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Never Say Never

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I stood outside on the patio at church on a Sunday a few months ago, and vehemently stated, “I will never volunteer in kid’s ministry again.”

My eyes filled with tears as frustration coursed through my body. Now “NEVER” is a bold statement for a ministry wife who is expected to serve with a smile, but at the time I meant it. I was done. My bucket—empty!

It’s not that I don’t like munchkins—I love kids—but a bad experience with a parent got under my skin and it messed with me. A new parent not familiar with our childcare system lost his claim tag to pick up his kid. If you’ve ever been to Chuck E Cheese or Ikea you know the concept—basically you drop off the kid, get a tag, and pick up the kid with the proper check in ticket. This alleviates child abduction by a non-custodial parent and no one but you takes home your precious little angel (or monster) depending on your parenting paradigm.

Anyway the guy lost his claim tag and I very nicely asked him to get another one. I had a large class of kids and I obviously couldn’t leave them, so I pointed him in the right direction to the kiosk. He refused and then got in my face, whipped out his ID and demanded I give his kid back. Again, I calmly refused to hand over the package. So he yelled a little louder, clinched his fist and puffed up like he was going to smack me. Fortunately my fearless teenage daughter walked up at just the right moment and hustled him out of my face to help him get a new tag. Faith—you are my hero!

Somehow I managed to get all the kids back to their parents without losing my spit. Then I staggered outside and broke down in a defeated heap. How did teaching first-graders about Jesus almost turn into a beat-down of Sam?

After a few days of venting, processing and praying with my husband I remembered a few important things about the plans I make for myself and the “NEVERS” I so casually throw out:

Oh Yeah…I’m not in Control

In a perfect world we would all play along with my Sunday school agenda and everyone would play nice. The kids would put their toys away at the end of class (instead of chucking blocks at each other) and recite their Bible verse to their parents on the way home to make me look good. Oh, and those very same parents’ would thank me profusely for watching their kids for free while they got to sit in an air-conditioned church and relax. And then the unicorns would dance and we could all eat the Crispy Crèmes and stay skinny because my perfect little world doesn’t exist on this planet.

On any given Sunday, the kids are messy and squirrely and demanding. If a few listen to the lesson and learn the verse I do a happy dance. Some of the parents are chill (thank you!) but there are those who wait impatiently in line and hate the claim check process because—darn it—they have brunch to get to.

But I am not in control and honestly I don’t want to be. I believe God knows every detail and is in every detail of these Sunday morning adventures. But when I lean on my own understanding instead of surrendering to the chaos I struggle. I operate out of fear instead of faith and nose dive into anxiety.

The truth is that it’s in the messiest moments that God does his best work.  I have no idea what good was in the crazy encounter with the scary guy—but I can rest in the hope that a plan beyond my own was at work.

Your Ministry is Where the Greatest Need Is

I love it when people say they will NEVER completely surrender control to God because then he might send them to Africa to work as a missionary—so they give God 90% over and hold back the rest. I get it—it’s scary to cede over the reins for some crazy “God calling,” but that’s where I think most people have a warped idea of what ministry is. True ministry is simply identifying a pressing need in front of you and getting your butt off the sofa to help out. Ministry can be raising babies with purpose, loving a broken spouse and investing in a marriage or relationship. It can be as small as caring for a neighbor or as big as boarding a plane and taking on the social injustice God impresses on your heart. It might be Africa but it’s probably more likely something right in front of your nose.

I’ve done lots of different things in ministry—some big and some small—but right now, the need in our growing church is for helpers in children’s ministry. Ladera Ranch is the Disneyland of suburban Orange County and we have a plethora of parents that reproduce more than the average American family. So, from a church perspective that means we have more kids than most churches our size do and we need extra leaders to help guide these tiny tots to Jesus.

And if you think, “Yeah, whatever Sam, I would still Never help out with kids.” You might be surprised at what God can do with your Never.

“Never” Might Be the Opportunity You Need

Once upon a time I said I would NEVER marry a pastor. You might not know it wasn’t an easy decision for me to make. I didn’t want to live in a ministry fish bowl with people judging me all the time. I wrestled with God over it. Sure I loved God but it was the 90% thing holding me back. I wanted to marry a rich guy with a yacht who would hand over the credit card and sail away often, letting me raise my babies in peace. But God had a different plan. My life looks very different than what I thought it would be. It may not be fancy but it’s exactly what I need.

I have a wonderful husband who is up in my grill at all times, who simultaneously drives me crazy and makes me laugh—bringing endless joy to my life. Our love is messy and complicated and more than I could ask for or imagine. My silly NEVER was God’s BEST.

And Sunday School? I went back the next week to drop off my kid and the teacher wasn’t there so I felt compelled to step in and help. It was initially nothing more than pure obligation and a desire to do something alongside my teenage daughter who is a faithful volunteer.

