Martin and Hazel Frost Our Life in Argentina

Faith for an uneasy soul.

Hope for a reeling mind.

Love for a tender heart.

And Grace, amazing Grace, to bind it all together. Grace to wash over it all. Grace to fill in the cracks. Grace to salve the wounds. Grace to light up the dark.
Grace. 
To make you whole.
...
Amen. 

This is really strange, but, just one month from today, a filmmaker is going to step off a plane in Costa Rica with his fancy cameras and lights and sound junk, which he will then use to follow us around, ask us probing questions, and (I presume) get close ups of all of the dirt, cobwebs, and shower scum in my house.

I am not making this up.
Scott Brignac is a U.S. based film-maker, and he's making a film about...us!
Weird, huh.
When Scott first approached us with the idea for a short documentary, I warned him that we are positively the most boring people on the face of the planet and that our lives, while occasionally whacky, might seem interesting because we live in a foreign country and hang out with foreign people, but they are, in fact, not the least bit entertaining. Like, at all. In any way imaginable.
But, still, he thinks he sees a story in us.
So, in a month, we're giving him a bed to sleep in and the creative freedom to coax (what we hope will be) a worthy story out of us.
I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that the impending arrival of cameras has put me in a bit of a tailspin.
I guess you could say I'm not ready for my close up.
It's true that I haven't had a haircut in over a year, and I have flapping old-lady flesh draping the backs of my arms, and my face is aged and wrinkly and icky. Honestly? Getting caught on film will dispel any myth of attractiveness which I may have been able to fake with the help of digital filters and a carefully closed mouth. If Scott Brignac makes this film, you'll soon know that I'm only “Instagram pretty” and that I have teeth like Kirstin Dunst. It's tragic.
But that's not what's freaking me out.
I guess I wonder what you'll see, from the outside looking in. It worries me that you'll see what I already know, which is that things are not as they should be.
I am not the Mom I should be.
I'm not the housekeeper I should be.
I'm not the Christian I should be.
My marriage is not what it should be.
And maybe I'm afraid that you'll see, frame by flicking frame, that the brokenness I've talked about in these pages isn't just some clever imagery, some silly metaphor, but the stuff of real life.
Maybe I'm afraid that you'll see that sometimes we look pretty Godless, El Chupacabra and I. And it's not because we're some hipster Christians who act that way on purpose to be “relevant” or something. It's because we're just not letting God in, to be part of what we're doing here on His Earth. We don't always seek Him, or listen to Him, or obey Him – even when we know we should. We look Godless sometimes because... well, we are Godless sometimes. And it's ugly. And sad.
And maybe I'm afraid that you'll see how this life has taken its toll on El Chupacabra and me, and how we've run short of Love and Grace and Mercy for one another. Having been married since we were children, we carry with us the tenderness of life long friends, but also the familiarity of inbred cousins. When we argue, which is often, we lose our minds – saying the same things again and again, and ending with a venomous chorus of “Screw you!”, “No, screw YOU!”, “NO, SCREW YOU!!” - until we're both just too tired to keep shouting about who ought to be screwed.
Not that we would do that if there were a camera in the room.
No, of course we wouldn't. Because sometimes we're full of shit. Sometimes we play nice when we don't feel like it because we know someone is watching. For the most part, our lies are innocuous and silly things to make us look smarter or harder working or better disciplined than we really are. But sometimes they're just straight bullshit; dangerous, hurtful, self-preserving lies, to cover our sin, to hide our failure, to shadow our most indecent shortcomings.
Maybe I'm afraid that the camera will ferret out our most horrible selves and those who watch this film will be left scratching their heads, thinking, “Wow. She really is the very worst missionary.”
And maybe I should be okay with that.
Maybe split ends and flabby arms and messy houses and the hard stuff of real life are the things that make a great story.
Maybe we can find God there.
I don't know. 
Maybe this broken bullshit world needs more close ups...
....         .....        ....
What would a documentary of your life look like? 

...I made a Picaken. 
A "picaken" is a whole entire pie baked into a whole entire cake. And you can't just go and make a Picaken and then not talk about it on your blog. A Picaken is more than food... it's an adventure.
It all started when I was poking around on Pinterest one night and I stumbled upon a Picaken. I thought it was ridiculous and honestly kinda gross looking, so I showed my husband, fully expecting him to agree that, yes, it was absurd and "why would anyone ever do that?!". 
He took one look at it and said, "THAT is what I want, no, demand for my birthday cake!"
And since I'm not the type to let a demand for dessert go unanswered, Picaken happened.
We agreed that a lemon cake with a blackberry pie sounded pretty darn delicious. So using every bit of culinary prowess I could muster, I set about my work, determined to complete the monstrous task of impregnating a cake with a pie.
This is a step-by step guide to the weirdest dessert I have ever made:
Step 1. Bake a pie. Mine was too fat. I should have used less berries.  If you use a fruit pie, you need to really thicken up your filling. If it's too juicy, your Picaken will... um... leak. A leaking cake is not appetizing. But whatever - just bake a pie. 

Step 2. Whip up a cake. Any cake recipe will do. Just whip it up and pour the batter about 1/4 inch thick to cover the bottom of your prepared pan (you need a BIG pan. I used a spring-form).

Step 3. I have no pictures of this because I was FREAKING OUT when I did it. But this is the part where you take that gorgeous pie, the one you just made, and you dump it into the cake batter. And then you pour more batter on top. Bye bye, perfect pie. 
Also? I'm totally not gonna tell you about how, while it was baking, the cake overflowed like lemon flavored lava covering every inch of the inside of my oven and then nearly killed my whole family by smoke inhalation and then took me 2 hours to clean up. It's just too discouraging. 

Step 4. Cool the 9 pound monstrosity on the window sill. (I always cool cakes and pies on the window sill because no matter how big the disaster is inside your house, the people outside will see and smell your creation and think, "That chick has got her crap together.")

Step 5. Release the PICAKEN! Turn that mother out onto a plate. If it starts to leak, you can just swipe the goopy stuff off with your finger and eat it until you have a stomach ache. 
Step 6. While you're waiting for your picaken to quit leaking, make icing. 

Step 7.  Ice that bad boy.

Violá! You've got yourself a PICAKEN!!
Here's a recap - You bake a pie, then you put it in a cake, then you decorate it as if you haven't just done something really bizarre. 

Of course, even sitting there covered in a half inch of buttercream, I had no idea what to expect when we opened it up. To be honest, I really thought that as soon as I cut into the cake it was gonna, like, barf out the pie... 
But it didn't.
It all stayed put...

...and it tasted really, really, really exceptionally good.

Now everyone in the family wants a Picaken for their birthday. *sigh* Great.

*I will say this; You can easily buy a frozen pie and a box of cake mix and throw this sucker together in 15 minutes flat. But where's the adventure in that? That's like riding Disney's Jungle Cruise and saying you've crossed the Amazon. ....But who's judging?! Not me! Even a half-assed adventure is better than no adventure at all!*

....         .....        .....

Now, I have to come up with new flavor combos for my February birthday boys. I'm look for suggestions.  What pie/cake combo would you want in your Picaken?!

Hi. Remember me? I write this blog...

I haven't been around much because 2 of my 3 spawn are still home on summer break. So I'm doing this crazy thing where, instead of keeping them subdued with limitless video game play, I force them to interact with real life by giving them household chores, making them help me cook, and engaging them in good old fashioned conversation. I think it's called "parenting" - and let me tell you, it's a lot of work, it's super time consuming, and it's taking me away from other stuff (like writing this blog). In general, parenting is a huge pain in the ass, but I read somewhere that it keeps your kids from ending up on death row, so that makes it all totally worth it!

