when it's time to give up your dreams

                           I think I may be ready to give up on a dream.  This is a dream that I have intensely wanted for a long time. I have worked very hard to achieve it and have nearly exhausted all of my “next steps.”  So in an effort to reckon with reality, I’m giving up.  I think it may be time.

                When I told my husband this the other day, he said, “No – don’t give up!  We’ll pray about it!” (Because sometimes when you want something long enough, you stop really praying about it when you stop believing it’s going to happen.)  I understand why he responded the way he did.  He knows how much I want this.  He knows how hard I’ve worked.  And he probably has an idea of what comes next.  When you give up on a dream you enter into a process of loss.

 

                About a year ago one of the women in our community group from church (we call ourselves “The Tribe”) announced that she was giving up on her dream of becoming a school administrator.  After working as an interim assistant principal and loving it, Laurie had worked very hard to get into a district program to become an administrator.  She had even gone back to school and earned a doctorate degree in educational leadership.  She did everything she could to prepare herself for what she felt passionately about doing, and she felt confident about her qualifications.

                She didn’t make it into the program.  When she told us she was giving up on her dream, several of us protested, “No!  You’ve worked too hard on this!”  But she had already begun the unavoidable grieving process involved in the death of a dream.  She talked to us that night about surrendering and finding peace.

               We are supposed to tell our 

children to never give up on their dreams and that they can accomplish anything they set their minds to.  And yet I’m wondering if that will set them up well for real life?  My child may want to be a contestant on The Voice, but it may not happen.  My daughter may have her heart set on a particular college, but it may not pan out.  I have friends who have had to give up careers because of illness and homes because of financial hardship.  Maybe the more important thing we need to teach our children (and learn for ourselves) is how to hold up our dreams with open hands and live in a posture of surrender.  This dream of mine may be something I’ve wanted more than anything I’ve ever wanted, but if I am truly surrendering it to God, there is a flexibility instead of a rigidity.  There is an attitude, from the very beginning, that says, “I know what I want.  But more than that, I trust that God knows what is best for me, and that may look slightly or vastly different than my dream.”

                Our family enjoys watching American Ninja Warrior, and I love hearing the athletes’ stories just as much as I love watching them navigate the incredibly challenging obstacle courses.  Some of these competitors have given up jobs to pursue their dream of becoming the next American Ninja Warrior.  Some of them admit that they are so desperate to win, they don’t know what they’ll do if they don’t make it.  It’s painful to see these competitors fall off the salmon ladder or lose their grip off of the swinging spikes, because you get a sense of just how devastated they feel when they hit the water below.  And often they are asked the same questions afterward.  “Will you be back?  Will we see you here next year?”  In other words, are you ready to give up on your dream?

                I think the truly victorious ones are those who, in the face of dashed dreams, find a way to live out their passion doing what is possible and within reach in the here and now.  In their reckoning with reality, they find the courage to let go of a specific dream while holding on to a bigger vision.

 

                The producer of American Ninja Warrior calls Brent Steffensen and Kacy Catanzaro “the royal couple of ‘Ninja Warrior’”.  They both have broken records on the show and their mutual passion for ANW led them into a dating relationship.  Along with competing several times on ANW, they are currently working to open a training facility in San Antonio, TX.  As Kacy stated, “As long as “American Ninja Warrior” is not holding us back from other things we want to accomplish, we want to keep doing it.”  And despite this season’s disappointment (of not making it through the ANW course), Steffensen said he has his dream job.  He may come back and compete again, and if he does he will either fail again or break a record, but either way he is living a bigger dream.  He’s living a dream that taps into the core of who he is.

 

                Back to my friend Laurie.  She is as passionate as ever about teaching and educating children, and about leading other educators.  And she says this past year has been surprisingly peace-filled.  “I’ve learned a lot about myself, how much I was striving to make things happen, and how I pressured myself to make my dream come true.  I was carrying my dream like the way you carry a grudge.  It became heavy and I just kept lugging it around with me.  When your dream becomes a burden, it’s time to lay it down.”

                Laurie teaches fifth grade.  She is a department head and has exceptional leadership skills.  She chose not to reapply for the district program, and she has taught me a lot about what it looks like to surrender a dream that has become a burden.

                My dream is to publish a book.  Not just a book, but a specific story.  I have a polished proposal that I’ve spent hours writing and revising.  I have attended writers’ conferences and have had my work professionally critiqued.  I have followed up on nearly every lead, and the feedback has been consistent.  “Your writing is good.  You tell your story in a compelling way.  Your platform is not big enough.  We wish you great success and hope you find a home for your manuscript.”

                We hope you find a home for your manuscript.  My manuscript is homeless.  But I am not hopeless.  I may decide it’s time to let this dream go.  I may try a little bit longer.  I may decide to take a different route to get my book published.  But either way, I am living a bigger dream.  Either way, I can still tell my story.  Along with writing, I speak regularly at local women’s groups on topics I am passionate about, and I love it.  I am a communicator, and I am living a life consistent with who I am – with who God made me to be.

