Fried Mama with a side of Post-Its and Contemplation

The only writing I’ve done in the last two weeks involves Post-It notes and to-do lists. Bad, bad writer.

But it’s that time of year. Every year is the same, and every year I swear it’s worse than Christmas. Award ceremonies, class parties, “graduations,” rehearsals, recitals, performances, more award ceremonies, more class parties. I counted thirteen End Of Year activities between the middle of May and the first week of June - and I think that’s a conservative estimate and does not include our normal weekly runaround. Last Tuesday, I put more than a hundred miles on the Loser Cruiser - and I was never more than five miles from home. 

I am fried.

I texted Gretchen last week.

Not that I’m dramatic or anything.

And the amount of sleep I get - or don’t get - doesn’t seem to matter. Nor does what I eat - or don’t eat - or how much I exercise - or not. I’m still fried. I went to Body Pump one day last week and survived forty minutes before I passed out left. I made it through the bicep track and rationalized skipping the lunges, shoulders, and abs - we’d already done squats, which are close to lunges, and I really hate shoulders, and I’d kinda worked abs already throughout all the other tracks.

So I quit. Big, fat, fried quitter I am. Quitty McQuitter. That’s me.

And I went home and laid my flabby, quitty self in the hammock for the next two hours.

And it was good.

While I vegetated, marinated, and contemplated in the hammock, I soaked in the words of Jen Hatmaker, one of my new favorite authors. She joins the ranks of Anne Lamott and Glennon Melton as Women Who Are Changing The World And Inviting Me To Join Them.

When Jesus told us to “take the lowest place” (Luke 14:10), it was more than a strategy for social justice. It was even more than wooing us to the bottom for communion, since that is where He is always found. The path of descent becomes our own liberation. We are freed from the exhausting stance of defense. We are no longer compelled to be right and are thus relieved from the burden of maintaining some reputation. We are released from the idols of greed, control, and status. The pressure to protect the house of cards is alleviated when we take the lowest place. (Interrupted, pg. 64)

Jesus did not seek out the rich and powerful in order to trickle down his kingdom. Rather, he joined those at the bottom, the outcasts and undesirables, and everyone was attracted to his love for people on the margins. Then he invited everyone into a journey of downward mobility to become the least. (Shane Claiborne, The Irresistible Revolution - as quoted in Interrupted)

And regarding Communion:

When He said, “Do this in remembrance of Me,” it required continuous action...Remembrance means honoring Jesus’ mercy mission with tangible, physical action since it was a tangible, physical sacrifice. In other words… “Continuously make My sacrifice real by doing this very thing.” Become broken and poured out for hopeless people. Become a living offering, denying yourself for the salvation and restoration of humanity...We don’t simply remember the meal; we become the meal...We are the body of Christ, broken and poured out, just as He was. (Interrupted, pgs. 54-55)

As a bonus, another quote I found in an interview with Colin Powell:

Kindness is not just about being nice; it’s about recognizing another human being who deserves care and respect.

So as the month of May is breaking me, I’m learning about being broken and poured out for the broken. I’m looking and praying for the Who and When and How. I’m chewing on what it means to step off the Great American Ladder of Success and Reputation to dwell among those who can’t get one toe on the bottom rung - because that is where true purpose and success (and Jesus Himself) are found.

It goes against everything we have been taught to value. It bucks mainstream American Christianity, whose consumerism and self-absorption has shredded the Bride’s relevance and attraction to a hopeless world. We’re known more for what we’re against than the way we love. Or the way we’re supposed to love.

These are a few thoughts I’m contemplating and fleshing out as we free-fall into the summer. For now, I’m ten-down-and-three-to-go on the EOY countdown, and my Post-It note to-do list just increased two stickies. Two words offer a bright, hopeful, beaconing light at the end of this vast, dark tunnel:

Day. Camp.

Have a great week, y’all.

