Thursday, May 31, 2012

learning how to count

Never, and I do mean never before in my life have I counted days so religiously.

Estimating, praying, counting, re-counting, equating, comparing, fractionalizing, remembering.

I do it every day this year.

How many months to homecoming?

How many weeks?

When will we hit 100 days?

Only half of what has already passed to go!

This time last year we were...

What if this time next year we...

It's less than my birthday to Christmas!

It's less than Armor School was!

And on and on and on it goes...how many ways to measure the remainder of this separation?

Until I grimace in conviction at these words:

"So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom..."

Words followed by:

"Satisfy us in the morning with Your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days."

Thank you, Psalm 90.

In a season when all I want to do is number my days, am I doing it for the right reasons? And shouldn't I number them all year long? All life long?

And doesn't this seem to imply that my numbering system is all inverted? Incorrect? Perhaps grossly so?

I ask: how many days do I need to pass to get to the end of deployment?

But if I honestly wanted Jesus to fulfill me like these portions of His Word promise, wouldn't I be asking how to get the most rejoicing and gladness out of His steadfast love today? Wouldn't I be treasuring, coddling, hugging so tightly every single day I found Him in? 

The Hebrew word meaning "us to number" is manah. It means to count, reckon, number, assign, tell, appoint, prepare, ordain.

Moses is asking to be taught this skill, something he knew we needed to do, something God has allowed us the ability to do. 

Teach us to appoint our days for wisdom--let us be satisfied in You.

Teach us to prepare our days to prepare our hearts--let us rejoice and be glad.

Teach us to ordain, set them apart--for daily renewal of Life.

This word manah, though Hebrew, looks strikingly similar to the English word manna, the name made up for sustenance that God provided to Moses and His people from the sky. This "bread from heaven," man in Hebrew, fed the Israelites for 40 years in the wilderness as they wandered to the promised land, paying out a penance for choosing not to be satisfied with the love of God.

Man means "What is it?"

It also means portion, gift.

Man. Manah.

Portion, gift. Number, assign.

Am I to assign these days as gifts? To reckon them as Your portions? To feast wholeheartedly in this daily bread provision? Knowing there is no guarantee of future days for numbering. Knowing You have promised to give abundance for feasting today. Knowing I cannot carry over to tomorrow what was given for today--knowing anything left un-enjoyed is wasted. 

Teach us to count these days as gifts. To assign them identity as Your portions. 

Oh teach me! This lesson is so far from completion in me...

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Five Minute **Sunday**: Perspective


In the busyness of Friday's birthday celebration I found just enough time to glance at the prompt, but lacked enthusiasm or inspiration for writing it out. Today that changed, so here I am. Not sure I can do it justice in only 5 minutes, but here goes.

For whatever reason, several of my friends have recently experienced their first significant separation from their spouses. Ok, if I am going to write in brutal honesty, I'll call it "significant" separation. Because let's face it: a week just isn't a very long period of time. 

But somehow or other these girlfriends end up telling me about it, sometimes dramatically, but never intentionally insensitive. Either way, some days I've just had it.

Want to know what I walk away thinking? 

No, really. Are you sure you want to know?

Because your opinion of me may change in the next few lines.

But here it is.

"Shut the heck up. Why the h*** would you complain about that to me?? Did you miss the memo that I've seen my husband for a total of 10 days over the last 8 MONTHS??? Do you realize I don't even TALK to him every day?? There's no texting and no phone calls, let alone date nights or meals together. FOR A WHOLE FREAKING YEAR!!! So take a second to think about how much harder life could be for you than a week away from your husband before you have the nerve to complain about your situation to an Army wife!!!!!!!"

Yep. There it is. Told you. Pretty nasty. Shameful even. But that is where I've been.

So as I fumed my way across town this evening at the remembrance of these conversations, I asked Jesus why these people couldn't step outside of their circumstances and look at things from my perspective for just a minute. (Because clearly, my head is screwed on straight.)

But He stopped and asked me to do the same thing.

Kate, how often do you step outside yourself to do what you ask of others?

Mini eye roll. Not often enough probably...

Is it an easy exercise for you?

Well, it doesn't come naturally, if that's what you mean.

Then can you give a little grace to others the way I give to you?

Yes. Help me?

Because, you see, life could be so much harder for me. I would say I am on a peak in the mountain-valley terrain of this deployment lately. But even when it downright sucks, things could always be harder. And I'm sure some day they will be. 

For starters, Stephen is deployed. He is not dead.

Our immediate families are in good health.

We have access to email daily and video chatting several times a week.

Our Father has been gracious to reveal parts of His work to us in this season.

We are both employed.

We have the best families, amazing friends, and a tremendous church family to support us.

The list goes on and on.

