Where is the justice....

I am in Atlanta for a few days with a group of students. UGA is out next week for Spring Break. Many students headed to the beach, to New York, home, or some other spot to relax, work, or chill from school. We came to Atlanta seeking to see and understand some of the injustice in the world. Tonight we joined a group of fellow seekers to view the movie "Trade." I don't even know how to describe the movie. As we were told by an off duty police officer who was guarding the parking lot while we watched the movie: "that's a serious movie - not a popcorn movie - it's really heavy!" Here's the synopsis from Rotten Tomatoes (http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/trade/#synopsis):

At once soft-hearted and hard-edged, TRADE provides a compassionate look at an ugly world. In Mexico City, men kidnap13-year-old Adriana (Paulina Gaitan) with the intent of selling her virginity to the highest bidder. Young Polish beauty Veronica (Alicja Bachleda) is held captive by the same men, and they threaten her young son across the ocean. As the criminals mistreat their victims, Veronica is Adriana's only solace as she is taken farther and farther away from home. Meanwhile, Adriana's older brother, Jorge (Cesar Ramos), begins to track his sister across the Mexican border into Texas and through the United States. On his mission, he runs into a Texas cop named Ray (Kevin Kline) who agrees to help him without ever really saying why. TRADE isn't escapist fare: it's a socially conscious film that doesn't flinch from the most painful of details about the sex trade. There's rape, pedophilia, and suicide, and the film doesn't look away or glance over the horrors. This is German director Marco Kreuzpainter's first film on these shores, but he works like an assured veteran. After working for decades in the film industry, Kline is often most highly praised for his work in comedies such as DAVE and A FISH CALLED WANDA, but he's quite adept in this serious drama. Young actors Ramos and Gaitan are making their major feature debut with TRADE, but they both communicate the fear and frustration of their characters with remarkable skill.

The movie was truly disturbing. At times I could not even watch.... Our goal and prayer this weekend is that we will be disturbed - disturbed out of our middle class, Christian-bubble of comfort to actually see the issues and people facing injustice all around us. As one of our students said tonight as we talked after the film, "it's much too easy for us to put in our ear buds, turn on our iPod to the latest worship music, and walk to our next class without ever noticing the people on the way." I'd add to that; often we, as Christians, become so busy with "good" activities in our churches and small groups that we don't have time to notice those around us that are facing issues of injustice - some in our very neighborhoods and schools. Child abuse is rampant - among "good Christian people" too. The sex trade is supported by people just like our neighbors. And we don't see any of it. We are blinded by our own needs, our own lives, our own Churches, out own children, our own worries.

"God, disturb me this week. Show me the injustice in my small piece of the world. Help me to see with your eyes.... I pray you will be disturbed this week too. It's only when our feathers are ruffled that we will notice there are millions who spend their lives in discomfort as they live with the injustices we ignore through our busyness".

Do nothing but nothing

Maybe I’m a heretic, maybe I stray too far from home, maybe my actions and inactions betray a deep lack of faith – or maybe not….

I’m learning – slowly – to read between the lines, to understand and appreciate the empty spaces. I’m learning to allow my faith to be organic; listening to my inner voice, my breath, my heartbeat and hearing God through, beyond, beneath, and in my very core. Often I demand too much of myself. Forcing habits and disciplines that are not my own, that only serve to stymie my growth, make my steps stumble and pause from the path that I am walking. Sure, there are times when I need to try new disciplines, to force myself to read, pray, meditate, to practice the “habits of the heart.” But as I look back, it is in the times of no discipline, the moments of “laziness”, the times when I just can’t open the Bible and read, the times when prayers seem so far from my lips, that I find I have grown the most. I’m just coming out of such a time. I feel closer to God – and self – than I ever have. I also feel more alive, more attune to everything and everyone around me. I feel that I breathe the very breath of God and that all of my activity and inactivity is exactly what I should be doing.

I wonder if maybe this is really Sabbath? The forced Sunday moments of doing nothing usually only make me bored (unless I really need a nap). However, when I do need Sabbath I am starting to recognize it and welcome it. I am beginning to allow myself moments, days, weeks, months to take it.

Heretical? I don’t think so. I need these periods of inactivity so that what I “know” can become a part of me, soak into my every fiber, merging with my DNA, living in me.

Wandering too far away from home? Perhaps. But growth for me usually only happens when I am willing to be stretched, pushed, pulled, dragged, or when I get hopelessly lost from where I think I need to be. It is only then that I discover I am exactly where I am supposed to be! Maybe I was lost when I thought I knew exactly where I was and where I was going?

I wonder if most of Christendom is not suffering from a similar lost-ness. I wonder if sometimes our confidence and busyness keep us from going where God wants to take us. I wonder of our disciplines have become bad habits that keep us trapped in an unhealthy spiritual place, rooting us in who we are, not letting us become who God wants us to be?

Lack of faith? Absolutely not. Perhaps my lack of confidence in myself only serves to force me to trust God in the moments when I have no clue. Yes, it is uncomfortable not knowing what is going on in my “spiritual life”, my “walk with God”. It may be cliché, but, I am slowly coming to realize that I don’t need to know where I am going as long as I know who is taking me there. As Americans we want to know the answers, we want to know the time, we want to know the destination, we want to know the facts; we just want to know! I fear that is the same for Americans who are Christians. However, often we don’t know, can’t know, and shouldn’t know – and that should be OK. Why do we have to have – or make up – answers for things that only God can know? Why can’t we be comfortable in mystery? Why can’t we allow ourselves and others to marinate in what God is doing in our lives without filling it with more, more, more, more? Sometimes I think we know too much to be able to use what we have learned.

My son was diagnosed with Mono last week. This week he is reluctantly resting. The problem is, he doesn’t feel bad. After a nap, or an extended stay on the sofa he is ready to get up and do something. But he can’t. We make him rest. He asked the doctor what he could do to get well. He wanted to know what pill he could take that would make him better. She told him he could do nothing to get well. She said, “Just rest. Rest when you feel you need it. Rest when you feel like you could play. For a whole month do nothing but nothing.”

Wow.

There are times that my busyness, my work for God, my involvement in “good things”, makes me spiritually sick. There are times when I need to “do nothing but nothing” and allow God to “do” in me – to heal me, to teach me, to work in me, to “become” in my very soul, to take me where God knows I should be going, to change my direction, to move me in quantum leaps beyond where my busyness has kept me.

So don’t be surprised if I tell you to “quit” sometime soon. It’s good advice. Quit! Stop! Do “nothing but nothing”! Allow God to do the work in you while you wait as long as it takes. Through the “nothing”, you may find what you were really looking for all along!

