Hello,

I am so grateful that you are choosing to spend your precious time with this book. I know there are so many choices out there for your priorities, and I hope you agree that this is something that helps you in your journey of faith.

I wrote Don’t Pack the Kids out of a conviction that our families need to experience mission together. This is true now more than ever, as statistics tell us over three-fourths of our kids will leave the church when they leave home. Why? Part of the reason is their feeling that church is irrelevant to their lives and they can get entertainment and fulfillment elsewhere.

I believe with all my heart that if we taught our kids early that the church is relevant because they are the church, and it is fulfilling because they fill it with their gifts and ministry, we could reverse those statistics.

So, this is about more than missions, although that is so close to my heart and the heart of God. It’s about being Jesus, at any age, together. It’s about transformation for you, your kids, and your world. It’s about short-term missions but a long-term change.

The following excerpt stands as a “manifesto” of why you should consider going with your kids. If you decide you want to know more about the how to do it, visit Amazon.com and find the book in paperback or Kindle version. You can also visit my author page at: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KI4P0C.

You will find the table of contents at the end of the chapters.

God bless your journey!

Jill

CHAPTER ONE 

OPEN EYES

Our almost-twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, rocked the Chinese baby slowly, back and forth, her voice low and soothing. “It’s OK, Amber. You’re OK with me. Such a sweet baby.” She touched the infant’s upper lip, gently but without hesitation. She traced the indentation there, a lip shaped in an odd way she’d never seen before. The deformity had caused this baby’s mother to abandon her at a hospital, but it didn’t offend her new champion. “How could anyone ever leave you? I wouldn’t leave you. I love you, Amber.”

My husband and I had talked about the idea of a short-term mission trip for three years, but it never seemed to feel quite right. Yet as our girls got older, I saw them adapting more and more to our relatively easy life in the suburbs. Most of the kids in their schools look, dress, and think alike. Most live in well-above-average homes. For those willing to pay (and most around here are), every want and need can be found within a fifteen- minute drive. Yes, we went to church every week and learned the evils of sin, but what about the evils of complacency? I feared that our culture of prosperity and instant gratification would slowly numb them into being careless Christians, unaware of and unconcerned with the hurting world beyond their comfortable lives.

Being countercultural shouldn’t be news for Christians. Jesus sent us “into the world” (John 17:18) yet maintained that we were “not of this world” (John 17:16). For 2,000 years, we’ve been trying to puzzle through exactly what that means. Not only what He meant, but how to apply that meaning in every generation.

In the early church, it required refraining from pagan sexual practices and idolatry. It also motivated early Christians to care for the poor, orphaned, widowed, sick, and enslaved with sacrifices their “world” could not understand.

In our age, being “in the world but not of it” has become a cliché. “Not of” translates almost always into a list of things Christians shouldn’t do in order to “prove” they’re Christians. For most of the things on our list of “thou shalt nots,” there is wisdom in not doing them. It’s not a bad list.

The problem with lists is that, when we make one, we think we’ve got the requirements for the test down. We believe we can get an A with God if we just complete the list. That’s what the rich young ruler thought. But God wanted an entirely different view of “in the world but not of it” from this young man.

“Someone came to Jesus with this question: ‘Teacher, what good things must I do to have eternal life?’ Jesus told him, ‘If you want to be perfect, go and sell all you have and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.’ But when the young man heard this, he went sadly away because he had many possessions.” (Matthew 19:16, 21-22)

Jesus offers this advice to the young man—Quit making lists. Quite trying to follow the rules. Actually, try breaking some. Try showing the world that something else entirely has gotten hold of your heart. Try showing them what it’s like to love God more than any thing in this life.

The message didn’t sit well with the young man. If Jesus walked through the suburbs of Chicago where we live, it wouldn’t sit well here either. I’m glad our kids have grown up knowing Christians try to steer away from lifestyles that can harm them. But I don’t want them to grow up believing that living counter to their culture just means avoiding premarital sex and violent video games. I want them to see how their particular culture seeps into every part of their lives. I want them to understand that what their peers believe about the world can affect the central values of their lives, values they don’t even realize they’re forming.

We know how our kids feel about drugs, alcohol, and spending their life savings in Vegas. At least, we know what we've taught them. But do we know how they feel about having too much stuff? If they know when enough is enough? Their convictions about confronting racism or championing the discarded? Do we know if they feel entitled to what they want when they want it? Do we comprehend the pressures to be beautiful, athletic, and perfect—and the values these pressures create?

This is the culture we wanted our kids to begin consciously running counter to. Being “not of the world” around here means living values that aren’t all about getting more, buying bigger, overscheduling, and overachieving. I suspect that’s what the world looks like to a lot of people reading this book as well.

Why take our kids on a mission trip? To open their eyes to a world where the values they see around them daily at home appear for what they are—false gods. Meaningless chasing of the wind. To encourage them to live as if something—or someone—else entirely has gotten hold of their hearts.

“It’s time to go back to the hotel, Becca.” I peeked into the nursery doorway and whispered so as not to disturb Amber.

“I don’t want to leave her, Mom.”

“She’s sleeping, sweetheart. You can put her in bed. We’ll be back.”

