One Part Panic, Three Parts Pity-Party

Sometimes we need a little shake-up, a little smack upside the head. But the needing doesn't make the getting any more enjoyable. Hearing the truth about ourselves burns hot and sharp. If we let it, that truth will offer broader thinking, deeper understanding, greater compassion.

...do you say, "I'm not going to be offered up just yet, I do not want God to choose my work. I want to choose the scenery of my own sacrifice; I want to have the right kind of people watching and saying, 'Well done.'"

It is one thing to go on the lonely way with dignified heroism, but quite another thing if the line mapped out for you by God means being a door-mat under other people's feet. Suppose God wants to teach you to say, "I know how to be abased" ~ are you ready to be offered up like that?

Are you ready to be not so much as a drop in a bucket ~ to be so hopelessly insignificant that you are never thought of again in connection with the life you served? Are you willing to spend and be spent; not seeking to be ministered unto, but to minister?

Some saints cannot do menial work and remain saints because it is beaneath their dignity...

~O. Chambers~

What's That You Said, Sonny?

Yesterday, in a very cool floating encounter (It involved a shrill, irate, and fast-moving Co-op cashier, the so-stylin' driver of a PT Cruiser, and a displaced Vancouverite) a twenty-something year old young man told me he wished I was his mom.

Seriously?

I'm not even forty.

And he wishes I was his mother? Not, possibly, his sister? Or a favorite cousin? Nuh uh.

These floating encounters address all sorts of issues, let me tell you. I'll let you know if I have even a scrap of pride left when this strange river ride is over.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shine my walker and pop my heart medicine.

*sigh*

Betty

"Wrist Slap" has generated some heated off-blog discussion and I hope that my responses to the comments posted on-blog aren't too strident, too certain. I wonder if I tell you Betty's story it will help to clarify where I'm coming from?



Betty showed up on our doorstep on a chilly winter Friday evening sometime last year. January, maybe? Or February? We had a house full of teenagers at the time (Despite our absence from church, our boys are still involved in Friday night events.).When the doorbell rang I opened the front door to find a diminutive, harshly-aging, tired-eyed woman.

Thin, dry, badly colored hair crowned her life worn head. She was so small. So done in. She held a wicker basket full of various loonie-store wares. She'd clustered used tea-lights and holders into one bundle and tied it with a worn Christmas ribbon. Foil wrapped Christmas chocolates were pulled together into another small, brightly colored package. An assortment of patch sized Christmas fabrics was tucked between several other mismatched oddities.

Would I, she wondered, be interested in buying some of her wares?

The house was throbbing with energy and activity behind me. One of the youth mom's was sitting just feet from me on the living room couch. The timing was bad and the situation so peculiar. The woman was so obviously embarrassed by her own request. I couldn't imagine that she'd had any success in peddling her used and outdated items anywhere else on the street.

I asked her to Wait right there, okay? while I went in search of some cash.

As I ransacked the giveaway tin, yanking out a few not-enough bills for my new acquaintance, I was rapid firing questions toward Heaven. What to do? How to help? Was this enough? And why on earth was this woman on our doorstep, of all places?

I met the tiny woman at the door and asked her name. Betty. The name suited her somehow. Petite. Feminine. From another time.

How did you come to be on my doorstep, Betty? I wondered as I rifled through her basket, choosing the used tea-lights and their colored glass holders.

Just drove. I don't even know where I am...Do you know where I am?

I tucked my bills in amongst the bits and scraps left behind in her bin. I asked more questions. Questions about where she'd sleep (she had a home in the trailer park) and if she had food at home and what more she might need.

Betty told a heartbreaking story of a cross-Canada flight from a cruel husband. Two of her children, she said, were dead and the living one lived far away. She was alone. She was alone. She was alone.

I asked if she need clothing or a hot shower. No to all.There was nothing left to ask and nothing more to offer. Betty, I fumbled, the few dollars I've given you today are not enough. They cannot touch your heartache or help you in the long run. I'm going to just go grab a little more cash, and then, would it be okay if we talked with my God together?

