A Day of Rest? I Barely Give Myself Five Minutes.

When I look around at my life and everyone around me I just want to hold my arms out and say “Be still.” I over commit. At work, I teach an extra class because it provides more income. At home, I take on tasks Larry-John no longer can do. I see friends hauling kids to soccer, working full-time, and giving time to their favorite causes. Individually, the activities make sense. We benefit from them. We fulfill a need to serve others. We contribute financially to our families. We go until the dizzying effect of the carousel becomes too much. Until we realize we need the rest. Until we feel the longing to stop. To be still.

As a child, stopping –seeking time apart for quiet—came naturally. I think about my favorite moments and activities as a young girl. All of them center around quiet and reflection. I loved to climb trees. I climbed to the highest branch of the tree in our back yard and leaned against the trunk. As still as possible, I sat and observed. Rarely did others know I sat perched 50 feet above. The time was mine.

As I grew older, the need for quiet continued, and remained a natural response to life. A natural desire. I ran. Miles at a time. I found it on the road or the trail. As I set my pace and found my rhythm, I found the stillness. In my teens, my mom knew this about me. I remember the first time I realized it. I stomped in from school, probably slammed the door and grunted something about school or the boy I had fallen for. She stopped whatever she had busied herself with and said, “Go put on your running clothes and run.” I flashed a look at her, but the one she returned said it all. “You need it. You always do. You’ll feel better when you get back.”

Mom did know. In those places growing up, she knew God found me there. She never explicitly told me what she knew or why she understood. But then, that was Mom.

Perhaps she needed to give herself permission. But, she never did. Not until she faced a debilitating illness that eventually consumed her. I should have asked her in her last years, when she had so much quiet—when the quiet found her—whether she gave herself permission to enjoy it. Or, whether she resented it. I hope she gave herself permission to enjoy it.

After all, even God gave himself permission to rest in the Sabbath. A day of rest. Leading by example. Or, perhaps, just like seeking the quiet comes naturally to us as children, it comes naturally to God.

A day of rest, every week. I like the idea.

A few years ago our pastor suggested we really do that. I loved the suggestion—as though it were a novel idea. If I’m made in God’s image and God needs a day of rest, then maybe I do too. We’ve never done it. I dream about the possibility. Even the possibility of a day of rest and silence.

Being still should come naturally to us our entire lives. I think it does. I think, perhaps, we just need to listen better. I think I just need to turn off the cell phone, and the email, and block off the hours in the week and say, “Enough. Be still.”

Teaching: It's not about the teacher

As a teacher, I sometimes get caught up in "teaching." Trying to figure out my lesson plans and crafting assignments that will help students learn -- learn the materials, learn to think, learn to write, revise, and edit. As part of this planning, I often think about the "professionalism" aspect of their learning, too. Are they aware of how to communicate professionally? Do they know the importance of being punctual? Do they understand that their integrity--their character and reputation--are far more important than what a supervisor may want them to do, or a client they may represent?

Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget that the students need me to remember that they are not just students -- but thinking, feeling, spiritual human beings.

Maybe it isn't so much that I forget. It's just that I push that aspect of the students off to the side, rather than keep it front and center. I need to love them, not just teach them.

Today, God reminded me.

The students had a first draft of a paper due, for peer review. Two students wrote me in the early morning hours, both in a bit of distress--expressing their frustrations. But between the lines, I could hear not just frustration, but the slipping away of their self-worth and self-confidence.

I added my students to my prayers this morning, but went along my way as usual. But God knew that it was me who needed His grace more than the students.

One of those students stopped by my office to talk later in the day. His face was long and he looked tired. We talked through his paper and his concerns about its structure and content.

Towards the end of the conversation, I saw a sudden flash of life in his face--his eyes lit up and a brief smile crossed his mouth. In that moment, the holy spirit stepped in and flooded the room with compassion. Before I knew it, words were flowing. I paused and something like the following came spilling out of me, "You know [Jason], you need to give yourself more credit than you do. You are really bright. Really capable. You have grown so much as a student and writer this year. This paper will come together and you will be so thrilled with it when you are done. "

It was a flood of grace. The air in the room lifted and [Jason's] demeanor changed completely. I felt his spirit change. I saw it in his eyes and in his face and in his movement.

As for me? I felt God's presence and his grace. Grateful that He knew that this young man needed more than help with his paper. Grateful that He gave me the opportunity and the words. Grateful for the reminder that I need to keep the whole person (not just the student) and God front and center--not me . . . Even though I might be the one standing in the front of the classroom.

When Love Unfolds, Christ Shows Up

I have often felt inadequate about sharing my faith.

At some periods in my life I felt unsure of what I believed. Or at least not sure enough to express it verbally--without feeling like I was stumbling around stepping on my shoelaces.

