The Promiscuous Wife: A Culture of Church Leavers

We just took another swing at a new church in Texas, and were called on strike seven. When you try seven churches without success in a new place, you begin to question whether you are perhaps being too picky, looking for something that does not exist, or even, if you are outside the will of God in this place. None of these are reasonable assumptions, but as the depressing succession of Sundays rolls past, leaving you no closer to fellowship than when you started, you do wonder.

Combine with this the struggles of the church you just left in Utah, and theories start forming in the mind. Why is it so challenging to find a "good" church? What makes a "good" church? Why do people seem to leave churches like cable companies for the next best thing? Anyone who has spent any amount of time in an evangelical christian church knows that we live in a modern culture of church leavers. When did this become not only acceptable, but our right as believers?

In Ephesians 5 the relationship between Christ and the church is given as a parallel to the relationship between husbands and wives. The church is the bride of Christ. Christ gave himself up for her, loves her, nourishes her, and is encouraging her to greater things, to a more perfect life. The church in turn offers beautiful submission to Christ, serves His plan before her own, and acts in obedience to the will of the One who gave everything for her good. It is an incredible picture of temporal marriage and eternal submission.

Why not view the relationship between a believer and the church the same way? It is not necessarily written down in Scripture, it is just my own perspective, but from my studies it seems consistent with the character of God and His plan for us.

Why it is hard to find a "good" church (and what that means):

I have heard so many people say of churches, both those following the will of God and those in disobedience in some area (or many areas), that they walked in and it just "felt right." There are many variations of this idea: "I felt such peace here", "I experienced joy here the second I came in", "the people were so kind, it felt like home". This is the love at first sight church relationship. You walk in and something elemental or temporal feeds your senses and emotions. You have an "experience" that leaves you feeling blissful, loved, and comfortable. Love at first sight in finding a church is just like love at first sight when seeing a person. You have a connection based on the appearance or demeanor of an individual that sparks an emotional response. It feels very good, and it feels very real.

But it isn't.

I'm not saying that love at first sight cannot work, but there has to be substance, character, and perseverance behind the initial experience. We love entering a new relationship and having the exciting, romantic feeling, but it will not outlast the superficialness of infatuation.

Something will happen, and the church will not "feel right" anymore. They will hire a staff member that you don't like. They will not manage funds in a way you approve. Someone will be unkind, and suddenly the church that was so loving, doesn't feel so much like home.

In relationships, this is why we have a culture where 50% of marriages end in divorce. He changes, she changes, annoying habits appear, old grudges poke out, and suddenly the emotional high of love at first sight vanishes in a cloud of the drudgery of life. Perhaps this is the same reason we change churches like we change our socks: because it was based on emotion and appearances from the beginning.

Emotions are so tempting. We visited a church that was the right size, had people our age, sang songs I knew and loved, had a dynamic time of worship, and had a women's ministry. It felt wonderful. I was thoroughly encouraged by being there. Sure, they had a woman give a devotional in authority over men. Yes, they believed in the miraculous gifts as still relevant for today. Okay, so the pastor read into the text, to pull out what he needed it to say. But it felt so wonderful. So much like home.

Justin and I will not attend that church again. Because one day they will pick a song I despise. One day one of these nice people will be a jerk. One day they will get much bigger or much smaller and it won't feel so homey. And when that day comes (as it will in every single church. Let me say it again: it will happen in every church!), there will be no reason to stay. There is no substance there, no commitment to truth, no commitment to the will of God over the tug of modern thought. So regardless of how desperate I am for a home, how desperate I am for the love of other Christians, it is better to be patient now, to avoid pain later.

And that's really why it is hard to find a church. Because you have to wait and pick the right one. Before I was married the primary piece of relational advice strong, mature Christians gave me was this: pick a man you can joyfully submit to in all things. The work of making a marriage work is a lot easier when you do it before ever walking down the aisle. I would die for my husband. I would live in poverty or pain or peril for my husband. I would live this life day to day unchanged doing dishes, vacuuming floors, and never seeing a glimmer of excitement because my husband is awesome! He strives with his every living breath to care for me as Christ cared for the church. Our marriage rocks; because we waited for substance, quality, and character.

You want to stay at your church forever? Pick a church worth staying at. Pick a good church.

And there is only one thing that makes a good church: unflinching, unwavering commitment to the complete, inerrant truth of God's word.

Everything else is in there. A church that hungrily devours the word of God will worship with passion. It doesn't matter if it is with organ or drums or guitar or didgeridoo, it will be with passion. A church in love with the Bible will love you unconditionally and forgive your faults and work to restore you to fellowship because that is what God has asked in His book. A church who knows their Bible and has let it saturate their minds to the point of effecting every decision made will handle finances, ministries, missions, and discipline in the will of God. Maybe not the way you like, but in His plan.

There is no perfect church, just like there is no perfect spouse. But pick a good one, and you will find yourself able to forgive every fault, committed to this home until the end of all things; because there is integrity under it all.

It seems like a tall order to do all this work. I already had to select a good spouse; I have to labor at finding a church too? Why bother? I can leave at any time and find one that I like better.

You work because of the reward. Because if you stick it out with your church you will grow closer to them than to your own family. They will stand by you in all things, and you will have the joy of using your gifts to bless others. You will have a place and a purpose and a hope. But even all of this is not the reward.

Your reward is that glory will be brought to the Name of our matchless, omni-loving, Creator God who bled on the cross, and defeated death for the sake of your one spirit. You will bring Him glory. And that is enough. That is enough to persevere. That is enough to struggle.

