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I can feel it in my belly

Years ago, a dear friend of ours was arrested for drug trafficking. I originally met him through my husband, but he had by then become an integral part of the inner-city mission where I served and so he and I were close.

His background was heartbreaking having seen his father stabbed to death by a neighbor on his front porch when he was 12 years old. He had managed to use basketball to get to college, but his brothers became drug dealers in the city where our mission was. Upon graduation, he struggled to find a job and ended up making bad decisions. All this while he volunteered his time to work with me and the young troubled boys from the neighborhood where he grew up.

After learning of his arrest, Steve and I rushed to love him. I was privileged enough to spend lots of time with him while he awaited trial and during this time of real trouble, he put his faith in Jesus.

Here’s the rub though. Somehow he believed that God would have him declared, “Not guilty” at his trial. He sort of saw his new found faith as an escape route. I’ll never forget the day the foreman stood up to deliver a verdict. Despite my honest warnings, my friend sat at the table so confidently. I was pregnant with Noah at the time, and I can remember holding on to my belly simply unsure of how to pray or what to hope for. I knew my friend was different and I knew he was a wonderful guy who had made some terrible choices.

The foreman said, “Guilty,” and my heart sank, even though my friend was, in fact, guilty. I was so conflicted and yet I knew, cognitively, that there are natural consequences for wrongdoing. I know God saves our lives, but He allows us to face our consequences. I suspect He is helping us, and those around us, better understand His justice, even though it is so different than ours.

I was reminded of my friend when I read this article yesterday. Please take the time to read it. The truth often hurts, and I know God hurts with us.

Sometimes all you can do is hold your belly and pray.

God will have His way

I have been reminded of something lately. I have sort of been waffling around about some decisions that are waiting for my attention. Well, maybe “waffling” isn’t the right word. Part of me has been hesitating, part of me has been waiting. Both things can be good things, and both can be bad things, depending on the circumstances.

One of the most intriguing questions, asked by theologians throughout history, is whether God directly intervenes in the world or whether He just set it spinning and now watches from afar. Different moments in the Bible suggest that both may be true – in other words – you can find evidence of God’s direct hand in events and proof of His abstinence in others. As great as the idea is to ponder, the important thing to realize is that both responses serve His purposes.

Don’t misunderstand me, now. I was with a group of friends this weekend and the age old question of why God allows so much suffering in the world came up. GREAT question, one that we may need to tackle another day, but I am not attempting it today. Today I am referring to the smaller prayers of my life – the ones that God answers in one of three way – “yes” “no” or “wait.”

SO here’s what I’ve been reminded of. God certainly does intervene, and when I choose to hesitate, He simply arranges things until I have no choice but to MOVE. It’s pretty amazing really, and it doesn’t always happen this way, but I have learned over time that it usually means that I have something very specific to do, or an exact someone to love.

God will always have His way. Doubt it if you dare.

Worshipping the porcelain god

I am not feeling very well. I need to take a sick day. Hope yours is far better.

The Walker

There is a little boy who goes to my kids’ school that I can't wait to see every day. He is a walker, which simply means that he walks down the street to get to school instead of riding a bus. I would guess he is in kindergarten, first grade at the most, and he is a TRIP.

I can hear him singing at the top of his lungs as he walks, and some days I see him having full conversations with an imaginary companion. He never seems concerned if he is late for school, he just strolls along enjoying the sights. He is also easily distracted, I have watched him sit right down on the sidewalk to open his lunchbox, seeming to inspect its contents long before lunch time. Just last week, as a teacher stood outside before the bell rang urging him to hurry, it was if he hadn’t a care in the world and continued at his leisurely pace.

I really like this kid. I don’t know his name, but there is something attractive about his refusal to comply. Every time I see him, I am reminded of all the social rules and cultural norms that I submit to. Some are just silly, some work against my nature, yet I would rather offend myself than others.

Sometimes I think people assume there is a Christian template – especially Christian people. We believe that following a set of rules or guidelines for living are what define the Christian life, when really CHRIST defines the Christian life. You know – the Guy who opened a young boy’s lunch box and fed 5,000 people with its contents.

Jesus often went against the grain of His culture – both doing and saying the unexpected and unpopular. How amusing is it that the subculture that claims His name requires more conformity than most others?

