What's so special about Riversong?
If you’ve followed this blog for long, you’ve probably heard me mention how much I love coming out to Riversong, my parents’ beautiful home along the River. If you’ve followed this blog for few years you’ll also remember, however, that I did not like living here. 🙂 In my daily life I appreciate things like cell phone service, being able to go for walks and runs (narrow, windy country roads aren’t conducive to this), a 30-second drive to Safeway for fresh milk, and a 1-minute drive to Starbucks if I’m having a rough day. I also love neighbors, and I especially love mine.
But living in the hustle bustle of busy suburbia does seem to press in on the margin of my life, until I begin longing for white space and teetering on the verge of a pang of resentment that all the squares on my calendar have words scribbled on them. It’s then that I know it’s time for Riversong.
This time, I actually wasn’t feeling over-busy or resentful, but Jeff is out of town for the week, so rather than sulk at home wishing I were also attending Catalyst West, we tossed Dutch’s muck boots and my latest parenting book in the car and ventured to our wilderness home away from home.
So what’s so special about this place?
First off, there’s something about a place with a name. I’m instantly transported to a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. When I turn off the main road, down the steep gravel drive, then right between the old crumbling concrete pillars and by the wooden Riversong sign, I feel my shoulders begin to relax. This time, all the apple blossoms are exquisite white bursts against the cold, bare, wintery branches. The river is still dark and rushing. The first spots of green poke through the dark, moist dirt in the garden.
Secondly, you can’t see another house. The horses next door, an occasional deer, and the osprey nesting across the river are the only visitors, unless Tony the neighbor down the road decides to drop off some of his fresh Mahi Mahi he’s caught on one of his Mexico fishing expeditions. No complaints there!
Third, it’s a good thing I don’t stay here for long, because you can count on my parents to have the pantry stocked. This trip it’s the doublestuff Oreos, fresh strawberry shortcake, and baked mac ‘n cheese.
Afternoons throwing rocks in the river, evenings in the hot tub, sipping tea in the light of early morning, watching the river outside the front room window, sitting at the dining room table talking to Mom, unaware of hours slipping by.
And I think that’s really it. Riversong is magical because of who my parents are. They make Riversong a place of restoration, healing, calm, beauty. They take you as you are, fuss over nothing, revel in the joy of being able to serve others with the home God has given them. I guess that’s what makes it so special out here–the spirit of joy and calm and rest. Whatever it is, I’m thankful I’m here for now.
The Waters of Sanctification
God knocked me on my backside tonight.
I never cease to be amazed at how God’s Word is just that, God’s word, and how it is living and active, how it pierces our hearts, speaks to the moment, convicts and encourages and teaches and guides. And sometimes, it catches me off guard and about knocks me off my feet.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been a bit discouraged with parenting. Specifically, with my three-year-old’s behavior in Sunday School at church. We’ve done sticker charts, we’ve done rewards, we’ve done treats, we’ve done corporal punishment, we’ve done time-outs, we’ve done praise and applause and jumping up and down. We’ve talked about it, cried about it, prayed about it. And something still just isn’t working right, and quite frankly it has me discouraged and a bit weary. Though I love worshipping with God’s people, I find myself dreading every trip to church, dreading the check-in time when inevitably Dutch will morph into “dangerous shark terror”, dreading the pick-up time when I hear that Dutch took off his shoe and threw it at someone (yes, that was yesterday), dreading the look on the teachers’ faces when they see Dutch arrive. I feel like going to a therapy meeting and saying, “Hi, I’m Kari, and yes, my son is ‘that kid’.”
So today I hit a low point and caught myself in the comparison trap, and not only the comparison trap, but an even uglier version–the prideful comparison trap.
“Why this, Lord? I’m busting my tail at parenting. I read all the books, try all the methods, pray pray pray. I study the Word, I teach him Bible verses, I don’t work so I can spend all day with him. This is humiliating and I feel like everyone’s an expert on this except me. Why am I apparently the only one failing in this area? I don’t want to be the mom of the bad kid! How on earth can I be a women’s ministry leader and Bible teacher if my son clocks people in the head with his shoe?!!”