That ought to be enough to not step out on your church. I am guilty of it. Maybe there is something better out there, people our age, people like us, better worship, more moving sermons, convenient Bible study times, something else. I'm not saying it is adultery to visit another church. I'm saying it is adultery to visit another church with the intention of finding something better for yourself. It all comes back to selfishness. What about my needs? My preferences? My friends? What about my style, my voice, my heart? He was mean, she is boring, they are different. It doesn't suit me.

The reason God did not make me a pastor's wife is because I'm mean. He is working on me. But it's a process. So here it is: the mean:

Tough.

He wronged me.

Tough. That's your church. Take some initiative. Take some responsibility. Fix it. Don't abandon your marriage church because of one slight. Not because of two. Not because of seventy times seven (Matthew 18). It is not about you. It is about God's will: unity in the body (Ephesians 4). It is about the love of Christ covering a multitude of sins (1 Peter 4). Forgive as Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4).

I don't like the pastor's preaching.

Tough. Does he speak the truth? Does he challenge you to live your new life in Christ? Are you doing your part to study what he says, to read for yourself, to apply it daily, to meditate on his words and more importantly The Word all week? Your preference for his style is not reason enough to step out on your family. Tough.

I don't like all that clamor they call worship.

Tough. Do they praise the name of Jesus? Are you doing your part to fall flat on your face before God and pour out every blessing and adoration of which your human brain can conceive regardless of the clamor you yourself may be? I don't like his voice would not be a good enough reason to step out on your husband, don't use it to weasel out on your church.

Just like there is only one thing that makes a good church, there is only one reason for leaving a church: Failure of the leadership to adore the Word of God. If they let gross sin reign in the body, or if they teach any doctrine other than what is printed in the sixty-six books of God's revealed Bible, you get an out. That's it. And you best be about addressing the problem before sneaking off like a coward.

Too mean?

Sorry.

My point is this: God takes marriage seriously. He says he hates divorce (Malachi 2). He refuses to listen to men's prayers when they do not honor their wives (1 Peter 3). Marriage is the first divine institution He establishes, and He deems it physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually a union not to be broken by men (Genesis 2). He takes purity in marriage seriously.

Perhaps if we viewed our relationship with our church as a marriage, we would begin to understand God's heart for our church and for us. He takes our choice to participate in the local body seriously. He gave us gifts for our church and for His glory. He gives us brothers and sisters so that the world might see His divine love and compassion poured out. When we leave our home, God takes it seriously. His will is this: "If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." (Romans 12:18) The call is somber, but the reward is joy. Love your church, friends. Really really love them. Understand the will of God. Really really really love.

Let's Never Do that Again

My husband turned to me with the look of a man who is talked down off the edge because it would be too tiring to jump, and that man who I pledged to hold to in good, bad, and worse muttered the phrase, "Let's never do that again."

Rewind 34 hours.

I just said goodbye to my world. The ecstatic high of speaking at our church's women's retreat, being surrounded by friends and relations I'd known for years, was followed up by the dramatic low of packing everything I owned into a truck, realizing the truck had no address to go to, selling our house, and sleeping on couches for a couple nights. And then we had to say goodbyes.

The worst was saying goodbye to my sister-in-law. It took us forever to become friends. (That would be my fault. I am not conducive to be-friendings.) Now, I could call her at any time and know she would have the wisdom, the optimism, and the vicious bite I needed when in the throes of almost taking something on this planet seriously. I don't hold tightly to people. Some may see it as callousness, but it's my personality. I want folk to be useful. I want them to risk and choose and make a difference. I want people to serve a purpose, not my purpose, but a purpose. When they don't, they drift away, and I can't muster the hootzbah to reel them back in. But I wept leaving my sister-in-law. Because she is purpose, passion, and courage incarnate. In a world where I find it easier to grow enormous beanstalks and slay giants than to befriend another woman, she took up the adventure beside me.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to my wing girl. And I just want to ask why we all say we need a Goose? He dies people. So, I'll fall on that sword: I needed a Maverick. I was Goose, and I needed the star of the show to find value in me. I needed a woman who had big ideas, and wanted to do things, and blamed her drunk dead German ancestors every time she cried (which was right up along the lines of never. That's a girl I can get behind). Read the blog. I don't need to re-write it here. She's awesome. All that nice, but slightly untrue stuff she said about me (and really, Miss Pastor's Wife, we're going to lie in writing for all the world to see? bad form), I believe that about her, but for real. And we had to say goodbye. I didn't cry. But it's only because my dead German ancestors were sobered up by too much coffee and a swift slap in the face.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to my dog. He climbed into Grandma and Grandpa's car and sat there with that big stupid grin on his face, and I wept. He's obnoxious. But apparently I love him.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to our parents. My dad just held my son. He held him while everyone else was hugging, crying, and goodbye-ing. He didn't cry. And he didn't let him go. My mom just kept telling me it would all work out, that it would be alright. Because she has had to be courageous for years. She has had to hold people up unseen, but vibrantly beautiful. She wanted to make it well. And in my spirit I believe her, but my heart was broken.

Still puffy, we closed on our house and got on the road, hoping to reach Texas by dinnertime the next day. The kids had never been in the car for more than forty-five minutes in a spurt. We were now going to drive them 23 hours across country. What could go wrong?

Our last Sunday at our church I sang a song, "It Is Well." This has been the lesson of the last years. Mountains thrown into the sea, oceans broken for us, through it all it is well.

And I believed this, right up until I locked the keys in the trunk.

And we called the lock smith three times, and upon the third call they declared they had never heard of us before, so we called another locksmith, and we got back on the road three hours later.

