Arlene

Arlene, Arlene, what can I say?
Your son-in-law to this very day.
30 years ago to your dismay,
I showed up and won't go away

You loved to teach the little ones,
in rain or sleet or snow or sun.
Some were work and some were fun,
the foundation you laid had just begun.

You love to serve and sing God's praise,
in choirs and jails, with Gideon's page.
The lessons you taught were often sage,
that God is love and Jesus saves.

You raised two girls, in your home
Always with boys and on the phone.
Strong, beautiful, bright, now on their own,
Strong willed like their mom, but neither a clone.

And a young boy, who out paced his pears,
years filled with joy, days tinged with tears.
He surpassed your hopes, in spite of your fears
and is doing so well after fifty long years.

But today is your day, so lets get our marry on,
I'll close up now lest I start to carry on.
You're no longer spry but nor are you carrion,
today you're an octogenarian!

Stormy Weather

With family in Indiana and Virginia, I've spent countless hours driving between the two states, over the Appalachian mountains. To my frustration, it always seemed to rain or snow.

It wasn't any different as I headed east one fall afternoon. It was miserable weather for a long drive alone and I grumbled and complained appropriately. My mood was still pretty sour as the clouds started to break up and the late afternoon sun began to peak through.

I crested a hill with the sun right behind me and it lit up the rolling hills below. The trees, in full autumn color, burning with brilliance as their wet leaves shimmered like diamonds. The reds, oranges, yellows and greens were the most brilliant I have ever seen. I repented of my grumbling and humbly drove on, in the awe of the gift I'd been given.

Sometimes, the only way to beauty, to wonder, is through struggle. I would appreciate cresting that ridge on a normal fall day. It would be lovely and I would say so. But there was something more beautiful available for me.  God wanted to show it to me. Share it with me. But it want't going to be possible without a drive in the rain.

So much of life is that way. There are things God wants to show us, things he wants to give us, places he wants to take us but we cannot get there without struggle. It is only later, after the storm, when the clouds lift and the sun breaks through that we get to experience the wonder.

The hard thing is we don't always get to see the beauty. I have made that drive in the dark with snow and ice, hoping only to get my family safely to grandma's. I never saw a hint of wonder and asked only, why the God who calms the storm let that one rage.

I'm not sure I know how to answer that question. What I do know is the most beautiful people I know, the deepest, the most real are the ones who have walked through struggle. Struggle with loss, with pain, with scripture, with God.

They are people who have been poured into a crucible and come out shimmering. They are people who have cried out to God and heard him whisper, "I have something more beautiful I want to show you." And they have trusted him. Through their hardship, they have experienced the wonder of God so profoundly, they now reflect it.

I wonder how God would respond if I said to him, "I want to be a person like that. I want my soul to be beautiful." I wonder where he'd take me. I wonder if I'd have the courage to follow him into the storm.

When the Church is Like Trump

As I've watched the election process over the past twelve years (it feels like it) there’s something I’ve noticed about Donald Trump.

As I have heard him recount interactions with various people and members of the media, he’s said something I’ve never heard a politician say,“She treated me really unfairly” or “He was really unfair” or “They really weren’t nice.”

The responses bewildered me because the way he had been treated was really no different than any presidential candidate walking through the normal vetting process.

Then it hit me. Donald Trump has never been treated fairly. He’s a child of privilege.

A while back I was listening to a Christian speaker talking about America. He described the shifting American culture and the persecution of the American church. He listed a couple of stories that were troubling and which bothered me. Still as I listened, I was a bit bewildered because what I heard sounded no different than the struggles of a Christian, "walking through the normal vetting process."

Then it hit me. We, the American church, are children of privilege.

Donald Trump has been so preferred in his life, he doesn't recognize fairness. When you have been habitually preferred, to be treated fairly is unfair. The reason you can't ask hard questions is, no one ever has.

The same is true of the American church. For over 200 years we have had the privilege of being the dominant religion and the dominant culture. When other ideas and cultures are thrust into our multicultural society it makes us uncomfortable. And we confuse loss of privilege with persecution.

I understand things are changing in the U.S. And I understand it can be uncomfortable and may even lead to a period of persecution. What I also understand is if our culture is shifting away from our values we shouldn't take a hard look at the culture, we should take a hard look at ourselves.

Why hasn't the church shifted the culture in America? Why does its impact seem so insignificant? Worse, why hasn't my life changed the neighborhood I live in? Why haven't I reached the guy next door?

Safe

Nancy and I were recently at a wedding for our friend Jenn. It was a hot summer day in Colorado’s Ridgeway state park, in a little amphitheater overlooking a picturesque lake with the Rockies towering all around. Idyllic is too weak a word. 

