scientific descriptions and research explanations. But from Darwin to Mendel to Nazi Eugenics to Watson and Crick to CRISPR, he presented a very thorough picture of the development of genetics, as well as a view into what the future could hold. We will all be talking about this in the next 30 years, so I wanted to understand as much as I could. This book was helpful for a non-scientist who appreciates story and good writing.

MIXED RESPONSE

You Are What You Love by James Edward Smith. What I wanted to love was this book, and it came with such acclaim that I was sure I would. But I didn’t love it, at least not beyond the first chapter. I thought it was a hard read—academic and redundant—and the author also had a strong hidden agenda that became not-so-hidden the longer I read. The agenda was orthodoxy, and while I am not at all opposed to orthodoxy, I don’t think I would have intentionally read a book about it. I didn’t love this one, but I didn’t hate it, either. The author did make some great points that will stick with me a long time.

The Beckoning by Michael Minot. This book was recommended by a trusted organization, but unless you’re a new believer, a believer struggling with doubt, or someone who’s on the fence about Jesus, I wouldn’t recommend this one. It’s a straight-up apologetics book, not-so-professionally written, but I still made it all the way through. Every once in a while we need a reminder about how amazing it is that we are the perfect distance from the sun. The Beckoning is good for those types of reminders.

FICTION

11/22/63 by Stephen King. After reading King’s On Writing last year (so well done), I decided to try one of his novels. Except the last thing I’m gonna do is read a horror book. This is one of his few non-horror stories. As the title indicates, it’s a time-travel story about the assassination of JFK. With a thought-provoking subject and good characters, it entertained me for hours on a long road trip (hours and hours and hours, as it’s 847 pages), but I don’t need to read another Stephen King book. I’m pretty sure it was the book’s foul language—even more so than the road trip—that made me feel like I was always in need of a shower. The language, along with some excessively graphic violence, got old real quick and detracted from an otherwise good story.

And speaking of needing a shower...

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. The most toxic characters I’ve met in literature appear in Franzen’s critically acclaimed book. But it is acclaimed for good reason. At times, the writing took my breath away. He unfurls a sentence—sometimes two pages long—like nothing I’ve ever seen. You would think that masterful writing and an interesting plot—a couple in their 60s trying to have one last Christmas in their own house with their three adult children—would make for a great book. Many have made that assessment of The Corrections. But the characters were unlikable to the point of being gross, each of them so unhealthy, miserable, and morally bankrupt that I could barely journey with them through what should have been a really good story.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce. It’s hard to find a fiction book today that doesn’t require at least a bit of moral compromise. This simple little tale is an exception. Good writing, vivid characters, and a simple storyline add up to a nice, quick read. Still, while others might find it hopeful or uplifting, I didn’t. I liked the character transformation and the ending, but as much as I enjoyed the book, it was a story that made me sad.

Commonwealth by Ann Patchett. It’s disappointing when a good writer tells a mediocre story. Every page of this popular book contained at least a couple well constructed, well planned sentences. While I appreciated that part of the book, I didn’t care about the characters or their story. A bit of a yawn. 

East of Eden by John Steinbeck. My first read of this classic. It was also a good escape from the crude language and graphic sex and violence of modern novels. A good story, but the characters almost seemed too formulaic as Steinbeck considered the themes of good versus evil and fate versus self-direction. Modern reading has given me a taste for more areas of gray rather than characters who are so black and white. But of course the writing was very good and the story moved along well.

Any recommendations for 2018? Please send them my way! 

Christmas in Light of the Cross

For weeks, I've been camped out in John 19. My work has led me there, but it just as easily could have led me to Galatians or Joshua or Job. But that's not the timing of things this year. No, this Christmas season, while the rest of the world is thinking about Luke 2, my mind is swimming in John 19. While everyone else is pondering the beginning of Jesus' story, I'm immersed in the end.

I have always loved all things Christmas. I'm chomping at the bit to get the tree up weeks before the rest of my family. I'm that person who annoys everyone else by listening to Christmas music in early November. But this year, my perspective is a little different, shaped by John 19.

I hear "What Child Is This" on the radio, and I answer in my head: "The one who would be tortured, mocked, and nailed to a cross. The one who would announce 'It is finished' and mean more with those three words than any human being could grasp in a lifetime."

I hear "Mary Did You Know" and picture Jesus' mother not holding her newborn infant in a manger, but standing in horror at the foot of the cross watching her son crucified--but not before He ensured that she would be cared for by His friend John.

I walk through the streets caroling with my daughters and their friends, hearing their sweet voices sing, "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." I imagine these same angels, no robes or harps, but an army of warrior angels looking down at the crucifixion with shock and indignation, restrained only by sheer devotion to God from storming the earth and rescuing heaven's prince.

"Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Let earth receive her King." Not only did earth not receive Him; it mocked Him, hanging Him under the banner, "Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews." This was Pilate's dig at the Jewish religious leaders, an inscription on Jesus' cross that he knew would infuriate them. It did just that, but it also served to properly identify the one who truly was the King, not only of the Jews but of everyone everywhere.

I hear "O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant." There's no joy and triumph in John 19. There are very few "faithful" who followed Jesus all the way to cross. The crowds who flocked to Him during His life abandoned Him at His death. I'll have to wait for John 20 to see any sign of joy and triumph.

Christmas and Easter. They're three months apart on our calendars, but they're intertwined in history. The glory of God was on full display at both the nativity and the cross. Neither is what we'd expect. God's glory was a baby "shivering in the night" and a man bleeding to death in the most humiliating, excruciating form of execution ever devised. (The very word "excruciating" shares its Latin root with "crucify" and means "pain as severe as crucifixion." The Romans set the standard for unbearable pain.)

As we come to adore Him this Christmas, let's not forget the price He paid for us to do that. Celebrate and enjoy, for sure, but remember that the baby in the manger, so meek and mild, was led to the cross like a sheep to the slaughter. He willingly laid down His life for us in the most horrific of ways. While you're reading Luke 2 on Monday, think about reading John 19, as well--and then continue on to John 20 for the real celebration.

Beggars Seeking Grace, One and All

A lot of people died last week, people whose names and stories I didn't know. But three of them, I know a little something about. These three all arrived at the throne of God last week.

One was a well respected businessman and missionary, a man who lived a long life dedicated to knowing Christ and making Him known. He was gracious and kind. He had a beautiful marriage and left a legacy of faith for his descendants, both biological and spiritual. He was what you'd call a "good man." Maybe even a "great man."

The second man I know less about, except for the scandalous public facts. As a teenager, he intentionally killed his own mother. As a prisoner, he encountered Jesus. As a middle-aged man, his life sentence was commuted, due in part to the tireless petitioning of his brothers and sisters in Christ. He found a home in a church and blessed many with his musical gifts before he fell again, this time to alcohol and a drunk-driving incident that seriously injured his victim. Apparently, it was another drunk-driving episode that took his life. He was what we would call a "very flawed" man.

The third person--and yes, she was definitely a person--never stepped foot on the earth. She was a full-term baby who died without ever leaving her mother's womb. Though she was marked by humanity's sin nature, she never had the opportunity to sin herself; she was what we'd call "innocent."*

I picture all three, entering heaven at just about the same time. In my mind, one is wearing his suit and tie, one a prison-orange jumpsuit, and the third, completely naked. Three such different people. Three vastly different stories. And yet...

All in the same position. All sinners condemned for offenses against a holy God. All incapable of doing any lasting good on their own, even their best deeds like "filthy rags" (Isaiah 64:6) before a God whose righteousness is beyond comprehension. And yet each of them declared holy, blameless, and above reproach (Colossians 1:22). They died not as slaves to sin, but as sinners saved by grace, each one of them as desperate for God's mercy as anyone else.

