The Journey of Holy Week: Easter

On Friday a thief, on Sunday a King. We sang these words this morning and wow, how good they felt! Lent has concluded with the joy of resurrection. I pray that this evening finds you resting in the knowledge that the promise of redemption is possible through the gift of Jesus.

47 days of blogging. When I took on this discipline on Ash Wednesday, I never dreamed that I would fall in love with the process. There were only 2 days in that time period that I struggled to find words. This means two things:

1) I have too many words.
2) I think I need to press into my written voice.

I love speaking. I am beyond blessed that I serve in a community where I am able to use my study and stories to challenge the community through teaching. I find such joy in crafting a message. I love finding unique ways to communicate truth and interest face to face. I really thought that writing would not be as rewarding because you cannot control the inflection and tone. I was wrong.

Time and again during this season, you have encouraged me with your insights. I have no idea who reads these blogs unless you tell me that you do. From the messages and comments, I have been given new insights to your lives and experiences. I have heard from friends that I rarely see. I have been able to share one-on-one with those who have reached out in 'me too' journeys. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Many have asked, "What now?" Easter is here, your lenten commitment to write is over. Will you keep writing? The answer is YES! Seeing that this is no longer a Lenten Longing, I would be honored if you would consider following my new blog The View From The Bathroom Floor. I will not post every day, but I will continue to roll out the honesty and struggle and joy and journey that is my life.

I am also going to begin work on a long time dream to write my story in a book. It is a long range goal, with no due date. I have a weird vision for the layout that weaves together my love of church and recovery and faith and doubt and advocacy and failure. All of these things make me who I am and I love the many roads that converge in my story.

Finally, I ask a favor. Please don't stop emailing and texting me with questions and pushback and love. I can't write into a vacuum and pretend that the words are just words. When I sit down to write, I see faces and stories and friendships. I take the struggles that I see around me and use them as food for insight and growth. None of this is possible without the human interaction and shared experience. When I think about the opportunities that I have been given to live out this journey of gift development, none if it would be possible without the encouragement and support of people who have said, GO! Thank you for being my people.

The Journey of Holy Week: Saturday

Because I have spent much of my adult life involved in planning Easter Sunday events at a church, Saturday has always been a day of tension. I know that we are still in the darkness of Friday, yet there is work to do to prepare for the celebration to come. Again, today, I split this tension.

I woke up this morning and intentionally slowed my thoughts. I recalled (in a pre-coffee haze) the pain that we walked though last night. I chose to hold on to Friday for as long as I could. Then I watched a giraffe be born and sat with my own 11 year-old giraffe and giggled as the baby learned to stand. We may have cheered upon success.

I went to 218 (the name for the building where we gather to serve and worship) about 1pm. As I walked in, the cross was still hanging. The thorns were still present. The candles were out and the evidence of a dark night was present. We began to transform the space for a party. The curtains went from the black fabric to the bronze satin. The waters of Baptism took the place of the cross. The drapes of the Lenten season were lifted and you could begin to feel the lightness in the air.

There were four of us working today. One took the time to lint roll all of the black chairs. One made sure that the bathroom supplies were stocked and the floors were clean. We all worked to create space for all to hear that the darkness has gone and we have a story worth sharing.

The last few years, I have gifted myself a guilt free Easter afternoon. This was a lesson that took many years to learn, but here is why. I give all that I have to  Holy Week. By the time that Saturday evening comes around, I have poured and felt and worked and loved the heck out of the journey. The idea of cooking and cleaning is last on my list. I WANT to have a lovely Easter dinner or drive to be with family on the other side of town. But on the years that I have forced this, I leave with little to no resurrection joy. What seemed like a good idea 4 weeks beforehand, leaves me exhausted and downright intolerable by Sunday night.

Two years ago, I let go. I invited a few friends for crawfish on Easter. There was no set table, no place cards, no china. There was no silver or ham or rolls. We ate crawfish on newspaper in the backyard. It was wonderful. This year, we have our pool ready and some hotdogs and hamburgers. Paper plates will be more than sufficient, as we are going to focus on being the Church on this special day.

For those of us with deeply imbedded Southern Jesus-loving roots, this may seem sacrilegious. But for this free thinking, resurrection celebrating pastrix, flip-flops and shorts is exactly what I need. Any and all egg cuteness and bunny crafting will come because someone else played on Pinterest. If there are no vegetables and all desserts courtesy of pot-luck style lack of planning, hallelujah. And when it is all said and done, a nap is defiantly in the plan. I'll be ignoring all swimming teenagers by 2:30pm. Bye, Felicia.

Whatever you are planning to do to celebrate Jesus tomorrow, make it a day where the reason we gather is the focus of your planning. Sing and smile and love and laugh. Walk with a lightness and a spirit of joy. May we see Jesus in all the glory of new life and fling ourselves into a season of falling more deeply in love with our Savior.

The Journey of Holy Week: Good Friday

Today, we remember the journey to the cross. We remember that Jesus was tortured and beaten and rejected. We know that the stone was rolled in front of the tomb and we are left to wait.

During our Good Friday service tonight, the room was filled with candlelight. As the story of the last day was read, little by little, the room grew darker. Only one candle remained, a single candle next to the cross. As the final words were read, Jesus was placed in the tomb and the room went black.

In that moment, a very real darkness was present. A familiar one that I know from days gone by. It was the darkness of depression and hopelessness and grief. It was a feeling that flooded my heart when the stone rolled in front of the tomb with a pounding sound. I helped plan the service. I had read the text countless times. This is not my first Good Friday. I knew what was coming. Yet in that moment, when the finality of it hit, it was a fresh raw wound.

I know that Good Friday is hard. I know that the service is dark. I also know that it is so very necessary to walk through the pain and feel the hopelessness so that the announcement that 'He Is Risen' means so much more.

I read a blog post today by one of my faves. She is a woman that I admire and look up to. She wrote about why this Good Friday feels different. For her, this year was filled with challenges from Jesus people that she had not known before. I get that.

The number of times that I have come to a personal point of spiritual 'next' and realized that I was standing outside the norm or comfortable or safe is too many to count. In the biggest and scariest of these seasons, I have reached for others and there have been moments of feeling like I was standing on a deserted island. Other times, I have found that what I have to say is so unpopular or unwanted that I may as well quit talking.

We have been conditioned to think that when you jump in the Jesus boat, you will always have people. Sometimes, that's just not true. Sometimes your voice is prophetic and painful. Sometimes your honesty is more than people are comfortable with. Sometimes you choose to step out in a new way and those that have been walking beside you stop mid-step and watch you walk away. This hurts.

It is even more painful to hear the commentary and judgement that is lined with calls for prayer, which is really just Christian-speak for gossip. When faced with these moments of bench clearing moves, we stand alone. For me, I sit and cry and shutoff and resent alone. Not one time have I frivolously stepped out in a major faith decision. When I have chosen to leave or stay or draw a line in the sand, I have done it out of a place of hard fought prayerful listening.

Have I always done it well? No.
Have I always looked to Jesus? You bet your booty.

If you find yourself in a place that the space where you heart occupies is dark and still and depressing, Jesus knows about that, and so do I. I have stood on the darkest hills in painful struggle all while others were doubting my motives. I have wept from feelings of abandonment, from painful decisions and from loneliness. All in the name of trying to serve God.

What I want to do in this next sentence is to tell you Sunday is coming. But I can't. It's not time for that. There will be a resurrection, but it's only Friday and for now, our job is to recognize that we have to be smack in the middle of that pain. There is not an instant fix. The first disciples did not have a countdown clock for Sunday because they didn't know it was coming. And for some of us, we don't either.

The Journey of Holy Week: Thursday

Tonight was a special night. I have a new liturgical partner in crime at ECL and we are ridiculously excited about creative expressions of ancient truth. Tonight, we celebrated Maundy Thursday on a 40' picnic table that three guys built this week! It was amazing. Communion in the context of a meal, how...biblical. I wanted to share with you a picture of the night and a word from my reflection. I pray that this is a night where you are aware of the love and grace and inclusive nature of the table.

-----

9 Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. 10 Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. 11 Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. 12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. 13 Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.    Romans 12:9-13

This last line is why we chose to eat outside tonight. We cannot practice hospitality by having great meals inside a building that the world never sees. We can have a great band and wonderful coffee, but if we never open the door or invade a parking lot with food or serve the world, we find ourselves huddled in an Upper Room of our own making. And then, the world misses out on this beautiful meal.

Hospitality means getting dirty, and feeding hungry stomachs and being shelter from life’s storms. Hospitality means ushering hope into hopelessness and celebrating fully the joys of life. Hospitality means creating space for students and children to be loved when moms and dads are tired and weary.
When we share life,  we remind each other in acts of service that our mission is to love one another in big, profound, Jesus-sized ways.

The Journey of Holy Week: Wednesday

Days before his betrayal and death, Jesus and his disciples were eating at the home of Simon. A woman, who is identified as Mary, approached Jesus with an alabaster jar of expensive perfume, worth about a year’s wages. Mary broke the jar, pouring the perfume on Jesus. In the ancient Near East, the act of anointing signified selection for some special role or task. Kings were often anointed with oil as part of their coronation ceremony.

