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You Get to Choose

Five Minute Friday

Blogging today with a great community at Lisa-Jo Baker’s “Five Minute Friday”. Click on the icon above to read other five-minute posts on this one word:

CHOOSE

We sit in a circle on the carpet, those six sweet teenage girls and myself. Bibles open in our laps, finding intimacy in this corner of church.

I want them to choose, each one of them, who and what will define them. Will it be the guy they’ve been dating, the words spoken by a not-so-nice “friend”, the grades earned in sophomore English? The illegal substance they take into their lungs late at night? The rail-thin image they work so hard to maintain?

My heart aches for them. It seems not so long along I had to CHOOSE. I’m choosing still, each day, I tell them. We never stop being a girl who wants acceptance, who wants to be loved……who wants to be different.

I ask them to choose the only thing, the one thing, that can fill that cavernous hole in the pit of their souls. I lead them to verses in Ephesians 3.

“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge — that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.”

I tell them that He knew them, even in the womb, and that He has a plan for them, to lead them to become all that He envisioned for them. Before they were created. Before time began.

I hug them and ask them, “Do you believe that?”

They nod, though I see doubt in some eyes.

We pray and I ask the One who chose them to show them how to choose Him.

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When Beauty Is Used To Exploit

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Their names are Nina, Lily and Chrissy. And I just tossed them into the fire.

Beautiful smiles and, yes, lovely bodies. God is a master craftsman. So why did their beauty bring me to tears?

This week, Sports Illustrated unveiled its 50th annual swimsuit edition. A subscription to S.I. has been making its way into our mailbox as a “bonus” to my son’s basketball magazine, and today this issue landed in my hands. I already knew what the cover revealed. It’s been promoted during prime time coverage of the Olympic Games and touted as “historic” by the evening news anchor. The giggling cover girls have been interviewed on morning news shows, and a local hometown television station is claiming bragging rights to the winsome Miss featured on the back cover.

So, as I hold this piece of pornography in my hands, why am I surprised? And why the tears?

Because these lovely girls shoving their behinds at ogling strangers are somebody’s daughters, sisters, even wives. And they are allowing themselves to be used and exploited.

It’s no secret that the sex trade is a booming business around the world and here in the United States. According to a 2011 report by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, an estimated 293,000 American youths currently are at risk of becoming victims of commercial sexual exploitation. Worldwide, it’s estimated that 2.5 million people are victimized for sex. The majority of the trafficking victims are between 18 and 24 years of age. 98 per cent of those victims are women and girls. It’s a $12 billion a year business. (UN.Gift, the Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking)

The selling of sex rises when great sporting events, such as the Olympics, come to town. These lovely, healthy, wholesome-looking girls are contributing to the problem. It is not a far stretch to say that the glossy images offered to our men in living color prompt some to seek out satisfaction for the desires they stir. Sadly, those who are willing to pay will find someone willing to sell.

Beyond their unwitting contribution to an industry I am certain these young cover girls would abhor is the reality that they have decided to identify their own worth by this achievement — posing semi-nude before the world.

As the flames of our wood burner consumed the magazine, there was a knot in my stomach. My four sons get images like these shoved in their faces every day, while people who love them are telling them that sex is to be saved for marriage, that women are to be respected. It is no wonder they are confused. And perhaps disappointed. The women God gives them probably will not look like Sports Illustrated swimsuit models.

It isn’t easy to write about this. I risk embarrassing my sons and husband. Many will consider me a “prude”. But what I know in my gut is that girls like Nina, Lily and Chrissy could choose purity and modesty over self-promotion and easy sex. And they would still be beautiful.

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Remembering Uncle Bill and His Legacy of Love

There were those crazy red neon lips atop the billboard on Lakeshore Drive.

And the alley by the brick high school where we played games on summer nights.

That walk to the little park with the swimming pool that would be full of local kids.

Warm, fragrant “dilly” bread, rich chicken soup with doughy “rivels” and wonderful German cookies and cakes.

Endless card games at the dining room table where the adults got to enjoy wine while we drank soda.

Mass in the beautiful Catholic Church in the center of town, led by the priest who sometimes stopped by the house bringing Fannie May candies for Grandma.

