I have a daughter.  She is nine.  While pregnant I fantasized that her and I would spend our days together playing tennis, sipping Starbucks, and having completely logical conversations about life.   I tried to be realistic, figuring we would have a few small spats when she hit the teen years. All of which would be fixed with an afternoon at the spa, of course. Clearly the pregnancy hormones made me delusional.

Girls have a reputation for hitting adolescence and completely losing all ability to think or act rationally.  I would argue that very few girls wait for adolescence.  Really, less than one percent even waits for post-utero.  My daughter is proof.

Real problems cannot even begin to compete with the ones that she creates.  So I find myself on a daily basis waving my arms in front of her face while explaining that the space within my earshot is a drama free zone.  For her I have coined a simple mantra.  “If this is the worst thing that happens to you today, I’d call it a pretty good day.” (To this she rolls her eyes, crosses her arms, and screams that I make no effort to understand her . . . all while she stomps to her bedroom to play Angry Birds and listen to Taylor swift.)

Some days I wonder where she gets it . . . other days there is no question.

Wednesday was just such a day. The pools were cloudy at the Club that day.  A common occurence in salt systems, and not a problem in any way (really chemically speaking, it’s a sign that the salt is doing it’s thing).  Still, it often brings a  barrage of questions from members.  I had a class in the pool at 8:30.  I drug my feet the whole way there; creating a dramatic scene in my head of angry people and unsatisfactory explanations.  I created a problem in mind before one even existed.  Which in turn pushed my eyes to the ground and put a grumble under my breath.

I slunk into the pool, trying to avoid eye contact.   Still, I could not help but spot a gentleman who had been off the radar for a couple of weeks.  I said hello with no intention of stopping, wanting just to get through what I had convinced myself was going to be a miserable class. I flippantly asked how he was doing, not in any space to really care.  When, for a brief second, I finally lifted my eyes enough to fully take in his countenance.  His lower lip quivered, his line-backer build hunkered.  Tears hung in the balance of his swollen eyes.

Over the next hour, he shared with me his wife’s diagnosis of stage-four lung cancer.  He spoke in two sentence intervals, as sorrow caused his voice to crackle and fade.  His brokenness broke me.  I know his wife.  I love his wife.  But any sorrow I felt paled to compare to the devastation he was experiencing.

In an instant,  I realized how petty my spirit had been — concerned with self-preservation in response to a problem that may or may not have even existed. My imagined pool drama nearly drowned out the opportunity to share in the grief of someone who at that moment deserved my full attention.  My tantrum nearly stopped me from doing my job — both in the literal sense of giving people the workout they needed, and in the more spiritual sense of caring about people the way that God commanded.

In an instant I was reminded that life itself is a privilege.  A truth often clouded by would-be drama.  God created the Heavens and the Earth, the animals and plants, man and woman.  Then He gave man purpose: to be in obedient relationship to God, to work and tend to the earth, and to cleave to one another. These were the privileges of life: relationship with God, work, and relationship with one another.

These are still the privileges of life.   I do not simply teach aerobic classes.  I have the privilege of giving amazing people the opportunity to sweat through their troubles and to care for their bodies.  My work is a privilege.  The people I pass are not just my students, I have the privilege of engaging in their lives and caring about their hurts.  It is a privilege to know them.  I do not simply represent my own desires, but have the privilege to love others because God first loved me.

Drama, both real and imagined would seek to cloud that reality.  I pray that life will continue to present opportunities for perspective that I might see clearly.

Teagan . . . on a less dramatic day.

mmm . . .no mention of nose to nose infestation

My Ninth grade Biology class, led by Mr. Scott, spent an entire month on parasitic worms.  We discussed them, dissected them, detested them. The climax of the unit was the tape worm, also known as Thysanosoma actinoides. After giving a graphic description of its ability to slither from stomach to throat to nasal cavity, Mr. Scott concluded the unit with one final bit of advice.  “And that,” he announced, “is why you won’t ever see me kiss a dog.”  Fifteen(ish) years later;  I wake every morning face to face with a snoring Weimaraner consuming 3/4 of the bed, 6 of the 8 pillows, and just close enough for a tape worm to crawl out of his nose and into mine.  I’m pretty sure I have worms.

