Jake’s been thinking about marriage lately—his own. A couple of weeks ago he seemed pensive when I picked him up from school. “What’s wrong, dude?” I asked.

“Dakota broke up with me,” he sighed. “She still likes me, but she doesn’t love me anymore.”

Em was pragmatic (a very different attitude than her approach to her own “love life”). “Well, it’s not like you were going to marry her.”

Jake protested. “I might. I’ve got to start looking now, you know, start preparing.”

Then, over the weekend, Jake reminded us of his children’s names (we’ve had some of this conversation before). “My first boy is going to be named ‘Tucker,’” he said. “Tucker Thomas—the Thomas is for you and me, Dad.”

“What?” Dave asked. “Doesn’t your wife get a say?”

Jake’s face crinkled up like we were missing something obvious. “Not with the boys’ names, Dad. She gets to name the girls.”

“What if you only have boys?” I asked.

He had to think about that one. “Then I guess she gets to name the second boy.”

He didn’t seem too happy about it.

So we’ve been back in West Chicago now for three months, and I am tired, tired, tired and wondering, in odd, fragile moments, why God brought us back here. Don’t get me wrong. I SEE lots of answers to that question, and I am not doubting His leading, but all the obvious answers are stretching me past my limits, using up every bit of energy I have.

 

And I wonder—even while I hear a still, small voice telling me not to wonder about all the “why”s of this move—if this fatigue isn’t actually part of the big-picture reason. God keeps putting verses in my path that speak about my limitations. “My power is made perfect in weakness” showed up on our verse-of-the-day calendar yesterday. Today’s focus verse in Em’s devotional book is “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.”

 

“Face it,” God seems to telling me. “Stop pretending you CAN do it all and admit you can’t. Be okay with your limitations, with your fatigue. Quit this Superwoman mentality. Only then will you stop trying and let me work. Only then will you see that I DO provide what you need, and you will see the strength I provide as supernatural and miraculous.”

 

Paul said he “boasted” in his weaknesses. He was “content” with hardships and weaknesses (as well as insults and persecutions!). He said that when he was weak (and “okay” with it), then he was strong. God tells me to “draw near to His throne of grace, so (I) can receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” He says that when I do draw near—recognizing my own inability—He will strengthen me with “power through His Spirit in (my) inner being” and I will KNOW (through experience) the love of Christ and the fullness of God.

 

So goodbye, working-mother image. Adios, Supermom. Here’s my shout-out to the world: I cannot do it all. I’m not capable. I’m weak. Did you hear that? I know this flies in the face of everything we’re supposed to tell ourselves, everything the world feeds us, but I’m stepping off the bus, baby.

 

So, do you know what this means? If you see me actually accomplishing my roles, looking like things are running smoothly, if I manage to get enough sleep and be everywhere on time, then guess what?

 

It’s NOT me! It’s God providing the strength, the remembering-power, the organizational skills…

 

It’s God providing what I need every week, every day, every moment…

 

It’s GRACE!

I made calzones last night for dinner and sent the extras in all the kids’ lunches today, forgetting that Jake would have a tooth extracted this morning and be limited to soft foods until evening. So, of course, no calzone for him (though I got him an ice cream cone to eat on the way back to school); it stayed in his lunch box.

When I picked all the kids up after school, Jake’s first question was, “Mom, can I have my horse-zone for dinner tonight?”

Hmm.

Em figured it out. “Oh, he thought it was a ‘cow-zone.'”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jake. “I forgot. So can I have my ‘cow-zone’ for dinner?”

Little kids: check. Middle school and teenage kids: check. Twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties: check. With my in-laws and the head of my teaching department (who keeps reminding the rest of us she’s not as young as we are), I’ve even got the sixties covered.

But I almost never have contact with truly elderly people, men and women whose bodies are clearly on the downward slope, whose wrinkles and age spots remind both themselves and us that the body was not meant to last forever. It’s merely a shell, and it’s breaking down.

