Tag Archives: grace

“Holiness is a contact sport”

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“Holiness is a contact sport”

Reflections – week 5a

Welcome to week five of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. This is week five of eight. (Next week’s post will also be based on material from week 5—hence, this is 5a and next week will be 5b).
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

As a good Millennial, I’m not much for limits. Limits feel like judgements. They make life smaller; make me smaller. Any good proponent of limits would tell you that healthy limits actually open up possibilities. Could be. I’m not there yet. I’m still shedding layers of limits that have gripped me too tight. When I come across this question in Father’s House, it triggers my limit-aversion: “Do you think you can ‘fall from Grace’? Read Galatians 5:1-4.”1 Falling from grace definitely does not fit in my paradigm of an expansive God, a Love big enough to hold everything. But okay, I’ll read Galatians 5:1-4.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. Mark my words! I, Paul, tell you that if you let yourselves be circumcised, Christ will be of no value to you at all. Again I declare to every man who lets himself be circumcised that he is obligated to obey the whole law. You who are trying to be justified by the law have been alienated from Christ; you have fallen away from grace.

“Falling from grace” makes it sound like there’s a limit on grace. I look for a different angle, a way forward that’s not triggering. I have trouble finding an analogy I like. What if grace is air and not-grace is water? I’m breathing air naturally and it sustains me. But if I stick my nose in water and breath in, things go haywire. Breathing in water compromises the flow of air. In the same way, grace is abundantly available and sustaining, but if I stick my nose in performance and good behavior, I’ll no longer be breathing in grace.

Perhaps I’m not able to partake of grace at the same time I am trying to be good enough, get it right, obey the rules. This “fall from grace” is actually a loss of intimacy, a feeling of disconnect that is inevitable when I try to be good.

Oddly, I’m often “good” in order to connect, not realizing it has the opposite effect. I have settled for false, transactional “intimacy.” When I show up as a performer, it’s the wrong currency for connection. No experience has taught me this more than marriage. There is no way to “get it right.” The only way to connect is to show up as me. Damn, I hate that. The curated, filtered, controlled version of me seems so much better than actual me.

Father’s House puts it this way: “Jesus and Father God only relate to you based on the Covenant that you are in, and that is the New Covenant based on His matchless grace and mercy.”2 I can perform all I want, but when I do I’m not occupying relational space with God. Also, “Grace is not a superpower to fulfill the old covenant.”3 Say what? I thought that was the whole point. Faith and grace and Spirit enable me to do what I’m not able to do on my own, and that is to be good! Or not.

I’m not super clear on what I’m supposed to do, if not try to be “good.” But Gregory Boyle seems to have an idea:

What if holiness is a contact sport and we are meant to bump into things?

If we allow ourselves to “bump into things,” then we quit measuring. We cease to Bubble-Wrap ourselves against reality. We stop trying to “homeschool” our way through the world so that the world won’t touch us.

A homie told me once, “It’s taken me all these years to see the real world. And once ya see it—there’s only God there.”

With any luck, we don’t protectively encase ourselves from surprising tenderness. We announce to each other that we are alive and kicking, ready to be bumped into.

We don’t want to distance the secular but always bring it closer. It’s only then that ordinary things and moments become epiphanies of God’s presence.

God holds out wholeness to us. Let’s not settle for just spiritual. We are sacramental to our core when we think that everything is holy. The holy not just found in the supernatural but in the Incarnational here and now.

– The Whole Language, excerpts from pages 81-82

This view of life is about as limitless as it gets. Bump into things. See God everywhere, including in me, sacramental to the core.

So don’t you see that we don’t owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent. There’s nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God’s Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!

– Romans 8:12-14, MSG

Okay Papa God, I’m ready to shake hands on this. I’ll accept Your deal that self-righteousness and good behavior are a no-connection zone, but everything else is on the table: bad behavior, the moment I’m in, my body, the life of each person I know, the tree outside my window.

Maybe “they” are right after all—a healthy limit is freedom.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.

