The Waiting Game

Ever had a hankering to do something really stupid? I mean really stupid - I'm not fooling around here. I have. Mercifully, God has granted me with enough wisdom over the past few years that I have avoided, or talked myself out of, most of these foolish ventures. I'm thinking of two instances in particular. One popped up some months ago, the other crossed my mind more recently. Both were spawned from the discontent that seems to spring up even in the most pious Christian lives. At least I hope I'm not the only one that gets antsy and human. Let me know if I am and I'll work harder.

I get in a hurry every now and then - I get impatient and worried. For brief moments I completely and totally take my eyes off God, forget His promises, and con myself into believing I need to take matters into my own hands. This rarely (read: never) works out to my advantage. Thank goodness for that. What a shame it would be to craft something of my own and miss out on whatever He has created for me. How sad to settle for what I can accomplish on my own, instead of waiting for His design to take shape.

In several chapel lessons I have used puzzle pieces as an example for God's will. We only have one piece of the puzzle, and it's probably just a blob of meaningless color. We can't possibly know our place in the big picture because our perspective is too limited. God has the box. Not only does he see the whole picture, He also has the rest of the pieces. I lose my piece every now and then, and God has to show me where I left it. Sometimes I argue and refuse to pick my piece back up. Fortunately, I always do, and more fortunately still, He waits while I make up my mind to do so.

Probably one of the hardest things to do as a Christian, as a human, is to wait. Babies take nine months to be born - that's a long time - but isn't it worth it? What do a mother and father do during that time? They prepare a place for their child, and they prepare and educate themselves to be parents. Can't we do the same regardless of what we're waiting for? Prepare and educate. I can do that.

Waiting is hard for me because I am an active person that always wants to be accomplishing something toward a goal. So, while writing this blog today I have learned that instead of losing my puzzle piece, or pawning it, I should probably study it a little closer. I should prepare and educate myself for whatever God is working on for me.

My Life as a Vagabond

I am a failure on the blogging front. Not that it’s an excuse, but I have been in the process of helping to renovate a house, and moving into said house. The experiences related to the aforementioned have inspired this very post.

I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.

On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.

We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.

Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.

September Thoughts

It is now the third week of school, therefore the honeymoon is officially over, the gloves are off, et al. Nevertheless, as my students settle in and begin to show their true personalities, I’m overcome with how much joy they bring me. I am so grateful for all the lives that are a part of my life. Below are a few laughable examples of why I don’t mind the sound of my alarm clock … most days.

I have assigned my high school students the task of recreating the constitutional framer of their choice’s journal during the time of the Constitutional Convention. One such student shared their work so far with me yesterday. I learned that Thomas Jefferson not only had an alarm clock, but also rode to the convention in a taxi. The following day, he ate cereal and borrowed a suit from a neighbor, naturally, since he forgot to drop his own suit off at the dry cleaner’s. No complaints – the student is making a noble and imaginative effort.

At lunch Tuesday, I confiscated a switchblade comb from an elementary student. Before I realized it was a comb, visions of a crumpled bleeding body on the floor of our lunchroom aged me a few years. The owner of this novelty item crossed my path again later in the day when he left his classroom and appeared to be choking. I was immediately concerned, but soon discovered he was breathless with laughter, and also noticed he was carrying his chair. I got distracted, but went to investigate a few minutes later. I assumed he had been sent to the hallway because he was misbehaving in class. However, I couldn’t find him in the hallway. Soon, I heard stifled laughter, and found this young man behind the door in a dark bathroom. He was sitting in his chair with books open - accomplishing nothing as it was dark - but quite pleased with his cleverness.

We enrolled four siblings this year, one is in the elementary class, but the other three are mine, and they are magnificent. I wish I could clone them. However, the endearing mischievous nature of my veteran students is starting to rub off on them. This was evidenced by the oldest boy in the family repeatedly setting the alarm clock on another student’s desk. I couldn’t get mad, because it was funny – especially when the student whose desk it was couldn’t begin to comprehend why or how that radio was coming on all by itself.

Finally, a student came running into my office at lunch time on Thursday (I love that they are undaunted by the “principal’s office”) to inform me that he decided to change his name to whatever country his finger landed on when he rolled the globe. Unfortunately, that country was Iran. I counseled him against this decision.

Do I often want to beat my head against a wall after I’ve gone over the same instructions 15 times? Yes. But, a long time ago I asked God to put love in my heart for the young people I work with, and He’s done just that. At the end of the day, whatever mishap, mistake, or misunderstanding may have occurred, I count it all joy. I have the privilege of showing them how to get it right tomorrow … for the 16th time.

Free and undeserved

"You can't outrun grace." Yes, it's a lyric from a song. I heard the song the other day and those four words resonated with me. It probably means a thousand different things to a thousand different people. To me, it just means I am loved unconditionally and my mistakes are not only forgiven, but also forgotten. Remembering that truth is the best part of my day. So why is it often so hard to offer it to others?

