Yours, Mine and Ours

Having taught in children's ministry since I was a teenager, I have taught some of these stories what seems no less than 500 times. But it's funny how my understanding of a story has varied depending on what stage of life I'm in when I teach it.

Last Sunday, I was reading from Luke and delving into the story of the prodigal son. In the past, I have always kind of hated on the older son and painted him as the bad guy. 

"Do we want to be like the older brother?" "NOOOO!" the kids would shout. Close book, end of story, here's your snack. 

But last week as I read this part of the passage, a lump gathered in my throat for the first time:

"Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of his servants and asked what these things meant. And he said, 'Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fattened calf, because he has received him back safe and sound.' But he was angry and refused to go in. 

His father came out and entreated him, but he answered his father, 'Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!"

And he said to him, "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours..." 

Not that I have ever wanted to kill a young goat and celebrate with my friends (some Domino's pizzas would suffice), but the older brother is starting to look a little more human to me at age 30. 

I often have to run a spiritual diagnostics test when I'm sitting in various medical waiting rooms. A few days prior to this prodigal revelation, I inwardly judged a pregnant woman who was almost two hours late to her appointment and was arguing to reschedule. I listened as she said, "I can't come that day because someone has to drive me here because I don't have a car." As she walked away, she mumbled that she couldn't believe she drove all the way from two towns over to have missed her appointment. 

Insert conviction. 

I was "older brother"ing her. It's the same game I pull when I see someone whose career has taken off. When I see someone who has checked off more bucket list items than I have even written down.

The father's response at the end of that verse stuck out to me this time when I normally trail off to end the story so we can finish coloring the handout of the father hugging the younger son. 

"Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours..."

The dad could have said a lot of things. He could have said, quit yo whining (that's the KJV version). He could have rattled off all the good things he had done for the older son that the young son missed out on. But he didn't. 

He just said, "You are always with me." 

To me, this spins his prior complaints into an advantage rather than something to gripe about: 

Look how many years I served you. Yes, my child, and think about how this has been the compass of your life and given you direction while your brother spent years completely lost. Look how many years I never disobeyed your commands. Yes, my child, and think about how that obedience saved you from consequences that your brother will have to deal with for years to come. 

I'm slowly learning that faithfulness isn't a scorecard like the older brother liked to think it was. How we like to think it works. We think if we wait our turn,  if we do everything by the book, we should be able to have a Fast Pass to every Disney World ride we desire. But we never stop to realize the great privilege and blessing it is to reside in Disney World at all. (Only I could try to throw Mickey Mouse into a life analogy). 

The father in the story ends by saying, "It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found." 

I'm not saying you are always going to feel like celebrating. But never mistake your lack of a party as God's inattention. We have to realize that we're just part of the celebratory committee because we've been with him the whole time- and everything he offers that truly matters- is already ours. 

Fix.

As many of you know, I am mildly obsessed with Fixer Upper and Chip and Joanna Gaines. I've read their book. I've read their magazine. I've been to their store in Waco twice. I am claustrophobic and cringe at crowds, yet I push my way through their store every holiday like a Black Friday shopper who wants a flatscreen.

I love their style. I love their affection for each other and their children. I love Chip's constant physical comedy. 

They ran into a slight bump about a month ago after a Buzzfeed article. I call it a bump because escalating it to "persecution" or "controversy" is just what many media outlets, especially Christian ones, want to happen. Because we don't get thrown into the Colosseum with lions anymore, we often- consciously or not- puff up situations to be persecution so we can say that we experienced some. 

I was impressed with Chip and Joanna because they refused to be martyr poster children. They lived their life, they loved their babies, and they redesigned houses. Period.

I've seen articles going around quoting Chip as saying, "Disagreeing with someone is not the same as hate." 

This is a true statement and one that Christians everywhere are throwing up as a protective fort around their beliefs. 

But here's the thing: Chip and Joanna, so far anyway, are living this statement. From what I have read and know about them, they seem to treat everyone with dignity and respect. 

It's true. Disagreeing with someone isn't the same as hating them. 

But as a society, we have done more than disagree. We have started believing that sharing human dignity and basic rights with each other is the same as sharing each other's beliefs.

And it's not the same.

Thinking that everyone should be able to be served at a restaurant; that everyone should be able to buy a cake; that everyone should be able to use a bathroom; that everyone should have governmental protection; doesn't make what you believe any less of a personal stance. Extending service and grace to people you disagree with isn't you saying, "I'm completely OK with how you live your life." It's saying, your life matters. Your life deserves the same freedom, the same attention, the same amenities as mine gets.

Both sides are to blame. The Buzzfeed reporter who started this whole mess applied malice and motives where there were none. He assumed, maybe from past experience, that having a certain stance is the same as being a hateful individual. And that's not the same either.

