Tall Trees and Tiny Trophies

Jeremiah 17:7-8 compares those who trust in God to riparian trees, planted near the river.  It reads, "Such trees are not bothered by the heat, or worried by the long months of drought.  Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit."

Never.  Stop.  Producing.  Fruit.

There is a part of me that hears those last four words and begins to itch with shame over the seeming emphasis on "producing".

Another part of me hears "never stop" and immediately wishes for Saturday morning.

However, when I hear "fruit", I start thinking, "So...what is fruit?  And how much fruit do I need to be producing in order to be considered productive?"

I'm a gardener.  No matter whether it's tomatoes or squash, every time one of my plants begins to not just blossom, but fruit, I get excited.  Indeed if a tomato plant that's offered virtually nothing all summer suddenly surprises me with a shiny red treasure, it's not long before I tell someone--usually my husband--that my sad little plant produced something.  And then I drag him outside to see that, yes, indeed, I grew a thing.  It's a big deal.  I celebrate these moments.

Sometimes, my plants don't produce much.  It's not terribly surprising--I live in Tucson, Arizona.  This place is like boot camp for gardeners.  If a person can learn to adapt their thumb to be green here--a person can grow plants anywhere.  No kidding.  This place is HOT and DRY, and will crush your gardening dreams like peanut shells on the dance floor of an expensive steak restaurant.

If, despite these dry and dusty conditions, a plant grows, it's practically a miracle.  If that same plant produces a fruit, it borders on a phenomenon.  We expect growing to be hard here...so we celebrate even the tiniest fruit.  We have to.

For so many reasons, this past month in our home has been a lot like growing things in Tucson.

Tough.

But when my son got to school on time last Friday, it was a small victory.  Believe me, it was fruit.  Every  morning for the past month--with the exception of the very first day of school--it has been a battle to get our son out of the door.  No casualties in this battle--except to my pride--as I am THAT parent that brings their kid to school late.  Every.  Single.  Day.

C'mon, Mom.  Can't you get your kid here on time?

If people only knew what an accomplishment getting him to school at all really is.  Believe me, it is fruit.  It's been a looooong month of drought, and I am celebrating as much as I can.  I have to choose to look at the fruit and not the shriveled, dusty vines alongside it.

So, maybe say a prayer for me.  No matter what happens tomorrow morning, I'm going to look for the fruit in the situation, and make a point of celebrating it.  Tiny, tiny successes--that's the kind of fruit I can never stop producing.

God willing.

Unwrapping the Present

This week, I published my first ministry newsletter in almost a year. You can read it here.


I've known for a long time that I needed to "catch people up" and send a newsletter out, but every time I thought of sitting down and writing an update, I'd break into something like a cold sweat. And then, another unforeseen...and usually painful...event would occur, and I'd be right back into survival mode, my dread over writing a newsletter moot as I waded knee-deep in new drama.


I don't know about you, but my own expectation for a newsletter communiqué consists of a family member giving a pleasant and encouraging update about each member of the family--the operative word being pleasant. I have dear friends who are missionaries, and I have other friends who are just really passionate about communicating about their families. Either way, these are the kind of newsletters many of them write. And that's perfectly okay. Good, even.


For months now, I just haven't had it in me to write a newsletter like that. Writing from any kind of angle other than my own painful present seemed impossible, and writing from the painful present seemed embarassing. For months, I've been suffering from the shame of not writing a newsletter and the shame of people knowing about the pain of the present. It's felt like riding on a bike as fast as you can because you're late in the middle of a hailstorm.


In other words...bad.


I struggle with being a people-pleaser. And a perfectionist. And my newsletter was neither pleasing to read nor perfect. I found three typos.


I struggle with maligned thinking, particularly the kind that says, "People who follow Jesus are supposed to have their lives in order...especially leaders." I am acutely aware that I NEED Jesus because my life is in no way in order. There are glimmers where I can see what I think is a plan weaving together, but most of the time, the plan is over my head and I'm tangled in a sea of yarn.


However, after a season of loss like the one our family has had recently, here is the gift I find when I disentangle from the yarn long enough to unwrap the present: it IS impossible that we've survived this season.


Our boat SHOULD HAVE capsized.


