Revisiting an older journey – Page 3

Holy Moments and Kingdom Minded Grieving

The number of similar examples that have impacted my life since the original post in July 2014 are sobering. I’ll leave this post as it was originally written, with the possibility of telling some other stories in the future.

In July 2014 I had a chance to be part of one of those holy moments you get to experience from time to time. Those moments when the veil between heaven and earth seems thinner, when you sense you are part of something bigger than “normal” life. When you see someone act in a way that can only be explained by the presence of the Holy Spirit, infusing them with spiritual eyes and a grace we can’t muster up on our own. And by seeing it, you are drawn closer as well.

We launched four squads of World Racers – and therefore four squads of World Race parents. The parent launch event is one of my favorite things in parent ministry. We give information, they meet our leadership, we hope they get glimpses into our heart for missions and discipleship and their Racers, we answer their questions, we talk about their Racer’s journey but also their journey. It’s an amazing time.

We had a unique family there this time. Jon-Roy and Maria Sloan and their son Sterling. Their daughter, Anastasia, was scheduled to launch. She was scheduled to meet her squad in person at training camp in May. And a week or so before training camp, she died in a car accident.

Her parents wanted to be at launch. They wanted to be part of the journey of F squad, her squad. As the dad spoke to the 210 gathered parents, he said they know that Anastasia’s name is not yet finished advancing the kingdom. They know she (and everyone else) thought she was going on one journey and instead she went on a different journey. In her blog she had been telling the Lord to take her deep. She was so sure that God was going to work in and through her. The Sloans are equally sure that her impact on the kingdom is not yet done.

As we gathered to pray over the Sloan family, her younger brother Sterling reached for the microphone, looked out at the crowd and said “Your children [your Racers] are going to be fulfilling Matthew 28:19 – they are going to be making disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.” It was an emotional moment for those of us hearing that. But it was a holy moment as well.

I can’t imagine the pain you feel if you lose a child. But I’m grateful for the people who have modeled it for me in ways that profoundly affect me, that remind me there’s an earthly perspective and a deep earthly grieving but there’s also a heavenly perspective, infused with hope.

Dwight and Peggy Buller are people like that. I’ve gotten to know them since I’ve been at Adventures. Their daughter Sarah was killed in a car accident while on a mission trip to South Africa in 2009. Like the Sloans, they knew their daughter’s impact on the kingdom would continue long past her death on this earth – and it has. There are scholarships and celebrations and so much more in her name. They received the news on Palm Sunday and every year on Palm Sunday hold a large community celebration – remembering her, but more importantly lifting up her Lord.

Dwight and Peggy are from Minnesota but they love to hang out with Adventures in Missions and they’ve been at several of our parent events. They’ve shared their story – with tears at times but also with an abiding grasp of God’s goodness to them. It’s not either/or. It’s both – a deep, deep grieving and a God of hope and joy.

The Duffs, although I don’t know them as well, are like that too. Ryan was part of my daughter’s senior class. It was a small school – only 35 or so in the senior class. He died in a car accident in November of their senior year. I watched the Duffs model for that senior class how you walk through grief. They invited them into the process – spending time with them, holding the visiting hours at the school in a room full of tributes to Ryan created by the senior class, inviting them to the smaller graveside service after the packed service at the church. They’ve stayed in touch with many of them – even after 9 years. They modeled well how to walk through grief.

Linda Duff presents a scholarship in Ryan’s name every year to a graduating senior that in some way reminds them of Ryan or something he cared about. She does so with grace and joy.

To the Sloans, the Buller, the Duffs and others I have known less well – I will never say “I understand what you are going through” because I don’t. But I can say this: You have modeled for me a kingdom perspective. You’ve reminded me that our life on this earth is not the whole story. You’ve talked about grace and forgiveness and hope and joy with the deep integrity that comes from a hard path.

And you’ve brought me into holy moments.

The “Hard to Name” Blog Post

I wish I could say this has gotten easier since it was written in May of 2014. At that point, I’d been doing it for 3 years. It’s now been 12 years. My gratitude for the support team that makes it possible for me to say “yes” to this call – whether that is financial support, prayer or other forms of encouragement – is huge. It’s still not the easiest part of my journey, but God has been faithful.

I’ve changed the title of this post quite a few times – trying to find one that captures what I want it to. I’ve tried “It’s Humbling”, or more specifically, “The Humbling Experience of Support Raising”, or “What Have I Learned About Obedience and Joy and Gratitude by Support Raising” or “What It Has Felt Like to Support Raise”. But none of those quite capture my jumbled thoughts. Or maybe this is just a hard one to write.

I know. For some of you, you want to stop reading right here. Please don’t. This isn’t about an “ask”. It is an attempt to share with you a bit of my journey in the same way I have shared on other topics. I want to be transparent about how I think and process and wrestle. I want to share the things that have been hard. The things that have been nice surprises. Where it has stretched me. Where it has exhausted me. Where there have been great stories. What I’ve discovered. What I still wrestle with.

Essentially everyone I know is bombarded with various requests. Or you don’t believe in people raising support. Or you are ambivalent (or not!) about short term missions. I know that and I am respectful of that. There are organizations that require their home office staff to fundraise (like Adventures) and some who don’t. There are ways to do short term missions and discipleship with integrity and there are methods that are offensive to everyone involved.