They go back to school in 2 weeks. I might miss them.

....     ....    ....

Anyway. I did manage to crank out a few words for my friend, Ed Cyzewski, who is hosting a series called "Women in Ministry"and has graciously allowed me to join in on the fun.

Please check out my post, and then poke around his blog for oodles of other good stuff! Here's a teaser:

"From Woman in Ministry to Woman who Ministers"
"I’m just gonna come out and say this: I never, ever, in a million years, wanted to be a “woman in ministry”. Never. And I never in my wildest dreams imagined that one day I would actually be one. I grew up far from any church influence, so the very narrow example I had seen of women in ministry came mostly from television, where they were often portrayed in the form of nosy, judgmental, gossip-loving Bible-thumpers. As a teen, when I finally crossed paths with some real live women in ministry, I found them to be…well…nosy, judgmental, gossip-loving, Bible-thumpers. ... click HERE to read the rest on Ed's blog, In a Mirror Dimly". Thanks! 

We like to lay in bed at night and talk about the future.
Our timeline in Costa Rica is quickly drawing to a close, and imagining all the places God might take us this year brings hundreds of scary possibilities to mind. I admit, I find some kind of twisted pleasure in considering the worst. 
I say, “What if we end up somewhere and it gets really super cold in the winter, like below 65°, and my nose freezes solid and falls off. Will you still love me?”
He holds two fingers up, across my face, and looks at me for a minute. “It will be hard,” he sighs, “you're pretty fugly without a nose. But I'll do my best.”
“Ok. What if we end up somewhere in the Middle East and I have to wear a burka and walk behind you?”
The thought of this makes us laugh and laugh, but our laughter is tinged with nerves. 
This is what we do. We surf the internet while we day-dream of our future, saying things like "How do you feel about Toledo?" and "Shoveling snow builds character." Sometimes we're joking, sometimes not. Late nights find us laying there together, our laptops lighting up our faces, wonder aloud where it is that we'll end up. 
We're anxious to know what our future holds, what stories will unfold for each of us and for our children in the coming months. We're feeling excited and impatient.
The truth is, we've begun exploring our options...
Ugh! Fine. I'll say it out loud: The real truth is that we're actively looking at jobs in the U.S. (!!!, Right?!)
“Exploring our options” sounds way less scary to me than the truth, which is that El Chupacabra has already begun sharing his resume with churches. We're committed to the idea that it may be time for us to head back up North. And we're prayerfully seeking guidance to the right job, at the right time, with the right people, in the right place.
Yes. Even if that place gets below 65° in winter. 
So we lay in bed, hashing out our ideals; coaxing our greatest hopes out of the mass of possibilities.
El Chupacabra would be a kick-ass Missions Pastor. This much, I know.
He and I, both, have a passion to see missions redeveloped, executed with integrity and intelligence, and handled with the preservation of dignity for all involved. The hands on experience we've gained in the past five years is invaluable and incomparable. We're unbelievably grateful for what we've learned and anxious to put this knowledge to work, to see it spill into the DNA of a dynamic, engaging, socially responsible community.
So we're praying. A lot. And we're looking around for something along those lines - a place to fit in, a place to grow, and a place to help effect change.
We still don't know what that means, exactly. I guess we could end up on staff at a church. Or maybe as trainers for a missions org. We're truly open to any possibilities. 
Anyway. Here's what's important:

1. We are fully and happily committed to our ministry in Costa Rica. That hasn't changed and, if it becomes abundantly clear that we're to stay here, we would gladly do so.
   
2. We would love your help in spreading the word that we're...*ahem* “exploring our options”. So -if you go to a non-sucky Church- feel free to ask your church leadership if they're looking for a super-cool, radically bearded, amazingly gifted Missions or Discipleship pastor.

3. Pass along our blogs (The VWM / El Chupacabra) and or twitter feeds (The VWM/ El Chupacabra). The more people who know we're looking, the better.
   
4. Pray. No, like, for real. Please pray that our story would unfold with clarity.  

Thanks! 
....
How is your future fleshing out? Can I pray for you somehow?? 

At the stroke of midnight, we welcomed 2012 with some of our favorite people on the planet by our side.
We ate and drank and danced a little, and then we piled into 3 cars and drove 5 minutes up the hill to the most perfect vantage point for watching Costa Rica do what she does best – Celebrate!
It would be impossible for me to describe the view as the clock struck 12, so I won't even bother. You either know what it's like to stand on the side of a mountain as the valley beneath you fills with the streaking, pulsing, bursting light of a million fireworks, or you don't. If you don't, let me just say, it's spectacular in the most spectacular way. It's spectacularly spectacular.
We passed around hugs and kisses and pats on the back for an old year, well-lived, and a new year, well-received. And then, as the light show below us waned and finally died off altogether, we said goodnight to our friends, to find that we had locked our keys in the car.
The perfect night, topped off by a minor calamity.
We finally got home around 2 a.m., so (in keeping with my custom of procrasturbation and seeing that I was to leave for the airport in less than 3 hours) I decided I had better finish packing for a last minute trip to the states. My friends are getting married on Friday and her Dad, a commercial pilot, had comped me a flight to the good 'ol U.S.of A. I was so so so excited, still throwing odds and ends in a bag when I got the message that there was a problem with my ticket. Turns out, one airline bought another airline and -effective at Midnight on New Years Eve- my ticket became invalid. My last minute trip was canceled at the last minute.
I crawled in bed, totally defeated before the 5th hour of the new year, thinking "Pssshh. Happy New Year? My ass." 
And I lay there for awhile, wondering if this was a sign of things to come. Wondering if 2012 would be a year fraught with struggle and disappointment. Would all of our perfect nights end with a fight just to get home? Would my great anticipations, my wild hopes, be denied life at the last second?
In the dark, I asked God if this was gonna be a good year or a bad year. I asked Him, 
“Should I be afraid?”
And in the deep place, the place that feels like my beating heart, but isn't, right there, in the very core of my soul I heard His gentle whisper...
Yes.
You should be afraid.
Because I AM that I AM.  Both Dangerous and Good.
I am Justice and I am Mercy.
When you follow Me into the darkness, you will suffer the unknown. You will bear the burden of risk. You will get stuck. You will feel stranded. You will step back, fall down, trip up. You will be disappointed, disheartened, disenchanted. You will be exhausted. Sometimes you will be sad.
Because I AM that I AM.
Both Dangerous and Good.
I am Wrath and I am Grace.
When you follow Me into the darkness, you will be witness to what is Spectacularly Spectacular; the unspeakable beauty of this world, my beloved Creation.
Be. Afraid.
Follow Me in fear and trembling. But follow Me.
Be afraid.
And then? Be brave.
For I am Dangerous and Good.
And I am with you...

Hi.

It's Christmas.

Right now, there are about 300 million people who have run out of things to talk about during awkward extended-family gatherings.  And that's why God invented YouTube.

Here are a few things to help you start a lively conversation while you sit around doing a puzzle with your 84 year old great aunt Helga and her horrible neo-nazi grandson in-law. Or whatever.

Naturally, the first thing that come to mind is Baby Monkey.


But everybody has already been there, done that. You'll have to go a different direction...

You could always chat about history:


If you're feeling brave, you could talk politics:


Of course, you could always bring up religion. That usually goes really well at family gatherings:

Um. Check out..... The Very Worst Missionary. 

But, whatever you do, don't be a party pooper. Please. 


Wishing you a Merry and Bright Christmas from Costa Rica! With love and laughter,  Jamie the VWM, El Chupacabra, and our 3 little pigs. 
ps. The Bad Lip Reading videos are insanely clever and funny! I cannot get enough of them.