The picture doesn't do it justice

Sometimes, Jenn can run a bit… late. This day was no different. So Nancy and I had lots of time to chat up the other guests. After a bit a lady walked up with her two little girls, maybe 8 and 5 years old, the youngest shoving popcorn in her mouth like a chipmunk who’d just finished a 40 day fast.

The girls were bright, beautiful and played easily together as mom had duties taking pictures. What captured me was the engagement of the youngest. She sat close to me and talked to me like I was the nice uncle who lived next door.

She talked about her toys, games, the popcorn she was eating and the ants who were dragging away the pieces she dropped. At some point she became fascinated with my floppy camo hat. She took it off and put it on. She put it on Nancy’s head. She put it on the lady sitting next to Nancy. Then the next lady. Then the guy next to her.

Now, it’s pushing 90 degrees and I’ve been wearing that hat all afternoon. I sweat like a glass of ice water. I was a bit anxious about her putting my hot hat on the heads of perfect strangers, many of them women who I know spent more than 3 minutes fixing their hair for a wedding.

But here’s the deal, she wasn’t anxious at all. Nor were the people she was trading the hat with. No one scolded her. Everyone laughed and sat patiently with it and waited until their turn was over. I sat and watched in wonder.

Here was a little girl, uninhibited by the strangers around her and unafraid. She was a girl raised in safety.

The world is not a safe place. Some of us learn quickly, people can cut us. Sometimes our bodies, sometimes our souls, but the lesson is the same, people can’t be trusted. She had yet to learn the lesson. And it was more beautiful than the scenery surrounding us.

She was inhibition free. Unconcerned with what was proper or improper. Why? Because somewhere deep inside she understood, “This is a safe place. This is a place where I can be me.”

For so many that's not true in the Church. And that's heartbreaking. And I wonder for how many, that's not true of me.

True safety is found in strength and vulnerability. The power to refuse the floppy hat. The willingness to embrace it. 

The Cheese is Off the Cracker

The other morning I was making my version of an Egg McMuffin. I had the English muffin in the toaster oven, one half with cheese the other ham, baking nicely. The toaster oven dinged and I went to take it out.

When I tried to remove the half with cheese, it slipped between the grates and the cheese ended up on the bottom of the oven. I sighed in exasperation, tried to take it out, but couldn't. I realized the oven had a false bottom to remove crumbs easily, so I slid it out. The cheese slid off and onto the hot oven's surface. I yelled at it.

I grabbed a nearby butter knife and tried to get it out, but again and again it slipped off and continued oozing. I threw the knife hard on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. It was over. I was undone. The cheese was completely off the cracker.

I've been mad at everything lately. I've yelled at Nancy. I've yelled at coworkers... during our department devotions. I have zero tolerance for BS. Zero. Songs on the radio, Facebook posts, even a local ministry talking about their impact, I hear them and think angrily, "You're so full of crap!"

But here's the deal. Anger is a secondary emotion. It comes from somewhere, some other emotion. In my case grief.  I've written already how, after a 15 year journey, the weight of Mom's loss has surprised me. I was ill prepared.

I realize now I'm running. Filling my days with things to do, the radio, TV, filling my head with anything to avoid thinking about Mom's last days. Her last breaths. The images cling to me like the stench of old sponge that's been in the kitchen sink to long. And I can't wash them off.

It's not wrong to be angry. It's part of the grieving process. And sometimes it's the most godly response we can have. We just need to be sure we understand where the anger is coming from. Only then can we work through it, or point it in the right direction.

Fortunately, Nancy and my coworkers love me. They know I'm struggling. They have given me permission to not be OK.

When I walked back in the kitchen my muffin was waiting for me on the table. Nancy had cleaned things up and assembled it nicely. When your cheese is off your cracker, there is no greater gift, than people in your life who don't yell at you to clean up your mess. Instead, they love you enough in that moment to wait with you and when you're ready, help you reassemble the broken pieces.

Jeannette

This is adapted from my talk at my mom's memorial service. 6/29/38 - 7/10/16

We’ve known this day was coming for a long time. And for a long time, I knew I wanted to share some things about Mom. Then I knew I didn’t want anything to do with it. Because every time I began to think about it I couldn’t figure out what to share.

Do I tell you about her childhood? The oldest daughter of two girls. Her dad a bi-vocational church planter. He pastored, painted, worked as a carpenter, built churches and worked hard and required the same from his girls.

Do I tell you about mom’s servant heart? The selfless years as a wife? Raising children, then grandchildren? Teaching Sunday school? Serving in church leadership?

Do I tell you about her gentile touch? She read somewhere that everyone needs 8 hugs a day to survive. She believed it. She was never afraid to lean in and grab your hand. To caress and comfort. And in my case, to correct.

