A Heart of Flesh

You know how there are people who cry at everything and people who just don’t? I have always considered myself as one in the “just don’t” category. When I think back on my childhood, I can picture long stretches with no tears. There was the time my dad made me move the week before the dance recital—but I’m not sure if I was crying out of sadness or just to make him feel bad. Our propensity to move repeatedly and unexpectedly probably brought about the most tears, but even those weren’t as prolific as you’d think. 

I made it through Old Yeller and Chalotte’s Web with just a sniffle. 

I cried when I left California, but that was mostly just over the weather, so I’m not sure that counts.

So how did the girl who didn’t shed a tear at her own wedding turn into this woman who now gets misty eyed nearly every day? I tear up at track meets and soccer games. It’s rare that I get through church without my eyes fogging up. I can’t watch videos of my little kids without a box of Kleenex. Just dusting the DVD shelf and catching a glimpse of the “Up” jacket cover can make me cry, and Lord help me if the movie is actually playing. I can fill a bucket within the first twenty minutes.

Transitions are the worst for me. My kids have learned that mom cries when things change—especially when they change. As much as I’m looking forward to having all four kids in all-day school next year, I predict rolling sobs, puffy eyes, and a killer crying hangover all day on August 20.

I could maybe blame hormones? Mid-life women can use that as an excuse for just about anything. But I don’t think that’s it. I think I know what it is, and it was best described by the prophet Ezekiel about 2,500 years ago (because apparently people don’t change that much): “I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh” (Ezek. 11:19). The first time I read those words, I had no idea what they meant. “Flesh” is usually a negative term in the Bible, and besides, how can a heart be anything but flesh?

But now it seems pretty simple to me: A heart of flesh is one that feels, and it feels deeply. It doesn’t use busyness or distraction to keep it hard or aloof. It’s what God uses to speak to us, to teach us, to make Himself more real to us. And sometimes—a lot of times—a heart of flesh cries. Over the years, the Holy Spirit has softened my heart, making me more sensitive to the ways of God and the hurts of this world. I never thought I’d say it, but a life with tears might well be a richer life altogether. Remember that in August when you see me dropping off my kids at school looking like a drowned rat.  

What Chickens Can Teach Us

What my children have learned over the past two months as chicken farmers (and by “farmers,” I mean people who raise chicks in the spare bedroom):

Babies are adorable. Adolescents are less so, plus they’re louder, smellier, and take up a lot more space.

Time goes much faster when measured by the growth of one’s babies.

You can mourn the loss of your baby while eagerly anticipating all that’s ahead for her.

You may not always, or even usually, get along with your brothers and sisters, but you’ll squawk like mad when you’re left alone.

Youngsters get riled up at bedtime, when all you really want them to do is GO TO SLEEP.

“Flew the coop” and “pecking order” are not random figures of speech.

Girls are cliquish.

Racism is not just something in history books. Early on, our white chick started picking on our black one, leaving her bloodied at one point. Go figure.

Strong are the bonds formed by the young. After moving our black chick out for a few days to let her heal, we put three of our younger ones in with her to keep her company. A month later, she still sees herself as their mama and keeps a close eye on them.

Beware of predators and keep your babies close. A neighboring hen lost her head to a hawk a few weeks ago.

Mourning is acceptable, but keep it in perspective. When our chicks are released to the wild of our backyard, dad’s rule is we can be sad for 24 hours if we lose one. After that, it’s chins up, soldiers!

The applications between the chicken world and the human world are apparently endless. Addison said the other day, “I now know how Abraham must have felt when God asked him to sacrifice Isaac.” No one’s asking her to sacrifice her chickens—they’re layers, not eaters—but if having chickens helps her understand the Bible more, alrighty then. 

When Losing Is Winning

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you get rained out. I remember hearing that a lot when I was a kid. And, boy, did I hate to lose.

It doesn’t take long to figure out that losing is a part of life. Disappointments are beyond our control; the only thing we can control is our own response. Bet my kids wish they had a buck for every time they’ve heard me say that. As tempting as it is, I don’t try to shield them from disappointment. It’s not like I go out looking for it. I don’t have to. It’s everywhere. And when it comes up, I try to force myself to be thankful for each disappointment they have while in my care, where I can help them work through it in healthy ways. As far as I can see, that doesn’t come naturally. It has to be taught and modeled.

