Category Archives: relationships

April 12, 2013 · 9:27 am

I’m So Glad I’m Here – Embracing the Present Tense

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I’ve texted the single word here just after I put the car in park and wait.

It’s the most succinct way to say: I’m in the car outside the school waiting for you so. Here suffices nicely.

It is the opposite of there but it means so much more: together, let’s go, hurry up. Here and there will forever be separated by a chasm of geography. But, is it more than that?

I’m so glad I’m here – I choke out these words through emotions and yes, often tears. Because here is where I want to be, and I almost wasn’t. And that near miss of the adventure of this life with my husband, with my kids, with the people I love gilds the time I do have with them. And while it makes the opportunities to share life together more golden, I also feel this pressure building in my chest, in my soul to make it count, enjoy it more, express my truth, love intentionally.

A few weeks after our accident, I was able to ride to my youngest son’s cross county meet. At seven, Nikko ran with the goal in mind. No pacing, no strategizing the course. He ran with an all-out fervor to win, to be fast.

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And I sat in our van, the one replaced by insurance because our first one sat as a crushed can in the police evidence lot, and cried alone, unable to navigate the grassy entrance to the field where hundreds of little runners chanted their grade-school names and breathed into the fall air

I’m so glad I’m here.

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The next cross country season, I walked onto the field, unaided by walker or cane, still with a limp and the constant ache, and hugged him and said in his ear:

I’m so glad I’m here.

And I’ve said those words hundreds of times in the past months. That is a lasting pink scar from the night I nearly died, a part I hope never fully heals: a desperation to feel the pang of the possibility of missing out on the good gift of living so I don’t miss it entirely.

I wish I could convey the urgency of being here, to give it to anyone I touch and speak to. Because in learning how to be here, I’ve learned it isn’t about geography on a map, the opposite of there. I’ve learned it’s about the geography of the heart.

The distant isle of there is a matter of choice. We speed to there on wings of self-service, we build a path away from here by complaining; discontentment is a vessel that removes the heart of joy that can be found in the present place of here and now and exiles it to there. When we check out from being part of of own present tense we miss the immeasurable possibility of what lies within seams and under the folds of our here.

Because here may be a place of unpaid bills, of replayed fights that always end the same and never accomplish any good, it may be the boring routine, the body that’s sick, the hurt that won’t heal, the past that won’t mend, the carpet that’s stained and the jeans that don’t fit and all you want to do is get out of here.

I get that, I do. But I know a trick, a tiny key that turns the lock and opens the lid to a mystery: you are not alone in your here and now.

“I AM with you, even to the end of the age,” Jesus promised. (Matthew 28:20) He sends text messages to the hearts of the lonely and the abused and the angry – here.

Whatever your here is, He IS. It isn’t about geography, it’s not about where you are, but who is with you.

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April 10, 2013 · 12:02 pm

Show Up, Kneel Down, Seek God {3 Things Real Friends Do}

“I wish the others could have come,” his small voice said wistfully from the backseat, “They would have liked to cheer me on.”

We were heading to Seattle for a dance competition, Nikko’s first with his all-boy hip-hop group.

Our weekend trips usually include all four kids and maybe a pet, a lot of pit-stops along the way, snacks, copious quoting from movies and at least an argument or two.

This was the most time Nikko had ever spent in a car with his parents and two full rows of seats all to himself. He might have been thrilled, but instead he was a little lonely, even for the conflict that siblings so readily provide.

I believe at the heart of Nikko’s response to the vast empty back-seat of the Honda was this: he is part of a community and community is part of him.

He has related this deep appreciation for other people who have been constantly in his life. His neighbor buddy from across the street has been his friend since diaper days. Not long ago Nikko said to me, “Mom, I can’t imagine my life without Christian. He has always been my friend.”

I love watching the appreciation and value of relationship develop in my children. It fosters a sense of belonging and interdependency. I love watching that happen in grown-ups, too.

This past week, seven men sat in my basement and prayed.

Busy men with grown-up responsibilities, families, jobs and commitments set aside everything for a few hours to meet in prayer for their friend who called for help. They bended knee, they embraced, they followed this instruction from Peter:

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety upon him because he cares for you. {1 Peter 5:5-6}

Then, they came upstairs and ate the leftovers from my family dinner and by this, made my simple ham and noodle dinner a holy feast.

And I stayed in my room for the beauty of it.

Because out there, in the kitchen, in the faces of my friends and my husband I saw Christ and the hard-fought humility of his love for us. It was too much for me, so I stayed back in my room and prayed this would be, for them, a night of memorial stones. A place they could each touch back to when they feel alone and in need of community.

Because we all need to be cheered on. We all need the companionship and challenge that our friends provide.

We need the family that bears the name of Christ to show up on doorsteps and in basements and into the lives of one another. We need the linking of arms because life is a battle and the enemy is persistent and the wounds reach deep enough that without those arms linked in a chain, the legs aren’t strong enough to stand.

