Category Archives: Invitations

God Is Not in Control, Part 2

“God is not in control” opens a can of worms. Worms don’t line up neatly or make a sharp illustration, but they are certainly alive. Over the last few weeks I’ve jotted down a number of quotes, and perhaps each one is a worm in the can. In this post I’ll pick them up one at a time to observe and question, before putting them back.
Next week I’ll wrap up with Part 3 of “God Is Not in Control.”


The God we’ve settled for is red in the face and pretends he doesn’t know us at parties. But the God we actually have is never embarrassed by us.”1

Beginning with my parents, and right on down the line, no human has exactly wanted me to be me. I don’t even want me to be me. But God is cool with me being me, despite the fact that on some level it costs us both. God would rather know me than control me.


It seems clear there’s no way to manipulate God with how we pray or what we say.”2

This statement feels obvious, but when I came across it in the book I was reading last week, it stopped me. Somehow it doesn’t match what I’ve learned in church and Scripture. Doesn’t God respond to prayer based on our persistence, faith, and asking according to Her will? The Bible tells us to pray in these ways—for what, if not for results? Yet anyone who prays with regularity finds out there is no formula and God is unpredictable.

Do I really want a formulaic God? Although the unpredictability irritates me at times, manipulating or controlling God would put our relationship in a tenuous position. Once I’ve manipulated someone, I no longer know if they’re doing what they’re doing because it matters to them—or because I whined or threatened. I want to know that God does what matters to Her, and I suspect she, too, values authenticity from me. He is willing to accept some amount of pain and chaos as the cost of not manipulating or controlling. He actually wants me to be me.


“… love is wild territory. It’s where people who don’t have control go and linger … Finding the self inside the skin.”

How does a person love when they are alone? What does love look like when I’m awake in the middle of the night? Did the saints in solitude—whether by their will or against it—love while they were alone? Did they love anyone other than God?

Could I give another person my attention when I’m not with them?

Perhaps loving when I am alone is a practice, a lingering in love’s wild territory. Rehearse forgiveness. Remember my favorite things about my husband. Release control of situations I want to fix. Would loving someone while I’m not with them have an impact on them? On me?

If love is attention, could I gift myself my attention? Find “the self inside [my] skin”? Can I love when I’m brushing my teeth and notice my mind overheating, trying to make everything logical? Receive God’s love when I’m alone? This might look like peace or enjoyment—knowing I am centered, enough, delighted in, and aware more of who I am than what I am doing.


That love gets me every time / My heart changed my mind / And I gol’ darn gone and done it.4

Does a heart change a mind, or does a mind change a heart? I suppose it doesn’t matter. God is active in my mind to change my heart, in my heart to change my mind, in my body to mold my spirit, and in my spirit to touch my body. He may not be in control, but He makes up for it by being the thing that wouldn’t quit. What doesn’t yield to control may yield to loving persistence. Like the woman in Jesus’ parable who kept after the unjust judge, God keeps after us. She persuades us, not because of our morals, but in spite of them. He connects to our center, from which everything else grows. She is with us to be with us, not to control the future.


Then he said to the woman, ‘I will sharpen the pain of your pregnancy, and in pain you will give birth. And you will desire to control your husband, but he will rule over you.’”5

I’m not sure I believe in the devil, but let’s assume for a moment that s/he does exist. Is the devil in control? Certainly his character doesn’t preclude control. And if love is not control, I’d say the devil is controlling—the opposite of love. From the Serpent’s first appearance in the garden, she has been suggesting that God controls us—“Don’t eat that.” “Don’t go there.” I can believe the lie and slip into a life attempting to manipulate God and hoping He’ll control me into salvation. Or I can say, “Love’s not like that. Love moves toward me with goodwill, not to force my hand, but to hold it.”

I’m made in God’s image, with agency and love. This leaves the devil in a difficult position. The thing she wants most is out of her grasp. It is only in deception that he has power. And what better way to deceive than to promote the message that God is in control?


The one thing all of us—gay, straight, male, female, conservative, liberal, and on the continuum between the absolutes—have in common is the fear that we won’t be accepted, the fear of what we’ll lose if we are ‘known.’… being known is worth fighting for. It’s worth betting everything on. It’s risky. It’s terrifying. But it’s the only thing that matters.”6

God knows this, and it’s why He won’t control. He’d rather know me than control me, and He’d rather be known by me than controlled by me. God is not in control. She’s in something much better. She’s in love.