In the sophomore English class I teach, we are reading Tuesdays with Morrie, the nonfiction bestseller from a decade ago about a man in his late seventies who died of ALS. Last week we also watched a video made by Jim Harrell, a former WA parent who was diagnosed with ALS several years ago and died in 2010. Though the two men are very different–Morrie is facing death as an agnostic; Jim is a firm believer in his after-life eternity with Christ–they have one very similar message: “Our bodies are approaching death; so are all of yours. What is most important?”

It makes me think that I am not reminded enough of the mortality of humanity. I spend my days with young children and young adults, all full of energy, all focused on TODAY! My 83-year-old father lives too far away for me to visit him regularly. Every time I see him, I have to adjust to the greater slope of his back, to the fact that I can now put my arms around my formerly barrel-chested father, to his conversation being more and more focused on heaven than on earth. I do not live with this every day.

Two weeks ago I had my eyes checked by our new eye doctor, who is near my father’s age. Like my dad, he is sharp-minded and focused. While he examined my eyes, he talked to me about the complexity of the universe, the amazing intricacies of God revealed in the number and scope of the galaxies. It was exhilarating to listen to him talk about a God he knows better than I because of the years upon years he has followed Him.

But as he leaned in close to check the lens in my eye, his bushy white eyebrows brushed my cheek, and one veined, knobby hand grasped the chair arm for balance, and I was reminded that time will do the same to my body. Three days later, as Dave and I drove the family to church, I saw an old man on the sidewalk. His shirt was neatly tucked in, and he was clearly on his way someplace, but his pants were wet with urine, and he walked with his head down as if ashamed. Dave reached over and held my hand. We were both reminded.

I sometimes wish that we had an elderly relative in our home, as families in many cultures do. Perhaps then we could see that life is fleeting, that youth and vitality eventually fade, that we are not immune to decay, that our bodies will cease, and our spirits must go on to something very different. Perhaps then we would see that the “life” Christ referred to so much is not defined by the limitations or abilities of our bodies. It is not defined by the death of the body.

Each Sunday  a group of older women gather at our church. Most have outlived husbands; a couple totter along with walkers; nearly all have glasses. They shift down the hall together, ease into chairs in the fellowship hall, get the youngsters to pick up things they drop on the ground. They are not as “alive,” in one sense, as the five-year-olds that climb and jump in the playroom in the church basement. Yet the life at their table is tremendous. It sparkles from eyes that have seen both heartache and joy; it gleams from mouths that gather in everyone with warm smiles. Their warped old hands grasp the arms of all who pass by. “How are you?” they ask; they really want to know.

Their bodies get noticeably closer to death each year, but their souls have spark, and when you watch them, you get the sense that when those bodies drop away, those women will rise up, fully alive.

It is time, I think, to get more “age” in my life.

 

I am in my 18th year of full- or part-time teaching at the middle-school, high-school, or college level! I just added it up, and it shocked me. I don’t feel as old as that number makes me out to be, and I also feel I should have a better hang of it after 17 years. I’m STILL staying up late several nights a week to prep or grade.

Early in this career that I love (thank You, God, for bringing me back to it), a teacher told me that I should learn more than my students do through my teaching. That’s true—or it should be. If a teacher is no longer learning and growing through the act of teaching, it may be time to quit or at least take a break (though that’s not why I quit three years ago; I was definitely still on a learning curve. In fact, I needed a break from the learning curve.)

So here’s one of my current learning curves: Right now I am finishing up Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress with my seniors. One of the themes that has emerged is that getting your world shaken up, even when it happens through very negative circumstances, helps you to learn, grow and change. The author, Dai Sijie, based this fictional account on his very real experiences during the Chinese Cultural Revolution, during which several million urban youth in China were sent to labor in rural villages. In Balzac the two city youth who are relocated feel completely different from the people they are now living with but by the end, though it is not a tidy nor happy ending, they have discovered more similarities between themselves and their rural neighbors than they would ever have believed when they first arrived.

My students and I talked about the problems and benefits of spending long-term time in a place where we don’t “fit” the norm. I introduced to them the term “third-culture kids,” TCKs, a term that describes young people who have spent part of their formative years in a culture different from their home culture. It’s an important term for them to know. We have 36 international students at Wheaton Academy this year. Each of them is already—or is becoming—a TCK.

