One Armchair to Another

I've been counting down the hours, and the time has finally arrived. 'Time for a cup of something with a friend. I hurry into the coffee shop, not wanting to waste a moment of these stolen hours away from children and responsibilities and care.

My friend has arrived before me and I settle into the comfy armchair at her side. We are surrounded by buzzing conversations; the whir of coffee dispensers and the dull thump of nearby doors attempt to interrupt our thoughts. Sirens shrill just beyond the crowded parking lot. The gentleman at the table next to us asks the time. We take it all in, but the flow of conversation is immediate and uninterrupted.

My friend is a rarity in the world. Her femininity is complete, natural, profound. She is beautiful. She moves with grace, surety. And when she speaks, her loveliness is not compromised. Her words spark hope. Light. Even joy.

She tells of strengths and challenges. She carefully, respectfully tells bits of the stories of friends -- women who are hurting, unsure, and fighting fiercely to define faith (or to squish it determinedly into whatever box they so desperately need to believe it fits in). She speaks with honor and compassion, needlessly doubting her position in the world relative to theirs.

My friend, I am beginning to see, has astonishingly broad shoulders. As she navigates her own roles of professional, wife, mother, friend, daughter, sister, she also stands solidly as many, many women lean on her for a steadying influence.

I don't know if she can see that from where she's sitting, back to the window, coffee cup in hand. Can she see the dignity she offers to a hurting mom, a dreams-dashed friend? Can she see the solidity, the calm she imparts to her community of women? Does she know that the consistency of her life is a safety and a standard?

She dispenses wise caution with ease, without offending. She is meek. What a gift to the world, that trait alone! She is quick to laugh at herself and quicker still to extend pardon to her offenders. I must learn from her!

Our time together is cut so short. We say hurried goodbye's in the emptying parking lot, promising to get together soon, regretting our too-full schedules. And I leave my friend, feeling...what? Feeling befriended. Listened to. Challenged. Connected with. One hour in a couple of coffee shop armchairs. Enough to change the world.

Where is God?

At Pentecost, they were not submerged in God,

nor did God override them. God was God and they were they;

but Person flowed into person,

Will into will,

Mind into mind,

and they could scarcely tell where they ended and God began.

He was closer than their blood in their veins

and nearer than their heartbeats.

If they should reach out to touch Him,

they would reach too far.

~ E. Stanley Jones, The Art of Mastering Life ~

A Teri Pic

Garbage Bag Goo

The garbage bag goo ~~ you know, that runny stuff that somehow seeps out of the bottom of the sack and onto the floor, or into the bottom of the bin ~~ has been washed out of my shoe. An innocent tug on the top of the overflowing Glad bag found my right foot swimming in days-old muck; my Croc (that hole-pocked fashion abomination) ably absorbing the thick, runny stuff through its' many accommodating holes.

It's all better now. An eyesore those rubber shoes may be, but they're a dream to clean.

Today I'm wishing that my thoughts were so easily given a wash.

February is "Heart Month," "Black History Month," "Friendship Month," and, so my email inbox tells me, a month honoring several other recognition-worthy endeavors.

In my house, February is "Oooh, look. Mom's Freaking Out About Every Little Thing," month. My rankle over too-brown lawns and filth covered streets presses on my beauty-starved mind. The task of schooling children at home is very task-like and lacks all charm, vision, and purpose. Faith is elusive. Friendships are taxed as people everywhere feel the strain of winter.

I do all sorts of mental exercises to redirect my downward-spiral thinking. I pray. I thank. I thank some more, hoping that if I pummel my bitter mind with gratitude that it will pull itself up by it's taken-for-granted boot straps and cheer up already. I consider and contrast my oh-so-easy life with the lives of those in Kosovo and Afghanistan and the unforgiving streets of my own city.

Beauty can be found, too. A walk in a cared for part of town. A quick drive into the country. Striking photographs taken by keen-eyed artists. Hours spent with boys discovering the hilarity of "Whose Line is it Anyway?" for the first time. Laughing at their laughter ~ no sound compares to that of your own child's uninhibited joy!

It's not all garbage bag goo, after all. While a long winter can feel a little heavy on the trash side and little light on the awe inspiring beauty side of things, the lovely stuff is there for the finding.

