Day 8: Wyoming 2022 - Greatest Hits

It's no secret how much I love Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I won't bother elaborating on that because you can read about my previous adventures elsewhere. I made the trek out there this past September for the fifth time and it's still as stunning as ever. This trip was a much slower pace and I had less of an itinerary planned. It was just my mom and me, so we were able to wander to and fro to places we had been to before and some we hadn't. So, without further ado, I present to you Wyoming 2022: The Greatest Hits:

• I didn't get mistaken for a boy on this trip! Unlike two out of the four previous trips. This feels like a victory. 

• I discovered the joys of a heated steering wheel. What wizardry is this?! We rented a Chrysler Pacifica, which didn't really jive with the whole rugged mountain terrain vibe I had hoped for, but when you have a heated steering wheel? Who cares! Soccer mom minivan it is!

• We went to Mammoth Hot Springs one day while up in Yellowstone. It felt like a ghost town, which was amazing. Normally I'm not a fan of the place because it always feels like such a cluster, but due to the historic flooding that had occurred earlier in the summer and damaged so much infrastructure,  a lot of lodging and restaurants were closed. 

• On my second trip out to Wyoming with my friend Kristen in 2016, she introduced me to some friends of hers, Donnie and Pat. They quickly became my friends. And then when I was out there again in 2019 with my mom and a family friend, we ran into Donnie and Pat by happenstance, out of the blue while waiting in line at a restaurant up in Mammoth. This time around, we intentionally reached out to them and made plans. Funny, delightful, lovely people.

• We tried to see a few things we hadn't before, one of which was Cody. We were staying in West Yellowstone so we drove allllll the way over to Cody one day, on the opposite side of the park, and poked around there for the day. Driving through Sylvan Pass is a bit of a white-knuckler for me, but we made it.

• After we spent a few days in Yellowstone, we headed south for Jackson. While on the way, we spotted a bald eagle and some other kind of bird duking it out in the skies above. They kept following the same river we were driving along, so we were able to just keep going and watch them as we drove. 

• We stopped at Colter Bay on the northern side of Grand Teton National Park and our eyes nearly popped out of our heads. We couldn't believe what we were seeing. The marina, normally filled with docked boats was completely empty - boats, water and all. It was shocking to witness. 

• We stayed in downtown Jackson, which was a first. Normally we stay out in the Wilson area, but AirBnB prices were getting ridiculous, so we opted for a hotel near the Town Square. So convenient. Loved it.

• Two rainbows marked our trip, one while out in the Buffalo Valley near Turpin Meadow Ranch and another directly at the base of the Tetons. 

• We, of course, milled around town and walked through art galleries, especially since it was the annual Fall Arts Festival. One thing that was a major bummer for us on this trip was that they did not host the Showcase of Homes. We LOVED this when we went in 2019 and had so hoped we could do it again. Alas, it was not to be. 

I don't know that I'll make it back to Wyoming in 2023, as I've got my sights set on somewhere new. We'll see if it captures my heart and imagination like Jackson Hole has, but this new place has a lot to live up to. Time will tell!

This was one of the many terrible selfies I took in 2015. This is also Colter Bay then...

...and Colter Bay in September 2022. I'm standing in almost the exact same spot. 
Now you know why our eyes nearly popped out of our heads.

I mean, c'mon.

While taking the Moose-Wilson Road, we joined the crowds to watch these two for a bit.

Rainbow #1 while driving along Highway 191, just north of Jackson.

Rainbow #2, sunset, driving back from Turpin Meadow Ranch, down along the Buffalo Fork

This was in the opposite direction of the rainbow.
No matter which way we turned, the view was incredible.

What is Yellowstone without bison?

And, of course, a jumping photo.

Sit, Stay Awhile

My grandfather was a notoriously slow eater. I mean slow. Meals were not merely a physical necessity to him, a functional means of putting food into his body for sustenance, but rather more about everything else surrounding the occasion. Conversations. Stories. People. Relationships. Community. 

For the better part of a decade, my grandparents were fixtures at the local Amish restaurant every morning for breakfast. Typically the only day they didn't go was on Sundays and that was only because they didn't have a say in the matter. The place was closed. The creed of the US Postal Service really was the creed of my grandparents: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."  They were relationship couriers hell-bent on making their appointed rounds, just perhaps minus the swift part.

My grandfather would sit at that table like a king conducting the affairs of his court and all the courtiers that came with it. He was never in a hurry. He rarely had anywhere else to be and the coffee and conversation were always in steady supply. He and my grandmother would talk for hours upon hours upon hours. They came for breakfast but they might as well have stayed for lunch, maybe even dinner, too. And they didn't know a stranger. If a couple or a family were sitting a table or two away, minding their own business, inevitably, my grandfather would somehow draw them into a conversation. Strangers became friends who were welcomed into the affairs of the royal court. 

My grandfather was well-versed in the art of lingering. 

He knew what it meant to sit and stay awhile.

I, on the other hand, eat most of my meals standing at the kitchen counter.

Granted, I live alone and there's no one else around to share a meal with so I usually just stand or stay in motion, cleaning up the kitchen or doing more food prep in between bites. Always in motion, always moving.

I am not well-versed in the art of lingering like my grandfather was. 

And neither were the ancient Israelites.

As we move toward Passover in a few weeks, there is a part of the Old Testament exodus story we can easily gloss over and miss the depth of its meaning if we are not careful. We must linger here, just as I need to learn to linger over meals.

When we pick up the story of the Israelites in Exodus 12, they are still in slavery in Egypt, but their deliverance is drawing near. Nine of the ten plagues have been unleashed. The final plague - the death of every firstborn in Egypt, from man to livestock - is about to bring low the heart of Pharaoh himself. In preparation, the Lord issues a command to the people: prepare the Passover feast. Slaughter the lamb, put the blood on the doorframes, make the bread without yeast. 

And then the Lord gives this seemingly insignificant but very important command:

"This is how you are to eat it: with your cloak tucked into your belt, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand. Eat it in haste..." (Exodus 12:11).

