I am sure I’ve added to the American childhood obesity epidemic.

Once upon a time, I used to be a middle school teacher.  In retrospect I might have chosen differently, but I used methods that worked.

On certain days I would toss candy at any kid in my class who would volunteer for anything: answering a question, reading aloud, helping a friend. Anything.

Erase the board? Here’s a package of Sweet Tarts.

Collect the papers? Catch the Tootsie Roll.

What’s an adverb? Here’s a mini Snickers.

Kids whose heads yesterday bobbed with the in-class sleepiness that plagues most eighth graders, today would shoot hands up to beg to volunteer for everything, anything.  Although motivated by external forces of sugar and sour candy, this was an example of enthusiasm at its best.

It motivated them to action. So simple. Candy: the currency of 12- and 13-year-olds everywhere.

I’m sitting here at 6:26 at night with my penciled in, crossed out, erased and rewritten list of things to do, most of them computer or writing related. I’m motivated to work right now only because I’m behind.

No one is throwing me chocolate.

I’m behind on returning emails. I’m behind on a few promised writing projects I’m behind on longer-term projects that have a cushion, so because of that I’m pushing them to the back of my list. I’m behind on short term projects that I’m simply pushing to the end of my day.

I’m working hard tonight because I must. I’m not happy about it; I’m just leaning hard into my to-do list to see how much I can actually knock off before I fall asleep.

I’m motivated but I’m not enthusiastic.

But I don’t want to be this way. I don’t want to HAVE to do things, I want to WANT to do things.

My eighth-graders were somewhere in between motivation and zeal, but nonetheless, the candy changed the whole mood of the classroom.

I need something to put before me, either physically or metaphorically, that will change the mood of my heart. Something, like the hurled sugar, will motivate me to enthusiasm about the things I need to do. I don’t just want to be motivated by a deadline. I want to be passionate.

Type type type at the computer. What’s my reason for joy? Clean out my inbox. What is my zeal, my passion? Write tomorrow’s blog post. Why am I doing this?

I need to set it in front of me, like an uneaten Hershey bar. Why do I continue?

I’m doing it for Him. And for you. And for my family.

I’m doing it for the joy that comes from hearing one more story from one of you. Hearing another story about restoration, redemption, reconciliation. For the sweet friendships that come from community. I’m doing it because God’s given me the desire to create through writing and if I stop, I dishonor Him.  I work because He’s asked me to and He’s given me opportunity. I’m grateful for that. I’m motivated because I want to be an example for my daughters and a solid wife for my husband. I want to continue to grow and learn and change. I need to — for them.

So when I’m tired and all I want to do is to take a nap as my inbox number climbs and climbs, I need to remember that my zeal should come from what (or WHO) I’m working for.

And it’s not chocolate.

What (or WHO) are you working for?

I’m actually pretty embarrassed to be talking about this.

But I don’t have much to lose. You’ve seen the inside of my heart, the inside of my van, and my face without makeup, so here goes.

I really screwed up last week.

I lead a small group ladies Bible Study at my church and have been teaching this same group for three years.  It’s my stewardship and to be very honest, I’m honored and humbled that people trust me with things like this with things like that in my past.

Leading up to our meeting on Thursday I was distracted, busy and just plain tired. I felt like my life was disheveled and my mind seemed to tear whenever I thought about something new. Heart reflected life and crazy mind reflected crazy days.

I worked on my lesson but treated it like a thing-to-do on a thing-to-do-list. I prepared. I prayed (some). And I packed it away when I was “done.”

And I gave myself an I-can-wing-it pat on the back.

Huge mistake.

I cannot wing something like this.

Even if it is a small group in a small church for a simple hour on a Thursday. It isn’t small but I treated it like it was.

Let’s just say, metaphorically speaking, I got my metaphorical rear end handed to me on a metaphorical platter.

Ouch.

I knew it was going to be sticky when the I realized that the first Scripture I read outloud I didn’t completely understand. I ended up misquoting something, I didn’t do the proper research and I figured out 20 minutes into the lesson that this topic was so much deeper and LESS straightforward than I’d assumed.

