Sand and Feathers

Do you ever feel like every good deed you’ve done, everything encouraging word you’ve spoken, every productive idea you’ve ever had amounts to nothing, as if the years you have spent striving, praying, trusting, yielding, and encouraging are no more than a pile of sand and feathers, easily blown away by a single mistake? 

One impatient moment and you are suddenly the mother who doesn’t listen rather than the faithful sounding board you wanted to be and thought you had been for eighteen years.  One weak moment and you are the teacher who raised her voice and made everyone feel uncomfortable minutes before the start of Christmas break rather than the one who allows her students to start each day with a clean slate without showing favoritism.  One vulnerable confession and you are the one who is too sensitive rather than the one who has kept silent many times out of respect.  One honest observation and you are the critical wife instead of the one who regularly prays for the Holy Spirit’s intervention by other means so that her words won’t be the ones to wound.  

Obviously, I’ve been there (like in the last five minutes), and I’ve asked myself why I even bother countless times.  Sometimes, I fantasize about picking my sister up and taking an open-ended vacation.  Where we would go, I’m not sure.  I do know that we would talk and eat and drive and not worry, for once, about anyone’s needs but our own, and that is where the daydream comes to an abrupt end.  I know I’ll never pick up and go like that, no matter how tempting it might be at times. 

The truth is that I consider it a privilege to be Todd’s wife, Hunter and Hope’s mom, Bob and Karen’s daughter, and a middle school English teacher to the specific students on my roster.  I feel called to each of these roles and, for the most part, get a lot of pleasure out of fulfilling my responsibilities within them.   I also believe, deep down in my heart, that my obedience counts for something, that it is significant.  It doesn’t earn my salvation--God already took care of that--and it doesn’t earn me any kind of spiritual promotion in the Kingdom.  It does, however, make me Jesus' friend, according to Scripture, and He is the best kind of friend to have. 

Patient and kind, God is way more forgiving of my mistakes than I am.  In fact, along with all of the positive in my life, He weaves my mistakes into His master plan.  How does that work?  I’m not exactly sure.  It’s one of the things I can’t wait to find out when I get to Heaven, but I have given it a lot of thought.  This is what I’ve come up with so far. 

If you are like me, then you tend to praise yourself when you do well and keep a mental tally of the selfless acts you’ve performed (see above if you don’t know what I mean) even if you hate the fact that you do it.  Over the years, I know I’ve built some pretty impressive monuments to myself, complete with shiny, engraved base plates that read “Angela Sanders.”  King Nebuchadnezzar has nothing on me!

Knowing that, I think maybe God allows and uses our mistakes to remind us that we are fragile and flawed and that His name, not ours, belongs on any sand and feathers that we manage to amass. When we write His name on the good in our lives, we are forced to look at what is left and see ourselves for what we are, imperfect people, capable of and predisposed to wounding others just as they have wounded us.  It takes the wind out of our sails, freeing us to love and forgive as we should, for our good and His glory, an eternal glory that will not blow away.         

Not Excited About Christmas

I’m not excited about Christmas.  There.  I said it. 

The troubling thing is that I seem to be the only one.  So far, I’ve watched three people tear up with joy and awe at the reading of the Christmas story, heard a student squeal at the mention of Christmas morning, and listened to countless songs sung by adults who, apparently, have never lost the feeling of giddy anticipation we all felt as children.  Everyone seems to be experiencing with startling intensity the same “Christmas feeling” this year.  

Me?  Not one tear.  Not one shiver.  Not one warm fuzzy to speak of.  What do I feel?  It’s hard to describe.  My family refers to it as “letting down.” You know, like a person might do after finishing a big project or finding out that their test results were negative or closing on a house?  Shaky limbs.  Fatigue.  The fading heat of effort in my cheeks?  Only I feel that in my heart.  

What am I “letting down” from?  Well, once again, like the Galatians, I’ve been trying to earn the salvation I already possess—free and clear, mind you—because of what Jesus Christ did for me on the cross.  I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve been working hard to impress my Creator.  Now, if that isn't neurotic narcissism, I don’t know what is.  

If Dr. Phil were here, he would ask, “So, how’s that workin’ for ya’?”  

I would have to say, “Not very well!”

The harder I try to be perfect, the more unimpressive I find myself.  Not only am I not perfect; I’m not even good.  Like the apostle Paul, I keep on messing up.  So frustrating!

Okay, now lean in a second.  I’m going to let you in on a weird little secret of mine.  In my heart of hearts, I wish that I could be good for one whole day on my own, make no mistakes without God’s help, and wrap that day up in a bow.  Then I would feel like I really had something to offer God, a Christmas present of sorts from me to Him.  I could scratch my name on the bottom, and He could put it high on a shelf, look at it every once in a while, and think, “That’s from Angela.  How beautiful!  My, but she must love me.”  