Endnotes:
1Boyle, Gregory. The Whole Language (page 7)
2Hill, Jeffrey D. Seeking the Triune Image of God in You (page 144)
3Raybon, Patricia. My First White Friend (page 12)
4lyric from Shania Twain’s song, Love Gets Me Every Time, https://www.musixmatch.com/
5Genesis 3:16, NLT
6Davis, Cynthia Vacca. Intersexion (pages 223, 232)

Twilight

Twilight

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for evening.
Trees slip into black pajamas
as color drains from the sky,
pooling at the edges,
vivid feather boas draping the sun.

Blessed are You
for slowness of twilight,
a dissolving that escapes notice
until I get distracted,
and looking back to the sky,
find it changed.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for those things that spark alive
even as I dim.
Owls and mice open their eyes,
stars twinkle, dew forms,
and streams gurgle night music.
My ears attune as my eyes rest,
kissed to sleep by the softness of twilight.

Get To Know the Couple

November 20 marked 30 years since Pastor Bryson baptized me at the Milo Adventist Academy Seventh-Day Adventist Church—my home church. I attended that church, beginning in utero, until I moved away for college at the age of 18. An evangelistic series in the school gymnasium pulled me to baptism in an emotional rush. Less emotional were the pre-baptismal Bible lessons. On a cold day in November, my older sister and I donned baptismal robes and took the plunge in a warm baptistry.

I’ve never looked back. Although today I’m less certain about the words on the baptismal certificate I signed, I’m more certain about the relationship.

To celebrate thirty years with a little fun, I’ve compiled questions from “Get To Know the Couple” games and answered them for God and myself.

Where did they work when they met?
Tobi was a full-time child and God was a full-time lover

How long have they been together?
Pretty much forever

Where did they get engaged?
In the Milo Adventist Academy gymnasium

What did they do on their first date?
Go to church (sorry it’s not more glamorous)

Are they cat or dog people?
Tobi is a cat person, God can’t decide

Who said “I love you” first?
God

What is something they have in common?
A desire to create safe spaces where people can share their inner world, their stories

Who is more high maintenance?
Tobi

Are they morning people or night people?
Morning people, although they can have a good time at night too

Who is the most patient?
God

What is the bride’s middle name?
Danielle

What is the groom’s middle name?
He has too many to list. One of the bride’s favorites is El Roi

What is their favorite type of food?
Fruit

What are their pet names for each other?
Tobi’s current pet name for God is Love, and his current pet name for her is Meadow.

What is their favorite place?
Anywhere still and quiet—especially a chair by the window

How old is the groom?
Nobody really knows, but he still looks good

What is their favorite thing to do together?
Write

Who is the better cook?
Tobi

Who is more stubborn?
Tobi, she hates changing direction

Who takes longer to get ready?
God, he has no idea how to hurry

Who spends more money?
God

Where was the bride born?
Canyonville, Oregon

What does the groom do for work?
Still a full-time lover.

What was their wedding date?
November 20, 1993

What is one thing they want to do together in the next 30 years?
Start a nonprofit writing group

As I mentioned, God has lots of names. Also—and this may seem weird—he doesn’t always look the same. So if you see me out with someone you don’t recognize, or hear me talking about a guy with a different name, text me before you freak out. It’s probably God in one of his other bodies or using one of his other names. He’s a dynamic fellow. I’m honored to be his bride of 30 years.

God Is Not in Control, Part 1

“God is in control.” Words meant to comfort. Words spoken when I lose control—whether through error in judgement, the economy, the uncensored hand of death, actions of those I love, or the wildness of the elements. Is it because I cannot bear to lose control that I grab God by the shoulders and shove Him into the driver’s seat? “Jesus, take the wheel!”

“God is in control,” country singers sing and preachers preach and friends placate.

“God is in control.”

Some can’t quite get those words out of their mouth because they have looked around. If God were in control, wouldn’t She do something about the multi-billion-dollar porn industry in the West, and war in the Middle East? What about starvation? “Well, God is ultimately in control,” we say, as if God has a free pass to wait to use His control for our good until later.

It’s later.

