All posts filed under: Soul

World Changer Wednesday – Jesus

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I can’t count how many times I’ve begged God for Rescue in my small life. Chronic pain keeps kicking me. Infertility taunted me. Kids test me. I say and do so many things I regret. And even when I’ve done everything right, I sometimes get lost or mistreated anyway. I can’t fix any of it on my own. I call out for “Help!” and I want a Rescuer to come running. When I call out to God for “Help!” I’m usually wanting Magic. I want the people I’ve hurt to get acute amnesia about our last conversation. I want the drunk driver to swerve a different direction and miss my car. I want my kids to be 100% compliant. Other times when I want God to “Help!” I’m asking for Power. I want to be Right and influence others to agree and act. I want to Perfect and avoid all mistakes. I want pain and suffering to end for me and everyone else. I want “Help!” right in the moment. I want a concierge and team of experts …

Moms – World Changer Wednesday

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It’s still pitch black when my alarm goes off. I roll out of bed with a heavy head and prop myself up at the counter to brush my teeth. I sometimes pray for grace and joy in the morning, but sometimes I forget. Nine times out of ten, Greta bursts in my room with crazy hair, a scowl, and the declaration that she is NOT going to school. Sometimes she melts in my hug, other times she stomps away and slams a door. At 6:04am. In the next hour and a half I butter toast, wake 11 year olds, put ice packs in lunches, ask about deodorant, break up fights, clean up spills, try to shorten 30 minute showers, check backpacks, brush snarly hair, try not to look at my phone, and ask my kids not to touch each other. Some days I rush them. Some days I avoid eye contact. Some days I bark in frustration. Some days I sigh loudly. Every day I give all three of them full body hugs. Every day I pray …

Not Yet (Thanksgiving)

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The best Thanksgiving I ever had was in 1994. I’d finally been kissed by the man of my dreams the night before. After months of writing letters overseas, he flew home and invited me to Thanksgiving dinner. I met his whole family, his closest friends, and his grandma who forlornly asked, “she’s not Norwegian at all?” My heart raced when I caught him looking at me across the room, and when he held my hand under the table. I was falling deeply in love. I was thankful. Several years later, the man of my dreams cooked a huge Thanksgiving dinner for our friends. We had a great time laughing, drinking, and admiring Chris’s culinary skills. After dinner we all went around the table to share what we were thankful for. One friend drew a tiny circle on a piece of paper, pointed to it, and said, “I’m thankful for our baby, who’s about this size in my belly right now.” We all clapped and cheered. Then 5 minutes later another couple announced their pregnancy. We clapped and cheered …

Fighters

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I hate The Walking Dead. Many very smart, sensitive, and spiritual people love the show, like my husband, but not me. It’s not the haunted house make-up or the constant gargle of zombies that bother me. It’s that in order to survive, you have to kill. I hate it. We now live 15 minutes from where the series is filmed, so I’m trying to watch this season. I’m also trying to win Best Wife Ever. I ask about 35 questions per episode, but Chris still invites me to join him every freaking time. A couple of weeks ago I groaned, “I cannot take it. If the zombies come, honey, just kill me. I wouldn’t want to live like this.” Chris set his jaw, clenched his fist, and looked at me as if I just confessed an affair. He said, “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. We are fighters. We are survivors.” We told the kids about the attacks in Paris on Friday night at dinner. They asked if it was ISIS. I reluctantly told them …

This is What I’ve Got

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I started running again, here in the Georgia woods, and I love it. Mushrooms, moss, flowers, and spiderwebs sing quiet songs. Ducks, deer, and dogs accompany me. My favorite trees feel like friends, and the familiar curves in the path are a comfort. It’s where God and I have most of our talks. Me: This is so beautiful, God. Thank you. God: I’m so glad you like it. I love you. Me: I love you, too. Me: What do you want from me, God? God: I only want what you have. Me: I feel like I don’t have much at all. God: What brings you joy? Me: I don’t know what brings me joy. God: I know it’s hard. Me: I’m trying. God: I know. I love you. Joy is hard for me to find. It’s not what anxious, depressed people are known for. I found it when I started surrendering. It’s different, almost rebellious, and I like it. This entanglement of surrender with joy is changing how I see God. God isn’t mad at me, and he isn’t mean. While …

