My son is at my dream camp right now. He's only thirty minutes away from our house, but he's a universe away in terms of what he's thinking and talking about for the next two weeks. The name of the camp is Summit Ministries, but it might as well be called Worldview Camp. By the end of it, he'll have heard from experts across the country on Islam, Marxism, philosophy, politics, poverty, economics, ethics, bioethics, free speech, and how the Bible speaks into these and a multitude of other things.
This is the air that I breathe. These are the books that I read and the topics I am most passionate about. I couldn't have cared less when I was 17, but today? I'd seriously consider giving my left arm to be there if I weren't thirty years older than everyone else.
In the five days since Braden has been gone, I've made a significant discovery about myself. I've been doing this mom thing for 18 years, and I would have said I've never been a helicopter parent. I have never been uptight about my kids' physical safety. You wanna climb a 60-foot tree? Go for it! Walk to the park by yourself? Sure. I can trust God with physical safety, no problem. I can even trust Him with my kids' failures and disappointments. Though they're never fun, I see these as opportunities and try not to interfere when they come along.
But my children's young minds? That's where I've staked my claim. If I'm a helicopter parent at all, it's with their minds. As they're learning about and processing the world, I want to be there doing it with them. I want to ask questions, make connections, and challenge their ideas. I want to share my own stories and thoughts while trying to draw out theirs. And let's be honest, I want to steer their thinking, to urge them to think like me.
So it's challenging for me that Braden is having this Big Mind Experience, but he's not coming home every night to talk about it with me. He's taking it in and processing it with a room full of strangers. Obviously, they're strangers I trust, or we wouldn't have ponied up the big bucks to send him to Summit, but still, they're strangers nonetheless. I get a text here and there, but there's no space for stimulating discussion. That's happening apart from me, and I'll get only the remnants of what he's thinking about today when he comes home eight days from now.
My toes are dangling in foreign waters. It's called Letting Go. In 13 months, I'll be fully immersed. These are good waters, I know, not something to dread. They are healthy waters, a place in which my children and I will all grow and, I hope, will thrive. I believe in the goodness and rightness of these waters enough that I will encourage (push?) all of my children to go far away after high school, to become their own people apart from me, to think their own thoughts without my constant interruption, to explore the world on their own. My mother did this for me, and it was one of the greatest gifts of my life, so I will pay it forward. God, help me. This will require extraordinary faith, faith that I can't quite muster today.
I'm getting there, though. Slowly but surely, God is prying my tight grip off of my children. In the process, He is inviting me to a whole new level of relationship with Him. Scary as it is, I accept. And I welcome the advice and encouragement of those of you who have gone before me.
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Saturday, July 1, 2017
In the News
Last night my family and I were watching the evening news as we regularly do. One report came from Akron, Ohio, where opioid overdoses have reached crisis proportions. We learned that at one of Akron's addiction-treatment facilities, patients receive monthly injections of Vivitrol, a drug that may be helpful in getting addicts off drugs. One injection of Vivitrol costs $1,200 and lasts four weeks. Then the reporter told us that this facility treats 2,500 opioid patients monthly, all with Vivitrol and presumably a host of other services. The treatment is free to the patients, because they are all on Medicaid.
My 15-year-old, smart cookie that she is, flagged me to hit "pause." (Like the rest of America, we don't watch anything live. And the pause button is especially handy for family conversations about the evening news.) "Nothing's free. Who's paying for all those shots?" she asked, knowing full well the answer. My son got a calculator. $1,200 per shot for 2,500 people. That's monthly, so multiply by 12. Medicaid pays for $36,000,000 worth of Vivitrol a year at one facility in one town in one state. Thirty-six million dollars for a drug that has a questionable rate of effectiveness. From what I read online, after six months, close to 50 percent of Vivitrol users (not necessarily at this facility, but in general) have returned to opiod use.
The angle of the story was that all these people, 2,500 of them, would not be able to receive this treatment if changes are made to Medicaid, as is proposed under the Republican's new health care plan. One of the residents at the facility said that if the plan goes through, Congress will have a lot of innocent blood on their hands. Just to make this point clearer, the report ended with a shot of a mobile morgue, a big white truck used to haul off the bodies of all those who have died from their addiction. If we were hoping for the reporter to acknowledge what a huge amount of money that was, to give us some statistics about the program's success, or to remind viewers that the national debt is now $19,846,080,045,627, we were disappointed. None of that came up. Just the mobile morgue and the threat of "innocent blood."
