The Cup

Our family has been celebrating the Seder for the last five years during Holy Week. It is such a rich way to enter into the story of Jesus death and resurrection and I love knowing that I am observing Passover, just as Jesus did the night before he died.

In the Passover, there are four cups of wine that you drink during different parts of the meal and they each represent something different. The cup of sanctification, the cup of deliverance, the cup of redemption, and the cup of praise. The third cup takes place after the meal and it was during this cup of redemption that Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, told his disciples, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins." (Matthew 26:28).

The image of this cup has stirred me up during this season of Lent. "This cup is the new covenant in my blood"...and then Jesus in the garden saying, "Father, take this cup from me. But, not my will but yours be done"

In Walter Wangerin's devotional, "Reliving the Passion" he talks about that first time Jesus is offered wine and myrrh on the cross, to dull the pain a bit. "He shakes his head. He will not drink from [that] cup. He will in no wise dull his sense or ease the pain. And so we know. What are the feelings? What has the spirit of Jesus been doing since Gethsemane? Why, suffering. With a pure and willful consciousness, terribly sensitive to every thorn and cut and scornful slur: suffering....Or what has the Lord been doing since Gethsemane? Drinking. Not from the narcotic cup, but from the cup the Father would not remove from him: drinking. Swallow by swallow, tasting all the hell therein, not tossing it down in a hurry: 'So that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.'"

May you be blessed this week to know that the cup of redemption was drained to the last drop, swallow by bitter swallow. And while He drank, he thought of you.

Ode to Canon City Community Fitness

It's been going on for almost a year now, this obsession of mine, and I guess it's time I say something about it. It started casually enough. I was just gonna try it and see what it was like. All my friends were doing it. But once became twice and twice became four times a week and it's been going on like this for months.

I'm talking about Canon City Community Fitness. My friend, Ian, started this gym last year. I was skeptical at first because Ian is one of those guys that we normal people call "fitness crazy." He LOVES to work out. He LOVES to run for pete's sake. And he LOVES to talk about working out and running. Um...just so you don't get the wrong idea...he's also a really super cool guy who loves Jesus and loves on kids as a young life leader. And he happens to be married to one of my very best friends, and he is one of Loren's very best friends, so you know he's totally rad.

Anyway...he started this crossfit type gym. Don't worry if you don't know what that means. We can't all be like Ian. The general idea is that you come, during any of the 7 classes offered every day (or all of them if you're crazy), and are personally coached through a 15-20 minute workout (sometimes a little longer, sometimes a little shorter) that is different every day. One day you might be lifting weights and doing pull ups. Another day you might be running and doing push ups. One day you might be doing all of those things in a dreaded 20 minute AMRAP (As Many Rounds As Possible). But EVERYDAY, you are guaranteed to be working your butt off.

I don't look like a completely different person. I have lost some inches and a pants size (or 2) and gained some muscle definition that I'm proud of (I do look a little different!). But, here's why I'm crazy about it. All of the sudden, I love to exercise. I look forward to working out hard and collapsing at the end of it. And that, my friends, is kind of a miracle. Because I was always that girl who felt the pressure to exercise and ALWAYS hated it. And because somehow, Ian has taken something that I needed to do but didn't want to do and made it something that I love to do.

Wanna hear another miracle? I don't blink an eye anymore when Ian tells me we have to do 150 burpees or double unders. I just go to work. And I leave there sweaty and gross and barely able to breath and also a little smiley and proud of the way my new, more fit body can endure such torture.

So...I'll say it. I LOVE TO EXERCISE! Oh my.....I've become one of those girls.

Sugar...And Missing It

Loren is gone to Canada this week, training at a Young Life camp called Malibu, for our upcoming assignment there this summer. And I've learned something while he's gone. It turns out that, especially when Loren is away, I tend to reward myself with sugar (preferably chocolate, but I’m generally not picky) when I am productive with my time. And, let me just say that I'm fairly generous with the definition of productive. For instance, getting all three kids through the day and then to bed at a reasonable hour counts as "productive." I've learned this about myself because I've given up sugar for Lent this year and it is especially hard right now. I'm dreaming about Cadbury Mini Eggs all through the day. Oh Lent…how you expose us.

Actually, God is using this whole experience to expose more than just my addiction to sugar. We are a people obsessed with productivity. And it has creeped in to how we live out our faith as well. Last week, in my Lenten devotional, I read the story of the woman who anoints Jesus' feet with expensive oil. It captivated me and I read it again, twice. Walter Wangerin Jr. says this about it, "The disciples were offended by an act that produced nothing, accomplished nothing, fed no poor, served no need....but Jesus called it 'beautiful'." This act, which had nothing to offer except it's wonderfulness, was beautiful to him.

The thought of that has been running through my mind for the last week. See, I don't really struggle with how much Jesus loves me (right now). I know it's true. But I do struggle sometimes with the notion that I am not doing enough for him as a stay at home mom. Surely, the Lord wants me to do more than get my kids another snack or put them in timeout again. Surely he even wants more than my attempts to love them well and teach them about him. Am I really as valuable to his Kingdom in this season where I feel sidelined in a lot of ways? That's why I was so drawn to this story. The woman offered nothing reasonably productive but her love, but Jesus honored her, so much so that he declared that "wherever the gospel is preached what she has done will be told in memory of her."

