Forcing My Own Hand

I am really great at doing the right thing when the right thing is my only available option. Example:  

I am awesome at not buying brownie mix.  I can't remember the last time I purchased the stuff.

I am less awesome at not eating brownies.  I CAN remember the last time I ate brownies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner - it was the last time I bought brownie mix.

In sum, I am THE BOMB at not eating brownies...as long as there are no brownies around.

The times that I've been the most disciplined and put together in my life were not thanks to me - they were thanks to a total lack of options.

I don't think of myself as a very disciplined person.  Homework was never really my jam.  Neither was balancing my checkbook.  I could take it or leave it, and by that, I obviously mean that I left it.  Disciplined people are the kind of people who can see brownies and think, "I am only going to eat one of those."  Disciplined people can mind-over-matter stuff.  They can, say, just GET UP when the alarm goes off.  They can stick to the plan.  ANY PLAN.

I am the pits at that breed of self-discipline.  What I am is a pretty decent self-scheduler.

I am learning to organize my life in such a way that makes the right things easier and the wrong things tougher.

(Actually, I believe it's nearly impossible to make a wrong thing "tough."  Our natural bent towards selfishness and pride, coupled with rationalization and THE INTERNET mean wrong things are only ever just a few side-steps away.  Perhaps a more accurate statement would be:  I am learning to organize my life in such a way that makes the right things more convenient, so I have less excuses not to do them.) 

I learned this about myself my junior year of college.

I had one weird, terrible hour between classes, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.  (This was before the time of the iPhone - I call it the Scholastic Period.  Triassic, Jurassic, Cretaceous, Scholastic.  During the Scholastic period, I did not have cat videos, Twitter, or Pinterest at my fingertips.  Dark days, indeed.)

One day, I thought, "Hey, all those things I wish I had mental space to pray about?  Maybe I'll go do that for a minute."

And I did. And I did it the next day, and the next day, and the next day.

For ten years I'd been trying to bully myself into spending time in prayer and meditation.

I tried guilt (which sounds a lot like, "He died for me, I'll live for Him!" or "He gave everything, I can at least give 15 minutes in the morning!")

I tried mountain-top camp experiences.

I tried coffee.

I tried Bible study books.

Nothing ever stuck for long.  I understood the value, I wanted to be the kind of person to JUST GET UP.  Or JUST DIG IN.   But it wasn't working for me, and not for lack of trying.

The same could be said for my (lack of) exercise routine.  It's not that I didn't see the value.  It's not that I didn't WANT IT.  It's just that whatever thing is inside of self-starters and internally-motivated go-getters - I do not have that thing.

I tried running.

I tried videos at home.

I tried 5 am bootcamp with friends.

No dice.

But in 2005, that one wonky hour became sacred time in my day.  I read my Bible EVERY. DANG. DAY.  I prayed for my friends, for myself, for my future, for the world.   That hour changed my life.  The next semester I intentionally scheduled an empty hour into my day.  Turns out, I CAN have a consistent quiet time - as long as I have literally nothing better to do.

This year I GOT A CLUE from my sacred hour, and applied it to my exercise routine.  I sat down and brainstormed how I could possibly make it work with 2 young boys at home all day, and not a dime to spare on a gym membership or childcare.

I've Instagrammed about our morning walks, and lest anyone think for a second that I have my !@#$ together, allow me to illuminate:

Maybe the mom exercising at the park at 8:30 in the morning is not actually put together. Maybe she was forced by the inconsiderate thugs running the public school system to be out the door with three kids by 8:00 am.  Maybe she rolled out of bed and fed them granola bars in the car.  Maybe she can only leave the house once a day without having a nuclear meltdown, and THIS IS IT.  Maybe the only way she could ever reliably get her unmotivated butt outdoors with her kids is just to do it ON THE WAY HOME. At the park ACROSS THE STREET.  Load them up, walk a few miles, go home, commence day of surviving in the house.  In other words, maybe she's me.

