Quit Asking Questions

In this season of my life I find myself carrying a couple of titles I didn't see coming...

In School Suspension Coordinator.

Cross Country Coach.

Sure, I guess I am good at discipline, remediation, and supervision. And I guess you can say I know how to run and I think it's fun and healthy and challenging. But I never thought either of these things would become my "job".

One thing is for sure, my days and afternoons at Watertown High School are filled with questions.

"But why did I have to have ISS?"

"Wait, I already turned this in. Can I go speak to that teacher?"

"Who put me in here?"

"Hey coach, how many miles are we running today?"

"Wait, where did you want us to run?"

"Coach, five hills...really?"

"Hey coach, what did you say?"

Questions. Repetitive questions. Questions spoken just to kill some time. Questions to which we already know the answer. They get on my nerves. A pet peeve of mine I guess you could say.

Way back when, the "experts in religion", the elders, the priests, and important "church" people, they all loved to ask questions of Jesus. Many times they were repetitive. The questions were in abundance. And almost always...I'd say a good 9.5 out of 10...the questions had an ulterior motive.

One day one of these fellas asked..."Hey Jesus, what should I do so I can go to heaven?"

Knowing this guy was an expert in the law, Jesus gives a question right back to him..."You know what the law says, right? How do you read it?"

The man answered with an affirmative..."Love God...and love your neighbor."

Ding ding ding! Right answer! And then Jesus told him to go and do it.

Question answered. Case closed. Job done. One would think so, but not so fast.

"And just who is my neighbor?"

I can almost hear the sarcasm of "A-ha I got you now!"

Now most all of us know what followed and I love it. Jesus pretty much made it clear and simple by telling a story. He spoke of a man taking care of another man who had been beaten that he supposedly didn't even like. Even an enemy is your neighbor! Boom!

We think the mic drop is a new and trendy thing to do today. Whatever. Jesus did it all the time back in the day.

Lately, I have had something else on my mind about this chunk of scripture...

We need to quit asking the same question today and start acting like we have heard the story and know the answer. Quit asking who your neighbor is and just start loving them! He already told you!

For the Samaritan it was the Jewish man. Today that may look like this...

For the healthy it's the sick. For the democrat it's the republican. For the straight man it's the homosexual. For the wealthy it's the homeless. For the married woman it is her friend who is divorcing.  For the cool kid that is walking the halls it's the kid that is made fun of and doesn't fit in. For a member of one "denomination" it's the member of another. For the sober minded it's the addict.  For the legal American it's the immigrant. For the Christian it's the atheist.

The list could go on and on. But the point is let's stop asking the same 2000 year old question trying to ignore the answer that has already been given. And you know what...the answer to this question may be the solution to all of our problems.

It doesn't matter if you agree on everything 100%...guess what you won't. LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR. It doesn't matter if they are in the wrong...somewhere along the way we all have been wrong about something. LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR.  It doesn't matter if it makes you uncomfortable...Jesus never once commanded us to be comfortable. LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR.  It doesn't matter if they are outside our circles...lots of folks that Jesus visited with were supposedly outside of his. LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR.

If we claim to love God we have no other option than to love your neighbor. We can't do one without the other. Let's quit asking the question and just do the job.

Jochebed, Hannah, and Mary

His cries and his babbles were just too frequent and too loud. She had hidden him for as long as she could. The labor had been so lonely, the delivery so hard, but it had been worth every second of the last three months. When this mother had first looked at the little face of the tiny boy, to doubt he was created to be great was impossible.

Her hands were sticky and rough from working with the papyrus and the tar. She was tired from the demands of motherhood. Her eyes filled with tears as she swaddled him tight and whispered a prayer of protection and eternal love. She placed him in the basket and soon found herself standing on the banks of the murky river.

With every hint of faith she could muster, she pushed aside the reeds and sat him sail, turning and walking away quickly before she changed her mind.

***

There wasn't a day that passed that she didn't remember the vow she had made. It was her first thought most mornings and her last most nights. She thought of it when he was nestled close to her breast for nourishment. His giggles were reminders of the commitment she had had made for him. As the little boy began to ask questions about the Creator, she was given assurance and confidence that he was equipped by a Higher Power for a greater purpose.

She had prayed for strength as she packed the food and gathered supplies for the trip. A few more days to Shiloh, and then the inevitable. Those last few days had seemed like seconds in time.

