I give my daughters warnings. That’s the first line of defense.

When asked to do something that inconveniences her, my four-year-old might shift her face to the air, pout her lip and refuse. Warning. I ask again. A second pout and she gets a consequence.

But there is always grace. She might do that same thing ten times in a row, or something different, and even though there are definitive consequences, disappointment and even anger,

my arms are always wide,

my lap is always soft,

and my heart is always open to hers.

She gets chance after chance to fail and then hopefully, someday, it will stick. Hopefully, when it really matters, that inconvenient thing will transform into a way to obey, a pathway to intimacy with me, a place to succeed. And in that obedience she’ll be free.

But even if she fails again, there will be another chance. For the base reason that I am in

passionate

silly

love with my daughter. I love her. She gets a third chance. And a fourth. And as many as she needs to come back around to love me.

Everyone knows that there are second chances.

You can come back from porn addiction, prostitution, abortions, affairs. But can you come back again and again?

Is there a third chance? And a fourth chance?

Is there a time that is the last time?

But I wonder: Does God’s grace only last as long as I don’t mess up again? Is it limited to my one big mess-up?

We seem to act and think it is. We say, “Go ahead, I’ll forgive you once. I might even forgive you a second time. But a third time? What do you expect me to do? I’m only human…”

Those of us who already feel like we’ve used up our big screw up hold it tightly together with tension, like a guitar string perfectly in tune. As long as I don’t come undone, everything in my life will be just fine.

But the Grace I believe in doesn’t say that. The God that saved me says that Grace is inexhaustible.

I’m learning that God is a God of the THIRD and FOURTH chances, but we usually limit Him to two when we limit others to as many.

I’m certainly not asking you to forgive anyone today. I’m even not asking you to give anyone a third chance.

But I will ask you this: How many chances have you been given?

{I realize that some of you will think that I’m advocating a return to a life hurt and selfishness or that I’m talking about an excuse to sin. I’m not saying that. I’m simply asking you to think about Grace in this context.}

I’ve ruined things.

I’ve lost things too.

Like trust, integrity and purity.

But you, dear, are the finder of my lost things. You looked at me and saw the worth that the Father had given me way before you ever set eyes on me first. The worth that Father had lain on my mother’s chest after 20 hours of labor 2 weeks overdue.

With a big sigh you knew you couldn’t stop loving me.

You gave me a heart-place to hide, heads under sweatered arms as a storm swirled above. And you protected my lost integrity. My lost purity. And you trusted me again.

You believed in What Would Be. What Could Be and not What Was.

You saw the bright, difficult, tear-filled future and were not scared. And you spoke well of me when others did not. You saw Love when there was mostly Hurt. You gave Grace when there should have been Bitterness.

This is only one of fourteen years of reasons why I love you.

Today I dedicate my words to you, the finder of my lost things, the protector of Grace and the hiding place in a tumbling world.

Happy Birthday, Chad.

I grew up camping in Yosemite National Park.

In a tent. In the dirt. With my family and without showers. They are some of the best memories of my life. For a week we slept in the same space, ate in the same space, my dad didn’t go to work and we interacted a LOT. All the time. We learned about each other in new ways because we just did life together in a space that wasn’t the four walls of our home.

This week I’m camping. Sort of.

I’m at Idea Camp: Sex.

For the past two days we’ve been talking about sex, abuse, affairs, homosexuality and everything in between. And we’re sitting in a church. In Las Vegas. I’m going to have to be honest: it’s a little bit like camping. A lot of people doing life together and we are kinda in the dirt. Nothing flashy or big; nothing with “wow-factor” {except the conversations}. It’s a little uncomfortable, but it’s right where I’m supposed to be.

Idea Camp is a space for thinking and talking without big keynote speakers. Space for working through difficult ideas, heart-connected topics and things that are just really hard to talk about. Someone labeled it the other day on twitter as “risky.”

The riskiest conference he’s ever been to, in fact. I might just agree but I didn’t figure that out until I got here.

