Archive for the The Journey Category

The holidays have arrived, and with them all the beautiful, tantalizing temptations. Nostalgia fueled dreams fill the senses as I drive through my neighborhood and think of years gone by. For there is nothing I love more at this time of year than holiday lights, Christmas cookies and gifts. Alas, I still view Christmas through the eyes of a child which is, I suppose, how we all view it–for better or for worse.

I’ll never be as good at creating the Christmas experience as my mother is. And that is what it’s all about, right? It’s our responsibility as parents or spouses to create (or top) the experience our parents created for us. Even if we didn’t have a wonderful childhood experience around the holidays, we work overtime to give that to our friends and families.

The Christmas Eve service at church was one experience that was very powerful for me as a child. We would sing Christmas carols and remember the birth of Jesus. That candlelight service inspired hopes and wishes that filled my young heart with wonder. But that experience was less about Jesus and more about what came after the service. We would drive around and look at lights on houses and then have cookies before bed. To this day, I’m uncomfortable not eating cookies at the holidays. And more than that, I still slip into bed on December 24 with the knowledge that Christmas morning brings candy and toys. It still inspires a kind of jittery joy that makes my heart rattle with excitement.

But the thing so many people don’t talk about around the holidays is the pressure to make everything perfect. The house needs to be decorated, food needs to be prepared, and cookies and pies suck untold hours from the lives of those making them. Every year I spend days and weeks doing things to make this perfect experience and on December 26th, I unravel it all back into dusty cardboard boxes and plastic tubs while everyone withdraws with their “spoil” and goes back to their regular lives. All the “Christmas magic” dissipates in a blink. Or if I could be so crude, Jesus takes off his Santa hat and is relegated to the role of “guy in blue and white robe with a manly, manicured mane.”

There’s a lot to be said about the beauty of traditions, but this blog is not that. Candidly, a few days ago I found myself wishing I could fast-forward to December 26th. Why? Because it’s all so darn overwhelming. I don’t enjoy decorating, shopping makes me so anxious I may as well break out in hives, and I get the sweats when I even think about having to bake cookies I shouldn’t eat (but always do). I make so many sacrifices for my family–to make their holidays lovely–which is good, but it usually ends up with me getting physically sick right as January hits from the sheer exhaustion of it all. I’ve tried minimizing, shopping early, not decorating, or just plain begging my family to skip Christmas (which they never agree to). And here we are, December 8th. And the “heat” is on!

The “heat” is the pressure of creating a mood. It comes from a commercially minded culture hell bent on getting their fair share of my wallet. This chafes me. The nonstop marketing, selling and buying, and pretending some of us aren’t depressed, anxious and overwrought with stress. Meanwhile, the real Jesus is probably shaking His head from His glorious, glittering throne.

Because Christmas is not a mood, or a feeling, or a perfectly wrapped present next to a fake tree. Christmas is the moment we should remember when God entered the world and became part of the story. His life and ministry are REAL hope and cheer. He is a God who loves people with food addiction, depression and anxiety. He sees our brokenness and childhood trauma. He takes our shame and all the scorn we heap at him by pretending there’s a fat man in a red suit throwing gifts down chimneys. As if that’s real joy! He is the author of life and has made a way for us to live with Him for all eternity in paradise. It’s the great, good, glorious news–the best news humanity has ever received! Immanuel. God with us. Jesus is the gift for a sin saturated society. He is the cure for our deceitful hearts. Because everything I think I love about the holidays is really all just carefully crafted narratives with nonsense origins. The true story is God-made-flesh, reaching out a holy hand to humanity with a love so pure we can’t even begin to imagine how beautiful it really is. The stories handed down from generation to generation are true. We are loved. We are safe in His arms. Nothing can separate us from this love in Jesus Christ. Incredible.

So today, if you are like me, dreading the next few weeks and filled with fear and worry–fret not. Close your eyes and breathe in the beauty that is our Lord and Savior. No matter how big or small your holiday meals, no matter if you decorate or even clean, regardless of your cookies or crafts or shopping–He is Lord! Celebrate the way you feel led and trust that He is who He said He is.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

I was lied to as a child. The lies are innumerable, of course. Adults would say, “You can be anything you want to be.” What if I wanted to be a bird or a fish? Flying and breathing under water appealed to me as a child. I realize adults want to motivate children to think beyond their boundaries or perceived limitations but why not use speak the truth? Words can and do hurt. Misused words by people have caused many people to guard their hearts and minds. Why? Because people fear pain.

