***Whine whine whine***

I hate whiners. The incessant chorus of complaining drives me nuts on so many levels. First of all, what’s the point in complaining? Don’t waste your time or mine. Get out there and do something to make things different, or suck it up. Second of all, what do we really have to complain about? Do we not live in a country with an obesity problem while 2/3 of the world is malnourished? People in Greece are still storing their TP in the trash bin to preserve the country’s fragile sanitation system, while I have fresh, clean water that comes out of my faucet on demand – hot or cold. I drive on paved roads, organized with traffic signals and colored stripes to keep me safe and well directed. I shop at grocery stores that are stocked to the rafters with a wide variety of tasty food, offered at reasonable prices. I put my clothes into a machine that cleans them for me and call it “housework.” Sure, illness, sickness, and the stupidity of our fellow humans can befall any of us at any time, making us uncomfortable, inconvenienced, or impoverished, but what does a short temper, and high pitched nasal vocalizing do to correct that? Nothing. So, please, save it.

I feel like I’ve earned my callous indifference, at least to some degree. I can handle pain – I birthed two kids naturally, with none of the crazed screaming of the lady across the hall to “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!” I hope Dad got that on video so Junior can someday enjoy the warmth of his welcome. I’ve worked hard – I took on crazy, exhausting challenges like commuting 3 hours each way to school while working the other four days a week with my daughter in my office. I’ve lived on nothing – I even got stuck on an island with no money for a week and had to subsist in a hostel, eating beans and fake peanut butter while sharing a room of bunk beds with insane homeless people. And that’s just a few examples of the stupid binds my “never say die” attitude has gotten me into. I know there are much harsher adversities out there for humans to endure, but I do figure I’ve been uncomfortable, inconvenienced, and impoverished enough to have empathy, if not compassion, for most of the whining I hear around me. But even in the midst of those experiences, I forced myself to keep it together, to make the best of it, to assume there was something better for me on the other side. I really tried not to whine.

Whining never got me anywhere, and I try not to let it get anyone else anywhere, either. My lousy attitude towards whiners has led me into quite another predicament, these last couple months. I am, at this very moment, torn between my desire to vocalize all my discomforts and the internal self-loathing that such a vocalization causes. Instead of rallying against the nausea, fatigue, and mood imbalances of these 14 weeks of pregnancy, I have found myself, instead, surrendering to them. I’ve spent more time languishing on the couch with a pile of crackers than loading up the machine so it can clean my clothes for me. I’ve been impatient with my two sweet girls, criticizing instead of nurturing them, when they fail to meet my expectations for picking up after themselves and getting their homework done. I’ve broken every rule of eating well, and living well (except for not drinking – which I would truly love to do)! I am such a pathetic bundle of WHINER!

And really – there are so many people around me who would give anything to have two such healthy and beautiful daughters. I pursue this greedy desire for a bigger family, get pregnant with ease, and then have the audacity to whine about the symptoms of pregnancy? Don’t think for a moment that I don’t realize what a horrible human being I am. I have such a deep respect for this process; I get to co-create with God! I feel such an intense love for this little person I’m cooking up. I have such high hopes for my friends and acquaintances who want to have a family and struggle to make it happen. But, at the moment, I just needed to complain a little. The fact of the matter is, and has been for weeks, I just don’t feel very good. And I hate it when I let that get the best of me.

For a long time I have kept silent, I have been quiet and held myself back. Isaiah 42:14
(I refrained from adding the next verse, but you may get a laugh if you look it up.)

I Married Up

When my loved ones act shocked that I landed such a smart, good looking, and put-together guy, I get a little insulted sometimes. Of course, I, too, think my husband is fabulous, but do they have to act like I pulled something off? What kind of schlump did they expect me to end up with?

It’s quite the opposite of how they acted, back when I was single. Back then, every guy I took interest in was fatally flawed, and I needed to show more self-respect. His hair style was too feminine. He owned too many guns. He wasn’t funny. He tried to be too funny. He just wanted sex.  Time after time, my treasured family and friends warned me off a potential love interest and suggested that perhaps I didn’t realize how smart, beautiful, or wonderful I was, because I should not settle.

