Whatever You Do, Don’t Cartwheel with Gum in Your Hair

May 9, 2014

Whatever You Do, Don’t Cartwheel with Gum in Your Hair

When I was a kid, I didn’t so much walk down the hallway at home. Instead, I cartwheeled from one end to the other, or, if I was feeling fancy, I walked on my hands.

Mom was okay with this, under two conditions:

1) I had to look behind me before I launched into cartwheel mode. (Sorry for all the times I kicked you, Little Brother.)

2) I was not, under any circumstances, to tumble with gum in my mouth.

I cartwheeled to my heart’s content without incident for some time . . . until that fateful afternoon when I was six. I was chewing gum while turning cartwheels, and sure enough, the bright green wad fell out of my mouth and landed squarely in my bangs.

I raced to the bathroom, closing the door behind me so I could assess the damage. I tugged, I yanked, I wrestled, but to no avail. The gum would not budge.

I can’t let Mom find out! In a panic, I raced through my options until I finally hit on a stroke of genius.

Aha! I’ll cut the gum out with the nail clippers! Mom will never know.

It was a foolproof plan . . . until, that is, I opened the bathroom door. I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear that Mom noticed immediately—whether because of the large notch of hair missing from my forehead or because of the guilt etched on my face, I’ll never know.

Mom and I had a heart-to-heart at that point about what I’d done and why the rules were there in the first place.

Then Mom gave me a hug, tussling my freshly hacked bangs. “Now what are we going to do about picture day tomorrow?”

It was only then that the magnitude of my transgression struck me. Between sobs, I managed to squeak out a dramatic pronouncement: “OH NO! I CANNOT go to school tomorrow!”

But as usual, Mom came to the rescue. Armed with authentic haircutting scissors, a curling iron, and some well-placed barrettes, she managed to make me look somewhat presentable for the school photo.

As I reflect on Mother’s Day, I’m reminded how much God’s love looks like mother-love. Like a mom, God knows precisely how we’re going to fail from the very start, despite his fair warnings. Then, after we come to him in repentance and he talks through the consequences with us, he holds us and comforts us—and even helps us fix the mess we’ve made.

And later, after our bangs have grown out and the school pictures come in, I have to believe he shares a gentle laugh with us too.

So happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks for faithfully showing me what God’s love looks like.

***

In honor of Mother’s Day, do you have a story to share about how your mom or another woman in your life has shown you God’s love?

If you comment below, you’ll be eligible to win a free copy of Lisa-Jo Baker’s new book, Surprised by Motherhood.

May 2, 2014

If God Is Leading, Why Am I Going in Circles?

I’m over at Pick Your Portion today, writing about what happens when you feel like you’ve heard from God, but it feels like you’re just going in circles.

Have you ever felt like God was leading you so directly . . . but then the path took you on chaotic twists and turns, detours, and maybe even what seemed like a dead end? You were doing your best to listen to your spiritual GPS, but somehow you just weren’t getting straight from point A to point B.

You can read the rest of the article here.

April 25, 2014

Friday Favorites: April

For anyone looking for a customized book recommendation . . .
These book recommendations are based on your personality type. Does yours fit? (Full disclosure: I read The Marriage Plot, the choice for INFJ, and I wasn’t crazy about it.) Myers-Briggs Books

For anyone who appreciates a good dose of marketing irony . . .
Somehow these products didn’t translate perfectly into other languages. Pee Cola, anyone? 8 Disastrous Product Names

For literary geeks who are looking for a summer road trip . . .
You could visit King’s Crossing this year. Or maybe Prince Edward Island, for all you Anne of Green Gables fans. Or perhaps you’d prefer a quiet getaway to Walden Pond. 12 Literary Pilgrimages

For anyone who’s had a long winter and is itching for a beautiful view . . .
These places are bound to make you want to hop on a plane to Bolivia or Maldives or Namibia: Surreal Places That Actually Exist on Earth