With their burnt offering complete, their greatest sacrifice was impending. She asked for some miraculous deliverance as she walked toward the priest. He remembered her and smiled with assurance and gratitude. She knelt beside her son, once again explaining his calling. Her lips brushed his cheek as she rose to her feet and raised her hands in worship to the One to whom her son had always belonged.

***

"It is as you have said."

She wondered why she had ever said the words. Why had she just not screamed with refusal? Would it have been possible to say no?

This was more than the mother of the thirty year old could stand. The hatred that spewed from their mouths. The sound of the whips.  The betrayal of his friends. The cheers from the mob. The look in His eyes. As she watched his hands weakly grip the wooden beam, her memories took her back to the little hands that held to her tightly as they walked the streets of Nazareth. She then knew it would have been impossible to have dismissed her duty allowing someone else to fill her role.

She had been present when this man had entered into this hard human world. She would be present when His soul left it. She had cheered him on in his first steps. She had cherished watching him work alongside his earthly father. She had encouraged his miraculous ways and watched in amazement as he had done the impossible. All of this was stored securely in her heart. She hadn't missed a moment; she would not miss the last.

So as his mother she would sit vigil on the hillside at the foot of this cross and watch her son become her Savior.

***

In the chaos of mothering my three, I wonder...

Could I have been as brave?

Could I have been as faithful?

Could I have been as willing?

I hurt. When they fall down and scrape their knee. When they slide into base and break their collar bone. When they fall onto the hard ground from atop the monkey bars. When their inquisitive nature has them stick their hand in a snow cone machine. I hurt.

I teach. First words, eating from a spoon, and potty training. ABCs and 123s. Bible verses and nursery rhymes. Homework and manners. How to clean and cook. How to drive. I teach.

I laugh. When I realize there is much more to the job than I realized. When they say the craziest things at the most inopportune time. Even when the joke isn't funny. When I realize I have no clue what is going on. When they laugh. I laugh.

I am proud. First steps and purple ribbons. Report cards full of As and Bs...or maybe even Cs. Ropes climbed, speeches given, and games won. Good decisions and kind words. Just to call them mine. I am proud.

I hurt more. When they are intentionally left out. When someone's words cut sharper than a knife. When they fail at something they love. When their innocence is taken from the cruelty of the world. I hurt so much more.

I pray. Safety and health. For forgiveness of the failures I am sure will lead them to years of therapy. Success and happiness. Wisdom and discernment. For their spouses and marriages. Spiritual growth. Freedom found in only Christ. Sweet dreams and love deeper still. I pray.

I am ashamed. When I lose my temper. When I am selfish with my time. When I miss a moment due to a preoccupation with my own agenda. When they are witness to my sinful nature. I am ashamed.

I love. To a fault. Unconditionally. Constantly and relentlessly. I love.

But am I as brave as Jochebed? Am I as faithful as Hannah? Is there anyway I could be as willing as Mary?

Maybe the waters of the Nile were just as murky as the hallways of today's high schools, or a city's busy streets, or the day to day routines in our grocery stores and peaceful neighborhoods. We have no idea what is lurking beneath the "waters". Will I let them go?

I must be brave.

Maybe today the smell of a coffee shop or a neighbor's house or even a locker room can have the same impact as the scent of the sacrifices on an alter in Samuel's day. It was about Eli bringing him to the feet of God. A friend, a mentor, or a coach can do those things, too. Will I share them?

I must trust and be faithful.

Maybe laying down one's life today looks like speaking up and out when others don't. Maybe it looks like sitting with the kid that is a little different and then being made fun of for doing so. Maybe it looks like an answer to a call that separates the physical presence of loved ones. Will I sit by them while they accept where the Spirit is leading them? Maybe it looks different from anything in my rearing and in my wheelhouse and as what I have always seen as the only way. Will I be open to what is different, but still just as true?

I must be willing.

But...

I am selfish and prideful. They are mine I want to keep them from the unknown. It is my job to keep them safe. It should be me that teaches them to be image bearers. I want to be the one that they come to and learn from. I want to show them the way to the Father. I want their mission to look like my own. I want to keep them where I can tangibly reach them and see them and be with them. They are mine. I am selfish. I am prideful.

I need forgiveness.

Father God, Forgive me. Make me selfless. Grace me with humility. Make me brave and help me push them out into the waters trusting Your plans for my children. Bring people into their lives to partner with me to guide them and teach them and bring them closer to resembling Your Son. Help me encourage them to sit at different feet than mine. Increase my faith in Your development of their faith. And make me willing to stand by their sides as they answer Your call, no matter what it may be or look like or even how hard it may be.

