My Kids are the Best

I don't think it – I know it. I love my friends' kids, my nieces and nephews, and all those great kids at church. I even feel some affection for the less groomed little ones I encounter, sometimes way past bedtime, at Walmart. But really, none of them ever stood a chance. None could ever be as lovely, bright, articulate, well-mannered, kind, or charming as my kids. Sorry to the other parents out there, you just have to settle for what you've got.

My younger daughter blew me away today, between her performance at Drama Camp and the fabulous social skills she displayed at lunch afterward. I filled out the form wrong, so she was one to two years younger than the other kids in her camp. After the tryouts the first day, I assumed her role was probably some sort of animated scenery. We were quite surprised when we went to the show to find that she had one of the two major roles in the program. She spoke loud and clear and did a great job conveying the story. I was so proud of her. She knocked it out of the park.

Then we took her to lunch afterward, and ran into a family from one of the other performances, probably the class my girl should have been in. My daughter took a shine to the other little girl and broke the ice by offering a really nice, sincere compliment. The little girl smiled and they struck up one of the instant friendships that are so unique to being six. My girl showed more social savvy than I had until I was much older. She asked appropriate questions, shared appropriate amounts of information about herself, and expressed friendliness, kindness, and interested in her new friend.

Now, you may be annoyed with me for gloating so much about my own kid. You may think I'm laying it on a little too think. You're probably right. While I was writing, she held the dog captive in her bedroom until the poor thing peed on the floor. Maybe she's not perfect, but she's pretty amazing, anyway.

Make your parents proud, especially your mother. Proverbs 23:25

My reflexes are seriously inadequate

We thought it might be fun to get together a coed rec. softball team for the church this summer and it has been an exciting success so far. The roster filled up very quickly, and there have been even more fans there to cheer than there have been players in the dugout. Despite initiating the thing, last night was the first game my husband and I were able to make it to, and it was a hoot! I got on base twice, advanced a runner once, scored once (I think), and did not sustain any serious injuries – all very positive and exciting for me. More than that, probably historic for me, because my reaction time and eye-hand coordination were never polished by athletics or even self-defense. I've taken more balls to the face than anyone I know.

Despite my apparent heroics, I also ducked instead of going after two pop-flies, struck out, missed a catch at second base, and stopped a grounder with my shin, instead of my glove. But before my teammates give in to their frustration with me for my softball failures, I hope they understand the completely sub-grade reflexes I’m relying on. Seriously, I should not be out there on the field without some sort of head protection and body armor.

When my younger daughter was just over a year old, I came into her bedroom after naptime and she charged the crib rail, happy to see me. The rail went down when she hit it, and she plunged head first toward the ground and broke her arm. I was helpless, a mere 8 feet away, to react quickly enough to prevent her fall. Even as I saw the rail go down, my mind ran through a million possibilities of what to do, but she was crying on the floor before I could get to her. My husband, shocked at the cast on our baby, quizzed me later – couldn’t I have dived and caught her?

He was equally shocked by my unresponsiveness when we were hot-tubbing and the lid, precariously propped against the wall behind him, fell down on his head. He thought I should have warned him or something, but I was captured in a web of mental confusion, “Do I jump at it and try to push it back? Do I yell? Will he know why I’m yelling?” Boom. Too late. He’s already seeing stars.

My husband has the reflexes of a frog – he could catch gnats on his tongue. Although I hope he doesn’t try. He can’t understand why I wiff in the batter’s box, despite the slow moving 6-10' arch that you can see coming for a full 30 seconds. He marvels at the way I can chase a fly around the house with the swatter and never successfully take its life. It took me well into my adult years to finally make a stand at Wack-a-Mole. You don’t even want to know what Dodge-ball was like for me at P.E., or how many volleyballs landed on my face, instead of my clasped hands. I had to teach my dog to come to me – I have no hope of catching her if she runs.

Others sometimes get frustrated with my slow reflexes, but I bear the burden cheerfully, despite the injuries. That softball on my shin hurt me far worse than it hurt the team, I can assure you, but I still went out there for the second game, and I’ll be back again, as long as they’ll let me play. I’m just the gal God made me to be, and God definitely didn’t build me for great athletics! That’s OK, it's still fun to play; I just hope no one aims for my head.

Still, God, you are our Father. We're the clay and you're our potter: All of us are what you made us. Isaiah 64:8

I Ran Out of Compassion

After a tumultuous week of emotional ups and downs, with a long day of travel and to-do's ahead, I was not prepared for one of those flights where you end up with a headache and a voucher for 4000 extra frequent flier miles.  Being unprepared was never a good method of prevention.

Seated in the very last row of the plane with my girls on either side of me and my husband several rows ahead of us, we were just getting settled when a father boarded with his son, a kid about 3, I would guess, definitely an older 2 at least.  Said child was, already, crying.  Dad strapped him into his carseat across the aisle from us, briefly suggested that he look out the window (which someone else had vacated for him when they saw the kid was already crying), and wasted no time pulling out a bag of lollipops for his little guy to choose from.

As soon as the sucker was gone, the rage began.  For an hour and a half, the person in front of him got to enjoy the on-board massage chair - with little feeting pounding the back of his seat.  The youngster brought forth peal after peal of screaming.  Several times, he screamed so loudly that my daughter and I involuntarily covered our ears, because it physically hurt.

Now, I have great empathy for the parents of screaming toddlers normally.  I've been in that stressful situation where a little one loses it and you have to bring forth every measure of creativity to get them to calm down and stow their horns.  But when a parent starts to count, the child should know to what number they are counting, and that something is going to happen when that number is reached.  Dad kept starting over at one every time he hit five, but nothing happened at five!  He was helpless to prevent his kid from pounding the seat in front of him, or piercing all our eardrums with screams so loud they dulled the engine noise.

Call me a parenting snob, but my kids, even at their worst, were not allowed to treat other people like that.  Not even at 2 1/2.  Basic consideration is to teach your children that they are not allowed to hurt other people, no matter how upset or angry they, themselves, might be.   I wanted to offer Dad my seat, between two kids who were behaving with absolute decorum, even while undergoing auditory torture, and give his son a firm, but gentle reminder that strangers might not be as nice as Dad if he kept up his shenanigans.