My teenagers have invisible friends.
No, not like imaginary friends – I mean invisible friends; Friends who are totally real, completely unseen, and right here in my living room.
Thanks to Xbox 360 and the magic of the interwebz, our little home in Costa Rica occasionally becomes a public place where people from around the world gather to trash talk each other while they blow each other's heads off with an M4A1 assault rifle and impossible feats of digital acrobatics. Modern Warfare, indeed.
It's not all that unusual to hear German or Portuguese spilling out of the little black box, over the rata-tat-tat of gunfire. Or some English bloke, calling attention to his flawless “temperrr shot” or “Did you see that trips colat?!”, in a perfectly sublime Harry Potter impression. And then, of course, my kids have the added advantage of being able to chill with other players in Spanish speaking countries, too. From what I've heard, I can tell you that “noob” is a universal insult.
It may sound kinda loud and annoying, but it's actually a pretty cool little feature. It allows my kids to play their favorite games with their friends and cousins, who live in the states, and they've also been keeping up with their classmates over the break. And I've noticed that their conversations aren't always limited to gamer geek jargon, like who's done a “360 no scope” or whatever - sometimes they actually talk about the real world and real life stuff. And I like that.
But there is one small problem...
If my kids have nothing to add to the conversation (and since they don't have a headset to filter what gets broadcast) they usually keep our living room on mute. They can hear what's going on in the game, but the rest of the world can't hear us. The problem is that sometimes they unmute us without mentioning it, and then our home, our life, and our family goes on auditory display for anyone who might be listening.
Now. I don't know what kind of conversations your family has... but my family can be kinda weird.
I didn't even know how weird I was until I became aware that there were other ears in the room. By then, my terribly syndromed middle child was crying out, “MOM! You're SO embarrassing! Everyone just heard you yelling about Asexual Unicorn Reproduction!” And I was like, “WHAT?! I wasn't claiming it as fact, just offering it as a theory. Sheesh! Relax, son.”
But really, I can understand why he's upset. I mean, what teenager needs his Mom running around, ruining his wannabe hard-ass-king-of-the-nerd-herd persona by calling out, “Have you showered today? You better get off that video game machine and take a shower so you don't get all itchy, ya know... down there.”
Truly, the problem is working itself out. My darling spawn are learning that if they want to keep up appearances of any sort, they need to let us know when our words are public fodder. But even more important, they learning that we're not a family that's about “keeping up appearances”. So deal with it. 
And they are now aware of the fact that (particularly in this day and age, when “butt-dialing” and “accidental DMing” are verbs) there's always the potential for somebody out there to become the proverbial fly on the wall.
If you have secrets, you ought to be very nervous.
If I didn't want anyone to know what my family is really like, I would be nervous.
But what people hear when they slip into our living room unnoticed is a family that laughs, plays, bickers, taunts, teases, and giggles. A LOT. If they stick around long enough, they'll likely hear some nasty fighting, some puffed-up arrogance, some blatant disrespect, and some unparallelled selfishness. For sure they'll hear a bit of homegrown douchebaggery. Hopefully, they'll also hear the ferocious, protective Love of a mother for her cubs, and the admiration of children for a worthy, hard-working father (who probably won't be heard, because he's hard-working, therefore, at work). They'll hear a clan that seeks Jesus together, fails together, and moves forward through the mess together. And, yes, sometimes they'll hear about Asexual Unicorn Reproduction, or other silly stuff, because sometimes we talk about really goofy, unimportant crap. Ok, fine. A lot of the time we talk about goofy, unimportant crap. And I'm cool with that. In fact, I love that about us.
So if, Dear Gamer, (while you're busily “n00b tubing” or “lag switching” or “drop shotting”) your ears grace my living room, have mercy. Real, funny, broken people live within these rooms. We're kinda weird and kinda cool and kinda silly. Sometimes we're kinda lame. And we're not gonna put on a show for a fly on the wall. Nevertheless, you're welcome to stick around.
.....          ......           .....
Ever been "caught" saying something stupid/weird/awful when you didn't know anyone was listening?
What kind of ear candy would a fly on the wall in your house be treated to?

In case you just got the internet...
I wrote a series on short-term missions - no, wait - poverty tourism? volunteer voyeurism?...Gah! What are we calling it?!...Okay, call it whatever you want. But it was a series, totaling five whole posts, and it took me SIX MONTHS to complete. Yeah, you read that right. This is how grown-ups with aggressive, terminal, metastatic A.D.D. get things done. It's practically a miracle that I ever even wrote a second post, but to finish all six? Somebody give me a medal.
For convenience sake (and for the 11 people who are still interested), here's the whole shebang from start to finish:
~ "Are we calling this a win-win?"  - The one that started it all. A satirical look at the interaction between do-gooders and do-goodees. Fun stuff, right there. (Pissed a lot of people off.)
And that led to these: 
 ~ "Sorry, poor people, it's not about you" - Where I respond to the commonly shared sentiment that the purpose of a short-term mission is to change the 'heart/life/perspective/values' of the people going and isn’t really about the ones being served. 
~ "Mmm... No, it's not "all good."  - Where some gentle people suggest that if any good comes from sending short-term teams into the world, then it's all worth it, and I get a liiiittle ballsy and maybe compare short-term missions to the crusades. Sorry. 
~ "Using your poor kid to teach my rich kid a lesson" - In which I respond to the idea that the church is sending folks into poor communities as a good way to teach people to be grateful for all their crap. 
~ "No more of this." - A response to everyone who suggested that even if we were doing really awful things through short-term missions, God's grace would cover over it all, so no worries. 
If you're interested in reading more on this subject, check out these articles: "Projecting poverty where it doesn't exist" - by Steve Saint  "Should you or shouldn't you volunteer at a Cambodian orphanage" - by Monica Pitrelli "Disaster do-gooders can hinder help"  - by JoNel Allecia
Quality resources: Standards of Excellence in Short-term Missions
"When Helping Hurts"  "Toxic Charity"
And even a funny video:
And with that, it's time to turn this bus around and start talking about the role of healthy, productive short-term teams in the world, because a lot of people have seen (or even been part of the problems) and are ready to look for solutions. I'll start a new series on GOOD STMs soon... like, hopefully sometime in 2012 (thanks, A.D.D.!) . And I'm looking to arm myself with as much info as possible as we carry this conversation into new territory.
So leave me your links. If you've written or read an interesting article on the subject, if you've seen a great book, video clip, or online article referring to this messy, but important topic, let's have it -  leave us
a link in comments. Then let's take this conversation offline, and into our missions pastor's office and our
small group leader's sofa - let's initiate positive change where it's needed. 
I know, I know. Nobody wants to talk about poor people at Christmastime. I'd probably be smarter to post this in the new year... but, well, here it is. 

