Holiday in Holland

Hancock Update

Hello!

Happy, Happy New Year!  I am glad to report that despite all evidence to the contrary, all of us survived our first Holiday season in The Netherlands!  It was touch and go there for a while—filled with all the stuff of Hancock living; incredible moments of unexpected joys and incredible moments of total desperation.  That seems to be the way these days.

Our holidays were christened with the celebration of Bella’s 7^th birthday.  We had a lovely Princess party that later turned into an impromptu cocktail hour as parents arrived to retrieve their children.  It was fun getting to host a throw down in our new home to about 30 people from 20 different countries.  Thanksgiving was our next big celebration.  Jeff received an invitation to take part in a Thanksgiving worship service in the historic Peters Kerk, the church where the Pilgrims worshipped during their time in Holland that is set in the beautiful university town of Leiden (a little known fact that we now know, the Pilgrims were here for about 10 years before taking their Mayflower voyage).  For Jeff, a history geek, the service was an amazing time of worship complete with family members of the Pilgrims who were in attendance, as well as the American Ambassador.  He returned from the service all aglow with history and theology working their powerful magic just in time for me to take part in my most auspicious Thanksgiving celebration.  I was to be the American ambassador to  Bella’s    first grade class at school.  Her teacher had asked if I would be willing to be a “special guest” in the class and share the history and traditions of American Thanksgiving a few weeks before.  At that time, I had grand visions of cooking a lovely feast set around autumnally donned tables as I shared the exciting adventures of the Pilgrims in my finely assembled Squanto garb.  What I hadn’t anticipated was that both kids would be super sick the week before and I would be delusional from sleep deprivation.  So, no feast had been prepared nor had I a finely crafted Squanto costume.  The only prep I had managed to pull off consisted of watching Charlie Brown’s Voyage of the Mayflower on YouTube as I bounced Elisha to sleep.  So, with Mayflower history fresh in my brain, all I needed now was a feast.  There was still time, I had an hour.  Jeff and I swapped keys and children and I dashed off to the store in search of Thanksgiving fixins…… in Holland…….. where no one celebrates Thanksgiving and no one eats Turkey, cranberries or corn.   Now, grocery shopping here has been an adjustment.  There are many differences to shopping in the US, but the one that trips me up every time is the fact that you have to bring your own bags to the store.  When I forget, I can usually shove a bunch of stuff in my Mom-sized purse and then just fill up the car.  I always feel a bit self-conscious, like I’m some old lady trying to steal a ham, but I get the job done.  Anyway, this day it didn’t matter.  I had an important task to do and couldn’t waste time worrying about appearances.  So, with a large, pre-cooked chicken stuffed in my mom-purse and mashed potatoes , biscuits and a frozen apple pie tucked under my arms, I proceeded to the check out.  All was going well.  I had done it!  Just as I was doing my mental victory jump, the check out girl started rattling off a bunch of Dutch words.  I had no idea what she was trying to say, but slowly, I began to realize that my bank card had been rejected.  Before I could get my mental bearings, I found myself having to empty my mom-purse in front of the manager and two other cashiers who were all staring at me as if I was an old lady trying to steal a ham.  I begged them to allow me ten minutes to grab some cash before putting the feast away and flew home to rip Jeff a new one as fast as I could.  Jeff took one look at my crazed eyes and headed out the door to make amends and get the feast.  In an effort to change my anti-Thanksgiving mood, I thought I might get a quick shower before heading off to Bella’s school.  It had been a few days.  Just as I was stepping into the warm water, I heard Elisha wheezing and throwing up in his bed.  I dashed upstairs to help him and after a few minutes he was sleeping again, on me.   So, there I was, looking more and smelling more like Squanto than I ever imagined, with my greasy hair, towel clad body and papoosed child.  Jeff walked through the door, we swapped keys and children again, I threw on some clothes and headed off to Bella’s school.  When I arrived, all the children were already seated in a circle, awaiting their “special guest.”  I don’t know if it was sleep deprivation, adrenaline from the humiliating grocery store experience, or the incredibly beautiful faces of 14 children spanning the color of the skin rainbow, but somehow, inspiration grabbed hold of me and I gave a rousing speech of the Pilgrim’s journey that included phrases like “religious freedom, dreams of a new world, glory outweighting hardship and humanity’s need for community”.  Then we feasted on store-bought chicken, potatoes and pie using plates and cutlery I had found in the teacher’s lounge.  We all gave thanks together and I was reminded again of all the beauty to be found in the midst of so much imperfection, or maybe because of the imperfection.

Thanksgiving gave way to Christmas.  I won’t go into all the details, but some memorable highlights included a cocktail party hosted at Bella’s school where the head of school was working the bar, conversations on why SinterKlaas’s, black-faced “helpers” known as the Pieten, might be offensive in other cultures and how customs officers celebrated their holidays with the Gluhwein gift boxes we attempted to send to friends and family in the US.  Also, if any of you receive our Christmas card and it is postmarked from Paris, you can offer thanks to an unknown Parisian cab driver who currently possesses 75 addressed Hancock Christmas cards—

All I can say about New Year’s Eve is that I have never experienced anything like it before nor do I wish to experience it again.  Just think about Mardi Gras with explosives and you’ll have an idea.

All craziness aside, we felt God’s gentleness and grace carrying us through what could have been a time consumed with homesickness.  We do miss each of you very much, but have been so thankful for all the phone calls, skyping, presents, prayers and even VISITS!!!!  Know that you are a part of each step that we take because you are a part of our hearts.  Thanks so much for being on the journey with us.  You are cherished!

Something cool we’re looking forward to in 2011: Gary Hauegn, founder of IJM (Interbational Justice Mission), whose books inspired us to take the beginning steps of this crazy adventure (You gotta read The Good News about Injustice and Just Courage), is coming to preach at Crossroads and have dinner with Jeff and I NEXT WEEKEND!!!  It is a bizarre thing that the person we were trying so hard to have a voice with in the US (his organization is in DC) is coming to us in Holland!

