How did we get here?

Shoot. I spoke too soon. I started the approach to my soap box four days ago after reading a news article, and no good judgment has knocked me off yet. Here's the issue: In the past week, several news sources have reported that the recently opened Chick-fil-A in the UK will soon close because of protests over the company's "donations to anti-LGBT groups." That part in quotes is straight from the BBC.

Chick-fil-A is no stranger to controversy, of course. But I wondered what these "anti-LGBT" groups were. The language brings to mind hate groups, something along the lines of KKK members targeting gay and trans people.

The BBC article went on to list three of these organizations, one of which is the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army has been around since 1865 and is one of the most well-recognized humanitarian organizations in the world. It operates 495 homeless shelters, 232 children's homes, 160 homes for the elderly, 114 men's and women's refuge centers, 661 community daycare centers, 121 rehab centers, 52 mobile units that serve members of the military, 77 disaster rehabilitation units, 30 hospitals, and 29 maternity hospitals. Its community-development programs serve nearly a million people worldwide. In America alone, the SA serves more than 58 million meals and cares for 30 million Americans every year. 

The BBC and other news outlets choose to refer to the Salvation Army as simply an "anti-LGBT group." It's like calling Google a place where you can find out the time. Except that's actually true.

In 60 seconds of research, I learned that the Salvation Army policy is that "anyone who comes through our doors will receive help based on their need and our capacity to help. We annually serve 30 million Americans from a variety of backgrounds--we do not pick and choose who we serve based on religion, sexual orientation or any other factor. Any instance of discrimination is in direct opposition to our core beliefs and is against all of our policies." Recognizing that gay and transgendered people are often those most at risk, the Salvation Army lists on its website a variety of services aimed to help them: food, shelter, job training, substance abuse treatment, suicide counseling.

Anyone can put anything on a website. But I used to volunteer at the Salvation Army. That means I've got a dog in this fight, and that I have first-hand knowledge of who and how the SA serves. I saw the website policy faithfully practiced, day in and day out. We cared for people without bias and without judgment. A same-sex couple wants to register their first grader for after-school care? She's in. A transgendered person needs food or help with their electric bill? We're on it. The bill's been paid; the food is boxed up and ready to go. How else can we help?

The bigger questions are these: How has everything in our society been reduced to a single issue? How has gender and sexuality evolved into the Singular Issue of our time, the thing that draws lines between people, organizations, churches, and even restaurants? What has our world come to if even the Salvation Army is considered a hate group? If the compassionate person who drops money into the red bucket at Christmas is labeled a hater? If we'll gorge ourselves on fried chicken from a company that hordes its profits, but we'll protest and chase you out of the country if they share their earnings with the destitute? How did we get here, and is this who we want to be?

Slow to Speak

In my early days of writing this blog, I posted a new entry once a week. I had four little kids underfoot and was trying to launch my freelance career, but still I had thoughts, ideas, and words pouring out of me by the week. Eleven years later, I have more time to myself than ever before, and yet the words don't tumble out nearly so freely. The thoughts and ideas that precede the written words are still there, but more often than not, they're ill-defined, gray as opposed to black and white.

It's not that I'm not still learning and growing, or that I'm less bothered by things, or have become apathetic. I've considered writing about numerous topics over the past month:

• Is disdain for construction and neighborhood expansion a sign of old age? 
• Why are Democrats uninterested in courting my vote?
• How can Ralph Reed tell me I have a "moral obligation" to vote for Donald Trump? 
• Drum majors: the most underrated, growth-producing job in high school
• What to do when the words you sing at church don't match your reality? 
• What does it look like in practice for someone like me to love the widow and the orphan, the immigrant, the prisoner?
• What to do with an enneagram number that I sort of hate but that sounds a lot like me?
• What on earth is happening with my hormones and why has this new layer of padding taken up residence in my mid-section? 

My male readers can thank me for not pursuing that last one.

I think what I'm discovering is that I don't know much at all. Just about the time I'm climbing up on my soapbox, something flies at me to knock me down. When I think I've got something figured out, I get information to the contrary, and I'm back to square one. When I believe I have some great exhortation that must be shared with the world, better judgment steps in to tell me that maybe I don't know what I'm talking about at all.

It makes me wonder . . . is this the maturity and wisdom I've been praying for?

It might be that a truly wise person would stop putting their words and thoughts out on the internet. I'm not there yet. I began this blog with the intention of sharing what God is teaching me, and certainly He is still teaching me plenty. There are still things that arouse great conviction and passion in me. But I do take to heart the apostle James's admonition to be slow to speak and slow to anger. I'm a former sprinter who likes to do everything fast, but I'm learning the value of being slow with my opinions, judgments, and words.

