Whining Fast 101 – No Better Time than … Next Week

When do we start? I ask, doing a quick mental scan of my schedule. Perhaps tomorrow? Or maybe next week – that’s definitely better, My schedule is pretty full….

Today… we start today… in fact, right now. He answers matter-of-factly and walks toward the trailer.

Right now?!!! But… but… I stammer suddenly at a loss of all the brilliant reasons why this is not a good time. I can’t…

I thought we had a deal.

We DO. But, right now? This is not the most convenient time…

Who said anything about convenience? He reaches into the trailer, grabs a small toolbox and looks at me. I look at the box. Then I look at the trailer with all the cool apps and widgets and power tools. Then I look at him.

I thought you were going to use some of your power tools…? Isn’t that what the pros do?

Nah... I use those only when absolutely necessary. They raise a lot of dust and make way too much noise. I prefer working in the quiet.

He sets the toolbox on the driveway and flips the lid open. A couple of small trowels, more pruning shears than I think necessary, a stainless steel double-edged kitchen knife which opens up a whole new can of big, fat wormy questions, and a pair of gloves.

Gloves? With the hands like yours I didn’t think you use gloves.

Sometimes they come in handy.

Speaking of hands… if I dare to ask… What happened to your hands? Did you have a wrestling match with a combine and lost…?

Sort of…though, that’s just a part of the story. One day you’ll be able hear the rest. But now, we have another business to attend… Shall we…?

If you insist…I sigh for I would much rather listen to a good story.

I think we should start with repairing the sprinkling system. I keep running over the heads with the lawnmower…my husband can’t keep up with the repairs. For every one he fixes I manage to break two. And, as you know, it’s impossible to have a lawn without a sprinkling system…

It is?!! I didn’t realize that. Don’t you have a garden hose?

Of course we do. At least four.. maybe six.

One is usually enough.

For what?!!

For watering the garden.

And who is supposed to stand there with the garden hose and water the garden every day?!!!

Who do YOU think?

Certainly not me!

It’s YOUR yard.

You are crazy! I don’t have that kind of time on my hands!

We always have time for what we love… In fact, this is my prescription for you for the next several weeks. Do not use sprinkling system. Just the garden hose. Every morning… or evening. He added, If you prefer. I’ll be here with you.

Now I know for sure that you have landed here from a different planet! For no person on this planet has this kind of time to waste on such frivolous activities. I fume under my breath.

It’s not going to be wasted. He says. I promise.

There will never be a better time than now.

Whining Fast 101 – Small Talk

Sooo, how long have you been in this business? I ask, feeling a bit strange, fearing if I don’t keep him occupied, he might change his mind and go away.

Awhile…it’s a family business.

So, you are the owner? I raise my eyebrow, quite impressed.

The owner’s son.

Same difference.

Yep… same difference. I would love to introduce you to my dad some time. He is pretty awesome.

Hearing him talk about his dad in such a way makes me realize I miss my dad. I swallow hard.

I miss my dad. I say, tearing up. You know, I am not from here. When I left home, I left everything and everyone behind.

I know… I am not from here either. We stand silent for a while. I feel the breeze cooling my face. Sensing the ground shifting under my feet, I change the subject again,

You guys must be doing pretty well to be able to afford this kind of special. Do you run it often?

All the time. We enjoy giving gifts.

Wow! People must be all over you…

Actually, you would be surprised. Most people seem to prefer earning their own way… paying their dues...

It IS weird being on the receiving end of such an extravagant gift… Part of me feels that now I am indebted to you… and nobody likes to be a debtor.

A simple thank-you would suffice.

Thank you.

You are welcome. Our pleasure.

Whining Fast 101 – Enter At Your Own Risk

This is the only warning I am going to give to you. Prayer is a subversive activity. If you never prayed this or similar kind of prayer, please DON’T! There is no telling what might happen next.

As if on a cue, a white truck with a trailer hitched to it swings around the corner of our street and pulls in front of our house. A single word emblazoned on its side in large bold letters says EVERGRINGOT.

Now, that’s a strange name… wonder what it means…

A guy jumps out, taking off his hands-free as he finishes up a conversation:

Thanks for asking…I am already on my way – be there in a sec. He slams the door behind him and waves at me.

Er.. sir… It seems like you got a wrong house. I glance at the trailer, filled with all the apps and widgets one might need to run a professional landscaping business.

You must be Bob’s landscape guy… He shook his head and burst into laughter,

It seems to me that I am at just the right house. I look at my rabid-squirrel-rampaged lawn and slowly get off my knees.

But I didn’t call for any landscaping service…

Hm.. that’s funny. I thought you did…

I was just... I stop mid-sentence, realizing that if I finish it, I would sound totally weird. Being weird is definitely not my thing. So, I decide to steer the conversation into the familiar water teeming with excuses.

Sir, you don’t understand… It’s not that I think we don't NEED landscaping service…we really can’t afford…

How’ bout that, he interrupted, … It just so happens that we are running a special today… all-inclusive, full-service gardener with the works – tools, plants, an experienced expert, everything you need to turn this… he hesitated as if looking for an accurate word to describe my wretched yard, but decided against it…. To turn this into a garden of Eden.

This guy is either a con-artist or a lunatic, I smile at him and as if humoring a lunatic.

And how much is that pleasure going to cost me?

He clasped his hands, intertwining his fingers. I could see dirt under his fingernails.

Already prepaid. In full. No-end contract. You need to show up though. It’s your lawn after all. Sort of… Do we have a deal?

He stretched out his hand waiting for me. Something about those hands tells me he knows what he is talking about and he is dead-serious. If my jaw hasn’t been bruised enough already, this time would have done me in.

If this happens one more time, I will need a maxillofacial surgeon and who is going to pay for that?

I grab his hand and shake it vigorously.

We got ourselves a deal, Sir. We got ourselves a DEAL!

And so I got me my very own personal Gardener.

Prayer is a subversive activity. It should be entered only at your own risk.

Whining Fast 101 – From Discouragement to Despair

Having been stripped of my ingenious Plan B, in addition to being utterly disillusioned by my new found identity of the Great Weed Exterminator I feel like I am losing ground and slipping fast from discouragement into Despair. Capital D Despair. I have nothing left. I am doomed forever.

In the back of my mind, a tiny bee starts buzzing… I am annoyed and would much rather be left alone to rot. But the bee doesn’t leave me alone. In between the annoying buzzings, I think I hear something along the lines of despair being a compost pile for real growth.

The counter-intuitive nature of the statement gets me quite distracted from my doom-n-gloom. I latch on it like a nursing infant.

Despair is the compost pile for real growth… Despair… is a compost pile… for real… growth…

There is no question that my life resembles a big, stinky compost pile, indeed. And, there sure is a lot of despair. But, real growth? Do I even know what this 'real growth' thing is all about…?

I realize I need a serious miracle. And the only One I know qualified in this department is… God.

OMG! I am such a loser! I need God to weed my garden! How pathetic is that? HOW pathetic is THAT!

Pathetic or not, I have nowhere else to turn. So, I slump down on my knees and utter the most sincere prayer I’ve said in a very long time:

Ah, LORD God, You who created this amazing world out of nothing, You who give life to the dead, make me a gardener.

Just like that.

When you are at the bottom, the only way to look is up.

Whining Fast 101 – Plan B The Astro-Turf

B is for Brilliant…

Planting? She said, I was PLANTING?!! I shook my head, talking to the tree who stares at me without a blink. What was that crazy woman thinking?!! Can’t she tell the difference between WEEDING and PLANTING?? I take the tree’s silence as agreement and turn my attention back to the lawn.

With all the holes and craters, it now looks more like the surface of the Moon. I’ve never seen anybody plant anything on the Moon, except, maybe Neil Armstrong when he planted the flag of the United States. I certainly am not a Neil Armstrong.

The wasteland sprawled in front of me speaks its own language.

I can feel the wind fizzling out of my sail, leaving hopelessness and self pity behind. I hug the tree and begin to weep; the puddle around my feet soon overflows the property lines of our yard and threatens to flood both neighbors’. Even though we are in the drought season, somehow I don’t think they would appreciate my free watering service.

I need fresh perspective, I think, still hugging the tree.

Perhaps I should try planking…

I climb to the lowest branch, which is still pretty high for a woman my age and athletic prowess. Somehow I manage anyway, shake of my dripping boots and look down. Being lifted out of the puddle of self-pity indeed helps.

Up in the sky, half way to the Moon, I consider alternatives – adding an expansion to our driveway and turning the whole yard into a basketball court… adopting an Arizona style rock garden with zero grass landscaping. Finally, the energy efficient light bulb comes on in my head and I have a brilliant idea:

Astro-turf! That’s what we should do – we should put down Astro-turf. All my woes instantly evaporate as I clamber down the tree trunk to call the family meeting.

We are switching to Astro Turf! I announce, very much impressed with myself.

