I opened up my tattered Oswald Chambers’ devotion early this morning for a little Holy Spirit self-examination. There is something about this old guy, some super-duper Jesus power he has to make me feel both wretched and sorely convicted every morning.
It’s my favorite masochistic book; I feel terrible and yet continue to come back for more. Today’s lesson did not disappoint. It was on judgment, something I barely struggle with (yes that was sarcasm).
“Judge not, that ye not be judged.” (Matt. 7:1)
Whoa, now, slow down there Mr. Chambers, are you telling me God says the stick I measure others with will be used to measure my faults? Because I have a pretty short stick for those I deem to be idiots.
Now in my defense, my measuring stick has certainly grown over the years for family members and friends. I am far more patient and loving then I used to be, but I must confess passing criticism on my enemies far too often then I would like.
“Sam, what sort of enemies do you have?” you ask. Generally, sweet pastor’s wives aren’t out marauding or pirating and making enemies.
And while this is true, I certainly don’t go looking for trouble, I do have opposition. Every writer pisses someone off eventually.
In my case, I have the atheists who hound me with nasty comments, the puritanical swim trouser folks who find me indecent, and a few random blokes who spam me incessantly. (Ok, maybe they aren’t true enemies, but I don’t like their evil antics.)
Then there are the worst offenders, those few who simply don’t like me for no reason that I know of. This is where my judgment button kicks in to high gear. I don’t really care if they don’t approve of me, because in recourse, I simply write them off as having ridiculously poor taste.
Bang-judgment!
I’ve read the biggest reason people don’t like other people are because they sense the other person doesn’t like or appreciate them. Yep, that rings a bell.
Oswald reminds me, “There is always one fact more in every man’s case in which we know nothing.”Basically, he’s saying to give them the benefit of doubt. This is so hard!
I can choose to give the atheists grace, because though their words are poison, it’s obvious I have been given grace far beyond measure. And the bikini bashers, I will choose to love them but not agree with them. (By the way, I’m not referring to the modesty crowd here, I’m talking about the over the top ones who steal my articles and insult me.)
But to give the haters mercy, well…this one is more tricky. I have to acknowledge most importantly, what an idiot I was until God picked me up out of the miry pit, delicately brushed me of, and set my feet back on solid ground.
I’m glad Judgement Day won’t be here until October now, because Oswald and me have got some more work to do.
My First Baby is officially, as of May 23rd, a double-digit midget (translation-Faith turned ten-years old). Now that might be confusing to some because it makes absolutely no sense if you know the birth order of my kids.
Faith Whitney is my second child (out of three) and now carries the middle child banner after almost a decade of being the baby. After that long, you would think the middle child traits would be nominally apparent, but jealousy is such a strong emotion and even the most secure kid gets rattled when their role is replaced.
I’ve noticed Faith fights to claim her place, postures for attention and vacillates between big girl and lisping baby talk–all symptoms of a classic middle child. It’s tough being the sandwich kid in between the studly athletic older brother and a ridiculously cute toddling baby sister. I think of Jan Brady and her silly wigs, just trying to fit in and find her place.
So, as chief mother and encourager of my little tribe, I have decided to break with tradition and give her a new nick-name, First Baby. For many years Faith was indeed my baby, and instead of taking on the bitter and sassy middle child identity, I have decided to give her a new title, allowing her the distinction of feeling treasured instead of lost among the birth order.
Now, while this might sound coddling to some, I do confess a certain degree of parental guilt when it comes to juggling three kids. My position recognizes the recurring nagging feeling of mommy guilt because I haven’t been able to give my middle child the attention she craves now that there are three. The truth is I am outnumbered and Faith has genuinely lost some time and attention from the mommy bucket.
But, even though my hands are full, as all moms know, my heart has an endless amount of love for my little girl. So one of the things I decided I could do was to give her a special name. And when I hold her in bed at night as we cuddle and say prayers, I sense my effort is appreciated.
