No-I'm-not-on-crack parenting advice Part 2: Love 'em like they're *not* your own

No one cares more about your kids than you do, but I'm guessing most days at 11 pm, no one could treat them worse. It's just a fact that we give all day at work or school, holding it together when people step on our toes and cut us off in traffic, and at the end of the day, we're tired and we let it all hang out, knowing our families will forgive us.

I was over at a friend's once and washed a few dishes. When she went to make supper, she opened the cupboard, pulled out a pan, and said, "Okay, who didn't get this clean?" I whispered, "I wasn't sure how hard to scrub. I didn't want to scratch the no-stick coating." The friend apologized, saying she thought it was her kids who'd done it. But if we don't want to talk to our friends that way, why do we find it so easy to use that tone with our children?


I'm guilty. Let's say my child has a play date, and the friend spills chocolate milk, just like my son did that morning. Which child heard me say, "It's okay, sweetie. Accidents happen," and which one got "Not again! I just shampooed the carpet last week!"? That's right: the kid I don't even know gets understanding and the one I'd die for gets guilt-blasted. Why do we do that?

Here are are few possible explanations:

1. Nobody heard me yelling at Junior, but I know for a fact that the playmate's mommy is about to get a play-by-play of everything from the moistness of my baking to the humungousness of the bra I left drying on the towel bar.

2. Nancy Nextdoor has never spilled (or vomited or coloured or made lotion potions) on my carpet before, so this incident cannot invoke years of painful memories...

3. ...Nor will she spill there again every week for the next eleven years.

4. And, if she grows up to dump chocolate milk in the White House parlor or down Shania's dress, I'm not the pathetic mother crying on ET Canada about it, while Ben Mulroney shakes his head in national embarrassment.


If the problem is that 1. no one is holding me accountable,  2. I'm holding onto resentment from the past and fear of the future, it helps me stay calm and use my "nice mommy" voice if I remember that a) I am being watched and b) that this is the moment that matters.


So sometimes, when I'm feeling tired and overwhelming and afraid of the next poisonous thing that's going to come out of my mouth, I image these grouchy, hyperactive darlings aren't my children. I pretend I'm going to send them home to their real mommies, and all I need to do is get through the next hour and make sure I use that time to show them how much God loves them because it may be my only chance.

I tell myself that nothing I do is secret because chances are, if I lose it on a regular basis, my children will tell someone: if not their teachers tomorrow, then their therapists in college. And as the song goes, "there's a Father up above who is looking down in love."

...which reminds me - they really aren't my children after all: God's just sent them over for an extended play date. He loves them even more than I do, and amazingly, he trusts me to devote myself to them like they're my own, and treat them like they're His.

The logician and the mystic

Bones: It's the truth.
Booth: Well, it sounds like the truth cause it's so rational, right, but, you know, the true truth is that you just...you hate Christmas, so you just spout out all these facts and you ruin it for everyone else.
Bones: I ruin the true truth with facts?
Booth: Yeah, and you ruin it for the squint squad, too, by making them work on a case about a guy who's been sealed up in a fallout shelter for 50 years.
Bones: Okay, how would you like me to spend my Christmas?
Booth: Christmas is the perfect time to reexamine your standing with, you know... (pointing upward)
Bones: A helicopter pilot?
Booth: Oh, right, right. You can't measure the man upstairs in a beaker, so he can't possibly exist.
Bones: "The man upstairs?"
Booth: Mmm. You know, you don't know if you're sick, but you're more than willing to take drugs just in case. Seems to me you could give the man upstairs the same benefit of the doubt that you do an invisible fungus.

I've never heard anyone on the TV series Bones refer to themselves or each other using the A word, but Temperance Brennan ("Bones") and most of her coworkers have the rationality, bluntness, and perseveration on bugs, body parts, bytes, Byzantine warriors, and botanicals that would make any Aspie beam up with pride. Brennan's partner Booth, on the other hand, is a committed Catholic who believes in mystery, psychology, and simple faith.

"Nothing is beautiful."

My 11-year-old Aspie appears by my bed near midnight, his eyes filled with tears. I pause Bones and Booth on my laptop, extending their moment of conflict.

"Nothing is beautiful," K. whispers again through trembling lips, and waits.

Tired and tense, his insides are sending him the faulty signal that the weariness originates in the world outside, I think. He recently confided that his mind is never silent: tapes of T.V. shows and conversations run through his head incessantly, indistinguishable from external sounds, until a real voice breaks in for comparison. I now understand why he has the T.V., C.D.s, or his own babble cranked at all times; the sound tethers him to reality. I hear nothing coming from his room.

"Nothing is beautiful." What do you mean?

"The only reason we see colours is because of the way objects react to the light. It's just the light. Without it, nothing in the world has beauty. I read it in a book."

So I was wrong, not a feeling originating inside, but a fact. I'm reminded of the day I came home from school broken by basic biology, fighting against the suggestion of tissues and cells, yelling at my mother, "I'm all one piece!"

I wrap my arms around him. He clings to my neck. He's so much taller now, his body feels almost foreign, and yet fragile still. I pull back to see his eyes. I know he's only 11, and I can't read by his face what he's thinking.

An Asperger's diagnostic criteria page flips through my mind: "marked impairments in the use of multiple nonverbal behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze, facial expression, body posture, and gestures to regulate social interaction." I consider the moving target for my words, tone, and expression. But I trust our connection.

