Don't Know Much About (Erasing) History

I completely understand when people choose to be apolitical on social media.  I'm right there with you--I try my best to avoid it, too.  Everyone has an opinion, and it's often an opinion deeply rooted and unwilling to be removed.

 

Not every opinion should be removed.

 

But there's a heaviness in the air this week.  We feel it in our own home, hundreds of miles away from Charlottesville.  Our family is extremely burdened by the news of what happened over the weekend.  Our hearts break for Heather Heyer's family, for the others who were wounded, and for the implications this has for the hatred that has thrived in our country.

 

When the darkness moves in is when the Church should rise and shine.  But I have been deeply disturbed and disappointed by some of the responses to Charlottesville in my newsfeed.  The most common "Christian" posts in reference to it simply argue, "Well, we shouldn't be trying to erase history."

 

That's it?  That's all you have to say?  We shouldn't be erasing history?

 

If you're going to respond, where is the response about love?  The response against hatred?

 

Really?  The only place you're going to go is the "erasing history" route?

 

Okay, okay, I'm not following the importance of your stance, so let's find some common ground here.

 

I saw one person posting about not erasing history because, she admonished, it will cause us to forget who we are and where we've come from.

 

I agree.  That's absolutely right.  But our points of view differ when it comes to which history we're talking about because I'm not talking about some statue.

 

First, let's back up.

 

I come from an area of the US where one of the most telling signs of your faith is whether or not you vote Republican and where you stand on abortion.  It's in whether or not you opposed the March for Women and on what color lives you think matter.  It's in whether you eat Chick-fil-a when it makes a statement against gay marriage or whether you insist on Merry Christmas over Happy Holidays. 

 

Things that make us feel like we're living out the Gospel (let's see...what does that say again?), but are really only parking spaces for our political stances.

 

And when something like Charlottesville happens--something where we can respond by living out the Gospel--I get so frustrated with the members of the Church who choose to respond only how it benefits them politically--no matter what side of the aisle they may be on.

 

It's disheartening to see Christians finding their political voice to be full of courage and their spiritual voice to be full of cowardice (or masquerading one as the other).

 

Why aren't we seizing this perfect opportunity to show the world what Jesus is like?

 

The Jesus we sing to on Sunday morning. The Jesus we fight so hard to keep in schools.  The Jesus we hope returns quickly.  The Jesus we say everyone needs--where is he in this sudden fight against erasing history?

 

I'll tell you one thing I've observed:

 

The only history being erased is the history of who Jesus was and what he stood for.

 

Jesus didn't fight for statues (he wasn't much into graven images anyway)--he fought for the downtrodden and the wounded.  He didn't condemn the brokenhearted for feeling hurt or offended--he came to bind them up.  He didn't overlook the sick or the weary--he comforted them and healed them.

 

He loved.

 

Love was his mission, and love was his greatest commandment--love God.  Love others.

 

And have we forgotten?  Have we taken an eraser to the fact that it wasn't the homosexual or the adulteress or the abortionist or the tax collector who sought to bring Jesus to his demise?

 

It was the Church.

 

People like us, who don't miss a Sunday (or the Sabbath), who didn't like that Jesus didn't want to play by their rules.  People who didn't like grace or the fact that he loved everyone.

 

Ironically, it wasn't the "sinners" who appeared to be threatened by Jesus but the "saints."

 

Do we forget that?

 

Are we the ones erasing history?  The most important piece of history to ever exist?

 

In refusing to put aside our political and legalistic agendas, we're putting him to death a second time.  We're putting his legacy to death.

 

When the Women's March happened several months ago, there was a lady in my state who ran a yarn store who refused to sell pink yarn to anyone wanting to make a hat for the march.  It violated her beliefs, she said, to sell to people who didn't agree with her.  She was offended that anyone would use her material for something that didn't line up with her religion.

 

And yet, I've seen Christians roll their eyes and yell, "Stop playing the victim card!" when the black, Muslim, and Jewish communities voice being offended by racist acts.

 

I've seen the Christian community destroy Bill Clinton for his affair and excuse Donald Trump's.  Trump is a Christian, they say [FYI, the Clintons say they are, too].  He's forgiven.  The Bible is all about forgiveness.  [I guess forgiveness only applies when it's your candidate.]

 

Consider if there was a statue of someone who was a pioneer for LGBT rights.  Would Christians be quick to preserve that history?  Or would Christians petition for its removal because, well, "JESUS. GOD.  HOMOSEXUALITY BAD, BAD, BAD."

 

These days, Christians don't allow themselves to be wrong.  Period.  There's a painful lack of humility (and I'll include myself in that). And right now I see a group of Christians digging in their heels to support a chaotic and hateful president because they would never want to admit they were wrong.  So they have made up reasons that his behavior is okay in the name of humanness and mercy and whatnot, but hear this...

 

If everyone else doesn't get to use the humanness excuse when they mess up, you don't get to either.  Being a Christian does not give you the right to distort and rationalize poor choices or disgraceful stances.  We're either all flawed and need to be better about owning our mistakes, or nobody should have to be accountable.  You can't have it both ways.

