“The difference between belief and trust is the difference between acknowledging that the bridge is capable of holding a person’s weight, and actually walking out on the bridge. The former is simply the acknowledgement of something…the latter is actual dependence.” The Gift of Forgiveness, pg. 67
It’s easy to stand on the edge of the cliff, point towards the bridge, and proclaim, ‘Yeah, I think that will hold our weight.’
It’s something entirely different to take the first step.
When I doubt.
When I question.
When others say their kid is reading, counting, reciting.
It creeps in and I fret over this whole homeschool thing.
Then this happens:
“How many coins is .25?”
“Ten plus ten is twenty!”
“I have enough to buy three lollipops!”
“I have two of these (dimes) and I need five more of those other ones (pennies) to make .25.”
He is learning after all. Breathe. Sigh. He gets it.
It would be so easy just to dump and run.
To come to Jesus, unload all the things I’ve been carrying, the burdens that I think weigh me down so much, and then vigorously wipe my hands on the seat of my pants, shake the dust from my hair, and with a flick and a spin, prance off towards the horizon lighter, freer, and happier.
“Thank Jesus! Really appreciate it! See you next time when it all gets too much and I just can’t handle it anymore. Maybe Thursday, four o’clock? Sound great – bye!”
Yes, it would be easy…but only until it becomes much, much harder.
Jesus told His disciples to come to Him with their burdens, to seek Him when they were exhausted and weary. He promised rest, and not just for their bodies but for their souls. That undefinable, fragile part of us. The anchor of our hope.
Then He tosses out a phrase that seems completely out of place:
“Let me teach you.”
What?
Teach me?
What do I need to learn?
All I need is to unstrap these weights and lighten things up and head on my way. Teach? Learn? Naw, just let me loosen these buckles here and slip these straps off and…yup…aaaahhh! Much better! <wipes sweat from brow and sighs deeply>
Learning something implies change.
It alludes to a lack of knowledge or a gap in understanding.
Teaching means I must be teachable, admitting I might not know and that there might be another way.
If I treat Jesus as just an unloading zone, just a place to find some relief, just a stop-over along this journey called life, I may find rest for awhile and things might seem better for a bit.
Until it happens again.
Until I find myself choosing those same habit patterns, those same thought cycles, those same harmful relationship rhythms that
weigh
me
down.
Why do I tumble headlong into the very thing that caused me so much pain, the route that weighed me down so heavily, if I had just unloaded all of my baggage from that exact same trip?
Have I learned nothing?
No, I haven’t. Which is exactly what Jesus is saying.
“Let me teach you.”
Learning His ways means changing mine.
Listening to His teaching means quieting all the “You deserve this!”, “No one ever appreciates you!”, and “They were going to hurt you anyways!” that echo in the deepest parts of me.
Coming to Jesus is not touch-and-go.
It’s stay and wait. He is humble and gentle. I am proud and pushy. His way is easy and light. My way is muck and mire.
I don’t want to dump and run.
I want to pause.
To listen.
To admit I don’t know how to do it better and I need another way.
The path before me may look a lot like the path behind me.
What I carry with me? I’m still learning.
Six attempted or successful break-ins in our immediate neighborhood over the past two months. It’s almost to the point of hilarity. I mean, what is it about our tiny street that somehow made it land on someone’s radar of ‘good places to burgle’? Gah.
After another restless night’s sleep, I woke up with anxiety tiptoeing on the edges of my emotions. It is so easy to convince myself that if something external changes, then something internal will, too. If only we had a louder alarm system, a security gate, a 24-hour guard, a safe room, then I would feel safe. I would be safe.
But I know the truth.
Fear can find me. Anywhere.
Fear is not stopped by iron bars or security locks. Fear is a relentless pursuer of fragile hearts. Especially when those hearts are rattled by the unknown.
Fear is the fault line that runs through the landscape of peace. When will the big one hit? Will I be ready? Will we all be okay? I can end up in a paralyzed, terrified reality where I defensively cower at the slightest tremor or shiver.