Scale back

I have been doing some self observation lately and have discovered an interesting pattern. Why is it that when you eat fattening food for breakfast you eat bad food all day? It’s almost as if once you’re off track, you give up for the whole 24 hour period.

I am marveling at how I can’t seem to simply say, “Breakfast was a wash” instead of deciding, “This whole day is a wash.” It’s such an all or nothing perspective, extreme and out of balance.

Of course I realize what is really happening. I am really looking for a license to eat, so getting off track at breakfast is like a Get Out of Jail Free card for the day. The funny part is – at the end of the day I feel like crap – both physically and mentally. So, it’s more like a Get In to Jail Free card. Well, it’s not really free.

I suspect the ability to refocus on the spot is rare. Discipline is somehow easier with a little success under the belt, isn’t it? Getting up to walk on the treadmill is more palatable after the scale starts to move, right?

It’s a little juvenile really – being more apt to follow through when there is a reward involved. I wonder when I will grow up.

Full of @#*!

Deep down inside, do you believe that you have to do or be something good before God can really love you? I ask because a guy I know was talking to me yesterday about church and he said, “I need to get my shit together before I go to church” (sorry if you're offended - but that's exactly what he said).

I can understand feeling that way about some churches, but do not confuse people’s reactions to you with God’s feelings for you.

He has no expectation that you will clean yourself up before believing in Him. Frankly, no one knows better than He does that you simply can’t.

That’s what this is about:

11Jesus continued: "There was once a man who had two sons. The younger said to his father, 'Father, I want right now what's coming to me.'

12-16"So the father divided the property between them. It wasn't long before the younger son packed his bags and left for a distant country. There, undisciplined and dissipated, he wasted everything he had. After he had gone through all his money, there was a bad famine all through that country and he began to hurt. He signed on with a citizen there who assigned him to his fields to slop the pigs. He was so hungry he would have eaten the corncobs in the pig slop, but no one would give him any.

17-20"That brought him to his senses. He said, 'All those farmhands working for my father sit down to three meals a day, and here I am starving to death. I'm going back to my father. I'll say to him, Father, I've sinned against God, I've sinned before you; I don't deserve to be called your son. Take me on as a hired hand.' He got right up and went home to his father.

20-21"When he was still a long way off, his father saw him. His heart pounding, he ran out, embraced him, and kissed him. The son started his speech: 'Father, I've sinned against God, I've sinned before you; I don't deserve to be called your son ever again.'

22-24"But the father wasn't listening. He was calling to the servants, 'Quick. Bring a clean set of clothes and dress him. Put the family ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Then get a grain-fed heifer and roast it. We're going to feast! We're going to have a wonderful time! My son is here—given up for dead and now alive! Given up for lost and now found!' And they began to have a wonderful time. Luke 15

After working with pigs, I suspect the guy was covered in it.

Friday Chews

Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.

Thomas A. Edison (1847 - 1931)

Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.

Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784)

Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.

Iris Murdoch (1919 - 1999)

This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life. God didn't go to all the trouble of sending his Son merely to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was. He came to help, to put the world right again. Anyone who trusts in him is acquitted; anyone who refuses to trust him has long since been under the death sentence without knowing it. And why? Because of that person's failure to believe in the one-of-a-kind Son of God when introduced to him.

John 3:16-18 The Message

The Amazing Race

I think I watched the very first season of The Amazing Race, and I enjoyed it, but for some reason I have not watched it since then. However, I wanted to watch Fed Chief Bernanke’s interview on 60 Minutes last Sunday, and the Race immediately followed, so I watched once again.

The teams were in Russia, started in Siberia as a matter of fact, and I was intrigued as they communicated with the local people. Interestingly, one of the teams has a young man who is deaf, as well.

I vaguely remember feeling this same way the first time I watched the show, but isn’t it fascinating how Americans just expect that everyone should speak English? One of the teams was loudly yelling, “Stop!” to its cab driver and then did not hide their disgust when the driver did not stop right away. At another moment, ladies were appalled when none of the Russian snow plow drivers spoke any English.

Once when I was attending mass at St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, I witnessed a lovely older Italian man politely asking an American to remove his hat before entering. The senior was very proud of his church and felt it should be respected. Now, does God care if we wear a hat in church or not? Of course not, but God cares a great deal about whether we violate what is treasured by another person.