And really, I am sure that a week-long separation from Stephen will feel miserable at some point. We are all in different places, with different situations, and life is hard for everyone. I cannot think of anyone who has it made perfectly, whose story I would rather have. And I want to have grace for the people around me because only Jesus knows just how much grace has been lavished on me. 

Who am I to withhold it from others? 

And if you happen to read this and think I may be talking about you, please know all is right between us and the fault-bearing is all mine. I apologize for my lack of compassion and welcome your honesty about your life. I need to see the grit and grime of these dark places in my heart, let the Light shine in and clean them out. Thank you for bearing with me in this refinement process.

It is difficult at times, some more so than others. But I'm striving, asking, sinking deeper into the Gospel, I pray, to be a fountain of refreshing grace to the people around me.

Thank you, Father. Give me Your perspective minute by minute by year.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

OPK

My new favorite acronym? OPK.

Stands for Other People's Kids and expresses frustration at the lack of or ill parenting said children receive and the negative consequences we all experience therefore.

As JuBe matures toward and beyond her 2nd birthday this Friday, we find ourselves bumping into these OPKs everywhere we go. From the Hippo Hopp to story time to the playground, they are swarming. Certainly not every other child we interact with is obnoxious and in need of a spanking, but the ones who are tarnish the title for all the rest.

For instance, at the Hippo Hopp last week J was climbing up the steps to slide down one of the inflatable slides when a line started to form behind her. And then right behind her. And then almost on top of her as one red-faced, bratty girl screamed at J, "You need to go faster! Hurry up!"

Whether it surprises you or not I have no way of knowing, but my blood reached boiling point in a hot second as I realized this little dweeb would give no thought to climbing over my JuBe if she took any longer. And so I snapped. Not viciously, not loudly, not hatefully. At least I hope not...

"Hey! She's smaller than you so you need to slow down, have some patience, and be kind!"

By then Juliet was thoroughly freaked out and slid down the ladder underneath the waiting OPKs to crawl out the entrance to me in tears. 

Seething. Livid. Katie.

Yes, I did take this picture of Juilet and Sam today knowing that the situation would find its way to the blog.

Today we find ourselves at the sandbox alone when a freshly-turned 4-year-old arrives with her grandfather to play. A handful of sand toys live at the park these days, but today the majority were Juliet's toys, ones I eagerly encourage her to share because Jesus shares with us. So this OPK sits next to me for a few minutes, her name is Sam, and we talk about her birthday and her painted nails and whether or not Juliet is a baby.

When the conversation slows Sam asks me if I would like to build a sandcastle with her. If I am brutally honest, I had zero interest in doing this. Juliet has not hit that benchmark of sandbox discovery yet, and so I try to let her entertain herself as much as possible unless she brings me into play. I forget now how I skirted the issue, but Sam eventually lost interest and contented herself to play with our toys. Not a problem.

Until she starts to ask me to bring her our toys across the sandbox to where she's sitting. As I encourage Juliet to share with her and serve her, Sam gets bossier and bossier, hoarding our toys in the center of the sandbox, and chasing Juliet away from the toys with a snappy whine she had clearly practiced before.

All the while Grandpa is sitting behind me, not saying a word, possibly not even hearing a word of it, probably watching, definitely doing nothing. 

And my temperature rises some more. And I cannot figure out how to coach Juliet through this coup d'etat of the sandbox.

"Ok, Lord, how do I handle this? How can I show love to this OPK? How should I help Juliet respond? Where is the gospel here? How do I teach Juliet to show grace while also assuring her that I am ultimately fighting for her? (If any moms want to chime in on this issue, please do!) Because right now I just don't care about Sam, though I can tell this is not an uncommon occurrence."

And as I realized that the feelings must only intensify exponentially when the child being wronged is your own, the weight of Jesus' crucifixion landed squarely on my heart and mind.

Father, how did you watch, allow, plan to subject Your Son to such treatment?

No matter what OPKs do, there is always sin in Juliet to be straightened out in any situation.

But what about Jesus? Deserving none of his mistreatment, contributing nothing to His guilt, how could You do that?

How could Your fiery wrath burn against His murderers and yet be consummated on His innocence? 

It is no wonder You looked away. To see our sin, our rebellion, our self-worship, manifest in Your Son-became-sin must have been unbearable. Utterly devastating.

And so I don't have any pretty bow to wrap this up in, but let it bother me to gratitude daily. That my love for Juliet is so much less than You, Father, love Jesus. And that my hatred of sin is so diluted from Your's as holy.

Let me wrestle and come away changed each day by the sacrifice you made. 

"For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God." 2 Corinthians 5:21

Saturday, May 12, 2012

beef with "happy"

It is probably true that everyone has a handful of words that grind on their nerves. Or maybe it's just me.

