The Importance of Being Known

I spend a lot of time in my car. I spend a lot of time looking at other people in their cars. Vehicles have always been used to make a statement about their owners, but I’ve noticed over the past several years that they’re no longer just status symbols. No matter how nice or how junky, they’ve become ways in which we identify ourselves.

It seems that nearly half of the cars in our school carpool line have stick-figure characters lining the back window. Two fuzzy-haired little girls and a baby. Or three little baseball-capped boys and a dog. Others are more specific: a gymnast figure accompanied by the name Britney, or the numbers 22 with Jason’s name underneath. Some people must feel this is too personal, so they use fish to represent themselves—two big ones and several little ones following behind them. One car displays two large pairs of Hawaiian sandals surrounded by six little ones.

Parental pride, right? Maybe, but I think there may be more to it. What about the older woman I see driving her Mercedes with a female golfer on the back? She’s not promoting her kids, she’s trying to tell the world something about herself. “I am a golfer. This is what I do.” She’s joined by the myriad “26.2” symbol bearers on the road who want the world to know that they run marathons.

I do this myself. Not the running marathons part, but I do have pioneer plates on my car, and I’m quite proud of them. Because I live in a transplant state, and I want people to know that I’m a native, that my family have been Coloradans for five generations. My family heritage is important to me, and I want people to know it. (The scratch and dent marks covering my car? Not trying to send any statement with those, but I suppose they represent my life as well.)

Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but I think it may be coming from our deep longing to be known. It’s as if we’re saying, “I’m dashing through my life at the speed of sound, and I just want someone to know who I am and what’s important to me. Even if it’s just a stranger at a stoplight. Will someone please just know me?”

And this makes me sad. Is this how God designed us to live? Of course not. As hard as it is—as tempted as we are to keep our relationships safe, convenient, manageable—I hope that we’ll all let at least a few people into our lives who will really know us. Not because of the car we drive or the statements we make through our symbols, but because we have let down our guard and trusted people with our story.

Shedding My Skin

During my adolescent years, while I was holed up in my room reading twisted V.C. Andrews books, my Christian contemporaries were reading C.S. Lewis. I hadn’t even heard of Lewis until I got to college, and even then I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. At that time, and perhaps still, Westmont College was home to C.S. Lewis’s own personal wardrobe, the one of lion-and-witch fame. By the skin of my teeth, I had slipped into the freshman honors English class, which meant I was surrounded by 14 smarty-pants kids who had been reading the Narnia books since infancy.

Our small class met for three hours on Tuesday nights. We sat on couches huddled around the old wardrobe drinking hot chocolate and waxing eloquent about Lewis and other great Christian writers. (I didn’t know any of them either.) I faked my way through it with a lot of smiling and nodding, but I had no idea who Lucy or Caspian were or why their stories mattered.

Now, twenty years later, I get it. I’ve still not read all the Narnia books, but I’ve read most of them to the kids, and some of them two or three times. The Magician’s Nephew—where it all starts—has become one of my all-time favorites. In the way The Great Gatsby, years ago, made me want to be a better writer, Nephew makes me want to be a better storyteller.

And then there’s The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, God’s most recent instrument with which to make His point to me. I’ve been reading it to the kids, while simultaneously reading Forgotten God. Francis Chan writes, “The Spirit will lead you to the way of the cross, as He led Jesus to the cross, and that is definitely not a safe or pretty or comfortable place to be. The Holy Spirit of God will mold you into the person you were made to be. This often incredibly painful process strips you of selfishness, pride, and fear.” As an example of this, Chan references Eustace’s transformation from dragon back to boy in Lewis’s Dawn Treader book.

OK, so he spoiled the plot for me. But I got over it a few days later when I read the description of this transformation. After three times trying to rid himself of his irritating, burdensome, scaly skin—but finding that there were too many layers to ever shake off completely—Eustace was told by Aslan, “You will have to let me undress you.”

Eustace explains: “I was afraid of his claws . . . but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it. The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. . . . Then he caught hold of me—I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on—and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing . . . I saw I’d turned into a boy again.”

Back to Chan: “Sometimes the sin we take on becomes such a part of us that it requires this same kind of ripping and tearing to free us. The Holy Spirit does not seek to hurt us, but He does seek to make us Christlike, and this can be painful.”