Then I signed up for more because somewhere along the way my heart got ripped open wide and raw by these stinking little kids and I was hooked. Yes, they are exhausting, but these kids are also glimpses into God’s Kingdom—into an innocence and wonder we lose as life beats us up.

One of the little boys in my class has autism. He’s named after an angel and I don’t know what fairy dust he sprinkles over me but I am mush around him. This child has taught me to slow down and go easy on the transitions. When we switch rooms for worship and lessons he clings to my hand and trembles. Then I give him a gentle hand squeeze and he takes a deep breath and leans in to the scary. Somehow we get each other—I don’t like transitions either. I also have laser focus and get overwhelmed sometimes. Maybe I see myself in his eyes?

Another sweet girl has cancer and her bald head and joyful spirit are a sacred offering to the class. She is fragile and yet powerful—a six year old and who lives in the present—not the “shoulds” or “have to’s”, not the “hurry ups,”just the now. She teaches me to BE. I want to hold her and weep all at the same time and yet I see the haunting gift that God wields through this child to those around her and I am wrecked and taken to a Holy place in this classroom I said Never to.

Now I don’t EVER want to leave…

What are the NEVERS You need to lean into?

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Why Does Worship Make Me Weep?

addae72cbcda519e176fdeefe33bb53cIt’s Sunday afternoon. I’m walking up my driveway to the door when my friend drives up.  She pokes her head out of her behemoth SUV, “Sam, are you just getting back from church?”

“Yep,” I nod.  I don’t remember seeing her.  “I missed you,”

Her eyes fill with tears.  “I just couldn’t do it today. Every time I go, I cry during worship.  Why is that?” she whispers.

I know her story and it’s a tough one–she struggles with real hurt from a brutal childhood.

“Maybe it’s because Jesus wants to get into your sad places and heal them?”

“Maybe,” she says with a weak smile and drives off to the gym.

I understand where she’s at.  Sometimes the gym and hot yoga is a little less intimidating than a room full of people when you lose your spit–when emotions bursts out from deep within your soul and you snort out years of backed up tears.

And for those of us who try to be strong ALL THE TIME, we take it to a new level.

I’ve been the girl who’s dropped to her feet and wept in abandon during worship. And yeah…it’s awkward after. Folks…Please ignore the mascara streaming down my cheeks and the tattoo on my head marked “FRAGILE.”

But, sometimes I couldn’t help myself–it was simply a spontaneous combustion of the Holy Spirit and my heart. So I let it rip.

Here is my much longer answer (than my driveway version) to my friend’s great question of “why do we cry in worship?”

Deep Sorrow and Anguish

“In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the Lord, weeping bitterly.” 1 Samuel 1:10

“Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer.” Psalm 61:1

Sometimes, our circumstances overwhelm us. When death strikes and we lose a loved one, when dreams die, when infertility robs us of a dream.  When financial burdens pound us or our children turn against us– the difficulties and challenges in our lives seem gi-freaking-enormous.

But when we turn to God, we know on an innate level that He is bigger than our pain. We know He will listen and that He won’t condemn us or pass blame. Instead, He looks at us with eyes of love and mercy. We trust that we can cry out to Him freely because He knows the desires of our hearts like no other. Praise and worship songs remind us that although we can’t see Him, we can sense the nearness of the Spirit and he is SO CLOSE.

When we surrender to worship we are submitting to God.  We let go of trying to master and control our little world (and doing a really poor job of it) and instead praise the one who is truly managing it.

Worship prompts our spirits to cry out to the Father 

If you think you are alone in wanting to let loose a torrent of tears, you aren’t. John 11:35 says “Jesus Wept.”

The scriptures suggest we were created to cry out when words are too tough to manage. The real question is what is triggering the pain behind the tears? Where do we need healing and prayer?

Sorrow and Repentance

“Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.” 2 Cor. 7:10

Sometimes when we sing we are reminded of that thing we did the other day that was pretty jacked up. Maybe we need to make amends with our spouse, change a bad habit, or move in a different direction entirely. Worship reminds us of how loving God is and it also reminds us of how broken we are. Basically, it’s that whole “sin” thing and somehow singing to God shines a magnifying light on our yucky parts.

Joy

“Serve the Lord with gladness! Come into his presence with singing!” Psalm 100:2

Often my tears are simply because I am filled with joy. Think of the movie Footloose! Yep, that’s me whooping it up because I am alive and can still move!  (Although my kids might disagree)

I have a loving Father in Heaven and it makes me want to sing and (gasp) sometimes even dance! When I reflect on my relationships and my life filled overflowing with blessings I am overwhelmed with God’s goodness.

So no matter why you cry at church, it’s ok. Come and cry and rest and just be.

Church is the one place you should feel safe. And if you don’t feel safe, then go find a place that allows you to be you.