You Gotta Be You (Halloween)

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I am known for being a Truth Teller. I give it to you straight. I cannot hide my emotions or tolerate too much crap. I’m not good at pretending. So Halloween is not really my scene. This has always been the case. According to family legend, I was a strong-willed child. This story is one of my favorites: “When you were four you said you wanted to be Princess for Halloween. Your Mom didn’t buy you a plastic costume at K-Mart, she was going to make one for you. She stayed up all night to sew you a beautiful princess costume. It was shiny lavender with gold rick rack. You woke up the next morning on Halloween and hated it. You stomped and said, ‘I don’t want to be a Pretty Princess! I want to be Aimee Paulson!’” Here I am, fourth from the left, hanging out at Montessori that day. Screw you, Halloween. I’m Aimee Paulson. I played along in the future. I remember only two costumes. In 4th grade I was a gypsy – lots of blue …

Seeds

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They handed me this box with teary smiles: Remember, we love you. It felt like an urn, full of things dead and over. I couldn’t look at it. I carried it home and packed it away, quickly. Many weeks and miles later we found it at the bottom of a storage container. Greta: Is that a treasure chest?! What’s inside?! Me: They said it was full of love. Greta: Can we open it? Me: I’m not ready. Many guests came to visit our new home, Sweet River. They roamed into my office, scanned the pictures and books on my shelves. Guest: What’s in the box? Me: I’m not sure. It’s from my friends. They gave it to me before I moved away. Guest: You haven’t opened it? Me: I’m thinking of keeping it shut, like a time capsule, until I’m in the nursing home. Guest: Really? Me: I’m not ready. The kids started their new schools. My big house and little heart felt painfully empty. An old friend called, concerned. Friend: It’s time to open the box. Me: I’m not …

Wrecked

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Our first child was born October 3, 1998. We had been married 2 years. It was an unexpected, terrible birth. She was an ugly, horrible baby. She’s an awful demanding 17 year old. And while we’ve made peace, most days I fear her. My first baby’s name is Pain. She was born the night I was hit by a drunk driver. That day, my sister and I were hit from behind, pushed into oncoming traffic, and crashed into a second car. The guy who hit us side-swiped 3 other cars and sped off. My sister was covered in sparkling glass, we had some cuts, headaches and big bruises, but the paramedics couldn’t find anything severely wrong with us. But there was. Pain had arrived. She was an insufferable colicky newborn for 2.5 years. She demanded my full attention day and night. It felt like a steaming hot iron was being dropped on my tailbone every 10 minutes. To keep her quiet, I carried a pillow and ice packs to client meetings. I tried 8 different pain meds. We saw …

Bullies

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I was bullied mercilessly as a kid. It started in 3rd grade, when I suddenly didn’t understand the fast multiplication in blue pen on the overhead projector. I got moved from smart math to regular math. My bully taunted, “Ha! You thought you were smart and you’re NOT! You are STUPID.” I walked through the halls with my head down. On the bus my bully would point and laugh when I moved my book bag over for a neighbor to sit down and she’d walk past ignoring me. “You have NO FRIENDS! You are LAME!” she shouted. I would sink in my seat, cross my arms, and try not to cry. We moved away after 6th grade. My new school in California was totally different. I was offered drugs on the bus and jr highers were having sex under the trailers instead of going to class. It didn’t take long for a bully to find me. “You don’t smoke POT?! You’re such a goody goody. NERD! LOSER!” I don’t think a boy talked to me once and my …

