Embracing the chaos…

This past weekend, one of my neighbors gave my third son Jake a turtle which he named Jerry.  Jake left Jerry outside in too small of a box, and by the time we got back from a walk, his turtle was gone. We were all in a panic and looked all over for Jerry. Our cat ended up finding him underneath some weeds a couple feet away from where the box was. Whew…close call.

When Jake plays outside, he takes Jerry out of his box and lets him hang out in the grass. Last night was no exception. But last night was very chaotic, more chaotic than usual.  Jeff brought one of the other teacher’s kids home with him, so we had seven kids running around the yard with Jerry smack dab in the middle of it all. By the time the other children were picked up, there was piano to do, teeth to brush, and we’ve been ending our nightly routine by playing a rousing game of foosball. Not until this morning before Jeff and the boys were leaving for school did we realize that Jerry was not in his box. Left outside all night, Jerry could have been anywhere. . .Jeff and I both realized we might be spending the summer looking for Jerry.

Jeff and my other two boys left early for school, but I let Jake stay home and look for his turtle. At one point he screamed out, “It’s just a stupid turtle anyway!” But for Jake, who loves all animals, he was heartbroken as only a 9 year old can be over a lost pet. In fact, in Jake’s back pack I had just found a picture Jake had drawn of Jerry…I was glad Jake had documented Jerry’s short life with us, because we’d surely seen the last of him.

Jake didn’t want to be late for school, so I went outside to tell Jake that we needed to leave soon. As I was talking to Jake, something caught my attention because I glanced over to my left. There in front of our shed was Jerry craning his neck at me…just waiting for us to find him…well, that’s what I’d like to think.

So, once again, Jerry had been found. I’m sure Jerry will escape again or be forgotten or lost, and there will be more tears and perhaps another search and rescue, but it’s worth it. It’s worth seeing my son hang out with his turtle and take care of something that makes him so happy. There will be disappointing, heartbreaking days for Jake…I’m just glad today was not one of them.

I’ve been climbing the hill at my house for almost a week now. I’ve been trying to do it once in the morning and then once again in the evening. Rumor has it that Garth Brooks owns a house at the very top of the hill…but I can barely see the house from the gate, and there’s a camera, so I haven’t investigated further.  We live at the bottom of the hill on the other street…we’re his friends in low places…

When you get to the top of the hill, there’s an incredible view of the entire city. There, in the middle of the city is the famous Batman building, which my oldest son insisted we all had to touch one night when we were in downtown Nashville for a concert.

I’ve been really sore from climbing the hill, and I was beginning to think I was quite the wimp. Even though I had taken a month sabbatical from exercising (sabbatical…makes it sound like it was planned; it makes me sound like I’ve just run a marathon or something and need to rest…actually I just got a little bored and lazy), I honestly didn’t think I was that out of shape to be so sore. Jeff assured me I wasn’t as much of a weenie as I thought I was, that it actually is quite a steep climb…I mean, you can see the entire city, and Garth must have an incredible view from his back porch…

I’ve found I like climbing the hill for three very different reasons. I like walking by myself in the morning…it gives me a chance to exercise and to talk with Abba away from all the chaos. I haven’t gotten up early enough these days to see the sun rise, but I discovered last fall that that is a breathtaking sight. One morning, I was excited to see a rabbit though. I like going again in the afternoon with Jeff because it gives us a chance to talk and hang out without “little ears” around.  But I think I especially like climbing the hill with my children…they notice the many things I wouldn’t necessarily notice by myself. When I walk with my kids, I have no agenda, other than keeping my children off the road when cars go by.  We get to stop for every caterpillar, cool stick, bird, butterfly, honeysuckle, and keys (which my second son has informed me is the name for those helicopter twirly things)…we take the time to stop and really enjoy Abba’s creation with child-like wonder and amazement that adults have to work hard to understand and relax enough to truly enjoy…maybe that’s why Jesus liked little kids so much…they get it…the wonder of it all…

Jeremiah, my 3 year old, was asked this morning at church what he wants to do when he grows up. He answered, “Feed the chickens.” I think when I finally grow up, I want to feed the chickens too…

Today, I’m wondering once again if Abba was even in our move to Nashville…I look at the stuff going on around us, and I’m confused why He would choose this for us. But when I start to doubt that Abba is sovereign and that He ordained all my days for me before one of them came to be (Psalm 139:16), that’s when I review my story. I look at the details and think, only Abba could have done that. This time, I think He made it so obvious that when I begin to question how I got here, there is little room for doubt that He is in control. I think He usually makes it obvious, but sometimes in my striving, I lose sight of Him, and my actions distract me from what He’s already in the process of doing.