Raw. Fragile. Loved.

–Samantha

 

 

 

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The Trouble with Money

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Tim and I have a new pact–to keep our mouths shut about money.
No, it’s not because we have a bragging issue. We aren’t out living large, pimping our rides or promoting a highfalutin flashy lifestyle, our problem is the exact opposite. We’ve become somewhat obsessed it seems in justifying our modest OC life style.

Somewhere along the way we bought the lie that operating in the space of “just a little bit” poorer than our neighbors is how people want their pastors to live.

If you work in ministry there is a silent but overtly loud expectation of living  below average. God forbid anyone think the church actually pays their minister’s enough money to live in the community we actually minister to.

It wasn’t so bad when we were first married and lived in a condo, but when we moved to suburbia and bought a home in a nice neighborhood, both of us felt heavy burden from the moment we invited people in–this insidious pressure to justify and play down anything nice that we have.

Six years ago we bought a big screen TV. (Crazy huh?) It was a joint Christmas and anniversary gift to each other. I still remember writing the check out to my husband because it hurt a little. But that TV hurt more than my checkbook, that TV generated a storm of snarky comments.

I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “I guess the church must be doing pretty well with our tithe money if  you can afford that kind of picture”…and so on and so forth.

I think that’s when it first started–the first seed of angst and an OBLIGATION to explain our every dollar and sense to the world and even our family.
Oh, our new car?  That’s a gift. From God via our parents. Private school? Scholarships and more help from grandparents. Hawaii? A relative’s miles and grandpas time share. Oh my clothes?–thrift store.
Recently we sat at a restaurant with some old friends from out of town and I heard the two of us play that same old sad record again–mustering up the correct blend of  pastoral downtrodden humility.
But this time it made me a little sick.
Maybe it’s because they weren’t from around here and I had fresh ears to hear? But something deep within me just said “enough!”

Why, do I need to justify what we have?  I work. I’m not collecting disability, social security  or living on the backs of others. We aren’t in a religious organization that takes five offerings in one service–in fact we don’t even take an offering, we have boxes in the back if you feel like giving. We live in a modest home and my husband works six days a week, hustles like crazy to work extra performing weddings and is paid fairly for his time and energy.

And we are grateful. Enough said. EVER.

If my purpose is to give God the glory for his provision, then Amen and Amen, but the truth, is I don’t believe God loves me any more or less based on my financial success. So, yes, I thank God for my blessings–the entirety of them and  I thank God for his sustenance and provision, but I will not be trite or falsely humble about money anymore.

Instead,  I want to be known more for my generosity, not my stinginess, poverty or fear of having enough. I want to be known for trusting God when circumstances are volatile and I can’t see over the waves of fear.  I want to be known for my faith, however small and mustard seed-like it is as I point people towards God and trusting him.

I never thought I had a money problem because I don’t have a ton of money, but I realized I was just as caught up in the rat race justifying all the reasons why I wasn’t playing the game.
I think it’s time for us to put down the pious act and simply BE.

Wow. That feels good.

The truth is we live in an expensive place (like so many of you) and it’s not easy. Sometimes we struggle, sometimes we breathe a little easier, but often than not we live in the tension of the middle ground. Personally, I’m not shooting for a rich and indulgent lifestyle but I do hope for enough to avoid desperation. My goal is to save more than spend, pay cash vs charge and have enough to use our money as a tool to make a difference in the world–even if it’s small.

So if I hop back on the justification train about anything financial, gently (so gently) please tell me to zip it.  If I can’t afford something I’ll be honest, but I’m not explaining the math to you.

Maybe our money troubles aren’t so big after all, maybe the trouble with money is our broken thinking about it.

–Samantha
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How old is “too old?”

Have you ever wondered how old is “too old” for this or that sport or profession?
Is Tom Brady past his prime in the NFL? How about his wife Giselle? Is she still young-ish enough to super model? What is the expiration date on youth? How far, how long, how much can we push within the parameters of age and time? Because there is always a consequence for going to far–like I learned a few months ago.

