Ever notice that the word “encourage” has the word “courage” in it? I went my whole life without noticing this, but I’ve heard it about ten times in the past six months. A simple definition of “encourage” is to put courage into another person. Who doesn’t need a little more courage?
Encouragement is one of my spiritual gifts, but not one I practice nearly as often as my gift of prophecy (not the telling-the-future kind of prophecy—helpful as that would be—but the hosing-people-down-with-truth kind). I’m still trying to figure out how these two work in tandem: “Can I just slam you with truth for a minute, and then I promise to encourage you”?
I want to focus more on encouragement. Christians, it seems, don’t have a problem encouraging each other until one of them wants to do something wild for God. Then all of a sudden we start talking about reality, responsibility, being sensible. Here, the prophet in me and the encourager in me have a tense encounter. Yes, people need to be rooted in biblical truth and practicality, but what if encouragement stepped up first?
Hebrews 10:25 says, “Let us encourage one another.” In other words, let’s put courage into one another. Let’s cheer people on. Let’s say, “Go for it! With God’s calling and His Spirit in you, you can do anything. You really can change the world.” Instead, most of us are quick to say, “Um, what about your mortgage payment?” “What about your kids?”
I used to think that people who did radical things for God were freaks. I still do, only now I want to be like them. I want to be a freak, and I want to be an encourager of freaks. In a world that does its best to suck the courage right out of us, I love the idea of putting courage into anyone who’s got a wild idea about serving God.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Big Reunion Decision
Can anyone convince me that I should go to my 20th high school reunion? It would be no problem for me to convince someone else to go to theirs. I’ve encouraged countless people to attend reunions with simple rationale: It’s lame not to go.
Who wants to be lame? Not me. But I also don’t want to revisit the person I was in high school—and I’m not sure how to avoid that in such a situation. It’s not like I was the pot head or the class hussy. I wasn't much of anything, actually, except self-righteous and self-absorbed.
Somehow, I managed to leave high school with some good relationships. I’ve stayed in contact with my closest friends. One I talk to several times a week. But I’d much rather meet those friends one-on-one at Chili’s without the pressure to lose five pounds, get a cute new haircut, and coach my children in the art of polite conversation.
Here’s a refreshing idea for a reunion: Come as you are! The only requirement is that you have be honest about who you are. (Could anything be more opposite from high school?)
“I had to double up on my Xanax just to be here.”
“Yeah, I married a babe, but you should hear her snore.”
“My house is being foreclosed on as we speak.”
“It cost me $120 to be this blonde.”
“These size 6 jeans are cutting into my stomach flab so badly that I want to cry.”
“I’m bribing my children with candy and a trip to Waterworld to appear this charming.”
“My resume’s impressive, but I’ve never felt lonelier in my life.”
“I’ve been in counseling for 10 years and am still so angry.”
“My marriage is on the brink of divorce.”
Or how about this one: "We feel called to live among the poor." Now there's a party starter.
The older I get, the less I can stomach superficiality. Can a high school reunion be anything but superficial?
Probably I’ll end up going, trying just as hard to impress as everyone else, and having a few pleasant conversations in the midst of dozens I can’t really hear and wouldn't care about even if I could. If all goes well, my husband won’t collapse from boredom and my children won’t whack anyone. And if it goes really well, maybe I’ll be surprised at how transparent and mature we've all become in our old age.
Or maybe I’ll just be lame and stay home.
Who wants to be lame? Not me. But I also don’t want to revisit the person I was in high school—and I’m not sure how to avoid that in such a situation. It’s not like I was the pot head or the class hussy. I wasn't much of anything, actually, except self-righteous and self-absorbed.
Somehow, I managed to leave high school with some good relationships. I’ve stayed in contact with my closest friends. One I talk to several times a week. But I’d much rather meet those friends one-on-one at Chili’s without the pressure to lose five pounds, get a cute new haircut, and coach my children in the art of polite conversation.
Here’s a refreshing idea for a reunion: Come as you are! The only requirement is that you have be honest about who you are. (Could anything be more opposite from high school?)
“I had to double up on my Xanax just to be here.”
“Yeah, I married a babe, but you should hear her snore.”
“My house is being foreclosed on as we speak.”
“It cost me $120 to be this blonde.”
“These size 6 jeans are cutting into my stomach flab so badly that I want to cry.”
“I’m bribing my children with candy and a trip to Waterworld to appear this charming.”
“My resume’s impressive, but I’ve never felt lonelier in my life.”
“I’ve been in counseling for 10 years and am still so angry.”
