Tapestry

If I could skip summer altogether I would. An empty calendar, clear sunny days and the 100-degree weather create the perfect atmosphere for me to do the one thing I try to avoid — laziness. I wish it only affected the condition of my house. Unfortunately, it also spreads to every corner of my spiritual life especially my time in prayer. 

The CDC tells us that obesity is now the number one health threat facing Americans. And instead of leading the way to change, the church in America is leading the path to ruin.

I’m looking forward to a long drive today with three old friends. We ministered and travelled together for several years and haven’t seen each other for quite a while. Our catching up will be full of laughter, emotion, and likely even some tears.

It's our first night in Jerusalem and we arrive just in time for the Jewish Feast of First Fruits. The best place to see the celebration is at the Wailing Wall, located in the old city of Jerusalem at the foot of the western side of the Temple Mount. It's a remnant of the ancient wall that surrounded Herod's Temple's courtyard and Jews consider it the most sacred site available to them today. After a brisk walk from the hotel, our task is to push our way through some three thousand Jews, many Hasidic, who fill the large plaza that faces the wall.

Last week, to celebrate one of our granddaughter’s 16th birthday, my husband and I spent 4 days in our nation’s capitol. Accompanied by her 13 year old sister and armed with their googled lists of “must sees” in Washington, we hit the ground running each morning hardly stopping until we fell in bed at night grateful for sleep.

When I got polio as an infant in 1953, just before the vaccine was developed, my parents were instructed by the doctors and the therapists that the very worst thing that could happen was for me to wallow in self-pity, and to never let me go there. Maybe they all thought that if no one ever talked about the huge assault of this life-changing trauma, it would never occur to me to think about it, and so I'd never end up in the Self-Pity Mudpuddle. So what was modeled to me, and which I dutifully followed, was a constant response of denial.

I woke up grumpy, and events didn't help. Between the sound of my alarm and the sound of the keys as I type this, were a whole list of things I grumbled about: bad hair day. Car's in the shop. Had to cancel an appointment (because the car's in the shop). Forgot my keycard for work. Forgot my lunch. Forgot to eat breakfast. Can't remedy forgetfulness, because car's in the shop. But here's the thing: God loved me as much this morning as he ever has.

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, in my life, as it is in heaven.” Wouldn't it be a relief to respond to life, to this situation, as joyfully and immediately as the angels in heaven?

Too often, by the time I think to rely on his Spirit, everything is already in flames. How long, Oh Lord, before my natural response, the words that come tripping off my tongue, the subtleties of my body language, the surface tension of my emotional tidal pool, will be quite naturally those of Jesus?

Memories of my childhood tell me that I constantly bore a wound on my body from a fall, burn, bite, or cut, primarily because of my clumsiness. However, the worse sores I recall seeing were on my sister who suffered a series of boils from a staph infection. No one knows where she got it or remembers exactly how long it lasted, but I recollect a number of weekly doctor visits for antibiotic injections.

Emotional wounds require the same treatment as physical ones. Failure to deal with the underlying problem means that real healing doesn’t occur. I know all about ignoring issues instead of facing them, having done this myself far too often.

“Can you have the American Dream and be a disciple of Jesus Christ?” This question was presented at a church-planting conference I attended last month. I circled those words on my paper and figured I’d have to think about it for a bit. So, I have been pondering this question.

About eight weeks ago the World Bank said preliminary estimates for 2010 showed that the world’s extreme poverty rate — people living below $1.25 a day — had fallen to less than half of its 1990 value. Did you get that? Less than half! 

Any word can become tired and eroded of meaning with overuse, but I think “Lord” in evangelical culture is one of the more lamentable cases.   “Praise the Lord.”   “Oh, Lord.”  “Lord, please….”   We throw his title around very casually, don’t we?    It’s become a virtual nickname for Jesus Christ, but I suspect we’ve forgotten what we proclaim when we use it.  

I was wrestling in prayer through some stubborn circumstances recently, trying for the umpteenth time to persuade “the Lord” to change them already.   Mid-plea, his words in Luke 6:46 came sharply to mind:   “Why do you call me ‘Lord, Lord’ and do not do what I say?”  

We wander among the ancient ruins of Bet She'an, an influential city located at the junction between the Jordan River valley and Jezreel valley in northern Israel. I imagine life in this bustling metropolis, one of the leading cities of the Decapolis, a loose foundation of 10 cities that were the centers of Greco-Roman culture during the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.

I doubt. I don’t know about you, but I doubt God’s goodness and I doubt His ability. Typically it’s one or the other, but I doubt.

Justice—it’s a word we attach to everything from court rulings and foreign policy to healthcare and education. But what happens when justice becomes painfully personal? 

For so long I thought of justice as a concept outside my walls, a cause I could give myself and my time toward. I never considered how justice relates to my relationships until lately.