Sara Groves – Floodplain

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[Sara Groves’ new album releases today, November 6th, on iTunes.] Dear Sara, Your new album, Floodplain, is a gift. I have been listening to it at my desk, in the steam of my shower, while the kids shout in the car, and stirring pots in the kitchen. I bought it this week for my friend going through a intense crisis. I didn’t know what to say, but I thought your album would make her feel loved and understood. Because that’s what your songs always do. The poetry on this album translates so much of what I’m feeling as I explore surrender. I’m deeply thankful. I first found your music 13 years ago, totally taken in by the first line of the first song on All Right Here, “It’s been a hard year, but I’m climbing out of the rubble.” I had found a friend who would understand. I listened nonstop. I’ve been learning from you ever since. I’m not a music reviewer. I cannot speak to the technical aspects, overarching artistry, or industry comparisons of your music. But I’d like to share how …

Sweetness

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I’ve been talking about Surrender all month. Most everything I’ve shared seems hard. White knuckles, sweat, anguish. Deep questions and dark answers. Foggy epiphanies. Slow acceptance. That is my story. But it’s not the whole story. I need to change the channel. Let’s look at this another way. My life is full of goodness. Sometimes when I let go, joy is waiting to rush in and surprise me. Surrendering can bring great delight. There is honey in the rock. I have countless examples: When curiosity got the best of me, I pushed through first impressions, and was delighted: Thinking the plate was full of gross bugs, then realizing they were bacon wrapped figs stuffed with goat cheese. Turning my nose up at a dress on a hanger, then finding out I looked fantastic in it. Rolling my eyes about some bossy stranger at a party, then belly laughing with them by the end of the night. When I felt my body tighten up, from fear or embarrassment, and decided to go with it anyway. All the endorphins: Standing in line …

Chosen

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Who doesn’t want to be Chosen? It’s the best! You like me! You picked ME! It’s the core of so many childhood memories: Sit by me on the bus Pick me for your kickball team (actually, please don’t) Sit with us at lunch Mom and Dad, am I your favorite? Birthday girl, pick me to sit by you 6th grade boy, ask me to dance I went to new schools for 7th, 8th, 9th, and 12th grade. It was rough. So many first days of school with zero friends. So many moments of holding my lunch tray with white knuckles looking out at the chaos of a crowded lunchroom. I skipped a lot of those to hang out and read in the bathroom or library. So much savvy required to know how to look approachable but not needy, confident but not aloof. I learned “To Have a Friend You’ve Got to Be a Friend.” Which meant learning how to smile, risk eye contact, and invite someone to be my lab partner. It meant learning to laugh at jokes that I …

What I Did Over Summer Vacation

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Moving to Georgia has been hard. We pulled up to Sweet River, our new home, grateful and curious. The kids ran around laughing. The truck came, our house filled up with boxes, and I got to work. I stacked plates, organized books, admired long-lost treasures, and commissioned my husband to spend his weekends hanging pictures. It took a long time. I pushed. I got really tired. One night my husband was talking about where to host the Fantasy Football Draft. I tuned out. He asked me some question and I put down my drink, slammed my palm on the couch, and huffed, “It’s not happening, hon! You can’t do Fantasy Football in Illinois! We live here now. Come on! It’s over! It’s dead. Let it go.” It was quiet after that. Chris followed me into the kitchen and I started vigorously scrubbing some dishes. He asked, “Are you ok?” And I huffed, “No. I’m not! I’m exhausted! [scrubbing] But this is what we signed up for. Just gotta get through it.” He said, “That doesn’t really sound like a plan, babe.” …

I’m Not a Player

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Today I decided to play. My kids were caught off guard. Daddy is Mr. Fun Time, he’s strong, spontaneous, quick to laugh, and agreeable. He wears costumes on a regular Thursday and makes up words almost every meal. He serves pancakes on Saturday mornings, plays video games, board games, and ping pong, and is always up for wrestling. I do none of these things. Well, Daddy had to leave for a business trip at 6:30am on a Sunday. So here we go. When we got home from church I heard many hands pawing through lego bins. I wandered in the room and sat on the floor. Kids: Mom, what are you doing? Me: I’m playing legos. Kids: What?! Me: Yep. Kids: Tell us what pieces you want! What are you making? Have you seen the robot chickens I’m making? Can you build Minecraft stuff? I made a house for robot ninja dogs. They were kind and encouraging.   After legos I asked, “Do you want to eat cheese balls and watch The Amazing Race?” We all ran downstairs, snuggled …