In John's account of this story, Mary wipes the feet of Jesus. Anointing the feet models service, discipleship, and love. In a culture in which a woman’s touch was often forbidden, Mary dares to cradle the feet of Jesus in her hands and spread the oil across his ankles and toes with the ends of her hair. Rather than measuring out a small amount of oil, Mary breaks the jar and lets it all pour out. She’s all-in, fully committed, sparing no expense.

I am not sure what the equivalent of this moment would be in modern culture, but it would be appalling. The shock of the onlookers, the feeling of watching a sacred and personal moment, the anger at the waste of resources. I can only imagine that I would have been one in the corner fussing about how Mary was doing it wrong. 

But, I have Mary's in my life. They are generous, bold, gracious, servant women that in spite of the norms or the comfortable, they choose to jump in the middle of a touching moment to honor and revere those they love. Women like Mary, that surpass the appropriate and pour out their love and generosity in self-sacrificing ways. I've seen them in the hospital room and the nursery. I've witnessed them in moments of pain and celebrations. I've seen them hold a weeping child and nurse a sick loved one. I've seen the way that they hold a hand through the diagnosis and refuse to walk away. 

In each of these moments, I have watched as the rest of the world stood by with their list of norms and to-do's and could not understand what was drawing them to a kind of servanthood that is foreign to most of us. The kind of love that causes you to give up something precious all in the name of expressing the gift of relationship. 

The coming days are hard. 

We will eat. 

We will pray. 

We will sleep. 

We will deny. 

We will forsake. 

We will weep.

It will be a long 3 days. So, for tonight, spend a moment with the Savior. Pour out your love for Jesus in a new way. Walk deeper into the truth that he is worth giving your best for. And sit at his feet for a moment, oily hair and all. 

The Journey of Holy Week: Tuesday

I don't really like the last few days in the life of Jesus. Up until that point I think much of what he did was endearing. Sure, he spoke a truthful word, but he loved kids, honored women and healed...a lot. When we read about the last few days of his life, the tone seems a bit more hurried. It's almost as if he is trying to pack in all of the important things that he wants to say. The words are pointed. He fusses at religious leaders, he curses a fig tree, he tells stories that point clearly to a lack of faith. More than ever, I hear this need to communicate with those that may still be listening.

I have found this to be true of those that I have watched grow older, as well. It's as if with the compounding gray and the declining health, the gift of time seems fleeting. When the awareness of fewer days becomes a reality, the need to share truth is more pressing. I certainly don't think of myself on the downhill side of life, but as I've made my way up the mountain, I feel a since of freedom to share truth from my experience. At the same time, I see many opportunities to share my passions in the years to come, and Jesus knew that was not going to be his story.

It is not lost on me that one of the groups that Jesus had the harshest words for - all the way to the end - was the religious leaders. I am more and more and more and more convicted every day that as we step out in the ministry of Jesus, we are going to be held accountable for the ways that we lead people. I never want a human to cross my path and think that they are unlovable. Feelings of unworthiness and exclusion are incompatible with Jesus. As a leader in the church, I will fall on the side of love and grace. Every. Single. Time. Now, sometimes love FEELS harsh. I'm a mom to two teenagers, so I understand this on many levels. Jesus didn't promise us an easy life,  free from pain. But, he did promise us a comforter in the pain.

So wherever you find yourself on this Tuesday night, draw deeper into the truth of his final days. He wanted us to hear the depth of his love in the truth of his words. He gave us example after example of how to love. Now, it's our job to do it.

The Journey of Holy Week: Monday

If you read the account of the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke, you notice that immediately following the story of Palm Sunday comes the story of Jesus clearing the temple. If you have not read this recently, I encourage you to look in either Matthew 21, Mark 11 or Luke 19. For those who would like to pick apart the scholastic holes or intensely study the differences in these accounts, we can do that another day. For today, I have two questions.

Jesus is headed for a brutal end. He knows this is coming. He sees the writing on the wall of the call on his life. This leads me to believe that if he is spending his last days once again sharing with the world that it time to get our act together, this is important business. So question #1 - What do you need to clean up in your life to be ready to receive the gift of Resurrection? Are you hosting a swap meet of values? Are you trying to make space for the unimportant rather than holding the court of honor for the sacred and holy?

For me, this week is about returning to a space of sacred YES. I spent tonight doing yoga with my oldest. I will spend much time this week in my faith community. We will intentionally slow down. If we rush right through this week with packed calendars and full days and hurried emotions, we will find ourselves there on Sunday morning as well.

The same is true about our churches. For those on church staffs, we WORK this week. We want it all to be perfect and polished and excellent. We know that for some folks, this will be the last time we see them until December 24th. Here's the truth, if we are not journeying with Jesus through this week, everything we try to polish up for Sunday will be empty. May we take tomorrow and Wednesday to walk though our worship spaces and pray that people will encounter the depth of the gift of new life. May we weep with those who are experiencing death and yet claim with them, even when they can't that resurrection is the promise.

I feel certain that if Jesus was to walk through our lives and our churches and see us spiffing up the carpets and scrubbing the bathrooms and planting new plants on the front walk, he would check our hearts. And if he found that our polish and pretty was about the exterior only, he would flip the tables of our churches and our hearts just like he did in scripture.

May the Savior find our hearts ready for the journey of this week. All of it.

The Journey of Holy Week: Palm Sunday

This is the week. This is the week that changed everything for those who follow Jesus. For those of us that love the rhythm of the Church Calendar, we get dorky excited when Holy Week begins. It's the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Our journey is wrapped up in everything from celebration to sorrow and back again. I need just a moment to express some personal thoughts on this week. Well, perhaps they are more than thoughts, they are suggestions. Please hear them with the appropriate amount of love and grace and firmness.

PLEASE do not skip from Sunday to Sunday. The story of Jesus is not complete with palms and lilies. We need the bread and the cup. We need the nails and the grief. We need the stone closing the tomb. When we wave palm branches on Palm Sunday and skip past the week to a sunrise egg hunt and matching family pastels, we miss the WHY.

I missed worship today. I was on a plane home from Tampa with tired swimmers and even more exhausted parents, coaches and Mimi's. As we flew, I was reminded that around the world, people were gathering together and shouting Hosannah and celebrating that the King is riding the donkey into Jerusalem in Glory.  Then the news informed me that Christians in Egypt were doing just this when terror invaded their worship. This news made my desire to celebrate our hope even more important this week. Honestly, I was terribly sad that I was not with my community this morning, and I took a few moments of stillness to usher myself into this week. This is important. We have much to celebrate and grieve about and hope for in the days to come. Be present and connect in ways that are meaningful for you.

Over the next few days, I am going to write about stories that are found in the Gospels between the entry of Jesus to Jerusalem and the Last Supper. On Thursday, we will remember this holy meal. Friday is the day that hope seems lost as we witness the pain of death. And then we wait.

You can do this in many ways, but I find it especially valuable to do this in the context of community. For my local friends, I would be honored to have you as a part of our community at ECL. Wednesday, we will close out our Lenten study with a conversation entitled "There is a place at the table for all." The study starts at 7pm. On Thursday, we will share the Eucharist in the context of a meal. Join us at 6:30pm under the oak trees at 218 Clear Creek Ave. Friday, we will journey with the Gospel writers and be reminded of the pain of death. This service will draw on the hopelessness on the day of Crucifixion. And finally, next Sunday at 10am we will celebrate all that is Resurrection. All of it!

This week is intentionally painful. The road is not easy. My prayer for you is that you can find a space and time and way to be on a journey this week. And if the journey of Jesus seems like a far away story from a far away time, I pray that it will come alive for you this week. May we see the road leading into Jerusalem as our invitation to hope.

Be the Change

I am a medical nut. I read way too much. I like to think that I am an amateur doctor. Years ago, I read a story about a star player of a high school basketball team who developed an unusual medical condition: blebs. Apparently, the boy had experienced a growth spurt in which his body grew faster than his lungs, causing blebs – a sort of blister that forms on the lungs – to develop. One of these blebs ruptured, causing his lung to actually collapse, sending him to bed for weeks.

He was experiencing a severe case of something that many of us go through in a less concrete way as we try to make changes in our lives - growing pains. No matter how desperately we desire to proactively make changes, like losing weight or changing careers, or how much we crave to be more adaptable to our rapidly changing world or recover from our failures with more resilience, the fact is that sometimes – most times – change hurts. And often, change hurts enough that the most human, instinctive reaction is to stop what seems like the cause of the pain: our efforts at transformation.

Growing pains.
Maybe you’ve these pains in comments like this:
“We’ve tried that before – it’s never worked, and it won’t work now.”
“We’ve never done that before and I don’t know why we’re doing it now.”
“______ thinks they know everything. But he/she’s clueless about how we do things here. They know nothing about our culture.”



