These Games Aren't For Everyone

I’m resisting the urge to write about one hot blog topic—the Manning-Tebow drama that played out in Denver this week (suffice it to say that I’m heartsick)—in favor of another: the movie release of The Hunger Games.

I have not seen the movie, but earlier this year I decided to treat myself to some fiction reading. I ended up knocking out the whole Hunger Games series in a few weeks and though it lived up to the hype. But it is absolutely not for everyone.

Time magazine called it a “chilling, bloody and thoroughly horrifying book.” That’s exactly what it is, yet it’s also compelling, fascinating, and a wonderful study in character development, so much so that I couldn’t stop reading, despite my policy of avoiding disturbing sensory input. Yes, I was disturbed. I would question the moral fiber of anyone who could walk away from such a story undisturbed.

So can someone tell me why 12-year-olds are reading this? It’s the talk of my son’s sixth-grade classroom this week, with the books flying from one set of hands to another, apparently with the endorsement of the teacher, and “Team Gale” and “Team Peeta” dividing the ranks of the girls in the class. (A “Team Awesome” also sprung up in opposition to the whole Hunger Games craze.) I even heard rumors that kids in my daughter’s fourth-grade class were reading the book—those are 9- and 10-year olds. This is more disturbing to me than the book itself.

I won’t be so simplistic as to rail against the violence. My 7-year-old has seen all of the Star Wars movies and a good amount of Indiana Jones, so I don’t want to be hypocritical. My concern goes much deeper than kids and violence. I’m wondering how we turned into a society that forces our kids out of childhood so quickly. I realize that many kids have childhood stolen away by unavoidable life events and circumstances. That seems all the more reason to vigilantly protect their childhood from something as controllable as media. Why do we think it’s cute when 9-year-old girls scream over Justin Bieber? Why is there even a market for slutty-looking dolls marketed to 7-year-olds? Why do 11-year-olds look for identity in a cell phone? And why do 12-year-olds read books about teenagers forced to fight to their bloody deaths by a tyrannical government? How did we get here? And what are we going to do about it?

Not exposing our kids to the Hunger Games is a good start. I found this quote on an MSN entertainment site, and I think it gets to the heart of the issue:

“Really, though, the question should not be ‘Will my child be traumatized by watching this?’ Because if that is even a question, then they should watch something else. The better question is: Will my child understand what this movie is really about?”

If there are 12-year-olds out there who truly understand starvation, desperation, abandonment, hopelessness, psychological manipulation, governmental corruption, and megalomaniacs, then I pray they’ll end up in the office of a loving counselor instead of the seat of a movie theater. As much as it’s in our control, until our children have aged gently into the mental and emotional capacity to deal with the harsh realities of the world, can we just let them be kids?

Foot Traffic

People in my old neighborhood walk for exercise, either for themselves or for their dogs. People in my current neighborhood—I still have not found an accurate term for where we live: “downtown,” “the inner-city,” “the ’hood”—walk as a means of transportation. We live on a busy street with a bus stop a couple doors down and a Family Dollar store across the street. This creates a great deal of foot traffic in front of our building and plenty of opportunities for people watching.

Too bad Jesus isn’t satisfied with my mere watching of people. No, He wants me to engage with them. Sometimes I stay put and feel guilty about this, and sometimes I actually do something about it.

A couple Sundays ago, I was out for my morning run before church. I took longer than I expected and found myself crunched for time as I rounded the corner for the last six blocks. Two blocks later, I saw a woman walking with a cane up ahead of me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen her. As I’ve passed her a few times on my way to take the kids to school, I’ve whispered, “God bless you, sister” as I watch her labored gait move slowly, oh so slowly, down the street.

Now she was in front of me, sliding one foot in front of the other with the effort of a frozen mountaineer scaling Everest. I was running at a near sprint, making good time. Checking the clock on my iPod, I knew it was risky to start a conversation with her. Would there be enough time to find clothes for all the kids, hose down their heads, buckles shoes, round up coats, and maybe still get a shower for myself? I hate being late for church. You miss all the good songs.

But what about being the church? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, about the importance of teaching the kids not just to do church—ritualistically, once a week—but to actually be the church to the hurting world. Would the church run by this woman without a glance? Would Jesus?

