Worship from the Pit

A man from my church was buried in Haiti’s Hotel Montana for 65 hours after the earthquake. At home and recovering from his injuries, he spoke to our church this weekend by video. Sitting alone in a pitch-black elevator shaft, he wasn’t sure if he would ever see the light of day again. Unlike many of the earthquake’s other victims, he had time to wonder. Would he return home to life as he knew it, with his wife and two young kids? Or was his purpose on earth served, his work here finished?

Sixty-five hours of nothing but wondering.

What if it were me? Would my faith sustain me the way I think it would? Would I question God? Yell at Him? Or would I worship Him the way I think I would?

On the rare occasion I’m in the car alone, I have amazing times of worship. I also have them when I’m running. It's hard not to when I'm out in the crisp air, running under the beautiful blue sky in the shadow of Pikes Peak. But what about in a pit of blackness, hurting and alone? Would my thoughts be focused on my Savior or my situation? I’m just gonna be honest and say I hope I never find out. I’m all for some anticlimactic end-of-life experience that involves pain killers, a nice cozy bed, and the reassuring presence of my grandchildren.

But I was reminded last week that it’s not just those life-and-death moments that bring us face to face with the question of just what our faith can bear. What about when I’m standing in the kitchen of a virtual stranger, listening to the agony of her life’s story—a story involving abandonment, homelessness, the loss of three children to the state, and the most recent devastating blow, the loss of a dearly loved parent? Is my joy strong enough to fend off the despair circling through this house? Is my hope sure enough to offer to her, even though her situation seems so hopeless? Am I able to worship in the midst of that? Or am I consumed with thoughts of my own discomfort, my own instinct to run as fast as I can back to my own bright and shiny world—where worship is easy?

I’ve signed up for this new relationship, literally. Kevin and I and another couple have signed up for a mentoring role in this woman’s life, and our first meeting felt a little like crawling into that black pit in the earthquake rubble. That’s where she lives. That’s where I’ll have to meet her for awhile. That’s where the things I take for granted—my trust in God and His unending love and my steadfast belief that all things do work out for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose—will be tested. I’ll have plenty of time to wonder. And plenty of time to worship Him there if that’s what I choose to focus on.

Sometimes worship isn’t a mountaintop “religious experience.” Sometimes it’s a choice. Made from a pit.

In Defense of Big Families

When the Duggar family welcomed their 19th baby late last year, not everyone congratulated them. Some—instead of just saying, “Well, not something I’d choose for myself, but God bless you anyway”—spoke out loudly and critically against these parents. Recently, someone wrote to People magazine that “most people would agree that having 19 kids is ludicrous and totally unfair to each of those children.”

Hmmm. I’d love to ask the Duggar kids about that.

I don’t know much about this particular family, but I do know several large families (though not by Duggar standards) that are among the healthiest, most creative and engaged families I know. My grandpa was part of such a family, as were most of our ancestors. These large families built up America on the values of hard work, team work, selflessness, and working for the good of the whole instead of grabbing up whatever you can get for yourself. American values changed somewhere along the way—and perhaps it’s no coincidence that they changed at the same time American families were growing smaller and smaller.

It’s not that you can’t teach an only child the values of sharing and sacrifice, it’s just that you have to work so much harder to do it. My four children regularly hear things like, “Gotta wait” or “See if your sister can help you.” We’ve even made up a “Gotta wait” song. I’m not sure those were words my dad, an only child, ever heard. I can’t help but think how much better his short 44 years would have been if he had learned some of the lessons taught by large families. Instead, he was plagued by years of restless impatience and self-focus. How would a house full of siblings have made him different, I wonder?

For sure, nineteen kids are not for everyone. Three or four are not for everyone. We all seem to know our own personal threshold. But I would hope that we wouldn’t call those who make different decisions “ludicrous.” The more well-loved, well-taught kids we have in the world, the more we all benefit. If two parents choose to have babies every year, feed them, clothe them, homeschool them, teach them to play the cello, and have them doing laundry by the age of six, I say we cheer them on. And maybe we even learn something from them.

Haiti on My Heart

On Monday, I wrote a story about a 23-year-old Haitian girl named Kensia. On Tuesday, Kensia’s life changed forever. I’ve never met her and probably never will this side of heaven. I have no idea how the earthquake affected her or if she’s even alive. But I know how her story affected me. It was one of many stories of Haitian children that has burrowed into my heart.