What I've learned about myself is that my best shot at not going completely off the rails is to intentionally structure my life so that the right things are easier and the wrong things are harder.

It's like pushing a chair in front of the stairs to keep babies away from the edge: if they really have a mind to get down there, they will - but it might just slow 'em down long enough for you to save the day.

I'm not great at self-discipline, but I'm learning to save my own days.  I'm getting better about self-scheduling; that's where it starts for me.

I can't tackle things when they're big; I get panicky and I tap out.  But I can manage them when they're small, when they're on the way home and everyone is already wearing pants.

Maybe this has been the real secret to self-discipline all along.

Maybe not.  But either way, it's working for me.  I don't buy brownie mix.  I walk in the morning.  I read and pray in the carpool line.

Still trying to find a good slot in the day for laundry-folding.  If I find it I'll let you know.  Not looking good.

How do you pursue self-discipline?  Do incentives and motivations work for you?  Or are you more of a self-scheduler?  

Honesty

Illustration by Lisa CongdonI think that honesty is the door through which lies every good thing. Health, help, connection, intimacy.

Honesty is the door through which lies every real thing.

If you want something true, you're going to have to walk through that door.  The door of telling the whole truth.

It's terrible that honesty is also the hardest, scariest, most painful thing.  I hate it.  I did not sign up for this.  I hate that honesty leaves me exposed and raw and gritting my teeth, bracing for the fallout.  I hate how it opens me up to judgment and ridicule and hurt.

But I love how it opens me up to mercy.  And connection.  And sleeping at night.

We tend to believe honesty will isolate us - that if we tell the real, honest truth everyone will jump ship, lest they be marred by association with our dirty selves.  But that's the fear talking.  Honesty never isolates as much as lies do.

It's the lies that build the wall.  It's the omissions that lay the bricks.  It's the giving up's and the rationalizations and the self-preservation that walls us into solitary confinement.  It's the hiding and the masks that chain us there, in the dank loneliness.  We are like Poe's poor Fortunato, thinking we've found a cask of fine amontillado, but instead we've found our tombs.

I hate this, but I believe it.

If you want to be healthy, tell the whole truth. If you want help, tell the whole truth. If you want camaraderie, tell the whole truth. If you want intimacy, tell the whole truth.

Anything less might work okay, but it isn't real.  If you have to hide things to be loved, YOU aren't loved, your image is loved.  If YOU want love - to be seen and known and loved for WHO YOU ARE - you're going to have to tell the truth.  You're going to have to let someone see you.

Donald Miller said it this way, "Telling the truth is the slow, mundane, difficult route to a meaningful life.  Anything less is cheating."

I'm trying to tell more truth to the tribe of people that I do life with.  To have the courage to start conversations that matter.  To, as Teddy Roosevelt said, tell the truth, even if my voice shakes.  To be vulnerable, which, as Jon Acuff noted, gives other people the beautiful gift of going second.

I want to be full of grace - yes - but also full of TRUTH.  What a sloppy, messy collision - grace and truth.

Jesus was full of grace and truth.  And of every other good, real thing that I need.  He's what I'm after.  And the real, applied, lived-out Christ-life lies through the door of humble, radical honesty.  Just like every other good thing.

Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.

Because He Lives (& Yoga Bird)

In light of Easter, I wanted to share with you a meditation I wrote for Yoga Bird last month. The significance of the resurrection is so infinite - we can talk about the love of Jesus, the cost of sin, Jesus in our place, God's power over death, the ultimate apologetic on which hinges the entirety of the Christian faith...

...but for me, this is where the rubber meets the road.  The resurrection doesn't just matter because it was miraculous.  It matters because Jesus is alive.  A dead god can't help you any more than a box of rocks can.   But a living God - a living God sees and loves and sustains.  Easter is the biggest deal because a living God is the biggest deal.

"The days are uncertain, to be sure.  When I think too long on Hollywood, or the beauty industry, or sex-trafficking, or congress, it is difficult to feel much of anything but despair.  I can’t imagine anything more daunting than being asked to raise a girl in our culture – until I think of raising boys.   And vice versa.

