in a "Christian" store

 I had a panic attack at Hobby Lobby the other day. Worship music playing over the loud speakers... FOUR aisles of Easter stuff... eggs and bunnies mixed in with crosses and crucifixes... and a healthy dose of "God Bless America" mixed right in... and suddenly it was hard to breathe and I wanted to curl into a ball and cry. 

It could have been the fact that I was shopping an over-whelming store with a three year old... "Don't touch that... Please stay with me... Yes, you have to hold my hand... Please don't shout at me..." Or it could have been a visceral reaction to the cancer of consumerism that has been infecting American Christianity for decades.  

If something is labeled "Christian" or has the phrase "I love Jesus" somehow attached to it, we consume it with ferocity. Rarely do we take the time to discern if it's actually worthy of consumption or healthy to be consumed. We accept it because it claims to be "one of us" and we feel grateful that we can consume it without fear that our souls will be tainted by it. We are elated that we can shop without thought, support without discernment, consume with abandon. 

But this in not how God made us! He gave us brains to think, souls to discern and bodies with limits. Are we still being "meek as sheep and wise as serpents (Matthew 10:16)" if we support and consume without first asking God if we should? 

God has shown us what is good... to act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with Him (Micah 6:8). Have I taken the time to research Hobby Lobby's supply lines to find out if their factories treat their workers justly and with mercy? 

I have not.

I did with Wal-mart... which is why I tend to shop more at Target.  

But I didn't with Hobby Lobby. I just made assumptions based on the worship music over the loud speakers and the "CLOSED on Sunday" sign on the door. If I dig a little deeper will I find that this store is still worth supporting? 

At the same time, I'm NOT saying that the reverse is true.. that just because it's "Christian" means it's bad. I AM saying that we need to use our brains to think and our souls to discern. if something is good based on its quality and character, then let's call it GOOD. But if something is bad based on its quality and character, then let's call it BAD and not pretend that it's good just because it's "Christian." LET'S JUST BE HONEST ABOUT THINGS. 

Honest: I would like to support Chick-fil-a because they are a Christian company, but I don't eat there because I don't like their chicken. 

Dishonest:What? You don't like the chicken? Then go get french fries! We have to do everything we can to support this business because it's Christian and they observe the sabbath. 

 

Honest: The film production quality is still really rough BUT I support their vision so I'm going to see the movie and support the company so they can improve. 

Dishonest: Let's sell out this theatre because it's a Christian movie! 

 

God gave us brains to think, souls to discern and bodies with limits. Let's honor Him by making wise decisions about what we consume, how we consume it and when we've had enough. 

Is there anything that you have, without thought, called "good" because it's "Christian"? is there anything that you have called "bad" because it's not?  

in America: Why I am Grateful for this Country but can no longer say the pledge of allegiance

So here it is, Memorial Day. We're at the beach and Husband has the boys in the sand and the Toddler is taking a nap here in the condo so I'm taking a minute to write down some thoughts about my Passport country and why I can't say the Pledge of Allegiance anymore.

I know, I know. I should just post a picture of the flag and say how grateful I am for the troops and Go America! and all that. But I've been thinking a lot about this lately and I figured now is the time to process out loud. or something.

Here's my picture... And I am grateful for the troops... But I'll get to that later.

So the Pledge of Allegiance. First of all, let me say I'm sorry to my friend, L, who, years and years ago, stopped saying the Pledge of Allegiance. And I was all like, "Ack! Are you serious? Where's your patriotism?" But she was right. God doesn't call us to be patriots or nationalists. He calls us to be Citizens of Heaven (Phil 3:20) and to live peacefully with the people around us so that we will be a blessing to them (Zechariah). Like the story of Naaman and the Servant Girl. (1 Kings 5) Like the story of Joseph in Egypt (Gen 39 and 41). But the Bible is also filled with stories of people who were NOT good citizens... who blatently ignored the laws of the Land: like Daniel (Daniel 6) ; Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego (Daniel 3); Rahab (Joshua 2). In our current view, it's easy to see them as Heros of the Faith who stood up for God and refused to compromise on their beliefs. But, in reality, they were criminals. They broke the law, they defied decrees, they lied to the King. In fact, the wise men who were setting up Daniel knew that the only way they could catch him out was to put conflict between the law of the land and the Law of God (Daniel 6:5). So that's why I can't say the Pledge of Allegiance... I can't "pledge allegiance to the flag and the United States of America." Because I've already pledged allegiance to GOD (Father, Son and Holy Spirit.) And when the Law of God comes into conflict with the Laws of the United States of America, then I will be a criminal and a law breaker.

Within the history of the United States, Christianity, as a religion, has enjoyed certain perks. There has been prayer in schools, "See You at the Pole" events, an opening prayer for a Congressional session...  For goodness sake, even some of our Presidents use a Bible while taking the Oath of Office! (Not all of them, though... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oath_of_office_of_the_President_of_the_United_States#Use_of_Bibles ) But, we are NOT a Christian nation. Our Constitution doesn't make Christianity the official religion. We are, in fact, a pluralist nation. It's the First Amendment!! (Believe it or not, Freedom of Religion comes before Freedom of Speech, in fact.) But I will not take this privilege for granted. I will not use it to pretend that this is a Christian nation. I want to remain keenly aware that I am a sojourner here... and as such, it is my responsibility to use what privilege I have to bring blessing, be a peace maker (Not a peace keeper, mind you), to use my voice to support those with less privilege, and to support others who are also sojourners in this land.

But I refuse to take this privileged position for granted. So I cannot pledge allegiance. But I am grateful.
Grateful for this nation where, as a woman, I still had the opportunity to pursue education.
Grateful that I can openly celebrate Christmas and Easter without fear of retribution or imprisonment.
Grateful that I can travel wherever I want, whenever I want.
Grateful that I can march, protest, write a letter to a lawmaker, have a voice in politics. (Although, as a moderate, it's a quiet voice in a sea of extreme noise, but that's another post for another time.)
Grateful that this nation still maintains a deep sense of Justice. (I believe every culture shows some aspect of the Kingdom of God... and I believe this is America's.)

