Déjà vu

“Unbelievable.”

Kevin walked into the house Tuesday afternoon and asked if I’d seen the smoke. The very word “smoke” conjured up images that my mind wasn’t ready for. I stood in the driveway and could scarcely take it in. An enormous, monstrous cylinder of dark smoke rose up out of Black Forest, little more than five miles from our house. I immediately felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. What couldn’t be really was. Our city was on fire again, just 50 weeks after the most devastating wildfire in Colorado history. Unbelievable.

There’s good déjà vu and then there’s this kind. This is the nightmare variety. It consists of smoke so thick you don’t dare open the windows or go for a walk. Mandatory evacuations and temporary shelters. Military helicopters and jets flying overhead. Now-familiar terms like “slurry” and “duff” and “red-flag warnings.” Local news stations broadcasting 24/7, and households that come to a screeching halt at 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. to watch the latest update: How many houses were lost in the night? What will the wind do today? What’s the level of containment? (We’ve learned to rejoice over 50 percent but expect 0 percent.) Then finally the Type 1 Incident Command—the feds who only give attention to the nation’s most terrorizing fires—moves in to take over. By now they feel like trusted old friends.

There are the same nagging logistical questions we had last June: Do we push ahead with the birthday party? Do we still go to the orthodontist? Is it life as usual even when it feels like a war zone? And is that disrespectful to our neighbors who have lost everything?

The same sticky theological questions arise, as well: Have we stirred up your wrath, Lord? Or is this simply life in a fallen world?

But this fire is markedly different for my family. Last year, we lived in the Shome, a world away from the terror that played out on the west side of the city. This time, the fire is in our back yard. The planes are flying right over our heads—it would be spectacular if it weren’t so scary. We lost power and water for a day and a half, and I learned to operate a generator. The evacuation zone, still voluntary at this point, is an easy bike ride away for even my child with training wheels.

So I find myself in the surreal position of walking through the house, tossing the kids’ medals and artwork and home movies into boxes, trying to hunt down the wedding video and the title to our house, all while questioning the sanity of what I’m doing. Really? Is it going to get this far? In my neighborhood? That’s crazy. All I’m doing is creating a lot of work for myself.

But that’s the old way of thinking, the June 22, 2012, way of thinking. We’re people who live in a post-Waldo Canyon world. We’re people who have seen the impossible happen.

During this morning’s press briefing, a reporter asked our sheriff if he thought the interstate was in danger of being shut down. He paused, gave a sad, war-weary laugh, and said something like this: “A year ago I said there was no way it would get that bad, that the highway would certainly not be shut down, but it did and it was. I’ll never say never again.”

So I keep packing. Unbelievable.

Taking the Grade

“Grace” is a word I use almost every day. I preach it to myself and teach it to my kids. I memorize Bible verses about it and tape them to my walls. I read books about it and sing songs about it. But I still think it’s a hard concept to explain. It’s best described by metaphors and word pictures and stories. I was especially affected by the one I heard during this week’s church sermon.

A student was signed up for a class that she knew she would fail. Distraught over the thought of certain failure, she asked her dad to accompany her to the teacher’s office to see if she could drop the class. Together they pleaded their case to the teacher. He stopped them midway through and said, “What if I guarantee you, right now, that you will get an A in the class? No matter what you do, the A is yours.” Of course that changed everything for the girl. With the teacher’s guarantee, she not only survived the class, but she was hugely successful in it. His promise brought out the very best in her.

In the classroom of life, God guarantees an A to all who call upon the name of Jesus (Romans 10:13). You can’t earn your way into heaven, buy your way into heaven, or hope your way into heaven. The grace of God—giving us not what we deserve but what we need—is the only ticket we have. And it’s guaranteed.

Just like the girl in the story, knowing we’ve got the A already, that there’s nothing we can do to make the grade any better or any worse, frees us up to be the best we can be—the people we were made to be. For me, the key word in that sentence is “be.” No matter how deeply I think I’ve grasped the concept of grace, I still feel like there’s more I should be doing. God is not so concerned with my doing. It’s my being that He’s interested in. He’s not looking for my great acts of service, ready to up my grade when I complete them or flunk me when I fail or just stall out. I can’t impress God with what I do. I can only take Him up on His gift of grace and cultivate a “being” heart, one that is loving, humble, faithful, obedient.

The A is mine. Will I live like it? Will you? 

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