But this isn’t about those details. It’s about my journey with being called to an organization I believe in, that tells me this is “part of the job”.

And part of what I’ve discovered is that it is more than just a “job requirement”. There are unexpected privileges in it – along with the other stuff.

I’ll be honest – the thought of having to “raise support” was one of the hurdles I had to get over before I moved to Georgia to work with Adventures in Missions. I was in my mid-fifties. It was this simple: I didn’t want to do it.

In the end though, it became a matter of obedience. The restlessness that I knew was from the Lord was pointing increasingly toward leaving Connecticut and had begun to point directly toward Adventures in Missions. And I reached the point where I knew for sure that to refuse to make that move because of the fund raising component would be active disobedience to what I was being asked by the Lord to do. The right question was not “Do I have to fund raise?” but “Is God calling me to Adventures in Missions?”

So I’ve learned to trust God in new ways about the hard and scary (and initially distasteful) parts of obedience.

At times I have to actively check my tendency to compare myself (consciously or unconsciously) to those who don’t raise support. There are two primary ways I can get off track here. First, raising support for my full-time, long-term job is different than raising for a specific trip or a specific project. It’s not what I thought I would be doing at this stage of my life. And I’ve realized that it’s the place where a sense of entitlement can subtly creep in. “I shouldn’t have to do this.” “I am owed a salary.” But I know a sense of entitlement robs you of joy.

So I’ve learned to not give the enemy a foothold by entertaining thoughts that in reality have to do with a sense of entitlement.

A second result of comparing myself to others is that almost without realizing it, those thoughts can feed lies I have no business believing. Lies about my worth or value. That my worth is diminished because I don’t get “paid” in a traditional way. Lies that say I can’t do anything else. That my security rests in my ability to raise support. Left unchecked, the lies can bring up the pain and baggage of the divorce. I do acutely feel the “weight” of not having a spouse to share the burden with but ultimately that can feed into a lie that I’m truly alone.

However, I know that these lies would surface (in one form or another) no matter where I was, what I was doing and whether or not I was raising support. The enemy knows where I am vulnerable and he pokes at those spots. It has nothing to do with support raising.

Therefore, I need to be vigilant in holding onto truth and rejecting lies the enemy would want to have take root in my life.

For much of my married life I was on the other side – the donor who could write the large check. I often say it’s more fun to be on that side. But while writing this, I realized I’m not as sure as I used to be about that blanket statement. I now think it was more fun to be on that side when that was where I was supposed to be. Supporting a wide range of people and causes kept me connected to what God was doing in the world. I was a part of helping make something happen even though I couldn’t be on what most people would call the “front lines”.

It was a gift and a privilege to be able to do that.

But now I’m on the other side – and to be honest, I’m so sure I’m supposed to be here that there’s not a strong draw to be anywhere else, even back on the other side of the checkbook. There is great delight in being closer to the field ministry, in seeing at closer range what is happening around the world. In using my skills and talents in a very different environment. In being utilized and fulfilled in a calling.

That I would be called to this is it’s own gift and privilege.

When I look at the big picture, when I’m not focusing specifically on having to “ask for support”, I’m no longer sure that being on the check writing side is more fun. It feels more secure, I suppose, but fun … maybe not.

As I wrap this up, I don’t want to rely on clichéd phrases. Some of what I’m about to say are things I’ve always heard from support raised missionaries. And I’ve discovered they are really true. Not clichés, not “formulas” or “the right thing to say”, but deep down true. So here goes.

Some of the good things about support raising:

It has connected me with people in wonderful ways. It’s true – the people who are nudged by the Holy Spirit to support you may surprise you. And the gratitude I feel is overwhelming. As I look at the amount that has been given to Adventures in Missions for my support, I am humbled, and grateful. It amazes me.
It gives me the chance to tell my story and Adventures’ story – and the story of my faith and what God is doing in the world – in a different way. I’m loving that.
I get to experience God’s leading, and God’s faithfulness, in new ways. I have to rely on Him in different ways. And I am stripped of any illusion that I can take care of myself. It may be scary – but there’s freedom in that as well.
I’ve had the true joy of people who have stepped out in faith to give $10 a month – where I know that was hard for them. When that happens, and when I get to be part of it – it’s such a joyful privilege. What that says to me about their desire to be part of what God is doing here – and what that says about their trust in my call – feels like a holy thing. And it brings great joy to see them take their own steps of faith.
I’ve had people say “You need to be doing what you’re good at in ministry instead of spending time support raising” and they did something which covered most of my shortages for a year. Words can’t express what that felt like.
I’ve been blessed by the people who can’t give financially but who pray faithfully for me and for my ministry. That gift really is of great value to me and I am connected to them in ways that are very similar to my connection to financial donors. I couldn’t do this without them and I love being dependent on them as well as on my financial donors.

There are hard parts too. I still don’t love to “ask”. I still worry about putting people on the spot (and while I believe it is also giving them a chance to participate in something that matters – it’s still hard for me to do). I’ve fallen far short of where I want to be in terms of personal contact and thank yous and newsletters and updates. Finding time to do the important things (like those) in the midst of urgent things (like the daily ministry needs) has been harder than I expected. And I worry that people don’t know how grateful I really am.

