Rocks In My Dryer

Meema

Today was my grandmother's 83rd birthday.

Or so I thought.

Yesterday we made plans to spend a girly afternoon lunching and shopping, just Meema, Corrie and me. 

My phone rang at mid-morning today.  It was Meema, and her voice sparkled:  "Guess what I gave myself for my birthday?"

"What?" I asked, hoping that she (who never splurges on herself) had really tied one on.

"Another YEAR!" she giggled.  "I lay in bed this morning and realized I was born in 1927--it's my 82nd birthday, not my 83rd!  I gave myself a whole year!"

Armed with that kind of good news, we headed out for our celebration, driving through the bank and pharmacy, because we know how to party.  Then we headed to a little local bakery near my house.  It's a small, family-owned place, only open for a few months.  Their chocolate chip cookies make a girl's eyes roll back in her head, and this quaint place has quickly worked its way onto our list of favorites.

We ate and talked and laughed through our leisurely lunch.  After we had finished and paid, I slipped back to the restroom, while Corrie and Meema strolled toward the car. 

Or so I thought. 

I came out of the restroom to find my grandmother, always quiet and gentle in everything she does, talking softly with the hard-working owner of the bakery.  The woman smiled, and she reached out to touch my grandmother's arm.

As we walked on to the car, I asked her what it was all about. 

"I just told her I was praying for her," Meema said.  "I told her that every time I round this corner, I pray that her bakery will do well.  I think it would be a hard time to start a business.  I just wanted her to know I was praying for her."

She paused, and added quietly, "She said it meant a lot to her."

Of course it did.  It always does, to know that someone breathes your name in prayer.  I should know--Meema's prayers have carried me longer than I can remember.  During some times when I couldn't even speak my own, her prayers bore me up and kept my feet moving.  The bakery lady and I are blessed.

I helped Meema into the car and watched her gently pass a stick of gum to my little girl.  I smiled.  Meema may have found an extra year today, but I'm the one with the treasure.

She Has a Story

This morning, my brother Reed and his wife Lee Ann boarded a plane that would take them to the other side of the world, to the place where their third daughter waits for them.

She's in Ethiopia.  She's almost 11 months old.  She has giant brown eyes and heart-shaped lips, and she has (the orphanage workers have said) a bright and curious personality.  And it makes me smile when I think of how unaware she is, at this very moment, how much she is loved.  She has no idea how many hours her momma has stared at her photograph, hoping the dimply hands means she has enough to eat.  She doesn't know about the countless of hours of research her daddy has done, finding a way to bring her home.  She's never met the two big sisters who have prayed for her every night.  She doesn't know the grandmother who wears her name on a chain, or the rowdy cousins who are already planning affectionate nicknames.  She has no idea her auntie Shannon is prowling around like a crazy woman, anxiously checking for the text message:  We have her.

She doesn't know all of this; she simply sits happily in her crib in Addis Abada, lovingly cared for by orphanage workers who saw, from the start, an undeniable sparkle in her.  When she was abandoned as a newborn, they named her Tarikwa Teka.  It's Amharic for "she has a story that He has replaced".

Needless to say, Reed and Lee Ann are keeping that name.  It's much too beautiful--and true--to change. 

She has a story.  And unbeknownst to little Tarik, chapter two begins in only three days, when her parents come to get her.  May I ask, if the thought crosses your mind, that you'd pray for my brother and his wife, that their travel would be safe, and that Tarik will be able to adapt to her new family easily?  Will you pray for those of us back at home that we will all have the wisdom to help Reed, Lee Ann and Tarik in this transition, and that my two little nieces here at home will feel peaceful while their parents are away?  I'd appreciate it so much, and I know they would too.

By the way, Reed and Lee Ann have a six-year-old Compassion child in Ethiopia, and they'll get to meet her while they're there.  Updates to come!

Thanks for your prayers.

Do the Next Thing

This poem hangs on my refrigerator; I'm in a season where I need the daily reminder desperately.  I thought I'd post it here for you to see, too (I do not know the original author, but I know Elisabeth Elliott has quoted from it):

From an old English parsonage down by the sea
There came in the twilight a message to me;
Its quaint Saxon legend, deeply engraven,
Hath, it seems to me, teaching from Heaven.
And on through the doors the quiet words ring
Like a low inspiration: “Do the next thing.”