OMG, that's me!

Today was one of the toughest I've had as a father. Our baby daughter, almost 2, underwent some minor dental surgery this morning. I gladly accepted the parental role of taking her to the dentist and caring for her afterwards. It was wonderful holding her before and after the procedure. However, I didn't quite understand what the doctor meant by "she will be a bit emotional for a little while this afternoon as the medicines work out of her system". At one point my precious little baby was thrashing around as I calmly, but firmly tried to restrain her. Despite my best efforts she managed to break open the cauterized site under her lip, filling her mouth with blood. She was so violent that I couldn't even blot her lips, cheeks, hands, shirt, or the spots on my clothing or the couch. karlie is the calmest, most good natured kid I've ever been around! And she was acting like an out of control demon!
Karlie is her daddies little girl. There has been a special attachment between us since I carried her from the delivery room to the nursery when she was born. Between the measurements and procedures that followed Karlie would begin to get unsettled. But I was able to calm her down by holding one of her tiny hands in mine and whispering sweet words in her dainty ear. She responded almost immediately, quieting her cries and relaxing her body. The same practice has worked, without fail, ever since. But not today. Today nothing worked. Gentleness? Didn't work. Holding her tight so she couldn't thrash about? Nope, she became livid, actually shaking with fury! Letting her go, so she had freedom and independence to calm herself? That was the worse choice of all! As I scooped her up to try again I had to admit that I could not do this. I prayed for her (and myself) again, this time out of desperation. And as I regained control of myself, I had a humbling thought. Nate, this is you and God right now. You are fighting God as God tries to hold you and guide you, keeping you from hurting yourself. But karlie is on drugs, but what's my excuse? My answer is humbling, I'm pretty rebellious. No, I'm not running around living a sketchy double life behind everyone's back. But I do push against the boundaries just a bit. I do find myself putting my foot down with God, saying, "No, I am doing it my way!"
So I snuggled my baby girl a bit more gently, and sang soft, sweet tunes in her ear for as long as it took for the meds to wear off, hoping God is doing the same with me - holding me close while I attempt to push away, until my strength is exhausted and I fall gently, safely back into God's arms, into God's will.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Questioning my lifestyle

I’ve been doing lot’s of thinking lately. Reading Shane Claiborne’s book, The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical, has made me rather uncomfortable with my status quo, American-Christian, lifestyle. If you like your life and are comfortable pursuing the American dream, don’t read this book! It will screw you up, give you sleepless nights, and make you wish for less, instead of more!

Each month when I pay bills I am amazed at both how much is coming into our bank account and how much is going out. As I crank my van each morning – a necessity considering the proximity of our home to work – I wonder if the choice to buy it on credit was the proper use of our God-given money. Yes, we both work hard for what we receive, but could we do with less in order to give more to others? And then I run across websites like this one - http://junkycarclub.com/ - and my mind takes the train of thought even further down the tracks. We are just finishing a huge (and expensive) addition/renovation project at home. Was this a wise choice? Could we not have downsized instead of super-sized our living space? To do so would have given us less to worry about caring for and paying for. We would have had more time together due to the smaller space, and less space to spread out and hide from one another. We would have had more money to help others. But then I argue with myself, saying that now we have more space to entertain, to invite friends and neighbors into our home and lives. Why, we could even start a house church in our great room! Maybe so, but will we do that?

I’m sure I will be thinking about these things for quite a while now. I hope you will join me in considering how much is too much for Christians to consume, own, and pursue. I hope we will find the courage to change our lifestyles and practices to better reflect the faith we say we practice!

One Year

It's hard to believe that Karlie entered the world one year ago. The past two years have been a blur - of course I credit much of that to the exponential annual increases in the speed in which time passes for me. Each year time seems to speed up. I can not imagine things going any faster than they have passed this year. Karlie is thriving - but is rather spoiled. Between my in-laws, the perfect stereotypical good grandparents to Karlie, and me and Karen, almost the age of normal grandparents, the baby is rather spoiled. She is not walking yet, nor is she trying to stand by herself. Whenever she wants something somebody gets it for her or takes her to where the item is within her reach. No one wants to hear her cry. Now we are having to backtrack to try to teach her patience. Fun Days are sure to be [full speed] ahead!

Viva en Espana!

One of my students is studying abroad in Spain this semester. You can follow Mallory's adventures here: Viva en Espana!.

When dreams and heroes die....

Monday was a shocking day for our family. The whole house was awakened from our holiday sleep when my wife turned on the news and saw the leading story on the Today Show - The Croc Hunter, Steve Irwin had died. Her initial reaction was to shout, "Oh No! Nick, Nick! Oh No!" As I struggled to consciousness, my only thought was, "something must have happened to Steve."

Irwin has been more to our family than just one of the crazys on the discovery channel that causes audiences to gasp at his antics; he has been a member of our household. For our eight year old son Nick, Steve is much more than a hero. Like most boys, his room is covered with evidence of his passions. In this case it's posters of snakes, empty turtle shells, books about anything science stacked in every corner, and his two prized possessions - a Sinoloan Milk Snake and a Leopard Gecko. Since he was 4 Nick's dream (and educational plan) has been to travel with me to Australia with the sole purpose of going to the Australia Zoo, meeting Irwin and asking him, "will you teach me how to catch venomous snakes?" Nick had to ask his kindergarten teacher how to spell "Herpetologist" when drawing a self portrait and biographical poster to share with the class. He was mortified when she didn't even know what a herpetologist was, much less how to spell it. Nick longed for the day when he could work at the Australia Zoo and maybe date and marry Bindi, Irwin's 8 year old daughter. Nick wanted to be just like Steve. Not for the same reason most kids liked the animal activist, but because he loves animals, especially reptiles.

As I joined him and Karen in front of the television Monday morning, Nick looked over at me and muttered in monotone, "I always thought I'd get to shake his hand." I cried.

Later that morning my mom sent an email to my blackberry expressing her concern for Nick's feelings. I let him read it. When he handed the phone back to me he reached for a hug. I sat down on the kitchen floor with him cradled in my lap. We both sobbed for a long time. I managed to whisper, "it's hard when dreams and heroes die, isn't it?" He nodded and sobbed a bit louder.

Throughout the week Nick's dreams have held fast. He still wants to travel with me to Australia. He still wants to visit the zoo. He still wants to Intern there and learn how to catch venomous snakes - but now he wants to be taught by Wes (Steve's best mate), Robert Irwin (Steve's Dad), and pall around with Bindi (Steve's daughter). He wants to make sure that Steve's dreams become realities - whatever it takes.

