A Weekend of Good Stuff

It's not often that I use this blog for promotion, but I just had to let you know of a couple of great opportunities this weekend. And I'll be at both, which of course sweetens the deal.

This Saturday night at 7:00 is Justice Jam in the Church of the Resurrection student center (the east building). For just a $10 suggested donation, you get to enjoy the awesome music of the band Waterdeep and, best of all, make the world a better place. Proceeds benefit Love146, an organization dedicated to fighting sex trafficking around the world. Can you think of a better way to spend your Saturday night? Because I can't.

The fun doesn't stop there. On Sunday, we're hosting our second lunch and discussion at Church of the Resurrection after the 10:45 worship service. You'll have an opportunity to delve into conversation with others about the current sermon series. I guarantee that at your table you will have at least one, quite possibly five, people in a different generation than you. Last week, one table's participants ranged in age from 19-85, and they had some pretty rich discussion. You should only come if you're willing to listen to ideas and opinions different from your own, and excited about the possibility of a new perspective. This week's sermon topic: When Christians Get it Wrong When Talking About Other Religions. Registration is $10 and includes a delicious lunch.

So, don't tell me you're bored this weekend.

A Very Serious Post, Not for the Feint Hearted

I've been debating whether to write this post, and decided for it for a few reasons:

1. So that you know why the sadness sometimes lurks in my eyes.

2. Because I need to talk about it, but I don't want to talk about it.

3. So that you who have not experienced it can hear one person's story. Not that I claim my feelings and reactions are universal by any means, but for those who care for others, maybe my story can help.

Last week Dave and I were happily expecting our second child. Today we are not.

I tuned out when the doctor mentioned the possibility of miscarriage. Hadn't I just seen the baby's little heart beating? No danger could touch its little life in my strong, healthy body, a body which was designed to bring forth life.

Which is why I feel so betrayed by my body.

For days I ignored the mounting evidence, searching internet sites for every other possible explanation. It was only the wise council of my husband a good friend from church that kept me from preaching this weekend, and the end finally came at the exact time that I would have been in the pulpit Saturday night. Thank God for clearer minds than mine.

As soon as I could steal away to a private room, the wrenching sobs which I had repressed for hours poured out. They surprised me. It's not that I don't cry- I cry quite easily over movies, Hallmark commercials, good books, a well-told story, a sermon (even my own), weddings and funerals. I just don't often cry over my own life or situation. But I cry now.

Initially, I thought I'd throw away the pictures from the sonogram with the little white blob, an arrow, and "baby," but they're still in my purse in the envelope. I can't look at them, but I can't throw them away. They're all I have left of baby.

I feel like I have a tomb inside of me. A cold, dark, lifeless tomb.

And every minute of every day, my body reminds me of what has been lost.

The other stories have surprised me. They shouldn't. It only makes sense when you look at the statistics: around 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, so of course women all around me have suffered through this. But I just never thought of how many there were. It's like I've discovered a huge underground sisterhood which I didn't want to join, but for which I am incredibly grateful. They share their stories with me, and I can believe in hope, in the return of real laughter, in a body that will bear life again.

Tomorrow I will look again for the sunshine. Maybe the next day I will even dance just a little bit. It's just life; we'll win in the end.

But tonight I'm crying again.

God at Oak Park Mall

Yesterday I spent some quality hours at Oak Park Mall (thanks, SPRC!) and a few spiritual experiences caught me by surprise.

The first encounter was at the Seacret kiosk. Elad, a salesman at the kiosk stopped me to demonstrate their nail care kit. While he was beautifying one of my nails (it really did work well, so I bought the whole kit) we chatted. He's lives in Israel, and is here just to help promote the company's products in the United States. He lives just 30 minutes from the Dead Sea, his favorite place back home. He asked me about myself, and when I told him I was a pastor, he was more than a little surprised. He said, "you don't look like a pastor." He expected a pastor to be dressed in a dark suit and tie. Back home, he told me, religious leaders always dress differently from other people, so he really was taken aback by a pastor who looks, "normal." We laughed about this, and he shared with me what he loves and misses about home.

Not long after this fun encouter, I ran across Jesus. He was hanging out at the top of the escaltor, just watching people over the railing. He was in full regalia- white robe, crown of thorns, full beard and long flowing hair. We didn't talk, but I couldn't help but think about Elad, wondering what his reaction would be. What is his overall impression of Christians, or at least Christians in the United States?

My final encounter was at the check out counter of a department store. I bought a couple of items that finished out my gift card, and it rang up $0.98 over what was left on the card. I very rarely carry cash (yes, I know what Dave Ramsey would say), and so asked if I could put the $0.98 on my credit card. The woman checking out next to me laughed and handed the cashier a dollar for me. I thanked her and she just smiled and waved me off, then left. It was just a dollar, but she did it so quickly and without a second thought, that it made me think that generosity must just be a way of life for her.

It's been an interesting season.

Merry Christmas.

