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Margaritas and Chips

Margarita
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It was a bad day. Some random lady at a ministry event decided to zing me with an acerbic comment and then my hubby stood me up for lunch.  All of a sudden the weight of the world descended upon my shoulders like a heavy backpack of cranky boulders. 

This is the part where I am supposed to say I lifted my tense spirit up to the Lord and it all washed away like a Holy Spirit Calgon bubble bath.  Sadly, my dormant deviant side kicked into gear and I decided at that moment all I wanted was a margarita and chips to soothe my weary soul.

 But, I didn’t want to go alone. I needed a partner in crime.  So, I called Keri, knowing she probably wasn’t going to be up for an impromptu luncheon at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Casa Ranchera, but crossing my fingers that maybe, just maybe, she might be open to a little frivolity.

When Keri didn’t pick up, I pulled up to her house on the off-chance she might be at home.  There she was in all her mama glory, standing outside in the sunshine with her two adorable munchkins.  Her little boy had a watering can in hand as he dug in the dirt while Keri planted flowers. I pulled the Expedition up to her driveway and stuck my head out the window.

“Hey Ker, want to go get a Margarita with me?” I nonchalantly inquired.

She looked at me quizzically.  I could see her mind chewing on my request, “Bad day?” 

I nodded yes.  Can you come?’

“I really don’t want to drag the kids and we just ate lunch.  How about next week and I’ll get a sitter.”

“I think I’m going to go by myself,” I said.

She gave me a long look.  You can’t go by yourself to have a margarita.”

“Why not? I go there all the time.  Besides, I have the baby with me.”

She didn’t say any more but I assumed she was thinking that it made me look like a sad and lonely soul nursing my sorrows like someone from the cast of Cheers.  “I’m going,” I declared defiantly, gave her a forced smile and set off for the Ranchera.

The baby and I arrived at the restaurant and were led outside by my favorite hostess.  She placed us at a table with a waiter we were familiar with and in my favorite spot for the baby to run around.  When the waiter came by I ordered up my chips, quesadilla and one perfect margarita.

I sat back in my chair and savored each moment; the warm sun, the salty chips, the tasty snap of lime in the margarita, and my sweet baby girl who tottered around my feet taking her first steps.  I breathed in slowly and then took a moment to ask the Lord what the heck was going on my heart.

First, my pride had been wounded by the insensitive woman.  I felt inadequate and underappreciated.  I had been criticized for my teaching outline.  In my haste to complete it, I had inadvertently mismatched the fonts and the lady compared me to another teacher who performed more up to her standards. 

The truth is between my two jobs, three kids and busy ministry schedule; I was amazed she even got an outline in her hands to slam. The other teacher simply had more time and was operating in a different season of life.  It wasn’t an apple to apples comparison.  More like a grape to apple comparison and I was the squished grape.

I also felt the sting of disappointment by being overlooked by my husband.  I knew it was unintentional but I had been jilted and forgotten none the less.  The one man in the world I wanted to share my dang quesadilla with was too busy for me. That made me sad and I needed to forgive him.

 The margarita in my hand raised another issue.  Why did I feel the need to make a statement and drink by myself in public?  It wasn’t about the alcohol, because I haven’t over imbibed in almost twenty years.  But there was definitely a desire to escape; to run and hide from the thumping pain of rejection.  Consciously, I knew that chips and a margarita would not soothe my soul, but it was an outward attempt to heal an inner boo-boo that only God could address.  

 And then there was the final crux, my unwavering passion for authenticity.  A good thing, usually, but possibly teetering on defiance in this instance.  My stubborn spirit cried out, “I will order the real margarita, and not ice-tea. I will not hide or posture for any man.” 

I so badly want to be defined as real, rejecting hypocrisy and my perception of Christian posing, that the very act of proving my independence might have been prideful in and of itself.  I was throwing out the baby with the bath water (Or the tequila with the margarita in this case).

Despite my misgivings, the baby and I enjoyed our little outing and I learned a few things about myself that day.  As long as I am doing what God calls me to do, to the very best of my ability, I have nothing to be ashamed of.  And even though my husband stood me up, he is generally a stand up guy and I am tremendously blessed. 

