good.

word of the day: good \ˈgu̇d\ of high quality

I’ve been replaying this single line from The Fault in Our Stars in my mind since Saturday. It’s a simple one and it comes toward the end when Augustus is feeling particularly nostalgic about his life. As the wind blows between them, he squeezes Hazel’s hand and says, “It’s a good life, Hazel Grace.”

It’s a good life.

I turned twenty-nine on Saturday and the fault was not in the stars. They aligned perfectly: Jake had the entire day off, fall weather hit our doorstep, my gracious aunts were available and willing babysitters, and Iowa beat Iowa State (special shout out to the bartender at the Great Lakes Brewing Co. for turning the game on for us and to Jake who let me exchange his pre-made plan of a fancy place for a brewery and a football game. I don’t think he was terribly disappointed.).

People always ask you if you feel different on your birthday, and my go-to answer is always, “No.” It’s just another day, after all. But, as I’ve been thinking about this past year, I realize that I am different. I mean, this year me and last year me have very little in common, really. There’s a new kid, a new job, a new house, a new city, and a new state. I’ve learned things about myself and Jake and the girls and parenting and marriage and relationships and life in general that make me incomparable to the 28-year-old version of myself. I think if I passed her on the street, I’d hardly recognize her. I’d probably say something like, “Cute bangs. Have you ever thought about growing them out?” or “You should have kept all your floral print rompers and butterfly clips from the 90s because they’ll totally be back in style soon.” or “You might as well pre-order the new Taylor Swift album when it comes out because you know you’ll end up buying it anyway.”

Birthdays get a bad rap sometimes, don’t they? I stare in the face of thirty now, and I suppose I could dread the approaching decade. Feel “old” or something.

Instead I just feel grateful.

It’s a good life, after all.

Here’s proof:

Lily helped in the making of this cake. The final product is better because it has one giant circle of sprinkles thanks to her artistry. She also got to put the candles on a second cake and got pretty creative (see below).

I traded the view on the left for the view on the right at dinner. The game was tied 17-17 when we tuned in to the fourth quarter. It's about time Iowa pulls through for the Cy-Hawk trophy. (On that note, this is still on my birthday wish list.)

Lily loves having her picture taken.

  

lie: a conclusion

word of the day: lie \ˈlī\ to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to be in a helpless or defenseless state

Love God. Love others.

I wrote four posts about the major lies I fight on a daily basis, and those four words felt a recurring theme of Truth amidst the lies.

Love God. Love others.

That’s what’s at stake.

It doesn’t matter if it’s self-pity or fear or apathy or entitlement; each untruth keeps me from doing the very things I am meant to. They keep me in the same spot. After all, a lie as a noun turns a person into lie as a verb: immobile (that works clearly in my own mind, so I’m going with it).

Conclusion: Philosophy loses out when there isn’t any action to back it up.  In order to beat the lies, I have to fight the immobility.

I read a quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes yesterday that sums up my thoughts particularly well:

I find the greatest thing in this world not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving. To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind, and sometimes against it, but we sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.

I can take a stand. I can counter lies with truth and talk about how good it is to love God and love others. But unless I sail into the wind and fight the urge to drift or lie at anchor, what good does that philosophy do anybody?  

So I’ll beat on, boat against the current.

(I definitely came up with that last line all on my own and did not borrow it from one of my favorite literary treasures.1)

1Just kidding. Thanks, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

lie: part four.

word of the day: lie \ˈlī\ to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to be in a helpless or defenseless state

“You deserve it.”

“It” can be replaced by any number of things, can’t it?

A break. A pedicure. A $5 dollar latte. A trip to Target. A night off of cleaning the kitchen. Some alone time. Some “me” time. Some “I just need 5 minutes” time.

It’s the plight of the stay-at-home mom, I think. When you spend all day tending to the needs of needy, volatile, and, sometimes, hostile human beings, it’s easy to tell yourself you deserve a break or some time to yourself.  

