On How Discipline Is Saving Me

I'm blogging over at Middle Places today, about wishing I had a reset button, and how exactly one goes about recalibrating her life.

"I wish I had a reset button, like those microscopic rubber buttons on the backs of alarm clocks and internet routers.  I wish my belly button worked that way, that someone could poke me with a toothpick or the end of a bobby pin that's missing the plastic bubble that keeps it from drawing blood on your scalp, and I'd default back to ground zero, fresh and shiny.

But I don't have a reset button, so I'm going to have to do this the old fashioned way...

This year I tried to tweak my habits, adjust my schedule, to function in this new life, but what I know is that you can't build a brand new picture with the same old pieces.  Tweaking and adding and shifting gave me juggling, balancing, and multi-tasking.  And while juggling, balancing, and multi-tasking is a great way to survive, it's no way to live.  I am crafting a brand new picture that includes a beautiful, surprise baby and a beautiful, surprise writing career; I need new pieces.  I need a reset button.

A vacation won't do.  Neither will new apps, a new deadline, or more coffee.  Those are tweaks; I need a fundamental change, a shift in the tectonic plates.  

And the ancient secret to shifting one's tectonic plates is radical self-discipline..."

You can read the rest here!  

Do For One

Trying to be a moral person feels like a minefield some days - there are just so many things one is supposed to care about.  And not just care about - pray about.  And not just pray about, but mobilize for or against.

For starters, I am supposed to care about, pray about, give to, and advocate (passionately) for or against the following:

Tornado/Tsunami/Earthquake victims The homeless Communities with no access to clean water Communities with no access to basic health care Communities with no access to life-saving vaccinations Every child within 6 degrees of separation of me that has a chronic or terminal illness Third world poverty Global hunger Hunger in America Sex trafficking victims Orphans Children in the foster care system My own children My marriage Genetically altered foods People that have never heard the gospel (every people group individually) Global warming Puppy mills The police department, fire department, and our troops overseas. All children with special needs At risk children and the failing education system The drug epidemic Cancer research AIDS research The crisis in Syria The conflict in the Middle East The crisis in Uganda Persecution Marriage Equality Abortion

The truth is, I do care about these things, about the people involved and the implications.  I've prayed about them too - mostly (I can't say that I've stormed the gates of heaven over puppy mills or genetically altered food).  But let's be realistic: if I tried to pray for all the things that I'm supposed to care about every day (or even every week) I wouldn't have any emotional energy left to, I don't know, BREATHE.

I suspect that we could fill the state of Texas with well-meaning people who are paralyzed in their compassion because it's just too much.  If they opened their hearts up, opened their schedules or their wallets up to every need, they would not survive it. In the Cinderella movie, Ever After, Prince Henry says, “I used to think that if I– if I cared about anything, I would have to care about everything, and I’d go stark raving mad.”  I've felt this tension so acutely, haven't you?

The liberating truth is that you don't have to care about everything, at least not in equal measure.  You are not a pie chart that has to be divided equally among the needs of this world.  The truth is that it's okay to have a focus, a purpose - in fact, you were created for one.

The following concept unparalyzed me.  It returned unto me my compassion and generosity, and it freed me from indecision and guilt.  This concept helped me to reconcile my inexhaustible feelings with my very-exhaustible resources.  The secret is this:

"Do for one person what you wish you could do for everyone." [Andy Stanley]

I cannot donate to the victims of every natural disaster - so I will do for one precious family what I wish I could do for everyone. I cannot support every missionary - so I will do for one what I wish I could do for everyone. I cannot mother every orphan; I cannot love every child that hurts - so I will do for one what I wish I could do for everyone.  God, how I wish it.

I can't send every greeting card.   I can't attend every wedding. I can't take every flight or visit every friend. I can't devote fervent prayer to every lost soul or every suffering saint. I can't buy pants for every homeless person.

I could never advocate for every cause that touches my heart, because they all touch my heart.  But I can do for one person what I wish I could do for everyone.  I can do the next right thing.   The fact that I can't buy groceries for all the single moms should not dissuade me from buying them one time - for one mom.  It is foolish, if not cruel, to withhold goodness simply because we cannot give the same goodness to everyone.

One of the beautiful things about the body of Christ is that it functions as a body.  Each soul a cell.  Each with a different purpose, a different burden, a different area of passion and concern.  And when every soul does the next right thing, when every soul is free to do for one person what they wish they could do for everyone, the world gets loved well.

Grace Gift

"The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;    surely I have a delightful inheritance."  [Psalm 16:6]

Some of the best gifts in life are the gifts you didn't think to ask for.

The thing about Henry is, I didn't plan him.  I wanted a third child, definitely, but I didn't want to find out I was pregnant on the day we told our church/town/family that we were moving states.  Or the month I accepted a 3-book offer from a publisher.  Or before Sam's first birthday.

But the thing is, if I'd gotten pregnant a year from now, there is no guarantee that our chromosomes would have matched up in exactly the right way to bring me Henry.  I would have had another child, but he wouldn't have been Henry.

Henry was chosen for me; he is my grace-gift.

And now, I can't believe I didn't think to ask for him.  He is my favorite thing.  Holding him on my chest and nuzzling his baby hair while he snores is my favorite thing.  Why did I not think to ask for this?  To beg for this?  If I had been in my right mind, I would have begged.

What I've found is that this grace-gift sucks every opportunity to whine right out from under me.  Because no matter how many children are crying all at the same time, I can never say, "Why did we think we could handle this!?!?"  Because we didn't.  God did.

In my most blind, frustrated moments I still cannot say "We made a mistake with this three kids thing!"  Because we didn't.  This was not shortsighted planning; this was in spite of our planning.  This was an "I know better than you do," straight-from-God gift.  There is no room left for frustration - only gratitude.  Because what if we had not been given this gift?

