In a little less than a month, the West Chicagoland Anti-Trafficking Coalition will hold an event in downtown Wheaton. If you live in this area and have been wanting to get more involved in the local battle against sex trafficking, plan to attend. Area ministries will have booths set up and reps will be available to visit and talk. There will also be a panel discussion with key local leaders.
So come!
When? May 1, 7 p.m.
Where? TEAM’s The Mission Place, 370 West Front Street, Wheaton, IL
There is also a training seminar on May 10 presented by Salvation Army’s Promise program (excellent training–I’ve gone to a shortened version of this seminar). Follow the link above for more information.
One last thing: New Name is a local outreach to trafficked and prostituted women. Each time the ministry makes contact with a woman, it gives them a small gift and a handmade card. Each card has a verse of encouragement and hope on it. The women LOVE these cards and sometimes even hang them up at work. If you live in the West Chicago/Wheaton area, enjoy doing crafts, and would like to make cards for New Name, leave me a comment and I can follow up with you and give you more information.
This picture has no relation to today’s post, but I’m reminding myself–as it was only 12 degrees when I woke up this morning–that the time of screen doors and beautiful green crickets clinging to them will come!
I sat on his bed to kiss him goodnight and saw it the moment his head turned toward me.
His lips were pinched, his eyes hard.
“What’s the matter, Bud?” I asked.
His voice had an edge as he reminded me that the birthday party we’d talked about a month ago has not yet happened. “You said we might do it this weekend,” he accused.
Never mind that he has just spent more than twenty-four hours with a best friend.
Never mind that we’d never done more to plan the party than simply talk about it.
Never mind that I’d told him several days ago that the party would not happen this weekend—we simply had too much going on.
He was so focused on self that gratitude and perspective—logic, too—had fled.
I could completely identify.
“You’re miserable, aren’t you?” I asked him.
The flat look stayed a second more but then slipped. He nodded.
We prayed together, and I reminded him of all the “never mind’s.” We talked about all the good he’d experienced this weekend, and the things we could be thankful for in that very moment.
Suddenly his small chest rose and fell with a great breath, and he smiled at me.
I smiled back. “It feels good to let it go, doesn’t it?”
I told him then I have the same, awful struggle, and sometimes I imagine SELF (or rather the focus on self) to be like a coiled kitten deep in my gut. When it slumbers, it seems harmless, so I pet it a little, and it raises its head. I continue to stroke it, and it rises higher, higher. Still all seems well, but then it stands on hind legs and hooks its needle-sharp claws into my heart.
And I am overcome.
“Why don’t they see what I’m doing?”
“It wouldn’t hurt them to be just a little grateful!”
“Well, I did that for her. Shouldn’t she do something in return?”
“All I do is clean up (cook/work/drive/do) for everyone else.”
“Don’t they notice all I’m doing?”
“When is someone going to do something nice for ME? When is it MY turn?”
“How is this going to affect me?”
The thoughts bombard, and I can’t stop them. I am miserable in my self-focus, but I’m also powerless to do anything about it. I try to pull the claws from my heart, but as soon as I get one free, another is entangled, and they keep sinking deeper and deeper! I realize what I thought was a harmless kitten is in actuality a tiger, fierce and strong, with not a hint of give in its eyes.
“That’s why we had to pray,” I told my son. “We can’t fight the tiger in our own power. We have to come to Jesus and tell Him we need Him. I have to keep re-learning this very lesson.”
NOTE: The audio of my reading of this post is at the bottom. Thanks for reading (or listening).
Just for fun–and in case you’re feeling the need for some chocolate! (We didn’t actually buy the chocolate bar–though the kids would have loved to!)
One day this past week I encountered a grumpy man at the dog park.
He didn’t say anything mean. He was just grumpy.
No big deal, really. In fact, I forgot about it the rest of that day.