Always, I feared sharing my faith. I feared pushing people away. People who may be put off by my faith. People who may have been hurt by other Christ-followers who were brash. People who look at the long history of Christian and religious violence and wonder how we can possibly say that our theology is one of love and forgiveness and grace. People who have been marginalized by society.

Who can blame them? I feel equally put off by how we as humans and we as Christians, historically, have failed to love and have compassion for each other.

But, I find that I am both awed and put off by the bold: Those who openly and passionately share their faith. Those who are candid about the singularity of Christ with people they hardly know. I am awed by those who are comfortable being in that place and who are comfortable having those conversations. Because of the bold, certainly, some non-believers have come to know Christ. And so, I cannot say that bold is wrong.

But, honestly, I am equally, and almost always, put off by the bold. I feel the air thicken and I go into panic mode, looking for the closest exit.

If I, as a believer, feel that way, then I imagine how many non-believers feel. A lack of compassion, or respect, or just a tinge of discomfort.

So, perhaps I shouldn't feel inadequate about sharing my faith. But, scripture--Christ--says that we are to "go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything [Christ has] commanded [us]." Matthew 28:18-20

How do I--how do we as Christians--square the fear of being off-putting with the command to "make disciples of all nations"?

Over the years, and especially over the last 23 years of being married to a non-believer, I have come to this conclusion: Telling all about the singularity of Christ needs to be squared with Christ's command to "love everyone."

And so, for me, loving others, unconditionally, has to come first. That means listening. Listening to what others believe or fear or hope. It is about showing my humanity and reflecting my faith through my love and compassion towards the people who I am fortunate to meet.

For me, it is also about finding common ground and loving others for who they are, what they believe, and where they are. When I listen well and seek common ground, I affirm for me--and hopefully for them--that we are all very much alike.

For me, it is when I focus on the differences that things fall apart rather than unfold.

I like the unfolding. I learn so much by listening to the hearts of others and watching the unfolding of the human experience of love and compassion and acceptance. And, in that unfolding, Christ shows up.

Letting Go, Keeping Faith, and Loving Unconditionally

I sat on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day broke through the darkness. The house was mine at this hour. Even the dog left me alone. Time with God. Quiet. Calm. Uninterrupted.

And so, I prayed, as I did so often recently, "Please God, cover him. Keep him safe. Help me to trust you." God knew that prayer was coming every day while my son was overseas last year, in a remote village, in a country that was giving him the experience of a lifetime.

For me, it was the first time that he had been that far away, without a group of friends or people we knew and trusted to look out for him. I trusted our son enough to let him go, but once he was gone, I had to learn to have faith that he would be okay.

There was nothing that I could do 7,500 miles away.

Despite one stint in the local "hospital," our son arrived home unharmed -- a little thinner, older, and wiser, but safe. God kept him safe and healthy. And, brought him home.

Today, my prayers in these early morning hours have shifted. Our son is across the country, no longer in a poverty stricken country. Instead, he is in the throes of urban-American-big-city life, grappling with his faith.

It is a familiar place. I grappled with my faith at his age, too. Questioning, doubting, not finding God relevant or consistent with the life I thought I wanted. Turning away as I lived a life that was less than what I knew was desirable. And, so, I have hope and faith that my son will grapple and fall back into the arms of a loving God.

As a mom, I have few details about my son's internal struggles. But the details don't matter. He needs to grapple with his faith, more so than he needed to go to Africa to grow into a young man.

I cannot tell him what faith is or should look like. He has known what faith is and who God is, but he needs it to be real and authentic for it to remain that way.

Rather, I need my son to know that it is okay--even good--that he is grappling with his faith. I need to let him know that I love him unconditionally. No matter what.

So, he seeks.

And so, I sit on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day breaks through the darkness. Time with God. Quiet. Calm. Uninterrupted. And, I pray, "God, cover him. Guard his heart. Reveal yourself to him. Pursue him."

God is faithful. I need to trust Him completely. Instead of asking God to bring our son home safely to us, I ask God to bring him home safely to Him.

God's hand. A man named Evan.

Two days ago, friends pulled a young man out of the rubble of a fallen marketplace building in Haiti. Given the recent earthquake that devastated the country, it was not unexpected, except, that it occurred 28 days after the quake.

28 days. No food. No human contact.

But hope. And, faith.

That young man's name was Evan Muncie.

I don't go around saying out loud things like "God is present," "God has his hand in things." Or other such statements. I think them and I feel them. But, I rarely share them.

I just can't resist it here. This young man's survival is a miracle. A wonder. God had to have his hand in things. I am certain.

Of course, the other side of things--the cynical side--is that God had his hand in all the devastation and suffering in Haiti, too. The poverty, the destruction, the death, the disease.

I know that God is present in all things. And, I wouldn't try to explain why there is pain, and poverty, and disease in the world. Why God just doesn't get rid of it all if he is all powerful. That is beyond knowing and beyond fully understanding.

But, despite those human sufferings, we have faith, hope, and love. And, I know, just from my own life experiences, that those three truly are powerful. And, that they spring forth with force during times of suffering.

