Flowers and concrete

The sidewalks in our former neighborhood are old and as run down as our house.  If you venture out, be prepared for an abundance of beer cans and pizza fliers.  The path is broken into pieces, and good luck finding two feet of level concrete.  The curbs are jagged.  The way is largely unsafe.  You have to look down the whole time just to avoid tetanus.  Pushing a stroller is a nightmare, and, if you’re still stuck in the 1990’s, don’t even think about rollerblading.

My sidewalks now are a little better.  The neighbors always sweep away the freshly cut grass in the summer or the leaves in the fall.  Everyone cares how the street looks.  Everyone even chips in to buy neighborhood flowers every year.

But what I loved about my old sidewalk is the same thing that endears me to my new sidewalk: the presence of breaks in the concrete.  The pavement is scattered with these centimeters-long canyons.  It’s often not a huge rupture, yet somehow, grass sneaks in.  Sometimes a weed pops up or the occasional wild flower.  But every little break seems to invite the habitation of an extremely determined plant.

It’s never over.

Never.

That’s what I’m discovering.

It feels like there’s supposed to be a limit to new beginnings or the possibilities of hope or the opportunity for change, but there’s not.

Babies are born.  Clovers keep coloring the field by my house with a deeper shade of green.  Birds keep singing.  Summer keeps coming.  New days, changing seasons, everywhere.

The newness finds competition in a flurry of voices—voices that try to convince us we can’t walk in a month of brand new dawns.  Our own capacity for forgiveness may threaten to be an obstacle.  But it doesn’t seem to matter to the sun, which stubbornly gives us morning after morning.  Despite the weight of yesterday, I keep bumping up against this God who makes things new.

And nothing seems to stand in his way.

I’ve been a Christ-follower for over 25 years, and new beginnings still surprise me.  Maybe it’s because I assume I’ve maxed out my hall pass or my get out of jail free card.  Maybe it’s because I’ve begun to see life through a finite lens—where the world is a set-up with strict boundaries, like the Truman Show.  My guilt feels more real than wild flowers growing in sidewalk cracks.  My anxiety and arrogance suffocate like bland, ugly concrete.  How can new beginnings keep coming?

Maybe I ask the question because I don’t understand that God is not only the One who created, but also the One who creates.

I grew up thinking creation was a one-time event—a fabulous explosion of life out of nothing.  God, who existed before time, spoke order into chaos and separated sea and land and made life.

It had a start (day one) and a finish (the Sabbath).

But maybe I’ve failed to recognize God’s continuous creative power expressed throughout history.  God created a people who weren’t a people.  God created a way out of Egypt through the Sea of Reeds.  God created a way through the wilderness and a way to grace-flooded freedom.  God sailed on the wings of grace to earth in the form of a human.  And God created today.

“Don’t keep holding on to the former things.  Don’t let them mark your life.  Stop living in what’s already happened.  Look right here.  I’m doing something new.  It’s springing up.  Don’t miss it.  I am making a way in the desert and streams in the midst of desolation” Isaiah 43:18-19 (my paraphrase).

No need to disregard the past—just know it doesn’t have as much of a say as you think it does.  New beginnings aren’t about you, they’re not about how much you’ve failed or how much you deserve another chance.  New beginnings are about God.
Creation is happening in our midst.  Light is poking holes in the darkness.  Love is healing wounds.  Hope is reviving despair.

Flowers can break through concrete.

In my old neighborhood, there were times when the sidewalk was overtaken by grass.  You could no longer see concrete.  The path was wild and green and uninhibited.

And new beginnings are boundary-less.  That’s the amazing part of being loved by a God with limitless power and creative provision. God—not only the Creator, but right now, right in front of us—the One who creates.

God breaks chains and opens sealed tombs.  God can certainly build a garden in the middle of concrete.

selfish little plants

I am fairly good at mourning with people when they mourn.  Tell me how sad you are, and I’ll cry right along with you.  I’m not as good at rejoicing with those who rejoice.  If I’m honest, I’d sometimes rather have your good thing.  I’m half glad for you and half sad it’s not me.

A friend liked another pal’s blog the other day.  Anyone else would think it harmless.  At first, I felt insecure about my writing.  Then, I questioned what she felt about me as a person.  By the time an hour had passed, I’d decided she hates my blog and thinks I’m a terrible writer and a bad mom.  And she probably thinks my hair is too big.

I can’t tell you how much energy I waste nursing my own insecurities.  I know better, but on my worst days, it doesn’t seem to matter how much affirmation I receive—I’ll still focus on what I don’t have.  I’ll focus on how other people have more friends, are more gifted or are better parents.

