My desire to blog started when I noticed over and over how many of my young teenage friends (mostly those I met through TEC weekends) were posting Bible verses, praise to God, and prayer requests. Though I knew from talking with them how many of them had strong relationships with God, it was (and is) inspirational to me to read Facebook status updates about their spiritual walks.
That's when I realized that I have not been the transparent Christian that I need to be.
My daughter Kaylee often tells me I'm weird. I just laugh. That's just a family trait, one that she has as well.
One of Kaylee's hobbies is to study people's reactions. In fact, many of our outings could be seen as sociological experiments. She enjoys entering stores or other public places wearing her hillbilly teeth. As part of the fun, my role is to walk 20 feet behind her so I can give her the report about the reactions she receives from people after they've passed her. Recently, she asked me to take her to the hardware store to buy an ax, duct tape, bleach, rope, and a shovel—just so she can see the clerk's response. No, I haven't done it (yet).
Yesterday was a frustrating day. I enjoy learning how to do new things, but right then I was feeling inept and unequipped for the tasks that were before me. As I dwelt on it (and my attitude began its expected downward loop), I compared it to learning a new vocabulary word when I was a kid, only to find out that the definition of the word I was looking up included three more words that I didn't comprehend.
Early this morning, I awoke to mull over yesterday's emotions and feel sorry for myself. I decided I really just need my Swiss Army knife.
My Swiss Army knife is no simple Swiss Army knife. It's a fancy one. It has a magnifying glass, scissors, Phillips screwdriver, regular screwdriver, pen, ruler, fingernail file, and a toothpick, among many others.1 The truth is, I don't even know what half of the tools are, but at least I'm ready!
Today I have no metaphors for you. Today I want to offer you an invitation.
This is a picture of our new sanctuary. This sanctuary was built not only because our congregation wanted more space. We built it so we can grow a community of believers.
When you come to our church, you won't find a lot of perfect people. In fact, you won't even find one. You'll find the broken, the healing, and the redeemed. You'll find hypocrites. You'll find saints. You'll find a group of people who know that they are going to heaven, and you'll find others who just aren't sure yet. You'll find those who seek to know more answers and those who rest in a simple assurance of salvation.
We're fixing things up a bit at my house. Jerome and I decided our teenage daughter needs the room with two closets, not our son who is at college. While we're in the process of moving them, we figured we may as well add some fresh paint.
I hired a couple of painters, but before they could paint, I had to do the prep work. In one room, I took off the wallpaper border, and in the process of getting the stubborn stuff off the wall, some of the paint came down with it, leaving a nasty, uneven mess. I decided to patch it up myself using spackling paste.
Let me stop here. Have I told you that I'm not very handy? I take a little pride in not requiring my husband to do everything. After all, I can read directions as well as the next person. So I patched. I ran a wet washcloth over my work when I was done and thought that I had made it fairly even.
As I read through Facebook updates and hear so many of my friends struggle through tough times, I simply don't have any words so many need. I can, however, share a song that has meant a lot to me. Peace be with you.
If you sat down and looked your favorite teachers in the eye, they would most likely tell you that their worst year of teaching was their first and that, of all college courses, they learned the most during their student teaching.
I frequently wonder what happened to those poor students I taught in that year and a half. They were really guinea pigs who taught me a lot more than what I taught them.
Last night as I sat at the table eating an apple with Elijah, he looked up at me and said, "Mom, I can understand that plants make fruit, but what I really can't understand is how the flavor gets in there." Of course, I sat there stunned for a moment before I could even come up with the simple response that I didn't know, either. In fact, it's not just that I don't know the answer to that; I don't think I've even thought of the question before.
Last month I had the opportunity to visit one of my family's favorite vacation spots. This time, right up there on the fun-things-to-do agenda was water skiing. Taking pictures from the shore, my sister, brother-in-law, and I chatted as we watched our kids in the boat and on the skis. As my nephew fell into the water following his turn, my brother-in-law turned around and began to snicker and point. There in the window above us was my mom. As she stood there, eyebrows knit together, her worry about their safety was obvious.
Last week, according to major news stories, Pat Robertson claimed that if a person's spouse has Alzheimer's disease, divorce is acceptable. I am confident that he is wrong.
When my dad was 60 years old, he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease. Since Dad's mom and brother had previously died from the disease, the diagnosis was hardly a shock to us, yet no amount of preparation can prepare a family for what Alzheimer's does. Dad retired because of it, and he and my mom moved to Sioux Falls where he could be cared for more easily. Since she is younger by seven years, Mom continued (and still continues) to work.