For Nick, and for my family, Steve lives! He lives in my son who proudly dons his official Crocodile Hunter khaki shirt (straight from the Australia Zoo via the magic of Internet online ordering!) grabs a rubber snake or stuffed gator, and becomes Irwin, reenacting one of the programs he has seen on the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet or exploring the "wild outback" behind our suburban home.

When I told Nick a memorial service was to be held in Australia in the next few days he asked if we had time to buy plane tickets. I better start planning and saving for a trip in a few years. I don't think Nick will let me forget about it.

humility is a hard lesson to learn....

I’ve decided that you can teach old dogs new tricks, but it sure does take a lot longer! This summer I did a lot of reading about leadership. One of my projects was to compare leadership writings in the secular world with that written from a Christian perspective. For the most part there were no distinct differences, but some of the authors pointed out significant differences in the motivation and practice of leadership for those who follow Jesus. In all of the reading, the most surprising concept discussed with humility. As I worked through the various leadership models and descriptions (from Collin’s Good to Great to Julian’s God is my CEO) I became convinced that I need to learn to practice humility in some new ways and to new depths. I began to pray about it as well as seek ways that I could put other’s needs ahead of my own, not insist on my way of doing things, and learn to be a better follower in order to become a better leader. Toward the end of the summer I thought I had the concept down pretty well. Until I did the second most stupid thing I’ve ever done – I drove my van, with my carbon fiber bike securely affixed on top, under a fast food drive through. I know. One should remember that one has a very expensive bike atop of one’s car! After beating my self up about it for a week or so, I felt it had been a heard lesson to learn – yes, even I can be forgetful, get distracted and cause major, unintentional damage to stuff in my care. Ironically just the night before my son and I had been having that exact discussion as we were cleaning his room and tossing broken toys into the trash can. Humility, yes, I now had it.

Or so I thought. Exactly 10 days after my thoughtless drive under, I picked the bike up from the shop, paid the $250.00 repair bill, and confidently and proudly put the bike atop of my van for my careful drive home. I still had a few stops to make before I returned to the house. All the way I kept looking ahead for low branches across the road or overhanging wires – anything that may be an obstacle! While driving to pick up my daughter from daycare I dreamed of the rides I would take over the weekend – where I would go, which fun hills I would ride and who I would recruit to go with me. When I pulled into the parking lot of the daycare center I was in a hurry to pick up my daughter so I could get in an afternoon/early evening ride. Imagine my surprise when I heard a loud boom as I pulled under the overhang covering the front doors of the center. It took a second to realize what I had done. I took even longer for the realization to sink in…. As I walked back to my bike, suspended by the seat that pierced the stucco, swinging back and forth, back and forth, my only thought was, “YOU IDIOT!” For two days that thought bounced around in my head. It was a week before I could bring myself to tell my friends at the bike shop.

Humility, wow, what a hard lesson to learn – I have realized that this is not something to quickly read about and then apply to my life. Having a humble attitude and approach to life is based in the understanding that “I can’t do it by myself” and “I’m not really self-sufficient.” It is accompanied by the awareness that at any moment I can screw things up royally, and remembering when I have done so!

I’m still learning humility. My friends at the bike shop have offered to sell me a new bike at their cost. I’m learning that humility works both ways. It’s hard to accept such pure grace when I certainly don’t deserve it.

It’s good to know I can still learn – even though I feel like an old dog some days…. This will be a lesson I keep on learning all the days of my life.

She....

"She doesn't smile like that for anyone else," my wife said as we sat together looking down at our 2+ month old last night. Karlie was looking at me with an open-mouthed smile. Today each time I glance in her direction, the grin appears - almost a laugh. She moves from boredom or tears to a bright, full-faced smile instantly.


Our older daughter Natalie (in the picture with one of my students), now nine, went shopping with her mom last night to buy her first bras. Ouch. It seems only yesterday that she was laying in my lap, grinning at me each time I looked down into her ice blue eyes. Now those eyes are set in the face of an emerging woman. Where did the time go? Was I faithful to teach her the things she needs to know entering the scary world of adolescence? Am I talking to her enough? Am I giving enough of my time to her? I know my grip and influence on her is waning, and that of her friends is growing stronger.

My wife, still the most beautiful woman in the world, is in her early 40's. She still amazes and wows me. I pray that both Natalie and Karlie are seeking to emulate her, to be the kind of confident, secure woman their mom has become!

During this week leading to Mother's Day I pray we will all seek to put smiles on the faces of the women in our lives - because we can. We each can give them the gifts of our selves, of our admiration. No one else can offer what we can give. I pray I will always be cognizant of speaking my emotions to all of the women in my life. I've gotta run call my mom....

Influencing grace...

Luke 5:17-26 has always been one of my favorite stories. It has also always been rather disturbing to me, because of it challenges my neatly packed theological understandings. Joe Graham says these guys must have been college students because their actions here were just plain nuts. You remember the story...Four friends grab their paralyzed bud, fight through the gathered throngs, tear through someone's roof, and lower the guy to Jesus! That's nuts-plain and simple. And because of the friends' faith, Jesus heals the man. That too is nuts. The friend didn't ask for grace and neither did the friends. Jesus knew what was wanted and needed-and he have it freely, much to the dismay of the theological scholars in the house (and to some of those in our day as well).

This story brings up some questions for me today as I work with students who are just as nuts as these friends were nuts. Who do you know that needs to meet Jesus? They may be sick, lonely, depressed, crazy, "lost," or any other number of categories. I know of a bunch where I am located. I wish I could so motivate groups of students to be friends like these! Most in my realm seem to be afraid of their peers with needs. I don't know if it makes them feel mortal to have friends like this or if it challenges their faith in ways that are just too uncomfortable. All I know is that most friends don't surround the needy in their midst with love, care, determination and, most of all, Jesus! I pray they catch this vision!

I pray they will see the obstacles in the way and not let those keep them from the task at hand, but will be nuts and see the obstacles as a challenge that faith can help them overcome!

The problem I have with this passage is theological- how can my faith assist God's grace! I don't know. It flies in the faith of all I think I know about the way God works! This breaks my rules! Such behavior on God's part is inexplicable. But God's graces how God wants, when God wants, and for the reasons God wants. And that's OK with me, because God is God and grace is God's to do with as God will. Thankfully it is not up to me. My only role-your only role-is surrounding my friends and bringing them to Jesus! Who knows when we become the body of Christ? Who knows the effect that we, as the body of Christ will affect those around us? 

Only God knows.

So let's go nuts! Let's bring our friends to Jesus!