I realized the margarita was merely a symbol for relationship and it was this longing in my heart to be known and loved that drove me to reenact a normally rewarding experience. And while God met me for this margarita, next time, I think I’ll wait to go with friends.

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Whoomp There it is

Whoomp! (There It Is)
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I asked my pre-teen son what he was thankful for yesterday. He paused for a moment, and then replied, “My home, sports, my clothes and family.”

“So, do I rank higher than your skinny jeans?” I inquired.

He smirked and mumbled, “Sure, mom.”

I didn’t get the response I wanted, but then again, he didn’t mention his friends and I know they rank pretty high on the list. Secretly, I wanted him to proclaim his heart for Christ and yet was instead confronted with his passion for fashion. Awesome.

                                           ***

A few weeks ago, my son performed as a rapper for the school talent show.  His rendition of Whoomp There it is was truly engaging.  My fair-haired white boy took the lead solo in a tribute to The Tag Team and owned it with confidence and panache. But it was another child at the performance that ended up stealing my heart.

Sydney, a little seventh grade girl, climbed up on the stage and boldly proclaimed her faith with a simple guitar and a courageous voice.  She self wrote and performed Glow Within Me, a song about her dependence on Christ and the impact His sacrifice on the Cross made in her life.

Tears streamed down my face as I watched this little evangelist rock the stage.  She received the biggest applause of the evening and I have to believe her impact went far beyond the night. 

Personally, it brought up emotions in my own heart that I am still processing. 

Truth be told, I wish I was more like her.  I envied her boldness and strength to stand in the face of adversity.  And lest you think middle school is not a jungle, think again.  It’s a scary place for an adolescent in a cesspool of insecurity, puberty and social drama.  Reputations are won and lost in the battle of Middle School.

Secretly, I also wanted my son to be the one in front of the crowd proclaiming his faith.  I mean he is the pastors’ kid after all! Couldn’t some of my husband’s charismatic for Christ sparkle have transcended to our boy?  Just a tad more Jesus and a little less Usher?

                                            ***

Last night, my son and I took a walk along the canyon by our home.  He threw rocks deep into the crevice and I watched him scamper around and laughed at his goofy antics. It was a sweet picture of a boy on the verge of manhood and a mother yearning to direct and guide her son’s heart.

And as we walked, we talked about humility and who we are in light of God…that we are nothing more and nothing less than what He created us to be. Kyle brought up sacrifice and obedience, and his struggle to do the right thing even when it’s hard.  He shared how working with the kindergarten class in Sunday school was a pain in the butt, but he knew how important it was to the church at large and made a conscious effort to suck up his reservations.

The more Kyle talked, the more I was reminded of my son’s character and Godliness.  My desire for him to be something else…more bold, more this, and more that, fell away in the recognition of who he truly is in light of God.  My lesson to him on humility was really a lesson to me.

And so today, I am grateful for my son Kyle (the athlete), who loves his family, his home and has a wicked sense of style, turquoise skinny jeans and all.   No more and no less.

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Ouch! Nothing Like Taking a Hit to the Stomach

Woman's one-piece bathing suit, 1920s, USA
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Someone asked me if I was pregnant yesterday at church.  Really?  In an age of political correctness, don’t ask, don’t tell, and affirmative action, someone asked me if I have a bun in the oven?  I was under the impression that social etiquette dictated the only time to ask is when the woman is on a gurney heading to labor and delivery. 

And no it wasn’t a man who asked.  I would be delighted to receive this query if I was with child, but alas, I am decidedly not.  Truth be told, I think I ate too much the day before and was carrying around a small food baby.  It wasn’t a real confidence building moment, but rather a long and extended awkward pause; the kind where you want to disappear or wave around fingers, particularly the middle ones, towards the commenter.

I haven’t decided whether or not I am offended, though it’s certainly on my mind, because I tend to write about what God is revealing to me.  I’m guessing His lesson revolves around humility, but there’s a distinct possibility sit-ups might be involved too.  Maybe it’s a not so subtle reminder to be gracious for all the dumb comments I have needlessly rendered over the years.   Or, at the very least, it’s a poke at my beloved idol –vanity, which cycles in and out of importance in my life depending on the season. While, I don’t generally struggle with my weight, I do succumb to self-imposed expectations of body image.