But over the last several months a word I just cannot get around or over or past is this: HAPPY.

Happy. (Pardon me as I cringe, shiver, dry heave.)

Matt Chandler described it well in his Explicit Gospel Tour several weeks ago. He said that happiness is merely an emotion, and a fragile one at that--potentially the most trivial, least meaningful, lowliest regarded sentiment to be felt. As a nation whose mission statement culminates in "the pursuit of happiness," just under the surface we are all secretly failing. The makers of anti-depressants rake in the cash and we stumble around from high to high trying to figure out what the Jones' have that we don't, never knowing they think the same thing about us. 

Despite the claims of fairy tales and chick flicks and Taylor Swift's catchy lyrics, no one is living happily ever after. Not in this lifetime. Not in this world. And I would even go so far as to say that the more we chase happiness around, demanding that happiness be the measurement of satisfaction in every relationship, job or life circumstance we have, the more miserable we become. We are not dogs chasing our tails, we are men and women chasing a myth. Unicorns, magic pixie dust, the fountain of youth, trees that grow money--take your pick. Happy does not satisfy. It does not last. It is not real.

Just look at "The Happiest Place on Earth." An expensive celebration of all that is not real, from Disney princesses to the peace of "It's Small World After All." 



Now you can be sure that the good news is coming, but do you see the danger yet?

From the moment that forbidden fruit was tasted until now, the world we live in has been broken, spiraling deeper and further away from all that God intended us to be. You see, before the fall of man, joy abounded on the earth because of the presence of God, because He walked with man, because everything He made was as it should be. Perfection was life-giving, and yes, everyone felt happy because that was all there was to feel. 

What Adam and Eve failed to realize, however, was that their happiness, their joy, their perfection, all began and ended in their Father, their Creator, their Friend. Those bites of forbidden fruit were the search for happiness outside of what God had given, and that tendency was passed on to each of us from then to now. All of creation responded to the cosmic fissure their pursuit of happiness spawned, and nothing has been right since. Creation is broken, our hearts are broken, and nothing on earth is as it should be because God cannot share community with a people who do not want Him. 

And so God's plan was for Jesus to be broken instead, an exchange powerful enough to reverse the effects of sin when He comes again to reclaim His people. But here's the thing.

That day has not come. 

And every day between now and then, this world will self-destruct just a little bit more.

As long as we are loving Jesus, things in this world will never make for lasting happiness. There is too much here that breaks His heart for us to find enjoyment in the brokenness.

So if we are happy in this world, or if we are devoting your life to being happy, let's take a step back and be scared. Let's ruminate on our propensity to look for feelings of happiness to satisfy us in a world that cannot deliver. If happiness is my goal for this life, I am not looking for the God of the Bible. Because happiness is found only in Him, in the fullness of His presence, an inheritance that will not be fully realized on this side of eternity.

Joy in this life is entirely attainable--the product of hoping in God for all of the future fullness of life He has promised, putting all our expectation for happiness in the future reality of perfect relationship with Jesus.

And if you've made it this far, let me go ahead and say this: I don't think Jesus cares about our happiness. Our joy? Absolutely. Our satisfaction in Himself? To the death. But our happiness on earth? That just isn't what He died for. It is not worth our pursuit. He said so Himself.

"...the way is hard that leads to life..." (Matthew 7:14)

But that life is worth it and characterized by joy--"joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory". Give me that over happiness every day for the rest of eternity.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Five Minute Friday: Real.

Aaaaaand we're back! It's been a while (vacation with Stephen threw me off in the best possible way), but I'm back for Five Minutes today. And the word is: REAL.

GO.

Living in what is real is a challenge, one I find myself faced with almost constantly these days.

But it seems that what I am finding is that what is real is simply what really matters. 

Certainly many things clamor for my attention, trivialities, the minutiae of modern life. Or bigger things, like loneliness, frustration, fear.

These things have ruled my heart and mind for the last few weeks. So many hormones and too much idle time. These real-like things spiral me down so quickly, seeming so legitimate.

I want to feel things that are hard and be vulnerable with the people around me. I want to let the difficulty of single-wifing these 365 days grind against my rough edges and soften my heart toward Stephen and Jesus. 

But I also want to keep my eyes on what is real, really of consequence: that suffering was Jesus' ministry and will be mine as well. That the cross was so much worse than I can imagine for the purpose of restoring me to the Creator's image. Suffering not so I can merely relate to Jesus, but so that I may become like Him in His death and share His victory.

So while part of me feels like I'm merely pulling on my big girl panties to get over my raging femininity, I know that never works. What does, what is real, is the hope of Jesus coming to make all these wrong things right, all these dead things new, all the frenzy peace.

Jesus, give me what is real, all that really matters. You.

STOP.