Our pastor is doing a series called “Plan B: What to do when your dreams are shattered.” In other words, what do you do when life doesn’t turn out the way you wanted it to? I’ve come to realize my Plan B, or C, or D has always been God’s plan A. But just because I know He’s in control, and I can see that He is at work doesn’t mean it’s going to be an easy path or one that I necessarily like all that well. I guess that’s the part where trusting comes in. I have to trust that He absolutely knows what’s best for me, and eventually at some point surrender…

I guess these days I’ve been looking back a lot. I’ve been doing a lot of comparing, comparing the way my life used to be to the way it is now. In looking back, it’s funny how you forget the bad and glorify the good.  When I was in high school, a new girl came to my school. All she could talk about was her old school and how much better it was than mine, and it got really annoying after a while…right now, I’m that girl…and just like her, I don’t really think my wallowing in the past has actually been doing me any good. Abba didn’t give me a song this time, not yet anyway; he gave me a book, a fiction book, in fact. The character in the book described me well, painfully so. It was hard to see myself as I truly am, and it also woke me up to my lack of honestly about the past.

I know why the children of Israel had memorials, so that when they began to look back they could remember the things God had done for them. An honest look back at the past and a true gratefulness about what Abba has done can be beneficial. I think I’m going to write a memorial of the things Abba has done in my life in the past year…it has been an amazing, wild, terrifying ride…I didn’t always surrender and trust, and along the way I ignored a few danger signs about being too close to the waterfall and came close to plunging over a few times…but I’m still here…and Abba’s still leading me…

When you grow up “un-athletic,” people don’t expect much from you…but they do get aggravated when you make their team lose. I would always try really hard…but I always seemed to choke when the pressure was on. In junior high, I tried out for softball, basketball, and volleyball…I made the volleyball team but only because everyone that tried out made the volleyball team…my volleyball career ended quickly…I didn’t actually get to play in any games, and I think I sat the bench during most of the practices…

I never looked athletic either. I was kind of gangly, and I had big owl glasses up until the 10^th grade. I also had buck teeth. I didn’t have the opportunity to wear the embarrassing headgear that some had to wear, but I did have to wear a contraption called a bionator which was used to pull my jaw forward since I had a serious overbite. When I had it in my mouth, I was unable to talk since it connected my bottom teeth to my top teeth.  When I was in 9^th grade, several of the boys in my class nicknamed me chicken…for me, it was a term of endearment. My mom taught us all English, and they graced her with the name buzzard…I definitely know that that was no term of endearment. But the summer between my 9^th and 10^th grade years, I got contacts, and my teeth were finally straight…and for some reason, the boys stopped calling me chicken…I actually kind of missed it though.

Even though I began to look more “normal,” my non-athletic status remained. A person can change their looks to some degree, but in my case, the clutzy part just kind of stuck with me. I ended up becoming a cheerleader.  At that time, being a cheerleader at my school did not require a whole lot of skill. You pretty much just had to act excited, jump up and down, and flap your arms around…maybe that’s where the name chicken came from…probably not…

During summer vacation, I would always go to camp for a week.  I absolutely hated playing the games at camp. The first night there, we always played big ball volleyball. My goal was to try to stay out of the way, but every once in a while, I would get stuck in the middle of 200 brutal girls all trying to hit the ball…I felt like I was being squished between several bumper cars…I certainly would have preferred to watch from the sidelines. One summer at camp, we played the dizzy bat game where you put your head on the top of the bat and spin around and then run…I was one of the last ones to go, so I was running as fast as I could, but I ended up slipping on the wet grass, falling down, and breaking my arm the second day of camp. I actually considered this a good thing since I didn’t have to participate in any more games.

