Why do you do the things you do, and who do you do them for?

            When I was living in Austin, I went to a women’s bible study, and the teacher asked us this question every week.  It stuck.  Almost 20 years later, I am still asking myself these two questions.  Because if I don’t consider why I do what I do, and who I’m doing it all for, my life can easily become all about doing things to make myself look better to others and to feel better about myself.

            Lately it seems that other people are asking me these same questions, especially in regards to my spiritual practices.  Oh, they may be using different words, but they are the same questions.  Why do you go to church?  Why do you believe the way you do?  Why do you read the bible?  Why do you speak to groups of young moms?  Why are you in a small group?

            When I think about the things I do, the things I commit myself to, the groups I am a part of, and the work I strive to excel at, I have to ask myself why?  In all of my daily living, who am I living for?

            1 Peter 3:15 says, “But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord.  Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.  But do this with gentleness and respect.”  So, here goes…

           

            Why do I go to church?  Because it centers me and keeps me on track.

            Throughout my week, as I am navigating this journey called life, I can’t control all the twists and turns, ups and downs, treacherous weather, pot holes and cracks in the road.  And this vehicle I’m driving?  Well, it’s not straight from the factory with all the bells and whistles.  It’s been in a few accidents, and it’s in some ways broken – everything doesn’t work exactly as it should.  The alignment is a little off, and I find it consistently hard to not veer off course. 

O to grace how great a debtor

Daily I’m constrained to be!

Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it

Prone to leave the God I love;

Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,

Seal it for thy courts above.

~Robert Robinson

            Going to church each Sunday centers me and keeps me on course.  Worshiping God with other believers reminds me how great God is and how much I need Him.  Hearing truths from the bible, even if they are basic and I've heard them a dozen times before, helps me live my life to honor Christ.

            Why do I believe the way I do?  Because I believe that Christmas, Good Friday, and Easter are more than just holidays.  The historical events we celebrate and remember on these days impact my life every day of the year.  I believe that God came as a baby named Jesus into our world, that He gave His life so I could be forgiven, and He rose from the dead so I can live eternally, even after this life is over.  God’s amazing love and grace deserve my whole-hearted devotion.

           

            Why am I in groups?  Because I grow in groups, both in my relationships with others and in my relationship with God.  Whether it’s a small group, a bible study, a marriage workshop, or a grief support group, I have found that the right kinds of groups with the right kind of people shape me, support me, bring healing, and help me grow.   

           

            Why do I read the Bible?  It teaches me who God is and how I should live. 

            I opened Ephesians the other day and started reading chapter 4, and I didn’t make it past verse 2.  Always be humble and gentle.  Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love.

            I stopped right there and read it again, then again.  Like a light, illuminating my path, I became aware that in my home, in the relationships that matter most to me, I was not being humble and gentle, making allowance for other’s faults because of my love.  I've heard these words before, but I needed to be reminded.  I needed to recalibrate.

            Psalm 119:105 - Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.

            Why do I write and speak to groups of women?  I love to encourage other women in their faith, friendships, marriage and parenting.  And I love to do it through writing and speaking.  God has wired each of us with unique personalities, temperaments and gifts, and when we find the courage to cultivate them and use them to bless others and honor him, we find our “sweet spot” – a place where we feel alive and fulfilled.

            Galatians 6:4 - Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that.  Don’t be impressed with yourself.  Don’t compare yourself with others.  Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life.  (Message)

            How about you? Why do you do the things you do, and who do you do them for?

           

            Two little questions worth answering.

            

Reflections on Love After Love, by Derek Walcott

One Friday night, not long ago, I did something I have never done before.  After enjoying a delicious dinner with a group of wise women friends, our host moved us to comfy couches and chairs in the living room; one of the women passed out copies of a poem, and another read it out loud.  Then we shared our ideas, our thoughts, how the poem spoke to us. 