My father’s shoes….

It’s really odd, the things we remember. As I get older, it seems I remember more and more random things!

It was a normal Saturday evening: Our family was nestled together in our small den to watch television. Dad entered the room carrying his shoeshine kit and big, black leather wingtips. We were all too engrossed in the magic of black and white images that danced on the screen before our eyes to notice what he was doing. Before long the whole room was filled with that wonderful smell of shoe wax, as dad carefully and expertly applied the paste, rubbed it into the well-worn leather, and buffed it to a glassy sheen. When he finished his labor he placed the shoes beside his chair and reclined.

During the next commercial break our family scattered – some to one bathroom or another, some to the kitchen for snacks, some to stretch their legs. One by one we returned to our claimed spots – some on the sofa, a few others on the floor on pillows, the side chair held mom, and dad was still in his recliner. As I walked by his chair I couldn’t resist – I slipped my small, narrow feet into those big, freshly polished shoes. Before long, my siblings’ chuckles became guffaws as I tried my best to walk around the furniture and reclining bodies. Of course, I stumbled and tripped attempting to place one over-laden foot in front of the other. The more my brother and sisters laughed the more determined I became. It wasn’t long before I became frustrated, realizing that I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t walk in dad’s shoes. Ready to give up in discouragement I glanced back at dad. I’ll never forget what I saw. Dad was smiling. Not only his mouth, but his whole face was smiling – even his eyes. Dad had fun filled, laughing eyes – “full of mischief,” my mom used to say.

I knew the expression on his face was not the result of amusement, but of pride. For some odd reason he was proud of me for trying to walk in his huge shoes, an impossible task for such small feet in such large shoes.

Later that week I asked my dad to teach me how to shine my shoes. It took a few months before I could polish them into a shine. Until then dad would “help me” finish the job, deftly fixing my smudges and dull spots with a quick buff with a brush or cloth. He made it look so easy and effortless. Sometimes he would tell me stories of how his dad taught him to shine shoes. He would tell of the many different ways friends of his used to get just the right type of shine.

I don’t remember my age at the time, but I do remember the feeling I got when dad asked me to polish his shoes for him. I couldn’t believe my ears. He even said he would give me a quarter each week I did the job well! What an incredible complement. I knew the pride he took in his shoes being shined just so for church each Sunday morning. And now he was letting me shine his shoes for him. It was a right of passage for me. It was the passing of a baton. I had reached a huge point of growth.

Shoes were for dad a symbol. Until his later years when he got too sick to talk much, he would repeat the story in my hearing – always in my hearing – about the time he looked down as I was headed out the door for church – and he saw his shoes walking out the door on my feet. Why? Why was that story so important to tell? What did it represent for him? They were just shoes, leather and string, die and wax, expertly formed into quality black, size 9.5, wingtips.

I think, in some odd way, that those shoes made him feel he had succeeded with me. Not only had I grown into a semi-responsible teenager, I still wanted to wear my old man’s shoes. And he was proud.

Tonight I felt similar pride. I took my son with me to our statewide collegiate spring retreat. I was asked to take care of the audio/video for the weekend. Because our newest family member was just born 9 days ago, I only planned to spend one night away from home. The event was to be held at our north Georgia conference center, in the foothills of the Smokies. Nick loves the mountains. So I asked him to come with me – “maybe we can do some hiking,” I told him.

The day had been a long one, going from music store to music store in the attempt to rent the growing list of equipment the event required. By the time we finally left Athens – 3 hours late, Nick was frustrated. He knew we would not get in an afternoon hike. After entertaining himself for several hours while we unloaded and set-up equipment and performed numerous sound checks, he was fairly worn out and hungry. After grabbing some supper, he opted for childcare instead of staying with me in the opening worship service. After the main service was over, I picked him up and took him back to the auditorium with me for the late night praise extravaganza that our praise band was leading. Nick loves music. He loves to sing. Most evenings after supper he disappears to his room, turns on his radio (loud!) and sings along to Christian pop.

As the band began to play and the crowd joined in song I glanced down at Nick – he was on his feet just like the students. He was following the words projected overhead on the huge screens. And he was singing (loud!). Every few minutes I glanced his direction. Each time he was lost in song. Before long, his hands went up as he sang, “to you we lift our hands.” I smiled. Not only my mouth, but my whole face was smiling – even my eyes. I’ve been told that I have eyes like my dad; fun filled, laughing eyes – “full of mischief,” my mom used to say. The expression on my face was not the result of amusement, but pride.

Seeing my son freely praising God in song – hands lifted high, voice loudly singing, face lifted toward the heavens – is one of the most satisfying, experiences I’ve had as a dad. Somehow in that moment I felt a kinship with my dad. Nick was walking in my shoes – and he looked better than me in them. Raise in traditional Southern Baptist churches, I’ve always felt a bit self conscious about raising my hands when I sing. Oh I’ll sing, and loud. But expressing my faith and my praise with my body is something that is foreign and forced for me. It just doesn’t feel nature. I wish I could do it. I’ve tried. It just isn’t me. I feel I’m doing it more for show than for worship. So I’ve decided that until I can raise my hands in praise of God – and only in praise of God – I won’t do it.

But it seems to me that Nick has learned to praise God better than I do, better than I can. It seems he wears my shoes better than I do, better than I can.

And so I smile. And I remember. It’s really odd the things we remember….

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: (5) and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength. (6) And these words, which I command you today, shall be in your heart: (7) And you shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up.” Deuteronomy 6:4-7

Surreal

Surreal, it was absolutely surreal. Looking back, I see only flashes; fleeting moments that I cannot completely comprehend, much less fully recall.

Arriving at St. Mary’s Hospital before six a.m. with only decaf coffee and Pop Tarts in my body is not the best way start the day. Though we don’t talk about it, both Karen and I are rather nervous about the pending ordeal. I pull our Maxima around the circle toward the main entrance. “Thanks, this is nice,” she says.

Feeling like a sixteen-year-old driver on his first date, I try to explain, “What do you expect? It’s the least I can do. You are having the baby, after all.”

After parking the car, I meet her in the vast, polished lobby of the hospital. She had found a seat between two older folks who look as if they had spent the night in the comfy leather chairs. As we make our way toward the elevators, the couple wishes us well. “Good luck,” they sing in unison.

When we get to the third floor we are greeted by a friendly-face, “Karen Byrd?” she asks, glancing at the printer orders she holds in her right hand, as her left hand absentmindedly punches the stainless steel square on the wall above the desk, opening the door to admit us into the ward.