Turning to scripture, I landed on Psalm 62. David’s words rang through me, high and clear. Cutting through the fog of worry, I realized that he too struggled with fear. His enemies saw him as “a broken down wall or a tottering fence,” the picture of insecurity and vulnerability if there ever was one. I could imagine the thieves roaming our neighborhood, taking stock of broken gates and sagging hinges. The easiest of easy targets.
Then I read verse five. “Let all that I am wait quietly before God.”
All?
Like, everything?
You mean, I can’t have a tiny corner of my heart where I tuck away those anxious, worried, fearful thoughts? Don’t I need those? Aren’t they what help me stay vigilant and alert?
If I don’t know what fear is, then how will I know how to be safe?
As if my ritual of unpacking those emotions, stroking them one by one, letting scenarios bloom into feature length films in my mind…as if I could control what might happen. As if my mental loops of possible outcomes somehow makes me more prepared.
Why should all of me wait quietly before Him? Because He is my fortress where I will not be shaken.
If I really want to be safe. If I really want confidence in the future. If I really want freedom from anxiety and fear.
Then run to Him. With all of me.
Whatever part of me that I withhold can still be shaken.
How much do I value control (or the appearance of control)? Do I need those hidden pockets of fear in order to convince myself I have a grip on what’s going on?
Or can I release? Can I truly, all of me, wait quietly before Him?
He is my fortress. I will not be shaken.
Over the past two weeks, two houses on our street have been broken into during the night. One of those houses was our neighbors. The ones we share a fence, wall, and sidewalk with. The robbers took their television and laptop. At the other house, they were scared off by the residents before anything was taken.
Fear. That slippery, sticky, constricting force that squeezes into the cracks labeled “What if?” in my heart and mind, expanding with each pounding heartbeat and ragged breath. The flickering images that flash through my thoughts like an old movie reel, playing out possible scenarios that might happen. Our possessions are just stuff and our house is just a place. Yet the violation of the norms and boundaries of society – especially when it happens right outside my front door – rattles something loose deep inside me that causes me to tremble at my core.
I checked on the kids last night. Twice.
I woke up to way too many bumps in the night.
In the freshness of the morning light, my heart is skipping a beat quicker, anxiety rising to the surface to pull me back down to its depth.
My Bible fell open to the well-worn pages of chapter 8 of the book of Romans. I’ve been stuck on this passage for the past two weeks, unable to untangle myself from the paradigm shifting truth-bombs Paul drops in every sentence. Today, it was this:
…nothing can ever separate us from God’s love…neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow…
How can God’s love coexist with fear? “Perfect love casts out all fear,” right? If I’m afraid or fearful or anxious or worried or uncertain or, or, or…then that means I’ve said yes to fear and no to love and there’s no way I can have one with the other. Like polar opposites – no matter how hard I try to push them into the same space, the opposing force is so strong that eventually only one will win out.
Yet this verse says fear can not separate me from God’s love. Well, then. That changes my entire theology just a smidgen.
At its core, fear is a lie. It’s based on what has or what could happen. If something is happening to me then it’s no longer fear. It crosses the line from fear to something tangible and concrete like abuse, pain, violation, loss, or some other form of actual damage. Fear thrives on the unknown.
The good news? God is all knowing. There is no fear in Him because He is omniscient. When I choose to fear, it doesn’t change who God is. It’s not like God sees a warning sign of “FEAR” blinking in bright neon lights and says, “Whoah, hold on there. Yeah…I’m gonna have to ask you to turn off that fear before we go any further here.”
The enemy tries to trick me into believing that the punishment of fear is still coming my way. The terror, the doubt, the unhinging feeling of drifting into the unknown, sinking in worry. The anger towards God and blaming of whoever I can get to first – myself, others, or anyone else within my reach.
…God declared an end to sin’s control over us by giving us His Son as a sacrifice for our sins…
The truth?
Sin has no control over me.
