Tag: Lessons and Musings Page 5 of 21

When Emotions Become Monster Trucks

It was just a broken crayon.

But it was a new box of crayons she had just received for her birthday, and it had happened while her sister was using it.

Meltdown:  Commence.

So I took her aside to talk her through it, using the steps the counselor had taught her at school.

Take a belly breath.  Bigger.  Again.

Name your feeling.

I am frustrated!

Good.  A step in the right direction.  This is progress from a year ago.

Why are you frustrated?  

She did it on purpose!  These are my new crayons!  This is a very big deal!

Her arms crossed.  Anger poured out from under the creased eyebrows.

Is the crayon more important than your relationship with your sister?  

Long pause.  Small voice.  No.  But only because she knew that was the right answer.

The anger was still there.  Sweetie, she did not do it on purpose.

Yes, she did!

Sweetie, your anger is a Monster Truck that is squashing the Truth.  You have to trust me on this one.  I know it doesn’t feel that way, but she didn’t.  You’ve got to turn off the Monster Truck by telling yourself the Truth.  I want you to say it out loud:  She did not do it on purpose.  

Say it again.

Say it again.

Now say this:  It was not a big deal.  I can forgive her.   



Say it again.



You can choose joy, my daughter.  You have that choice.  You can stay miserable in your self-pity, or you can let it go, and choose joy.  



We watched YouTube videos of Monster Trucks so that she can put that picture in her mind.  Mom’s going to help you turn off the Trucks, okay?  You’ve got to trust me.  

And slowly, slowly, we make progress.

*************************************

It was just a sleepless night that turned into a bad day.

I got nothing on my list crossed off.  Dinner burned.  The children managed to step on my last nerve.  I snapped at the children, then felt guilty about it.

And before I know it, my own Monster Trucks crush through my maturity, my common sense, and anything else that happens to have a semblance of Truth to it.  

I am a terrible mother.  

I am such a control freak.

My children are definitely going to need therapy because of me.  

I can’t do anything right.  

Why am I here?  

Everyone is better at everything than me.  

I am an utter failure. 

What I wanted to do was scream, throw the dinner on the floor, lock myself in the bathroom with my computer, and buy a plane ticket to a deserted island.  

Sometimes, I’m more like my daughter than I care to admit.

Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Talk to myself:  Turn off the Truck, look around you, do the thing that is right in front of you.  Then do the next thing.  And the next.  If my emotions are screaming one thing, it doesn’t mean they are true.  I can’t necessarily, in this moment, talk myself out of them, but I can do the next thing–in spite of them.

Most importantly, Tell Myself the Truth.

This life is not about me.  

It’s not about how I feel about myself or how successful I am.

It’s not about what I accomplish.  

My job is to obey God and do what is in front of me.  

Turn off the Monster Truck.  Don’t let it smash the Truth.

You can choose joy, my daughter.  You have that choice.  You can stay miserable in your self-pity, or you can let it go, and choose joy.  

  

When Life Feels Like Drudgery

Some days, it’s hard to get going in the morning when I am not looking forward to anything I have to do that day.  Drudgery, I think to myself.  

Maybe it’s the weather these days.  I feel like a sticky, slimy slug most of the time.  Whoever invented the word sluggish must have lived in Dar es Salaam in January.

Maybe it’s because the particular set of tasks assigned to me right now are not really my first choice in life.  I am in currently in charge of slogging through the paperwork to process our mission personnel’s visas.  On our ministry team, I am responsible for accounting and marketing.  Both of which are not my strengths, and almost not even my weaknesses.

Of course, just trying to live in a developing country doesn’t help.  It can take half a day to find the right-size light bulb.  The electricity doesn’t always work.  The roads don’t always work.  The water doesn’t always work.  All my best laid plans for productivity often go to waste.

Some days, I just feel so tired.  I give up.  You win, World.  Congratulations.  Just let me lie on the floor in peace.

But I do get up.

This I call to mind:  Faithfulness in drudgery is what faithfulness is all about.  Most of life is drudgery, isn’t it?  The messes, the commute, the weeds that keep growing, the bellies that need feeding, the clothes that need washing.

