Word of the Year

I have a friend who chooses a word for every year. She puts a good amount of time into thinking and praying about it, and then she comes up with a great word to capture her anticipation of the year ahead. I thought this was such a good idea that I tried it myself last year.

Turns out, I'm not as good at it as my friend is. All I came up with was "BIG." Not very inspiring or descriptive. But at the end of last year, "big" was how everything in my life felt. I was asking God for some big things. We were also walking alongside our son in making his college decision, which felt very big. So "big" is where I landed, although it didn't really take. It sort of passed right out of my mind shortly after I chose it. As much as I love words, maybe this whole word-for-the-year thing wasn't for me.

Imagine my surprise when three-fourths of the way through the year, God gave me His own word. One day as I was praying, it just kept tumbling out of my mouth. Every day, it kept coming back. I couldn't get it out of my mind. STEADFAST. That was His word for me. (An improvement over "big," yes?)

It's a word I desperately needed. More like a whole mentality I needed. I have always been pretty even-keeled. I'm not given to mood swings or frequent outbursts of emotion. But this fall, I found myself all over the place, always with regard to my kids. Two of them had a really rough fall, and I was right in it with them. In fact, I have that magical mothering power to take what my kids are feeling and amp it up a hundred percent before owning it for myself. The picture I had in my mind was of my hands clenched to the back seat of a rollercoaster while my legs flew all helter-skelter out behind me, wind whipping me all over the place as I held on for dear life.

Into this picture, God spoke the word "steadfast." It didn't happen overnight, but the rollercoaster stopped taking the dips at 90 MPH, my legs found their footing, and my racing heart became, well, steadfast. I was reminded that my kids' experiences and emotions belong to them. I don't need to take them on myself. I've already done sixth grade. I've been through high school and college. I don't need to relive the emotion of those turbulent years. I need to be an adult. (I get to be an adult.) I get to be the one who's not tossed around by a bad day at school. I'm the one who gets to be steadfast, anchored in maturity and truth and the wisdom that comes from decades of walking with Christ.

Like David fleeing from Saul, I can say, "My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast!" (Psalm 57:7). And I can live like I believe it. It's amazing how one word can change your whole perspective. Over the past several weeks, especially, as I've struggled with Braden being so far away from us at Thanksgiving, as I've wrestled through ugly feelings of jealousy toward my friends whose kids are coming home, I've noticed that my anxious heart has become steadfast. The disappointment and jealousy just sort of disappeared. My desire to run and hide until Thanksgiving was long gone went away, too. Now I'm actually looking forward to Thursday, with genuine thanksgiving.

God has been writing steadfast love and faithfulness on the tablet of my heart (Proverbs 3:3). Isn't that a far better picture than the frantic woman on the crazy train?

My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast.

No Sting Here

"Where, o death, is your sting?"

Have any greater words ever been written? They may be my favorite in all the Bible.

Last week, I went to see a friend who is in the last days of her life. Younger than me and a mom of five kids, she was diagnosed with lung cancer a year ago. Though at first it looked as if she may have only a few months to live, she and her husband were able to award their son his high school diploma in May. Yesterday her oldest daughter got married. Some happy, milestone moments in the midst of a very hard situation.

Five days ago I sat with this sweet friend, who is long past fearing, worrying, regretting, or grieving. She's now in a simple, pure, beautiful child-like state. A month ago, I would have felt awkward and sad visiting her. I'm not touchy-feely, and I'm not good with sick people. But when sick people become dying people, and when dying people regress (or is it progress?) into their simplest selves, all that awkwardness melts away. The me who barely hugs my own mother sat at my friend's feet, holding onto her, even relishing the honor of feeding her.

Her words were jumbled, but her eyes were clear. On a few occasions, the gibberish was suddenly and incredibly interrupted by a moment of clarity. She would squeeze my hands, lock in on my eyes, and say the most wonderful things, things that made the hairs on my arm stand on end. "He just wants us to believe" was one of them. Another time it was, "He wants to put us back together, to make us whole." Simple statements spoken so quietly, yet they bore into my soul. These were words from God.They weren't booming prophet words, like Moses preaching to the Israelites. They were more the words of a little girl who's delivering a message from her daddy.

In all honesty, this is why I showed up. I did bring a meal, but I also brought expectation. I've been around the dying enough to know that there's something supernatural about it. This is holy ground. No sanctuary or cathedral can compare to the holy space occupied by one transitioning to heaven. With one foot on earth and the other in eternity, the veil between the two becomes almost transparent. And those who sit in the presence of the dying get just a glimpse of it. Such a sacred place. O, death, where is your sting?