Shaking off The It around my neck

I hate when something I thought was long buried suddenly rises from the dead. It sneaks up behind me and hisses in my ear, making me jump and exclaim, “Where did YOU come from?”

“Boo,” it whispers, and it sneers. “Surprise!”

“Go away,” I say.

“No.” it replies.

“You don’t belong here. I’m done with you. I was done with you a long time ago.”

“Sorry, sister. You’ll never be rid of me. And, by the way, you’re still selfish and spoiled. Your opinions are wrong, and your feelings are not valid. You’re still not worth all the trouble it takes to love you. It’s a miracle you’re still married and your children don’t hate you every minute of the day. You are such an embarrassment.”

I stick my fingers in my ears. “LALALALALALA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” - but it doesn’t budge. It jumps on my back, wrapping its arms around my neck, holding on, mocking me.

Crap. Just when life was looking up. 

I get angry. I cry. I scream. I flail around, frantic and helpless. Still the It hangs on, digging its nails further into my skin. So I do what works. I run to the nearest waters of Truth: clear, cavernous, cool. I dive in - deep, because simply wading up to my ankles won’t shake off the It, the lies, hissing in my ear like cicadas.

The waters flood my ears with a great whoosh, and the It loses its grip, thrown backward by forceful and resonant currents. I am free.

I rise to the surface - wet and clean, refreshed - treading water, then tipping my head back to float. To rest. To feel the warmth of the sun on my face, the coolness of the waters cleansing my heart.

God has sent a redeemer to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,

...to comfort all who mourn, 

and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of joy instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.¹

And my kids - who suffer the fallout of my brokenness...

They will be called mighty oaks,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.

They will rebuild the ancient ruins
    and restore the places long devastated;
they will renew the ruined cities
    that have been devastated for generations.²

Who God is…

You are light, you are light

When the darkness closes in...

You are here, you are here

In your presence, I’m made whole...

The riches of your love will always be enough

Nothing compares to your embrace³

Who I am…

Because of his great love for me, God, who is rich in mercy, made me alive with Christ ⁴...so that I, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep in the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge - that I may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God ⁵.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made⁶.

I am holy and beloved.⁷

I have been redeemed, summoned by name. I belong to Him.⁷ I am precious and honored in His sight.⁸

I am chosen and not rejected.⁹

I remember, too, where I am now and how far I’ve come. I remember the last twenty years and the kinsman-redeemer God sent to heal me, to show me what love is supposed to look like - its patience, kindness, goodness, humility. Michael, also flawed and broken, cleaned the mirror and helped me see who I really am. Only then, when I see a clear reflection, can I live as I was meant to live, fulfill my purpose, find completion.

These waters are not unfamiliar. I’ve rinsed my hands, dipped my toes, sponged off in its coolness. But within the context of my brokenness, the framework of my history, these words draw me in as they never have before. They compel me to immerse myself, drink them in, be surrounded and filled.

I am not the sum of my broken pieces. I am more than that. I am whole and being made whole. Complete, and being completed. Secure, and being reassured of my security.

The It lingers around the perimeter, waiting for an opening, waiting to pounce. And pounce it will, undoubtedly. But next time, I’ll be ready. I’ll be armed. Maybe next time, it won’t hang on quite as long. Maybe next time, the damage will be less.

For now, I choose to swim.

I'm a good woman, with a good heart
Had a tough time, got a rough start
But I finally learned to let it go
Now I'm right here, and I'm right now
And I'm open, knowing somehow
That my shadow days are over
My shadow days are over now 

God sees underwear and iPhones

After my dive into the depths of invisibility and lack of purpose last week, I decided to run away from home. Buh-bye. See ya. 

Actually, my weekend getaway had been planned for a while. Fortunately for everyone, it fell upon this particular weekend after one extremely long, exhausting, emotionally draining week. My freshman pot-luck roommate, Holly, and I run away from home once a year. We name-our-own-price for a luxurious hotel room on Priceline, meet in Austin, and hit the outlet malls, the restaurants, the movies. Most importantly, we sleep - and since both of us are slightly germaphobic, we rely on Priceline to provide us with a 4-star room with fancy white bedding.