For anyone who’s wondered if Easter morning would ever come . . .
Jennifer Dukes Lee offers this lovely reflection on Holy Week: “I lived years of Good Fridays, holding out for Sunday, swimming in doubt.” Sunday’s Coming

For anyone who wants to believe in miracles . . .
Eric Carle, author of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, was reunited with the childhood friend who inspired one of his books—some 80 years later. An Easter Miracle

April 22, 2014

Spring Will Come

Somehow I don’t think it’s happenstance that Easter falls in the springtime on our calendars. God is a master of metaphor, after all, and he delights in giving us natural whispers that echo deeper truths. And after a long winter like this one, I think we’re all extra attuned to the cues of spring this year.

There’s something about waking up to the melodies of birdsongs that makes you wonder if new life just might be possible. There’s something about feeling the warm kiss of sunshine after record-setting snowfalls that makes you think there really might be such a thing as second chances. There’s something about seeing the first bunch of daffodils poke their golden heads out after a long winter that makes you believe in miracles again.

I just celebrated my ten-year anniversary of living in my house, affectionately dubbed the Nut House. (Whether that’s an allusion to my street address or to its occupant is anyone’s guess.) It’s the first place I lived on my own, and when it came time to move in, I felt scared and alone. Somehow I’d always imagined buying my first place with a husband—getting a cute starter home together and putting up with squeaky faucets and endearingly hideous olive green wallpaper until we could afford to fix it up. What I never pictured was jumping into that milestone solo.

I’d bought the place in an uncharacteristically split-second decision, not knowing much about the city or neighborhood beforehand. I remember going on a walk the day after I moved in, trying to get my bearings (and also to prevent myself from hyperventilating over how many boxes I still had to unpack and how I didn’t even know where the grocery store was).

As I ambled haphazardly along the path, I turned a corner, and all at once I was greeted by a canvas of yellow. Apparently the world had exploded in daffodils while I’d been busy worrying about other things. In that moment, I sensed God whispering to me that it was going to be okay. He was doing a new thing, and there would be new life, and I wasn’t always going to feel like daffodil bulb stuck under the dirt, struggling to break through the surface.

Ten springs have passed since that day, and my home is now brimming with memories and music and love. Over the course of a decade, friends and neighbors and guests and family have crossed the threshold of my door. Secrets and dreams and prayers and meals have been shared between those walls. I have started to grow into my own skin there. And to my great surprise, I now share this residence with a husband (who was entirely worth the wait) and the guitars and bicycles that moved in with him.

Last week Daniel and I went on a walk together to mark the tenth anniversary of the place both of us now call home. The daffodils were bursting gold along the path, just as they always do.

And as the sun streamed between the tree branches and onto my neck, it felt like God was whispering the reminder to me again, a decade in the making:

Winter does not last forever. Spring comes. Spring always comes.

Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime.
— Martin Luther

April 17, 2014

New Thursday

Perhaps no other week in the year is as full of dramatic turnarounds as this one.

Good Friday turns into Easter.
Winter melts into spring.
Sadness turns to joy.
Despair is trumped by hope.
Death is trounced by life.

Christianity is marked by those defining moments when everything changes: Creation. Exodus. Incarnation. And so it is with Maundy Thursday. On that night, the whole tilt of the earth shifted. On that night, Jesus made a proclamation that reframed all that was and all that will be:

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.
—John 13:34

The English word Maundy comes from the Latin word mandatum (mandate or command), the first word of the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos” (“A new command I give you . . .”).

The Old Testament records some 600 laws and rules. Yet in that seismic shift the night before his death, Jesus installed just one new law that covered all the old ones. Love, he said. Love, love, and more love.

But before new could replace old, before life could replace death, before Easter morning could dawn in all its glory, there had to be that long, dark night between Good Friday and resurrection.