So it’s still a struggle in some ways. There’s still a part of me that wishes I didn’t have to do it. But I’m learning valuable things that come as part of doing it and for that, I’m grateful.

Why Do You Believe?

I’m very aware that there are people deeply wounded by the church and by believers, and who don’t experience the felt presence of the Lord that I describe. I also know there are intellectual discussions that are worth having and I don’t mind having those. But this was written in April 2014 in response to a very specific question. And all these years later, as I repost it, I know I would answer this question – asked today – in essentially the same way.

I have friends who periodically challenge me with important questions. They are asked sincerely. They may be asked because their journey or their experience is different from mine. And they force me to articulate things I should be able to articulate – but don’t often have to.

Here’s the question one of them posed last week: “Why do you believe?”

There was a qualifier – “I don’t want to hear why I should believe. I want to know why you believe.”

Before I answer, I have to be honest about something. What I’m about to say is based largely on deep and real encounters with a God whose track record in my life is one of love and trustworthiness and transformation. A loving Father. A rescuer. An encourager. The list goes on and on.

If I didn’t have those experiences, would I still believe? Would the evidence of scripture or history be a compelling case for me? If instead of temporary “dry spells” I had no sense of His presence any more, if I cried out and begged for His presence and didn’t hear anything back, would I still believe? If I was hurt far deeper or far more often than I have been in my life, would that make a difference? If I couldn’t find my way to gratitude (which I do believe is key to allowing God to transform me), would I see no way forward on the faith journey. I don’t know. I hope there would be something to see me through to the other side, but it feels arrogant to me to say that I’m sure of that.

So, with that said … Why do I believe?

I believe because over 42 years ago [as I repost this it is now over 52 years ago], when I was a 15 year old shy, timid “good girl” who had been raised in the church, I finally heard the gospel presented in a way that told me about a personal relationship with Jesus. And when I said “Yes”, I immediately felt that I was no longer sinking but that my feet had hit a firm and solid rock. Nothing much changed in how my life looked to others (remember – I was a “good girl”, too afraid or shy to rebel). But internally, everything changed.

I believe because there have been changes and transformations in my life that can’t be explained by “self-improvement” techniques or natural growth. They are deeply connected to my experience of God. A painfully shy, extremely timid girl discovers she has a voice and that she actually wants it to be heard. A lifelong struggle with whether I am lovable yields to a deep sense that I am. Years of fear-based decision making give way to more risk taking. These changes are more characteristic of being wooed by a Lover who wants you to be your best, Who delights in you and encourages you, than they are of working hard to improve yourself.

I believe because in the midst of the most painful season of my life, I still saw great gifts in my life. Some of them were the transformations mentioned above. Some were the body of Christ holding me in very tangible ways. Some were images and visions and prophetic words – given in such a way that I now know for sure that Jesus understands a woman’s heart.

I believe because God has been personal toward me. There have been enough gifts, words, “coincidences” for me to believe He speaks to me in ways that let me know He knows and understands me. Some are funny. An image during an inner healing time of a plant placed by Him into my wounded heart that grew and flourished. I actually laughed because I knew it had to be Him healing my heart because I cannot keep a plant alive. Some bring healing tears. An image of sitting on a swing, at the bottom of a hill in the yard I grew up in, watching my parents and my sister at the top of the hill and feeling invisible. And Jesus approaches, looks me tenderly in the eyes, and hands me a diamond. A diamond had special significance at that time because my husband, the only man who had given me a diamond, had by that point withdrawn his love.

I believe because when I am suffering, or when I see suffering, I need to run somewhere and because my somewhere is actually Someone. And I find arms there to embrace me.

I believe because I have experienced gratitude that doesn’t make sense, peace when my world is in turmoil, hope in the midst of despair and joy that goes deep and lasts, regardless of circumstances.

I believe because I think what I observe in life makes the most sense if there is a battle going on that is bigger than this world. A loving God. An enemy. A people being equipped to usher in a new Kingdom. Opposition to that plan. Highs. Lows. Heroic acts of love and grace and mercy. Persistent attacks of evil. I do believe we know the end of the story, but I also believe we’re in the middle of the story.

Scripture continually tells us to “remember” what God has done. And I suppose that remembering is integrally connected to why I believe. It’s what gets me through the rough spots, the times when it doesn’t make sense, the times when God seems distant or silent. I go back to what I knew for sure in the moment when God did show up, when being with Him felt like being in a safe and loving home. And I find I believe, regardless of the current circumstances.

Thoughts About Sin Done To Us

Written in April 2014. But it’s still something I cling to – that there is healing for the sin done to us.

The cross … the symbol of one of the central tenets of the Christian faith. A particularly visible image during the Easter season. The reminder that Jesus died – and then rose again.

The reminder that Jesus did that for us. For me. For the forgiveness of my sin. To make it possible for me to be in an intimate relationship with God.

That’s Basic Christianity 101.

This is not going to be a theological dissertation. I wouldn’t even know where this fits in various theological constructs. It’s merely the musings of something that pops into my mind from time to time.

Does the cross just take care of my sin? Or does it also take care of the sin done to me?

I’m not talking about the salvation of the person who violates another person and sins against them. I’m not talking about somehow excusing or minimizing the evil that is present when one person sins in horribly destructive ways against another.

