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My Little Girl Dress

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Purple, pink, and yellow striped.  Shiny satin and lace and completely impractical, the kind of dress an adoring father buys without consulting the family budget.  Lavish.  When I opened it as a girl, I remember trying to hide my delight.  Trying to be not my age.  I’m sure I failed.

I loved that dress and remember the disappointment when all of a sudden my body betrayed me and I outgrew it.  I’d become to tall and not a little girl anymore.  I don’t know what happened to the dress, whether it was stored away or given away.  I wish I’d saved it knowing now what I wish I’d known then.

Dads care about clothing.  Well…good dads care about clothing.  They care that their daughters reflect who they truly are, cherished ones with a strong protector.  Every daughter should get a surprise gift sometime in their lives, a beautiful dress from their dads.  Clothing is such a tangible display of a love that cherishes.

Now I find I don’t wear clothing to reflect much, I wear it to attract much.  Attract friends, attention, praise, a coveted business class upgrade (it’s never happened).  But, I’m reminded this week that God clothes me to reflect Himself and my identity as belonging to Him.  What’s even better is I’m still me!  His covering makes me more beautiful than I could ever be on my own!

God clothes me and covers me with much more than clothes to reflect His freely bestowed and lavish grace.   There’s nothing I need to attract anymore.

What does it look like to reflect Him in my actual clothing though?  In my daily life?  In my speech and in my responses?

I’m still pondering that one!  I’m pretty sure it means beautiful so I’m excited.

The Color of Anticipation

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Orange.  Warm, wonderful, wild orange.  Bought in the dead of winter for toes hiding in thick wool socks and cozy Uggs.  Usually I stick to more conventional…ok…normal colors.  But last week upon exiting the local grocery store, orange caught my eye.

My mind rushed to mid-year break.  Soon, I’d pack my bags with summer clothes.  I’d strategize the least amount of layers I could wear to the airport without freezing for the relatively short distance to donuts, mangoes, and sun.  What would I change into during our layover?  Or, will I change upon reaching our tropical destination?  Anticipation.

Anticipation wields a double-edged blade.  On the one hand it sparks a fire in the everyday as the moment approaches.  Tick off more things on the check list.  Come to a stopping or pausing point in a routine activity.  Contemplate the needs of others in the same situation and speak into the worry, anxiety, and stress of a conference.  Anticipation can move me towards action.

On the flip side, anticipation can start the slow slide toward disengaging too early, of coasting towards the day that I know will come.  I’ll deal with that later, my heart says.  That conflict, that difference of opinion that looms large, that kind word I want to speak.

Important things get put on the back burner as I count on the awaited event radically changing my outlook on life.  Relatively minor activities gain utmost importance like should I or should I not take beach towels?  I’ll have to wash them.  I don’t have a washing machine. But, it’s nice to have more towels.  They’ll get sandy.  On and on my mind goes…anticipating the beach.

Tonight as I paint my toenails orange, I hope the warmth of that color will rouse some praise in my heart about the gift of a break from the cold and fellowship with friends.  Then, as I look at my toes in the tropics I hope orange reminds me to live not just for myself, my break, my fellowship but for whatever He anticipates for me.

What are you anticipating?  What reminds you to live for Christ in the anticipation?

Waiting for My Club

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People gathered around me.  More and more people.  They stood in a circle.  Circles are not lines and lines are not circles. I began to grow anxious and strategize.

Waiting.  I stood at the Subway sandwich counter.  The store depends on a nice, straight line.  I was next but the line was neither straight nor nice.  Those devices that corral people into single file orderliness?  Nowhere.

Does The Way consist of being willing to give up my place in line?  Do I press my claim at the expense of another?  I have kids waiting, though.  Waiting for sandwiches.  I’m waiting, trusting God to make it right, to make even this chaotic gathering orderly.  Am I willing to be wronged? To be treated unfairly?  Am I willing to accept life in a broken world when it comes at my expense?  Will I willingly wait an extra 10 minutes in line?

The artist donned her gloves and met my eyes asking for my order.  She saw me.  My heartbeat slowed.  This time I enjoyed things as they should be…or, should I say, as I think they should be.

I know.  It’s a line at Subway but lines in this country provide the crucible which reveals my true nature.  These everyday moments stare me down.  When I’m asked to lock up my purse at the grocery store but know for foreigners its more of a desire than a mandate, do I comply?  When the cashier asks me to pay for my toiletries separately or the parking attendant requests that I re-park my car nose out like a drug dealer making a quick getaway, do I grumble?  Do I even do it?

