Simply Showing Up

Those of you who subscribe to this blog by email know the mixed emotions I had about Vacation Bible School, for which I volunteered this summer.  I posted a lengthy exposition about my conflicting thoughts which has subsequently been squirreled away in the hidden "things I write but would be wise not to publish" file.

However, suffice it to say that I did have a lot of introspective questioning going on in my mind the entire week of VBS.  Forgive me.  I'm hard-wired to evaluate everything.

That said, I was matched with some precious 8-year olds who were pretty darn fun to be around and assigned a shy, mild-mannered middle school assistant named Luke.  All of these small folk were strangers to me before the week began but by the end we were hugging and high-fiving together.  They graciously looked the other way when I flung myself into the wrong hand motions and generally zigged when they zagged during the group song time.  Kids can be forgiving around geeky middle-aged adults if you give them plenty of snacks, smiles, and encouragement.

I finished the week feeling positive and hopeful but slightly unsure whether the little kids in Group #19 had moved forward in their spiritual walks.  Ever the pessimist, I am.

So imagine my surprise when I trudged to the mailbox tonight, tuckered out from a hot two-hour swim meet and the tedious drudgery of turning over my kids' closets all day, only to find a letter hand-addressed to me in creaky, unfamiliar writing.  Here is what it said:

      Dear Christin,

                I want to thank you for the love and encouragement that you showed my 
               grandson Luke at VBS this year. 

               You will never know what a positive influence you were to him.  

              God bless you for lifting his self esteem.  I am praying blessings over you.

                                                                                                        Sincerely, 
                                                                                                        Luke's Grandmother

Luke?  Ahhhh--Luke, my middle school helper.  The sweet guy who I brought a cold Coke in my Vera lunchbag every day as a meager thanks for him playing soccer in the scalding sun when I desperately wanted to sit quiet in the shade. The person who clearly loved being around little kids and showed it by eagerly helping with their crafts and projects.  The fella I couldn't help but tell every morning how grateful I was to get to hang out with him and how terrific he was with younger children.

I didn't pay attention to any of that interaction.  I was too focused on the place I thought God needed me to be at work: the VBS children.  So....what if I wasn't there for the kiddies at all, but instead for a young man who needed a kind word?  I never thought much about it that possibility, but I sure am thinking it over tonight.

I am reminded for about the millionth time: service boils down to showing up with a willing heart.  It's that simple.  Next time instead of fretting, I'll  leave it to God about what he intends to do with my meager efforts.  I am pretty sure about one thing: it will not be what I expect.

In the meantime, I'll be squirreling this reminder away in another file, just to remind me when VBS rolls around again...

A Little Secret: How I Switched Shrillness for Stillness on Easter

At this Sunday's Easter service, our church was packed to the gills.  I am always amazed at the finery that shows up that particular Sunday, and it's simply good people watching to see folks in their expensive clothes with the store tags freshly snipped off intensely walk/running to a pew so that they won't be left without a seat in those final moments before the service.  We were no exception, scurrying in at 9:20 and masterfully claiming the last line of folding chairs on the back row.  With Josh tucked in the nursery, that made six slightly damp and out-of-sorts Roberts in coats and ties and starched dresses all perched mercifully on a chair to call their own, awaiting the "Super Bowl" of Sundays to begin: the message of resurrection.

9:25am.  This is Collin and one tired-looking mama taking a victory selfie that we made it on time to score a seat on the back row.  The hubris was short lived.

I had gotten up late that morning.  Big mistake.  I had 12:30 luncheon at our home to finish preparations for, with a good 80 minutes required for the ham that I threw in the oven while my hair was still dripping.  The baby sat watching me, feeding the dog off his high chair tray and throwing the rest against a nearby wall.   Despite explicit instructions the prior evening, certain socks, shoes, and hair accessories could not be quickly located by the remainder of my brood, with one rain-soaked loafer eventually found in the middle of the driveway (!).  I forgot to press about four garments that needed wearing, so I whipped that job out before shoving on my high heels (the closed-toe ones that wouldn't show my chipped polish) and tossing a linen Talbots number from the resale shop over my still-wet hair.

My life, no matter the level of planning, is an unplanned mess.

As we waited for the hymns to start, we realized that so many people were in the foyer that it seemed some were giving up and leaving.  David jumped up and disappeared for a few minutes, then came back and waved us over to him.  What?  Give up our seats?  No way, man.  These are golden.  The waving intensified.  Okay, okay--I reluctantly gathered up my chicks and was directed by the hubs to a never-noticed, vacant old sound booth near one of the central pilasters.

With only three chairs.

We climbed the short stairs, jammed in, and tried to get situated as the choir began to sing a sort of rock 'n roll contemporary blend.  In the back corner of the choir loft, there was a middle-aged man with freshly combed hair in his coat and tie.  Not only was he not singing, he looked downright miserable.  David glanced at me and we both looked at the poor guy, realizing that the ushers had filled the empty choir seats with unsuspecting latecomers.  This fella looked like he was dying inside.  Like maybe he had not been to church in a long, long time and not only did he not know the words, he had come with no intention of singing or participating at all.  Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined ending up in that loft with the entire church filled to the rafters and looking right back at him.

In the meantime, as we inched towards the sermon, I jostled to situate all the kids happily--something that was never going to happen in such a cramped, seat-less space.  I went from one kid on my lap to two kids on my lap to not feeling my toes or much of anything below mid-thigh.   I wanted to cry a little.  This was Easter Sunday!  We're supposed to worship and feel gratitude and be struck by the magnitude of His sacrifice!  Instead, I was made pretty miserable by our close quarters and the thought of my unfinished ham and the iron I had possibly left on and a particularly cantankerous child whispering loudly and continuously in my ear.  Ugh!  What to do?