*Side note: I know, Justice is a hard word for us right now... when racism is still so prevalent, especially within the Judicial system; when the gap between the rich and the poor is wide and uncrossable; when people are dying from easily medicated diseases because they can't afford the prescription. But if we didn't believe in Justice, then we wouldn't care. We wouldn't have a riot when another black life is lost to a "routine police investigation." We wouldn't fight to overturn court decisions... we wouldn't even appeal! We wouldn't throw up our hands and say, "WTF?" when a city poisons half its population with contaminated drinking water. In all these cases, if we didn't care about Justice, we would say, "Meh. Stuff happens."*

and I'm grateful to the men and woman who are willing to stand in the gap and serve in the military. I've had the privilege to know and have conversations with some Army Chaplains. One I recently had with the Chaplain at our local veteran's center, concerned how he spends most of his time. He said there was always the weekly church service, but most of his time was spent counseling the men and women who were serving. Giving them a place to talk about, vent, and examine the choices that they were making: how serving in the military and obeying the commandment "Thou Shalt not Kill" seemed impossible.  (This American Life also had a similar interview on their show "10 Commandments".) After this conversation, I realized, it has been fairly easy for me to obey that commandment. I have never experienced anything that has put me in the position of needing to defend myself to the death. I have needed to physically defend myself, to verbally defend myself, and to intellectually defend myself. But I haven't experienced anything that required me to kill someone else to keep myself or my family safe. But there are people who have. And I know that there is a pacifist conversation going on right now.  (And before you roll your eyes, even pacifists had a role during WWII: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civilian_Public_Service) And I support that conversation. But the bottom-line is, somebody had to stop Hitler. He rolled right over most of Europe until a tiny, little island in the middle of the Atlantic stood up and said, "No more. No further." And they fought with everything they had. And when the US military joined the fight, it took a spectacular loss of life to stop the tragic extermination that was occurring. Someone had to stand up, hold a weapon, and say stop. Someone had to weigh the brutality of the concentration camps against the life of the soldier in front of him. Someone had to stand in that gap between "Thou Shalt not Kill" and "Rescue those being lead away to death (Proverbs 24:11)."  And I want to say Thank You. Thank you for standing in that gap. To my cousins, my grandfathers, my friends, my former students: Thank you.

in His own words (part 2)

(This is the blog post where I'll get to the point about God changing things... I hope. It's early... like the sun-hasn't-even-made-that-little-pink-strip-in-the-sky early.So hopefully, the kids will stay asleep and I can finish this.)

Last year, Mike gave me the day off for my birthday. Well, sort of the day off... I was still nursing so the baby had to come with me, but one kid is easier than three, right? It was a beautiful, late August day; the kind where the mornings are starting to get a little cool and damp and the sun is starting to sleep just a little bit longer, so the kids are also starting to sleep just a little bit longer. The baby and I went for a walk on an trail here in Lexington that leads you past old farmhouses and homesteads. And there's a waterfall. And a reservoir. And it was beautiful and peaceful and we nursed in a prairie under a grove of trees. (No, we really did that... the place was amazing.)

So we finished our lovely hike in this gorgeous place, and it was only 10:30 in the morning... and I couldn't think of anything else to do. 

Because without my kids, I'm a non-person. I am not anything. I have no hobbies, no talents. (Well, I watched a lot of Stargate SG-1 and the Great British Baking Show while I was nursing, but I don't think those count.) Right now, all of my energy is pointed towards keeping three tiny humans alive, and without them, I can't think of anything to do. If there is a quiet moment, I simply wait for the next minute that they'll need me. Because somebody ALWAYS needs me. 

So on my birthday, when I have the day off, and I don't need to think about the children (except the one who is with me and smiles a lot, despite the fact that she gives the camera a, "Why are you photographing me?" face every time we try to get her on "film"), I can't think of anything to do. Standing in the parking lot, turning in circles, feeling like a failure, because I can't think of one thing I would like to do that doesn't involve my children.

So I went to Target to buy diapers. 

And I ran into a friend... who was out shopping with her kids, and she said, "Yeah, that's where we are right now. It would take 4 days to get out of Mom mode. So really, you need a week off, and we don't get that right now. And it sucks."

And I thought, "You know? She's right."So I went to Mellow Mushroom for lunch because they are the ONLY pizza place that will use Vegan Cheese and they also have an amazing hummus that they make with fresh basil. (Yum.) And then I went home. 

Happy Birthday to me.

Now here's the God part... God gave me three gifts on my birthday. Three birthday presents that He just handed to me, even though I didn't pray for them, I wasn't looking for them, and I wasn't "eagerly anticipating" them. He just gave them to me.

Side note: and that's kind of a big deal to me right now because my main love language used to be physical touch but with three small children who have no concept of personal space, my main love language is now "get off me!" (My poor husband... I literally had a panic attack one night in bed when he reached for my hand and I screamed at him, "Really? I can't have one minute of no one touching me? REALLY?" Sorry, honey.) Due to this lack of space around me, my main love language has switched to gifts. (Again, sorry honey. I used to ask for "a walk in the woods, holding your hand," and this year, for our anniversary, I was all "(sob, sniff) And you didn't buy me anything!... You blew it, man!"

So gifts. That's how I know someone loves me. And God gave me three birthday presents. See? Kind of a big deal for me. :) 

Gift 1: The day before my birthday, I was in Joann Fabrics with the kids and a woman handed me 2 yards of dinosaur-printed flannel that the 4-year-old had been admiring. She had purchased it for me because, "Any mom who can handle three small children as well as you are is obviously a great mom." (Seriously, an angel dressed as an old woman with big hoop earrings.)

Gift 2: Running into an encouraging friend at Target who told me that I wasn't crazy, I was just a busy momma.

Gift 3: When I got home, there was a stalk of fresh basil waiting for me. (Okay, so this one I did ask for... sort-of.  While I was eating the amazing hummus at Mellow Mushroom, in my head I thought, "I would love some to have some fresh basil at home.") When Mike had taken the boys to play at the park in our Community Garden, one of our neighbors was there weeding her garden plot. She snipped off a stalk of her own basil and handed it to Mike, "Take this to your wife for her birthday." So there was this pile of gorgeous, earthy smelling basil leaves waiting for me when I got home.

And I didn't realize any of this... until the next day in church. And we're standing there, singing... and suddenly it hits me... God gave me three presents for my birthday! And then my toddler hit me as he was trying to climb into the chair backwards and then he knocked over my travel mug full of coffee and the baby, who was in the Ergo on my front, started whimpering. 

And 10 minutes later, I cried and I prayed, "God, I can't even say "Thank you." You do this amazing thing for me, and I don't even have one minute that I can say "Thank you" and worship you for how awesome you are." And God responded, 

"I know. You can't reach for me right now because your hands are full. But I can reach for you."