But, it just doesn’t work that way. 

According to Scripture, the best I can do on my own is as filthy rags.  That’s why the Father sent His son Jesus to live a perfect life, die on the cross as a sacrifice for my sin, and conquer the grave.  He knew I couldn’t get to Heaven on my own or facilitate my own spiritual adoption, so He made a way for me to be rescued, to be saved.  As if that weren’t enough, He gave me the faith to believe, forgave me when I confessed my need for Him, and made me a permanent member of His family.  He took care of everything!

So, what am I experiencing this holiday season? I think it’s relief, a perfectly appropriate Christmas feeling now that I think about it, tears, shivers, and warm fuzzies or not.  I pray the same for you. 

Slush

This morning, Todd found his car in a new spot.  At first, he thought someone had moved it as a joke--an oh-so-funny teenage son perhaps? 

Then, he remembered. 

When we got home from the store last night, something weird had happened.  Todd put the car in park, and it groaned and slid backward a couple of inches before crunching to a stop in the barely visible frozen precipitation.  We looked at each other and shrugged. The driveway was slushy, but the ice wasn't solid.  There didn't seem to be any significant risk, so we left the car where it was and began to lug groceries from the trunk to the front door.  We never gave it another thought.  

Apparently, either while we were watching Elf in our pajamas or were fast asleep in our bed, the slush carried his car to the end of the driveway where it finally stopped on a dry patch.  Todd is just relieved that it didn't slide into the street.  There was no harm done, really, but it could have been worse, all because we didn't make the extra effort to make sure the car was on solid, dry ground.

The first chapter of 2 Peter is one of my favorite Bible passages because it speaks to God's grace and generosity in giving us everything we need to "participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires." It also lines out very clearly what we should be focusing on and working on--yes, I said "work," as the passage uses the word "effort"--if we hope to grow spiritually and become confident, effective, productive followers of Christ.

We Christians like to talk about the work that God is doing in our hearts and about the fact that He wants to use us for His glory.  We tend to pair the subject "God" with active verbs and assign ourselves a passive role in our faith, hyper-focusing a little on personal surrender, worship, and the concept of "being" over "doing."  To our credit, many of us do so to avoid getting too caught up in the works side of things. 

While we depend on God alone for our salvation, the fact still remains that God expects us to take an active role in our own spiritual growth.  According to 2 Peter, if we don't put forth the effort, not only will we become uproductive and ineffective in the Kingdom, but we will begin to doubt our salvation and forget who we are in Christ.  We will lose ground and leave ourselves open and vulnerable to the Enemy. 

It's relatively easy to go to church, fellowship with Christian friends, give money, and/or complete a Bible study when you know that someone will be checking on you, but God has called us to more, goodness, knowledge, self-control, perseverance, godliness, brotherly kindness, and love, to be exact, characteristics that can only be acquired through the practical application of Truth.  The Father expects His children to "participate in the divine nature" in an intentional way. 

Obedience.  It's where we find our spiritual footing.  It's how we gain traction.  It's what keeps us from sliding out into the street.

Most of All

When I was a little girl, I felt sorry for people who weren't Christians.  Most of the people I knew were Christians, and it seemed that those who weren't lived a lonely, frustrating life.  Though I had to be by myself sometimes, too, I knew that I was never really alone, that I would never have to feel lonely in my heart like they did because Jesus would keep me company, warm my heart from the inside out, and remind of good things like Heaven and the fact that God would set everything bad in the world right someday. 

People who didn't know Jesus didn't have that, and I wanted it for them, so much so that I shared Jesus as often as possible.  My sister and I made it our mission to make sure that our friends knew about Jesus so that they could be included in God's family.  We loved our friends and wanted to take them with us to Heaven, so we told our friends how to give their hearts to Jesus at our house, at slumber parties, and other places.  Many of them did.

I didn't even care if people thought I was weird.  In fact, I'm not sure the thought occurred to me until I was in high school.  Even then, even when I was in the middle of what I know now was a rebellious period in my life, I didn't hesitate to use phrases like "God told me" and "the Bible says." If people didn't like it, they never said so.  On the contrary, they seemed mildly to moderately interested in what I had to say, almost like they were holding their options open even if they weren't quite ready to trade in their right to themselves for the salvation that I had.  

Things are a little different now.  I'm more aware of the fact that being a Christian puts me in the minority, and it's a little more of a struggle on the inside for me to stand up and say what the Holy Spirit lays on my heart sometimes.  I guess I care more than I should what people think.

