The cost of choosing choice

According to at least a couple of sources I found, the word "count" appears in the Bible 105 times.

Here are few examples...

• Genesis 13:  "...if anyone could count the dust of the earth, then your offspring could be counted."
• Numbers 12: "...Oh, my lord, please don't count this sin against us, in which we have done foolishly, and in which we have sinned."
• 1 Chronicles 21: "David said to God, 'Wasn’t I the one who gave the order to count the people? I am the one who has sinned and acted very wickedly. But these sheep, what have they done? My Lord God, please let Your hand be against me and against my father’s family, but don’t let the plague be against Your people.' "
• Job 13: "Why do you hide your face and count me as your enemy?"
• Psalm 40: "Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders which You have done, And Your thoughts toward us; There is none to compare with You. If I would declare and speak of them, They would be too numerous to count."
• Luke 1: “For He has had regard for the humble state of His bondslave; For behold, from this time on all generations will count me blessed."
• Luke 14: "For who of you, willing to build a tower, doth not first, having sat down, count the expense, whether he have the things for completing?"
• Philippians 3: "...I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ.... Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."

Count. It is a verb, an action word.

Sometimes, it was an action commanded by God allowing us to see the infinite benefit and inestimable bounty found in him - trusting him and forsaking all to follow him. 

Other times it was an action prohibited by God, particularly because that action would lead to pride, self-sufficiency and idolatry.

But it always includes a reckoning, a computation or estimation identifying and demonstrating the value we place upon something.

In Jesus' discourse (Luke 14),  this verb referred specifically to determining a value, a cost, that his followers had to decide whether or not they were willing to pay.

It was never a question of if such a decision would cost. 

Regardless of the decision, there would be a cost. 

That was a given. 

The question was which one those those listening were willing to pay.

When we chose missionary life, we knew there would be a cost to pay. Sometimes, the cost has seemed so nonexistent that momentary benefits far outweighed any expense. Other times, that cost has been far steeper than we ever imagined having to pay, leading to consequences that 1) we didn't choose and 2) we never desired.

More than anything else, it has reinforced the value of the ministry we have been gifted.

Today, I watched a documentary on Rick Rescorla, the director of security for Morgan Stanley, a financial securities firm housed in the North Tower of the World Trade Center in 2001. Rescorla recognized the possibility of terrorist attacks on such symbolic buildings, and insisted on evacuation drills which, when were implemented on September 11 and probably saved over 3000 lives. Not his own, however. Rescorla counted the cost, re-entering the building (while speaking on the phone with his wife) to do a final sweep, just prior to the building's collapse.  

In light of our world's current events, I've been asking myself how it is that people want to be able to make a choice, theoretically after having weighed all the information and counted the cost, but then scream and fuss when faced with the results of their choice? 

Why are they not willing to live the consequences inherent to their decision? 

The consequences might stink; they may seem discriminating, frustrating, unfair, detestable, abhorrent... but they shouldn't be surprising.

People want to decide, and in our society, they currently have that freedom. But that doesn't seem to be all that is desired. People want the freedom to choose without any cost.

If the choice really was that important, that essential, that precious... the cost should be willingly and readily paid.   

Emptiness and Well-being

 Do you remember the moment the COVID pandemic became real to you? 

I do.

Juniors and seniors at the school where I work were preparing for their trip to Washington DC. It was Tori's senior year and I had been invited to accompany the group. Tim and I had just returned from a trip to the National Broadcasters Convention (in Nashville) and it was clear that the virus was worrying people. I figured the kids' trip would be canceled... in fact I was hoping it would be. 

It wasn't. We went to DC as planned, swinging through Hershey and Amish country on the way back north, but with the border threatening to close and the strong recommendation for all residents of Canada to return immediately and observe a strict 14 quarantine, the trip was cut short. 

THAT was the moment I realized life as we knew it had changed, at least for the immediate future. A year later, that still appears to be the case.

The day after our return to Quebec City, schools closed, eventually transitioning to online education. Mid-May, primary schools reopened giving families of elementary students the choice of sending their kids back to school following strict health and security protocols or continuing online education from home. 

Test positivity rates, case counts, hospitalizations and mortality decreased and over the summer, life seemed almost... normal. We met outdoors in a park for church and explored the north coast of the St. Lawrence River and Gulf, camping a stone's throw away from Point des Monts Lighthouse. While it was a lovely break, we were, unfortunately, unable to cross the border to see our family in Michigan. 

A new school year started with a whole host of required rules, regulations and protocols to try and protect both staffs and students from the spread of COVID as kids and personnel returned to school, masked and in stable class groups, typically referred to as a "bubble." This, of course, meant limited extracurricular options such as basketball and band. Thankfully, our school experienced only a few confirmed cases of COVID necessitating the involvement of public health authorities. This typically meant a class would switch to distance learning for a two week period, and this happened with Mary's class once. 

