Plunging into Hello

Photo Credit: Jenni C

For the second time in two years I was the new girl. I was mighty scared that when the recess bell rang all the first graders would sprint toward the playground, and I’d be standing alone. Again.

I couldn’t stand the thought of it so I decided to do something. And quick. The girl at the desk in front of me had two long, beautiful French braids. In my Laura-Ingalls-loving mind, that was a sure sign of congeniality, so I tapped her back right between those braids.

She turned.

"Will you be my friend?” I whispered.

I felt ridiculous. My face flushed. But she nodded, and I followed her out to recess.

Thirty years later, surrounded by five children and a multitude of acquaintances, I felt mighty alone again. With all the chaos, loneliness didn’t seem possible, but the demands of family and self-inflicted expectations had exhausted me. I needed a friend to lead me to Jesus in prayer.

I’d never actually done the one-on-one prayer thing before, but I knew it was the only way to survive and finish that chapter of life.

So I did something that felt socially weird. At Bible study I sat by a woman I admired, and right before our Bible study video started I feigned confidence and whispered, “Hey, would you be willing to get together to pray with me sometime?”

I braced for a reasonable rejection. Something like Hmmm, I’m traveling quite a bit lately. Or, Sounds wonderful, but I’m sooo busy. 

Instead she answered, “I would love to.” As I turned back toward the TV screen, I thought I saw her wiping tears. Then I started wiping mine.

Last year I attended a conference alone, and of all the things I worried about, the one that haunted me was a scenario from junior high. 

The dreaded cafeteria.

What if I had to weave through the trays, soda fountains, and tables to sit by myself? A veritable announcement to every observer, “I have no friends here!” 

Fortunately, I found delightful women to chat with at meals. 

But then I saw her. One woman at a table for two. Living my junior high nightmare.

Don’t be weird, I warned myself. Maybe she’s relishing solitude. So I walked past her only to discover “my people” sitting on the back side of her booth. 

After setting down my tray, I poked my head over the partition and invited her to sit with us.

Turns out she wasn’t relishing cafeteria solitude, and our table of three became a table of four.

But I’m not always so socially courageous.

During that exceedingly awkward “greeting time” at church, I find it easier to rifle through my purse in search of nothing. While waiting in line at Wal-Mart I’m more comfortable frantically texting than talking with someone in line. And I can become engrossed in a menu, doctor’s office literature, or a map in order to avoid eye contact with anyone at all.

It feels like a game of Social Chicken--each stranger daring the other to make the first move. And the worst possible outcome happens when neither person acts: the enemy of our souls wields loneliness and insecurity to frighten us into isolation.

And sometimes the only thing worse than feeling socially awkward is feeling alone.

As I’ve staggered around between the illusion of isolated safety and a nerve-wracking introduction, I’ve discovered the fastest way through an awkward “hello,” is to hold your nose--figuratively speaking of course--and plunge straight in: extend a hand, offer to help, ask a question, or simply say “Hi.”

Sure, it may feel embarrassing or uncomfortable. Maybe even stressful.

Yet God can use loneliness, insecurity, and even the uncomfortable weirdness before that first “hello” as an invitation to friendship. And once you take the plunge you just might find you’ve greeted a friend, a prayer partner, or a sister in Christ. 


What is your awkward hello story? How did it turn out?

 

When a Father Made Me Cry at the Pool

They say you remember trauma more acutely than pleasure. If the memories of my first high dive experience are any indication, it’s true.

My boys did not inherit my high dive angst.

I was in fourth grade. No one made me do it, but it looked fun. Something akin to flying. So, in my least favorite faded-red swimsuit, I leapt to my near-death.

A nanosecond after my limbs smacked the water, my head throbbed with pressure of chlorine water forced up my sinuses. I remember “rearranging” my swimsuit while I was still ten leagues under.

When I finally surfaced, I clung to the concrete ledge gasping, coughing, and crying.

Last summer I cried at the pool again. But this time it wasn’t me jumping off the high dive.

On that day, a little boy stood wide-eyed and dripping near the high diving board. He smiled as he watched the big kids twirl and flip, head first, feet first, laid out, and curled up. Almost as if they’d achieved flight!

