A Fickle Gut

A short post today. This is what I was thinking about in the wee early hours as I lay in bed...

My gut is broken.

And by gut, I don't mean my intestinal insides that be can fixed by changing my diet and ingesting more probiotics, or my changes in appetite throughout the nine months of pregnancy. I mean the instinct inside me that is supposed to guide me through life. Somewhere along the way, during my childhood years, between moving so often, being bullied, not feeling affirmed enough, growing up in the Chinese tradition–a myriad of things–my "guide" broke.

Sometimes "following your gut" is a good thing, but in my case, I would be in a world of trouble, because my gut is not always trustworthy. 

I would take my small revenge–my gut tells me,"You deserve it. He/she owes it to you."

I would be fearful of everything–my gut says, "Something out there will hurt you or your child."

I would doubt myself all the time–my gut whispers, "Don't try it. You'll probably fail." or "Rita, you made a mistake... again."

I would avoid conflict–my gut screams, "Run away! Protect yourself!"

We are broken people living in a broken world. Life happens–the good and the bad–and most of the time, my jerk reaction to the bad is just not reliable. This is a lesson I need to learn again and again: trust in the Word, trust the Holy Spirit's promptings, and trust people I know in the family of God. When I get lax and overly confident in my own abilities, I go with my emotions; then without realizing it, I may choose to take the easy route, the route of self-preservation. But that route is not always the right route. 

Overriding my natural responses and emotions is not easy. It's an uncomfortable place to be–sometimes it's downright painful!–but it's better than listening to the fickleness of my gut.

The Better Version of Me

Okay, it's confession time.

When I graduated from UC Berkeley (ah, so many years ago!), I was a cynic. I had entered the school an innocent, idealistic, optimistic 18-year-old, and left a sarcastic and pessimistic 21-year-old. It took me a while to realize the change in me, and to realize that putting on the air of being tough and snarky was not the way I wanted to relate to people. It may be a good survival instinct in a world of pain and suffering, but it was not loving.

So I made a choice–I would rather be seen as naive, wide-eyed, and kind and generous to a fault, than be seen as witty, sophisticated, and fashionably dark and fatalistic. I worked on cultivating the skill of seeing people through a positive lens and giving them the benefit of the doubt. And I realized that it wasn't the environment of UC Berkeley that had made me a cynic; it was the part of me that wanted to stand out and be noticed. In this world, the quiet, kind person doesn't tend to get much attention. But to be kind is a gift, not a failing.

Now, I find myself at these crossroads again.

Only this time, something had unknowingly crept up on me over the past twenty years. While I was trying to be kind by being quiet and deferential, there were people in my life who told me, "Speak up! You should get what you want! You deserve it!" I started believing that it was better to always know what I want and to be verbal about it!

But now there are times when I regret what I say. I want so much to make my opinion be known that I blurt it out with no thought to the other person, and then later find myself asking, "Did I say that out of love, or in an attempt to look superior? Does my opinion always have to be know? When does it really matter that I speak my thoughts?"

The answer is that I still desire to be noticed, and I sometimes state my opinion merely to bring attention to myself, like the gong in I Corinthians 13:1.

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. (I Corinthians 13:1 NIV)

Even if I say some pretty amazing things, without love, I am still saying nothing.

And I Peter 4:8-11a (NIV) says, Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God's grace in its various forms. If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God...

I know that the best thing to do is to strive for a balance between tight-lipped and being loquacious, because there are times when I do need to speak up, in truth and love. But if I really had to choose today which "Rita" I would rather be–the quiet, reserved one or the loud, opinionated one–I choose the first. Even if it would mean that I may never again give my strong opinion on anything, I would rather have the words that come from my mouth be healing, not wrecking.

New Year's Thoughts

2018 flew by like a tornado. And like a tornado, I feel like the year left things in my life overturned, upset, and destroyed.

But in a surprisingly good way.

One thing that took me by surprise was the resurfacing of a deep, old pain–pain that I had thought I had outgrown long ago. I cried and cried because the pain felt so new. And I cried and cried because I realized that the resolution I wish for may never come. But that's what we have to do with this kind of pain, the kind that we cannot heal on our own; we have to unbury it, in order to raise it up to God. We have to trust that He can heal us, whether or not the situation changes.