But the next morning, it returned. And I couldn’t let it go. I grew frustrated with Grumpy man. Worse, I re-imagined the scene in my head—with a little more grumpiness on his part and some witty rejoinders on mine. It was ridiculous, and I grew even more frustrated with myself than with Grumpy Man. Why am I so caught up in this? I wondered. Why do I even care?
As I prayed about this, I remembered a scene I’d read the night before in The Hiding Place. My daughter is reading it for a class at school, and, though I’ve read it at least a couple times, it was lying around, so…
I was just going to read a few pages in the middle—but I finished it a little after midnight.
Oh, well.
If you haven’t read The Hiding Place, you should. This true story is gripping: a quiet Dutch family becomes active in the underground movement during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands, assisting some Jews to flee the country and hiding others in the attic of their home. Eventually their work is discovered, and middle-aged daughters Betsie and Corrie Ten Boom, along with their elderly father and several other family members, are arrested. Their father dies after only a few days in prison; most of the other family members are eventually released; but Betsie and Corrie are sent together to Ravensbruck, the notorious concentration camp for women.
Betsie is a saint (I know Scripture calls all of us who believe in Christ “saints,” but I, at least, don’t generally act like one, and Betsie truly did.) For example, here’s how she acted in the scene I remembered this morning: Corrie and Betsie had just witnessed German guards mistreating some prisoners with intellectual disabilities. Corrie said, “Betsie, after the war, we must open a home so we can minister to them. They will have so many emotional wounds.” (I’m paraphrasing.)
Betsie responded, “Oh, yes, Corrie. They will need so much healing.”
It wasn’t until later Corrie realized Betsie had not been referring to the prisoners but to the guards. Even when she was personally mistreated by them, Betsie had compassion on them. She saw them as hurting souls.
Betsie was as free in prison as outside it because she harbored no bitterness. None! This allowed her not only to be an incredible blessing to those around her, but also made her own life—which could be accurately described as miserable, full of physical and emotional hardships 24 hours a day—joyous.
That is freedom, I thought as I reflected. How ironic that a woman in a hellish situation could be so mentally, emotionally, and spiritually free, while often we who are well-fed, well-clothed, and “free” to choose career/family/circumstances, live in bondage—to our own selves—and are therefore miserable and bitter.
Case in point: ME—fixated on Grumpy man.
Lord, I prayed, I want to be like Betsie!
But how?
It would be nice to end it there—as if the desire for change made it actuality.
But though I sure wanted it, it wasn’t the reality I lived in that day. In fact, my frustrations spread: one by one my kids got lumped in with the Grump. Finally, this afternoon, after another kid pushed another button (they were getting more and more easily pushed as the day went on), I escaped for a short run and listened to Tullian Tchividjian preach on the book of Romans. It was only the second sermon in the book series, so he was camping on chapter 1—with its strong emphasis on the complete sinfulness of all mankind.
Not exactly a “fun” listen! But it shut me up. All day I’d wanted to be more like Betsie and failed! And though I would never have said (or even “thought”) this “out loud,” I knew the fault had to be with the people rubbing me the wrong way—
Because it couldn’t be completely with ME!
But Romans 1 doesn’t allow for that shifting of blame, for blindness to personal fault, for portioning out wrong. So as Tchividjian broke down the second half of the chapter, peeling away the ways we lump “sinners” together and somehow remain outside that group ourselves, I had to sink into the truth.
I said it out loud in the quiet woods. “I am broken—to the core.” It suddenly didn’t matter that I figure out the specifics of each little set of frustrations. The ultimate reason I was frustrated was ME!
And then, finally, I was ready to receive.
It would be nice to think Betsie Ten Boom really was a “saint” in the way we think of the word: that she lived joyously and freely in her own power—out of some special personality she had (because then we might be able to achieve it on our own, too).
But Betsie arrived at freedom the same way I have to—through brokenness.
Her sweetness and joy was a result of her being willing, again and again, to admit her own inability, to be “ok” with her neediness, to say “NO” to self-sufficiency—and in that place of vulnerability and humility to drink in the great, ready grace of God.
