Day 2: Death draws near

Last night,  Eddie came out of the shower and asked point blank - what happens when we die? We had a long conversation about faith and God and life and death that I couldn't possibly summarize if I tried.  The kid is deep. 

Dust to dust.  Ashes to ashes. 

From dust you came and to dust you shall return. 

Ash Wednesday is the day of the year I wrestle with my mortality.  And so, it surprised me a little for Eddie to pop up with questions about faith and death as I was finishing my last post and getting my soul ready to start Lent. But,  it was decidedly of the season and the other kids quickly joined in adding ideas and insights. So,  I took the moment and I rocked in a chair and we all talked for a long time like we were sitting around a campfire. 

It was a sacred moment. 

Today,  my friend sent me a post from one of my favorite pastors, Nadia Bolz-weber that says this

"Here’s my image of Ash Wednesday: If our lives were a long piece of  fabric with our baptism on one end and our funeral on another, and we don’t know the distance between the two, then Ash Wednesday is a time when that fabric is pinched in the middle and the ends are held up so that our baptism in the past and our funeral in the future meet. The water and words from our baptism plus the earth and words from our funerals have come from the past and future to meet us in the present. And in that meeting we are reminded of the promises of  God: That we are God’s, that there is no sin, no darkness, and yes, no grave that God will not come to find us in and love us back to life."

I have never heard a better description of Ash Wednesday.  The solemness and unrelenting hope of this Lent season. 

Death is hard for me. Really hard. 

I squirm whenever I have to sit and soak in the hard truth that death is an inevitability for me and for everyone I love.  I hate that.  

But,  Ash Wednesday brings me back to the heart of faith.  Though I am dust and though I may return to dust,  I belong to God and there is nothing,  no place,  no thing that can separate me from the love of God. Ever. 

Day 1: What should I give up this year?

I have to be honest. I've been craving Lent -- the way I crave exercise after too many lazy days or vegetables after too much fast food. My soul is hungry for spiritual nourishment. I want to drink from the deep water -- cool, black, unyielding. I need some wilderness time.

Some years (like this one) I start thinking and planning what I am going to give up for lent in the fall. Some years, it creeps around in the back of my mind but I come up empty and I scramble on Ash Wednesday morning --- Shit, its lent already, what am I doing?

One of my best friends orbits nearer during this season. We find ourselves talking more often and sharing our lenten journies almost daily by text. The rest of the year, we check in and do the friend thing -- but this time of year is special and I can usually tell Lent is drawing near by the increased frequency of our calls and texts. I don't even have to look at a calendar. It is like the lengthening of days.

Last week, we had our "What are you doing for Lent?" call. As we spoke, it made me articulate how I think about Lenten practices and I thought that I would write a blog about it.

When I don't know what I am going to do for Lent I've come up with 3 big questions that hone in on something worth exploring.  They are:

1. What's my pacifier?

2. What's my second mountain?

3. Where does the light shine in?

Chucking the Pacifiers

Pacifiers are the easiest to find. 

These are the things I shove in my mouth, or put in front of my face to calm my brain and get through the day. They add color to life. Small joys. Low key addictions. Hidden cravings. 

 Fasting from these things create an empty, uncomfortable space -- some of these that I've given up in the past -- 

music in the car, 

to-do lists, 

shopping,

Diet coke

 Fast food.

Giving up these kinds of things pokes me and grows me in unexpected ways.  Sometimes it's easier than expected, sometimes harder.  Sometimes I learn things,  sometimes I just get frustrated and say Lent is stupid and cross my arms and tap my feet until Easter.  

If you want to look for your own pacifiers -- here are some of the questions I ask myself

1. What do I do to fill empty time?
2. What do I lean on to get through the day?
3. How do I quiet the voices in my head?
4. What is the extra -- the craving - that I have a hard time ignoring?

Climbing the Second Mountain

A few years ago, I read a pair of books -- The Road to Character and The Second Mountain -- by David Brookes. They are interesting reads and I highly recommend them. Through studying the biographies of a variety of people,  the author explores what it means to live with a depth of character and then embarks on his own journey to a deeper life. 

A concept that I have carried with me from them is the idea of a second mountain. Brookes describes our first mountain as the one we climb for ourselves. The achievements we go after, the fulfillment of the ego, the self. Building our resume,  getting a good job,  getting material wealth, etc.  The second mountain is the one we climb as we learn to die to ourselves and and live for something beyond us. 