I failed them.

The ladies were amazing, however, and forgave me as I bumbled through my apologies mid-lesson.

I went home and sent them each an email asking again for their forgiveness, promising to rely on the One who actually wrote the book and less on myself, and to treat this time and these women with the respect that they deserve. I apologized for failing them.

Sigh.

I’m not a strange to failure, but this is the first time (pretty sure) I’ve failed in this area. I cringe when I think that I allowed my crazy life to get in the way of ministry and that I allowed mySELF to get in the way of God’s working.

However, what I’m realizing today isn’t that I failed THEM, or even that I failed GOD (we do that daily, don’t we?). I’m realizing that I failed me.

I failed me because by neglecting to pray for those women last week I wasn’t able to see God answer prayer.

I failed me because by hurrying through my preparation I missed out on wisdom I might have learned.

I failed me because by underestimating the power of God’s word I underestimated His power in my own life.

I failed me because by treating something big like something small I made myself small.

But even in the middle of my debacle I heard the word grace whispered to me. Grace for me from Him. Grace for me from ME. Because I’m still learning how to do this life well, how to walk worthy of the allegiance I’ve claimed, how to allow the lens of the Kingdom to color my view of the world.

I’m sure I will fail again. Life sometimes equals failure. But I’m learning quicker from my own mistakes.

And I think that is a success.

How are you with failure? Do you give yourself grace? Do you give others grace?

As he faced us in the on-board State Room, the docent told us that that the President had  just asked.

President Reagan, before he died in 2004, simply asked the government for the plane.

The plane he’d flown around the world on when he was president. The plane, that when a president boards, it becomes Air Force One. The plane that had, at the time, been decommissioned and was sitting in a warehouse. It was agreed that if his Presidential Library in Simi Valley, CA built an indoor hangar to display the aircraft, then he could have it.

All because he asked. I guess being the president of the United States for 8 years taught him a couple things, one of which is the power of a request.

Last week I had a conversation with my husband.

“Why don’t you just ask HER?” Chad suggests.

“Because I’m sure she wouldn’t have time to help ME, and by the way, I’m not even sure she does that for people.” I answer.

He thinks for a minute and challenges me. “You say that you aren’t afraid of rejection, Sarah.”

[Using my first name in a conversation with my husband is a sure attention getter.]

“So what would it hurt to just ASK?” He continues. “I think you should.” And he leaves me to churn it deep inside, whisk it around in my brain over the next few days. So I think. And question myself.

But then a few days ago I wrote the email and hit send. And guess what? She said YES.

Even if she hadn’t, practicing the art of it-doesn’t-hurt-to-ask lately has been completely freeing for me.  In my unofficial but intentional self-experiment to attempt to get over the fear of asking people for help I’ve been faced with at least one “no”, one “yes” and one I’ll-get-back-to-you-later.  Not bad, I think.

Why are we so afraid to ask? We are afraid of someone saying “no.” That’s it.

OOhhh, a big, bad NO.

What’s the big deal? I’m going to suggest to you that it truly does not hurt to ask.

If you do ask, this is what I’ve learned from the last few weeks of asking.