I sense I’m in a scale-shedding sort of place. Layers of selfishness and pride have become my second skin, and, man, does it hurt when it gets ripped off. But, like Eustace, when the skin gets irritating enough, when you realize it’s keeping you from becoming all you were made to be, you find the faith to lie flat down on your back and let Him do it. Thank you, C.S. Lewis, for such a beautiful picture of submission. I now understand what all the fuss is about.

Just a Thought

Something to think about from Francis Chan's book Forgotten God:

"What would your church (and the worldwide Church) look like if everyone was as committed as you are? If everyone gave and served and prayed exactly like you, would the church be healthy and empowered? Or would it be weak and listless?"

More than a Bone

I recently found myself asking God if He could just please throw me a bone. Could something please be easy instead of hard, could something please work out the way I hoped, could I please just see His favor in ways that I could recognize as Him?

See, my pants had gotten streaked with grease while I was trying to serve someone else. Someone the Bible tells me I will be blessed when I serve. They weren’t just any pants, either. They were my favorite pants in the whole world, a pair that make me feel skinny and chic. I’ve had them eight years, and they’ve seen me through a lot of living. They’re something I would grab if there was a fire and I could only take ten items with me.

I asked, “Seriously, God, did you have to let my pants get ruined while I was trying to do your will?”

My pity party lasted a few hours. Then Paul came into my mind and turned off the lights ’cause the party was over. I can’t think of a single time when the apostle Paul complained. He expressed concern over people’s actions and attitudes, but he never whined about his own physical state. On the contrary, he writes that he delights in weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecution, and difficulties because those things bring out Christ’s power in him. I wonder how Paul felt about dirty pants?

Paul learned the secret of being content in every situation. And though he had ample opportunity, what with all those letters he was always writing, he never complained. Not about the shipwrecks or the public floggings or the false imprisonments. He didn’t complain about the morons at the synagogue who wouldn’t give him the time of day or the crowds that kept chasing him out of town. Instead, he kept plugging away, content and delighted.

I doubt that Paul ever once asked God to “throw him a bone.” Why would he need a bone when he felt like every day he served the Lord was like a feast?

Yes, that’s conviction I feel. Got it, Spirit, thanks. I’ll wipe away my tears, go find my Shout stain remover, and give thanks for the feast that is my life.

Making Radical Normal

I’ve been thinking a lot about an article my friend Becky sent me. It started this way:

“If you're the parent of a Christian teenager, Kenda Creasy Dean has this warning: Your child is following a ‘mutant’ form of Christianity, and you may be responsible. Dean says more American teenagers are embracing what she calls ‘moralistic therapeutic deism.’ Translation: It's a watered-down faith that portrays God as a ‘divine therapist’ whose chief goal is to boost people's self-esteem.”

Dean interviewed 3,300 teenagers and found that most who called themselves Christian were “indifferent and inarticulate” about their faith. No surprise there. But it’s her solution that screamed for my attention. The article goes on to say that “parents who perform one act of radical faith in front of their children convey more than a multitude of sermons and mission trips.”

“But it's not enough to be radical—parents must explain ‘this is how Christians live,’ she says. ‘If you don't say you're doing it because of your faith, kids are going to say my parents are really nice people,’ Dean says. ‘It doesn't register that faith is supposed to make you live differently unless parents help their kids connect the dots.’”

So what does radical look like? I’m reading a book about it (that’s always where I start), and I’m starting to test the waters of actually living it. I don’t know if Ms. Dean or anyone else would call my family’s life today radical. We live in a perfectly acceptable, if somewhat unconventional, space above our shop. It’s not exactly radical for a family of six to have one bathroom and no closets, but it’s definitely not the norm in our culture.

We see things and meet people here that make us uncomfortable and would never be part of our lives in the suburbs. Again, probably more “interesting” than “radical,” but I am praying that some day the kids will see living counter-culturally and so far out of our comfort zone as "an act of radical faith."