That’s why it can never separate me from God. Because Jesus took that separation, once and for all, and suffered it on the cross for me. Fear hawks its wares like the roadside vender, waving and yelling and bargaining, promising it’s worth whatever I’m willing to hand over. Here’s the catch, though, – the price has already been paid. Not for fear, but towards love.
…nothing will be ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.
I still battle with fear. Even after we spent the evening installing a security system on our doors and windows, I felt my heart do a flip-flop as I settled into bed last night. Fear is a relentless one, for sure. My Savior?
Even more so.
In 1950, a biologist named Joseph Connell traveled to Australia to study biological diversity – nature’s ability sustain creative, innovative, and new growth. He had realized that some stretches of ocean or swathes of forest were home to hundreds of plants and animal species, and then just a few steps away those same ecological systems dwindled to one or two dominant plants that covered the area. He wanted to know why.
After much research and experimentation, he discovered that a natural disturbance was the catalyst for diversification. In the forest, he realized that a fallen, decayed tree was usually present in the areas where vibrant and varied growth was occurring. In the ocean, the stretches of water that most frequently were hit with storms or strong wave patterns produced the biggest variety of sea life.
Those ‘gaps’ – whether by falling tree or crashing waves – gave space for other species to take root where dominant species might have taken over. The beams of sunlight that could shine through the hole in the forest canopy brought seeds and organisms to life that heretofore lay dormant. Swirling undercurrents stirred the sands and mixed the sea to promote a wide range of coral, seaweed, and other ocean life.
His conclusion?
Nature relies on disturbances to fuel creative growth.
It has to be the right kind of disturbance, though. A clear cut, burned forest traumatizes the ecosystem and nothing grows. A violent hurricane destroys the delicate balance of life under the water’s surface. The disturbances couldn’t be too big or small, but just right to shake up the biological status quo and allow for new things to literally take root.
This summary comes from Charles Duhigg’s new book Smarter Faster Better and when I read it I simultaneously cringed and gasped. I love routine. I swoon at the sight of a well executed plan. Checklists make me smile. However, there’s something to be said for the value of the new thing. No matter how much I fight it, I see that new ideas, new ways, new concepts, new strategies shake things up enough to move us forward.
“When strong ideas take root, they can sometimes crowd out competitors so thoroughly that alternatives can’t prosper. So sometimes the best way to spark creativity is by disturbing things just enough to let some light through.”
When things seem to be crashing down around me, or the current sweeps me under, I don’t need to panic or try to escape. It may not be the end of the world. It might just be the beginning of something great.
Thanks to Charles Duhigg for the quality writing and inspiration for this post.
I’ll admit it – I’m a bit ‘out there’ when it comes to nutrition, food, and health. Call it crunchy, holistic, primal, whatever…but my ideal kitchen would include vats of fermenting yogurt and soaking grains and sprouting seeds, along with animal products of all shapes and sizes, plus every unnamable veggie and fruit out there. We put beet powder in smoothies and sweet potatoes in pancakes. Alas, reality hits and I do what I can with what I have, but when I stumble across books like this one by Nina Teicholz, I’m all over it.
Disclaimers up front – obviously, the author has a point to prove and will go to great lengths to do so. I read these types of books with a grain of salt (ha – pun!) and take it in context of the greater expanse of food and nutrition knowledge that exists. Last night I finished reading it (minus the 115 pages of notes and annotations) and came away with three main thoughts:
1. Some fat is good, especially animal based or hardens-at-room temperature types (think, coconut oil).
2. What benefits do those types of fats give me? Teicholz spent 10 chapters systematically dissecting and destroying the mainstream beliefs of nutritional health (eat less fat, more carbohydrates). However, when it came time to reveal why fats are good for us, the essential theory seemed to be simply because if we eat more fat, by default we will eat less carbs, and less carbs is better for us. Huh. She did explain how carbs affect our bodies (keep reading for more on that) but I kept wanting to get to the point that said, “….and this is why fats help you! They do this and this and this for your body and brain and systems, and no other food can do that for you!” Either I completely missed that part of the book, or it simply wasn’t there. I find it hard to swallow (ha – pun again!) that the only benefit of eating fat is that it means I’m not eating something else. Sally Fallon’s classic text does an excellent job of explaining how fats help us, and in a much more succinct fashion, plus there are recipes.