Risky because I’m sharing my story over and over again.

Risky because I’m being asked hard questions and I’m forcing myself to give a real answer, not an easy one.

Risky because I’m opening myself up for begin challenged and being vulnerable.

Risky because with new knowledge I’m now responsible.

I love my fellow campers. I love the risk that we are all willing to take to have a hard, vulnerable conversation about what might be the biggest, and most under-talked about issue in the church.

Why do YOU think we have such a difficult time talking about sex? Do you have any questions that the church doesn’t seem to be able to answer?

You can watch the live stream today by clicking here. Follow the Idea Camp: Sex hashtag on twitter here.

Naomi has thousands {it seems} of mini, tiny, infuriating toys. They are everywhere: on the stairs, in bathroom drawers, in her car booster seat, in her bed clothes. Shells, Polly Pockets, plastic butterflies, mini-shoes that fit on Polly’s mini feet, and hundreds upon hundreds of ponies. And she never goes ANYwhere lately without a smallish stuffed animal wedged under her left arm.

To her each one of these is a treasure.

In my early days of blogging I used to wander the internet clicking from blog to blog to blog until I found something intriguing, beautiful or amazing.

I found some great people that way.

But lately I only visit {regularly} the blogs of people I know well, but I’ve begun to wander again. I’ve found a few posts lately that I just love. Some of these girls I know, some I don’t. But either way, I hope you enjoy my little treasures on a Monday morning.

This is That by Arianne, To Think is To Create.

Let it Swing by Andrea, The Organic Bird.

Little Man in the Bible Club by Ashleigh, Heart and Home.

Truth by Lacey, So Every Day.

Softly to the Shore by Kelly, A Restless Heart

Claire Burge : Her whole site is a treasure, I can’t pick just one.

So This is Love by Suzie, Hemmed In.

Strawberry Jello and an Unexpected Visit from Insecurity by Mandy, Messy Canvas.

The Other Mandy Thompson by Mandy, MandyThompson.com.

Denise, Victory Road, writes about What to Expect When You’re Not Expecting.

Pay it Forward: Have you found any internet treasures lately?

To a four-year-old, the night sky between midnight and four a.m. looks the same. If she open the shades in her room to see if morning is close, she won’t know. 12:49 am is the same as 3:21 to her.

So, with arms full with pink pillows and stuffed dogs, she finds her way down our dark hallway sometime during those obscure hours and ends up with her head taking up two-thirds of my pillow and her small hand in mind.

It’s always in the dark hours.

In the hours when she kicks off her quilt and I’m not there to pull it up over her shoulders.

In the hours when her childish fears come out in her dreams.

In the deep hours when the house is quiet, the dog is snoring and cat has forsaken her nighttime wanderings for the quiet at the foot of my bed.

Those are the hours when she seeks me out. And finds me.

But once in a very great while, she’ll stay in her own bed until the sun creeps up over the eastern hills, and in yesterday’s case, paints the full moon pink as it sets on the other side of the sky.

She looks out from her shades, I imagine, and panics, It’s too late. And she quickly gathers her pillows and animals and rushes toward us in the grey hall. She finds us still there, sleeping, and still manages to swindle most of my pillow.

It’s not too late, she must think, as she sinks down into the warmth between us.

It’s a quick rest because all too soon we are all up for the school day. Showers, hair-brush-screams, socks pulled on sleepy feet and breakfasts snatched at the kitchen table.

But she’s had her comfort and respite and the love she gathers between sleeping parents who adore her. She wasn’t too late, even if the sun had already risen.

And it’s never too late for us. For me. For you.

Never too late to ask a Father who’s been expecting me to welcome me into His arms. Even if I’ve slept through my appointment. Even if I’ve woken up and panicked because I’ve see the sunrise. Is it too late for me? What about all the time I’ve wasted?

No, He says. It’s not too late.

Have you ever felt like it was too late?

“And while he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him.”