And then I sat down and ugly cried. Because He's right. My whole life I had been taught that if I wanted to be close to God, then I needed to make it happen. I needed to pray. I needed to sing. I needed to read my Bible, or have a "quiet time" or take a walk in the woods to really get close to God's creation and His presence. But here was God, in all of his amazing, wonderfulness saying, Here I am, getting close to you.

And that's when I realized what the Holy Spirit was all about. Sure, he provides healing. Sure, he helps us make good choices. Sure, he convicts us when we sin. But his whole point, the reason that Jesus went back to Heaven after his resurrection, was so the Holy Spirit could come and be the presence of God on Earth. The Holy Spirit is here so that God can be close to us. 

So why did I feel like I had to try so hard to do it on my own?!!???

So then what is the point of reading your Bible, writing in a journal, having a quiet time, taking a walk to enjoy God's creation? Because God didn't tell me that all of those things were pointless... He said I didn't have time for them NOW. So if the point of those activities wasn't personal holiness or "coming closer to God" what is the point of doing them???

A few months back, our Pastor gave an amazing sermon that answered that question. In this sermon, he cited two psychological studies that were researching pairs of people working on a challenging task. Both studies concluded that doing something together, in a non-stressful environment, prepares you to work together when faced with a challenge. He used these studies to unpack the verses of Romans 8:1-18, namely how to live life by the Spirit. His suggestion was that the point of reading your Bible, quiet times, etc. was to provide that non-stressful hobby which you and the Holy Spirit can participate in, so when times of struggle come, you can more easily cooperate with Him. 

So when finding a quiet time to have a "quiet time" was stressing me out, God was like, "Stop it. I'm right here." So now we find other "non-stressful hobbies" to do together... like coloring pages that have bible verses on them which I can color while my children are coloring. Or sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee, thanking God for my porch and coffee, while my children spray each other with a hose. Or making full use of the church nursery and kids programs when all three of our children agree to go so that I can worship and listen to the sermon without distraction. And these seem to be enough for right now. 

When I can get some time to myself, I usually take my Bible. 

Sometimes I read it. Sometimes I don't. 

But I'm trusting that if God has something important to tell me, He'll tell me. 

Because right now, I have children who enjoy playing "Dino-wrestling Jamboree" and they need me to referee. :) 

in His own Words (part 1)

Last year, in this post, I wrote about realizing that I was mad at God. And at the end, I promised that I would write again to explain where He and I are right now. And I never did. So now I am.

Once upon a time, I became a Christian.
I grew up in an evangelical home.
I was baptized at the age of 5.
I went to church every Sunday. (well, my siblings will tell you about the time I refused to go to church and my parents and I had a very dramatic standoff involving me sitting in my pajamas in the church parking lot... but MOSTLY I went to church every Sunday.)

And I gotta tell you, I loved Jesus. Like, I was excited to go to church. (most of the time ;) ) I liked reading my Bible. I was that kid who won awards for memorizing Bible verses. I gathered prayer requests from my bunk mates at summer camp. I wore the "I ♥ Jesus" t-shirt to school. (No, like I really did that. It looked like this:

When I was in 5th grade, I wrote an essay about how I wanted to be a Missionary when I grew up. I took French in High School because I had heard that Bible-believing Christians were a tiny minority in France and I wanted to go there and tell people about Jesus. (That's a true story.)

So, I liked being a Christian. I liked hanging out with Jesus. I wanted to be close to Him and do the things that He did. (Okay, yes, I did have a WWJD bracelet... but it wasn't because it was cool, it was because I actually read the book "In His Steps" that the whole trend was based on... like, I found my mom's 1960-something copy of the old book first published in 1896... So like, I was legit with my old book copy and everything... (ahem.)

The types of churches that my family attended were pretty... tame churches, for lack of a better description. People loved Jesus, and prayed for healing and sent out missionaries and raised their hands in worship, but the Holy Spirit wasn't really talked about. He was kind of like the weird uncle that people love to hear stories about (Did you hear how Mrs. Church Lady had cancer and people prayed for her and she went to the doctor and the doctor was like, "Whoa, no more tumor! Jesus is cool!") but nobody really wants around because he's going to say something awkward at Thanksgiving dinner. So, in the denominations that my family attended, the way to be close to Jesus was to:
1. read your Bible
2. have a quiet time (it should be everyday, but at the very least every other day)
3. write in a journal
4. go to church.

We even had our own "memes" about it... before there were memes... when you would just wear a clever saying on a shirt or put a sticker on your guitar case. (I'm pretty sure guitar-case stickers were the meme generators of the late 90s.)

  

Oh wait, that's something else...

Then, I got to Tanzania and I started working with a Pentecostal church...where EVERYBODY raises their hands, and people speak in tongues and healing happens IN SERVICE on SUNDAY morning! (What?) And the Holy Spirit is like the cool kid that everybody wants to be friends with even if they've never really met him. ("Oh, HS? Yeah, I know him. I was praying the other day and like 40 people just fell on their faces and like worshipped and there was healing and deliverance and stuff. It was awesome." ) And suddenly, the way to be close to Jesus was to hang out with the Holy Spirit, and pray for people, and use your gifts in worship... and speak in tongues.

But, here's the thing... I don't speak in tongues. (At least, not in the usual way... ) And my own life story involves God NOT healing me, no matter how much we prayed/worshipped/shouted at Him. (I mean, He had something else in mind... like a marriage and a family and stuff. But whatever.) So even though I was surrounded by "Holy Spirit People," I still didn't really know HOW to think about, let alone interact with the Holy Spirit. So staying close to Jesus now meant asking the Holy Spirit to help me read the Bible, pray about it, Hallelujah. But it was still MY job to stay close to Jesus.. My job to "move with the Spirit" (WTF?) to find God's will for my life... MY job to cooperate with whatever God wanted to do, whenever He wanted to do it.

And then God made me a mother... to two high energy boys and a little girl who NEVER stops moving! (like literally, never. Even in the womb it was like, Who's having a party in there?)

And now, I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. So finding time to pray? I can "lift up" a few things while I do the dishes, maybe... (But I'd rather watch old episodes of Stargate SG-1 just so I can hear an adult talk to me.) And reading my Bible? It's great, except if a kid sees me reading a book, he's going to be like, "Hey Mom, can you read me Curious George?" And I'm going to be like, "No, I'm reading my Bible." And he's going to be like, "Oh, I'll get my bible and you can read to me, too." And then he's going to go into his room and find his Bible and drop it on the floor and wake up his brother who is going to cry and come downstairs and insist that I snuggle him and then ask me to change his poopy diaper. And then the baby will start to cry while I'm changing the diaper because she also needs a new diaper and some breakfast. And I'm going to be so glad that I got up early to have some quiet time!!!