I received an apology from someone today. I knew what they had done, but didn't care. I can honestly say they were forgiven when it happened, and long before they thought to ask for forgiveness. I can also honestly say I have not always behaved in such a gracious manner.

How many movie plots are based upon one character not forgiving another over some small mistake or misconception? This is the situation Hollywood is built on - the skeleton in the closet, I dated your sister 13 years ago, accidentally ran over your cat, missed chance, miscommunication, just add B actors, instant plot.

We sit in the audience and watch the break up unfold, and we cringe. We think how ridiculous it is that they're not together. We are astonished over the foolishness of the individual holding back their forgiveness. However, are there people in our lives we haven't forgiven for far more trivial, although non-fiction, things?

As I write this I am scouring my life, looking for hidden grudges. I am expanding my search to people I don't see or hear from on a regular basis, and now I'm on to people I've never even met. I admit I'm not always pleased with the decisions made by our nation's leaders, I may even become angry with them. Chances are, not one of them will be sending me an e-mail or picking up the phone to ask my forgiveness for their shortcomings. It's unlikely these individuals will ever admit to having shortcomings. So, why don't I just sit back, unload my worries on the one who's offered to carry them for me, and forgive people before they even have the chance to know they're wrong. It's not my job to sit back and judge their actions anyway.

I write this now, I'm sure I'll forget it soon enough. But, if I remember to practice it here and there, it could make a difference. Think how short romantic comedies would be if forgiveness was just poured out up front.

We can't outrun God's grace, so why make others chase after ours?

It must be love ...

I have numerous very good reasons for not posting for almost two weeks. School started this week, which is the root of most of the reasons. It is also the reason I'm multitasking tonight. By that I mean that I am blogging and preparing a chapel message for tomorrow at the same time.

I'm confident most have heard the story about the young man that dropped all his books while walking home from school. Several students laughed and pointed, and none of them offered to help - routine behavior for his peers. However, one boy did eventually cross the street and helped pick up the books. They walked home together and were friends throughout junior high and high school. On graduation day, the boy who dropped the books stepped onto the stage to give his valedictorian address. In his speech he recognized his best friend, and confessed that the day they'd met six years before was the day he'd planned to kill himself. I don't know if this account is based on actual events, but every time it finds its way into my inbox, I am reminded of the magnitude of importance our actions, or inactions, possess.

My chapel message for tomorrow will come out of Romans 12 - we'll be talking about love. It is simple, but complex. Desired, but not always deserved. You can see that my challenge in relaying love's importance to young people is making them understand the depth of what love actually is.

I can scoop up a toddler and put a bandage on a scraped knee easy enough, but can I smile and be patient with the chatty individual ahead of me in the check-out line? I can help a family member through a trial because I love them and I'm invested in their future, but can I do the same for a stranger whose circumstances and personality I am not familiar with? Simple, meet complex.

I can accept the graciousness and generosity of my family and my Savior, but I can't earn it. Desire, meet undeserving.

When I was young, I thought love was a Disney movie. I thought it was a hug. Not until adulthood did I see that love is not an emotion or action we save for just those closest and dearest to us - it is how we are to act toward every single person we come in contact with, and it is usually expressed in the most casual ways.

Romans 12 instructs us to honor others above ourselves, practice hospitality, bless those who persecute us, be willing to associate with people of low position. Here's a tough one: Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. Everybody. Not just your pastor, not just your grandma on Sundays when she takes you to church. Everybody. All the time.

I've been really busy lately with good stuff, but as I sit here at 10:00 on a school night (gasp) I wonder how much of my business includes following all those instructions in Romans 12. When I'm in the middle of some seemingly crucial task and the phone rings, am I being patient and exuding love to the soul on the other end? Am I being careful to do what is right? If not, what kind of impression am I leaving?

Simple actions make bold statements.

Pioneers: The first purpose-driven lives

I am a morning person. I meant to write a post on this topic yesterday and never got around to it. I'm so glad I didn't. I woke up this morning, started a pot of coffee (Savannah Seduction from the Paula Deen collection - you should try it), and looked out the back door. It's been mercifully cool here the past two days, and this morning the temperature was just low enough to pull a swirling mist out of the lake. The wind was blowing gently, pushing water toward our dock and causing the tall reeds on the far shore to sway. The same breeze permeated the branches of the oak trees, putting a million leaves in motion and even sending some fluttering to the ground and water beneath. Generally speaking, my backyard was on par with a scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie.

I opened up our day care yesterday morning. We open at 6:30, which means I was up at five and out the door by six. The drive into town got me thinking on this subject: As much as I love to sleep, I love a quiet, still morning that much more. There is a confounding mixture of peace and majesty right before the sun comes up that I love to be a part of. Add to it the aroma of strong coffee and I'm blissfully happy.

