What Did You Expect?

It's been over five years since I've written here, or much at all, and I'm slightly dizzy as I revisit here and read where I was, sitting now where I am.

It's been six years that have changed everything. And I never would have seen it coming!

There is something at once magical and broken in the way we shape our dreams and look down the tunneled lens of our perceived futures. I know culture and marketing play a critical role in this, but we are broken when we don't honor rough and organic reality, when we don't teach our kids that struggle and resilience are a normal and necessary part of life, that the best life isn't about being glossy and avoiding discomfort.

But we are stronger when we get comfortable with discomfort. It is a sage adviser, a ready warning, a humbling instruction. Because of all the things we can control (namely ourselves and our own choices, which are two big things), we can get complacent, but life has a way of wrecking the starry-eyed dreamscape we envisioned for ourselves, or we wreck it ourselves, and God is unafraid of that but allows it because that's the natural trajectory that leads to the next lesson we need. That's not always a bad thing! It's sometimes shaped by our choices, the good ones, the bad ones, and the neutral, mundane ones.

I never expected so much of what's happened in my life. My expectations were for healthy service in a healthy ministry, hoping to do some good and maybe encourage some people. My expectations were for a long, faithful marriage well into the golden grandparent years, and for children who were healthy and love the Lord. I expected to have advanced degrees and expertise in a field I felt passionate about. I expected to coast through the milestones of life under a warm sunset glow with beaming smiles and genuine satisfaction with this wonderful, amazing life that gave little trouble but opened like the oyster I was told it would be.

And some of that has happened or still is. Just not how I expected!

I didn't expect radical, RADICAL upheaval.

I didn't expect to have a child receive a scary diagnosis.

I didn't expect to serve tirelessly in a ministry that over time proved itself very sick.

I didn't expect to divorce. Or everything that went with it.

I didn't expect to see some of the people who joined me in the lowest, muddiest ditch of my life, unafraid to sit with me there and hold my hand. I didn't expect to *not* see some people who in cleaner times swore their devotion.

I didn't expect to question God so genuinely. Or for Him to draw so disarmingly close in my vulnerability, despite my volcano of anger.

I didn't expect to remarry. Truth be told, I was wholeheartedly, enthusiastically, and intentionally against it! I bought a ring to wear on my ring finger to ward off interest. I put out the 'so not interested' vibe. Marriage was, at that point in my thinking, super risky, especially with three kids I'd die/kill for, and also potentially insanely stupid as a thing in general. The jury was still out on that. And I had a lot of personal work to do.

I didn't expect to work through so much of my own stuff and learn just how remarkably altering and freeing that process can be. I didn't expect to grow so much as a person, nor that the catalyst for such growth would come through aching, debilitating trauma.

I didn't expect it.

I didn't expect to live in the rugged Outback of gorgeous Australia, to marry my dear friend's widower, to love her children as my own, to have six kids.

I have watched so many other lives around me that haven't unfolded as they'd hoped or expected. Even those who have remained pretty steady and hit many of their benchmarks have faced turns in the road for which no one could have planned. Some have had more trauma and turmoil, while others have just veered along pathways that, while smooth overall, were not even close to the path they'd always envisioned.

It is a gift when we learn to temper our expectations. Not to drop our dreams, mind you, but to temper our expectations. For Christians, it is a gift when we learn that our life is not just governed by how much blessing we get from God in our Westernized, human understanding. It's life-altering to encounter disappointments in life, to feel the blessing it is when God allows us to experience pain, natural consequences, and struggle, because it takes more strength to persevere and grow through those valleys than it does to hold together the perfectly blessed life. That's something we can't do anyway. Some say that struggle in your life is an indication of something you're doing wrong, and sometimes it is. That doesn't make the struggle bad; it's there to help you! And sometimes it's just there, because we live in a fallen world, and difficult things happen.

I have learned through my canceled, rearranged, and splattered-on-the-windshield-of-life's-racecar expectations that I can handle a lot. I don't fear as much or try to control as much. I am disturbingly acquainted with and humbled by my own capacity for sin, and it has grounded me. My desire to administer grace to others has skyrocketed, because I have felt emotional and spiritual and relational pain that has been so fierce, it's made me physically ache and gasp for air. I have also caused that kind of pain, and it grounds me.

The thing is, though, I can look back at all of it and realize this: What I've described so far sounds like a bit of a clustered mess of random interruptions in which real life just freaks out, so buckle up!

But that's only when compared to *my expectations. It's compared to my assumptions and best-laid plans. The truth is, my life has followed a beautiful trajectory where I see the hand and thread of God so effortlessly there and guiding. It took turns based on my great decisions and truly awful ones. And God was there to lead me through and out and into something new at every moment and every thought.