We need to stop trying to find and become martyrs for causes that fall short on the long list of devastating things happening in our world today. We have chosen causes that are easy to grab onto; causes that require nothing from us but our computer keyboards; causes that call us only to the higher calling of eating a particular chicken sandwich.

Anyone who watches Fixer Upper knows what Chip's favorite day is: Demolition Day. It's about tearing down the old to make room for the new.

Let's make 2017 about reconciliation. Christians have hurt a lot of people. People have thrown unnecessary daggers at Christians. We have a lot of work to do. Let's get to it.

2 Corinthians 5:17-21: 

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 

Keeping it Real

Ever since I was a young child, negativity has been my game. I'm pretty sure if you had asked me if my sippy cup was half full or half empty, I would have put on an emotional breakdown rendition of "I need more apple juice!"

It's just my default setting. 

My junior high diaries make Romeo and Juliet look like well-adjusted teenagers.

Which is why I married a man who has never felt slighted in his life. I have to actually get offended for him sometimes. "Babe, that guy shot you." 

"You're getting a little negative. I've always thought I looked kind of like a buck. He didn't mean it. We should have them over for dinner sometime." 

So I've made my New Years Resolution this year to bury some of my negativity. Notice I didn't say, "Be more positive." That's like me vowing to lose 20 pounds again. I just want to get less negative and rise to emotional, neutral Switzerland. 

Having this resolution will probably require the retirement of mom blogs and life blogs and discourses from people trying to "keep it real." 

I think, in this recent quest for "realness," we have unknowingly become a society that idolizes every experience, good or bad. We have become "faux-authentic." We have strived so hard not to worship perfection that we have bowed down to the messes of life instead. 

What started as an opponent to Pinterest womanhood and Pinterest motherhood has taken over and is now the leading voice. And that voice has magnified sticky fingers and messy houses and clueless husbands and made them more than the speck on the map of life that they are.

They aren't great. They aren't the worst thing. They just are. They're things that have happened for thousands of years but were never anything to write home about. 

I never really thought much about this until I a) decided to be less negative and b) began to struggle with infertility. 

I would read these lifestyle and family blogs and think, "If this is what my life is going to be like, why even try?" As a default negative person, I feared that motherhood would sap any happiness or positivity I had left. 

They all try to seal it with a big, encompassing bow of, "But I wouldn't trade it for anything." No. You don't get to do that. That's like those people who say something rude and then go, "No offense." That's not how this works, AGNES. And I'm just big-boned.

I'm not saying that motherhood isn't messy, that life isn't messy. I'm not saying you're going to love every second. I actually prefer that you don't. I'm especially not saying that you only post or talk about the perfect times. 

We can be real without taking out a billboard saying, "Hey, look at me. I'm real. Look at how real I am!" 

I have a friend (she knows who she is) and I love her posts. Sometimes her toddler is wearing a lifejacket in front of the Christmas tree when it's 30 degrees. Sometimes the kids think the fridge water dispenser is an in-home water park (I'm probably giving it away here).

She doesn't write a haiku about how her kitchen is messy. She just posts a funny picture. She doesn't write a doctoral thesis on how the dog threw up on the couch. She just gets Bounty, 409, and a deep breath and cleans it up. She moves on. She forgets that the dog threw up until he does it again. And then she forgets again.

This is real, real life. 

In 2017, let's magnify the small moments that matter. 

Everyone has laundry. Everyone's toddlers occasionally need to be exorcised. 

But not everyone gets to see what you see when you wake up. Not everyone gets to hear the words you hear from those you love. 

Only you get to experience that. 

And that's real. 

 

Fa la la la Freakout

The holidays, while still enjoyable, are an overall different experience for people with anxiety. Here's my naughty list: 

1. Dirty Santa. We sit there fidgeting at the planning session. Kelly talks about how she's bringing her famous seven-layer dip in the shape of a Christmas tree (you go, girl. You defy science and get that not to mold into a blob. O Blob-Blob Tree, O Blob-Blob Tree). Anyway, everyone picks a finger food and then there's always that one person who pipes up, "And what about Dirty Santa? Everyone loves Dirty Santa. Bring a $5 gag gift." 

This just in: not everyone loves Dirty Santa. Some people do good to just get actual Christmas gifts that have been specified. You can tell me you want a purse and I will stare at a rack of purses like if I pull off the wrong one, a terrorizing Krampus is going to hop out and tie me up with tinsel. 

So take this already tense ball of Christmas cheer and tell her that she has to be clever and hipsterly ironic for $5 and we're talking fa-la-la-la freakout. 