Many a questioning, many a fear,
Many a doubt, hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from Heaven,
Time, opportunity, and guidance are given.
Fear not tomorrows, child of the King,
Trust them with Jesus, do the next thing.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer;
Do it reliantly, casting all care;
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand
Who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on Omnipotence, safe ‘neath His wing,
Leave all results, do the next thing.

Looking for Jesus, ever serener,
Working or suffering, be thy demeanor;
In His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
The light of His countenance be thy psalm,
Strong in His faithfulness, praise and sing.
Then, as He beckons thee, do the next thing.

Grace In a Manger

Christmas is happy, Easter is hard.

At least, that's how I thought about it when I was younger.

Christmas, I thought, was the cheery holiday that evoked images of a sweet baby Jesus, a manger full of fresh-smelling hay, joyful shepherds, a glorious star and a partridge in a pear tree.

The real theological meat was diced at Easter, I believed.  Easter was about blood, death, and victory won only through the harshest pain.  Easter was about sanctification and propitiation and all those other "-ation" words that my pastor is supposed to explain to me.

And so, in my simple little head, Christmas was happy, Easter was hard.  At Christmas, we could just sit back and not think too hard, sip our egg nog, and gaze at our happy little nativity scene in which Mary looks all clean and regal, not like a scared young teenager who just went through labor next to a cow.

That was then.  I've been around the block a few times now.  I don't see Christmas in quite the same way.

I look around and see homeless people and sick children and crooked politicians and hungry nations and angry young people and bitter old people...and I wonder why on earth Someone would leave Perfection for such a dirty old planet as this?

I know we needed a Savior, and desperately, but to choose to come?  To enter humanity at its dirtiest--poor parents in a barn, of all places--to endure the hardest parts of being human with only the promise of the pain of ultimate sacrifice?

Maybe Christmas isn't easy after all.  Maybe it's as gritty and earthy as the darkest moment on the cross. 

But OH, is it ever beautiful.  It's as beautiful as any Easter sunrise, as victorious as a heavy stone pushed away from a tomb.

In one glorious, cosmic, explosive moment, the God of our Universe leapt into our messed-up world.  Victory wrapped in swaddling clothes. 

Hope nursing at His mother's breast. 

Grace in a manger.

This post was originally published on December 20, 2007.

Course Correction

I'm not exactly sure where my Sanity Train left the tracks this month.  But I am, somehow, way off-course.

I generally try to keep my head about me during the holidays.  I try to plan ahead, set aside time for traditions, keep a healthy focus outside of myself. 

Not this year. 

I've been busy to a degree that borders on frantic.  I've been cranky.  Distracted.  Rushed.  My focus has been everywhere except where it should be. 

And I could give you a laundry list of reasons for this, of course: unexpected family events, school musicals, increasing work-load, busy Hubs, and a partridge in a pear tree.

The real reason, I suspect, is a heart that was already too busy and hurried heading into the holiday season.

Last week, I went shopping with my oldest son.  I carried a clipboard, like some scary gym teacher, and I think I may have been muttering under my breath.  At one point, Adam sidled up next to me. 

"Mom," he asked, "is Christmas stressful?"

I looked at him quizzically. 

"I mean," he continued, in a classic example of pre-adolescent understatement, "you've just seemed a little tense lately.  Is Christmas stressful for you?"

I took a deep breath, a breath I should've taken about a month ago. 

No, I told him.  Christmas is not stressful.  Christmas is holy.  People are stressful.  I am stressful.  I take what is lovely and, whether by accident or design, I cover it with expectations and selfishness and over-committment and who knows what else.  What is lovely gets lost.

Well, not really.  It's never lost.  Maybe my line of vision gets skewed.  Maybe my hurried heart falters.  But what is lovely and precious and staggering about this most holy time?  It's still there.  He is still there.  In the manger.  In the heavens.  In my fickle heart.