What was she going to say? One of the indignities that comes with reliance on the gifts of another is that you are obligated to abide by their conditions. I wrestle with this aspect of giving every time. But I scuttled back to the giveaway tin, grabbed a larger sum this time, and slipped it underneath her remaining merchandise.

I held out my hands in an offer of touch. Betty took hold of my two in her tiny one. She hung on so tightly. So tightly. And I talked with Jesus while she stood on my front porch and wept.

I offered an embrace as I said a mumbled, Amen. Betty clung to me, thanked me effusively, and was gone.

I wrestled with the significance of that encounter for many, many weeks. Why had she found our doorstep that night? Where did she find the desperation and the courage to bring her second-hand goods to the door to sell? Did God meet her that Friday night? Will He pursue her? Love her? Rescue her? Was her story true? Does it matter? At all? Was I faithful to my Jesus?

I was ruminating on her story, still, a long time later when I chanced to mention it to my friend, Trina. If you know Trina, then the next bit of wisdom will not surprise you at all:

Sandi, she said as I finished my tale, can't you see that Betty is us? She's just exactly like us. Eyes moist with tears, she ably contained the sadness, the frustrated anger, the intensity behind her own words.

She continued, We go to God with our "gifts," our offering, our goods-for-sale and ask if He'll please accept them. Because they're the best we can give at the time. They're all we have. And He doesn't poke fun at what we're bashfully offering in our worn wicker baskets. He doesn't slam the door in our face or turn away in embarrassment Himself. He takes that basket in His own hands and accepts every bit we've given.

Betty didn't arrive on my doorstep so that I could help her. God put her on my porch so that she could help me.

In Betty were embodied lessons in humility and honesty, servanthood and grace. She was a living picture of how freely accepted we are by our God. The One who gives Life, gives Grace, gives Freedom does so without scorn or favoritism or arrogance. He gives because He is Love.

The gifts I offer Him, my "goods for sale" are antiquated and shoddy. They don't warrant a passing glance. But He takes them in hand, acknowledges their craftsmanship (knowing the artisan so well as He does), and says, Yes, Little One. These are lovely. I'll take them all. I'll pay full price ~ I'll pay the ultimate price.

This lifestyle of listening and giving is all about learning, I think. As you have so generously responded with your thoughts on when to share and when to withhold, I am reminded that we all have something to contribute to each other's process in this. And we all have bits that we need to learn because, like Betty, our offerings could use a little work. But Betty is where I'm coming from.

The Jesus we are growing to know and love gives to us without any assumption that we'll do right by Him. In fact, He knows we'll likely abuse, ignore, even scorn His gift. And He gives it anyway while accepting the meagerness that we give Him in return.

Bus Ride

On a crowded commute this January night, my husband made his way to the back of his bus, hoping for a seat. Long day. Crazy economy. Monday. Enough said.

As he approached the rear of the cabin he noticed a guy. A big guy. A big guy who at just that moment happened to be picking on a group of four young (12 years old? 13?) boys, his other big-guy buddy looking on with amusement. See this pen, N____r? he mocked. Want me to mark you with it? I've marked him...and him. He jabs his marker in the direction of two of the kids whose young, dark skin shows the evidence of his domination. The smallest of the boys cowers, scrunching himself as deeply into his seat as he can. So? How 'bout I mark you, too?

The woman sitting nearby is shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She sees what's going on. Everyone around can see what's going on. What has been going on for one minute? Ten, maybe? Twenty?

Bob moves further along the aisle toward the interaction. He stops in front of the super-sized laborer guy. Twenty-something. Hands covered in grease and grime ~ evidence of his own long day, his own cares. Hey, Bob directs a quiet acknowledgment in the direction of the bully and glances at the buddy whose commentary has been littered with sexual references and lurid story telling.