What to do with the Bible?

From what I can tell, there are two reasons why people reject the Christianity they used to believe in. One is our representatives. They decide that Christians are nasty, judgmental, hate-filled, and naive. The other is our book. They decide the Bible is nasty, judgmental, hate-filled, and naive.

The second of these is what's on my mind today. What to do about the Bible? What to do with the only written revelation of God that just happens to be difficult, controversial, confusing, seemingly contradictory, and plain unlikable in parts? People have come up with a number of solutions. Some leave the church while maintaining some kind of spirituality. Many become progressive Christians, cherry picking the parts of the Bible that are most attractive--like social justice and loving your neighbor as yourself--while ditching the parts that seem unenlightened and on the wrong side of history.  An influential pastor has suggested pulling the Bible apart and letting the New Testament stand alone from the "Hebrew Scriptures" where most of the offensive stuff rests. Two prominent Christians, one a well-known author and pastor and the other a writer of worship music, have recently decided to scrap the whole thing and walk away from the faith entirely.

No offense to those who are trying to make the Bible work for them or have shut it altogether, but these seem like the easy ways out. My solution is a lot less interesting, and a lot more work. It's that we study the Bible like our lives depend on it. Most of us are well past the days where "for the Bible tells me so" is much good for anything. We've got to know what it says for ourselves. We can't just think we know or rely on a memory of what we knew 5 or 10 or 20 years ago. Our Bible studies need to be places where we actually open the Bible. Our church services need to cover not just feel-good moral principles, but the nitty-gritty hard stuff from Deuteronomy, Joshua, and Judges. We need to learn to appreciate God's holiness as much as we love His grace.

We need to study the Bible with old and new commentaries and cross references and maybe even a Hebrew dictionary close by. Learn about the culture. Dig into the words and phrases and metaphors that don't make any sense. Be familiar with different types of literature--narrative history, prophecy, poetry, letters--and where each book fits in. Know who wrote each book, who they were writing to, and why it mattered. Don't gloss over the hard parts or get frustrated with them and walk away. Sit with them and ask questions. I recently spent a week with God in 2 Samuel 21 and literally asked Him my questions out loud. He's met me over my dining room table with a stack of commentaries, a host of online messages, and insights from some wise friends that make me think deeper than my own shifty feelings.

I am writing this as a memo to myself:
To hold on to the Christianity of our youth, we've got to be in the Bible today. And by "be," I mean up to our elbows. We can't sit around in Bible studies sharing prayer requests and talking about the social issues of our day. We can't spend 15 minutes yawning our way through a devotional each morning and call it good. We've got to open the Bible and study it with all we've got. We can't splash around in the shallow end, and we can't let our kids stay there either. They've got to wander out into the deep end, and we have to lead them there. We're going to do some flailing out there. It's OK. There's solid ground just beneath our swirling, kicking feet.

Consenting to a New Season

It rolled in this afternoon about 4:00 like a thunderstorm. I could feel my funk, my August funk, start to settle over me. The calendar may claim we have 40 more days of summer, but anyone with school-age kids knows that summer ends when school starts. For us, that happens tomorrow.

I call it my transition funk. It's not an eloquent name, but I don't know how else to describe it. It's not sadness or anxiety. It's not regret. It's more just an unsettled feeling that things are changing, a feeling that leaves me a little fragile. The tears are just under the surface today as I anticipate our day tomorrow: my youngest entering a new school and starting her first day of junior high; my oldest making the 24-hour drive back to college. On Thursday, I send two more daughters into their sophomore and senior years, a reminder of just how soon each of them will be moving out of our house.

I couldn't be more excited for them all. But I also recognize that my stage of life is shifting quickly. I love what my friend Margo has to say about shifting seasons:


"I have lived long enough to experience that each life stage is full of both blessing and challenge, privilege and cost.  Flourishing in whatever season I’m in has always required that I receive its gifts as well as grieve its losses. I don’t always do this well. Comparison can rob me of living the season I’m in. I can look back at seasons that felt more (or less) full. At times when friendships seemed more life-giving than life-draining, or opportunities and capacity to use my gifts seemed to be balanced just right. I can look around at others whose life stage seems to be giving them freedom for more (or less) of whatever I currently want. Or I can look ahead in anticipatory dread to seasons that I fear will hold more challenges than blessings.

An inner response of consent, of granting permission, for life to be what it is at this stage, with all its costs and privileges, is not a passive “whatever.” It’s the courage to name whatever realities I can about my current season and invite God to live in the ebb and flow of it with me. He wants to give me discernment not only in stewarding the pace of my life, but in stewarding the stages of it as well." 