Back to my daughter and her question. In a few months, she'll be 16, and she's eager to get a job. So the answer is, "In a few months, Addison, you'll be paying for those shots." So will my elderly friend who worked hard his whole life to "pay into the system" so that Medicaid would be there for him, unaware that the system would be faltering partially due to a drain from drug addicts in the prime of their lives. It will be paid for by the families I know who carefully, strategically live on one income so that mom can give focused attention to their kids, praying they won't get sick or injured because their crappy, overpriced insurance covers next to nothing. It will be paid for by the families who have to choose between covering the mortgage payment or filling their kids' cavities. It will also be paid for by the LeBron Jameses and the Beyonces and the Bill Gateses, but there aren't very many of them.
I rarely step into political waters on this blog. But I feel the tension of this issue, and I feel it even more when my kids start to wrestle with it. When I think of the debt they are inheriting.
I am not at all unsympathetic to the addicted. I don't believe they intentionally chose this path for their lives or that they should be kicked to the curb to figure out a solution for themselves. They are hurting people who were most likely raised by other hurting people. Most of them do not have the advantages my children have: married parents who love them unconditionally, a consistent roof over their heads, a good education, reliability, stability, and on and on. I get that. I care about that, and I care about justice and mercy. My point is not to question the ethics of caring for the addicted, but to question the methods and sustainability of it.
Our world is not getting any nicer or easier. I wonder if the number of wounded-beyond-functioning people will some day out number those who can support them? I wonder about the inconsistencies of throwing billions of federal dollars at a drug-addiction crisis while legalizing marijuana all across the country. I wonder about treating drugs with other drugs, especially those that cost $1,200 a shot and have a 50 percent chance of working. I wonder how a country that's growing more secular by the day will realize that the problem is not drug addiction but hopelessness, and that Jesus is the only solution.
Just another night watching the evening news and trying to help my kids make sense of the world. God, give us wisdom.
My 15-year-old, smart cookie that she is, flagged me to hit "pause." (Like the rest of America, we don't watch anything live. And the pause button is especially handy for family conversations about the evening news.) "Nothing's free. Who's paying for all those shots?" she asked, knowing full well the answer. My son got a calculator. $1,200 per shot for 2,500 people. That's monthly, so multiply by 12. Medicaid pays for $36,000,000 worth of Vivitrol a year at one facility in one town in one state. Thirty-six million dollars for a drug that has a questionable rate of effectiveness. From what I read online, after six months, close to 50 percent of Vivitrol users (not necessarily at this facility, but in general) have returned to opiod use.
The angle of the story was that all these people, 2,500 of them, would not be able to receive this treatment if changes are made to Medicaid, as is proposed under the Republican's new health care plan. One of the residents at the facility said that if the plan goes through, Congress will have a lot of innocent blood on their hands. Just to make this point clearer, the report ended with a shot of a mobile morgue, a big white truck used to haul off the bodies of all those who have died from their addiction. If we were hoping for the reporter to acknowledge what a huge amount of money that was, to give us some statistics about the program's success, or to remind viewers that the national debt is now $19,846,080,045,627, we were disappointed. None of that came up. Just the mobile morgue and the threat of "innocent blood."
Back to my daughter and her question. In a few months, she'll be 16, and she's eager to get a job. So the answer is, "In a few months, Addison, you'll be paying for those shots." So will my elderly friend who worked hard his whole life to "pay into the system" so that Medicaid would be there for him, unaware that the system would be faltering partially due to a drain from drug addicts in the prime of their lives. It will be paid for by the families I know who carefully, strategically live on one income so that mom can give focused attention to their kids, praying they won't get sick or injured because their crappy, overpriced insurance covers next to nothing. It will be paid for by the families who have to choose between covering the mortgage payment or filling their kids' cavities. It will also be paid for by the LeBron Jameses and the Beyonces and the Bill Gateses, but there aren't very many of them.
I rarely step into political waters on this blog. But I feel the tension of this issue, and I feel it even more when my kids start to wrestle with it. When I think of the debt they are inheriting.
I am not at all unsympathetic to the addicted. I don't believe they intentionally chose this path for their lives or that they should be kicked to the curb to figure out a solution for themselves. They are hurting people who were most likely raised by other hurting people. Most of them do not have the advantages my children have: married parents who love them unconditionally, a consistent roof over their heads, a good education, reliability, stability, and on and on. I get that. I care about that, and I care about justice and mercy. My point is not to question the ethics of caring for the addicted, but to question the methods and sustainability of it.
Our world is not getting any nicer or easier. I wonder if the number of wounded-beyond-functioning people will some day out number those who can support them? I wonder about the inconsistencies of throwing billions of federal dollars at a drug-addiction crisis while legalizing marijuana all across the country. I wonder about treating drugs with other drugs, especially those that cost $1,200 a shot and have a 50 percent chance of working. I wonder how a country that's growing more secular by the day will realize that the problem is not drug addiction but hopelessness, and that Jesus is the only solution.
