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

Pizza Implosion

Consider this part deux of the Tim Horton's blog post. I like to call this saga "The Boulevard of Broken Dreams."

There's something I hate almost as much as never winning free doughnuts.

It's a youth group "pizza blast."

How do you spot a pizza blast? Look for tell tale signs including: neon fliers made on Microsoft Word, fog machines, strobe lights, traffic signs hanging on the wall, Third Day playing in the background, and a 30 something youth pastor wearing dad jeans.

Don't get me wrong- I have nothing against dad jeans. And one of my youth pastors once told me that Heaven would smell like fog machines. I still use Microsoft Office to create most of my church documents.

My qualm is with the pizza.

More so the lack thereof.

Why is there NEVER enough pizza at a "pizza blast?" To me, a pizza blast sounds like what happens when a Pizza delivery truck gets in an accident with a Dr. Pepper truck on the road right in front of the church. The pizza delivery guy gets out (shaken, but otherwise unharmed) and wonders "what am I gonna do with all this pizza now?"

Hey! We've got a bunch of teenagers with voracious appetites just inside! We'll eat your pizza! It's a pizza blast!!

But instead I get a greasy corner slice that's more crust than anything. One slice. My four year old eats more pizza than this (ok. We all know I didn't have a four year old in high school. just go with it.)

My crappy dollar store paper plate is so flimsy that it bows under the weight of one measly slice of pizza. Good thing they didn't give us more.

Now, I'm ok with the lack of pizzaness. Really, I am. Just forewarn me. Then I'll come up with my own provisions since I have ample planning time. Don't call it a "blast." Maybe use words like snack. appetizer. teaser. tidbit. Or "you'll get more food by perusing the samples at Costco."

Here's some ways I've seen the head honchos try to cover up the pizza blast scandal.

1. Attention Diversion
Does your pizza blast promise great music? games? perhaps bounce houses? sumo wrestling suits? They're spreading the budget around. Trying to distract you from the minimal amount of pizza available. My guess is you're going to be starving. On the positive side, they'll probably have lots of bottled water available for 5 bucks a pop. Fill your purse up with protein bars, fritos, and crystal light packets.

2. Lock-in Lock Down.
Yeah, we actually don't have very much pizza. What are you gonna do about it? You're locked in all night. Suck it up princess. It's gonna be a long ride. Did we mention that we want you to bowl and ice skate on an empty stomach? That's right. We're going to pass right by a Taco Bell on the way to the bowling alley and we're not even going to stop.

3. The Abundant Pizza... that you don't want to eat.
Finally! Tons of pizza! Boxes and boxes! They're stacked on top of each other because there's not enough room on the table for all of them otherwise. Oh.. it's from that one place in town. The one that no one ever goes to unless they're desperate. or broke. The one that uses ketchup instead of pizza sauce. I swear they use Kraft singles instead of real cheese. Their crust tastes like burnt Bisquick. Dang.

All Most Some kidding aside, I like to give other people a hard time for lack of follow through, but it's probably one of my biggest flaws that I deal with. Mind you, if I'm hosting a pizza blast, there is GOING to be pizza. And Dr. Pepper. Just keeping it real.

But I do find myself promising a lot of things that I don't have the ability to follow through on. Tim Horton's better start handing out some prizes. Pizza blasts better start respecting the honor of having the word "blast" in their title. And I've got to start backing up my words, too.

If I say I'm going to do something, I've got to start doing it.

It's integrity.

And it's essential.

Anyone else struggling with this? Leave me a comment and we can commiserate/brainstorm together. :)

I'll bring the pizza.