When you are about to run for your very life, you have no time to linger over your meal. You make-ready to make haste because time will be your enemy if you don't. Now is not the time to linger, to pull up a chair, make new friends and chew the fat, figuratively speaking. Now is the time you eat in haste. 

When the final plague of death was delivered, Pharaoh would give the order to release all of the Israelites from slavery. And once that command came, there wouldn't be a moment to waste. So God made it clear to his people the stance with which they were to eat the Passover meal, to be like runners crouched at the starting blocks waiting for the gun to go off and the race to begin.  

You eat in haste when you are outrunning your captor.

You eat in haste when you are scrambling to set foot in the Promised Land.

You eat in haste when you are living on the brink of death.

For those who live apart from Christ, this is how you spiritually eat. Constantly on the run, nerves on edge, one eye on your plate, one eye on the door, shoveling spoonfuls in your mouth, eating in haste. And it's not just how you eat now, it's how you will eat for all eternity should you continue to choose to stand as an enemy of the cross of Christ. There will be no lingering over meals in hell because you will be perpetually starved of all things good and right and true. Hell does not come equipped with a kitchen table. 

For those who belong to Christ, however, the day will come when we sit down to eat another feast and God will not give us the same command he gave his people in Exodus 12.  The command he gave then is not how he intends his people to eat all their meals for all their days. It was for a specific purpose at a specific time under specific circumstances.

No, at the end of time, at the wedding feast of the Lamb, God will invite his people to linger. He will invite us to pull up a chair and stay awhile, to get comfortable, to take off our shoes and set aside our staff. He will invite us to become well-acquainted with the art of lingering. 

And he will invite us to eat slowly. 

You are no longer outrunning your captor. 

He has been vanquished.

You are no longer scrambling to set foot in the Promised Land. 

You are already in it. 

You are no longer living on the brink of death.

You have life everlasting.    

So, sit, stay awhile. 

You no longer have to eat in haste at the Lord's table.

"Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” (Revelation 19:9).

1,000 (– 338 = 662) Gifts

“It was a dare, like a love dare of sorts…Could I write a list of a thousand things I love? To name one thousand blessings – one thousand gifts…? Learn how to be thankful – whether empty or full. Could the list teach me even that hard language? Over time? Gratitude in the midst of death and divorce and debt – that’s the language I’ve got to learn to speak – because that’s the kind of life I’m living, the kind I have to solve.” - Ann Voskamp

A little over one year ago – February 20, 2017, to be exact – I put pen to paper and began. One thousand blank lines waiting to be filled. I originally intended to fill all one thousand lines in one year, but it didn’t quite work out that way, which is fine. It’s not worth being a legalist when it comes to counting blessings. The list was inspired by Ann Voskamp’s book, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Where You Are. It spent sixty weeks on The New York Times best-sellers list and sold over one million copies. It’s ultimately a book on gratitude, and addresses the question how do we learn to give thanks no matter what?

I had read the book years ago, but even after initially reading it, I didn’t take up Ann’s call to document one thousand blessings. For whatever reason, though, I finally decided to follow suit and start my own list early last year. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I bend more to the side of pessimism, skepticism, criticism and negativity than I do toward optimism, gratitude and positivity. I’m more likely to find fault than I am to believe the best about a person or a situation. It’s not an admirable quality, I know. And the Holy Spirit has convicted me about it on more than one occasion. So, I decided to do the hard work to start changing that perspective, to actively and intentionally fight against my own nature and tendencies.

Thus began the quest to chronicle one thousand gifts in one year.

The list in a lot of ways became a daily journal, small notes about each day for which I was thankful, a catalog of blessings. When I looked back over the list this past week, marking the one-year anniversary, that alone counted as a gift, the reminiscing and remembering. As I skimmed each line, reviewing them one by one, I began to see trends. Some people’s names showed up repeatedly. Some sentiments showed up on loop. Since it was my list, I made up my own rules and allowed myself to repeat items. No one said it had to be one thousand unique gifts. While I can’t say with scientific certainty, as I did not analyze the data with any sort of eye for precision, I did spot what seemed to be a very clear winner for “most frequently-listed gift”:

Naps.

I have often joked with those around me that I have no idea how I’m going to survive raising children of my own because I love sleeping way too much. This list proves my deep affection.

In fact, guess what was number one on the list?

1. Afternoon naps

Not long after that, I followed with various other types of naps and sleep-related items:

22. Sunday afternoon naps
43. Sunday naps!
44. Lunchtime naps!

(Apparently I felt the exclamation marks were of great value and necessary for emphasis because pretty much nothing else on the list warranted its own punctuation quite like naps did.)

77. Two-nap Saturdays
91. Sleeping in until 7:45 a.m. (I know that seems early to most of the world, but that qualifies as late for me.)
114. 7:20 p.m. bed times
206. The bliss of two naps in one day
412. Sleeping in on a Saturday morning
568. Sleeping in until 11 a.m. (this was only after a 3-hour time change from the West Coast and a  late flight. Last time I slept that late was probably when I was five.)
588. Saturday afternoon naps

I clearly love naps of any and all kinds. I sound like Bubba Gump in Forrest Gump when he explains all the ways you can eat shrimp, “You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it. There’s shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan-fried, deep-fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich.”

By my definition, naps are no different. There are lunchtime naps, mid-morning naps, pre-dinner naps, post-work naps. There are one-nap days and two-nap days. There are Sunday naps! Monday naps! Tuesday naps! Wednesday naps! Thursday naps! Friday naps! Saturday naps! Sunday naps are by far the best. Just ask anyone in my family. Sunday afternoons are sacred napping time. Even as children, we knew that Sunday afternoons were meant for naps and it was an unspoken rule in our house that you simply didn’t plan to do anything else on Sunday except take a deliciously long nap at some point. I still hold to that sacred tradition even as an adult.

