But I Was Just Kidding!

I am on a bandwagon of late, and this is a chance to ride a bit longer.

I find it harder and harder to sit still when people are throwing around "cut-down" humor. To belittle one another with comments and sarcastic responses is not only rude, but entirely beyond the scope of Christian sensitivity. Every day comments are made that, on the surface, appear to be attempts at humor. However, they are seldom funny, and more often than not, have a cutting edge to them that makes one wonder exactly just how serious the comments are.

This is a very big problem among teenagers. For a number of years, my husband and I were the youth workers at the various churches we served. One of our strictest rules was that no humor that would demean another would be allowed at the youth meetings we led. It will never cease to amaze me how deflated a teen becomes when they are cruelly teased, and no reaction seems forthcoming from leaders or others in the group. This is bullying and tolerated, even encouraged, by some teachers and youth leaders. We have seen all too often lately, the results of bullying gone too far. It usually ends in tragedy, if not to a group of people, to the heart and psyche of the young person on the receiving end of it.

The people I'm talking about in this post, however, are not teenagers. They are adults. These are people who are intelligent, upright, honest citizens who work hard and have hearts of gold - until it comes to humor. I find this behavior rude, cruel and showing complete disrespect for the individual at whom the barb is aimed.

Words cannot be taken back. Once that arrow is shot, it cannot be retrieved. Too often, the comment maker follows with a statement to the effect, "Just kidding." If they show any sensitivity at all, they might ask, "You know I'm kidding, don't you?" At least that question demonstrates some amount of care for the feelings of the person attacked.

I did mean to use the word attacked in that last paragraph, for that's what it feels like. My husband and I have discussed this phenomenon frequently. He is a recovering sarcastic. When we were first married, during that period of adjustment when we seek to discover all the wonderful things about each other, he found it easy to make a quick remark, without thinking, and it would sting. Of course, I overreacted many times as well, but we did need to work through the idea that sometimes quick wit can be a dangerous weapon. That kind of humor is unacceptable in our home.

Another side of sarcasm, is the self-deprecating sarcasm we inflict on ourselves. Sometimes we make the remark because we can see it coming from outside of us, and perhaps feel we can make it less hurtful if we say it first. Sometimes we have a poor self-image and can't see ourselves deserving better than a cruel comment. This type of cruelty toward ourselves shows disrespect for who we are in Christ.

We are temples of the Holy Spirit, corporately and individually. What we say to one another, we are saying to someone who has Christ living within him or herself. Didn't Jesus himself say that, "Whatsoever you do to the least of these, you do to me."? I truly believe that goes to the area of cut-down humor as well. When we say something disrespectful, cruel and demeaning to another person, we are saying it to Jesus.

I'm not on this bandwagon to bring guilt upon those who tend to make these kinds of remarks. It takes hard work and concentrated effort to stifle the comments before they come spilling out of our mouths. My bandwagon is just a reminder that words can and do often hurt. Let's choose our comments carefully.

Donut Hole Prayer

When our sons were younger, we enjoyed a long trip from the country into the city to attend the church where my husband grew up. The journey usually took about 45 minutes and we spent the time talking about Jesus, singing songs and enjoying the quiet time after the normally hectic preparations for Sunday worship. The ride gave us the opportunity to arrive at the church happy and relaxed.

Since our trip home usually extended through the lunch hour, we periodically stopped to buy a treat to tide the boys over until we returned home. Our favorite destination was a bakery on the way that served delicious donuts, breads and rolls. The boys always asked for donuts or donut holes, which they would munch happily in the back seat, scattering crumbs liberally.

One particular Sunday, our oldest boy, then about 3 years old, became thirsty while eating his donut. We were not quite halfway home, and it was not convenient to stop at that time, so we played the usual parent game of, "We're almost there. We'll get you some water when we get home." Within a few minutes, the plaintive request would come again, "Mommy, Daddy, I'm thirsty!" We would repeat our answer, and he would repeat his request shortly after.

Apparently, our little guy thought he would go to a higher source and we heard, from the backseat, "Jesus, please can I have a drink of water?" Lee and I smiled as we listened to this desperate attempt by our son to be satisfied. It wasn't until we returned home sometime later that we realized our boy hadn't asked us again for a drink of water. His prayer had been answered.