And the bored cops in New Mexico pulled us over, despite the fact that we were the only people on the road and driving quite conservatively for the abandoned middle of the desert.

And the AC went out. At 2:00 in the afternoon. In New Mexico.

And we got lost. My fault. Directionally-challenged.

And we got pulled over again in the middle of Podunk, Texas at 2:30 in the morning, for going 76 in a 70 mile per hour zone. And as my husband desperately pleaded our case to the police officer, indicating his sleeping children in the back, the upside down map in his wife's hands, and the lack of coffee in his system, the officer felt himself a right good chap to let us off with a warning. But he didn't help us figure out where we are. He just left us there.

And we got lost in our soon-to-be home town. And we stopped to ask a guy outside a gas station. Who was either new to town himself or high. I'm going with high due to the massive donut in his hand.

And when we got to our hotel room there was one full size bed for all of us, so we made a nest of pillows and blankets for Noah on the floor. Because there's nothing like rewarding your child for being a traveling stud like a warm snuggly floor. They found a crib for Hannah, which we wedged between the desk and the bed.

As we peeled our contacts off our eyes, and collapsed into bed at a time when I would normally be getting up, my husband uttered the phrase, "Let's never do that again."

The next morning, I found this crumbled in the bottom of my backpack. I had scrawled it out at work. For no rational reason. Nothing was wrong at the time. I was just ruminating on the phrase. So after the voyage from hell, I read these words:

It is well.

Satisfied. Peaceful.

I am saved, assured, always and forever, my sin removed as far as the east is from the west, by the blood of my King, I am saved. It is well; because I have assurance.

God is good. Whatever darkness comes, whatever tragedy, pain, loss, grief, temptation, or sin, God is good. It is well; because He is good and creates goodness.

God is sovereign. He is on the throne. It is well because there is one Power who holds sway in my life, and It is a power of passionate affection. He is never inattentive, or unloving. It is well; because of who He is.

God provides. Whatever we need, He provides. Courage, counsel, grace, peace, joy, time, energy, family, friends, faith, finances. It is well because He delights to give when we need.

We can hope perfectly. I am a daughter of the King. I am promised an inheritance, an eternity in glory, an eternity of glory. It is well; because heaven is not far off.

Because I choose for it to be well. I choose to believe that my God is bigger, stronger, greater, better, more loving, kinder, more powerful, more in control, more than more of everything I hope in. It is well because I can make a choice, and I choose to be satisfied in Christ.

The Countdown

59 days left. There are 59 days left until my husband has his pinning ceremony, signaling the end of his BSN coursework. I don't know if I am allowed to be excited yet.

He graduated already. That ceremony was at the end of March. The director of the college stood up and declared that the students had completed all necessary requirements for graduation, and she conferred upon them all the rights and responsibilities of their achievement.

I should have gotten that in writing.

Because the nursing students had another quarter of classes and clinicals and homework and no rights, but many, many responsibilities to go.

I was happy for my husband at this point, but we couldn't really celebrate. We couldn't exhale yet.

Now I am counting down the days to his pining ceremony, which will be a more official graduation for the nursing students. But I am counting down these days alone. Justin has 180 hours of clinical work to complete, and his preceptor works nights. I get the kids ready for bed. I feed them, I bathe them, I change them, I break up brawls, and dry tears, and kiss ouchies better. I tuck them in: once around 7:00pm and again around 12:30am or 2:00am, or whenever they wake up and realize that they miss dad because he's really the cool one. Then at 5:00am I drag them out of bed and change diapers and clothes, and serve bottles, and dry more tears. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

If nothing else, I am gaining empathy for single moms. I couldn't do it. Or I could, but I would turn into a robot, and my kids would be glued to Veggie Tales eight hours a day.

With the hope of graduation less than two months away, this whole process is getting easier.

However...

I can't really celebrate after the pining ceremony either. After the ceremony the husband will still be living in the basement as he studies for the NCLEX exam. And then after he takes the exam, we can't celebrate because we have to wait for results. And then he will need to find a job. And then he wants to apply for a masters or DNP program.

So when do I really get to exhale and say, "We are done!"? When do we really celebrate?

Well, never to the first question, and always to the second.

In dance we were often told that the seed to grow your next work in buried in the midst of your last piece. If we are living life correctly, aren't we never done? The seed for the next moment is buried in this moment, waiting for a little sunlight and a rainstorm to grow into the next adventure. There is peace and rest in the presence of my God, but there is not stagnancy. Life, if nothing else, can be defined by activity.

But why not celebrate now? I made rice krispie treats last night, and that seems an achievement worthy of some rejoicing. (Ignore the fact that I had to look up the recipe online because we get cheap bargain brand rice krispies on WIC, and they don't print recipes on the bags.) I have taste buds that can enjoy, and food on the table, and a stove that works... usually.

Hannah is learning new words at an alarming rate. Yesterday she squared me up in her sights, threw her hands on her hips, and declared, "DUCK! QUACK QUACK!" And that seems celebration worthy.

I made the mistake of kissing Noah's finger all better once. Now anytime he has the slightest collision with anything, he holds out each of his fingers individually for me to heal, along with a palm or an elbow for good measure. Having such a sweet boy is certainly worthy of a little joy.

I've stated my case on rejoicing in trouble many times. So perhaps I just need to remember my own advice. There are 59 days until a big celebration. And everyone of them is a day the Lord has made. May I rejoice and be glad in them!

Joy, Unspeakable Joy!