I didn’t make it to one thousand gifts in one year, but I did manage to document a total of 662 items total. Contrary to how it seems, I did chronicle blessings other than naps. There were no shortage of light-hearted and simple things:

12. Text messages from Josh that make me laugh out loud
40. New leather purse for $9
66. Ghirardelli chocolate caramel bars
75. Leftover pie
168. Travis laughing at my stories
355. Ice
391. The start of college football season
491. Laughing until my cheeks hurt
502. The feel of a horse’s warm breath on my face
551. The dawn of a new year
589. “This Is Us”
605. Pictures of Emily’s triplets
634. Valentine’s card from my mom

But there were the hard things, too, things where gratitude did not come naturally or instinctively, things where I had to fight to find the gratitude:

177. Sitting with Myrt in the hospital
185. Phone call from Myrt’s son to see how I was taking the news of her cancer
193. To be the one who cleans up Myrt’s puke while she moans in pain
249. Unanswered prayers
260. Being by Myrt’s side in her final days
279. God turning the bitter into sweet
281. Listening to David’s voicemail saying Myrt had passed
282. Knowing that someone I love very much who struggles with suicide is still alive
286. Having the courage to have hard conversations
319. The gentleness of God’s dealing with my sin
431. God’s breath in my lungs (after having a panic attack)
438. The realization that my heart, mind and body are utterly broken without Jesus (on the day that ushered in what I call my “Week from Hell”)
453. Sleeping in my parents’ bed (with my mom by my side because I couldn’t handle being alone at night)
464. Knowing I am not alone
470. Working a full day of work with no anxiety
514. Surviving a car accident
528. Being the one on the other end of the phone when my friend tells me he’s at the lowest point of his life

One year later, and a record of 662 gifts for which I am thankful - both the good and the bad, the bitter and the sweet, the highs and the lows. I can honestly say that I am grateful for things like anxiety. Maybe I should say more accurately that I’m grateful for what it has produced in me. I’m not grateful for my car accident in and of itself, but I am grateful for God’s protection, for angels that stood guard over my life. I’m not glad Myrt died, but I can be grateful she’s with Jesus and I’ll see her again some day. Ann Voskamp said in her book, “Life-changing gratitude does not fasten to a life unless nailed through with one very specific nail at a time.”

These 662 gifts have been 662 nails I nailed down, one at a time, choosing gratitude over bitterness and discontentment. Last year was a doozy of a year for me in a lot of ways, and it would have been easy to give into the sadness or to have adopted a woe-is-me attitude.

But it’s the truth that Paul points to in Philippians 4:11-12 that should shape our lives, “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need” (ESV).

I have not mastered by any means, but I am learning the secret, the secret of being content in whatever situation.

The secret is found in the 500th item I listed:

500. Jesus

"The secret is Christ in me, not me in a different set of circumstances.” said Elisabeth Eliot. God doesn’t need to place me in a different set of circumstances that don’t involve anxiety and car accidents and deep, deep pain in the lives of people I love. Different circumstances won’t solve anything. The secret was - and is - Jesus in me.

“And I see it now for what this really is, this dare to write down one thousand things I love. It really is a dare to name all the ways that God loves me," Ann noted in her book.

Jesus loves me, this I know.

I have a list of 662 gifts (and a few dozen naps) that tell me so.

I'm Not the One

As much as I hate to admit it, I love control. I love knowing what to expect, when to expect it, and how to expect it. I love details. I love predictability and routines, schedules and lists. I love feeling like things are within my reach and under my dominion. It creates a sense of security and confidence, albeit most likely a false sense of security. But I crave that control nonetheless.

I stood at the kitchen sink this morning, staring out the window, reflecting on a conversation I had with a group of ladies in my Bible study yesterday morning. Each of us voiced the heaviness of feeling like we somehow are the only ones responsible for holding the world together, or at least our corners of the world. Parents who are aging - how will I care for them and hold onto them? Nephews who have abandoned Jesus - how will I get them to turn back? Daughters who have gone rogue - how do I get the prodigal to return? Family members tangled up in addictions and mental health troubles so dark and so deep they are on the brink of death - how do I stop the cycle of madness?

I've spent many a moment wrestling here lately with this idea of control. It has weighed heavy on me in this season of life, more so than any other time I can recall. I've become acutely aware of how little control I actually have, particularly over other people in my life. I have felt this crushing weight of feeling like I need to save those closest to me - to save them from suicide, to save them from their own destruction, to save them from drugs, to save them from poor choices, to save them from darkness, to save them from the edge of whatever cliff they are standing on. I act as if it all rests on me - as if it will be up to me to pray them into heaven, up to me to pull them out of the pit they're in, up to me to save them from walking past the hinges of hell. I think some of these thoughts precipitated the crazy panic attacks I had in the fall, causing me to buckle under the weight of feeling like I'm the only one who is keeping this big blue marble from spinning off its axis.

It's exhausting.

And completely rooted in unbelief and a failure to remember who is really in control.

As I stood at the sink this morning, replaying yesterday's conversation in my head and mulling over my own thoughts on the matter, God spoke this truth so clearly to me:

I am not the one.

I'm not the who held the hand of a dead little girl and brought her back to life.
I'm not the one who flung the stars in the skies and called them each by name.
I'm not the one who spoke a word and drove out the demons.
I'm not the one who laid the foundations of the earth and told the waters where to go.
I'm not the one who immediately healed the leper and made him clean.
I'm not the one who multiplied the bread and fed the thousands.
I'm not the one who breathed a breath and brought man to life.
I'm not the one who walked on the water as if it were pavement.
I'm not the one who calmed the wind and the waves but with a word.
I'm not the one who parted the Red Sea and made a way on dry ground.
I'm not the one who still forgave the man who would betray me with a kiss.
I'm not the one who was beaten, whipped, scourged, and bore a crown of thorns.
I'm not the one who hung on the cross with nails thrust into my hands and feet.
I'm not the one who took the keys from death and hell.
I'm not the one who rolled back the rock.
I'm not the one who rose again.

I'm not the one.

My God, I'm not the one who did any.of.those.things.