My husband looks at me over his reading glasses and without apology nixes my brilliant idea.

Ain’t gonna work. He says, It’s against our HOA CC&Rs, and goes back to clipping the coupons.

What do you mean, It’s against our HOA CC&Rs?!!! They can’t do that! They are overreaching their authority! Forbidding fake grass - outrageous! Think of all the water conservation and NO MAINTENANCE! How can they object to that?!!! That… that’s like banning all the fake Christians, all the phonies and hypocrites from going to church!

Our I-read-Encyclopedia-Britannica-just-for-fun son sticks his nose out of the pages and throws in his two cents.

Mom, it’s really not as great as it sounds… There are some serious drawbacks. The infill required for laying down artificial turf may carry heavy metals which can leech into the water table, plus the turf carries pathogens which are not broken down by natural processes in the same way as regular grass and that… He looks up, sees that my bruised jaw is about to hit the floor again, and stops mid sentence.

I had no idea that fake can be hazardous to your own, your family’s and your community’s health.

B is for Brilliant… or, perhaps, Bad…

Whining Fast 101 – This Is Much Harder Than I Thought It Would Be

I’m In Way Over My Head

Smitten by the sudden realization of my compulsive habit, I look at my yard with fresh eyes. They just about pop out of my sockets as I notice weeds ALL around. Crabgrass, Pennywort, Sedge, Goosegrass, Button weed… I stare at the lawn suspiciously, wondering if it might be trying to imply that Whining shares the apartment with its evil twin sisters... Complaining, and Grumbling, and Criticizing, and Comparing, perhaps even Gossiping, and Who-Knows-What-Else… I dismiss the thought as utterly preposterous, since if I had to stop all that, I might as well stop talking altogether! So, I resolutely turn to my lawn and with renewed determination dive head first into it.

I will NOT allow THIS on MY watch!! I dig like a rabid squirrel, dirt flying, a mountain of pulled-out weeds next to me growing by the second. I am in the zone. I have finally found the purpose of my existence.

I am the GREAT weed EXTERMINATOR! Despite the heat, the dirt, the sweat, I actually feel pretty good about my new identity. I can sense adrenaline pumping through my cardiovascular system and I double the speed and intensity of digging.

Suddenly, a tiny voice yanks me right off my high stampeding horse.

Mommy, what is this lady doing??!!?

I stop in my tracks and look at the boy. I can’t really see him for my eyes are caked with dirt now. I use the inside of my elbow to wipe them off. I notice a large patch of uprooted turf had somehow landed on the eye-shade of my multipurpose baseball cap. I try to shake it off, but in the process I scatter some dirt on the boy and his mom. The perplexed look on his face is a mixture of curiosity, fear and desire to join me in the mud rolling. The fear seems to overtake the other two and he steps closer to his mama and hugs her right leg.

All around me there are holes were weeds used to be. Our lawn resembles an exploding minefield.

The lady… , his mama speaks slowly, enunciating every word, The lady is… planting!

She dusts the dirt off his shoulder as they move on. My jaw drops with a thump, hitting the mound of dirt in front of me.

I’m In Way Over My Head.

Whining Fast 101 – I can quit any time

You don’t know you are addicted until you try quitting.

Fasting is hard. I need all the help I can get to stick with it. So, in order to get my fixated mind unglued from whatever I am attempting to eradicate out of MY-life so I can squeeze a speck of God-life in, I go back to gardening. My yard is always there, waiting for me, always ready to embrace me with open arms. It never talks back to me (well, maybe a time or two). There is always ample work available yielding instant results (unlike my parenting). Best of all, I can do it mindlessly. I get on my knees, pull the crabgrass by the roots, and just let my brain wander off wherever it wishes…. I don’t even hear it buzz…

If only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… if only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… … if only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… … IF ONLY THERE WERE NO WEEDS. I WOULD BE A BETTER ?#*&%@# GARDENER…

I am jerked out of my mindless state, wondering who the heck yelled that last sentence. I suspiciously checked out the neighbor power-walking her dog on the other side of the street, but she seemed an unlikely candidate.

Since nobody else is around, I decide, instead of playing the blame game, I am going to take ownership of this random, isolated, single little thought.

If only there were no weeds, I would be a better gardener. True or false?

Well…

I realize part of me believes the statement is true. The part that likes to deny the reality. For, reality, even my favorite gardener Tom MacCubbin would agree, is - Where there is a garden, there are weeds. Like it or not.

I step back, frowning at my lawn for being so blunt.

Where else in my life am I in equal denial about the fact of weeds?

Suddenly, an onslaught of barking thoughts jump at me, having been hidden around some shady corner inside my brain waiting to be released:

If there were no temptations, I would be a better Christian… I was actually a pretty good parent before we had kids. If there were no immature, selfish, SINFUL people in our church, it would…

The whining, complaining, howling dogs have broken the rickety fence in the back of my brain and took the full stage, front and center.

You don’t know you are addicted until you try quitting.

Facebook Fast

Even though I have been walking with Jesus for over twenty years, last year was the first time I made a feeble resolution to join millions of others in giving up something for Lent. The lot was cast, and it fell on… Facebook!

Not Facebook!!! I protested within my own head. I can’t give up Facebook?!!??

The radical thought generated such internal turmoil that I became suspicious I might need to give up Facebook, for in the short time since I'd opened my account, it started dominating my life more than I care to admit.

So, I embarked on my first ever Facebook fast.

The first couple of days, I was too busy with other stuff to even notice I wasn’t logging in. But then my scheduled opened up and I began to hear my virtual friend calling my name. All the symptoms of a detox started popping up like sponsor ads. Suffering through withdrawals, I knew I had become addicted. Going the way of most addicts, I relapsed and peeked in (well, gorged on), just to check if anybody still 'likes' me. Just to make sure I wasn’t missing out on something really fun or perhaps on a cataclysmic event everybody is re-posting and I am oblivious of since I so recklessly chose to cut off my life line. Eventually, I quieted down, being assured that most likely I won’t be left behind if the Second Coming of Christ occurs during my fast. I could finally relax, for a split millisecond peel my eyes off of me - what I think and say and do and how much I am liked for it by other FB addicts - and start noticing even enjoying Life apart from Facebook. What a concept!

The final couple of weeks flew by and Easter Sunday greeted me with a huge dose of embarrassment at my own fickle faith and renewed appreciation of the enormity of Christ's love and sacrifice for the idolatrous sinners like me. Even though my virtual love affair with the social networking site started quite innocently, it somehow connected with this thing inside me and morphed into a cheap substitute, leaving me emotionally and spiritually starved.

On Monday after Easter, when the FB ban was lifted, I found myself strangely free from its choking grip. Part of me didn't want the fast to end. I slowly eased into checking and posting status updates, sharing photos and links. I continued doing FB throughout the year with greater or lesser sense of entanglement. My idolatry-prone heart knows its capacity to seek life, acceptance and fulfillment in all the wrong places.

This year, encouraged by the outcome of last year's experience, I considered doing the FB fast again. But a quiet voice surprised me with another suggestion,

How about quitting whining, instead?

Whining??? You mean for my kids to quit whining? Now I would really like that!

Not your kids - for YOU to quit whining! Who do you think your kids learned it from?

Surely not from me??? Whining??? ....Not whining!!! I can’t give up whining?!!??

Playing Your Part with Heart

Yesterday we finally reached a miniature (or perhaps a huge) milestone in our son’s violinist ‘career’. His baby steps with the instrument were of the kind only a mother can love and appreciate. The rest of the family (and unfortunate neighbors and classmates) endured with less or more tolerance the hair-raising screeching produced by often out-of-tune strings. Being his mom, I always thought that what might have been missing in his experience and skill was abundantly made up by his love affair with the cheap Made in China imitation of the famous Stradivarius.

The day he got a tiny violin to match his size, he swung the front door of our house wide open, marched out, planted himself in the lawn under a holly tree and as he drew the bow against the strings exclaimed,

Hey! Listen! I am using this song to quiet the wind!

His youthful zeal, nurtured by time, practice, expert guidance and community of fellow-mini-musicians finally brought us the day when we can actually enjoy his concerts, rather than suffer through them.

The uniqueness of the MAYS (Metropolitan Area Youth Symphony) concerts lies in the fact that they feature several different levels of performers – from talented beginners playing more simple pieces (if one dares calling a theme from Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 ‘simple’) all the way to some exceptional, Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra worthy young men and women, awe-ing the audience by their virtuoso performance of Bach, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Mozart.

The comprehensive umbrella of age, talent, skill and experience provides an observer with a form of a musical timeline, a fascinating time-lapse snapshot of the developmental progression in the life of a musician. Each group, each stage is to be relished and celebrated in their own merit – recognizing the familiar tune amidst a horde of straying notes as much as forgetting to breathe while taken by an outstanding soloist. It might be humbling but it is certainly good for the older ones to look back and remember where they came from. And, it’s just as good for the youngsters to be encouraged and inspired by those ahead of them towards greater heights in loving, appreciating and performing timeless classics.