Others on the flight were so considerate, I nearly cried.  They suggested that his ears were hurting and offered pieces of gum.  They offered their snacks and electronics.  Nearing the end of the flight, with no remedy working, the flight attendant suggested to the father that he pick up a bottle of kiddie pain meds before he put Jr on another segment, if the problem was ears; Dad says, "are you telling me to give my kid drugs?"  His snotty response to her empathic plea really topped it off for me.  The flight attendant, to my amazement, kept it discrete when she brought out "we're sorry you were on the flight from hell" vouchers.

My head pounding, I tried to remind myself that my 2 hours with this family was a small punishment compared to living 24/7 with the monster-child they are creating.  But as we sat on the tarmac for a 1/2 hour and his scream didn't not abate, I heard the words slip out and hoped no one else did, "It's not your ears now, Buddy.  How about another sucker?"

Two tips: one, don't count up, count down; two, when you get to zero, the consequence should not be another sucker.

Come, my children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the LORD. Psalm 34:11

Saying Good Bye to Grandpa

Obituary: H. Edward Reeves - The Prescott Daily Courier - Prescott

I'm writing this ahead of time, because Friday morning, when I normally would be sitting down to share some clumsy or humbling aspect of my own humanity on my blog, I will be going into a memorial service and bidding my grandpa farewell.

The indomitable nature of the human spirit is something often written and wondered about. Through the gravest tragedies and hardest persecutions, human beings find it within themselves, somehow, to persevere. I started pondering, a while back, whether I might know first-hand one source of this phenomenon.

One version of Grandpa's story (this is longer than my original link, but the original was no longer available.  At 19, Grandpa survived a shelling, being shot point blank in the head, being severely beat, and crawling through the snow in sub-zero temperatures in the Chosen Reservoir.  All his fingers and both his feet were amputated.)

This is almost a cliff's notes version of Grandpa's ordeal in Korea. It'll give you an idea, though, of all that he survived. I grew up with this story. I can't remember hearing it for the first time. Watching Grandpa, as young kids, we were fascinated at the way he could hold his spoon in the crease of his palm. The nonchalant way that he strode around on his wooden legs never gave me a moment to ponder whether he would have preferred to have shins, ankles, and feet, like the rest of us. He didn't just survive Korea, he made it all worth it. He raced go-karts. He drove his family in a station wagon to Costa Rica for a year of mission work. He took us shooting. He played Skip-Bo. Not long ago, just like then I was a kid, he took a swim in a hotel pool with my two little girls, showing them a few things about how to get around in the water. They shared their amazement, not because of his missing extremities, but because "people that old don't usually know how to swim." Growing up, knowing Grandpa's story, and seeing how he lived each day, no one in my family could readily complain about their feet being cold.

Grandpa's story may be exceptional, but if you trace your family history, you'll find your own story. Toughness is bred into survivors and we, all of us, spring from survivors. From Noah on the Ark down to the soldiers of WWII and Korea, our culture is steeped in the stories of unlikely survivors who lived on to become our parents and grandparents. Those who gave up, whose luck ran out, or who for whatever reason didn't make it – their story is lost. It is not our story.


Without putting you to sleep with our family history, Grandpa's isn't even completely unique in my own family. There are at least three such stories of against-the-odds survival and perseverance that involved a person whose genes I share. Those stories always give me hope for my own, comparatively minor struggles. Even when things are hard, I know I can overcome it. No matter how uncomfortable it is, I know it won't kill me.

And then there's Jesus, whom Grandpa loved. Jesus bore excruciating torture to redeem us. He showed us how to overcome hatred with love, and that the power and wealth of earthly success would mean nothing in eternity. Through Grandpa's victory over adversity, I learned to live each earthly day with gratitude and hope. Through Christ's victory, I can say good bye to Grandpa with hope that this departure is, indeed, not the end.

Brothers and sisters, we want you to know about those Christians who have died so you will not be sad, as others who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and that he rose again. So, because of him, God will raise with Jesus those who have died. 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14

I Didn’t Think to Wear a Painter’s Mask

The basement bathroom is about 8x7. What is that? 56 square feet? Even amateurs like we are can tackle a job that minor, can't we? Well, can't we?

There are some home improvement projects that I won't tackle. I think roofing and plumbing, for instance, should be handled by professionals. But when it comes to the basics, like, say, paint and nails, I've always lived by the old "recipe" method. Even if you don't know how to cook, you can still follow a recipe and end up with a decent meal. It's all about reading and comprehending the directions.

So, with most of our basic housekeeping caught up, my husband and I felt the urge to tackle something bigger, and the bathroom has been on our to-do list for about a year. The fixtures are fully functional, but the walls are unpainted drywall with only a preliminary mud, the ceiling is wide open, and the floor is raw cement. Because we want the basement to be a hangout for the kids as they age, we decided a while back not to do any "formal" finish down there. We thought an open, loft-type feel would be fun for games and hanging out, keeping things fairly raw, but finished enough to be comfortable. The bathroom is our first actual move toward this vision, so, of course, we headed to the home improvement stores to decide what to do.

The first day, we dragged the kids from Menards to Home Depot, spending two hours each place, then moving on to Lowes. Lowes is on the other side of the city. It was a late night. We came home empty handed. But we did know that we didn't need to go back to Lowes, so that was something.

The second day, we took the kids to IHOP to get them warmed up before we broke the news that we were going back to the home improvement stores for another round. Over breakfast (well, by the time we had sat in the parking lot for a half hour after breakfast), we narrowed our choices down to the products available at Menards. The kids were relieved: only one store. Little did they know it would be three and half hours before we emerged from Menards with 4 cans of black spray paint for the ceiling, three rolls of textured wallpaper for the walls, two sections of aluminum duct work to encase the exposed plumbing behind the toilet, and a can of pewter cement stain for the floor and wall. Oh, and a vision.

It was two days into the project and we were finally getting somewhere. We headed downstairs to masked off the fixtures and make speedy progress on blackening the ceiling. Carefully reading the directions on the can, we turned on the vent, opened the downstairs windows, and went to it. Brian found an old, paper painter's mask in our stuff and threw it on. I didn't think much about it. I didn't notice any mention of painter's masks on the can…but, really, that's no excuse. I absolutely knew better than to aim a spray paint can over my head in a small, enclosed room, without covering my hair, eyes, nose, or mouth. Someone hit me on the head with a tack hammer; I am a moron.

Did you know that black spray paint loogies will turn your tongue green? It was not enough that I knew to wear a mask. I needed to put the thing on.

