I had a conversation yesterday about death. Well, it seems I have that conversation a lot.
When my father died when I was 40, I knew that I was ahead of the curve in experiencing something that most of us will experience, the death of a parent. I was just experiencing it earlier in life than most of my peers. My mother died when I was 45, making me what they call a "mid-life orphan."
Yesterday, a small group of us had lunch together after church. Two people had lost their fathers in the past 2 weeks. One, two months ago. Another, just over a year ago. When I looked around the room it became obvious to me that almost everybody in the room that was over 25 had already lost at least one parent.
A few days ago I found out that a childhood neighbor died. He was 54 and a nationally renowned physician, but to me he was the big brother of one of my best friends and a tireless basketball player.
Yesterday morning I heard that the mother of another childhood friend had died. I remember her driving carpool.
A dear friend remembers with pain and grief the death of her toddler nine years ago today.
So, yeah, death is on my mind a lot. It seems to be touching the lives of people I know. All the time.
I was there when my mother died. I knew she was in bad condition and drove the 4 hours to be with her. My sister called me when I was about 30 minutes out. "Mama's dying," she said.
"Tell her she can't go until I get there."
By God's grace, I got there in one piece and without a speeding ticket, despite my adrenaline rush and panicked lead foot.
She waited. She waited for everybody. And then she was ready to go.
It really is a strangely beautiful thing to watch someone die. To see them let go of this life and take hold of the hand of God. It is heartbreaking, yet it is beautiful.
What I love about death is the perspective it lends. All of the sudden the stuff of this life that we worry and fret about, the stuff that gets our panties in a wad and causes us to wring our hands and push ourselves and harden our hearts, all that stuff just sort of crumbles into nothingness. And we are left with all that matters.
It is easy to get overwhelmed and forget. In our Information Age we are fed a steady diet of facts and propaganda and opinions. Via social network we are urged and pressured to conform. And, sadly, even from the church we are often prodded more to perform than to love God and our neighbor.
But death will so easily topple our well made plans. It levels the playing field.
Raising kids is hard. I worry more than most, perhaps, for fear of "doing it wrong." But I have grown weary and tired of it all. At this point, I don't think all that other stuff matters. Not the discipline or the education, not the skills or the achievements, not the honor or the duty, not the success or the money, not the brains or the beauty, not even the good choices and the bad choices, not even whether or not they eat right. I don't care about that any more.
All I care about, for my children, is that they know in a very real way, the inexhaustible grace and endless mercy of Jesus. The rest is chump change.
And that goes for all of us. Because, in the end, nothing else really matters.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Goodbye, House
I watched an elderly gentleman say goodbye to his house this morning. He sat in his chair while his friend scurried around, packing him for a trip across the country to live in a facility near relatives. He made jokes about leaving his nutrition supplements for the new owners to gobble down or throw away, whichever they choose. He smoked one last cigarette, rose from his chair, walked out the door, and stopped one more time to say goodbye to the place that has been home for the past 25 years. In his confused mental state, he seemed fine. I, on the other hand, struggled not to cry.
My mother was a child of the depression. Born in 1924, most of her childhood was spent moving from house to house and, at times, town to town, as work and money necessitated. Then she married my father, a Navy pilot, just after WWII and their life took her around the country, like a sampler platter of regional living. Pensacola, Key West, Corpus Christi, New Orleans, Monterey, Boston, Quansett Point, Lakehurst, Norfolk. It was the life of a Navy wife, after all.
In 1954 my father left active duty and they moved back to her hometown. Her parents had just built a this newfangled house called a rancher in a new neighborhood set down in what had been a cornfield, less than a mile from the Tennessee River. They gave my parents the lot next door to their house and on that lot my parents build their own rancher and my childhood home.
My father moved out in 1977. My parents divorced. But my mother stayed on. By 2009 my mother was 85 and having some difficulty living alone but moving to a more manageable place or an assisted living facility was out of the question. This was her home.
When she walked out the door in March of that year, for what she thought was a possibly unnecessary trip to the ER, she didn't know she would never return. I'm glad that she didn't.
There are no words to describe what is like to sift through the contents of a life. Everywhere I looked, everything I touched was a reminder of my mother and of my childhood. As a child of the depression, my mother didn't get rid of much. Oh, she was plenty tidy and exceedingly clean (even a bit of a germophobe), but crammed into every closet and every drawer and in boxes and bins and giant, giant garbage cans were things she just might need one day.