How we live this life matters, I know that. I want to be known as someone who lives a "good" life. But at the end of the day, it's not my good life that will pass the test of God's judgment. It's the life of His Son, given on my behalf, that makes me righteous. The missionary, the criminal, the baby, and me--we are all just beggars in the presence of the King,** none any better than the other. The blood of Christ covers us all without prejudice. It's a healthy, humbling thought.


*The Bible does not speak specifically to the issue of whether or not babies go to heaven, although some people point to 2 Samuel 12:2 as evidence that they do. When my kids were younger and brought up this question, I answered by asking them what they knew to be true of God's character. In light of His mercy and love, I don't have any trouble believing that God's saving grace covers young children and those who are mentally incapable of knowing Christ. 

**Thank you, Matthew West.

If we ever needed a Savior...

In the face of a tidal wave of sexual misconduct claims and admissions, a few thoughts come to mind:

• How can such a large number of well-educated men be so stupid? "For whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open. If anyone has ears to hear, let them hear." --Jesus (Mark 4:22-23)
• Why is Vice President Mike Pence still belittled for his policy against dining alone with any woman who is not his wife? Some call him an unenlightened prude; some charge sexism and oppression against women. A lot of prominent Christian men, including Billy Graham, stay out of cars, hotel rooms, and closed-door office meetings that might be shared with just one woman. In light of what we're facing today, can these men get a little respect for trying to stay above reproach? 
• How tricky is it to grow up as a boy in this culture? Certainly they need to follow common-sense rules of respect and appropriate behavior. If they didn't know before, they'll know now that dirty jokes, greedy hands, and walking around publicly in their underwear is not only offensive but just plain dumb. At the same time, they're growing up in a "Girls Gone Wild" culture where nude selfies are the norm, and casual hookups are just a swipe away on Tinder. Add to this that famously underdeveloped prefrontal cortex, and you wonder how they're supposed to make sense of such mixed messages. 
• Her timing was indeed terrible, but how come Olympic gymnast Gabby Douglas was slaughtered by the press when she suggested that women dress modestly and aim for classy over provocative in order to avoid drawing attention from the "wrong crowd"? She was decried for "victim shaming," but did anyone consider that this might actually be good advice? (A few days after the outcry against her Douglas announced that she, too, was the victim of sexual abuse by the notorious USA Team Gymnastics doctor.)
• What the world needs to know, now more than ever: We have a Savior and Redeemer. For the woman whose body and soul have been violated, He brings healing and wholeness. For the man whose sin has left him humiliated, jobless, and alone, He brings forgiveness, restoration, and new identity. Jesus is the only answer for a world torn apart by our racial and gender warring. In Him alone--and by dying to ourselves and our sin--do we find selfless love, reconciliation, and the ability to live peacefully with our neighbors.This certainly isn't easy, but in Jesus, it is possible. There's something to be thankful for. 

Changing the World, One Verse at a Time

We go about our busy days never realizing that the person in the carpool line next to us might be changing the world. Ten years ago, I stood in in a kindergarten orientation meeting bouncing my new baby in the back of the room. Another woman did the same thing beside me, both of us trying to absorb whatever information we could while pacifying our baby girls. This woman--I would later learn her name was Tosha--would be a casual acquaintance for years before becoming a friend as those babies grew up to become dear friends. And while we were bouncing babies, setting up play dates, hosting birthday parties, and driving our kids in endless circles, Tosha was changing the world, starting in her own car.

What she was doing sounds pretty simple, one of those things where you think, "Why didn't I think of that?" All it took was turning off the radio and focusing the chatter in her car on one thing: a verse of Scripture. As she drove her five kids to school, they memorized this verse and talked about it in depth, things like its original context and how it applied to their own lives thousands of years later. They camped on that verse for a week until it was fully ingrained, until her kids owned it for themselves, and then they moved on to another and another and another. Her goal? To make the Bible feel like home to her children. To show her kids that the people in the Bible are not mythological characters with unpronounceable names, but to know them as friends and family. To say, "Ah, yes, Jeremiah. I know him well. I can't wait to talk with him face to face one day."

Tosha's vision for discipling her kids grew bigger. Like me, she believes that one of the biggest challenges facing the church today is biblically illiterate Christians. She wanted other children in other families to feel at home in the Bible, too. She knew this might feel like a daunting task to harried parents everywhere, so she made it easy. So easy that anyone who drives five or ten minutes in a car with their children every day (or eats a meal with them) can make this work. Last month, Tosha launched this program online--free curriculum to make the Bible feel like home to our kids. Each week, there's a new verse, a new set of discussion topics and questions that can literally be covered at a stop light, and new encouragement for how anyone can do this, quickly, simply, effectively. You can find it at MommyDiscipleMe.org.

I have to admit that when I went to hear Tosha introduce Mommy Disciple Me, I was blown away by her vision, but I was also met with a flood of personal regret. My kids don't call me Mommy anymore, and no one here is asking to be discipled. Tosha addressed this with the older mothers in the room, and God addressed it in my heart. It is never too late to spend time with our children around the Word of God. To believe otherwise is to believe a lie. If we truly believe that the Bible is the guide book to life, our source for wisdom and truth, that it's still "living and active, sharper than any double-edged sword" (Hebrews 4:12), then any time is a good time to start (or start again) discipling our kid with God's Word.

It looks different for those of us whose kids don't ride in our cars much anymore and whose schedules make all-family meals a rare treat. But we can still make the Bible feel like home in our family. For us, already memorizing our individual AWANA verses, it means that we've started coming together once a week to talk with each other about what those verses mean. Maybe you've found something that works for your family already. If so, great. Keep at it! And if you're still searching for something, or if you've stopped searching and now you just feel guilty and lame (oh, I hear you!), then give Mommy Disciple Me a try. Adapt it for whatever age your kids are. Use the Scripture memory for yourself or with a friend if you don't have kids. There are no "children's verses" in the Bible. They're for everyone.

The greatest responsibility we have as parents is also our greatest privilege: to introduce our kids to the God who made them, loves them, died for them, and longs for relationship with them. If you need a little help with this, no matter the age or your kids or grandkids, I encourage you to take a look at Mommy Disciple Me. Kids who grow into adults well armed with the Sword of the Spirit, the Word of God, will change the world, and it can start with us.

Confessing the Sins of Our Past

In studying John 16 the past few weeks, I've learned how gentle Jesus was in letting the disciples in on things. Our all-knowing God knows just how much His children can take at one time.

When I started walking with Him at the age of 10, and in earnest at about 19, He didn't just heap a bunch of conviction on me and tell me to deal with it. Gradually, year after year, He exposes new areas that need my attention, areas in which He wants to free me from sin and lead me into growth. Recently, He's brought an entirely new area to my mind, something I've never really thought about. It's corporate sin that requires corporate confession, and it all started with an article in Christianity Today.

I have never been to a protest. I'm generally not a fan of protesting, at least not the kind that involves angry signs and repetitive chants on city streets. As I've watched the Black Lives Matter marches, the removal of certain memorials, and the NFL-National Anthem debacle, I've felt more agitation at the protesters than affinity with their cries for justice. That's too bad, because God cares deeply about justice, and I want to care about what He cares about.

The article I read opened my eyes to a new perspective. Instead of organizing another protest, an organization led by Harvard grad and justice crusader Bryan Stevenson is creating a national memorial to remember the 4,000 African Americans who were lynched in this country between 1877 and the 1950s. In doing so, he is calling on the church in this country to acknowledge and repent, as a community, for the sins of slavery and racial cruelty in our nation's past. While this has happened within some denominations, Stevenson's goal is to extend the call to all individual followers of Christ.

