Drive Thru

Every time Trevor and I decide to eat healthier we receive a McDonald's coupon book in the mail. 

It's just not right.

The most recent one even had the word CRAVE plastered across the front of it.  We have a hard enough time keeping ourselves from eating at McDonald's.  Slap on a discount and it's officially a lost cause.

The only time we were able to stop eating at McDonald's was when they tore it down and rebuilt it.  Yes, there's a McDonald's in Wal-Mart, but then you have to get out of your car and walk through Wal-Mart to get to it.  And the food tastes differently there.  I think a little Wal-Mart rubs off on it. 

Anywho, when the new McDonald's opened, we were ecstatic.  We went inside to check out the digs.  Pleather couches, fake fireplace, new playland, the works.  I even sat and watched Monday Night Football on a flat screen. Awesome.

One of my greatest joys came when I ventured over to the drive thru.

Two. Lanes.

Our little McDonald's is growing up!

But for some reason, the sweet, unassuming people in our town can't seem to adjust to the change of having two drive thru lanes. Which means extra bonus for me.

I get no greater joy than passing four or five cars up in line just by using the neglected extra lane. 

I should feel guilty.

But I don't.

They could use those lanes just as easily as I have.

But they won't.

So I get my sausage breakfast biscuit faster (thank you McDonald's for finally bringing biscuits to Canada).

Booyah.

But you're smart, right?  You wouldn't be the guy who has to wait ten extra minutes for his mcgriddle because he didn't want to change his habits.  Of course not.

Why are we so resistant to change? Maybe I'm rogue enough to use the new line at McDonald's.  But that doesn't mean I've got this down pat.

Sometimes we're set in our ways even when we know that it's not working for us. 

Why? 

Sometimes I wonder what God could accomplish if we allowed him to do a new thing in us.  In our church.  In our relationships.

"But forget all that— it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.

For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland."

  Isaiah 43:18-19

It's time to break out of our comforts and embrace the new.

What newness, what change is God drawing you to in your life?

Easy Off

I'm not one to normally be swayed by advertising.  Okay, I like to think that I'm not swayed by advertising.  Maybe it's the rebel deep inside me that wants to do the opposite of what someone is telling me I should do.

But every once in a while there comes a product so intriguing, so genius, that I have to give it a try.

A few months back I saw an ad for Huggies Slip On diapers. In all honesty, it didn't take a whole lot of ingenuity to come up with this one (why hello Pull Ups for smaller babies). But when you are the parent of a fifteen month old who kicks and screams like you're performing an exorcism at each diaper change, you're open to other options.

My thought process went a little like this:

"Hey, cool! Now I don't have to wrestle Ainsley to the ground and hold her there like I'm waiting for the tap out in a WWE match just to affix the sticky tabs to the front of her diaper! And she won't have the inevitable saggy bum syndrome due to the malpositioning of aforementioned sticky tabs that are dangling precariously after the smackdown diaper change. This is going to make my life so much easier! Gasp! They're ON SALE!"

Something like that. Yes, I always talk to myself using words like "aforementioned" and"malpositioning."

So, I bought them. Which would typically be a Trevor thing to do. Usually I do my own personal marketplace analysis when buying diapers to make sure I get the best deal.  But now that I have freedom (aka Driver's license- but that's another post)  I get this rush of adrenaline when walking in a store alone and I do stupid things. In my defense, they were out of the normal diapers that were on sale.

First we experienced the honeymoon phase of slip-on diaperdom. The "hey, these work pretty well!" phase.

That phase didn't last very long. Survival of the fittest is taking place in our house and I'm pretty sure Ainsley is the fittest. She soon learned to kick with abandon to fight off my feeble attempts to wrangle a clean diaper on her.

Now I feel like I'm taking part in a calf scramble. I've got her legs up in the air all wrapped around each other while I try to shimmy her diaper on.  Seriously. I broke a sweat today. Changing a diaper. I think I may have pulled a muscle.

But that's not the worst of it. Apparently "slip-on" diapers are also incredibly easy to "slip off."  Oh, has Ainsley mastered this one.  Her new favorite hobby is nudity.  She's running around the house naked as the day she was born.  Jaybirds have nothing on her.

On Sunday we were having a cutesy family cuddle sesh in our bed.  It was so sweet and post card-ish.  It was the stuff those people who write cutesy family blogs would write about.  Using heartfelt, emotion-wrecking prose that makes you tear up even when they talk about things like taking out the garbage.

Ainsley is trawling around the room in search of old food particles and other non-digestible items to gnaw on and Aidan's in bed with us reading a book.  Ainsley climbs up on the bed and we catch a distinct whiff of a number two wafting on the breeze.

Trevor, being the amazing husband and father he is, says "somebody needs their bum changed!"

He goes to grab her and realizes there's nothing to change out of. Ainsley is diaperless. And there is poo located somewhere in our room.

Not to mention the smear on our bed. Classy.

I'll save you the rest of the details, but it involves wipes, a bath, and carpet cleaner.

Is there something you're compromising on because it's easier? Seems to make perfect sense?  Be wary of shortcuts and easy roads.

Sometimes the way that seems easy leads to a bunch of crap. Literal crap.

There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.

Proverbs 15:12 NIV

Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.

Matthew 7:13 NIV

Grown Ups

Aidan crawled under the covers with me early this morning before Ainsley was awake.  That in itself was quite the feat.  We tiptoe by Ainsley's room like you would a shallow cave harboring a sleeping monster that would be featured in an Ancient Greek saga.  She sleeps lightly and is quite the grumpaloo if awakened before her body's clock tells her it's time to get up. I have no idea where she gets that from.

Aidan stealthily makes his way to my room and asks for a cuddle.  My little boy is quite the big boy nowadays.  He is a full fledged kindergartener and can take care of himself, thankyouverymuch. But, he still likes to cuddle. And I love it!

He knows the edict of cuddling in the Birak household: talking is allowed during day cuddles, but not night cuddles.  I know that sounds harsh, but he would NEVER go to sleep if he got to lay in bed and shoot the breeze with us every night.

He jumps under the fluffy covers, lays his head next to mine on my pillow, curls up in a ball and starts talking. We discuss school; how he's learning his letters and the days of creation.  He tells me that he can't wait until day five, because "we're going to learn about the birds and fish, and all things that live in the water and sky."  Since when did my kid sound like a walking New International Version? 

Then, being quite the philosopher he busts out this big one:"Mommy, why does it take so long to grow up?" See, after he completed a few days of Kindergarten, Aidan decided he was fully ready to move up to grade one.  I informed him that it would be a whole year before he was in grade one.

He desperately wants to be in a grade that is associated with a number, so we started calling Kindergarten "grade zero" in our house. 


I thought of when I was a little kid and was desperate to grow up.  Now as an adult, I desperately want my children not to.

Often I find myself looking inward and realizing that I'm taking too long to grow up.   There's a frustration that wells up in my heart when I see myself and how little I've grown in some areas.   As a pastor, I have that same frustration when I see those who I try to minister to struggle as well.

Where is our hunger for growth? Why are we content to weakly swallow the milk when we should be digging into the solid food?  We blithely waste our days entertaining ourselves instead of straining for knowledge and maturity in the Spirit.

You have been believers so long now that you ought to be teaching others. Instead, you need someone to teach you again the basic things about God's word. You are like babies who need milk and cannot eat solid food.

For someone who lives on milk is still an infant and doesn't know how to do what is right.


Solid food is for those who are mature, who through training have the skill to recognize the difference between right and wrong.

Hebrews 5:12-14

The writer of Hebrews says in verse eleven: "There's so much more I want to explain, but you are too spiritually dumb and don't care enough to listen!" (Elizabeth's paraphrase)  How much are we missing out on because we aren't eager to listen and understand?  Because we are not ready to grow?

I do believe that there's something in us, though, that is drawing us to more.  The embers of desire lay dormant in us begging to be rekindled.  I can feel the dissatisfaction that calls me out of my slumber to search for more.

Reboot

I feel like I owe you an apology.  But parts of me thinks that would make me quite self-centered.  Should I apologize for not writing for so long as if your life was slightly emptier without my ramblings in it?  Without assuming too much (we all know what happens when you assume), I do know that I have a few followers who would read my posts regularly.

I also know that I broke the major blogging rule known to all bloggers.  Be consistent.  Write regularly.

And, I haven't.

I don't even have a really great excuse.  Like losing an arm to a hungry alligator during a tour of the everglades via airboat (you know, those metal canoes with a box fan attached to the back of it) rendering me unable to type until I've mastered the use of my new robotic hand.  I've got nothing.

Not even carpal tunnel.

I won't drone on about the past couple months. It was a rough time that I felt disconnected.  Honestly, most of the time I still feel that way.  But I can hear God's voice as he reaches out to me, calling my name. So, here I am. Ready to try again.

You called and you shouted,
you broke through my deafness.
You flashed and you shone,
dispelled my blindness.
You breathed your fragrance on me
You breathed your fragrance on me
Late have I loved you
Gungor
"Late Have I Loved You"

Camping Trip

This past weekend my husband and I decided to take a sort of sabbatical by heading out into the wilds of Alberta for a camping trip.