Well, now that I read that paragraph over again, I realize that those three adjectives could also be used to describe the middle schoolers of my former life. Or the patients Jake spend his current life with. Or really, people in general.  So, maybe it’s just the plight of existence.

Time to rejuvenate is good. Give me an hour browsing the clearance racks at Target, and I’ll come back a brand new version of myself. But, make no mistake, I don’t deserve that time. ‘Need’ and ‘deserve’ are two fundamentally different things, and I start to get into trouble when I begin to use them interchangeably.  

This lie again (and to no surprise) causes discord in my relationships. Namely? Marriage. It seems to weasel its way into our house between the hours of 5 p.m. and 10 p.m. when everyone is getting settled back into the “home” routine. It whispers things like, You worked hard all day; she really expects you to do that now? or You changed all the diapers for the past 12 hours; he can change them all for the next 2 or He doesn’t know how hard it is chasing two kids all day; you deserve a quick shower by yourself (which, if you’re like me, is never actually ‘quick’).

This one, I think, requires a bit of a litmus test. Take that last scenario, for instance. Do I want to take a shower because I’ve been using mashed sweet potatoes as a styling agent for two days or because I want Jake to deal with the crazy alone for the 45 remaining minutes before bedtime? If it’s the latter, the shower needs to wait.

Jesus didn’t make a habit of coddling people; He just said again and again, “Follow me.” And, each time He said it, people had to form an immediate response. Peter and Andrew left their nets in the water and followed (Matthew 18-22); whereas, the rich young man walked away sadly because he couldn’t bear to give up everything he had in that moment (Matthew 19:16-22).

It’s a question of whether I’m willing to die to myself in those moments, really. I am continually reminded that all God asks me to do is love Him and love others. I don’t make the list. In those moments when I feel like I deserve something for myself, I’m off center. I’m focusing on the wrong things.

Instead of taking a shower as soon as Jake gets home, it’s far more valuable for me to spend time with our family unit as a whole. Instead of trying to even the tally of diapers changed, it’s more valuable for me to continue to share the load (is that a poor choice of words?). And, it’s far more valuable for Jake to pitch in around the house and give all he has for us even though he’s exhausted from working a thirteen hour day (I know this because I watch him do it every single night. He’s a good egg, that one.).

A life that revolves around what I need or think I deserve is a life out of focus. It’s selfish.

I don’t want that life. I want to die to myself. Even when it’s really, really hard.

Like when all I want to do is finish my episode of The West Wing as Norah wakes up from her nap or when I just want to sing my favorite song on the radio as Lily asks me to sing “Baby Beluga” for the four millionth time.

I'm a work in progress, people.

lie: part three.

word of the day: lie \ˈlī\ to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to be in a helpless or defenseless state

“You’re just one person.  What difference can you make?”

So, Jen Hatmaker.

When we moved to Ohio, I opened up 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess. It had been sitting on the back pages of my Kindle for a couple of years, and my friend, Jess, told me I needed to read it. So I did (I try to do everything Jess does. She’s a key member of my council). And it wrecked me. Wrecked me, you guys.

The premise is simple. Hatmaker took seven areas of excess: food, clothing, shopping, waste, possessions, media, and stress. She spent one month on each area and reduced her life down to seven things (although each month “reduced” down differently). For instance, during the food month she ate the same seven foods, during the clothes month she rotated the same seven articles of clothing, and during the stress month she paused to pray seven times a day.

I opened the book thinking I would change as a consumer: buy less, waste less, give more. And, while that did happen in ways (I make homemade croutons with stale bread and recycle now, for goodness sakes), I closed the book more cognizant of my need to serve the least. To get past the excess in my life and to bring Jesus to people.

enter this lie.  

Loving people requires action. In my experience, people who need Jesus don’t just flock to my house. They don’t just turn up on my front porch and ask for homemade cookies (although I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t prayed for that a time or two).

So, Satan thwarts this mission if he can convince me that I can’t make a difference anyway.