Post-secondary education remained mostly online. Once case counts started rapidly rising last fall, the three upper grades (including Jon's class) began alternating days : one day at school with the following one on line, thus reducing the number of older students in the building at a given time. On either side of the Christmas holiday, the entire school had a few days of distance learning, taking advantage of the holiday to create a "quarantine," with the goal of flattening the curve.

In January, an 8 p.m. curfew was instituted. As the one year anniversary of the first confinement approached, the situation seemed to maybe be improving. Certain sections began reopening over Spring Break, curfew was moved back to a bit later in the evening and plans to return the upper secondary to school 100% of the time started being discussed. 

Then cases of COVID variants arrived, first popping up but then snowballing, even as spring was arriving). We had been planning for our the return of our entire student body to in presence learning, at school, for the first time since back in October, after the Easter holiday. Thursday before Easter, the government announce another tightening of health and security measures. Instead of everyone finally at school, everyone would be distance learning, for at least that first week.

That first week has been prolonged on a week by week basis since. As I type, the hope is that May 3, students will return to school, although at the last press conference, the prime minister made it clear that the first priority was the elementary kids. About a month in to this most recent confinement (that is the word used in French), it feels a bit like a reboot of what happened last year. 

And, as I talk with some of my colleagues, that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, a symbol of hope and the need to persevere just  bit longer, now seems to have transformed into a fantastic, mythological creature that we talk about, but don't really think it exists.

In all reality, I can't personally complain (except for the current impossibility to travel back to Michigan). I am a hermit living in a family of hermits who all enjoy hermit-ing together. My kids miss their friends, but that is part and parcel of  missionary kid's life, so it isn't weird. They are used to maintaining relationships at a distance. In all reality, we are making the most of this treasure of time as as family, time that our busy preCOVID world and culture no longer seemed to prioritize. 

I know, however, that is not the case for many others.  Many are feeling empty, nothing left in the tank to give and still no end in sight. Even the idea of vaccination is tricky, at least as I listen to conversations here because the vaccine doesn't mean the masking, the distancing, the disinfecting, the whole kit and kaboodle... will necessarily stop. Distance teaching when you are responsible to manage the distance learning of your children at the same time is challenging... at best. Participating in planting a church that can only meet "on-line" is uncharted territory. 

I was reading the other morning in 2 Kings 4, the story of the widow who had emptied every possible resource and then realized that the only thing left was to sell her children into slavery. In desperation, she goes to the prophet of Elijah who asks her what remains. Her reply? "A small flask of oil." What he tells her doesn't make sense : "Collect a whole bunch of empty pots and dump that oil into them," which she could then sell to pay her debts and care for her family.

God loves. The Bible is full of stories where He gives worth to what is valueless, frees what is imprisoned, restores what is desolate and abandoned, breathes life to what is barren...

This story touched me because another thing God does is that He longs to fill with abundance what life, what this world, what sin, has emptied. 

Before leaving Niger, I taught through the first part of the book of John to the ladies' group at our church. Just a cursory recall of  that study, I see example after example of this: 

• The wedding in Cana where servants fill empty pots with water, which Jesus changes into wine.
• The Samaritan women came to the well to fill her bucket with water, but left filled with the living Water.
• 5000 plus hungry bellies filled with fish and bread.
• Blind eyes now filled with sight thanks to muddy spittle grace.

And that is just off the top of my head. I could keep on going.

God longs to take what has been emptied and fill it, with himself... 

As an assistant principal at the school, I see lots of official paperwork and a huge concern the Ministry of Education as well as the government is the importance of student and personnel well-being. There is tons of research suggesting that in this present reality, critical factors include :  

• interacting with students and colleagues focusing on authentic care and kindness, 
• prioritizing collaboration and compromise, 
• focusing less on actual academics and more on learning processes, self-discipline and healthy lifestyle choices,
• building a sense of competency and personal responsibility in learning, and
• actually making a difference.

We want to promote well-being.

Yet,

as a follower of Jesus, I know that in this beautifully broken world, trapped in a pandemic and totally emptied by sin,

the only way to truly be well 

is to continually invite God to fill all those empty places.

Be patient and just give it time... (FMF post)

Just.

When I saw the writing prompt for this Five Minute Friday write, this most certainly IS NOT the direction I originally saw myself going.

But it is what I've been thinking about and it does include the word just, so...

Here we go!

I first took the Myers-Briggs personality test almost 30 years ago. It is a took I've come to appreciate, not as it it reveals gospel-truth about who I am and my personality, but rather as in it reveals certain personality traits that help to explain why I act and think as I do in particular circumstances. It helps me understand myself, often helping me to adapt and change my initial first-and-best-option-according-to-me, to better meet the needs of my family, my friends, my colleagues and others I'm seeking to serve.

