Christmas Through the Tears

Tears are not absent during the holidays.  In fact, I've talked with enough friends and family in the last few days to know that tears are likely prevalent during Christmas.  There's no doubt a lot of joy and happiness during this time, praise the Lord for the smiles and laughter, but there may also be sadness.  And praise the Lord for tears.  Tears over the loss of what used to be, an ache from the longing of a child absent in the family circle, grief from the loss of a father or mother who was here last Christmas but is gone today, or an illness that seems to have taken precedence over every important thing in life.

And then there are the everyday tears that don't seem to stay away just because it's Christmas.  Tears were shed on the way home from church on Christmas Eve because my youngest was reprimanded for kicking her older sister.  Tears.  And lots of them.  Because "everyone in the entire world thinks I'm annoying.  Every single person in this entire earth!"  I'm glad she's not over-dramatic.  

And then the tears while watching The Nativity with the family the night before Christmas.  The tears were not due to the amazing reality of the incarnation.  No.  The tears were due to the killing of a cow.   "Why would they kill a cow, dad?  Why a cow?  What did the cow do to them?"  And so we press pause to explain Old Testament animal sacrifice to our seven year old.   And then she completely understood.  Not at all.

But for some reason, in the midst of the longing and sadness, there is a sense in which swallowing the tears is the right thing to do on Christmas.  It's Christmas, for heaven's sake.  We should all be happy and smiles, right?  Bottle up the tears and let them flow any other day....just not on Christmas.  

But we live in a broken world. And I'm incredibly grateful that we can celebrate the beauty of the incarnation through the tears.  I'm grateful that Jesus came into this world so that He can understand and identify with our longing and pain.  I'm thankful that Jesus showed us His own tears and that His birth was announced not to the kings of the earth, but to humble shepherds.  And I'm thankful that the birth of our Savior took place in a stable and not a palace.  I'm sure it smelled; I'm quite certain it was not all that silent, and his bed wasn't perfectly prepared ahead of time, but instead he lay in a trough.   It's the smelly, noisy, not tidied-up kind of place that I can relate with.  Jesus made himself man for you and for me. 

All this is what we see through the tears.  

I sat in front of my Christmas tree this morning and let the tears flow.  I miss my dad and the days when family members from all over would meet together and spend hours eating, opening presents, and celebrating together our Savior's birth.  I miss the meals my mom would cook and the baths my kids would take at their grandma's house, and I even miss the days when I would rebuke mom for giving my kids ten too many pieces of M &M's. 

But I see much through the tears.  I see a day beyond when we will actually see the King of Kings, and not through unclear and hazy eyes because there will no longer be crying, a promise so deserving of our Hallelujahs.  And through the tears I see Christmas.   I see my Savior and the Splendor of the incarnation.

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

The implications of Jesus taking on humanity is as deeply felt as the tears on my face.  This is Grace.  This is Joy unspeakable.  This is the true meaning of Christmas.  

There will be joy tomorrow, and I'm sure there will be a lot of happy munchkins tearing through the packages, but for some there may be tears.  There's no need to bottle them just because it's Christmas.  See Christmas through the tears; it's a beautiful sight to behold.  

Christmas Letter 2015

New Unabridged 2015 Polski Dictionary

Fully Revised and Updated

out·land·ish (out-lan-dish) adjective  1. freakishly or grotesquely strange or odd; bizarre. 2. what Chris thought of Katie’s idea to bring home a bearded dragon as a pet.  

 flab-er-gast   (\ˈfla-bər-ˌgast\ ), verb. 1. to overwhelm with shock, surprise, or wonder. 2. Chris’ reaction when Katie brought home a hamster after returning two pet rats only months before. 

Li-ly [ prin-ses], noun 1. a 7 year old girl in first grade who loves arts and crafts.  2.  a child who asks more questions than her parents thought was humanly possible (see also: Dumb-found). 3. a young girl who enjoys make-believe 4. someone who has recently started piano and is showing great talent in this new venture.    5. an emotional child who requested that her father perform a funeral service for her dead goldfish. 5. a one-of-a-kind girl taking after….well….we’re not entirely sure…and who loves her pet hamster, Luxe. 

Dumb-found [ duhm-found], verb  1.  to make speechless with amazement; astonish.   2.  the way the entire family feels by some of lily’s questions:  How come Adam and Eve didn’t listen to God; Has God ever made a mistake; What happens if I keep on sinning; Who makes me sin; Do I have to sit next to my brother in heaven (just to name a few).  3. The expression on Katie’s face when she saw Chris’ Systematic Theology book as reading material by Lily’s bed this summer.  