Then I remembered something a friend (who can very much identify with my situation), said the other day: “It’s very humbling to have ‘that kid’, isn’t it?” Oh boy is it ever.
So after my little hissy fit, tonight we were doing our little family devotional time with Dutch. We were all snuggled in bed and Jeff was reading from the Jesus Storybook Bible. The story, which I’d read to him a dozen times before, was of Naaman, the very important commander of the Syrian army, who was sick with leprosy, and sought the healing prayer of Elisa the prophet. But instead of Elisha coming out to greet him, bowing down to Naaman in honor, Elisha doesn’t even come out of his house, but instead sends out his servant who tells Naaman to simply wash in the stinky, smelly Jordan river seven times. Now Naaman was ticked, saying,
“I thought that he would surely come out to me and stand and call upon the name of the LORD his God, and wave his hand over the place and cure the leper. Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them and be clean?” (2 Kings 5:11-12)
So then he turns in a rage and storms off.
Do you hear the pride? Naaman wanted God to heal Him using Naaman’s methods, methods that reinforced his own pride and met his expectations of what miraculous healing should look like.
Who finally speaks some reason into this prideful heart? Interestingly, Naaman’s servants:
“But [Naaman’s] servants came near and said to him, “My father, it is a great word the prophet has spoken to you; will you not do it?”
In other words, “God has given you a clear directive for your healing and restoration. Are you really telling me you’re too proud to do it?”
Am I too proud to do it?
How many times have I prayed, “God heal me of my pride. God sanctify me. God grant me humility. God grant me a teachable spirit. God help me connect with the real needs of women around me. God help me grow in maturity and wisdom. God reveal areas that are sinful that need Your touch. God heal me of my selfishness, heal me of my insecurity, heal me of myself.”
Go wash in the Jordan.
Go wash in the murky, stinky waters of a toddler’s rebellion and embarrassing misbehavior. Go wash in the murky water of trial and error, of charting unknown waters, of trying new things that oftentimes don’t work. Go wash in the waters of humility, in the waters of asking others for help, in the waters of exhausting repetition and consistency. Go wash in the waters of faith and not of sight.
“But Lord! I’d rather wash in the crystal clean waters of Bible Study. I’d like to grow in my sanctification by…hmm…how about blogging? That’s a fun way to grow! Or perhaps by really successful speaking engagements, that’s fun too. Or by really encouraging, deep, meaningful times in the Word each and every morning. That would be fabulous. Or perhaps I could even just read a few good books, underline a lot, and then have the whole thing down pat. That’d be great. But these waters? The waters of the Jordan? These are stinky and smelly and humiliating.”
But these are the waters of life. Finally, Naaman saw the error of his ways, and in verse 14 we read,
“So he went down and dipped himself seven times in the Jordan, according to the word of the man of God, and his flesh was restored like the flesh of a little child, and he was clean.”
Ok, Lord. I’ll go. I’ll wash–seven times. I’ll keep praying for this boy, keep persevering with consistency, keep listening to the advice that comes way, keep praying for creativity and wisdom. And even if you’ve called me to have “that kid”, I humbly receive your directives and pray you’ve give me the grace to submit to these waters of sanctification. They may be smelly, but I believe I will emerge, at some point, restored, renewed, and healed of myself.
Why Church Matters
Tomorrow morning I will go to church. Last week at church, my son so misbehaved in Sunday school that I was so mortified I actually thought to myself, as I drove home crying, “I never want to go to church again.” Probably not an option since my husband’s the Associate Pastor there, huh? Now granted, I was emotional, tired, and admittedly over-reacting, but the gist of my feelings were that it’s exhausting to go, week after week, by myself with my two kids, one of which cries when I leave her in the nursery, and one of which just doesn’t like going and voices this sentiment each and every week. Then the real kicker is picking my son up from Sunday School to hear the litany of misbehavior he’s managed in 1.5 hours. So then comes the fun task of following through with the disciplinary action I must mete out. By the time it’s all over, I admit that there are times I wonder if maybe a Sunday morning trip to Ikea for a cinnamon roll would have been better.