But I so desperately want to be - or I at least live and think as if I want to be. I live as though the very existence of certain people rests on me. The "what if" question robs me time and again - what if I don't pray enough for them? What if I don't speak words of encouragement enough to them? What if I don't love them enough? What if I don't call them often enough? What if, what if, what if. 'Round and around we go. Somewhere along the way I've made an idol out of myself, appointing myself savior of the world instead of Jesus.

But because Jesus is the one who took the hand of a dead little girl and brought her back to life.
But because Jesus is the one who flung the stars in the skies and called them each by name.
But because Jesus spoke, laid, healed, breathed, walked, parted, accepted, hung, took, rolled, rose and sits - I'm set free from feeling like I'm the one.

I can let go of control and rest knowing I'm not the one.

And I never will be. I'm not capable of saving anyone else. I can't save the people closest to me, the ones whom I fear for their lives. I can't do it. No matter how much I may want to control them or will them into a certain state of being - I simply cannot do it. I was never designed to have that kind of power. We will destroy ourselves in the process by giving ourselves that much credit, to think we can hold up underneath the weight of being someone else's savior.

I'm not the one who is capable.

And neither are you.

You're not the one who can save your child from addiction.
You're not the one who can break your spouse's bonds of pornography.
You're not the one who can rid your father's body of the ravages of cancer.
You're not the one who can beckon the prodigal to return.

Whatever your circumstances - you're not the one.

Whatever trial or tribulation you're facing, whatever situation where you feel like, "If I just had control..." - remember:

You're not the one who is the keeper of the stars, the keeper of your heart, and the Savior of the world.

That title goes to one person and one person only:

Jesus Christ, the One and Only.

"The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. No one has ever seen God, but God the One and Only, who is at the Father's side, has made him known" (John 1:14, 18).

I can rest knowing He is the One.

And I am not.

And neither are you.

Let the One and Only do what only the One and Only can do:

Save.

25 Days of Drinkin'

I generally consider myself a fairly terrible gift-giver.  It's not that I give bad gifts necessarily (except for that one Snuggie I bought Alex.  Sorry, Alex), as much as I just don't give any gifts.  For the last several weddings I've been to? I'm somewhat confident I showed up gift-less.  Christmas gifts for my nieces and nephews? Nah.  In fact, I don't give them birthday gifts either.  Friends' birthdays? Um, I typically send cards.  I know, that makes me sound like a total Scrooge. It's not that I'm anti-gifts, as much as I just don't think about it. It's not instinctive for me. (Okay, okay, maybe there is a small part of me that is anti-gifts on occasion.) I'm always amazed by people who are excellent gift-givers.  My mom is one of those people.  My friend Alex is another.  Jill, too.  They'll find things and I'll think, "I don't know that I could have picked out a better gift for me if I had bought it for myself."  When I get really stellar gifts from other people, I always feel like such a slouch because I just don't have a strong track record.  Here's my defense for my poor gift-giving skills, though:

• I hate giving gifts out of obligation or tradition.  I'm not interested in buying gifts for the sake of buying gifts.  Those kind of gifts feel pointless to me.  
• I hate giving meaningless gifts.  If I'm going to give somebody something, I want it to have personal significance, purpose or value, not just some random item.
• I'd rather give the gift of experience rather than the gift of "stuff."  I want to buy time with people and memories, not more useless things to fill their homes and collect dust.

But every once in a blue moon, I go out in a gift-giving blaze of glory.  I get struck by a bolt of brilliance and find the perfect gift.  This happens only about once every three years, but when it does - I am golden.  That surprise 40th birthday party for my friend?  Knocked it out of the park (at least I think I did?) And that miniature replica I had made of my parents' house?  Nailed it.  My mom carted the thing around in her purse for days, showing it off.  And the donkey piñata I mailed to my friend Erica?  One for the ages.  Her and her husband were dressing up as Mary and Joseph for Halloween, so I mailed her a donkey to complete the look.  I nicknamed him Hey-Soos. (Get it? It's the pseudo-phonetic spelling of Jesus.  I know, probably a little sacrilegious, but I thought the whole thing was genius.  You can't have Mary and Joseph without a donkey.  And you really can just slap some postage on a piñata and mail it as-is. No need to put it in a box.)

But those are about the only example of brilliant gifts I can think of in my 33-years of existence, which is either a sad commentary on my memory or a sad commentary on my gift-giving abilities.  For the sake of this conversation, we'll go with the latter.

Since I hadn't had a flash of brilliance in awhile, I was due for one.

It has become a bit of a running joke in my family how my dad frequently stands in front of the refrigerator, doors wide open, looking for something to drink, contemplating the options.  "I don't want pop.  Too much sugar."  "I'm tired of drinking unsweetened tea."  "Water is boring."  He usually closes the doors, quietly lamenting, his thirst still not quenched. [Insert #firstworldproblem.]

I decided to solve his problem.

The week after Thanksgiving, my niece and I set off on an adventure to buy my dad 25 different kinds of drinks, one for each day of December.  We only had to stop at two locations to complete the task: World Market and Giant Eagle.  Who knew the average grocery store and specialty store could boast such a random assortment of drinks.  We basically pulled off the shelves the most off-the-wall options we could spot.  The weirder it sounded, the faster we scooped it up and put in our cart (all non-alcoholic, of course). I bought one bottle of each drink, figuring if one was truly atrocious, he wouldn't have to suffer through an entire 6-pack or 2-liter bottle, and instead just had to finish 8-12 ounces of each.  I arranged them in somewhat of an intentional order, trying to balance carbonated drinks with juice drinks.  On the outside of each of them, I wrapped my own label, sort of a commentary on each selection.  Then, each day, I put the day's bottle in the fridge, front and center.

We kicked it off on December 1 with a drink called "Dandelion Burdock."  My dad was mildly unimpressed.  Day 2 consisted of Blume Honey Water, Blueberry.  Also not a real winner.  Along came Prickly Pear, Ginger Kombucha, Cock'n Bull Ginger Beer, Pomegranate Maple Water, Mamma Chia, Thai Tea, Cucumber Sparkling Soda, Rose Lemonade, Matcha, and Lemon Cayenne Drinking Vinegar.  None of which got a thumbs up, let alone two.

