Asking for Elephants

Some thought-provoking questions have arisen from my last post, primarily, when is it appropriate to ask God to meet a deadline? The easy answer seems to me that it’s always appropriate to ask. There are certain circumstances that lend themselves more to deadlines—in our case, moving before school starts—but as long as we’re seeking God’s will, I don’t know that He ever is displeased by our ask.

The bigger point I am learning is that He is pleased when we ask big. I’ve realized how I have shied away from asking Him to do great and mighty things in and for me because I want to protect myself from disappointment. If I’m being honest, I also feel the need to protect Him and His reputation if He doesn’t deliver. I don’t have to work through hard faith issues if I don’t ever ask, right? Of course I’ll never grow in faith either.

Beth Moore tells a story in one of her Believing God DVD sessions that will stick with me the rest of my life. As she was starting school as a little girl, her aunt called and asked what she could get Beth for her first day of school. The aunt was probably thinking of a sweater, but little Beth was thinking big. She asked for an elephant. A bejeweled elephant with a fancy throne on which Beth could sit as she rode into school on the first day. (I picture Aladdin riding into the palace as a newly-minted prince in the Disney movie.) All these years later, Beth’s aunt still laughs about the elephant. “Honey, I couldn’t get you an elephant, but how I loved that you asked!”

If I ask God for an elephant and it’s in my best interest to have one, He’ll give me an elephant. He can do anything. He can give any gift at any time, perform any miracle in any way, answer any prayer exactly as we hope He will. Or He can say no. But next time I hear “no” from Him, I’m also going to envision Him saying, “Honey, I could get you the elephant if I knew it was best for you, but it’s not. So the answer is no, but how I love that you asked!”

He delights in our big asks! If they come from a God-seeking, submitted heart—and He knows when they do—they bring Him great joy. So no more asking for sweaters when it’s an elephant I really want to ask Him for. No more trying to protect myself or God’s reputation. And if there’s an elephant you’re praying for, I’d love to hear about it and pray with you.

Confidence in What We Hope for; Assurance When We Do Not See

Living in the Shome has been a faith adventure, no doubt. The conclusion to our time here has been no different; in fact, God has ramped up the faith story He’s been writing for our family. I have been praying daily to see His supernatural intervention in our circumstances—a miracle. I’ll tell you our story and let you see for yourself if He answered.

January 2012: We start looking at houses online. One, in particular, grabs our attention. But as we prepare to make an offer a month later, the owner suddenly takes it off the market after 10 months. Weird. We thought this was going to be so quick and easy.

February/March/April: We keep looking. Nothing. We realize the market has turned and inventory (houses for sale) has plummeted. I start praying for a miracle.

Late March: My friend Felicia and I start doing Beth Moore’s Believing God Bible study together. Neither of us knows anything about it. Both of us are searching for homes.

April: I tell Kevin that I’d like to find a house by July 1 so that we can get into it before school starts. Our family starts praying for that together. We have no prospects, but we’ve got a lot of time. House sales pick up in the summer, right? God speaks to me from Hebrews 11:6: “Without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.” I’m seeking like never before.

May: We’re now checking the MLS every day. Absolutely nothing appeals to us.

Late May: Felicia and I, who have been plowing through this Bible study, realize we’re going to have to slow down with the kids out of school. We had hoped to finish it before school ended, but maybe there’s a reason we need to stick with it through the summer. Every lesson speaks to me on waiting, seeking God, trusting in His faithfulness. Hebrews 11:1: “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”

May 31: Felicia finds a house. My hope is renewed.

June 1: A third summer in the Shome. I did not sign up for this, and I’m growing restless. Psalm 40:17: “I am poor and needy, but, Lord God, you care about me, and you come to my rescue. Please hurry up and help.” (If David can ask God to hurry, so can I.)

