Limited by time this week (and preparing to leave four children and their busy lives at home with grandma for five days while Kevin and I are in Florida), I’m posting a list I wrote a few years ago. Prompted by my wise friend Becky to share ten things that I’ve learned—from the simple to the life-altering—I pounded out this list in about 10 minutes. With a few more years of living behind me, I’ve made a few additions. Here are some of the things I've learned:
1. I moved 18 times before my 18th birthday, and I learned that it’s good to be flexible, even when it hurts, and not to get too attached to your stuff.
2. When I was a senior in high school, I found out that my parents “had” to get married, and I learned that I’m bad at math and that the consequences of your actions follow you the rest of your life.
3. I am still close to at least one friend from every place I’ve ever lived, and I learned that friendships mean the world to me.
4. I witnessed the 1992 L.A. riots firsthand, and I learned that I prefer to watch breaking news from my couch and that perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.
5. I married the best looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I learned that not all blond jocks are what they appear to be.
6. I wrote 100 pages of a novel, and I learned that published novelists deserve the money they make.
7. Although I’ve never met another person with my name, I do share my name with a town in New South Wales, Australia. I haven’t really learned anything from this, but it’s still sorta cool.
8. I inherited close to a half-million dollars from a sad drunk, and I learned that God can choose to bless and provide for us any way He wants.
9. For three hours, I tried unsuccessfully to push my first baby out, and I learned the definition of unconditional love, even when someone is hurting you badly. I also learned that planned C-sections are good. Very good.
10. I’ve held the hands of two people as they died, and I learned that although I fiercely love life, I’m not too afraid of death.
11. I’ve discovered how important the poor, the oppressed, the widows and the orphans are to God, and I’ve learned that I cannot live the same.
12. I delivered a stillborn baby, and I learned that the promise of heaven is somehow even sweeter when you know you have a child waiting for you there.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Celebrating Diversity
One of the things I miss most about the working world is the exposure to people in different stages of life. Stay-at-home mom life is fairly homogeneous, at least for me. As I look at the other people in the carpool line, almost all of them are female, almost all within five years of my age, and they usually have lives pretty similar to my own.
There are times when I need the fellowship of a woman sitting next to me in the cry room at church, to talk about whether to get flu shots and how to make it through another sleepless night with sick kids. There are times when I leave a restaurant with a bunch of other moms feeling understood and less alone. And few things bring me more comfort than the sorority of women racing toward 40 right alongside me.
But then there are times when I’m just really kinda sick of that world and crave something different. And that’s when I really miss office life. I miss the daily closeness of my 50-year-old hero on the other side of the cubicle wall who is raising incredible teenagers and will tell me honestly if my copy sucks. And the 25-year-old who’s planning her wedding. And the deep conversations with my guy friends who are tiptoeing around midlife crisis and helping me understand the pressures my own husband feels.
It’s pretty hard to find this kind of diversity anymore, which is one of the reasons why I work so hard to maintain the relationships I have. Earlier this week I had lunch with one of my favorite people—a dapper 65 year old who seems 45 to me. Actually, two of my dearest friends are men in their 60s. One gave me my first job and taught me everything I know about editing and publishing books. He’s also tutored me in philosophy and Kirkagaard and rheumatoid arthritis and how to suffer greatly without losing faith. The other friend and I have collaborated on three of his books. He has shared nuggets of wisdom with me that I will never forget, while making me laugh so hard my side aches.
Thanks to my work, I also have a 70-year-old Iranian buddy and a nearly-70 Lebanese friend who’s an expert in Islamic fundamentalism. Not people I’m going to go shopping or clubbing with, but friends whose perspective and experience make my life richer. (OK, I haven’t been clubbing since the early 90s, but the thought of clubbing with Nabeel was too funny to leave out.)
So, yeah, while nearly all of the work clothes have been given away and the books and articles are all packed away in boxes somewhere, the diverse relationships were the biggest treasure I smuggled out of the work world. And thankfully, those endure.
There are times when I need the fellowship of a woman sitting next to me in the cry room at church, to talk about whether to get flu shots and how to make it through another sleepless night with sick kids. There are times when I leave a restaurant with a bunch of other moms feeling understood and less alone. And few things bring me more comfort than the sorority of women racing toward 40 right alongside me.