Hey. Remember that one time when Simon Peter was hanging out with Jesus and some other guys, and then Judas (the douche) showed up with a group of Jewish officials and some Roman soldiers to arrest Jesus? So, in his great zeal to serve his Lord and Master, Simon Peter drew his sword and lopped off somebody's ear. Remember that? Then, the Gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus fixed it. He picked it up, probably blew off the dust, and 'ZOT!' - reattached that little sucker.
Good as new. Presumably.
….             …..            ….
Ok. Now, remember way back when, when I wrote a silly post about how short-term teams could be perceived by the people receiving them, and then we had a great discussion about the potential problems associated with the way the Church, as a whole, engages the poor? So we made a list of the 4 most common and compelling reasons people gave for why short-term teams are awesome and good and should never, ever be questioned. And then I ranted and raved and complained about each of those reasons in subsequent posts – here, here, and here. Well, today I wanna hit the last reason on the list; Reason # 4 why some say short-term teams are super-dee-duper amazing:
“#4. Grace. Duh! God is big and awesome and we suck. He can redeem our valiant but misguided efforts.”
Many people have told me, in regard to short-term missions, if we're well-intentioned then no matter what the actual results say, it's ok – because God will back us up. And some have said that what matters most is our motives; If our motives are pure, then we're cool – God will have our backs. And others have gone on to say “Hey, we're human, of course we're gonna screw up. But we've got God on our side, so it's all good.”
As someone who lives everyday in the radical abundance of God's Grace, I can hardly argue that God is incapable or unwilling to take our garbage and turn it around.
BUT. (big but)
We should not be using “God's Grace” as an insurance policy while we run around the planet potentially doing harm to those we seek to serve. “Grace” does not relieve us of liability for the people we run down in our efforts to evangelize. And “Grace” cannot be used to exonerate the Church of its responsibility to engage the world intelligently.
Without fail, when I write about harmful short-term missions, someone takes the time to write me a lengthy email, touting the awesomeness of their own habitual short-term experiences and how much the people love them for showing up - but that even if they did step on some toes, or mishandle funds, or steal paid work from skilled locals, it would be okay, because Jesus is on their side. And then, to drive their point home, they include the story of Simon Peter cutting off a guy's ear and Jesus fixing it.
Sweet, zealous, passionate Simon Peter, who did something really stupid while he was whole-heartedly trying to serve his King. And yes, Jesus did, indeed, redeem his valiant but misguided effort...
But do you know what Jesus said before he put that ear back on?
He said, “No more of this!”
And do you know who He was talking to?
Yup. His faithful, well-intentioned servant, Simon Peter.
No. More. Of. This.
You screwed up. You blew it. You mishandled this situation. You hurt someone.
No more of this!
And then? Then He redeemed it.
Here's the thing. Nobody is declaring “Short term teams are EVIL!” and no one is saying if you're gonna do short-term missions, you better do them perfectly. But if we are gonna do this thing, we better be willing to evaluate the process, to look at our mistakes with open eyes, and listen, really listen when God is saying “No more of this!”
Let God redeem what He sees fit to Redeem. Let Him grace what He sees fit to Grace.
And let us stop pretending that what we intend to do is as important to the people around us as what we do do.
….          …..             ….
Have you ever done something stupid, in the name of Jesus, culminating in a “No more of this!” moment?
(This blog is packed with confessions of such moments in my life!...What?! I'm a slow learner.)
PS. Heheheh...I said “do do”.

This is a repost from this time last year. I hope you like it, but I'm cool with it if you don't. ;)

Now, I'm off to make gingerbread men with my boys in celebration of their first Monday of summer vacation. It doesn't feel at all like Christmas, but we're gonna fake it 'til we make it.

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Every once in a while, I get an email or a comment from someone who knows me, like, someone who for real knows me, in real life, and they’ll say, “I love it when I read your blog because it’s like I can hear your voice.”
There’s something within that small statement that stirs my needy, little soul.
When I became a Christian, I thought the name of the game was conformity. I thought I was joining a club and the rules of the club were simple:
- Dress this way. - Use these words. - Do this on Sunday Mornings and that on Wednesday nights. - Be appalled by this, this, this, aaaand that. - Get indignant about such and such. - Above all, pretend that everything is ok, even when it most definitely is not, because you have Jesus and Jesus takes away your problems.
So I went and got a bob, which seemed like the right haircut for the part. And I started wearing a cross all the time for no other reason than so people would know I was in the club. And then, in an effort to use all the words at once, I took my little sister to Carls Jr. and tried to evangelize her over Western Bacon Cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes. She got up to use the bathroom (or possibly to call for help) and the old ladies in the booth next to me leaned over to tell me what I good job I was doing. They were obviously in the club and had recognized me by my words… or maybe by my hair.
It was ugly. But it was me. That was who I was – the result of a lifetime of pretending to be someone I wasn’t so that I would be liked, or accepted, popular, worthy, wanted….loved. I had gotten pretty adept at speaking in someone else’s voice, using their words, playing by their rules. And walking into the church was no different. Except it was worse. Because when you go against social norms in the church, the people in the club will call you things like "dangerous".
I don’t know when, but at some point I stopped watching what the people in the club were doing and I started to look at Jesus. That dude broke all the rules.
I watched him sit in a market place braiding for himself a whip. And when he was done… He went ape-shit on a bunch of scumbags, overturning tables and going all Indiana Jones with that whip until the House of God had been restored to just that.
I watched him sit on the edge of a well in the countryside, where he had a quiet conversation with a sordid woman that would change her life and the lives of many around her. In that little chat, he challenged her honesty and invited her to become one who worships God in spirit and in truth.
I watched Jesus tell stories. I saw him talking to normal people about normal crap and pointing out God along the way.
And I started to realize that I had been created with a distinct voice and that God was calling me to use it, whispering, “Be who you are, Baby Girl. I made you. You were meant to tell an honest story.”
What a HUGE freaking relief. Permission to leave behind the empty shell of false pretense you’ve built up to be part of the church, and BE YOURSELF. Live out loud. Share your struggles, your doubts, your furcked up-ness. And to do so in a legitimate non-douchey way that says nothing less than “There by the Grace of God go I.” Sweet, sweet mercy! There is no better feeling in this world than when someone who knows you - like, really knows you, because you haven’t been faking it - says, “I can hear your voice… and I love you anyway.”
What a gift.
Long before I ever posted a single word to this stupid blog, and way before I became a missionary, I stopped trying to be what the church wants and started trying to be who God wants – one who worships in spirit and in truth. 
Sometimes the club doesn’t like it. 
Sometimes a few members protest because they think I’m dangerous.
And I don’t care. It doesn't bother me because, when I look at my life, it’s like I can hear His voice through it....and I hope you can, too, ever since so long ago when God nudged me and said…
Speak up.