When you look into the face of the dying, you have to ask yourself, "Do I really believe? Do I believe that in 12 hours or 12 days this friend of mine, the one whose feet I'm sitting at now, will be sitting like this at the feet of God? Creator of heaven and earth? Do I believe it's all true?"

Yes, without a shadow of a doubt. Any doubt I carry with me in regular life disappears in this sacred space. I look at her face and I see her doing holy business with the Lord. I know where she's headed. I know that some day I'll occupy the same space she's in now. And never have I said so certainly, "Oh, yes. I believe."

Remembering

Twenty-five years ago this month I moved to Colorado Springs to work for The Navigators. I'm not exaggerating when I say that no other event in my life had such a profound effect on who I am and what I do. I'm so grateful.

As a rookie writer, one of the stories I covered most in my first year at The Navigators was the release of The Message. A pastor I'd never heard of had just finished translating the New Testament into "contemporary language," a laborious task for him and a risky move for NavPress as his publisher.

A lot of our time in the Communications department was spent fielding complaints about The Message. People called it sacrilegious and threatened to pull their support from our field staff. Some did. But there was a 24-year writer in Communications who had never really connected with the Bible but was now devouring it. I wasn't alone, as 20 million copies sold testifies.

As I've mentioned before, one of the greatest professional privileges I've ever had was to get to spend a day with Eugene Peterson, supposedly interviewing him, but mostly just visiting with him and enjoying his company. I will treasure that day forever.

In honor of Eugene, who passed away today, I share my favorite quote of all time, which I've posted here many times.

C.S. Lewis, I apologize for choosing favorites. You know that my computer is filled with your quotes. But my life's anthem came from Eugene Peterson in my favorite of his books, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction. (If you haven't read it, make this the year that you do.)


“Every day I put love on the line. There is nothing I am less good at than love. I am far better in competition than in love. I am far better at responding to my instincts and ambitions to get ahead and make my mark than I am at figuring out how to love another. I am schooled and trained in acquisitive skills, in getting my own way. And yet I decide, every day, to set aside what I can do best and attempt what I do very clumsily—open myself to the frustrations and failures of loving, daring to believe that failing in love is better than succeeding in pride.”

My Kid's in College, and Here's What I've Learned

A little over a month ago, my husband and I left our oldest child in a dorm room in Virginia and started a new chapter in our lives. Now, with a whoppin' one month of experience under my belt, I share what I've learned so far. 

• Sending your first child away to college is every bit as hard as you imagine it will be. It doesn't matter that it was time, that he needed to miss you in order to appreciate you, or how good you know this will be for all of you. It very well may be good for all of you, but it's still hard. Someone very important is missing from your house. It would be weird if that wasn't at least a little bit hard.   

• Our kids need to process the changes in their lives, and we want to be the ones they process with. For those of you who are up to your eyeballs raising younger kids right now, here's motivation to keep giving it all you've got. Sure, if you feed and water them, they will grow. But when you fully invest in them—those hours reading a book with them that you really don't care about, those chilly sporting events that you sit and cheer at, those biology tests you help them study for, those late-night conversations two hours after your preferred bed time—you're doing so much more than growing a kid. You're growing a lifelong relationship. When life gets confusing and they need to talk it out, whether they're 6, 16, or 26, you'll be the person they turn to. 

• Asking lots of questions helps them process. Don't worry, if you're over asking, they'll either let you know or they'll stop answering. But until that time comes, ask and ask and ask some more. I've been emailing Braden Seven Thursday Questions that cover everything from the food choices in the cafeteria to his relationship with God. His long answers have helped both of us process the changes happening in his life. Email works great for us because we both write, but I presume I'll find different methods that work for my other kids down the road. 

• I can't for the life of me figure out how much milk to buy. It's been a month, and our excess milk is still souring in the fridge. 

• I tend to focus on the negatives of technology, but I'm enjoying its benefits immensely. Last Thursday night we celebrated my daughter's birthday. Through the miracle of Google Hangouts, Braden was right in the middle of it. He sang Happy Birthday with gusto. He got to see her open the present he sent. He did everything but eat caramel apples with us, and even gave his sisters a complete tour of his room—all at 11:30 at night his time. It is unfortunate that Russians can spy on us through baby monitors, but I hope the person who made it possible for long-distance families to be together is blessed, rich, and happy. 

• Absence really does make the heart grow fonder. My two kids who've never had much to do with each other are now speaking with appreciation and affection of the other. I even heard one throw out an "I love you" the other night on the phone. This may be reason enough to send your child 1,600 miles away. 

