Suffering and Joy

The combination of suffering and joy in this world intrigues me. Is it about experiencing one and not the other? Is it about avoiding one and striving toward the other? Or is it about figuring out how to survive—or perhaps, thrive—when suffering and joy coexist? Riding the tangent line between the two is exhausting.

I wonder about all these feelings and what to do with them. I can choose to feel nothing in a bubble of emptiness, or feel overwhelmed by everything. But if I place this suffering on a spectrum instead, where it is simply one of the emotions from the abundant well of my heart, it can be contained into a manageable space, which affects me only as long as I allow it.

Suffering and joy are birthed from the same source—my heart. Wouldn’t I rather feel something, even if it IS suffering, than nothing at all? Only then can I have the capacity to feel joy, too.

In this painting, I imagine a full moon hidden behind the dark clouds, its pure white circle framed by the rich blackness of the sky. Its beauty is in the contrast. Black—the suffering, and white—the joy, seem opposite, the two sides of a fence. But they are only the endpoints of an infinite spectrum of colors. Those colors represent the infinite perspectives of love.

When the ends—the black and the white—turn and reach toward each other instead of away from each other, they intertwine, united, blending all their energy, ideas, and broken pieces into a braid which strengthens the colors and protects them.

Instead of opposition, perhaps the contrast of black and white is the only way to reveal themselves in all their fullness. The brilliance is in the contrast, not the separation.

When black and white; suffering and joy, merge, united, the promises encased in the pink and purple and blue and green blossoms emerge into new life.

From the black and white, united, the colors are born again.

            

Obvious

In my prayer journal I wrote: "I want to experience your presence, God, in OBVIOUS ways today." I had been feeling a little disconnected; unanchored in my core. Prayer felt ritualistic and shallow these last few months.

Time to dig deeper.

I still remember our family trips to the Wildwood, New Jersey beach when I was a kid. The only way my eight-year-old legs would survive the endless trek to the shoreline was the anticipation of finding those little sand clams. The moment I got to the water, I’d drop to my knees and start to dig. With the very first scoop, those tiny shells appeared. I’d giggle as they hesitated for a second or two, then twitched their way back down. A thin film of salt water would soon flow over them, fully hiding them, and I’d repeat the scooping. They never stopped digging deeper. Doing this in my prayer life helps me find safety, too.

Back to my journaling. I asked God to be with my daughter as she attended her senior prom that evening. Before long, her high school graduation would mark the final chapter in my soon-to-be empty nest. I wonder: Did I do this parenting thing well? What is my role now?

That same day, as I was driving home, I couldn’t help but notice a scarlet red hot air balloon, as big as the clouds where it floated, nearby. There were yellow words written on the back side of the balloon but I couldn’t see all of them. The balloon chase was on. Heading to the next corner, I could clearly see the basket of passengers, waving enthusiastically. My eyes widened as it hovered too close to the power lines above the trees. I exhaled as it finally floated upward with the breeze. It was then I could see the full message on the balloon.

             

Brilliant gold letters, bold in their capitalization, on the scarlet background of the balloon, speaking to my soul:

            “DO ALL TO THE GLORY OF GOD.”

Navy and yellow flags accessorized the full perimeter of the balloon, waving a royal salute to the neighborhoods below. More people streamed out of their homes, pointing to the sky. Phone cameras were out, capturing the view, a beautiful orb of promise and hope and life. 

Digging deeper helps me to be grounded in my reality but not tethered to it, like the hot air balloon. The glowing flame of the balloon gives it the fuel to fly. This spirit sparks in me, giving my soul its flight. My own tethering strings to God in prayer and the Bible guide my direction to safety.

I never saw where the balloon landed, but my soul, for a moment, found its grounding.

            

Clarity

The sky is the soft blue of a robin’s egg, the clouds a cottony white, shadowed in muted gray. There’s a breeze, but the clouds are strangely still, as if snapped on a background photograph above the sandy beach scene. The grass in the sand dunes sways ever so slightly, with the darker green bushes dancing a smooth waltz in tune to the ocean breeze. The salt air cleanses my lungs, allowing my breath to slow to its own natural rhythm.

Clarity. I seek clarity on these girls’ weekends at the beach, and this time we are given a gift of the perfectly bright summer day, blending in perfect unison with our energizing meal of friendship. Our shared stories are the yeast, working all through the dough to make it rise. Faith is often lost in the complexities of our life’s experiences, and our foursome’s experiences span more than 240 years in total. That’s plenty of time for muddied emotions spanning from fear to loss to pain to joy, blended into this concoction of clarity which can only be seen through the common lens of faith. The brown mud of our minds shift into life-giving earth, the hidden seeds of promise and hope and purpose finding a new crevice through which to grow.