Kintsukuroi – I Guess We Have to be Broken

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A few years ago my son and I had a very bad day. As I tucked him in, I hugged him, and prayed out loud, “Oh Lord, I put a hole in this dear kid’s heart today. With my mean face and impatient, harsh words. Please forgive me. Would you fill in that hole I made? Will your light and love chase away the yucky darkness?” Enough time had passed since my outburst, so Caleb was in the place to hug me tightly back and I say, “I forgive you, Mom. I know you love me.” I laid there holding him in silence a long time. I hate that I hurt his heart. I struggled to believe God would really fix it. We’ve all been broken. Sometimes we are jerks, and we toss someone’s heart on the floor. Sometimes other people are jerks and our hearts get shattered. My kids have had pieces chipped off by peers, teachers, their own choices, pain, and me. God and I had a conversation a long time ago, when I felt too …

A Little Note About Anxiety

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Earlier this month I mentioned that sometimes I worry. When I do, I imagine all my tasks and woes on a long curling list and I surrender it to Jesus. Jesus takes the list, and my mind and body can rest. This simple picture has radically changed my prayer life. But then there’s anxiety. Anxiety is the ticker tape banner at the bottom of the news screen. The constant stream of things that have, can, and will go wrong. Sometimes I imagine that list scrolling off the left of the screen into a wheelbarrow Jesus is expectantly holding. Somedays that is not enough. I didn’t know I had anxiety. I thought I was smart. A thorough thinker. Always prepared. Realistic. I hoped I wasn’t a dream squasher and a balloon popper for all my optimistic, visionary friends. But seriously, how did they really think those grand plans were going to happen? Anxiety is about living on the defense in a dangerous world. Those of us with sensory issues have brains that tell us there is always …

Ugly Americans

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I closed my eyes and sighed. The plane was full of monsters. Bright orange monsters overfilling their seats and the plane with noise, girth, disrespect, and lots of camo. “Mare-see?? Speak english! We can’t understand you! Yuk Yuk!” “College? We’re rednecks! [Back slap] We don’t need college!” “I’m preaching the word in that village tonight, right?! Alright!” I scooted closer to Greta in her window seat to put as much distance as possible between me and the mission team sitting in front, behind, across and next to me. Their shirts said Agape Jesus Love in comic sans font. I never felt more sophisticated in my life. Sigh. We all left the plane in order and went down the short hallway to immigration. All the orange shirts were in front of me. They were so loud. I’d been up since 3:45am. Me: “What brings you to Haiti?” Orange: “It’s my 5th trip. I love it here. We’re here to help folks in the North. We’re gonna teach ’em how to plant food. We brought seeds last time, but …

The Haiti Chicken Dance

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Greta and I walked to the bus stop this morning. She was tired and cross and refused soft hugs. We waited in silence under the bright stars. After a minute she reached for my hand and I squeezed it tight. The bus pulled up. She let me hug her twice and said, “just a very small Chicken Dance today, Mama” before climbing up the steps and watching me out the window. The last time I flapped my wings we were high in the mountains of Haiti. Greta and I did the Chicken Dance with the students, teachers, and community at the Haiti Partners Children’s Academy. Here are some pictures: Here’s the video! https://youtu.be/Icbti-SXILM Never in a million years would I have dreamed up this silly story. I’ve been laughing and shaking my head about it for almost 2 months. I dance in the dark at my daughter’s bus stop. I pledge to do it in a chicken suit and let it be recorded if people donate to Haiti Partners. Over $10,500 is donated! Greta and I fly to …

