E is for...

When I was in college I would visit my grandfather who lived in a convalescent home. I liked visiting with my grandfather, but I hated the smell and the sounds of where he lived. It wasn’t that it was a bad place – but the whole place reeked with the smell of cleaning supplies and soiled beds. Hallways were jammed with white haired people whose heads bopped up and down while they dozed on and off in their wheelchairs. Their crinkled hands folded in their laps, moving slowly to wipe the corners of their mouths while television sets tuned loudly to random stations would drown out the wails of some. Each time I would visit, I would stop before entering the building and take a deep breath – both to steel my nose and to strengthen my resolve. Then, I would open the door and head to his room as fast as I could. I looked neither left nor right so that I did not have to see the people in the hallway. I kept my vision focused so I would not have to respond to anyone’s calls or comments. I was there to see my grandpa. My feet knew where to go and I could make it in 22 seconds – right before I needed to take another breath. But when I went with my father, it was a much different experience.

I remember the first time quite clearly. As we came within reach of the door to the building, I took my usual deep breath and prepared to move as quickly as possible to my grandfather’s room where I could breathe again. But when my dad opened the door, he turned to the right AWAY from his father’s room. He walked straight into another resident's room, and greeted the woman lying in her bed – by her name as if he belonged there. He took her ancient hand in his and squeezed it softly. He asked about her children and her grandchildren. They talked about her great-granddaughter that had just been born. He stayed with her for only a few minutes – but to me, an impatient 18 year-old, it felt like an eternity. “What are you doing?” I wondered. “We’re here to see grandpa – let’s go!”

He left her and he walked to the doorway of the next room. He called out to the bald headed man wearing a baseball cap, who was seated in his wheelchair. He was sleeping to the blaring sounds of a Bonanza rerun and did not respond. My father walked up to him, touched him gently on the arm, and said his name again. The man startled slightly, then broke into a huge grin and grabbed my father’s arm and welcomed him. They spoke for a while about baseball and players and teams and who was going win the pennant. And again my impatience swelled up within me and I tried to move him towards the door. “Grandpa,” I muttered to myself. “We are here to see grandpa!”

After we left his room, we stopped again, and again and again. My father proceeded to greet everyone who sat in the hall, who lounged in their room, or who was meandering in the corridors with their walkers, by their names. He would stop, bend down, touch their hands, pat their arms and chat with each of them as if he knew them. And the walk to my grandfather’s room took over half an hour. Although I managed to keep a smile on my face and join my father in saying hello to each and every single person, I was beyond irritated by the time we got to my grandfather's room. My father paused for a moment at my grandfather's door, “You know, Susan,” he said, “for some of these people, I am their only visitor. Many of the people in here don’t have family nearby, or their family is just too busy – or too disinterested to take the time to visit. For some of these people, I’m the only one who sees them.”

And I was instantly both ashamed and amazed by that simple, but profound comment –“I’m the only one who sees them.” There have been so many times in my life when all I needed was just to be seen, to be noticed – when all I wanted was someone to look me in the eyes and say, “I know you are here. I see you. You are not alone.” I've always known that there were many qualities I wanted to ‘inherit’ from my father – but on that day I wanted none more so than his eyes.

Being seen is powerful. It makes us feel human, respected, treasured, loved. It can validate our worth. It can lighten whatever burden or pain we are carrying. When I see someone, truly see them, I am acknowledging that they have value, that their existence matters. I am still so not good at this ‘seeing’ thing. I still get wrapped up in my own agenda, my own problems, my own priorities, and I still fail more often than not to see the people around me. But as I grow older, and hopefully wiser, I am learning to see the people in my world. All the people, not just the ones I know. Random people, strangers, I need to see them just as much as the ones I love. And I mean really see them, look them in the eyes, touch their arm, shake their hand, and hopefully let them know they have significance. They have worth. They are valued and they are not alone.

E is for my Father’s Eyes…

Hopelessly Devoted to...

