I say sex, you say...

Warning: this post may not be appropriate for young readers

Let’s play a word association game.  I say sex, you say…

An experience designed for marriage to reflect the closeness and intimacy in relationship that God has in the members of the Trinity and will have with the church one day when all things are set right.  

That’s what you said, huh?  OK, well, I guess you’re all just fine and I don’t need to finish this so-provocatively-begun blog post.  Cool.  

Oh wait, you didn’t say that?  Suppose we’ll have to continue.  For Round 2 of my word association game, you can shout out a feeling that goes with the word (don’t shout too loud because that could get awkward).

I say…

Pornography

Human trafficking

Prostitution

Violated

Teenage moms

Rape

X-rated

Red light district

STDs

You say…?

That went downhill fast.  How do you feel now?  Disheartened?  Sad?  Uncomfortable?  Angry?  So much for Little Miss Sunshine.  

Time for Round 3.  

I say…

Community

Closeness

Blessing

Safety

Known

Satisfied

Celebration

You say…?

I know, you were worried about Round 3 before it even started.  So how do you feel?  Warm fuzzies?  Relieved?  Hopeful?  Excited?  Thought so.  You know what’s crazy?  These two sets of words have something in common - sex.  How can one 3 letter word incite such opposite reactions?  How can one set of words send chills of horror down my spine and the other set make me want to happy dance?!  

Sex has been hijacked, and I object.  Like a cosmic episode of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, it’s as though every ad, artist and agency has taken it upon themselves to decide when, where and who with we should be having sex.  Oh, and if you’re not having sex, you’re weird, something’s wrong with you, or you’re living in the Dark Ages.      

What’s a Jesus-loving, Gospel-seeking, shalom-touting girl to do?  Turn to the church, of course!  Surely there she’ll find some sexual sanity in the middle of the madness.  So what saith the church?  

Don’t.  Don’t you dare have sex before you’re married because then you won’t be pure for your spouse.

OK.

Don’t you dare have sex before you’re married because God clearly says don’t.

OK.

If you mess up, there’s forgiveness, but try really hard not to mess up.

OK.

Don’t look at porn.

OK.

Don’t watch movies with lots of sex in them. 

OK, I’ll try, but that’s lots of movies, so I’ll just close my eyes if it’s really bad.  

…

Anything else I need to know about sex?

…*crickets*…

Um, ok then.  Thanks bye.  

This response doesn’t cut the mustard, friends, whatever that means.  Not only is it an inadequate response for a generation who has grown up in a sewage puddle of sexual comedy, media, culture and general profligacy, IT’S NOT BIBLICAL.  

Before you start throwing rocks, let me continue.  It’s completely Biblical to say don’t have sex before you’re married, and keep the heck away from sexual temptation in whatever form you find it.  I’m on board with that.  It’s completely unBiblical to pick and choose what you want of God’s Word and leave the rest.  

How many sermons have you heard on 

“Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord… husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the church…”  Ephesians 5:22-25

“Flee from sexual immorality… do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit…” 1 Corinthians 6:18-19

“Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life”  Proverbs 4:23

Cool, they’re preaching the Bible where you are.  That’s good.  Now how often have you heard anything about these?

“…rejoice in the wife of your youth… Let her breasts fill you at all times with delight; be intoxicated always in her love.”  Proverbs 5:18-19

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!  For your love is better than wine”  Song of Solomon 1:2

“‘Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’  This mystery is profound, and I am saying that it refers to Christ and the church.”  Ephesians 5:31-32

What, you never knew that stuff was in there?  Oh.  Guess you’d better read your Bible.  At this point, you’re probably thinking, geez, Little Miss Sunshine, first you start talking about sex, then you’re beating the church over the head, what’s your point?!

Here’s my point: All I’m hearing from Chris Brown to Coca Cola is “you should be doing this because it’s amazing and it feels good and it’s the same thing as love” and from the other side all I hear is “don’t” and crickets.  I’M PRETTY SURE GOD HAS MORE TO SAY ABOUT SEX THAN DON’T AND CRICKETS!  He invented it… on purpose.  Not only did He invent it, what’s the first command He gives humankind?  