Just another night watching the evening news and trying to help my kids make sense of the world. God, give us wisdom.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Too Much Information
A few years ago, I attempted to write down every bite of food I took in a day. I then swapped this food journal with a friend, hoping that it would serve as a good motivator of self-control. It's one thing for my kids to see me eat a jar of marshmallow cream, but quite another to let my health-conscious friend in on it. If nothing else, it tested my ethical boundaries, though I'm not sure it worked as a diet method. After some weeks we gave up, and I started eating Froot Loops again.
I also have a Fitbit, which is supposed to record the number of steps I take each day. In actuality, it records how much my wrist moves, which is not really all that helpful. An hour on the stairstepper at the gym gets me zero "steps," while shuffling papers at my dining room table can get me a thousand. Still, it's enough to send me marching through the house with my toothbrush in my mouth if I've only gotten 9,200 steps at bedtime.
There is some draw in evaluating our lives through recorded data. And where there's a draw, there's an opportunist. I have recently stumbled upon the entire "quantitative self movement." QS, also known as self-tracking or life-logging, started around 2007 with Fitbits, calorie counters, and sleep monitors. It has since exploded into a whole new lifestyle of statistically evaluating every aspect of one's life. There are people recording the number of hours they spend online and people taking inventory of every piece of clothing they own. This year's "QS17" conference will feature a woman who records every scar on her body--when she got it, how she got it, and how it's a meaningful part of her story.
Some people record their moods on the hour, including what makes them happy and what gets them upset. I read about a woman going through a divorce who documented every time she cried, every time she felt angry, every time she visited an online dating site. For those who really want to self-analyze, there are an abundance of online journaling sites. You churn out the words, the website provides you with all sorts of data: you're more uptight than other subscribers, you're more depressed than last week. One woman found out she thinks about death more than "normal" people. I'm sure that cheered her up.
I wonder, is the quantitative self for those who are interested in living better, or is it for those who are interested in living less? Your world becomes pretty small if you can count and measure everything in it. This also seems like one more way, along with tweets and selfies, that our modern world is pulling us into narcissism. It's hard to care about the hurts of others around you when you're obsessed with your own scars. Maybe we could all use a little less self-focus and a little more outward focus.
When the psalmist asked the Lord to "teach us to number our days" (Psalm 90:12), he wasn't talking about a scientific dissection of how we spend our minutes and hours. He was calling people to live with purpose. The end goal was to "gain a heart of wisdom." More and more, we live in a world where information is king, but give me wisdom over information any day. Knowing my resting heart rate? I can do without that. Pursuing the One who keeps it beating? Priceless.
I also have a Fitbit, which is supposed to record the number of steps I take each day. In actuality, it records how much my wrist moves, which is not really all that helpful. An hour on the stairstepper at the gym gets me zero "steps," while shuffling papers at my dining room table can get me a thousand. Still, it's enough to send me marching through the house with my toothbrush in my mouth if I've only gotten 9,200 steps at bedtime.
There is some draw in evaluating our lives through recorded data. And where there's a draw, there's an opportunist. I have recently stumbled upon the entire "quantitative self movement." QS, also known as self-tracking or life-logging, started around 2007 with Fitbits, calorie counters, and sleep monitors. It has since exploded into a whole new lifestyle of statistically evaluating every aspect of one's life. There are people recording the number of hours they spend online and people taking inventory of every piece of clothing they own. This year's "QS17" conference will feature a woman who records every scar on her body--when she got it, how she got it, and how it's a meaningful part of her story.
Some people record their moods on the hour, including what makes them happy and what gets them upset. I read about a woman going through a divorce who documented every time she cried, every time she felt angry, every time she visited an online dating site. For those who really want to self-analyze, there are an abundance of online journaling sites. You churn out the words, the website provides you with all sorts of data: you're more uptight than other subscribers, you're more depressed than last week. One woman found out she thinks about death more than "normal" people. I'm sure that cheered her up.
I wonder, is the quantitative self for those who are interested in living better, or is it for those who are interested in living less? Your world becomes pretty small if you can count and measure everything in it. This also seems like one more way, along with tweets and selfies, that our modern world is pulling us into narcissism. It's hard to care about the hurts of others around you when you're obsessed with your own scars. Maybe we could all use a little less self-focus and a little more outward focus.
When the psalmist asked the Lord to "teach us to number our days" (Psalm 90:12), he wasn't talking about a scientific dissection of how we spend our minutes and hours. He was calling people to live with purpose. The end goal was to "gain a heart of wisdom." More and more, we live in a world where information is king, but give me wisdom over information any day. Knowing my resting heart rate? I can do without that. Pursuing the One who keeps it beating? Priceless.