Do I tell you about her wisdom? The people she met with. The people she challenged. The people she counseled. The number of people I heard her on the phone with or who sat at our dining room table sipping coffee? The number of times that person was me?

Do I tell you about her wit? Her playfulness? Her willingness to put a pot on her head and march around like a soldier because that’s the game her grandsons wanted to play? Coming down to their level to elevate them to hers?

Do I tell you about her commitment to relationship? How they were the most important thing to her? How she taught me maintaining them is worth sacrifice?

Or do I tell you about her 15 year struggle with Alzheimer’s? A third of my life. A quarter of her marriage. The gentleness she maintained? That she never got mean? She never cussed at Dad. The words weren’t in her. Do I tell you about her single greatest fear as she faced it? That she might somehow damage to the name of Christ.

I decided not to tell you any of those things. Because I need to write about who she would want me to write about.  Her Jesus.

You see, the thing about Mom is, the reason she was who she was, is because her life was a reflection of Jesus.

Like her he was a selfless servant. Walking teaching, preaching and feeding those who followed him. How often when he was tired was he pursued and gave more. Like her he reached out and touched, the sick, the lame and even the lepers. His touch brought healing and gave life.

Like her his wisdom brought comfort counsel and correction. And it was available freely to the sinner and the saint. The Pharisee and the tax collector. It’s available to us.

Like her he was a lover of children. He elevated their status and called them to him. And I’m sure they were times full of wit and laughter.

Like her he was committed to relationship. God, coming from the limitlessness of heaven bound by creation and the limits of a body, for his children, his people for us, for you, for me, for her.

He also knew a relationship with us would mean sacrifice, one he was willing to endure. A price had to be paid for our sinfulness, our rebellion. And he paid that price and faced it like she faced her fate, with grace and gentleness.

I can’t tell you about mom today, because Mom didn’t like to be talked about. She never looked to be elevated because she didn’t want to be seen as the source, only as a mere reflection of Jesus. And if she was here today, she would tell you if her life and any impact on yours then praise God. Because he is the one who served you, touched you, laughed with you, comforted you, counseled you and chased a relationship with you. He is the one who died for you. He loves you and he is enough for you. He is enough.

He was for her. He can be for us too. And he is for her still. 

Muslim Care

With Mom in her final days, we've set up a family rotation at the nursing home, to sit with her throughout the day and make sure she's comfortable. Nancy and I showed up over the weekend to spell my sister. While we were sitting chatting Jill said, "Have you met Salina? I love her. She's fabulous!"

Salina is a weekend nurse who pulled a double both days, so we had a lot of engagement with her. If you've ever had someone in the hospital or a nursing home, then you know they can be pretty bleak places. They always seem to be understaffed and you have ragged nurses trying to keep up with demanding patients. 

Finding a nurse who is a star is like finding water in the desert. It's life giving. 

It didn't take me long to see what Jill liked about her. The first time I met her, she came in to take care of Mom. She spoke to her, patted her, cared for her, stroked her hair and kissed her before she left. It was some of the most loving attention I've ever seen provided by a care giver. 

Salina is a Muslim. 

She came in and out throughout the day, always smiling, always gentile and affectionate. When Nancy was alone, Salina took her half hour break with her and they talked about faith, traditions, her pilgrimage for the haj, why Christians don't wear head coverings when the Bible tells us to, all kinds of things. She told us how she prays for Mom and she's sure mom will be in heaven. 

And this is the thing I wish Christians in America would understand. Muslims are people. They want to live their lives, find love, raise children, live long lives and die well. Do they have a faith base that is different from ours? Yes. Do they wish the whole world believed like they do? Yes. 

And so do we. 

The problem with Islam is it is a faith with people who are hateful, vengeful and wicked. Guess what, Christians seem to have the same folks in our ranks. If you don't think so, go ask a homosexual. 

If you are a Christian who believes Muslims all over the world should be carpet bombed, you have a big problem because, 

"I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven; for He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? If you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

Over the weekend, Salina was perfect. And we should seek to be the same. 

Violent Grace

My sister showed this to me today. I guess I wrote it for a devotional at some point. I don't even remember. Still, it's a piece of the journey we have been on with Mom. A journey that's coming to an end.

Matthew 27:31 After they had mocked him, they took off the robe and put his 
own clothes on him. Then they led him away to crucify him.

There are a lot of things you can get used to when you live over seas:  the 
food, the culture, and even the lack of a Wal-Mart. But, what you never 
quite get used to is your distance from family. This hit us particularly 
hard two years ago, when my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. 