Such was the work cut out for my sister and me. Every item we picked up required a decision. Is this trash or not? If not, do we keep it or give it away? If we keep it, who gets it (there are four of us sibling)? If we give it away, where do we take it? Who will give the best receipts for tax purposes for the settlement of the estate? Is there anything that nobody wants that might be valuable that we should try and sell? The decisions were endless and the work exhausting, physically, but even more so, emotionally.
I never dreamed letting go would be so hard. For so many years that house meant to me nothing but pain and heartache, with a good bit of a creep factor thrown in for good measure. (There were enough mystery noises to keep my overactive imagination in good form and the spiral stairway to the basement was enough to give even the toughest guy the willies.) But somehow, sitting there and piece by piece carting away my childhood, the pain and the fear were gone (well, not totally gone, I got creeped out at night) and in their place was just a wistful longing and a hesitation to let go.
For a while you could go to Google Street View, plug in the address and see, not only the house, but my mother standing in the driveway, her little dog Maggie by her side. When we first noticed this, about a year before she died, we complained to Google, concerned that this photo might compromise her security (little old lady living alone in nice rancher in good neighborhood), but they did nothing. After she died, we were thankful. For a while we could still go visit her at home, if only via cyberspace.
Google has updated their photos. The house is in new hands. The bits and pieces, the earthen vessels of memories, have been scattered to those of us who are left. It has been four years since I let go and yet there are times when there isn't anything I wouldn't give to go back just one more time.
My mother was a child of the depression. Born in 1924, most of her childhood was spent moving from house to house and, at times, town to town, as work and money necessitated. Then she married my father, a Navy pilot, just after WWII and their life took her around the country, like a sampler platter of regional living. Pensacola, Key West, Corpus Christi, New Orleans, Monterey, Boston, Quansett Point, Lakehurst, Norfolk. It was the life of a Navy wife, after all.
In 1954 my father left active duty and they moved back to her hometown. Her parents had just built a this newfangled house called a rancher in a new neighborhood set down in what had been a cornfield, less than a mile from the Tennessee River. They gave my parents the lot next door to their house and on that lot my parents build their own rancher and my childhood home.
My father moved out in 1977. My parents divorced. But my mother stayed on. By 2009 my mother was 85 and having some difficulty living alone but moving to a more manageable place or an assisted living facility was out of the question. This was her home.
When she walked out the door in March of that year, for what she thought was a possibly unnecessary trip to the ER, she didn't know she would never return. I'm glad that she didn't.
There are no words to describe what is like to sift through the contents of a life. Everywhere I looked, everything I touched was a reminder of my mother and of my childhood. As a child of the depression, my mother didn't get rid of much. Oh, she was plenty tidy and exceedingly clean (even a bit of a germophobe), but crammed into every closet and every drawer and in boxes and bins and giant, giant garbage cans were things she just might need one day.
Such was the work cut out for my sister and me. Every item we picked up required a decision. Is this trash or not? If not, do we keep it or give it away? If we keep it, who gets it (there are four of us sibling)? If we give it away, where do we take it? Who will give the best receipts for tax purposes for the settlement of the estate? Is there anything that nobody wants that might be valuable that we should try and sell? The decisions were endless and the work exhausting, physically, but even more so, emotionally.
I never dreamed letting go would be so hard. For so many years that house meant to me nothing but pain and heartache, with a good bit of a creep factor thrown in for good measure. (There were enough mystery noises to keep my overactive imagination in good form and the spiral stairway to the basement was enough to give even the toughest guy the willies.) But somehow, sitting there and piece by piece carting away my childhood, the pain and the fear were gone (well, not totally gone, I got creeped out at night) and in their place was just a wistful longing and a hesitation to let go.
For a while you could go to Google Street View, plug in the address and see, not only the house, but my mother standing in the driveway, her little dog Maggie by her side. When we first noticed this, about a year before she died, we complained to Google, concerned that this photo might compromise her security (little old lady living alone in nice rancher in good neighborhood), but they did nothing. After she died, we were thankful. For a while we could still go visit her at home, if only via cyberspace.
Google has updated their photos. The house is in new hands. The bits and pieces, the earthen vessels of memories, have been scattered to those of us who are left. It has been four years since I let go and yet there are times when there isn't anything I wouldn't give to go back just one more time.
Friday, January 3, 2014
To the Male Powers That Be
Dear Brothers in Christ in Leadership Positions in the Church—
Let me start by saying that I know you work hard, putting in sometimes long hours to serve and counsel the flock in your care. I know that many of you do everything out of a sincere desire to live in a right relationship with God and man. Please know that I thank you for that.
