I got my first negative comment today on my Everyday Christian blog. Actually I got three of them. I’m pretty sure one of them was from Satan.
The really scary part is they called me “Sammy.” I am blown away by how the commenter knows me so well. It was such an intimate association, and so assumptive to call me by such a fun nick-name. I’m flattered.
Of course, no one actually calls me that. And maybe that’s best, because if they knew my real nick name that would be border-line stalker… and that’s really scary.
I knew this would happen. I figured eventually I would write something controversial enough to stir the pot and piss off someone. Fortunately, it was about my belief in God.
Is it a sin to be proud that you got persecuted for Jesus? Because, I might have a little banner made that says, “I took one for the team,”
So, here’s a little excerpt from my new demonic friend…
“Too bad you were not strong enough to shirk the shackles of fables and myth. In fact, it looks as if you have fully submerged yourself in your chosen fairy tale.
Life is worth living in and of itself, my dear Sammy. No need to give credit to imaginary friends.
There is no hell. There is no god(s). Death is exactly like things were before being born. You simply no longer exist. Why does this scare you so?”
I replied…
It doesn’t scare me. I know where I am going and more than likely will be so overwhelmed by the glory of God that I won’t even remember this temporary pain. I have a hope and a promise of eternal life. It just makes me sad for those that take a different path.
Many Blessings to you and thanks for the comment. Sam
I am afraid I have started a battle. The comments continue to come in.
My uncledied this Thanksgiving. 12:04am to be exact. It’s disheartening when holidays coincide with less than fond memories. Now every year henceforth, turkey will make me sad.
My father called and left a message early in the morning to inform me that he “passed on.” I hate that terminology. It feels like a vacuous attempt to put a pretty spin on death, as if it were a bad cold or an inconvenience. I would rather sink my teeth into the fatality of the moment. Dead is just dead…nothing light or fluffy about it.
Sometimes death is accompanied by sweet relief, if pain or suffering is involved. But not this time. It was sudden. A post surgical infection turned into a fiasco and suddenly poof, death is knocking at the door. Maybe it would be easier if my uncle was close to the Lord, or if I felt confidant in his eternal salvation. But that’s just the thing…I don’t, and it’s eating me up inside.
My uncle was an avowed atheist, determined to live a life apart from God. If he passed on, as my dad suggested, then I can’t fathom where he went, nor do I really want to consider the implications. The big “H” word seems so extreme. And ultimately, so final.
My husband reminded me that God is not limited by our boundaries, that even in a comatose state, my uncle might choose, like the criminal on the cross next to Christ, to turn in a different direction.
This whole idea of someone deliberately choosing an eternal life apart from God has my insides in a tangled turmoil. Free choice notwithstanding, I wish things were different. I can understand when people run from God, keep a distance and live far from him. In this paradigm, there is an acknowledgement of God’s presence coexisting with a willful defiance. But the atheist denies God altogether. It is a much bigger animal than the proverbial prodigal child running from his father.
My uncle was a brilliant man. A professor of anthropology at an esteemed college, an author, a thinker and a contributor to the world of academia. Our conversations were thrilling, and even as a child, I remember probing his mind and uncovering a virtual cornucopia of modern discourse. During my formative years and later as a college student, he challenged me to dive into the greats–Foucault, Niche, Heidegger…to push my brain to maximus exhaustiveness. To ponder, to ruminate, to brood over thoughts and relentlessly search for truth.
But my post-modern studies led me down a different path than the road he traveled. In the absence of absolute truth, in an exhaustive vacuum of subjectivity, my heart longed for something more meaningful than a personal experience to hold onto. As my studies led me further and further away from God, my heart was conversely drawn to Him.
Something in my spirit cried out for more and strangely enough it was my own personal experience with Christ that filled the void. Ironically, “witnessing in a post-modern world” has become material for seminary training, when in all reality, Christ’s light only shines brighter in the hopelessness that shrouds this train of thought.