Becca looked at the sleeping child. “When will she have her surgery?” The orphanage now routinely funded the surgery for cleft palates.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how old they have to be. They say the babies come out of the surgeries with hardly a scar. They’ll make her little mouth beautiful.”

“I don’t want to leave her.”
“I know.”
“Mom?” She set the little girl gently into the crib. “What?”
“She’s already beautiful.”

CHAPTER TWO

HEAD AND SHOULDERS

Encouraging my kids to run counter cultural doesn’t stop at the church doors, either. One part of our culture that also disturbed us squatted right there in the church. As our kids sank into compliance with it, too, we knew we needed to show them an alternative.

"And now, dear brothers and sisters, I will write about the special abilities the Holy Spirit gives to each of us. Now there are different kinds of spiritual gifts, but it is the same Holy Spirit who is the source of them all. There are different kinds of service in the church, but it is the same Lord we are serving. There are different ways God works in our lives, but it is the same God who does the work through all of us. A spiritual gift is given to each of us as a means of helping the entire church.”   (1 Corinthians 12:1,4-7)

Generally, evangelicals accept and embrace the gifts of the Holy Spirit (though we differ, perhaps, on what they are). In most churches, however, we encourage and train only the gifts of the adults in our body. Children learn early that they have two tasks in the church -- be educated and be entertained. Both are passive tasks. They learn that “mom and dad and the pastor” can and will handle all that other stuff while they watch. 

But if I don't encourage my child to discover her gifts and to exercise them, how do I know she will want to exercise them as an adult? How do I know she won't always expect church to passively entertain her? I’ve not yet read the Scripture that said children had to wait and watch until they’re old enough to “handle” using their gifts. In fact, I’ve read in several passages how God did use children who had been trained to listen and obey. We felt our children needed to experience their faith in action, discovering that they didn’t have to grow up before they could be ministers. 

"Some children were brought to Jesus so he could lay his hands on them and pray for them. The disciples told them not to bother him. But Jesus said, ‘Let the children come to me. Don't stop them! For the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’ And he put his hands on their heads and blessed them before he left." (Matthew 19:13-15)

Usually, we focus on the bumbling of the disciples in that story. But I am a writer, so I can't help always asking the question―what happens next? And I really want to hear the end of this particular story. 

What do you suppose those children did after experiencing Jesus so intimately? Ran and played at the beach like nothing had happened? Went off and asked mom what was for lunch? OK, some probably did. But my guess is, others couldn't wait to tell someone about the amazing man they'd met who treated them with respect and acted like they were the most precious treasure on earth to him. I think they spread the news faster than an updated Facebook status. I think they were -- ministers.

If we truly believe the Scripture that tells us the Holy Spirit has given gifts to all believers, why can a six-year-old not learn to use those gifts as well as an adult? We thought she could, and should. Yes, at six those gifts aren't yet clear, but why not begin exploring what they might be? And heck, why not in China?

The Chinese teenager pointed at us, put her hands to her mouth, then let her fingers flow out and down, almost like blowing a kiss. She spoke in quick Mandarin.

"She says, ‘We sang for you, now you sing for us,’" the leader translated. "Teach us an English song."

Besides working in the orphanage, we had also come to China to help students in area schools practice English. According to the design, as they began to ask questions about us, we could share why we were there and what we believed. But what song could we teach? The girls lined up in a circle around us, expectant.

"I know, I know!" cried Emily, our 10-year-old. "Head and shoulders, knees and toes!" she began singing loudly, vigorously using the accompanying motions. At home, we constantly pester Emily to turn down the volume. Too loud, too fast, too quick to act impulsively. But here . . . the group had needed an energetic song leader. Emily did on impulse what the adults could not figure out how to do. All eyes watched our tall middle child and copied her hand movements, touching their head, shoulders, knees, and toes in time to the words.

We wanted our girls to be ministers now. Couldn’t they do that at home? Yes, but the distractions of daily life pull all of us away from a focus on using our gifts for others. For kids, the whole vague concept of ministering competes poorly with the buzz of here and now. On a mission trip where they know they're part of the team, they focus. There are no distractions. Their sole purpose for two weeks is being active in ministry, not passive receptacles.

Research tells us that 75 percent of young people in our churches today will leave them when they leave home. Why? Because they increasingly believe that church is irrelevant to their daily lives and out of touch with the culture. In other words. They don't see the point. And in ever-busier lives, everything we spend our time on has to have a point. 

What would happen if, instead, our churches taught kids from the time they could walk that they were ministers? That they were the hands and feet to make the church relevant? That the ends of the earth weren't as far away or impossible to impact as they thought? I truly believe we could turn those statistics upside down.

Tinkling Chinese laughter mixed with exhausted whoops of older team members as we all finished the song with gusto.

"Head, shoulders, knees, toes," one girl pointed as she proudly spoke four new English words. "Another?"

"Umm, how about . . . " Emily launched into Deep and Wide, slowly at first so the girls could learn the words. Two songs. 17 new English words. Singing about Jesus in a communist-run middle school. Led by a 10-year-old. A minister of Christ.

