Service

“Our future reputation as Christians is intricately connected to our passion for justice, service, and sacrifice.” —David Kinnaman, unchristian

I believe this. Representing the Christian faith by not swearing, dancing, drinking, smoking, or sleeping around may have worked in previous generations—maybe—but a younger generation will only be drawn to Jesus by what we do, not by what we don’t do. Did I grow up with a passion for justice, service, and sacrifice? No way. But I’m trying to get there. If these are the things that keep the faith relevant to the generation behind me, I want to get there. More important, if these are offerings that please my Father, I want to get there.

But service is tricky. Of course there are hundreds of opportunities every day to serve the people around us, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m looking for consistent, ongoing ways to serve alongside my family. A few years ago, Kevin and I tutored some disadvantaged kids, but we had to pawn off our own kids in order to do it. That doesn’t seem right. Our church has opportunities, but they’re often not little-kid friendly, either. We have loads of Christmas opportunities, which we dive into, but what about the rest of the year? We’ve taken our kids to sort clothes at the homeless shelter, but there were more volunteers than clothes, and we ended up just sitting around. We volunteered to work with families at the Salvation Army, but no one showed up. We were team leaders for an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner our church planned for the homeless, and only a handful of families came, ate quickly, and left. We’ve also been involved with the poor individually, but again, this turns into me investing hours into someone while my kids sit at home without me.

I want to model for our children the kind of service, sacrifice, and justice that requires all of us working together. I want them to know the joy of serving with others in community. I want them to see that it takes priority; it happens whether we have piano lessons or a basketball game or not. I want them to see it as a lifestyle—not as something you only do at Christmas or when you board a plane to go overseas.

So I’m praying. God, please show us the way.

Passing It On

My purpose for this blog is to share the things God is teaching me—and I feel like I’m on the brink of something big. Have you ever had that experience where every book you read, every person you talk to, every message you hear seems to be pointing in the same direction? That’s where I am right now, and the topic is passing on real faith, faith that lasts, to our children.

Of course this is something we’ve been thinking about for a long time. We try to follow the instructions in Deuteronomy 6, talking to our children about the ways of God as we walk alongside them every day. But I’m starting to think hard about how we’re doing this. Are we passing on a passionate, life-transforming faith, or just a lot of information about God and the way He wants us to live? Have my children seen firsthand what it means to live out the Gospel? And if they have, do they know they have?

The book unChristian by David Kinnaman, president of The Barna Group, and Gabe Lyons came out in 2007. I’m just getting around to reading it, though it’s been sitting on my shelf for nearly five years. When the book came out, I was pregnant and my oldest was just 7. I couldn’t have received the message in the same way then as I do now. Now it’s very relevant to our lives as we walk through the doorway of adolescence with our son, with our daughters following close behind. This quote from unChristian, which I read just last night, is ringing in my ears as I contemplate the kind of faith I’m passing onto them (I’ve added the italics):

“Eight out of ten students participate in church during their teenage years, but most of them will take a permanent detour from active faith at some point soon after they get their driver’s licenses. . . . The vast majority will cross over to the other side; pronouncing Christianity boring, irrelevant, and out of touch. We’ve tried too long to educate their minds instead of engaging their lives.

“Some of us are convinced the system [of church] is fundamentally flawed because we don’t know what our goal is. We creatively market our programs, design innovative and relevant productions, and organize events that will capture the student imagination so that we can get them into church. What if our goal should not be to get them into church? What if the same energy could be applied to mobilize them to be the church? We have discovered a short window of time during the teenage years when students need to experience something beyond church as a spectator sport. If a young person is not challenged by hands-on personal ministry, their faith will likely be sidetracked and even sabotaged. . . . Faith grows when our faith is challenged to do something.” —Reggie Joiner, Rethink

Pastor and speaker Louie Giglio chimes in with this thought: “I think that is what this generation wants—an action-based worship. There is nothing wrong with jumping to a David Crowder tune and telling God he is great—that is worship. But worship is also doing the right thing and sharing with others in need.”

