Knock Knock

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

I think transitioning from mother to mother-in-law to grandmother is an overlooked challenge for women. The process of planning a wedding or showers should warn us that we are moving into new territory yet the busyness of it all keeps us from realizing that our role is changing. Really changing. Sure we hear the jokes but think they only apply to others. Then we find ourselves the fodder for comedians, aching wrong turns and missteps that leave us wondering what happened and how did my child change overnight into this other? We used to talk, we used to be close, what happened!! Then a baby comes along and mostly all is forgiven because now they have given us this, a fresh start. Only, wait, what the hell, now we don’t even get that? They want to keep that one too? We scratch our heads and wonder when it will be our turn to love and cradle and cuddle, knowing this babe is just the thing to fill up the whole our child left. Any memories of struggling to establish our own family under the watchful gaze of our own mother-in-law with her fingers itching ever closer to our brand new babe are lost in the flush of the placenta, the smell of baby wipes and the sight of little toes.

Ay ya ya, is it any wonder newly weds and mother-in-laws struggle so?  No one tells us how to do it, how to breathe through the contractions of the new little family, to trust that a new birth of bigger more openness with happen. Like a pregnant mama at 36 weeks, we want it now. We grow tired of waiting. We are ready to push. We hear everyone tell us that resting right now, at this critical point is what is most important. Rest now, because soon you will be called into action. Allow that family to grow and your chance will come. Oh waiting is horrible. Transitions just really suck. We forget that our choices now during the transition set the stage for how the birth of the new family will be experienced by all.

The knock on our Wednesday evening small group classroom signaled more than just an interruption to our group. It was more than just a notice to let me know my Plum wasn’t feeling well enough to last the evening with his friends. It was a warning that life was going to get rough for several days, that more interruptions were coming, that my schedule and timeline were not my own. One moment we were adults talking around a table, knock knock, suddenly I was in full grandma mode where I would remain for the foreseeable (with no sleep and the inability to see much further than this mug of coffee) future.

Plum has croup, not fun with little lungs that grasp for breath sometimes anyway. Oral steroids and nebulizer treatments are helping to open his constricted airways. Neither help close his little eyes to get rest. I want rest. I had planned much rest after making the Wednesday meal for the larger group. I scheduled much rest as we came to the end of this study and my other one that just finished. I was going to do one slow victory lap around my kitchen with a glass of wine and then collapse contentedly on the couch until I was ready to leisurely climb the stairs to collapse in bed for hours and hours and then rise slowly for coffee and more resting in a comfy chair. I love the studies and work at church but my body was making it clear it was time for rest. I could taste it, I was seeing it. Then I heard the knock, knock. I knew in my gut that knock was for me and that my fantasy rejuvenation time was going to be just that, all fantasy.  My head turned in slow motion, letting go of my fantasy to return to reality requires much effort to release those plans: a push of the years in mama mode, the pull of the sickly cough of my best boy.  Slow motion propelled into high gear as something took over, the knowledge that grandmas step up to the job when needed. Wine, rest and comfy chair collapses will wait.

Mama took Plum to the doctor who advised limited access to my Sweetness, if possible.  Yes, it is possible. Knock knock Plum returned and I waved goodbye to mama and Sweetness for the day, the evening, the foreseeable future which looked like forever when Plum was hyped up on steroids and did not want to nap the day away. As I was pulled back out of sleepy mode I remembered many many years ago while in grad school when our family came down with the flu. All of us, both children even.  The real horrible flu. So my mother-in-law at the time, God rest her soul, came to nurse us all. That time is hazy, a feverish sweaty tear-stained memory mush. What has remained after all these years is the selflessness of that grandma who drove an hour to come sleep on a couch, to wipe brows and mope vomit, to make soup and do laundry, days and days of nursing a baby and a toddler and two grown adults now rendered helpless and worse than children.  Surely she had plans before that phone call, ring ring, created an interruption that challenged her physically and mentally and was not in any way a fun visit with her grandchildren. She stepped up and delivered. She is one of my grandma role models, one of the women I pattern myself after. There when needed, not intrusive when not. She mastered the transition.

Chef’s mom has served us in such way, I have been blessed in mother-in-law selection. Grandma J has starred in many blog posts for her selfless appearances at every one of my surgeries and the nursing afterward, she shows up for all the kids events and never misses the chance to send a card with $5. Much has happened behind the scenes with her as Chef and I grew into our marriage, establishing our family and our boundaries and making room for us all. Still she shows up and doesn’t judge the state of my refrigerator or flower bed s and always asks for a recipe. She just genuinely allows for my dignity as I make sure she has time with her son alone also. The transition wasn’t always smooth but worth the effort as we built trust and found space for our new family dynamics. She is one of my favorite people, a valued resource who is welcomed into my home and has claimed my heart. Creating all these different kinds of family places is challenging but matters most when someone interrupts our daily life and asks that we show up. She always answers the knock with a yes. Together we mastered the transition.

As a child I remember when my mother’s mom was dying. I didn’t know it then that was what was happening, I just knew my brothers and I were pulled out of bed during the night and taken across town to my dad’s mom. She opened the door as we were being carried up to it and she said no.Knock knock, no. She would not have her plans interrupted. She would not have her home in disarray. In the midst of this trauma, my mother had to find alternative care for her 3 children. I am sure she never forgave her mother-in-law. That night we met an extended aunt in the town I now call home. I have warm feelings for her, I never really bonded with my paternal grandmother. This woman was never a grandma to me, the antithesis of who I wanted to be when I grew into my own role as mother-in-law and gran. She didn’t understand how to transition, she wanted her son to stay her son and the rest of us to fall in line with her plans. Disaster.