“God is in control, but He gives us the power of choice.” This I have believed my whole life, but I don’t know what it means. Ministers explain it with scripture and compelling illustrations, but I’m lost. So, God can send an angel down here to save someone’s life (control), but She can’t tell me what to do (choice)? Wait, but She does tell me what to do and I’m supposed to obey Her. So She does control me, but only with my consent? Is that consent once-and-for-all, like a blank check for God to sign my destiny, or does my consent essentially stay in my bank account, spent only as I respond to God?

Perhaps parenting holds a partial answer to these questions. Last I noticed, I am not in control of my kids. I employ emotional manipulation, vocal volume, stonewalling, imposed consequences, removal of privileges, or plain old anger, but my kids do as they choose with their minds, their little arms and legs, their exasperating attention spans. My children did not consent to my control when they were born into our family, nor do they sign over their destiny as they reach a more mature age. They don’t think, Wow. Look at this adult who knows more than I do. I’ll let her make my decisions.

On the contrary, they watch me make my own decisions and think, I want to do that. When do I get to be independent? And they practice independence daily, as they leave food on their plates, sneak candy, take 27 minutes to dress, give spontaneous hugs, and say, “You’re the best Mama in the world.” Those words are meaningful precisely because I am not in control of them.

What if God is not in control? What if He doesn’t choose to comfort us, to save us, by being in control?

A visit to my Strong’s concordance reveals the word “control” is not in the Bible. At least not in the King James Version. More recent versions have a handful of instances. A Google search doesn’t reveal anything about the origins of this saying—that will be a research project for another day. I suspect somewhere along the line we devised “God is in control” to sidestep unanswerable questions. But this leaves us in a precarious position.

Gregory Boyle writes, “God no more has a plan than holds a grudge. There is, of course, a short hop between ‘God had a plan for me to become an orthopedic surgeon’ to ‘My four-year-old son just died of a brain tumor.’ Short hop. You can’t have this both ways. If God ‘plans’ you getting your medical license, God also has orchestrated your son’s demise.”1 I may not share Boyle’s certainty, but it makes me think twice about saying God is in control.

If God is not in control, what is He? In charge? This, too, is a question for another day. Today I want to consider what I gain and what I lose if God is not in control.

First, what do I lose? I lose the comfort of predictability. God is not holding the wheel. The blessings do not rain down as the prayers go up. The miracles don’t happen in proportion to my prayer life. Chaos is actually chaos, not just the appearance of it. Natural disasters are natural. Most disappointing of all is that if God doesn’t get to control me, I don’t get to control Her.

But, I gain intimacy. The word “intimacy” brings up other words, like “close” and “safe,” images of connection. Yet real intimacy is messy. In the book False Intimacy, I was surprised to find this statement: “Within the enjoyment of real intimacy, both partners experience fear of being exposed, fear of abandonment, fear of loss of control, and fear of their respective sexual desires.”2 I had assumed those fears indicated a lack of intimacy, yet when I reflected on this definition and my own experience of intimacy in marriage, the two were a perfect match. It was in encountering fear, speaking it and feeling it, that Michael and I escaped the confines of our good behavior and embraced being broken together. Belonging.

How does this work with God? Does He feel these fears? Is intimacy vulnerable for Her? “Intimate” may be the best word to describe getting stripped naked, beaten, nailed to thick boards, and erected like a monument. Intimacy—releasing control of image, of hateful people, of relationship. Watching those who love you run for cover, and those who loathe you crowd closer. Exposure, abandonment, loss of control—it’s all there. It’s our invitation to reveal our own exposures, abandonment, and inability to control, and in so doing to become one flesh with God.


Endnotes:
1Boyle, Gregory. The Whole Language (page 5)
2Schaumburg, Harry. False Intimacy (page 18)

Just Give Up

I thought the important people were doing away with daylight-saving time, but then I found out they argue about this all the time and nothing is changing. So, last weekend we set our clocks back. As I reveled in the productivity of an extra-long day, I thought back to DST the year our daughter, Kayt, made us a family of three.