I’ll wait while you find it.  

“And God blessed them (Adam and Eve).  And God said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth…’”  Genesis 1:28

You might want to sit down for this one.  Our great Creator God’s first command to humankind, the first married couple ever, wasn’t go build a church and it wasn’t go feed the giraffes.  His first command was go have sex.  Mind.  Blown.  

God cares about sex.  He cares so much for it that He knows it’s something so powerful that the only safe sex is shared between a man and a woman who have made a marriage promise to walk through all of life’s adventures together.  He knows that sex done the way He intended will make words like 

Community

Closeness

Blessing

Safety

Known

Satisfied

Celebration

into a tangible experience.  

He also knows that sex done outside the way He intended will make words like 

Pornography

Human trafficking

Prostitution

Violated

Teenage moms

Rape

X-rated

Red light district

STDs

into a tangible experience.  

Do you believe Him yet?  

Church, will you please continue to say don’t before you’re married, but add an explanation of why?  

Will you please tell them also that sex is hottest, fieriest, most romantic when you do it with the person you married?  

Will you please give them a reason to wait?  

Will you please help them reclaim purity when they fall?  

Will you please be a voice that is loud enough to be heard and true enough to be trusted?

There’s a reason some things are worth waiting for.  

Little Miss Sunshine

http://www.focusonthefamily.com/marriage/sex_and_intimacy/gods_design_for_sex.aspx

Cubelife: The Backstory

Hey Friends - 

Lots of you have been asking about how teaching is going.  Well, it’s not going.  After two years of wrangling 8 year olds, I retired.  Naturally, you’ll protest.  You’ll say you’re sure I was such a good teacher and I seem like I’d be so fun or how could I just give up and become a statistic.  You’ll be surprised, dismayed, saddened.  You’re not the only one.   

Let me tell you, stepping away from teaching was like casting off from a dock I’d been anchored to since I was 7 years old and sailing off into the sunset.  I wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder, Anne Shirley, Christy Huddleston and march right into that classroom and ignite the fire of curiosity in the minds of children.  Oh, I was ambitious.  I was idealistic.  I was gung ho, alright.  

And I totally underestimated a few things.  First, I was homeschooled.  I had a great experience, I learned a lot, and I am a socially competent human.  I also have zero experience when it comes to things like fire drills, classroom discipline, and why it’s so important to practice standing in lines.  Second, I think I figured that being an adult would mean something to an 8 year old.  Maybe it does to some, but to others, you’re just a little taller.  They have little respect for authority, and they don’t just learn because you tell them to.  

My first year of teaching, I got hired 3 days before school started.  My family was out of town, so I set up my classroom by myself, survived meet the teacher night, and jumped right in.  The staff was kind and welcoming, and gave me help whenever I asked for it.  I had a class full of spark plugs, just the way I like them.  Unfortunately, I knew nothing about classroom management for a room full of spark plugs, writing lesson plans for smarty pants spark plugs and struggling spark plugs.  I didn’t know how to invent a math curriculum or work with an outdated reading one… so I improvised.  

We jump roped our times tables.  We played red light/green light with parts of speech.  I supplemented with BrainPop Jr videos.  I brought in guest speakers.  My first year wasn’t without its moments of brilliance.  Unfortunately, my data wasn’t grow-y enough.  My students weren’t well behaved.  Oh, they loved me alright, but they were stinkers.  Because I was a late hire, I only had a 1 year contract.  

My second year of teaching was not much different.  Great staff.  Supportive parents.  Just as many stinkers.  I loved every last one of them.  I still failed at classroom management.  I still had a hard time figuring out how to challenge a room of 28 very different people.  I still had a few moments of brilliance.  Data?  Still not grow-y enough.  My kids weren’t succeeding, and I couldn’t handle it because I knew it was my own darn fault.  