Then along came my husband, and suddenly the tables turned. “How does he put up with your…?” “You should really cut him some slack about….” “Doesn’t he need a guys’ night by now?” Somehow, they can’t seem to believe that my husband tolerated the sound of my voice, let alone my fashion-sense, family values, sense of humor, or ego long enough to meet me at the altar. There was an overall wave of shock when we announced our engagement and I didn’t change my plans to teach abroad for a year before the wedding, “You mean he’s going to wait for you?” Imagine that – a guy so great and so in love with me, that he would give me space to fulfill a dream before settling down together.

Well, as you can probably imagine, I’ve developed some perspective about this as the years have gone by. I’ve been part of my husband’s family, as my brothers-in-law have sought and found love, and witnessed the process through my siblings, cousins, and friends. I’ve even (I’m sure you’re not surprised) developed a theory about it.

When you are with someone that your loved ones think might not be right for you, all they see are your attributes and their flaws. They are fearful that you might have to live out your life burdened by those flaws. When you are with someone that your loved ones think is really the right one, they are fearful that it won’t work out and you will miss this amazing chance at happiness. They begin to focus on your flaws, but not because they think any less of you. They’re your loved ones; they knew your flaws all along. They’re just amazed to find that there’s another soul in the world who can see you for who you are and love you the way they do. They probe your flaws to confirm whether it’s really true and probe his attributes to figure out if they’re for real, too.

As insulting as it can be sometimes, I’m thrilled that the most important people in my life think my husband is such a catch. They see what I see and they’re happy for us. I’m so glad I didn’t settle. My dearest hope for my own children is to someday believe in my heart they married someone as perfect for them as he is for me; hopefully I can communicate that to them someday without making them feel like comparative schlumps.

Get married and have children, then help your sons find wives and help your daughters find husbands, so they can have children as well. Jeremiah 25:6

Islam is not the Devil, but Mental Illness is Demons

What would possess a man who claims to follow Jesus Christ to incite anger and promote hatred, despite the opposition of fellow clergy, and the pleas of multitudes of rational people? Let me tell you, folks, this guy might be hearing voices, but it isn't Jesus or the Holy Spirit talking. What can a person do, if they have a delusional need to be heard, and no one wants to listen? They want to be heard, not to say anything worthwhile, so they pick any hot button topic that stirs up people's most passionate emotions and get themself in front of a camera.

Whether it's holding up signs that say, "God hates fags," or assaulting troubled women with pictures of dismantled fetuses, what you are seeing on display is not the love and hope that can be found in the greatest story ever told. It is the demon-possessed ranting of a small number of people with an incredibly persistent drive to be acknowledged.

Now, I realize that it is no longer en vogue to call mental disorders "demon possession." I also realize that many people are able to have their issues diagnosed and treated, or short of that, at least brought under maintenance. I am in no way arguing for a return to institutionalization and "leeching" of people whose behavior falls outside of cultural norms. But there is probably no human frailty that inspires hopelessness in me more than mental illness. It acts just like demons. Where relationships and the love of others is the strongest life line to keep each of us connected and thriving in the world, that seems to be the first thing these disorders attack. So often, by the time it is clear that there is a disorder, and not just rampant bad behavior, the victim's strongest allies in the fight have already fled to safety.

I am no clinical psychologist, but I can tell you with some certainty that church life brings me into contact with more than my share of individuals with mental issues. It feels like demons, when troubled people refuse to acknowledge their problem and get help. Imagine if your cancer attacked your brain and convinced you not to get chemo. It is also much easier to tolerate the pain these disorders inflict when I can remind myself that it is the demons, not the person, spurting ugliness; I can hate the demons and still love the person.

I sometimes feel trapped in this dilemma. Maybe someday the voices in my head will give me a solution, beyond fervent prayer and strong boundaries. In the mean time, those of you who hold a deep respect, possibly even a love, for Christ in your hearts, but choose not to express it through the institution of the church; I understand your hesitation. It breaks my heart when the Body of Christ, who reached out with love and healing to those who were marginalized, becomes known for hatred and division. It also breaks my heart that there are people out there so full of pain and hatred, who claim to know the source of deepest healing, yet somehow don't tap into it.