Which I’m sure has something to do with the carpeting in our first apartment. Four long-haired girls in one apartment with navy blue carpet. Our floor looked like it was covered in small, furry animals, which obviously did not scare the rabid bat stuck in our fireplace. But that’s another story.

I backed out of my driveway on Friday afternoon with a huge sigh of relief and temporary freedom. I considered not coming back, but jail didn’t seem like a viable alternative. Although in jail, I wouldn’t have to drive anyone anywhere…

Over Mexican food and margaritas, we vented our frustrations in a way only someone you’ve known for more than twenty years can understand. Holly sympathizes, laughs, rolls her eyes, and indignantly scoffs at all the right moments. And I do the same.

After a movie and a restful sleep, we drove to Mecca - also known as the San Marcos outlet mall. I believe there were a few operatic hallelujahs during our descent. San Marcos houses our favorite stores: Vera Bradley, Soma, and Ann Taylor - each offering red-lined price tags that make my heart all aflutter. 

We made a beeline for our good friend, Vera, since she offered us an additional 30% off her already-slashed prices on retired patterns and styles. After two hours, I sternly confronted my oldest pal: “WE HAVE TO LEAVE. NOW! BEFORE I FIND ANYTHING ELSE TO BUY.”

She laughed at me and moved farther away from the cash register, so I was forced to keep shopping. Curse her.

Finally we completed our Vera expedition and stood in line for appropriate payment - which, even with the steep discounts, could induce a stroke. I whipped out my phone, logged into my email, and pulled up a coupon that would deliver me from a stroke to a mere fainting spell. While Holly sacrificed a purified goat for her new Hipster, I transferred my belongings from my old Vera to my new Vera - though she finished her payment before I finished my transfer, so I shoved everything into the shopping bag, and we walked to her car to stow our abundant purchases.

“I wanna take a picture!” Holly exclaimed. So she pulled out her phone.

Either I wanted my own documentation, or out of habit, I needed to check my email and Facebook feed - so I reached into my brand-new, fabulous Vera purse to pull out my phone.

Which was not there.

Along with my right arm.

I rummaged through my new purse, my old purse, the shopping bag. No phone.

We went back to the store, thinking I left it on the counter after showing the salesgirl my coupon. It wasn’t there either. 

We went back to the car. Still not there.

We went back to the store. Nope.

Holly called my phone several times, thinking either we would hear it ring or the loser who swiped it would answer. No such luck. The salesgirl took my name, the description of the phone, and Holly’s cell number, and she promised to call if it showed up.

I sighed. What can ya do?

Go to Soma, that’s what.

So we went. I collected a large pile of pajamas and dresses and whatnot - all priced to induce bamboo cotton euphoria - and stepped into the dressing room. I’ll finish trying these on, I thought, then I’ll use Holly’s phone to call Michael. Ugh. He’s gonna kill me.

I have an app on my laptop called “Find my iPhone.” I’ve never used it, but it’s a GPS-enabled feature capable of the obvious. I didn’t know if it would show a map of the Austin area or a bathroom outside of the food court, but I figured Michael could give it a shot. After he shot me.

God, I thought, You are the God who sees. You see me. And you see my phone. Can you please show me where it is? Please? I promise I’ll rein in my collection of pajama pants. I really need my phone.

“How ridiculous,” I almost said out loud. “Like God has nothing better to do than uncover my stupid smartphone. There are children starving in China and human trafficking and funding cuts for schools. Yet I’m standing here in a - WOW! - fabulous purple striped maxi dress...I wonder what shoes I could wear with this?...ummm, starving children. Sorry. Serves me right.”

So I changed back into my denim shorts and tshirt, and I prepared to meet my doom. At that moment, I heard church bells. Sweet, melodic, beautiful church bells.

