Sweatpant Friends

April 30, 2013

Sweatpant Friends

I was given an unspeakable gift last weekend: the gift of sweatpant friends.

We women, we feel almost constant pressure to put forth our best self…to coordinate the outfit and gloss the lips and fix the hair and don the stylish (i.e., uncomfortable) shoes. All so we can look like we have it all together, that we ourselves are all together.

But last weekend eight of us girls who have been friends since the days of Jars of Clay and bad perms got together and spent a few days in the rarest of settings—a safe haven where we could be our unvarnished, un-makeup-ed, sweatpanted selves.

It’s been almost fifteen years since we were all in the same place together, and honestly I wasn’t sure how things would fall into place. Would it work to have eight women accustomed to having our own nests all together under the same roof? Would things get cliquey or competitive or catty? Would we still find common ground all these years later?

There were a thousand reasons not to do it—the cost, the travel arrangements, the logistics, the potential awkwardness. Not to mention the 14 collective children we have as a group, plus one on the way. Was it worth all the effort?

I credit our loyal, creative teacher-friend for setting the tone in the first place: You all don’t mind if I wear sweatpants all weekend, right?

And from that moment, the stage was set for things to be real, authentic, vulnerable. In a word: imperfect. Just like our cottage.

With its turquoise and canary-yellow walls, adorned with mismatched bits of Americana, the quirky rental felt like a metaphor in itself. The kitchen sloped down on one side; the wood floors let out contented groans every time we took a step. The gaps around the window frames and the door ushered howly gusts of wind and sand into the otherwise cozy living room.

But something about it felt just right. Community, after all, isn’t about creating something pristine, seamless, perfectly composed. The beauty of community comes when we bring together the mismatched pieces in a delightfully quirky collage. As the eight of us sat in our mismatched chairs, sipping hot chocolate and pouring out the past decade of our lives to one another, our words tumbled out much like our attire: real, raw, unpolished.

I know it’s unrealistic to live in beach-cottage world all the time, but still I wonder: How can I keep this sense of community even when my old friends are miles away? And how can I turn new friends and acquaintances into sweatpant friends?

I’m not quite sure, but I offer you the same challenge I pose to myself:

Reach out.

Take a risk.

Embrace the messiness of real friendship.

Find someone with whom you can ditch your makeup and your put-togetherness.

And by all means, if you don’t have a sweatpants-level friend, do whatever it takes to become one.

Friendship arises…when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till that moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one.” . . . It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision—it is then that friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.

—C. S. Lewis

April 26, 2013

The Floodwaters Are Up to My Neck

A state of emergency was declared for my area last week after what can only be described as biblical levels of flooding. The wise among us sought higher ground; the wiser stayed home to bail out basements; the wisest started constructing an ark.

And me? I went to work.

You’d think I would have turned back when I saw all the cars stalled on the side of the road or when I encountered puddles the size of Lake Michigan. But no, I was determined to get to the office, even if it meant I’d have to swim there.

When I finally arrived, after countless detours and some heroic efforts on the part of my little car, I was dismayed to find the parking lot impassable. That would have been another prime opportunity to turn back, but I doggedly pressed on. After parking on an elevated side street, I grabbed my coffee and umbrella and traipsed through the wet slop in my heels.

Everything was going swimmingly, so to speak, until I got to the raging river I had to cross to make it to the entrance. I did my best to calculate the jump but failed to take into account the fact that the ground was roughly the consistency of maple syrup. As soon as I hit the other side, I heard it before I felt it: slurp! Sure enough, my entire foot, heel and all, had been sucked underground. I tried to steady myself, and slurp!—the other foot surrendered to the mud.

I finally got inside, tights dripping and shoes full of sludge. How was I going to make it through the day with sopping feet? That’s when my stroke of genius hit: The hand dryer! After twenty minutes of standing in the restroom on alternating feet, my shoes finally stopped making gurgling noises each time I took a step.

Then, just as I exited the restroom, I heard the announcement: “Our office will be closed today. Please leave now to ensure you will be able to get your car out.”

And so it was time to turn around and cross the temporary creek again.

I found the whole escapade entertaining since the damage for me was limited to my pride and a pair of tights. But as I started getting calls from friends and family and hearing news reports about the wreckage people had sustained, the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

flood2

And so it is with the personal floods we face—the loss of a job, the severing of a relationship, the chokehold of grief, the dailyness of life. The floodwaters creep higher and higher, and we feel certain they’re going to pull us under. And even worse, God seems to stand far off in the distance, sending no rescue boat our way.