The nonsense all started at one of Kolby’s modeling gigs back in December. She was working her little tail off posing in adorable flower girl dresses.
The photographer turns to me and asks if I still model.
“Come again?” I laugh.
Just for the record, I am SERIOUSLY not attempting false modesty. I was stunned because I am 43 and freaking old for THIS kind of funny business.
He asks again.
“Uhhh…it’s been a long time. I calculate the years. About 5 years since I’ve gotten paid for anything (a Cosmeticare  gig where I played the doctor…not the hot young thing) and sixteen years since I’ve walked a runway. At some point, just like Peyton Manning, I decided to hang up the cleats and drink beer (or heels and skinny margaritas in my case).
“I have a client you would be perfect for.”
What size? I ask incredulously thinking my jeans are already too tight after the pre-holiday festivities.”
“Missy”
“You sure it’s not Old Missy?” I shoot back.
He chuckles. “No it’s just missy. Size 4-6.”
I think to myself that “6” is a far more doable number than “4.”  “4” seems like a slim person who works out consistently. “4” is a summer number and it’s winter, in case he didn’t notice.
“Let me take a few shots,” he pleads.
I hesitate and then acquiesce. He hands me some casual wear outfits and I try them on and come back out.
I feel awkward. I remember the face angles, but the body stuff is awkward. My old body was lithe and lean at  5’9 and a size 2. Now I wear Spanx and invest in sturdy bra’s that protect my back from damage. And to make matters worse, I’m shrinking. Last time I measured I was a quarter of an inch shorter!
The photographer says he’ll contact me. I weakly wave goodbye and we head home battling the awesome LA traffic. On the drive back, little Kolby asks me what I was doing trying on the outfits.
“Ummm, well the photographer thought mommy might be a good fit for a client.” I say.
“Mommy, aren’t models supposed to be young like me?”
“Yes, but sometimes they have old ones, like nice old cars or horses. Old people wear clothes too honey. It’s called classic.”
She looks confused. I am too.
On Christmas Eve I get a text. I have booked the job. The reality is too scary to grasp. I try not to think about it because I  don’t want to go on a diet. Ten days before the shoot in late Jan, I finally suck it up and go carb free for ten really crappy days.
In case you don’t know: Carbs=happy. No carbs=grumpy.
Cranky mommy shows up. My kids prefer squishy mommy over skinny mommy. I prefer the personality of squishy and the body of skinny–but I guess that’s too much to ask for at this advanced age.
I lose 5 lbs. Whee Hee! It might be all water but I feel so light and free.
Jess and Jane 2
The shoot is fun. The clothes remind me of Chico’s and the designer is a sweetheart. She styles and styles. We are both working hard. I have 100 changes. And in any size- that’s a heck of a lot. Clearly, they are getting their money out of this old horse.
I collect my money and bat my fake lashes applied by the makeup artist who made me feel like a dream. (She thought I was 35)
The compliments make me feel giddy, but by evening they have worn off and I am ready to eat my entire arm.
The next morning I go on vacation to Las Vegas to celebrate my dear friend’s birthday. Over the next five days of indulgence and daily buffets I regain the 5lbs and another 2 more for good measure.
Oops!
But it was so worth it! I loved every minute of being with my friends and enjoying this beautiful crazy life.
And that’s when it hit me. I like squishy mommy better. A healthy, strong and happy mommy who always battles the last 5 lbs. Yeah, I like that girl.
Yes, the striving and modeling was cool–for about a minute, but I was starving and pissy and not myself. I was too stressed! Image management just isn’t my thing anymore. It took a long time for me to accept myself and appreciate the totality of being real–the good and bad, imperfect and quirky, and who wants to lose that hard fought for gift to look good for society’s jacked up standards anyway?
Joy is not measured by my size or how good I look for my age, joy is measured by the depth of my relationships.
Don’t get me wrong, I still like feeling pretty–like every girl does–but the race to nowhere to look “hot” is way overrated.  We all get old in the end. It’s a guaranteed losing game whether we are botoxed or not. I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to look good, because I’m sure our husbands appreciate our efforts, but obsessing over our looks like a reality housewife is broken thinking. Whether I like it or not, I am almost 44 and trying to look 35 is EXHAUSTING even for just 10 days.
(No judgment here on cosmetic fillers or enhancements, if it helps you feel more confident or look refreshed that’s totally cool, but please go easy and don’t erase the laugh lines of a life well lived)
A friend messaged me today and saw me on the cover of the catalogue for Jess & Jane.
Jess and Jane cover
It’s bittersweet to see the images five months later, after a failed pregnancy and now trying to get back in shape again, not skinny shape but just somewhere in the range of normal.
And even though I wish they could have picked a shot where I wore something more figure flattering, certainly I have more grace looking backwards.  Why was I so hard on myself? Oh perspective, you are so illusive.
I’m still glad I did the shoot, because it was a good reminder, once again, of the things that really matter.
Yes, this mama is once again happily retired.
–Samantha
Jess and Jane 3
Squishy Mommy
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The Sweet Side of Mom Fails

Christmas 2014 12I don’t know about you, but sometimes I feel like I nail this mama stuff and other times, not so much.

After almost seventeen years of mothering, I wish I could say the successes stand out in my mind more than the epic catastrophes, but it doesn’t really work that way. Mom Guilt has a way of following us around, clinging tighter than the muffin top I have to lose every spring.

What I do know is that my kids are far less harsh on me than I am.

What they see is a mom who tries.

They see a blur of love, interrupted here and there by random blips of unmet expectations; maybe a harsh tone or a disappointment. But overall, the grace my kids give me is a gift I need to give myself this Mother’s Day.