Soda Pop Pinwheels

Seven-thirty a.m. and my feet are sticking to the floor. I put a hand out to steady myself and find it sticking uncomfortably to the chair. The morning's mental fog quickly clears as I remember why my entire kitchen seems to be coated in a sugary goo. It seems to be, because it is.



It began, as these circumstances so often do, with a mother and her son preparing for target practice. I'm sure you can relate? The weather had warmed to a roasty -12 degrees and my thirteen year old was impatient to get out into the field to shoot some pop can victims. His arms were full of guns and ammunition, so I generously offered to carry the pop (we shoot the cans when they're full ~ the effect is explosive and looks really cool on fresh snow).



Speaking of explosive, covered from head to toe in winter garb we started for the door. And then I dropped one of the cans. It just slipped. Right out of my gloved hand and head-first onto the floor. It punctured immediately and began to spew it's pressurized contents upward and outward into the kitchen.



A most dramatic thing happened then: it began a pinwheel spin, powered by it's own gasses, and sprayed and sprayed and sprayed it's sugary mix in a perfect circle. 'Round and 'round it spun. Soda coated the walls, windows, dogs, dog dishes, dog beds, tables, chairs, and plants. It soaked the door, the door mat, the pictures on the wall, and the venetian blinds. It sprayed the lap top computer, and tiny droplets of no-name cola showered the cupboard doors and kitchen taps.



Sudden. Dramatic. Thorough. So very, very thorough. Winter clothes were stripped away, weapons were set aside, and cleaning commenced. For thirty minutes my husband, my son, and I washed and re-washed surface after surface. My husband thought it was all very funny and chuckled to himself the whole time. I'll admit, my own dialogue sounded more like expletives than "chuckles".



Seven-thirty on a Monday morning, and I've got some work to do as yesterday's scrub really only served to smear 300 ml of sticky brown soda over every conceivable kitchen surface. The redeeming factor in all of this is that I win! Our family has a long-running contest regarding accidental spills, and mine are always the most destructive and far-reaching. This one will put me at the top of the list for sure!

I no longer seek to be understood, but to understand.
~ Clare (Brother Sun, Sister Moon) ~

Cucumbers ~ A Floating Encounter

I have conquered Costco in record time and I'm feeling good! I clumsily maneuver my over-stuffed cart into the nearest line-up and settle in for the wait. I eavesdrop on the conversation happening in the next line over. Wrecked knees, hockey injuries, and the pain-killer of choice. Hmm. Not very interesting. I scan other patrons for signs of life, interest, engagement.

The woman in front of me is beautiful. Seventy-ish, tall, and slender. Her face is peaceful, her eyes lively. My attention had been taken by her earlier in the store. She was impossible to ignore; her smile, that look-you-in-the-eye connection shared with everyone she passed.

I spot the woman working the till. She looks tired. She reminds me of other women I know: women who are being beaten down by hard choices and tough circumstances. A twinge of compassion. And then I'm distracted by the business of shuffling groceries from cart to conveyor.

The clerk works quickly and efficiently but neglects to give the woman in front of me her cucumbers. The transaction is already complete, my fellow-shopper's arms are full and she's tangling with her purse. I step up to the clerk, quickly, quietly (wishing, as always, that there was a way to do this invisibly) and whisper, "I'll pay for her cucumbers. Just give them to her and send her on her way."

I hustle back to my cart, hoping to avoid further interaction. I overhear the exchange that follows: "Here are your cucumbers, Ma'am. They've been paid for already."

"Really? How?"

"That woman paid for them."

"Which woman? That woman?"

I have my head buried in my cart and I'm willing my invisibility cloak to work it's magic.

"Yup. That one right there."

Head up now, arms full of noodles, I see that I'm going to have to answer for my interloping behavior. "You paid for my cucumbers!" My co-shopper is beaming at my side. Beam-ing. "You didn't have to do that. Do you see the smile on my face? YOU did that!"

I shuffle awkwardly (I always feel so darn awkward.). I blurt, "I was happy to do it. Do you know what? I've watched you in the store this morning, and you smiled at everyone you made contact with. You spread light everywhere you go!"

This stops her. Her eyes fill with tears. She says thank you again and steps away. Right back to the clerk where she proudly, and somewhat loudly, repeats what I've just said to her! "She said I spread light everywhere I go!"