What I’m talking about is this: Can we run to the cross – can we rely on the power of what was done on the cross – with those sins, the ones done to us, just as we can run to the cross with our own sin?

My experience – and my heart – tells me we can.

One of my “cling to” verses, discovered in the midst of pain, is 1 John 4:16a – “And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.” Rely – that’s the word that originally leapt off the page at me.

I understand there are circumstances where the evidence seems stacked against a loving and reliable God. There are situations where I really don’t know what to say because anything I think to say feels less than what the person needs, it feels insensitive to the depth of pain and abuse. I don’t pretend that my experience should somehow make it easy for anyone to get past their own pain, their own distrust of God. But for me, I always come back to the fact that I can know and rely on God’s love for me. And somehow, the cross becomes the place I know that, the tangible sign of the depth of God’s love.

Maybe this isn’t a new idea to you. But when I first thought of it this way, that the cross could take care of sin done against us, against me, it was somehow more tangible than a vague pat answer about letting God into the pain or turning the pain over to Him.

I am a huge beneficiary of great counseling and inner healing. I absolutely want to always be part of a community that has a theology of healing and that encourages the use of gifted counselors and healers. I have counselors that I credit with giving me back the ability to function after the pain of what happened in my life felt as if it would crush me.

Ultimately though, my ability to move through pain and into healing seems to rest not just on great insights and technique, or gifted counselors who help me see things I wouldn’t face otherwise. When I look for the “solid ground” on which to stand, from which to heal, it goes back to being able to know and rely on God’s love – to the cross.

If the cross is about ripping open the veil between us and God, bringing us into deep and nourishing and life-giving relationship with Him – then it has to take care of anything that stands in the way of that. So it must take care of our sin. And it does.

But for some people, in some circumstances, sin done against them can distort a view of God’s goodness, or God’s desire to be close, or our ability to rely on Him, or even the perception of whether He is real and present and caring. There are stories where you wonder how anyone can survive such sustained or repeated abuse at such a horrendous level. The “easy” Christian answers don’t work. They feel trivial and inappropriate.

And the story doesn’t have to be big or dramatic for that to be true. There are lesser known stories as well, the ones that happen day in and day out to people we know and love. And the damage is the same. It is not their sin, but it gets in the way of the relationship God offers and desires.

If the cross removes barriers between us and God, in some way it has to take care of these sins done against us as well. It has to be big enough and powerful enough for this.

I don’t know how everyone gets there. I don’t know a magic formula that makes it easy to remove that kind of barrier. I’m not a gifted counselor. I know there has to be a willingness to let God into the healing – but I probably won’t know how to get you there.

In spite of that, whether I can explain how it works or not, whether I know how to help you get there or not, I still believe the cross is the answer. I believe the cross takes care of it.

A Sermon to Myself About Busyness and Spiritual Dryness

Originally published March 2014. The pace of the job has slowed down considerably in recent years, and I’ve recognized areas where it was right and healthy to build some new margins into my life, but I feel the need to stay vigilant.

I love what I do. This job fits me better than any other I’ve ever had. And I’m good at what I do. Good in the deep down “right fit” kind of way. I’m in a season of life where there are few non-job demands on my time. There’s no one at home waiting for me. No one gets “hurt” if my work week creeps up to 70 or 80 hours a week or if I do emails at 3:30 a.m. Aside from some attention to physical well-being it seems okay to work at this pace.

Especially because I love what I do. Especially because staying busy eases the loneliness.

I spent Saturday on a silent Lenten retreat. For most of the day there was no talking, no TV/music in the background, no electronics, no phone or email or Facebook. Just me, my Bible, my journal and the Lord. It’s a practice that used to be part of the regular rhythm of my life and I realized some of what I’ve lost as it has disappeared from my routine. As I’ve decided I’m too busy to take that time.

In the quiet and the rest, I realized that my overly busy schedule has brought me to a point of spiritual dryness. I no longer slip quickly and easily into my heavenly Father’s lap. I no longer feel the freshness of the Lord bringing scripture alive on a daily basis. My prayer life is more mechanical. There have been far too many “catch you later when I have more time” conversations with the Lord.

It’s not that I haven’t been growing. I have. And it’s not that I feel like I’m in a spiritual desert. I’m not. But there’s a dullness where there should be a brilliance.

I recently spent a few days in Rome and had a chance to see the Sistine Chapel on a “before hours” tour. No crowds, a few small tours totaling about 50 people in the chapel before opening hours. And when we walked in my guide gasped and said “I’ve been doing these tours for 14 years and I’ve never seen the lights on.” Apparently they normally don’t turn on the brightest lights. But there was the Director of the Vatican with a small group of priests and the lights were on. The colors were brilliant. A great experience was made even better. Later in the tour, after opening hours, we circled back through the chapel on our way out. It was crowded, packed with people. And the lights were off. The Sistine Chapel is going to be amazing no matter what. But the crowding and the lack of lights created a dullness that hadn’t been there in the early morning.

A dullness that I might not have noticed if I hadn’t seen it uncrowded and with the lights on a couple of hours before.

That’s what my spiritual life feels like right now.

And there are implications to being there.

It dilutes my focus in the job that I am called to and that I love. It could ultimately impact whether I lead the way I know I’m capable of leading. I have a tendency to want to please everyone rather than operate out of the confidence and wisdom available to me from the Lord. Old insecurities move closer and are ready to pounce if I give them space to do so. Using busyness to keep them at bay is only a short term solution.