I could wrap up a pack of toilet paper. It's like, haha, everybody goes to the bathroom. No. That's stupid and not ironic. What if I got a calendar with animals? Nope. Some people like animals so it wouldn't be a gag gift. Repeat this until the day before party.

2. Black Friday. No. Just no. You might as well put me in a straight jacket and watch me try to Hatchimal.

3. Ugly Christmas Sweaters. This goes back to my complete inability to be hipsterly ironic. I have spent my life (unsuccessfully at times) trying not to look like Frumpy McFrumperston. But now people are like, "Wear an ugly, shapeless sweater out in public. It will be fun!" Taming my party anxiety is not soothed by having real ornaments hanging on by a thread off my body. Rudolph's overly sized face also does not do my body insecurities any favors.

4. Mariah Carey songs playing at a million decibels in Old Navy. I don't want a lot for  Christmas, there is just one thing I need: and that's for Mariah to calm down. I go in looking for a peacoat and I leave in handcuffs for homicide. And I just wanted a peacoat. Thanks, Mariah. I hope it was worth it. (I wonder if I sneak out my prison jumpsuit, if it will make a funny dirty Santa gift next year?)

5. Gift Equality. You're standing there. You exchange gifts. She opens up hers and she's like, "Oh, body lotion, I love it." And then you open yours and it's a thoughtful, handmade gift that's like if your soul vacated your body and became an object. Red alert, red alert. Times this by a thousand if someone brings you a gift and you don't have one for them. 

Merry Christmas to everyone, especially my fellow nervous Nellies. If I wasn't so anxious, I would host a party for us so we could burn Mariah CDs and turn ugly sweaters into sweaters for our pets. 

I've Got a Feeling

I have always been a little (cough, a lot) on the emotional side. Anyone who knows my mother knows that the crying apple doesn't fall far from the crying tree. If apples fell from Weeping Willows, it would be our story.

It was kind of the joke of my study abroad trip to Greece, Israel, and Egypt in college: "Ashton is crying again!"

The tour guide would tell us the Apostle Paul walked here. Cry.

"We are walking the path where Jesus carried the cross." Cry.

Here are the pyramids. Cry. Ok, I didn't cry at the pyramids...that I recall.

Being an emotional person, a feelings-driven person, a justice-oriented person seems to be the target of many jokes and eye rolls lately.

I get that, like with everything, feelings can be taken too far. But I also know that, regardless of reason, making fun of young people for seeking counsel if they need it or crying if they need to can have detrimental consequences.

It's one of the reasons I didn't go to counseling for depression and anxiety until I was 27 years old. Because I was being silly. Because my life was easy. I had no reason to be sad.

Most of these kids aren't just sad because their person didn't win. It's about who won for them. It's about their friends that are different than them.  It's about their future and their graduation. As someone who graduated during the last recession, I can say that policy decisions are sometimes worth crying over (I didn't cry until I was turned down for every job I interviewed for).

I think we also forget sometimes that Jesus was a passionate person and felt things deeply. He was a compassionate champion for lepers, for widows, for the downcast.

He often addressed religious leaders with anger, while also being distraught that he couldn't seem to soften their hardened hearts. Their behavior outraged him but their spirits caused him grief. And remember when he turned tables? His anger served a purpose and renewed the mission the temple was created to serve.

He wept at the tomb of Lazarus. He grieved intensely about the destruction of Jerusalem.

This doesn't even encompass the emotional component of Jesus. Every interaction rocked his spirit and every person he came across stuck with him as he journeyed through his time on Earth.

I think young people today have yoked themselves with this Jesus. Circular theological discussions in a classroom have been replaced with the desire to act, to make a difference, to experience. Feelings have become the beating heart and the compass.

Does this approach sometimes lead to mistakes or poor judgment calls? Absolutely. Does it sometimes not give someone the entire perspective of a situation? I'm sure it does.

But if their learning curve is in the name of social justice and compassion and making a difference, who are we to criticize them and ridicule them?

Feelings and emotions are no longer a thing to be hidden; they are no longer seen as a hindrance but a strength; they are the window to the soul and an explanation of who we are.

Times have changed. People have changed. Motivations and inspirations have changed.

And that's OK.

Instead of all the negativity and shaming, we need to accept how the world works now. We need to reach them where they are and guide them using the knowledge we have of their language and their needs.

Our maturity can steady their newly discovered emotions and their ability to tap into their feelings can get us to become more aware of our own thoughts, fears, and dreams.

The world needs us both.

Let's act like it.
 

Wounded

I have been very flattered by the amount of people who have said they missed me and my posts during my three-month hiatus from Facebook. I have loved to entertain and make people laugh since I was old enough to walk in front of a camera and push my brothers out of the way. Most of our home videos are just of my face and singing voice- and I'm OK with that.

So why would I walk away from this platform to entertain? 