I loved my uncle. I will miss him at Thanksgiving. I will miss his liberal extremism. His loud laugh. His passion for life. His crazy stories about aliens. And on some level, I can thank him for leading me to Christ in a weird roundabout way.
My eyes leak when I think about him.
The sting of death is this…watching someone you love die apart from Christ.
Many years ago, back in the heyday of college, some friends and I traveled to South Bend, Ind., to see the campus of Notre Dame, and hopefully catch a peek of the Fighting Irish‘s football stadium. After sweet-talking the groundskeeper, he generously allowed us to run through the hallowed tunnel from the movie “Rudy,” and burst out onto the field.
Squealing and delighted to have accomplished our covert mission, we pretended to throw footballs and run plays until we caught sight of the mural of Jesus, just to the left and behind the scoreboard.There it was… Touchdown Jesus!
A hush fell over our group. Though I knew little of God at the time, the sacredness of the space caused a chill down my spine. I felt like Moses standing on Holy ground, in awe of what my spirit perceived, but did not yet know. Our antics ceased as we soberly exited the venerated field.
I had no idea at the time how much the two realms of football and Jesus would intersect in my own life. Years later, my 12-year-old son is now a gifted athlete playing football for a nationally- ranked team, heading for the West Coast Conference and then, Lord willing, on to Florida to play in the Pop Warner Football National competition. My husband, a pastor, will be accompanying him. It is a strange fusion, God and football, and yet for us, it has become our new normal.
While football has many critics, and negative attention has more recently dominated the news because of concerns about concussions and their long-term affects; that which is uplifting and noble cannot be overlooked. And, while few would debate that brute force is a large part of the game, there is much more beyond the obvious testosterone and aggression than meets the eye.
In many ways, a great football team is a metaphor for the spiritual battle we face in the fight against good and evil. Not unlike Christian, inPilgrim’s Progress, my son and his team-mates pursue football greatness with the same determination as Christian on his journey to the Celestial City.
My son’s team, the RSM Pee Wee Titans, train relentlessly. They are well disciplined and wear the appropriate uniform, or what I like to call “armour” for the battle. They study film intently, and play by play, make corrections and adjustments. They diligently research and know their opponents long before the game.
Their coaches are not only well-versed in strategy, but loving mentors and teachers, leading the boys with both grace and truth. They live, eat, and breathe, the game. The team is placed higher than the individual, and all sacrifice one for each other. There is a deep sense of respect among the boys and coaches, as they continually push one another to new levels of performance.
Watching the boys is like viewing an intricate dance. It is harmony in motion. The angels sing and the trumpets play. These are the moments in life, far and few between, when heaven and earth intersect. When athletes play the way God intended, when a team moves in a cadence and rhythm distinct from the pack, and football in its purest form-is revealed.
Last week, before the League Championship, the boys knelt down and prayed. They did it on their own cognizance, no adult around, just a group of eleven and twelve year old boys simply praying for courage and honor, and that God would be with them through the blood, sweat and tears.
And so Touchdown Jesus has become a part of our vernacular…God and football, prayers and the O Line, a blend of the sacred and the secular, and a beautiful picture of little warriors gearing up for a spiritual battle.
Ephesians 6:14-17 (NIV) … Therefore put on the full amour of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled round your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
My interest has been peaked, like most Americans, as the passengers of the Carnival Splendor cruise ship, finally disembark in San Diego Harbor after a four-day ordeal of being stranded at sea and then towed back to shore. One comment in particular caught my eye chronicling a pair of traveling Honeymooners because my own husband and I celebrated our Honeymoon in a similar fashion.
Here is what the bride’s father– Paul Patrick, who purchased the trip as a gift to the newlyweds, had to say about their interrupted vacation.“They’re hungry, very hungry and very eager to get off this ship,” Patrick said. “You can’t ruin a honeymoon, but this came close.” He added: “My son-in-law wishes he’d brought his fishing pole. What else can you do four days on the sea?”