In brokenness we receive—again and again and again.
It’s the only road to freedom.
*Seriously, if you haven’t read The Hiding Place, do! If you click on the book title, it will take you to the book’s Amazon.com page. If you need a little more convincing, read this review. Wow!
Patrick and Maddie chasing down a ball during a fierce game of soccer at my sister’s house last fall.
St. Patrick’s Day is a big deal in Chicagoland–but that’s not why Patrick, our son, was named that. He was tiny, nameless, and very sick when he was rescued by Mercy Childcare in the spring of 2007 (the link takes you to the webpage, but on the page is a link to Mercy’s Facebook page, which is updated often with great pics). In a phone conversation between the dear people at Mercy and Sarah, one of their staunchest supporters here in west Chicagoland, Sarah’s daughter suggested they name him “Patrick” after of one of her friends at school.
Wilfred Rugumba, the vibrant young director of Mercy Childcare, with his wonderful wife, Vena, and their two sons. They’re still rescuing!
Not quite two years later Patrick officially became an Underwood–though he was in our hearts long before that. We pray that he, like the saint he shares a name with, will love the Lord with all his heart, soul, and mind and will use his incredible talents and gifts to love his neighbors as himself.
So, in honor of both Patricks, I share this prayer of the bold Englishman who returned to the land where he once lived as a slave to share the power and love of Christ.
I bind unto myself today The strong Name of the Trinity, By invocation of the same The Three in One and One in Three.
I bind this today to me forever By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation; His baptism in Jordan river, His death on Cross for my salvation; His bursting from the spicèd tomb, His riding up the heavenly way, His coming at the day of doom I bind unto myself today.
I bind unto myself the power Of the great love of cherubim; The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour, The service of the seraphim, Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word, The Patriarchs’ prayers, the prophets’ scrolls, All good deeds done unto the Lord And purity of virgin souls.
I bind unto myself today The virtues of the star lit heaven, The glorious sun’s life giving ray, The whiteness of the moon at even, The flashing of the lightning free, The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks, The stable earth, the deep salt sea Around the old eternal rocks.
I bind unto myself today The power of God to hold and lead, His eye to watch, His might to stay, His ear to hearken to my need. The wisdom of my God to teach, His hand to guide, His shield to ward; The word of God to give me speech, His heavenly host to be my guard.
Against the demon snares of sin, The vice that gives temptation force, The natural lusts that war within, The hostile men that mar my course; Or few or many, far or nigh, In every place and in all hours, Against their fierce hostility I bind to me these holy powers.
Against all Satan’s spells and wiles, Against false words of heresy, Against the knowledge that defiles, Against the heart’s idolatry, Against the wizard’s evil craft, Against the death wound and the burning, The choking wave, the poisoned shaft, Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.
Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me. Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.
I bind unto myself the Name, The strong Name of the Trinity, By invocation of the same, The Three in One and One in Three. By Whom all nature hath creation, Eternal Father, Spirit, Word: Praise to the Lord of my salvation, Salvation is of Christ the Lord.
I took this pic in Kenya last summer. Those are discarded water bottles woven into a wire fence. Very creative!
Not long ago one of the pastors at our church mentioned a scene in the movie Amadeus to illustrate a sermon point, and I was gripped by a line he repeated from it: “I am the patron saint of mediocrity.”
The musician Salieri says that at the end of the film. He has made a full confession to a young priest and finishes with that line. “You, too, are, mediocre,” he says in effect to the priest. “I, the patron saint of mediocrity, will speak for you.” He is referring to his musical talent as “mediocre,” but he didn’t always see it that way. As a younger man, he viewed it as a reward from God for his piety and devotion—until he was faced with the genius of Mozart, and realized his own talents paled in comparison. Not only does Salieri grow jealous of the younger composer’s gift, he is angry at God for giving them to such an irreverent man while he, Salieri, labors and toils “to the glory of God” and produces far less stellar work.