In that multilayer harmony the conductor, the orchestra, the soloist and the audience together are lifted into an even grander design of inspiration and beauty transcending time, place, any individual or group, era or style. They all point towards the Great Composer who gave His one and only Son to be a pitch pipe (or DaTuner, if you are a techie type) for us, who invites us to leave the bleachers, join in His grand orchestra and begin playing our own unique part with passion and ever-increasing grace and skill. It’s the symphony that everyone who heard it agrees is quite out of this world.

I am writing to you, little children, because your sins have been forgiven you for His name’s sake. I am writing to you, fathers, because you know Him (who has been from the beginning. I am writing to you, young men, because… you are strong, and the word of God abides in you, and you have overcome the evil one. I John 2:12-14

Saving the Best for Last

When he first met me, I wasn’t a consideration, because I was a … foreigner. When I first met him, he wasn’t a consideration because I couldn’t pronounce his last name and I already had a boyfriend.

Nine days later, the boyfriend of six and a half years was out of the picture and for the first time I, the ever-expressive, ever-opinionated chatterbox-I discovered that words have some serious limitations.

So begins the BEST love story ever lived. It’s best, of course, because it’s our love story. It has every component of a really good love story – twists and turns, war and peace, long letters and short fuses, dazzling fireworks and all. Thus the Sock found its Monkey, the Spark found its Plug, the Type found its Writer and the Kindle found its Fire. They lived happily ever after, end of story.

This is as far as the definition of love reaches in most people’s minds. The rush of emotions, a walk on the cloud, or, as some cynics may call it a 'temporary state of insanity'. For, speaking from experience, love does make you do some crazy things we would never dream of doing otherwise. Writing poems, buying flowers in the dead of winter, abandoning our safe, carefully controlled, self-contained world and embracing some utterly Other as a vital part of our very being, putting the desires, wishes and preferences of that one above our own. Just yesterday I was my happy, content, busy me. Today I am a wreck without this long-lost soul mate who, a split second ago was a complete stranger. When, through some small token of providence I am assured of his love for me, I am blown away that cosmic forces would be so graciously inclined to pick me, this pitiful, undeserving me, and shower me with such generosity and favor!

Nobody, however, can live in a permanent state of euphoria (unless, of course, you are a drug addict or mentally ill). For, sooner or later, the flash-flood of adrenaline, dopamine, endorphin and oxytocin slowly (or abruptly) subsides. You can’t have lavish, elaborate candle-light dinners every single evening. You don’t stay up just talking all night when you have kids to take care of the next day. It’s impossible for me to look dazzling when I first wake up (or any other time, for that matter). My husband discovered that the Amazing-Sexy-Legs turns into an Incredible-Mrs-Hyde (as in Jekyll and Hyde) before she had her SECOND cup of coffee in the morning. My stunning mate is a little less of his usual Mr. Universe self before he shaves and takes a shower. And, I was shocked to learn that even Mr. Universe farts after having milk and cereal for lunch.

And so I begin to notice ever so slight a shift in my perception. I start seeing things I didn’t see before… all these big and small imperfections I was so blissfully blind to and I am at a loss. What am I supposed to do with all this new information?!!?

Suddenly I am confronted with a choice. I can choose to chase after one adrenaline-rush after another, trying to recapture or recreate the chemically-buoyed feelings of love. My OMG-keep-me-perpetually-entertained-and-happy-lest-I-die-of-boredom Botox-skin-deep culture implies there is no alternative. Much of my broken, idolatrous self gladly concedes to the allure of this course of action. If I go down that path, I discover that it is ruled by the law of diminishing returns. I need more, and more, and MORE… and my sense of discontentment and restlessness grows bigger and bigger and BIGGER. Nobody, not even my amazing Mr. Universe can measure up or compete with that kind of pressure. So, I can decide that, just as I have so hopelessly, so involuntarily fallen madly IN love, I can as easily, yet, ah so sadly – or MADly - fall OUT of love. The Museum of Broken Relationships in Zagreb, Croatia offers a guided tour of artifacts of such love gone sour. http://www.yorkdispatch.com/entertainment/ci_19960646 The end of that story, onto the next.

Or, I can chose to believe the vision imparted by the ‘temporary blindness’ (or, perhaps, it was a provision of an extra eye to see the possibility in the impossible?). I can receive the whole package – what makes sense to my pea-size brain and what doesn’t – and ask God to help me do the hard work of faith… the hammering out of that incredible, dazzling vision in the nooks and crannies of our lives, day-in, day-out, year in, year out, staying true to the promise when the glare of the stage lights is off and burned mac’n’cheese is on the dinner table. With good days and bad, cancers and cavities, fun and funerals, homework and yard work, the dark nights and the dark chocolate, when nobody is watching and nobody needs to know.

In that murky texture of ordinary life, love, true love settles down like snow… gently, quietly, patently, faithfully - no fanfare, no self-inflated noise… over, under, in and through, and all around… until the entire earth-bound landscape of our lives is transformed by its heavenly beauty. Growing deeper and deeper as the years go by, it transcends by light years any dazzling display conjured up by some fleeting, hormone-boosted emotion. And, once again, I am left speechless, marveling at the gracious inclination of the good Lord to pick me, this pitiful, undeserving me, and shower me with such generosity and favor. And I remember that He always saves the best for last.


In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. I John 4:10

Less is more

To talk less and say more
To assume less and hear more
To travel less and see more
To compare less and live more
To consume less and enjoy more
To imitate less and create more

Help me O God

The Divine Intrusion

“… for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord…”

Today. Out of Eternal Present into the human timeline, God stepped in...today. Not some day or whenever. Today. A day on a calendar, called Thursday or Saturday or Monday. An apparently ordinary day, just like any other day filled with normal life and mundane activities – buying and selling, teaching and learning, cooking and cleaning, blogging and twittering - today - suddenly invaded by heaven itself.

Today if you hear His voice do not harden your hearts… Hebrews 3:15

In the city of David… A place, specific location with exact geographic coordinates. That’s where you and I live. Right here. A zip code. A street and a house with a number. A grocery store on the corner. The coffee shop. A country inn. Not over there. Somewhere. Nowhere. It’s right here. God’s acts are local. His ways are above and beyond our ability to fathom, but His deeds are manifested locally – a family, an inn in a little town, in a country.

There has been born...Birth initiates something utterly new. Something that didn't exist before suddenly comes into existence and life is changed forever. The day you were born changes everything for you. It's a beginning of a one-of-a-kind adventure, having a ripple effect that only eternity will fully reveal. The birth of God-Child changes everything not only for Him, but for every one of us.

For you… You. Personal you. Not him or her. But you. Me. Pronouns carry tremendous weight that can shift focus and create either walls or bridges. Us and Them. We. The letters in my mailbox are addressed to me. I don’t read my neighbor’s mail. It’s his mail, not mine. God’s love letter to humanity enveloped in the human flesh called Jesus is addressed to YOU. The moment you receive it, it becomes personal. Your mailbox. Your Christmas card. Written, signed and sealed by God Almighty.

A Savior. Our lives reach far beyond our capacity and control. We are more, so much more than what we can understand or handle. We are designed with insatiable, often misdiagnosed, hunger that only God can satisfy… again, and again, and again…. You can call it a programming, design flaw or you can call it an upgrade. Like it or not, nothing, nothing on this earth or in heaven can put my heart and yours at rest until it rests in Him. Even after I’ve done everything in my power, there is this unfathomable landscape my soul that only Savior can rescue, redeem, tame and restore. I need a Savior. You need a Savior.

Who is Christ, the LORD. An ordinary human doesn’t qualify for this Savior job description. I can’t do it for me. I can’t do it for you. You can’t do it for me. Neither can Obama, or Ghandi, Muhammad, Buddha, Mother Theresa, Steve Jobs, Tim Tebow, European Union, or United Nations, husband, wife, father, mother, son, daughter, professor, boss. Only the Creator God is fit for this job. The one and only Son of God. The first of many Sons and Daughters of Man. The moment this Creator God, the LORD, became human - with this one decisive action – He forever changed both eternity and the space/ time continuum. He became irrevocably human. From that day on – and will remain forever. And all who receive Him become eternally, irrevocably sons and daughters of God.

The cosmic transaction – the divine intrusion - moved the eternal Word of God out of the realm of religious speculation, personal interpretation and opinion into the realm of historic action – the here, the now, the you and the I – and the Emmanuel ‘God with us’. There are no spectators in this story. Nobody’s sitting on the sidelines. No indifferent bystanders. Sooner or later everyone takes sides – even those who want to be left alone, remain unengaged – their choice made for them by default. What will it be?

