Election Kilele

With all the election kilele (Swahili for "noise"), there have been many opportunities to talk to our children, and think through ourselves, what it looks like to be a Christ-follower in these days.  I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like a lot of what we've seen.

I personally think that aside from the evidence God has given in creation and the Bible, the best argument for Christianity is a changed life.  I cannot look back on my life with the people I know who have been radically changed by Jesus and think that it could have happened any other way.

I can also say that the most embarrassing argument against Christianity, is, unfortunately, Christians themselves.  I am appalled at what others with "my beliefs" say and do, saddened about the way they treat others and the agendas that they seem to pick up and carry, aligning themselves with people and rhetoric at the expense of Gospel truth and hope in a coming KING who will only in the end make all things new.

What a great opportunity this election has been to put our hope in God!  Instead of hoping in a blade of grass (I Pet. 1:24) or a mist that vanishes (James 4:14), I will gladly cry out to "God Most High, to God, who accomplishes all things for me" (Psalm 57:2).  All things, including difficulties and trials that open for me a door to show the world Whom I put my hope in!

But I need look no farther than my mirror to see the biggest hypocrite of all.  I yelled at Jake yesterday for the way he was talking to his sister.  From the other room, yes, but at the top of my lungs.  In case you missed it, it was about the way he was talking to his sister!  He is quick to forgive.

 I chafe at minor requests from people who I don't think deserve my attention or kindness.  I see things from my viewpoint and forget love, the greatest commandment.  In fact, I think because of the new definitions of "love," sometimes I have shied away from it all together, obviously missing the mark.  If you need a reason to discount Jesus, you need look no further than this person right here.

But this is the glorious Gospel--that we are all a huge mess, and it is only grace that reaches in and forgives and makes new!  In John 12, some Greeks come to Jerusalem.  Instead of talking to Phillip, who then goes through Andrew, they state simply, "we would like to see Jesus."  Phillip and Andrew were disciples, but they were mere men.  They wanted to see Jesus himself, face to face.  For a watching world, I would say, please see Jesus for yourself!  And to Christians, may we take Jesus' example and call seriously to lay down our lives for others, whether in dramatic ways or in simply loving those who are radically different than, and even opposed to, us.

If there is one thing that I love about living overseas, it is the perspective that it affords me in times like these.  In the same way that Carter could cover up the supermoon with his thumb last night, distance provides perspective that I have found it hard to have when up too close.  In addition to distance, we have the privilege of being surrounded by people very different than us, whom we love and live in close community with.  Instead of it grating on me, it does the opposite--it makes me think harder about certain issues than I might if I were surrounded by people who are just like me.  And I have to think about how to love well, while having my particular convictions, which I don't always do perfectly, but I am challenged to do better and better.  I am so grateful for the people God has put and used in my life.

An African friend just came by, and of course started talking American politics right away.   His conclusion about the current state of our country was, "We thought we were learning from America about how to do politics, but I it seems like America looks just like Africa now!"  He said it with a smile, but he made a good point.  America, Christ-followers, we can do better!

"Pray...for kings and all those in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity." I Tim. 2:2

Thoughts from an unripe guava

This summer was such a great chance to reconnect with people.  What a great privilege to spend time with ones we love--family, friends.  It just couldn't have been any better.  It reminded me again of the preciousness of community and the necessity of having people who really know us.

We are privileged to have friends who are as close as family, and family whom we consider to be the best of friends.  I was thinking the other day, that if the rest of my life were misery, it would not even be able to take away the richness of my life so far.  God has been so kind to us.

so many cousins, so much love...

The other day Ben wanted to eat a little guava from the tree.  "It's not ripe yet, buddy!  It's not going to taste yummy."  He persisted, and I thought I would show him what "not ripe" means.  So I handed him one, he bit into it, and promptly spit it out.  "It's yucky!" he declared, disgusted.  Yes, I told you that.  It reminded me again of how sometimes I think my way is pretty clever and how often I need someone to point out that, truly, "it's yucky."  And how God's wisdom is infinitely greater than mine.

I listen to myself, I listen to little comments and take them and compare my life to them, and my heart so quickly leads me astray.  I know Proverbs 4:23, "Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it."  I know it, but I forget to stop and take my thoughts captive and make them obedient to Christ, and I dwell on things that are not real.  