Make me brave. Increase my faith. Open my heart and make me willing.  

Sundays on Saba

Jackson's laugh, Nancy Caroline's dimple, Sadie's little feet. The color yellow, good coffee, and the smell of a #2 pencil. The way Michael says "comfort", a candle burning, and the feel a good book in my hand. The wisdom of my father, the love of my mother, and the feel of home. Sundays on Saba.

These are a few of my favorite things.

When we moved to Saba years ago, we knew that churching was going to be a bit of a challenge. The type of church we had been accustomed to and raised in was not found on the island. But worshiping our Father was a must and we decided to do that in our home. God provided a few friends that shared the same type of spiritual background so we met together. Sundays quickly became one of my favorite parts of my life on Saba.

Lately I have been trying to take my mind back to those sacred days and try to put my finger on why they were so special.

In the informality of our homes we would sing praises and study the scriptures.  We prayed together.  We studied and asked questions. We communed and visited. We shared our fears and doubts. We gathered in our living rooms and around dinner tables. There was an abundance of laughter and then even tears at times. We visited and then we rested. If I have ever known true Sabbath, Sundays on Saba were it.

With that Sabbath came peace and assurance of Kingdom living that had purpose and was undeniably God breathed. We studied and discipled. We served those in our circle and those outside our circle. Everyone was welcomed. Questions could be asked and genuinely heard and taken to heart. And then we attempted to answer them. Equality was understood and respected. We valued each other's views, feelings, wants, and needs.  We respected each other's backgrounds and cultures. No one placed limitations guided by human opinions.  I do not remember anyone ever being offended or demanding their own way.

On Sunday mornings I never worried about what I was going to wear or if Michael would be judged for wearing something someone deemed disrespectful. Some days the Caribbean heat was a bit much. Other days the dampness could be felt as the clouds floated through our opened windows. Neither of these ever drew complaints. Some of us sat on the floor. Some of us sat on bar stools that had no backs. There were no walls to paint, floors to carpet, or parking lots to resurface.  All of our tithing went to help people who needed to be loved in some way.

What does one call this? This is the truest definition of church. Most of us are never blessed enough to experience it openly and honestly. As I spend more and more time in the corporate American church, I praise the Creator of it more and more for the two years I got to taste it. It was not perfect...but it was truth seeking and love giving. The two must go hand in hand. And contrary to belief, it is possible.

Relationship, true relationship is so very hard. Godly hospitality is even harder. Loving the way Christ did for most of us is the hardest. But He is the head of the church...He claimed it and took ownership of it. All He asks of us is to acknowledge Him as the leader He is and act like He is our Lord. And to be quite blunt, for the most part we stink at this task.

We allow cultural preferences to become truth and traditional norms to be the sole expectations. The status quo becomes gospel. We are blinded by the comforts of what we have always known. We make gods out of men who should be seen as shepherds and send servant hearted deacons to do minuscule tasks that Jesus never saw coming. We have silenced and ignored women to a fault and that is a huge loss. Boys have a whole list of intimidating expectations to arise to while little girls can't find their place in the Kingdom as it has been painted. Our opinions out weigh biblical truth and our insistence on comfort overshadows Christ's example of uninhibited, unconditional, true, hospitable, relational love.

Our selfish and prideful human desires have become the head of the Church.

God have mercy on us.

We must seek Sabbath and look to resembling our namesake until His reflection is all that can be seen. What does that look like? How can we know? Look at the stories. Read the word. Ask the questions. You will find love and joy and hope full of faith with arms and hearts opened wide. There will be no stoic faces graced with silenced mouths with arms crossed or hands in full pockets. No hard fast, cold opinion oriented rules with a heavy dose of disappointment and scolding ready to be dealt.  Just a place to be heard and accepted and discipled and loved.

And that doesn't only have to take place in a house on a little remote island. That's just where it happened for me. It can take place in an African village or on a Southeast Asian street or in a Mexican orphanage. It can occur in a classroom or at a camp or in a coffee shop. When Jesus walked the earth it took place by the sea, at wells full of water, and on hillsides. It can take place anywhere, even in the comfort of an American "church building". Some of us just have to have the courage to stand up and make it happen.

Motherhood, Jesus, and an Instapot

Hey fellow mommas, I want you to know that I think this is tough, too.

