the human condition – Page 2

The 12 blogs of Christmas #11: Welcome

We step into a house with a newborn like we’re stepping into a bubble, in breathless wonder. Babies are so easy to welcome. So disarming, so nonthreatening.

1482812_771563492869564_1968824718_n — My sweet little nephew Matthew

So unifying, because we all started out like that—as a trembling, mewling newborn. Utterly, almost frighteningly, dependent.All of us: President Obama. The artist/athlete/superstar you like. That guy from Duck Dynasty. The person who drives you nuts. At the start we’re the same, same, same. Human.

Only a human gets another human. My dog doesn’t totally get me. My Christmas tree doesn’t get me, neither do the glorious stars or a sunset or the birds flying overhead.

Only humanity can empathize with humanity.

And so God came down.

Entered like everyone else. He got hungry. He got hurt. He was tempted. He got weary. He wept. He laughed. He mourned. He became (righteously) angry.
God became human. While holding on to his God-ness. He was both.

This is very strange. This could only be driven by love.

Here is religion: Look at me! Over here, God! Look at what I can do! Look at how much I give! Pray! Am I good enough? Does the good on my scale out weigh the bad? Am I following the right rules? Am I saying the right words? I’m trying, I’ll keep trying.. to reach you… I’ll keep hoping I’m doing enough….

Here is Jesus: I will come to you. Out of everything I made, I love you best of all. And I know you can’t reach me on your own. All that stuff, that bad stuff, that mess you and the rest of the world made and will continue to make, I’ll take care of that. That stands in the way of you and God. So I’ll clean it up once and for all. I’ll step in and be the bridge in the form of a cross the leads to my death that leads to your life. That brings us back together. You and me. We’ll be reconciled. So stop trying, I’ve done the work. Rest in the work I’ve done and let me do a work in you.

You know when you’re really sick and someone brings a meal? or takes your kids? or cleans your kitchen? You know that feeling you get inside, you kind of crumple in gratitude, because someone has stepped in and helped and you sigh and realize it is going to be okay?

That’s the feeling I hope you get this Christmas. That sigh of relief and gratitude, that Oh hooray! He’s here! You saw the mess, God. The need, and you stepped in because we needed saving. I hope that swells up inside of you and you enjoy the presents and the food and the coffee and the friends all the more. And if your Christmas isn’t marked by presents/food/coffee/friends/warm fuzzy moments, I hope His presence is more than enough and you can say Welcome, Savior. Welcome.

The 12 blogs of Christmas #7: Ponder

(This is a re-post. *First Ponder was written shortly after the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Connecticut in Dec. of 2012)

Today is a snow day. A perfect day to ponder and lately, I’ve been pondering what it means to ponder….

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2:19)

Mary did not endure packed Wal-Mart aisles. She wasn’t in charge of baking the Christmas ham, didn’t stress over gingerbread cookies or family coming over or finding last minute stocking stuffers. She wasn’t hunting down the scotch tape or waiting in line at the post office, or figuring out what to wear or what dish to bring to what party.

Mary was pregnant. And she was a virgin. Which made her prime suspect for public and private ridicule, slander, and jokes. We believe her now—at least I do—about the virgin birth thing, but not many believed her then. Not many understood what she was going through, what she’d been called to, what carrying this baby meant for them. For her. For the world. No doubt she was misunderstood. Assumed crazy? At the very least she must have gone through some kind of identity crisis to be the center of such scandal, one that could result in her being stoned to death. She didn’t have to buy any presents but she did ride on a donkey for miles and miles, bumping along with an aching low back. She did do Lamaze breathing (even though she didn’t know it would one day be called Lamaze breathing) on a contaminated barn floor. She did deliver her child without the comfort of her mother or the wisdom of a midwife or the empathy of another woman. And she did have unexpected raggedy visitors show up, strangers, with animals in tow, to worship her baby. She did have to rise in the middle of the night when her husband nudged her and said they needed to leave. Now. She did have this insidious King bound and determined to murder her baby. She did know the world would never be the same.

She had much to ponder, much to turn over, quietly, reflectively. “Me, Lord? You chose me to be a part of this plan?” And what a surprising plan it was.

We don’t take the time to ponder, and we have much to ponder. Right now it feels like the whole nation is weeping,* and I know there’s much to debate, but I think we need to ponder first. Ponder things like… who are we, really, and what are we doing here? You know, nothing deep.

I’ve been pondering who we are not.