As I write this, at 8 am, the sun is slipping across my desk through the slats in my bamboo shades. Barefoot and barely dressed, I'm sipping lukewarm coffee and wishing for a breeze to come and stir the air a bit. It's muggy.
My kids are off at noon every day this week, anxiously counting down until Friday, when summer vacation begins. Of course, the end of this count-down signals the beginning of the next; “How many days 'til Christmas, Mom?” And I have to remind myself that, Oh yeah, it's Christmastime – which explains the six foot juniper, all bedazzled in the living room.
I don't wanna sound like a total b...erm, I mean...a total grinch, but I'm having a tough time getting in the mood for Holiday festivities. Christmas in the tropics is just too weird. The other day it was super sunny and windy, and I ran into a Costa Rican friend, who said, with a grin, “Doesn't it feel just like Christmas?!”
Squinting into the hot sun, I bitterly quipped, “Oh, yeah, just like Christmas. Mele Kalikimaka and all that crap.”
It's just that, until we moved to Costa Rica, I spent my whole life welcoming December with the cold, crisp air of Northern California filling my lungs, and with morning fog, and steaming breath, and a frozen, maraschino cherry of a nose. Where picking out a Christmas tree meant driving up to the snowy foothills and tromping through the forrest with pine needles stuck in your hair. It meant finding the perfect blue spruce and cutting it down with a hacksaw and coming home with your hands all sticky from sap. – Not pulling up to a dirt lot behind an old abandoned banana factory and sweating through your bra while a kid with a shovel digs up a juniper bush trimmed in the familiar cone shape of a Christmas tree.
Of course, I'm trying to remain impartial. 
I'm trying to remember that there are a gajillion different ways to enjoy the holidays. And I'm trying to remember that experiencing the traditions of another culture is a gift, a rich blessing – one that shouldn't be blown off with a flippant (and, oh-so-North-American), “That's not how we do it.” But this morning one of the sparkly baubles adorning our Christmas shrub popped off and went skittering across the ceramic floor to hide under the couch. It was so obvious that the holiday was taunting me - “Your tree sucks so bad, even the ornaments want nothing to do with it.”
Instead of taking my tree out back and setting it on fire, I poured some eggnog in my coffee and went to my room to find a book. It was a gift from my friend, John Blase. He sent it to me last year, and I knew this morning that it was time to read it again...
Last year, we had gone to the states in December, and I was super stoked because I wanted my kind of Christmas. Ya know? With that chill in the air and the yummy piney Christmas tree scent. But when we got there, instead of feeling all happy and nostalgic, I felt depressed and displaced. I can't exactly say why, and I'll spare you the boring details, but let's just say it was baaaad. Christmas came and went, and all I could think of was getting back on a plane, back to Costa Rica, back to normal life. Then, one day toward the end of the trip, when I was feeling particularly sad and self-absorbed, I picked up John's little book and locked myself in the bathroom where I read it from cover to cover.
John is a story teller of a different sort. The only way to describe him is simply to say that he picks perfect words. He chooses the kind of words that breath new life into old stories, and his tender retelling of the Christmas story is no different. 
Not gonna lie, the title, Touching Wonder, makes me chuckle as it conjures some truly sophomoric jokes - but I'm just stupid like that. It's the subtitle, Recapturing the Awe of Christmas, that really sings to me. And, last year, when I read this book on the toilet (lid closed, thankyouverymuch!), that's exactly what it helped me do. 
I just needed a little reminder that the story of Jesus wasn't built around tradition, it was built around people. Real people. Living, breathing, messy people. People who may have occasionally lost sight of the importance of what was happening in their lives, but still had a role in the story.
Don't get me wrong, I will always believe that tradition is lovely and valuable. And I think there's space for Christmas trees and Santa Claus and gift giving and eggnog and eating candycanes for dinner on Christmas Eve and again for breakfast on Christmas morning (What? You don't do that?!). And I cherish the way my kids say, “Remember that time...” and then we laugh about that one time when we crammed a 20 foot tree in our teeny-tiny house, or that other time when we spent hours making a popcorn garland and then we ate it.
But I'm learning that the oldest and richest traditions of Christmas are found, not in how we hang the stockings, bit in what we bring to the table as we seek Him, year after year. It's how we chase down the star that beckons us in the night, how we bring our gifts to the alter of a baby King, how we look for the path that God would have us traverse and then choose that path above all others. It's found in how we share the story of Jesus' arrival with our children and our grandchildren... Even if it is under the twinkling lights of a juniper bush on an 80° day in December. ;)
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This post is brought to you by the Emmaus School of Biblical Study. Their program looks crazy cool. Check them out! 
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What's your favorite Christmas tradition? Ever spent Christmas away from "home"? 

This is a continuation of our weekend guest post series called Missionary Positions. Today's post comes to us from Adrian Waller, who shares a bit from his experience as a dude working in a pregnancy center. Enjoy! 
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“Maybe I Did, Maybe I Didn’t”
Alright, tell me I’m not alone in this:
You’re sitting in church, in those god-awful pews – who decided chairs weren’t good enough, anyway? – and you’re getting a little hazy. The eyes start drooping a little, the drool starts running from your mouth, and then suddenly…
SMACK!
The significant other next to you lays out a new bruise on your finely gelled hair.
Not cool, significant other.
After you get over the fact that you’ve just had a mini-stroke, heart attack, and peed your pants all at once, you’re suddenly more aware than you’ve ever been before. Even though the scenery is still the same, something is different. Your eyes have been opened, even if unwillingly.
That’s where I was at this past summer.
I’m a 21 year old male. I go to a Christian college. So, naturally, I would do my internship at a pregnancy center, right? Riiiiight.
Let’s just say pregnancy centers aren’t exactly overflowing with young adult males who like Jesus.
Thankfully, there were a few guys that graced our presence this summer. Except they didn’t like Jesus, which was fine by me. So we talked about other important stuff – like… sports cars fishing trying to stay sane while the girlfriend is pregnant. So basically, yeah, we talked about sports.
Once a week, though, I would sit in on a class with a few dads that came around this place. We would talk about the importance of dads  – and by we, I mean, one guy would talk, and the rest of us would listen. We’d all be watching the clock, hoping God would have mercy on us, and eventually, we would get through the class.
This lasted for 7 weeks.
Seven weeks of sitting in a room, bored out of your mind with two other guys who were at least as bored as I was. And you could tell that the guy teaching didn’t want to be there either. You see, the guys in the class were what we call “court ordered.” So they had to be there. And so we had to be there to teach them.
Cue the head-bobbing, the glazed-over eyes, and the drooling.
Sounds a lot like church, right?
And then the significant other goes and ruins your good hair day.
It was our last class. In fact, it was after our last class was done, and I was so ready to be done with this stuff. I can only handle so much “dad-talk,” since I’d like to think I’m about 20 years removed from having kids (the wife would beg to differ).
And then it happened.
My significant other, aka, the God man himself, smacked me upside the head. And he made it about as obvious as it can get.
The teacher leaves to go print something off for the guys, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, one of the guys says, “Mannnn, do you believe in destiny?”
After I picked my jaw off of the floor and responded, he went on to tell me about some struggles he was having with his girlfriend and how he’s not sure how hard he should fight for her. I told him that I personally don’t think God had one special person for him and that if he doesn’t get it right, then it’s game over.
Naturally, like in all the good evangelism videos, he wanted to know more. And, frankly, I told him that I didn’t know much more. I told him straight-up that he needed to try praying. To which he replies, “I don’t know how to do that, man.”
WHAT?!
So I taught him to pray that day.
Anyway, I’ll save you the rest of the story by telling you that this kid wasn’t “saved” that day. He didn’t pray “the prayer,” and we didn’t baptize him. But I’d like to think that God got through to him that day.
God reached out to him.
And still hoping, three months later, that this kid reached back.
So maybe I “evangelized” and maybe I didn’t. But I do know that I got to share the love of Jesus with that kid.
And that is all that matters.
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For more from Adrian, check out his blog, Life before the Bucket, and follow his musings on the Twitter.
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Have you ever had an unexpected moment of Grace, like that? Where maybe the conversation made an impact, and maybe it didn't - but either way, you're glad it happened...

Once upon a time, we took a short line from the Bible and we turned it into a life song for girls. We slapped it on silver promise rings and we stamped it on rubber bracelets. We emblazoned it on fitted v-neck T's, engraved it in hinged lockets, and chickified it in every way imaginable. Then we developed flowery, heart themed girls-retreats around it to ensure that our daughters would embrace it.

      "Above all else, guard your heart..."
                                    Proverbs 4:23

We admonish our girls to guard their hearts, and we warn them about "giving away pieces of their heart" in the form of every kind of love to the unworthy slobs they hang out with after school. Then we wind their "heart" up with their virginity so tight it becomes a two-fer-one deal - in the process of guarding their hearts, we end up guarding organs south of border. It's a pretty brilliant plan, when you think about it.

Oh, and we train our boys, too, but not to guard their heart. To our boys we say,"For the love of God, avert your eyes and keep your johnson in your pants."

I'm, like, kind of an authority on guys because I have a husband who is a guy, and I have lot of friends who are guys, and, also, I have a bunch of kids who are all guys. So yeah, listen to me when I say that it turns out guys really don't talk about their hearts that much. In fact, most of the guys I know don't talk about their heart at all. And I'm guessing 90% have never, ever been told to guard their heart. Probably because everybody knows that's totally a chick thing to do.