Now, I don’t debate that they are hungry, I mean eating spam sandwiches pretty much stinks, but I do have an issue with the next line. What else can you do for four days on the sea? Ummmm… how about have sex?
Now that might sound crass, but if the couple had walked down a road of purity before marriage, their “ruined” trip might have been a fantastic reason to stay in bed and revel in the joys of intimacy, designed by God for marriage.
Oh, it’s such a sad story. The poor husband wishes he had brought his fishing pole to fight off boredom. When my husband and I traveled to the Mediterranean for our Honeymoon and cruised the seas on the Norwegian Jade for 12 days, we did some fishing all right, and strangely enough it didn’t involve any fish (though there was a fantastic sushi bar on the Jade that we enjoyed). After waiting for almost a year and a half to be sexually intimate, we practically skipped down the aisle and into each other’s arms.
This is the difference between shacking up, premarital sex, and all the compromise the world tells you is great…it steals the joy of true intimacy. It robs the bride and groom of a night to remember. It makes four days at sea with your beloved… a yawning bore.
I can always tell the difference at weddings. It’s obvious to me if the bride and groom have had premarital sex. It’s all about the “event” for the jaded bride, it’s a rite of passage, and a big hoopla over the details. For the couple who choose to be pure, it’s all about the relationship. You can tell in their eyes, their smile, their posture…they have waited for a true treasure and they will celebrate and protect something so valuable.
I know the difference. My first marriage started and ended in compromise. But, the next time, God was gracious and gave me a second chance to walk down the path of purity, restoration and healing. When I married my darling husband, a Godly man and a pastor, I knew he loved me for my heart and not for how I made him feel physically. Our relationship, though by no means perfect, stands on a foundation of trust.
So, though I am truly sad for the vacationing Honeymooners whose trip was derailed, when my husband and I slip away for our next cruise, the “Please Do Not Disturb Sign,” will proudly hang on our door!
It seems like it always happens this time of year, fall burn-out sets in. Not just general weariness, but pure debilitating fatigue that has tenuous layers of emotional, spiritual and physical exhaustion. If you scratch the surface, of a parent or child in this state, you just might get more than you bargained for. Raw emotions lurk underneath the realm of the over achievers façade.
It finally dawned on me last week at the mall just how spent I was. The sky was dumping rain and my family was ecstatic. Wet fields meant a reprieve from the kids’ grueling sports schedule. So after almost five hours at church, we headed off for some much-needed sustenance and a little retail therapy…my older daughter’s love language. After pigging out at Ruby’s, my daughter begged to go to Justice for girls, a shop geared for hip tweens and enabling mothers.
So in we trooped to Justice; the baby sleeping in her stroller, my daughter shrieking at the totally cute jeggings, my son running off to Tilly’s and my husband, well…I don’t actually remember where he went. And that’s when I saw it, a music video playing on one of the ten screens placed around the store appealing to the ADHD crowd featuring Taylor Swift. I should have walked away, knowing how utterly prone I was to an emotional hijacking, but I fell for the romance and escape of it all. And so, in my highly fragile state, I was sucked in to Taylor’s compelling story-telling lyrics.
Alas, it was a woeful tale of a child abandoned by her father, and than growing up scared that her own husband would repeat the abandonment of her youth. So there I stood in Justice, a cacophony of mall buzz all around me, and I lost it. Tears began to pour down my face, big gulpy sobs for poor little Taylor’s heart, and I felt a deep well of emotion erupt from my soul. For a moment, the world stopped and I just reveled in the release.
This is what fall burn-out does. It takes high functioning adults, exhausted from work, kids, and sport’s playoffs and on and on… and turns them to mush, in places like Justice, no less. I realized this was a red-light symptom indicating that my cup might be overrunning with too many blessings and leading to detrimental burn-out, not just the tiredness that makes me long for summer and more languid days. So, I added up all the things we are involved in right now as a family. Then I looked long and hard at the list and did a little reflecting.