Generally, if it’s cold outside, vanity ranks lower on the list than the hotter months because I don’t have to dwell on the appearance of the dreaded bathing suit.  There is not this looming expectation floating around that at any minute the kids might want to go to the pool.  If you aren’t prepared for that sort of mental trauma, it could take you out.

Part of me wants to care that someone noticed my abs could use a little attention.  I need a little kick in the pants to get me all riled up.  I want to go to the gym more, scurry around less, and make healthy living a priority.   But, I am also overwhelmed with life, excuses and justifications to avoid this conversation entirely or at least until the days grow warmer and the motivation to not carry around my holiday muffin-top kicks in.  The voices in my head battle between going to the gym and writing, and lately the prosaic shout has trumped the gym-rat squeak to get my attention.

I wonder sometimes, if   there is a certain age or stage in life when you can just let yourself go and it’s ok?  I’m sure all the men out there will say…no.  And fundamentally I guess I agree on a health level, but maybe there is a point, some proverbial happy medium, when you can let yourself go to the gym a little less and live a little more. 

When a woman, someone like me, perhaps, let’s go of the obsessive hot girl mentality, and laughs at the crappy comments life throws at her.  It’s the day when she embraces the one-piece bathing suit, allows spandex to be her friend and simply enjoys a margarita out by the pool instead of worrying how it’s going to ruin her carb intake for the day.

My skin is getting thicker by the moment as I write this.  My fingers are flying with passion across the keyboard.  But this nagging thought remains… a few more workouts and few less Girl Scout cookies wouldn’t hurt.  And if you have any doubts about my maternal status, I promise to let you know if and when I get knocked up again. 

But until then, tread lightly around my little Buddha belly. For now, it simply indicates happiness, busyness, and a relinquishment of my inner striver.  And, I suppose, maybe a few too many chocolates before bedtime. 

 

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New iPhone APP-The Man Script

Image representing iPhone as depicted in Crunc...
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I have an idea for a new iPhone app.  I am confident it will redefine marriage and solve the disparity between Mars vs Venus communication quagmires.  Basically, it all boils down to a script for men. 

Any man, employing these simple top ten phrases will successfully navigate the difficult and treacherous road to a women’s heart.  Finally, the man-fixer and the woman-emoter will live in peaceful harmony.

When a man feels like saying “that’s dumb,” the iPhone will translate with proper tone and enunciation, replacing his words with, “I never thought about it that way, how compelling.”

 

MAN THINKS                                                 iPhone AP REPLIES:

How can I fix this problem?                     That must be difficult dear

Oh no, she’s got that bitch face on          Tough day?  How can I help?

Your boobs look hot!                                   Honey, you take my breath away.

I want sex!                  I am the luckiest man here to be going home with you.

Those jeans make your butt look fat.  Those jeans make your butt look hot! 

If I go through the motions, can we have sex? Let’s just hang out and talk? 

This dinner sucks.      This is interesting, how did you go about preparing it?

Celine Dion tickets? If I pretend to like them, will I get sex?     I love this gift! 

You spent how much money to look exactly the same? 

                             I noticed you got your hair done, it looks lovely!

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The Birthcontrol Pill in Jr. High?

 

In line at Starbucks the other day, my seventh grade son grabbed a caramel macchiato from the barista, winked at me in gratitude, and headed out the door for the patio.  A group of Jr. High kids passed on the way out and gave him a subtle, but clear, “what’s up” in the form of a nod and cool appraisal. My son casually nodded his head back in response.

When we walked outside to join my husband and baby, I suggested my son might want to go and hang with his friends.  His face lit up and he sauntered over to the group, shared some high fives and sat down.  These were friends from school I didn’t recognize.  They appeared to be more mature than his usual sports buddies; it was a co-ed group and the girls looked about sixteen, though I knew they were barely teens.  

The kids were also unsupervised, raising instant red flags in the back of my mind, and so my husband and I watched them curiously.  We tried to look cool and blasé, but were staring none the less.

One pair in particular stood out, a boy and girl who looked a little too friendly with each other.    Completely oblivious to the world, the kids couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  The girl leaned back into the boy’s arms. Her bottom snugly tucked into his lap and his arms wrapped tightly around her waist.   Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream played in my head. 

