Marred and Reformed

Moderation in Real Life

2012-02-20T16:10:00.000-05:00

I allow myself to be consumed too often.

Oh, sometimes it's homeschooling my four treasures—reading, coaching the grueling revision process, praying while some labor over math. Sometimes it’s writing—revising my first novel, finishing my second, researching future ventures. This month, it's more often been menu-planning and cooking.

It's the word consumed that is the glaring red flag. Moderation is the key.

The only thing that ought to consume my time, my mind, my heart, and my life is my deep love for Christ. Matthew 6:33 promises that when I seek Him first, and His righteousness, everything else will be added to me. Priorities fall in line, I am filled to overflowing for the tasks ahead, and I move through life in obedience to Him.

That's what I'm after. And my kids notice when I'm doing well with it. They also see when I'm flailing and sinking.

Early in the New Year, BWIMH and I prayerfully decided to make some changes in our household: simplifying, spending less and giving more, planning ahead to enjoy healthier home-cooked meals, and getting the new routines down. At first, consumed was the word of the day. I apologize for the unannounced blog-posting sabbatical, but there it is.

No longer, though. Everyone is on board, and we're flourishing. We're not a well-oiled machine, but I'm not foolish enough to expect that. Our goals are to rejoice in our Foundation, become familiar with our new parameters, and maintain a flexible consistency—all as we offer ourselves to Christ. Our faith in Christ is growing, and the conversations we're sharing around the dinner table make every adjustment worthwhile. There's no better way to teach self-discipline than to model it.

I believe we've adjusted well enough for me to revisit the blogosphere. I'll pick back up with the Missions series next week. In the meantime, check out the Books I'm Reading on the sidebar. Reviews in the not-too-distant future . . .

If you missed the earlier pieces of the series, click on a link below:

Authenticity.
Missions: The Ultimate Bait and Switch
Missions: Resentment (AKA I Didn't Sign Up for This)

Missions: Recognizing God in the Language Barriers

Missions: Bridges and Boundaries

Missions: Bridges and Boundaries.

2011-11-08T23:33:00.002-05:00

Missionaries move a lot.

Our three-year-old Giant tagged along as we traveled from place to place.

To place. From his home in smalltown Poland to a missionary house in smalltown South Carolina where we his tiny sister (Bean) joined us. Then we were off to Lithuania, merely dropping nine out of ten suitcases off at our new place and boarding a plane for a week-trip to Greece, before returning to study language for a few months. Once official language study wrapped up, we apartment-hunted in southern Lithuania for a few weeks.

Looking for a place to call home.

In the middle of the home-shopping, we took a jaunt to Budapest for a family education conference. After checking in, we waddled down the hall with kids and bags in tow, to settle into our room with two chairs and three beds.

Giant toddled around inspecting things, sat on the bed by the window, and nodded. “Is this it?” he asked.

“What?”

“Our new home?” His expression told a story of acceptance, if not a little disappointment that he didn’t have more room to explore.

I knelt in front of him and kissed his forehead. “This is a hotel. We’ll be here for four days, and then we’ll keep looking. But did you know that the Bible says, wherever a few people who follow Jesus get together, in His name, He’s right there with them?"

Wide-eyed, our son shook his head. Bean crawled over and swatted at his knee, and he smiled.

“And,” I continued, “it says that those who live with God and trust Him for protection will be gathered close to Him. He’ll be like a bird spreading its wings over its babies.”

He blinked. And then he was off to pull out his toys.

That night, as we settled in and turned the lights off early, he sang a song of spontaneous praise. Something like this: “God, you’re so strong. You made everythings—the stars, and the giraffes, and the flowers, and the apples, and the moon. I know You love me, and I know You’re here.” Then, he giggled softly. “And my mom said you had wings and feathers, but I know You don’t, so I guess You just hold us close in Your armpits.”

Two adult faces immediately buried themselves in pillow, so they could laugh without offending. How precious, and how full of innocent faith Giant was in that moment. We all came away with truth that night. Home is wherever we are together, serving Christ. Wings or no, we can abide in Him.

We still do.

Home is our sanctuary. Here, with the world shut outside, we can live loudly, laugh until our stomachs ache, learn at our own pace, let ourselves make mistakes, love and forgive and love more.

But home shouldn’t be our sole existence. What do we live for, but to glorify and enjoy God? All the advantages of home are avenues by which we can live out our faith and rejoice in the place and time God has chosen for us. And we shouldn’t keep them locked indoors.

On the mission field, and in the time since, whenever we moved somewhere new, we needed to spend time outside--to meet neighbors, to explore the area, to find stores and playgrounds. Most of all, we needed to connect with the people. God longs for us to reflect His glory and take joy in His gifts where others can see. To shine like a city on a hill. And so many of our ministry opportunities came from being out among people.

To build relationships, we needed to build bridges. We built them into our home, inviting new friends for tea, visiting families, celebrating holidays together, practicing conversation, watching children ignore language barriers and communicate through play. We built them into neighborhoods, community centers, and coffeehouses.

But finding balance took awhile. In a few cities, we erred on the side of boundaries, locking ourselves in so we could enjoy the microcosm of America we’d created. And in a few places, we had so much interaction with others that we couldn’t backpedal and guard our precious family downtime. A costly mistake.

Learning to build bridges and establish boundaries requires discernment, but we’ve got to remember that home is also our training ground. A haven? Yes. But bootcamp and schooling and counseling and studying happen there, too. Without all that, we’re not prepared for the good works God has prepared in advance for us to do (Eph 2:10).

God calls us to go into the world and teach all nations . . . teaching them to obey everything He’s taught us (Matt 28:19-20). We can’t do that from inside the house. And did you catch that last part? We’re supposed to be doing so much more than offering a simple gospel presentation as conversation permits. We’re to seek out opportunities to show what He’s taught us in everything. That’s how our family behaves toward one another, toward others. It’s how we conduct business, the impressions we make on our neighbors. It’s the care and concern we show to the needy. It’s the trusting in the midst of suffering, believing that God will be glorified in whatever He asks of us.

Let’s be intentional. Ask the Lord to lay someone’s name on your heart. And start bridge-building.

Every moment is an opportunity. In your home and out.

If you missed the earlier pieces of the series, click on a link below:

Authenticity.
Missions: The Ultimate Bait and Switch
Missions: Resentment (AKA I Didn't Sign Up for This)

Missions: Recognizing God in the Language Barriers

Open Minds

2011-10-24T22:51:00.001-04:00

If I could lock myself away somewhere for a day—to spend it in any way that I like—the day would involve three things: fresh dark-roasted coffee, a cozy place to curl up, and an excellent book.

Now, I don’t generally get those days. And even when I do have miraculously little to get done, I choose to spend any extra time with my family. Or write.

But this actually makes the choosing of books that much more important. I read, on average, 12 books a month. What? Not have time to read, you say? Bear in mind that I homeschool my kiddos, and we—after beginning every day in the Bible—dig into historical fiction novels and non-fiction (books/textbooks/magazine/journal articles) as we study. Add to that the inspirational and skill-sharpening books I study to hone both my writing craft and my biblical counseling ministry, and I’ve got quite a stack.

Oh, and don’t forget the novels I read for market comparison as I seek an agent.

Obviously, when I have an hour to read, I must be selective. Must.

Books that satisfy or impress me and books that challenge me, especially those that I can recommend without reservation to the youth, young adults, and women who are so often in my company, ought to be passed on—whatever the genre. So, I’m going to begin today adding book reviews to my blog schedule. They’ll be sporadic, I’m sure. Whenever I read something and just have to share it. You can check out what I’m reading here. (I will absolutely continue the series on missions.)

But today.

Today, I need to tell you about a world of mind-blowing detail. Of mind-changing reflection. Of mindjacking danger. The world of Open Minds, created by my rocket-scientist turned writer friend, Susan Kaye Quinn.

When everyone reads minds, a secret is a dangerous thing to keep. Enter the world of Kira Moore, a determined and witty sixteen-year-old, coping with a brand of caustic high-school culture few of us could have dreamt up. Kira is a zero. An outcast. Unable to read minds, she simply can’t be trusted.

And the day she accidentally mindjacks her best friend Raf and almost kills him, even she stops trusting herself. Hiding the terrifying truth from her family and friends, Kira stumbles into an underworld filled with others like her who use their abilities to terrible ends. As she searches for answers and help, she realizes there is nowhere to turn. Even the “good guys” believe that anyone different is dangerous, and their barbaric methods target even young and innocent mindjackers. She’s landed in an ethical warzone.

Open Minds is sure to spark intense reflection (and could lead to fabulous discussion), as readers follow Kira on a journey fraught with danger and moral dilemma. And that’s only the beginning. It is the first book in the Mindjack Trilogy.