– Galatians 5:1

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 89
2Father’s House, page 83
3Father’s House, Session Five video teaching

Yes and No meet Love

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What are the questions that freeze you inside because the socially or spiritually acceptable answer is “Yes” but your truest answer is “No”?
Can you babysit?
Will you pray for me?
Can you visit Grandma today?
Could you help me move some furniture?
May I borrow your dress? Your truck? Your sewing machine?

Maybe you don’t even know what your honest answer is, because once you feel like you have to say “Yes,” things get really tense inside and you can’t think straight.

Often I have ignored the invitation to engage with my inner dialogue, by quickly saying “Yes” and learning to live with the resentment.

As I slowly learn to be kind to myself, I sit down with my feelings more often, to hear them out. And then I let Love decide. Love is not a yes-woman. Love is as gentle with me as it is with others, and it walks me through these tense places with surprising strength and clarity.

No question has one right answer. Allow yourself to feel all the answers, and make a choice toward the wholeness of every person, including yourself.

Yes and No meet Love

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the awful feeling
of being trapped by a question:
“Will you pray for me?”
It’s the kind of question
with only one right answer.
I hate that.

Blessed are You
for this discomfort,
invitation to notice
I have separated from myself.
Yes and No at war,
fully aware that Yes will win
and No is hot with powerlessness.

Blessed are You
for the opportunity to re-unite with myself,
for Yes and No to shake hands,
the signal for Love to step forward
and make the call.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for knowing there is no right answer,
and no wrong answer—
only Love, tender and sharp,
hot lava to my glacier of fear,
lemonade to my sweating soul,
permission slip allowing the confused,
“naughty” half of myself out of detention,
joyful reunion within.

Righteous Rest

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Righteous Rest

Reflections – week 4

Welcome to the fourth week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House, and The Whole Language. Gregory Boyle, author of The Whole Language, founded Homeboy Industries, the largest gang intervention and rehab program in the world. The Whole Language is his third book, and my favorite. Boyle frequently refers to “mysticism,” and if—like me—you’re not sure what that is, I invite you to just roll with it. Thank you for journeying with me.

Dead

I have a tenuous relationship with metaphors around the cross of Jesus—bridge, sacrifice, torn veil. I’m also unsure why we’re excited about a symbol of brutal, torturous death. We don’t wear miniature gold guillotines or electric chairs on delicate chains around our necks. But even if I can get past crucifixion pedantry, I still have questions. Did Jesus die as me or for me? Did He take punishment, or natural consequences, or did He simply enter into human suffering? Did He free all humanity, or only those who confess His name? Do I reap the reward of what He accomplished today, or only in the afterlife?

The authors of Father’s House believe that Jesus died as me, and while I don’t share their certainty, I love where they go from there: “The old you, the you that is still trying to measure up, died.”1 Now that is good news. Performing me is dead. Striving me is dead. Ashamed me is dead. The apostle Paul believed we were crucified with Christ, and exclaimed, “Could it be any clearer that our former identity is now and forever deprived of its power!”2 Having spent the last decade imprisoned by my own self, the possibility of leaving that behind is tremendously appealing.

The New Testament talks about the “old” and the “new” person. I like to think of them as a fake self and a real self. I was a facade. Now I am genuine. This moving into righteousness is not a move from bad to good, but a move from fragmented to whole, death to life. Behavior is always and only a side note. Good behavior centers me on shaky ground; bad behavior centers me on shaky ground. When I mess up, and when I have it all together, I need to be reminded that it’s not about behavior. “Righteous” is not a tally sheet, it’s a birth certificate.

