Cowabunga, Dude!

For You formed my inward parts;You wove me in my mother’s womb.I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;Wonderful are Your works,And my soul knows it very well.

Psalm 139:13-14  NASB

Reed.  My precious, wonderful, creative, kindhearted son Reed.  He and Dom are off to Colorado for a week of skiing.

Remember Crush, the sea turtle from Finding Nemo?  That's my Reed, except he isn't really a surfer.  He just has that cowabunga, hang loose, no stress attitude.  The same hang loose attitude that allows him to walk into the house from the car -- through the snow and over the ice -- in bare feet.

Past experience told me that his version of packing would be to bring his dirty laundry home.  Not an unreasonable line of thinking.  After all, it should include all his favorite things to wear.  He surprised me this time though in having only two small loads of laundry.  He said his clean clothes were in a suitcase in his car.  I was definitely impressed.  Even surfer dudes grow up, eh?

So, yesterday, just an hour or so before they were supposed to leave for the airport he brought in the suitcase of clean clothes and unzipped it on the living room floor.  Honestly, it looked like he had taken a snow shovel to the floor of his bedroom and dumped all the clothes into the suitcase.  Either that, or he had been sleeping with the clothes for about a month.  There was a bed sheet in the mix.  I expressed my surprise and said, "Buddy, I think these all needed to be washed."

He said, "No, Mom, I'm fairly certain most of these are all clean."  And he proceeded to pick each item up one by one and smell it.  Including the underwear.

"Oh, buddy!  That's gross!"

He laughed.  "Only if you think about it, Mom."

So he picked out a few things that did need a wash and left the rest, confident that he had everything he needed for the trip.  I rushed dirty items into the washer and came back to fold and organize what was left in the suitcase.

He had a tall stack of hoodies and a tall stack of t-shirts.  Two pairs of underwear.  About 25 socks, of which there were maybe three matching pairs, and no long pants at all.  No jeans, no sweat pants, no lounge/pajama pants.

"Huh!" he said, mystified.  "I guess I didn't do such a great job of packing."  He was clearly puzzled as to how this strange imbalance could have occurred.  Unrattled, however, he went on playing with the cat.

I, on the other hand, was slightly rattled.  It was too late to run to Target to buy more underwear, so I ran up to his room to search out stray pairs left from his previous visits home or even his high school days.  I found a few, plus the dirty pair from the previous day left on the floor.  I ran them down to the washing machine, hoping they could catch at least the last few minutes of the wash cycle.  I rummaged through his dad's closet shelves looking for a pair of sweat pants that wouldn't fall off him.  Thankfully, he had worn a good pair of jeans home, so at least he had those.

Meanwhile, he had roused himself to search out a pair of ski pants to wear.  He concluded that he must have left his own pair at school, because they were nowhere to be found around the house.  He settled on a pair of women's pants he found that fit (amazingly, because he is a long-legged 6'1"), but they were only a shell, without insulation.  So, I was off again to search out some long underwear he could wear underneath.

I cannot tell you how much I love this kid.  My heart swells when I think of him.  But here's the thing:  it swells all the more with joy and love for him as I write this, recounting his foibles.  His weaknesses are very much a part of the glory that is Reed.  Somehow, mysteriously, his weaknesses are fundamentally, inextricably woven into his strengths, which are marvelous.

In many ways, Reed is a natural, easy-going version of his dad, except that Tom beats himself up over these sorts of things.  Tom fights it.  I tell him, "Tom, this is why God gave you me.  I am here to take care of everything you forget."  And I firmly believe that to be true.

I am delighted that Reed doesn't seem to beat himself up over the trivialities of life that escape him, like matching socks or the need for underwear.  My prayer for him is that God will give him a sweet Christian girl to marry who will understand and appreciate him -- and be willing to pack long pants for him -- without belittling him for not managing it himself. 

 Reed helps me to remember too how God's heart swells in the face of my weaknesses.  Sin, rebellion -- that's one thing.  But how often do I beat myself up for parts of myself that God created for His glory? How easily I gloss over my sin, excusing it shamefully, but spend time instead berating myself for parts of me that are intrinsic to the very person God created me to be for His glory?  I wish I were more charismatic.  I wish I could decorate.  I wish I were musical.  I wish I were funnier.  I wish I could dance.