I didn't plan on becoming discontent, I just thought and imagined about what it would be like to have Hannah come home for the weekend with her friends and eat all the food :) and play with the littles.  I imagined how glorious it would be to just have my family all live in one place.  I imagined and pondered and considered, and it seemed harmless enough...and before I knew it, I wanted those things more than anything.  It is not a bad thing, but it is not the thing for me at this moment.  Like Ben and that guava.  And my discontent showed in my lack of thankfulness.  I didn't plan on my way leading to death, but it did.  It led to death of joy and vibrancy.  It killed my passion until I turned my face back towards Jesus and confessed that really, truly, all I want is him.  It is another kind of death, death to self, and I pray I am willing.

I love John 7:37&38, "Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink.  Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them."

As Piper says of this verse, "It means that when you come to Jesus to drink, you don't just get a single drink, but you get a spring, a fountain, a well.  You get Jesus.  Rivers of water will flow because a River-Maker is in you.  That's the point.  You will never have to search again for a source of satisfaction for your soul.  Every river that needs to flow for the joy of your soul will flow from Jesus.  When you come to him, you get him.  And he never leaves!

Staples are not for fruit

II Cor. 3:18 "And we all...beholding the glory of the Lord...are being changed into the same image..."

My 42-ness recently started to rear its ugly head.  All of a sudden I felt, well, old.  Every person in my close proximity was doing everything they could to really get on my nerves, I told myself.  I would just snap in a second over the littlest thing.  I felt passionate about how wrong something was one day and couldn't remember what it was the next.  When I added up the things in my life, they equaled too much.  There are too many interruptions.  There are too many things to train in the two-year-old.  There is too much food that has to come out of this kitchen.  I can't handle life on my own on a good day.  Much less an I-might-be-going-crazy day. 

Ben just stopped screaming at nap time.  He has turned a major obedience corner, and it is a blessing to all of us.  Most notably, he himself is happier.  He would get so out of control when he was tired, kicking and screaming and generally extremely frustrated.  "Just go to sleep!"  I wanted to yell back at him.  Why is it so hard to convince him that it will be best for him to rest and be refreshed?  It sounded like torture just putting him in his bed for a nap.

I am so much like my son.  I might not throw an outward fit, but my inward ones are quite the demonstration of immaturity!  I can't see anything clearly, and I certainly can't see that what I need to do is stop and be quiet.

God reminded me, "apart from me you can do nothing {on any day}." I didn't realize how much I actually did think I could do.  Up until this time I felt fairly self-sufficient.  My "sufficiency" is so completely inadequate.  I told God that He was proving His point, and I wanted to learn my lesson.  

I have always loved John 15.  It is beautifully poetic and goes against everything in me.  I have realized in the last several weeks how much I value strength, especially emotional strength.  I have parented like that, and I have dealt with myself like that.  "For Pete's sake, put on a smile and you would feel a lot better." Which whispers truth, but also lacks compassion for the days when putting on a smile doesn't make everything sparkles and rainbows.  I have to press into Christ in new ways.  I have to rely on His joy and His strength.  I have to deliberately think about what is true more often, more carefully.  "No one lies to you more than you do,*" reminds me to evaluate what I am thinking about, to "take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ."(II Cor. 10:5)

"You did not choose me, but I chose you to go and bear fruit--fruit that will last." (John 15:5).  I can bear some fake fruit, and it can look pretty good, in my own strength.  It gets stapled onto my pathetic, wilting tree and looks attractive, for a while. * Then it starts to rot because it was just faked on and had no Source.  It smells a lot like whitewashed tombs.  

"This is to my Father's glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples." v. 8.  It is to the Father's glory.  It comes from remaining in the Vine, the true Source.  All the other pasted-on fruit gets me some glory.  It feeds my sense of self-worth and importance.  It makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something.  Sitting at the feet of Jesus and begging him for wisdom and joy doesn't get me anything except humility and a renewed acknowledgement that I can't do anything without him.  It doesn't look strong.  It looks pretty weak, actually.

Which is what I am: weak, and messy, and stubborn.  I rebel at the thought of submitting myself to anyone and take pride in my pride.  On my worst days, I am in desperate need of saving.  And on my best days, I am  in desperate need of saving.

There is freedom in acknowledging my messiness.  If I don't claim to be anything significant, repentance really isn't difficult and acknowledging my need for Christ is pretty simple, too.  Spending time with Christ produces fruit that I could never muster up.  Overflow of time with Him enables me to have joy.  Taking in the stream of His grace and drinking deeply of His love will  have an effect on my life, only I won't have to strive to "paste" it on.  And when others see it, I probably won't even be aware it's happening.