My fellow American refused, said something about it being his inalienable right to wear a hat and all, and a scene erupted. I felt completely mortified as I realized that many Americans really do think we are an amazing race, and that everyone else is somehow secondary. Naturally, I got involved, and said a few four letter words in both English and Italian to make my point. What can I say? I was young and foolish, but the old man smiled and later sat with me through the service. Turns out he was a seasoned tour guide, employed by the Vatican, and after mass I was treated to stories and back rooms that most people never get to hear or see.

The deaf man on The Amazing Race communicates using his hands. Some of the teams have bothered to bring language translation books and are making the effort to speak in a brand new, often hard, way. I admire their effort.

Sometimes I think that Christians do the hat thing, too. We have our own language – better known as Christianese. We forget it is a foreign language to some and we somehow expect people to just get it. Then we get defensive or elitist when we are asked to dig deeply and explain what our catch phrases mean beyond their sounds. I wonder if the truth of our lives behind our words aren't sometimes as hollow as the words themselves.

Perhaps we should remember what is truly amazing and what’s not. Jesus is amazing. Being forgiven is amazing. Knowing God is amazing. Feeling entitled to judge is not an inalienable right, and pretending that the Christian life is a perfect life is just plain foolish - and not at all amazing.

Just a thought, but I wonder if Christians would solicit more credibility/respect by treating people to stories and back rooms that they don't usually let people hear or see.

Synonyms

In the thesaurus, under the entry for “mother,” one of the synonyms should be “chauffeur.” I was contemplating writing a persuasive letter to this effect last week while waiting outside the middle school for my son. I had only just begun “Dear Mr. Roget, I have a proposition for you…” when a fist fight broke out.

If I’m honest, I saw the familiar fist fight dance start before a single punch was thrown. Two boys were kind of circling each other, as other kids stood around in anticipation. I was in my car, so I couldn’t really hear any of the banter, but their posturing put me on alert.

Before I tell you the whole sordid tale, one that left my son wishing that the ground would open and swallow him up, I must be sure and paint the entire picture for you. MANY parents were playing chauffeur that day, both moms and dads, and the cars were lined up in two rows. If I had to guess, there were at least 40 cars along the school driveway full of weary drivers waiting for their charges.

When I saw the first punch, I didn’t move. Inside, I was desperately hoping one of them (especially the little guy) would just walk away. The onlookers started to egg them both on, however, and the circling continued.

At this point, my son was exiting the school, baseball bag over his shoulder, and started toward the car. He didn’t see the battle at first, but heard a cheer or two, and stopped to see what was up. The bigger boy threw Punch #2.

Suddenly, all the synonyms for “mother” started rattling through my brain:
Protector
Nurse
Care giver
Listener
ROLE MODEL

I jumped out of my car. By now, there are throngs of middle schoolers standing around watching – and all the same parents watching from their cars as well – as the bigger boy pummels the smaller one in the head over and over. I started to yell, “Stop!” as I moved across the grass towards the crowd. Kids started to scatter at my voice and most had that “I wasn’t involved” look on their faces at the sight of an adult.

I had to physically pry the boys apart while I repeated the phrase, “That’s enough,” about 15 times. The bigger kid was red faced and defiant, the smaller was red faced and embarrassed. They were both breathing heavily as they looked at me.

You know those moments when you have no idea what to say and you end up saying something really stupid? When my mouth finally opened, it said, “Guys, you are going to hurt each other.” Duh. Yeah, I know that was the whole point.

I asked their names, just to scare them a little, and then I finished gentle and pastoral with, “There are better ways to handle conflict, ok?” I patted them both on the back, made sure that the little guy’s pupils were not permanently dilated, and watched them walk away separately.

When I turned back around, everyone was staring at me – the students, the parents – but my son was nowhere to be found. I discovered him crouched down in the front seat of our car, and when I opened the door he said, “Let’s go, Mom. Just drive.”

As we went home, I felt a little like one of those unsuspecting persons on ABC’s “What Would You Do?” with John Quinones. Mortify your son or break up a fist fight?

Despite his preteen response, the answer to what should I do was not lost on my son, however. After we were out of sight range, my son sat back up and I said, “I’m sorry, Noah, if I embarrass you.”

He was smiling. “Are you kidding? You go, Mom. I’m glad you did that. It was right.”

Dear Mr. Roget,

Feel free to add “referee” too.