Another thing that I did not see coming was some much-needed pruning. But before I could be pruned, I had to come face to face with my own ugliness. And boy was I ugly! I was mean, spiteful, angry, and bitter, in my thoughts AND in my actions. And, it hurts me to say this, the people I loved the most witnessed it all. But what a happy ending! As much as I wish to hide the uglier side of me, I actually needed the ugliness to come to the surface. Then there was no way that I could deny who I was inside while pretending that I am kind and loving on the outside. And the ugliness had to be uncovered so God was able to remove it. Like a thorn that is too deeply imbedded but needs to be pulled out. Or the dross in molten silver that needs to float to the top. 

2018 was not my shiniest year, or my easiest, but it was definitely a year of much growth. And as always, I am thankful for the words of Lamentations 3:19-24:

I remember my affliction and my wandering,

the bitterness and the gall.

I well remember them,

and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind

and therefore I have hope:

Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, "The LORD is my portion;

therefore I will wait for him."

And because of God's great mercy, I can look forward to 2019 with hope. This New Year, I am not making a resolution to change what I do. Rather, I want to change what I want. I want to need the Word, so much that I can't end my day until I've immersed myself in it. I want to be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to anger. I want to act in love, not react in fear. In short, I want the words of Romans 12:9-11:

Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. 

What do you hope for in 2019?

Piano Lessons

I apologize for not writing since February. I had every intention to write, but March has been a whirlwind… seven sick children, a new baby born on the 4th, more sick children…

Then I found this essay amongst my writings, and it's a good one (if you don't mind my saying so). If I had a list of top 5 life lessons learned in my 39 years so far of living, this would be one of them: wherever God puts me, I am there for a reason.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Piano Lessons

I was young.

I was naive.

I was in need of money.

All good excuses, but that’s what they were, nothing but excuses. I should have done better, even if I hated the job. 

Stuck in a closet of a room with a piano and a kid who was somehow coerced into coming was not my idea of fun. For thirty long minutes, I listened as the student stumbled through Bach and tripped through Mozart. Good thing Beethoven’s already deaf, I thought, because he would wish he was after hearing this rendition of the ‘Moonlight Sonata’.

Finally, the hands of the clock gave me permission to release my prisoner. I watched through the window as the student ran to the awaiting car, away from my chamber of torture. Oh, how I too longed to feel the breeze on my skin and sunshine on my hair!

But tick tick tick, there was another student, another lesson, another few dollars to pay for gas.

I worked this job for five months, always hating it. I hated the fact that I had graduated from college with a degree in music but all my passion, ambition, and idealism were demoted to tinkling on a piano. I hated the fact that my working hours started when everyone else’s was just ending. Most of all, I hated the fact that not one of my students really, truly loved music, that it did not sing in their bones, course through their veins, or haunt their dreams. Music, for me, needed to be a matter of life and death. 

But I could not inspire my students anymore than a match can set fire to an ice cube. They came and they went, without consistency or commitment. Just as I was learning their names, they were gone. 

Yes, I was a cynic. I admit it now. I had graduated from Berkeley with a Bachelor of Arts in cynicism. But I was a dependable cynic. Every week, I was in that closet of a room with a piano, ready to teach.

In comes a new student. Anyone could see from his face that he would rather be on a baseball diamond or a football field than sitting at a piano. I didn’t even try Bach or Beethoven with him. I went straight to the Star Wars Piano Music for Beginners. He didn’t love it, but he at least worked through it. We’ll see how it goes next week, was my thought. If he comes back.

And he did come back. He must have been bribed. I could tell that he hadn’t practice. We tried the Star Wars music again. Okay, lesson done. We’ll see how it goes next week, I thought again, if he comes back.

The next week, he didn’t come back. I wasn’t surprised. (Did I mention that I was a cynic?) His time slot was filled by a new student, Barbara. Barbara was not what I expected. She was genuinely happy to see me. In her early 60s, retired, and ready to tackle something new, she came in with energy to spare. We started our lessons as all lessons started, and thirty minutes were over in a flash. Refreshing, to have a student who wasn’t dragged in by a herd of elephants, but I was hardened already. She won’t last, I told myself. I’ve seen it before: start lessons on a whim, but quit when you can’t play like a pro in four weeks.

I patted myself on the back when, four weeks later, Barbara didn’t come for her lesson.

Too bad, I enjoyed her, I thought. And too bad, I was stuck at work for thirty minutes and not getting paid for it.

I left my closet to find my boss.

“Hey, Rita, I forgot to tell you. About Barbara...”