In the interest of focus-shifting, I'm heading out for a little breather to reflect, quiet down, hug on my kids, and eat lots of stuff that is very bad for me over the next couple of weeks.  For grins, I'll probably run a few things from the archives.  I'll see you back here on Tuesday, January 6.

(OH!  One big exception to this blog break:  I will pop in briefly tomorrow with a hugely fun piece of scoop about The Mother Letter Project.  Seriously, you will not want to miss this fantastic bit of news, AND you'll be able to help with part of the big "reveal".  But then?  Back to the blog break.)

In the meantime, may you find a quiet breather yourself the next two weeks.  May you laugh and rest and worship.  May there be pie in your house, and much of it.  May your kitchen be cleaned by magical elves.  May your days be mer-r-r-r-r-r-r-y and bri-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ight.  And may all your, um, spaniels be shrunken.

Merry Christmas, my friends, and grace and peace to you in the new year.

Jesse Tree *UPDATED*

*{Hey, are you here looking for the scavenger hunt clue?  Scroll on down to the next post...}

I've written before about our Jesse Tree, my family's best-loved Christmas tradition.  I get lots of e-mails and Google searches on the subject year-round, believe it or not, so I thought I'd answer a few of the questions that have come up when I've discussed it in the past.  This has been such a meaningful tradition for our family, and it is not hard to implement--you can make the whole thing as simple or as involved as you'd like. 

What is a Jesse Tree?

It's a way of celebrating the Advent season that addresses, in particular, how the Old Testament stories all pointed to the coming of Christ.

Where does the name come from?

Isaiah 11:1-2

So how does it work?

There are several different versions of the Jesse Tree tradition.  In our family, we begin on December 1.  Each day, we read a different Old Testament story (beginning with creation on December 1 on through the nativity on December 24).  Corresponding to each story is a small ornament, representative of that particular story (here is a more detailed description of our ornament set).  After our brief reading we hang the ornament on a small, two-foot, table-top Christmas tree.  By Christmas Eve, we have a tree full of ornaments!

Where do you get the devotions?

I started with this and have adapted it over the last few years; I simply printed out a hard copy and have put it in a folder.  You will find on-line several different collections of devotionals; many have been written over the years.  Do an Amazon or Google search on Jesse Tree for some ideas. 

**UPDATED TO ADD**  I only just learned this morning that one of my very, very favorite bloggers, Ann Voskamp, has written a Jesse Tree devotional (you can see it here).  And I don't know if you regularly read Ann (you should) but she writes so amazingly that I suspect even her grocery lists are poetic.  Definitely check out this resource!

I'm not crafty.  Is this out of my league?

Not necessarily.  You can keep it pretty simple!  You can buy Jesse Tree kits online if you're pressed for time, but gathering the ornaments myself was part of what made it so meaningful to me.  The website we use offers patterns (found here).  You could use these to cut out ornaments from felt, foam or paper.  I probably did four or five of my ornaments this way.  I also bought several at craft stores (many of them, such as Hobby Lobby, put their ornaments on sale for half off very often, and you can easily get pretty ornaments for a dollar or two each).  I tried to get clever on a few--for example, for the story of the Fall, I found a little plastic apple and glued a plastic snake to it.  For Joseph's "coat of many colors", I found some striped fabric and cut it out in the shape of a coat.  For the devotional about how the prophets told of the coming Messiah, I bought a sparkly key (as in, "the prophets were unlocking the future").  See?  There's no end to how you can put your own interpretation on this.

This has been an incredibly meaningful tradition for our family--these quiet moments in the middle of an otherwise busy season are a treasure.  Does anyone else do this in your own family?  If you have any additional resources you'd like to share, please leave them in the comments section!

One Day At a Time

Every now and then, motherhood serves you up one of those days.  The days that beat you to a pulp--before breakfast.  The days that make you wonder if you should be saving for college....or reform school.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

It was just a really hard week last week.  And I crawled into the weekend, my heart bruised and my spirit a little bloodied.  It wasn't pretty.  I wept, and I doubted, and I was mad at my little Offender who, so help me, still makes my heart sing with his crooked smile.  I lay in my bed and cried, and I begged God for something--anything--to redeem this ugly day we'd had. 