Chris-to-pher (Chris), [kris-tuh-fer], noun   1. a person who has been reading thousands of pages for his Doctor of Ministry.  2. a pastor who is leading a growing church in Kirkwood, MO.  3. a busy dad who drives the kids to school nearly every morning and performs funerals for fish.  4. a Homiletics instructor who teaches preaching and listens to three student sermons each Wednesday afternoon. 5. a pretty happy U2 fan who enjoyed rocking out at two concerts this summer. 6. an awesome dad who would be perfectly happy with no pets.  Ever.

Ka-th-leen (Katie), [kath-leen], noun   1. a busy mom who actually doesn’t mind shuttling the kiddos to and fro.   2.  Someone who enjoyed speaking for a women’s retreat in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  3.  a runner who achieved a personal record for a half marathon this fall.  4.  a caretaker for her faithful and determined mother.  5. a pianist who teaches multiple students and played in a Bach concert with two beautiful violinists   6.  a writer who enjoys blogging almost more than she enjoys having multiple pets around the house                                                 

Over-joy[oh-ver-joi], verb  1.  to cause to feel great joy or delight; elate.  2. the emotion Katie felt when playing the concert in January.  3.  the way two out of three children felt when they brought home new pets this year.  4.  the way Max the dog feels when an older sibling rescues him from Lily’s dress-up sessions.

El-la (teen a ger), noun 1. a thirteen year old girl who is exceedingly passionate. 2. a teenager who loves rainy days and hopes to live in Seattle someday (because it’s rainy and they drink a lot of coffee).  3. a talented girl who has taken up contemporary dance and is excelling in this new activity.  4. an athlete who continues to show her tough side on the basketball court and soccer field. 5. a teen who is sought after by young moms at church for her “baby whispering” abilities.   6. a thirteen year girl old who loves (loves, loves, loves) One Direction, Taylor Swift, and all things Pop music.  7. a young woman who is learning guitar and played in her first recital this year.   8. a kid who takes after her father in many ways and who would prefer to never have a pet. Ever.

Huh (hu), interj. 1. used to express surprise, disbelief, or confusion. 2. Chris and Katie’s reaction when they realized Jrod’s team of computer programmers, of which Jrod was the youngest contestant ever, won a competition during a weekend event.  3. Chris, Katie, and Jrod’s reaction when they realized Jrod’s share of the prize for said event was six thousand dollars.  4. Katie’s reaction when Jrod said he wanted to use his money to purchase his friends extra candy and soda over the summer. 

Jon-a-than (Jrod), [goof-bawl], noun  1. an 11 year old boy full of an enormous amount of energy and life. 2. a pre-teen more comfortable conversing with adults than kids his own age.  3.  a kid who left soccer to take up running.  4.  a boy who is fiercely competitive.  5. an athlete who finally (finally) beat his mom in a 5K race, much to his mother’s demise. 6. an eleven year old who plays violin beautifully and has enjoyed playing in church, school, and recitals. 7. an eleven year old who learns computer programming every Saturday and has plans to take over the world with his abilities.  8. a young man who had a blast at his first U2 concert with his dad.  9. a boy who is his mother personified and who loves his pet bearded dragon named Smaug.

Joy-ful  (\ˈjȯi-fəl\), adjective,  1. experiencing, causing, or showing great joy. 2. how we feel when we think of our Savior’s birth and the promise of the gospel.  3. the emotion we have when we think of all of our friends and family around the world.

Merry Christmas and love to all!

The Polskis

 P.S.  We were AWESOME at selfies this year.  Just awesome.  

             

            

                                       

                                                                        

Birthday Reflections: Barbies and Joy

Man, oh, man.    I feel like I should be about twenty-five.  Maybe twenty-six, but since today is my birthday, and I feel like I'm in my mid-twenties, then I shall declare today my twenty-sixth birthday.  Why not.  It certainly sounds better than sixty-two, which is how old my daughter guessed I was.

I've been doing a lot of reflecting today, on this twenty-sixth birthday of mine, and mostly on Joy.

When I was younger, birthday's were a BIG deal in my house.  There were sweets, presents galore, and always a big party with the girls in my class.  I remember bounce places, indoor pools, Little Caesar's pizza,  and one party at home (and I'm pretty sure that was the last one at home).  In the exact words of my seven year old daughter, "I miss the days of my youth."

And after every party my parents would ask, "Are you happy?"

Of course I was happy.  I loved parties, I loved the attention, and I loved, loved, loved presents.  And so, it was all fun and games...and smiles and laughs...until one year, the one present I was dying for was not received.

Gasp.

I know.  Who would withhold a Barbie from a sevenish-year old (regardless of the fact that she had seventeen other Barbie dolls)?  Oh, the cruelty.

I found a picture online of the Barbie I had been dreaming to call mine.  I remember it well because alas, I got it for Christmas fifteen days later.  Spoiled.  Rotten.  