When Hebrews 13:5-6 reminds us: "God has said, 'I will never fail you. I will never abandon you,'' we can say with confidence, "'The LORD is my helper, so I will have no fear. What can mere people do to me?'" We can say it because it's true. My family has gone five of the last nine months without 2/3 of our income. The circumstances that occurred to make that happen were completely unforeseen. We did not have a leg up on the situation. We were in no way prepared. Yet, God has provided for us. Money that we didn't even know was coming came. A car that we needed was practically given to us. Food that we did not buy was delivered to our doorstep. Gardens that we did not plant sprung up from our backyard. Jobs that we did not expect were offered. On particularly lousy days, texts that I did not expect popped up on my phone.


"I am with you always, even to the end of the age." Matthew 28:20


"Be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the LORD your God is with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9


"Don't be afraid, for I am with you. Don't be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand." Isaiah 41:10


When I unwrap the present, I am struck by the fact that we did not capsize, though we should have. I know where my hope and confidence lies...and it's not in my circumstances.


I thank God for that.

Let's Talk About It

So... hi.  It's been two years since I posted here.  A lot has happened.  It was indeed a mess, and it was hardly beautiful.  Let's be honest about that part.

The short story is, I took a "personal leave" from my Master's Degree.  My husband and I had a lot of critical conversations.  Actually, now that I think about it, he was far from the only person with whom I had to have such critical conversations.  Indeed, I've had to emit the dreaded words, "We need to talk" to waaaaay more people than I am comfortable listing on a blog.

To those people: your welcome.  Y'know, for not listing you on this blog.

Hi.  My name's Renay, I'm 34, and I'm still adulting.  It's tough, ya'll.  Primarily, talking to people is tough.  And that's what emotionally healthy adults do.  They talk to one another.

I know.  Some of you might be thinking...Renay?  Extroverted Renay?  Extroverted Renay--who's studying to be a therapist, mind you--has a difficult time talking?  To people?  Are we talking about the same person, here?

In a word--yup.

It took my preschooler--almost kindergartener--to reveal this mind-blowing truth to me.  When he gets hurt by a classmate--y'know, standard stuff, like, "Hey, it was my turn to swing on the swings!"--I encourage him to go talk to the person and tell them that he is hurting.  

Wrap your brain around that for a minute.  

I'm a mom, and intuitively, I know that for our family, for how my kid is wired, the best thing I can do is encourage my empathetic kid to use his superpower and feel, man.  And when he does, it's amazing.  I've seen this kid in action.  He gets hurt, walks up to the perpetrator, and says, "Hey, it hurt--I felt disappointed--when you took my turn on the swing that I'd been waiting for.  Can you please not do that again?"  When the mean-kid-in-question sees the kid he just pushed around (sometimes literally) walk right up to him and share his hurt, most times, he is stunned.  Like, mouth-open stunned.

I wonder what goes through the head of such a kid when a person shares like that.

That's necessary feedback, people.  For good or ill, we have an effect on the world around us.  And quite possibly, there are more than a few people in this world engaging in jerk-like behavior who are oblivious to just how hurtful they are being.  What's normal to them may be hurtful to us--but we can't fault someone for what they don't know about us.  Furthermore, our silence gives the pain nowhere to go except sit there.  Our silence increases our pain...and increases the likelihood that someone else might endure similar pain to ours.

We need to take what's ours--like maybe that we're occasionally a space cadet and were possibly daydreaming when it was finally our turn for the swing--and give back what remains.  We are people who exist.  Who take up space.  And that space, for whatever reason, hurts.  If for no other reason but for our own self-care, we can't stay silent about pain.  That very real pain contains valuable data for the environments in which we exist.  Environments need to know.

And the longer we wait to share our hurt, the longer we are silent, the less momentum we have for the giving back.  I've watched shotput.  It is hard to toss a dead weight.

"Sharing is caring" is not just for french fries and nacho chips.  Sharing feelings isn't just the superpower of my empathetic kid.  Preschoolers and adults are not so different, and I realized this over the span of these past two years.  I shared.  I talked.  A lot.  And I'm in a better place, now.

I'm the closest to my family that I've ever been.  I'm back in grad school.  My job is taking on a new, exciting shape.  We're building a unique community among our neighbors.  I'm making friends.

What if changing the world is as simple as letting the world know what it's like being in it? 