3. This passage will stay with me for awhile. After I finished reading it I thought, “Now that’s how carbs affect my body! I get it now!” It’s one of the simplest explanations of how carbohydrates actually trigger certain biological responses. Teicholz writes:
“The study of hormones, called endocrinology, had revealed by 1921 that insulin, a hormone produced in the pancreas, appeared to trump all others in the deposition of fat…The body secretes insulin whenever carbohydrates are eaten. If cars are eaten only occasionally, the body has time to recover between the surges of insulin. The fats cells have time to release their stored fat, and the muscles can burn the fat as fuel. If carbohydrates are eaten throughout the day, however, in meals, snacks, and beverages, then insulin stays elevated in the bloodstream, and the fat remains in a state of constant lockdown. Fat accumulates to excess; it is stored, not burned…on a diet restricted in carbohydrates: the absence of carbohydrates would allow fat to flow out of the fat tissue, no longer held hostage there by the circulating insulin, and this fat could then be used as energy. A person would lose weight, not because they necessarily ate less but because the absence of insulin was allowing the fat cells to release the fat and the muscle cells to burn it.”
My recommendation? Start with the final chapter and the conclusion. The book is over 300 pages (plus the previously 115 pages of notes) and the meat (oh man, I’m on point today!) is found at the end. The rest of the book is a step by step walk through how nutrition science got to where it is today, along with the author’s attempts at disproving or questioning all those findings. It’s a worthwhile read, but without the hope of an answer (thus my suggestion to read the end first) it can get a bit repetitive and droll.
These two books are providing an interest contrast in leadership ideas as I read through them. Of course they are from two vastly different eras which can make my brain feel like it’s spinning in circles, but I am learning nuggets of wisdom from both.
From Courageous Leadership – Every staff member holds a stake in and carries a responsibility for the overall goals of the mission. We talk about our Four Pillars – abide, align, steward, and develop. I am responsible for those Pillars in my own life, but also in the areas of ministry in which I serve. It can be easy for people to identify more strongly with the ministry in which they serve instead of in the overall ministry to which we all belong. We are all part of the same body, so we are all called to abide, align, steward, and develop in each and every part of our contribution and service. Those Pillars aren’t something someone else does somewhere else. It’s what I do right here, right now, wherever I go. Hybles shares that “a federation of sub-ministries was neither biblical nor sustainable.” He also uses the solar system as an example of what not to do in regards to vision casting. An organization can not be like a bunch of planets in their own orbit, circling the same thing but all on their own schedules and agendas. I’ve seen that tendency pop up sometimes, where people will start to treat the organization as an electrical outlet – a place to plug in and get what they need to power up whatever their big idea is and come running back when their battery starts to run out. How am I abiding, aligning, stewarding, and developing my family, my marriage, my role with Mom’s Small Group and the Leadership Team? Instead of viewing those Four Pillars as something that happens way out “there” somewhere and some of the magic dust falls on my while I’m doing my own thing, how can I re-align my daily habits, thoughts, and efforts to fit within the grid of align, abide, steward, and develop?
