I am rounding up the week of the fractured foot. And it’s been so stinking DEPRESSING! I never realized what a happy camper I normally am, until I wasn’t.
Warning! Here comes the vent….WAHH! My foot hurts. All I do is sit, sit, sit on the stupid couch. I’m not motivated to get my sorry behind up and do anything because it hurts even more. My kids look at me and think, “Hey, there’s mom parked on the sofa again. What happened to our vibrant, active go get’em mama? Who is this long faced bummer gal?”
I am also depressed from the writing conference (Orange County Christian Writers Fellowship) which I attended this last weekend. I actually sat down in front of an editor from a big name publishing house and pitched my book concept . And then, miraculously he told me to submit a book proposal. (Which if you know anything about writing is like manna from heaven, because publishers almost never take random solicitations). You have to get a literary agent, and have a platform of 35,000 people and be on a speaking tour…and have all this marketing mumbo jumbo that makes my head spin around like Carrie.
So I should be happy that I got my shot, right? But then the editor says to me, after he delivers the wonderful news that he is indeed interested… “But, it might be a long shot.”
Long shot! I am no long shot! How dare he? I am Scrappy Sam the underdog. How can he not see this spunk and fire in my belly? Doesn’t it radiate from my very being?
And so now, I feel this pressure to perform and to wow him with my Scrappy Essence. Which means some major edits to my slightly scrappy manuscript. It’s possible (ok, really possible) that I somewhat haphazardly threw together the book for the writing contest I entered at the conference.
It means really sitting down and defining my voice and the direction of my book. It means getting my crap together and putting on the big girl pants.
This is serious stuff.
It’s a make it or break it moment. And even though I broke the foot, gosh darn it; I refuse to give up without a fight.
I’m getting all riled up thinking about proving Mr. Editor wrong. Of course, not enough to actually get off the sofa just yet, because I am in serious pain, but maybe enough to get my fingers tapping and get out of my funk.
To Do:
Find theme song for motivation (Rocky, Oceans 11 soundtrack, any suggestions?)
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
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.
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.