This week at work I dared to share my frustrations with one of the leaders in my department. I could not get my daily work done because the big bosses kept handing down “small tasks” (their words) that took much longer than they said they would. It was causing me a lot of anxiety because I had real deadlines and I was afraid I couldn’t meet them. I say “dared” because I have been afraid to share anything like my real thoughts or feelings to the leaders in my area for a long time. Sharing my real thoughts caused me a lot of problems last year, but this year silence has kept me safe. The boss I spoke with about my frustrations listened and acted like they cared. I felt heard, cared for, and valued. I was even able to sleep well that night. But the next day I had an email “encouraging me” to work with a business coach. The suggestion felt like a command. It implied my frustrations in the workplace had more to do with me being a bad employee than leaders leading poorly.

Everything is fine.

Santa Claus is real.

Coke Zero is good for you.

The universe has a plan for me

I have been listening to some interesting podcasts recently and one big takeaway is people have a lot of faith in the universe. One filmmaker I follow says what you put out into the universe will come back to you. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Do the words I use have so much power that when I speak they come to life? This seems to be a belief many people have–especially Christian people. Words of affirmation are pretty popular. Is the universe a benevolent entity that cares for me as it does all of nature? Is everything connected in such a way that peace and harmony flow after we say positive words? I am curiouser and curiouser.

When I stand under the night sky and stare up at the stars, I feel very small. When I consider the vastness of space, I wonder about my place in it. Jiminy Cricket was the minstrel of my childhood and sang, “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires will come to you.” The words are pretty enough and when accompanied by a melancholy tune, they really tug at the heartstrings. It feels good to think this way, to wish this way, to hope this way. I can be lulled to sleep by this, wishing upon a star that all my dreams will come true. But Jiminy Cricket was a liar too.

“Well, Margaret, that’s because when you said your words of affirmation, you didn’t have enough faith. It’s your fault.”

Is there anything more painful than a friend who tells me things aren’t well in my life because I don’t have enough faith? Worse, the friend who says, “I can’t be around you anymore because your negativity is bringing me down.” Maybe it’s time I stopped being friends with people and start being friends with the universe.

The universe is filled with glorious sunrises and sunsets. It produces shooting stars and gaseous, glowing planets. The universe is big and therefore friendly. It doesn’t chide or coerce. I really kind-of like this idea of the universe. And since I am in awe of this wonderful universe, I have decided to pray to it for something very small. I have asked the universe to make the sweetgum tree in my backyard stop producing gumballs. After all, the gumballs don’t really serve any purpose other than pain. They collect in the yard and make walking treacherous. I could break my ankle, for Pete’s sake! Surely the universe will hear my prayer and urge the tree to surrender to my will. “No more gumballs.” I will pray this five times a day for a week and certainly the universe will hear all 35 statements and honor my request. If I place my faith in the universe, it will not disappoint.

And you know why? Because all the successful people I listen to on podcasts claim the universe helped them to be successful. Therefore, it must be true! Because the all-powerful universe is wonderful! Their success had nothing to do with talent, or luck, or hard work, or intelligence or common grace. Because people are always, you know, honest. Especially when they say things like, “You can be anything you want to be.” It only takes one audition on American Idol to prove this theory false. Just ask Simon Cowell.

I prefer a terrible truth to a beautiful lie any day.

Or what about this one, “Honestly is always the best policy.” Not really. If you tell your boss he is bossing badly, it will not end well for you. The best policy is to shut up and suck it up or find another job.

But that’s not really the point. The point is, often times lies are really convenient. We believe them because we want to. They stop us from asking the real questions. Parents use them to stop children from asking pesky questions they prefer not to answer. Bosses use them to defer employees from holding them accountable to lead well. But what’s really terrible is that when people tell us beautiful lies, they stop us from getting answers to the real questions. Because do you want to know what I really think when I wonder if the universe has a beautiful plan for my life? I think if I entrust myself to the universe, I’m about as safe as a deer drinking out of an alligator infested pond.

What we carry is sometimes much too heavy to bear. But to set it down is to feel something even heavier, the weight of failure. The path to discipline has required rigor; to stay the course, to maintain healthy habits, to push through pain and adversity. And I suppose if I weren’t so gall-darn stubborn, I would have given up long ago. But the reason I have maintained this course is because I am looking forward to future joy. It’s not pain for pain’s sake. The reward is actually very simple.

I love beauty. I love to look out on an early spring morning and see crocus pushing their petals through thawing dirt. I love when the robins arrive in their flocks mid-February to pick the darkened husks of berries from dogwoods. I love their run-and-stop, run-and-stop rhythm. And if they are lucky, the worms are waking up too.