Sue Quinn and I began writing seriously around the same time, and we formed a friendship that—at the start—revolved around imaginary worlds and the people we dreamed up to inhabit them. Since then, we’ve brainstormed, challenged, critiqued, and cheered each other on in our writing journeys. I remember the birth of this novel—last year during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). One month to write an incredible story. And one year to hone it and release it to the masses.

Don’t miss it. Get your copy (paper or e-book) on November 1, 2011.

Missions: Division Among the Ranks.

2011-10-17T08:00:00.004-04:00

People.

Working with them can be tiresome. And you know what I’m talking about. Right now, you’re picturing someone who has made your life difficult—maybe because she can’t find anything pleasant to say. Maybe because his sarcasm grates on your nerves. Perhaps because she seems to willfully misunderstand everything you say, seeing awful intentions where you meant no harm. Maybe he’s a Class A manipulator. It’s sadly easy to conjure images of those who rub us raw.

My question is this: How many of you pictured yourself?

Once, I’d have pictured a thousand faces before my own.

When Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband and I arrived on Polish soil, we were part of a ministry team. A sizeable ministry team. Singles, couples, families—some spunky and extroverted, some goal-oriented, some who preferred ministry-in-the-background. God did an extraordinary job of bringing together the body of Christ . . . different parts, members of one body.

At least He brought us to the same geographic location. We had to learn to put differences aside and strive together as one man for the sake of the gospel. And let me tell you, sometimes it felt impossible.

The Hands couldn’t grasp how the Feet worked. The Brains, Mouths, and Hearts misunderstood one another.

Stuck inside the bulk of the time, I played the role of Ear. I’ve always been a good listener. I don’t know what it is exactly, but people often open up to me, sharing their struggles, hopes, dreams. I love to hear them, to encourage them in any way I can. I’ve even heard a few times, that exhortation is my spiritual gift. The first several months on the field, though, my listening was, ahem, problematic.

It started innocently enough. I asked other young women how I could pray for them, and proverbial floodgates opened. Words, frustrations, hurt, and loneliness rushed at me, and I absorbed what I could, seeking to pinpoint the problem. There were needs, it seemed, left and right, and our supervisors—consumed with their own ministries and struggles—were leaving the girls to handle their own trials. And miscommunication was rampant. Hearts were wounded and left in the cold all over the place.

So I did what any compassionate, loving soul would do. I wrote an email—wait for it—offering my services to the supervisor as an ambassador of sorts. I’d listen to the complaints of the team members and bother him with only those things that were serious concerns.

Yikes. I cringe at my green audacity. Who in the world did I think I was?

I can imagine (now) what our supervisor must’ve thought of me. I wonder how he wanted to react . . . what he would’ve said to me if he hadn’t prayed over his response first. And I find myself uber-grateful that he is a man who seeks God’s direction before he speaks.

I got an email back. The man pulled no punches. By listening, he said, I caused division. I was a catalyst for gossip. Things were difficult enough for everyone without drama and behind-his-back complaining. While I was right to pray for my teammates, I was wrong to till the soil for seeds of contention and roots of bitterness. I was acting in sin, and it needed to stop immediately.

My saucer-wide eyes filled with instant tears as each word stung me. Every possible rationalization flung itself into my head.

And every one of them fell flat.

He was right. He’d spoken complete, 100% truth. I should’ve held up a hand and encouraged each of my team members to share their concerns with him. One-on-one. Matthew 18. Like he had done with me, handling it quietly and personally.

I wrote back. “You’re right. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” What else could I say?

He didn’t reply.

The next time we were scheduled to work in the office together, my stomach did somersaults all morning. "Woozy" doesn't do it justice.

And then he came in and smiled at me. He admitted to being completely surprised at my response. He’d assumed I’d argue and try to justify my behavior. My humble agreement had taken him off guard. And he would certainly forgive me.

Things began to improve.

Oh, I made countless more mistakes. I’ll share a handful more in the rest of the series. But I recognized a truth I hadn’t realized would affect me so deeply on the field. The Enemy knows that if believers distrust one another, resent one another, gossip and slander one another, their ministry is virtually ineffective. And he knows how to strike where it hurts.

Don't get me wrong. God will always accomplish His purposes. With or without us. But how unfortunate that He must leave us balking in the dust as He works around our obstinacy.

We ought to be malleable. Willing to peek into the looking glass and see what we're up against.

The important thing for all believers is that, in all our busyness and goings on, in our businesses and homes, churches and communities, we need to be peacemakers. Not instigators. (Cluelessness that we’re trouble-starters doesn’t let us off the hook.)

We’ve got to be willing to go under the knife. Allow the Holy Spirit to cut deep and show us the condition of our own hearts.

In my life, He’s shown me how exceedingly culpable I am, how prone to sin and selfishness . . . I’ve learned the value of humble introspection.

Psalm 139 : 23-24 says, “God, examine me and know my heart. Test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any bad thing in me. Lead me in the way you set long ago.” (ICB)

Thoughts? Anyone willing to share a story? An area where God’s revealed you need some work and then shown Himself strong on your behalf?

If you missed the earlier pieces of the series, click on a link below:

Authenticity.
Missions: The Ultimate Bait and Switch
Missions: Resentment (AKA I Didn't Sign Up for This)

Missions: Recognizing God in the Language Barriers

Missions: Recognizing God in the Language Barriers.

2011-10-10T08:00:00.027-04:00

I am a grammar nerd.

I have played this game for hours: Someone suggests I write a sentence meeting certain requirements (say, one including an adverbial clause, two prepositional phrases, a compound subject, an appositive, a reflexive pronoun, and a transitive verb in the perfect tense), and I do it.

I love that.

There are times when it really comes in handy. In an English grammar and composition class. On a million-dollar grammar game show.

And on the mission field. Because I understand the rules and nuances of my heart language, I comprehended them in Polish. I went right to work. First, I memorized the vocabulary lists assigned to me and practiced the useful phrases in my Berlitz book. Then, I labeled every noun in our apartment according to my color-coded sticky-note lexicon. Irritating several co-language learners around me—I actually studied and memorized the endings of every declension and conjugation. My first month.

And then I began to play my sentence game in Polish.

I admit it. I’m grammar-weird. And it works for me.

But my methods were nonsense to Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband. He’s not grammar-weird; he’s grammar-handsome. Unfortunately, that did him little good as he struggled to memorize and pronounce the words in his new daily glossary.

Certainly, among those of us who were studying Polish together, there were diverse levels of ability. Some had several months head start. Some had accents to contend with. Some were unable to make certain Polish sounds. Some found it relatively easy. Our supervisor told us that the typical Polish tongue could be compared to a gold-medal Olympic gymnast. And the typical American? A 300-pound couch potato.

At first, for me, it was the fun kind of challenge. I rose to it, but—stuck inside for the bulk of my time—I chose to focus on survival Polish. The language of grocery stores, trams and busses, neighborhood kiosks, baby-sitters, landlords.

One day, my motivation veered in a new direction. I came home to our year-old Giant, who stayed behind with a kind, young Polish woman as we attended our language class. As she left, I gathered my little one up in my arms and we settled in to read a bit before his nap. He pointed at the pictures and giggled as I told the story. And then I asked him where his pacifier was.

A blank stare.

I repeated the question.

He cocked his tiny head to the side as his forehead creased.

An idea. “Gdzie jest smoczek?” I asked.

He vanished. And within fifteen seconds, he returned, binky in hand. My stomach plummeted to my feet. I had no desire to speak better than of my teammates. I wanted only to be proficient at the words I needed. And I needed to speak to my son. So, from that day on, I threw myself into language with a new vigor.

God chose to grant me comprehension in general. If I heard a word used once, I remembered it. If I heard it twice, I could use it.

A blessing? Certainly. But it presented a unique set of challenges.

BWIMH was a great joke among some of the students. An actual Kaczmarek who didn’t speak Polish. He chuckled along with his roasters, but the humor dissolved quickly. Then, in language class, our teacher constantly belittled him. She would lean into his face and trill her “r,” demanding he follow her example. He could only gargle in answer, doing his best, and causing my heart to ache.

Worst of all, though, the professor compared him to me. “Your wife gets it. What’s your problem?” Most days, BWIMH’s mind was so overwhelmed that he missed her insulting challenges. But when he caught them, the effect was heart-crushing.

And we took it home with us. In the warm sunlight on our den floor, I often wondered, should I stop learning and focus only on helping him?

When I did offer to study with him, sometimes he smiled and took me up on it.

But sometimes his shoulders slumped. And sometimes he left to take a walk with his new English-speaking friends. I could only pray that they would help him.

Meanwhile, I remained inside, playing, studying, and resenting the barriers that kept me from using my new language to build friendships. It got worse before it got better.

But I'll share some resolution now. Looking back, I can see that God used these language struggles to cause BWIMH and me to cling to Him.

Each of us.

Without the other.