I have two counteracting perspectives to this lie.  Hatmaker helped me come to the first and she did it while talking about spending of all things. In her quest to be a better steward of her money, she was discouraged that her “race against the machine [was] silly.” Translation: You’re just one person.  What difference can you make?

Her response?

When I look at our earth’s resources and all the humans it needs to sustain, I have to adopt an “as for me and my house” perspective on responsibility.  Stewardship is like that. I won’t answer for the way another Christian mismanaged money. I won’t be charged with another person’s irresponsible consumption. Nor will I get credit for how another faith community shared or sacrificed luxuries for the marginalized.

I’ll answer for my choices.

And I’ll answer for mine, too. Someday, I’m going to stand before God and make an account for the way I lived my life, and I’d like to be able to say that I gave it my best shot. That I tried to love people well. That I didn’t just wait for them to come to me.

I might not change the world in big ways. I probably won’t end world hunger or find a home for every orphan across the world. But if I step off my front porch, I think I can at least make small differences. And I’ll gladly answer for those.

My second perspective, though, comes from one of my other favorite writers, Bob Goff. He wrote the book Love Does and champions the idea that love requires action and that from those actions can come great things.

Goff took this principle and (to put it far too succinctly than it deserves), allowed his children to meet and host foreign dignitaries in their home for sleepovers, became the American consul to Uganda (rescuing hundreds of kids in the process), and started a tradition in which their entire neighborhood puts on a New Year’s Day parade complete with a grand marshal and a 100% participation rate.  

I like what Donald Miller (now it’s a trifecta of authors) says about Goff in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years:

I asked Bob what was the key to living such a great story, and Bob seemed uncomfortable with the idea he was anything special. But he wanted to answer my question, so he thought about it and said he didn’t think we should be afraid to embrace whimsy. I asked him what he meant by whimsy, and he struggled to define it. He said it’s that nagging idea that life could be magical; it could be special if we were only willing to take a few risks (167).

I want whimsy.

I want to believe that big things can happen even if I don’t expect them to. And that loving people is a choice that will never fail.

Anyway, people like homemade banana bread too much for it to fail.  And, thanks to Jen Hatmaker, I’ve got an excess of baked goods made with overripe bananas.

Lily likes to help me bake. 

lie: part two.

word of the day: lie \ˈlī\ to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to be in a helpless or defenseless state

“That’s too dangerous. You’re safer where you are.”

The following is a real conversation which took place between Jake and me before I traveled with the girls in a car alone across nearly 4 states. It has not been exaggerated (although, as you'll see, one of my natural tendencies is exaggeration).

Me: I'm feeling anxious about the trip. You know, I'm just worst-case scenario-ing.

Jake: Ok. I like to think through situations in advance too. So, worst-case scenario: the car breaks down. What do you do?

Me:

Jake: What?

Me: Really? That's your worst-case scenario?

Jake: Yes. Why? What's yours?

Me: Oh, I don't know. We could crash and die on the interstate. Lily could run out from underneath the bathroom stall at a rest stop and be kidnapped. I could be kidnapped from the parking lot of the rest stop leaving the girls alone and screaming. The car could break down and then someone could prey on our misfortune before the police get there.

Jake:

End scene. The struggle is real, people. And yes, bless Jake for even attempting to engage with my inner-monologues.

I am afraid of everything. As a child, I went to bed each night convinced that a.) my house was going to burn down b.) I had leukemia or c.) the rapture was going to happen and leave me behind (whoever thought 'Left Behind: The Kids' was a good idea?). I couldn't even spend the night at my grandma's house because I was convinced my parents were going to die in my absence.

Fear is the ultimate robber of joy, if you ask me.

This lie is tricky (okay, yes. They are all tricky; they're lies after all) because it's relatively true. It really is safer for me to stay inside my house at all times.

But, much like "ease," God never promised me that this life should be safe.

