Picture Day

Here’s a definition of maturity that I heard recently: Being in distress and remaining your best self. I don’t know anyone who’s mastered that, but I can say for sure one of the times I am my least mature, worst self—school picture day.

Whose idea was it, exactly, to send our children off for a seven-hour day of school—a day which will include a soccer game in PE, a spill-fest in the cafeteria, and a few hundred twirls around the monkey bars—and have their picture taken? For the yearbook? Had to be a man. A man with sons. And why did God think I could be my best self with three daughters, anyway? Some days I wonder, and picture day is my most wondering day of all.

Was I my best self when my littlest girl wanted to wear a dress three inches too short or have her hair “all curly”? (I really stink at hair.) No, I wasn’t. What about when my middle daughter pulled out the most bizarre combination of clothes imaginable and called it dressing up? (Every year I send Brooka to school on picture day and wait for the call: “Mrs. Jones, you know it was a dress-up day, right? Not a costume day?”) Or when she plastered her bangs to her head with a water bottle, setting off a chain of events that led to her little sister toppling into the trash can and spilling dirty Kleenexes all over the floor? Um, no, not my best self. I also didn’t redeem myself when my oldest daughter—wearing her school uniform because I’ve learned not even to go there with her—needed to handle the chickens as we walked out the door—on picture day!

Was I my best self when the younger two wrestled on the floor over toothpaste, on picture day? (That’s freshly-curled hair in the line of toothpaste fire, you know!) No. Or when one of the girls couldn’t find her picture order form, the one I so carefully filled out the night before? No again. How about when we pulled up to school? My best self would say, “I love you, girls!” or “Be kind!” or “Love others well today!” My picture-day self hollered, “Be sure you pull your hair forward for the picture!” My best self, the one who cares about character and kindness far more than hair, just refused to show up. The sad thing is, I wasn’t even in distress. I was merely being stretched beyond my normal early-morning capacity.    

Slightly defeated, I returned home with two assurances. First, the grace of God covers a multitude of my failures. I'm so thankful. And second, I’ll have the opportunity to practice maturity all over again on next year’s picture day. (Although surely I can find a more attainable definition of maturity by then.)

(Dedicated to my friend Rebecca, who lives my parallel life about a mile down the road and whose daughters have even more hair than mine.)

Breaking the Addiction

My name is Leura, and I’m a chaos addict.

I got my first taste of it as a full-time college student working two jobs. By the time I became a working mom, I was hooked. My identity was sealed, and I loved it as much as I hated it: I was the Queen Juggler. The woman who hauled her breast pump into the office, her babies to out-of-town conferences, and her coworkers to ad-hoc meetings in the McDonald’s play area. The woman who squeezed in one last important interview 12 hours before her C-Section. The woman who edited the better part of a book with a pen in one hand and the other hand secured to the swimming suit straps of her one-year-old who toddled around the inflatable backyard pool.

Today there is no more job, there are no more toddlers, and the juggling balls have come to rest, at least to some extent. As activities director for a family of six, the juggling act is still alive and well. It’s just that my shift has changed, and now I find myself with seven chaos-free hours a day. Unnerving! I kept those balls in the air for so long—thrived on them, even as I cursed them—that I’m not exactly sure how to live life without them.

I’ve entered this still-and-quiet sort of phase, a place that’s foreign and awkward for a chaos junkie. Every part of me wants to keep up the juggling act, to just swap my old balls for new ones. That’s what a lot of chaos addicts do. But it’s not how God is leading me. While I’ve got lots of good ways to fill my time—Bible study, freelance work, volunteering, helping people in need—I believe God is telling me that I also need to embrace the quiet and to discover Him in it. The monks were probably onto something with their silence, solitude, and contemplation, and while those things scare the bejeebers out of me, if they are of God, how can I ignore them? 

It’s becoming more and more clear to me that busyness is an idol, and I have been one of its chief worshipers. Even worse, I’ve been proud of it. I’ve worn my busyness like a badge of honor. Busyness makes people think I’m important. It makes me think I’m important. My ego takes a serious blow every time I realize that no one’s expecting me anywhere, no one needs me anywhere. Busyness keeps me from true intimacy with God and other people. For years, I’ve been the last to arrive and the first to leave—because I was busy! Lingering just wasn’t something I did, yet lingering is often the gateway to true fellowship with others. More significantly, it’s often the door that leads to deeper intimacy with God, if only we will linger with Him and silence the voices that beckon us on to other things.