A missionary cannot survive the ministry if she depends on the other humans around her. But then, can anyone? Should anyone who’s chosen to follow Christ lean on the strength of frail, flawed humanity alone? No.

Should we think that we can offer help so excellent that it can fix the problems of our loved ones? No.

Put on your retrospective glasses with me and search your past for those moments when God used your circumstances to cause you to need Him like never before. Or those moments when you had to watch someone dear suffer while you stood by, helpless.

Maybe you’re experiencing one right now.

Let’s take a moment to share how God has (and will continue to) work all things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purposes.

Let’s pray for each other.

It’s your turn now. Let me hear you.

To read the first three posts in the series, click on one.
Authenticity.
Missions: The Ultimate Bait and Switch
Missions: Resentment (AKA I Didn't Sign Up for This)

Missions: Resentment. (AKA I Didn't Sign Up for This.)

2011-10-02T23:15:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, I had only three goals.

(1) Become a teacher.

(2) Become a wife and mother.

(3) Become a missionary.

I never bothered to prioritize. Any order in which the Lord allowed me to succeed was acceptable. Not succeeding? Not an option. And it never occurred to me that those two little words "and mother" would complicate number three.

It turned out "complicate" was an understatement.

When God called me to missions, I was 14 and headstrong. Dedicated and passionate to a fault. Nothing mattered but getting out there. Married, single, whatever. My heart was a heat-seeking missile, armed and ready. At 21, I married my best friend and became a teacher, and by 23 we packed our handful of shared worldly goods, I set our ten-month-old on my hip, and we boarded a plane destined for Poland.

We landed in a gray haze and stepped out into an icy wind that burned our lungs. Jetlagged and foggy-headed, I tried to take in all I could about our new home. The landscape was a strange mixture of Soviet occupation, Polish heritage, and vivid graffiti. Pollution-stained facades were nouveaux canvases of the young people determined to make their mark on the world. My heart drummed fiercely—eager to make its own mark on those youth—even as my son gripped my pointer finger like a lifeline.

I heard only the beckoning of the world on the other side of the window.

A few weeks later, we were settled, and Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband dug into ministry. He met several English-speaking university students who volunteered to act as tour guides, language tutors, friends. I tried tagging along, but the overtired wailing and whining of our little one wore on everyone quickly.

For the most part, other than the occasional three-hour grocery mission and language classes, I stayed cocooned inside the toasty apartment with our son. Polish winters were so cold that the two of us were limited to brief walks. We’d explore later, I supposed, when the meter-thick ice thawed. But the thawing was painfully, irksomely slow.

I didn't have the opportunity to wander the streets and practice language with BWIMH. Or spend time with the college students myself.

And I resented it.

At first, I blamed the weather. But then I grew aggravated with my little one. He was, after all, the reason I was stuck inside. Snow and icy wind wouldn’t stop me, if I only had the freedom to face it. Alone.

Bottom line? I was selfish, bitter, and rude. I would like to believe that my toddling Giant remained oblivious to my sin, but if He did, it was sheer grace.

The real act of intervention came at a meeting of missionaries three months after we moved. An older colleague shared that several ministry opportunities had arisen the spring before her daughter left for college in the States, and she’d been torn. Time was running short with her child, but she’d been praying for these very open doors. I listened, a ball of conviction solidifying like lead in the pit of my stomach. Her husband had gently reminded her that—as a career missionary—she probably had years and years of ministry ahead. Soon enough, she’d be wishing for more moments with her daughter. That realization had changed her heart.

Stunned and ashamed, I repented, asking God to help me recognize the mission field He’d been gracious enough to provide in my own living room. Raising a son, instilling love for God and His word, shaping the life of a young man—this was my ministry. I had counted our time inside as inconvenient and sweet, but inconsequential.

And I was utterly wrong.

What could be of greater consequence? God had entrusted this child to us. To me.

So what kept me from the mission for which I was designed? Besides naïve expectations and a daily dose of The-Snow-is-Whiter-in-Their-Courtyard?

Allow me to be blunt.

Sin.

Certainly, God had a purpose for me outside our four concrete walls. But I was so busy looking over our balcony that I convinced myself that my ministry couldn’t start until the weather turned warm and my little one became more versed in public transportation etiquette.

When I joined tiny Giant on the floor and snuggled as we laughed our way through Polish animal sounds, or when we stood blanket-wrapped on our balcony and pointed to the same stars that Mammy and Mumpy could see from America . . . then, finally, I began to grasp the significance of every moment and every conversation my son and I shared.

From that moment on, whether we spoke in Polish or English, our time together was a treasure.

And, three kids later, it still is. Giant, Bean-of-Love, Short Son, and Smalls run hard from dawn ‘til way past dusk, but I’m right there with them, loving every minute of it. They are my daily ministry, and they are a gift.

What about you? Has God placed before you an opportunity to love and disciple your little ones, shaping their worldview with Truth as they unpack cabinets and find creative uses for crayons? Do you joyfully make the most of it? Or are you always wishing you could get past that part?

Don’t waste a single moment.

Missions: The Ultimate Bait and Switch

2011-09-26T08:00:00.025-04:00

Depsite what many people think, missionaries are not the Navy SEALs of the Church.

We’re really no better than anyone else. But when we arrive to speak to congregations about how the Lord blesses us, we often talk up our successes, tally our converts, and wax eloquent about innovative programs and church-starts. By those standards, I’d have to say the six years I spent on the mission field were a failure.

Wouldn’t it cause a paradigm shift if missionaries stood before our brothers and sisters in Christ and shared how impossible our task seems sometimes? What if we made ourselves vulnerable, sharing our struggles with the language barriers, the crowded public transit system, the subtle cultural mores that become familiar only with time? The revelation would step up the prayer life of believers and—more importantly—convince the average church member that they could do missions, too.

I grew up in church—collected quarters for missions, survived rock-a-thons to raise support, wrote letters to MKs (missionary kids), even helped teach ESL classes. I longed to be one of the elite, the Special Forces. At 14, God called, and years later my husband felt it, too. So, united in our good-willed albeit misguided purpose, we sold everything we owned, packed up our ten-month-old, and moved across the Atlantic. For six years, we served as missionaries in Central Europe.

I imagined stepping off the plane, getting settled, and inviting a crowd of hungry hearts to hear the message of love and truth we'd brought. But no one came to the door. And my new life took so long to live, I barely had time to talk to people, much less build real relationships and share Christ. Mothering and homemaking consumed my time. It felt like the ultimate bait and switch.

Let me be clear. God called me. My own deliriously wrong expectations were the culprits.

Instead of having something to offer my neighbors, I was forced to admit I needed to learn from them. I couldn’t get from Point A to Point B with the complicated bus and tram system. Buying food for my family meant spending hours in the aisles of the store, dictionary in hand. Conversation consisted of where I was from and what I thought of the weather. My mind—which had been doing graduate level work, thank you very much—was suddenly a toddler’s again.

But in that humility, I caught what God intended for me to realize. I was no better than anyone else; all the good in my life was because of Him alone. He was the One who would speak to their hearts; I didn't have anything worthwhile to contribute—except willingness.

And the earth-shaker: He brought me to the mission field to change me.

What? I wasn't there for others? Was I such a hard case that He had to transplant me in another culture to get my attention? Probably. Okay. Definitely.

Call it the Great Crucible. Tension, frustration, helplessness, disappointment—all heated up around me. I was shocked by my . . . ahem . . . less than admirable reaction. But as my nasty and often resentful attitude surfaced, I had the opportunity to call it what it was—sin—and let the Refiner skim it. And the next time the furnace cranked up, I did better. With every trial, every burst of flame, I reflected the Silversmith a little more.

I wanted to learn. Eager, I'd step in to the butcher's shop and say, "I love bigos. What’s your recipe?" Delighted, the butchers would sit with me, write out recipes, joke around. Eventually, they asked why I was in Europe. On the playground, my son toddled with other children, while I chatted with their moms. They noticed differences in my parenting: loving discipline, firm direction, intentional training.

Those were the conversations God meant for me to have. He never intended for me to "set anyone straight". As my neighbors and I delved into who we were, what we believed, what we hoped, how we loved, the Holy Spirit offered myriad opportunities to share the Truth. And I took them.

I believe that's what God intends for missions to be. Everywhere.

He wants us to be real. As we follow Him—in every aspect of our lives—His love will be evident, and it will pervade our conversations.

For me, the mission field was a refining fire. As I was broken by hardships, and as I clung to my Savior in desperation, people were watching. Granted, I might have only attracted their attention because I was that strange American. But I'm convinced that God affected their lives as I shared my struggles and questions. They learned who I was and cared about me. They looked as I clung, they watched me experience the grace and strength of God, they saw me triumph. And they wanted the same thing in their lives.

Who says missionaries are a cut above the rest? Don't believe it for a second. Frankly, God desires (read: commands) that every one of His children be committed to His purpose.