OPEN ARMS

For Christmas the year of the trip, we gave Becca a card from Samaritan's Purse that read, "A gift was given in honor of Becca to provide loving care for orphans." I watched her eyes get moist and I knew that, much as she loved the new "Rippin’ Rocket Roller Coaster" set she had opened first, she would have traded it for that card. These orphans are not pictures on a flyer or names pulled off a web site. For our girls, these children on the other side of the planet have faces and names. As one of our most significant goals for the trip, we wanted our children to become world Christians who truly understood the question of the Good Samaritan―who is my neighbor?

Americans suffer from "compassion fatigue" -- too many disasters, too many people to help -- so too many do nothing at all out of paralysis. We want to help when hurricanes, tornadoes, and tsunamis strike. But the task seems overwhelming for one person and figuring out how to help too complex. Even putting aside disasters and considering the millions in hunger daily -- what can one busy person possibly do?

Again we found Becca in the orphanage nursery. She held Grace, the newest arrival. She, too, had a cleft palate and so had been deposited on the orphanage doorstep. For most of its existence, this place has taken in older children orphaned, abandoned, or living with people unable to care for them. But as they gained a reputation for caring for the least of these, babies had begun to appear, left by women who knew someone would care for them behind those walls.

"How could anyone leave a baby?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. There are so many reasons we can't understand."

"They could only have one, and she wasn't perfect." Sadness at a reality way beyond her nearly 12 years filled her voice.

"Sometimes," I nodded. “Or they knew they couldn't afford the medical care to help her. She'd never be accepted the way she is."

"Right." Already, Becca knew this tragic fact of the culture. A defect would brand this child an outcast for life. 

“So maybe her mother loved her very much -- enough to give her away to someone who could help her."

"But that's wrong. Mothers shouldn't have to leave their little girls."

"Yeah, I know. That's why we’re here."

"But what can we do?"

Pastor Eric Spangler of Mobilization for Free Methodist World Missions, explains why he took his children, ages four to twelve, to India. "We hoped our children would gain a larger perspective of the world and the kingdom of God, as well as a sense for the lives of those who suffer." What is a world Christian? It is a person whose sense of brotherhood and sisterhood -- personal connection -- knows no boundaries of color, nationality, or religion. A world Christian doesn't consider starvation in Africa or religious persecution in Nepal something that happens to "them" rather than to us. She knows every statistic is a human being for whom Christ died. And a world Christian never lets the question of what can one person do stop him or her from doing what one person can.

"What are you doing, Becca?"

"I'm just holding her."

"If you weren't here, who would hold this one baby?"

"But I'll leave."

"Does it make a difference to her that you are here, now?" 

Grace smiled and gurgled as Becca dangled a toy before her eyes. Becca smiled. "I guess so. I guess it matters to her."

We want world Christian children who just happen to be North American and white. We want kids who feel a personal connection with kids across the globe. Maybe then, a lot of "one persons" who feel helpless can get together to do what one person can't do.

God promised Abraham that his offspring would be as numerous as the stars. There are approximately seventy sextillion stars in the known universe (that’s seven followed by 22 zeroes). There are no national boundaries, no skin colors, no houses that look better or lawns greener than anyone else's among the stars. When we look at the stars, they all look pretty much alike to us. That's the way God wants us to look at his human creations, too. Revelation tells us that John, "Saw a vast crowd, too great to count, from every nation and tribe and people and language, standing in front of the throne and before the Lamb. They were clothed in white and held palm branches in their hands. And they were shouting with a mighty shout, ‘Salvation comes from our God on the throne and from the Lamb.’” (Revelation 7:9-10) 

That's one party I can't wait to be invited to. A sea of tongues, cultures, and races all united for one purpose -- praising God. I ache to see that unity. Until then, I want my kids to understand -- the whole world is invited to the party. We should get to know them now.

CHAPTER THREE

AND SOME FINAL REASONS

OPEN AGENDAS

From the first "squatty potty" when we got off the plane to the fish head on a platter, the girls realized -- things are different here. Since not going to the bathroom for two weeks was not an option, they had to adapt. Children who at home will argue over who sat in the front seat the day before yesterday can display astounding flexibility in a foreign country.

Let me tell you right now, our kids have a tough time with "adapting." They do not like change. Witness the recent howlfest of outrage when we suggested going away for Easter weekend. Not because the idea was a bad one, but because, in our girls’ eyes, you just don't mess with the way Easter is and always has been. Forever and ever amen. 

Put the same three girls in a foreign country on a mission. Tell them the language is different, the food is different, the transportation is different, the stores and schools are different, and the bathrooms definitely are different, and their response is . . . "cool." (Well, except for the bathrooms. Very not cool. But they did adapt.)

“Come, come,” the young merchant lady beckoned Beth, our youngest. “You sit.”

Beth glanced at me and, assured I wouldn’t abandon her at the barrette booth in Red Gate Shopping Market, smiled at the two ladies and sat on their stool. Out came two combs, and the ladies began combing and caressing her waist-length light brown hair. 

“Oooh.”

“Pretty.” 

“You have beautiful hair.”

They ooohed and aaahed alternately as they combed, delighted at this wonder before them, thrilled just to play with hair of a color and texture they had never seen.

This is the child who, at home, gives me approximately 35 seconds to comb her hair, I thought. Beth never sat still that long. She’d also never been so comfortable with strangers. Only six, she appeared to know how happy she could make them just by sitting there.

