Sanctified Imagination

"Left to myself, my imagination is a lunatic ricocheting around the walls of my mind. The wild-eyed, slobbering imagination is destructive. An untamed imagination is the playground and rat wheel for worry, lust, bitterness, greed, and unholy fantasies. Will my imagination function as a gift from God or as a soul-decaying cotton candy from the Enemy?"
Jean Fleming, Pursue the Intentional Life

Until I read this passage, I wasn't thinking much about imagination. We see it in our kids and think it's cute, but do we recognize what a major role imagination plays in our own grown-up minds? Fear, dread, anticipation, and excitement are all functions of imagination. Our minds conjure up all sorts of pictures and expectations about what's coming up. We imagine how things are going to play out, and our emotions respond according to the picture the imagination has crafted.

Jean Fleming, in her wisdom, prescribes a sanctified imagination. She also calls it a disciplined imagination. The idea is the same: it's an imagination brought under the control of the Holy Spirit. God's the one who created us with imagination; surely it's one of the ways we are created in His image. He put it there to guide us to Him. Who can begin to fathom His greatness without a deeply engaged imagination? Who can ponder heaven except through imagination? When we read the Bible, we read through imagination. We picture Jesus scribbling in the sand before the condemned woman. We imagine her sense of dread and fear and shame and horror. We put ourselves in her place when Jesus tells her to go and sin no more. We can imagine her shock and relief, her overwhelming gratitude. Our imaginations take us there.

Without imagination, the parables mean nothing. Jesus very rarely came right out and explained them. He left it to the people in His hearing. He left it to us. Guided by Holy Spirit-infused imagination, we can begin putting the pieces together, making connections, seeing Kingdom values through earthly examples.

We can only begin to understand the Trinity relationship through imagination. Or the transfiguration, the crucifixion, and the resurrection. The Bible gives us good details and eyewitness accounts, but how can we begin to take them in if not through our imaginations?

Like every other good thing given to us by God, though, imaginations can so easily become corrupt. A mind ruled by uncontrolled imagination can become schizophrenic. A body ruled by untamed imagination can become enslaved to porn and twisted desire. A heart left to its own imagination places unrealistic expectations on its loves and is chronically disappointed.

Let's make this more practical. Sanctified imagination is a choice. When I picture my kids leaving the nest, I can imagine myself feeling sad, lonely, and purposeless, or I can imagine the wonderful new opportunities I'll have (not to mention the cute little car I'll get to drive). When I ponder my own old age, I can imagine sickness and hopelessness, or I can imagine the sweet wisdom and contentment that come with age. If I face a cancer diagnosis, will I imagine it destroying my life, or will I imagine how God will use it for my good? Do I anticipate the future with fear and worry or with peace and hope? It all boils down to my imagination. Will I bring it under the control of the Holy Spirit, or will I let it become the lunatic ricocheting around the walls of my mind?

Lord, sanctify every part of me, even the parts of me I don't think much about. I give You control of my imagination. Tame it. Sanctify it. Use it to give me a fuller understanding of who You are.

Twenty Years

This week, Kevin and I celebrate our twentieth anniversary. Anniversaries are truly something to be celebrated, much more so than birthdays, I think. Getting older just happens. It requires no act of your will, no compromise, no selflessness. I'm all for parties and cake, but really, when you pass another birthday, you've just managed to stay alive another year, and for most of us, that's not a huge accomplishment. But when you pass another year of living side by side with another person day in and day out--well, that's a feat worth celebrating. It deserves a steak and a margarita at the very least.

The amazing thing to me about marriage is that we sign up for it as mere babies. It's arguably the most important decision of our lives, and we make it as crazy, carefree kids. It's a miracle, God's grace, that any of us make it to ten years, let alone twenty or fifty. Who has any idea who they are at 20 or 25 years old, let alone what life is going to hurl at them?

As I stood up in front of that room full of people on August 26, 1995, all I can remember thinking about was that my dress was itchy and I hoped my stomach wouldn't growl. I might have imagined this man before me was the one with whom I would bring children into the world, but I didn't picture myself splayed out on a table, naked and big as a barn as that happened. The idea of playing house was fun, but did I think through what it would really look like to share a bed, a bathroom, a t-shirt, a bank account, a schedule, and on occasion a toothbrush with this person? Every day? Did I know that he would be seeing me,  repeatedly, at my very worst, like crouched over the toilet with vomit in my hair, blubbering incoherently over the loss of a grandparent/baby/dog/job/sense of identity, or simply with greasy hair or an unsightly rash? That he was the person who would be confined with me in a vehicle when I maybe shouldn't have eaten that second burrito? Did I realize this was the person  who would hear my ugliest thoughts, things you can only say in a dark room at a late hour?