Now, I’m not stupid, and I feel like I have to toss that out there because I feel stupid every time I tell this story.  I’m sure I could have buried myself in pinterest and teachertube videos and figured out a 12 step plan to classroom recovery.  I was already working 8-12 hour days trying to survive… on top of lots of other normal life activities.  

It’s normal to have a hard 3-5 years, they kept saying.  I get that.  I didn’t expect it to be easy.  This was a little more than “not easy”.  This was soul scathing, deep seated dread, both that my kids weren’t achieving their goals, and that I could be abandoning what I thought was my big whopping life calling.  

What if I was a QUITTER.  What if I was an even worse - FAILURE. 

But what if… those were growing years.  What if it’s OK that I spent four years getting an education degree and only taught for two years.  What if it’s OK that I spent two years trying and decided I wanted to try something else.  What if deciding to be in sales instead of teaching was a preference choice instead of a moral choice.  What if those two years with those 50 kids were to teach me about asking for help and my own insecurities and success and God’s love for kids.

There were an awful lot of what ifs in those months while I was making this decision, and oh boy, I am not a girl who likes a whole lot of limbo.  I like black and white.  This is right or it isn’t.  Teaching was hard.  Not knowing was hard too.  I still don’t really know all the answers.  Sometimes [transparent moment] I wonder if God’s disappointed that I’m not in the trenches like my super cool teacher brother.  I wonder if I could have become a great teacher if I’d just stuck it out and read some good ole Harry Wong over the summer.  

But those aren’t really the thoughts I want to have about teaching.  I do want to remember the amazing teachers I met, and the ways they love kids faithfully every day.  I want to remember the way veteran teachers are the best sharers and givers around.  I want to remember knee high hugs and learning celebrations and how much I love kids.  I want to be open to teaching if the right situation comes along.  I want to encourage you that sometimes you need a change, and sometimes you need to stay put, and sometimes figuring that out is hard and takes a whole lot of praying.  

Well, this kind of turned into a teachery post instead of an update on what I’m doing now, but coming soon - Cubelife: the corporate caper.

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Dear Little Sister, what I wish I'd known...

I don’t have any little sisters, per se, but I’ve sort of adopted a few over the years.  This post is dedicated to Sarah, Megan, Elizabeth, Jill and Dora - may Truth make you wise and Love make you beautiful. 

Dear Little Sister,

We love feeling lovely.  We braid our hair in crowns.  We buy dangly jangly bracelets.  We parade around in heels.  Even in our most tomboyish moments atop trees or playing 3rd base we want to feel brave and beautiful.  We want it all.  

Well, dear heart, there will come a time when you 

get the wrong haircut

feel fat

have an impossible hair day

develop a condition

get a scar (right knee)

notice your face isn’t symmetrical (my smile is totally crooked)

live through a wardrobe malfunction (the Starbucks incident)

hear a hurtful comment about yourself

don’t get chosen (I hate picking teams to this day)

or any number of other things.  You won’t feel so lovely then.  You’ll think there’s not an ounce of lovely in you, that you’re a pitiable lost cause.  Well, I have good news.  

Beauty is not in the telling.   

Beauty is not in the buying.  

Beauty is in the being.  

Often, we let ourselves get tangled up with loving ourselves or loving people’s opinions or loving the latest book by the latest theologian.  This does not make us lovely.  On the contrary, it makes us rather hideous because it’s not what we were meant to do.  How would you feel if you saw someone using a beautiful porcelain vase to prop a door open?  What if you walked into a kitchen and someone had a Monet painting on the floor as their kitchen rug?  THAT’S NOT WHAT IT’S MADE FOR!  (That’s what I’d be hollering, anyway.)  

It’s the same with us. People are never mistakes; we are always miracles.  We are each gifted in unique ways, and are made for a specific calling and purpose.  We are made with hearts hardwired for loving.  We were made for something so much grander than just buying things, attending things, or wishing for things we don’t have.