Oh, I know, she decided she needed a different hobby, I sneered in my mind.

“…about Barbara... she died a few days ago.”

I stopped breathing. “...it was sudden, in her sleep, her daughter called...” none of that mattered. I returned to my closet, shut the door, and sat at the piano, the very piano where, only seven days ago, Barbara had sat and played. In all my idealism, I never thought that this would really become a matter of life and death.

And what were my last words to her?

“See you next week.”

Or, maybe... “Keep practicing!”

What would I have said instead, if I had known?

“Barbara, you are my best student. I enjoy our lessons immensely.”

Sounds overly sincere, the very opposite of cynical, but those were my thoughts, were they not?

But I chose not to express them. 

No, I chose not to give any more than the minimum required, when I should have given all of myself, tap danced on top of the piano for her, baked her lemon bars, brought in CDs to listen to together, our hearts melting at the genius of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. No, I had thirty minutes every week with Barbara, and I threw them away.

I saw her only as a student, a paycheck, another lesson, when she was so much more: a mother, a grandmother, a friend, a human being. She was an inspiration, to strive to learn piano when most people would say, “It’s too late!” She was a music lover, to desire the key to music-making when others would say, “You’re wasting your time.” But she didn’t waste her time, not on piano lessons, not at my piano. For she taught me, when I was full of longing to be elsewhere, full of pride and apathy, full of myself. She had less to regret in her last week of living than I had in my last thirty minutes of teaching. She was the match that set an ice cube on fire. 

My ice cube.

Soon after Barbara’s death, I was hired to teach at a local junior and senior high school. I told my boss that I had to resign because I couldn’t juggle both jobs. He mentioned something to me about Barbara.

“Yes, I’ll miss her,” I responded. Because I’ll never forget her.

My new job was rough, my new classroom a little more than a closet. Instead of a piano, I had desks, textbooks, and a white board, and instead of one unenthusiastic student, I had twenty at a time. But for fifty minutes a day, five days a week, I gave all of me. My enthusiasm permeated the room like perfume, my fervor set them on fire. Even the most apathetic of students could not discourage me. And after finishing one quarter with a class of seventh-graders, I sat down and wrote a ‘thank you’ note to each of my students. I did the same with my high-school choir at the end of the year, my music class the next year, my graduates at the end of my third year. Whenever I had the chance, I told my students how much I enjoyed them, what potential they held, and how they made me smile, whether it took one minute, thirty minutes, or fifty minutes to do so.

There were no excuses anymore.

Ashamed of My House

Sigh. What do people think of us when they see our house?

Boards in the fence are either missing or hanging on for dear life. The lawn is dead (brown is the new green, right?), which gives our faded-orange-sherbet house a very monochromatic, tired look. The kitchen is also tired, so much so that the dishwasher, faucet, stove, and cabinets seem to be giving up on us, one by one. Cracks and holes in the walls cry out for patching and a fresh coat of paint. The backyard is in its usual state of chaos, like the rest of the house– the house full time of mismatched, hand-me-down furniture and loud, energetic children.

We are the "ugly" house on our street. The "poor" family. "Those" neighbors. Sometimes, I admit, I am ashamed of my house. I wish it looked more shiny and welcoming. I wish I had more time and money to spend on landscaping, remodeling, and decorating. To steal a line from the musical 'Into the Woods', "I wish…"

Then a family from Iraq visits us. We have a wonderful, simple time together learning about each other's culture. Without knowing why, I start feeling a bit uncomfortable.

What do they think of us when they see our house?

A feeling of shame comes over me again, but not because my house isn't as lovely as I would like it to be, but because it is more than anything they have in Iraq.

Air conditioning and heat. Sturdy walls and a roof. Appliances that wash my clothes or heat my food and water. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and two living areas. A patch of lawn.

And this doesn't include the amazing food we eat, the general good health we experience, and the feeling of security we have.

I live a blessed life of ease and luxury.

But my Iraqi friends don't lecture me for our extravagance. They are grateful for our friendship and the hospitality we show them. And yet, I know that they have seen refugees run for their lives with nothing more than the clothes on their back. They live among the truly poor– people who live in cardboard houses in the dead of winter. Their church meets in a small building furnished with only old couches and folding chairs. And they are not ashamed to say, "Come visit us!"

It is my turn to be grateful– for renewed perspective, for brotherly love that knows no boundaries, and for a shame that leads to repentance and contentedness.

