What About Humility?

I love my country, and I'm perpetually reminded how thankful I am to live here. There are times, however, when I'm a little embarrassed to be an American. Usually this occurs at an all-you-can-eat buffet where our American indulgence, wastefulness, and obesity are flaunted as boldly as our stars and stripes. We are unique and blessed among nations, but we are far, far from perfect.

Most recently, my embarrassment has come over events unfolding outside a mosque in Phoenix this week. Ostensibly gathered for a "cartoon contest," the event was actually designed as a media spectacle in which people waved not only their flags, but their First Amendment rights in the face of the watching world. The "contest" mimicked the one staged in Texas earlier this month, where participants were encouraged to draw their own caricatures of the prophet Muhammad. We all remember how that ended. The big difference this time was that the event was held outside a mosque--the very mosque attended by the men who tried to shoot their way into the Garland, Texas, cartoon contest.

The website promoting the Phoenix event encouraged participants to bring their guns: "People are also encouraged to utilize their Second Amendment right at this event just in case our First Amendment comes under the much anticipated attack."

Is this why the First Amendment was created? So that we could provoke one another to violence? How is this not bullying? The very thing we decry on our playgrounds and in our schools? The definition of bullying is unwanted, aggressive power exercised by one person (or group) over another, usually with the intention of forcing the bullied person into some action. I don't believe you can force someone, at least not a mentally stable someone, into mass murder. Everyone is responsible for their own actions. But if not forcing, these contest organizers are at least begging Muslims to strike out against them. They are bullies armed for war, knocking at the front door of those they want to demean and battle. And the worst part is that they're wrapped in American flags, speaking the language of freedom and rights and all that we hold dear in this beautiful nation.

The more I talk to people from other cultures, the more one thing is clear: People all over the world perceive Americans as arrogant. Even worse, they perceive this as a Christian nation, therefore linking Christians with arrogance. That is heartbreaking.

While not a Christian nation statistically speaking, we are a nation filled with millions who still long to follow Christ and live out His teaching. Thankfully, many of these folks also showed up at the Phoenix mosque. They came with signs about love and peace. They stood up to the bullies with Truth, and maybe they captured the attention of a Muslim or two in the process.

"Let us not become conceited, provoking and envying each other." Galatians 5:26

Remembering a Princess

"My daughter died like an ant."

His words cut me to my core. He was a young Nepalese man being interviewed by an American journalist. He had just recently finished building a house for his wife and their young daughter. What he had built with his own hands, his masterpiece, was demolished in a matter of seconds. Some unseen plates shifting beneath the earth's surface rocked this man's life forever. Much more than the loss of his house, this man agonized over the death of his daughter, barely more than a toddler. He dug for long hours to pull her out, only to find her dead. The journalist had been with him part of that time and caught the raw anguish when his search brought the dreaded result. He wept into the camera: "My daughter, she died like an ant."

As the evening news transitioned to the $300 million Mayweather-Pacquiao fight, my mind stayed fixed on this father half a world away. Oh, sir, can you hear me? Are my silent prayers strong enough to reach you across the TV screen, across the miles and the oceans, across the rubble that is your country? Can you hear the truth that I'm shouting to you in my mind? Your daughter did not die like an ant. She was a child of the one, true living God. He was her Creator. He handcrafted her with as much love and joy as you had when you built a home for her. She was made in His image. She was--she still is--greatly loved, as much as any great king who's ever lived. She was as valuable as any royal princess. Her worth was greater than anything we can measure. The God of the universe saw each tear your daughter cried. And though she was surely frightened at the end of her life, she was not alone. The God who wipes away every tear was with her.

As new disasters, new storms, new victims and celebrities and political candidates push Nepal out of our evening news, let's remember to keep praying for those who have lost so much.

Upkeep

I believe in aging gracefully. I believe that I'm better, smarter, wiser, kinder, stronger, and happier than I was ten years ago. You couldn't pay me to be 18 again. But here's the deal, getting older requires upkeep that I wasn't quite prepared for.

I used to hold the world record for getting to bed fast. OK, not really, but if such a record existed, I'm pretty sure it would have been mine. This was not an inherited skill. My grandmother was just the opposite. Her bedtime rituals were quite a puzzle to me when I was a kid. Lotions and potions everywhere, denture paraphernalia (although she tried to keep that hidden to avoid terrifying us with the sight of grandma without teeth), eye cream, foot cream, Aspercreme, all capped off by several minutes of emptying her bladder.  I marveled that a person who seemed so normal in everyday life could be subject to such odd and extensive bedtime practices.