I glanced all around, from the beleaguered guy in the choir loft to the music minister with his hands held high to the on-time regulars who were glued to their regular pews, unwilling to budge a single inch even for this Sunday.  Noticing a dark niche under the empty sound booth counter that appeared to have some free oxygen, I decided retreat was the best option.  Much to the amazement of my kids, I gathered up the hem of my nice dress, flipped off my shoes, and hunkered down comfortably under that counter for the remainder of the service.  High heels, nice pearls, pretty dress were all irrelevant to finding a spot where my heart could be still.

I wondered who inherited our comfy seats on the back row.

I wondered what all the proper Methodists would've thought if they could see me hiding in my secret spot right there in their midst.

I wondered if the gentleman in the choir loft would like to switch places with me.

And switching places is what I couldn't stop thinking about the rest of the service. Because, the more I thought about it, the more I was overcome with the revelation that Easter is all about switching places.  It's about me deserving to be up on the cross because of my broken and sinful nature, but Jesus switching places with me and taking the brunt of undeserved punishment, even to death.

He gave up his seat in this world for those who had no space at God's table.  He knows all about my highly imperfect life, just as it played out in the rush of that morning, and yet personally and lovingly is preparing a place for me in heaven. 

Easter worship is knowing that because of His resurrection, my distracted attempts to praise Him will one day be switched out for a kingdom of singing angels where I may glorify Him completely and know peace without end.  

And I prayed during that hunched-up time for the man in the choir loft, that this seemingly punitive hour would not keep him from the limitless hours of eternity.  I prayed that Jesus himself would switch something in that man's heart and every person in that room who hadn't darkened the door of a church all year to know that He didn't come only for us Methodists in all our finery--He came for those who struggle, who doubt, who deny, who refuse to come at all for the show.

He came for the mess and in spite of it felt it was worth redeeming.

Thanks be to God.

Hey!  Put your hands by your sides and smile like normal people!

Now that's better.

Churchy Thoughts: Beyond Sunday Morning Sermons

Lately--make that for almost 10 years--I have been visiting and revisiting the matter of church in my mind.  I will say straightaway that (a.) I am a lifelong Methodist and (b.) I am no theologian nor have I hashed through third, fourth, and fifth level doctrinal issues and (c.) I believe that going to church on Sunday is very important beyond what is said from the pulpit. 

Moreover, I continue to independently seek truth through reading the Scriptures firsthand, but there is no practical way to discard years of pastoral input and have a fresh and truly uninfluenced opinion.  In my naiveté , I used to think things came down to two camps: Christians and Non-Christians.  Now I realize that folks are a-campin' out every which way- Fundamentalists, Prosperity Gospel, Evangelicals, Post-Evangelicals, Charismatics, Relevants, Reconstructionists, Revisionists.....need I go on? 



I grew up and married in this beautiful Methodist church, built in 1890.

It's a lot for me to wrap my mind around.

Sometimes, I gotta go back and simplify it all.  I know the Gospel.  I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God who died for my sins.  I am well aware of my brokenness and my need for a Savior.  I believe that I am saved by grace through faith. I read my Bible, go to church each week, discuss God with my kids every single day. 

But when I attend the service on Sunday morning, it sometimes feels limiting.  I hunger to be fed.  This doesn't always happen through the particular pastor preaching that day and/or through my chosen worship setting (traditional, contemporary, blended, what should I pick off the church menu?)  Sometimes I am distracted (my emergency nursery number flashes on the sanctuary screen), sometimes I am exhausted (getting five children into dress clothes, plus me), sometimes we are super late (see prior parenthesis), sometimes the message is esoteric or the preacher's just not feelin' it or, most often, my heart is not focused and ready to listen as 9:30am rolls around.

But, goodness gracious, I could use a Word.  God knows how badly.

Thankfully, the use of modern technology is completely changing how I view "church."  I currently have three church apps loaded on my phone--one from Montana (Levi Lusko/Fresh Life), one from Texas (Matt Chandler/Village Church), and one from North Carolina (Steven Furtick/Elevation).  (And lest you think by this list that I've given over completely to the young, funky crowd, I also enjoy Tim Keller, Andy Stanley, and Bill Hybels, just not on an app yet.)  I regularly listen to sermons from these particular pastors when I'm driving around town, taking a morning run, folding laundry.  And it has been just what I needed, meeting me right where I am, when I can pay the fullest attention, digest what is said, reflect on how it applies to my life, replay it in the really good parts, and pause it to change a diaper or two.

I am not a unilateral fan of technology, but access to sermons outside of the Sunday morning routine and perspectives from pastors well beyond Tallahassee have been a game changer for me.  And not one of them are Methodist, I should note.  And that's okay with me, because this decade of questioning church has led me to a few basic observations:

1) The most religiously wise sects of Jesus's day, those who knew Judaism inside and out, missed the very person that scripture prophesized over and over would come, so their intricate knowledge of doctrine and laws by their "denominations" did not keep them from being blind to the Most Important Thing, and

2)  When Jesus was talking with Peter, who he was hand-picking at that moment to found the future church, he didn't give a long interview with nitpicky questions like "Peter, do you believe in infant baptism? Do you agree with predestination?  Okay, what are your thoughts on celibacy, birth control, and divorce?  Was the world was created in 6 literal or figurative days?" 

No, he simply asked one thing: "Do you love me?" (John 21)

So I'm embracing the fact that God can and will use a wide variety of wise, well-respected preachers who he has anointed to teach in order to feed me along this spiritual journey.  And this crazy busy, sometimes distracted, often tired yet well-intentioned wife, mom, and Methodist is thankful.


Do you regularly use a church app that you can recommend? Leave a comment and I'll be sure to check it out.