Oh dear. Any discomfort I'd been feeling to this point is compounded by the realization that others have been drawn in to our exchange. I can't explain my reticence in this, I only know that there is so much more opportunity to really fail in this floating encounter now that more bodies are involved!

I finish transferring my groceries and approach the till. I notice my clerk has stopped working. She's standing at her post, tissue's in hand, weeping. Weeping giant, unchecked tears. I want to reach out to her, to comfort her, but a cold metal money machine blocks my path.

"Aww, Hon. Are you okay?" I inadequately muster.

"You just made that woman's day. She left in tears, you know. And now I can't stop crying."

"Oh...uh..." Eloquence is nowhere to be found. I should have remembered to grab some from the over-stocked shelves in aisle four.

The gal re-packing my cart jumps in, "People just aren't like you, you know? We never see that kind of thing. We never see it."

"Oh...uh..." I'm scanning my mental files for something to say. I want so much to bring my Jesus into this conversation. I fire off "Holy Spirit? Help!" prayers as fast as I can. He's hilariously silent. He often is. Hil-ar-i-ously.

"I just can't stop crying. We'll just chalk this up to menopause, okay?"

I giggle. "Okay. You don't need an excuse to cry. You're really tenderhearted. No need to make an excuse for that."

And then I make some flippant remarks and we joke about how we all cry during sad movies and I step away thanking them for their help today.

And I take a deep breath, glad to be away, quickly succumbing the mental pounding that always follows these encounters. "Why do you always open your big mouth? You're such a geek. And then something good comes of your weirdness but you can't give the credit back to Jesus. You're such a loser."

As my sleep-deprived brain absorbs these charges, I notice the elderly shopper standing by the warehouse doors. She approaches me as I near the security check. "Hello again, Dear. You did something so nice for me, but they won't let me leave the store! The cucumbers don't show up on my receipt, so they think I'm trying to steal them!"

I can't contain my giggle. The security post thinks that this beautiful gramma is a produce thief?! That makes MY day!

We visit the security staff together and I explain that the veggies are on my receipt and that their hers to keep. They let her pass but stop me, encouraging me to go get my money back since they weren't my cucumbers. I quickly explain that I did it on purpose and that every thing's looked after. Her confused glance follows me as I scoot my cart through the yawning exit.

Clear! Interaction over. Floating encounter ended.

I wrestle, as always, with what of Jesus was left in my wake. I have no answer for that. His kindness leads us to repentance. I pray that His kindness will do it's work in thirsty hearts. I pray His kindness will remind me that it's for me, too. Accusation and Guilt have had their say, but if I did not fully serve my Lord today, I will, one day, know how to talk of Him with ease and purpose and meaning.

Because He is the only, only source. He can use our tired, sick, stressed, spread-thin personages to spread the knowledge of Him throughout the earth. Let's keep lifting Him up in whatever small ways that we can and see what He does with our meager obedience.

Time to put my own groceries away. I'll put "ability to credit Jesus out loud" on next week's grocery list. Maybe Safeway will have a "Buy five, get fifty bonus air miles" special on in the Deli!

The Ant and the Butterfly

The Alcon blue butterfly of Western Europe has a particular quirk: by coating it's larvae in a deceptive chemical coating, it can trick local ants into thinking that the babies belong to them. The ants, responsible and hardworking critters that they are, promptly carry them into their own nest and set about raising the young as their own, not realizing until the butterflies emerge, wings and all, that they've been duped.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I can be a little ant-like myself in this respect.

Well-intentioned and sincere, I've pulled all sorts of emotional, practical, and spiritual "larvae" into my family's nest. 'Looks like my problem, sounds like my problem, feels like my problem ~ it must be my problem. I grab 'hold of the need in front of me (help in the church nursery, leadership of a woman's group, care giving for a lonely child, admin tasks for a new endeavor, planning for a social event, financial care of a perpetually struggling family...) and truck it right on home into the middle of my own domestic haven. I don't pause to check in with the rest of the colony about the arrival of the new addition ~ I just assume we'll all pitch in to take good care of it.

Maybe you're more like the butterflies? Maybe you're more inclined to drop your cares on someone else's doorstep, taking for granted that they'll be nurtured to maturity?