Sleep is my drug of choice, so, naturally, I determined that my babies would sleep well. I may have been a wee bit obsessive. When Kayt was two months old, I began tracking her sleep in a spreadsheet. There must be a pattern to her nights and naps, but it wasn’t obvious. I hoped the visual aspect of a spreadsheet would help me find that pattern and answer some questions: How many hours does she sleep at night? Is her morning nap at 9:30 or 10:00? How long is she usually awake before she starts to get sleepy?

For nearly three months I kept notes as Kayt slept and woke, and diligently filled in the cells of the spreadsheet. It was color-coded, blue for night and pink for day. Total hours of sleep were tallied at the bottom. Cells highlighted in yellow indicated when Kayt was tucked in for sleep but was crying or otherwise not sleeping. Cells highlighted in red indicated the start time of any nap 1.5 hours or longer.

I still have that spreadsheet in my Google Docs account. It shows that at two months old, Kayt went to sleep for the night any time between 8:30pm to 1:30am. I’m not surprised my husband and I began “sleep training” with her.

In preparation for sleep training, I created a document to outline bedtime routine, nap-time routine, general schedule for nights and naps, and a description of the sleep environment: white noise, elevated mattress (suggested in a book on sleep), nightlight plugged in where it shed the least direct light on the crib. The document also contained a section titled “Other questions,” as follows:

- Is some of the soothing after swaddling? How much? Offer pacifier, or just forget it?
- What is the absolute longest we’re willing to let her cry without picking her up?
- Ok to check on her any time? Is facial expression important?
- Does one of us need to be on shift until she is asleep? If so, what does that entail? Do we need to be able to hear her just in case something goes wrong? Would it be a bad idea to sit in the room with her?
- If we are overwhelmed by the crying, what are the options? One stays while the other gets out of the house? Watch a movie? Are we concerned about having white noise cover her crying and then not being able to tell what’s going on in her room?
- Do we both do the bedtime routine with her whenever possible? Take turns?

Mercy.

Despite the mostly-unanswered questions, I felt warm and maternal that first night as I cuddled a clean, swaddled baby and gently placed her in the white wooden crib. I turned on lullabies and retired to the living room.

It worked! She fell asleep. For ninety minutes. Then the crying started. I turned up the lullabies so she could hear them above her squall. After five minutes of that, we switched to white noise. My warm maternal feelings deteriorated as I sat with my husband, watching the clock and listening to screams. No one slept until after midnight. The following weeks were not the easy three-night adjustment described in my reading.

On March 6, the week before “spring forward,” I stopped recording sleep in the spreadsheet. I had apparently been blessed with the one child in the U.S.A. who had no sleep pattern. Undaunted, I created another spreadsheet to prepare for daylight-saving time. I made a graduated two-week schedule to incrementally adjust bedtimes and slide right through DST without a hiccup. This was less than successful. I don’t remember the details, due to severe sleep deprivation at that time.

I feel weary as I look back. My own sleep was not rest, but a byproduct of exhaustion—a cold ration meant to keep me alive so I could keep a baby alive. The baby monitor woke me to listen, tense—would rustling sounds turn to cries? Hours in the rocking chair, purchased for looks and not comfort, gave me cricks everywhere.

I really wanted my kids to sleep well. I did not want tiny non-verbal people to trash my drug of choice and coo, unconcerned, while I suffered withdrawals. I read sleep books—the fat ones like Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and the skinny ones like The 90-Minute Baby Sleep Program. I did what they said, to no effect. The Universe tried to teach me a lesson about control—something about not having it—but I wouldn’t listen. It must be possible to manage one tiny girl with white-blond hair and long fingers.

I’m a self-help junkie who consumes a pile of books each year filled with new and old philosophies on relationships and spirituality. Until I had children—our second daughter was born 21 months after Kayt—it was of little concern that the wisdom in those books typically had no lasting effect. As a mom, I needed those books to work. Instead, reading often left me feeling something was wrong with me or my children. I needed hugs more than solutions. But even I didn’t know that.

My girls, now 9 and 11 years old, still wake me up at night—they heard a noise, had a bad dream, sister is snoring too loud, thinking of scary things, too hot, too cold, worried they’ll be too tired in the morning because they’ve been lying awake. My years of laboring over their sleep left us all stressed. But, this year on “fall back” day, they slept in. When they woke they played quietly downstairs. I stayed in bed until 8am. It was glorious.