But through the tears on December 10th, sometime in the eighties, I remember my dad sitting next to me on my bed explaining, with as many kind words as he could muster, how absurd it was to cry over one toy when I had so many others.   He told me, perhaps out of frustration, that I had to make a choice to be joyful about what I had been given.  

In my moment of ridiculous drama, I'm pretty sure that dad's words sounded something like, "blah blah, stop crying, blah, blah, be joyful."  But that conversation stuck with me.  And what my dad proceeded to teach me over the course of the next several years, whether he knew it or not, was the importance of choosing joy.  

And this memory struck a chord with me today while I spent most of the day helping my mom and step-father.  

I have been given all the joy from my heavenly father.  In fact, in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed that we would be given the full measure of His joy.  We have it, we possess it, but we've got to chose it.  

And this joy isn't the same thing as happiness.  Not at all.  

I wasn't happy today when I watched my mom scream out in terrible pain.   I wasn't happy when an old friend of Dads looked over my shoulder at mom and almost gasped.  I wasn't happy when she grabbed my hand as tightly as she could when we told her it was my birthday, and I wasn't happy when she started weeping uncontrollably. I had a deep sadness in those moments, and in my mom's small room today, happiness would have been an unfitting and absurd emotion.  

But there is still joy.  

It's the same joy that Job found when he cried out in faith after loosing everything but his life:  "The Lord gives and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."   And it's the same joy that Mary found in the midst of fear at the news that she was carrying the Savior:  "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."  These emotions have nothing to do with happiness but everything to do with joy that comes from God alone.    

This gift of joy is unspeakable.  It isn't depleted when we're faced with losing loved ones, and it doesn't dwindle when our sadness intensifies.  Instead, this joy transforms and transcends tears, heartaches, and trouble.  

Joy.  I choose it, I embrace it, and I'm grateful of it.  Even now, sitting here reflecting on the hope I have no matter what He gives or takes, no matter how hard or easy the day is, and no matter what tomorrow brings, I weep with tears of Joy.  

It really wasn't a happy birthday, per say.  But it was a joyful one, and I couldn't ask for a greater gift.  

Joyful birthday to me.  

Stories to Sing

Life is full of stories to tell.  Sometimes I think about my stories like songs that I've learned throughout the years.  Some stories are written in a minor key and sung slowly and methodically.  Others are filled with major chords and are sung faster with much joy and anticipation.

Some stories are so fabulously awkward that they just have to be revisited.  Like the time that I approached a dear woman who had recently been through bladder surgery.  I knew she had surgery, but at the time I had no idea what kind.  So, when she quietly confided that she was doing well other than a few accidents, I innocently (and stupidly) assumed....car accidents.  And, folks, I responded:

"Oh, I've had several.  There's no need to be down about it as long as you're OK."

With a twist of her head, the sweet and patient woman responded:  "You've had several?"

"I have.  In fact, between you and me, I just had a small one last week.  I know they're not fun, but you're not alone."

And that was that.  The "accidents" were never spoken about again.  It was fabulously awkward and I didn't even know it.

My side of the story makes me cringe to this day.  I'm an idiot.  And her side of the story?  Well, you have to wonder if she doesn't watch every time I walk out of the room while nudging her husband and whispering "maybe she's had another accident."

Geez.

And then there are the stories of remembrance.  The other day I was sweeping out my garage and was hit with a very sweet memory of my grandfather.  I called the kids outside so they could share in my memory, and I explained with tears in my eyes how Grandpa "B" would spend time meticulously cleaning out our garage every time he'd come to visit.   I was flooded with memories of my thoughtful and cheerful grandpa who would always make sure that we had a clean garage, and though he's now physically hindered from doing much of anything, he still has the same cheerful attitude.

Of course, then, I led my kids into an emotionally charged speech about selflessness and the importance of doing things for others.  I was envisioning a scene from Braveheart when in reality I was urging my kids in the middle of the garage.  And with my broom.

I'm pretty certain that if my kids remember those few moments in the years to come, they may remember two things:  Mom loved her grandpa and mom is crazy.

And I'm always amazed by the stories of rememberance about my dad.  I love hearing them.  These stories are so precious to me and to my family.  The stories of how he loved Advent, treasured music, visited them in their home, attended a Cardinal's game with their family, loved on their kids, and even led them to the Lord.  Each story is a strand that puts together a beautifully woven picture of a man who was deeply loved.

And yet, I have my own, different stories about my dad.  Stories that include hard but important talks about life, arguments over whether or not I could wear a certain dress to church, hugs when he dropped me off at college,  reprimands about careless accidents, and a few awkward talks over boys.  These are my precious stories to tell.