His dad had come straight from work to the pool to watch a few minutes of swimming lessons. Scurrying between the board and his dad the boy seemed to be asking, Should I do it? Should I do something brave and scary?

His dad encouraged him. “Yeah! Try it.” The boy did the shivering shuffle over to the ladder, climbed up two steps, stopped, and went back to his dad. His dad knelt down and smiled, “You don’t have to,” he reassured him, “but if you want to try, I’m here to watch you.”

Finally, he climbed to the top of the high dive. With knees knocking from cold and fright, he bobbed at the end of the board.

Far below friends and lifeguards hollered advice: Just go! Plug your nose! Hurry up! It’s fun! I’ll buy you ice cream if you do it! It doesn’t hurt! (Whatever!)

His dad encouraged him. “You can do it.” But there was no bribery or threats about ice cream. He just waited.

Finally, bolstered by his father’s presence, he barely stepped off the edge and fell to the water. No flips. No twists. Just a brave little boy, smacking the water. He came up sputtering. Pulling at cockeyed goggles. Dog paddling to the ladder. Suppressing sobs.

His dad squatted by the ladder and lifted him out. Pressing his wet head into his father’s dry shirt, the boy let the sobs go.

And that was when I cried.

To me, it was a picture of God’s dealing with me.

How many times has God invited me to jump into fun, brave, and scary adventures: a college transfer, a move, foster care, a new job. The courageous people who’ve already jumped seem like they’re having so much fun! Or doing such meaningful work, or learning such important things.

With God’s kind permission I dip my toes in the water and do a little research. It’s cold, but not icy.

This location is good, and so is that one.

My work is meaningful, and I could also do that job.

Parenthood is important, and so is foster care.

Ministry is fruitful here, and also over there.

Everyone poolside is calling out advice, warning, or impatience. Hurry up and do it already! You’ll do great. That will be hard. Are you crazy?

So I pray. Lord? Should I, or shouldn’t I?

And my loving Father answers, “You can, but you don’t have to. If you do, I will be with you. If you don’t, I still love you. And I will be with you always. Either way, My grace is sufficient for you.”

Sometimes I’ve climbed back down the ladder and wondered what could have been. What would that mission trip, that move, or that job have been like?

On rare occasions, I’ve jumped and freestyled my way to the other side of the pool.

But most times I’ve come up sputtering wondering what in the world the Lord was thinking by letting me jump.

Then I remember that poolside father. The one who reminded me of my Father God.

He’s helping His scared and gasping child out of the water. Soggy and sobbing, I fall into his arms. It felt like failure. The move was rough. The job required more skill. Foster care was demanding.

But my tears tell me I did something hard. My water-slapped skin tells me I still have sensation. My draining sinuses tell me I was all the way in.

I drape my soggy self around Him, and I realize My Father loves me whether I jump or not.

7 Reasons I Can't be the Umpire

Umpires for Little League seem to be in short supply around here so a couple times per seasons the parents are required to ump. Although this sounds efficient, it’s probably not the best solution—at least in my case. 

 

When it was our turn to ump, I contacted a whole list of umpires potentially available to cover parental umpire duty. They were all unavailable. In circumstances when it's more work to get out of work, I can tend to get over confident. Pshhh, how hard can it be?

So out of curiosity I asked the boys, “What would you think if I umped your game?”

Zach and Spencer gave me a please-be-joking stare, but true to form Levi addressed it: “A girl umping baseball? That’s just weird.”

With no substitute umpire lined up, I started to get a little nervous. To assuage my umpire angst, I thought I'd test my skill by volunteering to run the scoreboard. I lasted for three batters.

Talk about an intense job! You have to watch and record every pitch, batter, run and out! And any of my bleacher buddies can testify that paying close attention at sporting events is not my strong suit.

Lucky for Levi, just hours before the game we found an available umpire, and I promised to never ump his game.