We spend many, many moments in "donut hole prayers." Some are not too serious... "Jesus, can you help me find my papers?" "Jesus, if you just let me get through this test, I'll study harder next time." "Jesus, please don't let me make a fool of myself when I get up to speak." Some others are desperation prayers... "Jesus, please heal me!" "Jesus, lower the fever of my child." "Jesus, help!"

I believe that donut hole prayers, unless you're a three-year-old child, are not sufficient to establish a real relationship with the father who loves us so much that he would come to earth as a human being to communicate with us and pay the price of death for our sins. How does God feel when we ignore him until the last minute when we're in deep trouble and panicky, I wonder. He answers us, I know He does. However, I also believe it must break His heart to know that we more often than not, see him as a stopgap measure on our road through life. We pray only in the times we're "stuck," but never think of it when things are going well.

When we pray donut hole prayers, we miss out on so much of what God has for us. We haven't taken the time to be silent in his presence and listen to Him. We don't thank him for the glory of creation, for the family we have, for our homes, health, friends and provisions he has made for us to enjoy and cherish.

Perhaps it's time to not settle for the donut holes. Surround those holes with the rest of the donut. Surround yourself with the blessings God has for you. Then the donut hole answers will become very special treats.

Can I Divide Him in Half?

With the recent deaths of two prominent celebrities at young ages, Kirby Puckett and Dana Reeves, I have overheard some interesting conversations around the office. In addition to the death of these celebrities, one of our colleagues lost his mother during the same time period.

Such a string of deaths serves to draw people to the thought of their own mortality. The conversation that struck me as most unusual was one I overheard in our lunchroom. Three women were discussing the disposition of their bodies after death. They also questioned how to dispose of the bodies of their husbands and loved ones. There was quite the debate about whether or not cremation is allowed by various faiths. Some, who were members of the Catholic community, said that cremation was not allowed, while others disagreed or said they really didn't care. One woman was convinced that no one in her family would care what was done with her body, as long as it was gone. The majority of the ladies decided they wanted to be cremated. Once that decision was made, they began to debate what should happen with the cremains afterward.

One spoke of an aunt who had been sitting on a mantle for years where a virtual shrine had been erected in her honor. Another said she thought it was illegal to do anything save bury the ashes. Still another stated that she wanted her ashes scattered in her garden. One woman stated she was going to have her husband cremated (I'm not sure how she'll guarantee he'll go first), but wanted to know if she could divide him in half so she could scatter his ashes in two separate places. This debate is certainly not new. I remember a letter printed in an advice column years ago, where the man stated that his wife had asked him before her death to paint her ashes on the ceiling of their bedroom. He had remarried and wanted to know if it was all right to paint over his first wife.

I find it interesting that such a conversation could consume the better part of an hour with absolutely no one questioning what happens to our souls after death. Isn't that a far more important question? There appears to be a general feeling that even in death, our bodies are the essence of who we are. But we are so much more than flesh and bone.

The very fact that a body can be reduced to ashes emphasizes the fact of its fragility, and disposability. However, our souls cannot be destroyed. They live on throughout eternity. We should be much more concerned about the destination of our souls, than the destination of our ashes.

We have been guaranteed eternal life in heaven only if we have accepted the gift that Jesus gave for us on Calvary. If we choose not to receive the gift he offers, then we choose to live eternally separated from the love and glory of God. We are assured that one of two destinies awaits us, heaven or hell. It's up to us which one we enter.

I look forward to a life without pain, sorrow, illness or death in heaven. Some day my body will be gone and few will remember I ever walked this earth. It doesn't matter to me how my family chooses to dispose of my body. I don't think I'll be needing it up there.

What's In a Name?

Disclaimer: I promised my family and friends when I started this blog that I wouldn't mention any of them by their real names. Therefore, any names I use are purely the product of my imagination. I just get tired of typing "my husband, my sons, etc." It is easier to name them. I asked my husband what name he would like for me to use when speaking about him. He chose the name Lee.

In the ministry, often a wife appears to be just an appendage to her husband. We are often introduced to people as, "This is our pastor, John Smith, and his wife." I do not believe for a moment that this oversight is a deliberate attempt to ignore the fact that I am there. In fact, I find it an honor to be considered such a part of my husband that it seems appropriate to link us together in an introduction.

