Dear Good Samaritan...

Reading people’s bumper stickers is a wonderful source of amusement for me – the more the better.  Sometimes I gain some pithy insight, sometimes I cringe or groan, but almost always, I am entertained by what someone choose as their personal message to the world behind them.

As much as I love reading bumper stickers, I rarely display them myself.  To me they are kind of like tattoos – there’s no one, brief message, by which I would want to be defined as a human being – or even just as a motorist.  Not even those cute stick families, or an ichthus (the fish shape Christians use to identify themselves to one another).  Both are still loaded symbols that might convey to someone a disdain for them I do not have, or a vanity to which I do not subscribe.

Sometimes I am tempted, in my love of back bumper bling, to try to create a collage of stickers that somehow defies the stereotypes I fear reinforcing.  What if a put my pro-life “Motherhood is a proud profession” sticker next to my “Obama Biden 2012” sticker, add a hopeful, “Jesus loves you,” throw in a cheesy, “smile, it makes people wonder what you’re up to,” and then top it off with a snarky, “Don’t worry what people think, they don’t do it very often.”  It would be kind of fun to add the stick family of Star Wars characters, too.  Would the people behind me at a stop light, from whichever camp of abortion, politics, religion, contemplation, or Sci-Fi, be confused and angry, or marvel at my breadth of commitments and sense of humor?

Last week, someone proved to me why no message can ever stand alone, as a testimony to the world about who you are and what you are about.  My husband had a campaign sticker on the back of his truck, and we came out of a store to find a note tucked under our windshield wiper.

Perhaps this person thought they were going to have a laugh at our expense, and I’m sure they proudly boasted about the pile of these photocopied greetings that they had distributed during election season.  But what does anyone gain from calling someone else an idiot, based on one, small modicum of information about that person?  If you are going to call yourself a “good Samaritan,” I suggest you pull open your scriptures and actually read the story.  Jesus’ story redefined community, illustrating that those who agree with you, who publicly claim to operate out of the same perspective, are often of no value to you in your time of deepest need – real community has to do with reaching out to one another, past divisions and divides, and offering our best to one another in every circumstance.  Labeling someone “idiot” is in direct conflict with the story of the good Samaritan. 

This note tells me, from this one, small modicum of information I now have, that the writer is not a faithful, generous servant of Christ, using the blessing of freedom to build up our country and make the world a better place, but instead a judgmental, divisive person, who has done their candidate and their Creator a great disservice, by spreading ill-will in their name.

But I would like to push myself, unlike this “good Samaritan,” to look the past one, hopefully small, shortcoming I see in this person, and remember there is an entire person on the other side.  I’d like to believe that they are actually a good person, with a misguided sense of humor.  I’d like to hope they will offer me the same grace when I cut them off on the freeway, forget to use my blinker, or accidentally swerve into their lane while avoiding a fallen branch.   I hope they can join me in attempting to offer less judgment, and more acknowledgement of our commonalities.

 But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Luke 10:29

I had to surrender.

Sunday before last, I was scheduled to preach while the pastor was on vacation.  I had agreed to do so well ahead of time and had even begun to strategize about it a few weeks in advance, wanting to ensure a well thought out message with engaging, and even humorous, illustrations.  I sometimes get feedback that I’m too serious from the pulpit, so I was going to make a deliberate attempt to stay lighthearted.  Despite my honest effort to be thoroughly prepared, events in my personal life took a turn that week, and I was not in a good place, when I arrived at church about an hour before worship.  My emotions were barely stifled.  I was unable to look anyone in the eye, because any sign of compassion might bring my struggle to the surface.

I sat in a front pew and read back over my sermon, gathering my courage to lead worship.  I realized as the scripture and message kept piercing my heart, how completely helpless I was to fulfill this obligation.  I knew that some 90-100 people were about to file in and expect worship.  I knew from past experience that some of them would be hanging on my every word, looking for an opportunity to send an offended and critical email to our pastor, validating their staunch insistence that women shouldn’t be preaching.  I knew that, for all the times in ministry that my personal issues had made my leadership role a challenge, this was the time.  This was the moment of complete surrender.  I knew that I, me, myself, Emily – I could not get through worship.

So I prayed.  I gave it all to the Lord.  I begged God to take over and use me in whatever way necessary to glorify him.  And, in a way I can’t explain, God did just that.  I didn’t plan my prayers, I just walked up to the pulpit and let it come out.  Every time I said "Amen," I was thinking, “Weird – that’s not really a prayer I normally would say.”  The sermon, thankfully, was all written out, but even in delivering it, I was constantly struck by the message of scripture; as if this message I had written the week before were not my own, but written for me.

