Archives for June 2012

June 29, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

Old Friends

There’s something special about old friends, those kids I grew up with that have somehow turned into adults with families of their own.

They are comfortable.

They know my good, bad, and ugly, so there’s no explaining.

They get it.

It’s like having family in my house, not “guests”.

They wake up earlier than me, make a pot of coffee, and don’t speak to me until they’ve poured some down my throat.

It’s like the good old days, only now it’s new.

Because there’s more of us.

Little, mini copies of us.

Left to keep the fun going for another generation.

Because despite our protests, we’re growing up.

And I think that’s ok, because we’ll be friends for life.

Do you still get together with old friends?

Tell us about them.

June 27, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

When Shopping Turns to Torture

Friday night I participated in one of the most traumatizing shopping rituals known to womankind. I went swimsuit shopping.

Nothing can destroy your self-esteem like fluorescent lights and a three-way mirror. I think I’m photophobic and hydrophobic now.

I hit up two department stores and my true love, Target. Although most of Target’s swimwear is made for girls barely through puberty, they do have a line of swimsuits for the more mature and lumpy. It’s mostly made of spanx and sucks your fat in so you look smooth and shiny, but we all know the fat goes somewhere. Unfortunately it’s up or down. Either my cup runneth over or my legs looked like sausage links, and I’m not talking the breakfast sausage kind. I did find a really cute swim skirt in Target. It had a ruffle and everything, but I left it behind. Unless I move to Europe, what good is a bottom without a top?

I settled on JCPenny. They had great sales on swimwear and lots of options. Did I mention I brought my daughter along? She is the voice of truth, a really loud, sometimes shrill voice. She tells it like she sees it and doesn’t feel the need to temper her words with grace when she’s critiquing my backside. I thought a second opinion never hurts, but that was two hundred swimsuits ago. I’m nearly bleeding people!

I started by roaming the racks and plucking every piece I thought was cute. After round one, a random shopper burst into my fitting room while I was sans suit. She apologized profusely, and while I know I should have been embarrassed, it didn’t even phase me. That’s what happens after you try on fifty ill-fitting swimsuits. You go numb.

Numb, but not blind. It’s unfortunate, because, I have enough stretch marks to span the distance between New York and Texas. About six weeks after I gave birth to one of my kids (I can’t remember which one), I was laying on the table while a dermatologist cut a questionable mole out of my tummy. Since my mid-section was on display, I thought I’d take the opportunity to remedy the deep grooves in my skin.

“Doctor, how can I get rid of my stretch marks?” I asked.

“Stop having babies.”

I’m glad I was paying for more than his stellar advice.

Round two: I quit looking for cute and grabbed everything in my size. I narrowed my choice down to two bottoms, but I was still searching for a top. My expectations are high. I want full support and enough coverage to keep my parts from popping out. It’s one thing to wear a flimsy patch of fabric held together with one plastic clip when you’re lounging poolside absorbing sunshine. It’s totally another when you are swimming with children. They are like sharks in a feeding frenzy. No sooner do I submerge myself and I’m lugging two kids across the deep end while they are trying their best to drown me. Those kind of water sports require full coverage and stainless steel fasteners with iron reinforcement. No mammy-pamsy swimwear will do.

I finally found two tops to match my two bottoms, but they didn’t have my size. I appreciate buying a swimsuit in two pieces, because there are more options and you can customize your size. That’s a nice way of saying you can buy the parachute pants if you need them, and maybe some of us need them. My finger is most definitely pointing at me and not you. So, I tried sizing up and down on the top, but it wasn’t working. On a desperate whim I grabbed a top that I never (this side of Tahiti) would have tried on. When I got all the fasteners secure, my daughter daughter said, “Mom, you look beautiful. Almost like a teenager.”

Although I’ve never seen a teenager wear a swimskirt, I took the compliment and the swimsuit.

Hopefully it will be a good long time before I must subject myself to such extreme torture again. Now I just have to muster the courage to wear the thing in public. Makes the fluorescent lights seem not so bad.

My husband naively thought I was the only woman who had deep, dark self-image problems when it came to swimsuits. Ha! Help him understand I am not so alone.

