“SHUT UP! I really can’t take any more of your BOSSY attitude!” She yelled at me and closed the door behind her.

I stood stunned in a group of my peers. I couldn’t believe a youth LEADER had screamed at me in front of all of my friends. I took a step forward, thought again, and pulled out a worn map of the city from my purse. I could barely make out the subway web through the tears that had already begun to form.

I was fifteen, on a youth group trip to Washington D.C. and the one girl who I’d admired more than anyone had just walked out on me. She was in her early twenties at the time and had been assigned to our group as a chaperone as we did sightseeing in between conference sessions at the big convention hall in the city.

This was my third trip to D.C {I’d been in the fifth and eighth grades} and so, I guess, I thought I knew where all the cool things were. Apparently I’d come across as a sophomore know-it-all.

We can’t forget the Lincoln Memorial.

Don’t forget the Air and Space! It will be nice and air conditioned in there.

This is our Metro stop if we want to get off for the Capitol building.

A few days into our trip, my youth leader could take no more suggestions from me. She promptly lost her cool which is when she thought it appropriate that the only method of getting me to stop was to scream at me in the middle of a group of other teenagers.

We finished our trip to DC. We ate hot dogs from the street vendor. We hid from the humidity inside the American History Museum, but something changed in me.

I began to close my mouth.

When my youth leader left that room that morning before sightseeing, I vowed I wasn’t going to embarrass myself again. At least not in that way.

That was the first in the series of events that created a need in me to stay silent.

I stopped talking. I stopped sharing my opinion. I stopped feeling like what I had to say was worthy.

Initially I was scared to get called out again. But it turned into a fear of being responsible for my own opinions. I hated taking sides because someone might get angry. Someone might not like me or agree with me. Or worse, someone might embarrass me in the same way again.

In my 15 year old mind, this was reason enough to shut up.

It’s taken me twenty years to get to a point where I finally feel like I had a voice. It began a few years ago when I started blogging and has morphed into a full-blown campaign against the fears in my life that have held me captive.

So I’m talking. And although I’ve learned a lot since I was the slightly bossy high school sophomore eager to show her friends around DC, I’m not afraid anymore.

What about you? Have you ever felt silenced?

I just wrote and trashed two different blog posts.

I didn’t really trash them, but I did cut and copy the text into a Word document I titled Posts I’m Too Scared to Publish.

Seriously. Does telling you that take away the fear? Not really.

It just makes it that much worse.

I’ve never really struggled about how much is too much to reveal on this blog. I feel like I run a decent balance with authentic and transparent without telling you about things that really are horribly private. But lately, I feel all a jumble.

How much is too much?

I mean, is it okay to talk about sex? Can we talk about strong opinions without people getting all mad and hurt and offended? Can we talk about how the Church has hurt us? How much is too much? And when should we stay quiet?

Doesn’t silence ruin authenticity?

I read a comment on another blog recently. The post topic was that we really should be talking about sex because it’s something that is difficult to talk about elsewhere. We should be doing it here because women need a place that they can discuss things like that safely. A commenter said that sex isn’t something we as Christians should talk about on a blog in public, but that it was better left to one-on-one times in a living room or coffee shop.

I disagree and so did the blog writer.

If we need to talk about something and we don’t {even if it is difficult or controversial}, doesn’t that crash down our notions of being REAL or AUTHENTIC?

What do you think? I really need help on this one…

After this weekend I’ve realized that I don’t need a lot to make my marriage happy.

There are giant seminars you can take; you can go to big Weekends to Think About Big Stuff and hear expensive popular speakers talk about all kinds of things from intimacy to kids to Affair-Proofing {as if it is the same as child-proofing} and Ten Steps to Something. You can do that.

We’ve done that . There is value to that.

You can read books that give you quick fixes with titles like If You Do Only One Thing to Save Your Marriage, Do This. There are couples devotion books, there are couples Spice Up Your Christian Marriage series, and there are most certainly stacks of these books by the side of my bed. Some of them gathering dust on spines and pages {because I ALWAYS throw dust covers away} and others of them have been regularly flipped through and live near the toilet.

You can learn Languages and “I” statements and all of those things. Yes, I am a big proponent of all of this.

But I’ve learned something new this weekend.

What might be more important than all of that, Important Speaker and Bestselling Book aside, is a simple, connected act.

It’s not sex, although that is a must.

It isn’t church, although that is really important too.

It isn’t listening or knowing or seeing or any of that.

It is holding hands and walking forward in the same direction.