Growing pains.

We need a new pair of glasses when we come to the moments that we realize that we are in the midst of growing pains. God’s call for us is not going to change. God’s plan for wholeness and restoration is without end. What has to change is our heart. And in order to do that, we need to quit looking through the glasses of failures and judgement and victimhood. We must begin to see that our heart, our thoughts and our outlook on change are what is keeping us locked in growing pains.


Until we are able to take off the glasses of resentment and judgement and risk self-exposure and an honest examination of the motives of our heart, we will spend our lives afraid of growing pains and trapped in our head. So tonight, I wonder. Where do I need take off the glasses of victimhood, fear and negativity and see change as an opportunity to walk through growing pains to transformation?

Each time you put a pair of glasses one this week, take time think and be still. To look through new lenses at the changes that are happening around you. Put sunglasses in your car. Remember these decisions when your reasign glasses do on. in your car, write on them, put them in the place that you know you will see them when your thoughts start to take you down the road to fear and running from God.

And share it with someone. Talk to a friend, a counselor, me. Let them know how to pray for your heart, because the call of God on your life is not changing, so now its time to align your heart.

Why a GA Matters

I grew up with a dad that preached GA, which stands for Good Attitude. From the time I could walk, I heard the necessity of an attitude that saw life through a positive lens. The number of times that I was reminded to change my outlook, mood or word choice equates to a very large figure. As a parent, I wonder why my dad did not make a recording that chanted his mantra. It would have saved many a lecture.

While I certainly don't always embrace GA as a way of life, I have a still small voice in my heart that speaks (and sometimes screams) at me when my mind wanders to negative places. Keeping my heart out of negativity land is a challenge.

While I don't always master the art of GA, I have taught the term and goal to my girls. As they are much like their mom, sometimes we see their GA shine. Sometimes, well, we don't. Today was not one of those days. Matter of fact, today was one of those days where my kiddo taught ME about GA. When things were less than ideal in her swim world, she had a GREAT attitude. She was disappointed, complete with a purple devil emoji sent from the pool deck. But, in the midst of the challenge, she made a choice to have a GA. She made the best of the situation that she was dealt and camera in hand, chose to support her teammates and with a genuine smile on her face. She had a great  GA day.

My dad has given me the foundation and belief that our attitude and outlook matter. My kids are living that out in front of my eyes. I'm thankful for both ends of the generational spectrum that teach me everyday how to live into the values that I hold dear.

Bye, Felicia

I am in the middle of a 6 day trip with my mom and youngest daughter. We are attending a swim meet in Florida, living in a hotel together and have many laughs. Of course, we are human, so there are times when our lack of sleep or ability to have the amenities of home have proved to be challenging. If you don't know my youngest, she is one of a kind. Spicy. Strong-willed. Hilarious. She hates taking showers, loves making messes and finds great joy in giving instructions. For these 6 days, she has 2 adults focused on her every need and let's just say that she is eating up every minute of this adventure.

My mom excels at grand-mothering. She has a plethora of gifts, but honestly watching her be a grandmother is one of my all-time most favoritist things in the whole wide world. She plays and loves and carries on (that's a southern term for all the right things.) She spoils and makes them laugh and is interested in their people and things. She is giving up 6 days to be sleep deprived, all with the goal of watching approximately 7.5 minutes of Ally racing. Seriously. When I grow up, I want to be just like Mimi. But named Jazzy or Sassy or Fab...I digress.

There was a cinematic classic that was popular in the mid '90s entitled, Friday. This work of genius contained an unforgettable scene that included an overlooked Oscar candidate, Ice Cube, his friend Smokey (Chris Tucker) and a character by the name of Felicia. For more than 20 years, those of us that profess loyalty to all things of this era have found great joy in the phrase, "Bye, Felicia."

My generation is now brilliantly raising our children to appreciate this term as a standard response to all those who are in our personal space, annoying a group dynamic or candidates for removal from a conversation. For instance, neighbors that that ask to borrow a car, not sugar. That's a Friday joke. If you don't get it, keep reading.

Back to Ally and Mimi. On this trip I am keeping a running tally of the number of times that Ally appropriately uses the term, "Bye, Felicia." She is quality, making me proud with a respectable, yet not overused, 2x a day average. She is well timed and spot on. All of this, from a child that has never seen the trashy, I mean classic, stoner buddy comedy. She knows only of the well-passed humor that her mother has brilliantly taught.

As we were playing Phase 10 tonight, a game ending move was made. Before any smack talk could ensue, Mimi in her best Ally impersonation exclaimed, "Shut up, Felicity!"

*insert Ally and I falling to the floor in laughter*

We could not contain the giggles. Mimi thought she had the line mastered after 2 days of observation, but Ally and I could not get over the err in word choice or the fact that she had not a CLUE what she was saying. Mimi was jumping right into the chaos of our silly jokes. This is just excellent grand-parenting. This is what all good parents should do. Matter of fact, I recommend it for all relationships that matter.

When you can take something that your loved ones find humorous or touching and join them on that path, no matter the 'correctness', you are winning. The look on Ally's face (and let's be honest, mine, too) was hilarious. We may just start saying "Shut up, Felicity" just for the guttural reaction. The fact that my mom would care enough to listen to our jokes and try to participate in them is priceless.  She has  transformed this one into something that now has much more meaning to all of us. Write these moments down. Tell stories about them. These are the classics that will forever be reminders of the ways that Mimi ran though generational and pop-culture barriers to connect with her adolescent grandchildren.

Well done, Mimi, well done.

P.S. I am sad to say that after showing her the "Bye, Felicia" clip, mom was not impressed.

No, You are Not An Expert

I am continually amazed by the fact that despite a lack of education and experience, people feel that by reading an article on Facebook or a feed on Instagram, they are highly educated on a subject. I spent the day watching parents of high level young athletes impart their wisdom and knowledge about the sport of swimming. Sure, some of the parents in the stands have been competitive swimmers, but my guess is that most are like me. We have gained our knowledge from sweating through meets, watching other parents and listening at practice. I have absolutely nothing in the experience realm to offer my swimmer. What I can do is be present.

That goes for all of us in all of life's experiences. We are going to have situations that are unfamiliar. We are going to be introduced to new concepts and ideas. Our job is to be life learners, not instant experts. Tonight I will offer a Top 10 List. The title is '10 Ways to be UNfriended in Life'. To me, building any relationship is hard, but to build a friendship with your parents, your spouse, your children and your siblings, you must do hard work. Everyday. These relationships take time and effort and it's our job to do it! So, if you find yourself in a challenging friendship, consider if any of these things are playing into your conflict:

10. Always come from a place of judgement.
9. Assume that you have the answers and can help.
8. Jump into every conflict with a solution.
7. Listen to one side of the story and believe that you have all of the information.
6. Walk into every conversation with a pre-set mind.
5. Assume that they want to hear what you have to say.
4. Never share your own personal experience with the subject.
3. Try to fix everything your friend is doing.
2. Give advice.
1. Never ask any questions.

The Cost of Year Round Sports

Just the title of this post is causing some of you to twitch. The thought of spending your time, money and weekends chasing a kid around the state and beyond is your worst nightmare. Trust me, there are mornings that I would like to turn off my alarm, but we can talk about that in another post. Today, I want you know about what being a swim mom has cost our family.

Having our daughter on a year-round swim team has cost us our ability to be helicopter parents. I have seen first hand that sports, in and of themselves, do not provide this but for our family, challenging our child to speak to her coaches, listen to advice and make her own decisions about training has cost us our ability to hover. Sure, there are times that we have to step in an advocate or teach, but by giving her the ability to set her own goals and drive her passion, we are stepping out of the micromanagement role.

The practice schedule that year-round sports requires has cost us our procrastination. It doesn't work to put off homework and laundry when you have practice looming. You can't wait until the weekend to finish a project when the weekend includes two full days at a swim meet. Time management, self control(ish) and maturing decision making have transformed my kid into a growing teen.

Sure the financial cost of year round sports is not insignificant, but by giving our daughter this avenue to dream, we have been forced to prioritize our finances. This has cost us other areas of our life, but not once have I regretted it. If a vacation doesn't happen or a new toy is not purchased or a house upgrade is not made, I don't care. The sacrifices we make in allowing our girls the resources for their activities is our priority in this season. One will be out of our house in 3 years and the other in 6. There is nothing that I want to do that can't wait until then. One more note, we don't see year round sports as our college savings plan. All of the statistical data shows that the likelihood of our of our 11 year-old continuing to pursue this sport to the level required for college scholarships is slim. If she wants to, that is great. In the meantime, we will still be saving for college so she can be a physical therapist or teacher or engineer without thinking twice of the pressure to swim.

These are just three of the many things that being committed to pursing a passion has given our family. Sure, some of the costs are more taxing, and I am the FIRST to tell you it is not for everyone (for example my oldest). I certainly caution anyone from naively thinking that this is an easy way to get out of junior high PE. However, if you have a kid like mine, who is self driven and has a passion for work, it can be a blessing. And even after comparing the pros and cons, I would do it all over again.