But I still feel sorry for people who aren't Christians.  It isn't a judgmental kind of sorry, but the kind of sorry that I feel when I see a woman being mistreated by her husband in public.  I don't think less of her or look down my nose at her.  I simply wish that I could help in some way, release her from any obligation to the husband that obviously doesn't love her as much as he probably claims, if at all.  But that's not my place.  My hands are tied, and I'm sure it's more difficult to break free from that kind of relationship than I could possibly imagine.  

Here's the good news.  There IS something I can do for the people I see in bondage to the Enemy, those who are slaves to sin, the same sin that would have control of me right now if Jesus hadn't set me free, the same sin that tempts me every single day like an illicit lover, trying to make me forget Whose I am.  All I have to do is speak the Truth of the Gospel.  All they have to do is give up what they know for what they've been promised. 

That's where my hands are tied. 

All I can do is say it and, with the Holy Spirit's help, live it.  How others choose to respond to God is up to them; how they choose to respond to me is up to them as well.  They may think I'm weird, loving someone I can't see, putting my faith in an invisible God to save me, and working so hard to please Him when all I ever seem to do is fail and open myself up to public criticism.  They may pull away.  They may become angry or frustrated with me for reasons they can't explain.  They may even lash out, which has been the case most recently, but it really doesn't matter. 

I still have to share. 

I don't want them to be lonely anymore.  I want them to be my brothers and sisters and have Heaven and a perfect world to look forward to when they are feeling discouraged, but most of all, I want Jesus to warm their hearts from the inside out. 

Before They Swallow

Friday night, the Sanders four trekked up to Stillwater to take part in Oklahoma State University’s Walk Around festivities, a time-honored tradition.  It’s similar to a giant parade, only the floats are stationary and the people are mobile.   Before hitting the streets, we stopped to eat at Eskimo Joe’s, another OSU tradition.  Apparently, everyone else had the same idea, but the night was young (when we arrived) and we were willing to wait (for a while). 

About thirty minutes into our two-hour wait, having already browsed the sale racks, we found ourselves huddled at the doorway separating the T-shirt shop from the restaurant, surrounded by parties of four to six with identical glassy stares. 

Desperate for a little diversion, I began to people watch.  The party of eleven to our right was just the entertainment I needed.  Two little girls--cousins, I think—bedecked in orange and black from their feathery ponytails to their sparkly shoelaces cruised laps around a large, square coffee table in the center of several benches.  As they walked their hands around the table, they jabbered to an equally bedazzled yet bedraggled woman holding a hot pink diaper bag in her lap, kiddie cups with bendy straws in either hand.    

For the longest time, the woman listened and responded to the girls absently, her wide eyes fixed on a portrait and framed letter from Laura Bush just inches from my head.  Suddenly, she blinked and refocused on the girls.  They had stopped moving and were arguing over something, a giant cup twice as big as theirs.  Slurping eagerly, the oldest held the other off with a jutted hip, her face a study in concentration.

“Wait!” The woman shouted over the roar of the crowd, “That’s not yours, Hallie!” 

Hallie kept slurping, both hands holding the giant cup.  The woman quick-scanned the table as only a mother can do and gasped, “That’s not MY cup either!  Hallie, where did you get that?” 

The commotion got the attention of a man sitting near them.  When he saw what was happening, he sat up straight and grabbed the cup away from Hallie, terrifying her in the process.  As blue-eyed Hallie backed against her mother, the woman questioned the stranger, “What was in that cup?” 

He didn’t answer, but shook his head and made a face as if to say, You don’t want to know, and went back to playing games on his phone. 

Unsure what to do, the woman let out a little groan and looked at Hallie with concern.  “THIS,” she whined, holding out one of the kiddie cups, “THIS is your cup!  YOU drink out of THIS!”  But it was too late.  Hallie had already swallowed, and I felt sorry for the woman who would lie awake all night hoping the little girl was okay and wishing she had kept better watch.

Not ten minutes later, I got a shock of my own.  My almost eighteen-year-old son Hunter and I were sharing a doorjamb, leaning at adjacent angles, our heads just inches apart.  

“Oh, Mom,” he began, making small talk, “I read something interesting the other day.”  I turned my head his direction to hear him better and settled in for one of our chats, still perusing the crowd.  

With passing interest, he told me about an interview he had read.   A minute or so into his monologue, my brain snapped back into focus.  I realized what he was saying and panicked like the woman with two toddlers and a diaper bag.  Suddenly, I lost all interest in the parties around me. 

