Clean House

Okay, so I admit it...I'm a bit neurotic when it comes to my house. It's certainly not spotless most of the time, but I sure wish it were. I also have certain ways of doing things that boggle my poor husband's mind and limit the help I get. It's the "Grandma Margaret" family curse coming through. As in, "the silver container holds the wipes for the dishwasher, microwave and fridge. The white container holds the wipes for the counter and bathroom sink. The yellow spray is for the sink and stove...I know it's mostly the same surface as the microwave and dishwasher-humor me...unless, and this is vitally important, the sink has stains in it, in which case you use the stuff in the gold can." Is it any wonder my poor husband asks if it's safe just to vacuum and dust and then slinks off for the vacuum cleaner muttering to himself? God has been talking to me lately-something about the outside of the cup being clean while the inside is a filthy mess.

I've always loved having people in my home. I really enjoy making them feel comfortable and welcomed. I revel in setting the stage and watching life altering conversation happen...the kind that draws people closer together. In recent days, God's been showing me that by trying to set a perfect stage, I lose sight of the greater picture. If I'm worried about having everything absolutely perfect, I sabotage people feeling at home and comfortable. For instance, a couple of weeks ago my sister-in-law dropped in with a good friend of hers who was in town. Our house had the normal mess that accumulates when I don't expect company. There were toys strewn about the living room, dishes in the sink, crumbs all over the counter and table, etc. However, I noticed the primary discomfort my guests felt was caused by my embarrassment over the "mess." If I had been okay with it, they certainly were. It made me think, and I believe I've wandered into Martha territory. If I'm projecting June Cleaver all over the place, hiding my unmade beds, dusty shelves, nasty looking microwave and such, are other moms going to feel as comfortable sharing the real hurts and dirt in their own lives? Probably not.

God, help me let my life shine clearly...warts and all. Help me focus more on the people you place in my life than in the cobwebs hanging off the chandelier.

Give Me a Heart for People

Today I am a single mother with a single child. No, we had no tragedy--actually, quite the opposite. Brendon is now big enough to enjoy his first "rite of passage" and join his dad on an intensely exciting business trip to exotic Indianapolis. It's amazing how even the Honda Accord they rented is the coolest car EVER!...but I digress...

Given my suddenly light position in life for these two days, I decided my youngest and I would play after I picked him up from school. We motored to Ikea to play in the children's section and finish up with ice cream cones. While he was navigating one of the many tunnels in the room display section (if you've never been to Ikea, this sentence probably makes no sense and by the way, I feel truly sorry for your sad station in life), he ran across a new friend, Braden. Braden came with his grandpa, who was a brilliantly charming Scottish gentleman, brouge and all. I love Scottish accents. We had a wonderful conversation for several minutes while the boys played with each other. It certainly didn't hurt how much I enjoyed the conversation when he commented on how beautiful (in a normal, non-child predator way) my son is and that he obviously "has a very pleasant disposition." Mothers love to hear those things. After we bade "goodbye" to these new-found friends and slowly enjoyed our ice cream, we headed home to get ready for T-ball practice.

My sons are amazingly good car riders. From day one, they've both loved riding in the car so much and are so quiet I sometimes forget they're even with me. This bit of trivia is pertinent to this story--really, it is. Since he is...well...an amazingly good car rider, I found myself reflecting on the conversation I had at Ikea. The Scottish gentleman was quite obviously "un-churched." At one point during our conversation he used some rather colorful language (colorful enough to still be banned from prime time TV, in case you were wondering), thrown out in a quite tasteful way. That's what caught me. I didn't instantly bristle in hidden and controlled condemnation. Five or ten years ago, I probably would have thought, "How sad that such a lovely conversation had to be ruined by a bad choice of language, even though he was careful to be quiet enough that the boys didn't overhear." Today I thought, "How sad this gentleman and his family don't live in Natomas so I could get to know them better. They seem just like the kind of people God's been throwing in my life lately." The shift is subtle, but clear to me. While I still don't condone or participate in "questionable" activities, I'm falling more in love with people who do. I'm seeing people who are far from God, feeling the tragedy of that and begging to help be the bridge to bring them to a point where they make an informed decision about whether they want to believe in Jesus or not. Besides, it just makes me laugh when I hear a friend who won't darken the door of a church tell someone else, "If you're going to go to church, pick my friends' church. They put on one hell of an Easter egg hunt!"