“So pretty,” the woman said again as Beth stood up to go. She pinned a white flower in my daughter's hair. “You keep,” she told me, pointing at the floral barrette. She meant it. A fair trade for the enjoyment, in her eyes. I bought another anyway. We walked on through the market, my baby and me, her now-shiny, combed hair swinging at her waist.

Normally shy and fearful, our youngest found herself the center of attention everywhere. Most people had never seen a little pale-skinned girl with long brown hair. Beth just smiled, shrugged, and accepted the crowds of children pressing her with gifts in every classroom we visited. At our first school, they swarmed her so thoroughly I could not get a glimpse of my daughter for at least fifteen minutes. Sure I would find her quivering and near tears afterward, instead I saw her seated on a desk like a princess, gracefully bestowing her smiles and fingertips on everyone. 

She accepted the TV crew that pursued her and photographed her through our tour of a former landowner’s mansion. I worried often that Beth's timid personality would be completely overwhelmed. After all, having a strange woman grab you in Tienanmen Square and place you (not ask, place you) in her family picture can be a bit unnerving for anyone, let alone a little girl who has been known to ask me sixteen times in one morning if I'm sure I'll remember to pick her up after school. Yet somehow, knowing she was doing something important allowed her to adapt with graciousness and poise I wish I always possessed.

The Easter debacle notwithstanding, learning to adapt on a mission trip gave our kids some of the confidence they need to adapt at home as well. Hard as change at home can be, they know now they've faced harder (they hardly blinked at the fish head for dinner). They still might not want to, but they know they can.

OPEN MINDS

All the men in our group gathered around the vintage red convertible in mint condition. Someone would get the privilege of riding with our host in his car to the television station where we were to be honored guests at a live show. Every man in the group wanted to sit in that car. All I could think of was -- no seat belts. No roof. Chinese driving. Bad combo. No thanks. 

Then our team leader (a serious car aficionado) informed us -- the host had offered the privileged ride to the three children of the group. My children. In a speeding, swerving, honking, seatbeltless car with a strange man. God, take me home now, this has got to be that line I cannot cross. But we knew the dilemma. Refusal would be insulting. It would cause our host to feel shamed and would damage our mission there. We would be ugly Americans. Christian ugly Americans.

We let them go, while the rest of us packed into two seatless cabs and I prayed throughout the entire trip. In letting them go, we broke nearly every rule they knew from home. Why? Because to hold on to our culture, our rules, and our expectations would have been to squash his. We couldn't do that and remain ambassadors for Christ.

China was the first time our older girls had been struck with the stunning realization―not everyone thinks the way we do. And sometimes, when thought patterns and rules of others run so contrary to ours and we run the risk of breaking tenuous fellowship, we’d better learn to bend. In other words―cultural sensitivity.

Not having really seen that many other cultures BC―Before China―the girls naturally believed theirs the gold standard. Now, not only do they understand sensitivity to others’ standards, they recognize that these different cultures are in fact all around them here at home. Just because someone has white skin doesn’t mean her “culture” may not be worlds away from your own. Through the experience of caring more about their mission in China than their “norms,” the girls practiced caring more at home, too.

OPEN HEARTS

"Eat your broccoli. There are starving children in China." No, I've never used that phrase, but I certainly remember hearing it as a child. It didn't have a whole lot of impact on most of us when our parents tried it, did it? Hungry children in a far-off land had little tangible meaning for us. 

I'll never have to use that phrase on my children -- they know. They've seen them. And the effect of seeing them may not cause them to clean their plates any better than I did 30 years ago (though my kids actually like broccoli), but its ripple effect goes way beyond broccoli.

We hugged Jenny last as we left the orphanage for the last time. Jenny’s quick smile, willingness to hold our hands, and curious eyes had charmed our whole family in China. We unanimously voted that, if we could bring one child home in a suitcase with us, it would be Jenny. Her story made those bright eyes even more amazing. A 42-year-old junk man found Jenny in a sewage ditch. He thought she was about a year old when he found her. He also found and cared for a young boy. They lived in an 8x8-foot cave with no electricity, water, or heat. The man seemed kind, the orphanage officials said, but his mental capacity made it difficult for him to care for Jenny. Her hair was so matted upon arrival it had to all be cut off. In “survival” mode for some time after arriving at the orphanage, Jenny had to slowly learn that there would always be food, and love, to go around.

Teaching kids gratitude for what they have is a great byproduct of a missions trip. But be careful -- as a primary motive for going in the first place, it stinks. (See Chapter 4.) If your kids are like ours, they have too much stuff and they want more. Kids (and adults) have a very difficult time distinguishing between wants and needs, as well as resisting the immediate gratification itch. On a missions trip, they will see their definition of "needs" drastically challenged.

In China we met kids living in caves. We saw farmers manually hoeing their fields in the hot sun. We met a boy thrown into a river to die because of his birth defect. We even met a whole orphanage full of kids who were (gasp!) grateful for the chance to go to school. It sent our kids’ well-ordered "everything I want is only a mall away" world into a tailspin. 

But when kids encounter the real needs of other people, no one responds more sincerely and more completely. Kids, so generous by nature, begin to put themselves in the supply and demand equations they had always assumed were part of the grown-up world. They realize--I can do without new shoes, McDonald's, another DVD -- in order to allow someone who has less to have more. A missions trip is no magic pill to make our children (or us) permanently grateful for all we have. They will still pine for the right clothes, newest electronics, or take-out food. (After all, so will you.) But they won't easily forget what they'll see, and it will influence future choices.