June 9: Maybe God doesn’t appreciate my July 1 deadline. I meet with a former author of mine, someone I greatly respect, and ask him what he thinks God thinks when we pray with a deadline. “I think He’s delighted,” my friend replies. He then prays with me not only for a house by July 1, but a house with all the things we’re looking for. “How many square feet?” he wants to know. I hadn’t thought of asking God that!

June 10: We’ve decided to increase our price range. Maybe we can help God along by creating a bigger window for Him to work with? (Because obviously He needs our help?) I am now looking on the MLS day and night, and Matthew 6:33 comes to mind—the only verse I have memorized in the King James: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all of these things shall be added unto you.” I resolve to have my quiet time before looking at the MLS!

June 11: “Oh, God, what if we’ve prayed for July 1 with the kids and you don’t answer? What will that do to their faith? What will it do to mine?” Mark 9:24: “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

June 12: My reading from the Believing God study: “And so we celebrated because the Lord had indeed worked miracles for us” (Psalm 126:3). A few days later, this same verse will appear on the screen at our church. A sacred echo! Got it. Memorized it.

June 19: The anniversary of our move to the Shome. We made it two years!

June 23: We pack up our friend Peggy, who is moving to Arizona. She seems to be the primary person God wanted us to meet down here, and we have spent hours and hours with her. Because she keeps falling and can no longer live alone, she has decided to move to Arizona with her family. While I am sad to see her go, I also feel like God is releasing our family from our assignment down here.

June 26: The most destructive fire to ever hit Colorado levels 347 houses in our city in one evening. Our focus and prayers shift away from our house and onto theirs. The whole city is sad and smoky.

June 29: I whine to Kevin that I’m sick of summer, sick of the heat, sick of the fire, sick of the Shome, sick of waiting on God. I start composing a blog post in my head about how much easier it is to focus on your frustrations than on your faith. I review my journal and find a passage I got from a book I worked on last summer: “The Lord was testing you to make sure you trust Him, so that He could be good to you later on.” I’m sick of the testing, but I can’t even complain about it because we’re in a disaster zone, and at least I have a place to live. There’s nothing I hate more in myself than ungratefulness.  

June 30: It’s 95 degrees, and we have a t-ball double header. In the smoke. I check my e-mail at the game. There’s a new MLS listing. My friend Rebecca looks up the address on her phone. It’s a house on 3.6 acres a half-mile from our school. In our original price range. We drive there straight from the t-ball field.

July 1: Although there aren’t supposed to be any showings until Monday, our realtor gets us in on Sunday night. We walk through the house. It needs a lot of work, but we know it’s the one.

July 5: We’re under contract. We aim to close on August 3. School starts August 20.

And so we celebrated

Because the Lord indeed

Has worked miracles for us. 

Fire Fighting

I moved to Colorado Springs in 1993, a 22-year-old with a brand new college degree and little else. I didn’t know a soul here. I rented an apartment a few miles from The Navigators, where I had found a part-time job as a writer. Unable to live on the $11,000 it paid, I eagerly took another part-time job as a secretary in my department so that I could eek out a very modest living.

I felt like a grown-up when I arrived, but I wasn’t. Glen Eyrie, the headquarters of The Navigators, is where I grew up. It’s where I understood the kind of relationship God wanted with me. It’s where I learned to memorize His Word and apply it to my life. It’s where I learned words like “disciple” and “Great Commission.” It’s where I made my biggest blunders and celebrated my greatest achievements. It’s where I learned to do the work I do today. It’s where I met the people who changed the course of my life. It’s where I met my husband (at the mailboxes) and said my wedding vows (in the Castle). It’s where I nearly gave birth—Brooklyn was born 12 hours after I left work one day in April 2004. It’s where I sat on the floor in the hallway with my friends and bawled like a baby the day my job came to an end. It’s where I can barely, just barely, muster up the strength to drive by today, more than five years after my sad departure. Like so many other Navigators around the world, I think of Glen Eyrie as my spiritual home.

