What I Think About: Magic Mike (and Hypocrites)

Magic Mike--The male stripper movie sensation that wasn't.  At least, not really.  Seriously, a movie with a talking teddy bear did better than a movie about strippers.  I'm not sure if I'm relieved or appalled.

All I know is I'm not into it.

My sister and aunt tried to convince me to go watch the movie but I just didn't want to see it.  I told them they were welcome to go but it wasn't for me.

I've had a hard time explaining this because I'm not a prude and I like sex but I'm those things with my husband.  I don't want to go look at other men because it felt dishonoring to my man--the same way it would hurt my feelings if he went to a topless women's club.

Now I know some people are cool with this "look but don't touch" arrangement but I'm not.  And I know I see bare chested men at the pool but I don't go to the pool to watch them and I'm certainly not breaking down any doors to catch a glimpse.  When it comes to my eyes, I do my best to keep them on Matt only.

And then there's the feminist in me who was totally conflicted.  Women being powerful and asserting their sexuality is not a bad thing ... but doing it in the same way men have done it for years--by objectifying people--just didn't sit well with me.  We don't fight objectification with objectification.  Or at least we shouldn't.  Of course I know these actors chose to be in this film and were compensated for their time but it still didn't feel right .  Just like it doesn't feel right to me that compensating women prostitutes makes sex slavery right and justified.

I felt kind of alone if my anti-Magic Mikeness but then I read this blog by Melissa Jenna (<--click that link and read it).  I was wowed by the way she wrote the words of my heart.

There are many levels, spiritual and otherwise, as to why I didn't want to watch Magic Mike and it was comforting to know I wasn't alone.

One area in which I might differ with Melissa is that I'm a firm believer in "heart" issues and "salvation" issues.  Salvation issues are those things laid out in the Bible that are required for salvation.  Heart issues are those pressing topics for which God encourages His followers to question and these are different for everyone.  Some women, like me, struggle with sexual self-image and objectification, and as such--watching a show like Magic Mike could be incredibly harmful.  On the other hand, other women have struggles of the heart that are different.  And this is where grace comes in.  I'll give you the grace to watch what you want (and reap the consequences of those decisions) if you give me the grace to watch (or not watch) what I want (and reap the consequences of those decisions).

I will not and do not want to see Magic Mike for many reasons and I should not be made to feel like a prudish nun for my unwillingness to lust after half-naked men (who aren't my husband).  If your heart is not convicted like mine in on this topic, then I'm okay with that.  You watch what you want to watch; I'll do the same.

What I really hate is this movie is one more way to talk about Christians as being hypocrites because {some} Christians won't see a show like this but will ... divorce at rates similar to those not in the church ... blindly support religious politicians even when they don't walk the walk ... shut down abortion clinics without offering financial, emotional, and physical support to those with unwanted pregnancies ...

Let me let a BIG cat out of the bag.

ALL Christians--yes that's right--ALL CHRISTIANS are hypocritical.  Yes we say one thing and do another (there's even a Bible verse about that).  But you know what else?  EVERY other person in the world is a hypocrite.  Can you name one person {not a religious deity} who has always, in every circumstance, been totally straight-forward and who has never been a hypocrite?  How about the mom who tells her kid not to lie but then lies (in fun) about Santa at Christmas?  How about the Republican who wants to balance that budget but spends bazillions on a war?  Or that Democrat who wants equal pay for women and yet the women working in his White House make 70% of the men who work there?  Or the man who tells his child to be a good sport and then screams at the referee?

We are all hypocrites people.  Get over it.  Find a new argument.

What I think about Magic Mike is I am over it (and judging by the box-office slump, so is everyone else).  While I am open to conversations challenging one another in our beliefs about watching, or not watching, such shows and discussing what is (and isn't) pornography, I really hate the conversation focusing narrowly on how hypocritical Christians are without fully examining how hypocritical ALL people are.

Phew.

The end.

What I Think About: Six Months Ago

Six months ago this week I wore a black dress.  I took a deep breath.  I shared these words with those who gathered to say goodbye to my mother.

What is love?  A gentle kiss on the cheek from a friend?  Words whispered in the ears of a lover?  A mother nursing her baby at breast?  Who now can comprehend love?  Define it?