For now, I really wish they would quit putting cameras in those peoples' faces and giving them a voice so loud that it drowns out everyone else. I'm a behaviorist, after all: if it quit working, even demons would quit doing it.

When evening came, many who were demon-possessed were brought to him, and he drove out the spirits with a word and healed all the sick. Matthew 8:16

I Wish I Could Play Football

Insight 2009 - we won!

Understand me, I am pleased as pleased can be to be a woman. I've never had a moment's envy for men in their manliness. But I just love the idea of pouncing on someone as hard as I can and savagely dragging them to the ground. Where, in a woman's life, does she find such an outlet?

We weren't really into sports growing up. My dad was a gymnast and my mom was in the marching band. Most bandies I know are die-hard football fanatics that know every chant and song; my mom was not that kind of bandie. I could bet she hasn't been to a live football game since 8^th grade. I lettered in swimming, just for fun, and took a whole season on the JV Tennis team to figure out how to serve into the box. Watching ice skating and gymnastics, while very enjoyable, hardly awakened my competitive drive.

My husband, however, changed everything. Before I could name more than three NFL teams, his family had me picking winners each week in the family league. Bewildered by the flurry of energy around me during games, I listened to his patient explanations about 3^rd downs, pass interference, sacks, and late hits, and found myself slowly getting sucked into the complex strategy of this brutal game. The next thing I knew, we were buying season tickets to cheer on the Iowa State Cyclones, I was nursing my first baby under a Cardinal & Gold blanket during half time, and we were planning our holidays around kick off in Shreveport, Houston, or Phoenix.

Our First Bowl Game: Independence Bowl 2001

The NFL can be fun, but it's really college ball that won me over. The electricity, the way the fans get into the game, those guys down there who are still playing for their team and their love of game, not giant paychecks. So sometimes I can get a little carried away. Sometimes I yell louder than the other fans around me and it embarrasses my family. Sometimes I keep my brother on the phone an extra 20 minutes savoring the strategic brilliance of a 4^th and 1 call. I should probably cool it a little, but, hey, I think it's a blast and it's the closest I can get to what I really want. Someday, somehow, someone's going to have a spare set of football pads around the house and I'm going to get my chance to put them on and take someone down. No broken bones, no blood; all perfectly safe. I'll most likely be humbled by a dirt meal, but I will finally know what it's like to feel the crashing impact of all-out human passion.

The man said, "Your name will no longer be Jacob. You have wrestled with God and with men, and you have won. That's why your name will be Israel." Genesis 32:28

I Laugh at People

To see more of that I'm
talking about: State Fair Fashion

Did you notice they cleaned up the midway at the Iowa State Fair? They widened the walkways. The rides looked fresh, and the operators appeared to be working a summer job, not career carnies with the toothless look of meth-addiction. It was, by far, the most family-friendly experience I've ever had, circling the midway and putting the girls on the swings. Even that foul-mouthed clown in the dunk tank was gone, along with his crowd of inebriated admirers. I didn't have to brush up against overweight women in skimpy tank tops to get through the tight spots, and my kids didn't ask me on the way home about facial piercings. I didn't even get any fresh ideas for my prison tattoo.

I was so disappointed.

I feel like the color has been sapped out of my life lately. There are things I love about our monochromatic, suburban life: the McDonald's clerk doesn't get lippy when I make a special order, the kids don't come home from school with trucker vocabulary, and there's a park with a pond down the block. It's very pleasant here in Utopia, but, really, what's the fun in that? Every now and then, you need to see the neighbor circling your backyard on his lawn tractor, pulling a dozen kids on a sled, knocking down your landscape, and drinking a beer while he drives. What fun is a good night's sleep when you could be listening right through the walls to the backyard karaoke of ten drunken people blasting their version of "Desperado" on loudspeakers from their patio?

Apparently calls to the police have tempered the neighbors' enthusiasm for parties and lawn equipment, so things have been extremely quiet on our block this summer. Then the fair goes and takes away the human zoo we call the midway. At least my church is in the city – there's always some good, colorful folks around there to spice things up.