But then there are times when I’m just really kinda sick of that world and crave something different. And that’s when I really miss office life. I miss the daily closeness of my 50-year-old hero on the other side of the cubicle wall who is raising incredible teenagers and will tell me honestly if my copy sucks. And the 25-year-old who’s planning her wedding. And the deep conversations with my guy friends who are tiptoeing around midlife crisis and helping me understand the pressures my own husband feels.
It’s pretty hard to find this kind of diversity anymore, which is one of the reasons why I work so hard to maintain the relationships I have. Earlier this week I had lunch with one of my favorite people—a dapper 65 year old who seems 45 to me. Actually, two of my dearest friends are men in their 60s. One gave me my first job and taught me everything I know about editing and publishing books. He’s also tutored me in philosophy and Kirkagaard and rheumatoid arthritis and how to suffer greatly without losing faith. The other friend and I have collaborated on three of his books. He has shared nuggets of wisdom with me that I will never forget, while making me laugh so hard my side aches.
Thanks to my work, I also have a 70-year-old Iranian buddy and a nearly-70 Lebanese friend who’s an expert in Islamic fundamentalism. Not people I’m going to go shopping or clubbing with, but friends whose perspective and experience make my life richer. (OK, I haven’t been clubbing since the early 90s, but the thought of clubbing with Nabeel was too funny to leave out.)
So, yeah, while nearly all of the work clothes have been given away and the books and articles are all packed away in boxes somewhere, the diverse relationships were the biggest treasure I smuggled out of the work world. And thankfully, those endure.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I Don't Drink Tea But I Sure Liked This
The bandwagon, as usual, was well down the street when I lunged forward and jumped on. The book came out three years ago, and I’ve heard constant chatter about it ever since. Finally, I read it for myself: Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace . . . One School at a Time. It was as good as the hype.
Up to this point, everything I’ve known about Afghanistan’s political history came from The Kite Runner. In 1989, I was the salutatorian of my class and couldn’t have found Afghanistan on a map, let alone told you that it had been occupied for the past decade by the Soviets. More recently, I’ve known it only as the suspected home of Al Qaeda and the place where many American soldiers lose their lives.
Greg Mortensen gave me a quick education. Three Cups of Tea is his story about stumbling, quite accidentally, on the poorest of the poor in the farthest reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The picture he paints is hard to imagine. These are people who could only make it to the nearest city by traversing a canyon with a zipline and a basket. And their poverty, along with a cultural hesitancy toward education—especially of girls—left these remote villages with illiterate leaders and children with little hope for a better life.
In the past 15 years, Mortensen and the Central Asia Institute that he founded have raised up 128 schools across two nations known for breeding and training terrorists. His work also includes building women’s centers and medical facilities as well as feeding and caring for refuges and other victims of war. I don’t know where Mortensen’s spiritual allegiances lie, but I know this: One of my heroes, Kit Danley, says that the journey into the center of God’s heart lands you among the poor and the afflicted. In this book, I met a man who eats, sleeps, and breathes there.
I recently caught a snippet of director Michael Moore publicizing his new movie. Speaking about world politics, he said that a war in Afghanistan could not be won. I’m sure that many—including Michael Moore himself—would argue that this rogue movie maker is affecting the world by changing minds. Greg Mortensen, by redirecting the paths of those most vulnerable to the lure of power and terror, is affecting the world by changing lives. Try telling him that a war can't be won there.
Up to this point, everything I’ve known about Afghanistan’s political history came from The Kite Runner. In 1989, I was the salutatorian of my class and couldn’t have found Afghanistan on a map, let alone told you that it had been occupied for the past decade by the Soviets. More recently, I’ve known it only as the suspected home of Al Qaeda and the place where many American soldiers lose their lives.
Greg Mortensen gave me a quick education. Three Cups of Tea is his story about stumbling, quite accidentally, on the poorest of the poor in the farthest reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The picture he paints is hard to imagine. These are people who could only make it to the nearest city by traversing a canyon with a zipline and a basket. And their poverty, along with a cultural hesitancy toward education—especially of girls—left these remote villages with illiterate leaders and children with little hope for a better life.
In the past 15 years, Mortensen and the Central Asia Institute that he founded have raised up 128 schools across two nations known for breeding and training terrorists. His work also includes building women’s centers and medical facilities as well as feeding and caring for refuges and other victims of war. I don’t know where Mortensen’s spiritual allegiances lie, but I know this: One of my heroes, Kit Danley, says that the journey into the center of God’s heart lands you among the poor and the afflicted. In this book, I met a man who eats, sleeps, and breathes there.