It was the first time we had reached a level of exhaustion that made us delusional enough to think that it was possible to take a one year old and a four year old camping without completely losing the little bit of sanity we were desperately clinging to.

In case you're considering a similar trip, let me be the one to tell you that it is not.

And all of our friends were like, "Oh, how fun!" "Have a great time!" "You can borrow my tent!" "Bears don't like the flavor of people!"

I felt like that friend you have who is dating the total jerk but no one has the guts to tell her that her prince charming is a loser. (If people are saying things like, "He's not as bad as that last guy." or "He has a puppy. So he can't be a total psychopath. Psychopaths don't like puppies." - you are that friend.)

I wish someone would have smacked me upside the head and said, "are you INSANE?" Or something like that.

My suspicions were confirmed when we got back and everyone at Trevor's work wanted to know how Ainsley handled the camping trip. Like they had a betting pool about it or something.

We probably should have spent the weekend in a motel. One that serves complimentary hot breakfasts, has a mini fridge and microwave in the room for Easy Mac, and has a water slide and shampoo that smells like cinnamon. Really. It's like Christmas every time you shower.

But no. We went camping. In the mud. In the rain. Hanging out with the mosquitoes. And apparently one bold cougar. Awesome.

Actually, camping was a lot of fun. I loved becoming one with my inner Laura Ingalls Wilder by sleeping on the ground and hauling water to boil on a camp stove just to wash dishes.

There was one major downfall. Besides my husband leaving the hatchet on the ground EVERYWHERE.

Mud.

Lots and lots of mud.

Do you know how hard it is to clean a one year old in a campground bathroom? We were actually doing okay until I underestimated the amount of water Ainsley would displace when sitting in the bathroom sink.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Our kids took to camping like flies take to cow poop.

They were all over it. Couldn't get enough of it. I couldn't even try to compete with the whirlwind of destruction and dirt that enveloped them. I mean, Ainsley had bark. in her poop.

It was really bad when Aidan figured out this simple equation:

Dirt + Water = Mud.

As soon as we would get their mud infested bodies sparkling clean and back to our campsite they would discover a new way to turn themselves into the swamp thing.

Not that I was faring much better myself. I reeked of campfire smoke and Off Skintastic. The dirt and pine needles from the ground looked like they had permanently bonded with the soles of my feet, never to be parted again.

It seems like you just can't get away from being filthy while camping. I had that glorious five minute break from the filth while taking a shower, but it seemed pointless as soon as I donned my dusty flip flops and headed back to our tent.

I'm not prissy, but I also don't like to stink. And this was downright discouraging.

But even more discouraging was I realized this experience mirrored the frustration I'm dealing with in my own life.

I've been acutely aware of my failures as of late. It's something I constantly battle with.

I feel like my moments of redemption don't last long compared to living in the filth and dirt of the shortfalls and failures in my life.

Sometimes it all seems futile. I'm just going to get messed up again. It seems as soon as I accept the redemptive powers of God's grace I screw it up somehow. Why bother?

Like the people of Israel:

We are all infected and impure with sin. When we display our righteous deeds, they are nothing but filthy rags. Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall, and our sins sweep us away like the wind.
Isaiah 64:6

I've come to realize that I've been depending on my own righteousness. Trying to redeem myself on my own. Not willing to fully embrace God's simple gift of grace while I preach it to others.

Yet my righteousness is a disgust. I'm literally wading in my own filth when trying to gain righteousness on my own.

I roll around in that miry pit because for some reason I can't accept the reality of the simplicity of God's love. I write about it. I tell everyone else about it. Yet I deny it for myself.

But I think I'm starting to get it.

We are made right with God by placing our faith in Jesus Christ. And this is true for everyone who believes, no matter who we are.

For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God's glorious standard.

Yet God, with undeserved kindness, declares that we are righteous. He did this through Christ Jesus when he freed us from the penalty for our sins.
Romans 3:22-24

For the sin of this one man, Adam, caused death to rule over many. But even greater is God's wonderful grace and his gift of righteousness, for all who receive it will live in triumph over sin and death through this one man, Jesus Christ.
Yes, Adam's one sin brings condemnation for everyone, but Christ's one act of righteousness brings a right relationship with God and new life for everyone.
Romans 5:17-18

Burning Couches

Sometimes doing the right thing doesn't go the way you plan. Sometimes it's awesome, and you get the little tingly sensations on the back of your neck as you contemplate how your small sacrifice just may have changed the doomed course of all mankind. I mean, I'm sure Salvation Army is happy you donated the knock off Louis Vuitton purse that you spilled Diet Coke all over, but I don't think that's necessarily equivalent to saving the world. Still, helping people can feel pretty great.

But the more you help people, the more you realize that things are going to go wrong. Sometimes horribly, horribly wrong. Why? Well, for one, people are in the equation.

If you want to help clean up pelicans suffering from an oil spill, get a teaspoon of Dawn, a gallon of water, a toothbrush and some Q-tips (This blog post was not sponsored by the Dawn or Q-Tip brands) and get to work. I'm no biologist, but it's fairly simple.

If you want to help the environment, just reduce, reuse, and recycle.

If you want to save tiny orphan tigers, introduce them to a momma pig who will nurse them back to health. (What is our fascination with weird animal pairings anyway? I can't get enough of cute pictures of hippos and tortoises playing together!)

Precious, right?

But people; we're far more messy. Well, not literally. I've been to a zoo. Animals poop a lot.

I've learned by trial and error that there is no quick fix for people. A lot of times you try your best to help someone and trouble rains down on you.

It doesn't even necessarily mean you're doing something wrong.

Sometimes it means you're actually doing something right.

And sometimes it probably doesn't mean anything at all.

Like this weekend. We have a close friend who needed some help, so one of the things we did was have a garage sale. It was the garage sale of all garage sales.

Plus I made colorful signs with stars on them. They were snazzy.

We raised a lot of money and most importantly, made a lasting impression on our friend of how much we love him.

We also had some stuff left over.

Including a couch. We loaded up most of the extra stuff to take to Sally Ann, but we put the couch by the road in case someone wanted it.

After a long hard weekend Trevor and I finally settled down to sleep around midnight on Sunday. As Trevor started dozing off I listened to what I thought was a bee buzzing and flitting around our window screen. The noise got louder and was accompanied by pops and fizzes.

I turned over and noticed bright orange lights dancing across my ceiling. In my daze (I'm waiting on a root canal and took two T-3s to help me sleep) I realized there were no hapless bugs trying to make their way into our home.

There was a fire. Very close.

First I thought maybe it was our friend's house across the street. No, too far away.

Then I thought maybe the roof directly in front of our window was on fire. When I looked out the window in panic I realized it was the couch.

Trevor grabbed his keys and ran outside to move our van, which was parked next to the couch.

I looked like I was the stupid one from a sitcom that stands there stunned asking
"what do we do?" You know, the one who runs around panicking until someone knocks them out and carries them over their shoulder to safety? That was me. (I blame that completely on the medication.)

Someone had doused that stupid couch in gasoline and lit it on fire.

We stood and watched as a fire truck pulled up. A little over the top. But, I didn't call them so whatever. They pulled out their huge hose for that little couch. It was kind of like using a missile launcher to kill a fly. Then the firefighters decided we needed to get the police involved. Awesome.

The police officer asked us if anyone held a grudge against us. Really? What is this? Law and Order Criminal Intent? Trevor thought maybe one of our church members doesn't like his preaching. It looked to me like someone was holding a grudge against the couch, not us.

Forty five minutes later, we were tucked back in our bed with no leads and a smoldering couch frame decorating our driveway. Double awesome.

Still free to good home. Some smoke damage, but nothing a little Febreeze can't fix.

All of a sudden the high we were on from our successful weekend of helping our friend turned into dejected exhaustion as we pondered how exactly we would discard the charred remains.

Then our friend we were helping stopped by last night. And he reminded me why we help people. Because love wins. (I paid Rob Bell five bucks to say that.) I saw how much an outpouring of love and support can change a person's perspective. How it stays with them a lot longer than the actual physical help may.

Money will come and go. Couches will be used as bonfire fuel. Hopefully not in your front yard.

But sometimes, when you are open to God working through you, God will use you to shine His love in someone's life.

And I wouldn't trade that for all the burnt couches in the world.

Bad People

Lately Aidan has been obsessed with the difference between good people and bad people.

For instance, in his world bad people don't have birthdays. Only good people get cotton candy ice cream. Hippopotamuses eat plants and bad people. Apparently so do bears and other wild animals of the north.

He also loves asking questions about God. Most of his questions I find hard to answer.

"Why do bad people hate God?"

I had a hard time explaining this one. I imagine my four year old: at an age where his best friend is imaginary, where he's grappling with discerning the pretend (Spiderman (sorry to offend any of you die hard Spiderman enthusiasts)) from the real (Jesus), and trying to understand the rituals and traditions of the church- and I try to find the simplest answer that will appease his curiosity without offending his intelligence.