I have never liked the word ‘devotions.’ All my life I have heard that word spoken to me, preached at me, or commanded to me, “Do your devotions every day.” “Did you have your devotions today?” “What was your devotion on today?” I know that one of the definitions of the word devotions is “prayers or religious texts” which we interpret as spending time reading the said texts, but I don’t particularly like that definition. I don’t like it because I think we have taken a powerful life transforming word and reduced its meaning into something we can control. Something we can manipulate. Something we can check off of our ‘to do’ list to make us feel as if we have accomplished something magnificent.

As I spend time reading my Bible, or 'devotional book' I can easily rationalize to myself that this 15-20 minute exercise somehow proves my devotion, (hence the word ‘devotions).’ But the true definition of the word (well, maybe not the true definition, but the first definition listed for this word) is not a prayer or religious book but an “ardent, often selfless affection and dedication as to a person or a principle.” Or, “strong attachment to or affection for a cause or a person marked by dedicated loyalty.”

When I was in junior high, I was ‘in love’ with a boy at my church. Honestly speaking, I was probably in love with several boys throughout my junior high school career, but this particular one as I recall, was truly ‘the one.’ Every time I saw him, my heart would pound in my chest and my mind would get all mushy. I still remember sitting in my all girl Sunday school class looking out the window and seeing him downstairs. He was so handsome and at least two years older than me! Watching the clock on the wall with the hands that moved oh so slowly would drive me practically insane as I waited impatiently for our lesson to be over. And then, at that magical moment when our teacher would dismiss us, I would plunge down the stairs as fast as I could and race around the corner until I was just before his line of sight. Then, I would round the corner and slowly, casually, 'happen' to walk by right where he was.

During the school week, I would often daydream about him and all of the fun we could have together if only he would notice me (which for the record, he never did). I was obsessed with thoughts about this boy and my mind was continuously planning ways to ‘accidentally’ run into him at church, relentlessly plotting methods to make sure I was on his team for youth group games – I was hopelessly devoted to him.

And so I find myself on this “D” day, asking, am I hopelessly devoted to God? Am I consumed by Him? Do I pine after Him with my every waking thought? Or, am I checking Him off my ‘to do’ list each day at the close of my ‘devotions?' Somehow it seems to me that the God of the universe should get more of my time, my heart, my devotion, than a seventh grade crush - or a 15 minute devotional. God has given everything to bring me into a relationship with Him. He adores me, loves me, and pursues me - how can I not do the same?

C is for Cage

Since my other post is a little "out there" I thought I might try another, not so seedy one. So here is "C is for Cage."

I like things in order. I like things neat. I like everything put away in it's perfect little place where it is safe and free of harm. I like control - or rather I should say I like to be in control.

When I became a mom - and when I say that, I mean when I became pregnant, I lost all control. (I know now that honestly, I probably never had any control in the first place, but the illusion was there) I came to realize that I could do everything right - take my vitamins, exercise, eat only healthy foods, read all the 'right' books, give birth in the 'right' hospital and yet - I could not control the baby. She was going to be born when she wanted to be born, and her health, while encouraged by my habits, was not in my control. Doing everything right did not guarantee that she was going to be born perfect.

As she grew, I baby proofed the house, brought only the right books into our home, went only to the most sanitized places, washed and rewashed all her clothes and yet, she still got earaches. She still stubbed her toes. She still skinned her knees. As much as I would try to keep her safe from all harm - I couldn't do it. I could not control it all.

And then came the day that she went completely beyond my reach. The day she started driving. Oh the sleepless nights - the wasted time stressing until she got home - as if that could add one more ounce of protection over her.

The truth is - I wanted to put her in a cage. A nice safe place where no harm could befall her. A place where I could keep her safe and free from all dangers. No skinned knees, no stubbed toes or broken hearts or 1:30 AM phone calls about a flat tire in a bad part of town. I wanted so badly to put her in a cage where I could control everything.

But a cage, even built with the best of intentions would not keep her from harm. A cage would become a trap. She would suffocate, she would not grow to lean and trust in God. She would not experientially know His love and grace if she never skinned her knee or stubbed her toe, or - dare I say it, had her heart broken. It is in the dark places - the scary places where we learn His power and His care for us.

Yes, I want my daughter safe and protected, and I do not send her out into the world foolishly, but I am sending her out under God's protection and His control - after all, that's all there really is anyway!

C is for dead...

