Something Big

I don’t know my neighbors as well as I should, but I have pieced together my own perception of who they are and what they are about from the swatches of time they spend in their front yard and at the neighborhood park.  I am probably wrong most of the time, but I hope I’m not in the case of one young man who seems to be totally smitten with his three young sons. 

From the time they were babies, he has spent a lot of quality time with them without his wife present.  On most nice evenings, you will find him taking the three boys for a walk around the pond, the youngest in the stroller; playing catch in the front yard, ball caps, leather gloves, and all; or in the front yard doing yard work.  This is my personal favorite because the boys look so proud of themselves, carrying around plastic garden tools and wiping the sweat from their brows.  They don’t seem to understand that most people consider what they are doing to be work.

Last week, on my way home from the store, I witnessed something so precious that I slowed down to take it in.  (Do not attempt this unless you know the difference between Sunday driver speed and creepy stalker speed. Leave this type of thing to us professionals.) Dad of the Year and his oldest protégé had just finished mowing. Well, Dad had, anyway.  Heavy yellow mower already parked in the garage, he stood at the edge of his deep front porch admiring the diagonal lines he’d made, the ones that transformed his lawn into a textured carpet of emerald green.

The man’s oldest stood next to him, his tiny head barely reaching the waistband of his daddy’s shorts.  His face glowed with pride and effort, and his T-shirt boasted sweat stains any man would be proud of.  His own yellow mower, smaller and made of plastic, was parked a few feet away on the sidewalk, a red bandana like his daddy’s tied to the cross bar.  Just as the SUV in their driveway began to eclipse my view of the tender scene, the two shared a smile and turned toward the house.

I thought about it all the way home. 

I imagined the little boy pushing the lightweight mower up and down the diagonal rows of grass, digging into tender turf with the hard plastic edge.  I saw him working hard, tongue out, sure that he was accomplishing much, convinced that his daddy needed him, that his daddy was lucky to have his help.  I imagined his daddy, too, doing the real work, taking the lead, clearing the path.  I saw him looking over his shoulder with a smile from time to time, pride welling deep in his chest over the son that wanted so badly to be about his daddy’s work.

It’s easy for those of us whom God has called to ministry—and that’s all of us, by the way, as the call to follow Christ is at once a call to salvation and ministry—to forget who brings the harvest.  We see souls saved and lives changed and feel the ache of effort in our own bones.  Convinced that we have accomplished much, we admire what God has done and congratulate ourselves.  Come on, most of us can’t even make people laugh when we want to.  And we think we can inspire hearts to bow?

No, God alone is Lord of the Harvest.  He made the Way, He bows hearts, and He redeems.  He doesn’t need our help, but He delights in our devotion. So, carry on.  Be about the Father’s work.  Follow Him, obey Him, find contentment in His presence, and you will accomplish something big.  You, cherished child, will bring your Father joy.

Tell Me "NO!"

Hope ran the 5K today with her daddy!  I am so proud of her.  She was up and out of our apartment here at camp before my alarm ever went off, so I didn’t get to pat her on the back as she left or offer any words of encouragement.  I felt awful about that, so I dragged a kitchen chair out onto the sidewalk and waited for them to run by so I could cheer for them. 

I am a people watcher, so I didn’t mind the wait.  It was fascinating to watch the runners.  Some ran alone.  Some ran in packs.  Some were gung-ho, and some were reluctant, being dragged along by their pastors and youth ministers.  Some picked up speed at the sight of the hill by our apartment, and some slowed considerably.  Eyes huge at the monumental task before them, their mouths hanging open, they chose to walk it.  That would be my choice.

I wanted to cheer for everyone, but doing so from my kitchen chair made my rear end feel bigger and my thighs flabbier, so I smiled in case they looked my way for encouragement.  No one did.  Apparently, no one cares what you think unless you are running the race.   Understandable. 

Just a few minutes before Todd and Hope ran by, a pair of staffers passed.  One was a student from Ghana.  Her name is Priscilla, and she picks up tarantulas without flinching.  She has my respect.  I couldn’t tell for sure who Priscilla’s buddy was, but she looked a little spent.  Twenty yards or so from our apartment on their last pass, she slowed to a walk rather suddenly and put her hands on her hips to walk a while.  It took Priscilla a split-second to notice, but when she did, she said, “No!” and grabbed the girl’s arm, forcing her to keep running.  The girl chuckled and started running, but just a few steps later, stopped again. 

“NO!” Priscilla barked, taking the girl’s arm lightly. 

Again, the girl acquiesced and jogged another ten yards or so.  She wasn’t smiling and was obviously feeling the effects of the more than two miles she’d just run.  Breathing hard, her hair wrapping her face like seaweed, she stopped and walked. 

“NO!” 

Priscilla slowed and walked with her a few steps.  I couldn’t hear her, but it looked as if she was talking to the girl all the while, coaching her, encouraging her.    

Welp.  It’s over, I thought. 

Wrong.  I don’t know what Priscilla said to the girl, but she began to run again.  Priscilla’s smile was priceless, and the girl never stopped again in my range of sight. 

Yea!

My heart did a little hand-stand and a peppy herkie jump, things my body cannot do.  I would have cheered out loud, but I felt irrelevant.  My rear was still in that kitchen chair…   

I started thinking about that narrow road that some of us are currently running.  As followers of Christ, we share a destination. We run the same path, the one marked out by the Father, but our journeys are as unique as we are.  Some are pros by now.  Having run this race for a while, they don’t get winded easily.  They aren’t discouraged by the obstacles that come their way, and they don’t mind running alone if no one wants to keep up.

Others are starting to get the hang of it.  They get tired sometimes, but they’ve either heard of or experienced for themselves the reward that comes with perseverance.   They press on, following the example set by those just ahead of them, drawing encouragement from those who run beside them.   They may stutter-step or slow a little when faced with obstacles, but they press on, knowing every hill comes down again on the other side.

Then there are the newbies, the ones just getting the hang of it.  If it weren’t for those around them, they might choose to sit on the nearest rock until their rear ends grew numb (Not that Priscilla’s friend would ever do this.  I happened to notice that she had some definite muscle tone going on.  Not her first day as an athlete).  Numbness beats the pain that comes with faithful effort, right?  No, but they don’t understand that yet.    