“Be still and know that I am God.” Ironic that this chaos addict has always loved that verse. The time has come to stop merely reciting it and start practicing it. Off I go. To be still. 

Your View of You

Ready for your deep thought of the day?

Your view of you is the greatest commentary on your view of God.

I wish that was original with me, but I’m not nearly that brainy. It’s from the book The Cure, written by the Truefaced guys, Lynch, McNicol, and Thrall. I could write for several hours on how The Cure rocked my world and nailed truth to my forehead, but I’ll stick with this quote for now.

I sometimes view myself as a slacker. And not just any slacker, but the worst kind of slacker. A spiritual slacker. I hear about people rescuing young girls from sex trafficking, adopting special-needs kids, finding jobs for homeless people, going on family missions trips, and I wonder what I should be doing to please God more. I’ve never doubted God’s love for me, but I’ve wondered if I was truly pleasing to Him. Sometimes I picture Him looking at me like a dad whose daughter ended up at community college when the dad hoped she’d be off to Harvard. Am I living the spiritual equivalent of a community college life when He intended Harvard for me? The Cure’s fictional character has had those kinds of thoughts, too. He puts it this way: “He’s disappointed in me. But He loves me enough to keep holding on. I know He won’t leave me.  . . . I just didn’t turn out like He hoped.”

But if that quote is true, if my greatest commentary on God is my view of myself, what do my slacker feelings say about God? And what do they say about Jesus’ own words, recorded in John 6:28–29:

“What exactly does God want us to do?” the people asked. Jesus answered, “God wants you to have faith in the one he sent.”

Do I not believe Jesus? Why do I—and so many other people—think I have to strive so hard to please God when faith is all He asks for? If I believe I can’t be fully acceptable to God until I’ve earned enough gold stars to please Him, then I don’t believe His Word. If I don’t believe I’m a saint, just the way I am today, regardless of whether I spend the day preaching the gospel to the poor or lying in bed watching movies, then I don’t believe Christ’s death was enough to purchase my righteousness. I’ve made God into a liar and Jesus’ death on the cross a sad, futile waste.

But when I believe that I am redeemed, that I am righteous, that I am a saint who is fully, wholly, totally pleasing to God and that there’s nothing in the world I could do to make Him love me more—then and only then am I rightly seeing God. 

Your view of you is the greatest commentary on your view of God.

So how’s your view of you today? 

All Things New

First day of school. New teachers, new backpacks, new schedules. New, new, new. So hard for me to feel comfortable with new. But “new” is a God thing, right? He makes all things new. The old has gone, the new has come. Lord, help me embrace “new” and not fight it with all that’s within me.

First day of having four kids in school all day long. It’s been 14 years in the making. But it has not snuck up on me. I have prayed, pondered, planned for the past year. The gift of time is always a blessing, and I will use it well. I’m yours, Lord.

First day dropping off my first grader for the whole day. For six years, she has been like my extra appendage. She is a hand-holder and has been at the end of my wrist every day of her life. There have been times when I had to remind myself, running through school dropping off big kids or dashing through the grocery store, that this is not a piece of luggage I’m attached to. This is my sweet Camryn girl, so aware of my feelings, and today she becomes a big kid. Oh, God, help me hold it together so that she’s focused on what’s ahead of her and not what (or who) she’s leaving behind. 

As a mom of older kids, I now know what I never would have believed during all those hard, blurry days at home with babies and toddlers. These firsts are gone in an instant. I’ll just start to find my rhythm, and it will be Fall Break. A stone’s throw from there and it’s that Thanksgiving/Christmas merry-go-round where we can hardly catch our breaths. January to March always seems like it will be a long stretch, but before you know it, your Christmas candy has turned into Valentine’s candy that somehow becomes pastel-colored Easter candy. The six weeks between Spring Break and the end of school are the fastest of all, and before you know what hit you, you’re preparing for summer camps and loading up the kids’ drawers with shorts and tank tops again. Young moms, it’s true! The second they step foot in an elementary school, our kids are in hyperspeed, and it never slows down again. It. Goes. So. Fast.