I am in no way a feminist. I was only in third grade when Helen Reddy zoomed to the top of the charts with her "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar," and I thought it was ridiculous, even then. I have no desire to see women in power over men. A power hungry man is bad enough. A power hungry woman is just as bad.
I do believe that God has called men to be the leaders within the church, at least in some positions within the church. If I did not believe so, I would have gone hunting down churches that believe otherwise. But, for a variety of reasons, I am at peace with the structure that I believe God has put in place.
That said, I see some problems that arise from an all-male leadership structure. I don't think these are problems that anybody has intentionally set in place, I think they are problems that come from a "business as usual" attitude and a basic desire to stick within a comfort zone. But the problems are real and cannot be denied and I am asking you, dear brothers in Christ, to step up to the plate. Remember Spiderman? "With great power comes great responsibility."
You have power. You may not even realize how much power you have. You have power over the wellbeing of your congregation. That power extends, not only to their spiritual health, but also to their emotional, mental and, yes, even physical health. So this is what I want to say.
If men are going to take leadership in the congregation, then women MUST know that they will be listened to, respected, and protected by these men.
LISTEN to them. Ask them how they are doing and be genuinely interested. Educate yourselves about the issues that women face and the things that make life challenging. Not only will it make you a better leader, but I bet it will make you a better husband and father as well. If you listen to them, even on boring, daily, humdrum matters, then they may be more likely to come to you when they have serious concerns.
Listen to THEM. I know among some portions of conservative Christianity there is a male headship thing really going on and some seem to take that to mean the the husband is the spokesman for the family. Often times the powers that be tend to assess the health of a family based on what the husband says. There are two problems here. The head of the house, out of no malice whatsoever, may not be totally in tune with the concerns of his wife or their children. Worse yet, the head of the house may not want you to know what is going on in his family. If he is being neglectful or overbearing or cruel or abusive; or if he is abusing drugs or alcohol; or if he is gambling away the family money or spending the evening viewing pornography, he's not likely to tell you those things. If you have developed a positive trusting relationship with the wife, she still may not (out of fear or shame) tell you, but she just might.
RESPECT them. It seems to me that there is still a tendency among many men, maybe more so in the older generations, to pat women on the head and write them off as overly emotional or excessively alarmist. The fact is that women ARE usually more emotional than men and we are also much more relational. God made us that way. It means that we see things differently and notice things that you may miss. Use our gifts, don't dismiss them.
PROTECT them. This really flows out of the other two and this is really where the rubber meets the road. You cannot protect them unless you listen to them and respect them.
The very hard truth is that women always have been and probably always will be the more vulnerable sex. We are, for the most part, physically weaker. We are, in many cases, more vulnerable. We hear this from the pulpit. We hear this in the Sunday School classes. Yet the reality is that women are often left to fend for themselves in the most sensitive of areas.
Take issues such as abuse seriously. Acknowledge that they exist, and may exist even within your own congregation. It is way too easy to sit around debating every jot and tittle of theology while a wrecking ball swings through the life of somebody in your care.
Horrors such as domestic violence and sexual abuse are happening right now. Possibly right before your eyes and under your nose. Acknowledge that fact, learn about it and be equipped to protect those in your care. And equip your congregation as well.
The male leadership that does these things will have a mighty force of female warriors behind it, allies in bringing grace and peace to a fallen world.
Let me start by saying that I know you work hard, putting in sometimes long hours to serve and counsel the flock in your care. I know that many of you do everything out of a sincere desire to live in a right relationship with God and man. Please know that I thank you for that.
I am in no way a feminist. I was only in third grade when Helen Reddy zoomed to the top of the charts with her "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar," and I thought it was ridiculous, even then. I have no desire to see women in power over men. A power hungry man is bad enough. A power hungry woman is just as bad.
I do believe that God has called men to be the leaders within the church, at least in some positions within the church. If I did not believe so, I would have gone hunting down churches that believe otherwise. But, for a variety of reasons, I am at peace with the structure that I believe God has put in place.
That said, I see some problems that arise from an all-male leadership structure. I don't think these are problems that anybody has intentionally set in place, I think they are problems that come from a "business as usual" attitude and a basic desire to stick within a comfort zone. But the problems are real and cannot be denied and I am asking you, dear brothers in Christ, to step up to the plate. Remember Spiderman? "With great power comes great responsibility."
You have power. You may not even realize how much power you have. You have power over the wellbeing of your congregation. That power extends, not only to their spiritual health, but also to their emotional, mental and, yes, even physical health. So this is what I want to say.