“My marriage is on the brink of divorce.”
Or how about this one: "We feel called to live among the poor." Now there's a party starter.
The older I get, the less I can stomach superficiality. Can a high school reunion be anything but superficial?
Probably I’ll end up going, trying just as hard to impress as everyone else, and having a few pleasant conversations in the midst of dozens I can’t really hear and wouldn't care about even if I could. If all goes well, my husband won’t collapse from boredom and my children won’t whack anyone. And if it goes really well, maybe I’ll be surprised at how transparent and mature we've all become in our old age.
Or maybe I’ll just be lame and stay home.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Waiting Still
Back in October—OCTOBER, nine months ago—I wrote this in a post called “Waiting for a Miracle”:
“Despite what my eyes and the newspaper tell me, I believe God will bring us a buyer [for our house]. I believe it in some indescribable, way-down-deep, all-is-right-with-the-world sort of way. Or, as I read in a book recently, I know it in my knower. The hard work—getting a family of flawed, harried, self-absorbed, fearful people to change the course of their lives and follow Him wherever He leads—has already been done. Compared to flesh and blood, a little brick and mortar are a piece of cake.”
And here we sit. In July. Still scrubbing those kitchen cabinets. Chasing our children around with a vacuum cleaner and scolding them about crumbs. Stressing out about fingerprints on the windows. Spending more time with Mr. Clean than with anyone else in my life. This is SO not the woman I want to be. But it sure looks like this is the life God has for me, at least for right now.
Why is it that He gives us a vision for something, lights a fire in our hearts, and then makes us wait? A friend of mine wrote in a card to me recently that “patience fruit” is one of the hardest to allow God to grow in us. This summer I have seen how truly hard practicing patience is and how very bad I am at it. Make me practice jumping out of a plane or walking on hot coals, just please don’t make me sit and wait!
So here I sit and wait. The vision is still there, although sitting has a way of dulling its clarity some. I’ve tried to be an active sitter; that is, venturing out into new territory even though I don’t live there yet. I’m also trying to pick up some good habits from all of this. If it only takes 21 days for an action to become habit, then I should be keeping a spotless kitchen floor for the rest of my life.
I still believe God will bring a buyer for our house. No matter how many times I read, “The house is too old,” or “The floorplan is awkward,” I still believe this is part of God’s plan and He will sell this house at just the right time. It would have been fun to see that happen in some cool, supernatural way instead of by sweating it out over every showing like everyone else does. But that’s OK. If this is what builds the patience fruit, I’m in.
“Despite what my eyes and the newspaper tell me, I believe God will bring us a buyer [for our house]. I believe it in some indescribable, way-down-deep, all-is-right-with-the-world sort of way. Or, as I read in a book recently, I know it in my knower. The hard work—getting a family of flawed, harried, self-absorbed, fearful people to change the course of their lives and follow Him wherever He leads—has already been done. Compared to flesh and blood, a little brick and mortar are a piece of cake.”
And here we sit. In July. Still scrubbing those kitchen cabinets. Chasing our children around with a vacuum cleaner and scolding them about crumbs. Stressing out about fingerprints on the windows. Spending more time with Mr. Clean than with anyone else in my life. This is SO not the woman I want to be. But it sure looks like this is the life God has for me, at least for right now.
Why is it that He gives us a vision for something, lights a fire in our hearts, and then makes us wait? A friend of mine wrote in a card to me recently that “patience fruit” is one of the hardest to allow God to grow in us. This summer I have seen how truly hard practicing patience is and how very bad I am at it. Make me practice jumping out of a plane or walking on hot coals, just please don’t make me sit and wait!
So here I sit and wait. The vision is still there, although sitting has a way of dulling its clarity some. I’ve tried to be an active sitter; that is, venturing out into new territory even though I don’t live there yet. I’m also trying to pick up some good habits from all of this. If it only takes 21 days for an action to become habit, then I should be keeping a spotless kitchen floor for the rest of my life.
I still believe God will bring a buyer for our house. No matter how many times I read, “The house is too old,” or “The floorplan is awkward,” I still believe this is part of God’s plan and He will sell this house at just the right time. It would have been fun to see that happen in some cool, supernatural way instead of by sweating it out over every showing like everyone else does. But that’s OK. If this is what builds the patience fruit, I’m in.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
From Psalm 37 to the King of Pop: Where Else Can You Find This Kind of Variety?