I've seen love demonstrated to me a million ways yet one experience dwarfed everything I knew about love.  It challenged how I define love, how I feel about love, and how strongly I believe in the power of love.  In the end, I believe Death Cab For Cutie said it best, "love is watching someone die."

At the feet of Jesus, did that disciple, that mother, that follower understand the magnitude of love and how even in death, love frees?  Only love can fully permeate the darkness--a single beam of light in the dark.

Love is meeting a woman in hotel lobby, becoming best friends, and forming a bond so deep that no one would question why your children call that woman "Aunt."

Love is building a fence with a backdoor neighbor and spending thirty-odd years celebrating birthdays, laughter, burdens, and sorrow.

Love is lasagna prepared in the kitchen of concerned friends who want to help but don't know how.

Love is an e-mail sent at 6:30 am telling you that  you are loved and being thought of.

Love is a text at midnight from a husband who can't miss work telling you to hold your mom's hand while he prays for her--a couple hundred miles away.

Love is a Facebook message of encouragement and a promise to send strippers and tequila instead of a plant (I'm still waiting for both the tequila and the strippers but the flowers were lovely."

Love is old friends traveling far from other countries and states to say goodbye and to reminisce about how your mom stole exit signs and only drank once but was so drunk we leaned against the garage wall to keep it from falling down, rather than the other way around.

Love is hearing the tale of how your father met your mother and how, when they married two years later, they had only seen each other four times.

Love is the friend you joked with about aliens crying with you over a mom she loved, too.

Love is the in-laws who take the children so you don't have to cry in front of them or answer inquisitive questions about heaven.

Love is a care package from your mom's group stuffed with a good book, chocolate, tea, a journal, and liquor.  Of course, liquor.

Love is the people who know when to give you space and when to over-stay their welcome; the ones who know what you are really saying with each "I'm fine" or "I'm okay."

Love is caring for a lover like a child; love is sacrificing dreams of what could have been for moments--good or bad--that simply are.

Love is standing in the kitchen telling your son-in-law that if you knew forty-two years ago how it would all end, you would still do it all over again.

Sitting in a room, surrounded by family, watching my mom die, I finally understood love.  Even in her death, my mom teaches me--about life.  About love.

Love is messy.  It is not easily quantifiable or explainable yet is so simple the wholeness of it's meaning is expressed in three little words.

Love brings great sorry and great joy.  It makes you cry as easily as it makes you laugh.

Love is both random and steady--a feeling of falling and a matter of choice.

Love lives and though the ones we love may die, love never dies.  It grows.  It breaks.  It changes.  It stays the same.

Although we may be miserably broken over love, nothing can match the hope and joy that comes with having loved.  Love defies reason yet it is a reason.  Perhaps the only reason.

All I've learned about love is love is all there is.  In life--in death--love is all there is.  In my brokenness and sorrow I can celebrate the love of my mother.  All I am, all I hope to be, I owe to her.  Surely there is not greater legacy than love.

 Thank you to Shell at Things I Can't Say for letting me Pour My Heart Out.  It's been a long six months.

What I Think About: Regret

On Saturday I went to a book sale and they had these great voice-recordable books for sale.  

I burst into tears.

It seems so stupid now but here's the thing.  Last Christmas my husband's grandmother bought one of these books for all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  So in fifteen years when Nana is in heaven, our kids will hear her read them stories about the birth of Christ and Humpty Dumpty.  Truly these are a priceless gift.

I was determined to get two books and have my mom read them so our kids would have her voice.  When I saw the price of each book was $30 I staggered and, being the cheapskate that I am, decided I'd get them when they were on sale.  The sale never happened.  My mom died.  And now I wish with everything in me that I would have bought those stupid books so I could hear my mom's voice.

Regret.  

Regret sometimes sounds like "I shouldn't have" but other times, it sounds like "I wish I would have."

Regret.  I wear it like a heavy load on my back. The "What ifs?" the "If onlys."  

How I am haunted by regret.

I was at a Living Proof conference and was so convicted of my regret.  I cling to regret.  Sometimes I cling to it because I believe remembering what I shouldn't have done will keep me humble and dependent on God.  In reality, those regrets make me live a life of fear and self-condemnation.  Regret is a shroud of shame placed on me by myself, my enemy, and others that keep me in bondage.  