Friday, June 2, 2017
I Don't Get It: A First Installment of What May Become Semi-Regular
Note: There's a lot that I don't get. So much so that I'm going to write about it periodically under the heading "I Don't Get It." I've been in this world quite a long time, and there is still so much I'm trying to make sense of. I'm not trying to be sarcastic or funny; I'm genuinely trying to understand. I welcome your responses, public or private.
The NBA Championship kicked off last night, somewhat overshadowed by the news that LeBron James's house had been spraypainted with the "n" word. James responded by saying, "No matter how much money you have, no matter how famous you are, no matter how many people admire you, being black in America is tough."
Although I would argue that just living in this fallen world is tough, his statement is helpful and thought-provoking for a white, middle-class mom who's never faced a day of racism in her life. But here's what I don't get: Why is this word that is so clearly offensive used so extensively among the people it offends?
Last weekend, I was at a park in Toledo, Ohio, with my two younger daughters. While my family celebrated my nephew's graduation, a group of young black men played basketball as their music blared. In twenty minutes, we heard the "n" word hundreds of times. We heard about "raping bitches" over and over again. Though the day was beautiful and the basketball fun to watch, we could only stomach so much of it before we had to leave.
So what are we to teach out kids? First, the rule for whites: Common sense and sensitivity say we never use the "n" word. Paula Dean and countless others have learned this the hard way. I hope I've taught my kids that labels in general, and derogatory ones in particular, are not a loving way to treat people. This word should not be in our vocabulary. In fact, it should feel distasteful in our mouths. Last summer, when we read New Boy, a Civil Rights-era book, aloud together, I stumbled hard over the "n" word. I should stumble. My kids should stumble, even when they see it in good literature. This I get. But from there it gets much trickier.
From what I read online, even though the word is a staple of rap music, it is not to be used by white rappers. There was some debate over whether or not Asian rappers could use it. Because Asians, as far as we know, never kept black slaves, it might be OK for them to use it. For younger blacks--rapper or otherwise--it's perfectly acceptable. In fact, they encourage its use, seeing it as a sign of power and liberation to freely throw around a word laced with such historical oppression. I read that it has become a term of endearment "in a defiant, yet fitting, cultural appropriation of a term meant to hurt" African Americans. One young man promised that in a decade, we'll see it appear on children's spelling lists. Older generations of black men and women heartily disagree and believe the word should never be used by anyone.
(I didn't find any discussion on the pros and cons of the term "raping bitches," but maybe I'm not looking hard enough.)
So is this what I'm supposed to teach my kids when I'm at parks in Toledo and at stoplights in Colorado Springs and we hear a word that's supposedly forbidden, for good reason, drilled into our heads twenty times in a minute? This whole line about how it's never OK for us, but that it's somehow empowering for those it offends? That's what I don't get.
When we pull back the lens from this one word and look at the bigger picture, it becomes clearer. Racism is real. It affects the rich, the famous, and even the heroes of our culture. Hate and selfishness leave their ugly mark on all of us, but some get it a lot worse than others. No matter where we come from or how we're different, we have a common enemy who uses hate to divide and destroy us and to distract us from the One who gives love and peace and reconciliation. That I understand, and it's a crying shame.
The NBA Championship kicked off last night, somewhat overshadowed by the news that LeBron James's house had been spraypainted with the "n" word. James responded by saying, "No matter how much money you have, no matter how famous you are, no matter how many people admire you, being black in America is tough."
Although I would argue that just living in this fallen world is tough, his statement is helpful and thought-provoking for a white, middle-class mom who's never faced a day of racism in her life. But here's what I don't get: Why is this word that is so clearly offensive used so extensively among the people it offends?
Last weekend, I was at a park in Toledo, Ohio, with my two younger daughters. While my family celebrated my nephew's graduation, a group of young black men played basketball as their music blared. In twenty minutes, we heard the "n" word hundreds of times. We heard about "raping bitches" over and over again. Though the day was beautiful and the basketball fun to watch, we could only stomach so much of it before we had to leave.
So what are we to teach out kids? First, the rule for whites: Common sense and sensitivity say we never use the "n" word. Paula Dean and countless others have learned this the hard way. I hope I've taught my kids that labels in general, and derogatory ones in particular, are not a loving way to treat people. This word should not be in our vocabulary. In fact, it should feel distasteful in our mouths. Last summer, when we read New Boy, a Civil Rights-era book, aloud together, I stumbled hard over the "n" word. I should stumble. My kids should stumble, even when they see it in good literature. This I get. But from there it gets much trickier.
