Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Almost paradise...

I almost let Sherlock Holmes ruin my entire vacation. The PBS Holmes at that!

Patrick and I just got back from what some people call a Babymoon (like a second honeymoon before your baby arrives and adds a whole lot of accessories to trips) on Chincoteague Island. We spent four days exploring Assateague Island's beach and wildlife refuge (complete with wild ponies), eating a lot of seafood and ice cream, and generally enjoying some really special time evaluating where we are on this journey and where we hope to be.



When Holmes broke so rudely into my version of paradise, we had already spent the morning collecting shells, visited a museum, gone swimming in the pool, eaten a lovely dinner out, driven around a wildlife loop, and taken a walk along the shore at dusk.



To relax, we had flipped through a few channels on TV until I found an old British TV episode of Sherlock Holmes. Patrick loves the stories, so I figured it was a safe bet. Well, all of the sudden, several people in the show went raving, frothing at the mouth mad. I had to stick it out then to know why because it was too awful to be left to the imagination. It turns out it was a deadly poison, and I figured at least Holmes would catch the bad guy, and I could have some type of closure. Instead, Holmes caught the bad guy and let him go, justifying that the man had acted out of passion. In 20 minutes, I felt I had suddenly lost all this:






In their place was the image of a man's rolling eyes and the bitter taste of foolishness. I was almost inconsolable. I was angry at myself for not being more selective in how I spent my time. I was furious at television for being so full of images that burn and waste and scar. I was sick that there was a spot on an unblemished canvas of memories. I declared it all ruined.

For most people, it would have been a silly show, a change of the channel would have fixed their feelings. For me, it was the popping of a balloon, for you see, the vacation that had been perfect was now resigned to the category of "almost."

I have spent my entire life avoiding "almosts," wanting instead perfection's gleaming promise of total fulfillment. It has been costly. When you are building a house of cards, your hands get so very tired.


I have frantically expounded on the atmosphere of a restaurant where a friend disliked her meal for fear that a bad taste would leave the whole night a failure. I have exhausted myself (and probably my family and friends) by insisting that every moment together be filled with deep conversation, meaningful activities, and memorable moments. Any sign of conflict or lag in excitement leaves me depressed, angry, or anxiously mediating with humor or affection. I have been tempted to throw out entire relationships because of someone  confronting me on a mistake. I cannot easily admit my wrongs because to do so allows the crack of imperfection that might crumble my entire existence. Blame is much easier than mourning brokenness and sin.


I have wanted heaven. That is what God revealed to me this vacation, courtesy of an unorthodox detective.

The desire itself is not bad. The very fact that I mourn when life falls short points to a perfection that cannot be created by man:  "He has also set eternity in the human heart;" Ecclesiastes 3:11. 

This is why I cannot hear about crisis in the middle east or hurricanes or babies born in brothels. I long for petri dish conditions for my heavy heart to grow in. This is why I cannot acknowledge that I am hurt by and hurt others. That I am disappointed with turns of events. I am so wanting the time when He will wipe every tear from their eyes. When there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain...Revelation 21:4.

My problem is I have confused earth and heaven. Jesus promised, "In this world you will have trouble." John 16:33. My refusal to acknowledge this fact has made me a cruel master of moments, of people. I am constantly twisting them, cursing them, or weighing them down with unrealistic expectations until they no longer be what they are: imperfect.

I can choose to let my saddness over imperfection mark memories as "damaged," or I can let my dissappointment draw me closer to the one who overcame the world. I can punish myself and others for mistakes, or I can praise the God who loved us while we were still sinners. I can curse the world for each inch it misses the mark, or I can look upon it kindly for what it is: earth...not heaven. 



Our last night of vacation, Patrick and I were scheduled to take a boat cruise to get closer to the ponies and other wildlife on the refuge. We made it to the docks only to have a judgment call of a swirl on the radar cancel the trip. Everyone else could reschedule for the morning. We were a party of two so even that option wouldn't work for us because we wouldn't fill a second boat. We had waited too long to make it on any other cruise, some of which we watch rushing around the island as the weather held...all night. 

I won't lie and say we weren't frustrated, dissappointed. We were. However, thanks to our breakthrough with Mr. Holmes, we were devestated. We ended up taking a lovely walk to an overlook to watch the ponies, walking half the trail with a man riding his motorcycle from Texas to New Jersey, and taking in a ranger program bonfire on the beach at night.

Sure, if we had takent the cruise, we could have seen dolphins and eagles and some amazing ponies. We could have, but we would have missed being in this place : 



And you know what? It was almost perfect. 

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Mr. Rogers Had It Right

Yesterday, my friend threw up all around our neighbor J.'s taxi cab.