From St. Benedict – The word abbot comes from abba, which means father. The abbot’s role was to be a father to the monks he led. While the abbot carried a some what disproportionate responsibility for the obedience of the monks (he was taught that their disobedience meant he was an inadequate leader), it’s true that a leader is accountable for those she or he is leading. As Benedict writes, “…let him [the abbot] realize that on judgment day he will sure have to submit a reckoning to the Lord for all their souls – and indeed for his own as well.” I am responsible for my own development, not only for the development of those around me. I like that this warning was given to the abbots because it seems like leading a monastery and all the power and influence that comes along with it could go to an abbot’s head. He could become the leader in name only and not in spirit (I’ve read Ken Follett’s books enough times to have a colorful picture of monasteries gone bad). How concerned am I about my own growth, my own development, my own alignment? Leadership starts with me, and not in the sense of “I’m the leader, do what I say!”, but in the “Watch how I live my life if you are wondering if any of this stuff really makes a difference.” He sums it up by saying, “In this way, while always fearful of the future examination of the shepherd about the sheep entrusted to him [i.e. – one day giving account of his leadership to God]…he becomes concerned also about his own, and while helping other to amend by his warnings, he achieves the amendment of his own faults.” Apply my advice for others to myself and be willing to grow and change in the same way I’ve challenged others to do.
“We must, then, prepare our hearts and bodies for the battle of holy obedience to His instructions. What is not possible by nature, let us ask the Lord to supply by the help of His grace. If we wish to reach eternal life…then – while there it still time – we must run and do now what will profit us forever.” – The Rule of St. Benedict
How often do I feel that most of my life is not “possible by nature?” Do I have the patience to not yell, or the mercy to be merciful, or the discernment to respond to what’s really going on, or the selflessness to help those around me, or the humility to be known for who I really am…I could go on and on. My reserves of human ability fall so short from where God is calling me to live, that holy standard that Jesus tell us in Matthew 4 – “…be perfect as my Father in heaven is perfect.” Gulp.
The impossibilities of my nature drive me to the supply of the Lord’s grace. His immeasurable, inexhaustible, eternal fountain of grace. The only measure that contains His grace is the Cross, and it’s impact changed all of time and eternity. Do I ask the Lord for His grace? Not in the sense of “Dang, I just messed up! I need some grace on Aisle 6!” At the start of the race, from the very beginning, am I drawing from His strength, or I am shooting out of the starting blocks with my head down and arms pumping to see how far I can make it on my own?
It is a battle, this life of choosing holy obedience. Run and do now what will profit me forever. No hesitation. Eagerly pursue the things of eternal significance. Quickly I will come to see that eternal significance looks extremely different than earthly importance. Do I choose what makes me popular or noticed or praised? Or do I choose ten minutes on the floor building legos with my six year old, reading books to my one year old, baking cookies with my three year old, listening to my husband share his heart? Choose today in the light of tomorrow…and all of eternity.
I did it.
The entire weekend we were in Vegas, I did not look at Facebook a single time.
Having blocked access to Facebook on my phone a few months ago, I chose to leave my computer at home and see how life would be with out the social network connection to everyone else’s lives for a few days.
It was glorious.
I was with my husband, the person I love the most. Our children were completely cared for and having a blast (and the adults who were watching them communicated with us all weekend via text and phone).
For three days, there was absolutely no need for me to see what the rest of the world was doing.
When those quiet lulls appeared in my day, I found myself absorbing into them instead of fighting them off with distraction. I leaned towards the moment instead of trying to escape it.
This hilarious video clip speaks some pretty strong truth about how I expect the world to treat me sometimes.
How quickly the world owes me something I knew existed only ten seconds ago.
Social media fuels desire for external validation and approval for what I do. Does it really matter unless someone notices, likes, or comments? Yet in the grand scheme of history, this phenomenon has basically existed for ten seconds. Of course I can compare myself to others and prove I don’t really use social media that much. At the core of the issue, it comes down to my motivation as to why I’m clicking and scrolling the minutes away. And my why has a lot to do with insecurities about myself and my choices. Instead of allowing myself to examine those wounded places and search for healing, I dull the throbbing ache with comparison and judgement – “Ugh – look what that person is doing.” Will I keep using Facebook? Most likely. Do I want to drastically reduce the time spent on (and thinking about) it? Absolutely.
The world owes me nothing. Carry on with my life, dear self, and be free from what I wonder other people might possibly think.
The Anywhere Mom 