We Love You—

Xoxo

The Hancocks

Grace in Holland

Hello sweet friends and family,

We continue to settle into our new Dutch life here in Holland.  In some ways, life feels infused with a new sense of adventure, beauty, hope and anticipation. Earlier this week Jeff and I were debating as to where we might go for Fall break. As we were laying out our options of Germany, France or the UK we shared a moment of beholding just how surreal it was to have these destinations as viable vacation choices.  What a gift.  We aren’t accustomed to being able to offer our WW II obsessed six year old the option of visiting the Anne Frank House for the afternoon.  Surreal.  There is also new inspiration in the everyday;  refreshing bike rides along scenic canals and historic windmills, delicious coffee and stimulating conversation with new friends from foreign places, listening to the hum of the tram behind our home that transports thousands of people to myriads of destinations and beautiful flowers of every shape and hue adorning public cafes and intimate kitchen tables.  These things, and others, serve as vistas of grace throughout each day.

But then there are all the moments in between;  the overwhelming times of standing in the mess and chaos of our new home and feeling totally paralyzed in making any organizational decision, the frustration of finally making that decision only to have whatever has been put into place completely dismantled by a curious one year old.  Or the insanely boring hours of changing diapers, stacking blocks and pretending to be some nasty character from some made-up story in Bella’s crazy noodle.  Not  even sexy Holland can change these realities.  I suppose life is life; Flashes of Heaven amidst an earthly reality.

Earlier this week, as I was enjoying a rare, private moment, Something happened.  This Something came like a light breeze, warming me, refreshing me and then, blew on, leaving me a little ruffled.  I suppose this Something could have other descriptors such as revelation or insight, but somehow these words don’t fully encapsulate the experience.   Here is what I wrote in my journal:

“Today marks the first day that I have gotten still and allowed myself to just “be” in many months.  It’s been a long journey to get here; to be in this place at this time and yet, here I sit.  As I start to get quiet, tears flow; tears of exhaustion, tears of gratitude, tears of longing and tears of joy.  I am bathed in a warm, luxurious sunlight that bears witness to a masterful Creator and for this moment, I am at peace.  All is not perfect, but in this instant, the imperfection is a vital part of this present grace.  It is the imperfection of life and living that has drawn me, opened me, given me eyes to behold that which is true, right and beautiful.  I am humbled, I am awed to think of a grace so encompassing that all ugliness and darkness become transformed into a hallowed backdrop in which beauty, redemption and goodness shine forth more brightly.  Creation itself sings this sacred hymn with every rainbow that shimmers more fiercely in a deeply clouded sky and the star’s light, most bright against blackness.  For this moment, Heaven and earth are no longer divided.

I sit still, not wanting to disrupt this rare, peaceful state that has somehow overcome me.  As I sit, I realize that this state of Something feels more like the presence of Someone.  An ancient prayer rises from within Your Kingdom Come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.  Amen”

Know that each of you is loved and held deeply in our hearts.  Thanks for being with us in the journey.

Yours,

Heather

Peace to Freaks

A lot of times life can feel like barely controlled sanity, and that’s if you’re lucky.  Just go to your local Whole Foods and you’ll see what I mean. Now, to be sure, we are not regulars at Whole Foods.  We’ve been a handful of times because other, kind people, who think we’re a Whole Foods type of family, have given us gift certificates.  It is a thoughtful gift, especially these days when grocery money is hard to come by.  It’s just that I feel like a poser even accepting the gift certificates, like somehow accepting them is a silent acknowledgement that I am committed to all things clean and green like real Whole Fooders.  I wish I could be, but one glance at the array of garbage recycling bins with emphatic signs as to what’s allowed to be thrown in and the overwhelming feeling of incompetence that follows, and I understand that I am too dense and tired to be a Whole Fooder.  After our visit the other day, I realize I also get creeped out too easily.

We went to Whole Foods as a celebration of sorts.  Jeff had been away in Canada the previous week and we decided to celebrate our family’s reunion by feasting on pesticide-free food.  I will admit I was already in a fragile state before we arrived at Whole Foods.  I thought maybe food that had been less tampered with chemically might be a good thing for my personal chemistry which seemed to have gone a little loopy the night before Jeff was leaving for Canada.

I don’t know why it’s so, but most women I talk to go through awful things when their husbands go out of town.  These times can bring on enough desperation that spiritual perspectives become forever altered.  A staunch atheist friend of mine admitted to crying out in prayer to God, Jesus and The Blessed Mother when her husband was gone and all three kids were sick with a stomach flu.  Another friend, who possess a reserved, waspy-type faith, found herself begging the Holy Spirit, with Pentecostal fervor, for a miracle, hoping that this might cure her daughter’s prepubescent bitchiness that seemed to set in an hour after her husbands plane took off.  Then there are those, like me, who start going around the bend a bit thinking Satan and his minions are crouched and ready to pounce at any moment like a toad eyeballing a spider.  It seems to be the only explanation for why things could be so bad.

I’ll just say the night before Jeff left, we realized I was having a mammary debacle that coincided with a teething four-month-old.  Fun times.  There’s nothing that will take you to the Dark Side quite like haywire hormones and insecurity about feeding your infant.  I knew I was in sorry shape when I noticed, after a few days of Jeff being gone, that each room of our house looked like a page from one of those Eye Spy children’s books. Everything was disheveled.  The only constant I happened to notice was that in each room I could spy at least two empty beer bottles.  A glance at the baby’s room revealed diapers, Desitin, a sock, teethers and two beer bottles on the windowsill.  A peek into Bella’s room and I saw a doll, stickers, rocks, dress-up clothes on the floor and two beer bottles perched on top of her armoire.  A look into my room showed my Bible, a Walker Percy novel and two beer bottles all resting naturally at my bedside table.  I think Martin Luther once said that beer is proof that God loves us.  Given this week, I’d have to agree.  By day three of hot compresses, breast pumps, anti-biotics, bottles with myriads of nipples and still no clue as to how to feed the baby, I realized that a regular intake of beer at least allowed me to pull myself away from the corner of the bathroom floor and get dinner on the table.  So I went with it.  Desperate times call for desperate measures and I was having a desperate week.  I was also uttering some desperate prayers; actually just one desperate prayer that was stuck on repeat- HELP.  It’s amazing how simple  prayer becomes during challenging times. All I know is that each time I yelped out the word “HELP” somehow help came, and I was vulnerable enough to receive it.  One of those HELP prayers was answered in the form of my dear, sweet, Mom who had come to lend her hands for much of the week.  She would gently remind me that “this too shall pass” and then, she would lovingly fetch me a beer.   By the end of the week, I was convinced that my Mom’s parting gift, a case of Sam Adams, was the sweetest, most heart-felt present I had ever received and most certainly an answer to prayer.  After witnessing my crazed state throughout the week, I think she was convinced of this too.