Did anyone think of these things at 22 or 24? Did anyone think about all the enemies of marriage, everything from demanding careers and wailing babies to separate TVs and Ashley Madison? (Apparently I've been living under a nice, sweet rock, because I had never heard of Ashley Madison until a week ago. "Life is short. Have an affair." Really? Satan doesn't even attempt to be subtle with his lies anymore.) Did we know how innately selfish we are and how hard it would be to live in perpetual compromise with another person? How un-fun a lot of the days would be, and how giddy love eventually wears off, leaving you clinging to deep respect and stubborn commitment?

Nope. I didn't know any of this. And it's just as well. I just knew there was a good, intelligent, gorgeous guy with an easy last name who wanted to spend every day with me. I was in. I'm still in, now more than ever. There's no one else I'd want to spend my worst days with, or my best days. He's got my back, and I've got his. Neither of us is checking out, no matter what we say or do or look like. That's what marriage, beautiful marriage, looks like after twenty years.

"Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is still a feeling. ... Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last; but feelings come and go. ... But of course ceasing to be 'in love' need not mean ceasing to love. Love in this second sense--love as distinct from being 'in love'--is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit, reinforced (in Christian marriage) by the grace which both partners ask, and receive, from God. ...'Being in love' first moved them to promise fidelity; this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It is on this love that the engine of marriage is run; being in love was the explosion that started it." --C.S. Lewis 

Ode to the Summer of '15

It had to happen. They say that all good things come to an end, and our summer has certainly been a very good thing. It's not really what we did that made it good, although we did get to do some extraordinary things: soaking up rare cousin time, a sunny day at WaterWorld, a memorable morning hike at the Garden of the Gods, spending time with some of our favorite families in Estes Park, working at a Care and Share farmer's market, Tuesday dessert nights, a big anniversary celebrated on a Caribbean island, and--perhaps the mother of all adventures--watching our brother-in-law/uncle launch into space. All pretty extraordinary.

But it wasn't so much what we did as who we are now. Holy Toledo, my kids are fun. Yes, of course they still fight and complain about being bored and fuss about cleaning the chicken coop sometimes, but the negatives are becoming less and less, while the positives grow exponentially. I would actually choose these four people, out of all the people in the world, to spend my time with. Three years ago, I still would have chosen them, but it would have been out of responsibility and fear that no one else would choose them. Today I'd choose them because they're incredible little people. (And not so little anymore. One towers over me, and two are right on my heels.)

I've long suspected we have things turned around with regard to sending our kids off to school. Why aren't we sending our whiny, fit-throwing, unreasonable toddlers off to school and keeping our fascinating, deep-thinking, articulate older kids at home to enjoy? (My apologies to those of you who loved the toddler phase. I tried so hard to love it.) And then, when they're at the peak of ripeness, when we're finally reaping the fruit of all that crazy hard labor, we send them off to college? Because that's what's best for them? Who came up with this system?! People tell me I'll be ready to see them go, but today, I find that hard to believe.

So great has this summer been that I actually considered homeschooling. Until I remembered that you actually have to school your children. At home. Perpetual lazing around singing Veggie Tales songs probably doesn't meet the state's educational requirements. And I imagine that as the days got shorter and the weather colder and the novelty of being together 24/7 wore off, well, all good things would come to an end one way or another. Better to go out on a high note than a low one. And I truly am excited about all that awaits each of my kids in the new school year, really. I just wish it started a month later, that the first bell didn't ring until 10 a.m., and that no one had any poems to memorize.

The fall schedule lurks just over my shoulder like an angry beast waiting to devour me. I hate it. But I love it, too. Count me among those who loves her abuser, I guess. Our days will shift from the porch swing and mountain trails to soccer fields, speech tournaments, AWANA classes, and parent teacher conferences. We'll have rushed dinners, tests to study for, reports to write, and costumes to throw together at the last minute, which will come with no small amount of panic. We'll be much more aware of the time, and no matter what I tell myself to the contrary, I'll slip back into drill-sergeant mode. We'll shower more often, watch less TV, pack more lunches. But at least I get to do it all for--and with--the coolest people in the world. Thankful.

So long, sweet summer of 2015. I'll never forget you.

It's Not Too Late

This week we've had my two nephews visiting us from Michigan. This is the first time in 13 years that we've had both of them here at the same time, and my mom is reveling in having all six of her grandkids in the same place at the same time. Tuesday, as we sat huddled under a rain shelter at Water World, my 17-year-old nephew had one of my girls cuddled up in a towel on his lap and another slumped against his shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around them. My nearly 20-year-old nephew happily commented, "I don't think I've ever had my hand held so much in my life!" He later gave my 8-year-old the pep talk of her life to get her on one of the scarier rides, and afterward, she told him, "You believed in me!" It felt like some scripted TV show, except it was for real! We've had badminton tournaments, card games, Full House trivia contests, and late-night video game competitions. Who would have ever imagined that two big boys and a couple of little girls could become the best of friends?