There will always be significant moments in life we're determined to remember.  We were privileged to be a part of the wedding of some dear friends a few weeks ago.  I remember on my own wedding day having a friend urge me to "take it all in." I spent time embracing it all by focusing on parts of the day that I didn't want to ever slip away.  And so I shared similar advice with this beautiful bride:  There will be certain moments you won't want to ever forget.  Say out loud that you'll remember them, and I guarantee that you will.

And those moments will one day make up her wedding day stories.

We spent part of Thanksgiving with my mom at her assisted living facility.  For a few precious moments, we sat around a large table with my sister and her family and we sang for mom.  We sang Christmas songs that declared the story of Jesus.  Mom sat quietly in her wheel chair, and I wasn't entirely sure what she thought about the singing until I looked at her face and noticed the tears streaming down.  With a huge lump in my throat, I looked down and wondered what she might one day tell about this moment.

Because she can't communicate, I often think about the questions I'll ask her in heaven one day.  Among the various questions, I look forward to hearing what she thought of those Thanksgiving day moments.  Perhaps the tears were from a deep love for her family, or maybe they were tears of frustration because of her inability to sing along and cradle her grand-babies while singing Away in a Manger.  Maybe she was thinking of holidays past when her house was filled with the sounds of kids and grandkids singing, talking, and playing.  Or maybe the tears were due to our inability to harmonize.  My husband and I tried while singing around the table, and we failed miserably.  I'm guessing Mom's tears flowed for many of these reasons.  But that is her story to one day tell.  And I can't wait to hear it.

I have my own story about those moments.  With my head down, I thanked God for a family that loves God and declares his glories unabashedly in the middle of a retirement home.  I will always remember those tears around that table, and I will never forget mom's youngest grankiddos tenderly hugging her and saying, "love you, Ya-Ya."

As Anne Lamott has said about story-telling:  "All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions."  

Every story and different rendition holds significance because they are shared with someone.  And the story of the incarnation is no different.  Each gospel story sings the same glorious song about the truth of the story of Jesus, but each is told with different detail and different emphasis.

It's the greatest story ever told.  The story of God who became man and entered earth as a baby to redeem people like you and me, people who are desperately in need of a Savior.  It's a story of a Redeemer who died in a painful and humiliating way because He loves me with a love that I don't always fully understand but daily try to embrace with gratitude and thanksgiving.  

This is my story.  It's an unlikely story but it's one that has changed me.   It's a story that moves me to tears when I think about the daily implications of it;  it's a story of mercy, grace, and unconditional love, thanks be to God.  

 It's a story that compels me.  

It's a story filled with all sorts of major and minor keys.  

And it's a story that I hope to never stop singing.

The Cup

When I was younger, I was afraid that a giant strawberry might come into my room at night and attack me.  I remember on one particular night screaming out about the strawberry. I mean, wouldn't you?!  My dad came in, blurry-eyed I'm sure, and he offered me a cup of water.  I drank that water right down and behold:  that cup was a fruit killer.  Seriously.  Well done, dad.

But the big strawberry fear just never went away.  Lest you judge too quickly, this peculiar fear must have come from something my parents let me watch on T.V.  Therefore, my abnormalities are not due to my own strange mind.  Right?  Right?  Somehow, I'm sure that my fear of giant fruit had to be their fault.  Somehow.

OK, maybe it's just my quirky, God-given imagination that led me to believe fruit could end my life.  But in reality I was quite afraid of this non-existant berry.  I mean, I was terrified enough that I had trouble sleeping some nights.  In fact, as I sit here and write I can actually picture the strawberry that eventually made its way into my thoughts and dreams.  It was big.  Like really big, folks.  It took up most of my bedroom and wasn't ripe and cheery; instead, it was a little mushy on top. So as a youngster I feared going to bed at night because of the mushy, oversized strawberry that was waiting to attack. I mean, wouldn't you?!

I considered all the various ways I could fight back when the the fruit decided to make an appearance, but really nothing was going to work.  Nothing!  As a young, defeated fruit fearer, I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to call for dad and have him fight the strawberry for me.  Or just have him bring me a cup of water.  One or the other.

And so there's that.

Thankfully, I have somewhat relinquished my fear of giant strawberries, but not so fortunately my fear of oversized objects has remained.

I have no rational way to explain this fear, so here is a picture to help me expound:

For clarification purposes, if I was the person on that jet ski, I would die.  In fact, having this picture on the blog makes my heart skip a few beats, but I shall sacrifice for the sake of my readers just so they can be clear on the illogicality of my fear.  At least I did not post a picture of a strawberry (although, if the strawberry was oversized....) 

I've only met one other person in my life who has this same fear.  I've never experienced such a connection before.  Our discovery of this similarity went something like this:  

Me: "Well, I have kind of a weird fear." 

Friend: "Oh, I have a weird fear too."  

