#24 - Meaningless

by James Baker

Bipartisan.  Contemporary or traditional.  Social.  Centrally located.  Organic.  Awesome.  Nice.  What do these words all have in common?  Nothing.  Literally, they are all nothing.  Meaningless.  Perhaps at one time they had descriptive value, but they’ve now been stripped of all nuance, left with barely enough grit to connote even the blandest of notions.

If a recently passed bill has bipartisan support, you can be assured that it is less about ideology and more about I’ll-sign-it-if-you-promise-not-to-release-my-twitter-pics-ology.  Organic has made its way into the lexicon of both the foodies and emerging church-types.  In either case, throw it into any conversation with a group of young hipsters, and you’re automatically part of the in-crowd – but if anyone asks you what that actually means, just roll your eyes with disgust through your non-prescription horned rim glasses as you sip from your green tea frappucino…that’ll shut ‘em up.  Describing last night’s blind date as nice?  Translation, “His personality is as barren as Minute Maid Park in October.”  Mean.  Ing.  Less.

Topping the charts of feckless chattery, though, is the uber-uttered guarantee.  I’d wager that through my life, I’ve been given thousands of guarantees – but have yet to cash in on any of those broken promises.  Like the ones I often hear from my favorite QB or point guard, guaranteeing me that a win is in store.  Really?  So if you can’t back it up, you’ll give me the next 3 ½ hours of my life back? 

Sure, my potato chips and deodorant come with money-back guarantees.  That is, as long as I type up a page expressing my discontent, parcel up the unused portion, drop it off at the post office, and then wait 8-12 weeks for my $2.37 check.  Pretty sure I’ve never had unused portions of chips anyway, no matter how much I hated them.  Except for pork rinds.  (But don't try to get your money back on pork rinds, because the only thing the pork rind company is going to tell you is, "What did you expect?  They're pork rinds.")

Way back when a guarantee was more than a sound bite, it meant “something that assures a particular outcome or condition”.  Assurance.  It can be trusted.  And verified.  But because it’s overused and under-delivers, I tend to skate right over it whenever it pops up in my reading.  Even when I’m reading scripture.

The apostle Paul reminds us, “And when you believed in Christ, he identified you as his own by giving you the Holy Spirit, whom he promised long ago.  The Spirit is God’s guarantee that he will give us the inheritance he promised and that he has purchased us to be his own people.” (Ephesians 1:13-14; emphasis mine)

You may have dismissed this as much as I have, or at least paid it little consideration.  But take a moment to re-read that passage.  Then read it again.  Read it until it alters your thoughts.  The finality, the certainty, of this statement crashes in on perhaps the single greatest misconception I have of reality – the misconception that everything after today is unknown.

If you love God and have handed him the reigns of your life, the too-good-to-be-true, but-true-nonetheless, fact is, well…the game’s already over.  And we've won.  That reality doesn’t give us a pass on living out the rest of our days well, but it should absolutely free us up to shed that pesky and pervasive belief that the confines of this world hold any sway over our present joy.

Just got that promotion?  Doesn’t matter.  Laid off?  Doesn’t matter.  Cancer screening came back negative?  Great, doesn’t matter.  Cracked slab in your foundation?  That sucks, but it doesn’t matter.  Why?  Because any circumstance we encounter in this world - good or bad - has an expiration date only slightly longer than the one on your milk carton.  It is the first letter of the first word of the opening sentence on page one of a book that never ends.  Sure, it seems like forever, but that’s just because we haven’t yet tasted forever.

The bank may have declared that you now own that F-150 free and clear, but the truth is, you’re still just leasing it.  There’s only one thing that is owned free and clear.

And that is you and me.

#23 - Flooded (Guest Post)

by Jenny Martin

I’m in the parking lot and the only thing separating me from a bunch of teenagers is fear.  I didn’t realize teens could be so scary, but as it turns out, they can be quite frightening. It’s Sunday night and I’ve agreed to volunteer with a friend at high school student ministries. As I sit in my car staring up at the foundry a million thoughts run through my head. Would I seem like the old married lady to them? Would I be the out of touch mom? Would they connect with me? Did I know any Lady Gaga lyrics?

The funny thing about God is that he usually calls me out of my plans and into his. One minute I’m elbow deep in diaper rash anointment, and the next I’m working myself into nervous hives because I’m about to enter the land of high school students. A place rumored to be inhabited by all manner of Wild Things who “roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth”.  

I try to compose myself by remembering all the faithful people who poured into my life as a teen, and I know it’s my turn to do the same. Sometimes its comical how quickly God moves; hadn’t I always thought about serving students ”one day”; one day when I had enough time to devote to it; one day when my own girls became teens; one day when I made enough space in my heart for it…you know…one day.