No matter where you are in your journey, no matter your present level of strength, you were once a newbie, too, relying more than a little on the experience and encouragement of others to get you through.  And, chances are you’ve stutter-stepped somewhere along the way, been intimidated by an unforeseen obstacle, and/or gotten a cramp in your side right after a second-wind.  Maybe that’s where you are today. 

When that happens, who tells you “NO!” and takes your arm?  Who makes you keep on running?  

This race is not a competition, friends.  It’s important that we all finish strong, but it’s equally important that we cheer—spur, when necessary—each other on.  If we don’t, no one else will.  

Looking for Love and Hoping for Happy

One of the best parts of Todd’s job is our getting to spend every summer with the college students that work for him.  It is both a privilege and an eye-opening experience.  A person can assume all day what is going on in the heads and hearts of college kids these days by watching the media, but to listen to them talk candidly with each other, to watch them serve and interact with people of all ages, and to read their Facebook posts and Twitter feeds is to have a finger, at least lightly, on the pulse of this generation. 

I could be wrong, but I sense in them a longing to push through the noise and embrace what is real, to matter in the grand scope of things, to be accepted and loved for who they are, and to figure out who that actually is--now that I think about it, they sound just like the rest of us.  Somewhere in the middle of it all, they want to find love, the kind that will last, and they worry that it will never happen because it hasn’t happened to them yet and because it seems to happen less and less these days.  Many have grown discouraged and are becoming skeptical of love and marriage in general.

As a mother of two teenagers, this bothers me. I don’t want my kids to burn up all their optimism and enthusiasm treading water in a sea of wounded cynics.  We’ve worked too hard to set a good example for them, talked too much about marriage, love, and commitment, spent too much energy building their self-esteem and helping them find their worth in Christ for the enemy to come along and choke out on the other end a relationship that might have had potential.

But what’s to be done?  I don’t know other than to offer the same encouragement and advice to other young people that I offer my own kids.  For what it’s worth, here it goes.

1.       Stop watching romantic comedies (and reading them), or at least stop holding them up as the standard by which you judge your own relationships.  Movies aren’t real.  They aren’t even realistic.  For instance, how often do the characters in your favorite movie take time out to blow their nose, balance their checkbook, go to the grocery store for milk, or take a potty break like real people?  Not often.  Movie people leave the boring and yucky stuff out, but real life is full of ordinary stuff like that.  The real test of a relationship is not whether or not they do things for you that are Twitter and/or Facebook worthy, but whether they are content to be with you and be there for you in the mundane moments and yuck of life.  

Also, it’s not fair to expect real people to always know what to say and do and when to say and do it, even if they get it right a lot of the time.  Movie actors are just running lines written by someone else—lying, essentially—and odds are, it took the writer(s) more than a handful of drafts to get the words just right and the actors several takes to deliver them in a way that melts your heart and jerks your tears.     

Lastly, very few people look like, act like, dress like, and/or kiss (etc.) like people in the movies.  You shouldn’t hold out for one of those unless you are one of those, and—hate to break it to you—you probably aren’t.  The actors themselves, in real life, probably aren’t either.  

2.       Put the past behind you.  Just because something has been doesn’t mean it will be.  That goes for bad relationships, mistakes that you have made, and a lack of relationships all together. 

Most of us have a bad relationship or two under our belt and wish that they had never happened.  Don’t let fear of being hurt or hurting someone without meaning to keep you from what could be a very positive experience in the future.  Fear is never of God.  Wisdom, yes.  Fear, no. 

We all make mistakes.  Some of us make the kind of mistakes that drive us to our knees in confession, the kind that convince us that we don’t deserve God’s best anymore.  Don’t you believe the devil’s lie.  God forgives.  God restores.  And those who know Him have the capacity to love as He does.  Sure, sin has consequences, and no, they aren’t pleasant and aren’t usually over quickly, but God will sustain you, and you are still lovable because He loves you.

Never having had a relationship can cause you to question whether or not something is wrong with you.  It isn’t.  God is sparing you.  Believe me when I say that you would rather not have had any relationship at all than go through a bad relationship or make mistakes that the devil will forever play over and over in your head.  My guess is that most of us, had we actually heeded God’s warning and leading, would know what it’s like to be in your shoes, but we got antsy and took things into our own hands, making a mess of them.  Who knows?  God may need the time that you are spending alone to work in the heart of your future beloved and arrange circumstances to His liking.

3.       Relax and have fun!  I don’t even pretend to understand the new dating rules that young people go by these days, but I do know that whoever created them should not be given the authority to dictate how you live your life.  Having to constantly clarify whether you are "hanging out" or on a date?  Friend zone?  Huh?  What ever happened to going out on a date—which is a just a boy and girl who are at least friends hanging out for a while, by the way—and just seeing if it goes anywhere?  These “rules” are nonsense, and I think the enemy is using them to confuse what God may be doing in your life. 

Girls, by agreeing to go on a first date you are not asking for or saying "yes" to a marriage proposal, nor do guys assume that you are.  How are they supposed to know if they want to marry you if you've never been out on a date?  Stop overthinking things.  If you think that you would have fun going out with someone and they meet the standards God has set for you, then go out with them. See what happens.  If it doesn’t work out, you will both recover (if that is even necessary, and it usually isn’t unless you’ve let your imagination run away from you), and you will both learn something from the process.  If he wants to pay for the date, let him.  You are not making any promises by letting him spend his money, but you are probably denying him some measure of pleasure that he would get by spoiling you and being the guy he wants to be if you don't.  Oh, and stop worrying so much about how you look!  Boys are much more forgiving of a bad hair day, water retention, or a booger in the nose than we are, and honestly, very few of them know a whole lot about women’s fashion. 

Guys, take every date as an opportunity to practice being a gentleman, but don’t let any girl’s preconceived ideas of how they should be treated dictate your behavior or spook you.  Be yourself.  Be polite, thoughtful, and genuine, just as you should be on any given day at any given time.  If that isn’t enough for a girl you go out with, then you are better off knowing that from the start.  Honestly, a girl with hoops needs to get herself a poodle or tiny little pony to jump through them.  She also needs to see tip #1 above.  Also, please take the lead in the relationship.  Prayerfully, set the pace.  Girls tend to steer the ship because they’ve read all the manuals, but don’t let that intimidate you.  No matter what they say, girls respect confident (but not domineering) men.  Don’t you?  Besides, once the framework is up, it's hard to move what you've built to a new foundation. Begin every relationship the way you intend to live it out in the long run.    