I am still a missionary, but I’m nothing extraordinary. Missionaries are real people, not Special Forces. God requires only willing vessels. He can, and does, work in hearts without our help. But what a blessing to be used if we're willing to put ourselves out there!

Take missionaries off that pedestal and BE ONE. Wherever you are.

God is good. And people are watching.

Authenticity.

2011-09-25T00:55:00.003-04:00

A buzz word among the writing community. Among churches. Among the market savvy.

But if we're only "authentic" for the sake of being more marketable, does that qualify as genuine authenticity?

Genuine. Not false. True to one's own personality, spirit, or character.

It's why writers "write what we know." When we're vulnerable and honest, people can relate.

But truth isn't always comfortable, is it?

Honesty is the knife that cuts to the heart of a conversation. I treasure the genuine words of a friend even when they admonish. I crave accountability from someone who wants the best for me. If I'm about to jump in to something, I want to know what I'm in for. From someone who's been there. I don't like surprise flaws.

And I'm confident I'm not alone. I've even heard people say it. *glances around to see who's listening*

People want the truth.

But then that tiresome, aggravating voice taunts. What if my truth isn't "victorious" enough? Don't people want the highlights? Don't they find encouragement in the words of "successful" and "popular" followers of Christ? Don't people value the testimony of the redeemed drug addict or the lifelong missionary above that of the woman who plods along in suburbia, back from the mission field after only six years?

What if people seek gold and all I have to share is silver? Or worse, if all I have is some polluted alloy that requires years of refinement before it's worth such a price? Dare I still offer it? Or should I hide it and let the other, more successful missionaries and ministers have the floor?

I believe God wants me to speak and let Him worry about my worth.

At a writing conference, an esteemed editor challenged me. I shared a hint of my own testimony from the mission field--one of God's mercy and strength in my sin, brokenness, illness, and pain. He pointed out that most advertisers, when they want to create a good impression of a product, emphasize the product's strength. My story, he said, seems to be the fine print at the bottom of the missions advertisement. Because I emphasize the weaknesses. And he warned: "People who want to promote missions might not appreciate that."

Immediately, I checked myself. I never want to glorify Bethany Kaczmarek--not even my weakness. While I do seek to be authentic, it is God to whom I seek to bring glory.

But I am living proof. God works in the fine print. He moves in the failures, in the side-effects of ministry done in your own strength, in the fear of the doubter, and in the heart of the hopeless. There have been victories along the way, but they have not been mine. Only Christ's in me.

Christ's.

In me.

Long ago, when I first entered I-Can-Blog-Land, I said that I'd do a series of posts on my missionary journey. I hesitated (for a long, long while), concerned by the opinions of those who may not appreciate my perspective on the topic. But several people have asked about them, and the Lord continues to nudge. Methinks the time has come. That said, this Monday, I'll republish the post that started the whole fine print conversation. Then, stop by each week or so, and I'll pass out a magnifying glass. Together, we can scrutinize some piece of my life and see what God has done.

WARNING: These pieces are not pretty. But remember. I'm not a gimmick girl. What you'll get is authentic. God works in the broken, marred, and ugly places to reshape, to reform, and to reflect His glory.

Help me get the word out. Invite a friend to come along. It's time we start a genuine conversation.

A Little Perspective

2011-09-12T23:08:00.000-04:00

I have nothing to add to this humbling encouragement. Paul David Tripp, in his book, How People Change, writes:

“We have been chosen from the mass of humanity to live in an intimate union with Christ. It is amazing even to be tolerated by God. It would be an honor simply to be invited to the wedding. It is beyond comprehension to be the beloved bride of the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

When you understand this, you can’t help but live life aware of the honor, privilege, and blessings that are yours. Yes, your job may bore you. Yes, you had hoped to do something more significant. Yes, you wish you could find a way out. But you do not go to work searching for fulfillment. It may give you a sense of dignity, but it does not define you. In Christ, you are full, joyful, and satisfied. Although you have a thankless job, you know that Christ never forgets what you do in His name. As part of the bride of Christ, you are connected to the most important things in the Universe. Your union with Him gives meaning to everything you do and say.”

Today, may Christ truly be the Lifter of your head. You are His.

I Am . . . Flat on my back and learning.

2011-09-05T11:28:00.000-04:00

It was the epitome of slapstick. Oh, how I wish I'd been watching rather than playing a starring role.

In the kitchen, Smalls edged away from Short Son, and the back of his thighs hit the 32 cup steel bowl we fill with water for our dog. It all happened at once. Smalls folded up like an umbrella and went in, the bowl tipping and icy water running over his body from neck to ankles. He screamed as if he'd been branded, and Mama's mission became GET TO THE CHILD.

Now, the bowl wasn't filled to capacity, but it turns out you only need 10 or so cups to create a slip-sliding obstacle course. I sprinted into the kitchen and my flip-flops hit the surface of the water. For a moment, I think I actually levitated--completely parallel to the floor--before my body slammed down on the linoleum. Utter pandemonium. Smalls cranked up the volume another ten decibels, now as desperate to get to me as I to him. Bean went into drama overkill, covering her face with her hands, convinced I was dying. Short Son stood over me shouting, "Can you HEAR me! MOM, can you HEAR me!" And Giant calmly offered to help me up.

I held still, soaking and breathing. "I'm fine. Don't touch me. Get the child."

As soon as I stopped speaking, Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband strolled in and chuckled. I heard, "Seriously don't touch your mom. She needs a minute. Everybody grab towels." BWIMH rescued Smalls from his watery nightmare and gazed down at me with eyes full of endearment (and amusement).

Eventually, he helped me to my feet and everything returned to its former dry state.

That was two days ago, and I'm not going to lie. I hurt. To the point that my pain is invading my speech. I'll be talking and reach out to pick something up (multi-tasker that I am), and mid-sentence, I'm suddenly a soprano. And not even a nice one. It's shrill.

But--because God is faithful to teach me in every circumstance--I'm learning from this.

I shared a conversation last night with a friend on the worship team. Wrapping up my anecdote, I said, "I feel like I've been in a wreck."

"Well, at least you have a reason. My neck hurts and I don't know why." She reached up and massaged a sore spot.

"I'm sorry. I suppose we should stretch and all, but I've got to tell you, I'm not a fan of that."

"No," she said. "I'd rather remain inflexible."

And there it was. My lesson in a perfect analogy. Thank you, Hannah. (And I know you were only talking about neck muscles). :)

At least in the physical realm, most people can acknowledge that stretching is a good thing. It keeps us pliable, ready to adjust to new circumstances without tearing our muscles. But what happens in those moments of sudden strain that require more than we non-stretchers have to give? We get hurt. We inflict pain on ourselves that we wouldn't have to endure . . . if we were the type who appreciated being stretched.

I don't know about you, but I'm becoming a fan of the stretch. Maybe next time the Lord asks me to try something new, I'll warm up in prayer and get right to it. With a smile.

July 4th in America: Through Short Son's Eyes

2011-07-04T21:56:00.002-04:00

Our family spent time preparing for a true celebration of Independence Day. We've all been studying the Declaration of Independence and the character and integrity of our nation's Founding Fathers. What a rich heritage. Today, we spent time in prayer, thanking God--not only for the men who gave their lives to secure the liberty we so often take for granted--but also expressing our gratitude that God saw fit to place us here in this time. We could've been born somewhere else, in some other era, struggling through a very different set of trials. Yet these are the times He's chosen for us.

So it was at the end of a restful, grateful, and pensive day, that I snuggled up next to Short Son with our heads at the foot of the bed, eyes focused on the skyline. It was time for bed and he needed routine tonight more than outdoor memories. Just above the treeline, we spotted a small firework display, and we hugged, watching in silence.

A few minutes later, the low-budget show was over, and the room remained quiet. For a bit.

"Mom? Are you asleep?"

"No."

A moment passed.

"How about now? Are you asleep, Mama?"

"Nope."

Tick, tick, tick.

"Mom, did you fall asleep yet?"

"Short Son, I can't. You keep talking."

"No, Mom. Seriously. You can go to sleep if you want. Know why?"

"Why?"

"Remember those fireworks out there?"

"Yes."

"It's a free country."

Hey, the rest will sink in as he grows. For now, I'm grateful that he understands that we can rest when it's time to rest. I've been places where that wasn't the case, and I don't want to take one moment of snuggle time in a peaceful land for granted. How about you?

Interruption: Friend or Foe?

2011-06-23T16:01:00.000-04:00

Interruption.

Even the sound of the word is terse and irritating. Perhaps a million times in my life, I've been "in the zone," uber-focused on some meaningful (or meaningless but self-satisfying) task, when some lesser necessity burst upon my senses, barking its demands. "Emergency! Listen to me! We're out of soy milk! Short Son is aggravating me. The toilet is overflowing." These and so, so many more.