Clearly she is still the middle sister. Faith’s role has not changed, but her title has been tweaked a bit to boost her security as my beloved child. It’s a beautiful picture of what God does with us. The world calls us certain labels and He in turn tells us we are chosen, redeemed, and cherished. The circumstances in our lives don’t change, but the image imprinted on our heart, (if we choose to believe what God says is true about us) begins to define us more than the other titles. We operate differently because we are secure.
A recent story in the news caught my eye about a family who has refused to announce the sex of their child. The baby named Storm will be allowed to pick its own gender. On a million levels this disturbs me but mostly because we are created in the image of God, male and female he created them.
Little Storm will grow up without labels, without a gender even. His family, in an extreme effort to avoid the world’s identification and labels, has created even more insecurity for the child. In my opinion, this seems like another misguided attempt to play God and redefine the created order into some PC perversion of an alternative reality.
I understand the desire though. It’s the same reason I go out of my way to make up silly nick-names because I love my kids. It’s the yearning to experience the paradise we were created for. Something deep within our spirits strives to recreate that which was lost. Of course not being God, we distort in our effort to recreate beauty or in this case a world without labels.
Strangely enough, I imagine in about a year or two, the last thing Faith will want me to call her is a baby. And Storm in a few years will probably figure out his or her sex, despite his parent’s shroud of secrecy. Hopefully, both will find their true identity in Christ alone and ultimately that will be enough.
There is nothing quite like a captive audience (even if you have to bribe them to be there). Tonight I am so excited to speak for the second time at Birthchoice. For those of you unfamiliar with this nonprofit, they are a pro-life health clinic dedicated to helping and equipping young moms (and even a few single dads) with parenting and life skills, as well as preparing them to have healthy relationships.
When the young parents attend a class they earn points which can be used towards diapers and baby clothing. Therein lays the beauty of the scenario…a group of teens and young adults, all paying rapt attention. This is virtually unheard of in most realms.
One thing I learned from my last class is teen moms are just like all moms, but younger (profound, I know…). No matter what the topic, all they really want to know about is labor, pain and nursing. And this ultimately, is what all expectant mom’s want to know about because it’s the big scary unknown.
I could have spoken on car seat installations and the first question would have been, “How bad does nursing hurt.” (Then again, maybe they weren’t paying attention?)
Of course, being the great instructor I am, I was completely honest and told them it hurts like hell.
One smarty-pants girl retorted, “Only if you’re doing it wrong.” (La Leche clearly has a new advocate)
Honestly, I was a little scared the first night I showed up. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked in the room and encountered all these curious eyes staring at me.
I didn’t know my heart would pound so nervously before I spoke, or how much I would enjoy bantering and playfully razzing the group. I certainly didn’t anticipate my spirit swelling with a profound ache.
Their courage was tremendous and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I wasn’t that brave at their age. I made mistakes.
I believe abortion is often (though not always) the quick fix and the easy way out. I know that’s a loaded statement and many will disagree. I also know there are situations where rape and incest are involved and that certainly changes the parameters.
But this group of kids, despite the circumstances, were willing to take a risk, even though it was by far, the more difficult (at least initially) of the two paths.
I imagine few will ever regret their decision, while another generation of young women and men will struggle with shame and remorse for making a different choice.
I am humbled by their bravery.
We all screw up eventually, but few will choose to make beauty from ashes.
And a baby just might be the most beautiful mistake ever made.
“Sometimes I would like to ask God why he allows poverty, suffering and injustice when he could do something about it.”
“Well, why don’t you ask Him”
“Because I am afraid that He would ask me the same question.”-Anonymous
***
“Do you have any change? I ran out of gas and my kids and I are stranded,”
Startled, I backed up as the unfamiliar woman cornered me by my car as I filled it with gas. It seemed like she had appeared out of nowhere and was now only inches from my face.
“I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any money on me,” I explained, “Just my credit card.”
Sheepishly, she turned, and I started to breathe again when I realized she wasn’t going to rob me. She walked over to her car and my eyes followed her. She climbed in the front seat of a truck and I strained to see if there were kids in the vehicle with her. I didn’t see any, but I certainly wasn’t going to argue with her to cough up the kids before I gave her assistance.