 

I don't care what political implications are involved in denouncing what happened in Charlottesville.  What I care about and hope other believers care about are the implications for our reputations as Christians if we choose to sit passively by.  And that doesn't necessarily mean making a Facebook post about it.  I couldn't care less if you do that.  But understand that our nation is hurting and broken and full of hatred and hopelessness.  We don't need another political stance or another defense for things that don't really matter.

 

I'm sick of seeing someone's political party [and that goes for any side] being more important than their chance to witness.

 

I have had a lot of fear about posting anything like this because I know that, while my blog doesn't have a massive following, it's decent, and its audience is primarily made up of people who will likely disagree with me.  I hope I won't lose readership because of this, but I really might.  And that's just something I'm going to have to be okay with because I feel very passionately that we are quickly becoming a disgrace to the name of Christ.

 

If you take away nothing else, hear this:

 

If you're of the mindset I'm speaking against, I don't think you're a bad person.  Hear that? I don't think you're a bad person.  I don't believe in bad people, I believe in bad choices and misguided beliefs. I love you. God loves you.  God loves the ones who feel slighted by your indifference.  And my greatest desire is that everyone gets to know that awesome love He has for each of us.  It's changed my life, and I long for it to change everyone else's.  I long for the world to know that God chose us when we weren't good enough by any standard, and I want Christians to stop acting like God used a more lenient blueprint when He died for us than He did for everyone else. 

 

We need Jesus to show up in you.  In me.  We need hands and feet that will love and serve one another, regardless of our backgrounds or race or whatever else.

 

Because our history is this and this alone:

 

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

 

He already paid the price.  May we not quiet the power of his legacy of loving the world, even when it wasn't ready to love him back.  May we not put him to death once again because his message isn't convenient or doesn't line up with a specific political party or agenda.

 

Let's save the American history for our classrooms and save the spiritual history for how we treat others.  Show others that love conquered all on a cross.

 

Because if there's a history worth fighting for, it's that one.

 

Class dismissed.

Fatty Unforgiveness

I think I've stopped and restarted this post a hundred times.  Not this exact post, but a form of it.  I've wanted for years to do a blog about forgiveness and how to best go about it, but I never can quite get the engine going after a few paragraphs.

 

I think it's because even after all these years as a Christian, I haven't had the faintest clue about the keys to successful forgiveness.

 

It's a hard concept.

 

My weaknesses surely outnumber my strengths when it comes to my spiritual profile, but I always felt like God bestowed a fiftieth of what He should have when it came to my forgiveness abilities.  I'm not good at it, and I never have been.  Even when forgiving the small offenses, I'm operating more on the level of a kindergartner than a college student.  For most of my life, the rule has been that if you do something to me or someone I love, you're out.  I don't enjoy feeling hurt, so I'd rather have a small group of trusted people in my life than a large group of iffy peers.  It's the simplest way.

 

But it isn't the godly way.

 

So all right, God, I've said.  If you want me to forgive, then it comes with conditions.  I want apologies--good ones.  I want 180-degree changes.  I want sucking up, or else no deal!  It's the smartest way.

 

But again, that isn't really what we're called to do either.

 

You can cite Scripture all day long to support a theory that forgiveness depends on repentance and apologies and a softened heart, and I'm here to tell you, I don't buy it.  As much as I enjoy withholding grace and forgiveness for my own sick satisfactions, I don't believe God ever intended us to have such strict requirements for living free and unburdened by what others have done to us.

 

But how do I say that and explain that when the circumstances really suck?  Sure, I've dealt with some unfortunate things in my life where I'm [still] navigating the world of forgiveness,  but it's nothing compared to what some people have been through.

 

And every time I've tried to write this post, that's one thing that stops me.  I'll think, I've sort of got this figured out.  But what if someone were to come to me and say, "I've had someone molest me.  I've been raped.  Someone murdered my child.  Someone really hurt me, and it messed me up.  It messed my family up."  Does what I've crafted in a lesson about forgiveness make sense for these people?  And the answer is that I fear that I would be laughed in the face for my all-too-overly-simplified version of one of God's greatest charges.  If it can't be helpful all the way around--from the smallest insult to the most evil ruination--I have backed away and deleted what I had.

 

But the question never stops gnawing away at me--how do we learn to forgive and move forward when someone hurts us--apologetically or unapologetically?

 

I want it to be a clear answer.  Something magical--something that provides overnight success.  I think of my favorite character in the Bible, Joseph, and how he managed to have such grace and forgiveness for his brothers, who treated him so terribly. 

 

Genuine forgiveness.  It is possible.  

 

There's got to be a secret--and yet, nothing is really outlined in the Bible about how he came to that place.  It reads: his brothers want him dead and he ends up in prison blah blah blah Potipher's wife blah blah blah second in command in Egypt and poof! He cries tears of joy when he is reunited with these would-be murderers, bestows grace upon them, and all is well.

 

What happened in the in-between?

 

Did an angel dip him in a pool of holiness?  Did he develop amnesia?  Did he have a lobotomy?  Did the Men in Black erase his memory with that little stick thing?

 

And then an answer came quietly to me a week or so ago.

 

There is no easy answer, no magic step.

