Popcorn and Puptents: A Movie Metaphor for Transfiguration Sunday

There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. Matthew 17:2

There are many amazing parents out there who find great joy in taking young children to the movies.  I take my hat off to those parents.  I am NOT one of those parents.  In fact, dear parents whose kids are friends with mine, if you are in camp "Cinematic Enthusiasm" and would like to take one of my children along, not only will I pay my kid's way, but I will happily treat you to gas money, a large popcorn, a box of Sour Patch Kids and a Sprite so immense, you will sprint to the restroom afterward.  I am not kidding.  I may throw in a car wash.  

It's not that I don't like going to the movies, it's just that such an event requires a great deal of planning, attentiveness and spending from the "entertainment fund."  None of these factors seemed to mesh well with my children before age 8.  While their behavior is worlds better now, I'm still reeling from those years.  I'm overreacting, you say?  This has nothing to do with Transfiguration Sunday, you assume?  Well, you may have a point about the first one, but I promise, I will tie my past moments of parental exasperation into the lesson.  Since we're using cinematic metaphors, allow me to set the scene for you ... 

The tickets are printed, the car is fueled up, my husband has taken the day off and I'm actually wearing makeup before we get into the car.  If we leave now, we will have plenty of time to find good seats and grab a small snack before the movie starts. And then, it begins.  One child can't find their shoes.  Another decides at the last minute that a different shirt is required for sitting in a dark room with strangers.  Both children seem to forget the frequency of rain in the Seattle area and begin to step out the front door without coats.  What should have been a two minute exit has somehow taken twenty minutes, and we haven't even left the house! Oh well, we'll just miss the previews and sit in the back.  It will be fine ... until it's not. 

When we arrive at the theater, our children, seemingly oblivious to the cost of the movie tickets, are hoping for multiple snacking options.  When I calmly inform them that one box of Swedish Fish costs more than four of the same boxes at the store, they solemly order a single item, as though they did not just eat before leaving the house (which, of course, they did).  Dad grabs a popcorn (after gluten free status is confirmed) and into the theater we march.

As we file into the back of plaza 14B, I ponder how much it would cost to eat two boxes of candy and a bowl of popcorn at home.  "It's a special treat,"  I tell myself.  "The children will appreciate it." 

 As the opening credits roll, I hear the tell-tale sign of Mike and Ikes spilling on the floor.  The children clammer for a turn holding the popcorn (which inevitably also spills).  In stead of paying attention to the film's plot, they frequently ask, "What's going on?"  I am officially paying good money for episodes of insanity that could be acquired at home, free of charge.  Just then, we share a moment.  It might be funny or touching, but it does a mother's heart good.  Soon after, the movie is over.  As we head toward the car, one of the children utters, "Billie's dad took him to see the new *insert cool name here* movie last weekend, in 3D!  He's LUCKY!" 

And with that, I would vow to never take my children to another movie ... until next time.  

It's hard enough to deal with children who don't "get" the privilege of an experience, but how would you feel if this happened time after time with GROWN MEN?  Jesus had his hands full with his disciples, for sure.  They had seen countless miracles, wonders and signs, yet they continued to doubt, argue, complain and even interrupt Jesus.  This pivotal moment on the mountain was no exception. 

What Peter, James and John were about to witness was incredible, especially in a time without so much as a lightbulb, let alone cinematography.  They followed Jesus up a mountain.  Suddenly, Jesus starts glowing.  Next, Moses and Elijah (prophets from the Old Testament) appear and are talking with Jesus.  The Son of God and the two greatest prophets in biblical history are on a mountaintop, having a discussion about Jesus' coming death and resurrection.  Pretty important to the plot of His ministry and life as a whole.  While this would be a great time to quietly listen, loudmoth Peter interrupts with a brilliant plan to build 3 tents; one for Jesus, one for Moses and one for Elijah.  (Seriously, Peter?)  Graciously, God did not snuff him out for being annoying, but He did put the verbose fellow in his place by audibly speaking, "This is my son, whom I love.  Listen to him!"  