My initial test results said I was an I/ENTJ. Dead even on the introvert/extrovert scale, intuitive regarding my understanding of the world and people, I made decisions based off of logical analysis and I preferred a plan rather than flying by the seat of my pants. Then I became a mother... of many. For the last 20 years, every time I've taken the test, I turn up an INFJ. Introverted to the extreme (perhaps a reaction or coping mechanism to having worked much of my life in a third world country surrounded by immense needs in every direction and then inside my home, having eight third culture kids in 13 years, and having rather intense side effects to the malaria prophylactic I took while working/living/raising a family in that third world environment), intuitive (where time has consistently demonstrated that my intuitive read of the world around me is usually pretty accurate) decisions based off of feelings - often the feelings of others of which I'm intuitively aware, as in they are screaming at me so loudly it is hard to identify my own feelings, and I'm still someone who prefers a plan, though I've learned to be flexible in adapting that plan.

It is that intuitive part that I've been mulling over lately. 

I do read people well most of the time. I know when someone is hurt, frustrated, angry... and I want to come up with a plan to make it right. 

I try and come up with some sort of constructive action or reparation to resolve the conflict, to heal hurt feelings, to reconcile and restore what has been ruptured.

Sometimes that is the absolutely right thing to do.

Some times, however, I just need to be patient. I just need to wait. I am not really part of the problem, but will rapidly become part of it if I try and force the solution.

I just need to stay out of the way, pray and let the Holy Spirit do His thing...

photo credit: Mara ~earth light~ 

Camel - the ship of the desert 

via photopin (license)

Five Minute Friday ('cept for me, it's on Saturday) ~ Confident

While I was never a person who thought I knew it ALL, when I was a young mother, I was pretty confident I knew an AWFUL LOT.

As folks here in Quebec commonly say, "Ouff!"

Because now, as far as what I KNOW, I'm not nearly so

• self-assured...
• sure...
• presumptuously puffed up...
• arrogant.

At least I don't think so. I'm not in my head.

I hope I'm not (at least not most of the time) in the attitude I present to others. 

(Feel free to call me out on that one if you this attitude screaming out in my life.)

Mommy-ing, teaching littles at home and at school, have shown me so many things

• More often than not, I make judgments - and I'm confident of the righteousness of said judgments - without a clear or complete understanding.
• I have a hard time seeing how my words, my actions or what seems so clearly obvious and true to me, can be perceived totally differently (and often rightly) by somebody else.
• The more I think I know, clearly the more I need to humble myself to learn more.

I'm presently living two "situations" right now where I'm grudgingly thankful for the "humble-pie" on which I'm "dining.

One is much easier than the other (so I'll start with that one first).

In an effort to model teachability and encourage a more positive classroom climate, this past week one of my colleagues and I had "circle time" with her class. I led the time and our goal was to discuss the fact that we all have strengths and weaknesses and part of loving others means supporting and noticing others around us when they use their talents for the good of others... and lovingly confronting them when they refuse to work on their weaknesses and thus hurt others.

So, using myself as the model, I asked this group of students (early elementary aged) what they saw as my strengths and my weaknesses when I was with them, working with them, at school.

According to a group of six and seven year-old kids, they appreciate and know that I love them because I'm willing to draw near and help them with hard things, whether their problem is not getting some academic concept, not getting along (or worse) with a friend, not listening to their teachers or other authorities as they should, or not treating others like they want to be treated.

Can I pat myself on the back for that one? 

Nope. Not yet. ...keep reading -

Then, they said I have two things on which I need to work:

1. Improving my ability to speak French 

No surprise there... and we had a mini-lesson right then and there on how I should be pronouncing "Dieu" - which for this old, English-speaking tongue - well, "Ugh!" My attempts provoked much laughter and I felt like an idiot. I think I finally got it write twice. They all clapped! I smiled while silently nursing my pride.**

2. I need to give more hugs. 

In other words, even though my attitude and my attention communicates clearly to them that I do love them, they need even more - especially when I'm working with them in a difficult moments. In all sincerity, my very young friends were able to tell me today that my biggest strength, the thing they appreciated most about me as a teacher - they appreciated not because I was consistently doing it well enough that they actually "felt" loved. Rather, because of God's grace and his work in their little hearts, they understood and accepted my intention even when my words and actions didn't clearly communicate the message. 

Wow!

Ouch.

Outta the mouths of babes.

The second situation is much more difficult for me to swallow.