This grand adventure of loving is where beauty comes from.  It shows up in smiles and the sparkle in your eye that comes from doing what you were meant to do - love people.  It shows up in patience and kindness.  It shows up in self-forgetfulness and generosity.  There’s no bucket of Bobbi Brown that can recreate that.  MAC doesn’t sell blush in “Happiest Smile Because You’re Spending Time with Kids”.  Bare Minerals doesn’t have eyeshadow in “There’s Wonder Afoot and I’m a Part of It”.  

So you want to be lovely?  Here’s the secret.  Love.  It makes you lovely.  Setting aside your own wants and opinions for the sake of someone else makes you lovely.  Giving your time and talent to someone who needs help makes you lovely.  Showing kindnesses to people who are overlooked makes you lovely.  I know, you can’t trade in kindness for a credit at Gap, but they don’t sell lovely anyway.  

On those inevitable bad hair/zit on the nose/nothing to wear sort of days, remember - loveliness isn’t bought.  It isn’t conjured up with will power.  It isn’t even coaxed into appearing through self love and positive thinking and pampering (though I’m not opposed to a good pedicure now and then).  Loveliness comes when we love others, not ourselves.  It is a choice to be lovely, to speak truth with kindness, to encourage, to serve.  It’s what you were made for. 

Just remember, little sister, you are lovely in your loving.

Little Miss Sunshine

What the ALS Bucket Challenge, ISIS and Ferguson Have in Common (and why it matters)

You know what I’m sick of?  

For the last couple of weeks ISIS, Ferguson and now the ALS Water Bucket Challenge (along with the occasional TSwift awkward dancing music video) have been blowing up my Facebook feed… but that’s not what I’m sick of.  

Sure, I’m tired of the bad news, I’m tired of hearing about Christians being murdered and run out of their countries.  I’m tired of how the media has taken Ferguson and turned it into a dramatic spectacle to meet their word quotas.  I’m tired of the diatribes about whether it was a race issue or a corruption issue.  I’m tired of people arguing passive aggressively by posting articles about how the ALS Ice Water Challenge is killing babies or saving lives or a Facebook fad or a meaningful way to fund research.  Yes, these are all serious issues.  

But here’s the deal…
ISIS is not the problem.
Religious persecution is not the problem.
Obama’s level of engagement with the problem is not the problem.
Corruption of the justice system is not the problem.
Racial profiling is not the problem.
Facebook is not the problem.
A debilitating disease called ALS is not the problem.
Ignorant people who jump on bandwagons are not the problem.

There is only one problem.

Sin.

There was a time before ALS was possible.  There was a time before religious factions, before religion itself.  There was a time before we needed a justice system.

There was a time when things were perfect.  The world was beautiful.  Relationships were whole.  There was never a miscommunication or a doubt about good intentions.  There were no I’ll miss you’s or goodbyes.  People lived forever.  The air was clean, and no one worried about GMOs or the state of the polar ice caps.  People talked with God because they knew Him personally, and He talked back, and it wasn’t weird.  

All that changed when we took what was good and broke it.  There was a flicker of doubt that maybe God didn’t know best, that maybe we knew best.  The disobedience driven by our own pride of thinking we were independent drove a chasm between us and everything else.  Goodbye, perfect communion with God.  Goodbye, deep, untarnished relationships.  Goodbye, responsible stewardship of creation.  

Fast forward through a lot of war, plague and famine.  God shows up, literally, in Bethlehem and starts saying some crazy things.  

The Romans are not the problem.
Tax collector corruption is not the problem.
Nationality is not the problem.
Poverty is not the problem.
Even cultural norms surrounding prostitutes attending dinner parties is not the problem.

There is only one problem.

Sin.  

It’s in your eyes, in your words; it pervades every inch of your insides, and I’ve come to set you free from it.  And when you pray, the next thing out of your mouth after “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name” needs to be “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven”.  

Know why He said that?  He knew as soon as our eyes were opened to the stench of sin and death and the freedom of grace, we would understand what beauty is.  The discord between what was and what is would make our souls ache for something better.  It would break our hearts to see the ravaged human landscape with fresh eyes.  As soon as we had tasted the truest love, we would want to do something about all the counterfeits.  He says we aren’t the only ones.  In Romans 8, He says everything else on earth is waiting with baited breath until things are forever set right, until pain and fear don’t even exist, until people know that Jesus is the only one who makes life good and He’s coming back to finish what He started.    