From what I read online, even though the word is a staple of rap music, it is not to be used by white rappers. There was some debate over whether or not Asian rappers could use it. Because Asians, as far as we know, never kept black slaves, it might be OK for them to use it. For younger blacks--rapper or otherwise--it's perfectly acceptable. In fact, they encourage its use, seeing it as a sign of power and liberation to freely throw around a word laced with such historical oppression. I read that it has become a term of endearment "in a defiant, yet fitting, cultural appropriation of a term meant to hurt" African Americans. One young man promised that in a decade, we'll see it appear on children's spelling lists. Older generations of black men and women heartily disagree and believe the word should never be used by anyone.
(I didn't find any discussion on the pros and cons of the term "raping bitches," but maybe I'm not looking hard enough.)
So is this what I'm supposed to teach my kids when I'm at parks in Toledo and at stoplights in Colorado Springs and we hear a word that's supposedly forbidden, for good reason, drilled into our heads twenty times in a minute? This whole line about how it's never OK for us, but that it's somehow empowering for those it offends? That's what I don't get.
When we pull back the lens from this one word and look at the bigger picture, it becomes clearer. Racism is real. It affects the rich, the famous, and even the heroes of our culture. Hate and selfishness leave their ugly mark on all of us, but some get it a lot worse than others. No matter where we come from or how we're different, we have a common enemy who uses hate to divide and destroy us and to distract us from the One who gives love and peace and reconciliation. That I understand, and it's a crying shame.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Bark Less, Wag More
I've sat down a number of times to write about my trip (see previous post for more details), but there are so many things to say that I end up feeling a bit overwhelmed. I could write a snarky essay about how Europeans must surely perceive Americans (pushy, overweight, and some word that means the opposite of classy and stylish). I could share some of the weird experiences we had, like the public toilet (yes, singular) in the middle of a busy French street, with a revolving door that only stayed shut for 20 seconds, or the Spanish-speaking Asian woman who accosted us as we lay on the beach, literally picking up our feet and vigorously rubbing them while begging for money.
I could write about getting a personal tour of the statue of David, of dashing through the Vatican Museum like video game characters, dodging tour groups, wheelchairs, and strollers, of seeing one of the grandest basilicas in the world and feeling--well, feeling nothing at all, oddly enough. I could try to find words for how grateful I felt to be visiting some of the most famous, important, and beautiful cities in the world, or how taking it all in was like drinking from a fire hose, as one friend put it.
I could go in a different direction and write about my children, how impressed I was by the responsibility and resourcefulness they showed while we were gone. I could brag about my 69-year-old mother,who stepped in and ran a family full of busy children as if she does it every day, and who never complained, not even when the dog dragged her through the dirt and left a horrible leash-burn on her hand. I could affirm that it truly is difficult for a mom to be gone in May, every bit as difficult as I had imagined, and that one can experience joyful, awe-filled gratitude and wonder in Italy while at the exact same time feeling heart-sick about missing the band concert at home.
But I want to do more than amuse you. I'd like to try to offer something that could change your day--maybe even your month or your year. That's a lofty goal, but here's what I've got: Be pleasant company.
As I mentioned in my last post, I signed up for this trip reluctantly, even grumpily. I hated how that felt, and I asked God to change my hard heart. It didn't happen overnight; in fact, it didn't happen with much time to spare. But three or four weeks before we left, God impressed on me to be pleasant company to my husband. It was his trip, and I was his very fortunate guest. The least I could do was to be a pleasant traveling companion.
Was I tested on it? Yes, hourly. Did I master it? Not even close. A Mediterranean cruise sounds pretty cushy, but travel is stressful, whether you're going to a funeral in Des Moines or a vacation in Spain. There are so many unexpected circumstances that can bring out the worst in a person. But it all goes a lot better if you're committed to the idea of being pleasant company to the people you're traveling with.
Most of us inherently know what pleasant company looks like. We practice it with strangers but forget to practice it with the people closest to us. It's pretty simple. Start by smiling more. Laugh more. Be playful. (Why is it that middle-aged parents are so serious all the time?) Say thank you, A LOT. Be agreeable and flexible. Be willing to try things a different way than how you normally function. Don't feel the need to share your every complaint and negative thought. For women especially: Don't parent your husband. Don't correct him or fuss at him. Don't question his every move. Let him lead.
There is nothing more attractive than a man boldly, decisively, confidently leading. Let the feminist choir rise up against me and throw rotten tomatoes; I don't care. I think there are a whole lot of women who would agree with me that confident leadership, assuming you're married to a decent guy, is super attractive.