Maybe you need some mama grace too. What I’m discovering is that behind most of my #MOMFAILS is a sweet surprise, but I have to be open to receive the gift.

In every disaster, there is a treasure waiting to be found. Here are a few of my more recent ones…

MOMFAIL #1   Mother’s Tea

“Excuse me, I need to speak with you about the Mother’s Day Tea for kindergarten,” I whispered under my breath to my daughter’s teacher.

The teacher stopped and swiveled, “What’s up?”

“I have a work conflict. It’s an event I’m in charge of at the exact same day and time. I feel awful but I don’t want to jeopardize my job. Is there some alternative form of celebration for the mom’s who miss this event?”

“I’m so sorry, ………(insert longest pause ever) but I don’t know because I’ve never had a mother miss this special day before.”

And this is where I tumble head first into the hole of #MOMFAIL

Never, ever, like ever?  I’m the first mom in all of Christian school history to miss this important day. Wow. Ok. I suck. I’m the worst ever.

A few days later I burst into tears on the school playground when I share with the other moms–you know, the ones ALL going to the event. They pat me on the back and love me despite my inability to balance work and kids,

For a week I torture myself.

Then I decide to reclaim my holiday, dang it! I pull out of my funk and make a plan. I will stop piling on the layers and layers of smothering guilt and take back my day from these unrealistic expectations of being a perfect Pinterest whole foods 100% available mom.

I finally put off telling my tell my kid and I break the news to her. She is sad, and so am I. We cry together and hold one another. And then after we dry the tears, we plan a special day where we will play hooky from school and work and life and simply be together. Grandma will go to her classroom party and I will do my job that helps to pay our mortgage so we can live in the home we both love.

A few weeks later, I am laying on the grass next to a bubbling fountain with my darling child snuggled up to me, the very same one I tragically disappointed. We are reading a book of inspirational quotes, eating a grand picnic of fried chicken and brownies and relaxing together looking at the clouds. We spend the morning at the pool, get smoothies, have our nails done and lavish  attention all over each other.

And I wouldn’t have had this delicious moment without the other disaster. This #MOMFAIL had a happy ending. Maybe not the ending I thought I wanted, but a beautiful connecting day only God could orchestrate.

 MOMFAIL #2   I have no hobby

My teenage daughter and I are driving. She is eating some handmade awesomeness another mom conjured up in her organic whole food kitchen.

I try some.  “It’s good,” I comment.

Then we pull up to the school and a J Serra mom walks by the car in her super awesome yoga outfit. My daughter mentions that’s her friend’s mom who is obsessed with Yoga. “She can bend like a twig, mom.”

“That’s cool,” I reply.

“Mom, what are you obsessed with?” my daughter asks slyly, knowing full well I have no hobby. Yes, I work out a little, cook modestly, read some, and watch one show a week, but I don’t really have a hobby. I am HOBBY-LESS.

I know this is a trick question and I have no trick answer.

“I guess you kids are my hobby.” I say with a shrug feeling like a loser.

“Awww, Mom, I like that hobby best of all!” And then my strong independent teenage girl smiles and gives me a big squishy hug.

And I am so freaking blessed!

MOMFAIL #3  My Kid Isn’t Going Away to a Fancy College

After a year of applications, standardized tests from hell, and calls from recruiters every night, my son finally decided on his dream school.

He had 11 offers and 4 walk-ons from Division 1 to D3 for football. I am so proud of my boy.

They were great schools.

And then when he tries to accept his dream school offer we hit a road block. The iron clad offer fell through. The school over-committed and bumped my kid. After signing day. After we turned down offers from other schools.

And although I won’t list the name of this college (thanks for breaking my kids heart you jack wagon defensive coordinator in the central CA area), it was a horrible experience.

So we scrambled and tried to put back together options, but some things you just can’t put back together–hopes and dreams that shatter.

After a grueling decision, my son decided to stay local and play football for a great Jr. College.

But this was not in my plan. It felt like a massive failure. When Amherst and Dartmouth and the University of Chicago call every week, this disappointment HURT MY EGO.

And I was forced to surrender once again.

After I got over myself, I realized my son was happy with his decision–vibrant even. The burden he carried so heavily on his shoulders lifted. Maybe he wasn’t ready to go away yet. Maybe I wasn’t ready for him to go either. And now I get another year (or two) with my beloved kid.

Maybe to the world of prep schools it was a #MOMFAIL, but I found tremendous joy in letting go of my own impossible expectations.

Happy Mother’s Day! May it be filled with GRACE and open arms to the failures that make us better!

–Samantha

If you are looking for a fun way to connect with your son, consider the Mother Son Brunch at J Serra!

 

 

 

 

 

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The Problem With Marriage

wedding kissI have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.