Pastoral ministry, running a church, leading 2 Rooted groups, teaching 2 bible studies, a career in tech sales, freelance writing, 2 online magazines, 1 blog, 2 acting classes, fall baseball, cheerleading, Mini Pearls(kids cancer research), Jr. High youth group, commuting 2 hours a day, 3 kids(1 of them a teething baby), no sleep, attempted exercise, running a women’s ministry, school, homework, a football team heading for the West Coast Conference, fantasy football commissioner, and oh yes…another fantasy team, friends, kids friends, family obligations, cheer team mom, little scholar football rep, football chain volunteer, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and oh yeah…trying to remain spiritual, read the Bible, pray, and be blessed to be a blessing.
Just my schedule alone is something like 140 hours a week. That leaves me with an average of about 4 hours of sleep a night. Quite frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t lost it at the Grocery Store or maybe even driven my car into the grocery store.
What the hell am I thinking?
The scary part is that I am pretty sure I am not alone in my race to accomplish, achieve, and appear busy. All of my friends are overwhelmed too. Sometimes I feel guilty for watching TV, annoyed at my husband when he takes time out to play, and frustrated that I don’t have more time to accomplish another 400 items. Sounds a little more like Martha than Mary, and that makes me sad because I want to be more like Mary. But, in all reality, we live in a Martha world and sitting on the floor like Mary at Jesus’ feet is counter-cultural. It takes an inordinate effort to swim against the current of identity defined by productivity.
What is this psychotic expectation of achievement that we have all bought into? I thought I could confidently say that I found my meaning and significance in Christ, but if I am honest, my agenda belies my statement of faith. Rest doesn’t feel like rest anymore, it’s more a catatonic expression of paralysis. Too tired to move, too tired to talk, we zone out and veg.
I think it’s time to stop the madness and climb off the hamster wheel. The hard part is figuring out how not to get thrown off the wheel. The world sucks you in and then spits you back out. Oh, but my inner hamster both loves and hates the wheel. While I want to jump off it’s also scary to think of not running so fast.
There’s an old saying that comes to mind…if the devil can’t make you sin, then he’ll make you busy.
So busy, that I imagine he has a field day with us when our defenses are down.
Last night my car broke down. Not that it’s ever convenient to have car problems, but I was parked behind a high school, deep in an isolated canyon with nothing but tarantulas and mountain lions around for miles. My son was one of the last kids off the football field after a late practice and as he hopped in, I heard a clicking sound instead of the engine coming to life. It sounded like a dead battery.
Fortunately, one of the mom’s also exiting saw my waving hand and stopped. She sent her husband home for the jumper cables and we hung out in the cold night, with growling stomachs, kids running around and the baby howling along with the coyotes for a bottle. Shockingly, a few last stragglers walked by and observed our little woebegone party-two women, three children and a baby standing around a car with the hood open, obviously in distress, and not one of them stopped or asked if we needed help.
It’s a story told all too often in our society… of people passing by and not heeding the call of those in distress. Now obviously we weren’t in imminent danger, and we did not ask for help, but the other mom seemed pretty indignant that we were ignored.
I would suggest that their lack of concern is more normal than not, and I am generally more surprised when people do offer assistance. Heroic acts these days are few and far between, and when they do occur, somebody probably has a video to capture it for YouTube. Because, when nobody else is looking, when the credits don’t roll, it’s just too easy to turn our eyes away and pretend not to notice. Ignorance is bliss right?
The Darwinist mentality seems to have pervaded our culture so deeply that survival of the fittest means we overlook the ageing, disabled and stranded. What this reveals about our society is a startling lack of compassion and an indication that somewhere along the way we have learned to care more for ourselves than for the greater good.
I know that if I am honest, my own heart is inherently selfish and my gut reaction is rarely to stop what I am doing, surrender my agenda, and dive into the need at hand. More often, I feel a tug in my spirit, choose to heed or ignore the nudge, and then usually, but not always, try to help.