Comment away!

June 22, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

I’m Having a Baby: My Pregnancy Story

I remember the year of my second pregnancy as the waddle and wail. Showing at two and a half days into conception, I walked like a duck for a full forty weeks. Near the end, I had to arch my upper half so far backwards that I feared I would never again remember how to walk fully upright.

I was an anomaly – the hunchback in reverse.

Crying on the table in the examining room, I repeatedly begged my doctor to induce me. My baby had to be unhappy since she was folded into an envelope sealed with amniotic fluid; however, my doctor was hardened by the hormones of many women filled to their chin with baby fat.

This is why I believe there are many advantages to having an OBGYN who still has wet ink on her diploma. The possibility remains that she can be manipulated by oversized hysterics.

My doctor remained determined to see me go into labor naturally, but if natural were so wonderful, there would be no need for the epidural.

The goal of my second pregnancy was to deliver a perfect sized baby of seven pounds. On a steady diet of frozen strawberries and gummy-bears, I believed my goals were within reason. I failed to realize the nearly proven fact that every bite a mother takes metabolizes twice, once on her hips and once in her baby’s bottom .

Before my Braxton-hicks could cause the trauma of childbirth to rush over me like a terror inducing nightmare, the scale began running out of numbers and my doctor’s measuring tape suddenly shrunk. I panicked and demanded a recount. My doctor seemed unconcerned until I was eight centimeters dilated. If she thought I was joining weight-watchers at that point, she was delusional, even if weight-watchers would have offered me a two for one discount.

Fortunately I abandoned my seven pound baby goal about thirty-six bags of gummy-bears back.

What I had not abandoned was the overwhelming need to go into labor earlier than my January first due date. Unfortunately I was confined to modified bed rest, meaning I could get up only to use the facilities. By thirty-four weeks that adds up to getting out of bed four hundred times a day. Lying in the bathtub would have been much more practical; however, ‘bathroom-rest’ doesn’t have the same ring.

My chances of spontaneous labor while propped on a pillow were about as good as my chances of winning bingo without having blue-tinted hair and panties that could double as a parachute.

If I had listened to the doctors, I may still be pregnant.

My daughter would be born weighing seventy-six pounds, and my swollen face would be plastered on every trash-rag magazine from New York to Nigeria.

I hate to admit that my desperation caused me to drink large quantities of castor-oil. I feel comfortable blaming this taste-bud atrocity on my husband who, after hearing one success story, believed a little castor-oil would cause our daughter to slide out like she’d been cooked in bacon grease for the last nine months.

It didn’t even clean my colon, and although it produced a few contractions (probably from the horrendous taste), I did not go into labor.

The American Medical Association should have paid me to disprove old wives tales, because not only did I drink the oil of a castor (something I’m still not sure is mineral, animal, or vegetable), but I also rode on every pot-holed road in the state of Maine. When a bumpy road produced car sickness, I turned to squats. If nothing else, I’d have fabulous legs to hang in the stirrups.

The only thing that contracted my ample middle was walking, a simple, but forbidden task.

Friday, December 28th was my last doctor’s appointment. My doctor informed me that I was five and a half centimeters dilated and fully effaced. She happily proclaimed that my baby would most certainly be born this weekend.

I heard TODAY.

Because I lived an hour from the hospital, she warned me to leave home after only twenty minutes of steady contractions. She feared a roadside delivery in the frigid temperatures of a Maine winter. I feared the baby deciding to hibernate in my mid-section for the winter.

Luckily for me the mall was only ten minutes from the hospital and its’ core was practically a speedway for fit seniors. I could do nothing but walk and celebrate the fact that my stomach contracted with every other step. The day of my daughter’s birth had finally arrived.

Dropping off my toddler at the kiosk where my friend worked, I set off to locate my husband and childbirth partner. Obviously he had forgotten that he was on the clock and his sole responsibility in this adventure was to time my contractions. There are only two places in the mall where my husband can get lost – Victoria Secrets and the music shop.

Since it was no secret Victoria had nothing to fit my current body, I headed to the music shop.

