Sacred Mundane: The Blog

“At some point, the gospel gets aggressive.”

I looked up at him. There was that rush, that slight piercing feeling in my chest, that flip-flop in my stomach, that heart-beat quickening just a bit. You know that feeling, when you’re sitting in church and all of a sudden you feel as though the pastor is speaking only to you.

That’s the Holy Spirit.

That’s our cue to pay attention: This one’s for you.

I had just had a series of conversations that went something like this:

Person: “So, how do we get more people to come to church and like, love God and like, be disciples and stuff?”

Me: “Um … I don’t know.”

That pretty much sums it up. I probably said more than that, dropping buzzwords like “missional” and “outreach” and “organic,” and I probably said something really stupid like how we should really get a sign in front of our building. Surely that would help.

A sign will definitely get some serious disciple-making going on.

Gag.

See, here’s the deal. I’m friendly. Really friendly. I’m an introvert but I get the fact that people are what God cares about. Plus, I truly do like people.

And, I love Jesus.

And I’d really love for them to meet each other.

But apparently I’m terrible at introductions.

Anybody else?

Sometimes I forget that the whole point of this life-thing is to introduce Jesus to those who do not know Him. That’s why we’re here! I just read through Acts, and was struck anew by how simple Jesus’ mandate really was:

1. Pray and fast

2. Proclaim the gospel

3. Share all your stuff

4. Expect suffering

That about covers it.

I’ve made baby steps in prayer and fasting. I’m beginning to expect the suffering thing (not that I like it!). I’ve come a long way in sharing my stuff. But honestly:

I haven’t come very far in proclaiming the gospel.

Confession: It’s much easier for me to give away my stuff than it is to boldly talk to people about Jesus.

*Sigh*

Why? 

There are probably a lot of reasons, but one of them has to do with idols. (Idols of the heart are those false gods we live for, the hidden reason we do what we do.) Most people tend toward an idol of Power, Approval, Comfort, or Control.  I don’t mind not being in control and I don’t thirst much for power. I don’t struggle much with the idol of comfort–which means it’s much easier for me to give up my stuff, or money, or go without. (Not saying I’m immune to those things, just not as much.)

I struggle with the idol of approval.

So it’s way harder for me to bring up a subject that is bound to bring me a nice healthy dose of rejection.

Teaching at retreats? Sure. It’s easy to be bold there. Plus, let’s be honest–I get a nice dose of approval pretty regularly in those settings.

Telling lost people about Jesus? There’s a 99% chance of rejection at some level.

But, Acts has been messing with me because Paul didn’t give a rip what anybody thought. Except Jesus. Paul was stoned, imprisoned, rejected, ridiculed. You name it. But he maintained,

Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ. (Gal. 1:10)

Yeah … doesn’t get much clearer than that.

But here’s the thing: The idea of being bold in talking to people, and specifically about talking to people about Jesus can come across as being creepy. In our culture that’s a taboo topic in everyday conversation, so to bulldoze through that social norm is to enter into a serious creepy-zone.

But there is a place somewhere in between creepy and cowardly.

Sure, it’s obnoxious when people wear sandwich-boards on street-corners and scream about hell. It’s creepy to go up to random people and start preaching.

But I’d venture to say none of you are doing that. It’s more likely you’re something like me, comfortable meeting people, serving people, and maybe even inviting people to church, but really uncomfortable actually talking to people about Jesus.

Maybe you too are afraid of appearing creepy. And maybe we settle back a little too far.

Maybe back into cowardly.

On Friday I’ll share a fun story of taking a step, feeling creepy, and seeing how God came through (still waiting to see how the story ends). For today, let’s consider together how comfortable we are talking about Jesus.

Not church, not politics, not morals or virtues:

Jesus.  

