Rational Words, Irrational Love

I wrote the majority of this post a few days ago but hesitated in publishing it.  My pastor's message yesterday morning was about the mission of reconciliation that all believers have, and it also was about allowing the Holy Spirit to guide our interactions with others, rather than vehemently and passionately witnessing - without BEING a witness.  It is with that encouragement that I decide to share my thoughts here.

Christianity is not a "rational" faith.

We hold to the belief that there is a force beyond ourselves that created the universe, yet sees humans as individuals worthy of infinite love.  We believe that the Son of said force (we call him God) was born from a young virgin, that He performed crazy miracles, taught people to love each other and love God, and died on a cross.  We believe that He came back from the dead and gave His believers the power to perform miracles greater than His.

Yes.  It sounds totally, completely, insanely nuts.  NUTS.

Yet it is the foundation for an entire faith claimed by millions of people.

Can people who even believe this stuff be considered rational?

I hope so.

I'm one of them.

I try to keep hot-button topics off my blog and other social media outlets.  With all the big stuff out there (Planned Parenthood, homosexual marriage, the Duggars, Bruce Jenner, etc.), it's so easy to misinterpret facts (or miss them, or leave them out completely), and voiced opinions quickly get passionate.  And ugly.  I'm on the verge of swearing off clickbait articles altogether and refusing to read comments on any other more "credible" new sources, too.  So often, reader responses overshadow the content in the story, and range from passive-aggressive Scripture quotes to hateful diatribes laced with atrocious accusations and even more atrocious grammar.  Frequently, the comments are aimed at other commenters, and not at the article itself.

With such venomous mud-slinging covering all people groups these days, Christians find themselves in a unique position.  At least in name, we were once the "ruling class" in America - especially white, middle- and upper-class Christians.  We suddenly find ourselves having to defend our beliefs in the face of a dramatically changing political and moral landscape.  As few as twenty years ago, a great many Americans identified as having mainstream Judeo-Christian beliefs.  Now, those same beliefs are considered by many to be outdated, intolerant, and bigoted.  The beliefs haven't changed but America has.

How do we continue to be heard - and actually listened to - in a country that frequently mocks our faith and denies our God?

Simple.

We speak quietly.  We choose gentle, respectful words.  

We let our actions speak for themselves.

We love more loudly than we talk.

This revelation hit me hard this week, when I posted my first comment about the Planned Parenthood scandal on my Facebook page.  A rather liberal friend from college noted - with great respect, I must add - that my source was mistaken.  Admittedly, I did not fact-check, because I respected the source of the article.  What followed was a careful, deliberate conversation about faith, facts, and - surprisingly - forensics.  Forensics as in debate, that is.  

When Christians - especially conservative Christians - choose to share their values, whether in a public or private setting, it is imperative that we fight fair.  People like to cite Jesus flipping over the moneylenders' tables at the temple (Mark 11:15) when they talk about an unfair status quo that needs to change. They forget, though, that the vast majority of His ministry was spent preaching, teaching, and healing.  He taught with stories and parables.  He knew the Scripture, inside and out.  He loved God, and obedience to God was His first (and only) priority.  Jesus always had His priorities and His facts straight.  He spoke with love to the people who were truly curious about what He was saying .  He ignored the naysayers and refused to chase them down with Scripture after Scripture, citing why they should follow Him.  Instead, He answered them simply, with the Truth (Mark 2)  I have a hard time believing that He, were He walking the earth today, would hashtag his status updates with #sorrynotsorry and #justsayin.  I'm thinking He wouldn't spend hours trolling controversial news topics and making snarky comments at other people.  I don't even know how much time He would spend picketing abortion clinics.  Yes - I went there.  I'm not saying He wouldn't oppose them (He stood by the Law, which forbids murder, so I don't think there's a question there), but instead of ranting and raving about injustice, He spent hours teaching the people who wanted to learn.  He spent most of His time with people who "got" Him (even though Scripture tells us that none of them ever really did until He had been resurrected).  He poured into them so that they could teach, preach and heal others.  

I throw down the gauntlet - a challenge for Internet-savvy Christians - particularly American ones, and particularly conservative ones.  Can you be as deliberate as Jesus in your next social interaction online?  Can you refrain from name-calling?  Can you do more than just post a verse and wait for others to bite?  Can you stand up for the disadvantaged without shaming them or others?  Can you enter into a debate with collected thoughts, respect for your opponent, and the desire to rationally represent a totally irrational faith?  I am not saying that we should sit quietly by while our country falls apart.  Being collected and rational does not mean that we stop sharing our beliefs.  Not at all!  But it means that we acknowledge that we won't get anywhere by handing out religious tracts and side-eye at the same time.  We can't say that we love others while we force fear down their throats, while we call them disgusting and obscene.   With double-talk, we play into the title of "hypocrite" that they have given us, even as we drive them farther and farther from the Truth.

Or have we forgotten that we were saved from our own sin by the One whose name we have taken - not by any act of our own?