But those things will pass. A one-year-old’s separation-anxiety will pass. A three-year-old’s selfishness will be, Lord willing, trained into submission. I am confident that they will, as I did, grow to love and follow Jesus Christ and enjoy the fellowship of His people. At church. And I will continue to give every ounce of my energy to making church a fun, meaningful, and growing experience for my kids. And I will continue to meditate on Hebrews 10:35-36
Therefore do not throw away your confidence, which has a great reward. For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised.
Devoted to the Church
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I spent much of last week at the beach with my family. Among the glories of this trip was the massage chair, the hot-tub overlooking the ocean, the cloudless brilliantly blue sky, the long run down the beach to the rocky cliffs, the feast of fresh salmon and grilled asparagus followed by homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie, and the sheer delight in the eyes of my son as he played for hours with his toy excavator in the sand.
But one of the most significant glories of the trip was the realization that all the various members of my family are faithfully devoted and fiercely loyal to the local church.
Why is that significant?
Because it seems to me, sadly, that many believers today seem to love Jesus but don’t care for His bride. They want to pray and study the Bible, but could do without that church stuff. Or, more commonly, they’ve been involved in the local church and been wounded, offended, or otherwise dissatisfied, and so concluded that it’s easier to fly solo in this thing called the Christian life. Most commonly I hear, “I just don’t get that much out of it.” Ok. I get that.
But I reflected on a few things, from the lives of my family, as we lived life together at the coast this week.
My parents have been through church ups and downs. Their pastor is going through a difficult season and is therefore taking two months completely off, just to spend time with his family. Do my parents say, “Well, since my pastor won’t be feeding me, I’m headed elsewhere, or I’ll just stay home for a few months. I could use the sleep.”? No. They rally behind their pastor, pray for him, encourage him, support him, and commit to more than ever serve in their church to see that everyone is looked after in his absence. They’re committed to their church.
My aunt & uncle’s church has had more than a few rough spots, and is now a very very small congregation, without a designated pastor. They often meet in homes, taking turns leading. And my aunt and uncle continue to faithfully serve there. In fact, because my aunt has a passion and conviction about communion, she volunteers to set up and serve communion every week herself. She just does it. And, remember how I mentioned that strawberry-rhubarb pie? Well because my uncle loves pie, the church ladies got together for his birthday and made him a “year of pie” sign-up calendar. On the 23rd of every month he is delivered a fresh-baked pie courtesy of one of the ladies of this tiny church. And, I might add–for being a small church they seem to have a plethora of fine bakers. They’re committed to each other.
Finally, my brother just stepped into the role of Elder, and my sister-in-law was sharing some of the assorted challenges that come with serving in a small church in a difficult environment. Their commitment to serve wholeheartedly is inspiring. For example, the worship team’s bass player recently left the church. They were left with no one in the church who could play bass. My brother, who (he would admit this I promise!) doesn’t necessarily have the most natural musical inclination and not a show-performer bone in his body (unlike his sister, the ham), said, “I’ll learn to play bass.” So he devoted his free time and energy to learning this rather inglorious musical instrument, for the sole sake of serving his church body. Who does that?
I share all of these things because one thing that burns in my heart is a love for the local church. Perhaps that’s fairly obvious since Jeff and I both went to seminary in order to serve full time in a local congregation. I love my Willamette Christian Church family. I love my pastor Joel and his family. I love my community group. I love the women who meet in my living room for Bible Study. And I especially love the faithful Sunday School teachers who patiently teach my self-named “Dangerous Shark” in the 3-year-old class every week. They are worthy of double-honor if you ask me!