When God finished speaking, Only Jesus remained, and He told the disciples (who were understandably freaked out) to not speak of this vision until after the resurrection had occured. 

It never stood out to me before that Jesus asked this of His disciples until this morning.  I've heard this story countless times, but I caught something new today: Jesus took Peter to the mountain knowing he would be his usual, impulsive self.  Jesus didn't treck up the mountain thinking, "Man, I hope Peter doesn't make a fool of me in front of my Dad!" He knew what would happen, and he brought Peter anyway.  More than that, He knew Peter would boast of his devotion, cut off a soldier's ear (again with the impulsivity) and deny three times that he even knew Jesus.  He knew this, in fact, at their first meeting, and yet He still called Peter to follow Him.  

Unlike my wariness with the movie theater, Jesus never shys away from moments where His followers can spend time with Him and learn from Him, even though He knows in advance that we're going to screw up.  As I've written before, I relate more to Peter than any other disciple.  Sometimes I can be a raging fan of Jesus, but a lousy follower.  I interrupt Him, listen when I like what I'm hearing from Him and ignore the stuff I don't want to hear. I'm sooooooo easily distracted.  And yet, knowing all this, He called me, too.  Though my faith wavers, I am still granted incredible "mountaintop experiences," as well as the promise of His presence in the darker valleys of life.  I'm glad God is a more patient parent than I am. ;) 

The next time you grab a bucket of popcorn, I hope you're reminded of the second, third and fourth chances God gives His kids-- both for incredible experiences and fresh starts.  

Have a wonderful week, and I'll see you at the movies-- if I find a sitter ... 

Desert Cries Part 1: The Exodus of Shame

When Pharaoh heard of this, he tried to kill Moses, but Moses fled from Pharaoh and went to live in Midian, where he sat down by a well.

Exodus 2:15

In Exodus 2, we learn that Moses’ first trip to the desert was not a groovy vacay, but a means to stay alive.  Pharaoh had a price on his head.  While he had been raised predominately as a prince in the palace, one rash decision changed his entire life. 

He had undoubtedly seen the mistreatment of Hebrew slaves before, but the witnessing of a fellow descendant being beaten on that fateful day was enough.  Anger consumed him, and he killed the offending Egyptian.  His plans to cover up the crime (literally) had been thwarted by witnesses.  Word spread.  He knew this damaged his reputation with both Egypt and his biological line.  In spite of his intent to come to the aid of those oppressed, he had just made their lives harder.  No longer an adopted child of privilege and not accepted by his fellow Israelites, he ran to a place where no one knew him. 

I don’t know about you, but nothing sends panic through me quite like knowing I’ve botched something up badly, and it seems extremely difficult, if not impossible, to repair.  From reckless spending in the name of “cash back rewards” to thoughtless, impulsive words that sever a relationship, I’ve done my share of screwing up.  The moment I begin to realize the magnitude of my actions, the pit in my stomach becomes a gaping hole of fear.  Frantic, shame-laden thoughts swirl through my mind, robbing me of sleep and appetite.  Unable to continue in this maddening state of “if only,” the goal of escaping becomes my number one priority.

When Moses fled to the desert, he truly thought no one would know him there, but he forgot something, or rather Someone.  While in hiding, God kept him safe, brought caring people into his life and, when the time was right, God addressed Moses regarding his purpose. 

Hiding is not new to God.  Adam and Eve did it.  Jonah did it.  I am no surprise to Him.  When I run from responsibilities, relationships or even from God Himself, He does not leave me.  He provides me with material needs, emotional support and, when I am ready to stop running and face my problems, he forgives me, loves me and reminds me of my calling. 

Shame is powerful.  Shame is crippling.  Shame is not God’s will for my life.  Satan knows that the longer he can keep me in a cycle of justification, guilt and self-loathing, the harder it becomes for me to approach the Throne of Grace. 