Here comes the sun, na na na na

I tried not to let it spill over onto the blog last week, but I was quite literally having a very bad time. My children have been fighting sickness for more than 2 weeks now, Steve was out of town and, if I was complaining, the list of “things to pity me about” would be too lengthy to record.

Well, maybe I’ll share just one. My boys go to a weekly winter baseball workout. When it was over last week, we climbed into the car. We were taking one of J.J.’s buddies home too, so they all squeezed into the back seat together. It was after I turned the key in the ignition when I heard J.J. say, “Mom, my knee hurts.”

Without outlining all the gory details, I found myself sitting in the orthopedist’s office the next morning at 9:00am – this after I had dropped my feverish daughter off with my mother and drugged my oldest so that he could make it to school.

I sat in the waiting room waiting for the results of J.J.’s x-ray, circumstantially overwhelmed, when I happened to glance at the magazine rack. It contained an old National Geographic with a cover story warning us about the dangers of light pollution, and I learned that we totally have too many lights. I scanned the story and was beginning to worry about where the stars have gone, when a song from my youth began to play through the office speakers. It starts:

“Little ditty about Jack and Diane
Two American kids growin’ up in the heartland…”

It’s a song, by John Cougar Mellencamp, that encourages the listener to remember her younger (more carefree) days a little too fondly, especially when she feels besieged by stressors, and then the chorus hits her with:

“Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone. Say, oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone. Rock on.”

I felt like crying – no, sobbing – right then and there. The chair I was sitting in was a stiff-backed stain-resistant gray, the Berber carpet was a darker gray and the walls were a mottled gray. The prints on the walls were the classic black and white Ansel Adams winter scenes and I was suddenly short on oxygen and desperate for color. I needed anything to help me warm up, to help me breathe.

But John kept on singing, “the thrill of living is gone…”

Then my son leaned in close, put his head against me and started to cry because of his sore knee. We were both terribly needy and suddenly, in our togetherness, I felt a great pang of orange. It was so bright, it was like neon.

Despite all the swelling, J.J.’s knee was only sprained. The next day, Mia’s antibiotic started to work on her strep throat, Noah made it to school again and Steve flew home.

On Saturday, I decided to stand for a long time in my driveway and just face the sun. I thanked God for making orange and yellow - for "let there be light." Rock on.

Start conversing with God

I suspect you already know that I am recommending Susan Isaacs’ new book, Angry Conversations With God, but let me be specific as to why.

Honestly, if you are used to speaking in Christianese (like so many of those I dearly love) you may struggle with Susan’s book at first. Her premise is this:

A Christian friend told Susan, during a particularly difficult time in her life, that her relationship with God was like a marriage (i.e. a deeply intimate relationship). Upon hearing this, Susan realizes that if this is true, then her marriage with God is in serious crisis and so she proceeds to take God to couples therapy. And, boy, does she!

The result is a wildly imaginative, painfully honest tale of her search for intimacy with God. Susan truly believes she is angry with God at first, but I give her credit for her fairness and her candor about her own inadequacies, even as she criticizes the Almighty Himself.

Susan’s book will make you laugh, it will cause you to questions your own "God" stereotypes, and it will force you to ponder your conversations with God (or lack thereof). Start reading and start talking.

And the winner is...

My daughter wrote "70" on a piece of paper, so that means our winner is AMANDA KRUPP! Congrats!

Amanda, you'll need to email your mailing address to me at wwmelchior@gmail.com. The publisher (Hatchette) will send you a BRAND NEW BOOK directly after I forward your information to them.

Thanks everyone! If you didn't win, BUY IT!

A Weekend Contest

So, my friend, Susan Isaacs, has a new book out entitled, Angry Conversations With God. I will review it for you next week, but go ahead and buy it by clicking here OR WIN ONE by entering the Weekend Contest.

Here's the deal: Since I am notoriously unfair when judging contests, let's make it even Steven, shall we? I have written down a number between 1 and 100 (truthfully, I let my daughter pick one to record). In the comments section below, give me your best guess. You have until Sunday night (3/15) at 10:00 pm to enter, at which time Mia will declare a winner.

It's a great book. I have laughed and smiled my way through AND I have learned more about who God is and who I am in light of Him. Next Monday we will talk about conversations that we have had with God and take a look at Susan's great work.

You go, Isaacs! I'm bursting for you.