It hasn't been lying on my back in a blanket of grass, laughing, and blowing bubbles with my little one. Yes, I will admit, that is what my crazy disillusioned brain thought this motherhood thing would be like. Yeah, we'd pick flowers and bake cookies and whisper bedtime lullabies.  As they grew, I'd become a friend and the eternally "cool mom". We'd talk through the little hiccups of life and there would be peace and we'd live the dream. A walk in the park. A bed of roses. One beautiful moment after another, and I'd be blissfully thankful for all of it.

Reality.

I am allergic to ants so I can't lay in the grass. If there is an open bottle of bubbles, any given toddler WILL spill it all over the place. It's easier to buy flowers. Cookies burn. Michael Thomas + Aletha Thomas = Loud Children and Loud Lullabies.  "Cool" isn't even a word the new generations use, much less put it with the word "mom". Peaceful and little and hiccup do not go hand in hand. A walk in the hype of Times Square. A bed of dirty, stinky bed sheets. Yeah that is more like it. But still...

Beautiful moment, after beautiful moment creating blissful thankfulness.

Instead of being thankful for those dreamed up made from scratch cookies, last night with a room full of other mothers of different ages gathered around open bibles, I gave thanksgiving to our Creator for my Instapot.  An Instapot, y'all, an Instapot. I thanked God for my Instapot.

I couldn't help but chuckle and the ladies laughed. Humanity. We usually lose sight of how beautiful of a thing it really is. The simplicity of laughter. The honesty of being grateful for a kitchen utensil. The vulnerability of allowing others see that in a day that most of us could relate to, if being thankful for an Instapot is all that we could speak, then we knew He understood.

The thankfulness for the Instapot comes from it being a tool that made life easier on an afternoon and evening that seemed impossible. It gave me some breathing room and extra time and helped me feed five other hungry mouths. Grace that can be pressure cooked in ten minutes.

The Instapot was the easiest solution to the easiest first world problem. If I really wanted to live out vulnerability and relationship and community, then I need to open up about what is behind the Instapot prayer.

The feelings of inadequacy. I am supposed to meet their needs...to feed them and clothe them and house them. I am supposed to encourage their talents and help them reach their goals...be the biggest cheerleader and taxi driver around. But three kids, three different sets of talents and passions and goals...I can't seem to do it all. There are only 24 hours in a day.  But then there is so much more. The bigger stuff. The questions I ask myself in my own head...Am I laughing enough with them? Am I answering their questions the way I should? Am I listening? Am I tuned in? Am I showing up...and not just physically?

The fear of the unknown. It is a fear that many don't acknowledge. It makes me shutter.  I know it happens, I read the stories and have witnessed the aftermath.  The questions silently continue to the point it's hard to think about anything else. Are they hurting? Is someone or something bothering them? Are they carrying a burden all alone? Are they scared or confused or depressed? Why won't they tell me?  And this world they are living in...it is crazy! There isn't any way to protect them from things I can't see coming. And the greatest fear...satan...is he after them?

The shame of selfishness. I want to be all things to the three kids all the time. I want to be their go to; always first; always before everyone else, even there earthly father...now how selfish is that?! Maybe even controlling...and that makes me want to vomit. But on the flip side...the side that "supermoms" aren't supposed to feel ever. But if we are being honest...I want to to have time to myself. I want to eat an entire plate of food without sharing or letting it get cold. I want to decide to go somewhere on a whim and not have to come up with solutions to the gaps my absence leaves in an itinerary of life for five. Ughhh...I am embarrassed to even say that.

The absence of faith. He made me their mom. He wouldn't give me any more than I can handle. He knows I can do this...therefore I can...at least I think I can? He isn't only my Father...He is their Father. He knows them better than I do and loves them infinitely more than I do. He knows the number of hairs on their heads, the thoughts in their brains, and all the emotions that are stirring in their little souls. My faith should erase the fear of the unknown, ease the feelings of inadequacy and remove the shame of selfishness. But I doubt and question and I am weak.

Therefore He will be made strong.

A guy in my church family always reminds us of this...Jesus was 100% God but also 100% human. He gets us. He was never a mother, but when we grasp this massive ratio, then we know He can relate. It's why He came. To be with us. To walk on the same earth. To understand. To love us well.

Emmanuel.

I wonder if He ever thought, "Did I do enough? Did they understand what I said?"

In the wilderness or in garden I wonder if the fear of the unknown was present.