There is a point in every laboring woman’s life when her focus shifts from yellow booties to blood, sweat, and tears. For some unfortunate husbands, that means their blood, sweat, and tears; however, I almost enjoyed the uncertainty of my contractions.

There’s freedom in really not knowing when the floodgates will open and your precious little one will burst forth from your womb. I just didn’t want her to burst forth on the mattress in Macy’s furniture department.

That is why I decided to go to the hospital, but not without a drink of water.

Waddling over to the first counter in the food court, I asked a teenage boy for a glass of water. Fear spread across his face while he scrambled for not only a glass, but a pitcher of water.

I new the time to deliver had come.

My husband looked surprised when I pulled the headphones from his ears and told him to get the car. I’m not sure if he planned on me waiting until the mall turned out its’ lights or if he just wanted to finish the CD he was enjoying.

For some reason, my friends think that when I am laying on the delivery table in labor, it’s the perfect time for a visit. No-one cares that this is the time when nurses and doctors like to stream in and out checking on your progress. They just come in with their smiles and excitement and expect to party away the hours until ‘the transition’.

The transition is the time when you go from being a conscientious Lamaze-like breather to being a fire-breathing dragon. Anyone who gets close enough, namely your husband, will be blasted with a ball of misery induced fire. Luckily for my husband, I didn’t reach transition until they decided to go ahead and break my water.

That is when my husband committed the unpardonable sin.

“Hon, do you mind if I run down to the cafeteria and get some nachos and cheese? The cafeteria is about to close.” He ignorantly asked.

Nachos and cheese you say?

Mind?

Why would I mind?

The only thing worse than the pain I am currently experiencing would be to undergo open-heart surgery while awake, not to mention that our daughter could be born at any moment. Why would I mind you disappearing for a little break and then returning with Mexican cheese on your breath?

The fireball escaped.

He’s never eaten nachos again.

After marriage counseling from the nurse, everything was progressing smoothly until I suddenly felt as though my baby girl had stuck her hand in the air and waved at me. The doctor came in and pronounced that we would soon be ready to have our baby.

About two seconds later our baby decided it was soon enough and slid through the birth canal, a fact that I most excitedly pointed out to my doctor. She turned and saw the baby’s head crown.

I will remember that moment as pure chaos. If I were a doctor on the labor/delivery floor of the hospital, I would walk around in a full bio-hazard suit complete with a mask and gloves. I don’t think OBGYN’s can ever be over-prepared; however, they wait until the last-minute to grab protective gear.

A team of hospital personnel began yelling in unison NOT to push. Given my condition, this was not the reaction I anticipated. I waddled through forty weeks of pregnancy waiting for this moment, drank two bottles of castor-oil, squatted until I wet my pants, and dag-gummit, I was ready to push.

I saw a blur of nurses and doctors and under my breath I said, “Pushing.”

“No!” They screamed in unison. “The bed’s not broken and we just turned the warmer on. We’re not ready yet.”

To me an unprepared delivery room is like an unprepared Santa on Christmas Eve.

My daughter entered this world with a wail that made every moment of waddling worth the wait.

Now she is 10 and still as precious as the day she was born!

June 21, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

Liposuction is Looking Better Every Day

I was walking on the high-school track the other night feeling pretty darn good about my three miles.

Heck, I even pumped and arm or two during my imaginary race around the circle.

That is, until Granny showed up.

This woman, who is considerably older, heavier, and more wrinkly than I, moved faster than the speed of my first car.

Huh?

Is that really necessary? Does exercise have to half-kill you and make you scream “U-N-C-L-E” before the warm-up is complete?

I wasn’t born wearing spandex and Nike shoes. I’m not an athlete for heaven’s sake! Maybe there should be a schedule on the fence.

6-7 pm. – Speed-walkers and Runners

7-8 pm. – Everyone who looks good in Spandex

8-9 pm. – All Those Who Want to Hide Their Fat under the Cover of Darkness

Is it too much to ask? I’m just not a cardiovascular overachiever. I’m more of a buy a cute pair of yoga pants and stroll around the block type of gal. Sure I’d love the legs of a runner, I just don’t want to have to run to get them.

