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Pardon the blogging delay people.

I've been working hard to get a new website and book project released to you by February 13th.  Yes, the day before February 14th.  Yes, the day before the day better (or worse) known as Valentine's Day.

The book is about many things, some of which include sexuality, beauty, loneliness, hope, singleness, lust and Love.

Keep your eye-out - we're close!

He slipped his way into my morning coffee, and accidentally, he said, proceeded to spill onto pages of my morning reading.  Walk.  And now work.

The non-mom-voice keeps taunting me.  He did this when I was single, too.  Idiot.

Why don't you have babies yet? You've been married over a year.
Your clock is ticking. Your womb is wasting away.

At first I tried to ignore it, but somehow that only created deeper and more persistent taunts.

What's wrong with you?  What's wrong with your body?
Everyone else is.  And is wondering why you're not.

Feeling David-sized in my voice, up against a Goliath-sized pack of lies, I decided to attempt a response. 

You are wrong.  Your taunts and arguments are wrong. You clearly do not know my God.

Teary and uncomposed, I continued.

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Why did the last ornament cause that? Why did fitting a final shape into the box labeled "xmas decos" cause such upheaval? Typically such precision stimulates my pride and sense of control and accomplishment. 

This time it didn't. This time the perfectly organized and ready for the attic box elicited fear and emptiness.

Christmas is done. She had the baby. Now what?

The pregnancy of advent gave me a reason to wait. A tangible conclusion for which I was waiting. The story of Christmas lent reason to decorate and prepare and feast.

And then it happened. And then he was born; Immanuel, God with us.

We feasted more, savoring the gift. Presents and presence, nestled in knowing.

But then the time came. To leave the manger. To sweep-up remaining evergreen aromas. To box-up decorations of the Story.

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Stenches of weed and cigarettes opened the door for us. As did carols of margaritas crowded with tequila.

Neighbors invited us for Christmas this year. An honor in theory, and unarguable answer to prayer. Uncomfortable in reality, posing a wider scope of prayers. 

Interactions knew we were the minority. Chances for light shone pitch black. Hope felt vacant.

 

This culture is too far gone.

Love too far forsaken.

Let’s leave and go home.

Let’s let them come to us,

On our terms and with our ways.

Each year seems to strike me with different absurdities wrapped-up in the Christmas story.

Some years it was the fat man with the beard and red suit.  Others maybe the anticipation on Christmas Eve, as my sister and I waited pregnant with hope at our doorways, searching for the crack of dawn. 

About a decade ago, I started believing the Jesus part of the absurdities wrapped-up in the Christmas story.  As true.  And the absurdities took a different shape.

Some years it’s been a confusion with consumerism and why we exchange gifts when it’s someone else’s birthday?  Other years a fascination with salvation and the lengths of its Story.  This year it’s the bit about humanity.  Of the deity. 

The teenage virgin being told she’s pregnant.  With God.

The king being intentionally born into poverty.  As God.

The savior learning to walk and talk.  To read and tell the truth.

The prince of peace as a teenager, tempted socially and sexually and morally.

The high priest in his twenties, wrestling with doubt and desire, theology and identity. 

Or late twenties, fighting vocation and singleness and feeling alone.

Or early thirties, living-out community and solitude, grace and truth.

Below is a message I shared at a women's Christmas gathering this morning.

When’s the last time you compared yourself to someone? What aspect of them were you desiring, or disliking about yourself? 

Whether it’s someone’s jeans, thighs, job, boyfriend, grades, gifts, hair, family, facebook profile, height, voice, kids, car, boobs, butt, nail-color, vacation, pregnancy, wedding, house, friends, style, nose, shoes, smile, husband, story, knowledge, wardrobe, or weight…we’re all prone to envy.  We all struggle with desiring beyond what we’ve been given. And wanting to become like someone, or wanting what someone has, isn’t a sin, but when desire bleeds into resentment, it becomes envy.  And envy can literally strangle the life out of us.

We envy because we’re discontent with who we are, and therefore, see it in another and can’t help but resent them. We envy because we forget who God is (as ultimate author and unwaveringly good) and we forget who we are (as His craftsmanship). The odd thing though, given that envy is all around us, is that we rarely talk about it—maybe especially in the Church. Jesus’ brother said, “where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice” (James 3:16).  So clearly envy threatens our joy and care for other people. And it threatens our enjoyment of God’s creative design over our specific situation. Envy leads us to resent what others have, which can’t help but emphasize what we don’t. St. Augustine calls envy, “dissatisfaction with our place in God’s order of creation, manifested in begrudging his gifts and vocations to others.”