If men are going to take leadership in the congregation, then women MUST know that they will be listened to, respected, and protected by these men.
LISTEN to them. Ask them how they are doing and be genuinely interested. Educate yourselves about the issues that women face and the things that make life challenging. Not only will it make you a better leader, but I bet it will make you a better husband and father as well. If you listen to them, even on boring, daily, humdrum matters, then they may be more likely to come to you when they have serious concerns.
Listen to THEM. I know among some portions of conservative Christianity there is a male headship thing really going on and some seem to take that to mean the the husband is the spokesman for the family. Often times the powers that be tend to assess the health of a family based on what the husband says. There are two problems here. The head of the house, out of no malice whatsoever, may not be totally in tune with the concerns of his wife or their children. Worse yet, the head of the house may not want you to know what is going on in his family. If he is being neglectful or overbearing or cruel or abusive; or if he is abusing drugs or alcohol; or if he is gambling away the family money or spending the evening viewing pornography, he's not likely to tell you those things. If you have developed a positive trusting relationship with the wife, she still may not (out of fear or shame) tell you, but she just might.
RESPECT them. It seems to me that there is still a tendency among many men, maybe more so in the older generations, to pat women on the head and write them off as overly emotional or excessively alarmist. The fact is that women ARE usually more emotional than men and we are also much more relational. God made us that way. It means that we see things differently and notice things that you may miss. Use our gifts, don't dismiss them.
PROTECT them. This really flows out of the other two and this is really where the rubber meets the road. You cannot protect them unless you listen to them and respect them.
The very hard truth is that women always have been and probably always will be the more vulnerable sex. We are, for the most part, physically weaker. We are, in many cases, more vulnerable. We hear this from the pulpit. We hear this in the Sunday School classes. Yet the reality is that women are often left to fend for themselves in the most sensitive of areas.
Take issues such as abuse seriously. Acknowledge that they exist, and may exist even within your own congregation. It is way too easy to sit around debating every jot and tittle of theology while a wrecking ball swings through the life of somebody in your care.
Horrors such as domestic violence and sexual abuse are happening right now. Possibly right before your eyes and under your nose. Acknowledge that fact, learn about it and be equipped to protect those in your care. And equip your congregation as well.
The male leadership that does these things will have a mighty force of female warriors behind it, allies in bringing grace and peace to a fallen world.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Fear of Missing Out
Today a friend introduced me to a new acronym: FOMO—Fear Of Missing Out. I googled it, and much to my surprise, I found it as an entry not only in the Urban Dictionary, but also in Wikipedia.
Let's just go straight to Wikipedia for the goods:
Not an hour later, I got on Facebook and there was posted a photo of a friend and her entire family at their 18th wedding of the year. Yes, 18th. It took me about 2.7 milliseconds to feel that familiar twinge.
I don't know if anybody else ever feels this way (please let me know if you do), but sometimes I think I must have stopped developing emotionally and socially in about third grade, because to a certain extent being left out still hurts. I say "still" because I have a long experience with the phenomenon.
I was never exactly Miss Popularity and I have had to realize that is OK . . . most of the time. Several years ago when I was lamenting being on the non-receiving end of a social invitation my husband very lovingly said, "Honey, you've never been popular before. What makes you think you would start now?" Yeah, well, he had a point.
My husband tries to look on the bright side. After all, he reasons, if you are going to be near the edge of the circle, it is better to be just outside than just inside. It certainly saves you money and time, after all. I guess . . . but still I find it hard sometimes and I suppose The Double-Edged Sword That Is Facebook is partly to blame.
I mean, before Facebook, all sorts of things could happen and you would never know what you were missing. You might catch wind of a wedding or a party but you wouldn't have a clue as to what it was you actually missed.
Enter Facebook. photos come rolling in, giving those outside the circle of invitation an emotionally painful voyeuristic view of the good time they didn't have. And if those photos are indeed coming in as they happen, thanks to iPhones and Instagram, then you are seeing friends and acquaintances having a jolly old time while you sit on your couch with your bowl of cereal and patrol Facebook for the little green dots that indicate there might be somebody online to talk to.
Longing to belong is quite natural, I think. But longing to belong can be terribly destructive, if not to anybody else, at least to yourself. C.S. Lewis talks about the concept of the Inner Ring (a place I have clearly never been) and concludes, "The quest of the Inner Ring will break your heart unless you break it."
Yes, the quest must be broken. Even when I'm brought face to face with what I've missed. And if the truth is that I didn't make the cut, the greater truth is that there are more of us outside that Inner Ring than within it. I'm in good company and I'm not alone after all.
