Author: jdunderwood

The Long View

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All of the kids except Nina. They love photo shoots.

I watched Wheaton Academy’s performance of Les Miserables tonight.

Amazing story, amazing performance, music, direction, and adult leadership.
It was seriously excellent, and I was moved,
But I needed some time to get past the amazing performance to the truth God wanted me to see in it.
You see, I left the show missing working with high school theatre, the incredible thrill of working with students, of helping them transmit a character and story they didn’t know they had within themselves, of getting to know students in the very personal ways theatre creates. I left missing the world I was involved in for many years.
With that longing still in my chest, I came home to my 11-year-old daughter baking shortbread–while listening to the music of Les Mis. Jane was in the kitchen, too, singing along. Then Nina came down. They all saw the show last week and have been waiting to hear my reaction to it. Nina wanted to talk through several of the scenes. We sang songs together–not very well.
No wow factor—just my life.
And it struck me that my longing for something I no longer have—though not wrong—is a desire for a different story than the one God has put me in right now. I, like most people I know, am drawn to redemptive stories, stories that have purpose and sacrifice and change and love. The problem is that, though I’m pretty good at recognizing redemption in others’ life stories, I can be really bad at spotting it in my own.
So I want someone else’s. Tonight I wanted what I used to have. Yesterday I read the blog of a friend who is working in Africa marketing jewelry handmade by Ugandan women (check out her blog on my blogroll), and I wanted to be on the front lines of a social justice mission. Two days ago I learned of an Iranian pastor who is on death row for his Christian faith. Though I did NOT want HIS life right now (or that of his wife’s!), I for certain thought of his story as being more redemptive and more important than my own.
But generally, when we look at a life from outside it, and think, oh, that’s so redemptive, so purposeful, the people in it don’t see it that way; often, they are asking for escape from it (a truth clearly showed by the characters in Les Mis).
It’s good that we recognize redemption in others’ stories—we should use that recognition to encourage them and pray for them—but we also have to START seeing redemption in our OWN stories.
We have to start seeing it in the crushing, painful times.
In the grind-it-out, nitty-gritty times.
In the waiting, I’m-not-going-anywhere times.
In the doubting, wandering, holding-on-by-a-thread times.
If ANY of our stories could be condensed down to the 2½-hour-movie-version, we would be able to see redemption in it—at least our OWN redemption. But life doesn’t come with a soundtrack that lets us know when big moments are coming—or that this IS a big moment, a moment full of grand and glorious purpose. So we don’t see the BIG story.
We need the long view, the big view. God tells us His view of time is entirely different from our own. Our days are but moments to him. Our lives like breaths. This does not at all mean that our lives don’t matter to Him (for we know His thoughts toward us are precious and numerous, like grains of sand on the seashore; see Psalm 139:17-18); no, it tells us that He HAS the long view, the big redemptive view of how all our lives web together into the biggest story of all.
All these things in my life that I am tempted to think DON’T have real meaning—they DO. They are part of that biggest story. They may be behind-the-scenes stuff, but they matter. My nitty-gritty is affecting the stories of Dave, Em, Jake, Maddie, Patrick, Nina, Jane—and all the others they bring home for dinner, for the night, for the weekend. My nitty-gritty is being used to change ME.
MY story is a story of redemption.
So is yours.
We need to ask for the long view
And for the grace to persevere when we don’t see it.
Scripture passages:

Psalm 90:4 (The entire psalm is one of lament, but even in his sorrow he looks to the Lord for the “long view” {verses 16 and 17})

2 Peter 3:8-9 (and from there to the end of the chapter—lots of long-view “stuff”)

It’s the end of the train as we know it…

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Just a random picture I took at Macy's downtown. The colors in the ceiling glow!

We live on the wrong side of the tracks in our town. Not figuratively—there’s nothing really different about the two “sides” of West Chicago—but literally. We have to cross two intersecting railroad tracks to get to schools, work, church, friends, grocery store, and library. The only thing on this side of the tracks are Walmart and the shopping mall, both of which I avoid as much as possible.

I have heard that, on average, a train crosses the tracks here in West Chicago eight times an hour. I believe it. In fact, I think that number may be low. I often have days when I wait for a train every single time I cross the tracks. One day two weeks ago, that was eight times.