"Are you only a bunch of cells or are you something more? Knowing the scientific explanations does not reduce the mystery, the poetry." I'm speaking more to myself. I can't see if he's with me. But he's calmer. I need to keep talking before the voice in his head interrupts.

A word settles on the fringes of thought. The light. Christ.

Yes. "I Am the light of the world."

I'm making it up as I go. "That's why God make the light first. That's why Jesus said he is the light. He holds everything together. He's the light that makes everything beautiful. That's why we know heaven is beautiful even though we don't understand it, because Jesus is there."

I wait. His eyes sparkle. "Yes. That makes sense!"

My boy. The one who wowed the neighbours with explanations of pollination at age 4, is also the kid who had a vision of angels at age 5. The best of Booth and Brennan in one heart-stopping Justin Bieber-like package.

"'Believe in the light while you have the light, so that you may become children of light.' When he had finished speaking, Jesus left and hid himself from them." (John 12:36)

Booth: There's a story here we don't know yet.
Bones: Like what?
Booth: Bones, "don't know" means it's a mystery.

Apology not accepted

When we were in B.C., the thing I was most looking forward to was visiting a church I'd read a lot about. Unlike many B.C. churches, it doesn't have a million dollar facility, or several hundred families on the roster, or a unique blend of liturgical and modern media elements. This little group meeting in a school cafeteria caught my eye because it esteems people with disabilities.

From what I'd read about the pastor, I knew he believes God often speaks to those of us who can pretend we need nothing through the people society sees as needy. His books are full of stories of people who can't read, pointing to a verse in the Bible that says exactly what someone needed to hear. Or someone experiencing a divine moment as they spun in circles to the music with a nonverbal child.

When we walked in, we were greeted by a cheery older couple. Guy Smiley explained that the service would be different from what we were used to, the back would fill up with wheelchairs and other people from local residences with their caregivers, and would be very noisy (and isn't it great that our church welcomes them when other churches ask them to leave). We should sit at the front with the regular people.

My hubby T., the ever-gracious-and-conciliatory one, thought Guy meant "the people who attend regularly." I heard: "the people who don't have a diagnosis." I couldn't help wondering, if I'd come with my kids, where should we have sat then?

T. and I sat near the worship team, on the side of the semicircle, so we could see the back. I was troubled by the huge aisle between the front "regulars" and the back dwellers. This was not what I had expected.

The woman at the mic said, "If you have attended formal worship services, this church will be different from what you are used to. We are part family picnic, part Upper Room waiting on God." That summed it up pretty well. As the worship team sang, I looked around at the picnic - I saw people getting up to hug each other, walking up to the communion table at the front, and praying for each other in a little kitchen tent at the back. A little girl pranced up to the first row and planted a kiss on the pastor's cheek. It was a beautiful family scene.

And we were welcomed in: when T. and I stood at the communion together, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Guy Smiley and his wife were praying over us. T. and I sat down in the tent, and the couple from the church there prayed for us too. But no wheelchairs rolled to the Lord's table; no wheelchair squeezed into the tent.

The pastor's wife, who like her husband has also written a fabulous book on prayer, got up to speak about waiting for God through the tough stuff. A few minutes into her sharing about the challenges of life, a cry came from the back. She stopped. And interpreted. "He's saying 'What's the good news?' I'm not allowed to get up and speak here unless I give you good news." I gathered that this gentleman has a ministry of reminding preachers to get to the good stuff on a fairly regular basis! I hung on every word of the bad news and the good, because waiting on God was on my mind during this trip (and not only because we had to sit for three hours in traffic ready to slap each other silly, trying to reach Vancouver, which should have been a 4o minute trip). Running ahead of God is so much easier than waiting (and I'm not alone. Read Genesis: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are the patriarchs of impatience).

So, in the spirit of patience, I'll give the church the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the wide aisle between the front and back isn't there to keep the "non-regulars" away. Maybe the people at the back requested more room to move their chairs around, or maybe their assistants - many of whom wouldn't come to church if they weren't being paid for it - are more comfortable observing the family picnic from a distance. Maybe, other Sundays, some one has rolled up to the prayer tent, and the regulars tripped over themselves clearing the furniture to make room.

What I'm not ready to accept, however, are Guy Smiley's disclaimers. May I suggest a new script? Here's the conversation between the greeter and visitor in Ange's head when she sees your picnic:

This church has saints crying out in words only God can understand: great, that's worship! Half the people are in wheelchairs: isn't it nice they choose to worship with you? People are free to rock, flap, spin, pant, or pick: awesome, I feel like I'm with family! If you're a church built on the passionate presence and heavenly messages of people living with differences, then celebrate it; don't apologize for it.

Where pain and theology meet

I was at a staff retreat at Gimli last week. (Two days of adult conversation - yippee!) Our first exercise was to share with each other a time line drawing of all the major ups and downs of our lives. Happy things above the line; painful things below.

Because most people were in pairs, and we were the odd group of three, there was less time to give each other feedback on our stories, but what I did get from the man and woman in my group was this reaction:

"Whoa, we haven't lived through nearly as many things as you have."

She was middle-aged. He was in his 70s. I'm a fresh 37.

Here are a few of the alternating lows and highs of my short little life: my brothers' Fragile X Syndrome, discovering the clarinet, being the target of school bullies, the spiritual high of my baptism, my Dad's illness which peaked when I was 14, working at summer Bible camp, an utterly lonely summmer mission trip to Bavaria, marriage, miscarriage, seminary, multiple periods of unemployment, motherhood, the autism and ADHD diagnoses, the start of my writing career, overwhelming teaching stress, my wonderful church, my grandparents' deaths. And that's just the stuff I'm willing to talk about.