Will I throw my lot to God and submit to what seems ridiculous…and to what really is ridiculous?  Or will I do what I like to do and fight, press my rights, stake my claim?  I who have no rights?  I who follows the One who did not hold to His rights?

Ouch.  I don’t do well at this.  It feels like a freefall…a total loss of control.  And, it is but from the few times I’ve fallen from my rights, it’s been fabulously freeing.

I may be waiting longer for my sandwiches in the future.  And, I’ll need to perfect my drug dealer parking skilz too.

What is one of your crucibles?

Feast

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DSC_068015 minutes.  Maybe 20 minutes.  That’s the time limit doctors and scientists and people on the web say we get to stuff in all the goodies before our stomachs send desperate signals to our brain to stop already.  My husband and I joke at buffets and Thanksgiving that we have 20 minutes.  20 minutes to stuff in as much food as we can before we won’t enjoy it anymore.  Feasting.  It’s really an art.

I think God’s people nailed it though.  Days.  They planned days of feasting, not just one day.  They traveled and prepared and ate and rested for days.  They even had whole years God told them to eat off the land–plant nothing–just eat what grows.

We have one day for Thanksgiving.  One day, maybe two days off, for Christmas.  A barbecue for the 4th of July.  I really need days to enjoy the feast though.  I require days to enjoy all the myriad desserts and side dishes.

A few weeks ago we took a sorrowful ride home from the airport after saying goodbyes to my parents.  I’m always so happy to see them.  We eagerly anticipate their visits.  We plan, we dream, we expect.  We prepare for the relational feast.

But, remember that 20 minute rule?  At some point I’m faced with reality.  I want to eat more at the familial relational table but I’m stuffed to bursting.  The food is good but now I’m full.  I know beyond  shadow of a doubt I’ll be very, very hungry in the weeks and months afterwards.  Famine will come.  I’ll crave the feast intensely but at the present moment, I’m about to burst.

I hate that I get full, that my words get used up, that I crave routine even.  Oh, to have a bigger stomach!  Feasting without end!  That’s what my soul craves with my spouse, my children, my family, my friends.

Maybe that’s what we’ll experience in heaven.  No.  I know that is the experience, the promise.  A place for me in the family house.  The family feast without end where I never get tired or full or stressed and neither does anyone else.  All the children gathered at the table of the Lord released from our weakness and sin.  Feasting without end.

What a day…what a day.  I do long for it!  The wait feels eternal right now.  My hope and joy is that I know it is not.

Spotting

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Asian carnival rides last a few minutes longer than they should.  Teacups go round and round and round forever it seems.  Moans of agony follow the initial squeals of delight as we spin and spin and spin.  Next thing I know, I’m listening for the “sounds of the fire swamp”, as we call them.  The coughs and tell-tale signs of imminent danger that my child will succumb to their motion sickness.  I can regale you with stories of my prowess in avoiding my children’s puke by attuning myself to the sounds of the fire swamp.  Nevertheless, I can also disgust you with the stories of my failures too.

I decided to teach my kids the art of spotting whilst riding the teacups, that skill of fixing thine eyes on something immovable while the rest of the world spins around.  “Stare at the teapot!” I yell!  I demonstrate what I’m talking about while my kids look not at the teapot but at me and my head.  I continue to implore them to fix their eyes on the teapot until they can no longer force their heads to turn and then flip their heads around and find it again with their eyes.  They kind of get it.  At least my shenanigans took their thoughts off their own pain.

The next day we encounter the concept of spotting again in our home school book.  A boy stares at a clock tower as his row-boat rides the rough ocean swells.  The tall clock tower is immovable, the only thing telling him what is stable and what is not.  It is the one link to the solid land that can convince his stomach not to lurch up through his throat.  The lights go on in their eyes.  My kids clue in a little more and I clue in even more than they do.

Spinning teapots and rough ocean swells…my life often shares similar qualities.  I spin, others spin, the world spins and I start feeling sick as I look around at everything rushing past in a blur.  When will it ever stop?  The ocean waves rise and fall and I feel like a kid in a dinghy with a green face often looking only at the water around me.

Spiritual spotting…the skill of fixing my eyes on the Person that never changes, the anchor for the pit of my stomach and my soul.  I need to learn it.