Humility

Maybe you were one of those tiny girls who giggled and flitted through jr. high, loving every unstable minute of the drama that is puberty. I was not. As a child I was outgoing, happy-go-lucky and generally uninhibited. As a pre-adolescent, I was gigantic (5 foot 3 and 125 lbs is massive for an eleven year old) and clumsy. I wished I could either shine as the life of the party or fade into oblivion. I rarely enjoyed either luxury. Ages ten to fourteen were painful years I've mostly managed to block from my memory.

Why, then, am I drudging them up? This past week I had an opportunity to re-visit jr. high with the maturity (no laughing, please) and wisdom age is supposed to bring. Michael and I were able to enjoy a minister's and spouses staff retreat. It was an actual retreat with a beautiful hotel room, meals out and the chance to play with our church staff, instead of the normal working "vacation/retreats" most churches like to host :). The challenge hit when we moved into the fun activities portion of the retreat. The first activity was go carts on a slick track, which was really fun...even for an anal driver like me. After that, we headed over to a great driving range located on the edge of a man made lake. The holes were on islands adrift in the lake, which is pretty darn cool, if you ask me. I love watching the guys hit a few golf balls. The weather was beautiful, the conversation stimulating, until someone happened to remember I was there and decided we ALL needed to hit a few balls. All of the sudden I found myself in jr high again. I had never even held a stupid golf club before...unless you call a mini golf putter a club--I don't. I painfully managed to swing a few times. I missed the ball more than I hit but eventually plopped a couple in the brink about 50 yards in front of us. With great relief, I handed the club off to someone else. For the final activity of the day, we ended up in a bowling alley and the torture that is jr high continued. I had only "bowled" one game about ten years ago (it wasn't pretty). Once again, I had no idea what type of equipment to use, how to hold it, etc. Seriously people, I do know how to do some things that involve active participation. I can skate (both ice and roller), ride horses, mini-golf, ski and hike to name a few.

I definitely handled the whole situation and feelings that accompany being that awkward and obvious much better than I did when I was eleven. It's nice to know I've managed to mature some through the years. This brief relapse gave pause for introspection that evening. It all comes back to security and trust. Can I rest in God's love? Is His love good enough, or do I have to be talented, smart and witty too? It's a good lesson for me. After all, isn't trust about following Him even if you look (or feel) awkward, scared and inadequate through the process? I seemed to hear His words break through. "Do you truly love Me more than these...?"

Ministry Challenges

I was given a very interesting task this past Sunday. As we were chatting at an open house, the pastor of a large church overseas asked me what the most challenging aspects of being a pastor's wife are. After I threw out a couple of my own personal challenges, he said one of the ministry schools he has contact with is trying to form a few classes to help the wives of men studying for the ministry. Now THAT'S a capital idea! I wish they'd organize a few week long intensives for pastors' wives over here :). In order to give him more varied feedback (and probably more accurate, since I tend to be a little off the path of what is "normal"...no comments, please), I sent out a quick message to several pastors' wives I know asking about their challenges. The responses have been wonderful and I'm grateful to be able to read them. Not only are these women sharing from their hearts, I'm noticing many of the more seasoned pastors' wives are reaching out to shepherd some of the shared hurts and challenges. THIS is the church, and I love it!

Three key struggles have repeatedly made their way to the forefront. They are, in no particular order:

1. Expectations of both the pastor's wife and her family/children (both real and imagined)

2. People leaving the church

3. Criticism of their husband

Do these resonate with you? What do YOU feel are the biggest challenges of being a pastor's wife?