Margo's a wise woman. She helps me understand my funk. Each August, I go through the process of consenting to a new season. Some of those seasons are bigger than others. At this stage of kid-launching, they all feel big. I'm not just accepting what comes; I'm consenting. I'm saying, "OK, God, I know you've prepared me for this moment, and I want to live it well. I accept what you give, and I accept what you take, knowing it's all doing your good work in me. And thank you that I no longer have babies. Amen."

It may feel a little funky and I may find myself a bit soggy-eyed over the next week, but I'll take it. I'll consent, and I'll invite Him into the ebb and flow of my new realities.

Seven Hundred Days

Seven hundred days.* I have spent the past seven hundred days asking God for something, the same something. "Asking" isn't really the right word. "Pleading" is more like it. With the persistent widow in Luke 18 as my example, I banged on God's door every day with the same request: "It's me again, Lord. Still asking. Still desperate for you to act." For seven hundred days, that door didn't budge.

The judge in the Luke 18 story finally says, "This woman is driving me crazy. I'm going to see that she gets justice, because she is wearing me out with her constant requests!" I don't know if that's what God thought about me, but this week, He answered. Loudly. Enormously. Where I had been begging at His door for even just a morsel, He produced a buffet.

The problem isn't solved; it's just that now there's an answer in sight. Like most of life, the solution will come only at the end of a long, difficult journey. It will require tremendous faith. It actually feels like it will require more faith now than ever--faith to hope that this is really the answer, and that it will really work. Faith not to despair if it doesn't turn out like I want it to. But my faith got a promotion and a raise this week, and right now I can believe God for anything.

If you've been pounding on God's door for seven days, seven hundred days, or seven years, don't grow weary. Don't give up. That's the message we learn from the persistent widow. There is value in caring about something, or someone, so much that we bring it up every day before the Lord. There is beautiful growth to be found--earned, really--in trusting that any day could be the day that He answers. And there is a celebration for the ages on the day when that answer comes.



*A rough approximation of two years' worth of prayer, accounting for the occasional sick day, "I'm-on-vacation-and-totally-forgot" day, "I'm-so-tired-of-asking-for-this-that-I-need-a-break" day, taking-my-firstborn-to-college day, or a handful of days when it was too cold/snowy/icy to go out to my prayer track. 

A "Precious" Week in Fiji

Precious is not really a word I use. It's a little too cutesy, too flowery, for me. That's a shame, because despite the fact that it became associated with cherub-faced figurines in the '80s, it's a powerful word. It means "of great value, not to be wasted or treated carelessly." By that standard, my trip to Fiji with my daughter was precious.

It was of great value. It opened our eyes to a new culture, new ways of thinking, and a much bigger picture of what the kingdom of God looks like on earth. There was great value for Brooka, for both her future and her present. There was value in me seeing her all in, making tricky relationships look easy. There was value in comparing and contrasting.

What does my 15-year-old daughter have in common with the teenage girls she spent the week with in Fiji? She's grown up in church, as many of the Homes of Hope girls have. She loves to sing songs to God. She loves to play games and sports, and she really loves to laugh. She sometimes feels like a kid and sometimes feels like an adult in that in-between adolescent space. More than anything else, she likes being around people. All of these things she shares in common with the girls we met in Fiji.

But from there, the differences are striking. My girl has never been pregnant and has no children. None of her teenage friends have children. She has 15 or 20 other kids in her classes, not 60. She's surrounded by people who are filled with vision. She's encouraged to think about the future and make decisions that will positively affect that future. She's grown up in a culture that values initiative, motivation, hard work, and responsibility. As long as she's been able to think, she's known that she has rights, that she can say "no," and that she has control over her own body. In her little world, incest and abuse are things she only hears about on the news. They're unacceptable, forbidden, things people go to jail for. In her world, parents work and children play and go to school. And finally, Brooka lives in a community where dads stick around and take care of their families.

My role on our trip to Fiji was to interview Homes of Hope's social workers so that I could write reports and stories. Every story they told me started the same way, with a little girl who had no dad. Either her parents never married, they got divorced, or her dad died. A mother's boyfriend or stepfather often moved in, leaving the girl vulnerable to abuse. Over and over again I heard about girls rejected by mothers, kicked out of the house (or forced by violence to flee the house) by a man who wasn't their dad. Without the protection of a father, they ended up on the streets, an easy target for sexual traffickers. I heard about 15-year-old girls living under a tin roof in a squatter settlement with 25 other girls and a 60-year-old pimp, who sold them out every day.

