Lessons from the Other Cross

On Easter, especially, we take time to reflect on the cross where Jesus died.  As I lay in a hospital bed last month, weeping in despair, I realized the lesson I needed to learn was actually from the other cross.

In Luke 23:40-43 we read, "But the other criminal rebuked him. “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence?  We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.'  Jesus answered him, 'Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'”

It is a safe assumption that the two thieves in the Easter story were just that, thieves. One admitted as much. And although the “good thief" asked Jesus to remember him in his kingdom, it struck me that he didn't ask for Jesus to save him from his cross. No last minute appeal from death row,  just a cry for mercy. And it is mercy that Jesus granted him. Of course Jesus could have saved the thief from his earthly consequences.  Instead he promised eternal salvation.

So often I find myself on a cross my own making. I battle the sins that plague my human nature and lose more times than I win. The result of my sin frequently leads to deep suffering and sorrow,  feeling abandoned by God, hopeless, and ultimately in despair. It is at exactly this time that I must remember that while Jesus sometimes saves me from myself, there are consequences for my actions here on earth. That doesn't mean God has abandoned me, but instead that He loves me so much more. Instead of a quick fix to my temporal problems, He offers me eternal redemption.

This Easter, take a moment to focus not just on Christ's resurrection, but on the thief who rose with him to glory. Both died that day, but Christ's death overcame sin once for all. And in the end, that is the better story.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:  Earthly circumstances are small relative to the enormity of our salvation through Christ.


PRAYER: Heavenly Father, you love me with a love that is difficult for me to comprehend. A love that doesn’t remove me from my circumstances, but instead loves me regardless of my circumstances. Help me truly understand that the gift of your Son is better than sanctuary from any earthly pain, sorrow, or even discipline. When I struggle, help me remember the best part of the story, that someday I will be with you in paradise. Amen.

(Photo credit: fiftypercentchanceofrain)

Wiaiting to be Pursued

My best friend and I headed to Jr. Prom.

Some of you knew me in high school, so for me to blog 20 years later and say I was popular would definitely catch me in a lie.  As opposed to playing sports, I was in band.  In fact, I was the leader of the band, which one might think would earn me some cool points, but strangely works quite the opposite in high school.  However, among my circle of band, drama, and speech cohorts, I suppose I had some amount of popularity.  Looking back at scrapbooks and photo albums, it seems that I dated quite a few different guys.  If you knew me in high school you also know that may be somewhat of a lie.  I dated a lot.

It was the same in my first year of college, although attending one of the top music schools in the country, knowing how to wield a sax was more of a draw than a setback.  

What I can see now that I couldn't see so much at the time was the thing that I enjoyed so much about dating was that I was actively being pursued.  In fact, I dated people that I knew I had no future with just because I enjoyed the feeling of being wanted.  This was true from the boy who pursued my first kiss right up to the boy who followed me to my car every day after class in college and eventually pursued my hand in marriage.

Recently, I was going through one of those boxes, you know the kind you stuff with little what-nots from high school that you will never use again, but just like to have so you can prove to your kids that you actually know a little something about being 16.  I came across something that flooded me with memories of how good it felt to be pursued by someone who loved me unconditionally - even at 15, which believe me, defies all reason.  As I looked at it, I realized it was time to let it go.  Literally. Not just because I'm married and the only man that I should want to want me is the man I sleep with every night (who coincidentally is my husband).

But more-so because I realized I shouldn't find my worth from any man pursuing me, even the one I sleep with every night.


My worth should be settled solely on being pursued by the God who made the universe.  And His pursuit is relentless.  Even when I turn my back on Him, yell and scream at Him, or ignore Him completely, still He pursues.  I am worth something because He made me.  I am worth something because He is willing to pursue me to the ends of the earth, or the end of myself.  Like the parable in Luke 15 where the shepherd is willing to leave the 99 sheep to find the one who wandered, my God will never give up His pursuit.  And it is not because I'm perfect.  All of the boys who have ever pursued me, including my husband, will attest to that.   

It is because I am His child.


And so are you.