I stopped and assumed her snail’s pace. I said something about seeing her walk along this street before and admiring her tenacity. I told her I hoped I would be like her some day. All true. And then I got an education.

Her name is Renee. She’s 64. She’s had the same group of girlfriends her whole life, and they’re planning a big bash for their 65^th birthdays this year. She’d like to go in a hot-air balloon. She has two daughters who live far away. She worked in insurance for 29 years while raising her daughters, then went to college and then grad school to become a librarian. This woman with a couple of prominent teeth missing has more education than I do. Her husband died a while back, and she moved to Colorado Springs for a fresh start. She has a roommate she enjoys. She goes to church about a mile and a half away and usually has someone who picks her up because she doesn’t drive anymore. But on that day, the youth group was having a special breakfast for seniors, and she didn’t want to miss it, so she decided to walk. A mile and a half. She’d never made it further than our shop, which was about halfway. But she knew if she could make it to the bus stop, she could rest for a while before continuing. Along the way, she picked up cans and placed them into one of the several bags she was carrying. (Yes, “bag lady” came to mind before I took the time to know her.) She collects the tabs off the cans because somehow they are converted to money for the Ronald McDonald house in our neighborhood. She also volunteers on Fridays at the neighborhood school—the one where 90 percent of the kids are on the free-lunch program—to read to the kindergartners, and they bring in cans for her so they can support the Ronald McDonald house, too.

And here I thought I was the one being the church to Renee. God never tires of finding new ways to humble me.

I was hanging on her every word and barely noticed we had made it to the bus stop where she planned to rest. She was sweating pretty hard by now, and I begged her, pleaded, to let me drive her the rest of the way to church. After about four gentle rebuffs, she looked me straight in the eye and said firmly, “I need to do this.”

Again, I begged her to knock on our door if she changed her mind. I took her hand and told her I’d see her around. I went upstairs and looked out my window, watching to see if she would change her mind. She didn’t. Instead, she shuffled off, grabbing a can or two along the way, until I couldn’t see her anymore.

We were about five minutes late for church, and I didn’t mind one bit this time.

The Book that Found Me

Our message at church this weekend was on the authority and reliability of the Bible. Is it a reliable means of knowing truth? I need no convincing of this. I’ve chosen to live my entire life based on the truth of the Bible, and believe me, if I hadn’t, it would look a lot different.

Our pastor quoted a centuries-old French philosopher (Wouldn’t it be cool if I had taken down his name?) who put together his own book of pithy quotes and “life verses” in hope of finding some meaning for his existence. After what must have been a whole lot of work, he was disappointed when it amounted to nothing substantial on which he could base his life. Then he realized his wife had smuggled a Bible into their non-religious home, and upon reading it, he said something like, “Finally, a book that has found me.”

Yes, nameless French dude! I am one who has been found by it, too. What other book could paint such a broad but consistent message using such a variety of palettes? If I don’t care for history, I’ve got poetry. If long genealogical lists aren’t my thing, I’ve got some of the greatest biographies ever written.

Just recently I’ve been agonizing over Joash, one in a long line of Judean kings who chose to follow his own ways instead of God’s. Raised in the temple by the priest Jehoiada after his grandmother murdered all the other members of his family, Joash became king at 7 and managed to get a lot right while Jehoiada was alive. But he fell apart after his mentor died, following the lead of his wicked advisors and eventually being killed for it. Who am I when the important people in my life aren’t looking on? Oh, the things I can learn from Joash.

From young David I learn about ferocious faith and facing my own giants. From older David I learn how to lament, how to confess, and how to praise with abandon, not caring what anyone thinks.

From Solomon I am reminded of good common sense: accepting correction, holding my tongue, pursuing wisdom, choosing generosity over greed, being honest, not being lazy, trusting God instead of my own understanding.

From the book of Philippians (2:14–16a) we plucked the words for our family verse. Could there be anything more relevant to the six of us than “do everything without complaining or arguing”? Could Paul’s words written 2,000 years ago—“a warped and crooked generation”—be any more apt for the world we live in today?

And what about James? It’s as if he crawled into my brain and picked out every issue I’ve ever struggled with. How is it possible I’ve never met this man? How does he know exactly what I need to hear?