But Jesus saved us from such a shallow way of criticizing and/or securing ourselves, right?  Well, yeah, in Truth, but the anti-trinity (the world, the devil and our flesh) still pursue our identity and security on a daily basis. So what’s the cure, then? 

An often overlooked character in Jesus’ narrative story, who shines some light here, is Elizabeth. In Luke 1, we find Mary, a virgin who’s just been told she’s pregnant with the Son of God, traveling about seventy miles from Nazareth to visit Elizabeth, a elderly relative who’s six months pregnant with who we now know as “John the Baptist.” It was likely refreshing for Mary to hang-out with someone older and more experienced than her teenage wisdom, and Elizabeth had had quite a miraculous conception, as well, and must’ve been an encouragement in believing Mary’s unbelievable account.

But put yourself in Elizabeth’s shoes for a second. Might you have felt a twinge of envy? I mean, why did Mary get to be pregnant right after puberty (instead of menopause), while Elizabeth had been so prayerful and obedient, and barren, for decade after decade after decade? Why does Mary get to look all young and cute and vibrant, while Elizabeth withers away in fat and wrinkles and a husband who can’t even talk anymore? Surely Elizabeth was grateful for the son God had given her, but wouldn’t it make sense for her to wonder why God didn’t give her, versus a teenager, the really special one? Hadn’t He heard this faithful Jewish woman’s desires to be the Messiah’s mother?  Apart from the grace of the Holy Spirit, yes, these thoughts probably would’ve been Elizabeth’s. But look instead at how she responds: 

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(Due to thoughtful and lengthy responses, this facebook post seemed worthy to move into a blog conversation).

"Returning from a book group of girls ranging from their 20's to 80's.  Today's topic began with fasting and moved into food, body-image, eating disorders, the birth of television and internet. .. Absolutely fascinating, and complex, to piece together change in the past decades.  And to consider restoration in the decades to come! Out of curiousity, if you could say one thing about food or body to the generation below you, what would it be?"

We've had guests in town the last few weeks.  Some for an evening, some for a week and one for two and a half weeks.

I've loved it.  And I've cursed it.

Guests bring an extra energy to the home - an extra voice to the conversation and tone to the laughter.  They bring different perspectives on how to chop an onion, or choose a paint color.

But they can also bring exhaustion - adding tiresome energy and perspectives you could've done just fine without.  They can bring more work, at times, and for me, at least more temptation to "entertain." 

en-ter-tain - [en-ter-teyn] - verb 1. to hold the attention of pleasantly or agreeably; divert; amuse.

The mere thought of guests awakens my drive to entertain.  And in our fast-paced, high volume, highly visual culture, that's hard work.  Holding people's attention, or dutifully assuring their amused well-being is an impossible feat, and yet we (women, especially) still shoot for it.  We try to go faster, produce more and create better.  And in doing so, run ourselves into the ground, and run highly antithetical to mankind's make-up.  We aim to perfect our entertaining, at the cost of being with and participating in the lives our guests. 

The thing is, entertaining isn't all bad, I'm learning, but it's also a fragile good.  The mere word has morphed a good bit in this century.  Introductions of television and Internet lent the likes of Carol Brady and Real Simple to set standards for how a house should be decorated, or what one must do to host acceptably.

Generally speaking, guests are a gift to be hosted, not a short-lived presence to be entertained.  That said, I think there are times for entertaining.  There are times for spoiling guests with pleasure and diversion from their day-to-day lives.  We host a weekly meal and Bible Study in our neighborhood and I love offering a clean home, unique centerpiece and tasty food.  But too often, for me at least, these noticeable diversions from most folks' busy lives, can bleed into an expectation for myself, or whomever enters my space.  Too often my idea(l)s of entertaining coerce me toward flashy amusements, drawing attention away from the relational and toward the external.  Too often I find myself stuck aiming for an immaculate facade of a perfect home and permanent smile. 

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Sometimes I wonder why we live in our neighborhood. 

Like when a drunk neighbor showed-up on our doorstep last night, belligerent for money.  Shouldn’t we protect ourselves from such instability? 

Or observing a prostitute walk into another neighbor’s house across the street.  Shouldn’t I guard my eyes from such injustice?

Or watching neighbors abuse the welfare system, let alone their own children.  Shouldn’t we avoid this—putting our young marriage in a safe, happy setting, surrounded by a white picket fence, with 2.5 safe, happy children and a golden retriever? 

Or when I’m tutoring kids who are twelve and can’t read, or sixteen and pregnant.