On Tuesday I wrote about That Talk, the one where I have to tell my daughters about my sins, my failings, the ways I hurt other people. I’ve known other women and men who’ve had That Talk with their kids: abortions, drug use, sexual promiscuity, and similar failings.

I admire them.

To look your children in the face and say

Mama has failed.
I’ve hurt people.
I’ve sinned and I’ve sinned big.

It hurts, I gather. It stings, I’m sure. But I think it will be worth that cost. I believe it.

What I OWE the God of the universe for reaching down for me everything. The LEAST I can do is to attest to that, both with my words and my life, of His expansive grace. I must. I can’t not.

So here it is: Why are we so scared to live openly? About anything?

Why is it that when we are invited to express anonymously in blog posts like this or in campaigns like this we tell our hearts hurts with fluidity and ease. But when faced with public revelation we so often choose not to go through the cost of living without secrets.

{Please don’t get me wrong: there is a beautiful freedom in the anonymity that comes with confession like this and those who invite the world to participate are fulfilling a unique calling I think.}

We are scared to tell our children, pastors, friends about our pasts {probably} and our presents {most surely}. We are scared to admit pornography, food, or exercise addiction. We are worried about what would they REALLY think if they REALLY knew.

They wouldn’t like me anymore.

The cost of living an open life is risking the love and good judgment of some people. We risk hurting others with our admission of failure.

But the gain?

The gain is limitless. When we live openly about our failures we shine a spotlight on Grace, we point with our whole hearts and bodies toward Hope and we, by all means, live out Love in real time.

I want to live without secrets. Without worrying what someone will think if they found out. I want to live openly.

I’d rather be someone who lives openly for Truth in a world where so many live openly for other, less important reasons.

What do you think? Why do we have such trouble living openly? What are some of the costs you’ve paid for living openly? Maybe you don’t agree: Do you think we should be open with our failures?

Everyone needs space.

To talk, breathe, and take off my shoes and wiggle my toes in the carpet or in the summer grass.

As I shuttle two little girls from school to play dates, from school to horse or dance lessons and then the soccer field, as we make the car our home for the day I have to remember that just as I need time to take a breath,

so do they.

They need the quiet of a bedroom full of afternoon sun and a pile of doll clothes to organize and fold. They need a white, blank sheet of paper with a bucket full of colored pencils and crayons tumbling out.

A spot to dream and draw.

They need a quiet backyard, no music, no television or iPhone games just to spread their mini dolls and horses wide in the bushes as they create fairy worlds out of sticks and leaves. The space to breathe.

And talk…

It happens at night when they are tucked in bed with a book and pillows piled high. The dryer is humming around the corner and the DVDs and computers have been put to sleep. The house is on it’s downward drift toward silence and my daughters begin to talk.

Answers of nothing or I don’t remember turn into full-fledged stories about lunch time laughter and sandbox interactions. Their minds begin to work

Silence and space and room begs deeper breaths and deeper conversation.

It’s hard to carve out the silence on days that I live in my car and nights that I spend catching up from the day over the sink of dishes or a basket of to-be-folded laundry. My spoken words dry up and turn into shortened answers without even a glance. My thoughts are swallowed by worry and lists and dates and The-Next-Thing-To-Do rather than the now and the here and the who.

Simple remedy: space.

A blank sheet of paper on my page of days.

An open territory to spread out my fences and lie back to watch the clouds. Sometimes I tell myself I need tall summer grass to do that.

But I don’t. Even in September’s structure I can find a place to stop.

An autumn afternoon with the conspicuous weight of the quiet of a peaceful house. The stars align in my world and everyone is happy for a couple minutes, quiet in the inner and outer silence and there is room

for all of us

to breathe and make a thought into a real conversation.

How do you find room to talk and to breathe?

From the time she was a toddler and throwing spaghetti in her high chair I knew that someday we would have to have that talk.

I’m not talking about The Talk: the sex/menstruation/development talk. You know, the kind that begins with sweaty hands and ends with facial contortions and big sighs.