"Then we will no longer be immature like children.  We won't be tossed and blown about by every wind of new teaching.  We will not be influenced when people try to trick us with lies so clever they sound like the truth.  Instead, we will speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ, who is the head of his body, the church." - Ephesians 4:14-15

The verse above indicates that becoming more like Christ is a result of acting out of love - specifically, speaking the truth in a loving, respectful way.  It contrasts this behavior with the chasing of new ministry fads and ways of thinking, encouraging the readers - early Christians - to stick to the simple truth of the Gospel and not get caught up in how to make it cooler, more relevant, or prettier.  Sometimes, I think the circus that is social media makes it very easy for aspects of our faith to be blown out of proportion, or to easily bury the simple truth of God's love in piles of controversy, quotes, statistics, and half-truths.  A verse, taken out of context, can incite riots.  We have become a deeply sensitive people, ready to take offense at virtually anything.  We are ready to take up arms to fight a war born of misunderstanding.  We are willing to scream about injustice and morality at the top of our voices, yet we refuse to listen when the Holy Spirit leads us into quiet conversations, meditation, prayer.  We have become unreasonable in every way.

I love what the Lord says in Isaiah 1:18.  He is speaking to his beloved, but rebellious people.  They have trampled his commandments time and again, and been out from under his protection as a result.  They have chased false idols and wooed other gods, they have disobeyed him, disregarded him, mocked him.  Yet he is patient and he invites them back into his arms: "Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."  He then simply asks for obedience and promises great blessings - unseen and unimagined blessings.  He promises Jesus, Whose blood - in the years to come - will make them clean again.

If God sets forth the invitation to be reasonable, cannot we, as Christians, follow suit?  Let us share that beautiful, irrational, ridiculous, extravagant, endless love that saved us from hell.  But let's do it with clear minds and careful words.  Let the sparks we ignite be the flames of revival - not flame wars.

On Second Thought...

Although I cannot recall the attribution, I recently read somewhere that the first thought that pops into your head about a person or situation is the one you were "trained" to have.  The second thought is the one that defines you as a person.

The idea fascinates me.  As a practicing Christian, I want to be more like Jesus - more loving, more patient, more honest, more encouraging.  Yet I'm appalled, sometimes, by the thoughts that seem to jump into my head.  Seeing a young woman use food stamps while she's pulling out her brand-new iPhone and clicking at it with freshly manicured nails while her three half-dressed children are screaming in the grocery cart.  Obviously she's abusing the system, right?  How could she afford a nice smartphone if she had to apply for government aid?  And for goodness' sake, WHY isn't she taking care of those kids?!

Maybe the phone was a gift.  Maybe her best friend works at a salon and did her nails for free.  And the kids - who knows?  Maybe it was such a nightmare getting them out of the house that one lost a shoe and mom didn't have time to grab it.  Now that I'm a parent, I'm beginning to understand that kids are unpredictable.  They have tantrums at the most inconvenient times.  And sometimes, trying to find an effective method of discipline takes time and lots of trial and error.  I didn't "get" that before Ronen was born.

During my time at Starbucks, I learned a lot about relating to people.  I wasn't the perfect employee, but there were at least a few instances where I seemed to get along with "problem customers" better than some of my peers.  It might have been because, each time a guest treated me rudely or dismissively, I forced myself to think: "Maybe he had a really ugly fight with his wife this morning and he's still shaken about it" or "Maybe she has a meeting at work today that she's not ready for" or "Maybe his kid is failing out of college".  I learned - very slowly - not to take criticism or bad attitudes personally.  I learned to separate what was being said from how it was being said.  

This was incredibly useful, too, later, when I worked for another company in a totally different field.  There was a woman there who was very good at her job, but very abrasive.  She never got that "praise sandwich" memo - you know, where you offer negative feedback to an employee by first encouraging them or reinforcing their positive qualities, then give them the "bad news", and finish with something uplifting?

Image from www.alexanderchrisostomou.co.uk

Yeah, it was like that idea had never crossed her mind.  Most people in the office disliked her, and many outright hated her.  One even asked me, flat-out, "How do you get along with her?"  I replied to this person that, when the woman criticised me, I tried to evaluate what she was saying, rather than how it was coming out of her mouth.  If what she was saying was valid - for example, I'd made a mistake while calculating something - then I accepted it for what it was worth, worked on the problem and moved on.  If it was something without merit - just a lady in a bad mood lashing out - then I dropped it and also moved on.

It wasn't easy and it wasn't something that happened overnight.  I'm also sad to say that it is a skill that never fully translated into my personal life from my professional one.  That's the reason I find myself having the "first thoughts" I mentioned above.  Thoughts of defensiveness.  Of judgment.  Of derision.  Most of them, ultimately, are related to pride or vanity.  "I'm better than than person - in some way."  "I would NEVER make that kind of decision."  "What a stupid thing to say; I'd never comment like that."

This even came up in customer service training at my current job in a pediatric office.  The lecturer spoke about "self-talk", which is in essence, the same thing.  He taught that we might not be able to control how we WANT to react when something happens, but we can "talk ourselves down" to a reasonable place.  It's the same thing as allowing your initial reaction to exist, acknowledging it, and moving on to a more humane or compassionate conclusion.

So I'm trying to be far more conscious of that first thought, and decide what I want to do with it.  Am I going to keep it and make it a part of me?  Or am I going to release it and replace it with a thought that expressed more compassion, more patience, more forgiveness?

The Bible has a lot to say about our thought life, too.  It tells us that God knows our thoughts (1 Corinthians 2:11), as did Jesus when we walked the earth as a man (Luke 9, Luke 11). The best advice the Bible gives about our thought life in regards to others, I think, is in Romans.  Chapter 14, verse 13 admonishes believers to "stop passing judgment on one another.  Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister." This is useful advice that reminds us that we choose to pass judgment and it can cause others to second-guess themselves, as well as make us antagonists.  Are we not supposed to encourage and build up instead of tear down?  Are we not supposed to be a united front for Christ?

