How God's Knees Got Dirty

I’m good with kids. Kids usually like me.  People assume I’m good with kids because I really like kids, but those people are wrong. The reason kids like me is because I meet them on their level. I physically get down on the floor and look into their eyes. I talk about what they want to talk about. I ask about what they are interested in. Just like adults, kids like to talk about their interests. If you are willing to get down on a kid’s level and talk about princesses, dragons, or whatever is cool to them, they will like you. That is my secret. Use it well.

This secret wasn’t original with me. I learned it from God - because God sent Jesus down to our level. Jesus got down on the floor to learn what we care about. Jesus was God reaching down to us. God got on our level by becoming human.

God created a beautiful world for us. God, the ultimate promise-keeper, told us he loved us. That, in and of itself, should have been enough to ensure our dedication to our God, to His ways, and to His plan for us.  It wasn’t.

Have you ever known a wife who complains that her husband never tells her he loves her?  When you talk to her husband, his response might be, “I told her that once and I haven’t told her my feelings for her have changed, so she should know that I love her.” That husband believes his word is a solid promise, and there is no need to repeat it. It may be true that we should be able to believe a statement forever, but we don’t usually work that way. Wives want to hear how much their husbands love them, and they want to hear it on a regular basis. It isn’t that she didn’t believe her husband that one time he told her, it’s just that as the world beats her down, she wants her man to reassure her of his love.  She wants to be reminded that she is important.

We are that way with God. He told us he loved us. Like a wife, we believed until we didn’t. The evil one is good at putting doubts in our mind. He is good at pointing out what we lack as a person and what our relationships lack. God was so much bigger than Adam and Eve. He was not like them. They doubted his goodness, his kindness, and his ability to relate to them. Satan convinced Adam and Eve that God was holding out on them and that they should want to be like God themselves. We all know that the schemes of the enemy did work and Adam and Eve sinned as a result of their desire to become like God.

(Side rant: poor Adam and Eve. They get to be labeled as the wreckers of everything good for all time. I think it’s really unfair. If it had been Adam and Marlys, things would have gone the same way. Go ahead and fill in your own name as well. We all would have screwed this thing up eventually.  Also, we don’t really know how long they lived in the garden!  They could have done it right for years!  They might have lived a thousand years in the garden, obeying and loving life.  We focus the story on the one bad move they made, but the Bible doesn’t tell us how long they did it right. That was before death existed. My theory is that they only started counting the years that passed after the fall, which makes it impossible to know how long they were in the garden pre-sin.  I’m just sayin’ - give A and E a little slack, you sinner, you! BTW, I’m no biblical scholar, so if you want to tell me why my argument here is lame, that’s fine, but that isn’t really my point… this is just a side rant.)

So, we didn’t believe God.  We wanted someone who looked like us and acted like us. We wanted someone we could understand. We wanted someone we could relate to. We couldn’t relate to the perfectness and bigness of God. We are a stupid race.

God loves us. He wants us to really understand that. He wants us to be with him, to relate to Him, to know him. He knew things didn’t work in the garden, so he made a plan: he got down on the floor with us. He talked about the silly things we wanted to talk about. He explained things to us on a child’s level. He opened a new door for us to understand His love for us.  He put skin on and dirtied His knees so I could get it, remember it, and hold on to it. He LOVES me.

I still forget sometimes. I bet you do, too.  When I start to forget, I try to picture the cross. I try to picture God... with skin on. I try to remember his dirty knees… from getting down on my level to play with me.

Thanks, God, for getting down on my level and telling me “I love you” for the trillionth time.

Coff-tastrophe

This morning I had a coffee catastrophe. I guess you could call it a coff-tastrophe.

It is almost time for a new bag of filters. When the filters are running low and the bag is nearly empty, the filters lose their pleats. They lose their ability to stand firm. The end-of-the-bag filters are weak (poor filters). I used one such weak filter this morning. It ended badly.

When the weak filter lost its ability to stand firm against the gush of water, it folded. It fell. It lost the battle in the war to keep the grains out of the coffee pot while letting the flow of coffee carry on. This was a serious breach in the battle for coffee without grains. The grains gained access to the entrance into the pot.

The grains love the idea of being in the pot. Their life is lived in only a moment when the water passes through, and then they are discarded. The grains are unappreciated. The water is savored.