 

                As a parent, I will always be my kids’ biggest cheerleader, and I will encourage them to go boldly in the direction of their dreams.  But I also want to teach them – and model for them – how to hold their dreams loosely, with open hands and a surrendered heart.  I want to teach them how to know when it’s time to give up on a dream that has become a burden, and how to figure out what is underneath that dream that taps into the core of who they are. 

      

                From the very beginning of our journey, we can entrust our greatest dreams to the God who knows what is best – to the God who knows us best.   

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

faith

Not long ago, I heard a song on Christian radio, and the chorus says this about faith:

It’s gotta be

More like falling in love

Than something to believe in

More like losing my heart

Than giving my allegiance

        My kids were in the room when the song came on, and my knee-jerk reaction was to tell them that this is not true.  Faith in God - living the Christian life - is not a feeling.  It is most definitely not like falling in love. I thought about Paul being knocked off his horse and blinded for three days when he encountered Christ.  I thought about the disciples – most of them were martyred for their devotion to Jesus.  And I’m thinking about the situation in North Korea where Kim Jong-un has ordered the execution of thirty-three Christians.  Faith is most definitely something - Someone - to believe in, and it is absolutely about giving your allegiance.

        I think it is misguided and even dangerous to compare or equate our faith to falling in love, and it tells me that our Hollywood culture (which is obsessed with falling in love) has shaped our faith life in profound ways.  I am not saying that we cannot or should not feel intense love for Christ, or that we will not have amazing experiences where we feel God’s presence and feel intimately connected with Him.  But real faith is not based on those feelings or experiences.

  

Here is what the bible says about faith:

Hebrews 11:1

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, 
the evidence of things not seen.

 (King James Version)

        My husband, Bernie, and I attended a funeral on December 30th that truly broke our hearts.  A couple that we have known for several years lost their adult son – he took his life on Christmas morning.

        This couple is now attending the same grief support workshop that I am, and Bernie and I walked into church with them not long ago.  I asked them if the workshop was helping them at all, and the man, who was walking in front of me, threw his arms up in the air and just kept walking.  His wife, who was walking beside me, said, “You know, maybe it helps some to talk to other parents whose children have taken their lives - we are just here because it is the next step we know how to take.”

        We walked together into the worship service; they went to sit with their group, and Bernie and I grabbed a couple of seats near an aisle.  From where we were, I had a straight line of vision to where they were seated in the auditorium.  The music started, and as we sang about our God being a God who saves, I couldn't take my eyes off of them.  They were on their feet, singing in full voice, and I could see the intensity of both their pain and their conviction in their bodies as they worshiped their God.  In their unspeakable grief they were singing to the God who saves.  The God who saves them, the God who saves their son.  And I thought, this is what faith looks like.

Now faith is assurance of things hoped for, a conviction of things not seen. 

(American Standard Version)

        I am studying the book of Job in my community bible study, and my small group was discussing the theme of Job.  He was an upright man, and yet God allowed Satan to take everything from him: his children; his wealth; even his health.  Some say this story is about suffering – particularly unjust suffering.  Others say that it is about God’s sovereignty – He created the universe and His ways and thoughts are higher than ours.  He doesn't owe us an explanation – He is God.

        And yet when I read about Job scratching his sores with broken pottery, listening to his friends go on and on about how there must be some unconfessed sin in his life, listening to his wife tell him to curse God and die already, I am moved beyond words to hear Job say, “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble? The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.” In his humanity, Job questioned and struggled.  And I can’t help but think, this is what faith looks like.

Faith makes us sure of what we hope for 
and gives us proof of what we cannot see. 
(Contemporary English Version)

        When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she was believing God for a miracle.  But she told us early on, “Either way, though, I’m in a win-win situation.  If I live through this I win more time with my family.  If I die, I know I am going to be with the Lord.”  She put her faith and trust in God, not in an outcome.  This is what deep, abiding faith looks like.

The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, 

is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. 

It’s our handle on what we can’t see. The act of faith is what 

distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd. 

(The Message)

All of these people are examples to me of what it looks like to walk by faith, not by sight: 

• Taking one step forward even when you can’t see where you are going

• Believing in God’s unfailing love and goodness even through life’s darkest trials 

• Worshiping God in the midst of crushing grief and loss

• Holding on to the promise that He will see us through, and that heaven waits for us

  Ahora bien, la fe es la certeza de lo que se espera, 

la convicción de lo que no se ve. 

(La Biblia de las Américas)

Let us walk by faith, not by sight, and may our children see in us examples of real, abiding faith.

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.        

what my mom taught me about living and dying

               Life has taken a turn.  Like when you’re driving and you make an abrupt, hard turn- things go flying.  Sliding dreams, falling tears, and spilling emotions, like coffee from a mug.

 

                My mom, Carol Louise Stephens, went to heaven on July 2^nd.  She had been in the hospital for several days, her health deteriorating, and there was this moment when she understood and accepted the reality that she was dying.  Then she did all she could to help me and my siblings come to terms with it too.  Impossible, but her incomprehensible joy and contagious peace helped us as we walked her to heaven’s door.