So by the week’s end, I was fried and desperate and perhaps a little dehydrated, and longing to have a thought that didn’t have to do with lactation.  A trip to Whole Foods seemed innocent enough, but as soon as we pulled into the parking lot I felt myself becoming twitchy. The Whole Foods here feels a little like visiting Logon airport in Boston.  Everyone is in a pissed off hurry.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s a lack of all the harmful chemicals that causes a certain derangement.  As soon as we entered the store with it’s narrow, not-stroller- friendly aisles, I knew we had made a mistake.  This was confirmed when, after 15 minutes of attempting to assemble lunch for our family, not one person had ogled the baby.  That’s just weird.  So in a bit of a huff, I told Jeff that the baby and me would go secure a table in the café while he and Bella finished elbowing their way through the buffet line.  During the twenty paces it took to get to the tables, two different people brushed up against me and didn’t bother to say “excuse me” which just added fuel to my growing fury.  So by the time we found an empty table, even though it’s size seemed more suited for Bella’s doll house family than ours, I snatched it quickly and decided to just sit and breath for a moment.  My moment had not yet expired when a lady, who had been sitting across the anorexic aisle, approached me and asked if she could sit and eat beside me so that she could watch my “beautiful” baby as she ate.  Before I had a chance to answer, she sat on down and proceeded to ask me if I believed in miracles.  Again, before I could answer, she said she knew I must since I had such a beautiful baby.  She then went on to tell me about her faith life, her health problems and how great her salad was tasting, all the while ogling the baby.  I was beginning to rethink my analysis on baby ogling and, in my over-sensitive state, and with her crazed blues eyes darting back and forth between me, the baby and the salad, I was also wondering if this was one of those times that I should rebuke Beelzebub or if perhaps, this Nutty Baby Ogler was some angelic phenomenon to whom I should be extra hospitable.  I wasn’t sure, so I asked God for HELP.  Help came as Bella and Jeff wiggled their way through the skinny maze of tables and chairs to join us.  Jeff and I had already locked eyes and shared a look that said “Oh no” as he twisted his way closer.  Bella cut right to the chase.  In a clear, un-hushed voice she asked “Um, What’s she doing here”?  Again, before  I could answer, the Nutty Baby Ogler said “I wanted to look at your cute brother.”  “Oh, isn’t he great?”  Bella replied.  Bella and the Nutty Baby Ogler proceeded to chat as Jeff and I attempted to consolidate our food into mouse-sized portions so that we could eat at our miniscule table.  We were finally successful after only one coffee spill and one accidental salad dumping.  Just as we blotted up the last puddle of coffee, a new lady, with an amputated leg came limping through the café maze on her crutches.  In Bella-like fashion, the Nutty Baby Ogler said “What happened to your leg?” The amputee explained that she had it removed during a horrible fight with cancer.  This peeked my interest.  Four years ago, our precious niece Maris, who was 11 at the time, had her leg amputated due to a hellacious bout of a rare cancer called Ewing’s Sarcoma.  Two years after that her cancer returned in her lungs.  Since her last round of treatment she seems to be doing well, but this seemed to be the case after her first round of treatments.  I sat for a moment thinking about Maris as I watched this lovely amputee patiently chat with the Nutty Baby Ogler.  As they chatted, I found myself leaning in to listen.  As I leaned in and caught glimpses of Nutty Baby Oglers vacant blue eyes, a scene from my own life, that had transpired the week before, played through my head.  I remembered, in a fit of desperation, how I had roamed around the first floor of our house, jostling the baby and singing Jesus songs at the top of my lungs in an attempt to fight off the imposing darkness of fear.  It then occurred to me that there wasn’t just one Nutter in our company and maybe I could let go of feeling creeped out and find fellowship.  So I joined the conversation by telling them about Maris.  When I finished, the amputee grabbed my hand and said “Sweetie, I am proof that God is in the miracle business everyday.”  At this point, the Lovely Amputee, the Nutty Baby Ogler and me, a twitchy, hormonal wreck all shared a tear-filled, heart-felt moment that testified to our common need, longing and hope.

As Jeff and I found our way to the car through the pissy parking lot, I kept having images of Bella learning to swim flash through my mind.  At first, her “swimming” resembled barely controlled drowning.  She’d fling and flail and barely stay afloat. But as time went on, all that flinging and flailing gradually turned into graceful strokes.  Now she plunges into the water and navigates her way through it’s current with dolphin like ability.  That’s how life seems these days.  It feels like barely controlled sanity, and that’s on the good days.  But I have this hope that won’t let go of me.  It whispers, that like my child, I am in the process of learning to live, to trust, to become graceful and grace-filled as I lean on the One who proclaims peace, who promises miracles, who answers prayers of HELP even to the least of us; an amputee, a nutty baby ogler and a creeped out, hormonal train wreck.

My Date with an old friend

I just got back from a coffee date with an old “friend.”  Things did not go well.  My friend claims to be a truth teller, which is a quality I typically admire when the truth is a compliment, but that was not the case today.  No, today the truth hurt, and not just a little.  I am trying not to run to my usual comforts of food, caffeine, shopping or HGTV.  In fact, after today’s date, my comforts aren’t going to deliver anyway.  My friend really didn’t have to say anything, he couldn’t and even if he could, what would he say?  Instead he simply unveiled some disturbing qualities that have been lurking around for a long time.  All he did was show me a few facts, like numbers on a dot-to-dot.  He left me with the task of connecting the dots and the finished picture was not what I wanted to see. Things didn’t look so bad at first.  The image was familiar enough, so much so, that I almost missed seeing the stains that were splashed all over, like dried blood on white linens.  But then I saw them and I haven’t been able to look away.  I am somewhat undone.  I agreed to this date under false pretenses.  I thought we were just going to look at a few spreadsheets with numbers, but something else transpired.  Instead of numbers all I could see were beloved faces.  It was unsettling.  I couldn’t view $150.00 paid to Time Warner Cable: phone, computer, TV without seeing my daughter Bella, sitting cross legged on a dirty floor in India having her head popped with a stick each time her little hands fumbled over capping off the end of a cigarette.  At the sight of $40.00 for new running shoes, it was Dagnea’s beautiful, charcoal, Ethiopian face that ran through my mind along with a quote from his last correspondence that read “Please pray for my mother who is sick with HIV.  My father is dead.”