It matters not how often you see someone but what you do when that knock happens. When the call comes in and the need is there. Do you show up as a grandma? Can you set aside your plans for wine and victory dances and comfy chairs? One day I pray the knock is from my daughter, I will always say yes. I won’t ask to hold the baby, I won’t reach for the toddler. I don’t do either with mama now. I have mastered the transition after many hard pushes and pulls, I know my role as mother-in-law. Show up when asked, stay out of the way when not. Put a bit of food in the fridge and send a card with $5. Back away slowly. Of course I long to hold the baby, who doesn’t really? I have huge gaping wholes in my heart about the size of new grandchildren who are 10 hours away, a daughter who is emotionally a million miles away. Still, I wait for the invitation and pray that when the knock happens, I can summon the strength to let go of my own needs and accept the request to be present for hers. That is how we master the transition.

Knock knock. Who will answer? Just as God shows up always, I pray we find a way to be present for those who need us and not show up as needy ourselves. Being a servant is really the best descriptor of a gran’s role that I can find, not the lady of the manor. That job already taken. Cookies. Cookies help too. Even daughter-in-laws like cookies. Come to think of it, my mother-in-law always brings cookies. Of course that is mostly because my husband tells his mother that hers are better than mine, but that is a completely different post. Show up, let God work out the details of when we are supposed to get our rest and our wine and know when to back out. Always say yes to the knock. Easy-peasy.  Oh and that hole, where our child used to be, God has plans for that. Can you hear Him knocking?

 

 

 

 

 

Bigger God

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef3 Comments

Almost 20 years ago I was hit by a drunk driver. Sitting at a red light in the middle of the night on my way to pick up Chef from work, I don’t remember why I was using his car, why I didn’t have my own, the car coming from behind didn’t stop. I literally never saw it coming. One moment I was waiting, the next I was in chaos. Blessedly another driver happened upon me and pulled me out of the car, called emergency people and stayed with me during the early moments of panic and disorientation until I left for the hospital in the ambulance where Chef met me.  A sneak attack, I wasn’t able to avoid this crash. How to avoid another one? It took a very long time for me to feel safe driving again, the evidence of the crash not just visible on the car but on my psyche.

I remember after 9/11 wondering about every car on the road, our safety no longer a given, attacks possible in seemingly safe places. I recall driving and looking at the cars next to me, wondering if they would really stay in their lane, really stop at all the red lights, observe the rules of the road. To have war declared on civilians with an invasion in previously considered safe places meant I no longer was sure of other paces I once trusted. Everything, everywhere became suspect. What happened on 9/11 to me though as I rushed to school to pick up my kids is that I had a flat tire and someone stopped, a stranger came to my aid and changed my tire and sent me on my way without any payment or need for bigger thanks. Someone entered my chaos and stayed until the panic subsided.

I have noticed that during times of stress and chaos, I slow down. My senses become attuned to what I miss during normal daily life, an indication I need to pay attention. Things that normally roll off , stick.  Vulnerability forces openness but I can chose what comes in.  As much as I notice opportunities to be afraid and worry that all is lost, I still see the angels who come as regular folks and do the next right thing to calm me. My choice is whether to remember the crash or the one who pulled me free. I can fixate on the burning buildings or my spare tire safely attached. I can worry that every time I get in the car someone may choose to disregard the rules of the road or the millions of times they don’t. Holding on to the angels who visit during times of trauma is important. Seeing the ones who visit daily maybe even more so.

I’ve been riding around about to crash for a few weeks, on the edge of shame and empowerment, wondering who to trust and where the next hit was going to come from.  I’ve been driving with a heightened sense of the cars around me, walking with a thinner skin. Crashes leave wounds, spare tires don’t ride as smoothly. In that condition I notice every bump, every time I hit a rock or stub my toe. A sideways glance or mistaken word, a little less friendliness gets blown into dangerous traveling. I see peril everywhere, my wounds pulsate.I forgot how many angels are already around me.  I forgot to choose where I give my attention. I forgot that I don’t have to drive on some of the faster roads, go into some neighborhoods that are less than friendly. I forgot to give more attention to those angels who pull me aside with kindness. I forgot that rainbows show up after storms. And then, I hear the words of an angel who visits in the midst of my chaos. My friend Janet mentioned in passing, an off-handed comment from her that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with me, it pulled me from my personal wreckage or at least the crash I was heading for. “God is bigger than this.” Dear Lord, there are just some phrases that I should tape up around my home to see everyday, reminders to get centered not in my crazy but in my God. Blessedly God knows I forget my tape so angels appear in the shape of friends with the right words. God is bigger than this.

God is bigger than fear and worry and old wounds and itchy scars. God is bigger than hurtful words and flat tires. God is bigger than rough seasons and dry patches and cold spring weather and global concerns. God is indeed bigger. Also, God needs me to show up as an angel sometimes too. Because I suspect someone else may be driving scared, hurting with worry and wondering if we are going to observe the rules of engagement. God would most certainly appreciate if I get my head out of my past and into this moment where it is not all about me. Where unkind words reflect another’s hurt, where a swerving driver may be rushing to see an ailing relative, where scars that itch mean healing is happening. God is bigger than my nonsense, my ridiculous fretting. God is bigger. That will do me for today. I’m steering clear of all the rest. Now if I could just find some tape.