Hey, is the response. You wanna' seat? Bully makes a show of scooching aside on the long back-of-the-bus bench.

Bob takes up his offer, insistently manouvering himself between Big Guy and the four children. Thanks.

Yeah. No problem.

So, you know you can't be doin' this, hey? Bob is not a confrontational man. He's starting to sweat. His face is turning red. He's going toe-to-toe with a dude that could...well...there are a lot of things that could go terribly, terribly wrong in the next few minutes.

Awww, we're just havin' a little fun.

No, Bob replies grimly. No. These guys are NOT having fun. What you're doing is harassment and it needs to stop. You can't go around picking on kids and you certainly can't be calling them by racial slurs.

Bob doesn't stop there. He calls them on the content of their conversation and challenges them to consider the public space that they are in. He calls them on everything.

For whatever reason, Bully and Buddy do not invite Bob to step off the bus in order to continue their conversation in the street. Instead, they follow his lead as he shifts the conversation to who they are. Their names, their work, their current situation. Hard working with things not going all that smoothly, it turns out.

The remainder of the ride is short. Bob arrives at his stop and rises to go. They look each other in the eye, Hard Working Guy and Bob, and Bob repeats, No more of that. You can't be harassing kids. My 12 year old boy wouldn't stand a chance against you guys. It's not okay for you to do what you were doing.

Yes sir, the big dude says. Yes sir.

Bob's own boys are noisy in their pride when Dad tells his story. Their Dad stood up for the guy who couldn't stand up for himself. And that's ovation worthy. They know. They know that thugs and gangsters could be hiding behind any face, in any transit seat, especially in this neighborhood. He did the right thing anyway. Yes Sir.

Playing For Change

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us-TVg40ExM

Wrist Slap

Open rebuke. Blatant disdain. I was in trouble and floundering for words to defend myself, my faith, my reasoning.

Word got out that we'd helped a recently laid-off senior with some grocery money. A very little grocery money. Too little? I'd wondered at the time. But the gentle God-nudge seemed clear: Give just so much. So we did. And, as always, we didn't give it another thought. A floating encounter. An opportunity to serve, to help. An offering to our One ~ so small, so full of hope that it will be cup-of-water efficient.

But now the information was on the lips of an angry neighbor. "You need to stop that!"

"Stop? Stop what?"

"Stop taking away from your own grocery money to buy somebody else stuff."

"But it's not like that," I protest. "Not at all. We have a little set aside for this sort of thing. We have enough for ourselves and just have that teeny bit put aside to give away." How on earth did she find out about this anyway? I wonder to myself.

"Yeah. But my point is that times are tight and getting worse and you need to keep that money that you've been giving away for yourself. Then, when things get better, you can give stuff away again."

I don't know what to say so I mumble something about tough times being the best time to give because people are really needing the hand-up. My friend is unimpressed by my logic. I try a different approach, explaining that our faith and our giving are intertwined: God is so good to us, we want to give.

"Whatever! I give and give and give and I don't get nothin' in return."

"I hear you, but that's not the sort of return I'm talking about. We're rich in so many things: healthy kiddo's, healthy us, amazing friendships, work..."

"It doesn't matter. Stop throwing your money away and keep it for yourself!"

I'm so puzzled by her obvious anger and impatience that I fall silent and eventually change the subject. Endless weeks of subzero temperatures provide much conversation fodder, thankfully!

I leave my friend, feeling unsettled and gloomy. Kindness doesn't come off as strength or smarts. Generosity looks foolish, illogical. And we don't know if we're on the right course or not. Are we hearing God in these give-away moments? Are we being foolish, too soft? We'd stop right away if we thought we were in error. Will the Living Jesus reach into human struggle and bring salvation, rescue, redemption as we live faithfully in this small obedience?