My husband Jeff is coaching a YMCA soccer league that two of our boys are playing in. There is a boy named Tracy on the team that would probably rather be doing something else…he gets a little distracted and sometimes forgets to run.  When he gets hit with the ball which has happened more than once, he does a dramatic slow motion fall to the ground.  But if Tracy makes deliberate contact with the ball, we parents on the sidelines go berserk cheering for him. Not long ago, he kicked the ball two times in a row near the goal, and though there was not much hope that the ball would go in, there is something about cheering for the underdog because sometimes they surprise you.

One summer during college, I worked as a counselor at a camp.  Again, I wasn’t crazy about playing the games, but at least I was bigger than my campers since most of my campers were under the age of 12. One afternoon, we were playing pole basketball, a game where the goal is to knock the ball off the pole with another basketball. The ballgame was tied, and it was getting late, so they decided to have a sudden death. Each team started by picking the best, most athletic counselors, but no one could knock the ball off the pole. By this time, it was getting really late, and since I was the only one left to go, no one was really hopeful that the game was going to end any time soon, including me…But somehow that afternoon, the ball I threw made contact with the ball on the top of that pole…it was surreal…even members of the other team were jumping up and down cheering. I think I was picked up off the ground and carried by some of the counselors…I don’t really recall, but I’m almost positive I was…

But back to Tracy…I hope Tracy scores that goal some day soon because his team members and the parents on the sideline will cheer like that is the greatest goal ever scored. That will be the triumph of the season…at least in his heart and mind. He’ll carry his one shining moment with him forever…it’s been almost 20 years and I’m still talking about mine…J

I’ve always rebelled against rules, maybe not always outwardly, but definitely inwardly, especially the kind of rules that don’t make any sense.  I grew up with a lot of rules and then I went to a college that inflicted even more than I grew up with…that was quite shocking…to be a young adult but treated once again like a 5 year old, being told when to get up, when to go to bed, when to clean my room, what to wear, and the list goes on for pages, a whole handbook or so. I became hardened and bitter, and I learned how to play the system. It seems like people who are under a rule system want everyone else to be under the same set of rules, because that’s where the power is. If you can convince a bunch of people to live under the rules that you have established and to be fearful of all things outside that system, then you can keep everyone in line…mostly. 

I’m not much for hierarchy…I think I’ve become too post-modern for that…at least that’s what Jeff tells me.  I dislike systems and institutions where the people “in charge” impose a bunch of rules they have made up. I think Jesus might have disliked these kinds of hierarchies too…maybe that’s why He picked a bunch of ragamuffin losers to be His disciples. In Matthew 23:4, Jesus rebukes the Pharisees and scribes, who were the religious leaders of the day, who “bind heavy burdens hard to bear, and lay them on men’s shoulders.” They had their own set of rules…they didn’t need Jesus.

Rules typically do just the opposite of what they’re meant to do. The law actually makes a person want to sin more, and that’s when our need for Christ is exposed. The passage in I Cor.15:56 says, “The power of sin is the law.” The next verse goes on to say, “But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Notice it doesn’t say we have victory by following more rules; rules don’t give life…Jesus does. Rules kill relationships because the rules become the focus, and someone other than God becomes the judge.

When I was in these kind of systems, the rules in no way made me want to follow Jesus because that’s not what rules do; they instead made me focus on how good I was at keeping the rules or how far I could go without getting caught, but fear was always involved either way.  Back in those days, I didn’t even know Jesus all that well…I didn’t have to. If I did and said the right things, Jesus didn’t have to be a factor.

When we moved to Alabama almost 7 years ago, we didn’t know anyone there.  For the first time in my life, I was under no rule system. There was no institution to rebel against. There was nothing to prove. There was no one telling me how to live. It was freeing, but it was also scary…no boundaries as such. I’d always been told how to live, what to do, and now I had to listen to Abba’s voice and really allow Him to rule my life.  Ever since then, Abba in his graciousness gives me a song for each difficult time in my life. At that time, my song was “Painting Pictures of Egypt” by Sara G.  As I drove to school to teach each morning, I would play it as loudly as I could (I’ve busted out a couple of speakers this way) and would sing at the top of my lungs, while the tears would pour down my face…this was probably a little scary for my boys in the back of the van…they’ve since grown accustomed to my crazy outbursts.