I’m not sure what it is about teens, perhaps it is their ability to make me feel a spectrum of emotion all at once or the fact they are so much more assessable-so unlike adults. Whatever the appeal, I finally exit my car despite my fears and proceed into the building. As I enter I pray for supernatural instructions that will enable me to appear more like MTV and less like Lifetime. Then I heard that all too familiar still small voice of our Father telling me. “Sit down. Love them. Hear them. Pray for them.” 

So I pray, and that’s when the flood happens.

The students flood me with their uniqueness, their silliness and their style. My heart instantly inflates with their tears, their needs, their words and their worlds. Their problems, large and small, are so different from what I envisioned and I find myself counting how many more student leaders they need just to be heard.  Lively chatter, musical laughter; hugs and singing whirl around me and I pause as one adult leader is adorably serenaded by a precious ukulele player. 

Our time together passes quicker than I expect and I’m left in a delighted state of awe. I entered the foundry that night afraid I wouldn’t be able to relate and I left irrevocably altered.  

Weeks have passed since that night and all I can say now is how completely blessed I am to serve these students in any small way. From a simple text message offering encouragement, or a prayer about their lives while I’m in my car…anything I can do to bless their lives.

What I have discovered is how amazing it was to obey God even when I didn’t think I was ready. With unparalleled precision God wrecked all my comfortable fears and the totality of the damage is staggering. The blessing of being broken by teens is something I never thought I wanted, but the experience has become like a prize possession. It is a joy to watch them seek out faith and godliness, and I’m honored to have a front row seat as God meets them right where they are. It is the beginning of a journey that I look forward to walking for as long as Christ will allow.

#22 - Godless Art (Guest Post)

On the heels of our Good Friday Experience, I thought Wendy's thoughts here provide a great perspective - not just about the artwork that was on display here at the church, but about all forms of artistic expression.  Perhaps this is why movies speak so deeply to me, even the ones (especially the ones?) that have no overt spiritual themes.

by Wendy Scott

The Chilean poet, Gabriela Mistral, once wrote, “There is no godless art.  Although you love not the Creator, you shall bear witness to Him creating His likeness.”

How does that statement sit with you?  I’ll be honest.  My first reaction to her statement was complete disagreement.  I can think of so many offensive pieces of art I have seen in museums (remember that exhibit in New York that was in the news a couple of years ago?) and books over my lifetime that seem not only godless but made intentionally to defame the Creator.  It seems as though there are some artists who live not only to be shocking in their art, but who use it as a platform to blatantly blaspheme.

Upon further consideration, however, I think I see what Mistral was saying.  It’s not whether the art an artist creates is specifically intended to venerate God or not.  It’s that the mere act of creating anything portrays likeness to the Creator.  We are miade in His image, and He is first introduced in Scripture as the supreme Creative Being.  Whatever creative juices we have, whatever art we conceive, construct or produce is merely a shadow of the creative characteristics of the Ultimate Creator who formed us with the capacity to create.  If at any moment, man creates something, whether it honors God or not, he exercises his God-ordained ability.  Man’s mere act of creating, therefore, confesses that there is another Creator, and that One greater than himself.

I don’t pretend that this makes me feel better about some of the terribly disturbing art that has been created throughout the history of man.  But just as with any other ability God has given man, he can either choose to use it to glorify Him or dishonor Him.  It does, however, make me feel better that God will foil all attempts of man to mock Him.  Those who choose to exercise their creative ability to blaspheme the Holy One only end up playing the fool, because God will be glorified no matter what.

#21 - Diary of a Creative-tician

by James Baker

Because I know you’ve been dying to peer behind the creative arts curtain at Friendswood Community Church, here’s a glimpse at my diary entries on the creative process used for a typical Sunday morning service.

Monday (2 weeks out) – Dream up jaw-dropping video concept with Toby…cool villain…plot twists…surprise ending…oh yeah, and it’s spiritual…too important to call a video, more like a short film…best original screenplay nomination at Academy Awards a distinct possibility…practice  ‘surprise’ face in front of mirror…happy that we’ve got a good idea and 2 weeks to produce it

Tuesday – Propose idea to Rick…seems excited…thinks it has potential...asks how much it will cost to produce…he laughs, but not in a good way…sulk the rest of the day… on way out of the parking lot, decide to key Rick’s car

Wednesday morning – Depressed…sleep til noon

Wednesday afternoon – Brainstorm scaled down version, this time without the pyrotechnics and skydiving hippos…land on idea that will include Kenny G soundtrack and adorable puppy…term “video” now seems very appropriate

Thursday – Toby and I fight over creative control of the project…he thinks it should be filmed in color, I say black and white…decide to arm wrestle for it…I come to conclusion that color would create highest impact

Friday – Still mad at Toby…awkward tension…buy him an HEB salad and we make up…I apologize for being a little gruff…he’s sorry that he’s an idiot…finally get around to storyboarding…as the day wears on, more excited about the idea…on way home, think this might be the best video we’ve ever done