In my freelance work for Compassion International, I get to tell the stories of children being released from poverty all over the world. But it’s the stories from Haiti that I remember most. Maybe it’s because it’s not on the other side of the world. Or because one of my best friends has two children adopted from Haiti. Or maybe it’s just because they seem to face more hardship and catastrophe than just about any other place on earth, yet their children always seem to be smiling.

Because Compassion has been in Haiti since 1968 and has a Leadership Develop Program for college students there, many of the stories I work on are not about children but about driven young adults who don’t seem to see the Haiti the rest of the world sees. Kensia, a medical student, talked about her country one day becoming a world leader and champion of struggling nations everywhere.

Daniel, a 25-year-old with six sisters from five different mothers, grew up in one of Haiti’s most violent slums. He became president of his Compassion project as a teenager and now studies finance at a prestigious university. Gislene moved four hours from her impoverished hometown to study nursing in Port-au-Prince. Her biggest dream is to be able to support at least three Compassion kids of her own some day.

And then there’s six-year-old Lovena, who was chosen by a group of 70 college students in the Dominican Republic. They pooled their money to sponsor a Haitian child, slicing through the social and political conflicts that have divided the two nations for more than a century. I can just imagine those students today on their knees praying for their little girl.

I don’t know if these stories ever get read or make any difference in busy people's lives. But I know how they change me. I know how they put flesh on the words of James 1:27: “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress.” Today in Haiti there are probably more orphans and widows than ever before. One day I will get to tell their stories, and no doubt I will be amazed again by their hope and strength—and their ceaseless praise of the God who sees them through every tragedy.

Living Large

We have one child who lives larger than the rest of us. She climbs trees with no fear. She talks to all kinds of people. She rarely pauses or hesitates. She even seems to enjoy her ice cream more than the rest of us.

I do not live large. I’m not impulsive, and I rarely take risks. I avoid change whenever possible. It is by sheer force of will that I try one new food a year. (My mom says I only eat five foods and none of them can touch.) I like to think that what I lack in living large I make up for in living deep, but really, I’d like to live a little bigger, too.

Just before Christmas, my husband and I made a foray into living large. Actually, we bought something large—an RV that rolled out of the factory the same year I graduated from high school and seems to have lived a harder life since then. We bought it sight unseen from a salvage auction and had a doozy of a time getting it home. (A long story that involves a disabled draft shaft, a crabby Target manager, and a van full of children who desperately needed a bathroom).

The results of this gamble remain to be seen. Was this large living or foolish living? Regardless, it’s got me thinking. Maybe it’s OK that I’m not a person who climbs trees or eats sushi or makes impulsive decisions. I think I’m OK with small aspirations and small adventures—as long as my faith is large. The best way for me to live large is to trust large. What greater adventure can there be in life than living in complete dependence upon One I can’t see, touch, or hear? Some would argue that’s the greatest risk of all. But it’s one that I’ll take. I’ll take it like my daughter would, jumping in with both feet, with no hesitation. And I will have succeeded in living larger if at the end of 2010, I can see that I have trusted God with more things, more quickly, more completely.

Thirteen Books (Woo-hoo!)

Last year it was eleven, so I’m happy to report that I improved my reading list by two this year. (Though in the interest of full disclosure, two of these are books I edited.)

One of them turned my perspective upside down and inside out. It got my heart pumping for God in a new way. Francis Chan’s total amazement for God is real, refreshing, and oh-so contagious. Crazy Love was my favorite read of 2009, and it’s a book I’ll return to again and again.

Runner-up for Best Perspective Changer:
Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson. His second book, Stones Into Schools, is high on my list for 2010.