Me: "Probably not as weird as mine.  See I'm afraid of oversized...."

Friend: "...objects!  Like really, huge..." 

Me:  "....things!"  

Friend:  "Super big whales!" 

Both:  "Ah!" 

Me:  "Huge buildings and boats and....strawberries!"  

OK, so maybe the strawberry thing put me into a different category, but the commanlity was uncanny.  I'm pretty sure I heard the Michael W. Smith song playing somewhere in the background of our conversation:  "And friends are friends forever when you share such dumb fears..."  Or something like that.  

With my odd fears, I shouldn't have found it strange that my youngest child moved her baby dolls out of her bedroom the other night "because, mom, they might come alive and attack me." 

Duh.  

But I did find it strange, and mostly because seeing this in the hallway in the morning was just, plain creepy.  Poor kid.  The preverbal apple just doesn't fall far from the tree.  

Everyone has fears and anxieties.  Perhaps they're not quite as odd as ours, but we've all got them.  And actually, it's not the "oversized" fears that seem to aggravate day in and day out; rather,  it's the smaller fears that tug regularly and are felt deep within.  It's these small fears that tend to grow uncontrollably and can sound at times like drumming in the ears, though we can appear calm and collected from the outside.  

It's those fears that I hate the most:  What if my mom is hurting and we don't know because she can't communicate with us anymore?  What if that bump on my kid is more than just a bump? What if I get cancer like so many in my family?  What if we make the wrong decision about moving, finances, or our kids schooling?  What if, what if, what if.  

So many "what if's" and so many future possibilities that are simply not my current realities. St. Augustine is quoted time and time again:  "Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee," and yet I seem to intuitively rephrase the quote to say something along the lines of: "My heart is restless until someone tells me 'it'll be OK,' or until Netflix or a good book temporarily calms my anxieties." How unfortunate that I regularly rewrite Augustine's quote because it just doesn't work.  

Psalm 16:5 says: 

"Lord, you have assigned me my portion 

and my cup; you have made my lot secure." 

Our shallow cup of fears should be drained with acceptance, since the deep cup that Jesus has given us will never be emptied of His grace, mercy, forgiveness, unconditional love, and the truth that Jesus alone maintains our lot.  Drink deeply of this cup and let the truth of what is in it settle the "what ifs" that so quickly and fiercely invade.  

Through God's Word, I'm reminded daily that to reach for the unknown is to welcome in anxiety.  To sort through all the possibilities of what could, should, might....simply opens the door to the temptation to idolize my own fears as they so easily cloud my view of a perfect, Sovereign Savior.  

Every difficulty that I currently face could have been cause for deep anxiety had I named them as "what if's" in years past.  And yet in the mire of today's stresses, the Spirit supplies the strength and peace needed to trudge forward knowing that nothing is out of the control of the Almighty.  

It's strange, that cup of water that as a child seemed to ever so quickly kill off large and overwhelming fears. 

But there is a cup that calms our fears.  Drink deeply.     

Grace and Saints

Today I'm particularly thankful for two things:  My husband and GRACE.

I'm leading a discussion on a passage from Colossians in a couple of weeks that deals in part with a Biblical understanding of what a relationship looks like between a husband and wife.  In reflecting on my own relationship,  I've come to a hard and fast conclusion:

My husband is a saint.

I mean, seriously.

OK, so he's not perfect (incidentally, he vociferously denies his own sainthood, just in case you were wondering). But, if someone is going to receive a gold medal in glory for those who "Put Up With Quite a Bit From Their Wife," I, for one, am certain my husband just might have that gold hanging around his neck.   In-depth study of the Bible can be convicting (thank you, Holy Spirit and Inherent Word) and I must say that I've been deeply convicted this week.

There were several points given in one commentary* that help explain what our responsibilities are as wives, according to the passage in Colossians.  As an aside, this passage, and others like it in Scripture, has nothing to do with women being less important, insignificant, not equal, weak....must I go on?  Not. At. All.

On the contrary, God is for both husband and wife in equal amount, and He provides us with guidelines as to what our responsibilities are in marriage because our roles in this God-given relationship aren't to be taken lightly.   And thank God for the guidelines!  Because, folks, it's good and right to want to do all we can to help our relationships be the best they can be.  We work on things we care about, and for planners like me, I'm grateful to have something to work towards.  

In reality, we have responsibilities in every single relationship in our lives:  boss to employee, employee to boss, parent to child, child to parent, citizen to government - we have responsibilities in every relationship.  So, it should be no surprise that we have responsibilities in our marriages as well.

So, here are a few of the summary points of our obligations in marriage, and just a few of the simple examples of why I felt, um, a little bit convicted:

1. We're called to commit our life and all it's possibilities to another

I was talking with a friend recently about those who are "germaphobes."  She argued that she's not a germaphobe; rather, she's merely "germ aware."  Totally.  That's totally it.  I'm germ aware.  I'm aware of germ's pervasiveness...way more than I should be.