I asked my students, “How many of you spend significant time in a culture in which you are not the majority?” Besides the one international student from Liberia, two others raised their hands. They are both African American going to a school that is still pretty white (though becoming less so—yay!).

I challenged the rest of us to do it—find some place or group in which we feel like the cultural minority. Ever since I gave that challenge, God has been opening my eyes to more of the reasons He wanted us back here. I was REALLY comfortable in Sterling, more comfortable than I have EVER felt in suburbia. But “not feeling comfortable” is actually a pretty good thing. It shakes me up some. It reminds me that this world isn’t my true home anyway. It pushes me to make connections with people who are very different than I am, either culturally or spiritually or economically or educationally.

The nature of my day keeps this in mind. In the mornings I drop Patrick off at his morning school. I am one of the few white moms who enter the building. Patrick, with his dark skin, fits right in. Then I run the other kids to Wheaton Christian Grammar, where nearly everyone is white—and many are in a much higher income bracket. I teach my wonderful students for a couple of hours at WA (the place that feels most like “home”), and then I am off to pick up Patrick and deliver him to the Early Learning Center, where every student has some form of learning or developmental difficulty (and Patrick—with his small fine-motor skill issues—is by far the highest functioning student). At night the smell of Nina’s or Jane’s rice and soy sauce mingles with the leftover scents of an American dinner. The sounds of Chinese and Vietnamese have become ordinary to our ears. On Thursday nights I go to a writing class where I am often the only one who would describe herself as a Christ follower.

My world is already a wonderfully mixed up place, but I want to push myself more. I don’t want to avoid places or people just because they look or dress differently or believe differently than I do. I don’t want to avoid deep conversations with my international students or fellow moms or fellow classmates because it’s unknown territory. I want to be okay with being a little uncomfortable. I’m learning that I love comfort more than I ever thought I did, and I am also learning that God doesn’t care a whole lot about my comfort. In fact, I think I think it often gets in the way of what He really desires for me.

On Tuesdays Em, Jake, and Maddie have soccer practice, and I walk a circuit between the playground where Patrick plays with some of my other carpool kids and the fields where the older three

practice. Last week the sun was intense and no clouds covered the sky. As I walked in the shadows under the trees, stray beams of sunlight made me blink, and when I emerged into the open field, the setting rays made me reach for my sunglasses. “Ah, that’s annoying,” I thought, until the Holy Spirit elbowed me and I realized the petty selfishness of my attitude.

Sometime later in the day the Holy Spirit nudged again, and I began to see a familiar passage of Scripture in a whole new light (pun intended!). In John 3:20 Jesus says, “… the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light, for their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed. But whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.”

I think I’ve always felt a bit smug when I’ve read those verses. “Yes, ‘those’ people have to hide in the dark, but me, well, I’m doing pretty good things. I’ll let anybody try to find dirt on me. I’m an open book.” In fact, I can remember the unwelcome shock it was when one of my former-students-become-disipleship-partner told me in her blessedly blunt way, “Well, I know you’re not perfect. By now I certainly know your faults.”

What faults is she talking about? I remember thinking that. I mean, I know I have faults, but none that she should be noticing. They’re small, right, and very inconsequential, particularly compared with other people’s.

I might be exaggerating my egotism, but only a little. My heart is pretty devious, and I will accept things it says in the privacy of my own soul that I would recognize as blatant lies if I heard them out loud.

But last Tuesday, when I shut my eyes against the dappled light of the sun, preferring the shadows, I realized that the “works” of my heart require shadow to be seen as good. When the pure light of God’s goodness invades, MY good deeds are exposed and my “kind” thoughts are revealed—and they are all self-centered. I prefer the shadows. I, too, LOVE the dark because it hides my evil intentions.

But God is placing a different desire in my heart. I find that I want my selfishness to be revealed—in the same way I WANT any cavities in my teeth to be found. Though the light of God’s goodness will show that even my whitest whites are stained completely, His light also transforms. Revealing and transforming; revealing and transforming—on and on I become, bit by bit, more like HIM.