I ask him "Who are bad people?"

He answers "well, the ones with guns. And the ones who put God on the cross."

Then I realized the answer. "We are all bad people." I tell him. "We've all done bad things that make God sad. We're all bad people that God helps be good people."

I know it sounds a little "salvation through works"-ish, but that's not what I was getting at at all. We've been teaching on the gifts of the Spirit in Sunday School. I love that we have a group of kids who are learning that it is God who empowers us to live holy lives. It is by His spirit dwelling in us that we bear fruit of love, patience, kindness, gentleness, goodness, etc.

Bottom line- we're all bad people. Sure, we may not be Swiper or carry guns and fight super heroes, but we're all sinful jerks in our own way at one time or another. It's only because of His grace that we are called good.

God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can't take credit for this; it is a gift from God.
Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it.
Ephesians 2:8-9

Aidan's Drawing- "God on a Cross"

A Story of Love

Today's post shares a story that is very personal to me. I understand that not everyone is comfortable when people share private details of their lives. The reason I am writing about this is because I felt compelled to share my message of God's faithfulness to those who may need to read it.
Also, I feel that the church has done a poor job when it comes to helping people cope with pain and tragedy. We have become so uncomfortable with people in pain that we ignore them, which makes them feel deserted and unloved. I wanted to share my story of pain, so that it may encourage us as the Body of Christ to make transparency no longer taboo.
Thank you to all of you who have read my blog over the past few months and given me so much love and encouragement. It's because of you that I felt like I could share my heart. You have my gratitude.

Soon after Ainsley was born we knew we wanted to add to our family.  We have two of the most amazing children I have ever met.  They are beautiful children with sparkling personalities and a tremendous capability to love.  I still am in awe that God has entrusted them into my care.

Still Trevor and I felt like something was missing. More like someone was missing.

On Mother's Day I got an incredible gift. I sat in the bathroom myself willing that second little pink line to make an appearance.  And it did. Trevor and I were overwhelmed- with excitement, a little fear, but mostly hope for what the future would hold.

We didn't tell anyone at first about this new little life; it was our little secret. We would lie awake at night in bed dreaming of the future, wondering if we would have a boy or girl, what we would name the baby, who he or she would look like. We prayed for our baby. With earnest hearts we petitioned our Father in Heaven to be near.

A few weeks later we found out we were losing our baby.

Instead of lying in bed hoping and dreaming of the future, we cried tears of sorrow as we prayed to God for peace and comfort.

Earlier that day, I led our church in songs of worship. We sang of God's faithfulness. How we serve a God who never changes. We sang of our love for Him amidst all circumstances.

Trevor preached about pain. About the faithfulness of God in times of suffering.

That day we were not only singing or preaching the message. We were living it.

That night we huddled together in our tears and Trevor offered a prayer to God. He affirmed God's authority in our lives and committed our small, sweet baby into His hands.

When it came my turn to pray, I could only choke out the words of a song I had sung in church just that morning:

I love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death
And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath
And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow
If ever I loved Thee, My Jesus tis now

Where I had expected to feel anger and anguish, I just felt love.

The reality of God's love for me has never been as strong as that moment. In my brokenness, in my pain, I finally allowed God to just love me.

I often sing about God's love and think that it's enough for everyone else, but not for me. I know how much I've failed God. I know how horrible of a person I am. I know the real me. And I sure as heck know that I don't deserve anything good from God. I've shut myself out from His mercy. From His love for me.

But as I sat on my bed and thought about this little baby whom I already loved- this baby I would never hold- this little child whose eyes I would never look into- my heart broke. And I forgot about my self-imposed requirements to approaching my God.

I simply became a daughter who needed to be loved.

And God met me there. In my darkest moment God's love shone brightest.

It's been a week full of doctors' appointments, ultrasounds, and blood tests since that night. It hasn't been easy. And my pain is still fresh. But I will not question God's faithfulness. Nor will I question His love for me.

God used a moment of my deepest pain to confirm His unending love for me.

I ask that you pray for me and my family during this time. As God mends our broken hearts and restores our joy, I pray that he can use us as an example of His love for all of His children.

And may you have the power to understand, as all God's people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.
May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.
Ephesians 3:18-19

Dead Squirrels

A few weeks or so ago I was introduced to a pretty great video via my friend's Facebook sharing. I laughed until I almost peed myself and then called my husband to come watch.

A little note of warning- after watching it a few times, there's a part that the mom might have whispered an expletive or two.

I'm guessing from the responses I got on Facebook that not everyone thought this was as hilarious as me. Some people were downright grossed out. And with all just cause.

With my twisted way of seeing things, a video with a preschool girl running around in her underwear rubbing a dead squirrel all over her body (spoiler alert if you didn't watch the video) made me think of Jesus. I know. This "taking weird things in life and making spiritual object lessons out of them" thing might have gone too far.

But don't give up on me yet. I was thinking about the religious climate in Jesus' days. I was thinking about the Jews. The law followers. The hand washers. The Torah reciters. The rejecters of the imperfect. The broken. The dirty. The disgusting.

Can you imagine the reaction of the Jews when Jesus hung out with the sinners? The tax collectors? The harlots? The dirty fishermen? I'm pretty sure that's the Biblical equivalent to rubbing a rabies infested dead squirrel all over your body.

I'm also pretty sure that Jesus was setting an example for us when he spent his time and gave his love to the unlovable. What dead squirrels are we ignoring? As the Body of Christ? In our personal lives?

I'm saddened to think that we've become a club; a members only circle of believers who don't want to get our hands dirty.

I understand how hard it is. In theory, it's great to talk about helping people. In reality, it kind of sucks. It's usually frustrating. You don't usually get the automatic results you crave.

Loving someone doesn't mean we always enjoy serving them. I don't get really excited every time my baby has a dirty diaper. I don't shout for joy that I have fourteen loads of clean clothes on my bed to fold before I can go to sleep. But I love my family, so I will serve them.

When we love, we look past the uncomeliness of people who are hurting. Who need to experience God's love. Because we too were (and probably still are at times) uncomely ourselves. We too were in the miry pit of sin, covered in the stench of death when Jesus reached down and rescued us.

So, I guess we can continue to sit in our comfortable churches and cower like the expletive-muttering mom.

But I choose to be the girl in her underpants.

Mother's Day

I woke up this morning to a baby who was all smiles. To a little boy pouncing on my bed like a miniature tigger. They got me chocolates and perfume; things that mothers love receiving as presents on their special day.

We go to church and head out into the country for a picnic.

The park we plan to visit is closed, so after Trevor and I have our typical what-are-we-going-to-do-now heated discussion, we find a little meadow on the edge of a cliff filled with last year's briars and wild animal feces.

That'll do.

We unfurl our blanket and huddle together, gnawing on buns with cheese and chips.

Aidan informs us that this is where bears come to poop when people aren't around.

I'm pretty sure he's correct in his assumption.

Trevor yells something at the top of his lungs to "scare the bears away" and wakes up Ainsley in the process.

The more we think about bears, the faster we eat. My feet are falling asleep from sitting on the ground, so I'm seriously questioning my ability to run away should a bear actually make a cameo appearance.

Soon we make our way back to the van and eat our dessert while sitting on the dusty rear bumper while watching Aidan throw rocks off the cliff.

It wasn't what I planned for Mother's Day lunch. Not exactly what I imagined.

But imperfection is comfortable for us. It fits like a well worn sweatshirt. When things go exactly as planned, I feel fidgety, anxious.

I'm getting used to accepting that I won't be a perfect mom.

I always wanted kids. I wanted to be a mom. A good one, too.

I never imagined that it would be so difficult. It's easy to ensure children survive, but to be a mom that they'll be thankful for when they're older, that's a bit harder.

I didn't expect this journey to be so hard. To feel like such a failure at times. I didn't expect my kids to be so destructive. So needy. So frustrating.

But I also didn't expect them to be so amazing.

The brightness in their eyes that beams out love- that's for me. Their incessant need to be close; for hugs and kisses, cuddles and caresses, keeps my heart warm.

The priceless words that tumble out of Aidan's mouth sometimes make me catch my breath in awe. How did he come up with that?

The bursts of personality and determination that spill out of my little baby girl cause me to wonder how I have been chosen to hold these tender lives in my hand.

Imperfection. Beautiful, beautiful imperfection. A glimpse at the reason God never gave up on humanity.

We walked into a restaurant tonight- Aidan was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, shorts, and snow boots. Ainsley had ripped off both her socks and had them stuffed in her mouth. Her hair was sticking up defiantly in more than one location from a long afternoon nap.

They both wore silly grins as we spent cherished family time around our table. Aidan sat coloring while Ainsley gleefully smashed blueberries into her shirt.

I'm beginning to understand how love is messy. And not just in the I-had-to-sweep-the-floor-five-times-today sense.

I am a part of a family filled with amazing, gifted, beautiful, frustrating people. Because we are all imperfect. All broken, smudged, marred in some way. Yet all created in the image of the One who loves us. Holding the hope of perfection in eternity with Him.