May your day be filled with a bigger God who reminds you of the angels all around. May worries and wounds fade away as the you choose to remember what is good. The rest is not worth our tape.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things” Phil 4:8

Symptom

Update: How awesome is this? The folks over at God is Bigger, an amazing venture started out of pain and the choice to see God as bigger than all the hurts, read this piece and sent me some bracelets to share with those who might need this reminder as well! Plum immediately snagged the green ones because, well he is Plum, but I have purple pink, teal and black if you would like to wear the reminder as well! Send me an email with your contact info and I will send it out to you.  And everyone, go visit their site, great stuff! http://www.godisbigger.com/category-s/131.htm17553543_10203072997622303_7863566956881829590_n

Ta Da!

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

Gran, where’s purple blankie? Honey, have you seen my briefcase?  Nanny, I can’t find my______.  Lisa, do you know where I set my ______ down? Like the chorus to our family song, these questions ring out with such frequency I almost don’t hear them anymore. I just begin looking, I go retrieve the missing item. Like our beasts who can sniff out a tennis ball behind the couch or under a cabinet, I just know where lost things are. No need to pray to the saint of missing items around here, it never gets that serious. Ta Da, here you go!  I am the hero for a few fleeting seconds, family member reunited with item, all is well. Of course, that means these people never really are responsible for their stuff, not with a built-in finder at the ready. I previously thought this was a superpower that made me special to them, I have come to realize that it kept them from being able to search on their own, a skill they would need throughout their lives.

Being a mom to my children was more important to me than just about anything, like breathing or eating. I overdid it on many aspects and hindsight allows me to see my mistakes, attempts to swing so far away from my own childhood that I created other problems. I left my kids with deficits that now are glaring, now haunt me. In my efforts to protect them and make their lives happier, to make up for earlier trauma, I forgot to let them struggle just a bit. I forgot that they needed to learn to find stuff on their own. It feels great to be so needed in the rush of everyone’s lives, when buses are coming or carpools are waiting and I could hold up the desired book bag or sweater, but that meant they didn’t learn to look for what they wanted, they didn’t learn to miss what was gone. I thought they had enough struggle early on, I wanted to save them from anymore. Oh, Hindsight, you wicked devil. It felt so wonderful to be needed in the moment, now I am missing and they don’t know how to search for me. They can’t find their way home and back to truth and into forgiveness. I think maybe they just gave up and got replacement moms, relationships that were easier and immediate and Ta Da required little of them.

I left my children without the skills needed to stick with the search, to uncover truth like pillows on the couch, to compromise as if bending to hunt below the bed. They give up too easily, forget the fun of the hunt. I remember one birthday party when we held a scavenger hunt during Stella’s sleepover, all the girls fanned out around the neighborhood. What was expected to be an hour game quickly turned into a bust when one household went through the list and gave that pair everything on it. The girls returned triumphant, unaware that they had really lost and destroyed the game. Robbed of the opportunity to ask many times for help, one stop gave everything. The goal was not really winning, the journey was the fun part. The neighbor thought they were helping I am sure, just as I always thought I was. Kids need to learn to search and find and ask and look.

Sometimes when we search for one thing, we find a different treasure all together. I began writing to seek my own voice and have found a place where many feel heard. Each holiday season as I prepare to decorate I come across something in a closet that I forgot was stashed away, the blessing of a short memory, maybe. Still, treasures lurk waiting to be found. Exploring is the journey, finding riches in my soul I didn’t expect, finding connections to God I would have missed if I chose not to go looking.  Oh how I wish I had taught the kids to seek. I can’t undo the damage with my children who are now adults. I pray they someday will learn to ferret out truth, they will become eager to seek forgiveness and dole it out like the grand prize. Ta Da! We found you, Mom!  Until then, I can change my role as “Super-Finder” with Plum. He loves to explore already, it won’t take as much to help him learn to seek out what he wants most. Not so sure it will work with Chef, he is already grown. And I AM really good at finding things.

One day I pray I will find my daughter again. Ta Da! I pray my son will find his way, Ta Da! I know that God, the Great Finder of all us lost souls, has prepared the way. The best hunt ever, the most glorious find ever, a journey that will ultimately only happen with Him as the guide. So I keep looking to Him, knowing the struggle is teaching me much. There is no one place to find all that I need to get reunited with my lost children, I have tried all of my super-powers to make it so. The time is not right to find them. They have to find me. When they just can’t do without me anymore. Like Plum and his purple blankie, often he goes to find her on his own, he can’t wait until I finish my task. When their need is that great, they will look back towards home. I will be here. Just where they left me. Ta Da!

May you find what you are seeking today, may your heart be filled with joy and just enough curiosity to seek out what God is nudging you to look for. Treasures await, my friend.

Messages On a Card

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef1 Comment

Wandering the clearance shelves of Target, I happened upon a little booklet called “Happy Cards.” Described as “30 fill-in the blank cards to make someone smile” I was immediately intrigued by the possibilities. I put the booklet in my cart, then decided it was silly, I could do the very same thing without the help of pre-constructed pages. Walking two aisles away, pursuing pink duct tape and cork board stick ups and bundles of twine, I still had the booklet in mind. Backtracking, I somewhat sheepishly put it in my cart and went on to complete my real shopping. No pink duct tape for me. Maybe it was a Holy Spirit nudge, letting me know I needed a bit more positivity in my dealings in the coming days. The cards turned out to be well worth the $2.98 I spent.

