Six Seconds

I can do all things through Him who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

My son Isaac is about to graduate from eighth grade. The other day he was scheduled to take a tour of the local high school. As he hopped out of the van I called after him, “Are you nervous?” He nodded, his face paler than usual. And then he turned, straightened his shoulders, and walked into the building.

It was a little moment that took all of six seconds. But it left me teary as I pulled out of the parking lot.

My boy was scared. He had to do something that he didn't really want to do. But he did it anyway.

It seems like lately my life has been full of those six-second moments. Six seconds of really, really not wanting to do something. And then doing it anyway.

Six miserable seconds. Waiting for my cue to go on stage, sure I was going to forget my lines. Easing into the dentist’s chair. Being handed a laser tag gun and knowing I was going to be too inept and clumsy to use it. Stepping gingerly into a canoe, certain I would tip the boat and douse the two young girls in my charge. 

You've felt them, haven’t you? Six long seconds of, “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this.”

But you do.

There is so much to be afraid of on the other side of those six seconds. Things could go wrong. You could get hurt. You might mess up, and someone might laugh at you. The other side of those six seconds is not safe.

You might not get the job. You might learn something about your health that you don’t want to hear. You might love someone and then lose them. You might strike out.

Six seconds of panic. Six seconds of doubt. Six seconds that almost make you turn back.

But you don’t.

You send your resume. You step into the waiting room. You love anyway. You swing the bat.

And then you are through to the other side, and you see how it turns out.

For the record, I didn't tip the boat. I did get us stuck in some branches, but we got untangled eventually. And I did mess up one of my lines, but I don’t think anybody minded. I had to have a root canal. But I lived through it. I was, in fact, inept and clumsy with the laser gun, but it was still tons of fun creeping around a dark old warehouse and shooting my kids.

It would be so easy to let fear of the unknown stop us. It would be so easy to listen to that voice, the one that hisses, “You can’t do this, you can’t do this, you can’t do this.”

But if we never did it, how would we know what was on the other side?

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Sometimes God feels far away, and I need to make a change in my life to get closer to Him. Sometimes I am convicted about my actions and I know I need to fix them.

But the six-second rule pervades, and the chant begins: “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this.” 

I can’t step toward God. I can’t talk to Him, not for real. I can’t give Him my time. I can’t trust that He is who He says He is.

I can’t stop doing that which I know is wrong, not when it makes me happy and is so cleverly disguised as right.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it.

As we fight for a true and strong and living relationship with our Creator, the nay-saying voice wants us to give up and give in.  

We doubt. We fear. We want to walk away.

But we don’t.

We don’t walk away. Because on a warm night far away our Savior stood amid the twisting trunks of olive trees and prayed that his cup of suffering would be taken from Him. He knew what lay ahead, and he really, really didn't want to go. He didn't want to do it.

But He did.

And because He did, we can.

With glorious abandon we ignore the words that say we can’t and run toward the God who says that because of His Son, we can do all things.

We can cling to our God, full of unfathomable trust. We can cast off the sin that encumbers us, accepting that we will fail, knowing He will pick us up and face us in the right direction once again.

Those six seconds are still there. We are still susceptible to worries and insecurities and I can’t do its. But we know, through our fears, what’s on the other side.

On the other side there is Jesus.

First Published in the Alpena News on May 31, 2014

Market Value

We sold our house this week. I think.

Our residence back in Illinois has been on the market for two years. Hip hip hooray, someone finally wants the big American foursquare that we called home before we moved to Michigan. At the time of my deadline to submit this column, the closing has not yet happened. I’m afraid of jinxing it by saying it’s a done deal. But hopefully, by the time you read this, my house will no longer be my house.

I love my house - the one that is, I think, no longer my house. It was built one hundred years ago, and Eleanor Roosevelt once had lunch there, really and truly.

The trim around doors and windows and walls is a thick golden oak – the real stuff, heavy and solid. The windows are large and numerous; most of them won’t stay open on their own, so you have to prop them open with a stick.

But that’s okay. There are a lot of things in the house that aren’t quite the way they’re supposed to be.

The screen on the big front porch with the swing that squeaks still bears witness to the day Jonah decided to “help” me paint the house. The spiders have probably moved back into the basement, down in my cool, sawdusty workroom, with the water stains from the year we had that big flood.

The wooden banister creaks and jiggles fearsomely when feet thunder up and down the main stairs. There’s the corner patch of rug that got torn up when Oscar the cat got locked in the attic and was convinced he could dig his way out. And we never did get a replacement handle for the side door, or a new knob to replace the one that broke on the farm-style kitchen sink.

I knew just how to wiggle the broken right-hand latch to open the tall kitchen cabinets, the ones that reach all the way to the ceiling. There is a large brown stain on the carpet in front of the refrigerator (who puts carpet in a kitchen??) where one of the kids decided to draw with a stick of butter.

The pocket door sticks, the one that closes off the butler’s pantry and turns it into an elevator that, if you close your eyes and open your mind, will take you up a floor and land you in the bathtub. We laid the bathroom floor tiles ourselves, you know. And they’re mostly level, except for the wiggly one in front of the sink.