Days are easier now, and so are nights. I’m a much nicer person, too. Is it because eleven years of parenting improved my character? Or because I get to sleep at night and send my kids to school during the day? I’d like to think if a surprise baby joined our family I would take things in stride. Maybe I’d worry less and laugh more. Maybe I’d be more willing to receive the discomfort of not being in control.

Do sleep deprivation and stress bring out a person’s true character, or cause them to act out of character? Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know is that sometimes trying hard makes a problem worse. There are aspects of life that cannot be prevailed upon by hard work, and children are on the list. I doubt anything I did or didn’t do in those early years could have produced a sleep situation happy for all. What I truly needed was to be seen and affirmed, and I found that in friendship, not sleep books.

So, if I dare give advice to battle-worn heroes of the nursery, here it is: Take the books with a grain of salt, lean in to the friends who divulge their struggles, and just give up. Peace may be hidden under the fear of losing control.


P.S. If you’re wondering whether sleep training worked, I’m not sure. Kayt’s hours of sleep between 8pm and midnight increased significantly. Unlike the books promised, the crying didn’t happen at bedtime and result in a long night of uninterrupted sleep. It happened throughout the night, and at different times on different nights. It was an ongoing struggle that defied prediction. But by the time Kayt was one year old, I believe she was typically sleeping 12 uninterrupted hours a night. When our second daughter was born, that quickly ended. If I could start again with babies, would I do sleep training? Maybe. I hope I would follow my gut feeling and drink more coffee.

Damn Housework

I’m angry with housework. I know anger is a waste of energy, but still I seethe and sigh. The kitchen counters and bedroom floors lie to me. “Clean us,” they say. “Just 20 minutes a day and you’ll have a tidy, happy home.” So I clean them. Only to find the bread bag stuck to the shelf in the fridge where something spilled two months ago, and the kids’ latest glue-paper-glitter project all over the dining room table and floor. “You’ll never catch up,” hiss the fridge and dining room. “You thought you could have a clean house, but you could clean 20 hours a week and your house would still look like this.” This isn’t fair. I’m darned if I do, and darned if I don’t.

After two weeks of cleaning more than usual, I have escaped to a coffee shop this morning because I can no longer stand my dirty house. I feel more than a little silly. After 11 years of mothering and 18 years of wife-ing, how am I at square one in housekeeping? The kids are in school full time, and I don’t work full time. Surely this is the golden age of housekeeping, the time of life where I wash the dishes and tidy the kitchen after supper, put away a pair of shoes, and straighten couch pillows on my way upstairs to put the kids to bed. Maybe I wash the windows every season, and clean grout in the bathroom. An insane little laugh escapes. What a crock, that picture, that dream.

Life is a mess. I’m angry my house doesn’t get a special exemption. Why does it have to be messy too? May I please control this one thing? I beg the Universe. It responds with cracker crumbs on the couch and cat hair in the corners.

What do I hope to find here at the coffee shop? It’s a cold morning, temperates in the 30’s for the first time this fall. I’m seated in a red vinyl chair with my laptop, and I’m the only customer under 60 years old, other than a little girl, maybe three years old, here with her grandparents. She never stops moving. She’s up on her chair, then down, now playing with a stuffed animal, now taking her grandma by the hand to look for the stuffed animal, which she has hidden. “Where did he go? Let’s keep looking,” she speaks in a strong, sweet, toddler voice. “Can we go to the park on the way home?” she asks. “It’s too cold,” says Grandpa. Why are adults always so practical?

Grandma strokes little-girl curls while Grandpa dresses the stuffed animal. Now they are getting ready to leave and the sweet sentences turn in to squeaky No!’s as Grandpa scoops the little one and takes her outside. How does this couple who must be 70 years old have the energy and patience to play hide-and-seek in a coffee shop and listen to endless chatter? How do they find the desire to follow around this busy little girl? Is it because they are grandparents and this ball of energy comes one hour at time? Or have they learned something about life that I have yet to learn, something I could apply to housekeeping?

No answers float to me through coffee-scented air. My feet are cold and I wish I had worn warmer shoes. Two men at a table near my seat are planning the HVAC and electricity for a home. One of them has a southern accent. The other has a shaved head and carries a man-purse that matches his gray-green coat. Their conversation is friendly, and turns to dog-fur trimming.