And now it's all starting to make sense.

My teeth now get more of my attention than any other part of my body. Who has time to worry about muffintops and trendy hairstyles when their teeth are crumbling? I have adopted every practice recommended by my dental hygienist. (I actually have a dental hygienist, which is new.) I floss every night of my life. I use my cavity-preventing, gum-strengthening rinse twice a day. I laid down $85 for a motorized toothbrush. (I love it. I'll never have a $4 toothbrush again.) I rinse after meals. I've been to the dentist four times already this year. My teeth alone require so much more upkeep than I'm used to.

I'm technically not even old yet, but I've already got hair growing where I don't want it to while the kind I'm desperate to keep keeps falling out. I mercilessly pluck one kind while babying the other--more special conditioner to try, a gentler hairbrush, the Mercedes of all hair dryers that supposedly prevents damage and breakage. I've tried them all. Cheap as I am, I'm not willing to be bald until my children are all out of high school.

And then there's the skin. How is it that you go a good 30 years of your life without giving a single thought to your skin, and then it's all you notice about yourself? When did those tiny lines appear around my eyes? When did my knees get droopy? And how did all these age spots get from my mother's hands to mine? How is it fair that I have a zit and a wrinkle within a centimeter of each other?

I actually gave up on my skin at 33 when melasma ("the mask of pregnancy" as it's romantically called) erupted across my forehead during my third pregnancy. When I went to a dermatologist and told him I thought I had it, he said--no lie--"Why do you think that? Because you've got the g**d***** map of Europe across your forehead?" (And that wasn't even the weirdest part of that visit, but I'll save the rest of the story for another day.) The map remains, in all its glory, today.

Of course the good news is that there's a cream for all of this. My bathroom drawers are full of samples just waiting for me to commit: creams and cleansers and lifters and firmers. And an $85 toothbrush. And just like that, I have become my grandmother. We won't even talk about the bladder business and the fact that I'm in bed by 9. Yep, this is me, aging gracefully.

Our New World and Why I Sometimes Love It

Integrity can be simply defined as "who you are when no one else is looking." It's getting harder and harder to find a time when no one else is looking.

A young ESPN reporter is the latest to realize this. I had never heard of Britt McHenry until this morning, but on today's news scrolls and websites, she's the poster child for cruel, arrogant behavior. After having her car towed, McHenry berated the attendant at the towing company in a truly horrible way. Maybe she was late for work or an important appointment. Maybe she'd had some bad news earlier that day. Any one of us can snap in the midst of a bad day, but what that "snap" looks like says everything about who we are at our core. Bad days make or break personal integrity. In this young woman's case, it was a serious break, made public for all the world to see.

Personal integrity has never been so public. Cameras are everywhere. What we think we're doing in private is just a click away from a global viewing audience. This is horrifying--who wants to be featured on an internet montage of humiliated nose pickers? (And come on, don't think it couldn't be you.) But I also kinda love it, especially in cases where people are forced to be accountable for their bad behavior.

You can't cuss out your kid's soccer coach anymore without consequence. You can't sing racist songs on a fraternity trip without the whole world knowing. You can't hit your girlfriend in an elevator without getting caught. Even on your worst day, it's not OK to be a jerk. (One of my favorite parenting lines: Your pain does not excuse your sin.) Now more than ever, people are on the lookout for jerks. Act like a jerk, show up on YouTube. Count on it. And maybe by counting on it, we'll all be a little nicer to each other.

Who we are when we think no one is looking is truly who we are. The rest is smoke and mirrors. What we do and say matters. How we treat people matters. Patience and kindness aren't just biblical words; they're things that make the world a better place for all of us. I have a love/hate relationship with the internet, but if it can help us learn these lessons, then today I'm a fan.

What's with the cross?

The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction! But we who are being saved know it is the very power of God. 1 Corinthians 1:18

Amen, and Happy Easter.

Sign-holder Conundrum

Not long ago, I drove by a woman and her children as they sat on the curb at Walmart. At first I wondered if they were doing some kind of homeschool project. They were fairly well dressed and the school-aged kids were hunched over some sort of writing project. As I sat in line waiting to turn, they finished up what they were working on--a sign requesting money. There they sat, in the middle of the day, holding up their sign. I made my turn and went on my way, but I found myself getting angry. Why weren't the kids in school? What were they learning from their mom by sitting on a street corner, begging for money? I know there are resources available to her and her children. Why does she choose this instead of getting some real, lasting help?