Today, just like that day, some receive Him, some deny Him. Some welcome Him with open arms, and some have no room for Him. Some come from afar seeking to worship Him, and some search the neighborhood in order to kill Him.

What will it be? What will I choose?

Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart… for today, in the city of David, there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord…

Who Mugged Up the Mirror?

Blame it on extended holiday hours, or too many lights on the Christmas tree, or too much blue in the sky, or just plain old human nature that simply can’t handle too much of anything, including a good thing… whatever the cause, the effect was that right around bedtime the pandemonium broke out. Tempers flared. Fists flew. Fingernails clashed. Words were said. By an executive decision, the baths were suspended and the offenders sent straight to bed. Being stinky never killed anyone.

The next day, even after a good night’s sleep, the memory of what had happened lingered heavy over the household. I would have much preferred to start the new day with a sincere apology, but experience taught me that those can’t – nor should be – coerced. A good scrubbing would have to suffice.

I listened to the water running behind the closed bathroom door, rehearsing ways to address the previous night’s issues without instigating the WWIII in the process. What seemed like eternity later, I heard a tiny voice calling my name.

The moment the door swung open, I was enveloped by the billows of steam, creating a pocket of zero-visibility inside the bathroom. In the middle of it, Child #1 stood wrapped in a bath towel, looking sheepishly at me. The mirror behind was completely veiled in puffy white. Then, with the corner of my eye, I noticed something scribbled on it. As the fog slowly dissipated I read the message:

I am sorry for mugging up the mirrer.

I stared at the writing at a complete loss of what I was supposed to do… Thank the Child #1 for taking such meticulous responsibility for the self-correcting housekeeping infringement?!!?? I had an item or two from The Need to Apologize list I was itching to volunteer that, according to my scale, far exceeded in importance the borderline insulting confession.

I cleared my throat hoping to buy some time in order not to add more steam to the situation from my own boiling over temper. Finally, I spluttered:

Is THAT ALL you have to apologize for?

The Child #1 bowed her head and quietly nodded.

We stood in silence in the middle of the bathroom for about a decade or two. The steam slunk out through the open door, gradually clearing up the large mirror. I noticed our reflection, the furrowed brow, the weighed-down look, the fuzzy towel and the softness of the blushed skin. The peculiar apology, I observed, also disappeared, going the way of the mist.

The anger, the exhaustion, the noise, the words that should never be of last night suddenly resembled the thick haze mucking up the mirror of our lives, clouding up the image of the One we were uniquely designed to reflect… I think how all too easily the baggage of life – the restlessness, fatigue, expectations, disappointments, misunderstandings and sometimes even the high-pitched chords of seasonal happiness - perturb the reflection of the Christ-reality, fogging up the mirror we are uniquely designed to be…

The Child #1 looks up, splatters of bashful hope glistening like droplets dripping from her wet hair.

Perhaps, that’s exactly what we need to apologize for… what I need to be sorry… and broken for … … for perpetually mugging up the mirror of my life…of our lives… obliterating, twisting, marring the image, the reflection of the face of God we are created and cleansed to become…


Then God said, Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness… Genesis 1:26

Alas, even to this day there is still a veil over their hearts when the Scriptures are read – they don’t realize it is removed in Christ. But whenever a man turns to the Lord the veil disappears…But we all, with unveiled face beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image… 2 Corinthians 3:14-18

Room to Spare

It shows up every year, some time in early December. Out of the dust-covered box lying dormant on the dirty garage floor, buried under loads of other dusty boxes, untouched for eleven months. When it first appeared in the middle of our living room, years ago, my husband and I were newly married, young and quite naïve. At the time, our lives were simple and our furniture few. Happy and ignorant, we went out to shop one of those after-Christmas clearance sales. We came back home jubilant, hauling in the biggest Christmas tree we could afford. The tree was beautiful and tall. When put together branch by branch, it filled at least a half of our living room, imposing its glorious presence on all this empty space. We loved our tree.

Then, a friend gave us his old TV because he was moving to Australia. Later on, we bought an armoire to accommodate our newly-acquired TV and a matching stand to hold our collection of CDs and VCRs (DVDs were not invented yet). Over the years, we kept accumulating more and more stuff – a DIY project here, and a curb-side mall find there; then came our first child with all his accompanying paraphernalia and soon afterward, another with all the mentioned paraphernalia of a different, she color. So, bit by bit, mountain by mountain stuff kept marching across our doorstep. The stuff we needed, or thought we or somebody we knew needed or might need some day kept ringing our doorbell. Slowly but surely, our huge house started filling up all its empty places, obliterating the memory of the simple life we once used to live.

The tree also appeared to grow bigger and bigger each year, transforming from a beautiful symbol of everlasting life that the birth of God’s Son brought into the world, into a household monstrosity, turning our home upside down each Christmas season. Every December, in order to make room for its ever-expanding (or so it seemed) limbs, we have to move the sofa into the guest bedroom, and the keyboard with its stand into our son’s bedroom, and the spare desk into the dining room, and the bench from the guest bedroom…

Honey, where are we going to put the bench?!!!

Making room for the tree has become our number one Christmas chore…er… I meant to say tradition.

This is insane! We need to hire movers or a chiropractor to set up the darn thing. We should just get rid of it. I scowled at the tree as if it was its fault.

We don’t have room for you! No room. Period.

The silent echo reverberated with familiarity. No room… no room… no room…… in… the… inn…

With sudden realization, a mess of conflicting feelings that must have torn the insides of the Bethlehemian inn-keeper settled in my stomach. I could imagine myself standing at the door of our house, suspiciously eyeing a tired, frost-bitten couple with the baby on the way…

I am so sorry, but we have no room for you anywhere in the house…. However, there is a bit of space in our garage among all the boxes, and garden tools, and discarded toys, and bicycles… if you don’t mind…

I took a step away from the tree, staggered by its quiet testimony of the clutter overcrowding my life. The space.

The time.

What else got pushed out by the relentless torrent of unrestrained real and perceived needs, wants, desires, personal and ministry responsibilities, demands, requirements? Is all my worthless junk swallowing up what is really precious before my very eyes? Do I even know the difference?!!! And, how in the world did I come to resent something I used to love... and enjoy?!!

The evergreen assayer stood still, its lights blinking brightly.

Perhaps… what I really need… for Christmas… is to just to make… a little more room… a LOT more room in my life. So the Life Himself can come in.

He came to His own and those who were His own didn't receive Him... John 1:11

A Glimpse of Eternity in the Daylight Savings Time

It’s my favorite day of the year. The Daylight Savings Time change – backwards. Suddenly, instead of running 35 minutes behind, I am actually 25 minutes ahead! And this is AFTER I've slept in! One morning of the year, everything I ever want to do can fit leisurely in my schedule like a pair of fluffy slippers. The second cup of coffee. Snuggling with George. Sunday comics. Listening in on seemingly casual conversation - Jesus shooting the breeze with a woman by a well (Gospel of John chapter 4). Even the kids suspend their usual squabbles for 47 seconds. And I am actually awake in church.

I savor the glorious elasticity of time, amazed at the effect the arbitrary decision to set our clocks one hour back has on me. Just one extra unhurried hour and I am transformed from a rushed, order-barking general who sees people like uncooperative obstacles in my life’s agenda, into a human BEing, surrounded by other human BEings and magnificent creatures, like our guinea pig George. When the rubber band of time shrinks, I realize, the first thing that goes out of the window is my ability to listen. Without listening, life unravels like a ball of yarn rolling downhill.

Each year, the time warp gives me a unique glimpse into a world beyond the relentless constraints of time. Eternity. A place of rest, quiet… a place of wholeness. Part of me wants to extend this one hour even further before the onslaught of life’s demands devours it with nothing but the memory left. I am reminded that the onslaught will come but I need not be sucked into it. I don’t need to wait to change my clock back once a year to experience eternity. I can live each moment of every day from the vantage point of eternity by leaning into the conversations that reveal more of who God is, so marvelously expressed in the face and the way of His Son. And in the reflection of that mirror, I can discover not only who I am but also who I am meant to be.

This is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent. John 17:3

Perfectionism - the Silent Killer

Mrs. S., do you have a moment…? I need to speak to you about your child…

I learned that approximately nine out of ten times, when those words come from the mouth of your child’s teacher, you’d better have a moment or two, or you’ll just need to rebook that flight to Cayman Islands. I also learned that nine and a half out of ten times, it spells trouble. The teacher has repeatedly encountered a problem big enough to request parent’s support and assistance.

All our previous do-you-have-a-moment conversations with our children’s teachers proved to be invaluable as their loving feedback has always sought nothing but the best for our family. They have also been extremely insightful, shedding light onto some major blind spots in our family dynamics, usually having me at the root of the dysfunction. I braced myself for the impact, knowing after I survive this, it’s only going to get better.

I am all yours and all ears for as long as you need…

She offered me a chair as she sat down.