And when I finally get some time away on my own, I would love to WANT to go to Starbucks and sit with my cup of coffee and my Bible and read for hours and feel totally fulfilled. But I don't! When I get a break, I don't want to study!!

So last year, I told God, "Sorry. I can not find the time to sit quietly with you. I've tried. I've tried to involve my kids, or get up early or go to bed late. But none of it works. And I know if I feel far from you, "I'm the one who moved" so it's my job to find my way back. But I just can't right now. So, I'll see you when my kids turn 18."


And I thought that was it, you know? "God, I'll see ya in 18 years."

And then God spoke.
And He changed things.
He changed everything.
And He made me realize how much of HIM I was actually missing.

(But now my children are awake... well, they were already awake and I made them watch Daniel Tiger so I could finish this... well, they were awake watching Daniel Tiger last week when I finished this post and now they're getting ready to wake up again while I rewrite the last two sentences. So, I'll have to make this a two part blog. Stay tuned for the exciting continuation... or don't, or whatever. Because I'm sure you've got stuff to do also. ;)

in Seminary

(cough, cough.) wipes away dust and cobwebs. creaky door swings open.

Anybody home?

I know. I know. 

Last time I wrote a post I said I'd write again a week later. 

I know that was 8 months ago. 

But Seminary is no joke, y'all!! It is a time-sucking, family destroying, killer of souls! 

Okay, maybe it's not. 

Well, sometimes it is. 

But mostly it's not. (well, it's finals week... so right now it is.)

I saw a friend at church last week. She asked how my family was doing and if the hubby and I had had our bi-annual, "end of semester" fight yet. I cracked up! Because yes, yes we had. 2 weeks ago. And then we discussed the idea of having a Spouses-End-Of-Semester-Support-Group. :) 

Because Seminary is hard! Like, really hard. Like so hard that our school offers free and reduced counseling for couples and families, as well as a number of marriage strengthening classes and retreats. This is not a, "Well, I just graduated from a Christian University and I can't find a job so I guess I'll go to Seminary" type decision. (Please, please try to find a job at McDonald's first!)

But sometimes, you just can't help it. Sometimes, you work a job for ten years and all you can think about is teaching people about Jesus. And you take all the classes and attend all the trainings that your church offers. Then all you can think about is helping people who want to teach people about Jesus. So you spend lots of time talking to people who teach people about Jesus and you realize that you need more training. And your wife tries to talk you out of it, and you take a few online classes so that "our life doesn't have to change all that much," and you get permission to work remotely and finally, one day, you admit to your wife, "I think we need to move to Wilmore." And she sighs and says, "I know. God has been telling me the same thing." And then she cries in Jimmy Johns. 

Or something like that. 

And then working and studying and babies and small townhouses and papers and biblical languages... and a few weeks ago, I was done. I was ready to tell M that we have to quit school because the kids need a dad and I need a husband and we're tired of sharing him with his classmates, teachers, homework and books. So I prayed. And I pleaded. "God, if you want us to stay, you have to give me a vision for what's next. You have to give me a reason bigger than a degree." And God, in his mercy, did. 

At the end of April, I was out with my girl running some errands on a Saturday morning. And since it was only the baby in the car, I was able to listen to NPR. (Yeah for hearing adults talk!) An episode of This American Life called "Heretics" was playing. In it, a young pastor starts his ministry feeling like it's his responsibility to "get as many for Jesus as possible because everyone is headed for hell." Now, he preaches from a place of feeling like nobody is going to hell, because Jesus died for everybody and it doesn't matter whether you believe in him or not. Hearing this, I thought, "No wonder people think Christians are crazy. This guy is using the Bible to say BOTH that everybody is going to hell and nobody is. I'd think we were crazy, too! ugh! Bad theology!!" (I should clarify... it's not the fact that he changed his mind.... because faith has to be a living, moving journey... or it dies. I felt like he started from a place of bad theology and ended in a place of bad theology. What happened to the middle ground, people?)

And the next morning, God brought that moment back to my mind while I was worshipping in church... it felt like He was saying, "Bad theology doesn't just lead to bad choices. Bad theology gives Jesus a bad name." 

You see, M and I have long been fans of the saying, "Bad theology leads to bad decisions." 

For example: 

"We can't really afford this car but God isn't stopping us from buying it so he obviously wants us to have it." (or God's way of telling you not to buy it is that you can't afford it...) 

or "I need to find a different church because there are no single people here and the Bible says "it is not good for man to be alone" and "be fruitful and multiply" so I need to find a church where I can get married." (or there's a whole part in Corinthians about how good it is to NOT be married...)

or "I'm not allowed to tell my husband, "No" because 1 Corinthians 7:4 says "the wife does not have authority over her own body..." (um, I don't think you read the whole verse... it says the same thing about the husband's body belonging to the wife and that whole section of the letter is talking about not manipulating each other with sex. So, there's that.) 

But this seemed different... this seemed bigger: Bad theology gives Jesus a bad name. 

Bad theology makes pastor's say, "Give all that you have to my church and God will abundantly bless you." 

Bad theology can be used to justify holding up signs and saying horrible things like "God hates gay people." 

Bad theology convinces a husband that he is allowed to beat his wife because "the wife does not have authority over her own body..." 

Bad theology has created an image of Jesus that is manipulative, hateful, superior, takes advantage of the poor, suggests women stay in abusive marriages, only blesses hard work, and requires strict adherence to church tradition in order to be saved. 

and I gotta tell you, that's not who Jesus is. 

and it breaks my heart that that's the only "Jesus" that some people see. 

M is in school so that he can be a teacher. He doesn't want to preach, he doesn't want to lead a church. He wants to help the people who do those things. And now I understand why... because Bad theology gives Jesus a bad name. And if a PASTOR is the person teaching the Bad Theology... well, then that's all sorts of bad-ness. 

So that's our vision. That's our purpose. We're not in seminary so we can get a degree. We're in seminary so we can learn the difference between good and bad theology; how to use the original language of the Bible to put it's message in the correct context; and how to help others learn the difference between good and bad theology within their own cultural context. 

Because GOOD theology can introduce people to who Jesus REALLY is. 

And that's a vision I can get behind. 

in Respect

This is D...

This is D's "hat"...