When I look at the ministry of Jesus, I am struck by how the interruptions of need seemed to define his entire ministry. He did more healing, teaching and revelation in the unplanned moments than any organized preaching. His agenda seemed to incorporate the unplanned and invite the messy in.
And so, I am challenged to create space in my life for the unexpected, the things I can’t put in my agenda but may define my identity far more than my busy schedule.
The journey of compassion is the road less traveled. It whispers to look beyond ourselves and glimpse that which is sacred. It loves our neighbor simply for loves sake.
That’s the message I want to teach my kids. It’s the banner I want to wear across my own heart. To never be so busy that I can’t stop, engage in humanity, and get my hands a little bit dirty.
But if your car breaks down…my help might consist of a little company and a cell phone. Mechanics are just not my gift!
I am a big scaredy cat. I get squirrelly in dark parking lots, check my back seat for Ted Bundy, and keep every door and window locked despite the sweltering heat of summer. The Night Stalker killings and rampage of the 1980’s terrorized my childhood dreams and sleep for years, even after he was incarcerated and even when my fear was more detrimental than reality. Admittedly, if ADT offered a personalized alarm system, one that monitored my body’s perimeter for criminals, sex offenders and violent youth, I would be the first to sign up.
I know I am not alone in this irrational attachment to fear. Women, in general, seem far more prone to insecurity than men when it comes to feeling safe and the media only plays into our anxiety. Watching the eleven-o-clock news requires a black belt in karate or at minimum, a proficient knowledge in the use of handguns and weaponry. At least the Today show filters down the evil antics of the night before to a few newsworthy stories. The media’s fascination with shock value has given the general public an overload of information, much of it detrimental to our sense of well-being.
In an effort to “enlighten us,” it has not come without a great cost. We have sacrificed of our sense of peace and perceived security on the altar of “shock and awe news.” Jack Nicholson said it best, “You can’t handle the truth.” I both agree and simultaneously disagree with him. I would argue that a little truth goes a long way, and in some cases, I would actually prefer to be sheltered from every single murder and drive-by incident. On the flip side, deep down my spirit pushes me to cry out for the oppressed in direct opposition to my inner wuss who wants to live in denial.
That’s not to say violence hasn’t touched my own life. I don’t live in a bubble. As a small child, an intruder broke into our home and assaulted my own mother at knife-point. I’ve had my share of attempted break-ins, altercations, and even a bounty-hunter who terrorized my family one night due to a mistaken identity. And maybe that’s the reason why my heart breaks every time I see another story of devastation and abuse. Isn’t life hard enough without a play by-play rerun of its atrocities?
As a story–teller, I too am at a conundrum. I aim to evoke emotion from my writing. I want to expose the injustice in the world and bring it to light. Conversely, as a woman and a mother, my deepest desire is for security and a sense of well-being. It is a duality that confronts all of us. This is where faith in God and our deepest trust issues collide. The Scriptures say to “fear not” while my flesh trembles and panics. Maybe that’s why, “Don’t be afraid,” is repeated more often than any verse in the Bible. God knew the torment we would encounter and suggests only He, can provide us with the peace and security we long for.
So until the day I will meet Jesus face to face, I will continue to lock my doors, skip the late news and press into the truth, even when I would rather shut my eyes and even when the façade of safety seems more appealing than the violence of reality.
I have Jesus on speed dial. When a monumental crisis is looming or I need directions for the roadmap of life, I just grab my iPhone and hit God. Generally he answers on the first ring, but sometimes I am put on hold due to turmoil in the Mideast or the occasional tsunami. Fortunately, I have a special ringtone, so he generally gets back to me within five minutes – max.
Yeah right! If only hearing God’s voice was that easy. Though we were initially designed for this type of connection, Adam and Eve, bless their sinful hearts, interrupted our ability to walk side by side in the Garden and hear God call out our name. So, until that glorious day, when we will meet him face to face, we are left with a deep desire within to know our Creator. While this yearning is enough to motivate us into action it is often wrapped in confusion. Does God speak to His people today like he used too in Biblical times? What does his voice sound like? Will I recognize it? And ultimately, how do we pursue something so incredibly elusive?