There is always going to be a tension between busyness and rest.

It’s right to bring our best to a task, to work hard, to respect the urgency and need represented in our jobs. It’s right to be pushed to be accountable for our work hours and even our work performance. It’s right to grow and expand our professional capacity. It’s even right to go above and beyond the call of duty when serving an organization. Those are appropriate expectations.

But there’s an unhealthy side to busyness as well – and for me it is fear based and fed by unwise decisions. It’s being afraid to set healthy boundaries because the praise of men matters too much. It makes fearful assumptions about what I “need to do” because it feels as if my own efforts – by themselves – determine my value and my future. It sets “busyness” up as the highest value, and our “bragging rights” become how busy we are.

Our effort does matter in how we live and work and interact. We have to be able to say that without being accused of a works-based righteousness. And “the Lord told me …” or “I’m learning to not find my worth in my performance” should never be an excuse for sloppy work or laziness. There are going to be necessary busy seasons. But scripture is also full of instructions to rebalance and re-set. There’s the Sabbath. There’s the Year of Jubilee.

When I neglect the non-job things that nourish me at a deep level, I make an unwise decision. When I take the easy route after a long, hard day – when I mindlessly flip on the TV as my default option for “background noise” – I make a choice to accept the appearance of rest instead of the reality of deep, nourishing and true rest.

Despite my busyness, when I’m brutally honest, I do have time to choose true rest. It may be an act of trust to do that. It may take self-discipline to exercise or write or bake rather than zone out in front of the TV. But those will be wise decisions in my life if I make them.

And I hope that waking up early this morning, that taking the time to write, begins a new season for me. That doing these things ultimately make me a better worker and a better leader. That I begin to move out of spiritual dryness. That I think well about busyness.

Because I miss the spiritual “brilliance” in my life.

Waiting … and Advent

One of the issues with moving old material to a new site is that it doesn’t always sync to the appropriate season. This was written during Advent in December 2013.

Typically, we don’t like to wait. Delayed gratification is less and less common. Technology and other advances have removed the “necessity” of waiting for many things. Impulse purchases are a click away online, and for a few extra dollars it can be to you by tomorrow. Communication that a generation or so ago required the days or weeks involved in writing and sending a letter is now essentially instantaneous, a beep on your phone. I’m grateful for technology that connects us to each other – especially as families and friend networks spread out to more and more places around the world. That’s a good thing. But in the midst of all these advances, waiting falls by the wayside.

We don’t tend to wait well. Waiting is a nuisance (why haven’t they texted me back yet, why is this line so long). It’s a necessary evil on the way to the end result and we strive to eliminate as much of our waiting as possible.

But … what if that wasn’t the case? What if waiting has a richness only to be found in waiting? What if we miss something by constantly figuring out ways to get “there” faster?

We’re in the liturgical season of Advent right now. There was a time when the words “liturgical season” meant nothing to me. “Advent” was a tad more familiar but only because of the Advent wreath at church, pulled out every December with a different family each week lighting it and leading the congregation in a scripted corporate response.

And then … I ended up in an Episcopal church, one full of life and love for Jesus, full of openness to the Holy Spirit, where “liturgical” became something rich instead of boring, rote repetition. Something that joined me to the saints who have gone before me and the Church worldwide, that helped me see the bigness of God in both time and space. A style of connection and fellowship and spirituality and worship that fed a part of me I hadn’t even known was hungry. That exposed me to the mystery of God in previously unrealized ways. It’s been over 20 years since I was part of that church but the years spent there were rich ones for me and they left some important marks on my spiritual life.

The Rev. Gray Temple, a profound influence in my life, was adamant that Advent was for waiting and preparation and expectation – and that the celebration needed to wait for Christmas. Over and over he would say something along the lines of it not being good or right to celebrate too soon. So during Advent we sang Advent hymns, not Christmas carols. We sang “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus” and “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel“. We acknowledged that we were weary and waiting and yearning for His arrival. The “Christmas play” was not done until after the service officially closed on the 4th Sunday of Advent. It took me a while to “get it”, to appreciate the reasons behind that.

Before you wonder if I’m a Scrooge, trying to discourage Christmas cheer and December festivities – I’m not. I love most of them. And even in my more liturgical years, I was never a legalist about it. But our pre-Christmas lives are busy ones and they start earlier and earlier each year. Christmas decorations are in stores right after Halloween. Store opening times for Black Friday crept back to 5 a.m. a few years ago and then to midnight and now to Thanksgiving Day. Obligatory gift lists seem to grow longer.

Being surrounded by so many things that push us to stay busy during this season, how do we find time to reflect on, and to prepare for, the magnitude of the celebration of Christ’s coming?

God came to dwell among us! There’s wonder and mystery in that – and we’re in danger of missing it.

How do we grasp that? What do we do with the wonder of that? How do we truly celebrate what is worth celebrating? Can we really rush, rush, rush, up until Christmas Day, and truly be ready for His coming – at least in the ways that matter most?

Hundreds of details and too many obligations can end up minimizing the celebration of His birth – almost reducing it to one more thing on our “to do” list. What do we miss when we bypass the waiting, the growing anticipation, the building excitement or when all of those things are focused on our plans (even good ones like family being together) instead of on His birth, His entry into our lives? What happens when we celebrate too soon and in ways that rob the true celebration of its deepest and fullest joy?