Let's just go straight to Wikipedia for the goods:
Fear of missing out or FOMO is a form of social anxiety — a compulsive concern that one might miss an opportunity for social interaction, a novel experience, profitable investment or other satisfying event. This is especially associated with modern technologies such as mobile phones and social networking services.The timing couldn't have been better. Just last night my husband, daughter, and I were discussing all of the weddings that have taken place so far this year among people we know and yet we have only been invited to one of them. We certainly didn't expect to get an invitation to them all, but only one?
A study by Andrew Przybylski found that the condition was most common in those who had unsatisfied psychological needs such as wanting to be loved and respected. The condition is also associated with social networks such as Facebook and LinkedIn, which provide constant opportunity for comparison of one's status.
Not an hour later, I got on Facebook and there was posted a photo of a friend and her entire family at their 18th wedding of the year. Yes, 18th. It took me about 2.7 milliseconds to feel that familiar twinge.
I don't know if anybody else ever feels this way (please let me know if you do), but sometimes I think I must have stopped developing emotionally and socially in about third grade, because to a certain extent being left out still hurts. I say "still" because I have a long experience with the phenomenon.
I was never exactly Miss Popularity and I have had to realize that is OK . . . most of the time. Several years ago when I was lamenting being on the non-receiving end of a social invitation my husband very lovingly said, "Honey, you've never been popular before. What makes you think you would start now?" Yeah, well, he had a point.
My husband tries to look on the bright side. After all, he reasons, if you are going to be near the edge of the circle, it is better to be just outside than just inside. It certainly saves you money and time, after all. I guess . . . but still I find it hard sometimes and I suppose The Double-Edged Sword That Is Facebook is partly to blame.
I mean, before Facebook, all sorts of things could happen and you would never know what you were missing. You might catch wind of a wedding or a party but you wouldn't have a clue as to what it was you actually missed.
Enter Facebook. photos come rolling in, giving those outside the circle of invitation an emotionally painful voyeuristic view of the good time they didn't have. And if those photos are indeed coming in as they happen, thanks to iPhones and Instagram, then you are seeing friends and acquaintances having a jolly old time while you sit on your couch with your bowl of cereal and patrol Facebook for the little green dots that indicate there might be somebody online to talk to.
Longing to belong is quite natural, I think. But longing to belong can be terribly destructive, if not to anybody else, at least to yourself. C.S. Lewis talks about the concept of the Inner Ring (a place I have clearly never been) and concludes, "The quest of the Inner Ring will break your heart unless you break it."
Yes, the quest must be broken. Even when I'm brought face to face with what I've missed. And if the truth is that I didn't make the cut, the greater truth is that there are more of us outside that Inner Ring than within it. I'm in good company and I'm not alone after all.
I'm Dreaming of a......
The photos are coming in. Everywhere on Facebook. A friend posts a photo of a lantern just outside her window, with a backdrop of snow and quaint New England houses. Another friend shares a photo of downtown small-town Pennsylvania, shrouded in snow. My heart aches.
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to live in such an old, snowy place. Originally it was New England. My father and his father and his father going back generation after generation until the first boats of white men were invading those shores, lived and trod and defended that land. It is like there is something in my blood that draws me back.
Over the years I have expanded my dream. It doesn't have to be New England with its arm's length relationships (at least to outsiders and especially southern hillbillies like myself, or so I've heard) and its super-expensive real estate. Any place that is chock full of history and snow, "old and cold," will do. And, of course, let's ditch the cities altogether for a more small town/rural atmosphere.
Sure, maybe I am delusional. I am sure there are plenty who would say that I don't know what I am asking for. I remember one time saying to someone that I wanted to live where it snows a lot and he replied, "No, you don't." Well, really, I do.
So it just hurts, especially at this time of year, to see images of something I have dreamed of for as much of my 50 years as it is capable of dreaming of such things.
Sure, maybe I just want to live in a Currier and Ives etching or a Norman Rockwell print. But I know those places are real because my friends' photos tell me so.
I cannot, CANNOT complain, really. God has blessed me immensely with living in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I know that. I do not take it for granted. Every, EVERY single time I come around the curve and there before me is the Warren Wilson College Farm being watched over by Watch Knob and The Four Brothers (for you non-locals, these are mountains), with the Craggies (yet more, and higher, mountains) as a backdrop, I thank God for giving me the privilege of living in such a breathtakingly gorgeous place. Every. Single. Time.