I have no idea. No idea. My wrist is smarting from the sting of the afternoon's reprimand. I feel it's echoed complaint in both the secular and Christian world all around. But, I admit, I don't want to change my enlarging mindset in this. Years ago, when I began the process of losing weight, I asked my God to expand my understanding of His love, His generosity, His mercy. I asked Him to help me stop withholding.

It's natural to hold back on forgiveness and care and mercy and material help. We fear that by letting go we'll leave ourselves exposed to loss and want. What if the way of God is broader, more freeing and wild than we've imagined? What if there's enough to give? And give. And give.

May the giving of our small offerings exemplify the expansive generosity of God ~ the One who gave everything.

Kelly

Floating Encounters are experiences that Bob and I have been noting since we started attempting to live listening lives.

Oswald Chambers (My Utmost For His Highest) suggests that our lives are like a river. We're always moving forward; a current-pulled body that leaves it's mark on whatever terrain it's meandering (or rushing or white-capping) through. Because we're swept along, floating with the current, we don't, Mr. Chambers says, have the privilege of seeing our impact on the banks and rocks and debris we pass over. We're simply obeying the water's pull.

Today, after months of not-much-at-all (I think Danny was our last connection of this sort?), I coincidentally bumped into Kelly.

Kelly ~ A Floating Encounter

Kelly was our dog groomer before his business went belly-up. (I should clarify that when I say he was "our" groomer what I mean is that we'd taken the dogs to him a grand total of two times to be shaved naked so they'd stop coating our home in wiry black hair.) Several months ago, the last time we saw him, he was in a desperate situation: his finances were tanking, his addictions were consuming, anger and despair sat like two spectre's on either of his over-burdened shoulders.

That day was a typical summer day for me and the boys. Bob was at work and I was powering through the day, juggling schedules and meals and messes. Mid-morning, mid-tantrum, I was feeling particularly annoyed with the build-up of dog hair on my kitchen floor and thought that I really should get them shaved soon. I left the thought right where it was, filed under "Stuff to do Sometime," and went on with the day.

As the hours marched on, though, the thought persisted. Intently. Get the dogs groomed. Get the dogs groomed soon. Call the groomer and book an appointment. I shoved the thoughts aside. I had enough to do and couldn't be bothered to make the call. But by four in the afternoon, I was more annoyed by the insistent intrusion of groomer thoughts than I was by the dog hair. What started as a fleeting thought was now an all-consuming nuisance.

I picked up the phone a dialed, fully expecting to get a machine on the other end and wondering why one earth the OCD part of my brain was refusing to shut up about the groomer already.

I didn't get the machine. I got the groomer.

By his own admission, Kelly is a bit like Chef Ramsey (Hell's Kitchen) on downers. He's quick tempered and intolerant, focused and aggressive. His unkempt hair and weathered-by-rage-and-worry face frames icy gray eyes. He has the ease of conversation of a man who knows how to survive anything. He answered the phone with, appropriately, a bark. "What?"

"Uuuh. 'Just wondering if I can book my two newfie-labs in for a shave sometime in the next month."
"Yeah. Well. Whatever. If you want 'em done you'll have to bring 'em today. Like, right now 'cause I don't know if I'll even be here after tomorrow."
"Oh," confused silence to follow. "Uh. I wasn't really thinking about getting them done today. There are two of them. And they're big. It takes several hours to shave them both."
"Well, do what you want but I can take 'em now if you want me to."
"Right. Okay. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. With both dogs? You're sure you want them both? It'll take you until, like 9:00 to get them both done."
"Look. I'm really stressed out right now and I need the money, so this is kind of perfect. Just come right now."

I arrived at Kelly's hole-in-the-wall shop to find him very distressed, but, while he wrestles with common courtesies in the human world, he's very tender and funny in the dog world. He remembered the dogs and gently led them back into his shop, talking non-stop about his predicament. Rent was past due and the doors were going to close tonight if he didn't get his money. Bad investments, bad management, and bad business had landed him in an all around bad spot.