It’s the simple act of creating a shared goal, grabbing mother- and father-worn hands together and moving toward that thing as one. A God-loving family, a family that isn’t afraid to do hard things, a family that will be able to say “We were scared but we trusted God.” Those are our goals.

Working with someone for the same end is fabulously intimate and amazingly connecting. And when my husband and I are on the same page of the same book then most of the rest of life works well.

We end up listening to each other more, we end up “speaking” in each others “languages” naturally, and we are intimately drawn to one another because let’s just face it, it’s attractive when are both working and walking together.

When we take the time to be on the same page of the same book as our spouse it is a beautiful thing.

Go to the Big Giant Marriage Weekend and buy the next Seven Step Book to Be Close. But don’t forget the

simplistic

minimalistic

perfection of standing side by side, seeing the same end-of-the-road in the distance and walking forward together.

What do you think?

This is gonna be short because I’m escaping for a summer weekend with my husband.

We are at the beach. And we are alone.

Can you hear the surf?

Can you hear the quiet?

I can. We are eating banana cake and are watching movies. And we are doing it a l o n e.

Did I already say a l o n e?

We’re reconnecting.

What are you doing this weekend?

My four-year-old takes horrible naps.

If she falls asleep after a long day at the park, which was the case yesterday, she falls asleep anywhere and falls asleep hard. Like a narcoleptic pastor who nods his head during the hymns in the front of the church waiting to take his place behind the pulpit, Naomi nods and bobs and weaves until she succumbs.

Waking up is full of tears and moans and stiff stretches, ugly faces and eyes pressed tightly closed against the afternoon light.

But yesterday, after the arched back whining, she let me hold her. Whimpering and crying, she crawled up into my lap, straddled my hips and put her head on my shoulder. She cried a little more and she stretched a little more. But for the better part of a half an hour, she let me pat her back the same way I did when she was nine months old and came out of an afternoon coma.

I felt like I’d stolen a piece of time back from the past; something that I’d lost long ago was suddenly mine again. The extended heaviness of a little girl in my lap, my back aching, my biceps straining. The weight of love breathing against my chest and a dampness from four-year-old eyes on my shoulder, I had stolen thirty minutes from her infancy and brought it close again.

Yesterday evening, I lounged on the bedroom floor of my older daughter. Eight-years-old and full of facts, questions and insecurities, she sprawled on the ground with me. I crossed my ankle across my knee and I folded my arms behind my head.
She cuddled up into the empty place in my shoulder.

“Mama, did you know Hercules killed the Hydra?”

We started out in Greek mythology, traveled through horse anatomy and ended up praying for peace because the dark places in the closet made her nervous. Another half an hour, another stolen piece of time.

Not from the past this time, but from the mundane. I’d stolen a portion of time that may or may not have been mine, but most evenings, neither one of us take the time to lay and laugh and talk and ask questions. She’d rather read the latest book on her shelf and I’d rather finish the laundry so I can crawl into bed.

But last night, I took a part of an hour and I made it last for the rest of our lives. A memory. A thought. A laugh. A place of rest.  I stole it from the commonness of both of our days and together we made it important.

Stealing time: from the past, from today.

And in both encounters I knew that what I had would not last. It might be only months before my four-year-old won’t find my lap any more. And I have short years before we won’t have the innocence to discuss Narnia and Perseus any longer. Our conversations might be about affections lost and found and hearts broken and mended.

So today I will be a thief.

I will take from the past and recall it today. I will take from the normal and make it extraordinary. I will take it all and I won’t be sorry.

What will you take back today?

I’ve always prided myself on being a great judge of character.

{that right there should send up a red flag}

I could see people’s motives when my husband was oblivious, I could hear the anger or bitterness behind a word and see it when others could not and I could instinctively smell out people who were just out to altruistically help and those who might be out to harm.

Most of the time my intuitions or reasoning turn out to be true.

Most of the time.

When I’m on my game I’m right. That meaning, when I’m actively seeking wisdom, when I’m trying to look at others through the eyes of Christ and when I’m careful in my relationships this “intuition” displays itself as a gift. A real gift.

But when I’m not seeking godly wisdom or when I’ve got my eyes elsewhere, it doesn’t work the same way.

Three different times in the past several months I’ve really screwed up when it came to being a good judge of character. But here’s the interesting part: normally, when I err I err on the side of begin too judgmental or harsh. But lately, I’ve erred on the side of grace.

I’ve vouched for people who should not have been vouched for. And by that, I might have hurt my own reputations.