As the mother of 2.8 teenage sons, I win the awkward award for trying to engage dudes in these conversations. When I start talking about heart stuff, the eye rolling gets so intense it blows my hair back. This makes me nervous, so I do that thing where you try way too hard to be hip and relatable and end up saying stupid crap, like, "The Bible says you need to guard your heart...dawg."  And then my kids shake their heads, "No, Mom... Just, no." So then I say something even more idiotic, like, "I'm just bein' straight wichyou. My boy, Solomon, was, like, the wisest brother to ever walk the planet and it's his advice, not mine, Bro." And then, naturally, one of them will point out that they are, in fact, not my "bro".

It's all very embarrassing. And worthwhile.

I don't think that our men are reminded often enough that they need to guard their hearts.

We teach them to guard their eyes, but I want my sons to know and understand that what porn does to their eyes isn't what will break them, it's what it does to their heart that will eventually leave them empty and hurting.

And we teach our men to guard their junk, to keep it in their pants, but I want my sons to know and understand that what promiscuity does to their loins isn't what will break them (although herpes is no cakewalk), it's what it does to their heart that will leave them lonely and aching for more.

I want my kids to get it when I tell them that the greatest thing they can bring into marriage will be their own well-guarded heart. A heart that, for all of its years and to the best of its ability, has borne the wisdom of Solomon; "For they are life to those who find them and health to a man's whole body."

When I look around the church, when I talk amongst my friends, when I peek into the world - I see men who are broken and hurting, men tied to their addictions, men out of control, men drowning in lust, so many men longing for peace and grace and mercy, and in desperate need of restoration for their tattered and broken hearts. Hearts that have gone unguarded for far too long. And I want to break this verse like an alabaster jar over their brows. I want to pour out the perfume of Redemption on their lives. I want to release the words of Solomon to his sons, that they may be free to take up their spears and stand guard over their own hearts, because their hearts are worthy of the effort.... above all else....

                  "Above all else, guard your heart,  for it is the wellspring of life."
...above all else..... above all else.... above all else..... guard your heart, Bro. 

I've got these boots, like the kind of brown knee-high riding boots you see everywhere these days, and I wear them all the time.

I like them just fine in Costa Rica, because not as many people in Costa Rica have riding boots, so when people see them they think they're pretty cute. But when I wore my boots in the states, I hated them because all the girls had boots and all of their boots were way better than my boots. So that made me feel all self-conscious and stuff, like everyone who saw me was judging me for wearing cheap-ass boots that I paid $8 for after buying them on super-duper sale at Old Navy and using a gift card.

The truth is, I will be sick of knee-high riding boots in a year and I'll probably never wear them or want to see them again. And I live on a tight budget, so my $8 investment was the only one that made sense. For me, it was $8 boots or no boots. But still, I felt kinda lame standing next to the girls with nicer, cooler, hipper boots. Which was, basically, all the girls.

Sometimes I feel myself leaning harder into the world than I ought to. And this was one of those times. I felt an inkling of resentment for my chosen lifestyle, coveting the things I want but can't have.

Pinterest messes with my head like that, too. Seriously. It does something to me.

If you're not sure what Pinterest is (and there are only 3 possible reasons why don't know about Pinterest: 1. You live in a cave and have no friends, 2. You're a hamster, so your hands are too small to use the internet, or, 3. You have a penis.), it's an online collection of fabulous ideas, like a pin board for all your most favorite internet finds - which you can then share with other people who can "pin" them on their boards. It's pure genius!

But I've fallen into a love/hate relationship with Pinterest.

I love it because it inspires the artist in me. It gets my crafty juices flowing and makes me want to make my home a better, more beautiful place to live. It pushes me to take more pictures. It excites me to make delicious meals. It leads me to "upcylce" my clothes, and has made my tired, old wardrobe kinda fun again. It has even helped to spur the athlete hidden underneath this veneer of old-lady blubber.

But it does something else, too.

Sometimes it makes me unhappy with what I've got - even when what I've got is perfectly fine, liiiiike pleather boots that make your feet sweat like an oiled hog on a summer day, for example.

Occasionally, as I'm scrolling through Pinterest at midnight, I forget that while I want to live in the world, I don't want to be of the world. I want to be relevant and modern, and I want to be approachable, but the invisible line between "relevant" and "materialistic" is easily blurred. And using the term "approachable" as an excuse to be self-serving is a terrible kind of hypocrisy.

So I made a little list to keep myself on the up and up...

To pin for good and not for evil:

Cupcakes:
Good: Find awesome new cupcake flavor, pin it, make 2 dozen and share with friends.
Evil: Find awesome new cupcake flavor, pin it, immediately drive to bakery to buy one, ok two, at $3 a piece... and a latte. Eat in car. Feel ashamed.

Clothes:
Good: Find cute outfit with pieces similar to what you've got in your closet, pin it, wear it.
Evil: Find cute outfit that you have no hope of ever owning, pin it, drool over it. Get pissed off every time you open your closet and it's not in there.

Food:
Good: Find new ways to cook healthy meals, pin them. Eat up.
Evil: Find new ways to cook crappy food in the form of cupcakes; meatloaf cupcakes, bacon cupcakes, macaroni and cheese cupcakes, pin them. Eat up. Die young.

Fitness:
Good: Find "10 Easy Steps to an Ass You Can Bounce a Quarter Off Of", pin it. DO IT!
Evil: Pin ALL the glistening, hard-bodied, 110 pound girls. Hate self. Keep surfing Pinterest instead of working out.

You can see how easy it is for me to slip into that weird place where rather than being inspired to do something awesome, I become either self-indulgent or self-loathing. The key for me, as I'm clicking around on Pinterest, or playing the comparison game with chicks with cute boots, is to remember to ask myself -

Will I use this to conform to the pattern of the World, or will it lead to the renewing of my mind (body or spirit) which pleases God?
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Are you on Pinterest? or are you a dude... just kidding.
Have you experienced the dark side of pinning?
What would you add to your personalized "Pin for Good and not for Evil" list?

Oh, and if you're interested, here are my boring boards on Pinterest.

My husband is practically famous in Costa Rica.

Ever since he started coaching and playing North American football we get stopped everywhere we go by people who want to shake his hand, "Hey, you're that football guy!" We're walking through the mall and people nod at him, "Hey, Coach!" We're waiting for a pizza and there's some old man to say, "I saw your team playing in La Sabana."  He's at the DMV and the girl behind the desk is all, "Don't you play for the Rhynos?"

I guess you could call him kind of... notorious.

Just this morning I was stopped by the guard at my kids school and he said, "Eres la esposa del Gigante Barbudo, verdad?!" (You're the wife of the Bearded Giant, right?!)

Yup. That's me. I'm the wife of the Bearded Giant. 

Everybody knows who he is. And me? Well, I'm like the base player to his lead singer - everybody knows I belong with him, but nobody really knows my name. Some people might have a hard time living in El Chupacabra's shadow (and, if I'm being honest, I'll tell you that I do sometimes get jealous of his ability to grab life by the nuts), but the reality is that I don't mind taking the backseat one bit. Actually, I kind of love it.

I'm incredibly proud of my man. 

But it's not because of that oh-so-glorious beard...


And it's not because of his above average stature...


...I mean, I do love these things, and I do think they make his bones totally jump-worthy, but those aren't the things that make me feel like I won some kind of marriage lottery. Nope. The thing that makes me swoon, the big thing that makes me feel lucky to be his wife - the wife of the Bearded Giant, the Goose to his Maverick, the fries to his BigMac, the Thumper to his Bambi - that thing is that his love for Jesus is unmistakeable.