Still Here

Between rocking a fussy baby, entertaining a 2 yr old, cooking for 6 to 8 people and cleaning up for said people in between, I've neglected posting lately and felt I should let you know I'm alive. Just for the record, we didn't adopt a bunch of kids all of the sudden :). I've spent the last couple of weeks in Nebraska helping my sister. So, here's the mother of all stories about ministry challenges...

Three weeks ago yesterday my newest niece was born. She's perfectly formed-everything where it should be and a head FULL of blond hair to boot (blond newborns don't happen in my family). Blondie is baby #4 to move into the Gospel Wesleyan Chapel's parsonage (which is a modest size house to start with), so I knew my sister would need some extra help adjusting to life with four kids as a solo pastor's wife in a small town. The kicker came when baby was one day old. My sister hadn't even been released from the hospital yet when my brother-in-law broke his ankle--the RIGHT ankle! The new daddy can't drive, new baby can't seem to sleep at night and new mommy is trying to survive. Fortunately, my parents are parked next door (they have a house sized RV) and I flew out when baby was a week old. Between my brother-in-law and sister pastoring two churches 45 miles apart, giving music lessons and accompanying a high school musical next weekend-all with a broken ankle and newborn-it's been a zoo around here.

Today the weather is mimicking life. It's downright violent out there. As I sit here listening to the rumbling thunder and pounding rain, I'm reminded of the story in Mark 4. Jesus and His disciples were crossing the lake in a horrid storm. Jesus was sound asleep in the boat when His disciples woke him asking, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?" Jesus seemed amazed at their fear and complete lack of faith.

Lately, I've fought a storm in my own heart. As in most of the rest of the country these days, life is uncertain in our neck of the woods. I feel the sense that God may soon ask more of our family than I'm comfortable with. I believe He's on the move...HE'S on the move and I'm in a holding pattern waiting for His timing to move with Him. I'm not sure what that will look like, which can be unnerving at best. I think I needed to see the physical storm today and read Mark 4 to better understand the spiritual storm. I don't want to hear the words the disciples had to hear. "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" Let me rest along side the God of the storm.

Choices, choices

I'll admit it...while I love and value people, when it comes to the choice between checking stuff off my "to-do" list or spending time with people, I naturally gravitate towards getting the job done. I think it has something to do with my parent's great job of raising me to "eat the veggies in life before diving into the cake." If someone has something significant happen such as a trip to the hospital, a death in the family or a car accident, I'll drop the "to-do" list every time...no contest. However, when the choice becomes clean house/pick up groceries or have a spontaneous play date at the park, I'm naturally drawn to finish the dreary responsibilities first. While it takes maturity to choose house cleaning or taking care of laundry over surfing the web or watching crime shows, I'm becoming increasingly aware that choosing "responsibilities" over the stuff of eternity falls far short of maturity.

Today, I had a couple of errands to run...a quick trip to the store and working through homework and writing birthday thank yous with the boys. As the boys and I were walking back to the van after school, we bumped into a new friend picking up her son from 4th R. As we chatted, she started dropping subtle questions/hints about the possibility of a impromptu park play date with our four boys. Habit suggested I should beg off and make my vitally important trip to Raley's. Let see, spending time with someone I love and God is actively pursuing or price checking vanilla wafers? Honestly, how could I EVER think vanilla wafers are more important? We didn't discuss the fate of the universe or even how deep/wide/great is the Father's love this afternoon. Still, I think maybe tonight my friend knows I'm willing to interrupt my life for her. Today it was a simple little play date and discussions about picky eaters and sibling rivalry. Some day it might include how Jesus has made me different.

"God, help me interrupt my life for the 'unimportant' stuff. Help me keep a view towards people more than piles of laundry, shopping lists or projects."