OK. I’m convinced. And I’m re-evaluating. With fairly consistent church attendance and seven years of AWANA under their belts, I have children who know large quantities of scripture by chapter and verse, who understand the grand “metanarrative” story of the Bible and can answer detailed questions about it, and who absolutely know right from wrong, even if they don’t always practice it. But do I have children who can recognize faith in action, who realize it comes at a cost and are willing to sacrifice for it? Who understand that it is only Jesus who can allow you to love your neighbor as yourself? Who comprehend that worship is more than singing a song and church is more than a building? What am I gonna do about that?

More than a Bystander

Last month I wrote about the eye-opening question I saw in a book and have been asking ever since: “What needs to be done here?” It trickles into my mind all the time. Now if only I can get it to trickle into my behavior.

In my small group a few months ago, we talked about a local incident in which a woman jumped out of a moving car to flee her abusive boyfriend. After landing in the street, she flagged down the car behind her, which happened to be a mom with two young kids in the back. The mom opened her car to the woman, only to be shot at minutes later by the boyfriend. Miraculously, no one was hurt, but of course it leads to the question, did the mom do the right thing? What would I have done?

Would anyone have asked this question 40 years ago, I wonder? Was it a no brainer to scoop a bleeding woman up off the street?

Then I think of a recent experience we had ourselves. My husband Kevin was pumping gas into our van when a “blind man” started walking across the street toward the filling station. He was all over the place, staggering, walking dangerously close to moving cars, until a woman got out of her car to help him. She got him to the curb, and my husband took over from there, walking him into the store and giving him some money to spend. Like a relay race, a man in the store took his arm and helped him around, eventually offering to give him a ride to where he needed to go. (And yes, this guy had a young kid in the back of the car.) Now I put “blind man” in quotes because we had our suspicions. Serious suspicions. Was he really blind, or was this his act, his way to gain enough attention and pity to get dinner and catch a ride?

We’ll never know—but here’s how I know Kevin did the right thing. As we were pulling away, a woman inside the store ran out to acknowledge what he had done. His actions had spoken to her, and her affirmation of his actions spoke to me and to our kids in the car. It almost wasn’t about the blind man. And whether he was really blind or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that a whole lot of people—including drivers who saw one in their midst jump out of her car to help—saw people just like them “doing what needs to be done here.”

Do we pick up a bleeding woman from the street? Yes! Even if it means potential risk to our own children? I still say yes. We do it because it’s the right thing to do, because it’s what needs to be done in order for us to live in the kind of world we all want to live in. A world in which we are servants, not bystanders. Put me in that situation and what will I do? I wish I could say for sure. What I can do is pray for the courage to do what needs to be done, in all situations, no matter the cost, because I know that’s what Jesus calls "love."

Sunset

We just returned from a week at the ocean, our “reward” trip for living, somewhat successfully, with one bathroom and no natural lighting. Our apartment in San Diego had two bathrooms and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the beach, enabling us to watch the surfers by day and the moonlit waves by night. But it was the time in between that was most interesting to me. The sunsets were amazing.

The sun sets every day, even in Colorado. I realize this, but I never notice it. Day just somehow turns into night while I’m shuttling kids, making dinner, or checking someone’s math homework. I can’t think of the last sunset I witnessed at home. But at the beach, sunset is an event not to be missed. It’s like the world stops for a few minutes—surfers stop surfing, runners stop running, people stop talking, children stop fighting—while the sun drops off into the ocean. (I don’t care about all the science that tells us that’s not at all what’s happening; anyone who’s watching it would describe it as the sun falling into the ocean.) It’s captivating. Mesmerizing. You can’t not watch, even as your eyes are stinging and your good common sense is reminding you that it’s never a good idea to look directly at the sun. Everyone watches. Everyone marvels.

To me, the response to the sunset was as interesting as the sunset itself. How often does everyone stop what they’re doing and pay attention to the same thing? Only tragedies and catastrophes come to mind. But how often are we universally held captive to something so glorious?

It’s another glimpse of heaven on earth.

One day we’ll stand in the presence of God—terrified to look, unable to look away. There will be no thoughts of e-mails to send, calls to return, dinner to make. Undistracted, in unison, we will stand captivated by the glory of God. I can’t wait until that day when His name, His glory, are not taken so casually but are something at which we all marvel in stunned silence. Nothing can prepare us for what that will be like, but sunset at the beach comes as close as anything else.

A Mom Like Me with a Kid Like Brooka

She’s never said it more clearly than she did today: “I think God wants me to live in Indonesia.” Not just go to Indonesia, but live there. She used the words “mission” and “preach.” In Indonesia. And she’s only seven.