His love for Jesus is unrelenting. 


His love for Jesus is unflappable. 


His love for Jesus is uncontainable. 

And because of these things, my love for Jesus has become more and more tangible, more real, more mature and more noteworthy.

And, really, besides all that, what kind of self-absorbed a-hole doesn't like to see their spouse succeed?!  Not this kind. *points to self*

Anyway, aaaaall of that to say that El Chupacabra and some of his players were recently featured on an episode of La Media Docena, which is a Costa Rican sketch comedy show (think Saturday Night Live). If you don't speak Spanish, this clip will mean nothing to you, so you'll have to trust me when I tell you that it's pretty darned funny!

The premiss of the skit is that there was a mistake when the football team's owner booked a guy to pump up the players with a pre-game speech and they end up with a preschool teacher instead. I think El Chupacabra is a natural.



Yeah, I know... he's amazing. Hit me up if you want his autograph.

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Brag about your spouse - DO IT! Ready...Set...GO!!!
If you're not married, brag on somebody (ANYBODY) you're super proud of!

Today's contribution to Missionary Positions comes from Sandra, the chick with the coolest hair on Twitter. I love what she brings to the conversation:
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The Do-Nothing Missionary
Everyone once in a while I’ll schedule a do-nothing day. I’ll literally walk over to the calendar—the one I’m usually too busy to update—and write, nay, DECREE a do-nothing day. Once it’s written, that date is as immovable as my lazy bum on a do-nothing day.
All the energy typically be spent running frantic from one obligation to another is spent simply being. The “look good, feel good, be right, and be in control” mask comes off. And for an entire and glorious day, I can rock my Zuul the Gatekeeper hair and hobo-esque attire and be authentic.
That’s where my mission field is. In that sweet spot of being relaxed, authentic, and, sadly, still frizzy haired—even on a do-something day. I get rid of that all-too-familiar anticipation. The kind that waits for the moment to interject some eternal truth when a friend just wants to talk about the best black and tan she’s ever had.
It’s not that I go around being as fake as the weight on my driver’s license. It’s just, I don’t want to be a loner, Dottie. No one does, for that matter.
We’ve each, to some degree, developed the socially acceptable self (the one that talks about the weather and how work is going and how the kids are doing) and hidden the real self (the one that says gray days make them sad and work is fleeting compared to your passion and the kids are slipping away because you’re never there).
Strutting our socially acceptable selves seems especially common among believers, where we feel the pressure to make disciples of all nations, and teach them the ways, and have the joy, joy, joy, joy down in our hearts.
But you know what I discovered?
In my effort to make disciples of my nonbelieving friends, I identified them as nonbelieving rather than simply my friend.
In my effort to teach them the ways, I told them the ways and disagreed with theirs.
In my effort to have that joy, joy, joy in my heart, I hidden the sad, sad, sadness that sometimes creeps in.
I was douchey. And completely unrelatable. (‘Cause, really. Who wants to relate to a douche?)
So on my calendar, and in my heart, I’ve decreed a do-nothing day mentality all day every day. Because when I see my friends as separate from their beliefs, they feel accepted. When I stop trying to convince people of my beliefs, they feel at ease. (Quite contrary to my get-paid-to-do-this mission of apologetics, by the way.) And when I share my sufferings with others, they feel safe to do the same.
In other words, my mission is to do nothing. Just be.


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Want more? You can follow Sandra's musings on the Twitter machine. Trust me, you'll love her!


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When was your last "Do Nothing Day"?
Ever considered adopting a "do nothing" attitude toward discipleship and evangelism? 

*On a side note*  If I wasn't so chicken-shit, I would totally do something amazing with my hair. Maybe on my next (first?) do-nothing day, I'll man up and go crazy. 

Yesterday this popped up in my Twitter mentions:

I loved it for 3 reasons:

1.  The guy is asking for pointers - I'm always impressed by people who ask questions and seek direction. 
2.  The tweet itself reads ever so slightly passive-aggresive, which means that Nowhere Man and I could probably be BFF's in real life. 
3.  Duh. I'm a missionary - Hoping that a person will give the Bible a chance is, like, what I do.

Also? This really resonated with me because when I first became interested in the whole Jesus thing, someone gave me a Bible and I practically ran home because I was so excited to dive in. But, unlike my twitter friend, Nowhere Man, I wasn't smart enough to ask for suggestions as to the best way to do that. So, since the Bible is a book (and I've always been in the habit of starting books in the beginning and ending them at the end) I opened it to page one and just started reading.

Now, you may already know this, but the Bible is kinda... weird.

No one had ever mentioned that to me before.

I had always heard the Bible described with words like 'inspiring' and 'true' and 'life-changing'.

No one ever warned me that the old Testament is forever talking about creepy things like incest and murder and foreskin. And everybody is raping everybody. And they're stealing everybody's wives and their cattle and their inheritance and junk. By the time you get to Leviticus, you might be horrified disgusted appalled alarmed by the constant spilling of blood and semen, and the all too regular seduction of men by their daughters, and sons who fool around with their step-Moms, and by all kinds of whoring and concubining, and family betrayal, and the killing of babies, and other completely messed up stuff that you just weren't expecting. And you might be inclined to close the Bible and push it across the table wishing you could unread some of it, because you feel like, "Seriously, God?! What was that about?!"

It's that weird. 

And that's exactly what happened to me. I sat down and started reading in Genesis, ready for the all the words I'd ever heard about the Bible to come true, ready for all of its wisdom and truth and to come pouring into my soul. And maybe some little part of me really did believe that I'd open up this ancient text and be instantly moved, indwelled by some kind of Spiritual understanding, and that it would change my life forever and ever. But that's not even close to what happened.

Instead, I opened the Bible, read a few chapters, and closed it - feeling confused and kinda disturbed.  I was disappointed. And I was pretty sure I wouldn't be diving back in for more anytime soon. I didn't find it relatable, or even sensible. Mostly, it just left me scratching my head, like "For real?!"

Luckily, around that same time a dear friend invited me to a Bible study at her house. I was beyond reluctant, but I went anyway - probably because someone promised brownies. The people in that group never made me feel like a dumbass for my Bible-idiocy. Like, I practically lost my nut when someone pointed out that the Bible had a Table of Contents, right there in front (Who knew?!), but nobody acted like I was a moron for not knowing that. That group would continue to walk with me, slowly and carefully, through the pages of the Bible for years to come. They became the friends who would guide me past the weird stuff I'd gotten hung up on in my first foray and on to other themes, good stuff, like Grace and Mercy and Hope. It was with that same group of spiritual caretakers that I would first read through the Gospels, hear from James and Paul, and learn the plight of the early church. And from those fellow lovers of Jesus, I would come to understand the Bible as one whole story, with its greatest message being the sum of its parts... even the weird parts.

Which brings me to my two big awesome tips for reading the Bible:

1. DON'T START AT THE BEGINNING (because it will freak you out)!
I asked El Chupacabra what advice he would give a first time Bible reader and he recommended starting off by reading the Gospels in chronological order (Bible-y folks call this a "Harmony of the Gospel" because Christians can't be trusted to use secular words, like "chronology"). This method will have you bouncing around a bit, but it can give you a cohesive idea as to how Jesus lived, taught, traveled and spent his time. I'm a fan. And, yes, El Chupacabra is a genius.