"But if you just use my words in Bible studies and don't work them into your life, you are like a stupid carpenter who built his house on the sandy beach. When a storm rolled in and the waves came up, it collapsed like a house of cards." Matthew 7:26-27

I Think I Can Do It All

Before you laugh at me and say, "No, you can't!" You have to realize that, most of the time, I get it done. Anytime I start to think there is too much on my plate, I remember commuting 3 hours each way to go to seminary in Kansas City, while working part-time at the church and having babies. It took 3 ½ years to get my M.A., but I did it. We did it. My husband and church family certainly get some of the credit, too. To use my husband's corporate lingo: I deliver on aggressive goals, especially when I am called.

I don't think I'm a yes-girl, though. I can generally say "no" to anyone but myself. I want to do it all. I'm called, passionate, and dedicated to being a wife and mother for my family. I'm also called, passionate, and dedicated to the ministry I serve. But then there are so many friends and adventures out there to savor! Time is my most treasured commodity, because if there is something I want to do, I will find a way to fit it in. My encouraging Facebook friends don't realize the rest of the story, when I post the conundrum, "do I take the kids to the beach or do laundry?" I've already chosen "beach" (or park, or bike ride) over "laundry" about a dozen times or it wouldn't be a question. If we weren't running out of undies, I'd already be at the beach.

We took this week off and made our usual plans. We were going to Kansas City for a weekend of roller coasters and visits with friends and family. We would come home for a day to reload, then drive up to Lake Okoboji to camp for a couple nights, stopping at a waterpark on the way home for one more day of summer fun.

Then I got word that my grandpa is in hospice. No one can guess what the time table will be, but we know that at some point, with short notice, we are going to be making a trip to Arizona to say good bye. Instead of cramming camping and waterparks in, we decided to save some money and get ahead on things, so that if we head out on short notice, it won't overwhelm our entire summer. Instead of our vision of great fun and photo-ops, we've spent the week sleeping in, getting the household chores caught up, and playing games with the kids. My husband keeps reminding me how pleasant it is to do nothing.

I'm already contemplating ways to squeeze in a night in a tent before another week goes by, but I'm adding it to my to-do list: schedule more time for nothing.

I can do everything through him who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13

I Don’t Like to Bathe

Too much information? Sorry, but I thought it was time I admitted it. I know many people who claim that they just can’t start their day without the refreshment of a turn in the shower. I am not one of them.

At risk of sounding like a toddler, I hate taking showers. They are such an incredible nuisance: all the undressing and redressing; having to wash all those towels; the time spent blow drying, combing, applying products. Uhg. Pass. Thanks. I’ll take one tomorrow. I know I’ll enjoy it, once I’m there, but not enough to make me want one every day.

When I wake up in the morning, I am usually ready for two things: a cup of coffee and my day’s to-do list. Bathing just seems like a big distraction. First you stop to bathe. Next thing you know, you need to match your clothes. Then you’re applying makeup and looking for coordinating jewelry. Soon an hour of your life has slipped away. An hour that could easily have been spent lying on a hammock, writing your novel, weeding the garden, or getting to work early, so you could go home early – and wash towels. But, no, I blew it on my vanity. Would I rather be vain or lazy? Can’t decide.

I have special methods of avoiding the daily shower without anyone knowing I did – or feeling like I’m risking my dignity or offending my co-workers. It only makes the challenge harder because I have extremely fine hair; it loves to flop into stringy clumps about 6 hours after my last shower, signaling to everyone around me that I am in need of a shampoo. In my younger days, I could always throw on a ball cap for that sporty second-day look, but the older I get, the dumber I feel showing up anywhere with a ball cap on; except maybe to softball. I could wear it there. I also used to rely on perms to dry my hair out and let me sneak a second day. Then perms went way out of style and I had to go back to the drawing board.

Nowadays, it’s highlights and texturizing hair spray that help me get through every other day without bowing to shower-idolatry. I combine the “interest” they add to my hair-do with the reliable method of occasionally wearing headscarves and pony-tails on fresh-hair days, just to throw people off the pattern.

Not to worry, I’ll shower daily for special occasions, most every Sunday, and when I’ve done something that required me to sweat (see my post on the elliptical I don’t use). Ironically, I have to mention, I got into a fine habit of daily bathing while I was living in Austria for a year. In case you don’t recognize the irony – the thing about Europeans not bathing; it’s true. So I wasted it, all those long mornings of shampoo, lotion, and hair products, on people who are already numb to body odor and oily hair.

You'll be glad to know that I'm quite attached, however, to tooth brushing and deodorant.

Jesus answered, "Those who have had a bath need only to wash their feet; their whole body is clean.” John 13:10

(Reason for photo: a successful non-shower in my book)

I’ve been obsessing about my own mortality

I’m turning 35 this summer. Whether that seems old or young to you probably depends on how much higher or lower your own number is. What I know for sure is that, while there is potentially still a long journey ahead of me, I have also put some long years behind me. I’ve always tried to live intentionally, beginning with the end in mind, you might say. However, lately everything in my life seems to be contriving to bring me repeated consciousness of the fact that living is a terminal condition.

I attended another funeral this morning. A beloved friend from church who was blessed to enjoy a long and fruitful life has gone on to Glory. Another dear friend, not so advanced in years, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix the day after Mother’s Day; thankfully they caught it in time. My younger daughter is graduating from Kindergarten; it seems much too soon. Grandpa is back in the hospital again. A family in our community had two of their three kids die when their minivan was T-boned on a quiet side street we commonly drive down. My older daughter started needing deodorant. All are subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that time moves in only one direction and, sooner or later, that onward march is going to lead all of us to the same outcome.

I’m seeing everything different these last few weeks. Every time I get into a car, I consider the possibility of an accident. When I order French fries, I hear my arteries begging me to stop. I look in the mirror and see the smile lines and sun spots starting, and know that kid at the grocery store isn’t going to keep asking for my I.D. forever.

Some ministers will suggest that from the day we put our faith in Christ, our earthly life is just a hindrance, holding us back from the Glory that awaits us. When I was younger, that was one of my biggest fears; that life quit meaning anything, because accepting Jesus meant longing for the end. Life was just this burdened in-between of trying to spread the Gospel and secure eternity for others.

