Where Hopes and Fears Meet

Image found at relevantmagazine.com

 O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the Everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years, are met in thee tonight.

Of all the Christmas songs the one that keeps coming to me this year, that gives me so much comfort, is this last line: "The hopes and fears of all the years, are met in thee tonight."

I suppose it has something to do with my frustration with so many Christmas songs, the ones that are so resolutely buoyant, the ones that seem to ignore the fact that anyone could possibly be unhappy or discontented or frustrated or depressed during the brightest holiday of the year. The ones that seem to say that all sadness, cares, grumpiness and indigestion are banished at the mere mention of Christmas.The ones that, despite their lyrics, don't seem to give a fa-la-la-la-la about any emotion other than the merry and bright ones.

Don't get me wrong- I'm not a Scrooge, at least, I hope I'm not. I love Christmas, I adore Christmas. I even like most Christmas music. I love the free-for-all to decorate out the wazoo, buy nice things, and get together with people I don't see often enough. I often get such bad tunnel-vision during the year, I think it's rather nice to be MADE to do these things. That's what holidays do--derail our busy,one-track minds into something more beautiful and bigger than ourselves.

But it's not always easy, and sometimes with derailing there comes a crash, either physical or emotional.

Take me, for example.

I've always had a tendency to be high-strung, worrying about the rightness and correctness of the piece I'm writing, the room I'm cleaning, or the conversation I'm having. Somewhere along the line I picked up the anathema image of God waiting with a lightning bolt for whatever mistake I make, and that image often haunts me, despite so many years of experiencing and learning love and grace. But throw in a few family and friend get-togethers, gifts to buy, and meals to prepare for the BIGGEST HOLIDAY OF THE YEAR and you have me, a basket case, all tied up in a bow.


So that's why I need the last line of "O Little Town of Bethlehem."

I love that combined wording of hopes and fears because they are so like the two sides of the same coin. Both are standing-on-tip-toes expectant about the future. Both come with a racing heart. Both come with eyes straining to see ahead. Both have an element of anxiety and nervousness, wondering what will  happen, and if it will be as wonderful or dreadful as we expect.

And yet it's in the midst of these kinds of emotions, those uncertain times, that Christ came and still comes.

Can you imagine the emotional climate of Bethlehem? Tired, busy, ragged people jostling their way into the city for the census. The anger and frustration towards a tyrannical government. The heightened hopes of those waiting for deliverance.

Oh man, not so different from us today, both culturally and for many of us personally. But notice that this is when Jesus chooses to show up. Consider Luke's message:

He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of His servant David...
By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.



It's in the shadows, in the darkness, that Christ the Man and Christ the Lord arrives to work and to save and to be with us, wherever we are. I don't know about your, but I so need to be reminded of this message. Every. Single. Year.


So as my basket-case self excitedly and nervously prepares for yes, the biggest holiday of year, I bring all my human hopes and fears and anxieties along, confessing them, and celebrating the Savior who came for someone just like me.

When I Want Something So Badly

It's the sparkling week of Christmas. Lots to do, so much to get ready for, and I'm trying to wrap up a few work projects and it's really killing my holiday buzz.

Sure: Be sensible and tap-tap-tap on the computer, while your darling cat snores in the corners, presents wink at your from the corner, and allll that ribbon you found on sale is in the bag, waiting to wrap said presents. Schedule appointments post-Christmas and New Years when you have family coming in and the place needs to be cleaned from top to bottom and the meals planned and that special mysterious breakfast casserole created and all that chocolate and peppermint to play with.

Mm, well, I'm trying my darnedest and it's not going so well. My usual anxious tendencies fluctuate between ecstasy and exhaustion as I try to be a big girl during the biggest kid holiday of the year.

And to top it all off, on the midst of all of this there is something else, the Thing I want so badly.

Most of us have wish lists this time of year, but this item is one I've been working on for quite some time now. I've wished for it, dreamed about it, worked for it. But it's not up to me when I'll get it. And that's weighing on me pretty well.

Because of the public nature of blogs, it's not good for me to name this Thing here. Sufficient to say, I want it quite badly, and that got me thinking.

This Thing I've been wanting, I've prayed about it, agonized over it, doubted it, and wondered if it was the Right Thing. Everyone I talk to says it is, but then I wonder if they're telling me the truth, and then I stop listening to what they say.

And this is what it comes down to and this is why I'm writing about it over Christmas-- do I want God as badly as I want the Thing? Because I am so good at wanting things. Given a bank account and the free reign, I could fuel the economy all by myself. But given my current desire for a Thing has made me wonder if I crave God as deeply.

When I pray, do I pray for wisdom and love and God himself as much as I pray for the Thing? I so often snivel along, begging Him for the Thing, when He must look at me so quizzically and say, "What you want is not the Thing, but the thing you want, I've already given in Myself. Haven't you noticed I'm here?" And I must whisper, "I'm sorry, I forgot."

Because, see, what I want isn't the Thing, but I want w,hat I think the Thing will give me: joy, love, creativity, even power in some ways. When in reality these are the things that only God gives, the things are media, tools, and conduits, but not The Thing itself.

Sigh. So I find myself with the classic Christmas conundrums of the I-Wants,and I've got to be honest, I have been feeling them so badly lately.

So you know what I'm looking forward to this Christmas? Time to rest from the I-Wants, and time to reflect on the I-Haves. I've got my work cut out for me as I work for the the Thing, but what I also want to do this Christmas is not so much worry about that Thing, but look to the One Who gives all things and just rest in that. Yeah, because more than what I say I want, He knows what I need.

I swear I'll Never Do This Again, Again.

So it's been a month. Oddly enough, very nearly to the day. But that's neither here nor there. The thing is I haven't been writing (well, here). Well, if I was honest, not much anywhere else, except for some scratching on student papers and some cramped doodles in my personal journal.

I've actually been doing more photography as well as working on some other writing projects. The trouble is, I've been doing so much information gathering for said writing projects that I haven't really written, as in, put my thoughts down on paper, in a while.

I was about to write a Facebook post (see? that's writing! Okay, grasping for straws here), calling out to my writing friends about ways to motivate myself, to give me a cute trick that both inspire me and get my fingers working.

But as I was about to do that, I realized that both took the same effort-- the sitting and down and writing the FB post and the sitting down and the writing of, well, the writing.

It's Christmastime, and I always get very inspired to be a better artist and writer around the holidays. I feel both deep and sentimental as well as heartily ashamed of everything I haven't done write, I mean, right, this year, as a result of my life thrown in the relief of the wished-for perfection of the Christmas season.

But that's okay, whatever it takes to bring me back here, back home, where I belong. I always swear I won't do this again, but here I am. Merry Christmas, I'm starting over. Again.

It's in the Syllabus

"I am a very important person with many important things to do" is often the assumption that begins my day.