You may not know it yet. Or you may not believe it, but God is pursuing you.  And like a lovesick teenager, He won't stop until you notice Him.  Maybe in a sunrise. Maybe in a storm.  Maybe in the sparkle of your baby's eyes. Maybe not until you hit rock bottom and have no where else to look.  But once you notice Him, He will keep pursuing you to the ends of the earth, or the end of yourself.

And when you really let that set in, that the God who made the universe takes the time to chase little old you,  it doesn't matter if you give the high school letter jacket back to your first boyfriend.  It doesn't matter if your husband doesn't always look at you like he did when you were first dating.  It only matters that the One who rules the universe, who rises and sets the sun, who gave you breath, who is all powerful and all good . . . it matters that He knows you to the very core and despite that, He will never give up His pursuit.  He will never stop wanting you.

Now that's a love story I can live with.

Waiting for 7 a.m.

My week started great. A little girls' trip with my mom to not just one, but two outlet malls. No worries about calorie counts, just good food, conversation, and country music blaring on the radio.

On our way home we decided to stop at IKEA. Neither of us had even been, and since we didn't have the boys or kids with us, we figured we could just wander for a few hours. Which is exactly what we did. For those of you who have never been to an IKEA, it is like Pottery Barn, Garden Ridge, Lowes, Rooms to Go, and Crate and Barrel had a baby. And then that baby grew into a giant.  The highlight was a restaurant right in the middle of the store. Not only this, but they sold giant Swedish dark chocolate bars.

Of course I bought 3, which not only saved me $.50, but insured we had dessert and snacks for our journey home.

We devoured the first bar and I put the other two in my purse for safe keeping. At some point, probably when I was trying to find my keys in the endless abyss that is my purse, I moved the chocolate from my purse to my overnight bag.

This morning mom joined me at the grocery store, since our pb&j sandwiches no longer had the pb or the bread, so we were reduced to eating jelly straight out of the jar.

When we unloaded the car, I thought I would be a sweet mommy and let our ten year old beagle Rocky back in the house. We were leaving for a few hours, and as they say on Phineas and Ferb, he doesn't do much.

That is unless he sniffs out the chocolate bars in your overnight bag. Then he magically grows temporary thumbs with which he open the packages and eats both. Then he decides there may be other treats stashed around the house as well. This leads to pulling the coat rack off the wall, taking Anna's backpack and dragging it to her room, where, using his magic thumbs, he opens the zipper takes out her daily folder and opens it. Clearly he didn't think much of the spring break homework, because that is the first place he decided to throw up. 

While trying to calm a daughter who now has dog vomit in her homework folder, I step in the second pile. In bare feet. On the kitchen floor. Richie's dog (which is what I call him when I am angry) gets banished to the back yard where he howls, whines, whimpers, and I'm sure throws up more for two hours. At some point I have to let him in, because we have neighbors, and they aren't incredibly fond of a beagle bay that can be heard for five blocks. Once inside he immediately throws up on the carpet I just cleaned.

Bed time comes and I cover the bottom of my bed and the floor in my room with old towels and blankets, which I figure will be much easier to clean than carpet. But now, Richie's dog has decided he needs to go outside, urgently, every time I drift off to sleep which sums up about 17 times. Finally I give up and move to the couch, because it is closer to the back door. While waiting for him to come back in at around 4 a.m. I Google chocolate+dogs. You may already know this but all the top links have an equation something like this; chocolate+dogs=death. Death chances are increased when the chocolate is semi sweet (mine was) and European. I'm horrible at geography, but I'm guessing Swedish chocolate falls somewhere in that category.

So now I panic. Richie is on a mission trip in Spain (where they probably also sell lethal chocolate) and I'm sitting here on the couch praying that God won't let anything happen to our family's first baby while I anxiously await 7 a.m., the time our vet opens.

I already feel the tears of embarrassment welling in my eyes as I have to explain to the vet why my dog (who is allergic to everything, including dog food) just ate two jumbo sized IKEA dark chocolate bars.

I've literally been up all night, and I see no sense in trying to sleep for the next 31 minutes so I blog.