The Gospel is much fuller to me now than it used to be. While I hope for the eternal Glory my friends are now experiencing, I’m trying really hard to experience Glory each day. Life has these incredible seasons we get to pass through, each a unique gift from God who gives us life. From the beautiful naiveté of childhood, through the discovery of youth, the comfort of finding our identity and vocations, and on into the uncharted future that I hope will bring adventure, accomplishment, and grandkids. God didn’t plan just for the end, God planned for each and every day, each moment, of this Glorious life I get to live.

But even as I dream of this amazing future, I feel burdened right now by the reality that, as Mat Kearney’s song Closer to Love puts it, “we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” Anything can happen at any time to cut short the dreams I hope for, and I feel like, right now, life is just starting to get good. Really good. Good-byes are hard, but I don’t want to live in either denial or in fear of them; they’re part of life, too.  Lately, though, I've been feeling the pinch of their inevitability.

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth;the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Psalm 39:4-5 

http://apps.facebook.com/ilike/artist/Mat+Kearney/track/Closer+To+Love

I Made My Kids Wait in the Car Outside a Bar

…but I’ll get to that in a minute.

There was a news bit last night about how the paparazzi are all over celebrity babies. One photographer/stalker was saying how he can’t sell a picture of Sharon Stone anymore unless there’s a child in the frame. There’s apparently a particular park to which celebs flock to be “seen” sporting offspring. Ever since Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter Apple and Jennifer Anniston didn’t get pregnant by Brad Pitt, kids have replaced big purses as the accessory of choice for Hollywood’s elite. Some might argue it started the day John Jr. played under his dad’s desk in the Oval Office, but I think Suri had a hand in it and certainly Octomom has jumped on the bandwagon.

So the headline of my last nine years should read: My Glamorous Motherhood. I should be on TMZ or something, as least, because I am hip. If I were a purse model, I’d be sporting a Prada. I’ve got the two most beautiful daughters you could imagine. My older daughter has thoughtful eyes of the clearest blue and thick wavy locks of spun gold. My younger daughter has that smooth olive complexion that looks like a slight tan all winter long and green eyes that sparkle like her smile. If motherhood is fashionable, my girls are to die for.

But (and you knew it was coming, right?) they also forget to flush before school sometimes and we come home to a houseful of crap-odor that could rival a pit-toilet. They miss the garbage can with their chewed gum and I get to fish it out of the dog’s mouth. Nothing comforts an ailing kid like having Mom fall asleep rubbing her back, right? Then Mom becomes a target for that middle of the night, surprise vomit.

Are you uncomfortable with body fluids? Not a problem. You can always enjoy the irony of a toddler meltdown in the family planning aisle of Target. Or that moment when you look down from writing your check to see that your three year old has pilfered a pack of Rollos, already has six of them in her mouth, and is drooling chocolate on a brand new white t-shirt. Oh, and you don’t have 80 cents cash to buy the Rollos, so you have to write another check.

A personal favorite I briefly mentioned in a previous week’s confession: when your baby gets too big for the car seat, but is still too little to stand on her own yet. You find yourself in the filthy bathroom of a gas station or Big Lots, getting your business done with your baby on your lap, trying to strategize for the TP phase of the operation.

There’s that sexy minivan, the allure of stretch marks, the sophistication of inadvertently referring to yourself in the third person to another adult; no one forgets the thrill of a milk let-down during an important presentation, and I haven’t even touched on the elegance of stain-removal…and then one night, ballet rehearsal goes way late and you get to the Bar & Grill after the 9pm deadline for minors and have to leave your kids in the car while you go in and let Daddy know you’re finally here to meet him for dinner.  Despite missing out on a meal, you're just relieved you weren’t reported, as you swing through a drive-thru for the culinary delights of breaded whitefish and hushpuppies.

Bring in the paparazzi, because I ended the night feeling like a cover shot for Cosmo, for sure.

"Blessed is the mother who gave you birth and nursed you.” Luke 11:27

NOTE: If you put this verse in context, you'll see that Jesus replied, "Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it."  Of course, He's right, but I totally get it why the woman called out a blessing on His mom to start with.  She didn't know Jesus was divine, and anyone who has experienced plain old, fully-human kids knows that for every kid that turns out OK, there's a parent or two somewhere who deserves a little pat on the back from the Almighty.  So if you're one of those, may you be blessed in full measure for every glamorous moment you've dedicated to your delightful little accessories.

I'm an Idolator and I Might Get Bored

Apparently comfort can be an idol, and I am at high risk for comfort-idolatry. This can lead to the sin of boredom. I don’t know how deadly this is, but I shall remain alert.

If you’re in a hurry, feel free to skip this two-paragraph aside regarding the work-ethic of pastors.

It is a common perception that pastors work only one day a week. I’m often asked, “What do you do the rest of the week?” Defending full-time ministry isn’t the purpose of my blog today, but I will say this: a passionate minister lives, breathes, and sleeps the ministry they serve. The visible hours they spend on services, office hours, etc., are but a shadow of the time they dedicate each week, seeking God and implementing the ministry they are called to.

So, just like everyone else, something we do the rest of the week is attend meetings. One that I attend five times a year is the preview committee for Iowa Religious Media Services. It’s a resource library for churches across the state, including everything from American Baptist to Methodist, Presbyterian, and Catholic churches. They parade new and controversial resources before us, so that we can determine whether they add value to the collection and fall within an acceptable range of theology and utility for our churches. As I explained to my girls: they ask me for my opinion and then pay me for it with pizza. That probably sounds great, but for every exciting resource, there are three that could only inspire Insomniacs.

Flipping through the companion piece to a resource, I found a list of personal motivators and their risks. The list included affirmation, material possessions, and so on. Affirmation could lead to pride, material things could lead to greed, and so on. I scanned the list for what motivation I potentially value more than God. I acknowledge that everything on the list holds some sway for all of us, but the one that caught my eye was “comfort.” It meant that you were motivated by finding ease, enjoyment, relaxation, and fun. Taken too far, it could lead to boredom. The description resonated with me, because ease, enjoyment, relaxation, and fun are definitely strong motivators for me!

I love the Lord, but living this frazzled, clunky human life is a close second, and I intentionally resist the pressure to overachieve. More than possessions, or affirmation, or art, or whatever else I can’t remember off the list, I love being together with my beloved ones; I love lying on a hammock in the sun; I love eating delicious food; I love seeing and trying new things. Like I said above, I live and breathe the ministry I’ve been called to, but if I could live out my devotion to Christ each morning on a sandy beach with an ice cold drink, building sandcastles with my kids, reading a Bible stained by saltwater spray, then hiking new peaks in the afternoon, I’d be there! Life is so chock-full of possibilities and inspirations, I cannot imagine boredom. There is always something to do! A flower to plant, a project to sew, a book to read, a person or place to visit…I could see my desire for comfort leading to bankruptcy, co-dependence, and an intolerably messy house, but boredom? Really?