Righteousness is Mysticism is Connectedness

Week #4 in Father’s House is all about righteousness, and the belief that “I am as righteous as Jesus Christ.”3 I want to short-circuit the voice in my heart and head that believes it’s all about behavior. I want to confuse, divert, or undermine my pesky inner parole officer. I have been imprisoned by my humanness, convinced I can only get out on good behavior, so each reminder in the Lesson Four video teaching is hope:

– Righteousness is not a verb, it’s a noun

– Righteousness is simply received, not achieved

– Righteousness is not dependent on my obedience

– Righteousness is about who I trust, not what I do

– Righteousness is received by faith, not by feeling

Righteousness ushers in a whole new way of seeing. Gregory Boyle writes, “The world will focus on outcomes or behavior or success. Mysticism glances just above what the world has in its sights. It puts judgment on check. It develops a warmth for everything that comes its way and rests in the center of it. When we are whole, that’s what we see in others.”4 Then we all warm up around the radiant heat of connectedness.

Boyle continues, “This culture of mystical tenderness holds every soul in high regard. …high performance is not the goal, but rather, a surrender to healing is. Then everyone finds this gentle road and practices, with each other, the pathway home.”5

Papa God is relentless in His passionate devotion to my wholeness and healing. When I soak in this—in the crazy truth that I am righteous—transformation is loosed, I live from a seat of rest, and I begin tapping into my heart’s desires instead of listening to my inner parole officer. I become confident in God’s presence to do the impossible with and through me, to invite everyone home.6

Righteous Conviction

In John 16:8, Jesus says the Spirit “will convict the world of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment” (NKJV). Day Two reading in Father’s House shocks me: “This [John 16:8] is the only time in the entire New Testament that there is mention of the Holy Spirit convicting of sin… and it is in response to those who do not believe in Him! As a believer, this says He wants to convict you of something completely different: your righteousness. Holy Spirit knows that reminding you of who you are, the righteousness of God in Christ, empowers you…”7

So the voice inside of me that points out how much I fall short is NOT the Holy Spirit, or any part of God? Why am I listening to it? Instead, I may hear a voice that convicts me of righteousness, a voice that notices all the beautiful things in me and says that is who I truly am. This voice looks for goodness and finds it. This voice spends its time bringing to light righteousness (not sin).

Embodied Healing

Another analogy I’m not fond of is the “robe of righteousness.” Robes are not attractive, they don’t keep my feet warm, and they are not all-day wear (except when it’s cold in the house and I wear my robe over my clothes). It’s quite possible royal robes were more common than bath robes in Jesus’ day, but having no experience with royal robes I’m not sure how to relate. Also, a robe can be taken on and off, and I’m not keen on transient righteousness. But, because I’m just a wee bit compelled to follow directions, I explored my thoughts about a robe of righteousness, as instructed in Father’s House. To my surprise, I found a thought that fits me.Skin is the largest organ of the human body. Clothing is intimate. It makes sense that God would draw near to me in a way that touches my skin. Touch keeps me present. It draws me out of my head and into my body, and God knows I need all the help I can get to stay present in my body.

Our bodies carry pain, and sometimes we divorce ourselves to get away from the pain. We do a thousand things to survive, many of which we don’t even realize we’re doing. It takes time to sort this out and let love into the picture. The folks Gregory Boyle connects with carry unimaginable amounts of pain and trauma. Extravagant tenderness creates space for that pain to be seen. “When you enter the program,” a homie said, “you need to bring your pain with you.”8 Connection and healing happen when we allow our wound to be seen, and then to be touched. Boyle suggests that “Healing takes a lifetime but surrender to this moment can carry you.”9 Love creates the space to surrender to this moment, to stay present to ourselves. “To be nurtured is to be reverent for what is happening to you.”10 Grace is reverence for pain.

Rest and Love

Striving to be “good” takes a boatload of energy. I remember when my oldest daughter began full-time schooling in first grade. She came home from school each day totally spent, and often spiraled into tantrums, tears, and yelling matches with me (I’m a superb yeller). She spent every ounce of her energy to behave well, learn well, and get along with others at school, and when she came home there was nothing left. I, too, have “melted down” over and over because I empty myself in my attempts to perform well, and to be “good.”