In the past, this would not have registered with me, and I wouldn't have even finished the article. I'm a native Coloradan with no loyalty to the Confederacy and no complicity in either slavery or lynchings, both of which happened decades before my birth.But when the writer gave biblical precedent for caring about the sins of our ancestors, I tuned in.

Daniel confessed to sins that happened in another location in another generation. Nehemiah confessed the idolatry and oppression of his ancestors. Jesus told the Pharisees of His day that "this generation will be held responsible for the blood of all the prophets that has been shed since the beginning of the world" (Luke 11:50-51). Since the beginning of the world! That's a lot of accountability.

The idea of corporate ownership and confession of sins is also in line with 2 Chronicles 7:14, a verse that's screamed from the rooftops during political elections: "If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land."

As the church in this country takes corporate ownership for the sins in our history, "there is an element of personal transformation that goes deeper than the moral outrage of so many modern protests," says Bryan Stevenson. "It doesn't have the same self-righteous component to it." It's that self-righteous shaming that I rebel against when I see the protesters on TV. It makes me want to run instead of joining in and fighting the good fight in whatever ways I can.

Stevenson went on to say, "I am not interested in punishing America with this history. I want to liberate us. I want us to find the path that gets us to redemption."

Redemption. By my definition, it means God creating something beautiful out of our messes. It means that nothing is wasted; everything is used by Him. It's healing. It's forgiveness. It's making all things new. That's what our nation longs for. That's why people organize rallies and pick up signs. But true, lasting, healing redemption only comes through Jesus.

There is biblical precedent for corporate confession, and there is a burning need for healing in this land. Together these ideas are transforming my thoughts and my prayers. I've never personally owned a slave, but I'm part of a nation who thoughtlessly treated people as property. I'm part of a people who denied the dignity and humanity of all people and who sinned grievously against the God who created human beings in His image. That's my history. That's becoming part of my confession.

Finding My Place in a Non-Place World

How much of my life am I living in non-places?

This term "non-places," created by French anthropologist Marc Auge nearly ten years ago, is new to me. Auge introduced the idea in his book on super modernity, describing them as transient spaces where we remain anonymous, spaces that don't hold enough significance to even be regarded as real "places." Writer Mark Sayers, in his recent book Strange Days: Life in the Spirit in a Time of Upheaval, latches onto the non-places idea, calling them spaces with no identity, no history, and no relationships. The term applies to actual physical locations, such as freeways, hotels, airports, and fast-food restaurants, as well as cyber spaces--everything from Amazon to hookup sites.

I'm realizing that I have to work harder and harder to choose places over non-places. As much as I desire to be known, that requires time, effort, and vulnerability, and usually it's just quicker and easier to do life in non-places that don't require so much of me.

I go to a megachurch, where I rarely see the same people from week to week, let alone sit by them or interact with them. No one knows when we're not there. We are anonymous, a family of six in a sea of faces, and my children have never known anything else.

We go to chain restaurants where the food is always the same but the staff is always different. A year ago we sat in one of these restaurants, six of us, mind you, in the dead center of the room, for at least a half hour with no acknowledgement from anyone--no greeting, no menu, no order taken, no eye contact. For a while it was an interesting social experiment (could we force someone to notice us, without saying a word?), but eventually we gave up and walked out.

I've taken to buying my groceries online. I love it and it's given me hours of my life back, but at what cost? As much as I hated walking its aisles week after week, I had history with Walmart. Addison pushed me through the store when my ankle was injured, making me laugh so hard I could barely see straight. It was the place where I made up stories and songs to entertain my little kids as we waited in a long line on a Friday afternoon. I made chit-chat with the same checkers, week after week. I used to bump into friends  and acquaintances and occasionally have meaningful conversation in the mayonnaise aisle. Now I add items to my cart on a computer screen. Much of my other shopping is done the same way, in non-places, so convenient, yet so impersonal. I'm not about to give these up, but they make me work harder to use that saved time well.

I work from home. I email and text my friends, my mom, my husband, my children. I spend hours in the car, often by myself, driving in circles alongside strangers doing the same thing. I have to be intentional to seek out real places with real people. It takes effort, but I'm always so thankful for how it pays off.

There are times, many times, when anonymity and efficiency are the best choice, but they can't be all there is. I want to choose places where I have history (like the place at my church where I've spent Wednesday nights at Awana for the past eleven years), relationships (going out on dates with my husband, spending one-on-one time with my kids, taking walks with friends), and identity (not the kind that can be stolen in an Equifax hack, but the kind that is grounded in the truth of who God made me to be). I want my kids to choose real places over non-places, to consider that as they look for colleges. I hope we will all do the hard work of being known, being real, and creating authentic places where we can welcome others in.

We're Not in 2005 Anymore

About 14 minutes ago, or what seems like it, I dropped my son off for his first day of kindergarten. Today, his car loaded with sisters, he drove off for the first day of his senior year. Wow, that was fast.

But then I think about how much has changed since that day in 2005, and I realize what a long time ago it was. I did not whip out a cell phone and take a picture of Braden on his first day of kindergarten. I did not text or vox any of my friends. It did not occur to me to pray against teen suicide in our community. I doubt "cyberbullying" was even a word.

While there have been some positive changes since Braden started kindergarten, it also feels like the world is a darker place. I believe it is an especially hard time to be a teenager, and an especially challenging time to be a teacher or school administrator. There's been a story in the news lately that drives this point home and reminds me that parents today need to be more "on it" and more intentional than ever.

In June, a sixth grader from New Jersey took her own life. Sadly, that story alone is so familiar that it would not make headlines. The news here is that this girl's parents have charged her school with negligence and are demanding that administrators be held accountable for their daughter's death. Like dozens of other grieving parents who have made similar charges against their children's schools, these parents say that for months, their daughter received menacing messages via social media, with other sixth graders telling her that no one liked her, that she had no friends, and that she should just kill herself. They say they complained to the school, but the bullying continued, until it got so bad their daughter ended her life.

While my heart aches for anyone who loses a child, I've got to ask the obvious questions. Who was responsible for the safety of this little girl? In their demands for accountability, have these parents  ever considered their own negligence? Their own lawyer, in one of many nationally televised interviews, held up a cell phone and said, "This small device can be a lethal weapon in the hands of the wrong child." And yet they put it into their daughter's hands at such a young age, and they loaded it with Instagram and Snapchat. When they saw the trauma it was causing, did they ever think to take it away? Is that option considered too outlandish by today's parents to even consider?

What have we done to our children? Billionaires sit in offices creating poison for our young children, advertisers shove it down our throats, peer pressure demands that we bring it into our own homes, and parents, assuming they have no other choice, toss it at their kids and leave the room.

The world has changed drastically in the past 12 years, and we parents have got to do a better job being the adults and protecting not only our children's bodies, but their hearts and minds, too. We can't expect schools to clean up the messes created by poor parenting decisions. Schools exist to educate our children, not to police their online behavior. Parents are responsible for their own children. How can this be revolutionary or controversial?

Are there students using social media successfully, unscathed by its potentially lethal effects? For sure. But I would bet good money that very few of them are in the sixth grade. And yet the age at which kids receive their first phones is getting younger and younger, and where there is a phone, the apps are sure to follow.