According to Watchman Nee, the same is true for us:

God must bring us to a point—I cannot tell you how it will be, but he will do it—where, through a deep and dark experience, our natural power is touched, and fundamentally weakened, so that we no longer dare trust ourselves. . . .

We would like to have death and resurrection put together within one hour of each other. We cannot face the thought that God will keep us aside for so long a time; we cannot bear to wait. . . . All is in darkness, but it is only for a night. It must indeed be a full night, but that is all. Afterwards you will find that everything is given back to you in glorious resurrection; and nothing can measure the difference between what was before and what now is!

—Watchman Nee

Do not fear that dark night. It must come to make space for new life. For Easter. For resurrection.

April 15, 2014

Love Is Weird

In the words of that famous theologian Liz Lemon, “Love is patient. Love is weird, and sometimes gross. Love is elusive.” Not quite the words of Paul, but I rather think he would agree.

This month I’ve been memorizing 1 Corinthians 13, trying to marinate in what it means to really love someone. Patiently. Kindly. Unjealously. Hopefully. Enduringly. Unfailingly. I’ve been doing my best to put this into practice with my husband, my family, my friends.

But recently I was struck by this lightning-bolt realization:

I don’t get to choose who to love.

Earlier this week I was an utter jerk to someone. The story isn’t interesting, but suffice it to say that I was petty and selfish and rude and stubborn. Most of the time I’m able to keep the ugly pretty well underground, but on that day it came bubbling right to the surface.

All those good words I’d sealed into my heart about not being rude and self-seeking flew right out a sneaky back door reserved for caveats. Somewhere along the way, I suppose I decided that it was up to me who I showered love on.

But in this week of all weeks, how can I be stingy with love? How dare I decide whether someone is worthy of love? It is, after all, the week of Passion. The week of the profoundest of all loves. The week when Love himself fulfilled his mission. The week he stretched out his arms, extending his love to every last one of us, undeserving as we are.

And so this week, as I look to Jesus’ ultimate act of love on the cross, I wonder what it would look like to love more like he does.

What if I loved like it was my job?
What if I loved till it spilled over the edges?
What if I loved without asking anything in return?
What if I loved believing it could put broken things together again?
What if I loved like it was my one assignment from Jesus?
(Because, of course, it is.)

I want to love the lovable and the less lovely. I want to love the people who are easy to love and the ones who are hard to love. I want to love, period. Even when it’s weird, or gross, or elusive.

April 8, 2014

10 Ways to Tell You’re a Writer

I’m heading to the Festival of Festival of Faith and Writing later this week, which is essentially a three-day binge on books and writing. I always come back feeling refreshed and reminded why I’m in love with words. In anticipation of the festival, here’s my list of signs that you’re a writer.

***

A writer is someone who quilts words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into stories, and stories into something that will keep us warm at night.
A writer is someone who delights in finding precisely the right word at the right time . . . with the right word count.
A writer is someone who hears the siren call of laundry and Facebook and Netflix but somehow manages to keep rear in chair long enough to string some words together.
A writer is someone who wakes up in the middle of the night scrambling for a pen to capture those nocturnal wisps of stories.
A writer is someone who kills her darlings (but marks their graves in case they can be brought back to life one day).
A writer is someone who notices the little things other people miss. The gunmetal-gray of an April sky. The smell of new grass in spring. The old woman in the shadows with a story to tell.
A writer is someone who slows down time to help the rest of us pay attention.
A writer is someone who knows that words don’t appear magically out of thin air; they come out one idea, one keystroke, one drop of blood at a time.
A writer is someone who believes that words have the power to start a conversation, build a bridge, and remind us that we’re not alone.
A writer is someone who believes that words have the power to change the world, or maybe just one person. And that maybe that’s the same thing.

In honor of writers everywhere, I’m giving away a writing journal today. It was made in Thailand by precious women who are trying to get on their feet again after being exploited and trafficked. You can find out more about Women at Risk’s ministry here, and you can find more products like this journal here.