• Don’t Ask the Impossible. Ask for something within the person’s skill set or ability. For example, I wouldn’t ask my sister to babysit on a Tuesday at 1 pm if she works until 3. She’ll have to say “no.” And don’t ask for the moon. If you know your mother would agree to watching the kids for the whole weekend, but you also know that she is getting over a cold and is exhausted, use compassion. Don’t prey on her good graces for a positive solution to your problem.
• Be Specific. Make sure you explain the extent of what you need so that the person will have all the information they need to make a decision.  Example: “I’d love to have coffee with you sometime. I’m free on Friday or Saturday. Would you have any free time either of those days.”
• Grow Up. If someone does need to say “no” to you, then get over it. Most of the time it isn’t personal. It’s usually that they are unable to help. And then be gracious. Don’t use it as a reason for bitterness or as a reason to say NO to them in the future. How third grade! Example: If you ask someone to contribute to a cause that you believe in and they decline, it is probably because they cannot for financial reasons.
• Take NO as an Answer. Expect honesty from someone. If they say “no” to you then it means “no”.  Don’t ask again. Don’t be persistent because if you do, you become annoying. Ask once and then let it rest.
• Return the Favor. If you are asking someone to sacrifice time or money, know that they might ask you for help in the future. This kind of stuff is a give-and-take economy. Pay-it-forward to others, but also pay it back, if needed, to the person who helped you. Example: My writer’s group sends around manuscripts occasionally for the rest of us to offer critique on. I participate in this (even though it takes time) because not only do I love them very much, they’ve helped me in the past.
• Ask Within Relationship. Probably not a great idea to ask someone you’ve never had a conversation with to pick you up from the airport when you fly into town. Some people might say yes to something like that. But you shouldn’t count on it. People are more apt to agree to help others that they have some form of relationship with.

So maybe you aren’t asking for entire airplane. Maybe you aren’t even asking for much. But ask.

Just ask. The only thing a “no” will hurt is your pride.

Are you an “asker” or not? Do you take risks in asking people for help?

I can’t always tie it up with a neat little ribbon.

Using my left hand, put my finger in the middle to hold it down while I snap out a bow with my right hand. 1, 2, 3. It’s done. It’s a tight, perfect little knot. It’s tidy.

I can’t always do that.

Because we don’t always live in a neat and orderly world.

We lose marriages, and houses, and we might even lose our children or our parents. Our worlds crumble, our check books crumble, his face crumbles when you give him bad news. We get mean emails, lay-off notices and we get bills taped to our front door.

I can’t always say It’s-gonna-be-okay because sometimes I don’t believe it myself.

I

can’t

see

the

future.

And it bugs me.

[Because I want to write this tidy little blog post where I say that I'm depending on Him today to carry me.]

But I can’t always find the spiritual meaning when I’m stuck in the middle of it. When the grinding of the transition and the memory of the heartache is too big to let me see anything else. Tomorrow is as murky as the LA River.

Even now I’m resisting the urge to find the greater meaning in it all.

Tidy says that God will fix it.

Tidy says that it’s all in His Plan.

Tidy says that I was destined for this.

But I feel like I’m living in UnTidy: Where my heart winds around reality and I don’t feel like “trying to find the best” in it all.

But when my heart can’t see the end or the good, my mind must take over for a day or two to know that there is good. And there might not only be good but there might be better.

Sigh.

Even if that better is hiding behind the deadbolted door labeled Eternity. And I have to be okay with the possibility that I might never get to glimpse the grand purposes behind today’s woes.

Lord, prepare my heart to take blind steps with eyes wide open in the dark. Help me to rely on the KNOWing and not the FEELing of Your presence, beside me, behind me, before me. Watch when I cannot.

Am I alone? Is there anyone else out there feel like this?

“Could you sharpen these pencils?” my daughter’s teacher asked as she walked out of the classroom door. I’d offered my time on a Tuesday morning to help her in any way she needed: filing, stapling and today, sharpening pencils.

I thought about my childhood pencil sharpener as I listened to the WHIRR of the electric one.

My father had bolted it to the inside of a cabinet in our kitchen.

I’d sit at the table doing homework and wear down that pencil to a blunt edge. And because the pencil felt heavy in my hand with a dulled end, I’d scoot my chair out, open the cupboard, and switch the hand-cranked sharpener to the right-sized opening.

I would crunch the wood and taper the tip with each rotation so that graphite dust and pine shavings would collect on the shelf beneath the sharpener.

The whole cabinet smelled hard and bitter like cut wood, but familiar.

Pencils are a sought-after commodity in the second grade classroom. Everything is written in pencil because at eight-years-old, the eraser is almost as important as the tip.

I finished the sharpening and placed the pencils tip-up in a cup.

Even her teacher, who’s been teaching for many years, writes everything in pencil, I thought as I filed student work in folders with their names written in the teacher’s practiced cursive across the tab.