Sunday Expectations

(This post is based on thoughts that are directly and indirectly connected to my last post on koinonia.)

Do you get annoyed when you order something at a restaurant and the waiter says, "Oh, we're out of that today"? Or when you are at a store and you wait and wait for service, and finally someone comes to help you?

We have an expectation of a certain quality of service when we enter an establishment, whether it is a restaurant, grocery store, or nail parlor, but (time for a heart check) do we have those same expectations when we enter our church building on Sundays?

Ask yourself these questions honestly:

-Would I be grumpy if there were no donuts and coffee at church?

-Would I complain if the music was different or someone other than the usual preacher gave the sermon?

-Would I be angry if there was no children's or youth program?

-Would I leave if the chairs were hard or the temperature too hot or cold?

Sadly, here in the United States, many church-goers (and I say church-goers because this includes those who go to church out of habit and those who are Christ-followers) have lived in comfort for so long that sometimes they treat our Sunday mornings like they would a trip to a restaurant. They go there expecting to be served and they have come to expect all churches to provide certain services. And if they don't receive it at one church, they simply go to another.

We, as Christ-followers, must remember to be gracious. If I can be gracious when I see a waiter running ragged to fill in for a sick co-worker, or when a store or restaurant is out of stock on an item, then I can certainly be even more gracious when it comes to Sunday mornings. If I simply remind myself that a church is NOT a place of business, then my expectations will also change. Why do we gather with other Christians? To serve one another, with the gifts that God has given us. It's our opportunity to care for people whom we don't see everyday. It's our chance to invite people into our family. It's koinonia.

So, what should we expect from our Sunday (or Saturday) worship time?

1) The church is full of broken people, all in need of a Savior. Though a person may look happy and healthy on the outside, his/her inside may be crying and looking for comfort. Go to church expecting to be used by God to meet someone's need.

2) The church is served mostly by volunteers. These are people who are giving their time and energy, on their own accord, to help make a Sunday morning service happen. Be grateful for those people (say "Thank you!" to the one who picks up the donuts every week) and be gracious when something happens and that person is not there to fulfill his/her role. Go to church expecting to serve those who are serving you!

3) Expect things to be different from week to week. The Church is not static, nor is it confined to a building. Missions trips, visitations, and pastors speaking at other churches are all a part of a healthy church body. If you are in search of a new church, I recommend visiting a church more than once to get a better feel for the life of that church body.

4) Expect God's spirit to fill the place with warmth and love whether or not there are coffee and donuts, a five-piece band, cushy chairs, or a top-notch, state-of-the-art childcare program. If you visit a church that has all of the above but is lacking in strong, Biblical teaching or a welcoming spirit, "all of the above" CANNOT fill that hole (and neither is it really a church then… it is a childcare facility that offers free food, live music, and a place to kick back.)

A Blessing

I was blessed yesterday.

Sitting in front of me during service was a mother and her daughter. I had noticed them earlier as they came into the building. The mother had a walker. Her daughter was at her side, helping with each step.

And as they settled in the two seats in front of me, I was able to observe them more closely. The mother was, I'm guessing, seventy-years-old. Her daughter had the beautiful and eternally youthful face of a person with Down's Syndrome, but her reddish-brown hair was beginning to gray at her temples. She must have been nearing fifty.

Fifty years. This woman has been full-time mothering for fifty years! And here I am bemoaning the thirty-one years I will have put in when my youngest will finally turn eighteen. I watched the two interact during the service. I saw the care and patience that the mother had for her daughter. And my heart was filled with admiration for this woman.

I never did find a chance to talk to them. They left as soon as the last 'Amen' was said. But this mother has changed me. I no longer need to waste my time thinking about what I will pursue when my nest is empty; that time will come. I don't need to count the years until I see the light at the end of the tunnel; God only knows how many years I will have. I don't need to envy those who have more time, money, and opportunity; God gives me the exact amount of time, money, and opportunity I need right now. I can focus on the here and now and be faithful to the tasks God has put in front of me, whatever those tasks may be. The baby in my womb could have Down's Syndrome. Something could happen in a few years that will make it impossible for one of my children to live independently. Whatever God brings my way, I will always walk the path that He has put before me.

One Year

I can't wait for him to get past this phase. My son climbs on the table and dumps everything he finds there. He throws his food over the side of his high chair. He screeches when he doesn't get what he wants. He pulls ornaments and lights off the tree. It'll be great when he learns to listen, when he has some words, when he's older...

