Sacrificial Love 13 Years In

I left my house between the conclusion of homework and the beginning of bedtimes tonight.  A young woman from my church invited me to speak to a group of RAs at our local Christian college about what I was reading in the Bible lately.  I accepted the invitation because I love to talk and especially I love to talk about the Bible.  So I sat down with these women and we read through Romans 12, a chapter chock full of relationship advice and descriptions of sacrificial love.

"...in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice..."

I didn't mention that today is my 13th wedding anniversary.

"Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind."

As I left the house, I wondered, Is it hypocritical to ask your husband to put the kids to bed on his own on your anniversary so you can discuss sacrifice to a group of college students?  The answer that came back?  Probably.

"Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought..."

Probably I should have stayed home.  Probably I should have been excited about the passing of another year of marriage.  Probably I should have been having an honest conversation with my husband instead of a group of (mostly) strangers.

"...but rather think of yourself with sober judgment."

I started off talking about selfishness.  We are all born self-focused, because we can't even meet our own needs, much less think of or give to another.  We spend our childhoods completely obsessed with ourselves, culminating in the most self-centered developmental stage:  adolescence.  I can remember as a teenager feeling certain that EVERYONE was looking at me, that everyone could see whatever perceived minor flaw I was focused on that day.  What a shock to get older and realize that we could have done whatever we wanted in those days, because NO ONE was paying attention to anyone else. We were all consumed with our own inner drama.

"We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us."

I can also distinctly remember times when I was in college and felt so glad that I didn't have kids, that I was single and only responsible to myself.  I felt like I got a bonus selfish period, a few years after school but before marriage and family life forced me to flush out all that self-centeredness.  My time, my money, my body, and my possessions were simply MINE.  I did not share.  I did not take other people into consideration.  I look back fondly on those days.

"If it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach."

Because what came next--sharing my life and my home with my husband--it has been much harder.  It has required me to think of someone else.  I had to make room for another person in all those areas that used to be exclusively mine.  And that does not come naturally to me.  If we're being honest, it doesn't come naturally to any of us.

"Love must be sincere.  Hate what is evil, cling to what is good."

We all know that adults should be responsible, considerate, giving, gracious, SACRIFICIAL.  Adults should be able to take care of each other and any children they bring into the world, as well as keeping plants and animals alive and performing light household repairs.  But look around.  Look in the mirror.  It doesn't just happen.  We don't wake up on our 18th or 22nd or 35th or 58th birthdays and suddenly know how to put other people's needs ahead of our own.  I spent the last week in Family Court and I'm ready to give up on humanity.

"Be devoted to one another in love.  Honor one another above yourselves."

In fact, at this moment, I believe Paul's words to the Roman church more than ever.  It is God working through us, by the power of the Holy Spirit, that transforms our hearts and enables us to love each other.  It's nothing we can do on our own.  And we still manage to get in our own way.

"Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer."

The women in my Bible study laughed when I said that pregnancy was one of the most sacrificial acts I performed.  But I was being serious.  My body was overtaken by another creature, someone I didn't even know yet who ate all my food and stretched out my stomach and made all the parts of my body ache in a symphony of discomfort.  It was the perfect preparation for motherhood.  Parenting is total sacrifice.  It is decades of watching another Elmo video and re-reading Harold and the Purple Crayon and going sledding when everyone knows snow is best enjoyed from INSIDE the house.  It is sleepless nights and worrisome doctor's appointments and combing through books to find a solution.  It is years without new clothes and too long between visits to your hairstylist so that your kids can play t-ball and go to the pool, not to mention that giant money suck known as Back to School shopping.

"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."

Marriage feels a little different.  Some days it is hard to muster sympathy for your sick spouse or stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their complaints.  Sometimes the limitless patience you can give to your kindergartner as he sounds out sight words is sorely lacking for a husband who has misplaced his wallet.  Again.  Maybe it's because the power dynamic is different.  Husbands and wives are on essentially similar footing, while parents and children aren't.  You sacrifice completely for the kids because you know they need it, know they won't be able to give you anything for years, if ever.  In my experience, marriage has its ups and downs, with one person bearing the brunt for a period until things level off, and then the other will take up the load for a while.

"Live in harmony with one another...as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone."

It feels like I've been the one carrying the weight for a while now.

"If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink."

What I shared with the college students tonight is that while I would prefer to say, "I've lived a lovely, charming life that's been happy all the time, and now I'm just like Jesus!" I'm learning that God has a very different life planned for His followers.  It's in the hardships and struggles that we are transformed, it's only by enduring pain and loss and difficulty that we can grow as people.  Sacrificial love does not come as a result of a carefree life, it comes on the tail end of our most challenging seasons.  Yet in the midst of a difficult season, I don't feel like celebrating.  I don't feel warm and gooey and sentimental, I feel hard and tired and cynical.

"Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good."

These are hard words to read, harder still to live out, especially when there are days when I feel like giving up.  If faith is having confidence of what we hope for and being certain of what we do not see, then faith is the only thing I have in those moments.  Faith in light up ahead.  Faith in unloading the weight, in trading off with my partner.  Faith that something good and worthy will come out of this time of struggle.  Faith that all the time, God is good.

After 13 years, all I have is faith in us.

Lent 4: How Deep the Father's Love

How deep the Father's love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His Treasure

As I spent the past few weeks in preparation for Easter, observing Lent and challenging myself to extend more grace to my children, song lyrics began to fill my mind.  They would come unbidden in quiet moments, they were strong enough to drown out the Frozen soundtrack which has played on repeat since March.  Not the whole song, but sections of it.