For now, I want them to see it as normal, that “this is how Christians live.” That instead of feeling fear or disgust at the homeless, the drug dealers, the prostitutes that walk down our street and shop at our Walmart, they’ll feel compassion. (I have so far to go on that journey myself.) That they’ll go a giant step further than their parents and not just watch and wonder about these people, but actually engage with them. I hope we’re exposing them to a world beyond their upscale school and Saturday soccer matches—and to a God who cares much more about their selflessness than their self-esteem. I hope that one day they’ll be very different from me—that they'll be comfortable living in that world, that they’ll love the strange and the scary and the outcasts the way Jesus did. Whether that’s radical or normal, I pray that my kids will believe that that's the way Christians are supposed to live.

40

This is it—the week I turn 40! I think I’m so tired of thinking about it that I’m glad it’s finally here. And I’ve decided “here” is just the place I want to be.

The other day I was hustling all my kids through a busy parking lot when we were stopped by a woman who appeared to be in her late 70s. “Are they all yours?” she asked. “Yes, all mine,” I answered, expecting the standard, “You-sure-have-your-hands-full” line that I often get. But she surprised me by saying, “What I wouldn’t give to go back to where you are, just for a day, and relive that time with my children.” She smiled and walked away, and I buckled everyone into the car with a bit more gratitude for my place in life.

My friend Linda, now 60, says her 40s were the best years of her life. I have a feeling I may end up agreeing with her. The hard work of all that physical parenting in my 20s and 30s is behind me. I am absolutely loving being an elementary-school mom and the more emotional/spiritual/psychological parenting that comes with it. I happily (mostly) did all the nursing, spoon-feeding, swaddling, rocking stuff, but it’s now that I feel like I’m really in my element. All of my kids’ friends’ parents are turning 40 with me, along with my much-loved junior high, high school, and college friends, all of which contributes to the feeling that I’m just where I want to be.

At 40, my marriage, my patience, my cooking, and my abs are all better than they were at 30. I am much less satisfied with the things of this world, much more grieved by my sin, much more desperate for a Savior, much more homesick for the place I was created for.

So, welcome 40. I can actually say I’m glad you’re here. Just please be sure to stick around a long, LONG time.

Gym Mom

One of our moving bribes was a family membership at the YMCA. For the past 11 years, I’ve been holed up having babies, gaining and losing weight in the privacy of my own home. I’ve got every Billy Blanks VHS tape and DVD there is and have been content to work out with “Billy, Shellie, and the gang” in my basement all these years. After a decade together, these people are like old friends. They never judge my sit-up technique. Their ’90s workout clothes never show me up. They don’t bat an eye when I stop for a drink or walk out on them early. I don’t have to shower with them. They are the perfect workout buddies.

But for the past month, I’ve been exercising with real people. I’ve had some victories and some major opportunities for character development. One of the first classes I attended was step aerobics. Though I was warned the choreography was “moderate to difficult,” I had no fear of keeping up. Afterall, I was a gymnast and a cheerleader in my former life. After about five minutes, I concluded that every woman in there must have once been a Laker Girl, although at least half of them were old enough to be my mother. The instructor counted so quickly and used such foreign terminology that it felt like trying to keep up with a Spanish soap opera. The me I think I am did not show up that day. TWICE the instructor actually came up to me and said, “I’m afraid you’re going to hurt yourself,” in that “oops-I’m-wearing-a-headset-and-just-broadcast-that-to-the-entire-room” sort of way. It was confusing, awkward, humiliating—sort of like an entire year of junior high boiled down to one hour.

I have since found a couple of classes that are more me. I have learned that rather than dance moves and eight counts, I should stick with good ol’ fashion jump roping and squat thrusts. (Two words I never thought I’d use on my blog.) I was even starting to get a bit cocky, thinking I hadn’t found a class that was hard enough for me, Mrs. Billy Blanks TaeBo Queen.

Then I went to Lori’s Ultimate Conditioning class this week. Lori was obviously a Marine. And a Chinese gymnast. And a torturer. I left the room unable to walk. And then I really started to hurt.

If the classes are not traumatic enough, there’s always the locker-room. Do you ever get used to seeing 75-year-old women streak across your path? How can that possibly make you feel good about the future? (And these are the toned 75-year-olds!) And I’m just not sure I’m mature enough to have a conversation with the mom of one of my Awana kids while wearing nothing more than a towel and my shower slippers.

But I’m almost 40 and getting more jiggly by the minute, so I’ll put in the time and hope all the squeezing and tucking pays off. And if it doesn’t work out, Billy, Shellie, and the gang are always waiting for me at home.