But Days 7, 11 and 19?  Real doozies.  In the words of my father:              
             

Day 7, 1915 Organic Cold-Pressed Apple, Romaine, Cucumber, Spinach, Kale, Lemon Juice = "It's like drinking a bale of hay."  He took one sip of this and then promptly poured it down the drain. (You have to realize something - my dad has a stomach of steel.  So you know it's real bad if even my dad isn't willing to finish drinking it.)

Day 11, Alo Exposed Original + Honey (Aloe Vera Juice Drink) = "This is nasty.  I don't know how anybody drinks this garbage.  I sure don't need bits of aloe floating in my drink."  He may have used a different word for "garbage," but we'll keep it family-friendly.  I think he also poured this one down the drain.  

Day 19, Sparkling Jasmine Essence Water = "I'm pretty sure that's just a straight-up bottle of perfume with some carbonation."  My dad isn't a very demonstrative person, but I would imagine he was feeling like Buddy the Elf on the inside when he drank this one.

Day 21 proved to be the most complicated one to get open.  It actually required directions.  I mean, like multi-step directions with images to go with them.  Hello Kitty Ramune Strawberry soda.  Somehow or another, there's a marble enclosed in the bottle, acting like a stopper, so you can't just tip it back and drink the whole thing, even once you do figure out how to open it.  My dad found it frustrating and a "pain in the ---" to open.

I was striking out so bad on the series of drinks that I texted my dad half-way through and told him he was going to be cured of ever wanting to drink anything other than water ever again.

By the time we got to Christmas Eve and 24 drinks later, we had only three winners.  Three.  That's a 13% success rate.  The only qualification for being a winner was whether my dad would go out and buy it again.  Bolthouse Farms Peach Parfait Breakfast Smoothie, Bolthouse Farms Tropical Goodness, and Bai Costa Rica Clementine made the cut. So, yeah, maybe three out of 24 doesn't make me quite the all-star gift-giver I thought I'd be this year.

But then today, Day 25 came, Christmas Day.  I knew I had this one in the bag.  It was a can't-lose-option.  I wrapped up the bottle and put a note on the outside of it:  "Day 25.  This is it.  The grand finale.  The defining moment.  The sum of all things.  The apex of glory.  BEHOLD! The nectar of the gods, and most assuredly a WINNER."

I wrapped it in quite a few layers of wrapping paper, just to keep the suspense going.  I didn't want to make it too easy, after all.  He had made it through 25 days, so what was a few more minutes of fighting his way through some excessive amounts of wrapping paper?

Finally, he unveiled Day 25.  The heavens opened up, beams of sunlight poured down, angels sang.  A divine moment, no doubt.

And what should my dad find buried in the many layers?

Nothing less than a humble, pure, time-tested, classic, loved-by-all, bottle -

Of water.

There was no pouring this one down the drain.

Congratulations, Dad, on drinkin' your way through the holidays. 

You're the real winner of 'em all.

Don't Wait to Celebrate

Years ago, I dated this one particular boy. We’ll call him John for the sake of protecting the innocent even though that’s not his real name. John and I met through church, and since I had practically no social media accounts by then, the poor boy had to resort to sending me a message on LinkedIn, the lone account I had left, since there was basically no other means of getting in touch with me. We eventually started dating, and around the 6-month mark, we found ourselves in a fairly deep discussion late one night about the future of our relationship. He already had us on the train to marriage, while I was still trying to decide if I was even at the right depot. I had been pretty deeply marked by a previous relationship from college, one I thought I had gotten over. The realization that I hadn’t came fast and furious when John asked that night, “Are you wishing he was here with you tonight instead of me?”

It was like a bomb exploded in my chest when he uttered that question.

I realized in that moment – while unintentional – I had been holding on to a life I thought I would have, a life with this other boy who had made it clear years ago it wasn’t mean to be. But my heart clearly never got quite that message. So all that time I had been waiting to celebrate, waiting to celebrate this life I thought I would have instead of the life I had been given. It was costing me, and not just with John, but in so many other ways in my life.

Jay and Katherine Wolf know what it looks like to live a life they never thought they’d have. In 2008, Katherine suffered a massive brain stem stroke at twenty-six years old. Jay was in law school, their son was six months old, and Katherine was pursuing a career in modeling. Life forever changed that one day in 2008. She was not expected to live through the stroke, let alone recover. She did both. In 2016, they released their book Hope Heals, which shined a light on all that had happened between Katherine’s stroke and their present life. They shared the struggles and challenges of having to cope with this drastic and dramatic shift in their lives – rehab, surgeries, doctors, hospitals, medications, setbacks, and uncertainties. Who ever plans for such things? The Wolfs sure didn’t.

In the midst of it all, they tied a knot on the end of their rope that led to Jesus and chose to cling to him.  Jay wrote at one point, “Don’t wait to celebrate the life you’ve been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.” Jay and Katherine learned to celebrate the life they’d been given – even one filled with tremendous suffering and pain – despite the fact it looked different from the one they thought they’d have.

We have the same choice standing before us. Even if it’s sheer grit and determination that gets us through, we have to learn to celebrate the life we have right before us.

Maybe your boss drives you crazy, and maybe you got overlooked for that promotion, and maybe you’re sick of the daily grind, and the rat race, and the hour-long commute for a job that is nothing but a dead-end.

Don’t wait to celebrate the job you’ve been given even if looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe your family is dysfunctional and broken, and maybe you aren’t on speaking terms with your siblings or your parents, and maybe they’ve said things that hurt you and you’re not sure you’re ever going to recover from the pain, and maybe your childhood was a complete train wreck.

Don’t wait to celebrate the family you’ve been given even if they look different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe your spouse drives you crazy, and maybe he forgets to do things you’ve asked him to do a million times over, and maybe he doesn’t love you the way you think he should, and maybe he’s let you down more times than you care to count, and maybe you’re not sure how you ever got so far left-of-center from your vows.