Because I've unintentionally offended and hurt someone. In my confidence that I was acting rightly, I didn't consider that what I was doing could even be misconstrued. My lack of awareness of the other ways that those actions could be received, perceived and interpreted has been rather glaring. In this situation intentions just don't matter, and there is no way to undo damage done.

Next week, I will have the opportunity to apologize - in French, mind you (Remember, communicating in that language is not one of my strengths. Neither is humbling myself and publicly admitting error.)

And I get to do all of this in the presence of my boss. By God's grace (and me decreasing so that His presence in me increases), maybe forgiveness and a measure of reconciliation and healing will result. Maybe even restoration.

But I can't worry about the result at this moment. I can only pray that the Holy Spirit softens and gentles as I pray (and rehearse hundreds of times in my head) about the words I will say and the attitude I need.

As I've reflected and prayed about this, I'm so thankful for the following two truths.

I can be "confident of this, that he who began a good work in [me] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Philippians 1.6)

And

"...whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in a Christ—the righteousness that comes from God on the basis of faith. I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him ...Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."

**Five minute time limit reached

photo credit: NevilleNel Perseverance via photopin (license)

just one of those days where I don't like very much what I've signed up for

We signed a lease today.

That means this July, we will make our 32nd move in 25 years of marriage. Thankfully several of those were "smaller affairs" back before we had lots of kids. But it will be our fifth move in the last 10 years - and two of those were international.

I'm a little sad. 

Actually, if I'm going to be "authentic," today I'm a lot sad.

I'm also a lot tired, just thinking of all that now has to happen between now and then.

As followers of Jesus, we learn to hold dreams, hopes as well as the people and things we love close to our hearts, but loosely with open hands, offering all back to God. 

Today, I'm wishing that God will let me stop learning that open-handed heart position.

Almost two years ago, when we moved into the rental house where we are presently living, I fell in love. With all those moves, I've lived in quite a few different places. I'm usually pretty content. I've found things to love and enjoy about every house we've ever had. I don't think I've ever been unhappy with any of our living spaces.

This house was different. For me, it has been a head over heels love affair. It's cute. It has personality. It has been well-lived in, with "scars and stretch-marks." There's a pool surrounded by a deck about to collapse. A fireplace. Enough square footage to really stretch out and breath deep. Space to invite friends and family to visit. An older neighborhood with huge trees, great paths to walk, the golf course (or cross-country ski trails, depending on the time of year) right across the street, a cute little "centre-ville" and the St. Lawrence River just down the hill. I love living here. It doesn't just feel like another in a long list of houses. It has felt like home. The day we signed the lease for this however, I knew we'd be moving again, sometime. I forgot to hold this home loosely. During the past 20 months, without really realizing it, I've clenched tightly my metaphorical hand around the idea of staying here, for several more years.

God has been prying my clutching fingers away, one at a time over the past several weeks... and I'm a little sore from clinging too tightly.

It all started when we began praying about the possibility of moving. The church plant project of which we are a part has a community church as its goal. It is much easier to invite people to a community church activity when you actually live in the neighborhood. We started wondering if God might be asking us to move into that area of town. Tim and I told each other we were going to pray about it. Instead of praying for wisdom regarding such a big decision, however, I spent more time asking God to pry my hands back open because the idea of packing everything up just seemed to suck all the energy right out of me.

Then, my desires became a bit of a mute point. We received  notification that the owner of our current home had decided to sell. We could renew our lease, but that means living in a house with regular visits from prospective buyers, potential inspections and probably work that needs to be done as a result. Eventually, we'd be given notice, and we would have a certain period of time during which we would have to find another place to live so we could vacate the property.

So we started to look in earnest. Every morning, every night - I would scrutinize the housing ads on six or seven different web sites. I'd write and find out if renters really didn't want dogs or if they just didn't want big dogs, if rental prices included utilities or not, what neighborhood the house was actually located in, if the house was even still available and if could we arrange a visit. Then came the visits. Last Monday night, neither agent showed up to show us the house, so we uselessly drove around for two-ish hours. The visits are almost always a bit of a let down. The house never looks quite as big or nice as it does in the publicity photos.

Yesterday, we had it narrowed down to two places: one close to the church plant neighborhood, farther from school and work, a lot smaller, less expensive, an indoor parking spot and access to a community pool as part of the deal; the other possibility was a bit farther from the church plant neighborhood but walking distance from the kids' school, an almost new and lovely home with significantly more space, more bathrooms, almost no yard and a steeper rent. 

We talked and prayed. And we decided. I left the school's staff retreat today a little early so I could drive by the first choice above and sign the lease. 

I wanted to cry. Not because I didn't like the choice - our two choices were pretty equal in my mind, each with different positives and negatives. I was just sad that we had had to make the choice. I don't want to move.

Even if it is what I signed up for.