The pink-on-pink stripes and polkadots in Emmalyn’s room are a little grungy, but when she was little they were a perfect backdrop for princess dresses and stuffed animals. There is a spot on the rug in Jonah’s room that is a pale tan now, much better than the red that it used to be ever since the time…well, you don’t really want to know how that spot got there. Isaac’s room still smells faintly of fish bowls and pet rats and sneakers.

I worry a little bit about these new owners. I wonder if they will see only the butter stain and the broken windows. I hope not. I want them to appreciate the real value of my wonderful house. I want them to know why it’s so special, despite all its flaws.

My house is not extraordinary, and it is not anyone’s dream house. But it is where my family lived. What has given it value is the life inside it. What makes it special is how much it is loved.

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I will make my home among them. I will be their God, and they will be my people.  Ezekiel 37:27

God. Living in me. It gives me pause.

Goodness knows I’m not a perfect place to live. I’ve got all sorts of stains and broken parts on my inside. Some of my blemishes may look okay because I’ve scrubbed over them and hidden them away from outside eyes, but I know they’re still there.

We’re not going to be able to do much to boost our own market value, you and I. As fast as we try to fix our flaws, new ones pop up. We may look good on the outside, but even a cursory inspection would reveal a multitude of problems that would defy remediation.

And yet…. And yet these imperfect hearts are where our Savior decides to dwell.

The empty cross and the empty tomb shout with Easter joy: He is not here. He is there. There, in the heart He has chosen. There, with you; accepting you, forgiving you, giving His all so you could be His.

The stains and broken parts are still inside. But, despite our imperfection, we are of infinite worth. What gives us value is what lives inside. What makes us special is how much – how incredibly, breathtakingly much – we are loved.

First published in the Alpena News, May 3, 2014

Update from the author:  We sold the house!!!

Flying Lessons

I sat in the waiting area of Alpena’s adorable airport, pretending I was an experienced traveler without a care in the world.  Inside, though, I was all a-jitter.  It had been a long time since I was on a plane.

The building didn't do much to calm my nerves.  A cute airplane decoration hangs from the ceiling near the entrance, caught in the middle of a mid-air loop.  Unfortunately, the sight of an upside-down airplane is not entirely reassuring to a nervous traveler.  I found the ceiling fans charming, decorated as they are to look like propellers, until I realized that they are doing nosedives toward the earth. I thought, as I had thought many a time on the way to the airport, that if man had been meant to fly, God would have made us with wings.

My seat was in the second-to-last row of the small plane.  I climbed over the legs of the nice lady in the aisle seat and wedged myself in under the sloped ceiling that curved menacingly over my head.  Hot air was inexplicably blowing full-force from the air vents overhead, and passengers were stripping off coats and vests and panting in the heat.  I shoved my sweatshirt down by my feet, trapping them against my computer bag. 

I scrunched down to peer out the low window at the airport people scurrying about doing very official-looking things.  A woman on a wheeled platform started spraying the tip of the wing with some sort of fluid, undoubtedly, I realized with a shudder, to ward off the possibility of the airplane freezing mid-air. 

A series of mysterious thumps was followed by a thud as the door was closed and I realized with a sinking finality that I was trapped in this small space, my head pressed against the ceiling and my legs squished between my belongings and my arm tucked in close to avoid stealing space from the woman next to me and hot air blowing on my head and forty nine sweating strangers blocking my path to the door that was shut between me and fresh air, between me and the ground that was about to drop away from under me.  I tried to breathe; it wasn't going well. 

The airplane taxied slowly to the runway like an overgrown school bus. It turned, rolled into position, and paused just long enough to let  my heart stop.  Then, with a whoosh, we were speeding forward, faster and faster.  I peeked out my little window.  The ground was there.  And then it was a little less there.  And then… and then it was down, far below, falling away ever so gently as the houses and trees and fields shrunk and slid behind us. 

We were flying.  I was, somehow, magically, up in the air, high above everything.  It was grand, and glorious, and amazing. My fears faded and melted away.  I was soaring.

Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles.  Isaiah 40:31

Man was not made to fly.  It is ridiculous to think that a person could be 2,000 feet in the air gazing down on the world, safe as if they were in their own car.  It is ridiculous, and yet it is.

I look up at birds sometimes and marvel at the effortlessness of their flight.  They lift their wings, and in a trice they are up, held by the wind.  The utter improbability of it is staggering.  Air – they are sitting on air!  Ridiculous.  Foolish.  Improbable.  And yet, there they are, soaring high above, apart from the noise of the world, peaceful and strong and free.  It shouldn't be.  And yet it is.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe in things that seem improbable.  It is hard to accept that the creator of everything could notice one of His least significant creations and care about its small, everyday problems.  It is ridiculous to think that our deepest sins, the ones that we hide from the world so carefully, could be forgiven.  It is a foolishness, when life has been everything but trustworthy, to trust in the love of Someone who wanted us so much that He died to make us His.

It’s crazy.  It makes no sense.  It shouldn't be.  And yet it is.

The inexplicable, senseless love of our unfathomable God lifts us.  It gives us strength.  It is the reason that my family was smiling through their tears at the funeral I was flying to attend.  It is the reason that I can cry out in anguish and yet be strong and full of hope.

Man was not made to fly.  It is utterly improbable.  But those who hope in the Lord….they get to soar.

First published in the Alpena News, April 5, 2014