4.       Trust God.  God created you.  He knows your needs better than you do, and He is already meeting them.  You just can’t see it.   Philippians 4:19 says, “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.”  Of course, trusting Him means leaving it up to Him to decide whether or not you actually need a mate, something society tells us incessantly that we must have.  Psalm 37:4 tells us to “take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.”  That doesn’t necessarily mean that if you love God He will give you what you want.  Personally, I think it means that if you find contentment in God, He will cause your heart to want what He wants.  If you let that happen, then whatever He decides will be okay with you. 

Now, I know this doesn’t even begin to cover all that needs to be said, but these are the words that rattle around in my head and beg to be spoken, the thoughts that make me want to interrupt perfect strangers having coffee at the next table and add my two cents to their conversation…in my defense, that has only happened once!  I don’t, for a second, claim to be an expert on relationships or have all the answers, but I do believe in real love that lasts one ordinary day at a time. 

And...I want you to be happy!    

On that note, I am so glad that Todd and I were too young to know any better when we met and married.  If either of us had spent too much time analyzing our relationship or waiting for the other to live up to some impossible standard, we wouldn’t be together now, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we are as happy as any couple I’ve ever met.  More and more, I think God brought us together just because we let Him.

The Gift

I’m not crazy about my wedding photos.  Don’t get me wrong. I loved my dress, my headpiece, the decorations, etc.  It’s just that I really like the way my bride portraits, the pictures I had made a month or so before, turned out.  My hair was perfect, very Pretty Woman, and my headpiece was positioned just so, with just the right amount of toile showing in the back and room for my bangs in the front (1993, people).  My make-up was flawless. 

I tried really hard to recreate the look on my wedding day, but fell a little short.  In my opinion, my head piece sat a little too far forward all day, and my make-up was a little too heavy.  I remember obsessing over these things in the dressing room before the ceremony, trying to look perfect for Todd.  I wanted to take his breath away at the altar, make him forget what to do and what to say.  

I wanted to be a beautiful bride.

Most of what I remember about our actual ceremony is pieced together from a fuzzy and fading VHS tape that we keep in our closet, Daddy giving me away, climbing the altar steps, handing my bouquet off to my sister, praying at the prayer bench, and being pronounced husband and wife.  I know those things happened because I have watched myself do them, but I will never forget the way Todd looked at me. 

I expected him to look me over, to take in and appreciate every detail--maybe notice that my lipstick was too dark and my bangs were a bit smashed--but he didn’t.  His eyes found mine immediately and stayed there, steady and intense.  When I said "I do," he smiled and took my breath away.  Suddenly, my appearance seemed irrelevant, just wrapping on the gift that was my heart. 

You know, the Bride of Christ spends a lot of time fussing, fretting, and fixing herself, striving to live up to an image she imagined, poor thing.  Whom is she trying to impress, her Bridegroom?  Has she forgotten that He is also her Creator and already thinks she is beautiful? 

He cannot be impressed, but He can be pleased. 

If she gives Him her heart, He will take her breath away. 

I Wonder

I’ll be honest.  I love compliments.  The best one I’ve gotten recently was, “There’s always something fun happening with your hair.”  At first, I didn’t know quite how to take it.  It sounded awfully close to Megamind’s, “Your hair is exciting!”  Doesn’t it?  I am a master of the uncompliment when the occasion calls for it, too, so I was skeptical.  The conversation continued, though, and my friend was able to clarify—or cover—very well.  So, it’s all good. 

The compliments that I love most are the ones that my husband gives me.  I know that he thinks I’m pretty and smart and funny, but I love hearing it.  I wait for it.  I revel in it, but do you know what I love even more?  When he calls me his best friend, his wife, his beautiful bride, his lover…when he treats me as such. 

In those moments, I know that I am to him what no one else can be, and it thrills my heart. 

I wonder if that’s what true worship feels like to God. 

It’s one thing to compliment God, to tell Him what He already knows about Himself.  That He is holy.  That He is worthy.  That He is merciful and good.  I’ll admit that’s the kind of worship that I offer most often.  There’s nothing wrong with it.

It’s true.  It’s simple.  It’s safe. 

I guess that’s the trouble.  It offends no one and really costs me nothing, speaks nothing of my relationship to Him.  In fact, those who don’t know Him say the same things without flinching, but I have an intimate relationship with Him.  I get to call Him Savior, Redeemer, Lover of my Soul, Friend.  I should do so more often.

Sometimes, though, I’m too broken to call Him anything, and my heart cries out to my Beloved in a language only He can understand.   Pretty worship aside, pretense gone, I beg my Defender for protection, my Savior for forgiveness, my Judge for mercy, my Teacher for wisdom, my Healer for health, my Father for comfort…and the list goes on and on. 

In my weakest moments, when I feel I have the least to give, I worship best.  I treat God like the Great I Am, my everything.  That’s something no one else can be to me, and I hope it thrills His heart.   

The Back Seat

When I was a kid, we used to take family vacations to Colorado, Manitou Springs, to be exact, a cozy little community right outside of Colorado Springs.  We went every year, I think, and I loved the predictability of our trip, from the two dollars we got to blow on candy before we hit the road--back in the day, two bucks would buy you Sweetarts, DinoSour Eggs, Jolly Rancher sticks, Smarties pops, Laffy Taffy, Pop Rocks, and Gobstoppers--to the Amish girls who swam in their dresses (long story), to the welcoming smell of home when we got back a week later.  It was always the same.  Perfect.

Back then, family vacation was about freedom, adventure, and making happy memories.  My only responsibilities were to be nice to my little sister, stop chattering in my parents' ears once they tightened up and started ringing, enjoy my candy, and try not to get car sick--or at least give my parents a decent heads up if I got to feeling green.  I never gave a thought to anything else.  I just assumed my parents had it covered.   

Now that I'm the mom, family vacation is still about the same things, but my responsibilities have changed in a big way, making it a lot harder for me to live in the moment like my kids are still able to do.  Someone has to budget for the trip, make the reservations, gas up the car, bring the medicine and snacks, create a daily agenda, plan the meals, keep us on schedule, watch out for sketchy strangers, etc.  Okay, so Todd shares equally in this, but here's the difference.  If things don't go well and no one has a good time, Todd will shrug it off as their own fault.  I will blame myself. 

I am the mom, after all. 

I love scrolling through Facebook in the summertime, reading all the posts about Vacation Bible School and church camp and looking at the pics that people post.  The kids, little ones and big ones, are all so excited about God things.  You can see the joy in their Kool-Aid stained faces and feel the passion in their lengthy, promise-filled posts. 