There’s an unusual sense of completion in our team of four, pulling all aspects of laughter and love into the present moment, reminding us of the view at the other side of this life through this shared lens of faith, glorious and beautiful.

Ahhh, clarity.

Pen

Our writers’ group prompt this week was: Describe an object that describes you.

I am a pen.

Sometimes thinner, sometimes clunky, I am a pen. I occasionally leak or even run out of ink. I am always in need of spilling out words, whether to create a well-tuned perspective on paper, or simply a bunch of jumbled letters onto the page like Scrabble tiles, waiting to be sorted and then placed into words. Sometimes I remember to try for the triple word score, requiring extra patience while exchanging words with someone else. Concentrating, planning and listening help provide those extra bonus points.

Sometimes I just don’t work. I click my brain cells, waiting for the point to appear, but it stays inside my shell. These are times I need to unscrew myself in the middle and pull out the ink refill. I’ll shake the refill a bit with a new perspective, or a new place to write, or a new start to my story, and I’ll get going again. At other times, I invest in a whole new pack of refills by spending time in meditation.

I smile to remember the four-color pens of my youth.

 My life seems fragmented like this. The blue pen is for inspirational writing and articles about peace or prayer or unity. The black pen is a true writing color, when I’m moving ahead in the groove of a piece. The red pen of self-criticism tends to show up from time to time, but when I write in green, I enter a whole new world where I really don’t try to fit in.

Green is my favorite.

This is the color I’d choose at my writers’ group when I am allowed to be off-color with my tribe of like-minded creatives.

Three Days

         

            The envelope looked official, but it could’ve just as easily been junk mail. The orange words across the top, authoritative in their capitalization, intrigued me enough to read further. “JURY SUMMONS,” it said.

Holy smokes, this is real, I thought.

I was called for Federal Jury Duty the other week. It’s a three-days-or-one-trial gig, paying $40 per day. Well, at least it’s something, but seriously, only $5 an hour to be a good citizen? It was my obligation to serve, though.

I checked the family wall calendar hanging on the inside of my pantry closet. First, I rescheduled my dentist appointment, which of course I didn’t mind. But the next day I was scheduled to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in a while—changing those plans hurt a little bit. To top it off, I’d have to mentally prepare for rush hour driving to Philadelphia, a task I managed to avoid for more than a decade. Sure, I love going to the city, but I’d lose another couple hours a day in the commute. Not fun. Maybe I can get an audiobook from the library. My mind continued to spin like the teacup ride at the summer carnivals.

The summons paperwork included detailed instructions; first, I was to look for an email the day before jury service to get an update on my status. If I didn’t receive an email, I was to call the 800 number after 5 p.m. the night before to get my final instructions for reporting.

It was 4:20 on Tuesday afternoon when my email inbox pinged.

“You do not have to report for jury service tomorrow, Wednesday, February 15,” it read, “but you are required to call the 800 number on Wednesday evening after 5 p.m. to receive your instructions for reporting on Thursday, February 16.”

Wow, they’re serious about this three-day thing.

Which made me wonder about placing three days of my life on hold, like an unbalanced warrior pose. In hindsight, three days doesn’t sound like much, but it’s enough, as with the Easter story.

Day one. Jesus hung on the cross, said “It is finished” and then died. Jury service had only begun for the disciples, their grief overshadowing any perspectives beyond the first day, the first moment. I imagine they were buried under the depths of their emotions, afraid for their own lives, with no real assignments except to wait. And pray. And wait some more. In this type of waiting, coated with the pain of the unknown, time slows. The disciples must have felt unsure and unstable, a table with one of its legs needing a few napkins shoved underneath to keep it steady. They must have questioned everything: their faith, their futures, their hopes.

On Wednesday, I received another email just after 4 p.m. No service required for Thursday but I was again required to call on Thursday night for Friday’s instructions. I was finally reaching the summit of my duty to serve, the top of the mountain with the descent in sight.

But I’ve always wondered about the disciples during that day in between, what I call Day Two, the day after Jesus died and before the Easter resurrection. For me, this in-between season of waiting includes a multitude of questions. I’m wondering about health issues for my family and friends; the future for my college-age children and my own purpose in life. My soul cries out “Are you there, God?” I ask, “What about all this suffering? What’s my purpose?”