• No 8-year-old waiting for a puppy is as excited for Christmas as I am. Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year, but it's taken on new meaning. Now it's the Season When My Boy Comes Home. Every tree that goes on display at Hobby Lobby in September is one more reminder of Braden's impending return. If Christmas music started playing on the radio today, I'd start singing. I'll even forgo my 80-degree days for snow and a 4:49 sunset. I'm seriously considering pulling out the red and green construction paper to make a paper chain to count down the days.  

• And finally, this sending-and-releasing thing is a perpetual process. I just booked a college visit in Texas for my 17-year-old. Lord, help me. Here we go again. 

Only Fools Rush In

I've read a lot about prayer over the past two years. What I haven't heard, until now, is this:

"When it comes to the sacred, God commands us to proceed with caution.While others quickly judge God's actions and question His commands, we are to be careful even to speak His name. We don't carelessly question His actions or inaction.While others rush into prayer with opinions and demands, we cautiously approach His throne with reverence. Like the high priest entering the Holy of Holies, we are to treat prayer as sacred." 

Leave it to Francis Chan, always one to rock my world with the truth, to remind me that prayer is a sacred thing. In the first chapter of his new book, Letters to the Church, he writes about how we are a culture of rushers. All of our lives are spent rushing because if we don't rush, we could get behind. Or worse, passed up. I totally get that. I am the poster child for rushing.

But approaching the throne of God is not to be a rushed affair. Why not? Well, for starters, there's this:

"Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong. Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few." (Ecclesiastes 5:1-3)

Where has this passage been all my life? I've been told repeatedly to spill my heart out to God, to tell him my every concern, to ask him my hardest questions, to beat down His door with my requests. There is biblical support for all of this, but now I know to place these things within the context of Ecclesiastes 5:1-2.

My prayer life has increased drastically in recent years. But what does that really mean? That I'm spending more time going through my long list of requests? It does sometimes feel like I'm reading off my shopping list. There's just so much. I take seriously God's call to intercede for the people in my life. I pray salvation for the lost and for those who have been deceived by false religion. I pray freedom for those held captive by fear, addiction, doubt, and a hundred other things. I pray for my leaders and for my nation, for forgiveness and healing. I pray for wisdom every day, for myself and for the people I care about. These are good prayers, all of them, but they're often hasty prayers, too. And never are my words few.

Since I started meditating on these verses from Ecclesiastes, I've tried to be more of a prayer listener and less of a prayer talker. Holy smokes is that hard! Especially for a mom who's just sent her first child to college and could easily spend two hours a day making requests to God for him. There's nothing that requires more focus and discipline than shutting down the chatter in my head to make space for listening. I think I may be up to about a minute now, after working on this for weeks.

It helps to picture an Old Testament priest approaching the Holy of Holies. He must feel this is the reason for his existence. He has prepared for it for an entire year. His whole body has been purified. He enters in slowly, cautiously, unsure if he'll even make it out. He never forgets this is holy ground. Sacred work. Certainly nothing to be rushed. 

No high priest could have imagined that a soccer mom in Colorado, dressed in spandex, flanked by an unruly dog, and walking around a field full of weeds would some day have the same privilege. God, guard my steps as I approach your throne. Teach me to listen. Let my words not be the sacrifice of fools.

A Long Goodbye

Alzheimer's Disease is known as the long goodbye, but sending a kid off to college could give it a run for its money. Mine left a week ago. I feel like we started preparing 18 years ago. The ramping up began in earnest four years ago in high school. Our college visits began the summer before junior year. Then came the PSAT, the ACT, the SAT, and the copious emails from the school counselor's office, all natural triggers for a mother's inborn goodbye reflex. The one she works feverishly to squash.

Senior year. Just one big farewell, capped off with a graduation week that seems to stretch on for all eternity, endless parties (posing as celebrations, but really goodbyes), and perhaps a goodbye family vacation. Summer? More goodbyes. Goodbye, grandmas and grandpas. Goodbye aunts, uncles, cousins, high school friends, and Fargo's Pizza. Last week as the departure date arrived, it was goodbye sisters, goodbye bed, goodbye home. I cried my eyes out in the driveway as my son and my husband started off on their long drive across the country. But oh no, that was not the last goodbye.

I flew out a few days later to meet up with the guys in Virginia. There we had the goodbye hotel night, the goodbye nice dinner, the goodbye Target run. Ninety-six hours of goodbyeing, until I was completely worn out. But then it was Sunday, the Big Goodbye Day. After goodbye church and goodbye Egg McMuffins, we were finally at the end.

Except that we weren't, because there is no end. Goodbyes are an ongoing requirement of parenting. From the moment we leave that baby with grandma for the first time to eek out a two-hour meal between feedings until we're on our death beds, we say one goodbye after another to our children.