So lucky me. I’ve had lots of opportunities to work through disappointment with two of my kids this week—and lots of opportunities to teach and model. And you know what? I still hate losing. Addison was having a hard week with character stuff anyway, and then she found out that she didn’t win the cooking contest. I’m pretty sure she came in second, which, according to what my dad used to say, is like kissing your sister. Even harder for me than that was watching my son lose the student council election, for the second time in a year, by two votes. And, oh, how badly he wanted it.

I hate those losses for both of them. I want them to have more “thrill of victory” and less “agony of defeat.” What parent doesn’t? But more than I want them to win, I desperately want them to grow in faith and character. I want them to trust that God is always, always working for their good, even in the disappointments. I want them to learn to say, honestly, “Not my will but yours be done, Lord.” That kind of growth seems to happen a lot more in the losses than it does in the wins.

Tonight we’re going out to celebrate our losses from this week. We’re going to rejoice through them, because even though we may not feel it right now, we believe deep down that we’re better because of them. And we’re celebrating the kids’ great attitudes, because win or lose, rain or shine, Addison’s gonna keep cooking, Braden’s gonna keep running for student council, and we’re all gonna keep on growing.  

Vote for Addison!

Two Mondays ago, I found myself sitting in a sound-proof room watching five huge video images of my daughter Addison. She was in the room next to me making salad in front of a film crew. Sort of sounds like I was dreaming, doesn't it?

On a lark, my 11-year-old girl entered a cooking context sponsored by Sodexo, the company that provides food service to her school. The theme this year was salad, which is comical, because until recently, salad was the least served dish in our house. We consulted my best friend Kendra, who knows her way around a kitchen and cares about things like good nutrition. She e-mailed us some ingredients, we threw them together and modified a bit, and voila! The Tropical Power-Packed Salad was born. Out of a field of 112, she was one of ten students in our district selected for the local contest. With poise I didn’t know she had, Addison boiled quinoa, chopped strawberries, and presented her dish with flair in front of a live audience and five judges who were intimidating even to me. She won first prize, $300 worth of cooking utensils—I call it a “bridal shower in a box”—that are packed away and waiting for her first home.

Then a couple weeks ago we found out she had won two more contests, which apparently happened without us, and was a finalist for the national contest—just one of five kids in the whole country to make it this far! You know where my mind went. Did this mean an all-inclusive trip for six to DisneyWorld, where Addison would make her salad in front of a panel of distinguished judges? (Goofy, maybe?) Or what about Hawaii, since hers is, after all, a tropical salad?

Well, not exactly. Instead, we got to drive ourselves over to the school district building, where she made the salad in front of a video camera and some tech guys. As this was not the top priority of the district tech guys that day, it was thrown together pretty hastily and without much prep, but it was still a hoot to see my little girl up there doing her best Rachael Ray imitation and cracking jokes about fiber.

The result is posted on YouTube. The contest is no longer about taste or appearance or healthfulness. At this point, it’s strictly about how many votes she can get from people like you. Will you check it out and give her your vote? And will you tell your friends?! (We're not on Facebook, but I bet you are!) You’ll get a great salad recipe in the process.

If you want to see her video and get the recipe (she's the first one), click here. 

If you prefer to cut to the chase and just vote, click here.

Voting lasts through April 30, and you can vote as many times as you’d like. Thank you!

Why so angry?

Has anyone else noticed how mad everyone seems to be all the time? I can barely get through a week of driving without being honked at (and not because I’m looking so fine in my 1998 minivan) or flipped off. Seriously, flipped off. What’s up with that? Who are these people who are so angry that I haven’t moved quickly enough through an intersection that they’re willing to roll down their window and throw out a vile gesture to a woman driving six kids in a minivan? Who are these people who shout at their kids at the top of their lungs in stores and restaurants? And the hate bloggers? Who is so passionately angry that they’ll spend hours raging against strangers who don’t share their same view on gun control or same-sex marriage? I wonder how they find the time and the energy to be so angry.

There’s a bumper sticker out there that says, “If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention.” It’s one of my favorites, because I like to pull up alongside those people and smile real big. Sometimes I’ll mouth, “I’m not angry.” True, I’m probably not paying attention, but I also have low blood pressure and a lot of friends.  

 Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past ... to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you. –Frederick Buechner

My Meager Bucket List

I recently met a woman who had been to the London Olympics over the summer. She commented, “Checked that one off my bucket list!” I watched the movie like everyone else so I know what a bucket list is, but I hadn’t thought of such a list for myself until she mentioned it. I wondered if I should start one. I began thinking about it in those early-morning hours when there was no sleep to be had. What would be on my bucket list?