The psalmist David knew firsthand how lonely that drowning sensation can feel. Here’s the prayer he offered in the midst of his own flood:

Save me, O God,

for the floodwaters are up to my neck.

Deeper and deeper I sink into the mire;

I can’t find a foothold.

I am in deep water,

and the floods overwhelm me. . . .

Rescue me from the mud;

don’t let me sink any deeper!

Save me from those who hate me,

and pull me from these deep waters.

Don’t let the floods overwhelm me,

or the deep waters swallow me.

—Psalm 69:1-2, 15

Even if our floodwaters recede and the immediate crisis passes, it’s not over. There’s still the muddy aftermath to deal with—bailing out the basement, evaluating the damage, determining if anything can be salvaged, beginning the tedious cleanup process.

Sometimes it just feels like too much.

In those post-flood moments, we have a choice.

Will we give up and sink into the mire?

Or will trust that God will rescue us, even when no rescue is in sight?

Answer my prayers, O Lord,

for your unfailing love is wonderful.

Take care of me,

for your mercy is so plentiful.

—Psalm 69:16

If you find the floodwaters swirling around your neck today, take heart. God will take care of you; he will show you his unfailing love. And when you are stuck in the basement of life, dealing with the flood’s messy aftermath, may you discover his mercy among the ruins.

April 23, 2013

Saying Goodbye

We weren’t made to say goodbye.

Goodbye always comes like a thief…unexpected, startling, jarring. And too soon. Always too soon.

Even when we know it’s coming, there’s no real way to be prepared.

I think of my friend Sarah, whose dad is too young to have cancer. She was just there for Christmas, and he was his usual cheerful self, playing endless games of pretend with his grandkids, fixing things around the house, eating his trademark bologna sandwich. She’s not ready to say goodbye.

I think of the parents in Newtown who sent their children off to school one December morning, with no way of knowing it would be the last hug, the last wave, the last goodbye.

I think of the city of Boston, all abuzz with the spirit of friendly competition earlier last week, never dreaming it would be a day for goodbyes.

I’m not typically someone who shirks reality, but lately I find myself flipping channels when the news comes on, skipping over the bad news stories, closing my ears to yet another tale of premature goodbyes.

It isn’t supposed to be this way. We weren’t made for goodbyes.

***

Over Easter my extended family made a road trip out east to see my brother and his family—a rare treat for all of us to be happily sardined in one place. When it was time to leave, we went through the long, ceremonial goodbyes, offering hugs and inside jokes and recaps of the trip and promises to get together again soon.

Then it came time for my mom to say goodbye to four-year-old Lyla, her only granddaughter. Mom stretched out her arms and wrapped the girl, pajamas and all, in one of those all-encompassing hugs only a grandma can pull off. I didn’t have to look at her face to know she was crying.

Lyla pulled back and looked intently into her grandma’s face.

“Grandma,” she said, her tone somber, grown-up. “I can make you cry.”

“You sure can!” My mom smiled at Lyla through her tears.

Without missing a beat, Lyla delivered her line: “Knock-knock.”

Mom looked surprised but played along. “Who’s there?”

“Boo.” A smug grin crept onto Lyla’s face.

“Boo who?”

With that, Lyla threw her arms around Grandma and giggled. The laughter was infectious, and before long, all of us were giggling like little girls.

It felt biblical, in a way. Tears into laughter. Mourning into joy.

Weeping may last through the night,

but joy comes with the morning.

—Psalm 30:5

***

I have no words to make sense of senseless tragedy or to explain when people have to say goodbye before their time.

But I do know that we were made for a different world. A world where there’s no crying or death or sorrow or pain. A world where, overnight, weeping morphs into joy.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.

—Revelation 21:4

Come, Lord Jesus.

Why love if losing hurts so much? We love to know that we are not alone.

—C. S. Lewis

April 16, 2013

Do One Thing

Last weekend Daniel and I volunteered to help man the booth for His Wheels International at WBEZ’s sixth annual Global Activism Expo.

Seizing a few moments of downtime, I walked around the huge convention room and scoped out almost 100 organizations that are committed to assisting developing countries around the world—from Congo to Haiti to Afghanistan.