Then I realize that I believe Christ to be big enough for anybody, anywhere, no matter their plight or their hurt or their sin – but not big enough for me.

Not big enough for my parenting deficiency, not big enough for my immaturity, for my short-sightedness, for my brokenness and pride.

Of course he can redeem a life shattered by abuse. Of course He can sustain through unimaginable loss. Of course He can bring joy and peace to a life entrenched in the daily ache of poverty. Of course He can lift the drug addict out of the pit, He can lift the alcoholic out of the mire, and set their feet on solid rock.

But me?  And my kids?  And my depressingly average, messed up life?  I don’t know if He is big enough for that.

This is, of course, insanity.  It is illogical and untrue, but I believe it – my worries betray me.  My despair tattles.

“In what way am I damaging my children?”  I wonder.  “What will they say about me in therapy?  Will they turn out okay, in these uncertain days?  Will I?”

There is a song – a hymn – that I sang in a little Baptist church in Alabama.  I sing it now, too.  On almost every single one of these uncertain days:

“How sweet to hold a newborn baby To feel the pride and joy he gives But sweeter still the calm assurance This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

Because He lives I can face tomorrow. Because He lives all fear is gone. Because I know He holds the future, Life is worth the living just because He lives.”

Corrie Ten Boom said, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.”   The days are uncertain, but God -  God is certain.  He is the most certain thing there ever was.  He is the Rock of Ages.  Immutable and unchanging and certain.

And He is for me.

He is alive, full of power and grace.  His arm is not too short to save.  He is for me, and this child can face uncertain days because He lives.  Some days “this child” is my child, and some days it’s me.  But here’s what I know – we can face uncertain days.  Oh, what blessed power and hope!  We can face uncertain days!

We can face uncertain days because He lives."

(You can listen to the meditation here.  My words have been put to original music, and every meditation includes a time of silence and reflection.)

//

Besides blog and books, I have a few other projects going, one of which is writing meditations like this one for Yoga Bird.  Yoga Bird is a wellness website that offers on-demand yoga classes with Christian meditation.  I first subscribed a few months ago and poked around the site for over an hour - there is a huge library of poses, beginner and advanced classes, quick office breaks, a blog, and a library full of meditations (which are nice for a quiet time too, if you want to switch things up).

If you want to go exploring, here is a coupon for 10 free days!

Other cool thing:  They beautiful heart behind Yoga Bird is my very dear aunt.  You will love her. And for the curious, this welcome video explains what they're about:

We can face uncertain days because He lives.  Happy Easter. Kate

It Is Finished

It's been a few a years since I said anything about Good Friday.  It's been a few years since I've even said anything ON Good Friday.   I usually can't because every thing I ever thought to say sounded vain or trite or both.  There's nothing anybody can say that could add to the miracle of what happened on this day, and I always fear to cheapen it.  Or to make it about me or what I think.  Or to act as though I have some deep understanding, or that I am some very-enlightened, always-humble, spiritual soul.  Because I'm not. Good Friday takes my breath away every year because that's what happens when you get the wind knocked out of you.  When you fall flat on your face and start feeling less "humbled" and more "humiliated."  It takes your breath away.

This year I'm thinking a lot about what Jesus said on the cross.  He said, "It is finished."

It:  The work of love. The work of salvation.  The sacrifice.  The ransoming of billions and billions of souls.  The thing that Jesus came to earth to do:  save us.

I'm listening to this song by Matt Papa this year.  I hope you will too.

[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LyKwgYhP6I[/youtube]

"The earth shook and trembled The sun bowed it's head The veil of the temple was opened for men As Jesus went down in the cold of the grave, Defeated the darkness when He overcame The keys of the kingdom were placed into hands Of children and priests and of fishers of men Throughout generations his voice will be heard Creation resounds the victorious words!

'It is finished' It is done To the world salvation comes Hallelujah We're alive! Hell was silenced when you cried.. It is finished."

(The official music video contains scenes from The Passion of the Christ.  If you think you might find this troubling or too difficult to watch, maybe just listen.)