As we start this new school year, let's be intentional with our own kids. Let's be very slow to say "yes" to new technology, especially with our young kids, let's exercise our parental rights to check their phones and see what's happening in their online worlds, and let's not be afraid to pull the plug on anything that has become harmful to them. Let's show our gratitude to our children's teachers and principals, and for heaven's sake, let's be down on our knees praying for them.

Practice in Letting Go

My son is at my dream camp right now. He's only thirty minutes away from our house, but he's a universe away in terms of what he's thinking and talking about for the next two weeks. The name of the camp is Summit Ministries, but it might as well be called Worldview Camp. By the end of it, he'll have heard from experts across the country on Islam, Marxism, philosophy, politics, poverty, economics, ethics, bioethics, free speech, and how the Bible speaks into these and a multitude of other things.

This is the air that I breathe. These are the books that I read and the topics I am most passionate about. I couldn't have cared less when I was 17, but today? I'd seriously consider giving my left arm to be there if I weren't thirty years older than everyone else.

In the five days since Braden has been gone, I've made a significant discovery about myself. I've been doing this mom thing for 18 years, and I would have said I've never been a helicopter parent. I have never been uptight about my kids' physical safety. You wanna climb a 60-foot tree? Go for it! Walk to the park by yourself? Sure. I can trust God with physical safety, no problem. I can even trust Him with my kids' failures and disappointments. Though they're never fun, I see these as opportunities and try not to interfere when they come along.

But my children's young minds? That's where I've staked my claim. If I'm a helicopter parent at all, it's with their minds. As they're learning about and processing the world, I want to be there doing it with them. I want to ask questions, make connections, and challenge their ideas. I want to share my own stories and thoughts while trying to draw out theirs. And let's be honest, I want to steer their thinking, to urge them to think like me.

So it's challenging for me that Braden is having this Big Mind Experience, but he's not coming home every night to talk about it with me. He's taking it in and processing it with a room full of strangers. Obviously, they're strangers I trust, or we wouldn't have ponied up the big bucks to send him to Summit, but still, they're strangers nonetheless. I get a text here and there, but there's no space for stimulating discussion. That's happening apart from me, and I'll get only the remnants of what he's thinking about today when he comes home eight days from now.

My toes are dangling in foreign waters. It's called Letting Go. In 13 months, I'll be fully immersed. These are good waters, I know, not something to dread. They are healthy waters, a place in which my children and I will all grow and, I hope, will thrive. I believe in the goodness and rightness of these waters enough that I will encourage (push?) all of my children to go far away after high school, to become their own people apart from me, to think their own thoughts without my constant interruption, to explore the world on their own. My mother did this for me, and it was one of the greatest gifts of my life, so I will pay it forward. God, help me. This will require extraordinary faith, faith that I can't quite muster today.

I'm getting there, though. Slowly but surely, God is prying my tight grip off of my children. In the process, He is inviting me to a whole new level of relationship with Him. Scary as it is, I accept. And I welcome the advice and encouragement of those of you who have gone before me.

In the News

Last night my family and I were watching the evening news as we regularly do. One report came from Akron, Ohio, where opioid overdoses have reached crisis proportions. We learned that at one of Akron's addiction-treatment facilities, patients receive monthly injections of Vivitrol, a drug that may be helpful in getting addicts off drugs. One injection of Vivitrol costs $1,200 and lasts four weeks. Then the reporter told us that this facility treats 2,500 opioid patients monthly, all with Vivitrol and presumably a host of other services. The treatment is free to the patients, because they are all on Medicaid.

My 15-year-old, smart cookie that she is, flagged me to hit "pause." (Like the rest of America, we don't watch anything live. And the pause button is especially handy for family conversations about the evening news.) "Nothing's free. Who's paying for all those shots?" she asked, knowing full well the answer. My son got a calculator. $1,200 per shot for 2,500 people. That's monthly, so multiply by 12. Medicaid pays for $36,000,000 worth of Vivitrol a year at one facility in one town in one state. Thirty-six million dollars for a drug that has a questionable rate of effectiveness. From what I read online, after six months, close to 50 percent of Vivitrol users (not necessarily at this facility, but in general) have returned to opiod use.

The angle of the story was that all these people, 2,500 of them, would not be able to receive this treatment if changes are made to Medicaid, as is proposed under the Republican's new health care plan. One of the residents at the facility said that if the plan goes through, Congress will have a lot of innocent blood on their hands. Just to make this point clearer, the report ended with a shot of a mobile morgue, a big white truck used to haul off the bodies of all those who have died from their addiction. If we were hoping for the reporter to acknowledge what a huge amount of money that was, to give us some statistics about the program's success, or to remind viewers that the national debt is now $19,846,080,045,627, we were disappointed. None of that came up. Just the mobile morgue and the threat of "innocent blood."

Back to my daughter and her question. In a few months, she'll be 16, and she's eager to get a job. So the answer is, "In a few months, Addison, you'll be paying for those shots." So will my elderly friend who worked hard his whole life to "pay into the system" so that Medicaid would be there for him, unaware that the system would be faltering partially due to a drain from drug addicts in the prime of their lives. It will be paid for by the families I know who carefully, strategically live on one income so that mom can give focused attention to their kids, praying they won't get sick or injured because their crappy, overpriced insurance covers next to nothing. It will be paid for by the families who have to choose between covering the mortgage payment or filling their kids' cavities. It will also be paid for by the LeBron Jameses and the Beyonces and the Bill Gateses, but there aren't very many of them.

I rarely step into political waters on this blog. But I feel the tension of this issue, and I feel it even more when my kids start to wrestle with it. When I think of the debt they are inheriting.

I am not at all unsympathetic to the addicted. I don't believe they intentionally chose this path for their lives or that they should be kicked to the curb to figure out a solution for themselves. They are hurting people who were most likely raised by other hurting people. Most of them do not have the advantages my children have: married parents who love them unconditionally, a consistent roof over their heads, a good education, reliability, stability, and on and on. I get that. I care about that, and I care about justice and mercy. My point is not to question the ethics of caring for the addicted, but to question the methods and sustainability of it.

Our world is not getting any nicer or easier. I wonder if the number of wounded-beyond-functioning people will some day out number those who can support them? I wonder about the inconsistencies of throwing billions of federal dollars at a drug-addiction crisis while legalizing marijuana all across the country. I wonder about treating drugs with other drugs, especially those that cost $1,200 a shot and have a 50 percent chance of working. I wonder how a country that's growing more secular by the day will realize that the problem is not drug addiction but hopelessness, and that Jesus is the only solution.

Just another night watching the evening news and trying to help my kids make sense of the world. God, give us wisdom.

Too Much Information

A few years ago, I attempted to write down every bite of food I took in a day. I then swapped this food journal with a friend, hoping that it would serve as a good motivator of self-control. It's one thing for my kids to see me eat a jar of marshmallow cream, but quite another to let my health-conscious friend in on it. If nothing else, it tested my ethical boundaries, though I'm not sure it worked as a diet method. After some weeks we gave up, and I started eating Froot Loops again.

I also have a Fitbit, which is supposed to record the number of steps I take each day. In actuality, it records how much my wrist moves, which is not really all that helpful. An hour on the stairstepper at the gym gets me zero "steps," while shuffling papers at my dining room table can get me a thousand. Still, it's enough to send me marching through the house with my toothbrush in my mouth if I've only gotten 9,200 steps at bedtime.

There is some draw in evaluating our lives through recorded data. And where there's a draw, there's an opportunist. I have recently stumbled upon the entire "quantitative self movement." QS, also known as self-tracking or life-logging, started around 2007 with Fitbits, calorie counters, and sleep monitors. It has since exploded into a whole new lifestyle of statistically evaluating every aspect of one's life. There are people recording the number of hours they spend online and people taking inventory of every piece of clothing they own. This year's "QS17" conference will feature a woman who records every scar on her body--when she got it, how she got it, and how it's a meaningful part of her story.