I looked over at my laptop.  My sweet friend Robin had sent me this passage:

1 To you I call, O LORD my Rock;
       do not turn a deaf ear to me.
       For if you remain silent,
       I will be like those who have gone down to the pit.

2 Hear my cry for mercy
       as I call to you for help,
       as I lift up my hands
       toward your Most Holy Place.

4 Repay them for their deeds
       and for their evil work;
       repay them for what their hands have done
       and bring back upon them what they deserve.

6 Praise be to the LORD,
       for he has heard my cry for mercy.

7 The LORD is my strength and my shield;
       my heart trusts in him, and I am helped.
       My heart leaps for joy
       and I will give thanks to him in song.

9 Save your people and bless your inheritance;
       be their shepherd and carry them forever.

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped."  These are just the words of peace I needed to hear.

Also? "Repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve."  If I'm not mistaken, I think that's a Biblical way to say, "I HOPE YOU HAVE A CHILD JUST LIKE YOU SOMEDAY." 

Oh, yes. I'm defininitely feeling better now. 

I'm thinking these thoughts, laughing through my tears, when The Offender comes into my room and hops up in my bed.  He can't sleep.  He tells me what's on his mind, and I listen.  And at one point in our conversation I tell him, "you know, you just can't always trust girls.  Believe me.  I used to be one."

Used to be?

The joke hung in the air for just a minute until it washed over us both.  We laughed together, and he leaned in to nudge me with his shoulder.  I placed my hand on the top of his head.  The rumbles of laughter silenced, and we sat there together, a cheeky pre-teen boy and his over-wrought mother.  It was a good silence, the kind that patches up the holes we'd left in each other's hearts that day.

Thank God for the sweet mercy of taking things one day at a time.

The Boy and the Blindside

I have a guest blogger today!  This post is authored by Gretchen of Lifenut.  She was one of the first blogs I ever read, and she's been one of my favorites ever since.  Gretchen writes with grace and humor about life, loss, and her pancreas.  Not just any blogger could pull that off, you know.

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It was bedtime. Sam, our seven-year-old son, was in his room arranging honored items on the bookshelves next to his bed. His favorite photos, his elephant collection, Lego creations, books---each had to be right before shutting his eyes for the night. In the shuffle, a stack of books toppled. A brochure, which had been tucked in between two books and forgotten, fell to the desk below.

How To Care For Your New Goldfish

A sob erupted from Sam's core without warning.

Two months ago, Sam's goldfish died. The fish was named Juicebox. It was universally agreed that he was a smart fish. The bowl sat on the center of our kitchen table, which is the hub of activity with six small kids in the house. Juicebox witnessed rowdy dinners, donut breakfasts, pumpkin-scooping, and egg coloring. He was with us for nearly nine months. Once, he nearly caught a housefly that foolishly landed on the water's surface. He'd follow objects---our fingers, action figures, bright yarn---swimming after them like an aquakitten of sorts. Juicebox was delightful, which isn't something people normally say about a goldfish.

The kids and I were out of town when Juicebox began to fail. My husband, who stayed behind to work, noticed him laying on his side or swimming upside down. The internet's vast store of information led my husband to a pet store, where he bought fish antibiotics. He administered them faithfully. He cleaned the bowl per strict instructions.

He even prayed, and Juicebox rallied.

When the kids and I returned home, Juicebox seemed spunky. He was swimming upright and eating. We thought the worst had passed.

It was the Sunday after our return. We went to church, then out to run errands and have lunch. I was the first to walk in the door. Juicebox was on the bottom of the bowl, curved like a petal from a large marigold. His gills weren't flowing up and down. I shook the bowl a little. Juicebox was dead.

And Sam, whose responsibility it was to feed him daily, who brought a goldfish into our home on his last day of first grade, who drew pictures of his little mac-n-cheese colored (he once noted) buddy and first pet? His heart broke.

I could see it, having lost the small and helpless from my own body. There was nothing we could do to save Juicebox in the end, even though we tried hard and prayed for our little fishy. His life was out of our hands. Sam sobbed. I cried with him. We talked about what a good fish Juicebox was. I found a small white gift box. He placed Juicebox inside. In the yard, he found a spot for burial, by the back fence next to a young maple tree. My husband dug a deep hole. Sam laid the box inside and said a prayer of thanks for Juicebox. He cried goodbye and ran to his room.