Early on in our renting of this house, I was sitting at the train crossing, drumming my fingers and looking and listening for the big engine that powers the end of particularly long freight trains like that one, when I realized that, if I was willing, God could use the trains to teach me patience. Since then, I’ve tried to use that time well. I sing, talk with those in the car with me, pray if I’m alone, jot down thoughts in my journal, even knit (that only happens when I’m not the one driving).

A few weeks ago I was waiting at a train with the three youngest kids. We were chatting and goofing off, and they were looking for the rear engine. For no reason at all I began singing the song, “It’s the end of the world as we know it.” I only know about two lines of that song, so I sang those phrases a few times and then slipped into another song I know better. Suddenly one of the kids shouted out, “There’s the engine.”

Sure enough, the heavy rumble announced its approach. As if on cue, the three kids, ranged across the back seat like a chorus, belted out, “It’s the end of the TRAIN as we know it, it’s the end of the TRAIN as we know it, it’s the end of the TRAIN as we know it,

“And we feel fine!” (And then they sang that funny line that sounds like the singer might be saying, “diggy, diggy, diggy, diggy.”)

All together, on key, like they had planned and practiced it (and as far as I know, they never had).

I laughed so hard.

This morning I thought about that story as I crossed the train tracks—without a wait. It made me think of my current favorite song: “This is not the End” by Gungor (if you haven’t heard of them, check them out—thought-provoking music). Here are a few of the lyrics:

“This is not the end of this.

We will open our eyes wide, wider.

This is not our last breath.

We will open our mouths wide, wider.

This is not the end of us.

We will shine like the stars, bright, brighter.”

I feel like crying and laughing at the same time when I sing that song—which I shout out as loud as I can if I’m alone. It’s full of so much hope! THIS, a life that often feels a lot like waiting for a train, is NOT the end of it all. One day it will pass, and that ending will be a huge beginning! I will be able to see with wide-open eyes. I will be able to praise with wide-open lips. I will fulfill that beautiful image of Philippians 2:15: I will shine like a star in my complete revelry in God.

But there is hope for this time, too, this train-waiting time; I can rest in the promise of Philippians 1:6: that until THAT end, God will open my eyes, bit by bit, wider and wider, so I can see less of my frustrations and more of Him. He will open my lips (and my pen/keyboard) so that testimony flows from them rather than selfish, hurtful things. He will turn up, degree by degree, my dimmer switch (or in this case, my brightening switch) so I shine His love brighter into the darkness that surrounds me.

In a few months we will move to the house we’re purchasing on the “right” side of the tracks, and my regular train-waiting times will be over. They’ve become almost enjoyable as necessary stopping points, worthwhile reminders that there is much good in waiting, listening, trusting, reflecting. It’s so easy to forget my true purposes when I’m incessantly running around. Good waiting (both for trains and in life) helps me remember.

He’s got the whole world

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One of Maddie's art projects! I kept telling her, "I'm not sure that's going to work, Mads," but lo and behold, it did!

“The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.” Joanna Macy

“He’s got the whole world, in His hands. He’s got the whole wide world…

He’s got the itty bitty babies, in His hands…

He’s got the mamas and the papas, in His hands…”

I sang that song with my kids a while back and realized what a sweet, gentle picture it created in my head.

Giant, soft, smooth hands full of well-cared-for babies and constantly-smiling mothers and fathers.

A pretty, happy picture. I can see myself in those hands, my children, too.

But it’s FAKE.

For starters, my scene doesn’t include much of the world’s population.

To be accurate, I should see crack babies, starving people, sex slaves, and suicidal teens along with the dimpled infants and upper-crust citizens (who honestly comprise only a few percent of the world’s population).

But that’s still not really “true.” I’ve just lumped in the “victims.” The upper-crust set may shrink back from the dirt carried in by the crack babies and crew, but they can think, “At least we’re all deserving.”

Ah, I need another adjustment in my picture—because that kind of thought MUST make God laugh.

So the massive hands in my imagined scene stretch a bit, and I see, hidden in the crevices, the “others.”