Plum has been struggling with some adjustments as home, a new sister who has taken the spot he held for over 6 years. A new marriage with all those pressures, tight to nonexistent money, little sleep, extended family expectations, less fun, more work, Plum has started to show all those tensions of the family. Mama is aware and is working on correcting as much as she can (anyone have a spare money tree?) but these things take time and Plum is  acting out now. Thus our weekends with him have become a complicated combination of supporting rules and propping up his need for stability and extra love. We aren’t in the position of being those grandparents who spoil, we see him too often and are frankly broke anyway. We (read me, Chef is too much fun) have always taken on the role of disciplinarian, knowing we played a critical part in shaping this child into a real person. So we have been engaged in some battles that leave us all feeling less that wonderful and wishing for the days when we just snuggled and read books and played games and laughed Ah ha, the Happy Cards.

I filled in a card that said, “I like your” with “friendly smile” and left it on his bed for him to find. I didn’t think about signing it, I left one for Chef as well, he can always use a bit of sweetness from me. (That may be a different post.)  A strange, unexpected thing happened: Plum never considered that I had written the card. He wasn’t bothered with logic or the need to work out the details. His mind grabbed onto the mystery and stayed there. Someone noticed his friendly smile and also that Chef is the best grandpa ever and that was enough. He carried his card with him all day. Not like an adult who puts a note in their wallet, but a 6 year old who rarely stops moving. This card went with him from room to room, activity to activity. His friendly smile joined us almost all day.

What struck me most though beside the fact that changing my focus had changed his behavior, (c’mon, we all know this, just forget in the nitty-gritty day  to day) was how he refused to make the mental leap that I didn’t get a card and maybe I gave him the card. He is a really smart kid, has begun doing multiplication when he is supposed to be learning addition, he is reading at mid-second grade level as a kindergartener, he connects things. He refused to see this. He needed to not see this. This message needed to come from somewhere bigger. That works for me. Because I think it kind of did.

I wonder how often we miss the messages our parents have given us, thinking they were just the “have-to’s” You know, mom has to say this stuff because she is my mom, not believing they are telling us the truth about ourselves. We miss the chance to bask in the good by discounting the authority of the messenger. I tell Plum the very same things I wrote on the card, and the card he found the next day, but it was truer, more special for the colored card stock and fancy printing. What messages do we miss from God as we look for the special card? We miss what He is sharing with us all the time about ourselves, messages that affirm who we are to Him. I think I take for granted God’s love just as my Plum takes mine for granted. In many ways that is the sure sign of a solid parent-child relationship. Plum knows he doesn’t have to earn it, doesn’t worry it will go away after one bad day, or even two, he trusts it will grow with him. Yet I am no longer a child and need to show more respect and appreciation for my Ultimate Parent. I can’t discount the messages God sends me that I am enough, add more value to the ones that come from others. I can’t forget to say thank you to the One who wakes me up and the One who gives me rest. I hope I can be more open to those special cards from God. The ones that come as bright red birds in the barren winter trees, as dreams of hopeful visits with my daughter and granddaughter.

By the way, I found this card here for you. It says, “You’re awesome at….” What is God whispering you to write in? Listen to your Father and fill out the message. Rest in His love today. He knows you best, He knew you first.  Let His message be louder than all the others who talk to you, louder than the voices of worry and shame and fear and self-doubt.  God thinks you are awesome! Really, isn’t that enough?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Birthday, Blog, We are a year old!

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

My little Sweetness is almost 3 months old now and her voice is erupting. No longer just heard as cries, she is adding in coos and when we are really fortunate we are treated to a laugh. No easy feat, she works with great concentration to bring forth her sound. I watch her wiggling, an arm jabs out, feet kick, her entire face contorts. Then, then, an “oooh” or an “uuuuh.”She looks exceptionally pleased with herself and we respond accordingly. Such difficult work finding your voice, seemingly one of the last functions to arrive. Granted she doesn’t have full motor control and won’t until after some speech arrives but sharing her thoughts will come so much more slowly than sharing her ability to move. I get her struggle. At 53, I am still struggling to find and share my voice.

Like a small child learning to control her vocal muscles, my blog is just a year old and I am still learning what I want to say and how I want to say it. My faith is foremost and colors my writing. I have been given grace in very real ways and have to share how my life has been impacted by such close encounters with Holiness. An optimist who sees possibilities for others but finds my own internal wounds and hurts often get triggered in my personal interactions, I can be unsure and less than positive. As if the rainbow and sun shine more brightly on others, I am on the edge of the picture. Getting closer though, ever closer. What I have always known though is that my place of brokenness allows me to see others who might need some help speaking, some others who might not have their voice yet or who don’t get heard.

