Stumbling Towards Perfect

A couple weeks ago I was at church sitting by myself in the middle of the pew minding  my own business because I prefer to mind my own business. But mostly because when I'm out in public it's kind of way too overwhelming for me when there are lots of human beings that I do not know surrounding me who run the risk of attempting to communicate with me. I call these people 'strangers' because I feel strange when people I don't know try to talk to me. I don't know why it's easier for me to stand in front of a thousand people baring my soul than it is to spend twenty six painful seconds commenting about the height of corn to someone I've never seen before, it just is. It's how I'm wired. (And for sake of context I live in Wisconsin. Corn is a very important topic to us here.) Anyway, I'm sitting peacefully by myself - in the middle - away from all other human contact - when I become aware that a stranger has sat at the end of the pew. Im...

On my last visit to Haiti, I met a man who loved Jesus. He sat under the shade of a mango tree talking about many miracles and graces this God of the Bible bestowed upon His people. How this precious God still does so today. Soon, people stopped to listen. The people of the village were poor. They went without food for their bellies and shoes for their feet. They lived too many in a single dwelling with tired eyes and tired souls. But they listened.  The man continued to speak. He heard God telling him to build a church. Build it here. In this place where God's people had nothing. So he did. This is that church: Held together with twigs and thatch, holding together the hearts of God's people. It stands under the mango tree. A house of truth. A house of hope. The pastor greets us. It has been a long time, he says, his thick calloused hands reaching out to us, but God has been good to bring us back. We hug tight his heart, his love, fee...

I'm leaving for Haiti Monday morning. I cannot begin to explain how excited my soul is to get there. I need Haiti. I crave the Haitian air, the sun that's brighter than any sun I've ever seen in Wisconsin and the jostling of traffic and bodies criss-crossing in Port au Prince as we try to leave the city. I need the cadence of the Creole language, the slow rhythm of feet on gravel in rural villages, straight spines and soulful eyes overflowing with a wisdom of experience that reminds me I am just a small drop in this incredibly huge world. I had my bags packed by Friday afternoon. Everything ready except the clock on the wall. So I spent the rest of yesterday and all of today passing the time. I Read for hours under the shade of an oak tree. Mowed the lawn. Went to church and sang extra loud. I did laundry, swept floors and vacuumed carpets. Then I did more laundry. I emptied garbage cans and washed counters. And I started to look, really look at the walls that surrounde...

I can't call Avery's death a tragedy. How she died, yes, absolutely. But that she died? I can't. I just can't. Avery loved God in a way I never understood when she was alive. She lived for Him . And, while she certainly loved me like crazy, I can't help but think she saw me more as her foster mom. The earthly mama-heart loving her like my own while the ultimate goal was reuniting her with her real father: God in Heaven. She lived her earthly life with the sole purpose - and soul purpose - to ensure one day she would go home to live with her Lord and Savior. And she did just that. How could I think it was tragic that she made it safely home into her Daddy's arms?  But even knowing that.... man, it's hard, you know? To be, well, to be here when she's not. I miss her every single second of every single day and unless you've gone through such heavy loss you won't understand how it is entirely possible to stand around a kitchen with fr...

There it was. Posted for all the world to see. Or, rather, for all the friends of friends to see. A series of innocuous photos. This family, bright eyed and smiling, arms wrapped around each other in one pose, cheerfully jumping off some concrete steps in another. There were pictures of just the grown siblings, just the grandchildren, the whole group with the grandparents, and with each separate family unit: mom, dad and children.  Undeniable proof in each photo: Smiles. Camaraderie. Friendliness. Joy. Love. Acceptance .  And my heart broke. Because for me those photos symbolize the complete opposite of love and acceptance. They represent complete failure. They represent a whole lot of hurt. They represent a past I was unwelcome in and a future where it's best to pretend I don't exist. Ten years ago I decided to take a dating sabbatical for 1 entire year. More than that, I intentionally swore off flirting, handing out my phone number and even taking inven...

My aunt tried to call her children to tell them Avery had died. I think about that sometimes. Those phone calls. How people found out. The numbers that were dialed first. The words that were spoken. The reaction. I remember calling my cousin on the way to the hospital. To this day I feel so bad that I put that responsibility on her. Avery died. Please tell the others...   Can you imagine receiving such a phone call? My aunt called her children. Except she couldn't get a hold of Little Luke. I used to call him Ducky when he was little. The most perfect child I had ever laid eyes on. Luke was sweet. Gentle. Loving. He had the best giggle in the world. And I adored the way he said my name in his precious voice, unable to pronounce the "r"... Bwidget. In the months before she died, Avery started insisting that we write Luke a letter to tell him we were praying for him. I never did that. I didn't know then what I know with every fiber of my being now -- tha...

Years ago, the man I began dating had a motorcycle. He grew up in a family of Harley riders - his brothers, father and even his mother drove motorcycles. I did not. I grew up with 4-wheeler's on dusty trails. Dirt bikes that soared over soft hills. Snowmobiles that raced through open fields. We did not do hard pavement and oncoming traffic at 55-miles per hour. My hesitation and concern was voiced. It was simply not something I did. Not something I had ever done. Not something I was sure I even wanted to experience. Because hopping on a motorcycle means hopping on something that might, quite possibly, hurt you. There were stories. Newspaper articles and breaking news announcements proving that one could get hurt when riding a motorcycle. He heard me. Heard my fears. And brought me a helmet. He talked to me about how to lean into a curve and how it was dangerous to try to do the opposite. He explained how hot the pipes were and how to hang on. He promised to go slow. ...