I recently caught a snippet of director Michael Moore publicizing his new movie. Speaking about world politics, he said that a war in Afghanistan could not be won. I’m sure that many—including Michael Moore himself—would argue that this rogue movie maker is affecting the world by changing minds. Greg Mortensen, by redirecting the paths of those most vulnerable to the lure of power and terror, is affecting the world by changing lives. Try telling him that a war can't be won there.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Goosebump Moments
When I started this blog, my intention was to write about what I’m walking through with God—what I’m wondering and what He’s showing me. What I did not want to do was create another Mommy Blog. I’m a mommy through and through, but I hear enough about other people’s kids, and I’m sure most people feel the same way. If it’s mom stories you want, they’re readily available, and they’re told by women who can write circles around me.
But sometimes what I’m wondering and what God is showing me comes from my kids. And then I have to write about it.
I don’t do surface conversation well. I thrive at the gut level, where people’s deepest thoughts are stirred and released. It’s hard to find this level very often with a young kid. It’s not that they’re trying to be superficial; to them, the road kill rotting in the front yard is the most profound discovery in the universe. It’s just not something I care to talk about for more than 20 seconds.
But the other night, I plunged head first into gut-level conversation with two of my girls. We were driving home in the pitch dark, just the three of us, and we went from talking about the really tall people we know to Goliath to “Was there really a Goliath?” to “How do we know the Bible is true?” in about half a mile. One daughter confessed that she questioned God’s very existence. While surprised to hear this, I was even more surprised (happily) when He gave me the words to respond: “God is big enough to handle your questions. They don’t make Him love you any less.”
And then from the mouth of a light-hearted five-year-old, I heard, “Mommy, I have some big questions about my life, too.” Intrigued and amused, I asked what they were. “Well, sometimes I wonder if I’m just a person in a book. Or on a show. Or if maybe I’m just a toy someone’s playing with.”
Check the rearview mirror and pull the car over!! And God, please give me the words. Don’t let me mess this up! One of my favorite word pictures of God is that He’s the author of my story. He writes the plot, the ups and the downs, but I fill in the details. And no matter what, I can trust that the author is good and that He loves me. Somehow, all those words managed to tumble out of my mouth in a way she seemed to understand.
Finally, we made it home. One daughter ran off to the bathroom, while the other stayed close by me. “Mom?” she asked, “If Goliath’s purpose was to be used to demonstrate God’s glory, what’s your purpose?” At this point, I am floating. I live for this stuff, and my daughter keeps coming back for more! Does it get any better than this? I got to explain to her that my purpose is the same as Goliath’s, it just looks a little different. We talked for several more minutes, and she made a few more astute, stunningly mature observations. Goose bumps had long overtaken my body. I had that crazy sensation that we stumble upon every once in a great while, the kind that says, “This is why you are alive.”
And then little Brooka beckoned me into the bathroom at the top of her lungs. “Mom! You gotta come here!” Turning toward her, I’m thinking, “What, God? What’s next? How are you going to top this? Is she going to ask me the meaning of life? Bring it on! I am so ready!”
Barely able to contain herself, she squealed, “My poodoo just came out of my bottom and slid right down the hole into the potty, and THEN it slithered right back out just like a snake!”
And the magic was gone. Slithering off like a snake.
But for about half an hour on a random Friday night, the magic was there, and it was beautiful. Parenting is 99 percent poodoo and roadkill and jungle animals and begging for fruit snacks. But every once in awhile, the magic is there, and then you know why you are alive.
But sometimes what I’m wondering and what God is showing me comes from my kids. And then I have to write about it.
I don’t do surface conversation well. I thrive at the gut level, where people’s deepest thoughts are stirred and released. It’s hard to find this level very often with a young kid. It’s not that they’re trying to be superficial; to them, the road kill rotting in the front yard is the most profound discovery in the universe. It’s just not something I care to talk about for more than 20 seconds.
But the other night, I plunged head first into gut-level conversation with two of my girls. We were driving home in the pitch dark, just the three of us, and we went from talking about the really tall people we know to Goliath to “Was there really a Goliath?” to “How do we know the Bible is true?” in about half a mile. One daughter confessed that she questioned God’s very existence. While surprised to hear this, I was even more surprised (happily) when He gave me the words to respond: “God is big enough to handle your questions. They don’t make Him love you any less.”