That almost seems breezy compared to the one that plagues my darkening mind as I drift off to sleep. The one that I know will come someday, inevitable, as hot and unwelcome as the Santa Ana winds every fall.

It’s The Talk when I have to tell her that I was unfaithful to her father before she was born. And that I was distracted by my own selfishness. That I self-medicated with diet and exercise  when she was a baby. I’ll have to tell her that I loved her father but that I loved myself more. I’ll have to have That Talk with her.

And it makes me cringe inside.

I’ve had some friends who have already had those talks with their daughters and sons, and I know that amidst tears and questions, God brings healing and restoration. I know that having to have That Talk gives my daughter a powerful stage for a heart explosion toward God.

I hope that it will teach her about the

never-exhausted

always-open

wide-expanded

grace of God.

I’m hoping that my pain and mistakes will have one more chance to right themselves in this world. That there will be one more place that I will be witness to God bringing beauty from ashes.

{Little-girl witnessed kitchen kisses between a husband and wife might be proof their world will never split apart from divorce. Hands-held over dinner and whispered prayers in each other’s ears will show our daughters that we love Jesus more than anything else.}

I dread That Talk. I dread the hurt it will bring; that knowledge will cause pain in the tender heart of my daughter. I dread it.

But what I’m trusting is this: that God will teach all of us together that there is always another chance at the grace of God. That there is always a place for me at the table. That the family will never be too full and that open arms won’t tire of waiting open, shoulders strained at the endurance.

Because that is exactly what He did for me. For us.

Maybe, hopefully, That Talk will teach her that very thing.

Have you had a difficult Talk with one of your children?

This post is part of the Idea Camp: Sex Blogging series for Family Week. Idea Camp: Sex is next week and I think you can still register. To register click here. To follow Idea Camp on Twitter, click here. To view a list of Camp Guides, click here. AND if you are coming, email me to let me know so that I can be sure we can meet! sarah (at) markleytech (dot) com.

I’m reading a book right now that makes me feel like an

infantile,

low-class,

inadequate writer.

She’s so good.

Every sentence is rich and her words have innate meaning. Beauty like that stings. But I know that maybe, after years and years of practice and rejection and acceptance, I might possibly be able to write with small shadow of it’s depth. In some ways it depresses me because she’s that good. Things that I think there would be no way to describe with any clarity, she does with perfect skill.

In my dreams I write like that.

Sigh.

It’s hard to say that there are some things that no words can really describe. Because some authors do.

But me. Here. Typing this. I know that my words will not do the weekend I spent in South Carolina justice. I have no deep multi-faceted sentences to recreate the intimacy with words that barely claw the surface. I don’t.

It was so quick; I barely spent 40 hours with the friends I traveled over 2500 miles to hug. And I’m a slow processor (which is why this post is a week late).

The (in)courage girls were invited together to put our feet up for a couple days {avoiding the native roaches that love the South} and dream. I don’t know how I got invited to be a part of this group because by far, I’m am one of the least exciting bloggers of this group.

Actually I do know how.

Someone believed in me. And someone else had a dream for a community that would grow to love and care for each other. And then I was welcomed into a group of women {and it usually takes time for me to feel welcome in a group of women} where almost immediately I felt at home.

Home.

So thank you, girls, for the heart conversations, the soul connection and the love.

I can’t describe it with words. At least not words that will do it justice.

Until maybe someday I win awards for my writing and get asked to speak places.

A girl can dream, right?

As an (in)courage community we are dreaming. And in reality, that was the primary purpose for this weekend: to brainstorm in person ways to connect with the (in)courage community at large. We are dreaming of an everyone-invited (in)courage Beach Weekend for Autumn 2011. We are dreaming of a place to sit criss-cross on deep sofas next to each other, to experience real-life and real-words with one another. I want to get to know you better, hear your stories and I want you all to get to know one another better too. I understand the fear that comes from being in large groups of women. I get it; it’s scary. It has taken me a long time to get to a place where I even want to participate in things like this. But in my heart I believe that this is different. What do you think? Would you want to be a part of a Beach Weekend next fall?