Ahem. Unfortunately.

Not that I think I am *that* important, it's just that I see a lot of things to get done. And with only 24 hours to do them, well, daylight's burnin'.

Needless to say, sometimes I'm due for a little reminder where I am in the scheme of humanity and what actually matters. I received such a reminder yesterday when I was clicking through email, checking for any emergencies from my students while school's on fall break. I opened one student email to find the following:

Professor Payne, all my sources for my paper are interviews, but I don't know how to cite them? And I don't know how to set my paper up. What do I do? -Student

I don't know what this looks like to you, but I assume to the casual observer that it's a typical communication from a college freshman who's a little high strung over an assignment and looking for some help. Normally I really like it when students ask for help--to me it shows some commitment, interest, and involvement. Usually I kind of get a kick out of emails like these.

Except when I've already addressed every single of these questions in class.

Except when I've covered citation and structure in the past two papers.

With handouts.

With email reminders.

With personal conversations.

Except when I have many important things to do, and these needless requests are clogging my inbox.

My pulse throbbed a little and the tips of my ears tingled.

Now this, this I hate.

As my fingers stiffened and I wavered between ignoring the email and writing a stinging reply, the words, "it's in the syllabus" settled over my mind like a cloud.

"It's in the syllabus" is a favorite phrase of teachers--it means that the responsibility is on the student to find out what's due and when in class. It means that the teacher's ass is covered if s/he forgets to remind the class of something. "It's in the syllabus," is the shrugging reply to protesting students. "You could see it for yourself."

The same principle goes for assignment sheets, email reminders, etc. The information is there for the reading. If the student misses it, it's no one's fault but their own.

Normally I feel that this is a very good rule of thumb, and for new, insecure teachers (ahem, like me) who want their butts covered so that they can secure another position for the next year, "it's in the syllabus" seems like a veritable safe haven, as well as a justification for a few swift replies to the negligent student.

And yet.

I know how forgetful I am. I know how anxiety-bound, frantic, and frustrated I can be. I know how many plates I've dropped, and how many times I've been lost--either literally or metaphorically. And I remember the people I called on--my parents, my brother, my husband, my friends--in those times.

Not once, since I was teenager can I remember them saying, "I told you so," or "Can't you figure it out?"  Instead, I remember plans put on hold, schedules rerouted or simply them giving me their full attention to help me with the problem at hand. I'm sure I could have Googled, researched, and struggled to find my own way, but their  patience saved not only my time but also my dignity. I wasn't accused or shamed for my ignorance. I was encouraged, laughed with, and given help.

Likewise, I remember many a frantic prayer in which not once do I recall a cosmic voice saying, "It's in the Bible, read it. Come to Me when you have a new question that I haven't addressed. By the way, I've answered them all. BAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!" In which case, it would seem that God is a big computer in the sky, with all the necessary data in the world for us to download--no talking, no questions, and no relationship necessary.

Conversely, if God said, "It's in the syllabus" every time I prayed, I'd spend all my time reading, reading, reading until I was exhausted, and after finding it all too hard, I'd probably throw it all away and quit this spiritual school.

But He doesn't. Instead, He says, "Come to Me, you who are weary, and I'll give you rest." His preachers say, "We don't have a great high priest who can't be touched with the feelings of our infirmities, but in every way was tempted as we are." He says, "Let the children come to me." He says, "Have you been such a long time with me that you still don't understand?" and then proceeds to explain it all again.

From a teaching standpoint, I think it must be exhausting to be Christ. From a student standpoint, I know there's no hope for me without Him, His patience, and His grace to help me understand who He is. What He wants.

Yes, all of the instructions are in His syllabus, but my problem is, I don't always know how to read the syllabus. I'm forgetful and I do stupid things.

So I go to the Teacher and I ask for help, yet again.

All of these thoughts flew through my mind as I stretched my fingers and prepared my response to the student. I gave her some pointers and reminded her of what we had covered in class. I invited her to come back to me if she still had questions after revisiting the material. My face was still a little pinched up, but this time it was from trying to figure out how to best help her, instead of cover myself and lick my wounded teacher's ego.

Yes, it's in the syllabus, and yes there's a time for judgment (grading) for how well we've stewarded the knowledge given to us. But in the meantime, I'll work on teaching both the syllabus and the reading of it, the information and the relationship, and well, there's really nothing more important than this.

For the Hats

I'm in that particularly nasty stretch between, well, now and the rest of the semester. Wait, let me try that again. What I mean specifically is that time towards the end of the semester with the holidays looming and so are papers to be graded; when emotions are high and so is anxiety and sleep is at a minimum. My husband had to wake me up last night because I was teaching my English classes, apparently rather loudly, in my sleep.

I'm stressed. I've been stressed since the beginning of October. Okay, since the second week of classes, but this level since around the beginning of October. I've effectively annihilated (and I'm so tired I couldn't even spell annilate...annihlated, ...annihilated...that word) the concept of "free" time. I might take time to do other things other than work, but my brain is in knots the entire time. I cried more this past weekend than I have in the past three month. I'm tired, stressed, and self-doubting. Maybe I'm not a teacher. Maybe I'm not a writer. Maybe I'm just a girl who's merely trying on different hats and none of them really suit her.

I

I don't know, I think I have some talent running around here somewhere, and as soon as I can find it, I'll be alright. I do know that I'm not the only one that feels this way; that at this festive season of the year teachers everywhere are doubting themselves, accusing themselves, and all but contemplating a Last Leap as they consider the papers to be yet graded, and the wisdom to be imparted to individuals as reluctant to receive as those to give it.

But this is what I know too: It's the end of the semester and semesters do end. There will be some students who think of us fondly, and others that don't. There are students who will be passed, and those that won't, and believe it or not, it's going to be okay.

This much I know, and I'll keep reminding myself, and others, of that as much as necessary until the end. Here's to the hats.

When I Want to Run Away

Do you ever have those days? The ones where you want to run away? Either work, or family, or that weird friend was just a little too much, and after looking around wildly for an EXIT sign, you start tapping around for loose bricks.

I had one of those days recently.

Things are busy right now, and now just the kind of busy where literally every hour is booked, but the emotional kind of busy, where the heart gets exhausted and disorientation sets in. I got behind on grading papers and planning lessons for class somewhere in late September and have yet to catch up. Writing, well, paid writing, has taken both an urgent front seat while simultaneously the personal kind is getting stuck in the car seat. The Hubby's work is full. Our families are full. And frankly, I'm tired.
.
I canceled a class this morning because of an urgent concern that came up with the writing.

I couldn't catch my breath until after the event was over because I was so worried.

.Then the guilt started.

I'm a terrible, disorganized teacher.

I'm a horrible writer.

I'm a distracted wife and semi-present daughter, sister, and friend.


Mentally I started tapping around for loose bricks, seeing if one of them could give and I could find an escape.