I finished up at the pump and then started to frantically dig through my messy car to see if there were any quarters in the center console I could find for her.
My back was turned to the outside as I frantically looked for the coins, when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. The hair on my neck rose as whipped around again.
In front of me stood a young blonde man, disheveled and in tattered clothes. With a sad smile he asked me, “Do you have any money? I am trying to get to the beach.”
I shook my head no and climbed in my car and quickly shut the door. Overwhelmed and feeling slightly hounded by all of the desperation, I started the car and drove off feeling conflicted and very much like Peter before the rooster crowed. I suspiciously looked around for a third beggar.
“Ok God, I see them,” I muttered. “I see your people.”
I knew what God was up to. I had recently prayed a scary prayer. Not the patience prayer (I am not that dumb) but the Bob Peirce prayer (the founder of World Vision).
I had prayed with determined trepidation (like the great wuss I am) for my heart to be broken by the things that break the heart of God.
And now He was doing it.
Only the night before, I had shared with my husband how I felt God was stirring up in me compassion for the poor and needy. I felt a sadness and burden for the oppressed that was rather foreign to my crusty and self-absorbed heart. Every day, disturbing stories were coming across my path that brought me to my knees and a fire of righteous anger was beginning to slowly build inside my belly.
My husband asked me what my part was in this revelation. I said there were two things. I felt a tangible distance, almost desensitization from the magnitude of suffering in the world and secondly, I sensed God wanted me to write about it.
The gas station, by the way, was in Anaheim, not some seedy part of Los Angeles or Santa Ana. Lately, I’ve been approached by beggars in the parking lot of Target in Mission Viejo, and repeatedly by a mother toting a little boy inside the Starbucks in Ladera Ranch.
The tentacles of poverty are spreading closer and closer to the insulated bubble communities we’ve built to keep it out.
And suddenly, I can’t compartmentalize it all anymore; this mental box of poverty I’ve created that includes mission trips to Mexico and the sad little faces of children in Africa. It’s not the separate place I make it out to be so I can sleep better at night. Poverty is all around us and it’s too blatant for me to put it back on the shelf or cross off on a list of benevolent activities I do on a quarterly basis.
Honestly, poverty scares me. More than anything I think it’s the desperation. Somehow, I’ve equated the poor with violence, and while they often do go together, I know they aren’t the same. Poverty seems to be more about limited options than aggression. But they get mixed up when I avoid the issue altogether.
I am afraid of changing and drawing close, but I am more afraid of doing nothing now that my eyes have been opened.
I wish I had some money with me in the car the other day. Although, reflecting on it later, it’s not like I couldn’t have bought the woman gas with my credit card. My fear at times is paralyzing.
But next time, well…next time, I’ll be ready for the little tap on the shoulder. In fact, I’ll be expecting it.
I was born with the blessing or possibly the curse of champagne taste. Either that or I read too many Jackie Collins novels at a young and impressionable age. Regardless, I like luxury, pampering and pricey elegance. I am certain without the influence of God, money would be my master.
And there were many years, as a follower of Christ, that I managed to justify materialism and consumption as markers of a successful and affluent life. It was a large gaping blind spot in my faith. Acquiring wealth was my impetus to achieve, but when I married a pastor, my paradigm imploded when confronted with the idea of true financial stewardship and sacrifice, a concept far beyond the proverbial ten percent tip( tithe) to the Lord.
I remember the exact moment I let go of the American Dream. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was watching Oprah and The Secret (a new-age self-help book/movie) was the feature. I sat there glued like a freight train. I knew, theologically speaking, it was a bunch of baloney, but emotionally the message triggered an off the chart response in my heart.
And it was this yearning for something more, for love so deep and raw, that I was willing to walk away from all the perceived security of money and risk my life for something better. Something that felt right and something that whispered of God.
All my best laid plans to marry a rich man, my scheming and striving (for beauty which equals power which attracts…you guessed it-money), were put to rest, when I made the decision to open my heart to a man who cared more about people than things, hearts and not cash, and building a community instead of building wealth.