My daughter’s fourth grade class just acquired a new student.  She is from Korea.  In preparation for her arrival, the teacher set up a desk and adhered a name tag.  He then lectured the class that no one,  at any time, was to attempt to say her name aloud.   Any student caught saying her name would give up recess for the rest of the week.  My daughter explained to me that the pronunciation of the new girl’s name was questionable.  Anyone who attempted the pronunciation inadvertently cut loose a curse word.  After a full week of holding their tongues, the new girl finally arrived.  The teacher promptly asked that she teach the class how to properly say her name.  The meek child turned to the floor and whispered, “Grace.”  The name tag on the desk was quickly removed.

While watching Cupcake Wars, my son saw a commercial for tiger adoption.  He teared up and begged to adopt one.  Impressed by his compassion, I logged on to the internet, found the site for Save the Tiger, and hit the adopt button. That was two weeks ago. I all but forgot about it really, until yesterday when my son turned to me.  “I’m worried about my tiger,” he began, “will he just come in the mail, or does UPS bring him.”

Actually he'll be coming by elephant

It’s fun sometimes to step back and consider the things that consume my worries; a life sucking parasite that may or may not exist, an inadvertent slip of the tongue, a tiger in a box with no air holes.  It is striking how quickly my thoughts are consumed by possibilities and misinterpretations.  How little room is then left for the present and reality . . . or anything that is not all about me.

God says not to worry about tomorrow, that sufficient are today’s troubles.  I have also made this all about me.  Thinking I need only be concerned about my today, while others around me struggle in theirs. I forget so quickly that God asks me to bear other’s burdens, to weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice, pray for the sick, provide for the poor.  Today’s troubles are not just mine, but also those whom walk with me in this life.

I have a training coming up for work.  It is something I need to go to, something I cannot really afford.  I registered a month ago knowing the payment due date lingered.   On that due date, I got a phone call that my way had been paid by an anonymous donor.  I had not told a single person that I was worried about the money, only God knew.

I want to be the kind of person who uses the day not only to deal with my worries, but also with the burdens of those I know and love.  I want the sound of my (often irrational) voice to be drowned by the voice of God prompting me to  pay the way for someone else.

I cannot thank my anonymous donor personally, so I will do it here.  Thank you for not only paying my way, but reminding me to quiet my concerns and listen to the concerns of others.

On Monday, the snow drifted down in silent beauty.  I loaded the dogs in the mini van, navigated the icy roads, and slid into my favorite trail head.  Braving the weather proved worthwhile, as I ran in complete solitude.  The utter quiet filled my soul with peace, the landscape (painted white) brought joy, and the crisp air-filled my lungs with new life.  Every twist of the trail exploded with fresh perspective, making the final turn to the parking lot bitter-sweet.  Climbing back into the mini van, I glanced down to find my usually mud stained shoes crisp and clean — like fresh out of the box.

I smiled at the sight, remembering an oft quoted verse “though your sins were as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”  The scripture speaks of God’s grace through Christ’s sacrifice; His blood making the stains of our sins white as the freshly fallen snow.  The kind of snow that brings beauty and peace, new life and fresh perspective.  I admired my clean shoes, thanking God for bringing that same purity into my notoriously imperfect life.

I tried to relive the experience on Tuesday. But overnight the snow had melted, freezing again in slushy sheets of ice.  That same icy mess hung from the trees causing the forest to groan under the weight.  Suddenly my peace and joy became overwhelmed with tentative steps.  My feet were turned around by an eerie feeling that it could all crash down, my run cut short by ominous branches.  By Wednesday the temperatures rose bringing torrents of rain.  The final flakes were literally washed away as the melted snow turned brown with dirt and rushed down the hillside. On a trail enjoyed just days earlier, a ten foot wide river made the route impassable and forced us to turn back.

Thursday, swept in with gusts of wind and sideways rain.  The soil could not hold the moisture, causing roots to loosen and fallen trees to create barriers. On Friday, one large tree let go of its roots and the soil gave way. An entire hillside tumbled, erasing a beloved trail. Portions of the road followed, disconnecting the south side of the forest from its north and east counterparts. The forest service closed the woods for the first time, pleading with enthusiasts to avoid nature’s unsteady furry.

Not obsessively obedient, a friend and I went rogue today hoping to assess the damage.  The destruction left us unsettled, saddened by the loss.  Healthy trees, lay shattered on the ground around us.  Crisscrossed oaks leaned upon one another through the settling fog.  Our joy was quickly whisked away by the bellowing winds swaying the trees above our heads.  We ran on, looking for the usual rush of a Sunday dash.  I wanted more than anything to find that moment from Monday, to experience that kind of grace.