One of my friends is doing the hard work of facing the devastating effects of childhood abuse and various unspeakable horrors. She knows that she needs to accept the full impact what happened to her in order to grieve it and forgive the people who wounded her so she can walk in freedom. But one of her friends recently gave her some disheartening counsel: “Oh, there’s a spirit of grief harassing you. You don’t need to go around digging up the past like you’re doing. Just speak your inner healing into existence! Declare that you are healed and whole in Jesus’ name!”

Like their non-believing neighbors, Christians in America have stuffed their calendars full. Sure, the names of our activities might be different than theirs, but busy is the norm. In fact, we often measure people's commitment to Christianity by their commitment to church activities--the more they show up, the more "Christian" they must be. We encourage people to Overbook for Jesus, ignoring the reality that it just doesn't work.

"What will you do in the end?" asks the prophet Jeremiah. Sonny, a young Indian entrepeneur has an answer: "Outsource aging to India!" Where they respect their elders and where, instead of a tiny beige flat, your thirty-year civil service pension can afford life in his luxurious hotel. In this movie seven retirees and widows with different baggage and longings accept the offer and fly off to spend their golden years in India. OK, so it turns out to be a run-down, covered-in-dust and peeling-paint hotel. Photoshopping your brochure works better for Sonny than his guests. A fine cast, including Judy Dench, Bill Nighly, Tim Hathaway, and Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton from Downton Abbey, shows us what happens to those who choose to work, love and overcome the losses of relocation and aging and those who choose to stay inside and read a book. What will YOU do in the end? Marigold explores several options. (Spoiler Alert)

Sometimes the hardest part about having children is letting go. As parents we spend most of our time devoted to our kids. And in one moment— poof—it changes.

I spent fourteen years of my life either as the spouse of a seminary student or as a student myself. Yes, you’re right—I probably needed to get a life. But I tell you that to tell you this: my husband and I still like each other … a lot. And you can emerge from seminary with a decent marriage, too. Here are some suggestions for how:

This week we will visit a veteran’s cemetery to lay to rest amidst the flags a dear friend and mentor who served in WWII. This Memorial Day we honor others who have preceded him.

I've never sniffed or shot up cocaine, and I won't, but I've heard about its pleasurable effects. But it couldn't be any better than the way I feel right now as I remember the women students who taught the Bible in my Women Teaching Women course this afternoon. I've watched them metamorphasize from first day timid deer-in-the headlights students to solid Bible teachers today.

I sat sweaty-palmed waiting for my name to be called from the list. I’d rehearsed my ballad 100 times in the previous weeks. Now it was time to show my skills and wow the judges with my best Liza Doolittle. It was my first college musical audition, and I was sure I’d steal the show.

A friend emailed me this week commenting on how much she is looking forward to the summer break. "I do want to slow down this summer and catch my breath.  Maybe even read a little in some of the books I have under my bed! "

Our society is a short-cut, quick-fix, one-and-done kind of culture. In fact, if we could get a pill to fix everything that was wrong with us, we'd take a shortcut to the pharmacy & grumble about the line, and complain that it'd take a few hours to see results. We want fast; we want easy, so I'm going to give it to you. Here's the fastest, easiest way to becoming a spiritual Super Star:

I was talking with a friend today about contentment. She told me that she was content in some areas of her life. But in other areas she was not…and having long talks with God about it. I could so relate. I remember being in that exact, same place. I am older and further into recovery. And my recent experience with Ann Voskamp’s book, 1000 Gifts: a dare to LIVE FULLY right where you are has further rearranged my ideas about contentment. It’s made me wonder…is God’s idea of contentment the idea of being content in every “area” of our lives? Or is it perhaps a richer, deeper experience and feeling of contentment that is not “area” specific, but rather seems located in a different place entirely?

You know that feeling. The pit in your stomach, pounding of your heart, and rush of your thoughts as you go from the possibility of a job loss to being homeless on the streets–all in a matter of seconds. Gripped by fear, albeit an imagined one.

Sometimes believing God is more painful than not.  Praying for something consistently with no felt response can really smart, can’t it?  This is especially true if you’re someone who believes that God does things on the pavement of this life, not just in the next and not just in the spiritual realm.  Enter me.  I have seen God move in mighty ways and don’t believe material miracles have ceased.  What I believe and regularly experience, however, are at odds.  You see, I inhabit a body that is largely a nuisance and my prayers for physical healing have thus far been turned down.  If I saw Christ in the flesh, I would dive for the hem of his garment.  Until then, I pray.   I don’t know how many times I’ve asked for God’s healing, but he does. What I do know is that it’s difficult to keep asking, to hope that perhaps entreaty number 2,432 will be the one.

Often the worst day of the year for an infertile woman is Mother’s Day. On this holiday going to a house of worship can feel more like going to the house of mourning.

I'm embarrassed to admit that all my life I've been a blind voter. I would show up to vote, look over the list, recognize a few names from signs on the street and ads in the mail, and give those people power to make decisions for me. Occasionally I was so ignorant I would just pull a party lever, hoping the party had enough sense to pick good people for me. I would stifle my guilt by thinking , "Well, at least I voted." But today was different.