It makes me happy and a little wistful. 

I remember being that little kid, exhausted from VBS, but so proud of the Fishers of Men mural I made and that I finally remembered every word to the Bible pledge.  I remember being that teenager, so jazzed about what God was doing in my life that I took the microphone from our youth minister and preached for forty-five minutes during our Falls Creek share service.  I'm sure a lot of other people remember that, too!  In my defense, I had a lot to say. 

Somewhere along the line, I seem to have lost a little of that.  Not the conviction.  Not the passion.  Not the joy, really, but the emotion, the light-hearted feeling of knowing that your only job is to obey, enjoy, and trust someone else to take care of the details. 

It's hard for us grown-ups to remember that spiritual maturity isn't about taking control, but letting go of it.  I learned this verse when I was a little girl, maybe at Vacation Bible School.  I'm not sure. 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."  Proverbs 3:5-6

I'm tired of approaching spiritual things like a mom approaches family vacation, anticipating, hoping, dreaming, working, mustering, and, ultimately, watching others enjoy. 

I want to be a kid again, light-hearted and care-free, so I think I'll climb in the back seat and leave the driving to God.

He's the Father, after all. 

Trash for Treasure

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved garage sales, going to them and having them.  My mother used to take us with her almost every Saturday morning that we didn't sleep over at Grandmother's house.  Before the sun ever slid from his cool, gray bed sheets, we'd steal out of ours, into the station wagon, and across town to the donut shop.  Teeth brushed, braids tight and damp, eyes still gritty with unfinished dreams, my sister and I would munch happily on maple long-johns and donut holes while Mom sipped coffee and charted our course. 

It felt like adventure.  It felt like Saturday. 

I used to do the same with Hunter right after Hope was born.  He loved it as much as I did.  A shush finger to his lips, he'd get himself dressed, peek in at Daddy and sister to make sure they were still sleeping, and take my hand, a conspiratorial grin on his little freckled face.  Off we'd go to spend a whole ten dollars on donuts, coffee, and tiny plastic toys.  It was our special time.  When Hope was old enough, we went as a family. 

A few months ago, we had our own garage sale.  We thought we might be moving, so we got very honest about the things hanging in our closets and cluttering our drawers.   When we told the kids that they could keep the money for anything they sold, Hope got down to business.  Within a couple of hours, it looked as if she might have more stuff in the hallway than in her room.

Hunter, not so much.  He likes his stuff.  Never mind the fact that you can't walk in his room or the fact that his dresser drawers are so full that most of them can't be fully opened or closed.  He did pull out a few things, though, a faux alligator briefcase that he used to carry around as a kid when he wanted to look important, a skateboard, an Xbox console and tiny TV, a poseable wooden figure for sketching people, a Buzz Lightyear action figure, and, yes, a Woody doll. 

I know.    

We tried to talk Hunter into digging a little deeper, but he wouldn't.  He figured he could make just as much money as Hope selling just a few hot items, I guess.

Buzz and Woody sold quickly, of course, but Woody's hat got left behind.  Not even joking!  I was so sad!

We chuckled a little when we saw the prices Hunter had put on things.  He wanted ten dollars each for the faux alligator briefcase, which looked as if it had been dragged behind a school bus, and the poseable figure, which was scratched up and poke full of holes like a Voodoo doll.  He didn't get it. 

Hope made more money than the rest of us put together in the first hour or so.  She had taken the time to price every single thing individually, selling Barbie shoes by the pair for ten cents rather than going the "everything in this bag for a dollar" route.  She'd also taken the time to bag sets of toys in gallon Ziploc bags, itemizing what was in each.  She was one of those kids who never lost pieces to anything, so this worked in her favor. 

When his sister cleared one hundred dollars, Hunter got a little frustrated.  His game plan wasn't working.  It seemed no one wanted to make his trash their treasure, and the things that he'd been hesitant to sell at first began to look more like trash in comparison to the riches in our cash box. 

Without further hesitation, he dove back into the abyss of his room and emerged with enough items to fill a couple of storage bins.  I'm sure it was painful for him, but in the end, it paid off in a big way.   

It's hard to let go of the things we are used to having, things that have become, over time, a part of who we are, our life experience.  The funny thing is it doesn't seem to matter whether or not those things benefit us, whether or not they are worth more than a trade we could make, or whether or not we even like them.  We get attached and are hesitant to part with what is ours unless we know for sure that what we will get in return is of far greater value. 

Jesus came to offer us something of greater value than even those of us who know Him can fully understand, forgiveness and freedom from sin, eternal life in Heaven, and peace, joy, and purpose here on earth.  What more could we possibly want? 

All He asks in return is that we let go.  Of what?  The sin that condemns us, the desires and habits that control us, and the material things that weigh us down. 

Junk.  Clutter.  Chaos. 

Why do we even hesitate?

Ridiculous

Take a good look at this picture, friend.  We passed this truck and two others like it on Hefner Parkway on the way to camp on Monday.  Ridiculous, right?  (It's okay.  I had Hope take the picture.) 

This is what worry feels like.  I ought to know.  Worry is my sin of choice.  Yes, I said "sin."  At one time, I excused this habit as natural.  Then I realized that all sin comes naturally.  That should have been a big red flag!

Instead, I've embraced it, laughed about it, and practiced it until it has became a big part of who I am.  I now understand that worry is nothing more than a feeble attempt to control things I have decided are too big for God.  It is evidence that my faith is lacking and that my eyes have drifted, like Peter's, from my Savior to the sea. 

I know this.  I see the sin and I hate it for the static it causes in my relationship with God.  I loathe the paralysis it inflicts. 

Still, I go there. 

Over and over and over again, I slip into worry like a bubble bath, finding temporary and incomplete comfort in its warm familiarity.  I'm sure that people with other sin issues assume that I could never in a million years understand their sin problem, their addiction, their infidelity, their greed, etc.  I do.  Sin is sin because of what it does to a person's relationship with God.  According to Scripture, one is as dark as the next, and I don't judge you.  I hurt with you.  

Here's the thing about worry.  It doesn't start out that way.  It begins with a legitimate--or in my case, potential--concern that requires a certain amount of practical thought and planning.  If I'm going to be a good wife, a good mother, a good friend, a good teacher, a responsible writer, etc., then I should anticipate and prepare at the start, evaluate and regroup as things progress, and reflect at the end so that I don't let an opportunity to grow and improve pass me by, right?  