What I found was a sobering picture of grace lost.

All faith begins with grace; a relationship with God indulging in the vast forgiveness provided by the blood of Christ.  Faith then flourishes in the promise of peace and new life.  Fresh perspective and joy put feet to faith, urging the believer to continue and not turn back.

The power of grace comparable only to the power of what happens when grace is drowned out by law.

God does not change, His grace is not bound by time nor space.  He does not wash grace from our lives — we do. It is we who recall one another’s failures, who demand perfection from imperfect beings, who refuse to repay the forgiveness that we received at no cost. We approach one another with law instead of love, with rules instead of righteousness, with judgment instead of justice;  we weigh one another down with a burden that even we cannot bear.  We saturate the soil, weaken the roots . . .

How important is it that we reach out to one another as God would reach: with the hand of grace? Consider the river of water that blocked the way, forcing a turning back. Consider the fallen branches, making impassable a once solid path. Consider the slide.  The power of one tree letting go; collapsing the hillside and separating the once unified woods.

God has designed us for relationship, intertwining our  roots.  Like it or not we affect one another for better or worse.  We can blanket one another with grace bringing joy and peace.  Or we can rain down upon one another dividing and barring the way.

“See to it that no one fails to obtain the grace of God . . .(Hebrews 12:15),” this is our call.

Tbeam

Tebow

At my daughter’s first gymnastics meet they were short a timer for the balance beam.  I offered my services right away.  Afterall, I yell “just a few more seconds”  for a living.  At the judges table I was handed a stop watch.  My duties were simple.  At the 45 second mark I was to call out, “warning.”  At the one minute mark, “time.”  An easy task, so I thought.

Then the first girl got on the beam in her sparkly pink leo, chest heaving under the pressure.  I watched the timer intently, but when my big moment came I totally choked.  A small whimper escaped my throat . . . “www . . .www. .. warning.”  It felt so wrong; yelling at these adorable and vulnerable girls.  I could not bear to add any more pressure to the three-inch beam they stood upon.  Halfway through I turned to the judge, “how am I doing?” I asked. She rolled her eyes  with no need to say more.

It was my first glimpse into the brutal reality of gymnastics.  It is a sport where you are always losing, your perfect ten deflated by every bent knee and unpointed toe.  A sport defined by subjectivity and the preferences of judges. A sport full of pressure and disappointments. Still I was knowingly strapping my anxiety-ridden, and self-loathing daughter into a leotard; asking people to point out her flaws.

Crazy thing, my daughter loves it.  She desperately longs to be good at it.  But she is just average.  The week before a meet she worries, cries, declares she is the worst gymnast ever.  The day of the meet she wakes up early, doesn’t breathe for the entire four hours of the competition, and sobs the whole way home because she didn’t win . . . anything . . . again.

Then she catches her breath and vows that she will do it all again next week.

I have had many conversations with her, tried to rationalize with her, tried to teach her breathing techniques, to talk through with her the worst case scenario.  After three season, our pep talk is down to one line.  “Teagan,”  I tell her, ”I will love you the same at the end of the meet as I love you now, win or lose you are loved.” It is the last thing I say to her as I straighten her bow and send her off.  Then I pray with all my heart that she will win, just once.  So far she has not.  If anything, it makes me love her more.

I have marvelled lately at Tebow mania.  My facebook page tells it all.  Christian friends post pictures of Tim praying, give God the glory for every touchdown, refer to every game as another miracle.  Non-Christian friends argue that there is no place for prayer at a football game, it ought to be done in private.  They post articles about the controversy of Christian prayer verses bowing to Mecca and which is more tolerated in modern-day America.  Both believers and non-believers post the Saturday Night Live video where Jesus and Tebow meet face to face. Someone even posted a survey that showed 43% of people believed God was the reason Tim pulled off so many fourth quarter miracles while 42% thought God had nothing to do with it . . . they boasted in the survey, as though it meant God were winning.

Standing back and listening to the debate over Tebow’s faith, leaves me a little miffed. To me, all the arguing has done a huge disservice to the heart of God.  If God is on Tebow’s side, what does it say about the Christians on the other team?  If God is responsible for all the touchdowns,  where was He when the Broncos were crushed by the Patriots?  If Christianity is about winning football games, what does that say about God’s affections?