So I look at my children- snow boots, dirt smudges, and stained clothes. Bright eyes, wide smiles, pure hearts. Sincere prayers and ugly words. Laughing, wailing, and whispering secrets in my ear. Affectionate, obstinate, and overwhelming.

And they are beautiful.

And I am thankful.

How To Grow a Successful Church Plant

A disclaimer: I am no expert in church plants. Or regular plants, for that matter. Although, I hear Miracle Gro works wonders.

I was cleaning up after church one Sunday afternoon when I took notice of the droopy church plant in the basement.

I happen to know first hand that this particular plant is a fighter. It's the only plant in the building that's survived the rigors of church plant lifedom.

The others have long since shriveled up into a mess of crunchy brown leaves, caving in to the constant abuse and torture from the most merciless of parishioners.

Yet this green goddess of botanical goodness has remained. How, I'm not so sure.

First of all, this lovely tropical looking tree/plant/bush/thing is living in a basement. In northern Canada. Where there's only 7 hours of sunlight in the winter. If sunlight can even get in through the window.

Cause it's in a basement. In an old run down church. That's kept at a balmy 62 degrees during the week so there isn't a high gas bill.

Many a time I've scolded snotty nosed kids who've plucked its poor, defenseless leaves right off of its body. I've given them the "This plant is alive. Just like you. Would you like it if I ripped your fingers off????" speech and sent them on their way.

I've pushed, pulled and shoved this plant all over the basement as I shampooed the carpet. I may have even left it in a dark Sunday School room for over a week on accident. No sunlight at all. For a WEEK.

In fact, an outsider may think I'm involved in an elaborate experiment where my primary goal is to find a way to eradicate this plant from existence.

But that's not the case. I mean, I'm a natural at killing plants. My success rate for keeping plants alive is only slightly higher than keeping goldfish alive. And let's just say if I had a similar ERA, I'd be on the same level as Jose Lima pitching for the Detroit Tigers.

So, this plant is surviving in spite of the mistreatment it is receiving.

But I'm pretty sure it's some kind of freak of nature.

So, let's focus on all of the other plants in our church that have passed away in the recent years.

• Soil

The foundation that the plant is rooted in.  Our faith. Our core beliefs. Aidan is growing a green bean plant right now. A few days ago he asked me, "what's this stuff for?" He was talking about the dirt! Now, I know from one too many Sunday School green bean growing projects that you can actually get a bean seed to sprout in just a wet paper towel.  But it's not going to keep flourishing.  You've eventually got to put it in some soil, or it's just going to shrivel up and die.

When you're in leadership in church, you can get pretty desperate for anyone to help shoulder the load.  It's really tempting to take new Christians in your church and throw them under the bus start using them in leadership right away.  But you've got to help them form the foundation... you've got to give them some soil to grow in.

Disciple them. Mentor them. Tell them everything you know about the God you serve.  As they develop their faith and mature into a deeper relationship with Christ, they will be able to withstand a lot more abuse (yay!) and will produce fruit.

•  Water 

Don't make your church go thirsty. Last year I had some pansies on my front porch. Then I had a baby and stopped watering them. Then they died. True story.  I hoped maybe someone else would have watered them for me. But it didn't happen.

When you're working with a church plant (or replant), you're probably going to have a high concentration of new Christians. Chances are they're not going to be able to find water themselves until you teach them. Don't assume that they are getting watered from other sources.

Share the word with them. Lead them to the One who will quench their thirst.  Be aware of those who may need encouraged and redirected. Be on the lookout for those who are hungry for more.  Dig deeper in your studies.  The deeper you dig, the deeper they'll go, too.

• Sunlight

Please excuse the cheesefest that is comparing sunlight to experiencing God.  At least I spared you from dubbing this bullet point "Sonlight." You're welcome.

Seriously, though. Sometimes we get caught up in all the duties of doing church that we leave God completely out of the equation.

Quit trying to be God.  You're pretty much a really low quality replacement for Him at best. That's like sticking a plant in a dark room with a fluorescent light bulb. (I'm assuming that's bad, right? I hope so, or this illustration makes no sense. Please if I'm wrong, don't correct me and just pretend that I'm right.)

All you've got to do is lead the people to God. Just like you place a plant in direct sunlight.  You don't make the sunlight. (thank God.)  You don't decide where it will shine. You align the plants with it. So, take a load off. Your job is easy.

• Warmth

Our lilacs don't bloom here usually until June. The tulips and hyacinths don't pop their heads up and the peonies stay hidden. Why? Because they're not stupid. There's no warmth.

I recently went on a family trip to the zoo.  It was chilly out but it was still a great day.  At one point we went into the conservatory where the tropical plants are kept.  Instantly my glasses fogged up.  We left the dreary, snowy world outside and entered this glorious paradise.  Plants were thriving in this environment that wouldn't last one day outside the protective glass walls.

Your church needs to have warmth.  I'm talking about the attitude of your church.  What does your church's environment feel like?  Is it cold and unwelcoming?  Do people feel out of place? Uncomfortable? Does your church take on the attributes of a club that one has to audition for to enter?

Or are you fostering a warm environment? One that makes people feel welcome, connected, included?

• Keep away from the Kids!

Kids are destructive.  If you don't believe me, feel free to borrow mine for a day. Make sure you lock away any glass or china you'd like to keep.

A couple summers ago, I was working in our garden and Aidan would come barreling through in his underwear and gum boots, leaving a wake of trampled seedlings behind him.  Those plants didn't stand a chance.

At our church the kids love to break off the wide, rubbery leaves of our plant and either wave them around in the air or hit each other with them.  They're constantly picking and picking at the tree and I wonder if one day there will be no more leaves left.

They're like the distractions that constantly pick at you, causing you to lose your focus on what's important.  They're the negative voices that call out to you letting you know that this whole thing is going to end up a big fat failure You don't know what you're doing. You're in way over your head. They're all the little projects and programs that you think are so important, but you're missing out on the basics of what church is supposed to be.

They're the little foxes that are spoiling the vine. What's causing you to lose focus? What's distracting you from what really matters? You'll begin to notice that slowly the church is being transformed from full and lush to bare and anemic. Stay focused!

So, with these tips, a touch of miracle gro, some high grade manure and a few aeration techniques, you'll be well on your way to a healthy church plant. Oh, and I apologize if you stumbled upon this thinking you were going to actually get some good advice about church plants. The best advice I can give is go silk or go home. Just make sure you dust them.

Pizza Delivery

I hate admitting I'm not perfect. I mean, I know it's fairly obvious that I make mistakes on a consistent basis, but I really love living in a state of denial.

Especially as a pastor. People want to think that their pastors are holier and more righteous than them. (Spoiler Alert: if you go to our church, you may not want to read the rest of this post) I'm not. Even. Close.

And, since I know Trevor fairly well, I'm pretty sure I'm able to vouch for him and say that he isn't, either. He's doing better than I am, but still not perfect.

Case in point- most of you are aware of the immigration debacle I've been living through the past four years or so. We're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel now, but until we actually get out of this dark purgatorial slums of the immigration waiting line I will not have my driver's license.

My license expired soon after Ainsley was born, and I lost just about all sense of freedom. It's one of the reasons I started blogging, because I needed something that didn't make me feel trapped in my own home.

In February, I got a letter from Canada Immigration saying "hey, we've gone over your application and everything looks great! You're almost done!" Or something like that. Not so cheerful. So, I took it into the Canadian equivalent to the DMV and they said, "That looks good for a couple months worth of driving freedom."

So, they gave me a temporary license. A two month temporary license. In February. For those of you who are rusty with your math, it's expired now.

I've also got a teensy weensy addiction to caffeine. Especially pop/soda/coke/whateveryoucrazieswanttocallit. I am aware that it is horrible for me and have been trying to quit. But last Thursday I reeeallly needed some of that deliciously fizzy soda water.

And we had none in the house. I figured it wouldn't be a horrible sin if we just quickly and quietly drove to the nearest corner store to pick up some high fructose refreshment. After I grappled with the ramifications of my direct rebellion for a while, the desire of my flesh took over and I loaded Ainsley in her carseat.

I forgot about God's secret weapon.

Aidan.

He asks, "Where are we going, mom?"

Me: "To the store."

Aidan: "Oh. Are we walking?"

Me: "No. It's too far. We're driving."

Aidan: "But you don't have your driver's license."

Dang.

Me: "Um, it's okay."

Aidan: "No it's not. You can't drive without a driver's license."

Me: "But I have a special license. Just for today."

Great. Now I'm lying to my kid, too. Not even like a tooth fairy/Santa lie.

Aidan: "Oh, cool! Did it come in the mail with the checks?" (he calls the bills "checks." I wish.)

Me: "Yep! Nope. No, there is no driver's license. Mommy's a filthy liar." (I may have just thought that last part)

Then a light bulb went off. I can order a pop from the pizza place and they'll deliver it to me! And I'll look like a real tool just ordering a pop.

Well, I guess we're having pizza for lunch.