Le Sigh. Even typing those tidbits annoyed me. Aren't there any welcome interruptions anymore? I long for those oxymoronic blessings. Sign me up! Let me run into friends I haven't seen for years. When the doorbell rings, have a delivery man present me with a ten pound box of those French truffles I discovered in Lithuania. Mmm. Or best of all, allow a tiny hand to ensconce itself in mine as I hear, "Read to me, Mommy."

Over the last two weeks, as I've been neck deep in the waters of Everybody-needs-me, God has graciously been (re)teaching me about the way He delights in interrupting the mundane with the extraordinary. Oh, it would be nice if these interruptions would clue me in, maybe wear an identifying sandwich board: "I'm from your Heavenly Father. You don't want to ignore me."

Sadly, no. The best interruptions arrive incognito, masquerading as their oft-infuriating cousins.

Recently, I had carved out a chunk of writing time and was guarding it like the treasure it is to a Mommy of four. I was all but toting weapons. Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband was away, and everyone knew the deal. "Tonight, as soon as we're in bed, Mommy will write and write and write." Giant cheered for me; Bean bounced with vicarious anticipation; Short Son kept patting my back. "You'll do great, Mom." Even Smalls was super cooperative. He knew. He did.

But then The People came. Boisterous people who laughed and chatted for what felt like too long. My knuckles turned white as the kiddos' bedtime drew nearer. I could've felt violated, infringed upon. But then I asked God to show me what He was doing, and how my kids and I could make The People feel welcome and loved. Each of us shared encouragement in the way we know best. Smalls held hands and cupped cheeks, offering dimpled smiles and soft chatter. Giant and Bean hosted their hearts out. Short Son laughed a lot. At the end of the night, when The People disbursed, the kiddos and I thanked God for that sweet opportunity. Honestly, each of us felt blessed. (And I got in ten minutes of writing that night anyway, because I don't go to sleep unless I've written something. Anything. Plus, I had a heart full of words, because the feeling and the lesson I'd learned needed some documentation.)

It makes one wonder, it does. Would every interruption prove to bless me if I took a moment to pause and ask how God wanted me to respond? What do you think?

I am a Lazy Fool (sometimes), take two.

2011-06-14T00:09:00.002-04:00

I caught myself thinking like a fool again this week.

The last month has been arduous. My mind crammed with others' wisdom and sage advice, my heart encumbered by needful little ones, my days packed to the rafters with catch-up home and school work, my calendar jammed with daily and upcoming opportunities to minister, and my arms full of family. On the mission field, we often said, "If it's not one thing, it's seven."

I kept trudging forward, waiting to crest the ridge and see the downhill slope. It had to get easier sometime, didn't it? Ah, how silly of me. My mind must've been clouded by exhaustion.

God has never promised me that trials will be lighter or less severe than in the past. I'm learning, and any school in the world builds on the lessons already mastered. (But who wouldn't have been content stopping with the times tables, am I right?) Still, obviously, there are concepts I still need to grasp. And it ought to be clear to me: my lessons and tests will become more and more complex.

Jesus told me very clearly in His Word that a life of ease and pleasure are not a part of the course He teaches. What He told me I could expect is to take up my cross every day and lug it around as I follow Him, fellowshipping with Him in His suffering (Mt 16:24, Phil 3:10). He told me the world would hate me if I chose to align myself with His kingdom (Jn 15:19. 1 John 3:13). And He told me that when He says He's working for my good, it's not about wish-granting. It's about making me more like Him and bringing Himself glory (Rom 8:28). The thing is, I knew all this when I signed up.

So, why should I be surprised that the perfecting, the grinding and chipping away at those sinful holdouts in me are still on His To-Be-Done-With checklist? He does offer breathers from time to time, leading me from strength to strength (Ps 84). He does pour His perfect strength into me when I am weak (2 Cor 12:8-10). He does offer me his yoke (Mt 11:29), but "easy" and "light" don't give license to kick my feet up and "chill." He says I'll learn from Him. And He promises He'll never leave or forsake me (Heb 13:5). I must allow those things to be enough for me.

Though my schedule isn't letting up, and tossing sick BWIMH and kids into the mix hasn't been fun, I can choose to keep plodding, keep trusting, and keep watching for those blessings of grace, peace, and holiness. When I'm tempted to throw my hands up and say, "God, don't You see? I can't handle one more thing on my plate!" I'll remember His consistent and perfect response to my panic: "I can, my child. I can handle anything you've got. I've already seen it, already sifted it through my fingers, and already made my strength ready for you. And you'll become so much more as you cling to me through this one."

2 Peter 1:3 promises that through His divine power, He's provided everything I need for life and godliness. I can't ask for--nor will I ever, ever need--more than that. Through Jesus Christ, I have the strength to take on any trial He sees fit to bring across my path. And rather than rolling my eyes and grumbling, "Another one?" I'm learning to smile as I see them on the road ahead. I may not be able to laugh and delight in suffering just yet, but at the very least, I can look back with appreciation and forward with expectation. He's faithful every time, and He's pleased when I thank Him as I head into the maelstrom, just because I know that about Him.

Anyone heading into rough terrain? How has God blessed you already?

Now matters.

2011-05-25T22:29:00.002-04:00

Every second counts.

I ask myself often if I'm spending my time on things of worth. As a wife, am I encouraging Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband to become all he can while loving him as he is? (Check. That one's easy. But I could do more.)

As a mom, do I treasure every moment with my kiddos and provide a sanctuary for them to learn, to dust themselves off after mistakes and keep moving forward, to laugh, to love? (Three-quarter check. Definite room for improvement, but my small peoples are my heart.)

As a counselor, do I make the most of every opportunity to communicate unconditional love and Truth to the women that come to the crisis pregnancy center? (I'm giving it my all in Christ's strength, so check.)

Now. As a writer. The in-home ministry that has potential to affect the outside world. Am I diligent and faithful to communicate the words I'm given? Am I improving in my craft and developing professional relationships with others in the writing cosmos? (Check. The Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers' Conference was a smorgasbord of wisdom.) But here's another area where I can grow.

And that's my point. There's not a single thing that I do perfectly. I am so flawed.

Still, I'm redeemed, and I'm willing to do what the Lord asks of me. Am I ready for all of it? No. Could someone else do it better? Positively. But there are good works that God has set aside in advance for me to do (Ephesians 2:10), and He's shown me that writing makes up a sizable portion of those. Does God want me to wait to get started? Read 700 books on writing, read 700 more newly published books in my genre, spend 40% of every day on marketing, brand, email, Facebook, and Twitter?

No way. I write now. I have to. I do spend time on all those other pieces of becoming a published and marketable writer as well, because they're necessary, and because I want to serve Him skillfully. But I can't put writing on the back burner until I feel utterly prepared. I write, write, write, and learn as I go.

And I want to encourage you to do the same. Write. Teach. Volunteer. Be a missionary. Visit your neighbor. Speak loving Truth to that family member you're thinking about right now. Whatever God calls us to do, we ought to jump in. Strive to serve well. But don't hold back. No "One day I'll. . ." attitudes allowed. We've got to be good stewards of The Now.

BWIMH was on fire about this last night! He said, "It's about Christ. He saved us to a relationship with Him. As we walk--on mission with Him--we're beside Him, His perfection. His holiness. And He uncovers those ugly, horrible things in us, allowing us to see them for what they are. He uses our circumstances to draw out our sin. And He says, 'If you want to walk further with me--we're going to deal with this. I'll help you tackle it, and then we'll go on.' Sanctification happens As. We. Walk. With. Christ. As we're obedient. Not as we're sitting and thinking about all we could do for Christ one day."

My mind zipped back to the mission field which--as I've mentioned before--knocked me right off my pebbly foundation. Thankfully, I landed on the crushing, uncomfortable, and jarring Rock. How I grew! And let me assure you, those humbling and gut-wrenching experiences continue. Even now, settled quite nicely in middle-class America, my days are flooded with opportunities to serve Christ. In each one, He reveals where I'm lacking and pours out His strength and grace. In those moments where I realize an attitude or habitual vice is seriously holding me back, I confess, He changes me, and I walk with Him further.

What about you? What's something you've put off for a later One Day?

What is Family?

2011-05-08T00:31:00.001-04:00

After a whirlwind week spent traveling to Budapest, testing kiddos and connecting with old and new friends, and traveling home from Budapest, I was beat. (But not conquered).

Then I had a whirling dervish of a visit with my parents and my big sister before I sent off my two eldest. Our time together was full of love and hugs, grit and tears, and a few intruders. I wish I meant that metaphorically, but I digress. Still, I was eager for the week ahead. (But not giddy).

This morning, I brunched with a little group of ladies that continue to blow me away with their honesty and their love for the Lord (and we missed the ladies who were busy elsewhere). Through that conversation, the Holy Spirit renewed my heart, my vim, and my vigor. (But not my body).