So, for example, if the possibility of the stomach bug comes anywhere remotely near my husband's body, it's "adios, honey!"and I'll see you when it's over...once the sheets are disinfected....and the walls Cloroxed...

I can hear enough through the small crack in the bottom of the door, so if things like liquid are needed (necessary) then I'll enter with my mask, gloves, and suit (kidding, kidding....kind of....) and provide the necessary electrolytes.

In other words, my interpretation:  I'll commit all of life's possibilities, as long as they don't disrupt me, my plans for the day, and my narotic "germ aware" ness.

Convicted.  


2.  We should be concerned with wanting the other person's good (not just wanting the other person to meet my needs) 

We have a tradition on birthdays.  The celebrated gets to pick any restaurant for dinner, and the two of us, along with some friends, enjoy the fact that we have a good excuse to go out and eat good food (although I must admit, my husband and I find "good excuses" to go out more often than not:  We both woke up that morning, I didn't strangle children, no one stepped on bubble gum, etc.  Cheers!)

So, on his birthday my husband picked a particular restaurant.  But it didn't have fish.  And I really wanted fish.  I rationalized: we both have to eat.  Naturally, then, we should go to a restuarant that has the food I want on my husband's birthday.  Duh.

Geez.  The stink I put up was worse than the smell of dead fish itself.  Sometimes it's hard to see past the desire for smoked salmon.

No, it's actually not.  It's simply a matter of choosing to see the other person's needs and desires, but too often we're fixated on the mirror of needs and wants in front of us.

And that's when we fight for the fish.

Convicted.  


3.  We should be concerned for the ultimate well-being of another without trying to control that person or to win praise for such sacrifice.  

I have occasional night time freak outs.  Anybody?  PALEEASE tell me that someone else has these frantic moments that seem to hit late at night.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure...

Essentially, every joy, sorrow, pain, and anxious thought hits me all at once, and it's always late at night.  I overheard my oldest describing what she sporadically hears late at night as "occasional adult temper-tantrums."

Touché', my dear, touché'.

Because basically, that's what they are.  They're adult temper-tantrums, and the output of all my words and emotions are directed straight toward my husband.  Why?  Because he's standing there.  That's why.

It doesn't matter what happened in his day because when I get going into my fits of "the world is against me," "woe is me," "has anyone even SEEN how many times I took out the trash this week," "I can't take anymore," blah, blah,  I leave very little room for concern over what has happened in his day...his week....year.... and am selfishly and desperately looking for some kind of pat on my back that says "you rock, honey."

What?  Ridiculous, really.

And every morning I become acutely aware of the absurdity of my night time need for accolades and disregard for the partner by my side.   Thank the Lord that His mercies are new every morning.

Convicted.  


4.  We should be listening to the other.  

Sometimes the most basic instruction, and in this case it's simply listening, can be the most difficult to follow.  Why?  Because we're so desperate to get our own point across that we miss everything being said.  Not listening to each other (really listening) results in fruitless and potentially damaging conversations.

Sometimes my listening skills look something like this:

Chris:  "Don't bring home anymore pets because you'll end up taking care of them yourself!  The kids will do it for a week and then you'll end up putting more on your plate."

What he was saying:  For the love.  Don't bring home another animal from PetSmart for your own sake!  

What I heard him say:  I hate animals!  Curse pets!  They should all be free and not bound in a cage!

I brought home a bearded-dragon and hamster within two months of each other.  I'm daily cleaning up poop and buying more animal food, cursing the pets each time I go near their cages.

I should've listened.

Convicted.  

It's too easy to put a relationship's problems on the other person, but until we each recognize our Biblical calling and the weaknesses that we need to work through, until we are truly convicted by our own sin, our marriages cannot thrive.

And this is why I'm deeply grateful for grace today.  Today, God's grace abounds to me, and I'm thankful that I am not on my own in this journey.  None of us are.  If you're a believer in Jesus, grace abounds and is given again and again, over and over.  And in marriage grace is needed in abundance.

Today I'm praising God for His grace and for His Mercy.

And today I personally give thanks for my saint.  I mean husband.

*The NIV Application Commentary: Colossians, Philemon by David Garland

Hamsters and Sweaters and All Our Earthly Things

My husband used my youngest in a sermon illustration on Sunday.  This isn't abnormal, especially since Lily lends herself quite well to illustrations, mostly because, well, she's Lily.  What was abnormal was that she knew about it.  Lily usually sits with friends because of our various responsibilities Sunday mornings, and she typically leaves for children's church during the sermons.  So, I was surprised when she walked up to her father immediately following the service with her finger pointing and words of reprimand rolling off her tongue.