"Hmm," I mumbled. Listening. Inwardly waiting for the Holy Spirit's direction about how to engage in this situation. Suddenly my obsessive groomer thoughts became more about the possible leading of God than about my inability to control my mucky-floor thinking.

"So here's the thing, Kelly. I'm wondering if maybe the God who loves you has something for you today?" I told him about how hard it was for me to get the idea of getting the dogs looked after off my mind and how that had led to a four o'clock in the afternoon phone call.

"I think, maybe, that You were on the mind of God today. So He reminded me to think of you, too. What exactly do you need today -- right now?"

I had his attention then. I could see the addict/survivor in him wrestling with this-woman-is-a-stranger propriety. My defenses were up, too. I didn't want to be taken for a ride or to have what could be an investment on my family's part misused. I read him carefully, watching for signs that he was spinning a tale. I didn't care, really. By then I was convinced that God had me at the dog groomer's for a reason. It was just a matter of hearing what that reason was.

"Awww. You know. Really? You think God was thinking about me? Me?"

"Yeah, I'm kind of thinking so, Kelly. And I'm thinking this might have more to do with who you are as a man than it has to do with your business and your bills. The God who made you is interested in who you have become."

Kelly had a lot to say about that ~ the usual defensive-reasons-I-haven't-had-time-for-God-stuff-lately chatter. I was saying personal and uncomfortable things. He doesn't know me and I don't know him. This was a risky situation.

"What do you need today," I asked again.

"Hey. You know. Nothin' really. Well. If I could just do the dogs that'd give me a bit of cash. Maybe enough to fill the tank with gas and clear my stuff outta' here so I can leave before they come after me for the rent."

Dodgy. God, I silently wondered, what's my family's role in serving this guy? 'Not crazy about helping him avoid the inevitable. God was quiet. Have I mentioned before how really silent He is in these moments?

"Okay. Well, I'll leave the dogs with you, then. When should I come back for them?" We set a time. "Anything I can do for you before I go?" Then, in response to another of those flit-through-your-brain-so-quickly-you-hardly-notice-it thoughts, I asked, "Have you had anything to eat today?"

"Well, no, but I'm fine. But," he pauses, "I could really use a smoke." I beetle to the Mac's around the corner and buy him a pack (Steady hands on the razors that will be next to the dogs' skin seems like a good enough reason for that purchase!) and then head for home.

I call Bob and outline the day's drama and we started to talk about what God might have for Kelly. We had no clue. Not one. What he needed was money. We got it that any money we gave might be funneled into any number of wacky fixations or addictions. That's always the risk, right? No telling how your "gift" will be handled once it's out of your hands.

We settled on an amount (using the usual "What dollar amount popped into your head when I brought this up, Hon?" approach. It works remarkably well. We're always within a few bucks of each other.). We gave it when Bob went to pick up the dogs. And that was the end of that. We prayed for Kelly. We wondered what had happened to him. We forgot about him.

Until today.

God whispers. He's not in the storm or the earthquake or the fire, right? He's in the teeny whisper.

Today, at the video store, He whispered a really holy instruction: This would be a good time to look for that movie Cory's been wanting to see. I didn't know it was Him, of course. If I'd known it was Him I would've gotten all weird and sanctimonious about listening, or some such nonsense. But I didn't know it was Him. I thought it was me having a brilliant idea and so I asked for a hand from the desk staff and proceeded to extend my run-in-and-grab-a-movie trip to Blockbuster into an extra-long hunt for a misplaced flick.

And then God stepped out from behind the whisper. Kelly walked through the Blockbuster door. I couldn't place him immediately. I caught his eye, recognition struck, and I acknowledged him by name. He had no idea who I was until I said, "Hey Kelly. I'm two black newfie-labs."The light came on behind those sad, cool eyes.