Sometimes I think it would be nice to be dead. Not in the “Let’s call the men in the white suits to take her away” kind of dead – I am not suicidal. Well, I was – for a time, but that’s a whole another blog post. And I don’t mean the “I wish I were dead so I could be in heaven and hang out with Jesus” kind of dead either – although that is going to be pretty awesome and I am truly excited about that.

No, I just want to be dead in the calm, cool, composed kind of way. Where I can lie there, and no one will ask me to do something. No one will ask me to clean the kitchen, drive them to the movies, or fix them dinner. I can just lay there and not only will they not ask me to do things for them; they won’t expect me to do anything for them either. They won’t expect me to do a thing, because, well, I’m dead. No expectations. No responsibilities. No cares. No burdens. Just calm – just a cool, sparkling, quiet calmness.

I would have no phone calls to return, no chores to do, no letters to write, no bills to pay – just a calm, serene, and peaceful solitude. I would have no reports to write or projects due. I would not have a boss making demands of my time or a work schedule that pulls me away from the ones I love. No, I would only have calm. I would only have quiet. I would have tranquility.

And people would have to say nice things about me too. Because, after all, one should never speak ill of the dead, right?

So, when I think of the letter C, I think of calmness cascading over me, washing away all of my cares, my chores, and my catastrophes. I imagine I am lying somewhere, with no responsibilities, and no interruptions, and people all around are saying such beautiful things about me. The thought of it sounds so pleasing, so relaxing, so restful – like a refreshing oasis in the middle of a desert, or the serene stillness right after a disastrous storm.

Now I realize, "C is for Dead," doesn’t truly work. And that it is, well a morbid idea, but nothing else seemed to fit. For a while, I toyed with "C is for Cat" - because cats are independent. They lay around in the sun and no one asks them to fix dinner or do their laundry or work overtime. But they also eat bugs and mice and lizards and they clean themselves with their tongues so I decided that wasn’t a viable option. And then I tried "Coma." I thought it could work except if I were in a coma I would be in a hospital and I would have tubes sticking out of me everywhere and nurses coming in and out of my room. And although people would not expect me to do anything but lie there; they would all want me to at least try to do something. So the thought of people hovering around me watching me for the slightest movement or response tossed that analogy right out. And besides, when you’re in the hospital, you only get that gown with a hole in the back to wear but when you’re dead, they put you in a nice outfit and someone does your hair and makeup.

Now, please, I do realize that this fantasy of mine – is only good as a fantasy. I truly do not wish to be dead. I really just want to feel calm, cool and composed, resting- undisturbed – for a while, for a minute. Just long enough so that the yearning to get up and face the world, with its cold realities and cruel demands on my time, can return. I only want to be ‘dead’ long enough so that the desire to clean the spills and wash the dishes and drive my kids to the movies returns – because doing those tasks are some of the ways that I care for those I love. And even in the time it has taken to write this blog – I feel ready to conquer my world again. Because the truth is – I only really needed a little time out.

B is for Boring

Boring. I lead a boring life. It is full of routine, predictability, and structure. I am boring. I am not traipsing across the globe, climbing mountains or living in India caring for the poor. I am a school teacher. I am a wife. I am a mother. I am boring. I get up. I go to work. I come home. I do laundry. I make dinner. I clean the kitchen. (OK – so I don’t clean the kitchen very often, but, you get the point). I am a boring person living a boring life doing boring things. And when I allow my brain to focus on the boring, dull life that I lead, I become depressed. I start to think that I am a waste of a life. I start to believe that I am a failure. I begin to judge my life as it compares to those that I deem are more interesting and I come up short. I come up dull. I come up worthless. And I become more discouraged. And as I dwell on what I do not have, what I do not do, what I do not possess, I become static – motionless, and the things that I once did, the boring, mundane, predictable chores of my life do not get done because they become pointless. And now, I am not only boring, I am depressed and useless and lying in bed with the covers over my eyes wishing my life away. A boring life is a destructive life.

And yet, this same life, viewed through bold eyes, becomes brilliant – dazzling – powerful.