Some people record their moods on the hour, including what makes them happy and what gets them upset. I read about a woman going through a divorce who documented every time she cried, every time she felt angry, every time she visited an online dating site. For those who really want to self-analyze, there are an abundance of online journaling sites. You churn out the words, the website provides you with all sorts of data: you're more uptight than other subscribers, you're more depressed than last week. One woman found out she thinks about death more than "normal" people. I'm sure that cheered her up.

I wonder, is the quantitative self for those who are interested in living better, or is it for those who are interested in living less? Your world becomes pretty small if you can count and measure everything in it. This also seems like one more way, along with tweets and selfies, that our modern world is pulling us into narcissism. It's hard to care about the hurts of others around you when you're obsessed with your own scars. Maybe we could all use a little less self-focus and a little more outward focus.

When the psalmist asked the Lord to "teach us to number our days" (Psalm 90:12), he wasn't talking about a scientific dissection of how we spend our minutes and hours. He was calling people to live with purpose. The end goal was to "gain a heart of wisdom." More and more, we live in a world where information is king, but give me wisdom over information any day. Knowing my resting heart rate? I can do without that. Pursuing the One who keeps it beating? Priceless.

I Don't Get It: A First Installment of What May Become Semi-Regular

Note: There's a lot that I don't get. So much so that I'm going to write about it periodically under the heading "I Don't Get It." I've been in this world quite a long time, and there is still so much I'm trying to make sense of. I'm not trying to be sarcastic or funny; I'm genuinely trying to understand. I welcome your responses, public or private. 

The NBA Championship kicked off last night, somewhat overshadowed by the news that LeBron James's house had been spraypainted with the "n" word. James responded by saying, "No matter how much money you have, no matter how famous you are, no matter how many people admire you, being black in America is tough."

Although I would argue that just living in this fallen world is tough, his statement is helpful and thought-provoking for a white, middle-class mom who's never faced a day of racism in her life. But here's what I don't get: Why is this word that is so clearly offensive used so extensively among the people it offends?

Last weekend, I was at a park in Toledo, Ohio, with my two younger daughters. While my family celebrated my nephew's graduation, a group of young black men played basketball as their music blared. In twenty minutes, we heard the "n" word hundreds of times. We heard about "raping bitches"  over and over again. Though the day was beautiful and the basketball fun to watch, we could only stomach so much of it before we had to leave.

So what are we to teach out kids? First, the rule for whites: Common sense and sensitivity say we never use the "n" word. Paula Dean and countless others have learned this the hard way. I hope I've taught my kids that labels in general, and derogatory ones in particular, are not a loving way to treat people. This word should not be in our vocabulary. In fact, it should feel distasteful in our mouths. Last summer, when we read New Boy, a Civil Rights-era book, aloud together, I stumbled hard over the "n" word. I should stumble. My kids should stumble, even when they see it in good literature. This I get. But from there it gets much trickier.

From what I read online, even though the word is a staple of rap music, it is not to be used by white rappers. There was some debate over whether or not Asian rappers could use it. Because Asians, as far as we know, never kept black slaves, it might be OK for them to use it. For younger blacks--rapper or otherwise--it's perfectly acceptable. In fact, they encourage its use, seeing it as a sign of power and liberation to freely throw around a word laced with such historical oppression. I read that it has become a term of endearment "in a defiant, yet fitting, cultural appropriation of a term meant to hurt" African Americans. One young man promised that in a decade, we'll see it appear on children's spelling lists. Older generations of black men and women heartily disagree and believe the word should never be used by anyone.

(I didn't find any discussion on the pros and cons of  the term "raping bitches," but maybe I'm not looking hard enough.)

So is this what I'm supposed to teach my kids when I'm at parks in Toledo and at stoplights in Colorado Springs and we hear a word that's supposedly forbidden, for good reason, drilled into our heads twenty times in a minute? This whole line about how it's never OK for us, but that it's somehow empowering for those it offends? That's what I don't get.

When we pull back the lens from this one word and look at the bigger picture, it becomes clearer. Racism is real. It affects the rich, the famous, and even the heroes of our culture. Hate and selfishness leave their ugly mark on all of us, but some get it a lot worse than others. No matter where we come from or how we're different, we have a common enemy who uses hate to divide and destroy us and to distract us from the One who gives love and peace and reconciliation. That I understand, and it's a crying shame.

Bark Less, Wag More

I've sat down a number of times to write about my trip (see previous post for more details), but there are so many things to say that I end up feeling a bit overwhelmed. I could write a snarky essay about how Europeans must surely perceive Americans (pushy, overweight, and some word that means the opposite of classy and stylish). I could share some of the weird experiences we had, like the public toilet (yes, singular) in the middle of a busy French street, with a revolving door that only stayed shut for 20 seconds, or the Spanish-speaking Asian woman who accosted us as we lay on the beach, literally picking up our feet and vigorously rubbing them while begging for money.

I could write about getting a personal tour of the statue of David, of dashing through the Vatican Museum like video game characters, dodging tour groups, wheelchairs, and strollers, of seeing one of the grandest basilicas in the world and feeling--well, feeling nothing at all, oddly enough. I could try to find words for how grateful I felt to be visiting some of the most famous, important, and beautiful cities in the world, or how taking it all in was like drinking from a fire hose, as one friend put it.

I could go in a different direction and write about my children, how impressed I was by the responsibility and resourcefulness they showed while we were gone. I could brag about my 69-year-old mother,who stepped in and ran a family full of busy children as if she does it every day, and who never complained, not even when the dog dragged her through the dirt and left a horrible leash-burn on her hand. I could affirm that it truly is difficult for a mom to be gone in May, every bit as difficult as I had imagined, and that one can experience joyful, awe-filled gratitude and wonder in Italy while at the exact same time feeling heart-sick about missing the band concert at home.

But I want to do more than amuse you. I'd like to try to offer something that could change your day--maybe even your month or your year. That's a lofty goal, but here's what I've got: Be pleasant company. 

As I mentioned in my last post, I signed up for this trip reluctantly, even grumpily. I hated how that felt, and I asked God to change my hard heart. It didn't happen overnight; in fact, it didn't happen with much time to spare. But three or four weeks before we left, God impressed on me to be pleasant company to my husband. It was his trip, and I was his very fortunate guest. The least I could do was to be a pleasant traveling companion.

Was I tested on it? Yes, hourly. Did I master it? Not even close. A Mediterranean cruise sounds pretty cushy, but travel is stressful, whether you're going to a funeral in Des Moines or a vacation in Spain. There are so many unexpected circumstances that can bring out the worst in a person. But it all goes a lot better if you're committed to the idea of being pleasant company to the people you're traveling with.

Most of us inherently know what pleasant company looks like. We practice it with strangers but forget to practice it with the people closest to us. It's pretty simple. Start by smiling more. Laugh more. Be playful. (Why is it that middle-aged parents are so serious all the time?) Say thank you, A LOT. Be agreeable and flexible. Be willing to try things a different way than how you normally function. Don't feel the need to share your every complaint and negative thought. For women especially: Don't parent your husband. Don't correct him or fuss at him. Don't question his every move. Let him lead.

There is nothing more attractive than a man boldly, decisively, confidently leading. Let the feminist choir rise up against me and throw rotten tomatoes; I don't care. I think there are a whole lot of women who would agree with me that confident leadership, assuming you're married to a decent guy, is super attractive.