One of my partners in the staff exercise said, "So much has been out of your control." That's why I've become a fan of the sovereignty of God - I find the idea that all the messy details of my life, like those of the man born blind in John 9 - fit snugly into the big picture of God's glory - contrary to most Mennonites who focus on the randomness of pain as caused by fallen humans exercising free will. I resonate with a God who's in control, because I know without a doubt that I'm not. Life throws stuff, and I barely have enough time decide which way to roll with it.

I find it interesting that some people facing hardship swing toward thinking God had nothing to do with it. The idea that God may have a purpose in their pain is offensive to them. The thought that God sends angels to steer some careening cars and not others to them smacks of divine favoritism. They would affirm that "God is present in this, but he sure didn't send it."

Others, like Russ Toews whose son committed suicide say,

"God is sovereign. Nothing happens that is outside his control or that he does not allow.

"I find when I talk this way, particularly in light of my son’s death, many people become uncomfortable. They quickly point out that God is not the author of illness, death, or bad things. I’m not arguing with their point, but you may be surprised to hear I don’t find comfort in the thought that God did not cause my son’s death....

"I do find comfort in knowing that someone is in control, that life is not just a series of random events, some good, some bad. I find comfort in knowing that even though bad things happen, there is someone who has seen ahead everything that will happen and allows it. Brad’s death did not catch God by surprise, as it did us."

(From http://www.mbconf.ca/home/products_and_services/resources/publications/mb_herald/mb_herald_june_2009/features/are_you_sure_god_is_good/)


I resonate with Russ' words. I too find no comfort in someone saying that God didn't choose or cause my children's disabilities. Autism and ADHD are so intertwined with little personalities, it begs the question: then who did God plan to send our family anyway? And where did that person go? If God didn't intend to bring glory through their unique struggles, triumphs, perspectives, and gifts, then what's the point?

It's interesting how our emotions, particularly grief, can shape our theology so profoundly, and yet take us in such different directions. It has implications for how we choose words of comfort - with our ears screwed on tight. And it has implications for how we discuss theology - with sensitivity; any debate on divine sovereignty might mask a cry for a lost son. May my words fall softly.

Two things I know for sure: no matter which side we emphasize - the human choice or the divine - we all need to hold both in tension; both are evident in Scripture (See Exodus 7:3 - God hardened Pharaoh's heart, 8:14 - yet Pharaoh hardened his own heart, 11:9 - purpose: God's glory) and our experience. And secondly, as long as we're talking to him and each other in our grief, the glory and comfort will flow, whether we call him "present" or "sovereign."

He is.

Take these broken wings

I endured the most difficult conversation in the car last night on the way to pick up my husband from work. It was a tearful euthanasia/palliative care (gone wrong) debate, right in front of the dying patient.

G. had found a one-winged butterfly, which she was aggressively nursing back to health. (It wasn't working.) She'd it shake and poke it to try to make it move. Every time it wiggled, she'd report her clinic's success rate. Poor K. was beside himself.

K: "You're hurting it!"
G: "It moved its leg. Yeah, it's still alive!"
K: "It doesn't want to live anymore! Leave it alone."
G: "Oh no, it stopped."
K: "Finally, it's not suffering anymore."
G: "Wait, it waved again."
K: (in tears) "Ahhhh!"

We finally arrived at the office, where I insisted we leave butterfly among the flowers. G. said, "We can take care of other creatures. Right, mom?" All I can say is, with her kind of care, I hope insects don't have a lot of pain receptors.

Eugene Peterson writes, "Suffering is a character of the personal. Animals can be hurt, but they do not suffer. The earth can be ravaged, yet it cannot suffer. Man and woman, alone in the creation, suffer. For suffering is pain plus: physical or emotional pain plus the awareness that our own worth as people is threatened, that our own value as creatures made in the dignity of God is called into question, that our own destiny as eternal souls is jeopardized."

Remembering Scripture can be comforting in times of suffering. Verses like 2 Corinthians 1:3-5: "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows."

Or Philippians 1:6: "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."

Lately the verse that's been in my mind is: "Help, God--the bottom has fallen out of my life!" (Psalm 130:1 The Message).

Not exactly one of comfort or completion. It is nice to know that someone else (although a few thousand years too early to cry with me over lattes) has felt the same way, but I'm guessing the writer's problem had more to do with being chased by lions or watching his children being carried off by marauders, than the setbacks of parenting a child on the autism spectrum.

For that I need to look around the table at my mom's support group. They know the fear, vigilance, discouragement, inconvenience, childcare issues, safety concerns, the stares, the home-school-doctor conflicts, the medical decisions (do I look like a doctor?), the frightening side-effects, the uncertainty about whether this summer's plans or independence (college? empty nest? grandchildren?) dreams will pan out.

What I like about Psalm 130:1 is that it's directed at God; God-given words to pray when I'm too tired to think up my own (but that fit my hurt like a glove). Eugene Peterson says this Psalm is "a powerful demonstration that our place in the depths is not out of bounds from God. We see that whatever or whoever got us in trouble cannot separate us from God."

No relief for wingless, Über-handled butterflies, but for the K.'s and the moms (and the G.'s in their own way) who weep over lost beauty, who feel the pain plus, who see the bottom fall out, it's something to hold onto. Even if it's only with one wiggling leg.

Fly high!

