784 Days

Our days at the Shome are coming to an end. We’ll be moving next week, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. To the casual reader, it may seem like we just moved in. But to me, the past 784 days (give or take) have felt exactly like 784 days. My baby was newly three when we moved in; now she’s starting kindergarten in a week and a half. A lot of living has happened at the Shome. So what will I remember? What will the kids remember? The lack of space? The long commutes everywhere? The line of five whiny people at the bathroom door? Probably, but I hope we’ll focus on these memories instead:

• The girls becoming master rollerbladers in our family room.
• Eating donuts and watching the hot-air balloon launch on Labor Day weekend from our rooftop.
• Walking to the Family Dollar store across the street. How many people can do that?
• The kids using our bed as their “outdoor play area,” and us being laid back enough to go with it.
• Sword fights with dipsticks on top of the building next door.
• Daily visits from Grandpa, who works downstairs. Every kid should get to see their grandpa each day!
• Camryn opening her eyes in the morning and seeing her dad sitting at his desk right across the hallway.
• Christmas caroling in the ’hood with 80 of our suburban friends.
• Getting creative in the minivan. We used it for doing homework, eating, napping, reading, playing games, changing clothes, and having some really great conversations. 

And what about what we’ve learned during these 784 days? I’m still processing, and probably will be for a very long time, but here are a few things I know today:

• The poor are not just who you think they are. In our neighborhood at least, they are old ladies who live in small houses with lots of pets. How can we all do a better job of taking care of these forgotten women?
• Our city is much more diverse than we think it is. In any of the stores near our house we see people with turbans, women covered in robes, people with no limbs, and every race imaginable. Some day soon the kids won’t know this is normal. We’ll go days and weeks and possibly months without seeing someone in a wheelchair unless we’re intentional about where we walk and shop and hang out.
• Kids are so much less fragile than we think they are. Why is it that when a scary-looking person walks down the street, I step aside but kids look up and smile? Or that a 7-year-old can talk so intelligently and compassionately about homelessness? How can they all endure a middle-of-the-night break-in and be completely unfazed the next day? Nope, not as fragile as I thought.
• And here’s the big lesson for me: If you’re going to radically change your life, you’ve got to jump in with both feet. You can take baby steps—maybe even teenager steps—in living outside your comfort zone without completely detaching from the world as you once knew it. That is what we have done, and I’m so glad we did. We are better because of it, even if the ways are small. But we didn’t fully commit. For several reasons, we kept our kids in their overachieving school in the “nice” part of town, which meant their playdates, sports teams, and really their hearts, stayed there as well. This also left me in the car three hours a day, and it’s hard to invest in your community when your most meaningful fellowship is with a steering wheel. Baby steps are good and important, and I’ve done things here that I never imagined I could do. But to anyone considering uprooting to a different kind of lifestyle, I would say you’ve got to pull those roots all the way up. 

A New Era

Today I am the mother of a teenager. My son Braden, an unwilling participant in his own birth, was yanked from the womb 13 years ago today. I've said for a few years now that we're in parenting utopia—no babies, no teenagers. It all ends today.

Or does it? 

Can we make it through the next seven years with no door slams, no holes punched in the wall, no angry “YOU-JUST-DON’T-UNDERSTAND!” moments? I’m not so sure. Most of the grown men I’ve asked have admitted to a wall punch or two during their teenage years, and my husband bears scars on his own forearm from an angry adolescent outburst.

Will my son make it through junior high and high school with no regrets? Not a chance. I see many of my own worst qualities spewing out of my firstborn—impatience, a tongue quick to criticize, brutal honesty that’s not always packaged in love. He’ll say something he regrets, probably every day, until maturity and natural consequences and the book of James finally do their work in him and tame his tongue. Then it’ll only happen once a week.

Will he experience devastating disappointment? Will he be stressed and overwhelmed? Will he feel like no one understands him? Will he wonder why God made him the way He did and wish he could be someone else? Yes on all counts. And he’ll be stronger, wiser, gentler because of it. I wouldn’t shield him from these traumas for anything. 

But I will not surrender him to teenage culture. I will not accept the popular idea that this is where I lose him. I will not believe the bad press that teenagers get. I will not believe the lies that teenagers don’t want anything to do with their parents or that they have to shut us out to discover their own independence. I will not assume that he doesn’t want to hear from me on the big issues of life and keep my fingers crossed that he’s getting good enough messages from his church leaders, teachers, coaches, and friends. I will not trade in my role as his parent in hopes of being his friend. I will not assume that healthy independence means hours spent in a room filled with technology but no people or that my son has better things to do than spend time with his parents and little sisters. I will not stop wrestling with him, tickling him, or hugging him just because he’s eight inches taller than me (and, oh, how I hope he’ll be eight inches taller than me!).

In the blink of an eye, these little children I’ve been raising will all be teenagers, and it starts today. I say bring it on. I can’t wait! 

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.