Simply put, I said yes when Jesus called. And there was no going back. The next day during church service, I leaned over and nuzzled Tim. His eyes were wide with shock because I had been avoiding the conversation about our next step in the relationship. “You can’t do that unless you are my girlfriend,” he exclaimed, ever the appropriate pastor with physical boundaries.
I whispered in his ear, “So ask me.”The smile on his face was from ear to ear, and less than a week later, he formally asked if he could court me and pursue marriage.
Ministry is a unique calling in that it requires the relinquishment of financial striving. Pastors generally don’t have the newest, latest and greatest (unless it’s an iPad). And if they do, eyebrows are raised and assumptions are made about misuse of offerings. So playing it modest becomes de rigor and it was a huge relief to stop the comparisons. It was if someone handed me a pass to not have to keep up with the Jones’.
And to my utter surprise, I (usually) enjoy being chic and a little shabby; wearing my clothes and shoes to threads, not feeling the pressure to be fashionable, and living simply without the need to find acceptance through my image in the material realm. I like hand me downs, clothes from Target, and the less is more mentality. Once I embraced simple abundance I couldn’t go back.
But that being said, it’s hard to struggle financially. Our family has two modest incomes and five mouths to feed and we honestly have a tough time juggling it all. I catch myself feeling entitled to things like a gardener and bi-monthly housekeeping. I can justify the expense because I devote all my extra time to ministry, but the truth is, cleaning the house makes me dang grumpy.
I try to make these little bargains with God, “I’ll serve you some more if I can just get a little help around the house, please.”
I can just imagine the Lord saying, “Sam, let me teach you to serve me by cleaning the house I gave you.”
I just love those conversations
Then there are those moments of “if only I had…” I am human after all and a woman. I still love True Religion jeans, but I try to remember that true worship involves a sacrifice of obedience, and jeans that cost an arm and a leg could probably be better spent on saving someone’s arm and leg in Haiti. So, when I am at the mall, it’s best to repeat “Haiti,” over and over until the temptation passes,
My bigger struggle is my desire to stay home with my kids. This burden didn’t go away when I married Tim, though it became less important. My income is necessary for our family’s very survival. This is what draws me closer to the Lord because He hasn’t delivered me out of my deep longing. The desire remains and I live in the tension between wanting and needing, knowing that God knows the difference and trusting him to make the call.
Materialism and financial discontent (always wanting more) are like a large glass of water with little leak. You can’t see the water disappear, but your cup is never full. I carried this discontent around with me for years without fully understanding the deeper desires of my heart; security and contentment. But as I began to understand the greater meaning of living simply, putting my treasure where my heart is, it meant I had to reevaluate what I treasure.
Do I really believe my treasure is relationship with God? Do I serve and love my neighbor? Does it radically affect my decision-making process? Do I want what I have or do I always want more? And if I choose to wear fancy jeans that are the dollar equivalent of supporting an impoverished child for a year, can I even sleep at night?
I have to believe, even though the journey is hard and the road is fraught with diversions, that I am better off choosing to live counter-culturally, even though it’s tough to keep your eye on the prize when the Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale is fast approaching
So, don’t be surprised if I drool at expensive denim and make little squeaking noises when a Gucci purse passes by. I’ll just be over here praying through my weakness and slight envy issues…(Haiti, Haiti, Haiti)
No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money. Matthew 6:24
My last post sparked some great conversations. One dialogue was with my pastor (husband). He made a few points I wanted to address:
As leaders we are held to a higher standard. To whom much is given much is expected. And the same swimwear (a two-piece) I wore as a volunteer in highschool ministry may not be the appropriate attire in my new position. Clearly, I am slow to adjusting to my new paradigm as a pastor’s wife. (But if you knew where I came from, you might already be scratching your head at the colossal shift in my behavior)
My idea of cute and my husband’s idea of modest are not the same. Here we go back to the middle ground again, but we have discussed spending some real money on a bathing suit that represents both our values. Cha-Ching!