“Ah, they’re expecting us! Imagine that.” I mutter in a failed attempt at humor. It is too early for such a sad grasp for laughs – not even friendly-face laughs.

The double fire doors to the left slowly began to open, granting us entrance into the protected corridors beyond. As we round the wood and glass enclosed nursing station, the friendly-faced nurse meets us. She leads us down a short hallway. “That,” she gestures and explains as we passed glowing, clouded glass doors on our right, “is the surgery center, just a short walk from your room.”

As we arrive at room 3122 another smiling, friendly-face joins us – this one seems only twelve years old – maybe. Karen sits on the bed. I wander around the room. It does not take me long to spy my abode for the next few nights – a bed, not so cleverly designed to impersonate a sofa. Though it is folded like a luxurious futon, experience tells me not to expect anything near comfort. I spy a 21-inch flat panel TV tucked into a nook near my “bed”. I almost grow excited – maybe I will be able to catch some Olympic coverage in HD!

While the friendly-faced smiling nurses instruct Karen about what to put on and where to wait, I find a place to sit. I manage to catch a few words of the conversation, enough to figure out that this will be our room until we check out three or four days from now. “Sweet!” I thought, “Nice room.”

Flash – the doors open and I walk into the icy air and head out to unload the car. I figure there is no sense just sitting around, letting my anxiety take control (and maybe be noticed by someone else, I am an ego-centric man, you know).

As I exit the soaring atrium back through the main entrance, I see a lone figure bobbing towards me in the darkness between streetlights. A voice breaks the chill, “Hey Nathan.”

I am taken aback, not expecting anyone to meet us this early. I know Karen’s folks will be heading up just before 8:00 after seeing our two older (and adopted) kids safely onto the school bus. I attempt to scan my mental database of voices, body types, and folks who know our schedule, but my decaffeinated mind draws a blank. I recognize the voice, but no face comes to mind. “Dang decaf!” wanders across my mind like a scrolling marquee on a bank sign.

Then, out of the darkness a light dawns, Karol!

Karol, my wife’s best friend that we hardly ever get to see now that we have left metro Atlanta, has driven over an hour in predawn traffic to be with us. Man, I am relieved to have the company! Karol backtracks with me to the lower parking lot where I grab Karen’s suitcase and my laptop.

Flash – Doctor Elder comes in… exchanges quips with Karen. He says something that I think I need to remember…, I have no idea what it is, nor how long he stays….the rotund anesthesiologist with the game show announcer’s voice seems to float into the room. I think we all laugh at something. Though I have pictures of me clad in scrubs, standing beside Karen as she lay in the bed in the room, I have no remembrance of getting dressed or posing! All too soon Karen is walking out with the friendly-faced nurses with me I trailing behind. I remember sitting on the lone bench, the surgery bullpen, outside of those milky white, glowing glass doors. Karen’s parents and Karol take pictures of the new dad-to-be all decked out in green from head to toe and make a few quips to ease my nerves. It doesn't work. I manage a weak smile beneath the surgical mask.

I don’t know how long I wait – seems like an eternity passes in a second or two. Lots of folks come and go through those milky white, glowing glass doors. It seems like time is moving in triple time, like a fast forwarded a video tape – caps, masks and booties fly out of the wardrobe adjacent to my bench. Nurses and aids talk in high-pitched gibberish as they ready for surgery. Friendly-faces are covered with green cloth, leaving only smiling-eyes peeking through.

The milky white, glowing glass parts again revealing an icy-cold brightness into which I am drawn by a beckoning, now scrub-clad, friendly-faced nurse.

Flash – I am sitting on a cold stool in a freezing room whispering into Karen’s ear, kissing her hair, as she shivers and her teeth chatter. she is ensconced in green drapes, wires, needles, and tubes. We are behind a drape with the anesthesiologist and all his devices of pain-retarding torture. On the other side is a flurry of activity. Bright lights shimmer between the threads of green, 80’s rock dances and echoes from wall to wall as the cadre of scrub-clad attendants prepares for their debuts in the grand performance that had just begun. “Here we go” the doctor’s voice floated through the fabric.

Karen shudders. I hold her ice-cold hands. “I’m freezing! She explains, “They tried to warm me up with all these blankets,” indicating the piles of oddly placed coverings on her splayed arms.

Before I had only seen her head, but now I notice that she is lying cruciform – her arms stretched wide from her body on extensions of the table on which she lay. I suppose I thought all of the fabric was a part of the elaborate drape system that had been erected to keep her from seeing the action around the lower half of her torso.

“Make sure you do everything you need to do before you close me up!” Karen reiterates to the unseen doctor several times throughout the procedure. She didn't want to risk another “miracle baby.”

“It would take divine intervention for you to get pregnant after this,” he counters.

Karen shoots back, “that’s what this one was. You better do better than that.”

“Make it God-proof?” he queries, amusement in his voice. The whole team chuckles in unison.

Months earlier, in response to an inquiry for a tubal ligation during the requested c-section, Dr. Elder cautioned, “You know these things are not 100% guarantees. A very small percentage of women get pregnant after such procedures.”

Karen, always ready with sarcasm, responds, “Oh, you better make sure it’s 100%! Do whatever you have to do. Take stuff out, I don’t care! I don’t plan to use any of it ever again.”

It is not long before the anesthesiologist encourages, “Dad, you may want to stand up. Something exciting is about to happen.”

It is only then that I leave my bride’s head to look over the wall of green. The lights are so bright it takes a few minutes to adjust to what I am seeing. It is surreal. Her abdomen has been covered with yellow-brown Betadine, followed by a clear film, and then surrounded by more green fabric. Just as realization dawns, bloody water gushes across the film, then the fabric. Doctor Elder’s gloved hands are buried in Karen’s tummy and his assistant tugs on a large stainless steal bar hooked around what looks like yellow rubber. At some point, I realize this is Karen’s incision. Doc is widening the opening for his searching figures. I can not believe how much effort is given by the attendant as she pulls, and the doctor, as he finally finds what he is seeking and then stains to pull a white mass out of the opening. At first, I don't realize what he is holding. Confused, I think that there must be some wad of fat or covering that he had to remove; and then I see it – tiny hips and buttocks slowly wriggling out of Karen’s womb – then legs, and feet, and a back. One expert hand gently reaches in again, searching, finding, and then twisting and supporting a tiny head, guiding it cleanly into the blinding lights. I am shocked by how ghastly white the tiny body is. My pulse quickens. Time freezes. I fear something is wrong. Then I hear it, a cry; even before her mouth emerges, I hear the beautiful sound of my baby's clear, soft cry.