No, really. That’s my ringtone. My phone was ringing.

Except I couldn’t find it. The noise was definitely coming from my new purse, but I couldn’t see the phone. I dug through the pockets - nothing there - and pulled out my new wristlet wallet - which I bought after the strap of my last wristlet wallet got caught on the windshield wiper lever as I was turning in the middle of an intersection. The strap jammed my steering wheel so that I had to jerk it hard to the left, sending the broken clasp flying across the dashboard, therefore breaking my wristlet. Hence, new wristlet. With new hidden pockets that were now ringing.

Sure enough, in a cleverly camouflaged zipper pocket, which I failed to open twenty minutes earlier, was my phone, flashing Holly’s name across the caller ID.

I looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “Seriously? Now You’re showing off. Thanks.”

El Roi: “the God who sees.” That’s what Hagar called Him. Alone, pregnant, abused, cast out, hopeless - yet He saw her. He rescued her. He breathed life and purpose into her weary soul, and she realized she was not alone.

El Roi showed up at Soma. (Underwear doesn’t embarrass Him.) My ridiculous request wasn’t too small to notice. Last week, He saw the laundry, the chores, the odometer. He saw my heart die - just a little - with every eye that rolled, every word laced with dismissal and disrespect. He saw my frustrated face buried in my hands. He saw it all. And last weekend, as a reminder, He saw my phone. I wouldn’t be surprised if He somehow shielded my eyes from seeing it the first time around, just so He could hear me say His favorite word, the most sacred prayer of all: help. Just so He could show up and show off.

He sees you, too, you know. He sees all the diaper changes, all the dirty dishes, the spills and the shouts. He sees your car keys. He speaks peace over the shrieks and cries, he fills the lonely silence of an empty house. He is present in your joy and your grief. El Roi is also Emmanuel: God with us. 

He’s waiting to surprise you, too. Whisper for help. Listen for the church bells.  Close your eyes and breathe in the awareness of His presence. 

He just might show up in a most unexpected way.

Finding purpose in spiders and in life

I hate spiders.

Which is unfortunate, considering I live in the woods.

Love my house, hate the spiders. Not scared of the spiders. Just hate them.

We mainly entertain Daddy Longlegs, which I just discovered, are arachnids but not spiders. They are called Opiliones or Phalangida, they don’t have a thorax or an abdomen, they don’t bite (sort of), they don’t spin webs, and they are venomless. 

Consider this your continuing education for the day. 

These arachnids-not-spiders thankfully stay outside. Apparently they love cool, shaded areas close to the roofline, so our front porch and back patio provide a perfect haven for them. Also the window ledges. But they’re not picky. They also like the sides of the house. I think they’re partial to brick and stone. They don’t seem to live anywhere near the siding.

Daddy Longlegs/Opiliones/Phalangida also love community. They gather in giant clumps, resembling a very large hair ball.

Last year, I spent much of the spring circling the outside of our home with a large broom, sweeping them down and letting them scurry into the grass. They weren’t hurting anyone, so I let them continue their spidery little lives - just not on the side of my house in a hairball community.

This year, I’m not so nice. No mercy for you, suckers. Die! Die! DIE! 

And today, I found a Black Widow. Sitting on an egg sac. Oh yes, I did. I knocked down the web and the egg sac, and that evil little insect tried to play dead. I swear. But I wasn’t fooled. She died a violent death on the end of a broom. May she rest in peace. Or just rest. Whatever.

I don’t understand the purpose of spiders. Besides eating mosquitos, which comes in handy. But these arachnids-not-spiders don’t even do that. Their only purpose is grossing me out and giving me an excuse to walk the perimeter of my house with a broom.

Thank you, hairball colony of Opiliones, for giving me a purpose in life. Because I don’t have anything better to do.

Many around me are struggling to find purpose. They want their lives to count for something. They want to know why they are here. They want to know where to find contentment. They want to matter.