The unhealthy church I mentioned above plays a significant role in this story. It matches almost 100% with the checklist of cult characteristics. At best, it is incredibly unhealthy--controlling, codependent, manipulative--which is something I didn't even comprehend about some churches until I was wrecked by it. One erroneous teaching in that church was sort of a motivational-pep-talk, competitive-minded proposal that said you can have an A Level life or a B Level life. If you mess up too much, you've ruined your chance at your best life, which is A Level, and you're forever stuck with mediocre B Level, or worse, if you keep being stupid.

This has everything to do with performance-based judgement and very little to do with God, His ability to make beauty of ashes, to redeem, to create purpose through our messes, or to build something in us and through us despite and sometimes because of our extreme weakness. The church believed that A Level for me was to stay there and continue serving in a very sick environment that was making its people sick. It behooved them to say that, because they needed people to stay and serve.

But the refreshing reality is that when we live a genuine life seeking and knowing God, *that* is our best life, regardless of the peaks and valleys. We don't break it down into ridiculous levels and categories to measure if we're being good enough today or if we're about to fall from A Level. How exhausting!

What are the expectations you've had that didn't pan out the way you'd anticipated, hoped, or planned? How did it turn out, and what did you gain from it, even if it tore you up? What expectations were placed on you that you took on, aware or not? Maybe you're still sorting that out. Maybe you're still feeling the overwhelming burden of a major twist in your story. We're all cycling through different seasons at any given moment, but the longer you live, the more familiar the seasons are when you see them, and maybe you can empathize or lend a hand, or beg for help if you're the one in a difficult place. So many of these scenarios require healing, which is an important and beautiful process.

Our expectations gone awry always have a lesson of strength in them if we'll look for it. And of course to dream and plan with God-given vision is still so very magical. But my expectations of how that will look are minimized. Where before I held on so tightly with the white-knuckled fist, I now have a loose hold on the reins or my hands are completely open, palms up, broken, redeemed, grateful, and so much stronger. "But by the grace of God go I" has become so real to me. To an untrained ear, it *can* sound weak and defeatist. But to the ear that's been trained through struggle and redemption, it sounds like victory. There is no more powerful freedom than standing solidly planted on the mountaintop of God's grace.

How often it is a blessing that our expectations aren't met.

In Defense of the Good-Hearted Pot Stirrer

Pot stirrers: We are the people who like to wade in to a topic or issue, even if it's awkward, and look under stuff and address issues and expose inconsistencies and push boundaries so that it brings attention or potential change to something that might otherwise have gone unnoticed.

I'm sure some people do it because they like the attention. Some people like to start the fire, then sit back with their popcorn and enjoy the spectacle purely for entertainment. (You know who you are!) Some people are actually looking to stir up trouble and just be angry without productivity.

But some pot stirrers do it as a genuine desire to gain greater insight and productively fight the good fight. I am typically this type of pot stirrer, and I go in and out of pot-stirring phases. Right now, I want to stir all the pots. I've asked myself why, especially given that others are not pot stirrers, and still others are even agitated by all the stirring up of the perfectly calm pot.

The best I can gather is the following list. If you're a pot stirrer, maybe you'll identify with some of these. If you're not, maybe they'll help you understand all those annoying people around you who just won't leave well enough alone. Like yours truly.

10. Stagnancy Stinks

We cannot stand stagnancy. We hate it. Some people loathe change. We loathe the lack of it. Life is organic and developing, and if I am in a mental or spiritual stalemate, I lose my mind.

9. Blind Acceptance Is Lazy

Doing something 'that way' just because that's what you were told, or because that's the way it's always been done...is irresponsible. If there is a glitch in the system, why in heaven's name wouldn't we want to address it to make for smoother sailing ahead? And if there doesn't appear to be a glitch in the system, we always want to keep a wary eye open, just in case. Faults in the system can lead to all kinds of crimes against others. We hate injustice.

8. Authenticity Is Worth the Fight

Systems, cultures, and popular opinion are so very powerful. They tend to become a massive wave that moves the tide with force, carrying everything along with it. It is easy to go with the flow, and so often that is a source of strength for us, if the flow is on the right track. But if it's not, it takes a stronger pull against it to go another direction and examine why it's off course. We don't like feeling like we're being swept off course. We'd rather exert every last ounce of energy to swim out of that than relinquish our autonomy to a flawed system. We'd rather be uncomfortable and authentic.

7. We Love to Explore

We're deep diggers. We tend to philosophize. We are hungry for more information and love to ask "Why?" If everything is calm and settled, we know there's always more, so we want to see what's hiding under all that calm and find the treasure deep down below. One of my favorite proverbs says, "It is the glory of God to conceal a matter, but the glory of kings is to search it out" (Proverbs 25:2). This Bible quote doesn't mean we should all be pot stirrers. It's just one that resonates profoundly with the pot stirrer in me.