It’s as if nothing but fog appears, and I drive more slowly. I read the bible, listen to sermons, sit quietly to pray. Many days it feels as if my fog lights aren’t working. Sometimes I try using high beams instead, but they only make the fog appear whiter.

In the waiting, however, the molasses movement of time is starting to reveal a gift. These seemingly extended moments give me bonus time to connect with God more deeply in my soul.

Finally, on the third day, I received the email: “Your jury service has ended.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Fog or not, God’s presence becomes clearer in the waiting.

Stairs

Every Christmas morning for the past 18 years, my children waited at the top of the stairs until Joe and I gave the thumbs-up to come down and see what Santa brought.

Of course, we made the kids wait a few minutes longer than necessary. Their excitement bumped up a few levels and I took an extra few moments to reflect.

Thank you, God, for these children. Thank you, God, for the provision to give them Christmas presents. Thank you, God, for the gift of your son, Jesus. Help me, God, to remember and teach my children the value of your gift, which is greater than anything under the green Christmas tree this morning.

Next came the thumbs-up, and with a squeal, they’d butt-slide as fast as they could, their eyes growing wider with each step. Then they’d stand and stare for a few seconds, all smiley and sparkly-eyed, their minds buzzing as they took it all in.

One year, we came up with a plan to open the gifts in our stockings first. One at a time, we’d each get a package, open it, and share. Then we’d open our other gifts, one at a time. I liked the slower pace of gift-opening, extending the moments far into the morning.

This past Christmas, my munchkins were 18 and 20 years old, and still they waited at the top of the stairs. Perhaps they wanted some things to remain the same, even in the middle of change. Alex is away at college and Jenna will be starting college within the year, their descent down the stairs extending out the front door into their new lives. Unknown adventures in their futures hold more excitement than wondering if Santa showed up.

Maybe it was my imagination, but Alex and Jenna lingered a teeny bit longer at the top of the stairs this year.

Perhaps they were confident Santa wouldn’t disappoint, and they were enjoying their time together, just the two of them. My momma-heart swells with joy to see the friendship these two adults of mine have formed. I wondered, though, if maybe they didn’t want to stop being at the top of the stairs.

I’m not sure when we won’t have our top-of-the-stairs tradition any more. Maybe it’ll stop when there are boyfriends or girlfriends in the mix, or maybe when they can’t come home for Christmas because they live so far away, or perhaps, just perhaps, it’ll be because they’ll be standing at the bottom of the stairs so their own children can wait at the top, anticipating the thumbs-up sign.

Christmas Lights

My heart always skipped a beat when Mom got the plastic tub with the holiday decorations out, especially when it was almost Christmas. There seemed to be an endless supply, and when it was Easter, or Saint Patrick’s Day, or Halloween, or Christmas, or Valentine’s Day, she’d pull out the knickknacks and wall decorations and put them around the living room and front window.

But for Christmas, Dad got involved when it came to hanging the lights. (Think the movie The Christmas Story.)  The classic bulbs had to be lined up just so, to appease Dad’s (and my) preference for order. Our black wrought-iron railing would soon be brightly lit with Christmas colors and the use of many pieces of plastic tie-wrap kept the decorations intact. Of course, there’d inevitably be a light bulb needing replacement and no spare bulbs on hand. The entire light-hanging operation would be shut down until Dad returned from the hardware store.

I remember a couple things from my German grandmother’s Christmas decorations. A statue of what I thought was supposed to be “Santa” was actually the figure of St. Nicklaus, drab and slumped over, carrying a brown bag, looking more like a homeless man than Santa Claus. And who else remembers single strands of tinsel? Grandmom draped hundreds of silvery slivers, one at a time, onto her three foot tabletop tree. It weighed the tree into kneeling submission. It was dreary yet beautiful.

On the other hand, my Italian grandmother preferred decorative bling for her holiday display. The all-white Christmas tree in her bay window with its filtered spotlight mesmerized me with its changing colors, red then blue then green then gold then red again.

This year, our family decided to put only red and white lights on our little artificial green tree. More importantly, I prefer to remember the meaning of the light. A single beam from the North Star pointing to the true light in our world in the form of baby Jesus. Hope and joy personified. How beautiful. 

How do you like to light your Christmas tree?

Roller Coaster College

The empty roller coaster slides forward and beckons me. Holding my breath, I step in and sit down to exhale. I pull down the metal bar which determines if my ride ends in life or death. I pray it locks in properly.