After my scoreboard trial, I'm pretty sure no one else wants me to either. Here’s why:
 

1. Steee-rike! It sounds so accusatory. I prefer “Whoops. Hey, it’s no biggie. You get two more chances!”

 

2. Foul ball! Was the hit disgusting and stinky? Why ya gotta be so rude? I’d rather whisper to the batter, “Pssst…good news, I don’t even think you can strike out on a foul ball!”

 

3. Batter’s out! Do you hate the batter? Why do you take that tone? How about, “Batter gets another try after these next 11 batters.” Baseball is a game of second and third chances.

 

4. No time for second guessing. Second-guessing is one of my spiritual gifts, and the split second decisions and finality of the umpire’s call don’t allow for it. I would prefer to watch a replay, phone a friend or poll the audience. I’d turn toward three sets of bleachers and shout “Hey parents and spectators! All in favor of calling a strike say ‘Aye.’ All opposed?” Admittedly, it would slow the momentum of the game. And no one wants baseball to go any s  l   o    w     e      r.

 

If a wild pitch can imprint our fence,
imagine the damage potential for human flesh!

5. Wild Pitches. If you’ve watched three minutes of little league (not the little guys on ESPN, but the regular kids), then you know there are MANY wild pitches. Last week a wild pitch flew straight toward my head. Even though there was a batter, catcher, umpire, and 15 foot back stop between the ball and me, I still squealed like a scared monkey. 

 

6. The bat. Scary!! The thought of it whistling by my ear 176 times per game makes me nauseated. At this level, the odds for taking a bat to the skull seem a bit too high and the helmet a bit too flimsy.

 

7. All the action at home plate. Swinging, catching, and sliding. My cat-like reflexes have used up all nine of their lives, and chances are slim that I could dodge the ball, the bat, or the cleats. 

 

So thank you, Little League, for the vote of confidence. I really wish I could (fingers crossed), but I think we’re all better off taking our cues from Levi. If you need anything else, I’ll be in the concession stand.

 

 

A Post-Mother's Day Reflection

Super-mom forgot to supervise.

Did you ever imagine motherhood would be a ride like THIS?

I always wanted to be a mom. I’m just not always the mom I wanted to be.

Here’s a little confession: I actually remember telling someone I wanted to be a supermom. I know…


But somehow confessing, recounting, and laughing about it redeems the weirdness.

The supermom I wanted to be drove a minivan. She had long hair that didn’t tangle when she drove with the windows open. She sewed adorable dresses from 4-H patterns as her daughters quietly played nearby her purring Singer.

I imagined I’d be pretty crafty too. When Kurt and I were huffing and puffing our way through Lamaze classes the teacher asked the class, “What are you most looking forward to about having children?” My inner crafty-mom spoke up--out loud in class--and said, “I’m looking forward to helping my kids make play-dough.” That's what I was most looking forward to.

Wish I was kidding.

I imagined taking every opportunity to teach my children all the things I wished I’d learned early in life. Including Spanish.

And in the evenings I planned to sweetly lead my children in bedside prayers. I’d gracefully teach them about the Love of Jesus and use those “hard moments” as “teachable moments.” I’d harness the power of music to help them hide scriptures in their hearts.

And then I became a mom.


A locking steel tool box is a good fort.

I tried to be the mom I wanted to be, but things have rarely gone according to plan.

I wrecked the minivan three times. Yes, thrice. For the record, the Chevy Venture didn’t handle so well in snow. Its one redeeming feature was the unobstructed aisle down the middle that gave me a straight shot from the front seat to the back to catch puke in a bucket on a road trip.

My long hair tangled in the wind, so I cut it short, and so far none of my sons has asked for any homemade article of clothing.

These days when I’m feeling crafty, I toss my boys a hot glue gun and send them out to the gravel driveway with the instruction, “Find an extension cord. Have a good afternoon.”

I once bought a Barney video in Spanish, but eventually passed it along to a friend whose children actually spoke Spanish. I’m still holding onto hope our Spanish Barney days provided an advantage if they ever try to become fluent. 

I used “hard moments”--make that “hard seasons”--as opportunities to model all sorts of apologies. 