Have you ever driven somewhere only to realize that you only remember half the trip?
I used to drive 18 miles to work in Hawarden. On the way to and fro, my mind would get lost in my plans. Those 18 miles were an escape, a time to think. Unfortunately, I wasn't always thinking quite enough about driving.
One odd mile and a quarter-long stretch of road had two stop signs. These signs were in the middle of nowhere, just a place where various roads met up in an unusual configuration.
On this particular day, I noticed that a lady was trying to flag me down, and she was anything but happy with me. "Do you realize you just ran that stop sign?" she asked.
I had no idea at all. I rarely saw more than five cars on my way to work each morning, so evidently I was allowing myself to zone out while driving that particular stretch of lonesome road.
My mouth fell open. How to respond? I thought. After a moment, I told her no, I didn't realize I'd run the stop sign and then proceeded to offer profuse thanks for stopping me to tell me. It was her turn to let her jaw drop.
That woman (whose name I did not ask) could very well have saved my life or another person's life. I think we all know people who have died after running stop signs or have been T-boned by someone who has made that mistake. It had to take a little bravery on her part to stand up to me, someone whom she didn't know, and someone who probably could have responded in an entirely different way.
Unfortunately, it's not always that easy. It's much more convenient to act defiant and defensive, especially when someone holds me accountable for something that I know is true. I need to remember, though, that holding someone accountable in a loving way (and trust me, loving is the operative word) is loyal. It is true. It is just.
Being judgmental and holding someone accountable are two completely different things. Being judgmental is complaining about someone without giving him a chance to improve. Being judgmental makes forgiveness and reconciliation difficult. Accountability, on the other hand, shows the other person that you know he is capable of being better, of becoming a bigger person. Holding someone accountable is humbling both for the giver and the receiver.
Keep this mind next time someone who cares about you approaches you with the difficult task of holding you accountable. Remember that in doing so, he is considering you worthy of the personal cost.
At age seven, my son is an incredibly fussy eater. Peanut butter sandwiches, strawberries, pancakes, chicken nuggets, grapes, raw carrots, french fries, and fresh bread are his favorites, but he refuses to eat baked potatoes, sweet corn and other cooked vegetables, noodles, soup, or casseroles.
Yes, I've spoiled him. Yes, it has to stop. While I've been complimented many times on what a kind boy I have, this is his weak spot.
Fussy eating affects his nutrition, but just as importantly, it affects his relationship with others. It's rude not to eat what is prepared for him. Most of all, expecting special meals teaches him that he deserves to be catered to, and that's just not okay.
We know that we have to change his habits for him because he will never choose to do so on his own. We've tried many things, from the two bite rule to the you-can't-have-anything-else-until-you-eat-that rule. Tonight my son is in bed and has had nothing since his after-school snack.1 I feel guilty, but I know that a little discomfort now will save a lot of frustration later.
Sometimes I, too, want what I want—well, just because I want it. Like my sweet but slightly ornery Elijah, I expect to be catered to in my own selfish ways. Sometimes I've prayed for things to change for no other reason than to make life easier for me. While I believe that God wants to hear from me every moment of every day, I do not believe that I can force God to provide for every prayer request.
He has a bigger, better plan.
Similar to a fussy eater, I want to choose my experiences. While moments of my life have tasted a little more like liver and onions than strawberry pie, I still have lessons to learn even from those days that aren't exactly what I ordered.
I can be thankful that I have a God who understands my needs more than I do.
1He finally got out of bed an hour later and ate everything on his plate. Success!
One of my first years of teaching, I assigned my freshmen to write book reports. One of the stipulations, I said, was that they had to include information about the authors. One freckle-faced freshman popped in to my room a few days later after school. "Mrs. V., I can't find any information about this author. I looked on the flap where you told us to, but there's nothing there." I took the book from her hands and turned it over. It was The Story of My Life by Helen Keller.
It is one of the stories from teaching that I enjoy retelling; I love remembering our laughter after we realized how silly the question was. It reminds me, though, of what people say about God. How can God be here? Why doesn't He talk to me? How do you know He exists?
We have more than a book with his name in it. For me, all I have to do is look at the wonders of creation: the pureness of a blue sky, the majesty of mountains, the magic of plant growth, the abundance of life in the oceans, the love of a child. I look at those things and think, how can there not be a God?