The Graf Zeppelin, the R101 and the Hindenburg are regulars at our dinner table.

One of the most intriguing things about Aspergers is "perseverations" - obsessions with learning, reciting, drawing, watching and/or collecting everything to do with a particular topic. Some are typical childhood interests: trains, dinosaurs, video games. But some kids choose to more unusual subjects, such as weather statistics or the flags of former communist dictatorships. K. has done plant biology and pipe organs. Now we're into airships, thanks to Kenneth Oppel.

K.'s grade four teacher has been reading them bestselling Canadian author Kenneth Oppel's Airborn and Skybreaker, a series set aloft in an airship or zeppelin. So....since September K. has been designing airships on paper, creating them out of Lego, rereading every encyclopedia page he can on famous zeppelins, and bemoaning the fact that they haven't become humanity's main mode of air travel. Yet. He also reads from his own copy of Airborn and wrote a school report on Kenneth Oppel.

And last week he got to meet him!

Now the photo of a beaming K. standing beside Kenneth Oppel is on the school wall and there's an upcoming story in the school newsletter. The other students are in awe. I'm sure they all would've loved to meet him and have him write "fly high!" in the front of their books.

Yesterday I told my life story to a group of women I'd never met before from a variety of backgrounds. (I mean they invited me as a guest speaker, not that I just stood up in a public place and started sharing!) Someone brought up the topic of God, evil, free will, suffering, Satan, and judgment. (Nothing too heavy!)

The idea came up that perhaps heaven is special because only a few get to go - like an exclusive country club membership in the sky or a backstage pass to meet God after the show.

I disagree. But I didn't come up with a response to that one in the moment. So here's my answer: I think heaven will be special because we'll get to meet God. That's it. I'm talking about the Author of sunsets, Christmas spirit, champagne, mountains, kisses, palm trees, that new baby smell, and the cocoa bean - in all his glory. And he's promised he's saving his best ideas for last! Who would want to miss out on that?

So I say, 'The more the merrier'! Let the book launch begin!

Why's it called a Terry Fox run if Terry Fox isn't coming?

G. is afraid of the dark, so T. or I often lie down with her in bed for a bit to get her settled. I love those little talks. Last night as we lay cheek to cheek she said, "Guess what? Terry Fox is coming to our school tomorrow!"

When we heart started beating again I whispered, "It's called the Terry Fox run, honey, but I don't think Terry Fox will be there." Please don't make me explain this, I'm thinking.

"Why not? Because he'd dead?"

That would be the main reason, yes. "Yes, Terry Fox died many years ago," I said. "But while he was alive he did such wonderful things that people remember him. Now we run to raise money to help sick people and we name those runs after Terry."

"Mommy, what happened to his leg?"

Here's where I should have probably said, "I don't know." But instead I explained, "He had a sickness called cancer in his leg. They cut off his leg so he could live longer."

"How do you get cancer?" I'm thinking about things from the news and movies: people breathing asbestos, getting too many sunburns, Erin Brockovich and factories contaminating water. Research about needing to eat more spinach. But those aren't really answers.

"We don't know, sweetie."

"Am I going to get cancer?" Her voice is higher now and her lip is trembling.

"I don't think so. Only a few people get cancer."

"I don't want that to happen to me!" She lifts her leg from under the covers and stares at it, wide-eyed. Then she says something about Jesus I don't quite catch. "I want to tell Jesus, but I won't hear his answer."

I'm not sure what she wants to pray but I'm glad she does. It's not usually her first response. "Maybe you will, maybe you won't. You tell Jesus anyway. If I hear his answer I'll tell it to you." She wants me to tell him so I say, "Jesus, G. is sad that Terry Fox got sick and she's scared of getting cancer too."

I hear her squeak out a little, "I love you Jesus." Then she asks me, "Did he answer? Did he say if I will get cancer?"

I thought of something C.S. Lewis wrote about Lucy wanting Aslan to tell her more than she needed to know and said, "Jesus doesn't tell us the end of our stories. He only tells us what we need to know for today. Jesus, what does G. need to know for today?" As soon as I say it, I feel love pouring down on us.

"He said he loves you so much, G." She calmed a bit and a few minutes later fell asleep.

This morning I found out that my Grandma is more ill than I knew. Within the next year I will probably have to have the same conversation with G. about someone much dearer to her than Terry Fox.

"He still love us so much, G. Even now."

"We had high hopes for you" and other difficult things about being family

I love my extended family. Families share so many values, traditions and memories. Families believe in you and have high hopes for you.

Which is why I sometimes feel like wearing a high hope-proof vest.

To brutally misquote Isaiah 55:8: Your hopes are not my hopes and your ways are not my ways, saith Angeline.

My mom's siblings are an academic bunch: psychologist, author/life coach, social worker, corporate lawyer, businessman, programmer. (As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are their incomes higher than mine.) From the time I was knee high to a microfiche, I was told the virtues of marrying late and getting a Masters and a high paying, prestigious career in an academic profession. (Plumbers make good money but that doesn't count. Which is okay, because I'd make a terrible plumber.)

Masters degree - check. Academic career - check. Prestigious - well, my articles have been read by thousands across the country and two have earned awards (see Disabilities and Simplicity links to read the award-winning stories). High paying - not so much. And you can't get married much younger than 21, can you? (I mean legally.)

So at family gatherings as I field the questions: "Why aren't you writing for more publications? Why are you teaching only one class?" I sense a disappointment. Dashed hopes. (When I start talking about drying the dishes by hand their eyes really start to tear up.) I imagine I can hear the unasked questions: "Why is she wasting her education?" "Why isn't she more motivated?"