One of the deepest regrets of my 30s was that I went more than six years without seeing my brother. He didn't know my kids, and I didn't know his. Our kids didn't know each other. My children are outrageously blessed with Jones cousins, but they had no relationship with the cousins from my side of the family. As the years ticked by, it was easy to believe that kids separated by so much distance as well as age would never be close. It was easy to believe that it was too late.

But this week has shown me that it's never too late. That's one of those big lies that's so easy for us to believe. But when has God ever said it's too late? As long as our hearts are still pumping, our lungs still breathing, it is never too late for any relationship.

Author Ann Patchett writes of her friendship with a former teacher, a nun at her Catholic elementary school. The nun was particularly hard on her, obviously because she saw potential in Ann, but no 10-year-old understands that. She just knew the nun made her miserable and she was happy to finally get away from her. The two reconnected decades later, and now they go grocery shopping together every week and are the closest of friends. It took 40 years, but it was not too late for God to use that relationship in both of their lives.

It's never too late to reconcile with estranged friends, siblings, or parents.It's never too late to have the kind of marriage you dream of. It's never too late to make a new friend or to get to know the neighbor you've lived next to for 10 years.

It only makes sense that the great Redeemer of souls is also the great Redeemer of time. As long as we're still alive, it's never too late.

Practicing Goodbye

She walks out the front door like a new recruit headed to her first Army assignment. With a sleeping bag in one hand and a gym bag in the other, she shouts out, "I love leaving the house with bags in my arms!" When I ask her why, she says, "Because I love going!"

She's 11, and she doesn't care where she's going. She just wants to go already.

I have written before about how different my third child is from my others. This one has two speeds: 0 and 100. Home is a place to crash, and the world is a place to conquer. This week she's conquering summer camp. While the other campers navigate the campground with their parents and many offer tear-filled goodbyes, Brooka has no time for such things. There's adventure to be found. That, and she's never been one for long goodbyes.

From her very earliest days, she shooed me away. As a small toddler, she would yell, "GO!" when I dropped her off in the church nursery. This was new territory for me. My oldest had screamed for his life when I attempted to leave him in the nursery. This would continue until he was 2 1/2 and we found a nursery worker who encouraged him to bring along his Pooh Bear, for whom she had set up a special spot at the table, complete with Pooh's own Dixie cup and graham crackers. My next oldest just pouted in the corner by herself the whole time and punished me later with her silence. Then came my third, who literally pushed me out the door and lit up the room with her smile when I was out of sight. This was the first of my practice goodbyes with Brooka.

Before she started preschool, I thought I would have to duct tape her to her carseat when we dropped the older kids off at school, so desperate was her desire to escape the van and follow them in. When her first day of preschool finally came, her eye was swollen shut, the result of a mosquito bite gone bad. She looked terrible, but there was no holding her back. She marched in the classroom without a backward glance, leaving me to dab my eyes alone in the hallway. We repeated this scene again in kindergarten, minus the swollen eye. I could expect a quick hug, but if I held on for an extra second, the push would come and off she'd go, never looking back.

So it's no surprise that this is the child who lives for her time away at summer camp (and winter camp), the one who has no patience for a long goodbye. I think about the goodbyes that are to come. No doubt she'll spend summers as a camp counselor as soon as they'll let her. I can't imagine a Brooka-less summer, but probably it will be here before I know it. She's saving up her money for her first overseas trip, and unless I save up my money, too, that will entail a tearful goodbye, at least on my part. One day she'll leave for college, or for somewhere, and I'll realize that our house is now only the place she'll come to visit. Surely that will be the hardest goodbye of all.

But I'm thankful I get to practice at it first. Every time she leaves, I get a little more brave. I'm a little bit more like my own mother, who dropped me off at a college in California she knew nothing about with people she'd never met. Newly widowed and returning to a completely empty house for the first time in her life, she held me in the parking lot and let me sob, and then she smiled and bravely left. That's the kind of goodbye mom I want to be, the mom who believes in her child a ridiculous amount, who says, "I know you'll do great," and who walks away with a smile, then falls on her prayerful knees the minute she walks in the door.

Identity and Lunacy

Sometimes our culture changes so slowly I don't even notice it. Sometimes it's fast enough to give me whiplash.

What has happened in the past month? And is there still a place left for truth in this world?

