Mentor Me

Church people use the word “discipleship” a lot these days, but not like they used to, and I have to say that I’m kind of glad.  Five or six years ago, it was a buzz word that carried with it a long list of ambiguous and unspoken expectations. 

Frankly, it made me nervous. 

I couldn’t tell for sure because I’d never been formally discipled by anyone, but, depending on whom you observed, those expectations seemed to include spending concentrated time with one specific person of your same gender, discussing predetermined curriculum at length, laying your heart and soul bare by confessing all of your mistakes and doubts, asking for and receiving constructive criticism willingly (if not eagerly), and patterning your life to a certain degree after the example set by your mentor. 

To be honest, none of it appealed to me—I’m an opinionated and passionate introvert that would rather take peanut butter intravenously than participate in such a ritual—and yet I felt left out, envious, less spiritual somehow.   

No one wanted to disciple me, or if they did, they didn’t say so.  Of course, I probably would have taken such an offer as personal criticism.  No matter how sweetly they might have phrased it, I would have heard, “You look like you could use some serious help, and I am way more spiritually mature than you are.  Can I disciple you?”  That would not have gone well for the person asking, I’m afraid.

Now, several women did ask me to disciple them, but I said “no,” probably making them feel just as insecure and left out as I felt.  In my defense, I didn’t know what else to do.  Girl world has always been a bit of a mystery to me, a backdrop against which I have always felt like an ogre let down in delicate Munchkin Land, and this whole “disciple me” craze felt a bit like sorority rush, something I opted out of in college with no regrets.   Besides, I didn’t want to put anyone in a position to have to say to me, “Hey, you are not as cool as I thought you were.  I am breaking up with you now.”  I had enough of that in junior high!

Rather than participate on a formal level, I decided to lay low and “keep on plodding” just like my friend Mich Dershem once advised my husband and me to do.  I focused my attention on knowing Jesus, loving others, taking every opportunity to speak the Truth, and doing my best with God’s help to serve as a living illustration of that Truth in case anyone was paying attention.  

Many women in my life have done just that, and each has had a profound impact on my life just as surely as if we had set out to check off a formal list of discipleship requirements together.   Momma taught me to forgive and to serve.  Mema taught me how to love my husband.  Grandmother taught me that passion and emotion, kept in check, can be good things.  My sister taught me to look for the best in people and love with my whole heart.   The list goes on and on and includes many women outside my family.  My only regret in never having formalized and/or labeled my relationship with these women is that they probably don’t realize what a blessing they have been in my life.  

Please don’t get me wrong.  I recognize the intrinsic value of formal discipleship.  Done well and in the right spirit, it’s a good and potentially beneficial way to pass on the Truth we’ve learned to the next generation, perhaps sparing them some of the grief and pain we experienced while learning it. 

I get it.   

I simply want to encourage those who, like me, find formal discipleship intimidating, a little forced, and sometimes stifling by pointing out that effective discipleship is not a one-size-fits-all garment.  You are no less spiritual than anyone else if your mentor doesn’t know who he/she is.  What’s more, you are loved whether you feel like it or not.

My advice to you?  Watch.  Learn.  Love.  Invest.   In short, keep on plodding, friend, and God will use you.  I promise.

Don't Miss It!

“Those who passed by hurled insults at Him, shaking their heads and saying, ‘So! You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, come down from the cross and save yourself!’”
Mark 15:29

I read this passage this morning and was immediately frustrated with these people.  They were witnessing the front end of the greatest miracle that would ever take place, the most inexplicable act of love that any human being would ever perform, and they were blind to it, callous to it, even disgusted by it.  Why?  Because they didn’t have their facts straight!  They were operating on second-hand information that was grievously skewed by an incorrect pronoun and an inaccurate verb.    

“Jesus answered them, ‘Destroy this temple, and I will raise it again in three days.’” John 2:19

Jesus didn’t say that HE would destroy the temple (which was a metaphor for His body, not the actual temple) and BUILD it again in three days.  He told THEM to destroy the temple and promised to RAISE it again in three days, which He did, in short order! 

If those poor saps at the foot of the cross—not even stopping at the foot, staring up at the Messiah in awe, but PASSING BY—had understood what was going on, they would have been filled with an overwhelming, scalp-tickling sense that the scene before them was one of history-altering significance, life-changing relevance. 

They might have held their breath.  They might have wept.  They might have glimpsed the bigger picture and taken hold of their eternal salvation like the thief on the cross, but they PASSED BY to go get groceries or make dinner or something else completely ridiculous and mundane in light of what was happening at Golgotha.  They missed it!

I can’t help but wonder how often we do the same thing.  How often do we, relying on what someone else says God said to them or an inaccurate meme posted on Facebook/Instagram, miss what God is doing simply because we haven’t taken the time to get our facts straight, to think, to notice, to take in, to ponder and work out our own faith with fear and trembling.  I have a sick feeling that it happens pretty often.  