Sorrow

Probably one of the hardest things pastor's wives face is watching those in our churches face loss. I would guess if you've spent any time in ministry, you've experienced the heart rending feeling of standing in a hospital room/funeral home/family home/etc. seeing someone you love and shepherd in a place of total vulnerability. As I write, memories flood my mind...sitting with a bereaved couple looking at baby names that won't be used, crying with another couple as we watch their 2 lb twins struggle for life, trying to help a friend make sense of the anger he experiences over losing his mom to cancer, rushing to the emergency room to feed and comfort children so their mom can make sure their dad is getting the care he needs.

A good friend of mine has had a month of dealing with hell (quite literally). He's a pk who works in the wide open mission field known as the work force. Recently, one of his co-workers lost a 9 month old granddaughter to cancer. His words touched me so deeply, I asked if I could share them with you. He agreed. I'll warn you ahead of time...it's long, but well worth the time to read.

I'm not sure why February has been this way, but it has. What the month has lacked in dreary weather it has made up for in sadness. First it was the lost of a coworker and then, this week, the 9 month old granddaughter of a fellow co-worker, past away after a sudden discovery of cancer, an attempted surgery and many attempts to keep her, Alli, alive. Babies die every day. This fact doesn't make it any easier to deal with but when we have the advantage of space and distance and we can shield ourselves from the pain.

On Thursday night Konnie and I went to visit the family at 'the viewing'. Upon entering the building we immediately saw a video playing, showing slides of little Alli that had been taken in her short 9 months of life. There were flowers, cookies and music playing. It was hard not to tear up even though I had never met little Alli in person. I could feel that space and distance closing in. We then started reading some poems that family members, including the father, had written for Alli. They were all very moving and brought even more tears to our eyes.

Once my friend, Alli's grandpa, came in we hugged and visited with them for a little while. Then we were taken into the room where the body was; where the baby was. This is when the distanced closed and the space around us seemed so close and tight that breathing became difficult. I noticed the photos, the memorabilia and more flowers that were lovingly placed in the small room. There was a bassinet with pillows, blankets and stuffed animals. The bassinet was empty in regards to a body though. At first I was somewhat thankful because I really have a hard time with the death of children. That fact doesn't make me special, it simply makes me human. But as I turned to the right, there was a couch with some people on there. And there they were. The mom was holding what almost looked to be a doll, but it wasn't a doll... it was Alli. She was stroking the babies hair and smiling at her. She then realized people were coming in and said, 'time to lay you down sweetie... I love you so much'. She smiled, she wept... she loved. She loved her little girl.

Writing about this doesn't make any of it easier. It wasn't my child; I had never even met her. But the overwhelming sadness I felt at that moment was undeniable. And it wasn't just me. My sweet wife began crying and I know she was thinking back to when our little Kaden was born and in intensive care for the first week of his life. How close we came to being where this family was.... the space we had and the distance we shared closed.

I spoke to my friend, again, of why I had to believe what i believe about God. I can't believe that this life has no meaning and that there is nothing beyond this life that isn't wonderful. Because if there is no reason that a 9 month old little girl gets cancer and dies, then I'm not sure I can be on board with that sort of cold, brutal universe. When my cousin's 2 year old died in a drowning accident I wrote a blog about Jesus saying 'Let the little children come to me'. It's with a heavy heart that I really need to hear Jesus say 'Let Geoffrey come to me'. I think we all need to hear him say that; to hear our name come from his mouth. I know I hope the family of Alli can hear Jesus calling them to Him. He's ready to hold them. When there is distance and space between you and God you can hide from emotion; you can hide from pain. But you also miss the comfort and love that only He can offer. We need to close the space and distance sometimes because we need to feel. We need to feel hope. We need to feel love. Because we surely feel the pain don't we?

There's nothing more powerful than when these little angels are born. There's nothing more painful than when these little angels die. "Jesus, you mind if we climb on your lap for just a bit and be held?" 'Come to me......'

Thoughts? Anyone, anyone...