Like my Sweetness, struggling to say what I want to say can be a struggle, when the content is political. Does that belong in a faith-based blog? I have sat with this idea for days, lost sleep over this for days. I have been wrestling with how my voice is heard, how I share my words. My politics have never been the popular ones around any dinner table in my family. I am okay being the outcast there. But in my own blog, having to censor? It feels so wrong I almost lost my voice. An acute case of laryngal-blogitis. See, politics IS personal. I feel an urgency to speak up for groups more and more everyday, more and more groups everyday. My head is spinning and my fear level is ratcheting up, an inner tension reminiscent of that slow walk home when my father called just me back while everyone else got to stay out and play. Bad things were coming, back then I was helpless to stop them. Now though, as an adult, I can speak up. I feel called to speak up. I hear God telling me to notice the warning signs of danger coming and start yelling. Now like my little Sweetness, maybe the message comes out a bit rough at first, but still, the message… the coo, the ahh, the oooh, the highlights of discrimination and the ways we shame others. The worries about who will stand up for Others when this administration has created a mistrust so deep in true journalism, has trampled civil discourse and any semblance of honesty in the face of personal greed. If only I could ignore it all and only write about finding joy always. But I am having a hard time finding the joy when there is so much scariness about. I am scared.

Does this belong in my blog? A blog about brokenness and the search for grace? After much wrestling, I say yes. My voice is mine, I can only speak as God guides me and know that sometimes I will mess up along the way. My sweetness struggles so hard to talk sometimes the sound comes out around her diaper area instead of her lips. I may have those times too. In fact I am sure I will. Still, on the path of finding my voice and working all the muscles and kinks out, I am okay with that. We all learn to speak at different ages. It has taken me a bit longer. I find, after all of these years, I have much stored up to say.  I find I have much that I notice, much that seems connected, much that must be voiced. So I write.

Ultimately, we all need to find our voices and use them to speak truth, to speak grace and to speak peace. Some conversations hit all three of those goals, some only one or two. Just as my truth is mine, yours is yours. Hopefully we can meet at the Cross to find our grace and peace. My friends, if you have found more “diaper moments” here than you prefer, I am sorry. Maybe over the course of the next year my voice will be so honed that diaper blowouts will be a thing of the past. Thanks for learning with me, for supporting me in this journey. Happy Birthday, Blog, we are a year old!

 

What Does Your Jesus Look Like?

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

I spent some time listening to a podcast (shoutout to This Good Word by Steve Wiens) in preparation for our small group study  of the book “Beginnings” and one line has gotten me thinking. Steve and his guest Erin Lane were discussing the “genderfulness” of God, a beautiful stretching thoughtful exchange that I encourage you to spend some time on. Go here to find it: http://thisgoodword.podbean.com/e/episode-18-god-with-erin-s-lane/    I could write about opening up to God having no gender, all genders, being more, but what caught me this time through was when Steve mentioned that Jesus was not recognized when he reappeared to His disciples. This is clear from gospel recordings in Luke, John and Mark. Yet I always assumed it was because Jesus had been transformed into an angelic figure or that the people seeing Him couldn’t get beyond the reality of having seen Him die to accept that he was there in front of them. Maybe as my pastor suggested it was because He was so broken and disfigured, reflecting humanity. But what if it was more than that?

We are taught that Jesus is the image of humanity, that He is the embodiment of the church. “He is also the head of the church, which is his body. He is the beginning, the first to come back to life so that he would have first place in everything. “Colossians 1:18  What if the Church, aka Jesus, no longer looked like the One we picture on the cross but the One who rose? What if we wouldn’t recognize Him because He truly transformed to include all of humanity, male and female, black, brown, yellow, white, everyone on the full continuum? Would I recognize Him? Maybe that is why we struggle with loving all of our neighbors, we struggle seeing redemption in those who are different, we don’t recognize Jesus.

It is a beautiful affirming step to see that Jesus could look like me, an aging white woman with some flab in places we should never discuss, but when I consider that very expansion includes others, that I am asked to include others, all the others, now that is some radical stuff. I might rather sit with the first step for a bit, basking in my Jesus glow, feeling accepted in all of my flaws and loved as I am. The warmth of that can heal some junk, like a heating pad on sore muscles too long constricted and tensed. Easing out the bunches of knotted memories, bring the refreshing blood flow of new life to aching wounds, I can sit with my new found vision of accepting, fully knowing Jesus, forgetting that He isn’t all mine. In fact, I think  He looks just like you as well. Muscles tensing again. Nothing personal, friends.

It is nothing new to imagine Jesus is those homeless guys huddled around the fire on a street corner, cool music videos often show us the transformation. I have seen them, felt the heart tug and moved along with my day. I know the scripture “Entertain Strangers, lest they be Angels” (Hebrews 13:2) and think Chef and I live that out with intentionality. But to be honest, I see Jesus as those Others when it is convenient. When I have the time, the emotional energy, when I am in the midst of a great study. On my schedule. Hardly the stuff of neighbor loving.

Therein lies the problem for me. I want Jesus. I love Jesus. I so appreciate what He has done for me. I am willing to do some work on His behalf. Can I make that the end of the story?  I don’t always want to believe that Jesus looks just like my enemy, just like the person I am struggling with, just like the annoying person who almost backed into me while looking at their phone (would Jesus really text and drive?). I most certainly don’t want to share my heating pad with these folks. I prefer to share with those who seem more like me or more needy in ways I can understand. If Jesus is the whole church, little “c”, not one denomination, not one collective that meets around the donut bar on Sundays, but the wider body of humanity, I have to expand who I am willing to want, love and appreciate, who I am willing to do some work for. This is indeed a problem.