One Shining Moment

In my household, we are slightly competitive. There is no need for athletic ability to have a fierce competitive streak. I am living proof of this. I can go for blood in everything from Nerts to the ABC game on a road trip. I take winning very seriously.

For 20 years, Lucas and I have filled out our March Madness brackets with intensity.  I know that a 5/12 matchup is dangerous. I know that Duke will let me down, and yet I still pick them. It doesn't matter if my beloved Baylor is in the tournament, in the name of a bracket will, I will forsake all green and gold loyalty. I just hate to lose.

When we were newly married, We would bet for bragging rights because there was not prize money available. When the kids were little, we bet middle of the night duty. There was a season that included a month of your chore of choice duty. These last few years have been a bit more challenging. What does it take to get us fired up after all of these years?

Well, this year the bet was for pride. The winner gets to pick the locale of our next couple's getaway. This is my turf. I am the vacation planner. It is my JOB in this family to plan all trips. If you don't know this about us, let me assure you that we would not choose the same vacation destination. Ever. I want to explore a city. Lucas wants to ride the best mountain bike trails in the country. I want to eat a new fancy restaurant, Lucas wants to avoid wearing long pants at all cost.

So, the game is over. The brackets are complete. The winner has been declared. And "One Shining Moment" is about to play. Another year of trash talk has been completed. I love this song every year, and I watch with the dork tears that only a sports fan can appreciate. The most amazing shots will be remembered. The thrill of the Cinderella will be celebrated. And I will watch through the lens of my heart.

But the real question is, who has bragging rights? I know you all want to know. Who will be listed as the Hilbrich Household Champion for 2017? I tip my hat and ask, Lucas, where are we headed?

3,653 Days

What a difference a day or 3,652 can make. Tonight, I had an experience that I never dreamed was possible. Let's just say that miracles were abounding. In my wildest imagination, I never dreamed that I would sit in a recovery meeting with my amazing, beautiful and gracious 15 year old and have her say, "Hi, I'm Anna Jane and I am grateful for my mom."

Since my first sobriety birthday, I have asked someone who has played a special part in the previous year to go with me to pick up my birthday chip. Of course, the list is far from exhaustive, as the numerous faces that have made my journey all that it is today cannot be represented in 10 coins. More than anything, I have tried to choose people who have said or done things that in that year directly reassured me that I was enough.

As I was preparing for my 10th birthday, it seemed heavy. Somehow a decade of sobriety brought on feelings of weight in the best way possible. As I reflected on who I wanted to take this year, there was one name that just kept coming to my mind. It somehow seemed like a full circle moment, as AJ and I have come to a place where we honestly talk about all things recovery. She knows my story. For the parts that she does not remember, she now is of an age where we openly talk about what it was like, what happened and what it is like now.

So tonight, AJ drove me to my birthday meeting. As we walked in the club she reminded me of what it was like to come here when she was 5 and scared of the babysitting room. As we sat in the room before the meeting, she read the signs on the walls and realized where the language that I use in everyday life is learned. She had never been to a meeting, and I was so thankful that tonight's book study focused in the 4th step, which is making a "searching and fearless moral inventory." Somehow it just seemed so right for her to hear about something that was so hard for her mom, but that without a doubt has saved her life and sanity time and time and time again.

One tradition that I love at this particular meeting is that as we close we each take a moment to express something that we are grateful for. As we went around the table, I leaned over to her and said, you don't have to speak if you don't want to. She did. And the joy and relief and gratitude that I experienced in that moment was wrapped up with 10 years of a life changing hard work.

And then we made it to birthday chips. It was a gift that one of my long time heroes handed me my chip tonight. I love that she knew me from day one and reminded me of the journey. As she tells the story, I was folded up like an envelope in my chair when she met me. The fear gremlins were in full effect and yet her kindness and encouragement has not changed one bit from that first meeting. She has been a witness to the transformation, and as I look back, so have I.

The chip that I picked up tonight is depicted in the picture at the top of this post. My amazing SIL created a personalized card for me this year with the chip on the front. As I reflect on the journey, I am beyond thankful for those that have been there with me. Some from day 1 and some that have come into my life since then. For all those who have helped my envelope like legs fold to touch the floor and have encouraged me to keep growing and have offered support in ways that I didn't know to ask for, "thank you" is wildly insufficient.

I'll leave you with the image of AJ and I walking to the car after the meeting. As she walked, she grabbed my arm and said, "Mom, I am so proud of you." Drop the mic.

Part 7: Why I Still Have a Place at the Table

A beautiful thing happened in the midst of me getting sober. Do you remember the church, Ecclesia, that I told you about a few days ago? In late 2006 they began the process of planting satellite communities in the greater Houston suburbs. The small group of Jesus followers that helped hold the light for me in this season became leaders and visionaries for a group that eventually became Ecclesia - Clear Lake. 

In September of 2007, we launched a weekly worship gathering on Sunday nights. We were a nomadic group that was blessed with a home in other church buildings to meet together once a week. The hard work of this new church was being done as people around the Bay Area were seeing needs that were not being met and they were determined to bring light to dark places. I was fully invested in my recovery by this point, and I knew exactly where I was supposed to give my life away. 

You see, I love the Church. I believe in the Church, but many of my people, my tribe of like minded broken hearted people, have been hurt by the church. They have been told they don’t fit. They feel unworthy and unqualified. They have been given the message that they don’t have what it takes to be included. 

So, I have committed my calling to being their voice in my church. My messy, open, bold, crass talking, honesty wielding, people loving voice. I have taken up my cross to lay on swords for my tribe. To preach about things like wholeness and authenticity and mental health and addiction. To be open about how God is still using my messy wild life to bring hope to this world.

About a year ago, a friend from our early church days posted this on my Facebook wall:

So today marks the anniversary of our becoming "Facebook Friends" back in 2009.... I am reminded of this crazy chick I met at a church that wore a faux tattoo sleeve shirt to make the new guy feel at home... I am glad you were you...

I was the Jesus loving, coffee drinking, cigar smoking tattooed pastor that he needed. Our church was the open door of grace that took him from the life of a patched-in motorcycle gang member to the foot of the cross. 

Not only did I have a calling, I had a place. A place that still wanted me around in the midst of my messy life. A place that time and time and time again told me in words and actions that I am not only accepted but I am a vital leader BECAUSE my life tells a story of truthfulness. I'm sure there are some times that I make people a bit nervous with my stories. I'm sure that some people walk in on Sunday mornings (advanced warning, this will be the case tomorrow), realize that I have on the Britney Spears headset and they just hold onto their seats. Because, you never know what I might decide to share. 

One of my favorite stories of ECL - and there are so many - is the fact that we now own and have our Sunday services in the building that once housed the Bay Area Club in League City. The BAC (in its new location) is where I went to for my first meeting of AA. That is what I like to call a full circle redemption story.

Here is the bottom line. I have found a church who fully believes in the mission of "journeying together in God’s ongoing rescue of the oppressed." They live this mission in their service and study and community and by embracing all of the things that aren't very churchy about humanity. My friends, THIS is why I still love the Church. I believe that the world needs more of us to throw off the things that we think make us look churchy and get down to being the Church. And I think that will preach for a long time to come. 

Part 6: Why Grace Abounds

The sun came up. And the memories of the previous evening made clear that I had two choices. I could stay in my room and never come out or I could face up to my lies. I tried the first option for a few hours and when that did not seem like a viable long term solution, I did the only thing that I knew to do, I ran to my church.

I called two couples that I trusted and they were at the door. I poured out my heart and mess and fears and admitted that I had no idea what to do next. There in my living room, each with questions and concerns and unknowns, we trusted each other and God to help. By the next afternoon, Lucas and I were in the office of a counselor who suggested that I should consider attending a recovery meeting. (This was gracious counselor code for you need help.)

I didn't know what else to do, so I went. I wore a black Punk'd t-shirt and ratty jeans and sat on the back row. Immediately, all I could think about was that I was nothing like these people. Then I went home. The next morning, it was 10:30am and I was already losing my mind with worry about how I was going to make it through the day. So I drove back to the meeting place. And people were there. They gave me this fat book and told me to read it. I got a silver disk that they called a chip and said that I would try this thing called staying sober for 24 hours, but I still didn't think that I belonged.

I made it 5 more hours and I wanted to drink so bad. I was a lunatic. In self-preservation, Lucas asked if I had thought about going to another meeting. Dear, Lord! I must be really sick if I needed to go back AGAIN. This time I went to a different building. The sign said it was a women's meeting. I was still in the black dirty t-shirt and jeans. I had added a black hoodie to try and hide the shaking. I walked in and in front of me stood a room full of women that looked like they could have been my mom and sister and Sunday School teacher. One reminded me of my aunt that is as prim and proper as they come.