I used to want to travel the world. I was planning a trip to Russia to kick things off about the time Kevin proposed to me. When it came down to paying for a trip or a wedding, I chose the wedding, and I’ve never had any regrets. Oddly enough, I’ve also never regretted that my travels take me to parks and McDonald’s and soccer fields and pediatrician’s offices instead of oceans and cathedrals and historical landmarks. Now halfway through my life, besides a few jaunts to Mexico and sticking my toes over the Canadian border, I’ve not been out of the country, yet I’m completely content. I’d like to go on a missions trip some day, but I’m not sure even that would go on my bucket list.

There’s a picturesque village of 4,300 people in Australia’s Blue Mountains that I’ve dreamed of visiting since I heard about it at the age of 20. The name of the town is Leura, and it just seemed meant to be that I would travel there and have my picture taken outside the Leura Post Office or the Leura Nail Salon as some of my friends have done. I thought I might go when I turned 30, but I had a one-year-old who I couldn’t bear to leave or bring along. And when I turned 40, the child count had grown to four and the discretionary vacation funds to nil. There’s always my 50^th—but even my longing to visit Leura has subsided over the years. I don’t know if I’d put it on my bucket list.

I used to love thrill rides and couldn’t imagine anything more sensational than jumping out of an airplane. That doesn’t make the list anymore. I’m a lifelong writer with no desire to write a book. A lifelong runner with no interest in ever doing a marathon. So what would I put on my list?

Of course there are a lot of things I’d like to see and do, things that sound fun or adventurous. But if I’m correctly understanding the purpose of a bucket list, it’s to focus on rich experiences that will add to one’s remaining days on earth. If my bucket list contained only those goals that were truly the most important to me, that I really wanted to do and do well before I die, it would be a pretty simple list.

I want to know God as deeply as I can.

I want to get over myself and love people well.

Maybe that’s a boring list? If I had seen it 20 years ago, I would have thought it was created by someone who’s not much fun. But time and perspective have shown me there’s nothing more adventurous, nothing more challenging, nothing more fulfilling or pleasurable than knowing God and doing what He says. I’m sure I’ll never get my items fully checked off my list, but I’m happy to know I’ll die trying. 

A Man after God's Own Heart

I am loving the new pope! As a lifelong protestant, I’ve never been all that aware of the pope or the business of the Catholic church. But with the choice of Pope Francis, they’ve got my attention.

The pictures of the Pope on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday were shocking. A pope—a 76-year-old pope, no less—lying prostrate on an alter to worship Christ? The world’s most recognized religious man kneeling before a group of prisoners, washing and kissing their dirty feet? It’s outrageous! How beautifully, perfectly outrageous.

Before the feet-washing pictures began screaming from the newspapers, I didn’t even know that was a common Holy Week practice among popes. I learned that traditionally, the pope has washed the feet of 12 of his bishops, men dressed in elaborate, flowing robes of honor, in Rome’s grand St. John Lateran Basilica, as a remembrance of one of Jesus’ most famous earthly acts. But Pope Francis does not appear to be overly concerned with following tradition. He washed feet all right, but they were not clean, honorable feet. They were the feet of the poor, the prisoner, the rejected, the outcast—even the Muslim.

“This is a symbol, it is a sign—washing your feet means I am at your service,” Pope Francis told them. This same man was washing feet long before the rest of the world cared. As the archbishop of Buenos Aires, he washed feet in jails, hospitals, and hospices. Newspapers and blogs attest to the fact that his attention has always been turned to the poorest and most marginalized of society. He says he wants the church to be for the poor. What a concept!

The pope’s lifestyle indicates that these are more than just headline-making words. In Buenos Aires, he chose to live in an apartment instead of the palace that was provided for him. He cooked his own meals and used public transportation. He has eschewed the elaborate papal robes. Upon his first public introduction to the world as pope, he refused to be elevated on a platform above the other church leaders, saying simply, “I’ll stay down here.”

I have to wonder if the Catholic church knew what they were getting into with this man. If they knew that he would choose for himself the name Francis, after St. Francis of Assisi, who sought not to abolish poverty but to make it holy. If they knew he would choose simplicity over ceremony and prisoners over priests. Maybe they didn’t know, but surely God did, and I have to think He is very pleased. The Bible calls King David a man after God’s own heart. From what I’ve seen so far of Pope Francis, I think he may be called that, as well.