This ride is familiar; only two years ago, I was involved in a college search for my son. It was an adventure, more than I anticipated. I tried to prepare myself by analyzing statistics, reviewing the majors, reading the mission statements and marketing material—anything I could get my hands on. Like the contrast of a wooden versus steel coaster; each university presentation was unique, but somehow similar. We visited at least a half-dozen schools and researched another dozen online. Matching the college details with my son’s personality, talents and goals was daunting.

With God’s help, and the help of others along the way, my son is thriving.

This time, I’m hoping my daughter’s college search will be smoother. I don’t like riding roller coasters all that much.

First, I need to pull on the safety bar to make sure it won’t budge. Am I the only one who does this? Coaster adventure-seekers love to throw their hands in the air on the ride, especially during the descent. Not me, I hold on tighter. This metal bar is all that I have when I have a million questions. Will she like the school? What kind of friends will she meet? How about safety? Will she learn a lot? And what will she be doing during her free time? I need to let the bar do its thing, and I do my thing. Research. Ask questions. And pray. School size. Student to teacher ratio. Average grades for admitted students. Population mix. Majors offered. God, help.

The real questions, the questions inside my heart and mind, won’t be handled by a metal bar, though. What I need to hold on to is God’s promises. He is always with me, and is always with her, too.

Up the hill we go. Looking at a local college. Touring an out-of-state college. Reading the college glossies. Slowly, slowly, slowly we climb. So much to see and read, and yet I know the curve to the downhill descent awaits. This is the curve where I trust our joint decision will match up with God’s plans for her.

Remembering the path laid out for my son, from the professor who offered a personal consultation to advise my son, to the other parents who gave me tips and hints along the way, to the prayers, the many, many prayers, I know God was there to help guide us in this process.

Maybe I’ll throw my hands in the air on the downhill after all. Who knows, I might like it.

Stress Test

Sitting in a waiting room anticipating a nuclear stress test is stressful enough, but this? Yikes.

I knew I wanted coffee, but with the sign in place I wanted it more. Why is that? Perhaps my personal "edit" button was broken. You know, the one which helps me be a responsible adult most of the time and choose the better decisions multiple times a day. This day, I wanted to just be held, be coddled, and be given a cup of coffee. Most days, I don't take the time to think about what I want. I'm learning to slow down and recognize those inner desires. The key? The slowing down part.

When I slow down, I can sort out the rest of the messages, conflicting or not, and get to my personal truth. The truth about how I felt.

Scared. Now what do I do with it?

Part of me wanted to pull out my phone, scroll through emails or Facebook or anything to distract me from what was going on. Another part wanted to act on my idea to download the song "Radioactive" and play it loudly as I walked in for my testing. But I decided to stay, instead. Staying put gave me a chance to experience feeling scared.

I came to an interesting conclusion:

Being able to sit with myself and know I'm scared was actually less scary than trying not to be scared.

Sitting with my feeling gave me a chance to own it, know it, feel it. Fighting the feeling takes more effort, actually. Fighting the feeling would demand I figure out a way to put on some armor, perhaps a sword in the form of researching the medical information online. Or maybe a shield in the form of repeating personal positive statements like "I am healthy," "I am fine," "I will be okay." I chose to put down the weapons and discover what was left--my inner strength. This strength gives me power to embrace my feelings--even if they're the scary ones.

No one ever knows for sure if they will be okay, health-wise. We simply do our best. Sometimes it means taking the tests, sitting with the unknowns, and then drinking a cup of coffee as soon as we can.

I know I did. And I enjoyed every last drop. I even felt a little less scared by then, too.

College Mom's Ripcord

When I walk through a door, I prefer there be a floor on the other side of the threshold.

More than thirty years ago, I stepped through a door into thin air. That time, I had a parachute strapped to my back and a reserve chute on my tummy, like a baby to whom I preferred not to give birth. I was twenty, just a little older than my son is now, more excited than scared to dive into the adventure. And I jumped.

Three weeks ago, I stepped over the same threshold as I drove away from my son's college campus for the six hour ride home. Hot tears threatened my view and I grabbed the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline, a ripcord. I continued to drive. My heart sped to the ground, frantically waiting for the whoosh of air to open a life-giving chute.

I remembered surviving this a year ago, when I dropped him off for the first time as a freshman.

I focused in on what I know. I know my son is thriving, excited, and ready to take his next steps toward adulthood. It takes every fiber of my being to trust the air and the invisibility of it all. It's the same air which saves me, though.

They say that every landing is called a crash landing. The best I can do is crash a little more gently each time. Maybe I'll have a bigger parachute next year.