Pimps, drug addicts, sadists and dictators, child molesters, murderers.

They’re in the mix, too.

But when the hands stretched—oh, dear—the well-fed slipped down among the others. They lost their shoes and tore their clothes, and, oh, they are not so polished any more. Hurtful, damaged souls throb in plain sight now, so it’s clear they aren’t any different from the rest. They only think they are (and THAT has kept them from nestling deep into the cupped hands.)

Yes, the cupped hands! They, too, are unlike my initial picture. They are NOT soft and smooth, groomed and manicured.

They are cracked, bruised, scuffed, and scarred.

Deeply scarred.

Pierced through.

All because God’s heart broke wide, wide open,

And His arms stretched out,

And His head hung low,

So that

His hands, His beautiful, scarred hands,

Could hold the WHOLE world.

cheating?

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Still not adding sugar to my coffee, but…

Coffee with only creamer–

My tastebuds were convinced it was nasty crap.

I found myself avoiding it,

And drinking chai or spice tea instead.

Lots of sugar there.

Kind of defeating the purpose of the entire experiment.

So I tried flavored creamer.

Hmm. Better–and still not nearly as sweet as I usually have my coffee.

So, step in the right direction?

Or cheating?

Grovel or Go? Lessons from Isaiah

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Yes, PJ IS standing in an open car window--at least it wasn't in motion! I'm amazed--and grateful--that we've only had ONE trip to the emergency room with our little daredevil. I'm sure it won't be the last.

Too often I tell God what I want Him to do with me and for me. I guess there’s an acknowledgement of weakness in these kinds of prayers—I am, after all, admitting that I can’t make these things happen—but there is also a sense of pride. I may not have the strength to carry this out, but I know what the best course of action is.

Today I discovered I even tell God what to do in regard to my sin. This morning I prayed, “Lord, reveal my sin to me. Help me to know the ways I am straying from you.”

I’m not knocking this kind of prayer, and I’m trusting that the Holy Spirit interprets it for me, but as I studied a passage in Isaiah today, I realized that this prayer is based on a lot of ignorance. If God really DID show me the depths of my sinfulness, I would be crushed, as Isaiah was when he was in the presence of God. Overwhelmed, his only understanding in that moment was of his own dirtiness in the presence of the completely clean and holy God. “Woe is me! For I am lost;” he said, “for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!”

Regarding this passage, R.C. Sproul comments that this is a rare occurrence: God does not often crush us with a full picture of our sinfulness. Instead He reveals it bit by bit, in His own time and plan, as it is necessary and good for us.

That leads me to examine the motives behind my “Show me my sins” prayers. Am I asking, perhaps, out of a heart that still hopes to do penance, to somehow pay for my own sins, to show that I am truly sorry for them, and in this sorrow, to gain some acceptance?

Again, Isaiah’s example helps me. Isaiah was not asked to do penance for his sinfulness. Instead GOD sent an angel with a burning coal to purify Isaiah.

He did the same for me, with the death of Christ. I cannot accomplish my own purification, and therefore, He doesn’t ask me to. He did and does that Himself.

“…your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.”

Even knowing this, KNOWING that Christ paid for my sin, I have a tendency to grovel in it. I mistakenly think this is true sorrow, when it is really self-serving.

But that’s also not what Isaiah did. After God pronounced him clean, God immediately asked if Isaiah was ready to go to work. “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”

And Isaiah didn’t respond as I often do. “Hold on, Lord, I’m still processing how awful I am. I’m still overwhelmed with what I did (or said or thought).”

No, Isaiah IMMEDIATELY answers, “Here am I! Send me.”

This is not only a statement of willingness but of confidence. Sproul writes that if Isaiah had said “Here I am,” he would merely have been making a statement of readiness, but the inverted structure—“Here AM I!“—speaks of Isaiah’s new view of himself. The Lord had taken him through an understanding of Isaiah’s own unworthiness and the Lord’s grace, and Isaiah came out of that with a new sense of self-worth as a creation and servant of God.

Wow!

“Lord, I am Yours. Reveal to me what you want me to know, not so I can grovel but so that You may direct me in the ways You want me to go. Bottom line, Lord, here am I, Your creation, purified, qualified, and commissioned. Do Your will, Your best, with me.”