OK, I’ll just come right out and say it. I was a Michael Jackson fan. I am a true product of 1980’s teen culture—I’ve got the senior picture to prove it—and the Thriller album was our soundtrack. It was the first cassette tape I bought with my own money. (I nodded at this quote from Wikipedia: “At some point, Thriller stopped selling like a leisure item—like a magazine, a toy, tickets to a hit movie—and started selling like a household staple.”)
I got my Thriller tape the summer between sixth and seventh grades. Those were pinnacle years of my youth, spent in a little town in southwestern Oklahoma. We were about as far off the cultural radar screen as a town could be, but Thriller still managed to find us. I will never forget watching the video debut on MTV, a marvel of modern technology that had made its way to the sticks. I sat around the TV with a room full of pubescent girls. We screamed. We cried. We watched over and over again, sometimes in slow motion. We formed a Michael Jackson fan club on the spot. No matter that it was slightly creepy and we were clueless about the historical impact of a video full of African-Americans appearing on MTV for the first time. We just thought it was cool.
Up to that point, I’d never actually known a black person. I’m not even sure I knew Michael Jackson was black (and he still was in the early 80s). It didn’t matter if I did. I’d never heard of the Jackson Five, Motown, or the Apollo theater. I thought Paul McCartney was just that funny old guy who sang along on Michael’s song “The Girl Is Mine.” My world was small, but I knew every word to “We Are the World,” how to fake the moonwalk, how to strut my stuff to “Beat It” in my polyester cheerleading skirt.
By the time I got to college in the ’90s, my childhood crush was gone, and Michael was well on his way to becoming Wacko Jacko. Still, one night at a square dance at my very, very white Christian college, I watched a group of very, very white college students break out into Thriller dance moves, totally in sync, totally from memory. No one who grew up in the ’80s escaped its influence.
I bet I wasn’t the only middle-aged mom who shed a few tears last week as I watched tributes to one who so powerfully shaped my generation. I was in seventh grade all over again, remembering who I was with and what I was wearing (ee-gads!) when those Michael Jackson songs played continually on every boom box. I sat my kids down for a two-minute tutorial on this man whose death is all over the news. I didn’t try to explain how a black man becomes white or the freaky behavior or his unprecedented cultural influence. I just told them that when I think of Michael Jackson, I remember a lot of really good days, big hair and all.
I got my Thriller tape the summer between sixth and seventh grades. Those were pinnacle years of my youth, spent in a little town in southwestern Oklahoma. We were about as far off the cultural radar screen as a town could be, but Thriller still managed to find us. I will never forget watching the video debut on MTV, a marvel of modern technology that had made its way to the sticks. I sat around the TV with a room full of pubescent girls. We screamed. We cried. We watched over and over again, sometimes in slow motion. We formed a Michael Jackson fan club on the spot. No matter that it was slightly creepy and we were clueless about the historical impact of a video full of African-Americans appearing on MTV for the first time. We just thought it was cool.
Up to that point, I’d never actually known a black person. I’m not even sure I knew Michael Jackson was black (and he still was in the early 80s). It didn’t matter if I did. I’d never heard of the Jackson Five, Motown, or the Apollo theater. I thought Paul McCartney was just that funny old guy who sang along on Michael’s song “The Girl Is Mine.” My world was small, but I knew every word to “We Are the World,” how to fake the moonwalk, how to strut my stuff to “Beat It” in my polyester cheerleading skirt.
By the time I got to college in the ’90s, my childhood crush was gone, and Michael was well on his way to becoming Wacko Jacko. Still, one night at a square dance at my very, very white Christian college, I watched a group of very, very white college students break out into Thriller dance moves, totally in sync, totally from memory. No one who grew up in the ’80s escaped its influence.
I bet I wasn’t the only middle-aged mom who shed a few tears last week as I watched tributes to one who so powerfully shaped my generation. I was in seventh grade all over again, remembering who I was with and what I was wearing (ee-gads!) when those Michael Jackson songs played continually on every boom box. I sat my kids down for a two-minute tutorial on this man whose death is all over the news. I didn’t try to explain how a black man becomes white or the freaky behavior or his unprecedented cultural influence. I just told them that when I think of Michael Jackson, I remember a lot of really good days, big hair and all.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Simple Instructions
I think I may have a new favorite psalm. My lifelong allegiance to Psalm 139 makes me feel like a traitor for even considering a new favorite. It’s hard to beat that description of being knit together in the womb—especially when you’ve got a womb that’s seen as much action as mine. And that psalm ends with one of my life’s most consistent prayers: “Search me, O God, and know my heart. . . . See if there is any offensive way in me and lead me in the way everlasting.”
