Three years ago this day

Last night you nuzzled close to my face in bed and we looked at each other in the dark.

"Three years!" you whispered. "That's crazy!"

And it is. But if this is crazy, well Sweetheart, I've decided I like crazy.

On that day three years ago, I was nervous and excited and my cheeks hurt from smiling but I just couldn't stop the grin that bubbled up and took over my face. I was declaring to the whole world that you were the man I wanted to follow as you follow Jesus. I was becoming yours, promising my heart and all my years until I die.

We only learn the magnitude of a promise when we live it.

I don't need the pictures to remember how your face trembled with emotion when I rounded that corner at the end of the aisle. The way our hands gripped each other and your eyes glowed as Ray said "husband and wife".

It was the first of all the moments following, but we've had even better ones since then.

I remember how we danced our feet sore and you did that crazy backflip that freaked out the mother you'd just waltzed. I remember how I blushed when you reached up for the garter.

Now you backflip for the neighborhood kids.

Three years ago this day I could not have known how I would love you now.
Or how your voice inflections would become mine.
How your allergies would create a new level of health for us both.
How I could love a second family so intensely.
How the curve of your arm and side could become home to me.

I love you, Darling. Like crazy.

*I started this post on Wednesday, our real anniversary, but had such a fun date that night that there was no chance to post until now. :)

Staying = Radical Obedience? Sometimes.

They were sitting there on our blue couch, earnest and eager as they told us about the Bright Mountain People*. Hubby and I traced curious fingers over pictures they had brought and tried to imagine living there, with all the foreign tastes, sounds and mannerisms. Such a beautiful people, but such a hopeless future without a Savior.

(not actual picture...only my imaginings)

As teens, our friends had heard about missionaries like Wycliff, Carmichal, and Elliot, but always as a history lesson to encourage the now. All the dangerous work had been done, they thought.

But then, they had a profound realization:

There are still entire cultures that have never heard the name of Jesus. 

 And each year, millions of people die without ever hearing of the God who loved them and died to buy their freedom from death. So our friends went, committing to a lifetime of language learning, relationship-building, and sacrificial living so that the statistic could change.

I was sitting there on the other couch, feeling as if I had swallowed a bag of hot marbles. What am I doing here while people are dying? I wondered. The faces from the pictures were still there when I shut my eyes, and I had a sudden urge to quit my job, sell my car, and book a flight. What if I missed my calling? I even felt a throb of jealousy, that they were living my old dream while I did laundry and brought home paychecks.

My response was not entirely wrong; it is right to be heartbroken over the eternal death of millions of people. If we feel more sadness over a flat tire or a disappointing football game, we need to do a serious gut check.

But I have a tendency to want to rescue people myself, rather than looking to the Rescuer.

An even bigger confession: I have a deep, inner aversion to averageness. Even as a 2nd grader, I hated earning less than an A+ on school assignments.  As a teenager, when I pictured my future, it never included the typical elements of the American Dream. I never wanted the picket fence, the cul-de-sac, the 2.5 kids or the fat paycheck. I wanted to be 100% sold out for Jesus and His Kingdom. In my mind, that meant that I would live sacrificially,  give extravagantly, and home school my nine children while my husband and I went to the furthest corners of the globe with the good news that Jesus reconciles broken people.

And none of this is bad in the least. Even now, many godly people are living this lifestyle and giving all the glory to Jesus.

 But do I desire this radical lifestyle because Jesus desires it from me? Or is it because I want to be "a cut above" your average Jesus-follower? Maybe it's a mix. Most of my movitations are, if I get real with myself.

Truth: even good activities can be downright disobedient if God hasn't asked you to do them. 
(King Saul found that out the hard way. For his story, check out 1 Samuel 15:22)

As I've prayed and journaled through these thoughts, here are some in-progress conclusions:

1) I should make sure my heart is in a position of continual availability to go. Maybe the answer I have taken as "no" is in reality "not yet." If I knew He would send me outside the US in five years, how would that knowledge affect the way I live today? As my cousin, Jeremy recently tweeted: "Your vision of the future affects the decisions of your life today. Without a heart set on eternity you will live for only temporary things."

2) I should be humble enough to realize that Jesus may want me to live a life of faithfulness and relative obscurity, devoid of the moving stories, exotic passport stamps or flashy sacrifices. Am I willing to accept obscurity, the life of the suburban soccer mom and "sideline involvement" in missions if that's what Jesus asks of me? It takes faith to believe that being still and patient can accomplish as much as radical action. Staying can be its own sacrifice, and secret prayer may be more news-worthy in Heaven than any foreign travels on earth.

*The "Bright Mountain People" are called by a pseudonym here, to protect our friends and other workers who bring them the Good News. 