Instead of "that driver is a major jagoff" I can choose to give the benefit of the doubt.  Consciously thinking,  "I hope he's not in an accident" or "I hope there's no emergency" allow me to see other people as I'm learning to see myself: flawed, but with potential.

We're all human after all, no?

An Essay About My Church

We are living in a culture in which Christianity has become synonymous with bigotry, hatred, judgment and self-righteousness.  Those who profess the faith are considered foolish, backward, old-fashioned, or hypocritical.  With the increasing acceptance and promotion of alternative lifestyles, Christians who cling to traditional values are labeled as hate-mongers.  

Let me tell you: yes, some of them are.  Or rather, some of us are.  

Although I frequently cringe when I hear stories of Christians acting out hatefully against those with different values and beliefs, I am still a Christian.  I identify as one, and I try to act like one.  

It's not easy.

I have been pretty open about my beliefs about, well, everything.  I never wanted this blog to become political or "religious", and I've tried consciously to stay away from hot-button topics.  Most people who know me know my stance on abortion, homosexual marriage, feminism, and other major issues.  

And, yet, many of the people who disagree with me still consider themselves my friends.  Even when we have  really, REALLY different opinions.  It's not because I subscribe to the "you do you and I'll do me" policy of life (I don't).  It's just because I realize that my words alone, no matter how excellent or persuasive, will probably not convince a person that Jesus is the way to go.  That's God's department, and it's not up to me to "save" people.  My job is to be honest, to tell them about my faith and about Jesus, not to be ashamed of my relationship with Christ, to pray for and with them (if they let me).  My job is to model Christ-like behavior to the best of my ability - which includes respecting others, loving others, and treating others with compassion.  It does not include making excuses for sin - theirs or my own - and it does not include condoning behaviors the Bible calls sinful.  

The key to living this way - at least, trying to live this way - is to find a community that supports you.  If you are a Christian, you need a home church.  I cannot say this enough.  God did not design us to be blowing about in the wind spiritually, so to speak.  The book of Acts talks almost constantly about the believers being together, physically, and being together, spiritually.  Unified.  Joined.  In agreement.

Even us introverts.  

I love my church.  My church was there for me when I was single and lonely (I must qualify that; not all the time I was single I was alone).  They were there for me when I was dating guys who were, well, not for me - and they advised me, but loved me even when I made the wrong choices.  They were there for me when I met Ross.  When I lost my babies.  When my mom died.  When my son was born.  When I struggled to breastfeed, and ultimately failed.  (Well, the women of the church were there for me, anyway - let's not get into semantics on that one.)  

What I love about my church, other than its welcoming nature, is ultimately its honesty and transparency.  Both Pastor Mark and Pastor Stephanie (yes, she is ordained in her own right and not "just" a pastor's wife) are truthful, caring, cautious, and kind.  I say truthful because they don't play games with the congregation.  They don't wheedle us for money; they don't just deliver sugary, watered-down, feel-good messages; they don't manipulate the words of the Bible.  I say caring because I've watched them put the needs of other before themselves, time and again.  Their children.  Their parents.  Their siblings.  Friends.  Church members who need support and guidance.  I've watched them teach others to minister, to pray, to love.  I say cautious because they are careful to obey the Holy Spirit; they allow him to lead, but never function without the Word.  They do not follow every new church fad, but instead cling to the foundation of Christianity: Jesus as the Living Word.  I say kind because I have known them now more than half my life and I've seen them as leaders, as parents, interacting with their own parents, their siblings, their congregations.  And they're the same people in the pulpit as they are in restaurants, at movie theatres, during family meals.

They are not afraid to preach the Gospel with love.

They don't care about the size of the church, as long as it is healthy and continuing to grow spiritually.  They aren't worried about popularity - they want to be relevant without being a "relevant" church.  They want to preach in a way that is easily understood - in bite-sized pieces.  But they encourage others to dig deeper into the Word with in-depth Bible studies and small groups that deal with some pretty heavy stuff.  

In a society in which church-bashing headlines are splattered daily across social media, where quotes are purposely taken out of context to reduce church leaders' credibility, where splinter groups, cults and sects form their own "Christian" special interest hate groups, where even non-Christians will pick and choose which parts of the Gospel they want to accept, where being a conservative white male is now a crime in itself...

...its nice to know there's still a place like this.  With open arms, a warm smile, and yes... a seat for you, too.

Multiple Choice

Today, my dad reminded me that I can choose fear or faith.

Not both.

The interesting thing about that statement is that it presents us with a concept that we don't often imagine.  Choosing something that is usually considered an emotion.  But faith, like love and forgiveness, is a decision we make.  A lifestyle.  Not a default reaction.  Not a feeling.

Which do you choose?

This week, I got some less-than-great news at my OB-GYN appointments.  It wasn't bad news; just disappointing.  Although the baby is developing just fine, he's measuring quite small.  I know that technicians can only imperfectly guess about the weight of a fetus, he's currently (barely) tipping the scales at just under 5 pounds, plus he's breech right now.  That, however, isn't my biggest concern - especially since I am only five feet tall and his daddy's on the short side of average, too.  My real challenge is my blood pressure.

Lots of you know that I was diagnosed with hypertension about four years ago.  I saw my PCP and a cardiologist, both of whom determined that my weight at the time, while high, would not have caused the numbers they were seeing.  After exams and bloodwork, the frustrating conclusion was that it was simply "unexplained".  Genetic.  Ugh.  Last year, I worked very hard to change my eating habits, exercise frequently, and reduce my sodium intake.  I was doing about 50 minutes of cardio four or five times a week, and I ended up crossing something off my bucket list that I didn't even know was on it - I ran in Pittsburgh's Great Race!