No!  Let's stop this nonsense!  God made All Bark to be just what He intended All Bark to be.  All Bark is as perfect and precious in His eyes as Reed is in mine.  And just as I am happy to help Reed out in the bits of life he doesn't handle so well, so God generously helps me out in the bits I don't handle so well. 

Cowabunga, dude!  Let's play with the cat.

Divorce and the Supercilious

I read yesterday about a young woman in Christendom who got divorced.  Nothing especially interesting or novel in that, except that this woman has just a little bit of a "name" out there in the Christian world.  Just a little -- and it's possible that her work will eventually cause her to become more well-known than she is now.

I stumbled upon this piece of personal information about her quite accidentally.  I know almost nothing more about the situation.  I do not know who initiated the divorce, nor do I know the first thing about the circumstances surrounding it.  Neither, I might add, does anyone else online.

This pesky fact has not deterred a certain handful of people from posting their opinions, however.  A small storm of Christians have graced the cyber-world with their not-so grace-filled assessments of this woman as a result of this divorce.  It is very disheartening.  What exactly are they suggesting?  That she is not worthy of our respect because her personal life hit a bump in the road? That her work, therefore, is discredited? 

That anyone would think such a thing is disappointing.  That they would go so far as to put their superciliousness into words and publish it online is abominable.  There is no excuse.  My heart breaks for this young woman having to read such ugly words about herself, written by people who know nothing of her, her situation, or God's work in her life.

It's the sad, old adage: Only Christians shoot their own.

But I bet I can guess at their emotional motivations.  And if I'm being unfair to them, well, maybe they deserve it.

My guess is that they themselves are in pain in their own lives. They haven't made the mark on the world that they had hoped to make in their younger years.  They see her using her goodly intelligence and hard work to move the needle forward, so to speak, while they sit in their dusty corners of the world fruitlessly spinning in circles.

In other words -- they're jealous.  And superciliousness is a handy consolation prize.

So, to the small group of highhanded folk who sought to defame this woman and her ministry, to make a public circus of something that was undoubtedly very painful for her --  for shame.  Let us all see your words and posts for the spitefulness they are.

"Who are you to judge the servant of another?  To his own master he stands or falls; and stand he will, for the Lord is able to make him stand."  Romans 14:4

The Great Physician

My mother-in-law stopped by yesterday. I love to see her, but I have learned over the years that when she stops by unannounced, it’s because she has something serious on her mind. Yesterday was no exception.

After the usual pleasantries, she quickly got to the point. Her daughter, Karla, had married her girlfriend.

Karla and her friend Carol moved in with my mother-in-law a year ago. It was a blessing because Mom wasn’t quite able to afford living in her house anymore on her own. Yet Tom and I had strong suspicions about the nature of Karla and Carol’s relationship. Did Mom too? No one was willing to broach the subject, including Karla and Carol.

It turns out Mom had understood what was going on from the beginning, and diplomatically ignored it. But now it was out in the open. There were rings. No more pretending.

Naturally, she was upset. She said, “I just want to know my daughter is going to heaven.”

“Well,” I reasoned, quite unhelpfully, “Spiritually speaking, nothing has changed from before they were married, just two weeks ago.” That was not what she wanted to hear.

Mom said, “I know it isn’t right. It isn’t Christian. I just don’t know the verses.”

I could have found the verses for her, but I didn’t think that was going to be very helpful either. This time I was diplomatic and just nodded my head. I had already said enough that was unhelpful.

What I was struggling to convey to Mom, and what was leaving me woefully tongue-tied, is that Karla and Carol’s problem was not so much lesbianism as it was plain sin. Karla and Carol had a sin problem. Just like she and I had. And as repulsed as she may feel about lesbianism, the answer to it is the same as the answer to our sin: Jesus. Jesus, the Great Physician, the One who came to heal the sick, to bind up the broken-hearted, and to redeem us from the sin that desperately entangles us all—not just lesbians.

I was reminded of an incident that happened a couple summers ago while our family was on vacation. Tom was in the house, and the kids and I were down at the beach with our dog, Oliver. Oliver was running through the beach grass and didn’t see a horseshoe spike hidden in the weeds. As he leaped over it, the sharp top caught his underbelly, and he ended up filleted in a most horrific manner.

At his cries, the entire family was mobilized into action. I ran over to him and began barking orders to the kids. “Beatriz! Get me a towel to wrap him in!” “Reed, go tell your dad to put shoes on and get ready to go.” “Dom, get online and find a vet in the area.”