I did harness the power of music to imprint Scripture on their hearts thanks to Steve Green and his Hide ‘em in Your Heart CDs. But the verse they’ve quoted back to us most often is from the Rolling Stones: “You can’t always get what you want.” 

The weird thing is that when it comes to motherhood, childhood or life in general, the Rolling Stones got it mostly right:  

You can’t always get what you want,
but if you try sometimes,
you just might find,
you get what you need.

The writer of Proverbs, however, put it more succinctly: Many are the plans in a man’s [or woman’s] heart,
but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails. (Prov. 19:21, NIV)
And that’s a solid truth worth hiding in our hearts. 

We may “plan the work and work the plan”—children quoting verses out the minivan windows in multiple languages in their homespun clothes--but it is the Lord's purposes that prevail. Thank Heaven!

I’m not the mom I always wanted to be, but with time, and by God’s grace and patience, I’m becoming the mom He planned. And so are you.

Happy (late) Mother’s Day, Mom’s. Let's embrace the bumpy ride.

The Unseen Work of a Teacher

A few years ago I heard a call-in radio show honoring teachers. A Michigan man with a slight Arab accent told a story I can’t forget.

In the 1970s, when he was in elementary, his family moved from Iraq to Michigan.

Can. You. Imagine?

One day at school his teacher had pulled down the world map at the front of the classroom and explained the rules for a geography game.

The students would come in pairs to the front of the classroom and stand with their backs to the map and faces towards their classmates. The teacher would announce a capitol city, and both students would whip around and point to the correct location on the map. The first one with their finger on the correct place won.

Having been in the United States for less than a year the young boy knew he would lose. When it was his turn, he planned to turn and point to the exact same place his competitor was pointing. And even if they were both wrong, at least they’d be wrong together.

When it was his turn, he and his competitor waited with backs toward the map. The teacher gave the location: “Baghdad, Iraq.”

He knew exactly where to point.

I have a long list of questions for that teacher.

When did she decide to demonstrate that variety of kindness? Did it just occur to her? Did she plan for it?

Did she have to check out the “I” volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica from the elementary library to find Baghdad? (In the ‘70s she certainly didn’t Google it!)

Did she double check to see where it was marked on her world map while the students were at recess? 

Did she hand pick the boy’s competitor—an exceptionally gracious child who would understand her method? A particularly intelligent student who might have a chance of knowing? An emotionally mature student who wouldn’t be embarrassed at not knowing?

This is the unseen work of a teacher. 

It goes unnoticed by everyone except the student who was forever impacted. But on occasion, long after the teacher has retired, the grown-up student takes the opportunity to recount his story. This one just happened to be on a national radio show.

It wasn’t until I worked nearly 20 weeks as a substitute teacher that I gained a jarring appreciation of what truly goes on in a classroom.

On the surface there are the subjects that get all the press: Standardized testing. Educational benchmarks. Curriculum.

If we don’t take a closer look we might be tempted to think the only thing happening inside those cinderblock walls is a sterile approach to cognitive development. 

No one will argue that reading, writing and ‘rithmetic, (though no longer taught to the tune of a hickory stick), are foundational. But I have seen teachers researching, learning, and sometimes flying by the seat of their pants to implement ideas that go far beyond facts, figures and vocabulary. 

Their efforts are often unnoticed, but they are aimed at the reason for education: the students. 

For the perfectionistic student who is extremely sensitive even to constructive criticism, a teacher explains that criticism does not mean failure. Instead it is evidence of learning, and that is exactly what school is for. This is the unseen work of the teacher.

For the passive student who cannot articulate his needs, a teacher encourages him to find his voice. “Use your words,” she will say. She equips him with a simple script to help him give words to his wishes. This is the unseen work of a teacher.

For the unmotivated student, a teacher draws a hard line to help the student learn to discover answers. And as a token of thanks, the student stomps back to the desk and slams the book closed. This is the unseen work of a teacher.

For the new student, the teacher accounts for what has previously been taken for granted. She describes localities such as the “Discovery Center.” She realizes a student from Georgia may not yet know that Sioux Falls is east and Rapid City is west. An international student may sing a rousing rendition of “God Save the Queen” or “O Canada” but may need help learning the lyrics and meaning of “The Star Spangled Banner.” This is the unseen work of a teacher.