Part of the Club

My husband and I joke that our street is a tiny slice of ghetto in a suburbia pie. There are old cars and weeds instead of sculpted lawns, and the cracked concrete probably dates to a time before my birth. But none of this stops the kids of our street from turning our neighborhood strip into a half-mile play zone.

I love the kids. They run and bike and scooter and clump noisily in driveways and stairwells, taller ones toting toddlers. If you stop between car door and front door to talk, shyness will evaporate, brown eyes will sparkle, and suddenly you have a friend.

google pic

Ever since I moved in over a year ago, I've daydreamed of building relationships and even organizing a simple Bible Club with stories, games, and snacks. What could be easier? I live here, right? But my student life left no margin, and I've found time just as scarce now that I'm a working woman. God, I prayed,  I want to be involved somehow, but the thought of starting something from scratch feels so overwhelming. 

Enter: the awesomeness that is answered prayer. Boom. 

I wanted to work out at a nearby gym, but instead of driving, I decided--for the first time ever--to walk.

I was halfway down the street, when I heard an excited female voice ask"...And what do you think Joseph did then? He went right to his brothers and told them his dream!" Who is telling a Bible story? I wondered.

As I rounded a group of parked cars, I saw a tiny crowd of children, all giving rapt attention to an elderly blond woman who held a picture for them to admire. Another elderly woman sat nearby with a curly-headed girl in her lap. I quietly came close and sat cross-legged on the edge of the blanket. This was so much better than lifting weights.

At the end, as the kids smeared their mouths red with popsicles, I introduced myself to the women. I discovered that the Bible Club that God had placed on my heart had already been in progress every week for fourteen years! Their faithfulness humbled me to the core. Ms. M actually lives on my street, and though she usually leaves the storytelling to her friend, it is her willingness to host and fund the Club that has kept it going for over a decade.

Yesterday, I went back, and I feel so encouraged! Here is a place for the dream I've held so long. Here I can meet the kids, show them love, know their names and stories. Here I can use the puppets that have languished, unused, in my old trunk for three years. Here I can learn from the faith and faithfulness of the older women, and begin to make love a tangible verb on my street.

(AND, if you live on my street or anywhere nearby, you should come! 4pm, Wednesdays.)

Being Like the Blond

It was the year I turned five, and her hair was bottle-blond. Blond and curly.

That’s all I can remember about my Sunday School teacher’s appearance, but I vividly remember the love I felt in her class. She gave soft, frequent hugs, and her excitement about Jesus was magnetic. She probably didn't have a great singing voice, a perfect figure, or a seminary degree, but she loved two people well: me and Jesus.

Flash forward to another teacher, a taller, ganglier me. This time I remember the lipstick. It was sunset orange, and whenever she saw me it was stretched wide into the most welcoming smile. Ms. Kay had sadness in her life—I found out later—but she was full of Jesus’ joy and it spilled out on all of us.

(found on the website for iHeart Radio)

Even as a kid, I saw the impact that their love and willingness had on my own attitude toward Jesus, the Bible, and ministry. Jesus wasn't only for adults. We worshiped him kid-style: with fun tunes and hand motions and wiggling that exactly expressed how I was learning to know Him. We were kids and He was the One who held kids on his lap, who loved us and our Picasso-esque attempts to color him.

So why share the memories with you today?

After years of being a kid in the class, a teenage helper, and more recently a volunteer teacher, I'm humbled and thrilled to take on the role of Sunday School Coordinator for the older classes!

I will be working under one of our pastors, helping to choose the curriculum, stock the supplies, and train our awesome volunteer teachers and helpers. We're even dreaming of how to use the puppets and costumes that I have stashed in a box in my living room!

I don't have a degree in kid's ministry or elementary education, and I am the first to admit that any parent will probably know how to manage their kid better than I will. Honestly, when I let myself dwell on my inadequacies and the magnitude of what I've signed up for, I start to tremble a little in my new Chacos.

But God loves to use small stuff and weak people. Like the beloved ladies of my past, I don't have all my junk together, but I'm learning that God cherishes willingness and humility more than talent. May I be so.

Staff Retreating

Q: What were 90 of our church leaders doing at a dusty retreat center last week?
A: The annual Staff Retreat!

Let me give fair warning: the word "retreat" is misleading. While we do go to a camp location outside of town with bunkhouses and a dining hall, it's more accurately thought of as a boot camp--a boot camp of meetings. Along with our pastors and full-time staff, about seventy student leaders show up to pray, seriously evaluate their personal lives and their small groups, and make concrete plans that will direct them in the coming year.

My first retreat was in the fall of 2009. I was a rookie leader, scared to death by the intensity of holding my life under the microscope, but amazed that over seventy people would take leadership so seriously.

Like most Americans, I had spent half an hour every year--maybe--on those doomed goals that everyone makes the night before the January 1st. But really, aren't those more like wishes? I resolve (hope/wish) to lose ten pounds. I resolve (hope/wish) to be more patient. But here I was, spending an entire week making goals that actually seemed...attainable. Wow, what a concept.