I don't know what it is that makes me think I can, or should, have everything I want. I already have so much. Maybe it is my desire to have heaven, or at least MY version of heaven, on earth. Maybe it is my built in Grass Is Always Greener gene, an obvious result of mankind's fallen condition. Maybe it is the I Want What I Want When I Want It, yet another result of the fall. These all result in the spirit of discontentment, within which I live an alarmingly large portion of my life.
Every so often the truth hits me. This life is not all there is. Maybe these longings are good, as they point to something better, to something more. I was not placed on this earth to just get what I want, even if what I want isn't money or fame or fortune but small towns and old houses and snow. I was placed on this earth to love the way God loves me and instructs me to love others, regardless of weather or time or place.
There is an eternity to enjoy heaven, I do not have to have my version of it for this short time on earth. In letting go of that I am free to do what I was created to do. That indeed is good news.
 |
| The view from my friend's window |
Over the years I have expanded my dream. It doesn't have to be New England with its arm's length relationships (at least to outsiders and especially southern hillbillies like myself, or so I've heard) and its super-expensive real estate. Any place that is chock full of history and snow, "old and cold," will do. And, of course, let's ditch the cities altogether for a more small town/rural atmosphere.
Sure, maybe I am delusional. I am sure there are plenty who would say that I don't know what I am asking for. I remember one time saying to someone that I wanted to live where it snows a lot and he replied, "No, you don't." Well, really, I do.
So it just hurts, especially at this time of year, to see images of something I have dreamed of for as much of my 50 years as it is capable of dreaming of such things.
Sure, maybe I just want to live in a Currier and Ives etching or a Norman Rockwell print. But I know those places are real because my friends' photos tell me so.
 |
| Watch Knob and The Four Brothers, Swannanoa, NC |
I don't know what it is that makes me think I can, or should, have everything I want. I already have so much. Maybe it is my desire to have heaven, or at least MY version of heaven, on earth. Maybe it is my built in Grass Is Always Greener gene, an obvious result of mankind's fallen condition. Maybe it is the I Want What I Want When I Want It, yet another result of the fall. These all result in the spirit of discontentment, within which I live an alarmingly large portion of my life.
Every so often the truth hits me. This life is not all there is. Maybe these longings are good, as they point to something better, to something more. I was not placed on this earth to just get what I want, even if what I want isn't money or fame or fortune but small towns and old houses and snow. I was placed on this earth to love the way God loves me and instructs me to love others, regardless of weather or time or place.
There is an eternity to enjoy heaven, I do not have to have my version of it for this short time on earth. In letting go of that I am free to do what I was created to do. That indeed is good news.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Grasping Grace
Recently, an appalling article has been going around about two daughters who are basically living, breathing, walking, talking billboards for their father's plastic surgery practice. It is all pretty horrifying and really sick on so many fronts.
The cosmetic surgery industry (Note: I am not at all talking about the necessary plastic surgery to repair accidents or congenital abnormalities, I am talking about the type that is intended to turn you into a voluptuous beach babe bombshell, even when you are 60.) is baffling to me. I just don't get it. I'm not one to go for glitz and glamor, bling and fashion. Being more of an overalls and ponytail type of gal, it completely eludes me how anybody could would want to do all that stuff to their body, much less cough up the big bucks to get the goods. But I have to look beyond that and try to understand.
We live in a world where it is not OK to age. It is not OK to not be beautiful. Who you are is defined by how you appear to be and how you appear to be will determine if you are admired, respected, and loved.
That said, it then makes sense that, in certain cultures (just not mine), women go to extreme lengths for "improvement" that their culture demands. They are grasping. Desperately grasping. Then again, I grasp, too.
-Every time I look in the mirror and panic because, well, I ain't what I used to be, I am grasping.
-Every time I pull on a pair of pants that just didn't used to be that tight and am hit with a wave of despair that I am morphing into a middle-aged, frumpy, female Jabba the Hutt, I am grasping.
-Every time I compare my real estate sales production for the year to everybody else's in order to determine whether I am really competent at what I do, I am grasping.
-Every time I write a blog post and put it out there and worry because it isn't getting many comments and I feel naked and ashamed, I am grasping.
-Every time I see some other mother "doing it right" in some way where I failed and I beat myself up and say that God should have never given me children if I was going to fail them so, I am grasping.
-Every time I see that some friend ran a marathon and I can't even run a mile and I feel totally inadequate and lazy to boot, I am grasping.
-Every time somebody says something insightful and wise and I feel a twinge of envy that I wasn't the first to say it, I am grasping.