The grains are the important part of the coffee making process!  Without them there is only water!  The brown goodness of coffee, the flavor, the essence of the coffee is found in the grains. When the grains saw their chance, they made their way to the pot. The coffee maker is not equipped to deal with a buildup of grains in the small exit hole for the filter basket. The hole plugged up. The basket filled up.  The water had no way to get into the pot with the hole plugged with grains. The remaining grains in the basket floated up as the water rose. Eventually the water exceeded the height of the basket and the coffee mixture ran out all over the coffee pot, the coffee maker, the counter, and the floor. This in itself wouldn’t seem like a catastrophe if it had happened, say, after I had had my coffee. It happened before I had my coffee, which automatically upgraded the event to a catastrophe.

Coffee is the thing that helps me get to the place where I can deal with various catastrophes. A pre-coffee catastrophe makes dealing with a catastrophe seem much worse. MUCH worse. I have to be awake and coffeed before I can deal with the things that don’t go well in my day. It isn’t even about the caffeine. I like to be good and awake before I have to deal with anything stressful (it is a tiny bit about the caffeine). I like to wake up slowly with my hot coffee by my side (it is a little about the caffeine). I have my routine in the morning. I like to stick to it. It helps me get ready for life. I get up, I get my coffee made, I drink my coffee while I sit at the computer and read.  It is a nice and gentle way to wake up (it is somewhat about the caffeine).

I love the warmth of coffee. I love the taste of coffee after I’ve added just the right stuff. I love the way it feels to hold the cup in my hand. I love how it transforms me from groggy/unaware/uninterested in life, to awake/alive/excited about my day (okay, it is about the caffeine).

When something goes wrong in my coffee routine, I feel like my day is a bit off.

Thankfully, today before the grains made their assault on the filter basket exit, some coffee made it into the pot unhindered. I was able to rescue a small cup of coffee. I will have to avoid the grains at the bottom of the cup, do a lot of cleaning, and make a new pot of coffee - but for now, I am drinking coffee... ahhhhhhhh.

There is still hope for this coff-tastrophic day.

If You Really Knew Me, You Would Hate Me.

“If you really knew me, you would hate me.”

I didn’t believe that statement about myself for a really long time. People usually like me. I definitely annoy some people (BTW, I’m not asking for people who know me to give examples of ways I’m unlikable), but usually I like people, and they like me.

I’m one of those seemingly “happy people.” I am outgoing and nice.  All that said, when Paul labels himself as the “worst of sinners” (1 Tim 1:15), I didn’t feel on par with him. When people would say things like, “you wouldn’t like the real me,”  I didn’t relate. I really wasn’t harboring any hatred or murderous thoughts. I wasn’t stealing or running a drug business on the side. I wasn’t even all that jealous of what you had.  I did get that I was a sinner and needed a savior but I didn’t really believe I was capable of EVERY sin.  But that was then. This is now. I’ve lived longer. I’ve been tempted in more ways. I’ve been hurt. I’ve been the target for someone else’s arrows and I have sent my own arrows flying.

Suffering is a good teacher, but it also releases what is really inside you.  I have learned so much through the suffering I have experienced in my life. I can relate to so many more people because of it. I can also recognize there are many dark places in me. I really didn’t think I was capable of every sin, but I now see that I am. This realization has the potential to really knock me down and make me depressed - but it gives me freedom.

If I believe I can save myself by being good, I’m missing out on the freedom that Christ brings.  I know I can’t save myself. I know I need Christ to give me that “ticket” into heaven, but I often think I can control myself. I can’t even do that.  I need the power of Christ to do the simplest things.  I need Christ to save me from greed, envy, lust, sloth, wrath, pride, gluttony, and even the desire to murder.

If you knew the darkest parts of me, you would hate me. I am capable of every sin.

Here is the scary part: so are you. You too, are capable of every sin.

If we were put into the perfectly right circumstances (or perfectly wrong), we could do things we do not believe we are capable of.  We, like Paul, are capable of being the “worst of sinners”.