After listening to her tantrum (i.e., "Why would you tell everyone that I might burn the house down?!" and "This is the worst day of my life..." etc, etc), my husband assured her that he wouldn't use her in sermon illustrations anymore to which she replied, "What?  Dad!  PAALEASE.  I like being in sermons."

Duh, dad.

So, when I asked Lily why she stayed in church for the sermon, she merely replied, "Mom, sometimes a person just needs a sermon."

Tis true, Lily, tis true.  And yesterday, I needed the sermon that my husband preached.  In reflecting on 1 Corinthians 7, he put up the following quote from author and professor, Gordon Fee:

"One lives in the world just as the rest - married, sorrowing, rejoicing, buying, making use of it - but none of these determines one's life...Christians do not buy to possess; that is to let the world govern the reason for buying.  Those who buy are to do so 'as if not' in terms of possessing anything." 

In other words, we don't marry to find eternal happiness.  We don't grieve without hope, and we don't rejoice without remembering who it is that gives us our joy.  And our possessions?  They don't ultimately have eternal value.

While I believe this in my heart, my excruciating, dramatic tantrum over my oldest daughter wearing my brand new sweater the other day might have suggested otherwise.  But we all act like our things have eternal value at one time or another, and kids are sometimes prime examples of this viewpoint.  Aren't they?

I bought my daughter a hamster last week.  There was no question that I walked into PetSmart with the intention of purchasing a goldfish to replace the dead and buried (like, literally buried) "Goldy," but the reality is that I walked out with a hamster.

I'm a sucker for animals.  I just am.  And this little furry ball of cuteness was too much for me to handle, and so he came home with us.  I was overjoyed, my daughter was a blissful pet-owner, my son couldn't wait to get his hands on the creature, but then there's my oldest and her father (they are one in the same).  She had no desire to look at the animal.  Like, not even look at it?  I just do not understand.   And my husband said very little; he simply expressed curiosity about who would win a fight between the hamster and our bearded dragon: Luxe vs. Smaug.  I'm not gonna lie.  I imagined that fight.

And now that my daughter has tasted what it's like to have a pet of her own, she is completely and utterly possessive of it.  There are rules:  No one can touch it without her permission; no one can go near the cage without her permission; you must only say sweet words to it (she prefers us to use higher-pitched voices), and she has already inquired about it's eternal destiny:  "Will Luxe go to heaven with me?" 

And, oh, how I get it.  As a kid, I had my own rules for my younger sisters when it came to holding my baby dolls (Alice and Mary Katherine.  Yes, I still remember their names.  And yes, that's mildly embarrassing to admit).  I posted signs on my door that said "yes," meaning a sister could come in and hold one baby of her choice for a brief time.  The sign that said "no" simply meant stay away from my baby dolls.  Duh.

Now that I'm older, it's less about the things around me (with the exception of new, winter sweaters) and more about the loved ones in my life.   I was struck with the reality that I can be as sinfully possessive of my own family as I can material possessions.  They can easily take the place of Jesus if I let them.  But they are not mine.  I don't own them, control them, and I certainly can't make them into the people I think they should be.  They ultimately belong to him.  As soon as I ache at the thought of something bad happening to any of them, I'm tenderly reminded that they do not belong to me, they belong to Jesus.

And there is so much beauty in this truth.  The beauty is seen in the hands of grace that envelop the constant battle going on in my heart over what exactly determines my life:  Is it my marriage?  My job?  My children?  My talents?  No, grace wraps it's arms around that battle, calms the conflict, and reminds me that Christ's redeeming love determines my life.  Period.

Traveling home the other day, I checked my phone messages before stepping on the plane.  The message that was left nearly took my breath away:  "Katie, your mom's about to meet Jesus." 

She continues to battle, though, and the "end" signs seemed to be related to her medications.  But I sat on the plane for 90 minutes not knowing what news would greet me upon landing and stared out at this beautiful view for the entirety of the flight:

Psalm 121 kept coming to mind:  "I lift up my eyes to the hills - where does my help come from?  My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth."  

Our help doesn't ultimately come in the form of material things, nor does it ultimately come in the people around us.  Our help comes from the Lord.  This is where we find peace; this is where we find our greatest joy.  With tears streaming down my face, I quietly rejoiced in the fact that I know Jesus.  Without Him, as much as I own on this earth, I have nothing.  But with Him, I simply have all that I need.  

Abba Father

So, lily is really into being a pastor's kid these days.  Like really into it, and honestly, I hope she keeps that level of excitement over her plot in life for a very long time.