The closest thing I found was this blog. It's time to write about it.

The thing is, I imagined telling my woes to my husband over dinner and what it might sound like.I imagined that he'd empathize with my concern and emotions, he'd hate it that I had to cancel class, but he'd also shrug a bit. "Sounds like a rough day," I imagine him saying. "French fry?"


I thought about that while I was shadowing another teacher today. The teacher had three children under 13, her dog just died, and another family member is having emergency surgery. And she recently divorced.

And just like that the words "Get over yourself" was tattooed in the shape of an "L" on my proverbial forehead. 

My worries, along with my developing exit strategies, suddenly seemed very small and insignificant in comparison. And I figured I could possibly woman up and move on.

I do realize I need to say "no" to some extracurriculars right now (cough, Facebook, what?!) I do realize that priorities--taking care of the most important things needs to be my first responsibility. I also realize my heart is full and taking time to step back, breathe, and wind down is necessary to keeping myself focused. That and talking to others who can provide perspective, aka, asking for help.

And also realize that very very few things in my life are an emergency right now.

So here's me looking at my escape options, then turning around and checking out what I'm running from--which apparently isn't as scary as the shadows make them out to be. Here's me not running away, but turning slowly towards it and  beginning the walk again.

Real. Simple.

I love Real Simple magazine. I really don't think that much of Martha Stewart, but credit's due where it's due. She knows how to hire some amazing editors, designers, writers, and photographers. Boom. Fantastic magazine.

As I was agog and flipping through the beautiful and friendly articles in the October issue last night, it occurred to me that one of the things that made the magazine attractive was its emphasis on, well, simplicity. They sell the idea that life isn't as complicated as we make it, that you can have more fun if you try to not be perfect all the time.

A great message, if a little far-fetched when they're selling alongside the "real simple" message, the $50 lip gloss, the $300 dress, and the couch that most of us couldn't afford even if we gave up our paychecks for the next year.

But perhaps I digress. Their main message is a good one and bears hearing by many of us, most of us, I'd say. Keep life simple. It's more fun that way.

The message of real simplicity came up in a different way while I was at school yesterday, talking with a student who has come back to school after some 30-40 years of other life experience.We got to talking about her church, or rather the overgrown Bible study that makes her church. She said it's full of hobos and homeless people, famous names and middle-aged has-beens. But they all come to hear about grace.

"I think sometimes we complicate church so much, " she said earnestly, sighing in her former-smoker husky voice. "And I got so tired of being busy. So I go there and think about Christ; that's all it's about anyway."

She told me about her mother who weeps over the soul-weary, worldly-exhausted members who come, looking for rest. "I wish I was as tender as my mother," she smiled, "But yeah, we go, and she reminds us it's all about Him. She prays that anything she says or does will just fall away."

As we continued talking, my cheeks flushed slightly, knowing how guilty that I am, as a sometimes-academic and writer, how I love to complicate things in order to sound smart, to sound superior. To give myself an identity.

God is complex, Christ is deep, to be sure, but He is also so simple. "Come," He says. That's all.

After I thought about our conversation, after I flipped through my suspiciously named Real Simple magazine, it led me to pray a little differently this morning. I talked to God about my ability, and even sometimes my desire, to complicate Him., thereby making myself the point of reference, rather than Him. I tried to pray as Flannery O'Connor would pray, that I could get out of the way so that He would work through me more. And I remembered it's so much simpler that way.

Long Time Gone

When I planned an image for this blog, my Google search came up with everything from the erstwhile Dixie Chicks, to Meg Ryan, to the guy who plays Ben in J.J.Abram's "Revolution" television series.  They all fit.

Oh, and the Civil Wars. But I hear they're back now.

I guess that's about right. They're all people who've been long time gone in one capacity or another. And well, come to think of it, most of us go through long time gones.

This blog for instance.

You'll notice that I bravely wrote during the first and second weeks of this school semester, only to tragically drop off ('tragically" is relative, I suppose) the interface of the ethernet, only to sheepishly reappear like a chronic Lazarus who is always smelling of grave clothes.

I decided to briefly blog this morning because I was on Donald Miller's Storyline Blog, which led me to a guest blog by a girl, which led me to her blog, and I got itchy and convicted about her writing story, so I tapped over to my own link in order to plunk away for a few minutes.

The girl was inspiring, talking about all the excuses she had created to  NOT write, only to bravely begin again. It was simple, sweet, and humble, but unapologetic.

I've noticed that people who blog spend at least 10 percent of time apologizing for not blogging. Odd. As if we have an avid populace who is weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth when we fail to live up to our social network responsibilities, real or assumed. This is beginning to strike me as fairly arrogant or even narcissistic, maybe even hypocritical. To my mind, if you don't want to write, don't, if you do want to write and haven't/can't/don't make the time, well then that's between you and your Maker. The rest of us have been too busy watching YouTubes to notice your absence.

Fer realz.

So I don't write to apologize, because it seems really silly to apologize to anyone other than God on this intensely personal matter. But whenever I do pick up writing after a delayed-flight period, I do want to write about the delay. Perhaps it'll encourage someone else that redemption is never far away, new beginnings may well, begin, whenever you want them, and if you ever believed that you're an absolutely, positively consistent person, go read the book of Leviticus and be reminded that no human is. Inconsistencies, hypocrisies, and failings are normal. Thankfully, so is grace and redemption.





Like writing. Like art. Like a good editor, old things are made new everyday. And even when you've been a long time gone, homecomings begin merely with the turning around.

My Dear God

This won't be a very long blog, as I have another essay I want to begin today and frankly what I'm about to post is by a far more wonderful writer.

Last week's New Yorker featured a selection of excerpts from Flannery O'Connor's journal titled "My Dear God", and it's a group of prayers that she wrote out to God, begging His mercy and blessing on her work, her ambitions, her desires. It is a good liturgy for any writer, artist, or seeker, or anyone who gets easily distracted by cookies (you'll have to read it to get that last part).

It was good medicine to read, frankly because of how honest she was--wretchedly confessing her desires for greatness, her her desire to be a fine writer, and yet acknowledging that she KNOWS that none of it will matter if she forges ahead without God's blessing, without His guidance.

(It's nice to know that other writers experience the same sort of angst, I thought)

She writes freely about not being able to write. She writes about feeling some despair about this, but because she trusts in God, she does not have to despair. And so she writes to God and for God; in Him and through Him.

"My dear God," is an address and appeal of both knowns and unknowns and ultimately a submission of all things to Him. But such a submission isn't from God's tyrannical domination, she acknowledges, it is the result of being engaged with the Divine Love, in and through which reality exists.

In reading this, I was so humbled. Like Chesterton's prayer of common grace over everything, so O'Connor pleads for God's direction over her every word. I pray it is my prayer too.

Returning to Eternity

So.

It's been a while.