I am very concerned about T… she said. I sat down dumbfounded.

Concerned?!!! What could she possibly be concerned about with T?!!!?? My to-a-fault responsible, hard-working, straight As brainiac is a model student. Her handwriting is impeccable, her homework imaginative, her math assignments immaculate. Sometimes I wish some of that had rubbed off on her brother, but parents should never compare children, especially not in order to make their job easier.

Yes…?

I don’t know how to put this… the teacher continued. T is amazing. I love getting her work, I love the way she thinks, I love the way she expresses herself… but she … she just tries too hard… Her work is always perfect… However, she takes awful lot of time on making sure that everything is just so, that I am afraid she may fail the FCAT even though I know she knows all the content. The test is timed and they make provision of extra time for some students. But she doesn’t qualify for those provisions.

‘Tries too hard’… ‘always perfect’ ... Resonate in my mind as I wait for the teacher to continue. She adds no further comments, leaving the giant ball in my court.

I stare at the ample evidence confirming my suspicion that the gene of perfectionism indeed has been passed down to the next generation. The funny thing is that we thought it was a good thing. We even cheered and encouraged its development. We may never admit it openly, but we saw it as an asset, not a liability! In the highly competitive world we live in, in order to be successful, one seems to always need to push harder, give more of oneself, beat the latest record… For some of us, the internal pressure is compounded with the external demands (self-imposed as they may be) of the environment and culture that feeds the psychosis. Going against this culture appears like sabotaging your own or your child’s chance of success.

And yet, the gentle words of the caring teacher point to a different reality – a place of discernment where one knows when to keep going and when to stop; when to push and when to let go. A place where wisdom is found in choosing to fail well, where distinguishing the precious from the worthless is more valuable than acquiring a PhD in Trivialities; where great understanding is reserved for all those who learn to recognize when good is good enough indeed.

It is vain for you to rise up early,
To stay up late,
To wear yourself out chasing illusions;
For He gives to His beloved even in his sleep.

Psalm 127:2

Meet Gorge

It wouldn’t have been as much of a surprise, if for the past five years my children haven’t been listening to my daily mantra,

We need to simplify! And …

Less is more! And …

The more you own, the more it owns you!, and so on and so forth.

Mission Simplify affected every area of our lives. Every new acquiring of possessions carefully evaluated, every new commitment brutally examined. I became a Don Quixote battling the tidal wave of physical as well as mental clutter and distractions.

So, when I learned that a friend is looking for a new home to their guinea pig, I was the one most surprised to even crack the door of consideration open. I know that owning an animal is a responsibility and represents dedicating extra time and work to their care. Even our children know this and consequently haven’t pushed the pet issue too much. Our daughter’s insatiable need for nurturing critters has been satisfied through occasional dog-sitting opportunities and by adopting lizards, frogs and snails in our back yard.

When I tentatively mentioned the guinea pig to my husband, his immediate response was,

Are you crazy?!!!

I saw no need for him to bring up the fact already agreed upon by everyone that knows me. However, I took it as a cue and I decided not to raise the subject of the guinea pig again.

In the days and weeks that followed I resisted the nagging thoughts about the rodent as temptations to sidetrack me from what I really need to do – get rid of more stuff, not add to the pile. I argued with myself that if he had a tail, I would call an exterminator. If I lived in Peru, I would serve him to my children for supper in a stew. No need to get all misty-eyed and emotional.

Then, after several weeks have gone by, I learned that George is still waiting for a new family to adopt him. And, it just so happened that I needed to go to George’s family home one day that week. Of course, being under the same roof, I had to ask if I could see him.

I never should have asked, for the moment I saw him, I fell in love with him. I knew he belonged to us.

After spending a sleepless night, I piled up the kids into the car the next morning and drove to pick him up. The kids couldn’t believe it. They still can’t believe we have a pet of our own. A new member of our family. The youngest, as our daughter likes to emphasize, member of the family. She walks around the house, talking to herself, asking her brother,

Can you believe that we have our own pet?!!! And he is soooo cute!

After a few days of sheer wonder, she finally broke down under the weight of the paradoxical nature of her mother’s recent actions and asked,

Mom… Why did you decide to adopt Gorge? Why did you choose to bring him home?

I mulled the question over for a while. I thought about how bringing a new living creature under your roof is work, and a responsibility, and a mess, and an expense, and an adjustment of schedules and priorities. We even had to rearrange the furniture in several rooms in our house, in order to accommodate Gorge’s cage.

But, it is also a way, small as it may be, to affirm life in the world where evening news are dominated by stories of death; to celebrate joy in the world overwhelmed by narrative of gloom and depression… A seemingly insignificant, yet living way to feel and touch and hold God’s love towards His creation embodied in the furry ball called Gorge.

Hon, I … I just wanted you… I wanted US, I corrected myself, I wanted us to get to experience God’s love for us… in a way we never could have… without bringing Gorge into our family.

Sidewalk Artist

Once upon a time there was an artist who went out with his paintbrushes and a bottle of paint. He found a gray sidewalk, stooped down, and with one knee on the ground, opened the bottle and started to paint.

As he was painting, a car drove by. A passenger rolled down the window and yelled,

What a waste of time! See all these cars driving by too fast for anyone to see what you are doing! If you want to be seen, put your work on a billboard!

Then, he rolled up the window and they drove away.

But, the painter kept painting.

Then a bicyclist rode by, pausing for a moment to see what the man on his knees was up to.

It’s about to rain, he said to the artist, pointing at the dark clouds on the horizon, and all your hard work will be smeared and washed off, and nobody will ever see it… why bother at all?

And he pushed off and went away. But, the artist kept creating.

Then a jogger came, running in place as he watched the man with the brush.

Hey, dude, that’s cool! But, nobody will see it so small and against such gray background. It’s way too inconspicuous. You should have chosen brighter colors and bigger image so it would catch everyone’s attention.

And he ran off.

By now the artist was already done. The small black owl, with feathers unruffled, a tiny heart inside her chest, and a face aglow with joy seemed to wink at her creator. He smiled back at the owl, took the brushes and the paint and walked away.




What do you think…?

Why did the artist choose the owl as his subject?
Why did the artist choose a gray sidewalk for his background?
What made his work seem wasteful?
What made it meaningful?
Who do you relate best to the story? Why?
In what ways does the sidewalk artist resemble God?

Life is a Burrito

You want a burrito for lunch?

What do you mean, ‘burrito’?

What do you mean, ‘what do you mean, ‘burrito’?’ I am stumped. You know burrito… flour tortilla, refried beans, ground meat, shredded cheese… I wonder if the morning has started too early today.

Ah, yea, yea!! Don’t forget the sour cream! She chimes as she trots off to brush her teeth.

So, I proceed to make a burrito – spreading the beans around, adding the meat in the middle, sprinkling the cheese and microwaving it for 36 seconds to a melted perfection. I put the sour cream and start wrapping it.

What’s THAT?!!?? She mumbles with the toothbrush inside her mouth.

A BURRITO – remember? I vaguely recall having this very conversation just seconds ago.

But I don’t want it – like THAT… She looks at my work-in-progress and rolls her eyes. That’s not the way I make my burritos – it’s too messy!

My eyes suddenly grow to the size of the large plate holding the offender. Part of me wants to reroute the final destination of the innocent culprit to the garbage disposal. Another part tells me that there is more to this story than meet the eye.

For I recall countless times of agreeing with Jesus on what’s on the lunch menu of my life… Loving like He loves, with a mound of joy, and a sprinkling of patience, adding growth and depth… And, I inject, Don’t forget the transformation of the boring and mundane… Then, excited about the yummy prospect, I jump into my day only to find that God’s way of wrapping the burrito of my life is slightly different from mine… and a lot more messy!

For love comes easy to me when the other person is lovable, but I have a really hard time finding those around.

Love the unlovables, He whispers, for that’s how I love…

I expect to magically ingest patience off a smooth platter of stress-free living, but He mixes up the unlikely ingredients of rejection, misunderstanding, disappointments and isolation and invites me to dine on the feast He Himself dines upon

I equate joy with fleeting emotion of happiness when the sky of circumstances is bright-blue and the light breeze is cooling my face. Instead, He sends the storm that obliterates the distinction between the up and the down, and invites me to hold His hand and find my true joy in Him and Him alone.

This is too messy! I cry out. This is NOT the way I prefer to wrap MY burrito. And He laughs, and replies,

But, hon, this is exactly what you asked for. For, this is the only way that the growth, and depth… and the transformation of the boring and mundane can take place…


…But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty… I Corinthians 1:27

Freedom of Speech - When a Blessing Becomes a Curse

Human race has been endowed with incredible God-like ability of expressing ourselves through language. Articulating his or her first word is primary developmental milestone in every child’s life. This represents only the beginning of a sacred journey intended to teach us to use words creatively, to speak well of our Maker and His creation, and to discover appropriate ways and context for expressing our innermost thoughts, desires, needs and boundaries.