 

The best way I know to describe it involves what you might consider an eye-rolling analogy to weight loss.

 

But hear me out...

Many of us are on a constant quest to lose weight and improve our health.  For some, that's five pounds of bloat that revisit us from time to time (and definitely during the holidays), and for some, that's hundreds of pounds accumulated from a lifetime of poor choices or a bad hand of genetics.

 

And we all want a quick fix, right?  To snap our fingers and be improved.  To be the best versions of ourselves.

 

But the truth is, those "overnight diets" are often only compatible with minor weight loss needs--water weight, usually.  Think of the water weight loss crowd as those who have minor forgiveness needs--only a little work for a short time nips the problem in the bud, and while it may return periodically, it's always easy to remove.  That's because the weight isn't serious; it's temporary.  It isn't harmful to our health, and we can very simply pretend once it's off that it never even happened.

 

And then there are those of us (raising my hand here!) who become loaded down with fatty, fatty unforgiveness.  The kind that may have been originally not our fault but that we have exacerbated and worsened by our unwillingness to do anything about it.  When it becomes evident that the work is going to be really hard and overwhelming, it becomes convenient to ignore the problem and reach for what tastes good--those words of negativity about the wrongdoer that are so juicy and flavorful.  Words we crave because they bring a temporary euphoria, only to leave us feeling worse off once it passes.  We may refuse to do any sort of movement or exercising of what might be some inner hidden strength because it's easy to sit around and hope something changes.  And as it piles up, it becomes a problem for how well our hearts can function.  We become ineffective, unhealthy, unrecognizable, and it might even do us in.

 

In the not so distant past, I've experienced some serious unforgiveness obesity that, for a time, I ignored and became complacent with.  I could blame it on my circumstances and anything else I wanted, but the reason it was sticking was entirely my choice.  And now I have set out on a mission to shed what I've allowed to clog up my heart, and I'd love to share what's helped me along.

 

First, I've had to stop reaching for the things that naturally taste good to me.  If criticisms are the cheeseburgers, then compliments (or even in some cases silence!) are the fruits and vegetables.

Only one category originally felt delicious, but I have been making a concentrated effort to pick the healthier option.  Not everyone will be able to reach for the compliment (let's call this the *gag* kale, shall we?), and for good reason!  But aiming for whatever the more positive option may be has started to change my taste buds.  The veggies are no longer so terrible because I've acquired a taste for them.  Indulging in the other still happens because, of course it happens.  I'm human.  But the hard work is starting make a change, and it has started making those choices simpler.

 

Second, I've had to do some moving.  Not anything crazy or marathon-ish.  But I've had to make myself get out of my comfort zone.  If being a couch potato is expecting the person who wronged you to come around and do something nice for you, then lifting weights is doing something nice for them (or again, just refraining from doing something mean--baby steps here, people!).  Once you find the strength to do the smallest of movements, it may become easier to do something bigger, especially if you choose to make it more of a habit.

 

Third, at one point, I did have to see a specialist.  When I first started going through my separation and divorce, I needed lots of help navigating my feelings, and I feel no shame in saying that I went to counseling.  It took sifting through a few personalities to find the one that was right for me, but once I found him, he helped me toward a much more promising path of progress.  And while I haven't had to see him in years, I still have some of his wisdom tucked away for when a rough patch pops up.  If your situation is really difficult and the weight isn't budging, it can be helpful to have someone who knows what they're doing guide you along.

 

And lastly, I've had to give myself lots of time and patience.  It may never be perfect...because goodness knows that I never will be.  I think in many ways, God intended forgiveness to be hard because it proves how awe-inspiring His forgiveness for us is.  To consider the pain that we cause Him and the ease with which He continues to love us will forever be a mystery to me.  And it serves as a reminder of how imperfect I am, for as much as I have wanted those who have hurt me to be thought of for their imperfections, I see my own failures when I fight to move forward.  It has been a humbling few years to see how God levels the playing field with our shortcomings, and He is good to remind me that I'm no better or worse than those who struggle alongside me in this world.

 

As a final thought, I wish to recall a blog post I read several years ago about a woman struggling to forgive her husband for having an affair.  If only I could remember the site to give credit where it's due (and so you could read it for yourself--it was beautifully done), but I'm afraid it's slipped away from my memory.  She wrote of her reluctance to let her anger toward him go but how God molded her heart with a simple everyday chore: making the bed.  As she made her bed every morning, she intentionally prayed for the ability to forgive him.  As the bed would be messy every morning and in need of a cleanup, so would her heart and attitude need the daily tidying.  Forgiving him had to become a habit and a frequent choice. 

 

And I think that is the biggest takeaway here for me.  As much as I'd like it to be as easy as saying that I forgive someone and the slate is wiped clean, it will take lots of actions for me to make that forgiveness a reality and keep it a reality.

 

God has dealt kindly with me as I've muddied along.  For a time, I was angry, and He allowed me to be because it was what I needed.  May we never forget that the God who desires holiness from us also created the nooks and crannies of our humanness and allows us grace to process things that are complicated.  Expecting too much of ourselves too soon can lead to resentment and setbacks, so I take great comfort in reminding myself that God is patient with me, and I should be patient with me, too.  But now, the time for anger has expired.  And while I have had to learn many lessons in the last few years (and feel like I should be due a break!), I can feel Him nudge my heart and say, "Let's go a little further."  We've learned algebra, and now it's time for calculus; the challenges never stop.

