When You Can't Be Good Enough

While I know that there are people out there who don't like me, it's always jarring to have them confront me to my face. Knowing and hearing are two different things. So recently, reading a negative response to my story, was a bit like an electric jolt to my ego. Or maybe the opposite of an electric jolt. Perhaps something like biting into an apple only to find that it's rotten. Something a lot like that.

I processed as this reader complained. That it was all ridiculous, berating me for not leaving my pants at my ankles and accepting the shame. And I wish I could tell you it didn't eat me up right away. And they asked, How can we sugar coat this and say it's encouraging? They asked — how can Christians keep doing stuff like this?

I rolled my eyes. And then I cried. And then I got angry before chewing on the words, and spitting them out because most of them were garbage and something was missing. I rambled about this to a friend and she said, "I wish you could tell them about where you were in life and WHY it happened," and though my friend meant well, I didn't want to defend myself. 

Defending myself does nothing, I say. How do I show this person the Gospel? Because I could ignore this, and maybe that's the best response. Let it go and move on because where there's one, there a hundred others, and no one likes poking an ant's nest.

But in starting to ignore it, I felt like maybe I had one chance to say just one thing, and then next time, I'll ignore it. Maybe I won't even finish reading the comment at all next time.

So here's what I'd want to say to that reader:

Dear stranger, 

Hi. I don't know you. Or maybe I do. Maybe I see you every Sunday and we exchange casual greetings. Maybe you're thousands of miles away and only know me through these black and white letters on a screen. Maybe we'd enjoy a meal of bread and wine together and laugh about the same jokes and cry over the same movies.

So, hello.

I'm so sorry that you are disappointed in Christians. In me. In the whole mess of the world that keeps happening and keeps turning and keeps falling apart all over again.

Can I just bend your ear for a moment, and ask if perhaps you missed something in my story? 

I'm not trying to sugar coat what I've done in my life. But I will say this — I've learned the Gospel and message of Jesus Christ is not for the people who figure out how to get it all together. The message of the Cross isn't that we finally got our lives in order and we're not all a total mess anymore. The message of the Cross is sweet to our bitter souls, and that's the only sugarcoating that's happening here.

Jesus came for the people who can't get it together. For the people who keep disappointing people. For the people who are caught with their pants down and dragged into the streets. We are the sick ones. We are the prodigals. We are the Israelites wandering and complaining, doubting and hoarding what's not ours to keep.

I don't wish to sugar coat anything. But instead, wish to point you to the sweet message of the Gospel. That is the only sugarcoating I provide. That over all of this rotten aftertaste, Jesus still chose to love us and die for us. Even the Bible says that "God demonstrates His love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." While adulterers are unzipping their pants, and addicts are tying the tourniquets, while the trigger is pulled or the words are thrown like darts into the heart of another person, and while we idolize our belongings and gorge on our feasting tables while thousands die every day from disease, malnutrition and abandonment, he STILL chose to love and die. STILL. EVEN THEN.

Believers will let you down. Every single day until we're home in Heaven, we are all works in progress. Sanctification is both done and in progress. We are a holy and chosen people, and still a people who are desperately hoping today will be the day that we get it through our thick skin and hardened hearts that we are saved from it all, and will finally walk in full freedom.

Jesus wouldn't be our physician if it didn't mean we were fatally sick. Last I checked, I'm not healthy. My only hope is Jesus. My only hope is that He died for me before I even knew that death was my penalty.

We are throwing ourselves at the mercy of the Cross, and putting faith in the work of Christ. Not our own works. Not our ability to say the right words, or even to make it all right in the end. Not our ability to understand and explain, or reason our way out of all of our bad decisions. I sin because I am a sinner, and there is no sugarcoating that. To expect anything different from me or my actions is a work of faith. If any good comes out of me, it's because something in me is miraculously not blackening or spoiling in the heat of separation in this world. Anything good in me is a work of the cross. 

So dear friend, who I may or may not know, the next time you're disappointed by someone in the faith, remember that they are an example of why ultimately the saving work of grace is so amazing. 

Mind vs. Body, Episode 1

If you have ever tried to lose weight, or have successfully lost weight, or maybe even just tried taking your body under control…. this is for you.

I am 5 months into this weight loss journey, with almost 35 lbs gone and behind me and not to be found again. As someone once said, "Lost weight? No no. I'm getting rid of it. I don't intend on finding it again."

But I wanted to give you an honest review of what these five months have been like. Now, I have to tell you, most of my journey so far has been an internal epic throw down battle argument conversation between my mind and my body. The two don't always agree. 

So here's how it went down.

Pre-week one: Sister calls excitedly, announces she's joined a national weight loss program and that "Hey! You should try it too!" 

Mind: Huh, maybe we should.

Body: It's a scam. Eat your donut.

Three weeks later sister calls again. "I've lost 8lbs!"

Mind: Well, huh.

Body: Oh no.

I drop my morning croissant and say, "Oh. That's awesome. Ok…Ok that's awesome." And then quietly go sign up for said weight loss program.

Day one:

Mind: We can do this.