When there were so many people needing His help that He couldn't even find time to eat, I wonder if that is when He knew what selfishness might feel like.

He was God, but He was human so I wonder if He had to question why He had even come at times.

Everytime I plug up that Instapot, I hope I can always be thankful. Thanksgiving needs to be given for the opportunity of being a mother who feels inadequate at times, who is afraid of the unknown and can be selfish, and whose faith isn't always as present as it should be.

It makes me 100% human.

The fact that He was 100% human, too gives me comfort, provides relationship, and creates confidence when much is lost.

The fact that He was 100% God, clothes me in grace, grounds me in hope, restores my faith, and redeems me, even in this crazy thing we call motherhood.

Peanut Butter and Bread

Years ago as a young teacher I had a room full of rambunctious middle school aged boys and girls. They were full of life and questions and energy, not to mention hormones. The classroom could be loud and smelly and curious. And I loved it.

One young lady really caught my attention from the get go. Many would not have called her a young lady. She could easily get into trouble it seemed. This girl was quick tempered, out spoken, and strong willed. She was a loner for the most part, but no one could ever doubt her presence.

And she was always hungry.

I first thought of her as every other growing child…they all always seem hungry. But the more I was around her the more evident it was that this situation was different. After a little questioning and investigation, the reality was made clear.

This girl was left to herself most evenings and most mornings. Her mother stayed out late at night, doing things of her own accord. The late nights for the mom meant that this student was left to fend for herself in the mornings before school.  The adults in this young girl’s life found time to party and have fun and take care of themselves. But the important responsibilities left to the caretaking adults were forgotten. The table in their kitchen and shelves in their pantry stayed bare.

As much trouble as this little lady could be, she grew on me. We got to know each other better and better.  I had her for two classes each day. And every day she knew she could find a peanut butter sandwich at my desk.

Peanut butter and bread.

Simple and inexpensive.  

But pretty important to my young friend and student.

I still occasionally see this little girl who now is a grown woman; a mother herself. She and I always laugh together and exchange a hug when we meet. Throughout the years she has returned the favor and helped me with a few things. It brings a smile to my face…but a question lingers in my heart.

Does she know why I gave her a peanut butter sandwich day after day during that given school year?

She never asked. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have told her.

Back then maybe I didn’t really understand exactly why I took the time to spread some goodness on a couple of pieces of bread every day and Ziploc it up for freshness.

Now after a long while and few more life experiences, I know I get it. But I am still learning to speak it.

It starts with an easy two syllable word.

A name. A man. A savior.

Jesus.

We can go to a far off places and take food or shoes or medical care or a thousand other things that are needed. We can walk down our side walk and take a peace offering in the form of a pie. We can care for people struggling with a world of addictions. We can hold babies and build relationships with teenagers and care for the widows. We can visit homes, orphanages, and hospitals. We can seek justice and truth. We can do a lot. We can do it all.

But what good are actions mirrored as His if we don't speak His name?

He deserves every ounce of the credit. Through our actions AND through our words. It's all about balance. It takes both.

So by chance if that young girl now turned grown woman is reading this…

I hope you remember the peanut butter and bread. The reason I made all those sandwiches is because a man lived many many years ago and He liked to feed people too. He fed them by the seashores and around campfires and at tables.  He even took a little bit of food a couple of times and fed thousands of people. He was cool like that…He lived to do great things…even for something as simple as an empty belly. 

He did even greater things like healing people, raising the dead, and spreading joy. But the greatest thing He ever did…He died for me and then God His Father raised Him. He still lives today up in heaven and He will come back. Right now, He wants all of us to do the types of things He did while He walked around on earth.  So the least I could do is to make a few peanut butter sandwiches for a beautiful, energetic, and vivacious young lady that needed something to eat.

I love you still today, but this man loves you even more. His name is Jesus. And He died for you too.

If you ever want to, I’d love to tell you more about Him. Maybe we can even talk about Him over a peanut butter sandwich.

Exhausted

I love watching the three kids sleep. Throw their daddy into the equation and it’s perfect. 

They amaze me. Even at 30,000 feet they can snooze with the best of them. 

Eyes shut. Mouth open. Even breathing. A snore or two.

It’s perfection. 

It’s funny what a mom will find as perfection. In this moment...on this flight...I have found it. 

They are exhausted. A couple more than the other two I think, but nonetheless, it’s exhaustion. And my oh my, it is the best of exhaustions.

It’s the the Caribbean heat exhaustion. These Tennessee born and bred kids have been a bit too close to the equator for two weeks.