Osmosis anyone?

Maybe if I fall asleep to Chariots of Fire, I’ll wake up with legs of steel.

Ah, fugettaboutit.

I’ll just pop some pop-corn, put my feet up, and throw the 30 Day Shred into the DVD player. Jillian works hard enough for all of us.

Despite my lazy girl’s approach to fitness, I have managed to lose 18 pounds. Then I hit a wall and haven’t dropped another ounce, but who’s counting anyhow?

I’m always curious to find out what successful people are doing to lose weight.

Diet is subjective.

What works for me, probably won’t work for you. I can’t swear off bagels for the rest of my life, and the thought of only drinking liquid food makes me want to run to the nearest fast-food joint and order a bacon cheeseburger. I’m sorry. I’m a fan of food.

But here’s the thing. I’d like to maybe try one of your favorite dieting foods or tips to lose weight and be healthier. If it worked for you, maybe it could work for me! And maybe, just maybe, I can get past this thick wall of fat.

So, I’m going to share a handful of my favorite foods I’ve eaten over and over again while on my diet (quest to skinny thighs in case you hate the word diet), and then you share (in the comments) what foods or workouts have helped you lose weight.

It’s a bit of fat-fighting knowledge sharing. It’s cheaper than Weight-Watchers and I won’t make you step on a scale.

You in?

Here are my foods:

I generally cut the wraps in half, so that’s 45 calories. Then I spread on a thin layer of peanut butter, sprinkle on some granola, and lay a banana in the center. I roll it all up and it for breakfast or lunch.

I used the high protein granola bars if I’m on the run. They fill me up pretty well and can replace a breakfast or lunch if need be. Sometimes it’s hard not to be near home during mealtime and this is easy. I can just throw a bar in my purse.

The rest is just food. I’m a big fan of an egg for breakfast. Sometimes if I’m really hungry, I’ll have an egg and a slice of toast. I know. I’m a regular crazy woman.

One afternoon I emailed my friend (because we’re not cool enough to text each other) and told her I felt like I just went to the buffet. I ate 10 almonds, 10 mini rice cakes, and an apple. Hoo-ha! That’s living Baby!!

Fruit and almonds are my staple snacks. I generally eat 5 times a day.

So how about you? Have you experienced weight-loss success? Share your tips please. My thighs will be eternally grateful.

P.S. My toilet is sweating more than three fat men in a sauna. No offense sauna loving fat men, but I need to know how to stop a toilet from sweating. I hate stepping in puddles, because let’s face it, I have kids and I’m never 100% sure what I’m stepping in.

P.S.S. Thank you for all the kind comments on my new dress. I appreciate each of them. You know to make a girl feel good.

June 20, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

Slightly Stepford

Will you invite me to a garden party please?

I have the perfect dress. And by perfect, I mean I’m in love with a piece of cotton like it’s my best friend holding a warm chocolate lava cake.

I’m a dress wearer by nature, mostly because I’m lazy when it comes to styling outfits. Dresses are about the simplest thing to wear – throw it over your head and add shoes. That’s my kind of outfit!

Plus, they are cool in summer, can be layered with tights, boots, and sweaters in the winter, and camouflage the problem parts. We all, well, mostly all of us have problem parts. Don’t we?

Maybe you’ve heard of eShakti, but have you ever ordered one of their dresses?

I’m scared to death of ordering things online, because I can’t bring three sizes into the fitting room and spend thirty minutes under glaring lights wondering if my butt looks a little larger than life. eShakti fixes that problem. You simply take your measurements and order your size. It comes to your door ready to wear and fitting like a glove. They have the most flattering styles and prints, and get this, they offer customization for a nominal fee. You can change the sleeves, the neckline, and the length of any dress. You can have a dress made to fit you – your shape, your curves, your body.

No more guesswork.

I mean, sure I’m slightly Stepford, but things could always be worse. At least they’re cute robots. They could have all been wearing black spandex stretched thin two hundred pounds ago with a sleeveless white (at one time) button down shirt and dirty old tennis shoes. Think about it.

Because, I’m still in love with my party dress.