“The past is so tangible, I know it by heart, familiar things are never easy to discard. I was longing for some freedom, but now I hesitate to go, I am caught between the promise and the things I know. I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt leaving out what it lacked. The future feels so hard and I want to go back. But the places that used to fit me cannot hold the things I’ve learned, and those roads were closed off to me while my back was turned.”

I was losing whatever sense of self I had had up to that point, and I was crying out to Abba in the only way I knew how. He answered that cry. He had already ripped away everything I knew, set us down in the middle of nowhere, and made us realize we truly did need Him. Then, He led us to a church body where the people loved on us and accepted us for who we were; we didn’t have to pretend. They let us lick our wounds without standing in judgment of us. And there were no rules to keep or standards to follow…somehow these people had not gotten a copy of the handbook that I had lived under for 30 years. So, this was what freedom in Christ actually looked like…the freedom to truly love other people without strings and expectations attached.

So, we moved to Nashville this past summer. Nashville is where Jeff grew up, and there are all kind of expectations in that, especially when you have family around. People think you are a certain way, or they think you should be a certain way…hence the conflict I’m now finding within myself. Personally, I’m not worried about getting out of line. Out of experience, I know that Abba will correct…not punish… me when I go too far. I certainly don’t need some holier-than-thou person to be my Holy Spirit. Isn’t that what the Pharisees tried to be? And Jesus was constantly getting in their faces about it.

Right now, I know I’m not walking in freedom…I have it, I’m just not walking in it…I really want to walk in love and grace these days, but I find I’m being the prickly, unloving one, and I hate that. So am I back to focusing on people and the rules they make, instead of Christ? The enemy loves using anything that will take my eyes off of Christ…I really hate that.

I just got back from being in Tuscaloosa for a couple days, where I was loved on once again. The people there accept me for who I am, no matter what mess I sometimes bring to the table…I felt freedom and joy like I haven’t felt in a while.  Right now, I just want my sense of freedom back; I feel like it was swiped from me when I wasn’t looking…enter the prickly, angry person with the chip on her shoulder.  I think my focus lately has been on rebelling against people who I think are judging me instead of embracing Christ with my whole being and allowing His love to wash over me once again. I know He is the Way, the Truth, the Life…His life lived through me. The Truth shall set you free…yes, He already has…

When I went to Alabama a week ago for my friend’s husband’s funeral,  I didn’t take any of my children with me, and during those times when I don’t have children with me, I try to fully embrace my childlessness.

On the way back to Nashville from Tuscaloosa, I really wanted to stop by The Shrine of the Blessed Sacrament, a place where they have the Stations of the Cross.  I was looking forward to walking the Stations and meditating again on Jesus’ sacrifice. The Shrine is located about halfway between Tuscaloosa and Nashville, but it’s about 20 miles off the highway on a country road. If I stopped, I knew I would be pushing it time-wise and would probably not be able to pick up my two little ones from preschool, but Jeff had said he could pick up Julia and Jeremiah if I didn’t make it back in time. I really wanted to see my children, but I’m bad about trying to squeeze in one more thing which usually makes me late to everything. This, again, would have been one of those times. However, I pictured myself having this spiritual moment of solitude with Jesus at the Shrine, so I was seriously having this whole dilemma. I really wanted to do both but deep down inside I knew that I couldn’t fit both in without driving the rest of the way home like a stressed-out, crazy woman and still being late due to my warped sense of time. So I just kept asking Abba what I should do, because I was sure He would want me to spend time with Him at the Shrine. I got off the interstate and went about 5 miles up the road when I was reminded that He’s not at the shrine…I didn’t have to go visit Him there. The thought also hit me that this very small denial of self by giving up what I really wanted to do was love embodied in self-sacrifice.

I turned my van around in someone’s driveway and headed back to the highway. I was able to have my quiet moment with Jesus in my van and also pick up my children from preschool…peace and joy ensued…and not having to huff it back to Nashville was a bonus.