Weeding Through Changes

How is it that my miniature patch of yard containing only two hedges formed so many weeds overnight?

Kneeling, I was armed with a hand-held rake and garden gloves. I eyed the first clump of crabgrass and figured I could take it down in one round. Grabbing tightly from the middle, I yanked. I ended up with a tiny handful of green slivers in my glove. Time for round two. I dug the garden rake just around the center of the clump and pulled, scraping bits of dirt to the top. The root's wiry white tentacles held on to the deepest recesses of the ground. After a couple more tries, the root released. Methodically, I tackled each weed in similar fashion, finally cleaning up the garden for now, at least.

Those weeds would grow again, and I knew it.

To me, those weeds represented the deepest recesses of my heart I've allowed to get locked away in an attempt to deal with changes. And now, my son is several hours away at college, and my daughter about to start senior year of high school.

As I snapped my daughter's "first day" photo, the reality snapped right back.

This was my LAST "first day" photo.

I wish my diligent recording of time could make it stand still.

This isn't about "letting go" as so many seem to advise. It's about redefining my role. I'll never stop being a mom to these two incredible humans, but these moments have forced me to stop and see things differently. My children have grown and changed, but more significantly, being a mom has changed ME. Motherhood forced me to engage my heart in ways I never knew, into the deepest chambers of life--theirs and mine. As I've used my heart in nurturing ways, I learned I could love more deeply than I ever imagined.

It's time to dig out the weeds stuck in the recesses of my heart and clean out space for a new life of my own. Honoring my inner beauty, I want to be intentional in planting new, life-giving seeds. As I pray for my children, I can learn to open my heart wider and receive God's love, too.

It's no surprise that in order to weed effectively, I need to kneel.

Have you been weeding lately, too?

Ordered Chaos

            I walked into the studio, greeted by the scents of paint and glue. Busy Bees is a colorful playground for the creative artist, and it makes me smile every time. They offer a variety of crafting options, and this time I tried something new: mosaic.

I chose a square piece of wood as the background for my creation and went to work picking out tiny chunks of tile to glue on to the wood into a pattern. After the tile pieces were glued on, I would be sent home with grout (the color of my choosing) to fill in the spaces between the tiles to finish the piece.

The assortment of colors and shapes overwhelmed me at first. It calmed me to start with a loose pattern. I glued little square mirrors in alternating sequence around the edges. Silver. Gold. Silver. Gold. My heartbeat slowed as I got into the rhythm of creating. Faced with a wall full of bins in every color of tile pieces, the design started to form in my mind. I cut a tiny square into two uneven triangles of green. Funny how going from a square to a triangle changed things. I was inspired to cut some more. Next, I cut off the corner of an odd blue piece of tile and it formed a pentagon. When I halved the clover-shaped pieces, they became figure eights.

Changing the shapes gave me a sense of control. While I allowed some pieces to remain whole, I caused others to be broken. All the colorful pieces, broken and whole, show up more clearly when surrounded by the black grout of emotion’s dark depths. 

            

             I call it “Ordered Chaos.”

            A single clear stone belongs in the middle. I may not understand the stone fully, but I recognize its characteristics. For me, the clear stone is like a steaming cup of coffee first thing in the morning. It’s the smell of the bookstore where my writers’ group meets. Sharing hugs with my daughter and long-distance phone conversations with my son. It’s when I send the words “I love you, babes” in a text to my husband. Bible and prayer time. Sharing time with friends. Each of these represent wholeness yet are pieces of the whole of me.

            What does your center stone represent?

Targeting My Thoughts

My daughter and husband are competitive pistol shooters. Some of you may cringe at the word “pistol” because of the fear of guns and all things gun-related. I get that. Guns, in the hands of people with evil intent, can be used as deadly weapons.

 It’s not the guns themselves but the people with evil intent which frighten me, though. When I think of my daughter’s bull’s-eye competitions, I smile with pride at her skills. It takes intense focus, physical training, and a gut-level dose of courage to hit the tiny little “x” in the middle of the big, bad white paper with black rings. I also smile with joy at her shared experience with her father. Nothing will replace their special times together, in training and in competition, and my daughter’s life is blessed as a result. The guns they use in these competitions are not in the hands of people with evil intent. Instead, they are in the hands of people who love competition, who love each other and who safely handle the tools of their sport.

 

 

 

 

As for me, I have my own version of target shooting: healthy eating. I watch what I eat, when I eat it and how much. It takes gut-level motivation to continue to plow forward even when the scale moves slowly and everyone else in the world seems to be eating donuts.