Monday (one week out) – Hate the video idea…scrap it completely…scan YouTube for other church videos…become sidetracked by “Charlie bit my finger” video…wonder how such drivel can have 300 million views…watch 10 more times, laughing harder each time…find a powerful, God-inspired video beautifully executed by another church…decide to rip off their idea

Tuesday – Pitch revised concept to Rick…likes it, but says he thinks he’s seen it before…assure him that he hasn’t…reluctantly agrees to idea…beginning to wonder if he regrets hiring me…he asks me if I know anything about his car getting keyed…tell him I don’t even know what that means

Wednesday – Begin shooting…production halted three times because of rain…decide to move shoot indoors…filming commences against painted backdrop of rainbow and monarch butterflies…review footage – hate the shot – looks fake…quick meeting with Rick updating him on video progress…use the last 2 hours of the day to update resume

Thursday – Scrap idea again…thinking about just using a clip from Schindler’s List, or maybe Tommy Boy…call mom to tell her my frustrations…tries to cheer me up by sending forwarded emails of kittens dressed up like “The Village People”…more depressed than ever

Friday – 48 hours out from Sunday, and still no good ideas…eat lunch, stare out office window at passing cars…begin to think about the movie, “Cars”…decide that “Toy Story 3” was a much better movie…scan Wikipedia to find out how old Tom Hanks is…spend half-hour wondering how they filmed the ping pong scene in Forrest Gump…startled by phone call from Rick…asks how video is coming along…tell him that good art cannot be rushed…he assures me that it can

Sunday morning – Toby and I up till 2am, creating video slideshow of “The Village People” kittens

Sunday evening – email inbox full…consensus is, best video ever…sleep well that night…job well done

#20 - What's My Score?

by James Baker

If I had it to do over again, I probably would’ve majored in something other than Journalism.  In particular, I would’ve looked for the best school in the country that offered a degree program in, say, Sky Hook.  As in basketball.  As in the shot that put Lew Alcindor, aka Kareem Abdul Jabbar, in the stratosphere of NBA records with a career point total of 38,387.  Best part about being the all-time points leader (or record-holder for home runs, touchdowns, long jump, or hot dog eating) is not all the accolades.  Or the throngs of adoring fans.  Or the scads of fat endorsement deals.  No, the greatest part of being a record holder, is that it's real.

There’s no subjectivity about Jabbar’s accomplishments.  You don’t hear people arguing about who has scored the most points in NBA history.  He doesn’t wake up and wonder “Was I a good player?  Did I really accomplish anything on the court?”  His resume is measurable, provable, and indisputable.

But how does that translate to the matters a little closer to the heart?   What are the metrics used for determining my effectiveness at serving people other than myself?  What is the gauge I use for measuring my love for God?  How do I know how good of a dad I am?  If it’s a ‘feel’ thing, fine.  But what if I ‘feel’ different about my performance than those I supposedly serve?  Or my kids.  Or God. 

I actually think about this sort of thing a lot.  And through careful consideration I’ve actually discovered a formula for measuring the immeasurable.  The formula is, throw out the formula.  There is no formula.  Which, as I see it, is awful news.  Because it means that the only way to engage in any sort of meaningful evaluation of my life is for me to be (ugh) relational.  As appalling as the idea is, I have to sit down with those who know me well – God, my friends, my wife and kids, and even myself – and ask what they see in my life.  Even the results of those conversations are often muddled, and can leave me somewhat conflicted.

I find it both maddening and intriguing that the areas in which God has called me to be most prolific – loving him and others – he has given no clear cut means of evaluation.  No barometer, no scoreboard, no blood test.  Maybe that’s so that I won’t be able to compare my godliness to yours.  Perhaps, it is so I’ll be forced to wade into the messy waters of prayer, introspection, and relationships.  I suspect it is mostly because, like God himself, those things are infinitely complex and impossible to fully define.

Probably just as well.  After all, vagueness and ambiguity are the lifeblood of any good liberal arts major.

(on a related note – if you liked this entry, feel free to qualify your opinion on a scale from, say, 8 ½ – 10, in the comments section.  If you didn’t care for it, keep it to yourself…because, honestly, can that sort of thing even really be defined?)

#19 - Goodbyes (Guest Post)

by Wendy Scott

I come by it naturally. I’m not kidding. It’s a character trait that is swimming in my gene pool. My family is bad at good-byes. As a result, so am I.  Any time my family is together, we almost have to start saying “good-bye” immediately after we say “hello” because it takes us forever. We’re the kind of people who at the dinner table say, “Well, we better get goin’.” Thirty minutes later we are walking out the door followed by everyone who isn’t leaving. If we’re in a hurry, thirty minutes after that we’ll actually get in our car and drive away. These are conservative estimates, mind you.