A Little Note About Worrying

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Today I’m flying home from Haiti with Greta. I can’t wait to share stories of what we saw and heard. In the meantime, here is a little note about Worrying, because as I packed for the trip, worry was sneaking and swirling all around me.  Most of the time sleep comes easily for me. I am so ready to crash after 18 hours of busy life every day. The thing that keeps me awake some nights, though, is pain. A few years ago complications from a hospital procedure left me bedridden in massive pain for 11 days. I couldn’t sleep. I saw my pain, my inability to handle it, and the brokeness that required the procedure as failings. This led to a long rabbit trail of shame and shoulds, long into the early morning hours. I tried to conquer those thoughts with a list of things I could control, like a to-do list. But then Jesus interrupted me. Me: Tomorrow I need to write that email to the moms. I need to call the doctor for the refill. …

A Playlist for Surrendering

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This year I’m trying to learn how to Surrender. These songs are guiding me through my Year of Living Dangerously and our trip to Haiti. (I’ve linked each song to iTunes if you want to give them a listen.  Peace be with you.)   Get Up Jonah – Bruce Cockburn   All Your Words Are Good – Sandra McCracken   I’m Still In Love With You – Al Green   God Demonstrates – Harvest   Shilo – Peter Himmelman   The Goodness – John Mark McMillan   Some Clear Joy is Coming – Innocence Mission   Something – Harrod and Funck   I Like to be Me When I’m With You – Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors   You’re Enough – Sleeping At Last   Sarah is Rising – Alex DuPree and the Trapdoor Band   We’re Gonna Pull Through – Over the Rhine   Sweet River Roll – Waterdeep   I Shall Not Want – Audrey Assad   Friend of Mine – Edie Brickell and Steve Martin   None But Thee – Young Oceans   Low Rising – Swell Season   Praise You – Fat Boy Slim   Home – Billy Joel   Song …

Heat

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Tomorrow Greta and I go to Haiti. We are so excited. I expect to learn a lot. I expect it to be life changing. I expect it to be very hot and very humid. It is the number one thing I am stressed about. — A HISTORY OF AIMEE & HEAT —  December 1995 – Austria (previously shared here) Chris: “I would love to do economic development in Cambodia, Thailand or Vietnam.” Me: “I can’t do that. It’s too hot. I’m afraid of it being that hot.” Chris: “But what if that’s what God calls us to do?” Me: “I don’t think God would call us to do that. I never even want to move to the South in the States. It’s too hot and gross. No way.” March 1997 – Oak Park, Illinois Chris: “Aim, why are you so stressed out today? What’s wrong?” Me: “I’m thinking about the summer. It’s going to be so hot here. We have no air conditioning.  What are we going to do?” Chris: “There’s still snow on the ground.” Me: “But it’s …

Bad Dancing

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I am not a good dancer. I thought I was. As a girl I would leap down the hallway and imagine my outstretched legs were parallel with the floor. I was a swan, a deer, a sugar plum fairy. I did the positions and barre work in class, but my favorite was always the free dance at the beginning. The classical music would crescendo and I just knew I would be discovered. The teacher would gasp and say, “Aimée! You’re a star! Darling, you’re just too good for the rest of us.” Instead one day I was really going for it, spinning and leaping, imagining the stage, and the teacher said, “Aimee. That is NOT ballet. Enough. Please come to the barre.” I lowered my chin and joined the class. From then on, that woman, and ballet, were dead to me. When it came time to sign up for the next session my mom pointed above the desk, “The sign says, ‘We Dance for Joy!’ Do you dance for joy?” Flat and resolute I said, “No. I …

Giving Birth

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My mom was a Lamaze instructor. I grew up dropping dolls through a pelvis model on our green shag carpet. I fell asleep hearing expectant couples practice “hee-hoo” breathing. I watched birth movies. My mom even coached our mean cat Susie when she delivered 4 kittens on her bedspread. Blood poured down my mom’s hand after Susie bit her. In serene, hippy, 70’s style Mom said, “Susie’s just in pain right now. It’s okay.” I watched from the doorway, eyes huge. I always assumed I’d have a baby. When we finally got pregnant after years of infertility and all the gazillion dollar interventions, it was twins. I surrendered to this massive endeavor, happily eating pounds of bacon and Walker shortbread cookies. My belly swelled ripe and proud. Then it just gave up at 25 weeks and decided to eject the babies. I spent the next 10 weeks in and out of the hospital trying to to keep those babies inside. Miserable and terrified, I was forced to submit to the strange prison of strict bedrest. When we and our extensive …