To be eligible to win this journal, simply answer this question: What do you think makes someone a writer? How have words made an impact in your life?

April 1, 2014

The Yoke’s on Him

I am weary. Is anyone with me?

The laundry is piling up. The sink is full of dirty dishes. The work deadlines are looming. My to-do list is spilling off the page. The technology that promised to make my life easier has just added more items to my list. Oh, and apparently dinner is a thing again today.

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to Jesus’ words about how our souls can find rest in him:

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

—Matthew 11:29

As hopeful as that sounds—rest for my soul!—I don’t entirely get it. Isn’t a yoke a symbol of work, not rest? I picture the oxen working the field with that wooden bar across their backs. If I wanted to paint a picture of rest, I’d describe a hammock gently swinging between two trees or a lounge chair on a tropical beach. Somehow the image of oxen doing heavy plowing doesn’t seem to me like the picture of soul-rest.

But recently I attended a conference by Lysa TerKeurst, who described what Jesus’ audience would have understood when he described this scene. Apparently when Jesus said “learn from me” in this context, he was referring to the process where a young, untrained ox would learn to pull a load from a more experienced animal. They shared a yoke so the younger ox could get a feel for what it felt like to pull, but the entire burden was placed on the older ox. Then the two oxen would walk together, side by side, until the young animal gradually grew stronger.

And so it is for us. Soul rest doesn’t mean we escape our reality and our responsibilities. God doesn’t give us a free pass from the things we’ve been called to do. But it does mean he carries the weight for us—the burden is on him. Our job is to walk closely with him, right by his side. It means we are never alone as we carry out the big and small tasks he asks us to do.

There may not be fewer loads of laundry. The dirty dishes may not go away. But maybe I can do these tasks with joy, knowing he’s standing right beside me at the sink, in the laundry room. Maybe my to-do list will seem less daunting, knowing that he’s helping me task by task, day by day.

My burden may not be smaller. But someone stronger is walking through it right beside me. And he’s the one doing all the heavy lifting.

March 28, 2014

Friday Favorites: March

For anyone who has ever felt guilty about their overdue library books . . .
You may have kept Divergent a few days past the due date, but this post should assuage your fears. These books were returned several decades late: Ridiculously Overdue Library Books That Were Finally Returned

For anyone who has wanted justice for a literary hero . . .
What if literary villains were tried in an actual court? Here’s what their sentences would be in real life: Leading Villains in Children’s Literature Enter Legal System

For anyone who needs a laugh today . . .
A German retirement community recreated scenes from famous movies to hilarious results. I hope to have this much spunk someday: Retirement Community Movie Calendar

For anyone who is feeling weary . . .
Shauna Niequist says, “I used to be spontaneous and silly, warm and whimsical. I used to dance in the kitchen and eat cake for breakfast with my kids.” More Love, Less Hustle

For all you book lovers out there . . .
If it’s a good book, I’ll read it just about anywhere. But I wouldn’t complain about having a nook like one of these: 10 Terrific Reading Nooks

March 26, 2014

Beauty as an Act of Worship

I’m over at Pick Your Portion today, writing about beauty and worship. Is there a place for making things beautiful? Or is God purely practical?

A friend of mine has a gift for seeing beauty and then capturing it with the lens of her camera. She can catch a particular scene, in a certain light, with just the right color pattern, and she somehow manages to tell a whole story through the images. She can capture the joy of a couple on their wedding day, the pink-toed wonder of a newborn baby, the golden glow of a field of daffodils.

When she and I chatted the other day, she was reflecting on her career choice. “I feel passionate about what I do,” she said. “But sometimes I wonder if it really makes a difference. I mean, some people help the underprivileged or teach God’s Word or serve on the mission field. And here I’m just making things pretty.”

But as I read today’s passage from Exodus 37, I’m struck by God’s affirmation of beauty—and those who create it.

You can keep reading here.