Practicing Goodbye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Identity and Lunacy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Countenance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What About Humility?

I love my country, and I'm perpetually reminded how thankful I am to live here. There are times, however, when I'm a little embarrassed to be an American. Usually this occurs at an all-you-can-eat buffet where our American indulgence, wastefulness, and obesity are flaunted as boldly as our stars and stripes. We are unique and blessed among nations, but we are far, far from perfect.

Most recently, my embarrassment has come over events unfolding outside a mosque in Phoenix this week. Ostensibly gathered for a "cartoon contest," the event was actually designed as a media spectacle in which people waved not only their flags, but their First Amendment rights in the face of the watching world. The "contest" mimicked the one staged in Texas earlier this month, where participants were encouraged to draw their own caricatures of the prophet Muhammad. We all remember how that ended. The big difference this time was that the event was held outside a mosque--the very mosque attended by the men who tried to shoot their way into the Garland, Texas, cartoon contest.

The website promoting the Phoenix event encouraged participants to bring their guns: "People are also encouraged to utilize their Second Amendment right at this event just in case our First Amendment comes under the much anticipated attack."

Is this why the First Amendment was created? So that we could provoke one another to violence? How is this not bullying? The very thing we decry on our playgrounds and in our schools? The definition of bullying is unwanted, aggressive power exercised by one person (or group) over another, usually with the intention of forcing the bullied person into some action. I don't believe you can force someone, at least not a mentally stable someone, into mass murder. Everyone is responsible for their own actions. But if not forcing, these contest organizers are at least begging Muslims to strike out against them. They are bullies armed for war, knocking at the front door of those they want to demean and battle. And the worst part is that they're wrapped in American flags, speaking the language of freedom and rights and all that we hold dear in this beautiful nation.

The more I talk to people from other cultures, the more one thing is clear: People all over the world perceive Americans as arrogant. Even worse, they perceive this as a Christian nation, therefore linking Christians with arrogance. That is heartbreaking.

While not a Christian nation statistically speaking, we are a nation filled with millions who still long to follow Christ and live out His teaching. Thankfully, many of these folks also showed up at the Phoenix mosque. They came with signs about love and peace. They stood up to the bullies with Truth, and maybe they captured the attention of a Muslim or two in the process.

"Let us not become conceited, provoking and envying each other." Galatians 5:26

Remembering a Princess

"My daughter died like an ant."

His words cut me to my core. He was a young Nepalese man being interviewed by an American journalist. He had just recently finished building a house for his wife and their young daughter. What he had built with his own hands, his masterpiece, was demolished in a matter of seconds. Some unseen plates shifting beneath the earth's surface rocked this man's life forever. Much more than the loss of his house, this man agonized over the death of his daughter, barely more than a toddler. He dug for long hours to pull her out, only to find her dead. The journalist had been with him part of that time and caught the raw anguish when his search brought the dreaded result. He wept into the camera: "My daughter, she died like an ant."

As the evening news transitioned to the $300 million Mayweather-Pacquiao fight, my mind stayed fixed on this father half a world away. Oh, sir, can you hear me? Are my silent prayers strong enough to reach you across the TV screen, across the miles and the oceans, across the rubble that is your country? Can you hear the truth that I'm shouting to you in my mind? Your daughter did not die like an ant. She was a child of the one, true living God. He was her Creator. He handcrafted her with as much love and joy as you had when you built a home for her. She was made in His image. She was--she still is--greatly loved, as much as any great king who's ever lived. She was as valuable as any royal princess. Her worth was greater than anything we can measure. The God of the universe saw each tear your daughter cried. And though she was surely frightened at the end of her life, she was not alone. The God who wipes away every tear was with her.

As new disasters, new storms, new victims and celebrities and political candidates push Nepal out of our evening news, let's remember to keep praying for those who have lost so much.

Upkeep

I believe in aging gracefully. I believe that I'm better, smarter, wiser, kinder, stronger, and happier than I was ten years ago. You couldn't pay me to be 18 again. But here's the deal, getting older requires upkeep that I wasn't quite prepared for.