Over the past two years we've watched as the disease has begun to slowly and 
relentlessly steal the person Mom is. I can't think of a more evil ailment. 
There's no chance of recovery, no medicine that can stop it and no hope of a 
dignified death. In a deliberate and methodical way, it will turn an 
intelligent, compassionate woman into a child unable to care for herself. 

Strangely, this viscous disease has reminded me of God's love. God's plan 
for our salvation was just as deliberate, just as methodical and just as 
painful. Matthew describes for us how the creator of the universe, full of 
power and majesty, the One to whom angels sing, "Holy, Holy, Holy," was 
stripped, beaten, laughed at and spit on. Christ was so determined, so 
persistent in his pursuit of you and I that it cost him his dignity and his 
life. He loved us so much, no measure was too extreme.

The account of Christ's death is difficult to read. It's especially 
difficult when we consider all of it was an act of love by a God, who 
possessed the power to end it, but more desperately longed for us to return 
to him. A God who considers you more important than his dignity.

As you battle life's bitterness and brokenness remember you are 
deliberately, powerfully and relentlessly loved. 

Jeff Ingram  2/04

So ruthless he loves us so reckless his embrace

To show relentless kindness to a hardened human race

The joy that was before him on the man of sorrows face
And by his blood he bought a violent grace 

A Violent Grace 
Michael Card 
2000 Mole End Music

Cracks

When I got to Colorado, I noticed a lot of people with broken windshields. It seemed like an unusually large number compared to other places. Then a rock chipped mine.

It was just a little ding and din't obscure my vision, so I didn't worry about it. A few days later, I noticed the chip was a crack.

A couple of weeks later, Nancy and I were driving through the mountains and we heard something cracking. Then some more and some more. We sat there and watched helplessly as the crack slowly spread across the whole windshield.

I don't know if it's altitude, or temperature differences or what the deal is, but it seems like chips turn into fast running cracks in Colorado more than anywhere. We replaced the windshield. Then got a chip. And it's happened again. It's crazy making.

This last time, the crack spread along the bottom, across the length of the windshield. I was planning to get it replaced again, then I noticed something. When sunlight hit the crack, it refracted and made this beautiful blue line across the dashboard.

Looking at it made me wonder; is that why God leaves us broken?

There are beautiful stories of healing. People healed miraculously, from cancer, injuries, addiction, mental illness, pride, all kinds of things. Then there are other stories. Stories of struggle. Of woundedness. Stories of people just as faithful, just as committed, still broken.

There's something interesting about those stories. When we share them, they are the ones that resonate the most with us. They are the ones that move us. They seem more real. They add color.

It can be hard to be transparent, to reveal our cracks. We want everyone to look at us and see an undamaged windshield. I think we're missing the point. Because only when people see our pain, our flaws, our struggle, can they understand the beauty of our story.

Ask a Guy Night

My friend Tara is a trauma counselor who works a lot with victims of sexual abuse. As she works with women, sometimes they come to her with questions like, "Why do men do that!??" To which she responds with something like, "Well, I'm not a man. So..."

As a result, periodically, she's begun hosting what she calls "Ask a Guy Night." She bills it as an evening where you can learn, "Everything you wanted to know but never asked." No question is off limits. Anyone is invited and she holds it at the local library.

Because of our friendship, a couple of times she has invited me to be on a panel of three men asked to field questions. It is an honor I do not feel worthy of and a task I do not feel equipped to handle. To be trusted with wounded and healing hearts is both humbling and terrifying.

Their questions range from innocuous curiosity to painful probing but are not accusatory or combative. And I think that's because they desperately just want to know one thing, "Why?"

"Why did he cheat? Why did he hurt me? Why won't he listen? Why is sex so important? Why won't he quit looking at porn? Why does he talk to me that way? Why is he so dismissive?"

I walk out of those meetings emotionally exhausted. It's a heavy thing to see the impact a man can have in a woman's life. The damage we can do. Even good men, who act thoughtlessly, without consideration for the needs or the heart of their spouse, can do tremendous damage. Maybe not even in malice but in mindlessness.

More than that though, the night takes me back to times in my own marriage when I have been the offender.The callous one. The wounder. I grieve again the brokenness I have caused. I am thankful again for the grace I've received.

I wish every man had a chance to sit on the panel of "Ask a Guy Night." To sit publicly in vulnerability and exposure and hear the heart of a wounded woman. It makes you want to be a better husband. It makes you want to be a better man.

(If you have been a victim of abuse I encourage you to contact Tara. She's amazing at what she does. You can find her website here.  Check out her blog here.)

Strange Grief

Because of the layout of our living room, our TV faces the window. I hate it, because it faces the afternoon sun and we're constantly closing the curtains to reduce the glare on the screen. As a lover of natural light, that makes me grouchy.