There’s this crazy verse that keeps haunting me. And it’s sad to admit that as I’m writing this post I’m thinking to myself, “No one is gonna like this one. Definitely  not gonna get any positive comments here.” It’s sad that as I’m writing I’m thinking of whether or not I’ll be approved of or not. By you. Instead of just asking Jesus, “Is this what you want me to say about you?” That approval addiction runs deep, but this verse cuts to the heart:

“For whoever is ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him will the Son of Man also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.” Mark 8:38

Chewing on this today, with you. What heart-idol to you tend toward? How do you feel about talking about Jesus with others? Is there someone specifically you want to name, asking God for boldness in talking to him or her about Jesus?  Father, change us and make us bold. We love You so much. {Thank you for reading.}

Last weekend, as we lay in bed, Jeff asked me how I felt.  I replied, “I feel like a rubber band that’s stretched out so tight it’s just about to snap.”  He knew enough to put his arm around me and just stay quiet after that. (love that man.)

Someone please tell me they’ve felt like that too?

My confession is this: I’ve been mad.  Not all the time, but more often than I like to admit, I’ve been struggling with just getting so angry with my Littles.  Sure, there’s a time to be mad, to get angry at sin and to be stern in discipline. But this was more of a subtle brewing beneath the surface that’s just a slight incident away from boiling over. The kind of mad.

Ironically enough, it was the morning of Mother’s Day that I felt most angry. And it was the afternoon of Mother’s Day that I realized why.

Thanks to a glass of strawberry lemonade. 

We don’t usually have juice in the house, but I knew it’d be almost 90 degrees that day, so I bought some lemonade. Jeff’s mom brought strawberries so I made a special pitcher of strawberry lemonade for the day. Yum!

In the afternoon, I went outside with the kids to play. I held in my hand a small, cold glass of icy strawberry lemonade. Of course as soon as they saw it, their eyes lit up and they asked to have some. It was the last glass, but they had asked politely and of course I wanted them to enjoy it too. So I lowered down and gave Dutch a drink. But of course his drink enthusiastically turned to gulp and when I tipped back the glass it was half gone. I turned to give Heidi a drink and she slurped away. When I held the glass back up for myself there was all of an inch left at the bottom. And then I realized…

That’s why I’m mad. 

What? I’m mad because my kids drank my strawberry lemonade? No.

I’m mad because I let them. 

All the time … in so many ways. 

It’s not about lemonade, obviously. See, here’s the thing. Love does not seek its own. I get that. And as moms, we’re celebrated for our selflessness (which is good!), and we’re to expected to lay down our lives for our children (which is good!), we’re supposed to say “yes!” as often as we can (which is good). But I also know that on Mother’s Day it is perfectly acceptable for a mom to have a glass of strawberry lemonade without giving the entire thing to her children. It’s good for them to learn that Mommy is honored and sometimes gets special things of her own. It’s good for Mommy to respect herself, and carry herself with dignity. Part of loving them is training them to not walk all over their mother. How they treat mommy is how they will treat others. See, we not only need clear boundaries in obedience and discipline, but also just in respecting Mommy as a person.

Do you see what I mean?

It’s beautiful for mommy to selflessly lay down her life for her kids. But that doesn’t mean she

… prepares snacks and meals at all hours of the day.  

… isn’t allowed to eat a meal sitting down.

… can’t take a shower by herself.

… must give up her quiet time in the Word.

You remember the instructions we’re always given when flying with children, right? Secure your own oxygen mask before your child’s.  In other words:

It won’t help your child if you’re passed out on the floor. 

I might just write that last sentence on a poster and tape it to my wall.

Sister-friend, I don’t know where you are today. But could it be that a little dose of soul-care might be in order? By all means, keep loving those children sacrificially, but perhaps Mama needs a bath by herself? Or an hour away for a quiet cup of coffee? Or perhaps just …

…an icy glass of strawberry lemonade all to herself.