Two weeks, but who's counting? Not this girl. *Cough*

What a full season. School-- and the ensuing preparations, communications, and oh yeah, delivery, of lessons-- pooled over my head. Throw in a few writing assignments and, well, you get two weeks of no writing.

I feel very unholy when I don't write, as if I've caved into the Philistine practices of irreverence, ill-discipline, and butt-laziness. I also think about all the really great copy I've let slip through my fingers on my way to accomplishing something else. Probably something that pays.

But sometimes there just must be times for something else, other than what we planned.

Man, this is something I've been struggling with. Hm, struggling, maybe that's a strong word. Have I wrestled an angel and bruised a rib? Mostly I've been impatient and skinned a knee and sliced a finger, as evidenced by this weekend. Maybe "haunted" is a better word. I've been haunted by the sense of something to be accomplished, like writing, but having other things that require attention.

Take for example, this blog. It's a symptom of a writing disease-- the condition where one believes firmly that things must be written. MUST. And when they are not, they either didn't happen or weren't important. So imagine what happens when one such person doesn't write-- it means nothing has happened to them lately and whatever did wasn't important. Talk about depressing.

So maybe I feel a little depressed.

I have been kneeling to the obligations of school preparation as well as the demands of paying writing projects, um, and a little bit to my own sanity--taking time in the morning for coffee and quiet. Not bad things in of themselves, by no means. But soon the absence of writing drove me a little crazy. I wasn't processing well, I was picking fights with my husband and generally felt lost, unmoored.

Why is that sometimes we leave the things that mean the most to us? It definitely makes the homecoming sweeter, but what about all that other time? Was it lost time? Or was something else going on?

Okay, okay, I'm getting a little existential. My life didn't end, my marriage is wonderful, I didn't stop writing completely, and I can still put two words together. But I always do feel deeply, um, sorry, when I don't write. It's a funny way of thinking, of living, to think that something can mean that much to you and make such a difference when it's NOT there. Culturally we're taught that the tyranny of the urgent is well, urgent, and anything not attached to just getting through the day doesn't really matter.

I think this is what I'm haunted by, and passive-aggressively wrestling with. Trying to live in the present--do what needs to be done--but to take time for eternity, to write, to create, and just be, with no money or expedience necessarily attached.

It's why I'm sorry when I don't write. I feel sorry because I wonder if I was simply caving into expedience rather than eternity.

Writing, like this blog, is an act of faith. I see no immediate rewards or returns. It's anyone's wonder if it will ever really turn into anything. Rather, it's a exercise, a process, of living in God's economy where human striving and effort aren't what make the world go 'round; He does. So I try to worship Him with my art, my words, like little prayers, confessing myself to Him; confessing myself to a reader. It is a journey of bringing myself back, repentant in a thousand little ways that I've tried to live according to the world's expedience, and taking time, once again, for eternity.

Traffic Controllers

Over the last week, Psalm 46: 10 has come up over and over again. Whether at church, talking to friends, or um, yes, even random mail, the verse has been showing up.

"Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

You have to love the punctuation of that sentence. "Be still [pause] and know that I am God."


It's a call to quiet trust; a rest in God's sovereignty over, ahem, our own. It's a letting go of control.

The Message translation is poignant in highlighting this swap of control. It reads: "Step out of the traffic! Take a long, loving look at me, your High God. above politics, above everything."

Traffic and politics: two of the most restless terms in English; the stuff that's responsible for more high blood pressure than almost anything else in our culture. But besides stroke and cardiac arrest, they have something else in common-- short-lived importance. Whether it's the 5 minutes (or more) on our drive home from work, or the four years (or more) our country spends trying to select, er, elect, a new president, in comparison with eternity they are of miniscule importance.

God says, step out of it, get perspective, look at me.See things from where I sit. I AM in control, not, in fact, you.

Nathan and I were talking yesterday about how angry we get over traffic, and how hard days--not BAD days,but just simply difficult days-- are enough to throw us off all night, maybe even all week, resulting in sleeplessness, irritability, distraction. Suddenly our focus isn't on what God's doing, but on our immediate anxieties, anger, and frustrations.

God says we don't have to stay there, it doesn't have to be like that.

He calls us to step out of the raucous traffic of petty politics, tractor trailers, busy-ness, drama, and short-lived frustrations. He says we don't have to control it, fight it, or let our lives get caught up in it as if that's all there is.

He says He is in the one over it all--not only "over" it, as in bigger-than, but also over it as in, controlling it, responsible for it. And in trusting Him, then we don't have let our lives in turn be controlled by the other stuff.

You don't have to control today; you don't have to let the traffic run over you. You can get some perspective-- turn a long and loving look to the God who is over all--and you can safely place your traffic controllers in His very capable hands.

Teachers Get Embarrassed, Too

I should be used to embarrassment by now. I'm a teacher, I'm a blonde, and I have weak ankles and when I drink too much caffeine, my hands shake and I drop things. Once I was proudly showing a class my new phone, only to have it slip out of my hands and nearly shatter on the floor. Only a wildly Baryshnikov-esque leap on my part saved it from becoming obsolete before its time. In another class, I taught an entire course with still-new tags hanging on my spanking new cardigan. A female student calmly walked up to me after my hour lecture and carefully peeled the tag off.


Embarrassment-- it comes with the territory. At least with mine.

And I'm not sure what to say about that, except it happens often, even on mornings when I've showered, shaved, put on adequate deodorant, fixed my hair AND eaten breakfast. It happens on mornings when I've forgotten everything. Despite my best care or carelessness, embarrassment happens, and, well, I figure the biggest favor I can pay myself is embrace it.

This morning, I was mortified to discover that I had misspelled nearly half of the students' names on a tutoring sign-up. The overseeing teacher raised an eye brow at me. "Were you writing this while drinking, Laura Beth?" I make a point to never drink and write. Well, okay, this time it had been coffee.

I took my seat with a flaming hot face, my neck beginning to crick.

But I looked around. Everyone else had moved on.

This must be the secret of great teachers, of great people--they move on more quickly than the rest of us. A quick hug, a quick acknowledgment to the awkwardness, and, well, moving on.

So I am, but not before I blogged about it, mulled it over, and interpreted it from every single possible aspect...sigh, okay, I'll stop now. Moving on.

But wait, better tear these tags off first.

The Morning After

Holidays are awesome. They shake us out of our routine, rustle our complacency, and make our schedules step a little higher, a little differently, than usual. And that's a good thing.

But the morning after can be hard.

I woke up this morning to a popping back and aching shoulders, a testimony to the high waves the lake rolled out on us yesterday while we skied. A headache peeped around left shoulder blade, and mentally I was the equivalent of a freshly-emptied rain barrel: refreshed, but empty.

Thank goodness for caffeine that got us going, and a few minutes of quiet to let the day collect. Then, breakfast, through which much of my inspiration comes.