It was much later before that ubiquitous "WWJD" thought popped into my mind. I won't presume to know what Jesus would have done, but I'm fairly certain He wouldn't have ignored this family and walked away angry.

Could it be that America is the very worst place to be poor? For the most part, our poor are not sequestered in small villages down dusty roads no one ever travels. Is there any place where the poor mingle so closely with the rich and who beg among those who so firmly believe in the "land of opportunity"? Does judgment come so quickly anywhere else?

How to respond to the poor in America occupies a lot of my brain space. Sending money for children in India and Guatemala and Ethiopia? That's a no-brainer. Helping needy families at Christmas or volunteering at the Salvation Army food bank? Yes, got it. Looking out for the outsiders, poor or otherwise, in my own day-to-day circles? Yes! But what to do with those people who hold up signs on street corners? How can I know their stories in the six seconds I stare at them at the stop light?

For a while, our family kept "homeless bags" in our car. We filled Ziplocs with Bandaids, Chapstick, shampoo, tissues, mini toothbrushes, granola bars, nuts, and bottled water. We made them with enthusiasm; they were received with much less of it. We generally got a weak "thank you," but no one seemed as excited about our bags as we were. One young man stationed outside a Target told us, "Oh, no thanks. I've got all that stuff at home." HUH? Eventually we began breaking into the bags ourselves when one of the kids had a messy sneeze. And was it even safe to hand out water that had been in the car for three months? Eventually the lackluster response and pilfered bags snuffed our enthusiasm right out.

One time we saw a man with a sign that said, "Dreaming of a cheeseburger." I can't eliminate poverty in my city, and I don't know what to teach my kids about any of this, but this simple thing I can do, I thought. This could be a beautiful "God moment" where the kids learn about seeing a need and meeting it in a very practical way. The only problem was that we were about ten minutes away from the nearest cheeseburger. I drove frantically, telling the kids to pray. We drove through the closest McDonald's and bought not just a Big Mac, but fries and a drink, too. If we're gonna do this, let's go big! I don't even think the kids asked for anything for themselves. This was every mother's teaching-moment dream. Except that it didn't pan out. We drove for a half-hour looking for the man with the sign, but he had moved on, taking his cheeseburger dreams elsewhere. I thought surely God would put someone else in our path, someone who needed our thoughtful grease even more. I drove and drove but never found anyone. My husband ate the Big Mac and my kids shared the fries and Coke. While I believe that every moment is a "God moment," they don't always play out the way I think they will.

What do we do with the poor in America? I don't mean the government or the local charities. I mean the moms in minivans, because we're the church, right? What do we do? If we're not supposed to give them money because they might drink it away, and we're not supposed to load them up in our cars and take them for a meal because they might stab us all, if we're sitting at a stop light sandwiched between eight other cars and running late to a soccer game without the time or ability to sit down and hear their story, what are we to do? What on earth would Jesus do if He were the one driving the mini van full of kids? I would love to hear your thoughts on this.

I wish this was one of those times when I could throw out some scripture and bring a nice, tidy ending to my blog. I know what the scriptures say. Widows and orphans. Prisoners and the hungry. Caring for the least among us. Yes, Lord, and if I were in India, I think it would be pretty easy to figure out what that looks like. But I'm here. The poor I've spent time with here have cell phones and food stamps. Some of them have big-screen TVs. And though it may be the exception, some even have all the tissues and Bandaids they need at home. What do I do here? What does it look like to live out your commands with the sign-holders on the street?

My wrestling keeps me praying and asking. And that, I'm positive, pleases Him.

And in the end, there's grace

I got several responses to my last post about this being a great time to be a parent. One of them—because of what it reminds me of and because of who it’s from—should be read by more than just me, so I share it here. My friend David is the father of seven, ranging from a teenager to adult children who are now raising their own kids. He reminds me to always remember grace. On our best day and on our worst day as parents, we can be sure that we are surrounded by the grace of God. David also suggested something I hadn’t considered so succinctly: that previous generations were less intentional because the need was not so great.  

Although our parents may have been less engaged in our emotional and spiritual lives, they raised us in a season of our culture where the vestiges of a godly heritage were more of an asset than what our society offers today. It would have been better if they had been more engaged. But it seems like the need was not as intense. 

All parenting is by grace. That is, we try to be faithful with the tools and training that we have, then God fills in the other 90 percent that's actually needed. When I have moments of regret, I am utterly astounded at how well our children are doing. We've worked hard at parenting well. But we've made horrible mistakes and have often failed miserably to be what our children needed. And we've come very close to losing some along the way. Grace! Grace! Grace!