I am studying the book of 1 Peter. Hopefully, it will be a ministry opportunity, so I will try to share without too many spoiler alerts. It seemed too fitting that just as I was studying joy in trouble, our pastor preached on joy in trouble, and many dear friends found themselves in trouble and chose joy. I suppose that is the first point. Joy is a choice. Love is a choice. Peace is a choice. These are not feelings. These are ways you choose for your heart to be; these are attitudes of obedience.

If you have been keeping up on my blog, you know that I have a problem: I am in love with my husband. I am just wild about him. In his presence I have great joy. I know that I can rage in his arms. I can weep in his embrace. I can vent anger, mourn the darkness, and experience a broad range of emotions in his presence. But I always have joy with him. When we weep together, we are in joy. When I seethe with anger, I still choose joy. Because of him. Because of who he is. Because he chose me. And because tomorrow the hurt will be less, the light will break, and he will be there, unchanged in his promise. I have joy with my husband because he is a good man, because he loves me, and because we have the hope of new days ahead.

How much more with the Holy One, Whose love is rivers, Whose heart is bold and unchanging, Whose promise is surer than the mountains that rise around us? How much more joy can we have in the presence of God: the One Who is only ever good, Who loves with the shedding of His blood, and Who gives a hope that is surer than the rising of the sun, that there are new days ahead?

I choose joy; because He chose me.

This is not faking it. This is not putting on a good face, putting up a wall, dawning a mask. You can be real, you can be authentic, and you can have joy in suffering. Christ's vision is reality. His character is truth. And His character, His promise, and His heart bring joy.

Life is precious, from the moment God knew of it, we are human

There is a little girl in the arms of Jesus. And He is the luckiest being in creation. Because the rest of us are broken-hearted.

My dear friend found out in November that they had been selected as adoptive parents for Kate, a beautiful baby girl, due March 12th. We gave her formula, and a bouncer chair, and a swing, and a piece of our lives. On Monday Kate's birth mother delivered her, stillborn.

Now my friend is consoling a birth family, holding together her own family, choosing a two-foot coffin, and grieving with a pain too deep for words.

In the midst of it, she is being refined, and is being proved to have a faith purer than gold.

I keep trying to comment on her facebook posts. I want her to know that I am there for her, that I have lost a baby too, and my heart is weeping oceans for her family. I keep trying to say simple things: I am praying for you, you are loved, after all things God is only good. I just can't seem to manage to do it. There are no words. When your arms have ached to cradle your daughter, but now they will be empty of her until heaven's gates, then, there are no words.

I don't know what her story will hold besides faith beyond measure. My story is that the grief dulls, and one day you can think of your baby and not hurt. One day you will look excitedly to heaven and know a face, a giggle, a little human being will await you there. One day here, there will be joy ahead of pain. And one day there, there will be no grief at all. The darkness does not endure, nor do we mourn forever. My story is that God is good, and only ever good, and His faithfulness is new every morning.

My friend will have her own story. It will be beautiful and simple. And in eternity she will introduce me to Kate, her amazing daughter. And I will introduce her to my baby, who never had a name, but still had my heart.

In the middle of the night when ... finds me

At the end of my previous post I wrote the following: "I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half... I am excited. And I am unafraid." I imagine therefore, that the subsequent retreat calamities are in fact entirely my fault. Apologies to all retreat goers.

Except not really. Because I am still unafraid.

This year our annual women's retreat began like any other: searching for the edibles that were inadvertently left at the church and requesting several attendees run to the store for us. However, it weren't no thang. (Okay, the missing accouterments were the coffee pot cord and coffee, and we are Baptist, so it was kind of a thang. But with a Wal-mart just down the street, we staved off any withdrawal induced rioting. [Again, with the plug-in issues. Why can coffee pots and cell phones not run on the same type of charger. It's 2014 people! Coffee pots should come with USB ports and wi-fi... or at least IV drip bags.]) Everyone had chocolate cake and ice cream, we worshiped, we praised, we encouraged, loved, and listened, and then there was a rousing game of Telestrations (just in case we were concerned with becoming too spiritual). All in all, a grand time was had.

Next day? Not so much.

It all started with the mention that a certain unwanted vermin of the "sleep tight, don't let 'em bite" variety had been seen. Our ministry team leader and I slipped quietly into the room, and checked the bed, peeling back covers, lifting mattresses, and generally accusing every ball of lint of being buggy, vile, and committing heinous crimes against humanity. We dug the squashed offender out of the trash, and all but performed a complete crime scene investigation. My compadre got out her phone and googled images of bed bugs for comparison (although I still hold that we should be able to do this on our coffee pot without needing to lug around obnoxious phones). It was, in fact, beddy and buggy.

We informed several others on our team, and then, ninja-style, we slunk from room to room and tossed the beds. Nothing. Our ever wise leader, spoke to her quite godly husband and determined we should probably still inform folk that one was found, though the circumstances of its presence were somewhat suspect. One at a time we started letting people in on the occurrences of the afternoon (like the fact that we ransacked their rooms while they were out... oh yeah, our ministry team is not above creepy). I assumed people would check their beds, find, as we had, nothing, and return to their crafty, gamey, sleepy diversions.

I am really a bad assumer. I should give up the habit.

Another little monster was found, on a different floor of the house, and another on a different floor of the house.

And our fearless leader of this merry band of misfits began to crack.

As the bug infestation exploded all over everything (please don't visualize that), too much unfolded to be relayed in a blog that I want my four readers to finish reading at some point. The summary is: we decided to stay, those who wanted to go went, and we declared to the Adversary that this weekend would not be a win in his score book. And we ate pumpkin cobbler with equal conviction.