I'm confident that I displayed sufficient outward clues of my desperation, but they didn't seem to care. I sat between two of the most confident and together looking ones and I just sunk into my chair. The tears started falling and they would not stop. I didn't understand it in that moment because I was so full of fear, but I had just found a new church. It lasted exactly an hour. They passed a basket and they said the Lord's Prayer. I found this mildly comforting, but my very narrow view of worship told me to proceed with caution.

I went back everyday. Some days I sat next to people that looked like me. Somedays I took Snicker's bars from the older men who appeared to have some experience that I lacked. Somedays I heard stories about adventures that were very different from mine. But, they all talked about turning my will over to the care of God.

I had been there a few weeks and was having a rough day. I was scared and angry and they just kept talking about things like 'Let go and let God.' It was all I could handle. I'm not sure if I had ever spoken much before, but they heard my voice that day. Through some colorful language and fierce passion, I explained to them that I knew a thing or two about God. It was clear in my mind that if God could have saved me, I would not have ended up in these damp dingy rooms with a pounding head and a broken soul.

AND NO ONE EVEN FLINCHED

They let my pain hang in the air and one of my favorite men in the room said in his rough voice, "We're glad you are here. Keep comin' back." That was it. No one tried to fix me. No one told me I was doing anything wrong. They gave me some suggestions about how they made it through days 26-41 and hugged me. I didn't get shamed. No one said, "Oh, honey, I'll pray for you..."

They let me be right where I was supposed to be and never left me alone. I called them at all hours of the night. I took them with me when I was scared of my own shadow. They were the Church to me in ways that I didn't even know existed. These brothers and sisters became my lifeline. I felt that the world outside those rooms had no idea what was going on in my bat-shit crazy mind, but they did. And each day they gave me a little shot of hope that I could go another 24 hours.

All my life, I believed that church was somewhere you went. It didn't matter that I sang a song that told me it was the people. I believed that we "went to" church. The rooms of recovery taught me that the Church meets me where I am.

On the back porch.
In the psych ward.
In detox.
In meetings.
Over coffee.
While sharing stories.
While crying.
While admitting our failures.
While reconciling our brokenness.

Wherever I am, the arm of my new church reached. And this left me in a painful limbo. How do I reconcile this place that has been Church for me in ways that I can't even quantify with the experience that I have when I am taking communion? What would it look like if these two things came together to be a complete picture in my life? I had no clue. Honestly, it did not feel like any kind of church that I had ever known.

Part 5: Why Dishonesty Destroys

So, we left.

And literally, 5 hours after I left the goodbye reception in the youth hall, I started visiting churches.  We had two little ones (almost 4 years old and 3 months old). We were in a season of life where Lucas's job would allow us to live anywhere in the greater Houston area, so we cast a wide net.

While we knew clearly that it was time to leave our church, we were equally as clear that we could not leave the Church. We wanted a community. We wanted people who were giving their lives away in radical, culture clashing ways. The first church we visited was Ecclesia in Houston and I was in love. The spirit, the heart, the space, the story - I loved so many aspects of this place. It was like meeting the person that you were going to marry and at the same time knowing that the timing was very off.

So we kept meeting with people we loved and praying for guidance and reading and studying and serving. It was such a great season. I was more convicted of my call to be a part the Church than ever before. I loved the freedom of designing space for my family to connect with Jesus in worship. I loved the organic expressions of faith that I was reading about and experiencing in other communities. It was like God had opened an entirely new chapter on Church and I could not get enough.

This was also the first time in my adult life that I was not on staff at a church. Whether you agree with it or not, there is a certain level of public moral policing of paid church workers. This lifted the black and white veil of my life and allowed new perceived freedoms. I felt free to have a beer in public or even have alcohol in my home, which up to this point as a 30 year-old, I had never done. To add to this, I had been very sick during my second pregnancy and was introduced to Vicodin. Without anyone's knowledge, I spent the next year and a half convincing multiple doctors of my need for continued access to narcotics. I mixed that with my “allowed” 5pm glass of wine…or 3.

To say that I was a master manipulator would be an understatement. I was living the stay-at-home mom dream during the day, reading everything I could get my hands on about the postmodern church and simultaneously spinning out of control. I created such a wall of secrecy and lies that my husband and best friends had no idea the depth of my disaster. And if I felt like you were getting close to any truth, I pushed you away with the force of a hurricane. I destroyed friendships, drove a wedge in precious family relationships and held all human contact at arm's length. It was cold, calculated and lonely.

I spent so much energy trying to hide the destruction. Imagine juggling crystal balls at the speed of a major league fastball. For a while I kept this facade in place, but when it came crashing down, it fell hard. Let me set the scene:

I was attending my small group crawfish boil with kids and families and boiling pots and beer. At this point, I was free from the church rules, so why not? While everyone else had one or two beers, I had a secret stash in a small cooler. In addition, unbeknownst to anyone, I had already taken pills. The mudbugs were consumed and the yard games were enjoyed, and all was great. Deep into the evening, I was in the yard and someone noticed that I was standing in a fire ant bed. I had no clue. After dusting off the ants, I was escorted to the car and I will never forget the look on Lucas's face when he asked, "Are you drunk?"

I passed out on the way home - in my 5 year-old's lap. I don't remember getting from the car to the bed or the bed to the bathtub, but sometime in the middle of the night, I crawled to my bathroom. I recall crying sobs of misery and the only words that came to me were, "I love it too much."

No one had a clue. And tomorrow was Sunday. It was Palm Sunday, in fact. I was scheduled to teach our small community that night. What in the hell was about to happen? When the light of day hit the mess that I had created, what was going to happen? I had never felt so alone and so ashamed. I didn't know it was possible to hate myself that much. I just wanted to die.

Part 4: Why Depth is Vital

Because I can't tell any story without adding in this detail, you must know that I met Lucas exactly a week after my acceptance to seminary and 3 months before my college graduation. I was fully committed to pursing student ministry and planned to complete a 2 year degree in Kentucky. The summer before I left, he saw a preview of my heart as I served as a summer intern at another church. He loved hanging with the students and having come from a very small home church, he was immediately drawn to the adventure.

I had two looming faith challenges in this season. The first was learning to make peace with my place as a woman in ministry. Surrounding myself with a variety of theological perspectives had presented me with a void of clarity concerning the blessing on women in pastoral ministry. Most supported my work with teenagers, but as a barrier to having to face known resistance, I avoided all talk of ordination in my  denomination. Just to be clear, the UMC had no conflict in this area, this was an internal struggle. My second area of turmoil was my smoldering love affair with all things mind and mood altering. I combated this area by choosing a school that required all students to participate in a life free from the use of alcohol and drugs. For this season, I allowed the weight of this expectation to be my moral compass.

Many plane trips, expensive phone bills and a tiny dramatic pause proved challenging. As Lucas would tell you, I called home and announced that I was coming home after a year in hopes of becoming Mrs. Hilbrich. Spoiler alert, it worked out. After a season of part-time ministry in College Station, another summer at a church in Houston and an Aggie diploma for my man, we moved to League City in December of 1999 with an open mind and a desire to serve.

Within weeks of visiting local churches, we found one with a familiar feel that needed a youth director. I started full time in March of 2000.   It was an exciting time, filled with dreaming and planning and students and trips and memories. In this season, in the name of my commitment to students, I placed hard and fast 'rules' on my life. These spoken and unspoken expectations held many of my future challenges at bay. It did, however, solidify a way of living that demanded an exhaustive dual life. Who I was with friends and who I was with the students in our ministry were vastly different people. Additionally, I adopted the belief that the call to ministry was a lonely road where few could really know you. It was my job to lead and that caused a very large chasm between the truth of my life and my Sunday morning face.

This character split only intensified after the birth of our first of our daughter. I fell into a deep depression, and as I began therapy and medication to care for myself, I hit a new layer of hiding. As I was meeting with a church leader one day, I was told, "Don't ever tell the parents what is really going on in your life. If they knew, they would not trust you with their teens."

So I put on my big-fat-happy-liar church face and lived a very lonely existence. I was burned. I was bruised. I had this list of things that I had to do to keep it together and I was barely hanging on. It was a dark season personally, and it solidified in me a deep, deep belief that if you really knew me, you would not like me. I added this to the list of black and white thinking by dividing my life into ministry life and my other life. And, never the two should meet.

But somewhere in this season, I heard a voice that was different. He had a unique view of Church and God and faith and study and well, most things that I needed to have reoriented. And through his words and writings, I began to crack open this small place of hope that maybe this thing that I dreamed of giving my life to might really change the world. I started to talk with people who had similar thoughts.  I began to see that the Church did not live and die in a denominational system, but instead in the hearts  of people who were committed to changing the world for the One who turned their world upside down. I began praying again. And, listening again.

But I have to tell you, I didn't like what I was hearing. What I heard was a message of transformation that was going to undo the 30 years of history that I had with this thing called Church. It meant that I was going to have to open my eyes to new dreams and the unknown. But I could not walk away from it, so I sat in a scared place until one day we pulled up to our church parking lot and Lucas said, "It's time for us to go."

That's how everything changed. I was living in a frozen space of fear and doing it quite well on my own. I had life compartmentalized in safe, protected buckets. And, then it was time to go.

