Raising Men

Last night, my husband and I took our son to his first small-group meeting. While nine 10-year-old boys hurled ping-pong balls at each other in the basement, their parents, a little nervous and full of anticipation, talked about what we want from this group. The couple who pulled us all together described their vision: That we’ll all be a team—the boys and the parents—playing the game of life together. God is our coach and the Bible is our playbook. We’ll teach each other, cheer each other on, pick each other up when we fall down, and hold each other accountable along the way. The hope is that we’ll keep meeting once or twice a month from now through high school.

Like the other nodding parents, Kevin and I caught the vision right away. It wasn’t easy.

The squeals and thuds wafting up from the basement reminded us of who we’re dealing with. And if that wasn’t enough, later in the night, when we tried to sit them down for an inspirational pep talk, they were like popcorn kernels in a microwave. Smashing into each other and talking gibberish (or so it appeared to the parents), it was a little hard to grasp the potential that existed in that room last night. Several parents commented that we should videotape the wild hooligans and make them watch it when they’re high school seniors.

But if I tried real hard, I could imagine the nine decent, loyal, thoughtful, servant-hearted young men that will sit there in seven or eight years. Even more fun for me is imagining who they’ll be in twenty years. (Especially if I don’t think of how old I’ll be!)

At a time when a lot of parents are writing off their kids’ adolescent years, believing they have no choice but to surrender to culture’s influence, I feel so blessed to be part of a group like this. We are not raising boys; we’re raising men. It’s more than a cliched slogan. It’s the truth. We’re raising husbands and fathers who need to know it’s OK to step up and lead their families. We’re raising businessmen who need to understand what it means to be reliable, trustworthy, and persevering. We’re raising ambassadors for Christ who need to be courageous, hopeful bearers of light in a world that seems increasingly dark. We’re raising Truth lovers, who will not give in to the whims of relativism and “do-whatever-makes-you-feel-good” thinking. We’re raising men—and it’s as much an overwhelming responsibility as it is a privilege.

Is Happiness a Problem?

Happy people don’t love well or worship well. These are just a few of the things Larry Crabb has me pondering while I read his book Shattered Dreams.

“Happy people rarely look for joy,” he writes. “They’re quite content with what they have. The foundation of their life consists of the blessings they enjoy. Although they may genuinely care about those less fortunate and do great things to help them, their central concern is to keep what they have. They haven’t been freed to pursue a great dream.”

He goes on to say that when we are satisfied with “good” distractions—good health, responsible children, an enjoyable marriage, close friendships, interesting jobs, successful ministries—we never fully worship.

“Only broken people truly worship. Unbroken people—happy folks who enjoy their blessings more than the Blesser—say thanks to God the way a shopper thanks a clerk.”

I have long recognized the difference between happiness and joy. I’ve felt it in my own life. Happy is hearing my kids laugh on the way to the amusement park. Joy is walking with them through disappointments and trusting that God will use these to grow and teach them. Happiness is sharing a good meal and conversation with a friend; joy is being lonely but recognizing that it’s drawing me nearer to the One who is always with me.

So am I able to pursue deep-down, genuine joy when I’m consumed with my happiness? I’m not ready to say the two can’t exist simultaneously. And part of me wonders if this isn’t just a fancy way of pep-talking our way through life’s unhappier days. But as I read these words, my internal truth-o-meter flashed like the Vegas strip. When I think back on the best worship of my life, the times I felt God was so close that I could reach out and touch Him, it was at times of devastating loss. I remember when I was 17, looking out a hospital window the morning my dad died, watching the sun come up. It was the most beautiful sunrise I’d ever seen. I was all alone, yet I felt like God was hugging me through that sunrise. It was so real I could somehow feel it. I didn’t know Him then nearly as well as I do now, but I genuinely worshiped that morning.

That memory, as well as a few others, are enough to keep me from running away from brokenness.

Anyone else want to weigh in? I'd love to hear how these quotes hit you.

What Gingerbread Houses Say About Us

I’ve got a lot of heavy stuff on my mind these days, so I’m treating myself—and you—to some literary fluff. Heavy can wait until March, the month when spring and hope bloom again, under all that snow.

And since it is almost March, I guess it’s time to take down the last of the Christmas decorations. Even though it’s time—past time—it won’t be easy getting rid of the gingerbread houses the kids made. (Oh, calm down, clean freaks! We live in a cool, dry climate. Nothing’s rotted yet.)

As we’ve already established, I’m not much of a baker or a crafter, but I’m well connected. Over Thanksgiving break, I took the kids over to my friend Susan’s to make gingerbread houses, an annual tradition at her house. When I picked them up later that day, I was met by frosting-faced, over-sugared kids and a very big mess. But more than that, I got a good, tangible look at who each of my kids is.

Braden’s house looked like it was made by the oldest. And the boy. It had the most detail and the most weapons. (The only weapons, actually.) My son won’t step on an ant and grimaces at the thought of shooting a bird out of the sky, but he loves weapons. A few months ago we spied on him as he shot his bow and arrow in the backyard. Unaware that he was being watched, he played with such intensity you would’ve thought he was in the archery finals at the Olympics. It’s part of who he is, and though I personally hate the idea of weapons, I can still love that he loves them.

Eight-year-old Addison wrote one word on her gingerbread house that sums her up about as well as anything: “HOME.” Kevin and I have no doubt who will be pushing our wheelchairs one day. It’s this girl, who I imagine will always stick pretty close to home. She’s been a caretaker from the beginning. When she found me curled up, sobbing on the floor shortly after we lost our baby, she said, “Mommy, I want to take care of you. Please teach me how to use the phone.” She was four. Addison is interested in all things “homey”—cooking, sewing, knitting, crafting. And she got me as a mother. She loves me anyway, and lucky for her, I’m well connected. It will be so cool to visit her “HOME” some day.