The Waldo Canyon fire raging in our mountains leapt down the ridge Tuesday evening and charged toward Glen Eyrie. It’s not the first time the Glen has been in the path of natural disaster, but this is about as close as it gets. I heard today that infrared pictures show the fire line coming right up to the edge of the property—where it abruptly ends. Certainly the teams of firefighters on the property are doing an amazing job defending it. The castle, especially, as the original home of Colorado Springs’ founder, is so prominent in the city that they will not let it go down without a major fight. But I also know there’s another kind of protection that doesn’t need any hoses or shovels. I can’t begin to imagine how many of us are praying for the Glen. How we love to see Him answer in such dramatic ways.

Please keep praying for our city—for the 32,000 displaced residents, for the firefighters, for Glen Eyrie.  This will be a long haul. 

What I've Learned from the French Horn

Until recently, I’ve never thought about what a person’s musical instrument says about him or her. But now that I am the mother of an aspiring French-horn player, I’ve had opportunity to think about it in great depth. For hours. While she’s playing, playing, playing the French horn.

This is my 10-year-old, Addison. She has played the piano for four years and has entertained us with her own original works, such as “Mommy’s In the Shower Cleaning Stinky Body” and “Nobody Cares for Addison.” (The latter is truly amazing, lyrics not withstanding, and I think she should play it for her next recital.) About a year ago, she decided she wanted to follow in the footsteps of her piano teacher/cousin and play the French horn. At that time, I didn’t know a French horn from a car horn, so I set out to learn more.

The French horn is hard to play. For this reason, few people choose to play it. It requires massive wind and a keen ear, neither of which I knew if my daughter had. What I did know was that I would never choose the French horn. I never played any musical instrument at all, and if I had, my two requirements would have been these:

1)    Are my friends playing it?

2)    Is it easy?

And yet I have somehow managed to play a key role in the creation of a child who not only wants to play as many musical instruments as possible, but who wants to play whatever is unique and whatever is too hard for most people. Not only that, but she’s fiercely determined. We went to the music store to try all sorts of different instruments, and she willingly agreed. But it was the French horn we left with. Because it’s hard.

So status-quo-loving me finds herself with a fearless child who plans to spend her life in Indonesia and a determined child who will not be persuaded to take the easy way out. Clearly, God enjoys irony. 

It's the Little Things

It never ceases to amaze me that you can spend a hundred bucks trying to create a magical day for your kids, only to have them pout, whine, cry, and bicker through every part of it. And then there are those days in which you have not a single expectation, and the magic just sneaks up on you.

Last week we were planning to meet my in-laws for lunch, but they got held up, and lunch was delayed. I was already in route when I found out, my van filled with four restless kids anxious to eat and play with their cousins. And now we had an hour or more to kill. I took the first highway exit I saw, and we landed at the furniture store.

As much as I don’t enjoy decorating or shopping, even I think the furniture store is kind of cool. If nothing else, it’s roomy and air-conditioned. The older kids remember the furniture store and were skeptical about its entertainment potential. (And, really, what is life for a 12-year-old except an opportunity to be constantly entertained?) Still, I pressed on with my “Oh, won’t this be fun?” propaganda, and in we went. I always feel a bit like a circus performer when I walk into a quiet place with my kids trailing behind me; there are only five of us, but we’re somehow still a spectacle. We were accosted by no less than four salesmen before we even made it to the first display, but after saying with increasing intensity, “We’re just looking,” they seemed to get the idea and leave us alone.

We made no plans, we paid no money, we ate no junk food, yet the next hour was blissful. We tested the sofas. We rocked in the rocking chairs. We flopped on the mattresses, plopped into the bean-bag chairs, and spun in the spinny chairs. We pulled out the dresser drawers and planned where we would put our treasures and our socks. We pretended to eat the fake waffles on the table and drink the fake Coke on the coffee table. (Where do those come from, anyway?) All of these things would annoy me to death if we were there to actually buy furniture, but instead, I could actually take part in the silliness. I got to spend an hour dreaming with my kids, and not once did I have to say, “No. Put that back. We’re not getting it.” Obviously we weren’t there to haul out a three-piece living room set, so no one even asked for anything. We laughed and pretended and enjoyed each other’s company. Yep, sheer bliss. And you can bet that if I had planned something “fun” that day, it would not have turned out well enough to blog about. Well, not unless it was for entirely different reasons.