Don’t wait to celebrate the spouse you’ve been given even if he looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe you’re single and have been for years or decades, and you’re not sure there’s anyone on the horizon (or ever will be), and maybe you’re tired of Friday nights (and Saturdays, and Sundays, and Mondays, and Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and Thursdays) alone, and maybe you’re worn out from rolling over in bed every day only to realize there’s no one else staring back.

Don’t wait to celebrate the singleness you’ve been given even if it looks different from the marriage you thought you’d have.

Maybe your body is aging and it’s not doing what you want it do, and maybe disease has showed up on your doorstep, and maybe you’re not as fit as you want to be, and maybe the joints creak a little more and the eyesight is failing, and maybe that injury from all those years ago is haunting you on an all-too-regular basis.

Don’t wait to celebrate the body you’ve been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Don’t wait to celebrate the life you have been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have because that’s just it – it’s the life you’ve been given. For whatever reason, God in his sovereignty and wisdom, elected to give you the life you have. It’s the life he entrusted to you.

We’ve got to do the hard work of narrowing the gap between the life we imagined and the life we already have. Because the space in between is where disappointment dwells, and if we willingly let the chasm grow too wide between the two, then we also allow the disappointment to grow and sink roots. And once disappointment sinks roots, it’s tough to rip it out without doing irreparable harm to the soil of hearts and minds.

Paul says in Romans 5:3-5, “We also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."  I can promise you if you are ever disappointed then it was because you were holding on to a misplaced and misguided hope, a hope rooted in something other than Jesus Christ. Misguided and misplaced hope always disappoints. Always, always, always, without fail.   If we are putting our hopes in our jobs, our spouses (or the idea of a someday-one), our families, our bodies, our governments, our culture, our laws, our children – then we are bound to be disappointed eventually. Those things weren’t designed to hold up underneath the weight of our expectations. We’ll crush both them and ourselves in the process if we don’t relieve the pressure of those expectations.

Look, I’m not saying we become eternal pessimists and resign ourselves to becoming the human version of Eeyore, and we wander around wondering where our tails went. And I’m not saying we settle for mediocrity and become apathetic doormats. What I am saying, however, is that we’ve got to hold loosely to these ideas of what we thought our lives would look like. Because if we’re not careful we will reach the end of our lives and realize we failed to celebrate a single thing we had been given because we were too hung up on what we had not been given. That’s a life wasted right there.

Celebrate the life you’ve been given – in all its broken and messy glory. Celebrate the family that just can’t quite figure out how to be normal, whatever normal means anymore. Celebrate the job that feels like a grind. Celebrate the spouse that is still standing next to you even though you want to clock him for leaving his socks on the floor yet again. Celebrate the marriage, the singleness, the children, the house, the apartment, the good, the bad, the hard, the suffering, the sadness.  Find the good in these things. Find the joy in these things. Fight for the joy. (Make no mistake, it is a fight to find joy and celebrate.) Believe the best in the people around you.

But don’t make those people your hope. That’s what Jesus is for.

When you make Jesus your only hope, you can celebrate the life you’ve been given.

Even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

To My Niece

Eighteen years ago next month I was baptized in a tiny country church. The same church where my brothers were baptized. The same church where my parents were baptized. (Well, technically my dad was baptized in a creek by the same name as the church, so close enough.) The walls of that country church have probably borne witness to several generations of my family getting baptized, even beyond my brothers and my parents.

 
And now I’m watching my oldest niece, Grace, make that same decision to get baptized. Different church, different city, same end result: our public declaration of our “yes” to Jesus.

A lot has happened in the 18 years since I took that plunge. I started out those 18 years convinced that following Jesus was going to be nothing but mountaintop experiences. That expectation got me into a lot of trouble and I’ve had to learn some lessons the hard way. Don’t get me wrong – the life spent following Christ is full of mountaintops. But my faith was dependent on those “spiritual highs", which left me disillusioned and angry more often than not.

But I have also encountered a God I am convinced is real. A God who is bigger than I ever dared imagine, a God who is scandalously gracious and long-suffering, especially with this girl who has got a seriously thick head.

So, my dearest Grace, I’m sad I can’t be there to witness your baptism in the next couple of weeks. In lieu of being there physically, can I share with you here what I want for you in your next 18 years (and beyond) based on some of my own lessons learned along the way?

I want you to want Jesus more than you want the approval and love of young men, more than the desire to fit in among your peers, more than the desire to get good grades, more than the desire to somehow measure up to the girls around who you think are more beautiful than you. Because when you want Jesus more than you want any of those things, you’ll soon find that all of those things don’t really matter anyway.

I want you to run as hard and as fast as you can to him, and just when you think you’ve reached him, I want you to run even harder and lean in even closer.

I want you to fall in love with his Word, to need it like you need air. Let the pages of Scriptures be the lifeline you need when you feel like you’re sinking, the balm you need when you feel like your wounds are too deep to ever heal again, the oxygen you need when you feel like your lungs are gasping for air. 

I want you love others lavishly and fully, neither putting them on a pedestal where they don’t belong nor condemning them for their brokenness. I have done both and I have paid a price for both. Don’t be like me and be stingy with your grace and mercy. 

I want you to explore the world around you, to travel at every opportunity that comes your way. (I realize your parents may not appreciate this piece of advice so much, especially if that means you’re frequently on the other side of the world.) Run headlong into the hurts of this world, and allow yourself to ache just a little in light of those hurts. Those hurts will keep you grounded in reality. When you encounter people and cultures and places that are altogether different from you, you will find your heart a bit fuller and your eyes opened a bit wider.

I want you to seek sexual purity and fight for it with everything you’ve got. This world is jacked up, and it has got some views on sexual and emotional purity that just leave me slack-jawed. Don’t buy what the world is selling when it comes to promiscuity. I promise you, I promise you, I promise you – God’s ways are always better than the world’s ways when it comes to dating, relationships and marriage. And if some boy comes along and tries to tell you it’s any different, feel free to leave his sorry rear in the dust and you run for your dear life. You are worth more.