Movement outside the window alerts me to the flight of a heron above the business strip. Its steady, quiet flight calms me. I pause and sip my hot mocha. Maybe everything is okay, even though everything is not okay. I will go back to my messy house and I will not have a solution. No schedule, no discipline, and no amount of bribing or shouting at my children will produce a clean house. We do live there, after all. No one lives here at the coffee shop. Most folks have come to visit with someone they like, love, or work with. It’s nice to visit in a clean place, with a ready-made hot drink.

But I don’t want to live here. I want to live at home, with my favorite, messy people. I want my girls to be creative, even if it means scissors all over the house and cut up cotton swabs on the bathroom counter. I want my family to eat well, even if it means dirty counters and sticky floors and an overstuffed fridge. I want to provide clean clothes, even if it means piles of unfolded laundry on the couch, mixed with popcorn remnants from movie night. I want to clean dried water spots off the wall beside the bathroom sink, even though no one will notice. I want to have two cats and a rabbit, even though the house would be easier to clean without them.

I want all this, but I’m scared. If this season of life is the ideal situation for keeping a clean house, and every room is a mess, does the dream have to die? I can’t blame this dirty house on full-time work, or full-time parenting. There’s nothing left. I just don’t keep a clean house. I have friends with social lives, kids, and clean houses. But that is not my lot. Some friends have spouses who like things clean and tidy, and participate in daily routines that promote cleanliness. Mine doesn’t.

I will kill this dream before it kills me. I cannot argue with it any more. I will not abide its mocking, and I will not let it speak to me from stained toilet bowls and dusty windowsills. I may curse when my slippers stick to the kitchen floor, but I will also chuckle. I will find my way to a healthy relationship with my messy house because I want this for myself and for my family.

The average customer age in the coffee shop has gone down. A handsome man maybe a decade older than me asks if he can sit in the red vinyl chair on the other side of the table from mine. Three casually dressed men in athletic shoes assemble at the counter to order, while another group of four young guys enters the shop. Now there are a dozen male patrons and only three of us ladies. I wonder, what is it like to be on the lookout for new relationships with men? Is this coffee shop a good place to strike up a conversation? Does a different type do it here than the type who do it at bars? It occurs to me this is one area in which I am content. My husband is a ten and I have no interest in hooking up with anyone else. In fact, although Michael isn’t bothered enough by our untidy home to do much cleaning, he has taken to making the bed in the morning, for me. I love that. I love him. And damn, how lucky I am to be stressed about my house and not my marriage.

I guess I have found something here at the coffee shop. I have recaptured a modicum of gratitude. I have remembered that I am not a victim. I have received the calm of the Great Blue Heron, and the pleasure of writing in a clean space that is not my responsibility.

Two women in their forties are at the counter now, and three ladies with coiffed hair come in behind them. Gender balance is restored in the coffee shop, and goodwill is restored in me.

A Finger to My Lips

What pulls at me today, daring to suggest my calm and holy center is not where I belong? Emotions roll like a ball in one of those handheld mazes, frozen in place as I s-l-o-w-l-y tip the maze, then a lightning-quick roll to the far corner before I can steady my hand.

So, what is pulling today?

Fear of disappointing my husband.

Heaviness from the impenetrable docket of housekeeping chores.

Despair over how my daughters have been treating each other.

Anxiety that I am a split second away from disappointing myself or someone else.

Terror because I am not in control of my inner world, or my outer world.

Is speeding up is the answer? More lists, more timekeeping, more discipline? No, because speed propels me out of my center, into the fears and despair.

The call is to slow down. Slowness requires trust—of myself, God, the people around me. Trust of time and the universe. What precedes trust? Willingness to accept a variety of outcomes, and to receive that I am well-loved in all of them.

Beginning at the end of myself, I find my way back to the beginning, receive the wideness of love, prevalent as air. As I breathe in love, I trust the intrinsic goodness of myself and others. I give up trust in outcomes and good behavior.

I choose slowness as an embodied reflection of my still and holy center. This is different than the stubborn slowness I use to distance myself from the needs of others, or the sullen slowness meant to display my tired and long-suffering soul.

With a playful but firm finger to my fretting lips, God intervenes. My churning heart stills once again in the embrace of grace and abundance. I am called to “unforced rhythms of grace,” where the daily cadence of faithfulness takes place within the finished song of grace.