And for each of these unnoticed efforts there is no standardized test. There are no bonuses based on scoring. The test, the answer, and the reward are as unique as the individual. The test comes every day for the rest of the student’s life. Sometimes the students get it right, sometimes they get it wrong. And the occasional bonus for such unseen work comes from the student: A priceless hug, the evidence of effort, a diploma.

Teachers, we appreciate you. For the work that is seen and scored and paid for, but also for that which is rarely seen, measured, or rewarded. Thanks for doing the unseen work of teaching.

                                         **************


May 4-8 is Teacher Appreciation week. If you have a chance, tell a teacher you appreciate all their work. Even the work that goes unnoticed.

I've written about ways to salute a teacher here, and I made a few more suggestions on how to do that here.

Would you take a minute to add your suggestion to the comments here on the blog or on facebook?

What’s the best way to show teachers our appreciation?
Teachers, what’s the best or most memorable gift of appreciation you've received?

Are We Better When We're Serving?

Last weekend we had the privilege of caring for two foster children ages one and two. 

 

It wasn’t our first time doing foster care, but it was our first in quite a while. 

 

Before we committed to an overnight placement, Kurt and I wanted to make sure the whole family was in. “If we are going to do this,” I said, “Then we are going to serve these little ones as a family.” 

 

Everyone agreed, but we didn’t give much thought to the implications of prioritizing others. (No, we’re not having friends over. No, you can’t turn on the TV while they’re napping.)

 

When the little ones arrived we were giggly over their tiny words, chunky hands, and quick smiles. I encouraged the boys to be calm and not over eager with all manner of baby toys which they’d dredged up from the depths of the toy box. And with a little coaxing, they warmed up to us fairly well. 

Over the next 24 hours I saw my boys reading books to them, letting the toddler direct the page turning. Together they facilitated the mass collection of pinecones. Inside the house, one of them cut up bananas on the high chair tray. And though I can still hardly believe it, they cooked lunch on Saturday while I was outside strolling a fussy one. What was on the menu, you ask? Well, we had no macaroni noodles, so it was spaghetti and cheese…with oranges on the side. It was a hit. Kraft ought to be taking notes.

 

The regular sibling bickering was replaced by kind questions: Do you want an orange? Can I peel it for you? Do you like bananas? Can I pass out more goldfish? Which book do you want? Did you find a pinecone?

 

Even my parental barking was muzzled and I calmly asked, Can you help with her shoes? Will you carry him while I switch the laundry? Will you fill a sippy cup?

 

And it was all so blissful that I thought, “Wow. We are better when we’re serving.” 

 

And then the little ones went back home. 

 

We woke Sunday morning and the bickering and barking erupted with volcano-like force. It was like a painful episode of Supernanny, only Nanny Jo Frost must have missed her connecting flight from England, and we had to slog though it on our own. 

 

And I found out we aren’t all better.

 

I’ve been trying to make some profound biblical application, but I’ve only been able to list four things I know for certain:

 

·  We are all insufferably bent toward selfishness. Apparently we can only “deny ourselves” for so long. In this case, about 12 waking hours.

·  Serving in this capacity changes us temporarily and externally: We temporarily practiced how Christ wants us to live—preferring others, speaking kindly, and giving generously. According to Malcolm Gladwell it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master anything. On the bright side, we’re down to 9,988! To put it bluntly, we need more practice so the changes become more than temporary and sporadic.

 

·  Serving others has changed us permanently and internally: Our boys know there are children living in constant transition and “warming up” mode because decisions have been made for them that have ongoing consequence. And I could write a book about ways God has changed my heart through foster care. Suffice it to say I sometimes wonder if service to “the least of these” (as Jesus referred to the needy in Matthew 25:40) is more about changing my heart than changing their circumstances. Thankfully, God’s mercy and grace can accomplish both.