More on Mary

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PJ and Em with "milk mustaches" (yogurt, maybe? I can't remember what they used.)

Mary SAT at Jesus’ feet.

I doubt she had a computer in her lap so she could work on lesson plans in the spare minutes. I doubt she was even doing handwork, like, say, knitting a gift for someone’s birthday.
I think she was just sitting.
Just.
Sitting.
I don’t do a whole lot of that.
I CAN’T do a whole lot of that.
I’ve heard several pastors talk about the hours they spend studying the Scriptures. They talk about gaining great insights during these big chunks of time. The Bible, too, tells the stories of prophets and apostles who followed this practice. Most importantly, it gives the example of Christ, who regularly spent focused time in solitude, prayer, and fasting.
When I hear pastors share of hours spend in study or I think about Daniel’s twice-daily focused prayer times, I feel discouraged. I can’t spend hours a day reading, studying, and meditating on God’s Word. I don’t even have a whole lot of quiet time, much less sitting time.
I’m not alone. For most of my mom friends, the bathroom’s not even a guaranteed “alone spot.”
So how can we have daily intimacy with Christ? Is it possible without gobs and gobs of free time?
I would like to argue yes, it is.
Again, I’m NOT saying that solitude and focused prayer aren’t important. I regularly NEED to be a Mary. But as I rush around in my usual Martha life, I sometimes cheat myself by thinking, “Well, since I can’t spend an hour in prayer, I can’t pray.” I don’t take captive the bits of time I DO have.
And, like so many of my errors, this one, too, comes from a wrong view of God, a wrong view of how He loves us.
When our oldest, Emily, began talking, Dave and I had to learn a new way of conversing. As our household has continued to grow, we’ve had to adapt it more and more. We don’t wait until we have a big chunk of time to have meaningful conversation. If we did, we never would.  One of us shares something, even something deep. Before the other person can respond, someone or something interrupts. We put on Lego arms; we break up budding arguments; we answer homework questions; we fill out field trip request forms, etc. And our conversation flows around all of it. We understand that trips to the coffee shop for us to talk through an issue cannot happen every day (though they need to happen regularly), and this is our life.
Is God any different? Does He not know what my life is like?
He has given me four children, two international students, a husband, and a job. Would He really say to me, “Oh, no, don’t you try to talk to me with all these other things going on! It’s got to be one-on-one or not at all.”
No way! To think this way is to say that God is less wise than Dave and I. Heaven forbid!
Absolutely, alone-alone time with Him is NECESSARY, but for me to walk with Him through my day, for me to ABIDE in Him, intimacy has GOT to be built through the nitty-gritty.
And I’ve got to take advantage of tiny moments. Paul says, “We…take every thought captive to obey Christ.” What if I take every MINUTE captive? And my thoughts along with them!
One busy, rushed Sunday morning last fall I “finally” got to sit down at church. My body sank gratefully into the seat. But my thoughts didn’t sit. They raced, reviewing wrongs and frustrations, fighting battles. The Holy Spirit interrupted this tirade. “Save the battle for when you are IN it. I’ve given you THIS time. BE in it.”
There are many minutes in my day when my full mind doesn’t need to be completely involved in what I’m doing. Working out, doing laundry, cooking even: how often are my thoughts running rampant in these times rather than turning to conversation with God?
I’ve begun taking practical steps to help me take these minutes captive.
I’ve pasted verses above the sink so I can meditate on those while I’m washing dishes. I take my mp3 player down to the laundry room and listen to the Bible on audio while I fold and sort. I’m learning to turn off the radio in the car after I drop the kids off and spend a few quiet minutes. I carry verses on notecards while I walk the dog.
They add up.
They add up to prayer.
And meditation.
And memorization.
And listening.
And, really, they add up to intimacy.

Slow down

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I took this picture during our trip to Vermont, where life DOES seem a little slower. It made me laugh then and it seemed quite appropriate for today's post. Another sign on the property said this lady sold wool. It was a little late for us to stop and bother her, but I wish we had.

“My dear Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details! There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her” (NLT).