In the film (which is based on a legend and not exact truth) Salieri’s jealousy sours him. He stops producing music and fixates on Mozart’s destruction. He allows Mozart’s music to silence his own.
We all have that option. There are few geniuses; most of us muddle about in a state, comparatively, of mediocrity. But that shouldn’t dishearten us. It shouldn’t have disheartened Salieri.
No, he was not talented to the degree Mozart was. But what if Salieri had music only he could create? What if his abdication of his talent resulted in something being left undone that was meant to testify to some particular facet of God’s creativity and beauty? Compared to Mozart’s broader testimony, perhaps Salieri’s would have been but a sliver, but when Salieri abdicated his talents, he failed to redeem a portion of the manifestation of God lost to mankind in the Fall.
I’m extrapolating here in my application, but in trying to imitate someone else’s gift, or in failing to pursue the unique way in which God has gifted us (though it may be far less in scope and greatness than others), we “create” a lack. We “live” out and perpetuate the Fall. No, we in essence say, God is not purposeful and good. He plays favorites, and the amount of His love can be measured based on the ways He has gifted us. The cruel lie comes full circle when we believe we must earn God’s love and can do so only by exercising our talents; therefore, the lesser the talent, the less able we are to please God and “get” His approval and love.
So press on into your giftedness, no matter what it is. Press into it as part of God’s purpose for you, not as something you deserve, but as something He’s given so you can know and point to Him as the author of all good, of all creativity. Don’t compare your gift with others’ and don’t measure its greatness by how others react to it. Know (and remind yourself often) that since God gave the gift to you, He has purpose for it, and He is pleased when you exercise it. Your gift may not reach millions or even dozens of people. Your gift may be meant to touch only one. But to that person, your gift can be the touch of God.
There is a wonderful by-product to this: when we view and use our gifts in this way, we do not begrudge others theirs. We can rejoice. We can encourage. Salieri hurried down the road to bitter envy. We, instead, can support others in their talents. When we do this, our gifts mingle and grow, and our creativity is not only a testimony to God’s imagination but also to His love.
Early in Amadeus, when Salieri is still honored and praised as a gifted musician, Mozart listens to one of Salieri’s compositions. He immediately sits down, plays the piece from memory, critiques it, and then plays it again with his own vastly improved improvisations. Salieri’s face reveals his heart. He is shamed, and he is jealous. These are our natural reactions. But Romans tells us Christ has set us free from our natural “body of death” to think and live as redeemed people. How different might Salieri’s and Mozart’s stories have been had Salieri rejoiced in providing Mozart with an idea that Mozart was able to bring magically alive. Who knows what their partnership might have produced!
God certainly creates geniuses, people touched to create in seemingly effortless ways—it’s a little glimpse of God’s work! But the rest of us, gifted to one degree or another, in one way or another, are celebrated in Scripture as a body—working in harmony, honoring each other—especially those whose gifts are less celebrated by the world—and together providing a shimmering image of Christ.
At one of Wheaton Academy’s bball games not long ago, the students brought glow-in-the-dark bracelets/necklaces. After the game, PJ gathered as many as he could, and we had a light show/photo shoot that night at home. Here he is twirling a handful of them.
(I think very highly of all these blogs as well as their titles, which is why I provided links).
I used to have a blog title.
But it wasn’t very cool.
Journey to Jen—how’s that for catchy!?
My husband, Dave, hated it, from the very beginning. I won’t tell you what he said it sounded like, but I will tell you I laughed and was also a little horrified. “It wasn’t the title I wanted,” I told him, “but ‘Jen’s Journey’ was already taken.”
I wanted “Jen’s Journey” because that’s all my blog was supposed to be: a reflection of my journey, what I’m learning, how I’m growing. I write to process, and the blog is my outlet.