Part 3: Why I Still Come Home

We left off yesterday with an idealistic 18 year-old, a Baptist college and new found freedom. When I left for my first semester, I was excited about the new adventure and at the same time apprehensive about what college might be like. I had seen the movies and I was mildly concerned that I was in over my head. My guiding principles of faith wisdom were to stay away from sinful people and choices. I felt there was no better place than a University where we did not co-mingle dorms (except from1-6 on Saturdays and Sundays with the door open), we had mandatory chapel, alcohol was strictly forbidden and we could not dance on campus. What trouble could I possibly encounter in such a place?

Honestly, my freshman year, I did not find much. While I certainly did not find a home in the library, I also enjoyed my new found freedom to snooze right through class, eat all of the ice cream I wanted and stay up late in the night talking on my credit card calling card (remember those?) to friends at home and at schools across the country. The 40' phone cord would stretch from my room into the hall bathroom and I could stay up all night on the phone. This was amazing! No one was going to tell me to do my homework. No one was going to tell me not to stay up and watch TV all night. And there was this new thing called email! I could type things to friends and send them on the computer and if I stayed in the dorm computer lab long enough, they might write me back. It was CRAZY! You can stop laughing now. I know, I was wild.

The one consistent that year was that I went to church. I tried them all. I like the Methodist the most, but I did find dancing in the aisle at the charismatic Baptist church fascinating. Especially since we could not move our hips in a fornicating fashion on campus, but when you put on flowy polyester, Jesus loved it.  I found a small group that I ate dinner with each week in the home of a precious woman who tried desperately to love the most ragtag group of kids. She was gracious and kind. I also visited many other college services, bible studies and student union groups. I never found a place that I LOVED, but most Sundays, I went somewhere.  Even if 11am Sunday morning came and went in my pjs, I would spruce up a bit and go to eat in the dorm, pretending that I had checked the box.

After a first semester that landed me no 'real world' college experience and academic probation, I had to buckle down and make better grades. I had a goal. I wanted to join a sorority. When I went home for the summer, I made it a personal mission to test out a few experiences that had been on the naughty list for all of adolescence. I used that summer to stick my toe in the morally off limits pool and guess what, I did not combust. Not only did I survive, I began an immediate love affair with the feeling of chemically induced freedom and I was off to the races.

I will lump the next 2 years into one bucket. What you must know about these years is that I loved my friends, my life, my sorority, my college and I needed this season. I am the person that I am today because of this season. What I will not go into are marked occasions when I knew in my gut that I was in over my head. I was hurting. I was in a class called Intro to Ministry that I had been tricked into taking. I had to acknowledge the fact that at one point I had realized a call to serve God with my life and yet I was in a place that had me running in the opposite direction. I didn't know how to put the brakes on. I didn't know how to make since of this very real experience of calling and the very harsh reality that I was sprinting as fast as a I could to prove to God that I was unqualified. This all culminated on Ash Wednesday 1996.

I can remember deciding that I was going to go to an Ash Wednesday service. I probably did not even tell my roommates where I was off to, but I can still remember the dress I wore. I remember walking in the downtown church with its big stained glass windows and musty smell. I can remember the wrinkly usher handing me a bulletin. These things were familiar. They were like a warm blanket on a cold night. They were the balm on some very open and gaping wounds that needed to be cleaned out. I don't know what was said that night. I don't know what we sang. I know that I sat by myself in the pew and with all of the earnestness that I could muster, I came home. I didn't know what that meant, but I said, "I'm listening."

Now, I'm guessing from the events that took place the remaining 3 months of that semester, most in my circle of friends saw very little change. But that night opened a conversation with God and me to begin some housekeeping. This led to my first job that summer in student ministry. It led to more changes my senior year. It led to the decision to apply to seminary after graduation. It also led to the first of my tattoos, courtesy of a bonding experience with my supervising youth pastor.

On my hip is a swimming ichthus. The ichthus an image of a fish used as a symbol of Christianity. You may know it as the decal on the bumper of cars. You know the ichthus on my hip is swimming because it is blowing bubbles, three of them to be precise. I believe in art symbolizing my faith and this piece was a worthy tribute to the place of desperation and confusion and hope that were all propelling me forward. I didn't know where I was going, but I trusted that this was a journey worth continuing.

Part 2: Why I Can't Leave

So, yesterday's post about Sundays seemed to spark some great thoughts and discussions. I have heard from many of you. You agree with some of my ideas, but I'm not foolish enough to think that all who read it found it easy to swallow. Here's what I know - any time we bring up the word CHURCH we are diving into a personal and sacred space. For many, this is a holy sanctuary of hope and light. For others, just the mere mention of the word floods your mind with guilt and judgement and fear. Yes, I find my heart filled in the context of the communal faith experience. But I also feel very convicted that in inviting all to join me in this journey, I am digging up memories of pain and loss.

Because I pride myself on transparency and truth, I cannot write one post on valuing Sundays and leave it all as glory. The Church, and all that it brings, is not all sunshine. For rest of this week, my blog is going to focus on the ups and downs in my church going experience. We don't get to the place where we pour our heart and soul into a mission without a good story. Sure, my happy children's choir days are mighty special, but so are the very hard lessons that I have learned from working and serving and giving my life to a community that I feel as passionately about as I do the Church. As we begin, you must know that when I say 'Church' with a capital 'C,' I am referring to the universal gathering of the followers of Jesus. Statements made with this broad stroke are ones that apply to all of us - protestant, catholic, evangelical, conservative and progressive alike.

While you may only read one or two of the posts this week, please know that this is a collective set. Don't think that my Pollyanna-ish view of ministry in today's post is what you will see as you read on Wednesday or Friday. Because the truth is, people are involved in the Church. And with people comes brokenness. And with brokenness comes opportunities for growth (that's my super positive spin on painfully hard, gut wrenching seasons of hell).

As you read yesterday, I fell hard for Church life at a young age. I liked the ritual and the classes and people and the cool robes. I thought the mystery of the texture of the communion wafers was fascinating. I thought that sneaking in to climb in the rafters of the sanctuary (mom... we didn't get hurt or break anything...that we know of) was so cool. The majority of my childhood memories involve some aspect of churchy-ness. And I loved every minute of it.

My first taste of grown up church life came when I was the youth representative to the Church Council. In my mind, this meant I was official.  AND I got to go to meetings. I thought I had arrived. The way I saw it, if these grown-ups could see how great I was, I would be in charge in no time! I found my place at church. I didn't fit into the model of normal teenage life. I really wasn't interested in being rebellious. I didn't skip school or drink or smoke. I loved Church because I didn't like high school and if I did the right things and studied the right books and listened to the right music I was 'popular' at Church.

This was formational territory I my understanding of what contributed to a life of following Jesus. In my moralistic mind, you were either a good or a bad Christian. I didn't want anything to do with the bad, so I latched on to checking ALL the good boxes. I must stop for just a moment and express a word of apology to anyone who knew me in those days. I feel certain, no matter your reason to encounter me, that you were judged on my Jesus-loving scale. Life was so very black and white to me. For the thoughts and words and scowls that knowingly and unknowingly came from my judgey-jugerson self, I am so, so very sorry. Here's the good news, keep reading in the days to come because I learned the hard way how much I was a broken, flawed, desperate child of God.

Despite this limited thinking, came a very real and genuine desire to honor God.  As I prepared to go off to Baylor, I had done all that I could think of to serve my local church. I was a youth group leader. I was a youth choir member. I served the larger United Methodist Church on committees and boards. I spoke on Youth Sunday. I even served on the retreat team at my high school, thinking that maybe my wisdom for God would rub off on some of the wild girls. Did I mention that I was judgmental?

One of the last trips before I left for college was a large youth gathering on the University of Arkansas campus. We heard speakers and worshiped and learned. As camp was coming to a close, in true youth camp fashion, they had the service. This is the end of week service where they invite you to dedicate your life to God in a new way. I was a veteran, and I knew what to expect. As I sat through the muffled hormonal sobs of intense adolescent feelings, I watched and genuinely prayed for many that were open to seeking God for the first time. I assumed that they would be ushered to the waiting adults and the rest of us would be left to close the final night with a dance, we were Methodists, mind you.

But then the speaker offered another invitation. I don't really remember exactly what the words were, but the message was something to the effect of, 'if you can't get away from this tugging that God has a big plan for you to serve the Church with all that you are, come on up here.'

I had no intention to move from my seat that night. And before I could realize what was happening, I was on that auditorium stage with other teenagers and they were praying over our lives and ministries and callings. I had no idea what that meant. Many days, I still don't understand it, but I can tell you that my life was never the same. I knew from that moment forward that whatever road I traveled, I was supposed to do it in a way that God was the center of my journey. And then I picked up 5 weeks later and went to college. And, well, college taught me a few new lessons.