We have His story and His creation. How much more convincing could we possibly need?
Some of my best lessons have come from my family members and friends. Today I'm not providing you with my own insight but the insights of those who have taught me much. I am only including initials so I don't embarrass anyone. I am firmly convinced that most of these people don't even realize that they've taught me something, so if you recognize your initials, thanks for being a positive example to me.
1. All you have to say is "no." H.Z.
2. No one is responsible for your happiness but you. N.V.
3. Sing...loud. D.T.
4. If you don't think you have time to help someone, think again. J.F.
5. Be generous in all you do. J.V.
6. Family first. R.G.
7. Forgive and then forgive again. C.V.
8. Have compassion especially on those who cannot defend themselves. B.B.
9. Keep it real. M.R.
10. If you say "yes" to one thing, remember that you are saying "no" to something or someone else. H.Z.
11. What doesn't kill you will only make you stronger. M.V.
12. Patience teaches more than irritation does. M.K.
13. Judge the sin, not the sinner. S.T.
14. Take time to giggle. E.V.
15. It really doesn't matter what others think of you as long as you know you're doing the right thing. K.V.
16. If it's not in your beliefs, don't make excuses. Just don't do it. W.E.
17. People trust you more if you're not perfect, either. A.R.
18. One well-placed comment is more humorous than a rehearsed joke. R.H.
19. Men can cook. J.F.
20. There are two things a person should never try to save money on: shoes and mattresses. J.T. (Okay, that was John Tesh, and he is not my friend.)
21. If someone asks you for the truth, tell it to him even if it hurts a little. G.V.
22. Sometimes the best thing a friend can do is listen. K.P.
My role at work is to fix mistakes. From removing the extra space that people sometimes put between sentences to fact checking to revising wording, my job is to make sure that copy is as accurate as possible before it leaves my desk. Of course, I'm more successful at some times than others, but that was the focus of previous blog.
Now, I happen to work with an exceptional group of people. Their creativity simply stuns me. I sometimes envy those talents, but I don't know that I could ever perform like they do, with creativity on demand.
Occasionally I wish that my editing job could be a little more glamorous. I feel a little like Walter Mitty, daydreaming about the ways my role could feel a little more heroic. Perhaps I could have a plane fly over with a sign that says, "1,000th Fix!" Okay, I am being facetious.
I'll admit that once in a while, the error-fixing and wording improvements get tedious. Sometimes I really want to roll my eyes and say, "Really? Again?"1 At those times, God allows me to run something with a mistake so I have to acknowledge that I'm not perfect either. (Thanks, God — I think.)
Tonight these all-too-human feelings of self-pity have led me to remember another fixer. This particular fixer accepted the weight of the world's sin as He staggered under the weight of the cross on the road to Golgotha. This fixer allowed Himself to be persecuted and in the midst of it all cried out, "Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing" (Luke 23:34a).
This fixer offers forgiveness of sins to all who call upon His name.
Jesus Christ makes me realize just how insignificant of a fixer I am. Though I am sometimes tempted to point out errors (okay, not just point them out—but point them out with attitude), that's when God nudges me and reminds me that I need to work on fruits of the Spirit, including self-control.
Thanks be to God that He's not just forgiving...but persistently so.
1Disclaimer: Yes, I did already admit in a previous blog that I'm impatient at times. Still working on it.
My seven-year-old son brings a tremendous amount of joy to my life. Recently as he was playing with his Matchbox cars, he held up a yellow car that had the word Charger written on it and said, "You know, I thought this was a Dodge Charger, but look!" He turned over this car as well as about five others. "They are all Thailands."
After I explained that Thailand is where the cars were made, we chuckled about it together. Now I can't help but make another metaphor. (It's a weakness. Please bear with me.)
Matchbox cars aren't that much different from people.
Sometimes I look at someone who seems to have it all: new car, beautiful home, nuclear family, but when I look at the family from a different perspective, I realize that things aren't as right as they seem. The family is in deep debt, the marriage is rocky, or one child's health is deteriorating.
I sometimes forget that we're all the same and judge a person's worth by how he appears on the outside—not merely physical appearance, but prestige and reputation as well.
