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Hitchhikers, the News and Normal

When JJ and I were expecting the last baby, we were to deliver at a hospital downtown Dayton, where JJ had not previously visited. I requested a practice route, in fear I might be a tad busy laboring to give directions when the time came. So we drove to the hospital, up the ramp where I pointed to the parking garage, and back down again, headed to Thai 9. Just a typical date night for pregnant people, yes?

While at the stoplight, a gentlemen knocked on our window and explained he had just been released but no one was available to pick him up from the hospital. He had been treated for internal bleeding and didn’t feel he had the strength to walk the 3 blocks home and asked for a ride.

We, the small town people, did not know what to do. We looked at each other with eyebrows raised and came to a consensus of “Ummm….” Finally, in an effort to ensure safety, JJ asked the guy to show him he had nothing in his pockets and invited him to get in the back seat. JJ pointed out how extremely pregnant I was, and drove him the 3 blocks.

Later, we discussed this course of action. It was my first hitchhiking adventure and JJ’s first, if not ever, than at least with impregnated wife in tow. Did we feel safe? Should we have done it? What could have happened?

I explained that, for the most part, I felt fine with it. First, because we were driving the Pilot, which had withstood a mighty hailstorm, yet wasn’t valuable enough for the insurance company to fix, so we drive it around looking like a golfball. Clearly the dude was not going for a hijacking.

Next, I brought up the fact that the only hitchhiking stories we ever hear about tend to be the ones which go wrong.  Hundreds and thousands of people offer rides to strangers every day and it never makes the nightly news. Why? Because it’s not newsworthy. Nothing happened. Two (or more) people rode in the same car and they happened to not know each other prior to the car ride. How does that change people’s lives? It doesn’t. You can’t put an exclamation point on that story.

Fear grabs hold of us when we believe headlines are the only indication of our reality. The news is not a gauge of our normal lives, it’s a reflection of the abnormal things that happen in a given period of time. News is the exception to the rule. No one wrote a press release when your car started this morning. You didn’t update your status when the shower was warm or that you ate a bowl of your favorite cereal.

There’s a real danger in living by the fear established through a highlight reel – not in the dangers it describes, but in the kind of life it will lead us toward. You become addicted to playing out what could happen, and we live in a world with endless possibilities. That internal game can suffocate you if you’re not careful.

There’s a healthy place for fear, as Inside Out described. But don’t let it drive the bus. Don’t believe it’s the only way to see things. You can exercise common sense without making everyone the enemy.

Called to an Apron

Originally published November, 2013

Last night while JJ was bathing the baby, I recalled one of my favorite memories from serving the church. On the last night of our mission trip to Mexico, one of the adults on the trip washed the feet of his high school aged son. I was supposed to be the leader of the trip, and there I was, hiccuping back my tears. (Let’s be fair: everyone was crying. It was the last night of the trip, we were inspired from the work and teaching, and dead tired. They probably had Michael W. Smith playing in the background.)

Why is it when one washes a 4-month-old, it’s called parenting, but when the feet are 16 years old, it becomes servanthood?

Not to take away from the service of rearing small children – I do this daily, and I liken it to service. But I’ve never cried at bath time – at least, not over the power of the moment of washing my children.

Perhaps service becomes more powerful when we do something for those who could do it for themselves.

“Service”generally gets paired with those who need help – we feed the hungry, educate the poor, provide clothes and medicine for the sick. These are good things and we need to continue to do them – out of respect for humanity, following the example of Jesus, under the command of God to live justly and have mercy.

But I might not categorize these as service. These are alms, caring for those who Jesus holds dear, the least of these.

When Jesus talks about becoming a servant, he’s washing the feet of grown, capable men. And not just men who want the best for him – he’s washing the feet of his betrayer.

In our culture, we value the power of the pulled bootstrap. We want self-sufficiency and productivity. One of my goals as a parent is raise contributing members of society – and these are not bad things. But I’m not sure they were the goal or example of Jesus.

The 5-year-old is now in some sort of laziness stage, asking us to do all kinds of tasks that he has been doing for years – getting a glass of water, retrieving his socks from the drawer, putting away toys. My response sometimes is frustration – do it yourself, child! I wonder, though, if the example set before me in John 13 is put on the apron and serve. To live an example that I will serve those who are capable because I love them.

We worry about this kind of service, probably out of fear that we’re being taken advantage of – a power struggle. I heard a message by Jonathan Martin where he said, “We’re all about being a servant until someone starts treating us like one.” That’s our fear: that people use our service as an excuse to lower our status. Our hard-earned climb.

But the entire story of the upper room began with, “Jesus knew that the Father had put him in complete charge of everything, that he came from God and was on his way back to God. So he got up from the supper table, set aside his robe, and put on an apron.”(John 13:3). It ends with the command, “If you understand what I’m telling you, act like it – and live a blessed life.”

Tell Me About Those Balls (#redcup version)

In honor of RedCupGate 2015, I’ll offer an oldie-but-goodie, (and one of my cousin’s favorite blog titles). Obvi, since the whole #redcup thing revolves around noisy Christians, there could be even more commentary. Like, how first we want businesses to have the right  to refuse to make wedding cakes for people we don’t love because of “values” – yet we want businesses we don’t own to uphold all of our values. (Thanks to my Smart Friend Craig who pointed that one out. He is really smart. And sarcastic. Pretty much my favorite kind of people. Read his brilliant writing about an unrelated topic.)

However, just in case any of my friends have panties all bunched up over this – if you really want someone to know how you feel… stop giving them money. (I, however, will not say no to the PSL. Jesus is in my heart, not on my cup.)


 

(Originally published September, 2011)

It’s quite evident that I love a good boycott. Give me a cause (Walmart… short skirts… chips in the ice cream… Times New Roman…) and a platform and I shall wave my banner high. However, I’d like to give my fellow boycotters a few lessons in Banning Behavior.

Apparently there are close to a million moms (or, at least an organization of them) who dislike Ben & Jerry’s new flavor. That’s fine, I tend to show preference to Chubby Hubby (who can resist pretzels + peanut butter + fudge?! Such salty/sweet goodness). However, a letter-writing campaign has ensued, trying to force the flavor off the market, taking away the right of the consumer to purchase a batch of Schweddy Balls as s/he would like.

So, my Million friends that are Moms, I say: It’s fine to dislike a product. Put your money where your mouth is and DON’T BUY IT. Purchase Breyers. Or Edy’s. Or give Columbus Cincinnati a little love and go for Graeter’s. If you don’t want to explain to little Frank why the balls are Schweddy, then don’t point them out to your kiddos. Surely you’re not narrating the entire aisle of ice creams and frozen food novelties?

And while we’re this close to the topic, a word on marketing to children… because I read again about the perils of McDonalds and cereals and every other red dye #5-filled food on the market and the regulations regarding such propaganda: it wouldn’t work if parents would simply say NO. Again, don’t buy it. If they don’t have profits, they can’t make the expensive flashy commercials that have your kids whining about the unfairness of life, why they’re so deprived and how you’re the worst mother ever.

Folks, sometimes there’s power in the pen, but always there’s power in the pocketbook.

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