Because beyond the "likes" and the comments and the laughs, I was left feeling empty, raw, and often wounded.

It hasn't been an easy season of life; I had surgery in September to remove some ovarian cysts and when they were in there, they found widespread endometriosis (to save you a Google, the inside of my body has more cobwebs than your neighbor's house on Halloween). 

This diagnosis explains the infertility and does give us a possible path of hope. But when this is a card that's dealt to you, it's like you're already walking around without an extra layer of thick skin. 

As a typically thick-skinned person, it's hard to get used to this new bareness that is your life. You're one comment away at any time from becoming a volcanic display of emotion. You can act cordially to someone who asks if "you're next" and then melt down at the mention of a pregnant pause in a paragraph. It's nonsense. 

Add in this year's election cycle and you have the recipe for my Facebook hiatus. 

Not only was I an outsider because I don't have children but I also felt incredibly alone in how I was affected this political season. Imagine feeling like (irrational or not) that your Christian value is not only wrapped up in motherhood but it's also wrapped up in how you vote. 

That's two strikes. That's two blows to the spirit. 

Anyone who votes for her is evil and has no place in church. 

You're talking about me. 

What kind of moron...

You're talking to me. 

Friends; churches- I beg you for grace. Every hurtful question you ask or blanket statement you publicly assert always leaves someone out. It always leaves its stinger in someone while you go about your day. 

People, like me, are walking around raw- all for different reasons- doing the very best they can. 

Back to the volcanic display of emotions, Justin read this during our college devotional Sunday night and I had to sneakily remove the lump that grew in my throat (no 30-year-old woman wants to lose it in front of the cool kids). 

Hebrews 6: 18-19 

"So God has given us two unchanging things: His promise and His oath. These prove that it is impossible for God to lie. As a result, we who come to God for refuge might be encouraged to seize that hope that is set before us. That hope is real and true, an anchor to steady our restless souls, a hope that leads us back behind the curtain to where God is." 

When he read it aloud, it was almost as if my raw self was engulfed in the words. Refuge. Hope. It is impossible for God to lie. His promises give us hope. 

It's all the words I have craved all year and not received.

May we all seek out the wounded among us and provide refuge. May we remember there is a person behind every crude comment or joke. May we be a beacon of hope rather than a quick stop of judgment. 

Thanks for your love and your patience with me.

So This is 30

Even when my blogging is stalled, I usually pull out a post on my birthday- an obligatory, "Hey, I'm here, look at what I have learned this year" barrel of randomness. 

But this year, I skipped it. I used to make fun of people who wallowed in birthday pity, but alas, I became that person. 

June 24th hit and I was three decades of moodiness that day. I sat on the couch in my pajamas all day and asked my dogs how old they thought I was. They didn't answer so I took that to mean TWENTY-TWO.

I have asked myself since that day why this got to me. Aside from my fleeting metabolism and new facial hair growth, I wasn't really any different. People told me that "30 was the new 20," and I went along with it even though IT'S ALL LIES. Shortly after my birthday, the female portion of my body decided to turn 30 too which led to doctors' visits, hormone testing, and the ultrasound WAND OF DOOM. If 30 is indeed the new 20, why did my 20-year-old body get a pass from this medieval torture device? Lady asked me if I wanted to see my uterus on the TV and I was like, "I'll pass. Got Netflix?"

Bodily shifts aside, I think 30 was hard for me because it's the age of accountability. Every questionnaire includes, "Where do you want to be by the time you're 30?" And you, in your naivety, write: "I want to be married with 5 kids, be a scientist and a lawyer and a doctor, travel the world twice, and start a non-profit and a hospital where everyone can be seen for free." And that's if you're a slacker. 

But 30 sneaks up on you. 

One day you're sitting in your dorm wearing an oversized college sweatshirt and the next thing you know, you're sitting in your house in that same sweatshirt and it fits. 

You're heavy. The world is heavy. You worry about things that you never worried about before. 

I'm not a scientist-doctor-lawyer hybrid, but I have a goal for my 30s: be deliberate. 

I spent my 20s sinking in self-doubt, surrounded by what people thought of me, covered in obligation, and hidden in humor. 

So here's my prayer for my 30s.

If I have children, may I be deliberate in their upbringing,

raising them to ask questions, form conclusions and practice compassion.

If I am infertile, may I be deliberate in my marriage and in my walk,

replacing any bitterness with opportunities that wouldn't be possible otherwise.

If I see a need for change, may I be deliberate in opening minds and demanding thought,

presenting ideas with purpose rather than letting fear cloak them in humor. 

Amen. (Is it weird to say Amen at the end of your personal prayer? Whatever. Amen).

Here's to a decade of accountability only to God, myself, and truth.