Say Okay

This fall, I have a student teacher.  Slowly, she’s been taking on more and more responsibility.  I’m backing off from involvement with the kids and focusing my energy on coaching Miss C.  When she’s teaching and the kids come to me for help, I point to Miss C. and tell them, “Ask your teacher.  Miss C. is in charge right now.”  This past week, Miss C. led all but one hour of the school day.  It was interesting to see the students test her boundaries. 

One day, the Reading Class was especially wild and basically ignored her directions.  A tall, blonde girl named Emilia repeatedly got out of her seat and wandered the classroom during a test.  Miss C. kept asking her to sit down and stop disturbing others.  Each time, Emilia had an excuse.  I’m trying hard to let Miss C. be the boss, but when Emilia talked back to Miss C. the fifth time, I looked up from my computer and busted out my authoritative voice.  

“Emilia, when a teacher asks you to do something, you say okay and do it.  That’s it.”  

Emilia’s eyes got wide and she quickly sat down.  Minutes later, she started to get up again.  I made eye contact, shook my head no, and she plopped back down.  I smiled and gave a thumbs up.  Emilia giggled and picked up her book to read.

Today at church, the pastor made time for listening prayer.  We were supposed to ask God what was getting in the way of serving Him fully.  When I prayed, I remembered this situation with Emilia.  I really want what’s best for Emilia.  When I used my authority with her, it wasn’t without a strong, intentional plan of helping her and others succeed at reading.  Emilia is not a blatantly disobedient kid.  She just likes to do things in her time and in her way, which unfortunately, keeps her from learning as best as she could.  The excuses are minor, but they add up to a lot of wasted class time.  I thought about how often I don’t outright say no to God, but like Emilia, I give a little excuse and flit around with my own avoidance habits.  I debate with Him and don’t trust His authority or purpose enough to respond when He nudges me.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home from church.  My mind was occupied with random stuff, like the magazine cover of Princess Kate Middleton, as I chose the shortest of the busy checkout lines.  When it was my turn, the checker barely acknowledged me.  Her head was down, and she worked in a kind of harried way.  

A phrase clearly popped into my head: “Looks like a busy day.  May I pray for you about anything?”  

It was weird.  My heartbeat sped up, which is usually my indicator that I’ve heard something from God.  This is where I typically start debating with Him about whether or not I actually heard from Him, or if I’m mistaken and about to embarrass myself.  

Another phrase came:  “When your teacher tells you to do something, you say okay.”  

My hands started to shake with nervousness.  The checker was still looking down, finishing scanning my groceries.  I asked God to give me a clear window to say what He put in my mind.  As the credit card processed, I spoke up.  

“It looks like you’re really busy today.  Is there anything I can pray for you about?”  

The checker stopped working and looked at me with intensity.  Her lower lip began to quiver.  

“Yes,” she said, fighting tears and going back to focusing on the cash register, “You can pray about something.  My brother just died.” 

“Okay, I’ll pray for you,” I said. “I think God told me to ask you that, so just know that He loves you.” 

I usually don’t get help out to the car, but the teenage bag boy insisted on taking my groceries for me.  He said he had to go outside and collect carts anyway.  

As we walked out, he said, “I never hear people do stuff like that.”  

I asked, “Do you believe in God?”  

He said yes, but that things were funky for him spiritually.  “I used to pray for people and even saw some miracles and stuff, but I don’t do that anymore.”  

I told him how nervous I had been to ask the checker about prayer.  He shared more about why it was tough for him to go to church.  Before he went back inside, I said, “Ben, don’t be afraid to pray for people.  God will use you.” 

I had to sit in my car for a while.  When I pray, I say I want God to speak to me and use me to help others.  When it actually happens, I'm scared to obey and then amazed that He actually did something.  On Thursday, I simply wanted Emilia to respect Miss C. and read.  Being a good reader is just a mundane, third grade expectation.  But over a lifetime, it will lead to tons of success and open doors for Emilia.  A grocery store trip is nothing special.  Saying okay to God instead of giving Him excuses matters.  I don’t know what the checker’s relationship with God is, or what she needed from Him, but I trust that God was very intentional in that situation.  I’m glad I said okay this time and I hope I have the willingness to say okay every time in the future.

John 15:14  "You are my friends if you do what I command."

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When You're Yearning For Your Yes

Seattle has a gluten free, vegan bakery called The Flying Apron.  I call it my World of Yes.  Living on a restricted diet means I have to scrutinize menus and ask lots of detailed questions before I can eat something at a restaurant.  The Flying Apron doesn’t use anything that will make me sick, so anything they offer is a yes.  That is a super delightful place to be.

When I went to college, a lot of girls were focused on getting married.  I’d always wanted to get married, but I was awkward around guys and my desire to travel took precedence at the time.  Being in lots of weddings (have you seen the movie “29 Dresses”?) didn’t bother me.  Time passed though.  I had a few relationships, lived in China, paid off school debt, and even got a Masters degree. One of those relationships got very close to marriage.  Weddings weren’t as easy after that. 

Similarly, I was one of those girls who grew up playing with dolls and babysitting.  I liked kids and saw myself being a mom someday, but had never had the internal need for it to happen right away.  I was content to hold a baby and then pass him back to his parents.  A few years ago, I flew out to Washington DC to visit a dear friend with a newborn.  I spent many hours holding her son and absolutely fell in love.  I had turned a corner.  I felt ready to be a mother and knew I’d be sad if it never happened.  Even when I traveled to Uganda, instead of the usual “Auntie”, a couple of the school girls started calling me “Mama”.  My 20-something self would have rejected that name, but my 30-something self savored the sound.  More than that, I received it as hope.  My heart wanted to mother those girls, to nurture what God created in them.  Whether I ever had a natural child or adopted, I knew I was meant to be “Mama”.

Comparison is a slippery slope when your heart knows what it wants.  I never stopped being happy for people who were getting married or having kids. I could separate what God was doing in my life from the paths others were on.  I was grateful and wouldn’t have traded lives or anything.  I just didn’t know if the desires of my heart would ever be answered or if I would eventually reconcile myself to what felt like compromises. 

I showed up to celebrate with beloved friends, but I stopped lining up to catch the bouquet.  Baby showers were kind of weird sometimes.   I always tried to sit by that one other single girl in the room who didn’t want to talk about sore breasts.    I was trying to find the balance between celebrating the yeses in other people’s lives and accepting that those things were “no’s” or “waits” in my own.  I’d get upset with God sometimes, thinking that there was something wrong with me.  One night, I read a Facebook birth announcement of a friend who’d named her child one of my favorite names.  It stung.  I wept bitterly, on my knees, and repeated over and over, “God, please let me be a mama.  Please.”  The tears turned into prayers for myself and a close friend in a similar stage of life.  I texted her: “You and I are going to be mamas someday.  I believe it.”  She wrote back, noting God’s timing with my text.  She had just accepted another baby shower invite and her heart was feeling the ache.

In the last year, a world of yes has opened up in my life.  I don’t know why.  I didn’t suddenly become this amazing, marry-able person that I hadn’t been before.  God just gave me Jeff.  Then, we decided to be open to having a family whenever.  A very short time later, I found out I was pregnant.  It’s so very sweet and good sometimes that I can hardly process it all.  It’s not that my life was bad and now it’s good.  It’s that the deepest, most sacred yearnings are being answered.  Compromise is not any part of the equation.  If anything, I’m getting far more and far better than I asked for.

I want to celebrate.  I want to fully feel this joy and talk about it with others.  But also, I haven’t traveled far from that Brooke who had the no’s in her reality.  I haven’t forgotten those feelings.  People I love  have lost babies.  Or, they are waiting month by month, hoping to be pregnant.  Or, they are sick to death of blind dates and just want to connect with that one person who’ll choose them forever.  No one has to compare themselves to anyone else, but all these feelings are real. 

So, today, I want to say to all who love me:  please join me in celebrating my miraculous yeses.  Please share joy with me, thank God with me....if you can.  I acknowledge that some days, some seasons, you just don’t want to go to a parade.  Parades suck if your heart is hurting.  If it’s more nurturing to your soul to not participate in what’s going on with me, I want you to do that.  I love you and know you love me too.  To those who went before me, this is what was going on with me when I didn’t stand up for your bouquet toss.  There is a season for everything under heaven and I stand with each of you in hope of all the yeses God is bringing to pass.

Losing Control

A zookeeper trapped in a cage of screeching monkeys flinging poo at each other. 

That’s the best way I can describe how I felt during yesterday’s Reading lesson.  The third grade classes have a system called Walk to Read, where our students go to the class that best fits their reading needs.  I teach the kids who are just below grade level ability.  A lot of them don’t like to read and have inventive avoidance tactics including (but not limited to):  wandering, interrupting, arguing, excuses, and hyperactive shenanigans. 

Yesterday afternoon, I had my Reading class for the second time that day.  It was the last half hour of school.  This is when the disruptive behaviors from earlier in the morning morphed into what I call Crazytown.   I was not in control, the lesson was going nowhere, and I flipped out.  Sitting in our Reading Corner rocking chair with the kids on the floor in front of me, I leaned forward for more intense eye contact.  They were going to listen and behave, darn it.  This position put pressure on my ever-expanding pregnant tummy and my sweet son began to protest with thumping kicks on my bladder.  Not fun.   I thought, “Knock it off!  I do not need you to kick me right now!”  Note:  it’s a good sign that you need to step back and calm down when you find yourself snapping at your unborn child.

I went home feeling irritable and defeated.  I want to be a life changer; to teach in such a way that kids are magnetized to the content and don’t even consider misbehaving.  With some of these kids, it seems like nothing I do has any effect on their learning or behavior. 

As I cooked dinner, I listened to a Joyce Meyer podcast.  She’s not one for cushy sympathy, which would have been nice at the time, but her words were potent.   We can be at total peace in any situation because God is in control.  Our job is to pray and let Him work.  That’s it.

So, this morning, I prayed.  Nothing wordy or profound, just an honest acknowledgement of God’s wisdom and an invitation for Him to take over.  Just before the reading kids came in, I felt His nudge to talk to the main offenders proactively.  The word on my heart was “leadership.”  While the others read at their seats, we met in the Reading Corner. 

“Are we in trouble?”  Carlos wanted to know.

“Yep!  We’re the blurters!” Emilia grinned as if she’d just won a prize.

“I promise I won’t interrupt today, Mrs. Arkills!” Juan blurted, then slapped a hand over his mouth.  The others giggled.  I took a deep breath.

“You’re here because you’re leaders,” I said, “Leaders are powerful.  They move others forward.  I see that in every one of you.”

They went quiet.

“Tell me what qualities a good leader should have.”

The kids were thoughtful.  They brainstormed a list and I recorded their ideas.  In their eyes, a leader says important things, helps others know what to do, participates, and is doing what they’re supposed to be doing.  I had each student choose one of those qualities as a goal for the day and write it on a Post-It.  At the bottom, they drew a number line of zero to three, which we would use to self-assess at the end of class.  I reminded the kids that change is tough and even progressing from a one to a two today would be a positive step.

I’ve never seen such a miraculous transformation.  All that hyperactivity and rudeness from yesterday was beautifully channeled towards showing others what to do.  As the kids listened to our story CD, Leslie and Carlos gently nudged their peers to stay on the correct page.  Later, I was leading a small group while everyone else did seat work.  Marcelino finished quickly and then walked from student to student, showing confused kids what to do.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  My thoughts were a continuous cycle of “Thank You, God….Thank You, God…..Thank You, God.” 

When reading class was over, my little group reconvened and discussed what happened. 

“Did you see how all the other kids followed your lead?” I asked.  “You are powerful and the whole class felt different today because of your hard work!”

Carlos and Marcelino both pointed out ways they hadn’t perfectly executed their goals.  They were kind of hard on themselves.  I told Carlos a specific way I’d noticed him communicating respectfully with another student and told him how proud I was.  He smiled and turned bright red.   This was the very same Carlos who gets sent back to his homeroom teacher nearly every day for disrespectful behavior. 

I know that every Reading class from here on may not feel as miraculous as this.  But, what if it did?  This could be my whole new approach to life's challenges.  God really, truly knows what to do.  The part that especially blows me away is how God’s way is so uplifting.  I have tried and tried to punish these kids.  Sadly, I hadn’t considered that they didn’t need to stop being so strong, but they needed to steer their stubborn, unyielding natures in a different direction.  Only God could have done something so amazing, and with such grace.

As I’ve been typing this, little boy inside has been having another one of his kick fests.  Keep kicking, dear one.  I’m at peace.  Mama’s learning how to pray.

Within Another's Heart Space

A year and a half ago, I was in Uganda for the third time.  My focus was training teachers but I also hoped to start a new project on the side.  I was compelled by people’s stories, especially women’s stories, and wanted to record them.  Before arriving, I’d done a bunch of research and discovered that story-telling is deeply connected with healing and reconciliation within families and communities.  I imagined walking from home to home in the village, notebook and pen in hand, with ladies excited to pour out their life stories.  In the future, I could see big groups of ladies coming together – maybe even from opposing tribes – and reconciling.  I was pumped.

There was a lot I hadn’t considered.  Number one:  having a relationship with the story teller was way more important than I’d thought.  Number two:  being invited into the vulnerable parts of a person’s life was way more sacred than I’d thought.

In Uganda, you don’t get down to business unless you’ve first asked about their family, health, sleeping well, etc.  My translator, Mabel, was from the village, so I had some built-in trust based on her presence.  In one family’s home, I had previous relationship with Hannah (name changed), so I went there first.  Hannah was out “digging” (working in the fields).  After a pretty stilted attempt to record life stories from her sister-in-law, Hannah and her mother came home, wanting to share.  It was cool inside on the dirt floor.  I sipped black tea, seeped in smoke from the fire upon which it was prepared.   The other ladies drank warm cow’s milk.  Flies buzzed, landing and cleaning themselves in a chaotic ballet.  Two chickens snuck past the curtain to the back room and loudly announced their egg laying efforts.

Within minutes of beginning their story, a deep family tragedy was shared.  An older brother who took care of them had died, and they believed it was from jealous villagers bewitching him.  Both Hannah and her mother began to cry.  I had Mabel translate that I felt sad with them.  This story gathering mission had gone from coaxing one word answers from sister-in-law to suddenly sitting in the center of Hannah and her mother’s wounds.  These aren’t blithe, carefree tales from Reader’s Digest.  There was real hardship and devastating pain.   I realized I’d romanticized this idea of being let in to another’s life.  Once there, recording the words seemed completely irrelevant.  The only thing that mattered was to sit quietly and be present with them. 

I don’t remember who began singing, but a chorus from church rose up from our little group.  It made the two bare-bottomed babies clap and coo – their delight made a bridge from the tears to the joyful worship.  “Weebale Yesu, weebale Yesu….”  Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus…. We sang over and over until it was time to walk home. 

This school year, I have a student who says two or three words a day in the classroom.  She mostly looks down at her hands and leaves her work untouched.  I’ve tried being more strict, more lenient, even goofy.  Today, I caught her glance and crossed my eyes at her.  No response.  When the kids went home, my student teacher told me that she had asked this girl why she wasn’t working. 

“Don’t you like school?”

“I hate school,” she replied, “Every day.  I’m stupid.”

I came home, mulling over this window into this little girl’s heart.  It feels like recording stories in Uganda.  How can I expect to teach this student multiplication without better understanding who she is?  How can I understand who she is without building trust?  Then, when we’re let into that precious space, motivating her to get her work done doesn’t seem to matter.  She needs to know how amazing she is before 6x7 will have any impact on her life.

We don’t know people’s stories until they trust us enough to let us in.  Once inside, how do we best respond? 

Oh God,

Let me not presume to fix, judge, or shame,

When I am a guest in your child’s heart.

Let me be You with skin on,

May Your presence be tangible,

And mine irrelevant.

May this child of Yours know the peace and grace,

Of having shared their heart with You.

Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus.

Amen.

Keeping the Candy Counter (Grandma Jane Story #2)

The small copper bell fixed above the door rang sharply as Jane hurried in, just in time for her shift at Kress’ five and dime.  Her low heels echoed across the store as she headed directly for the candy counter.  The other girls, situated behind their counters, paused midway in their greetings; Jane was not herself.  They watched her remove her coat and hat and hang them on the communal coat hanger.  One coworker, Ruth, crept cautiously towards Jane as she fumbled to get her gloves off with shaking hands.  Jane smoothed out her dress, and with head kept toward the floor, began counting her till’s starting balance.  When she had finished recording the balance, Jane slammed the till closed.  She looked up and jumped back slightly when she saw Ruth standing silently opposite the counter.  Ruth could now see that Jane’s face was streaked with tears.  Ruth grabbed the white handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to her friend.

            “Who died?” Ruth whispered, leaning across the counter to stroke Jane’s arm.

            “No one,” Jane replied, dabbing at her eyes and inhaling deeply as her breathing returned to normal.

            “What is it, then?”

            “I’m engaged.” 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

After he received his draft notice, Norm headed to Fort Lewis.  Jane followed shortly after on a bus by herself to say goodbye.  While he was stationed with the Air Force in Oklahoma City at Will Rogers Field, the couple wrote to each other.  When it came time to join the war, Norm’s eyes didn’t pass, so he couldn’t fly.  Instead, he became a link instructor – someone who taught people to fly using instruments. 

Jane continued to work at Kress’, supervising the candy and cosmetics departments.  The job provided fifteen dollars per week – five of which went to her parents for room and board – as well as a social outlet.  Jane had good camaraderie with the other sales girls.  Customers paid for their merchandise at each separate counter.  Once they had a cash register contest and Jane managed to go two weeks with her till perfectly balanced.  “Not even a penny off,” she said. 

           

The items on the counter corresponded to extra supplies in the exact order beneath the counter.  That made inventory very easy.  The basement housed boxes of candy and quite a number of mice.  One time, they sent an order from the basement on a dumb waiter and it came up with a mouse on it! 

           

Norm and Jane talked about marriage before he left Yakima.  Sometimes an event so meaningful is heightened by the necessity of simplicity. I think about how people get carried away with weddings, spending small fortunes to make sure the dress is perfect, the cake is unique, and every guest leaves with something monogrammed.  The absence of those niceties brings a sacred focus on the purpose of the event – to commit two individuals to each other for a lifetime.  Without fanfare, Norm sent Jane a ring through the mail and she cried because he wasn’t there to give it to her. 

When Norm came home on leave, they got married.  It was December 7, 1944 and they were both 21 years old.  Jane wore a gold suit with a corsage instead of a bouquet.  Norm wore his Air Force uniform.  Jane’s best friend Mary Lou and Norm’s brother Vern flanked the couple.  They wed at a priest’s house because Norm wasn’t Catholic.  The reception was at the Gaudette’s house. 

            

Following the wedding, the newlyweds joined Norm’s parents and brother in their large Packard, back over the pass to Seattle.  The couple stayed at a hotel for one night, and then took a train to Oklahoma.  Because it was a special occasion, their honeymoon, they splurged on a compartment.  This included one room with bunk beds, a chair, and a sink and toilet in the corner.  They shared the bottom bunk, but Jane refused to go to the bathroom in front of Norm.  Instead, she used the public facilities down the hall.  Only servicemen could get meals on the train, so Norm got enough food for two.

           

When the Reids first arrived in Oklahoma City, they stayed in a hotel for three days.  Then, they moved into an apartment.  Norm went to the base everyday while Jane looked for a job.  She found work at Kress’ dime store, supervising the candy department once again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jane held up her left hand, which glinted with a speck of diamond on a golden band.            Joanie shrieked and abandoned her cosmetics counter post, running over for a closer look. 

            “I didn’t know Norm was back in town!” Joanie grabbed Jane’s hand.

            “He’s not in town. He’s still in Oklahoma City.  The ring came in the mail today.”

Jane’s tears returned, and by now customers were arriving, milling around the store.  Most pretended to be engrossed in shopping, but a few bold ones stared openly at the scene.

            “Jane, you can’t expect everything to work out like a fairy tale,” Joanie dropped Jane’s hand, “We’re at war, you know.  Gosh!  If Edward would send me a ring in the mail, I’d be skipping around this place!”

            “I know, I know.  I’m crying because he’s not here to give me the ring in person.”

            “You’ll be together soon,” Ruth cooed reassuringly.

            Joanie and Ruth sandwiched Jane in a quick embrace and returned to their counters.  The day’s first customers needed their attention.  A young girl stepped up to the colorful mounds of candy and slid a penny across the glass.  Jane reached for the payment, and the girl’s bright green eyes lit up.

            “Wow.  Pretty ring.”

            “Yes, it really is,” Jane smiled with genuine joy, pushed the coin back, and measured out some butterscotch discs.  “Have a wonderful day, Sweetheart.” 

Once I Met Norm, That Was It (Grandma Jane Story #1)

Several years ago, I asked my Grandma Jane if I could write down stories from her life.  Little bits I'd heard growing up fascinated me; like, she and her younger sister shared a bed until she got married.  I knew there was gold to be found through listening well.  So one summer, I spent afternoons at her house, sitting on her bed surrounded by old photos, writing as fast as I could to record not just the stories, but her quotes and feelings too. 

When I went home and typed it up, I realized I'm not very good at making history sound as interesting as it really was.  I turned to my imagination.  I read and reread my notes, and tried to become my grandma as a young woman.  After all, at the time, I was only a little older than she was in the stories.  What resulted is my grandma's true stories, quilted together with my created dialogues and details as introductions and conclusions.  It's different to imagine my grandma making out in a car, but the way she talked about this first scene certainly wasn't prim and proper.  I tried to do that justice, without making my grandma seem too racy.

Grandma Jane passed away this spring.  I use my imagination now to picture her in heaven, reunited with Norm, the love of her life.  I miss her terribly and hope her stories will bless those who knew her and those who can relate to having a very special grandma in their life.  

A knock on the car window brought Norm and Jane up for air.  Remaining close and staring at each other, it took another firm knock for them to realize that someone was outside the fogged glass.  Jane quickly smoothed her hair and dress as Norm rolled down the window.  Leo Gaudette, Jane’s father and a local police officer, leaned down to rest his crossed arms on the car window while staring intently at Norm.

“Your father’s been calling all evening, Norm, trying to find you.  You just got your draft notice.” 

The three waited for someone to say something.  Surely there were words that could fill the silence and make everything feel normal.  Their mouths remained suspended open and no words came.  The news took awhile to sink in, but it wasn’t a complete surprise.  Scenes just like this were playing out in friends’ lives and with young couples all over the country.
Leo frowned slightly, patted the car two times, and ambled back into the house.  The couple sat in silence, facing forward, cold air from the open window quickly defrosting the glass and creating goosebumps on bare arms.

My grandpa Norm died fifteen years before I was born.  When my grandma Jane tells me about him, it feels like we’re a pair of girls discussing her latest crush.  The crush began in 1943.  Norman Reid was a twenty-year-old aspiring pilot who had come to Yakima, Washington from Seattle to be a part of the Civilian Pilot Training program.  When he and his friends had downtime, they cruised the growing agricultural town on their bicycles.

On one such day, Jane was waiting for the bus to take her downtown where she planned to meet a friend.  A big group of pilots-in-training rode up on their bicycles and engaged her in conversation.  Norm took the lead and Jane thought he was forward.  He stood tall, made direct eye contact, and wasted no time finding out who she was and where she worked.  Jane wasn’t sure what to think about his directness, but she liked the way Norm’s face broke into crinkled lines around his eyes and mouth when he laughed.  When Jane noticed Norm’s buddies leaving, he reluctantly pedaled off to catch up. 

The very next day, Norm showed up at Kress’ dime store and strode over to the candy counter where Jane was lost in her inventory list.  He promptly asked her out and in my grandma’s words, “That was it.”

That was it for any other boys who held onto hopes of Jane marrying them after the war.  Jack Loman, a Marine, was one of the disappointed suitors. Jack was cute but very shy.  They dated her senior year of high school and kept in touch after that.  At one point, Jane assumed they’d get married someday.  When Jack came back in town on leave, he asked why Jane didn’t wait for him.  Jane’s reply was, “Well, I met Norm and he swept me off my feet!”

           

Long moments passed with Norm and Jane sitting silently, staring at a streetlamp through the car windshield and listening to muffled sounds of neighbors’ radios.  Norm took Jane’s hand in both of his, brought it up to his mouth and gently kissed her cold fingers.

“May I walk you to your door?” he asked, her hand still close to his lips.            

Jane turned towards him with a weak smile.  “Yes.”            

“May I see you tomorrow night?”            

She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed as tightly as she could.  “Yes.”            

They got out of the car and walked arm in arm to the Gaudette’s stoop.

            

Stray Cats and God's Great Goodness

Return to the Lord your God, for He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness... Joel 2:13  NKJV

This is Adolfo.  

Jeff and I named him, have a bed for him on our porch, and feed him every day.  We might be kidding ourselves when we say he’s not our cat.  Adolfo got his name from his little mustache, which resembles a certain WWII leader.    I still claim that I’m not a cat person, but I’m also not a rock.  My heart beats; I care about living things.  Plus, Adolfo could be a kitty Zoolander with his creative napping poses.  It’s adorable.

Through Adolfo, I’ve been learning about God’s extraordinary kindness and consistency.

I’ve felt a bit distant from God off and on, and I notice in these times that I’m believing God to be distant from me.  I think He’s being aloof until I figure out some illusive right and best life decision.  There have been many days lately where I haven’t so much as cracked open my Bible, and yet, through the simple act of feeding Adolfo, my spirit is learning and hearing, “God is kind and God will not leave you.”

Adolfo eats like a stray cat.  We’ve been feeding him morning and night for months, but he acts like he can never be sure of his next meal.  If we leave the sliding door open, Adolfo will poke his head inside, look furtively around, and then attack the dry food dispenser like a frenzied shark.  He’s skittish, and will run away at the slightest noise or movement.  Jeff and I can tell he wants affection too.  We’ll pet him, but soon enough, he’ll glance at the food dish and stuff in a few big mouthfuls before darting back outside. 

I find myself talking to Adolfo, always in a soft tone so as not to frighten him away again.

“Slow down, buddy, there’s enough food for you.  You are not going to starve.  You’re okay.  There will be the same meal in the morning.”

I tell Jeff, “I just want Adolfo to realize he doesn’t have to run away or go crazy on the food.  We are not going to all of a sudden turn on him and ignore him.”

Then, God tells me, “I’m like that too, Brooke.  I have what you need, every day.  You don’t have to worry or grasp desperately for things.  I’ve got tomorrow too.  

Can you relax in my goodness?  

Can you think a little less about all the stuff and just enjoy Me?”

God wants the combination of his steady, constant calling and warm, personal counsel in Scripture to come to characterize us, keeping us alert for whatever he will do next.  Romans 15:4 MSG

I love how that verse is worded:  “his steady, constant calling”.  I recently reached out to someone and it wasn’t easy for me.  I left a message and then felt this impending doom, anticipating that my extended care would be rejected.  God reminded me of this Adolfo lesson and I began singing a song my Mom has been singing to me since birth.  I sang it over and over, until my insides agreed that God is indeed good, regardless of the outcome of my reaching out or how I perceive what happens.  None of that can change who God is.  He is so good.

So In Love

“How is married life?”

That’s what people ask when you’ve been married five and a half months.

 

“Absolutely wonderful,” I tell them, which is very, very true.

I don’t want to be that girl who gushes online about my wonderful husband and all the wonderful things he does for me, because I know what it’s like to be single and read those kinds of posts.  I was always happy for my friends, but in my head, I was like, “Yeah, yeah, marriage is the best thing in the world.  I get it.  You can stop telling me.” 

Most days I can’t believe I’m actually married.  On top of that, I can’t believe I’m married to Jeff.  In what I thought was excessive praise, it turns out those gushy posters of the past didn’t do justice to how beautiful marriage can be. There’s a lot I’d like to write about in this new season of life, even at the risk of making some folks roll their eyes like I used to.  But, before I do, I want to share something I wrote a year ago.  I was single, options wide open in life, and had just started going on little dates with God.  I was in love with Him and enjoying exactly who and where I was in life.  It’s the kind of love I would enjoy reading more about in others’ lives too, so I hope someone can resonate with this today.  

Here’s my journal entry from March 8, 2014.

Lately, I’ve just been having these ridiculously sweet times with God.  Our date under the stars in Uganda last month, His gift of a shower in the Entebbe Airport, and our new Lent adventure of finding ways to serve others every day.  Last night, I got my hair cut, which always feels so luxurious.  The view of the water from Ballard enticed me to wind through the neighborhoods for a closer look.  Little did I know, God had a surprise date ready for us.  I realized I was right by Golden Gardens Park.  I parked, put up my sweatshirt hood, and started walking the beach.

I quietly studied how the sand gradually gives way to rocks and then melds with the water.  I turned my head at the distant echo of sea lions barking, which was just in time to see a flicker of a fish surfacing.  Seriously.  It was like a dream.  Popping, snapping fires filling my nose with summer, blue gray snowcapped mountains with a swirled blue gray sunset gently descending on their heights like a blanket to tuck them in for the night.  Birds dancing, people laughing.

I sang a new song because no love song had yet been written for the kind of love that’s come to me.  I’m so full of it, even now as I try to put last night into words.  “Oh I love, bein’ in love with You…. Oh I love, bein’ in love with You…This is our new song, this is our new song, of love for You… of love with You… of love from You…Oh I love, bein’ in love with You…”

I got back to my car and it was nice and warm.  I put my keys in the ignition but didn’t start the car yet.  I just sat there, savoring the view, the moment.  Everything was heightened, like what I’ve experienced in love with a person, but a million times richer.  I said out loud, “I never knew life could be so beautiful.”  My voice cracked on the words and I started to cry from joy and beauty and LOVE!!  Dang.

He showed me something else.  I get to have this life.  Many 33 year old women have kids, a husband, and family things.  They don’t know what it feels like to be 33 and single.  To dig into the loneliness until this geyser of amazing love and contentment explodes in your life.  I get to have this kind of life.  I get to go on Friday night dates with God.  Not in a “crazy-cat-lady-please-pity-me” sort of way, but in a “gorgeous-gift- that-I-wouldn’t-exchange” way.  I really want to be a Mom.  God knows that and I trust Him.  God and I have this brand of life now.  

I don’t want to compare phases of life anymore.  I just want to be in love with God and sink deeply into gratitude for where He’s brought me today.  This morning, I woke up, held my sleeping husband’s hand, and whispered, “Thank You,” to the One who is the same loving, amazing God, yesterday, today, and forever.  Amen!!

A Forgiveness Letter From Jesus

My Dear One,

You die every time you forgive. 

Again and again and again. 

My life in exchange for yours,

Your pride and rights traded for praying blessings on the wounder. 

It hurts for a reason. 

Don’t balk at the hurt of forgiveness,

Choose it. 

You will never die alone. 

I’m beside you, dying through you,

For you, for them. 

Let it hurt. 

Be a masochist for grace. 

Say to those who have wounded you, stolen life, unrepentant;

Say,

“Peace.” 

“There is peace between us.  You are not in debt of any kind.” 

Name the hurt; go as deep as you can. 

Be not afraid to dig or expose. 

Your wounds need not cower in shame or dark. 

Let them out. 

I can pay for that hurt.

“What about this one, Abba?” you say to Me. 

“This one nearly destroyed me.”

“It will not destroy Me, Dear One.  I can bear that one.  That very wound is My specialty.  I will pay for it.  Give it to Me.”

You give your wounds back to the ones who hurt you,

Hoping and waiting for them to pay. 

It’s like asking a child to fix the window they broke. 

I will pay;

Not because sin is okay, but because My love is stronger than sin.

Heaven is a debt-free kind of place. 

Hurt with Me on earth and be released into joy when all becomes new.  

Be careful not to revel in your pain or make yourself a god. 

Just let forgiveness hurt if it must. 

This is a brand of forgiveness you’ve yet to embrace. 

It will become more of who you are.

You may one day take joy at the prospect of forgiving a harsh wound.  

In your pain, praise Me for My choice, for My pain.

Do you know this frees you from perfectionism? 

Go ahead – make a mistake. 

I will pay for it. 

You hurt others, and My grace is enough. 

I know you’re weak. 

You don’t need to prove anything to Me.

Wounder or wounded….I’ve got it all covered. 

I am the atoning sacrifice for sin, and not only yours, but also for the sins of the whole world.  (1 Jn 2:2)

If you confess your sins, I am faithful, I am just.  I will forgive you and purify you from all unrighteousness.  (1 Jn 1:9)

The reason I appeared was to destroy the devil’s work.  No one God created will continue to sin, because God’s seed remains in him; he cannot go on sinning, because he has been born of God.  (1 Jn 3:8&9)

This is how God showed his love among you:  God sent Me, His one and only Son into the world that you might live through Me.  This is love:  not that you loved God, but that He loved you and sent Me as an atoning sacrifice for your sins.  (1 Jn 4:9&10)

Love,

Your Savior

Choosing Slavery (the Good Kind)

Celiac disease has a way of narrowing my choices in life.  I get sick from gluten, dairy, and eggs, so when Jeff and I go out to eat, I read menus carefully.  I speak a second language called Allergenish.  Words like breaded and whole grain are translated to “nope” and “no way”.  Creamy means “not for you” and sauces are just plain suspicious.  

Being prone to indecision, this celiac exclusion can be kind of nice.  I know within minutes the two or three options I can order and what modifications I need to request.  I’ll chat with Jeff about what he’s considering and I often urge him to try something off-limits that sounds good to me, but there’s no joy in dwelling on what I can’t have.  People express sympathy that I can’t eat a treat or they ask if I have found gluten-free equivalents.  There are many yummy things that are safe for me and I love things that taste like the pre-diagnosis days, but my response is, 

“I’m grateful to know what makes my body well.  Being healed is way better than any cinnamon roll tastes.”  

I need to hear those words.  My mind and heart need regular affirmation that I am gratefully excluded from the full range of the food world.

This is not to say that I am a slave.  I am quite free to eat whatever I choose.  My naturopath will never know.  My gut knows though.  Eating outside my guidelines not only makes me bloated, uncomfortable, and nauseated, but gluten actually kills the lining of my intestines.  Depression and panic attacks come as side dishes. 

There is a spiritual correlation that I want to understand better.  I am challenged by how much choice we have as Christians.  I believe God leads us, and He’s given us freewill.  In Bible study, we are studying Moses and the Israelites.  God held them to His guidelines and there were deep consequences (like death) for disobedience.    I know I slip up so much.  Is it only Jesus’ death on my behalf that keeps God from ending my life of willful rebellion and negative attitudes?  If that’s the case, then how do I live?  Do my choices matter?  

Absolutely yes. 

Absolutely yes.  Those were the words I used to accept Jeff when he asked if I would be his wife.  The words that declared my choice to commit myself to him for the rest of my life.  The words I used to choose Jeff.  Because whatever kind of life I was going to have, I was going to have it with him.

Read part of Romans 6 with me:

¹⁵ What then? Shall we sin because we are not under the law but under grace? By no means! ¹⁶ Don’t you know that when you offer yourselves to someone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one you obey—whether you are slaves to sin, which leads to death, or to obedience, which leads to righteousness? ¹⁷ But thanks be to God that, though you used to be slaves to sin, you have come to obey from your heart the pattern of teaching that has now claimed your allegiance. ¹⁸ You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.

¹⁹ I am using an example from everyday life because of your human limitations. Just as you used to offer yourselves as slaves to impurity and to ever-increasing wickedness, so now offer yourselves as slaves to righteousness leading to holiness. ²⁰ When you were slaves to sin, you were free from the control of righteousness. ²¹ What benefit did you reap at that time from the things you are now ashamed of? Those things result in death!²² But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life.²³ For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in^[b] Christ Jesus our Lord.

Wait- I thought I wasn’t a slave.  Is it somehow possible to be a slave and have freewill?  I think God’s answer is absolutely yes. 

Living according to God’s guidelines is a choice.  It is a choice that narrows our focus like a Celiac reading a menu.  A huge chunk of options are automatically out, a few can be modified, and a few are totally acceptable.  

We can choose what to eat or do in life, and we can also choose how to view our situation.  The menu can be sad (“I can’t have that”), bitter (“I used to love that”), or self-pitying (“Jeff gets to have so much more than me”).  Or, our narrowed choices can reflect the freedom of a new life.  Because I’ve found healing, I choose this option that is in agreement with who I now know I am. 

Maybe the word slave needs a new connotation.  It’s only a negative word if you’re a slave to something oppressive.  Choosing to be Jeff’s wife is beautifully limiting.  I’m so happy to not choose anyone else for the rest of my life if I get to be with Jeff.  I don’t care if I ever taste gluten again because I’m free from all the disaster it wreaks on my body.  I know what is life-giving and what is not.  

Just as I affirm out loud that my eating choices have opened up new, exquisitely healed life, I can say the same of following God.   What could that sound like?  “Yeah, I used to really enjoy pity parties.  I know those make me depressed and ineffective though, so I’m super grateful God gave me peace and joy today.”  I’d certainly feel like a weirdo to say that out loud, but the basis is serious.  If I could be God’s slave my whole life and never be in bondage to anything else, what could be better?  I am gratefully excluded from things that bring death to me and others.

Loving Father,

Thank You for the freedom of choice.  Thank You for Your Word that shows me how to live in a way that brings you fame.  I am so very happy to be Your slave.  That feels strange to say, because I’m not used to the good kind of slavery yet.  It’s by choosing to bind myself to You that I find the most freedom ever – eternal life with You.  That’s what I want.  I want to be with You now and always.  I want that for others too.  Please help us all to choose You and to find perfect delight in ignoring all the stuff that used to seem so temptingly good.  It’s all crap compared to You.  I love You, Jesus.

Your Happy Slave