Not pride, but love
Now I’m not talking about church pride. The moment that our goal is to be the “best church in town” is the moment we can kiss goodbye any hope of glorifying our Risen Savior. I’m not talking about thinking your pastor’s way of preaching is the best, or thinking your youth group is the best, or thinking whatever other garbage that gives us an inflated view of self. I’m talking about recognizing, God put me here, I am a part of this body, and without my absolute and complete devotion, this body will be crippled. I’m here to love, give, serve. And come what may, the church of God, in all her various little local congregations, has a glorious calling, a call to reflect the beauty and glory of the Risen Lord, a call to be the hands and feet of Christ, a call to show a watching world what it means to love and be loved, completely and without reservation.
Church matters. It’s interesting that just before that passage in Hebrews on persevering, just 10 verses earlier we read:
24And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, 25 not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.
That’s why I go to church. That’s why I will get up early tomorrow morning so my kids can have oatmeal in their tummies and I can have God’s word in my heart before we venture out to our place of worship. That’s why we won’t just head to Ikea for a cinnamon roll instead. I’m not sure which part of the body I am, but I better be there just to be sure my absence doesn’t make her walk with a limp. I pray that wherever you worship, whatever church body you call home, you will devote yourself there more than ever before. I pray tomorrow morning you will enter that place with thanksgiving in your heart, ready to spur one another on and lift up true worship to God–even if that true worship is refusing to cry or crumble when your toddler threatens to eat the other children in his class. Let’s persevere. Church matters because God’s people matter. Let’s serve our local church.
My cousin, Scott
One of my favorite pictures in my childhood photo album is of me and my brother and older cousin Cathleen, all hunched down on our knees, watching excitedly out the window of the Portland Airport, our little hands against the glass, watching for the airplane. The next photo on the page is of my aunt and uncle, faces wet with tears, holding the most teeny tiny miniature dark-skinned baby I’ve ever seen. He was snuggled in a blanket, sleeping soundly. Baby Scott was his name, and we loved him in an instant.
I love having a diverse family, and if there ever was one, we have it. My three maternal cousins are all 6’5″-6’7″ guys, towering giants, along with my beautiful exotic-looking Aunt Linda who looks tiny next to them at only 6’1″. Her husband is also 6’5″, carries a gun at all times, and rides a Harley. My Dad and Mom are fairly average, and my brother and I are also, the blond-haired, blue-eyed, mid-sized type. My uncle’s wife is Japanese, from Hawaii. And their two children, Cathleen from Bangladesh, and Scott adopted from Calcutta, are beautiful, handsome, and dark as night. This never seemed unusual to me, but looking back at extended family photos, we look a lot like a United Colors of Benetton ad. I remember one time when I was very small, I sat with my cousin Scott and we ate chocolate chip icecream. “Scott!” I exclaimed happily, “I’m like the vanilla and you’re like chocolate chips!” My mom was embarrassed but we laughed and laughed, so happy at our discovery.
So speaking of my wonderful cousin Scott–who is now all grown up–, he teaches a ragtag bunch of 4th graders down in Las Vegas, as well as serves as a sports coach. I just found out about this fun litle article, written about him, so as a proud cousin I had to post it myself. Way to go, Scott! So proud of you and how you make a difference in the lives of those kids each and every day.
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“We are 5th graders at Ollie Detwiller Elementary School, and we wanted to nominate a 4th grade teacher here at our school as our hero. Mr. Zyp has been at the school for 4 years, and he is a great teacher. They say that the principal gives him all the kids that are hard to handle, because he has a way of keeping everyone involved and learning and not causing trouble. He is a great teacher, but we want to nominate him for what he does for us after school. Mr. Zyp is the football and basketball coach, and he usually coaches all of us by himself. Everyone plays, and everyone learns, and if it wasn’t for the sports programs that he runs, I think we’d all be in trouble. We win alot, too, which is also good. So, here’s a picture of our coach, Mr. Zyp, and he would really like it if you could say these things about him on your web page. Thanks.The Ollie Detwiller Otters