I signed up for this when I promised Jesus as a little girl that I "wanted to be a missionary for him someday, when I grew up."

It is what Tim and I signed up for when we moved to Niger, and then to Quebec.

Part of serving God is counting the cost and this is one of the costs.

I am loath to call it a sacrifice because I will have a roof over my head, our gang of 4 plus 1 (when she gets done with her Bible program this year) will all have a bed and we will be together. We will figure out a way to cram the big kids, my parents or other family in if and when they come to visit. We'll have people over, lots, just because we do that, and we'll be snug and laugh lots. I will choose to be content and I will probably learn to love this new space.

Signing the lease today, however? 

I didn't want to do it, even if I had signed up for it. 

It felt like a heavy, burdensome sacrifice.

It gets old not knowing from one year to the next if we'll be in the same place. It gets old realizing there are still boxes I've not unpacked from the last two moves. It gets old not having the stability of a house we own.

Then I remember one of Paul's prayers for the Ephesians.

"...having the of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power toward us who believe." (from Eph 1) 

This is nothing more than a momentary impression of something that today, feels like a sacrifice. I've an eternal home awaiting me in the future. Once there, I'll never have to move again.

I'm Braver speaking French

Does that seem strange to you?

It did to me too, at first.

But it is something I'm noticing to be true, beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Apparently I'm also not the only person who's made this discovery.

What do I mean? Here's one example:

I was in a Tim Hortons parking lot (I often meet English language students there). The spaces are a little on the small side to begin with and once the snow falls and begins to be shoved, shoveled, blown and piled, the available space decreases. I parked my larger than average vehicle, carefully and very clearly in between the yellow lines demarking my space. Yet it was impossible to exit the car without my door touching the door of the vehicle beside me. I was scrupulously attentive - I did not want my black door to leave a trace on the white one beside me. Unbeknownst to me, however, the driver of that white car was watching - also attentively. And he wasn't happy when he saw the contact. He started hollering across the parking lot. It was in French and a good portion of it I did not understand, but there was no doubt about the gist: he was unhappy and he wasn't concerned about politeness. 

Normally I'd just ignore a monsieur like him and simply walk into the restaurant. I'm not one for this sort of confrontation if I can avoid it... But I didn't avoid. 

Instead, I walked up to him and said something along these lines, in French: "Sir, because you are an older gentleman, I'm going to speak to you respectfully. However, your age does not give you the right to impolitely scream at me from across the parking lot. I understand that you were concerned about your vehicle, however I was very careful and if you come with me, you will see there are no marks on your car." He walked over, admitted that there were no marks and then stomped off. (By the way, when we very occasionally cross paths at this same Tim Hortons, he now smiles and says "Bonjour..." for what that's worth.)

Never in a million years would I have done the same thing with a stranger in an English speaking environment. 

Why this difference?

I don't know what the professional consensus is for those who study this phenomenon; the article linked to above says that it probably has more to do with a different cultural context and less with the actual language context. But, for what it is worth, here are what I think might be at least a few of my reasons.

• I learned to speak French as an adult, with more maturity, greater confidence and a better awareness of who I am and why I'm here. Though I do still care (a lot), I am not as enslaved to what others think as I was when younger; I'm significantly more concerned about what God thinks.

• I learned to speak French after becoming a mother. I can't think of any other experience God has gifted me that consistently offers me opportunities to model humility, teachability, perseverance, gentleness and a heart of service - even when all I really want to do is turn off the lights, crawl under the covers (or desk... depends on where I am) and hide from the world.

• Learning to speak another language requires losing face. The controlled, refined and very perfectionist image of me that I want to be and desire to present to the rest of the world usually ends up looking undignified, incompetent and just plain and stupid. 

This year, I'm again volunteering at the school my kids attend and working more in French than I ever have before. I regularly sound like an idiot, am at a complete loss for words, have to ask people to repeat themselves or have to repeat myself, am corrected by giggling five and six year olds, and say things that are culturally stupid because I've translated (more or less) from English 

 Perhaps most discouraging and frustrating of all are those misunderstandings that pop up because my American-English-brained-way of trying to communicate something apparently doesn't come across the same way to a Quebec-French-brained-way of understanding. Helping students learn - a domain in which I've mostly excelled - requires a lot of work in my second language. It is exhausting. Oh yeah, did I also mention that at some point during the day, my head just starts to hurt. A lot.  

Once you get used to regularly eating crow, well... you get used to it and it isn't as hard to do again. However, that doesn't mean it has suddenly become palatable. Distasteful? Probably until the day I die.

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

Now, I don't want to make it sound all miserable. I was sitting at a ladies' breakfast recently - listening and participating in conversations with some precious women from our church (in French of course) - and I was overwhelmed by amazed gratefulness, because there I was, enjoying understanding and speaking a language that was not my mother tongue. 