For some reason we didn't do that yesterday. When Nancy got up to do something, I paused our show and was left sitting there, looking at a black screen. In the screen I began to notice the shadows of the world behind me. There was the frame from the window, the lattice from the porch outside, the tree with leaves blowing and other things I couldn't make out. And in the distance, tiny dots of sunlight, obscured by clouds as it set.

What mesmerized me was the depth and texture of the shadows. Distance was clearly discernible, but some some reflections weren't where they were supposed to be. The leaves were too close, the window frame too far away.

I got the note from my sister while I was in Sweden. Mom probably has weeks left, if things progress as we expect. And something strange happened. Huge waves of sorrow and loss swept over me.

Mom's been gone for a long time. She's been at least two years without words. Years before that filled only with the jabbering of an infant. I lost my mom a long time ago. I've hoped for years for the note from my sister. I've prayed for it. It was almost two years ago when I wrote I wish Mom would die.

So where was the grief coming from? Why was it so sudden? So powerful?

I think grief is like the shadows in my TV screen. It surprises us. It has depth and texture. Sometimes it shows up in ways we don't recognize. And it doesn't always show up in the right order.

I've mourned mom's passing for a long time. When I found out about her diagnosis. When I've kissed her goodbye, knowing the woman I was leaving wasn't going to be who I'd find when I returned two years later. Sitting beside her as she stared blankly at nothing.

And this is strangely different. Unexpected. Shadow.

Even still, there are glimpses of the Son. The one who illuminates the shadows so we can recognize them. The one who will one day, make them fade away. Until then I'll try to learn to embrace the grief.

The Numbers Game

A while back, I was visiting the offices of another mission. As we were being shown around, a guy was introduced to us and was asked to share what he's involved in. He immediately launched into "the sale."

I know what it looks like because I've seen it a hundred times from organizations around the world. I know "the sale" because I've pitched it as many times. It usually goes something like this...

"We're working in more than 100 countries, working with more than 500 indigenous partners in over 8,000 languages. We've planted 1,000 (take your pick... schools, churches, radio stations, wells) all over the developing world."

Change the length, numbers or some of the language, but that's the gist. This is what we've accomplished. This is why we're a valuable asset to the Kingdom. And, ultimately, this is why you should give.

We are addicted to numerical growth.

It's no different in the church. Pastors are constantly being judged and judging each other by numerical growth and giving.

I get it. It's steeped in our culture. We have to justify ourselves to get a job, a raise or a promotion. We have to prove our value.  And how can you possibly measure the success of a mission except by who has been reached or what's been built?

Here's my struggle, when I start taking a count it is almost always about me. How much have I done? How do I measure up to everyone else? What have I accomplished?

Of all his sins, David taking a census may have been his most egregious. And the people of his kingdom paid dearly for it. Why? Because he wanted to know how great he was. And his accomplishments didn't belong to him. They were a gift from God.

When we start throwing out numbers, we run dangerously close to doing the same thing. Yes measuring effectiveness is healthy, good and necessary. And, before we tell our story, we should always ask ourselves, "Who am I trying to glorify?"

We Walk in Winter

My friend Gary walked in my office the other day and said, "I hate Colorado in May." I understood exactly where he was coming from. There are a lot of good things about living in Colorado Springs. There's tons of sunshine, trails to walk and bike, parks, Garden of the God's, Pikes Peak. It is just a beautiful place.

But there's something about May. May is when my basement flooded. Warm Spring days morph into cold winter nights with wicked wind and wet snow. Tulips come up in April then May snows will bury them.

In May we see the hope of Summer, but it remains illusive, distant. Winter continues to mock us.

We walk in a world of Winter. It's a place with the cruelty of ISIS. It's where 1 in 5 girls are sexually assaulted before 18. It's where slavery is on the rise. It's where cancer can rob a family of a young mother or Alzheimer's can take the wisdom of a beautiful mind.

It is a hard and wicked place.

As a follower of Christ, it's like Colorado in May. Because I have tasted Spring. I've experienced unconditional love, grace and forgiveness. I've felt the warmth of the Gospel. I've seen my depravity yet experienced acceptance.

I know Summer is coming. It's coming for all of us. Until then, I'll just try to brush the snow off the tulips.

The Price of a $14 Car

On a recent trip, Nancy and I needed to rent a car. We were surprised to find a place that offered one for just $14 a day. The deal sounded great so we booked it. What we didn't realize was, while most of the name brand dealers were there at the airport, ours was not. We had to call a shuttle. 

After a few minute wait, the shuttle driver showed up and we, along with all the folks waiting with us, jockeyed to get on. You know the drill, everyone trying to be polite enough not to seem rude, but aggressive enough not to be the one left at the airport. 