My own resistance to this prognosis deepens my concern. Not only am I motivated by comfort, but I’m not really fighting it. The temptation to keep it light and enjoy things whenever possible, to suck the marrow from each passing moment, is something I’m going to battle for a long, long time. I guess I’ll let you know when I start feeling bored…will I know I’m bored when it happens?  I'm going to have to be alert.

What do you think?  Does what motivates you also, potentially, distract you? Is there a spiritual practice that can counter it?  What do you recommend?

If you are guided by the Spirit, you won't obey your selfish desires. God's Spirit makes us loving, happy, peaceful, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled. Galations 5:16, 22-23

An Elliptical is Cheaper Not to Use than a Gym Membership

My neighborhood is teeming with joggers nowadays. Drive attentively, because these spandex-clad women and men are fast-moving and hard-to-spot. You'd probably be better off putting down the window and sniffing them out, because many times they are completely soaked in their own sweat.

It looks like complete misery to me: the pounding impact of the pavement; the heat of the sun; the solitude; the pointless return back to where you started. Aside from the fact that nothing is giving chase, they also aren’t headed to a destination worthy of the effort. I cringe at the thought of having to do extra laundry to wash all those spandex. I’m sure they have to wash them “cold – delicate cycle – non-chlorine bleach – line dry.” And they can’t go back out in public until they’ve spent another half hour taking that extra shower and redoing their hair (which also rules out the possibility they are jogging to a coffee shop or tavern).

It is so easy to be disdainful of the joggers. My biggest gripe with them is that they have mustered something I so thoroughly lack: discipline. I fantasize like everyone else about having ripped abs and a firm bottom. But I think I know down deep that I am just lucky to be average. After having two kids, I realized that I needed to do something different or I was not going to stay “average.” We joined the Y. While my girl was in their preschool, I even managed a dutiful habit of hitting the stair-climber 3 times a week. And I lost – not a pound. Not a pound. Then we moved and the Y wasn’t on our daily path, so after a few months without going there, we made the choice to drop the membership and purchase a second-hand elliptical machine.

Once the elliptical machine is at the foot of your bed, you can no longer claim that your workout is too far out of the way. You have to find other reasons not climb on board and work up a sweat. One of my favorites: my only successful weight loss has come from a concerted effort to eat smaller portions and avoid snacks. That and the occasional cleansing that a good potluck offers (see my post on potlucks).

We’re a pretty active family and I’m not afraid of hard work. But I seem to need the motivation of a project to work on, a destination to hike to, or a game to play. Getting on a machine to run round like a hamster or taking an hour out of my day to beat up my knees so I can say I ran a whole mile doesn’t motivate me. I wish it did. I wish I was disciplined, because I know they’re right and I’m wrong. And when those annoying jogger-people are chasing their grandkids, while I’m sitting in a recliner complaining about my back pain, I’ll wish I did something about it.

Maybe if they could hook the elliptical up to a battery pack so my effort could save us a little on electricity?

He will die for lack of discipline, led astray by his own great folly. Proverbs 5:23

I Always Dreamed of Being Really Cool

It’s ironic that I only seem to achieve my dream of coolness when I completely surrender trying. I’ve always had a lot to aspire to, because I grew up with siblings that were on the cutting edge of a nearly unattainable coolness.

My big brother is the most charming, likable guy you’ve ever met. Growing up, everyone loved him, and still does. He always had a huge circle of friends. He knew awesome stuff about power tools, horses, and R/C models. Old ladies would remark about how he was going to be handsome and six feet tall, like our dad. I didn’t know why being six feet tall was so desirable, but I thought, “He’s my dad, too, why don’t they tell me I’m going to be six feet tall?” In treasured moments, when my brother taught me how to throw a ball, when he invited me to explore the crawl space under the house, when he drove my jeep in the bracket drags and beat out muscle cars, moments when I felt his coolness rub off on me, I just wished I had some of my own for the rest of the time.

My sister, too, had coolness to spare. Her coolness came from her utter self-assurance. She did whatever she wanted. No matter what anyone said to her, she did not care. She cut her hair the way she wanted. She wore her clothes the way she wanted. She pierced her ear with a needle, because you didn’t need a permission form. It was so hard to be her big sister, because she was so cool and I was so not cool. Whenever I bumped up against her personality, I lost. It wasn’t even a fight. I was unarmed. I couldn’t compete, because everything she did was original, so copying her wouldn’t make me cool, it would make me a copy. I longed to be an original.

Somewhere along the way, I surrendered. Not all at once, but over years of discovery, I came to the conclusion that being un-cool was my ultimate ticket to coolness. In a certain sense, driving a mail jeep was cool. No one else had one, right? Working at McDonald’s? Maybe I should have pursued an internship, or something that paid better, but I liked my job, even though people thought it was funny. Living in the freshman dorms for three, long years – un-cool. Having my student teaching observed while wearing tights that were two shades different from my shirt, because I got dressed in the dark – un-cool. Using the bathroom with my toddler on my lap – un-cool.  Making home Star Wars movies – un-cool.

This week I put my extreme un-coolness on display in a public forum. I miscommunicated with the A/V team so that the kids singing couldn’t be heard over the music; I relocate a kid away from the microphone too harshly (and probably too close to the microphone); I told a kid he won an award and then failed to give him his prize; I dropped a statuette when I was presenting it; I forgot to recognize the cooks who make us dinner every week and I forgot my husband who is the co-leader of the youth group. Un-cool!

I drive a convertible. That probably sounds cool, right? It has family seating and a roll bar.

Un-coolness. It’s an art.

If I have to brag, I will brag about how weak I am. 2 Corinthians 11:30

Sometimes I build my kids up, only to deflate them.

We were at the food court at the mall.  One kid wanted Taco Bell and one wanted Arby’s.  I knew that going to Arby’s was going to mean drinking a Jamocha shake, so I opted to get in the Taco Bell line with my younger daughter.  Always looking for opportunities to foster independence (and make my life simpler), I gave my older daughter a few bucks and encouraged her to try going to the Arby’s counter by herself.  She could order her regular favorites of a ham & cheese, curly fries, and a shake.  On second thought, I realized that their value menu wasn’t all a dollar, so I gave her another dollar and suggested, “Be sure you tell them you want everything off the value menu.”  I didn’t want them to give her the regular sized shake or fries, because she might not have enough money.