Ah, to be a good spotter.  To know what is true, real, and immovable in the midst of the seas and the spins.  To fix my eyes on the Lord, to keep Him in my sights settling the pit of my soul in the midst of the spins and the swells.

Made from Scratch

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A paradox of overseas life means that scarcity ushers in luxury.  Our first years abroad I rejoiced over every “find” in the food department.  Cheese, sour cream, and milk products illicited flurries of communication via cellphone to team mates.  Did you know such and such a place has such and such an import product from home?  Special feasts came from such finds.  Months of doing without dairy products ended up being better for me by all but eliminating some painful stomach problems.  That didn’t stop me from gorging on sour cream enchiladas when appropriate, meaning, whenever someone served them.

Over time the scarcity changed our daily lives dramatically.  Where Bisquick does not exist pancakes transform themselves slowly into whole grain, made from scratch morsels of deliciousness.  My kids grow up oddly spoiled because the price of cereal is highway robbery.  Eggs and bacon become the economic alternative.  Homemade granola serves as cereal.  Nothing pops open to eject 8 cinnamon rolls to be eaten in minutes.  Cinnamon rolls become a much anticipated treat that delivers all that cinnamon rolls should deliver when made from scratch.

Along the way I stopped feeling sorry for us, made from scratch is way better.  Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoy mac n cheese from a box and there are plenty of times when a baking mix is just the thing on a Saturday morning after a busy week.  I still cost it out when I see bag of pre-shredded cheese to see if I can justify avoiding the task of cheese shredding myself.  And, I rejoiced when IKEA sold premade cookie dough.  From scratch still tastes better though.

Spiritual life seems similar to me.  There’s no shortcut to maturity just as there is no real shortcut to good cinnamon rolls.  The road to maturity like good cooking is a recipe, time, quality input, and a result of trial and error.  Most of my best creations in the kitchen meant that I risked too.  I tried and sometimes…maybe even often… failed.  I gain maturity in much the same way.  More lessons got learned when it didn’t go so well.  Sometimes I’m so afraid of making mistakes that I’m afraid to risk.  I pull out a recipe of life and think “Hmmmm…I’ll try that no gossip thing another day…seems pretty hard.”

I’m realizing that risking is the path to maturity.  Taking God at His word and stepping out is the path.    Maybe that’s another way of thinking about faith…taking a risk with God.  Do I want my life to taste like Bisquick pancakes?  No.  Made from scratch, please!

Sailing in the Storm

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How ideal. A picnic dinner eaten on a sailboat moored in hearing distance of an outdoor symphony. What a perfect way to spend a Friday and spend it we did one Friday when I was in junior high school.

Toward the end of the evening we turned around from watching the symphony and saw that all the boats behind our first row spot had picked up anchor and hoisted their sails back to their marinas. Then we looked up and discovered why. Huge black storm clouds loomed in the distance. We stowed our things with alarming alacrity, donned our life vests, and prepared to go head to head with the power of wind.

I had two choices that night. Climb in the crawl space under the bow or hold onto a rope while hanging my body over the side as an off setting weight to the strong winds on the sails. Hide in fear or participate in fear. Either way fear would be my constant companion. I am not an experienced sailer. The crawl space seemed scarier than hanging over the side of the boat so I clung to the rope suspended over waves.

That night quite a few boats capsized on the lake and helicopters with search lights circled. Lightening and thunder flashed. We did not capsize or get struck by lightening. No one of our party fell overboard. The storm passed and we breathed again…then we smiled and relived our near brush with disaster. A calm symphony followed by an exciting storm. Quite a night.

There are times when I enjoy the best life has to offer and then look around only to notice a huge storm coming. A frighteningly real threat. Do I hide in fear or do I ride through it knowing I might capsize or be thrown overboard? Feeling the wind and the rain on my face, being part of the team draws me out of the crawl space to live life. What if we capsize? What if I drop the rope and fall overboard? I rode. I felt the wind and the rain. Morning will come. We can find a way to right the ship. The searchlight will find me. Beyond that, I have no choice. Storms come.

But, what if we make it? Either way, swimming or sailing, I’ll have lived. Of course, I kind of prefer the calm but that rush of excitement after the storm passes…I rather like that too.

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Not My Dad

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I grew up in church. Every Sunday church let out and the narthex (who came up with that word?) swarmed with people. A very forest of legs to my pint sized perspective. Legs, legs, and more legs. I remember latching on to a leg one time only to have it jerk away unexpectedly. I look up and lo and behold, the face that is attached to that leg is not in any way familiar. Wrong Dad!