There are two really cool things about realizing what a wretch I am. First, it gives me more of an understanding of what Jesus really did for me. He didn’t just die for a likable girl who sometimes sins a little bit. He died for me, the worst of sinners. Second, if I am such a degenerate, it should be easier for me to forgive those who sin against me. I know how bad I am, so when others turn out to be bad too, it shouldn’t surprise me.  If a perfect Jesus can forgive my sinful heart, then in my imperfectness, I should be able to forgive others their sins against me.

If you really knew me, you would hate me. I am thankful that you can get to know the Christ in me instead.

How Running Made Me Famous

I ran this morning. No, I will not tell you where I was running.

That is no unusual thing in and of itself, but today it was unusual. Have you ever seen a car with a tall tower disco-ball-looking-thing on top?  Only, instead of delightful, small mirrors that make you wanna dance,  there is a large mass of cameras where the mirrors should be.  It is an unusual site (unless of course you work for Google Maps… and then I suppose it is a normal site for you). The disco truck went by me, and I thought, “What the heck was that?” (Yes, even in my own head I don’t use the real cuss word... I was raised that way).  It dawned on me what I was seeing (largely due to the fact that the vehicle has “Google Maps” written on it in large letters). Then it hit me: I’m finally famous!  My picture will be on the web!  That glee was followed seconds later by: Oh, no...  I’m running! The picture I want to be on the web is not one of me running.

Uh, no, I will not tell you where I was running.

Let’s talk a little bit about “appropriate dress.”  I dress very differently in different situations. I choose attire according to the weather, the activity, the audience, the venue, the type of people who will be attending, and - of course - my mood.
 
I live in Texas. Only two words sum up the weather here: it’s HOT. Hot weather demands less clothing.  During a Texas summer, every man, woman, and  child has to make that all-important decision as to what they think is just enough clothing to cover all the important bits and still remain as cool as possible.  While this delicate balance skews one way for church or an outing with friends, it looks completely different for, say, swimming. I don’t want to go out to eat in my swimsuit, but I also don’t want to swim in my jeans, t-shirt, and shoes. I have actually done that. I took an advanced swimming class that required it.

Swimming with clothes on isn’t fun. It feels like you have someone (say, a younger, smaller sibling) hanging on you, pulling you down, trying to kill you. I don’t have any younger siblings who want to kill me (or any younger siblings at all) so I’m just using my imagination here. But I digress…I realize that when I run, I am not in my own bedroom.  I know that there will be people around who will see me.  I know that when I am in the great outdoors, it is a distinct possibility that someone I know will see me… but let’s face it, when I am running in my own neighborhood, I am only going to see a few people, and most of them are walking dogs or exercising – they are also out in the heat and are completely able to relate to the nature of Texas weather. They feel my pain and I, theirs; no judgment. The people who use Google Maps (aka: THE WORLD) will not have that same level of camaraderie with me. Removing me from my actual environment and putting me in a whole new environment (the internet - where anyone can see me) troubles me deeply.

No, I still will not tell you where I was running. Stop asking.

Okay, so now you are wondering what I was wearing.  I believe “appropriate dress” for running includes a sports bra, a tank top, and running shorts.  No, I do not run in just a sports bra and shorts… kudos to you who do…. I don’t have the stomach for it (meaning that I don’t have a shapely enough stomach to show in public, but the other interpretation really works here too).  I would not wear a running tank top and running shorts to lunch with friends or to the dentist.  I wouldn’t wear them to a business meeting (actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a business meeting).  When I left this morning, I wasn’t headed to any of those things… I was headed out to run.

This isn’t just about the outfit. It’s about the whole running look. I sweat. A LOT (see also: it’s HOT!). I wear a headband to keep my soon-to-be-sweat-soaked hair out of my face. I’m also a pale kind of gal, and when I get hot my face turns red.  I mean RED. When people see me, they think I’m dying. Concerned Samaritan types bring me bottles of water, sure I’m about to collapse.  It’s not pretty, but this is just the way I look when I get hot.

This “look” is not the look I want to broadcast to the wide world.

I guess my point is that, while I swim in a swimsuit and not a jogging suit (don’t laugh, I know people who do - remember, I home school), I wouldn’t want a picture of me in a swimsuit on the internet for all to see…

And, no, I will not tell you where I was running, stop asking. Begging does not become you.

Losing Things and Super Heroes I Wish Existed, Part 2

If you were with me for the first part of this journey, I am sorry to have left you hanging. I know you have already battled through the “proving my identity” part of this tale and wanted to see me through to its fruition: me with a new license.