It’s not easy to come out of the desert and face your past.  God’s forgiveness does not remove all natural consequences.  Healing and moving forward is not instantaneous.  It wasn’t for Moses, either.  But the Same God who did a mighty work in a quick-tempered, conflict-avoiding and anxious dude wants to do the same in us.  He will meet us in our place of guilt and shame, and more importantly, will guide us to a place of restoration and healing, if only we let him.   

Desert Cries: An Introduction

My sweet auntie has called me "Moset" (think Moses sans beard and perhaps an earth-toned lip gloss in lieu of a staff) for a few years now-- I suppose most people would find that quite curious.  After all, didn't Moses have trouble speaking up?  Clearly, I'm not known for being quiet by anyone who has known me for longer than five minutes.  In fact, when we have group activities at church and split off into numbered teams, my husband has been known to jokingly complain to our pastor, "No fair-- you took my mouthpiece!"

If speech alone were criteria, I'd say the dear matriarch who has known me since the womb was off-base, but girlfriend knows her scripture and she knows me, too.  She knows that "The Big M" and I have both experienced our share of learning, leading, wandering and, at times, hiding, in the desert.  While he trudged through sand dunes by foot, I have found myself traveling through my spiritual Sahara for surprisingly similar reasons.  I know some of you really dig the arid wastelands, but nothing about the desert sounds remotely appealing to me.  Dry.  Hot.  Desolate.  Beige.  Ick!  Add another "S" to the subject matter, and I'm all over it, but I can't even handle stopping in Yakima, Washington, unless I REALLY need coffee!  That said, I know that I've learned far more bumbling through the badlands than anywhere else.  Throughout the next week, with some scriptural help from the book of Exodus, I will unpack some of my wilderness wanderings with you.  When I first began to write this, I thought I could cover it in a single post, but I quickly found the subject matters to be many and the length of just one point to be a potential cause for eye strain!

I hope you'll strap on your sandals and take this walk with me.  Perhaps you'll find there's a fair amount of Moses in you, too!  

Pack Sunscreen!
~Amy 

For Miriam Project: My PPMD Story

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and body with grief.

Psalm 31:9

Walk With Me

Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Galations 6:2

Even at a gathering with like-minded colleagues, we still stuck out a bit, my quirky compadre and me.  In an attempt to keep my appetizer of nothing but meats from coming in contact with gluten or dairy, the plate was placed in very close proximity to my beloved friend, who happens to be a devout vegetarian.  As we all scrambled to find a spot that wouldn’t put meat near her, or gluten on my carnivorous antipasto, my friend winked at me and took the plate.  “Leave it here,” she insisted, “It’s fine.  Unless, of course, anyone else would like some dead animal before I put it down?”  Humor with an unexpected twist and understanding, the foundations of our friendship, were visible once more.  With hummus and edamame on her plate and “dead animal” on mine, my friend came along side me, so I wouldn’t feel alone.

            When other people in the birth community find out she and I know one another, they are somewhat surprised.  I live in the country, she lives in Los Angeles.  I have mom hair, she rocks a faux hawk.  While we both taught earlier in our lives, we were on opposing ends of the spectrum there, as well.  While I was playing “Ring around the rosie” with my class of preschoolers, my buddy was a prominent dance instructor.  While my students were barely potty trained, hers could drive!  I’m an extrovert, she’s an introvert.  I’m barely a year into birth work, she has her PHD and writes for major perinatal publications.  I drink almond milk, she drinks soy.  To say that we’re different has a bit of a “duh factor” involved.  But what brings us together?  More opposites …

            We “met” on a fellow friend’s Facebook page, cracking one another up with our shared love of zany humor.  We stayed in contact to share and discuss some hardships we had both shared surrounding our births and our battles with Postpartum Depression.  Our stories were different, even in these areas, but we both had a burning desire to support and help women.  Through our laughter and tears, a kinship grew. 