Of course, it was a holiday weekend, so we were lucky to find a vet open at all. But we did. They took great care of him, and he has lived to tell the tale.

Oliver needed a doctor, and the entire family jumped into action to get him there.

Karla and Carol need a doctor. They need the Doctor.

When Oliver got hurt, none of us even looked at the wound. Not one minute was wasted in examining the injury, discussing the damage, guessing at the prognosis, or debating the next step. We knew that we could not help him. His situation was beyond our expertise or abilities. None of our opinions or deliberations would be of any use at all. With great urgency, we devoted all our energy and resources to getting him to the doctor who could help him.

Likewise, with Karla and Carol, is this the time to pronounce judgment, debate genetics, and argue legislation? Rather isn’t it time, with great urgency, to get the doctor involved?

Oliver had been playing in the water and was soaking wet. He had also been playing on the beach, so every inch of his body was also coated in sand. Now, his entire underbelly was ripped open, and the open wound was also coated in sand. The one private structure located in that region was almost taken off. Was the urethra severed? Even the doctor wouldn’t know until he was able to get him into surgery. This was very messy business.

Sexual orientation is also a messy, deeply personal, multifaceted affair. Will our disappointment, bewilderment or opposition do any good – anymore than my clumsy first aid skills would have helped Oliver?

Karla and Carol have a sin problem, and they need the answer to their sin problem. They need the same answer for their sin problem as I need for mine. We can dissect the verses and argue the genetics and examine the societal implications. But they need Jesus. We can be repelled by their perversity. We can be angry about the changes they advocate for the culture. But they need Jesus.

They do not see their own need any more than Oliver knew that he needed a veterinarian. But we see it! Let us mobilize to get them there. Let us mobilize to get them there!

What urgency we felt when Oliver was in need! How quickly the entire family jumped into action! How efficient and coordinated was every effort on his behalf! Where is our urgency for Karla and Carol?

Get them to Jesus! Get them to Jesus! Jump up! Move!

Instead, at this moment, Karla and Carol are feeling rejected by the only people around them who know the Great Physician. Whereas Mom knew what their relationship was before, it wasn’t in her face and she was able to let herself forget. Now she is uncomfortable around them. Karla isn’t wearing her rings at home, and Carol is hiding her left hand when they’re together. Conversation is labored. Mom is talking about moving out. If she doesn’t, how long before Karla and Carol are uncomfortable enough that they move out?

And yet, I understand Mom’s coolness. Her disquiet is real, but she may also sense that warmth and acceptance look a lot like tacit approval. Certainly, we do not want to condone sin. Yet, there must be a way to walk a path somewhere between cold rejection and warm blessing. We know there is because Jesus Himself walks it!

We, on the other hand, tend to waffle between rejection and rational entreaties. We try, fruitlessly and often injuriously, to change their minds. How we would rejoice if only they would forsake this aberrant behavior! But only the thinnest layer of the trouble resides in their minds and behaviors anyway. The much deeper trouble lies in a much deeper place, a place we have no admittance or understanding. We work to change the bark of the tree when the real problem lies in the sap.

Even if they were to change their behavior, their hearts would still ache, their desires would still scream, the storms would still rage in the depths of their beings, where no man has access. But there is One who does have access to these depths. He understands their deepest pain. He heals the hidden wounds. Most importantly, He loves passionately and guides those who come to Him along the paths of life. Our only power is to introduce them to that One.

And it’s not a holiday weekend. He is always open for business.

An Evangelical Goes to Mass

Below is a deviation from this blog's normal fodder. To begin with, it is long. I didn't actually write it to be a blog post in the first place, although it is very meaningful to me. I wrote it hoping to sell it to a magazine somewhere in Christendom, which, I have been assured, will never happen—such is the Catholic/Christian divide. No matter though. My dear little blog will gobble it up appreciatively!

But if you're not in the mood for a long read, I suggest you skip this!

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No, I hadn’t been to church that Sunday, nor the previous Sunday. Nor did I intend to go the next week. I felt sheepish in explaining to my friends and family where I’d been or what I’d been thinking. In truth, I wasn’t entirely sure myself. After decades of unwavering allegiance to my evangelical church, I had veered from the trusted path, and all I could point to was a weird exhaustion, a bone-weariness that had infused my soul.