But the messes and the crying children and the electricity problems are just the individual puzzle pieces.  Alone, they seem endless and pointless.  But when I step back and give myself perspective, I remind myself that the visa applications and the search for working copy machines are part of a wider, much more glorious picture of what God is using us to do in Tanzania.  When I step back, I see that the cooking and the homework and the messes are part of the much more glorious picture of what God is doing in our family.

Every trudging step has meaning.

There will be an end, and there always is a point.

Wherever you are, be all there.  Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God. (Jim Elliot)

This life is the will of God for me right now.  So here’s to living to the hilt.

Why Would I Believe Such a Crazy Story?

An angel appears to a young, poor, virgin Jewish girl and tells her that she will miraculously become pregnant with the Son of God.  I know.  Crazy.

Although, is that story so much harder to believe than the notion of a non-intelligent, but self-creating universe?  Both beliefs take faith.  It’s just a matter of following the path of greater evidence.

But I digress.

It’s a crazy story, but it’s everything.

I see evidence of God everywhere.  It’s a no-brainer to me.  In the creativity of leaf-cutter ants, in the way my skin heals itself, in the astonishment of a baby–an entirely new person–emerging from his mother’s womb.  In the way that Beethoven affects me, in the sunset over the Serengeti, in homemade strawberry ice cream, in the fierceness of my love for children I did not birth–and in the sublime understanding that I can be moved to my core by these things.  Purpose and beauty and goodness and love simply cannot exist if there is no God.

I have no doubt that God exists.  

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have questions about who he is.  Because then I think of Ebola and ISIS and slavery and orphans and divorce and paralysis.  So I must ask:

Is God good?

Does he love us?

Does he see us?

If he sees, does he care?

Because a lot of the time, it sure doesn’t feel like it.

But that’s why we celebrate Christmas.  Because in Christmas, we remember that God, the designer of leaf-cutter ants, chose to become human, and not just human, but a newborn–totally helpless, totally dependent.  He chose to enter our world, our time and space, our dirt and pain and heartbreak, to walk with us and feel with us and cry with us.  He got our dirt between his toes and he got sick and threw up and he felt the desire of temptations that could ruin his life–just like we do.

Because he is good.

Because he loves us.

Because he sees us.

Because he does care.

I know, I know.  It doesn’t answer the question of why AIDS or why rape or why toddlers fall out of windows and die.  Or why he’s waiting so blasted long to fix it all.

We just can know, definitively, that he sees us; he knows us; he loves us.  Which is why hope and joy and love are not just positive words that look nice on Christmas cards.  Jesus came, and thus came the existence of hope, joy, and love.  Without him, they would just be pretty words that make us feel good until the reality of life sinks in again.

God with us.  It doesn’t make any sense at all; that is, until we realize that it’s the only story that makes sense of our lives.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness, a light has dawned. 

If We Perish, We Perish. But Let’s Choose Love Over Fear.

*Note added 11/20/15:  Please be assured that my intentions were not to make a political statement as to what the U.S. government should do about the refugee crisis.  I only want Christians to think about our reaction to the “dangerous” people and places in our society that we often try to avoid.  

A couple years ago, the U.S. postal service came out with a series of stamps showing children in active activities.  They never went to print.  Why, you ask?  Because many of the children on the stamps were participating in “dangerous activities.”  Look carefully:  No helmets, no knee pads, and [gasp!] one child is even doing a cannonball.

We are a culture that is obsessed with safety.

Is the house I am buying in a safe neighborhood?

Is my child’s school safe?

Are vaccines safe?  Pesticides?

Will less guns make us safe?  Or more guns?

Prayer meetings are often dominated by requests for safety in traveling.  We spend hours researching the safest car seat, baby monitor, and crib.  We always buckle.  These aren’t necessarily bad things.

Until this obsession gets into the way of obeying God.

What happens when God breaks your heart for the low-income neighborhood in your city?