 

Small Successes Plant Potentially Big Change...a Little at a Time

For about the last year, Aaron, Noam and I have been making an intentional effort to get to know our neighbors within our little town home complex.  Last month, we gathered for a potluck just before Labor Day, and yesterday, we initiated our second official neighbor-gathering, "Pizza and Planting".

Of the 12 that showed up to the potluck, 10 came yesterday to begin transforming the abandoned fountains on our complex grounds.  Up until yesterday, these same fountains were little more than mosquito breeding grounds, but, instead of stagnant water, now they're filled with compost and germinating (at least we hope) seeds.

After we'd gotten elbow-deep in compost, planted our seeds and followed up with a good garden hose spraying, we chowed down on some Brooklyn Pizza (oh, the garlic knots!) and talked for a good hour and a half--at least until the mosquitoes started making a meal out of us.  While we all batted away las moscas, cleaned up and turned in for the night, I chatted with Katie, asking her how she felt the night went.

We were both positive, and most positive of all is the fact that the same people are showing up.  We have a core group of people who seem genuinely interested in making this townhouse complex a better place.  And that core group of people is getting to know one another more, every time we gather together.  People are really sharing their lives, and their struggles, and their time.

We're neighbors who are beginning to act...neighborly.

And while we admitted that we are not a large group, we still represent over half of the residents in Hidden Glenn.  And though everyone may not come out of their homes to join us when we gather, as the residents here begin to see changes, our hope is that, a little at a time, what we are doing and the people with whom we are doing it will gain credibility and trust in the eyes of the little community here that we are trying to steward.

Weak is the New Strong

So, folks, we're a month in.  For over 30 days, I've been juggling the multiple roles of graduate student, missionary, mommy and wife...and to be honest...it has not been flawless.  Not even in the slightest.

This last month has required a lot of vulnerability on my part, and a lot of grace on the part of my husband.  A lot of unwashed dishes and unfolded baskets of laundry.  A lot of NOT cooking...or eating copious amounts of leftovers...from Chipotle...all week long.  Namely, I am learning very quickly that I cannot do it all.

Now, what I mean when I say this is not that I cannot do it.

What I mean is that I cannot do it all...without asking for help.

This whole experience, even after just a month, has really shown me how I need to communicate more.  With all the exactitude of a emergency room surgeon, I've become very used to seeing what needs to be done and doing it without consulting anyone.  However, doing so many things at once has forced me to ask for help, has forced me to delegate out parts of responsibilities that I have become accustomed to doing myself--maybe, even, with a touch of pride.  I've had to let go of my penchant for perfectionism and let someone else take care of it, please.

After 30 days, I've realized: I need people.

As if my reality weren't already operating on a whole lotta people doing a whole lot behind-the-scenes, anyway.  It's always been that way.  It's not like my husband, or extended family, or friends, just suddenly turned really gracious.  They've been this way the whole time.  It's just that I've been too dense...and too much of a control freak...to really see them helping before, or to really give them meaningful opportunities to help.

Similarly, this whole time, I've had to fight the temptation to believe that my need to ask people for help is somehow indicative of weakness.  And maybe it is weakness.  And maybe my admitting that I don't have it all together and that I'm not some kind of superwoman is not weakness, but, in reality, a pretty darn tough thing to do.  

Maybe it's taken me this long to realize that I've been operating under an illusion of control for a long time.  Maybe this is how discipleship is supposed to happen in The Kingdom; people learn to serve not because I'm a CEO using my interns from a place of hierarchal authority, but, because I'm a real person with real challenges asking for help from those around me from a position of humility.

In reality, a CEO could be asking for help from that latter position, too.

And wouldn't that be so much more compelling?

Maybe weak is the new strong.

In Isaiah 41:13, God promises that He will help.  That we don't have to fear...be it the overwhelming circumstances, our ineptitude, or the lack of hours in the day.

Well, thank God.  Really.  I couldn't do this without Him...or without the help and grace of all the generous people that He puts in my life, again, and again, and again.  Thanks, friends.

All of You.

Every Little Thing

I'm tired.  I need to go to bed--and I will.  Soon.  But before I do, there is something that I've been struck by lately that begs mentioning.  On the other hand, perhaps begs is the wrong word.  Perhaps inspires is a better choice.

As I was simultaneously (now, for the cognitive professionals out there, I know that this was not necessarily neurologically simultaneous, but, for the sake of picturing my kitchen table at this moment) texting tomorrow's babysitters, arranging carpooling to my graduate classes tomorrow, organizing my lecture notes, sending off some emails and studying up for class tomorrow, I was talking to my husband about juggling the week's schedules together when he asked me...