That Sunday morning is one I will never forget.  People love the poem “Footprints” for how it expresses the notion of Christ’s partnership and support of us, the idea that we could look back and see the times Jesus was actually bringing us through.  But rarely do we actually feel his arms beneath us and know that right then, in that moment, we are being carried.  But that, my friends, is something I have experienced.  There are many hard times when I’ve fought through on my own, but praise the Lord to know how powerful Christ was when I was utterly helpless.

May that be a blessing I do not have to experience very often.

(This was my sermon illustration - thought you might enjoy...)

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:19-20

We're going boy crazy.

Picking the kids up from school recently, an exceedingly young couple was walking home together, holding hands.  They paused to hug at the corner before parting ways.  I wanted to vomit, because they seemed way too little to be “in a relationship,” but instead used their public display as the entry point into a conversation with my daughters about whether their lives or friendships are being affected by romance, yet.  In doing so, I opened the floodgates.

It has set in.  My daughters have gone a little boy crazy.  They were just waiting for me to ask.  I’m thankful they tell me so openly about their lives, but I found myself growing bored quickly when they started outlining the list of boys they like, which other girls like the same boys, which girls the boys like, and all of the various dramas that ensue.  I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, to act very casual about their interest in romance so they would hopefully keep these communication channels open, but on the inside, I was just so SO sad.  I pray their search for Mr. Right doesn’t crowd out the wonderful breadth of interests, friendships, and activities that have, up to now, brought them joy and contentment.

Their sudden excitement about boys got me to thinking about the posting and conversation trends of people I know who are single, as well as my own experiences from back when I was single myself.  Those memories were buried some sixteen years deep, but I pulled some out and dusted them off to try and relate.  I had forgotten how consuming it is, waiting for your other half to come into your life.  Every new room you walk into, “he” might be there; I remember now the daily anxiety and anticipation that goes along with knowing you weren’t meant to be alone, but not knowing yet who it is that will fill that void.

I’m sure I sometimes lost control of my senses and went a little boy crazy in those days – letting my hope for love cloud my enjoyment, possibly even my pursuit, of other interests.  I rejoice to realize all the spare time and mental freedom I have to play and learn and cook and sing, because my time and attention isn’t consumed with the quest for the One.  I can go about my business, dressed however I want, focus on what I’m after, and not care who is or isn’t noticing me.  It is very liberating, but I’ve taken that for granted since I realized my husband was "him."

As we head into the turbulent season of adolescence, I wonder how I can help my daughters appreciate that while God designed us for partnership, their lives are now; they don’t start some day off in the future when they partner up – they are beautifully complete works of art, all on their own.  I hope they will let romance happen upon them while they are doing all the other exciting and meaningful things that fill their lives with contentment and satisfaction, rather than surrendering all those wonderful things and letting their pursuit of romance become the central focus of their lives.

It sounds so basic, but I know it will not be easy.  I pray a lot.  For their self-worth, for their discernment, for the boys they’re going to fall for along the way, for the dreams I hope they pursue, and ultimately for the marriages I hope they’ll have.

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: Ecclesiastes 4:9

I have a special super power.

Some people might label it “poor communcation.”  Others won’t acknowledge that it happens.  A few others might even call it sexism.  Since my husband and I see the world through the lens of super heroes and Jedi, I prefer to think of it as a super power.  We recently realized that I have the amazing ability to throw my voice, so that only one of the two other people in the conversation actually hears what I said.  It could be that I didn’t talk loud enough, or didn’t wait for a break in the conversation.  I would have chosen that explanation, as well, initially, but it didn’t happen only once – and the other people around seem to hear me just fine.  I’ve been using this special power most of my life, but I’ve stepped it up lately, it seems.

First it was the wonderful, elderly man who sold us the farm.  Several times, he was explaining some piece of machinery, or one of the mechanical systems on the house to us, and I would follow up with a question.  He’d hesitate briefly to look at me, then continue on with his explanation as if I hadn’t said anything.  My husband and I brushed it off, telling each other that at 90-plus, the apparent lack of regard for my question might have actually been due to hearing impairment.  Usually my husband would find a way to work my questions into his dialog with the gentleman, so at least we still were able to gather the information.  Because he was so gracious, kind, and helpful to us, I felt bad for using my super power on him, but I figured a person of his generation probably didn’t expect a person of my gender to be asking questions about mechanicals anyway, so he probably wasn’t that upset that I had made my voice inaudible to him; probably no need for me to apologize.