During our snarky laughfests, making fun of all the human silliness around us, I do realize that no one leaves the house in the morning thinking, "I hope this outfit makes a fool of me today." Or, "I think I'll go engage in some bizarre and unhealthy behavior tonight, just to give the neighbors a laugh." Truly, when I see those giant, tattooed women pushing strollers full of kids around the fair, I feel sadness for the brokenness of our world. I honestly hope that none of the neighborhood kids ever falls under the wheels of the lawn tractor. But as long as people are going to continue engaging in these absurd behaviors, I invite them to have a good chuckle at my prudishness, and then, by all means, bring on the show.

Wisdom is like having two good eyes; foolishness leaves you in the dark. But wise or foolish, we all end up the same. Ecclesiastes 2:14

We Blew Off Meet-the-Teacher

I thought Meet-the-Teacher was to accommodate weary children who needed the reassurance of seeing their desk and locker ahead of time, in order to go to school the first day without a humiliating attack of separation anxiety in front of the other kids. Obviously, my blog wouldn't be much fun if I got things like that right, now would it?

Turns out Meet-the-Teacher is actually about parent volunteerism. Your child's teacher doesn't want to spend the first ten minutes of the first day of school helping the kids put their school supplies away. Instead, they want you to give up two precious hours of your now-dwindling summer vacation to drag your kids into school and put the supplies away for them. It is not enough that you have to drop $50 every August on glue sticks and markers that they are just going to send back home to you next spring, feeding a marker drawer that most seriously does not need one more marker in it. No, you also need to deliver those supplies and place them around the classroom in the designated locations, as described on the prepared sheet you are presented with at the door (often your only actual interaction with the teacher at Meet-the-Teacher).

Because of my serious misunderstanding about the purpose of this event, I thought little of it when we spent our Monday night doing our usual things, and didn't realize until Tuesday afternoon that we'd missed it. My kids did not seem upset, and were comfortable with our assurance that we would get there early for the first day.

When we arrived at school well ahead of time on Wednesday, we were met at the door with a stern admonishment from the office staff that when I ordered our pre-packaged supplies from the PTO, I had put down the wrong grade for my older daughter. Fortunately, my daughter's scholastic career was salvaged by a kid in the proper grade who had moved out of town, so we could switch the boxes. No mention of a refund for the two bucks I overpaid by ordering wrong.  I guess I could just take it out of the money we'll bring in selling wrapping paper next month.

Oh, hush, they're not nervous, they just didn't like the sun in their eyes.

When we arrived in the classrooms, we were chided that our two were the only children out of the whole school who had failed to come to Meet-the-Teacher and then handed our to-do list. We set to work righting our wrong, assembling their supply boxes, and finding the glue stick bin. We tried to be unobtrusive, working quickly and quietly so the teacher could finish her prep without having to actually meet us.

My husband was quite chagrined by the whole experience. He worries about the pressure our kids must be under, going to a school that takes itself so seriously. I used to feel that way too, back when I cared what the teachers thought of us. I learned that they get to know us through our kids. And we have two sweet, smart, attentive kids, who follow the rules and are good leaders in their classes. They may think we're schlumps today, but by conference time, they will be eating out of our hands.

I won't teach my kids to blow off the school's expectations with complete disregard, but I will try to give them enough self-assurance not to obey just anyone who claims authority over them, or stress out, feeling like everything they do is always wrong, because there's someone with a wagging finger around every corner. We aren't going to raise lemmings just to make things convenient for their teachers.

And, although it was an accident this year, I might just skip Meet-the-Teacher next year. I'd rather give up an extra half hour the first day of school than battle the crowds for two hours on a nice summer night. Eventually the teachers will start warning each other ahead of time about us, and they won't seem so surprised.

Don't you know that you are slaves of anyone you obey? You can be slaves of sin and die, or you can be obedient slaves of God and be acceptable to him. Romans 6:16

I Don't Do My Best

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of my energy attempting to do everything to the best of my ability. And that is what I tell my own children: do your best. Your best is always good enough. So I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite, in that, I slack. Not only do I slack, but lately, I've been coaching others in the art of slacking. It is a brilliant antidote to high blood pressure.

It started in college. Every semester, I'd take the B-path in the class that demanded the most. By underachieving in that class, it would free up hours of study each week, leaving me ample free time to hit the parties, join a club, or lay around my dorm room watching Quantum Leap. Don't tell my kids this, but straight A's are overrated. If that's all you get out of college, you miss out.