For many spouses of ministers, however, this is a difficult adjustment to make. I have counseled with young women who hated being a pastor's wife because they felt overlooked and unrecognized for their own accomplishments.

This anonymity has not been present only in church settings. I have been nameless in stores, on the street, and even, on one instance in my own family. My mother-in-law quite often forgot to mention my name when she introduced my husband and I in the first few months after our marriage. She would simply say, "This is my son, Lee, and his wife." He would often retort, "Mom, she has a name, her name is Naomi." This continued for several months, until at the funeral off one of Lee's cousins, his mother made her standard introduction, and he made his customary retort. Then, turning to the relative to whom he was going to introduce me he said, "This is my wife, uhhhhh...." I am convinced that God had a good laugh watching poor Lee squirm!

I work as a paralegal in several areas of law, including business and immigration. In both of those areas, the misspelling of a person's name can have serious, sometimes live-changing consequences. Contracts used in business must be correct, and a person could be denied status in our country should an error be made. I feel sorry for people whose parents labeled them with a name meant to be cute or funny, or even honoring to a relative or friend; but caused immense heartache and even bullying throughout school. How many times as a child did you wish your parents had given you a different name? How many times are parents pressured to give a child a name to please someone else? In our case, I was asked to name our oldest son after my grandmother. Her name could be used in either a masculine or feminine form. I immediately thought of all the ways our baby would be teased and we decided against it.

We will fight ferociously to protect our name because with that name comes a reputation. What images come to mind when you hear the name of Mother Theresa, Marilyn Monroe, Mahatma Ghandi, or Adolph Hitler? The reputation of these people has gone on far beyond their earthly lives.

Is our reputation as important as we believe it is? I'm not so sure. I have just begun reading a book about attitudes toward mistakes and failure. In it, the author stresses that to fail at something or make a mistake is not a negative, but that our attitude toward that mistake or failure will determine whether the failure can be turned into success. We are so afraid someone will think poorly of us if we fail, and our reputation will be irreparably damaged, that we shrink from attempting what God has in mind for us.

Jesus had a poor reputation with most of the religious leaders of his day. His hometown population ridiculed him. However, he knew his purpose in life. He had given up his position in Heaven, set aside his Godhood, and come to earth to bring forgiveness and eternal life to those who believed in Him. His mind was set on what He was to do here on earth, and so He didn't look to the approval of people, or seek to protect his good name.

One person may have an easily recognizable name, with the power and prestige that come from a sterling reputation for success, and not be welcomed into the eternal glory of heaven. Another may have no name recognition and a reputation as a failure, and be joyfully welcomed into the arms of Jesus at the end of life. God knows whether we will be considered a success or failure during our lifetime. But reputation and a good name on earth mean nothing to God if we do not accept Jesus. Our names will be written in the Book of Life, only if we have recognized and received the gift Jesus brought.

Far more important to God is our willingness to follow the path He sets for us. It is entirely possible that the path could lead to what the world considers failure and loss of reputation. It could also bring success and recognition. The only thing that matters to God is our attitude.

God will never think less of us for our mistakes. He will welcome us into His Kingdom warmly and equally, and He will eternally remember our names.

Home is Not a Place

My family moved into our first home when I was 14 years old. We all were excited to live in a big house on a large lot. My sisters and I had dreamed of a house that resembled the ones on "Leave it to Beaver," or "Father Knows Best." My dreams included my wedding day when I would come down the winding staircase on my father's arm. The real house was not what I had in mind.

Oh, we had a staircase, but it was a narrow, functional way to travel from the kitchen to the bedrooms upstairs. No grand entrance would take place there. Another of our dreams was to have our own rooms. Instead, we shared bedrooms. My two sisters and I shared a room and my two brothers shared another. Dream number two was not to be.

This house was not what we had pictured, it was not perfect; but it was the greatest place on earth. We lived a sheltered, close-knit life in that house. Memories pour through my mind as I sit here writing this evening.

Shortly after we moved in, while my mother and father were shopping, I was left in charge of my brothers and sisters. We heard a strange, thumping noise coming from the basement. Convinced that some evil person had broken in and was ready to murder us all, my sisters and I grabbed the first thing we could find to protect our home. In this case, the weapons of choice were the metal extensions to the vacuum cleaner hose. We proceeded to shout about how we were going to the basement, with weapons in hand, and anyone down there had better get out.