I did not leave you waiting for no reason at all. I think you could not appreciate the next part of my journey until you had, in fact, spent some time waiting for it.

To wait: to be available or in readiness.

You, reader, had the privilege of waiting in the comfort of your own environment. I had no such comfort as I waited… and so my tale continues.

When the voter’s card got the DMV lady’s approval, she gave me a number. That in and of itself seemed like a good thing. I had a number! I was approved! I passed go!

That is how they suck you in.  They give you a ticket with a number. I’m not sure how this small piece of paper has such power over us humans, but it does. It does. I held my ticket and rounded the corner into the waiting room. This was when I had my first glimpse of what lay in store for me… but it was only a glimpse.

There were rows and rows of chairs that were, no doubt, picked for their discomfort and lack of appeal. Each chair was occupied.  There was a counter for paper work, complete with forms and pens that were attached to the counter so they would not walk away with any of the tens (Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? Billions?) of people in that room. There was very little air circulating.  It felt like I was either in a movie about a town that was lost in time, or a waiting room in a third world country. There were teenagers sitting all over the floor while waiting for their driving test. There were babies crying in every corner of the room. There were old men and women, young men and women, middle-aged men and women, and children. This particular abyss discriminated against no race, religion, sex, or age group.

I do not like crowds, and I never have. (I was the one teenage girl that hated the mall.) But my feelings of animosity toward crowds have vastly intensified over the years. When I walk into a crowded room now, I feel like I suddenly become a magnet whose polarity has been reversed; I am unable to get close to the crowd, and each time I try I am bounced away from the crowd. I must get away… I have no choice. I viewed my fate. It was no good. 

When I walked in, someone got up from their chair and left. I looked around, and no floor-sitter or hall-stander went for the chair. I decided I would go for that chair. I tried to make myself as small as possible and wedged myself into the small area that contained that chair. I sat down.

Let me try to explain the truly painful activity that was sitting in these chairs. These chairs must not have been made with the human form in mind.  These chairs must have been built to seat a far-away race that has a completely different style of sitting and completely different joints that bend in unusual ways. They seem to be perfect for causing pain in almost every body part that touches the chair. Perhaps these chairs were created to punish uncooperative prisoners, giving incentive to the inmate who knew that with cooperation came more comfortable furniture. 

The chair was not comfortable, but at least I had a place to rest and was not in the way of anyone else - except those on my right, my left, in front, and in back of me (and that was a far smaller number than if I had to stand).  There was no good place to stand. The room was filled with chairs. Filled. So those who were standing in any place other than around the writing counter were completely in the way and were an annoyance to anyone who tried to move anywhere.  I suppose some of those good people had already sat in the chairs and discovered their discomfort and opted for the lesser of two evils. I chose my evil and would live or die with it.

The DMV also sucks you in with the light up board and the numbers being called out. You hear and see numbers. (Kudos to the DMV for choosing to reach out to both audio learners and visual learners! That will be the one nice thing that I say about the DMV.)   You see people getting up.  You see movement. You begin to be sucked into the “waiting abyss.” However, when you see people move and leave, you do not have all the information. You do not know that the group that is moving has already spent hours, days, months in this waiting abyss. You only start asking for the information when you have gone well past your tolerance level for these types of situations.  Everyone is fidgeting. Everyone has that annoyed look on their face.  There are people who blindly came with their children thinking it would not take too long and now their children are yelling.  There are people who no longer care to be polite, and they have stretched out their legs and are causing great discomfort to all around them.  There are people who look like they are on a reality show called “American Loser.” There are some real contenders for the big win on that show here.

Who are these people? They live near me? I might need to consider moving after this. But that would involve getting a new license… Forget it.

Normally, an experience like this would send you running. In the DMV scenario, you are stuck. They sucked you in with their information line, your ticket with a number on it, their fancy light-up number board, and their automated voice calling out the numbers.  They also trick you by not having one set of sequential numbers.  If the numbers were sequential, you would have an accurate idea of how long you would be stuck there, and then they would have anarchy on their hands!