In fact, it's not just a hat. It's a football helmet. It's a baseball cap. It's a prince's crown. It's a bargaining tool in the constant, daily toy battle with his baby brother.

He claims it's his football helmet.

A Prince's crown with sword. 

(It's actually the bottom part of a Bob the Builder's hard hat that he got for his birthday last year. Not that that matters to a two year old.)

He's kind of a hat kid. 

Well... they're both kind of hat kids. :) 

Okay, so maybe it runs in the family.

But, ahem, anyway. D's hat.



One evening, a few weeks ago, Mike was traveling for work. He had flown to DC for project meetings so it was just me and the boys for a couple days. When that happens, we Google Hangout with Daddy at bedtime. We sing, we laugh, we sometimes read books. Before we hang up, Mike always prays. This particular evening, D, as usual, was wearing his hat. When Mike started praying, this head-strong, stubborn toddler removed his hat. Yes, that's right, he REMOVED his hat!! A 2 year old... taking his hat off to pray.

Now, this wouldn't be so ridiculous if Mike wore hats, or we attended church softball games on a regular basis, or we went to church with a bunch of cowboys who routinely removed their Stetsons. But he doesn't. And we don't. And even though we live in horse country, no one wears a cowboy hat to church. We have no idea how D knew that this is a sign of respect, appropriate to the moment.

My only guess is based on something that happened at church that same morning.

Worship at our church is incredible! We love it. We love it even more when we get to church on time and we don't miss the first few songs. :) But that Sunday morning, even though we were running late, we were still hit with authentic, Spirit-filled worship as soon as we walked in the door. (Spirit-filled worship = the worship team spending less time playing perfectly and more time listening and responding through improvised melody.) We found some empty chairs, settled the kiddos, D standing next to me, B strapped to my front in the Ergo, and joined in with song. After a few minutes, Mike stepped away from our chairs and knelt down in response to what he was feeling. At our church, this isn't something that causes much distraction. People are free to worship and respond however they like. (Within reason... after all, we don't want anybody to lose an eye because their neighbor was wildly flinging his arms.) But when my husband knelt down and bowed his head before God, my toddler followed suit. He joined his Daddy on the floor, on his knees, head bowed.

My son is learning to respect Jesus because my husband respect's Jesus. And that is an incredible thing.

And also a terrifying responsibility.
They will love what we love. They will repeat what we repeat. They will see people how we see people. They will see themselves how we see ourselves. They will see God the way we see God.

And with God's help, they will be nothing like better than us.

in Transition: part 2 (our moving story)

Mike started school in September 2014, when I was a few months pregnant with B. At the time, we decided it would be a terrible idea to try to move. (And it would have been.) But this summer, when Mike and I looked at each other the first week of August and said, "We think we should move to Wilmore," we figured it would take a miracle of God to make it happen. After all, we needed an apartment in student housing, approval from Mike's company to work remotely, and, perhaps our biggest hurdle, we needed to sell our house in Ohio... quickly.

Three weeks later, we had an apartment, approval and our house on the market.

5 weeks later, it was sold.

Our house in Ohio... the day it went on the market. 

And we started packing a moving van.

D with our friend, Harry.

All the Grandparents came to help pack and hold kiddos. 

Packed up and ready to go!

Seriously... we needed lots and LOTS of help!
(Thank you also to the Daltons, the Wellers, and Danny R.)

We also had our car packed tight... with a baby gate in a car carrier strapped to our luggage rack. Mike drove the truck... I drove the heavily loaded car with both boys. We took our last family picture in front of the house, prayed for our travels, kissed grandparents goodbye and set off for our new adventure. 

And then things got crazy.

30 miles outside of Columbus, something in the car went KATHUNK, then rattled against the back window. I called Michael, "Something's wrong with the car top carrier! Help! Meet me at the next exit!!" Then another noise, WABOOSH! Kathunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.... Still on the phone with Michael... "Okay, the whole carrier just came loose... I've got to pull over... I don't know what to do....!" Heart beating, shaking, trying to drive carefully and not freak out the boys... I look in the rearview mirror and, miraculously, see the image of my mom's van! Still on the phone, "It's my mom! My mom is behind me! Oh my gosh... just keep going, Michael. it'll be okay!" I pulled off to the side of the highway, she pulled off behind me, and we moved the whole carrier into the back of her van. We discovered that the ratchet strap had come loose... the strap that held a 200 lb couch without slipping last weekend, popped and unrolled when holding down a baby gate. So yeah.

Thinking that that was our "crazy story" for the trip, I set off again with both boys still calmly sitting in the backseat looking at books/chewing whatever he could get his hands on.

20 miles later, just North of Cincinnati, B started screaming. I pulled over and executed Mommy-power-move-#3:quick diaper change in the backseat. Back on the road, half an hour later, B was still screaming as we crossed the bridge over the Ohio River and hit Kentucky. I pulled over and gave him a bottle in the parking lot of a mall, threw a snack at the toddler, then got back on the road. Our 3 hour trip now passing the 4 hour mark. 5 miles past the exit, B started screaming... again. Unfortunately, this is the part of I75 where there is nothing but hills, trees and trucks for 30 miles. There is nothing I can do. B is screaming, D is singing (loudly so he can be heard over his brother) and I am just trying to get us to Wilmore safely!

We started approaching the Owenton/Corinth exit... and I prayed. "Jesus, whatever darkness is trying to prevent us from reaching Wilmore, I tell it to go now in Jesus name." From the backseat, the toddler says, "Bye Bye," and the screaming baby falls fast asleep. Silence and peace for the first time in 4 hours. and I ugly cried for the remaining hour it took us to reach our new front door.

Later, when Mike and I had the chance to talk about it, I found out that he had faced some spiritual oppression as well... the man who never has a panic attack, had three on the drive down. The man who is not afraid of bridges, barely made it over the Ohio for fear of driving off the road. And when he reached the Kentucky border, it lifted.

We began our adventure here in Wilmore by fighting a battle. A battle that, we have since learned, is not unusual for families moving to be a part of the Asbury community. A battle that we want to be continually aware of and prepared for... a battle that we are training to help others be prepared for... Lord help us.

in the Waiting Room, part 2

There are things that should make you cry... a funeral, a broken arm, Saving Private Ryan.

and then there are things that shouldn't make you cry... changing a dirty diaper, dishes, people talking at a graduation ceremony. And yet, all three of these things have sent me over the edge these past two weeks, weeping for hours. It's fairly obvious that I am stressed out about D's surgery... and since it's only two days away, the stress levels are skyrocketing.