Don't misconstrue what I am saying.  I've done wrong.  I've made mistakes.  But I do not have to cling to them ... how much more powerful am I when I repent, accept grace, and walk in freedom?  When I refuse to be chained to regret? 

What I thinks is I can't cling to regret and walk in freedom.  How do you hold onto something and let it go?  You simply can't do both.

These thoughts tumbled about in my head and the worship team started singing.  I knew He was speaking to me when the singers proclaimed, "I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way He loves us."

Regret (n.): A heavy burden made lighter when I choose to believe that He loves me more than my mistakes.

What I Think About: Forgiving Yourself

Watch this video. Read the lyrics.



Have you ever just messed up?  I mean ROYALLY messed up?  The kind of messed up that will bring you to tears in thirty years when you think about it?  The kind of messed up that makes you seriously contemplate enrolling in science courses in hopes of inventing a time machine?  The kind of messed up that hurt someone? The kind of messed up that leaves you feeling totally broken?

I really messed up.  When I called my sister to confess she loved and supported me.  She said, "There is nothing you can do that can make me not love you.  Of course, I'm related by blood so that covers it."

To which I replied the most faithless words I've ever spoken: "Blood doesn't cover everything."

The second I said it I audibly gasped.  I was horrified that I said it.  I was more horrified that in many ways, I believed it about myself.  Deep inside of me an aching mistake made me believe that there are some sins that blood doesn't cover.

I know this is NOT true but have you ever stood in that place where you just FELT that it was true?  That you were standing in a shadow that the Son couldn't redeem.

If you have been there, tell me how and when do you forgive yourself?  I mean, forgiveness (even self-forgiveness) is key to grace and mercy.  But is there a time period where you should "feel" the effects of your sin?  How long should you mourn your actions before you seek to forgive them?  Off the cuff it feels like the answer is "you shouldn't drag yourself through the mud" but right now it just feels like the person I've hurt deserves to see me struggle and mourn over my wrongdoing.  Not because such lamentations will change the deed but because it will help that person know that I really feel the affects of my actions.  That I feel the pain.  That I am sorry.  Gut-wrenchingly sorry.

So when do you forgive yourself?

And of course the bigger issues is how?

I know I will never forget this incident.  I will play and re-play it in some small fashion (even if it is just a, "how could I be so stupid?!) several times a year.  How can I use this circumstance to remind me of all the ways that I need Jesus without consistently asking, begging, pleading for mercies I've already been given?  How can I use this to spur me on in a way that makes me a better person but helps the one I've hurt know that I haven't just forgotten and moved on?

Where is the balance between the burden of regret over sins committed and the mercy of peace from blood that cleanses?

What I think is that I need to learn to forgive myself.  Your wisdom is greatly appreciated.  Your prayers more so.

Thank you to Shell for letting me Pour My Heart Out every Wednesday

What I Think About: Being Grateful For the Dark

Sitting outside this August day it is warm and gray.  It rained last night and the scent lingers refreshing the earth.  Refreshing me.

Down the hill life is being lived in cookie cutter homes.  Cars leave slowly for work.  A nail gun pat-pat-pats new shingles onto a roof.  Around the corner children imagine and giggle.

The sun peeks out from behind a cloud and warms my arms.  A gentle breeze across my skin whispers relief.

I sit reading.  Watching the children.  Drinking in the morning with each splash of Earl gray on my tongue. These are my favorite days when it is dark and gray with only hints of sunlight.  More than a physical break from the heat, the gray is a relief to my soul.

Sometimes on gray days I'm so sad I cannot stand it.  And the darkness is my excuse and no one would question what put the sadness in my eyes for we all assume that it is the missing sun that has us so blue.  The way thunder masks a breaking heart or rain disguises tears, dark days hide the heart under a cloak of gray so we can be broken without explanation.  The reason for our brokenness is assumed.

There is truth on these cloudy days.  It is darker to be sure.  Dark because the clouds have taken over the sun.  Dark because my heart is troubled and I'm angry and I feel forsaken, forgotten, and faithless.  I want to lash out and cry in my anger and frustration.  Then the sun peeks out and I remember.