I was not questioning God or my conservative, biblical convictions. I was proud of my church’s involvement in the community and the many godly believers who worshipped there. I loved and trusted my pastor, his knowledge of the Bible, his leadership and his teachings. And, be assured, I was not burned-out in the typical sense of having overextended myself in service. How was it, then, that I found myself dreading the prospect of attending the Sunday services? Exactly what elements of standard evangelical fare so enervated me?

To begin with, we evangelicals are very social in our worship; we fellowship with each other. Friendly hellos before the service, coffee and donuts after, kiosks advertising Bible studies and opportunities for service, all work to create a warm and friendly ambiance. And yet, on a Sunday morning this persistent extroversion can turn my focus from worship to conversation.

For many, the music of the evangelical service effects the transition from the chit chat and the workaday world to one of worship. Sadly, I live in a state of musical deficiency that makes popular Christian music difficult for me to appreciate, let alone sing. On a good week, I spend the worship portion of the service scolding myself into disciplining my mind to offer up the words of the song in prayer and praise; on a bad week, my mind latches onto more mundane matters, like why the drummer is behind Plexiglas and how difficult it must be to clap while holding a microphone.

Notwithstanding my own deficits, however, in many of today’s churches the worship at its core is a performance, much like a weekly concert. And as much as the musicians on a Sunday morning would demur, a performance demands some appreciation for the talent and hard work of the performers. They are performing, after all. They are on stage with elaborate backdrops, sophisticated lighting, and at my church, sometimes even dancers. We have come a long way from the little old lady behind an organ.

For many, this high-energy show draws their hearts into deeper communion with God. As deep calls to deep, they bond emotionally with the music and are carried into a joyful fellowship with the Creator. For me, however, that same music unsettles my spirit and turns my focus away from God to the musicians themselves and the performance.

On the other hand, the best part of the Sunday service for me is the teaching. The head pastor himself is the primary reason we attend the church we do. He is wise, learned, humble, and a great teacher. I never leave his teaching without a fresh insight into the Word and a renewed commitment to obedience and love for the Lord. 

But appreciating a teaching is not the same as worship. I longed to worship. Corporately. I was longing to forget myself and other people – the fellowship, the musicians, even the teacher. I was longing to go to church with others, to be there with others, but still be focused on God. I wanted to tell God how much I love and adore Him with other people who are telling Him the same thing, but to not have to focus on those other people. Only focus on Him.

In an artful effort to sidestep the problem, I embarked on a new project: I decided to spend a number of weeks visiting some of the historic cathedrals in the Detroit area. I would indulge in an interesting and cultural experience; I would broaden my horizons with the unexplored grandeur and history right in my own backyard.

As it worked out, I ended up returning week after week to the first cathedral I visited. I had become captivated with something completely different than the beauty of the building: I had become captivated with the Catholic mass itself.

After much internet research, the cathedral I visited was The Sweetest Heart of Mary Catholic Church, in downtown Detroit. The wilting paint and crumbling spires of the old cathedral suggested a faded glory. The massive wooden doors were an impressive curiosity. But as I walked through them, I entered another world.

A cool stillness embraced me. A reverence imbued into the very air summoned me to silence, both in voice and in spirit. Two angels in billowing robes stood at the entrance to the nave blowing soundless trumpets in welcome as I beheld the Gothic beauty before me. Enormous stained-glass windows bedecked the walls. Intricate patterns of rib vaulting emblazoned with gold leaf soared overhead creating a heavenly canopy. Majestic columns lined the nave in military precision like soldiers in the throne room of a king, directing my vision to the crowning climax of all this glory, the elaborate altar. As I slipped into a pew, something that had been knotted in the depths of my being began to loosen, and then strangely, almost tremble in quiet contentment.

I had seen beautiful cathedrals before, and the experience always left me with a dull ache, like a little girl peering through a shop window at a toy she couldn’t have: so pretty, so close, but not hers. That day, however, I had not come as a tourist, but as a participant. That day, I possessed it.

Almost.

In truth, I was a pretender. I was a child sneaking into the dinner table of another family, not quite knowing the etiquette and hoping not to be noticed. I bungled through the mass, taking my cues from other parishioners for when to stand, when to kneel, where to turn in the missal to find the right words to say, never quite getting the timing of the sign of the cross (although I did know enough not to take communion without being Catholic). Regardless of these difficulties, however, I realized I had found what I was looking for. This is what I had been longing for but not finding in my own evangelical service.