***

Friends,

We’ve all been blessed and let down (even hurt) by members of our communities, families, churches. Might I encourage you to press on arm in arm with the people in your community and make yourself willing to participate in these three activities of Christian love?

1. Show Up

2. Kneel Down

3. Seek God

This never fails. It may be uncomfortable, but it is undeniably effective. If you don’t have friends that Show Up, Kneel Down and Seek God together, I encourage you to ask your Father in Heaven, who gives generously (James 1) to lead you to a community of imperfect people who seek the face of our perfect God. People who will do this with you and for you are your truest friends.

Blessings,

Alyssa

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April 5, 2013 · 11:16 am

Can I Shine for Jesus When my Dog Poops on the Floor?

My dogs pooped in the hall. Both of them.

My cat puked in the laundry room.

I argued with my daughter.

I used bad words in said argument.

I didn’t wash my face last night.

I let my kids eat pop tarts.

I ate two desserts after dinner.

I’m having a hard time forgiving someone.

I fear I’m losing a friend and I’m not losing weight.

In fact I think I gained weight last week.

I’m a little fearful of what the future holds.

I let insecurity get the best of me.

I’ve said the word stupid about 40 times today (remember the dogs?).

I’ve already ranted and it’s not yet noon.

Since early this morning, I’ve worked on the same sentence over and again in my head and it’s just beginning to make sense:

Let your your light shine bright before men,

not so that they can better see you,

but so that they can better see the Light 

that cannot dim in storm or shadow or sorrow or

even in the fog of mediocrity,

that others may see the right path for their steps to follow

because you were beside them…shining a little light.

My society dictates that I should be able to use butter in my cooking like Paula Deen but have abs like Jillian Michaels.

I should, if I choose to stay at home rather than pursue a career, have plenty of time to organize my pantry, plan dates with my husband, read to my children, grow my own food, raise my own chickens, bake from scratch, never buy anything with high fructose corn syrup, learn photography and consistently present my picture-perfect life in amber-tinted tones on Instagram.

As a Christian I should know my purpose, never become discouraged, enjoy Hillsong worship music, write hand-written thank-yous, never sin when I argue, show up on time with the answers completed for Bible Study.

I will always be an utter failure.

Especially in regards to Jillian’s abs and Hillsong Pandora radio. Never. Gonna. Happen.

But I will keep turning toward the Light of God’s word because I really don’t want to conform to anyone else’s idea of perfect.

He tells me I am complete, lacking in nothing. {James 1:4}

He tells me I am qualified. {Colossians 1:12}

He tells me I am a gift and an important part of future. {John 17:2-24}

He tells me I can praise him and look for him and cry to him. {Psalm 116}

So when I burn the cookies, scream at the dogs, wail over the sixteenth load of laundry, He knows what I really want

to be accepted

to be enough

to be useful

to be loved.

Jesus knows me at my best and my worst and really neither extreme phases him, impresses him or turns him off. He forgets my sin and knows my name.

He smiles when I come to him covered and disheveled in the rubbish of this world. He rubs my face gently, removes the grit and reveals the glow.

Because when I turn to Jesus, look full in his face and allow his grace to touch me, then I shine His light.

In the same way, let your light shine before others,

that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.

Matthew 5:16  
Friends, Don’t forget this:
Jesus has done the work for you!
Stop trying so hard.
Let yourself be.
Let yourself be loved by Jesus.
Let his truth be invested in your spirit and give you joy
where there once was a mess of anger,
peace in the places where confusion reigned,
hope in his salvation,
and grace to get through the day–
victoriously.

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March 25, 2013 · 10:08 am

Why God Loves Kids and How to Become One

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For the Lord sees not as a man sees: for man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart. {1 Samuel 16:7}

Now he was ruddy and had beautiful eyes and was handsome. {1 Samuel 16:12}

And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them. {Mark 10:16}

***

It was late, pushing midnight, and I was ready to call it a night.

My introverted nature was vying for a quiet room and a bed to crawl into since I had been with people since noon. Introverted me needed to recover from all that social interaction.

But there was something more that needed my attention. Demanded it.

I spoke her name as I walked into her room. Light poured in through the doorway revealing the hill of her frame beneath the covers on her bed.

Every inch of her was hiding.

She lay perfectly still, as if asleep.

Only I knew she wasn’t.

I spoke her name again and added, “I know you aren’t sleeping.”

A slight stir.

“Sit up.”

I waited.

Eventually, she scooted up and in the slanted light I saw her red-rimmed and puffy eyes peering through a tangle of hair.

And thus began the midnight talk about honesty, her confession of sneaking and lying. And broken trust lay in pieces.

A silent prayer slipped heavenward: Help me help her.

So much shame hung on her small frame. Only a decade old and just in this one week (one night!) she racked up a slew of lies. She believed they were stacked neatly, unnoticed, like a pile of books against the wall; but her deception was discovered and now, we had to dig through the wreckage. Sort through the sin.