Happily, we all got on and began our drive. The family that got on with us began talking about their plans for the week and the guy next to me began to tell me his life story. His was a tale of woe, I can't begin to unpack here.

About five minutes into the drive someone said, "Where the heck are we going?" Other's began to chime in, "How far is this place?" "Where is the driver taking us?" "I hope we're not being abducted!"

And there it was. The magic threshold. When the value of a cheep car is surpassed by the length of the journey to the lot. Five minutes. 

I'm increasingly struck by our ability to whine. I whine about everything. The line is too long. I always get in the slow line. Why is the price of gas going up? Why is this taking so long? Why doesn't the guy show up on time? Why don't I get an upgrade? Why does it take six minutes to get to my $14 car?

When Paul told us to rejoice always and be thankful in all circumstances was he really talking about the arduous journey in a rental van? Seriously?! It was six minutes! 

Listen. I'm not a advocate of glossing over painful circumstances. However I do wonder about our definition of pain. Inconvenience isn't suffering. A loss of privilege isn't persecution.

How much we enjoy the world around us many times has more to do with our attitude than our environment. One of those things we can't control. We are the only ones who can control the other. 

Words We Call Ourselves

As I left work the other day, my friend Jenn said, "Wait a minute, your backpack is open," then she came over and closed it up. I sheepishly replied, "Oh. Thanks. Beth normally does that."

The fact that I can identify a person who zips up my backpack as I walk by her office, is pretty humiliating. I ride a motorcycle for crying out loud. I can't go zipping down the street with stuff flying out the back. What am I, 8?

I have some issues with attention to detail and follow through. So, when things like this happen, a word from my childhood comes crashing in on me, "Irresponsible."

You know those words. We all have them. They're the one's we call ourselves when we blow it... again. We heard them from parents, teachers, friends, well meaning people, trying to help us grow. We heard them with enough frequency we grew to accept them as the truth of who we are. Now we are our own accusers, defining ourselves by our limitations.

If we allow we allow ourselves to fixate on them, they become an overpowering, depressive self image.

Fortunately, I work with some great people and have an amazing wife. And they helped me learn a couple of things. The first is, they usually don't mind covering for my weaknesses. They kind of all have this "Jeff needs help," understanding.

The second thing is, they need help too. Do you know there are people who have no idea how to read a room? They can melt people's faces off in a meeting, then leave thinking, "That was a good talk!" Then I have to say, "Dude, you're backpack is open" and explain why he might want to have some followup conversations.

We all have weaknesses. We should know them so, in humility, we can acknowledge our need for help. We should do the same with our strengths, never minimizing how God created us. Accepting them can sometimes be difficult. But when we do, we are released to thrive in our gifting.

Meanwhile, we can work on our weaknesses. The day after Jenn helped me, I packed up to head home and carefully checked my backpack to make sure everything was closed up tightly. I was pretty proud of myself. I made it all the way to the stairs before I realized my wallet and keys were still in my office. Baby steps. Baby steps.

Wrong. But not Uncertain.

I was talking to a friend the other day when he said, "Oh, I've been wrong. But I'm never uncertain." It was pretty funny. And I think it explains how most of us operate.

I wonder what our world would be like if we could only talk, post and tweet about subjects we actually knew about. I don't mean things we've seen on the news or articles we've read on all of those "reliable" websites.

I mean, subjects we have actually studied. Let's set a pretty low bar. One hour. How different would our world be if we only engaged others when we had researched a subject for one hour.

How would life be different if someone asked, "What are your thoughts about global warming?" and we said, "I don't know."

We've all seen the news about it. We've probably read articles about it from whatever bent we lean toward. It's either a disaster or a non issue, because that's what someone, who shares our preconceived ideas, told us to think about it. How many of us have actually dug into the research?

The crisis in Syria, ISIS, migrants into Europe, Muslims, the national debt, immigration, election reform, inequity in the economy, raising the hourly wage, the future president of the United States. Everyone seems to be an authority on all of this stuff.

Most of us, myself included, should simply be saying, "I don't know."

These are important issues. Issues we should care about and debate. The problem is, we seem to care more about being heard, than understanding the subject matter.

I need to study more and speak less. Read about it, think about it and even pray about it, before I offer an opinion mostly based on emotion.

These are complicated issues with even more complex solutions. I can not formulate an informed solution after reading the first five paragraphs of an article on CNN. But we all seem to have them.

I need to have fewer opinions. I need to be more thoughtful. I need to have the humility to say, "I don't know."

It's Over

When I was a senior in high school, I had a friend approach me twirling a butterfly knife. As he walked toward me, spinning and flipping it, he explained how I'd never really been his friend, he was angry because I was more popular and he felt betrayed.