Granted, my friend is 18 months old and was very upset about being left with a babysitter (me :)), but the whole situation got me thinking about the people who live on my street. As we left the "scene of the crime," I kept thinking how I knew whose taxi cab it was, and how I cared if it would bother him. Now, I know that doesn't sound too profound, but it has taken me over two years to get to this place. God has been teaching me that our presence in this neighborhood matters far more than I realize.  For a teacher, I can be a pretty slow learner.

Here are some other facts I know about J.: he is from New York; he has a tattoo of the Virgin on his arm and some pretty massive gold rings; he has one working Cadillac and three resting on rims in the back because "Caddies never die." It's not much, but it's a start. Here's how I learned even this much.

I had been working on the computer all day and had just learned to knit, so I was switching back and forth between a screen and two slippery sticks. Thrilling. I was bored enough to start knitting again when I felt like God was whispering, This is not what I have for you right now. Grumpy at not having any better ideas myself, I asked in my head, Well, can I at least walk to the mailbox? Would that be okay with you?! Ignoring my attitude, I felt like God gave me the thumbs up, so I slipped into the heat. On the way back from the mailbox, I noticed my two neighbors J. and P. chatting in P.'s driveway. They invited me into the conversation and what followed was a gift.

We spent the next twenty minutes as an unlikely trio in the hot July sun. We talked about interstates and my grandfather's GM days. We talked about truck driving and Detroit and the school system in town. We talked about our baby and their jobs. I listened as P., a man I had thought of with distaste (we've a few suspicions he sells things a little stronger than Girl Scout cookies :) ), share how he has "hopes for this city." We entered into each others' stories. This, this entering into the stories of my neighbors, is something beautiful, something biblical, and something worth devoting the rest of my life to.

I think one of the reasons why Jesus is hard to find in our neighborhoods is because we go about sharing him so differently than he shared himself. I have avoided neighbors who smoke or drink or yell too much. I have hoped neighbors would find Jesus so they wouldn't smoke or drink or yell so much. I have made mercenary friendships where I've seen conversion as the main goal of our relationships. I  have felt like a benefactor of goodness. It's a good thing we moved in or who knows where they would be. Jesus was not like this!

Jesus shared wine and bread and heated conversation. He sat and got down to some deep heart issues while people did their daily tasks, like drawing water. He told stories of enemies paying for medical and hotel costs for someone banged up by a rough neighborhood crowd, of one house in heaven with many rooms instead of a million mansions with manicured lawns. He let people host him, touch him, banter with him, cry with him.   He entered into the stories of those around him and in doing so, revealed the Father's heart. It is the same for me. Since it is no longer I who lives but Christ in me, when I give and take from my neighbors, Jesus will be shared as a matter of course. No sophisticated outreach or system will transform my neighborhood. A few potlucks just might.

Donald Miller shares in his book Blue Like Jazz about a time when he heard another author, Brennan Manning, speak about Zaccheus. Manning had shared that the anger of an entire town did nothing to change Zaccheus' exploiting his neighbors and selling out to the empire that was oppressing his people. Jesus came and ate with him, and Zaccheus paid back everyone he had ever cheated.

This week, may we all be a little less like rugged individuals and a little more like Mr. Rogers. The kingdom could come in some small, powerful ways as a result.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Who Else?


After our trip to Michigan, we had the blessing of having my mom come down with us to Virginia to spend 12 days. We had such an awesome time together and being together made me realize there are certain spaces that only a mom can fill, things only a mom would do. These things are incredible gifts. Here are just a few of them...

-Who else but a mom would spend hours with a Q-tip and bleach to clean up bagfuls of baby clothes she saved from when you were small? Who else would help you hang the same quilt your grandmother made for you in your baby's room?


-Who else but a mom would finally convince you to get a deep freezer and then would proceed to help you stock it with this crazy project, veggies, AND stuffed peppers?




-Who else but a mom would scour garage sales, thrift stores, and websites for her grandbaby-to-be and not get bored?


-Who else but a mom would let you try out your new sorta-vegan lifestyle by holding soy dogs over coals at a picnic shelter in the rain (true story) and not complain?!


-Who else but a mom will still take you to the zoo (and document it), even when you're 25?


-Who else but a mom would clean your kitchen cabinets and wipe fingerprints and smudges off all of your walls while you lie on the couch with a stomachache?

-Who else but a mom would wait and wait for butterfly baby kicks like they were treasures?

-Who else but a mom would still offer grace and forgiveness, even when her daughter is impatient, quick to judge, and slow to understand what moms truly give for their children?

-Who else but a mom does a girl miss the most when she is going to become a mom herself?

I love you, mom, and I am so thankful to God for this special summer with you.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Baby's First Photo Shoot


















All made possible by Melody (thanks so much!)! We can't wait to meet our sweet baby girl!