What we often forget in our eagerness for instant gratification and fast answers is that all relationships take time to develop intimacy. Our ability to discern God’s voice is directly related to the depth of our relationship and the journey we have experienced with our Father. Over time, as our spiritual journey matures, our recognition of the myriad ways God communicates will sharpen. And though we may not be able to hear an audible voice on speaker phone, we can learn to quiet our heart, open our eyes and hear God loud and clear.
When Samuel was a young boy, and God called him out of sleep to give him a message, he did not have the ability to recognize God’s voice and needed Eli’s assistance. But as he grew into a man and eventually into the judge that would lead Israel, he trained his ear to hear the Lord. The name Samuel means “listens to God.” It implies action. Samuel was intentional. He paused and…he actually listened! In a world of incessant noise this may be one of the greatest challenges we face as believers.
One of the ways God speaks is through circumstances. Doors open…doors close and opportunity knocks. Relationships develop, sparks fly, and something is created out of nothing. Miracles happen, rescues are made and battles are won. The first step is awareness in what the Spirit might be communicating through daily living
The other day, I had a great opportunity to hear God and it only took a jackhammer for him to get his message across. As a busy mother of three children, time alone is nonexistent, and so I was eager to chaperone my daughter’s cheer squad for a long practice at our church, because I knew I could go off and hide while the coach drilled the girls. I settled down in the nursery with my nine month old baby for a nice quiet afternoon, anticipating that the baby would entertain herself and I could pen about ten thousand words.
My first mistake was thinking the baby could be so easily duped by a few flashy toys and some tasty snacks, but I was determined to be productive. I managed to write a whole paragraph when my laptop suddenly died. Because it was plugged in to the charger, I was baffled. But, it refused to start and I was getting frustrated. Fearing a blue screen, I checked and rechecked, only to realize that I had brought the wrong charger. I have an HP and I was trying to connect it to my husband’s Dell power brick. OK God, I chuckled, you want me to go Old School and use a pen. In a posture of sincere adaptability, I sat on the floor with a journal and a pen, to calm the now fussy baby and continue on my literary quest for greatness.
One sentence in, the baby grabbed my pen and laughed. Every time I attempted to write she batted at the paper, the pen, my face…whatever she could get her little hands on. Then she started crying. In an act of surrender I put down the pen and asked God what he wanted me to hear. I grabbed the bottle and a blanket and reached for the baby. She snuggled close into my arms and I began to rock, rock and rock. Finally we found our rhythm. As the baby relaxed and fell asleep, I knew in my heart that I needed to lean into my Father’s arms the way the baby was resting in mine.
God was giving me a gift. I had hours alone with my sweet angel, without distractions, time to bond, sing worship songs, giggle and play peek-a-boo. Letting go of my agenda was the only way to experience his plan for me. Later on the day, she fell asleep again and I was able to write again…deeply humbled, blessed and cognizant of God’s love.
Ironically, it doesn’t take much for God to communicate a message. I heard him loud and clear through a power cord and a fussy baby. The challenge is to be aware, because God is always moving!
There is a song that came out a few years that still makes me weep (It’s been played so many times on the FISH it might make you cry too). It asks me to imagine what I will do when I am confronted with Jesus face to face. Will I even be able to stand in his presence or will I fall to my knees overwhelmed by his grace? It is a provocative question I don’t ask myself enough because I would rather envision Jesus pursuing me. I am comfortable with an image of him walking alongside of me and holding my hand. I am a little girl and he is a loving father. But, the thought of coming boldly to the throne of God makes my knees wobble and my heart quake with fear. Like Isaiah, I imagine calling out “woe to me, I am unworthy and inadequate.”[1] I struggle to put together the image of God the Father with God the Son. Jesus is accessible and near to me while the Father is Holy and immense. Somehow, I have associated God the Father with performance and Jesus with unmerited grace, forgetting all too often that they are one. If spirituality is the means by which we develop an awareness of the Spirit of God in us and the processes, by which we keep that awareness alive and vital, then these questions and contemplations must not be avoided.[2] My interior life demands examination if I am to minister effectively. As the Father and the Son are not separate, my spirituality and service in ministry are also inexplicably tied together.