I longed to stand with others and recite the Nicene Creed: “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth…” I longed to sing songs without clapping my hands or swaying to the music—hymns and chants with little popular appeal, simple songs of adoration. I longed to hear the Word read with no embellishment: Psalms, the Gospel, the Old Testament, an Epistle. I longed to worship God in ritualized simplicity, without emotionalism, to allow His Word and His Spirit to wash over me. I wanted to participate in telling God how much I loved Him, not by struggling to sing songs that I had no hope of making resemble music, but by reciting words of worship and love to God with other believers. “Thanks be to God.” “The Word of the Lord.” An Alleluia chant. All this I found when I visited the Catholic cathedral, and more.

I loved the formality surrounding the Gospel reading. The priest went to a special, elevated place in the nave, up a handful of steps that spiraled around a column to a lighted platform, the altar boy following him swinging incense. I loved that we sang as the priest made his way to the platform, and I loved that we stood during the reading—all in honor of the extra-special nature of the life of Christ.

I loved the priestly garb, which seemed to deemphasize the priest himself. His robes, like a uniform, spoke to his function, not his personhood. His choice of style was not there to give me any clues about him as a personality. In this role, indeed, he wasn’t a personality at all. The congregation was not there because of his magnetism or charm. He was not the main event or the center of attention. He was only a facilitator of this communal celebration, almost invisible. I was there to worship God, not to judge the performance of the speaker or my connection with him.

I loved the ritual and the constancy of the mass. Week after week, each element of the mass happened in exactly the same order with no fanfare. Far from becoming boring or mechanical, I found this regularity to be liberating. There were no surprises to engage my mind, to invite my curiosity, or to pique my interest. I was free to focus on the reason I had come in the first place – to engage in adoration and celebration of God. Rather than being required to focus on the act of worship, I was free to focus on the object of worship.

All this to say, the Catholic mass filled a hole in this evangelical heart. It satisfied a hunger for worship that I had not found anywhere else.

I must admit, it was eye-opening to leave my native evangelical soil and venture into the foreign land of the Catholic mass. I do not presume to bridge the 500-year gap between Catholicism and Protestantism with my humble experience, nor would I attempt to scale the mountain of doctrinal differences that stand between them. But I did learn to love and appreciate what we have in common. I also learned that my naive perspective on Catholicism had been clouded by more prejudice than I would like to admit. I was amazed as I sat through the mass week after week that I did not hear anything that offended my tender evangelical sensibilities. The Word of God, the glory of God, and the saving power of Jesus Christ were wholly celebrated and acclaimed, very much like in my own church.

I am sorry I felt sheepish in telling my family and friends that I was attending a Catholic church. Both the Protestant and the Catholic styles of worship have their own wonder and glory. They each make their own peculiar offering in service to the Kingdom. In this secular, post-Christian age, we are all family, pulling together in a tug-of-war for the hearts of our generation. If one man finds Jesus through Catholicism and another finds Him through a nondenominational megachurch, they have both come to the same place through different doors. Jesus is the only way to the Father, but certainly, there is more than one way to Jesus.

Refrigerator Trouble

I would like to share an amazing God moment.

We have been in the middle of a kitchen remodel. The construction crew got through their part of it in record time. We lived out of the living/dining room and did dishes in the upstairs bath tub for about six weeks, and in that time they—presto-change-o—converted our gutted kitchen-dining area into a thing of beauty.

The rest is on us now: the painting, moldings, carpet, rehanging of doors. They did the hard part; we do the easy part. That's the idea of it anyway. Somehow it doesn't work that way in our family.

Several weeks after we had moved into our new kitchen, the old refrigerator still waited patiently in the living/dining room.

The week before Easter, Ivy and I wrestled it out of the living room into the family room so we could extend the table for Easter dinner. We attempted to shove it into the garage, only to learn the hard way that it was wider in every dimension than the various interior doorways it would have to navigate in order to get there. It would have fit through the front door, but that would have meant our being responsible, in full view of the neighbors, for its descent down one step onto the front porch, and then down another step onto the sidewalk. If we had been able to get it anywhere near the interior door to the garage, we would still have had to grapple with a couple steps. But the outer garage door would have been closed, keeping the indignity of the maneuver private. Because believe me, if we could have gotten it there, getting it down those steps would have been undignified.

So into the family room it went. And there it has stayed since Easter.