A Gentleman’s Invitation

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I started this long story of Surrender on an airplane. I realized that I had life-changing faith not just in a flight crew of strangers but also in God. Hours later God leveraged that reclaimed faith by offering my husband a job that required a major move. This new job was going to be in Georgia. I was hoping for the majestic Pacific Northwest, but instead we were given the sweaty Southeast. Flashback 20 years, Chris and I are dating, dreaming big over schnitzel and knödel in the vineyards of Austria: Chris: “I would love to do economic development in Cambodia, Thailand or Vietnam.” Me: “I can’t do that. It’s too hot. I’m afraid of it being that hot.” Chris: “But what if that’s what God calls us to do?” Me: “I don’t think God would call us to do that. I never even want to move to the South in the States. It’s too hot and gross. No way.” Chris: [secretly touches the engagement ring in his pocket and wonders if he can actually marry such a high-maintenance …

My Surrender Begins

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My surrender began with shame. Maybe I was suddenly struck with Seasonal Affective Disorder, but one winter afternoon I wrote out everything I hated about myself. I felt compelled to do it. My personality flaws. My bad habits. My chronic anger and fatigue. The mean and careless things I said. Some highlights: short temper anxiety despair/doom/depression lack of self-control (words, food, drink, money) desire for control over sensitive senses self-imposed pressure given in to pressures of the world About my parenting I journaled: “I don’t want to be like this. I wish I was different. I bring fear and anxiety into my home. I model hopelessness. I’m not consistent with nurture and grace. I yell 363 days a year. I don’t diffuse the bombs the world puts in their backpacks. I make C4 for breakfast.” I imagined a hidden camera had been in my house and I confessed to everything crappy thing I said, did, thought, and hoped for. I did it like my life depended on it. Words and exclamation points of confession all over …

January 28th

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During the Polar Vortex days of January Chris worked hard, traveled lots, and looked for a new job. The kids read under blankets when school was cancelled. I drank hot tea, ate too many tater tots, and researched danger. Researching is my favorite phase. Anything is possible, information is everywhere, and it’s too soon to act. God’s crazy message of “2015: THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY!!” might be about stepping into courage and away from fear, but I didn’t know how to do that. Then I read this one snowy morning: “What is the most needed, yet the most dangerous prayer you could ever pray? It is the one prayer that takes you beyond the small-picture hopes and dreams that kidnap so much of your prayers. It is all right to pray about your job, marriage, family, finances, house, children, retirement, vacation, investments, church, health, government and the weather, but it is not enough. This kind of prayer follows the “right now-me” model of prayer…Yes, God cares about your present life….But he calls you to view …

Context

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I avoid danger in all forms. Like a normal person. I don’t eat weird food. I don’t climb tall ladders. I don’t sky dive. I like to read books and cook comfort foods. We want our home to be a “Safe Place” for people to come rest and be themselves. Becoming a parent made me an expert on danger. My babies were always seconds from certain death: the stairs, outlets, boiling water, food not cut small enough. The world was one big death trap for my toddlers: fast cars, strange dogs, big waves, kidnappers in the Target. How many times do young parents say, “nobody died today!” only half joking? And you parents of teens with drivers licenses and sketchy boyfriends and internet predators? It’s exhausting. Smart people run from danger and train their kids to as well. So I wasn’t very excited about God’s loud new message for me: “2015: THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY!!” It didn’t make sense. I kept asking about it in my prayer journal: “What does ‘Living Dangerously’ mean?  What are you asking me …

