#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.

#12 - But What About His Life?

by James Baker

You would think that being a part of putting together worship services that illustrate the wonder, the splendor, and the reality of Jesus would necessarily mean that I’m flush with the spirit of Christmas; that I’m able to see through all the tawdry commercialism and plastic well-wishes that rain down from Black Friday on.  Not true.  It takes work - more than it did when I started working for the church - to consider the implications of the advent season.

I have brief glimpses of perspective throughout the month, but am most dialed in around 12:03 am, December 25^th, minutes after the last Christmas Eve service ends.  A moment when the work is done, save for some last-minute Santa labor, and I stop to reflect on the birth of our Savior.  But I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong.  Or at least incomplete.  The phrase, ‘birth of our Savior’, sort of bookends Christ’s life into a manageable mantra, but misses out on so much of who Christ was.  He wasn’t just born, and He didn’t just die. 

Of the 89 chapters that comprise the four Gospels, only 23 detail the events surrounding Jesus’ birth, death, and resurrection.  The rest deal with His life and teachings.  But like Ricky Bobby, I’ve gotten comfortable with the “eight pound, six ounce newborn baby Jesus”.  The one that coos in December, and marches to the cross in early spring.  If I can reduce him to a symbol, rather than God manifest, then I can keep Him from invading the parts of my life that I like to keep in the ‘Jesus-free zone.’  It’s pretty easy for me to condemn the materialism that surrounds Christmas, but look past my own brand of glittery, cinnamon-stuffed theology.

Please don’t misread me.  This is not some veiled attempt to disparage our traditions and suggest that if we get choked up during ‘Silent Night’ we are somehow shallow or a heretic.  But for myself, I have to ask, “What happens next week, other than the fact that I dare venture back on to Bay Area Boulevard?  Am I to all-of-a-sudden celebrate the adolescent Jesus?  Is the ‘reason for the season’ still a reason for January?”

Here’s my aim this Christmas:  Consider Christ.  The whole Christ.  The One who existed before all things, born of a virgin and visited by Magi on a cold winter’s night that was so deep.  The one that was hunted by Herod, and fled to Egypt.  The one that was tempted by the devil.  The one that exposed hypocrisy and forgave taxmen and prostitutes.  The one that taught what it means to follow, give up, stand strong, and love with reckless abandon.  The one who sweat blood.  The one who was scourged in my stead.

A blessing and a curse, things have to fit for me.  They’ve got to make sense in the larger narrative, and I can’t make myself merely worship a baby.  The birth of Christ was not an isolated event.  Jesus does not live in perpetual infancy, making an annual appearance before being socked away in the attic for another eleven months.  He is the complete package.  Child.  Man.  Teacher.  Companion.  Lord.  Savior.  Like me, He has depth and He has a story - a story that will continue on December 26^th.  Unlike me, He is worthy of my full consideration.