We are not walking accidents, the result of random chance and millions of years of soup. If we were, tragedies like what happened in Connecticut* wouldn’t pierce our hearts. If life were merely the result of chance, we wouldn’t all know, to the depths of our being, that killing the innocent is evil and wrong. If survival of the fittest ruled we wouldn’t, rightly so, call teachers who give their life for their students heroes. But we all agree that defending the innocent is good and right. Why?

Because someone put that in us.

Who are we? We are image bearers. The pinnacle of God’s creation. Beings with souls that outlive our bodies. Sojourners in the preface of our never-ending journey. But we—all of us—have really messed things up. Big time. So we stumbling along in a broken world and our remedy will not come from legislature. Don’t put words in my mouth—I’m not saying legislature can’t help, I am saying it can’t fix us. It can’t fix what’s broken to the core because before guns there were knifes and before knives, stones, and before stones, fists. We are broken to our core and our remedy does not come from ourselves, nor can it come from other people because they, too, are broken to their core. I know my own struggles and I know I needed someone to reach down and pull me out, and a rulebook can’t do that. I needed a God who is so full himself that not only does he claim he has truth, he claims that he is truth. A God so humble and selfless he came to be with us—stepped into our mess—in the meekest way possible.

I wonder if this is, in part, what Mary pondered. At any rate, this is what I’m pondering, treasuring up today, as the snow is coming down.

“Come now, let us reason together,” says the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool…”

The 12 Blogs of Christmas #6: little kicking kings

The Christmas story contains a villain and it isn’t Ebenezer Scrooge. Naturally, we focus on the angels, the extraordinary star, the sweet baby. But in the midst of all this lurks a villain: King Herod.

King Herod the… um… Great.

Or so he said. If he felt anyone was a threat to his power he had them slaughtered—including his wife, her mother, and several of his own sons. In fact, Augustus Caesar said it would be better to be Herod’s pig than his son! Ouch. King Herod the Paranoid Tyrant is more like it. He was all about control. Having it, exerting it, and holding on to it. Herod was a man of power, and he wanted to stay that way by any and all means necessary.

So why in the world would he feel threatened by a tiny newborn?

He’d heard about the prophecies concerning the birth of Christ, and this alarmed him. So when the scholarly astronomers from the east arrived (aka the Magi) and told Herod they’d been charting stars to find the newborn king of the Jews so they could worship Him, King Herod the Great Big Liar said, “Oh yeah, Me too!”

Fortunately these were wise guys. They found Jesus, presented gifts—not bottles or rattles or diapers or clothes or toys—but gifts truly befitting a king, and worshiped him. And then God warned them in a dream to get out of there. Don’t go back to Herod, just scoot, and take the long route home. Which, when he realized he’d been left in the dust, sent Herod off the deep end. How dare they? So he takes matters in his own hands and makes this manic, monstrous mandate: to kill every Jewish baby boy under the age of two. God warned Joseph in a dream as well: Get up! Take your family and go to Egypt! And so baby Jesus escaped.

This was no ordinary baby.

But did this newborn really pose such a threat? Yes and no. Not to Herod’s earthly kingship maybe, but to something greater: his soul.

Who will reign?

From time to time, we all have a little king herod within us who runs rampant screaming, “No! and Mine! And ME ME ME!” Ugly little brute. We all have control issues that manifest themselves in varying degrees and ways; we all want things our way. And we simply can’t stomp out that little beastly king on our own. Good news—that’s why Jesus came. Because we need help. We need saving, from ourselves.

Who will reign?

Surrendering to Jesus means surrendering control and that can sometimes seem impossible. (You want me to do what? You want me to go where? You want me to forgive who? You want me to love how?) Yes, blessing following but sometimes the blessing is a long time coming, and doesn’t always look how we expected.

The crazy irony is that surrender brings freedom. Attempting to manipulate a situation that is beyond our control leaves us feeling frustrated, anxious, and angry. When I open my hand and relinquish control (that I never had anyway) to the Lord, whose ways and thoughts are higher than my own, who loves me and wants what’s best for me, I find joy. I find peace. In the height of the child’s tantrum, sometimes the best thing a parent can do is wrap their arms around that little kicking brute and love them. Sometimes anger melts into genuine grief, or fear, in the arms of a loving parent.

Don’t let that little kicking king reign. Let the King of Kings step in and love you down to size, love you into quietness, love you into peace.