Part 1: Why Sunday Still Matters

I grew up in a family that was always at church on Sunday mornings. I cannot remember one Sunday that we were not sick or out of town that we were not at church. It is what we did. To this day, my heart gets excited to see the many faces of my childhood that taught my Sunday School classes, lead my youth group, directed choirs and organized Vacation Bible Schools. I love that I have treasured childhood memories, but I love it even more that I have relationships with those same friends as adults. We don't go to the same churches, we don't even live in the same towns, but I feel a connection to their lives that is unique.

It didn't happen out of obligation. Sure there were days when as a 15 year-old I did not enjoy waking up on a Sunday, but I loved it when I got there. It didn't happen because we walked in at 10:59am and were out the door at 12:05pm. For my family, church was not a weekly one-hour event, but a way of life. My parents were active in their own gifted ways. My dad led singing for the kids and taught Sunday School. My mom had so many roles in children's ministry that I dare not count them. When we aged into the youth program, it was my parents that organized retreats and went to camp and planned lock-ins. There was even that time that dad serenaded the charter bus with his version of Poison's "Unskinny Bop." Thanks, Frank.

Church life was not just about committee meetings or responsibilities or attendance. Church was family. They were the ones we spent Christmas Eve with (and still do). They were the ones that celebrated our birthdays with us. Those same precious friends drove to East Texas to celebrate my Granny's life. They were our traveling partners on many family vacations. They were at our weddings and graduation parties. They were our people.

In the modern context of church life, this seems to be abnormal. Sure, most churches would say they are about community and connection, but raising kids in 2017 means weekend sporting events and travel meets and all-weekend school activities. Even if you are not booked from 9-noon on Sunday, the pace you keep the other 168 hours of the week does not set you up for prioritizing the Sunday morning experience. Just keeping it super real, you have to work to go to church in our post-modern world.

Is it worth it? I would argue that it is the very best use of my parenting energy. Not because of a flashy and cool youth program. Not because my kids are entertained or love the preaching. It is vital because we live in a world where connection is scarce and being known and treasured is a lost commodity.

If you don't like your team, you can join another one. If you don't like your job, quit and get a new one. If you think your school is too big, choose one with individualized instruction. If you don't like your teacher, just change classes. Our kids are growing up in a world where your individual needs are paramount, and the Church today pays the price.

Maybe I'm being a little hard-nosed on this one, but I think it's good for my kids to expect that on Sunday and Wednesday nights and on serving days, they are going to be present with their family at church. We don't hold the line as tightly as I recall in my childhood, as we do miss for special events (including sports). But we also choose not to do things on Sunday morning so that we instead spend that time together. It is a very fine line between helping my girls value community and not creating resentment that they are missing out on their events, I get that. But I also think that we don't have to be everything to everyone on everyday. Saying 'no' to what I want in favor of the good of a community is a skill we all need to work on.

I still love my faith community. The church that I am a part of today is very different from the church of my childhood. We don't have hymnals. We don't wear dresses. We have a band. I must tell you, if we were to sleep in on a Sunday or skip out on a small group or summer camp, my daughters would be throwing a big fat fit! They would miss seeing their mentors. They would be so sad to miss their week helping in the pre-school class. If they missed a Wednesday night dinner and study time, I would be the one in big trouble. They love their community. They love that they are known and loved and missed when they are gone. They love their 4 year-old friends and their 64 year-old friends. They love when a new baby comes to church for the first time and when someone chooses to be baptized.

And even though the name and location and feel are different from my traditional church of 1984, the foundations are the same. We love Jesus. We share life together. We feast at the Table. We value each other. We show up in the good and the hard.

It is my greatest prayer that when my girls look back on the church of their childhood that they will know that they were deeply loved and that the world needs them to continue to be bearers of hope and grace and community. Sure, we can do that in ways other than gathering together on Sunday mornings, but in my darkest hours of life, the place I knew to run was to Jesus and his people. I'm so thankful for the ones that were there for me in my childhood and the ones that are still there for me every Sunday morning.

Taylor Swift, Blink-182 and Pink!

Our oldest decided that she wanted to play the guitar when she was in the 3rd grade. This sent me on a search for a teacher. Up until this point in my life, my only journey into instrumental excellence came from a painful two and a half year attempt at piano lessons. My piano debacle ended in a full blown pre-teen fit in the teacher's yard where by I loudly proclaimed to my mother, "I know dad wants someone to play for him in his old age, but I can't do this anymore!" Seriously, I have no idea where my girls get their drama...

I have always loved music. I tried choir in middle school. I auditioned for the ensemble group in high school. Fortunately for the ears of all involved, I was not selected. I made a run at the church bell choir, but I really did not play music, I played color coded circles. On a good day, I did it correctly.

I should have known that AJ would be more passionate about musical mastery from the beginning. We bought her a small electric guitar and she learned some songs. This was in the height of Taylor Swift's rise to fame, so the story of a blond haired teenage songbird had my dreamer hooked. Each week I would sit at her lessons and stare at the beautiful guitars. I had no idea how to play or tune them, or even read the music. I was watching my kiddo pick up on these skills, but they were foreign to me.

After a year of looking and dreaming, I mentioned to her teacher that I would give anything to have the coordination to play drums. I mean, really? Who does not want to be cool enough to play drums? Say what you want about the lead vocalist, but when I see a concert, I am mesmerized by what is going on in that cage. My coordination gifting, however, did not set me up for Travis Barker like success. I knew I would look like a cross between an arthritic giraffe and Animal from the muppets. I am not cool enough to be a drummer.

But he would not let the idea of me trying something new die. Each week, he harassed me about trying guitar. I knew the technique involved in being a good guitarist was challenging at least, so I sheepishly began peeking past the shiny black acoustics to the bass section. I had no idea what it took to play bass, but damn they looked cool. So one night, I went on Amazon (stop wincing, musician friends) and bought a bright pink beginner bass with a checkerboard strap.

A few weeks later, I took my first lesson. That was more than 5 years ago. Every Thursday, I take my 30 minute lesson. The best part of my teacher is that he has never forced me to learn theory or guilted me about practice. Instead, he lets me bring in everything from Pink! to David Crowder and we figure it out together. Over the past 5 years, he has learned a lot about being a momager of two girls and pastoring a church. I have learned what it looks like when you give your life to a passion and don't let education or a paycheck determine your success. I like to think it is a mutually beneficial lesson.

I will never be a great bass player. I had taken lessons for two years when I was guilted into playing in front of another human. Since then, I have joined the band at ECL. Let me be very clear, I am far from self sufficient. Most Sundays that I play require remedial help from both my teacher and our worship pastor. They both graciously encourage me. My family has the pleasure of listening to me practice in the living room. I secretly enjoy practicing on Saturdays when they are all in the room because without fail, they sing the songs. Even though they act like it drives them crazy, they love the preview of the next day's set list.

We mistakenly think that in adulthood we master things, not begin them. At 36, I needed to learn a new skill. At 41, I still need to be a student. I need to have times that I am relying on someone else to teach me something new. We all need to regularly place ourselves in the humbling position of student. When we think that we have figured something out, we become complacent. When we take a beginner's class or start a new job or walk into a gym for the first time, we are intentionally saying that we are ready to learn. This is a powerful statement.

If I ever grow up, I still want to be a learner. I want to travel to new places. I want to read new philosophies. I want to sit at the feet of people that have already learned and be their student. I never want to reach the place where I think I know all that I need to know. That is lame. And, it is also the time that arrogance and insensitivity and ignorance and hate begin to weave into your consciousness. When we become stagnant, we invite into our hearts and souls the space to assume that we have life figured out. I don't know about you, but I have much to learn.

So, book an art class. Sign up for a retreat. Seek out a spiritual mentor. Join an exercise group. Take a swim lesson or get your scuba certification. Learn to sail. Take an e-course. Join a book study. Find a way to place yourself in a position of learning. Not only will you be blessed by the education, but you will cultivate gratitude for all those around you who are struggling to master a new computer skill or Algebra or faith or sobriety or the bass.

Why I Won't Run Away

When we moved into our house more than 17 years ago, I thought we would live here for 5-10 years. Did I mention that I have never played the future guessing game well? Not only did we stay, but we have put down roots in this community. There have been seasons that we felt that perhaps a move was on the horizon, but up to this point we have been planted in the same place.

This has provided many challenges and blessings. I have traveled a bit of a winding road since 1999. The temptation to change locations to avoid the pain of growing still (to me, this is also known as growing up), has been great. When I am uncomfortable, I want to change positions. When I feel uneasy, I like to leave the situation. And when I have wanted to reinvent myself, the temptation to leave my known has been pressing.

But there are days like today that I am so glad that I have remained. We did not know a soul in this town when we moved here. We were 23 and 24 years old and we had no idea what the next season of life would be like. Upon moving in, we found our place at a local church. I was on staff as the student pastor and we were immediately surrounded by teenagers and their families. I loved every minute of that season.

This house has hosted sleepovers, hide and go seek marathons, volleyball in the field, Bible studies and movie nights. It has been toilet papered too many times to count. It has been host to retreats and game nights and all of this happened before 2006. In the 6 years of full time ministry, we had countless teenagers in our home. They were our kids before we had kids. We genuinely walked with and cared for and loved them.