If you're traveling this summer, experiment with this idea. Focus on being pleasant company. If it goes as well for you as it did for me, take it up a notch and try being pleasant company at home. I know, right? Crazy! Home is supposed to be the place where we can be ourselves, let our hair down, be real. But if that's not working out so well, try being pleasant instead. You may have to work at it. You may even have to fake it a little. That's OK. We are creatures who love rewards, and if your experiment goes as I think it will, the rewards will be worth your effort.

Life is hard. God mercifully gives us other people to travel with through the hardness. My hypothesis, still undergoing much testing, is that it's much easier if we travel as pleasant company.

A Practical Lesson on Love

"If someone asked me if I loved my wife, I'd say of course I do. I love her so much I'd give my life for her without a second thought. But if we're on a road trip and she wants to eat at Subway and I want to eat at Taco Bell, I will fight her tooth and nail to get what I want."

Though not verbatim, my pastor shared this example about a year ago while teaching on love. Do you know that feeling when a speaker says something and time seems to stop? Everyone else in the room disappears, and it's like he called you out and began speaking specifically to you? That's what happened to me when he gave that example.

Months prior to hearing that message, my husband had asked me to go on a Mediterranean cruise with him. In the 20 years we've owned our business, he has earned several trips through one of his suppliers, and several times, he has asked me if I would be willing to go. Each time, I've said no. Without a thought. The reason is because the trips are always in early May, and we have four children. I don't want to do the work or miss the activity that being gone in May would require.

My sweet husband was not asking me to dig ditches, foster feral kittens, move back into the shop, or watch ten hours of motocross in the hot sun (that one he's asked before). He was asking me to take what other people might call the trip of a lifetime, with him. I had enough sense to reluctantly agree to the cruise because it seemed so important to him, but when he asked about adding on extra days at the end of the cruise, I snapped back that he would need to find someone else to take with him, because there was no way I was going to be gone "extra days" in May.

The only way this makes sense is if you're a mom who has lived through May before. Dumping four children on someone else for 12 days during the most insane time of the year feels like irresponsible parenting. Then sign one of those kids up for competitive soccer and the other for three sports in one season, add in three music lessons a week and four AP tests, Awana, youth group, birthday parties, and a dozen events that require 10 bucks and  a dozen cupcakes, and it feels sickeningly indulgent and utterly undoable. If the trip had been in June, I would have kicked up my heels and bought a copy of Italy for Dummies. But May? All I did was grumble.

And then my pastor shared his little story. It was like a news-alert scroll was turned on inside my head. The message running loudly through my brain was this: "Want to know how to love your husband well? Do what he wants to do. And do it cheerfully."

It is humbling to realize that all it takes to bring out your ugly is for your husband to invite you on a cruise at the wrong time of year. But humbling is not a bad thing. In this case, a good dose of Holy Spirit humbling gave me a kick in the seat to start changing my attitude. It was slow going for a good, long while. I lived in absolute dread of having to plan schedules and line up rides for children whose lives we can barely manage ourselves. Sure enough, it has been a ton of work. My brain feels like it's been tossed into a blender. I have had to do battle with that guilty sense of indulgence that taunts me at every turn. I have had to remind myself often why I am doing this. I will have to make a conscious choice on Saturday morning at 10:58 a.m. to turn off the all-powerful carpool mom part of my brain and rediscover the fun wife part. But that's what I'm going to do.

Because what greater thing can a wife give her husband than the gift of her full attention? For 12 days? In May? How can she demonstrate more clearly that she loves him than doing what he wants to do? Cheerfully?

(And probably the Mediterranean won't be so bad either.)

Eleven Witnesses

I wonder if anyone has had their whole life come down to one minute? A minute in which all that they'd been taught, all they'd been hoping for, all that mattered in the world to them was fulfilled. A minute that knit together every day of their past and radically shaped every day of their future?

That's what happened to eleven men in Jerusalem. For three years, they had been following around this man named Jesus. They had seen him do many unexplainable things and heard him speak of mysteries beyond their understanding. He was strange, but he was also their friend. They trusted him. They trusted him enough to give up everything and follow him all around the countryside, doing whatever he said.

They were good Jewish boys. Their mamas and daddys had taught them well. They knew the Scripture; they followed the Law. They knew that Yahweh had promised them a Messiah, a rescuer who would save God's people and rule forever. Just about the time they began to think that Jesus might be the One they were waiting for, just about the time they were thinking he would stick it to the Roman leaders and set up Jewish rule once and for all, something crazy happened. He died. His body was put in a tomb. And that was that.

"What in the world was that about?" they must have wondered.

Could they eat? Sleep? I don't think so. All they could do was wonder, and weep, and stumble through what must have been the greatest disappointment of all time.

But then their moment came. THE moment. And it happened so simply.

One minute they were alone, and the next he was there with them. He appeared out of nowhere, very much alive. They were so startled they thought he was a ghost. He knew how jarring his appearance would be, so he let them examine his nail-scarred hands and feet. He ate with them. And then he did something that must have seemed to them even more amazing than raising from the dead. He put every second of every day of their entire lives in context.

He said something like this: Everything you've hoped for your entire lives, every lesson you ever learned, every law you ever followed, every scripture you ever memorized was all about me. This life? All about me. This world? All about me (and, by the way, I created it). The future? All about me.

"Then he opened their minds so they could understand the Scriptures. He told them, 'This is what is written: The Messiah will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance for the forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things'" (Luke 24:45-47).

Grief and confusion and disappointment were immediately sucked out of the room. "Ah-ha" moments broke out. Connections were made. Lives, on the spot, were changed, never to be the same. The world was changed, never to be the same. And it all began with those eleven.

Sometimes I marvel over what it's like to be alive right now, in this moment in time. On my watch, the world changed at the hands of technology. The world I was born into looks nothing like the one I inhabit now. I think that's pretty amazing. I wonder how I got to be a witness to such things.

But it doesn't hold a candle to what those eleven in Jerusalem witnessed, when all of history and all of eternity converged in that one holy moment.

He is risen. And this crazy world make sense.

Snow Day!

It's April, and mothers everywhere are a hot mess. OK, maybe not all mothers; maybe it's just those of us who have kids in school. And maybe it's not everywhere, but it's certainly everywhere I'm looking.

April is the beginning of the end. We're rounding the corner of the home stretch. There's a light at the end of the school-year tunnel. It's faint and there are a hundred obstacles between here and there, but just knowing it's there encourages us onward. But the final stretch is almost always the hardest. We break out into a sweat as 3:00 arrives, knowing it's a dead sprint until bedtime. We live out of our cars and eat out of crockpots and drive-thru's. We shiver through soccer games, baseball games, and track meets. We fix hair and tune instruments and drive, drive, drive to rehearsals, concerts, and recitals. We pack sack lunches for field trips and clear our schedules to chaperone them. We throw birthday parties and buy presents for other people's kids. We take in treats to keep the teachers encouraged. We feed and urge on the older kids studying for SATs and AP exams.We try to remember that we are wives and have some interaction with our husbands beyond who's picking up whom and please don't forget the cupcakes. We attempt to keep all this up while maintaining our own friendships, work obligations, fitness regimens, and spiritual disciplines.

(Yes, spring break was just last week, but "break" is an oxymoron when you spend 41 hours in the car with your children. Our time visiting colleges was productive, but there was no "break" involved, and certainly no recharging for the month of April.)

Then we wake up to snow. Lots of it. And the messages start rolling in. School cancelled. Meeting at work cancelled. Soccer cancelled. Track cancelled. Piano lesson cancelled. Band concert cancelled. The children who were scheduled to within an inch of their lives now get to spend the day building snow men in the yard. Everyone stays in their jammies. A party breaks out over cocoa and board games. Life as we know it has come to a screeching halt, and we can all stop and breathe.