–Mother Teresa

Our marriage is probably like many of yours—sometimes effortless and occasionally the hardest work I’ve ever done.

I’ve been married for eight years now. The first six flew by in a breeze. We didn’t have to make it work because it wasn’t that difficult. There were romantic getaways and shared dreams, giggles and tickle fights and a growing family. We started a church and had a baby; we bought a home and moved to suburbia. Life was abundant with service and ministry and blessings. Sure, certain obstacles came our way, but our confidence in each other was high.

And then REAL life hit.

Tragedy and drama and human weakness at it’s finest.  Our fragile foundation rocked and rolled like the San Andreas fault.  My parents were suddenly both taken by fatal disease, Tim injured his back and faced permanent nerve damage and partial paralysis , there was spinal surgery, a long and painful recovery, and our constant battle with infertility that wove itself through every story—miscarriage after miscarriage. Add in a blended family and teenagers in to the mix and for two years we fought to keep our heads above water.

Maybe marriage wasn’t so easy.

Maybe it took work. Hard work.

Fortunately, I married a persistent man who never, ever, gives up. Week after week he showed up at the counselor by my side ready to tackle the broken parts of him and us and me. And even when I was drowning in sorrow and weary, he never let go of my hand.

While I wish certain outcomes were different, because I sure miss my mom and dad (and all the babies I won’t meet until eternity), I don’t regret the journey it’s forced us to travel. Pain brings out our best and worst traits. My husband has seen me unraveled and paralyzed with fear and yet he continues to love me. I have seen him blustering and red in frustration and yet I get up and choose only him every day.

So many people avoid pain. They run, they hide, they cope. I was a master at this.

But with a 72% divorce rate in Orange County, I don’t really think this strategy is working out too well for most of us.

If I learned anything from years of therapy it’s this…don’t avoid the pain–do the opposite–lean in.

Pain has made our marriage better. Adversity overcome together creates the glue of relationship. Pain forced us to restructure our boundaries, to surrender to one another sacrificially and to leave our selfish natures behind for something better—a relationship built on rock and not sand.

Every day we can either deposit love or steal life from one another. It’s a choice we are all given.

Today I sit here and write after another failed pregnancy, and a heartbeat that slipped away, with tears and sadness, and a surgery to remove the remains of another sweet baby. One more soul added to our little tribe in heaven.

But I am content. Not because it doesn’t hurt—oh boy it does, but because I’m facing the pain with my best friend at my side. The friend I have fought for and who fights  for me on a daily basis.

I am what we call in our family “happy/sad.” The sad is obvious, but the happy is because I have fallen in love with my husband all over again through this yucky experience. I am crazy about this man who shares his whole heart unabashedly and shines his light so bright it makes the dark not so scary for me. He holds my hand and whispers prayers when I need encouragement, he points me back to God when my faith wavers, and he makes me laugh through my tears.  I can only hope I will choose to fall in love over and over with this same man for the rest of my life.  I want more than anything to focus on the good and not dwell on the bad, celebrating the smallest victories and offering forgiveness quickly.

The problem with marriage is that it’s not easy.

We have to choose one another every day in spite of the pain and the brokenness of our humanity.

I’m so glad we didn’t give up on the mountain of hard, because the greatest joy was reached only by cresting this summit together.

–Samantha

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Peep Roast

FullSizeRenderIt was a simple command, really, but I suffered a mini-meltdown in my seat.

“Think of one friend you know that you can invite to the Peep Roast and send them this card.”

I looked down at the ground, I casually glanced around at everyone else thinking and writing and I choked in the death pause of uncertainty.

I couldn’t think of one person.

The truth hit me hard, painfully hard and it ached in places I didn’t know I could ache.

Here is my reality right now, I live in a Christian bubble.

No one put me here, it just happened because I let myself get comfortable.

And it’s revolting to me. It’s against everything I believe to be true about the gospel.

My kids go to Christian school. My neighborhood all goes to the church we helped start in our local area. I see the same people day in and day out. And I love this community with all my heart, but sometimes I need to get out of it a little too.

How can you invite new peeps to the Peeps Roast when you don’t know any?

When your husband is a pastor and you are a Christian writer, every conversation begins with, “Come check out our church.”

But I invite people so casually, I don’t even think about it anymore. It’s like “How are you?”–or some other greeting I drop like I don’t really mean.  It’s just a rote expression I do by routine.

When did I stop being intentional about meeting new people that are different from me?

………………….

I will never forget the night Tim when asked me where I wanted to go to dinner and I replied “Mutt Lynches.”

He looked at me like I was cray-cray, because Mutts is a rowdy bar on the boardwalk of Balboa Penninsula.  I was pregnant at the time and could barely stomach the smell of beer, barf, or people in general.

But I nodded yes vehemently because my intuition or (prompt from God) was powerful.