How do we keep celebrations from creating a “tyranny of the urgent” which is far different than true, heart-level, preparation?

Not all waiting is the same. Some waiting is joyful anticipation with a clear end date – World Racers are about to return home after 11 months away, a small group of cherished friends has planned a vacation for next February, kids are going to be home for Christmas. Some waiting is more serious, imposed on us by circumstances – waiting for medical test results that can impact what our family is going to look like in the coming year. Some waiting is tied to hopes and dreams that we may not see fulfilled in our lifetime.

But Advent is about discovering the hope that is inherent in waiting. About acknowledging weariness and yearning. About learning that we are not alone as we wait, even if God seems silent. Is it possible that Advent can help us learn to wait well in other circumstances?

At this time of year, especially, I love the stories of Anna and Simeon. Much of what I learned about the richness of Advent, I learned from letting the few verses about their lives sink down deep in me. I see people who waited well. They had waited decades for their Messiah. Anna had devoted herself to worship and prayer, Simeon was full of the Holy Spirit and had been promised by God that he would live long enough to see the Messiah. Their pressing into God during their waiting time gave them spiritual eyes to see what no one else in the temple saw that day. They recognized who Jesus was – at a point when He was just a baby, looking like any other baby being presented. When other eyes did not see what they saw.

That’s what I want. I want to wait well, to anticipate well, to get more and more excited because I am waiting in the company of God for something worth celebrating, something that invites me into the mystery of God in glorious ways. I want to be still while I wait, remembering His past faithfulness and wondering what new thing He is doing now. I want to let Him know where I am scared and where I am excited.

I want to dream about the moment when the waiting is over but I don’t want to miss the gifts of the waiting time. I don’t want to miss His comfort, His companionship, and His excitement over the coming gift.

Reminders help me. So every Advent I set out Advent candles. Not the skinny ones I grew up with in church, lit on Sundays only. But big fat ones that can burn for days. They stay lit most of my waking hours at home and serve as a reminder when I walk through my house that there is something going on in the waiting time that I don’t want to miss.

And when the time came for their purification according to the Law of Moses, they [Mary and Joseph] brought him [Jesus] up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord …. Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ. And he came in the Spirit into the temple, and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the Law, he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, “Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel. …” And there was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived with her husband seven years from when she was a virgin, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She did not depart from the temple, worshiping with fasting and prayer night and day. And coming up at that very hour she began to give thanks to God and to speak of him to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem. (Luke 2:22, 25-32, 36-38; English Standard Version)

What Are Kingdom Dreams? (Or, Why Am I Afraid to Dream)

I’ve gotten better, since this was written in October 2013, about dreaming. But it still doesn’t come naturally to me.

Seth Barnes poked his head in my office this week [in 2013] and said, “What’s your Kingdom dream?”

“Kingdom dream” is a phrase we hear a lot at Adventures in Missions. For a while we had a department (now rolled into several other departments) called Kingdom Dreams. We launched the Dream project, helping WR alums with Kingdom dreams to connect with business people for mentoring and offering the chance to possibly receive some funding.

But when I’m put on the spot by Seth, I’m not sure how to answer. Why am I more comfortable talking about my journey than my dream? Why is the journey clearer for me than a destination?

There are things I’m passionate about and feel called to – parent ministry, for example. But is that in itself a Kingdom dream? It doesn’t feel specific enough. So I’ve been thinking – what do I want for parents? I want them to feel cared for and understood as they face both the excitement and the apprehension/fear of sending their World Racers off. I want them to delight in their role as the parent of adult children – able to make the parenting shift required at this stage. I want them be stretched and to grow in the Lord – and to be excited about what He has for them in this season. I want to encourage them to explore the restlessness that He might stir and to take their own steps of faith.

Is it okay to say that’s my Kingdom dream at this moment?

But the question of my Kingdom dream still nags at me. What Seth meant as an offhand question has stirred something in me that is unresolved.

An assortment of thoughts and questions crowd my thoughts. Why can’t I definitively name a Kingdom dream – something that God entrusts to me (as opposed to something I just wish would happen)? Don’t misunderstand me. My life feels rich and full and I love what I get to do. But Seth’s question triggered something.

I know that I’m afraid to dream. I also know I’m supposed to wrestle with this a bit. The Lord is nudging me to confront my fear of dreaming. I can plan well. I can serve well. I can build great programs. But I have a fear of really dreaming.

I’m hesitant to ask the Lord for something that I’m not already pretty sure is likely to happen. It’s rooted in my desire to “get it right”, to not want to ask for the wrong thing. But it shuts down dreaming.

There’s another factor that shuts down dreaming. I don’t yet fully believe He would really use me in the way He uses others. I don’t feel “special enough”. There are deeply buried dreams that I’m afraid to talk about, even to Him. I don’t even ask if they are His Kingdom dreams for me because it feels presumptuous to even think He’d use me that way. It’s not humility. It’s fear, and lack of trust, and a performance based mentality that looks at my shortcomings instead of His empowerment.