And then from the mouth of a light-hearted five-year-old, I heard, “Mommy, I have some big questions about my life, too.” Intrigued and amused, I asked what they were. “Well, sometimes I wonder if I’m just a person in a book. Or on a show. Or if maybe I’m just a toy someone’s playing with.”
Check the rearview mirror and pull the car over!! And God, please give me the words. Don’t let me mess this up! One of my favorite word pictures of God is that He’s the author of my story. He writes the plot, the ups and the downs, but I fill in the details. And no matter what, I can trust that the author is good and that He loves me. Somehow, all those words managed to tumble out of my mouth in a way she seemed to understand.
Finally, we made it home. One daughter ran off to the bathroom, while the other stayed close by me. “Mom?” she asked, “If Goliath’s purpose was to be used to demonstrate God’s glory, what’s your purpose?” At this point, I am floating. I live for this stuff, and my daughter keeps coming back for more! Does it get any better than this? I got to explain to her that my purpose is the same as Goliath’s, it just looks a little different. We talked for several more minutes, and she made a few more astute, stunningly mature observations. Goose bumps had long overtaken my body. I had that crazy sensation that we stumble upon every once in a great while, the kind that says, “This is why you are alive.”
And then little Brooka beckoned me into the bathroom at the top of her lungs. “Mom! You gotta come here!” Turning toward her, I’m thinking, “What, God? What’s next? How are you going to top this? Is she going to ask me the meaning of life? Bring it on! I am so ready!”
Barely able to contain herself, she squealed, “My poodoo just came out of my bottom and slid right down the hole into the potty, and THEN it slithered right back out just like a snake!”
And the magic was gone. Slithering off like a snake.
But for about half an hour on a random Friday night, the magic was there, and it was beautiful. Parenting is 99 percent poodoo and roadkill and jungle animals and begging for fruit snacks. But every once in awhile, the magic is there, and then you know why you are alive.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Reformation, Part II
When you’re praying for reformation, to hear God’s voice fresh, to meet Him all over again, Isaiah is a good place to start. Long suspecting this was my favorite Old Testament book, I’ve been camped out there for several weeks.
If you want to hear what God Himself thinks, what His voice sounds like, go to Isaiah. The Israelites’ captivity in Babylon serves as the context, and God has some pretty strong feelings about it. Even though His words to Isaiah were specific to that time and that place, God’s character doesn’t change. I can learn a lot about who He is today, in my life, as I read about who He was then.
Here are a few of my favorites from Isaiah:
Isaiah 14:24 “The Lord Almighty has sworn, ‘Surely as I have planned, so it will be, and as I have purposed, so it will stand.” The world is not spinning out of control. God’s got a plan, it is good, and it cannot be changed, no matter how many Osama bin Ladens there are in the world. This is how I can sleep at night.
Isaiah 45:6b–7 “ ‘I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.’ ” This is a pretty bold response to those who don’t believe God is ever responsible for the world’s disasters. He creates them. He uses them. Most important, He is good enough to be trusted with them.
Isaiah 8:12–14 “ ‘Do not call conspiracy everything that these people call conspiracy; do not fear what they fear, and do not dread it. The Lord Almighty is the one you are to regard as holy, he is the one you are to fear, he is the one you are to dread, and he will be a sanctuary.’ ” Swine flu, global warming, global economic crisis, killer bees, terrorists, sexual predators—I think they all fall into this category. God tells me not to fear or dread any of them. My fear—my respect and awe of His power—are reserved for Him alone.
Isaiah 40:12–14 “Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens? Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket, or weighed the mountains on the scales and the hills in the balance? Who has understood the mind of the Lord, or instructed him as his counselor? Whom did the Lord consult to enlighten him, and who taught him the right way? Who was it that taught him knowledge or showed him the path of understanding?” Call me crazy, but I like being put in my place now and then. Like God’s response to Job, this passage reminds me that God is God and I am not. He doesn’t need me as His counselor. He doesn’t need me to enlighten Him about how I think the world ought to work. He formed the world just fine without my help, thank you very much. And if He can hold the dust of the earth in a basket, He’s probably got my issues all under control.