Plus, I love the word “journey.” I also love the word “pilgrimage,” which is the word that led me to “journey” because, when I suggested “pilgrimage” as my blog title, Dave said that sounded weird.
(And if you don’t know my husband and are thinking right now he seems a little grumpy, he’s really, really not. In fact, he’s my greatest encourager and he makes me laugh.
A lot!
Anyway, back to my blog title. I finally bought my domain (at the urging of Dave) and simply named it “Jen Underwood.”
As in, “Here’s me—and my journey.”
Come to think of it, “journey” was a bit of a misnomer, unless you think of a journey as a meandering path that sometimes goes in circles and follows rabbit trails and then comes back to another circle, much like one of the previously traveled ones, and at this point you’re all turned around and have no idea which direction you’re facing or, for that matter, where exactly this path is taking you.
That is the kind of “journey” mine seems to be. Every once in awhile I look back at my blog entries of the last few weeks and think, “It’s ramblings! Just ramblings. I’ve been all over the place, thinking about all kinds of things. There’s nothing linear about it at all.”
And sometimes I get discouraged about this, because the erratic nature of my blog is a reflection of the erratic nature of my spiritual growth. I share this with God. “Lord, I have this vague idea of the godly woman I want to become,” I tell Him, “and I have, really, no idea how to get there. In fact, I’m not even sure what this ‘godly woman’ looks like, but every time I try to plan out a ‘point A to point B’ sort of journey that I think might lead me closer to her, You rip up my map!”
“Come to think of it, God,” I tell him. “’Ramblings’ could be a good title for my blog, for my LIFE.”
But when I look further back than just a few weeks ago—when I read blog entries of a year, two years ago, when I pull out one of the notebooks I’ve been writing in for two decades—I see growth. I recognize that true good was formed out of disappointments and “rabbit trails.” I understand that each time I followed a circular path, it was a little bigger and a little deeper. I realize that I may not “look” more godly, but I’ve been drawn into a deeper faith in God.
I see a very masterful hand at work.
All my ramblings have had purpose! I just didn’t know it!
God knows very specifically how to draw me closer to Him so that I trust Him in and for everything.
Therefore, I am not responsible for planning my spiritual growth, just for following Him into it, one step after another.
And though that is frightening in one way, it is incredibly reassuring and hopeful in another!
I ramble with a purpose.
His.
And His purpose is sure.
VERSES TO PONDER (in the Amplified version today)
Ephesians 2:10 For we are God’s [own] handiwork (His workmanship), [a]recreated in Christ Jesus, [born anew] that we may do those good works which God predestined (planned beforehand) for us [taking paths which He prepared ahead of time], that we should walk in them [living the good life which He prearranged and made ready for us to live].
Psalm 57: 1-2 Be merciful and gracious to me, O God, be merciful and gracious to me, for my soul takes refuge and finds shelter and confidence in You; yes, in the shadow of Your wings will I take refuge and be confident until calamities and destructive storms are passed. 2 I will cry to God Most High, Who performs on my behalf and rewards me [Who brings to pass His purposes for me and surely completes them]!
Exodus 40:37-38 But if the cloud was not taken up, they did not journey on till the day that it was taken up. 38 For throughout all their journeys the cloud of the Lord was upon the tabernacle by day, and fire was in it by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel.
Isaiah 25:1 O Lord, You are my God; I will exalt You, I will praise Your name, for You have done wonderful things, even purposes planned of old [and fulfilled] in faithfulness and truth.
They murmur, “Thank you,” as they leave the classroom. But instead of saying, “You’re welcome,” I tell them, “Thank you,” back.
I mean it. They have given me far more than I have given them.
Mondays I serve as an aide at the local World Relief ESL program, supporting Krista, who teaches the Job Class. The refugees in her class are recently arrived (some as “recently” as a week ago) and have only six weeks of preparation before joining the American workforce. Job Class, therefore, doesn’t mess with non-essentials.
