My post from last week about calling victories keeps lingering in my mind, so when I saw this challenge to write every day for 31 days about one topic, I knew this was it.
For the month of October, I want to take time each day to call the victories. I thought about finding a picture that looked victorious, maybe one of me crossing a finish line. Then I remembered that I only have one picture of me finishing a race that my friend Tammy took, and I intentionally gave her my best, “Is it over yet? I’m dying!” look. Definitely not a look of victory.
But what I’m looking for aren’t the obvious victories, because let’s be honest – those don’t come every day. No, I want to look harder. I want to celebrate the little things, which really aren’t little at all. I can be so focused on wanting to do great things that I miss the greatness of little things. Those are the victories.
So I chose this picture because I think this is what victory looks like – light breaking through dark places. I’m curious to see what I will find this month. I’m excited to see what victories come, and which ones have been there all along.
I’m getting my “V for Victory” fingers ready. I hope you’ll join me and call your own victories.
I am injury prone when it comes to exercise. Last year I got tendinitis in my wrist from push ups. Before that, it was sore heels from running. (I was told I have not been blessed with enough fatty tissue in my heels to run properly. I suggested a transfer from elsewhere in my body, but apparently it doesn’t work that way). Prior to that it was bursitis in my left elbow from P90X. I couldn’t bend it for a week. Try going to the bathroom without bending one of your arms. Seriously, try it.
This time, it was a pulled muscle in my hip from running. God might be trying to tell me something like “Slow down” with all these injuries, but let’s ignore that obvious fact to get to the point of this post, which is what the doctor said to me today.
I was hoping and praying that this visit to an orthopedic surgeon wouldn’t require the weeks of OT warranted by the previous injury. The doctor did give me a cortisone shot, after assuring me that it wouldn’t make me cry and curse like last time (because hips have more cushioning than wrists). He told me I needed to rest it a week, and stretch it. As he got up to leave he asked, “Do you want to do a follow up visit, or should we just call this a victory?”
Call it a victory? That sounded like a great option, so I agreed, “Let’s call it a victory.”
It was a simple phrase, but it’s had me thinking since then. Do I call victories, even in the little things? Managing to get healthy meals on the table in the midst of a busy week? Victory. Writing that note to someone? Victory. Taking initiative to move forward on a project? Victory. Praying over something instead of fretting? Victory.
I think we’re so inclined to see what we’re not doing, what we could be doing, that we forget to see what we are doing, what is happening, and call it victory.
I never expected to walk away from today’s appointment feeling victorious, but I did, just because someone told me it was. I want to remember to recognize the victories and call them, to celebrate where things are going well. They’re all around us, really, we just need to see them.
One of the things that brings me the greatest joy is to hear my children talking to my sister. When they talk with her, they sweetly ask questions and patiently listen to her stories. They treat her with compassion. They make her feel loved. It’s like a balm to my soul.
Why? Because my sister is mentally impaired. Growing up with an older sister who is impaired, I had an acute radar for how other people responded to her. I vetted every friend who came over, watching to see if they would treat her normally. I eyed strangers in public, ready to give them the stink eye if they so much as smirked at her. You don’t want to be on the receiving end of my stink eye.
While my parents have encouraged her as much as possible to live an independent life, she will always needs others’ help and support. She is a perpetual child in an adult body; trusting, simple, open. She needs others to stand with her, to listen to her, to guide her, to do for her what she cannot do for herself.
As adults, I’m not as worried about her as I was as a child, but I still find myself wanting to shelter her. Last October, we needed to vote early, so I picked her up on Halloween. She came out of her house wearing a pink princess costume with a silver crown. I paused for a minute and then thought, “Ok, let’s go with it.” Of course we got stares and questioning looks at the voting booths. Part of me felt the need to justify why a 42 year old woman was wearing a princess costume, but another part of me wanted everyone to just act like it was the most normal thing in the world. Actually, I wanted more than that. I wanted people to feel the way I felt about her – that they would think that it was awesome that she was wearing exactly what made her happy on a holiday.