6.  Critical Thinking Is Not Obsolete, and Must Never Be 

We think critical thinking is necessary for survival. In our day and age, it's actually probably not necessary for everyone; some seem to plug along without it, and we all have our lapses. But for us, to not analyze is death. That's super dramatic. I know. :)

5.  Complacency Is Prison

What if things could be better? What if you feel like you're just sleepwalking, and it appears that loads of people around you are just sleepwalking, and you feel slightly heavy and drugged and robotic and then you suddenly snap out of it and shake your head back and forth and desperately want to wake everyone else up? That's really dramatic, too. But the pot stirrers, the boundary pushers, sometimes go there not because we're all really asleep but because we can see how the drug could easily settle in if the pot (not weed, but the friend of the kettle) doesn't get a nice, hefty swirl of the spoon. Stir it up! Yes, this one is very Matrix-y.

4.  We Are Curiouser and Curiouser... 

We're curious as all get out. It's sort of a repeat of #7, except less serious and intense. It can be light-hearted and good-natured, too. I don't know it all yet, and there's just SO MUCH TO KNOW! It's very exciting. When we don't have answers, we really want one. Stirring the pot brings interested parties out of the shadows, and maybe we'll learn something. Bonus!

3. Doctrine Is Very Seldom a Settled Matter

Speaking of not knowing everything... We're not wed to any doctrine. We think it's dangerous. There are only one or two things of which I've allowed my faith to be certain. Beyond that, until mankind knows everything, our opinions are not certainly accurate. Being open to new perspectives and viewpoints is wisdom. God's ways are higher than our ways. Get. Rid. Of. Your. Box. <--Sorry to be so bossy, sort of. Keep your box if you like. Your choice.

2. We Want Goodness and Truth to Win

And we want to be part of the fight. We are principled perhaps to a fault. We have to be careful that this part of our drive doesn't contradict and smush up #3.

1. We Want to Share the Wonder

...Because it's all so wonderful! We really think everyone should be thinking about whatever this oh-so-desperately-important issue is that is currently nagging us. Because they should be. Why isn't that obvious to everyone? ;)

So go easy on your fellow pot-stirrers. They're fighting the good fight! In the end, they stir the pot to serve up greater understanding.

And fellow pot stirrers, good luck with that fine line between fierce, motivated passion over here and palatable delivery to build a bridge over there; knowing when to speak here and when to remain silent ("Oh-dear-Lord-someone-please-hold-me-back-I'm-about-to-explode!") over there. That bit is tough for me. And if you can find another pot stirrer who's ready to get dirty and dig and hash it out--while not taking it too personally (because it's all way bigger than we are)--that's the best! High five.

The Nasty (Inconvenient) Mess of the Unraveled Human

John 13:35

There is this person I love who'd become the single most important voice of spiritual matters in my life. He would always say, "Life is messy! And I'm not afraid of your mess." It was exactly how I felt about life and others having the freedom to be genuine around me, so those comforting words resonated deeply within me.

The thing that really made me stroke my beard in contemplation, though, was how over time, I began to see in this person's behavior that he actually was a little put off by the mess of humanity and life sometimes. He would tolerate it, but there was a real need to stop it fast, to make uncomfortable jokes, to figure out the cause--or make one up to feel safe and tidy--and sweep it up, even if just under the rug. I think a lot of us can be that way. Messes are typically unsightly and difficult to always keep under control. They can sometimes be embarrassing. Some people understand this and with grace do not shrink away from them. Some people just say they do. I trust this person's heart and know that his approach was not intentional, but it was my experience when it mattered. He is still one of the most remarkable people I know, and I am grateful for his role in my life, which is part of what created so much confusion for me. Nobody is perfect.

It's no secret that my son has Type 1 diabetes. It's the insulin-dependent one. Most people are like I was before I knew a thing about it: They just know that there is the OK diabetes and the "bad, scary one." Levi has the latter, but we're not scared. I get scared sometimes, but I don't live there. But the day he got diagnosed was one of the scariest days of my life. And the weeks and months following were some of the scariest, most stressful weeks and months. The learning curve and exceptional degree of constant monitoring were taxing physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Here's what people need in the tough messes life throws out, whether they created the mess for themselves or not (Ready? Here goes.):

Grace.

Support.

Listening ear.

Reassurance.

Help with routine tasks like meals, errands, and child care.

Listen, most people already know the risks and bad statistics of their particular issue, the poor choices they made (if that's applicable), and the litany of approaches to take to make it better or easier. They usually don't need facts. Here's the deal about organic life as a real person: When a wrench is thrown in, it's not the robotic list of logical stats and equations that "fixes everything." People are much too gloriously complicated and rich for that. And some people are in a mess that can't actually be fixed (God help us all!!), so they're learning to adapt, and here's a concept to blow your mind--fixing might not be the immediate need.  They might never get to fixing if they can't first address the overwhelming pain/grief/remorse/stress/worry/sadness/whatever.  So even though we're all fixers, fixing is not always the bottom line. The bottom line is helping others make it through the next day, even the next hour, without completely losing their sh*t and falling apart. The bottom line is love, trite as it sounds.