Be with the moms today, Lord. The kids will be fine. They might be nervous or a little whiny, but at the end of the day, they’ll be loud and happy and hungry. It’s the moms I pray for. Give us Transition Grace. You make all things new. 

August 10 and Thoughts on Stewardship

One year ago today we took possession of our house. For 364 days, I’ve pulled up in the driveway only to be met by those giddy little butterflies in my stomach reminding me the place is still here, and it’s still ours. For a good couple months it felt temporary, kinda like when you stay at a friend’s condo conveniently located next to a ski slope or a beach. Except this one was oh-so conveniently located next to our school. I had to remind myself that we were here to stay, that this blessing was only going to get better as we pealed away the old wall paper, tiled the dining room, planted raspberry bushes in our yard. God has given us this place not just to stay in but to live in.

Along with the blessing of getting to live here comes the opportunity to be good stewards of the blessing. As we prayed for our house, I was envisioning more than just a place to sleep in and hold our stuff. I desired a place where we could do the things closest to God’s heart, things like fellowshipping, loving, praying, laughing until our sides hurt.

I know us well enough to know our house will never be well furnished or decorated. There will always be eye sores and dust bunnies and piles that battle for control of the kitchen countertops. (Where on earth do the rest of you put your piles? Pile-free houses bewilder me!) I would love to hang a sign on my front door that says, “If you came to see my house, please come back in three days. If you came to see me, come on in!”

But despite all that, are we stewarding it well? It’s been fun to think about all that’s taken place here in the past year. We’ve hosted holiday meals and spontaneous game nights at our house. We’ve had long visits from old friends and cozy dinners with new friends. We’ve had a steady stream of kids munching in our kitchen, skating in our driveway, sword-fighting on our porch, and go-karting through our weeds. We’ve had Bible studies for girls and prayer meetings for moms. We’ve had people stop by on their way to school or sports practices to use the bathroom or fill their water bottles. No one’s stopped by for a nap yet, but I hope they will! And just last week we had eight teenage boys running through our field hurling paintballs and rotten fruit at one another. Watching them do what boys do in a place that was made for boys to do it? I just wanted to climb to the rooftop and scream: “It is well with my soul!”

We are just where God wants us, and I believe we’re living the way He wants us to live. We don’t do it perfectly or nearly as well as some people, and it does take a lot of effort. It’s hard work shutting out that voice in my head that tells me my house isn’t clean enough or perfect enough, harder than sweeping and dusting and cleaning the bathrooms. But stewardship is never easy. I don’t think it’s supposed to be. That’s kind of the point.

What about the gifts in your life? Are you stewarding them well? 

A Forgiveness Story

There’s an old-fashioned term, besetting sins, used for the sin traps we fall into again and again. They’re the sins each individual is most susceptible to, the kind that seem to follow us for long periods of time. I don’t have to wonder what mine are; we’re well acquainted. My besetting sins are close relatives and have specific names: Criticizing. Judging. Self-righteousness. (I wish I didn’t know how much God hates self-righteousness, but it’s hard to escape when Jesus spent so much of His time on earth talking about it.) I have felt the consequences of these sins for years, I’ve confessed them, yelled at them, run from them, and at times escaped them, only to be, well, “beset” again.

It happened again last weekend, but this time God decided to have a little fun with me.

I’ve been exercising my besetting sins with a family I’ve known for about three years. Their “crime”? From my high and mighty throne, I concluded that the parents worked too much and shirked their parenting responsibilities to a teenage nanny. I didn’t even know their names, yet I had made quick judgments about who they were and how I didn’t approve. Then, last Friday night, I discovered more about who they really are. I went to hear the dad share his testimony, the kind of testimony that involves Navy SEALS and makes CNN headlines. I learned that this family is incredible. Their jobs are incredible. Their faith is super-duper incredible. Within an hour, I went from judging them to admiring them.

But I was left with regret and shame. They pounced on me like a ravenous attack dog, and I couldn’t shake them. Of course I repented to God. I even confessed to two of my friends. One reminded me that my slate is clean. “When we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” I can quote the scripture from memory, but while my brain may have known I was free and clean, my slate still felt awfully grimy. It lasted all day Saturday.