Flash – In relief I drop back onto the stool, my face returning to my wife’s. Tears blind my eyes. I choke out a whisper, “You do good work! She’s perfectly beautiful.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I repeat until, around the corner of the curtain, the doctor holds up our blood and goop covered daughter for Karen to see for the first time. I nudge her to look. Once her head is turned, she says in drug muted monotone, “I only like them once they have been cleaned up.” She turns back to me and the amused doctor passes our daughter to the next team. Friendly-faced nurses immediately get to work cleaning, prodding, warming, suctioning, and drying the tiny writhing, crying, infant girl.

There is a moment when all seems to stop, a moment frozen in time where all sound is muted, all movement ceases, and my eyes lock into the glassy stare of Karen’s deep brown gaze. My fear is gone, her shivering calms, and we are one again, lost in the wonder of life.

The anesthesiologists voice breaks our gaze, starting the sound and action in the room again; “Dad, you can take some pictures.”

I think I snap a few shots and ask a few silly questions of the scrubbed friendly-faces feverishly working around the odd wheeled table that held our pink, screaming child.

Flash – I am handed our tiny swaddled daughter, she is so light! I bend to introduce her to my bride; Here’s Karlie.” We both choke with emotion, my eyes again filling with tears.

One set of smiling-eyes gently tears me away from my wife’s side to carry the tiny bundle to the next room. I obediently follow, tear-filled eyes locked onto the minuscule features on the round face peaking through the blankets. “I know that face,” I think. My wife’s complexion, cleft chin, dark hair, and upper lip are molded there in miniature.

As we enter the nursery, I look through the large windows in the distance. Karen’s dad and Karol see me and rush to the glass to view the bundle in my arms. Karen’s mom comes into view, cell phone pressed against her ear, already announcing the birth.

Flash – fast-forward, events blur in my memory as they pass – tears, laughter, and joy as Karlie is measured, prodded, twisted, and examined some more. The nurse is incredible and lots of fun; not just another friendly-face, but also a comforting mom who has done this many times before.

A wall phone connects me to the folks outside of the nursery allowing me to pass along vital information – weight, length, time of birth, hair color, as well as Karen's condition.

Flash – Doctor Elder suddenly appears, expertly assuring me that all went well – twenty more minutes and I can go see my bride.

More measuring, poking, bathing, crying, and snapping of pictures before I am able to hold my tiny girl again. As I bend over her, my fingers remembering, gently applying her first diaper and calming her cries with soft caresses on the back of her head and across her tiny, slender fingers.

Flash – a realization – we made this life together. She is a part of Karen and me. And we are a part of her. We do good work. Together.

Flash – a tidal wave of emotion – I miss my dad. He would love this moment. Then a realization – he is watching. And smiling – his blessing surrounds us, breathing in Karlie. I can imagine this bitty girl, cradled against his soft tummy – we used to call it our pillow – safe in his experienced, loving Papa-arms.

Flash – back in room 3122, returning once again to my wife’s side. A few tears trail unnoticed down my check as I look at her with a sudden depth of love I have not known in our 20 years of marriage. She is cold, freezing cold. Piled with six inches of white blankets, Karen shivers beneath the covers though the heat in the room is dialed to 85°.

The room quickly fills with excited family, friends, and many bustling friendly-faces. I retrieve our daughter from the nursery in a rolling bassinette. Everyone ogles and “coos”…it is surreal – she is finally here.

Flash – I am back. It’s 2:00 a.m., the second day –memories flash through my fingers onto the laptop screen, casting preternatural light throughout the dark room. Karen silently sleeps beside me in her hospital bed. It is finished. We are done. Yet we are beginning anew.

As the memories continue to flash, I am blown away. Love is amazing – it engulfs me, and I swim deep within it’s waves. Sobs rack my body as I remember – surreal experiences of the past few years – my father’s death, beginning a PhD program at UGA, the shock of an unplanned miracle pregnancy, a roller-coaster ride of my wife’s emotions, the joy brought by our two now eight year-olds at home, and now Karlie Nicole.

She is incomprehensible. She is grace embodied. And I am in love again with another perfect little girl.

And most amazing of all – it is real.

A new year....

The break is over. Tommorrow we begin our routine again - I'll drop the kids at school on my way into the office. They are excited about seeing their friends again. This morning at church they were thrilled to relive Christmas morning with friends they have not seen for almost a month. We have been trying to get them back into a routine of "early to bed, early to rise" over the past week. It has been rather difficult to rediscipline them. Actually, I'm looking forward to the normalcy the school schedule will bring. I find it difficult to be very productive when there is nothing to keep me on task. It has been wonderful to be able to wake up late, read some great novels, spend hours pondering the meaning of the universe, and play games with my family while still in our pjs! But now that I'm rested I'm ready to dive back into the world. This past week I had to work. My children accompanied me to the office, reading, playing games, and entertaining themselves while I sought to organize my desk for the weeks ahead. I've found that the rest cleared my mind and gave me some new creative energy for the days ahead. I'm looking forward to working with my students to bring about some of the changes my inspiration will bring.

This morning I was alone at home for a while after my family headed off to church and before I head to leave for services at the little church down the road. It was an incredible time for me. As I thought through this past year I was filled with a sense of awe at God's work in my family. Both of my children made professions of faith this year, my wife is "great with child" and we will be adding another family member in just a few weeks, and I began work towards a PhD - a dream I've had for many years. Some of the changes have been rather stressful for our family, but we have all adjusted quite well. This week we have been struggling over names for the baby. We have been calling her "peanut" (after the first ultrasound), but figure that she'll need a more normal name on her birth certificate. I think we have finally arrived at a great name - but we aren't revealing it until she makes her appearance next month.

Being middle aged has brought some new insights - I've begun to look at life as a big picture, not as individual minutes. It's a neat perspective. I hope I can carry the perspective over into each aspect of life, not just this new year moment. I can see how viewing life this way will give me more day to day patience, more optimism, and more strength to work with those who are hard to love. It's in revelatory moments like this that in my mind's eye I see God smiling a knowing smile.

Response to Media influence

I love questions, not so much for the answer, but for the dialogue that questions promote. Often questions annoy us. I like annoying people - not to be irritating so much as to make people think. I've become more of a thinker myself in the past few years. Annoying questions seem to stick in the minds of those who are confronted. I often pose challenging questions to my students when they seem absolutely sure of their point-of-view. Rethinking their stance is helpful, especially in light of a seeming contradictory stance.

When dealing with the worldview the media promotes, I have begun to ask questions. I ask my students questions about where there opinions and understandings or worldviews were developed. Very often they will admit they were instructed by the media, not by any experienced or thoughtful truth. I try to force them into the Bible as their source of knowledge and opinion, not to cultural norms informed by media messages. Yes, culture needs to be considered, but only against the backdrop of Biblical truth.