 

And so, from one recovering overfat-with-unforgiveness Christian to another, I hope that you realize that it doesn't have to be this way.  You don't have to be this way.  Don't let the power of what someone else did poison the core of who you are.  There is a you beneath the weight that deserves to feel lighter.  A you that deserves to feel free.  A heart that deserves to function the way it should.  Your ability to have peace should stop depending on the downfall of someone else, and I hope that you take very seriously what could happen to who you are if that becomes your soul's greatest longing. 

 

You can be way better than that.

 

So put down the cheeseburger--I know it tastes fulfilling, but trust me, it isn't.  And choose to reach for some veggies.  Choose to reach for something healthier.  Choose to make the bed. 

 

Choose to forgive.

Benning's Birth, Our Crazy Summer, and More!

Hellooooooo, arrows!!!

I couldn't believe when I sat down to type this this morning that I haven't done a single new post this entire calendar year!  That sure speaks to how insane our year has been!

First, although we've updated like crazy on our Facebook accounts about Benning's first three months with us, I haven't said a word about him on the blog!  And because I tend to be [slightly] obsessed with people's birth stories, I thought I would share a little about his.

Rewinding to early March....

I had been cruising along on a great path to what I had assumed would be a full term delivery, just like Harlow's.  I was still working out, still working, and growing what I feared would be a humungo newborn because my poor stomach stuck out like a giant torpedo from about ohhhh 26 weeks on.  

And then, at 33 weeks, I started to feel funny one day at work.  I didn't feel BAD, just off.  I called my doctor's office (since they are basically two feet from where I work), and she suggested that I come on in.  Lo and behold, I was apparently already contracting and progressing, so she classified me as "threatened preterm labor," put me on a host of medicine to calm everything down, and sent me home for the weekend on bedrest (and with a steroid shot I had to give myself).

Y'all.  Can I just be honest and say that I had never in my 8 years of being an RN had to give an IM shot to an adult (hellooooo I work in baby world), and my first EVER to give to an adult was to MYSELF.  Hooey.  That was nasty and painful and I did some sort of disgusting scream/laugh/cry while I did it and for like fifteen minutes after.  I was like, this is it.  This is where it ends.  With me being a big baby sobbing on the bed convincing myself that my leg is going to fall off from this cursed steroid shot.

But it all worked!  The meds calmed down my contractions and slowed my progression, so I was sent back to work with restrictions, told I had a 50/50 chance of having a preemie, and assured that I would DEFINITELY not make it to my due date of 4/28...and probably wouldn't make it to April.

So we waited with bated breath.  Week after week, I kept progressing, but he stayed put.  Every shift I worked, they told me I wouldn't make it through the twelve hours [and I think the Labor and Delivery girls sometimes kept a room reserved for me! Ha!], but I did.  Shift after shift.  Day after day.  Week after week.

And when we closed in on 39 weeks, I started to panic that this baby was going to be born on the interstate because I had progressed so far.  All it was going to take was one final nudge, and he was going to be here.  So we scheduled an induction for 4/24--safely within 39 weeks and when my doctor could be there to deliver him.

And wouldn't you know it?  I made it all the way to my induction!  But I was so far along in the process, it took a broken water, an inch of Pitocin, less than four hours (at 11:59 am) and two contractions of pushing, and Benning Wilde Parker was in my arms.

Oh happy day!  He was perfect in every way possible!  He was 8 lbs 9oz, which wasn't nearly as big as I'd been afraid of, and he was healthy, crying, and absolutely beautiful.  I snuggled him once he'd gotten weighed and while my doctor attempted to finish my delivery and then...

She couldn't get the placenta to come out.  She wasn't panicked, but I could tell she was trying to make sure I didn't panic.  She told me it was coming out in pieces, but that they were getting it.  There was lots of painful stomach mashing, and then she had my nurse call out to the desk for a shot of methergine.  I looked at her working away and said, "Am I hemorrhaging?"

"Not yet," she said.  "You've lost about 500 mL at this point [0.5 liter], and I just want to make sure you don't lose much more."  They quickly came in with the shot, gave it in my leg, and the awful stomach mashing continued.  She told me she was going to do a curretage [a D&C without the D], to make sure she got everything, and then mid more stomach mashing, I started seeing stars.  I was either going to throw up or pass out, and I was still holding Benning.

"I feel bad," I said, trying to be as loud as I could.  "I FEEL BAD," I said again, much louder.

"You do?" my doctor asked.  I yelled at Brooks to come over to get Benning, someone tossed me an emesis basin, and I got sick and fell backwards on the bed.  Suddenly there was lots of commotion in the room and lots of new people working on me.  Someone told me they were going to start another IV.  There was a cart by the bed.  I heard something about a blood transfusion.  More stomach mashing. Lots of pressure and pain.  More nausea.  Antibiotics were ordered.  Something about a balloon and packing.