Those days at the ER with my son were sleepless, powerless, frightening days that showed me a strength I never knew I had, and a strength in my son that convinced me we were going to kick butt at this. I relied on God in the truest, purest sense, because there was nothing in my vast and well stocked reserve of strength and determination that was anywhere near up to this task.

The responses from those who loved us were the next phase of shock for me. Most people were amazing in their sympathy that didn't coddle and their words of encouragement. But two responses stood out to me as significant. They represented that tremendous arc of possibilities on life's massive swinging pendulum.

The first one was from the man of spiritual authority who said he didn't mind messes. He asked few questions, almost never checked in on how we were doing, and--maybe sit down for this--told us what we had done wrong to allow this curse to come upon our son. See, we believe in a spiritual realm where our actions or inactions can open and close doors to spiritual things, bad or good, in our lives. I have no qualms with that. And there was a period of ignorance, not malicious sin, in which we overlooked something important and later quickly remedied it. So be careful out there that you are sure you know everything and are perfect and never have confusion or trouble, because you might be visited with a terrible curse for not always having it together!! And it won't even be you that gets hit directly; oh no, it'll be your kid. And you can just watch it in that grief and horror (that you constantly shove down) for the rest of your life. How's that for comfort? How's that for "helping someone through their mess?" How's that for complete and utter bollocks from any person claiming to represent Christ?  ..... Thought so.

The second response was from a dear friend, maternal to the core, not pretending to have it all together and living her life in whatever way she could to show love and encourage others with acceptance right there in the trenches where it mattered. When I didn't even know I needed it, she was there, asking to help with our other child, asking if she could fix meals, and here's what really blew my mind. We were inundated with medical information, terminology, supplies, and routines that basically took all of our time for the first month or so. We were calculating carbs and insulin doses and giving shots multiple times a day and getting up throughout the night to prick fingers and check blood glucose levels. Not only did this friend help out with our basic needs and creature comforts and general emotional stability, she said, "Teach me everything." She jumped in and learned how to check blood, how to read the meter, how to count carbs and read labels and measure exact portion sizes and detect a low blood sugar and how to treat it and how to measure insulin and pinch the arm fat just so to give a shot. She became several things. She became a fellow nurse to help with the care so that we were not isolated. She became, therefore, a safe place for my son, a babysitter we could trust with his medical condition when we desperately needed a break from the caregiving and sleepless nights and wave after wave of concern. She became another man in the trenches to fight alongside us. She hugged. She prayed. She spoke words of strength when she, too, was confused and scared for this boy she loved. She didn't give a flying flip about our mess. It didn't scare her away.

I have never in my life seen anything like it. And few knew how much time and energy and devotion she was spending on helping us get through the next day, get through this mess that didn't ask us permission. Few to this day know, so there are no public accolades for her. Because she's not running around spouting platitudes about how she doesn't mind messes. She's way too busy jumping into them to grab people's hands and trudge through with them. She's patting crying heads on her shoulder, shedding her own genuine tears.

If there is anyone on this planet that I respect and want to emulate, it is that woman.

I think we try to have it all together because it's orderly and peaceful and puts us in a position to help others when they need it. This is good and right. But it can become all too easy to feel we have to always project that image (Facebook life is not real life, right?) until everything starts to feel very plastic and rote and drained of life's vigor. When that happens in life, something's gone terribly wrong. Life is for the living after all.  When that happens in our relationship with God, it is a dark place; it's what happens with religious activity rather than relationship (Pharisees 101). But life is organic, and yes, it is messy.  And that is OK!  We don't have to run from it or keep messes hidden, because no matter who you are, if you're alive, they'll hit you.  And for mercy's sake, when they hit someone near to you, you don't have to fix them. Or be scared of them. We're all in this thing together.

So here's the kicker. Despite the pain of feeling betrayed by someone who didn't respond well, I recognize that this person was not trying to be inappropriate or cause pain. That was a messy moment for him in his own life. If I'm all about showing grace, it is my privilege to acknowledge that even those who don't always respond well, who don't know everything, can misrepresent themselves and even their God. We're all still going to be OK. Grace, grace, grace. It has to start somewhere.

This much I know: When everything is so stringently raveled up tight, there's a certain freedom that comes when it starts to unravel a bit. New perspective brightens our outlook. We start to loosen up, to remember. We reevaluate priorities and dreams. Maybe we get outside more, read aloud with our kids more, turn up the music and dance more, stop caring so much about who else has a fuller schedule or what we might be doing wrong if we haven't reached this or that career milestone. Because who cares? This whole situation in my life, and similar situations that followed for a few years, have actually shaken my faith to its very core. I mean really shaken, guys. And even that is OK. Because there's another spiritual voice in my life that truly isn't intimidated by my messes: God. So yeah, life's messy. We can deal.

And show massive amounts of love.