-Every time I play "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" and lose and I feel like a complete idiot for being such a brainless wonder, I am grasping.
-Every time I fret because I am not as "tough" as I feel I should be to gain respect or ward off physical or emotional pain, I am grasping.
-Really, any time I sit around comparing myself to other people (I have turned it into an art form), I am grasping.
-And any time I believe that it is up to me to control everything I can about this life because it really is all up to me after all, I am grasping.
It is the most natural thing in the world to grasp, I suppose. To reach for all the wrong things that were never, ever meant to define me. So I must let go. Release my pathetic and desperate grasp on the things that will never ever satisfy. Jesus, through his immeasurable grace, has accomplished it all for me. It has been said and done. It is finished. I can never be more loved and secure than I am right now. He has grasped me and will never let go.
I forget this now and again. Too often, I must say. But I am starting to get it, little by little. With each glance in the mirror, and twang of regret, or twitch of envy, I am starting to get it. Next time I grasp, may it be that I grasp for grace.
The cosmetic surgery industry (Note: I am not at all talking about the necessary plastic surgery to repair accidents or congenital abnormalities, I am talking about the type that is intended to turn you into a voluptuous beach babe bombshell, even when you are 60.) is baffling to me. I just don't get it. I'm not one to go for glitz and glamor, bling and fashion. Being more of an overalls and ponytail type of gal, it completely eludes me how anybody could would want to do all that stuff to their body, much less cough up the big bucks to get the goods. But I have to look beyond that and try to understand.
We live in a world where it is not OK to age. It is not OK to not be beautiful. Who you are is defined by how you appear to be and how you appear to be will determine if you are admired, respected, and loved.
That said, it then makes sense that, in certain cultures (just not mine), women go to extreme lengths for "improvement" that their culture demands. They are grasping. Desperately grasping. Then again, I grasp, too.
-Every time I look in the mirror and panic because, well, I ain't what I used to be, I am grasping.
-Every time I pull on a pair of pants that just didn't used to be that tight and am hit with a wave of despair that I am morphing into a middle-aged, frumpy, female Jabba the Hutt, I am grasping.
-Every time I compare my real estate sales production for the year to everybody else's in order to determine whether I am really competent at what I do, I am grasping.
-Every time I write a blog post and put it out there and worry because it isn't getting many comments and I feel naked and ashamed, I am grasping.
-Every time I see some other mother "doing it right" in some way where I failed and I beat myself up and say that God should have never given me children if I was going to fail them so, I am grasping.
-Every time I see that some friend ran a marathon and I can't even run a mile and I feel totally inadequate and lazy to boot, I am grasping.
-Every time somebody says something insightful and wise and I feel a twinge of envy that I wasn't the first to say it, I am grasping.
-Every time I play "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" and lose and I feel like a complete idiot for being such a brainless wonder, I am grasping.
-Every time I fret because I am not as "tough" as I feel I should be to gain respect or ward off physical or emotional pain, I am grasping.
-Really, any time I sit around comparing myself to other people (I have turned it into an art form), I am grasping.
-And any time I believe that it is up to me to control everything I can about this life because it really is all up to me after all, I am grasping.
It is the most natural thing in the world to grasp, I suppose. To reach for all the wrong things that were never, ever meant to define me. So I must let go. Release my pathetic and desperate grasp on the things that will never ever satisfy. Jesus, through his immeasurable grace, has accomplished it all for me. It has been said and done. It is finished. I can never be more loved and secure than I am right now. He has grasped me and will never let go.
I forget this now and again. Too often, I must say. But I am starting to get it, little by little. With each glance in the mirror, and twang of regret, or twitch of envy, I am starting to get it. Next time I grasp, may it be that I grasp for grace.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Remembering Them
It is easy to get lost in the frenzy of the Christmas season. Even those of us who claim to know better, still tend to equate Christmas with family and friends and food and parties and gifts and even snow. Not that there is anything wrong with any of these things, but Christmas, more than any other time of year, can draw such a palpable dividing line between the haves and the have nots. And this doesn't just mean money.
So when you are jolly and joyful with a Ho Ho Ho and a Fa La La La La, stop and remember that your experience doesn't stand for everybody. Be careful of what you post. Be sensitive in what you say. Someone else may not have received the blessings you enjoy.
When you squeeze your loved ones tight and wish them a Merry Christmas, remember those who have experienced unspeakable loss over the past year and are facing this season without joy, but with mourning. And pray for them.