Life has to mean more than laundry and car pools, to-do lists and mortgage payments. Life has to mean more than what fills our shelves and drawers and closets. There must be a reason we are here, a job for us to do.

Purpose does not insist upon applause. That has been a tough lesson for me this week. With every roll of little eyes, with every haughty tone, with every sigh and whine and argument, I die a little bit. Just a little. I want to scream, “DON’T YOU SEE WHAT I’M DOING HERE? DO YOU THINK I LIKE LOGGING THREE HUNDRED MILES EACH WEEK IN A FILTHY, STICKY, EIGHT YEAR OLD LOSER CRUISER? DO YOU KNOW HOW TIRED I AM? DO YOU EVEN CARE?”

Also, “FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, WILL YOU PLEASE CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF?”

But I don’t say that. I keep it inside and stew and sulk and die a little bit. Just a little. And remind myself that purpose does not insist upon applause. I think I said that already. I needed to hear myself say it again. 

I feel invisible. And if purpose is invisible, is it really purpose at all? Do I matter? Is it worth it? There must be more than this.

Yes, of course. I realize there is. I know I belong to God. I know He has a plan for my life, a reason I am here. And some days - most days - that is enough.

But some days, a little affirmation would go a long way.

Last week, Glennon reminded me of this:

“The plain fact is that the world does not need more successful people, but it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as our culture has defined it.” – David Orr

Which I think has something to do with purpose. Purpose is outside of ourselves. It is recognizing how we are each designed - our talents and gifts and preferences, our personalities and experiences - and using those unique intricacies as we join the dance, the symphony, the story. Purpose reveals itself in serving, in uniting others to ourselves, to tell them, We belong to each other. You are not alone. You are not invisible.

Purpose realizes that even the smallest contributor plays a monumental role, and the most thankless tasks are divine acts of service. Purpose does not depend on thankful recognition because God sees. God sees the endless dirty dishes and the eleven loads of laundry. He sees the medicinal kisses anointing the scraped knees. He sees the hot meals and the cold leftovers. He sees the trips to the dry cleaners, the grocery store, the pharmacy. He sees the broom obliterating the umpteen hairball colonies of arachnids-not-spiders. 

And, like He did with Peter, God sees in me what I am not yet.  God orchestrates the symphony, He writes the story. He casts me in a supporting role without which the production would be incomplete. The seeds of goodness and wholeness, they sprout and stretch - slowly, resolutely - until their purpose is complete. Then they grow some more.

God sees it all, and He applauds.

A Letter to My Son’s Hero

To Robert Griffin III - Baylor University quarterback, recipient of 2011 Heisman trophy (and lots of other awards), wearer of awesome socks, earner of Bachelor’s degree, graduate student, top NFL draft pick, and all-around cool guy

Dear Mr. Griffin,


Thank you.

I have a ten year old son, coincidentally named Griffin, which makes our family cheer for you even more. Griffin, like his dad, is a sports fanatic. He wakes up in the morning, eats breakfast while reading the sports page of the newspaper, rushes through his to-do list, and watches Sportscenter until it’s time to leave. He knows players, stats, strategies, plays, rankings, and all kinds of other information way beyond my wheelhouse. He plays soccer voraciously, though he’d love to play any sport involving a ball if the week held enough hours. If he weren’t dangling off the lefthand edge of the growth chart, he says he’d play football. (He’s gonna have to climb over his mama’s cold, dead body to realize that dream.) 

Our family had season tickets last fall for Baylor’s football games - in the endzone, right next to the tunnel where you and your team run out onto the field. Every Saturday, my son leaned over the tunnel and cheered as you led the Bears out of the locker room. “RGthreeeeeeeee!” he’d yell in the lowest possible octave a ten year old can achieve.

When the Heisman Trophy presentation aired (up until this year, I didn’t even know there was such a televised event), our entire family gathered in the family room, our hearts pounding for you, and we jumped up and cheered when your name was announced. We hugged and high-fived and fist-bumped. We were so happy for you. 