It’s the never miss a minute of the day exhaustion. You might miss something if you close your eyes. You only have 14 days. Not a minute to lose.

It’s the constant community exhaustion. Sleeping literally cheek to cheek with 21 young adults/college students. Eating at a table for 27. Talking about God, His story, and how we fill a role. 24/7.

It’s running 90 to nothing for days so children will laugh and feel loved and come to know what it looks like to live like Him. 

It’s deep. It’s tough. It’s safe. It’s relational. It’s a lot of vulnerability. It’s happy and it can be sad, all rolled into one. 

And it’s exhausting. But a good exhausting that we will choose again and again. 

Why?

Because we have been called to love as we go. And years ago, God sent us to Saba and we went. We went thinking it was for Michael to go to med school. But the star of the show wasn’t the future doctor. 

It was God and what He had planned for us and a bunch of people on five square miles in the middle of a sea. 

If you’d told me I’d teach a bunch of Caribbean kids and one day teach a lot of their kids, I’d laughed big.

If you’d told me I’d love a bunch of college kids and they’d teach me more than I’d teach them, I’d laugh even bigger. 

If you told me that I’d have three kids that had “honorary” citizenship on a little Dutch island many many miles away from home, I’d doubted that. 

If you told me that my marriage would face trials and survive and my partnership with a good looking doctor would be a method to a beautiful relationship between an island and a school in Nashville, I’d called you crazy. 

But God has been laughed at and has been doubted and He has even been called crazy. 

Yahweh. Messiah. Emmanuel. 

Those names seem more fitting when we look at the greatness of His simplistic weaving of stories as they ease into what He has planned and promised. 

I didn’t plan and decide anything. Neither did the doctor. 

He made me a Daughter. 

He made me a teacher.

He made me a med school spouse and then a doctor’s wife.

He made me a mom.

He made me in His image, and then gave me His Spirit. 

He made me His. 

His.

Imperfect but given perfection through His  plan and redemption. Through His son. 

He loves me. He energizes me. He humbles me. He turns my heart and clears my mind. And He makes me happy and holy all in one. He exhausts me. 

He is so so good.

And as His, I am thankful. 

And He makes my exhausted children hungry so I have to push the flight attendant button and buy some food now. 

An island and three kids later...His story continues. 

"The Forgotten Speech"

My morning drive to work goes one of two ways these days: Completely silent or non stop chatter and laughter.  Jackson is either 100% awake and ready to visit or he is 100% asleep, catching thirty minutes of additional sleep.

This morning we hadn't as much turned off of Houston Lane when sheer panic filled the car.

"The speech! I forgot about the speech!"

I could hear the anxiety and fear in the 14 year old's voice. The same feelings begin to arise in me, knowing there wouldn't be an easy fix to an assignment that would challenge his disfluency.

I eased into the conversation in order to calm and to figure out exactly in which class he had to give what speech.

Very quickly the confusion and excitement eased. It really wasn't a speech...it was a talk...a devotional thought...for FCA leadership's morning meeting. Jackson is a member of a small group that has been meeting every Tuesday morning since late August. These students are in charge of  FCA meetings and activities. They pray, plan, and live life together. It's pretty cool to witness, especially in a public school.

I gave my best cool mom motivational encouragement...

"Oh dude, you got this!"

These talks...aka "the speeches"...are brief and to the point.  This would be Jackson's second one to give this year. Most of the kids have picked a verse or two from scripture and just share what it means to them.  So that's the direction our morning drive conversation went...no additional sleep this AM...just a mom and son throwing around thoughts about scripture.

"I will open the bible app..."

"No no, make it easier than that. What's the first scripture that comes to your mind?"

"John 3:16."

"Okay, let's not make it that easy."

Short silence.

"Oh I got one! Galatians 6:10!"

"Help a mom out. I don't know that one from memory."

"Can I open my bible app now?"

We both chuckle.

Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone - especially to those in the family of faith.

Galatians 6:10

Jackson described this as his "go to" verse. I loved listening as he talked through how simple and easy this scripture should be for us. And then together, we broke it down.

Whenever we have the opportunity...When is whenever? Whenever happens all the time.  And opportunities don't have to be what we see as big. The little ones are just as important. They just require us to open our eyes and be alert. 

We should do good...Again, think small.  Say good morning. Open the door. Walk with someone to class. Use good manners. Throw away someone's lunch tray. Smile.