For me, things on my second mountain include marriage -- the dying to myself to lean into partnership with my husband. Motherhood - the endless giving that comes from the caregiving and raising of young children and faith - this intangible pull towards God and a setting aside of self to pick up a call rooted in faith.

Our culture bristles quite a bit at second mountain living. Dying to self and living for something beyond self is hard to swallow in a culture that places the individual at the center of everything.

In fact,  I find the intentional lean in to my second mountain during Lent as an opportunity to explore that tension.  

A simple example from motherhood... 

Doing laundry and cleaning a house over and over and over for people who never appreciate it. Motherhood especially presses my buttons as I can feel at times like I'm losing "me." I'm always last. I'm always picking up the slack. I'm like all the mothers everywhere. There is a loud feminist inside me that screams about the whole construct. This is unfair to me.  

But also... what if I assumed my agency. I have choice.  I choose this. How many other amazing women have leaned into this role perfecting selflessness.  It is not being a doormat, but rather bringing strength of character to fill the role,  the commitment of motherhood fully. 

Any commitment, call,  marriage, life work can run the same tension.  The risk of being fully consumed by the giving and that loving and the tedium that comes with life work. The truth is -- it is damn hard to climb the second mountain. To choose a more selfless way when society screams that I should be spending more time putting me first.

So for Lent, I try to quiet my ego and look at areas that hinder me from loving well and tried to find a way to work on them. 

Not yelling at my kids

Not nagging my husband. 

Letting go of sarcasm for a time. 

These are hard. 

Harder than the pacifiers I've given up. But they work the heart. 

Here are a few questions to help find second mountain practices:

1. What things in my life are more important than me - if I found out I didn't have long to live - what would I want to attend to? Are there practices I could take up to more fully live into or bring grace into these commitments?
2. Where does my ego prevent me from leaning into work that I know is "life work"? 
3. Is there a place I can step out of my comfort zone to more fully embrace life that I know I am called to lead?

Where the light shines

Over the past year, I've been occasionally listening to Phil Visher's podcast "The Holy Post." On one episode, he was interviewing Philip Yancy, a fairly well known Christian author who may be most well-known for his book "The Jesus I never knew." Philip was on a book tour for his latest release called "Where the light fell" which is his memoire on his life and his faith. He called the book that because he feels like we all have special spaces where we best experience God. For him, these included music and nature. 

Thinking about Lent, I ask myself -- where is God showing up in my life right now. 

1. Where do I feel God near? 
2. Where and when is my mind most attuned to grace? 
3. Where does the light shine? 
4. If I were going on a hunt for God where and how would I look?

Making Lent

Lent is a beautiful period of time -- long enough to be a stretch but still time bound. It creates space to open ourselves up to God, to journey into the wilderness to be stretched or to lean into grace. It is the quiet end of winter, beginning of spring -- when death and barrenness feel close and yet, life is slowly reborn in the lengthening of days. It is a journey to the cross -- and to the resurrection. 

I sometimes choose practices that I can be hard-nosed about -- absolutely no X until Easter. Other times I choose things that I fail at and struggle with over and over -- awashing me in grace again and again so that I show up to Good Friday completely broken with all my lenten practices off the rails and feeling like a miserable failure only to find grace again and know that that's the entire point.

So here's to pulling out pacifiers and sitting in the emptiness, struggling with the rocky paths of the second mountain and resting in the lush meadows where the light shines through and God draws near. 

Here's to 40 days --- a very long road to the cross and to the hope that lies beyond. 

May you be fed. 

May your journey be blessed.

Peace be with you.

Lent day 33: Holy week with little people

 I've had a hard time getting the little ones to church during holy week.  Not only because it is hard to get them dressed and ready for church after a day of school and homework (which is true) but also holy week services are a special type of reverent.  There is a quiet people need when absorbing this week and I've struggled with the balance of exposing my crew to these special services while honoring the quiet and stillness needed for worship (which is usually not present when we are there).

Last year, there was a magical thing of zoom being new and doing church in our living room felt like a treat that the boys settled down and participated in all the services remotely. 

But this year... they have zoom fatigue.  They haven't done nearly as much as other kids but I can feel it Sunday mornings.  They are much more wiggly. They are trying... but they,  like the rest of us, are tired.  

But they gave up electronics for Lent and I wanted them to experience the fullness of holy week. We talked all together and the kids decided to hold a single service in the backyard.  Everyone had jobs. 

Miles,  the youngest,  did physical things.  Lighting candles. Pouring water.  Passing out stones. 

Philip read the bare minimum passion story from our children's Bible starting with the last supper and reading in sections through the crucifixion. 