The Twelve Blogs of Christmas: #2 Peace

I have lost the A in PEACE. The stockings are hung by the chimney in aggravation because my mantelpiece bears a typo:

P E C E.

So reads my stocking hangers. Rearranging them only renders further nonsense: CEEP. PEEC. ECEP. There isn’t much you can do without that A. I kind of need that A. Oh where oh where is that wayward A? Somewhere in my basement, no doubt, to be uncovered when I’m packing up the stockings.

Decoratively speaking, I have been robbed of my PEACE.

Peace is an illusive thing. Almost indefinable. Is peace the absence of war and conflict? But what if conflict or war leads to ultimate peace?

And He shall be called… Prince of Peace.

Thirty some years later the Prince of Peace said, “Do not think I came into the world to bring peace but the sword…” and went on to say how his coming will divide family and friends and nations.

Just when you think you can put him in a box….

We’ve all seen it, this tension, Christian or not, because The Prince of Peace says some pretty startling things: I AM the Way and the Truth and the Life. No one gets to God unless it’s through me. To some these words are life; to others, foolishness. Hence the tension.

Jesus is peace and promises peace, but it’s on his terms. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. (John 14:27) He says this right after he tells his followers he’s leaving for heaven. To get things ready for them. In the meantime he’ll be leaving them the counselor, the comforter (the Holy Spirit) and then, right after that, he says, Peace I leave you.

He’s leaving. He leaves us with the Holy Spirit. And peace. Hmmm…

A piece (no pun intended) of God living within us. To give us peace.

Maybe peace comes down to this: knowing who I am and who he is. More simply, He is God. I am not.

We may fight this tooth and nail but succumbing to this truth (whether for the first time or the hundredth time) allows us to take a big sigh of relief and ultimately brings peace.

Oh there will be storms. The Prince of Peace promised this. But he also promised he’d be with us, promised that the storms wouldn’t, couldn’t, drown out his immeasurable love. As his children, he promised us that when we ask for it, he’d give us a peace that makes no sense whatsoever given our circumstances. A peace that just may allow us take a little rest on a cushion while the waves crash across our tossed about boat, just like he once did .

Peace is not a life absent of storms. Peace is clinging to the life we have hidden in Christ amidst the storms. Clinging to the hope that even though there’s all this conflict and chaos and evil down here, he’s already conquered, and ultimately we will experience real, everlasting peace. Ahhh. Big sigh of relief.

I may not find the A this year. I didn’t think about what I was dong at the time, but in the middle of my PEACE, where the A ought to be, rests a little stone carving of the Prince of Peace himself. Jesus, the center of peace.

I want to keep Him there, but so many things (good things) seem to be shouting that they should take center stage of my peace:

Comfort. Security. Money. Health. Plans that go my way. People who act how I think they should act. The world behaving in a way that makes sense. (To me, of course. We all carry around an invisible The World According to ___ [insert your name] playbook.)

And then one by one these wobbly little legs fold and my so-called peace collapses like a card table.

Until I look again to the Prince of Peace, and center all the pieces around him.

The Freedom in No

As some of you may know, starting on January 1st of this year, I decided to go on a year long shopping fast and I have reached the halfway mark. In the past six months, I have not bought a t-shirt, a tank, a pair of jeans, a pair of mittens, a purse, or a scarf, and I refrained myself from rifling through the clearance racks or stockpiling at the Land’s End sale or drooling over the dresses on ModCloth. Perhaps I should begin this post with some hugely spiritual life-changing epiphany. Sorry. I just can’t. I have to get something off my chest: I want to shop. In a big, bad way. I want to take my 30% Kohls coupon and buy everything. But I am learning things and I have cheated. Yes, I have.
First, my cheats.

Aren’t they cute? Don’t judge me. I really needed these babies for upcoming weddings. (Sure, I’m defining “needed” in an unquestionably American way since no one would have kicked me out had a worn my tired old flats but, ew.) Buying and wearing these shoes brought me a ridiculous amount of joy.