And then there's Brooka, who I write about often due to my fascination that one so fearless could possibly come from me. Her gingerbread is a crazy mess. I’m sure ninety percent of the candy went straight in her mouth and that she tossed the remaining pieces on with unbridled freedom and silliness, living the moment to its very fullest while being scolded by Braden for not following the rules.

Camryn’s house, though made by a two-year-old, looks like it was decorated by an engineer. Or someone with OCD. The M&Ms are perfectly lined up, overthought, ducks in a row. She lines things up, busy and focused. Give the girl a pack of fruit snacks, and you can bet they’ll soon be lined up on the table. And there will probably be a story to go along with it. Perhaps I’ve found the child who is most like me.

Envy and Gratitude

The dichotomy between the world I live in and the world I write about is mind-boggling. I just wrote a story about a nine-year-old Rwandan girl who was the only HIV-negative member of her family. After watching two siblings die before their first birthdays, then her father, she dropped out of school to care for her dying mother. I run three miles for exercise; she runs three miles for water. After her mother died, she was left alone in her house, penniless, to fend for herself. She was tormented by neighbors, robbed, and nearly raped. Thankfully, I got to tell the rest of the girl's story, how God has blessed her with a new family for which she is so grateful.

I don’t have a nine-year-old this year, but I have one just older and one just younger. Their reality is clean clothes, clean sheets, clean hair, carpool, sports practices, and a snack everyday after school. In addition to lunch. And dinner. And mouthfuls of Valentine’s candy.

And yet it’s still so easy for me to use this world as my standard for what is “normal.” It’s normal for people to have minivans whose doors close at the touch of a button. Man, why don’t I have one of those? It’s normal for people to spend thousands of dollars in one week on cars, vacations, toys—all things that look so appealing. No matter how long I walk with Jesus or how many hours I spend in the Scriptures, I’m still deceived into envy more often than I care to admit. Even the “poor” in America seem to have cell phones, iPods, computers, and big screen televisions. Sometimes I find myself even envying them. Big screen TVs are cool!

But so is clean water. I turn on the faucet and out it comes. Every time! To the rest of the world, that’s not “normal.” That’s a phenomenal blessing. How can I help my children understand that? How can I myself understand it? How can I turn my envy into gratitude—not just on occasion, but as a lifestyle?

I’m working on it. Times are tough. We’re hurting along with so many others. But I look around me and see more blessings than I can possibly count. Keeping my focus right there is what I long for. Just longing isn’t enough, though. Blessing-counting takes discipline and intentionality. Not accepting any of this as normal is hard work. I’m setting my mind to it, I’m praying about it, I’m learning from those who do it so well. May people someday look to me as one who also does it well.

The No-Formula God

Sometimes I wish God were more formulaic. I’d love it if He could be more of a cause-and-effect sort of God. You know: “Do this, you get this, guaranteed, every time." Yeah, I know the Old Testament is full of that sort of thing, but Jesus didn’t leave us with a whole lot of specific formulas: “Pray three times a day, adding “In Jesus’ name” on the end of every request, and you’ll be able to make rent this month,” kind of thing.

“Unless we’re trusting God for what He’s promised to provide, the step after trust is disillusionment,” writes Larry Crabb in Shattered Dreams. (I’m on Chapter 2 and loving it, so this probably isn’t the last reference I’ll make to this book.)

It would just be so much easier if God had promised us we’d always be able to make the rent. Or have healthy children. Or that we’ll never lose a job we’re sure He’s called us to. I’m even willing to do the work that would guarantee the promise. Serve meals to the homeless and never worry about paying another bill? I’m in. Preach the Gospel in the 10-40 Window and no one you love will ever get cancer? It's a deal!

But it’s not that easy. Instead, we’re given general commands like, “Do not let your hearts be troubled; trust in God,” “In all your ways acknowledge Him,” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Hmmm. OK. I’ll try to stumble through those as best I can. And what’s your end of the deal, God? What exactly is it that you have promised me?

He makes reference to things like comfort, shelter, protection, wisdom, compassion, and joy. Good things. I’ll take them all. And the biggest promise of all is this one: “I tell you the truth, he who believes has everlasting life” (John 6:47). There could be no greater news than that.

Sometimes it’s still hard to get past the rent thing. But the hard truth is that God hasn’t promised us a happy life. No matter how great our faith, how selfless and active our service, He makes no commitment to give us what we want. In fact, these days I’m seeing that the more I do what I know He wants, the less I actually seem to get of what I’d really like. Especially if what I’d like are blissful days. Sometimes life gets harder the more we obey, and that doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how a cause-and-effect God would work.

So I ask myself again: Do I want to serve the God who makes sense in my little head, or do I want to serve the God Who Is?

The God Who Is promises me that if I believe Him and trust my life to Him, then He will bless me with the kind of joy—though not necessarily happiness—that I can’t begin to imagine. And if what I desire more than anything else is to experience Him, to grow in trust and to walk in the closeness of His fellowship, than I will get exactly what my heart desires. While my bank account, perhaps, runs dry. And my house doesn’t sell. And my kids vomit all over me and cough all winter.

Still, I’m in.

The Great Ad Debate

Rarely do I read something I agree with strongly enough to slap on my own blog site, but this one crossed my path today and I couldn't resist. If I'm going to throw my two cents into the Tim Tebow Superbowl Ad Debate, I couldn't say it any better than this.

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.