Andrew gave the "Maundy Thursday" sermon. He talked about how giving things up for so long helps you to pay attention to God and other people.  

Eddie gave the "Good Friday" sermon.  He talked about how Jesus died so we should express our gratitude by caring for each other. 

We washed each other's feet and set rocks next to the cross.  

Like the baptism and most things involving children,  it was tough around the edges. Starts and stops.  Lighting and blowing out candles. Spilling water.  Messages that were brief and filled with stutters and non-sequidors. But those boys were learning the symbols of faith.... water, fire, bread, wine, the cross,  stones. They were learning the elements of liturgy. I was helping them connect the dots from the story to the practices of the church. 

It's not entirely easy,  I found,  to explain the cross in simple words. They, like me,  have begun a struggle with the cross. Why the cross? We talked about baptism at Easter and how joining God's family means being part of the sad and hard parts of Good Friday but also being part of the resurrection on Easter Sunday. 

The service was messy, simple and ordinary,  but profound.  And, as we were gathered, so God was there among us.  (I'm so glad God is used to messes.)

 My little guys, like me,  have a long road of faith ahead of them.  I know that however their lives unfold God will be walking in front of, behind, beside and within them. 

Lent day 32: who am in the passion story?

 I had to come up with a sermon for Good Friday service.  All last weekend I wrestled with the passion story... which is part of why I'm behind on blogging.

One activity that I did that felt worth sharing on this blog was imagining myself as each character in the story.  Not just the "good" guys,  those at least somewhat aligned with Jesus - his friends and disciples.  But also judas, the crowd, pilot, herod, the high priest.  It is easy to dismiss these people as someone I'd never be... but how would I know. I needed to walk in their shoes for a while to see how the shoes fit.  

I can start with the crowd shouting "crucify him!"  I feel like I wouldn't have so quickly changed my stance on Jesus.  Celebrating him as he rode in on a donkey only to throw him under the bus a week later.  I'd be more thoughtful on something as important as the messiah. Or would I? How easily am I swayed by popular opinion? Do I weigh in on stuff that I know very little about? Do I get emotionally riled up?

 What about the high priest. They never really got to know Jesus.  I mean,  they came and questioned him a lot but they never got past the agenda. They were too busy with the status quo.  They had responsibilities. If I were in a position of power, would I silence inconvenient rabble rausers? Would I listen, truly listen without putting what I'm going to say next? Would I silent a voice for what I thought was the benefit of the whole?  

At the surface,  I don't find any way to relate to Judas.  I'm not really a sell my friends for a few pieces of silver kind of girl. But again,  it's good Friday.  I have to be honest,  do I ever put material comfort ahead of my call to pick up a cross and follow Jesus. Do l trust the power of the world over the power of God?

It's easier to see myself as one of the disciples. Dining with Jesus.  Hanging on his words.  He washed my feet.  We went to the garden.   But then,  out of no where things got dangerous.  Swords were drawn and I booked it to safety.  I was afraid.  I ran away. Totally see myself doing that. 

Or, maybe I was close enough to Jesus to stay with him. Maybe I was Peter. Carrying my own sword, ready to protect Jesus.  But then,  he didn't want a fight.  I got confused.  I followed by I grew fearful as I watched it unfold.  No one would blame me for that, or would they... tell the story across the ages how I denied Jesus. Too afraid to follow him to the cross. 

Maybe the hardest of all was Mary,  standing at the foot of my son's cross. Holding vigil. Watching that miracle baby groaning as the life drained away. Unable to turn away.  Holding up Memories of a life as his mother.  The angel. His birth in Bethlehem.  Running away in the night to save his newborn life from herod, only to see it nailed to this dreadful cross. Wondering why it has to be this way.  

No matter who I choose to be my failure, my fear, my inability to follow Jesus became clear in the reflection of the cross. I am a broken human, like every single person who witnessed the passion... I ran away,  I denied Jesus,  I silenced him and nailed him to the cross.  It was a hard meditation but thankfully, the story doesn't end on Good Friday.

Lent day 31: Cringe worthy moments in motherhood

Motherhood is full of moments that make me cringe.... like when you are walking down a street and your little boy pulls down his pants to pee on a street or walks up to a stranger and say "hey,  I said hi, why didn't you say hi to me. " 

Licking things off the floor

Sharing an ice cream with the dog

And the list goes on...

And on

And on... 

But the worst cringe moment for me is when I hear my voice coming out of their mouths. I'm in the kitchen cleaning up and they are playing and get into a dispute.  I then hear some sharp thing I would say come out of one of their mouths.  They totally got that from me.  