With privilege comes responsibility. If I am to accept my Jesus as a gray-haired granny who occasionally rides a Harley and aches to travel, I just can’t limit who I reach out to. Even to those difficult folks in my life. I may even be one in someone else’s life. Don’t they see I am Jesusy? See how this works? Uncovering my inner Jesus means I have to give you room to do the same. Let’s spend some time looking closer for glimpses of what is Holy in each other. We might just be surprised.  What does your Jesus look like?

1 Corinthians 12:27
Now you are the body of Christ, and each of you is a member of it.

Not Yet Spring

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

A mere 8 days until spring and the ground is covered with snow, the temperature is barely hitting double digits. No amount of wishing and wanting the next season can change the reality that heavy coats, hats and mittens are necessary today. No amount of wishing and wanting can get me to Easter either, without this time in the wilderness. I almost made it, like our mild winter with no real snowfall, my schedule so full that I was able to run from activity to meeting to deadline with little time for introspection. Did it make it better that my activities were church related?  Lurking behind busyness was my real winter, waiting as each commitment came to a natural conclusion, ending dates nearing for others. The cold air grabs my attention and my energy, reminds me that God has asked specifically for this time. Spring will come, winter’s work is not yet done.

More naps but not rested, I am still tired. Drinking more orange juice and no soda, I am still thirsty. While grateful for the flurry of opportunities that have come my way over the last several months, I am silently crossing off days on the calendar until my schedule looks freer. This season of Lent begs for my attention, begs for my fasting from distractions. I am suddenly aching to fast, my soul is craving the solitude of the wilderness where I can meet up with the voice of the One I long to hear but often tune out with committee meetings and extra sessions. To be fair, I hear God through the works of others in those encounters, but rarely do I experience the up close interaction my soul needs: more quiet time, more alone time, more empty time that allows God space to join me. Lent is a sanctioned time to be alone, to draw inward and consider the condition of my soul.

As a youth I saw Lent as punishment, a time I had to give up something I wanted just to get a big basket of it at the end. As an adult I know that this season is the gift, an opportunity to grow closer to Jesus and deal with my temptations, prepare myself for what is to come. For just as I can’t skip ahead to spring without experiencing winter, there is no easy way to Easter without the Cross. I have missed some time readying my soul for what is to come, my body is reminding me to go away into the wilderness, seek the strength of the Father to face it all.  Most years as I relive this season, it breaks me, as it should. Some seasons more so, some I have skated through if I am honest. Those years I didn’t wander the wilderness searching for Jesus, wishing I could anoint him with my tears. Those years I stayed busy and bought a pretty dress for the big Easter service. I didn’t crave time alone with God, I didn’t listen for His voice. I ran the other way, terrified at what He might say to me.

God and I have come a long way in our trust, He would probably tell you He has never moved. I have come closer, closer, closer still. Maybe one day I will climb into His lap. The fact though that I WANT my alone time to seek out what He has for me means I am getting closer to living out the verse that has forever spoken most deeply to me: I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me. Phil 4:13. I have always interpreted that to mean get through all the hard stuff that has been my life and it is true, leaning on my faith has saved me. But what if there is more? What if I can truly wander the wilderness and find God, as Jesus found his resolve to do the will of His Father, prepared His soul for the hardest request ever, during that fasting and alone time? What if my hard thing is to truly trust God enough to climb into His lap and allow Him to love me?  Like a blast of cold air when I just want to bask in the sun, I am feeling pushed to ask questions and be quiet for the answers.

Friends, I pray you are finding time this season for your own fasting and craving and seeking and searching. The snow will melt in a few days, spring temps will return. Pray with me that I stay focused on the real season.

Can We Be Trusted?

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I just finished a book study at church, weeks of being stretched and pulled and pushed into uncomfortable places. This was no ordinary study, no “let’s explore our faith and dig a bit deeper”study. We were led by a member of our staff who has a heart for social justice and was on her 3rd round of teaching the book as we read “The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness” by Michelle Alexander. What began with a group who was often skeptical ended with a call to arms, a search for ways to become active. This book made a difference, these words changed us all.  A church consisting of almost exclusively white, upper middle-class, highly educated people who love Jesus and had little understanding of white privilege, who knew nothing of the systemic, intentional devastation on the black community that the War on Drugs has created, we gathered each Sunday evening to explore what we had read and challenge what we have been taught. Jesus surely is nodding, saying, “Yes, children, yes. This, see all of my children.”

The premise of the book is that the War on Drugs has targeted black and brown people, criminalizing addiction, creating a profitable industry of prisons, rewarding local police  with federal dollars for every increasing arrests, dismantling 4th Amendment rights, and most of all, selling it all to the American people by creating the image of the black criminal. I won’t debate any of this with you, read the book, Michelle Alexander does an excellent job of backing up her assertions with facts, real facts, not the alternative ones we are being fed these days. I understand if you are skeptical, any of us were at first as well. Incredulous, even. We are educated, remember. How could we have fallen for this? How did we miss this? We are aware, many of us are liberal leaning, we think we are open to seeing racial injustice. We still missed it. We got sucked in and got complacent. We thought having a black president meant things were better. Better is not an indicator, better is relative. Like between contractions, you might feel better but the big ones are coming, it is going to hurt like hell. America, we need to hurt to fix this mess.