2. DON'T GO IT ALONE! Find someone whom you trust, and who is farther along than you are in the process of following Jesus, and study the Bible WITH that person (or, better yet, people). And ask a TON of questions. Also? Use the bazillion resources at your fingertips to find answers to your questions. (*hint* When not being used to feed ugly porn habits, the internet can be a rich source of material related to understanding the Bible. Help yourself.... to the Bible stuff, not the porn stuff. Stay away from the porn stuff.)

And the only other thing I would add to my list of super-incredible-how-did-I-not-think-of-that-?!-Bible-reading-tips-of-the-Century is....

GIVE IT TIME.

Let it marinade. Let yourself stew in it for a bit.

For me, understanding the Bible is a process. I had to learn to give it time to sink in. I had to soak it up. I had to wrestle with it for a long while before any of it made any sense at all. But I find that the more time I spend with it, the more of it I am able to take on. I don't always get it. I still close it sometimes to push it across the table and scratch my head in confusion. But, for me, one thing is certain; Having a Savior isn't just an idea that I carry in my head anymore, it has become a Truth which has penetrated my very flesh and bone, it beats in time with my heart, whispers in my breath, and stirs my soul... 

And I pray, Nowhere Man, as you begin to search the wonder and weirdness of the Bible, that the same may be true for you.

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Does the Bible ever confuse the crap out of you? 
What tips would you give to someone cracking open the Bible for the first time?

Today's post comes to us from Julie Shreve (who I met in real life at a bloggers meet up last month in Atlanta! How cool is that?! and) who shows us that sometimes, even in real estate, it's best to just shut up and listen. Love it!
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How a real estate agent does it
When I first started in real estate a few years ago I did a lot of talking.  I could tell you what I thought were the coolest and best features of each room.  I would let you ask me questions, and then I would come up with an answer as best I could.  Sometimes it was the exact answer you were looking for. Sometimes it was, “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
I did a lot of talking.
In fact, I did way more talking than I sold homes. 
What I had forgotten is that you could see all of these things for yourself.  It was just my job to invite you to look and then let you in. 
I had to readjust my priorities.  I didn’t get into the job to talk people into buying a house that they didn’t really want.  I got into real estate to help people find a place to love, a place where they  would want to spend the rest of their lives and, most importantly, a place to call home.
Come to think of it, that’s not why I’m a follower of Christ either.  I don’t invite people to church so I can talk them into this religion thing.  It’s my job to meet you where you’re at and invite you in.  I want you to come see the wonderful things that Christ has to offer, but it’s not my job to try and convince you that this is the way you need to go.  I can’t forget that you’re invited to look and see for yourself. I can't talk you into anything.  
So I talk a lot less about houses these days.  I try to engage you in conversations about what you like and what you don’t like, whether it be something to do with a house or your favorite yoga class.  I want to know you.  That’s the most important thing. 
Because the longer I go through this life, the more I find that it’s not what you say.  It’s how you listen.  And it’s not what you do.  It’s how you love.
Do you find it as hard as I do to just sit and listen?


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You can find more from Julie on her blogs, The Esau Project and Run with the Big Girls, and catch her on Twitter. 

Our car wouldn't start this morning. Nothing new there.
It's sitting down the street, where it ended up after my husband and son pushed it in an effort to pop-the-clutch. Sadly, no amount of clutch-popping could bring it to life this morning, so it will just have to sit there until a mechanic can come take a look.
I walked in the house, frustrated over the car, and I looked out the back door into what used to be the yard, but is now an overgrown white-trash jungle ever since our mower kicked the bucket. There's just no money to fix it. 
There's no money to fix anything.
“It's ok.” That's what I told myself. I took a deep breath, gazing over waist-high grass, and I reminded myself that we can live with an embarrassing yard and we can also live without a car. And while I feel mostly sure about the yard, the car thing has me a little more confounded since we have kids to shuffle back and forth to school and work stuff that can't be ignored - But still, we'll live. We'll be ok.
I can't fix cars, but I can fix breakfast, so I offered to make my husband something since he was home waiting for the mechanic. I told myself to be grateful as I pulled out the toaster, because it's on its last leg and must be watched carefully lest things catch fire, but hell, it still makes toast. And then I grabbed a pot holder to prop up my frying pan. It has a broken handle and the bottom is warped so that it wobbles on the burner while you're cooking, but a couple of pot-holders, folded just so, and you're good to go. I snagged a couple of eggs and the bread from the pantry, thankful for the food at my disposal. And that's when I saw the butter.
My black cat from hell had licked the butter.
Aaaand? I completely lost my shit.
I started pacing back and forth. Tears burned my eyes and my heart began to pound, because DAMMIT, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT BUTTER COST?! I have seen that cat put his tongue on parts of his anatomy that don't even have names - they're that obscure and disgusting. Now my butter is all contaminated with stuff that comes from those parts. How, God?! How will we ever survive if we CAN'T EVEN MAKE EGGS AND TOAST?! Life washed over me like an ocean as I stood in my kitchen in despair because my cat chewed his balls and then licked the butter. I mean, WHAT WILL I EVER DO?!?!
I am a time bomb attached to an hourglass, the sands of anxiety spill through a tiny hole in my heart, collecting higher and higher. I'll carry all this weight around with me, until that last bit of sand, the tiniest little thing, crushes my spirit. And then? Ka-boom!
My problem is not that my cat is the spawn of Satan, himself, sent to destroy me. (Although, he is.)
My problem is that my car broke down and everything else around me seems to be crumbling into chaos and the grass is trying to swallow the house and there's no money to fix anything and one of my kids has a crappy grade in math and he's giving me all kinds of attitude about it and my pants are too tight and I didn't sleep very well because I sensed some kind of tension between me and El Chupacabra and even though I don't know what it is I know it's there because our feet weren't touching in bed and I'm overwhelmed with a project and we carved pumpkins last night which was super fun but the whole time my heart was twisting inside of my chest because my oldest child will be moving out next summer and that might have been the very last time that our family sits around a table together stabbing gourds with knives and... you know... I really haven't been the kind of Mom I wanted to be for him... and now I'm out of time. And the cat licked the butter.
And just like that, the hourglass is full. It can handle no more. So the time bomb goes off in the kitchen, over the quarter inch print of a cat-tongue in the butter dish. And I appear, for all the world, to be a humongous spaztard with a complete inability to cope, when, in fact, I'm just like anybody else who is drowning in the sands of time, overwhelmed by how fast the world is happening around them. Cars growing too old. Grass growing too tall. Marriage growing too cold. Work growing too demanding. And kids, Oh!, these kids - they're growing up way too fast.
So, I poured some coffee and I told God in no uncertain terms that I don't think I can handle it anymore. “I'm done. I'm tired. I just can't handle any more of... anything.”
And God was like, “You can't handle it?...What on Earth made you think it was yours to handle in the first place?"
Then, as if to teach me a lesson, the mechanic showed up and started our troublesome car with no trouble at all, I got a positive email from the math teacher, and fifty bucks arrived in my Paypal account. Like magic. But not. 
And I realized that I had tied myself to the hourglass, forgetting, first, that it always leads to a time bomb, and second, that Jesus, in his great mercy to humanity, has offered us a different burden to carry, saying:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” And I love that he's not saying “La la la, I'll make your life easy!” but instead he says learn from me and I'll teach you how to carry your burdens in a new and better way, a gentle and humble way, a way that doesn't include you drop-kicking a cat. And then he shows you, as you walk together, where to find Peace when your bank account is empty, and Hope when your kid is giving you crap, and Rest when your marriage is wearing you out, and Grace, so much Grace, when your baby walks out the door, a grown man. It's an invitation to ditch the hourglass.  ....       .....      .... Have you ever felt like a time bomb, ready to go off at any moment?..... No? Oh. Well, what if your cat licked the butter?!