I don't begin to claim to know how God works. But I think for harried mothers in states with erratic weather, He sends snow in April, His little present to remind us to slow down, actually enjoy our children, and focus on the goodness of this life.

To See and Be Seen

I'm reminded again that one of the greatest gifts we can give to another person is our focused, personal attention. A group of my friends recently traveled to Russia to host a retreat for women who grew up in orphanages and are now trying to raise their own children--with very few role models or personal examples to draw on. My friends taught classes on parenting, conflict-resolution, self-esteem and the like, but the most meaningful thing they may have done was to paint the Russian women's nails. It's intimate work. It's "I-care-about-you" work, especially in this context. No money was paid; no expectations were made. It was just one woman focusing all of her attention on another, serving her humbly and with love just like Galatians 5:13 tells us to do.

Children who grow up in institutions don't get personal attention. Moms doing the hard work of raising children, sometimes alone or with little support, are rarely acknowledged by others. I don't know many American women who have had another person look them in the eye and say, "You're doing a great job raising your children. Don't lose heart!" How much more must this mean to someone who's never really been seen at all.

To be seen. It's one of our most essential human needs. It's why God reveals Himself, in the book of Genesis, as El Roi, the God who sees us. And not just us, but you. And me. And her over there sitting by herself in the corner, thinking no one in the world notices her or cares about her. God notices! And I think He loves it when we follow His example.

Not many of us will find ourselves painting the nails of grown-up orphans in Russia. But surely we can all find someone who needs to be "seen" this week. Cooks at restaurants, janitors at schools and churches and airports, workers taking a smoke break outside Walmart. These and so many like them serve us behind the scenes, and we rarely take notice. I urge you to pay attention in the next several days. "See" someone you've never seen before. Give that person your focused, personal attention, even if it's just for 10 seconds. That 10 seconds could make all the difference in someone's day. Or maybe, because El Roi is such a big God, it could change a life.

Life Is Good: A Fresh Message

In the wake of five suicides in our school community over the past 14 months--four students and one parent--and six at a neighboring high school, my friends and I are left heartbroken and confused. Perhaps the most puzzling part to me is that many of these kids were followers of Christ.

Each of these stories is unique, personal, and complicated. I can't possibly know or understand the reasons for their actions, and I certainly won't make any attempt at blanket cause-and-effect statements. But I will share the thoughts God has given me personally as I relate to my own kids.

Vision casting is one of my biggest parental roles, and this has come as a surprise to me. When I was 16, my head was exploding with vision. I had such big plans for my life, such hope-filled dreams. I attended camps and signed up for activities that would give me a bigger taste of the grown-up world. I instinctively knew that there was so much more to life than high school, that this was just a drop in the bucket of my existence, and that bigger, better things awaited me "out there." (I was right!) My own kids don't seem to be hardwired this way. They have vision for tonight's homework and their next meal. They might have a vague sense of anticipation for the next school break or summer vacation. But big dreams for their lives? Not so much.

I've tried to help them build vision for the future, and I've also spent a lot of time preparing them to live in a culture that's hostile to the values they've grown up with. Like all good Christian parents, I've been teaching my kids to see themselves as strangers in this world ("This world is not your home!" they've heard me say since they were toddlers) and to expect this life to be challenging at best and an out-and-out battle at worst. They hear Christian adults tell them: "Put on the armor of God, kids, because there's a battle raging over your hearts and minds!" With a bit more reflection, I see that this might not be the best way to beckon them to a captivating adult life.

It's all true, and it's hugely important. But I wonder if I, and others like me, haven't unwittingly left out the part about how good this life is. Do I emphasize the fallenness of this life way more than the beauty of it? Have we been so busy preparing for a cultural war that we've lost sight of God's daily mercies and graces? Am I helping them "taste and see that the Lord is good" in equal proportion to teaching them how to do battle with the sword of the Spirit (God's Word, according to Ephesians 6:17)?

As I help them with vision, is it about college and careers and healthy marriages more than purpose and mission? Do they know that they're part of God's Big Story, that He's given them a unique role in something so much bigger than themselves? They're here to point the way to Life and Truth and Hope--to Jesus. They're His hands and feet, His ambassadors, His vessels on this earth. They've got work to do, not because God needs them (He doesn't), but because He has chosen them to play a part in His redemption of the world. They've got purpose--rich, deep, meaningful purpose, and nothing will fill their hearts and souls like living out the assignment He's given them. And oh, the goodness they'll taste and see along the way!

I am freshly convicted to start focusing on these things. Life is good. That's more than a t-shirt motto; it's beautiful truth. Life is good because God is good. Help me, Lord, to live and speak that message every day.

Progress Covers Its Tracks

In his book Utopia Is Creepy, Nicholas Carr included an essay on the generational effects of new technologies. He used electricity as an example. When people lit their homes with candlelight, the wick brought them together. Families sat together in one room, reading or talking by candlelight. The electric light, conversely, sent people into different rooms. It gave individual family members more options and more independence. Carr wrote, “Each person gained more privacy and a greater sense of autonomy, but the cohesion of the family weakened.”

When I was in college, I borrowed a mini cassette recorder and interviewed my 90-year-old great grandma. I had spent a lot of time with her growing up, but it wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I realized there was more to her than just making jello and playing a mean game of Uno. It occurred to me that Grandma Goodman had lived through a lot. She was born in 1902 (“I’m two years younger than the year,” she would tell us), which meant she was born into a world of horse-and-buggy, reading by candlelight, and cold midnight trips to the outhouse. She remembered all of this, as well as the first time she drove a Model T, the first time she heard about air travel, and what she was doing the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon (making jello, no doubt). My grandma saw a lot of change.

I’ve never once listened to that recording. The microcassette tape sits in my jewelry box with no way to be played, and sadly, no one who’s itching to hear it. Grandma Goodman died in 1999, and with her, the memories of a different world. I was pregnant with my first child when I attended her funeral. The old had gone; the new had come. She was among the last of a generation who had seen such great change over the course of their lifetimes, but her way of life seemed so outdated and stale. Who in the 90s was sitting around relishing the glories of the horse-and-buggy?

But though she had only a high school education, lost numerous babies who today probably could have been saved, and endured two horrendous world wars, I’m less and less sure that my world is superior to hers. Or that hers was the generation that witnessed the greatest changes in the history of mankind. I wonder if those of us born in the 70s might not hold that distinction.

These words in Carr's essay caught my eye:

“All technological change is generational change. The full power and consequence of a new technology are unleashed only when those who have grown up with it become adults and begin to push their outdated parents to the margins. As the older generations die, they take with them their knowledge of what was lost when the new technology arrived, and only the sense of what was gained remains. It’s this way that progress covers its tracks, perpetually refreshing the illusion that where we are is where we were meant to be.”

I was among the very last group of college students who had never heard of the internet. I started my first job the same year it became readily available. I have a complete, full, beautiful memory of a fully offline life--a life with no computers, no cell phones, no Google or texting or social media. I remember discovering and poring over encyclopedias. I remember conversations with friends in which no phones chimed in with an urgent update. I remember eating family meals together every night and watching the 6:00 evening news. I remember exchanging long, handwritten letters with my friends and talking for hours on the phone. I remember playing outside with the kids in my neighborhood every single summer night. I remember when strangers sat in waiting rooms making eye contact and chitchat.

If I take after my Grandma Goodman in longevity, at the end of my life, I will be among the last people alive to hold such memories. And will anyone care?