Papa God, Jesus, and Spirit are a whole new paradigm—a home where behavior is beside the point, a distraction from the real deal. Trying to become whole is a tiring pursuit. Knowing I’m already whole is energizing. Resting in righteousness creates a foundation for love. “The mystic’s quest is to be on the lookout for the hidden wholeness in everyone,”11 including me.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 65
2Romans 6:6 TPT
3Father’s House, page 66
4The Whole Language, page 51
5The Whole Language, page 53
6Father’s House, Session Four video teaching and activation, pages 66-68
7Father’s House, page 71
8The Whole Language, page 54
9Father’s House, page 53
10Father’s House, page 50
11The Whole Language, page 55

God’s Idea

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God’s Idea

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for having Your own ideas,
different than mine—
puzzling, maddening, beautiful ideas.

Blessed are You for inviting me
from predictable to profound,
always reaching for a new surprise
from Your pocket or bookshelf,
Your eyes twinkling.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for surprising me with joy and patience,
witnessing my jaw drop—
I stare at myself in wonder.
I watch myself be Your daughter,
and I glow with gratitude.
Your idea of me is so much better
than mine ever was.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-of-woman-looking-at-the-mirror-774866/

It’s Me! Run!

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It’s Me! Run!

Reflections – week 2

Welcome to the second week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language.

This is week two of eight. I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

The Paddle

When I was a child, a wooden spatula was the “paddle” at our house—used for spankings. I chuckle now, remembering the occasional days when my mother would carry the paddle in her back pocket. How well I know those kinds of days now that I have kids of my own.

I have two specific memories of spankings, one of which must have happened when I was quite young, I’m guessing preschool age. I don’t know what brought it on, but I had a meltdown of epic proportions, involving kicking, screaming, and the works. My parents put me on my bed to spank me, but I was kicking so violently they couldn’t paddle me. To solve this conundrum, one of them sat on my legs and the other spanked me.

As this memory accompanied my growth and development, it grew into a belief: the proper way to handle big feelings is to punish myself for them. Or better yet, try not to have them at all. I’m certain that’s not the lesson my parents intended. They probably figured they were enabling me to grow up and behave like an adult. (No one appreciates a 30-year-old who still throws epic tantrums.)

Fear of Self

Week two in Father’s House is about being lavishly loved. The authors write, “To live as a fully loved and accepted daughter in your Father’s House, He’s inviting you to let go of your former identity. You are no longer bound to your past, what anyone else has spoken over you or even what you say about yourself. As you journey Home, saturate yourself in who your Father says you are.”1 (emphasis added)

As I read and wrote through each day of the study last week, fear of myself emerged as a common theme. Starting as a young child I learned to fear myself, to fear my emotions and desires, my imperfections, my capacity to make mistakes. The religious community further intensified this fear by teaching me that I was sinful and needed constant spiritual supervision to avoid indulging the unforgivable person that I was. I became afraid of turning away from God. I figured He’s pretty nice—you know, amazing grace and all that—but if I intentionally, or unintentionally, turn my back on Him, He will be pissed off.

So there I was, internalizing my parents’ responses to me, into a belief that my emotional experiences are unacceptable; internalizing the religious community’s sin-message into the belief that I am a walking liability; and what did all that do? For twenty years, nothing. I was so good at being good that these fears lay dormant. It was unnecessary to face them when I managed myself exceptionally and performed well for every person in my life who expected something from me.

If you’re familiar with my story, you know when the upheaval began: stay-at-home momming. Suddenly, with loss of sleep and the demands of parenting, I was reacquainted with my emotional self in the most savage way. My best efforts to control and punish myself weren’t working. Anger, frustration, fear, and emptiness consumed me, and—given my beliefs about emotions and mistakes—it’s not surprising that a dark shame enveloped me.

Temper Tantrum

A few months ago when I went through Father’s House for the first time, during the activation exercise (meditative visualizing and listening), I had a (visualized) temper tantrum. It was just as I remember from childhood, heels hitting the floor so hard it hurt, as I lay on the ground screaming and sobbing out of control. Papa God lay beside me. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t engage with Him. I could not receive comfort or accept reason or respond to reprimand. Mercifully, He didn’t expect anything from me. When the waves of emotion began to subside, I rolled into Papa’s arms. I was ready to receive comfort, and He was waiting to comfort me.