We put the fish supplies away, quietly. They are sitting in the garage on a shelf, above Sam's line of vision. He hadn't mentioned much of Juicebox until the night the brochure fell in front of him.

All of us who have lost someone important know how it is: You travel through your day, not thinking of past sorrows, and suddenly something from the midnight side of blue blindsides. Suddenly, you are thrust back into the pain as if it were fresh. As I sat on his bed rocking him and crying, I told him I knew, I knew. I told him how he was happy in his room, looking at his special things, and then something made him remember Juicebox when he wasn't ready to remember Juicebox.

Yes, that's it, he confirmed. I wasn't ready to think about him.

Memorials are planned. Anniversaries of loss are anticipated. We learn to prepare ourselves for those days, and we get through with prayer and the support of friends. But what do we do when it's a Tuesday night at 8:30 pm and a brochure falls, or it's a Thursday morning and I see something that must have fallen behind the dresser and it's an ultrasound photo from a baby who is a Citizen of Heaven? There is no warning.

So we roll with it because fighting it is futile, on our knees and in each other's arms. As Sam's mom, I knew he'd fall asleep soon. In the morning, he would wake and probably not remember the emotions which battered him to sleep.

But I do.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.   2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Stormy

A couple of nights ago, I was awakened at 2:30 a.m. to the shrill whine of tornado sirens outside my window.  Ah, springtime in Oklahoma.

Giant chunks of hail hit my window, and my daughter came careening down my hall in a fit of fear before I could even sit upright in my bed.  (My boys, incidentally, did not wake up.  I suspect that if the roof lifted off our house and some tree branches reached in and picked the boys up and shook them upside down, they might wake up.  Might.)

As I held my daughter and tried to awaken, I noticed the room was illuminated by the soft glow of our tiny television, and my husband was silhouetted, sitting at the foot of our bed.  His eyes were honed in to a scary-looking radar screen. 

"Shhhh," he whispered.  "Go back to sleep.  I'll keep an eye on things, and I'll wake you up if we need to go to the shelter."

For about 2.4 seconds I considered arguing with him.  Then I looked at my daughter, who had already fallen back asleep in my cushy bed, and I just nodded.  I was horizontal and sound asleep before I could think another thought.

The night dragged on, storms ravaging our city.  I awakened several more times to thunderous, howling noise, but my sleepy eyes always saw, first of all, my husband at the television.  And every time, I relaxed instantly, dropping back to sleep.

The visual image is staying with me powerfully:  my strong husband, quietly yet sharply keeping watch over his family, while the rest of us were sleeping too soundly to know to be thankful.  We just slept, because it's what you do at nighttime, and we left all the safety issues to him. 

And I wonder, as I navigate other kinds of "storms"--will the day ever come when I rest quite as easily in God's watchful care?  His silhouette may not be as visible--to my eyes, anyway--as that of my husband's, but He is surely perched just as soundly at the foot of my bed, on the hood of my car, on the shoulder of my children, on a dusty road in Uganda.  May I trust, and rest.

New Every Morning

Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.  Lamentations 3:22-23

I don't know about you, but tonight I needed to read that.

New every morning.

Every morning.  A new big batch of God's compassions for this messed-up, funky heart of mine. 

I'll sigh, and I'll rest in Him tonight.  And tomorrow I'll start over.

Breathing

There is a pile of grass-stained soccer cleats in the floor of my van.

The leaves we never got around to raking last fall are cheerfully decomposing, revealing their hidden treasures of rusty Hot Wheels cars and Legos underneath.

Strange contraptions are appearing in my backyard, contraptions made of a stick, curling ribbon, a deflated ballon and Scotch tape:

Curious holes appear around my backyard, most likely dug using my good spoons.

My daffodils bashfully reveal their color, while the hyacinths get ready explode right into theirs.

Something in me stretches, and yawns, and breathes deeply.

It must be spring.

Unfogging

I love y'all.  I really do.