It’s made well and it has pockets. What else could a girl want in a dress? It’s got a vintagy feel without the bad smell and sweat stains.

I love it.

If I let myself dream a little (and go into virtual debt while shopping), I’d order a whole bunch of these dresses.

Do you have a party, graduation, wedding, or special occasion coming up? Check out eShakti. They have something for everyone at an affordable price. You can find my dress HERE.

So, if you were me, where would wear this dress?

Shoes are Kmart (because I’m classy like that) and the necklace is real vintage (no bad smell included).

** A special thanks to the incredible retired couple who let me use their boat as a prop. They traveled all the way from Florida to New York and are heading on to the Great Lakes. They’ve lived in their boat for the past three years and love traveling America by sea. They didn’t even look at me funny when I asked to take pictures with it. They acted like it was totally normal and girls dressed in heels asked them that question every single day.

*** This post is being linked to The Pleated Poppy’s What I Wore Wednesday and The Transatlantic Blonde and Whatever, Whenever Wednesday and Watch out for the Woestmans. Hop on over and visit for lots of fashion inspiration.

June 19, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

anything, part two

To read anything, part one click HERE.

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In her book, Anything: The Prayer that Unlocked my God and my Soul, Jennie Allen tells of the time she and her husband prayed anything. They offered themselves, their possessions, and their family up to God for His service. Their decision wasn’t made lightly, and did not come without fear and opposition from loving family and friends; however, when they offered God anything, He took them up on that offer. Sometime the very thing God wants does not make sense to us or our loved ones, but God wants our hearts, not just our minds.

When we’ve got our lives in our gripped hands and we consider handing them over, most of us get that feeling – fear mixed with adrenaline mixed with nausea. It feels as if we might die if we jump. But when I prayed anything, what I feared would bind me set me free. It stung like death and it still feels like death, but that feeling is the key turning in the lock. On the other side of the pain is freedom, peace, joy, hope, the loss of control, and it is how I was made to live.

Jennie tells how God used others to inspire her in this faith walk that trusts God with everything, anything. She began reading a blog written by a young woman who gave up her lattes and fancy clothes for a life sold out to God. This woman works with children in Africa and lives life to the very fullest, right on the edge where only God can catch her if she falls.

We press through the doubts and the fears and we trust because God is trustworthy, and he knows how life is best lived. The more we jump and see our God come alive around us, the more we jump without fear – and the bigger the cliffs get.

Methodically, Jennie and her husband began praying through their possessions and their lives, offering up each thing as a sacrifice to God. God didn’t want many of their things just yet, but He took them up on their spare bed, and they ultimately adopted a young African boy.

He also asked Jennie to use her gifts, the talents He’d given her.

One of the clearest things God said to me and to Zac that week was that I needed to start using my gifts. I needed to start writing and teaching. It was not clear what that meant, but I knew this wasn’t about me. I was to be the pawn here – not because I was special, only willing.

Jennie went on to write two DVD Bible study curriculum’s Stuck and Chase. I know I’d love to make these the next two Bible studies I participate in. In Jennie’s writing, the one thing that really impresses me is her openness. She doesn’t sugar-coat her words and make herself out to be a great martyr or warrior of Christ. She is a woman just like you and me, struggling with the same sins, fears, and insecurities. She just decided that living a sold-out life for God was worth anything.

I tremble as I write this, but if he allows one of my children or my husband to die, or if I get cancer, or if we lose all we own to bankruptcy, will I take this back? Will I wish I’d never said God could have me for anything.

That’s the bottom line, isn’t it? Or worst fears in pen and ink. We all think it, she just had the courage to speak it.

A day is coming when our eyes will close and there will be no more chaos. No one will be preaching or writing books about God to help us remember, because we will be alive in that world with him forever.

Anything is nothing in light of that.

In light of forever. In light of him.

What about you? Is God asking for your anything?

I’d highly recommend getting this book and reading it. I wish I could share it all with each of you. My highlighter bled all over the pages of this book, because I kept thinking, “I have to share that, and this, and THIS!”