Once the old 9N tractor failed on us, I started using my super power indiscriminately.  The salesperson at the Kubota dealership was showing us a sub-compact with a 3-point hitch.  Although it had the 3-point, the machine looked too small to handle the pasture we need it for, so when he took a breath in his sales pitch, I asked whether that machine was powerful enough to run our 60” brush hog.  He looked at me just like the old man had and kept on talking, just like the old man had; but he was not an old man, he was our age!  I waited patiently through another few minutes of sales before finding another break to repeat my question.  This time, I spoke louder and slower, but got the exact same results.  It was so obvious that my husband glanced over at me uneasily, and we both laughed a little.  He didn’t pick up on our frustration and went on talking to my husband.  Finally, my husband interrupted him to say, “Hey, did you have a question?”  Apparently his intervention was Kryptonite to my super power, because the salesman finally heard me, and replied that, no, we would need to purchase a smaller brush hog.  Was he avoiding the no sale or did he actually not hear my question?  Was it because I was female, or because I was invoking my amazing Jedi mind tricks?  It’s not like I was asking what color it comes in, or whether it has a make-up mirror.

The new tractor delivery.

The same thing happened at the Case dealership, when I wanted to know how moving up a model size affected the price of the machine.  Then it happened again in our driveway when I suggested we move the trailer to the disabled tractor, instead of freewheeling the disabled tractor (that has no breaks!) down a hill to get it to the trailer.  When the tractor guy told us his seemingly life-threatening plan, I outlined my own suggestion for getting the tractor on the trailer.  He gave me the old man look, and then he repeated my plan back to us, as if he was suggesting it for the first time.

It may not be a complete coincidence that we made our purchase, not from a salesperson at all, but from a mechanic who came out of the garage and never once fell victim to my super power.  He patiently answered both of our questions; he showed us all the levers; he never took my husband aside to tell him to keep me away from the farm machinery.

I’m blessed by a husband who does hear my voice and show regard for my thoughts, ideas, input, and questions.  Being valued by the most important person in my life gives me the patience to stay gracious and laugh it off when my amazing Jedi abilities complicated communication elsewhere.  He even lets me drive the tractor.

They have ears, but cannot hear Psalm 115:6

I need to quit interrupting.

Communication is usually one of my strong suits.  It’s never going to earn me a medal, but I’m the goddess of the drive-thru.  Back when I was taking orders, happy customers repeatedly commented on how remarkably clear and pleasant our loudspeaker interaction had been.  Even today, my husband jokes that it would be better if he could back up to the speaker so I could place our orders from the passenger side, because it would up our odds of getting the food we actually want, and lower his stress levels.

Despite my ability to interact effectively and pleasantly, even without the assistance of visual clues, I’ve been troubled lately by my tendency to interrupt others.  A topic piques my enthusiasm, someone says something intriguing or funny, and, next thing I know, I find myself verbally jumping into conversation gaps that aren’t gaps.  This has probably been going on my whole life, but there are a couple circumstances recently that have made me realize I need to install a governor on my discourse.

First, I’ve had laryngitis.  For the last week or so, speaking has been a labored effort.  It takes so much extra breath to say something with enough clarity and volume to be heard, that when anyone, especially my kids, is inattentive, interrupts, or ignores me, I feel the burden of the added work it takes to repeat myself.  I find myself surrendering my point, rather than repeating something that seems too inconsequential to muster the effort.  It’s made me realize how important it is to be a good listener, to slow down and put more effort into hearing what others have to say.

The challenge of laryngitis has also heightened my sensitivity to a friend of ours for whom speaking is an act of deliberate effort.  I have caught myself interrupting him more than once in the last couple weeks, and it humbles me.  I should already be humble that someone values our friendship enough to work for it like that; I definitely shouldn’t be making him repeat himself by talking over him.

If I’m foolish enough to interrupt in those circumstances, it a guarantee that I’ve been interrupting everyone else, too.  So, if you’re one of my victims, I apologize.  I’m going to work on it.  Maybe flick me on the forehead, if I interrupt you.  That should shut me up.

Anyone who answers without listening is foolish and confused. Proverbs 18:13

I’m a closet introvert.