From "Welcome to Paradox," Day One: Jerusalem

Has it really been a year since I've posted anything? One year and 9 10 days, to be exact. Well, since it's like an anniversary of sorts, how about I throw something out there?

I started college as a political science major. It beats in my veins. Though I laid that passion down years ago, it still courses through me and is ready for a resurrection. I'm also philosophical about it (and I don't think there's any other way to be, by the way). Without mentioning the craziness over in the Middle East (oops), I have been inspired by it to revisit something I wrote 8 years ago about a trip I took 7 years before that. It's a light travel piece, but it helps me ease back into blog posting rather lazily. If at all. Because, let's be honest, I'm looking to get paid for this schtuff. But it also explains a bit of the turmoil and history over there. If you've been wondering, here's an abbreviated version. The points are purposely not editorialized, though you know I have myriad thoughts on what this all means in application.

Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem

Originally published in "Champlain Anthologies: Best Student Travel Writing," 2008.

Reprinted with permission from the Champlain College Publishing Initiative.

Day One: Jerusalem

I stood atop the Mount of Olives, feeling surreal. A slope of gravestones in the distance led up the other side of the valley floor to the ancient city wall. This stone wall stretched for miles from left to right, trees rising in deep green just on the other side of it. Jerusalem bustled with modern-day activity beyond that, packed with hundreds of square and rectangular buildings of various sizes, leading to the horizon that met the dirty blue sky in an uneven line. A saturation of sandy beige touched everything within our view, everything but the trees.

In the middle of it all, the largest structure in sight loomed above everything else. Just beyond the trees, a muted, indigo-blue octagonal building stood atop the Temple Mount, perhaps the most controversial couple of acres in the world. A bright golden dome sat atop the octagon, standing twice as tall as the base structure and measuring about 60 feet across and 100 feet high. It glowed regally, proudly, in the sunlight. It was the Dome of the Rock.

Everyone in my group had found different spots to sit along the low stone wall surrounding the parking lot, gathering in small groups for panoramic photos. I found an empty area to sit with the sun warm on my arms, wondering what the deal was with this golden dome and what it would be like on the inside in a few hours.

When a few hours came, though, we never got to go inside. Visiting hours were not always consistent, and during prayer times, the time we showed up, only Muslims were allowed entry. I even remembered to wear my long skirt and bring the sleeved shirt that I'd tied around my waist to throw over my shoulders before we entered.

We had approached the complex of mosques on Temple Mount from the north and walked up the 20 or 30 steps to the top platform with the Dome of the Rock, a Muslim shrine. A sort of gateway with four arched openings and three narrow columns topped each of the eight sets of stairs spaced symmetrically around the complex. Walking under the stone arch of the Graceful Arcade at the top of our stairs, we entered the expanse of parched stone tiles that wove throughout all of the buildings. We all stared and murmured to our friends, pointing out every colorful detail.

Our leader's whistle turned all of our heads to him in unison, and he began with a question. "So who can tell me what they know about all the fighting that's going on over here right now?"

I had some thoughts, but we all just blinked at him.

"Come on, guys. This is not a trick question..." he pleaded with us.

"The Palestinians and the Israelis are fighting over a piece of land," some kid I didn't know spoke up from the back with an unsure pitch to his voice.

"The Gaza Strip. That's right. But it's not just about the land. It's steeped in traditions, the religions, of these people, the Jewish faith in Israel and the Muslim faith in Palestine, both fighting over their own version of peace. Look where you're standing. It's a hotbed of passionate debate." He moved his arm in a sweep that indicated the building behind him.

Tiny, square tiles--turquoise, rust, cream, indigo, and brown--covered the upper facade of the octagonal structure with a giant mosaic of geometrical designs and symmetrical patterns spreading all around the building. Eight columns stood, four to the right and four to the left, on either side of the heavy, fifteen-foot wooden door that arched at the top. The gold dome loomed above us, majestic.

"This is where both the first and the second holy Jewish temples were built during early Bible times. The first was built by Solomon nearly a thousand years BC and was destroyed by the Babylonians around 580 BC. It was rebuilt only to be destroyed again, this time by the Romans, around 70 AD. The dates aren't that important, but think about this..." He raised a finger in the air. "To the Jews, this is Mount Moriah, the center of the world, the place where Adam was created and gave sacrifices, where Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac, where Noah built after the flood, and where Jacob saw the ladder in his prophetic dream, to name a few. It's the place the Jews always went to offer sacrifices to their God. To them, it is holy and is the place that their faith always intersects."

"Yeah, so what is a giant Muslim mosque doing in the middle of this obviously Jewish nation? I don't get it," a tall girl in the back asked behind her mirrored surfer glasses, slouching like a bored model in her little, pink t-shirt and baggy pants.

"It's actually not a mosque; it's a shrine, the oldest one in Islam and," he paused and looked at the rest of us, "the only one in pretty much its original state."

The guy from Virginia who always had answers chimed in. "They have the story written in this pamphlet I picked up outside Capernaum."