The thing is, I have never been much into poetry.  Except for Shel Silverstein, and maybe Dr. Seuss, I have not often been moved by it.  So at first I just listened.  I listened to my friends as they shared which words and lines spoke to them.  Some of them asked questions, and others answered – from their story, their perspective.  I read and reread the lines.  I reflected.  And then, like a probe reaching deep into my heart - examining, inquiring, exploring, I was stirred up and moved.  By poetry, of all things.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

~Derek Walcott

Our discussion led us to our younger selves, to the time in our lives when we felt the most free to be ourselves.  For me, this was around first and second grade.  I remember feeling carefree, thinking myself smart and funny, and never doubting whether I was enough.  Good enough.  Lovable enough.  Smart enough or pretty enough.

As young girls, my friends were imaginative and silly, cruising their neighborhoods on roller skates, making horses and corrals out of twigs, and producing musicals for their parents.  We were artists, teachers, leaders, nurses, communicators, and business women in the making.

Then come the fears that bind us, the shame that makes us hide, and the insecurities that make us feel less than.  A couple of women in the group shared how they see traces of themselves in their daughters, and while they love these streaks in their daughters, they no longer love themselves.  Somewhere along life’s journey, many of us stopped believing the truth about ourselves – that we are loved, accepted, and cherished.  We are made in the image of the God who created us, and are of immeasurable worth to Him.

 But our journey is not yet over, and for me, this poem is about the journey home.  Home to where I am loved and I belong.  Grief is mingled in with my interpretation, because in some ways it is hard to see myself since I no longer have my mom as a mirror.  Her love and encouragement always was abounding in my life, and if I ever doubted my value or whether or not I was loved, all I had to do was look into her eyes.  Listen to the way she said my name.  Her love is still in my heart, but perhaps part of letting go is learning to see my true self in God’s eyes, in His words.  Listening to the tender way He speaks my name.

                 I've taken down the photographs, the love letters from the shelf.  Polaroids of my mom cradling me in her hospital bed on my birth-day, soft sheets and blankets, her blond hair long and thick, like a movie star.  I've looked into the eyes of my four-year-old, six-year-old, ten-year-old self.  Even though my hair is cut like a boy, that’s me.  After all these years, that’s still me.  Love After Love reminds me to be gentle with myself.  To care for my heart, spirit, and body.  To believe the truth, and to come home.

    “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”

Luke 15:20

margie, the dog, and my darkest day

                The phone rang early Friday morning.  It was an hour later in Michigan, and my sister, Deb, sounded frantic.

                “The doctor says Mom’s in bad shape.  Becky, he doesn't think she’s gonna make it.  He said she has four days, maybe a week.”

                I stumbled out of bed and everything seemed to be spinning.  My mom had been fighting cancer for several months, and it had been one thing after another:  an infection, inflammation due to the radiation, a blood clot, unstable blood sugar, unstable blood pressure, another infection…

                Bernie and I began to get things together so we could head over to Michigan.  We told the girls to pack, and he called the woman who normally watches our dog.  She was unavailable.  I began calling the boarders near our home.  We were heading into the weekend before July 4^th, and every dog boarder I called said the same thing.  We’re full.  We’re booked.

                I thought about bringing Lila with us, but I didn't know where we were going to be staying, and I just couldn't stand the thought of adding more stress to the situation.

I didn't want to be at the hospital with my mom, worrying about the dog.  I felt like I was sinking in quick sand.  I was roaming around the house, grabbing things here and there, hardly able to see through my tears.  My mom is going to die. The doctor said this is it.  And I can’t figure out what to do with our stupid dog.

                The phone rang again and I looked at the caller I.D.  It was Margie.  Sometimes when I am having a bad day, when I am in a bad place, I let the phone ring.  I’ll talk to whoever it is after I come down off the ledge.  After I pull myself up out of the pit I’m in and I feel a little better.  But this day, this nightmare of a day, I didn't even think about not picking up.