So what does this have to do with you and ISIS or you and Michael Brown’s death in Ferguson or you and your personal policies about raising awareness on social media?  That second little line of The Lord’s Prayer?  The one that you usually breeze through -  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”?  Yeah, it doesn’t just mean Your will be done on this CT scan, though it does mean that.  It doesn’t just mean Your will be done on my decision on whether to take this job or not, though it does mean that.  

It means crying out, Father, we know you love us and You are the source of every good thing, make things like they should be, how they were meant to be before we broke what You made!  It means begging for wisdom to know what is right and the guts to do it.  It means thoughtful, active engagement in dealing with the real problem, not just the symptoms.  

Practically speaking, maybe “Thy kingdom come” means taking a day off of social media to ask God to slice through your calluses and show you how you can serve people.  
Maybe it means getting the names of ten terrorists and asking the One who made them in the first place to change their hearts and open their eyes to what is right.  (I know, it’s a little unconventional.)  
Maybe it means dumping a bucket of water on your head and committing to find and encourage a real person who has ALS.  
Maybe it means listening to people who disagree with you and treating them in such a thoughtful, respectful way that it encourages thoughtful, respectful conversations in the public arena.  

I don’t know what it will look like in your zipcode for your 8-5.  

What I do know is, if not us, then who?  

Love,

Little Miss Sunshine

How You Know He’s the One

OK, folks.  Here it is.  The blog post you’ve been waiting for, the answer to the question you’ve been agonizing over.  How do you know that guy you’ve been dating for the last 4, 9, 27 months is THE ONE?  You met at small group, things quickly escalated as you went from staring awkwardly across the Bible study circle to sitting next to each other, and from smiling in passing between church services to attending the same service. (Whoa.) You went on your first date to that one restaurant that everyone goes on their first date to, or maybe you went conservative and just “did coffee”.  

After a while of this slightly awkward “talking” phase (though how much actual talking it involves depends on the two people, more on that here), he asked you to be his girlfriend.  Whoa.  You felt like you had really hit the big time. (Whatever that means.)  At some point you brought him home to meet your family and held your breath hoping your dad wouldn’t interrogate him (in front of you, at least).  You got to know his friends, his past, his parents.  Maybe some of those were messier situations than others, but you stuck it out.  

You kept dating.  

And dating.

And alllll the while, you were (perhaps frantically) trying to decide THE BIG QUESTION.  

IS HE THE ONE!?!?!

[I will pause momentarily here and qualify the term “THE ONE”.  Disney may, perhaps, sue me, but I don’t really care.  Sometimes people (usually of the girl variety) get all wrapped up in this idea of THE ONE being one single, solitary human being in the universe that they must somehow find among all the other human beings who is their one and only match made in heaven.  I think that is a whole lot of stress-inducing, nonsensical hyper-romantic frippery.  When I say THE ONE, I mean the single, solitary human being you want to choose to love even when they decide that growing a mustache is a good idea, or they leave their dirty socks on the floor.  Now that we have that established, let us continue.]  

So, is he?  I mean, it’s kind of an important question, and goodness knows everyone and their mother is going to want to know if he’s THE ONE.  If he is THE ONE, they’ll want to know when you’re getting engaged and if he’s not, they’ll want to know why in tarnation you’re still dating him.  Because they love you, and they're nosy.  

Well, reader, I have one question for you.  Probably you should sit down for this one. 

Does

he

make

you

happy?

*Braces for impact of all manner of theologically sound backlash*

I know, I know, you don’t need to be happy, it’s all about joy, and marriage is about making you holy, not happy, and what about doctrinal compatibility and similar political alignment and and and… 

And are you finished protesting yet?

Ok, great.  

Yes.  You’re right.  Happiness is circumstantial and joy is a product of walking with Jesus.  Marriage tends to knock off your rough edges, and doctrine and politics matter.