When expectations are assumed, but not discussed it can lead to disappointment on both sides. And when your wife is a writer sometimes her thoughts leak out into the internet cloud, (subconsciously of course) but I see your point dear!
While my desire is to honor my husband and protect all men from lust, I still have the desire to be pretty. And therein lies the catch-22.
Joshua Harris, in sex is not the problem (lust is), states, “The way you dress can either help or hinder the men around you who are trying to resist lust.” So, if my idea of pretty is a hindrance, then I may need to reevaluate what pretty means. Maybe pretty can include modesty. But maybe it doesn’t have to include a t-shirt and board shorts either (so soggy and uncomfortable)!
Harris also suggests that men play a part in this responsibility to resist temptation. Men are not exempt from the solution. And I don’t want to ever take this too lightly. I want to affirm and acknowledge just how difficult it is.
Breasts and belly buttons are not evil. Dressing to tempt and lure is. There is no shame in being voluptuous and it doesn’t make a woman less spiritual or unclean. And if you see a sister who is in sin, have the conversation with her instead of snubbing her or talking behind her back. I’m just saying…
The truth is I struggle with this. It’s not a black or white issue and I don’t want to justify or fall within legalistic rule making. Ultimately, modesty and lust are a matter of the heart.
God knows we will get discouraged, on both sides of the matter. He encourages us to not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap if we do not lose heart.(Gal 6:9) So, I’ll just be over here sowing some seed and eating some humble pie.
I hear a lot about God’s favor these days in the church. Some people have it and others less fortunate get overlooked. The favored few rise to the top and those that lack favor end up floundering in the land of mediocre. And though some might argue that the floundering builds character, sometimes it also builds bitterness.
I get the impression from current theological minds, praying for favor is a cop-out. It’s the Prayer of Jabez-y (to use my friend D’s term) prosperity touting gospel. It’s the name it and claim it kind of Christianity which seeks personal happiness instead of Kingdom suffering.
But what if the favor we desire is simply to be used by God? No one faults David for wanting to be the guy to build the temple. Even though God said no, his sincere longing for favor was legitimate. What happens when we ask like Isaiah, “Here I am God, use me,” and all we hear is crickets?
Disillusionment with God’s Timing
Some stories I encounter have me scratching my head in bewilderment. What about my friend Jonah, a missionary who felt God’s call to attend Bible College and enter pastoral ministry. But due to unexpected circumstance, runs out of money for tuition. When he interviews at church after church for a pastoral job, he is told to finish seminary and then reapply. So, he heads back into the workforce disillusioned. Years later, he is tentatively opening his heart again to be used by God. In all reality, he was a pastor doing Kingdom work as a missionary, but no one in the church was willing to take a risk on field experience vs. academic accreditation. Or did he merely lack favor?
Radical Obedience
I’m watching the Catalyst updates on Twitter as I write this. Ironically, Andy Stanley is speaking on radical obedience being a pivotal component to Kingdom sized dreams. Is God’s favor somehow mysteriously intertwined with obedience?
Stanley suggests, “Often, a single act of courage is the tipping point for something extraordinary.” He also mentioned the church would have kicked Peter out of leadership, but Jesus, on the other hand, put him in charge.
The State of the Heart
Hmmmm? I guess that brings me back to favor. If the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much (James 5:16 WBT), then the condition of our heart influences the outcome of our prayers. If we pray for God’s favor regarding doors opening and opportunities to glorify Him, then our will cannot be out of alignment, but the means to achieve this glory may be. To put it simply, we have to want what God wants.
Courage then, in light of favor, can be seen as the relinquishment of personal agenda. It is letting go of our expectations and embracing the circumstances of God’s timing.
And favor, therefore, is the exact moment when our innermost desires meet with God’s timing.
Call me Jabez-y, but I will keep praying for those moments, not only for myself, but for all the Jonah’s out there that want to be used, like Peter, for the Kingdom. They aren’t looking for a comfortable G6 ride instead of a bumpy broken jalopy; they just want an opportunity to travel down the Kingdom road of favor.
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.
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.
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.