That night we met a group of guys and one in particular we connected with. Over too many beers on his part, he confided that his wife had filed for divorce and served him papers that day. He had come home to an empty house void of his little ones and all he held dear.

He started to tear up as he shared that he deserved it. He had put his family’s needs below his quest for success and climbing the corporate ladder. He had erroneously believed they would always be there until they weren’t.

His friends had taken him out to tie one on. But it wasn’t helping. It just magnified the pain. His friends were stunned at his admission but too drunk to know what to do.

Then he jumped up and ran out the bar.

Tim and I huddled up and decided that Tim would go after him and I would stay with all my sweet drunk friends who would protect me or vice versa.

Tim found the guy walking towards the water’s edge.

Tim walked up and asked if he could pray with him and the guy collapsed on the beach weeping.

“I was ready to kill myself,”he confessed. I was going towards the water to drown myself. I cried out to God, “If you are real, give me one sign that you love me.”

“And you found me.”

They spent a long time on the sand simply crying out to God together and lifting heavy hearts, as the waves crashed and I played beer pong with iced tea back in the bar with the guys.

We later heard from the guy that he was working hard to repair his family. He thanked us over and over.

But the gift of that evening was just as profound for us as it was for him.

I, we, want to be available when God is moving. I want to get my hands dirty and wipe the tears of the broken and spiritually wounded.

And I don’t think staying comfortable is helping.

It’s probably time to start venturing out and hanging out with some rowdy folks again. Maybe you need to get your hands a little dirty again too?

–Samantha

 

Maybe no one has invited you to an Easter service this year?  Can I?

Saturday March 26th at 5:00pm

Easter Service at Mariners Mission Viejo (with our annual Peep Roast following the service)

26862 Crown Valley Parkway, Mission Viejo

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Red Thongs and Gym Fails

embarrassed-girl-red-sweater_smIts mid February, which means I’ve been back in the gym for about six weeks now. I, like many of you, suffered a holiday workout mini-breakdown that started with good intentions and ended with about six extra pounds. So now I’m hitting the gym hard.

But the problem with going to the gym–is well–its the gym.

It’s full of awkward social exchanges, potential embarrassment and gross smells. Anytime people get sweaty, prance around the locker room in nothing but tattoos and body hair, and make grunting noises–it’s an eye opening experience.

So Tim and I are getting our workout on.  He’s lifting weights and I’m on the treadmill. As soon as I get a little warm, I peel off my coral long sleeve Nike workout shirt I received for Christmas (apparently to encourage me to work out) and throw it on ground next to my machine.

(I have a tank top on underneath just in case you thought I got naked)

I then immerse myself in “Hard Evidence” for the next forty minutes while climbing fake hills and terrain.

The show ends. I am so sucked in I can’t stop until I am assured that this evil woman is sentenced to life. Apparently she stun-gunned her husband and placed him alive in a barrel of acid.  Wow. Don’t want to run into that chick at the gym

I switch off the machine and turn around. And there directly behind the treadmill on the ground is my bright red lacy thong panties. 

I look around and I see a few smirks. It must have been stuck to the inside of my sweatshirt from laundry day.

It’s been 40 minutes since I took off my Nike sweatshirt. 40 minutes for the whole gym to walk by my underpants.

Awesome! I casually pick them up and throw them in my bag and then mentally place the dog cone of shame on my head and skulk away.

My cheeks burn. I hope no one walked by and noticed the pastor’s wife flaunting her little lingerie party.

I walk over to Tim, now on the treadmill.

He belly laughs when I tell him the story.  Then he tells me he how he just embarrassed himself too

A young fit girl on the back machine smiled and waved. Tim thought it was someone from the college group at church so he smiled big in reply and said “hi.”

But so did the big, ripped and inked guy behind him.  You know, the one she was really waving to.  The guy gave a withering look to my husband, the “as if…buddy” look.

Awkward…

But the best cone of shame story is told to me by my neighbor later that day.

So, he’s changing in the men’s locker room. He puts is foot in through one leg of his athletic pants, then the next. But the second leg sticks. Something is blocking his foot. So he pushes a little harder and out flies a small hot pink thong that flies across the floor of the men’s locker room.

And he is left with a bunch of dudes looking at him like he is a cross dresser.

Now we all know it was merely the bad luck of static cling, laundry day and a cute wife that can wear tiny hot pink thongs.

But the guys in the locker room didn’t. Remember, the sweaty, gross, hairy, ripped ones?

So he “oh so casually” walks over, picks it up and tosses it in the trash because he figures his wife wouldn’t go near it after he told her where it had been.

Nice.

Tell me again, why do we go to the gym?

 

 

 

 

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The Jankiest Hood

christmas_lights_mishap.jpg (480×640)

Maybe it’s just me?–but when I see a home festively adorned with Christmas lights near Valentines Day, the word “janky” comes to mind.