I know it's still Lent

If you cannot tolerate the usual corny “Spring reminds me of new life” post, I would skip reading today, because my crocuses are up.

Every year, I wait with baited breath and study the dirt just out my front door. As soon as the leaves begin to poke through, I begin to be filled with anticipation. Warmer days are on their way.

The bulbs have a huge responsibility, really. I forget about them through most of the winter, but if they refused to show up in March, I would know it. So, under the snow they endure the cold and somehow wake up right on time.

Make your own analogy here ________________________________.

Swing real low

I recently learned the story behind the old negro spiritual, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. Written by Wallis Willis, it was actually coded communication for slaves trying to escape via the Underground Railroad. The traditional lyrics are as follows:

Chorus:
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home

I looked over Jordan and what did I see
Coming for to carry me home
A band of angels coming after me
Coming for to carry me home
(chorus)

Sometimes I'm up and sometimes I'm down
Coming for to carry me home
But still my soul feels heavenly bound
Coming for to carry me home
(chorus)

The brightest day that I can say
Coming for to carry me home
When Jesus washed my sins away,
Coming for to carry me home.
(chorus)

If I get there before you do
Coming for to carry me home
I'll cut a hole and pull you through
Coming for to carry me home
(chorus)

If you get there before I do
Coming for to carry me home
Tell all my friends I'm coming too
Coming for to carry me home
(chorus)

As crazy as this is, I find myself singing this song inside my head more than any other. It gets stuck there for days, disappears, and comes back time and time again. So, this week I decided to find out about it. Click here if you want to read more.

Before I had all the real facts, I just supposed that the lyricist was like me and knew that God had to reach way down to get him. Kind of like, "Swing real low, God, I’m way down here."

I still think that's true, but now I get to add freedom to the equation. "Swing real low, God, I'm way down here waiting to be free." Cool.

Jump out of the Cash Cab

If you are a fan of Discovery Channel, you are probably a fan of Cash Cab – the game show that takes place in a New York City cab. If you’ve never seen it, I highly recommend it at least once. The premise is basically this:

Unsuspecting folks jump into a NYC cab and tell the cabbie where they are headed. After he pulls away from the curb, interior lights begin flashing and the cabbie (Ben Bailey – who is GREAT) informs his passengers that they are, in fact, in the Cash Cab. They are offered a series of questions worth varying amounts of money until they reach their destination, when they are given a final chance to go double or nothing. HOWEVER, if during the ride they accumulate three strikes, they are immediately asked to leave the cab no matter how far from their destination they may be.

Real people are always the best, aren’t they? And real people who have a chance to win real money are even better! We are really willing to do anything, as long as there is the promise of profit for our efforts.

I was talking with a great guy at my sons’ basketball game. I almost never bring up the church in casual basketball conversations, but people often bring it up with me. He started to express his distress with the church and tell me the reasons why he no longer attends. His was a story I had heard before, and it had to do with cash. His premise was basically this:

Unsuspecting man goes into a church hoping that someone will help him get where he is headed. After the first hymn is sung, he senses that something altogether different is going on and that the congregants are there, in fact, to empty their wallets. They are offered a series of reasons why they are to part with their cash, with the most significant being that the end of their journey may come unexpectedly and they may not be given the chance to go double or nothing. Giving also prevents the accumulation of strikes, and refusal results in your immediate exit from the pew.

Lots of people struggle with the amount of money it takes to keep the church going and feel that some of the teachings about tithing and stewardship smell of manipulation instead of truth. I suspect that is often true and I do believe that, in some instances, the church has gotten in over its head financially because it has tried to be a full-service business. Desperation leads to exploitation of biblical principles.

But there is a deeper issue, I think. Why do we feel like the church should be like Cash Cab? We are so entrenched in consumerism that we have grown to believe that when we give we should get and so we think that our money should result in programs and opportunities that serve our needs – or worse yet – our wants. We are willing to do anything, as long as there is the promise of profit for our efforts.

I suspect we need to step back and recognize the ugly cycle. Congregants are consumers that the church tries to pacify and/or attract by spending money to build bigger and better churches. Churches entertain and overload, which all costs money, to appeal to people who want what they want but don’t want to pay for it. Then one church in town goes double or nothing – builds an indoor play land or something – and we all leave empty.

Stop the cab. Somebody needs to have the courage to get out, because we are so far from our real destination.