The problem is that somewhere in there, instead of letting the Holy Spirit open my eyes to what He sees as important, seeking His wisdom, submitting to His plan, and trusting Him to work all things together for my good and His glory, I get twisted up.  My eyes chase the rabbits that are my own thoughts; I let the enemy fill my head with doubts and what if's; I make decisions based half on what I think God probably wants and half on what sounds reasonable to me (which is total disobedience, by the way); and I fret, entertaining vain imaginings like dear friends.

Ridiculous?  Yes, but some of you know what I'm talking about.  If so, let me make you feel better about yourself.  A year or so ago, I had a swollen lymph node in my neck.  Within two hours, I was outlining a series of videos that I was going to make for my children to watch on their birthdays, their wedding days, the day that each of their children were born, etc. after my death. 

You think I'm kidding. 

My most recent bout with worry happened just this morning.  Hope is going on a mission trip, and I'm not going with her.  I won't even tell you all of the things that have been going through my head concerning that trip.  That would take too long and might be even more embarrassing than telling you about my puffy lymph node! 

Suffice it to say that I was in a tailspin, so much so that I posted a request for encouragement and prayer on Facebook.   Thankfully, many loved and trusted friends responded with wisdom and encouragement without judgment, reminding me of what I knew to be true, that God was in control, that He wanted to use Hope to bless others, that she was a smart girl, that this trip could be the beginning of something big for Hope, and that she would have a wonderful time...if only her mother would STOP WORRYING! 

I went to the Prayer Gardens to pray.  While I was there, God brought this truck to mind (I had taken the pics with another blog in mind).  I realized worry is not a burden that I was ever meant to carry, just as this little truck was not built to carry a refrigerator.  In taking it on, I have been hurting myself and others.  My wake-up call was Hope's waning enthusiasm and fearful expression.  Lord forgive us for what we do to our kids! What's more, I had left no room in my heart for anything else. 

I began to pray, giving my baby to God just as I've done so many times before.  As I prayed, the load began to lift, and God filled my heart with other things for which there'd been no room for before, gratitude for Hope's salvation and desire to serve Him, happiness for the kids who were going to get to spend time with my sweet girl, anticipation of the stories she will have to tell when she gets back, a deep desire to take part in her trip from a distance through prayer, and peace...supernatural peace. 

Once again, God has lifted me out of my tailspin, and my heart is light.

Friend, if you find yourself struggling under the weight of a load you were never meant to bear, let me encourage you as others have encouraged me.  Let go.  Let God. 

He is able and faithful.  No worries. 

The Real Deal

I am a sucker for a dessert tray.  I know the food is usually fake, but that doesn't matter.  The shinier the fake fudge sauce, the more my mouth waters. 

Now, fake sandwiches and quiches don't have the same effect on me.  Quite the opposite, actually.  To me, they look like the plastic foods you might find in a preschool activity center or mini-monsters you might dream about after over-eating.  The breakfast sandwich Todd and I saw at Barnes and Noble the other day had seen better days, that's for sure.  Shriveled, separated, and a little fuzzy-looking, it looked like one of the singing sandwich puppets on Sesame Street...or was that a nightmare?  It must be really hard to make fake meat.  

I know I'm not the only person who can't resist a dessert tray.  Last fall, our family went to eat at our favorite Branson restaurant, Danna's Barbeque.  They make Bananas Foster there, which I have heard is really good.  I have never eaten it, nor will I, because of the dessert tray by the door. 

I'm sure it used to look good, but they set it out where tiny tongues and fingers could get to it.  From about ten feet away, it looks all right, but as you get closer, you can see that hungry toddlers, tired of waiting for their meal, have been at it, poking, smashing, and licking.  On one end, there's a pinched place with a hole in the middle, revealing a Styrofoam center and a substance that resembles blown insulation.  Can't you just imagine that mother's face when she realized what her child was doing!

It is an unappetizing sight, to say the least.

You may have noticed that I am very open about the fact that I am a Christian.  That's not because I want people to think of me in any certain way, but because I'm hoping that they will see the difference that Jesus makes in my life, understand that any good they see in me is only there because of Him, and want to know Him like I do or way better. 

The problem is I'm not perfect, not even close, and, for whatever reason, God has chosen to set me in the middle of a lot of people.  In the course of a normal week, I am a neighbor, a teacher, a customer, a colleague, a writer, a minister's wife, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend, etc., and life gets sticky sometimes.  Like everyone else, I get poked and pinched, and I know that what comes out is not always appetizing, not what you might expect from someone who claims to know Jesus well.  My words aren't always seasoned right, my attitude can be sour from time to time, and sweetness is sometimes absent. 

If ever you find me to be less than you'd hoped, less than I've claimed to be, I am truly, deeply sorry.  I know this happens, and I hate that it does.  Someday, when I get to Heaven and God finishes the work He began in me, I will be perfect, but I am a work in progress right now.  Please, don't let me get in the way. 

Go ahead.  Taste and see that the Lord is good.  I promise you won't regret it!

It's a Start

Just finished walking.  It's hot out there!  I literally just wiped a drop of forehead sweat off the keyboard.  Word to the wise, don't eat a salty meal and then walk a 5K in 100 degree heat.  I have Mickey Mouse hands.  My wedding ring isn't coming off any time soon.  That's for sure!

The kids are taking it hard, too.  Hunter developed what he called "a nasty belly sweat," and Hope is still a lovely shade of burgundy.  I tried motivating the kids by reminding them that the Van Trapp children walked across the Alps (I think) and didn't complain.  They reminded me that the mountains are cold.  I tried.

While we were out, I tried to distract myself by thinking about other things, and I remembered my dad taking me to the Family Life Center at First Baptist Church Duncan when I was a kid.  If I remember correctly, sixteen laps around the track was a mile, and my dad would jog about three miles, keeping track of his laps on a counter.  I didn't need any motivation to run with him. 

The first time I got my own counter, I felt free.  I didn't have to wait on Dad any more.  I could go as fast as I wanted, and I was convinced that I was faster than Dad.  I took off at a dead sprint and lapped him in no time.  He chuckled.  I ran a couple more laps that way before I felt it at all.  I remember thinking to myself that my poor dad must be embarrassed that his elementary school daughter knew so much more about running than he did.