Isn’t that the way it is in life, though? Overwhelmed by the tall trees and feeling lost I grasp the nearest thing that seems familiar, that promises belonging, that makes me feel safe. But, like a child I don’t look up to see who it belongs to. When it jerks away and doesn’t provide what I thought it would I finally look up and realize, hmm, that’s not my Dad.

The alternative is wandering around in the forest longer, turning my head to look up, and risking. Faith is risky but it’s riskier when I haven’t lingered and pondered in the forest. When I’ve latched onto an intuition of who God is but not onto God.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for. There’s probably a lot of things I’m sure of that I shouldn’t be. And a lot more things to ponder in the forest than I do. Some are deep, some are shallow. Where do dinosaurs fit into creation? Why does God say yes to prayers for impossible parking spaces?

So, I endeavor to ponder more in the forest these days hoping for more glimpses of the face of God.

Losing Face

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Living in a culture of face wears on me.  Once I became aware of the importance of keeping face and giving face I felt pressure to remember and consider face.  In America we’d say its something like keeping up appearances or giving and receiving respect.  Really it’s just plain old pride.  I thought back to all the times I’d unknowingly lost face or caused someone else to lose face.  The effect paralyzed my relationships for a time.  Every step in the culture felt fraught with the danger of my unintentionally building a wall with someone because of face.

Last weekend I attended a wedding.  Half the dining room sat family and friends of the bride and groom’s parents.  The other half sat the Christian friends.  When it came time to toast the bride and groom the split down the middle became even more evident than the level of wine in the wine bottles.  One side belted out maxims and sayings of the culture that reflect nothing personal.  Prosperity!  Long life!  The other half bared their heart of appreciation for the individuals promising their lives together.  My heart heard and my eye saw the split open like a chasm.  Strong v. Soft.  Closed v. Open.  Tough v. Tender

I also saw the tears of the strong, closed, tough side when their soft, open, and tender children spoke face-losing words of love to their parents.  Hugs welled up from deep places in the soul that could no longer be held back.  I hear Asian families do not generally hug.  They rarely if ever say “I love you.”  Tears sprung from the eyes of tough men with crew cuts, bellowing voices, and cigarettes.  Had they lost face?  Not to me.  I pray their wall of face will begin to crumble with this first crack.

The fear of face passed through my heart to some extent a while ago.  The wedding gave me new encouragement not to believe that people want more than anything to maintain face.  I don’t think they really do.  I don’t think I do either because I have my face I like to keep too.  It’s not unique to Asian culture.  I think I (and others) really want love and our faces get in the way.

I respect my friends who step into soft, open, and tender in this culture.  It’s terrifying.  Their lead I endeavor follow.

Lifting Weights

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We set off on a new family activity a few weeks ago.  Hiking.  I hiked 5 years ago in the California redwoods for a few hours with the other adult in our family, my husband.  I remember enjoying that hike more than I’d ever enjoyed a hike before.  Rustling wind.  Crunching pine needles.  Sunlight streaming through thick branches.  A rest from the clamor of life.  A time when our family could enjoy a hike together seemed so distant I don’t think the idea even crossed my mind!

Our family hike consisted of a 10 minute walk up the street to a rugged trailhead.  Trash and broken concrete provided the ruggedness.  We folded up the stroller and walked up steps for 15 minutes to a pagoda that stands at the top.  The children, having known nothing like hiking through redwoods in California, felt a great sense of accomplishment.  At the top we ate peanut butter jelly sandwiches made with bakery fresh bread, Lays potato chips, and crisp apples.  As I finished up someone else’s apple my eye caught a rock with wire wrapped around it.  A weight for weightlifting.

Some things I carry in life look like these weights.  They’re ugly, the thin handle cuts into the hand, it knocks against my body and scrapes up my shins.  It’s unpleasant, a weight I would choose not to carry.  But, in my heart of hearts, I know it’s the weight that is making me strong and fit in all the spiritually right ways.  I’d choose to carry one of those rubber coated ones with smooth sides if I had a choice.  But, it doesn’t seem I have a choice in these things.

I wonder if this weight is not unlike the thorn in the flesh Paul talks of, a weight that I’d rather be taken from me.  One that keeps me humble by the sheer pain of it.