Like the wind

In High School, it seems that everybody finds their niche. I was a teenage drama queen, which essentially means that I was in school plays AND over-dramatized everything in real life. But before the stage bug bit me, I ran track.

As hard as this is to believe now, and to quote Forrest Gump, I could run like the wind blows when I was young. I was the anchor on both the 400m and 800m relay teams – which means I brought up the rear. My mother drove all over the countryside taking me to track meets, the ultimate goal being the Penn Relays at Franklin Field in Philadelphia. Our team had a great coach who spent hours training us in technique and endurance, and I can remember the pep talk he gave before we ran that day.

Running the last leg has both its advantages and disadvantages. If your teammates get your team out in front – you know it – and if you are way behind – you know that too. So, as the baton finally reached me at the Penn Relays, I knew we were in dead last place with a huge distance between us and every other team on the track.

My parents still have the trophy we won. It clearly says we came in 7th place, but it’s been saved for another reason, because when I grabbed the baton that day I ran so hard and made up so much distance, that I passed ONE other runner. I kept us out of 8th and my mother and coach cheered me all the way in, because there were only 8 teams. We didn’t altogether lose.
I can still remember that great passing feeling, sort of like leaving the other runner in the dust (which was really only a nose at the finish line). The feeling was an entity in and of itself, the fact that we didn’t win was secondary, you know?

I think that’s what it means in the Bible when it talks about the PEACE THAT PASSES UNDERSTANDING. When we are so trusting of God, so sure that He is good, the feeling of peace within us takes precedent over the desire to understand everything – even the tough stuff. It does not mean that we are naïve or simple-minded. I am not afraid to ask God very hard questions, yet even the things that I do not understand or the questions He refuses to answer cannot shake my sense of surety and faith.

There are many moments when understanding seems to be left in the dust, but peace is its own entity – not dependent on what I do or do not know. So, even though I don’t always know which way the wind blows, peace passes my need to – and I never altogether lose.

WorldWalk Peacetour

I found this blog today. It follows the journey of 2 brothers, Ferenc and István Ivanics, who have decided to take 6 years to walk around the entire world in the name of peace (they are currently in Spain). They walk 15-25 miles every day, work any odds jobs they can find for cash, meet people and eat native foods. Here is an older post about their first showers and haircuts in months - and, yes, the only place that would assist them for free was a CHURCH!

I love when we get it right.

Friday Chews

If not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

P. G. Wodehouse (1881 - 1975)

Most turkeys taste better the day after; my mother's tasted better the day before.

Rita Rudner

As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree' -- probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.

Woody Allen (1935 - )

Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It's perfect when it arrives and it puts itself in our hands. It hopes we've learned something from yesterday.

John Wayne (1907 - 1979)

Fighting the virus

My dear Noah has been struggling with a virus. He is the kind of kid who cannot shake an illness once it gets a hold on him, and one has had a hold on him all week. He is a great sick person, though. He doesn’t really complain and he just chills – not to mention that he likes to sit close to his mother when ill (not that I am pleased when he is sick, but as he gets older these moments are fewer and fewer).

So, yesterday we went back to the doctor for another check of his lungs. It was a very cold day and there was not an available parking spot near the office door. We parked further down the lot and jumped out.

Noah said, “Look, Mom,” from his side of the car and I walked over to see what had his attention. There was a note stuck into the drivers’ window of the car parked next to ours. It read:

“Just wanted to let you know that I noticed your rear right tire is terribly low on air. I didn’t want you have any trouble. Be careful and take care.”

That was it.

Noah looked at me and smiled. “That was nice of someone, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Sometimes I hear about how sick the world is, and I know it’s true on many levels. There is a selfishness in all of us, a propensity to self-preserve instead of serve. Even our economic meltdown was caused, in part, by too much taking and not enough giving. I guess there is some sickness and dysfunction in all of us.

Yet I think of the cold, of the effort to find a piece of paper and a pen, of the time it took to write the note, of the lovely tone it was written in, and I smile too.

What a great sick person, huh?

Wrinkles and other good fortunes

I had lunch with a friend from high school a couple of weeks ago, and it started me on a mini obsession with how old I am. Not one of my usual neurotic preoccupations, however, but a reflection on what I have chosen to do with my life so far. At 41 years of age, I have sort of made it to the half-time buzzer (Lord willing) and I want to use the few minutes in the locker room to strategize improvement for the second half.