As I stalwartly strode to my desk to work, I immediately noticed that the internet had conked out, and yet my phone was receiving messages, telling me I had urgent business from my editor to tend to. Nice.

Ah, the morning after.

But it's okay- the relaxation, the time with family, all the celebrating of good stuff- was totally worth it. If I'm tired, sore, and a bit out of it, it was for an awesome reason, and well, onward and upward from here.

It's a good morning after.

Labor Days

It's Labor Day, meaning that most of us have the day off, snatching some fun (or a nap) before the week begins on Tuesday. If all goes as it should, Nathan and I'll be hitting the Lake with family in just a little over an hour, for some Last-Drops-of-Summer skiing.

Regardless of activity (or inactivity) though, today is supposed to be a day of rest, and that got me thinking...

On Saturday, I audaciously decided to join a group of women from my church on a mini-retreat, starting around 8:30am. Most Saturdays, I'm still unconscious until about 9, so that's what I use the word audacious. Anyway, the reason I decided to do it was because allll summer I thought about having a day, or at least a morning, where I took time out to simply listen to and focus on God.

It never happened.

Something always kept coming up--a doctor appointment, an article due, or...or.. something.

This Saturday I could have come up with an excuse, but I was feeling particularly needy (school has just started, after all) so I went.

It was wonderful, and I especially liked hearing from the other women, what they were experiencing, how they felt, and how they processed it spiritually.

From our conversations, and my own reading that morning, the word that stood out to me from the day, though, was "trust"--as in, how much I trust the Lord. I realized not much.

I've written about my control tendencies many times, but that morning I finally understood what it meant in terms of my relationship with God, how I see God. Because I think I have to hold the universe together, I worry, I have anxiety, I stress, and get mean and snappy. It means my relationships really aren't as good as I'd like them to be, it means I often lose sight of what's important.

It often means I miss out on listening to God. Like this summer.

It occurred to me, then, that it takes trust to rest--trust that God's holding the universe's atoms together and that we don't have to; trust that we CAN take time to do God's will, to listen to Him, to follow Him, because HE is in control, not us.

In other words, we can rest, because He is working.

As we head into Labor Day, a day of rest, a day when most of us can take a load off, I'm also thinking of it as a day of trust--a day when I rest from my all-too frantic attempts to control and remember that it is Someone else's responsibility, not mine.

The Core Curriculum

This morning while I was waiting for the computer to load, I did what any modern, tech-addicted, ADD person would do.

I loaded Facebook on my phone and flipped through pages while I'm waiting for my other technology to get going.

Talk about short attention span.

But while I scrolled, I came across a video about a teacher that looked interesting. Within 10 minutes it made me reconsider everything I thought about teaching.

It's about a physics teacher and his remarkable relationships (good ones) that he has with his students...and why he's able to do so.

You'll need to watch the video but its essence is this message-- the reason that physics works, that the universe works, is because of love. In order to make a classroom, a relationship, a family, a nation work, there must be love.

My nose started getting snotty as my eyes began tearing. How often do I forget the importance of love?

When it comes to my husband, it's easier. With my family, sure thing. With my friends, absolutely. But what about my work, my outside-the-home,church, family-responsibilities?

When was the last time that I made love the center of why I teach, why I communicate, why I write?

So often I get caught up in externals--  the theory, the technique, and the textbook--but as is rampantly evident by anyone who's experience a broken education system--those things, without love, become as a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.

This is a teacher living out I Corinthians 13, something I'm ashamed to say that I often left it out of my lesson planning. It's after watching this, though, that I'm reminded to make it my core curriculum.

It's Going to be Fine

It is. Really.

If you’ve read any of my other blogs, you know how often I don’t feel like it is, fine, I mean.

So often I walk around with a sense a dread, waiting for the other (or first) shoe to drop (wait, what does that expression even mean?) and feel that my actions affect the course of eternity. A feeling which, as Gandalf told Frodo, is too great a burden for any one person to bear.

But still, it’s easy for me to feel that way. Call it insecurity, call it narcissism, it’s a tendency towards panic whenever anything goes wrong, and the supposition that it’s my responsibility to fix it.

But the reality is, it’s going to be fine. 

Now, I’m not talking about gargantuan debt, life-threatening illnesses, or other “big” concerns—although, greater perspective is always healthy even in these areas too—but someone I’m more okay with some of the big concerns than the fact that I gave the wrong syllabus to a student, that I was late on that assignment, or the fact I’m having a bad hair day. Or forgot to get gas. Or that we’re out of milk and I had to drink dry, black coffee. These little things can rock my world. And sometimes the most powerful truth I can tell myself is that it’s going to be fine.

It’s a message that ran through my head this morning while I taught my classes, and as I spoke to students who were as nervous as I with the beginning of the new semester.  It’s going  to be fine that you couldn’t find your class today; it’s going to be fine that you got the wrong text book; it’s going to be fine that you said that weird thing in class, because if life moves in a healthy way, those things don’t really matter. You’re supposed to make mistakes and learn and look stupid occasionally. It’s part of life. You learn. And it’ll be fine.  If it’s not—and it’s interesting what we often qualify as not being fine—then, well, maybe it’s time to move in a different direction, bring in some help.

But that’s natural, too. We weren’t made to be “fine” on our own anyway.

One last thing. I realized this morning that in our hyper-achieving culture, I often think that “fine” isn’t enough—that I should be great! fantastic! excellent! at all times and with exclamation points. Never mind that that mentality can be exhausting; never mind that sometimes that’s not how life goes. Not that we don’t love and work for the highs, but if life is always a high, well, then you just created a new norm, and what’s after that?

Anyway, all this to say that life isn’t always a string of highs, greats, and fantastic, sometimes it’s okay to be just fine, sufficient, and enough.  And sometimes enough is all you need.

I Think I'd Like to Control God

Nobody ever accused me of not being ambitious.

This idea came to me this morning during prayer time this morning, as I was rummaging around for the "right" words to say, things like, "Help us to serve You, help us to make wise decisions, and help us come to know You better," interspersed with different thanks.

I had paused looking for words to pray over my husband, when I became startled by the realization that I hadn't talked with him in a while about his Scripture reading, what he was praying about, or what he really needed. We've prayed together, certainly, and we talk alot about our every day lives, but I had not asked him specifically (or anyone else, for that matter) what they were thinking about God, or how they've been seeking Him.

The realization was enough to embarrass me into silence for a bit, mid-prayer.

I breathed deeply, and then asked myself why.

As my brain creaked into gear to produce an answer, this thought, "I want to control God" flitted across my brain. And like that I knew it to be true.

Let me explain.

I was raised in a wonderfully secure conservative Christian home, intentionally so because both of my parents came from very insecure, unstable homes. My parents wanted to give my brother and I what they did not have and they gave us a home built on love, faith, and commitment. All good things.