 

There are three principles in target shooting which I can apply for success in eating right.

 1)      Everyone in shooting knows it’s virtually impossible to hit the ‘x’ every time.

When I watch what I eat day after day, there are certain to be moments when I miss the mark. Today, for instance, I had a York Peppermint Patty (yes, it jumped from the counter into my shopping cart) but counted the calories towards my day’s allotment. This meant dinner was a tuna salad and soup, but it still worked. Not quite an ‘x,’ but close.

 
2)      Shooting professionals manage their thoughts by approaching the target one shot at a time.  

I take my eating plan one day at a time, and sometimes one hour at a time. The focus it takes to figure out what to eat to stay healthy and yet manage to keep going can be overwhelming. Instead, by weighing in one week at a time, and approaching each new day with a new attitude, I can break the long-term goal into smaller, achievable goals. These are the goals which result in healthy weight loss.

3)      Finally, true competitors know that each shot is a clean slate. 

Having a plan in place for the entire day makes it easier to stay on track, but if I blew it for that half-hour between picking the kids up from school and figuring out what’s for dinner, then I start over by approaching the dinner meal as the next shot. It’s about writing down what I ate, then continue to write down the next meal, too. There’s a finality in putting it on paper, instead of replaying the mistake over and over in my head. Not a good idea. For me, it’s about watching what I think about, and then I can have results with my actions.

Most importantly, hitting the “x” for me is when I reach out for help, either from God or friends or both, when I’m having a weak moment and want to eat instead of coping with the feelings I prefer to avoid.

 

This verse helps me:

Philippians 3:13-14 (NIV)

“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I PRESS ON toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

Targeting my thoughts…now that’s a worthwhile competition.

 

 

 

Broken Faith

A faith-buddy gave me a cherished gift which adorned my powder room sink for many years. It was a ceramic knickknack of the word “FAITH” written in all capitals, painted a cheery lavender and adorned with yellow and white daisies around each letter.

I was extra klutzy one day and, not surprisingly, dropped it on the hard tile floor of the powder room. It split cleanly into two pieces, “FAI” in one piece with the emphatic “TH” separated from it. Broken faith still contains the components of faith, I thought. I just needed to put it back together. One dose of hot glue and it dried back into one piece, with only a fine line separating the ‘I’ and the T’ evidencing the damage.

I think life is like this sometimes. My faith gets broken and needs repair. Sometimes the repair line is noticeable, but hopefully, most of the time, it is not.

I had been working on a submission for “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” but had a dragging, nagging, sagging day and felt my little roots of doubt settling in. I wondered if my ideas were interesting, or if my writing was valuable, or if I should be writing at all. I hadn’t experienced a hefty dose of self-doubt in, say, two or three days, so I was due for this episode. Regardless, I managed to spend time working through and completing the article.

The next day I planned to review, edit and send the article to the Chicken Soup folks. A dark cloud of self-doubt promised to accompany me each step of the way. I started my day as usual, with my steaming cup of coffee, bible and journal. I asked God for guidance and maybe a shot of confidence to go with it.

My doorbell rang. It was a neighbor, handing me a brightly-wrapped red and white package, with a note taped to the top. “This is for you,” she said. “I saw it and thought of you.”

It was a copy of Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul.

Faith repaired is still faith.

 

New Year's Resolution...Resolved

Another new year, another new year’s resolution to lose weight.

I penned this line ten years ago for the first time and almost every January 1st since.

Wow, ten years…? Good thing God is patient. Finally I see differently.

God doesn’t want another new year’s resolution. It’s just my made-up way to perform so I feel like I am pleasing Him. No, God already loves me and is pleased with me (most of the time, at least). However, God does want me to have discipline and in that regard I know taking care of my health and weight are important. But they are not to be the gods of themselves. God is to be the God of Himself. This means God is to be my priority and focus, and practicing discipline in eating can result from having God first.

What does this look like?

Take this morning for instance.

I worked out for a half hour. Check. Then came breakfast. I measured and wrote down my Weight Watchers’ allotment for the day. Check. I packed a baggie of veggies and a bottle of water to have later this morning. Check. Most importantly, though, I sat down and read my Bible, prayed, and gave myself time to be still in God’s presence before I left the house. Check. Check. Check.

Spending time with God is my key to weight loss. It’s how I can know God loves me and has plans for me. It’s the boost to my health, not just spiritual, but my physical and emotional health, too.

How do I know this is important? I recited a memory verse I hadn’t thought about in months:

1 Corinthians 10:13 (NIV)

“No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, He will always provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.”