They may go against maternal instinct to gather our young and keep them close, but goodbyes don't have to be bad. Goodbyes are actually kind of exciting. (Not to mention a better option than a basement full of unemployed 30-somethings.) There are overwhelming life events like accidents and cancer, fires and floods, that are devastating. But there are overwhelming life events like births, marriages, and new jobs that are beautiful and hopeful. Sending your kid to college is one of these. It feels a little overwhelming to everyone involved, but it's the good kind of overwhelming. Something really hard but really, really good.

I find that if I stay focused on looking forward through the lens of Braden's future instead of backward through the lens of his time with me, I'm practically giddy about this overwhelming life event. (By the way, those words aren't mine. Thankfully there are very wise, eloquent people who have done this before and offer help for the rest of us.) If I discipline my mind to focus on joy and gratitude, there's not nearly so much room for the sadness. I picture it like a big, sludgy pot of emotions. There are about a hundred of them in there, but if I keep stirring, very intentionally, the joy rises to the top and the sadness settles at the bottom.

Yes, there are times when I open the pantry and realize the graham crackers are going to go stale because no one eats them but Braden. There are moments when I put the strawberry milk back in the grocery store cooler because Braden's not here to drink it. There are times when I have to walk into his remarkably clean room to deposit the last pair of straggling socks that didn't make it into the suitcase. That's when I have to stir the pot hard.

It's not that I feel the need to chase the tears away. Tears are a natural part of processing overwhelming life events, and they can be very therapeutic. But I want them to come from a place of joy, gratitude, and hopefulness, not a place of despair.

The past 15 months, and especially the past two weeks, have left me with goodbye fatigue. But they've also given me perspective on what it means to love a child so much that you want what's best for him, regardless of the cost to yourself. I can do this. I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. I can keep letting my children go, keep saying goodbye, keep stirring that pot.

Ambassadors

It's been a rotten week for the church in America. At least the public image of the church. The country's most influential church appears to be falling apart at the seams, rocked by another leadership scandal. Pastors seem every bit as likely as politicians, Hollywood executives, and professional athletes to be called out for their poor behavior. And the state of Pennsylvania has just released the most scathing report ever on the history of child sexual abuse by Catholic priests, with at least 300 priests and more than 1,000 victims identified.

Such a great paradox between what we read in the news and what we read in the Bible. We are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works. We are His ambassadors. God makes His appeal through us. The church is the body of Christ. We bear His very name! And yet we drag it through the mud.

What does it mean to be Christ's ambassadors? It means we represent His kingdom. We show others what it's like, what He's like. And yet we fail at this all the time. Where He is faithful, we are faithless. Where He is kind, we are nasty. Where He is holy, we are just like everyone else.

He's not surprised by any of this. He knew how we'd fail, and yet He still trusted us with the most important of assignments. He put His good news into our hands, and He told us to take it out to a hurting, needy world. It blows my mind. If He had asked me, I would have said, "Oh, no, God. This is a bad idea. These people can't even be trusted to show up to worship on time. They're easily distracted, self-absorbed, messy. They're dust, Lord. Redeemed yes, but still just dust. They'll make a mockery of your great name. Don't entrust this to them."

But I wasn't there. And He knows infinitely more than my little mind can ever hope to grasp. This was the way He chose to make Himself known on the earth--through messed up dust like us--and it is the way that is best. I have to trust Him on that. And I have to believe that whatever harm His people are bringing to His name, even more good is being done. 

In his book Bowling Alone, Robert Putnam reported that Christians are significantly more likely to give money to the homeless, return excess money to a shop clerk, help a sick neighbor, spend time with someone who's depressed, and help someone find a job. People who regularly attend church give four times as much to charity as their secular neighbors. They are twice as likely to volunteer with the poor, the sick, and the elderly. 

These are just the small things. They don't include the Christians who provide loving homes for one foster child after another, who feed, clothe, and welcome refugees, who bring new life to addicts and prisoners. I've not seen many national news stories on Christians who leave the comfort of their western homes to lay pipes for fresh water in El Salvador, to love street children in India, to rescue sex-trafficked girls in Thailand, to teach grown-up orphans in Russia how to be good mothers. Yet these things happen every day. 

We are Christ's ambassadors. We represent His kingdom in our service, our love, our joy, our patience, our perseverance, and our hope. I look at myself, nearly defeated by something as mundane as a couple weeks of plumbing woes, and wonder at God's use of someone like me. He could have chosen angels, and yet He chooses to use regular, flawed people like you and me. His power is perfected in our weakness. His light shines through our frailness. His name rises above the scandal of the week. In all this, He knows what He's doing.