The theological problems I inherited however (and ones my parents have since been working through!) is the idea that God is likewise stable, secure, and knowable in the pin-down-able sense. Meaning, if you're a Christian then you'll know all you ever need to know about God through reading the Bible and attending a Bible-based church.

It was a fantastic beginning foundation for a young family. I loved the church I grew up attending--it was small with most people coming from similar backgrounds. But when the church began growing, and people not from middle-upper class secure backgrounds began attending that our church's theology began showing its cracks. Its firm grasp on certainty and tradition wasn't always able to handle those who didn't inherently have or understand those things.

And the breakdowns continued as I got older. I started realizing how many people--Christians--understood God differently than I did, even as we read the same Bible. It began dawning on me that the secure, somewhat predictable God I understood, was not fully God, maybe a part, but not His whole.

Whereas I responded by becoming bewildered and a bit frightened by all the differences, my brother reveled in this. He loves asking people about what they are reading, how they are understanding God and why. He likes generous debate and conversation about the unknowns. Me, I tend to keep my mouth shut unless it's to correct someone's thinking: "No, no,you see, that's not how God works because...."

But as I get older, the more I read Scripture, this is an attitude that Paul spends a lot of his time correcting-- preaching that God works as He will, with or without mankind's "assistance" (I'm reading Galatians right now). There are certain unshakeable truths-- that God's grace was greater than legalism, His love is unfailing, His mercy is sure-- but otherwise God was God, despite man's attempts to tamp Him down.

(By the way, I'm noticing that Paul spends more time discussing these certainties of God's grace, love, and mercy, than he does whether or not someone has long hair, whether we should drink wine or grape juice, or whether or not we can go see R rated movies.)

I take this long road to say all this, because my attitude--the tamping-down attitude--was not one that I applied to other faiths, but to other Christians. If their experiences or questions are different than mine, sometimes I struggle to know how to engage with them. My tendency is to correct rather than care; to lash out rather than listen.

So this is why I often don't ask others, even my own husband, about their relationship with God. I get this itchy feeling when their experience is different than mine.

Why? I don't know. Because I like to think that I'm right; that God is pleased with MY way of doing things; that I can't be challenged.

But here's the funny part; Scripture tells me that because of my faith in God, He IS pleased with me; that I don't have to be right; and that of course, I'll always be challenged. But that's life; it's relationship and interaction with others. To pull back from that is to be thrown into isolation--the very opposite from what God has called us into, and the very thing that He has saved us from.

I repented this morning and asked God's forgiveness for the horrid isolation I put myself in. I announced that I wouldn't try to control Him today, and that He could do whatever He wanted; just use me however.

It's pretty exhausting trying to hold the cosmos together, much less the One who created it. So today I'm letting go, and going to start some conversations today.

What To Worry About

So it began.

The mad crush for parking. The confusion of wandering a foreign campus. The trembling schedule printouts in the hands of sweating students.

School is back in session.

This will be my third year of teaching English at MTSU, and I'm pretty excited, no less than for the fact that by the third year a little magical something happens.

You realize you're not a student anymore.

Okay, okay, maybe it's just me. But for my first two years of teaching, I sweated bullets because I felt like some come-uppity imposter teaching peers. I've always had a babyface, always enjoyed being around college students, and for that reason I couldn't scratch up enough esteem to consider myself much older, or wiser, for that matter.

But this year, I wanted to change that. And something sparked that told me I could.

I was sitting in a flush of other teachers during orientation when I overheard two seasoned teachers comparing notes on their classrooms. As I listened to their conversation I was struck by what the conversation came back to: the teachers themselves. One of the teachers began chatting furiously, defending her teaching methods and why she wanted them to think well of her.

I thought about that.

Probably the most terrifying thought I had when I stepped into my first classroom was "What will they think of me?" The thought of being "that" teacher to a student, the one that's remembered for being unprofessional,lazy, unfair, and angry, made me want to pass out.

But what I soon found out was that the more I worried about myself, the less interested the students seemed, the less engaged they were. Yet when I focused on them and listened to them, their work was interesting, good, and worthwhile.





That's what good teaching means. That's what being the grown up, the classroom leader, means.


And that's what I thought about when I went into class today. I had my notes ready in a PowerPoint, and I had a syllabus composed. And when I thought about screwing up my notes or mispronouncing something, my hands went a little colder,and my voice shook,

But when I looked them in the face, when I asked them questions, when I took an extra second to listen, my body warmed up, my hands relaxed, and I started having fun.

No, I'm not a student anymore, and I'm trying to learn to be a grown up and a teacher. A far as what students think about me, hm, well, in some respects I cannot control that. But I have learned that when I make my focus a good lesson, a good discussion, an honest interaction, between them and myself, those other things tend to take care of themselves.

Happy First Day of the Semester, MTSU! Let's see what you've got for me this year.

Get the Look

Yesterday was orientation for the new fall semester and it went really well. I learned some new classroom strategies and also felt affirmed in some things I already knew. Overall, the day was really great.

Then my hair got frizzy.

I don't know about you, but my hair is like, the bane of my existence. Strong language, yes, but maybe you don't have fine hair that has to live through Tennessee humidity every year.

I will spackle on my makeup, take painstaking showers, and wear perfume, but whatever polish I manage to possess via these things is quickly diminished by strands of almost, not-quite curly, frizzy hair that WILL puff up, even after I have conditioned, gelled, and sprayed it within an inth of a millimeter of every hair follicle.

And that kind of ruins my day. I end up talking to people, trying to work, attempting to look professional, all while stuffing my hair back into a ponytail or frantically pulling up my sunglasses, trying to push back my stray wiry curls.

And I'll obsess about it, plan other ways of how to fix it, and generally be very, very worried about it.t

I'll page  through magazines, sighing over the hair columns, and try ways to "Get the Look." It never works. I'm thinking mainly because I don't have a team of stylists getting my hair ready for a photo shoot. Need to look into that.


I've spent a lot of hours (probably amounted to entire weeks or months) of my life devoted to worrying about my looks, my hair, my clothes. But as I get older, meet more people who are wiser than I, I am starting to learn to ask more often: Does it really (really?) matter?

Not whether we shouldn't be thoughtful of our appearance as occasion calls for it, and not whether we all don't want to look our best. But really, how much does it actually matter? How much weight does it bear in relationship to important things like, well, relationships? Other people? Good work? Love?

Um, a very very small amount.

See, when I get caught in the thinking that every nook and cranny and inkling of my appearance is of cosmic significance, I turn into a fearful, conniving individual. Defensive. When I assume that everyone is judging me, I suddenly find myself judging them, silently evaluating their clothing, inspecting their makeup, analyzing their skin, all rather than actually listening to them, learning more about them, hearing their ideas. Asking how they are.

It's an odd two-sided coin: when I work so hard on my looks, I kind of forget to look at other people.