Each number group signifies what you are there for. For example, all the teenagers taking the driving test might have a number in the 400s.  A person getting a duplicate license might have a number in the 200s.  When you are an innocent (dumb) lamb sitting there, you hear a sequence of numbers announced like this: “10, 10 at counter 1. 44, 44 at counter 14.,  999, 999 at counter 2, etc.” You have no idea how long a wait you really have until your number is called. Even if you hear the number right before your number, you may still have hours to wait before they get back to your number series!

When I reached that place where I felt I had sat there too long, I asked my neighbor how long she had been waiting. She said, “1 ½ hours.” I couldn’t believe that! Then the gal behind me said they had been there for 3 hours. THREE HOURS? Sitting in those horrible chairs that were trying to wreck my back and make me cry?!  At that point, I wanted to leave. I had only been there for an hour.  But I couldn’t leave. I needed a license. This was the only day I had no kids and no plans; I had to stay. I had to stay right there in one of my personal versions of hell.

I looked at the man next to me. He was an older gentleman, and his face had the look that said, “I am going to die right here.” I tried to think positively: the day would end eventually, and I would have my license, right?  Or maybe the world would end first…

As I sat there hoping for Armageddon, or something that would free us from this DMV web we had been caught up in, I had another moment of panic. I started this adventure at 2:00. If it took more than 3 hours, this place would close before I could get my turn! I would have to do this all over again!  NOOOOOO!

At the point when I was about to stand up and scream, “We are NEVER getting out of here!  NEVER!” I noticed a sign that said they were open until 6:00 on Tuesdays. This was Tuesday.  I continued on my path. I listened to babies cry, prayed for more air circulation, tried to maneuver in my chair again to find a less uncomfortable position, and hoped for Jesus’ return.

After what seemed like days, I decided living on the edge with no license at all might be a fun new adventure. I am a good driver.  I could probably go for months and months before I was discovered. As I gathered my things to begin my new life on the edge, they finally called my number. I got to go to counter 14. It only took two minutes at the counter to get everything squared away. 

So, 3 hours and 2 minutes after I began the journey into the waiting abyss, I had a backache, a new appreciation for my roomy house with comfortable furniture, and my temporary license.

Losing Things and Super Heroes I Wish Existed

I lost my driver license (side note: I never can remember how to spell that word). Or maybe someone stole my driver license. Maybe YOU stole it. All I know is that it is not in my wallet where it normally resides. I also know that a lost driver license is an annoying pain in my life. I hate annoying pains… I guess they are appropriately named.

The story goes like this:  I was going to the bank. I was getting cash. I had to send my license in the tube (yes, I was in the drive-through… I have kids in the car, so I don’t want to park and go in the bank. Plus, I figure I avoid getting trapped in a hostage/bank robbery situation this way. And, I’m lazy).  I got my cash and went on my merry way only to discover the next day my license was no longer in the right spot.  I checked around for it: the place where I put the cash in my wallet, the car, etc., etc. No license.

Did I mention that this particular trip to the bank took place on a Friday?  When I discovered the loss, it was late Saturday afternoon, and the bank had just closed.  It would be Monday before I could see if the bank had my license.

I went on with normal life and told myself I had not gotten a ticket in 10 years and I was not going to get pulled over, so it would all be okay. (Side note: my dad did not agree with this logic.)

On Monday, I made my way to the bank, ever hopeful that my license rested in the safe hands of some sweet bank teller who only had my best interests at heart (they love me because I am their loyal customer, right?). I got to the bank. It was a different teller than I had used. This made me sad… not because I felt this new teller was incompetent but because if I had the same teller, they could at least recognize that they had seen me here Friday and either be immediately moved to give me my license or be ready to commiserate with me when it was discovered lost. The new teller checked for me and said no licenses were discovered on Friday (her wording revealed to me that they do indeed discover abandoned licenses on a regular basis which made me both sad and glad that I wasn’t the only idiot out there leaving such an important possession in the tube). What sadness; it wasn’t there waiting for me. I looked around the ground where I had taken the money out of the tube wondering if the license had dropped and was just waiting for me to return… no luck there, either. I drove home, dejected.

While some would immediately go to the DMV, I did not.  I had a friend who thought her license had been lost/stolen, and she immediately went to the DMV and put forth all the effort it took to replace her license (which is a lot) only to find her old license in her mailbox a couple of days later, courtesy of a kind Samaritan.  I decided I would give a hero Samaritan a chance to spare me the time I’d otherwise have to spend in a crowded government office.