I want you to hold loosely to your perception of who you think God is. Because you’ll find out that he’s nothing like what you think. He said in Isaiah 55, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.” He’s not love like you think of love, and he’s not kind like you think of kind, and he’s not just like you think of just. There will be days when you will want to shake your fist at him, curse him for allowing certain things to occur in your life. He will do things that make absolutely no sense at the time, and you’ll wonder if he’s really still on the throne. But fight so very hard and resist the urge to become bitter and resentful. Let your view of him get bigger with each passing year, not smaller. May your faith be based on who he is, not what he does. Who is he is unchanging, but he may choose in his sovereignty to allow certain things to come about that he may not have allowed in the lives of others. Trust his heart.

But do you know what I want for you more than anything? 

I want you to want Jesus more than anything. 

I want him to be your one magnificent obsession.

It won’t come easy, and it won’t come without pain. Following Jesus is never easy and it’s never convenient. Just because we make a decision to follow him doesn’t mean that life suddenly becomes full of sunshine, rainbows and unicorns. I have found that following Jesus is less about the mountaintops and a little bit more about the valleys. Because it’s in the valleys you find exactly how much grit and determination you have, and just how far you really are willing to follow him. If I could grant you a spiritual inheritance, I would want to hand you a very large helping of tenacity, because it will be tenacity that keeps you holding on to him, even in the moments when you’re convinced you want to let go.

I’ll leave you with this, a quote I have taped to my kitchen cabinet, a daily reminder that Jesus is all I’ll ever need. And he’s all you’ll ever need. Love you and so proud of you.

“You were created in the image of the Almighty God and you have a very brief window of time on Planet Earth, a very short opportunity, and in that window you have a chance to use your life to bring glory to God and to fall in love with Jesus. And here’s the deal: if you get what you want when you want it, most often neither one of those things is going to happen. But in the waiting, that’s where God gets the glory and in the waiting we learn that Jesus is really all we have and all we need.” - Louie Giglio

The Most Awkward and Desperate Folk

"There are pictures of the people in my family where we look like the most awkward and desperate folk you ever saw, poster children for the human condition. But I like that, when who we are shows. Everything is usually so masked or perfumed or disguised in the world, and it's so touching when you get to see something real and human. I think that's why most of us stay close to our families, no matter how neurotic the members, how deeply annoying or dull - because when people have seen you at your worst, you don't have to put on the mask as much." - Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

I dearly love Anne Lamott's book Traveling Mercies. Full of such richness and completely irreverent hilarity. I laughed out loud on more than one occasion. But I remember when I read the above quote from the book, years ago. There is one particular family photo that immediately popped into my mind. We are all piled on my parents' porch - aunts, uncles, parents, cousins, grandparents, grandbabies - everybody piled up, standing next to one another, hanging over the railing. Kids are screaming. The dog is distracted. Somebody looks less than thrilled to be there. Parents are smiling through gritted teeth. A few bachelor uncles are clearly humoring the rest of the family by engaging in this family photo. The grandparents are sitting perched front and center on a bench, looking serene as can be, as though the world is not unfolding around them.

The most awkward and desperate folk, poster children for the human condition.

And they are mine. It's why I stay close. And maybe they are all a little neurotic, but who isn't? We've seen each other at our worst, though. So, we'll fight through the awkwardness and desperation because what else do we know? And who else is there to be awkward and desperate with but our own families?

I was reminded of Anne's sentiments on family this past weekend at my cousin's wedding. I'm learning that no wedding is complete without a photo booth. I love these things.

Because sometimes we need to laugh and lean in close to the chaos next to us in the form of human flesh.

I present to you my awkward and desperate family in color. And maybe what we find in these photos is actually the truest versions of ourselves, the versions that don't care. The versions that often have our eyes closed. The versions that are often looking the other way. The versions with the quirked eyebrow. The versions that are imperfect and anything but photo-shopped. The best versions.        

My sweet grandmother, front and center, and a few of my cousins plus one uncle.
We told my grandmother we would all have props in this photo.
And then at the last second we hid all of our props, leaving her all alone. 

The same menagerie, minus my grandmother and plus my mother.

My cousin and I

My niece and I

Just the cousins

My mom, my niece and I

Classic Childhood Moments

It had been awhile since I had seen my nieces and nephews.  After being gone in Guatemala and just generally having a goofy schedule, I was finally able to spend some time with them last week.  The photos below capture well the silliness that ensued.  And yes, that is a Hello Kitty tattoo on my niece's neck.  She's three and that's just where she felt like putting her tattoo.  I'm not going to argue with the girl.  

Love his "Chicks Heart Heroes" shirt.

And the winner for best moment of the night...

Classic.

Here I Raise My Ebenezer

"Then Samuel took a stone...he named it Ebenezer, saying, 'Thus far has the LORD helped us.'"  1 Samuel 7:12

Thus far has the Lord helped me.  

This coming Friday, I will raise my own Ebenezer and say, "Thus far the Lord has helped me."  Friday marks 15 years of choosing to follow Christ, of choosing to believe he is worthy of my devotion.  

I remember the moment as if it just happened.  I was standing in the pavilion at Camp Kirkwood in southwestern Ohio.  I had a red track shirt on that I had from running track in middle school.  I had a black pair of soccer shorts on and a really crappy pair of black and red Nike shoes which my family had been begging me to get rid of.  The night's presenters were teaching about the importance of running the race of faith, basing it on 1 Corinthians 9:24-27.  They had several volunteers, myself included, come up and represent the different types of people who run the race.    There are the runners that are standing at the starting line - the race has started but they are just kind of wandering aimlessly.  There are the ones who have also entered the race, but they have so much baggage and so many chains wrapped around themselves they can't even begin to run.  There are those that are just flat out running in the complete opposite direction, far, far away from the finish line.  And then there are the ones who are running the race wholeheartedly, with their eyes fixed on the finish line, fixed on Jesus.

I was picked to represent that last person.