As I wove my way through the booths, I heard story after heartbreaking story of poverty and malnourishment, of mothers who died from simple birthing complications, of children whose lives were cut short because they lacked clean water, of people who hiked for days to reach the nearest hospital, with no guarantee that once they got there they’d get the care they needed.

I was barely halfway around the room before I found myself going into overload mode. So many needs. So many good causes. So many worthy organizations. Where to begin?

After lunch, as I made my way through the room a second time, I was struck by something I hadn’t noticed the first time around. The handmade wares that were being sold, crafted by individuals from various poverty-stricken areas, all had a common thread: resourcefulness.

I saw…

purses made by Cambodian women out of leftover fish nets
medical supplies donated by hospitals that otherwise would dump them into landfills
solar-powered ovens fueled by the sun and “paper charcoal” (basically bricks of recycled newspaper)
scarves made from material scraps, woven together in beautiful rainbows of color

These people didn’t have much, but they were creative with what they had in excess.

It struck me that although I’m just an average person in an average community, these artisans would think I’m sitting on a goldmine. How many resources do I have right under my nose that I don’t even consider resources, if I notice them at all?

When I look through the eyes of resourcefulness, though, I can see that I’ve been given much by a much-giving God. And he charges me to share the much I have.

When someone has been given much, much will be required in return; and when someone has been entrusted with much, even more will be required.

—Luke 12:48

That sounded good, but as I looked around the room, I felt kind of panicky. Where, oh where, to begin? Then this thought hit me with all the force of a dodgeball to the gut: I don’t have to do everything, but I can do one thing.

So perhaps the place for me to begin is the same place as these whose handiwork I was admiring: What do I have in excess?

And now I pose the same question to you: What has God given generously to you? An excess of time? Creative ideas? Business savvy? Technical skills? Money? Extra rooms in your house? Love?

Don’t try to do everything. But do one thing.

***

{Not sure where to start? Here are some organizations my husband and I support that you might want to check out.}

Casa Viva

Medical Teams International

ServantWorks

Women at Risk

World Vision

His Wheels International

April 9, 2013

Sweet Sundays, Part 3

For the first time this Easter, it struck me just how many key events of the Christian faith are crammed in the span of a single week.

Holy Week starts with a bang on Palm Sunday, replete with a triumphal entry and jubilant hosannas. The next few days are filled with action—tables are turned, miracles are witnessed, final teachings are delivered.

Then comes Maundy Thursday in all its drama…a foot washing, a supper steeped in meaning, a wrenching betrayal, prayers of agony in a garden.

Close on its heels is Good Friday, with the dark march toward Golgotha, nails pounded into flesh, the rending of a curtain.

Then, after a whirlwind of a week, Saturday comes. And with it…silence.

At the close of Salvation Week, as with Creation Week, God rested.

It is finished.

No more striving.

No more scurrying.

No more trying.

It is finished.

Even in the busiest week of the church calendar, Jesus took a day of rest.

There was nothing more he could do to add to the completed work of grace on that silent Saturday. So I wonder…what kind of audacity leads me to think there’s more I must do?

Let us rest in the completeness of that perfect day of rest.

It is finished.

{For more on my Sabbath musings, see this post and this post.}

April 5, 2013

April Book of the Month Club

Congratulations to Jolyn, who won the free book giveaway for March!

And now, the book of the month for April…The Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans.

Here’s the description of the book from the author’s website:

Strong-willed and independent, Rachel Held Evans couldn’t sew a button on a blouse before she embarked on a radical life experiment—a year of biblical womanhood.

Intrigued by the traditionalist resurgence that led many of her friends to abandon their careers to assume traditional gender roles in the home, Evans decides to try it for herself, vowing to take all of the Bible’s instructions for women as literally as possible for a year. Pursuing a different virtue each month, Evans learns the hard way that her quest for biblical womanhood requires more than a “gentle and quiet spirit” (1 Peter 3:4).

It means growing out her hair, making her own clothes, covering her head, obeying her husband, rising before dawn, abstaining from gossip, remaining silent in church, and even camping out in the front yard during her period. With just the right mixture of humor and insight, compassion and incredulity, A Year of Biblical Womanhood is an exercise in scriptural exploration and spiritual contemplation.

What does God truly expect of women, and is there really a prescription for biblical womanhood? Come along with Evans as she looks for answers in the rich heritage of biblical heroines, models of grace, and all-around women of valor.

We’ll be discussing the book at the end of April (and again, there will be a free book giveaway for one lucky commenter). Please join us!