~Scripture quote in the final paragraph is from Matthew 11:28-30 MSG: “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

Alexander and Me

When Michael and I were newlyweds, our town welcomed a Hastings, in a large new building on Ninth Street by the auto parts store. We signed up for a membership and frequented the store—an inviting combination of books, coffee shop, and rows upon rows of DVDs to rent or buy. One evening we casually browsed books—I especially remember the prominent cookbook section with its bright colors—and wandered into the children’s book area.

“Hey, it’s Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” Michael said, pulling out a thin, blue book. “My high school English teacher read this to us.”

I took the book and opened to the first page, where a black-and-white illustration shows a small boy in pajamas, resignation on his face. I read aloud:

“I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there’s gum in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”

“That’s awful!” I said, as I turned the page and silently read on. The story continued in similar style, as Alexander suffered through the day. His teacher said he left out sixteen at counting time, the dentist found a cavity in his teeth but not in his two brothers’ teeth, there were lima beans for dinner, and during his too-hot bath he got soap in his eye and his marble went down the drain. Each page featured run-on sentences detailing the disappointments of childhood.

“Wow,” I said, handing the book back to Michael. “I don’t like it at all. Why would someone write a book like that?”

Michael looked slightly amused by my passionate reaction.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to hit me the same way it hits you.”


Fast forward nearly 20 years. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day is one of my favorite children’s books. This change illustrates the undoing and remaking of my inner landscape, especially after becoming a mother 11 years ago. Newlywed Me believed the world was a happy place and sadness was fixable. Late-30s Me prefers Glennon Doyle’s word “brutiful” to describe the world, and has mostly given up on trying to fix sadness. Newlywed Me thought children’s books should have color pictures, cheerful stories, and favorable endings. Late-30’s Me appreciates pencil and ink illustrations, stories of struggle, and inconclusive endings. Newlywed Me didn’t want to believe any day could be bad from start to finish. Late-30’s Me agrees with Alexander’s mother, that “some days are like that. Even in Australia.” Newlywed Me felt a sense of injustice when Alexander’s best friend rejected him, and when he got in trouble for being muddy after one brother made him fall in the mud and the other brother called him a crybaby. Late-30’s Me knows that friendship is fragile, and sometimes you get scolded for things that aren’t your fault.

Alexander suffered through his day. I suffered through the drudgery of stay-at-home-momming. Throughout the book, as Alexander voices his desires and frustrations, no one listens, and no one answers. Throughout the early years of parenting, I felt unseen and unheard.

On a piece of old electrical wiring sticking out of the wall in my unfinished home office hangs a “medal,” swag from a 5k I walked/ran with friends in 2021. It features a glittering butterfly above the words, “It’s okay to not be okay.” I first saw those words in traffic, painted on a car window at the intersection of Ninth and Rose. They gave me a permission I had needed for a long time: permission to not be okay, to be unable to fix my mind or my marriage or the bathroom formica that is partially detached from the countertop. I think it was Anne Lamott who wrote, “Everything is so not okay.” I agree.

Sometimes I get to fix things, and I like that. Most of the time I don’t, and I’m learning that a bleeding world feels much friendlier when I know “some days are like that,” some relationships are like that, some religions are like that, and one load of laundry containing the entire wardrobe of a baby can take an hour to fold.

Alexander was not happy when he went to bed that evening. The day ended much as it began:

“When I went to bed Nick took back the pillow he said I could keep and the Mickey Mouse night light burned out and I bit my tongue. The cat wants to sleep with Anthony, not with me. It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”

I am moved to laughter and tears, and most of all, relief. Some things in life simply call for a negative, bleak, too-long, awful sad list of adjectives.

If you’re not familiar with the Alexander books, this youtube video is a lovely read-aloud of Judith Viorst’s book that inspired today’s blog post.

Alexander, Who Used to Be Rich Last Sunday is another favorite.

Special thanks to my husband, Michael, for the idea to write on this topic.

I Will Change, I Will Not Change

I fear Christian belief will have no real impact on my life. I’m aware that addiction, divorce, and abuse in the home wreak havoc among Christians as well as non-Christians. And the things we do to feel better about ourselves happen among Christians as well—keeping our stories and our houses as clean as possible, consuming coffee and sugar at alarming rates, moving from one place (or church) to another to escape the consequences of a damaging lifestyle or broken relationship.