To everyone...This is a long list, but it covers them all. Our friends. Our family. The people we like and think are cool. The people that creep us out. Our enemies.

Especially...Hey pay attention!

To those in the family of faith...The folks that believe in the same Jesus as we do. The ones we are on the same team with. Being good to them should be a given, but not so much sometimes.  We can be pretty hard on each other. And that is bad. Do good to them...help them out...love them big.

After the thirty minute drive to Watertown High School, Jackson hopped out of the car and started toward the building to begin his school day. We were running a couple of minutes late and he had to hustle to FCA leadership. He rang the bell and then held the door for his momma. As he walked through the door he high-fived a good friend and called her by a nick name he has given her. It brought a smile to her face. He greeted the school secretary with a cheerful, "Good morning, Ms. Angie!", as he flashed her a big smile. I watched as he bounded up the stairs and then he disappeared into the meeting room to share his "speech" for which he had forgotten to prepare.

As I watched him I couldn't help but think that I need to be more like him. See, he really had prepared, because the kid lives out Galatians 6:10 every day. Of course it's his "go to" ...it's just what he does...it's just who he is. And to know him is a blessing and to mother him and his sisters is the greatest gift.

All the time, do good, to all people.

The gospel according to Jackson.

Our Marriage Didn't Need Counseling

I can remember the first time that I ever thought my husband and I needed someone to talk to about our marriage.

Even now I won't say the correct title...I sugar coat it with the thoughts of who may read this.

A marriage counselor.

Why is it that we put stigmas on certain words, titles, and roles? Why do we allow assumptions to take over and turn into truth?

I remember the first time I thought we needed to see a marriage counselor.

We stood in the tiniest of apartments with whitewashed walls and make shift furniture. Our couch was really a twin bed that sat longways against the wall.  The kitchen could not have been more than five feet by five feet. The bathroom was even smaller and allowed no room for privacy.  The Caribbean sea breezes gave cause for open windows.

As our voices elevated there was no doubt in my mind that our neighbors heard it all.  I felt embarrassed and ashamed and scared. Heap on top of that the expectation of easy Christian marriage I had coming into this union, and the confusion of the reality was at the least heavy on my heart.

"I think we may need to go talk to someone; don't you?"

When I spoke the words to the man standing across the floor from me, he scoffed and I easily retreated, feeling weak and telling myself that I was overreacting.  Maybe I had just said it to strike a nerve and make a point. 

We never really came to a healthy conclusion that night or the day after. The two of us just eventually got in a better humor with one another. Then the newlywed infatuation of the first two years of marriage took back over and things were blissful.

Until there was another night with a misunderstanding, open windows, and thin white washed walls.

I would continue to have the thought on occasion of needing a counselor.  The fear of what that would look like to others and thinking he thought it was crazy, kept me from uttering the words again. After all, we were just like everyone else, right? 

***

We did a good job at keeping that little apartment clean. We cleaned the sinks and the toilets and dusted the few pieces of real furniture that we claimed as ours. We washed the sea salt off the windows and wiped down the walls with bleach. The kitchen stayed pretty much spotless and bathroom smelled fresh.

And we were awesome at sweeping.

We swept everything under the rug.

All of it. The disagreements, the anger, the loud voices, and certainly the thought that we might need some professional help with our marriage.

In reality there wasn't that much to sweep, anyway. It was hidden quite well under the rug.

***

Fast forward.

An island, three kids, many major life events, 6 apartments or houses, a few cars, a couple jobs, three churches, and a residency later...

We still loved to sweep.  And as life went on, there certainly was more and more to sweep.

Then one night we find ourselves face down, beat up and bruised, lying on the floor. Why you ask? Because when you sweep enough stuff, little by little even, under your preverbial rug...there isn't much else to do than to trip over the huge lump in the rug you have made for yourself and your mate.

This time I sat on a couch. This time it's a real one and we actually own it. The two of us set in an awkward silence as the three kids have pillowed their heads and are fast asleep down a long hall way in their respective rooms.

We knew a few things for certain that night.

1. Most of those on the outside of the walls that surround us see us as "the perfect couple".  They think we have it made. He is so good to her and she is so supportive and good to him. That is what most think.

2. Those people are wrong.

3. We needed a marriage counselor.

This time it wasn't posed as a question to the fellow I had married. I am ashamed to say that it was in the form of an ultimatum. I spewed it out of my mouth breaking the silence. It was drenched in anger, resentment, and a bit of fear, along with many tears.