Sigh.

I feel like I can’t win.

If I watch myself for being too judgmental, I seem to err on grace’s side. If I’m careful to watch who I vouch for, I run the risk of being too stingy with love and acceptance.

This is what I’ve decided:

I’d rather err on grace’s side. Even if it means that I’m known to be too accepting. Even if that means I’m known as the girl who can’t see someone’s “issues” or failings right off the bat. I’d rather recover from THAT than from being too greedy with love.

In sixty years when I’m falling asleep in my wheelchair in the assisted living home, I’d rather wish I’d been STINGIER with grace than more GENEROUS with it.

Be generous now. With grace, with money, with love. With you.

Are you a good judge of character?

Maybe if they would have told me I wouldn’t have listened.

And maybe if they would have made me take a class or something I would have spent the time doodling on a notebook and whispering to Chad sitting next to me.

Either way, I went into marriage believing things about wedded bliss that were utterly and completely false.

Eventually I learned that…

1. Sex IS actually important.

You heard me correctly.

I spent my whole junior and senior high school years in evangelical youth group where all of the save-yourself-for-marriage lessons always ended in something like, “And sex really isn’t that important anyway. If you base your whole relationship on sex then you’ll end up disappointed because how much of you life REALLY are you going to spend doing THAT in bed?” Plus, I really couldn’t imagine the 98 year old great-grandmas getting funky between the sheets, and I still wanted to be MARRIED when I get old someday, sooo, yes, I believed that lie: that sex really wasn’t important to a marriage.

So not true. While sex itself isn’t what a relationship should be founded on, intimacy is desperately important. It is central to our emotional, spiritual and physical existences. We need to be in transparent physical intimacy in order to function well as a married couple.

2. Marriage isn’t a panacea for loneliness (or anything else for that matter).

Granted I wasn’t single for that long. But it seems as if every romantic notion in Western culture points to marriage being the cure, the answer and the antidote for all problems. If I feel ugly, getting married will cure that. If I am sad, marriage will make me happy.

But here is the truth: If I’m lonely before I get married, I will be lonely after. If I’m lustful before I put a ring on my finger, I will be after too. Marriage doesn’t cure anything. It actually serves as a magnifying glass for problems I already have.

3.  Every act of humility is a gift to my spouse (and consequently, each act of selfishness steals something from him as well).

Last week a friend asked me the what the root of Chad and my marital problems had been almost a decade ago. And I really had to trace it back to extreme selfishness gone haywire. Super bad selfishness.

I had no idea that acting in loving humility each day gives new life to our marriage. Thinking of the other person first, moving past my entitlement to be angry, and loving him how he deserves to be loves makes our relationship breathe in a healthy way.

When I don’t, I steal tiny bits of him that aren’t mine to take. At least not in that way. I chip away at the foundation of our marriage and I slowly break it apart. And I chip away tiny pieces of his heart too.

4. Marriage isn’t free. It costs everything.

Back in 1996 when I got married, we pieced together a DIY ceremony (sorta) with a lot of help from friends and about 3,000 dollars. I used to think that it was the WEDDING that was expensive, not the marriage.

But it’s the daily dying to my own self and living in the states of Compromise and Let’s Make This Work that takes every shred of energy and focus that I have. It has cost me everything (not unlike the Cross) but it is worth everything too (also not unlike the Cross). I give my whole self, body and heart, to my husband, and I’ve done it willingly.

It has cost me time and tears and years, really. But again, all of it is worth the intimacy and the relationship.

Thoughts? Anything YOU wish you would have known before you got married?

Boy meets girl. Boy marries girl.

Boy has been to Russia to minister there before they met and together they decide to go back.

Boy and girl move with their two young children to SIBERIA and help plant a church. They buy a teeny tiny apartment and have two more children. They learn Russian, wear lots of warm clothes and fall in love with the men and women they meet in the freezing north. They send their friends in the States pictures of very, very low temperatures on the thermometer.

All of their friends shiver vicariously.

Several years later Boy and Girl decide God is moving them to a different place. A much warmer and happier place. But a place that needs God all the same. Boy and Girl pack up their four children and move to Thailand to plant more churches.

Boy and Girl send their friends in the States photos of all six of them in tank tops with sun-kissed shoulders. We all wonder what this next adventure will have in store for them. Sun, for sure.

They soon discover that one of the greatest needs in Thailand is helping young women become released from poverty and the sex trafficking industry with the hope and promise of Jesus. Boy and Girl can’t help but wonder if this is why God took them to Thailand.