I went back to wait in the long Taco Bell line, but she came running over moments later, needing more money; they said she didn’t have enough.  So I shelled out a couple more bucks, a little annoyed that they sold her the bigger shake, but at least she was learning to do things for herself.  When I finally turned around with my tray of tacos and empanadas, I looked over to see my girl coming toward me with a tray that was jam-packed with food and drinks.  She read my look of shock and her face immediately fell.

“Were you hungry for all that food?” I asked, incredulous.

She looked confused and embarrassed, “They said I didn’t have enough money to get everything off the value menu, so I just got these.”

It was my fault.  My parting words to her had been, “Tell them you want everything off the value menu.”  My daughter was, above all things, obedient.  I starting laughing so hard my eyes started to water.

My miscommunication cost me about four extra bucks, and my daughter’s pride, because she still thinks that the mistake was hers.  We’re going to have to have a talk this morning.  She was really proud of herself for going to counter and getting her own lunch and I pulled the rug out from under her the moment I signalled disappointment to her.  She shouldn’t feel bad, it all worked out.  We even managed to eat the turnover.

Children must always obey their parents.  This pleases the Lord.  Parents, don't be hard on your children.  If you are, they might give up. Colossians 3:20-21

I Was Too Direct With the Salesperson

When he got completely tongue tied and disappeared into the back office for several minutes, my husband started cracking up.  At first, I didn't realize what I'd done.

We're trying to get a backyard playset for the girls without taking out a loan. Complicating our search, our older daughter is fascinated with monkey bars.  It is remarkably hard to find an affordable playset with monkey bars!  So we wandered into the various backyard playset stores, braced to hear unthinkable numbers, but hoping to find out what they could do with monkey bars.  At the first place, a low-key salesperson came over and showed us the options, giving us a catalog and price list so we could measure our needs against their offerings.

At the second place, we got the pitch.  When he heard "monkey bars," dollar signs seemed to circle his head like the tweeting birds on Tom & Jerry.  Monkey bars must be a serious jackpot for playset salespeople.  Instead of answering our questions, he picked out a monstrous castle with a million cargo nets and rope swings.  He informed us that we need to add on a bigger swing beam right at the get-go because our five year old isn't going to be satisfied with a ten foot beam.  If we don't get her the twelve foot beam, the whole multi-thousand-dollar playset is going to sit unused by our bored, ungrateful kids.

My husband, ever good-natured, was trying to wait the guy out, but every add-on we didn't challenge encouraged him to suggest another add-on.  I could see my life slipping away from me; time I could never get back.  So I asked him to pause his sales pitch and said, "I know it's going to sound like I haven't been listening to you explain your philosophy on challenging kids to grow into their playset, but you keep trying to up-sell us and I'd like to redirect you to down-sell us instead.  We're looking for a small fort with monkey bars," there were probably three sets in the room that were more like what we had asked for, so I gestured to one of them, "like this one here...can we put monkey bars on that?"

He stammered a little, but hadn't given up on the castle.  After pointing out a few features on the smaller set, he began to emphasize its limitations and was motioning back toward the castle.  I wasn't having it. "I'm sorry, but it seems like you are starting to try to up-sell us again.  We came in to find out about a playset we might want.  You need to give us the information we are asking for, instead of telling us what you think we should do, so we can make a decision about what we really want."  Then he stammered fitfully and retreated to the office.

I honestly thought I was being helpful to the guy.  We're not going to buy the castle.  He's wasting his time and ours, and he is also potentially missing out on selling us what we actually want.  My husband, who is an expert on "handling" me, pointed out the stammering and long absence (through his mirth).  The salesperson's discomfort hadn't actually registered with me, because I was focused on the task at hand - finding the right playset - not on the social implications of hurting a salesperson's feelings.  When he came back out, he did have better information for us, and even felt courageous enough to run back to the office and get his card to staple to the catalog (no price list) he gave my husband.

But now I feel bad.  I thought it was about a business transaction.  But, and in my line of work I should know this, nothing is just business.  Even between strangers, it's still about relationship; otherwise there wouldn't be road rage, right?  So I'm sorry Craig or Greg or whatever your name is.  I know you're just doing what you've been trained to do.  I'm not out to get you.  I just wanted to know about the smaller playsets.  Next time, I'll try and say it nicer.  I really didn’t want to be mean.  If it's any conciliation, there's a clerk at SmashBurger who hates me, too.  I declined to add a $5 side salad onto my daughter's kid's meal when she asked for roughage instead of fries.  I think she thought I should have bought the salad; our relationship hasn't been the same since.

You can tame a tiger, but you can't tame a tongue—it's never been done. James 3:7-8

I'm a Big Sissy

"Are your allergies bugging you today?"  My husband often lists my general emotional stability as my most attractive trait, so I'm sure he felt as overwhelmed as I did when his seemingly harmless question was met with a dam-burst of tears.  Obviously, not my first, or I wouldn't have had the red eyes that prompted his question!

My friend Jean Mehle's health has been in a slow decline for some time and we knew the day was not far off when we would hear the news of her earthly departure.  It still caught me unprepared on Wednesday night, about an hour before the kids and families would be arriving for our midweek church activities.  I hid myself up in the gym and tried to cool the burn with the distraction of Grand Prix preparations.  Focusing on checkered flags and chair arrangements, I hoped to stifle my emotions enough to get through the night and go home to grieve in private.

The telling question about my allergies was all it took for me to know that I could not hide my being the world's biggest sissy.  Jean was in her eighties and our friendship grew out of a Friday morning prayer meeting that provided a large portion of my spiritual sustenance through the first five years I was balancing ministry, motherhood, and a weekly 3-hours-each-way commute to seminary.  During that season of my life, I learned and grew immeasurably from watching Jean practice her faith, out of the blessings she prayed over me and my family, and by experiencing the warmth and depth of her love and friendship.