I wanted them to see her as the gift she is; a precious, God-given gift. My sister loves purely and wholeheartedly. She delights in little things. She loves to be part of everything. She trusts. She accepts. She gives me opportunities to grow in being compassionate, patient, gentle, loving, protective of the weak, accepting of the different.
And that’s why it’s such a blessing when others step in and love her alongside me. It says, “I see that she is precious too. I will stand with you in loving her.” It says we are not alone, that others will be the protectors, the helpers, the givers. They will recognize the value in her.
So if you know someone who is impaired in some way, know that taking the time to love them isn’t just a gift to them. It’s a gift to those who love them as well. Thank you.
Confession: I played on what might have been the worst high school soccer team ever. We didn’t score one goal my junior year. We lost one game 0-21. That’s a bad football score.
So it was with great joy that I watched our daughter’s team leave a trail of wins in their wake as they blazed through a spring season undefeated. Girls from the other team sometimes walked away crying. I felt sorry for them – I was one of those girls back in the day.
Our team worked well together. It came easily. The question wasn’t, “Will they win?” But “By how much?” If the other team managed a goal, our girls were disappointed.
That fall, everything changed. They were the same team, with a few new girls. There wasn’t a weak member on the team. But they moved up to playing club level, and since they were the only U-11 team around, they were playing U-12 teams.
They were suddenly out of their comfort zone.
Being Out Of the Comfort Zone
We kept trying to convince them this is a good thing. It was hard to believe when they spent most of their games simply trying to fend off the other team. Their games were so intense I thought about bringing valium. (For me, not them). We told the girls, “You will grow from this. You’ll be better players. This is how it happens.”
Easy wins are fun, but they don’t stretch us.
It’s a good reminder for me, when I’m tempted to say, “easier, please, God.” I know that it is not the easy paths that strengthen me, stretch me, move me closer to where I want to be. To quote from Josh Irby, “In the Discomfort Zone there is insecurity, fear, pain, confusion. But, from the Discomfort Zone come life, hope, change, passion.”
The discomfort zone in our lives is where God is at work. He pushes us there out of His great love for us; He loves us too much to leave us where we were. Our challenge is to be content to stay in that place while He shapes us.
What about you? Are you willing to be in places of discomfort in order to grow?
Recently I pulled out all the journals I could find that I’ve written as an adult. (Yes, I still write on paper. Someday, when computers take over the world, they will have to pry the last piece of paper from my cold, dead hands).
But I digress. I am trying to gather my thoughts from our time in Asia and assemble them into a book for people to read. I went searching through my journals for evidence of how God was working in my heart through all that time. I discovered lots of great quotes from conferences and books, evidence that I have always been addicted to chocolate, and the knowledge that on January 31, 2004, our son tried to heal a cut on his foot by stepping on a piece of processed cheese. Genius.
And I found God. God meeting me over and over again in places just like this one. I was reminded of His tenderness as we moved from China to Singapore, when all the details worked out so smoothly it was uncanny, and it was like He said, “I know this is hard for you. Let me make it just a little easier.” I saw His joy in refreshing me through the first summer back in China, after two tough years in Singapore. I felt Him as El Roi – the God who sees, in those times when I had lost my bearings and felt invisible. I was reminded of the pure realness of His existence as I pondered Him meeting me on the other side of the globe. I experienced His answers to prayer over and over. I saw Him as my Shepherd, directing my path in new and unfamiliar places. His mercy, grace, compassion – it was all there.
His faithfulness is unspeakable. I’m so thankful to have this written evidence that serves as a reminder to me that the One who was with me consistently there is the same One who is with me now.
Can I just declare that today was nutty? Not bad nutty. Just non-stop nutty.
The kids had a homeschool day today (I’m sure many of you are thoroughly confused by our kids’ schooling. Do they go to school? Are they homeschooled? Yes is the answer). Wednesdays are usually long because they had no extra time like the weekend when they could do some of their work. They were both cracking the books by 8 am. I generally don’t sit down on days like today until they’re done. I’m helping one or the other, or trying to catch up on housework or emails or other random ideas that pop into my head. I confess I can be fairly distracted. At one point Megan was literally sitting next to me on the floor and she sent me an email that said, “Can you get my history book?” Apparently she had asked me verbally and I had not responded.