She attended a birthday party over the weekend, and when someone recognized her from vacation bible school, Lily went into excitement mode.  Excitement mode involves lily talking very fast, not necessarily with big emotion, just fast with words that all seem to run together.  It's kind of like one long, overstated hashtag.  And her excitement wasn't over the fact that she was recognized (or that she was at a pretty awesome birthday party), but her excitement was over the reality that Bible school was held at her church...where her dad is the pastor.  So, her response went something like this:

#Iamthepastor'sCHILDatthatchurchthepastor'sCHILDandIcanshowyouanythinginthatchurchbecause
Iamthepastor'sCHILDofthatchurchandmydadisthepastorsoI'mthepastor'sCHILD

Yep.  Just about like that. The kid adores being a pastor's CHILD - she loves it, embraces it, and even brags about it.  I asked Lily what is so cool about being a pastor's kid, and here are the top three great things about being a PK according to my seven-year old:

1.  You get hideaways in the pastor's office when you're a pastor's CHILD.

Lily believes that the hideout she has created under her dad's desk is a giant perk.  There may be a time in the near future when Lily discovers that hideouts aren't necessarily unique to pastor's kids, but for now, she chalks up her hideout in the pastor's office as a plus to being a "PK," so....so do we.

If you were to check out lily's hideout, here are a few items you'd encouter:  an extra pair of socks (because, well, lily),  tissues (unused and used), cups for water (in case of an emergency), dolls (duh), stuffed animals, and...from time to time...a Bible.

This hideout is important for several reasons, according to my youngest.  First, she needs a place to go during the time of prayer held in dad's office before the worship service.   "Well, mom, I can't sit with the elders.  And why would I go out to the playground??"  Right....because why would a seven year old go out to the playground?  Come on, mom.

The hideout is also significant for certain church "clubs."  What I've noticed is that once lily befriends someone at church, and feels them out over the course of...a few minutes, she then proceeds to let them in on her secret space.  And once you see the secret space, you're in.  Like literally.  They all gather in the hideout.  In fact, on one particular Sunday during worship we noticed that Lily was missing.

I'm mildly embarrassed to admit how long it took me to notice this, but both mom and dad are on stage during worship, so, well, I'm just grateful for a church family who keeps an eye out - and who thinks to look in the hideout when pastor's children are missing.  Sure enough, lily and her friend were conducting their own private Sunday school in the hideout.  "Mom, come on, we had a Bible!"  That club meeting ended rather abruptly.

Yep.

2.  You can ask your dad all your questions about God because he's a pastor and you're a pastor's CHILD.

So, her questions can wear you out.  There are times when the questioning begins and my husband and I just look at each other.   We're both imagining doing this:

Sweet lily.  We don't bolt.  We endure.  And her dad does a much better job than I do at trying to answer each question she has.  Her questions for her pastor dad are big: 

Where is heaven, dad?  But like WHERE?  Will I look like this in heaven, dad?  Can I be a teenager in heaven, Dad?  Do all kids go to heaven, dad?  Did Jesus have a beard?  Why does God let Satan do stuff, dad?  And, of course:  Dad?  Can I have a key to the church, dad?  Just one key, dad.  

3.  When your dad is a pastor, he can do funerals for your fish when they die - like when "Goldy" died a couple of days ago and dad buried him and read from the Bible.  

And there's just not much more to say about that.  

She claims the title of pastor's kid proudly - she loves it, embraces it, and even brags about it.  And wouldn't you if you had a dad to conduct funerals for the goldfish?  

I have the privilege of speaking for a women's retreat this weekend, and the theme for the weekend is Kingdom Heirs.  I can't tell you how much God has worked on my heart while preparing for these talks.  

The beauty of what it means to be a child of God is something that I haven't reveled in enough.  But when I let the depth of that relationship encompass me, I'm overwhelmed with the implications of what it means that I can call God, the creator of the universe, my father.  He is my father; while my earthly one is gone, He is there to comfort me, love me, rejoice over me, and guide me.  I know this because I experience His faithfulness daily, which is one of the greatest benefits of being His child.  But there are other rewards as well.  

In the midst of anxiety that can at times seem paralyzing,  God makes himself known in simple places like a sunrise or sunset.  Their beauty speaks volumes to the reality of a God who cares for His creation, and if He cares for His creation with such detail, just imagine how much more He cares for His children. And the gentle words of encouragement from a friend are reminders of God's tender love in the midst of pain and difficulty.  He is never absent in the journey.  The hands that give faithfully and generously are reminders of God's provision for His children in every single way.   I breath in deeply these never ending pictures of God's grace, all of them just glimpses of the joy and glory that awaits us when we receive our inheritance in full.  

To those who are believers in Jesus: He is our KING; we are heirs of His Kingdom; we are His beloved children.  Claim the title proudly - we have reason to do so.  Love it, embrace it....brag about it.  

You are a CHILD of the King.