The Name I Never Appreciated

“Why do Christians celebrate Christmas so much more than Easter?” I've heard it's a question Muslims ask of us.

It’s a good question. Easter sneaks up on me every year. I don’t spend all year waiting for it or a month decorating and shopping for it. With the exception of a yummy ham and a few snapshots of my shivering little girls in their colorful dresses, it seems to come and go without much fanfare each year. (In Colorado, it’s twice as likely that it will snow on Easter than on Christmas.)

I spent most of my childhood dreading Easter because Easter was my last name. Some of my most uncomfortable restaurant memories are dining out on Easter Sunday and giving the name “Easter” at the hostess desk.

“No, really, what’s your name?”

“Easter.”

Awkward laughter. She thinks we’re lunatics. Why couldn’t we have just stayed home?

As a teenager, I got smarter. When I gave my last name and received the usual response, “Like the bunny?” I snapped back—in the way only a teenager can—“No, like the resurrection of Christ.” I even decided to use my unusual name to my advantage when I ran for head girl of my high school. (Head girl is an old-fashioned term from student council president. That’s how old I am.) My best friend dressed up in a 6-foot bunny costume and hopped around school with a sign on her back that said, “Some bunny named Easter is running for head girl.” She even made a speech in it. (Thanks, Kendra. That was really above and beyond.)

It was only when I ditched my name—becoming instead a glorious, anonymous Jones in the crowd—that I could look back objectively and be proud to have shared a name with the most significant event in all of history. When God looks at me (or anyone else), He doesn’t see what a mess I am. He sees Easter: the exchange of my sin for Christ’s righteousness.

It’s only now that I can think of my mom, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my two nephews—the only Easters left from our family—and be a little envious that they still get to carry such a cool name.

Happy Easter, everyone!

The New Welfare

Before jumping into a new topic, here’s a link to a friend’s excellent article loosely related to my last post. Called “Facebook: A Turbulent Romance in Four Acts,” it’s definitely worth a quick read. Besides, Meredith is just one smokin’ writer.

At the risk of boring you to pieces, I’m going to share what I’ve learned about welfare reform in the past couple of months. Since health care reform is all the buzz right now, it seems a timely topic. And the more I talk with people about this, the more I realize how little most of us know.

In 1996, President Clinton signed the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act. While the bill brought about many changes for people on public assistance, the biggest was that it reduced the amount of time any one person could receive it to five years. You can go on and off, but once you’ve passed the five-year point, you can never receive it again. The name “welfare” was also dropped, at least officially. The subsidy is now called TANF, Temporary Aid to Needy Families, which doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue and could explain why it never caught on among those of us who aren’t part of this world.

Under President Bush’s faith-based initiatives program, many religious organizations rose up to help fill the gaps created by welfare reform. Some of these lasted, but many are no longer around. The group we recently signed on with, Faith Partners, is one that has endured. Their strategy is fairly simple: partner “church people” with families who are working to get off of TANF. After taking initiative to sign up and complete ten weeks worth of classes, the families (nearly all single moms) are matched with a team who will begin walking with them as mentors. The team aspect is key.

The woman we have befriended has about 18 months of TANF left. She’s 30. She’s raising three kids and has a man who comes and goes from their lives. TANF, supplemented by Medicare and food stamps, provides (barely) enough to live on if she can prove she’s either in school or working. For the first three years, she says there was no accountability and the checks just came. Now that she’s down to 18 months, the pressure is ramping up—more forms, more questions, more people showing anxious concern for her. But people stuck in poverty have a very hard time planning ahead or thinking about the abstract future. They focus on what’s right in front of them, and that is usually so overwhelming that they often find it impossible to make any forward progress.

My sense of urgency for this woman is huge: Eighteen months to complete a GED and get through some college classes (ideally) so that she can find a job that pays well enough to support her family. I’m not sure it’s doable even if she weren’t dealing with the emotional exhaustion of a man who loves her only when it’s convenient, of a mother who just died an agonizing death, of three additional children lost to the state, of an adolescent daughter that she’s struggling to get custody of and trying to learn to parent for the first time, or a mouth full of false teeth that pop out every time she sneezes.

Life is hard for all of us. But I’m beginning to get some insight into America’s poor—even the motivated poor—and the slippery, uphill, marathon of a mountain they climb just to keep functioning every day. Yes, it’s often their own bad choices that put them on that path, but my eyes have been opened to how stuck they feel once they’re there. I may not do a thing to help my new friend, but she’s already helped me see the world from a whole different perspective.

Snack Nation

Snacks have become the American way. My kids eat snacks (or at least they want to) all day long. We are required to send them to school with snacks. We stash snacks in the car. We can’t watch a movie without them. Practical things like tissues and band-aids have been pushed out of my purse to make room for all the snacks.