While we could not prevent the earthquake, men and women -- of all faiths and backgrounds -- have stepped in to help the people of Haiti. We feel drawn to the people of Haiti. We have hope for her people. We have faith that perhaps, through this tragedy, we, as a world, can help Haiti rebuild and climb out of poverty and all that comes with that extreme poverty.

God reminds us--through the life of Evan Muncie--28 days later, that we need to keep our faith and hope and love for Haiti. God reminds us that his hand is in this all and that through Him all things are possible.

Living Intentionally

Days can go by in which I just live. Checking off the tasks on my list of to dos -- with no real direction, except that list. Go to the store, prepare for class, coffee with Cindy, call vet. Those days seem more about the end result--the destination--not the journey.

Other days I am more intentional about living the day and noticing the day, and the beauty, and the meaning, and in seeking God's presence. I love those days. I love the intention. I give full attention to the day. I see with eyes wide open those days. I feel deeply. I laugh, smile, cry. Those days are about the journey--not the destination.

So, today, my to do list includes more.

Spend time with God
See the people around you
Listen carefully
Be intentional about everything

Today will be about the journey.

http://thetodolistforliving.blogspot.com

Stepping In To Community: Feeling Alive

I sat in the pews of our Church for three and a half years -- sitting upright, hardly anyone ever talking to me. Sitting and listening and praying. Feeling our pastors and elders are not accessable to the church body, except to the privileged few. I still feel that way, at least a little. While sitting and worshiping without much connection is what I wanted and needed at first, I grew to long for a true community. As Nora Gallagher wrote in her book, "Things Seen and Unseen," I didn't want the "false camaraderie." Rather, I grew to long for community, in all its joy and brokenness.

But I was fearful and tired. Too many times had I found myself stuck between the married, the divorced, and the unmarried. Being married to a non-believer puts you in a category that seems to make you an untouchable to some. Not that others don't want to know you or connect with you -- but I think people don't know how. Married couples look for other Christian couples to connect with; the divorced want to find others who are single and who understand the pain and hope of divorce; the unmarried seemed to be indifferent or maybe even shocked that I would be unequally yoked. Most didn't know my story at all before I felt the pain of the nails of judgment and the loneliness and hurt of being excluded from small gatherings.

No spiritual community at home and no spiritual community at church. Just communion with God and self. A place of pain and darkness at times. But a place of hope and comfort if I would look to Christ.

I felt like I was standing outside a circle of people, all with their backs turned to me. And yet, I felt God's grace.

At one point a few years ago I attended a church members' meeting at which the elders brought in a position paper on divorce. While I was not sure -- and I'm still not sure that I agree entirely with the position of the church on the issues of divorce--I found it refreshing and encouraging that the church actually would take a stance and be supportive of those who have divorced.

I spoke up about how I was encouraged, because as a person who was married to a non-believer, I understood the feeling of being marginalized in a community of believers. I don't think I used the word marginalized, but apparently that was the message that came across. At the end of the evening, the Women's Pastor came up to me and said she would love to talk to me further about what I meant. So, we scheduled a lunch date.

I appreciated her effort and concern to bring all women in the community together. She was genuine, a good listener, and engaged. I was encouraged that she would help me find a place in the community -- even if it meant helping me find a group of women who were also married to non-believers.

She did try.

But it was more affirmation that finding a place, if at all, was going to be a long and arduous and very lonely journey. And, that the journey was mine to make, not hers.

Time has passed. And, I am at peace. God has brought some amazing women into my life. They are women like me, who love God, but who are not afraid to talk about
their faith and doubt, joy and brokenness. They have issues with their marriages and families, just like I do. They grapple with the church and its position on so many things, just like I do. I have found community and hope.

God was and is faithful. I feel alive.

The Death of A Child: Holding God's Hand Tightly

In an email yesterday, a friend who lost her son in a climbing accident recently wrote to me the following:

That dark valley of the shadow of death does say we walk through it,
but we can't always see through the tears,
so we are trying to hold His hand tightly.

I cannot fathom what my friend is experiencing. As a mother, I fear the loss of one of my children more than anything. Those moments when I sent my little girl off for her first overnight, the first time I handed the keys to the car to my son, the first time my son climbed a mountain and when he went to Africa, alone, at the age of 19.

But the picture her words create in my mind is the only one that I feel I would have comfort in. Holding tightly to God's hand and having faith that He will walk you through the valley of darkness. I am certain I would have moments when I would want to lie down on the valley floor and weep. In those moments, I would hope that God would carry me and restore my strength.

Thin Space

I seek the thin space
I find peace there
God reveals himself

Vulnerability envelops me
For there, my heart is known
I cannot hide in the pews silently

There I am stripped of worldly coverings
And I meet face to face
Eyes and heart open

I do not live in the thin space
But I return here often
For I long for this place

In between heaven and earth