"All right. Enlighten us, Steve," our leader put his hands in his pockets and nodded.

"So the Jews think this exact spot is holy, like you said.  The rock inside the mosque..."

"Shrine," our leader interjected.

"Shrine. ...the rock in there is where it all happened. But it's also where it all happened for the Muslims, their world center. It's where they believe Muhammad ascended to heaven, and they believe it has his footprint in it along with the hand print of Gabriel who held down the rock when Muhammad left."

"I still don't get it." The mirrored surfer glasses flashed at our leader, and the whole crowd looked at him quizzically.

Smart Guy started in quickly, drawing our attention back to him. "Essentially, when Muhammad died, the guys who led Islam--it says they're Caliphs--wanted to build political headquarters in Jerusalem. Christians and Jews think they picked the ascension passage from the Quran and built this place to attach that story to Jerusalem in order to compete with the Christians and Jews. They really didn't have any connection with Jerusalem until then, or not that can be proven, because the Quran passage is really vague."

"Pretty good," our leader jumped in while Smart Guy took a breath. "So really, Jews and Christians have their religious claims and want to tear down the Dome of the Rock and rebuild their own Temple. The Muslims consider it holy ground in their faith as well, so if the Jews or Christians actually did anything, there would be a great, big, nasty religious war."

"So how come they're worried about the Gaza Strip?" the short girl in front of me asked quietly.

"Exactly! Both sides want Jerusalem for their own. The Gaza Strip is the bit in the middle. The Palestinians want it and want Jerusalem. The Israelis want it and want to keep Jerusalem. Truth is, there's been bad blood between these peoples since the very beginning."

"So how on earth do we think we're going to solve this through politics?" The short girl crinkled her forehead and frowned.

My thoughts rushed and spilled over themselves. We all looked at our leader, then I looked up at the shining gold-plated dome.

"Well now, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" He quickly raised his eyebrows twice at us, and before Smart Guy could say anything, walked off to leave us with our thoughts.

Words and Kidspeak with a Dash of Bushwa

Words are magnificent creators.  (Not creatures. That's different.)  I love words.  Words, words, words.  They mean something, every single one.  I wrote my college entrance essay on the power of words.  That's all it was about, words.  Not a joke.

One of the best things about words is how our kids mispronounce some of them.  I do my best not to correct them, because I don't want to nag and I just love it when they do it.  I merely continue to repeat the correct word in my own speech and know that they'll eventually--and all too soon--start using the correct one.

When Levi was very little, he used to call school buses "stookle buses."  I still call them that, even though he started saying it the right way several years ago (so, so sad, because "stookle bus" is obviously better).

I already mentioned in my post about his baptism that he thinks he got "bathtized," and so he did!  Washed clean.  At six, his verbal skills are great, so I relish these little mispronounced jewels of childhood.  He still says "gantar" (guitar), "ganputer" (computer), and "thake" (fake).  "Thake" always makes me want to squeeze him and kiss his face off.

Adelaide melts my heart with some typical three-year-old-isms like "lellow" (yellow) and "wackanoni" (macaroni).  My most favorite of hers, though, that will stick with us till the very end is "shmarpillow" (marshmallow), because--yes!--they are like little, delicious pillows.  And just today she had me laughing again.  At today's first class in ballet camp, she was introduced to her teacher Miss Chloe.  During lunch, she told us about all the things "Miss Cloudy" taught her.  Miss Cloudy sounds like the type of person who'd love to sit and eat shmarpillows.

(Please note: Roxie takes this decidedly downhill.)

If you're opposed to the explicit, you will want to skip Roxie's 18-month-old and unintentional faux pas.  (But if you do proceed, there is redemption at the end!)  She is constantly saying "What's THAT?" with emphasis on "that" and sort of slurring them together and not really saying the "wh" at the beginning.  It's more like "uhs-AT" and ends up sounding exactly like "asshat," which is inappropriate and therefore hilarious. 

Speaking of inappropriate, here's a Public Service Announcement for all you young lads and lassies from your dear Auntie Jen.  Seriously, be careful little minds what you think and ears what you hear and mouths what you speak.  I went through what I'll just call "a phase" in my college years and, to be blunt, cussed like a sailor.  (Sorry, all you sailors of high report, who cannot be justly categorized in such a way but are nevertheless constantly subjected to unrelenting prejudice.)  It was a hard habit to break, and by "was," I mean "has been" or rather "is."  It is crass and mostly unladylike (and ungentlemanly, to be fair to both sexes) and can send the wrong message. 