"Why isn't she like us?"

A few years ago I was more motivated. And miserable. I felt like I had to prove myself to the world by publishing more, winning more, earning more. More, more, more.

No more. I'm at peace with myself and what I do. I write and teach because I enjoy it. I also bake pies and scrub shower tiles because I enjoy it. And I walk kids home for lunch through the park and chat with them about airships and pirates, mermaids and heaven, because I really, really enjoy it!

To take Isaiah 55 in context, God's ways are higher than ours as the heavens are higher than the earth; meaning we're all on the same earth, equal before him and equally below him. I may not have fully lived up to my family's hopes and values, but I am learning to listen to God's way for my life.

I don't want to be like the man Walker Percy was describing when he said, "He got all 'A's' and flunked life." (Which is why I intentionally got some B's in college to make time for important things like donut runs and toilet papering the dean's office. Oh ya, and wooing T. with my feminine charms and working car.)

A few verses down in Isaiah 55 God promises, "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands." Finding and giving joy is becoming the guiding principle in my life. Not resume-building.

Now if you'll excuse me I have pies to make. Maybe I'll even set one aside in the freezer for the next family gathering.

Night

I have mixed feelings about a few things. One of them is TV. After the kids go to bed my legs ache, I'm hungry, and I have laundry to fold, nails to paint, and emails to answer. So I get out the snacks, lay back in my lazyboy, and settle in for an hour or two of CSI or TLC. It helps me unwind and gives me something to think about while I iron.

Then I turn it off and think, "I'm wasting my life!" I could have read a good book (say my Bible maybe) or had a meaningful conversation with my husband. Or maybe gotten to bed before midnight for a change.

Which brings me to another thing I'm ambivilent about: sleep. I crave it all day long as I yawn and caffeinate my way through my day. But in the evening I see the mess the kids have made and I keep doing "one more thing" to fix it. Then, when I'm finally satisfied that the kitchen doesn't smell like rotting salmon, and the kids will have clean underwear in the morning, and the hallway is clear of things (such as Lego) that will make me go bump in the night, I'm ready to unwind. First TV, then a book in bed. Or talking Tony to sleep. It's a ridiculous routine that does not foster health, happiness or relationship.

But I'm afraid I won't be able to fall asleep, afraid of the things I might think about if I stop moving. I preach the value of reflection, but some times (especially between 11 PM and 7 AM) it terrifies me.

Night is a lonely time - you can't pick up the phone and call someone and no one answers your emails. It's a time when you find out whether you really believe God will never leave you alone or whether they're just words.

Sometimes they're still just words. Words worth reflecting on.

My week as a potential convert

This summer I had the unfortunate experience of being "evangelized."

I dropped my kids off at a vacation Bible school at another church and K.'s teacher got it into her head that I was a heathen. (I said I was looking for a place to take the kids - I meant a summer program, she assumed I meant our first ever church service.) She tried to sell me on her church and get me to go to some seeker's Bible study across the city.

She actually asked K. right in front of me if he'd explained to me what the cross meant. K. wrinkled his nose at her and said, "Uh, she knows!" in an "are you crazy, lady?" tone of voice!

Yeah, I think they mentioned crosses somewhere in seminary. Or was that my 34 years of weekly Sunday school? It sounds so familiar...

It did feel kind of humorous. And I appreciated her concern for me. But on the other hand, it was a little icky.

Amy Johnson Frykholm, author of Rapture Culture: Left Behind in Evangelical America, writes, "I found witnessing to be an objectifying experience. No matter in what way I articulated or failed to articulate a reasonable position for myself, my lack of belief turned me into an object....To open oneself to evangelism is to be willing to offer one's own views for critique by someone who has already judged them to be inadequate."

I get that. I didn't like feeling like someone's project - a broken soul in need of fixing. An opportunity for her to earn a gold star on her Sunday school chart and a round of applause at her next Bible study meeting.

I'm sure half of you think I'm a heretic ("You should know how important evangelism is!") and the other half a hypocrite ("You talk about your faith all the time!"). Well, my experience being mistaken for an atheist reinforced in my mind that there's talking faith and then there's talking faith. (And I'm sure I'm guilty of doing the wrong one.)

Maybe a few words on why Christians feel such an urgent (and sometimes obnoxious) need to share. For most of us it's like my friend whose son was cured of severe headaches by a change in diet. She tells everyone about the naturopath who discovered her son's allergy, in hopes of helping someone else. I can handle listening to pretty much any opinion when it comes with that kind of sincerity and compassion.

Other evangelizers are like the Tupperware consultant who throws Freezermates into every conversation (partly out of concern for the welfare of leftovers everywhere) but mostly because it's good for business. Fine for a hostess party, not so fun when it comes to my soul.

Here are some tips for respectful faith conversations:

Keep it natural. If you twitch and sweat whenever you bring up what you believe, chances are all they'll remember is the smell. People don't trust nervous-looking car salesmen, so they probably wouldn't trust a clammy Christian either. Ask yourself, are you talking because of some guilty need to meet a quota, or because God has done something in your life worth sharing? (And if he hasn't, where have you been all your life?)

Make sure the other person cares. If their eyes glaze over, they're not interested.

If you've been the victim of an awkward faith conversation (or monologue), thanks for being patient. After all, how many times have you gotten carried away talking about your exciting renovation project, disgusting injury, or the vacation that flopped?