Food Poisoning

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God talks to me. We have a big conversation every year between Christmas and New Year’s. It’s not like tea with the Queen where I’m in a new dress with notes on index cards. It’s more like a pitiful bedside chat with a doctor when I smell bad and feel like I’m dying. Last year, we talked after Food Poisoning. Chris and I met friends at a little Mexican place. It was delicious. I went crazy with exotic drinks, appetizers and beef tacos. I haven’t had beef tacos since. And I don’t think Chris has either. In the middle of the night he overheard my body removing the beef tacos both ways and stepped into the bathroom assuming I was being murdered. I was weeping and retching and begged him to leave the bathroom if we were ever going to have sex again. He later helped me back into bed. He showed me the bucket and path of towels next to the bed and ran out of the room to wash his hands and sleep on the couch. I …

Held

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In February I felt safe. I woke up early one morning, got a soy latte with a mangled Starbucks version of my name on it, and boarded a plane. I was deliciously alone, playing hooky from my 3 kids, on my way to a Girls Weekend with my mom and sister in San Francisco. I leaned back smiling, looked out the window, and felt deeply content. And because I can’t leave well enough alone, I tried to figure out why. I let a fear montage of 9/11 and “Air Force One” clips go through my mind.  I countered with some clips from “Airplane!” I thought of my poor husband and frantic kids trying to find shoes and library books before school. I remembered I would be back reporting for duty soon enough. I was flying.  At O’Hare I walked down a tunnel, sat down, put on a fat seatbelt, and then climbed into the sky.  I was being held in the air, above the clouds.  Past where the birds go.  Thousands of feet above houses and cars, above marriages and parking tickets.  Prairie farmlands …

Don’t Touch My Face (Ash Wednesday)

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One of my favorite childhood memories happened on Ash Wednesday. My mom took us to mass at St. Joes, we got ashes on our foreheads, and then went out to breakfast even though school had already started. I don’t remember the church service or any conversation. I only remember my pretty mom across the booth from me in the diner with the smudged cross on her forehead, and imagined mine looked exactly the same. I felt loved and proud. I belonged, to my mom and to my church. I was set and solid inside. A few years later we moved across the country and no longer went to the Catholic church. We didn’t celebrate Ash Wednesday. I felt relieved. By this point I had a Problem. And there was no way I could go to Ash Wednesday with it. The thought of a priest looking right at me, seeing my Problem, and maybe touching it made me shudder. My Problem was that I had bumps on my face. Blemishes, acne, zits, whatever. They were my greatest shame. I …

Valentine’s Day Sucks

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As a child, Valentine’s Day meant one thing: Red Hots. I loved those smooth, shiny cinnamon hearts. I ate them until my fingers were stained red and my tongue lost feeling. I ate a pound of red hots in one day a few years ago, as an old lady, and got a stomach ache. So now this delightful holiday treat is ruined for me. As a late-blooming junior higher Valentine’s Day meant one thing:  Confusion. Some of my classmates were giggling and sneaking kisses and basking in the glow of being chosen by a boy with three mustache hairs and body odor. I didn’t get it. I felt embarrassed that I wasn’t chosen, and assumed something must be wrong with me because I didn’t want to be. As an earnest but cynical high schooler (I was a delight!) Valentine’s Day meant one thing: Shame. I wasn’t in love. I liked boys who didn’t like me. I didn’t like the boys who liked me.  I think this is a universal part of high school, but it felt personal. Every single time …

Grace and Effort on MLK Weekend

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Last week I cheerily encouraged all of us to move forward with our Asking, Listening, and Researching for the Family Compassion Focus we’ve chosen.  I admitted my family needed a January Checkpoint, too, because we hadn’t started either.  And then I shared my sunny, hopeful plan for a cozy family time of learning, something like Little House on the Prairie, but with the internet. Wow.  That did not happen.  You guys, it didn’t happen at all. On Friday my kids didn’t have school.  I don’t remember a lot of that day except for many loud children running around constantly asking for snacks and more screen time.  I struggled to show Compassion to the people I call my own.  It would have been ridiculous to suggest that my kids use the laptop for researching Haiti instead of playing another hour of Plants vs. Zombies. On Saturday I had a mini nervous breakdown from the nonstop noise, entropy, and expectations ricocheting all over my house.  So much Effort required.  So little Grace to be found.  There was a lot of misdirected anger …

