Now I Know Better

I used to think I could really sing, but now I know better.  Now, certain friends and family members of mine would argue with this statement, so let me clarify.  I sing well enough.  I sing well enough to harmonize with my husband and kids in the car, well enough to sing out during the acapella part of the worship set at church, and well enough to sing a phrase or two in front of my seventh grade students to illustrate a point.  I would add lullabies to this list, but I was once silenced by my two-year-old daughter as I sang her to sleep.  Her mouth full of pacifier, she didn’t make a sound, but instead covered my mouth mid-chorus with her chubby little hand.  Smiling politely from behind her paci, she closed her sleepy eyes, let her little arm fall against me, and drifted off to sleep.

Like I was saying, I used to think I could sing.  As a matter of fact, when I was just seven, I felt ready for the stage.  I had been singing my whole life, after all.  I had a microphone of my very own and everything.  Then, one Sunday evening, a woman in my mother’s church ensemble got sick and couldn’t make it to their performance.  Convinced that it was meant to be, I was glad that I had chosen to wear my special bell-bottomed overalls with the red rick-rack trim that evening.  All the way to church, I begged my mother to let me take the woman’s place. 

From the back seat of our station wagon, I made my case.  “Please, Mommy,” I pleaded through the gap where my front tooth had been only weeks before, “I can do it!  I don’t sound like a little girl anymore.  I sound just like you.  Listen.”  Smoothing my long braids to each side, I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and filled the car with my loudest and best vibrato.  I tried very hard to sing with emotion like the Gaithers did, adding a twang here and a breathy note there.  For effect, I ended my audition with an extra long note that took a couple of breaths to complete. 

When I finally ran out of air, I opened my eyes.  My little sister sat beside me on the bench seat wide-eyed and silent, her mouth hanging open, no doubt amazed by my talent.  Anxiously, I met my mother’s gaze in the rearview mirror.  She didn’t applaud, but I knew why.  She needed her hands to drive.

I don’t remember how she turned me down, but she did and managed not to hurt my feelings in the process.  I remember feeling genuinely sorry for the ladies that they would have to go on without me.  I never once thought that the problem might be me. 

I also used to think that I was spiritually mature.  For instance, I remember being a child who never took the Lord’s name in vain and thinking that those who did must love the devil.  I remember putting money in the plate and wondering why the person next to me didn’t.  I remember memorizing Bible verses with my family and taking every opportunity to quote them in front of people that I knew did not memorize Bible verses with their families.    

Of course, I was just a child when I did those things, but my childish behavior didn’t stop when I grew up.  In college, even after having made some terrible mistakes of my own, I was still quick to compare myself to others in areas that I felt I had mastered, praying, reading my Bible regularly, and loving people whom some had trouble loving.  Years later, as a minister’s wife, I was a little too quick to judge and correct at times, wearing my position like a policeman’s badge when I was feeling particularly spiritual. Looking back, I know that God worked through me during that time, but it hurts to think that He worked in spite of my faults, not as a result of my noteworthy obedience and faithfulness.  Honestly, on this side of that chapter in my life, I wish I had it to do over again.  I would be kinder, more patient, more forgiving, and more hospitable this time around.  Although I truly loved the people in the churches where we were blessed to serve, this time I would love them more sincerely and sacrificially.

Even now, I would like to say that I have learned my lesson and grown up a little bit, but just this morning, a fellow believer did something that caused me to shake my head and “tsk” to myself.  Before I knew it, my pride puffed up like an inflatable life jacket and almost choked me, and I am beginning to think that spiritual maturity is not something that can be reached this side of Heaven.  Maybe, as we struggle side by side to be what God created us to be, we should all just assume that we’ve a long way to go before we are ready to invite the applause of others and just focus on the task at hand.  Maybe then there would be unity and peace and progress in the Church.  Don’t you agree?  If not, that’s fine. Maybe you are not the problem. Maybe it’s just me.

Lotion on My Toothbrush

This has been a lotion on my toothbrush kind of day so far.  I am so distracted by the heavy dose of this world that I’ve been forced to swallow over the past week that I am having trouble focusing on the simplest of tasks.  Gossip, slander, anger, brawling, greed, lasciviousness, and malice, those are the wolves at my heels, and I am shaken and weary from the battle. 

A few weeks back, I saw a man on television.  His house had been hit by a tornado.  The outside had been ripped off and scattered over miles.  He and his wife had survived only because their bedroom was located beneath the heavy central beam of the house, and I can’t help feeling as if the only reason I survived this week is because I am covered by the strong and constant central beam of Jesus in my life. 

The Bible says not to be surprised by the suffering that we will face, and yet I find that I am.  I guess I didn’t expect the suffering to be quite so personal.  When people do and say things to me because I’m a Christian, referencing God and challenging me verbally, I feel strong.  I know my Jesus, and I know my Bible.  It’s almost exciting when I get the chance to stand up for my Defender.  However, when the attacks have nothing to do with my faith and are intensely personal, I don’t always know how to respond.  It is not exciting, and I do not feel strong. 

Instead, I feel as if my bricks and shingles have been strewn about, my heart exposed.  In those moments, I know I have a choice.  I can respond to the world the way the world has responded to my presence, leveling people to their vulnerable core with my sharp tongue, the part of my flesh that I struggle to suppress the most, or I can cling to the central beam of Jesus, whispering prayers to the One who always hears me and forcing myself to weather the storm in a way that honors Him.