Special thanks to these organizations and companies for making our weekend such a place to call home: Dayspring Cards, Hilton Head Chamber of Commerce, the catering team from Soozi and Linda, Hilton Head Vacation Rentals, Hilton Head Island Bike Rentals, and H20 Sports.

And extra specials hugs and cheek-pecks for these girls: Lisa, Ari, Stephanie, Holley, Dawn, Jen, Jessica, Emily, Nester, Annie, Mary and Robin.

UPDATE: I inadvertently left out the link to my dad’s blog. Click here. He shares some of his visible prose in the same beauty and style as what he’s shared here.

This post is a guest post by Al Siebert.

fear #1

afraid…
of the dark
of heights
of the thunderstorm & lightning
as it shook the house
of hearing mom & dad fight
of being left behind

fear #2

too frightened to
speak up
as they made fun of my
friend…
what kind of friend
was i…

could i ever be

anybody’s friend?

Both of those short pieces of visible prose (not poetry), come from my childhood. I was a child over 50 years ago, yet it’s as if I have never left off my childhood…stretching it into an adulthood full of fears. Mostly unnamed.

I have been ALWAYS afraid of being left behind, of not being remembered by my parents when they both came home from work…desperately afraid that I would have to spend all night at the baby-sitters.

I came to a breaking point 22 years ago when I faced a crisis as leader of YFC in my area.  I needed to ask for the resignation of one of my “sons in the Lord”. This crisis was of my own making, of my inability to say, “No,” when I needed to.

I NEEDED to emphatically say “No!”  I just could NOT do it!

I was paralyzed…immobilized by fear.

Jesus used a few friends, a book and His amazing Holy Spirit to being me home safely.  My first two friends (both counselors by trade) refused to counsel me…instead, they told me straight out that I was in trouble.  They helped me understand the NECESSITY of acting.  Right then. They were there for me, lifting up my shaking arms.

I rushed through a book that totally diagnosed me.  I found out that I had been deathly afraid of being abandoned & forgotten my whole life.  I had NO IDEA how all-encompassing this fear had become.  In a 72-hour period I came face-to-face with my deepest fear. It was ugly & very scary.

My low point that weekend came when I realized that the book, which had awakened me to the true shape of my fear…had NO real answers for me.  I was stumped.

Then Jesus sent His Spirit talking to me.  My wife listened to me numerous times…I don’t remember exactly what she said.  But as we spoke together, I could begin to hear Jesus more clearly…as if she was opening a door for me…like she always does  After we were done talking, I could hear Jesus’ amazing Spirit speak even more distinctly.

It was as if Jesus said, “I will never abandon you! I could have…but I hung in there…for YOU!”

Somehow I knew that my fear would only be defeated in Jesus.  Since that day in 1988, I have attempted daily to journal through the four Gospel accounts of Jesus death and Isaiah’s amazing songs about the coming Messiah, the “Suffering Servant.”

Right now I am “stuck” listening to Jesus in two places: Luke 22 and Isaiah 52 & 53.

Not much progress for 22 years, eh?

Well, it depends on how you define “progress.” Within a week or two of beginning this…some old sin-habits dropped away like magic! Things that I would NEVER have connected to my fears…lost their power over me. I was stunned.

I still fight some of the same old battles…but with NEW strength.

Now, I KNOW by experience…that when my fears get brought into the light of strong friendship & Jesus’ grace…they shrivel up and die.

Al Siebert, besides being my father and primary spiritual mentor, has been the executive director of Southern California Youth for Christ for more than 40 years. He has a heart for middle school and high school aged student leaders and loves to mentor local youth pastors and youth workers. My dad has fierce loyalty, deep love, and a wise heart.  I’m so proud of my dad. He doesn’t tweet, but will be online today reading comments.

Have you ever had a fear “shrivel up and die” because of strong friendships or because of a good God?