I wanted to look away from these faces, like I do during the scary scenes in a movie, but I couldn’t.   This wasn’t a movie for me to merely observe.  This wasn’t a picture meant to stir emotion that I could eventually walk away from.  No.  These images are real lives of real people living in arm’s reach everyday.  Thankfully it’s not my Bella who sits on India’s ground slaving her five- year- old life away– it’s someone else’s precious daughter. Do they love their child any less than I love mine?  No.   And Dagnea, our Compassion sponsored child, he’s one of millions whose life or death is of equal value to a pair of running shoes.

I’ve heard staggering statistics throughout my life. In the past, my response has been a pattern of shock, grief, prayer for how I might engage more boldly in the world’s atrocities and then guilt and frustration when nothing in my life changes to help impact a suffering world.  The picture I saw when I looked at the completed dot to dot was the familiar image of an American woman, well groomed and fed, passionately sharing the truth of God’s love with another friend as she drives down the road in her car.  She is earnest.  So how is it that she drives right past God himself who is beckoning to her on the road’s side?  She didn’t mean to miss him- it’s just that he looks different than she would have guessed.  He isn’t well groomed or fed like her.  Quite the contrary, he’s begging for help.  He’s homeless.  He’s black.  He’s suffering.  He’s dirty.

I am beginning to suspect that this time of unemployment is an answer to years of prayer.  In response to God’s love, I have prayed for courage.  I have prayed for compassion.  I have prayed that God would show me how to use the currency of my life to love others and to share the truth of his love.  I was just hoping he might wave a wand to get the job done.  No.  God’s way is vastly different from mine.  He seems to be very fond of wild, unpredictable journeys that require his constant help and companionship.  I asked for courage.  Could it be that I am becoming courageous only through facing hardship?  I asked for compassion.  Could it be that compassion only comes as a result of suffering?  I asked to be charitable.  Could it be that we become charitable when we’ve faced our own need for charity?

I’ve found that money in America functions a lot like an NFL uniform.  We try to acquire enough financial padding to become immune to our true vulnerability.  The problem is this immunity also inoculates us from our destiny of loving God and others.  We’d rather stay comfortable in our super-sized homes, cars and wardrobes than sacrifice our comfort for another human being created in the image of God.  Ouch, I know.  The truth hurts.  But here’s the good news.  We aren’t just left with our guilty, ugly stain of blinding selfishness, which in and of itself would immobilize us from changing.  God promises to create in us hearts of flesh as we walk with him.  He is gentle and kind, promising not to give us more than we can bear. Perhaps this is why he chooses the process of journey over instant transformation.

I don’t know where your journey might begin.  Maybe it entails a radical start like quitting your job and having a baby. I can recommend this approach to those of you who struggle with control and consumerism, like me.  Or maybe your journey starts more subtly, over a coffee date, with an old friend.  My friend would be more than happy to meet with you if you are in need of a reality check.  His name is Quicken and for $80.00 at a software store, he’ll even move in.  Be careful.

A Personal Parable

A Personal Parable

Last weekend North Carolina experienced it’s first days of cool, crisp, fall weather.  After being pregnant through the summer humidity, I was ready to celebrate.  My days of sitting on the couch beneath an air conditioning vent, as my five-year-old daughter Bella ran to fetch freeze pops at my hourly command, were over!  Those embarrassing episodes of floating around our friend’s pool, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Violet Beauregarde after she’d chewed the gum that inflated her into a round wrecking ball with limbs—no more! My friend Kathy and I decided to honor these high holy days of bulky sweaters and cool breezes by taking the kids for a picnic at The Museum Park in Raleigh.

As we drove to the park I was overcome by the beauty of the day.  A perfect blue sky, decorated with Michelangelo-esque clouds smiled upon us as we cruised down the highway.  Bella was in the back seat singing lullabies to the baby as he giggled and cooed. Kathy and I were sitting side by side in the front seats, enjoying the cozy cocoon of friendship.  This was going to be a great day.

When we arrived at the park, I found that my first order of business was to adjust my fantasy of strolling through the  outdoors while leisurely taking in the sights and sounds of our surroundings.  I hadn’t yet gotten the stroller out of the trunk when Bella, at the sight of an unbelievably sexy drainage pipe, took off on her imaginary horse, Silver Mist, to explore the “big tunnel.”  I should have known.  My Bella takes to the outdoor elements like a Retriever to a game of fetch.  She sees wide-open space and starts salivating, rolling, jumping, skipping, cart wheeling and climbing anything dangerous or off limits.  She’s always been this way.  When she was eight months old, one morning Jeff and I heard an unusually loud thud that seemed to come from her bedroom.  When we peeked in, there was our adorable baby, perched on all fours in the middle of her bedroom, looking like a puppy who had just escaped from his kennel for the first time.  She seemed completely bewildered as to what she should do with her new found freedom. Our demure, little girl-child hadn’t learned to walk yet, but she’d already made a prison break.

