Little Sprouts and a Passionate Gardener

In Ethiopia, coffee is everywhere. And it's REALLY good. Most people buy green beans and roast them in small batches at home. There's a whole ritual to it. It looks like this.

Like I said, it's REALLY good. When I was in Ethiopia in January, I took a boat to a tiny island on a big lake where a 900-year-old church and monastery where still in use. The clerics showed us around and casually told us about the various centuries-old artifacts (which I probably could have reached out and stuffed in my backpack).

On the way back to the boat, I saw this:

Somebody's personal coffee crop growing in a little garden. Next to the garden, a young girl sat inside a lean-to, roasting those garden-fresh beans over hot coals. We sat down on long benches and for about 10 cents a cup, she served (in little espresso shots) perhaps the best black coffee I'v ever had. 

I wondered how many years those coffee plants had been growing on this ancient, sacred island. My imagination ran.

I begged the girl to sell me some of those beans, but they had just run out. But she plucked 5 little red coffee berries from the bush and gave them to me. 

I brought them home (shhhh....) and put them in some dirt to see if they would grow. Months later, this little guy is the only one to survive. 

It's hard to explain, but I'm emotionally bonded to this little sprout. I love my teeny tiny coffee plant from that ancient Ethiopian monastery. I desperately want it to grow and flourish. I know where it came from. It has a story. I know what it can become.

So much so, that I admit... I actually PRAYED for my little sprout today. I told God I really wanted my sprout to grow up and become the big tasty bush I know it can be. Then I sighed, and opened my bible at random. *Plop* It opened to Isaiah 55. Guess what it said?

"As the rain and the snow

    come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
    without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
    so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
11 so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
    It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
    and achieve the purpose for which I sent it."

Nifty huh? I felt like God smiled at me and said, "I get it. The way you feel about that little sprout, that's how I feel about you. I want you to grow and flourish. I know it's taken you a long time to germinate and sprout. I know you're fighting bugs and an unusual climate. But my words are going to take deep root in you. I know your story, your origins. I'm passionate about growing you into that big fruit-bearing plant I see in you." I like that.

...So here's to little sprouts and their good stories. Here's to the passionate gardener of our souls.

Blessed are the Squeaky Wheels: Lessons from a Midnight Baby Party

Levi was up for four hours in the middle of the night. We snuggled, watched Mission Impossible, and sprinkled the contents of a raisin bran muffin across the living room floor. I absolutely hate waking up with my children in the middle of the night. But once I’m up, I take a deep breath and try to be positive about losing half the night’s sleep.

One bonus of hanging out with kiddos in the wee hours is the bonding that takes place. When I think about my feelings of fondness and connection toward Annabel, I still think about those first gassy, screaming, sleepless weeks… and then 8 hours of hell over the Atlantic when she was 1.

So Levi down around 6AM and by 8AM he was screaming his head off again. I picked him up and took him to the screen porch where he threw a “top 10 tantrum”. He was so distraught that he was gagging between coughs and sobs. I held him gently as he kicked and screamed for 10 minutes and suddenly collapsed on my chest. I held him there for 30 minutes until sobs became sniffles and then the steady breathing of sleep.

Throughout the episode, I marked a quiet internal shift in my relationship toward my son. The intense drive to manage his stress was gone. Instead, I felt compassion and love for my distraught 1-year-old. I was content to wait through the screams, knowing that the snuggles were coming. That mysterious bond had taken place and compassion flooded in, even though I’m physically and mentally depleted from our many hours together.

For me, there’s a parenting application and a spiritual one. The parenting application for me is this: Parenting may never feel like giving resources I actually possess. I may never have the wisdom, resolve, or patience to deal with my children well. I may always feel like money is being demanded from a far-overdrawn account. And that might just be okay. Because in the strange and beautiful mystery of God’s design, I find myself with just enough to give right at the moment it’s required of me. Even when the kids wake up and I shake Debra awake saying, “I can’t! I can’t!”… I know that if I had to, the energy would be there. Like the widow’s oil that refused to run out in the context of hospitality and giving, so I’m finding myself with JUST enough to parent well when I choose to… even if I don’t believe that at 2AM.

The spiritual question I have is about the Father’s relationship toward those in pain. I feels theologically correct to say that God’s heart is immovable and unchanging, equally loving toward all his children. But part of me wonders if God’s fondness doesn’t grow for those who are willing to FEEL and EXPRESS their pain. Or perhaps, it’s just that the manifestation of His great affection is more welcome and evident in our expression of brokenness. As Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted” (Mt 5:4). Or, as we might say, “the squeaky wheel gets the grease!”

We don’t want to be squeaky wheels because we’re afraid we’ll get rejected for expressing pain, and we’re afraid there will no grease for us and our pain will only deepen. I’m beginning to believe (again) that there is true comfort for those who dare to be needy and broken with the Father. I say this as someone who has gotten burned in the past for being vulnerable and needy. I’m also believing there is great reward in being a comforter, a minister of God’s acceptance and presence with messy people, including my family.

True confession: I’m really, really bad with messy people. Ask the people I’ve wounded with my judgey fixy words in the last 10 years. I don’t DO messy. But God loved me enough to put me, a reluctantly messy person, in an openly messy family where the free processing of stress, anger, fear, and pain challenges me on an hourly basis. I take on people’s stress easily so I try really hard to manage and minimize peoples’ emotions. But as my wife and daughter and son communicate readily, people don’t like being handled. So when all my good ideas and advice have failed, all I can do is withdraw or accept. And contrary to everything I’ve ever believed, I’m discovering that acceptance is a feasible option and, well… acceptable.