My son was expressing an interest, passing though it was, in a very worldly philosophy of marriage, that it was a burden and possibly not worth the commitment.   Though he hadn’t been swayed by what he’d heard, he had retained the information and was obviously still processing it days later.  My heart pounded in my chest, and I tried not to overreact. 

Surely he can hear himself, I thought to myself.  Surely he knows that the junk he’s currently swilling around in that brain of his is toxic.  Surely he won’t swallow.   

I didn’t wait to find out.    

With all the grace and finesse of someone performing the Heimlich on a fat man, I opened my mouth and promptly slapped the world right out of the boy with my tongue.   I don’t remember what I said, but I know that I left no room for doubt…or further conversation. 

For the next little while, simmering in Hunter’s silence, I went back and forth between being frustrated with myself for losing my cool and feeling justified in my response.  On one hand, I know that I’ve got to let go of Hunter at some point, trust God to remind him of the Truth he’s been taught, and trust Hunter to make God-honoring decisions.  On the other hand, he’s not gone yet.  The apron strings may very well be cut, but you’d better believe if there’s a fin sticking out of the water, I’m going to yell, “Shark!” 

Next year, Hunter will be on his own, a student at Oklahoma State University, establishing traditions of his own and forging his own path.  I may not be able to keep watch every minute.  At that point, I wouldn’t even want to try, but in the meantime, I can make sure he knows which cup is His.    

Just Because

I am a writer, minister's wife, and English teacher, so it's very hard for me to read or process anything without picking it apart, putting it into lesson form, or grading it.  As much as I hate to admit it and people will hate to hear it, I do use a red pen in my head when people talk.  Compulsively, I reorder misplaced and dangling modifiers, correct double negatives (more people do this than you might think), and force subjects and verbs to agree. 

On that topic (sorry...can't help myself), when deciding whether to use the words "there are" or "there is (there's),"  look at the noun or pronoun following the verb.  If it is plural, use "there are."  If it is singular, use "there is."  For instance, there is (there's) a bird on the roof, but there are birds on the telephone line.  Please don't tell me there's birds in the tree.  That's free. You're welcome. 

I also analyze sermons, force television shows into plot diagrams, and bullet-point casual conversation in my head. It's weird, I know, but I'm just wired that way.  More and more, I think I was put on this earth to communicate the abstract, to bring order to chaos, and to teach and equip anyone who wants to learn what I know--which isn't always a lot! When I'm doing these things, I'm at my best, full of energy, purposeful, happy, but there is a down side.  It's hard to turn off even for a little while. 

I would love to be able to watch a movie without looking for anachronisms or have a conversation without wondering whether the flow is inductive or deductive.  I'd especially like to have a personal Bible study without wondering what might be the best way to teach the passage I'm reading to children, teenagers, then adults and what illustrations and/or analogies might really drive the point home. 

I know there's a good chance that I'm the only one that does these things, but I feel pretty confident that I'm not the only one who finds myself approaching Bible study with distant objectivity from time to time.  If you've ever thought to yourself, "That'll preach," "So-and-so needs to hear this," or "Well, maybe I'm just a three-point Calvinist," then you are a little more like me than you might realize. 

Sorry.

No, really, I am.  I'm sure that you, like me, are a little jealous when you hear people talking about their quiet time as if they just had coffee with God.  I'm sure that, every once in a while, you'd like to hang out with Jesus, too, and just enjoy His company like other people do instead of feeling like you are studying for a test or packing your bags against impending doom and destruction every time you pick up your Bible. 

If so, let me encourage you.  Now, this won't seem like a big deal or anything new to those of you who have been blessed with the ability to "let go and let God" with minimal conscious effort, but you type A personalities (and ministerial types) might benefit from the recent breakthrough I had. 

Some friends of mine recently lost their son to leukemia (it's actually a much longer story than that).  Their pain is too great and too profound for me to even attempt to capture it in words, so I won't try.  Anyway, the daddy of this sweet child mentioned in a Facebook post that he had been listening to a voice message on his cell phone over and over just to hear his precious son's raspy little voice again.

Reading this, I felt my friend's pain--at least in part--for a split second and bawled like a baby.  

I get it.  There's nothing more comforting than hearing a loved one's voice.  When my husband Todd is out of town, I wait for his call like a teenager.  The pictures on my phone are not enough.  When my kids are sad or struggling, I have to hear their voices to know if they are really okay.  When I'm upset about something and trying to be brave about it, my mother's voice is my undoing.  I have dozens of pictures of my grandparents, but the occasional dreams in which I hear their voices are treasured gifts. 

What I really want is to hear God's voice. 

I know He's near as surely as I know the ground I'm standing on is solid.  I feel His presence.  I see His reflection in the world around me.  I have no doubts. 