After enticing Bella away from the drainage pipe, we found our way onto the main trail of the park.  The Museum Park is truly a sight to behold.  It spans 164 acres of wooded landscape punctuated by environmental artwork. The balance of natural and created beauty makes a special magic that is palpable.  Bella was feeling it.  She and Silver Mist bolted down a grassy hill and arrived at the first sculpture entitled Gyre.  This is a mammoth work of three consecutive circles that are each 24 feet tall made from concrete and the red clay of the surrounding earth.  The work is meant to evoke a sense of spiraling or gyration.  If the actions of a five year old bear witness, than there is no denying the artist’s success on this one.  Before Kathy and I were anywhere near the bottom of the hill, Bella was attempting to scale the mighty Gyre, despite all the signs that scolded NO CLIMBING!  Thank God we were the only ones around.  When we finally caught up to her, she had already climbed up and jumped down the side of Gyre many times and was now attempting to extract a chunk of cement off of it to keep as a souvenir.  She has a thing for rocks, another trait that has been with her for some time.  I don’t know if there was some spark to her obsession.  I only can tell you that since she was about two she has taken great pride in gathering and gifting rocks.  When we go to a park, Bella gathers rocks.  When we go to a restaurant or any other venue with a parking lot, Bella gathers rocks.  When we go outside in our grassy, mulched yard, Bella will dig until she discovers a rock.  Often, after she has mined and polished her precious rocks, she gives them away to people as tokens of affection.  When the gift of her lovely rock is met with a puzzled facial expression by the gifted, she appears dumbfounded.  The beauty, and therefore value of a rock, is quite obvious to her.  It’s not quite as obvious to her teacher at school.  Last week when I picked her up from school she entered the car in tears, a first for her.  The interesting thing with Bella is that as much as she can be a daredevil, for the most part, she is a rule follower.  Her teacher once described her as “incredibly responsible.”  Given the likes of Jeff and I, all I can say is that DNA is a bizarre thing.  When I inquired as to what the matter was, her little face crumbled when she explained that her teacher made her put the rocks she had collected from the playground back onto the playground.  She was both mad and sad.  In her teacher’s defense, I will say that her collecting can get carried away.  The week before when I had visited her classroom, I noticed her pretty dress had weirdly shaped bulges all over the front.  I felt a little embarrassed, assuming the dress had most likely been retrieved from the dirty clothes that morning and I just hadn’t noticed. When I took a closer look, I saw that she had jimmied the fabric of her dress around several rocks creating satchels to carry them in.  She doesn’t think twice about this strange impulse of hers, unfortunately for her, her teacher does.  In an effort to be a responsible parent, I told her she needed to respect and therefore obey her teacher’s rules about rocks when she was at school, but that she could continue her collecting obsession on my watch.  I thought the moral was pretty clear; respect your teacher by obeying his rules.  She took away a different lesson.  Last night at the dinner table, I was asking about her day—the usual questions, Who did you have lunch with?  Who did you play with on the playground?  To this last question, she grinned shyly and explained that she hadn’t played with anyone on the playground, but rather sat in a sunny spot to warm herself.  This was a suspicious confession given her hyper-active tendencies in the outdoors.  She then leaned in and whispered, “I snuck some rocks in my pockets.  Don’t worry, my teacher didn’t catch me.”  Maybe DNA isn’t as bizarre as I thought.

“Bella, you can’t take a chunk of that sculpture.  That is someone’s artwork.”  I said through slightly clenched teeth after we caught up with her.  “But it’s so beautiful, I just want a little piece.”  “No, absolutely not.  Why don’t you and Silver Mist go explore that field over there and see if you can find some rocks that won’t entangle us in a law suit.”  Off they went.  As Kathy and I strolled the baby down the path in Bella’s general direction, we could see her bending over to pick wildflowers and of course, gather more rocks.  She soon fell into a rhythm of gathering and dumping.  She would fill her hands and pockets and then dump her findings into the stroller. The stroller quickly started to fill up with dandelions, wild strawberries, and hard clay pieces. In order to keep amassing her collection, she began adorning the baby, who was beginning to look like a bedraggled Christmas tree. “Bella, I think we should be done collecting stuff.  There isn’t any room left.  What do you plan on doing with all of this stuff anyway?”  I said.  “I don’t know.  I just like collecting it.  I’ll use it for something.  Promise.”  Right as these words fell out of her mouth we found ourselves standing in front of another massive art piece.  And guess what, it was made entirely out of rocks.  Bella, Kathy and I all stood silent.  “See Mom, I could make a beautiful piece of art with my stuff.”  What could I say?

We continued exploring the park.  We followed dirt trails, scaled some more off-limit masterpieces and had a lovely picnic in the sun.  By the time we were making our way back to the car, Bella had a walking stick, flowers in her hair, and rocks poking out of her pockets.   The stroller resembled an unkempt bush with a baby face poking out of the middle.  We were almost to the car when I noticed Bella and Kathy were hunched over in the grass looking at something.  “Okay” I though to myself.  “This has really gotten out of hand.  I am done with holding onto all this useless crap.”  Before I could command Bella to drop whatever it was she was holding, she came bounding over with a soft, brown caterpillar perched on her finger.  Giggling with excitement, she proudly held “Fuzzy” up to my nose.  “Look Mom.  Isn’t it beautiful?!  I was just walking along and there was Fuzzy, waiting for me.  Awww, she’s so cute, can I keep her?  Hey look we have everything we need to make a home for her.  I’ll just use these rocks and flowers and put them in my lunch sack.”  She was right.  For the next few minutes we carefully assembled a home for Fuzzy using an array of dandelions, weeds and rocks from Bella’s unruly nature collection.

Later that day, Bella introduced Fuzzy to Jeff.  He thought it would be fun to do some research and find out what kind of caterpillar Fuzzy was and what Fuzzy liked to eat.  As Kathy and I were unpacking the lunches and cleaning off the stroller that now resembled Oscar the Grouch’s trash can, Jeff said “You’re not gonna believe this.  Fuzzy is an Isabella (Bella’s given name) Tiger Moth.  It says here she like rocks, dandelions and dirt.”  Bella proudly exclaimed, “Perfect!  I gathered just the right stuff.  She was meant to be mine all along.”

As I reflect on this day, I believe that God was unveiling a parable just for me.  “Learn from your daughter.  She doesn’t labor or spin; she simply follows her true heart, no matter how quirky.  She enjoys the journey and adventure of walking along the path and discovering.  She finds herself well equipped to receive and care for whatever comes her way.”

I believe.  Help my unbelief.

The State of our Onion

Topsy-Turvy

I’ve noticed that my brain seems to work like a jukebox that resides in a New York City gay bar, most of my emotional impulses are accompanied by some chorus of a rousing show tune or a dramatic pop song. Yesterday I ran into an acquaintance who knows about our current, unemployed status.  Before she had a chance to ask “How are you?” I found that my faithful, internal, Broadway Star had preemptively answered the ominous question with an impassioned rendition of “There’s a place for us” from West Side Story.  All that music and lyric rolling around upstairs, along with a visual of Jeff in gang attire and me as a Puerto Rican bombshell had some clout.  When the question “How are you?” was finally popped, I just borrowed from Tony, the Jett who was serenading Maria in my brain and replied  “There’s a place for us, Somewhere a place for us. Peace and quiet and open air Wait for us Somewhere.” I don’t think my friend knew I was quoting, that’s one benefit of frequently being dismissed as “artsy.”