Hell for me is a phone with a headset, hooked up to an automatic dialer.  It’s torture, having to muster a pleasant tone of voice, and confront the unknown demands of a conversation.  I did a miserable customer service job for a year and a half out of college and I still cringe when I hear a phone ring.  I program my loved ones’ phone numbers with special rings so that when they call, I can actually respond with joy, instead of trepidation, when I answer the phone.  Sometimes I don’t even answer their calls.

No one had to wonder whether I was an introvert, as a kid.  My silence should have made it clear, but it also ensured that no one wondered whether I was an introvert.  They were more likely to wonder whether I was a snob, or a nerd, or possibly a deaf person – or not to notice me at all.  I was shocked, when my siblings alerted me (in less than diplomatic terms) to the fact that my silence was communicating a disregard for everyone around me that I did not feel.  In fact, I have a very passionate concern for people.  It is part of what makes interacting so exhausting.  I feel such a drive to make every interaction one of care, help, and nourishment that I feel like I should have a script and a rehearsal before I open my mouth.  The pressure eventually wears me out.

Those who have known me as an adult may or may not realize this about me, though.  They may be in my inner circle, where I shamelessly, and probably overbearingly, turn my full personality loose and trust they will graciously interpret my missteps in the context of who they know me to be.  Or they may be the recipient of a gift they didn’t know was a gift.  They are one of the many people, with whom I interact with openness and possibly even verbal excess, despite the extreme anxiety and fear I’m hiding.  They’ve managed to overlook it that I keep my arms down to hide my pit stains during meetings.  They’ve correctly understood that they matter, but they’ve never tuned in to the moment of hesitation before I looked them in the eyes and smiled, or the extended time I spent in the restroom during a break.

It is hard work to make small talk, to decide how much to disclose, to know when to ask questions and when to let the awkward silence bring an interaction to a close.  I could stumble into a landmine of impropriety or offense at any point.  But it is apparent to me that, even when I don’t do it as perfectly as I hope, interacting is more valuable, and a better representation of myself to the people around me, than keeping silent.  So, I interact.  Against my strongest inclinations, I approach strangers after worship.  Despite my shoulder devil’s insistence that no one will get them, I crack jokes and tell stories.

Often, my worst fears are realized and I play back a conversation in my head with embarrassment or regret.  Many times, as well, I feel so drained afterward that I need a few hours or days of cloister to build up my energy and courage to return to the public.  I read a great article about introverts that a couple of my fellow Women in Ministry posted this week.  It was very affirming to realize that I’m not alone in my social struggles, and also that it’s not a character flaw I need to cure.  It just is who I am.

So I’m coming out: My name is Emily, and I’m an introvert.

Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.  Colossians 4:6

I used bad words on my kids.



Hopefully not in our near future!

It’s always embarrassing when I spout off at the mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for a sailor, but there are certainly moments when my word choice is, to say the least, unbecoming.  Who hasn’t endured a moment where a heavy object fell on their toe, or a splash of boiling water seared their finger, and one of those words – the ones we usually refer to by only their first letter – involuntarily erupted?  Not wanting a young child to “out” me by repeating such choice vocabulary, I used to follow up with a series of decoy words.  For example, a carton of milk slips through my fingers and floods across the kitchen floor, and I blurt “Sh#(!” as it goes down, right in front of a very verbal 2 year old; if I think quickly enough, I followed it closely with, “Sugar!  Speedboat! Sassafras! Banana Split!”  If the practice didn’t completely confuse my daughter, it left only a 1-in-5 chance that she would drop a crayon in the church nursery and entertain her caregiver with a PG-13 expletive.  And what’s cuter than a little one who blurts out “Speedboat!” when they drop things!

10 years into this mom-thing, I’ve done pretty well at eschewing those words from even my non-voluntary speech patterns [sorry for making you look up eschew, but at least it’s a fun word you can repeat in mixed company].  In fact, my daughters have a nearly puritanical attitude toward word use.  It cracks me up every time I have to apologize for calling a malfunctioning appliance or misbehaving pet, “stupid.”  I’m not sure if their horror stems from a true belief that “stupid” is a really bad word, or if it’s the tone of disgust I’m using when I drop the S-Bomb.  I’ve tried several times to explain to them that it’s only a bad word when it’s directed at someone.  That strategy my someday backfire, however, when they decide to apply the same criteria to other words.