The comments you made on my post yesterday (as well as the private e-mails many of you sent) have been a bigger encouragement than I could possibly tell you.  Thank you, thank you.  I urge everyone to read through those comments, when you have time, because there are some seriously wise women out there in bloggy-land.  How'd you get so smart?

The truth is, while there are plenty of foggy, anguished moments like the one I wrote about yesterday, there are some very sweet moments as well, moments in which I feel God bringing some things into beautiful clarity.

My emotional response is to sell everything I own and move to Uganda and disdain America, etc.  The less-glamorous reality is that there really is much I can do here.  I've hesitated to say it, because it kind of sounds like a cop-out--but there is something to be said for the "givers", the people in America whose life situation is such that they can give, and give, and give to those doing the work in the field.  One of the things I most love about Compassion is that they're not an organization of Westerners swooping in to "rescue" the locals.  They're a funding arm that empowers the locals to rescue themselves.  Big difference.

(And by the way, I know my FAQ on Compassion details is long-overdue.  I'm working on it, I promise.)

Furthermore, God offers grace and compassion to wealthy, misguided Americans, too.  Shouldn't I?  The blindness caused by too much stuff can be a very powerful trap (oh-have-mercy, I'm speaking from experience).  African children aren't the only ones who need deliverance--rich people do too.

Still furthermore (I'm on a roll, baby!), I think it's important for us to acknowledge that God is not limited, but we humans are.  My husband and I feel very convicted to determine very specifically what God is calling us to do right now--we want to follow Him with maximum obedience.  But when we're doing that--when we're faithfully obedient to do what He's leading--there is great freedom to rest and live in joy.  There is room to gratefully and humbly laugh with my kids and love on my husband.  Dare I say it?  I think there's even room to enjoy my hot showers and my Sam's Club lasagna and my Lost. 

Reader Sherry shared the most wonderful quote (thank you, Sherry!):

Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who, by the accidents of time, or place, or circumstances, are brought into closer connection with you.

- St. Augustine of Hippo

I have officially gotten off my duff.  I'm not sure yet what my life will look like in six months or ten years, but I know Who does.  Both in the fog and out of it, I'm going to take it a step at a time, knowing that my comfort zone will likely get smashed a few more times. 

Get off your duffs with me, my friends!  You can start right here.  If you haven't stepped outside your comfort zone lately, I'll tell you, the view from here is pretty fine. 

Wonder Woman Is Just a Chick In Tights

I think the "momosphere", as the mom-blogging world is sometimes called, is a lovely place.  It's a fantastic way for women to connect and gain ideas and encouragement.  It's an especially sweet tool for moms of preschoolers.  That is a precious stage of life, but it's an isolating one.  As we peek into each other's homes via our blogs, we get a glimpse of women who are struggling with the same things we are.  We can urge each other on to be better, to try harder, and this is mostly a beautiful thing. 

Mostly.

But I think it can also lead us down the well-traveled road of comparing ourselves to other women.  I've walked that road myself.  A lot.  Considering that each woman is facing unique challenges, unique life situations, unique marriages, unique socio-economic issues, etc., comparing yourself to another woman leads only to heartache and frustration. 

We're not the same.

And the momosphere, for all the good it does, makes it easy to fall into the trap of wondering why we can't do such-and-such the way so-and-so does it.  We peek into each other's homes without knowing the whole story.  Despite how it sometimes feels, reading a woman's blog is NOT an extended look at every detail of her life.  It's a brief glimpse.  Even those of us who value transparency in our blogging couldn't possibly share every detail, every struggle, every sin that sometimes knocks it down.  It wouldn't be practical or wise. 

Take blogging for what it actually is:  a brief glimpse.  Say it again with me: It's just a brief glimpse.  Know that there are factors at play in that blogger's life you will probably never now.  Some have husbands with flexible and helpful schedules, others have husbands who are gone for days or weeks on end.  Some women don't have husbands at all.  Some women have unusually high energy levels, others simply do not (and that's a biggie--don't discount it).  Some women have children in school for hours a day, others are educating their kids themselves.  Some have a great deal of financial freedom, while others are struggling. 

