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CHICKEN?

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“Are you chicken?” I remember those cutting words from my grade school days. They were always said with a lilt in the voice, a taunting, manipulative question.

There are a lot of things you don’t want to be when you are in 2nd, 3rd, or 4th grade, and chicken is near the top of that list.

Here in Hawaii we have chickens. Lots of chickens. Some are pets and some are used for laying eggs, but most of them just roam the streets. Rag-tag bands of feral chickens can be found in almost every neighborhood.

So the other day, when I came across a chicken and a rooster on my run, I wasn’t shocked. And no, I wasn’t scared either. But, as I got closer, the chicken freaked out. Like royally flipped out. She up and ran.

Now. I’m sorry to say that Ms. Chicken’s timing was terrible. At just that moment, a truck was coming up the street on my right.

I don’t have to tell you the rest. I’ll let you imagine what it sounded like.

Needless to say my entire body flinched and I turned away. But it got me to thinking, in her fear, the chicken went towards something that was more dangerous than what she was afraid of.

I mean, I guess I can be more scary than I realize, but I wasn’t planning to even touch the chicken. I was just going to let her be. Her perception of me was inaccurate, which led to fear, and then unwarranted action that actually caused more harm.

There are things in life we all fear. Cancer. Terrorist attacks. Losing loved ones. And when you are in elementary school the list of things to be afraid of is much longer. It includes monsters, the dark, and your best friend moving away.

But when you dig down deep and look at the roots of your fear—are the things you are afraid of really worth being scared at?

It’s not the fear itself that matters. It’s what you do with it.

Do you get on your knees and cry out to the God of the Universe who is waiting with open arms to listen to every word you say and wipe away every tear you cry?

Or do you pull up your bootstraps, try harder and turn to run from your fear?

When you turn and run, you never know when a truck will come around the corner. But if you take your fears to the One who loves you and created you, you’ll be safe every single time.

So are you chicken? What are you gonna do about it?

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

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Sometimes there are days when all you want to do is get to the end of it. Now, I’m not talking about those ugly, no-good, terrible, very-bad days, but I’m talking about some of those regular, ho-hum days where you just can’t seem to get any traction.

I don’t know about you, but I am not a stranger to those days. They are sometimes frequent and always draining, when no amount of energy can be mustered to pull myself up by my bootstraps and put my nose to the grindstone.

No. Those days are days when, no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I’m confronted with the truth that I am human. I am imperfect and I need Jesus.

Those are the days when I want to crawl in bed and watch Netflix on my phone. That I want to go to bed at noon and try again tomorrow.

But you know what? Even on those days, Jesus loves me. And that’s what I have the hardest time remembering.

I am not what I do.
I am not what I accomplish.
I am not what I look like.
I am not how lazy I feel.
I am not disposable.

No. Even when I am at low points, I am loved.

I am loved because of Him.

He loved me first. Before I ever did anything of note. Before I ever tried to comb my hair or wipe the crumbs from my face.

I am loved because of Him. I needed that reminder today, and I thought you might need it, too. So here it is:

YOU ARE LOVED. Just as you are.

That, my friend, is good news. In fact, it’s such good news it’s hard to wrap your head around, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

You’re loved even if there are piles of dishes in your sink and dirty laundry littering your floor. You are loved if you don’t cross one thing off your to-do list.

You are loved. I forget this often, so I give you permission — actually I beg you — to keep reminding me.

I WAS WRONG

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Our little rascally dog Jude is going to be 13 years old next month. Jude is pretty happy sleeping on the couch for hours on end, but of course, like any other creature, he needs potty breaks.

One day, he and I were checking out a new route in our neighborhood when I heard what I thought was intense moaning. Looking around our tightly packed neighborhood, I noticed an elderly man lying in his carport.

“Oh no!” I thought. “He’s dying, or sick, or injured. What do I do?”

I of course frantically looked around hoping someone else had heard the noise and silently wished that this man hadn’t been left alone. Knowing I couldn’t just leave him there, I took a deep breath and called out to him.

“Hello? Are you ok? Do you need help?”

Instantly, and I mean with the speed of a bullet train, this guy shot up and just stared at me. It was obvious I had startled him and that he didn’t speak English. It was also obvious by the way he jumped up that he was in no way incapacitated.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought to myself, as my face grew warm with embarrassment. “He’s not in pain. He was chanting and meditating.”