 

·  There are alternating seasons for intense service and rest. This is not to say I retreat to my hovel of self-indulgence. But certainly there are good reasons to rest between intense seasons of service. Jesus did. He slept on a boat ride, retreated to a mountain to pray, and allowed angels to minister to Him. Who are we to think we need less?

 

So I guess I’m not sure if we’re really better when we’re serving. But I know this for sure, Christ can change us when we do.

An Easter Ballad

I can trace my love of imaginative, biblical narrative round and round the grooves of an LP 33 speed record album.

Maybe you don’t remember, but a record album (pronounced rek-erd al-buh-m) was invented and in popular use shortly after the invention of the wheel and hieroglyphics.

In the late 70s my parents bought an advanced piece of music technology. A stereo.

This miracle of musical machinery was ensconced behind glass doors to reiterate the fact that all the blinking knobs and dancing decibel lights were off limits to three wide-eyed children. 

Photo Credit: Daniele Nicolucci

Half the fun of the stereo was the delicate show on the turn table. The shiny vinyl balanced on the spindle, spun, wobbled, and finally dropped onto the record player.

But perhaps the most impressive feature was the set of speakers. They were protected by a distinctively smelling squishy foam, and at four feet high they were taller than me.

My sister and I would lay on the floor in front of those gigantic speakers with one ear pressed into the foam and wait for our favorite Easter song on our favorite record album.

As the crackling needle whispered, we prepared to be transported by the voice of Don Francisco to a first century scene. And there, in our mind's eye, we saw the grieving apostle Peter.

Perhaps you think that’s a bit strange.

Your favorite song was about the grieving apostle? Not exactly. It’s just that we knew it didn't end there. The crescendo of the finale was coming, but it always started with a sorrowful Peter.

After contributing to the horrors of the crucifixion, Peter was terrified of arrest and crippled with shame. And so he begins his story. Take a listen:

 (Link to song here)

(Lyrics are here if you'd like to read instead.) 

All year long, Don Francisco, my sister, and I would belt it out together: "He’s Alive!!! He's alive, and I'm forgiven!"

Interestingly, this song was the longest-running chart single in the history of Christian radio.

What makes it so good? Why was it our favorite? Why do I always cry?

I think the answer, at least in part, lies in the lyric, "Everything I'd promised Him just added to my shame." 

What had Peter promised?

When Jesus warned His 12 friends that they would all bail on Him, they each, including Peter, said, "Surely you don't mean me?"

Then, as if to shore up his devotion, Peter pumped his fist into the air declaring, "Lord, even if all fall away on account of you, I will not! Even if I have to die with you I will never disown you!" 

And I'm sure Peter meant it. He wasn't lying to Jesus. Amidst the solemnity of the Passover meal he was earnest. He was ready for heroics!

But he wasn't ready for the humiliation of grace. He was not yet willing to let Jesus die for him.

I think this is why I love the story of Peter and perhaps why so many have loved Don Francisco's ballad. It is a portrait of God's grace given even to those who've tried to "do it right" and heroically.

I have promised Jesus big and small acts of faith in earnest: Lenten sacrifice, Christmas generosity, and everyday devotion. But everything I've promised points to the fact that I can't even keep my own promises.

I fudge on the sacrifice. I'm cautious in generosity. I fall short of goals I was certain I could accomplish. How much more have I fallen short of a Christ-like generosity and sacrifice?

When we recognize our ineptitude to perfectly carry out our tiny acts of goodness, then we are finally able to receive what Christ offers: His death instead of yours. His perfect life credited to you. In the words of Martin Luther, "The Great Exchange" where Jesus is the hero.  

To "celebrate" Christ's death on Good Friday may seem cryptic or harsh.  But we know what Peter didn't. Saturday is the grand crescendo and Sunday morning is the celebratory finale.

Happy Easter, Friends.

He's still alive, and we can be forgiven.


 

Can’t get enough of Don Francisco? Me either. Here is another favorite story-in-song:

Gotta Tell Somebody

A more recent Easter song:

Christ is Risen

I dusted off some vinyl and rediscovered these favorites:

The Easter Song

Was it a Morning Like This?

 

What's your favorite Easter song? I'll add it to my play list!