It's so counter-intuitive: to stop doing more things when everything feels crazy, and to spend time not doing.  Just sitting.  Quiet.  Not getting anything done, but being changed.  It takes faith to believe that it is the best way to spend my time, that doing more will not produce better results.

It's the only way to joy.  "Be still (literally, cease striving).  Know that I am God.  I will be exalted in the heavens, and I will be exalted in the earth."( Ps. 46:10)  

God, my Provider,  be exalted in my life as I get quiet before you

 and change because I have been beholding Your glory.

*Illustration of stapling on fruit belongs to Paul Tripp.  To read more from a section of his book, "Instruments in the Redeemer's Hands," about heart change, click here.

Claustrophobia on aisle 6

We have a new, fancy mall in town.  It is rather incredible, with dozens and dozens of shop spaces....and several shops actually up and running....mostly phone shops right next to each other.  We have been waiting for the new supermarket to open its shiny glass doors since Christmas, when they put their sign up and sold several items in the main lobby.
So when Dave visited TSN on Monday, which he has affectionately called 'The Super Narket' (actual name Tanzania Sisi Nyumbani), he told me that the prices were great and there were a lot of customer service people (think "How Can I Help You" blue shirts at Walmart).  In fact, he said the customer service people were rather intent on their jobs.

I grasped on to the idea of cheap prices and chalked up the 'service people' thing to the fact that he is an introvert and might not like talking to everyone in the store.

Later in the afternoon, when I went to check it out with the kids, I called Dave within two minutes of entering that air-conditioned paradise and told him I had found my new favorite place.  Cheap chocolate?!  What else could a woman wish for?!  He said he was glad for me, that yes, it was nice.

Five minutes later I told him I had changed my mind.  Five minutes of telling red-shirted customer service people that I was just looking, thank you.  Five minutes of trying to push my own cart with Ben in it, because they each wanted to push it for me.  Five minutes of continuing to put on a smile that was rapidly fading.  Truly, they were trying to be helpful, and Tanzanians are notably kind and patient (more patient than I am, obviously) and their idea of service is to make sure you know they are there for you.  So most of the time I couldn't see what I was trying to look at because someone was standing between me and the product,  asking if I wanted to buy the product I was trying to look at.  Frustrated at my independence, finally one just decided to follow right behind me through the rest of the aisles.  By this time I was cracking up laughing because I didn't know how else to say that I just wanted a little space for me and Ben.  And I found myself racing through the aisles, away from help.

In addition to wanting to help, there were also not any price tags on the products, and the prices had not been entered in the computers yet, so if someone saw something in your cart that didn't have a sticker on it, they would tell you to wait while they ran back to find out the price, wrote it on a pad of stickers they all had in their hands, and label it for you.

Some sections of the store had a stockpile of one product with a sign that said SALE SALE SALE SALE but there was no price, and people were not quite sure how much it actually was until they asked around.

I ended on the cheese aisle, and stared wide-eyed at mozzarella and cheddar and even specialty cheeses.  Funny--there were three customer service people in this aisle and not one of them approached me.  In fact, when I caught their eye, they looked away.  Finally I tapped one of them and asked how much the cheese was.

"It's not for sale."

"No one knows how much it is, so you can't buy it yet."

"But we have little bottles of chocolate and strawberry milk?"

It's OK, I don't love chocolate milk on my pizza. :)

Somehow I had missed the stickers for some of my items, so at the checkout counter with fancy computers that were all turned off, I had to tell the lady writing every item down in a special book how much certain things were, and then another lady added it on a little calculator.

Until heaven, things will not be what we think they should be.  Progress takes time!  And that is right and good.  Let me not put my hope in cheeses and peaceful shopping experiences. :)

Buy it up

Psalm 90:12 "So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom."