That, I trust, will be refreshed as I sleep tonight, knowing that I am packed and heading off to the Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers' Conference: a week packed with workshops and wisdom, agents and editors, friends and mentors. And I get to do this--even after my crazy weeks abroad--because of family.

Knowing that Giant and Bean are with Bambi and Bumpy (as Smalls has christened them) sets my mind at ease to a large degree. But Smalls and Short Son are staying behind and being loved on by our other family. And I've got to say that I couldn't feel better about the people who will be tucking my boys in at night.

When the body of Christ truly functions as a family, people are blessed and He is glorified. As a girl who is very used to living an ocean away from my biological (and splendiferous) family, I've always been okay with just the nuclear "us." Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband has played the dual role of spouse and best friend to the nth degree, and I didn't feel like I was missing out on anything. (Because I totally wasn't. He's that awesome.) Family was home. Family was our church, too...just a tiny group of us (adding up to more than two) gathered in Christ's name. So, He was in the midst.

It was enough, and it still could be.

But it doesn't have to be anymore. Now, Church is home. And Church is family.

And this week especially--as I'm ready to be simply Mom again but climbing into the car--I couldn't be more thankful for all my family. However we're connected.

PS--Judi is my BFF now. BWIMH has been promoted to BWIMH.

A Little Misunderstanding

2011-04-28T15:21:00.002-04:00

First of all, thank you for your prayers while I was in Budapest. What a week! I'll just say God is good. His right hand held me up, and His eyes roamed to and fro keeping an eye on my suitcase, wherever it was. I'm home, the bag arrived three days later, and I love my family. Hugs are the greatest welcomes ever.

I'm in the throes of conference preparation, and working feverishly on my one sheets for the novel and article series. That said, I will post something real next week. Today, I'll share a precious moment with my Giant.

We sat at the table after school and lunch, enjoying the quiet. I love those after dinner moments when one of my kids hangs around to chat. They lead to some of the best conversations.

Today, BWIMH dropped the mail on the middle of the table and headed out to coach baseball. A brochure advertising cool summer birthday parties at a local ski resort drew Giant's attention, and he picked it up.

"Um, Mom?" Brows furrowed, lips a crooked line, he lifted his eyes. "How could this be anything but awkward?"

"What?" I asked, leaning over for a peek at the pamphlet.

"I mean, eunuchs ought to be able to have birthday parties like everybody else, but . . . why would anyone want to advertise it like that? It seems like making a big deal out of it would just make everyone uncomfortable. I'd still go, but . . . would it be all right to say something like, 'Dude, I didn't know you were a eunuch'?"

I swallowed my amusement, thankful that he'd do his best to make his friend feel appreciated no matter what. And then I explained, "It says 'unique birthday parties.'"

His shoulders relaxed and a smile stretched across his face. "Oh. Yeah. Unique parties would probably be more fun."

Motherhood is Ministry.

2011-04-16T22:55:00.001-04:00

My plane. My children and BWIMH. My heart.

My plane is parked on a rain-slicked tarmac as the pilot waits . . . and waits . . . for permission to take off. My children and Boyfriend-Who-is-My-Husband are back at home by now, taking a unified stab at life-without-Mom. They'll do well, but it will be different. My heart waffles between being eager to reach Budapest and craving intense little hugs. But this ministry is worthwhile, and I am needed, so I go.

When we lived in Central Europe, most of our friends wondered at the relationships BWIMH and I shared with our kids. They observed our laughter and games with curiosity, studied us as we interacted with them at home and around town, and many asked bold questions.

Lithuania--like many former Soviet states--was full of 20 to 40-somethings who had been raised by the State. Parents, according to plan, were absent until late evening when they returned from work exhausted. The communist government claimed the right to mold and fill the young minds which would grow to lead the country, maintaining a unified atheistic belief system. So, when the Baltic States reclaimed their independence, and fathers and mothers were free once more to parent their children, many didn't know where to begin.

The sheer strength of the love in Lithuanian hearts--toward their children, toward each other, toward us--was poetic, but our friends admitted to floundering with a lack of practical knowledge and experience. They quizzed us about why boundaries are important, when it's crucial for parents to stand their ground, and how to discipline with love and consistency. We shared Scripture, answered questions, and invited them into our home, modeling biblical parenting as best as we could.

I've got to tell you, it was unbelievably humbling. BWIMH and I hadn't been parents for long, and we made mistakes daily, but God worked through those conversations. We were both parented well, and we were thankful for that. Most of all, though, we pointed our friends to the Word of God. "We don't do everything right, but this is our guide. This is the design," we'd say. The more they studied with us, the more they saw their need to grow and trust God's plan.

This week, I'm flying to Budapest for another chance to meet this need. I'll be administering Stanford achievement tests for a group of kids whose parents have chosen to be intentional about impacting and shaping the lives of their children. Albania, Bosnia, and Hungary aren't nations familiar with homeschooling, but this handful of families will meet for a week in Budapest for a round of testing that satisfies the requirements of their governments. The final day will be a day of required training for moms. I'll be teaching a few of the sessions.

Please be in prayer for each of us--teachers, mothers, students. May it be a busy and fruitful week.
And pray for the little ones back home, too. After all, they're the reason my heart is so wrapped up in all this. They are my favorite ministry. (Well, after BWIMH).

What's your heartbeat for ministry? Where do you love to serve?

Broken Beyond Repair?

2011-04-12T21:55:00.012-04:00

Someone once said I live a charmed life.

I'm not sure, even now, how to respond to that except to laugh. It's not a bitter laugh, but it would've been once upon a time. My childhood bordered on blissful, if you discount the fact that I've always been hard-headed. I was loved fully and unconditionally, though I probably should've worn a helmet for all the times I rammed into my parents' reasonable expectations. Somehow, God poured His grace into my wonderful parents and gave them the wisdom to hone my spirit into passionate conviction, and teach me to use my willfulness to set trends rather than follow blindly.

A lemming, I was not.

And then someone called me an oak. I took it as a compliment. An oak of righteousness, a tree planted by the rivers of waters, a young woman so solid in her convictions that she didn't waste time toying with distractions.

He meant it as a challenge. I liked a challenge. But I wasn't up to this one on my own, and the Lord let me find out the hard way. I fooled myself into thinking (as I am terribly wont to do) that my strength was enough to face my contender. Little by little, he wooed; I trusted. He pushed; I questioned. He upped the ante; I called.

Stupid, stupid decision. Too late, I realized I'd crossed lines I said I'd never cross. And when I said I'd go no further, he gently--awfully--shoved me the rest of the way.

I crumbled. I couldn't look my friends, my family, anyone in the eye anymore. I broke down, and I sought refuge. When I found none, I made my own.

Fast forward a few years.

The Lord brought in a demolition crew, and we worked together to tear down my self-made prison. Stone by stone, we destroyed the wall, and I found freedom. I just didn't know what to do with it. Surely the Lord loved me. He'd proven it time and again. He'd gifted me with support, accountability and strength. I could move on, grow, let that knowledge--those gifts--be enough. Couldn't I?

No. I wasn't the same. I was marred, possibly even unrecognizable to many who had known me before. It was one thing to know the certainty of the Lord's love. Believing He still had plans for me was another matter entirely. But then he showed me this:

"Arise and go down to the potter's house, and there I will announce My words to you. I went down to the potter's house, and there he was, making something on the wheel. But the vessel that he was making of clay was marred in the hand of the potter; so he remade it into another vessel, as it pleased the potter to make [emphasis mine]." Jeremiah 18:2-4

He has most certainly used me--and in ways I'd never have imagined--but my journey hasn't been charmed. There haven't been more than a few miles here and there without pain. Still, I wouldn't take a different path for anything. I relish the true joy and contentment the Holy Spirit pours out when I comfort others with the comfort I myself have received. (2 Corinthians 1:4)

Fast forward fifteen more years.

I sit in a chair and listen to a broken young woman tell me she's given up hope. There's no point in caring or in trying. "Why," she asks, "would God allow me to go through such awful things? Did He turn His back on me? Am I broken beyond repair?"

I blink. I search the flecks in the ceiling for an easy answer, but I know there is none. I refuse to be trite. I refuse to try to explain away something and Someone beyond our understanding with clever words.

Instead, I choose to answer with confidence, because I know the hands of the Potter intimately. I am reformed, and He is sovereign. I stand on this, and she can, too. "No. No one is beyond repair."

I offer a glimpse into my own past. I take a moment to whisper a reminder that Christ promised life would be full of suffering if we choose to follow Him. But, I point out, there's a truth we've got to remember in those moments when we wish He would step in and fight for us. It's this: in our greatest need--the sinful, detestable heart in each of us--He has intervened in a way we can't even fathom. He's provided reconciliation and redemption. And in our other needs, He provides strength. He provides grace. And when we need them, He provides companions for the difficult road ahead.