The thing I do want to address is this: while most were kind, understanding, courageous, and godly in what was a rather nasty situation, there was also certainly some major paranoia, panic, and irrational behavior, as human beings lunged to grasp any small sense of control they could exercise over things to big and wonderful for them.

At some point we have to live a life of faith. Human beings really have very limited control over reality. We cannot control nature in all of its cruelty and annoyances: the floods will rise, the fires will burn, the bugs will crawl. We cannot control other people: their reactions, their emotions, their choices are beyond are grasp. We cannot control our God, for as Lucy reminds us: "He is not tame, but He is good." All we can control is what we choose to do about Jesus Christ. Can we trust Him to be Captain of our lives or not? I will not live a life of fear. That is not the legacy I want to leave for my children. For those who have been entrusted to me, I want to show that life can be victorious, that Yahweh is closer than a brother and greater than the universe. As my children watch me I want them to see a woman of fierce bravery, who can laugh at the days to come; because her God is greater than herself, and she really believes this.

My daughter is still nursing, so she went with me this weekend. Her bed was a pack and play. I met our leader and her mother in the bathroom as we got ready in the morning, and I offered them the options I had come up with for this fabric-covered, potentially buggy object. 1. Trust that the Lord does not have more children in our future and leave it there. 2. Rub the entire bloody thing down with alcohol until the fumes have killed enough brain cells that I just don't care anymore. (A point of my own failure: unlike my God, my tongue is not tame nor good. "Who will rescue me from this body of death?") 3. Trust that if God has bedbugs planned for my future that they will come crawling out of the woodwork, no effort on my part will stop them, and I will be okay with this.

This is what we forget. God is Sovereign and Good. His will cannot be thwarted, and honestly, why would we want to. If I do not end up with bed bugs in the next year, I will praise God. If I do have little critters nipping in the night, I will still praise God. When Yahweh is the Lord of your life; you can be unafraid. He alone makes us brave. At some point we have to choose: will you live a life of fear, or will you live a life of faith.

Outnumbered in Retreat

Part of my responsibility on our church's Women's Ministry Team is to help organize, facilitate, make brownies for, lead worship at, and generally agonize over every detail of the annual fall women's retreat. (I'm not kidding. Our fearless leader made everyone sign a contract at the beginning of the year. I didn't actually read through it, but I am sure at some point it mentions retreat brownies frosted with agony. ... and given the nature of our fearless leader, I probably signed away a child to her as well. ... which, since we are in the midst of a bout with teething, I could really be okay with.) The retreat is a week and a half away, and whilest all the details have been considered, the finances to accomplish said details are not what you would call... um... there.

Since our first retreat six years ago we have grown every year. Steadily, God has been faithfully increasing our numbers. It is a wonderful trouble to have. Two years ago we all stayed in one house and a third of our blessed attendees slept on the floor. (I slept on a couch, but lest you think I am a spoiled little Women's Ministry Team princess, the couch was in a closet and was about eighteen inches away from my six week old child. Loads of retreating happening there.) Last year there were so many women we rented two houses and shuttled folks back and forth. This did not turn out so grand, but, I believe, God still used this time, the speaker, and the fellowship to encourage, bless, and challenge his people.

With the steady incline our team undertook a quest to find a house big enough, inexpensive enough, in a good location, and suited to as many people's needs/interests as we possibly could (and we figured if we satisfied at least two ladies we would be doing rather well). With the process bathed in prayer we found a new mansion with beds for sixty people, 8 bathrooms, a big worship space, and it was only an hour away from the valley. We started signing women up four weeks ago. With one more week left, we have twenty less registered than last year. As my son would say, "Uh oh!"

In true Peter fashion, I strapped my sword to my hip (right under the baby sling) and set off to rescue the retreat. I posted to every facebook wall, sent emails, prayed, encouraged, coerced, mentioned casually that I'm armed, and in all other ways implored women to come retreating. As I completed my onslaught, thought one of the day flashed through my mind: "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got all these women to come to the retreat?"

Not a full second later, I literally heard Priscilla Shirer's voice in my head as she paraphrased God's message to Gideon, "You might actually have the audacity to think you had something to do with it." I feel I would be much holier if the mind that God has given me was just a few seconds quicker witted than my flesh. Proceed to the dropping of one very foolish forehead onto one very solid table.

God says that He will accomplish mighty things, He will deliver, He is the One who knows the beginning from the end, by His hand the mouths of lions are shut, and in our weakness His strength is perfected.

I find it funny that our team is now outnumbered by too few. It is my prayer that God would use our weaknesses: our planning, our limits, our exhaustion, the worries of life that make us think we don't have the time or energy for His work, as a foundation to build a monument to His great Name. I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half. I am thrilled for those almost thirty women who are coming to meet God and to see the valley through His eyes. I anticipate a new perspective, a new day, a new hope, uncried tears, laughs that have been bubbling up flying out to the joy of our hearts and God's. I am excited. And I am unafraid. And I have nothing to do with it.

Overpacking

Growing up with a little sister who is severely handicapped, I learned the value of over packing. Going to church on Sunday mornings required a sherpa. Sending her to school was a mass undertaking. A trip to Yellowstone?... Forget about it; we had two car-top carriers and the back and sides of a van packed to the rafters... or whatever it is that forms the top of a van... emergency lights? Even more than with a normally able-bodied child, with an alternately-abled child there is no telling what may happen, and you have to plan for every possibility. You have to take warm clothes and blankets in case it is cold and light clothes in case it is hot. You have to take an extra sleeping bag, more insulating mats, several many food options, diapers, clothes for diaper fails, special chair, special wheelchair, toys, distractions, etc, etc.