 When we get an unusual product in our local grocery store, you would think we won the lottery.  “HEY MOM!  U-turn has Werther’s candies again!”  When something special hits the shelves, it doesn’t last long.  We know that if we don’t buy it up, it might not be there again any time soon (or ever!).  There is an ever-so-fine line between spotting it and getting some for later and being an absolute hoarder, uninterested in someone else’s desire to maybe have a little bit of it too. :)  

So it made perfect sense to me when I was reading in Ephesians 5:15-16 “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of time because the days are evil.”  Literally, “Look, hear, perceive how you are passing your life, not as foolish people (wasting their days) but as wise, skilled people who make the most of opportunities.  Buy up your moments, because the days are evil.”  Buy up, like at the market, like at U-turn.  These moments are flying off the shelves, never to be had again.  Hoard them!  Grab them and squeeze out all their worth, for you won’t get the chance again!  And then I saw something else.  Isn’t God’s Word a treasure, worth digging for?!  “…the days are evil.”  But the word evil also means “full of labors, annoyances, hardships” or the evil causing such things.  Wow, God.  I can’t really think of one person who doesn’t think that the days are filled with labors, annoyances and hardships.  This evil world overflows with frustrations every day.  No wonder it is so hard to buy back the time—I am too busy with my labors and annoyances to notice when the time I am meant to redeem 

is slipping right out from under me.  

We headed to the village with Kate and Ben to visit old friends.  We hadn’t seen this dear couple for about seven months.  We treasure their friendship and cultural wisdom.  We saw them coming toward us through the field by their house, welcoming us.  

They invited us into their house.  

They are simple, by the world’s standard extremely poor.  I noticed that day that I didn’t see them that way anymore.  They are rich in spirit.  They exude generosity and kindness.  Prepared before us on a simple, small wooden table was mandazi (local donuts) and chai.  Eagerly praying over our snack, mama hobbled to her chair and told us, “Eat, eat!”  Ben gulped his chai eagerly; he doesn’t usually drink super sweet tea at home. They thought it strange that Americans don’t usually give their children tea.  Even tiny children here drink it every day!  We shared life together, talked about their struggling health, how many pieces of tin they needed to finish their house.  “Buy back this time,” kept running through my mind.  How, God?  How do I make the most of this opportunity?  By being fully engaged, thankful, talking of You.  By learning.  By soaking in these sun-dried fields while we walk back to the car, a promise of a chicken from these dear people the next time we come around.  

We headed to greet another Mama whom we have known for a long time.  Coming up the path towards her, I could see through her thin dress and the sun shone on her very thin body, much thinner than the last time I visited with her.  “Mama Hannah!  I have had a baby!”  Just six weeks previous, and she looked like she was wasting away.  I held her beautiful girl, her fourth child, and she showed me that her baby had been “born with a problem.  No anus.”  So she just had a colostomy they had made in her abdomen that should have had a bag over it, but instead was just open and she wipes it constantly throughout the day as waste seeps out.  “It has been a trouble for me!”  Maybe a bit of an understatement…she is trying to carry water, cook food, get firewood, work, do laundry, nurse a baby, wipe the opening all day long.  My heart ached for her.  Having a child like that in America would be challenging.  Having a child like that in the village, almost impossible.  “Redeem this time.  Don’t leave her without giving hope.”  Yes, Mama, this is difficult but God has given you a blessing!  I will pray for you!  And I don’t tell her, but I will  go home and see what I can do for her.  God, help me to help her.  

Help her know that you are El Roi, the God who Sees and may she,

 like Hagar, see the one who has seen her.  

We end at our Bible study with a dear couple, Ben throwing corn cobs around that have been stripped of their yellowish glory, Katie helping to get all the kernels off into the massive pile that is food for the future.  We marvel through Ephesians 2—after the devastating state we were wallowing in, complete darkness, actually dead in our own sin, this astonishing clause, “But God…!”  But GOD, who is rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, made us alive, by grace!  And prepared good works in advance.  Not so that we could get to heaven by them, or earn His blessings,  but so that (v.7) we might show the immeasurable riches of His grace in His kindness to us in Christ Jesus!   

It comes full circle!  We don’t buy back the time because we have to, to earn His favor.  We don’t even buy back the time because we don’t have much time left, which is true.  We buy back the time because we want to show the storehouse of His mercy and grace has enabled us to walk in these good works that He prepared for us.  The glory is not meant for us.  The glory of a life well lived only goes to Christ and His great mercy!  Oh Christ, have mercy!  My days are harried and sometimes feel frantic.  Give me eyes to see people, to take in this moment, not be so preoccupied that I miss it.  I want to get every opportunity and not miss a moment.  In the end, all of life is only made of many such moments!

II Cor. 5:15  “[and Christ] died for all so that those who live should no longer live for themselves, but for him who for their sake died and was raised.”