If you're traveling this summer, experiment with this idea. Focus on being pleasant company. If it goes as well for you as it did for me, take it up a notch and try being pleasant company at home. I know, right? Crazy! Home is supposed to be the place where we can be ourselves, let our hair down, be real. But if that's not working out so well, try being pleasant instead. You may have to work at it. You may even have to fake it a little. That's OK. We are creatures who love rewards, and if your experiment goes as I think it will, the rewards will be worth your effort.
Life is hard. God mercifully gives us other people to travel with through the hardness. My hypothesis, still undergoing much testing, is that it's much easier if we travel as pleasant company.
I could write about getting a personal tour of the statue of David, of dashing through the Vatican Museum like video game characters, dodging tour groups, wheelchairs, and strollers, of seeing one of the grandest basilicas in the world and feeling--well, feeling nothing at all, oddly enough. I could try to find words for how grateful I felt to be visiting some of the most famous, important, and beautiful cities in the world, or how taking it all in was like drinking from a fire hose, as one friend put it.
I could go in a different direction and write about my children, how impressed I was by the responsibility and resourcefulness they showed while we were gone. I could brag about my 69-year-old mother,who stepped in and ran a family full of busy children as if she does it every day, and who never complained, not even when the dog dragged her through the dirt and left a horrible leash-burn on her hand. I could affirm that it truly is difficult for a mom to be gone in May, every bit as difficult as I had imagined, and that one can experience joyful, awe-filled gratitude and wonder in Italy while at the exact same time feeling heart-sick about missing the band concert at home.
But I want to do more than amuse you. I'd like to try to offer something that could change your day--maybe even your month or your year. That's a lofty goal, but here's what I've got: Be pleasant company.
As I mentioned in my last post, I signed up for this trip reluctantly, even grumpily. I hated how that felt, and I asked God to change my hard heart. It didn't happen overnight; in fact, it didn't happen with much time to spare. But three or four weeks before we left, God impressed on me to be pleasant company to my husband. It was his trip, and I was his very fortunate guest. The least I could do was to be a pleasant traveling companion.
Was I tested on it? Yes, hourly. Did I master it? Not even close. A Mediterranean cruise sounds pretty cushy, but travel is stressful, whether you're going to a funeral in Des Moines or a vacation in Spain. There are so many unexpected circumstances that can bring out the worst in a person. But it all goes a lot better if you're committed to the idea of being pleasant company to the people you're traveling with.
Most of us inherently know what pleasant company looks like. We practice it with strangers but forget to practice it with the people closest to us. It's pretty simple. Start by smiling more. Laugh more. Be playful. (Why is it that middle-aged parents are so serious all the time?) Say thank you, A LOT. Be agreeable and flexible. Be willing to try things a different way than how you normally function. Don't feel the need to share your every complaint and negative thought. For women especially: Don't parent your husband. Don't correct him or fuss at him. Don't question his every move. Let him lead.
There is nothing more attractive than a man boldly, decisively, confidently leading. Let the feminist choir rise up against me and throw rotten tomatoes; I don't care. I think there are a whole lot of women who would agree with me that confident leadership, assuming you're married to a decent guy, is super attractive.
If you're traveling this summer, experiment with this idea. Focus on being pleasant company. If it goes as well for you as it did for me, take it up a notch and try being pleasant company at home. I know, right? Crazy! Home is supposed to be the place where we can be ourselves, let our hair down, be real. But if that's not working out so well, try being pleasant instead. You may have to work at it. You may even have to fake it a little. That's OK. We are creatures who love rewards, and if your experiment goes as I think it will, the rewards will be worth your effort.
Life is hard. God mercifully gives us other people to travel with through the hardness. My hypothesis, still undergoing much testing, is that it's much easier if we travel as pleasant company.
Thursday, April 27, 2017
A Practical Lesson on Love
"If someone asked me if I loved my wife, I'd say of course I do. I love her so much I'd give my life for her without a second thought. But if we're on a road trip and she wants to eat at Subway and I want to eat at Taco Bell, I will fight her tooth and nail to get what I want."
Though not verbatim, my pastor shared this example about a year ago while teaching on love. Do you know that feeling when a speaker says something and time seems to stop? Everyone else in the room disappears, and it's like he called you out and began speaking specifically to you? That's what happened to me when he gave that example.
Months prior to hearing that message, my husband had asked me to go on a Mediterranean cruise with him. In the 20 years we've owned our business, he has earned several trips through one of his suppliers, and several times, he has asked me if I would be willing to go. Each time, I've said no. Without a thought. The reason is because the trips are always in early May, and we have four children. I don't want to do the work or miss the activity that being gone in May would require.
My sweet husband was not asking me to dig ditches, foster feral kittens, move back into the shop, or watch ten hours of motocross in the hot sun (that one he's asked before). He was asking me to take what other people might call the trip of a lifetime, with him. I had enough sense to reluctantly agree to the cruise because it seemed so important to him, but when he asked about adding on extra days at the end of the cruise, I snapped back that he would need to find someone else to take with him, because there was no way I was going to be gone "extra days" in May.