When I get bogged down by fear or when the thought of something terrible happening to the girls physically tightens my chest, I try to remind myself of two things:

First, and again, God promises to never leave me. He promises the same for Jake. And Lily. And Norah. He is with us. Always. (I particularly like the reminder in Psalm 139.)

Second (and this is a harder one for me swallow), preserving this life isn't the end goal. Before Jake and I went to Africa, I was flat-out terrified. I sat on a park bench the night before we left bawling my eyes out mostly because I had convinced myself that we were, indeed, going to die. Many well-meaning people tried to offer encouragement: "Don't worry. Nothing's going to happen to you."

The people were well-meaning, but the advice wasn’t helpful. I knew that something could happen and that they had no way of knowing that something wouldn’t.

So, before we left on that trip, I had to come to terms with the fact that I could die. And that if I did die, God would still be Good. That His plan would supersede any that I could come up with on my own. This didn't make it easy (I wrote once about still feeling afraid during that trip), but it reminded me again that I'm not the center of the story and that my life will continue even when this one ends.  

This is the most paralyzing lie of all because it is really meant to do just that. I think Satan whispers this one when we are given an opportunity to do something for God. In my experience, when I succumb to the lie, it is at the cost of a relationship with a person; the cost of bringing the kingdom to someone who desperately needs it.

And that's what Satan wants, isn't it? To keep me  from doing the very things Jesus asks of me. If he can convince me to justify my own fears, he keeps me motionless and from bringing the Kingdom to earth.

Even so, mom and dad, you can keep the Left Behind: The Kids series at your house. No need to push the limit up in here.

lie: part one.

word of the day: lie \ˈlī\ to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to be in a helpless or defenseless state

“Your life is harder than everybody else’s.”

I’ve always had a particular proclivity for self-pity.  (In fact, I wrote about it once already back when Jake started medical school.  It seems fitting that this lie would rear its head again here at the start of residency.)

 

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be a person who doesn’t succumb to deep puddles of self-focused melancholy (much like I wonder how people express their feelings without embracing the use of hyperbole). But, as it is, I am a person who does.

This was the most recent individual selfie I could find.  People are happier readers when they have pictures to look at, right?  Also, go Indians!  I love Cleveland sports.

I can list a lot of hard things that have happened to me in my life. Like when Lily was born and Jake was gone for the first three weeks studying for boards.  Or when Norah was born and Jake was gone for the first three weeks in Ohio.  Or when I was up nursing Lily in the middle of the night and it hurt so bad that I said every curse word in the book (sorry, mom and dad). Or when Norah thought the 4 month sleep regression should start at 5 months and LAST 4 months. Or when I moved to Ohio.

enter the lie.

It shimmies itself in during those hard moments; the times when I’m at my wit’s end and gives me a glimpse into the “easier” lives of the people around me: Her husband was around when their babies were born. Her babies sleep through the night.  She doesn’t even know how bad breastfeeding can hurt. They didn’t have to move to Ohio. (The list is extensive.)

This lie causes two major problems.  First, it takes away my perspective. Just so we’re clear, my life is not hard.  There are people who read this blog who have lost children, lost spouses, and lost marriages.  Who have battled infertility and depression and severe anxiety which I will never know.  There are people who have raised babies for years at a time while their husbands served overseas.  I’m sure you cringed reading about my “calamities,” and I don’t blame you.

Even more problematic, this lie isolates me from the people who matter the most because it breeds resentment. In those moments of self-pity, my instinct is to avoid the people whose lives seem easier than mine. Unfortunately, those tend to be the people I need the most (which is obviously not a coincidence).  

The counteracting Truth is tricky, too, because God never promises that this life is meant to be easy.  Jesus repeatedly asks people to give up everything they have to follow Him.  The cost of following is high.  It’s worth it, but it’s high.

He does promise to be with me, though (again and again and again and again). He also promises that perseverance and growth (both good things) come from pressing on through the trials (James 1, among other references).

I don’t want to play the game of Whose Life Is Harder than Whose? It’s not fun or productive or beneficial in any way (and, I could be playing How Much Can I Get Done Before the Microwave Beeps? for crying out loud).  