            As we grew to learn more about one another, we shared more pieces of our lives.  Some we both had experienced in one way or another, some we could not relate to, but support was always there.  One phrase I heard from her during a particularly challenging season with Wyatt gave me unexpected support from a friend who had never walked that path.  It literally changed how I view any person in crisis, whether I believe I have had similar experiences or not.  I’m sure she probably doesn’t even remember saying it.  It was so simple, but so powerful: “Wow, I don’t know anything about your life experience.”

            While you might think that made me feel alone, it actually made me feel validated.  My feelings, my situation, my struggles were unique.  Following that statement, she encouraged me by telling me that I was a strong, caring, and competent mom.   She told me she had no advice to offer, but she would listen.  She would care.  She would walk with me. 

            I am blessed with some very special friends who also have some of the same struggles I do, but none of my friends share all my struggles, and I don’t need them to.  I always assumed that “bearing one another’s burdens” required personal experience, extensive knowledge or both to be truly effective.  I no longer believe that.  You don’t need to have lost a spouse, battled cancer or experienced the sting of unemployment to be a good friend; you need to be willing to hear their stories, to see their pain and to bow your head with them as they wrestle with God, waiting for Him to lay words of encouragement on your heart.  There is something to be said for solidarity and camaraderie, but at the end of the day, if you want to be Jesus to a hurting person, leave the wisdom to the experts, the healing to The Great Physician, and simply walk with them.  

The Prego and the Pitbull

But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

1Samuel 16:7

There is supposed to be an order with labor and delivery, that goes as follows:  mom begins contracting, contractions increase in length and intensity while decreasing in spacing, water breaks, mom dilates, mom pushes, baby is born.  This would always be the order and rhythm of birth, if not for one little hiccup:  babies can't read.  

One lovely spring evening, I was visiting a client whose little one decided to jumble up the "order" a bit, making mom uncomfortable and certain that birth was near, but hinting that perhaps it wasn't quite "go time" yet.  In the interest of having her husband rested for the "main event," mom-to-be decided this was a good time for a walk, just the two of us.  As we headed toward the sidewalk, a third party approached our mama-doula-duo ... 

With ears perked upright, she walked slowly toward me.  Though smaller than typical, her facial features, brindle coloring and muscular physique were unmistakable.  Whether young, or mixed with a smaller breed, I was not certain, but I was completely confident that a pit bull was headed my way.  She did not charge, nor did she make a sound, but it was clear that she was not the least bit afraid of me.  Unsure of what would happen next, I simply stood there, allowing her to come closer.  Circling slowly, she sniffed me cautiously, then ran toward my client.

There was no time to be afraid for her.  In an instant, this curious canine was right next to a very expectant mother, of whom I felt very responsible.  Fortunately, there was no cause for concern, as the dog happily wagged her tail approvingly-- first at my client, then at me.  In that moment, I remembered the tendency of "bully breeds" to be protective-- even nurturing toward expectant mothers and small children.  She had no intention of attacking us, she was simply protecting a fellow female and her offspring, and wanted to make sure MY intentions were good.  

While I enjoyed our moment of estrogen solidarity, I had certainly expected it to end when we walked past our canine compadre's abode.  Surprisingly, she joined ranks and walked right next to my client, creating a physical barrier between the mother-to-be and the road.  When we walked, she walked.  When a contraction came, she stopped as I applied counter-pressure to my client's back.  When a car drove by, she would circle us protectively.  She never barked at the oncoming vehicles, but her eyes were ever-watchful.  

Though we urged our faithful walking buddy to go home, she was unrelenting of her "post," until a familiar car drove up with her owner inside.  As he apologized profusely for her "bothering us," we explained that we simply did not want her to get lost, or for her human to think she'd gone missing.  Waving to our furry friend and her "person," we continued our walk.  