Beware Cheap Grace

The thing about debtors is, they owe you. Debtors aren't debtors because of misunderstandings.  (Or oversights, inconsideration, or failed communications.)   Debtors are the people to whom you could say, "You abused me.  You took advantage of me.  You injured me.  You were wrong.  You owe me."

Debtors didn't offend us;  debtors owe us.

If, when you consider where you should extend forgiveness, you think first of workplace foibles - of excusing tardiness, dismissing gossip, and generally tolerating annoyingness - then your struggle isn't unforgiveness.  Your struggle is being too easily offended.

If it's lack of common courtesy (or sense) that burns you up, you don't need to forgive as much as you need to get over it.

I am wary of extending cheap grace and calling it forgiveness.  I'm afraid that, when challenged by the doctrine of forgiveness, we choose to forgive foolishness, because it's too hard to forgive debts.

Cheap grace is:

"She took my baby name even though she knew I wanted to use it, but I forgive her."

"He clocks out early every day and I have to clean up alone, but I forgive him."

"She didn't text me back, but I forgive her."

Of course these offenses should be resolved, lest bitterness take root and brotherly love erode over time.  But if these are the sorts of things you pride yourself in forgiving?  Well, that forgiveness didn't cost you much.  Your personal preference if anything.  It's cheap grace.

Jesus didn’t die on the cross so you could politely tolerate annoyances or learn to let go of frustrations.  Frustrations don't require the shedding of blood to be set right.  Nobody ever had to die to make up for being kind of a jerk.

But the debt we owed to the God who requires justice?  That debt had to be paid in blood.  For generations God's people slayed a million lambs on a million alters, sin offerings, blood in their place.  They did it right up until Jesus put an end to it.  He was the spotless animal, the sacrifice - the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.  When Jesus died in your place, He didn't do it because he was frustrated with you.  He did it because you owed a debt you could not pay and live.

He demonstrated radical, scandalous, unthinkable, could-only-be-divine grace.  And it cost Him.

The gospel is not a story of cheap grace.

So as I live out the gospel, I dare not cheapen it.

"But where sin abounded, grace abounded all the more."  The bigger the offense, the bigger the forgiveness.  That's how it works in God's economy.

To forgive our debtors will cost us.  If it doesn't cost us, they weren't debtors.  Real grace is anything but cheap.

//

I had this post half-written, waiting in my drafts, when I saw this article from the New York Times called "Portraits of Reconciliation."  I saw the first image and my heart broke and leapt at the same time.  I knew, "It's time."

The piece is a collection of portraits of victims of the Rwandan genocide with their perpetrators.  The perpetrators that killed their husbands and fathers and children.  The perpetrators that burned their houses down.  The perpetrators THEY FORGAVE.

This is not cheap grace.  This is huge, agonizing, torturous loss, and huge, lavish, unimaginable mercy.  It was difficult for me to read, because my insides ache to think what this kind of forgiveness costs.  But it challenged me.  It forced me to consider my own ugliness - that I am first a sinner, and only then sinned against.  It reminded me that people can do hard things - and God can do impossible things.  It reminded me not to settle for cheap grace.  I hope it reminds you, too.

Dominique Ndahimana Perpetrator (left)

Cansilde Munganyinka Survivor

NDAHIMANA: “The day I thought of asking pardon, I felt unburdened and relieved. I had lost my humanity because of the crime I committed, but now I am like any human being.”

MUNGANYINKA: “After I was chased from my village and Dominique and others looted it, I became homeless and insane. Later, when he asked my pardon, I said: ‘I have nothing to feed my children. Are you going to help raise my children? Are you going to build a house for them?’ The next week, Dominique came with some survivors and former prisoners who perpetrated genocide. There were more than 50 of them, and they built my family a house. Ever since then, I have started to feel better. I was like a dry stick; now I feel peaceful in my heart, and I share this peace with my neighbors.”

You can read the whole New York Times Article, and see more photos, here.  I recommend it.