But about those ants and their assumed role as nursery maids: their adoption of another critter's responsibility can lead to their own demise. Because they sense the presence of young in their nest, they instinctively stop producing babies of their own. If enough Alcon larvae are present, the ants don't make any ant babies for a season.

Before long, the numbers in the nest take a hit and, eventually, the colony can die out completely for lack of reproduction.

Over a game of table scrabble and a cup of something, a friend recently shared some new-found insights about the level of stress in her life. She was making a list, she said, of all that she does in a day that is required but is less than satisfying. A parallel list was devoted to the things she attends to that she loves to do ~ activities that she feels have long-term value. The drudgery to joy ratio was something like 85:15!

As she was talking, my thoughts turned to the stress-saturated lives of my friends. We do so much! So much good. So much right. So much that's necessary. A lot of burden sharing that is Christlike and God-directed. But I wonder if there might be a few intruding larvae that could be punted from our nests?

Are there things we've adopted as our own burdens that are not ours to shoulder?

If we don't take an honest look at the stresses in our lives and rid our homes and our families of the leach-like ones, what will happen to our productivity in the future? If our energy and attention and resources are all being funnelled into care for situations that are not ours to tend to, what will be left for our real dependents? Will we die off (all the while doing good and taking care) attending to things that were better left to someone else?

What will happen in our little colonies if we simply, simply tend to our God-chosen, right-now, burden bearing? Caring is tricky business! Can we tune our ears carefully to the Comforter's voice, quickly responding when He says, "Go, help, give,"? Can we learn to detect interloping stresses before we devote too much time and heart to them, saving our best service for the God-cares?

Scientists don't hold out much hope for those adoptive ants. They're certain that as long as the Alcon's are reproducing they're going to continue to dupe various colonies into feeding and raising their young.

As for us, maybe a quick larvae inventory will see our respective nests clear of con artists and home to the tasks, joys, burdens, and dreams set out for us by the Maker of ants and butterflies.

~ Galatians 6:2 - 10 ~

North Is Always Up

"North," my son insists, "is that way." He's pointing determinedly toward the corner of our yard in a direction that I feel, instinctively, is East. Or almost East, at least.

The younger two boys, backed-up by my husband, join the argument. The argument wherein they assure me that they are all right, and I hold out that they are all wrong. Because I can feel that West is not in the direction they claim, and nor is South. They must be wrong, because my instincts tell me so.

My instincts, it turns out, are out of whack. A compass is yanked from the school drawer and it is quickly determined that I don't have the slightest idea what I am talking about.

It would be safe to imagine that, having been proven wrong, I would drop the subject there. Directionality comes up often in conversation ("I saw a pair of coyotes just East of here this morning," or "Hey, Mom, which direction am I pointing in now?" All knowing smirks to follow.) and every, every time I am committed to my sense that the compass must be skewed because my insides tell me which way is what.

Road trips are an adventure with me at the wheel. I'll follow my nose ("This way feels like South...it must be South."), sometimes with challenging results. I once drove a full hour in the direction exactly opposite to the one I should have been heading simply because it felt right!

Which brings me to a thoughtful point: Sometimes we're wrong. Sometimes our perceptions about ourselves and our surroundings are out of line with our Compass. We see ourselves, our loved ones, our companions, our children as something that they are not.

If we're optimists, we may have the joyous luxury of seeing things in the lovely glow of beauty and success. More likely, we're realists, pessimists, even fatalists: things are ugly, failing, not measuring up.

What did your inner voice tell you about yourself when you looked in the mirror this morning? What did it tell you about how you handled the Christmas crowd or your child's last misdemeanor? What did it tell you about your temper, your sense of humor, your talents, your contribution to the world?

Is it telling you the truth, or is some invisible magnet pulling it off the north arrow?

"Believe all that Jesus says about you, and some of what others say about you ~ even if it's something nice." That's one of the attitudes I've been struggling to adopt over my years' long journey toward a healthier body. It can be difficult, even impossible, for us to believe the kind, building, I-adore-this-about-you words of our Savior and our friends.

Our insides tell us, with stout determination built on decades of experience, that it's all flattery or feel-good mumbo-jumbo. But sometimes the good stuff is true. Our experience tells us that it'd be better if we stayed out of potentially painful relationships. Jesus says, "Go. Do. Tell." Our years tell us we're not very funny, we're too loud, we say all of the wrong things (all of the time). Our friends say, "You said just the right thing yesterday. Thanks!" or "You make me laugh!"