I am a teacher – I am one who guides children and inspires them to reach for the heavens. I empower them to see there is more in life than Facebook and American Idol. I challenge them to look beyond the four walls of their existence and see the world around them as a source of adventure, a place for compassion and vision. Or, I focus on me and the career I thought I deserved and fill them with fear and self-doubt about their chances in this life. I tell them their work is not good enough and that they will amount to nothing. I am a teacher – I hold their life in my hands.

I am a wife. I have the power to strengthen and make secure the man I vowed to love. I have the opportunity every day to pour over him God’s love and His grace. I have the ability to create a place for him where he can shed the worries and concerns of his world so that he is empowered and inspired to brilliantly face the challenges of his job. He can go out and confidently conquer the stresses and strains of the chaos of his world, knowing he has a place of refuge and safety in our home. Or, I focus on what I do not have and create a home of tension and conflict focused on me and what I think I deserve. I can whine and complain and nag and sulk until I break his resolve and strip him of everything good in his heart. I am a wife – I hold my husband's life in my hands.

I am a mother. I pour out knowledge and wisdom and love into minds that are shaping and growing and learning. I pour into them confidence, self-respect, self-control, compassion for others, and a love for God that consumes their thoughts and guides their choices. Or I focus on what I did not accomplish and what I did not get and I teach them that they disappoint, mess up, and are worth less than me – less than anyone. I am a mother – I hold my children’s life in my hands.

Boring – only makes it about me. Boring – only brings depression and doubt and destruction. But when I make my brain wrap around others, when I bind myself to caring for others– my life becomes challenging, exciting, and thrilling. Boring keeps my brain dull and my life a mess. Focusing on how I can serve others, keeps me alive and renewed. It gives me a satisfying sense of self-worth and confidence. It makes routines become the framework from which I lay a strong foundation of security and stability. It makes predictability become a sense of permanence from which people know they can count on me to be there – to be their stable force in a chaotic and out of control world. And the structure of my life becomes the outline that gives shape to other's lives.

I may never feed the homeless in India – but I may strengthen the one who does. And that is not boring.

A is for Apple

So I have been challenged by a friend to blog everyday - and theme it around the letters of the alphabet. So, I have accepted her challenge. I'm concerned that I am rusty - and much of my work is going to be plain, unimaginative, and frankly quite BORING (hint hint for tomorrow). But, writing is a process, as my daughter reminded me, and that everything I write won't be exemplary. Sigh. She is right, so with that, I will attempt to be faithful to the calling to write and write daily. Perhaps my obedience will help me work out some of the kinks of my craft and through the process help me learn more about who I am, who God is and draw me closer towards Him. With that said...here is today's post:



A is for…Apple – no, no, there must be a better correlation than that… A is for amazing, abundant, avalanche, awesome … apple. No, no, NO! A is for awesome, accurate, abounding … apple. A is for apple. I can’t help it. I’m a teacher and every teacher, every parent, every babysitter who has ever read a story to a precious child knows that A is for apple.

Apple – the dictionary defines as “a deciduous Eurasian tree having alternate simple leaves and white or pink flowers.” But that’s not my definition. No, my definition has more texture – more depth than that sterile one. An apple is fruit – sweet, juicy, cool, refreshing, life-sustaining fruit. An apple is memories – calm fall afternoons picking apples in the Julian Mountains, carting them to the store where they would be pressed into cider or baked into pies. And an apple, most importantly is a constant reminder of God’s amazing abundant love that engulfs me like an avalanche.

When I hear the word apple – my mind immediately summons from Psalm 17 that portion of the verse that says “Keep me as the apple of your eye.” I hear the word as a phrase – an idiom that means “one that is treasured.” Another way to view this idiom is by recognizing that the literal translation of this is “Little man of the eye” It is the reflection of one’s image in the other’s eye. So literally, the psalmist asks God to keep him in His eye – to never allow him to be out of His sight, out of His care, out of His protection – and He never does. My image is reflected in God’s eye. Your image is reflected in His eye. He sees and watches over us no matter where we may choose to wander. Whether we are actively seeking Him, or trying to hide far from Him, He loves us as intimately as He would love what He treasures most. We are the ‘apple of His eye.’ We are valued as one aligned with His vision – His purposes. His whole reason for creation is us. We are the apple of His eye. It is easy for me to disregard myself. To get consumed by the things I have (or have not) done as if that is the definition of my value. To think of myself as second hand junk that doesn’t matter much to anyone – but those are lies. The truth is I am the apple of God’s eye – I am under His care, His provision, His grace, His mercy and He values me. He loves me – He adores me. I am not second hand junk.