All in all, I lost a total of about 19 pounds from my curvy but small frame.  I wanted to lose another 10 more, but then (wonderfully!) got pregnant and put that goal aside.  Still, though, my blood pressure was high.  I was deeply frustrated.  I'd followed all the "rules" to reduce it naturally, but my efforts were met with the same ugly numbers every time: 140/100.

I was given medication during my pregnancy to maintain my blood pressure, which has helped thus far - especially given my 4-month stretch of doctor-ordered abstaining from all exercise.  After I was cleared for exercise, I found that I was so short of breath that I could hardly move without my inhaler anyway.  So it was basically a no-go, and I'm not thrilled to say that I've gained around 40 pounds so far.  Everyone insists it's "all belly", but I'm not so sure.  Still, that's another story for another time.

My doctor has been both optimistic and realistic with me.  He had celebrated every little victory with us along the way - hearing the heartbeat, feeling the kicks, passing the glucose test.  Yet he has also gently reminded me that, due to my chronic hypertension, I'd have to be closely monitored the further along I was.  No truer were those words than today, when my non-stress test results apparently disappointed the other doctor in the practice, who ordered two more in the next seven days.  The baby's heart rate is normal, but I guess he's not moving as much as they would like.  

Now, if you compare him to other babies, you're right.  However, since the beginning, he's been on the "lazy" side, if you will.  Unlike many babies, he doesn't keep me up at night kicking.  He actually sleeps at night and seems to wake up around 10 in the morning.  He has some flurries of activity around then, right before lunch, around 2:30, then after dinner.  That's sort of his schedule.  It has been since I felt him kick on Valentine's Day this year!  

My pregnancy hasn't matched up with "the norm" either, though!  The subchorionic hematoma I suffered happens only 10% of the time.  I'm eight months along after three unexplained, consecutive miscarriages.   I didn't break out in acne like most other moms-to-be.  I didn't have much morning sickness at all, and I never threw up once (except for a brief bout with the stomach flu).  So I'm different, I guess it stands to reason that baby might be, too.

Still, we're moving forward with tests for the dreaded but as-yet-unspoken diagnosis of pre-eclampsia hanging over my head.  I'll hear soon enough, as I'm pretty sure the technician at Quest drew enough blood today to keep Nosterafu fed for a week.  If I do have it, my already uber-flexible birth plan will just have to morph yet again.  They will likely have to deliver the baby early for his sake and mine, since pre-E, as it's called, can truly be deadly.  Even if I don't have it, they might want me on bed rest since the baby isn't doing much to impress them right now.   

So I'm left at a crossroads.  As I'm finishing packing up my hospital bags and determining what cute little onesie my baby will prefer to come home in, I can choose faith or fear.

It seems like fear is the more reasonable option.  It makes more sense, after all.  I should be afraid, shouldn't I?  Of an emergency c-section, of my baby winding up in the NICU, of having to leave him behind for testing once I am discharged. 

But fear won't get me through the next month.  It will cripple me, then trip me, then laugh when I can't get back up.  It will stifle my breathing and disturb my sleep and whisper "what if" in my ears a thousand times a day.  It will invite me to play out the worst possible scenarios in my head over and over until I'm convinced they are the unalterable future.

Faith, however, will give me breath each morning - just enough for the day.  Faith asks no more than to allow tomorrow to be tomorrow, and let today be today.  Faith reminds me that God has not abandoned me, that my friends are with me.  That my husband was by my side for all three of our losses, and he is here now.  Faith instructs me to do what I can and put everything else in the hands of my Maker.  And, with a shy smile, faith gently admonishes me that worry adds no years to my life and no strength to my journey.

I choose faith.  It's not a feeling.  It's a decision.  Even if I feel fear, I don't have to choose it.  

I won't let it speak for me.  Or to me.

Pink Ribbons and a Brown-Eyed Girl

I wish I were lacing up my hot pink Nikes to run in this weekend's Race for the Cure.  Having been involved only from a spectator's perspective, I know it's a huge and epic event.  Well - let's be honest.  I wasn't actually spectator, my first time around.  I was working as the manager-on-duty in the Oakland Starbucks and we were understaffed and Oh God It Was Terrifying.  Seemingly endless waves and waves of pink-clad men and women splashed into the store, wanting little more than a bottle of water or a quick bagel to snack on as they walked and ran in honor of victims and survivors.  Although I remember being overwhelmed to the point of numbness, I don't recall any customers being rude or impatient.  They were all there because they saw the Bigger Picture.

Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends.  And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately.  Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid.  Next year.

Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone.  Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior.  I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone.  This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.  

There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed.  There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me.  There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness.  There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.

Don't get me wrong, please.  I dearly love my step-mama, Deana.  She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom.  She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy.  She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness).  She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman.  And I love her.

But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?"  The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories.  I can't trace my biological family tree through her.  I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play.  I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers. 

Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things.  I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong.  As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!"  He looked startled, and asked, "Why?"  He probably thought it had something to do with the bread.  Did it remind me of her?  Poor confused guy.  I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend."  He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.  

On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?"  He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her.  "I don't know," I said honestly.  If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories.  A lot of hours of the silent treatment.  A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her.  A lot of fights.  A lot of disappointment.  A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate.  A lot of bitterness.  Oh, so much bitterness.  

Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones.  Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories.  Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right).  Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me.  Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.  

And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart.  The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.

And sympathy.  For me, having to see her die.

Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are.  They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us.  In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness.  Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother.  But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers.  For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.  

For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.

I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself.  I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her.  I see her face in my reflection quite often.  I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.

I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile.  I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother.  How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.

Overcomer

There are times when I listen to a lot of Christian music.  There are times, a lot lately, when I prefer oldies or classic rock - or a good dose of Pat Benatar or Billy Idol.  Still, I'd heard a lot of buzz about Christian pop star Mandisa's recently-released single, Overcomer.  I've developed a lot of respect for this woman since I had first learned about her.  

Foremost, she is openly and joyfully in love with Jesus, and that is a beautiful thing.  She is an optimist but is down-to-earth and readily admits her faults.  Yes, I base much of my impression on social media, but let's be honest: if you were trying to look more put-together than you really are, why talk about how much you love your bed on Facebook?  The girl is real.  Her very public dismissal from American Idol by Simon Cowell, who snidely insulted her weight - as well as her immediate, gracious, and loving reply - were what launched her career, rather than canning it.  While much of America looks to actress Jennifer Lawrence as their "everywoman" - unashamed to talk about food, prone to goofing around, and all-around decent, I relate more, I think, to Mandisa.  I could actually imagine sitting down with her and joking about clothing a zaftig figure, loving Southern-fried food, and how there are a lot of days when Christians don't even feel saved.

So, when I heard her new song for the first time, I cried.  The message, like many of hers, is both simple and essential.  The theme of overcoming is mentioned a lot in the Bible.  It can be found in 1 John 5:4, where is is clearly stated "For whatever is born of God overcomes the world. And this is the victory that has overcome the world—our faith."  

The concept of living victoriously because Jesus triumphed over the grave is not, as some think, a "bonus blessing" only to be received by an elite few.  I am learning that is actually a fundamental building block of the faith!  If you have accepted the already pretty hard-to-swallow idea that Jesus is God's son, that He died for your sins, that He rose from the dead, and that He absolutely and completely adores you, then the next step is to believe that He actually wants you to live a full and fulfilling life.  That doesn't, of course, mean that your life will always be comfortable, or that you will never experience stress, sorrow, or pain.  But it does mean that you have the power and the choice to look past your circumstances into the eyes of the One who created you, who actually wants you to experience peace and joy.  

Don't get me wrong, here.  I am not preaching or promising a life full of warm fuzzies!  I'm speaking from a place of, well, not a lot of warm fuzzies myself.  I'm missing my mom.  I can hardly believe it's been seven months already since she passed away.  I mourn the loss of my children.  Ross is having a very hard time finding a job that suits him better than his current one.  His hours do not allow for a lot of quality time with me or our families.  

I can focus on the things that make me unhappy, or I can focus on the fact that, in spite of everything that is painful and uncertain right now, God does have a plan for my future, and everything will be okay.

I listen to Overcomer most days during my lunchtime power-walk.  It reminds me that, according to God's word, I'm not an overcomer when I see, feel, or experience victory.  I am one now.  I am allowed and even encouraged to hold me head high, smile, and walk joyfully through any situation with the knowledge that my enemy cannot destroy me.  I am an overcomer, even though I have lost three pregnancies.  God is bigger than miscarriage.  God is bigger than the doctors' response of "we don't know what's wrong."  God is bigger than the fear that threatens to rise up and suffocate me when I think about trying to conceive again.

June 2012, at my sister's wedding.

I have not yet seen victory in that area of my life, but I my spirits are lifted by the victory I am seeing in another area - weight loss.  Like Mandisa, I have grown more conscientious of my health in the past several months.  In the past year, I have (slowly!) lost nearly 20 pounds.  I was a size 13 in Juniors' styles this January, and I'm now beginning to try on size 7.  

 

 

This is uncharted territory for me!  I have never in my adult life dreamed of it.  I'm having more fun with fashion - even embracing skinny jeans!  Beyond that, I know that I am helping my heart and lungs, and even possibly helping to prepare my body for a healthy

August, 2013.

pregnancy.  Soon, I hope!  While I may not reach my goal weight by my November birthday, I have proven to myself that I can make a difference in my own life.  God's presence throughout this process has been subtle.  He hasn't shown up with a loud voice and fireworks, but he has calmly and steadily given me the strength to stop believing the lies I've told myself, or let others tell me.  The lie that my asthma was my identity.  The lie that it was no use to try to change, because everything was always going to be the same.  The lie that I just had to accept my family's health history as my own, and just wait for diabetes to set in.  The lie that I never, ever accomplish my goals.  The lie that I'm not worth taking care of.

That's the key to really accepting the fact that you're already an overcomer.  It's to stop listening to the lies that whisper "you're not good enough, God doesn't love you enough, and he isn't big enough to help you."  Once you finally understand that his grace is enough, he does love you enough and more than enough, and he is big enough to handle your pain and doubt, you can start to live like an overcomer - even if you don't feel like one.

Water and Wine, Part One

It's Holy Week.

For many people in the world, this week represents the last few days agonizing of Lent - and, for Pittsburghers, it's the last chance for a really great fish fry until next year.  It's the last chance to grab the good Easter candy (yes, I'm talking about those amazing Sarris meltaway eggs), and the last chance pick up a dozen extra eggs to boil and dye.

For many people, that's all this week represents.