Beyond even the material things, however, our kids soon saw that other more profound differences existed for which they could give thanks. The children in the orphanage we visited were not female Chinese babies, as most people assumed. They were children of all ages with various reasons for being there. Some had been truly orphaned. Some were abandoned because of a birth defect or second marriage. Some lived with grandparents or relatives too elderly and impoverished to care for them. Some were just alone and couldn't even remember why.

All had one thing in common -- no safety net. When they lost a parent who cared for them, they lost everything. I didn't realize that our kids were even processing this until one of them asked me one day, "Mom, what will happen to us if you and Dad die?" 

"You will go to Aunt Cami and Uncle Peter’s." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes, everyone in both families knows that. It's arranged."

"How would we get there?"

"You've got Grandma and Grandpa and all your aunts and uncles. They’ll be here in an instant."

"Oh. Mom -- we're lucky."

Still further comes another wonderfully unexpected area of gratitude -- gratitude for their faith. The orphans’ stories caused us to wrestle with many a question about man's inhumanity to man.

Emily raced along the banks of the Yellow River doing what she did best -- keeping up with the boys. Their impromptu game of tag complete, one young boy and Em flopped down to enjoy some shade. I focused and shot to capture the smiling pair.

"That's Henry," the orphanage owner told us. "His smile is something special to see."

Henry, we learned, had been passed from relative to relative, never wanted in one place or staying there for too long. His double cleft palate made him a bad omen for his family and the butt of cruel and inhumane teasing from his peers. The last relative to have Henry shuffled off upon him decided the most "merciful" thing to do would be to throw him in the river and leave him to die. Seeing the boy, an elderly woman waded into the river and rescued him. Despite her poverty and near blindness, she raised him as best she could until the orphanage offered to give him a home complete with schooling and adequate food. They also provided the surgery to fix Henry’s smile. 

Many of the other kids’ stories had similar themes, if not so horrible in detail. How? our girls wanted to know over and over. How? The seemingly inexplicable behavior of other cultures can lead into the most profitable of all discussions with your kids on a mission trip. How does faith change a person? How does what you believe influence how you act? If there is no God, what difference does it make how we treat one another? If God is only a god to be feared and appeased, where do love and grace fit in? How does Christianity, which proclaims that we are made in the image of God and God would even give his life for us, compare with what you see? What is it really like to live without the hope of Jesus?

In a world where our children are taught that one religion is as good as another, coming face-to-face with the real-life implications of another belief system can shatter that feeble myth.

Everyone’s questions notwithstanding, we boarded the plane that October for an adventure together that I believe changed our children more than it did the adults. Why short-term missions? So many reasons. But still, sometimes, there are reasons not to go.

About the Author

Jill has a BA in English and Education from Washington University in St. Louis and an MDiv in theology from Bethel University, St. Paul. She is an award-winning writer and speaker. Jill has published three books and numerous articles in and speaks in Chicago and surrounding areas.

She serves as an Associate Pastor at Resolution Church in Naperville, Illinois. Jill performs musical theater in her community, serving as a board member, director, and producer for Acorn Community Theater. She coaches the local junior high Battle of the Books team, is Vice President of her library board, and plays counselor, coach, and referee to three daughters.

Contact Jill at:

 jills-books@comcast.net

www.jillmarierichardson.com

www.facebook.com/jillwrites

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction—Why? 

Chapter 1—Open Eyes 

Chapter 2—Head and Shoulders 

Chapter 3—And Some Final Reasons 

Chapter 4—Why Not? 

Chapter 5— I Got It on the Internet, It Must Be True 

Chapter 6— Can't I Just Hire a Telemarketer?
Chapter 7— Passports, and Shots, and Packing—Oh My! 

Chapter 8— Don't Ever Cross the Chopsticks
Chapter 9—Reality Bites 

Chapter 10—Packing Jesus 

Chapter 11—You Can't Go Home Again 

Appendix A—Sample Spiritual Gift Inventory 

Appendix B—Family Bible Study 

my way is the (wrong) highway

“Regrets, I've had a few. But then again . . .” . . . way too many to mention. Or repeat in public.

Woeful theology and narcissistic tendencies aside in the entire song, I'm thinking about just this line of Sinatra's famous theme today. It's become quite popular to embrace the idea that we should never regret anything. That everything happens for a purpose. Therefore, obviously, no one has to ever be sorry for anything. You've seen it on many a Facebook or Pinterest “wise saying” icon. Sounds like great “moving forward” advice. Except, it's wrong.

Mind you, I've probably said it occasionally. If we are who we are because of where we've been and what we've done, it makes sense that we've learned a few things from the bad stuff and should be grateful for it. And I am. I don't regret the things that have happened in my life in the sense that I wish things were different. I don't believe God needs to do an edit/rewrite. There is purpose.

But making the best of bad decisions, and allowing God to make the best of them, are not the same as not being sorry for them. And I think that more often than not when I see this idea being embraced, it's a way of letting ourselves off the hook. Just one more way modern America manages to blame someone else, or at least pretend bad choices aren't really bad choices. Just, um, mistakes. Alternate paths. Growth opportunities.