So Father, even though I wince at Your convicting presence like I squint at sudden sunlight, keep breaking through my shadows. Don’t let me stay in half-light, pretending that my “goodness” is far better than others’. Don’t let me become a super-spiritual snob. Show me that I love the dark because it hides my selfish “good” deeds. Carry out TRUE good work in me, full of light.

Please, Lord, shine on.

My kitchen floor is clean! Very clean, which is near miraculous since I clean my kitchen floor only in bits and pieces these days, sweeping one area now, another then, letting Patrick rub it with a wet rag when the mood hits him (which, fortunately, is often).

But today the majority of it is scrubbed–with Murphy’s oil soap no less. Yes, there is a story here.

Last night I planned on waffles, getting so far as mixing all the wet ingredients together before going to pick up Nina and Jane from their study hours. When I arrived at the Academy, I realized a soccer game was about to start, and both girls–and of course all the younger ones–wanted to go. “We’ll eat leftovers tonight and have waffles tomorrow,” I said, “and jet back here for the game.”

I put the waffle starter in the fridge overnight and today, when Patrick and I arrived home at a little before 1, I set it on the counter to warm up. Patrick came into the bedroom where I was going to do a quick workout video. He chattered like crazy for a few minutes and then disappeared. Then–clang! “What was that, buddy?” I called.

“Uh, Mom, can you come here?”

I trotted to the kitchen–and stopped. Patrick was standing next to the counter, his arms still up, one hand clutching a paper napkin. All around his feet, on the doors of the cupboards, splattered up his legs, was the waffle batter–all six eggs, four cups of milk, 1 1/2 cups of semi-congealed butter, and another 1/2 cup of oil.

I walked away. Two rooms away, I fussed and fumed. “Really! Why couldn’t he just leave it alone? Why did he have to mess with it? Seriously, God!”

On my way back to the kitchen, I muttered what might be a prayer. “You’re going to have to give grace, Lord. I’m not really inclined toward it myself right now.”

Well, I did fuss at him, stopping every once in a while to remind him–and myself–that “I really do love you, but I’m also pretty mad at the moment.”

I used a dustpan to carry the congealed butter and “slosh” to the sink. A half a roll of paper towels got the rest off the floor, and then I used Murphy’s so we wouldn’t skate on butter gloss every time we crossed the kitchen.

I made him sit in the corner while this was happening. I had finished fussing, had gone through the “what were you thinking?” (he wanted to wipe the condensation off the side of the bowl) and the “why didn’t you ask me?” when he finally said something.

“Mom?”

I looked up, expecting, “I’m really sorry,” but no.

“Mom, does this mean I don’t get to watch a movie this afternoon?”

Um, no. Instead I made him sit in my bedroom while I worked out, and we had an interesting conversation. “Mom, what’s inside your brain?”

“Thoughts,” I answered.

“No, really!”

And now, one hour later, there is even more grace…

He’s asleep.

Our pastor is preaching a series of sermons on Jonah. He began the series about three weeks ago on a day we held church in the park, with the bright sun beating down on our heads. Someone read the entire book, and then Craig (our pastor) gave an introduction: “The theme of Jonah is the grace of God. Everything Jonah encountered was grace: the storm, the fish, the arrival in Ninevah, the death of ‘his’ plant.”

I sat on a folding chair with Nina, Jane, and Vi, one of Jane’s friends staying for the weekend, next to me, and I wondered what they were thinking. They were probably wishing they could be in the shade or, even better, asleep. I don’t think they wanted sweat to be trickling down their backs, eyes squinting against the cloudless sky. Did bringing them to church this morning do any good? Then my mind turned to my task of daily sharing the Gospel with them–with my life, not just my words. How often will I “mess up” with them? I wondered. How often will the gospel message I “speak” be undermined or contradicted by my actions or attitudes, how often will my grumpiness argue louder than my proclamation of God’s love?