It was an intimate act that suggested pure sex.  Generally, those kinds of lap wiggles are reserved for the bedroom or private Jacuzzi.  Clearly, certain  boundaries had already been crossed and if they weren’t already sexually active, then they were getting close. Either way, it was inappropriate and shocking. It was a blatant “get a room” kind of move that makes people uncomfortable.  I was even more surprised at their audacity, as if they were unaware of social norms and space, or parents in particular.

And there sat my baby boy in the midst of these horny teenagers.  My sweet and innocent little angel corrupted by tarts and P Diddies.  (Ok, possibly an overreaction, but I am relatively confidant my son is still pure) And I got scared and a little sad.  Because, the truth is I can’t protect him from a culture that is hyper sexualizing everything down to tennis shoes.

On the way home, I questioned my son about his friends.  He mentioned the affectionate couple was dating.  I strained to remember what dating in Jr. High meant.  All I could remember was spin the bottle at parties, holding hands and possibly a first kiss for the kids who were going out. (Where “out” was, we will never know?)

 After a little research, from the Culture and Media Institute, I discovered the average age for a youth in the United States who is sexually active has now dropped down to age fourteen. The general consensus among the public seems to be reluctant acquiesce.  In Portland Maine (2007), the school board voted to allow birth control pills to be distributed to children as young as eleven.  Maine also dropped the age limit for sex to be considered illegal down to fourteen.

More disturbing than these statistics are the disparity of messages we are sending our teens.  “Don’t have sex, but if you do, here is how you put a condom on a banana.”  Hmmm? It’s as if no one believes saying no is an option. 

Why can we Just Say No to drugs but throw in the towel on children having sex?  Clearly, there will still be defiant and curious kids that will engage no matter what, but the message is still the same…avoid at all cost.  I am concerned why this message is applicable to one and not the other?

The morning after the Portland school board approved the measure allowing birth control to be distributed in the school, NBC’s Today Show featured Meredith Vieira and Dr. Nancy Snyderman, the network’s doctor-on-call. 

As Dr. Snyderman said, “Middle school kids are having sex!” Rather than letting that be a call for contraception, shouldn’t it be a wakeup call to our culture? If 11-year-olds are having sex, there are greater problems that need to be addressed than any pill can ever hope to cure … or prevent.

I agree with Dr. Snyderman in the bigger issue our culture faces. I would suggest that in the absence of a compelling reason to not have sex, we have just raised the white flag.  If no one will fight for teen abstinence and purity in light of the constant sexual barrage by the media, then we have already conceded. Why should any kid care if no one is willing to take a stand?

After we gently questioned our son, my husband and I walked home from Starbucks with him and talked openly about sex, love and what God has to say about it.  And that day, we took a stand; ready for a battle we may lose, but willing to fight against a culture where sex sells and little girls take birth control pills with their chewable vitamins.

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Let’s Get It On

People are prone to memory lapse, some more so than others (hint, hint honey). We lose the car keys, the iPhone” (ok maybe I hid it), and leave our sunglasses everywhere but on our face.

But often in the marriage realm, we forget something even more important…the person we are, or better yet, who we were before life moved into fourth gear. 

Long ago, in a seminary class filled with very spiritual people (ok…not so much), I learned how personalities operate differently under stress.  There is our natural personality, the person we are when life is good, and then the shadow personality, the person we are when life gets overwhelming. Looking back, I guess it was one of those red-light warnings suggesting the life of a minister might not be all sunshine and roses.

It seemed like once my husband and I were outnumbered by kids, then deluged by work stress and ministry, this shadow personality started to emerge in full force.  It wasn’t an obvious body snatching, but a more subtle transformation amidst a whirlpool of snotty noses, interrupted sleep and a leaky church roof. 

Slowly, we lost the best parts of our personality in survival mode. It wasn’t intentional, but it was there, in the unspoken sighs and the little comments like; “Remember our Honeymoon?” (translation “Remember when you used to be fun?”)

When my husband approached me and said we needed a mini-retreat desperately, it was as if God’s voice broke through the busyness cloud and shouted, “Go for it! You are not the job, a mommy martyr, or the pastors wife…you, my darling girl are Mine.”

Deep down, buried under layers and layers of stress, I vaguely remembered underneath all the burdens I carry, there is a whimsical and frisky girl who loves romance, goofy humor, and spontaneity with her man.