March 26, 2013

Women of Valor

I don’t know about you, but every time I read Proverbs 31, I feel tired. Maybe a little incredulous too (Seriously? This woman wakes up early, stays up late, weaves blankets, cooks, works outside the home, helps the needy, makes savvy business deals, wears a purple dress she made herself, and then probably posts it all on Pinterest? Who is this woman?).

Mostly, though, I just feel weary. And then I skip over to the next book in the Bible (Ecclesiastes) to remind myself that everything is meaningless anyway.

But I’m currently reading The Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans, and she has given me a new perspective on the Proverbs 31 woman.

Apparently this chapter was written as an acrostic poem, intended as an ode to honor women, not a bunch of to-dos. In Jewish culture, this wasn’t a checklist for women to strive for; instead, men praised women with the phrase “Eshet Chayil” (“Woman of Valor”), taken from the first line of the poem.

In other words, this depiction isn’t intended to describe one woman, and it certainly isn’t meant to capture a single day of her life. Rather, it’s a shout-out to all women.

So today I want to take a moment to acknowledge all of you women of valor out there. I see you, and I honor you.

You give of yourself—your talents, your time, your tears—and usually do it without getting much thanks. Eshet Chayil!

You wipe bottoms and blow noses and get up in the middle of the night. Eshet Chayil!

You work inside your home and outside your home, in your career and in your kitchen and in your relationships, and my guess is that you’re tired. Eshet Chayil!

You are fierce in your love, zealous in your protection, tenacious in your prayers. Eshet Chayil!

You hug well, you comfort well, you bring life and goodness and joy. Eshet Chayil!

You don’t know it, but you shine. So here’s to you, you Woman of Valor! Eshet Chayil!

***

P.S. A special Eshet Chayil to my mom, Cindy, who just celebrated her birthday. Mom, you showed me when to stand up for myself and when to stay on my knees. You showed me how to how to make homemade snickerdoodle cookies and when to rip open a box of Keeblers. You taught me that sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. You showed me how to follow through, how to clean an oven, how to knit a family together, how to giggle on waterslides, and how to fall in love with God’s Word. No woman fulfills the entire Proverbs 31 picture, but I have to say that you come pretty close. Happy Birthday, Mom of Valor!

March 19, 2013

God as a Runner

One of the highlights of my week occurs at 9:02 each Sunday morning. That’s the moment five-year-old Grace gets to church, and before she even gets her coat off, she comes barreling down the aisle to throw her arms around Daniel and me. She squeals with delight the moment she spots us (most likely because she knows Daniel has some antic up his sleeve to make her laugh), and then she’s heading toward us in an all-out sprint, pink dress flying behind her.

There is something breathtaking about the love of a child—unchecked, unbridled, unselfconscious as it is. At five, Grace doesn’t know to be jaded or cynical; she’s never had her heart broken; she doesn’t love as a means to an end. She just extends loves with the openhearted generosity of a child.

“You know, I feel bad sometimes that Grace shows us so much love,” Daniel told me one Sunday as we headed home from church.

I shot him a sideways glance, utterly befuddled. “What?”

“Well, it’s just that we haven’t done anything to deserve her love.”

My initial thought was to list off all of Daniel’s qualities that endear him to every child he meets—his goofy sense of humor, his knack for asking good questions, his way of making people feel special and dignifying their feelings. But then it hit me: ultimately he’s right. We don’t deserve that kind of love.

Eventually a smile crept across my face. “I guess she’s pretty well named, huh?”

God’s grace in the form of a sprinting five-year-old.

***

The Bible depicts God with a number of metaphors that speak to his reverence and majesty: he is a just judge, a consuming fire, a sovereign King. But what a shock to see the one true God—whose holiness can’t be contained within the walls of even the most extravagant Temple—pictured as a father who loves his wayward child so much he literally runs to him.

While [his son] was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him.

—Luke 15:20

That image of a father running to a prodigal would be stunning enough on its own (see more in this post). But given the cultural context Jesus was speaking into, it’s even more breathtaking. As one Bible commentator puts it, the father’s action “breaks all Middle Eastern protocol; no father would greet a rebellious son this way.” It would have been degrading to his position, a blow to his pride, yet the father “drapes himself on his son’s neck,” as the Greek text is literally rendered. In other words, God is willing to make a fool of himself to show us his love.

Allow yourself to picture it now: our God as a runner.