The question of “How are you?” Is coming our way a lot. I think folks are interested for all sorts of reasons.  There are some who genuinely want the scoop because they care about our family and want to support us.  Others check-in the way a seventh grader watches a scientific experiment; with a mix of fear, fascination and curiosity while anticipating the impending explosion. Then there are our Professional Ministry Brethren who sound as if we’ve all been fellow comrades sharing time in the pokey and Jeff and I have recently escaped “So what’s it like on the outside?” they whisper with a hint of lust and paranoia.  To all these variations on the theme of “how are you?” my jukebox starts cranking out the same tune: “Wide Open Spaces” by the Dixie Chicks and away I go giving a response inspired by the chorus “She needs wide open spaces Room to make her big mistakes She needs new faces She knows the high stakes.” Jeff doesn’t mind that I invoke a country, girl band to help inform our current condition.  He’s in touch with his feminine side.

There are many layers to a question like “How are you?” These days I think of my response in terms of a State-of-the-Union address.  Actually, it’s more like a Sate-of-the-Onion address with all those diapers around.  There’s the Marital Layer, the Family Life Layer, the Processing Our Past Employment Layer, the Hopes for our Future Layer and the How All of These Things Collide Layer. On the hard, scary days, when we see the bank account draining,  I find that the stereo in my head turns to the hit musical Annie.  One moment I hear “It’s a hard knock life for us” but this is usually followed by an upbeat version of  “The Sun will come out Tomorrow”.  After I’m through watching little, red-headed, orphan Annie parade through Daddy Warbuck’s mansion, God gently reminds me that I’m not an orphan waiting to be adopted by some Millionaire.  He also reminds me that he is not bald or white like Daddy Warbucks.  He does affirm, however, that he is delighted when I come to him like a child; trusting, resting, relying on his care and provision. It is in these moments, when I glimpse for a fleeting second God’s abundant love and compassion, that I am free of my faithful foes: Worry, Fear, Control, Perfectionism and Independence.  This freedom whispers an upside down message; “ take risks to follow me even though you may appear irresponsible.  Explore despite all of the mistakes you will make.  Free fall into the unknown knowing that Love will catch you.”   This great message, that makes me feel most alive, resides in the truth that God has me today and he’ll have me tomorrow and he’s had all my yesterday’s too.  Faith is a topsy-turvy ordeal, oh yes.  It delights in surprising the natural order of things.  I would have suspected that this time of unemployment would be really tough on our marriage and family.  I was gearing up for a war zone.  The stage was set.  No jobs, new baby, exhaustion, change, change and more change.  We’ve had our tough moments, but we had these before.  It’s been the opposite. It has been during this season that we’ve been experiencing rest and renewal.  I see Jeff and I start hearing “You’re the one that I want ooo ooo ooo Honey”  as Sandy and Danny from Grease frivolously romp around the carnival grounds of my mind.  We’ve had time, space and opportunity to invest in one another, partner with one another and serve one another without the demands of “responsibly providing” that so often serve to separate rather than unite.  This time and space has also given us a chance to explore God’s redemptive work that is exploding around the globe.  Learning about organizations like International Justice Mission(www.ijm.org) and Shared Hope(www.sharedhope.org), that are boldly rescuing the oppressed from the real and present bondage of human trafficking, has been a gift of both challenge and inspiration that has enlivened our weary ministry desires.  Seeing God’s huge heart and activity that extends way beyond the walls of church life makes me wanna stand onstage with the chorus from Rent and proclaim “525,600 minutes – how do you measure a year in the life? How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love. Seasons of love.” And then, after singing, I wanna sprint downtown and take communion with the homeless and let them know they are loved, loved, loved.  Yes, these are surprising times.

The other day Jeff and I were having our own State-of-the-Onion talk.  We both remarked at how rich this time of looming poverty has been.  We might not have a paycheck but the treasures we are receiving only seem to increase.  To this truth, I hear an invitation sung beautifully by Christian singer Michael Card “so we followed God’s own fool (AKA Jesus), for only the foolish can tell.  Believe the unbelievable and come be a fool as well.” If Jeff doesn’t land a job soon, maybe I’ll try my hand at spinning records for a gay bar, I think I’d be good.

The Résumé

Topsy-Turvy

The Résumé

It’s no wonder that the words resume and résumé are basically the same. I know after working on a résumé I feel as if I’d like to resume my latest sport of Ding-Dong eating.  The whole résumé thing is exhausting and stressful.  It also feels a little dirty.  I’ve noticed the rules for writing a successful résumé also apply to Playboy bunnies.  1.  Flaunt and exaggerate profitable qualities.  2.  Cover up any signs of imperfection.  3.  Be seductive.   If you follow these rules you should have no problem concealing your true self and therefore find that you are highly marketable.  Just pretend you’re Mr. Hefner.  He simply masks exploited, desperate women as competent, sex-craving Bratz dolls.  If you translate this art of spin to a résumé, you should be able to disguise your desperate, out-of-work self as Super-Man without the wussy tendencies of Clark Kent.

I should have known this whole résumé thing would be hard for us.  For the past ten years the basic message we’ve been trying to proclaim comes from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.  His rules for success are a little different.  1.  Blessed are the poor in spirit.  2.  Blessed are those that mourn.  3.  Blessed are the meek.  You get my drift. It makes me wonder what Jesus would do if he were in this ordeal.  I can just imagine him in an interview: “We tried to touch base with some of your references but had a hard time getting in touch with Mary, The Hooker and Zacheus, The Cheat.”

Luckily, Jeff and I have faithful, long suffering friends who have been trying to work with our petulant idealism. In an attempt to offer encouragement they say things like “The résumé is just a way of putting a new frame on your skill set” or “Think of it as a self-advertisement.”  Hmm.  That’s precisely the problem. If I were going to “frame” or “advertise” myself as myself, no one would have me.  Or I should say, there’s only one that would have me.  The one who says “Poor in Spirit—I pick you!  Suffering– You’re qualified!  Meek—Come on!  Desperate—You’re my favorite!    I’m coming to understand why the brilliant and talented apostle Paul considered his most gleaming qualities as filth. He recognized that his very best stuff was powerless in fulfilling God’s only request, to love.  This can make you smile and feel warm until you actually try loving your neighbor as yourself…….or your spouse……or your kids.  It’s in this quest that the need for something much bigger than our own, flimsy talents and virtues quickly surfaces.  Paul came face to face with his need despite his highbrow pedigree and accomplishments.  All it took was one encounter with Real Love to expose his true self:  an arrogant, murderous sinner.  But real Love didn’t stop there. It lifted Paul onto his feet with the promise and hope of radical transformation, for him and the world around him.  I wonder how his résumé would read after his Damascus Road encounter?