Just like in the movies, we went toward the noise. Eerie music should have been playing as we made our way to the door, wondering what we would do if someone was there. We opened the basement door and began creeping down the stairs, to the unfinished area where shadows moved. The monster furnace loomed in the semi-darkness. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we realized that our intruder was just a pair of tennis shoes that my mother had put into the clothes dryer. Feeling foolish, but definitely wiser, we returned upstairs where we could stop trembling.

In that house, we learned to dance with my dad, we played in the yard with our friends, and cooked out when the weather was warm. It was in that house we got "the talk" from our mom. It was in that house that we would giggle into the late night, knowing that my parents' threat of, "If we hear just one more peep...," would never come to pass.

It was to that house that I brought my future husband after our first date, to meet my parents. We had been skiing (he skied, I watched) and the roads were treacherous and icy. I had neglected to call my family to let them know we would be late, and my father was quite worried for my safety. As I introduced the two men in my life, my father let us know in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the fact he hadn't heard from us. I was convinced that one of those men would no longer be part of my life.

It was in the living room of that house that my husband and I spent many evenings snuggled on the couch. And it was there that he proposed to me. I told him that he would need to ask my father for my hand (yep, another dream of mine). We waited nervously for dad to return from the night shift he worked. When he came home, my husband told my father about his desire to marry me. My father's response was quite touching. He said, "Well, it's about time!"

My grand entrance on that staircase went in reverse, as I climbed the stairs to tell my mother I was to be married. I had pictured a "Hallmark" moment when I would tell my mom my plans, she would draw me into her arms with tears in her eyes and speak of her little girl getting married. Instead, when I woke her up to tell her my news, she groggily said, "That's nice," turned over and went back to sleep. Poof - there goes another dream.

The memories of that house flood my heart. I will never forget leaving the house on my wedding day, dressed in a gown, exactly like the one I had dreamed of, and returning to it a married woman. I will never forget saying good-bye to my family as my new husband and I left to travel the 400 miles to our new life together. I will never forget returning home with my babies to introduce them to their grandparents, aunts and uncles. I will never forget receiving the news that my mother had passed away quietly in her sleep, in the very bed I went to when I shared my special news.

I will never forget encouraging my father to sell the house when it became much too difficult for him to maintain, even with the help of my brothers and sister, who still remain in the area. I will never forget returning to visit and going back to where the house had been to find a hole where it had once stood. In its place was a huge building that held no memories at all. I felt like a stranger in the neighborhood I once knew so well.

My dad is living in a smaller, newer house now. He has a small yard. My sister lives with him. We have returned to visit, and the house feels different. But our home is still there. I have discovered that family is what makes a house a home. A building can be demolished, but the memories that linger in our hearts and minds keep the home fires burning deeply. When we return to visit we are truly home.

Lenten Sacrifice

Today is the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday. Lent is considered by virtually all Christian denominations as a time of preparation for Easter. We spend these forty days meditating on the sacrifice that Jesus made for us. We are reminded of our own mortality, symbolized by the ashes, and what will happen when our life here is over. Not every denomination places ashes on the heads of believers, but they are a poignant reminder that we are, indeed, dust and will someday return to that state.

I’ve heard people talking about what they’ll be giving up for Lent. I also hear the underlying regret that they must put a favorite candy, food, or beverage aside for the season. I find this very sad. The sadness doesn’t come from the fact that they’re thinking about sacrifice, but that they seem to resent the imposition that giving something up has on their lives. My question to them is, “Then why do it?”

I grew up in a Catholic home. Thanks to one of the Sisters who taught at my high school, I have a different perspective about Lent. She taught us one year that Jesus doesn’t really care what we give up for Lent. He really wants to know what we’re going to do for Lent. Her point was that if we’re giving something up, and complaining about it, then we’re being quite selfish. We need to remember – this isn’t about us! She inspired me to attend Mass every morning that Lent before school. That meant I needed to get up earlier and hurry to keep the schedule, but I will never forget how good it felt to begin the day meeting with God.

When Jesus told believers to take up their cross, he was talking about developing a lifestyle of service. Does it really matter to the kingdom if we eat a candy bar, or drink a can of pop once in a while? Of course not; but what if we went to a women’s shelter and passed out those treats to the women and children living there? What if we packaged meals for starving people, or attended church more regularly, read our Bibles more, prayed more, gossiped less, reached out to the unlovely?