He is running toward you, even now.

Will you let him throw his arms around you—those everlasting arms of grace?

March 12, 2013

What Do You Want?

It’s the kind of question I might expect at the McDonald’s drive-through, but not from God himself:

What do you want?

According to Scripture, however, God is quoted as saying exactly that—once in the Old Testament and in one scene in the New Testament.

When Solomon became king, the Lord appeared to him in a dream and asked him a single question:

“What do you want?”

—1 Kings 3:5

When Jesus met a blind man begging along on the road, he posed the same question, verbatim:

“What do you want?”

—Mark 10:51

It’s intriguing that an omniscient God would ask the question at all—surely he knows the hearts of all people and doesn’t need to ask. And in the blind man’s case, wasn’t the need pretty obvious?

Our deepest longing—that one thing we desire above all else—exposes who we really are. And that kind of soul-nakedness is downright scary.

But perhaps that’s the very reason God wants us to name it, to ask for it. There’s something about saying the request out loud that makes it realer in our hearts. There’s something about forming our desire into words and tasting it on our tongues that brings it to life.

In other words, maybe the request isn’t for God’s sake but for our own.

What about you? If God appeared to you and you could ask him for one thing—just one thing—what would you ask him for? Wisdom? Vision? Healing? Wholeness? Would you ask him to fill a void in your life? Or to restore something that was lost?

What is it that you want more than anything else?

There’s no guarantee God will give you that thing you ask for. But I can promise you this: God delights in hearing your deepest, nakedest requests. For it’s often in that vulnerable space that we get something more than we bargained for: we get God himself.

God, of thy goodness, give me Thyself;
for Thou art enough for me,
and I can ask for nothing less
that can be full honor to Thee.
And if I ask anything that is less,
ever shall I be in want,
for only in Thee have I all.
―Julian of Norwich

March 8, 2013

Temptation in the Form of a Giant Cookie

I learned a valuable lesson about temptation this week…from a four-year-old, no less.

My brother and sister-in-law were having a few families over for a party, and Lyla, being the little social planner she is, had a vision for the party décor that afternoon. And it did not involve the pirate ship. You see, Mom and Dad had decided to put the play ship in the basement so all the kids could play in it during the party, but Lyla didn’t think it would quite jibe with the vision she had for the basement. (She’s really four. I kid you not.)

And when that girl gets an idea in her head, you can be assured she’ll put up a Captain Hook-worthy battle to try to get her way. Sure enough, she argued with Mom and Dad, landing her promptly in her bedroom to take a rest and think about it.

When it was time to get up, she said to my brother, “Daddy, during rest time I told myself, Think, think, think! And then I decided it was a bad choice to talk back about the pirate ship.”

After my brother picked his jaw up off the floor, he and Lyla made their way downstairs to find just the right spot for the pirate ship. He was pleasantly surprised that more was sinking in to this strong-willed girl’s heart than he’d realized.

But.

The thing about four-year-olds is that they remind us, not so gently, of our humanity.

Just a few hours after my niece’s epiphanic moment, my brother noticed that the basement was just a little too quiet, so he went downstairs to check on Lyla and her two-year-old brother. He arrived just in time to see the two of them scampering down from the tall chair Lyla had dragged across the basement floor. Then he looked up on the counter and saw the evidence.

The giant chocolate chip cookie my sister-in-law had made for the party had two sets of little fingerprints smeared all over it…not to mention some undeniable lick marks. (No doubt they thought they’d get away with it since they hadn’t taken a bite, after all…)

I couldn’t help but laugh (one of the perks of being the non-parental figure), but it wasn’t long before I started pondering how much Lyla sounded like me when it comes to dealing with temptation. How is it that in one situation I can tell myself, Think, think, think and overcome a bad choice, only to cave on something else just moments later, having apparently forgotten everything I’d just learned? And who do I think I’m fooling anyway, assuming God will never notice my fingerprints smeared all over a spot I had no business being in the first place?

If the Bible is any indication, Lyla and I aren’t alone in this. The apostle Paul puts it this way:

I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate. . . . And I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. I want to do what is right, but I can’t. I want to do what is good, but I don’t. I don’t want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway.

—Romans 7:15-19

Thankfully there is grace the likes of Paul, who wants to do right but can’t.

There is grace for the likes of me, even as I take two steps forward and one step back.

And yes, there is grace for the likes of strong-willed toddlers. Even those of the cookie-licking variety.