Since its part of my genetic make-up, it isn’t hard to imagine how difficult this spring is going to be for me. For the last four years I have been meeting for Bible study with a small group of High School girls. The make up of the group has changed a bit over time. Girls have floated in and out and then back in again. Others have never left. A few have left for reasons too painful to mention. But essentially, we’re still the same group.

When they were freshmen we met at McDonald’s before school. As they got older and licensed to drive we shifted to the evenings. We have been together through their “never-be-caught-dead-without-makeup” phase, their “too-cool-to-look-like-I-ever-do-my-hair” phase, their “I-can-drive-so-I-must-be-an-adult” phase, and most recently, their “what-is-God’s-plan-for-my-life?” phase. We have walked together through everything you can imagine high school girls deal with—boyfriends, bad fashion trends, terrible choices, drugs, exultant celebrations, heartbreak, disappointment, and success.  We’ve spent a total of two weeks in Colorado together. One week was in relative luxury, the other in the backcountry with nothing but what we could haul on our backs. It rained the entire week. We’ve had long hilarious conversations that have made us laugh the ugly laugh (especially Meredith, which made us laugh even harder and maybe pee our pants a little); and we’ve had deep discussions about things that are too weighty to bear alone and can never be fully analyzed in one sitting. One Christmas we all bought matching onesie pjs and wore them to Bible study together. It snowed that night and we all went out in our pajamas to catch snow flakes on our tongues. I can’t remember if we even studied our Bibles that night, but we certainly worshiped and reveled in the joy of snow and deep friendship.

These girls are seniors now. They will all graduate in May. Most of them already know where they are going to college. You won’t be surprised that several of them are going far away. While I’m so unbelievably proud of each of them, I can’t help but be a little sad. As I mentioned, I’m bad at good-byes. It’s hard to imagine next fall without them.

Why is that? Why is saying “good-bye” to anyone so hard?

I think one reason is that any good-bye ushers in change, and change, whether good or bad, means the loss of something. And any time we lose something, we grieve. But even deeper, I think it’s because we weren’t made for good-byes. We were originally purposed for eternity. Eternity in everything—life, relationships, purpose. Good-byes force us to come to grips with the ugly truth. We are NOT what we were made to be. Sin has done a number on us and has made us into something that retains some semblance of former glory, but really doesn’t measure up. And even though we don’t know exactly what it is we are missing and have no concept of our intended glory, good-byes open up something in our depths that releases the pain of what we aren’t but should be. If I never had to say a good-bye, I could probably anesthetize myself enough to believe I’m okay the way I am, that everything is normal. But I don’t think I’m being too dramatic when I state that having to say good-bye to something good, beautiful or beneficial is like experiencing the amputation of the glory man had in the garden all over again. Saying good-bye makes me realize I’m not okay, and I’m certainly not normal.

Just like with everything else that causes us pain as a result of sin, God uses it in miraculous ways. If my group of girls stayed here, they would most likely miss out of some of the richest experiences they will ever have depending on the Lord. They might miss opportunities to be tested and find God faithful. Or maybe they would miss the chance to meet the man of their dreams (like I did on my very first day of college, which is why you can call me Mrs. Scott). There’s no chance I would ever deny them those things simply to avoid the pain of saying “good-bye.”

Considering my history, though, we better start now.

#18 - Being Present (Guest Post)

by Jason Seifert

"Now, with God's help, I shall become myself.”

- Soren Kierkegaard

I have not been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, but I often feel a deficit.  I don’t have enough attention to go around.  I am inundated with requests for my attention.  Some of these requests are quiet and whisper-like, while some are incessant pleas.  I find myself contemplating the ways I can “budget” my attention – a little here, a little there, and save some for later.  Sometimes I spend it all, sometimes I hoard it, and sometimes I feel like it was stolen from me.

I have various areas of my life that need attention.  Some of these areas, like my yard, reveal a severe lack of attention.   At least one of the reasons my yard is becoming an eyesore is that I have decided that if something is going to experience a deficit of my attention, I don’t want it to be my family and other relationships.  I’m an introvert, so engaging with people can drain a lot of “attention energy” from me.  For my wife, engaging with people infuses her with Chihuahua-like energy.  Perhaps I could throw a party, get her hopped up on conversation with friends, and then hand her the weedeater and see what happens.  

Surely, some of my attention struggles come from weaknesses I have.  I may lack some skills and therefore look for ways to improve in areas like time-management so I can be more effective and efficient with how I spend my attention.  Still, I have noticed some red flags.

I am talking with my 4 year old son, but I’m not really “present” with him.  I realize he’s going to be 14 all-too-soon and may not be yearning for his father’s attention.  I need to forget the yard and go wrestle.