Wait, what am I saying?! At the most, I will have only one year with my one-year-old. Out of how ever many years God chooses to give my son, I will still have only one year with my one-year-old. And how ever old I may live to be, even if I live to be a hundred and one, I will still have only one year with my one-year-old.

It may be difficult. It may be frustrating. It may be exhausting. But I don't want to miss any of it.

It's my one year, only one year, my only one year, with my one-year-old.

A Spirit of Thanksgiving (Part 5 or 5)

And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. ~Colossians 3:15-20 (ESV)

I have sat at many Thanksgiving dinners. I have held the kernel of corn and have announced to everyone at the table what I was thankful for that year. And every year, I say the same things: my family, my home, my health, my Savior. They are all wonderful things, of course, but they are the easy answer. It is easy for me to be thankful for a husband who loves me, my beautiful children, a spacious home in California.

But this year, something changed me. At a thanksgiving prayer service a few weeks back, I was asked a question:

"What is hindering you from giving thanks?"

My initial reaction was, "Nothing! I am SO thankful! I'm thankful for everything in my life!"

Then I studied the seven words posted on the wall, seven things that could be keeping me from being truly grateful. It took me a few minutes to be honest with myself. Entitlement, doubt, anger? Nope, nope, nope. I'm good. Bitterness, fear? Nope, nope. I'm good there too. Covetousness? Nope. Anxiety? Nope... wait… hmmm… well… hmmm… maybe…

I finally admitted that I did have some bitterness towards some family members. I did have anxiety concerning homeschooling and my image in the church. I did covet when I visited other people's homes or heard about other people's travels. And as long as I held onto these things, I could not be grateful for those family members, for homeschooling, for my role in the church, for my home, or for God's purpose for me at this time of life.

After prayer and repentance, I relinquished my bitterness, anxiety, and covetousness to God. And for the first time in years, I was able to say that I was thankful for the harder things in my life.

What is hindering you from giving thanks? Is it…

            ENTITLEMENT

                        BITTERNESS         

                                ANGER

                        FEAR

               DOUBT

                      COVETOUSNESS    

                         ANXIETY

May this be the year you trade these in for something better!

Wherever you are this Thanksgiving, may God give you a joyful, grateful day. And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it in the name of Jesus, giving thanks to the Father.

A Spirit of Thanksgiving (Part 4 of 5)

Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. ~I Thessalonians 5:18 (ESV)

I read once that the best cure for grumpiness is to smile. The smile may be forced at first, but it slowly changes your whole attitude and lifts your spirit! 

Words can have a similar affect. By changing one word within a sentence, the sentence can take on a whole new meaning, which in turn, can change your outlook!

Here's an example. Every year as my birthday approaches, my husband reminds me that my attitude towards aging pivots on just one word. In English, I would say "I am thirty-seven-old" but in French (and other romance languages), I would say "J'ai trente-sept ans – I have thirty-seven years." Rather than lament that I'm just getting more wrinkled and gray with each passing year, I can own these years, like I am staking a claim, or like I've reached a wonderful goal in time and wisdom.

So, what does this have to do with thanksgiving? I recently discovered that I say "I have to…" quite a bit. Nothing wrong with that, except that I usually said it with a tone of resignation.

"I have to cook dinner."
"I have to take the kids to the park."
"I have to read the Bible."*

But change the "have" to "get", and my sentences become…

"I get to cook dinner."
"I get to take the kids to the park."
"I get to read the Bible."**

Presto-change-o! Wow, what a difference one word makes! All of a sudden, what were once my duties become my delights! Even the most dreaded chores (like scrubbing the toilet) becomes delightful when I think, "I get to…" Then my whole attitude changes. I remember that there is One who has given me much, and that I have much to be thankful for. Though my acts may be simple and mundane, I am a blessed woman because I CAN do these acts everyday. 

*A quick English language lesson for my international readers–

The colloquialism "have to" means "must". Example: "I have to feed the dog" means "I must feed the dog." 
**The colloquialism "get to" means "to have the opportunity to". Example: "I get to go to the movies tonight" means "I have the opportunity to go to the movies tonight."

A Spirit of Thanksgiving (Part 2 of 5)

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever. ~Psalm 136:1 (ESV)

Have you ever been thankful for something you didn't receive? I mean, REALLY thankful for what God didn't give you, even though you wanted it with all your heart? We say "Thank You Lord that I don't have cancer" with ease, but how about "Thank You God for not giving me that promotion"?