So, Aidan pushed for me to do the right thing and got rewarded with pizza.

Why did I write this besides to prove how much of a jerk I am? Having integrity is a daily battle. One that I struggle with.

I'm too quick to compromise my morals when it benefits me. I'm too quick to open my mouth to say something critical about another person when I need to just keep it shut.

Sometimes "doing the right thing" costs something. Most times the only benefit is knowing that you didn't compromise everything you believe in for one bottle of Dr. Pepper. (mmm... Dr. Pepper...) But sometimes you get a pizza out of the deal.

So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.
And because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death.
The law of Moses was unable to save us because of the weakness of our sinful nature So God did what the law could not do. He sent his own Son in a body like the bodies we sinners have. And in that body God declared an end to sin's control over us by giving his Son as a sacrifice for our sins.
He did this so that the just requirement of the law would be fully satisfied for us, who no longer follow our sinful nature but instead follow the Spirit.
Those who are dominated by the sinful nature think about sinful things, but those who are controlled by the Holy Spirit think about things that please the Spirit.
So letting your sinful nature control your mind leads to death. But letting the Spirit control your mind leads to life and peace.
Romans 8:1-6

Fatman and Robin

One thing I love about kids is the way they're able to insult you without even realizing they're doing it.

I'm not talking about the simple burn. I'm talking about those cutting remarks that leave your soul in a pile of ash. The ones that cut you to pieces like you're the Easter ham. The simple truths that you like to pretend no one knows about but you, but then a kid blurts it out and you think to yourself, "if they know, everyone else must know, too." gulp.

They say things like "You smell like dirty socks." Or, "That green dress makes you look like a big broccoli." Or, "You can't drive us to the store. You don't even have your driver's license." Or, "You need to take a shower." Or, "You're bad at that. Does that mean you're a loser?" (I may or may not have been told these things by my four year old.)

Small, seemingly defenseless children have a way of twisting the dagger deep into the heart. They have no concept of social niceties. They have no idea the power their words hold.

I was reminded about this the other day when Aidan and I were discussing super heroes. We don't watch much TV in our house, and one of the main reasons isn't because we feel like we're better than everyone, it's just that our son is incredibly sensitive to visual images. He doesn't want anything to do with anything dark, sinister, or violent. To a point where all he watches are shows like Diego, Dora, and Bob the Builder.

So, we aren't really up on the super hero circle. Most of his friends are, however. So he is vaguely familiar with them. And that's probably why he butchers their names. My favorite one is "Fatman."

The dark knight fighting the seedy underbelly of Gotham City while trying to fight his own belly as well. He had to head to the Big and Tall store to up-size his batsuit. He started having to take public transit because he can no longer fit inside the Batmobile.

Soon he'll get a job endorsing weight watchers or perhaps peddling delicious submarine sandwiches with 6 grams of fat or less.

I can just imagine the fit Christian Bale would throw if he could hear that one. And when I imagine Michael Keaton as a Ken doll, I don't think he'd be very pleased, either.

No matter how many times we try to correct him, Aidan insists, "No, it's Fatman and Robin."

Adam West must be rolling over in his grave. Wait. Is Adam West even dead? If not: sorry, man.

I've noticed adults do this more than we care to admit as well. I can't even number the amount of times I've said something stupid and hurtful and immediately wished I could take those words back.

What's really gotten me is the times that I didn't even realize I said something that could hurt someone. Oh, it's happened. Even with the purest intentions, I've made mistakes and said hurtful things to people that I didn't really mean.

And it sucked.

So as I teach my son to be aware of the power of his words, I'm teaching myself to do the same.

Evaluate what's coming out of your mouth. "Does what I'm saying have the potential to cause damage in another person?"

You just might save yourself a world of hurt. And you'll probably save someone else a world of hurt, too.

The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.
Proverbs 18:21

Low Fuel

My parents moved to North Dakota the summer before my sophomore year in college. My eight hour drive to Lee University in Tennessee suddenly became a twenty-eight hour drive.

I did the drive on my own at the beginning of fall semester, but wasn't too keen on the idea for Christmas break. So, my dad met me at the airport in Knoxville and we loaded up my Buick together and set out on the long road home.

The drive was fine until we hit South Dakota. There was a blizzard warning and the Department of Highways shut down Interstate 94 all the way across North Dakota. Smart people would hunker down in a hotel overnight and wait for the worst to pass.

My dad and I found a lesser highway that runs parallel to the interstate. As we navigated our way down US highway 12 in northern South Dakota, we realized it was too late to reevaluate our decision. We made our way through Aberdeen, Bowdle, and Ipswich with only the howling winds, whiteout snow, and blowing tumbleweed to accompany us.

We reached Mobridge, which is the point we start heading north. I suggested we get some gas, since we were hovering around 1/6 tank. Dad rebuffed my concerns and headed northward.

Soon we were in the wilderness during a blizzard late at night.

And the low fuel light came on.

And stayed on.

For the next 30 some miles.

I tried to call my mom on my cell phone so she would know to come find us if we didn't show soon, but alas, there was no signal.

Great. Now we're going to be Discovery Channel survival show fodder. I can't even go walk for help. I'm a college student. The only shoes I own are flip flops and high heels.

On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I have enough hair product to start an impressive fire to keep us warm.

In case you're wondering how that story ended, we got home okay. By the miraculous provision of God.

But I didn't learn very much. Years later, I'm in a minivan with my dear husband and two beautiful children in the wild of northern Alberta. We drive through a small town and Trevor suggests we get a bit of gas to ensure we have enough to reach our destination.

I waved him off and insisted we would be fine. We passed the gas station and drove a bit more before the low fuel light dinged on. Oops.

I learned two things that day.

1. I'm turning into my dad.

2. We humans have a bad habit of ignoring warning signs and then wondering later what went wrong.

We run on empty gas tanks and can't figure out why we're not effective. Why we never finish anything we start. Why we're exhausted. Discouraged. Depressed.

Sometimes we realize we're running on empty so we try to fabricate our own fuel. Do things on our own power. We're all about the works. Even when we realize we need God's strength to fill us, we think "What do I need to DO to get God's strength?"

Then we create this action plan that we need to follow to be in God's favor so that he will pour out His strength on us. In reality, though, access to God is simple.

When you go to a gas station, do you worry about where the gas is coming from?

Do you have to know create the gas yourself?

Refine the oil?

Do you have to know how the pump works?

What kind of metal they used?

Of course not. (Thank God)

All you have to know is how to take the gas cap off and how to connect the hose to your vehicle. (And to make sure you're not pumping diesel in your car)

So let's break this down-

• You'll have warning signs that you are running low on fuel, just like that shining gas pump symbol that flashes on your dash. Max Lucado writes about this in his book Come Thirsty. Irritability, competitiveness, being overly-sensitive, and being discouraged are some of the warning signs.
• No matter how hard you try, you will not be able to fabricate a synthetic fuel that can replace the power of God working in your life.  It will never be enough, and you will not be able to accomplish what God has set before you.  You cannot do it alone.  You may be able to for a while, but there is not sustainability.

• We like to over-complicate the process of refueling.  We have the right intentions, but we still try to do everything with our own strength.  Allow God to prove his strength in your life.  You just need to open up yourself to be filled, and connect.  Don't worry about the science of the process.  That's God's specialty.  You just worry about the connection.

Draw close to God, and God will draw close to you.
James 4:8a

May you experience the love of Christ, though it is so great you will never fully understand it. Then you will be filled with the fullness of life and power that comes from God.
Now glory be to God! By HIS mighty power at work within us, he is able to accomplish infinitely more than we would ever dare to ask or hope.
Ephesians 3:19&20 (emphasis added)

My Church

My husband and I are in a place that a lot of pastors don't get the privilege of enjoying. God knows that we didn't really do anything right or noble to get here, and we definitely don't deserve it. We've just been immeasurably blessed.

I love my church. Not just the mandatory "Jesus told us we have to love each other" love. I mean, I am enthralled and captivated by these amazing people who have been wrangled together like calves in a roping contest at the rodeo. God's hand has landed us all in the same corral as we look around dazedly wondering exactly how we ended up here. We've been mishmashed together in a beautiful, sloppy manner; the same way my four year old forces puzzle pieces to fit in places it seems they shouldn't go.

It doesn't quite make sense, this strange concoction of humanity that makes up our little church, but then again it does. When I finally stop trying to force the puzzle pieces to fit in the places I think they should go, they come together to form a new masterpiece that far outshines the cookie cutter image printed on the box.

It's like poetry.

The lyrical rise and fall of syllabic phrasing takes breaks and pauses where you expect none and barrels through the rests you feel should be. It catches you unaware, and jars you from your semi-conscious state to reevaluate exactly what you are looking at. The grouping of words, full of vibrancy, introducing tension and then(sometimes)resolution, creates the beauty of writing that draws us in.

I sit in my living room, surrounded by twenty-three other people. My living room isn't very big. They're sitting in folding chairs. On the floor. On the stairs. They're here for our church's "vision casting" meeting.

Thank you, Jesus. We have this many people who are passionate about our church, our family.