I looked at the clock and it had already been almost an hour since he'd been born when Brooks finally asked from the couch, "Is she okay?"

They said I was stable now but that I had lost 1500mL of blood [500mL is the preferred max with a non C-section delivery], so clinically, a pretty significant postpartum hemorrhage.  She told me that she was glad the balloon [which was placed to hold pressure to stop the bleeding] and packing were working so that I "didn't have to see her surgical skills" that day.  Yikes! I was scared and exhausted and felt awful.  Because I was now chained to the bed with a drain, a catheter, an epidural, and two IVs, I was told I couldn't go upstairs to postpartum and would remain exactly like I was for the next 24 hours.  And for those of you reading who are in the medical field, here is what my schedule looked like:

-Methergine pills every 6 hours to make me contract and stop bleeding [THIS HURT LIKE A WORD I CAN'T SAY ON A CHRISTIAN BLOG]

-IV antibiotics every 8 hours

-hourly fundal massages [AKA a beating to my abdomen]

-a blood transfusion at 1am over 2 hours

-feeding my baby every 3 hours

The pain from the afterbirth contractions was far and away the worst pain of my entire life.  It made my toes curl, and I apologize to anyone who was in the room that day and heard me cussing under my breath at the pain.  And the only medicine that helps me with that kind of pain [Motrin, I love you], I couldn't have because of all of my bleeding.  I was M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E all night long.  I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't move.  I missed Benning's first bath.  I couldn't enjoy holding or snuggling him.  I couldn't enjoy visiting with my family.  And all I could have all night was Sprite [I think I drank like six of them].

Luckily, some of my NICU friends came and "kidnapped" Benning in the middle of the night to snuggle him, so that I could try and rest.

By the 24 hour mark, my doctor freed me from the IVs, drain, packing, and balloon, and even said I could eat [!!!].  I was finally going up to postpartum...buuuuut I still couldn't have my Motrin until another 24 hours had passed, so that meant still lots of pain.

I relished being in a quiet room upstairs.  I held Benning as much as I could and enjoyed kissing him and cuddling him.  I spent one more night in the hospital, and before Brooks went home to get some sleep, he cleaned me up, washed AND dried my hair with the blow dryer, put me in actual PJs instead of that awful hospital gown, and even spritzed perfume on my wrists-- you know, because he thought it might make me feel better :).

We were home the next day and by the end of the week, I was feeling so much better. (It wasn't all over though...at 9 weeks postpartum on 6/30, I was still having some issues, and they found out from an ultrasound that I STILL had placenta in me more than two months later. I had to have a second D&C that same day. Whew!)

It wasn't at all how I'd expected delivery to go, and I hated that it ruined my ability to enjoy that first day with him, but all's well that ends well.  We have a beautiful, healthy boy who NAPS.  AND SLEEPS ALL NIGHT LONG.  IN HIS CRIB.

And now I'm knocking on every piece of wood I can find ;).  But really, he's a delightful, squishy fella.  He's busting off the growth charts, smiling and laughing, and already rolling from belly to back and tripod sitting at 3 months!  

He is strong and happy, and aside from some nasty spitting up from some reflux, he is an absolute dream.  And for those so interested in how we chose his name, we went with a "movie star name" theme. So now we have a Harlow (as in Jean Harlow) and a Benning (as in Annette Bening...just an extra "n"), with Wilde coming from Oscar Wilde. We do call him Benning and not Ben, although Harlow likes to call him "Benny Boo" :). 

I get asked all the time how Harlow is doing in her new role as big sister.  She's exactly as I thought she would be--fabulous!  

She is a little mommy to him.  She is great at giving him his pacifier, tries to make him smile when he cries, and her greatest downfall is how slow she is to obey because she can't stop kissing him.  We had a few days of "wanting to sit in Mommy's lap like Benning does" and the like, but overall, she has transitioned as well as I knew she would.  

She has had an exciting few months herself!  Just two weeks or so after becoming a big sister, she took a big girl trip to Rome with her dad, then graduated Pre-K, turned 5, learned how to really ride [and enjoy!] her bike, got her first loose tooth, spent a week in NYC and saw the Statue of Liberty, spent a week in Florida with us, and is now ONE WEEK away from starting Kindergarten. Whew! Where did my baby girl go? 

Admittedly, I'm not as excited as I should be for her to start school because I can't believe how fast time is moving. I want her to grow up but I also really, really don't. All of those beautiful baby teeth we worked so hard to cut are about to fall out and make room for those ginormous adult teeth that are likely to grow in crooked and spell the need for braces. She'll be gone every week day. No more sleeping in with leisurely breakfasts together or long hours by the pool watching her perfect her "cannitball." It's finally here: big kid world. Homework and backpacks and addition and subtraction. Dress codes. New friends and teachers. Reading. Early bed times. Oh the things that await! Ready or not, sink or swim, here we come!!

Once we settle into a new routine, I have some personal lessons I've learned that I'd love to find the time to share with you. But until then, we'll keep juggling all the pieces that make up our crazy, exciting, and fun life right on into the fall. 

Until next time, arrows....

Xoxo,

Chels

Lord, Remind Me

Christmas time brings so much beauty.