I wasn't always very grateful as a child. I grumbled as I hung laundry for my family, because many of my classmates had maids. I hated the fact that I qualified for a free lunch at school and had to endure mocking from other girls when they saw what I didn't have sandwiches like theirs. Every time I went to my friends' houses and saw what they had, I left wanting video games, pierced ears, a bigger house, or a nicer car. Even when I visited other churches, I was envious of their building, sanctuary, worship team, and classrooms. I prayed that God would give me these good things. Then I wondered why He didn't.

But it was God's gift to me that He didn't give me all that I wanted! I am more humble and more empathetic today because of what I didn't have. I am able to take care of my family on a tighter budget because I learned how to do so from my parents. I have a different outlook on church that is not based on a building or a worship team.

And this doesn't even touch on all the other times in my life when God DIDN'T give me what I wanted: the man I wanted to marry, the trip I wanted to take, the career I wanted to pursue… the list is unending. Every year, my eyes are opened to yet another way that God has blessed me by NOT giving me what I wanted. I am so grateful that God withheld those things from me, only to give me something BETTER!

"God never withholds from His child that which His love and wisdom call good. God's refusals are always merciful– "severe mercies" at times but mercies all the same. God never denies us our hearts desire except to give us something better." ~Elizabeth Elliot

(special thanks to my friend Sharon for sharing this quote with me)

More than a Little Grace

I was frustrated beyond words. Here I was, with all six children, out at a horse ranch for our scheduled riding lesson, and no instructor was in sight. And this was after she had already cancelled our lessons on two other occasions. 

What was it this time? I wondered.  

We waited ten minutes. We waited twenty. My children's excitement diminished with every passing tick of the watch. After waiting thirty minutes, we prepared to leave. That's when we finally got a hold of the instructor on the phone and tried to reschedule for another day.

Some people love to give advice in situations like this.

"Write a bad review!"

"Demand a full refund!"

"You have your rights as a customer!"

I didn't need anyone's help. My mind entertained the many things I could do to relieve my frustration and justify my ill feelings toward the instructor. And I had already bought a gift card for her as a parting gift after the last lesson. She certainly doesn't deserve that anymore! I thought.

But after my anger cooled, I decided to pray for the instructor. The few things I knew about her was that she was the mother of a baby younger than my own. She was unwed. And she was trying to move her business to a different location in hopes of making a little more for her small family. She had a lot on her plate! That doesn't excuse her flakiness, but I can certainly be understanding and give her a little grace.

Okay, I won't ask for a refund then, I decided. Besides, she offered to do some extra long lessons for the one she missed. But she is definitely NOT getting the gift card.

It was fair enough. I was still being nice. It was almost the day for our final riding lesson, and I was prepared to say a polite thank-you and leave it at that.

But something prompted me to take out my stationery and write the instructor a note. 

She really is an excellent teacher, I told myself. She at least deserves to know that.

And the more I wrote, the more I KNEW that I was going to give her the gift card after all.

A few days after the final lesson, I received an e-mail from the instructor. She thanked me for the surprise gift and told me that she had loved getting to know our large family. She was especially encouraged as a new mom, she wrote.

And then I was glad that I didn't insist on my rights as a customer. Rights have their place, but they leave little room for grace. And I was glad that I didn't stop at being nice and polite. What is grace if it doesn't go above and beyond what we think is just?

What is grace, if it is not abundant, breath-taking, immeasurable and... unexpected?

Practicing Kindness

Lately, my five-year-old has been–how can I put this nicely?–a trial. And what makes it more difficult is that the things he has been doing aren't outright disobedient or harmful, but just plain mean. 

His sister says, "Stop that!" and he continues to do "that" in order to make her more angry.

His brother asks for a toy back, and when I tell him to hand the toy over, he chooses to throw it instead.

Sounds familiar? I'm sure my son is not unique. But how do you discipline someone for being mean? My son would have to spend ALL DAY in time-out!

I finally grew tired of the constant "That's not kind!" talk and chose a new tactic–not talking about kindness, but acting out the kindness. This means taking the time to stop what I am doing, sitting down with my son, praying (because a change of heart is more important than a change of behavior, and heart change is not my department), deciding on the action to remedy the inflicted hurt, then doing it. So simple. And so much more effective than telling my son "That's not kind!" and assuming that he knows the proper action instead. (Side note: I've also stopped telling my children to "behave properly" if I don't first tell them what that behavior looks like.)