So, I started with looking back on my many mistakes. Too numerous to list here, one thing that pleases me is that these moments no longer cause me shame, but now encourage LEARNING. I couldn’t always say that, but God has saturated me in so much grace that I am free to admit my failings, refuse to be anchored by them, and point my feet in a new direction instead.

Then I pondered what I have done well. God has graciously given me gifts and abilities that have taken me to interesting places with interesting people. I smile as I remember how all of these moments and influences have shaped me and my perspective. I have been an actor, a pastor, an aspiring writer, a retail manager, a talk radio host, an Alzheimer patient advocate, an inner city mission director, a concrete shop receptionist, and most of all, a daughter, wife and mother. I am a walking and talking mosaic of people and experiences. God allowed every single place for a reason, if only to teach me, encourage me or humble me.

Also, I am once again asking myself what it is I dream about. Sometimes I think we believe that dreaming is an activity for our youth, but I would beg to differ. It took me a long time to realize that when I walk with God, even the dreams He gives me are sanctified and so I shouldn’t be afraid to explore them. “Think BIG,” God says, “World changing, even.” How cool is that?

So, here I am at half-time, exploring who I’ve been, content with who I am, and excited about who I will be. The Coach encourages me to stay on the team with my game face on - ‘cause who knows what position I will play before the final buzzer rings? It doesn’t matter – I’m all in.

Thanksgiving

I picked my friend Diana up from the hospital yesterday. It is her birthday this week, and a couple of years ago she told me the funniest story. When she was young, her mother used to ask her what she would like for her birthday dinner. Diana always answered, “Turkey with all the trimmings!” Her mother would agree and then serve ravioli instead.

We are going to have a huge Thanksgiving dinner this week to honor my friend. Her battle with leukemia has been long and arduous, but her spirit has been strong and generous. There is so much to be thankful for and so we will celebrate the start of a new year in her life.

There is something really fun about having a holiday meal at the wrong time of year. Besides the fact that I couldn’t find any bread cubes for stuffing at the store, it seems almost extra-celebratory.

And so I will celebrate: I have been incredibly blessed to have this friend. Her life AND her illness have changed me forever, and those kinds of things don’t happen every day, you know? I have learned about compassion and faithfulness. I have enjoyed laughter in the midst of doubt and worry. I have experienced the intimacy that pain creates, and the joy that friendship affords.

It’s hard to know what this new year will bring, but this week is full of Thanksgiving.

Pass the cranberries.

Down and dirty and heroic

If I told you how many loads of laundry I did this weekend, you wouldn’t believe me. Besides, I would be inadvertently revealing the fact that I will get down to my last pair of underwear before I act. I would rather you didn’t know that.

While I sat on the bedroom floor and folded, I watched two movies I had never seen before (more hints about the amount of laundry). First, I watched Charlie Wilson’s War with Tom Hanks and then I watched an indie called Noise starring Tim Robbins. The first I recommend, the second I do not.

Interestingly, both films were about flawed men who championed a cause. Charlie Wilson was a womanizing Congressman who proposed and supported U.S. funded weapons for the Afghani people in their war against the Soviets (1980s). Noise was essentially about a vigilante who broke into cars in order to dismantle their alarms thus reducing the noise in New York City, and many people were in full support of his tactics.

I have also been intrigued lately by the growing number of bumper stickers that read, “Nice girls don’t make history.” I’ll admit it makes me smile every time I see it.

Isn’t interesting who we make heroes? Consider how we have sainted Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Is New Orleans reconstruction and refugee advocacy enough to dismiss other so called “bad” behavior (multiple marriages, children out of wedlock, you know the list)?

What makes a hero and why? Is a flawed nature necessary? Perhaps some of you have read excerpts of Mother Teresa’s journal that was found after her death. She wrestled with paralyzing doubt and deep questions, but kept on steadily loving people in the name of Jesus. Many “saints” had personal lives that were messy and vices that plagued them throughout their lives.

Since I live in 2009, the irony of Charlie Wilson’s War was not lost on me. Hindsight now tells us that the very Afghani men we armed and trained are now fighting against us. Charlie Wilson saw children in a refugee camp missing limbs, and decided on a course of action that ultimately leaves us with questions. More questions than I can list.

Maybe a hero simply acts before he/she runs out of underwear.