With love, thanks for reading,

Kari

*Remembering this story, from last year. Thankfully, now I’m really good at being a mean mommy and saying no to my kids. 🙂  Looking for more help/wisdom in this area? Check out Taking Care of the Me in Mommy, by Lisa Whelchel. A great, fun, practical guide. Read it while you’re sipping that lemonade…

We just walked in the door.

I have that eye-burning tired, clammy-body feel of spending hours in an airport.

We ate a bag of almonds and some orange juice for dinner.

I’m beat.

But it’s been so good.

A few days away with my man at the Acts 29 Preach the Word conference. A powerful time, together, to sit under the teaching of God’s Word and be equipped and encouraged to communicate His Word.

We walked everywhere, developed a humdinger of a blister, enjoyed Starbucks refills, were randomly picked up in a limo (!), and just soaked up every second of time together. It was two years ago when we last went away just the two of us. Since then we’ve moved twice and started this little itty-bitty thing called church-planting.

Needless to say, it was time for some time away together.

On the way there, I read One Big Thing. A great, quick, read about focusing your life on the One Big Thing God has called you to. That thing that makes you alive. It was challenging and encouraging all at once. It’s worth a read if you’re wondering what on earth you’re here for.

On the way back, I read most of Linda Dillow’s What’s It Like To Be Married To Me?: and other dangerous questions. The Kindle edition is even cheaper than my book (!), so if you’re married, it’s definitely worth a quick read and some healthy, challenging questions.

Here’s why it’s helpful:

Most of the time, I’m just in survival mode. We have house projects, homeschooling, church-planting; we have lots of relationships, we have schedules and chores and laundry and cooking and cleaning and hospitality. We have calendars to synch, plans to make, and honestly, I don’t have time to sit around and contemplate, I wonder what it’s like to be married to me… 

But this book starts there, and gives you some great questions to ask your husband, a starting place for hearing from him. 

I have to admit, although I loved the premise of the book, and I can easily assimilate and digest information, I was hesitant to actually ask Jeff the questions. In fact, if I’d been reading it alone I probably would have skipped that part and just contemplated what I thought he’d say.

Cheating!

But as it was, we were sitting on a plane together, him reading over my shoulder. I couldn’t not ask him when he was sitting right there. So I did. And you know what–the talk we had was incredibly instructive and helpful for us.

Just last week, a friend of mine suggested a similar thing. She shared Lysa TerKeurst’s idea of being a 3 Things Wife. The few of us who were chatting about it asked our husbands, “What 3 things really matter to you, that you would like me to be or do?”

I was sort of surprised at Jeff’s answer.

Here’s what this shows me: We’ll never actually be able to serve, honor, respect, and love our husbands if we haven’t asked them how they’d like us to do just that.

I think I know what my husband wants, but you know what? He can speak for himself.

Surprise!

And the good news is: His expectations are probably a lot simpler than we may think. 

Kari studying

In fact, the way he sees you may be more grace-filled and loving than the way you see yourself. My sweet husband took this picture of me, I had no idea he did, and it helped me understand how he sees me.

With FAR more grace than how I see myself.

Surprisingly enough, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable and seeing ourselves from his viewpoint, might even help us see how loved we really are.

And… right now he is standing behind me, waiting for me to finish typing this post since it’s past 10pm and we’re both beat! So I’ll sign off, but let me leave you with this:

What’s it like to be married to me? Give it some thought, then–when you’re brave enough!–ask your man. Then ask:

What three things would you like me to do? 

And, a blanket apology for incoherence and typos. I am so tired. Have a blessed Thursday and I’ll write again soon. Thanks for reading!

*If you haven’t had a chance to meet our neighbor Ernie yet, I’d be most honored to introduce you to him here … Blinds and Jan Hagels. Flowers. Parsnips. Hope. And if YOU are a woman named Susan, from Alabama, who is having lunch with me right now (wink) — I THANK YOU with my whole heart for your selfless generosity to me. There aren’t words. Oh our God is amazing. And to all: Enjoy…

It was a Tuesday when we took the parsnips over, and his front door was flung wide-open.