So after my son throws a toy, he picks it up and hands it to his sibling.

When he takes someone else's snack, I have him serve that person a new snack.

If he says something mean, he apologizes and says something kind to the person.

I'm hoping that this will teach my son how to relate differently to people, that his actions are preceded by a choice, that with time, kindness will come as easily to him as riding his bike. As my husband likes to say, "You get good at what you practice!" 

I too have been practicing kindness lately. Of course I don't throw things at people; my fault is how judgmental I am of people sometimes. 

I see a couple bickering and I think, "That's not the way to treat your spouse!"

A mom is paying more attention to her phone than to her misbehaving children and I think, "She's not being a good mother!"

When I find myself thinking these thoughts, I catch myself and remember to "practice kindness" by choosing instead to pray for these people.

"Lord, help this couple to love each other the way you love us."

"Give this mom the strength to be patient with her children, the wisdom to teach them, and the support she needs to do so."

And for myself, "Father, thank you for showing me how judgmental I can be. Please change my heart."

And my hope is that with time, this too will come as easily to me as riding a bike (or in my case, playing a piano).

This is my story, this is my song...

Knowing that September is going to be a busy month for me because of school and baby (and sleep deprivation), I decided to do something different. Most of the posts this month will actually be re-posts. I've learned some valuable lessons in the three-and-a-half years since I've started this blog, and I'm sure that most of you don't have the time to sit at the computer and read all that I've ever written. So I will find some of my favorite posts (that are not already in the side bar to the left) and share them with you.  Here's another one from 2011…

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(I realized it might be helpful to some of you to hear the story of how I met Jesus Christ. My pastor had advised me to type it up as an exercise, to prepare myself if ever someone asked me. If you've never written out your story, try it. You will find that yours is remarkable!)

I used to feel like I didn’t have a story, because I had no extraordinary meeting with God. When you’ve been going to church for your whole life, it’s easy to think that you know God. I knew what other people said about Him, but I didn’t really know Him. I gradually became acquainted with God, as my Savior, as my Friend, and as my Lover, slowly over 32 years. This is what my story is about. 

My dad is a pastor, and I attended church as soon as I left the hospital. The church building became my home away from home. On those long days when my dad had meeting after meeting, I would play ‘hide-and-seek’ and ‘sardines’ with my siblings, running up and down the stairs and in and out of closets. I knew all the best hiding places in a church, which are in the curtains, in the pulpit, and under the communion table. Our family would eat lunch and sometimes dinner there, and I practiced piano there. I remember coming up with games that involved crawling under the church pews on my belly. And I hated having to wear dresses on Sundays, because it’s easier to crawl under the pews with pants on! But I did learn other things besides  ‘hide-and-seek’. I also knew every memory verse, every Bible story,  every hymn sung in church. There was no question in Sunday School that I couldn’t answer.

Except one.

When I was ten, a teacher asked me, “Have you accepted Jesus as your personal Savior?”

I had always assumed that I was going to heaven, just like my parents, just like everyone who goes to church. I finally learned that I had to choose for myself, that all the things I did on Sundays were not the way to heaven. I realized that I was a sinner, even if I went to church and was basically a ‘good’ person, because no matter how hard I tried, I could never be perfect.  My sin separated me from God, my Creator, and separation from Him equals death. So I was dead, and would remain dead, unless I accept Christ’s gift, that He died on the cross, in my place, taking my penalty. All I had to do was accept that gift, but I had to do it myself.

And so, that day, I accepted Jesus as my Savior. Then I knew that I was guaranteed eternal life in Heaven with Him.

As a new believer, I tried to do everything right. Sunday School teachers told me that I would become a new person, so I prayed about my short temper and asked God to help me with that. The teachers told me to read the Bible everyday, so I tried to do that. God did reveal Himself to me in little ways (my bad temper did get better), but my life seemed very much the same. I was so confused, asking myself “What more am I suppose to do? How can I be a better Christian when I already go to church and do all these things?” There was suppose to be some kind of growth in my relationship, but I didn’t feel it happening. So I strove to be a better person, and as I grew older, I also started teaching Sunday School, playing piano in the service, and leading the youth group. I guess I felt that I must owe God something for what He did for me. I would think back to the day I made my decision to follow Jesus, and try even harder to keep my end of the ‘bargain’. I knew what I needed to do to live a good Christian life, but sometimes I failed, and then I would call myself a bad Christian. At that point, I was so busy in the church that I had a hard time really listening to God. To many people, I looked solid, but there were many holes in my faith. But God never turned from me, even when I entered my college years and started questioning Him as new philosophies tried to fill those holes. He waited for the day when I was ready, ready to hear Him.