Papa God suggests there is no distance between Him and me. He is not cooled by the things that chill the people in my life: turning away, having needs, being impolite, tired, sick, stressed, confused, emotional, forgetful. God is warmly present with me when I am out of control. All of me and my experiences are folded right in, received without question or critique or hesitation. No part of me is a liability.

Holy Imagination

“Visualizing your future as a lavishly loved daughter is critical to your life,” I read in Father’s House. “In fact, it helps engage your heart with your head when you involve your divine imagination. Describe what that life would look like in as much detail as possible. What would you be doing, thinking, or feeling?”2 Here’s what comes to mind:

  • My insides will be still (not agitated). I will be at peace with myself, not warring against myself.
  • I will have energy to create and to love (not compulsion).
  • I will take more risks.
  • Forgiveness will come as naturally as breathing.
  • Suffering will fall into my embrace rather than being held at arms length. It may hurt like hell, but it won’t be fragmenting.
  • Pain, anxiety, depression, fear and anger will be experienced with God, rather than as separating or isolating experiences.
  • I will be whole, not fragmented, not always looking for parts that have been forgotten.

Not As Scary As I Thought

I assumed God was in on the idea that I cannot be trusted with myself. I am shocked to discover God trusts me with me. The shame is lifting. The fear is shrinking.

Lie: I am loved and accepted if I reject myself so I can be what I “ought” to be.

Truth: I couldn’t be better. I am loved entirely independent of my level of responsibility and emotional control. Papa received me first, to clear the way for me to receive myself. He invites me to love myself as He loves me. Now that’s crazy!

Gregory Boyle writes, “Ensuring, then, that we are never strangers to ourselves will give us access to our deepest longing.” I have been a stranger to myself, but I am learning to roll out the welcome mat, receive myself with open arms, and explore my deepest longings.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 29
2Father’s House, page 34
3The Whole Language, page 18

The Evolution of Good News

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The Evolution of Good News

Reflections – week 1

I’m a small-group junkie. I recently started three new small groups, which brings my current participation to a total of six small groups. Some meet monthly, others weekly. Some are ongoing, while others cover specific content and will dissolve when that is completed. In one of these groups, we are studying Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home. This is my second time through this eight-session study, and I will be writing a post relating to the study for eight weeks, beginning today. I am also reading The Whole Language with a small group of ladies, and finding connections with the content of Father’s House. The following reflections are inspired by these two small groups, and in some cases I directly quote the resources.

I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

A Gospel That Speaks

“If it feels too good to be true, you’re on the right track.” This is my favorite descriptive phrase about the gospel of Jesus Christ. Each time I hear it I pause for a moment as my spirit affirms what I hear. Yes. What better way to describe the news of an extravagant God.

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with the sinners-prayer gospel: I am a sinner deserving of death, God sent His Son to take my penalty for sin, and when I repent I receive Him into my life. I’ve given myself permission to move outward from this version of the gospel. I am curious, open to discovery.

Perhaps the gospel is personal. We call it “good news,” and news may well fit the descriptor “one man’s tea is another man’s poison.” What is pleasant, joyful, or affirming to me may be offensive to someone else. So, at the risk of veering off the beaten path and getting lost in the weeds, I’m on the outlook for a gospel that speaks to me. And I begin to find it—in books, podcasts, quiet time.

Good News

God has returned me to myself, unharmed. I was a house divided against myself, that could not stand. Now I am discovering wholeness and unity, within me and around me.

God did not send His Son into the world—into me—to condemn me, but to rescue me, heal me, and make me whole.

I am perfectly created to relate to God. My heart is wired to connect with Him. My ears are designed to hear His voice. I am made to experience His glory and His extravagant love for me.1

God is not fixing me. He is showing me that I am alive, that what I longed for was not far off, but right here.