This verse has been my lifeline for many years and is familiar to me. But today I noticed the next verse, too. Check it out:

1 Corinthians 10:14 (NIV)

“Therefore, my dear friends, flee from idolatry.”

To me, it was a way of God telling me to make sure my goal of losing weight itself doesn’t become more important than Him. To make sure the Weight Watcher plan isn’t an idol. To make sure my exercise program isn’t an idol. To make sure my own new year’s resolution doesn’t become an idol.

The first and second of the Ten Commandments in Exodus 20 speak about worshipping only God. If these are the first two of the Ten Most Important Rules written by God Himself, I must have to pay attention, huh? When I am worshipping God, my obedience to Him in discipline and self-control can then follow naturally. It’s not about the “after” photo, it’s about the “after” life. Life with God in eternity where I want to hear Him say “Well done, Lisa.”

Headed to the coffee shop, I knew in advance I'd order only coffee. Those muffins and cookies wouldn’t be a problem for me. At least not for today.
 

Diving into Christmas

Every Christmas season, I dive into a new book or devotional to discover more deeply the meaning of Jesus being sent to earth for me. This year, I am guided by Ann Voskamp's new book "The Greatest Gift" and it already feels as if there’s a new depth to the diving. There’s always fear, though, when it comes to diving. I fear falling in and I fear not being able to get out. I’m reminded of an article I wrote about a fear I experienced in childhood, shared below. This is the way I want to experience Christmas this year, fears and all.

Heights of Fear

Parents trickled into the cavernous room, immediately overwhelmed by the stench of chlorine and oppressive humidity. Dissonant sounds of unclear origin echoed the children’s pounding hearts as they lined up against the gray cement wall on the far side. Moms searched the line for their own children, sending reassurance with a wave and a forced smile. The adults continued to methodically fill the metal bleachers while the swim coaches entered, quietly reminding the children of the basics taught over the past eight weeks. Meanwhile, the high dive platform projected its majestic presence thirty feet up, commanding acknowledgement from its royal subjects.

Staring down at the pattern of tiny gray tiles under my pudgy bare feet, I tugged at my white rubber cap again, wondering how to make the ominous white platform disappear. The muddled sounds of the coach’s voice reminded me to glance up at her lips to glean a word or two of the instructions she was giving. I couldn’t wear my hearing aids in the pool since they couldn’t get wet. Goosebumps and the knotted pit in my gut accompanied my walk along the slippery poolside plank as I waited my turn for the final requirement to finish my swim class. I didn’t want to look up as the first kid tentatively climbed the ladder to his fate at the top. I couldn’t help peeking though; I held my breath for him as he climbed and climbed and climbed some more; then skipped forward off the board to make the dreaded descent. Thwomp. It was a loud landing into the dark descent of the deep water, even to my ears. I bet it hurt. I continued to hold my breath, shivering, until I saw his dark shadow moving closer and closer to the surface of the water. He doggie paddled his way to the side of the pool and climbed out. I exhaled.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was my turn. I stood at the bottom of the ladder looking up, wondering if it reached heaven. Taking a deep breath, I started to climb slowly, keeping my focus straight ahead. I didn’t even want to try to see if my mom noticed me from the bleachers because it meant I had to look somewhere else. One-two-three. I’ll just count my way up there. Four-five-six. Taking my time, I considered going down instead of up again. Seven-eight-nine. The goosebumps and pit in my stomach were now accompanied by the fact that I couldn’t breathe. Inhale, exhale. Ten-eleven-twelve. Inhale, exhale. Thirty four- thirty five- thirty six. I was at the top. The grit of the board scratched the bottom of my feet as I took tiny steps forward to reach the end. There were a couple more steps to take and I stopped and peeked. All I could see was a black square of motion down there, and it didn’t look big enough to catch me.

Time froze; bile caught in the back of my throat, threatening to give me a new way to embarrass myself in front of other people. I swallowed. I slid my right foot forward; dragged my left foot to meet it. I did it again. Oh God I can’t do this. Will I die now? One more step to go. At the end of the board, I knew I had to move fast or freak out, big time. I sucked in a short breath and jumped forward. I don’t know if the screaming was in my head or out of my mouth but it was all I could hear. Falling falling falling until I slammed into a cold wet wall. That hurt. Flailing, I sank sank sank for what seemed like another eternity. My chest tightened with fear, my nose flooded with pool water. At last, I stopped sinking and was still. Silence surrounded me; isolated me; threatened me.
Motivated by my need to get out of there, I finally remembered to move my arms and legs. My chest tightened more. Blowing out through my nose, bubbles tickled my cheeks as they swam to the surface faster than I ever could. I followed the bubbles up the water. Swim swim swim. Swim some more. My arms got heavier but I moved them anyway. The light from the top of the water started to get brighter. I swam some more. Breaking through the wet ceiling, I sucked in air while I kicked my way to the side of the pool. My chest was still heaving as I grabbed the ladder and climbed out. Dripping, I looked in the bleachers for my mom. I took a few steps and finally saw her frantically waving from the sea of parents. I walked the slippery path back to the group of kids in my class to join the land of the living.