A is for Apple – for God’s abundant, all-encompassing, adoration that pours over us as an avalanche of His awesomeness. A is for being the apple of His eye– and what an amazing place that is to be!

Psalm 17:8 “Keep me as the apple of your eye, hide me in the shadow of your wings”
Zechariah 2:8 “…for he who touches you touches the apple of (God’s) eye” (ESV)

The Woman Who is New

She drives up to the large home she has never been to before and checks the address. Yes, she is at the right place. The Woman Who is New checks the time. She wonders if she is too early or too late. She wonders if she brought the right food to share with the new friends she has yet to meet. She checks her make-up. She checks the food. She checks the time, again. She gets out of the car and moves up the walkway feigning confidence. She observes the well-manicured garden and the imposing double doors. She knocks, but the music is too loud and no one hears her. She peers into the home through the great leaded glass windows and she sees the People Who Belong dancing.

The Woman Who is New takes a deep breath and opens the door. She walks in the room and glances around. Each room is filled with People Who Belong. People laughing, giggling, talking and dancing. The People Who Belong do not even notice as she walks in. They are having fun and she longs to join in – but she is a stranger to them. The Woman Who Belongs sees The Woman Who is New and smiles. The Woman Who is New smiles back at the Woman Who Belongs as warmly and genuinely as she can, but she is nervous. “What if I don’t fit in?” thinks the Woman Who is New. “What if they don’t like me?”

The Woman Who Belongs takes her by the arm and asks her name. The Woman Who is New takes a depth breath to calm her nerves and gives the obligatory answers to the usual questions as cheerfully as she can. The Woman Who Belongs introduces her to many others in the room. There are so many People Who Belong – so many who already know each other. So many who are already gathered in chairs who are already deep in conversation, who are already sitting at tables playing games that have already started, who are already dancing and the Woman Who is New imagines how already complete their lives must be and wonders if their lives are already too full to fit her in.

The Woman Who is New sits to the side, smiles, and pretends to enjoy the party. The Woman Who is New sees the People Who Belong laughing and hugging so happy to see each other. The People Who Belong are so comfortable together, so engaged with each other And The Woman Who is New concludes that they have been friends forever. The Woman Who is New begins to long for her old friends the ones who had been with her forever. The ones who knew her, loved her – but they are not here. Tonight she is not the Woman with Old Friends. Tonight, she is not the Woman Who Belongs. Tonight, she is the Woman Who is New.

But tonight she no longer wants to be the Woman Who is New. Determined, she stands up and introduces herself to the People Who are Laughing. She makes small talk and asks questions. “How do you know our hostess? What do you do? Do you live near here? How many children do you have?” And she smiles. A lot. And she walks over to the People Who are Playing Games. She asks them questions. And she smiles. A lot. Out of the corner of her eye she spies the Woman Who Belongs, enjoying her guests, her friends, and her family. And the Woman Who is New wonders where her sister who lives far away is on this night. And the Woman Who is New misses her sister who lives far away. How nice it would be to have someone here who knew her – really knew her. Someone who knew her wouldn’t need her to make small talk. Someone who knew her wouldn't need to be impressed. And The Woman Who is New begins to feel tired and sad and she looks for the chair on the side so she can sit. She searches for a place where she can fade into the wall paper and not be seen. But then she remembers she does not want to be the Woman Who is New anymore.

Taking a deep breath and pushing herself, the Woman Who is New walks over to the People Who are Eating and she asks them questions. And she smiles. A lot. The time arrives for the Woman Who is New to say goodbye to the Woman Who Belongs. The Woman Who Belongs hugs her warmly and asks her to come again. The Woman Who is New secretly hopes she is not just being polite and truly means it.

And the Woman Who Belongs really does mean it and really does invite her back again, and again. And every time it becomes easier for the Woman Who is New to walk up the walkway and easier for her to open the door and easier for her to smile at the People who Belong. Until one day, The Woman Who is New drove away from the home as the Woman Who has New Friends.