But.

Isn’t that all understood?  Do I really have to tell you that you should be dating someone like that?  Do you need someone to explicitly say, look, since you’re going to be married to this person for the rest of your life, you should probably agree on the Big Four (religion, kids, politics and money).  Do you have to have it spelled out to you that if you have a reasonably normal set of family and friends and they don’t like who you’re dating, that’s a PROBLEM?  

So what’s left?  If you agree on red and blue issues, how much money you want to give away, that you like kids, and that chasing after Jesus is the most important thing, what’s left?

Does

he

make

you 

happy?

Because let me tell you, I know puh-lenty of guys that I agree with about the Big Four, but they don’t make me happy.  They don’t include me on adventures or make me laugh or take me dancing or sit and listen and hold me when I’m a blubbering mess.  I don't wake up thinking about them, and have fun just doing whatever with them.  They don't make me melt with the words they say or the things they do.  They don't give me internal fireworks or heart palpitations or any other signs of really liking someone.  They just agree with me about how the country should be run and whether or not John MacArthur is a good author.  That's all fine and dandy, but there's no convincing me that just because we agree on those things, they're THE ONE.  So assuming you’re not on the other end of the spectrum and an idiot dating a bad boy thinking you can reform him or something, the only question you really have to answer is:

Does

he 

make 

you 

happy?

Yeah?  Then probably he’s A GOOD ONE and probably you should marry him if he asks you.  [He’s not really THE ONE until you walk back down that aisle hand in hand having promised to love him on Thursdays and Christmas Days and days when he wears purple socks and every other kind of day there is.]  Rest easy, dear one, it’s simpler than you thought.  

Much love and in love,

Little Miss Sunshine

When I grow up, I want to be a... me

It starts out harmlessly enough.  When I grow up, I want to be a... someone.  Depending on coaching, options could range from the traditional: princess, ice skater, dancer, artist, fireman, policeman, cowboy, to the parentally-induced downright pretentious: surgeon (they're 4, they don't know what that is), diplomat, nuclear engineer, etc.  That's all well and good.  Let the kid aspire to something that only a Lilliputian-sized sliver of humanity will ever accomplish.  They'll figure out soon enough that you usually have to start skating when you're 3 and practically sleep on the rink to make it to the Olympics and that in order to be a princess, you have to find a prince, or at least a fairy godmother and a pumpkin.  

Things begin to change as the pop culture frenzy breaks on the scene (may I suggest limited doses?).  Suddenly it's the hottest, latest, greatest whoever.  The good thing about teen stars is they have a great track record of being good role models.  May I bring to your attention Lindsay Lohan, Brittney Spears, Amanda Bynes, and even good ole Justin Bieber?  Yeah, I don't think you want your kids being them when they grow up.  

Along the way, kids wise up to the fact that they probably aren't going to land a Disney contract, get a platinum album, or have their own reality TV show.  What they don't realize is they are still parroting the mantra, with a few substitutions.  Instead of "when I grow up, I want to be a movie star", it's "when I grow up, I want to have legs like ___ or clothes like ____ or muscles like ___".  You might not ever catch them saying it out loud, but you might catch them mirror gazing, biting their bottom lip with a frown or hollering through the house that they have nothing to wear.  

You'd think that it would all stop when you send them off to college, that haven of higher learning and wisdom.  Ha.  You'd think that they would understand that the heart, the mind, the hands of a person are where the value lies, not in ombre beach curls.  Ha.  

If it doesn't stop in college, then SURELY as adults we'd get our crap together and figure out that most of us will never have hair that blonde/storytelling skills that hilarious/a house that big etc. (Sorry if I've just shattered all your hopes and dreams.)  But we wish, and we pine, and we pout anyway.  

Confession time: just last weekend I was at a concert and saw a group of girls.  They were all wearing cute sundresses and rompers that were perfectly accessorized.  Their makeup seemed flawless even though it was blazing and muggy outside.  I thought, wowwwww, I wish I was that pretty and put together.  If only I was a little more tan and my legs were a little skinnier.  If only I took time to curl my hair and actually put on foundation.  Then I, then I, then I... would be like them and I would be... happy.  