While I waited for my hero,(we’ll call him/her “The PainSaver”, rescuer of damsels who face torturous, bureaucratic line-waiting), I made a plan: since my kids would be elsewhere one day next week, I would go to the DMV then - if the The PainSaver did not show up.

He didn’t show. Dang, I wish I had more “hero showing up” stories in my life! (I do have one great one…. about a man on a cross -  really intense,  saved-me-from-the-pit kind of stuff, but that is another blog entry!)

The new plan: DMV. I gathered my information. The problem with being a line-hating, crowd-avoiding, government building-detesting kind of gal is that I end up in situations where I need a new license. Oh, and I have never changed my social security card or passport to my new married name, you know, the name I got 8 or 9 years ago.

So, I got to the DMV.  I had to drive around until someone left so I could find a parking space. Not a good sign of things to come. I waited in the line for the information desk. I got up there with my expired passport with the wrong last name, my social security card with the wrong last name, and my car insurance proof with the right last name. I figured that the passport, the insurance card, and the DMV’s records would be enough to prove that I am really me. I was wrong. The person at the front desk didn’t even care to look at my expired passport. She didn’t even care that my insurance card had my correct name on it because it wasn’t on the “approved documents” list. 

With the “approved documents” list in hand, I headed home.  The way they do things at the DMV: if you have all your "approved documents" (with the correct name on them) it should be a breeze. If you have your current passport (with the correct name), you are golden.  BUT if you don’t have the one all-important doc, you need, like, 60 others to prove who you are!

So, I looked for the 60 documents (okay, 60 is a slight exaggeration… but I did need four) and finally found them all. I loaded up the minivan, Ole Blue (my son hates this name for the van and refuses to acknowledge it because Ole Blue is actually green. I tell him it isn’t about the color,  it’s about the personality of the vehicle, and she is clearly an “Ole Blue” kind of van) with my birth certificate (original name), social security card (1^st marriage name), marriage license (to show the change from the social security name), and voter’s registration card, and headed back to the DMV (the place I now call “the abyss”).

As I’m driving, I start to worrythat if I had a wreck on the way, all my most important documents would be lost in the shuffle as my injured, unconscious body was loaded on a gurney in the ambulance.  Then I’d really have trouble at the DMV!

I arrived to the crowded parking lot and had to make many circles before I finally found an open parking place.  I headed back to the line at the information desk. I approached the desk with my arm full of documents that proved who I am. Would you believe that it was the voter card that saved the day? Oh thank goodness for the voter’s card!  It may have absolutely no impact on changing the government for the better in the election, but it can help you prove your identity. Go figure!

It seems like this story is finally taking a turn for the better. If you believe that, dear reader, you are sadly mistaken. It was but one leg of a long, long journey. The next part of the journey I call, “The Wait”….. but that, my friends, is a tale for another blog entry….

10 selfish reasons why I home school my kids

            10 selfish reasons why I home school my kids:
 
        1.     I can sleep late.
        2.     I get to see my little ones’ precious faces all day.
        3.     I don’t have to skip my last cup of coffee to rush them off to 
                school.
        4.     I don’t have to stop in the middle of my day to go pick them up 
                from school.
        5.     I don’t have to make arrangements for them when they are sick.
        6.     I don’t have to get a doctor’s note when my child has an 
                appointment.
        7.     I don’t have to get up early to make their lunch.
        8.     I don’t have to buy new school supplies every year.
        9.     I don’t have to join the PTA or do fundraisers for their school.
       10.    I don’t have to buy uniforms or make sure they have the coolest
               clothes.

       10 unselfish reasons why I home school my kids: 

       1.     My children never get bullied at school.
       2.     They never have to eat gross school lunches.
       3.     They don’t have to deal with peer pressure at school.
       4.     They don’t have to set their alarms.
       5.     They don’t have to rush in the mornings.
       6.     They don’t have to go to after-school daycare.
       7.     They don’t have to sit still for hours every day.
       8.     They don’t have to stop if they want to keep going.
       9.     They don’t have to keep going if they are in tears over struggling 
               to learn a new concept.
      10.    They have plenty of time to PLAY every day.