But Jean was beloved to all of us, not just me.  We're sisters-in-Christ, just like everyone else, so I really felt pathetic when everyone around me took the news and continued chewing on their spaghetti.  Here I'm the one who is supposed to be able to handle bad news and help other people get through it, and I couldn't make eye contact with anyone in the room or I'd start back up the waterworks.  Using every mental strategy I could muster, I somehow limped through an hour and a half of teaching the kids and youth, but I barely held it together when one of the youth volunteered to say our closing prayer and shared a beautiful, sweet tribute to Jean on our behalf.  God bless her for praying the prayer that I could not possibly have spoken.

So I'd like to make a request of my friends and family.  If your time comes, could you aim to avoid Wednesday or Sunday?  That would be a tremendous help to me.  I'm really a giant sissy, so when someone I care about passes away, I need a good two hour cry before I can be seen in public again.  Please be considerate.

...let your tears flow like a river day and night; give yourself no relief, your eyes no rest. Lamentations 2:18

I Let Santa Take the Rap

Don't be confused; I messed up plenty this week.  But I've got an old transgression I need to get off my chest.

When we first moved into our house, my younger daughter was only two.  Although she seemed to handle the transition for the most part, she immediately started fighting her nap.  At bedtime, she'd go right in and sleep like an angel, but for some reason she thought that her midday nap was the perfect time to flip out and drive her mom crazy.  On the days she was at daycare, they reported no such disruption, but on the days she was at home with me, it was a hard fought battle.  I kept repeating to myself that I only had to put her in bed as many times as she got out; I didn't have to be more stubborn that her, only just as stubborn.

A few weeks into our struggle, Thanksgiving passed and Advent began, bringing with it Santa sightings.  Quite to our surprise, our otherwise fearless daughter would claw her way up our torso to hide in our arms whenever Santa showed up in her proximity.  I'm sure to her, it seemed like there was a Santa at every turn.

One afternoon at naptime, I was again struggling to keep in her bed when some noise or creak startled my daughter.  Her eyes got huge as she whispered, "Is that Santa?"

Loving mother that I am, I replied, "I think so.  Maybe if you lay very still he won't know you're being naughty and I'll go check."  So I left her room, where she lay completely silent and swiftly fell asleep.  Oh, yeah.  I was on to something!

For the next week, naptime tantrums were history.  All I had to do was mention that Santa was on my quick dial.  But she got wise all too quickly and wanted proof.  She boldly responded to my threat one afternoon, "Tell him to come." 

To which I replied (Lord, forgive me.), "OK, but you should know - Santa spanks!"  Again with the huge eyes, so I confirmed, "Are you sure you want him to come?" 

A choked whisper, "Yes."

So next thing I knew, I was booking it to my bedroom closet to put on the red suit and wig.

I could probably write a chapter from each episode of our escalating visits from Spanking Santa who, for the record, never actually spanked.  There was the day she noticed Santa's eyes, "Santa's eyes are blue!"  Long, hard gaze, "Mommy's eyes are blue."  There were the cackling "ho-ho-ho's" that alerted a little girl that Spanking Santa was in the house (without Mom having to put on a wig).  And then came the missing stuffed dog.  I didn't know where the dog went, but my daughter kept complaining that it was missing.

I had no idea that she had developed a theory about her missing toy, but was surprised at her enthusiasm when we asked if she wanted to go see Santa at the mall.  We had expected a terrified little girl to tell us no.  Instead, she seemed very determined to go visit Santa.  She was nervous in line, but continued to move closer and closer to the "jolly" saint.  I asked the girls what they were going to ask Santa for.  My older daughter said she wanted an Annabelle doll.  My younger daughter was resolute, "I'm going to tell Santa to give me my puppy back!"

I was trapped in my lie.  I couldn't tell her that Spanking Santa didn't steal her toy without admitting that I was Spanking Santa!  So I said, "OK, tell him."

The Mall Santa had a little trouble understanding the angry demand of a two year old to get her puppy back, but he played it off well enough.  And my daughter eventually developed fondness for Santa Claus.  We even found her puppy wedged behind her headboard and gave it back to her.  What makes it hard for me to be contrite: she went back to taking her nap!

A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who pours out lies will not go free.  Proverbs 19:5

I Can't Wait to Be Old

I love old people.  I'm just like some jerk about to crack a Polack joke, who says, "Some of my best friends are Polish people."  Well, many of my good friends are elderly and I love them dearly.

So while I confess to you that I often and joyously make fun of old people, I have to remind you how much I look forward to becoming an old person myself.  As I mentioned before, there's an 80 year old lady in me, who I very much aspire to be.  So my mirth is always mixed with the very real hope that I can be just like them someday.  After all, there are some real advantages to advanced age.

I can't wait to be old enough to pick a fashion decade and stick with it for the duration.  There's a gorgeous, stately woman I know, who must be over 80.  She looks like an ad from Sears & Roebuck's 1926 catalog.  She probably hasn't had to buy a stitch of new clothing in thirty years.  If she were my age, she'd be a social outcast, and have to compromise and at least buy a pair of oversized sunglasses or something, but at some point, she didn't have to cowtow to every fad anymore.  She just found what she liked and wore it.  The prime example of this phenomenon, of course, is the purple & red ladies.  Let's just say my youth group might have trouble focusing if I showed up in red & purple feathers each week.

I can't wait to open my car doors unapologetically.  I had to get a minivan, not because my two kids overwhelmed a sedan, but because I got so tired of the guilt that went along with watching my kids door-ding every parking lot neighbor I sidled up to.  Sliding doors are a real salvation for my guilt complex.  But as someone who parks daily in a church parking lot, I can tell you from experience that pulling up too close to a Buick or Cadillac when there's a sewing circle or fish fry going on will inevitably lead to car doors that look like Brad Pitt's acne scared cheeks (I have a picture somewhere that proves this about Brad Pitt, for those who choose to deny the reality of his failed teenage hygiene).  Someday, I am going to drive a big boat, park in the wider spot by the door, and throw open my doors with the boldness of an aged woman.

I can't wait until fake eye lashes and bright lipstick won't suggest to the men around me that I'm going to charge by the hour.  I can't wait until I get to subsitute a clear plastic bonnet for my umbrella.  I can't wait until a wig will be an acceptible alternative on a bad hair day.  I can't wait until I can afford to buy the best seats when my favorite band re-organizes to release a new album after a fifteen year hiatus.  I'll sit way in front of all the youngsters who would have died for my seat and dance like a maniac to all three "early" songs, then leave when the good music starts.