I decided not to embarrass him and slowed my pace just a bit, waving at him and smiling every time I passed.  He smiled with his lips closed, which usually meant he was either frustrated and trying to hide it or knew something I didn't.  I felt a little guilty for showing him up and frustrating him. 

By the time I'd run just over a half mile, I was beat.  I slowed to a jog-walk and then a walk. 

My dad passed me, and I tried to pick up my pace.  My legs were jelly, I was breathing hard, and I could feel my pulse in my head, so I sat down, defeated and embarrassed.

I waited for my dad to shake his head at me or laugh.  He didn't.  Instead, he waited a few laps and then motioned for me to join him.  I think he even slowed a little so I could catch up.  

"Find a nice, easy pace," he coached.  "Keep your shoulders and hands relaxed and just let your arms swing.  Keep your elbows in." 

It took a few minutes to get the hang of it. 

"That's right," he continued.  "Now breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.  In two counts, out two counts.  If you need to, do three each way."  

I think I kept up with him for another mile or so, but that's all I could manage after my Wilma Rudolph impersonation.  It was a start. 

Thousands of kids have come through Falls Creek and other church camps this summer.  As they should be, they are excited about what God has done in their hearts.  They understand that, with God, all things are possible, and they can't wait to change the world!  More power to them.  I know they can, and I hope they do.  In fact, I hope a lot of older folks will catch a vision from these young people and remember what it's like not just to follow Jesus, but to pursue Him with all they have.  

Here is my concern, though.  Human beings are only equipped to maintain a sprint for so long, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual.  We are jars of clay, remember?  Well, these kids don't.  They haven't lived as long as the rest of us, and they might struggle a little when they start to feel the effects of long-term, die-hard obedience to God. 

They could become discouraged.  They might even give up.  Many do.  Why?  Lots of reasons.  Sometimes it's because they don't have anyone to encourage them when they falter.  Sometimes it's because no one teaches them how to develop spiritual disciplines that will sustain them.  Sometimes it's because people dismiss their camp experience, calling it a spiritual "high," a hint of laughter in their voices.  By the way, a spiritual "high" is not a bad thing.  It is not a false experience or an emotional response.  It is simply a sprinting start to a marathon run.

Maybe we should take my dad's approach.  When normalcy sets in for these kids--notice that I didn't say "reality" because what they are experiencing now is very real--and they miss a step or two, maybe we should make more of an effort to encourage them without making them feel silly.  Let's motion them to our side and, with gentleness and patience, show them what it means to walk with Jesus and finish strong.

Why I Don't Drink

 

I've been debating for a long time whether or not to write a blog on drinking.  I have strong feelings on the subject, but no one has ever asked me directly what they are.  For the most part, they assume and then spend the rest of the conversation explaining (sometimes justifying, though I'm not judging) their own choice. 

I had just about decided to let it rest and stick to blog topics that are more universally neutral in the Christian world when a young lady that I care a lot about made a casual comment about my not drinking.  It was clear from her statement that she assumed my decision not to drink had something to do with my affiliation with the Southern Baptist denomination.  I could easily hide behind that.  I believe I have in the past, actually.  However, my decision to abstain from alcohol has nothing to do with my being a Southern Baptist, and I feel compelled to let her and anyone else who might assume the same thing know how I arrived at the decision I've made.  If I don't, I have wasted an opportunity to influence.

Now, this young lady's comment was neither critical nor defensive, so please understand that this post is in no way a counterargument.  It is simply a list of reasons that I do not and will not, at any point in the future, drink.  I hope that those who find themselves undecided or feel a check in their spirit when they consider drinking for reasons they cannot identify will be encouraged and bolstered by what they read. 

To my brothers and sisters who do drink, please do not take offense.  I'm sure that you have weighed and prayed about your decision as well.  I do not think less of you for the decision you've made, but I'm convinced that there are those who find themselves straddling uncomfortably a fence--which seems to have grown taller as of late--that separates people whom they love, trust, and admire.  I know that's not fun.  If I can, I want to help them down on the side that I personally believe will bring them peace and spare them regret.

*  The Bible says not to be drunk, and the line between having a drink and having too many drinks is just too fuzzy.  Drunkenness, or being controlled by alcohol (even for a short time), is something that Christ died to set us free from.  To me, drinking after He did that would be like being released from jail and choosing to frequent the jail parking lot.

*  I don't want to contribute financially to an industry that capitalizes on the pain, neediness, and addiction of anyone.  I know too many people whose lives have either been ruined or forever altered by alcohol.  Though many people are able to drink without becoming addicted, I wonder how many people, without realizing it, have come to depend on alcohol as a social crutch, trading in Christ-centered or even people-centered relationships that might have been for ones that revolve around the consumption of a substance. 

*  Alcohol dulls sensitivity to the Holy Spirit.  Alcohol creates spiritual static, making it hard for me to discern what God might be saying to me, and I never know what He's going to say or when.  Missing a divine appointment because I chose to drink, for me, would be like letting someone drown because I'm busy watching TV. 

*  I don't want to exclude anyone or hinder relationships. People who do drink often exclude those who don't drink when they gather socially.  I like peanut butter, but I don't let it keep me from spending time with friends who have peanut allergies.  I simply don't eat peanut butter when I'm around them.  The effects of drinking often carry over into the next day, causing others to feel as if they are less important than the drinking experience to the one who chooses to drink.   

*  I don't want to point others, particularly my children, toward anything that could potentially become a problem for or hurt them.

*  If I chose to drink, it would be for me, to fulfill my own desires and purposes, which is where every sin issue I've ever had has started.   I just don't want to go there.

* If I broke off a piece of the Loritab, Darvacet, Percacet, or Vicadin in my cabinet every time I felt the need to relax, people would say I had a problem.  I struggle to see how that is any different than pouring a glass of whatever when I feel the need to chill. 

*  I just don't need it.  As a Christian, every freedom is mine in Christ.  In fact, the spiritual yard that the Father has given me to play in is way too huge for me to worry about whether or not to set foot in the 10X10 plot of freedom that is social drinking. 

*  I want to be set apart.  The Bible doesn't say that no one can ever drink, but God does tell several individuals whom He sets apart for higher tasks not to consume alcohol.  There has to be a reason for that.  On some level, He must value abstinence from alcohol, and, hey, if God is taking volunteers for higher tasks, sign me up!

So, there it is.  Do with it what you will, friends, but I felt I had to share.  Let me say again that I do not think less of those who drink. 