Softly, I speak to her. "I know how you feel, and I can tell you that He has not turned His back on you. He'll continue to love you and strengthen you. And I am here."

I offer a hug if she wants it, and she clings to me. Her pilgrimage will be different from mine, some steps similar, some terribly different. But I'm in this thing with her, because that's who I am.

Now.

My Life As a Missionary

2011-04-01T16:24:00.002-04:00

For me, missions was the ultimate bait and switch.

God didn't bait me; He called me. I, unfortunately, have to own up to baiting myself. My own deliriously wrong expectations of Life-as-a-Missionary were the culprits.

I think this happens often. God is clear in His design, in His plan. And we precious, finite humans figure it could do with a little tweak here and there. Tweaking leads to twisting . . . which leads to pounding . . . cramming . . . jumping on. All to get His glorious purpose to fit inside our measly box. It never does, you know. We only succeed in squeezing in parts of it. We miss out on some of the best.

The saddest thing is, we hold the box up to the world, proclaiming that our box is the real deal.

That's what I did. I baited myself with my own box, and I fell for it. Hard.

I grew up in church, a pastor's daughter. Collected quarters for missions, survived rock-a-thons to raise support, wrote to MKs (missionary kids), and even got involved in as much international ministry as I could on this side of the ocean. My impression all along, based on what most conservative churches proclaim, was that God needs special people to reach the world. I longed to be one of the Special.

God called, and boy did I ever answer. At 14, I just knew I'd live overseas one day, telling people about the love of Jesus. Boyfriend-Who-is-My-Husband answered the call, too, years later, and--I must admit--it took me a while to believe he was telling me the truth. (I thought it was part of his wooing ploy). So, united in our special quest, box of misguided understanding strapped on our backs, we sold everything we owned, packed up our ten-month-old, and moved across the Atlantic. For six years, we served as missionaries in Central Europe.

But something happened to me on the mission field. My box fell apart.

I imagined stepping off the plane, getting settled, and inviting the crowd of hungry hearts gathered outside our door inside to hear the message of love and truth we'd brought them. Two things blew the sides off my box:

One, no one came to the door. And two, My New Life took so long to live, that I barely had time to talk to people, much less build real relationships and share Christ.

Instead of having something to offer my neighbors, I was forced to admit I needed to learn from them. My mind--which had been doing graduate level work, thank you very much--was suddenly three-years-old again. I couldn't get from Point A to Point B without help. I couldn't buy food for my family without spending hours standing in the aisles of the store, dictionary in hand. I couldn't carry on a conversation about more than where I was from and what the weather was like. Talk about frustration.

But in that humility, I asked God to show me His true purpose, and I began to see what He intended. He wanted me to understand that I was no better than anyone else; all the good in my life was because of Him alone. He wanted me to grasp that He was the One who would speak to their hearts; I didn't have anything worthwhile to contribute--except my willingness. And He wanted me to realize that He brought me to the mission field to change me.

What? I wasn't there for others? That's not what I signed up for. Was I such a hard case that He had to transplant me in another language and culture to get my attention? (Probably so, yes.) Some of you who know me are laughing. Okay. Definitely so, yes.

Call it the Great Crucible. Tension, frustration, helplessness, disappointment--all of these heated up around me. I was amply humbled by my . . . shall we say less than admirable . . . reaction to it. But as my sin, my nasty and often resentful attitude, came to the surface, I had the opportunity to call it what it was, to confess it, and to let the Refiner skim it. And the next time the heat cranked up, my response was better. With every trial, every burst of flame, I reflected the Silversmith a little more.

And then I began to want to learn. Humility can be a wonderful thing. Once I accepted the fact that I had been wrong about why Christ had asked me to follow Him to the other side of the world, I dug in. Eager, inquisitive, joyful. I'd step in to the butcher's shop and say, "I'd love to learn some of your favorite recipes. If I bought this kind of meat, how would you suggest I prepare it?" Delighted, they'd sit down with me, write out recipes, joke with me. Eventually, they asked why I was there.

Out on the playground, my little Giant toddled with other children, and I chatted with their moms. They noticed differences in how I parented. Loving discipline, firm direction, compassion, appreciation for the gift of a child.

Those conversations were the ones I was meant to have. God never intended for me to "set anyone straight" about their wrong beliefs. As my neighbors and I delved into who we were, what we believed, what we hoped, how we loved, the Holy Spirit offered myriad opportunities to share the Truth. And I took them.

I believe that's what He intends for missions to be. Everywhere.

He wants us to be real. As we follow Him--in every aspect of our lives--we should be willing to talk about it. His love should be evident, and it should invade our conversations.

For me, the mission field was a crucible. As I was humbled and broken by circumstances and hardships, and as I clung to my Savior in desperation, people were watching. Granted, maybe they only watched because I was that strange American. But I'm convinced that--for several of them--it was because I'd opened my life to them, and they cared about who I was and what I was going through. They saw me cling, they saw me experience the grace and strength of God, they saw me triumph. And they wanted the same thing in their lives.

Here's my challenge to you, readers. Who says that missionaries are a cut above the rest? A special kind of person? Don't believe it for a second. I hear that all the time, but I can tell you, it isn't true. Missionaries are real people, and frankly, God desires (and commands) that every one of His children to be committed to His purpose.

I am still a missionary, but I am nothing special. Every believer can do what I do in some form or another. God doesn't expect perfection. He doesn't require amazing gifts. He doesn't even need for us to be effective communicators all the time.

He wants willing vessels. He can--and does--work in the world and in the hearts of people without us. But what an opportunity to be used if we're willing to put ourselves out there! He sure put Himself out there for us.

Take missionaries off your pedestal and BE ONE. Wherever you are.

God is good. And people are watching.

Cathy Burton - The Light Of The World

2011-03-24T21:30:00.003-04:00

Every time I hear this song, I am moved to tears. God's plan--from the beginning--has been good and glorious. Frankly, I alternate between needing to be on my knees and needing to dance.

Praise the Lord with me! (And stick around for the instrumental ending!)

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD
Made history begin
Spoke time into being
Caused planets to spin
Flung galaxies wide
Through infinite space
To sing of His splendour
And fathomless grace

Come, come
Daughters and sons
Look to the Light of the World
Sing, sing
Praises to Him
Simply believe
You will receive
Mercy and love without measure

The Light of the World
Now shone as a man
And walked through the valleys
He’d carved with His hands
A servant to those
He’d breathed into life
He felt our injustice
And shared in our strife

The Light of the World
Preached justice for all
Defying the proud
And defending the poor
Then humbled Himself
To death on a cross
To crush the oppressor
And rescue the lost

The Light of the World
Still shines on the earth
With gifts of forgiveness
The hope of new birth
So open your heart
Don’t hide in the night
Step out of the darkness
And into His light

Stuart Townend & J K Jamieson
Copyright © 2009 Thankyou Music

Short Son's Mind: A Constant Playground

2011-03-21T14:25:00.001-04:00

At lunch today, the conversation was exponentially better than the meal. Don't get me wrong. The meal was great. I'm quite the chef. Anyhoo, several of us had cleared out to take care of after-lunch duties, and I sat alone with Short Son, munching on salad.

I said, "Hey, of all the things and people at this table, who do I love the most?"

He waggled his eyebrows. "Me. Definitely."

"Yep. You're my Short Son."

"Short son of LOVE."

"Right. Of LOVE. Of course."

We each had a few more bites of salad in companionable silence.

He spit on his plate and made a yucky face. "What is that? I hate these curly pieces of lettuce."

Grabbing the bag of Dole Mediterranean Blend (I told you I was quite the chef) I read the back to him. "It's the Escarole and Radicchio you don't like. You like the Endives, Leaf Lettuce, and the Baby Spinach."

"Hey. You know what else I like?"

I lifted my eyebrows and chewed my escarole and raddichio. Perfection.

"I like pools. Absolutely full of water, with a ladder on the side. You go down the ladder, hold your breath, get your head under. . ." He lowered himself in the chair, demonstrating. ". . . and then pop up real fast. Pools are cool."

I choked on my salad a little.

Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband walked into the room. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just realized I'll be blogging again today."

Never a dull moment. Never. :) I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The Beginning...

2011-03-20T14:42:00.000-04:00

I fret over the beginning of my novel. I'm not alone in this. Most writers I know shoulder burdens labeled in big block letters: The First Line. The First Paragraph. The First Page. Why? Because we've got a limited amount of time to make an impression that says, "Keep reading. You need to know what happens."

Let me tell you about my main character.

Nineteen-year-old Kasia Bernolak was once passionate, vivacious, and full of music, but now the Polish-American pastor’s daughter is numb and her songs are silent. Like many victims of mental and sexual abuse, Kasia is oblivious to her own plight. She may listen when her gut tells her to run, but she doesn’t comprehend the danger she’s leaving behind. Or the menace that awaits her.