How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns his face away
As wounds which mar the chosen one
Bring many sons to glory

I am not perfect--far from it.  And this is the ultimate point of the Lenten season, to highlight just how far short I fall of the glorious standard.  I can't even go for a week without raising my voice, without snapping at a child's incessant repetition of a song (especially sung incorrectly, grr!), without grabbing a wrist or a shirt just a bit too roughly.  How different I am from the One who died.

Behold the man upon the cross
My sin upon his shoulders
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers

I cannot tell you how many times I choked up during prayer, how frequently I opened my mouth and just sighed, because God, I am so unworthy.  Of your love, of this life you have given me, of the people who look at me and think they see you.

It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished.

And I remember, in these moments of failure, WHY I believe as I do, WHY I live this way.  I remember that Jesus paid it all, all to HIM I owe.  Because sin had left a crimson stain (and as head laundress for a family of six, I know just how difficult the red stains are), HE washed it white as snow.  I remember how it is that I can wake up each day and start new, how each moment is another chance to get it right.

I will not boast in anything
No gifts no powers no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

I BELIEVE IN JESUS.  When all else around me disappoints, HE remains.  Eternal, unchanging, full of love and mercy.  When confusion and despair seem to have won, I remember that victory lies at the foot of the cross.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Let's stop trying so hard to be perfect.  Let's give up this control we imagine we possess.  Let's stop comparing ourselves to each other.  Let's stop thinking we have the answer.  Let's bow our heads and thank Jesus for being the Lamb of sacrifice, and get on with the business of loving and caring for each other.

Happy Easter.

Lent 2: On Fasting

Although I don't often look at it this way, my life right now is pretty sacrificial.  Food literally is taken out of my hands, off my plate, and eaten by another, more deserving person.  The book I sit down to read is pulled from my hands and I am commanded to stand and do the "Tooty-tock" dance, again.  I am awakened most mornings by insistent little people who move my body to better accommodate their cuddling needs, who stick their dirty diapers in my face to emphasize how urgent my presence is needed downstairs.  So when a preacher starts talking about fasting, about sacrificing, I find myself resisting.  "Not another sacrifice!" I mentally whine.  And maybe I'm highly evolved and have a perfect balance in my attitudes about food (or, quite possibly, I am like a 3 year old when it comes to denying myself in this way), but I've never been able to successfully fast in the traditional sense.  One year, for Lent, I gave up ice cream.  So in the evenings, instead of scooping a delicious frozen treat, I'd eat six cookies.

From my Protestant understanding of the Lenten season, the purpose of fasting is to create more time with God, to spend the time one would normally be eating (insert chosen fast item here) in prayer and meditation.  So substituting another dessert doesn't really accomplish that.  This year, I went outside the box a little.  What is something that I can give up that won't stress me out more, but will instead give me a chance to turn to God, to repent and reflect on who He wants me to be.  The morning of Ash Wednesday was not a good one.  James decided he didn't want to go to school, refused to put on his shoes and socks and wouldn't even let me do it.  He screamed when we headed down to the car, grabbing the doorway as the other kids climbed into their seats without a fuss.  I had to drag him into his seat, force him to put on his seatbelt, and placed his shoes, socks, and coat next to him.  When we pulled up to the school, his teacher met us at the car (as usual), and I explained the situation.  I was sweating, frustrated, no longer interested in being kind.  Together, we talked him into finishing getting ready and getting out of the car.  She promised him an easy morning, an early trip to the cafeteria to get some breakfast, the iPad during free time.  I drove away, off to the dentist, and I realized that there is something selfish that I do quite often: I lose my temper with my kids.  I reach the end of my patience (to be honest, not a very deep well), and I yell.  I slam doors.  I have been known to throw a toy to another room, to lift heavy furniture and heave it into the yard, to stomp my feet and pound the table.  And I don't just lose control; I lose my kids.  After every outburst, it takes a while to calm down, to get to a point where I can be the loving mom I want so badly to be.  When I scream at the boys to CALM DOWN, STOP FIGHTING, BE QUIET, they scream back.  Sometimes they cry.  In other words, my temper affects everyone.

What if I didn't do that? I wondered as the dentist scraped my teeth.  What if, instead of raising my voice, I raised my hands and begged for God to come, be part of this moment?  What if I handed over frustration and asked for peace?  The first thought was, I can't do it.  How could I possibly last six weeks?  The second thought was, take it one day at a time.  One moment at a time.  If you yell on Tuesday night, start over fresh Wednesday morning.  And the third thought: Don't try to replace anger with food.  Don't rush to Wendy's for chili cheese fries every time you bite down on your temper.  And so I began.  I found many opportunities to pray, to take deep breaths, count to ten, walk away over the past week (thanks kids!).  I also made mistakes.  I didn't catch the anger swell and yelled "MICHAEL!" then clamped a hand over my mouth, took my breaths, said a prayer, and finished, "Please use your inside voice."  Sunday was the hardest day, because our Girl just pressed all the buttons over and over, and I didn't do my breaths.  I was impatient and didn't feel like counting to ten.  I was short and I was loud and I regretted it.

One of my greatest hopes is that my children will someday become aware of God, that they will come face to face with Him, and they will say, "Oh, we know you!  We saw you in our mom."  And one of my fears is that I will obscure God from them, that when they see a church or a cross or a Bible, they will remember a woman who listened to sermons on her iPod and then yelled at them to be quiet, who took them to church but didn't love them the right way.  And so I hope that this exercise, this Lenten sacrifice, helps me to accomplish the former, not the latter.  On those days when they are losing their cool and crying and hurting, I want to be a calming presence, a soothing reminder that there is a source beyond ourselves that gives us strength when ours is gone.