I have mostly fond memories of the wee morning hours. Growing up, our family vacations always commenced in the pre-dawn darkness. Likewise, our Christmas mornings have never seen the light of the sun. Even while working long summer days at the National Interagency Fire Center after my first year of college, the 6:30 a.m. clock-in time was met with laughter and in the company of one of my best friends.

There's more to it than positive associations, though. Mornings are filled with possibility. Everything is new. Those are qualities not shared by other times of the day. Historically speaking, mornings were most important – the entire day’s success pivoted on what was accomplished before the sun was even up. Failure to literally seize the day resulted in catastrophe and waste on a farm or other primitive place of commerce.

Every branch of my father's family tree made the trek from the eastern United States to the mountains of Idaho in the late 1800's. His maternal grandfather lost his first wife and three children along the way. Harsh winters can last eight months in that already rugged country, which was at that time (and now, come to think of it) sparsely populated. Nevertheless, my ancestors hacked out homes, started families, and became successful founding citizens of what would become our nation's 43rd state (1890). I consider my day's productivity to be wrecked if the Internet is running slowly.

In spite of that fault, I do hope my a.m.-adeptness is something passed down from my pioneer ancestors. On childhood camping trips I would wake in the tent or camper that was damp with dew. I would smell the fire right before recognizing its crackling sound mixed in with clanging pots and pans. My dad would already be up working on his "Mountain Man Breakfast." Stepping out into the crisp and pure mountain air of Idaho - you have no idea - you literally feel your lungs being cleansed. The rustle of pine needles underfoot, the burble of a meandering stream nearby, the call of birds, the smell of coffee percolating in a tin pot, and the sight of distant rocky peaks that tell you just how small you are. This is purely my assumption, but those have to be the small joys cherished by the hard workers I came from.

I sit back and picture a great-grandfather stepping outside a cabin of rough-hewn timber. It's early, their body is sore, but they have a hot be it meager breakfast in their stomach. They look to the east and see the faint promise of sunshine making its way up the backside of what I believe to be the most perfect landform created by God. They button another button on a coat or pull gloves onto chapped hands and then take a deep breath and start out. Inside they have a knowledge that whatever they accomplish that day, little or much, it's that much more done and it's a measure of work they can be proud of because they started early and with purpose.

Clever Title

Accomplishment: Something that has been achieved successfully.

Today is my 27th birthday. I'm in full swing analytical mode looking back over the 23 years I remember well. I've succeeded at a lot of things, I have failed at others. I ran my first 5K race this past weekend. It was something I had wanted to do for some time, and I feel really great about having done it. I finished college, a degree hangs on my office wall. I attempted to adopt children and backed out. I tried to buy a house, several actually, and never made it to closing. I've written a book, but haven't had it published. I could continue to list successes, near successes, and failures, but no more is necessary to make my point.

Above my bed hangs a sign: “Blessed is the life that finds joy in the journey.” Life's mixture of attempts, missed chances, triumphs, and let downs are what make up a lifetime of rich memories. They are what make a person. Forced experience never ends up being all that rewarding or memorable, but a chance encounter, an unexpected experience, a stolen laugh, the unmerited opportunity to be a light for another soul, those make up the well-woven tapestry of a life.

When Krystal, Rebekah, Cynthia, and I were in New York in January, it wasn’t the expertly planned and executed moments that were the most enjoyable. Instead, a second trip to Junior’s for cheesecake and a table full of diabetic coma-inducing desserts in Little Italy are my favored memories … and it’s merely a coincidence that they happen to revolve around food.

1 Peter 2:9: But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness and into his wonderful light.

When push comes to shove, every accomplishment and every moment of life are gifts from above. We are allowed to have them because of his grace. We are a “chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God” for the sole purpose of glorifying him. I live in the light! And not because I found it on my own. He led me to it, and when I stray into darkness, he plugs in a nightlight for me. How can I not live my life for his glory?

I dub myself an overachiever, and I am a person satisfied by work well done. I have goals and plans, among them are running a full marathon, publishing books, marrying a man who loves me, having children of my own and adopting more, making a home, growing a school, and seeing the world. But before any of these, I have the goal of molding and shaping a life that is in keeping with the commands and will of my Lord.

The most comfortable clothes I own are the ones that are stained and frayed, and have been in a dresser drawer for a quarter or more of my existence. Similarly, the people I most enjoy being with are the ones that have been walking beside me, and I by them, through the food fights and mountain tops of life. In this vein, I hope that the accomplishments I treasure most are the ones that point to Him. Like paint-splattered jeans and old friends, they might not look like much, but they mean a lot to me, and one other person.