Christians - scared or scary?

Last week on The National (CBC News) Mark Kelley did a special feature called "7" - on his week exploring Christianity in Biblebelt USA. (What - he couldn't find enough Christians in Winkler or Red Deer?)

He visited youth rallies, mega churches and a Christian theme park. I think he would have gotten a better view of Christianity if he'd been to a prayer meeting. Not the "bless grandma and puppy" kind, but the ones where someone forgives, confesses and finds healing from anger, fear or addiction. Although I think he saw a smidge of that sense of community and emotional impact surrounded by weeping people as actors portrayed Jesus' crucifixion. Or maybe he was joking. Watch the clip and decide for yourself:

http://www.cbc.ca/national/blog/video/seven_mark_kelley/seven_christian_soldiers.html

He admitted he was exploring Christianity because sometimes you have to "face your fears." Kelley's fear: Christians were out to change his world.

He discovered: Christians are more scared than scary. I'm not scared, just sad.

When Kelley asked Christians, "What do I need to know?" They told him, "Christians aren't stupid or backward." They never mentioned Jesus, prayer, Scripture, or the difference God had made in their lives. Here's a man who needs Jesus' peace and we're doing personal image management?!!

Jesus never said, "Go share the bad news." Why are we attacking culture when we could be using it to share God's transforming love? Kelley was most impressed by the church that made the movie, "Facing the Giants," film about courage and teamwork (rather than on the evils of wild living) because in his words, "Christians are better off building bridges than bombing them." Aren't we all!

The Christians Kelley interviewed (even the debate team) had spent so much time preaching to the converted they had no idea how to explain their faith outside a church. They spouted cliches, criticized Hollywood, and preached against pre-marital sex and swearing but never said WHY sex was worth saving or what it meant to have a "God-shaped hole in your heart." Frankly I was embarrassed to watch Christians from the lens an outsider and realize that we have never learned to hear ourselves from other points of view.

Kelley (and I) was impressed by the "XXXChurch" preacher who went to Porn conventions and handed out free Bibles with "Jesus loves porn stars" on the cover. He was disgusted with the Christian filmmakers who made their own boring, clean, low-budget, out-of-touch movies and refused to work on the set of a film that involved other lifestyles.

No kidding - Christians will never have an influence on culture if we isolate ourselves in subculture! We hide at Christian concerts, Christian bookstores, Christian colleges. (I'm pointing a finger at myself here since I work for all of the above!) Why aren't more smart, talented Christians in Hollywood, Harvard, and MTV where people will actually see them?

The Christians Kelley met were afraid of temptation, persecution, controversy, ridicule, losing the next generation to pop culture, declining church attendance, etc. They were defensive, threatened, timid. (I'd like to think Canadians Christians would be a little more gutsy and articulate but it could just be the deadly sin of pride talking...)

I'd like to ask Kelley's Christians: If we really are in a relationship with the Creator and Master of the universe, what do we have to be afraid of?

a divine arrival time

July 10 was quite a day. First, I turned thirty-somethingelse surrounded by friends from church. All of whom are older than me, which softened the blow.

Second, my friends returned from Ethiopia with their 8-month-old baby girl - for whom they've waited two years - to an airport full of pink balloons and cheering friends.

She's finally here!

It was one giant Kodak moment: Her 5 and 7 year old brothers waiting nervously at the bottom of the escalator and then glowing with pride as they rubbed her little head. The baby meeting grandpa for the first time and reaching out to stroke his cheek. The beaming grins on her parents' faces. The other children adopted from her orphanage who came to greet her. It wasn't just a part of Ethiopia touching Canada....

....It was a little of Up There come down here. We were easvesdropping on a heavenly moment - and not just because the brown-eyed bundle resembled an angel.

Because that's the kind of reception God gives each of us.

Birthdays are a reminder of my mortality. (I send out my love to the coffeeshop clerk who saw the photos of my kids in my wallet and told me I look too young to be a mother.) Another year of my life is behind me and I'm another year closer to heaven. And when I do pop up in God's presence he probably won't be holding pink balloons or a Kodak, but I do believe he will beam as he shouts:

She's finally here!

The Gospel according to CSI

A while back I published a review called "The Gospel according to Oprah" (see link) which got a bunch of people riled up. I got emails such as:

"Oprah believes there are many ways to heaven and that it is ridiculous to think that you could only get to heaven by believing in Jesus. For the Christian, I have a problem with a woman with that much power deceiving people to not follow Christ!"

"She has encouraged women to continue living in sin by hi-five’ing them when they said they didn’t want to marry their live in lovers. Who knows how many women that watch the show have been encouraged to do the same?"

"I encourage you to go to your research feeling positively recharged with confidence, motivation and hope after spending time with your Heavenly Father, not Oprah."

Which sort of miss the point, because I wrote in the review that I too don't agree with everything Oprah teaches. I just wanted Christians to build on the good she does and learn from her success.

I'm going to take another risk and say we can learn truth from Crime Scene Investigation.

The fact that I've actually seen CSI, let alone become addicted to all three series is shocking, since The Muppets Take Manhattan gave me nightmares. Please don't take this as an encouragement to watch - many episodes are too twisted and disturbing, and all of them aren't for everybody. However, I think the fact that I watch more action on TV is a good sign because it reflects a shift in my character. I'm not a weepy movie person anymore because instead of crying over my own life I've started taking action.