Words can be incredibly powerful. They can inspire, impart life, meaning and direction to our existence. They can also start wars and revolutions and end marriages and friendships. Every day words are used to deceive and manipulate, to reveal what should remain hidden and hide what should be exposed.

Words also can be incredibly impotent. The unbelievable proliferation of words in our global culture of blogging, social networking and minute-by-minute news updates has created unprecedented word hyperinflation, a bulging, ever-increasing river of loud noise that says nothing or at least rarely anything worth hearing. E-technology has allowed us to create links, to cut and paste long quotes with just a few clicks of a mouse and dump them thoughtlessly into the churning river of verbiage flooding the banks of our lives. None of us knows quite how to deal with so much well-intentioned at best and mean-spirited at its worst linguistic pollution.

The problem with words is that they are easy to say and in the cut-and-paste world of Internet, even easier to write. Almost anyone can do that. But, engaging our mind, our moral person inside, understanding the context of our expression and our (already overloaded, I might add) audience before we do our dumping is altogether different story. In a moral universe, I am responsible for what I put out there. I am held accountable, justified and/or condemned by my own words. Perhaps what we need is a little (or a LOT) less of empty shells of sounds and letters, void of content and meaning, and more of ‘word becoming flesh and living among us’?

That, of course, is much easier said then done.


The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. John 1:14

Root Canal of the Soul

I love going to my dentist. The office is tastefully decorated, furnished with super-comfy chairs and it has a TV screen in each room where I can catch up on morning news. The staff is friendly and Nicole is the best dental hygienist in the world. She is just the right combination of gentleness and toughness – gentle on teeth and gums but hard on plaque. She is extremely conscientious and so sweet she poses a threat to good dental hygiene. By the time she is done with me, my teeth are so clean I don’t want to eat for a week lest I ruin her work. The feeling, unfortunately, goes away after a couple of hours. She never ever comments on the condition of my teeth, leaving the diagnosis to the Big Kahua, which, in my case, is Dr. M. The only thing I hate about her is that each visit she asks me the same question:

Do you floss… daily?

If only she left out that daily at the end, or replaced floss with brush, our relationship would be perfect.

Yesterday was my regular 6 month checkup.

We breeze through the cleaning and the usual one-way conversations since my mouth is temporarily disabled by all the instruments of torture and her two piano-player hands. As she attacks the plaque deposits with a pick and an axe, she complements me on my home care. I only grunt and mumble, her comment leaving me quite perplexed – if I am doing such a great job at home, how come there is still so much crud left in my mouth that she acts like a underground miner?

When she is done, she hands me a soft-bristled yellow brush and another package of floss and tells me the doctor will be in shortly.

He comes in, shakes my hand and turns to the computer screen behind me, his laser attention focused on the not too attractive display of my X-rays. After several minutes of pregnant silence, I can’t bear it any longer:

So, what’s the verdict, doc? I am savoring my freshly cleaned mouth, and Nicole’s earlier compliment on good home care, expecting to pass the test with flying colors.

Still looking… responded Dr. M, with his back turned. He wasn’t being chatty for sure.

Looking where?!!! I am right here! I had hoped to impress him with my shiny smile, but he never gave me a chance.

The silence was now pregnant with twins… or triplets… or octuplets… Finally, he walks over to me and without a single glance inside my mouth, he declares,

It’s not good. That old filling continues to crack and crumble and you are now getting a decay behind it. We must do something about it…

Your home care is good, he adds but that doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore. The staff will help you with the rest. Good bye.

I feel something resembling pieces of gravel inside my mouth. I vaguely remember my last visit and a word about the old filling and cracks and the paper that spelled out the damages in multiple hundreds of dollars terms. I also vaguely remember the fog descending on my mind when I saw the aforementioned terms. Six months later the fog turned into a hammer.

Now fully awake, I realize that my problem is much bigger than a soft-bristled brush can solve. It reaches back into my past when the dentist visits took place only when the pain got to be more than I could bear. The old filling may have patched up my inconsistencies at the time, but its crumbling structure indicated it has outlived its usefulness. Further delays only compound the damage and put me at a risk of losing my tooth. It’s the kind of price I am not willing to pay, either with my teeth or with my life. For there is another Doctor who is more interested in what His x-ray vision detects than in the shiny veneer that can fool everyone else. And when He sees a crumbling foundation, He'll move heaven and earth to dig as deep as He needs until my foot is set firmly on the Rock.


For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and intentions of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.

Hebrews 4:12,13

Perspective

MOM! Where are my P.J.’s?

Right there!

Where???

Right THERE… you just walked right past… I make no attempt to hide the exasperation in my voice.

He continues walking towards me, away from his pajamas, in the exact opposite direction from where I was pointing. I stare dumbfounded at my ‘gifted’ child, the master of overlooking the obvious, as he steps up to me, pauses for a moment and turns around. He aligns his field of vision to mine, makes a clicking sound with his tongue having spotted the crumpled pile of clothing. He takes a couple of steps, grabs the P.J.’s and turns around with a rascally grin,

Perspective, Mom… perspective… is everything.

Come to Me… Isaiah 55

What's in the name?

I didn’t have much say either in the name my parent’s picked for me or in choosing the family I was born in. My initials were given to me in the beginning as an expression of trust and hope for a life of growth, excellence and service. A life that with each passing day would breathe in meaning and significance, uniqueness and continuity to this phonemic combination that stood for Me.

Year after year I grew into this name. I filled it with passion and experiences, failures and victories. Hopes and dreams. I became very much attached to it. I liked who I was and took great pride in all my accomplishments.

Twenty years into this journey, I hit a major roadblock. I discovered a structural fault in this process of building my name that required not just some cosmetic changes but a major overhaul of the foundation. My life’s blueprint neither included nor even took into consideration the Master Architect, the One and Only God revealed in Jesus Christ. After much turmoil and resistance (for no house can have two masters), I ran out of ammunition and like a blind puppy threw myself into this new identity of a child of God. I became a part of God’s strange, diverse and sometimes seriously weird family. I began to bear a new family name – Christian - entering into the complex, controversial family history carrying some unbelievable promises and privileges and some equally unbelievable baggage.

I still kept the name my parents gave me on the day I was born, discovering more and more each day how who I was and had been fitted in this new identity and new name. I’ve discovered the deaths I was called to die and life I was called to live. More often than not, I begrudged both equally. For grasping truth with my mind, and articulating with my lips, I learned, is not the same as living Him out.

As if my identity seismic shift wasn’t enough trouble to deal with on my own, few years later I was offered to receive a new name. A whirlwind romance and a few years later I became Mrs. S.

Few years after that my husband and I were granted an awesome responsibility of naming another human being. And then another. We talked and researched. We agonized and prayed. With reverence and hope we named our children trusting that their names would become unique expressions of lives of faith, growth, excellence and service to God and mankind. That with each passing day they would breathe in meaning and significance, uniqueness and family continuity to the phonemic combination that stands for ‘CG’ and ‘VG’ respectively. And, through that process, I became Mrs. C’s Mom and Mrs. V’s Mom.

With each layer of identity, with each new name, I experience a profound sense of loss – loss of independence, loss of the sense of control over my life as I take a terrifying step of faith, as I plunge out of the security of familiar and safe into the unknown. But, as I learn to grieve well and loosen my grip on my own life, embracing the paradox of life out of death, I become more of who God intends for me to become. I don’t lose or erase who I was – I build upon what God has graciously, generously imparted into me. Rather than being diminished by the change, I become even more Me! Once the new name begins to sit more comfortably on my shoulders I am amazed afresh by His love and His wisdom towards me.

And year in and year out, as I discern new ways to hold all my names with open hand, I am able to take on more and more of the marvelous mystery of who I am and one day will become – the one of a kind daughter of the One who never changes, whose Name is the only name that will remain forever.

Cookie Crumbs for Jesus

Last Sunday my in-laws treated us to a wonderful brunch at Ettore’s European bakery on Fair Oaks Boulevard. The tough decision of the day was choosing between blueberry pancakes and waffles? Omelet or Eggs Benedict? Honey-baked ham or bacon? The waitress recognized us from the church that morning, so we enjoyed a rare privilege of being served on first-name basis. After finishing our food, we lingered for a while, savoring the fullness of the meal we just consumed and light conversation around the table. Satisfied by the former and bored by the latter, our kids wandered off and explored the restaurant, especially the bakery showcase of outrageously tempting desserts. When we finally got ready to leave, our daughter came back with an enormous chocolate chip cookie in her hand. A kind restaurant worker noticed her gawking at the display and I guess, had pity on the ‘poor starving’ child and gave her the cookie. Too full from the lunch, she took few nibbles and deposited the rest in a paper bag, saving it for later when she would be able to enjoy it more. We loaded up the car and were on our way when, at the stop light, we heard a gentle tap on our window. An old, disheveled man in tattered clothes was holding a hand-written cardboard sign,

HOMELESS PLEASE HELP NEED FOOD

We all scrambled around the car frantically, but the only food item we had was the half-eaten cookie. We asked our daughter if it is O.K. to give the man the cookie, and she shook her head in agreement.