We’ve always had that “one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others” feeling about our third child, Brooka. She is comfortable with everyone. She walks into a room and believes everyone there wants to be her friend. She’s freakishly confident. She requires adventure. She can’t remember ever feeling afraid. She doesn’t much care about privacy or quality of restroom facilities. She does sick better than anyone I’ve ever known. She prays passionately. (Of course she also picks her nose, runs off in parking lots, fights with her siblings, and is generally way too hyper. When she was two, all that independence and adventure caused me to consider drinking.)

The Indonesia thing started a few years ago. She was reading books about tigers, her great love, and learned about the islands of Java and Sumatra. She started talking about Indonesia, and how she thought she might live there some day. It came up at random times. My youngest daughter would say, “Mommy, I will always live next door to you and take care of you,” and Brooka would chime in, “Not me! I’ll be clear in Asia and you’ll never see me.” She also says things like, “Gee, Addison, I hope I can make it to your wedding, but you know I’ll be in Indonesia.”

I’m starting to think there’s something to this. And if there is, then I wonder how a mom like me, whose world is so small, prepares her child to live in a world so big. Or how a mom like me is supposed to develop her daughter’s natural confidence and independence when those things are so foreign to her. It seems almost laughable. I’ve barely been out of the United States, speak only English, and won’t try a new food on a bet. I had to look up Indonesia on a map! I have a strong preference for things that are familiar and comfortable, and yet this is the child I get to raise? It’s almost like God’s trying to make a point. Like this is going to happen because of His strength and skill and not my own.

So, by the grace of God, a mom like me is going to do her best to help Brooka find her calling and prepare her for it. I’ll do that with all my children, it just might look different with Brooka—like buying Indonesian language tapes or setting up meetings with missionaries or finding world travelers who can teach her the ins and outs of catching trains and exchanging currency. We’ve already stumbled upon the perfect Indonesian pen pal for her, and today she ate her first Indonesian candy, sent by the pen pal, whose mother says Brooka always has a place to stay there. She’s seven, and it seems like the wheels are sort of in motion already. I’m still teaching her to wash her face and load the dishwasher and tie her shoes, but all the while I’m preparing myself to watch her leave for good some day.

The only thing sadder than the thought of one day putting Brooka on a plane and sending her across the globe is the thought of holding her back because of my own fears. I won’t be that mom. She’s all yours, Lord.

We Are the Draw

In my last entry, I mentioned how my daughter Addison and I were in Denver this summer to celebrate her 10^th birthday a little early. It’s a big deal for me to have alone time with any of my kids, so I wanted to do this right. I made reservations at a nice hotel in downtown Denver. Our room was on the top floor. We stayed for two whole nights! With all my inherent cheapness pushed aside, I tried to create a real event for my daughter, something she would remember for the rest of her life. But it wasn’t quite what I had pictured.

I let her pick the restaurants, thinking there might be some fun new food she’d want to try. We ate fast food. (Her food highlight was getting her own Jamba Juice and not having to share it with another kid. I guess that’s a big deal when your inherently cheap mother has four children.) I asked if she wanted to get her ears pierced. She thought about it, and we made it as far as Claire’s, but instead just tried on funny glasses for a few minutes and left. “Do you want to go for a ride in a horse-drawn carriage, Addison?” I thought this might be the thing that made the trip for her. “Well, the horses look a little hot and tired,” she said. “Maybe we should just walk.” So we did, hand in hand, for a couple miles.

“Do you want to get a manicure, Addison?” This would be it! A lifelong nail-biter, she had worked hard all summer to grow out her nails, and now they were beautiful. “Hmmm,” she said. “Maybe. But maybe you could just do my nails.”

I’m stumped. What is up? I’m trying to create an event here, and she’s declining my every offer. Then I realize she’s been looking up at me with these googley eyes—the look she’ll someday give to her first love. But today, when she’s nearly 10, I’m her first love, and those googley eyes are reserved just for me. She tells me again, as she has pretty much every seven seconds since we got here, what a wonderful time she’s having. And I start to get it. I’m the draw here. I’m the event.