So here is some truth I see in CSI:

You can plot, purge and lie through your teeth, but you can't hide the evidence you leave. Wherever we go we leave things behind - hair, fingerprints and our mark on other people. Jesus said our heavenly Father sees what is done in secret. Some day we will have to account for what we've done. The great thing is we had access to the best Advocate available, but he'll only speak to the Judge for us if we're willing to plead guilty.

Evil actions always start with evil thoughts. What's really scary about CSI aren't the reenactments of the crime, but how like me the criminals are. Jesus said, "Anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement and anyone who says, 'You fool!' will be in danger of the fire of hell" because murder always starts with a thought. A jealous, vengeful, angry, superior, lustful, or greedy thought. Thoughts every one of us have had. When the Bible says, "Above all else, guard your heart" it's a life and death matter.

The Good outsmarts and outlasts and basically makes ground turkey out of the Bad. On CSI the good guys don't give up until they have solved the case, no matter how convoluted, and confronted the perpertrator with his responsibility. That's what I like about the Bible's book of Revelation: Good wins, Evil dies. It seems like the bad guys have the biggest guns and the longest knives, but in the end crime doesn't pay.

The best thing of all

Every night before we tuck K. and G. into bed we read to each of them from a Bible storybook. Last night I read K. the story of Paul and Silas locked in a Philippian jail for preaching about Jesus, singing through the night in their chains, and then going free after an earthquake bursts open all the doors. The end of the story said Paul wrote a letter to his friends in Philippi which we can find in our Bibles.

K. wanted to see it in his Bible, so I turned to the book of Philippians and showed him. "What does the letter say?" he wondered. I read the first few verses. "What's the rest? Keep reading!" So, long after he was supposed to be asleep, I read all four chapters of Philippians to my 7 year old.

When I got to the part that goes, "I consider everything to be nothing compared to knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. To know him is the best thing of all," K. said, "Ya!"

I read on: "I want to know Christ better. I want to know the power that raised him from the dead."

He cried out, "Yes!"

It reminded me of the stories I've heard from China or Vietnam where people hide in rice patties or warehouses all night long to hear someone read from the Bible. Like Paul and Silas so long ago, many people around the world risk their lives, their homes, and their freedom just to hear and share the words of Jesus, because they believe in their healing, transforming power.

They get it: Everything else is nothing compared to knowing him.

I don't know what kind of challenges, disappointments, or pain K. will face in his life because of his disability. I don't know if he'll get married, pass algebra, or drive a car. But seeing his eyes light up with excitement about the power of Jesus at work inside him I know, like the persecuted Christians in the rice patties, my son gets it too.

And everything else is nothing compared to that.

Caution: may have been exposed to miracles

I was wondering if you'd help me out....but I'm sure you won't because you don't have to and our relationship doesn't normally work that way and you have bigger things to worry about....

I'm guessing the way I said that didn't leave you feeling very honoured or inspired to help me, did it? Then why do we approach God that way?

I was brought up in a church tradition that suffers from a mild allergy to miracles. Nothing life-threatening, mind you, just enough of a reaction to keep us from tasting certain blessings. I've been to many prayer meetings where I wondered why we were even bothering, the people praying seemed so convinced that God wasn't going to do anything anyway.

I think the reason for the "rash" of doubt is that we've all experienced times when we felt strongly that we should pray for a miracle, but we didn't get it. We dared to believe and then were disappointed. So we change our theological diet to exclude most of the New Testament: Jesus and his followers' works of wonder, healing, deliverance and transformation. We give up on God far too soon and we miss seeing all the wonderful things God is doing all around us right now.

Dream on

Sometimes I hear people wondering whether we should really be praying about trivial things like parking spots and sales on pants. While I share their ideal of growing in our ability to desire what God wants rather than just asking him for what we want, I figure: 'If I'm going to think about it anyway, why not think about it with him?' God knows I'm thinking it anyway, and he loves to be included.

When my husband was finishing his second degree and I was cooped up in an 2 bedroom apartment with a newborn, I confessed to our pastor's wife my dream of owning a house. It was a long shot - we were still paying off student loans and not even close to saving up a down payment. I expected her to scold me for being selfish and materialistic. Instead, she told me to write a List of all my dreams and commit them to God.

A few months later we were in our house.

And I could tell a similar story about my piano, car, sofa, family vacation, seminary education, and most of the pants in my closet. All felt out of range, but became mine -through generous gifts, amazing sales, or determined saving - after I committed them to God. They're not just things, they're reminders of what can happen when I commit my dreams to the Dream-giver. They're souvenirs from a land called Trust.

This spring I'm starting another List. My husband's position at work is being eliminated in 6 weeks. God knows I'd love it if he would lead us to:

A job that gives T. joy, energy, and a sense of purpose.
A salary that pays the bills, plus enough to "splurge" on private occupational and speech therapy for K. Okay, and summer camp.
A workplace close to home so Tony can spend two more hours a day with those he loves, instead of Transit Tom.
A schedule that allows him to continue to be involved in church.
And time to install a basement bathroom. (That one's probably just a pipe dream.)

When he gets this job (I'm sounding more confident than I feel) instead of a lucky break, it will feel like an answer.

Because I dared to ask.

If a dress falls in the closet, does anybody hear?

Who decides that something is valuable?

When we were first married we belonged to a struggling little church of college students and retirees, in constant danger of losing its historic building. We held a rummage sale to try to raise money for the mortgage. I donated my grad dress, navy satin with pearls across the back, because I wanted to value God's people over my own sentiments. I thought it could bring in at least $50 for the church.