Even when I can't see it, the sun is there.  Behind those dark clouds its presence cannot be denied.  And the clouds cannot overcome it.  They are here for but a moment but the sun remains fixed and firm--whether I see it or not.

Perhaps I see it better, more clearly when it is dark.  In darkness, light is so much more obvious.

Those sunny days when the light beats down and warms me are good for the spirit--good for showing the way.  But dark days, when the sky is overcast and my soul is more so, are honey on my lips for they provide the visible analogy for the war in my heart.

There is dark.  There will always be dark.  But there is also light.  There will always be light and the darkness can never, ever overcome it.  Peace is mine on the gray day because the sun is there, providing enough light to get through the day.

Enough warmth to remind me that though things are not okay, there is a way.

I am grateful for this dark time.  I trust the light so much more.

What I Think About: Being Lost in Faith

There is nothing like calves and quads burning up a steep hill on a path that has long since surrendered to wildflowers and fallen trees to remind me how small I am and how great He is.

Sitting at the base of some granite wall God placed here in His time as a monument of beauty and glory I reflect on the path I've just run.

It started easily--downhill in trees that blocked me from the ever-present Wyoming wind. The path was obvious as I followed it up a leisurely, unobstructed hill. As I descended again the path grew smaller and windier.  The small bits of rock covering the hill made it dangerous to run too quickly down the hill. The path was covered with flowering bushes that tickled my legs--a warning to slow down. This led to a dark place.

Under looming rock formations, in the black shade of hovering pines I was chilled.  Downed trees covered the path. I went left and could not pass. Right yet I could not pass. I had to slow and climb over. Because some obstacles we have to face head on and this never seems more true than we are in dark places.

On the other side of the obstacle I was rewarded with sunlight, a breeze, and that obvious path that beckoned me silently, "this way".

And I followed the path because I knew it was the way. I trusted, blindly.  I didn't question; I followed and I was at peace with that choice.

But paths never stay the same--do they?

I was running.  Lost in the beauty of blue skies and quaking aspen leaves.  Suddenly I realized I was not on a path. I was just running at the base of a huge rock formation. No map to show me the way; no friend to guide me. I was alone. Without direction--without a path to follow. 

I contemplated going back--to find that trail in the sun where it was easier.  But I knew in my heart that I could never go back; I could only go forward.

So I slowed my pace and went on looking for clues to lead me to the finish line. I saw nothing but pressed on. Slowly. Methodically. Timidly.

And then I saw it--on the right.

A grassy area covered with flowers and trees stumps. When I looked closely I noticed that some of that grass lay to one side--as though it had been walked on.  Not by many--but by someone.  And perhaps the one who made this path made it for me.  Hesitantly I stepped once. Twice. It was hard to discern this path. I had to pay attention--I had to work at it. But I followed this barely-there, new territory, trust me and follow path.

I followed without knowing where I was going. Without knowing if it was the right way. Without having a reason or a purpose. I followed this rarely used path hoping it was the one for me.

It led me through muddy waters. Over tress and over rocks. I stumbled thrice. But I kept jogging ever hopeful--refusing to listen to those sneaky thoughts that I ought to go back because this was the wrong way.  I ran on.

Soon enough the path widened and the growth became less and less. The wind picked up carrying voices. Ahead climbers were ascending a climb, comfortably trusting their ropes and harnesses.

And there was the path. Wide. Well traveled. Obvious.

Here it hits me that this path was here the whole time. I'd gotten off it at one turn or another. Distracted, prideful--perhaps both--I followed my own way.  Yet He was there. Making a way through the wilderness.  Stepping into those grasses to guide me. Whispering encouragement on the wings of a passing butterfly. Offering hope in the cooling breeze.

These paths--they guide us and lead us. They aren't easy. Paths don't mean that the run won't leave me sore, tired, or breathless. They don't mean you won't get lost or take your own way. They aren't always discernible. Sometimes it's hard to even trust that paths are there because it doesn't feel like they are there.

But there is always a Way.

And so it goes with faith.

The bus, the bus, the bus is on fire

Last week I spent time at Quaker Ridge in Colorado for WYLDlife camp. Ropes courses, horseback riding, shaving cream and flour fights, human bowling, singing, swimming ... I had about as much fun as you can possibly have in one week.