Because it was something out of the ordinary for me, I assumed that something was wrong. But in my assumption, I was wrong.

There are people all around us living different lives — especially here in Hawaii, where cultures meld together in a way that you can’t understand unless you’ve lived here — and I think we can probably all learn from each other.

None of is Jesus. None of us sees and knows all. None of us is right all the time.

It’s amazing when you listen to that still, quiet voice of the Spirit how much you can learn about yourself — and how flawed you are.

So I’ve learned a few things from this little encounter:

1. If someone is chanting, it doesn’t mean that they are dying.
2. It’s ok to be different. Maybe, instead of letting our differences push us apart, they could bring us together. Jesus wasn’t a prostitute, but he hung out with them. He wasn’t a sinner, but he talked to people about their sin.
3. I need to do a better job of meeting people where they are at and getting to know them and what they think.
4. Don’t always assume what you think is happening, is in fact happening.

And one parting thought I can’t sign off without sharing:

If someone sounds like they are in trouble, by all means find out if they are. But then, don’t just shyly run away in embarrassment. Start a conversation if you can and see what you can learn.

NAMES & FACES

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I haven’t spent much of my life around people in the military. My dad served during Vietnam and both of my grandfathers served during World War II. But we didn’t talk about it too often. It was in the past. Maybe there were too many searing memories that seemed better left in the dark.

I’ve always respected people in the military, but I’m more of a put your gun down kinda gal in most situations. Then I moved to Oahu.

Here on the island we have bases for all the major branches of the military: Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and Marines.

The military is now in my backyard.

I know people who serve. I’ve high-fived their kids. I have shared meals with them, prayed with them, sang worship songs with them, laughed with them and lived life with them. I’ve heard the pain in their wives’ voices as their husbands leave for overseas.

So this morning, when I saw a news story about two Marine helicopters colliding on the North Shore, my heart sank. I know a helicopter pilot and his face immediately came to mind. He’s safe, but there are still 12 people missing.

Twelve people. Twelve people with families and friends.

Winter waves of 30 and 40 feet are making the search as hard as it could be. And so, even though I don’t know the people who are being tossed in that ocean right now, I feel for them in a new way.

I’ve seen the oil still bubbling up from the U.S.S. Arizona with my own eyes and tried to imagine what it felt like to have bombs rain down on December 11, 1941 as Pearl Harbor was attacked.

In all of it, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for their service, but more than that, I’m thankful for the people they are. I’m thankful I have the opportunity to know them, because now, the military isn’t just an idea to me. It’s real. The people fighting for our freedom are real. I know some of their names. I can picture their faces.

It has helped me understand in a fresh way why it’s so important to know people’s stories. What if instead of keeping the people we don’t understand at a distance we got to know them?

What if we heard laughed at their jokes, shared their grief and dared to love them for who they are, for who God created them to be?

Here’s where I’m making a jump. It’s a rather big one so stick with me.

What if, instead of crossing the street to avoid that homeless man, we smiled at him and shook his hand? What if we took the time to look in his eyes and hear his story? Wouldn’t that make our world a better place? Isn’t that what Jesus would want us to do?

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to compare military personnel directly to people who have been pushed to the margins (although there are far too many veterans who end up homeless). What I am saying is that names, faces and stories matter. They help us not only understand the world around us, but ourselves better.

Names and faces give us compassion, something our world is in desperate need of.

 

HOME WRECKER

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I am a home wrecker. It’s true. But before you get all upset and vow to never read another word I write, let me explain.

We recently moved into an older rental home in an older neighborhood in Honolulu. Friends and family (and anyone who has asked…and some who haven’t) know that I’m not the biggest fan of this place. I could tell you why, but it really doesn’t matter. It’s just where I am right now. I think God is working on me, but it’s been a rough few months.

When we first looked at the house, I noticed a bird’s nest above one of the windows. The single-wall construction of this home means that every window and door has a sill above it, making a nice ledge for creatures like birds—and geckos—to settle.

I thought the nest was cute. Dare I say, sweet. Always an animal lover, who once tried to nurse a bird back from the edge of death with fresh worms and grass clippings after it flew into an enormous glass window, you could say I’m pro-bird.