To quote child #3's new favorite show,

Suspect: “In retrospect, that might seem like it was a stupid thing to do.”

Officer: “Nope, no retrospect needed. It was stupid the moment you did it.”

Some things just are.

Accepting our past, making peace with it, and moving on is good. Healthy. Necessary. Taking the straw of life and making gold is redemptive and beautiful. But the fact is, making peace is impossible if we don't tell the truth about what happened. It's like Germany signing the Treaty of Versailles and then saying, “Well, OK, but didn't this all turn out well in the end anyway, so what do we really have to be sorry for?”

“For the kind of sorrow God wants us to experience brings repentance and results in salvation. There’s no regret for that kind of sorrow. But worldly sorrow, which lacks repentance, results in spiritual death.” (2 Corinthians 7.10) 

No regret for what? Actually admitting we were wrong, changing things, and then moving on. Never dealing with the problem ends badly. No shortcuts, if we want no regret.

I have regrets. I've screwed up. I don't dwell on them. I don't live with them daily. I've turned them over to God as past and asked him to forgive and forget. And he has, because he promises that. And so have I. He's made gold of some of it. But I've never seen a wound healed without first being cleaned. I've never seen a journey continued without clearing the road. Regrets? They're OK. Go ahead and have them. Deal with them. Then move on.

What's your least favorite popular saying?

nothing to wear?

I manged an amazing feat this morning. I scrubbed down the lawn furniture with bleach water and did not bleach one bit of the clothing that was terribly inappropriate for the job. Yes, I'm aware I should not have been wearing it.

That I had a good excuse means nothing, really. Tell that to child #2, who is constantly being stopped at the door by yours truly as she is exiting to paint the house or plant a rose in her favorite new dress. I tell her to reverse her little steps and go put on something appropriate for the job right now. Because I am the mom. And also most likely the buyer of the dress. So had I bleached my clothes, she would have not one iota of sympathy.

Appropriate attire for the job. If I go to a hospital Christmas party, at which I expect to be horrendously bored and have to remember names of people I meet once a year, I will nonetheless at least look good. I won't wear my ratty “Oklahoma” Tshirt and the Bears sweats I've painted in for twenty years.

If i'm mucking up a basement flood I will not, child #2, toss on my blue velvet dress and pearls. Just kidding. Not about the dress, about cleaning the basement. I don't do that. I don't care what I wear when that's being done, because I don't do it. But you get the point.

Like the photos above--Interchanging those outfits would probably be a bad idea. I'm thinking Lady Gaga hoops on a balance beam equal disaster. Playing in the snow in a leotard might get just a bit chilly. And going trick or treating in your footie jammies, well, that might actually work, so here is where the analogy begins to break down . . .

Which all leads me to wonder what I should be wearing as I go about daily business. And, not surprisingly, God has an answer to that.

“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.” (Colossians 3.12-14)

So if I find a relationship in distress or a job situation in disaster, maybe I just forgot to put on the right kind of clothes. Is it possible the anger or selfishness I was wearing for the occasion was totally inappropriate? (It always is. That was a trick questions.) Did I put on resentment this morning and then wonder why I was unhappy? Did I put on shoes of pride and then run right into trouble posting my views on Facebook? Why should I be surprised when I got a big fat mess all over myself if what I was wearing didn't match the job?

I'm thinking that with the leftover water out there I may wash down some of the house. The mildew on the siding could someday soon start forming its own version of “The Blob” and come inside and devour us all in bad 50's cinematography. (If you don't get the reference, I can't help you.) But knowing that will involve considerably more splashing, I will change first. The ratty “Oklahoma” Tshirt is white. It is perfect for the job.

doing time

Confessions of a literature snob: Every summer during college, I spent months reading what I refer to as “fluffy romance novels.” Novels which pretty much always took place in another century. They involved long pretty dresses and people with titles. Absolutely necessary therapy after stuffing my head with Shakespeare and James Joyce for nine months. There was just a limit my brain could handle without overheating and spilling boiling British literature all over the place. Which would not be pretty, let me tell you. Particularly the Joyce.

I had to escape.

Years later, I have not given up my lit-nerd ways by any means. Every morning when I walk/run/hobble for exercise, I listen to podcasts of—are you ready? The Tolkien Professor. It's the highlight of my day. Laugh if you will. I don't care—I live on a higher level. Or a completely fantasy one.

But a quote I heard one morning stopped me in my tracks, literally. When confronting public distrust of escapism, Tolkien asks, “Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home?”

And now you ask, what the heck does that mean? And what about it made you stop in the middle of the sidewalk, to the dismay of the bicyclist behind you?

Because he put into one sentence what almost every human being feels and cannot define. We would never tell a prisoner that his cell is all there is, and a world outside it, a world he once called home, doesn't exist. If we did, he'd call us the crazy ones. Of course it exists, and of course he'd far rather be there than in the cell.

The nutcase is the person who would paint a rainbow in his cell, light vanilla cookie candles, and start singing, “It's a small world after all.” (Of course, one could argue he wouldn't even imagine rainbows if there was not a real other world out there, but that's another theological question.)