I am right where I am supposed to be. I’m not behind. I am open to receive from the fullness of God’s grace.2 His Spirit touches mine and affirms who I really am: His daughter.

It is finished. Jesus completed all the heavy lifting. I begin where He left off, victorious, resurrected, glorious. There is nothing left to do but live together in this finished space They created.

Expanding

I expect my gospel collection to grow and change over the course of my life, as I listen for news that is too good to be true.

My understanding of gospel will be a lifetime hobby, and may well continue into the hereafter. Gregory Boyle repeatedly describes this pursuit in the first chapter of his book The Whole Language:

“At one time or another, we all had a version of God that was rigid. But the depth of our own experience tells us that our idea of God wants to be fluid and evolving. As we grow, we learn to steer clear of the wrong God.”

“We search always to find the deeper current that can finally change our innermost way of seeing.”

“It is our lifelong task, then, to refine our view of God.”

Unlearning

Equally as exciting as the learning, is the unlearning. I unlearn an exacting God, a vindictive, displeased, embarrassed God, tripping over Himself to save me so He can save face.

As Mirabai Starr said, “Once you know the God of Love, you fire all the other gods.”3

Endnotes:
1See Father’s House, page 23
2See Father’s House, pages 14, 22
3As quoted in The Whole Language, page 7

Uncomfortable Extravagance

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And when Jesus was in Bethany at the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to Him having an alabaster flask of very costly fragrant oil, and she poured it on His head as He sat at the table. But when His disciples saw it, they were indignant, saying, “Why this waste? For this fragrant oil might have been sold for much and given to the poor.” But when Jesus was aware of it, He said to them, “Why do you trouble the woman? For she has done a good work for Me. For you have the poor with you always, but Me you do not have always. For in pouring this fragrant oil on My body, she did it for My burial. Assuredly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told as a memorial to her.”

Matthew 26:6-13, NKJV

Why do we as humans pride ourselves on being calculated, miserly, scrupulous? Why do we look down on extravagance and take effort to make sure we are not associated with it? What is it about excess that makes us so uncomfortable?

We like to keep things small and controlled. Big makes us squirm. I wonder if this woman who poured oil on Jesus tended to live a higher-risk, less calculated life. Or was this her one moment of letting go, carried past sensibility by love?

Maybe an extravagant way of living—even as we observe it in billionaires and deride it—is not to be changed, but simply to be made beautiful by the grace of God and His leading. We are so eager to change things that seem to us a liability. We are quick to criticize.

Perhaps the extravagant person has a gift, a rare talent. What if, even when I disagree with them, I could begin by recognizing the gift?

Where the disciples saw waste and carelessness, Jesus saw love. His existence as a human being on planet earth was in itself a ridiculous extravagance.

Lord, teach me to see love in the extravagant.

Case In Point

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If you were my neighbor, you might have seen my butt, clad in my favorite snowflake leggings, disappear into our kitchen window on a Tuesday morning in early December. It was the end of one act in a drama that began Monday evening.

My husband left Monday morning for a work trip to New York, and since my friend Tiffaney’s husband was also out of town for work, we planned a Monday night moms-and-kids sleepover. It was a snowy day, school was canceled, but we stayed busy putting up our Christmas tree, doing a few snippets of homework, baking pies, running errands, and getting props ready for the school Christmas program.

Late that afternoon I backed our Highlander out of the garage and pulled up to the sidewalk by the back door. I pushed the button to close the garage door but it didn’t respond. I’ll back up several feet and try again before I pull out, I thought. We loaded up our snow clothes, sleepover bags, and a pie, and by the time we pulled out I had forgotten about the open garage door.

Five minutes later we arrived at Tiffaney’s house, parked at the end of her driveway, and tromped through the snow to her warm kitchen, carrying our bags of clothes. We stowed our things away in the downstairs guest room and the kids went out to play in the snow, while I settled down to a puzzle in the living room and Tiffaney made dinner. The kids came in after dark, their icy clothes leaving melting puddles here and there in the entryway. After dinner they played, then put their PJs on and had a bedtime story by the fire. It was a cozy and delightful evening.