Today, I understand how the jump off the high dive was a critical turning point in learning how to trust. No matter how many swim lessons I had, there was a level of trust beyond my understanding which propelled my jump. To trust the God of heaven to love me so much to send His Son—for ME!--is a jump into overwhelming love which I hope catches me each time I fall.

First Day of School

#470161447 / gettyimages.com

The cool breeze suggested the beginning of Fall but the calendar read August 25th---still summer. Regardless of the season, the first day of school arrived again.

My daughter, now a sophomore, bounded down the stairs, the slight scent of powder trailing her. She looked at herself in the mirror, smoothed a couple stray hairs and adjusted her blouse. She then turned, peeked over her shoulder to check the final view from the back, and smiled. Satisfied, she joined me in the kitchen.

“Good morning, precious!”

“Morning, Mom!”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay, thanks. Except I’m a little nervous about the new building. It might be tough to find my way around.”

“I understand,” I said.

More than thirty years have passed since I started my sophomore year in high school. How odd to remember the details to this day. I wore a blue uniform, and remember checking from the back to make sure my blouse collar was laying properly, my socks pulled up, my hair smoothed down.

My young man, now a high school senior, walked down the stairs a few minutes later. Confident and calm, he no longer resembled the little boy I used to escort to the bus stop.

“You ready to take it on?” I asked.

“Yup!” he said.

After breakfast, they each posed for the obligatory first-day-of-school photo. They know to stand in front of the door, so I can see how tall they’ve grown since last year. The photo tradition gives me a chance to capture the moment, hoping to make it stand still. Tears threatened, but I held off. My chickadees hadn’t left the house yet.

“Time to go,” I said. “Let’s put on the armor of God, okay?”

We had been reciting our personal version of Ephesians 6 since my son started Kindergarten.

“Thank you, Lord, that you give us the belt of truth…”

And we go through the hand motions putting on our invisible belts.

“And for the breastplate of righteousness…”

Hand-motions to strap on a chest plate.

“…and our feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.”

Hand motions to tie on our shoes.

“Thank you, Lord, for our helmet of salvation, and the shield of faith, with which we can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one.”

Strap under the chin, then left arm bent at the elbow and lifted up to hold the shield.

“…And for the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.”

Right arm wielding a sword, ready to take it on.

And my two young adults walked out the door, stepping out of this momma’s nest to fly.

Letting go is not natural, but necessary.

I cried. The first day of school gets me every time. I think I need a box of tissues to go along with the armor.

Connections

I had an interesting perspective at Beth Moore's Living Proof Live conference back in May. My special seats afforded me a clear view of wires. Lots of them.



Can you see the two thick bunches of cables coming down from the ceiling? There must have been at least three dozen individual cords in each bunch. Each of the cable ropes connected up to the ceiling, and then fed into the blue cage. You can track the cage across the arena ceiling at the top of the photo. The cage then opened just above the center stage, where the ropes were freed. The ropes then dangled to the stage and were plugged in somewhere below the stage.

Who, I wondered, is in charge of making sure everything is connected? Looking to my right, I found this guy.



Okay, there’s always someone behind the scenes, right? We know he’s done a great job only when we manage to forget he’s even there.

Prayers are a familiar go-to response when life goes poorly. Kind of like when one of the wires gets unplugged.

But what about when life goes well? Could I still remember who’s behind the scenes, keeping all the cables connected properly?

I woke up. Early. God did that.

I have a bed to sleep in. Comfy. God did that.

I have food in my fridge. Plenty. God did that.

I received another annual “we analyzed your mammogram results and there is nothing wrong” letter. Relieved. God did that.

My husband is the love of my life and best friend. Always. God did that.

My children continue to bless my life. Abundantly. God did that.

I can read the Bible. Anytime. God did that.

I can pray and connect with God. Again.

God always does a great job behind the scenes. Even when I’ve forgotten He is there.