On Sunday, I went to Alabama for a funeral. As I was packing up my stuff to go, I was thinking about how excited I was to be wearing this Ann Taylor dark blue suit that I had gotten for a dollar from a consignment pack-a-sack sale. I never dress up anymore, and it was kind of fun to be wearing something nice for a change. I was pumped about how cute I thought I would look, despite the fact that my white shirt has permanent stains all over it…I just planned on keeping my jacket on. On Monday, as I was getting ready for the funeral, I was picturing myself prancing around in my suit, hugging everyone I hadn’t seen for 6 months. I went to put on my shirt and jacket that had been hanging on one hanger together, and then panic struck…where was the other hanger that I had put my pants on? I ran out to my van to see if I had left them in there, but I knew I hadn’t. I knew they were hanging on my closet door in Nashville. I was kind of ticked at first because I had even ironed my pants. So, I had my permanently stained white shirt, my suit jacket that I couldn’t take off but is supposed to be part of a suit, and blue jeans, and that’s what I wore to the funeral. But even in this little thing, I was reminded of my pride, and I just had to laugh at how God is humbling me even in the small things.  

I’m not a thrill seeking kind of girl. I can be fearful and cautious…that’s why I like to hang out with people who are not like me, who kind of push me to do things I wouldn’t do by myself…I’m a joiner.  I don’t love roller coasters; I don’t hate them either. It’s more like a toleration. I ride them to say I’ve done it and am relieved when the ride has come to an end. My son Jonah is the same way I am; I think he really likes talking about riding, but it’s not necessarily an enjoyable thing…yet.  

We just got back from Branson, MO, where we went to Silver Dollar City.  Several of us rode the first roller coaster and had no idea that the ride started by shooting you to 65 mph in 2 seconds…I rode with my brother-in-law Josh, and he just laughed while I screamed in complete terror. On roller coasters, I generally keep my eyes closed and scream the entire time. It’s the anticipation that’s the killer for me. It’s the lurch, lurch, lurching up to the top that makes me fearful…it’s the standing in line waiting, replaying news stories of how people have died while riding roller coasters.

I rode the roller coasters several times with my sister-in-law Lori, who is by nature a thrill seeker.  We experimented with riding in the back and also in the front, and she encouraged me to keep my eyes open. I came to the conclusion that keeping my eyes open was far better because I could see what was coming up. And I found that I really like riding in the front car…once again the anticipation for me is where the fear starts, so riding in the back and seeing all the cars ahead of me go over the hill first is worse than being the first car to go. 

I came to realize that the more I rode these roller coasters, the more I liked them. My fear began to diminish with each ride. And by the end, I was keeping my eyes open for the entire ride and not screaming at all. You know those pictures they take when you’re on the roller coaster, well, I don’t look like I’m enjoying myself yet…I look more like I’m gritting my teeth waiting for it to be done, but I want to be one of those people who are laughing…and really having fun, not just grinning and bearing it. Even Grandma rode a roller coaster, but that was enough for her; she said she was glad she did it.

…am I really enjoying the ride or am I just waiting for my ride to end without really ever fully being in the moment…am I allowing my fears to hem me in and standing in line fearfully waiting in anticipation of the future…

I want to keep my eyes open and laugh…laugh my head off…

This morning, I was lying in bed during a thunderstorm, and it occurred to me that none of my children are afraid of thunderstorms at all. They never get up in the middle of the night to come to our room because of a thunderstorm. They always sleep through them, and even when they occur during the day, they are never frightened. Jeff used to tell the older boys when they were little that the wind blowing was God whispering, “I love you.” But thunder was God yelling, “I LOVE YOU!” Now, I don’t know if this is why they are not afraid of thunderstorms, but I think it definitely has helped them view God in a positive way.

My kids aren’t afraid of tornadoes either. In fact, during the last tornado, the one that hit Union University so hard, even though the wind was whipping and there was hail, my children never even woke up. Jeff was downstairs keeping an eye on the weather, and I was trying to drag all 5 of them out of bed to come downstairs. It’s a good thing it passed over us because I couldn’t get any of them to even acknowledge I was there.  

Now, social situations are quite another thing. I have 4 children who cannot stand new situations, especially going to a new church or school.  My two little ones hide behind my legs. Two of the older boys would too if they weren’t already dying of embarrassment. I personally cannot stand being in new social situations, especially large groups of people I don’t know. 