Here’s my favorite cheat:

Isn’t it gorgeous? And it’s so multicolored it goes with everything. So what was the reason for this cheat? Because the $12 I spent to buy this dazzling beaded bracelet handcrafted by women and girls who’ve been rescued from sex trafficking goes to support them though an organization called Freedom Firm. Go check out their jewelry. Just forget about this blog and go! And while you’re at it, get your tickets for Project Dance Them Free. You’ll see great dance, have a chance to purchase some of this beautiful jewelry, and support Freedom Firm. A shameless plug I feel absolutely no guilt in making.
A few things I’ve learned during these months of minor deprivation:
Tailors still exit. Who knew? And you can take a dress that you’ve shoved to the back of your closet because it doesn’t fit right to the tailor and he’ll fix it right up.
I tend to think I deserve new clothes, for any number of random reasons. Last month was particularly tough; “I have a book signing so I should get a dress.”
Saying no to one thing now can help you say no to another thing later. This is a biggie and I’m still chewing on it. When we discipline ourselves to say no to something, even to a good thing like clothes or food or screens, we train ourselves to say no to other things, maybe not so good things like… perhaps… spending too much, eating too much, talking too much, sleeping too much, redecorating too much, drinking too much, judging too much, playing video games too much, comparing too much, whining too much…. and our lists vary and can go on and on. Temptation comes in all forms and sizes and maybe learning that we can see something we want and still tell ourselves no with something small may actually help us say no to something much bigger, much more detrimental, later.
Establishing parameters brings a strange freedom. I can walk into a store to get clothes for the kids knowing that I don’t have to use time, energy, thought, or money on the possibility of finding something for me. Because I’ve already decided no. One less thing to think about. Ah, freedom.
What haven’t I learned yet? To organize my closet. It’s still a mess. But I have six months left to maybe learn that an organized closet is a happy closest. Maybe.

Prove You’re Not a Robot

Apparently I’m a robot. At least according to the captcha that forces me to translate a string of numbers or letters to prove my humanness. (I only know that term because my brilliant husband just told me what this annoying test is called.) I usually fail on the first try. Sometimes the second. I think it’s because I’m sporadically, numerically dyslexic, meaning I sometimes switch certain numbers, particularly 3, 6, and 9 but only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This come-and-go disability makes balancing the checkbook and doing the taxes loads of fun.

Anyway, when I fail the prove-you’re-not-a-robot-test I get a little bit defensive. I mean for Pete’s sake, is it really so black and white? I can’t decipher a series of squiggly letters and numbers therefore, obviously, I’m a robot? And who is my computer to tell me I’m a robot? Does my sassy computer take into consideration all of my unrobotish qualities, like the fact that I cried at the little foal turned Budweiser horse commercial played during the super bowl? No. That doesn’t matter. Only the row of squiggly numbers.

Jumping to conclusions—for all of us, not just my computer—is just so darn easy. Too easy. Here’s an example of the flying leap our brains might take:

What we see: Ooh! They have such a nice fancy house, or car, or fill in the blank.

The jump: Must be nice to have so much money; life sure must be easy for them.

When the reality could be: They’re drowning in debt. Or they happen to be the most generous, humble people in the world and give away fifty percent of their earnings. Or some middle ground between the two.

Sometimes our minds take a huge leap based on what we think we see: when we see what we think is a perfect marriage, or when we see what we think is a lousy marriage. Or when we glimpse a “perfect” child. Or a screaming child. Or a fat person. Or a skinny person. Or a person with no kids. Or a person with a hundred kids. Or a mom who works crazy hours. Or a mom who stays home.

There’s just no winning. And the truth is, we just don’t know. We could be right in our conclusions, it’s possible, but we could also be so, so wrong.

Like my computer. Who, by the way, is a robot and doesn’t know nothin’.

First, Ponder

Today’s a snow day. A perfect day to ponder and lately, I’ve been pondering what it means to ponder….

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2:19)

She had much to ponder, much to turn over, quietly, reflectively. “Me, Lord? You chose me to be a part of this plan?” And what a surprising plan it was.

We don’t take the time to ponder, and we have much to ponder. Right now it feels like the whole nation is weeping, and I know there’s much to debate, but I think we need to ponder first. Ponder things like… who are we, really, and what are we doing here? You know, nothing deep.

I’ve been pondering who we are not.

We are not walking accidents, the result of random chance and millions of years of soup. If we were, tragedies like what happened in Connecticut wouldn’t pierce our hearts. If life were merely the result of chance, we wouldn’t all know, to the depths of our being, that killing the innocent is evil and wrong. If survival of the fittest ruled we wouldn’t, rightly so, call teachers who give their life for their students heroes. But we all agree that defending the innocent is good and right. Why?

Because someone put that in us.

I wonder if this is, in part, what Mary pondered. At any rate, this is what I’m pondering, treasuring up today, as the snow is coming down.