I even ask my kids questions when we are watching TV or when they are reading magazines or newspapers. We talk about what the advertisements tell us about the product being promoted and about other images and subliminal messages embedded there. I have found that my kids are not as naive about what the media is trying to teach us about the world. They have become savvy shoppers and readers! I think we all can do this. If we make ourselves conscious that the media is trying to do more than just make us aware of products for our benefit, we will be much better off as consumers and Christians! We need to realize that all advertising and all media is profit driven! Sometimes we are the products that are being sold to advertisers so that they can in turn try to sell us something! That's a sobering thought - we are products!

I'm scared....

I have a few moments this morning before I have to leave for a meeting out of town for a few days. I'm trying to wrap up my final paper for my class at UGA this semester. It has been a fascinating investigation of the media as a system of adult education. As a part of the class we have read material from a variety of sources that criticize the media industry worldwide - some say the media is too liberal while others proclaim it a tool of the political right. The major message that I can't get out of my mind is the way advertising influences the world's value systems and determines the self esteem of our children and youth. As a dad of an 8 year old daughter, with another daughter to be born in February, I'm really frightened for their futures. It is virtually impossible for a girl to grow up in this country with a healthy self image! We cut out television for our kids a few years ago (with the exception of an occasional movie or nature show). Despite this drastic move, the influence of the media is so pervasive that my daughter still says things that shock me about her body or her idea of normal body styles. A few years ago she told me she was getting fat (I've not seen many young girls as slender as she is). She discribes her friends that are normal size as heavy or big. Luckily, she has not fallen victum to the "prissy" image. She critiques many of the girls in her class as only interested in how they look. She's more interested in getting messay playing tackle or chase with the boys and tomboys during recess than standing around with the prissy girls talking about hair, make-up and clothes. However, I've read the statistics: the vast majority of girls hit puberty and develop low senses of self esteem. As I read magizines, stories in books, and watch movies, the messages of what is pretty and what is considered normative behavor is frightening. If one believes the messeages promoted in advertisements girls are supposed to look like supermodels, be dumb as dirt (or at least keep their opinions to themselves), dress like a ho, flirt without shame, be submissive to their husbands/boyfriends sexually, be professional, make lots of money, spend lots of money, do all of the housework, solely care for the children, have low expectations of their husbands, never look over 25, always be concerned about their looks above all else, do whatever it takes to make their man happy, do whatever it takes to look young and sexy, etc. Frankly, the prospect is mind numbing!

I pray every day that I will have the wisdom and the unnatural skill to be able to teach my daughter how God views her - as an amazing, unique, gifted, intellegent, creative individual who knows who she is and is not concerned what others think about her. I want her to, if she chooses to date or marry, find someone who treats her with respect and honor, who values who she is as a person, who tries to make her better in all respects, who submits to her needs and desires, and who wants her to be all that God is creating her to be.

I pray we as a Christian community will find a way to counter the negative and harmful media messages that are blown into our minds each day on TV, on billboards, in magazines, on the Internet, and the radio at every turn so that we can give our children and friends correct messages about who they are and who they should be! May God help us in this impossible quest!

Identifying our Passion

In reading Erwin McManus' The Barbarian Way this morning I was reminded about all of the times I've tried to civilize my faith-walk and, worse, the faith-journeys' of others. McManus reminds me that I need to encourage extreme dreams, outlandish behavior, and radical stances that counter the culture that surrounds and imprisions us from experiencing the abundant life Jesus described. The question that is bouncing around in my head this morning is "how can I nurture radical dreams and actions for God on this campus and in this community?" What do you think? How is God dreaming of a new world in your life?

Advent around the dinner table....

Last night, sitting around the dinner table, brought an experience and made a memory that I hope I never forget. It was one of those perfect moments where the world seemed to stop and my family was all that mattered. It was an incredible time. We all had things we needed to be doing. My son had masses of make-up work from missing a few days of school last week before the Thanksgiveg break in addition to one of those "creative" book report projects that parents hate, but teachers seem to love assigning. My daughter needed to work on some homework as well and catch up on some reading she has been putting off. My wife and I needed to be doing things around the house, since it is on the market. You've been there, the list of things that need to be done to make the house "appear" perfect, not cluttered and sellable never seems to end! I also had a major paper due for the class I'm taking at the university - one third of my grade - in addition to a sermon that I have to deliver tonight. We all had too many things to do, but some how, in the midst of the stress of life and the extensive to-do lists, we managed one of those magical moments when nothing matters but each other. The kids were having a great time, eating and cutting up at the same time. Things that usually bother Karen and I didn't seem so annoying - who cares if Natalie eats most of her meal standing beside her chair instead of seated in it? Who cares if the kids talk with food bulging from their way-to-full mouths? Who cares if the normal bath-time has already passed? Nothing seemed to matter but enjoying each other.

I wish I new how to make those magical moments come every meal time. I wish I could swish a wand or snap my fingers and adjust everyone's attitudes (including my own) to be just as they were last night. I wish I could consistantly push aside all of the things in my mind to make room for family like we managed to do.

I guess that is what Advent is really all about: taking a moment, a season, to look beyond ourselves and our silly little lives or even our major, catastrophic issues and see the Holy family and new friends surrounding the tiny baby, lying in a feed trough, doing what babies do. He could have been easily un-noticed, easily bypassed, but for the choir of angels, and the shepards trudging through town in search of him. He was bypassed by many, just as we often bypass those moments, those precious times with which God has gifted us each day.

Take a break - experience the many joys, the many gifts of life and love that God has placed before you today. Learn to soak up life; for Jesus promised, "I have come that you may have life."

Prayer - a simple conversation?