And finally, when I’m at the end of my rope—feeling lost, invisible, and completely wiped out—does it get any better than this?
Isaiah 40:27–29 “Why do you say, O Jacob, and complain O Israel, ‘My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God’? Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.” He understands me. And He goes on to promise that if I hope in Him, He will renew my strength and He will make me soar. Thanks, God. I’m ready to soar.
If you want to hear what God Himself thinks, what His voice sounds like, go to Isaiah. The Israelites’ captivity in Babylon serves as the context, and God has some pretty strong feelings about it. Even though His words to Isaiah were specific to that time and that place, God’s character doesn’t change. I can learn a lot about who He is today, in my life, as I read about who He was then.
Here are a few of my favorites from Isaiah:
Isaiah 14:24 “The Lord Almighty has sworn, ‘Surely as I have planned, so it will be, and as I have purposed, so it will stand.” The world is not spinning out of control. God’s got a plan, it is good, and it cannot be changed, no matter how many Osama bin Ladens there are in the world. This is how I can sleep at night.
Isaiah 45:6b–7 “ ‘I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.’ ” This is a pretty bold response to those who don’t believe God is ever responsible for the world’s disasters. He creates them. He uses them. Most important, He is good enough to be trusted with them.
Isaiah 8:12–14 “ ‘Do not call conspiracy everything that these people call conspiracy; do not fear what they fear, and do not dread it. The Lord Almighty is the one you are to regard as holy, he is the one you are to fear, he is the one you are to dread, and he will be a sanctuary.’ ” Swine flu, global warming, global economic crisis, killer bees, terrorists, sexual predators—I think they all fall into this category. God tells me not to fear or dread any of them. My fear—my respect and awe of His power—are reserved for Him alone.
Isaiah 40:12–14 “Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens? Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket, or weighed the mountains on the scales and the hills in the balance? Who has understood the mind of the Lord, or instructed him as his counselor? Whom did the Lord consult to enlighten him, and who taught him the right way? Who was it that taught him knowledge or showed him the path of understanding?” Call me crazy, but I like being put in my place now and then. Like God’s response to Job, this passage reminds me that God is God and I am not. He doesn’t need me as His counselor. He doesn’t need me to enlighten Him about how I think the world ought to work. He formed the world just fine without my help, thank you very much. And if He can hold the dust of the earth in a basket, He’s probably got my issues all under control.
And finally, when I’m at the end of my rope—feeling lost, invisible, and completely wiped out—does it get any better than this?
Isaiah 40:27–29 “Why do you say, O Jacob, and complain O Israel, ‘My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God’? Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.” He understands me. And He goes on to promise that if I hope in Him, He will renew my strength and He will make me soar. Thanks, God. I’m ready to soar.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Reformation, Part I
I’m in need of Reformation.
When you begin to feel like you totally get God, like you know how He thinks and can anticipate His every move, you’re in trouble. And delusional.
More and more things don’t work out the way I think they will, the way it seems they ought to. I’m seeing that what God does—or doesn’t do—doesn’t always mesh with who I think God is and how I think He works. Resolute in my belief that God doesn’t change, I am left with only one conclusion: My perception of God is off. And that’s a bummer, because I’ve got a lot invested in it. But I think God might be telling me that for this season, instead of running around like a crazy woman trying to do things for Him, I should sit still and get to know Him. All over again.
Reformation means to improve what is wrong, corrupt, or unsatisfactory. My ideas about God are not corrupt, but I think some of them may be wrong, unsatisfactory, incomplete. They’ve been formed by three decades of church teaching, family, college professors, song writers, book writers, speakers, The Navigators, friends, strangers, all in the small context of American evangelical Christianity.
I am thankful for all of these influences in my life, but during my Reformation, I want to listen much less to people and much more to God Himself. My recent prayer has been for God to strip away all my preconceived notions, to take me back to square one, to meet Him as if for the first time. A missionary friend of mine illustrates getting to the heart of the Gospel by wrapping an orange in paper until it’s the size of a volleyball. Then he peels off the western Christian wrappings, one by one, until he gets to the orange. Just when you think you’ve finally gotten to it, he rips off the peel itself; only after all the layers of wrappings (and trappings) have been removed can you clearly see the Gospel.