So, we left the house. We started the dishwasher, put another load in the washing machine, and Little Man and I escaped to a coffee shop. I'm drinking a smoothie and he's smiling at me. Right now, I don't care that we're missing an afternoon nap. I don't care that my house needs vacuuming and that the cat is probably plotting revenge on our entire family since we left her alone... again... after being gone all weekend. Sometimes you just have to run away.

My Little Man, smiling at Garden Cafe. 

We're two days away from surgery... less than 48 hours... so our fear is increasing and our stress levels are soaring. Last Friday, we met with the surgeon and he seems competent and confident. We met with nurses who assured us that on the scale of 1 to Oh Dear God!, D's heart surgery is right in between life-threatening and oh-he'll-grow-out-of-it. So he's more serious than not serious and not as serious as super serious.

So we pray. and we pray. and we pray some more. And we want God to reassure us, to tell us why, to promise us that D will be okay. But He doesn't. We ask God to give us a glimpse of D's future, to explain His purposes, to tell us how He will use this. But He won't. We pray for God to heal, to restore proper pulse ox levels, to give surprising reports from the doctors. But He hasn't.

When D has appointments, we always dress him in shirts that say,
"Mommy's Little Hero," "Daddy's All-star," "Little Champ," etc.  

He has shown us that He hears us. M and I pray for D every night before bed. We've prayed for God to heal him from "the top of his head to the bottom of his feet." We've prayed for God to "cover him with the breastplate of righteousness." and we sing "Jesus loves me... little ones to Him belong, they are weak but He is strong." When we've taken him forward for prayer at church, people have asked God to heal D from "the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, " to "cover him with the breastplate of righteousness" and they've asked us to sing Jesus Loves Me over him. Each of those moments has felt like Jesus saying, "I hear you. I am with you every night when you pray over D."

and God has healed a part of D's heart... he used to have a hole between the upper chambers of his heart. It has closed which has given the surgeon the option of rerouting the left superior vena cava externally. (In his words, "if God gives you a tunnel, you use it. But if he hasn't, then it's better not to make one.")

and God has shown us one good thing that has already come from this... I can't say too much, you'll just have to ask my sister. ;)

But when we ask God why He didn't complete the healing, or why D has had to suffer to bring good things to other people, or why all of this had to happen in the first place; God says "I'm building D's testimony. It's his story. I hear you and I'm with you. That's enough."

and we're trying to let it be. Since the day David was born, we have prayed that God would use him to build His kingdom. But that's scary because we don't get to specify how or when or where. We don't get to specify the terms of D's life... and God never promises us safety... only that He will be with us.

 So I'm scared for Thursday... we love our Little Man so much that's it's hard to think about the possibility of losing him. And it would be much easier if we had a faith that believed that God only let good things happen to His children. But we don't. and He doesn't. So we will trust God when He says "I hear you and I am with you" and we will continue to believe that God is diligent in His goodness, in spite of our fear.

in the Christmas Spirit?

This was David's first Christmas... and only the second that Michael and I have celebrated together as husband and wife. I wanted it to be special, memorable, faith centered and captured on film so that one day it could be turned into a beautiful shutterfly photo book.

It's December 28th and only 3 of the advent candles ever got lit, it feels like we spent more time with our pediatrician than with our families, and the many attempts at a Family Christmas picture never quite produced a usable shot.

Two weeks before Christmas, at David's 2 month well check, we found out he was severely under weight. He was a little low at his one month visit but this is fairly normal for a kid with a heart condition (more on that in another post). This time, however, something was very wrong. So the pediatrician wanted me to start supplementing with a few ounces of formula after every feeding. But of course, David was NOT happy about this. What nursing kiddo would be? So he pretty much screamed for two days straight as I struggled to give him a bottle.

and why wasn't Mike helping, you ask? Because the day of David's visit, Mike had a flare up of his recurrent corneal erosion. (If you don't know what this is, it basically means that he feels like someone is shoving an ice pick in his eye for about 48 hours straight.) When this happens, he has to wear dark glasses, we have to keep all the lights in the house off and he literally can't open his eyes. Which means, not only was he in a tremendous amount of pain, but he couldn't help with David.

(When my mom called to check on me, I burst into tears. She came up and stayed with us for two days. Lifesaver. Literally.)

Since David was struggling to eat even the formula, we wanted to figure out what was going on. After a second visit to the pediatrician, we discovered David had pretty bad reflux. Then after our third visit to a lactation consultant we discovered that David has a high arched palate and a posterior tongue tie. Three problems that, when combined with his heart condition, make it nearly impossible for him to nurse. In fact, he was only getting about 1-2 ounces per feeding. At his age, he should have been taking in 5-8 ounces. Mike and I prayed for wisdom and struggled to decide what to do... should we quickly try to find a dentist to have the tongue tie taken care of? There's only one in all of Ohio who can handle David's particular type... and his office is closed until January. Should we continue to supplement with formula from a bottle? He even struggles with the wide neck bottles... the kind they recommend for breastfeeding babies. Finally, on December 23rd, the day before Christmas eve, David stopped nursing. He was tired of having to work so hard to get enough food. We decided that it's more important for him to eat than to nurse, so we switched him to the small nipple bottles and moved on.

Well, we're trying to move on. Now that David is finally getting full, he is struggling with constipation... which has given him a hernia... that will need surgery as soon as the holidays are over. (and a partridge in a pear tree.)

Before... 

... and after.
He gained a whole pound in one week.
Look! he has chubby cheeks now.

Mike and I have been floored by this. We thought everything was normal. We thought everything was fine. We thought that since we are healthy people who eat all the "right" things, who stay active, who avoid all the "wrong" things that we would have a healthy baby. A healthy baby that would be born naturally and who would nurse normally and who be adored by everyone as the happiest, most well adjusted baby on the block! Why is it than when you fall over your pride, it's not like tripping over a speed bump but more like plummeting off a tall cliff? We have been humbled and now realize that we have even less control over David's life than we originally thought... which we thought was pretty little to begin with. Our natural, non-medicated, granola plans have been replaced with formula bottles, reflux medication, dairy allergies and surgeries. But his needs trump our desires and, like Mary did in the first chapter of Luke, we will say, "Whatever, God. You do your thing. and Thanks for letting us ride along." (I'm paraphrasing, of course. :)

Despite everything going on in his body, this is the way he normally looks! We are amazed by him. 

in Celebration and in Mourning

So this is the Birth Story blogpost. It will probably get a little long, and may include some song lyrics and certain extraneous, long-winded details. If you are not a person who would enjoy this, I give you full permission to skip possible song-lyrics and long-winded details (you know, like when you read Lord of the Rings and you get to the part with Tom Bombadil) and go right for the details about the birth. :)

The long-winded details....
I've known most of my life that I would need to have a natural birth with no medication. I had my first surgery when I was 6 and ended up back in the hospital after 4 days of not being able to eat or drink and not being able to be woken by my parents. I remember the drive to the hospital, laying in the front seat of our van, my parents dropping my siblings off at Granny and Grandpa's house, not being able to open my eyes or respond to anyone in anyway thinking I was going to die. It was discovered that I have a high sensitivity to anesthesia. Even now, just going to the dentist and getting a local anesthetic shot I end up on the couch with the shakes the rest of the day.