And I do not mean to say that it's acceptable to make excuses for areas where we need to improve.  We should all be seeking excellence in every area of our lives.  But excellence will look different in each woman, based on her own abilities and challenges and calling. 

So if you're reading a blog--any blog--and you're feeling you don't measure up, then pause for a deep breath.  That particular blogger may seem to have the world at her feet, but those feet may be covered in blisters.  Love her, send her your best wishes, and learn what you can from the things she's doing well.  But know that ultimately you are accountable not to the blogosphere, but to the people you love best, and your God. 

What If

I am a fearful person.  I can fake it pretty well, and I act confident much of the time.  I'm usually able to engineer circumstances so I'm taking as little risk as possible.  But at the core of it, I'm a trembly mess.

Add to this an over-active imagination, and you have a recipe for some very vivid, irrational fears.  Think "Ally McBeal", except without the law degree, tiny waist, pouty lips and dancing baby.

Scratch that, I even have the dancing baby.  She's sleeping upstairs in pwincess pajamas.

I've learned to cope with this over the years by verbalizing these fears (usually to Hubs, the poor man), and then I can see how ridiculous they are.  We get a good laugh out of it.

As you might imagine, this Africa trip has kicked my imagination into overdrive. 

What if we're driving toward a village miles across the desert and our jeep breaks down and we're kidnapped by a band of marauders (do they really have bands of marauders these days?) and we're headed to their village but are intercepted by a hungry horde (troop? tribe?) of elephants and I am trampled to death, with my last thoughts being the looks in my children's eyes?

And that's on the good days. 

There are plenty of fantasies involving the plane trip, as well.  I'd rather not even verbalize those, if you don't mind, but they generally involving plunging from the sky in a fiery ball of death toward the Atlantic ocean. 

When I spoke about not being the adventure sort, I wasn't lying.  And I do not mean to make light of Africa or the people that work there, or the people who are facing their mortality in more serious and immediate ways.  I know my fears are silly in the grand scheme of things.  But to me, they're a real stumbling block. 

The other night Hubs and I had a real-live honest-to-goodness date, and it ended where all truly fantastic and passionate dates do:  walking the aisle of Wal Mart Supercenter, hand-in-hand, picking up some Pull-Ups on the way home. 

As we walked through the baby section, we passed the little girls' pajamas.

"See?!" I said suddenly.  "This is what I mean."

"What?" Hubs said.

"If I die in Africa, how will you know that Corrie prefers gowns to pajamas, but it's hard to find gowns anymore, so when you do find one in her size, you need to go ahead and buy it."

I am sure this is a date that will live in his sweetest memories for a long time.

"Well," said my rational man, "first of all, you're not going to die in Africa.  Second of all, if you did, pajamas would be at the bottom of my list of concerns.  And third, ultimately we'd just manage."

"But life would be very, very hard for you, wouldn't it?  You'd barely be able to go on, right?"

"I'd be a shell of a man," he assured me.

I was satisfied for a moment, and we continued our shopping--until something else spurred my thoughts.

"I know I always tease you for watching those survival shows, but what if I get stranded on the plains of Africa and I have to actually implement some of those awful Bear Grylls techniques?  Wouldn't that just be so ironic?"  [Nervous laugh].

In a moment of sudden seriousness he looked me square in the eye.  "If you get stranded on the plains of Africa, I will come for you.  I will find you."

I think I need to go kiss that man again.

The truth is, I know that this trip is not about me--not at all.  It's entirely about those sweet African children, and doing whatever we can to gain more sponsorships to improve their situation. 

But as it often happens, God is using a primary thing to work a secondary purpose in my heart.  It's like he's grabbed my brain and is wringing it until all the fearfulness has bubbled up to the surface.  It's ugly.  It's even funny.  But it's terribly necessary.

Many of you asked how you can pray for us.  Of course, pray for the kids of Uganda, and that hearts all over the place will be opening up to sponsor one.  But if you think of it, pray that this silly housewife will learn a thing or two about stepping out--really stepping out--to trust in God's plan.  Marauders, elephants, and all.

Wherein My Comfort Zone Gets Blown To Smithereens

Hello, Internet.  Welcome to my Comfort Zone.