I admit that I haven't really been in "appreciation and reflection" mode this week.  I had five (FIVE!) interviews lines up this week with different local companies, and I've been directing the youth group's play, as well as helping prepare for tonight's Seder dinner at church.  But the Lord led me to a short but intense and beautiful devotional for Holy Week, and it's definitely forced me to rethink a lot of the images we associate with Easter.

The Crowds

The disciples went and did as Jesus had instructed them. They brought the donkey and the colt and placed their cloaks on them for Jesus to sit on.  A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, while others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.  The crowds that went ahead of him and those that followed shouted,  “Hosanna to the Son of David!”  “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”  “Hosanna in the highest heaven!”  When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred and asked, “Who is this?” - Matthew 21:6-10

In ministry, we often site the crowds that followed Jesus as fickle and flighty.  Well, yes, they were.  They cried "Hosanna!" one day and "Crucify Him!" a few days later.  But I don't want to focus on that aspect of the multitudes.  I want you to imagine with me, just for a moment, being in that throng of people who watched as Jesus entered into the city.  How exciting it must have been!  Really - compare it to the Olympics being hosted in your hometown, or an international celebrity stopping by your neighborhood.  This was so far beyond "exciting".  For the people who believed He was the Messiah, this was a prophesy fulfilled!  They were living out the very words of the Old Testament prophets!  They must have felt joyful, and humbled, and grateful - and maybe a little intimidated!  After all, people must have heard stories that this Jesus could see right into the very heart and soul of a man, gauging his intentions and attitude.  Kinda scary.  But incredible.  

For the people who did not believe that Jesus was the Son of God, or who had not yet decided what they believed, it was still a time of great anticipation.  Regardless of who they believed Jesus to be, there was no doubt that he was a controversial figure, a bold preacher, and a man of unusual character.  Anything could happen once He met up with the religious folk.  A good old-fashioned scandal would have been just as juicy and intriguing in ancient Jerusalem as it is today.  Of course it would be thrilling to have Him visit their hometown!  If nothing else, it would boost the economy and give everyone something to talk about over dinner!

Yes, the crowds later turned on Jesus.  But right now, in this moment, in the picture that Matthew paints for us, they are zealous, alive, full of excitement, wonder, and hope.  The environment must have been electric with anticipation.  Would today be the day that another lame man walked?  That eyes born blind would see?  Would this be the day that a barren womb was healed, or that depression was lifted?  Miracles aside, the ancient prophecies could not be ignored; if this was the promised King and Savior, then the people's freedom from Roman rule was fast-approaching.  The way they saw it, a great rebellion was literally bubbling up from within their ranks.  Their freedom was so close at hand it was almost tangible.  Excitement must have buzzed through the crowds, all the way from the old-timers who had to be supported by stronger friends, down to the children who had recited the prophecies as they learned to read.  

The day of salvation had come!

The Communion

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.”  Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you.  This is my blood of the  covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.  I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.” - Matthew 26:26-29.

At my church, we celebrate communion once per month - usually on the first Sunday.  It is a time, for us, of reflection, and appreciation.  We do not believe that the wine (juice) and bread are the actual body of the Lord; we believe that they represent Him only.  However, as such, they are reminders to us of the great sacrifice Jesus made in laying down His life for us.  His body was broken and His blood poured out for our healing, wholeness, and salvation.  For our strength - that we may be bold for Him.  For our peace - that we may know His promises are true.  For our hope - that we have a place in Heaven because of Him.

As the disciples were eating with Jesus that evening, I wonder if any of them - other than Judas - knew how true His words really were.  Did they think that He was talking about dying in a battle against the Romans?  Surely most of them still thought that Jesus was going to mount a valiant horse and march on Rome for their freedom.  Did they think He was speaking poetically?  Could it even be that some of them were thinking of other things entirely?  

So often we pick apart the actions of the disciples and criticize them.  We nail Peter for denying Jesus.  We shake our heads at James and John and their mother for trying to bargain their way to the right hand of Christ.  And of course, we gasp in shock at Thomas's inability to believe that Jesus could actually be resurrected.  

But they were men - everyday, ordinary men - who were hand-picked by Jesus not because they were anything extra-ordinary, but precisely because they were like us - those whom He saw before him on the cross as His great prize.  He chose these men - laborers, uneducated, hard-working - to represent us.  We can relate to them, their confusion and bewilderment, even if we would prefer to think that we would never have betrayed Christ, or denied Him, or doubted Him.  Truth is, most of us are lying to ourselves!  

And here, they shared a final holy meal with him, representing the time, centuries before, when the Lord spared his children during a dark time of slavery and oppression.  He rescued their lives, then loaded them with wealth and began to lead them to their new home.  

Did any of the disciples have the slightest clue that their friend Jesus was in the process of doing the same for them?  Once He rose from the dead, he unlocked the riches of Heaven, access to the Father, and the promise of a glorious home forever with Him?

Would we have had a clue, had we been sitting there with Him?

I'll continue this train of thought with The Cup and The Cross, later this week.

Heading to the Enemy's Camp...

For you to understand what I am about to say, you need to understand a little bit about my faith.  I am a person who solidly believes in the whole Bible, beginning to end and everything in between.  I know not everything in it seems to make sense, and I may catch hell for it, but that doesn't really bother me.  What is important is that I have no doubts at all that Jesus is the Son of God, born of a virgin, Who took on the sins of the world and died on the cross that men could see Heaven.  

Whether or not you agree with that is, of course, entirely up to you.

