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.