I have no profound wisdom from this post, and I realize, other than Anna being able to tell her teacher "the dog threw up on my homework" this post lacks the humor and wit I usually bring. But I just needed someone else out there to feel my pain, stupidity, and exhaustion, and if you read this far, I'm guessing you either love animals or me, so say a little prayer that Richie's dog and I both make it to 7 a.m. and that in some miraculous way, IKEA chocolate is beagle friendly.

Waiting to Be Still

My three year old has decided to give up naps.  To some of you, this may not seem like a big deal.  To those of us work from home parents, you realize that naps are like the Ark of the Covenant.  They are rare, precious, and contain in them all of the makings for a peaceful world with direction, forgiveness and patience.  You also know that to lose this precious artifact is akin to losing your best friend.  

So I was not going down without a fight.  Unfortunately, neither was he. 

My compromise was to let him nap in my bed with me.  He got to lie down. I got to lie down.  Win-win.  Well, no laundry got done, but I still call it a win.

You know those mattress commercials where one person is jumping on the bed and the glass of wine doesn't spill?  Have you ever noticed they don't use children in those commercials, and it isn't just because a toddler in bed with a glass of wine is kind of inappropriate.  It is because no matter how little the child, when they move in bed, you are going to feel it.  Every fidget, kick, roll, taking off their socks, putting their hands over their eyes, their ears, your eyes, your ears. You feel it all. 

This is the case for our recent nap times.  The number of times I've uttered the words "Be still," must be somewhere in the thousands. When I'm really serious, I gently place my hand on his chest and whisper softly in his ear, because for some reason my kids know if I'm whispering, I'm not messing around.

Turns out, I'm way more like my three year old than I desire to admit. For years Psalms 46:10 has been my favorite verse.  ""Be still, and know that I am God;"  Unfortunately, knowing a verse and applying the verse are two very different things.  

I was recently in the hospital for several days.  By day two I was feeling physically better and was more than ready to go home.  The doctors didn't share my enthusiasm.  They told me it would be at least two more days before I could be discharged.  

I'm not a huge fan of hospitals to begin with, but when you are feeling good they start to seem more like a prison.  A prison where nobody wants you to sleep.  Every two hours, all day and all night, someone is coming in your room to check something, administer something, or just to wake you up and make sure you are still breathing. For a gal who has trouble sleeping in the best of circumstances, sleeping in a hospital was impossible. So I moved the bed up and down, fluffed up pillows, flattened pillows, paced around the room, listened to music, watched re-runs of Seinfeld (it is on at 2 a.m. in case you are looking for it).  My patience waned and my frustration increased.  

Finally, on night three as I once more lamented the fact I was still trapped, it was as if I literally felt God gently put His hand on my chest and say, "Kristen, it is time to be still."  

I still didn't want to be in the hospital, the bed was still uncomfortable, and the nurses still woke me up every time I drifted off.  But something changed.  My heart softened and I felt at peace. Given how I feel about hospitals, finding peace inside one is sort of like my three year old volunteering to nap.  It doesn't happen. 

Or rather, it doesn't happen without God.

I don't know what you is making your restless today. Maybe it is health challenges, marital strife, or your three year old giving up nap, but it is a safe bet that if you aren't facing a storm right now you either just emerged from one or are on your way to one. I want to encourage you not just to read the verse, but to claim it as a promise. God is God. He is bigger, stronger, and smarter that you are.  He feels ever toss, turn, kick, and fidget you make and He is right there next to you with his hand on your chest whispering, "Be still."

Because we all need a rest sometimes.

Go Ahead, Judge Me

I like to think of myself as a pretty non-judgmental person.  I also like to think of myself as a size 4, but that doesn't necessarily make it true. 

"Judge not, lest ye be judged" is probably one of the most referenced scriptures in the Bible. Moral debates without a definitive answer, "Well, judge not, lest ye be judged."  Even people that don't believe in God use this as a guiding principle. Kind of like the Golden Rule, only with consequences. 

Turns out, I judge people all of the time.  Maybe not in the "You're going straight to hell" way, but in smaller ways like, "Why would they possibly buy a new car when they can't make the payment on the old one?"  or, "Guess someone had a few too many cocktails before choosing her new hair color."