But I also don't want you to think that just because it has been 17 years, it has become effortless and easy...

And perhaps challenge you to remember that the next time you run across someone who's first language is not English, or who's home culture is not your own.

Five Minute Friday - Guide

What kind of person are you? 

• One who comes alive at those opportunities to strike out into the unknown without map or sometimes even plan? 
• Or one who meticulously makes lists, charts courses with Google Maps and sketches schematics to ensure that all luggage will fit in the back of the car - considering every possible detail determined prior to unlocking the front door.

I like to think I fall into the second category, at least mostly. Or that is what my personality profile says.

But... (there's always a "but," isn't there?)

I don't clearly and cleanly fall into one category or the either. I do make plans, sometimes quite detailed ones, yet I also crave unpredictable and spontaneous adventure. I (actually) find it exciting when my meticulously made plans are smacked awry by real life, almost relieved that I'm no longer "caged" by my expectations.

And hubby, who tends to be spontaneous and impulsive (hence the text message dinging on my cell most afternoons around 3:30 asking what he can pick up from the grocery store to grill - rain, snow or shine), becomes a mad list-maker before camping trips and family outdoor outings or micromanages wife when company is imminently expected.

Personally, I find that a plan frees me when I remember that it is nothing more than a guide. I don't know why it has taken me nearly 50 years to figure that out. Ever since I first started teaching (around the age of 12 - swim lessons), I'd create plans and very rarely follow them to the letter - or even close to the letter. 

(Five minute buzzer has sounded...)

(...but I'm continuing!)

A guide gives me security without strangling. A starting point and a base to which I can return without defining. A gentle shove in a direction without confining. Established borders bequeathing freedom to roam at will based on what's best in the actual moment.

That IS how I teach. I make a guide, prepare so that I know my material well, and then rarely actually even look at the plan during the actual lesson. The plan is always there, but off to the side, available but not a script I read. Occasionally I glance at it, making sure we are on track or using it to recenter if our tangent is too far off base...

I've been thinking about this as it relates to parenting young adults - those ones who are out on their own, but not completely.

We've all heard the complaints about how there is no parenting manual. How it is all on-the-job-training. 

But that isn't really true. 

We have the Bible, and there really isn't anything new under the sun (to quote a much wiser man than I). We have the wisdom of our own parents and others who've walked this path before us. We have our own life experiences. And we have our young adults who are rapidly gaining life experience as well. It is easy to forget that parenting these bigger ones is very much a cooperative effort - a partnership. We can offer suggestions, guidelines, ideas - but the follow-through and outcome really is up to them. Thinking of teaching your kid how to drive. Sometimes it feels safer with a checklist - but no checklist will guarantee specific outcomes, at least not when it comes to this partnership with those living, breathing young adults God has gifted us.

God gives parents to kids to guide them. Family, however, is not a little kingdom where Dad and Mom dictate all. 

Guiding, especially with these biggers, is much more a question of influence born out of mutual respect.

A respect we parents earn, beginning back in those beginning days of parenting.

Five Minute Friday (from a week ago) ~ Should

I'm a perfectionist.

And I don't usually have a problem meeting expectations, or achieving what is considered "acceptable."

Efficient, usually energetic, hard-working, perseverant - 

But I rarely measure up to my own standards. 

You know ~ the ones I set for myself, and work so hard to try and attain (sometimes driving my family crazy in the process). And yet... almost always and even after all that effort, I fall short. 

I can come up with a dozen or more shoulda, coulda, wouldas: "If I'd just ______________..." Then, just for good measure, I'll tack on a few coulda, shoulda wouldas because I can always think of a million possibilities given the 20/20 vision of hindsight: what I should have or could have done differently that would have, ideally, produced an "on-target" result or, at the very least, one more in line with what I'd been aiming for.

To add insult to injury, at this point, I usually start to mentally beat myself up - not only because of my failure to achieve my goal, but also because of the resulting internal drama that results from this perfectionism.

According to Psychology Today, perfectionism is "...life [as] an endless report card on accomplishments or looks. It's a fast and enduring track to unhappiness, and ...is often accompanied by depression and eating disorders. What makes perfectionism so toxic is that while those in its grip desire success, they are most focused on avoiding failure, so theirs is a negative orientation. And love isn't a refuge; in fact, it feels way too conditional on performance. Perfection, of course, is an abstraction, an impossibility in reality, and often it leads to procrastination. There is a difference between striving for excellence and demanding perfection."

As I used to say growing up, "It ain't good." 

But ~

 God is using it as a chisel in my life.