Because of this need to prepare for every eventuality, I learned to over pack. I would take the biggest bag I could find on trips and would have to sit on it in order to zipper it closed. My first real confrontation with this understanding came on my trip to New Zealand with Youth For Christ. After I raised my support and got my passport, YFC sent me a duffle bag. I was allowed to fill this bag and then bring a sleeping bag along with me. And that was it.

I started to compile the things I would need for a month away from home in a foreign land. It began massing in a heap in the center of my room. Seven pairs of pants (they promised laundry once a week... this did not happen... it did rain every single day however, which is kind of like laundry, right?), ten shirts, three jackets, three pairs of shoes, two skirts, and necessary under-riggin's. That was just the clothes. Then, I had to think about other necessities: my wave iron, a blow dryer, plug adapters and a voltage converter so I could plug in said hair toys (really, what is so wrong with everyone having the same plugs/sockets? I suspect when the aliens visit they will go back to their home-world pub and report to all their alien buddies, "Earth? Don't even bother! All their technology plugs into different types of sockets. They're a mess!" I feel in our galactic marketing scheme, nonstandard plugs are really holding us back from our target audience... I digress.) hair gel, hair spray, shower stuff, camera, extra memory card, extra battery, YFC binder, food in case the apocalypse occurred or our flight was downed in the Pacific and we had to swim to a deserted island and survival depended on the food I brought and coconuts (the food I brought being a cup of mini Oreos and a Reese's Fastbreak... and yes, we would be doomed, but we would die happy). Oh, and my Bible. Maybe an important thing to bring on a missions trip.

Needless to say, I got two pairs of pants and a couple shirts in the bag, then felt the weight of hopelessness bearing down on me. I relinquished the need to have perfectly straight, smooth hair on a humid pacific island in the wet season, I selected one pair of shoes aside from the ones I would wear on the plane, and I broke my toothbrush in half. The latter action did nothing to save space, but did accomplish something for venting frustration. In the end I took that one duffle bag and my sleeping bag and soldiered off into the unknown (with maybe just a few extra pairs of socks accidentally rolled up in my sleeping bag. "How did those get there?" she asks with innocent doe eyes.)

I have grown better at being less prepared, and I have come to appreciate the spontaneity and creativity it takes to survive inside of limits. As I have matured (a little) I see this psychology for what it is: a need for control. Limited in my mortal humanity in a vast, unpredictable, and often unkind world, I have a mental imperative to be prepared to exert control, to bring down order, to fend off the discomfort of uncertainty with the range of stuffs I carry on my back. This leaves little space to exercise the range of faith I carry in my heart, or the vastness of God's strength and grace. Perfectionism is a desire for control, and it leaves very little room for the beauty of life as Christ's child.

Priscilla Shirer calls it God-margin: the space between your abilities, your talents, your time, your resources, and what God has asked you to do. She states one of the beautiful paradoxes of the Christian life: "God does not call us to do hard stuff; He calls us to do impossible stuff," and at the same time, "You don't need all the things you thought you would need." Gideon faced the army of the Midianites (a paltry 135,000) with 32,000 men. But, "The Lord said to Gideon, 'You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands, or Israel would boast against me, 'My own strength has saved me.'" The Lord cut Gideon's men down to 300, and said "Now you are ready."

My 300 is living on one small (from my perspective on the hillside) income for the next nine months, my 300 is being for all intents a single mom, my 300 is the raging battle of perfection, control, and stock-piling in the face of a God who has declared that He will provide for my heart, my spirit, and my family. In my weakness, God, may your strength be perfected!

Beauty and the Beast - meow

It's Friday night, and I am standing in my nothings staring into a dresser full of blessings (you can call them clothes if you're feeling dull). Big date with the husband? Night out with the girls? Yes and no. I'm sure Justin considers the first softball game of the season a date, and if by "the girls" you mean my hardcore fellow softball chica sluggers, then yes to both. April games are always tricky. You don't want to wear long pants and give everyone the impression that your legs haven't seen the sun or a razor since sometime in September (they have, right?). However, you also don't want to traipse out onto the field in your lil' shawty shawt shorts, and be standing on two perfectly Else icicles five minutes into the game.

Yeah, because I'm totally that girl who empties her wardrobe onto the bed looking for the perfect softball outfit to play in what weather.com claims will be a torrential downpour. And really, bright yellow jerseys built for a size small, who is six feet four inches tall: not helping.

So now I am at the softball game and the little droplets have starting splashing down. I am in knee length white shorts, a long sleeve gray t-shirt, a hoodie, and my jersey. I am wearing socks that only barely sneak over my heel and shiny black cleats. This will all come into play as I come into play.

Five minutes into the start of the game the following things will happen:
1. Friendly little droplets will turn into Hurricane Irene.
2. My gray shirt will ride up to the middle of my ribcage.
3. My batting gloves will be soaked, so there is NO WAY I am reaching up to fix said offending gray garment.
4. A player will slide into me at first spraying my white shorts with nice sandy red mud.
5. Nice sandy red mud will lodge itself between the flesh of my achilles tendon and the heel of my cleats, rubbing my ankles raw and, as an added bonus, bloody.

Do you have the visual picture? Just imagine a kitten in an over sized bright yellow smock, drowned wet, frozen cold, and starting to hiss at inanimate objects.

Now, it is Saturday morning. Formerly drenched kitten has her long hair curled/waved and pulled up Princess Buttercup style. She is in a bright pink dress (say what?!), four inch white heels with bows on the top (get out!), and she is wearing... wait for it... make up (shut the front door!!!).