What about when your firstborn child is called to be a missionary in Iraq?  Or Afghanistan?  Or North Korea?

What about when that unseemly neighbor wants her kids to come over and play?

Or how about something as simple as finding out that 10,000 Syrian refugees are being sent to your city?

It’s ironic that two months ago, when a drowned toddler was the Face of the Refugee, there was only criticism for those countries who didn’t open their arms wide.  Now, when the Face of the Refugee is a terrorist, those same doors are slamming shut.

I don’t want to make a political statement here.  I realize that the refugee situation is complicated and not easy to solve.  However, I do want to make a Christian statement.

When our love of safety gets in the way of obeying God, we are wrong.

When our love of safety gets in the way of loving people, we are wrong.

When we see the dysfunctional neighbor, the unruly child, the refugee, the Muslim, we should see the face of Jesus.  When we see the low-income neighborhood, the Arab country, the dilapidated house down the street, we should see places to which Jesus would have run.

Yes, we should be safe when we can be.  But as Christians, for the sake of love, we should err on the side of risk.   

Who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?  



To cross the railroad tracks.

To open our homes to the international college student.

To welcome the foster child.

To befriend the woman behind the veil.

To give generously.

To love lavishly.

And be willing to say with Queen Esther,

If I perish, I perish.  

Who Do I Make the Effort to Notice? What Paris Should Teach Us

At least 1000 civilians were killed, 1,300 women and girls raped, and 1,600 women and girls abducted between April and September.

A pregnant wife is murdered in her home during a home invasion.

A 62-year-old woman is murdered in her home by her boyfriend.

147 college students are murdered by terrorists.

41 people are murdered by terrorists.

129 people are murdered by terrorists.

Why are some more identifiable than others?  Why do you immediately know what person or place I am referring to with some, and not the others?

Is it because of media bias?

The area of the world where it took place?

Race?

Because some places are just dangerous and so we expect bad things to happen, but others are more newsworthy because they are considered “safe?”

Is it because we can all identify Paris on a map, but not Lebanon, South Sudan, or Kenya?  Is it because we can imagine ourselves hiding from terrorists in a concert hall, but not in a South Sudanese swamp?  Is it because we see ourselves as the murdered pastor’s wife, but not the black girlfriend in Lancaster, California?

Probably.  And that’s not necessarily bad.  We mourn more deeply when the tragedy happens closer to us.  We become more frightened when we can picture it also happening to us.  The attack on Garissa, Kenya affected me more than the attack on Paris, France, because Kenya is right next door to me. The attack on Westgate Mall in Nairobi terrified me more than the attack on Beirut, Lebanon because I have been to that mall myself.  So it wouldn’t be fair for me to be angry with you for caring more about Paris than Garissa just because it touches you more closely.  

But….  In spite of all the (probably) unfair accusations of racism or prejudice that are being thrown around, times like these are great for soul-searching.  Let us not lose the opportunity to grow.

Do we allow only the media to tell us what to pray for?  Do we take the time to look for the people and places who might not be getting the same attention?  I have been convicted to look harder for the ignored stories. Jesus sought out the prostitute, the tax collector, the child.  Even a sparrow does not fall to the ground without his notice. Who do I make the effort to notice?

Support and prayers pour in for wife of Indiana pastor whose pregnant wife was murdered.  No problem with that.  Pray for this family.  But let that grief remind you that many others are murdered, even in America, with no one noticing.  Has anyone looked up the family of the man in Lancaster who just yesterday shot his girlfriend and then himself?  Think they could use some support and prayers?  

Pray for Paris.  But let Paris remind you to pray for Kenya, and Lebanon, and Syria, and South Sudan.  The grief and the terror we feel when we watch the reports of Paris should give us a lot more empathy with the millions of people who live with the threat of terrorism every day.

Perhaps this article says it best:  “Westerners are finally being given just a small taste of the constant fear that people from other nations have endured for generations.  So solidarity with, and compassion for, the French is a good thing.”



And in the meantime, let us not despair, for we serve the God who sees all, and loved us enough to not just watch from a distance.


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