But my most egregious judgments have been made about how people parent their children.

"What kind of horrible parents let their kids throw a temper tantrum in the middle of the grocery store? Get control of your child."

"That poor kid has no coat.  Do his parents not realize it is 25 degrees out."

"What kind of person yells at her child in the middle of a crowded restaurant?  Seriously, some people should not have children."

In case there is some confusion, these are all judgments that I feel confident have been made about me in the last seven years.  Heck, most of them have probably happened in the last seven days.  What makes it such a bitter pill to swallow is recalling the multitude of times I made similar judgments in my pre-parent days.  Rolling my eyes, rude comments under my breath, disapproving glances, I've done it all.  My judginess probably peaked when I was pregnant with our first child.  Oh, how many times I uttered the words, "That will never happen in my house." As I think back on those days, if I am really quiet, I can actually hear God laughing.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my children and most of the time, they are incredibly well behaved.  But, as my dad says, they are children. Apparently, reasoning with a three year old is different than reasoning with a grown adult (well, most grown adults).  And dang, being a parent is exhausting.  If only I wasn't constantly picking up after them, doing their laundry, packing lunches, brushing teeth, and moderating battles, I would have the common sense to check the weather before I sent my child to school in shorts during a snowstorm. I mean, it is Texas.  Why the heck is would we ever have a snowstorm? If only I had more sleep, more hours in the day, and let's face it, several glasses of wine, I would definitely be more patient.  We would read and play educational games all day long and I wouldn't feel compelled to lock myself in the bathroom just to get three uninterrupted minutes of peace and quiet.

Instead, I have resolved that I will be the woman on the other side of the judgments for the next few years.  Looking back on that scripture, it's clear I earned my place there. 

Curves are Freakin Awesome

Image via WikipediaI am a curvy woman. I have been curvy for as long as I can recall. Sure, there were times when I was skinnier. A couple of times when I was just plain skinny. But even in those skinniest of times, the closest I ever got to wearing skinny jeans was in the dressing room when I tried to pull them on and got as far as my mid calf before the seams started to pop.

Somewhere around sixth grade I developed what I've come to know as "good child bearing" hips. Just what every middle school girl wants. Apparently to hold up such important hips, my thighs had to be substantial as well. I've always had a small waist, so if I ever got promoted out of the A cup to the big D leagues, I could have a perfect hourglass figure.

This became a reality after pregnancy, and his friend the Booby Fairy visited my house. Twice.

Hello hourglass.

I've been various sizes over the past 15 years. There are pictures of me in a size 4, and pictures of me in a size 14 within 18 months of each other. But on any given day, I usually fall somewhere in between.  Say, an 8. Over the last few months, I've been moving farther and farther from that size. Then came the horrible day when I had to pull out my stash of big size clothes (You know, the ones you want to give away because you know you will never be that big again.) Except that you will definitely be that size again. So you stick the Fat clothes in a box marked "Feminine things" hoping your husband will never open the box and discover that his size 6 bride is a size 14 wife.

For the past few months, my weight really started to bother me. I would go for a couple days without eating just so I could comfortably zip a pair of jeans. Then I would only eat fruit smoothies for five days, those kind of ridiculous things. And like every dieter I have ever known, I became miserable, depressed, angry, and pretty much a horrible person to be around. This behavior wasn't entirely new to me.  I watched similar patterns growing up. My mother (who is absolutely gorgeous) spent the better part of three decades obsessing about her weight. The lower the number on the scale, the better life got. The larger the number, the worse she felt about herself, about life, about everything.

A few days ago I stepped out of the shower. Since the extra 15 pounds made their way to my life, I make it a point to wrap a towel around me before I get out of the shower so I don't have to face the mirror. For no particular reason on this day I decided to get a look at exactly how bad my body has become.

That's when I discovered it.

My curves are freakin awesome!

I was right in line with American Icon Marilyn Monroe. Better yet, I could be a stunt double for some of the women in Renoir's paintings. This brilliantly curvy body is what men for centuries viewed as the ideal beauty. Curvy women like me have been immortalized in paintings, sculptures, heck, I bet there are idols out there formed after a beautiful curvy woman. Thus leading to my realization that a curvy woman is truly a work of art.