                Now I’m on an unfamiliar road.  I didn't plan this turn.  I've never traveled on this path before.  And sometimes I feel lost.  These are the times people are referring to when they say, “Your faith will see you through.”

                My mom’s faith was real.  And it definitely saw her through the last seven months of her life.  When she was diagnosed with cancer the week of Thanksgiving, 2012, our family was devastated.  We didn't know which way things would go, but in the months that followed, as my mom went through chemo and radiation, tests and scans, her faith shone more brilliantly than ever.  Early on she told me, “I am going to be OK.  I am going to be around for a long time.  But no matter what happens, either way, I’m in a win-win situation.  If I live through this, I win more time with my family.  If I die, I win eternity with my Savior.”

                She fought hard to beat cancer, and she did.  She fought hard to get well.  But she did not fight death when it came because she believed that God is in control.  She trusted His timing.  She was in tune with her body and in tune with her Maker, and when she realized that He was bringing her home, she did not resist.  She declared, a few hours before she passed, “What a beautiful day that the Lord has made!”  It was the day of her homecoming.  She surrendered, telling us, “I've taught you how to live, now I want to teach you how to die.  I want you to see that you don’t have to be afraid.”

                I expected that it would be incredibly hard, and it was.  But I didn't expect it to be beautiful in a way I can’t even describe.  It reminded me, in some mysterious way, of childbirth.  The progression, the anxious waiting, asking the doctors, “How long?”, the passing from one home to another; my siblings and I witnessed my mom being born into heaven. 

                “Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day.                 For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long.  Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them all and will last forever!  So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen.  For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.”  

2 Corinthians 4:16-18 (NLT)

               

        Those last days with my mom were lived in another realm, somewhere between this life and the next.  Moments like these have a way of reshaping your perspective and strengthening your faith – bringing to the forefront the mysterious and the eternal.  I believe in God and in heaven.  I believe that because of His amazing love for me – because He sent His son, Jesus, to take my punishment and to die in my place – that I am forgiven.  Because Jesus lives again, I will live again, too.  What an indescribable gift!  Someday I too will be with Him, and I will see my mom again.  I believe in After Life.

                But now I am living in the “Life After”.  Life after the sickness and the trial.  Life after losing my mother.  I brought home some of her things: some beautiful pieces from her china cabinet, her desk, and her chair.  And for the first several days I moved the items around in my house, from room to room, trying to find a place for them, to make them fit.  Trying to make it feel right.  It mimicked the movement in my heart.  Life doesn't feel right after you lose someone so precious to you.  You work to accept the change.  You try on the new reality, but it doesn't fit.

                People keep telling me to take care of myself, and it’s good advice.  I am figuring out what that looks like for me.  I am taking more walks.  I'm trying to remember to drink lots of water.  I registered for a grief support workshop at my church.  I am cleaning out my house and re-decorating my bedroom.  I like the distraction and I like being able to call the shots, to have control over an outcome.  I like creating something fresh, new, and beautiful.

 

               I wake up each morning and for a couple seconds I struggle to accept the truth that my mom is no longer here.  I can’t call her today – I can’t hear her voice.  I can’t ask her advice or hear her laugh.  And it hurts every time.  But then I think about the way my mom lived and died – with absolute trust in her Lord.  I remember her words, “You don’t have to be afraid.”  And I want to live this way.  I want to walk with Jesus and love Him more. Because He will see me through whatever comes my way.  He will hold me steady when life takes some hard turns.  And at the end, though I may be surrounded by beloved family and friends, the person that will carry me from this life to the next is my Creator.

 

                “No guilt in life, no fear in death, this is the power of Christ in me;

                From life’s first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny.

                No power of hell, no scheme of man, can ever pluck me from His hand;

                Till He returns or calls me home, here in the power of Christ I’ll stand.”

                                                                                (lyrics, In Christ Alone)                            http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENtL_li4GbE)

                My mom had a way with people.  She was bold but not pushy.  She cared enough to pry, but was not intrusive.  She introduced many people to Christ, and just a few hours before she passed I saw her grab a nurses hand, look her in the eye, and ask, “Do you know Jesus?”  She just didn't want anyone to be without Him.

  

                How about you?  Do you know Jesus?  Have you experienced what it is like to be fully known and completely loved?  Have you found a joy that doesn't depend on your circumstances, and a peace that is impossible to understand or explain?  Can you imagine no guilt in life, and no fear in death?  Do you know Him?  The One who gave everything for you and loves you more than you could ever imagine?  1 Timothy 2:4-6, "God wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth. 5 For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus,6 who gave himself as a ransom for all people."

                Thank you, Mom, for showing me how to live and how to die.

                Thank you friends, for praying for my mom and our family during this journey. 

                Thank you, Lisa, for encouraging me to write again. 

                Thank you, Jesus, for your abiding presence, comfort, and strength, and for giving                   me everlasting life.