Her story was Eve’s.

There was a rule: no itouch for a week.

There was a temptation: Maybe I could us it when mom isn’t home? Just once or twice.

There was the fall: I did it and no one saw.

But the act required the lie and the lie required another and another.

And the lies had become her friend. The friend that offered her protection from revealing, embarrassing shame while at the same time isolated her from the freedom she craved. The friend that twisted me, her mom, into an enemy.

Her perception had been twisted by her deception and now, she stared at me not guilty and repentant but afraid, angry, immovable.

Only grace, Jesus’ grace, can move that mountain called shame.

I said His words and spoke hard truths in love. All the while I prayed for a softening, a yielding of spirit, not for me to mold and push and reform her, but to offer up to Jesus in my mother-hands: here, Savior, make her like you.

Because my hands are too rough, my skill in parenting too rudimentary. Her spirit needs the expert touch of a master. This dark conversation in a dark room became a prayer in which I turned my rights as mother, as a parent, over to the One who knows this girl better than I.

***

Jesus welcomed the children. We all remember that story well.

The disciples, men caught up in the ideas and ideals of their man-centered world, wanted to shoo them off into ambiguity, to keep the children unimportant and disposable. But Jesus wouldn’t have it.

We don’t know the names of the children who’s heads rested under the blessing-hand of the Savior. I think this is by design, because we know in hearts that read the message and not just the words of the story that those children are our children.

Those children clamoring to receive the blessing–they are us. You and me.

***

Yesterday in church, we revisited the story of David, Israel’s great king.

It began with a child, a shepherd boy whose life existed far from the shadowy world of King Saul. This boy was young, the Bible refers to him as “ruddy” which means red-cheeked – he was too young to shave. David, not yet on the outside edge of manhood, spent his childhood days watching over helpless sheep. But here, where the enemies were real, ruthless and hungry, David’s character would be tested.

When the lion came, could he not sacrifice one sheep to its ravenous attack and report back to his father that he didn’t see the danger coming?

When the bear came, David could spare a couple lambs to protect himself, couldn’t he?

In the wilds of the field, there was little room for deception, for lazy, self-protective thinking. This proving ground required integrity and courage.

This was the child God called up to serve and lead.

This was a child’s heart.

***

My girl has a call on her life. There are people only she can love and lead into places of grace.

Will she be ready, will she be willing? Only God knows.

Meanwhile, we are still clearing the debris that deception left behind. Her mind is healing from the wrong impressions that sin left upon her. But she is wet cement. She is still pliable clay. She is yet small enough to crawl upon the knee of Jesus and receive full blessing, abundant grace.

And so am I. 

***

Friend, won’t you join me there, at the feet of a forgiveness-giving Savior? Won’t you trust that he has a call on your life, too? He can repair our hearts.

{linked up with Laura at Playdates at the Wellspring and Michelle DeRusha

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March 21, 2013 · 11:04 am

Our 45 Minutes of Eggs {parenting unscripted}

Thursdays are egg days.

You see, I’m only a morning person on vacation. Get me to a hotel, a new locale with places to explore and shops and foods to experience, and I am up at dawn, ready for an adventure.

Any other day of the year I need coffee brewed and usually hand delivered in order to awaken before 8 a.m.

I’ve ceased to apologize or feel guilty that I’m not greeting the rising sun with a smile.

Since the accident, which rendered me absolutely useless before mid-morning (think pain+medications) I’ve had a hard time making morning hours count. I’m getting better, and truth be told, leaving off pain medication helped.

So my youngest boy, opportunist that he is, has found that Thursdays are the best day to ask for eggs.

Here’s the reason why: the house is vacated by everyone else by eight and he and I share 45 minutes before the bus arrives for late-start Thursday. It’s a morning each week set aside for teachers to collaborate, but for Nikko, it’s become tradition.

“Can we have eggs today?” he leans over me, grinning.

I stretch legs sore from screws and metal and the daily exercise that makes me stronger and pad off to the kitchen and begin making morning noises in an otherwise quiet house.

The skillet, black iron, heats and the shell cracks and the fork tines scrape across porcelain as I break the golden yoke and whip, whip the mixture into butter-yellow.

The pooling liquid sizzles and the bread toasts golden and he and I share a few words–nothing earth-shattering in importance–just words and conversation, usually things that matter to an eight-year-old.

He mentions again he needs crickets for the newly captured wild frogs, I think he’s named them Billy and Jo.

He asks again, for the thousandth time, if eggs make a person run fast.

Within minutes the meal is done, the kitchen soiled and the backpack slung on his small frame as he disappears out the door, down the road.

I stand in the chill morning air, coffee in hand, hair askew and say a blessing over him.

And I pray for more minutes, wherever we can find them, to commune with the people developing under our care, these four wild, amazing souls we call our children. And I breathe in the silence and give thanks for eggs, and boys, and the frogs named Billy and Jo.

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