They care.

They want to be involved.

To serve.

How have we been so blessed?

These beautiful, amazing people.

We talk about the purpose of our church. The vision for our church.

We share our hearts.

I see eyes light up.

Hearts set on fire.

Burning embers stoked.

This is just the beginning.


Today I was cleaning the church by myself. Not because I had to. Just because I wanted to.

It's not even our building. But for now it's the best physical representation of our church I have.

And I just wanted to pour my love out on her. I feel completely overwhelmed by my love for this congregation we serve. I just had to do something physical to show it.

As I scrubbed walls, cabinets, pews, doors, and toilets I prayed "God, please help me to not screw this up. These people care about you. They love you. Please help me to not do anything that will break their spirits."

We have some amazing people in our church. Talented, courageous, dynamic people who are going to do amazing things for the Kingdom of God. It wouldn't take long for them to surpass what Trevor and I can accomplish. I feel awed that God has placed them in our hands to help cultivate and prepare them for their next steps in life.

I am anticipating great things for these people, this church whom I love deeply. Please pray for Trevor and I as we endeavor to be the leaders our church family needs to accomplish the mighty things God has for us.

The Hey Monster

I have committed a travesty- one so great that any person who gives a rodent's patootie about the English language would be utterly appalled.

I've cultivated an abominable habit in my son's speech.

I've turned him into a hey-monster.

It's a real hey-mageddon at my house right now. A hey-tastrophe. Utter anni-hey-lation (Took it too far, didn't I? Oh well).

This messy, unholy war we call parenting is full of surprise flank attacks and midnight bombings (With babies, I'm speaking literal midnight bombs).

You don't plan to teach your kids bad habits. You don't intend to nurture an addiction to high fructose corn syrup. You don't think to yourself "I bet I'll be one of those parents who loses my temper with my kid and sends him to his room for chewing weird."

You don't envisage letting your kids be raised by a moose, a rabbit, a hippopotamus, a penguin, and whatever the heck Uniqua is (don't make fun of her- she's unique and spectacular. And I'm jealous of her awesome dance moves). You don't aim to be that parent who ends up dragging their kids out of the grocery store kicking and screaming because they didn't get the name brand string cheese they wanted (apparently the store brand has hair on it. Imagine that. Hair. Every string of cheese. There's no way that one string cheese could have been a fluke. And that the hair found on it probably belonged to his mother, who sheds like a Golden Retriever and who consequentially is the same person who handed him the aforementioned hairy cheese string).

But it happens. Parenting failures pop up on you like someone just lobbed a mustard gas grenade into whatever muddy hole you're hiding in until the worst is over.

My kid ends every sentence with "hey?"

Doesn't sound so bad, right? I'm sure he won't end up in juvie for ending every sentence in question format like the French. He may end up in Quebec.

When you pair it with his four-year-old-incessant-need-to-repeat-everything-he-says-a-million-times-until-you-give-him-the-answer-he-wants nature, it becomes exhausting.

Imagine... you're riding in my minivan (This is usually where I apologize to you for the mess and find some way to blame it on my husband). Have a seat and enjoy the pure poetry that rolls lyrically off my son's tongue.

This conversation ensues:

Aidan: "Hey, Mom. There's an airplane, hey?"

Me: "Is that a question, or a statement?"

Aidan: "It's not a bad plane, hey?"

Me: "Nope. No bad planes up here. Just bad grammar. And lack of pronunciation of the letter "l" but you're only four."

Aidan: "It's a bad plane, hey? And the good guys are gonna come and shoot the bad guys, hey?"

Me: "I'm pretty sure it's not a..."

Aidan: "They'll shoot it with guns, hey? Fire comes out of guns, hey? Bad fire, hey? Is fire bad or cool? Bad means cool, hey? That earthquake made fire, hey? The houses were on fire, hey? Was the earthquake in China?"

Me: "No, the earthquake was in Japan."

Aidan: "Oh, Japan.(pause) We're going to McDonald's, hey?"

And this is completely my fault. All mine.

When I moved to Canada I had to listen to the Americans make jokes about Canadians, and the Canadians make jokes about Americans.

I've heard more stories than I can count about a Canadian who has a cousin whose friend met an American that thought all Canadians live in igloos. And ride moose to work. And eat polar bear. And wash it down with maple syrup.

Americans for the most part think Canadians are funny people who don't litter and talk weird. They make jokes like "How do you spell Canada? C-eh,n-eh,d-eh!" Classic. They've never heard of Maclean's and have no idea that some Canadians really don't like them.

I quickly grew tired of the cliche banter back and forth.

The same four jokes circulating around that you hear over and over.

Kind of like when someone asks a pregnant woman "Are you sure you've only got one in there?" Knee slapper.

I love America. With all my heart. But I also love Canada. I love the people. I choose to live here.

If I become more Canadian, it would be like I was giving up my roots. But if I stick to being American, it's like I'm rejecting my new home and the people I care about.

So I was determined.

I wouldn't say "huh" like an American, or "eh" like a Canadian.

Thus was born the hybrid, "hey."

Not to get all Dr. Phil on you, but I realized that this ended up being more my issue than Aidan's. I mean, he's four. I'm sure his speech will change over the years. I grew up in East Texas and couldn't pronounce half the words in the dictionary correctly and I'm ok now.

The problem is I don't quite fit. I don't think any of us really do, but over the years this fact has been painfully obvious to me.

Moving around to different states and then a different country had me leaving pieces of my heart all over the map. I long for a place that has all the people I love together, instead of always feeling like I'm missing something. someone.

I look back at different portions of my life and see how God's used me in different capacities. Honestly, sometimes I really miss the way I was used by God at different times. I've come to learn that we will serve God in a variety of ways throughout our lifetime. Different gifts, talents, and abilities will rise up for the purpose we serve at that time. As the backdrops of life change, we too must constantly be aware of our place. Our purpose.

But we never quite fit. I will never be fully comfortable. If I think I am, it's because I'm fooling myself. Or because my desires have deadened.

Because we weren't crafted for a world of sin and death. We don't reach our pinnacle on this side of eternity. We are created to love God. To live in relationship with Him. Yet the sinful nature that we have taken on; the waging of the war between our spirit and flesh constantly strives against our drive to know Him. We are running a race that is more akin to an obstacle course: with peaks and valleys, hurdles and interference trying to hold us back.

And I get it.

I'm not American or Canadian. My eternal citizenship belongs to Heaven. And my journey here is short.

But I will live while I'm here. And I'm going to love, too.

Whether I say "eh" or "huh" doesn't really matter.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily hinders our progress. And let us run with endurance the race that God has set before us.
Hebrews 12:1

But we are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives. And we are eagerly waiting for him to return as our Savior.
Philippians 3:20

O Christmas Tree

Moving to northern British Columbia is a commitment. It's not something you kind of do. You're either in, or you're out (Ooh, I feel so Heidi Klum-ish). Some things are just mandatory. You will get winter tires. You will have a cracked up windshield from all of the gravel they throw on the roads when it snows. You will end up eating wild game at one point. You may be unaware at the time, but it will happen.

Trevor and I had a deep respect for the "people of the north" (Catchy, huh? One day I'm going to write a book with that title.) since the day we moved up here. Our goal was to emulate their pioneering spirit, their ability to be self-sustainable, their mammoth diesel-powered trucks that plow through snow banks like the Pamplona bulls trampling a crowd of innocent bystanders.

We started recycling. We planted a garden. I tell you- the size of people's gardens up here- developers in Surrey could fit 12 red brick townhouses (with attached garage) in these garden plots. These are serious gardens. With irrigation systems and lattice and, um, other gardeny things. Ours- notsomuch. But we did get some vegetables out of it.

I made homemade chicken stock. And bread. And learned to sew. I'm like the modern day Laura Ingalls Wilder. We've even gone camping in the woods and didn't leave when we had a bear sighting.

And we cut down our own Christmas tree.

No, not at one of those wussy tree farms. They don't have sissy things like that in these here parts. We cut down trees the old fashioned way.

At night. (because during Christmas time the sun sets here at 4 p.m.)

In the woods where a moose can eat you. (Moose are vicious, vindictive creatures.)

In the woods two football field lengths away from your van. Which you just hiked from through some farmer's field. In your inappropriate winter attire. In four feet of snow.

"Hmm... That tree looks good.

Yes, I know it's a huge tree. Just cut off the top. Yep, that looks perfect."

Drag the tree back to the van. The tree is twenty seven feet tall.

And ten feet wide.

With huge gaping holes in it everywhere.

Like Charlie Brown's tree took steroids.

And it has pine cones.

And probably a raccoon. Or two.

Who's idea was this, anyway?

You get the tree home, thinking it's going to at least make your house smell nice.

Nope. It smells like rotting animal.

Um, did we pick a tree in some sort of weird reproductive cycle? It does have pine cones.

Do trees have reproductive cycles?

Christmas is over (thank God) and we can get this eyesore of an excuse for a Christmas tree out of our house. And burn a candle to cover up that wretched smell.