I didn't care if it cost a lot of money. I didn't care if everything was let out to dry. I didn't care if I had to carry half the blame. I didn't care if it appeared we didn't actually have time for it with our crazy hectic schedules. I didn't care if either one of us was uncomfortable or embarrassed or stubborn. 

A week later I sat on another couch. What is it with me and couches?  We had driven an hour away from home for the need we both felt for privacy. There in a little room in Brentwood my husband and I began to pull up the rug and the dust and dirt went flying. A marriage counselor began to help us clean it up.

***

That was nine years ago.

There are a few names that I speak in my prayers every single day. The name of our marriage counselor, Dr. H,  is one of them. 

Counselors don't fix marriages. God does. He just uses them as a means to His method.

How do I know this?  Because my marriage today...

It's nothing short of a miracle. 

I like Michael and I am pretty sure he likes me. And it in no way is a "fake" like.  He is my favorite person to do things with in life. The arguments are occasional. And when they happen we can navigate through them, and the next day we are not nursing the wounds selfishly and silently. We overlook and laugh at silly mistakes. It takes a whole lot for us to offend one another. Imperfections make us unique and are celebrated instead of criticized. Apologies are extended easily, when needed, and are accepted gracefully. 

We know and agree that we must keep three things in mind...

1. We are a work in progress.

2. Priorities are as follows...Jesus. Each other. Then the three kids.

3. Upkeep is key. We still see Dr. H almost monthly.

***

Infatuation and the whirlwind romance of courtship and engagement and a wedding and the first couple years of wedded bliss...All of that is exciting and fun and thrilling. But when the calm, or maybe we should say craziness, of real married life sets in, it's life changing. 

It usually is great for a while.

All the things one never noticed about the other begin to surface. Human nature takes over and criticism comes easy. Criticism turns into nagging and nagging...it can just get plain nasty.

The circle of life has to continue on...in the same fashion as it always has in the culture in which you live and have been raised. So in the case of the bible belted southern United States, you start having babies. Cause you know, adding children to the mix will make it all lovely and beautiful and easier. I am going to insert a very sarcastic eye roll here, which will surprise a few of my closest friends.

Priorities get all out of whack. Little people come before the big person you chose. The demands of work and providing collide with the daunting task of everyday parenthood. Words become few. Dates become extent.  You start keeping score. It isn't bad, but it isn't great...it's okay.  It's transactional at best.

Satan sits down to feast on the transactions.

He creates situations of doubt. He puts the fear of the unknown in and mingles that with the stigma so many put on counseling. He tells you that everyone else needs it...but not you.

*** 

I can remember Michael and I coming to a conclusion one day in a session with our Dr. H that we at one time felt like we had something extraordinary. Some where along the way we had silently decided that ordinary was what we were going to settle for. That wasn't okay...with either of us or with God. Extraordinary was what we knew God intended.  And it's what we wanted.

If you turn away from what us humans have settled for and open your eyes to what He made marriage for...then the only end result would be extraordinary.

But we didn't have a clue how to get there from here.

Sometimes you need to lay your pride down and admit you don't know it all.  It's a sign of wisdom and maturity to ask for help. Marriage...even Christian marriage...isn't as easy as television and movies, fairytales, and maybe even your parents made it look.  Mediation is a beautiful thing. It isn't someone telling you how to live and manage your marriage. It isn't someone telling you all the things that you have done or are doing are wrong. 

It's more like deciding with your teammate the direction you want to go, the goals you want to accomplish, and then having a coach lead you to a championship. But hey, there are going to be losses along the way. Injuries are bound to happen. Teammates don't always get along and see eye to eye.  A coach is needed to guide and redirect.  Sometimes he might change the game plan totally. Healing will have to take place and grace has to be extended...to your teammate and to yourself. And conditioning...you must have conditioning.

If you have ever thought that you may need marriage counseling...If your spouse has ever mentioned it...If you ever have said you don't need marriage counseling...If it's just ordinary...If you look at "the perfect couple" and think they have it made...If the weight of "being the perfect couple" is too heavy to bear and you know it's fake...If communication is tough...If you argue a little or a lot...If life is too crazy to talk or to date...If you are just making the transactions...

Try marriage counseling. If it doesn't fit the first time, try a different counselor. Coaches sometimes have to be fired, you know. 

Trade in the ordinary for extraordinary. 

I promise you will be glad you did.

You just might find your own miracle.