That day came when I was twenty. All it took was a sermon series on God’s love (not, “For God so loved the world…so He sent His son…and you must do this to respond”, but “God loves you! He enjoys you! He wants to be with you, and that’s why He sent His son!”) That was the first time I ever ‘heard’ someone say that God enjoys me, and that all He wants is a relationship with me. His entire motivation for sending Jesus to the cross was love! And He wants to give me more good things, beginning with the gift of His Son. I finally understood that ‘eternal life’ was not something that happens when I ‘go to Heaven’, but something that happens NOW, because the cross took away the gap between God and me, restoring the loving relationship between my Maker and me. And I can still do things to serve Him, but my love for Him is the foundation from which the service must flow.

For the first time in my life, my heart felt whole. The holes were gone. My self-image changed. I saw God not as the ‘Judge’, but as the ‘Friend’ and ‘Lover’ who accepted me, scars, filth and all. And it felt good knowing that my life’s goal is not working to get God’s attention. Sometimes I still fall into that trap. I get focused on reading the Bible as another thing on my checklist, instead of a time to be with God, my Friend. I volunteer for things because I know I should, not because I genuinely care. Sometimes I get so busy that I forget that I need to be still and listen. I need to hear him call me ‘Beloved’, which means that I need to

just

be

loved.

This is what I’m working on now; this is the sin that still creeps in, and prevents me from feeling like I’m truly abiding in Christ.

And so, for the first ten year of my life, I knew ‘of’ God. The second ten years, we were acquaintances. The third ten years, we’ve been friends. Now I’m thirty-two, and I want to know Him as my Lover. I want to fall completely in love with him,  and be like an old-married couple with Him. I want to live in the knowledge that God’s Son on the cross was not a one-time act of love, but a symbol of ALL the love He has for me and wants to give me.

(and for those of you who are parents, I want to say, "Don't assume that bringing your child to Sunday School is enough. And don't assume that having a child that serves in the church is enough. Talk to your children about Christ, when you are walking, when you are eating, whenever you are together!") 

The Great Healer

A new week began today, but I don't know where to begin here.

Our pastor is still in the hospital.
My friend Judy's Alzheimer's has progressed to the point where her husband needed to move her into an assisted-living facility.

News from the Zeller family is bad becoming worse (read the blog Charlie's Song for the details).

And my husband today came home late from work because he helped a young mom and her four-year-old son find a place to stay for the night.

And my heart cannot even express the injustice I feel about all this. My chest aches with a different kind of pain. When I was young, I wore my heart on my sleeve and wondered, "Why is it so hard for the world to live happily and peacefully?" The answers were so obvious to me. Then when my own heart got trampled on, I wanted to hide my heart forever and stop caring.

But God doesn't stop caring. Ever. And I have learned that He doesn't want us to stop caring either. Ever. And it does hurt. It hurts to care. It hurts to love. It hurts to give. It hurts to see injustice. But remember that God is the great Healer. It was Misty Zeller who reminded me of this verse: He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. (Psalm 147:3) Yes, God can heal our pastor. He can heal Judy. He can heal the Zellers. He can heal the lives of the homeless mom and her son. And He can heal my heart when it feels trampled upon.

Compared to many people, I have suffered little, which makes it easier for me to turn my back in apathy when others suffer, or to throw my hands in the air and shout, "What's the use? There is nothing I can do!" But there is always something I can do. I can pray. I can give, no matter how little. And I can care, with my heart on my sleeve, and carry the burden of pain.


It used to be
My heart was free like a sparrow
Flying wherever it would
It rested on my shoulder
Then went to the people it chose

But over time
When my heart returned to me
Its wings were ragged and torn
So I caged my little bird
To keep it away from harm
Away from harm

Then one day
I saw my heart in the open
You had found the key
What's a heart if it's grounded?
It needs to love, to be

But I asked
What about the danger
The storms, the wind, the rain
You opened your hands to me
"I can heal every pain,
Heal every pain."