What should we do with it now?

I hear the boy scouts have a tree pick up in a few weeks.

Meh. There's six feet of snow outside. Let's stick it in the snow next to the fence until I think of something (Trevor).

Hey, it looks like a normal tree growing by our fence.

It actually looks kind of nice. Let's leave it there.

Now it's March 17th- Um, the snow's melting. What are we going to do with the Christmas tree?

Part of me is hoping that the tree miraculously reconnected with mother earth and is happily living life there in the ground next to our fence. Hey, I heard a guy randomly inhaled an evergreen seed and had a spruce seedling growing in his lungs!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/13/tree-growing-in-mans-lung_n_186279.html

So, all I'm saying is it could happen.

But chances aren't looking good. The tree's looking browner by the day. And sooner or later, somebody (Trevor) is going to have to deal with it.

I was teaching the kids in church on Sunday about Jesus the vine, and us the branches. How we must stay connected to God to grow. To be healthy. To have life. To bear fruit.

I always thought of it as one or the other. Either you are connected to God, or you're obviously disconnected. Now I realize that a lot of us are disconnected and trying to hide it. Pretending like under the snow we're still connected to the source. Trying through good works to produce our own fruit with our own strength.

We're a Christmas tree. Trying to look all alive when we're dying.

How long can we hold on until we can't keep it together anymore? Until the edges start fraying, our leaves start sagging and our coloring fades to a dull brown?

The snow will eventually melt and expose us for who we really are.

Pretenders.

The good news is we have a way to reconnect.

God is passionate about you. He created you. He loves you. And He wants relationship with you. He wants you to stick to Him.

So He waits.

He waits to hear your voice.

He waits for you to answer his knocking.

He waits to give you life.

It's time to reconnect.

"Yes, I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing."
John 15:5

I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will give you mighty inner strength through his Holy Spirit.
And I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your hearts as you trust in him. May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous love.
Ephesians 3:16&17

And next year, we're getting a fake tree.

The Simplicity of Love

Sometimes I think we make everything way too complicated. It makes us feel smart. If things are too straightforward it probably means you're uneducated or a simpleton. Yet I find that life is often just that way.

Maybe we spout off grown up sayings like "as you get older things get complicated" to make room for our failures. Spread the gray paint around to cover up the neatly drawn lines. It's so easy to dismiss our moral compromises and steady withdrawal from the life God has called us to by deeming this situation "complicated."

Is everything simple? No. In fact, there are quite a few issues that leave me puzzled. As a person in ministry there are a few Biblical concepts and even attributes of God that I have a hard time understanding, much less explaining to another person.

But what I do know is there's a thread that is woven throughout our faith that holds everything together. It's the rudimentary tenet of Christianity, and its nuances and properties are so basic they can be detected by a young child.

I'm talking about love.

The foundation of who we are. The foundation of what we believe. So how do we get it so wrong?

My goal isn't to attack the Church and point fingers. This is more a personal issue I have. With myself. But I figured, hey, if I'm dealing with it, there's probably someone else out there who is too. Lately I've been doing a lot of thinking on the purpose of our church in our community. Not really just our church, but God's Church- in the world. And the best answer I can come up with is love.

But it seems so simple. How can love simply be the answer?

I went to Bible College. I learned how to read Greek. How to write a research paper in Turabian format. How to use tube tops to make sure my shirts were long enough that I wouldn't show skin while getting my praise on (Hallelujah). Good stuff. But I wish more Bible Colleges taught that love is the be all end all of your ministry. You can preach until your face is blue. You can produce inspirational videos that make Rob Bell jealous. You lead worship with a voice that has the gruffness of Mac Powell, the coolness of David Crowder, and the I'm-gonna-win-a-Dove-award-even-if-I-didn't-have-an-album-this-year-ness of Chris Tomlin. It doesn't matter.

If you can't love your people, you are wasting everyone's time.

Strong words, Elizabeth. I know. But it's true.

Listen, I've wasted a lot of times perfecting my singing voice and polishing off my church programming. I know my ABC's of mediocre ministry. Trust me: there's no high soprano harmony (albeit mighty Beyonce of me), no powerpoint presentation (even with the fading text), no Children's Vacation Bible School that's going to make a lick of difference without love.

It's that simple.

If you can forget about everything else you're doing, and focus solely on love, I guarantee everything else will fall in place. Ok, I'm trying this right now. So maybe I shouldn't guarantee it yet, but I'm pretty sure it will.

I love how Paul says it:

"For the commandments against adultery and murder and stealing and coveting—and any other commandment—are all summed up in this one commandment: "Love your neighbor as yourself."
Love does no wrong to anyone, so love satisfies all of God's requirements.
Romans 13:9&10

The NIV says that "love is the fulfillment of the law."

Love is. When you love, you won't wrong your neighbor. You won't sin against them. Because you are thinking of their best interests instead of your own.

Bob Dylan's got it right when he sings "May you always do for others, and let others do for you." If we're all looking out for each others' best interests, then we'll be covered.

So what does loving look like?

What does Christ's bride, the Church, look like when it is rooted and grounded in God's love?

What areas of your life could use the influence of love?

For me, love means I need to work harder at looking past people's faults. Past the little things about people that aren't moral failures, they're just ticks that really. annoy. me. I need to focus more on the value of that person. Even if they never stop talking. Or make weird mouth noises when I talk to them. Love means realizing that I have some annoying flaws, too. Maybe. Not really.

Love means leaving the judgment behind. Changing my first thoughts when I hear that someone needs help from "What could they have done differently to keep themselves out of this mess?" to "What can I do to help my brother/sister out of this mess?" When did I start thinking that people shouldn't be helped because they've messed up?

Father, forgive me. I too, am a failure. A sinner. How have I started thinking of myself as any better? It's only because of Your righteousness that I am made whole.

Love means I start to see every person the way God sees them. To see the value in every person. The heart of every person. The brokenness of every person. So my heart will break for them. So my soul will yearn for them to have reconciliation with the One who knit them together in their mother's womb.

Oh, that my heart would break for what breaks the Father's heart.

1 If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate. 2If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps, but I don't love, I'm nothing. 3-7If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
1 Corinthians 13:1-7
The Message

What does your love look like?

What should it look like?

Interruptions.

Aidan is really getting a hang of this growing up thing. He still says some pretty cute stuff. And he still needs help wiping his bum. And he still needs to ask if his boots are on the right feet (Trevor still needs to ask, too). He still loves to cuddle and wear cartoon underwear.

But he's growing up, too.

He's starting to recognize his numbers. He's using a much larger vocabulary. He's signed up for (French Immersion) Kindergarten in the fall. His socks are almost the same size as mine. He now eats broccoli without gagging.

And he's perfected the interruption.

It's a rite of passage in kid-dom. There's some sort of child code of conduct which demands that kids wait until the absolute least opportune time to bug their parents about the most trivial of matters. It's a sliding scale. The more important the conversation they're interrupting, the more trivial the matter they wish to discuss.

For instance- if you're discussing with your girlfriend how she chose swirly hot pink nail tips instead of traditional french the last time she got a manicure, your offspring will want to inform you that Billy fell and may have an arm dangling from his elbow at an odd angle. Reasonable.

If you are having an intense conversation with a friend who's telling you her mom just died, your child will no doubt be swinging from your arm screaming "Can I have a race car cake for my birthday?!? (His birthday is in 9 months)I really want a race car cake! No, Thomas! Or Bob the Builder! Or Bob the Builder on Thomas racing Lightning McQueen!" (This may or may not have happened to me)

Children also like to mix up the attention-getting tactics they use to sabotage the one meaningful adult conversation you get to have all week. As they expertly snip away at the lifelines of communication you hold dear, sanity slips wordlessly away into the dark abyss of parenthood.

As if child-induced interruptions weren't bad enough, now they're going all Mixed Martial Arts on you. Oh no. They aren't happy to stick with the classic triangle choke hold. Now they're mixing in judo throw downs and karate chops. It is literally on like Donkey Kong.

Here's some of my (least)favorite moves:

1. The "I'm pretending I belong in this conversation"
We're starting off with a heavy hitter. This move isn't for the amateur. Usually used by children in the 8-13 year range. First, pretend that you have some interest in the conversation taking place. Then- Blammo! When you've captured the floor you lead right into "So what do you think about Justin Bieber's new haircut?"

2. The "If my mom ignores me any longer, she's going to be indecently exposed."
You know the kid. The one with the death grip on his mom's right leg. Slowly gathering more and more fabric in his grimy little palm. A few more good yanks and we're all going to see more than we've bargained for. Now that's an effective way to get someone's attention. It's also why I wear three belts and a pair of suspenders.

3. The "If I keep repeating the same thing over and over again..."
"Mom! Mother! Mama! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mom!"
Amateur hour. Any kid worth his salt knows that moms are professional noise blockers. I tested it the other day. Aidan can yell "Mom!" in my ear 72,000 times before I even notice. Get along little doggie. This rodeo is for the big boys.