Every so often I tune in to my internal dialogue just to see if I'm saying anything sparklingly profound or interesting that I should, myself, take note of in case I need blog material.  Well, this made it into the blog alright, but it was more because of the downright heresy of the thing than any smithereen of profundity.  It's astounding, really, how I can, in one hand hold the doctrine of Imago Dei, (Latin for: image of God, which means that God made us to have qualities like Him and that people matter regardless of what they can do or what they look like) and in the other hand hold the heresy of comparesy (Latin for: wishing you were more like the people on your Pinterest boards).  

And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good...

Imago Dei

Imago Dei

Imago Dei

Imago Dei

             

God calls this humanity that He designed very good.  And I'm pretty sure that He designed genetic diversity with the intent for it to show up in curls and freckles and stubby toes and high cheekbones and every other way there is.  THE image of God looks like a whole lot of different people, and it shows up best when we are us.  We look the most like our Creator when we act like Him- when we put others first, and make pretty things, and love deeply.  If God made me to be a me, then by golly, I guess that's enough.  If He didn't make me 6 feet tall, then there's a reason.  If He didn't give me the comedic prowess of Zoe Deschanel, then I guess it's OK that I never get to kiss Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

Being a me means something.  I was on-purpose made with straight brown hair and slightly wide size 7 1/2 feet.  I was on-purpose made with an interest in all things that grow.  I was on purpose made with a knack for talking to anyone.  I was on-purpose born in Tucson, Arizona (though why, I'll never know).  It's not as though being me has 45.3 points of importance and being Jennifer Aniston has 23421 points of importance.  It's important that she is Jennifer Aniston.  It's equally important that I am me.   

However, it's not enough to say- well, I'm me, great!  If my purpose is to be me, then I'm all done.  I can do whatever I want because my chief aim is to be myself, and clearly I'm doing a stand up job.  This blog is not decrying the role of heroes or goal setting or role models.  All those things are important.  We were created to be us, which means dynamic, growing, changing, falling more in love with the One who made us, chasing after full, colorful, vibrant life.  That means relinquishing our desires to be someone else when we grow up.  That means letting go of apathy toward change that needs to happen.  That means the coolest, most fulfilling, important thing you can be is yourself, not a half-decent copy of someone else.  

It means all at once being content knowing that you were made on purpose and discontent to eat bonbons on the chaise all day knowing that you're created for a purpose.

When I grow up, maybe, just maybe, I'll be me.

Little Miss Sunshine

The Last Day of Being Miss Neal

And then, all at once, I was standing on the curb outside my little school, a retired teacher.

Friday was a half-day.  Never have I been so intent on keeping all my PCs alive for 4 hours than I was on Friday.  Thursday had been sort of… bumpy, so I was hoping for a smooth Friday.  We had assembly as usual, then recess, then a movie in Mrs. P's classroom, then half an hour of chaos - kids signing shirts and memory books, passing out high fructose corn syrup and Red 40 in its various forms.

All the while, I packed.  Encyclopedia sets I should've used, social studies textbooks, letter charts and flashcards.  I had been packing and taking loads of books and construction paper home all week.  

Lots of "can't you teach 4th grade next year?".  Lots of "I'm going to miss yous".  Lots of tight, waist-high hugs.  Then they were gone, leaving jackets and forgotten summer program flyers and a year's worth of memories hanging in the air.

Mom came and did what she does best - the hard work of summoning order from chaos - making stacks, scrubbing surfaces.  My principal initialed my checkout form, murmuring "thanks for taking the time to do this" as he looked through my detailed inventory entries.  We shook hands and he added to let him know if I ever needed anything.  I don't really know what sort of circumstances he had in mind when he said that, but I think he meant it.

As we stood on the sidewalk, Mom and I, she asked how I felt, if it was bittersweet.  I told her no.  Maybe in a few months, but not now.  Not yet.  I was too relieved.  It was too heavy to carry around right now anyway, too sticky with what ifs and should haves.  There were too many knots and tangles, dreams tied up with disappointments, successes and failures intertwined.  But life is like that.