This last year has provided many opportunities for spiritual growth and transformation as my husband and I left our church after sixteen years to start a satellite church, under the umbrella of the mother church. Because I have been immersed in almost every facet of the church plant, either directly or indirectly through my husband, a new obstacle has reared its ugly head…finding rest in the midst of exhaustive church planting. Where is the line drawn from the demands of ministry and my own need to develop authentic spirituality? How do you leave your work at the job if your church is the job? Where do pastors and leaders go to replenish their spirits if they can’t do it at church? Is this where the desert experience calls out to us? Church used to be a safe and comforting setting where I could hide from the world and now, at times, it feels like a minefield of power struggles, mostly within my own heart. It is a massive paradigm shift for me to move the church out of the place where I experience God to a place where I am simply doing God’s work. The two don’t go together anymore. I must encounter God on my own without the guidance or aid of an institution. I think God allowed me to see the physical boundaries of Church as a safe stronghold while he built a firm foundation of his Word and Spirit within me. Now, almost two decades into this journey, he has removed my attachment from the buildings I thought I needed to grow closer to him. My ability to minister effectively is dependent only on the depth of relationship I experience with him…a reflection of His transforming work in a willing spirit and my tiny mustard seed of faith.
If the extent one is willing to incorporate the spiritual disciplines or means of grace into one’s life will determine the effectiveness of their ministry,[3] then I am forced to find rest amidst the chaos. This has meant intentional times of solitude, painful reflection and major adjustments as I look differently at the way I give back to God. Once again, God is calling me to move out of my comfort zone and into a place of greater dependence. Any ministry that is beyond our effort requires that we abandon ourselves to the mysterious action that God is able to work in us, and then through us. But this involves a stripping away of the last vestige of hope that we can somehow accomplish the task on our own.[4]
I believe the essence of spiritual growth is this-our journey is like an onion peeling. Every time you pull off a good chunk there are more layers waiting to be uncovered. At the core of the onion, is a tender childlike faith that has been covered over the years with wounds, pain and fear. As we peel, tears sting our eyes, and we become raw, discarding the very things we have clung to for security apart from God. But our reward is this…to see our Father clearly, without the veil of darkness hindering our vision, moving from blindness into His glorious light.
Tim Kimmel, in his book, “Why Christian Kids Rebel,” explains the number one reason that children walk away from the faith is that they never see it make a real difference in the lives of their parents.
This inspires me to use my life as a curriculum… tracing the hand of God in my past stories, but also constantly looking for ways to exemplify Jesus today in both my triumphs and failures. I point out answers to things we’ve prayed about. I show them the many ways God provides and make sure they know where credit is due. I live my faith out loud and up front so they cannot miss that Christ is at the center of our home. He has to become too real to deny.
Where I am challenged is in making sure my attitude doesn’t discredit the reality of Christ. Not that I feel the pressure to be perfect, but I do have to be on guard when I’m tired, drained, hormonal, or frustrated by something or dare I say someone? I must press into God, ask for His strength, and allow Him to fill my emotional gaps. Oh yeah…and get enough rest (not so easy with three kids). Otherwise, it’s easy to respond in the flesh, leaving a wake of tears behind me. But even when I fail, the reality of Jesus can be seen in how I handle my failure. Oh here it comes…my favorite catch phrase, “It’s all about the rebound!” If I am quick to humble myself, ask for forgiveness and model redemption, it speaks volumes to my kids.
I hope that someday, the things my children remember – their stories – will resemble a parable reflecting God’s hand in their lives; the reality of Christ’s presence that can be shared with their own children in the years to come.