It's natural, can't help it, to see the appearance. But when that's all we zero in on, man, there's a ton that we miss, both in others as well as ourselves.

New Seasons

Okay, I'm not too proud to say it. School begins on Monday, and I'm terrified.

I woke up at 3am this morning, my mind racing over my syllabus, whether I've done enough, and whether I'll catch all my typos before I print my final draft.

Good times.

I face these heart palpitations every semester as all the unknowns in students and schedule and the juggling act of home, school, writing, volunteer programs, family, etc. get together and multiply anxieties in my mind like bunnies. Then I feel like a fake and wonder why I even bother doing anything. Ever.

But last night (or rather this morning) as I said my multiplication tables in my head last night, trying to go to sleep, a feeling began pooling around my heart, crossing over into my mind's race track: gratitude.

Gratitude for an amazing summer where I experienced God's faithfulness and gentleness to me in family changes, Nathan's and my decisions, my writing, my relationships. Gratitude for a summer of afternoon naps, lake weekends, patio suppers, and afternoons painting furniture. Gratitude for peace and contentment, even gratitude for the days I felt worried and restless, because I had time to work through it.

All of which translate into lessons, energy, and ideas I'll carry with me into the busy times this semester; a reminder that God's goodness doesn't stop, or start, by our seasons, but new mercies are given every day. Such is His great faithfulness.

Looking at the time, I'd better go get dressed and ready for orientation today. I'll have to begin a new blog schedule this fall, since I'll be teaching when I normally write. But it'll be alright, a new season is here, and with it, new mercies. And I can't wait to see them.

Ugly Stories

Yesterday while eating lunch at East Nashville's fantastic Silly Goose restaurant, my friend Lisa and I fell into a conversation about art and writing and the crazy ways we try to make creativity happen. She's an ah-mazing visual artist with a double-whammy of gifting for writing, and I, well, I try to write.

But even if our expressions are a bit different, we agree on one thing-- we hate sharing our creative processes with anyone besides ourselves.

"I'd rather no one see some of my work," Lisa said. She's even burned some pieces. They're not nice, she added. She'd rather show the pieces that reflect hope and truth. And that's what she has hung up in her apartment. The other stuff, she feels, are kind of embarrassing.


When I write, I would  rather duel to the death than reveal my work unless I think it's absolutely perfect. I write terrible drafts full of dark, probably really emo, sentiments. They're unwitty and full of flaws. I'd much rather show you the buffed-up, shiny work that is the finished product.

So the question came up- what's the value of sharing or keeping those dark works, the embarrassing pieces, the ugly first drafts even have? Maybe they are just better off burned.  Maybe.

And yet.

I follow two websites called The Well-Written Woman and Freedom with Writing that provide encouragement and resources for aspiring literati. They post stories and great quotes like the Vonnegut one here, and I can't tell you how much relief they give this writer. It's good to be reminded that others face challenges writing too. This encourages me; spurs me on, and gives me hope that my crappy attempts at writing are going somewhere.

And this is what I thought about yesterday. That maybe our ugly drafts, the awkward process is one more way of  encouraging others. Sure, we're working towards something more finished, more complete, but it's a journey. And on a journey, you may as well have some company. And eat lunch together and talk about it

Don't get me wrong- I'd much rather write--and live and think-- in a way that's isolated, all buttoned-up, and perfect. But in art, as in life, I realize such living isn't grace-based or relational or actually creative. It is controlling, coy, and based on fears of what others may think.

This makes for bad art, bad living, and bad theology.

In Scripture, isn't this what the stories are about? God using ugly stories for good? For encouragement, wisdom, and a great deal of comfort?

This morning I read how in Galatians, Paul recalls his own ugly story of persecuting and killing Christians, reminding the Galatians that it is God's grace that called him out of that and into a knowledge of  who God actually was.

God used Paul's ugly stories to not only bring glory to Himself, but to also minister to others (not sure many folks saw that coming). By embracing his less-than past,  Paul was able to encourage thousands with the  message of grace, that God redeems and uses ugly stories for good.

A behavior-based gospel can't do that. Buttoned-up theology can't do that.

And maybe we don't exactly show off bad drafts or less than stellar pieces. But we might as well talk about them, maybe show them to some trusted friends and let other people in on our struggles and stories. You know, share our burdens.

As Lisa and I finished our sandwiches and salads, we both acknowledged how awkward this is, how counter intuitive to our behavior-based society this is--to let people in on our unfinished-ness, our imperfections, our gangly processes--be it in art or just life.

And yet we just had. By talking about it, we had snuck out of our mutual isolations and into journeying with one another, helping one another, with ugly stories in tow, towards the kind of artists, the kind of people we'd actually like to be. And that process was a pretty beautiful thing.

Enjoy

Just got back from a quick turn-around weekend up in Cincinnati where my brother lives. Some friends were throwing him and his fabulous fiancee an engagement party so Nathan and I, along with my parents, packed up the cars and headed up I-65 to I-71. It was great, the couple was celebrated, and the party kicked off what promises to be a full, fun and busy year of wedding preparations.

I've written before about traveling, and how I've come to love it for shaking up my soul a bit, getting me out of my dogged routines and perspectives and helping me refocus when I come home.But even as a I love what travel does for me, it's often hard in the process. I get carsick easily, and apparently after 30, sitting for more than 2 hours constitutes foreplay for a nap, so I'm not always the most fun traveling companion. Plus, if family is involved, I usually have just enough time to think about how things could go wrong, what I could do to make it better, and from there figure out how to control everyone else.

Then I stay in my head and don't air out any of these ideas, so naturally I become irritable when Nathan doesn't do exactly as I *think* and follow my mental vibes. He's just going along haphazardly, thinking everything's fine. The nerve that man has.

Ahem. But anyway, I tried something different this weekend. I tried just enjoying myself.  And it was awesome.

My brother and fiancee did a fabulous job hosting us in a way that was completely them--sharing favorite restaurants and sites that they loved with us. Nathan did what he does best, be completely present, telling stories from work and family, talking about his hobbies (many of which Stina enjoys too), my parents and Stina's shared their stories, and the mix was awesome. It was unique, better than anything I could control. And I could just enjoy it.

On the way back home, I was a little sad. I usually am after a visit. I want to wrap up Wes and Stina and take them home with us. But that's not where they are; it's not their home. Nathan and I chatted about our thoughts and feelings from the weekend and finally resorted to turning on a Broadway Pandora station, and sang show tunes all the way home. We were cracking up by the time we got to our front door.

What I'm trying to say is this. For us planners, for us controllers, being present is mighty hard; we're always trying to think of the next step. But I miss so much joy and uniqueness when I do that. Now, it doesn't mean that I don't take care of me or am unwise in considering what comes next, but when it's safe, simply being present is powerful. You'll get new ideas and experiences, maybe even new show tunes.  Enjoying the moment is like a little kid and an ice cream cone, catching every dribble with the tongue, licking up all the delicious messiness that's there.