Mind you, the refrigerator is not responsible for our decorating stagnation. Pure indecision on every front has assaulted us when it comes to not only paint color, but also who to hire to do the finishing work. Besides being indecisive by nature, I am also aesthetically insecure. Every time I choose a color, someone comes along with an opposing opinion and completely derails my resolve. On top of that, we're in a quandary over which friend or family member to give the work to.

The other morning the weight of this renovation paralysis woke me from a sound sleep at approximately 4:52 a.m. My Bible study gals were coming over the next night, and I was determined that if nothing more could be done, at the very least, I was getting that refrigerator out of the family room.

Having already learned I couldn't get it through the interior door into the garage, I was left with contemplating other creative means to get it either into the basement or through the front door. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? I had hours before the sun rose to focus my prodigious creative powers on the problem.

After some consideration, I decided that sliding it down the basement steps on its side sounded like a promising prospect. I would flatten one of the large moving boxes from the garage to put under the fridge for a toboggan-like effect. Just to be sure I wasn't being reckless, I googled, "Does it hurt a refrigerator to be moved on its side."

Turns out the answer to that is, "Quite possibly. In fact, probably. But not necessarily," which was good enough for me. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I got out of bed and did some measuring though, only to learn that, again, unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), it was too wide in every dimension to fit through the basement door too.

On to the next idea -- a more conventional approach this time. I decided I would go to Home Depot and rent something called an "appliance dolly." Who knew such things existed?!? But it sounded promising. I would rent one that day and bulldoze that refrigerator through the front door on those rented wheels even if I ended up widening the front door in the process. 

But first things first. A quiet time. I sat in front of my computer to pray (I pray best with my fingers). I prayed from the heart. Whine. Whine, whine, whine. I found a hundred things to whine to God about, and I hadn't even gotten to the part about the marooned refrigerator. But finally I did. I typed (and this is cut-n-pasted directly from my quiet time journal),


"But especially, Father, I’m upset that I can’t make any progress. I can’t get the refriger..."

 The word was not even off my fingers when my cell phone went "ding!" A text message from my friend. Her text read, "Are you up? Can you talk?"

Hello? It was 7:32 a.m.! Not only that, I was crabby. I was really, really crabby. And who the heck calls a friend at 7:30 in the morning???? But I called her.

Never one for 'hellos,' she greeted me with HI, FRIEND!!! ARE YOU HAPPY? (My friend is a morning person.) 

I responded truthfully. "No, I'm not. I'm crabby." And I told her my refrigerator trouble.

She said, "No, no, no! You're not going to go rent a dolly! Herb [her husband] has a dolly and he does that kind of thing all the time. As soon as he gets up, we're coming over and Herb will move the refrigerator for you."

Wow. I was blown away. Father, I thought, You are amazing! I hadn't even asked You yet for help. At the rate I was going, I may not have even been wise enough to ask for help at all. I was just fixing to go on whining for a good while, but there You were, answering before the word was even off my lips—or in this case, my fingers.

So Herb and my friend appeared at my door around 10:30. Herb moved our defunct oven from the garage to the curb for trash pick-up, which was another less pressing problem I had. And then he tackled the monster refrigerator. He got it onto the dolly and began to maneuver it through the foyer, guiding it somewhat blindly, working to avoid damaging any walls and corners. I was in the foyer propping open the storm door. The refrigerator blocked my view of the garage, but suddenly I heard a man's voice calling, "Oliver!" Someone who knew our dog, Oliver, had come into the house through the garage door. My friend introduced herself to him, but I could not for the life of me imagine who it could be.

Turns out it was Mike, the carpenter who had spent weeks at our house installing our new kitchen cabinets and doing some finishing work. He had been working down the street at our neighbor's house for the past few weeks, and chose this moment to walk on down to say hello again to our dog, with whom he had developed a friendship. 

He chose this moment. Out of all the weeks he had been just down the street, he chose this moment to come on by. The very moment Herb was about to realize that he needed another man to help him navigate this refrigerator through the front door and down the steps. The very moment that refrigerator would have crashed to the ground unless Mike had been there to help catch it.

Does God care about the mundane difficulties of my life? What do you think?

What a faithful and powerful and kind God we serve!

Although it does make me wonder if my toboggan idea had God a little alarmed too.