I love this quote because it tells me that escapism, for the purpose of seeking something better, should not be laughed at. It shouldn't be something we're embarrassed to admit to. It's the most normal human response to a world we sense is fundamentally flawed. It's what any reasonable person who knew in her heart that home was somewhere else would do.


Notice I said for the purpose of seeking something better. Not just to retreat into your one little Unibomber cabin away from the world. (Though goodness knows I do want to do that sometimes, too.) We know there's something better. After weekends like this one, especially, we sense that. Something is very wrong with the present prison cell. 


The question is, do we light the cookie candle and pretend it ain't so, or do we recognize that we're looking for something that is more real than what we see? Something that, maybe, has the power to break into this broken world and shine some of that fantastical beauty on it? And are we courageous enough to admit we need to escape toward it?

As another of my favorite writers put it, "If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." C.S. Lewis

What do you consider escape?

six-dollar receipts

Working on our budget is depressing more often than not, but it doesn't usually make me tear up. But yesterday, while sorting receipts, I happened to pick up one from our favorite little coffee shop, La Spiaza in Wheaton. And it reminded me that two weeks before, I had sat there with middle child discussing literature, theater, and the likelihood that frying pans really would make great weapons in a pinch.

Which, of course, reminded me that she's not here, off to another corner of the world again, being young and adventurous. Hence the eye-moistness.

But this is not a poor-me-I-miss-my-baby blog. I mean, I've already done that. For me, its a reminder that the little things tend to turn into the big things.

The small kindness you show turns into a memory for someone that helps her turn a corner.

The meal you bring a couple college guys on their own becomes a thoughtfulness they pass on to the next person.

The compliment you paid someone who felt insecure with her self-image gave her the courage to hold her head up that day.

The two hours you spent tie-dying shirts with kids in a rough neighborhood made one think he had some value to someone after all. (Go, child #1!)

The six-dollar receipt you dig up from the bottom of a pile brings a bittersweet reminder of something very, very good.

I'm convinced that lots of little things make up the big things. Lots of little things can change the big things.

“Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.” Mother Teresa  

crazy bright courage

Nail polish is making a big splash these days. If you don't believe me, just take a quick browse of Pinterest. (No, guys, we won't take away your man card if you do. Although if you do start pinning a bunch of nail designs . . .) 

I'm pretty sure child #3 alone has “pinned” about forty-three ways to “do” your nails. It's the new fad.  

But even by those standards, the lady whose hands held my book at the table stood out. They glittered, swirled, and scattered light in a crazy pattern of bright. I loved it.

Then I looked up to see to face attached to the hands and noticed. She wore the tell-tale cancer scarf tied around her bald head. I complimented her nails, and she told me the story.

“I can't look the way I want to everywhere. It's taking its toll, and not just on my hair. But what I can do, I do. And I can make my hands stunning.”

And right then, I felt stunned by far more than her hands.

But what I can do, I do. I hesitate to add anything to that. It says it all. What's our excuse for so many things we never do? I've never done that. I'm not going to make a difference. There are just too many things in my way. I don't have enough time, talent, money, whatever. Someone else can. But what if . . . Maybe another time.

What I can do, I do. She couldn't cure cancer, or make her hair grow back, or run a marathon for research. But she could look for the positive in life. She could encourage other women with cancer. She could paint their nails (and she did). She could spend a day with her favorite thing—authors and books. She could spread beauty and joy in her corner of life, despite circumstances far worse than those that normally make the rest of us start grumbling into our Starbucks and whining at the first unlucky person to ask, “How's it going?”

What are your “fingernails”? What can you look at and say, “I'm going to make that beautiful, no matter what else isn't? I'm going to take one thing, and do what I can do with it?”

It doesn't have to be a part of you. It could be a part of something around you. A small bit of a larger cancer. Like the Section 8 neighborhood my daughter wants to make a garden in. It won't solve their problems. But it will be one stunning spot.

What I can do, I do. This lady could face life with courage. And stunning fingernails.

down and dirty

If you've seen the photos, you know. I was a dirty girl this weekend. For the second time. For the uninitiated, the Dirty Girl Run (and I use the term 'run' very loosely) is a 5K through a mud-covered obstacle course, all to benefit breast cancer and also laundry detergent manufacturers everywhere.

When my sister asked if we wanted to do it last year I thought, well why not? Actually, there are a lot of reasons why not, notably being I have never done a 5K in my life and I might seriously injure myself, but those did not occur to me. I just wanted to have fun with my sister. We are both cancer survivors, so we deserve it. Plus, I could fling mud at her like I did when we were kids and no one would punish me. (She would say no one did then, either, and she would probably be right.)

I thought I hated “Get Over It” most, the wall you have to climb over with footholds sized for a three-year-old's feet. A very small three-year-old. Scary. But this year, there was worse. “Netchix,” an endless pit full of deep, slimy, mud covered with a heavy net. Claustrophobia kicked in big time with the weight of that net on my head as we crawled. Did I mention I will not be joining the marines any time soon?

But I am not someone who will go around an obstacle unless it is pretty much court mandated. So, through we went, my youngest daughter and I.

My favorite part of the course, however, was not the well-deserved finish line. Nor even the even more well-deserved shower. It was the hill climb. Two big ropes, up a steep, muddy hill, then down it. This picture is me going down, which was quite fun, really. (And oh, I beat that young thing next to me down the hill, by the way.)