I immediately went to the internet to find Superman socks for Griffin’s Christmas stocking. Wouldn’t you know they were sold out at every possible site? (except for eBay, where I could plunk down $200.) I found Angry Birds socks instead, and Griffin wears them proudly.

He loves sports, and he sprints through life with the passion of an athlete. But, like many ten year old boys, he wants to do life on his own terms. He doesn’t want to hang up his towel, finish his dinner, turn off the television, complete his homework - and any attempt to convince him otherwise is met with an obstinate, often disrespectful argument. He’s a stubborn one, that boy. I don’t know where he gets it.

One night, after another long day of power struggle ping-pong, my husband and I laid catatonically on the sofa when an ESPN program came on. You were training with Coach Terry Shea to prepare for the NFL draft - you, who have a Heisman trophy, who have earned the respect of fans and foes alike, who set records upon records upon records. I confess I wasn’t really paying attention at first. I’m just not a sports girl, and you and Coach Shea were talking about things that don’t hold my interest. 

But then you went to the training field. He told you what to do. You replied - clearly, respectfully - “Yes, sir.” And you did it.

I sat up. I stared. I hit “record” on the remote control. And I marveled.

Mr. Griffin, my enormous respect for you - and your parents, who clearly knew what they were doing - has increased tenfold. With those two simple words, you wrote a treatise on success.

After my son got home from school the next day, I played the recording for him. “Watch this closely,” I said. His eyes fixed on the screen, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. He admires you so much.

“What did RG3 do when his coach gave him instructions?” I asked him when the program finished.

“He said, ‘yeah, okay’ and then he did it.”

“No,” I corrected him, “that’s not what he said. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘yes, sir.’”

“And what do you think would happen if RG3 said, ‘no, I don’t want to. I want to do it this way’ or 'I'll do it later'?”

At that moment, a switch flipped. The light came on. He got it.

We talked about how you, with all of your talent and hard work and success, still humble yourself under the leadership of your coaches, how you respond to them with respect. How you have achieved so much by listening to those who want you to be all that you were created and designed to be.

And how, just as He does for you, God has amazing plans for my son’s life - plans none of us can wrap our brains around, plans greater than our imaginations can contrive - and the only way for him to be a part of those plans is to listen, to obey, to act in humility and respect.

Later that evening, I told Griffin to turn off the Rangers game, take a shower, and get ready for bed. "Then you can watch the game until it's time to go to sleep," I added. I waited. And then, accompanied by an angelic chorus, his response floated gently to my ears.

"Yes, ma'am."

So thank you, Mr. Griffin, for so simply and perfectly illustrating what we have been trying for years to teach our son. Thank you for being the kind of hero and role model we can celebrate for all the right reasons. And please pass along our thanks to your parents.

With greatest sincerity,

Jennifer

(A Grateful Mom)

The Root of the Weed

Today I have knots in my shoulders and back. My arms hurt. My neck hurts. Also, I have a tan.

I believe gardeners are innately more spiritual people. So much of ourselves can be explained and understood while wrist-deep in mulch and bugs and shrubs. Something about connecting with the earth, the life within it, the bare essence of our existence - it draws us deeper into the spiritual realm.

Which could, unfortunately, explain a lot about me. I hate gardening. I have no affection toward anything green or flowering. As is the case with most of my shortcomings, I blame my parents. When I was a child, they made me pull weeds as punishment. So I suppose my distaste for nature is similar to my distaste for Jell-o. I only ate Jell-o when I was sick. I threw up Jell-o. Therefore I do not care for Jell-o.

Or gardening. I’m more of an inside girl. As a child, I played with dolls and blocks. As an adult, I play Words With Friends and read books and work on my computer. But because grown-ups do things even when they don’t want to, I spent the entire weekend tending to a single flower bed overgrown with three-foot-high weeds. I sucked it up and put on my big-girl gloves, grabbed a hand rake, and (ahem) dug in. Even though I loathe gardening, I also loathe big mottled messes - which is what I saw every time I looked out of our breakfast room window.