"You. I never got to thank you. Sandra. You sent your husband, Bob -- really tall guy -- for the dogs so I didn't get to thank you. You'll never know what you did for me that day." He, remarkably I thought, pulled both of our names from whatever memory bank they'd been stuffed into.

"No? Well, umm, it kind of seemed like God wanted to connect with you, hey?"

We spent a few minutes updating his story. The business went under, but he was able to pay his bill. He'd left the city for another province and had spent four months in rehab. "It didn't take," he grimaced. And now he was trying to help his parents deal with a brutally messy divorce. Life was hard. Life is hard.

He extended his hand for a goodbye shake and said how glad he was that he'd had a chance to see me again. I agreed and said again that God's interest in Him went beyond business and into things like rehab and broken family.

"Yeah. Well keep praying for me. The people that are praying for me -- it must be workin' 'cause I'm still here."

I want to downplay that assessment. You're still alive? That's something worth acknowledging God for? But I catch myself and re-think it. For Kelly just staying a live is a big deal. If that's where God's meeting him than that's enough. And he's gone.

The by-now familiar confusion (What the heck was that all about?) that follows these floating moments settles in. I didn't say anything amazing or do anything miraculous ~ again. I hope that Jesus in me connected with need in another. Another bit of "Oh! I should listen to that little voice," settled into place. And that's all. No great moral. No flash of holy light or polished halo. Just Jesus injecting Himself into human experience.

I don't imagine we'll ever see Kelly again. If we do, I won't likely have anything more to contribute to his life. "Oh. Hey! How's that God thing going for ya'?" or some such fumbling. But He's on God's radar, right? Always. I'll just keep asking Him to continue to offer freedom and hope to the dog groomer. And He will. Because He's a God who invests in small moments in small amounts through small people. He will.

Polaroid Jesus

In the picture of Jesus that I carry around in my head, He’s always laughing. He has a sort of “Why are you guys taking everything so seriously?” smirk on His face, and His arms, His hands are always reaching – away from Himself, toward His listener. Toward me. Toward you.

I love the way that Jesus served people when He was here. He was so raw and counter-culture and in-your-face about taking care of felt needs while pointedly (sternly?) addressing matters of sin and conscience and faith. He made wild suggestions: if you want to be worth something, serve somebody. If you want to master all of God’s laws wrapped into one, Love. Love God, love others. If you give even a cup of water to the broken, the ignored, the left-behind, it’s like you’ve given Me that cup of water.

A Jesus like that must be at ease with laughter and open-armed invitation. He didn’t discriminate, He just reached toward. In a time when women were marginalized and hated, He, without making any sort of show of it, walked alongside them as companionable equals. His best friends were nobody’s and somebody’s. He had the nerve to stand up to soul-killing tradition while carefully upholding Life-saving law.

And one day we’re going to be toe-to-toe with that One. We’ll see His face and know His ways and why’s and how’s. We’ll touch the hands that reached toward us and pulled us, urged us from our not-so-laughable dark. We’ll laugh, too. Without restraint or fear or shame. We’ll laugh too.

Need a Nudge?

It happens to all of us. We get stuck. Stuck in the mud. Stuck in the snow. Stuck in old offenses and even older fears. Stuck in our laziness. Stuck in our loneliness.

We're in a deep freeze right now (I'm sitting at the computer wearing sweater layers, knit slippers, and a winter scarf), with just enough snow covering just enough super slippery ice to keep everybody just a little on edge on the roads. Our small car is, we've discovered, a summer vehicle. It gets high-centered on snow heaps and hopelessly stranded in it's parking space as the snow mounts around it.

Our neighbors have been getting stuck, too. We're all kind of slipping and sliding around, alternately careening around corners and navigating the skating rinks that our parking spots have become. Cars have been abandoned all over town as drivers give up trying to navigate their way out of their predicaments.

The key to getting unstuck is to trick the tires into thinking they're on friction-friendly ground. Sometimes just a crank of the wheel, changing the direction they're facing, is enough to get them on the move. Driving a teensy bit forward, and then a little bit back, might do the trick, too. Two steps forward, one step back. Repeat.