It's a cushy little place, with soft pillows and high-speed internet access.  The remote control always works, and there is always a Diet Coke from Sonic just around the corner. 

Not too much is expected of me in this Comfort Zone.  I know my way around quite well--I've spent most of my life here, in fact.  No mosquito netting is required, no special immunizations are needed, and for the love of Pete, no children are ever hungry.  Or orphaned.  Or afraid.

And so it was, a couple of months ago, that I was having a fairly leisurely morning in my Comfort Zone, checking my e-mail, munching my breakfast and listening to some cable news.  A nice and cushy and comfy morning.  Just like always.

And then a little e-mail popped up on my screen.  It was from Compassion International, the highly-regarded relief agency that works all over the world.  I'd known of them for years.  We'd even been planning for a few months to sponsor a Compassion child--we just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

But they weren't asking me to sponsor a child.

They were asking me to go to Africa.

They're taking a team of bloggers to Uganda for ten days in February, to live-blog the relief efforts going on over there.  And would I like to go?

Oh-how-kind-of-you-to-ask-there's-absolutely-no-way-I-have-four-kids-but-thanks-anyway.

I forwarded the e-mail to Hubs.  My solid, logical, ever-rational Hubs, who never makes an emotional or impulsive decision.  I just knew he'd agree with my assessment that this was a huge impossibility.

Except that the minute he got my e-mail, he called me from his office.  "I think you should go," he said immediately.

Um-yes-excuse-me-did-you-know-there-are-lions-there-and-you-have-to-fly-a-very-very-very-long-time-over-an-ocean-or-two?

"Yes," he said, "and I think you should go.  Let's talk about it tonight."

I wrote back the Compassion folks and told them their offer was very kind, and I'd need to pray about it and talk with my husband. 

But instead, I started making a list of all the reasons this wouldn't work.  And there were a lot of reasons.  I'm a mother of four kids, for Heaven's sake--who on earth would check their backpacks if I went trotting across the globe?  And I'm terrified beyond words of flying, even going just a couple of states away.  Flying across the ocean?  Alone?  And I know there are many, many people doing very heroic and brave work in Africa MUCH more demanding than what I was being asked to do, but I am not at all one of those heroic and brave and adventure types.  Not at all.  And did I mention there are lions?  And airplanes?  And that the only international travel I've ever done was going to Cancun and staying across the street from a PLANET HOLLYWOOD?

I did actually pray about it, and a surprising thing happened.  All the reasons I couldn't do this began to fall away one at a time.  Friends and family eagerly lined up to help with kids and logistics.  It turned out I wouldn't be going alone--Sophie was going too, and she promised to faithfully coach me through the bazillion hours on the airplane.  The passport and immunization stuff was do-able.  The reasons not to go kept falling away until there weren't any left. 

Well, there was one left.  It was the one that had been there, sitting beside me in my Comfort Zone for a really long time. 

I'm not sure I want to be changed that much. 

My well-intentioned ideas about sacrifice and making a difference are well and good, but those things are easy to say sitting in your carpeted, air-conditioned living room with your well-fed children.  I'd be going to Africa specifically to see the vast and overwhelming need there, so that I could in turn write about it.  We'd be going out into the villages, and the hospitals, and the orphanages.

A person doesn't see something like that and just stay the same. 

To make a very long story (sort of) short, the last two months have been a time of wrestling with some ugliness in my own heart, not wanting to admit how dependent I am on being surrounded by loveliness and convenience.  And let's just say it:  I'm afraid.  I'm afraid to fly, I'm afraid to be away from my family that long, and most of all, I'm afraid to see the kind of suffering I'm going to see.  And while I've come face-to-face with a whole heap of my own fear and selfishness, I've seen more of God's grace than I ever have before.  He's already used this whole experience to turn my heart upside down.

And I haven't even gone yet.

So yes, I'm going.  The passport is on my kitchen counter, and the immunizations are scheduled for later in the week.  I'm hammering away at all the logistics, and I plan to be taking you all with me every step of the way.  I'm excited and nervous and terrified and humbled and--dare I say it?--ready to be changed.