Learning to enjoy is like learning to live in the present. Being fully there, tasting all that life has to offer.

Even When It Don't Feel Like It

Image found at blog.fatherhood.org

There was this song on an album my mother loved when I was growing up called, "It's Still Love."

It went something like this:

Even when it don't feel like it, it's still love;

Even when it don't act like it, it's still love;

Well, we made ourselves a promise and we're never giving up,

Even when it don't feel like love.

It was a great song about the power of the promise of marriage; that even when emotions say otherwise, holding to the promise is still love.

While it is a great sentiment about marriage, it applies to other areas of commitment too. The question being, not whether I FEEL like fulfilling my commitments and responsibilities every day, but whether I know I want to do them and that in my heart of hearts it's the right thing to do.

Every Tuesday I help some kids in a local housing development with homework, snacks, and games. And every Tuesday I experience the weirdest kind of dread and self-doubt. All the reasons not to go whirl through my head: I'm tired, I have other things to do with my time, no one likes me, and really I'm more of a bother than a help.

It's weird, I tell you. Almost crippling, debilitating

And I have the choice to give into those emotions. No one demands that I come. No one gets angry if I don't come. They can't dock my pay. I could listen to these feelings and back down.

Or I can go back to what I know, and why I committed to be with these kids in the first place:
Jesus loves children and the impoverished; by being with them I get out of my own comfy life; there is a tangible need for homework help, food, and support for the staff there; and last but not least, I love that my church even had the heart to help with a non-churchy program.

The thing is, these reasons still hold true. There are still needs and last I checked, God still cares about these folks.

And every Tuesday when I go, I am far from rejected. I receive hugs and high-fives; I see kids open up to conversation who never have before. I see loneliness dissipate; I see community happen.

In my heart I feel like we're doing some pretty important work with these kids-- especially since each of us volunteers face such dark feelings every time we're about to go out. I think evil would love nothing more than to keep these kids isolated. I think evil would love to keep our church distracted from this kind of outreach.

I would worry more that the dark feelings were true if I never saw any glimmers of light or hope in our work. But I do. Every single time.

As I think back on that song, I think that this is the power of love, of promise, of commitment. Not blind love or blind commitment, but the ability to look through the fog of dark and doubt and to actually see and embrace the truth of the situation. That even when we don't feel like it, love is still at work.

What's in Front of Me

I'm a planner.

I've written about this woe a couple of times now, but it really is an affliction. It's an affliction because it's a snarling, scraping attitude that tries to condense the world down into patterns and linear logic, only to be constantly thwarted at every turn, forcing said planner to constantly pull back, readjust, and try to throw her arms a little farther around the world.


I wish it were only about good business practices, efficiency, open and honest communication skills, and a desire to reach others better. Unfortunately, it's not always. More often it's about control.

I like to control things, to have a grip on the projects and people I engage with. I want a sure footing at all times, which means I get really resentful when thing shift and I have to move to uncertain places.

Man, I hate that. Both things, actually, the having to move and the resentment that follows.

This morning was such a morning, when I realized my footing was not so sure on some projects I've been involved with. It turns out that I dropped some balls which will result in my day backing up and the possibility of not being able to accomplish what I had scheduled for today

And that sucks.

As I began fretting over the repercussions for the rest of the week, a conversation with a friend came back to my mind, a conversation we had had about worry. Her family is facing much more severe problems than I am--we're talking not even in the same league--and yet she applauded something I said.

"You said you were just going to focus on what's in front of you," she pointed out. "I like that. I'm going to try it."

Gotta love it when your own wisdom comes back to bite you.

My friend's own willingness to have a different perspective amidst troubling circumstances radically shifted my own perspective and tore my eyes away from my sniveling navel gazing.

Alternate plans knock over ours every single day. We can choose to be anxious (not exactly Biblical) or we can deal with the knowns--the stuff that's right in front of us and be faithful in it. It doesn't mean that we're blind to the future or how events affect one another, but it's a paradoxical acceptance of the present while developing plans for the future.

This morning I'm planning to focus on the projects, needs, and responsibilities that are right in front of me. The future, the rest of the week, will be there when I get there.

What Do You Have to Say?

Found on  http://alignyourlife.wordpress.com

What do you have to say?


When I last blogged on Thursday I posed this question to the wide, wide, web, and gave myself a sneaky out to not have to answer it for myself until today.And I think I have my answer.

It's you don't have to be afraid.

I have struggled with fear as long as I can remember. I remember being afraid of the dark as a little girl. I remember being afraid of hell and damnation very early. I remember being afraid when a Democrat was elected. I was also afraid of being fat forever (I was the largest kid in my friend group until I was 12.)

More subtle fears crept in as I grew older. Fear of rejection from peers, fear of being though lazy, fear of being overlooked, fear of making mistakes and being an economic reject for the rest of my life and never having a steady job. Fear of being a bad daughter, a bad sister, a bad friend. Oh, and goody, after I married I could be afraid of being a bad wife.

Depending on your own experience and powers of deduction, you may know what the antidote, or at least the result, of these fears is: busy-ness. You become an absolute PRO at whipping yourself into a frenzy of productivity for anyone and over anything just to avoid having any of these fears come true.

Of course, the trouble is, they're so often self-fulfilling prophecies that once we allow them to master us, we're usually able to upset something or someone pretty well just the same.

The more women I talk to, the more magazines I read, I find that these are the fears that honestly bind us together; it's what we have in common. At least we're on the same page!

Having felt fear all of my life, I've also had the privilege of critical time and relationships that have helped me go head-to-head with many of these fears. I've had people who have helped me name them, sit with them, hold them, and at the end of the day deal with them so that they don't rule me.

I walk with them, yes,  and they often follow me around, but when I look them in the eye I can see them for what they are--sensitivities, perhaps, emotions, maybe, and even warnings. But not my masters.

I remember going through a little book with my mother and brother when  I was in high school. The book was called "From Fear to Freedom," and in its humble paperback form, it was one of the most powerful messages I've ever received. Rose Marie Miller connects the Gospel with these internal fears we harbor and answers them with truth: You are enough (you are God's) and You have enough (God provides).

It was radically practical, holistic thinking that affirms our broken, afraid, human thinking, and turns us to find our identity in God. This was so freeing to me because it meant that I didn't have to seek validation from anyone (the peers I so desperately wanted to please) or anything (finances, furniture, my looks or a seasonal wardrobe). My intrinsic worth came from my Maker, and nothing external could change that.

This is an idea that changed my life. I keep returning to over and over and over again, and it shows up in my writing, because I see these fears so often at work in those around me. I see it in myself constantly. And  I want to write about the daily work of returning to the truth that I am enough, that God provides.