Last Saturday I got sick with a cold, sick enough that I slept through the Saturday noise of my household and still fell asleep early that night. When I got out of the bed Sunday morning, still woozy but better, I felt slowed down. Quick movements made my head feel like the tilt-a-whirl at the carnival.

I actually enjoyed it. I washed the breakfast dishes methodically, enjoying the warm water on my hands. I did only the things that absolutely needed to be done before going to church. When I began to cough during the service, I stepped out, got myself coffee, and chatted with a young mom nursing her baby daughter.

This quiet spirit flowed through the entire day, even through the meal preps and cleanup and the lesson planning for my classes.

Then came Monday.

Vroom, vroom. Let’s go. Hurry, hurry. Lots to do.

I left my lower gear behind and jumped straight to overdrive.

And I lost something really important in the process.

Then my in-laws arrived Thursday afternoon. Though it doesn’t seem so bad to multitask while interacting with my kids, husband, and colleagues, to do that with people you love but don’t live daily life with seems, well, RUDE. I slowed down.

And then, late that night, after everyone else was asleep, I read the next day’s devotional in Jesus Calling (just trying to get a jump on the day, you know). It was about time—literally, “time.” “Don’t fall into the trap of being constantly on the go. Many, many things people do in My Name have no value in My kingdom. To avoid doing meaningless works, stay in continual communication with Me.”

Oh.

The next day I read the Scripture passages that were listed with the devotional. “Mary…sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what He said.

But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made.”

I’ll be honest, though I LONG to be a Mary, I identify more with Martha. I often say, “But, Lord, ALL these things HAVE to be done. And quickly!” I can understand exactly how Martha feels.

Then I looked at the passage in a couple other translations. The “had to be made” is absent. The ESV just says “distracted with much serving,” and the Amplified says she was “overly occupied and too busy with much serving.”

What if all my rushing around, my multi-tasking fifth-gear—an attribute so highly praised by our culture—is nothing more than “over-occupation” and “busyness”?

Maybe rushing is, ouch, sin.

Maybe slowing down is “choosing the good portion,” like Mary did. The Amplified says this “good portion” is “to Mary’s advantage.”

There is still much that HAS to be done. But I don’t think my rushing accomplishes it any more quickly. And rushing keeps my focus and concentration off of Christ and on the pile of “has to be done.”

This afternoon, in a conscious effort not to rush it, I left early for an appointment. PJ, in between his morning and afternoon sessions of preschool, was with me. As we walked out the door, he said, “Look, Mommy. It’s snowing. It’s a gift from Jesus.”

We had a couple blessed minutes to stop and watch the gigantic flakes float down, a couple blessed minutes to consider the gift and the Giver.

“Only one thing is needed. … (Choose) “what is better,

And it will not be taken away…” (NIV 84).

Monk Envy

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This morning I returned from my volunteer hour at PJ’s preschool (which is a hilarious exercise) and spent a few minutes reading a book that someone (I’m assuming Dave) placed on the kitchen counter. Clay in the Potter’s Hand  by Dorothy Sun is the story of a Chinese follower of Christ (Dorothy) who lived through great persecution during the Chinese Cultural Revolution (I highly recommend it, along with Randy Alcorn’s book Safely Home, another book about the persecuted church). The honk of PJ’s bus interrupted my reading, and I was into my role of mom. I fixed lunch, read him a book (we’re on a Curious George kick right now), and began preparing for my in-laws to stay with us tonight. As PJ and I put fresh sheets on our bed, I sensed a grumpiness in my soul. On the surface I was annoyed at both PJ and Chai, the dog, for managing to be exactly where I next needed to step, but I knew that wasn’t the real problem.

Then I heard the little voice whispering in my ear. “What do you do that is worth all that much? What do YOU do for God’s glory?”

Ah, monk envy!

It’s what I call my strange tendency to assume that going through persecution, discomfort, poverty, etc. makes me dearer to God, to assume that He loves persecuted believers or those doing “great” things more than He loves me. So if I am persecuted or in distress… If I choose to go without or take on something I know will be difficult, then…

It’s a kind of reverse prosperity gospel–and every bit as deadly. Because what I’m REALLY doing is doubting God’s wisdom and plan–and thinking some pretty lofty thoughts about myself (although they seem at first to be self-abasing).