I am hurrying as I put my daughter to bed.  I rush though the book, sing a quick song, pray a short prayer … I need her to go to sleep so I can go get some work done.  Doesn’t she realize I have a lot of important things to tend to?  I realize that at some point she could rush out the door saying the same thing to me.  I think I can find the bandwidth to sing her “Itsy-bitsy spider” a few more times, before she sings “Cat’s In The Cradle” to me.

Though I may stumble in my efforts, the “budget” for my attention-giving is based on some good principles for budgeting our money: start with fixed costs, pay yourself first, etc.  In the end, I have decided that I have to “pay” attention to my relationships first.  For me, the primary relationship is with God.  It is that relationship that defines life for me, defines priorities for me, and defines me for me.  Paying attention to that relationship helps me pay better attention to all of my other relationships, to set boundaries with the attention-grabbers around me, and to live more in the present. I don’t want to pour out my attention on good things only to find they weren’t the best things.  I want to invest my attention in the things that will provide the most return, not only for me but for the ones I love – or even the world.    I want to spend it well.

#17 - God Stories

by James Baker

I have to tell you the most amazing God story.  A friend of mine sells software for a Fortune 500 company, and has consistently been a top three salesman in his region over the last ten years.  He doesn’t fit the stereotype, in that he’s not slick or smarmy.  Highly relational and extroverted, for sure, but not high-pressured. 

About a year ago, his mother fell ill, and her increasing healthcare needs became my friend’s responsibility.  He was forced to spend more and more time out of the office and away from potential clients as he dealt with in-home caregivers, health insurance companies, estate management, and the like.  Nearing the end of his fiscal year, and still miles away from reaching his quota, he was called before a sort of disciplinary board that included the company’s VP of sales and told that he needed to commit to securing his sales goals or look for another job. 

Standing before his superiors, he sensed God’s presence, and calmly but boldly let them know he was going to fulfill his obligations to his mother, and his sales would have to suffer until this ordeal was behind him.  As he was sent out of the room while the top dogs convened on his fate, he was sure that he would be let go.  Several of his co-workers had been called in on similar matters, and no one had ever survived the gauntlet.  An hour later, he was called back into the room, and he braced for the worst.  The VP sat him down, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, “You know the company’s policy on failure to meet quota.  You’ve taken a stand to prioritize personal matters over job performance.  That is commendable.  That said, you are fired.”

Cool God story, huh?

Oh wait, that’s not a God story.  God stories don’t end that way, do they?  What exactly is a “God story” anyway?  One that has a satisfying ending?  One that helps me sleep at night because the glass slipper actually fit?  I think a better question is, what isn’t a God story?  What sort of stories exist outside the realm of God’s providence?  As a friend recently posed to me, “Is there a single molecule in all of existence that is secular?”

In my experience, phrases such as “God stories” are code for “it all worked out”.  I know these should be encouraging to me, but every time I hear one of these, I’m immediately reminded of the gads of instances where no miracle came.  By definition, a miracle is an occurrence outside the realm of the natural.  Meaning, they don’t happen often.  As luck would have it, we live the vast majority of our lives in the “often”.

I loved hearing about the redemption of the YouTube sensation, “the man with the golden voice”.  The subsequent domestic dispute with his daughter and quitting rehab – not so much.  Watching the Chilean miners exit the earth’s crust after a grueling 69 days literally brought me to tears.  But accounts of mistresses and bickering over the money for exclusive story rights left a little stain on the whole affair.  The problem with storybook endings is that the story doesn’t really end. 

God’s activity in our lives is not evidenced by happy endings.  It is evidenced by, well, the fact that He exists.  I have to start with the premise that God is real and that He is good.  That premise wouldn’t serve me very well on debate team, but it is how I must live my life if I am to remain remotely faithful to God and His cause.  True enough, miracles do occur, and I certainly don’t want to denigrate the experience or results of divine intercession.  I just don’t believe they are meant to be the slab upon which we build our understanding of God.  If I look to circumstances alone (see “God stories”) to bolster my faith, then I will tend to live each day in utter despair.  But if I make the conscious decision to believe that the unseen holds far more promise than what I can rationalize with my senses, then God seems much more reliable.  Even if “the man with the golden voice” isn’t.

#16 - Space (Guest Post)

by Wendy Scott

I have spent a great deal of time recently considering space. Not outer space, but personal space. As a self-diagnosed borderline claustrophobic, I have probably spent an abnormal amount of time obsessing over my personal space. For example, this past summer I slept in one of those mummy-style sleeping bags on a camping trip. I found it impossible to sleep at night. From the moment I slipped into that cocoon of a bed I couldn’t help but consider the similarities between me and a fly caught in a spider’s web that the spider has wrapped up and is saving for dinner later. In spite of the intensely cold mountain air, there were a few times when I had to unzip and get out to prevent the onset of a claustrophobia-induced panic attack.