It does make me sad, however, when I scroll through my Facebook and Twitter feeds and see that so many young Christians I know are constantly posting pictures of their alcoholic drinks and dropping the names of imported beers and mixed drinks they've consumed. What are they trying to prove?  If they really believe drinking isn't an issue, then why the show and tell? 

What Stephen King Taught Me About Parenting

Stephen King has a son.  Does anyone else find this scary, knowing that he wrote The Shining?  His son's name is Joe Hill.  Actually, his name is Joseph Hillstrom King, but he shortened it.  Why?  He, like his father, is a writer, and he wanted to become famous by his own merit.   He has.  

Joe's writing ability may be inherited, but his love of words was learned.  In the June/July 2013 issue of Writer's Digest, Joe talks about his upbringing.  In this particular interview, Joe says that it was natural to come home every day after school to find both of his parents typing away on their novels--his mother is a successful novelist as well (Petit).  Joe explains, "It just kind of seemed like the most natural thing in the world to go up to my room and play make-believe for an hour on the assumption that eventually you'd get paid for it." In addition, the Kings' dinner table discussion was always about books.  Evenings were spent passing a book around and taking turns reading aloud rather than watching television (Petit).

No wonder Joe is a writer, a very successful one.

I think it's safe to say that Stephen King is one of the last people whose parenting style I would seek to emulate.  I do not want to pick his brain.  In fact, his brain scares me more than a little bit, but there's something to be said for the way he mentored his children, modeling behavior so consistently over time that it seemed the only natural way to live, always backing up words with action.

It got me thinking.  What am I really teaching my children?  When they grow up, what will they describe as being "the most natural thing in the world" as a result of their time at home?  Facing uncertainty with faith?  Responding to hurt with forgiveness?  Meeting need with generosity?  Accepting discipline with humility?  Filtering input with discernment? Answering falsehood with truth?  Overcoming hatred with prayer?  Healing wounds with love? 

I hope so, but I wonder.  

Like everyone else, I'm better at some of those things than others.  Discernment?  Check.   Truth?  Check.  Love?  Check.  Humility?  Hmmm...  Have you read this paragraph so far?  Maybe not humility.  Now that I think about it, I still haven't written that check to support our missionary friends.  Scratch generosity.  And didn't I remind my daughter just yesterday about something so-and-so did way back when?  Ugh.

Scary!

My kids will be adults very, very soon, and I have some serious work to do.  How about you?

No Joke

Those of you who know me know that I HATE practical jokes!  I just don't think that laughing at someone else's expense is okay, probably because I wasn't raised in a family that did that sort of thing.  When an old friend told me that she'd once put fake doggie poop in the floor of her son's room, I was confused.  Why in the world would you do that? 

There are a few harmless pranks that I approve of, however, one of them being the old dollar bill on a string gag, and I'm happy to report that the next generation has fully embraced this one as well as the invisible tug-of-war rope stretched across the road.  I actually tried this one at my friend Angie's house once.  If I remember correctly, we got one car to stop and were so proud. 

Yes, these two timeless pranks will live on, but the boys I observed this morning might need a little coaching.  As I approached them in my vehicle, one boy "dropped" a dollar bill onto the ground from about a foot above (he squatted to ensure proper placement in the exact center of the street) then walked about ten feet away before darting behind the front end of a parked pickup Dick Van Dyke style. 

Subtle. 

Meanwhile, his friend leaned against the tailgate, blocking my view of the license plate, a fishing pole hanging nonchalantly from his right hand.  When I didn't rush out of my car to grab the dollar bill that was cinched in the middle like a bow-tie, he gave the pole a flick, causing the dollar to flutter and scoot closer to him.

Um....okay.

I smiled and drove over the dollar then looked in my rearview mirror.  The young fishermen looked genuinely disappointed that I wasn't interested in making a meal out of a wounded dollar. Too many hours on the pond, I guess. 

If only the enemy were so bungling and benign. 

Though Jesus has given us the ultimate victory over the devil, we've got to watch our step, or we'll fall into one of the devil's traps.  They are well-placed and difficult to detect.  Sure, he strings out dollar bills and glues quarters to the pavement, so to speak, in the form of drugs, sexual promiscuity, thievery, murder, etc.  It's fairly easy to recognize and steer clear of bait like that. 

But the devil is more than a trapper.  He's a hunter, out to kill, steal, and destroy, and he knows how to turn the herd.  He uses us against one another, and, most of the time, we don't even realize that we've helped to bring a brother or sister down. 

Gossip. Jealousy. Slander. Pride. Malice. Deceit. Lust. Self-righteousness.  This is the bait we take, the poison we swallow, the acid that eats us up from the inside out.  Our conversations are laced with it.  We feed it to each other. 

I Wanna Be a Biker Chick

Though I have friends whose husbands own motorcycles, and I know that they like to ride on the back of them, I just haven't ever been able to get into that whole scene.  Maybe it's because my uncle took me on a "joy ride" on his motorcycle when I was sixteen that felt more like a brush with death.  Wearing no helmet, no sunglasses or goggles, no jacket or protective covering of any kind, I clung for dear life to a man whose torso was too large to wrap my arms around. 

He laughed.  I prayed.  Ten minutes later, smelling like exhaust and my uncle's deodorant, I disembarked, struggling to find my land legs and the hair bow that had been on top of my head just moments earlier.  I found one of the two.

Or, maybe the whole motorcycle thing doesn't appeal to me because so many of the biker ladies I see look haggard and worn, like their whole faces need Chapstick.  I wouldn't call myself a girlie girl by any means, but I am a little vain.  I like to look and smell good, and I expect my accessories of choice to stay put.  I choose how to spend my time with these preferences in mind, which means that some things have to go, things like roller coasters, surf boards, and motorcycles.

Then again, if I could sit a Harley with as much grace and femininity as the woman who pulled up next to me at the corner of 178th and Penn the other day, I might decide to be a biker chick after all.  From her bejeweled baseball cap and cascading curls to her black and turquoise, rose-patterned boots, she was the poster-child for girl-power, her small, manicured hands gripping the handlebars like she knew what she was doing. 

I am not a creeper, but I did chase her...just a little bit...to the next stoplight.  I wanted to take her picture, but didn't get the chance.  She must have seen me in her peripheral because she turned and smiled in a very pretty, non-threatening, don't-you-want-to-be-me way.  I have to admit that I did, for just a moment.  Tan and beautiful with teeth as perfect and white as her pearl earrings, she seemed to be having the best time, and I wondered what a bike like that might cost. 