Because it became such a habitual part of my outer and therefore inner dialect (I was not so careful with my mind/ears/mouth), such language still punctuates my thoughts, albeit less than it used to do, even if it doesn't come out of my mouth.  And every so often, in unreserved moments, it might escape.  Some very few occasions seem to lack their full expressive potential unless such language is utilized; some punchlines just don't punch the way they ought without it.  For instance, I have struggled (and remained victorious!) against the urge to post something public on the Internet that has something to do with Obama and the refuse that a cow produces from its hind end.  But I don't want to go there.  I am personally not hugely offended by off-color language, most of the time--most likely desensitized to it by my past--but I know others are.  I happen to know that one such word of offense had its beginnings on ships (you sailors again!) when certain cargo was labelled Store High In Transit.  But they used the abbreviation.  Somehow it has evolved, and since our culture deems it unsavory, so it is. 

But I now have a remedy for my need to reference cow dung without "going there."  It came via gift left in my inbox by my Word of the Day e-mail from dictionary.com.  I am so excited about it, which reveals something, I know, but I have a new favorite word.  Ready?

Bushwa.

:)

It means rubbishy nonsense; baloney; bull.  And it's just perfect.

Now I have the crowning artillery in my arsenal to satisfactorily communicate what has long pounded with passion in my innermost being about a lot of things, but mostly:

OBAMA IS FULL OF BUSHWA.

Ah!  Sweet, sweet release!!!!!!  Thank you, dictionary.com. 

Maybe you love Obama (who actually has little to do with my point), but if that's the case, and if you're anything like myself, I know you will find some other way to put this little gem to use.  See how exciting the right word can be??

Words are the best.  :)

Baptizo {} My Little Pickle

We were excited to baptize a few people in Lake Champlain at our church picnic last weekend, and good thing baptism is about immersion in Christ rather than the body of water into which you're dunked.  'Cause the lake water that day was kinda naaaasty.  Lake Champlain is gorgeous, but it has its days.  I'm glad we got to bring it a little holiness.

Baptism is rich with symbolism, but one cool thing to me is what the original Greek word baptizo means.  It means to be pickled.  How funny!  And sobering.  And appropriate.  It's the perfect description of one thing going into a solution and coming out a new creation, flavored by (and one with) that solution.  Baptism symbolizes the spiritual change we undergo, the complete transformation from what we were to who we are, ones who've been given a second chance, a new start, totally immersed in the goodness of Christ.  Spiritually speaking, we look, smell, taste, behave, move, think, act...like Him.  But not just like Him.  A cucumber doesn't become like a pickle.  It becomes a pickle.  In fact, it can never be a cucumber again, so infused it is with that new solution.  We don't just become like Him.  We become one with Him, godly.  That's some heady stuff, to be pickled into Christ.

At last year's baptism, Levi was really intrigued by it and kept saying he wanted to do it, but would then forget about it and let it go.  He was 5 1/2, and we're not constricted by age boundaries.  As his parents, Jed and I just wanted to see real revelation about it all.  Last year, he seemed to have it, but we had a little check in our spirits that told us to hold off and let it become deeper revelation to him.

This summer, the church picnic and baptisms rolled around again, and Levi was excited again about wanting to get "bathtized."  (He is so verbally precocious that when he does one of these little mispronunciations, I don't want to correct him!)  We had conversations.  We asked questions.  He acknowledged Yahshua as His Lord and Savior, as he's been doing since the beginning.  We asked him if he wanted to willfully make that choice and take that stand on his own.  We asked him what he thought baptism meant.  We were trying to sort through if this was a real proclamation from his heart, or if he thought maybe it was just a cool thing to do.  But we believe children are born spiritually alive.  We have seen spiritual proclivity in our children and the children around us from very early on.  We have done our best to nourish that and not squash it out, to enrich it rather than make them believe they're too young for things of that nature and can't "get it" till later.

In the end, he was ready. 

:)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  *heartnearlyburstingsohappysoproudsomovedsochallenged*  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)

So we lead Levi down to lake's edge, and in those murky waters of New England, a light burst forth from our anointed young son who had a declaration for the world. 

So brave...

Ready to go, with Dad nearby...

"Or don't you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death?  We were therefore buried with Him through baptism into death...

...in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. 

For if we have been united with Him in a death like His, we will certainly also be united with Him in a resurrection like His."  Romans 6:3-5

As soon as he emerged, he bobbed excitedly and looked back at Apostle to exclaim, "Did you know I just got pickled??!!"  Boy's been listening.  :)  He got a laugh from his daddy and apostle, who repeated it to the crowd and drew more laughs and cheers.

(And I snuggled Adelaide, watching my son from the shore where I couldn't coach him or hold his hand--for this was his very own personal deal--while trying to manage the giant balloon of emotion expanding to fill all my insides, plus the simultaneous laughing and crying, without spontaneously combusting.)

And Apostle placed his hand on Levi's head and prayed for him, prophesied over him, and blessed him. 

(More emotional mama.)

"If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation: the old things are passed away;

behold, all things are become new!"  II Corinthians 5:17

The immensity of emotion is so rich and deep that my verbosity could take over here, but it's also overwhelming enough to render me nearly speechless (whew, right?!).  I'll indulge my mom-ness and state simply that I'm so proud of my little pickle, as I've been calling him to his secret delight.  He is a joyful spark of light and insight in our family and God's kingdom, and...I'm really proud of him. 