More difficult to accept (at least graciously!) are words of correction. Sometimes our thoughts about ourselves, our children (My little Johnny would never do that!), our lives are nice and shiny on the outside but a little rotted and rusty on the inside. A warning, a rebuke, a criticism from a friend can be hard to accept.

My guess is that my internal compass is never going to improve. West will always feel West even if it's actually South. What may improve, if I choose to let it, is my willingness to acknowledge that my sense of direction is off. Way off.

My ability to assess myself, my friends, my world may not improve much either. Maybe my judgement will always be a little wacky. Maybe, when it comes to myself, it will always be on the cruel side. What may improve, if I choose to let it, is my willingness to acknowledge that I'm not always perceiving things correctly. I may learn to live in agreement with the tender things that others sometimes say, or the leading things that Jesus might point out.

What about you? If I tell you now that you are so lovely, so funny, so wonderfully intelligent, can you hear me? Because I'm telling you the truth. You are made to look like God and I think that you are brilliant!

If a friend says, "Watch out! There's trouble ahead ~ you may not be as strong here as you think you are," are you able to listen?

Can you ignore that critical, sneering voice of Accusation, or the flattering, stroking hand of Pride and align your thinking with a more truthful compass? Maybe your internal compass is off? Just a little? And maybe the God who made you and the people who adore you are telling you the truth.

That said, I'm going out to buy a new compass. Ours is obviously broken and I wouldn't want to impede my sons' education by forcing them to use faulty equipment.

Stepford Wives We Ain't!

The morning hours are teeny tiny and I'm too tired to think as I connect with a gal I know through a mentoring program. She is angry. Frustrated by an ongoing marital conflict, she has grown weary of the effort involved in keeping her relationship afloat.

"Why," she demands, "do women have to do all of the work in bettering a marriage? Why don't men do any of the work? Does God intend for us to be Stepford wives, always subservient, always assuming the role of the one who will attempt to make our relationships stronger? Women are tired and frustrated of being the ones who always have to change. I realize that the Lord has gifted women with certain sensibilities, but when do we get a break? No pat answers, please. I'm looking for clear insights."

My acquaintance has been married for over forty years. I hesitate to respond, knowing that "clear insights" into such a muddy area may be hard to come by! If dozens of self-help books and forty years of experience haven't provided the answers, I'm pretty sure my musings will fall short!