I'm in the midst of one of those shoulda, coulda, woulda mental battles right now - one where I didn't accomplish what I'd wanted or expected of myself and for which I'd worked long and hard. I had striven for more than just excellence. I only achieved pretty good. I certainly didn't attain the perfection I was demanding of myself.

God's chiseling away at my self-sufficiency and self-idolatry and the antibiblical underlying worldview to which my perfectionism attests: that somewhere, deep down inside, I still believe that me, myself and I can figure out how to be more than good enough. 

It's a worldview that denies the power of the Gospel, suffocates grace, smothers mercy and stamps out hope.

And I know I want no part of it. 

For I know the One Who already DID. And He ain't little.

He is the heart of the Gospel, the author of grace, the impetus of mercy and the harbinger of hope.

-----------------------------------------------

(No, this isn't really a five minute write... but it is something that has been tumbling around inside over the past few weeks. Now, it's finally tumbled out as I think with my fingers.)

Five Minute Friday ~ Just my opinion, but I think our process of distilling information needs some serious refining.

Friday, yesterday, was President Trump's inauguration. I didn't watch it. I had an incredibly busy day, was feeling a bit under the weather, and while I think watching would have been a good thing, it didn't make it high enough on the priority list for me to try and make it become a logistical reality.

Social media reactions, however, have me mulling some things over.

In particular, I've been considering the extreme and opposing responses to his inaugural address. Looking at my feeds, I have to wonder if everyone actually heard the same speech, for how could the same 1456 words lead to such absolute extremes of reactions and understandings?

At one end of the spectrum are those convinced he loves the USA and that life will improve dramatically as he begins to actually follow through on his campaign promises. At the other end of the spectrum are those convinced he is selfish and inept and that if he even starts to do anything he threatened, our country cannot survive. 

Clearly, words aren't offered up on a clean slate. 

Rather, our understanding and interpretation of words spoken or written by another person is influenced by more baggage that we typically care to admit. Things such as:

• personal agendas;
• perceptions, right or wrong, of the person wielding the words;
• previous interactions with the actual words used or with the person using them;
• proper awareness of the context in which words are used;
• prior understanding of topics discussed; 
• actual mode of participation in the conversation;
• grace and pardon one is willing to offer to those whose words provoke unwanted or undesirable results; and/or
• pliability in accepting those who view things differently.

I could probably expand that list further if I had more time or if more "p" words were coming to mind

I still haven't watched the inaugural address. 

But clearly, most of us need more practice at recognizing that no one is a neutral listener. 

We all favor our own personal agendas as we listen and interpret the speech or the writings of another and our abilities to set those agendas aside to really hear first needs q lot of refining.

photo credit: Geoff Livingston 

The U.S. Capitol Building Readied for the Trump Inauguration 

via photopin (license)

A Story of Three Very Different Thanksgivings

Posted this last weekend over at Missionary Mom's Companion...

 Thoughts of Thanksgivings way past... 

• traveling to grandparents' house
• aunts and uncles and cousins and family friends 
• tearing around a small, rural southern Illinois town on bikes in jeans and sweatshirts, fingers and noses freezing, but a last hurrah before it became too wintery
• the smell of cigars
• Thanksgiving Day parades on TV - with all of those amazing floats 
• American football in the heyday of the Pittsburgh Steelers
• cousin slumber parties in the refinished basement
• tables and tables and tables full of food including Stove Top Stuffing spiked with chunks of cheese
• unlimited orange and grape pop in the basement fridge...

Magical memories...

They easily assume an almost mystical, mythological place in our minds, which then makes it all the more difficult to appreciate a present moment. As an adult, I've discovered that those delightful recollections of childhood Thanksgivings had unexpected repercussions. I'd try to recreate aspects of those bygone days, only to fail miserably because it never felt the same, at least not to me.

I was on an express path to lose my love for what had always been my most treasured holiday.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with remembering. But there's so much wrong with trying to recreate what has passed... Instead, we have to draw from the past to build something new.

Our first "traditional" Thanksgiving in W. Africa was a memorable one. My father-in-law had flown out to visit and to see our new home. He brought a frozen turkey in his carry-on! I learned to make mock pumpkin pie from squash, mock pecan pie using oatmeal and mock apple pie from zucchini. I made giblet gravy for the first time and stuffing from scratch - we splurged on cheese to stuff down into the chunks of bread. We borrowed VHS tapes with old football games on them, pulled out our piddly artificial Christmas tree to decorate and began playing Christmas music. We worked on puzzles and played board games and watched Swiss Family Robinson. We'd invited a few single friends to spend the day with us. We discovered that some of the best watermelon EVER came into season during November in Niger and started a new Thanksgiving tradition that involved watermelon instead of cranberries. We prayed and thanked the Lord for our new home. It was a beautiful, wonderful Saturday (since the actual US Thanksgiving day was work as usual for the rest of the world) that set the scene for many more W. African Thanksgivings to come...