If I, being imperfect in love; love my child the same whether she wins or loses, how much more must God’s love be undeterred by a pigskin and helmets? God’s heart does not have time to be concerned with who wins, because it is too consumed by a love for all of those involved.

I have read a lot of Tebow quotes.  He has not blamed God for any loss, but calls every loss exactly what it is: the other team playing better.  He does not use his faith as an explanation for wins, but uses his faith as an explanation for his conduct.  I think Tebow gets it: God loves him win or lose. That love is his strength.

Today I am discouraged.  I feel disposable and unwanted.  It seems as though my family is losing in the fourth quarter.  Yet I am confident that my current circumstances are not a reflection of God’s heart towards me.  Win or lose, Jesus loves me the same.  It is a simple truth with profound implications.  It is the truth that is lost when we make faith about football.

Whatever game you play today, whatever battle you face, whatever loss you endure remember: God will love you the same at the end of the day, as He loves you now. Win or lose you are loved.

Thanks Tebow, I almost forgot.

I once saw an interview with Lady Gaga.  When asked to account for her fame, she simply explained that she studied it. All of her antics: the raw meat mini skirt, the strange ova that I still don’t understand are all the calculated effort of a brilliant woman who cracked the code of fame and fortune.  Her theory of  wearing strange outfits, doing bizarre things on stage, and making people talk, seems to work

But not for me.

I once shoved my less than slim nine-year-old body into a burnt orange jumpsuit, strapped a tail to it, and crawled across the stage while my classmates sang “In the Jungle.”  I once performed a tap dance in a giant foam candy bar outfit that cut off all circulation to my arms. I looked like a Pez dispenser and was about as entertaining as one.  I even joined Odyssey of the Mind: a problem solving tournament for youth (imagine an event a little less geeky than a StarWars convention with balsa wood instead of legos).  My team had to create a drama based on an impressionist painting.  The high(or perhaps low)light of my role involved hitting a hidden button in a sheer costume bottom that triggered a lightbulb and illuminated my rear end.  We got bonus points for use of technology.

My history is full of bizarre performances, yet I have less than forty people who read my blog. I don’t even twitter. Perhaps it has to do with my complete lack of talent; singing or otherwise.  Surely, fame and fortune are nowhere in my future, and my children now bear my curse.

At their school christmas pageant my daughter’s role was to move the palm tree.  Twice.  My son auditioned for a speaking part but couldn’t keep beat on the wise men’s rap nor a straight face when the shepherds cracked sheep jokes.  He got a token understudy role that, short of an Ebola outbreak, was more of a consolation prize than a real possibility.

I entered him in a “cutest kid” contest this week.  He’s losing to the kid crying on Santa’s lap.  My daughter took a fashion class at the Art Center in town.  During the fashion show she got stuck in the dress she sewed and never made it out of the dressing room for the final catwalk.  My son’s class will do a rendition of “The Giving Tree” on Wednesday. He, of course, will be the guy who cuts down the kind and loving tree.

If not fame and fortune, song and dance, what then is my role?  What do I tell my children about their future performance?

Moses was a man with a role.  He was to represent God to the people and lead them through the wilderness.  As glamorous as that sounds, it was no easy task.  He brought the Ten Commandments to the people only to find them worshipping a golden calf they made of nose rings.  In his frustration, he threw the tablets on the ground destroying what God had spoken.  So he had climb the mountain again, receive the commands again, bring those commands to the people again.  Because though they messed up, God still wanted to speak, God still loved them.  Moses had to do all again, because he represented God and God will not repent of nor destroy what He has said.

The people whined and complained, they were not satisfied.  God told Mo to speak to the rock, told him that water would spew forth to quench their.   The murmuring got the better of Mo and he struck the rock with his rod.  God was displeased.  Not with the whiney and ungrateful people, but with Moses.  He represented God and when he struck the rock he made the people think that God was angry with them when He was not.

Jesus overturned the tables in the temple because the Pharisees who were supposed to represent God, robbed the people as though God was more interested in their belongings than in them.  The Pharisees made it difficult to get to God, when God wanted everyone to draw near.

I may never emerge from an egg on National television, but I do have a role.  God has asked me, if I truly believe Him, to represent him.  Christianity is full of people asking for money and standing on street corners telling entire populations that God hates them.  They beat the rock, when God has asked them to spare the rod.