The only way this makes sense is if you're a mom who has lived through May before. Dumping four children on someone else for 12 days during the most insane time of the year feels like irresponsible parenting. Then sign one of those kids up for competitive soccer and the other for three sports in one season, add in three music lessons a week and four AP tests, Awana, youth group, birthday parties, and a dozen events that require 10 bucks and a dozen cupcakes, and it feels sickeningly indulgent and utterly undoable. If the trip had been in June, I would have kicked up my heels and bought a copy of Italy for Dummies. But May? All I did was grumble.
And then my pastor shared his little story. It was like a news-alert scroll was turned on inside my head. The message running loudly through my brain was this: "Want to know how to love your husband well? Do what he wants to do. And do it cheerfully."
It is humbling to realize that all it takes to bring out your ugly is for your husband to invite you on a cruise at the wrong time of year. But humbling is not a bad thing. In this case, a good dose of Holy Spirit humbling gave me a kick in the seat to start changing my attitude. It was slow going for a good, long while. I lived in absolute dread of having to plan schedules and line up rides for children whose lives we can barely manage ourselves. Sure enough, it has been a ton of work. My brain feels like it's been tossed into a blender. I have had to do battle with that guilty sense of indulgence that taunts me at every turn. I have had to remind myself often why I am doing this. I will have to make a conscious choice on Saturday morning at 10:58 a.m. to turn off the all-powerful carpool mom part of my brain and rediscover the fun wife part. But that's what I'm going to do.
Because what greater thing can a wife give her husband than the gift of her full attention? For 12 days? In May? How can she demonstrate more clearly that she loves him than doing what he wants to do? Cheerfully?
(And probably the Mediterranean won't be so bad either.)
Though not verbatim, my pastor shared this example about a year ago while teaching on love. Do you know that feeling when a speaker says something and time seems to stop? Everyone else in the room disappears, and it's like he called you out and began speaking specifically to you? That's what happened to me when he gave that example.
Months prior to hearing that message, my husband had asked me to go on a Mediterranean cruise with him. In the 20 years we've owned our business, he has earned several trips through one of his suppliers, and several times, he has asked me if I would be willing to go. Each time, I've said no. Without a thought. The reason is because the trips are always in early May, and we have four children. I don't want to do the work or miss the activity that being gone in May would require.
My sweet husband was not asking me to dig ditches, foster feral kittens, move back into the shop, or watch ten hours of motocross in the hot sun (that one he's asked before). He was asking me to take what other people might call the trip of a lifetime, with him. I had enough sense to reluctantly agree to the cruise because it seemed so important to him, but when he asked about adding on extra days at the end of the cruise, I snapped back that he would need to find someone else to take with him, because there was no way I was going to be gone "extra days" in May.
The only way this makes sense is if you're a mom who has lived through May before. Dumping four children on someone else for 12 days during the most insane time of the year feels like irresponsible parenting. Then sign one of those kids up for competitive soccer and the other for three sports in one season, add in three music lessons a week and four AP tests, Awana, youth group, birthday parties, and a dozen events that require 10 bucks and a dozen cupcakes, and it feels sickeningly indulgent and utterly undoable. If the trip had been in June, I would have kicked up my heels and bought a copy of Italy for Dummies. But May? All I did was grumble.
And then my pastor shared his little story. It was like a news-alert scroll was turned on inside my head. The message running loudly through my brain was this: "Want to know how to love your husband well? Do what he wants to do. And do it cheerfully."
It is humbling to realize that all it takes to bring out your ugly is for your husband to invite you on a cruise at the wrong time of year. But humbling is not a bad thing. In this case, a good dose of Holy Spirit humbling gave me a kick in the seat to start changing my attitude. It was slow going for a good, long while. I lived in absolute dread of having to plan schedules and line up rides for children whose lives we can barely manage ourselves. Sure enough, it has been a ton of work. My brain feels like it's been tossed into a blender. I have had to do battle with that guilty sense of indulgence that taunts me at every turn. I have had to remind myself often why I am doing this. I will have to make a conscious choice on Saturday morning at 10:58 a.m. to turn off the all-powerful carpool mom part of my brain and rediscover the fun wife part. But that's what I'm going to do.
Because what greater thing can a wife give her husband than the gift of her full attention? For 12 days? In May? How can she demonstrate more clearly that she loves him than doing what he wants to do? Cheerfully?
(And probably the Mediterranean won't be so bad either.)