In the morning we had pumpkin pie and muffins, veggie sausage and fruit for breakfast, then scurried to gather our things and get out the door for school. Tiffaney left with her kids while my girls and I gathered the last of our things by the kitchen door and prepared to take armloads of snow clothes to the Highlander. My keys weren’t in my purse, but I’m notorious for misplacing things, so I wasn’t alarmed. I checked my coat pockets next. “I don’t know where my keys are.”

“I had them last night,” my older daughter said with concern. “I don’t know what I did with them.”

I had forgotten she took the keys to get a sled from the Highlander. While I felt slightly relieved that I hadn’t unknowingly misplaced the keys, I now also felt a much higher level of concern at the possibility of not being able to find them at all. We began searching, starting in my daughter’s coat pocket, where she remembered putting the keys. But they weren’t in the coat pocket, or the pants pockets, or anywhere we looked in the house. We continued the search outside where there were still several inches of snow on the ground. We walked slowly to the Highlander, heads down. Tiffaney’s neighbor, Ben, noticed us searching the ground and asked if we had lost keys. “Yes,” I said, “we used them last night and now we can’t find them.” He promptly offered to take my girls to school, and I gladly accepted.

Tiffaney came home and together we continued searching for the keys, but found nothing. I texted my parents that I was coming over to get a spare house key. My parents live across the street from my house and they keep a spare key, so it would be easy to go home from there and grab the extra Highlander keys to use until I found the lost key ring. Tiffaney dropped me off at my parents’ house, where I was greeted with the unwelcome news, “We can’t find the key to your house.” Mommy and Daddy were searching kitchen drawers and coat pockets, but to no avail. I decided to walk over to my house and look for a way to break in. I tried all the doors and a couple of windows, but everything was locked. As I stood at the back of the house, looking at the windows, I noticed the latch was pointing a different direction on the kitchen window than it was on the other windows. Maybe it’s not locked.

I carried our orange step-ladder from the still-open garage to the kitchen window. Propping it open, I climbed up and tried the window. It opened! Sliding it all the way up, I angled my head and shoulders through the narrow opening, held onto the counter as I balanced awkwardly over the piles of dishes in and around the sink, and finally lowered myself to the kitchen floor. From there it was a dozen steps to the back door, which I unlocked as I headed out to put the ladder away. I tromped back through the snow to my parents’ house with the news of my lucky break-in, and retrieved my purse.

As I was walked home again it dawned on me that I couldn’t have opened the kitchen window if the garage door was closed and I didn’t have access to the ladder. Sometimes my mistakes or forgetfulness can be in my favor! Glad to finally be home, I settled down to write until Tiffaney could take me back to her house to retrieve the Highlander. Then life resumed as usual.

Monday’s sleepover was such a hit that we showed up again Wednesday evening to spend the night. There was still snow on the ground, and we searched for the keys to no avail. Tiffaney took all the kids to her son’s school Christmas program, and I got better acquainted with Alice, who got stuck at the bottom of Tiffaney’s driveway. Using door mats, car mats, blankets, and—finally—a neighbor, we got her little car to the end of the driveway. Tiffaney’s house was beginning to feel like one adventure after another.

Snow melted over the weekend, and we offered the neighborhood kids—fourteen of them—a $2 reward for finding my keys. Sunday it rained and I stayed inside. Monday I increased the reward to $3, and Tiffaney chimed in on our group text, “I’ll double that!” Three of us adults also combed the sledding hill on Monday but found nothing shiny or key-like.

Another week passed, it snowed again, and Christmas vacation began. I was at my writing desk on a Wednesday morning, two weeks after I had climbed through our kitchen window, when my daughter appeared in the doorway wearing her snow pants and coat. “I hear metal,” she said, shaking up and down. She reached down, opened the side pocket of her snow pants, and pulled out the missing keys! She had put them safely in her pocket … just not her coat pocket. I joyfully texted my friends.