When your kids stream in from college and you are so glad to have your family together again, remember those whose children refuse to come home. Or may never come home. Pray for them.
When your family gathers around a table laden with steamy comfort foods and cups of good cheer, remember those who sit and eat. Alone. And pray for them.
When you open your door to welcome in aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, remember those who have no aunts or uncles or cousins or grandparents or family of any kind. And pray for them.
When you anticipate a time of great peace and joy in your home, remember those whose homes are filled with no peace or joy, only fighting, neglect and abuse of all kinds. And pray for them.
When your daughter shows up squealing in delight at the gift of shiny engagement ring and the prospect of an upcoming wedding, remember those who have no prospects. And pray for them.
When you offer up a toast in holiday cheer, remember those whose lives are torn apart by the abuse of drink or drugs. And pray for them.
When you lie in your cozy bed in your warm house, remember those who have no warm place to sleep. And pray for them.
When you sit by the fire and read stories to your children, remember those who are sitting by the bedside of a dying loved one, knowing that this will be their last Christmas together. And pray for them.
When you think back on all the warm memories of Christmas of your childhood, remember those who have no such memories, only a hollow emptiness. And pray for them.
When you watch "It's a Wonderful Life" for the 17th time and you get to the part where George Bailey thinks he is worth more dead than alive and plans to jump to his death off the bridge, only to have his plan thwarted by the angel Clarence, remember that for many people life seems just that hopeless, but Clarence never comes. And pray for them.
When you are tempted to get totally caught up in it all and you settle in to the comfort of all your blessings, remember that there are those who have no visible blessings in their lives. And pray for them.
We seem to be all about news at Christmas. But the Good News isn't really about family and friends and food and presents at all. The Good News is that Jesus came for us. And he came for them. He came to seek and save that which was lost. He came to heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. He came to be a light in the darkness, a beam of glimmering hope in the darkest of corners of humanity. He came to welcome the weary and break the yoke of oppression. He came so that sin and anger and abuse and heartbreak and loneliness will not have the final say.
This alone is the reason to rejoice. For you. For me. And for them.
So when you are jolly and joyful with a Ho Ho Ho and a Fa La La La La, stop and remember that your experience doesn't stand for everybody. Be careful of what you post. Be sensitive in what you say. Someone else may not have received the blessings you enjoy.
When you squeeze your loved ones tight and wish them a Merry Christmas, remember those who have experienced unspeakable loss over the past year and are facing this season without joy, but with mourning. And pray for them.
When your kids stream in from college and you are so glad to have your family together again, remember those whose children refuse to come home. Or may never come home. Pray for them.
When your family gathers around a table laden with steamy comfort foods and cups of good cheer, remember those who sit and eat. Alone. And pray for them.
When you open your door to welcome in aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, remember those who have no aunts or uncles or cousins or grandparents or family of any kind. And pray for them.
When you anticipate a time of great peace and joy in your home, remember those whose homes are filled with no peace or joy, only fighting, neglect and abuse of all kinds. And pray for them.
When your daughter shows up squealing in delight at the gift of shiny engagement ring and the prospect of an upcoming wedding, remember those who have no prospects. And pray for them.
When you offer up a toast in holiday cheer, remember those whose lives are torn apart by the abuse of drink or drugs. And pray for them.
When you lie in your cozy bed in your warm house, remember those who have no warm place to sleep. And pray for them.
When you sit by the fire and read stories to your children, remember those who are sitting by the bedside of a dying loved one, knowing that this will be their last Christmas together. And pray for them.
When you think back on all the warm memories of Christmas of your childhood, remember those who have no such memories, only a hollow emptiness. And pray for them.
When you watch "It's a Wonderful Life" for the 17th time and you get to the part where George Bailey thinks he is worth more dead than alive and plans to jump to his death off the bridge, only to have his plan thwarted by the angel Clarence, remember that for many people life seems just that hopeless, but Clarence never comes. And pray for them.
When you are tempted to get totally caught up in it all and you settle in to the comfort of all your blessings, remember that there are those who have no visible blessings in their lives. And pray for them.
We seem to be all about news at Christmas. But the Good News isn't really about family and friends and food and presents at all. The Good News is that Jesus came for us. And he came for them. He came to seek and save that which was lost. He came to heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. He came to be a light in the darkness, a beam of glimmering hope in the darkest of corners of humanity. He came to welcome the weary and break the yoke of oppression. He came so that sin and anger and abuse and heartbreak and loneliness will not have the final say.
This alone is the reason to rejoice. For you. For me. And for them.
O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.
—Edmund Sears
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