Body: This is dumb. Give me my chocolate covered pretzels.

Day two:

Mind: Ok, this is annoying. Give me more fruit because they're zero points which means GIVE ME THE WHOLE BOWL.

Body: See? Told you. This is dumb. You can't do it.

Day 7: 2 lbs lost.

Mind: LOOK!

Body: Yeah, ok. That's kinda cool.

Three weeks later:

Mind: I can't believe this is working!

Body: I can't believe this is working!

Two months later:

Mind: SERIOUSLY. Can't believe this is working.

Body: OMG we're such a team! Go us!

Two months later + a day: Run into a friend at a school event. She says, "Gosh, you'd be so pretty if you were skinny."

Mind: Push her into the pool.

Body: "Well,… you… your face would be pretty if it wasn't so ugly."

Three months later: Someone notices and says something about how I'm losing weight.

Mind: SEE?! It IS working. We're winners! We're on top of a mountain! We can do anything!

Body: I guess. You're annoying me though. 

Four months later, now 30 lbs lost: 

Mind: Ok body, we're gonna have to get over this plateau. It's time to kick some things in gear.

Body: I don't like the tone of your voice.

Four months + a day:

Mind: We're gonna run!

Body: I hate you.

Four months + a day + 15 minutes of running:

Mind: I hate you.

Body: The feeling is mutual.

Four months + a week:

Mind: Yay running! Look at us go!

Body: Your knee hurts. Or is it your hip? Or your feet? All of them. They all hurt.

Five months:

Mind: Listen body, the only way this is gonna work from here on out is if we work together. We're running. And then we're doing that insane 100 jumping jacks, russian twists, side lunges thing. And then I'm going to give you lots of water! And we'll be able to wear a new dress size soon!

Body: I still think this is dumb. Also, you lost me at "work".

Five months + a day:

Mind: See? We can run! We're fine!

Body: You just inhaled a fly.

Five months + two days:

Mind: Feel those muscles? Isn't that awesome?!

Body: Care to go up stairs and get me something? Oh you can't move?! HOW AWESOME IS THAT.

Five months + three days:

Mind: 100 jumping jacks!
Body: Your pants are falling off of us every time you jump. You're embarrassing me. Plus, I'm pretty sure the neighbors are watching.

Five months + two weeks:

Mind: Hey look, three more pounds lost.

Body: I think you're on to something.

I'm hoping at some point these two get on the same page. But until then, I am always mediating this conversation. So if you're wondering if the process is easy, I would argue that YES it is easy, and NO it is all hard work. 

I guess it depends on who you're talking to. 

Remember the Magic

My sister was engaged on Christmas Eve when I was 8 years old. We lived in a small, mountain country town in upstate NY and every Christmas Eve, a small group of us rode around in a tractor-driven hay wagon, singing Christmas carols to each lit-up house on the tiny four streets through the village. Festive church members would bundle close under wool blankets, all of us kids bounced wildly with Christmas anticipation, and the joy of the occasion fell gently with each quietly sung line of Silent Night.

I didn't know my brother-in-law was proposing. Of course, no one told me. I was 8, a chatterbox and already a romantic. The secret would not have been safe. I remember it was snowing. At least, that's what my memory has done to it. Snow falling as he stood in the center of the hay wagon, a 19 year old nervous boy proclaiming something about Proverbs, choosing a wife, and bumbling his way through a poetic proposal, to which my sister cried and said a thrilled yes. 

It was magic.

Pure magic.

----

I have a friend who jokingly says (though half the time I'm prone to think that under all that joking is a serious point) that every time someone takes out their phone to Instagram something, they're stealing the soul of the moment. Last year, a bunch of us sat lakeside and sang songs with guitars and banjos. Someone slipped out their camera and he whispered, "They're stealing the soul." A few of us went camping recently and I pulled out my phone to 'gram the occasion, and he said it again. Some moments shouldn't be photographed, he says. Then says he's joking. 

But I think maybe he's right. 

Maybe we're stealing the soul from things.

Maybe we're stealing the magic.

-----

I saw this article today — Bestagram: See photos capturing the single greatest moment of people's lives — and it's beautiful, really. Last photos of lives shared, triumphant moments of overcoming difficulties, Paris proposals…you get the idea. Sometimes I wonder though, are we stealing the magic? Am I? I know a gazillion posts get passed around the internet these days about what you should and shouldn't instagram, what Facebook is for, how we're all oversharing, and how we should all feel guilty about it. (Maybe not that last one, but that's usually my takeaway.)

I love sharing online. I love photographing every stupid little thing. For each photo I post on Instagram, there are probably 10 sitting in my photo library that I chose not to post. 

But then I went camping last weekend. As we drove into the heart of the Adirondacks, my signal went from 5 bars to 2 bars to a relentless "searching…". At&t couldn't be my best friend up in those treetops, and suddenly my phone was a useless piece of metal, plastic and glass. I snapped photos but most of the time, kept it tucked away in my pocket, or under the dirt-covered flannel in my pack.