The light has already turned green as we hurriedly handed the bag to the man, apologizing for the incomplete offering. He received the greasy bag with both hands, his face lighting up like the fourth-of-July fireworks of gratitude. The broad smile revealed haphazard array of teeth in various stages of decay. We rushed off, not wanting to delay any further the waiting line of impatient drivers stalled by the exchange. His exuberant words of thanks and blessing trailed behind us in the wind.

Impressed by our daughter’s generosity, I turned around to tell her how much we appreciated her giving spirit. But, instead of a glow of self-satisfaction, her face was contorted with anguish and washed with tears.

What’s wrong?!!! I was in shock, wondering if we might have overstepped her personal boundaries by volunteering her cookie away. Are you sad that you parted with your cookie?

Nooooo…. She wailed. I… am… saaad… I… am… sad.. that I didn’t have more to give to that man…

Her sobs continued on for several minutes, interrupting the silence that descended on our car.

Her words pierced my heart. We were still full from the tremendous bounty of God’s table. We waddled out of the restaurant and rolled into our car. At the next intersection Jesus knocks on our window, unshowered and unkempt, in need of daily food. I see a half-eaten chocolate-chip cookie handed to the hungry as a noble sacrifice, deserving applaud and affirmation. She sees the insufficiency of her offering and is broken for not being able to do more for the homeless man.

I think I deserve a pat on the back every time I offer God the leftovers from the table of my indulgences. But, when I see Jesus face to face, the grief will be not over parting with crumbled chocolate-chip cookies of this life’s goods, but over all the missed opportunities I had to show His generosity and love to the least of His brothers.


Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me. Matthew 25:40

GPS

Being the late technological adapters that we are, in preparation for our big cross-country trip, we finally broke down and purchased our first GPS. Needless to say, we all are slowly adjusting to our new, quite chatty traveling companion. We noticed that sometimes she (well, I don’t really know whether it’s a he or a she) likes to play the role of the junior Holy Spirit – especially when our driving speed exceeds the posted speed limit. I admit it takes getting used to hearing God talk to you in an audible voice,

Warning! ...Warning! But, our kids have been doing that since the day they made a connection between the number signs on the side of the road and speedometer on our dashboard.

However, there is one thing I really, really like about the GPS. It happens every time we miss our exit or take a wrong turn. After a series of simple and clear directions which, in the chaos of driving experience I managed to miss or ignore, I would expect her to starts shouting,

You dumb idiot! Are you listening?!!!! What were you thinking?!!! Which planet issued YOU a driver’s license????

But, instead, she suddenly falls silent (my father-in-law’s GPS at this time announces, ‘Recalculating… recalculating’), takes a big deep breath, and resumes in its steady, calm voice giving direction towards the destination, incorporating the unwanted detour into the journey. No judgment, no condemnation – just a solid assurance,


You are not lost… you are not lost to me. I will bring you to our desired destination, wherever you may be …


Your ears will hear a word behind you, “This is the way, walk in it,” whenever you turn to the right or to the left. Isaiah 30:21

Complete Idiot's Guide to Loving your Enemies

As far as I am aware, nobody really knows about the existence of the book (although, some, I gather, might have a suspicion or two, but fortunately they are not the blabbering type). Even though in other areas I am not a detail kind of person, here I pride myself with impeccable accounting. The book is my masterpiece. It’s the most comprehensive panoramic record of numerous grievous wrongs inflicted on my poor soul through the years. I have worked very hard at it most of my life. The book was birthed on the same day I was. Its earliest record goes back to the hospital where I was born. Hardly had I pushed my way through the birth canal when the nurse who barely caught me on the way out, whacked me as hard as she could on my back.

If THIS is my welcome, I insist on being sent back! I yelled as loud as I could, but everyone around me ignored it and cheered and applauded instead. I knew immediately it was going to be a rough ride.

The most recent entry tells of an incident that happened in the church this morning. But, I wont’ go into that.

Now, I know I am supposed to forgive – which, of course, I have done already, many times. But, guilty pleasure though it may be, I admit it is by far my favorite bedtime reading.

The Book of Grudges.

Some chapters I almost have memorized, Botox for Backstabbers, Murdering with a Smile for example.

The table of content also includes:

Gossip – the Secret Weapon of Mass Destruction
With Friends Like This, Who Needs Enemies?
Who Put YOU in Charge? The incompetent losers and places of authority
Thanks for Being Such an Ungrateful Pig!
Why Waste Time? (or, Bring Back the Guillotine!) Simplifying the justice system by becoming an all-in-one Prosecutor, Judge and Executioner

Last night, as I skimmed through the pages I noticed one particular name being repeated over and over again. The habitual offender.

I could feel my temperature rising. The more I pondered, the more furious I became. I spent most of the following day swinging from raging banshee plotting revenge to despondent, Woe-Is-Me, weeping inconsolably as the lake of self-pity around my feet grew to the size of Atlantic Ocean. I was just about to switch again when I got interrupted by a cheery,

Whatcha doin’, Big G? The last person I was in the mood to talk to today.

Hi there, King of Oxy-MORONS, I answered morosely, hoping he’ll go away if I am rude enough.

That’s hilarious! He burst into laughter. I like it! Guilty as charged! His eyes twinkled and I thought I caught a glimpse of a wink.

Although… the way you said it, he added, it sounded more like name-calling. So, whatcha been readin’, The Short History of the Universe? He was looking over my shoulder as if trying to see the book. I could tell it was a trick question. I knew that he already knew what I was reading.

Sort of…I could feel a major case of grumpiness descending on me, but I wasn’t going to let it keep me from setting the record straight.

Alright, since you asked for it! I think that THIS, I thumped my forefinger on the cover of the book now in plain view, This is just outright wrong!

I agree. His voice mingled with mirth and something else, I couldn’t quite distinguish..

I am sick and tired it! I am tired of being criticized, gossiped about, back-stabbed, betrayed, thrown up on, misjudged and misunderstood. I am tired of friends who only remember me when they need me and of enemies who have made up their minds about me without even knowing me!

He was nodding as if he truly understood what I was talking about. I decided it was time to bring it up a notch.

Something needs to be done - and I mean, IMMEDIATELY!

Oh? Like what?

When opportunity knocks on my door I sure can hear it, and I was ready to give him my piece of mind.

Well, since you inquired… You know those repeat offenders from the book…?

I know them. He answered quite engaged, almost amused, at this point

Well, they got off the hook too easily! Not to name any names, but you know who I am thinking of. It’s just not fair.

I see... Buoyed by his apparent understanding, I continued.

I want him to FEEL what he’s done to ME! Alright, to put it bluntly, I want him to suffer. And this is where you come in … you could pull some strings… you could send a bunch of chinch bugs into his lawn, for example, or a virus into his computer. A red sock could just happen to fall in his white wash, and turn all his underpants bright-pink! I was already feeling much better.

So, you want to hire me as your hit man?

I wasn’t thinking quite in those terms, but if you wish to call it that… My voice trailed off, before I continued.

I admit I haven’t really considered the payment aspect of our agreement… Perhaps, I could finally return all those overdue books to the library…? Or, I could volunteer at school, even though those bickering brats are driving me crazy…That would be right up your alley, a real sacrifice, wouldn’t it?

A shadow passed over his face.

I mean... I didn’t mean to haggle with you over the price as if we are in the farmer’s market? I promise I will not disappoint you. Somehow it felt as if I’ve just taken one foot out of my mouth only to put the other in.

So, do we have an agreement or not? I sighed. I am sure we can figure out the details later.

Yes, we have the agreement. He said, his voice firmer than usual. Now, give me the book.

What?!!!

Hand the book over to me. His voice was immovable like the base of Mt. Everest and soft like a seaside breeze

No way! Sorry, can’t do it! I clutched the book tightly to my chest, as he stretched out his hand towards me. I noticed a purple scar pulsating in the afternoon sun.

I am not going to yank it out of your hand, hon. You need to give it to me. His voice was barely audible whisper by now, riddled with pain. I paused.

Then what? What happens when and if I give you the book? I wanted to keep all my options open.

Then, you love them… He said simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. You love your enemies…

Excuse me?!!

You love your enemies. He repeated patiently, as if deaf to the mockery sputtering out of my mouth.

Love them?!!!! Are you crazy?!!! Whacking them on the head with a rubber mallet was more along the lines of what I was thinking ….Where I come from, that’s how we deal with our enemies…

And where I come from, He paused briefly, where I come from, this is how we deal with our enemies. We love them. Just as I have loved you…

But… but, what about the repeat offenders? I stuttered weakly, my hands going limp.