But the best part of the day was watching that hill climb. Before me went two other women. One looked to be in her seventies. The other, well, carried a lot more weight on her than she probably wanted to. When each woman faltered and looked as if she might not make it up the hill, every women at the bottom started cheering. Clapping. Yelling encouragement. Making a lot of noise. Letting two strange women know that we believed they could do it. And they did.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, rejoice! Strive for full restoration, encourage one another, be of one mind, live in peace. And the God of love and peace will be with you.” 

(2 Corinthians 13.11)

It's kind of embarrassing, honestly. A bunch of women who don't know each other are doing a better job of this than we are in the church. They instinctively knew what those women needed, they put themselves in their place, and they cheered, loud and long.

But in the church? I have to wonder if the reason it doesn't always feel like the God of love and peace is with us is that we aren't doing the first things mentioned here. In a recent Barna poll, the majority of people in churches, when asked if they experienced God's presence each week, said no. I'm grateful I do. But I wonder if there's good reason most don't.

Strive for restoration. Don't walk away from hurt, retaliate, or gossip. Restore relationships. Tough work. But if we want a God of peace we'd better invite peace into our presence.

Encourage one another. Show up for each other. Have each other's back in the tough stuff. Push them up the hill, if necessary. If instead we pull them down because we're jealous, or frustrated, or angry, don't look for a God of love.

Be of one mind. No, not agreeing on everything. That won't happen. Plus, it's boring. But agree that some things are more important than personal opinions, feelings, or preferences. Things like, ““Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Something to learn from a bunch of dirty girls.

it's a love-hate thing

"All endeavor calls for the ability to tramp the last mile, shape the last plan, endure the last hours toil. The 'fight to the finish spirit' is the one characteristic we must posses if we are to face the future as finishers." Henry David Thoreau

This morning, I was thinking that Thoreau had it about right. Not as in the above quote, mind you. As in, I think I'll get away from humanity and live in a ten by ten shack because even the lack of indoor plumbing has got to be better than dealing with people on a daily basis. Yes, that is the mood I woke up, perused my email and facebook, and drank my tea in.

Has that ever been your mood? OK, I would not be a pastor if I didn't love people, deep down. But there are times when that love gets so tested, tried, and yes, broken, that I really do want to abstain from human society and all its messiness and yell at everyone, “OK, fend for yourselves now. Jill has left the building!”

I know some of you get that. It's so much easier to hide than try to fix things, especially since some of those “things” are human beings, and they are historically resistant to “fixing.” Sometimes, it just feels like a cabin would be a better option for the duration.

A cabin not being a real option, a long walk this morning sufficed. If nothing else, it would help get me ready for the 5K mud run this weekend I am woefully unready for.

And Mr. Thoreau. He is right. Quitting isn't an option. I want to be a finisher. Part of my frustration right now is that so many people are not. They're in it until it gets messy or difficult or even just slightly annoying. I don't want to be that person. I want to be a finisher.

Could the reason humanity is such a mess be that so few of us are finishers? So many are ready to walk away in the face of fear or struggle or insult? Is the lack of a "fight to the finish spirit" the reason so many people leave marriages, friendships, churches, and jobs? I don't remember Jesus saying, “Hey, I did the hard part. The rest of this 'love God and people' thing will be nothing but an easy slide into home plate.”

I do remember him saying it would be hard, and we would be attacked, and heaven help us if we stand around eating potato chips and checking our botox in the mirror when we should be gearing up for battle. (That's a loose paraphrase.)

I want to be a tramper of miles and a shaper of plans. I want to be a finisher. How about you?

new thing Tuesday

Sassy  Pants’s bad behavior pushed everyone away. A close encounter with an electric  fence helped her begin to notice and care, but too late. No one trusted her. 

How do you fix a friendship when you are  the one who broke it? 
 
Follow Sassy Pants as she works to repair the friendships she broke! Find out how Sassy Pants learns to apologize, ask forgiveness and make amends with the help of two special friends. Making amends is not easy, but having friends is worth it!


Sassy Pants is a great resource for homeschoolers. It has also been used in recovery groups (!), because of the simple way it explains the step of "Make Amends."


Author Carol A. Brown says, “I began telling stories when I had enough brothers to make an audience!” (She has four brothers and one sister!) Carol is a retired teacher who was raised in a rural farming community in Iowa. She enjoys reading and writing, nature and music, piano, knitting, crocheting, painting and telling stories! “I am dedicated to knitting sweaters and spinning yarns!”


Check out Sassy Pants Makes Amends today only for special promotions by Carol. /http://www.sassypantsmakesamends.com/

current nonwisdom

Seven for May is over. I am fully restored, if I so choose, to my seven banished forms of electronics. Welcome back, Facebook, Pinterest, Jigzone, car radio, iPod, television, and gps. Gollum/Jack Sparrow, I have missed your voices telling me where to go. 

I have felt both better and worse for being so unplugged for one month. Yes, I have felt out of touch, and I have not liked it. But, I have also felt more time in my life, more quiet in my life. And God said, it was good.

So the question weighing on me the last couple weeks has been—How do I maintain the good gain while “replugging”?

So maybe some of my new strategies for management will help some of you as well. