Fall Down Tree

Every Sunday morning our family unceremoniously and rather chaotically piles into our minivan to head to church. Snacks packed (because when you have kids with allergies and sensitivities, sunday school goldfish could derail your whole week), lunches packed (because, let's be honest, with three growing boys, it's a long time from breakfast through church and Sunday School and that fifteen minute ride home is much more peaceful with mouths chomping) and a sense of having accomplished the impossible, getting all five of us out the door by 8 am, permeates the atmosphere.

No matter how we enter that car, I know now that something is about to change for our family. We are about to encounter "Fall Down Tree."

Just after we started coming to this church, we came across it. A huge tree, roots upended, laying right by the side of the road in someone's front yard. Somehow, this tree has become the focal point of our ride. It is cause for speculation, pontification and flat-out aesthetic awe.

How did it fall? Why don't the people who live there clean it up? How old might it be? Can we knock on their door and ask to play with it?

All these questions and more are answered in serious and silly fashion. (Maybe Joshie bonked it with his bike! Maybe Nate pushed it over with his strong arms! Maybe God blew on it and, poof, it fell over!)

But however it has happened, the conversation always ends with a chant. My youngest laughing and pumping his arms in the air as the middle and oldest chant "Fall down tree! Fall down tree! Fall down tree!" Dissolving in giggles at the end, we often enter church with lighter hearts and goofier outlooks.

Friends, this is a powerful thing.

You see, Sunday mornings have traditionally been calamitous. Screaming, crying, multiple changes of clothes, arguments. Usually this has culminated in two very exhausted parents who spend the greater part of the church service trying to remember why we even attempted to come to church in the first place. Too exhausted and defeated to even attempt to open our souls to what God may have for us that morning. Just grateful on some level that childcare is provided, we  would fight to stay awake during the sermon and then trudge back home again.

But now we have "Fall Down Tree." This strange and unexpected beacon of distraction and hope. No matter what mood everyone is in when we enter that car, as we turn that bend and "Fall Down Tree" comes into view, there is a shift in that minivan.

And entering church in its aftermath is a whole different world. Laughter has helped us shake off any early morning tomfoolery. Chanting has helped us loosen up our rigid need (ok, MY rigid need) to be early for church and the ensuing stress when someone has caused us to be late. Again. The camaraderie of three boys rejoicing together, united in spirit for even 5 minutes, gives everyone the chance to take a deep breath. To enter church with thanksgiving. To walk in with a posture that invites rest and redemption and joy.

Some day I am certain that that family will clean up the tree. We will turn the bend and as the chanting begins to rev up, the car will fall silent. There will be disappointment and mourning and the end to what is, at least for now, a tradition. Possibly we will pull some deep lesson out of its disappearance.

For now, though, I am relying on "Fall Down Tree." Because right now it is a tangible, beautiful reminder that any day can be reset. Any hard moment can suddenly turn into one of laughter and joy and lasting family memories. That giggles and silliness can be powerful preparation for inviting God to do His work of healing in our souls.

I know that one day, a long time from now when this tree is a distant memory, we will look back and tell the boys about it, about this tree that brought hope and life back into Sundays for our family.

Maybe God did blow it over for us, after all.

How Facebook Became God

Click. Read. Like. Scroll. Comment. Repeat.

Simple actions with great power. Power to encourage, power to wound, power given and power taken.

And power, when wielded loosely and unwittingly, can be a terrible thing.

Two weeks ago, I had a frank moment of revelation that life couldn't continue on as it was. I felt exhausted, angry, frustrated and powerless. And I felt it all the time.

I was addicted to clicking on my browser, to watching Facebook load, to seeing the number of notifications pop up in the right corner. To knowing there were things to read, videos to watch, photographs to see, stands to take.

Addicted to the god on my screen.

You see, we can make god a lot of things. It can be the thing we care about the most in our lives, like making money or our families or our belongings. It can be the ideas or opinions we hold dearest, like politics or religion or our philosophy of parenting. It can be what we spend all our time and energy working towards or thinking about, like money, career, even happiness. It can be what we depend on the most for affirmation and identity. And it can be to whom or what we relinquish all our power.

Facebook, my friends, can be a dangerous place. Because on Facebook, all of those possibilities, all of those things we look for in or assign to our god can be found.

And when we give it too much time, we give it exponentially more power. The power to make us feel (though elusively and vaguely) connected. To feel good, to feel right about something and surround ourselves with only people who agree. We give it the power to affirm our identity or to plummet us to a point of despair. We give it the power to control our emotions, our thoughts, even the direction our day might take. We give it the power to keep us mired in what's on screen instead of what surrounds us.

This affects the very core of who we are, who we were created to be.

As a Christian, I believe I am created in the image of God. Made beautiful in his sight, brought into relationship with Him through the life, death and resurrection of His son Jesus and invited into abundant life through His Spirit. A life that is submitted ultimately to the power of God but that lives in the power that He then gives me, power to deal with all that life has, fighting with joy, hope and the knowledge that I am never alone.

When Facebook is god, this all changes. I see the ugly in myself and others more acutely. I feel the pull and destruction of comparison, rather than the deep challenge and joy of honest encouragement in real relationships. I am blown here and there all day long by anger and frustration and petty humor and confusion and the need to be affirmed by "likes" and comments. And it doesn't end when I shut the screen. It translates into real life in quicker cynicism, deeper sadness, chronic distractedness, shorter attention spans and fewer true relationships.

That, my friends, is not abundant life. It is the life of someone who has paid homage to the wrong god.

I have been off of Facebook for a little over a week now. At that point of revelation I knew I had to stop. That all the rage and chaos I was feeling inside was a result of a bad decision I was making over and over and over again in the vain hope of feeling less lonely, more connected, more aware and informed. Every time I opened my computer I was looking for something I really could not possibly find there.

Purpose. Life. Joy. Friendship.

Those first few days I felt lost, almost adrift. Like something had died or been taken away from me. As a stay at home parent, sometimes Facebook was my only means of communicating with other human adults during the day and I missed it. I longed for that feeling of being with people, even though that feeling of connectedness was just an illusion.

Sometimes we are so used to the poor version of something that we will cling to it believing it is full of riches.

I knew, though, from truly worshiping my first love, the God of the Universe, that those were not really riches. So I waited.

And soon things changed. I knew this was a moment straight from God. A gift in the midst of a chaotic season of life to take stock. To pray. To make some decisions. To invite some close friends into prayer and dreaming and hoping for what life can be.

When there was a calm moment of a child playing independently, I cleaned up the kitchen or sat for a moment and prayed for him, instead of quickly trying to get online.

When there was a child waking up from a nap, I didn't feel annoyed or interrupted because I had to shut my computer in the middle of completing a thought on a political post.

When the house was quiet, I pulled out my guitar or my journal or a book. I walked outside and dug in the dirt. Or wrote a letter.

I smiled more.

I made it to the gym and didn't wonder the whole time if there were things I was "missing" in being offline.

I initiated more dance parties around the house.

I spent more time with actual adult human beings.

I said yes to some really, really good things, both in my personal daily rhythms and in my community.

I complained less.

I hoped more.

I began to long for time with Jesus in a way I hadn't in awhile.

And in all of it, I stood up straighter. I felt less burdened, less distracted, more tuned in to what was immediately around me.

Was life perfect? Of course not. It can't be. I had a stomach bug, a toddler was working on molars, life in all its noise and grit went on. But it went on with my head held a little higher. With my hope fastened more surely on God, not Facebook.

Getting off Facebook wasn't a cure-all. It was one step, one big step for me, in saying no to a major, destructive distraction so that I could say yes to the many more beautiful opportunities I was no longer seeing.

And let me make something clear. I don't think it is Facebook's fault. I chose to be on it all the time. I kept turning to it again and again even as I felt myself changing. I gave it the power it held over me.

Some of you are thinking it sounds crazy. That something so silly could not hold so much power.

But let's not kid ourselves...whether it is Facebook or career or romance or any number of things or ideas or people, we all have that innate tendency to look to something or someone to define us, to fulfill us. We search for it in small ways or in big ways, but we are always looking. And the way I see it, life is one long journey in figuring out how to keep my eyes fixed on God, not on the things of this world. One never-ending decision to wake up and choose peace, choose joy, choose hope and love.

To choose God.

And any time I start to choose something else first, all of me suffers. I learned it 30 years ago as a young Christian and again a hundred times since.

Each time it sticks a little longer and grows a little deeper, by the grace of God.

So, I am taking it one sweet, slower, facebook-free, God-seeking moment at a time right now. And loving it.

The Harder Choice

I woke up this morning with a sinking feeling. It's here. The day many Americans have been dreading or fearing or attempting to ignore. The day many others have been waiting for with joyful anticipation. And the day many people truly don't know how to react to.

I wanted to post things. To say why I was angry. To say why I was sad. To weigh in on the cabinet choices. To, yet again, make clear that I did not, could not, vote for Trump. And that on this, the day of his inauguration, I was grieving.

But my distrust and dislike of him is no secret. So I held off.

I was up before the boys. In the dark, drinking coffee, listening to my heart thump rapidly and then begin to slow down in peace. And I was reminded.

I am first and foremost a Christian. A believer in Jesus. A follower of God-become-man who walked the earth during a time of tremendous oppression, division and racial strife. Who taught his followers to pray for their enemies, to show love to those who persecute them. And who also made it clear that talking the talk isn't enough. That justice will prevail. And that all people are made in the image of God. I'm not sure our now-current President understands those things. I truly hope he will come to.

So, before I chose to say anything, before I chose to do anything, I invited my son to pray with me. He balked at first.

Josh: "Why should we pray for him? He is so unkind, Mom. I'm worried about how he will treat people."
Me: "That is exactly WHY we need to pray for him. If we believe that God is good, that God is love, that God is powerful and loves ALL people...then we have to pray that a man that now has so much power, also has the ability to change and use that power for good."

In the end, my son didn't really have words and I don't believe in forcing my kids to pray. He asked me to do it. We prayed for Trump, we prayed for the Obamas. And I sent him on his way to school like I always do: "Find the good, be the good. I love you."

I spent the morning with friends drinking coffee and talking about life and dancing with Jayce. I didn't watch the inauguration live. I chose to watch it later, with my two little ones asleep.

And friends, I am not going to lie. It was hard to watch. It was painful to listen to all the nationalist rhetoric. It was frustrating to watch a billionaire with questionable business practices blame Washington for stealing all their wealth and sending all their jobs overseas. I, for one, am not teaching my children "Americans first." I am teaching them to love their neighbor as themselves. And as a Christian who loves Jesus and what he taught, I cringed when he said that God would protect America. Why? Why in the world are we so arrogant to believe we have the protection of God?

I do not know what the next four years hold. I prayed for Obama. I will pray for Trump. It doesn't mean I have to like him or sit idly by when I don't agree with him. It doesn't mean I have to support dangerous cabinet picks. I don't and I won't.

Praying for him today was the harder choice. It would have been much easier to mock him, much easier to be angry or to wallow in fear for what's coming for us and the world.

So, each morning I am going to have to ask God to help me make the harder choice. To pray first. Because I so badly want to act first. I so badly want to say exactly what I am thinking but if there is one thing I know right now it's that my emotions cannot be trusted. And, more than that, I know my kids are watching and listening. I don't want my legacy to them to be rash action and angry words. I want them to learn what it means to love God, pray first and then act boldly and justly and with mercy, whatever the situation.

So today and tomorrow and next week, I will pray for him.

For our divided nation.

For my friends who are hurting and afraid and angry.

For my friends who are rejoicing.

For much of the world that is fearful of what this all means on the global stage.

For all of us; humans created in the image of God. Not just Americans. All of us.

And I will continue to speak up in love. And to act. And to hope.

May God give me the grace to do so. And forgiveness when I fail.

Lay Me Down

Snow is slowly falling outside, adding more to the five inches of unexpected snowfall last night. The old, browned stuff has a lovely new blanket on it so the world looks clean again. My dog is snoring gently next to me. The wash is in the dryer. Decaf is perking.

Quiet.

8 hours ago, things were not as quiet. My littlest one woke me up for the day shrieking for food. He had already been up 3 times in the night so Mama wasn't feeling the early wake-up. We snuggled for a little while and as he contentedly ate his breakfast, I wrapped my mind around another day with my husband far away and little sleep to go on. I asked God to give me the strength and humor I needed and have it replace the sleep I wouldn't be getting.

I made lunch and snacks for the older ones and got dressed. While my oldest son ate his breakfast, watching his baby brother, and the toddler slept on, I shoveled the driveway and cleaned off the car so we could make it out of here by 8 am. My neighbors cheerfully waved as they blew snow off their driveways and I broke my back doing it the old-fashioned way. 3 years is too short a time to spend money on a snow-blower so we have stubbornly done this by hand.

This morning, I really wished we had a snow blower.

Now, though, I'm thankful for the exercise a frenzied shoveling of the driveway gave me because there was no chance to make it to the gym today. I am a better person when I have exercised.

Our adventure without dad around has been going on for a week now and things are going better than I expected.

And you know what?

I am so tempted to feel like I have figured something out. Like I have become some kind of capable parent. Like I GET this stay at home parent thing. Finally.

But I know the truth. Just two short weeks ago I was a hot mess. Exhausted, hopeless, angry, frustrated, resentful.

This last week has gone well not because I am have figured something out or am somehow enough but because God is enough. And rather than clinging to my disappointments and rage, I have clung to him. I have laughed at the tantrums(okay, maybe not all of them, but way more than usual). I have stopped looking at the clock in the middle of the night and tried not to care about the actual number of hours of sleep I have gotten. I have thanked God over and over again for coffee. And for friends.

It is no coincidence that I stumbled upon a book called "Mom Enough" just a few days before my husband left for his travels. I normally don't enjoy reading books aimed towards mothers or, really, women for that matter. They usually make me feel "othered", like there are so many more gaping ways I just don't fit the "norm" of womanhood than I even realized.

But this book has been different. Possibly it was my desperation of knowing I could NOT do 3 weeks without my husband in the state I was in. Maybe I opened this book with more hope than skepticism.

Whatever it is, God has used the words to bolster me. To remind me that I cannot do this, this job that is arguably the hardest job in the world. I cannot. And I need to be ok with that.

This past week, I HAVE been ok with it. More than ok, really. And being more than ok with feeling like I can't do this has freed me up to enjoy it in ways I never have before.

This quote in particular has been sitting with me:

"We should run to the cross. To death. So lay down your hopes. Lay down your future. Lay down your petty annoyances. Lay down your desire to be recognized. Lay down your fussiness at your children. Lay down your perfectly clean house. Lay down your grievances about the life you are living. Lay down the imaginary life you could have by yourself. Lay them all down...Stop clinging to yourself and cling to the cross. There is more joy and more life and more laughter on the other side of death than you can possibly carry alone."

So, as my little ones sleep on (at the same time!) and as the snow falls, I am not dreading the long afternoon stretch and the chaos of bedtime. I am asking God to help me see the humor when it is quite possible that everyone will be crying and the dog will be barking and the phone will be ringing at the same time as I am trying to put food on the table. I am asking God to help me see my kids as who they are, beautiful bearers of the image of God, even when they aren't necessarily reflecting that image as well as one would hope.

I am asking God, quite bluntly, to help me lay myself down. Once again. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day.

And I am letting Him be enough for all of us.