“Ok,” I said, faking nonchalance, “When do we leave?”

 After two days and two nights with the in-laws, which included one of the best gifts of all…sleep, we were ready and rejuvenated enough to venture out on our own for a whole twenty-two hours of freedom.  We got lucky on Priceline and scored a beautiful resort room for a fraction of the cost. 

I was shaking in my flip-flops with excitement when we pulled up to the glamorous Hyatt Grand Champions Resort in Indian Wells. 

Now I knew the expectations of this mini-retreat.  My husband’s idea of vacation is unlimited sex, (sorry to shock all of you who think pastors are celibate) and my idea of vacation is unlimited rest, but I figured somewhere in between the yawns and negligees, we could find a nice compromise.

But a funny thing happens when a woman cuts the cord from her kids, even for just a short period of time.  Without the backpack of motherhood weighing me down, I literally felt lighter.  My spirit rejoiced in being with my husband and the walls which often separate began to crumble. 

When I glanced over at him, he didn’t look like the demanding “horn-dog” I secretly make him out to be when overwhelmed.  He looked handsome and content to simply be with his wife and go on an adventure.  Maybe it wasn’t just  physical? 

And all of a sudden, a wave of appreciation rolled over my heart.  I saw my husband’s love for what it is…tender and gracious. I could see adoration in his eyes. And so, my heart turned a proverbial corner and leapt with joy and longing for the man God had given me to care for.

As we headed to our room, my emotions crashed around in a crescendo of desire for my husband.  Unbeknownst to him, I pilfered his “intimate” agenda.  Like Marvin Gaye said best, “Let’s Get It On” played on my internal iPod as we headed to the room. He didn’t know then what my little smile insinuated.

The rest of the story is private, though I can say we both have stupid smiles plastered on our face three days later.  But, more importantly, I learned a few things from our mini-retreat that I don’t want to forget.

First, my husband’s overwhelming need for intimacy is not an issue in our marriage.  The issue is the busyness in life that becomes overwhelming, and makes even good things, like intimacy, a chore. (That being said, we do need to have realistic expectations dear…)

I also need to remember the man I married, and conversely  the woman he proposed to still exists, even during stress and extreme exhaustion.  Sometimes I just need a little coaxing, or better yet a crash course (AKA “vacation”) in remembering my identity when the darkness of life turns my light into a mere shadow.

And sadly, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to just be me; without a baby pulling on my leg, writing deadlines, or my son’s never-ending pile of athletic paraphernalia needing to laundered right “now.”  I’m so glad my husband loves me enough to help me remember that the girl he married is just a vacation away.

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Say What?

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in the opening sc...
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It was the first day of Bible Study and introductions were in order.  As one of the leaders, I stood up in front of the women with my partner in crime (AKA my co-leader), and we modeled an interview style of the proverbial “get to know you” exercise.  

I handed out a simple questionnaire to the women so that the game might not get out of control and also to keep us on track.  So, as per the instructions, my co-leader and I began to fill out the form, which was rather easy, because we know each other pretty well. 

My co-leader inquired of my hobbies.  I answered, “Reading, writing, exercise, and my kids…”my babies.”  My implication was that with three munchkins, most, if not all my spare time is consumed with my children and their activities.

What she heard was a different story. 

My co-leader is a beautiful young woman.  She is energetic, wise, and rambunctious.  She is also slightly deaf when her allergies are bad.  I like to tease her about it because I tend to rush about muttering out directions as I move around like a whirling dervish.  Unfortunately, due to fluid backed up in her ears, she can’t hear me… at all.  And so the comedy that ensues is classic Laurel and Hardy.

I will ask her to help me carry something in and instead she turns and walks away.  I call her name and she turns and looks around, but in the wrong direction.  Now, if she were really deaf, I would never tease her, but the occasional hard of hearing day when the pollens are high, is dare I say…amusing?

So, on this fateful day, when she introduced me to the group of about forty women, she started with my name and noted that I was the pastor’s wife.  Then talked about my family, work, and writing.  Finally, she got to my hobbies.

“So Sam likes to read, write, exercise, and “make babies,” she shares; completely serious in her demeanor, straight-faced and dead pan.