I admire nests when they are high in trees, and I sigh sadly when I see them crushed on the ground.

Or I used to.

Then a bird decided it was going to make a nest on one of those nice ledges I mentioned. Problem is, this ledge is directly above my front door. Yep. The only way in and out of my house.

At first, I just swept down the start of the nest thinking that would be that. But let me tell you, this lady is one tough bird. For at least a week, multiple times a day, I swept twigs, straw and leaves off the ledge and off of my porch. Sorry friend. Even when you stare me down from your perch as I lug in bags of groceries, I can tell you, you aren’t winning this battle. There are plenty of other places you can build your home. This one, for the time being, is mine.

So I spent days knocking down half-built nests, wrecking the bird’s home, and even sprayed Febreze up there hoping the weird smell would keep her away. It didn’t.

Now the weird thing is, we were just gone for about a week and a half. We came back and there was of sign up said bird. Not one stick on the steps, not a feather dropped. The Christmas with family had almost erased the home wrecking battle from my mind. Until two days ago.

The bird is back, friends. Yes, it’s cute. Yes, it has a nice song. But really, my front door?

So in the last two or three days I have knocked down that nest at least eight times. Erik even hammered in some nails last night on the side of the house to try to make the ledge less hospitable.

This morning? The bird is back. She just sits there as I take my dog out to pee, unmoving.

Man, this bird is persistent. So I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. As I said, I love animals and birds are great, but I’m not thrilled about the possibility of getting pooped on every time I enter or exit my house.

But nuisances aside, this silly bird—this silly fight—got me thinking. Are there other ways that I am a home wrecker? Something I never thought I would be? Is my complaining and bad attitude wrecking the time we have in this house I’m not crazy about? Am I missing the bigger picture because I’m so focused on what I don’t like?

Do the things I say, think and do wreck what could be a more pleasant growing experience?

I’m pretty sure we all know the answer to that one. And I’m working on it. I really am. Thankfully God is patient and so is Erik. I don’t want to waste this season, so maybe I have to take a cue from this darned bird and be more persistent about making my home here. Maybe I have to fight for it. Maybe I have to repent of the ways I have wrecked it and walk forward asking God to help me be more positive.

Maybe I can learn a lot from this little bird. Maybe you can, too. Maybe you’re a home wrecker and you hadn’t even realized it. Until now.

The good news is, we don’t have to stay there. Hope. Grace. Jesus. That’s what I want to cling to today.

TAKE DOWN YOUR MIRRORS

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We recently moved. It has been rough. We loved the place we were in before and are less than enamored with our current residence. But in the midst of feeling uncomfortable, unsettled and uncertain, I am trying to be open to what God can teach me. I have a feeling there’s a lot to learn in this season. One of the things that I’ve already noticed is how not having many mirrors has affected me.

Our old place—the one we loved—was built in the 80s with mirrors everywhere. Some of them were brilliantly placed. There were full walls of mirrors in the living room and bedroom to amplify the ocean and mountain views. Both bathrooms had a full wall of mirrors above the counters—no dainty mirrors there—and of course, the closet in the bedroom had, you guessed it, mirrored doors. Even on the elevator ride to our seventh floor unit we were surrounded by mirrors.

As someone who has spent far too much time analyzing my body, and face, and hair, and clothes, I didn’t realize how living surrounded by mirrors in some ways magnified my insecurities. If my stomach was sticking out a bit more than I would like on any given day—or all of them—there was no hiding. I saw it everywhere. Even after throwing on a t-shirt and a hat to take the dog for a walk, I’d scrutinize my appearance for seven floors, wondering what people would think—what they would see—when they looked at me. It was second nature. It always has been. I guess that’s one of the lingering symptoms of years battling an eating disorder.

Yet…and yes, there is a blessed yet, I don’t do that here. Here in this place that doesn’t feel like home. This place where we are grateful we have a six-month lease, instead of a full year. Here I don’t look at myself nearly as often. The best part is not that I don’t miss it, but that I feel better not staring at my humanity hundreds of times a day.

This new place has exactly two mirrors. One in the tiny bathroom above the sink. It’s small, only enough for one person to use at once. The second one is also small. We put that one up so that when Erik and I are both getting ready at the same tine I have somewhere to do my hair and makeup.