I have a vague memory of eating Cheerios in church as a preschooler, and occasionally I’d be rewarded with graham crackers and milk when I was a bit older. When my mom went back to work when I was in junior high, every once in a while I would sneak in a bologna sandwich before dinner—and the guilt was nearly unbearable. Unless I’m remembering incorrectly, I believe I made it through my entire academic career with no snacks in my backpack. (Come to think of it, I didn’t have a backpack until college. Now my five-year-old manages one.) So why is it that my kids can’t seem to make it through the morning without snacking?

OK, easy answer. Frito Lay and Kraft have deep pockets and heavy influence.

But the snack culture that has exploded on the scene in the past twenty years isn’t limited to food. People want snack-size news (whatever they can grab from the ticker at the bottom of the screen as they’re flipping channels), snack-size education (get your online degree in just 11 weeks!), even snack-size marriages (Can’t we just live together and act married without all the heavy commitment?). And what about snack-size relationships? This is my biggest concern of all: Quick and easy relationships for people on the run! Light, easy, and conveniently packaged by social media sites for those who don’t have time to be bogged down by real emotions and deep conversation.

Don’t you just crave a real meal sometimes? Something you can sink your teeth into?

No doubt our snacking culture has contributed to our nation’s obesity problem. But I think there might be an even bigger problem lurking in the shadows, one that won’t surface for a number of years but that frightens the bejeebers out of me. What will be the societal impact of a whole generation of relational snackers?

Raising Men

Last night, my husband and I took our son to his first small-group meeting. While nine 10-year-old boys hurled ping-pong balls at each other in the basement, their parents, a little nervous and full of anticipation, talked about what we want from this group. The couple who pulled us all together described their vision: That we’ll all be a team—the boys and the parents—playing the game of life together. God is our coach and the Bible is our playbook. We’ll teach each other, cheer each other on, pick each other up when we fall down, and hold each other accountable along the way. The hope is that we’ll keep meeting once or twice a month from now through high school.

Like the other nodding parents, Kevin and I caught the vision right away. It wasn’t easy.

The squeals and thuds wafting up from the basement reminded us of who we’re dealing with. And if that wasn’t enough, later in the night, when we tried to sit them down for an inspirational pep talk, they were like popcorn kernels in a microwave. Smashing into each other and talking gibberish (or so it appeared to the parents), it was a little hard to grasp the potential that existed in that room last night. Several parents commented that we should videotape the wild hooligans and make them watch it when they’re high school seniors.

But if I tried real hard, I could imagine the nine decent, loyal, thoughtful, servant-hearted young men that will sit there in seven or eight years. Even more fun for me is imagining who they’ll be in twenty years. (Especially if I don’t think of how old I’ll be!)

At a time when a lot of parents are writing off their kids’ adolescent years, believing they have no choice but to surrender to culture’s influence, I feel so blessed to be part of a group like this. We are not raising boys; we’re raising men. It’s more than a cliched slogan. It’s the truth. We’re raising husbands and fathers who need to know it’s OK to step up and lead their families. We’re raising businessmen who need to understand what it means to be reliable, trustworthy, and persevering. We’re raising ambassadors for Christ who need to be courageous, hopeful bearers of light in a world that seems increasingly dark. We’re raising Truth lovers, who will not give in to the whims of relativism and “do-whatever-makes-you-feel-good” thinking. We’re raising men—and it’s as much an overwhelming responsibility as it is a privilege.

Is Happiness a Problem?

Happy people don’t love well or worship well. These are just a few of the things Larry Crabb has me pondering while I read his book Shattered Dreams.

“Happy people rarely look for joy,” he writes. “They’re quite content with what they have. The foundation of their life consists of the blessings they enjoy. Although they may genuinely care about those less fortunate and do great things to help them, their central concern is to keep what they have. They haven’t been freed to pursue a great dream.”

He goes on to say that when we are satisfied with “good” distractions—good health, responsible children, an enjoyable marriage, close friendships, interesting jobs, successful ministries—we never fully worship.

“Only broken people truly worship. Unbroken people—happy folks who enjoy their blessings more than the Blesser—say thanks to God the way a shopper thanks a clerk.”

I have long recognized the difference between happiness and joy. I’ve felt it in my own life. Happy is hearing my kids laugh on the way to the amusement park. Joy is walking with them through disappointments and trusting that God will use these to grow and teach them. Happiness is sharing a good meal and conversation with a friend; joy is being lonely but recognizing that it’s drawing me nearer to the One who is always with me.

So am I able to pursue deep-down, genuine joy when I’m consumed with my happiness? I’m not ready to say the two can’t exist simultaneously. And part of me wonders if this isn’t just a fancy way of pep-talking our way through life’s unhappier days. But as I read these words, my internal truth-o-meter flashed like the Vegas strip. When I think back on the best worship of my life, the times I felt God was so close that I could reach out and touch Him, it was at times of devastating loss. I remember when I was 17, looking out a hospital window the morning my dad died, watching the sun come up. It was the most beautiful sunrise I’d ever seen. I was all alone, yet I felt like God was hugging me through that sunrise. It was so real I could somehow feel it. I didn’t know Him then nearly as well as I do now, but I genuinely worshiped that morning.