As a fifty plus woman, I have been taught to say we don’t see color, that we are striving to be colorblind. Is this familiar? We aren’t supposed to talk about race, that makes us racist. Michelle Alexander says this: “The colorblindness ideal is premised on the notion that we, as society, can never be trusted to see race and treat each other daily fairly or with genuine compassion.” As followers of Jesus, does that not strike a blow? I can’t stop reading that line. We can’t be trusted to SEE each other. I write constantly about my own brokenness and search for grace, about taking off the mask and allowing God to meet me in my vulnerable places. I ask to be seen as a child of God, but I have subscribed to a philosophy that teaches me not to SEE black and brown people.  I am convicted by this line. She goes on to say:”A commitment to color consciousness, by contrast, places FAITH in our capacity as humans to show care and concern for others, even as we are fully cognizant of race and possible racial differences.”  Yes, faith, trust, belief, that we are taught each week in church to see everyone as a child of God, and to behave accordingly. By pretending we don’t see color, we are pretending we don’t see what happens to people of color also. I never would have imagined admitting to my own racism, but I have found that my search for the holy grail of colorblindness has led me to a wicked chalice of racial indifference. This is a horrible admission. I can do nothing but begin today to correct the path and acknowledge that I was wrong.

Ultimately, as a Jesus follower, I am called, we all are called to keep seeking truth, to push away the lies and distortions and help our neighbors get what we have and then share some more. Who is my neighbor though? We have been able to insulate ourselves in our safe suburbs where we find mirror images of ourselves, so easy to love our neighbors. I think Jesus meant something else, was casting a wider net. I know He is asking more of me and I am listening, yes, I am listening. The battles over immigration occurring right now surely are not pleasing our Jesus, are the next wave of prisoners to fill the costly buildings being emptied a bit by softer laws on marijuana use. I can’t unsee what is being sold to me as a safety issue, as a threat to my security. I know now how this goes down, who loses and who wins big. Our Jesus was brown. Would you let Him in to our country, would you fear Him today? Ask yourself why and question where the information is coming from and who stands to gain from teaching us to fear people of color.

This book is not an easy read, is best done in a group with someone to hold you accountable and listen as you struggle. But if you don’t have a group, read it anyway. If you think I am crazy, really read it to prove me wrong. If you are scared to read it because you think I may be right, read it anyway. If you want to make America great again, read this and tell me when it was great for ALL Americans. We have some work to do and it is going to hurt like hell. As it should. People of color have been feeling the pain for far too long. Do you dare join me and the others who have read this book and found a new path towards Jesus that includes dealing with our own leper colonies, our own outcasts, that shows we are held captive, we all are imprisoned by racism? I want to be trusted to see all people and treat them fairly and with genuine compassion. That is my Holy Grail. Will you join me? You have to know up front it is going to hurt.

My Mother Is Yellow

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella3 Comments

When asked her favorite color my mother would have told you it was blue. Still, I think of yellow when I remember my mom, years spent peering up at the counter as she mixed and measured cakes using her yellow pyrex bowl. When she pulled this bowl out of the cabinet I knew delicious things were in my future. I could consider the electric skillet as a symbol of my mother, she did a lot frying for our family. But the yellow bowl, that was the good stuff. That was when mom was making cookies and cakes and the extras, before boxes made the process easier, faster. The yellow bowl meant dessert, meant mom was going to hand out one electric beater and the emptied bowl to each of her three children to lick, the pre-dessert to children who hovered about her legs and watched and probably whined as she spent even more time in the kitchen after working outside our home and making meals all week. Yellow is my mom to me, the times she nurtured us with sweet delights beyond just feeding us.

I always knew that when she died, the bowl would be my inheritance. One day though before she left us, I discovered it in my brother’s cabinet. I had never told her what the bowl represented, I am not sure I knew it back then.  She had already given it to him, she no longer needed such a big item as her baking days were mostly behind her. She bought her cakes and pies and treats at the store or more accurately, her husband did. Each trip to my brother’s house saw me trying to sneak the bowl away, his watchful eyes ensured I was never successful. A trip through some antique shops allowed the purchase of not one but two of these bowls, a back-up, just in case. Not the same, not the years of mom scraping the sides and standing over it, but still, my cabinet stores my own yellow bowl, a legacy of cakes and cookies. (I have teased my brother that I have swapped out my store purchase with his bowl, that now he has the antique find and I have mom’s. Can you tell I am a bit hung up on this piece of kitchenware?) My Kitchen-Aid makes mixing those items much faster but I still choose my yellow bowl. I use it for more than baking, it holds soups and spaghetti and most any dinner item. I love my yellow bowl, it connects me to the good parts of my mom.

I remember potato salad from that bowl, the best kind of potato salad, the bowl was always  completely full. I still prefer mine at room temperature, like it was just prepared, like I am eating it right out of mom’s bowl, unable to wait for it all to chill in the refrigerator. The bowl meant it was going to taste good and it did. The one caveat is that every year at Christmas she made a braunschweiger ball that I detested. I was called in to help with the process and abhorred sticking my hands in to the icy mess of cold processed meat and freezing ketchup. I have yet to taste this atrocity. Mom wasn’t perfect with her bowl, I have forgiven this misstep.

My brother is the cook in his household, I cook for anyone who sits still long enough. Mom taught us this is how you show love. Don’t tell my brother but I am secretly glad that we both, the only living family left, have a bowl. We have a piece of the good from our childhood. We shared mixer beaters dripping with batter resting on the edge of a yellow bowl, we fought over that bowl and the chance to run little fingers along the smooth surface to catch the batter she purposely left for us.  The times mom was just a mom.