There are no full-length mirrors, no haunting reflections. There’s no place for me to look at my entire outfit and frown when I don’t like what I see. And there’s been freedom in it. Freedom in the lack of mirrors. Freedom in glancing at what I look like once and then forgetting about it as I go about my day.

I’ve realized, in a culture so obsessed with appearance, mirrors allow us to keep obsessing. It may not kill us, like it did Narcissus, but then again, it might already be eating away at us in ways we hadn’t realized.

What about you? How many mirrors do you have in your home? Do they help you or hinder you? I’m finding a silver lining in not being surrounded by my reflection. In fact, when we move again, I’ll keep that in mind. But man, do I miss the air conditioning, ocean view and swimming pool.

TANGLED

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There he was. Or maybe he was a she. Either way, I saw the grey little dove standing on the sidewalk as I walked to my car. He was a little rumpled. His feathers weren’t lying flat, but that’s not what caught my eye. What I noticed was a thin, translucent piece of fishing line.

It moved every time the bird did.

I stopped. I looked again. His leg was tangled in fishing line. I slowly tried to move towards him but with every inch I moved, he moved away.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I said quietly. “I want to help.”

Apparently I don’t speak bird because he continued to waddle quickly away. I sighed and turned to open the car door and climb in. But as I did, I couldn’t help but think: How often do I do that? How often do you? How often do we run away when someone wants to help untangle us from the mess we’re in?

There’s no shortage of fishing line in our lives. Heartbreak. Sin. Selfishness. Betrayal. Pride. Addiction. It can be so easy to get tangled that often we don’t even realize we are. We drag around extra weight, letting it impact our lives and keep us from fully living.

Why? Because we’re afraid.

We’re afraid that getting free will hurt more than being tangled.

We’re afraid that if people get close enough to see what’s weighing us down, they’ll see our flaws. They’ll see all of us. How many of us stay tangled by fear?

How many times have you run from someone who was trying to help? How many times have you turned away from God because you thought if you kept a big enough distance he couldn’t really see you?

How often have I?

What have we lost in the process? What has our running cost us?

The dove was created to fly, but with fishing line tangled around his leg, he could no longer do what he was created to do. Have you been running? Have you been drinking wine every night just to numb the pain? Have you been pushing away people who want to go deeper because you’re afraid of what they’ll discover? Or have you been putting on a slick coat of lipstick and a smile, trying to look like everything is ok when deep down your heart is broken?

What would happen if you took a risk? What if you stopped running and let someone help you get untangled?

YOU’VE BEEN LIED TO

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I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been lied to. By people you love and by people who love you. By society. In ways you’d never expect.

Now I could go all deep and meaningful on you here, which maybe what you’re expecting because I usually do, but today, just for now, let’s keep it light, shall we?

My case in point about being lied to: Cats in trees.

Pretty much my whole life, I’ve heard that cats get stuck in trees. As far as I can tell, it’s common knowledge. As a child, I actually believed that part of a fireman’s job was to rescue pet cats who accidentally wandered high up into maple trees.

But recently, I’ve realized that’s just not true. Not only do firemen have much more pressing crises to take care of, cats actually like to climb trees.

I’m not sure what took me so long to get to this realization. I mean, the clues are all around. People buy cat trees for their houses, for goodness’ sake. That in and of itself shows that cats like to climb.

Lately I’ve been observing the colony of feral cats that live in the hills behind my condo. One of their favorite things to do is climb trees. They don’t just climb them and then freak out with loud meowing, desperate for rescue. Nope. They hang out there. Literally.

Usually, up on the hill there are several cats in trees, their bodies draped over limbs, their paws and tails hanging limply. They aren’t in distress. They’re relaxed. They’re content. They want to be there.

And you know what? Never have I noticed a cat up a tree, and seen it there days later. This shows me that they can, in fact, get down all on their own. What I think is more likely then them getting stuck is that they just don’t want to come down. I mean, have you ever met a cat? They’re not pushovers. They do their own thing, and no matter how hard you try, you’re not likely gonna get a cat to do anything they don’t want to do.

So there you have it. My very scientific research proves you’ve been lied to.