The drama had finally reached its conclusion after fifteen days of waiting. That’s plenty of time to fret about the astronomical price of a new key fob, my—or my daughter’s—lack of responsibility, and the outlaws who might be running around with keys to my house. It’s plenty of time to scold and moan and budget. Enough time to compare all the “shoulda’s” with reality. It’s enough time to buy a new fob, schedule an appointment to have the house re-keyed, and write a chore list long enough so my daughter can pay me back for said fob.

But I didn’t do any of those things. I blame God for this. I also blame Tiffaney, who is queen of going with the flow, and who spent more time praying than fretting—in fact she prayed about finding the keys just a couple of hours before my daughter found them.

I am still getting acquainted with the me who doesn’t freak out about everything, shame and blame, and frantically try to fix things in record time. This new me appreciates my friends and gives grace to my children. She allows for changes in plans and inconveniences. She waits, with a slow pulse.

Don’t get me wrong, I can still throw a first-class tantrum. When things go sideways I still panic and reach for my two favorites—anger and control. But I love this whole story because it’s a case in point that I am freer than I used to be. I am free to love, to make mistakes, and to allow others to make mistakes. I am free to receive life open-handed, to laugh, to pray, to wait, to be in community. No matter the outcome, all the energy I might have spent steaming out my ears for two weeks was put to better use. Thank you, Papa God, for seeing fit to replace my heart of stone with a heart of flesh.

It Is Finished

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It is finished

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for darkness—
daily invitation to rest—
to be quiet in ink-dark night
or a night moonlit and star-twinkled.

Blessed are You
for spirit rest,
my insides sitting down,
breathing deep,
inhaling Life.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the authority of rest
to dethrone “right” and “wrong,”
straining and struggling,
worth by performance,
and value by others’ opinions of me.

Blessed are You
for this sacred act of resistance,
this radical move to stop moving,
this subversive whisper
suggesting that rest is a nap—
but also more—
a knowing
that what is most important
is already done.
“It is finished.”

Hope Full

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I’m tired this morning. I want to crawl back in bed like my daughter and husband, who have colds. But I find myself feeling grateful for physical tiredness, preferring it to mental or emotional tiredness. Michael and I are enjoying a season of peace and joy in our marriage. I’m soaking up the wonder and belonging of friendship with other women. I’m underprepared for Christmas, yet taking it all in stride, doing one thing at a time. (Michael’s comment on this atypical flexibility: “You’re not the woman I married.”) For the first time in my life, I am spending more time present to what is in front of me, and less time captive to what is behind or beyond me.

Sometimes I feel guilty for enjoying my life (because others have less) or I worry the other shoe is about to drop (it has to someday). What a rash way to live, devaluing what is in front of me because I don’t know what is behind it, or because someone else doesn’t have it.

What a privilege to be wife to Michael and mom to Kayt and Kyli, to belong in a family where we enjoy each other. Books are stacked high on my nightstand, and firewood is stacked high for cozy evenings. I have every kind of music at my fingertips through our music subscriptions and home speakers. I have comfortable clothes and slippers, warm children’s cheeks to press against and a stubbly masculine face to kiss. I am rich, rich, rich.

I am surprised as I rise on this fountain of abundance, knowing that if I fall it will be so worth it. I am full, and this moment is here, not threatening to squeeze me empty, but to stuff me even fuller.

Life will empty me too, and that’s okay. Not being defined by how full or empty I am is precisely what allows me to enjoy fullness more than I ever have, and to know that being empty will also be acceptable—receivable. My unshakeable center is not good fortune, but my own worth. The lyrics of “Oh Holy Night” capture me.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
‘Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn;
Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices!

The soul felt its worth. This hope that finds us in our weariness is a miracle—for all times, places, and people. I’m more willing than ever to fall on my knees and hear the angel voices singing—in my daughters’ eyes, the falling snow, hot water rinsing dirty dishes, warm clothes out of the dryer, text messages and songs, Christmas shopping and sleep. The angel voices are everywhere.