So – do I have the courage to begin to dream in new ways? To be honest, I don’t know. But I hope so. I know this restless feeling. I know it’s from the Lord. And I know it’s time to ask Him to keep me unsettled until I finally learn that it is safe to trust Him with my deepest desires and dreams and to trust that out of that, He will entrust me with His Kingdom dream for me.

Sometimes I Miss Children’s Ministry

Originally written September 2013. And while I believe my season of children’s ministry is over, that time of ministering primarily to children was a sweet season for me. And there are parts of it that will always tug at my heart and things about children’s ministry that I remain passionate about.

I absolutely love what I’m doing now. Working with parents, at Adventures in Missions, is a perfect use of my skills and passions. It’s a season of ministry that is exciting and fulfilling. But once in a while, I miss my years in Children’s Ministry. I loved the 10 years or so that I headed it up at my church in Connecticut and I’m still passionate about a high vision of spirituality in children.

While walking my dog today, I ran into a couple of young girls in the neighborhood who had a helium balloon on which they had written “To God and Jesus”. Tied to the string were notes they had written to God and Jesus. They were walking outside to let it go. We talked briefly about what they had written. It started me reminiscing about my children’s ministry days.

One of my former Sunday School kids is now on the World Race. I remember her compassion – and her persistence – as a 5th/6th grader. Her desire to make a difference. There were children in need in the world and we weren’t doing anything. She made a difference then and she’s grown into a young woman who is making a difference around the world. I love the possibility that I helped nurture that a bit.

An article was forwarded to me this week about intergenerational ministry. Immediately my “soapbox” speech came to mind. I believe deeply in age appropriate teaching, but I also believe deeply in intergenerational ministry. I want children seeing their parents worshipping and living out their faith. Too many churches keep the ages segregated. Too many family calendars have everyone constantly going only to their own age peer group. It’s why I started a “family Christmas party” when my kids were toddlers and why I pushed for fuller participation/service by kids on work day at church (rather than child care) and why I loved that our church mission trips transitioned from youth group trips to family trips.

I hear from my sister-in-law about the amazing things that happen in her Children’s Ministry program and I miss those days of introducing children to Jesus, helping them go deep, letting them ask real questions and having real discussions – not the “Sunday School answer” kind of discussions.

I see a post in a Facebook group from someone talking about being raised in a harsh, fundamentalist church and I hear the familiar tale of someone who struggles to believe that God can be gracious and friendly. And it makes me grateful that I was introduced, as an adult, to a spiritual formation program for children that emphasizes falling in love with Jesus. I’ve seen the difference it makes in children when their spiritual formation is grace-based, when they first meet the Good Shepherd who loves and protects and calls them by name. When their first image is not of a judge who is only watching to see when they get out of line. I hope I’ve poured the love and grace into the children I taught and the teachers I trained.

I remember being at a church where, during the offering, the ushers bypassed the row in front of me because it only had kids in it – and I saw the disappointed look on their faces as they had no way to give their offering. And one of them said to another “It’s because we’re kids.” I may not be working in children’s ministry any more, but I still ache at the thought of other kids experiencing the same dismissal.

I also remember the 4 year old, an “active” little guy who was a challenge. After a listening prayer time with the class, I asked whether any of them heard Jesus say anything to them that they’d like to share. This little guy said “Jesus said, ‘I love you and I never ever get tired of being with you.’” Into that little 4 year old heart, Jesus spoke just what he needed to hear to combat the hurts he was already aware of. My heart soars when I see young children hearing God in such a powerful way.

I’ve realized that my Children’s Ministry days, and later on my time as a college counselor (on the high school side), had pieces to them that are similar to what I do now. Throughout it all – I have loved ministry to parents. Whether it was young children, high schoolers about to go off to college, or World Racers traveling the world for a year, I have loved two particular components of parent ministry:

Helping parents see – and respect – what is happening spiritually in their children.
Helping parents know what appropriate “letting go” looks like at different stages.

To get to do what I do now is a gift – as were the years of ministry that led me here. I’m grateful beyond measure that I got to do Children’s Ministry and that I loved it. In God’s goodness, each season of ministry has in some way prepared me for the next step. Some of the transitions were happy and exciting ones. Others came out of hardship. But in all cases, the new ministry season has been one of growth and fulfillment.

Is this season with Adventures in Missions, and parent ministry, my last big season of ministry, the one where I will invest myself for as long as I am able? I think it is. But who knows? I’ve been surprised before.

Update: It’s 10 years later. I’m still doing Parent Ministry and I still love it.

Words to Cling To

Originally published in May 2013. I still love words. The examples of words I cling to have grown in the last ten years – some might pop up on a future post.

I’ve always loved words. And crossword puzzles. And word games. I like to edit and wordsmith documents – to find just the right combination of words. Putting words on paper, in the form of letter writing or journaling, is therapeutic for me. It brings peace. It helps me hear the Lord’s voice.

Words from friends and counselors and mentors bring life. And challenge. And hope. “Words of affirmation” is one of my love languages – but they must be sincere, not manipulative or grudging. Like the description of Mary after Jesus’ birth, I treasure them in my heart.

Words matter.

I have a few words I cling to. Many of them came to me in painful times and now return to provide comfort when a remnant of the original pain resurfaces.

Other words are about hopes and dreams – things spoken over me that I desperately want to be true and I hang on to them in hopeful expectation of what the Lord will unfold in my life.