Culture: Confusing Conclusions

Vague bits of this blog have been floating around my mind for months now.  I don’t know why I’m surprised when I find out something totally new about this culture—I am really only ten years old here—but I remain shocked to find out things that I have never heard of, and they catch me off guard. 

Quite a while back, a local friend told a missionary that she had seen another missionary “eating at the place where you buy the food, right on the street.”   This is not the mecca of street food, but we do have a donut of sorts and cooked corn over the coals and the occasional sweet potato.  This man had bought his donut and eaten it right there, and the local was shocked at the uncouthness of the whole thing.  “Well,” said the other missionary, “what should he have done instead?”  Taken it home, of course!  No one eats right there where you buy it.  What about ice cream, she persisted?  Thankfully enough, ice cream is an exception.  And we wonder why people think we are strange?  If I missed this one small cultural reality, imagine how many others I am missing!

Or the African who saw a white woman out running for exercise and concluded, “That person is very lazy.”  Lazy???  “No one who actually goes out to run has enough work to do!”  

And with each new revelation, our cultural glasses get bent again, refashioned, turned upside-down sometimes.  Sometimes with laughter, sometimes not quite as much laughter.

Several months back I went to the funeral of a little boy who was related to my friend Esther.  Her little nephew, Isaac, had died two days earlier in the hospital.  He had had pneumonia for about a month.  After three courses of antibiotics and his lungs still not clearing, his tiny body, two weeks from one year old, gave up the fight.  Telling people what is actually wrong with them in the hospital is not a cultural value, and I might be able to count on one hand the number of people who have told me what their child, or spouse, or parent actually died of.  No one asks and they are not usually told.  But this time the doctor did tell Isaac’s family, “maybe he was poisoned.” Even though there was no evidence for poisoning.    

The web of superstition, witchcraft, ignorance, poverty, lack of education and blame-shifting is interwoven and intricate.  It makes me so angry some days that I just want to scream.  In addition to grieving the loss of their baby, now the family wonders who poisoned him, and for what reason.  

Isaac’s funeral was the first time I felt so comfortable being out of place.  Funerals have to be some of the most awkward occasions.  I always feel self-conscious just attending most of them, as attendance is expected if you live near the person who died, whether you actually ever even said ‘hi’ to them or not.  The men and women sit in different places and children don’t attend.  Funerals are long, three days if you are really committed, and neighbors will usually spend one night at least sleeping on the ground outside the home.  I am not so committed, but still they can take the better part of a day.   In addition to all this, everyone is expected to pass by the body to verify that the person is actually dead, and that it is the person that they said is dead.  Then when you sit around outside with other members of your gender, talk quickly turns to the weather, the latest gossip, politics, babies, really anything that comes to mind.  There is laughter and chatting and texting on phones, and it doesn’t feel very funeral-like.  But I do know it is important to attend.  And it is a great opportunity to get to know people, even if it doesn’t come at a time that is convenient for me, and there isn't a time that it is convenient to be interrupted for the better part of a day.  Since when was it important for people to die on my timetable?  

During Isaac’s funeral, there were loudspeakers literally BLARING music.  They were about four feet from the front door, and it would have been distorted and brash with heavy-duty earplugs in.  When I was escorted indoor to say “sorry” to the women of the family, whom I had never met, they moved people around so that I could sit next to the grieving mother, who didn’t know me anymore than I knew her.  “Please let me sit down at the end by her feet (she was lying down).”  No, no, sit right next to her head.  They kept shoving people over so that I could have this seat.  So I settled in and just sat quietly along with the other women in this special room for the particularly-grieving ones.  Mama Isaac started really weeping, just shaking as she lay next to me.  Other women reached over me, telling her to be quiet, it was okay, Isaac was in heaven.  I just put my hand on her, at a loss.  I prayed. 

When the body arrived from the morgue, the men at the funeral run to the van to get it and run with it inside to the wailing women.  Then it is brought out and the official funeral begins.  The pastor, in this case, got up and preached and told the plan of salvation to all of those who were there.  He reminded the Christian family that they would see Isaac again, that we do not grieve “as those without hope.”  Then Baba Isaac began to wail and called out for Grandpa, and an old man came to him and comforted him.  

There was much more to the funeral, more wailing and Isaac’s aunty just passing out completely, the burial where half of the people there were listening to political speeches on someone’s phone right next to the open grave, so much so that others asked them to move farther away.  Every funeral leaves me baffled in new ways.