In the midst of (skeptically) thinking through what it means that I am valuable regardless of my rate of productivity, and that I create beauty every day just by loving him, I met with a sweet college friend of mine yesterday. We've been friends since she was a freshman in high school and I adore her. Actually, adore might not be a strong enough word. She is home from college on Spring Break and she called me up and brought me coffee and came over to chat. She sat on my couch and shared her beautiful heart with me and in my rush to be an encouraging, productive voice in her life, I missed it. What I gave her in return was a lot of mumbo jumbo christian stuff that was a lot more about me than it was about her. I recognized it the instant she left and I told her so. She sweetly texted back, "It's alright." Part of me had hoped she didn't notice. She definitely did.

Way to bring your point home, God. Props for creativity and timing. But I'm grateful for your tender mercy in exposing me. It always brings me back to you. To beauty.

What I should have done yesterday was just love Jesus and love Lindsay. What could be more encouraging than that? What could be more beautiful? My desire to produce always gets in the way. Not because it's wrong to want to be used by God, but because it is always about me. I've missed countless moments of beauty because of my desire to make myself valuable to the Kingdom. And I'm much more comfortable selling my oil and producing a tangible result from the profits, so to speak. But, I'm learning about the simple beauty of just loving Jesus, too. Of just sitting with him and offering him whatever I have. And actually, I do believe he can use that to produce something quite lovely. Even if that something is only me.

She Must Know...

She's only 2, but I swear she knows what she's doing when she opens the front door in the morning and the dogs go flying out. She must know that it'll also send me flying out the door, half-dressed, with my jeans and my pajama shirt on, and no bra. She must know that her and I will go on a high speed car chase, at least for 2 blocks, to catch those dogs, and that she and I will look disapprovingly at them as they crawl into the car.

And she must know that when she crawls out of her bed for the tenth time at night that, just like the nine times before, she will get a spanking. She will cry and say "okay" when we tell her to stay in her bed. But she must know it's a promise she won't keep.

She must know that pouring an entire bottle of Hope's hair oil, that liquid gold that I have to go to a different county to get, is wrong. That I will sigh in frustration and try to scrape it off the wood floor with my hands and then funnel as much of it back into the bottle as I can. Okay, maybe she doesn't know just yet how hard that oil is to come by and how very frugal I am. But, she must know about the sigh. She must be able to predict the sigh and the consequences to follow.

When a child is two, it's hard to know what it is they know. Though...I have my suspicions. But there are some things that I'm sure she's sure of. Some things that she says confidently and there is no denying that she believes them to be true.

"Mommy loves me and Daddy loves me and Hopie loves me and Bella loves me," she says. She's sure of it. "Jesus Loves Me," she sings in it's entirety several times a day, with no provocation. She's sure of it. "I love you, Mama," she says out of the blue. She's sure of that, too.

Love is the one thing I know she knows. And it's the one thing I know, too. Sometimes when I'm running down the street half dressed, or sighing that big sigh I think, for a moment, that "crazy" and "frustrated" is what is most true about me. Sometimes, on days when there has been a lot of crazy and lot of frustration, I'm tempted to believe that it has swallowed up the best parts of me.

But I know it's not true. Because sometimes, when everyone is settled in for the night, and I lay in bed waiting for blessed sleep to come, the last thing I'm aware of is how full my heart is of love. How deeply I am loved and how deeply I have been made to love. And how it's the one thing I know. I'm sure of it.

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It's All Good Hair...

She's beautiful just the way she is. Each hair an uncanny reminder of who God made her to be. African, tightly wound, a coil of boundless energy, full of spunk, with a mind of her own, and wild. I'm glad I remembered that before we decided to change it.

Satan speaks his lies in the subtlest of ways. And he is relentless...and his lies so predictable. "You don't have what it takes to care for her," he whispers. He's been whispering this since the day she imprinted herself on my heart. Most of the time, I don't pay any attention. Most of time, I remember all of the ways that God has made her mine and marvel at the miracle of adoption.

But sometimes....sometimes, his whisper sneaks it's way inside. It wraps itself around my heart and I feel that familiar sadness. I feel all of the distance and the differences that separate her from me. The flesh and blood and DNA that prove that the miracle of her had nothing to do with me. And sometimes, in that state, I come up with ways to minimize the differences, and convince myself that it's best for all of us.

So, we almost relaxed Hope's hair last month. I came really close. I'm not saying we won't do it someday. I don't have firm feelings on whether it's right or wrong. I don't really think it's a moral issue. But, if we do it someday, it won't be so that I can avoid learning ALL I need to know to properly care for her naturally beautiful hair texture. And it certainly won't be so that I don't have to think about our differences.

I'm glad I was reminded that it doesn't honor Hope when I pretend we aren't different. Because we are. And most of the time, I remember that that is something to celebrate! I don't need us to be the same. I don't want us to be the same.

And besides, what does flesh and blood and DNA know about love, anyway?