Preachers are great.  Sunday school teachers are fabulous.  Parents who love the Lord and back up their decisions and discipline with Scripture are a rare and fading treasure.  However, no one is perfect.  We all make mistakes (When I think of some of the Bible studies that I led early on in our ministry, I want to throw up.  How arrogant I was to assume that I knew so much!), and we all interpret what we hear and read in the Bible through the filter of our present circumstances, no matter how objective we try to be.  Add to that the fact that the human tongue is far less eloquent than the Holy Spirit in communicating the profound and unsearchable wisdom of God, and we have a little problem. 

I can tell you what I believe the Bible says.  I can tell you what God is doing in my life.  I can give you advice based on the Scripture that I know and am able to remember in the moment, but I can’t be the Holy Spirit in your life, no matter how badly I might want to be sometimes.  That task has already been assigned.    

This being true, my prayer for you today (and for myself) is that you will stop, open your eyes to what God is doing around you, soften your heart to the Holy Spirit, listen with discernment, and study the Bible for yourself instead of allowing those who think they know to feed you intravenously whatever they wish.  

God is working miracles in the hearts of those who let Him today, friend.  Pay attention.  Don’t miss it!

Three Days Later

I practiced his absence a hundred times during his senior year, when he was at musical practice, when he went to a friend’s house, when he lived in staff housing at camp, but this is different.  I won’t see my son in a few hours.  In fact, I won’t see him for days.  There may come a time very soon that I don’t see him for weeks, a thought I’m just not ready to handle. 

I’m grateful for the times this past year that I thought to myself, ‘Hunter needs to go to college,’ because I don’t feel that way right now, and I need to remember that I had those moments, that, at some point, I knew this was the right thing, the logical, healthy next step.  

I had big plans for his room, you know, and told him so.  Promising not to wipe away all evidence of his existence, I told him that I was going to paint to cover up all of the marks his skateboards and guitar made on the wall.  I told him that I was going to get a new comforter for his bed to replace the faded and worn one I bought at a garage sale when he was five, the one he once said couldn’t sleep without.  I told him I was going to rearrange his pictures, take some down, add my own—properly spaced!—and make the room suitable for guests.   

Amused, he smiled and said, “Okay, Momma, whatever you want.” 

But Hunter’s been gone for three days now, and I can’t even bring myself to make his bed.  His pillowcase smells like his hugs, after all, and I want to pretend that he just got up and is at school with his sister. 

His room is eerily clean.  I can see the carpet, and I hate it.  The walls are bare, and I find myself pining for the over-shellacked John Wayne clock that never worked, the Jolly Roger flag with a mustache, and the Beatles poster that hung on the wall off-center because he wouldn’t let me hang it.  

Whatever I want?  I WANT YOU BACK, SON!  But I can’t have you.  God has big plans for your life that include your being exactly where you are right now, meeting the people you’re meeting, learning the things that you’re learning, and being challenged in the ways you’re being challenged.   He reminds me of this every time my eyes begin to burn with tears, every time my heart squeezes with the pain of separation from my precious baby boy, every time the enemy tries to tell me that I missed something along the way. 

Oh, I go ahead and cry—you know I do—and my heart still aches—it takes my breath away sometimes—and I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking of things that I could have done better, but I find peace in this.  I did the best I knew how in the moment.  I loved you with everything that I had and pointed you to the Father at every turn, sometimes in desperation, sometimes in anger, sometimes in fear, but always with confidence, knowing that He loves you more than I--although I’ll admit I can’t imagine a love that big!

Somehow, I’ll make it through this transition, Hunter.  You will, too.  You may be fine with it already. (But don’t tell me just yet if you are! Haha!)  I’ll wash your sheets, make your bed, and paint the walls…I’ll even stop turning the lights on and off when I think you would have. 

In the meantime, in your absence, I’ll choose to rest in His presence and let Him bring me peace.  I pray you’ll do the same, sweet boy, just like we practiced.  

That Moment When...

Pepa went to be with Jesus two months before our boy was born, but I still think I see him from time to time.  When it happens, my heart thumps into sudden, rapid rhythm and I am powerfully drawn, the longing for his hug, his smile, his familiar chuckle of approval so intense that my eyes begin to tear. 

Taking a step and craning my neck for a better look, I know I'm being ridiculous. I know that Pepa is gone, but I still hope.  Inevitably, the handsome stranger turns, revealing a profile that's not quite right, a receding hairline that Pepa never had, eyes that lack his mischievous twinkle, and in those moments, I mourn one of the sweetest men that I will ever know all over again.

I think I see Jesus sometimes, too. 

When a father disciplines his child with love and restraint, when a young man extends grace to adults who suspect and mistreat him, when a woman truly forgives and forgets, when a girl gives up her place in the social circle to befriend someone who has been left out...when things like this happen, my soul lifts.  My heartbeat quickens. 

It's Him!  It's Jesus, loving on people through His faithful ones, and in those moments I rejoice in the fact that my Savior lives all over again!!