But about 100 chapters earlier, I’ve found gentle words that hit me like a bulldozer. In the midst of all my mental wrestling and questioning and wondering, here I find simple instructions for living.
“Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him and he will do this: He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of your cause like the noonday sun. Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; do not fret.”
In my previous encounters with this passage, I was all over the rewards: getting the desires of my heart, shining like the dawn. Bring ’em on, God! Even the safe pasture thing sounds lovely, though I haven’t actually been in a pasture since 1979.
But today I read this chapter with more mature eyes. There are commands attached to those rewards. Hello! The commands are short and clear:
Trust in the Lord.
Do good.
Delight in the Lord.
Commit your ways to Him.
Be still and wait patiently.
Do not fret.
Doesn’t that pretty much sum up everything He wants from us? The word “love” doesn’t appear there, but surely it can be assumed in the command to “do good.” If you’re not doing good out of love, it’s probably not all that good.
What if this were my checklist; how would I be doing? I don’t struggle much with trusting and committing, but delighting? Hmmm. Being still and patient? Yeah, that’s a problem. And what about fretting? That’s most easily answered by what I find myself doing about 4:30 each morning—laying in bed, wide awake, my restless mind bombarded with thoughts. Let’s just call it what it is—fretting.
So while I love you Psalm 139 and you’ll always have a special place in my heart, Psalm 37 has chased me down, lassoed me in, and is staring me down eyeball to eyeball: Trust. Delight. Be patient. Do not fret.
But about 100 chapters earlier, I’ve found gentle words that hit me like a bulldozer. In the midst of all my mental wrestling and questioning and wondering, here I find simple instructions for living.
“Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him and he will do this: He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of your cause like the noonday sun. Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; do not fret.”
In my previous encounters with this passage, I was all over the rewards: getting the desires of my heart, shining like the dawn. Bring ’em on, God! Even the safe pasture thing sounds lovely, though I haven’t actually been in a pasture since 1979.
But today I read this chapter with more mature eyes. There are commands attached to those rewards. Hello! The commands are short and clear:
Trust in the Lord.
Do good.
Delight in the Lord.
Commit your ways to Him.
Be still and wait patiently.
Do not fret.
Doesn’t that pretty much sum up everything He wants from us? The word “love” doesn’t appear there, but surely it can be assumed in the command to “do good.” If you’re not doing good out of love, it’s probably not all that good.
What if this were my checklist; how would I be doing? I don’t struggle much with trusting and committing, but delighting? Hmmm. Being still and patient? Yeah, that’s a problem. And what about fretting? That’s most easily answered by what I find myself doing about 4:30 each morning—laying in bed, wide awake, my restless mind bombarded with thoughts. Let’s just call it what it is—fretting.
So while I love you Psalm 139 and you’ll always have a special place in my heart, Psalm 37 has chased me down, lassoed me in, and is staring me down eyeball to eyeball: Trust. Delight. Be patient. Do not fret.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Where Are the Miracles?
So here’s what I’ve been wondering about this week. Why does it seem like things always turn out the way they’re supposed to? Why don’t we see more Great Interventions from God? More unquestionable miracles?
We got a history lesson in church on Sunday from a man who spent his 50th wedding anniversary touring all the famed Roman locations where Christians were fed to lions and burned at the stake. (Note to self: Not how I want to spend my 50th anniversary.) He told us about Polycarp, a second-century bishop who was burned at the stake. The good news is that he was 86 and faithful to the very end; the bad news is that faithful or not, it had to hurt. Now surely God could have rescued Polycarp in some dramatic fashion. You may be thinking, “Well if He didn’t rescue Jesus, what makes you think He’d rescue this guy?” I have to go with the obvious answer—that Polycarp wasn’t key to the whole salvation of mankind. I mean, what’s the impact on all eternity if God swoops down with an angel or two or even a couple dozen pigeons and pulls Polycarp out of the fire? Couldn’t He have done this for the old guy—and for His own glory? Instead, Polycarp died. Sure enough. Just what everyone expected. The pagan crowds probably all cheered as he went up in flames.
And then there’s my friends’ son, who died of a disease that has a 98 percent mortality rate. Doctors told them he would die. Friends all hoped for a miracle, but very few were all that surprised when he died. Why no miracle, God? Think how you could have shaken up the medical community! What a mark it would have made in the research journals.
I know that miracles happen every day. I’m just wondering why we don’t get to see many of them, especially the big ones. Why isn’t God more flamboyant?
All I can come up with is this: He must think the greatest miracle of all is when His children suffer greatly and yet continue to glorify His name.