And that is why I found myself with a box, shovel, and a digging bar on a cool Fall afternoon at the farm we are making near Salem, Missouri. For now, it is only 19 acres of land with the remnants of an old pig pen, a dog kennel, and a platform where a trailer home used to sit. I don’t know what that used to look like. It burned down before we bought it. And frankly, I’ve spent more hours picking up burned trash and aluminum cans than I have building anything, but I have a vision for what it could be. That is why I decided it was time to plant something.

It hasn’t rained in a while and the earth is nearly as hard as pavement. I know from experience the landscape is so rocky it’s pointless to dig with a shovel. One must use a digging bar or pick axe to break ground. I wouldn’t even call it dirt. The crust is clay and sandstone with flint rocks thrown in for good measure – as tough and unforgiving as the hide of an alligator. The process involves lifting the digging bar, jabbing it into the earth, and pulling back to pry. The bar weighs about 14 pounds so it takes a good heft to lift and jab. The rhythm is, LIFT-JAB-PRY, LIFT-JAB-PRY. One must do this over and over to loosen the dirt enough to pull out a shovel full. Then one stoops to pull out the rocks and throw them into one pile while the dirt goes in another. I tried to find a less rocky place to plant, but in the Ozarks that’s like saying I was looking for a less salty ocean in which to swim.

My father recently gave me a great treasure; a box full of iris that had been thinned from their flower beds. I suppose in my mind there is nothing that holds more promise than a box of old bulbs. When I looked into that box, I didn’t see cruddy, brown tubers with little green fringes of growth, I saw majestic purple iris with white frills unfurling. I saw little splashes of yellow on velvety tongues. But more than all that, I could almost smell the sweet aroma of impossible flowers made possible by the mighty hand of an invisible God.

If he could make all that, I suppose I could forge a flower bed from some rocky dirt.

It took about 2 hours to pick out a 4×3 flower bed and another hour to move and scatter dry, rotten wood from an old wood pile into the hole. Only then did I feel the iris had a chance of surviving. I scattered them around in the bed, turned their green edges up, and pushed the pulverized clay back on top. To complete the display, I moved some large rocks around the bed. Then I stood back with pride and began to hope the flowers would grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To be honest, I don’t always enjoy this type of work, but I love beautiful flowers more than I hate back-breaking labor.

Why do I share all of this?

I love Jesus but I struggle to love His church. I have encountered some people there that are just as tough and unforgiving as the ground on my farm. From careless words spoken to callous platitudes intended to force me to submit, those sinners have caused some mighty deep wounds. Worse, in my fury I’ve sinned right back at them. I am both perpetrator and victim. But while I know plenty of people who’ve given up on attending a local church, I’m not one of them. The church is the bride of Christ and heaven forbid He return and not find me among its members because I was nursing wounds over something I should have forgiven and let Him heal.

That is why the day after my rock picking frenzy I found myself sitting at the table of a Fall Festival at the local Baptist church. I’ve been attending there for a few months and trying hard to find Christian community. I was there because my teenage son has plugged into the youth group and was out rough housing with a group of boys on the football field, as happy as I’ve ever seen him. But I was uncomfortable and lonely. I knew hardly a soul. And for all the friendly faces, many refused to meet my gaze and instead moved on to their familiar friends. I thought to myself that it took a lot of courage for me to attend, but that didn’t make me feel any less lonely or sad. A few people said hello and one woman stopped to compliment me on my flowery hat, but after years of being at churches where I knew almost everyone, it was hard to stare into a sea of strangers.

Don’t read me wrong, they weren’t rude or unfriendly. And to my credit, I did try to strike up conversations with a few people. It’s just that I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. Relationships take time and work. And if there’s anything I’ve come to realize over the years of attending church, it’s that finding a real friend in a group of Christian people is no different than finding a friend anywhere else in the world. It takes vulnerability on both sides and some kind of conventional commonality. Older people like me, people with old rusty wounds, are much too guarded, which is probably why none of the elderly people at the church would even look at me. It was only the younger women who dared to ask my name.

I remember the adage, “One must be a friend to have a friend.” Making new acquaintances takes time and energy. So why am I wondering if it’s worth the effort? Talking to people I don’t know feels like LIFT-JAB-PRY, LIFT-JAB-PRY. If I plant the seeds of kindness, will the flower of friendship grow?

By the grace of God, it will.

And when I look at it that way, the better question seems to be, “Does anything good happen outside the grace of God?”

I am looking forward to a reward I can’t see. Right now, I see drought. I feel hard ground beneath my feet. I see leaves falls and trees preparing for a cold winter. I smell the smoke from a wood burning fire and I know snow will be here soon. But with my inner eyes I smell the thaw, I hear the robin song, I see the red bud in bloom. The signs of the seasons remind me that the rhythms of discipline, perseverance, and fortitude are the LIFT-JAB-PRY of forbearance. And I know the reward is worth the wait.