In January our women's ministry team decided to hold a generations women's conference on April 26th. I must have, in a moment of temporary dissociative disorder volunteered to speak at this conference. Or they may have kidnapped me and forced me to speak at gunpoint. Someone should pat down our team for weaponry before I claim any responsibility for my actions. Either way, today I stood there in pink and heels with big hair and war paint, speaking.

It was all very surreal. In my mind I am the drowned kitten. People will say things like, "Oh you look lovely," and I have to try very hard to not stare at them like a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle. In my mind I am still the tomboy sliding through mud, and making fun of girls who do insane things like wear four inch heels they will have to stand in for forty-five minutes in front of fifty women. I suppose there are hints of our every reality marking us as we drift from form to form. Under the strappy stilettos are the scrap marks of red mud. The graceful, slender hand holding a microphone as I share a distinctly feminine story is starting to turn blue with the bruise of a misplayed out at second. And the sweeping locks falling in waves about my shoulders are only really that curly because I left them out in the driving rain far too long.

A mentor of mine once told me, "First God made you a woman, then He made you an athlete." Actually, first I think He made me His, and everything else (make up or mud) is just window dressing.

Oh... and we worshipped. Lots. Which is nice.

Noah's first Easter

I love Easter week. When I was little it heralded Easter baskets filled with candy, beautiful dresses and curly hair, singing at church, dyeing eggs, and Easter egg hunts. Easter was a day where it seemed like everyone felt a little more special, looked a little nicer, smiled a bit more. I hope Easter means all these things for Noah (well, maybe not the curly hair and dresses). I imagine we will spend hours together coloring eggs with blue fingers, tromping through the grass searching out chocolate-filled delights, and dressing up special in a wee suit and tie. He'll get an Easter bunny and just snuggle it to pieces. He'll get a basket and giggle with delight. But I hope as he grows, he will realize just why we can have such joy on Easter morning, that in the near memory of our laughter, our singing, and our ever-present hope is the bitterness of Good Friday.

As a little girl I knew why we had Easter. I knew the story of the Last Supper, the garden, and the trial. My little heart had cried when I heard how they beat Him, how they cursed Him, how He hung and died for my sins. With childlike faith I knew the story, and I thanked my Jesus. Yet, I feel it is only with age, as we begin to understand the bitterness of mortality, the hurt of life, and the true extent of our own darkness, that the Goodness of Friday becomes real. As Friday becomes all the more painful, Sunday becomes all the more miraculous.

I was happy on Easter as a child. I long for Noah to find that same happiness. Now, on Easter, my joy is inexplicable. I still love Easter egg hunts and dressing up with curly hair. So much more, now, I love that my Savior lives. What hope! What life! What jubiliation to know the story, and to know it is true! It isn't that I want my baby growing up too fast. He's doing that fine on his own. But I do hope that as childish happiness fades, true joy will be revealed in his heart. That he will find Easter his hope, his chance to face his living God and worship with a heart that knows what a costly price was paid, and what a victorious Savior we love.

Come on!

Sometimes it is the simpliest commands that are nearly impossible to follow. In the dark forests of my sin nature, the Mirkwood of all my nastiness, anger, and spite, stands the Dol Guldur of the enemy's stronghold: Impatience. (If you have never seen The Lord of the Rings I really can't imagine what we have to talk about.)

I am neurotically obsessed with the clock. If I went to one of those blessed contries where time is a suggestion and meetings occur when everyone arrives, I would probably turn into the Incredible Abi-Hulk. Off I would rampage into the jungle to uproot trees and clock myself in the head with stone mountains. It appeared most viciously in class. Anything the professor said after the class had ended according to the clock was really just wasted breath. As they rattled on I would begin to fume, my skin would bubble with glowing gamma-ray muscles and my eyes would flame green. It didn't matter if I was desperately interested in the topic or debate, or if it was life-shatteringly important to the rotation of the cosmos. If the clock was violated, darkness ensued.

It seems ridiculous, but this is the battleground of my spirit. Impatience is not loving. Impatience does not seek the best for another. It is self-serving, anger-enducing, and mind-numbing. I have appealed to my Captain on multiple accounts to help me deal with this vice. However, the problem is, when you ask the Lord for patience, He doesn't just zap you with His sparkly patience wand. He gives you situations in which patience can grow... The very same situations in which I go all Hulky. I am almost loathe to ask for patience now. Almost. There is still enough of me that loves my God to wait for my patience.

I am constantly trying to understand what I am really saying when I tap my foot at someone, when I check my watch, when I feels my skin start to bubble in irritation. Truth is reality from God's perspective. The truth is: Impatience declares human beings less important than time.

The "love" chapter in Corinthians 13 starts the very definition of love with patience. And so I wait on Him to make me new.

Pennies and Gold

Our pastor spoke this morning about Mary's offering to Christ from John chapter 12. It was lavish, emotional, spontaneous, and extravagant. It was a year's salary poured out on the Priceless, the One with whom she was endlessly in love.

This made me think of the widow's offering in Luke 21. She gave two copper coins as the rich poured out their treasures in part. The point is, she gave all she had. She gave everything for the Priceless who she endlessly loved.

I wonder as a worshipper if sometimes we offer a widow's mite and leave the jar of costly perfume sitting on the shelf. Do we give pennies out of the blessings lavished on us? Would we stoop to wipe the feet of the King with the locks of our hair, would we give that of utmost value for the One with whom we are in love?