The real reason I think I have been consumed with considering my personal space lately, though, is because of my rapidly expanding belly. My husband and I are anticipating the birth of our son in early April, which is unbelievably exciting. But just because it’s exciting doesn’t mean it is comfortable. In the past weeks I have noticed on a number of occasions the alarming sensation that my surroundings seem to be shrinking. It finally occurred to me, my surroundings aren’t shrinking, but like Alice after she ate one of the tea cakes, I’m growing! I can’t slip through the space between the dining chair and the wall anymore (only a few weeks ago I could). My clothes are beginning to stretch across the front of me like an over-inflated balloon, and on a regular basis, I turn around in my kitchen and nearly knock something off the counter with my swollen abdomen. It’s all serving to make me feel… a little bit claustrophobic.

I think my baby feels the same way, too, because he spends the majority of his time pushing against the walls of his home in protest of the restrictive living quarters.

My family and I live in a very modest 1,375 square-foot home. We love it here. We like the coziness. Living in a small house forces us to live the kind of life we advocate, but might not otherwise actually live out if we were in a bigger place. We don’t hold on to very many things since space is a premium. Often we are forced to consider our belongings and ask, “Do I really need this?” More often than not, the answer is “no,” so we give it away. But in reality, we are about to add a whole other person in our cozy 3-2-2, and I find myself wondering—in early April, will our house still feel cozy or more like that mummy-style sleeping bag? Will we feel snuggled in here or will we, like this baby, protest against the confines of our claustrophobic space? Honestly, I fear the latter.

Then again…

I look around my tiny house. If I start feeling sorry for myself, I can talk myself into feeling claustrophobic, that the walls ARE closing in and that the only solution is a larger place, more space. Those things, however, are merely illusions. This tiny house (and my growing belly) is teaching me a very significant lesson about tight spaces in life. What may feel like a prison cell to me is, in reality, very often more like a womb. I’m noticing the regular basis on which God tends to use the tight spots. Confined areas are so uncomfortable, and I want to rebel violently against anything that feels restrictive. I demand to get out of tight spots immediately. But I’m coming to understand— God always uses the tight spaces in my life to eventually birth beautiful things.

In early April, my family and I will most likely find ourselves scooting past each other sideways in the hall. There will certainly be days when this space seems too small for the five of us, and I will want to scream for my own space. God may or may not provide a larger place for us. But if He doesn’t, on those hard days I’ll settle my heart with this knowledge. As with the baby currently growing inside me, God is working, developing and building something beautiful inside the tiny Scott house.

#15 - The Decision (Guest Post)

by Jenny Martin

It’s late; scary late. The only people awake at this hour are criminals and new mothers.

I happen to be the latter.

My newborn drives a pretty hard bargain; if I don’t feed her she screams, so there is really no getting around my current state of wakefulness no matter how wrong it feels to function at this hour.

I’m not sure what it is about this particular time of day, but apparently the people who run television believe that 2:30 in the morning is the perfect time to sell fitness equipment and cooking utensils. I hate bad TV and infomercials are the worst, but I have to watch something to keep from falling asleep. So, I suppose ordering a new set of steak knives for just three easy payments of $19.95 is inevitable.

This isn’t the first infomercial of the night. Some supermodel/actress/dancer tried to sell me a new fitness program half an hour ago. I’m still thinking about it. Not the program; I seriously doubt her body was achieved through a unique combination of belly dancing and Chai spiced tea. No, I’m still thinking about the word fitness.

 What is fitness?

Is it being able to fit into stretchy yoga pants? Is it being able to climb my staircase without getting winded? Is it running marathons in those embarrassing little runner’s shorts? What is fitness? And why do I have to be fit? There are a lot of people who have to be fit. Peyton Manning comes to mind. I’m sure being able to throw a football without jiggling triceps is probably written into his contract somewhere. Kelly Ripa looks pretty buff. Heck, even Superman needs to rock a nice pair tights, but me? Why does it matter if I’m fit? Does God really care?

I mean He’s got a lot going on; God- not Superman (well maybe Superman, but that's not the point). Off the top of my head, I’m pretty sure world peace occupies most of God’s time and I’d like to think he’s working on America’s national debt in some way, so what does it matter if a married mother of two can’t get physically fit?

Oh, right. He’s God-he cares.

He cares about it because deep down I care about it. I care about more than I want to admit. I care about it even when I tell people I don’t care about it. I care about it every time my diet fails. I care about it when I don’t have the energy to play with my toddler. I care about it every morning I get dressed and nothing fits. I care about it when my doctor tells me I have high cholesterol and am headed toward type II diabetes.

I care, but I wish I didn’t.

Because if I didn’t care then I could go on being fat without thinking about how my weight affects the people around me. But it does affect them and that changes things.