A friend had asked me, before our trip, if I was taking Addison to see a show or a play in Denver. I hadn’t even considered it and felt a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to do that for my daughter. But what I didn’t realize then was that walking hand in hand with her mom, eating cheeseburgers with her mom, snuggling in bed and watching TV with her mom was all she wanted. And here’s the thing: I don’t believe Addison is any different from your son or daughter. Parents everywhere need to get this. WE ARE THE DRAW for our kids.

The American advertising machine has done its best to convince parents we must buy more, spend more, eat more, travel more in order to have children who will remember their childhoods fondly and treat us decently during their teen years. It’s a lie! We know it’s a lie, way down deep, but do we live like it? Do we live like it at the end of the day, when we’re tired and just want to crawl into bed, but are cornered by a 10-year-old who just wants to talk about life now that the house is quiet?

Let’s not miss out on this, parents! We are the draw. They want us more than they want stuff, no matter how many messages we get to the contrary. It’s us they want—our time, and even better, our focused attention—more than anything else. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to try to make the most of every minute. For right now, those googley eyes are all mine.

What Needs to Be Done Here?

Time to start writing again. I enjoyed the break, and needed it, but my mind is filled with new ideas to explore and thoughts to process, and this is how I do that best. I pick back up with a reminder to myself of why I started this blog. It’s not my personal soapbox, not my forum in which to convince others of my beliefs or to share my great knowledge on life, God, parenting, or how to attractively wear sweatpants. I write because this is how I process what God is teaching me. He’s teaching me every day, and if I’ll just slow down and pay attention, I’ll grow. By making this public, maybe someone else can grow alongside me. That’s why I write. Simple as that.

So with that ground covered, I will launch into some of the things I’ve been thinking about this summer. But first, I have to applaud President Obama for his “speech” at Ground Zero yesterday. They were the perfect words at the perfect time. Just a few days ago, I saw the stupidest bumper sticker I’ve ever seen (and that’s saying something): “He’s not MY president.” See? Stupid, huh? You don’t get to substitute your own reality about something as cut-and-dried as who the president is. He is your president, foolish driver, and he’s mine, too. That’s a fact. And I have never been more impressed with our president as I was yesterday morning.

OK, moving on.

I’ve been reading a book called Spiritual Parenting by Michelle Anthony. It would be more accurate to say I’ve been “whooped upside the head” by this book. It falls along the lines of Crazy Love and Radical but within the context of parenting. Plenty to feel missing-the-boat-worthy about here, but it’s also got some very practical take-aways. One of the things she writes about that I’ve been practicing with my kids is to walk through life asking, “What needs to be done here?” Is there a breakfast plate I could take in, even though it belonged to my sister? Is there a door that needs opened for a mom pushing a stroller? Is there some trash in a parking lot that needs picked up? Is there someone who needs some encouragement? What needs to be done here?

Of course the idea is that these little acts of service will become a way of life in our children, so that in a decade or two they are asking, “What needs to be done about poverty in my community?” Or “What needs to be done about AIDS in Africa?” It makes sense that children who think this way and become adults who think this way are the key to changing the world.

So I’ve been working on introducing “What needs to be done here?” into our children’s thinking. But more than anything, I’ve been wondering about this question in my own life. Am I myself willing to be a person who goes through life with this mindset? I think I am, but then I consider the evidence to the contrary.

This summer, my daughter and I were walking down the 16^th Street Mall in Denver eating Dairy Queen Blizzards. I took one bite of mine and realized I had only gotten it because she wanted ice cream. I didn’t want ice cream, yet here I was, preparing to slurp down 16 ounces of it. At the same time, we walked by a man rifling through the trashcan for something to eat. He was filthy, stinky, scary looking. My heart went out to him. My ice cream did not. It actually didn’t even cross my mind until I was about a block down the street. Why had I not given him my Blizzard? Instant justifications came to my mind. Well I had already taken a bite—and licked off my spoon. It was second-hand ice cream! How pathetically middle class of me. A man digging through trash for food is probably not real concerned about germs. I felt horrible. My ice cream melted, uneaten, as we continued to walk and I frantically searched for someone else to give it to. But we didn’t see anyone. We saw only people like us, happily eating their own ice cream and hot dogs and coffee, unaware that six blocks away, someone was pulling his dinner from the trash.

Am I willing to do what needs to be done? I wan to be. Am I aware of what needs to be done—at the moment it needs to be done? That’s where I’ve got so far to go.