It was put on a rack of clothes labelled $1 each. By the time I found out it was gone.

I still wake up at night sometimes mourning that dress. I wish I could show Gemma Mommy's special dress. (I guess I didn't succeed in squelching sentimentality.) I lie awake imagining who bought the dress. Did they treasure it or have they thrown it out by now?

When Jesus saw a widow put a penny in the donation box he told his friends she'd given more than anyone else, because she gave all she had. But how much could a penny do? It couldn't send an aid worker to Africa or build an homeless shelter. It's not even enough to stock the temple with paperclips and post-its!

I need to know: If I sacrifice something of great value to me that does nothing to benefit the recipient, is it still generous? Or is it foolish?

You are finally home

I know, I know. I should be working, not blogging. But as I've researched Harry Lehotsky's life and watched his Final Words video played at his funeral (go to www.godtalk.com to watch) it got me thinking about my own funeral and I felt like telling someone about it.

I'm thinking, what a great idea. I'm definitely the type that would tape myself so I could speak at my own funeral. I can't imagine being at the last big event of my life and not talking! But what would my background music be?

Rev. Lehotsky's video was set to the song that goes, "Carry your candle. Run to the darkness. Seek out the helpless, confused and torn. Hold out your candle for all to see it. Take your candle, go light your world." Which fits his life to a tee.

I've always thought I'd like the Big Daddy Weave song "Neighborhoods" at my funeral:

Cause you know one day I will fly to my mansion in the sky
And I'll have no regrets when I leave this place for good
When I say my last farewell, oh, please don't forget to tell them
That I'm not really dead I'm just changing neighborhoods

I imagine people getting up and grooving to the beat, celebrating my life and my arrival with Jesus in one giant celebratory bootyshake. (Like that funeral scene on Ally McBeal that still makes me want to pee myself laughing everytime I think about it.) But my family is so Mennonite, you could fill their pants with caffeinated ferrets and they stand perfectly still, so that's probably not going to happen.

Last week I read Ted Dekker's novel The Martyr's Song, about a Bosnian priest tortured by a group of bitter soldiers during WW II. As he slips closer to death he slides between our world and the spiritual kingdom, where he hears Jesus and all the children in heaven singing this song:

Sing, O child of Zion; Shout, O child of mine;
Rejoice with all your heart and soul and mind.
Every tear you cried dried in the palm of my hand;
Every lonely hour was by my side.
Every loved one lost, every river crossed,
Every moment, every hour was pointing to this day,
Longing for this day...You are finally home

Wow, that's beautiful. The moment before my Oma passed away 8 years ago my mom says her eyes shot wide open. I don't know what she saw, but I'm thinking she heard the song too. Or maybe Jesus wrote a special one, just for her.

I feel so blessed to get to know Harry Lehotsky through his video, his writings, and his friends. I wish I had had the chance to meet him while he was alive. But then again, the pastor who fought for the West End isn't really dead - he just changed neighbourhoods.

Like Harry said at the end of his video, "I'm thankful for where I'm going and I just pray that I get to see many more of you again. I guess that's what it all comes down to. Not just to goodbyes, but to see you again. And bless each one of you as you find your way there."

the clothes make the man

"If anyone is in Christ he (she) is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!" (2 Corinthians 5:17.)

I love the concept behind Tim Allen's movie The Santa Clause. A not so cool dad puts on a Santa suit and he BECOMES Santa. From that day on he can't stop his beard from growing, his hair from whitening or his belly from bulging. (Or obnoxious elves from ringing the doorbell.)

He doesn't understand everything he's signed up for, but that doesn't change the facts: one decision has completely transformed his life, inside and out.

It's not just a costume; it's an identity.

Some days I feel like I'm just "putting on" my faith. Sure I can tell you how to find peace with God, just as soon as I stop yelling at my kids, fuming about my husband, and worrying about my bank statement! I have to admit: I've met the Peacemaker, but I don't always feel the peace.

The Bible says "Clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus" and I'm thinking putting on Jesus is like wearing Tim Allen's Santa suit. The moment I decided to invite Jesus to control my life he gave me a new identity and he began transforming me into my destiny.

That means even when I feel like I'm still too messed up to be of any good, and I wonder why God would want to be seen with me, he's not giving up on me.

My ugly collection

I have an ugly collection, and I'm guessing I'm not the only one.

I collect hurtful comments that others have given me.

Unlike other ugly collections, such as troll dolls and farmer's caps, my collection isn't hidden away on a rec room shelf.

I carry it with me everywhere.

There's the "All you ever do is take, take, take" comment that still makes it difficult to ask friends for help when I need it, the "I'd like to give your kids a good spanking" comments that make me nervous about parenting in public, and the "You dress like a man/clown/slut/lesbian/pregnant lady" (not all at the same time, of course) comments that sent me into the junior high washroom weeping and give me butterflies about wearing new clothes to this very day.

Why would I want to carry around such ugly souvenirs? I'm not sure, but for whatever reason, it takes guts to let them go.

The Bible says "Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you" (1 Peter 5:7).

Since I began experiencing God he has removed a few pieces from my collection. I remember being criticized after singing in the front of the church. Years later I asked Jesus to show me where he was in that moment. (I knew he was there somewhere, because he promised in Hebrews 13:5 that he would never leave me.) God gave me a picture of Jesus at the back of the church grinning as he gave me a standing ovation. Now instead of the sting of criticism, that memory has a glow.

Now that's something worth collecting.