Taylor

Madison

Hope

Michael

All written in pencil so that it could be erased for next year’s second graders. And beneath the collection of this year’s names I saw the erased words from last year: Julianna, Audrey, Jackson.

Pencils. So easy to come by and so easy to erase.

I realized as I looked at Hope’s name, difficult to read over the name that had been erased from the previous class, that there are places where our names our never erased.

In our families. In the hearts of our friends.

My name is written, as permanent as a tattoo, in the life of my husband, my daughters, my own mother.

My name isn’t erased in the life of someone that I’ve told the truth to. It isn’t erased in the heart of someone I’ve wounded.

Our names are written in un-eraseable ink on the mind of God, in the narrative of this world, in God’s story. It isn’t erased because it cannot be erased.

Our names and our lives are indelible. They aren’t easily replaced like the penciled-in name at the top of a file folder. We aren’t disposable and we aren’t forgettable.

Each one of us.

We are worth the permanence of His ink, His blood.

Knowing that we must treat others as if they are written in ink and not in graphite: important, memorable and ingrained into the fabric of the world’s story just as we’ve been written indelibly on the heart of God.

What do you think? What does it take to make you feel this way?

I’m not a loser.

I mean, I don’t lose a lot of things. I usually keep things close at hand and I can’t go to sleep at night if any part of my vital person is missing. I need to know where my keys are. I need to know where my wallet is, the cat, the dog, my purse. All of it.

I can’t rest if things are lost.

I lost Hope once. My daughter. In a crowded place. In a desperate place.

Getting Lost By Walking Forward

posted at (in)courage

A couple years ago, I lost my daughter at Disneyland.

We were in a large group: six adults and four children and we all stopped to look at a fountain.

But Hope, six years old at the time, kept walking. She didn’t intentionally wander off exerting defiance or trying to be naughty.

She simply kept going in the same direction we’d all been walking a few minutes before.

But I didn’t know that.

None of us knew that.

We paused. Nine of us watched the fountain:  all six adults and three children.

Three children.

Where’s Hope?

WHERE’S HOPE???!

Click over to (in)courage to read the rest of the story and then come back to tell me what you think.

Have you ever “lost yourself” by not paying attention to your surroundings?

“I’m okay, Mom.” she gave up to me, looking over her shoulder, and then back to circle of other 8-year-old girls. They sat at lunch time brushing their dolls’ hair and exchanging barrettes and hair ties.

“Alright,” I tried to enter their world of second grade, but I was unwelcome.  Clearly, as an adult, I was unable to cross that line where I cared about things like doll hair and special brushes. “Okay, so then…if you don’t need me…”

“I’ll see you after school, Mom.” She said cheerfully and allowed me to bend down to kiss her forehead.

When I pick up my preschooler from class at noon on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ve made it habit to pull up a couple minutes early, walk down the hall to the elementary playground and seek out my older daughter at about 5 minutes until twelve. The schools share a campus which makes drop-offs twice a week unbelievably easy.

Usually Hope runs to me. Most days she looks for me; she sees me standing in the corner and runs across the blacktop to give me a hug. Her braid’s been loosened by the day and the tip of her nose beads a little playtime sweat.

We touch base. Just for a minute or two. She smiles and buries her head into my chest. I ask her how her morning has been, if the boys have been mean or nice and who she is playing with right now. She answers, I hug her again and kiss her cheek.

And then I’m off to pick up her sister from the doll-houses, blocks, and primary colors of preschool.

But last week, the “touching base” was a little different.

She was busy.

Busy with her friends, busy with the dolls, busy with childhood things (the kind that she thinks adults won’t understand).

She wasn’t rude, just engaged.

With a sigh and a smile I walked away. I understood.

I asked her later if I’d embarrassed her at all by hugging her. She said “no” but I know that answer won’t be true for long.

It’s a part of growing up, I know. The breaking of the ties, the severing of bonds. Maybe she doesn’t want to, but she doesn’t know any other way for it to be. Maybe it’s as hard for her as it is for me.