My daughters have trouble with the idea of my mortality sometimes.  They become deeply concerned about the reality that our parents will proceed us in death.  I worry about that too sometimes, because I still get to enjoy the company of three of my four grandparents and both my parents.  I don't know what it will be like to bid farewell to someone who made an intense inpression on my personality and my DNA.  But I tell my dauthers often that I pray, before we have to say good-bye, that we get to be old ladies together.  Because we're going to have a hoot!

I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. Psalm 63:4

I'm Lucky I Haven't Run Someone Over

I've had no less than three utterly stupid moments behind the wheel of a car in the last month.  I don't normally consider myself to be an awful driver, but at this point, I have to consider the possibility.

Two were at least partially the result of heavy fog.  Driving at night, I thought I was taking my exit, only to realize as my headlights lit up the green exit sign 10 feet in front of me, that I had passed the exit and was cutting across the shoulder.  To avoid the sign, I cut over like a maniac.  It was only by good fortune that no one had already moved up to occupy that lane, or I would have run them right off the road, because I panicked and did not look.  Praise the Lord, no loss of life, time, or treasure resulted from my folly.

You would think after that, I would have slowed down when I encountered another foggy day.  But I apparently had not learned my lesson yet.  With no such perilous consequences, my second foggy day experience involved completely missing my turn - twice.  I had to invent a new way home to accommodate my utter lack of effective foggy-weather driving, but at least I didn't risk anyone's life.  I guess I did learn something from my earlier mistake.

Yesterday, however, I cannot blame on the fog at all - other than the fog in my head after getting back from a long road trip last week and still being a little out of sorts.  It was clear and sunny.  I had set my cruise control to my accustomed 5 mph over the speed limit, and was cruising along the freeway, heading home from work.  I noticed that the river was flooding and began to ponder whether it was high enough to cover the bike path yet.  I didn't realize that I was focusing more and more on the scenery and less and less on the road in front of me, until I glanced up and saw the back end of an old Taurus station wagon.  I hit the brakes pretty hard when I realized it was only going 55.  I didn't have time to even check my blind spot, let alone change lanes.  Whatever excitement it generated for me, I'm sure the driver of the Taurus had some choice words on his lips when he saw me roar up on him like that; and his wife ought to send me the cleaning bill for his shorts.

And my dad thought the red light I ran while visiting him was the worst driving I've done lately...

I don't say it lightly that I praise the Lord when these things happen and there are no consequences, because I know sometimes people lose their lives when they make mistakes like mine.  Yet I also know that if every mistake someone made on the road resulted in the worst case scenerio, there would be no one left to drive; and the glory for that goes to God.

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.  Psalm 91:11

I Pee When I Laugh at My Own Jokes

My lack of bladder control is historic.  My tortured family could hardly settle into their morning bathroom routine without a frantic knock on the door from little Emmy, demanding use of the stool.  They generally respected my panic, however, and yielded the right of way.  Too often, they had witnessed or cleaned up the aftermath.

As I got older, I learned all sorts of tricks to counter my weakness, but there is still one situation in which nothing but Depends can help me.   If I crack a joke that causes people around me to laugh, the combination of surprise, joy, and laughter overwhelms my bladder control.  It really makes me a supreme dork.  You're supposed to play it cool when people laugh at your jokes, like "yeah, I knew you'd find that funny."  Instead I'm the biggest idiot in the room, because the joke is on me.  "What?  You found that funny?  Now I feel so silly, I think I'll pee my pants."  If laughing at my own joke doesn't make me look stupid, the damp spot on my backside will!

Some of my great moments include: a successful skit in German class, after which I had to hide my butt with my Espirit bag to get to the bus without humiliation; every single time I've participated in a "little people" skit at camp; donning left-over hospital diapers before a get-together with friends who make me laugh; and the list goes on.  My longtime friends and family can probably add plenty of additional examples. 

People wonder when I preach why I don't tell more jokes...well, now you know.  I love to laugh.  Taking myself or life too seriously is against my nature.  I just have to believe that God has a sense of humor, too, because having to moonwalk out of the room after I crack a good joke is how, by God's wisdom, I'm designed.

..."God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me." Genesis 21:6

They Aren't So "Holy and Dearly Loved" By Me

There is nothing more flattering that being "chosen."  The old cliche about the disappointment of being chosen last is not a cliche, but a reality of life, for most of us, at one time or another.  In a lot of ways, being "un-chosen" could have defined me, especially as a kid.  I was not athletic or outgoing.  I often went unnoticed, at home, at church, and at school.  But in a strange reversal, it is not those moments that made the biggest influence on me.  Instead, it was the moments, often separted by years, of being chosen.

Being chosen, in my mind, is receiving a blessing from someone who has nothing to gain by sharing it with you.  When someone pulls you out of the crowd - just because.  I felt chosen at my aunt's wedding when I was 3, when the bride asked me to come take pictures with her; just the two of us.  I felt chosen in Fifth Grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Murrell, took me under her wing and encouraged me to be myself.  I felt chosen in middle school, when a charming, friendly, brilliant girl named Marybeth struck up a friendship with me and helped me figure out how to finally fit in.  As a college student, I was uneasy joining the church choir; it was my first public commitment to church life.  Barb Barnett made room for me in the alto section and offered to store my folder in the slot that had been her late husband's just a few months before.  She put me at ease and became a beloved friend. When my husband came along, he acted like he knew I was the one for him the first time I returned a call.  Thirteen years later, he still makes be feel chosen, every day.

These people, and others as well, didn't wait for an invitation to step into my life and make it better.  The feeling of being chosen that they gave me modeled God's love to me and shaped my attitude about why I'm here and what I do.  No matter how many kids show up on a Wednesday night, it is my goal to give each of them a look in the eyes, a pat on the shoulder, a word of affirmation that makes them, however briefly, feel how chosen they are, too.  But I have been struggling lately, to show compassion, kindness, or patience with some of our kids.  As the city has spread, our church has become more urban, an influx of refugees has brought cross-cultural challenges into our youth and children's programs, and there are still the usual mixture of well and poorly behaved kids to reach. 

My theology and my goals are still the same; each one of those young people is chosen and dearly loved by God and it is my job to help them see that in themselves.  But I have to admit; there are kids in whom the Image of God is pretty buried for me and I have to work really hard to see and act on it.  Sometimes, I think I send kids home feeling overlooked and "un-chosen."  And I have to wonder how buried in me the Image of God is, for them.

Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Colossians 3:12