Why is it that we make things so difficult? My job places me as the sounding board for lots of students who are, or who want to be in relationships. I could almost script most of the conversations in advance - "what is he really thinking" or "what did she mean by that" or "do you think he likes me; I mean, really likes me?" The games we tend to play in our interactions with each other seem to carry over into our relationship with God. It's not that God plays communication games with us - "heh, heh - I'll be she'll never figure our what I'm doing now!" or "I think I'll play hard to get now" or "Let's through a pox his way and see how he responds!" But we often relate to God as if God is playing games with us! As a result we won't just talk to God. I don't mean give a list of our wants (like a grocery or Christmas list), but really converse with God waiting for God to answer before we go seeking advice from friends who were never a part of the conversation in the first place! Why don't we just relax, grab a sandwich and head out to the lake with God for a casual afternoon chat? Why don't we just hang out with God like we do with those we love? Why don't we take God fishing? Biking? Running? Studying? To the Coffee Shop we frequent (some of us way too much)? To the concert? To the movies? To, well, you fill in the blank? Basically, we need to realize that we don't take God anywhere - God is already everywhere! I love the concept (very Biblical, by the way) expressed in the old-school praise song, "This is the air I breathe, your holy presence, living in me." The concept of God as spirit, air, wind, and breathe comes from the Hebrew word that can be translated as any of these words - "RUAH." Prayer should be as simple as breathing, as simple as casual conversation with a very close friend. The God who breathed life into Adam (Genesis 2) is the same God that, in Jesus, breathed his spirit into the disciples in the upper room after his resurrection (John), and who was the mighty wind of the Holy Spirit falling upon the church in Acts, and who fills our lungs each day with Life, Grace, Peace and HOPE! It is the God who lives; the God who breathes, the God who wants us to know him through conversation each day, all day, as we go about the live God has blessed us with living. Take time to chat today with your constant companion, your breath of life, your God!

I'm a fan...

Today I attended my first Catalyst conference at the Gwinnett Arena - I'm a fan. Looking towards the end of the year with conference money budgeted (that I would lose if it was not spent), I took the advice of some friends and registered for Catalyst after briefly scanning the website. I had planned to stay near the arena, however, childcare issues emerged their ugly head. We determined it would be better if I dropped the kids at school and then made a mad dash toward Duluth - normally a 45 minute to 1 hour drive from home. I awoke this morning to a refreshing rain, something we have been without for about 3 weeks. Usually I would be thrilled, but for those of you not used to driving in Atlanta, rain turns normal traffic headaches into migraines! I dropped the kids off at school at 7:25 and started my trek. I should have been early under normal circumstances. Listening to NPR en route, I didn't notice how slow the going was until I turned off of Hwy 316 in Lawrenceville and began to creep towards Duluth. I arrived 30 minutes late to the conference. I had no idea what to expect. Some of my students were jealous that I was attending this year, while they had to stay in Athens for class.
I was treated to some great worship music and then hearing Andy Stanley kick off the event. After a break of wandering the booths, and navigating (in awe) the crowd of 10,000 folks who streamed into the passages of the Arena at the close of the first session, Louie Giglio took the stage as the speaker for the second session. The speakers were good that morning, but the highlight was participating in setting a world record for the most folks to simultaneously sit on whoopee cushions! Yes, I'll be in the next Guinness Book of World Records. Alas, though they have my name as a participant (we all had to sign a little form to prove the numbers), I doubt very seriously that my name will actually appear - but hey, my butt will be represented under that curious heading!
The morning was so powerful I decided not to eat lunch with friends, but to grab some grub alone so I could think and process. I ate at Moe's Chinese cousin's place, Mama Fu's (at least they have the same designer). It was great. I got the feeling I needed some ice cream to top it off. I searched around the area but could find none. But, when I got back to the Arena I remembered Brusters! I had a huge cone of Butter Pecan Ice Cream while wandering (again) around the booths and displays.
The afternoon session was kicked off by more great worship music and Blue Like Jazz author Donald Miller. He is a great speaker - he is just as I imagined he would be after reading his book, witty, rambling, but with a punch.
I can't wait to go back tomorrow for the second half. Erwin McManus starts the day!
I know this is devoid of any spiritual specifics - I need to do some more processing and soul searching before I make any deep pronouncements or proclamations. However, once again it seems God is up to something big in my life. I'm glad - been kinda dry over the past few months. Or maybe I've just been in shock after discovering we are going to have a baby in a few months. Our two kids came along the easy route - we adopted. OK, it was not easy - it was 12 years of turmoil and stress of infertility then failed adoption attempts before they arrived with us 5.5 months apart. We didn't think there would be anymore kiddos. However, sometime just before our 20th wedding anniversary conception happened in my wife's once "barren" womb. I just laughed out of shock.
More later....

Prayer fascinates and baffles me

Prayer - my connection with God, my soul's lifeblood, my river of peace. Prayer fascinates and, yet, baffles me. How does it work? Why does it work? What does prayer actually do? When do answers come? How does one differentiate between the results of prayer from basic coincidence?
My response to these questions - whether others have asked them of me or I asked them of myself - has most often been, "I don't know, but by faith and experience, I know it works." I still come back to that response, even in the midst of deepest doubt or questions. Remembering when God has miraculously intervened in my life and the lives of those around me gives hope and deepens my faith.
Several books have been helpful in forming my current thoughts: The Prayer of Jesus, by Ken Hemphill; Prayer: Finding the Heart's True Home, by Richard Foster; and Quiet Talks on Prayer, by S. D. Gordon. I have been practicing prayer in many different ways over the past few weeks and have become convinced that there is not just one way to pray. Often we are told that praying during a daily "quiet time," in our "prayer closet," while "on our knees" is the most appropriate (and essential) method for all growing Christians. To say that there is one model or method to pray negates the very different personalities with which God has endowed humans. Studying personality theory (particularly Myers/Briggs) and the applications of that theory on spirituality has shown me that there are many different methods to pray, some of which are more comfortable or natural for certain personalities than for others. There are extroverted prayers and introverted prayers. There are prayers that are more appropriate for people who are logical and systematic and others for those who are more emotional and laid back. And that is a good thing! In most churches, when we have taught children to pray we teach one way (bow your head, close your eyes, fold your hands in front of you....). How tragic! People who are not comfortable praying like that often grow up feeling unspiritual. Those of us who are spontaneous and who like change grow up feeling we are not disciplined spiritually because we don't have a specific time each day when we pray for a specific amount of time. We don't have a prayer journal that traces our prayer for the many years since we have called ourselves Christians. Does that make us any less Christian, any less spiritual than those who find such prayer practices natural?
This morning I found a message in my inbox from the Bruderhof community (http://www.bruderhof.com/articles/jca/Painting.htm?source=DailyDig) that speaks to this issue. It was rather refreshing! Foster's book on prayer teaches several different methods of prayer discipline and practice. There are some great resources written by those who have worked with the Myers/Briggs Personality Inventory from a spiritual perspective. These are very helpful and enlightening to the students I work with. It is very freeing to discover that our natural tendencies are not weird or radical, but are normal outcomes of who God has created us to be.
Instead of locking ourselves and others into a tightly defined definition of prayer, lets pray with freedom and playfulness, learning to communicate with God in ways similar to the way we communicate with others. Lets help others discover ways they can find freedom in Christ through prayer!