Lily (or, Reed, continued)

Last week I was privileged to spend time in Philadelphia with my sister's family, which meant I got to see my niece and her new baby, Lily. Lily is 17 months old now, cute as a button, with a happy disposition. But they have become a little concerned about the fact that she isn't talking at all yet. She "coos" in the sweetest, soft way, but no words. My niece, Lizzy, has had her hearing tested more than once, and she has failed the hearing test twice. Although it raises an eyebrow, somehow even that isn't definitive—maybe her hearing will turn out to be okay after all. So they will continue to keep an eye on things.

What strikes me about the situation however is not Lily, as much as she, in all her adorability, commands center stage. It's Lizzy.

Lizzy loves that baby. I mean, Lizzy LOOOOOVVVVVEEEESSSSSS that baby. Lizzy's reaction to learning that Lily may have some form of physical defect? Unruffled. Which surprised even her, I think, judging by the fact that she mentioned it.

But I get it. I totally get it. I think that baby's arms and legs could all fall off, and...while that might rattle her slightly...it would in no way affect the unwavering, almost insane devotion her heart feels for that chubby little blob of cooing, drooling, gurgling, toddling humanity.

This dovetails on my (lack of) exchange with Reed. Answer me or don't answer me, kid (see previous post). Nothing can diminish my love for you. Nothing can derail my conviction of your worth. Not even you can change how I feel about you. You cannot dampen my celebration of your life. Get used to it, kid. I love you, and you're not getting out of it.

But here's the thing: I DID NOT INVENT PARENTHOOD!

I did not create these feelings in myself. My love for my children exists only as a picture of GOD'S love for HIS children. I am convinced that my love for my children is downright tepid compared to God's love for His children. And my love for my children is ferocious. Ferocious.

And that is all I have to say on the topic. It speaks for itself. We do not live as if we have a Father who loves us with that kind of ferocity, do we? No. We don't.

Let's do.

Reed

My Reed. Wonderful, creative, intelligent, kind and gentle yet adventurous son Reed. My heart swells when I think of this kid. And yet, he is in so many ways my mystery child. He has never been one to let me peer closely into his rich, inner world, and now he is off at school, two hours away. 

During his high school years I sensed it was important to grant him the freedom he seemed to want, both physical and emotional. So I did my best not to pressure him for information. My antennae were always up, looking for clues that he was “okay,” and in general I was satisfied that he was. But (and I’m embarrassed to admit this) he never allowed us to meet any of his friends other than the ones we already knew from the neighborhood. When by happenstance we would meet a friend from school, I saw they were generally very successful kids, good grades, clean-cut. So why would he not bring them home or let us into his world?

I could only conclude that for some reason he just needed space. He needed independence. Intuitively, I understood that. He desperately needed to not be “mommy-ed.” Somehow that was important to his burgeoning manhood, and for the most part I tried to grant him that freedom graciously. Well, I like to tell myself I was being gracious. The alternative would have been nothing but a fruitless four-year storm, so maybe it was just a case of sour grapes.

When it came time for him to go away to school, he surprised me with a suggestion that he “may not be wanting what we think he wants,” meaning he may want to stay home and go to community college. I was surprised but supportive, and began looking into his options in that regard. 

In the end, however, I am proud to have been the one to tell him, “Honey, I really think you need to get out of here, away from me and dad. We are the problem.” I just sensed he was pulling away emotionally because he couldn’t get away physically. We were always there, threatening to intrude where we weren’t wanted. If he went away physically, maybe he would feel freer to come back emotionally.

Right? Right. I know I was right.

And so he did go away, and he has been happy. So happy at school. And I am so happy to see him happy!

But so far, he hasn’t come back emotionally. So far, he is still far away. He is polite and kind and warm and friendly toward me. He loves me and he tells me so. But he keeps his world private, and that makes me sad. 

I miss him. I miss feeling connected to him. It seems so long ago now since I have felt connected. 

Our primary mode of communication these days is texting, although I use the word “communication” loosely because he doesn’t usually respond when I text him. Such was the case last week. 

On Wednesday I texted him a picture of two individual crocks of rice pudding I had made that brought back a fond memory from his childhood. No response. But that's okay. It was just a nostalgic whim.

On Saturday I knew he had traveled to Iowa for a hockey tournament, so I texted him to ask how the tournament was going. No response. Also okay. He was busy with his tournament and teammates, after all.

On Sunday night I knew he should be home from the tournament, so I texted him to ask if he had made it home safely and how the tournament had gone. No response. Hmm.