Well, how about a whole neighborhood?  Is that like the “jankiest hood in town?”

Because that’s what I, what WE, the suffering people of Whispering Creek II are dealing with.

First of all, I LOVE our neighborhood!  We are what some might call a tad “eager” around Christmas time.

For the most part, we get our Christmas spirit on!  Our track sits right across the street from one of the more famous drive-by Christmas neighborhoods in Ladera, (just to clarify…that’s not a place where drive-by shootings occur, but instead it’s when you pack up the whole family in the car with some Starbucks and drive around and look at decorated homes. Because this is what we do in warm places with no weather)

So, although we don’t have the mega awesome light displays and hand out hot chocolate and fliers, we are “a nice on the eyes” place to go for a “look see.”

The majority of our homes put up lights galore, inflatable snowman, reindeer, animals and all the elf fixins.

I even have an inflatable Darth Vader and two Frosty’s, not to brag or anything…

Normally, as a group we rent a lift, blast some music and decorate together.  But this year, we decided to try something new and hire a service to put up and TAKE DOWN the lights.

Mistake #1: we paid the man upfront for the whole job.

The lights went up in late November.  And the lights are still up.

The light man has gone AWOL. With half of our entire neighborhood’s cash.

He has not returned phone calls or texts and we are SOL, as my dad used to say. All we have is a card. With no address. Who do we even sue?

So when you drive into our little Ladera neighborhood, try not to judge.  We know. We know. We so freaking know it’s the jankiest in town, but we haven’t yet figured out how to rectify the problem.

Do we send our husbands up to the roofs and high peaks of our two story homes? Do we risk life and limb or suck up the loss and pay more money? Do I send out my husband, because we own a coveted extension ladder, and make some extra cash? (just kidding babe)

Is our life insurance up to date?

These are questions we must ask ourselves!

In the meantime…James the Christmas Light Dude.  You are a wanted man and have lost the favor of this Ladera neighborhood!  At any moment, our ever vigilant Ladera association will start threatening us with fines if we don’t get these lights down…because Ladera has standards.

Merry Christmas James. You stink!

reindeer At least we put these guys away…

 

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Throwing Stones

girl-sad-101artsSqueals erupt from the playground as a pack of pint sized girls tackle the monkey bars. The moms gather close, gobbling up grown-up time like precious pearls.

A small voice shrieks, “Mommy, sister said she hates me.” Tears fall.  A little sister sobs in frustration–she just wants to hang with the older girls. Be cool like them.

The lovely young mother administers a hug and kisses to her four-year-old, then calls the five-year-old over for a reckoning.

I watch the other girls stop their play. Somehow the word “hate” shocks us all out of our reverie. It get’s very quiet.

(When you play at the church school playground, it’s like God is watching)

I walk over and kneel down. A storm is brewing over their tiny countenance.

The girls are looking to lay blame.

“She said she hated her sister,” points out one little pig-tailed cutie. “That’s a bad word.”

I nod yes. “That’s true. But are you always nice to your little brother?” I probe, ever so gently.

A guilty smile sneaks out of the corner of her mouth. “No, she whispers.”

I turn to little Kolby. “Sometimes you and your sister fight, right?”

Kolby agrees sheepishly.

And suddenly they realize the “bad word” is in them too.

“Sometimes I say awful things I wish I could take back.” I confess.

I think of me sitting in the counselor’s office telling my husband his pride is an issue–as if I am somehow exempt from the very same malaise. 

And we all look down at our feet and the focus shifts off the bad child to the bad in us.

The next day the mom tells me her older daughter shared with her how she fears her friends like her little sister more than her.

In all truth, her little sister is a bit of a tot-sized hottie. She is vibrant and gorgeous with long golden hair and a winsome personality. She will probably be cheer captain and princess of everything.  I’d probably want to punch her in the face a few times if she were my sister too.  “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia ..”

Who wants to live up to that?

(I’m sure Jesus’ siblings struggled a bit too)

And then the mom laughs and said my little Kolby tried to empathize with her older daughter. Her daughter apologized for the bad choice of words and my Kolby explained that she too battles with jealousy towards her older sister Faith.

Kolby patted her on the back. “It’s tough, I know.”

The two hugged–closer now because of the rupture and the restoration.

I shook my head in disbelief. These are kindergartners–not thirty-five year old women. And yet somehow they are learning to self-identify and give grace and empathy to one another, not in spite of their brokenness but because if it.

I’ve learned down the long and bumpy road of life (and with a billion hours of therapy) that our broken pieces heal ONLY in relationship.

What a gift we give our children when we teach them to look within before casting stones and to share their hurt instead of bottling it up inside to fester and grow darker.

The mom and I hugged too–closer now because of the shared journey of parenting our girls together.

And I am grateful for friendship, forgiveness, and the sweet gift of grace we all desperately need.

–Samantha

 

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