And instead of trying to capture everything for a bestagram, we just lived. We hiked, camped, cooked food over campfires, told stories, played music, and 90% of it didn't end up on my iPhone. You know what I realized? It wasn't any less awesome. 

And in my memory, it now is 100% more magical.

----

I am an idealist. A romantic. I like good stories, sifted memories and beauty. I will remember proposals with snow because I have no proof otherwise. I will remember staring at the stars by campfire with the smell of pipe smoke swirling around us while music played quietly in the background because I have no other record to tell me otherwise. My memory is my greatest keepsake, and let me tell you, it's all beautiful.

Sometimes I wonder if we're stealing the soul. What if a memory is only made better because we can't remember everything? What if the memory is better because you remember your single most important life moment in rose-hues, when the reality is... some guy was smoking a cigarette, photo-bombing your single greatest moment.

----

Tonight, friends are coming for a backyard fire. I will probably take out my phone. I won't feel guilty about it. But there's a good chance that the next time I feel the magic stirring, I might put it away. Turn it off. Set it in airplane mode. Force myself to capture only a memory.

And then remember it with magic.

The Quietness, Rumi and a Stack of Books

Last night, I lit candles in my room, shut the door and grabbed the stack of books I am working through. Madeleine decided to pass out from exhaustion at 6 p.m. (because, we all know, being 4 is exhausting). I had a sudden wide open evening. A movie watched. Evening chores finished. A white blanket tucked into the hardwood sleigh bed frame was a retreat. So the books sat, each tucked with a bookmark made from scraps of paper or drawings that my daughter delivers to me all day long. Each partially read, half-consumed, some underlined, some dog-eared, maybe one uncracked completely.

How the Irish Saved Civilization
Till We Have Faces
The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats
East of Eden
The Essential Rumi

Poetry falls into my lap often lately and I don't deny it. I don't find it boring or plotless, rather it seems to help me tell the story of my own life when I seem to have lost all of the words.

I feel poetry in the mountainside and in the ice cold swimming hole water. I feel it in silent gaps of conversation, in pine cones ripped apart in our hands, in stars that hang low by quiet summer campfires.

So I work my way through each, tiny morsels of words and stories, all one giant narrative somehow interconnected in my head. This morning, I'm cracking open Rumi again. Whether he meant to or not, Rumi had a grasp on Grace and in this poem, I see grace and mercy and a reminder that "Quietness is the surest sign that you've died." I am prone to try and make myself better, and sometimes I hear the Spirit close, saying: "Be quiet. Let your old self die. Let her go. She is exhausting you with perfectionism, judgement, lists of un-met expectations and mental thrashings. She is frantically running. You have no business associating with her anymore." And by the end, I am humming Sara Groves' "You are the Sun". Taking some kind of comfort in acknowledging that I am the moon with no light of my own. Still You have made me to shine.

 

Quietness by Rumi
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now.

My daughter is awake by sunrise. The quiet space of my bed and stack of books tumbled into some half-open by my pillow, some on the floor, and a four-year-old suddenly appearing at my side, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I want to flip the script, I think. I want us to be born into color daily, swinging in hammocks and resting under stars, climbing mountains and understanding more about how small we are in the beautiful and breathtaking grand scheme of things.

The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece
of straw
blown off into emptiness.
—Rumi

A Bedtime Letter to Madeleine

Kiddo,

Tonight, as I looked over at my bedside stand, I realized that it's lacking the usual parenting books that most recommend. My side table is not topped with stacks of parenting advice, surviving the little years, or anything like that.

My bedside is still poetry and fairytales. When I lay down to sleep, I feel not all unlike you.

I am full of prayers and questions and things unfinished for the day. I am a mix of kicking off blankets, asking for water and wondering why we actually pray.

Tonight you asked me why we pray before bed.

Part of me wanted to say "I don't know" because it seems like some of our prayers go unnoticed these days.

But I don't say this to you. Instead, tonight I tuck the blanket tightly around you and say that we end our day looking to the one who created us,

"He created you," I say and you smile big. "He created your hands," and I grab them in mine. "And your perfect nose," and I squeeze it once as you laugh.

"And he finished making you said, 'Wow, she's beautiful"..."

"Just as I am?" you ask.

I nod, "Just as you are."

"Wow mom." Your head goes into the pillow as you take this in.

I tell you that's why we pray. To remind ourselves that we need the God who created us to also be with us in every step. In the beginnings and in the ends. We can't do any of this life without Him, even when we think we're doing it without Him.

It is a suitable answer for you. You ask me for water one more time, and explain how that last sip is the one that really puts you at ease. I reach for the glass because I know this is true. Water is your nighttime cure. It settles you and somehow tells your body, rest now, the day is over, what's done is done. 

You are long asleep as I climb into my own bed. I looked at you once to see your perfectly formed nose nuzzled into your favorite blanket. Tonight I am not reading the 10 Steps to Training a Child. I am laying back, looking to the One who is our beginning and end and giving quiet thanks. For you, for this day. I ask and pray and surrender and rest.

I am not that unlike you my dear. I am still a child in so many ways.

My head is full of questions. My heart is full of poetry and fairytales. And I am thirsty for water.