Anything: The Prayer that Unlocked my God and my Soul by Jennie Allen, Thomas Nelson publishers.

June 18, 2012 by: The Domestic Fringe

anything, part one

What if you told God you would do anything – and He took you up on it?

That’s the question Jennie Allen asks in her book Anything: The Prayer that Unlocked my God and my Soul.

I don’t do many book reviews on my blog. I love to read, but I’m sort of finicky. I want to read what I want to read when I want to read it. So when I get an email from a publicist or a publishing company asking me to review a book, I usually say no. This time I said yes. I don’t know why, but I suspect God was moving in me and it was more His decision than mine.

Jennie Allen’s words hooked me from the start. I identified with her writing, her struggle with knowing God and surrendering to His will, and her quest to do anything. Once I started, I couldn’t stop reading. Anytime I had a minute, I grabbed the book and devoured chapter after chapter, shaking my head and saying, “That’s right! I believe that too.”

This is part book review and part testimony, a different kind of post than I’ve probably ever written. It’s longer too. I may as well warn you now. You might need to read it in more than one sitting, but I’m going to ask you to please read it. Maybe you’ll see yourself and your own relationship with God reflected in Jeannie’s words. I did.

Jennie begins her book by explaining her feelings about God. All the words in blue are Jennie’s. Unfortunately all the other words are mine.

Honestly, I felt neutral about God. When you grow up with the stories and songs and lessons, you accept everything; you aren’t trying to explain God if you grew up hearing about him since birth, like Santa Claus. I knew what I thought I needed to know. I didn’t feel much, for the most part, when watching people talk about him. I don’t remember it feeling very real. In fact, I remember God feeling a little plastic.

I love her honesty. God was nothing more to her than a plastic figurine, much like the Santa we put out at Christmas. She goes on to describe the time when God became real to her.

But that night I saw him. I saw my sin and how it put him there [on the cross]. I saw the cost. I saw his mercy, and my heart moved. What Christ did on a cross – he bought me; he died so I wouldn’t. My plastic god broke, and a new, unsettling God rushed in. I felt him.

There comes a time in all our lives when God has to become more than just a story, more than someone we thank for the food, more than our parent’s God. He must become real to us or we have nothing.

Because of training and ministry and God’s leading, Zac and I moved, and moved some more. And because of all of these moves, I longed to settle again…Curtains hanging in a window became a symbol of stability for me. It wasn’t the actual curtains; it was a deeper desire to belong somewhere, for my family to dig roots.

I could have written this paragraph myself. I married an electrician, not a pastor. I said, “I do” and planned on staying in one place for the rest of my life. That place was Limerick, Maine. I had a broken down old house that I poured my hopes and dreams into, a chicken coup filled with feathery, pecking creatures I never thought I would like, much less raise, and a bunch of friends who became family.

I had just given birth to my daughter, our second child, when my husband pulled the car into a grocery store parking lot one night after church and told me God was calling him to be a pastor. I didn’t want that. I wanted to add rooms and babies to my old house, and maybe even a white picket fence that I’d spend the next fifty years painting.

I wanted my life to be mine, and I wanted to live it for myself. Oh, don’t misunderstand; I did good things by the plenty. I worked in the church nursery and taught a children’s Sunday School class. I made food for traveling missionaries and even let them stay in my house sometimes. I just wanted to be the one who fed the missionary; I didn’t want to actually be the missionary, unless by missionary you mean the one who invites her neighbors to church.

I wanted to do God’s will on my terms.

I was afraid. I was afraid I’d have the life I’m now living. Worse, I was afraid God would send us to a third world country. I guess I’m still afraid of that, but my life is pretty good, not always easy, but good. I’ve seen God work in ways I never would have thought possible, and because I saw His faithfulness, I’ve learned to trust. That learning is ongoing, because let’s face it, I can trust Him with my life, my children, and my future one day and freak out over trusting Him with my refrigerator the next. I think a big part of faith is remembering and deciding – remember what God did in the past and what He’s promised to do in the future, and then deciding to trust Him no matter what common sense or your queasy stomach tells you.