Before she died,  I was seeking a particular recipe from her. I never got it. She was going to look through all of her cookbooks and call me back. I inherited her books but still can’t find the one that I wanted. Seems fitting, I will always want just a bit more from her. Still, most of my calls to her began with the ask for a recipe, she would rattle it off, I better have something to write on ready. She gave ingredients and steps mixed together, I often had to number and edit or if I was familiar with the steps, I left that part out, just getting quantities. Most of the calls with her ended with a scrap of paper, an envelope that was close by now covered in my horrible handwriting as I flew to keep up. These are the recipes I pulled the most, these are stained and rumpled and well loved. These will be my legacy one day when my children consider what color I am. My favorite color is teal but maybe they will remember me as yellow, like a bowl that I pulled out to make them delightful treats. We don’t get to control how the next generation remembers us, but we can invite them to the table while we are still here. My door is open. Are you hungry? I am happy to whip up something to eat, let me grab my yellow bowl.

Truth is Hard

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef3 Comments

Chef and I took one of those personality surveys that pop up frequently on social media. Months of extreme togetherness and devastating stressfulness had taken a toll on our communication, it was time to back up and find a new perspective. When we looked at how we evaluate our world not in “I’m right, you are wrong” terms but with some solid science to support the very basis of our personalities, we found a means to communicate. Light shone brightly again. I already actually knew my personality type when I took the survey, having taken it many times throughout my educational experiences. Chef had not. Still, it was in the comparing that we found our important information. We discovered we each come to decision making from vastly different places, not to make each other mad but because we use criteria at almost opposite ends of the spectrum. We discovered that we hold utterly opposite values to be dear. We knew we were quite opposite, we have always known this, but stepping away from the emotion of it all and discussing it in terms of science furthered talks and allowed respect. We found what had been truly annoying us about the other, bringing hurt and frustration was also what had drawn us to the other initially. We found our way back. This little survey did what months of hard talks had been unable to achieve.

What strikes me about this exercise is that we had to find some facts, had to get away from  the emotion and our perceptions to uncover the real truths. I am drawn to real truths, to authenticity like a child to a candy store. I want more, I am insatiable. I want to be around authentic people, folks who are seeking truth and digging deeper to discover their real selves. I am often frustrated that the next questions aren’t asked, the follow-up is left hanging, I want to know more. Superficial relationships are what I have with those who pass my change back, those who hand me my food in the drive through, not significant people in my inner circle. From inner circle people, I expect truth. I give them my truth. This can be a tough standard to reach, not everyone is ready to bare all, not everyone wants that much truth. Unfortunately, I am unable to have lasting relationships with people who aren’t on that path.

Brene Brown in The Gifts of Imperfections, says: “Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.” Heady stuff, but the operative word is daily. Not a one time choice to be AUTHENTIC SELF but working actively every day, every encounter. Exhausting to consider if we have lived out our lives in secrecy, in shame, in others expectations. Considering that walls would crumble, that jobs might shift, that friends might disappear, marriages certainly would alter, if we actually got honest about who we are and what we are feeling, I hear the argument for status quo. I just can’t. Thus when offered up an encounter with someone who is hiding, who is living in secrecy, I cringe. I look for the door, my escape route. I know something isn’t right and I want out. I know all about secrets and those things are hurtful. Ugly painful horrible truth I can handle. Bring those to the light, God will meet us there. Yucky stuff happens in the dark.

I share my truths, I share my perspectives. Understand that they are mine, I don’t expect them to be yours. Just as Chef took his own survey and we found room in our marriage for us both, I don’t expect everyone to take on my beliefs as their own. That doesn’t lead to authenticity either. What I do expect is that we have discussions without bringing the Kingdom of God judgment into my beliefs, that there is room for disagreement about my truths but not about my person. I love that Chef met me in the hard talk as we discovered more about each other and our relationship. Neither was expected to cave or even bend, just to gain understanding. I love that Chef is strong enough to have a strong wife as well. His identify is not diminished if mine has power. He is a champion of my voice growing louder and louder. My relentless truth seeking can be exhausting, it can be overwhelming. It is difficult when I am ready to cut free of a relationship that has shown it is unable to be rooted in truth, when he has ties to the same relationship. Still, he always trusts my truth. He has never questioned my authenticity, he has never used my faith against me.

I wrote a piece earlier this week and did not afford privacy to all who were in it. That was a mistake. I did not consider overlapping circles, that some readers would know the identities of those in the piece. My thought process was that this was a public person in a public role who has authority and the power of the pulpit and our conversation was not private. Still for those who were hurt, this is my public apology. A private one was given as well. The story could have been told with a name change of “powerful person in the church” and it would have been equally effective, but may have blown up my inbox as folks wondered who would have said the comment listed. As it stood, I received no questions. Truth is hard, growth is hard. I am growing as I celebrate the first year of blogging. I stand by my truth, the one piece of me I have never surrendered. As a woman who began life learning she was less, she was an object for men, I reject the notion that God wants my truth to be quiet. The Kingdom of God is not a weapon for silencing unruly women, it is a safe haven for us all. Just as Chef and I have found room at the table from opposite sides, I hope you will bring your most authentic self and join me for hard talks and real growth. That is actually where grace meets us both. Praise be to the God of love and encouragement and empowerment to all His children.

If you haven’t caught this video yet, it is worth 18 minutes of your time. I promise.

http://www.umc.org/news-and-media/breaking-the-silence-to-build-support