Stumbling Towards Perfect

One of the things we Christians hear over and over again is to live boldly for Christ . It's impressed upon us to courageously answer God's call - no matter how crazy it might seem - with a resounding yes! We're taught that God wants us to put our trust in Him, so even if we think what He's asking us to do is impossible or hard or scary or will take a whole lot of work, we should trust He's got us and will carry us through. So we volunteer to teach Sunday School. And we volunteer to sing in the choir. And we take meals to the new mama and the new widow and we pat ourselves on the back and feel good about all that we are accomplishing in God's name. And none of that is bad. In fact, it's all very good and very necessary and very appreciated. But, well, how radical is a chicken casserole really? How far out of our safe, comfortable life have we gone for Christ? There's a story in the Bible where this guy, Peter, is out doing his job: fishing. Day i...

This is our everyday.   Surrounded by the calloused hands of early morning risers, the ones who vacation around mother nature and milk prices, the souls who give away their plenty because that's the way God intended.   Miles of corn and beans and wheat and hay stretched out wide waiting for the rains to quench their thirst. The slow crunch of the much too late in the night truck wheels on gravel as the farmer finally makes it home, his children tucked in hours ago. Another meal missed and still another field to harvest and the margins are slim and the stress is high and the price of corn went down by .33 but there's a plate warming in the oven and cold milk in the fridge. And sometimes he forgets and pays more attention to the Ag Market than the jelly stained cheeks around his breakfast table but his love runs deeper than any three-piece suit on the commuter train headed toward the city. This life isn't easy but it is good and it is decent and on...

Last week I was at an eye appointment where it was deemed necessary to dilate my eyes. I was assured that within two hours things would be back to normal. Except they weren't. My world remained fuzzy and out of focus throughout the majority of the day. My eyes were abnormally sensitive to light, even in the grey drizzle of the rain. I was uncomfortable and out of sorts. And I was angry. Angry because I hadn't planned on any of this. I had work waiting on my desk and I needed my eyes to review the plans and write the reports. I hadn't planned on not being able to see the computer screen and I could barely type out a text message complaining about my now aching head. Nothing looked right or felt right or was right. I was frustrated because I felt so helpless -- I couldn't do anything to speed up the process of getting back to normal. Then it dawned on me. I could be angry and rant and let my frustration boil over in epic proportions - or I could trust the doct...

The other night I was in a bar with a group of my high school classmates celebrating 25 years since we graduated. We gave hugs and caught up and talked about things we remembered from years ago and after a while, an old friend crossed over the room to me and asked me a question: "You go to Lakeland, don't you?"  Lakeland (or, Lakeland Community Church , as it's more formally known) is where I physically go to worship Christ each and every Sunday.  I grew up on Sunday School and bedtime prayers and I knew there was a God in heaven that just had to have been awfully disappointed in me because I never did seem to get things just right. I was way too sensitive and argued back way too much. But I knew that if people got really sick or really scared you could pray. What I didn't know was this God I had heard so much about was actually one of my greatest fans - I just couldn't wrap my head around it. There were so many better people in the world than me ...

This is my third Mother's Day without my daughter Avery. She died suddenly in a car accident about 6-8 minutes after my oldest daughter, Jadrian (who was 17 years old and driving) pulled out of the parking lot after Avery's gymnastic practice let out. She was on her way to church youth group. This is my third Mother's Day with a huge gaping hole in my heart. And my third Mother's Day being utterly disappointed, forgotten and let down. I could go on and on but really, what would it change? Let it be known that when my time finally arrives to have a sit down with Jesus, I'm going to ask him to explain why he had me experience the single most difficult emotional thing a mama could ever go through with someone who expresses zero emotion whatsoever. That being said, I'm here to help all those other men in the world who claim to have no idea what to do on Mother's Day for the Childless Mother in their life. Maybe you messed this Mother's Day up. Maybe the ...

I still need holding up. Not like it was in the beginning. Not all the time anymore. But I still need it. I still know that there are times I cannot do this grieving thing alone and yet, as time goes by and lives continue and the busy gets busier, I find the circle of people standing beside me, ready to hold me up gets smaller and smaller. And it should. That's how it needs to happen. Trust me, this isn't on them at all. See, when tragedy first strikes it's actually those furthest out from the strike zone that are the strongest to hold things together. The closer the relationships get to the one who passed away, the weaker they are. In my case, my daughter died. I couldn't expect my other daughter to hold me up - her sister had just died. I couldn't expect my parents to hold me up - their granddaughter just died. I couldn't expect my sister or brothers to hold me up - their niece just died. I couldn't expect my cousins to hold me up - their relatio...

Several years ago I decided to bake bread. It seemed calming, productive, and something to do to help squelch the fears and anxiety building up inside me while my girls were away for the weekend on a court ordered visit. So, bread. Friday night I sifted through recipes online and picked the one I could just tell would be perfect. I left my little house in the country to walk up and down grocery store aisles: flour, yeast, fresh butter for when it was complete. I was hopeful. Excited. And ready. Saturday morning I began measuring ingredients into the ceramic bowl, careful to use the wooden spoon and not the metal. I shaped the dough into a ball, covered the bowl and began the wait. The magic of rising was about to begin. All day I cleaned. I mopped floors and organized little girl t-shirts by size and color. I vacuumed the rug and scrubbed the bathroom sink. I dusted mini blinds and washed bed linens. And then I pulled out a magazine to flip through while I waited fo...