He brought up stuff from way back, kept walking closer, flipping that knife. He was big too. I was still trying to figure it all out when he lunged at me.

As I grabbed his hand to stop him, my mind was completely and utterly confused. There was the reflexive move to protect myself, but the rest of my brain was in chaos, plowing through history, trying desperately to understand. Why was he so angry? Why didn't I know it? Is there someway out?

Holding his arm away from me, I looked at the knife. It was plastic.

This stupid high school prank is the only experience I've had which I think gives a glimpse of how Mary felt the day Christ died. And it doesn't even come close.

She knew for certain she was a virgin who had given birth. The same angel who promised her that, also promised her son would,

"... be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob's descendants forever; his kingdom will never end." 

But it was ending. It had ended. He just said it. 

"It is finished." 

She had been with him when they fled to Egypt. Saw him wow the rabbis in the temple at 12. Watched him turn water into wine.

If she didn't see, she heard about the blind seeing, the lame walking, the hungry fed and the dead returning to life. And she had to have thought, "It's true. Everything the angel said was true."

Except it wasn't. It was finished.

I struggle to think how confused she must have been during all the beatings he took. When they stripped his clothes and put thorns on his head. When they drove nails into his feet and hands. When they hung him there.

She must have wondered, "When will he do something? Say something? Put a stop to this? Isn't there a way out?"

But there was no way out. His last breath. The spear. The tomb.

There are times when I can't understand God and his purposes. I have a hard time understanding the wickedness of man, mine included. I look at the chaos of the world and I'm bewildered. And I'm reminded of Mary.

Everything she knew was true on Thursday was crushed in Friday's finality. Then Saturday's all consuming despair was blown away in Sunday's sudden wonder. When I am overwhelmed with confusion from the weight of my circumstances I need to remember Mary. Because even when it's finished, it's not over.

Spiritual Prozac

A friend of mine was in her Sunday school class when they broke up into small groups to work through some things from the lesson. They were provided with some questions, some of which were personal. And, if you were honest, they required a level of transparency.

My friend made a mistake. She answered honestly.

There are some things going on in her life she's struggling with and she told them. For the rest of the time, the other folks in the group spent their time trying to fix her. She didn't need to be fixed. She needed a safe place to tell her story.

We have a problem in the U.S. church. We don't allow people to deal honestly with pain.

If someone was running a bandsaw and got their finger too close to the blade, we would expect them to say, "OUCH!" We would probably even understand if their words were a little more gritty than we would normally be comfortable with.

But when the bandsaw rips into someone's soul, it's a different story. No matter your struggle, there's no room for gritty, because God works all things for the good of those who love him.

For some reason, when people are dealing with heartbreaking loss and suffering we hand out spiritual Prozac. It's hard to sit with them in it, so we quote some scriptural happy pills and move on.

The problem is it's not remotely scriptural. Christ was called a man of sorrows, acquainted with the deepest grief. There's a whole book called Lamentations. We're told to weep with those who weep.

It's hard. It will cost us something. And it is beautiful. It's one of the things the church has been called to do. Because no one should carry their burdens alone. And no one should be made to feel lesser because of the burdens they carry.

David was allowed to ask why God had forsaken him. Jesus was allowed to quote him. I don't think anyone ever wondered why they didn't have more faith. Why do we require more from each other?

Moonshine and Foxholes

I spent four years in the army. Before you pass along what seems to be the obligatory, "thank you for your service," let me explain, I was much more like Beetle Bailey than G.I. Joe.

We were walking back to camp late one night after some training. The moon was full and brilliantly lit up the meadow we were hiking through. Like good little soldiers we were spread out across the field as we walked, but the moon was so bright I could see each one. As we approached the woodline, someone asked if I needed a flashlight. With the moon, I obviously didn't need one, so I declined.

That was mistake number one.

The minute I hit the trees I realized my mistake. The full moon is great at illuminating an open field, but penetrating the canopy of a Virginia forest in the Spring... not so much.

I knew the general direction of my shelter-half. (Apparently the Army could only afford to give me half a tent. If I was Air Force, we would have been staying in a hotel will a fully stocked mini-bar, but that's a blog for another occasion). Since I knew which way to go, I decided to shuffle along until I found it.

That was mistake number two.

What I failed to remember was,we dug foxholes earlier in the day... yeah. The thing about foxholes is, you dig them armpit deep to the shortest man. The one I "found" was dug by two dudes who were about 6'5.

I'm convinced I could have gotten out of that hole by myself, if I hadn't torqued my ankle so badly.

It's kind of embarrassing to yell for help after you've fallen in an empty foxhole, especially when it's happened because of your own foolish choices. What you find though is people respond with concern. They help pull you out, carry you to rest and even take you to a medical professional if you need one.