We love you, Mr. Leviticus Maximus!

  

Abortion Undertones and Overtures: Open Letters to You, and You

Don't worry.  I'm not going to talk incessantly about abortion without reprieve.  I will focus on it a bit in the weeks to come, as I've already begun, but it won't take over completely.   

Honestly, the whole abortion debate can easily wear us out, can't it?  And that's too bad.  I hope I'm able to address it in an enlightening, refreshing, new, and yet galvanizing way that ignites our passion for change.  I already have rumblings in my rumbler about how to take a new approach, how to look forward with hope rather than standing down in the mire, combative, doing the same thing we've always been doing.  I think we can pull out of the mire.

In that spirit, then, before I post any more about it, I want my heart to be laid as bare before you as I possibly can.  As I said, the way the battle's been fought has been so. very. wearying and emotionally charged.  But we all have a responsibility to fully understand what's really going on, so I just can't look away.  And I refuse to hold strong opinions without having personally looked into it myself so as to get all the relevant facts, a process I started several years ago.  (It can be arduous, and I hope that what I unfold here is helpful to you.)

In short, here's what I'd like to say to those who disagree with me, and moreso what I'd like to say to anyone who has had an abortion or who has been closely involved in such a situation.

My heart is for you.  I know a lot of good people that I admire who have been in both camps.

The things that I will uncover here are upsetting, but they are not--may I repeat, NOT--a personal attack on human beings who are facing life the best they know how.  My research goes much deeper than that in an attempt to help us all.  I hope to unveil a new approach to this debate that says we are all capable of joining our compassion and fight to find and perpetuate a better way.  I think the majority of people on both sides of the debate are honestly trying to "fight the good fight."  I do not think that people who support abortion are also secret serial killers in the dark hours of the night.  I also believe that most women who get abortions do not do so without some sort of emotional revolt on some level, nor would they want to choose it if they felt they had any other viable option. 

So here goes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear You, You Who Fight with Passion for Abortion Rights,

I do not want to scream and claw at you.  I believe that your intentions are good.  From my experience, you on the grassroots level are compassionate for the plight of women in trouble.  I love that and think we all should fight for those who need help and support.  I also believe that some of you think that even if a woman isn't in trouble, she still just has the right, whatever her reasons, to an abortion--that she shouldn't have to answer for it or defend herself, that she should be secure in her right to determine what's best for her body.  You have a heart for people's rights, unmeddled with.  You're against any sort of restrictions that would tell us how we can and cannot manage our own most private affairs.  Regarding the last two statements, you and I are largely on the same page.  On this particular issue, though, a full picture causes my thoughts to deviate from yours, as there are two lives with inherent rights in the balance.  But I get it.  And I will not brush you off.  If I disagree with you, I do not hate you.  This is a bigger issue than just you and I or any individual, and I hope we all can transcend the chaos, unencumbered by preconceived notions and emotional alliances, for a glimpse of the truth.

(If you are a politician or medical practitioner/affiliate or a corporation, or anyone, who merely makes your decisions based on how it will profit you personally, this letter does not apply to you.  I feel very differently about you and your motives.)

Sincerely,
Jennifer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear You, You Who Has Had an Abortion,

My heart is for you.  I definitely do not hate you.  I might know you.  I am not pointing an angry finger at you.  My problem with abortion is not a problem with you.  Most of you I don't know, but some of you I do.  From my experience with those I do know, all I want to do is hold you and listen to you, or give you space and grace, or whatever you need.  I cannot imagine your circumstances, but I do know what it's like to be in a tight place that feels out of my control, or to be faced with something that was just the last thing I felt I could deal with.  I also know what it's like to feel caught-off-guard, defensive, scared, distrustful, grieved, annoyed, desperate, misunderstood, unheard, undervalued, disappointed, confused, exposed, indignant.  I know some of you could care less what I've ever felt and don't want my hug or listening ear.  I guess my deeply rooted feeling is that I think we all need support.  I don't know if you got, or get, support or not.  But as I unfold my findings and thoughts about abortion, I pretty constantly imagine what it must be like for someone who's had one to read my words, and I do not want to create pain.  I pray for the strength and bravery we all need to face such an issue.

My conclusions are not a judgment against you.  Heavens, no.  They are a judgment against a mindset that  has been dishonest with all of us.  Whatever any of us has done in the past, is truly in the past.  If it was right, wonderful.  If it was not right, we can be healed and forgiven and forgive ourselves and be thankful for second, third, fourth...chances.  My prayer is for tremendous grace to cover anyone who might have a hard time facing what I'll be writing here.  I need the grace to face it, too.  And I remove any incrimination from settling onto anyone who has every right to move on with her life in strength and dignity, by the grace of God, armed with the truth. 

Sincerely,
Jennifer