This week, we had an insanely frustrating afternoon, during which I hauled 20-some pounds of carseat and baby in and out of every store in town that carried children’s shoes.  As we were boarding the minivan at the end of the day, still empty-handed, my oldest began to snap at me for not buying her the ill-fitting and over-budget tennis shoes she had found at our last stop.  While I was in the midst of both reprimanding her for her tone and explaining to her that money is finite, so we do not waste it on items that do not suit our purposes, my middle daughter wanted something my oldest daughter had, and began demanding it, loudly and repeatedly.  Rather than honoring her with a response, I tried to finish the conversation with my older girl, before dealing with the younger, but she got louder and more insistent, the longer we ignored her.  In short order, the van was ringing with angry voices and the baby started to cry.  My older daughter added to the cacophony by starting her counter-argument before I finished my statement, leading to all four of us, baby included, raising our voices in ugly tones, at the same time, inside a closed up vehicle.  Completely frustrated, with my head and ears ringing, I went up another decibel to shout, “SHUT UP!"

The silence was instant – even the baby seemed to drop off in shock.  The big girls’ eyes got huge and welled up with tears.  I might as well have called them the B-word.  Or said I didn’t love them.  My heart was heavy; I was so frustrated, I took the cheap way out.  I knew using those words would have exactly that effect.  And I sold out my values to obtain silence.  I finished, calmly, explaining why we didn’t buy the shoes, then apologized for using those words, and told my middle daughter that I was sorry for how I said it, but I wasn’t sorry for making her stop interrupting, because she knew better than that.

We haven’t yet had an outbreak of “shut up” around the house, so hopefully they know that, even if Mommy says it, that doesn’t make it right.  And I realize that there are plenty of quality parents out there who use far harsher phrases on their kids than “shut up,” but I still get a little heavy hearted when I think of how hurt they were, because for our family, it was a verbal grenade.

A kind answer soothes angry feelings, but harsh words stir them up. Proverbs 15:1

I am hardheaded

The deck needed to be freshened up. We had a day and a half without rain in the forecast, but we were pretty sure we could get it done in one night. After all, the rails and spindles were still good to go, it just needed freshened up. And it was incredibly beautiful out, so I was really looking forward to working outside after spending so much time indoors with the baby.

My husband agreed to hit the hardware store on the way home from work and pick up some stain. He hates making those kind of choices, so I imagined him trapped in the stain aisle at Menard’s, unable to commit to either tan or brown. I wanted to relieve the pressure, so I encouraged him, “just grab whatever, hun, you can’t make a mistake. We’ll use whatever color you pick.”

Those words came back to haunt us both. The baby had just eaten; we were in our paint clothes; we had an hour before dinner. It was time to hit this job. And the stain color is: REDWOOD. You could have pushed me over with a feather. “Red, hun? You want to stain the deck red? Are we living in a doublewide?” But those words were only in my head, as I stifled my reaction. I am, above all else, a woman of my word. I promised he couldn’t mess it up, so I kept my tone of voice positive as I suggested, “With this color, we’re going to need to hit all the spindles and get out the ladder for the outside of the rails.” We him-hawed for only a moment before setting about the task.

I realized five minutes into the job that I was too casual when I mentioned the extra work it was going to be. As he rolled out the dark red onto the deck boards, it gave him time to reflect. It hit him how awful the deck was going to look, if we didn’t get that glorious red onto every nook and cranny. He began to rant and complain about the color choice, “we’re going to have to stain all the rails and spindles. We’re going to be out here for two days, if we’re going to do this right; what possessed us to be so ambitious in our color choice?” It was like he read the rant right out of my head, but now it was our color choice.

Instead of engaging my husband in an intelligent conversation about what color we really wanted to stain the deck, I had charged forwarded, bullheaded, refusing to acknowledge that I was wrong to say I’d joyfully paint any color he chose. He had made his choice with incomplete information. He didn’t grow up in a trailer park, so he had no inhibitions about redwood; he’d trusted the color sample on the outside of the can, which looked more brown than red. While I’d imagined the long delay caused by a choice between tan or brown, I had not actually said out loud that I was assuming we would be using an earth tone. My reticence made me complicit. I was on the hook, as much as he was.

It was not the enjoyable evening I had hoped for, but we did get the deck stained. We even avoided the ugly argument that could easily have developed from our mutual dissatisfaction with the color choice. I was as determined to stay positive about the job, as I had been about not disparaging the color. Once the whole thing was done, we went inside and I played Sammy Kershaw’s Queen Of My Double Wide Trailer for him. He’d never heard it before. We had a good laugh about our "classy" deck. And, for the record, it actually does look really good.

A bear robbed of her cubs is far less dangerous than a stubborn fool. Proverbs 17:12