The "luckiest" ones got pregnant and found their way to Homes of Hope. These were our new friends--sweet, loving, cheerful girls who we sang, prayed, played, laughed, cried, and shared our lives with. Girls just like Brooka, but with very different stories. Girls who have never known what it's like to be loved by a good father.

Homes of Hope becomes their family. They learn, slowly, who to trust and how to trust. They learn about identity and confidence and who God made them to be. They learn how to become financially independent and how to take care of themselves and their children. They learn to stop hitting their children. They learn that the God they've been singing about is real and is crazy about them and wants a personal relationship with them. They learn that they have value beyond what they ever could have dreamed, and they learn to teach that to their children.

Brooka and I learned the value of growing up with a good dad. I didn't always think my dad was good. I don't have many positive memories of my 17 years with him. But my dad came home every night to be with his family. He worked hard for us. He took care of us, and he never left us. If anyone ever would have laid a hand on me, I think it's possible he would have killed him. I know that all the big pieces in my life--my education, my emotional and financial stability, my sense of responsibility, and especially my faith--came as a result of my dad sticking around. I'm sure he didn't always want to, but I am so grateful he did.

And I'm so, so grateful for my kids' father. It was simply the grace of God that led me to such a good man. A man who would not just stick around, but would love my three daughters and one son every minute of every day, completely and unconditionally. And who would have a whole lot of fun with them in the process. Brooka and I talked about this on the plane trip home, about how her life is different from her new Fijian friends not only because of the place she was born and the community she grew up in, but most importantly because of the good man who is her father.

That realization is precious: worthy of value, not to be wasted or treated carelessly.

The Best Part of Being a Parent

For me, the best part of being a parent is watching how all the wiring and gifting and experiences come together to shape our children. We know nothing about our babies when we bring them home from the hospital. We have dreams for them, and on our best days we have ideas about how we want to raise them, but truly, they are little 8-pound mysteries.

And then who they are--the person God created them to be--gradually comes into focus. We moms and dads begin to see patterns and connect the dots. On our best days we create opportunities for this emerging person to try new things and think new thoughts. We create spaces for them to expand and to hear from the One who knows exactly who they are and who they're meant to become.

One of my little people, Brooka, began talking about "preaching" when she was 4. She learned about a specific country she wanted to go to, one across the world that her dad and I had never given a thought. A little later she learned the word "missionary." Before she even started kindergarten, she would tell her sister she was sorry she wouldn't make it to her wedding, but she'd be too busy preaching in a far-away land. We all looked at her like she was nuts. Who was this child saying such strange things?

But even stranger, it lasted. While Addison grew out of her desire to be a fireman and a farmer, and Braden left behind his Indiana Jones days and thoughts of being an archaeologist, Brooka hasn't wavered. And the dots seemed to line up: her steady faith, easy-going nature, fearlessness, ability to make quick friends, enjoyment of children, ease and comfort with people from other cultures, ability to sleep and use the bathroom literally anywhere, and the way she does sick so well, pushing through anything no matter how she feels.

God gave this child to a mom who hadn't been out of North America until she was 43. Who has no vision for living anywhere but Colorado. Who eats five foods, none of which can touch (as my mother says of me). But I'm also a mom who prays daily for my children to have godly vision for their lives. And I'm a mom who has learned to create space for God to give them that vision.

Our space next week will be Fiji. Brooka and I are going to serve with a ministry that works with sex-traffic victims. These are girls approximately Brooka's age who have young children of their own. How do you prepare for something so intense, so radically different from anything you've ever known? No idea, except to pray. Pray and trust that God has been preparing Brooka for this her whole life. He must have been preparing me as well because there was no way I was missing out on seeing my daughter on her first missions trip. She can go alone every year from here on out, but wild horses (which in this case look like $2,000 and 13-hour plane trips) couldn't keep me from processing this experience with her in real time.

I'll get to cheer her on if this feels like the direction God is sending her. And I'll have to put on my Big Girl Pants and begin the hard work of setting her free, surrendering my fear and sadness at the thought of her living a world away. Or, I could end up sitting with her in the confusion of her calling if she feels like this just isn't it, telling her it's OK to dream different dreams and creating space for new vision. Either way, I hear God calling me to hold it all loosely. To trust Him and remember that He knows exactly what's best for Brooka.

Will you pray for us?

• That we'll know how to love and bless the girls we're with and will give generously of ourselves.
• That we'll keep our eyes and ears open to what God wants to show us.
• That Brooka will be sensitive to the Holy Spirit in knowing if this is the way of life God is calling her to, and that I'll have wisdom to know how to process with her. 
• That we'll hold it all loosely, letting go of our agendas and expectations and enjoying whatever He has planned for us.