No one can convince me that the Bible is irrelevant for us today. It’s alive and active. It knows me. It found me. It penetrates my heart each and every day.

Trying on Houses

It seems like a hundred years ago, but it was actually more like 15. A young couple with 90s hair and not a care in the world was looking for a house. They checked out three or four, stumbled on the ideal location, decided they could live with the house, and made an offer.

That was us, back in 1997. (Why is it that any date beginning with “19” truly does feel like a millennium ago?) Shopping for a house was like shopping for a new sweater. If it looked like it fit, you quickly tried it on, liked it, and moved toward the cash register.

It was a bit more complicated the second time. Not only were we joined by a snoopy two-year-old, who didn’t necessarily understand that he couldn’t help himself to whatever he found in the pantry of the house we were viewing, but I was hauling around the twenty-pound bowling ball that was Addison in my belly. My sense of urgency grew along with my tummy, until we again found a great location and a house we could live with and headed again to the cash register. Would have been nice to know the house had once been condemned due to a questionable foundation, but who has time for such details when a baby’s on the way? We moved in September 5, 2001, watched the horrors of 9/11 unfold on boxes from our otherwise desolate living room floor, and brought our new baby home a few weeks later.

Now we’re beginning our search for our third house, and everything’s changed. Again, the sweater analogy is helpful. Picture a harried mother and her four children packed into the Kohl’s dressing room. A couple kids are griping about how bored they are, a couple others are punching each other, mom is sweating, sweaters are flying across the room, buttons popping off. The store should just be thankful if they make it out without leaving a trail of blood behind, nevermind the mess.

And so it was, after we visited the first house this time around, four kids in tow, our realtor ended up getting an angry call about the beds being messed up with a couple of little-girl coats left behind. But the pets were all alive, right? C’mon, people. Cut us some slack.

The bigger deal is helping the kids not become too emotionally attached to the houses. No wait, the bigger deal is ME not getting too emotionally attached. And at this point, 20 months into living with no bathtub, I can even get attached to the 1960s house with the pink tub and the orange shag carpet. The kids actually got into a fight at that house over who got which room, that’s how easily we can see ourselves somewhere else.

Patience, patience. Not my strong suit when trying on sweaters or houses. But as this might be the house out of which they haul my dead body in 45 years, it’s a quality I’ll need in great measure during this pursuit.

Yield!

Since I started spending a good percentage of my waking hours on the highway, I’ve implemented a new driving strategy. Merging into highway traffic has never been a favorite maneuver of mine, and when the rare driver slows down to make a place for me, it doesn’t just make for an easier merge, it actually brightens my day. So I started being intentional about slowing down to let other drivers in—on the highway, exiting a parking lot, wherever I see an opportunity. Yielding, this is called.

Isn’t it funny how God sometimes prepares you for a lesson before actually teaching it to you?

We discussed yielding this week in Bible study. Not the highway kind but the heart kind. One of the best definitions I found described yielding as “giving up one’s place for another.” Jesus’ teachings are all radically counter-cultural, but this one just might take the cake. When does our society ever reward the act of stepping aside for the promotion of another? Stepping out of the limelight so that another might shine? I’m pretty sure this message was not part of my formative years. I used to be a sprinter, and I fought with every muscle and every ounce of will power to keep others from passing me up. I’m not one who likes to be slowed down in any area of life, and stepping aside for someone else comes about as naturally for me as taking a shower with all my clothes on.

Am I doing any better teaching my kids this? Truly, I don’t think I’ve given it a thought before now. I harp endlessly about serving others, but sometimes our greatest act of service is when we do nothing but step aside. Quietly. Without drawing attention to ourselves. Can they let someone else deliver the birthday card? Let someone else take their turn first? Let someone else do the singing on center stage or make the winning basket? And can they do this—here’s the clincher—with a joyful heart and without jealousy? Can I?

On the cross, Jesus “yielded” his spirit. He surrendered to the will of his Father. He put aside his status as Lord of the universe and made a place for sinners like me—a place in heaven. Kinda gives you a whole different mental picture as you’re yielding on the highway, doesn’t it?