And this competition will wedge into my mind, straining to be the voice that pushes me to fight to be the best or the most liked or the most talented.

There is a scientific phenomenon in the plant kingdom known as “plant root competition.”  Basically, plants in under-nourished soil tend to compete with each other for nutrients below the ground.  A plant will actually go on the offense to hoard nutrients and keep them away from other neighboring plants.  It may be a survival tactic, but it backfires.  When plants compete for nutrients, they end up taking more than they need at a given time for natural processes.  These plants over-allocate nutrients for food and the overload ultimately affects the growth and reproductive processes.  When neighboring roots compete, the plant who has over-allocated nutrients dies quickly because it loses the ability to reproduce.

Fighting for approval and respect is an anxious, awful way to live.

Could it be that we’ve become approval consumers?  We act as if there isn’t enough love or attention in the world, so we have to lock some down before our next-door neighbor or colleague or college friend gets it first.  This competition leads to the mentality that no one’s going to take care of you, so you better grab what you can.  Dine and dash—emotionally pillage the world so that you feel loved and affirmed.  You may have to judge, compare, belittle or invalidate, but it’s the only way to survive.

I wonder why we are so easily threatened when others get approval or attention?  Do we really think there’s a limited amount of affection in the world?  Are we afraid of ending up empty handed and lonely because we didn’t perform for approval?

Walter Brueggemann talks about the currency the Israelites had to use in Egypt.  They had to hoard and work in anxiety.  They were valued based on their ability to build up the enemy’s empire.

That’s why the wilderness was such a hypothermic shock: Israel had to learn to listen to a God bigger than Pharaoh.  As they crossed the Red Sea, it no longer mattered how well they performed.  It mattered how willing they were to rely on a God who provides.  You don’t survive by working harder or faster than everyone else.  You survive by listening to the God who rescued you.

No wonder we want to return to the old currency– we know how to use it.  The voices of insecurity always tug at our shirts, asking us to make eye contact with them.

But God provides manna.  It’s nothing fancy.  Israel misses the meat, the fish, the melon and cucumber of Egypt.  It may be a rat race, but at least we understood that system.

Now, you wake up and there’s enough food for everyone right on hand.  And if you try to return to the old ways of Egypt by hoarding, the manna will rot and breed worms.

If the plants compete with other plants, they won’t make it.  They weren’t made to live by taking matters into their own hands.  Plants were made to grow as they remain.  They grow as they depend on the sun and water and the root’s inherent design.  Any form of competition leads to an early death.

We were made to receive what we need from a God willing to provide.  We no longer live according to the ways of Egypt.  We don’t have to perform to be loved.  We’re free to be planted and learn dependence.  Your well-being isn’t based on how much approval and love you can lock down.  Your life rests in your willingness to listen to the one to whom you belong.  And it means you can rest instead of fight.  You can rejoice with others who rejoice.  You can celebrate even when you feel like someone’s living your dream.

admitting you’re wrong

Ellia is Big Brother.  She has super-sonic hearing.  She can see through walls.  She’s always, always watching you.

And listening.

And analyzing.

It’s unnerving.

You never really know what she’s thinking.  Be careful if you look her straight in the eyes.  She can see through you.  And she can expose insecurity in even the most self-assured person.

Not only does Ellia always pay attention, but she remembers.  And she is a learner, constantly assimilating millions of pieces of new information into her current way of thinking.

Because of this, she picks up on any tension, any emotion, and any hanging crisis.

“What’s wrong?” she’ll ask.

“Nothing,” I’ll reply.

“Then why did you shut the door hard?”

She’s as observant as Sherlock Holmes.  And she’s not afraid to call you out on your actions or words.  Or even thoughts.

I’m always faced with an ethical dilemma in answering Ellia.

I’d often like to lie to her, to tell her that she was mistaken; that I didn’t respond poorly, that she misunderstood my harsh tone with her dad.  I’d like to tell her I wasn’t complaining, per se, as much as being realistic.  I wasn’t being impatient, I was just in a hurry—if they would just put on their shoes, I wouldn’t have to yell.

I mean, does it ultimately matter that I’m being dishonest about my feelings and emotional responses?  Maybe I can tell her she misunderstood and then I’ll try harder next time.

But could it be that our own emotional dishonesty teaches emotional dishonesty?

What if my unwillingness to confront my ugly responses means I condone them, in myself and in my kids?