I make an attempt, pondering my response over the course of the next two days. Struggling to put words to a complex, pervasive, romance-choking problem. And this is what I said...

~~~~~

Dear Lena,

I have given considerable thought to your question and I think I've written you six essays in my mind today! I am going to assume from the tone of your well-worded thoughts that you are not being abused. If you are being abused, please disregard the following and write me again so that we can approach this from a completely different angle, okay?

I don't want to be verbose in replying, but I don't want to oversimplify this intense issue either. Can we look at it from a few different perspectives? I'm not sure any of them will give the answer(s) you're looking for, but this might be a place to start this conversation:

1. You're right: Women work hard at relationships ~ love, friendship, family, all. God does not intend for us to be Stepford wives (!). Women do grow deeply weary in this area. If they didn't our North American divorce rate would be a fraction of what it is because our tenacity and faithfulness would not waver.

I relate uncomfortably well to your careful anger in this area. In the fifteen years that we've been married, I have attempted to address this very thing fifteen (or fifteen-hundred!) different ways with my husband. A certain level of acceptance has settled in my heart and mind. Your thoughts, your assessment are correct, but I believe that the solution to our angst lies in the pat answers that we so despise (and despise them we do!).

2. Part of that angst is culturally based. We live in a land of plenty ~ of excess. And while we may not be privy to exceptional wealth or lives of ease, we are touched by the overbearing self-centeredness of our continent (as are our husbands).

While the majority of women in the world live in subservience, poverty, and suffering gross neglect, we enjoy the ease of countless luxuries.
We enjoy clean drinking water, access to education, freedom of religion, freedom of choice in whom we marry. We, arguably, have the same rights as men in career choice, societal status, and "say" in how our homes are run. We can read. We can write. We can holiday. We can feed our babies.

My point? With all of that wealth, there can come an attitude of entitlement. Our culture tells us, every day, that we are deserving of all of it, and even more. And, to a point, we buy in to that. We do, we tell ourselves, deserve to have it all and more.

And when our relationships, our marriages (our weight, our skin, our bank accounts), don't measure up to the fairy tale we've been promised, we feel cheated. We scramble after it, trying to achieve/acquire the romance we've read about, dreamed about, sang about.

But the fairytale is just that: a story. Our men are no more capable of being Prince Charming than we are of pulling off a Perfect Princess.

We have so much. So much. But we are quick to focus on the one, two, five things we do not have. And that makes us angry. (Lena, I'm preachin' to the choir here ~ I'm speaking to myself as much as I am to you right now!)

3. Men need our compassion more than they need our brow beating. They feel the pressure to get it right. They know the expectations of their culture are high. Their personal brokenness causes them to react to that pressure in dozens of ways ~ most of which do nothing to aid in the building of their marriages. But if you ask them, they're trying. They're trying very hard (sometimes only in their own minds, mind you!) to make us/keep us happy. They need our patience. They need our mercy. They even need our gratitude.

4. Women truly are gifted with "certain sensibilities." This is a powerful truth, Lena. As beings created in the image of the Maker of the World, we carry the relational aspects of the Creator about with us everywhere we go. We have the ability to by pliable - moved by mercy and tenderness and fierce love. We are responsive to suffering. We know how to mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who rejoice. We know how to listen. We know, sometimes, when to speak and when to remain silent. We know how to give ourselves away.

The words, "...consider others as better than yourself..." and "...Greater love has no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friend," are written for us (for our guys, too, but let's just deal with the only people we actually have any sway over ~ ourselves). Our self-sacrifice is not empty ~ it is part of our "labor for the Lord" which is never wasted.

I've been considering Jesus' words about laying down our lives for our friends. For the past several months, I've been wondering about what that means in the life of a Canadian/American woman. We will not likely be required to take a bullet or a sword for our beloved. Physically, we will probably not be called upon to give up our lives for the ones we hold close.

But what about our "rights?" What about our feelings? Our hopes? Our plans? Can we lay some of those aside out of deep (or simply obedient) love for our husbands? Our children?

Jesus doesn't promise us self-fulfillment, happiness, comfort. He asks us to die. He asks us to die so that He can live through us. Does this apply to our marriages?

Feminism has taught us that we have to hang on to our dreams and gifts and rights at all costs. Jesus asks us, not as women, but as His followers, to lay all of that down. He makes that request with the promise that as we humble ourselves under God's mighty hand, He will lift us up in due time.

So, the question to myself and to other women then becomes, "In the short time I have here, where will I place my focus? On my immediate happiness? On my own well being? On the failings of the people I love? Or, out of love for the One who gave Himself up for me, can I let go of all that I consider important and trust Him with the outcome?"

If you had asked me that question two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been able to make a Jesus choice. My husband and I were in a dark place and your current struggle was roiling in my own mind. But sitting here, a few days later, I can see (for now!) that the choice is clear.

~~~~~

The remainder of my response was on a more personal level so I won't include it here. I would love to hear your thoughts and insights on this. My personal feeling is that we, as women, have the opportunity (the responsibility?) to become relational experts. Really.

The truth is, girls, that we know how to make our relationships strong ~ friendships, loves, even acquaintences. Sometimes we put our heart and skill into building our circle of connections, but often we turn inward, focusing our energy on our own wounds, our own needs, our own wants ~ all at the expense of what could be healthy, thriving, mutually satisfying bonds.

I'm not suggesting that we go backward in time, neglecting ourselves and smothering our own desires: we are men's equals in every, every way. Except in this area. In this area, we are stronger. We are more skilled, more intuitive, more patient, more determined.

Let's not waste those amazing qualities by fussing and grumbling about what we do not have. Let's hone the skill of relationship making. Let's perfect the art of loving well.

If we can do that, my friends, we can change the world. We can change our churches. We can change our neighborhoods. We can change our workplaces and our homes.

What do you think?

Loving unselfishly does not mean making the least of ourselves

but making the most of someone else.

~ Jo Ann Lemon ~