Some might say "I can't imagine my life without him," but that's not true for me.  I can imagine my life without Henry, and it makes me sick with anger.  It turns me inside out with ache and longing and loss.  That life would have less love in it, and how could anyone ever go back to less love once she's tasted it?

Henry is the good thing that I did not deserve.  He is the good I did not foresee, the good I did not think to ask for, but was given because God has lavished sweetness on me.  Lavished.

He handpicked these babies for me:

Madeline, my wild little sparkle.

Sam, the baby I asked for.

Henry, my grace-gift.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.

Gotta Go Through It

We're going on a Lion Hunt! (We're going on a lion hunt!) We're not scared!  (We're not scared!) Look what's up ahead!  Tall grass!  Can't go over it. Can't go under it. Can't go around it. Gotta go through it. Swish, swish, swish.

"Going on a Lion Hunt" is still a favorite story of mine; it's rhythmic and suspenseful and fun.  But now, as an adult, it is also my mantra: what I whisper to myself when I feel the tendrils of despair start to curl around my heart.

All of my favorite people have been through some stuff - terrible, awful, heartbreaking stuff.  I'm proved right every time I meet a new person whom I instantly like; the more I get to know them, the more I learn about the stuff they've been through:  chronic illnesses, serious depression, betrayals, affairs, ugly divorces, deaths of children, addiction, cancer.

I like them,  I've learned, because those terrible circumstances create something beautiful inside of us.  Something  precious is forged in our hearts as we walk through the difficult, painful places.  The gauntlet strips off pretension, pride, insincerity, piousness, and anything false.  Underneath we find gentleness, humility, wisdom, compassion, bravery, and indomitable strength.  Refined by fire, the Bible calls it, burning off the dross, leaving the gold.

There are no shortcuts to that beautiful, beautiful countenance.  You have to go through some stuff to get there.

Just like there is no shortcut to a baby; you have to go through labor, and morning sickness.

Just like there is no shortcut to a Thanksgiving table full of well-adjusted grown-up children; you have to go through the Terrible 2's.

There is no shortcut to seasoned love; you have to go through the fights - all of them - no giving up.

There is no shortcut to forgiveness; you have to feel the pain to get to the other side.

There is no shortcut to health; you have to trudge through the pain, the meds, the therapy.

There is no shortcut to healing, to moving on, after a catastrophic loss; you just have to keep walking through.

When it comes to the tough stuff of life, the best way out is always through.

So if this season of life seems so hard you can't breathe, know that while you might come out weary, broken, a little worse for the wear, you'll shine.  Refined, like gold.  Take a deep, raggedy breath, say a prayer, and steel yourself.  

Because you can't go over it. Can't go under it. Can't go around it. You gotta go through it.  

 (source)

Good Friday

"When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of Glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride."

And pour contempt on all my pride.

On Good Friday, this is what I did.  In my heart, all day long, over and over again, I poured contempt on all my pride.

It was a glorious day; chilly in the morning, bright with sunshine, full of promise.  But in my heart is was a solemn day.  I considered the cross on Good Friday, and it was painful.  It wasn't painful because I felt bad for Jesus, or because of the injustices he suffered, or because gore turns my stomach.  It was painful because it is the most powerful reminder of exactly how badly I needed - I need - saving.

The injustice and brutality of the cross is a direct reflection of the gravity and atrocity of my sin.  Oh, my sin was costly - and it is paid for.

If you ever doubt God's justice, look to the cross.   Indeed God is just. If you ever doubt God's mercy, look to the cross.  Indeed God is merciful.

He absorbed his own wrath with his own love.  He paid the debt that was owed him out of his own pocket.  That would be like the CEO of Sallie Mae paying my student loan - times a billion - in blood.

If you ever start feeling entitled to things because you are a good person, just look to the cross.  It will take your breath away; it will slice you.  You will pour contempt on all your pride.

On this Good Friday I was sliced and humbled.  I was so grateful that it felt heavy - carrying around all that gratitude.  I am grateful for a God who is so huge and great and just and loving that he came to ransom me, literally.  To pay the penalty for my sin.  To buy me back.  To save me.  He saved me.

He saved me.

_____________________________________

This Good Friday, Madeline had an egg hunt at school.  Her vision teacher tricked out some eggs (extra large, with big, bold "M's" and polka dots on them), and we had planned to show up and help her hunt.  Yesterday morning I asked Dan to double check with the school and let me know what time to be there.  He returned at 7:45 to find me still in bed, bleary-eyed from nursing all night, and said,

"It's at nine."

"As in an hour from now?"

"Yes."

"Crap."

 I put on my wings (coffee, not Redbull), and flew.  My mom and I had both boys fed, dressed, and out the door in time. We were ON TIME.  WITH A NEWBORN.  Granted, Sam ate his peanut butter toast in the car, but we remembered a bib!  And wipes!  WITH A NEWBORN.  And as if that weren't magical enough, just when I thought Sam would never, ever, ever talk, he told me that he was happy.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X39qNm9txOA[/youtube]

Happy, happy, happy.  Peanut butter toast will do that a boy.

The egg hunt was a smashing success.

High on fresh air and productivity, we got home and hung some floating shelves in our bedroom that have been sitting around since we moved here in AUGUST.    Because power drills and hammers are ALWAYS a great idea with a newborn in a bouncy seat next to you.  We made up for this questionable parenting move by making an Easter Tree with the kids.

Henry's job was to sit around looking beautiful and to break our hearts with his sweet, milk-and-honey baby breath - and he did it perfectly.

It was perfect.  It was grace on top of grace.

So that is what we did on Good Friday, while I poured contempt on my pride.