So when Michael and I found out that we were pregnant, we signed up for Bradley Birthing classes and spent 12 weeks learning how to relax and breath and work through labor in a natural, unmedicated way. We were so ready for this birth! and when we starting having contractions at 37 weeks, we were pumped! Then the labor stopped.

3 days later, more contractions... here we go! Then the labor stopped.

3 days more, 3 days more, 3 days more.

September 30, our original due date hits, 40 weeks! We had 5 hours of 90 second contractions, 2-3 minutes apart. Here we go! It's real this time!! We called the doctor and she was also excited, having lived through a few of these episodes with us already. She told us she'd meet us at the hospital and we loaded up the car, called my mom and made the drive. We got to the hospital... and the labor stopped.

3 more days, more contractions, no more baby.

A week goes by, 41 weeks. We talk the doctor into letting us wait another week to give the baby and my body as much time as possible to go naturally. More contractions, more labor, no more baby. We start praying... we tell friends and family to start praying... we ask the ether of Facebook to start praying. The doctor schedules the induction which we don't want. We still feel like a natural labor would be the safest for our family. We beg, we plead, we pray.

and God says no.

Monday, Oct. 14... 42 weeks... the day we are going to be induced... Michael and I are trying to process the fact that our extra time has come and gone and we are out of options. The induction is going to happen. God has answered no and we aren't going to have the birth story we hoped and prayed for.

Birth-story details...
The day of the induction, my water actually breaks but the doctor (and the rest of the hospital staff) are very nervous about the fact that I am 2 weeks overdue, my water has broken and I'm only 2 cm dilated. So they decide to start pitocin anyway.

We are still feeling really good, pumped for this labor... Team Schlatt here we go! We thought that since I had already been through a month of contractions that my body would respond quickly and this would be a fast labor. And my body does respond quickly... with 90 second contractions, 3-4 minutes apart. But nothing else happens. One hour goes by, two hours, three hours... by this time, the contractions are still 90 seconds long, but only 2 minutes apart... and literally peaking off the scale. 8 hours later, my body starts losing control... a contraction hits, and I relax to breath through it. But then some part of my body spasms and I'm unable to control the pain or the contraction. My mom notices some slowing in the baby's heart rate. We know it will be a risk to try an epidural... would it make me sick? if so, what would it do to my body? what would it do to the baby? But we are seemingly out of options... I have lost control, the baby is starting to stress and we are still only 4 cm dilated. If we had been in natural labor, we could have gauged how far from pushing we were... but we didn't know; and we had been in labor for 11 hours. Michael and I decide an epidural is our best option... well, Michael makes the calm, rational decision... I'm in tears, frightened, out of control, and trying to leave the labor room. (I told everybody I was going home and getting into my own bed and that someone else would have to have this baby. :)

When the epidural hits my system, my blood pressure drops and the baby's heart rate tanks. The swat team of nurses, residents and pediatricians descends. We both recover... enough for now. For the next hour, Michael holds my hand and reads Bible verses from notecards. I ask him to repeat Prov. 3:5-6... Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. I ask him to repeat it again. Then I cry, "Michael, I don't understand why God said no!" and he responds, "But we can still trust him, even when we don't understand."

At that moment, one of the doctors leans around Michael and informs us that the Baby's heartbeat is still slowing with every contraction and that the time has come to get us to an OR. It was perfect timing... with God letting us know He is still in charge.

In surgery, Michael is sitting by my head, holding my hand. We are singing to keep ourselves calm... Chris Tomlin's song I Will Rise and Matt Redman's 10,000 Reasons, even though we can only remember the first verse (whatever may pass or whatever lies before me / let me be singing when the evening comes). About halfway through, my body starts reacting to the epidural and the pressure is more than I can handle. The anesthesiologist tries to gas me to help with the pain... and my body starts freaking out. I start thinking to myself, "Oh no, I'm dying. What's Michael going to do?" So I Twist my head from side to side, "Move the mask! Move the mask!" At this point, Michael tells me the anesthesiologist starts looking very worried and that I start saying the word "Jesus" over and over again. A few more worried/strange glances from the other doctors and nurses in the room, a lot more pressure and he is out. (Michael''s perspective: Yeah, you were so out of it, it seemed only a few more minutes. It wasn't. I thought they would never get him out!) The doctor lets Michael announce that it's a boy! and we both cry and marvel at this new little blessing and God's provision: If Michael had not decided on the epidural when he did, I probably would have had to be put under for the surgery. If we had not taken the Bradley classes, we would not have had the background knowledge that we needed to understand what the doctors and nurses were talking about (see Complications and Variations section of the workbook. :) and If God had not been fighting for us, the surgery itself could have taken a turn for the worst when my body started freaking out.

We did everything we could to avoid going through everything we went through. Michael and I knew an epidural and a c-section could be very bad for both me and David. We made all the plans we could to bypass medication, surgery and my body having to go through everything it did and is now going through. But God was and is still in charge. He answered "no" to our prayers and led us down a different path.
We don't understand why.
We don't have any answers to the questions,
          "What if we had waited longer?
            What if we hadn't gotten the epidural?
            What if we hadn't been induced?"
and we are still processing this.
But we can still trust God because He is good.
and we still have a beautiful baby boy, David John, born October 15, 2013 at 5:12 am.

in Bed... for awhile.

Another blog written about pregnancy... before we were telling people we were pregnant. 

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Even though we had good results from the blood work, our worry and fear didn't stop after that first visit to the doctor. The spotting continued for another week and a half. So we were back at the office for an ultrasound... once again to check if our baby was still alive.