My childhood memories of our summer visits to Chicago center around the grandparents, aunt and uncle who accepted three little girls as their own flesh and blood, and the two cousins who soon became our fast friends. When my dad married my step-mom over 50 years ago, her family opened their arms wide to welcome us, his children. Instant family.

Because my step-mom grew up in Chicago, and her parents and one brother still lived there, we made trips back and forth along U.S. 6 across northern Indiana to the Windy City several times a year.

But summers were the best. We’d stay for a week, maybe two, traveling back and forth between my grandparents’ house on 101st Street in Roseland and my aunt and uncle’s big square house on Union Street in Blue Island. Sometimes our plans would take us by bus into “The Loop” to have a green phosphate at Walgreens. Once, we went with a group to O’Hare Airport to watch the arrival of a famous rock star.

And then there were the trips to the “north side” to visit my two great-aunts. The aunts had never married and shared a second-floor apartment in a brownstone on the city’s north side. I thought they were rich, with their furs and jewels. The romantic story was that one of them once had a “beau” who gave her beautiful things. The late night, dreamy drives back to my grandparents’ house were a blur of city lights, punctuated by those giant neon lips.

So many jumbled memories, flowing into one another, mixed together according to a young girl’s fancy. Warm and sweet and treasured.

Later this week, I’ll make a return trip to Chicago. My uncle — my step-mom’s brother — has passed away. I haven’t seen my aunt and uncle for years, last visiting them in Blue Island during a family trip to take in Chicago’s museums with our young boys. It will be good to gather with my cousins and their mother, to remember the grandparents long gone and my uncle, a good man and a wonderful brother, husband, father, son.

Uncle Bill and his sister, Mary

Uncle Bill and his sister, Mary

When my step-mom (I’ve long since stopped calling her that — she’s just Mom) learned that her brother had died, she said her thoughts flew back 70 years to her 16th birthday. Her older brother made her a dress, blue with a black belt, and sent her 16 roses. Other gifts came over the years, including a set of beautiful rose-patterned china that we use at my house every Thanksgiving.

And nearly every Sunday evening, brother and sister would “catch up” with a telephone call. He was that kind of guy, my Uncle Bill. He will be missed.

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When Blessing Others Means Doing The Dirty Work

My first coherent thoughts as I awoke this morning were prayers that the Lord would bless my youngest son, a college student, on his 19th birthday. And that God would show me how to bless my husband.

My Man has had a rough winter. An independent business owner, he’s been missing our sons who have worked alongside him all these years in this business he runs on our family farm. And between engine breakdowns, icy roads and demanding customers, yesterday was a difficult day. Exhaustion showed in his eyes last night when he finally came in for a very late dinner.

So, when I prayed that God would lead me in ways to make this day better, I was thinking a nice, home-cooked meal with a special dessert and maybe a foot rub.

Then at 8:00 a.m., my husband called.

“I hate to ask, but I really need you to come out here and help me,” he said.

I was still in my pajamas. It was frigid out. I had stuff to do.

“Really?” I said. He had to be kidding. My normal contribution to our family business takes place at a desk, on a computer. Sometimes in my pajamas.

But he wasn’t kidding. He needed help. Now.

I quickly changed clothes, pulled on my rubber boots and a couple of layers of coats and gloves. Ten minutes later, I was on my knees in a pile of scrap wood, fishing out silvery pieces of aluminum. Those bits ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????of metal would spell disaster if they got into our wood grinder, and grinding needed to happen soon if my husband was to meet his customers’ orders for dry animal bedding.

Not exactly what I had in mind when I said that little prayer this morning.

When we tell God to use us, send us, lead us, what do we expect the answer to be? Do we envision a task of our choosing? Do we expect to be called on to do something we’re really good at that will earn us praise for our efforts?

Or are we willing to get on our knees and do the dirty work?

I’ve asked God many times to show me how to be a blessing to others. I don’t always think on my own of the ways I could show Jesus’ love to people who need to know how much He cares for them. That I care for them.

Because I’ve asked, He’s led me to a dump in Honduras, to a village in Nicaragua, to a devastated neighborhood in New Orleans……to a snow-covered pile of scrap wood in rural Indiana.