I didn’t realize until halfway through the day that the kids had started working on projects that are actually not due until next week. Their teachers had told them to work on these projects today, but being the good closure lovers that they are, they decided to complete the projects. This sounds fantastic in theory, but in practice it meant that by 4 pm Megan hadn’t started math or written the next paragraph in her essay. They’re normally done by about 3 pm.
On top of that, they were both running into snags – questions they couldn’t answer (and quite frankly, neither could I), ideas that needed my feedback, internet help – and no amount of me saying, “Maybe you could just put this away since you don’t actually need to do it for tomorrow” would deter them. You could call it awesome perseverance. I might call it tiring.
While we wrapped those up, Ethan decided he wanted to cook enchiladas for dinner. Brilliant! He even told me, “Just give me the recipe. I don’t want any help.” So off he went, until I realized we had no tortillas for these proposed enchiladas. I decided there was time to “run” to the store – remember, we essentially live at the cabin, so think “going into town.”
On the way, Ethan called and asked a question, and in the process I remembered that our chicken stock was expired, and there wasn’t enough sour cream. Good thing I caught that! I was in and out in 5 minutes and back home in 15 more. That’s when I realized I hadn’t bought any tortillas. We made three enchiladas using thin whole wheat flax seed flat bread slices.
After a TV dinner break – curse my DVR for not recognizing that President Obama broke into the broadcast of the So You Think You Can Dance finale thereby causing me to miss the dramatic conclusion! – we cleaned the kitchen (which at this point, with Erik gone, felt like a major victory), I biked with the dog down the street and back, made lunches for tomorrow, and herded the cats to bed.
But in the midst of all that, Ethan said, “Wow – I’m beginning to understand how hard you work” and “you’re such a great mom” and “thanks for all your help today” and Megan closed the night with, “I love you SOOO much!”
Somewhere early on, I concluded that my heart was not important.
The world doesn’t often ask for our hearts. It asks for our cooperation, our performance, our silence, our strength, our appearance, our obedience, but not our hearts. So I set mine aside and gave what the world asked of me instead. We all do, in our own ways.
But we can’t live without our hearts, and God knows it.
So He started chipping away at the carefully constructed strategies I’d built around my heart to protect it; the ways I strive to impress, to perform, to be admirable. He talked to me about His love, His freedom, His grace. He told me that yes, He does want my heart. All of it. And not just the parts I find acceptable or pleasing or enjoyable. Not just the positive emotions, but the anger and doubts and fears and shame and grief and depravity. He has spent years stripping away the layers on the outside, while He fills me up from the inside, trying to show me that life is meant to be lived wholeheartedly, open heartedly, big heartedly. He’s been waking me up, bringing me to back to life.
I would love to say that trying to live with my whole heart is easy, but it’s isn’t. Often, it means living with an ache – of griefs recognized, hurts owned, desires unmet. It is living in the in between, a belly-exposed kind of vulnerability.
But it’s in this place that I am learning how important my heart is. When I own my whole heart, there is freedom, authenticity, a greater capacity to love and be loved. And it’s not only for me, but for others as well. When I own what is in my heart and share it, it draws people. It gives permission to others to bring their hearts too. As my heart grows, I cannot help but want to help others find the depths of theirs. My heart breaks when I see others numb, ignore, kill, and shame their own hearts. It is not how we were meant to live.
So my hope, my mission in life, is to be an authentic voice that calls others to wholeheartedly live our their true selves in Christ. We cannot be all that we are called to be in Christ if we leave our hearts behind. By God’s grace, I hope to continue on this journey of living with my whole heart, and helping others to do the same.
The last two years we lived in Singapore were, in a word, hard.
The summer prior we’d said goodbye to several families and had to move 2 miles from where we’d been living a glorious communal existence with them.
Within months of living in our new apartment, my allergies kicked in like they’d been making up for lost time. I burned through every over the counter allergy drug Mustafa Centre had to offer within about 2 months.