I used to hold the world record for getting to bed fast. OK, not really, but if such a record existed, I'm pretty sure it would have been mine. This was not an inherited skill. My grandmother was just the opposite. Her bedtime rituals were quite a puzzle to me when I was a kid. Lotions and potions everywhere, denture paraphernalia (although she tried to keep that hidden to avoid terrifying us with the sight of grandma without teeth), eye cream, foot cream, Aspercreme, all capped off by several minutes of emptying her bladder.  I marveled that a person who seemed so normal in everyday life could be subject to such odd and extensive bedtime practices.

And now it's all starting to make sense.

My teeth now get more of my attention than any other part of my body. Who has time to worry about muffintops and trendy hairstyles when their teeth are crumbling? I have adopted every practice recommended by my dental hygienist. (I actually have a dental hygienist, which is new.) I floss every night of my life. I use my cavity-preventing, gum-strengthening rinse twice a day. I laid down $85 for a motorized toothbrush. (I love it. I'll never have a $4 toothbrush again.) I rinse after meals. I've been to the dentist four times already this year. My teeth alone require so much more upkeep than I'm used to.

I'm technically not even old yet, but I've already got hair growing where I don't want it to while the kind I'm desperate to keep keeps falling out. I mercilessly pluck one kind while babying the other--more special conditioner to try, a gentler hairbrush, the Mercedes of all hair dryers that supposedly prevents damage and breakage. I've tried them all. Cheap as I am, I'm not willing to be bald until my children are all out of high school.

And then there's the skin. How is it that you go a good 30 years of your life without giving a single thought to your skin, and then it's all you notice about yourself? When did those tiny lines appear around my eyes? When did my knees get droopy? And how did all these age spots get from my mother's hands to mine? How is it fair that I have a zit and a wrinkle within a centimeter of each other?

I actually gave up on my skin at 33 when melasma ("the mask of pregnancy" as it's romantically called) erupted across my forehead during my third pregnancy. When I went to a dermatologist and told him I thought I had it, he said--no lie--"Why do you think that? Because you've got the g**d***** map of Europe across your forehead?" (And that wasn't even the weirdest part of that visit, but I'll save the rest of the story for another day.) The map remains, in all its glory, today.

Of course the good news is that there's a cream for all of this. My bathroom drawers are full of samples just waiting for me to commit: creams and cleansers and lifters and firmers. And an $85 toothbrush. And just like that, I have become my grandmother. We won't even talk about the bladder business and the fact that I'm in bed by 9. Yep, this is me, aging gracefully.

Our New World and Why I Sometimes Love It

Integrity can be simply defined as "who you are when no one else is looking." It's getting harder and harder to find a time when no one else is looking.

A young ESPN reporter is the latest to realize this. I had never heard of Britt McHenry until this morning, but on today's news scrolls and websites, she's the poster child for cruel, arrogant behavior. After having her car towed, McHenry berated the attendant at the towing company in a truly horrible way. Maybe she was late for work or an important appointment. Maybe she'd had some bad news earlier that day. Any one of us can snap in the midst of a bad day, but what that "snap" looks like says everything about who we are at our core. Bad days make or break personal integrity. In this young woman's case, it was a serious break, made public for all the world to see.

Personal integrity has never been so public. Cameras are everywhere. What we think we're doing in private is just a click away from a global viewing audience. This is horrifying--who wants to be featured on an internet montage of humiliated nose pickers? (And come on, don't think it couldn't be you.) But I also kinda love it, especially in cases where people are forced to be accountable for their bad behavior.

You can't cuss out your kid's soccer coach anymore without consequence. You can't sing racist songs on a fraternity trip without the whole world knowing. You can't hit your girlfriend in an elevator without getting caught. Even on your worst day, it's not OK to be a jerk. (One of my favorite parenting lines: Your pain does not excuse your sin.) Now more than ever, people are on the lookout for jerks. Act like a jerk, show up on YouTube. Count on it. And maybe by counting on it, we'll all be a little nicer to each other.

Who we are when we think no one is looking is truly who we are. The rest is smoke and mirrors. What we do and say matters. How we treat people matters. Patience and kindness aren't just biblical words; they're things that make the world a better place for all of us. I have a love/hate relationship with the internet, but if it can help us learn these lessons, then today I'm a fan.