 Change.

I have to change. I have to fix what is wrong about my health and that means work. Hard work, if I remember correctly. I used to be fit. Once upon a time I was an athlete. It was in high school, but still, it counts even if there isn’t a trace of that girl left. I remember what that girl had to do every day to stay fit. I remember what she had to eat. I remember what she had to drink. I remember sweat; lots of sweat, and muscle pain, and green leafy vegetables. And when I think about all of that I get scared. I get scared because I know it is impossible for me to get back to that girl. At least it is impossible if I try doing it by myself.

However impossible it seems I must find that girl again and perhaps take her out for coffee. She and I have to get reacquainted and then we have to have a conversation with this God that cares too much about me to let me fail.

He’s been there all along prompting me about my health, waiting for me to involve him in the process, and I’ve been running. Not literally, of course, that’s part of my problem. No, I’ve been avoiding God and this conversation for a long time, and it would appear that I’m out of excuses. He’s here. Asking. Knocking.  Waiting. And I have to open the door.

#14 - 127 Hours

by James Baker

It’s not for the squeamish, but if you want to feel better about your own circumstances, go watch 127 Hours.  For those not familiar with Aron Ralston, the protagonist of the film (played by James Franco), he is the true life wild-eyed and nervy adventurer who had his arm pinned to a rock face by a dislodged boulder while climbing through Blue John Canyon, Utah in 2003.  I’ll spare you the gory details (the broad description is bad enough), but Aron frees himself by breaking the bones in his forearm and severing it with a dull multi-tool penknife.  As the closing credits rolled, the thought occurred to me that my overdue oil change sticker didn’t seem quite so pressing.

I thought about Aron’s agony, his impossible decision.  “Do I live?  Or do I stay intact?” Amputation certainly wasn’t his first choice, and became viable only after five days of rigging various ropes, slings, and pulleys.  Five days of pushing, tugging against, chipping on, and screaming at the rock.  You see the resignation in his eyes when he realizes the price of survival.  I wondered if I would do the same.  Perhaps a better question is, will I do the same?  As Christ followers, we might not be called to sacrifice a limb – but make no mistake, there is a cost to the life we’ve chosen.

And if your hand – even your stronger hand – causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.  It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. – Matthew 5:30

My dilemma is, I want to be rid of sin, but I don’t want the pain of extraction.  I have reached a point in my life that, by and large, I have become repulsed by my own wretchedness.  I hate that I get jealous.  I hate that I tend to wallow in self-pity.  I hate that I’ve screened my wife’s phone calls because I’m not ready to reconcile last night’s argument.  I hate that I hate.  Unfortunately, I don’t hate the familiar comforts of a boat that would rather not be rocked.

The putting off of our old life is messy.  It’s ragged.  It’s removing splinters with hedge trimmers, using a chain to stitch the wound.  But here’s the obvious truth that constantly eludes me:  Of course it will be difficult.  If it were easy – if it were clean and tidy – I don’t believe God would have used such violent imagery.  He’s not asking us to shed excess pounds, or get a haircut.  He’s asking us to give up something we consider essential.  For me, the questions become very simple.  What do I love most?  Myself?  My routine?  My seemingly innocuous sin that surely doesn’t affect me like it does the other 6.8 billion people on earth?  Or am I willing to sacrifice the soft life, in order to find real life?

These days, Aron Ralston does not pass the time with Sudoku puzzles and Judge Judy, lamenting a life that could have been.  Post accident, he has scaled Denali.  Mt. Kilimanjaro, too.  In 2005, he became the first man to have ascended all 54 of Colorado’s 14,000 ft. peaks….by himself….all in the winter.  Would he like to have his arm back?  Sure.  Would he want it back if it meant withering away in a desolate canyon?  I assume not.

After his ordeal, Ralston was quoted as saying that there are times to take action, “…even if it means making a hard choice, or cutting out something and leaving it in the past.”  There are things I want to leave in my past.  I wonder, though, if I’m a little too squeamish.

#13 - I'm a Good Dad

by James Baker

The title is not intended to be sarcastic.  I love being a father, and – seeing it as clearly as I can – I believe I’ve done my job well to this point.  I don’t mind getting on the floor with my daughter to play a little ‘Green Eggs and Ham’, or do a puzzle, or just sip some invisible tea alongside an overpriced American Girl doll.  I can talk to my 14-year-old son about anything ranging from the best way to blow up blocks of ice with mini-dynamite to the somewhat more sensitive subject of pubescent lust.  I can readily appreciate and encourage the imagination and artistry of my daydreaming middle son.  I try to show them what is pure and noble and right and just, without beating them over the head with too many teachable moments.  So I say with both humility and confidence, I am a good father.

As I sit by the fire, gently stroking my child’s thatch of curls and reflecting on my own benevolence, however, I am reminded of other times.  Different times.