I made another discovery that day. I don't need to lose 15 pounds and I don't need to be a size 6. What I do need to be is healthy. So I'm making a battle plan. My plan is that in the battle of healthy and non healthy choices, healthy wins at least every third time.  Walk a little more, have frozen yogurt instead of ice cream, unless, of course, it is national ice cream day, during which I would be unpatriotic if I didn't eat ice cream.Yeah, I can make healthy work.

If I can be a little healthier, and the result size 10 jeans, I will be content. I will take my curves, and I will rock the size 10 they way it should be rocked, with child bearing hips, post pregnancy exploded breasts,and thighs who hear angles sing when they hear the words "loose fitting" I will feel comfortable in my own skin, because my curves are freakin awesome. Men have known that for centuries. It's time we women caught on.

Waiting for Battle

Image via WikipediaFor the past five years I have had a goal; read all the way through the One Year Bible. The words, "One Year" indicate this should not be a five year project. I should probably give it up, but every year, on some random day, I pick up the One Year Bible, flip to the corresponding day, and start my quest again.

Today was that day.

My One Year Bible follows the following daily format;

• Old Testament reading
  
• New Testament reading
  
• Chapter from Psalms
• One little Proverb

I'm not going to lie to you, those Old Testament chapters are usually what bogs me down. The New Testament is filled with so much hope, joy, and red print to easily identify the most important parts. The Psalms bring comfort and peace in the midst of trials. And who doesn't love Proverbs? Besides being extremely short, they are uber-practical, even for non-believers. "Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife." Proverbs 25:24. Awesome.

But the Old Testament . . . somewhere after the familiar stories of creation, Noah's Ark, and the parting of the Red Sea, it seems filled with war, a bunch of laws that don't make any sense, and pages and pages of names that I can't pronounce.

But since it was my first day back, I opted not to skip the Old Testament reading; Judges 7 a.k.a.the story of Gideon. Being a preacher's kid, I'm familiar with the story of Gideon (I think we even have a Vegie Tales to that effect). But somehow today the story looked different.

Here is the Cliffs Notes version. A giant army (swarming like locusts and too numerous to count) attacks the Israelites and strips the land bare. Then they camp, basically inciting a man-made famine. God's help comes in the form of a man named Gideon, who just so happenes to be a member of the weakest clan around.

Gideon is unsure of this arrangement to say the least, but he rounds up 22,000 men. This rag tag group is about to head to battle when God says something like, "Sorry Gideon, I know you are outnumbered like a million to one, but I think your army is a little big.*" He proceeds to send 10,000 of the men home.

But 12,000 Israelites vs. a gazillion bad guys still seems to be weighted in Israel's favor, so God whittles it Gideon's army down to a measly 300 men. To make matters more interesting He sends them to battle with trumpets and torches. Just trumpets and torches.

Somewhere along verse 2, my life flashed across the pages.

After a year of health, the past month has been filled with trips to the ER, hospital stays, and more blood draws than I care to remember. An abundance of tests (which are starting to look like a swarm of locust) with no answers.

Battle.

I keep fighting, but after every small victory I just get pummeled again.

"You have too many warriors with you. If I let all of you fight the Midianites, the Israelites will boast to me that they saved themselves by their own strength" Judges 7:2

Seriously, God? Too many warriors. At this point, I can barely hold my head up, much less hold a weapon, or even a trumpet for that matter.

Still, I knew it was true. When things are running smoothly in my life, I view my accomplishments with an "I did this" attitude. It is only when I am completely outnumbered, outgunned, and overwhelmed that I finally say, "There is no way in the world I can do this," and look outside myself and into the face of God.

What the April 27 Old Testament reading reminded me is that the more hopeless my circumstances, the more hope I find in Him.

Gideon's tiny army from the weakest clan won their battle. Not because they were stronger, or smarter, or even soldiers for that matter. They won because they knew they couldn't win, so they let Someone else do the fighting.

*This is the Kristen interpretation.