Do you really think this is going to work?

Now, I realize that the above statement looks snide without the accompanying 94% of my husband's communication, so let me elaborate.  My husband is one of the most compassionate people that I know.  As a couple, we build a family on hopeful realism, and that said, he is also one of the only people who is able to bring the realism to my hopeful without sounding doubtful.  As he asked the above question, I thinking he was alluding to more than just schedules.  

I think he was referring to the intricately delicate miracle which is the fact that this, this schedule, this time in our lives, the fact that we're doing parenting and professional careers and ministry and graduate school and normal people stuff like making the bed and eating, does work.

I operate much of my life and work on the distinct probability that wonderful, restorative and lasting hope is not only possible, but exists, despite some of the most grueling circumstances.  And everyday, I see hopeful events occur in my own life.  Little events of grace, like, someone being willing to watch my highly active, two-turning-three son for free.  Like my son taking a really long nap on a day when I need to send a dozen--or more--emails.  Like somehow being able to pay the bills each month.  Like serendipitous things that we've really needed, like a second mode of child-friendly transportation, a bike trailer, showing up on Craigslist for scandalously cheap prices right around the same time that really generous people unexpectedly give us more than enough support to purchase said bike trailer.  

In fact, while I was flying to Texas recently to see some friends and raise some support for our ministry, as I was mid-air between Phoenix and Austin, I was empathizing with the highly anxious folks out there.  I know some of these people, and they are brilliant people who are capable of thinking about all the different ways in which every little thing could go wrong.  And it was in that moment that I was thinking about how every little thing was not.  In the 11th hour, the week before, several people called to say they'd be willing to provide support to help pay for the airfare to get to and around Texas.  As I sat on that plane, I thought about the sheer miracle of God that I was even able to afford sitting on it.  And, for that matter, it was miraculous that all the pistons and turbines and fuel injectors and various other aerospace technologies that I do not understand were not malfunctioning.  My comfortable, turbulence-free skip across the United States was a merciful miracle of God, as were the willing friends and church families who picked me up and fed me and helped me make connections.

Whether here or there, whether scrambling together a family schedule or planning an event with Damascus Road Tucson, our church, or somehow biking down the road with the kids in the trailer and not getting hit by a vehicle, those small miracles, the little things, are filled, from top to bottom, with grace.

And while that is something that I am entirely ill-equipped to schedule, I'm beginning to think it's something that I can expect, even if it's not on my terms.  

I'll sleep on that.

Fluffing Pillows

I remember talking with someone about "visitor etiquette" a few months back.  Y'know, like, what you do and how you behave when people come over to your house.  This person that I was talking to at the time made the comment that, when expecting company, a host should at least have the decency to fluff the pillows on the couch.

Without getting into the qualitative difference fluffing pillows would make on a home's overall ability to    woo the potential visitor, I am not necessarily advocating subjecting your guest to sitting on a couch glazed with two inches of animal hair, either.  At the same time, I think it's important to highlight the fact that having a guest over is the perfect opportunity to demonstrate who you really are underneath the fluffed pillows and the bang-up vacuum once-over.

Particularly if the fluffed pillows and bang-up vacuum once-over do not happen.

Y'see, I'm one week in graduate school.  I have, like, 16 chapters to read by Wednesday.  And an awesome job where I get to talk to people and listen to their stories.  And an amazing little two-turning-three-year-old who is fearlessly beginning to tell stories of his own.  And a talented and very busy super-teacher husband.  And groceries to buy.  And dinners to make.  And support-raising to do.

I don't have time for fluffing pillows, when it comes down to it.  And while I may make the attempt every once in a while, and while I may reward myself with a mid-afternoon coffee after doing so, it truth is, it may not just be okay that my guests see unfluffy pillows, but, a good thing that they do not.

Unfluffed pillows give us accessibility.  Unfluffed pillows offer us the opportunity to share where our time is going, and, similarly, grant us the honor and gift of humility when we say, My pillows are not fluffed!  How can we invite help if we don't admit need, if our pillows--whatever they actually are--don't show, even if a little sheepishly, a little oversight every now and again?

Here's to the foresight to admit our oversights.  Here's to unfluffed pillows.