What would be the very worst thing that God may allow you to suffer? We all would say his character is loving and good, but do we really trust that he won’t get crazy and dish out the same life he gave Job?

America (I can’t speak for the rest of the world) is held captive by fear. Anxiety paralyzes intelligent and talented people every single day. We make decisions, usually bad ones, based on fear. We allow fear to control our lives and steal our joy. We have no peace. We are a slave to the “what if’s” of this world. We are made useless by something that is not real, something fictional that may or may not ever happen to us or to those we love. I think (and this is only my opinion) that fear is one of the main things Satan uses to make Christians useless, especially Christian women.

So you know how I know this? It’s because I struggle with it every single day and so do most of my friends. I am only recently learning to face my fear and look at it in the light of God’s word, in the light of truth.

The ironic thing about believing in God and supernatural things is that the invisible stuff is actually the most trustworthy, the most stable. So the concrete things we can see and touch, they become the wind, they become the things we try to catch, and over and over, as they pass through our fingers and souls, keeping us empty.

Sometimes in the middle of our very worst times, the times we wrestle with God, our beliefs, and the very core of our faith, we realize that God hasn’t forsaken us. We understand in a whole new way that God is truly good. He is comforter, healer, peace-giver, lover, transformer, Savior, and friend.

No matter what happens, I am loved by a holy God full of grace.

We love our earth. we love our people. We love our stuff. We love our schedules. We love our short lives here. And God is saying, Look up. This is going fast. Your life here is barely a breath. There is more, way more.

We are so shortsighted. I am so shortsighted. All I can see is the now, and I want to fix everything about the now.

Somehow I thought most of my life following God was not supposed to be too costly. Following God is flat costly. It always has been. It doesn’t make sense to us, but since this life, these few years, are not the climax from Gods perspective, he’s okay throwing a little wrench into the short plans we have to be normal here.

So many times I felt like the world was caving in around me and it’s because I couldn’t see the big picture. I couldn’t see God past my circumstances.

Somewhere along the way, even with grace sung all around me, God had become morality to me. God had become the American dream. God had become a white Republican, and he wanted me to have a nice home, and a nice family with a fence to keep us all safe.

We said that! Not those exact words, because we’re not that articulate, but oh so very close.

It was a date night. We sat in the parking lot of The Red Lobster and wondered if we got it all wrong. Somehow in our imaginations we got the idea that a nice house, a white picket fence, two decent (but not too pretentious) cars in the driveway, a white clapboard church if you’re in the North and a red brick church if you’re in the South is Godly, but what if it’s not? What if that was never, ever God’s plan? What if we’re confusing God’s will with the American Dream?

Money and a good latte protect us from a lot of things. It is too easy in this country for blessings to become rights, for stuff and money to become what calls the shots in our lives. And before we know it, God’s gifts have replaced God himself.

About seven years ago we lost everything material that we thought was so important to us. It was stuff we thought defined us, help to make us who we were. It wasn’t fancy or expensive, but it was ours. It was memories and life built day by day, but then it was gone. It wasn’t taken from us. We let it all go and willingly.

It’s a long story, but I got really sick and we ended up getting rid of almost everything, except for the absolute essentials. I cried when boxes of my books were brought to the curb. I sat right down on the stoop of our rented house that wore the scars of a recent hurricane, and I cried over stuff. Stuff I loved way too much. It’s kind of funny now. We laugh about it, but back then, it wasn’t funny. I was mourning my material world.

The irony is once it was all gone, I felt so free, more free than I ever had in my life. I learned one of the most important lessons of my entire life. I learned that everything I have is just stuff. Some stuff is more treasured than other stuff, but I don’t really need it, not any of it.

I was certainly not willing to do anything then, but I can say a lot died for me. It was another step in letting go – a step in dying to my picture of normal, my picture of a perfect nursery and a perfect life. Little deaths always feel like big deaths until you let go. After you let go you wonder, what was the big deal?

Once when I was a teenager, I told God I would do anything. I think I really meant it then, but I didn’t understand what that anything might include. It’s so much more than a stealth covert mission. It’s not a one time deal. It’s not a portion of my life. Doing anything God wants IS my life.

anything, part two

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