But I want to hear His voice. 

I've been told that the Bible is God's love letter to mankind, to me.  Now, I could argue against that statement if I were feeling ornery, but I won't.  It's a nice thought, and, on some level, it's true.  However, I realized that I've been approaching my Bible like a textbook, a horoscope at times, and I've been missing out. 

So, I'm trying something new.  Throwing my normal Bible study habits out the window for now, I've started picking up my Bible and reading it just because, no daily reading requirement, no list of questions to answer, no writing project or Sunday school lesson in mind.  When my writer, minister's wife, English teacher self shows up,  I tell her to hush and take a seat.

In doing so, I've experienced in a fresh way something I already knew to be true.  Did you know that the ragged, twenty-year-old study Bible that's traveled with me to school, camp, church, etc., the one I read every day is, in fact, the inspired Word of God?  I'd almost forgotten.  In essence, it is a printed recording of my Heavenly Father's voice.  When I open my heart and allow the Holy Spirit to bring it to life, I hear God's voice, feel the vibrations of it in my soul much as I imagine a deaf person experiences the voice of a loved one by placing his fingers gently hands on their throat and watching their mouth move. 

A miracle, really.

While it's true that His words are sometimes difficult to accept--like everyone else, I need a lot of correction--I love the feel of my Father's voice and welcome anything and everything He wants to say to me, pleasant or unpleasant though it may be to hear in the moment.

He loves me, and I trust Him. 

Like a lullaby, God's Word soothes my soul.  Like affection, His voice thrills my heart.  Lately, I can't get enough, and I keep reading just because. 

No Loopholes

One of the biggest challenges of being a middle school teacher is trying to remember not knowing something that you have known for almost all of your life so that you can teach it to someone who doesn't know it yet.  What seems to be common sense to me is often new to my students, even basic instructions.

Last week, I gave a short quiz on the five stages of the writing process.  It was just about as straight-forward as a quiz can get.

Here is the definition.  What is the term?  Here is an example of one stage of the writing process. Name the stage.  

Easy, huh?  I guess it depends on who you are.  When we were grading this quiz (I let them grade their own papers before I look at them so they know where they need to improve), I got all of the questions that I expected. 

"Mrs. Sanders, do we count off for spelling?"

"Mrs. Sanders, do you care if it's not capitalized?" 

"Mrs. Sanders, is there anything that I can do for extra credit?  I forgot to study." 

The answer to all of these questions is "no" on a quiz like this, and they know it.  They still ask.  

However, I got a question this time that threw me a little.  "Mrs. Sanders, do we count it wrong if we didn't put anything in the blank?"

Pause.  

"Um, yes," I answered, trying not to make a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me face.  I honestly never thought to tell students that they had to answer every question or it would be counted wrong. I thought that was a given.

"But Mrs. Sanders," the boy pressed, "I didn't give a wrong answer."  He raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly, confident he'd found a loophole.

I looked around for support from my other students.  Surely I wasn't the only one who thought this line of questioning was ridiculous.  All I got back were blank stares, amused expressions, and shrugs that told me they thought the kid had a point.   

I thought for just a second before answering.  "You are looking for the presence of a right answer," I explained, "not the absence of a wrong answer.  If you don't see a right answer, count it wrong."  

The light dawned, the boy's eyebrows lowered, and amused expressions all over the room morphed into looks of begrudging admiration.   

Thinking back over that conversation, I have to wonder whether this boy's approach to test taking isn't the same one that so many people who are deciding whether or not to give their lives to Christ are taking to eternal questions.  Do they think that if they simply don't take a stance on spiritual matters, they can't be wrong and won't be punished for their sin?

If so, that's a problem.  There is no neutral ground with God.  The Bible says that you are either for Him or against Him.  

One day, every one of us will stand before God and answer for our sin.  When that day comes, only those who have placed their faith in Jesus Christ to save them and given their lives to serve Him will pass the test.   

I think it goes without saying that those who openly renounce God, choosing a faith that opposes the Truth of Scripture outright, will not enter Heaven.  People who do that understand that they are placing their bets on someone other than Jesus to save them.  They know that if they are wrong, they'll lose out on what Christians have been promised, though many don't fully grasp the weighty reality of hell. 

But what about those who sit the fence their whole lives, unsure whom to believe and too apathetic to seek the Truth for themselves?   What about those who know the Truth but put off making a decision for Christ, assuming they have all the time in the world to commit, and then find out they didn't have as much time as they thought? 

Tragically, they will discover that you can't leave eternal questions blank. 

And it will be too late. 

Jesus is the only answer for sin that God can and will accept.  Without Him, we are lost.  No loopholes.