I’m also discovering that needs are acceptable and can be beautiful when honestly expressed. But more on that later… for now, I’m grateful for my family, for my kids even when they freak out, and for all the people in my life who patiently accept me even when I freak out.

My Lot, My Choice

I'm really stoked about this song. I think it has potential. In the mean time, this is the best I could do in my closet... enjoy!!

A little Calviminian ditty for ya! Rife with theological tensions and dialectic antics. Hope ya enjoy!

lyrics

Perhaps the choice is made
And you irresistible
Make all the earth your slave
That every tongue will make known
The greatness of the LORD

Or in your image made
We journey on the find the truth
And find a sacred space
Where everyone is free to choose
Our thoughts and destination

You my lot
You my choice
I’m in love again

Weigh my heart
Steal my voice
Take me in

Signed in blood
Sealed by breath
You are marching in

Freed by flood
Freed by death
You win

White Earth 2013

I have never seen so many bugs in my whole life. Black flies, clouds of mosquitos,  canopies of dead gnats on the picnic tables each morning, and at least ten ticks found somewhere on my body every day. And I was camping. With my daughter.

After our nightly ritual of evicting the ant colony and killing the mosquitos inside our little tent, Annabel and I lay down Wednesday night exhausted, sweat adhering me to my sleeping bag. We were at White Earth Indian Reservation for the week. Our days consisted of singing, playing basketball, making crafts, swimming, and talking about (and showing in hugs, and questions, and rough-housing) the love of Creator God with over 50 Ojibwe kids.
.

These are some of my best friends in the whole wide world. 
It's so fun to work with them every year at White Earth!

Tired and a little stressed, Annabel and I lay in our tent listening to the approaching drum roll of distant thunder. Not long into my sweaty slumber, I woke up to the bright strobe of endless cloud lightning and steady, swelling thunder. My tent offered a flimsy defense against the deluge that followed and soon, water pooled in our tent and dripped down onto our faces from above. I grabbed Annabel’s half-soaked sleeping bag and hauled her up onto the air mattress where we slept fitfully the rest of the night.

One of my hopes for Annabel was for her to build friendships
with people from a different culture. I think we succeeded!

In the morning, a bright sun illuminated our soggy tent village and I stumbled toward the tiny rustic cabin that housed half the team, all our supplies, and most importantly, the coffee. I barely noticed that a giant pine had fallen within 5 feet of the largest tent’s front door. So when I walked in, a teammate glibly remarked, “Good news! You’re alive. Bad news… no power.” Which meant no coffee.

I curled up on a chair with my bible and journal and stared blankly at them for a while. I finally wrote, “I am grumpy,” and set both books aside. I tried to pray through the thick mental cloud without success. My incantations seemed worthless. God, this sucks.

As we were leaving for the rec center in Elbow Lake Village that housed our day camp, the power came on. So 30 minutes later, I was nursing a cup of coffee as our team stood in a circle and prayed for the day. Still sulking, I was silent and motionless.

These are the northern lights we saw on our last night.
Our team was ecstatic!

Then, without warning or invitation a cold shiver moved from the top of my spine to the bottom and my brained snapped into sudden focus. My mind began to work again, my body felt electrified, and I began to think about bigger things than my soggy sleeping bag. I thought about the realities of life on the reservation—abuse, addiction, abandonment. And I thought of the softening work God was doing, his love and attentiveness toward these kids. An image materialized in my mind’s eye: a great eagle (contextually appropriate if you ask me) perched on top of the rec center, its wings outstretched to cover the entire building, it’s black eyes glinting, guarding against anything that would threaten those kids. Throughout the day, I could feel God. But I didn’t do anything to make God come. He was just… there.

"Hip-hip-hippopotamus!" Had fun
leading goofy camp songs all week.

I think that’s the tension of working with the Holy Spirit. There’s nothing I can do to make Him be with me. He will not be conjured like a ghost. He’s his own person. Yet we know he loves to be with people and He takes pleasure in our pursuit of him. It’s a fine line to walk. And the bottom of that fine line is that He gains authority and control while I lose it. When I admit that I can’t force the Holy Spirit to do anything, I feel his pleasure and I see his hand at work more clearly.

Those protecting, nurturing eagle’s wings were evident during the week at Hope Camp. The kids seemed softer and more receptive than in years past. A channel to give and receive loved seemed to open in a new way. Also, we were protected from major injuries, though some of our team had strong forebodings before the week started.

A few of our awesome teenage campers. Love these guys!

My favorite personal story comes from one of my “clan” members. A stocky Ojibwe boy with a single lock of hair running down his back, he was distractible and distant, even obstinate all week. I frequently pulled him out of our little "clan" to give him the individual attention he seemed to need. On Friday, we were eating lunch at the table and he opened up to me. "Ya know, I have 2 grandpas and before I was seven one of them died." He stared at the table, visibly emotional. 

"Wow," I said. "That must still feel really sad when you think about that."

"Yeah, it does."

"Do you think I could pray and ask Jesus to help you when you feel sad?"

After we prayed, he looked up somberly and said, "I already feel a little bit better."

He went on to tell me about his dad who also died from a gunshot wound to the head. We talked for awhile and prayed again. Then he looked at me and said, "ya know, you're my best friend… and I'm really going to miss you all year when you're gone."