We went as we were–kids barefoot, I wearing a huge hooded sweatshirt, Jeff still in his toolbelt, and Debra donning a tie-dyed t-shirt. We’d just eaten dinner out in the yard, the sun slanting in from the west.

We walked up the sidewalk, past the dry dirt-bed where we’d poked sunflower seeds down deep into the soil. Debra dug the holes, the kids and I dumped in handfuls of potting soil and carefully buried the seeds.

We’re still waiting for signs of life.

Or maybe we’re already seeing some?

We were just passing the statues, still lined up like graves, when I noticed the front door. I squinted in the sun. Was it really … open? 

This is the man who didn’t crack his blinds the first four months we lived here.

“Knock knock!” I called out as we approached. The TV blared, like last time, but Ernie appeared in no time flat, shuffling his walker toward the door.

“Well, hello there!” He looked surprised, but not unfriendly.

“I brought you some parsnips.” 

He smiled. 

We introduced Debra and immediately Dutch pulled his encyclopedia out from under his arm and began a detailed discourse on something scientific. Ernie listened patiently with … Was it? Yes I think it was--a twinkle in his eye.

“Would you like to come in?” I’m not sure who was more surprised, us or him, at his eager invitation.

“Of course!” We tramped in noisily, more loud-life and chaotic commotion than he’d probably had in ages. The smell of my grandma’s house, from when I was a child, enveloped me. Exactly the same smell. The living room was neat and tiny, the mantle filled with pictures, tiny knickknacks, dozens of figurines–an indoor version of the yard.

We talked long and animatedly. I looked out his enormous picture window (the blinds were pulled wide open) and saw what he would see, each day: Us. Our yard.

It’s so odd to see your life from another view.

He looked at me and pointed out the window. “You did a lot of work out there!”  

I smiled. I had wondered if he was watching. I’d spent several back-breaking days digging out years’ worth of weeds along the side of our lot–the side we share with Ernie. Although it was bright outside, so I can never see in his dark window, I had wondered several times if perhaps he was watching me. And I somehow knew he was. And it seemed right. Not in a weird creepy way, in a way that made me feel happy. Like me just being there, working the ground for long hours right outside his window, might somehow make him happy. Might make him remember. I wondered if my presence–just being there–might make him glad. It sounds weird as I write it down. Perhaps you understand?

“Yeah, it was hard work, but it looks so nice right now.”

“Yeah, it does. I had my yard guys do a treatment for the weeds too, so that should help.”

I smiled. “Great, thanks.”

A small black and white photo on the mantle caught my eye–a dark-haired young man, wildly handsome. I picked it up and showed Debra. “Who’s this good looking guy??!!”

Some emotion waved across his face. He smiled. Quietly: “That’s the old man.”

We hooted and hollered. “YOU?! That’s YOU?! Wow, Ernie! You were a hottie!” He laughed as we slapped his shoulders.

After we’d teased him enough, we asked about his kids. Turns out his son is 57 years old and has cerebral palsy, since birth. Lives in a care facility here in Oregon City.

Ernie visits him every Sunday.

Interspersed with joviality was plenty of profanity and bitterness. Several times we sat in awkward silence, wondering how to take the conversation somewhere, anywhere, fruitful. When we left I wondered to myself, “What do we do with that?”

As we walked back up the sidewalk I looked back down at his dirt-patch. The soil was full of rocks, dry as a desert, filled with weeds. I know there are sunflower seeds there below the surface. I know because we put them there.

I know they can grow.

But man, there’s a lot of junk on the surface.

Honestly, I don’t know if those sunflower seeds will ever break through. Don’t know if flowers will come through that rock-hard soil.

But we’ll keep watering and waiting:

Ernie, and his seeds.

 {May you be encouraged to water whatever seeds God has given you this week, patiently waiting, and trusting His grace. Thanks for reading.}