Next, not-quite-so-great-but-still-very-good books:
What’s So Amazing About Grace? by Philip Yancey (don’t know why it took me so long to read this one)
Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church by N.T. Wright (the heaviest reading I’ve done in a long time, but Wright’s theories on heaven—that tree you plant here on earth could someday be yours to tend in eternity—made it worth all the hard work)
Abandoned by Stanley Telchin (answered many of the questions I had about the Jewish people and faith as I read through the book of Isaiah this summer)


In the “girl-books” category:
Redeeming Love by Francis Rivers (compelling story that sticks with you)
365 Nights by Charla Muller (a surprisingly fun read)
Intimate Issues by Linda Dillow and Lorraine Pintus (helpful)
Love Worth the Wait by Sandy Weyeneth (written by my friend who married at age 39)
Twilight by Stephanie Meyer (Not something I thought I’d read, but when recommended by a trusted friend, I gave it a try. Ended up finishing it in two days. Couldn’t put it down. Don’t know if I’ll read the others in the series, but at least I know what all the buzz is about, and I marvel that it was all created by a stay-at-home Mormon mom. Plus, I like to think I’m the only person who read N.T. Wright and Twilight in the same year.)

Other Fiction
Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout (interesting)
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (fascinating, but hard to believe)

And finally, what will go down as another of my favorite books of all time: Don’t Waste the Pain by David Lyons and Linda Lyons Richardson. I’ve spent the past six months editing this one, and the process, as well as the book’s content, have changed me. David is my friend whose 13-year-old son Ian died April 27 from a rare form of cancer. Linda, David’s sister, has been through her own ten-year battle with cancer. Both are such talented writers they could tell captivating stories about chicken pox. But they’ve been hit with something much more life-altering, and the honest, insightful way they tell their stories makes for one of the most powerful books I’ve ever read. When NavPress releases it in September, I plan to buy a case, and I might just hand them all out before the year ends. Whether you’ve been affected by cancer, like me, or not, this is a must-read.

Send me a list of your new favorites. Maybe I’ll make it to 15 in 2010!

A New Year's Choice

What if God walked into my house on New Year’s Eve and gave me two options for 2010?

I heard something like this in a Francis Chan sermon, and it really made me think. Option A is that I have a fun, easy year in which everything goes my way, everything I attempt succeeds, every prayer I pray is answered just the way I want. Option B is a year full of struggle in which nothing goes my way, but at the end of it, I have much deeper knowledge of God and fellowship with Him. Which would I take?

I love easy. Easy sounds so nice (and rare). And who doesn’t love to get their way? This is not a simple decision for me. But still, I would choose B. Do I really just want my life to be easy? Or do I want it to have great purpose, the kind of purpose I can only find by following God all out?

One of my mom friends talks about confidence-building years and character-building years at school. Sometimes kids get the teacher they want, the friends they want, the desk they want, and everything comes easy. That’s a confidence year. Other years are a struggle—relationships are hard, assignments are hard—but it’s those years that build their character.

You know what, God? For 2010, I’m gonna muster up all my courage and choose character. Because here’s the deal. I’m also going to get confidence out of it—only my confidence won’t be misplaced. It will be rooted in someone much greater than myself, the one I trust most with my life.

How Christmas Ought to Be

Dizzy yet?

Everyone I know, including myself, is running on empty right now, yet still dashing a hundred miles an hour in a hundred directions. That’s December for you. So why is it that we’re doing as much as we can as well as we can, yet things still don’t seem quite the way they ought to be?

My best friend Kendra and I were pondering this the other day. (At least we’re doing the pondering thing right.) Kendra is, in my estimation, a domestic goddess, who believes gifts, treats, and meals should all be homemade. Hers aren’t this year—at least not all of them—and that makes her feel like Christmas isn’t what it ought to be. I make nothing from scratch (except children) and avoid cooking and crafts as much as possible, yet I have my own Christmas expectations for myself. If I don’t send out a fun-to-read Christmas letter—in a hand-addressed envelope—in a timely manner, Christmas to me isn’t what it ought to be.

You can tell a lot about what a woman believes about herself if you follow her around during the month of December. The women who have to give the best gifts are shopping all the time. The decorators are decorating. The bakers are baking. The Christmas program directors are directing. The best-moms-ever are sitting in the front row at every party and pageant. And Kendra and I are trying our best to do what we do, but feeling disappointed that we’re not living up to our expectations of ourselves.

And the worshipers? Hmmm. I don’t know many of them. I’d like to know more. They’re the ones whose identities are not rooted in what they do or what other people think of them; they’re rooted in the truth of who God created them to be. I think they may be the “faithful” ones of “O, Come, All Ye Faithful” fame, joyful and triumphant, not tired and disappointed. And what are they doing this December? Adoring Jesus. The way they “ought” to be.

Now why didn’t I think of that?