“Come now, let us reason together,” says the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool…”

– Isaiah 1:18

Words Never Spoken

I once had to do something really mean to a character and it took me by surprise. The story needed it, but I didn’t know until all of a sudden, while I was writing, it hit me—what I had to do—and it left me feeling a little sick.

Oh no. Not that. This is gonna hurt.

But it had to be done. For the sake of the story. Writers are cruel, cruel beings.

So I took a breath and apologized out loud to my character before I stabbed her in the back. Then I fleshed out the scene, blew my nose, and took my kids to the park as promised to meet a few other moms and kids. But I was just so sad. I did my best to hide it—I was living in the land of fiction after all. Besides, what would I have said if someone had asked?

Rachel you seem down. What’s wrong?

Amber had to go through something really harsh today.

Amber? Who’s Amber?

My imaginary friend. I pretty much destroyed her. I think she’s mad at me but it had to be done.

And then a look of alarm mixed with pity would pass over the face of the person who asked, who was just trying to be nice.

So instead, I ate my Cheetos and chit-chated about the rising price of avocados and ended up having a pleasant time. A refreshing break from the havoc I’d just wreaked in fiction land.

But what does this have to do with real life?

A lot actually.

Most of us, at one point or another, have had to contain our sadness, put on a smile and keep our pain to ourselves. Maybe for the sake of someone else, maybe for our own sake. Maybe to squelch gossip. Maybe because it’s not the time or place to spill our guts. Whatever the reason, sometimes—often actually—life requires discretion.

Withholding bits of our heart doesn’t mean we’re being fake or shallow; sometimes it means we’re being self-controlled. Discerning. If we never share any heartache with anyone, then yes—it’s time for self-examination, time to go deeper with a trusted friend—but utter transparency isn’t a gauge for authenticity; verbosity doesn’t measure spirituality.

Sometimes we need to be quietly sad. Sometimes we need to hold our tongue, even when it hurts, even if we feel misunderstood. Sometimes our own voice—our own desire to be heard—drowns out that still small voice whispering to our soul.

Among my most prized possessions are words that I have never spoken.

–Orson Scott Card

The one who has knowledge uses words with restraint… Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.

—Proverbs 17:27-28

Spring is a Diva

This March, like every other March I suppose, I’m skeptical that Spring will make good on its promise to arrive. In fact, Spring seems to be turning into a bit of a diva, like a teenager who will only make an appearance when they’re fashionably late. Spring has taunted us with flashes of green grass and Robin Red Breasts. But just when we’re putting the boots away… “Just kidding!” Spring pelts us with snow like a pie in the face before dashing off again.

Ah, Spring. You little tease.

If you are blessed to live in the southern part of Wisconsin or in another state altogether, (you lucky, lucky, bird) you won’t fully understand this blog. You might tell me to buck up. Quit my whining. But I can tell by the snow-encrusted driveways and sidewalks I pass along my hometown streets that I’m not alone in my grumblings. We’ve just plain given up on shoveling. You can come to my house for a visit but from here on out, it’s at your own risk. Maybe bring some salt.

To add insult to injury, my daughter’s favorite past time of late is making ice. Lots of it. My refrigerator is lined with various sizes of cups of ice. As if there’s not enough outside. Of course just last week as she and her brother were home for “Spring Break”, (hilarious) she turned to me, adamantly and said, “You said we could get ice cream at Belts on Spring break.”

“No,” I corrected her. “I said we could go to Belts when it’s Spring, once the snow melts.”

She looked out the window in despair. I promised her we’d go in June. Or July at the very latest, but that we’d just have to wait. This made her angry. I told her I was sorry and asked her if she wanted to make more ice.

I’m not so good at this waiting thing either.

And yet waiting seems to make up such a big chunk of life. Seems like I’m always waiting for something, for the toast to pop or the light to change. And those are the small things. I’ve waited for big things too like waiting to finish high school, waiting to finish college, waiting to get married, to get pregnant, waiting to have the baby, for the baby to be potty trained…. You get the picture. It never ends.

There have been times when I’m simply in the moment, not trying to peek around the corner. I’m not waiting when I’m…

Screaming on a rollercoaster

holding a sleeping baby

utterly engrossed in a good book/movie

laughing hysterically

eating something overwhelmingly good

deep in conversation

I know Spring will come. It came last year, and the year before that and the year before that. So I’m not hopelessly waiting, I’m waiting with hope.

With my flip-flops on.