If I believe God has called me to do big things to bless others, how can I not be willing to answer when he sends me do the little things? The words of James, brother to Christ, convicted me when I first applied them to my life many years ago:

“What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.” James 2:14-17.

The home-cooked meal, special dessert and foot rub can still be offered to my weary Man today. I can tell him what a hard worker he is and thank him for being a good provider. I can even sing his praises to those who will listen. But today, I think he was most blessed and felt most appreciated by seeing his wife doing the dirty work.

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Finding Beauty in a Snowbank

The temperature rose to a balmy 24 this morning and the sun was shining on northern Indiana, so I bundled up, grabbed the snow shovel and went to work on our huge front porch.

We live in a 140-year-old brick house that sits on a rise at the edge of a glacial valley. When the wind sweeps down the hillside into our corner of this valley, it can pile up some pretty remarkable snowdrifts — making for a lot of beauty in the midst of this terrible Winter.

It wasn’t long before I abandoned my shovel and grabbed the camera.

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As I walked around our yard, shooting photos, I drank in the harsh beauty of this Winter that has challenged us. Trapped us. Worn us down. I thought about the warm, fresh beauty of Spring, hidden beneath the layers of cold, heavy snow.

 

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And as I worked at shoveling, I was reminded that often the beauty we long for is covered by a “terrible blast” — something we knew might be coming, but didn’t expect to last so long. Something we’ve dealt with before, but haven’t had the strength to face this time around. Or something unexpected and out of our control.

Life’s terrible blasts — illness, death, injury, fire, brokenness, failure — are something we know will be part of our world, but when they sweep in to overwhelm us, they can cover the beauty of that warm, peaceful existence we had taken for granted. And when they pile up, we fear there’s no way we’ll ever dig ourselves out.

We long for the warmth and beauty of Spring. And maybe we miss the beauty piled at our doorstep.

A few weeks ago, my aunt and cousin suffered a devastating house fire that wiped out everything they own. Though they live in Florida, this was an icy blast that turned their world upside down and sent them seeking shelter. In their time of need, help came from as far away as Indiana, as family and friends covered them in donations and love.

Beautiful.

Seven days ago, a family rejoiced over the good outcome of a dangerous surgery on a nine-year-old who has been on a challenging path since birth. This little boy surprised them all with speedy recovery and a weak smile as his doctors stood by in amazement.

Beautiful.

And just last night, a dear mid-wife friend drove through snowdrifts, down ice-covered roads to bring a new life into this world — then drove the treacherous route back to her own home, arriving safely just as dawn was breaking.

Beautiful.

Then while snow covered our cars in the driveway, a house full of friends and family gathered to celebrate the 18th birthday of a young man bound for California and a new course of study. Good food, crazy wild games, hugs and well-wishes warmed up this terrible winter evening.

Beautiful.

Isn’t that how beauty shows up in the midst of our terrible blasts? In the caring of friends and loved ones. In the cries of a newborn. In the smiles of one who is looking anxiously toward the future. In answers to prayers that go above and beyond what we had asked.

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This snow-covered ground, the drifted road, the white swirling everywhere you look — there’s beauty in that, too. Right where we stand.

I tucked my camera in my pocket and finished clearing off our porch just as a fresh blast of snow swept across the field to the north. Where a moment ago, my world was bright with sunlight bouncing off snowdrifts, it was suddenly shrouded in a snowfall frenzy.

And there was beauty in that, too.

 

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6 Words of Motherly Wisdom for a Teenage Pop Star

JUSTIN-BIEBER

Teenage Pop Star

When the 19-year-old Pop Star gets stopped for speeding and driving while intoxicated, I can’t help but react in the Mom Mode. I’m qualified to do that. As Mom to four male “millenials” (one still in his teens), I’ve had my share of serious conversations around the kitchen table. So, I’m offering to share some motherly wisdom with that wild young man making the news. Six little words that could change his life.

J.B., listen up:

1.  Think. Something my Mom told me years ago, and I’ve repeated to my own kids: “It’s all fun and games until some one gets hurt.” Driving drunk and high doesn’t only put you at risk, innocent people could be hurt or killed by your antics.