I want to live a life in which I acknowledge that, yes, sometimes this life is hard.  Sometimes I am thrown curveballs that others don’t have to dodge or am given a high hurdle when someone else’s is shorter. But I also want to live a life in which that’s okay.  In which I am not always just waiting for my life to be “easy” again or ranking my difficulties on a scale of bad to worse.  I want perspective and people and to celebrate ALL the various things that come my way (and the way of others).  Because there’s always good to be found. Even in the hard times.

This life is a dot on the line of eternity.  All God asks me to do is love Him and love others well. When I am able to shift my focus to that and remember that God promises to never leave me even in the most challenging of times, the lie that my life is harder than everybody else’s becomes moo.

It’s like a cow’s opinion. It doesn’t matter.

lie: a series.

word of the day: lie \ˈlī\ to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to be in a helpless or defenseless state

I once wrote that “I could probably write a 328 part series about the lies I believe on any given day.”  

The themes of that post, written a little over a year ago, have been on my brain since we moved to Ohio.  Specifically, I keep thinking about this:

The first eight definitions of the word “lie” have to do with something that remains motionless. Helpless. Defenseless. That’s what happens when we believe a lie isn’t it? It is meant to paralyze us. Take away our direction. Keep our boat in place. 

It always helps me once I detect the lie. Instead of a weight that hangs heavy around my heart, it becomes a fly that just needs swatted away once in a while. It’s still annoying, yes, but it’s not enough to keep me from paddling.

Every day, a million thoughts go through my head.  Many are good and some are bad and a few sneak in parading as good which are really bad (I’m breaking all my own writing rules here about choosing strong adjectives).  The latter two categories, in many cases, are lies, and if I’m not careful, they really do have the power to paralyze.  

I can’t stop thinking about all the lies.  So, I think I’m supposed to write about them.  

I don’t really want to write about them.  That’s why I’ve been posting about how much I love my dishwasher and about how much I hate Eastern Standard Time and about all the hilarious things Lily says.  It’s easier to be clever than it is to be vulnerable.  

I’ve been working to name the lies. isolation, entitlement, and fear tend to play dominant roles (although I don’t like to give them the satisfaction of capital letters), and in writing about each one individually, I hope to expose the lie and counter it with Truth (a well-deserved capital letter there).  

If this is the introduction, then here is the thesis: There are two things I need you to know if you intend to read any subsequent posts in this series.

First, my propensity to believe lies is not new.  It is not a result of our move to Ohio.  I believed all these same lies my first semester of college when I cried behind closed doors every night, or when I kept getting rejected from teaching interviews, or when Jake and I went to Africa, or when Lily was born and I didn’t feel particularly happy about it.  You name a chapter in my life, and I’ll name all the lies I believed.  I only say this because the lies I believe might also be the lies you believe even if you’re living in a totally different life stage than me.  Lies are tricky that way.

Second, lies have to originate somewhere, so if I’m going to talk about them, I have to talk about Satan.  He is the accuser (Job 1:6); the father of lies (John 8:44).  He is on the prowl (1 Peter 5:8), and his end goals are death and destruction.  The worst part is that he is smart, and he knows how to make a lie sound pretty good. How to make it your idea.  How to twist the truth just right. How to prey on your most vulnerable moments. He doesn’t want us to find the lies because then we expose his voice behind them. And when we expose his voice, we expose the fact that (spoiler alert) he doesn’t get to win. God does, and there is (I’ve found it) great hope in that.  We can beat the lies.  

I don’t intend to write a 328 part series.  If it starts to get too heavy, I promise to take a break to write about clever things like how I’m pretty sure Jen Hatmaker can see into my soul or how all I want to do every moment of every day is watch The West Wing.

In any case, if you choose to stay tuned, I hope the lies I wrestle with on any given day can help you wrestle with and name yours.  What good is this life if we can’t go through it together, after all?