If I devoted myself to it, I'm sure I could have a lovely, immaculate home that would be the envy of all my friends. But I don't. Instead I figure that as long as you're drinking my wine, and playing my RockBand, you aren't going to complain about the pile of old mail on the kitchen counter or the toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror. So far, most guests are willing to return, and good riddance to the ones that weren't. I hope I'm contributing to my friends' housekeeping satisfaction; when they get back to their dust and cobweb-free homes, they probably feel like Martha Stewart.

I don't subscribe to the do-more, be-more, have-more lifestyle that Oprah and Self offer. I think fun, love, and contentment dwell in cutting loose those pressures and savoring "enough." I don't need to win Mother of the Year, gain public recognition in my profession; I don't need to be the prettiest, smartest, or even the nicest. I accomplished enough of that crap before the age of 18 to know it doesn't matter in the long run, or make you a better person. Now I prefer the lower-stress strategy of "do enough, well enough, to be able to look at yourself in the mirror at the end of the day." As long as my husband, my kids, and my Lord are content with me, I am, too.

Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun .Ecclesiastes 2:11

I Suffer from Canine Gingivitis

The vet would tell you my dog suffers from canine gingivitis. It doesn't really seem to be bothering her, though, so I think I'm the only one who is suffering. Every year when we take her in for her checkup, I have to brace myself for the finger-wagging, get my story straight for what bold steps we are taking to rectify the problem, and keep in mind that my two daughters have been brainwashed into uncompromising truth-telling. They out me every time.

Last year, I gave the dog Denta-sticks. Until they ran out, that is. When the vet complained about her back teeth needing more attention, my daughters cheerfully volunteered the enormity of the lapse since the last Denta-stick and I pledged to purchase a doggie tooth brush.

Turns out, that big doggie toothbrush doesn't fit very well into the back corners of my 10 lb dog's mouth. So after a couple pathetic attempts that bathed me in gravy-flavored dog-toothpaste, I wasn't very motivated to take it on again – which my girls cheerfully reported to the vet at his first hint of dental displeasure this summer. The vet pulled up her lip and showed me the dog's worst offending teeth and I acknowledged that her teeth looked like she'd been living hard in a camper-trailer, drinking her coffee black, and swallowing her chew.

The vet said they'd give me an estimate for a tooth cleaning on our way out. When I saw it, I knew why he makes the staff give the estimates. It costs $250 to put her to sleep and grind off the plaque. I swallowed my impulse to ask if they could just pin her down awake. Really - say her teeth all fall out and she dies of starvation – it still only costs $106 to adopt another orphan at the Animal Rescue League.

But I want to be a good dog-mom. I don't want the vet to give me that condescending look next summer. And I definitely don't want to have to pay the extra cost of feeding her canned dog food when she's toothless. Plus, she really is a sweet and lovable dog-friend. So I tell myself, "Self, it's time we got out the toothpaste and had another go at it." Maybe tomorrow?

Do not withhold good from those who deserve it, when it is in your power to act. Proverbs 3:27

Sometimes a Girl’s Gotta ’ Bludgeon Someone

But Jael, Heber's wife, picked up a tent peg and a hammer and went quietly to him while he lay fast asleep, exhausted. She drove the peg through his temple into the ground, and he died. Judges 4:21

I have such a love/hate relationship with the Old Testament. It can be very complicated theologically to marry the New Testament message of love and forgiveness with the Old Testament's slayings and smitings. Even though I accept that the Old Testament was written from a very different paradigm and understanding of how God can and will act in the world, it would be far more comfortable if God had gone with unconditional forgiveness from the start. But that is not the story we have. Instead we have a sometimes brutal depiction of war, pillaging, smiting, raping, and bloodletting. Despite that, I'm grateful for the record of God and human interaction. It reveals the depth, the breadth, and the complexity of our relationship with the divine. That relationship is not simple, so, despite the many gospel tracts you may have seen to the contrary, let's not pretend it is.

But that's another topic…

If we're going to have to deal with all that Old Testament bloodlust, I'm at least grateful for Judges 4 and 5. People want, with great frequency, to use scripture to oppress and silence women. I revel in a good counter-message.