In retrospect, I think we Christians could learn a lot from her. 

I know that we tend to think of ourselves as victims when people say negative things, but could it be that we are partly to blame when people are put off by us?  What image are we projecting?  Do we come across as haggard and worn?  Abrasive and loud?  Mass-produced and boring?  I really don't know.  I'm just going by some of the things I've read on Facebook lately.

Here's what I do know.  The biker chick I saw was not hung up on what it meant to be a biker chick in the traditional sense.  Sure, she adhered to the basic methodology of being a biker--she rode a motorcycle, and she wore protective leather clothing and boots--but the rest of her appearance seemed to suggest that there was a certain freedom to be enjoyed in a subculture that I thought I knew a lot about.  Who knew you could wear jeans with sear-sucker polka-dot pockets and rhinestone studs and ride a Harley?

I think that sometimes we get so caught up in what it means to be a Christian that we fail to live like the individually designed, tremendously blessed, victorious overcomers that we are. We waste time debating disputable matters, licking our wounds, and fortifying our walls of defense to the exclusion of all else.  No wonder people don't want to be in our gang!  They don't realize--because we've failed to show them--that there is tremendous freedom and joy to be found in a personal relationship with the Leader of our pack, Jesus Christ. 

Remember, brothers and sisters, we are miraculously gifted people who serve an infinitely creative and powerful God.  For us, all things are possible.  Our Father takes care of our bullies, and a huge inheritance awaits us when we die.  We've no reason to be timid, mopey, sad, crabby, defensive, judgmental, or angry (just feel sorry for those who don't have what you have or know what you know).  Sure, we feel those things from time to time because we are human and bad things happen, but with God's help, none of us have to stay there. 

Spiritually speaking, I'm about ready for a little "joy ride."  What do you say?  Let's take life by the handlebars and ride it with grace!

Who knows?  Maybe we'll add a few new members to our gang.

Bye Bye, Sweet Lola

The last 24 hours have been rough, to say the least.  Remember little Lola's gimpy leg?  Well, it turns out that her injuries were much more extensive than anyone, including the vet, had imagined.  Long story short, at some point in the past, her leg was broken, and no one did anything about it.  The bones healed separately from one another with space in between.  The vet called it a non-union and said that she would require surgery that would cost more than the car I'm driving.  His guess was that the previous owner had put her outside, hoping that a coyote would make a "snack" out of her so they didn't have to deal with the situation.

(Lump in my throat.)

Our choices?  Let her live like that and hope it didn't hurt her too much or let someone else have her, someone with deeper pockets than ours.  We didn't have to search for that person.  She offered.  She and her family had been praying about getting a dog and felt the time was right, but they wanted to rescue a dog that needed them and hadn't found one yet.  They saw Lola's picture and just had to have her.  Though we know it was the best choice for Lola, it was still a very difficult decision to make. 

I let myself fall in love. 

I bought a doggie purse to carry her around in.  I even stopped in the doggie clothing section at Petsmart, something I swore I would never do again after the Chico incident. (We dressed him like a hot dog for Halloween once.  He was ashamed and hid in the corner.) The only reason I hadn't bought Lola an outfit yet was because I couldn't decide which to get, the Smurfette T-shirt that said "adorable" or the red gingham sundress with the bows at the straps.  Goofy, I know.

I must admit, though, this isn't my first case of the "doggie stupids."  I was a little bit that way when we got Chico, but when we got him, we had just been emotionally burned by a wayward Chihuahua named Fred, a rescue dog that never appreciated anything we did for him.  He was cute, but he was mean and had it in for Hope.  If anything in the house upset him, he would lunge and bark at her. 

Time and time again, Fred dug out of the back yard and ran away.  Once, he was gone for four days.  We were worried sick.  The kids and I wandered the neighborhood calling his name, tears streaming down our faces.  We finally found him at a neighbor's house.  Turns out he and his little Scottie dog girlfriend had been shacking up in the home of an elderly deaf man who had no idea they were there.   

By the time Fred ran away for good, I had had it with him.  I didn't shed a single tear.  I figured that if he didn't come back, he never really belonged to me.  I had certainly done my part and then some!  Only a week before, Fred had run away when I let him out to do his thing in the back yard.  As if he had been planning it, the moment I opened the door, he immediately beat a path to the gate, wriggled underneath it, and ran into the street. Now, we lived on the corner of E. 58th Street and Sheridan in Tulsa at the time, and Sheridan is one of the busiest streets in Tulsa. 

I panicked. 

I didn't like Fred a whole lot, but I didn't want him to die and I sure didn't want to have to tell the kids that Fred had been squashed.  I didn't think.  I just reacted.  Barefoot and only wearing one of Todd's oversized T-shirts as a nightgown, I sprinted after our little prodigal, screaming his name to be heard above the traffic. 

Traffic! 

I was easily a quarter of a mile away from our house before I realized that I was running up Sheridan half-dressed with no make-up and a bad case of bed head. I must have looked like a mad woman on a meth trip, but I kept going, squatting as I ran to try and cover the lower part of me that was catching an early morning chill.  I finally caught him at the Quik Trip at the corner of 51st and Sheridan and decided that was the last time I would ever go chasing after that stupid dog.  It was.

Every time I hear people refer to human beings as "the traitor race," I think of Fred.  I used to find the phrase offensive.  Traitors?  Isn't that a little harsh?  And, a different race?  Weren't we made in God's image? 

We were made in God's image, yes, but not with God's nature.  Greedy and disobedient, mankind misused the freedom God gave us, forsaking our relationship with Him in pursuit of our own desires.  Sure, Adam and Eve went first, but if it hadn't been them, it would have been someone else and then everyone else after that (Romans 5:19).

Fortunately, God loves us.  He loves us so much that He sent Jesus to pay the price for our sin so that we could be redeemed and our relationship to and with Him could be restored (John 3:16).  He rescued us.  As if that weren't enough, the Bible says He "seeks" the lost (Luke 19:10).  He chases us!  Why?  Not because we're awesome--that's for sure--but because He doesn't want anyone to perish (Matthew 18:14). 

Listen, fellow run-away.  God is a much better Master than I am.  His adoption is permanent.  There's nothing He can't fix, and He forgives, no matter how many times you stray.  Are you ready to be caught?