There was only one small hiccup in the whole week (which is pretty darn good).

Our bus burned to the ground.

Yep--you read that correctly. Last Monday our tour bus got a flat which started the bus on fire. We had to get 50 kids/leaders and their bags off the bus. Yours truely was the baggage hero who literally crawled under the bus(remember, it's on fire) to remove all the bags. I tossed them out and the kids--working as an amazing team--formed an assembly line of sorts to pass the bags down the highway to safety.

We got the bags out and ran down the highway right about the time tires and gas tanks started exploding. Aside from a scraped knee (and sore throats/lungs from the smoke) there were no injuries!

Sadly we had to wait for about 3 hours for another bus to come get us but we did eventually get to camp. Some people might call this a tragedy but I love that this experience brought us together as a group. It solidified our trust in one another. It reminded me that my God is mighty to save!

Accepting the Bad

Have you ever had something you needed to say but you just can't find the words?

A burning disappointment.  A broken heart.  A repentance.

I've been at a loss to explain my own feelings--even to myself.  But as I've spent time in prayer and thought this weekend, a few feelings have come to my tongue.

Have you ever been in a situation where you felt like God just didn't. Show. Up?

Let down. Angry. Floundering.

When my mom was diagnosed with CADASIL it broke my heart. When I learned the hideous disease was hereditary, disappointment, fear and anger raged through me.

I like to imagine I felt how John the Baptist felt when he sent word to Jesus that he was in jail and Jesus--THE Jesus who gave sight to the blind and healed the lame and healed people from leprosy--called John great and yet--didn't go save John the Baptist from jail and his impending death (Matthew 11).  How must John the Baptist have felt?  Angry? Disappointed? Hurt?

In prison John the Baptist questioned if Jesus was the messiah.  How could He be the messiah when this bad thing was happening to John? How could Jesus not save the man who prepared the way for him?

Jesus makes a poignant statement--the prophets through John the Baptist prophesied the coming messiah.  Are we willing to accept that Jesus is Him even in the midst of a bad situation (Matthew 11:14)?  Even when bad things happen?  Even in discomfort or death? Even when we don't get what we want, no matter how noble the request?

When you are going through infertility or watching a loved one die or worrying about your health and wondering if you've given your children a disease that will one day kill them, people like to comfort you with words of encouragement.

"This is God's will."
"Keep the faith."
"Keep praying and God will give you your heart's desires."

To these "comforts" I reply:

Even if it is God's will ... It still hurts.  It is still confusing. In fact, God's will seems much more dubious when it is messy and dangerous and not an obvious blessing.

When I'm angry ... God can handle it.  It is a testament to my faith that I trust HIM with my emotions--even the ugly, angry ones.  My faith is not lacking because I question.  My faith is strong because I know He can comfort me in spite of my doubts.

My bad situation is not a result of not praying enough or trusting enough.  And though I pray, God still MIGHT not give me what I pray for.  But He might make my heart soft toward Him and draw me closer to Him and I might come to learn that it is not my selfish desires He wishes to give me, but to line my desires up with His.  And His heart's desire is that I know Him intimately and trust Him so fully that even if everything else falls away, He is still E N O U G H.

Give me that kind of heart.

I want my desires to be so in line with Christ's that in all circumstances I can stand in full faith and with the heart of trust, I can proclaim as Job did so long ago, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord." (Job 1:21).

It is easy, oh so easy, to proclaim God's will, and God's blessing, and God's grace when things are good.

But right now as I hurt and break and bleed and fear, I cry out to God and plead with Him to help me accept the bad.

The more I cry out, the more I am being intimately drawn to Him.  And though I hurt, I sing praise.  For peace.  For joy.  For knowing that even that which seems bad, is good in Christ.

From a Sigh to a Celebration

The pain. The sacrifice. The sorrow.  All but a sigh on the winds of eternity.

For where there was despair, there is now a song.  A celebration.

Not simply because of a love worth dying for.

A celebration for the resurrection that spurs me on to do the work of the cross, to be disciplined and sacrificial in my love for God and His people.

My song is hallelujah.