In all seriousness, though, as I’ve thought about those cats, and my accepted beliefs about them, it’s made me wonder: how many other things have I just accepted? I’m trusting enough to hope that there’s not too many things I’ve wrongly believed, but I’m realistic enough to know that no one is always right.

It’s got me thinking. Are we afraid to ask questions and seek the truth? Are we afraid to push back a little bit to see what’s behind the curtain? Why? What would happen if we did?

DO SOMETHING

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I know you’ve done it. I have, too. In fact, I’ve done it more than I can count. I always thought it was a good thing. That is, until I realized it could be better.

Phrases like, “Let me know if you need something.” And, “Is there anything I can do to help?” roll out of our mouths when friends, loved ones and church family are hurting.

It’s a way we show compassion.

I think most of the time when we say it, we mean it. Truly and deeply. We want to help, but we don’t know what to do. That’s where I’ve often landed in those situations. But now, having been through enough difficult times in my own life, I realize that saying something is a great start — and if that’s all you can do, that’s ok. Do that.

But if you really mean it, if you really want to make a difference and show someone they aren’t alone. Don’t just say you’re willing, actually do something. (Check out James 2:15-16.)

If you’ve ever lost a loved one, a job, a home, or a relationship, you know that grieving is complex. It hits you when you least except it and stays with you like the damp air of Seattle winter rain.

It also paralyzes you. Even if you’ve had 11 friends say, “Call me if you need anything,” you feel abandoned. Picking up the phone to ask for help seems impossible. You just can’t do it. Or maybe you won’t. When you’re hurting, when you’re really in the thick of it, asking for help feels like a step too far.

So I have an idea: Do something. Ok, so that idea isn’t really mine. But it’s something I believe we can all work at.

If you hear of a friend in crisis, show up. It’s that simple.

Don’t just say you are there for them, be there for them.

Stop by Starbucks, order a drink you know they’ll like and take it to them. Bring them flowers and stay to talk for half an hour. Better yet, bring a meal – enough for their family and yours.

Separated by the span of an ocean or mountains or miles of freeway? Don’t let that stop you. Call them. Don’t text, call. Set up a Skype date. Write them a letter. Be with them. Grieve with them. Show up for them. Don’t just say something, do something.

Actions really do speak louder than words.

Oh, and one other thing. Don’t put if off. Grief and pain don’t expire, but are most raw at the beginning. Don’t tell yourself you’ll call later and drop a meal off. Make a plan and then do it. Everyone is busy. Everyone has other things to do. But if we’re too busy to love each other in the most practical ways, where does that leave us?

I’m going to work on being better at doing something. I hope you’ll join me. Imagine how different our lives and world could be.

I’ve been seeing it in action at our new church and it’s amazing.

JUST DUCKY

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While walking my dog Jude the other day, I saw a duck. Just one.

That might not sound unusual, and to see a duck usually isn’t. But this one was different. This was a baby.

I’ve seen plenty of baby ducks. They nest near the drainage canal across the street from our condo. The canal smells when the tide is out, a little like garbage that’s baked in the sun followed by a whiff of sewage.

Why the ducks have chosen to make this their home I don’t know. Maybe they can’t smell, but whatever the reason, we have lots and lots of ducks around. Which means we often have lots of fuzzy yellow and brown baby ducklings. They are adorable. The kind of adorable that you just can’t argue with. I don’t know anyone who could look at them waddling on their too-big black feet and not smile.

When I’ve seen these babies before, they’ve been in a group. A sort of safety-in-numbers type thing. The brown and white mother is usually hovering near by, ready to squawk if you get too close.

I’ve seen gaggles of five, seven, even nine. And that’s the thing. When they are little, they are always together.

This one was alone.

All alone.

He was on the other side of the street, a far waddle from the safety of the canal. He looked lost and confused, standing on spikes of grass with a drooping banana leaf over his head. I wanted to help him. I wanted to scoop him up and take him home, but I didn’t. I knew he must be there for a reason. Or maybe I hoped he was. That his aloneness had a purpose. That it was part of some greater plan.

Because you see, I often feel like that baby duck: Lost.

And when I’m lost, I want there to be purpose.

I want it to be for something better — something that I can’t see yet because I’m staring at the thick blades of Bermuda grass instead of up in at the huge sky above me.