God desires true faith to return the grace that it has received.  It is easy to not stand on a street corner with a sign.  It is much more difficult to express kindness to those who whine and complain against me.  It is easy to close my hands and ask for nothing. It is much more difficult to speak long-suffering and truth to those who mock me.  No matter how right I might be, God is still reaching out in love.  And so should I.  It will not bring me fame nor fortune, but it will bring God to those who need Him most.

courtesy fail blog

It’s funny which memories from childhood linger in my mind.

One of the most vivid moments of my thirteenth year came at a soccer practice where my coach tried to instill in us the value of repetition.  He explained that in a game, our bodies would  divert blood and oxygen flow to support the working muscles.  Very little oxygen would get to the brain, he continued. There would be no time for thinking, only doing.  As he finished his pep talk, my hand shot into the air.  “Is that why they call them dumb jocks?,”I quipped.

The coach just frowned at me, completely unimpressed by my quick wit and cleverness.  My face flushed and, at 13, embarrassment is sure to engrave a memory permanently into your frontal lobe for all future decision-making purposes.

To this day, whenever I exercise I remind myself that my brain has very little oxygen in that moment and I should be careful as to what I say.  Especially since not everyone appreciates my quick wit and cleverness.

This can be a difficult discipline while I am teaching aerobics classes.  Which would explain the day that instead of shouting “you gotta love this song,” I shouted, “you gotta love this body.”  It accounts for all the times during physio ball workouts that I have made completely inappropriate comments about where your balls should be and what you should be doing with them.  It almost even justifies all the times that I have shouted “just a few more,” when really there were at least 100 more.

My classes can repeat back all sorts of isms that I have made famous when my words, devoid of fresh air, have simply come out all wrong.

About a month ago though, in the midst of a workout, I made a comment that I have pondered since.

There is this concept in exercise of taking the muscle to failure.  It is the point at which the brain sends a signal and the muscle refuses to respond.  It is the bicep refusing to curl, the quads refusing to jump, the abs refusing to hold that position.  Failure, in the world of exercise, is a good thing.  Failure is the beginning of strength.

So in this class a month ago, I was trying push the participants to failure.  For someone who has never worked in that matter, it is difficult at first.  Pain screams at you to stop, but if the muscle is still firing, you have not failed.  In an effort to push the envelope, I turned to the class and announced “pain is not failure.”

Those words have followed me since.

I have struggled lately with feeling like a failure.  All the dreams and ambitions I once thought were my destiny, appear now as impossibilities.  The love and approval I have so desperately longed for, frowns upon me with more disappointment than ever.  The hope and faith I have declared as the anchor of my soul, has left me feeling foolish.

I have considered myself a failure, when really I have just been feeling pain.

So I wonder then, what if failure in the real world is a good thing too?  What if failure is the beginning of strength?

A hard-handed look at God would suggest that faith and failure are mutually exclusive.  That with faith you should only be moving mountains.  But a good hard look into the heart of God would speak otherwise.

Consider Peter who had all the answers, until he didn’t.  He denied the Lord, stopped following Christ, and started fishing.  Peter was in pain, His teacher and friend had been crucified.  Yet when he stopped trying to say all the right things, when he returned to the basics of what he knew, then he found the only answer he would ever need.  “Yes, Lord, I love you.”  His faith began there, and his strength to care for people as God commissioned him.

In our greatest failures, we can also find our greatest faith.  Faith does not exclude failure, faith demands it.  Faith begins where all that we can do ends.

For the past month I decided to stop.  Stop planning, stop trying to fix everything, stop trying to move forward.  I wanted to experience true failure, and not just pain.  I wanted to know that moment where I stopped and God began.  I wanted to go back to the things I know.

I discovered that I have wonderful people in my life (even a few who appreciate my quick wit and cleverness).  I remembered that my only real destiny is to love and care for them.  I found a new strength to face the day.  And when that fails me too, I will again look for faith.

For my New Year: I resolve to fail, to push myself to the moment of being vulnerable and then to let God do the rest.  This is my resolution, because I am convinced that it will make me stronger.  More importantly, that it will cause me to love deeper.

Not exactly the "preppy look" I had in mind for him

My son asked if he could join the Boy Scouts. I objected on moral grounds.   I just could not, in good conscience, stand outside the local grocery store soliciting innocent bystanders to buy beef sticks, candy bars, and 8,000 calorie bags of popcorn.  Though still intrigued by identifying mountain lion scat, my son agreed that selling beef sticks sounded lame and dropped the subject.