We go to church on Saturday night, but on this particular evening, my husband decided to take us out to dinner to celebrate a recent milestone in our family. This is how we found ourselves walking into a very random Chinese buffet restaurant on the far side of town on this particular Saturday evening—a restaurant we’ve never been to and will probably never visit again. Trying to paint a picture for you of just how random this was. Got it? Except that the randomness began to disappear as we walked inside and saw none other than the family I’d been thinking about all day. Oh, God, you indeed like to have fun with your kids.

The first voice I heard in my head was not fun at all. It came from the attack dog, who apparently had followed me into the restaurant. It said, “Oh, no! God’s going to make me go confess to these people. How horrifying, but probably just what I deserve.” Then came the second voice in my head, clearly from the Holy Spirit, who thankfully goes with me wherever I am: “Relax, child. Be at peace. I’m giving you the opportunity to meet your brother and sister in Christ and to enjoy one another.” And then a few minutes later came this thought, the best of all: “You’ve been bearing your regret and shame all day, and this is where it ends. You don’t need to carry it another second. I’ve brought you here to take it from you, and in exchange I will give you a really good story.”

And so He did. By the time we left the restaurant, I had introduced myself to both of the parents and expressed my admiration, opening the door for whatever relationship God may have in store for us in the future. I won’t be the least bit surprised if our kids are in class together next year. Wouldn’t it be awesome if  I was actually able to help this busy mom? Only our redeeming God could bring this story full circle like that.

So take that, besetting sins. I am reminded that I have to be watchful for you always. The Enemy is like a lion on the prowl, looking for those who are not on guard, and I know how easily I fall prey to his temptation. But I am not a slave to those sins. They do not control me or define me. A very high price was paid to clean my slate, and it’s that reality that defines me and gives me peace. I am not beset!  

Groaning

Groaning.

It’s what children do. It’s what my husband does nowadays when he reaches down to pick something up. It’s what I do when the dishwasher breaks or the dinner burns or my daughter tells me she wants to have a home birthday party with 15 friends. It’s what we all do as we glance at the calendar and realize how few summer days are left.

Even the very earth groans. We’ve experienced it up close and personal in Colorado Springs this summer. While others hear the earth groan through earthquakes and tornadoes, we hear it in wildfires that eat up our houses and mudslides that sweep our cars off the road. I hear it in the weeds in my garden and my restless chickens bloodying one another with their tireless pecking. The earth groans, along with all who are in it.

“For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time” (Romans 8:19–22).

Picture it: all of creation standing on tiptoe, waiting in great expectation for God to redeem it. Longing for God to at last step in. Creation fell alongside mankind. Adam and Eve’s rebellion against God didn’t just affect their offspring; it brought death and decay to everything on earth. And creation didn’t have any say in it! Can the oceans really know they were made for peace and not destruction? Can the winds know they were intended to provide gentle relief, not to wreak havoc? Our minds are not used to assigning such complex feelings to inanimate objects, but Scripture says it is so. And we all feel the effects of its groaning.

Picture all of creation shouting out to God: “When, Lord? When will you bring final redemption to your children and to us? When will you liberate us from this curse and bring us into the fullness of who you made us to be? We’re ready, Lord! We’re waiting!”

Not hard to imagine, is it, because we’re groaning right alongside creation. The next verse of Romans 8 says: “Not only so, but we ourselves . . . groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for . . . the redemption of our bodies.” A redeemed body? One that doesn’t make bad choices or hurt other people or just hurt period? Bring it on, Lord! I’m groaning, too!

Eugene Peterson amplifies the highly relatable picture of pregnancy to describe this longing: “All around us we observe a pregnant creation. The difficult times of pain throughout the world are simply birth pangs. But it’s not only around us; it’s within us. The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We’re also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy” (Romans 8:22–25, The Message).

The waiting is hard, painful at times, and sometimes we can only groan our way through it, but it enlarges us and creates in us a joyful expectation. It stirs us to recognize that we have been made for far more than we’re experiencing here and now. Keep groaning, friends, and know that you’re in very good company.