But you have to understand that I fully believe it, if what I am to say will make any sense.

For the past three weeks, my church and many, many others across the world have been engaging in a fast.  The purpose has been to draw nearer to God by "putting the flesh under" - in some way, ruling over our bodies and not giving in to them.  Romans 11:16 states that "If the part of the dough offered as firstfruits is holy, then the whole batch is holy; if the root is holy, so are the branches."  We are giving the first portion of our year to Him.  You get a little more sensitive to things when  you're denying your body something it tells you it wants.  You hear God more clearly, you think things through more completely.  You are the better for it.  Cleaner, more receptive.  Like a spiritual detox.

Ross and I felt that we needed to be a part of this journey.  We felt that God was leading us not on a "Daniel fast" of fruits and vegetables, but we did feel that God was asking us to lay aside some of our favorite foods and snacks, as well as things in other areas of our lives.  The funny thing is, though, that giving up cheese (my all-time favorite food), popcorn, pop ("soda", Ross calls it; how droll), processed sweets and video games wasn't the challenge for me.  What is a challenge is what has been happening in all the other areas of our lives!

Last year, at the same time the fast started, Ross and I were honeymooning in San Antonio, Texas.  We were having a wonderful time...eating too much, exploring, having adventures, and spending every single second wrapped in each others' arms.  This year,  it was a different story.  Both our vehicles needed extensive repairs within a day of each other...Ross was turned down for both positions he applied for...we nearly got into a car accident...I am having difficulty in launching my Bible study group...and I was rushed to the doctor with dizziness and chest pain to learn that I have seriously, dangerously high blood pressure...and they cannot yet determine why.  

You can imagine that we're a little discouraged and confused right now!

If all these things had happened at almost any other time, I don't know that I would have felt so seriously attacked.  But this is what I believe: there is something waiting for me in just a few days that the devil absolutely does not want me to have.  

When I saw the letter stating that Ross was turned down for the job he really, truly wanted, I was about ready to leave for work.  I got into the car and just broke down in tears.  I was so hurt for him.  I knew how much effort he had put into his interviews and how excited he was to work for the company.  I felt like the whole thing was a slap in the face.  And I heard the devil smirking: "See?  This is what you get for trusting your God.  How little he values your worship!"  

And then I got mad.  I realized that the only thing to do was to praise the Lord, and I turned up the music and sang before Him.  It was the one thing I could do to smash my heels into the devil's face.  And immediately, God spoke to me, promising me that the perfect position was opening up for Ross...and that we should not mourn at this "defeat".

While we are still waiting to see that position open, we are standing fast in our faith.  For now, though, both Ross and I have decent-paying jobs with cushy hours and good benefits.  Which we will need, considering the recent attack against my body.

Other than my childhood, which was wracked with allergies, anxiety attacks, and annual pneumonia, I am a fairly healthy person.   In fact, if you follow my blogs at all, you can see that I am what my loving step-mother calls a "food Nazi".  Processed soup has no place in my pantry.  Canned veggies had better say "no sodium" on the label.  All dairy is fat-free or reduced fat.  Eggs are reserved for special occasions (egg substitute is preferred).  While I am not the "gym-nut" that I someday hope to be, I am very conscious of eating as healthy as I can for the majority of the time.  In addition, I don't smoke and very, very rarely drink any alcohol.  I have cut back substantially on my coffee intake.  I have cut a lot of sugar from my diet.

Then why is my blood pressure 180/120?  That's...that's just crazy.  The nurse who took it looked at me like she was about to throw up.  "Um...did you know you have high blood pressure?" she gagged.

Basic blood tests and a physical exam haven't revealed anything yet.  I'll be honest.  It's pretty scary.  I told my dad that I felt guilty, like I did something wrong, or that I deserve it...like I am a time bomb and at any moment, something may tip my blood pressure just a bit too high and something really, really bad will happen.

Fortunately for me, I have a whole legion of prayer warriors on my side, and I am not allowing the twin serpents of doubt and fear to speak too loudly in my ear.  

I didn't share any of this for pity's sake.  I shared it because I firmly believe that, very soon, I will have a victorious tale to tell, and I wanted to use a format such as this to proclaim what I feel to be true.

Stay tuned, dear readers, dear friends.  There is a part two to this story, and I cannot wait to experience it!

A Year of Hits and "Missus"

One year of marriage came and went without loads of fanfare (although we did enjoy a delicious late lunch at Benihana).  As I reflect on the past 365 days or so, I am struck at how much marriage has changed me - but not in the ways that I had anticipated.

Although I would never trade marital bliss for anything else in the world (after all, it had been at the tops of my prayer request list for, oh, about 15 years or so), I am feeling the burden of how much more there is to learn about being a wife...being a good wife...and being a good Christian wife.

Please don't assume, that when I mention a "good Christian wife", I mean to refer to a pretty, fresh faced stay-at-home mother of four beautiful, athletic and intelligent children, who always sorts her whites from her darks in the wash, and who has dinner planned out for every night of the week, whose family never, ever consumes trans fats, whose budget is supplemented with coupon-clipping wisdom, who actually, somehow, benefits from Macy's One-Day Sales, who keeps in touch with all her girlfriends, who brings perfectly frosted homemade cupcakes to every bake sale, who manages to attend her youngest child's dance recital and her oldest one's softball game in the same evening, and who never "has a headache" when her husband wants to spend time with her.

This woman?  I have never met her.  Have you?  I think I once saw her on America's Most Wanted, but she's never been located.