2.  Work. Get yourself busy doing something productive. It sounds like you may have a little too much time on your hands. My husband’s cure for boys who are acting up has always been to give them more chores.

3.  Care. About yourself, your future, your reputation, the people in your life. Your Mom and Dad are suffering because of your need to “sow some wild oats”. (And, by the way, strip bars are no place for a nineteen-year-old. I’m sure they’d agree.)

4.  Apologize. You’ve behaved badly, but it’s not too late to change and it’s never too late to say “I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

5.  Respect. Yourself and the others in your life that you’re hurting by your bad behavior. You know better. I’ve seen your Mom talk about raising you as a single parent. She deserves your respect. If you make a few changes in your life, you can respect yourself again, too. At this rate, I can’t think of too many Moms who would be happy to have you dating their daughters. If you don’t respect yourself, it’s doubtful you’ll respect their little girls.

6.  Love. That sounds pretty old-fashioned, but what the heck. Why not love yourself and the people around you enough to behave and treat others with kindness and tolerance. It will come back around.

You’re a good kid. I know you are. Don’t buy into the idea that because you’re a Pop Star and everyone loves you (they don’t, but they used to), you can get away with behaving badly. You’ll get attention, but you won’t be taken seriously. Ask M.C. if her tongue and tooshie tricks are earning accolades.

You’ll soon turn 20. You will no longer be a “teenager.” You’ll be a Man. Maybe it’s time to start acting like one.

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Created to be a ‘Living Stone’

I grew up in a little stone house at the edge of a small Midwestern town. Years before we moved there, a previous owner had covered his simple wood frame house with big rocks of all shapes and sizes. Set together with mortar, like bricks, the stones transformed a plain square structure into a unique, fanciful cottage with curved archways and an attached grape arbor. Growing up in that stone house fueled my childhood daydreams and offered the perfect setting for a little girl’s vivid imagination.

stone house

On warm summer afternoons, my sisters and I often wandered around the perimeter of our stone house, looking at the different rocks, trying to guess where they might have been found. For the longest time, I thought the builder must have hauled them there from exotic sites around the world. I was disappointed to learn later that most were found in the fields in and around my hometown.

During one of those summers I embarked on a quest to read through our set of Encyclopedia Britannica. I spent a good amount of time looking up the names of the rocks, and when my “R” volume of the encyclopedia didn’t yield enough information, I tracked down a guide to rocks and minerals at the library. Searching out the names and descriptions of the rocks that I lived under occupied me for days.

limestoneOf course, I soon lost interest and never did complete my “research”, but I also never tired of running my hands over those stones — rough, sharply jagged, smooth and glossy, porous or striped.

Mingled in with the glistening blacks and speckled browns and smooth grays were quite a few dull white slabs of Indiana limestone. Though lacking in beauty and with a less-than-exotic name and origin, limestone is one of the strongest of natural building materials. Entire buildings are constructed of limestone and have been standing for centuries. The oldest and largest of the Great Egyptian Pyramids was built of limestone block — over 4,000 years ago.

To the East of those pyramids, across the Red Sea and a couple thousand years later, Christ the “living stone” built his earthly church on a “piece of rock”….petros….Peter.

Peter the Rock called Christ “the living stone – rejected by humans but chosen by God and precious to him.” But then he turned around and reminded us in his writings that, as co-heirs with Christ, we “like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood.”

Living stones

pile of stones

gathered together

piled high

built up to become a dwelling place for the Holy Spirit,

designed to represent Christ the King as a “holy priesthood”.

Quite an honor for simple stones.

My childhood home still stands, strong and solid at the end of Fourth Street. It sits empty now. There’s no life inside that cold, beautiful mound of rock, no evidence of the love and warmth that once flamed behind stone-clad walls.

But, unlike stones fashioned into an earthly dwelling, we as “living” stones are gathered together, piled high, built up to testify to the One who dwells within. Upon our doorpost is written the name of Christ the Priest, the Original Living Stone. We stand — a holy priesthood — to point others to “the stone the builders rejected” who “has become the cornerstone” (Psalm 118:22)

“and the one who trusts in him
will never be put to shame.” I Peter 2:6