I keep thinking about that impoverished widow whose cash flow consisted of two pennies. I imagine her shining those coins on her sleeve before dropping them into the basket, Jesus smiling all the while.  She knew freedom’s secret, whether she had much to give or little didn’t matter in God’s economy.  What mattered was that she offered all she had.  Somehow this image inspires me to put down the Ding-Dong and resume the work of writing my résumé.

Provision

Topsy-Turvey

Provision

Jeff and I were snuggled comfortably in bed the other night when I asked him “So what’s God been stirring in your heart these days?” before I share his response, I should tell you that earlier in the day we had received an incredibly generous Love Offering check from Grace Community Church. Both Jeff and I were stunned when we saw the amount.  We stood in the kitchen speechless, paying tribute with a personal moment of silence.  This reverent moment came to an abrupt halt when Bella came bounding through the kitchen to triumphantly announce “Mommy, Daddy, you won’t believe it, I can make toot sounds with my arm!”  In typical fashion, Jeff burst out in delighted laughter “ Awesome sweetie!  Keep practicing!”  As for me, I continued to stand there speechless.

Our day proceeded with regular routine all to the lovely accompaniment of Bella’s arm toots.  She was beginning to remind me of a chicken with major ADHD as she’d bounce from room to room flapping her wing shaped arm.  “Look Mom, the baby’s laughing!  He loves the toot sounds.  Hey, here comes mailman Bobby, I’m gonna show him my new trick.  Can I call Granpapa and do some toots over the phone?”

As I crawled into bed that night, I said a simple prayer that God would please take away the arm toot sounds that were repeatedly firing off in my brain.  In an effort to distract myself from the tooting, I tried to think on that which was “good and lovely” about the day.  That’s when I remembered the Love Offering.  Jeff and I hadn’t gotten the chance to talk about it, which is what prompted my question “So what’s God been stirring in your heart these days?”  I had a hunch the Love Offering may have prompted a conversation between Jeff and God.  For those of you who know Jeff well, it’s no secret that he is a self-professed Worry Wart. On days when he is making a valiant attempt at optimism, he’ll affectionately refer to this trait as his super power.  As of late, his super power had been working overtime which is why the timing of the Love Offering check couldn’t have been better.  I thought my question might elicit a deep, pastoral response like  “God’s been teaching me that like the Israelites in the desert, he’s going to provide our daily manna.  We can trust him.”  Apparently that’s not how the Lord speaks to Jeff.  In answer to my question he replied “Yeah, God’s been stirring something, just today after I saw that Love Offering check, he said “Hey Jeff, How about you stop Fu_ _ing worrying.” For the second time that day, we found ourselves sharing a moment of silence.  I broke the silence by asking “Um, do you think the Lord uses the F-word?”  Before Jeff could respond I began daydreaming about our friend Casey who, at his wife’s roller skating birthday party, was wheeling around the rink in a T-shirt that read JESUS IS MY HOMIE printed in bold font across the chest.  Then I thought of some of the “homies” I grew up with, all of which used the F-bomb.  Then I thought of Jesus with the Pharisees.  The man could indeed deliver a tongue lashing when needed.  Jeff’s take on this whole thing was simple.  He said “I think God speaks to each of us in ways we understand.”  Hmm.

After pondering whether or not it was possible for the Lord to use profanity in his conversations with Jeff, I began to think about all the ways God had and has been abundantly providing for us during this season.  The Love Offering was huge, but there has been so much!  Each night when I awake to feed our son Elisha, I have my own sacred time of worship.  It’s impossible for me to deny God’s goodness and faithfulness as I sit comfortably nestled in a beautiful rocking chair that my father-in-law Jim gave to us as a baby present. It was really a gift for me.  I look around the nursery and am reminded that each piece of furniture, each book, blanket, rattle, picture frame, diaper, clothing item and much, much more were all gifted to us.  Not only have we been supplied with a fully stocked nursery but I still have a stack of Target gift cards that never seems to run out. I look down at my son’s perfect, little sleepy face and am overcome.  This is the child I almost didn’t have because I was too afraid-too afraid that he would get our Cystic Fibrosis genes- too afraid that I could never be a good parent to a sick child- too afraid of how a terminally ill child might impact Bella’s life-too afraid of all the what if’s… That’s the thing with fear-it’s all about the what if’s.  Fear’s power lies in a future that doesn’t even exist!  It seeks out catastrophic fantasies to keep us from experiencing the beauty and power of God in the present-the beauty and power that God is sharing with us TODAY! What a shame to miss out on that!  Yet God overcame my fear.   When we decided to try for another baby, our peace and resolve wasn’t in the hope that he would be healthy.  It stemmed from the gift of faith that proclaims: even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Jesus is with us.  I don’t need to have the goods to weather life’s storms—He does! His grace flows down like my never-ending supply of Target gift cards.  When I need courage, there’s a “grace card” for that.  When I need faith, there’s a “grace card” for that.  When I need love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, self-control….the “grace cards” keep coming from on high—they’re in endless supply.  All I have to do is ask and I will receive.  This is God-shaped Provision.   It can’t be won or bought nor can it ever be taken away.

So here I sit with this beautiful, healthy baby amongst all these gifts of grace. How can I respond to such generous love?  It makes me wanna do something outrageous like those crazy Old Testament Prophets.  I guess I could try and lie on my side in Ezekiel fashion, but I have a bum hip.  Maybe tonight, as I’m tiptoeing out of the baby’s room, I’ll secretly try one of Bella’s arm toots.   I bet God likes that sound.

Believing

Topsy-Turvy

Believing

Hello Friends,

As you can imagine, Jeff and I have been having many conversations about employment.  Often some new job posting that has caught Jeff’s attention prompts these discussions.  He spots a listing, shares it aloud with me, and we begin our journey down the conversational road of job-talk. Typically these talks happen in fits and spurts between diaper changes, pacifier searches and reminders to our five year old, Bella, that the words “excuse me” don’t justify interrupting us every 30 seconds.  I’m beginning to think that the neighborhood bar might be the best venue for these talks.  A round of tequila shots could do us all some good.  Certainly it would take the edge off of Bella’s tenacity and maybe the baby would sleep through the night.