Bruce Jenner is now a 65-year-old supermodel named Caitlin. A white woman passing herself off as black, when asked point blank if she's African-American, replies, "I don't understand the question." Bruce "identifies" as a woman even though he's a man. Rachel Dolezal "identifies" black even though she's white. You can call yourself whatever you want, but what about still telling the truth?

I'm a brunette who "identifies" as a blonde (I was born one, after all), thus I'm prone to spending large amounts of money lightening my hair. But my driver's license lists my hair as brown. Because that's the truth, no matter how I feel about it.

At what point, I wonder, does "identifying" with something cross over into lunacy? What about a 36-year-old man who identifies as a teenager, and thus lives in his parents' basement and dates 17-year-olds? What about a poor person who identifies as rich and runs up tens of thousands of dollars in credit card debt? Here's one that can't be long in coming: a person who identifies as a vampire and as such must satisfy his craving for human blood. Have we arrived at lunacy yet? Or do we have to get all the way to a person who identifies as a goat? Wouldn't we all agree that person has reached the point of insanity? Or will we all still walk around on eggshells, respecting his right to "identify" however he'd like?

I'm not talking about personal encounters with individuals. Nothing gives us the right to be mean or disrespectful to another human being. I read a Christianity Today article recently about how we should respond to transgender people who walk into our churches, and I agree that we need to get over ourselves and welcome them, awkward as that may be. Our job is not to berate them over their choices, but to point them to Jesus. What I'm talking about is a larger cultural move toward tolerance at all costs--even if the cost is truth. I know we've been headed this way for a long time, but we're picking up the pace. If someone "identifies" as something, anything, then it's legit, and anyone questioning the truth in that is a small-minded bigot.

Truth still matters. It may be beaten and battered and lay bleeding in our streets, but it has not been obliterated. We still need it, especially when we're talking about ourselves. We have freedom in this country to live how we want to live and to be known for whatever we want to be known for; we also have a responsibility to be honest. Rachel, be a white person who loves African-American culture and people and who tells the truth. That's the greatest advocacy you could offer.

(By the way, my money's on Rachel Dolezal becoming an internet millionaire off of hair products and extensions. Watch and see.)

Countenance

I'm always trying to figure out what big, great thing God wants me to do, what jaw-dropping assignment He's going to bring my way. Yet time and time again, He brings me back to the simplest of things. Most recently, it's been as basic as the look on my face.

Jean Fleming, in her book Pursue the Intentional Life, calls this the "ministry of countenance." She writes about the great possibility of every face-to-face encounter, whether that's a moment of chance eye contact in a crowd or a focused conversation with one other person. Something as basic as the expression on our faces makes a huge impact on those encounters.

I used to be a small part of a video team, and occasionally I got to interview someone for a video piece. I learned how to do this by watching my friend JoAnn, who taught me that the facial expression of the interviewer, though off-camera, was essential to getting a good interview. Because I couldn't use verbal cues to encourage people in their responses ("Wow! Yes! Amazing!"), I had to use my face. I tried to keep my eyes wide and locked in on them. I smiled and remained engaged with their every word. I nodded a lot. I tried to communicate with my face, "You're doing great. Keep going!"

I got the hang of it on a video shoot, but what about in real life? Part of living fully present, my life's mantra, is making sure my face matches my words. When I'm making chitchat with a mom in the school hallway, am I fully with her, or is my mind spinning 20 paces ahead, with who needs to be where at what time and what I'm going to feed them before they get there? And if my brain is planning, strategizing, troubleshooting, what does my countenance look like? Is it saying, "I'm with you, keep going!" to the person in front of me?

My kids aren't afraid to call me out when my face and my words don't match. I can be talking in what I think is a calm voice, and one daughter in particular will say, "Why are you angry with us?" When I tell her that I'm not, she says that while my words may not be angry, my face is. Ouch.

Is there anything we give less thought to than our countenance? What's on my face as I'm in front of the check-out person at Walmart? Or in front of my AWANA kids at the end of a long Wednesday night? What do my husband and my children see on my face day in and day out, when I'm doing dishes, taking out the trash, matching socks from the laundry basket? I'm thankful to Jean Fleming for making me more aware and for sharing her prayer with me:

"Lord, I want my face to minister to people, whether to someone delivering a talk or to the person sitting across from me. Will my face serve the purposes of God? Will it communicate that the love of God lives in me? I'm too often thoughtless in face-to-face encounters. In the years remaining, please express your love and concern for people through me. I offer my face to you. Make it a channel of blessing."

Today, instead of looking for some big assignment from God, I simply offer Him my face. Who knows what He can do through me when my countenance is one of love, tenderness, affection, approval, and blessing?