Big Family

I come from a really, really big family.

I have a sister who is from Canada and she is just about ready to meet up with her third baby--the baby girl that she is adopting from Haiti.  It's kind of funny that she is my sister and I've only found out about her story today.  But there's no doubt about it.  I can tell we're family by the way she talks, and by the way we both gush about our Dad.  And, of course, there is no mistaking Him.

I have another sister who is living in South Africa and fostering someone else's abandoned son, even though she's American and not married and doesn't have much money, because that's what our Dad asked her to do.  And I have a brother who, sadly, is suffering right now in a miserable prison because he wasn't willing to deny being part of our family, even when the authorities told him to just shut up about it. 

It's always a little strange to read about someone on the other side of the world and find out that they are a sibling.  It makes the news about them a little more special, or a little more sad, or a little harder to understand.  But in the end, it leaves me with a crazy keen sense of anticipation for our upcoming family reunion, because I truly can't wait to meet all my amazing brothers and sisters in person and get to hear the details of their stories face-to-tearful-face.

And wow. . . . how that will make our Dad's heart glad, when He finally has all of us under one roof!  He's preparing the place for us as we speak and He's already told us there are a LOT of rooms.  I have a feeling that the years we've spent apart on this shadowy planet will quickly be made up for as we embark on eternity together in the Real World.  There is something about being His adopted child that makes our hearts beat in time with all the other kids that He adopted before and after us.  Something that weaves us in and out of one another's lives even when we've never met.  Something that often makes me cry, and even more often makes me laugh, and mostly leaves me wanting to know my Father better than I did yesterday.

I love being a small part of such a big family.

Lost is Lost

Sometimes lost looks lost. It’s scruffy and ill-mannered, or belligerent and drunk. It’s shabby and low-class and obviously struggling to hold it together. It’s pathetic and ignorant and leach-like in its unwillingness to take responsibility for anything, ever. It’s a perpetual victim. It’s a perpetual criminal. It’s clearly in need of answers. It’s clearly in need.

But sometimes, lost is sneaky. Sometimes lost doesn’t look lost. Sometimes it looks attractive, even. Glamorous and affluent and confident. Sometimes lost is well-dressed and well-read. It’s witty and coy and productive and upstanding and shops at Whole Foods. It has a white collar and a Keurig. It recycles and is an informed voter. It’s a perpetual winner. It’s a perpetual taxpayer. It’s clearly in need of nothing.

But at the end of the day, lost is lost.

Until it’s found.

Hey, Look at Me. Oh, and Merry Christmas.

Every year, when we receive Christmas cards in the mail, I tape them up on the dining room wall. I like it. I like that it makes the house look Christmasy and warm and friendly. I like to see the varied images of stables and mangers and wisemen and even Santa and reindeer and snowy landscapes decorating the plain-in-every-other-season wall.

But this year, as I look at the wall, I feel slightly disturbed. We've received six "cards" so far. Only they're not actually cards. They are photographs. Photographs of the sender and family with some holiday-ish greeting imprinted on the front. So I have pictures of six families taped on the dining room wall. It's weird.

Before I go further, I want to clearly put it out there that I did that once. I sent picture greetings of my firstborn on her first Christmas and I wanted everyone to see how beautiful she was. I paid Costco to turn one of her photos into a card, of sorts, and mailed them out to our friends and family. I did it and even now, if I had the money, I'd be tempted to do it again. I'm totally willing to lump myself in with the crowd when I say that it's weird. Because I know that I want to do it so that you can see how cute my kids are. And what in the world does that have to do with Jesus coming to earth as a baby?

As if Christmas weren't enough about us already.

Now we send pictures of ourselves to long lists of people, most of whom aren't close enough to us that they would have a picture of us in their homes otherwise. It feels a little presumptuous. It feels a little sneaky. "I know a photo of me and my children couldn't make it into your home in any other way, but because it's Christmas, you're now obligated to display us for a while." <sly smile>

I think I'd rather receive misleading, watercolor images of cozy mangers filled with sweet, clean hay--however unlikely -- or even ridiculous renderings of blond, blue-eyed virgin Marys -- even more unlikely. I think I prefer sarcastic cartoon Santas making rude jokes to his reindeer. I think I prefer anything to saying "Hey, look at me. Oh, and Merry Christmas. Are you still looking at me? What do you think of these matching outfits?"

I'm Sorry; Thank You

So, what’s the first thing you’re going to ask God when you get to heaven?

Anyone like me has rattled off a dozen or so off-the-cuff remarks through the years about how you’re going to ask God this or that when you get to see Him in heaven. But the longer I’m alive, the less I’m planning to ask.

Not because I don’t have questions—I have many. Not because I eventually found all the answers during this open-book Bible test that is my life on earth—I haven’t. So much of the black and white clarity I possessed at age twenty-one has slowly turned into a muddled gray.

But, remember how Moses wanted to see God and he had to be hidden in a cleft in a rock and he could only look at God’s back after He'd passed by? What that implies about God’s front is frightening and doesn’t really seem conducive to the sort of presumptuous press conference that one would think I’m anticipating as I spout off things I’m going to ask when I see God in heaven.

Yes, I have questions. And I will continue to ask for otherworldly wisdom in sorting through the perplexity of gray as life gets more complicated. But as my trust in the Trustworthy One grows, I find that my questions become less demanding, less urgent. The meat of so many of my conversations with Him can be summarized in simple words of either repentance or gratitude.

I’m growing to believe that at the end of the day, at the end of that Day, most all words will fall away and there will only be a few quiet things left to say in the irresistible glow of that unapproachable Light—one of them being “I’m sorry” and the other being “Thank you”.