Jeff and I are both teachers, and Jeff especially enjoys getting up in front of people. He sang on ensemble in college and can really ham things up when needed. I, on the other hand, don’t mind getting up in front of people ONLY if I am prepared to do so…no spontaneous, funny stuff for me. I would love to be funny…I’m just not. I look like an awkward deer in headlights. A few months ago, I was at the Ryman for a concert/something, and they were pulling people out of the audience to go up on stage and do skits. Unfortunately, I was sitting on the aisle, and even though I quickly averted my eyes I was one of the five people dragged up on stage to do an impromptu skit in front of 3,000 people. Extroverts don’t seem to understand the kind of terror we introverts go through (or maybe they do) when they put us into these kinds of situations. I was horrified, and it was horrifying…I was not funny…I was supposed to be funny…enter the awkward deer…maybe that’s what’s funny…

So how do thunderstorms, tornadoes, and being in front of people relate to each other? Why do I have one son that doesn’t mind answering questions in class and the other 2 absolutely hate to be called on even if they know the right answer?  Why can my 2^nd son get up and act (something that’s been scripted and he’s practiced) but not enter a new Sunday school class with kids his own age? Why aren’t any of my children afraid of thunderstorms or tornadoes? …Maybe it’s a personality thing with them, but then again, maybe, as a parent, I convey my fears to my kids without even knowing it, without even intending to. I think many times my kids look to me to see what they should be afraid of and then act accordingly.  

When I was growing up, I was afraid of God…

We’re going to Branson, MO, on Sunday for a week long family get-together. I am surprising myself in that I have already begun the process of doing laundry and packing.  My older three boys (ages 9,10,11) are responsible for packing their own clothes…this time, I actually gave them a written list of things they needed to pack instead of just spouting it out at them…2 jeans, 2 long sleeve shirts, etc. A few years ago when I had them pack their own things, my oldest son did not follow my verbal instructions and ended up with a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. He already has his duffel bag packed for our trip to Branson; I have not checked it, and I probably won’t, if he ends up with a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, well, I hope they’re the ones he likes….My 2 little ones (ages 5 and 3) also packed their backpacks. In addition to a few toys and stuffed animals, Julia packed 12 pair of panties. Other than having more underwear than she could possibly wear, she and Jeremiah packed surprisingly well, and they didn’t have the written list which wouldn’t have helped since neither one can read.

I managed to do 5 loads of laundry today. I usually start laundry the day before we leave. I figure I’m 2 days ahead of schedule. The packing up and leaving has always been an interesting marital issue…Jeff and I always intend to pack the night before and get an early start, but this never happens. We are usually both so irritated by the time we pull out of the driveway that we would just as soon stay home.  We told the boys that we are getting an early start this Sunday morning, and Jesse who’s been around a little longer than the rest said, “That’s what you always say.” And he’s right. When I say early start, I mean 8ish. For my parents, an early start means 3 in the morning, so that they can get wherever they are going by 10 am; then my dad  sleeps for the rest of the day out of sheer exhaustion…for some reason this makes sense to him… 

A couple summers ago, my sister and I decided we were going to bring our own food to the beach…like they don’t have grocery stores in NC. My sister had her entire car top carrier full of various food items, which was unpacked by my brother-in-law and then repacked by my brother-in-law at the end of the week when we did not eat half of what she brought. I also packed food in the car, which made Jeff crazy, since I had no room for my feet, and food kept sliding under the gas pedal while he was driving.  This time, I told Jeff that I was taking a few snacks for the trip, but I’m sure he will check to make sure I’m not sneaking canned goods out of my kitchen cabinets and into the van.

Jeff actually said that he wanted to leave for Branson around 7 am on Sunday. This is really a stretch for us. On Sundays, we are not even out of the bed by 7, much less packed and ready to go with 5 kids on an 8 hour trip. I think the bar’s been set a little high. Jeff also said he wanted to pack the van the night before, so we could just walk out the door…

In all these years, you’d think I would have the packing thing down, but I do not. I’m working at it this time and hoping for the best, and maybe we’ll get there by dinnertime…