The den mother, however, was more persistent.  She started with guilt, prodding that   ALL  (as in the other five) the boys were doing it.  “Every other Wednesday and one Monday a month my son would be the only boy in his class not dressed in khakis and a silk scarf.” Not really a selling point for me.  The den mother continued her hunt, trying to make light of the commitment, explaining that scouts is run by devoted parents who make-up for the less devoted.  My son’s first badge would therefore be surviving life with a less devoted parent.  I still wasn’t buying in.  The den mother, leader of the wolf packed, finally settled on attacking the weak.  She stalked my son and went in for the kill: she invited him to Recruitment Night.

Against my better judgment I let him go . . . just the one time.

Recruitment night consisted of building ping-pong ball shooters, eating ice cream sundaes, and throwing whipped cream pies at the den mothers (I’m still sorry I missed that part).  Needless to say, my son came home with his twinkling blue eyes promising to scoop dog poop for the rest of his life in exchange for a career in scouts. I caved.

His first meeting was Wednesday, and already he (meaning I) has a project.  This weekend I have the pleasure of guiding my son through the wilderness of cake baking. From scratch.  With scout themed decor.  For the annual cake auction.  Which leaves me to wonder: does a pile of Whoppers made to look like mountain line scat count as “decor?”   Not to mention: at what point did scouts stop eating tree bark and start baking cakes?

Still, not wanting to be ”that mother”, I decided instead to be supportive.  After an unpleasant google search.  (Never Google image search anything with the term scouts and cake).  I find myself planning my entire weekend around tent making.  As in, fruit roll up tents with pretzel poles.  Because, of course, all decorations must be edible.

Scouting has always been on my list of parental Nevers. It joined the ranks of I will never:   use the TV as a babysitter, give them anything less than whole grains and organic,  yell when they spill their milk on the table,  dress them like a dork and make them carry a flag in the school gymnasium.

All the Nevers come with good intention.  They stand on two basic principles:  the honest desire to do what is best, and the foolish assumption that I know what is best.  The longer I am a parent, however, the less I parent on principle and the more I pray.

God promises that He, as the perfect Father, will withhold no good thing from His children.  The key being that God always knows what is good.

I do not.

So I pray.  That I would love my children, but not indulge them.  That I would know that they are not perfect, and that they would always get caught.  That I would guide their ambitions, but not manipulate them to fulfill MY dreams.  That I would know what is good, and ask for forgiveness when I am wrong.

I hate to admit that baking a cake with my son and laughing on the candy aisle about all the sweets that could be mistaken for animal scat . . . is a good thing.  It is an answer to prayer that defies all my principles.  It is the kind of parent I want to be when I grow up:  the kind that leads by prayer over principle.

But for the record: I’m still not selling beef sticks.

An example cake: scat or decorations? I'm just sayin' . . .

My friend Janine gave me a Bondi Band; a six-inch strip of sweat-wicking lycra with three stitches to create a headband.  I slid it on, admiring the neon pink and black polk-a-dots.  I fell in love almost instantly.  The Bondi controlled the hairs that usually tickle my brow, it absorbed the salty drip that usually stings my eyes, it held firm (but gentle) in place preventing the headache that usually throbs with the application of any head-piece . . . it matched my shirt.

I loved the Bondi but hated the $8 price tag.  So I asked my mother in-law if she could make me some (I can’t even sew a button).  Instead, she bought me five more.  Those five came with a coupon: five for twenty-five.  It would have been criminal to let it go to waste, so I ordered five more . . . which came with another coupon.  I now own twelve strips of lycra, with five more on the way.

In a small way the Bondi changed my life.  I no longer get dressed in the morning, I accessorize, making sure my outfit matches the band of the day.  I used to throw my hair into a loose bun in the morning, now I carefully place the bun so as not to detract from the Bondi effect.  I check the website almost daily to see what fabrics joined  the collection; I stand convinced that I must add Hippie Pirate to my collection of Whirly Pink and Rainbow Party (not to mention Hawaiian Sunset and Princess).

Last Wednesday I got a new running jacket from my dad.  It matched Lime Green Peace perfectly. I woke up early on Thursday, slid into the jacket,  pulled the Bondi into place, admired that even my nail polish matched, and looked in the mirror.  That’s when it occurred to me:  I might be having a midlife crisis.  In fact, I am almost positive that most midlife crisis begin with lycra and shades of neon.