A Night to Be Humbled

I don’t normally feel hypocritical. I especially don’t feel hypocritical when I’m praising God. Even when I’m not feeling it, I can still push the words out of my mouth, carry a (mostly) pretty tune, and somehow feel good about myself. Not tonight. Tonight I was too humbled to sing. I’m pretty sure that’s a first.

I was sitting in a women’s event at church alongside many who are the mothers of special needs kids. When I saw the ad in our church bulletin for this particular topic, raising disabled kids, I thought, “There’s one I don’t need to go to.” Then I found out my dear friend was speaking. Jill could speak on eyeball dissections and I would go.

It’s not like I haven’t heard her story of having a baby with Down Syndrome before, but somehow it was different this time. Maybe it was the context. The uncomfortable, random cries that came from the back of the room (this was a place these mothers could bring their special needs kids, after all). The dad cradling his 11-year-old—smaller than my 4-year-old and a child I would be scared to even touch—and calling her his princess. The woman who’s cared for more than 200 foster kids, many of them with special needs, and is now tending to her husband with Alzheimer’s. I was humbled by their stories. Leveled, actually. To the point where I couldn’t even sing the words, “Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus” without feeling unworthy, hypocritical.

I consider myself a person of strong faith. Driving to the meeting tonight, I would have given myself a 9 out of 10 on the faith scale. I intentionally try to live each day with open hands, praying that God’s will and not mine be done. I don’t live in fear. I don’t feel an urgent need to control things. I have called this faith. But driving home, my number dropped to a 1. I didn’t lose faith this evening; I just realized how little faith my life has required. I’ve had losses and grief, but they’ve come and gone. I can’t think of anything I’ve had to trust God for over the course of a lifetime. I can picture all of my birdies not only flying out of my little nest some day, but soaring to heights I’ve never reached. I’m not wondering who will care for one of them when I die. I’m not wondering how we’ll ever have the money to fill in the gaps insurance won’t cover. Yes, I am humbled.

And then of course the mind goes to all sorts of dark places. “Why didn’t you choose this road for me, God? Was I too weak? Did I lack the faith? Could I not have handled it?” And then a step further: “Maybe this is our path. What if we’re just one freak rollerblading accident away from a life like this?”

But that is not where my mind stays. I won’t let it. Those thoughts, along with a false sense of unworthiness, only keep me focused on myself and distract me from what God's trying to teach me. All I can know is what He has chosen for me today, and all I can do is love the people who are walking that road, give thanks for what He has chosen for me, and have the good sense not to resist this lesson in humility.

In the Company of Sufferers

I’m in a group Bible study for the first time in, oh, 18 or so years, and my eyes are popping open to all sorts of things. It’s Beth Moore’s new study on the book of James, and in the midst of all those confusing opening words about the poor and the rich in James 1, she unleashes these insightful words:

“The only time I feel a vivid fellowship with suffering believers in other parts of the world is when I am humbled by extreme difficulty of my own. Otherwise I wonder how in Heaven’s name I will stand next to them around the throne of God and have any crowns at all to cast. Without frequent humblings, I am a cushy, lightweight Christian who doesn’t know the first thing about denying myself and carrying my cross.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever read something that made me want to be humbled, until now. I write stories all the time, for Compassion, about Christians whose lives have been nothing but a web of trials and suffering, and while I’ve been overwhelmed with sympathy and sadness for them, I’ve never wanted to join their club. Closer to home, I have a dear friend, a man in his late 60s, who has dealt with horrible physical pain for decades. I’ve heard it said of him, “He has the gift of suffering.” That makes me cringe. How can that be a spiritual gift, I’ve wondered. Yet he’s the last person on earth I’d call a cushy, lightweight Christian. I can almost see his cross dragging behind him, and still he’s one of my favorite people to be around.

I’ve never pictured myself standing around the throne of God with those who have suffered so greatly in this life. But I will. That gives me great pause. Heaven won’t be a place where we compare our woes. It’s not a competition where the one with the saddest life story wins at the end. But I think there’s a good chance the measure of our faith in God and the size of our character will be on full display. When are those things better shaped in us than through trials of many kinds?

My trials are so tiny, so small that it’s a stretch to even call them trials most of the time. But when I feel the pressure of them, I think I will find it a little easier to consider them pure joy as I consider the company I’ll have in heaven.