My heart sinks. 

I feel as condemned as Peter hearing the cock crow. 

My moments of weakness and stress reflected right back at me in the innocent mouths of those babies. 

It's easy enough to hide from myself in the hallway mirror where I know how to look at my good side, but what about those department store mirrors.  

EVERY

SINGLE

IMPERFECTION. 

How do they even sell clothes anyways?

Children are like having department store mirrors following me around reminding me of every character flaw. The times I let anger get the best of me. The way I judge them unfairly. My need to control things.  Uuuuggg. So unflattering. 

But accepting what's really there. Taking the truth and owning it, repenting for it and allowing grace to flow in over it, I can allow the Spirit to mold me anew.  I can let my spirit be broken and allow God to shine through the cracks.  I can find a way to teach my children a better way.

It is holy week. We are all broken vessels and jars of clay. May this week, this season open our hearts to grace ever allowing us to be remade by the one who loves perfectly.

Lent day 30: the mundane and tiring in-between time

 The last year has been a whole lot of waiting around to be ready to respond to whatever. A lot of wondering when.  When will things start opening up? When will I send the kids back to school? When will the baby start sleeping through the night? When should I schedule another RV trip? When will it be my turn to get the vaccine?

There were also a lot of what and why questions too. Most of the questions didn't have answers. 

But over the course of Lent,  Philip started school. Eddie and Andrew are signed up for summer camp. Miles is going to summer school.  I got my vaccine.  I'm most likely going to take a big rv trip in July after camp to go visit friends on what I've coined as the "tour of hugs"  and when we get back life will likely be more or less normal again with everyone going back to school in the fall.  If everything goes to plan.  

But... for the first time in ages... there is something like a plan.  However. It's not here yet.  It's still Lent.  I'm still homeschooling everyone and trying to finish out the school year.  I'm fully embedded in in-between. Not new beginning, not yet ending.  Just somewhere drawing near to a tired end,  but not close enough to let go. 

How do I find energy to be faithful to this call and this time? It's a total case of senioritus. My mind wondering on to bigger and better plans while I still have duty to the present. 1 week of Lent. 9 more weeks of school.  What difference can I make? What is the best use of this time?

Life is lived in the in between time.  While we celebrated the beginnings and endings of things,  the in between is where we live out our calls, where grace meets us on the road, where lessons are learned and where we get too tired to keep up appearances. 

I am reminded of Passover.  We celebrate leaving Egypt, but all those in between years manna fell from the sky.  

God journeys with us during the mundane and tiring in began time, providing bread for the journey, grace and forgiveness.  

God is with me during these last 9 weeks of school. Guiding and leading me....

And that is enough.  

Lent day 29: Take me to the water, mama.

 I knew it would be chaotic. The plan was to drop Philip at school and run to kohl's and buy some new Easter outfits as all the boys had grown out of the now dusty church clothes that I had pulled out of the closet Sunday night.  I'd then run home,  get everyone dressed, pick up Philip and head to the church where we would quickly record Zanders baptism and my Good Friday sermon and get home in time for miles therapy. 

It was hectic.  Boys running around the sanctuary as the pastor set up the camera and audio equipment.  But there was something holy in the chaos. Everyone got dressed without a fight. Eager to participate in the baptism and share something with their little brother. 

It wasn't poetic like an Easter vigil. Nor triumphant like the trumpet on Easter morning.  It was a small group, mostly kids, fumbling through hymnals reciting a liturgy with mispronounced words here and there.  The pastor, wearing formal robes over Tuesday morning work jeans, was patient and gentle.  Teaching my boys about the symbols of baptism and the Greek letters on the Christ candle.   My inlaws helped keep the boys on track. A godmother witnessed and participated over zoom. 

But God was in the water. 

I felt heavy bringing Zander to the water.  Heavy with the weight of my Good Friday sermon.  Bringing my chubby, happy, toothless grinning boy to the dangerous waters to faith where one day he'll find a cross of his own to pick up and carry. Why does faith ask so much?

But as I handed him over and watched the water spill over his head my heart lightened.  Joy settled in. 

God was in the water. 

Joy was in the water. 

There is more to faith than the cross.  More than a demand to follow Jesus to a dark hill. There is light beyond that. There is love that has no bounds. There is freedom, peace, grace and life in the water. 

I didn't need any extra pomp or ceremony to embellish the moment.  There were that brief moment where everything melted away and God wrapped his arms around mine as I cradled the baby he gave me and I knew that God would hold that baby forever.  

I'm so glad I brought him to the water.