Called to Compassion – Since the Earthquake in Haiti

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[Part Three of a three-part story about what happened when my kids decided we should “Help Haiti” in 2010.]  Recap of the previous two posts about Compassion and the Earthquake in Haiti:   Five years ago a catastrophic 7.0 quake struck Haiti.  My five year old twins heard about it and wanted to help.  This was new.  We tried to listen and equip them to try something.  We did a little bake and craft sale with a $500 goal.  Our friends, neighbors, school, church, and facebook community responded with lavish generosity.  We became a bridge for sending $33,000 to Haiti that year.  It was completely unexpected.  [For the full scoop read “Compassion Catapult – The Earthquake in Haiti” and “Contagious Compassion – The Earthquake in Haiti.”]   Whenever people hear this crazy story they have lots of great questions: Why do you think this happened? Why did your kids want to do something? Why did the school want to help?  Why did you keep saying Yes? Why was it so contagious? Why did it get so big? I have the same questions. I think these are deep Soul questions.  Based in …

Listening

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In January we are hoping to ask questions and research our Family Compassion Focus.  We will slowly gather information to make a broad foundation for a year of loving and serving new people in new, intentional ways. You are asking so many questions.  Asking your kids to help.  Asking your partner for ideas.  Asking the internet for links.  Asking yourself to try new things.  Asking Facebook friends for connections.  Asking the librarian to give you the right books.  You’re doing a lot of talking, a lot of doing, asking all these questions. Are you listening? Are you listening to your partner when they share worries about doing a Compassion Focus, trying to figure out how to fit one more thing into their busy days? Are you listening to your kids when they ask really hard questions about human suffering, the character of God, and why there are “bad guys”? Are you listening to your heart when it beats faster?  When you feel it all the way in your ears?  When you read something so intense …

Fallow Fields

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God asked me to empty my pockets and buy a fallow field. On a cold January morning in an empty house I was praying as I put away socks and wiped counters. A few weeks into the new year I was still asking, “God, what do you want me to do this year?” I already knew. A vivid dream had lurched me awake and then was translated and confirmed by loving friends. But I was playing dumb.

Dangerous Christmas

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I scared some kids at church today. In the sermon our pastor spoke about the vintage passage in Luke 1 where the angel tells Mary, “Do not be afraid.” How many times have we heard that story? So many. From there he told stories from his trip to Jos, Nigeria this month. Boko Haram (the vicious terrorist group that kidnapped all those school girls this summer) has infiltrated Jos. There was a bombing in the market while he was there. Danger is all around. Another story was about watching a group of strong women loving, serving and praying over 60 orphans. They wanted to specifically reach out to kids that had witnessed their parents being killed. Twenty five of the 60 came forward. Dear God. The women literally circled them and loudly loved them with the audacity to believe their broken hearts will be restored. This question pressed into my heart throughout the message: “is it possible to live for more than safety?” Here in Wheaton, and there in Jos? So many of my decisions …

Little Rainbows

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The sun is out! Hallelujah! Every year I put these beautiful Swarovski crystal ornaments on branches. It’s a tradition. My parents give us one each year (since 1995). My kids love how they fill the room with rainbows. Normally I put them up quickly at the same time we do our tree and there’s lots of chaos and I beg the kids not to help me so they won’t break. It’s not very cheery, or holy, or reflective, or fun. Last week on one of our many gray afternoons I slowly hung them when I was alone in the house. Each one has the year on it (1995-2014). I was filled with deep memories and visceral emotions as I pulled each one out of their safe little boxes. 1995- the year my mom bought me the first one in Salzburg, Austria in the middle of the Sound of Music tour (groan) and the day before Chris proposed on the edge of the Vienna Woods (unquenchable joy) 1996- our first married Christmas 1998- life altering car accident 2001- quit …