I am still trying to figure out how to be a decent wife.  I assumed everything would somehow just miraculously work itself out.  For example, I assumed that, after getting married, I would never again feel unattractive.  Truth is, no matter how often Ross tells me he loves me (which is, on the average, 8-10 times a day), or that I am beautiful (same), I still sometimes feel ugly or useless.  Even in spending time with Ross, I can feel lonely.  Isolated.  Is it his fault?  Certainly not.  The blame rests with me, for attempting to find in Ross the affirmation I need from God.

I thought I knew better than to do that.

Things just happen.

I also had read, prior to my marriage, that a common trap for both sexes, but primarily for women, is to withdraw from same-sex friendships.  Of course, your spouse should indeed be your best friend, but - as much as Ross loves me - he doesn't get the same thrill out of shoe-shopping as my girls do.  I made this mistake, too.  After a year of leading a small group of three lovely women - two of whom later became my bridesmaids - I took time off.  A lot of time off.  I still attended church, but slowly became less and less likely to attend other social events.  Especially if Ross would not or could not attend with me.  What was going on?  

I realized I wasn't alone.  On the relatively infrequent occasions when I did meet with other, married girlfriends, we found ourselves enjoying each others' company, catching up like we had never missed a beat...and lamenting that we never hung out anymore.  In fact, we never hung out with anyone anymore.  It was like our social lives had been swallowed up by our marriages.  Some of my friends got new houses this past year...some got married...some had (a-dor-able!) babies...some changed jobs...but all of us are busy.  Keeping house, making dinner, participating in church events and working full or part-time, it seems, keep most of us occupied permanently.  And, of course, on those nights off...all we feel like do is zonking out in front of the TV.  Even if it's off.

So what do I do?

Well, right now, I fast.

In fact, my church, and many others in America, are in the middle of a 21-day fast for spiritual guidance.  Now, most of us aren't fasting all food.  Some of us are abstaining from things in addition to certain types of food.  That's not the point.  The point is that we're all trying to hear from God in different, but important, areas of our lives.  As for me, I am fasting for guidance and direction from the Lord.  I want to learn to put others first, and to be less selfish.  I am fasting on behalf of my small group, which is re-launching in just a few days.  I am fasting because I want to be more like Jesus...and, in some ways, less like me.

I am fasting so I can learn how to control my selfish desires.  I am fasting so I can be a better wife.  That good Christian wife I mentioned earlier?  She's not necessarily a stay-at-home mom.  She's not necessarily even a mom.  She doesn't always keep a clean home or say the right things at the right time to her friends.  She doesn't always dress well.  Heck, she may spend all day in her pajamas.  What she does do is put God first, her husband and marriage second, and her family third.  She makes a decision, every day, to be selfless in every area of her life.

I will keep trying.

"The Rest Is Silence."

After I met and started dating Ross last year, something very strange happened. 

I stopped liking music.

Not all music. But a huge percentage of the music I used to love suddenly became dead to me. It wasn't a huge spiritual cleansing, a deep conviction, or anything along those lines, really. It was just that so much of the music on the radio - and so much in my own personal collection - no longer "applied" to me. I could no longer access the emotional strains of being lonely, hating an ex, being driven by lust, or unable to think straight because of romance.

My inability to connect with this kind of music was a gradual change. Even now, I still listen to it sometimes, but I am not moved by it anymore. Time was when that stuff would drive me to write, to draw, to connect to another part of myself, a deeper part that was aching for something more than what I had.

This isn't a case, exactly, of trying to fill the "God-shaped hole" we are all born with, but more a matter of trying to express feelings of frustration and loneliness by relating them to music. When those feelings - in relation to a romantic relationship - went away, so did my ability ro relate to that same music.

The irony of all this is how deeply I have always been connected to music. When he was younger, my father was the guitarist in a band (Yazoo Fraud, 1795; look it up). He sang me Beatles songs as lullabies (until I was 14, I believed that my dad was the one who wrote "Yellow Submarine"). My maternal grandfather was an phenomenal drummer who actually died of a heart attack while playing a concert. His ex-wife, my grandmother, played the accordian. My sister Gina and I grew up singing along with musical soundtracks: "Les Miserables", "Phantom of the Opera" and "Hello, Dolly!"   We must have sounded ridiculous to our parents; during the ensemble numbers, we would evenly divide all the parts and make sure we sang them all.  In character.  Loudly.  Sometimes with costumes.

Music has always helped with my writing and drawing. Even now, when I sit down to work on a play or skit, I find I need a soundtrack for it.  There are mixes I have for each kind of literary mood I'm in.  All of my characters have a theme song (the latest, a reluctant superhero named Five, has "Don't Call Me Baby" as hers.  You remember 1999, right?).  I envision scenes played out in front of me when I hear certain songs.  Maybe I am too connected to it.  I don't know.

I can tell you something, though...since I started listening primarily to K-Love (a national Christian music station), I have really lost interest in a lot of pop music.  It's not that I don't like the sound, or that I think the artists lack talent (well...some do).  I mean, I listen to classic rock, oldies, some pop.  But, overall, it's just that hearing Christian-raised Katy Perry singing about "going all the way" in a motel room with her "teenage dream" and listening to barely-old-enough-to-legally-drink Ke$ha talk about "brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack" don't really inspire much of anything in me.  

Except disappointment.  

There is so much more to life than what pop icons sing about.  Maybe that's why I can't relate much anymore.  Because I have found Life, and His name is Jesus.