Maim ‘em

Like the time I was plastic-sword fighting with Patton (my eldest) when he was maybe three.  He got a little too swashbuckling, and swiped his sword across my lip, which had roughly the same pain level as amputating my big toe with no anesthetic.  Without so much as a second’s worth of good judgment, I raised my sword far behind my head and swung it at his leg as if he were Al Qaeda.  I hit him so hard, my sword broke in half across his calf (it was actually a somewhat flimsy retractable light saber…not trying to minimize the offense, I’m just sayin’.).  I truly believe he was more frightened than injured, but he screamed until his lungs bled.  Good day for me, that was.

Shame ‘em

Same son during a little league game.  His grandparents had come out to see him play, and I was pretty excited to showcase his prowess on the diamond.  Early in the game, he hurt his wrist while attempting to corral a sharply hit ground ball.  I knew it wasn’t serious, but I saw him wincing as his team came in to bat.  He was due to hit in the inning, but really wasn’t interested in playing the rest of the game – hard to swing with a tender wrist, as you can imagine.  I, however, could not.  I went over to him in the dugout as he was pleading his case to sit out the rest of the game.  Our conversation:

Patton:  (with watery eyes) I don’t think I can play anymore.

Me:  Where does it hurt?

Patton:  (holding his wrist)  Right here.

Me:  Is it broken, or maybe just a little sprained?

Patton:  I think it’s just sprained.

Me:  Well you know, Nana and Huddy are here.  They drove across town to come see you play.  It’d really stink if you couldn’t finish the game.

Patton:  Yeah.

Me:  Maybe you should just give it a go, and see how it feels after your at-bat.

Patton:  But it really hurts.

Me:  Well I saw you fall, and it didn’t look that bad to me.

Patton:  I guess I could I try to go up to the plate.

Me:  You sure?  I don’t want you to do it just because they came all the way out here to see you play.

Patton:  Yeah, I guess I could try it.

Me:  Good job, chief.  Way to hang in there.

Rest assured, any time I refer to you as ‘chief’, it probably comes with a load.

Just forget ‘em

And then there was my coup de grace.  After leaving a going-away party in my honor preceding a month-long trip to Africa (because I’m just that compassionate), I was rushing home with a jeep full of neighborhood kids that had gone swimming at the party.  I was in a rush because I was hosting a nine-player farewell poker tournament in my living room (because I’m just that contemptible).  Once in the driveway, all the kids piled out and I ran in to count out chips before the rest of the crew arrived.  An hour into the game, I heard my 3-year-old daughter crying in bed.  I, of course, was in the middle of a hand and in no way could go check on her, so I gave my wife that ‘do-you-mind-looking-in-on-your-daughter’ look that I’ve mastered over the years.  She goes upstairs, and I hear her yell, “She’s not up here!”  She runs back downstairs panicked.  In fact, we’re all panicked.  Everyone takes off in a different direction trying to locate the source of the crying, but she is nowhere.  My wife darts outside, thinking she might be on the back porch.  I remember thinking how stupid it was for her to waste time checking outside, because it would be impossible for my daughter to have gone outside.  Which, of course, I was right.  She had not gone outside.  She had stayed outside. 

Still in the jeep.  Strapped in her car seat.  For an hour. 

I still thank God that it happened it at night, when the jeep top was down, and she had slept most of that time.  Otherwise, I would have been one of those self-absorbed buffoons you see interviewed on the ten o’ clock news, when you scream at the TV, ‘How could you have possibly let that happen?’  Still self-absorbed, mind you, just without the film crew.

As I clutched her tight in my arms, pacing back-and-forth in front of my house, I kept telling her over and over how sorry I was that I had done that.  After the tears dried up (hers and mine), I wasn’t sure she knew exactly what happened. Still needing to assuage my guilt, I asked her, “Mia, do you know what daddy did?”  Expecting a light-hearted, let’s move on-type of chuckle, she straight face replied, “Yeah, you left me in my car seat all night”. 

All night?  A little dramatic, don’t you think Mia?  But nothing that an extra dose of Benadryl won’t help you forget.

So which is more accurate?  The doting father willing to play tea party and shape his children into the likeness of Christ, or the rage-induced, scheming, narcissistic guy that makes you want to call CPS.  Ward Cleaver or Homer Simpson?  Both.  And neither.  You see, I can be either of those dads on any given day, but I suppose the truest thing that can be said of me is that I’m just a guy trying to work it out.  Loving but failing.  Sacrificing, but unable to break free from my own selfishness.  I am neither hero nor goat, no matter how much I long to be one and convinced I am the other. 

I am not deluded enough to believe that my failures won’t be some part of defining who my children become.  There are always consequences.  But my prayer is that they remember more sweet than sour; more tea parties than car seats.