Gains and Losses

Once there was a girl who prayed a prayer that altered my perspective in such a significant way that I’ve never forgotten it.

She was a girl who had walked through the experience of being pregnant with a baby and choosing to give that baby a home that was better than what she could offer. . . . a heartwrenching decision, a decision that is never left behind, but fingers its way forever into the present as the years go by and the birthdays pass.

I can’t pretend to understand the reality of that experience. I can’t wrap my mind around making a decision that heavy with consequences. But she had and she spoke to God out of that reality when she prayed the prayer. She said one night, ever so simply, “God, I know how hard it was for me to give my baby to someone else, even when I was convinced that it was a good home and that she would be loved and treated well. How hard it must have been for you to give up your Son, knowing full well what they would do to Him.”

I felt stunned. I felt sad. I felt the weight, or rather, a shadow of a shadow of the weight that must have fallen on the ever vulnerable, ever tender, never hardened heart of the Father God as He released his Son into the world of men.

Thousands of mothers have chosen for their babies what was closer to perfection than they could offer—have chosen the better over the worse. They've done so because they believed that the gain was greater than the loss.

God chose to send His Son out of perfection into the fallen. Away from the better into the worse. He also believed that the gain was greater than the loss.

And all He had to gain was you and me.

I Remember

This post is inspired by DJ, who reminded me how important it is to remember and encouraged me to write it down.

I remember that You called my name at that Randy Matthews concert on July 7, 1983. I remember how I wanted You, which is just another way of saying that You wanted me.

I remember that You spoke into my heart when my parents fought the custody battle that made me sick to my stomach. I remember the words of the Psalm that were written for me, that brought peace to a girl on her belly on blue shag carpet.

I remember Camp Wildwood in the eighth grade and learning how to praise You in a way I’d never experienced—it must be the way they praise You in heaven.

I remember scribbling “Jesus Rules” all over my folders in junior high, knowing I wasn’t cool enough for You, knowing You loved me anyway.

I remember our family falling apart. Again. I remember pleading with You for restoration. It didn’t turn out the way I thought it should, not the way I thought You thought it should. I remember crying, “Doesn’t God think we’ve had enough?”

I remember having the audacity to bargain with You: if You helped us get there on time—because we were terribly late and it was my fault—I’d have a 10-minute quiet time that night. Wow. I remember that You didn’t strike me dead. You got us there on time. Are You kidding me??

I remember going away to college and wondering if I would go to church on my own. I remember finding my brothers and sisters there and meeting You all over again. It was like we had just met, but better. I remember the giddiness of new relationship.

I remember YWAM, where I arrived as a believer and left as a disciple. I remember the bunny. You are unbelievable, You know that? Of course You do. I remember my faith being pulled deeper and wider and longer by You every day.

I remember leaving YWAM, on fire! ready to change the world for You. I remember failing and I remember You not being surprised.

I remember forgetting You. I don’t remember how You felt—only imagine it by things you say in the Bible when the Israelites played the harlot like me.

I remember having spiritual flashbacks interspersed with intentional lukewarmth. And still, You were faithful. Still, You were kind. Still, You were generous. I remember that still, You were interested in me. Still, You gently called me back again.

I remember the prayers You answered about Mike.

I remember the prayers You answered about my brother.

I remember the prayers You answered. Prayers that did not deserve Your attention. Prayers that were not consistent. Prayers lacking in faith. I remember Your favor and grace in the face of my selfishness and apathy.

I remember that You provided a safe place for me to confess all the ways that I had forgotten You—a safe place to be accountable for all that You were showing me. I remember the joy of stretching long-dormant limbs. I remember growing.

I remember digging in in Costa Rica. I remember the richness of fellowship found in the unlikeliest of places. I remember the pain of losing things that are only in our lives for a season. I remember that You did not leave me or forsake me.

I remember coming home without the feeling of coming home. I remember needing You so badly. I remember the comfort in Your promise that You were making me (no matter how slowly) more like Your Son.

I remember remembering You. I remember recognizing that You had not let anyone snatch me out of Your hand—not even myself.

I remember gratitude. . . and that, despite it all, I have a distressing tendency to forget.

Please don't let me.

Thank you, Randy Matthews

Thank you for playing that concert at the Jesus House all those 28 years ago on July 7th. You were a big headliner for us and it was super-exciting to have you there.

Thank you for singing what you sang. I don't even remember what it was, but I know that it somehow played a part in the course of events that night.

Thank you for saying what you said at the end. You said Satan wanted us to believe we had more time than we did. You counted backwards from ten. My heart was pounding like a bongo in my chest.

Thank you for pushing the issue. You surprised us all by stopping the countdown at two. I hadn't had time to stand. You made your point. I ran to my dad, in tears. He asked me why I'd wanted to stand.

Thank you for being available to the Holy Spirit. Thank you for being the catalyst that brought me to a decision to follow Jesus. I was baptized after your concert that night. I was almost 10 years old. I had no idea what I was in for. I had no idea He would never let me go, even when I thought He should.

Thank you, Randy Matthews, wherever you are. Thank you for going ahead of me on this journey and knowing that it was worth it. Thank you for being part of the most important night of my entire life. I can't wait to hang out with you in heaven.

Turns out a decision you make when you're not quite 10 years old can really stick. Turns out that even though there is a boatload of stuff about life that you don't know yet when you're 10, it doesn't really matter. All you really need to know is that you need a Savior, and that there's only One.

And Randy Matthews might say you don't have as much time to decide as you'd like to think.

Ten, nine, eight . . . .