Now, 3 retreats later, I find that the time spent in planning on this retreat is one of the most valuable things I do all year. Ok, ok, it could always be MORE valuable (for instance, if I actually reviewed those goals on a regular basis), but at least the process of taking a good hard look at my habits, attitudes, and goals doesn't crush me into a pile of weepy tissues like it did in '09.

Last week, seeing my flaws was not painful, but honest. I'm not a failure; I'm a forgiven work in progress. And now I feel encouraged, inspired to approach the challenging fall ahead with some fresh perspective.

I know that the goals I made are still too ambitious for me to do on my lonesome. But that realization is healthy because it leads me to the One who never gets tired, burnt out, or discouraged.

Identity and my Job Search

If you know me, you'll be excited about this news! If you don't, maybe you'll at least be encouraged by what God is teaching me about his goodness.

When I got back to hot and humid Texas three weeks ago, I leaped headlong into the job search with all the intensity and drive of an Olympic swimmer. Translated, this means I came home each night from training my replacement at my part time job, perched on the couch with laptop and a bowl of dinner, and systematically searched and applied for any opening that remotely interested me.

For hours.

I edited cover letter and resume for each application. I kept detailed files of everything I sent. I even took copies of said cover letters and resumes to the taupe-colored offices in person, just to give it a personal touch. There were blisters on my feet from the flats I wore that day, but I didn't mind. And as you might have noticed, I hardly blogged. The computer was otherwise employed.

I was serious, and I was eager for the job market to take me seriously.

This employment hunt reminded me of my research papers in college.The harder I searched, the more blisters I acquired, and the less I slept, the more likely I would be to find a job, right? The underlying assumption was this: the grade depends on me. 

Then, about two weeks ago, I was at work, training my replacement in the art of balancing bank statements. Except...they wouldn't balance. I dialed our bank, and C___ answered. We've had a great working relationship for years now, ever since I started handling the finances for our church over two years ago.

"How's your summer been?" she asked. "Great! I've been in Colorado, and now I'm job hunting." I paused, and on a whim went on: "Are you guys hiring?"

"Actually," she said, "we are! Go online and apply, and make sure you put my name on it."

I sat across from them in an interview four days later. Two days after that, they called to offer me a full-time position at the bank!  Not a single employer had responded from any of my hard, Olympian work in the previous two weeks. But here, without me hardly lifting a little finger, God had dropped an offer into my lap.

But I have a hard time with easy gifts. They feel too easy. This whole week, my mind has spun with doubts.  I wondered if God wanted to encourage me with the offer, but wanted me to hold out for something ideal, something awesome and exciting. Would I feel trapped, doing something that didn't involve writing, teaching, or children? What if I got stuck there for twenty years! And what if the "ideal "job was waiting just one or two weeks away? What if's are torturous.

And then a friend tweeted a cool quote about identity that stopped my "what ifs" in mid stride:

We have been conditioned to find our identity in what we do. However, Scripture tells us that we are children of God adopted through the grace of Christ, through whom we derive our identity. My identity is not what I do; I do out of my identity. - Brad House

This reminder of truth was like salve to my heart. I'm not an actress, who, when she chooses a role as a ditz, will never be cast as anything else. I am also not living in Huxley's dystopia, where I was bred for one thing, and one thing only. My role simply does not equate to my identity. It doesn't come from my performance or my job title, or anything else self-generated. Instead, my identity rests in the fact that I am created, loved, and forgiven by the only One whose opinion matters.

If you know me, you'll know this is a familiar refrain. How many layers of performance-driven identity will Jesus have to peel away before I rest in Him? I'm not sure, but it's really reassuring to know His persistent love doesn't fail, even if I do.

So, long story short, I took the job.

I'm resting in the truth that it doesn't define me, limit me, or make me. Instead, at least for now, it is a good gift from a good Father who takes good care of me and my heart. 

Running (ok, blogging) to get the prize

Confession time: my motives in writing this blog post  are slightly self-serving.  I'm shamelessly trying to win a set of books that another blogger is giving away: http://gatheringpeeps.typepad.com/gathering_peeps/

The reason that my motives are only slightly selfish is...well, look at the titles !>>>>>

Whenever I dream about the trajectory of my heart as I pursue Christ, one of the things I pray for is to be "mission minded"--that the overarching bent of everything I do would point to Jesus and be for Him.

The dream gets even sweeter when hubby is part of the picture.  The two of us, united in the Purpose that supercedes any dream that we could have for ourselves alone.

But if we are successful in raising kids with this purpose and desire?  Wow. That would be the cherry-on-top of all these dreamy dreams.

But I need practicals.  Even if I don't win this book set, I think I'll add it to my list of books to buy.