Progress covers its tracks and makes us think that where we are is where we're meant to be. Something to think about.  

Justice, Kindness, and Humility

My daughter's fourth grade class recently visited the state capitol. No surprise, they ran into protesters there, some of them touting colorful language on their signs.

The kids returned to school with about an hour left in their day. After a field trip, especially the kind that keeps 9- and 10-year-olds on a bus for a couple hours, this means an extended recess. As it's winter in Colorado, the teachers told the kids they needed to wear their coats outside. This is how my daughter explained to me what happened next: "We didn't want to wear our coats, so we had a protest."

Conceivably, there may be parents who would erupt with pride over this statement. Their child was standing up for her right to make her own choices, making her voice heard, fighting against tyranny. I am not one of those parents. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in respecting authority. When I dug a little deeper, it became clear that this was not an all-out protest by a pack of screaming fourth graders. It was a few little girls whining about having to wear their coats, and the teacher didn't even know about it. Still, Camryn had chosen the words, "have a protest." Because this is the language of the day.

I know that injustice exists in this world. In fact, nowhere do you find more talk about justice than in the Bible. For many years, one of my favorite verses has been Micah 6:8: "He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?"

I love this verse because justice is linked closely with kindness and humility. God absolutely cares about justice, but He also cares about how we carry it out. There is no humility in a 9-year-old grumbling against a teacher who is looking out for her best interest. There is no kindness in covering posterboards in mean-spirited profanity and parading them around school kids who are trying to learn more about their government.

The Bible's focus is not so much about fighting injustice, but on doing justice. Be fair. Don't cheat or steal. Look out for those who are weaker. Love the widow and the fatherless and the resident alien among you (Jeremiah 22:3).

There are times when we have to cry out on behalf of injustice, when those who follow God carry His truth out into the streets. Martin Luther King, Jr. is a shining example of this. But God's other commands don't go by the wayside in favor of fighting injustice. Kindness, love, and humility still matter. I would argue, in fact, that we need to spend more time training our children and ourselves in those "harder" virtues than in those that come more naturally. My kids came out of the womb knowing how to fight for what they thought was right. Getting angry and speaking up has never been a problem for them, or for just about anyone else I know. It's knowing when to speak up--and how to do it without sinning or causing others to stumble--that requires wisdom and maturity.

The Bible is as clear in its teaching to honor authority (Romans 13:1, 1 Peter 2:13 and 5:5) as it is to follow the way of justice. When these two come into conflict, protesting may be one way to respond. But 4th graders and grown-ups alike need to remember that justice without kindness and humility is nothing more than a clanging cymbal.

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing. 
1 Corinthians 13:1-3

Inauguration Day Thoughts

I appreciate that there are many who see today as a national day of mourning. I am certainly not doing any cartwheels myself. But I did see a few bright spots in the Inauguration ceremony today.

First, I am grateful and surprised that we live in a country in which the Word of God is still a prominent part of the biggest political event in the land. The name of Jesus was boldly proclaimed, and prayers were made in His name. The beatitudes were spoken over a nation who needs to hear them: Blessed are the poor in Spirit. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are those who are meek, merciful, and pure of heart. And perhaps most timely of all, blessed are the peacemakers. My favorite non-scriptural quote came from Rabbi Marvin Hier, who said that a nation's wealth is measured by its values, not its vaults. This after repeated promises by our new President to bring back America's wealth. Well said, Rabbi.

Second, no matter what you think of President Obama, you had to respect his dignity today. You know this was hard, brutally hard, for him. He and his wife would probably much rather poke Donald Trump with a sharp stick than embrace and applaud him, but they did so graciously. After a searing speech in which the new President pinned all of the nation's woes on his back, Mr. Obama smiled warmly, extended his hand, and said, "Good job." I completely disagree with his politics, but I respect and appreciate his maturity, his poise, his faithfulness as a husband and father, and the dignity he brought to the presidency.

And finally, no matter how many times you witness it, you can never stop marveling at the peaceful, honorable transfer of power that we Americans are privileged to enjoy. Yes, the election was ugly and nothing to be proud of. But today? Today was America at its best. Political rivals sat side by side and accepted a new person with radically different ideas and policies. No wars broke out. No one was assassinated. Some boycotters boycotted and some protesters protested, but even that is evidence of a privileged America. Can we ever grasp how radical--maybe even miraculous--our Constitution is? And that generation after generation submit to it, abide by it, and carry it out? Like clockwork, the 45th President was sworn in at 12:00 on January 20, no matter the outcry that preceded it. Remarkable.

And now, Inauguration Day winding down, we do what God's people do every day. We pray for wisdom for our leaders, and we rejoice that there is only one King, and that He never changes.

A New Thing

How many times in the past week did you hear this verse of Scripture?

"Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." Isaiah 43:19

As the new year approached, everywhere I turned, it seemed I was bumping up against that verse. But this year I heard it differently than I have in the past. This year I can actually see the new thing God is doing for me. And, here we go again, it involves the new dog.

We live on 3.5 acres. Most of that consists of a sticker-and-weeds-filled field some distance from our house. My husband turned it into a small track for his dirt bike, and the kids sometimes ride the ATV around it. Prior to November, I had been out there only a handful of times in four years. Then the puppy arrived. His level of fatigue directly corresponds to our level of peace and enjoyment. We started taking him to the "track" to run out his energy. There are neighboring houses in the distance and a major road some 40 yards away, separated from our field by a stickery slope and a barbed-wire fence. But Oakley is codependent in the healthiest of ways and sticks pretty close. The traffic roars by, unseen but definitely heard, and creates a nice white-noise effect. I feel like I'm the only person in the world out there.

As crazy as it sounds, it has become my holy place. My "new thing."

I've always been more of an outside pray-er than an inside one. Truth be told, I'm not a great pray-er, period. I can study the Bible for days on end, but prayer has been a harder spiritual discipline to cultivate in my life. There have been times, lots of them, actually, when I've felt strongly the presence of the Holy Spirit, when it seemed like the veil between me and the throne of God was more transparent. But for the most part, prayer is more a discipline for me than a joy. This has been my story for 46 years. And then we got the dog.

I don't know what it is. The going around in circles? The traffic noise? The privacy? The goofy joy I find in watching my spastic and frolicking puppy? A friend wondered if it's the containment, not only of the dog and me, but also of my mind. Unlike a neighborhood walk, there are no houses to look at. No other pets to avoid. No cars or people. It's just me, Oakley, a dirt track, and the unexpected presence of God.

He welcomes me in. I can almost feel His pleasure, like an eager host greeting his guest at the door: "Come in! I've been waiting for you!" He writes His words on my heart, and they come pouring out of my lips. Scripture comes readily to my mind and mixes with my words. I speak loudly; there's no one else around. I speak powerfully. The words are Spirit-led, not my own. My own are rambling, repetitive, uninspired, dull, distracted. These words catch me by surprise. They come with force and with conviction that they are pleasing to God, directed by Him. I know that He hears me. I know He always hears me, but this knowing goes beyond faith and belief. I actually feel Him hearing me. I keep walking, all those circles, 5 degrees outside, Oakley good and tired. And yet I can't help but make one more trip around the track.

When you've walked closely with Jesus for 20, 30, or 40 years, you might be tempted to stop looking for the "new thing." Please don't stop. Keep looking. Keep experimenting. If your prayer life seems dull, look for new places to pray. If you've lost interest in reading the Bible, try handwriting or typing it out. Listen to it online. Go to theversesproject.com and soak up scripture put to music and art.

Don't ever stop looking for the new thing God wants to give you.