After we'd been living in Niger for a few years, we realized that our brothers and sisters in the church also celebrated a time of thanksgiving. Sometime in October, after the beginning of the school year (October 1), many churches observed a "Fête de Moisson," or Harvest Celebration. Invitations were sent to sister churches. Neighborhood children were invited. The church was meticulously cleaned, sometimes even repainted and decorations were strung from the metal trusses supporting the roof. A goat or sheep was slaughtered and slow cooked in a sauce we'd smell throughout the entire service. Everyone brought some food - or at the very least, a bag of hard candies or several bagged yogurts to share. Sometimes, there was even a case of cold, glass bottled Coke - for the men. A basket was placed in the front of the church and after the time of singing and a short sermon, everyone had several opportunities to sing and dance their way down the aisle, to the front and place gifts in that basket - first the elders, then all the men, then all the women, then the choir, then the children, then families - one by one... and on and on. Often, the women would buy yards of the same material from the market several weeks ahead of time and would show up to church in mostly matching outfits. There were games during the children's Sunday School time - sometimes prizes were handed out to children who recited their verses. At the conclusion of the service, we'd eat a meal together - men served first, often in groups of 5 or 6 sitting around a large plate piled high with the rice and sauce that had been awfully distracting during the sermon. Then children would be served... and finally the women would eat together. Usually everyone ate with their hands. Sometimes - trying to be nice, they gave us - the missionary family - spoons to use. We always smiled and said thank you - and never said that it was actually more fun to eat with our hands. I can't say that I loved it... this Thanksgiving celebration... NOT the first time. But it grew on me. The past few years, I've missed watching my children dance and laugh and clap their way to the front of the church - and the offering basket - while our African family danced and laughed and clapped with them.

This year, we celebrated Thanksgiving in Canada.  Canadian Thanksgiving's beginnings are more closely identified to European traditions than to New World unity. Many decades before Europeans settled in North America, festivals of thanks and celebrations of harvest took place throughout Europe during the month of October. It is generally agreed that the first Thanksgiving celebration in North America actually took place in Canada, when English explorer Martin Frobisher landed in Newfoundland. He was thankful for safety as he traveled across the Atlantic. He arrived 43 years before the Pilgrims landed in Massachusetts... 1572. I've only ever celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving in Quebec; according to what most have told me - it isn't nearly as big of a deal in Quebec as it is in Ontario and western Canada (nobody really said anything about further east). At most, it is a three day weekend to spend time with family. More typically, it is a bit of a party weekend, with Monday as the official holiday. After our traditional Thanksgiving meal (with from-scratch cranberry sauce, for the first time ever), our daughter and her friend went out door to door in our neighborhood. They were collecting pop and other cans for recycling (it's a common way students here raise funds for school activities). Her friend said it would be a great weekend - lots of beer bottles to collect - and she was right. We filled our SUV with garbage bags full of bottles and cans. Even the passenger side front seat was packed, and the girls had to walk to the return center while I drove to meet them. Our church did have a meal after the service on Sunday, which was a fun time to fellowship, eat delicious food and visit. But we couldn't hang out all day as we rent a room and had a deadline by which we needed to be cleaned up and cleared out. The Christian school our children attend gifted families with a four-day weekend - and the last Thursday afternoon was spent watching students (dressed in "Fall" themed/colored costumes) participate in an annual competition: the Autumn Leaves Race. Many parents were at the school to cheer their kids on, and it seemed like fun was had by all - even the highschoolers who had to reluctantly run 2+ kilometers. 

We're still figuring out Thanksgiving here. We live near a First Nations/Native American reservation. I'd love to find out if they have any type of harvest celebration! Next year, maybe!

Were those Thanksgivings past better than more recent ones? No. And even though not EVERY year makes memories with the same sort of reminiscing power, Thanksgiving remains my favorite time of year...

Maybe because it isn't all about me. It is all about remembering why I'm thankful... and to quote some lyrics of a well-known song: 

The sun comes up

It's a new day dawning

It's time to sing Your song again

Whatever may pass

And whatever lies before me

Let me be singing

When the evening comes

You're rich in love

And You're slow to anger

Your name is great

And Your heart is kind

For all Your goodness

I will keep on singing

Ten thousand reasons

For my heart to find

And on that day

When my strength is failing

The end draws near

And my time has come

Still my soul will

Sing Your praise unending

Ten thousand years

And then forevermore

Forevermore

Bless the Lord oh my soul

Oh my soul

Worship His Holy name

Sing like never before

Oh my soul

I'll worship Your Holy name"

(Matt Redman - 10,000 Reasons)