And I remember thinking, "I am the last person who should be standing up here to represent that person."  I was doing anything but running the race.  I was so full of hypocrisy and double-mindedness.  And in that moment, this sudden dawning came over my small teenage mind: I can never bridge the gap.  I can never get from here to God apart from Christ.  I am nothing without Him.  All of my vain attempts, all of my striving, so desperately trying to get my act together in my own strength - it's all futile.  And in that moment, I bowed low and said, "I am yours."

Grace waving farewell.

And while I celebrate the sovereignty and grace of God over these last 15 years, these reflections were made even sweeter when this past Sunday I dropped my own niece, Grace, off to the very same camp, nearly 15 years to the day.  It's her first time to go to Kirkwood, to be away from her family for an entire week, to be on her own.  As my brother Jeremy, Grace and I all drove down to Kirkwood, Jeremy and I swapped stories and rehashed memories, giving Grace tips - things like keep your elbows off the table or they'll make you sing.  Or stay away from the boys' camp.  Or just stay away from boys all together.  Or don't take food into the cabins unless you want critters sleeping with you.  See, Jeremy was there as well the night I accepted Christ, serving as a counselor.  I remember being a sobbing mess in the moment and when I finally bothered to look up and make my way out of the building, I was desperate to find him, to give him a hug.  All the more sweeter then, to come full circle, to set foot on this cherished ground over a decade later, to have my brother back in that same place with me again but then to send my niece off, his daughter, the next generation.  I want her to encounter the same Jesus I met at Kirkwood all those years ago.  He is still alive.  He still sits on his throne.  He still welcomes sinners.

And I still raise my Ebenezer to Him.  Thus far the Lord has helped me.

In No Mood for Words

Oddly enough, I have not been in much of a mood to write as of late.  This is a strange occurrence that happens every so often when I am just fresh out of quasi-witty, quasi-profound thoughts or stories to tell.  It can be a bit distressing at times.  I guess you could call it writer's block.  I could probably just call it laziness some days.  I do, however, have pictures and those often more than make up for lack of words.  So, in lieu of words this week, I give you my life recently in photos:

One of the groomsmen in Jeremy and Emily's wedding recommended
I read The Silmarillion by Tolkien.  I'm just wondering how long it will
take me.  The Lord of the Rings trilogy took me about 3-4 months.
Give me about a year and then ask me how far I made it through this book.

Yes, this would be my cousin Christian with Bob Goff at the
Love Does Stuff Conference in Tacoma, Washington last week.
I'm not jealous.

And yes, this would be Christian again with Donald Miller at the
Love Does Stuff Conference.  And again, I am not jealous.  

Christian was kind enough to pick up signed copies of Love Does and
A Million Miles in a Thousand Years for me at the conference, two of
my very favorite books.  The jealousy mildly eased. 

I bought a box set of Passion City Church DVDs.
Thank you, Louie Giglio, for ruining my prayer my life.  I now have no idea
how to pray and I ding myself every time I find myself starting to pray
"Lord, bless this...watch over and protect me...be with me..."  But that's how it should, I suppose.
That I would not mindlessly pray to the God of the universe.
  "Boys Meets Girl" is solid wisdom.  "Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness!"
Haven't watched the others yet.  

My niece Sophie and her dad/my brother Jeremy working on the pulling tractor.
Just by the looks of Sophie that day you would have thought she had spent
more time working on the tractor than the boys did. Grease stains on her
hands. Oil stains down her shirt.  Dirt smudges on her cheeks. Happy as can be.  

I was going back through journals last week. I found this on the very
first page of the first journal I have.  I think we got resolutions 2-4 covered, thankfully.
It's the first and the last ones we are still working on.  Sixteen years later. Obviously
I have never been good at resolutions.  That's probably why I don't make them anymore.

My latest commissioned art project per my sister-in-law's request.
I'd say with 4 kids and baby #5 on the way, that's a fair statement to
make in their household.

Prep list for what, you might ask? Guatemala, silly!  My next overseas
adventure will take me to the hotter-than-blue-blazes location of Guatemala.
I'm headed there in August for a week with a trip my church is taking.  It will be strange
going overseas for only a week.  Packing will be a breeze!

That's all I have for now.  When I find some words worth putting down you'll be the first to know.  Thank you to the 12 people who routinely read this blog and sometimes find me funny.  You do wonders for my self-esteem, even on weeks when I have no words.  

FH Awareness Day

It feels a bit odd to be looking out the window and seeing fields of corn instead of acacia trees and sisal plants.   But it feels good to be back on American soil.  Sometimes when I'm gone from home awhile, I often come back and wonder why I ever left it in the first place.  But I suppose that's all part of the process.

Christian's banner hanging at the Genzyme headquarters
in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

It feels a bit odd, too, to not be writing much about Kenya.  I did this last time I got back from Kenya - for months now I've been conveying all of these stories and adventures about life on the other side of the world and now I sit down to a computer and think, "Well, now what am I supposed to write about?"  But there are adventures to be had and stories to be told here just as much as there are adventures to be had and stories to be told half-a-world away.

One of those stories belongs to my cousin, Christian.  (I actually should have written this post yesterday on the official FH Awareness Day, but I'm still operating on the Kenyans' approach to time - I'll get there when I get there.)  Christian has this rare disease that I can't even pronounce half the time (Familial Hypercholestrolemia - we'll just go with its initials FH for my sake), but he basically has insanely high cholestrol levels.  It's made him prone to heart disease and the like since he was a child. He had a scare awhile back when doctors discovered he had several parts of his heart over 70% blocked.  Since then, he's been partnering with the FH Foundation and a company called Genzyme to promote awareness about this crazy rare disease.  He's been traversing the country and the globe it seems, giving talks at places like Harvard, meeting other patients and speaking at conferences in England and cheering on runners in the Boston Marathon who were running in his honor.  He's become quite the little spokesman for this disease - because he's literally 1 in a million. I'm so proud of him and all of the work that he's doing. 

I'll take a break from my storytelling, to let him tell his own...