We’ve known our friends Les and Debbie for over fourteen years and have watched them globe-trek with four kids in tow for the last six years. We admire them, we love them and we believe in what they are doing.

Whitney over at Bel Kai Designs helped Debbie create a very special piece of jewelry to help raise awareness and much needed support for Les and Debbie’s ministry in Thailand. The Fear to Freedom necklace is symbolic:

The flower is an orchid. It symbolizes the beauty of Thailand.

The color is orange. That stands for the fight against human slavery.

And the word is “freedom”. It stands for freedom in Christ.

Whitney has graciously offered to donate 40% of each sale to Les and Debbie’s ministry and to offer one to one of my readers too! This necklace is gorgeous and I’m so proud to be able to help give one to one of YOU!

To enter the giveaway simply leave a comment before 9pm Pacific Wednesday night about a freedom you are thankful for.

What freedom are you thankful for?

Bel Kai Designs

Les and Debbie’s ministry organization

To BUY a Fear to Freedom necklace click here.

I’m learning from my daughters that the best toys are found outside, in the sand, at the park, in the yard,

and I’m wondering why I haven’t been having them do the dishes before yesterday.

I’m learning that if I wait long enough in the day, hand-holding is natural and wanted during a sleepy afternoon.

I’ve learned that the yummiest snack consists of frozen blueberries, some fresh strawberries, a splash of OJ and handful of ice whipped up in the blender,

and that sunglasses and a wristful of plastic stretchy bracelets make any little girl feel like a queen.

We’ve learned that although we love lazy June mornings, we still miss school friends and are hopeful for September.

We’ve all realized that Dads don’t really get a “summer” unless you count weekends,

and that Father’s day is really an excuse to grill burgers and eat chips all afternoon.

One of my favorite things to do is watch my normal, run-of-the mill life go by. The rough-heels, dirty-laundry, pile-of-paperwork-in-the-corner life. I watch it and I try to learn from it.

Because life is a much better teacher than the classroom.

What have you learned lately from your run-of-the-mill life?

My parents used to drag us up mountains {quite literally DRAG} climbing to the top of whatever waterfall filled their fancy during our summer camping trips to Yosemite.

We complained, we dragged our feet, we whined...

Up the steps carved into the granite, gripping rusty, wet railings so we didn’t plunge into the ever-green grass that sloped up from the tumbling river below. If either one of us girls would have slipped down that grass we’d have been lost at the bottom of the falls.

But we always made it.

And when we get to the top after over an hour dragging hiking boot clad feet up the last few feet, we see the summit of the waterfall: A wide stream heavy with the snow melt that rushes to beat itself over the edge.

At the top, smooth granite erodes toward the water, and hikers clamor for a view from the very edge. A thin rail, metal and hot from the Sierra sun up here, waits near the waterfall. It tempts me. My sister calls to me from down at the edge. She’s looking over the edge at…what?

But my feet are stuck.

I have to will them to walk toward the brink. The rock seems so slippery, as if the rail wasn’t even there. I join my sister and together we look over, past the toppling water, past the mid-afternoon rainbows, past the sunlight. The spray obscures the bottom. And as tightly as I’m anchored to the metal railing fear is anchored to my heart.

I can’t move. I can’t even breathe. The fear of heights and being in a place that is unsecured,

so

close

to the edge

really freaks me out.

But something happens as I’m looking over the top. Just like I willed my feet to move toward the edge I’m willing my mind to focus on what is solid. The rail. I can feel my fingers curl around it’s dampness. I can feel the heat travel through my sweaty palm to my arm. And now I feel less anchored to the fear and more focused on the solidness of what I’m standing on and holding on to.

I laugh. It’s beautiful from up here. Fear quickly turns on it’s side and becomes joy.

The difference between the two is razor thin.

So how does fear turn into joy? By willing my body and heart to do what my mind screams not to do. By standing up, walking forward and resting on what I know is true.

I look fear in the face and instead of seeing all of my darkest nightmares, I find joy. Because the simple act of facing fear puts it in it’s place and lets joy rush on in. Fear imprisons. Joy frees. And it’s a thrilling joy.

How close has joy been to fear in your life?

And for your viewing pleasure, a video my husband took of our family, namely my FEARLESS daughter on Thunder Mountain Railroad at Disneyland just last weekend. There is sheer joy and no fear. Look for my dad next to me and my mom next to Naomi in the back.

To view video from a reader click here.