Let’s be clear—for heaven’s sake, I don’t think we tell our kids everything or treat them like our journal.  We don’t gossip with our kids or spill unnecessary information that would burden them or harm someone else.  This isn’t about creating codependency in our family.

But what if we were more emotionally honest?

What if we realized how much of an impact our own maturity made on who our kids learn to be?

We’re always teaching.  I’m afraid I often teach my kids to defend themselves instead of taking responsibility for their actions or emotional expressions.  I’m afraid I’ve taught my girls to hide what they are really experiencing and instead rely on passivity to communicate how they feel.

I think we forget that we’re not teaching kids simply how to brush their teeth or wipe front to back.  We’re teaching our kids how to be humans.  How to be who they were made to be.  We’re teaching them how to interact with God and people.  And how well they love God and people will depend on their own emotional health.

“You’re right, Ellia.  I was mad at Daddy.  I should have used kind words instead of yelling.  I was wrong.”

Honestly, I’m glad I have kids who call my sin to the carpet.  They won’t stand for me mistreating other people.  They are little mirrors that reflect back to me when I’m not living out of my full identity as one who belongs to God.  They remind me of my need to love with God’s heart instead of relying on my natural affection for others.

I want to be different.  I don’t want to yell or be passive aggressive.  I don’t want to be threatening or controlling or manipulative.

I want to love.

And even more, I want my kids to love.  I want my kids to take responsibility for their feelings and their actions.  I don’t want them to blame the world for their reactions.  I don’t want to teach them to pretend they didn’t mess up—I want them to learn to admit when they are wrong or weak or frustrated.

We create so much emotional confusion when we aren’t honest about our own inappropriate actions and reactions.  Our kids know that there is a disconnect—even if they can’t put their finger on it.  We are at great risk of reinforcing a pattern of shame and hiding, blaming and projecting if we can’t own up to our own crap.

Show your kids what it is to love God.  This includes showing them what to do when they are wrong.  Show your kids the proper way to respond to their failure and grave sin.  Show them how to face the pain of missing the mark, and then show them how to walk in grace and forgiveness.

And the more we know they’re watching, the more we’ll want to be people who choose maturity.

Why i hate the phrase “starting a family”

I have amazing children.  They are sincere, loving, generous and kind.  They also purposefully hurt one another, spill milk on the floor when I fail to give them a pink bowl and run away when I ask them to come.  It’s incredible trying to raise a human.

Ellia is learning how to ride a bike, and she’s reading.  Olive just learned to spell her name and she has more attitude than the cast of New Jersey’s “Real Housewives.”  These girls are so alive, so entertaining, and I hang on to every word and every facial expression and every hug.

Parenting is amazing.  It’s no wonder so many of us face the temptation to be kid-centered.  It makes sense: our children need to be shepherded. They require guidance on everything from brushing teeth to navigating hurt feelings.  And they won’t stop needing us.  No matter who else is in their lives, they only have one mom and one dad.

But I’m afraid we spend far too much energy being anxious and regretting what we don’t do as parents.  We’re worried our jobs or our softball leagues are somehow going to land our kids in a relationship with a drug-addict or a politician.

Many of us live on the stressful line of a desire to be good parents and a need to be present elsewhere.

Some days, we actually believe we have to be Martha Stewart or Michelle Duggar in order to live up to our “#1 Mom” mugs.

Soapbox alert: It drives me crazy when married couples say they are “starting a family.”  It’s more accurate to say that you’re attempting to acquire children.  We actually start a family when we covenant to be with someone for life.

Your family already exists.  Kids are invited to be a part of an existing family.   They are welcomed into an existing safe place—and this place’s stability doesn’t depend on them.  Children are a deeply valuable and important part, but the family as a unit doesn’t rest on their tiny shoulders.

When kids become our singular focus, nobody wins.  We put our children in a position to meet some kind of need we have for purpose.  We isolate our spouses when we reserve our emotional energy solely for our kids.

But above all else, we become people who forget who we are.  Of course you’re a mom.  Of course you’re a dad.  But first, you are one who belongs to God.  And your call is not to be family-centered or World’s Best Mom—the call is to be God-centered.  The call is to discipleship.

If we’re completely obsessed with our performance at home, if we’re measuring our value by the report cards of our children, we can’t be present to God.

When we are present to God, we are willing to have open hands with our children. We are willing to love them by showing them they aren’t the crux of our existence. We build in them an understanding that the world is bigger than their needs and their wants.

Through our attention to our world, we teach our kids about the ever-extending heart of God.  Through our practice of self-care we offer instruction on living out of our true identity.