Until recently, I spent little time considering the opposite fear—that God will influence, transform or otherwise impact me and my life. Carl McColman, author and fellow blogger, suggests, “Our deepest fear is not that there is no God. Our deepest fear is that God does exist and wants to become an intimate part of our lives, changing us forever.”1 I want to argue with him, but I can’t. I do fear God’s influence in my life. Chances are, He has a different list (does God have lists?) of priorities than I do, and His presence will affect change. I cannot sit with Him and expect to remain the same. This is unnerving at best, terrifying at worst, but also the thing I want more than anything else.

I hold both fears at once—that I will be changed, and that I will not be changed. McColman puts it in relational terms—the fear of loneliness/abandonment, or the fear of being engulfed. I want to keep God, and my dearest human companions, in a safe little space between those two realities. In this space, I will experience a controlled situation in which I am neither left nor overwhelmed.

There is no such space in intimate relationship. It’s not that God is in the business of leaving or overwhelming people. Rather, relationship is consent to be influenced. I am changed by the people I spend time with, and I, in turn, affect those same people. Is this also true in divine relationship? The Apostle Paul wrote, “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.” (2 Corinthians 3:18 ESV)

I’m not sure I want to be unveiled with God. Isn’t that dangerous? Maybe we can work something out where I get to wear a veil. I’ll submit my list of prayer requests without approaching God. No need to bother Him; I know He’ll take care of things. Also, if His activity in my life is based on me doing a good job, I don’t need to spend time with Him. I can focus on being a kind and productive person, and He’ll take it from there. There are countless ways to avoid the influence of relationship. Keep it professional. Make rules. Perform. Retreat.

I suppose “influence” would be a good word to describe what happens when two people spend time together. Where does that leave control? “To have control is to have the power to run something in an orderly way.”2 Does God have this power? Is the universe orderly? Yes, it is, and no, it isn’t.

Influence is “the power to change or affect someone or something—especially the power to cause changes without directly forcing those changes to happen.”3 If I say God has influence but not control, have I emasculated Him in my view, or am I getting closer to freedom?

In a previous post I wrote, “Perhaps love is the pain of not being in control.” At the time of that writing, I explored what this means in terms of fearing my own feelings. Feelings often run free of logic and control, and therefore, I have tended to avoid them. Now, as I consider this statement in terms of relationship with God, it occurs to me this is a two-way street. God relinquishes control of me, and I relinquish control of Him. I believe this is painful for both of us.

At the same time, it is comforting. I approach God without the intent to control Him, knowing that likewise, He will not control me. I do not consent to be engulfed; I consent to be influenced. I do not consent to abandonment; I consent to a life that is not well-controlled, which is messy because love and free will are messy. Proximity includes vulnerability.

It is here that I may begin to love God. Also here is the shocking possibility that God allows me to influence Him. I don’t know how to love the Lord my God with all my heart. The best I’ve come up with in the past involved being respectful to Him, and nice to the person in front of me. There’s nothing wrong with that. But is it relationship?

I find no tidy conclusion, but I’ve stumbled upon a desire for consensual relationship with God. And so, I consent to be influenced. I consent to the pain of love, which is the pain of not having control. I accept that knowing God will change me, and it will not change me. I receive the fear of being an average human, the terror of becoming more, and all that it means to love because He first loved me.

Endnotes:
1McColman, Carl. The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, page 204.
2https://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/control#:~:text=To%20have%20control%20is%20to,remote%20control%20for%20a%20television
3https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/influence#:~:text=In%20modern%20use%2C%20the%20noun,something%20in%20an%20important%20way

He Brought Me to His Banqueting Table

He Brought Me to His Banqueting Table

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for celebration—
a handshake
or handmade card,
a hatful of money
or armful of flowers.

Blessed are You
for birthday parties
and white elephant gifts,
balloon bouquets
and long-stemmed roses,
graduation caps
and dance recitals,
fireworks, hot dogs,
folks gathered together.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for water drops on flower petals,
rainbows and radiant children.
Birdcalls announce morning,
crickets herald evening,
wordless celebration,
sun setting, moon rising,
Your banner over me is
love.