And the room erupted in a roar of laughter; the hold your belly, from the bottom of your toes kind of laughter. It was pure ruckus that reverberated off the ceiling.

I turned and protested.  “I did not say that!”

Right back at me, she said, “Oh yes you did!”

My face turned scarlet and the group laughed all the more. 

There we stood arguing in front of the study, like two buffoons, my co-leader stubborn in her stance on what she had heard, and me, stuttering like a fool in defense at what I had said.

Later, after the laughter had died down, I reflected on my own struggle with deafness in the spiritual realm.  How often does God communicate with me, and just like my friend, I hear something entirely different.   My Lord speaks, and at times, I plug my ears like a child and shake my head in defiance, hearing only what I want to hear. 

Ironically, my husband and I have been praying about having another baby.  I’m still not sold on it, though God may be trying to drop a very loud hint.  Because apparently making babies is my new hobby.

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Bad Neighbor/Good Neighbor

Colonial Street
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I get puppy-dog tail wagging happy driving home into my neighborhood.  And it’s not just because it looks like Wisteria Lane.  I honestly think I might live in an RV, as long as my neighbors parked their RV’s next to me. But it hasn’t always been like this.  I lost my “neighbor” way for a while. Oh, I said “hi” to the guy down the hall in my condo complex, and took flowers to an old lady once, but I never had them over for dinner.  I didn’t lean in and my friendliness stopped at the threshold of the door. For at least a couple of years, I have been an admittedly bad neighbor.

But this place I have moved to is different.  It’s, dare I say…”magical?”  I can’t bring myself to shut the door.  It cries out to be open.  I could be the poster girl for Ladera Life.  It really is “that” good.

Something in my heart is being reawakened to the acceptance and warmth of a community that embraces and doesn’t let me hide. I couldn’t tell you when my “neighbor “light burned out.  I can’t remember the day I started rushing into my home and avoiding people. Maybe it was after my divorce. Maybe it was when the explanations and tears ran dry.

The problem with neighbors is that they “know” things.  You can’t hide the proverbial white elephant when he’s pooping on your neighbor’s lawn. In my old neighborhood, everyone knew I got I dumped. It’s not like you can hide the single mom status.  We pretend that everything’s ok; deluding ourselves in a fog of denial, but in all reality, Mrs. Busybody down the street has got our number.

For the last year, I prayed for God to bless me with some friends that I could connect with and relate to.  I sorely needed companionship, though I really didn’t have a lot to give.  Yes, I know that’s a selfish request, but it’s where I was at.  Moving into a brand new community with my relatively new husband, having a baby, three kids, a career, and starting a church just didn’t leave a lot of time for fun. So, I specifically prayed that I would find friends that were also convenient; in the midst of all this chaos I call my life. I wanted healthy and low maintenance friends.  I find it best to be specific with God.

And God is so ridiculously faithful.  He amply provided a bevy of beautiful gals, right in front of my stinking house, that I can laugh with, delight in and wail to. How’s that for a loving and merciful God!

Sometimes I feel like I am eight years old again, walking across the street to see if Keri can play.  I keep my eye out for Stacy ambling down the street with her little girls, or I look for my fun friend Lindsey who can hear the tinkle of the ice-cream truck a mile away. 

I never expected God would heal my “neighbor” wound by restoring the very thing in me that I resented.  And, oh by the way, answer my friend prayer with these same neighbors, the ones that come over for just a second and end up staying two hours.

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Is the End Near?

Cover of "Left Behind: World at War"
Cover of Left Behind: World at War

Religious Conspiracy theorists are abounding as birds fall from the sky and dead fish pile up on the shores of the Arkansas River.  Is it a sign of the end times?  Is the rapture around the corner?  Do we need to get out our dusty Left Behind books and re-read details from the Tribulation Force? I bet all those people who bought caves in the desert for the millennium are drooling right now.

Now, I love a good mystery, and if it involves my favorite book in the Bible-Revelation, well, I get all wiggly and hyped up just thinking about deciphering prophecy. But the right side of my brain is telling my inner wacko conspiracy theorist (the left side) to pause, and think about this for a moment.

Could it be that rampant pollution, disease among fish or bird species, hazardous dumping of toxic materials in our oceans, air pollution, chemical pollution, even potential weapon testing could be the true offenders and not God?