A friend tried to reassure me that without a sports car and silicone, I was still okay.  But I am not convinced.  I am keenly aware that most days I hang by a thread.  Last week I cried for an hour when my husband left the pot roast on the counter and the dog ate it.  I cried even longer today when he left a weeks worth of meals on the counter and the dog ate those too. On Saturday I came through the front door after work only to have the dog knock the cell phone out of my hand in his excitement; when I bent down to pick it up he head butted me and left a huge lump above my right eye.  I sat in the middle of the floor and fell apart. I overreacted when my son ordered hot lunch instead of eating the sandwich I made him,  completely lost it when my daughter shoved all her laundry into one drawer instead of hanging it up properly, and sulked for hours when someone at work drank part of my latte.

I like to feel like I have it all together.  I like it even more when other people think I have it all together.  Really, I’m a hot mess.  Most days I fight fatigue and stress, fall further behind on laundry and life, struggle to get through the day without regrets and without tears.  I hate that the little things get the best of me, but that’s what happens when I try to hold everything in place all the time.  Because it is the little things that go wrong, they are what I cannot control.

In Colossians, Paul writes a beautiful description of Jesus as the image of God, redeemer of our soul, and ruler of creation.   He also writes that “in Him all things hold together.”  I have been trying lately to wrap my mind around that.  If in Him all things are held together and I am in Him, then I don’t have to hold it all together.   I like the sound of that.  I want to experience that kind of life . . . a life of faith that believes that Christ will hold it all together even when I am falling apart. I want to live above the little things by living in Him.

It means I have to let go; to try less and trust more.  It is a little scary for me, but I know that it is what God is asking me to do now . . . before I buy more Bondis.

One of these people might be having a midlife crisis. Can you guess which one?

how could you not want him?

I wanted another dog. More specifically I wanted Gus; the 90 pound Weimaraner featured on the rescue sight as the perfect dog. I wanted him, and I got him.

But he is not the perfect dog.

He doesn’t chew (as the website promised), he de-stuffs.  Forget marijuana, this dog can smell synthetic fibers from a mile away.  His first month with us, I nightly battled his ravenous appetite for the comforter on my bed.  The stuffing taunted him from the inside, testing his stamina.  I finally relented, allowing him to remove every last puff of white.    I now have a duvet cover on my bed . . . minus the duvet.

Last night I left Gus inside while I went to work.  I also left the window open.  Two hours later, I returned home to find Gus in the backyard and the window screen shredded.  I’d like to think that he chased off a burglar, but suspect that there was probably a squirrel involved.

Gus prefers the passenger seat.  I sit in the back, while he holds hands with my husband in the front.   Gus prefers the bed.  When my husband comes home from swing shift, Gus wraps his paws around me and growls until my husband resigns to the couch.  Gus prefers fine cuisine.  He ate four pounds of chicken off the counter for dinner.  The kids had PB&J.

Gus is not the perfect dog.  He isn’t even a good dog, but I wanted him.  I still want him.  Not once have I considered shipping him back, asking for a refund, crying “false advertising.” He is my dog.  I wanted him, and we will work it out.

To want and be wanted is a powerful thing.  In some ways it is the beginning and end of relationships.  It is the determination needed to love without condition.

Want is the reason for everything.  God was, and all was well, until He created.  Why did He create?  Because He wanted us.  We are the reason that all things came into existence.  Why the garden then?  Why temptation?  Why sin?  He wanted us, but we also had to want Him. In the days of Noah the heart of God was grieved because the heart of man desired evil all the time.  He wanted us, but we wanted other things.  So Why Jesus?  Because we are not the perfect dog.  Still God want us.

There are these words that haunt me . . . “It’s okay if you leave . . . If you want to go that’s fine . . . it might be better.” I cannot reconcile them. They force a lump into my throat and press tears into the corner of my eyes . . . they pound into my brain this panicked reminder that we are not wanted there.  Still we remain, because we want to stay.  No pain exceeds the rejection of wanting to be, and yet not being wanted.

It is strange then to think of the power we have towards the heart of God.  He wants us.  He gave up perfect harmony and unity to create and be with us.  Yet we reject Him, and His heart is sorry. He feels the pain of wanting and not being wanted.