First you have the judge, Deborah, who should have been home tending to children and making torches, instead going to battle with military leader Barak. He demands her presence because he's too chicken to use the bathroom without her telling him to.

Then when the enemy leader, Sisera, flees the battle, Heber's wife Jael finishes him with a tent peg. It's not enough for the scripture to say she bludgeoned him with a tent peg; it's a Quentin Tarantino special. She sneaks up to him while he's sleeping and hammers the peg through his temple so hard it pins his skull to the ground. This gal has spent her whole life having to submit to men. Her dad chose her husband, her husband has ownership privileges over her, her sons will tell her how to live out her old age, but when this powerful, oppressive, feared leader happens into her tent, she lulls him with false comfort and takes his life with the tools of a woman's trade (the women were responsible for putting up the tents).

Judges 4 and 5: Old Testament Girl-Power. Women do the judging, call the shots in battle, hear the voice of God, and drive tent pegs through villains' temples. Just try to tell Deborah and Jael that women shouldn't teach men or preach the Gospel.

The end of Deborah's song, however, is the most amazing part of the story, to me. Deborah acknowledges the mother of the bludgeoned leader, the anxiety and confusion she must have felt when Sisera did not return from battle. The real source of girl-power is compassion. While gals can definitely get it done, they also seem to comprehend the humanity of others more deeply. In my opinion, it's one of the most amazing things about "Girl-Power," and one way women most often reflect the nature of Christ.

"Through the window peered Sisera's mother;behind the lattice she cried out, 'Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why is the clatter of his chariots delayed?' Judges 5:28

I Dined and Dashed

I could have spent the last decade in an Italian prison, instead of Middle America. The father of a high school friend once warned us before a day trip to Canada of the big loophole in foreign travel: they can hold you as long as they want before your trial. Two glasses of wine in Venice and I completely disregarded his sage advice.

I was fortunate, while teaching abroad, to be placed on the southern border of Austria, surrounded by beautiful mountains, and only a few hour's train ride from Venice, Italy. I planned a special trip with two of my most important visitors from home, to go to Venice for the first day the Venetians would begin appearing on the streets in their fantastic Carnival costumes. The pedestrian-only city, a web of alleys, canals, and stone bridges, is by itself a place that inspires the imagination. Adding these elaborate and elegant costumes made the whole place seem like a movie set or Wonderland.

One of the most striking costumes we saw.

We got lost in the sites, wandering the city until we realized it was late afternoon and we were getting really hungry. We found this pizza place situated right along a canal, with patio seating where we could bask in the sun, and marvel at the city around us. We ordered our pizza, and for a mere $6, added a carafe of red table wine. We were always surprised by the relative inferiority of Italian pizza, but the thin crust and cheese tasted great to our hungry palates, and the wine was the perfect splash to wash it down.

We had noticed the slight coldness we were getting from our waiter earlier, but it became most evident when we were ready for the check. It took quite a while to get his attention to even bring it. We were still enjoying the pleasant location and rehashing our morning, so we were pretty patient while we waited. Once we got the bill, we did our best to sort out who owed how much, and to put together the payment in Lira, along with a reasonable tip. Our bills didn't match up, and the result would have been a $15 tip for the waiter, whose kindness to us certainly wouldn't account for that much generosity. We waited for him to return so we could ask for change. And we waited. And we waited.

Note the empty table, the meal long-finished

It is really hard to guess how long we waited, because we had, after all, consumed a carafe of wine together. It felt like at least a half hour. The waiter never returned. Our afternoon in Venice was withering away. We could just leave, but we would have to make a choice whether to over-tip him substantially (especially by European standards), or under pay the bill by $5. We chose the latter and took off down the alley with the adrenalin-rush of young people who knew they were doing wrong. We could have just walked away, the waiter was obviously not going to come check our receipt with any urgency, but we were stealing and we didn't want to get caught.

We experienced some pretty lousy service at a stateside pizza joint last night, proving in some measure how universal it is that human beings don't really want to wait on one another. We had to beg for napkins, utensils, and refills. I'll give her credit, though. She was prompt with the bill. Wise woman.

Give everyone what you owe them: If you owe taxes, pay taxes; if revenue, then revenue; if respect, then respect; if honor, then honor. Romans 13:7

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