Beauty in the landscape--bare, silent, frosty mornings that make us beg for the cozy warmth of thick blankets and hot chocolate.  In the lights that twinkle and signal happiness down most streets.  In the warm window lights when passing homes in the evening, allowing passersby to steal glimpses of their neighbors' trees, their excitement, their memories, their joy.

Beauty in the way we reach out to others.  There are food and clothing drives, angel trees and Operation Christmas Child.  We tend to feel more charitable.  We take time for family and friends to celebrate our love for one another.

Beauty in the sounds--the jingle bells in the background of every radio song.  A Christmas tune on the lips of most, for they've been hearing them since the day after Thanksgiving.

 

It really does feel like the most wonderful time of the year, but I only really look forward to it every other year.  One of the hardest things about being divorced is that I only get to spend half of my Christmases with my daughter.  And while we make the most of what time we have leading up to the big day, there is a void left when she isn't there on the 24th and the 25th.  When I can't tuck her in and tell her excited little spirit to calm down so Santa can come.  When she isn't next to me for the Christmas Eve candlelight service in her pretty Christmas dress.  When there isn't a pile of unrecognizably designed Christmas cookies, where she got bored with decorating and decided to just lick all of the frosting out of their containers.  When there's an empty spot on the floor where we open our gifts on Christmas morning.  I am so blessed with wonderful family and traditions, but no matter what I have surrounding me, if she isn't there, it doesn't quite feel complete.

 

It sucks.  I've been dreading this December for months now because I knew it would be hard.  Some days, I can talk myself through it, that it could always be worse, and then other days, I give in and throw myself a pity party.  I'll cry or be angry and ruminate how none of it was my choice to ever be separated from her, how it isn't fair.  I'll get mad at God sometimes, unfairly so.

 

But even when I'm mad at God, I still want Him to teach me something because I never want feeling this way to be for naught.  And while He's allowed me to make loads of Christmas memories to carry me through until she leaves tomorrow for almost two weeks, last night, He finally started to give me a lesson to take with me when she's gone.

 

I went to hear some dear friends, Jon and Valerie Guerra, perform some of their Christmas music the other night.  They are wildly talented, and I've enjoyed getting to watch them grow and evolve over the last few years while Brooks has managed them.  One night last year, while they were staying at our house, they played us a song they had written called, "Lord, Remind Me."  From the moment I heard it, God greatly impressed some of the lyrics on my heart, and every time I listen to them sing it, the freshness is still there with which I receive its message.  And on Friday night when they performed it, God allowed the chorus and the bridge to teach my heart how to keep moving through this anticipated holiday.

 

~~

 

Lord, remind me

Lord, remind me

That the shepherds heard the angels break the silence in the field

That the wise men found a baby and they could not help but kneel

That the One who heard our weeping became a child in a manger sleeping

Lord, remind me

Cause it's Christmas, and I want to remember

 

Tell me how He loves me

Tell me how He wants me

Tell me the story like I've never heard before

And I'll sing it like the angels

Sing it with my whole heart

Sing it to Him who's worth a thousand songs and more

 

Glory in the highest

Glory in the lowest

Glory that shines when nothing seems to shine at all

 

Glory in the highest

Glory in the lowest

Emmanuel

 

~~

 

I remember the first time I heard Jon sing "glory in the lowest" at our house and thinking, huh.  All we ever sing at Christmas time is about giving glory to God in the highest.  It speaks to His magnificence and splendor, His greatness and position over us.  Glory to God in the highest!

 

But then--glory in the lowest, too.  

 

The phrase was so unexpected, and I sat and pondered it for several minutes.  Glory in the lowest?  At first, I took it to mean that we give glory to God on high in the heavens and also glory to the tiny baby in the manger--the lowliest way He could have possibly come to us.  

 

I began to wonder if maybe Mary, sore and pained from labor, looked at the muck and grime around her, peered at her perfect new Son lying in a feeding bin, then turned toward heaven and said, "Really?? Is this the best you can do, God?"  Was she disappointed, or did she feel like complaining that God had selected this disgusting setting for the birth of His Son?  Did she, if even momentarily, focus on how God had done His miracle instead of the miracle itself?

 

And as I pictured myself sitting in the hay alongside the Lord's tired new mother, I honed in on the manger.  The cradle that heralded Jesus.  No, it wasn't good enough, not even for a regular baby.  But here was how God was making His impact.  By meeting the world in the lowest.  In a single wooden manger, God had managed to speak volumes--how great He is that He can make even a dirty barn lovely and purposeful, and yet that He is not too great to join us in the mud and manure.

 

God gave me a little nudge.  Stop concentrating on the manger.

 

What?

 

The manger.  The way I choose to come to you.  Stop looking at the manger.  Look at Me.

 

And I realized, that's exactly my problem.  

 

You see, God drew near to me and presented himself to me most visibly in my divorce.  My divorce is my manger.  The ugly, crude, splintered backdrop that seemed out of place for anything wonderful to happen.  And yet, it was.  It was the very thing that caused me to bend my knees.  To fall at His feet, to understand what I couldn't before.

 

It brought Him to me and me to Him.