But sometimes all of the cajoling in the world won't work. In that case, a little more force is required. Force in the shape of a friend, or two, or (as in one case down the street this week) six. Said friends, by forcibly rocking the vehicle back and forth while it's in gear, can get a trapped car unstuck in no time. It takes a lot of effort (much more on the part of the friends pushing than the vehicle owner behind the wheel, come to think of it), but it works!

If you're really in deep all of the efforts of well-intentioned heavyweights might leave you stranded. In that case, the really big guns, the tow-truck drivers, might need to be called in.

Are you stuck? Maybe you've already tried the easy stuff: changing your approach to the problem, going back over hard won understanding and trying again. Maybe you've left off caring and have abandoned the struggle all together. Or maybe you just need a shove ~~ someone to get in your face and none-to-gently push you out of the slippery, rut-stuck, spot you're in.

It happens to all of us, right? We grow complacent and bored. We shrivel away in bitterness and small mindedness. We become self-indulgent and self-satisfied.

Do we have the courage to pop our head out of the window of wherever we are and call for a hand? Will we, when our friend shows up to throw their weight at the challenge, extend them gratitude instead of annoyance or rejection? They are the ones, after all, risking the heart attack!

Whatever your ice patch, whatever your drift, there's a way off and a way out. You might have to ask for your friends' weighty assistance, but you don't have to stay put. You can get moving again.

A Watery Christmas

Eleven sleeps until Christmas. We're so fortunate, as a family, that this is a generous and simple and exciting time for our tiny five person world.

We've been doing the 12 days of Christmas instead of stockings this year: One stocking stuffer-like gift each day leading up to the 25th. We preamble the exchange with a quick conversation. We started with the simple, "What's one thing we're thankful for from this past year?"

Today, Bob asked, "What's one goal you're setting for yourself in the year ahead?" The boys' initial answers were funny ("Stop walking the dogs." "Stop picking my nose.") but they came up with some good stuff, too (I'll keep those between them and us.). When Bob's turn came 'round we all tuned in more attentively.

Bob's a terrific goal-setter. He sets personal goals consistently and, once he's achieved a mark, he sets new ones to replace the one he accomplished. He talked about some personal things he'd like to reach for and then he suggested a not-so-new new one that we all quickly adopted as our own.

Bob's been out of the boat for awhile now. He's left off old comfort zone attitudes and behaviors in exchange for stretching himself in areas of faith and practical Christianity. "This year," he said, "I'd like to find a way to live even more out of the boat. A way to help or volunteer or something."

That doesn't sound like a big deal on paper, I guess. But it is big in our out-of-community experience. One thing that structured, meet-on-Sunday's Christianity offers is an (unending!) array of opportunities for service. Sound systems need to be run and chairs set up. Children need to be minded or taught. Youth group's need running and prayer ministries need facilitating.

When you're not involved in that structure, opportunities to serve and help need to be actively sought out. And that is trickier than it sounds! We've looked for God in a lot of areas in this, but have found ourselves floundering a little. It's not enough to simply be tuned in to our community and their projects; sure we'll clean ditches and help the neighbors and give at the door, but we're looking, honestly, for a cause that we can give our heart's to as a family.

As I write, I'm wondering if that might be misguided. Maybe the goal should be to become more fully committed to Jesus and to looking for His in-this-moment opportunity for service. Maybe we should be looking to hone that listening-doing lifestyle.

That's an uncomfortable thought. Because many, many days feel purposeless and silent and undirected. It'd be so much simpler (and I so love simplicity) to have one sure thing! Maybe we'll be able to work it out more specifically in the next few stuffed stocking days. Or in the New Year. Or a few Christmas's down the road. Or maybe it's not something to be figured out, but surrendered to and experienced. The thing will be, any which way, to hang out with Bob -- out of the boat.