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?