We've all fallen in foxholes from time to time. It's OK if you're stuck in one. Just remember, there are people who care more about you than the spot you're in or how you got there. Help is available. You don't have to sleep down there. 

The Hidden Price of Missions

I've been in a member care roll for our missionary staff for about five years now. It's been a gift to walk with our people through celebration and pain. I expected that. We'd been in "the business" long enough to know missionaries are people. And people have issues.

But something happened I didn't expect. I got calls from retirees. Some needed help. Some needed to talk. Some needed to inform us of the death of a spouse. All of them, still felt connected to the organization.

It seemed strange to me. Folks who retire from the government, GM or Walmart don't do that stuff, do they? If someone retires from Boeing at 65, would she still call the front office 20 years later and expect the folks there to know who she is? 

There are a number of reasons for this, but I think the key issue is an inability to truly reengage with their home culture. Lots of folks transition when they retire. They pack up and head to Florida or Arizona. So why can't missionaries make the leap? 

Well, because 30 years outside your home country makes you... um... weird. After 30 years, the country has moved on, the culture has moved on, friends have moved on and they just can't connect. They feel like  I did in my father in law's barn. 

They don't have a job where they can engage. They're pushing 70 so they don't have the energy they used to. They try to engage at church but, to them, many folks seem shallow. And the folks at the church don't know what they're capable of. 

Like the hobbits return to the Shire after an unexplainable adventure, some are like Sam, who can can reengage and can move on. Others, like Frodo, have gone too far. 

This is the price you'll probably never hear about from your missionary friends. Missing home, missing family, missing friends, raising your kids in a strange place are all things you'll probably hear and understand. 

But home isn't home anymore. It never will be, especially for those who have spent the better part of their lives outside in overseas ministry. Like Frodo, they have to wait for the final trip home, our true home where we will all feel like we belong. 

Do The Superman

I came across this video the other day. It's of Braylon Beam, a young cancer patient, dancing after a game with the Carolina Panthers. I think I've watched it at least 15 times since then.

You can watch more of Braylon's story here. Something about this video moves me. It took me a while to figure out why. I've seen these stories before and sure they're touching, but as a dude, they're not supposed to bring you to tears, right? (The sheer ridiculousness of that last statement, what it says about me and our society in general is something for another blog)

As I thought through it, I decided it's everything. I love all of it.

You have the vulnerability of a young boy surrounded by the safety of large strong men. He's a little white kid who really can't dance, being celebrated by black men with moves, race and culture aren't issues.

Then there's Braylon's final pose. It's what Amy Cuddy calls a "power pose" in this Ted talk. It's celebratory, victorious, triumphant. He's Superman.

Then it finally hit me. The video crushes me, because I think about Mom.

Alzheimer's has taken her. Her mind is gone. Her body is bound. She's been defeated. But some day, God willing someday soon, that won't be true anymore.

She'll be safe from disease. Free to dance again. And as all of heaven welcomes a saint who lived life well, I'd like to think Jesus will say, "Come on Jeannette... let me see your Superman."

Headwind

One morning, my friend Tara lead our morning chapel time here at Reach Beyond. She made us all go outside and form a line, shoulder to shoulder, in the parking lot. Then she said:

Growing up...
If you had your own room, take a step forward.
If you ever went to bed hungry, take a step backwards.
If you had family traditions, take a step forward. 

If you believed law enforcement was the enemy, take a step backwards.

If you felt protected by your care givers step forward.

If you were ever abused, step backwards. 

She went on and on with her list as we moved forward or backwards in relationship to each other. When she finished, the office staff was scattered around the parking lot, some of us way forwards, others way behind.

Tara asked us to look around and see where we were in relationship with each other. Because, while everyone worked in the same building, we didn't all have the same journey. She explained, some of us have experienced a lot more "headwind" in our lives. Obstacles to success.

Looking at the distance that divided the person in front and the person in back was a powerful and painful illustration.

As we engage with the people around us, we need to realize that. There are people still struggling against the headwind of their past. We all have different levels of it in our present. It is probably something you can't see, so don't judge too quickly. And always try to get their backstory.

I won the game. Well, Tara says it's not something you can win, but I won anyway. I had moved farthest forward. That doesn't say anything about me. It says everything about my parents and the privilege they provided me.

What I also noticed was, the three of us at the front of the group all had something in common; a generational faith. We all came from families with rich faith traditions.

There's a lot of criticism of Christians and of the church. A lot of it is valid. What's also true is there is something about a life lived well, that impacts future generations. When you grow  up in the home with parents who are authentic followers of Christ... there's a lot less headwind.