I hugged her goodbye, thanked her again for her help.  I drove home, unloaded my car and spent the next hour digging in my garden.


Love,

Little Miss Sunshine

The Thing about Mothering

He put another parable before them saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like a grain of mustard seed that a man took and sowed in his field.  It is the smallest of all seeds, but when it has grown it is larger than all the garden plants and comes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” 
- Matthew 13:31-32

The kingdom of heaven is like a grain of mustard seed.  It starts unnoticed, like a tiny grain of hope tossed in the dust.  Like a baby in a manger in a tiny town.  It starts small, like a tiny orb of potential fighting against the odds to sprout.  Like a few rough and tumble impulsive fishermen who left their reeking nets because a carpenter said “Follow Me”.  It starts humbly, like an unassuming yellow brown bead who could hardly catch anyone’s eye.  Like a foot-washing session before dinner one day.

You know it by the life it leaves in its wake.  Jairus got his daughter back.  An outcast was healed.  A blind man could see desert sunsets for the first time.  And smaller than that, a father slowly ceased to criticize his children.  An employee paid back funds he was pocketing illegally.  The lonely was no longer alone.     

When it comes to the kingdom, things start small and move slowly.  They grow like the mustard seed, just a sprout at first, hardly worth notice.  Over time, what began as a yellow-brown speck sprawls into a tree.  It goes from easily overlooked to impossible to miss.  

Though the mustard tree started humbly, softly, it is not so anymore.  It is a monument to patience and persistence.  Its roots break up concrete, and its branches provide shelter and shade from an unrelenting Middle Eastern sun.  Over time, it has been transformed from vulnerable to powerful.  

These aren’t really my musings at all, just sermon notes from a sermon by Tyler Johnson this morning.  I’m not sure if he did it on purpose, but it was the perfect sermon to celebrate Mother’s Day.  What endeavor requires more persistence over time than mothering?  What job starts smaller and has the potential to end grander than mothering?

Talk about starting small.  A few cells multiply by miracle into tissues and differentiate into organs and ripple into fingerprints.  That sometimes squalling, sometimes serene baby will not always be 7 lbs. 6oz., 21” long.  Somehow, by means that are far beyond my college education (insert mitosis and meiosis diagrams here) that little person will become a walking, talking, working adult.  

Somewhere between baby showers and baccalaureate, mothering happens.  The thing about mothering is it often goes unnoticed.  Sure, people might notice if you are screaming profanities at your children, but for the most part, no one is going to commend a mother for giving her child a regular diet of veggies while also teaching them to celebrate the use of high fructose corn syrup in moderation.  No one is going to verbally affirm a mother’s decision to place a child outside their comfort zone to nurture an adventurous spirit.  

The thing about mothering is it happens in a thousand moments, like individual drops of water suspended on a spiderweb after the rain.  It’s the driving to soccer practice and showing up to dance recitals with flowers.  It’s the setting of healthy boundaries to propagate healthy relationships, even when those conversations end in slammed doors and rolled eyes.  

The thing about mothering is it is a force to be reckoned with.  Though it happens imperceptibly, it produces adults who have the potential to love well, give generously, and put others first - if indeed that’s the sort of mothering they got.  

In some cases, that sort of mothering was not acquired from the person who physically carried them in the womb, but from someone whose heart was big enough to guide the children of another.  Sometimes intervention by these “extra mothers” is the difference between life and death.  

Thankfully, I have a mother of moments.  She brought Capri Suns to soccer matches, and dropped me off at dance practice.  She said no.  She said let’s go.  She roadtripped.  She gave wisdom (and still does).  She modeled what ministry in the home and outside of it looks like.  She raised us day by day, meal by meal, spanking by spanking, kiss by kiss.  I am the woman I am today because of her.  

Happy Mother’s Day, mom!

Love,

Little Miss Sunshine

#Alt Summit believes every mother counts