I've been on praise and worship teams for many years. I've been among christians for many more. Often, I hear how little we have to offer, and often I hear that what we sound like, what we give does not matter. And yes, our Savior wants our heart, but He also wants our all. If we are capable of singing like angels, if we are able to play strings like David, if we are able to put in another hour, be there with Him for another moment, able to put off our thoughts and words for His presence, why wouldn't we? Why wouldn't we meet Him with the utmost of our ability, He who fought so valiantly to win our hearts? What keeps us from really worshipping at every available moment, be it practice, performance, solitude or multitudes?

I sometimes wonder what choices we would make if we knew Chris Tomlin, Robin Mark, or Jeremy Camp was going to come and lead worship at our church for one Sunday. When would we arrive, how would we dress, how would we practice, what attitude, patience, and submission would we display? But doesn't the King of Glory, our Savior, the Holy One meet us each Sunday for corporate worship? What do we bring to this engagement? Do we bring a widow's mite when we have the wages of years to offer up?

Six Months

My six month old Little Man is napping in his crib. He won't nap in your arms, doesn't like being held like a little baby, and log rolls out of snuggles first thing on a Saturday morning. Despite this resistance to being held like an infant, he is incredibly affectionate. He'll grab your face with both hands and pull you close to him. When he's sleepy, he'll throw an arm around your neck and bury his face in your shoulder. During playtime he wants kisses, and zurberts, and tickles galore. As long as you remember that he is a whole six months now, and not a baby anymore.

Oh my Little Man. You are forevermore my baby. When you take your first steps, I will beam with pride and bite my lip with nerves. When you go off to school, I will smile and wave with joy and fight back tears. When you have your first heartbreak, I will sing Dashboard songs for you. When you pick a career, find a job, a wife, have little ones of your own, I will laugh, love, help, guide, and try not to meddle.

And I will pray and worship.

I will worship because you are of infinite worth. Regardless of the choices you make or the paths you tread, the fact that you are made in the image of our Captain makes you endlessly valuable. On every journey you will carry the marks of our Maker. In every dark place you will have the opportunity to share in the Light. I will love you because you are mine, a blessing and a gift. I will love you, and by loving I will worship.

And I will pray. Because though you are forever my baby, the object of my motherly affection, a human being of incredible worth regardless of how you choose to live, I know you have free will. I will pray that you grow to be a man like your father and even more a man like your Father. I will pray that you live fearlessly and in the fear of the One who most loves you. I will pray that you are brave, truthful, and strong in a world of cowardice, lies, and weakness. Above all, I pray that you will know Him who is unknowable. That you will meet the God of the Ages in this brief moment of your life.

And I will pray that somehow I can be part of this amazing adventure on which you are headed. That somehow I can show you the best way to live in our humanity, and the best way to live for eternity.

Happy six month birthday my Little Man. You may think you are all grown up, but we both still have a lot of growing up to do.

One Thing is Necessary

I do not purposefully make my life simple or easy; quite the opposite in fact. There have been times where I was simultaneously working three jobs, taking classes full time for my Masters, rehearsing for two dance performances and writing a thesis, all while three months pregnant (and hence, sick as a dog). I worked two part time jobs through much of my undergraduate career while going to school on average 18-21 credit hours per semester. I would be in the dance building from 8:00 in the morning until 9:00 at night. I went to eight-hour-day Pilates training courses, went to class, and then went to teach ballet. But I was never really stressed. (Neurotic, at times, yes.) For as much as all of this mattered; it didn’t really. I was safe. I am secure in words, and movement, and scholarship. I am at home in research. I could die a happy woman in the secure arms of the university.

There was a time shortly after starting college when I dramatically informed my mother of ever disaster befalling me. By nature, I am not dramatic. I had a dance professor not-so-kindly suggest I take an acting class; because, and I quote, “You’re terrible. I need you to be a spitting cobra, and you’re boring.” So believe you me, when I say I was being dramatic; I really thought the world might shatter around me.

My mother is very wise. This is why if I don’t see her several times a week, I call her every day. It does a soul a good turn to just be in the presence of such wisdom. So as I spat, cobra style, every vicious throe of life toward my mother, she simply smiled softly. It was not a mocking smile, not an empathetic smile; it was a smile of gentle correction. “Abigail, Abigail,” she whispered. “You are worried and bothered about so many things; but only one thing is necessary.”

My father is a Dallas man (as in Dallas Theological Seminary, not the Dallas Cowboys). When they were young, he taught my mother how to study the Bible. They shared wisdom, flowering from the Word of God. Growing up in a home with two such theologians, I instantly knew which Bible story my mother was referring to, and had heard it taught, analyzed, and sermonized nine ways from Sunday. Martha, so busy for the Lord, forgot to be still for Him.

Now, I am away from the university. I am in the world, and desperately trying to not be of the world. I do not have the security of theory, journals, and books. I miss the solace of free studio space, required attendance, and final grades. I reminisce for the time when I was not so responsible for my fate. Now, grades are replaced by bills and finances. Required attendance flounders in not enough time to be the mother, wife, employee, artist, and Christian I want to be. The security of theory has transformed into the insecurity of planning a life without being able to see the miles ahead. As I live, I know far less.

At times I allow these things to eat at the calm of my heart. At times I feel very dramatic because life demands it. Yet, when the panic rises, when my sense of control slips away, I can still hear my mother’s voice, “Only one thing is necessary.” I worship my Savior because this is all that is required. A heart of worship. I worship from a place of extreme blessing, having so many good things to concern myself with. And I pray that I will continue to worship from a place deep among the ashes, should my King ever send me there. Because, ultimately even among the ashes we are extremely blessed. A life of worship. This is all He requires and all I want to have.