When I finally broke down and saw an allergist, he put me on an experimental drug that was supposed to eradicate ALL my allergies. Most people saw dramatic results within 4-6 months. I quit after nine because I’d seen no change. He was baffled.
I was just plain tired of it.
In the meantime, he’d put me on a prescription allergy drug as well, which I had to take immediately upon waking.
If I didn’t, forget about it. By 10 am I’d be scratching my face off and unable to see straight through a fog of sneezing. I’d pop some Benadryl, point the kids toward the TV, request that they not kill each other before daddy came home, and let the Benadryl slam me into symptomless sleep.
Homeschool? Barely. Getting out of the house to do fun stuff with the kids? Not much. Meals? Housework? Nope.
On top of that, Erik’s job had become more demanding, and the kids were lonely without the constant presence of friends which had been their previous existence. Yep, it was just. plain. hard.
So often during that time I would cry out to God and ask Him to change it.
I raged. Questioned God. Doubted His love. I pleaded with Him to just make it easier. One day, He responded by gently pointing out that what I was really asking was not to have to need Him quite so much.
We Just Want It to Be Easier
Nobody signs up for “hard.”
It’s not a popular class. We treat it like an elective, but it’s a core course. It’s where we learn to come to the end of ourselves and to trust in His abundant resources.
We say we want to grow in Christlikeness, in character, in faith, but when it comes to the reality of what it takes to get there? I know I for one am often inclined to say, “Um . . . no thanks.”
When trials come, I’m always tempted to say, “God, just make it easier.” I want to jump to the end where I’ve learned the lessons and grown and are all mature and glowing. (that’s what happens, right? Tell me that’s what happens)
But I think back on those two years in Singapore. Yes, they were hard. But were they worth it? You bet.
I can’t tell you how much God met us, and how He used that situation for good (not the least of which was to take us back to China, which was our dream), how He shaped me in that brokenness.
So I have hope. God meets us in the hard, not to make it easier, but to show us that He is strong enough for it if we will just own our deep need for Him and trust Him.
It wasn’t until three months into our life overseas that I realized I lived there.
Up until then, we had lived in one room in a foreign student dormitory, our two twin beds shoved together, the five suitcases we brought stacked up to the ceiling. We washed dishes in the bathtub. We turned away the maids who came to “clean” everyday (which consisted of sweeping the floor and then hosing down the entire bathroom). It felt like a long vacation in a cheap hotel.
But once it was legal for students to live off campus, we found an apartment and moved in. The first night I tried to collapse into bed (which is difficult to do on a traditional Asian bed because they have the give of a sidewalk) and I thought, “What have we done? We live in Asia.”
I had the same realization when we picked up my brother from the airport that Christmas. As I oriented him on our drive home, I was aware that I hadn’t been lying to my family all that time when I told them I’d moved overseas. Here was proof!
It’s surprising what brings those realizations to light. Getting the Florida driver’s license. Seeing hurricane alternative plans on our kids’ school schedules. Writing our address. It happened again for me yesterday as we sat next to the intracoastal waterway, looking at palm trees and boats, and I said, “Erik? We live in Orlando.”
Ethan’s been struggling with this fact slowly sinking in. Going back to school, getting involved in activities – each thing cements the truth that we live here and not there anymore. It’s an interesting part of transition, this forming of a new home, defining our new lives. It feels like each realization makes a deeper impression in the ground, marks our territory, while forcing us to let go of part of what was true before. We’re here now.
Welcome to my blog! Some of you have already stumbled upon this. I’m not quite sure how actually. Maybe because my name is on it? Well, that was one of the reasons I decided to migrate my blog here. That and other reasons which are not interesting enough to explain.
Anywho, maybe you’re new, in which case hello, have a seat, let’s get to know each other. I’m not a coffee drinker, but if you have a chai latte or a Coke Zero for me we’ll get along just fine. I’d settle for good cold water, even.
I suspect though that most of you already know me after reading my ponderings before. In that case, thanks for faithfully reading. I do very much appreciate it! I’m no longer posting at my former blog (all the posts have been copied here) so you can look here from now on.