The job-thing is loaded.  It’s difficult because it brings to the surface so much more than the quest for employment. It pokes that deeper part in us that wants to understand the meaning of our existence and have the answer be something of great significance.  This is why a simple job search has the power to throw me into a fast cycling Bi-polar episode.  It goes something like this:  I see a promising job posting.  I begin to feel a small morsel of hope.  I read on.  It’s starting to look pretty good and my heart beats a little faster.  I read on. I try to envision what life in this job might be like and become convinced life would be perfect.   The job is even in an ideal location—I’ve never lived there, or even visited, but I’m sure.  I read on.  Things are looking good, very good; maybe I’ve found the winner!  I read on.  Uh-oh, what’s this? Qualifications.  I start feeling nauseas.  The manic edge is beginning to take a dip.  Just hold on and keep reading, I think to myself.  I spot something about organizational strength. Oh crap, organization isn’t my strong suit.  In fact, I’m organizationally retarded.  I don’t know that I have a strong suit at all.  What was I thinking?  I can’t get this job or any other job.

At this point I close the job posting disgusted that some typed letters on a flat screen have enough power to pervert my dreams for meaningful work into a fierce ambition to play the lottery.

I am beginning to accept that all of the emotional ups and downs are going to be with us for a while- their turbulence speaks to the reality that these are vulnerable times– we are vulnerable people.  That’s the thing with transition.  It’s like a colonic. It can be unpleasant because stuff that’s been clogged for a while starts spewing forth- like the fact that I’m a big, vulnerable, Fraidy-cat.  If I wasn’t convinced of this before, it was only due to my propensity toward delusions of grandeur.  I’ve found that Jesus goes after my disillusions about myself in much the same fashion as he turned over tables in the temple. There’s a big mess in order for the real mess to be exposed and cleaned up.  If you never find yourself in a mess, just get a newborn and quit your job, that will do the trick—within two sleepless nights your inner Fraidy-Cat, whose been disguised as a roaring Lion named Ego, will be shivering under the bed, meowing out to the Almighty. Here’s the great part though—Jesus loves a Fraidy-cat!

I’m coming to understand that real courage and purpose cannot be attained through my virtuous attempts toward bravery, or by getting a great job.  Courage and purpose exist in the expectant hope of another.  This hope is hard work.  It’s the job of believing; believing that whatever good thing is in me is not a result of my own hand and cannot be completed by my own effort; believing that the One who loves me more than his own life cannot and will not stop loving me. My passion, talents and American work ethic might be nice, but they are powerless.  Jesus said that faith is the force that moves mountains. All you need is a mustard seed’s worth, a dollop.  Shew.

I think tonight would be a good time to hit our neighborhood bar. I’ll get the kids their tequila, but as for me, I’m going to order a nice, rich bottle of Merlot.  Instead of fretting over job stuff, I’m going to propose a toast to the One who gently whispers, “your work right now is to believe, to trust, to rest in me the guy who transforms water into wine”.

Bottoms Up,

Heather

Invitation

Hello Friends,

I think at his point all of you know that back in January Jeff and I made the decision to quit our jobs (Jeff as the Pastor and me as the Director of Worship and Arts at a larger, southern church) in an effort to follow where we felt God was leading.  Our new direction wasn’t very specific.  While many realms of passion and interest have been stirring in our hearts, we felt as if God was asking us to leave our current place of ministry and trust him for clarity in the next step.   After much fear and trembling along with a tiny dollop of faith, we took the plunge and announced our decision to leave our church, Grace Community.  In an effort to leave well, we exited over a 6-month period hoping and praying that the transition time for our church would go as smoothly as possible.  Two weeks before Jeff’s final sermon, our son, Elisha James, was born.  This made for quite a dramatic send off on our final Sunday.  The congregation met the baby they had so faithfully been praying for, Bella sang a rousing rendition of “Jesus Loves Me” in front of about 700 people, and of course, Jeff was able to share our heart and passion for Grace Community and encourage them to move “farther up and farther in” with their pursuit of the gospel.  We are so thankful for our time at Grace and for the love and encouragement that has continued to flow forth into our lives from that community.

Now that some of the adrenaline rush from leaving intense jobs and welcoming a new baby has settled, we find ourselves in a unique situation. On the one hand, we feel like we have been graced with this time to just focus on being a family and being present with one another in a new way.  What a gift!  We are experiencing anew the importance and blessing of this work—loving our family and investing our time and talents here at home without all the distractions that come from professional life, a task much easier said than done!  In this, we are receiving a refreshing level of rest (even with a new baby), renewed commitment and joy. Jeff and I keep reminding ourselves to savor this time and receive it as the gift it is, knowing that this is a fleeting season. On the other hand, we have just morphed from a family of three to a family of four and both of us are currently unemployed.  Jeff is looking to make a career change at 36 with a resume that speaks volumes about his abilities in a career he no longer wants to pursue and I am nursing, swaddling and diapering a newborn in between my valiant performances as Alsan, King of Narnia which my five year old is continually directing.  While some of our tasks are joyous, none of them are lucrative. I’d be a liar if I said there weren’t some major “Holy Sh- -“ moments. And that brings me to the point of this correspondence.  Many of you have been kind enough to share your interest in how this phase of the journey is going.  I suspect that some of the interest is much like watching one of those bizarre movies that you think you might like simply because it is strange but you avoid judgment until you see how it ends. Those films are at least entertaining and sometimes even profound.  So I’d like to share our journey through this time of our lives with each of you.  I feel like it is a significant season.  Lately I’ve been more deeply in touch with the power of community, prayer and each of our stories.  Already we’ve received so much love, encouragement and support from you.  I don’t have much to give back but I do have our story and my feeble attempt at discerning what God is doing in our midst.  I want to share it with the hope that you might enter in with us and maybe in the end we’ll all experience something more of our faithful God together.  At the very least, maybe our lives can provide a little comedic, bizarre entertainment as we share this chapter of our topsy-turvy story.

I’ll keep you posted.

Grace and Peace,

Heather