Even I, who can barely remember my own second grade classroom (except for a couple emotion-laden incidents), understand that it can be as hard for the tie-breaker as it is for the break-ee.

But she has to develop feet to walk on. I know that, so I allow it.

In the same way, we as followers of Christ have to stand up straight and grow up strong. We need God in ways that even children don’t need their parents, but we, like children, must take what our Father has taught us and put it into practice.

We must live our lives the way He’s showed us to live.

In essence, we must grow up.

We might even have to escape the safe and sheltered world we live in now and take a step beyond the apron strings. We might have to actually DO what God’s asked us to do, and do it in a grown up way.

We tell. We minister. We pray. We teach. We love. We impart wisdom. And we do it through His strength, but we have to grow up to do it.

Sigh.

She’s growing up. She’ll always need me, but every year that passes she is forced to put into practice the skills I’ve taught her at home. It’s part of growing up.

We need Him.

[She needs me].

But we have to grow up.

What steps do you need to take to “grow up”?

Music is made in my house.

It isn’t the scratching of a young violin (although it could be in a few short years) or the hollow whistle of an elementary flute.

But our family — we make music.

Sometimes it’s the full low chords of a guitar. The girls take a bath and my husband sits outside the cracked door on the floor in the hallway.  He picks out new songs he’s created just for them, and they sing under their breath as they send bath toyed-mermaids down a plastic slide.

Music is made.

Sometimes its the tentative notes of the piano. It rises up from where the girls sit on the bench, plunk plunking trying to figure the progression to a twinkling-star song they’ve known since the crib.

In my house music is also made by our laughter. By our words. It’s made by the background hum of a basketball game on TV while I fix Sunday lunch.  Music is the silence when I sit side-by-side with my husband while we think of our future.

Music is the conversation over bowls of ice cream before bed. It’s the jokes learned and retold by an eight-year-old. The noise of the scooter in the back yard as it rolls over the patio. The sound of sisters tickling each other. The sad, hoping song my husband writes on the piano tonight, changing slowly and building like a sweet spring wind.

It’s music.

Even the whines, the screeches from a skinned shin or the crash when a jar of pickles tumbles from the icebox.

Tears. Angry questions. Four-year-old attitudes.

It’s all music.

I could try to filter it. I could try to separate the “ugly” from the “pleasant”. Then I might have song that’s happy, joyful and

perfect.

But I want it all. I want the beautiful imperfection of the scratched vinyl record. The kind I have to set the needle down in the gentlest of gestures along the smooth edge of the outside of the disc. The kind that clicks and skips when it’s done. The kind of record I have to flip over to hear the rest of the songs.

This kind of music isn’t perfect like a studio recording, digitally produced, enhanced and cleaned up.

It’s gritty and a little messy, and because of that, it’s perfect.

What does your imperfect “scratched record” sound like today?

We all have them.

Some of us were born with them. Some of us have developed them. Some of us have forgotten about them. Some of us can’t remember where we put them.

Don’t you dare try to tell me that you can’t find yours. Ask a friend and she’ll help you figure it out.

A great deal of us, most of us even, have let ours

lapse.

We’ve let them fall into disrepair, like a rickety set of sand-swept wooden stairs leading down to the shore. We’re scared to put our full weight on them because we might go crashing head-first into the driftwood and rocks.

So we just avoid the beach.

And oh yeah, it’s a word that sounds like a cliche.

Gifts.

Yes, I said it.

Maybe I can use a more relevant term, ART.

We all have them. Talents. Propensities. Capabilities.Your calling.

These are the things when you are in the midst of them you know beyond know that you are doing what you are supposed to be doing.

Fredrick Buechner calls it “where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Can you possibly imagine what life would be like if the thing that you love to do the most, that you know that you should do has the ability to meet some of the needs of this vast world?

But the sad part is this:

Most of us don’t know that deep gladness.

We have forgotten that we are artists of every shade and color.

It’s your singing, your writing, your conversation. It’s your thankfulness, your ability to make a phone call to save a heart. It’s your giving, your creating, your home-building.  It’s being the bridge between people, the saying of the right word, the ability to tell the truth. It’s your ability to look into a child’s eyes and understand his thoughts.