Here is what I have learned this week.  The world is not impressed by anything that we Christians would choose to bring to show and tell if given the chance.  They don’t care that we don’t cuss, get drunk, or see rated R movies, and they don’t care whether or not we attend church regularly.  They are unimpressed by our tithing, and don’t care how we choose to educate our children.  I’m starting to think that much of what we work so hard to achieve as Christians does little to actually further the kingdom of God.  It’s all good and keeps our armor clean, so to speak.  God commands us to be holy, after all, but it is not the battle that the Bible talks about our having to fight.  

I think the world is tired of listening to us talk about things that are only important to us.  They want to see whether the Jesus that we confess is actually willing and able to sustain us in the ugliness and unpredictability of real life, the kind of mess that they have to deal with every day.  So, they do not shield us.  Honestly, I think they watch, instead.  In a sense, the battle of every day is where the real show and tell of our faith takes place.  When we are able, in God’s strength, to bless those who curse us, forgive those who hurt us, and pray for our enemies, we display a power beyond our own, one that humans do not possess in and of themselves.  We give the Holy Spirit the opportunity to reveal to on-lookers the God-shaped void in their own hearts, and in so doing, bring glory to the Father.

The Bible tells me to consider it pure joy when I face trials of many kinds.  Well, I guess if those trials bring me closer to my Jesus, the One who loves me most, and bring glory to the Father, then I’ll just rely on God for the strength and grace to keep on fighting, but I’m going to have to start keeping the lotion somewhere else. 

Shoe Joy

I love to watch little kids play.  A couple of days ago, while at the mall, I got a weird foot cramp and used it as an excuse to sit on one of the benches inside the children’s play area.  Laying my bags down at my feet, I settled near the entrance to the playground and was shortly joined by a big-eyed little boy with crazy black hair.  He was adorable in the way that baby orangutans are adorable.  

He didn’t seem to notice me, but kept his dark eyes fixed on the entrance, a shoe box in his lap.  He leaned forward in anticipation and worked his little lips side to side as he watched the feet of the children who entered.  Soon, a pale little boy with wavy, red hair and impossibly green eyes skipped into the playground. 

Immediately, the big-eyed boy pounced.  Invading the little ginger’s personal space, he stared into the startled face and pointed at his shoes.  A little too loudly, he asked, “Hey, are those new shoes?”

The little boy smiled and stuck out his foot, proudly displaying faux leather sandals that couldn’t have been out of the box for more than twenty minutes.  “Yes!” he replied, happy that someone had noticed.  “My mommy got them for me!”

Little Mowgli licked his lips.  “They’re cool!” he approved, nodding.  “My mommy got me some shoes today, too.  They’re Skechers!  Wanna see ‘em?”  Eagerly and with fumbling fingers, he opened the shoebox and held up new blue and black Skechers.  His smile faded when he saw that his new friend had already skipped away.

Shrugging, Mowgli determined not to let one person’s response steal his shoe joy.  Instead, he settled on his bottom and crammed his socked feet into his new shoes.  Backwards.  Toes pointing in opposite directions like wooden signs at a fork in the road, he ran to join the other children, stopping every ten feet or so to stare down at his feet and wiggle his toes, undoubtedly trying to figure out why they felt different than they did in the store.  

Eventually, the boy’s mother noticed his error and helped him unscramble his feet.  For the rest of the half hour that I spent in the children’s play area, little Mowgli reveled in his new shoes, showing every child that slowed down for half a second his “awesome Skechers.”  Some kids nodded.  Some kids looked at him like he was crazy (I think it was the hair) and moved on.  Some squatted to admire. 

By the time I left, every shiny, painted foam element in the playground had a new name.  The leopard had become the Skecher Leopard, the daisies, Skecher Flowers, and the boat, The Skecher Boat.  Many of the children got caught up in the excitement and followed their Skecher-clad friend around Pied Piper style in a giggling, chanting single-file line.  It seemed that almost everyone had caught Skecher fever.  A few sat on their foam elements and scowled, but you can’t please everyone, right?    

You know, I remember the last time that I got that excited about the shiny, new life that God has given me through Jesus.  It’s not that hard.  Actually, it was only last week, not that anyone around me could tell.  I didn’t exactly know how to express what I was feeling and thinking, so I said nothing.  I don’t think I’m the only one.

I think the trouble is that we, as Christians, try so hard not to offend others with our faith that we end up robbing them and ourselves of a lot of happiness and joy.  We waste time looking for the non-existent perfect opening before talking about Jesus at all, and even then, we mull over the words we should say until we psyche ourselves out and stay quiet instead, convinced that we need more evangelistic training before starting a conversation with such potentially eternal impact.  

Honestly, I think we’ve made entirely too big a deal out of “sharing Jesus.”  Why can’t we, in our mountaintop moments, just come out with it, like little Mowgli did?  What’s wrong with saying something like, “Hey, guess what my Heavenly Father did for me today,” or “Can I just tell you how awesome Jesus is?”  Absolutely nothing. 

However, if we ever do get comfortable talking about Jesus as casually and as often as the people around us discuss family problems and antidepressant prescriptions, the responses that we get will probably be mixed.  Some will nod politely.  Others will look at us like we are crazy, and some will really listen.  Hopefully, some will become followers themselves.  Sure, some will resist our Jesus joy and choose instead to sit back and scowl at us, but you can’t please everyone, right?