I decided then–and I reaffirm it now–that I don’t want to be like Jonah, a reluctant, even vindictive, witness. He did not love the people he spoke to; he wanted calamity to come on them. I don’t think I will want calamity to strike our girls, but it would be very easy to begrudge the time and effort I spend on them. “Ok, I guess I’ll attempt to cook Chinese again,” “If you absolutely have to be there, I’ll drive you,” “Oh, all right, you can have a friend over.” I don’t want to serve through gritted teeth.

Yet I am reminded that God used Jonah in spite of Jonah’s attitude. The Holy Spirit of God seriously WORKED! The Ninevites, a warlike and fierce people, faced with a vindictive prophet gladly preaching a message of doom, turned to God! God was greater than Jonah’s lack.

And He is greater than mine. He can use me in spite of my often-unwilling spirit. He will work in Nina and Jane’s hearts regardless of my attitude.

But I don’t want to miss out on the joy. Jonah’s reluctance kept him from the pure, awesome JOY of seeing the Ninevites change, of seeing them as people created by God. He missed out on knowing God’s heart for the Ninevites, His hope for them, His desire to spare those many people, His giddy gladness when they turned TO Him.

I don’t want to miss God’s heart.

I need to give a little background to this story. Having an African-American child in our family impacts how we view history. For example, when we read a book that was set in the pre-Civil-rights era (the story of courageous little Ruby Bridges going to an all-white school—great book, by the way), the twins were HORRIFIED! “What do you mean? Are you saying that Patrick wouldn’t be able to go to the same school as we do? Why? That’s wrong!” When we explained that this restriction was only a small portion of the injustices, they could not fathom it. Needless to say, we are holding off for a little while longer before we talk about slavery.

With that background in place, let me tell you what happened the other day.

PJ has been like an annoying fly with Jake lately. He bugs him nonstop, dogging his steps, punching him lightly on the arm at every opportunity, grabbing his sleeves, coming up from behind him and poking him—on and on and on. (I think he misses the summer days of being with him all the time.) Finally, early this week, Jake had had enough. PJ bumped him from behind, and Jake whirled around and grabbed PJ’s forearms. “Why are you doing this?” he half-yelled. PJ just stared back, a little pleased, I think, to have gotten Jake mad, but not sure what Jake was going to do.

Jake went on. “Is it because a long time ago white people were really mean to black people?”

PJ’s eyebrows went up because, of course, he had no clue what Jake was talking about. “Well?” Jake demanded. PJ’s eyebrows went even higher, and he shrugged.

So then Jake says, “Well, those days are over, man. They’re over. Stop bugging me.” He dropped PJ’s arms and stalked away, leaving PJ looking around wondering what on earth had just happened and Em and I nearly rolling on the floor laughing.

I LOVE our crazy family.

This is going to be short–I’ve got to get back to lesson planning for the week–but it’s been a theme of the whole day.

I have been entrusted with a great responsibility as a mom to Em, Jake, Maddie, Patrick and–for this year–Nina and Jane. This is a job with Matthew 28 implications. “Go into all the world and make disciples”–in my case, the world has come to me! It’s awesome, amazing, a treasure…

In the abstract, that is! In the day-to-day (and especially on weekends) it’s meal prep after meal prep; it’s loads and loads of laundry; it’s having to revisit fifth-grade math and high school geometry to help Em and Jane with homework (Nina’s in physics; I’ve told her not to bother with me); it’s sweeping the kitchen floor and discovering it’s dirty 30 minutes later; it’s (possibly most hated chore of all) having to shop at Walmart way more than the once-a-month trip I could get by with while living in Kansas.

And it’s awfully easy to get fixated on those things rather than on the eternal perspective. No, it’s more than easy; it’s human nature–human, sinful, self-centered nature.

What’s supernatural is to keep the eternal perspective in view, to hold onto it so that frustration is forgotten in the joyful knowledge that God will use my service to open up hearts to Him.

And God PROMISES that He can provide the strength and the power to do that for me. “Look at Me,” He tells me, “and I will lift you up.” Like Peter, I can stop looking at Christ and find myself wallowing in my own sea of self-pity (and my struggles to get out simply sink me deeper), or I can look up and find myself on top of the waves.

Look up, Jen, look up.