 

And the painful facet of being separated from Harlow every other Christmas (and other times) also serves as a manger.  Anytime it gets uncomfortable, anytime it doesn't make sense.  Anytime it feels so low--that's when He shows up again.

 

The manger--how He chooses to draw near to me--it matters, but it doesn't.  It matters in that it's very telling in what it takes for us to pay attention to Him.  But yet, it really doesn't matter how He comes.  It only matters that He does.

 

That He left the highest so that we don't have to be alone in the lowest.  That He gets uncomfortable right along with us.  And when she leaves tomorrow for the longest stretch of time we've had to be apart, I sense that He's nestling in the hay beside me.

 

Like the wonders of the night sky that get drowned out by the lights of a city, God knows we tend to need darkness for us to see Him most clearly.  That, like the song says, He might shine when nothing seems to shine at all.

 

Maybe your manger isn't really present at Christmas.  Maybe it's in the spring or the summer, or maybe you haven't quite come to a manger yet.  But sooner or later, He tends to invite you to a barn so that He can offer Himself to you.  Sometimes the manger seems really big, and Jesus can feel really small.  But I pray that no matter the setting, you will find yourself able to move past how He chooses to come and look inside at what He's trying to show you.

 

He's here.

 

Lord, remind me.

 

He's here in the highest.

 

Lord, remind me.

 

He's here in the lowest.

 

Lord, remind me to give glory either way.

 

For it's Christmas, my heart is quiet, the void is there.

 

And I want to remember.

Fifty Shades of Grace

It was bright and sunny that day.  A perfect summer afternoon, ripe for sitting on the back patio and catching some rays while a one-year-old Harlow took a nap.  I gathered my towel, and placed my hand on the sliding door handle, but could barely give it a nudge once I looked in the backyard next door.

It was my neighbor.  Normally not without a smile on her face, she was loudly sobbing as she sat on her knees in the middle of her garden, raking her tools through the dirt with an anger and despair that proved to weaken her strokes.

Just days before, she had told me that she and her husband were going to divorce.  Although it appeared to be a necessary move in her situation, she was utterly heartbroken, livid, and devastated.

It came at a time in my life when I naively turned my nose up at the idea of anyone getting a divorce--not out of compassion or empathy, but out of disdain for the seemingly ungodly ending to a godly institution.  In my opinion at the time, divorce never really had to be an option.  It was for people who didn't try hard enough, who were selfish.  People who didn't put their children first.  People who didn't care what God thought.  And if divorce came to pass?  Well, then they deserved every bit of the pain that would ensue.  That deserves shame.  That deserves a heavy conscience.  That deserves punishment.  And I didn't know that it deserved much grace.

I watched carefully, making sure my breathing was quiet and even, as though she could hear me from 50 yards away.  She continued raking, each movement becoming more worn out than the last, until she abandoned the pretense and let her tool fall to the ground before leaning her head back and releasing an unstifled cry.

What should I do?  I pondered for several minutes.  Maybe I should go sit with her?  Hmm.  The thought bristled against my introverted personality.

No, maybe she just wants to be alone.

Or was it mere cowardice that wanted to assume that she desired to be alone?

Look at her, I thought.  She is miserable.  She looks so alone.  She has no one out there with her. 

I hesitated another minute or so and then opened the door.  I walked gingerly through the grass, so as not to frighten her, and as I drew near, she glanced my way and gave a get-it-together sniff, followed by another reflexive sob.

She was filthy and tear-stained, and my heart tore.

It was the first time I had ever seen the ugliness and destruction of divorce up close.  I lost the ability to judge her, and all I wanted was to be there for her.

And so I sat.  Right there in the dirt with her.  And she cried more and told me of her hurts, and I had no idea what to say back.  I really don't know if it brought her any comfort at all, but I just kept sitting until the moment seemed to lessen for her.

And sitting in the dust and grime and remaining quiet taught me more about releasing my judgment than a sermon ever could. Even though I didn't yet understand her pain, I understood from hearing and observing her pain up close that there was more to arriving at these "undesirable" situations than I had originally thought.  

It was something I couldn't experience from just praying for her safely from a distance.  It was an understanding that only came from getting the dust on my clothes with her.

And oh, if only I could have seen that only a month or two later, I would be in a similar spot, sitting in my own pile of dirt and needing someone to get dirty on my behalf, too.

I have a lot on my mind lately.  I posted a series several months back about ways we falsely advertise Jesus, grace, and forgiveness.  I have become exceedingly passionate about finding ways to speak out against the norm of shunning people for certain lifestyles and mistakes and making them feel unwelcome in the church.

And while I felt empowered to write and share those things with my readers, I have become extremely disheartened over the last few months--especially the last two weeks.  The topic of abortion has brought about a rage in my Facebook newsfeed, mostly from Christians who, obviously, proclaim the pro-life stance.

The posts make me so sad.  They are condemning and judgmental and full of hatred.  They scream how people who choose abortion are "dead inside."  "If you are pro-choice, YOU should have been aborted!" they shout.  They cry that these pro-choicers are "evil," "vile," "corrupt," "heartless."

They admit, it's because they don't understand how anybody gets to that point.