Her fiancé, Blake Hamilton, doesn’t intend to let go.

I've written the beginning of my book and then revised it. Rewritten, revised, rewritten, ripped up, thrown out, rewritten, dug out of the trash and taped pieces together, and revised some more. I've got to hook my readers. That's the first piece of the puzzle. In trying to drop them right into the thick of the drama, though, I've sacrificed Kasia's normal. Sure people will care about her, because she's up against some mammoth obstacles--coping with life, trying to hide her shameful choices from her parents, and staying out of her increasingly unhinged ex's way.

A friend shared Kristen Lamb's blog with me this weekend. It gave me a new perspective on the beginning, freeing me to write Kasia the way I've always wanted. It's about creating a normal world first--showing the character as-is, so that the readers can connect to her and cheer her on. Even more, so they'll be amazed when she, of all people, confronts her giant head on and wins.

Here's a quick excerpt from the blog:

Most of us have driven down a highway at around rush hour, so picture this scenario. We notice emergency lights ahead. The oncoming traffic lane is shut down and looks like a debris field. Two mangled cars lay in ruins, and there are still figures draped with blue blankets surrounded by somber EMTs. Do you feel badly? Unless you’re a sociopath, of course you do.

Now…

You look into that same oncoming lane, and one of the cars you recognize. It belongs to the nice family you chatted with in line at Wal Mart when you had to wait 40 minutes in the customer service line. You even helped the dad load groceries and put away their cart so the mom could buckle in their babies. You had to stop for gas, but 30 minutes ago that family was alive and well and now the coroner’s van is showing on the scene.

Before you cared…now you are connected.

If you want to read the rest, go here. Check out Kristen's book, too. We Are Not Alone.

I've waffled endlessly, trying to decide whether my story should begin before the breakup or right after. This did it for me, though. No one will know who Kasia is, where she's been, or why any of that matters without this glimpse into normal.

So, waffles? Listen and listen well. You're over.

The Mouth Speaks...

2011-03-18T12:35:00.001-04:00

Jesus said, "...the mouth speaks out of that which fills the heart."

As it concerns my tale today, you may decide whether or not this is a good thing. I'm sharing because it made me laugh. Bend over, hold my stomach, laugh.

Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband and I are very intentional in using every possible opportunity to teach our little ones not only how to behave, but why we should behave that way. The last thing we want is to raise little pharisees with model behavior and nasty hearts.

One of the lessons we've been working on recently is not to swear or make oaths, but to say what you mean and mean what you say. It's cutting down on the idle threats and empty promises, and we're fans of that. (It's also helping them really grasp why we--as parents--say something once and mean it. That time.)

Yesterday, Short Son bought himself a very special toy that he'd been working hard to save for. He wouldn't set it down, no matter where he went. Giant asked if he could see it for a minute (because he's a long-time fan of this particular toy and has his own extensive collection). When Short Son was asked, he cocked his little head to the side, and I could see those wheels turning. Finally, he took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and said, "Um, I'm going to let my no be no."
That settles it. I guess we'll work on sharing generously next.

Just a head's up, my next several blog posts will be coming more quickly and will be about my as yet unpublished novel, Afraid to Dance. Stay tuned! And feel free to ask questions when you meet the characters and dig into the story with me.

Also, a shout out to BWIMH's BFF who suggested I make the font darker for old peoples. How's this? :)

I Am a Wife.

2011-03-08T23:23:00.002-05:00

Boyfriend-Who-is-My-Husband is home, and our house is a different world.

Giant, Bean, Short Son, Smalls and I did just fine while BWIMH trudged uphill with a wheelbarrow full of cement blocks, dug trenches, mixed and poured concrete, and his fingers stumbled through misspelled conversations with deaf children. I thought my week was hard.

But no. Perhaps challenging would be a better word. My church family rallied around us, called to see how we fared, brought dinner and adult conversation (Thank you!), and otherwise let us know that they love us. What a wonderful thing when the Body of Christ acts like a body. By the end of the week, we'd barely suffered at all.

Nothing could've made that more clear than the scene we chanced upon at the gate outside of U.S. Customs. Arriving at the same time as BWIMH--whom I'd missed like mad for seven long days--was a plane full of soldiers returning to their spouses and children after . . . much longer than seven days. We clapped and cheered for their valiant efforts and perseverance. Did I say that I was humbled or that I felt ridiculous for complaining about missing my husband? (You probably read between the lines, but I thought it bore repeating obviously). The wives and children who stood at the gate near us deserve a medal of their own.

Still, when I locked eyes with BWIMH, the shouting crowd disappeared. All I knew was my family. Chattering, hugging, giggling, we dogpiled politely.

And do you know what? When we were back home, kids sleeping soundly for the first time in a week, I looked at BWIMH and the Writer quieted. Those itching fingers, the words clamoring for attention and release? Everything stilled. All I wanted was to hear how his week was. I didn't write the next night either.

Or the next. I was busy taking part in the Daddy's Home revelry.

I've been pondering what makes life so different when BWIMH is around, reminding myself not to take a second for granted. I think it's this: I am designed to be a wife and a mother. A nurturer and encourager. I absolutely have the ability to lead and to make decisions, and BWIMH knows that. It's why he's able to go and spend a week rebuilding a broken-down wall and hugging deaf Jamaicans. He trusts me to lead and decide well. But when BWIMH is home, I don't need to. I am free to love, play, teach, cheer, cook, and create a sanctuary for my brood. I relax. The pressure is off.

And my kiddos see that.

God's design is a beautiful thing. I've got to add that I realize we live in a fallen world. No one does a perfect job of fulfilling the role they were designed for. Many men fly to extremes, either opting for the lazy, self-centered approach or the cruel and domineering one. And many women believe that "submission" is a four-letter word. By the world's standards, I'd have to agree.

It's God's standards that make submission so great. I'm not afraid of the word, or of being a submissive wife, because BWIMH loves me more than he loves himself. He values me, cares for me, laughs with me, listens to me (and genuinely hears), and encourages me in each of my ministries. He leads me and sharpens me, challenging me when I need it (often), and helping me to keep my priorities in order.

And since I recognize him as the head of our family, the bonus is, when Kaczmareks mess up, he gets to answer for it. See? Pressure's off. *wink, wink*

I know that I answer to God for my actions and attitudes, too. (I'll write about those another time). For now, I'll relish the Wife-being, because my favorite blessing of the day is this: I can peek around the corner and see BWIMH. I get to live with my best friend.

And he's cute, too.

I Am a Writer.

2011-03-03T15:07:00.008-05:00

It struck me recently that I'm a writer.

Now, I don't mean for you to believe that I haven't been aware of this until recently. It's the fact that it struck me. Hard.

There are days when I don't have time to write. This is a week full of those days. And my soul burns, my fingers itch, my brain twitches with the pressure of words that have to get out somehow. Could it be that, since my boyfriend-who-is-my-husband is out of the country for the week, it's the lack of grown-up conversation that is starving me? Perhaps a bit.

Okay. Yes. I'm starving for real-people talk.

But more than that, I can't shake the desire to tell stories. To share my convictions, my thoughts, myself. My mind is so full it keeps me up at night sometimes. There are myriad issues--touchy and daunting--that the world is reticent to discuss. As a believer, I've got to be willing to tackle them, too. Isn't that what Paul means when he says to Timothy that we've got to be prepared in and out of season to give an answer for the hope we have? Aren't we all supposed to be willing to discuss? To engage the culture we live in? To talk about what drives us?

I'm full of hope, and I want people to notice it. I want people to see it so clearly that they can't walk past without asking me about it. Give me a chance to share my Reason for living. But as a stay-at-home-mom, it's mostly my kids that get to do the asking. (I do love it when they ask. Those conversations are priceless.) So writing is my outside-the-house venue. I'm getting the word out there through my characters, through their trials, and through their overcoming. And through their flaws.

I'm not perfect either. (My kids know that as sure as they know hot chocolate's the perfect just-in-from-the-snow-fort-drink). I've been messed up and thrown loops right and left, but I know why. (And I know Who allows trials to come my way). Every trial I face is another opportunity for the Potter to shape me into a vessel that He'll continue to use for His purposes.

My hope is to share that journey with you. I'll share the Scriptures and moments that inspire me, the challenges I face, the hilarious (and super-meaningful) conversations I have with my kiddos, and even use you as a sounding board for my writing process. It'll be a mish-mash of sorts, but I hope you'll join me for the trip. Share your thoughts, ask your questions. Peek into the lives of my deeply flawed characters as they learn to walk where Christ leads...and in a manner worthy of their calling.

The writer in me thrills with the knowledge that there's fodder for my stories everywhere.