I believe there are layers and layers separating me from who God actually is. The thickest layer, the one that’s hardest to peel off, may very well be my picture of who I want God to be. But I don’t want to serve a God I construct in my head. I want to serve the God Who Is.
Lord, please give me Reformation.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Grown-Up Eyes
I’m approaching 40, the age at which many people begin losing their ability to see close up. But God is merciful and compensates for this by giving us a new kind of eyesight. It’s called perspective.
When we’re little, we think that whatever is going on around us must be all there is. We assume that everyone’s mother must start drinking before 8 a.m. if that’s what ours did, or that all parents must stomp around for days without speaking because that’s what is normal in our house. Sometimes it’s the opposite; we have it so good that we don’t realize there are kids who regularly go to bed hungry or who don’t have a mom who tucks them in every night. We hold onto our own “normal” for a remarkably long time, until adolescence and at last adulthood push us out into stark reality.
I had a similar experience recently. I returned to the place I used to work for a celebration of two veteran staff who are now in their mid 90s. The event was well done and the staff we honored are two of the most inspiring people I’ve ever known. It was a privilege just to be among the standing-room-only crowd. But as I sat in the back row of the balcony of a room that held such huge memories for me, I got a shift in perspective. This room, in fact, this whole building, which was the site of my first foray into public-speaking, in which I attended numerous meetings that impacted my life, and in which I was even married—well, it’s just a room. Being that it’s in a castle and all, it’s fairly magnificent, but it’s not necessarily any more hallowed ground than my living room.
And the people sitting in the chairs below me? The mostly gray-haired people I have revered as God’s most chosen ambassadors? Lovely, godly people, yes, but no more so than the moms from preschool. Sitting in this room were people who have struggled with divorce, drugs, alcoholism, wayward children, and faith-shattering doubts just like everyone else. They’re not saints. They’re just people. And the mission to which they all are called? The mission that so strongly bound me together with them? It’s a beautiful one, and they do it very well, but it’s not the only way to advance the Gospel and make disciples. I used to think we had the market on discipleship, that no one did it like we did. Now I see that God is much too big to be confined to one particular method or mission.
What used to seem to me as the Best Way I now see as merely one way. How weird is it that it took 16 years and heartbreaking separation to give me this perspective? But that’s maturity’s job, I guess. To knock things off pedestals and put things in right perspective. Growing up is a good thing, even if it means living the rest of our lives with a pair of reading glasses perched on our heads.
When we’re little, we think that whatever is going on around us must be all there is. We assume that everyone’s mother must start drinking before 8 a.m. if that’s what ours did, or that all parents must stomp around for days without speaking because that’s what is normal in our house. Sometimes it’s the opposite; we have it so good that we don’t realize there are kids who regularly go to bed hungry or who don’t have a mom who tucks them in every night. We hold onto our own “normal” for a remarkably long time, until adolescence and at last adulthood push us out into stark reality.
I had a similar experience recently. I returned to the place I used to work for a celebration of two veteran staff who are now in their mid 90s. The event was well done and the staff we honored are two of the most inspiring people I’ve ever known. It was a privilege just to be among the standing-room-only crowd. But as I sat in the back row of the balcony of a room that held such huge memories for me, I got a shift in perspective. This room, in fact, this whole building, which was the site of my first foray into public-speaking, in which I attended numerous meetings that impacted my life, and in which I was even married—well, it’s just a room. Being that it’s in a castle and all, it’s fairly magnificent, but it’s not necessarily any more hallowed ground than my living room.
And the people sitting in the chairs below me? The mostly gray-haired people I have revered as God’s most chosen ambassadors? Lovely, godly people, yes, but no more so than the moms from preschool. Sitting in this room were people who have struggled with divorce, drugs, alcoholism, wayward children, and faith-shattering doubts just like everyone else. They’re not saints. They’re just people. And the mission to which they all are called? The mission that so strongly bound me together with them? It’s a beautiful one, and they do it very well, but it’s not the only way to advance the Gospel and make disciples. I used to think we had the market on discipleship, that no one did it like we did. Now I see that God is much too big to be confined to one particular method or mission.
What used to seem to me as the Best Way I now see as merely one way. How weird is it that it took 16 years and heartbreaking separation to give me this perspective? But that’s maturity’s job, I guess. To knock things off pedestals and put things in right perspective. Growing up is a good thing, even if it means living the rest of our lives with a pair of reading glasses perched on our heads.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)