Something had to be done. And it had to be me.

So I plugged in my headphones, cranked up some happy music, and got to work. Since I had proven to myself and everyone else that my thumbs are brown instead of green - I even kill mint, for crying out loud - I was hoping my superpowers could finally be put to good use.

Pulling weeds is long, slow, tedious work. I remember a lesson from my days of indentured servitude in my parents’ home: when pulling weeds, you have to dig down and get the root. You can’t just yank off the top. Even though the beds will look clean, the weeds will pop right back up if you don’t remove the root.

Which is all fine and dandelion until you start trying to pull the root. After tilling up the dirt around the base of the weed, I’d stick my dirty hand in the hole and dig my fingers down as far as I could. The root goes deep - much deeper than I can dig - and its lacy fingers weave themselves throughout the soil like camouflaged netting. Pulling weeds became a dichotomy of success and frustration. While I reveled in the progress I made, I would curse the remaining, unreachable remnants. With every rip of release, I knew more root still lay under the surface, festering and preparing to taunt me with a new generation of unwanted growth. Soon (in a week? a month? two months?) I will return with my hand rake, pulling up another batch of weeds, futilely digging down to remove the source.

Sitting in the dirt, digging out the roots, tossing aside the weeds, this verse from Hebrews prodded me:

Make every effort to live in peace with everyone...See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.

Or, as The Message puts it:

Work at getting along with each other and with God...Make sure no one gets left out of God's generosity. Keep a sharp eye out for weeds of bitter discontent. A thistle or two gone to seed can ruin a whole garden in no time.

Blasted bitter root.

There are a handful of people and circumstances that make me MAD. As in, spitting fire-can’t sleep-don’t get me started kind of mad. Every time I think of them, my blood pressure goes up. Years of misunderstanding and hurtful words and resentment, too many unmet expectations, too many broken promises - all have grown deep into my soil and left me bitter. More than bitter. Seriously pissed off.

(Don’t worry. I’m not talking about you.)

When I get really ticked, I look at myself, and the nasty weed startles me. I chop it off. There. Done. All gone.

But I don’t excavate the root.

So, of course, the bitterness festers and pop! There it is again. AGAIN. And this weed is a thorny, ugly mess.

Digging through the soil in my flower bed - which, by the way, took all weekend - forced me to face this root of bitterness and ask (no, beg) God to take it out. Uncover the source, the motivation, the insecurity that feeds this resentment, this anger. It's not going to be pleasant. Weeding takes muscle, sweat, effort. I got really dirty. I stank. Bugs bit me. 

But digging through the dirt felt good. Getting rid of the mess satisfied me, left me with a bone-weary gratification. While plowing up the weeds, I observed all kinds of creepy crawlies - worms chewing tunnels, aerating the soil. Ants carrying food. Spiders scurrying up the tree trunk. Caterpillars and centipedes and grubs and nameless leggy things who are all working to sustain life in the earth. They’re not always attractive. But each has a job. Each has a place in the soil. Each has a purpose.

My soil is a mess. Too many roots, too many weeds, lots of creepy crawlies doing their thang. Lots of work to be done. But my soil breathes life. It has a purpose. When cultivated and nurtured, it can be a place of beauty. When tilled and loosened, it stands ready to receive new growth, new seeds, new flowers. 

This gardening thing isn’t so bad after all. Maybe I’ll someday even enjoy it.

But I’m still passing on the Jell-O.


PS: This post by Don Miller kicked me out of the flower bed and onto my couch pillow. Really good stuff.

Becoming a MOBster

The MOB (Mother of Boys) Society published my article this morning. Check them out! You can subscribe to their website (see top of right hand column), and they will email you a short post/devotional every morning. Really good stuff.

Thanks, MOB!