Upon realizing that my funk was actually monk envy, I was at first disappointed. I thought I was “past” this. I thought I had some bits of this theology worked out in my life. I thought I knew God and His Word better than to slip back into this thought pattern.

Just as I was tempted to try to correct my thinking, to try and

oh, the joy in taking time to be silly!

crawl out of the quicksand I’d stepped in without even knowing I was, a line from the hymn playing on the CD player suddenly sounded out clear. “He to rescue me from danger…”

THIS is danger, I realized. Both the quicksand of monk envy and the idea that I can pull myself out.

“Rescue needed!” I prayed.

He did.

And though I didn’t have it all figured out, couldn’t write even a blog post on why some believers undergo persecution and others don’t, why some go through this particular trial, and others that one…

…I was able to rest.

In a God who knows perfectly how my itty-bitty part fits into the BIG picture.

Who knows how everyone’s parts fit.

Whose love for me is not based at ALL on what I do or do not do.

I was able to trust.

I want your thoughts, continued…

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Another pic from Dave's and my Vermont trip. Wish my sister-in-law, Tammy, or my niece Anna had been there (well, not for our anniversary celebration :), but to take the picture. They would have been able to capture far better than I could the light coming through the bridge.)

If you haven’t read yesterday’s post, please do so. I really would like to hear your thoughts. One of my friends from childhood, Anne, gave her very wise perspective in a comment. I would highly recommend reading it.

Last night Emily, my eleven-year-old, shared a story that made me think of this subject of unfulfilled dreams. In her quest for an “interesting to a sixth grader” current event, she came across the story of pythons moving into the Florida Everglades. Formerly pets during the exotic-animals craze, these pythons were released by their owners when they got too big. Somehow quite a few made their way to the Florida Everglads and began eating what is usually food for the alligators. In an attempt to restore balance, people have been catching and killing these pythons who have grown to ginormous sizes. One was discovered  with a young deer–not a fawn–in its gut (guess that would hamper its getaway!).

Here’s the part of the story that relates to unfulfilled dreams: they found another that had tried to swallow an alligator and had split itself open in the attempt.

Ew! Gross! Who would ever do that?

Well, maybe we would! Could it be that we often try to grasp things that will end up splitting us wide open? Perhaps some unfulfilled dreams (even good ones) are thwarted or postponed because God is helping us to avoid this end.

I look forward to reading your thoughts.

Thanks,

Jen

I want your thoughts

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A couple weeks ago Dave went to hear Donald Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz and several other books that Dave and I have each really enjoyed) speak at Wheaton College. A few days after that Dave read aloud to me a blog post written by one of his former soccer players who had also gone to hear Donald Miller speak. The former soccer player’s post focused on the advice Miller gave to a crowd of mostly college-age kids (I’m at the age I can say that now) who are also, mostly, wondering what “God’s WILL” is for their lives. Miller told these kids to do whatever they want to do, whatever their hearts desire. His premise is that God created us and gives us passions, so we should follow those passions until God makes it clear otherwise.

Former Soccer Player was fascinated with Miller’s reply, but he had a few questions in response. What if we follow our dreams and they don’t work out? What if our passions are frustrated, and, though there are other options, those don’t excite us? What then? Do we give up on our dreams? Do we “settle”? Is the problem, then, with our dreams, with us?

Those are questions I’ve certainly thought a lot about, since writing has always been a passion, and my pursuit of it has prompted guilt (am I going after this simply because I want it? It seems so selfish.) and despair (will anything ever come of this?) as well as great joy (I simply love to write). I have my own ideas about these questions, but I’d also like to hear from others. I’m going to check back on Former Soccer Player’s blog and read the comments his readers leave, but my suspicion is that many of his readers are also 20-somethings and will have the perspective of 20-somethings. Most of you who read mine, however, are, well, we’ll say, “more experienced.” What has your “experience” taught you about frustrated dreams–or dreams that are not quickly realized–or perhaps, NEVER realized? Would you mind leaving a comment?

Thanks,

Jen

From the left, Em, Jane, and Em's long-time friend, Bekah