Still our unfaithfulness is easily reconciled.  Though we may stray, choose other things, bail out on Him, He never repents of His desires for us.   We do not face a single day of unwanted.

Sure we might not get the job we applied for, might face the betrayal of friends, the departure of loved ones.  We might even hear “It’s okay if you go, it won’t bother me.”  Rejection on earth is imminent, but you are always wanted in heaven.  As Jesus prayed in His final days: Father, I want these whom you have given me to be with me where I am. Then they can see all the glory you gave me because you loved me even before the world began! And when we experience the desire He has for us, we cannot help but respond as David did:I pray to you, O LORD. I say, “You are my place of refuge. You are all I really want in life.

It is good to be wanted.  It is even better to be wanted by God.

I see her every day on the trails; four-foot nine and in her seventies, walking in an over-sized sun hat and white pleated pants, holding a leash connected to the biggest Huskie dog I have ever seen.  My off-leash mutts charge towards her as a holler for them to ease up and come back.  I call out to the woman to warn her we are passing.  She smiles, waves, and anchors her feet into the dirt.  My dogs run past with no acknowledgment of the woman or her dog.  The huskie yanks and pulls, drooling;  but the woman holds tight, miraculously resisting his strong tug.  I fully expect him to pull her to the ground and drag her to the other end of the forest.  Her strength prevails.  I miss her when I do not see her.

Yesterday, I saw the huskie but not the woman.  He darted into the bushes and I continued on my way assuming the woman was not far behind him.  Moments later, as I turned on to a parallel trail, I heard the sounds of wheels crunchy through the gravel of the log road.  The crunching stopped, a brief slamming of car doors bounced off the trees, followed by the high-pitched hum of a dog whistle.  The plod of a 100 pound dog disrupted the tall dry grass, followed by the gentle voice of a dog lover, more car doors, and the fading crunch of car wheels.

I smiled for a moment.  When I am seventy, I thought, I will own a Great Dane.

I only see him on Tuesdays at the gym;  wheel chair bound and in his seventies, clad in khakis and pressed polo, watching the swimmers from an upstairs window.  I teased him once about the view he enjoyed.  He responded by smiling and asking me about my day. He seemed to actually want to know how my day was.  We chatted about our weekends, the weather, and his wife.  I found him witty, charming, and incredibly sweet.  I make an effort now to walk past that window on Tuesdays in hopes of chatting with him. I miss him when he is not there.

Last week the temperatures reached the high 90′s and instead of parking him by the window, his wife bought him a popsicle and left him to watch tennis in the lobby.  He and I chatted about college football while she finished her workout.  I later told her what a sweet husband she had.  “I know,”  she told me, “he’s got a huge heart . . . . I could come without him, you know  . . .  but why would I.”

I smiled for a moment.  When I am seventy, I thought, I will eat popsicles and talk to strangers.

Solomon lived a life of excess; marked by wealth and women.  He possessed all spiritual wisdom, lived in luxury, built great naval fleets, rubbed elbows with the likes of Cleopatra.  He built a temple for God, expanded the cities of God’s people, and ruled with little opposition.  Yet as his face wrinkled, his body slowed, his life drew near its end:  his words were cynical.  All is vanity, he wrote.  We labor and then we die.  There is nothing new, and nothing satisfied. Work is meaningless, wisdom is meaningless, pleasure is meaningless. His words were almost prophetic as, upon his death, all that he built crumbled under the rebellion of the Northern Kingdom.

David, Solomon’s father, knew poverty and humility.  The runt of the litter, so to speak, in his family.  He had only stones to kill giants.  He experienced scorn, kings sought to take his life, he showed spiritual weakness, lost his integrity, saw the untimely death of his first-born.  He spent much of his life running and repenting.  As his hairs turned grey; he saw God in every sunset, heard his voice in the winds, found the meaning of life in the presence of His Lord.  What Solomon built was the legacy of his father, but it lost its meaning when God was drowned out by the excess.  Better is a poor but wise youth, Solomon wrote, than an old king who has forgotten how to heed a warning.

When I am seventy I will own a big dog and eat popsicles.  I want to take on big things so that God can work miracles until my very last day.  I want to enjoy the little things as opportunities to find connections in the faces around me.  I want to begin now by leaving excess behind and seeking God in the sunsets.  I want to create a legacy to build upon instead of walls to be torn down.