My facebook has gotten very loud recently. Pictures, cartoons and tweets... status debates and name-calling. I am overwhelmed with the noise of it all, the deafening white noise of an unholy alliance between social media and political obsession.

I am the silent dissenter. Informed, yet searching. Impassioned, yet fallible.

I'm not going to tell you who I will vote for. I'm not going to go on Facebook and bait you into a political discussion. I'm not going to send you email after email about the latest, worst conspiracy. I will not be defined by whom I vote for. My identity is not within one party, but found in - and because of - one Man.

Online political discussions are not worth the time it takes to type a reactionary parting shot. But, if we must, I will tell you in person, a coffee mug or two between us. I will look you in the eyes, answer your questions, and ask you some of my own. I will smile and shake your hand as we stand and part ways. Because people are worth more than politics. 

And if we're going to choose battles, I want to choose this one wisely and fight on the side of grace.

If you'd like to have that coffee, I may just be found here, at Election Day Communion. Find your church, your people - not your party - and eat and drink what's been broken and poured out for you.

"And we’ll re-member the body of Christ as the body of Christ, confessing the ways in which partisan politics has separated us from one another and from God."

How do you cope with election season?

The freedom to be different :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 23}

The most convicting thing I've read all week:

...the first characteristic of grace-based homes is: They are homes that give children the freedom to be different. It is not a grace-based home when parents allow their children to be free but then punish them for being different. If you have a different child and remind her about the sacrifice you've made to accommodate her quirks, it is not a context of grace...

Grace Based Parenting, by Dr. Tim Kimmel (p. 141)

Chocolate for breakfast :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 10}

Ok, so maybe he had a chocolate peanut butter cup for breakfast. And maybe we all slept in well past the point of no return. And maybe the children didn't brush their teeth before school. And maybe the wee lad threw himself down in a fit in front of the door, refusing to put on jacket (or socks, or shoes). And maybe I yelled. A lot.

Still we say I Love You as each one exits the car, off to a day of adventure at school, a day of burning bushes at work. 

And I carry him to the front door of the apartment because the ground is too cold for his bare feet.

And the man sends me a series of texts: Yes, he did mail his voter's registration. Is asher too small/big for a leash? Will I meet him for a lunch date?

Suddenly, life is back to normal... whatever normal is for us. We're so far from perfect or ideal or normal that sometimes I'm suffocated by the weight of what we've created.

And sometimes I turn my head to the sun, rejoicing in the broken beauty of it. 

Amber and honey

I hesitate to write it down, afraid to betray it.

It is her hair that draws me in. Long strands of ribbon, layered in amber and honey along mother's shoulder. She is nestled in tight, asleep to the world, cocooned in warmth and song. Pink toes peek out from behind the chair - bare feet on a hot day - and her skin is so golden I must stop myself from reaching out to feel it's warmth.

As people stand to sing and pray, father takes his turn and mother stands, too. A tall man, he curves his body around hers, slowly, barely, swaying with eyes closed.

Music has quieted and the people reclaim their seats. The girl sleeps in her summer dress, while mother connects syringe to tube, gently feeding. She does not wake when father gives her back to the place she fits best, hidden in mother's womb.

This girl - baby - not yet two, the recipient of the deepest love I have ever seen.

Taking it in, I feel crude and crass. I am an intruder stealing secrets. I yelled this morning, replacing tenderness with nettles. I am ashamed.

But then it washes over me. Mercy rains down in gentle ribbons of amber and honey. It's that feeling when they place that tiny human in your arms, when you are gifted with something invaluable, incalculable. When you know you you're not worthy, and yet it's meant for you.

I take in the moment, so overwhelmed with honour He chose me to witness it. I think I love her, too.

Palm Sunday.

thoughts on the One who loves a sinner anyway

Sometimes I think about the woman caught in adultery, and I wonder, how did they know?

Did she stumble out of the house, or the inn, or the brothel half-naked? Were they listening in, ears to the wall? Was there a stolen sheet, or a misplaced note, or a wandering eye? Did he betray her in the end, after the love was all used up?

And then I think about Jesus, who knows it all. Who knew everything another woman ever did. Who looked her straight in the face knowing and seeing that she had lover after lover after lover. He looked in her eyes, and said, "It's me. I'm the One your soul thirsts for. I'm the One you've been looking and waiting for, never finding, until today."

He saw it all, and loved her and wanted her anyway. And when He came upon the woman caught in adultery, presumably He had seen and known it all, too. Knowing she had cheated on her first love, had lied, was unclean. But still it was the accusers He did away with, called out, questioned. For He saw them as they were, too.

"The sinless one among you, go first: Throw the stone."

He's seen it all. And still wants us anyway. Jesus knows us and still loves us enough to say, "I'm it. I'm all you need...

Now stop it and be with Me."

{ok, so it's a paraphrase, but whatever}

***

I want to love Him better, but the sacrifice and the seeing it all shakes my sinful core. How do you love Him on Good Friday?

Hoarding regret

Today we spoke about our life and work in Ireland to a church that has supported us immensely for the better part of a decade. I love talking about Ireland. I love sharing the names and the faces with old friends who really do care about what's happening on the other side of the world. It makes me smile, swells of love fill my heart, and I think, "Yes, it really is worth it."

Of course, talking about Ireland and the past two years there brings about a couple of other feelings too. There's homesickness, of which I've already written about. And then there's a good bit of regret. You see, there were hard times (shocking, I know!). Days we questioned the task and the job and the God who brought us there. There were some roles we were given that didn't seem like a good fit from the start and which may not have been handled the best way possible. At the time, I was sure we were handling it the best way possible. And I was also sure that we were being wronged in some way, not given a chance, belittled and denied. Even on this side, I see that in all likelihood, we were wronged a bit. But we were not blame-free. And with that last realization, comes the regret.

This type of regret clutters my life. I have it in almost every distinct era in my life. I look back on a time, see all the crap I left behind, bunch it all up and brood about it, and then I shove it into a dark corner where it awaits its moment of reveal. This usually occurs after a random memory eeks out or a name is seen on a mass email or a slight comment is made by an acquaintance. It's as if a used candybar wrapper from 1982 has slipped out from behind the (stuffed) closet door and mocks me for a long-gone moment of failure.

In reality, I know that with experience, comes teaching, and with teaching, comes lessons, and with lessons learned, comes wisdom. And with wisdom, comes spiritual maturity. So on the whole, I can't help but praise Him for those experiences and teaching and so forth. But still, I can't help but cringe when I really look back and take stock. I wonder why I can't just love perfectly all the time. I yell at my pride and tell him to take a backseat next time. I look to God and say, "So I guess I'm still a mess... so how exactly do you plan on using me?"

On this side, I know that His plans are perfect, even if I am not. And in that not-so-perfect experience, I have learned and grown (even if that growth wasn't witnessed by anyone). I see that He didn't mean for us to be in that exact place forever, or even very long. And if the birth of the wee lad hadn't given me an easy out, I would've clawed my way to freedom anyway. What I can do now is stop hoarding regret. I have to clean out and give away the should'ves and could'ves. In the clutter-free zone, when there's nothing left to mask or hide my true self, I may even have to accept that I'm not perfect - and no one else is, either. 

And I can hope for grace... so that when we do return and run into that old crowd, we can smile and talk and forget about all that rough stuff. Come to think of it, I better start practicing that grace straight away. Grace would be a good thing to hoard.