God certainly calls us to use our gifts and talents for the building of his kingdom. I think he’d much rather have us share ourselves in his name, than grumble about “giving something up.”

Outnumbered but not Outdone

I grew up as a girl. I did girlie things like play with dolls, rollerskate, and jump rope. As a girl brought up in, let's just say a more gender-defined era, I have no sense of adventure. The most rustic I would ever want to be is in a motel that has only a double bed in the room. Therefore, I have come to believe without a doubt that God does indeed have a terrific sense of humor. Why else would he have dropped me into a family where I was the only female except for the dog?

There were lots of challenges trying to bring some civilization to this band of free spirits. All four of our sons were gifted with my husband's quick wit. They delighted in my naivete. I played straight man to their comedy on more occasions than I care to remember.

Particularly interesting were our family meals. We made a conscious effort to eat at least one meal together as a family each day. This was harder as the boys grew older and began taking part in sports and other school activities, but it remained a wonderful opportunity to connect as a family.

Mealtimes were also one of the times when my darling sons and husband practiced their comedy routines with their "Gracie Allen" mother. The goal always appeared to be bringing me to the point of laughing just as I took a sip of milk. They scored when the beverage of the day began dribbling out of my nose. I'm sure that Emily Post would have been horrified by the shenanigans that took place at our dinner table. It was quite often irreverent, messy, and just plain fun.

Family meals and the time before them, when one or the other of the boys would park himself by the kitchen counter and talk to me as I prepared the food, were times I will always cherish. I learned their dreams and fears, I listened to the heartbreak of broken high school relationships, and I heard the concern they shared over friends who did not have positive family lives. I was privileged to see a part of my sons that some mothers never do. That kind of intimacy is golden.

The boys grew up and eventually developed table manners. They have all met beautiful young women. Two of them have married and have given us three gorgeous granddaughters. Do the math - I'm not outnumbered any longer!! When we're all together, we females get our licks in now and again.

Now they are all having family dinners in their own homes. My husband and I are eating dinner alone most evenings. That's not such a bad thing. We still like one another. But when the boys are "home" with us, the fun begins again. They still try to get me snorting a beverage, and sometimes they succeed.

They are the best of friends, not only with each other, but with their parents. Our relationship with our sons has changed. We are still their parents and we still worry about whether they're eating well, getting enough sleep, and all the other things that parents do; but now we see they're beginning to take care of us. The tide is turning. They call us to see how we're doing, to let us know they care and love us.

I doubt greatly that our granddaughters will hear the stories about putting rice between Grandma's toes (use your imagination on that one) until they're raising children of their own. And by then they'll have their own stories to tell about their family dinners.

Firsts

I've been thinking of how many "firsts" we encounter in our lives. We have our first birthday, first tooth, first step, first day of school - even first blogs. Each of these firsts is historical. Each first is the beginning of a new chapter in the book our life becomes.

This past year has been a year of firsts in our family. The biggest first was the planting of a new church. My husband has had the dream of planting a church for years, but the opportunity did not present itself until one year ago this month. That was when a small group of people gathered in our living room and asked if we had thought about starting a new church.

It was only after several months of praying about it, examining motives and seeking wisdom, that we felt that the time had come to move forward. Even with the knowledge in our hearts that God was calling us to the new work, this was one scary first.

Neither my husband nor I are spring chickens (we've even moved a bit into the tough old bird category). We questioned whether we were too old to take on this kind of stress. My husband, after many years of pastoral ministry, needed to become a tentmaker to help with our financial responsibilities.

I don't know why this is called "planting a church." It really would more properly be called "birthing a church." Like childbirth - the labor is long, and painful at times, but also like childbirth, the living body that is born pushes the memories of pain away.

Early on in our examination of what this ministry would be like, it was determined that our fledgling church must be a place of peace and rest to those who have, for whatever reason, "dropped out of church", those who have been hurt by the church, and those who are new to the idea of faith and "religion."

Ours is not a typical church. No steeples or bells, high ceilings or marble, we are located in a business park. We have no pews, hymnals, or other trappings of the church. Instead we sit around tables, serve refreshments and do not formally take an offering. We sing, worship, join in Holy Communion, and love Christ and each other. We are a family.

Our church is now nearly a year old. We continue to celebrate many firsts... our first