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Eleven Witnesses
I wonder if anyone has had their whole life come down to one minute? A minute in which all that they'd been taught, all they'd been hoping for, all that mattered in the world to them was fulfilled. A minute that knit together every day of their past and radically shaped every day of their future?
That's what happened to eleven men in Jerusalem. For three years, they had been following around this man named Jesus. They had seen him do many unexplainable things and heard him speak of mysteries beyond their understanding. He was strange, but he was also their friend. They trusted him. They trusted him enough to give up everything and follow him all around the countryside, doing whatever he said.
They were good Jewish boys. Their mamas and daddys had taught them well. They knew the Scripture; they followed the Law. They knew that Yahweh had promised them a Messiah, a rescuer who would save God's people and rule forever. Just about the time they began to think that Jesus might be the One they were waiting for, just about the time they were thinking he would stick it to the Roman leaders and set up Jewish rule once and for all, something crazy happened. He died. His body was put in a tomb. And that was that.
"What in the world was that about?" they must have wondered.
Could they eat? Sleep? I don't think so. All they could do was wonder, and weep, and stumble through what must have been the greatest disappointment of all time.
But then their moment came. THE moment. And it happened so simply.
One minute they were alone, and the next he was there with them. He appeared out of nowhere, very much alive. They were so startled they thought he was a ghost. He knew how jarring his appearance would be, so he let them examine his nail-scarred hands and feet. He ate with them. And then he did something that must have seemed to them even more amazing than raising from the dead. He put every second of every day of their entire lives in context.
He said something like this: Everything you've hoped for your entire lives, every lesson you ever learned, every law you ever followed, every scripture you ever memorized was all about me. This life? All about me. This world? All about me (and, by the way, I created it). The future? All about me.
"Then he opened their minds so they could understand the Scriptures. He told them, 'This is what is written: The Messiah will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance for the forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things'" (Luke 24:45-47).
Grief and confusion and disappointment were immediately sucked out of the room. "Ah-ha" moments broke out. Connections were made. Lives, on the spot, were changed, never to be the same. The world was changed, never to be the same. And it all began with those eleven.
Sometimes I marvel over what it's like to be alive right now, in this moment in time. On my watch, the world changed at the hands of technology. The world I was born into looks nothing like the one I inhabit now. I think that's pretty amazing. I wonder how I got to be a witness to such things.
But it doesn't hold a candle to what those eleven in Jerusalem witnessed, when all of history and all of eternity converged in that one holy moment.
He is risen. And this crazy world make sense.
That's what happened to eleven men in Jerusalem. For three years, they had been following around this man named Jesus. They had seen him do many unexplainable things and heard him speak of mysteries beyond their understanding. He was strange, but he was also their friend. They trusted him. They trusted him enough to give up everything and follow him all around the countryside, doing whatever he said.
They were good Jewish boys. Their mamas and daddys had taught them well. They knew the Scripture; they followed the Law. They knew that Yahweh had promised them a Messiah, a rescuer who would save God's people and rule forever. Just about the time they began to think that Jesus might be the One they were waiting for, just about the time they were thinking he would stick it to the Roman leaders and set up Jewish rule once and for all, something crazy happened. He died. His body was put in a tomb. And that was that.
"What in the world was that about?" they must have wondered.
Could they eat? Sleep? I don't think so. All they could do was wonder, and weep, and stumble through what must have been the greatest disappointment of all time.
But then their moment came. THE moment. And it happened so simply.
One minute they were alone, and the next he was there with them. He appeared out of nowhere, very much alive. They were so startled they thought he was a ghost. He knew how jarring his appearance would be, so he let them examine his nail-scarred hands and feet. He ate with them. And then he did something that must have seemed to them even more amazing than raising from the dead. He put every second of every day of their entire lives in context.
He said something like this: Everything you've hoped for your entire lives, every lesson you ever learned, every law you ever followed, every scripture you ever memorized was all about me. This life? All about me. This world? All about me (and, by the way, I created it). The future? All about me.
"Then he opened their minds so they could understand the Scriptures. He told them, 'This is what is written: The Messiah will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance for the forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things'" (Luke 24:45-47).
Grief and confusion and disappointment were immediately sucked out of the room. "Ah-ha" moments broke out. Connections were made. Lives, on the spot, were changed, never to be the same. The world was changed, never to be the same. And it all began with those eleven.
Sometimes I marvel over what it's like to be alive right now, in this moment in time. On my watch, the world changed at the hands of technology. The world I was born into looks nothing like the one I inhabit now. I think that's pretty amazing. I wonder how I got to be a witness to such things.
But it doesn't hold a candle to what those eleven in Jerusalem witnessed, when all of history and all of eternity converged in that one holy moment.
He is risen. And this crazy world make sense.
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