They don't get it.  Take any issue--a gay lifestyle.  Abortion.  Divorce.  Pornography addiction.  Premarital sex.  Being a Democrat (wink wink).

It's easy for the world to be black and white and to pass black-and-white judgment when you've really only experienced the white.  Those who've never experienced a stigma from a life circumstance, choice, or mistake.  You know exactly the kind of people I'm talking about.  The ones who've never really done anything all that wrong.  Sure, they've forgotten a Bible study here and there or skipped a tithe a few times, or maybe they've told a white lie when their wives asked them if their pants made them look fat.

The people who have never really experienced the dirt.  The lowliness of life.  The dirt and grime of sin and painful outcomes, whether self-inflicted or not, whether deserved or not.

They have never had to lie awake at night and wonder if God will ever forgive them, especially if the church won't.  They have never had to wonder if God still loves them after what they've done.  If when Jesus died, he could have really died for this.  If their life can ever be something worthwhile.  If they should abandon their faith now, for what's the point?

You are lucky if you've never had to be there.

But (and as speaking as one who lived in the black-and-white judgment mindset for most of my life) I do find it to be a hindrance.  When you never experience the depths of sin and brokenness, it makes it easy to judge the world by what you've been able to avoid.  It makes it nearly impossible to fathom how someone comes to the choice of abortion (or fill in the blank).  Having been in church my whole life, I understand that there tends to be a certain group of "downtroddenness" that is exempt from the harshest degrees of judgment.  We help the homeless (think Room in the Inn) which is wonderful and helpful to many people.  We support the people who have come back from the depths and are making their lives right again.

But where is the outreach for prostitutes and exotic dancers? For unwed mothers who can't stop having children with different men? For those on drugs? For those having affairs?  And on and on and on?

We SUCK at helping the people who are really in the middle of sin.  We don't sit in the dirt very much.  We stand in our houses far away and pray quietly.  We may open the door and yell that they deserve the pain.  We may only welcome them when they've cleaned themselves off and are repenting for God's grace and mercy.

No, it is rare that we volunteer to show up in the dirt with them.  To live it with them.  To be there.  To listen.  To offer support. 

You see, the dirt is where God often finds us. Remember the prodigal son?  The pig pen is where the testimony STARTS.

And it's where we're least likely to jump in.

Is it possible that as Christians we only want people at the END of their testimony instead of being there for them in the beginning and seeing them through?

We are so focused on the choice or the circumstance that we often forget the soul that's lost inside it.  The one who needs guidance.  The one who turns away from Christianity because, well, they can't help.  They just want to judge.  They only want me once I've got it together.  And what if I've never got it together?

And for some, I offer grace where the sin or circumstance feels "unforgivable" because of events in their own lives.  I understand the women who lash out against abortion because they suffer with infertility or have lost one or more children of their own.  I get it.  I have my own "unforgivable" that I have to work on.  I don't for one second understand infidelity or people who arrive at that decision.  I don't get people who walk out on their spouses who beg them to stay and fight.

But as distasteful as it is for me to learn, there is another side.

There is ALWAYS another side.

There is a way people get to the choices you don't like.

AND GOD WANTS THEM JUST AS MUCH AS HE WANTS YOU.

He wants the girl who had an abortion in high school just as much as He wants the girl who was a virgin until her wedding night.  He wants the man who had an affair as much as He wants the woman that was cheated on.  He wants the gay man, the lesbian, the pornography addicts, the preachers, the sinners, the atheists, the die-hard evangelicals, the Republicans, the Democrats, the prideful, the weak.

He wants the son who didn't do anything wrong.  And He wants the prodigal who got nothing right.

Just because you haven't lived a life of doing a lot of wrong doesn't mean you've lived a life of doing a lot of right. (And let's be honest...there are people who get a lot wrong and still do a lot of stuff right!)

The right comes in how you respond to the world around you.  In how you help the ones who make the "vilest" and "dead-inside" mistakes.  In how you sit in the dirt.

You think you are winning a battle, but you are rapidly losing a war.  And forget the idea that taking in these people is merely a method of rationalization for wrongdoing.  That is a cop-out.  Maybe the choice is wrong.  Maybe they deserve the consequences.  The outcome isn't for you to decide for that person.  But it is our job to help them have the best chance at coming out of it for the better.

Dare to reach out when it's ugly. Dare to find compassion when there is nothing but judgment.  Dare to see the world less as black and white or wrong and right, and more as a million shades of circumstances, journeys, and testimonies that are all wrapped up in God's marvelous grace.

Stop looking at the people who have jumped or fallen overboard and deciding whether or not they're scared enough before you jump in and get them a raft.  Stop being so hateful!

We are the hands and feet of a God whose love doesn't run out. And until we learn how to make loving people more important to us than yelling about the things we don't wish to understand, the world will continue to sit in the dirt alone.

May those who need Him most succeed in their life and faith because of us and not in spite of us.

For no matter what we stand for or what we believe, none of it matters at all without love.

If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love,

I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.

If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day,

and if I have faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps,

but I don't love, I'm nothing.

If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr,

but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere.

So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do,

I'm bankrupt without love.

1 Corinthians 13:1-7, The Message