As Christians, especially, it's so important that we remember that we have all come from the same place—a dark, hurting place that was once apart from God. We like to show everyone our shiny exteriors, the ones with the name brand clothing, the cool job, or the college degrees. We love the illusion of perfection. Instead, we just need keep in mind that deep down, we're all Thailands, saved by the amazing grace of the One who came to tell us that we are special not because we're better, but because we're His.
Today I joked with a friend that I should have named my blog "Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda" because I felt that my first four blog posts had taken on more negativity and sadness than what I wanted. I would love to tell you that I just don't do negative, but I do have my days!
One of my infamous roles in our house is the clutter Nazi. No, my kids didn't give me that name, and I'll thank you not to mention it to them. Anyway, very few things irk me so me much as when I've been at work and come home to a recently demolished living room, a sink full of crusty dishes, or a laundry room floor covered in dirty laundry.
I've been known to walk in the door, and the first words that come out of my mouth are, "Who left these shoes here? Whose glass is that sitting on the table? Do you guys think I'm just here to pick up after you?" No "hello." No "I love you." Instead, the first words that spill from my mouth are condemnation for what hasn't been done.
Have I told you that patience isn't really one of my virtues? It's not that I'm a neat freak; I'm a little messy myself. What I am is a responsibility freak. When my temper rises, my kids don't jump their feet to fix everything. (Keep in mind: this happens too often.) When I'm quick to anger, they just think I'm mean.
No matter how much I try to hand everything over to God, I have to admit that I need to accept that I have full control of my attitude. My attitude is a choice that I make every day—every minute—and regardless of my current circumstances, the moods of those around me, or even the cleanliness of my house, I need to keep it in check.
I'm convinced that my kids will forget that I'm a reluctant cook, and I'm pretty sure that they won't care that my garden is overrun with weeds. The memories my children and other people around me will keep are the feelings that I left with them: whether, on a daily basis, I made them feel valued or worthless.
During my teaching years, I was blessed to work with well over 1,200 students. Those students have now grown up to be engineers, teachers, business managers, dads, moms, and yes, even fast food workers. Even though the great majority of those students grew up to become productive members of society, others have struggled.
No one argues that teachers can sometimes predict the outcome of a student's life. Socioeconomic factors, academic performance, and behavior often hint at the student's future, but not always.
I remember being surprised when one summer, after paying the Soil Conservation District to come out and plant a grove of trees, I watched one particular student outwork the others around him. I was shocked. The student who had trouble even sitting still at his desk was working harder than the rest. He seemed to appreciate the physical labor.
At the same time, some students who seemed to have limitless possibilities before them wound up struggling through adult life, whether it was with alcohol, drugs, or the law.
The main reason that I quit teaching was that I was simply burned out: exhausted, overwhelmed, and badly in need of a break. I realized that I couldn't save enough kids, no matter how great my intentions were, and that unfulfilled desire wore this teacher out.
Do you notice a little problem there? It's too easy when working in a service profession to forget who's in charge, and it certainly wasn't me! People are saved through Jesus Christ, not through Mrs. V. or any other well-meaning, hardworking teacher.
I wish I would have spent less time thinking about giving up and more time giving my students up in prayer.
Today I'm praying for all those students, that they may find lives full of meaning and blessings and that they may recognize that they each have a calling to fulfill. For any former students who may be reading this, thanks for the memories.
I have never had too much trouble with self-expression or for letting others into the often personal details of my life. Especially with writing, I tend to tell all (well, almost) and hope that by being real, others can feel comfortable being real with me as well.
The only way to truly know me is by understanding the moments of my life that changed me. Now, I would love to tell you that those moments are always when you find me at my best. That would not be true. Often I find myself being the most in tune with God when I am at my lowest. When I'm moving along, confident with every step I'm taking, I sometimes forget to acknowledge Him. On December 13, 2007, I began a new journey, one that enabled me to look at God's presence in my life.
At about 11 a.m. on a school day, my husband, my pastor, and my boss sat me down to tell me that my brother had taken his own life. My brother had been struggling with personal problems, though I had mostly told myself that this rough time he was going through would be solved the same way his troubles were always solved: in his own time and in his own way.
My defining moment isn't about suicide, and although I miss Dean every day, it isn't really even about my brother. I can tell you that the next year was a blur for me with entire days spent in tears. One of the things that I most remember most, though, is that God spoke to me.
I had lots of experience with God's still, small voice. Not satisfied with that, I always asked God for a burning bush or a lightning bolt: any clear, constant direction for all parts of my life but felt frustrated when I didn’t see those signs.