The Bible sometimes ticks me off

I love the Bible, I really do. I read it everyday, meditate upon it, study it, and treasure it. But just now I'm pretty frustrated with it.

We've been reading Aliyah's children's Bible to her every night as her bedtime story, and last night was the story of Hannah, who prayed to God for a son and whose prayer was answered. I had not yet completed the last sentence, which announced that Hannah had a baby boy, before Aliyah slammed her hands on the book and yelled, "Again?!"

"What do you mean 'again,' honey?"

"It's another baby boy. In the whole Bible, that's all there is- baby boys! Why aren't there any baby girls, mommy?"

I tried telling her that there are some baby girls in the Bible. Unfortunately, they are all such minor characters that none of them made it into her children's Bible. And the truth is, of the few baby girls, none of them is a direct answer to prayer.

How can I look at my beautiful and amazing baby girl, who is an answer to prayer, and tell her that the Bible is the most important book in the world, inspired by God, useful for instruction and edification, when she knows there are no baby girls in it? Either it is not that great of a book, or baby girls are not that important to God. That's not what I believe, but it's the message she's hearing right now.

So I'm really ticked off at the Bible. And maybe just a little bit at God, too.

Dear God, thanks for nothing

That was my sweet, precious daughter's prayer last night. After my heart started beating again, I asked her why she would pray such a thing. "Because God won't talk to me," she said simply.

She's been struggling for some weeks now with the fact that she has not heard God talk. It makes no sense to her that she keeps talking to God, but never hears anything back. I've tried telling her about all the ways God speaks to us- through scripture, nature, other people, that still small voice, but it's no good. She firmly believes that God can, and should, speak to her audibly, and all I can think to say is, "why not?"

And so now she prays, "Thanks for nothing."

I visited my grandmother today, the greatest woman of faith I have ever known. I asked her what to tell Aliyah, my little girl who is angry with a God who isn't talking to her. Her answer, "It's remarkable that a child her age is even asking the question. What do you tell her? I don't know. I still ask the same question myself, and if I haven't figured it out yet, after 91 years, you can't expect a 5-year-old to understand."

She went on to talk about her struggles with her faith, the questions that frustrate her still, and her own fears. She keeps looking, asking, reading, wondering. She's not angry, just still growing and listening. She, too, wants to hear God. "Don't worry," she tells me, "Aliyah will keep praying, and eventually she will hear God's voice."

Why not?

Best Not Buy

We're moving next week to a new house, and I must admit I'm not the most cheerful packer in the world. Where did it all come from? How can one small townhouse contain so much stuff? So, we've been purging diligently, asking tough questions such as, "Do you recognize this? Any idea of its possible function? So why do we have three of them?"

We've also stopped buying things. This isn't easy for either of us. Dave loves to stroll around Target, and is especially weak in the girls' clothing area, where he always finds something Aliyah "absolutely needs." My downfall is a particular second hand store in Leawood, where I feel obligated to drop in at least once a month, and where I always find a great buy that I just can't pass up.

But we've restrained ourselves for the past few weeks. I'd like to say it's because our packing chore has enlightened us to our bloated lifestyle, that we've pledged to commit to the discipline of simplicity. Really, though, we just can't bear the though of packing another item. Yes, our newfound frugality is motivated by laziness.

A few life lessons, though, are boldly asserting themselves, and just won't be ignored, despite our best efforts. Forced creativity is one. Since my shopping moratorium includes the grocery store, I had to figure out just what to do with that half bag of black beans that's been squatting in my pantry lo these 5 months.

Another is that, when I resist the shopping impulse, it eventually cools somewhat. Don't get me wrong. I'll still present myself to Prior Attire shortly after we move. But I won't go every time the urge strikes, because now I know that the urge is not stronger than me.

Life is also easier when I don't spend my precious time with my daughter at the store. We play more, color more, laugh more, relax more. Life is good.

So I'm going to try to continue the discipline even after we move. Right after I buy a new pair of black boots that I just absolutely need.

Undignified and beautiful

Ok, this is one where I really wish I had taken a picture. This weekend we had a guest musician in worship, Ken Medema, who then gave a concert last night. The whole weekend was amazing; he wrote music during the worship based on the prayers, baptism, themes. It was incredible.

The best was the concert last night, though. A few songs into the concert, he started talking about dancing. But talk wasn't enough. He said, "The world doesn't give us the space to dance. Let's make this place our sacred dance space." He then invited everyone to stand up and dance, encouraging them to utilize the whole room, even the whole building if necessary. I wasn't sure what would happen. I mean, we just don't dance in worship very often.

The response was almost immediate. It started in the aisles. People joined hands and danced up and down the aisles. The space was too confining, though, so before long they took to the chancel (our fancy word for the stage), and within a few minutes, what looked like 100 people were dancing all over it, circling Ken and the piano, waving their arms, jumping up and down, acting completely undignified. It was out of control, and it was beautiful.

There was no going back after that. As the concert continued, I saw hand raising, heard personal testimonies, even from children, and felt the Spirit of God sweep over us.

I truly believe John Wesley would be proud.