In between contractions, we discussed how sweet and loyal the dog had been, and what a shame it was that the breed once called "Nanny Dogs," due to their former positions to look after young children, had, In recent history, been inbred, tortured and trained to fight to the death.  Clearly, this dog had not been raised in such a fashion, yet, due to her DNA, she would most likely be labeled throughout her life as a "dangerous dog."  We knew differently, however-- we knew this noble beast would someday be a part of a special little girl's birth story.  

That night, as I drove home for a few hours asleep before "rip roaring labor" began, I thought more about labels.  As humans, it is in our nature to judge one another by past experience, preconceived ideas, cultural bias, economic status ... The list goes on.  We have to work exceedingly hard to look past what we think we know about others, and try as we may, we all fail more often than not.  Our human hearts, eyes and minds are truly limited.  

God, however, is limitless in His ability to see each and every person for who they really, truly are.  He is not fooled, nor is He surprised by last names, bank account balances or even the history of our countless failures.  While He does not high-five us for losing it with the kids or speeding in a school zone, He is able to see the the beautiful traits we all possess-- inside and out, amidst our brokenness.  If we are willing to simply ask, He is more than willing to forgive our mistakes, heal our hurts and encourage us to use the gifts He has given us.  

And perhaps, one of the greatest gifts Christ has given His church is a blessing we choose not to utilize.  We have the power of The Holy spirit living inside of us, yet we choose to simply rely on our human eyes to see those around us.  What would happen to our families, our communities, even our world at large if we looked at one another as Jesus does?  May this be our prayer:  that we might change our outlook, which, in turn, will change our thoughts, our actions and our effectiveness as we strive to become the Hands and Feet of Christ. 

The Warrior and the Rainbow: a true account of bravery, love and beauty after the storm

Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.
Psalm 30:5b

Once upon a time, there was a brave, caring and beautiful warrior.  She had endured many storms in her life, but she had weathered them with grace and dignity.  She was ready for a moment in the sun.  Though life at home had had more cloudy days than clear, she was thrilled to know that a little life was growing inside of her.  "This," she thought, "will change my life."

              And it did, but not in ways she expected. 

            Clouds rolled in, cramping and pain thundered through her, and as the tell-tale signs of a miscarriage were coldly confirmed in the emergency room, down came the rain.  

            Though little Zachary could never be replaced in her heart, a beautiful blessing in the form of another little life was on the horizon.  Though scars from that storm had not yet healed, she welcomed the little ray of sunshine growing healthy and strong inside of her.  This time, she could wear maternity clothes, have baby showers, and prepare a room.  She bathed in the sunlight of fresh starts, new beginnings and hope.  Suddenly, it began to hail.

            As the precious baby prepared to meet her mother, another loved one was slipping away, years before her time.  Wrought with grief and exhaustion, the signal of labor was bittersweet.  Her journey to her mother’s arms, likewise, was unpredictable, difficult and covered with many dark, cloudy moments.  But when that little sunny-side up face came into view, the skyline changed dramatically.

            With the birth of Allison Charlotte, loved ones who had been sobbing and shaking their fists in the air to question God dried their eyes and, for the first time in days, felt inexpressible joy.  She came when she knew she was needed most, this little rainbow baby.

            More storms would come before her first birthday, causing the brave warrior to fight for the safety and well-being of her child.  My, how it rained.  And yet, with one look into her daughter’s face, she knew this storm served a purpose and would not last forever.

            As time marched on, her mother noticed the brilliance and turbulent storms constantly waging within her daughter.  Autism might be the technical name for it, but I see it as one more reason that my goddaughter, Allison, is truly a rainbow baby.  She is smart as a whip, fiercely loving and full of sunshine and enthusiasm, yet the need for rigidity, crippling anxiety, social uncertainties and sensory struggles can bring heavy black clouds into the simplest of tasks.  But her mother helps, supports, guides, soothes, and, perhaps most of all—she waits.  She knows that without the storming amidst her brilliance, there would be no rainbow. 

Happy 6^th Birthday, Allison Charlotte!

Happy 6^th Rainbow Birth Anniversary, Jillian!

All My Love,

“Auntie Mamy”