“The sorrows for the appointed feasts I will remove from you.” (Zephaniah 3:18, NIV)

This is a promise I’ve clung to over the last couple of days. You see, Friday should have been my 33rd wedding anniversary. [Note – this was written 10 years ago so the timing is off.]. But it wasn’t. I’m at a point where, most years, the date has begun to come and go pretty easily. Some years, however, the tears come to the surface quickly and unexpectedly. Not for days. Sometimes not even for hours. But in the midst of a rich and full life, they are an almost surprising reminder of the pain. This was one of those years. So I clung to the promise the Lord had given me – that He will remove the sorrows for the appointed feasts. I know the original context was a bit different, but I also know when I first read this years ago, my heart leapt. It was a promise to me in my pain. A promise to remove the sorrow of anniversaries that should have been … but aren’t.

There were other words that made a difference. The new friends who discovered my day was tough and who made easy conversation as we worked together on something. And the words I put into an email to a friend, asking for prayer, and the response that brought tears of gratitude for how richly God blesses me through the people in my life. There were the quick text messages of encouragement from those who understand. And the opportunity to be with old friends, and with family, and to talk about memories of life lived together when our kids were all young.

And, just as I knew it would, the pain passed. The words brought comfort – and new things to treasure in my heart.

The Long Haul

Although I wrote this originally in April, 2013, a recent study of Joshua brought it back again – with the challenge from the Lord to “ask for my mountain” now. I talk a bit about a corresponding challenge from Joshua here. And I’ll talk more about this specific challenge as I start to add new material.

I remember the first time I identified with a Biblical character. Truly identified – as in “Maybe there’s someone like me in the Bible.” Or “Maybe there’s someone in the Bible that my life could look like.” I was 18 years old and it was Caleb.

Moses sent spies into the land God had promised them. On their return, Caleb is the first one to say, “Yeah, the inhabitants are big and scary. But God promised this to us. We can do it because He promised it.” A bit later Joshua voices the same opinion. But they are the minority. They are overruled. They wander the dessert for 40 years with their companions. There’s a promise given – Joshua and Caleb will be the only ones from their generation to enter the promised land.

And so, 40 years later, they do enter the promised land. In the intervening chapters in the Biblical record, we’ve heard almost nothing about Caleb. But we’re hearing a lot about Joshua – the new leader of the Israelites, filling Moses’ shoes, making “as for me and my house” speeches that are recorded for history.

Another five years go by after they enter the land. Caleb comes to Joshua and asks for his inheritance. “Can I have my mountain now? The one God promised me?” And Joshua blesses him and gives him Hebron. Caleb’s waited 45 years for this.

So why did I identify with Caleb 39 years ago (now 49 years ago) when I first encountered him? I was an extremely shy, very fearful, very timid, 18 year old. I knew I was not a Peter or a Paul or a Moses or an Elijah or a Joshua. But Caleb – maybe I could be a Caleb. I resonated with his sense that God was trustworthy (He said we can take the land) but also with his inability to pump up the crowd to agree with him. And with the fact that he was the first to say it, but Joshua “got all the credit”. And the fact that he’s largely “invisible”, people don’t seem to see his potential. And the fact that he served quietly – and probably contentedly – in the background.

But he is also described, the few times that we hear about him in Scripture, as someone who wholeheartedly followed God. He’s commended for that. The God who sees the invisible person saw that Caleb was faithful and his heart was wholeheartedly toward God. That gave me hope. I knew what I couldn’t ever conceive of being. But this gave me a vision for what I could be. One that seemed to fit how I was made.

Caleb was in it for the long haul. In Eugene Peterson’s words, there was a “long obedience in the same direction”. And in the end, there was boldness to ask for the fullness of his promised inheritance.

So I find myself on that journey – long stretches of invisibility, more “behind the scenes” work than “up front” work. But with a hope of being called faithful, wholeheartedly devoted to God. It’s not a works mentality. I’m pretty solidly entrenched in the grace message. It’s not “Maybe if I’m good enough God will say that.” But it does have to do with being content with how God views my heart, with letting go of finding my identity in titles or praise of men. With making sure that in the busyness of life, in the midst of using my gifts for the Kingdom, that I don’t forget to love Him and listen to Him and follow Him – wholeheartedly.

So much goes on in the years of a journey. Caleb’s was largely a journey in the wilderness and I think many of us go through a wilderness on our way from here to there. But even a wilderness journey is not all about drudgery.

You grow. You serve. You deal with pride. You laugh. You cry. You discover what you are gifted in – and what you’ll never be great at. You are stretched in new ways. You see God work in unexpected ways. Other times you can’t figure out what He’s doing. You weep with those who weep and you rejoice with those who rejoice. You see fairy tale beginnings fail to have fairy tale endings. You celebrate births and you deeply mourn untimely deaths. Your heart overflows with joy at times and it breaks with sorrow at other times.

Through it all, I think of Caleb, and realize that being someone who wholeheartedly follows God is a good goal, one that fits how I am made, that doesn’t require me to morph into an extroverted, highly visible and animated leader in order to have value. And it has me wondering whether I’ve asked for the fullness of my inheritance yet. Caleb finished strong. He continued on to do great things after getting his mountain.

So that’s what I want. To wholeheartedly follow God. To desire (and ask for) my full inheritance. To finish strong.