In the darkness of those nights following Dean’s death, after my husband and children were long asleep, I would cry and count all the ways that I had failed, and I would talk to my brother, asking him how he could do this to me. Somewhere in the early morning hours, I would finally succumb to sleep.
The loud music woke me up. Not one night—not two nights—but many nights.
When I'd open my eyes, the music would melt away, back into the silence of a sleeping house, but the beautiful words and accompaniment to "Praise You in This Storm" and "It Is Well with My Soul" gave me immeasurable solace and eventually, peace.
My friends, students, and family were the hands and feet of Christ, comforting me during my daylight hours, but God Himself was present for me when I needed Him most.
Before you're on your way, please take a moment to listen to the songs and hear God sweetly speaking to you as well.
Yesterday Caleb moved back to his college dorm, and today I’m making the four-hour trek to deliver his car to him. I’ll admit that I’m feeling some trepidation as I begin this day. I haven't forgotten how I felt last year following freshman move-in day.
According to the story in 1 Kings 3, there was once a king named Solomon who made judgments on the disagreements between his people. When two women came to him, both claiming to be the mother of a baby, Solomon told the women that he would have the child cut in two, giving each woman half. Of course, the real mom would allow no such thing and quickly gave up her claim on the child, which resulted in Solomon’s ruling that she was the rightful parent.
I have no doubt that Solomon was a wise man blessed by God, but the one who intrigues me is the mother. How difficult it must have been for her to give up her rights to her baby no matter how much she knew that giving him up was necessary for his protection.
I question whether I can apply that same measure of love, allowing my children to grow up, make mistakes, and even experience success apart from me.
Letting go began the moment Caleb began to walk. It continued when we encouraged him to deal with playground squabbles himself and when, after delivering forgotten homework to the school for the umpteenth time, I told him that if he forgot again, I wouldn’t bail him out by dropping off his work. The steps were incremental, but the result of it all is starting to sink in.
Even though this process is hard—and likely harder on Caleb than it is on me—I know that relinquishing him to God’s plan is simply the right thing to do.
Caleb will always have not just a place in our home, but his place as a member of our family, and I will continue to feel that a part of my heart is missing when he is not here. I know, though, that by letting go of my son, I’m freeing him to meet his calling, wherever that may take him. Today I simply pray that he feels God’s presence and guidance on along the way.
It's 1:47 a.m. as I type this entry. When I woke up about 30 minutes ago, the first thought on my mind—what I feel literally woke me up—was that annoying lowercase letter that I left in a headline at work. The headline? "Meet your Team." It was held up in a flash as an example of good work. Instead of being proud, I cringed as I read that headline. For the hours I spent on that project, all it took was one glance, and in my mind, that project is ruined. I had made a mistake.
A little while ago, I was relieved as I noticed my husband get out of bed to make a bathroom trip. If he's awake, I'll be able to have a short conversation that will make me feel better. "Just go to sleep and quit thinking" was his answer. As he quickly relaxed into slumber again, I'll admit I felt a wee bit of jealousy. If only it were that easy.
Sometimes clarity of thought comes to me in the middle of the night:
Ephesians 2:4-10 says,
But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions--it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God's worksmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
Some people see perfectionism as a positive trait. I do not. Perfectionism is egotistical. It says, "I'm not quite worthy, but I can get there." Perfectionism draws attention away from God's grace and attempts to place it on our own accomplishments or lack thereof.
I really doubt that God sees a lowercase "y" as a sin. I could be wrong, but I think He is probably more concerned with my sleepless nights when I forget that He is Lord over all, that His grace is sufficient, and that I am His workmanship.
My feather pillow is calling me. For tonight, I'm done thinking about me.
My desire to blog started when I noticed over and over how many of my young teenage friends (mostly those I met through TEC weekends) were posting Bible verses, praise to God, and prayer requests. Though I knew from talking with them how many of them had strong relationships with God, it was (and is) inspirational to me to read Facebook status updates about their spiritual walks.
My daughter Kaylee often tells me I'm weird. I just laugh. That's just a family trait, one that she has as well.
One of my first years of teaching, I assigned my freshmen to write book reports. One of the stipulations, I said, was that they had to include information about the authors. One freckle-faced freshman popped in to my room a few days later after school. "Mrs. V., I can't find any information about this author. I looked on the flap where you told us to, but there's nothing there." I took the book from her hands and turned it over. It was The Story of My Life by Helen Keller.