It’s the gift of motivating people to action, the gift of being able to remember important dates and your friend’s likes and dislikes, it’s the desire to open your home to others for a meal, to a child who needs a mother, or to a family who needs a bed. It’s making music with your hands, your voice, your body.

You can do this.

Go back to the beginning. Remember what you are good at, or what you wanted to do, and begin to do that.

Ask God how your calling, your deep gladness, helps to fill in the holes that death and hopelessness has left in the world.

It might take awhile. You might have gotten out of practice. That’s what happens when we don’t use what we’ve been given.

Take a risk. Take a step onto what seems like an ancient staircase down down down to the beach. Put your full weight on what you remember your talent is and go. Let your momentum carry you. Let God, who has perfectly and intentionally given you this talent, carry you.

And then be ready to change the world.

What is your “deep gladness?” What is your calling?

I tell my new-mother friends to view their would be stuck-at-home status as a luxury.

Because it is a luxury to be able to nap when your baby does, to sling her to your belly when you walk in the afternoon, to be able to have your mind free from other worries to make simple, beautiful decisions like

Should I try to burp her after one breast or two?

Shall I watch the Today Show or finish my yoga workout when she takes her first nap?

Even now I’m not that far removed from that, but it still feels like a million miles away to have a day stretch out in front of me without having to juggle dance lessons and school pickups, blog posts and Bible study, dog-walking and cat-litter scooping.

I’m not complaining.

I’m just not a brand-new mother anymore with the brand-new mother euphoria.

Yes, euphoria.

You tell me to remember the up-at-3am-feedings, the spit-up, the colic. You tell me that I can’t forget the diaper “blow-outs”, all the gear that I had to lug in the trunk of the car just to go to the supermarket. You remind me of the high fevers, the reflux medicine, the fussiness.  And the bleary-eyed mornings, the baby-proofing and the pureed food.

I remember all of that.

But I also remember the 5 month old baths, you know, the ones where she can sit up in the kitchen sink and the light from the late afternoon window makes her auburn curls shinier than they already are. I remember wiping off pudgy hands that have gotten into my mascara.

I have my own euphoria during this day, 8 years later.

I look at my four-year-old’s legs, longer, it seems each time I help her with her socks.  I look at her thinning arms, nothing left of the toddler she was just a couple years ago. Her eyes look older, her mouth says words I had no idea she knew and her hair sweeps her shoulders like a much older girl. She tries her hand at grace when she does her ballet, the first and second positions of a girl trying to control her own limbs.

My eight-year-old tells me the dreams she has for the future, asks giant questions about God and heaven. She will outgrow me in the next few years, I’m sure. She rides horses with confidence and she’s already begun transfer that into other areas of her life. She calls me Mama and I answer.

And I know some of you are waiting to be grandmothers. Your girls are grown and they are finishing school. You can barely remember life when they couldn’t tie their own shoes and they sat at your kitchen table for dinner every night.

But it all is a luxury.

Every stage of our lives, whether we’ve come home just this morning with a bundled-infant or whether we’ve been invited to our granddaughter’s wedding. It’s all a luxury.

[Let's not wish anything to come faster than it will.]

When we get to pour our lives into the hearts of others, our children, our nieces, our sisters, it is a privilege. The ability to live with others, to engage others, to raise up children, even during sleepless nights of new motherhood or staying up to punish the missed curfews of adolescence, we are wealthy because of it.

There is luxury in holding the hand of your two-year-old nephew as he crosses the parking lot.

And treasure in answering the questions of your second grader and secretly smiling that she will still sit on your lap.

There is treasure in the laughter of your teenager, even when she doesn’t want you to know she thinks its funny.

And when we can’t remember their footed pajamas any longer, there is beauty in the friendship that we have as adults.

Euphoria, even.

Because life is nothing without relationship.

Luxury? I don’t need a day at the spa or a diamond necklace for my anniversary. I just need today.

Where are you finding luxury today? What stage are you in?