The morning of the exam, I passed a clot the size of the nickel. Terror. But, we saw the heartbeat! Sigh of relief. I couldn't believe it! I honestly thought that it was over, I wasn't pregnant anymore and it would be only bad news. Praise Jesus that wasn't true! Our baby was alive and doing well. But there was a small subchorionic bleed. Not serious for the baby, but required rest until the bleed resolved itself.

So began 5 days of semi-bed rest. (which eventually became almost 14 weeks of semi-bed rest. Seriously, I could barely even go to pottery class!)

Once again, all I could do was lay there and let God do His thing. Literally, there was nothing I could do but lay there and trust Him.

Today was the follow up with the Doctor. To bid my time and distract myself before the appointment, I watched The Prince of Egypt.  [Seriously, don't put eye make-up on before watching this movie if you're pregnant. Seriously. First scene. Tears. Lots and lots of tears.]

No, I didn't put this movie in because I had already gone through all of the other DVDs in our house. I've been reading through the book of Exodus recently, and when you read about the parting of the Red Sea, you just want to see it. Now, I have been doubtful about the relevancy of this book to my present life. I mean come on, I don't live in Egypt, I'm not wandering through the desert and I've never been forced to build a pyramid by first making the bricks out of mud and straw. But, surprisingly, I've drawn a lot of comfort from this epic book.

What really caused the tears to flow today was considering Moses' mom, Jochebed.

The Bible says a lot of things about Jochebed... she was Moses' mom. She was an Israelite slave. She knew that Pharaoh was coming to kill babies. She put her youngest son into a basket coated with tar and set him afloat in a river.

The Bible doesn't say why Jochebed sent her baby floating down a major waterway... did God tell her to? Did she just hope he would be picked up somewhere safe? Was she thinking it's better if he died "naturally" then at the end of a sword? Did she simply set him adrift and pray that God would keep him safe?

Whatever her reasons, Jochebed gave up control of her tiny son. She didn't know if he would live or die, but she took a great risk and left him totally at the mercy of God. She knew she was powerless to keep him safe, and she let God take over.  Moses' mother let God have complete control of her son; and God used him to lead a nation.

What will God do with my children if I let him?

in Stability

A blog about the Baby... written before we were telling people that we're pregnant. 

Monday, February 11th

A friend had a quote on her blog the other day...

If life were stable, I'd never need God's help.  Since it's not, I reach out for Him regularly.  I am thankful for the unknowns and that I don't have control, because it makes me run for God. 

(Francis Chan)

I copied it onto our bathroom mirror with Dry-erase marker. It is something I have repeated to myself over and over these past few weeks. What else can you do when you are waiting for the results of a blood test that will tell you whether your baby is alive or dead? 

We found out we were pregnant early... at 3 1/2 weeks. So when I started spotting a week later, it was pretty awful... it was still too early for an ultrasound, too early for the comfort of a moving baby, too early to even tell people we were pregnant. A few friends called, texted, sent Facebook messages to find out what was going on... "why did I go from being so excited to so quiet and scared?" "you're on my mind, what's going on?" "I heard you're pregnant, how you feeling?" So I gathered these people asked them to pray, then held on tight. There was nothing else to do but wait.  

A blood test on Monday to check my initial hormone level... wait, wait, wait. Watch the clock on Tuesday. Try not to lose my mind. Distract myself as much as possible. Clock ticking... slowly, slowly, slowly... willing the sun to set faster, to rise sooner. The sun doesn't listen to me. Follow up blood test on Wednesday... if the hormone level has doubled, the baby is still alive. Wait 5 hours for the results... drive to a friend's house so I don't lose my mind. Pray. Pray. Pray. 

Finally get a call back 15 minutes before the office closes... hormone level has doubled. Praise God. 

Those 2 1/2 days were the most helpless I have ever felt in my entire life. There was literally nothing I could do to change the fate of my baby. God had already written the number of days of his/her life... and it is not in my power or control to change that. But I can pray. and I can worship. and I can trust God. and I can give up control. 

and this is not the last time in this Baby's life that I will have to do that. It is only the beginning of this lesson... and in the end, God will still be more faithful, more loving and more good than I can ever understand. 

in your Future?

Just received the February 2013 update from HOPAC. There are a number of positions available for next year... I highly, Highly, HIGHLY recommend you click on the link below, pray about it, and see what God says! :)

The Best Job Ever... by Amy Medina

in Significance

I started my last blog, in Sorrow, by writing about the death of my Grandpa. But that post wasn't about him. This post is.

Grandpa Bob with Bonnie and myself, Summer 2010

My Grandpa Bob was an interesting, stubborn, intelligent, varied, playful, scary man. He fought in France during WWII... and he had the German uniform and Nazi flag, plucked from a liberated building, to prove it. Once he set his mind on a business deal, vacation spot or restaurant, you couldn't change it. I was afraid of him for much of my childhood, but as I grew up and he mellowed significantly, I came to appreciate his giant, rib-crushing bear hugs. He started working in the Texas oil fields as a teenager, and continued to be a hard worker... even after he retired! He passed away a month shy of his 90th birthday... and even though he was old, could barely walk, and was losing a crippling battle with diabetes, he would still get down on the floor to play with his grandkids.

But I already knew all of this before his funeral. When my Dad delivered an amazing eulogy, none of this information was new to me.

But then my Dad told another story. One that only my Aunt Sue and the members of a small Spanish congregation on the West side of Houston knew about.

Every weekend. my Grandpa insisted that my Aunt Sue drive him to church. (I told you he was stubborn!) But it wasn't the church that he had been attending since before I was born. It wasn't the church where he was a member. It wasn't even a church that he could understand! It was a Spanish congregation that was renting the building where my Grandpa had attended services. And Grandpa went faithfully, every week.

My Grandpa didn't speak Spanish.
My Grandpa didn't understand any of the music.
My Grandpa couldn't even stay awake for most of the message.

But he still went every week.

And at the funeral, almost the entire church family came to pay their last respects to my Grandpa Bob. And when my Dad asked their pastor why they had all come, he responded that Bob was one of the most encouraging, supportive men he had even met. A Pastor, encouraged by an old man who couldn't understand him or stay awake during his sermons.

This is significant.

at Galveston Beach in Texas

This year, as I have laid aside my jobs, my travels, my "spiritual spotlight," and my identity as a single woman, I have struggled with feeling insignificant... wondering if I have a purpose or impact on the people and world around me. Since September when these moments have occurred, I have remembered my Grandpa Bob... and realized that as long as I am open to God's plans (whatever they may be!), then nothing is insignificant.