                Margie and I have been friends for over 15 years.  We became good friends, then best.  We've taken trips together and we've met in the E.R.  We've shared the joy of each child born and the sorrow of each child miscarried.  We've made gingerbread houses with our kids and sang in the choir.  Her family recipe for “nut rolls” has replaced mine, mainly because the dough is made out of vanilla ice cream and butter (see recipe on right).  We've helped each other parent, stay married, and follow Christ.  We've laughed so hard we've cried, and we've cried so hard because sometimes it hurts so much.

 

                I showed up at her house one time at midnight in pajamas and tears.  When my husband and I hit rock bottom in our marriage, and I’m sure some people doubted we’d make it, Margie and her husband sent us flowers.  The card had both our names on it, and it said, simply, “We’re on your side.”

                We both speak Spanish, so we have this private language we can use when we don’t want some of our kids to understand us. (My older girls are becoming more fluent in Spanish, so I don’t have this luxury as much anymore.) Her accent is South American, mine Mexican.  We've baked Christmas cookies, shared holidays, and gone through the tunnel of conflict.  It took us several months one time to come out of that tunnel, but thank God we did.  Because that’s how friendships grow the deepest roots.  

                And because I can’t imagine life without Margie.

                I pick up the phone.  Margie tells me she stopped by work to see if I was there – I was on her heart and mind, and she was checking in.  She can hardly understand me through my sobs, and I tell her all at once that my mom is in the hospital again and they don’t think she’s going to make it and we need to go to Michigan and I can’t find anyone to watch Lila and everyone is complaining because we don’t have anything good in the house for lunch.  She asks if she can bring us Subway sandwiches but I tell her no, that I think they’re all eating cereal.  She wants to know what she can do, and I don’t even know what to tell her.

 

                I’m coming over.

                I still feel like I’m moving through quick sand, unable to pack my suitcase or get organized.  I can’t stop crying and I hear the front door open, then voices.  I come down the stairs and my daughter Katelyn is gathering up the dog’s toys.  “Margie is taking Lila.”

   

                Bernie puts the crate in her van while she comes to me, hugs me, and doesn't let go.  I can’t hear what she is whispering in my ear because we are both crying, and I remember thinking it was almost comical that the dog was going to her house.  For the better part of two years I have complained to Margie about what a pain it is to get a puppy – what a pain it is to have to take care of a dog.  She is reluctant to jump on the puppy wagon, even though the rest of her family thinks they are ready for a dog.  And yet here she is, ready to help.  Willing to do whatever is needed.

                Then she gathers our family in a circle and prays:  for us, for my mom, and for what lies ahead, and then hugs me once more and tells me, “You can do this.”

  

                Over the next several days we sent texts and called and I kept her updated the best I could.  She prayed for specifics, and we saw God answer those prayers.  I knew that taking care of Lila was just one of the ways Margie was showing up – and that she would keep showing up through my grief journey after my mom died.  Her and her husband sent Bernie and me to the Melting Pot for a slow, delicious dinner shortly after the funeral, and sitting across the breakfast table at Egglectic Café, while others may have thought I should be further down the road, she validated my loss and sadness, reminding me, “It’s only been two months, Becky.”

                If we could plan for our darkest days, we would arrange childcare and pet care; we would go to counseling before the crisis strikes and come up with a plan, and we would make sure that we have our laundry done and food in the house for a decent lunch.  But most often our darkest days come when we aren't ready.  When we are busy making other plans: plans that don’t involve sickness and death and loss.

 

                But here’s the thing: Margie showing up in my darkest hour was preceded by years of friendship building.  Dozens of hours at Caribou Coffee and hundreds of hours of phone conversations.  Sticking it out over the long haul and not walking away when things felt uncomfortable or got a little messy.

                 I am more convinced than ever that God’s plan is, and always has been, for us to walk this road together.  To come alongside one another and do His healing work.  Sometimes it’s holding a hand, giving a hug, and offering great words of comfort and truth.  And sometimes His most holy work involves seemingly unholy tasks like dog-sitting or preparing a meal – tangible reminders that we are not alone.  Loving whispers from Emmanuel, God with us.