4. The "Mom Whisperer"
Look at you, crafty little, um, you. How did you know? How did you know that yelling doesn't get to me... but the still small voice... ugh. I can't ignore it. Just kidding. I actually can. But kudos for making whispering even more annoying than it already is. Especially if you're like EVERY other little kid I know who has no concept of what a whisper actually is, and you whisper like you belong on Broadway.

5. The "I'm going to give you a piece of crap that I made in two minutes by pouring glue on a paper plate and sticking rice to it so that if you ignore me you'll look like a mean, ungrateful, non-affectionate mother who doesn't appreciate my worthless yet invaluable gift."
Preeetty much self explanatory. Don't you love psychological warfare with children?

Sometimes I feel like my whole life is filled with interruptions, and I don't mean the ones handed to me by my kids.

Why am I so easily distracted?

Why am I so easily turned away from the things that should hold my focus?

Why is it so easy for me to be interrupted from fulfilling my purpose?

Shifting the blame comes naturally for us. We're so busy. There are so many important things to do. So many people vying for our time and attention.

But are we not more focused than that?

Have we lost sight of our priority?

Have we given in to the interruptions?

Remember that in a race everyone runs, but only one person gets the prize. You also must run in such a way that you will win.
All athletes practice strict self-control. They do it to win a prize that will fade away, but we do it for an eternal prize.
So I run straight to the goal with purpose in every step. I am not like a boxer who misses his punches.
I discipline my body like an athlete, training it to do what it should. Otherwise, I fear that after preaching to others I myself might be disqualified.
1 Corinthians 9:24-27

Lessons in Sewing

A couple of months ago I realized that I had something missing from my life. There was a little sewing machine-sized hole that I've been needing to fill. I don't know what compelled me to finally learn to sew. Maybe it's the two sewing machines that have been graciously given to me: one sitting in a closet, the other holding up a microwave (it's one of those nifty desk-sewing machines. I know. It's a desk. And a sewing machine. How am I NOT using this properly in either function? In my defense it's missing the foot pedal.)both helping me reach an all new expert level in dust collecting.

You may think it's a way to save money. You would be wrong. I almost needed cardiopulmonary resuscitation after seeing the prices of plain old cotton at the fabric store. I do always have this thought in the back of my head that I will excel at whatever I am learning and will eventually turn a profit. Like with tutus. And hair bows. I'm still getting past the I-still-stink-at-this stage. We'll see.

Perhaps it's because I needed more tedious challenges in my life. New avenues to produce fresh frustration. A sewing machine is built to guarantee annoyance. There's fourteen booby traps my thread has to go through before it reaches the needle. And that's not including the bobbin. What's a bobbin, you ask? Ignorance is bliss, my friend.

There are two reasons I like sewing.

One, my sewing machine smells like an old battleship. Grease, metal, and history, baby.

Reminds me of my childhood.

When I take a deep breath of those fumes, I'm transported back to the U.S.S. Texas, floating placidly in the Houston Ship Channel. I would spend the day with my family exploring the battlegrounds where Texas won her independence, checking out tombstones from the 1800's, and covering every inch of the old beauty herself that fought in World War II. We'd go from the boiler rooms at the bottom of the ship to the highest points we were allowed. My dad even performed a wedding on that ship. And that's what my sewing machine smells like. A wedding on a battleship.

The biggest reason(and the real reason, although I have to admit that battleship one is pretty good too) I sew is my mom.

My parents aren't completely perfect, but they're pretty awesome. There's a lot of things I remember about my mom that I want to emulate for my kids' benefit.

She worked really hard. Still does. I remember when I would run up and give her a big hug and she smelled faintly of bleach. And sunshine.

She let us have our imagination. She never got mad when we broke chalkboards sledding down stairs (another story for another day) or cut all of the hair off our Barbies because we needed boys.

She let me plant my own garden. Let me pick out the ugliest shade of pink you ever saw to paint my bedroom. She let me wear crazy combinations of clothes (ok, that one was mostly my dad, I think).

She didn't kill me when I cut off half of hair in a gum-chewing-then-falling-asleep incident. She let me play all kinds of crazy games with the phone cord while she was on a call even though I'm pretty sure it drove her crazy.

She never told me that little girls my age didn't sing. Couldn't preach. Didn't write. Neither of my parents did. They never told me to shut up when I belted out random nonsense in my best operatic voice from our balcony. Instead, they encouraged me.

When I wanted curly hair, she'd let me get a perm. After perm. Because my hair refused to be curly. But I wouldn't give up. So she wouldn't either.

She held my hand when I cut my knee open and had to get stitches, even if she had to run to the bathroom once because it was too gross.

She picked me up from school the day I broke my arm and kept me calm by telling me stories from her childhood while we drove to the hospital. Then, she would tie a big garbage bag around my cast every day for weeks so I could have a shower.

And my mom sewed.

She sewed the matching dresses my sister and I wore one Christmas. One time we had a special dress up day for school, so my mom made me a cheerleader outfit. With pom poms. I always wanted a cheerleader costume.

When I was a teenager, she took me to the fabric store and let me pick out the dress I wanted for our 8th grade banquet. She worked so hard making that dress perfect right down to the rhinestone trim. I felt like a princess.

My mom came to visit right before I had Ainsley. She sat in my kitchen and sewed curtains for my little girl's bedroom.

And I realized how amazing my mom is.

And how hard I've been on her.

And how much I want to be like her.

And how I've probably never told her that.

So, I learn to sew. Then I call my mom and tell her all about it. Because I've always wanted her to teach me to sew, but I was too impatient with her and had too much attitude to learn anything from her.

But slowly, I will make it right.

Because I love my mom. And I am immeasurably grateful for her.

And I just wanted her to know.

Atmosphere

Apparently in my case sickness is not inspiring.

I like to make light of the craziness that is my life on occasion, but this most recent assailment against me is too fresh to find amusing.

I've been sick. Sick. Sick. Sick.

I've been sick enough to have a fever for a week. To feel like Chuck Norris just completed a roundhouse kick to my sternum and whistled for his pack of monkeys (In my imagination Chuck has a pack of monkeys to do his finishing work for him) to take turns jumping on my bruised chest while I'm pinned to the ground by Jimmy Trivette. Yet well enough to not be sick enough to lie in bed while I am nursed back to health.

During this week of obvious mom-suckdom, I've managed to let Ainsley (my 8 month old baby) stick her hand in a toilet full of Aidan's pee. That kid will just not flush a toilet. I've let Aidan get burned by an iron, Ainsley ended up with a mysterious gash across her hand and pushed a glass on the floor which splintered into a million pieces, and I've burned approximately 7 grilled cheese sandwiches.

Oh, and I can't leave out that I had a panic attack right in the middle of worship on Sunday (note the dedication level) because I couldn't remember putting half of the songs in Powerpoint.

I sewed the pants together backwards on the outfit I'm making for Ainsley.

I didn't take a shower most days.

And this is just the stuff I'm willing to admit on the internet.

And I didn't write. Why? Because life can be uninspiring. I'm not one who goes through life saying "impress me," but the past week has been more than uninspiring. It's been anti-inspiring.

But that's what life is sometimes, isn't it? It's bad enough when you have no encouragement being poured into you. But when something comes to snatch away what little you have?

If I'm being completely honest, I have to admit the past few months have been hard. Even before I got sick. Really hard. I've been a pastor's kid most of my life, but even being exposed to it didn't fully prepare me to deal with some of the trials of pastoring. It's different when it's your mission to fail instead of your parents'.

There were times in the past few months where I felt pretty discouraged. I know Trevor did, too. I wondered how many peoples' lives we were going to screw up before we finally figured out what we were doing. I wondered if the church would have been better off closing its doors instead of bringing us in.

Talk about anti-inspiring.

Trevor and I were so afraid of failure that we built walls up around us, stuck our fingers in our ears and yelled "lalala!" (you should try this. It works wonders. Especially if you have loud kids. or church members. I kid.)

Something wasn't right and we couldn't put our fingers on it. How frustrating! How disheartening. What did we do to screw this up? What did we say to hurt people?

We had nothing to lose, so we became honest. We sought reconciliation. At all cost. Doesn't matter who was right. Turns out none of us was.

We reconnected with our vision. With our purpose.

We realigned ourselves with the Father. Figured out how we fit in HIS plan instead of ours.

Something cool happened.

Relationships were healed.

Ours with God. Ours with others. Others with others.

And the atmosphere changed.

Instead of a vortex of despair, sucking away all of our hopes and dreams, we are surrounded by a feeling of inspiration. Anticipation. Excitement.

Everyone feels it. The air is charged. It's time for something new.

You're going to get through this. The fever will break. The aches and pains will diminish. And hope will be born again. If you're open to the answer. It's like going to the Doctor and then refusing to take your prescription. Be faithful to what He tells you to do. Follow His words.

It's time for healing. It's time for reawakening.

But now, O Israel, the LORD who created you says: "Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine

When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown! When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you.

For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

For I am about to do a brand-new thing. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness for my people to come home. I will create rivers for them in the desert!

Isaiah 43:1-3a, 19