Today we are learning the “doctor appointment” conversation:
A: This is Dr. ________’s office. How can I help you?
B. I need to make an appointment. My ________ hurts.
A. I’m sorry. How about _________ at ____:_____?
B. _______ at ____:_____? Yes. Thank you.
A. See you soon.
B. See you.
I teach the dialogue to the majority of the class while Krista works on travel directions with three students who’ve already learned the conversation. Then she and I switch groups. As Krista leads the large group in a fun practice session, I show the small group how to use Google Maps. I zoom in on the map of the world until northern Illinois covers the entire screen. “Where would you like to go?” I ask them. “The grocery? I can show you how to get directions from your apartment to the closest store.”
One of the women—she’s a “take-charge” gal!—has a different idea. She pulls a flyer out of her folder. “Free Computer and Literacy Classes,” it boldly proclaims. She reads the address to me. I type in her apartment address as the starting point and the other as the end point. “Do you have a car?” I ask her. She shakes her head. The two others, who live in the same apartment building as she, shake theirs, too.
I switch the default icon from “car” to “pedestrian,” and the time jumps from six minutes to forty. They laugh.
Soon it is time to work on applications. We fill out applications galore in this class—since, after all, getting hired is the ultimate point. The app they start with has two blanks: one for “name,” one for “country.” It simply determines if they can actually recognize those words. The final one, number 12, is a standard three-page application, with blanks for items like their social security number, their full address (including zip code), and work history.
Job counselors at World Relief help each refugee create a résumé. We use these to fill in addresses and former jobs on the application templates. I help a gentleman write “Family farmer” in the blank for his earliest job and then, in the space for his latest, we write “Kitchen worker,” the job he was able to get when he had to flee home and find temporary shelter in a neighboring country. It is the same for nearly all the refugees from his home. They began as farmers and now live far, far from their land.
I explain to another man that he does not have a maiden name, but his wife does—or perhaps not—names are cultural things, after all.
Back and forth they come and go from the table where I have organized all the applications. “Excuse me, I need help.” “Excuse me, I am finished.” I check their work. I remind some that Americans write on top of the blank line rather than across the middle of it. I refer to their intake sheets to check birthdates—months and days can be tricky. One man and I have the same birth year. We smile at each other with the commonality of age. Another man has circled “yes” next to “children?” and “no” next to “married?” Beneath the “no,” he has penciled in “widow.” I do not change it to “widower.” Should I have? Surely no one will point that out to him.
I find myself noticing their shoes—actually, their socks. It’s been a cold winter, and Monday after Monday I’ve shivered when I noticed women in plastic slides—no socks—and men in dress shoes—no socks. It’s not that World Relief doesn’t provide them with socks. They have them, but many come from homelands where they never before had to wear anything but sandals on their feet.
It must feel strange.
This day, though, I see lots of socks, and, oddly, it makes me glad.
Near the end of class, Krista assigns the homework. A few still linger at my table, wanting me to check their corrections, wanting—ultimately—to learn, to understand, to “make it” in this new, strange country.
Please, God, smooth their paths, I pray. They’ve already traveled such hard, treacherous roads. Bring kind people to them when they need aid. Protect them from prejudice and hate. Let them meet You in gentle eyes, in helping hands, in mouths that share Your Name gracefully, truthfully.
I slide the blank applications into the correct folders, ready for another day of practice, and leave with a strange mix of sorrow and joy and great gratitude.
“Thank you,” I say again to a few who are still waiting in the vestibule for their ride to arrive.
This is not exactly a post, more of an update. I added audio capability to my blog and made a recording of a recent post. You can check it out here. I might be doing this simply because my kids are growing past the stage when I read to them aloud all the time, but I did have fun doing it. I’m working on putting a caption (“Hear Jen read this post.”) next to the audio “button,” but I haven’t yet figured out how to do that. Anyway, in the future, you’ll have the option of reading or listening to some of the posts.
Jen Underwood 