That memory, as well as a few others, are enough to keep me from running away from brokenness.

Anyone else want to weigh in? I'd love to hear how these quotes hit you.

What Gingerbread Houses Say About Us

I’ve got a lot of heavy stuff on my mind these days, so I’m treating myself—and you—to some literary fluff. Heavy can wait until March, the month when spring and hope bloom again, under all that snow.

And since it is almost March, I guess it’s time to take down the last of the Christmas decorations. Even though it’s time—past time—it won’t be easy getting rid of the gingerbread houses the kids made. (Oh, calm down, clean freaks! We live in a cool, dry climate. Nothing’s rotted yet.)

As we’ve already established, I’m not much of a baker or a crafter, but I’m well connected. Over Thanksgiving break, I took the kids over to my friend Susan’s to make gingerbread houses, an annual tradition at her house. When I picked them up later that day, I was met by frosting-faced, over-sugared kids and a very big mess. But more than that, I got a good, tangible look at who each of my kids is.

Braden’s house looked like it was made by the oldest. And the boy. It had the most detail and the most weapons. (The only weapons, actually.) My son won’t step on an ant and grimaces at the thought of shooting a bird out of the sky, but he loves weapons. A few months ago we spied on him as he shot his bow and arrow in the backyard. Unaware that he was being watched, he played with such intensity you would’ve thought he was in the archery finals at the Olympics. It’s part of who he is, and though I personally hate the idea of weapons, I can still love that he loves them.

Eight-year-old Addison wrote one word on her gingerbread house that sums her up about as well as anything: “HOME.” Kevin and I have no doubt who will be pushing our wheelchairs one day. It’s this girl, who I imagine will always stick pretty close to home. She’s been a caretaker from the beginning. When she found me curled up, sobbing on the floor shortly after we lost our baby, she said, “Mommy, I want to take care of you. Please teach me how to use the phone.” She was four. Addison is interested in all things “homey”—cooking, sewing, knitting, crafting. And she got me as a mother. She loves me anyway, and lucky for her, I’m well connected. It will be so cool to visit her “HOME” some day.

And then there's Brooka, who I write about often due to my fascination that one so fearless could possibly come from me. Her gingerbread is a crazy mess. I’m sure ninety percent of the candy went straight in her mouth and that she tossed the remaining pieces on with unbridled freedom and silliness, living the moment to its very fullest while being scolded by Braden for not following the rules.

Camryn’s house, though made by a two-year-old, looks like it was decorated by an engineer. Or someone with OCD. The M&Ms are perfectly lined up, overthought, ducks in a row. She lines things up, busy and focused. Give the girl a pack of fruit snacks, and you can bet they’ll soon be lined up on the table. And there will probably be a story to go along with it. Perhaps I’ve found the child who is most like me.

Envy and Gratitude

The dichotomy between the world I live in and the world I write about is mind-boggling. I just wrote a story about a nine-year-old Rwandan girl who was the only HIV-negative member of her family. After watching two siblings die before their first birthdays, then her father, she dropped out of school to care for her dying mother. I run three miles for exercise; she runs three miles for water. After her mother died, she was left alone in her house, penniless, to fend for herself. She was tormented by neighbors, robbed, and nearly raped. Thankfully, I got to tell the rest of the girl's story, how God has blessed her with a new family for which she is so grateful.

I don’t have a nine-year-old this year, but I have one just older and one just younger. Their reality is clean clothes, clean sheets, clean hair, carpool, sports practices, and a snack everyday after school. In addition to lunch. And dinner. And mouthfuls of Valentine’s candy.

And yet it’s still so easy for me to use this world as my standard for what is “normal.” It’s normal for people to have minivans whose doors close at the touch of a button. Man, why don’t I have one of those? It’s normal for people to spend thousands of dollars in one week on cars, vacations, toys—all things that look so appealing. No matter how long I walk with Jesus or how many hours I spend in the Scriptures, I’m still deceived into envy more often than I care to admit. Even the “poor” in America seem to have cell phones, iPods, computers, and big screen televisions. Sometimes I find myself even envying them. Big screen TVs are cool!

But so is clean water. I turn on the faucet and out it comes. Every time! To the rest of the world, that’s not “normal.” That’s a phenomenal blessing. How can I help my children understand that? How can I myself understand it? How can I turn my envy into gratitude—not just on occasion, but as a lifestyle?

I’m working on it. Times are tough. We’re hurting along with so many others. But I look around me and see more blessings than I can possibly count. Keeping my focus right there is what I long for. Just longing isn’t enough, though. Blessing-counting takes discipline and intentionality. Not accepting any of this as normal is hard work. I’m setting my mind to it, I’m praying about it, I’m learning from those who do it so well. May people someday look to me as one who also does it well.