I’m not going to make a scrap-book page about our hour at the furniture store, and it’s not likely what our kids will mention when asked what they did this summer. But it’s a memory we won’t soon forget, and I’m thankful for the reminder that it’s the little things that usually end up making the biggest impression.  

The Promise of an Ending

I’m at the gym doing push-ups. Lots of them. Side by side with a class full of other sweaty women. I feel done. Like I can’t do this for another second. Does the instructor even remember we’re here? I know she can do push-ups all day, but doesn’t she care about the rest of us? We’re not like her.

Then she breaks the silence. “Eight more, ladies!”

A second ago, I was done. I couldn’t do even one more. But suddenly, I have new strength. I can do eight more. I just needed the promise of an ending.

How many times have I said, “I’m done,” only to jump back on the horse and ride it home as soon as I see the first glimpse of an ending in sight? I was the restless high school senior who gutted out every day because graduation was coming. I’ve always been a runner who needs to know I’ve only got a half-mile or five minutes left to run. I’m a school mom who needs to know that the craziness of May will give way to the serenity of June. I’m the book editor who knows I can keep getting up at 4:30 a.m. to work because the deadline is just four weeks away.

But today, I’m the woman who lives in the Shome, and there’s no foreseeable end in sight. It’s not that it’s a terrible place—it’s not at all—but, oh, how I yearn for a real house again. A house that feels like home. It seems to me that every good life lesson that could be soaked up from this living experience has been soaked. I feel more grateful, more aware of how other people live, more humble, less demanding, less dependent on stuff. And yes, I feel done. It feels a little like doing endless push-ups. And maybe my Almighty Instructor can do this with me forever, but I’m tired and sweaty and running out of steam.

I’m listening, waiting expectantly, to hear Him break the silence. “It’s time,” He’ll say one day soon. “Just ___ days left.” In the meantime, darn it, I don’t want to be a wimp. I want to finish well. I want to finish joyfully and thankfully. I want my Instructor to be pleased. So I hang on. Up. Down. Up. Down. Waiting for the promise of an ending. 

Random Thoughts from the Month of May

• Many of you know this already, but I’ll say it anyway: May is to a mom of school kids what April is to accountants and December is to retailers.
• And how many of you knew there’s a whole world out there that buys big bouquets of flowers for their preschoolers’ dance recitals? We didn’t get the memo, and I would have been too practical to accept the idea even if we had. The first thing Camryn said when I went to pick her up was, “I bet you didn’t get me a flower, did you?” (At the young age of 5, how well she knows her mother.) But when we made our way through the crowds and caught up with the men in our family, Braden handed her a pink, slightly worn carnation that had fallen from someone else’s bouquet. She lit up like a neon sign and carried it with her all day long.
• Is there any more awesome way to finish up a school year than to watch the Air Force Thunderbirds streak across the sky each year? Our school is across the street, basically, from the U.S. Air Force Academy, and we appreciate that they schedule their graduation the same day our classes end. Feels like the Thunderbirds are there just for us. As an added bonus, we got to see the presidential helicopter this year, too.
• There are few things more awkward to watch than sixth-grade suburban boys attempting the Electric Slide at their year-end party.
• Believe it or not, there are children who are heartbroken at the thought of school being over for three months. I was one, and I have one (Brooka).
• Satan has a field day with moms who have no real summer plans (unless surviving another summer in the Shome is considered a “plan”) yet are surrounded by those who have very exciting plans. Today I declare war on comparing myself to others and being whiny instead of grateful.
• You know you’re getting older—or at least your kids are—when you wake up to find a toilet full of hours-old vomit. Old enough to vomit independently but not quite old enough to clean it up. Still, I’ll take it!