And when we fail them, it hurts us.  It sucks.  But in our failure, we also remind our kids no person, even an almost-perfect mom, will ever be enough.

By moving away from a kid-centered existence, we’ll become better parents.  We’ll loosen our death grip on control.  We’ll find the grace for ourselves we desperately need.  We will see ourselves as children of God and recognize God as the one who wants to parent through us.

And maybe we’ll even let go of some of that anxiety—the anxiety that cripples—the fear that our children will end up in therapy.

You belong not to your kids and not to yourself, but to God.  Learn to listen to God’s voice above the drive toward perfect parenting.  You may find yourself in unexpected friendships or impoverished parts of your community.  You may find yourself in a job outside the home.  But wherever you are, you’ll most certainly find a peace and purpose that go beyond how well you have “the talk.”  Give your kids the freedom to be who they are by living out of who you foundationally know yourself to be.

Why we can’t help but care

“Are vampires real?”

Ellia was in bed, asking with her head under her sheet.

“I don’t want to see them,” she said.

“They aren’t real.”  Then I added, “And TV is stupid.”

Fear is real, even if vampires aren’t.  Pain is real, even if it doesn’t come to us looking like a Halloween costume.

When the explosion hit West, Texas last night, hundreds of people were thrown to the ground.  Buildings were destroyed, homes obliterated, people killed.

People around the nation recognized the horror of the explosion.

And while people were thrown to the ground in West, thousands of others began to pray.

Facebook and Twitter often indicate what’s on our mind.  And the message was the same: Pray for West.

We don’t know what to do, so we pray.

I wonder whether or not we recognize the compulsion in ourselves.  Something in us knows to cry out.  It seems to be a natural behavior—one we’re conditioned to do. Whether or not we normally acknowledge God, it’s where we turn.

We recognize that no one here can stop fertilizer plants from exploding.  So we appeal to the Creator, to the one reportedly bigger than any tragedy.  The One who keeps the earth in orbit.

And when we pray, we might expect miracles.  We may be asking for comfort or mercy.  We may be asking for protection for those still unaccounted for.  And God is capable of providing all of these things.

But when we pray, we also gain God’s heart for people.  We see the situation as God sees it—horrific and a cause for mourning.  We’re in a position to align ourselves with God.

On normal days, when a town in Texas doesn’t collapse, I often fail to pray for those in deep pain.   I don’t have God’s heart for people—I have my own lens through which I view them.  I don’t see others as God does—I see nuisances.  I see backstabbers.  I see people through what they’ve done.

But tragedy draws out the compassion in us.  We want to respond, help and give.  And we need to recognize that it is this compassion that is already in us.  We are people made in the image of the Creator—a creator who cares about creation.

It’s not that tragedy injects compassion into our veins.  It uncovers what is already there—an imperative to love as God loves.

And love takes a million forms—first responders, doctors, pastors, people donating blood or money or blankets.  Significant, communal loss reminds us of our call to love humanity with the heart of God.  It puts us back in touch with who we’re called to be in this world—people who represent God in dark and lonely places.

I have no idea why awful things happen.

I do know we express solidarity with God when we care, when we pray, when we give.

I do know that the reconciling work of God is continually manifested through the hands and feet of those who love.

But I also know in a month, we’ll be tempted to go back to viewing people through our own self-absorbed lens.

As you feel your heart respond to this and other tragedies, recognize that the God-given compassion you feel is alive in you—it’s there under all the busyness and the selfishness and the preoccupation.

Hold on to this reality.  Pray to see people as God sees them, not just those in crisis, but those who appear to have it all together.  We rightly show extreme generosity and compassion to those affected by tsunamis, terrorist attacks and explosions, but let God remind you of the ongoing pain around you that will never make the news.

We often want to treat the everyday secret pain of our neighbors as if it’s a nonexistent vampire.  We pull the sheet over our head. “I don’t want to see it.”

Heartache and loss are real.  Look them in the eye.

The truth is, you don’t know who’s hurting, and maybe we don’t always want to know.  But if we can put aside the normative, shallow lens, we’ll be more open to regularly participating in the redemptive work of God.

God came to redeem.  God came to rescue.  God came in human form to right the wrong.

And we’re invited to work alongside this God.

Please pray for West, not just because of the obvious reasons, but because you were made to pray.  Please consider what it would mean to help, not because the town is devastated but because you were made to love with your life.

Walk straight into fear with the light that is in you, not just this week, but every day.  Open your eyes.  And be compelled by the love of Christ to speak to those in pain and comfort those in mourning.