We got a history lesson in church on Sunday from a man who spent his 50th wedding anniversary touring all the famed Roman locations where Christians were fed to lions and burned at the stake. (Note to self: Not how I want to spend my 50th anniversary.) He told us about Polycarp, a second-century bishop who was burned at the stake. The good news is that he was 86 and faithful to the very end; the bad news is that faithful or not, it had to hurt. Now surely God could have rescued Polycarp in some dramatic fashion. You may be thinking, “Well if He didn’t rescue Jesus, what makes you think He’d rescue this guy?” I have to go with the obvious answer—that Polycarp wasn’t key to the whole salvation of mankind. I mean, what’s the impact on all eternity if God swoops down with an angel or two or even a couple dozen pigeons and pulls Polycarp out of the fire? Couldn’t He have done this for the old guy—and for His own glory? Instead, Polycarp died. Sure enough. Just what everyone expected. The pagan crowds probably all cheered as he went up in flames.
And then there’s my friends’ son, who died of a disease that has a 98 percent mortality rate. Doctors told them he would die. Friends all hoped for a miracle, but very few were all that surprised when he died. Why no miracle, God? Think how you could have shaken up the medical community! What a mark it would have made in the research journals.
I know that miracles happen every day. I’m just wondering why we don’t get to see many of them, especially the big ones. Why isn’t God more flamboyant?
All I can come up with is this: He must think the greatest miracle of all is when His children suffer greatly and yet continue to glorify His name.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
What Happens in Vegas
Kevin and I were out for a late-night stroll Sunday when Elvis drove by, all sparkly and spangly. We smiled nonchalantly, then Kevin added, “If we were anyplace else . . . ”
But we were in Vegas, where Elvises are a dime a dozen.
For the second year in a row, as we huffed and puffed to the end of another school year, Kevin and I decided we needed a mental health get-away. We considered several different places, but Las Vegas beckoned to us once again, luring us in with its cheap prices, short plane ride, and guaranteed sunshine. While I couldn’t care less about gambling, Vegas is home to some of the things I love dearly: Cheap rooms in hotels with marble floors, jetted tubs, and spectacular pools. Dancing fountains at the Bellagio that move me like very few things on earth. Chihuly blown glass and an indoor garden that make me actually care about art and flowers. Endless buffets where the food is just as much artistry as necessity. Desert temperatures. Donny and Marie.
The weekend served its purpose well. Kevin and I got luxurious, restful time together. We poured no juice, listened to no whining, and cared for no one but ourselves for two glorious days. We laughed and lounged and experienced weird things that can only happen in Vegas—like having a quiet time under an advertisement for a stripper or watching a wedding in our swimming suits. Oh, yeah, and waving to Elvis at 10 o’clock on a Sunday night.
But as is always the case, after 48 hours I was Vegased out. The excess of everything in Vegas—skin, smoke, noise, people, waste, hedonism—gets old fast. So does the desensitization. When your heart ceases to break over the weary, weathered, hollow-eyed Hispanic woman standing on the hot street trying to thrust porn in your face, it’s time to leave. What happens in Vegas may stay there, but I’m glad I get to go home.
But we were in Vegas, where Elvises are a dime a dozen.
For the second year in a row, as we huffed and puffed to the end of another school year, Kevin and I decided we needed a mental health get-away. We considered several different places, but Las Vegas beckoned to us once again, luring us in with its cheap prices, short plane ride, and guaranteed sunshine. While I couldn’t care less about gambling, Vegas is home to some of the things I love dearly: Cheap rooms in hotels with marble floors, jetted tubs, and spectacular pools. Dancing fountains at the Bellagio that move me like very few things on earth. Chihuly blown glass and an indoor garden that make me actually care about art and flowers. Endless buffets where the food is just as much artistry as necessity. Desert temperatures. Donny and Marie.
The weekend served its purpose well. Kevin and I got luxurious, restful time together. We poured no juice, listened to no whining, and cared for no one but ourselves for two glorious days. We laughed and lounged and experienced weird things that can only happen in Vegas—like having a quiet time under an advertisement for a stripper or watching a wedding in our swimming suits. Oh, yeah, and waving to Elvis at 10 o’clock on a Sunday night.
But as is always the case, after 48 hours I was Vegased out. The excess of everything in Vegas—skin, smoke, noise, people, waste, hedonism—gets old fast. So does the desensitization. When your heart ceases to break over the weary, weathered, hollow-eyed Hispanic woman standing on the hot street trying to thrust porn in your face, it’s time to leave. What happens in Vegas may stay there, but I’m glad I get to go home.
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