The repeat offenders? His eyes sunk deeply into mine, past the crusty blinders, past the festering wounds, past disappointments and shattered dreams, past losses and un-cried tears. The repeat offenders… , He enunciated every word, They are… to be loved… most of all.

I hardly noticed when the book slipped between my fingers and fell to the ground. I thought he would bend over and pick it up, but he didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on me, a category five hurricane of grace and conviction, cleansing and gentleness.

You must love the repeat offender… just as I have loved you.



Let me give you a new command: Love one another. In the same way I loved you, you love one another. John 13:34

It is a trustworthy statement, deserving full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am foremost of all. And yet, for this reason I found mercy, in order that in me as the foremost, Jesus Christ might demonstrate His perfect patience, as an example for those who would believe in Him for eternal life. I Timothy 1:15,16

Copycat

Mom, look at the tree I made!

I was up to my ears in the pile of dirt and cow manure when my junior assistant gardener called my attention to what she’d been busily doing most of the morning.

Hon, you don’t MAKE trees, you PLANT them, I was about to correct her linguistic latitude, when I turned around and looked in her direction.

Well, perhaps I was wrong… I guess you COULD make trees… sort of! I thought.

For, inside our small vegetable plot there stood a tree - if one could call a tree what in actuality, was a medium size broken off and dried up branch, stuck as firmly as her tiny hands would allow into the sandy ground. I was taken aback. Nowhere in nature have I ever seen a tree quite like this one. It was impressive. It was glorious. Every square inch of its brittle branches was covered with every blooming flower found in our garden that day – there were day lilies, and passionflower, and impatience, and azaleas, and spider lilies, star jasmine, and four-o’clock,.. . I looked around the back yard. Except for the blazing tree, all the other plants and shrubs were stark naked, their every last bloom effectively picked clean, carefully transferred and attached to the dead branch.

Wow! What can I say, hon?!!! It’s… it’s gorgeous!

She admired her work for a while, then dusted her hands off and proudly trotted off into the house. Her work in the garden was finished for the day.

I stand next to the flaming bush wilting quickly under the blaze of Florida sun and reflect on my own daily work and ‘glorious achievements' in the garden of life. Part of me wonders whether the effect is much different from what my little apprentice has accomplished today. Having neither courage, nor skill nor patience required for authentic growth, I hop around life like a restless mountain goat, diligently picking clean the blooms from other bushes. Once satisfied with my exotic collection, I artificially try to attach it to the dried-up twig of my own life, in hope that the plagiarized blooms of others would cover up the impotence of my shriveled heart. For a short while my tree may look quite impressive - like a Disney cartoon on steroids! But soon enough the ruthless heat-waves of life wither it up, launching me on another quest after the phantom, now further and faster, in desperate search for other extraordinary blooms growing in other people’s yards. And all along, the grotesque irony of the vicarious blooming seem to escape my notice. By the end of the day, I have a feeling that something has just slipped through my fingers, but I am too exhausted from the chase to consider the insanity… All I can hear in the back of my tired soul is a distant echo…

…a copycat of a copycat, a shadow of a shadow…

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. John 15:4

Validation

Last week, as I was going through my daughter’s backpack to retrieve her homework folder along with the empty candy-wrappers and a half-eaten, few days old PBJ sandwich, I came across a note written on a piece of yellow pad paper:

My bro got mad at me, and called me stupid, idiot and dumb! Spelled out in neat, rounded handwriting of my fastidious daughter. Below the sentence, in a different handwriting, with less emphasis on proper spelling and grammar and neatness, read the following:

Your, bro is meam, ! stupib, idiot and dumb.

I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then to one hundred, and backward, before I called her on the carpet.

What’s this? I glared, the gathering of information not being my primary goal in asking the question.

Oh! She sensed that something might be wrong. M. asked me to write a report on my brother, she answered sheepishly. M. is her second grade classmate.

Ooooh… I responded in the now-I-get-it voice, and continued. And THIS is what you came up with?!!!

I did my best to keep the lid on my fury. Being her parent, I knew full well that the ‘report’, albeit somewhat truthful, was… well, incomplete to say the least. That there was an all-important side conspicuously missing from the meticulous reporting of my budding newscaster. Being the parent of both, I had a unique insight into the particular event that generated those angry words, I knew the instigator, the perpetrator and the so-called victim. I know where they came from and where they were going. I know the WHOLE story. The fact that in order to validate her own point of view she went to a complete stranger, painted her brother in this light and invoked the kind of libelous response from her validating ’friend’ was…well, infuriating. We had already addressed the above situation when it happened, and the apologies were extended on both sides. I thought it was behind us.

Isn’t that called’ gossip’, my blissfully unaware son chimed in, busily working on his latest LEGO project, happy that he doesn’t have to pay for the pro bono services of an in-house defense attorney.

I took another deep breath before I turned to my daughter, and spoke as gently and as forcefully as my heart commanded.

We are family, we belong to each other. When we have problems, we deal with them directly. We solve them among ourselves. We speak the truth – the WHOLE truth - and hear each side. We forgive and learn and move on. We don’t throw old, forgiven offenses into each other’s face. And we don’t go around talking to the outsiders, who neither know us nor care about us, about other members of our family!

The echo of my voice was too loud to miss…I paused to listen and let the words sink in.

Precisely My point, dear child. This is what it feels like for Me, when you and your children – when MY children go deep sea fishing for validation of their bruised feelings… running from one stranger to another, rather than coming to Me with family grievances. I am just as heartbroken and outraged when My children badmouth My other children, skewing the truth if perchance they may gather up a few broken trinkets of stranger’s validation for their injured ego. Forgetting that once for all, My Son paid the ultimate validation price for each of them – for the perpetrator and the victim who, in turn, became a perpetrator… Your validation begins and ends with Me….

The next morning, as we were getting ready for school, I noticed my daughter writing something on the bottom part of the yellow pad paper containing the incriminating message. She tore off that part and threw it into the garbage where it belongs. Then. she carefully folded the note she’d just written and gave it to her brother as they trotted off to school. That afternoon, as I was retrieving homework folder from his backpack, along with the crumbled chocolate chip cookie and empty Nerds container, I found the following note, decorated with beautiful underwater scene, a mother dolphin swimming among the seaweeds with her brood:

Dear C,

I’ sorry I wrote things that hurt your feelings. Will you forgive me?

Your sister,

T

The Munchkin Menu

Mom, do I have to order from the Munchkin Menu? I am getting a little tired of it… our nine year old son leaned towards me and whispered into my ear as I studied the entrees too good to have to decide on just one. We’ve been on the road for several days and have eaten in restaurants more often than we ordinarily do when we are at home. The kids have certainly consumed their share of French fries, hamburgers and chicken fingers and I couldn’t blame him for getting ‘a little tired of it’.

I flipped over to the “Munchkin Menu” (specified ‘for children 10 years and younger) and sure enough there was listed the standard kids’ fare of chicken nuggets, burgers and PBJ sandwiches. I could empathize with his predicament. I glanced towards his younger sister, but she seemed happy enough with more burgers and fries, the limited assortment not bothering her a bit.

What do you want? I asked.

Well, that rib-eye steak caught my eye… He answered sheepishly.

Straight for the bull’s eye, huh? I chuckled. Since the steak was on the top of the list of adult entrees. I encouraged him to look over the entire menu and make his decision after he has familiarized himself with the options. Eventually he settled on the sautéed tiger shrimp, garlic mashed potatoes and the loaded baked potato (the love affair with potatoes runs in our family).

As he gobbled down his newly acquired freedom, I savored the milestone. Growth. Just yesterday we transitioned from milk to solids, and from that day on, we steadily added variety to his baby menu. As his geography expanded, so did the foods… in Hungary, he ate goulash, in Serbia, sarma, in Bangladesh, curry, in Northern California, sourdough bread. If variety is spice of life, his life became well seasoned.

Then I thought of another menu, containing the entrees which feed my soul. The irreplaceable, never-to-grow-out-of-style, fresh, daily supply of the milk of God’s living Word (I Peter 2:2)… Even after decades of living this life of faith, the wonder of being a child of God doesn’t get old – not even when I became a parent! Especially when I became a parent!

But, as the years go by, I can’t continue to consume predigested food only… There comes a day when I want to sink my teeth into a rib-eye steak… and chew on it… and let it permeate every cell of my body and energize my muscles and blood stream… when hearing the Word of God is inseparable from doing… from being… When knowing slowly, agonizingly turns into living. The day when I leave the Munchkin menu behind and embrace some adventuresome, exotic combination of bitter herbs, fiery spices and serious protein which will give me strength and zest for the journey ahead.

For everyone who lives on milk is unskilled in the word of righteousness, since he is a child. But solid food is for the mature, for those who have their powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil. Hebrews 5:12, 13