On Monday it occurred to me to actually worry that he had, in fact, not made it home from the tournament safely, so I texted him again. No response. He could be in a hospital in Iowa. Or dead.

Then it occurred to me that he may have lost his cell phone, so I Facebook messaged him. No response. Yep, definitely either dead or seriously damaged. A hockey skate to the neck, a bad hit into the boards, a car accident, I couldn't be sure. But doubtless, he was languishing in an Iowan hospital. Or languishing no more in an Iowan morgue. 

Finally, Monday night I got a text from him: “It was good.” Meaning the tournament. Which meant he did not lose or break his cell phone, he did get home safely, and yes, indeed, he had been just ignoring all my other texts. And I still didn’t know what had happened at the tournament other than he didn’t die.

As it happened, I was in Philadelphia with Beatriz on Monday when I got that text, and she read the thread. (Is it still called a thread when it’s that one-sided?) She took my phone and texted Reed back, saying, “Little [poop emoticon] = you.”

I was horrified. I would never say anything like that to any of my kids. But she convinced me a) Reed would think it was funny, and b) he deserved it. So I left it there for a day and a half. Then horror got the better of me. I let him know that I had not actually sent that, and I asked him if his feelings were hurt.

As it turns out, Beatriz was right: he did think it was funny, and his feelings were not hurt. But he did out of the blue suddenly text me and say he might come home this weekend. See? He is a sweetie.

 I shared the story with Dom the other night and he said, “Oh Mom, my feelings would have been really hurt if I thought you had sent that to me!” Which prompted me to seek even more reassurance from Reed that his feelings were not hurt. He did respond right away with that reassurance, so I think he got the message. (Text Mom!) He really is a sweet and tenderhearted kid. I’ve always known that.

Well, there is a point to all this! I think God has many lessons for us in the love we feel for our children.

As it turns out, I had been just a little too busy for God that week. Nothing was wrong; I had just neglected my time with Him. I went to Philadelphia to see my sister and her family, I met Beatriz there, I saw my nephew and niece perform in their school musical, I saw my other niece and her new baby, my sister’s father-in-law was there. I was also busy with my Bible study gals, and on and on it went. I didn’t take time to enjoy God or remember His love for me. 

Further, I wasn’t even praying. I wasn’t remembering Him at all. 

Little Miss Independent. Off the grid. On my own. Enjoying His privileges, forgetting the relationship from whence those privileges arose.

But God, in His kindness, gave me Reed. 

My heart leaps when Reed texts me at all. Any communication from him is cause for celebration. Even when he is just telling me a need: Mom, I need more contacts. Mom, my jeans are all too short. Mom, I need rent money. Mom, I would love boxing gloves for Christmas. Even then, I am happy. I just want to hear from him. And even when I have been disappointed for a week that he hasn’t responded to my texts, when he finally does respond, I am happy. All is forgiven! I’m just glad he is okay. 

Because I love him, I love him, I love him. I celebrate his very existence, and I long to be in relationship with him. I yearn for connection with him.

How much more does God long for connection with us? Not that I dare paint God as “needy,” but He loves. And He is joyous in communion with His children, just as I am joyous in communion with Reed, with all my children. I am convinced that this is true. 

And so I was instructed by my precious Reed. The same joy I find in Reed's communion with me, God also finds in my communion with Him. It is not a duty I perform that I pray and sit with Him each day: it is a relationship. I find joy in Him, yes. But! But. He also takes joy in me. Unfathomable, but true. My Father takes joy in me, just like I take joy in my Reed. 

Indeed, I do take joy in Reed. I take joy in his very essence. I celebrate everything that makes him unique. I love him. 

And that’s the way God feels about me, in all my ridiculousness. In all my frailties, my quirks, my shortcomings. Throughout my history of failure, self-will, temper tantrums, mistakes, fitful spiritual enthusiasm and eventual, enigmatic, painfully slow spiritual growth, He loves me. Just like I love Reed. Jesus longs for me, just like I long for Reed. 

Nothing will discourage my love for Reed. No amount of neglect on his part could ever frustrate my enthusiasm for him or my joyous celebration of his very being.

How can it be that my God feels that same indefatigable love for me?

Yet how could it not be? How could it not be? He is the one who created my love for Reed. Is it possible that I could love my child more than He loves His children? Obviously not.

I still have confidence that Reed will eventually get a little better at responding to text messages. And in the meantime, maybe I'll focus on responding more quickly to God's, eh?