From Mountain Tops

A friend asked me the other day about my blog title. So, if you are wondering . . .

My son loves to climb -- rock climb and mountain climb. But, as a small child, he was so afraid of heights. I don't know what transformed him from fearful to exhilarated, but it changed his life. Climbing has brought some amazing people into his life, too. One of those people was a young man named Anthony Vietti.

Anthony was a mentor, friend, brother in Christ, and climbing buddy. I know that he had a profound effect on my son's life and helped to shape who my son is as a person. I don't know the full impact Anthony had on my son's life, but I know it was significant. And, I am grateful.

He was a friend that I trusted my son to spend time with and a friend I trusted my son's life with--literally, when they climbed. He was a friend who, from my perspective, helped my son learn to love life and to serve and love others unconditionally.

Anthony and my son shared time in God's creation, loving it together.

Few friends in life come along who have such an impact on who we are. Anthony was one of those people in my son's life. I have no doubt that my son had a profound impact on Anthony's life, too. Their friendship was cut short this past December. Anthony and two other young people--including another young man my son knew, Luke Gullberg--died in a climbing accident on Mt. Hood. Anthony was barely 25 years old.

I don't climb, but I look in awe at God's creation--and particularly the mountains. Mt. Hood will always remind me of God's power and God's plan. And when I look at her incredible beauty, I will always be reminded of Anthony and the beautiful friendship my son had.

And so, as I grieved for my son's loss of his dear friend, I began to think about and read about what people experience when they summit mountains. What compels them to climb?

Those who climb usually seek the summit. I'm sure their reasons are as diverse as the people who climb. But I do know that, while they can summit, they can't stay on the tops of those majestic peaks. The summit is temporary. But a place that is worth the journey. A place they can't live or survive. But a place they are willing to risk their lives to experience.

And so, from the mountain top, they look down to the places from which they came and to which they will return. From the mountain top they stand closer to God--in the thin space between heaven and earth. In sacred isolation in communion with God. And, from mountain tops they know they must descend--to the base camp and the valleys beyond to spend time and to live and to prepare--for the next mountain top where they might find that sacred space again.

And so, From Mountain Tops is a place I hope to find and share sacred moments. But it is also a place I visit to reflect on the places in which I live and spend time--in the messiness of community and family. It is in those places that I prepare for those journeys to the summit. I hope you will join me.

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.

My Heart Turns Cartwheels

Sometimes my kids surprise me -- in a good way.

When they were little, they shared everything with us -- the little accomplishments, the disappointments, the boo boos, their fears, their joys. I knew their hearts. I saw their creativity and their dreams and hopes, daily. They didn't hold back.

As they have grown into young adults, I find comfort in seeing little glimpses of their hearts and dreams and hopes. It makes my heart do cartwheels to know them -- even a little -- as they become independent and share their lives with their dearest friends and now, long term significant others. Those moments that I am privileged to grasp, make me smile.

And so, here is a poem my daughter wrote. It made my heart turn cartwheels -- because it gave me a little peek into her heart. And, it affirmed many things that I already knew about her.

I hope it makes you smile, too.
Just a little.

Apologies

I apologize
That I can’t sit still
That I have no interest
In the Digestive Fate of A Sandwich.
I must confess
I am slightly distracted
By the giraffes
Playing jump-rope in my mind.
And though no one seems to notice
There is a very awkward man
In a garbage-bag poncho
Yelling for Moses
Across the street.
And the perfect leaf,
Once a parking ticket,
Once a trapeze artist,
Is laying trampled and soggy
Next to an abandoned shoe.
So please forgive me
If I seem a bit preoccupied:
There is music playing in my head
And I would much rather
Be befriending dragons.
[Or helping the awkward poncho-man
Look for Moses.]

Happy Valentine's Day: Giving and Receiving

I read a facebook post of a young married woman this morning. She was going to a movie by herself, because her husband didn't make all their plans for Valentine's Day--he just asked her, "what should we do?"--essentially leaving it up to both of them, or just him, to make the plans.

She went on about how he needed to do it. If he couldn't, then they just weren't going to celebrate. She would take time for herself.

It made me sad. Really. Our culture has these commercial-based holidays that set us up to have certain expectations. What we should expect others to do for us. How those in our life should demonstrate their love to us on that one specific day.

But, culture-based expectations that we thrust on others more often than not just lead to disappointment and other dysfunctional outcomes. If having a romantic Valentine's Day really matters to me, then I make the plan or prepare a romantic dinner for two at home. If it matters to my husband, then he does what he wants to demonstrate his love for me. I can't thrust Valentine's Day on him as an obligation. Who wants love based on obligation anyway? That isn't love; it is action made to look like love. It is like one of those lovely chocolate candies that you bite into and find a gooey filling that you just have to spit out.

Culture-based expectations emerge at Christmas, too. Santa, shopping, spending. The expectation at Christmas has grown to this massive frenzy of shopping and buying and giving just because it is expected. Millions spent on gifts that will be forgotten or tossed in the Goodwill box in a matter of months.

Our church, Imago Dei Community, started a movement called Advent Conspiracy to help re-focus Christmas on the expectation of the birth of Christ and making Christmas about relationships. It has been beautifully transforming for our family. It has made Christmas about spending time with each other, rather than spending time in the mall in search of the "perfect" gift for each other.

So, for Valentine's Day, I suggest: have no expectations. Rather, if you feel like showing someone you love him or her, find a special way to do that. But don't sit, waiting expectantly, for the chocolates or the flowers or the perfect night out. Love may not show up in that culturally-defined way.


But the bottom line is, we need to show our love for others, not expect others to show their love for us in a certain way. Christ reminds us, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I don't recall him reminding us to expect "small tasty or Hallmark-branded tokens of love from others."--unless there is some chapter I missed.

So for the young woman on Facebook: I send prayers for you and your husband today. That you will find a way to talk about what is on your heart. If it is something more than culturally-imposed expectations, then I pray that you will share your feelings with each other and listen, really listen to each other. That will show true love. If it is just culturally imposed expectations, I pray that you will instead just express your love in a way that is meaningful to you. . . and just maybe, you will find you receive more in return than what you gave or ever could have expected.

What will my day look like? Well, it will mostly include work -- grading papers.
And who knows, I may just have a little something up my sleeve for the man I have loved for the past 29 years.

Does he have something up his sleeve? If he does, I'll be surprised. I know--I am certain--he loves me unequivocally. He shows me that daily, in little ways--he makes dinner almost every night and has it ready when I walk in the door. He greets me and helps me put my bundle of work-related stuff away. He goes to the grocery store when I'm just too tired to even think about it -- even though he dislikes shopping more than I do. He tells me he loves me too often to count, warms up my coffee when I let it sit a little too long, and sends me random text messages when I least expect them.