I struggle with the idea that Christians are some of the first to point their finger at God.  They say this must be an act of angry retribution for our sin.   It’s God’s iron-fist destroying creation with plagues of fire and brimstone, or smelly fish in this case. 

“Personally, I definitely do believe we’re in the End of Days, and I believe there is a lot of evidence of that,” Steve Wohlberg, an author and theologian who has written several books about the end of the world, told the Daily News.

“I’m an observer of the times,” said Wohlberg, who hosts a nationally syndicated radio show and has appeared on several television documentaries about the Bible and the Apocalypse. “The End of Days will have a parallel to the days of Noah,” he said.

Well Steve, I don’t disagree that certain signs from prophecy appear to be much closer at hand, then say, two-thousand years ago.  But if Jesus didn’t know the time or hour, why in the heck are people so obsessed about it? If time is short, than I recommend inviting more people into a relationship with Christ, not scaring them into submission with threats of floods and the sky falling.
So call me more on the grace side in my train of thought, but when I read the scriptures, I find another theme that seems to make more sense.  And it is this…sin always has a consequence.  And our inherent, genetic compulsion to sin, has affected creation.

So, is it possible that mankind, so sweet and innocent, could be the perpetrator in another case of widespread global damage? Could this punishment they say comes from God, simply be a natural consequence from poor choices made by greedy and self-absorbed men?

When I saw that CNN had interviewed Kirk Cameron and asked for his theory, I almost fell out of my chair.  Cameron is indeed a strong Christian, an actor and proponent of spreading the Gospel, but his involvement in the Left Behind movies does not make him an expert on end-time theology.

I loved Cameron’s response to CNN anchor Anderson Cooper: “Well, I first think that they ought to call a veterinarian, not me.”

“You know, I’m not the religious conspiracy theorist go-to guy particularly. But I think it’s really kind of silly to try to equate birds falling out of the sky with some kind of an end-times theory. I think people love to define codes and signs of future events. I think people just have a fascination with the religiously mysterious.”

Well said…Kirk Cameron.  Well said.

So, here’s my theory…maybe we need to work on treating creation the way God intended, as good stewards, instead of trashing the place and then blaming it all on God. 

And all the fish in the sea and birds in the sky, shouted “yippee!”

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The “Manceremony”

My son entered the holiday season yet a boy, but will return to school this New Year a man.  And so last night, we celebrated his coming of age with a “Manceremony.”

It was only a few days ago that my twelve-year-old son with the warbled voice, the distinct Jr. High aloofness, and all the awkwardness of a “boy of a certain age,” roamed the halls of our home.  Now, a man with a deep voice, facial hair and a buff physique has stolen my chubby cheeked angel. 

He turned and smiled at me last night, and in the dim light of the fire, I caught the distinct outline of a mustache on my baby, I mean man-child. 

He is almost a teen-ager now, though we have avoided that word in our home.  I have chosen to reject all the rebelliousness and disrespect that comes along with that verbiage.  My husband and I have decided to give the first-born instead, a “man” blessing, and skip the teen stage altogether.  Clearly this is an experiment, one that may or may not work, but we are hopeful, though possibly naïve, for the years to come.

So in honor of his impending need to shave, I pulled out the champagne glasses for the whole family, excluding the baby, filled them with apple juice, and we toasted to the end of one season and the beginning of the next.  With a nervous laugh, my son lifted his glass.  I could see his emotions ranging from uncomfortable to proud, but he was obviously appreciative that we recognized his maturation and took it seriously.

And so, I will store up the memories of his childhood deep within my heart; his incessant curiosity, the cherubic blond curls, and his chubby little arms reaching out for a hug.  It’s hard to let go of my tiny football player and embrace this new creature who wears cologne and attracts stares from women of all ages.

 I feel unprepared and truly inadequate for this next stage of motherhood.  We, both my son and I, stand at the edge of an uncertain future.  Like the cusp of a roller-coaster, just about to crest over the highest peak, either I choose to lift my arms up high and enjoy the ride or close my eyes and scream for dear life.

Today we worked out at the gym, lifting weights side by side.  And though I am teaching him proper form, he is pushing me on to new limits. Our relationship is changing, as I both embrace and simultaneously release my son into this dance of growing up.

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