About two months before Isaac’s funeral, a little baby down our road had died of sickness.  Don’t think this is an uncommon occurrence.  In fact, it might be one of the greatest griefs of living here, and it wears me down at times.  At this funeral for little Junior, who was just a little over a year, his mama cried out to Grandpa as well, and an older man came and comforted her.  So when I saw Esther next, I asked her about it.  Are the men who came to comfort them really their Grandpas, or is it a superstition or custom, or what?  She said that if the baby is a boy, they call for Grandpa and if it’s a girl, for Grandma.  And both of the grandpas that I heard called for have already died.  I tried to get deeper behind the meaning—usually there is a lot more to it than meets the eye—but that seemed to be it.  “But you know, right, that for every tribe there is an opposing tribe, their “joking/teasing tribe.”  

Nope.  Never heard of it.

They tease each other. 

But only at funerals.

And if you don’t want them to do that at a funeral, you tie a piece of grass on your door and they will know it’s not a time for a joke.  

“What kind of jokes do they play?” I asked hesitatingly.

“Well, sometimes they even just run off with the body.”

By this time I was more than wide-eyed.  “How do they get the body back?”

“The family collects as much money as they can, and they pay the other tribe’s people to bring the body back.”  

Ok.  Still processing.

“And then the tribe that took the body will take the money that the family gave them, add their own money, lots of it, and then they will go to the market and buy more food than anyone for the funeral.

Hmmm.  Not really getting it.  So they give to the funeral?
“Yes, more than anyone else.  So at first it is joking and doesn’t seem very nice, but then in the end it’s nicer than anyone else!”  Esther finishes her explanation confidently, happily, a little amused at my confusion. 

I asked the Swahili teacher who was here that day teaching the boys.

“Oh yes,” he says, “my tribe will have a huge party on the grave all night long after the person is buried.”

Then Esther adds, “At the last funeral, a man from the opposing tribe jumped down in the hole with the coffin and just told them to bury him there with the person, until they raised enough money to make him get out.

Wow.  I am in WAY over my head.  And all of it serves as a glaring reminder of how little I really understand!  Come to find out later, these tribes do use other occasions to tease one another.  Things like, “You are going to have lots of children….and they are all going to be dwarves!”  And everyone finds it very funny.  ☺

God, help me be a learner. Thank you that in seeing other cultures, my eyes are opened to my own culture and its own set of crazy ideas and pursuits.  

May my eyes be open to see what You are doing in this place.  May my mouth be open to speak what is true of You.  May my ears be listening for your voice.  May my feet be fitted with the Gospel of peace.

 You never change, and You came for all peoples, and all times, in all places.  Nothing escapes your great power and love.  This whole diverse, shockingly beautiful world is orchestrated with care and precision so that men may know that there is a God who loves them desperately.  Thank you for the dependence that you call me to, that you push me into, especially when I don’t have the first clue.  Thank you that when I do depend on you instead of having to have everything under my own pathetic control, that you teach me and grow me in faith.  I want to say, with Hudson Taylor:

"I am no longer anxious about anything, as I realize the Lord is able to carry out His will, and His will is mine.  It makes no matter where He places me, or how.  That is rather for Him to consider than for me; for in the easiest positions He must give me His grace, and in the most difficult, His grace is sufficient." 

Discipleship is not a program

I'm not really sure when I got my first glimpse of "community."  I mean, besides that of my own family, I lived in a missionary community that was fantastic.  I had "aunts" and "uncles" galore, one nurse aunt in particular that took me under her wing when I was a teenager, had tea with me.  My mom always said it was important to have more than just your parents telling you the same thing.  I had so many people who loved me, I don't think I could count them all.  I took it for granted that children grew up with a whole sideline full of cheerleaders.  I know some people who are desperate for a kind word from just one person.

Then we made community happen as newlyweds, and God put the most incredible people in our path as we watched them discipline their little children, love each other, reach out to those around them.  I have had the opportunity to watch the most incredible mothers in action.  I remember one friend going to another younger friend's house to help her learn how to train her struggling little girl.  "Help," meaning, showing her exactly how to train her as they walked through a disobedience issue right there.  Talk about hands-on.  Talk about vulnerable!