We now have a youth group of our own in this house. We still host lock-ins and mission trips, but now we are the dorky parents rather than the cool young adults. We still rent vans and take kids to camp, but now we have the grey hair to prove that we are old enough to be covered by church insurance.

Staying in the same house with the same phone number has provided me with surprise Sunday afternoon knocks, from now grown ups, that just want to see if we are still here. It has blessed me with deep adult friendships. It has given my kids a wealth of adults that love them. It reminds me daily that if I can stay still and grow up, my relationships will deepen with time and hardships and celebrations and life experiences.

Today we had lunch with one of these teenagers. As we talked, I was reminded that we are now the age of the parents that I met when I first came to League City. Our kids are the ages of the teenagers and they are now the ones with houses and young kids and careers. My kids now babysit for their kids. I get to call them for help with all things grown-up. What a great ride!

Just 17 years ago, these kids were the reason that I dressed in obnoxious costumes, stayed up all night and lost sleep about their worries and futures. Today, they are my neighbors, colleagues, advisors, cheerleaders and family. It seems like a lifetime ago, and it was. So much has changed and yet in that change so many wonderful journeys have remained connected because I did not run for the hills when I was uncomfortable in my own skin.

And the best gift of all? Because I didn't run, they know where to run when their faith and life and marriages and kids and struggles are hard. Sure, we share the good, but I have sat in some of life's hardest struggles with them because ministry doesn't end when you age out of the youth program. Relationships are the heart of ministry, and they extend all the way to hospital room and the wedding reception and the rooms of recovery. They bring you face to face in the grocery store and the therapist office. Relationships like these share coffee on a sunny afternoon and tears at a graveside. I thank God everyday that student ministry was only the introduction.

It's a GIRL!

We did not find out the gender of our children during pregnancy. We decided that there were very few surprises in life, so we went the old fashion route of delivery room discovery. Both times. This drove some people in our lives crazy. It significantly simplified baby prep because there was a singular focus - a baby. No color choices. No nursery decisions. No outfit coordination.

I can still remember the moment that they said, "It's a girl!" There is a video of my reaction and it is so clear that while I played a good game of 'what ever is perfect', I was mighty darn excited to have a daughter. Skip ahead 3.5 years and repeat the process. Same pre-event poker face, but upon announcement, I was beyond thrilled because that meant SISTERS! 

In the 11 years since then, I have learned that sisters fight. Sisters are not always best friends. Sisters can be very different. Upon refection, I wanted my oldest to have a relationship like I had with my sister. Instead, she received an entirely different gift who will inevitably teach her equally important lessons. However, 15 months apart and 3.5 years apart make for some challenging differences. They struggle to find common ground at this age and somedays (lets just be honest...most days) it is more like a scene out of a Wrestle Mania cage match than a precious Little House on the Prairie moment. 

My desire to have daughters, and for my girls to have a sister, was the obvious dream of duplicating my childhood. What I did not expect or even know how to appreciate, was just how perfect of a girl dad Lucas was going to be. He was made for this gig. Now granted, he is just a super fun dad, so a son would have loved him, but he is seriously the man when it comes to these girls.

If you follow him on social media, you know that his two primary posts include concerts and sports. He loves these activities because his girls love them. Our oldest loves live music. In the last year, the two of them have seen 30+ bands together. Sometimes they take a friend (for instance tonight they are seeing Blink 182 with AJ's best friend and her dad - how cool is this?!?!?), but many nights it is just the two of them. They go to small venues and big arenas. He stalks ticket outlets. They catch drumsticks and guitar picks. They stand in line for pictures and they get cool t-shirts - that they always buy in a large so they can share it. THE MAN.

While sports come a little more natural to his love language, he gets the younger daughter's passion for physical activity. They ride bikes together. They play in the pool together. They go play putt-putt or bowl on dates. They smack talk their basketball brackets. And even though she is currently beating him, the competitive banter will continue until next Monday night. She may get her spunk and fierceness from momma, but dad loves and encourages that athletic fire. They get each other.

Every night, he walks down the hall and does his bedtime rituals with them. This is one of my favorite things because he loves them each in their own way. I'll spare you all of the squishy cuteness, but there is one part that gets me every night. There is a metal giraffe named Gertrude that lives in the corner of AJ's room. After the kisses are given to the humans, he walks over and taps Gertrude's neck (which is on a spring) and says goodnight to Gertrude, too. He loves all the many ways that our girls are unique, even the metal spirit animals.

When we were standing in the delivery room more than 15 years ago,  I wanted a girl so that I could have a daughter. Today, I am so thankful that I have daughters because I fall in love with their daddy each time I see him express love to them. I know that being a dad to a teenage girl can prove exhausting, but to all the dads out there that are in the trenches, you got this! I can tell you from personal experience, the love that this daddy's girl was given in those years helped shape the woman I am today. Let them sit in your lap, be engaged in their life, know their passions and their spirit animals. They will never forget it. 

Where Will You be in 2027?

"Where do you think we will be in 10 years?" At our house, this question is a favorite conversation starter on date nights. We regularly laugh at the notion that we can predict the future. 10 years ago, I would have NEVER guessed that my life would look anything like it does today.

At the time, our oldest was in Pre-K and the youngest was 20 months old. Our youngest had developmental delays and she was not speaking. She was going to physical, occupational and speech therapy and was wearing leg braces. Our oldest was terrified of most things, including the thought of going to school. My slow starting youngest is now one of the most active (and loquacious) pre-teens I know. My brave oldest faces down challenges and is thriving in all things education. But on March 22, 2007, I could not have predicted this path. 

Tonight I was teaching our Lenten study at church. We are calling it "Cries of Redemption." The topic we discussed tonight was relationships. As we talked about the changing roles that people play in our lives, I was struck by the ever morphing rhythm that brings people into and out of our lives. Sometimes it is a geographical move or a birth or death. Sometimes it is an interest or activity that links you for a time. And sometimes, there are relationships that were once vital and closely held that are now fractured and separated.

As I stared at the drawing we did tonight, I realized that there is pain with any relationship loss, but in each change came a new level of wisdom and listening and vulnerability. When we experience the loss of those we love, we are invited to examine the how's and the why's. We are given the opportunity to clean our own side of the street in understanding the brokenness or grief. We are granted access to liberation from wounds of yesterday and we are given the freedom of what's next.

I will never be able to predict the future. The more that I ask the 10 year question, the more I enjoy that the unknown is just that - even when it comes to the humans that mean so very much to my journey today. Because the truth is, that is all we have. We have this time and this space and these people for today. May we soak up all that we need from all that we love. 

Available?

I was in yoga class today (let's all just pause and let the fact that I have been participating in a form of physical activity for 2.5 months sit for a second...thank you) and there was a situation. A person in my physical condition fears these words from an instructor, "We are going to have an active flow today." This is code for you non-flexible and out of shape yahoos are in trouble.

I have come to embrace that I have to modify almost every class. That is a given. But this thing they (notice I did not even attempt to do this thing) did today was cray. We were all sitting on our blocks. I did that part. And we were stretching our hips. Check. Then there was some binding...and then standing...and some balancing...

I know I was staring at the instructor with my mouth hanging open in horror. How can these people do such things? My teacher so graciously said, "Do this if it is available to you."

Well, it was not. There was nothing about this pose that was "available" to me. And it sent me on a journey with this word available all day.

Available:
adjective
1. suitable or ready for use; of use or service; at hand:
2. readily obtainable; accessible: available resources.
3. having sufficient power or efficacy; valid

I wonder what seems unavailable to you today? Is it hope? Or love? Or grace? Are you struggling to see how peace is ever going to be obtainable? Does it appear that all that you are grasping for is not accessible?

All of these things and so much more have seemed out of my reach at one point or another. There are many days when I still feel like the list of the available resources is much shorter than the one that announces the many things that are unavailable.

Perhaps it is my natural negative bent, but more times than not, I am focused on the things that are unavailable rather than the things that are already firmly grounded in my life. Just like in yoga today. The class was an hour. Sure, there were some things that were hard. There were things that I modified, but there was only ONE pose that was completely unavailable to me. The other 58 minutes, I was totally availing myself of good, whole, healing stretches that just 3 months ago, I could not do! I had a moment today that I had to stop and look at my feet in my downward dog. My heels were less than 1' from my mat. THIS IS HUGE!

Just weeks ago, I did not have the strength to hold that pose very long and now I am comfortable. I  have made new friends, and learned to breathe in new ways and forged a new path for prayer that makes my heart very available to seek God. In all of that goodness, I spend countless amounts of energy on the 2 minutes that I can't do rather than the 58 that I can. Am I alone in this struggle? Nope.

So for today, may we focus on the many things that are available right before our eyes and hearts and minds and bodies. And for the areas that feel unavailable right now, may we continue to do the hard work of preparing the way for the day when we to can stretch in new and crazy ways.