It was during this time that I most missed having my own parents around, as they still served overseas.  They were grandpa and grandma to a whole host of missionary children.  And God put a whole host of grandpas and grandmas into our lives, just when our children needed them.  I remember Hannah holding up eight fingers one day, "Mom!  I have EIGHT grandmas!"  And none of them was her actual grandma. :)  

I watched my parents live in authentic relationship with others without comparing or being critical.  I heard my mom tell dozens of other mothers what a great job they were doing.  What a gift to me!  There was a complete lack of competition in her friendships.  I thought about it the other day--

Competition kills community.

 I have seen it in my own life and watched it in the lives of others.  Competition is all about ME.  How do I measure up, how do I look better than you.  Or how can I grasp at looking as good as I think other people think of you?  How can I strive to be YOU, when I am not you.  Instead of doing my own work excellently, I try and do YOUR work excellently.  And I miss my own work, and the point, entirely.  

We are all one body!  Truly, how can the eye look at the foot and say 'I don't need you'?  Or vice versa?  Has God not put all the parts of the body together to work in unison?  Shouldn't we be amazed at the role and placement and design of the other parts of the body?  I am amazed.  I could never live the life that you live.  I was not called to your life.  I am set free to love you and pray for you and appreciate you when I focus on stewarding my own life well.  And I am set free from judging the job you are doing--to your own Master you will stand or fall, and God is able to make you stand! (Rom.14:4).  And I pray that you do!

When my joy and assurance is waiting for your approval, I am no longer at peace with my Maker.  He alone knows what my life should look like.  He alone knows what secret things I have to be obedient to that are not outwardly apparent.  

When the kids were little and we would have people over, I struggled with having the house picked up.  But it dawned on me one day, that as much as I want to honor my guests, in reality I could spend all day getting it in perfect shape and miss out on time with my children.  And people will come in and compliment your clean house and wonder how you do it all, but they will not come in and see your disaster of a house and compliment you on spending time with your children!  And that is not a license for laziness, but an appeal to always be asking God to search our hearts and doing things for the right reasons.  

Community means that we act like members of one another, because that is what we are.  Community, discipleship is not a program.  It is not meant to happen in a vacuum.  It happens naturally as we dig into each other's lives.  It is meant to be a natural outflow of, "I love watching you! You look like Jesus, and I want to look like Him too!  Show me how practically."  I have many people in my life to imitate.  One, who recently said to me, "As I always tell my children, until your last breath you can look people in the eye, and smile, and be kind."  That kind of wisdom can keep me thinking for a long time! :)  

Mopping the floors last week, Jake was playing Seeds Family Worship and commented, "Isn't it amazing that Paul could say that?"  

"Whatever you have learned or received, or heard from me, or seen in me--do these things." (Phil. 4:9)  Yes, truly amazing.  It should be commonplace, but I for one have some reservations about saying that.  Which should be a big red flag!  Maybe there are any number of things in my life not worth copying.  Discipleship says "Follow me!"  Wholeheartedly.  And invites correction when something is not worth imitating.

When we find the freedom that comes from peace with God as our Creator, accepting who He made us to be, we can rejoice and celebrate one another in deeper ways.  We no longer have to boast in what we have and do, for that "wisdom" is from the world.  (I Jn. 2:16)  But "the man who does the will of God will live forever," and that includes recognizing that "everything comes from Him and exists by His power and is intended for His glory" (Rom. 11:36) and not for mine.

My friend and I sat on the porch and asked for brutal constructive criticism.  "How do I look as a wife?  How am I doing as a mom?"  And kindly, ever so gently, shared with one another.  "Sometimes this one child is unkind, maybe just in small ways, and you don't see it."  "Sometimes you are disrespectful to your husband in this small, but important way." 

Ouch.  

Oh, blessed pain.  

We had a discussion like this about ten years ago and it bore much fruit in my life and the life of one of my children whose disobedience I had completely been oblivious to.  It is not easy to speak those words, and rarely does anyone ask for them.  But we need each other.  We are members of one another.  I am for you!  I am for your children, and I love them deeply, which is the only reason I will speak those words.  And I want to hear your words to me more than flattery, as that is infinitely more instructive and useful and fruit-producing.  

Now if I could always hear my husband in that same way.  And my children.  But I long to!

Psalm 139:24 asks God to see if there is any offensive way in me.  As my sister or brother in Christ, can you also help me see those offensive ways in me that I am most likely blinded to or making excuses for?  

Next time you see me irritated or unkind or gossipy or rude, please call me on it.  I might not like it, but I want it.  And I need it, desperately!

"Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together!" Ps. 34:3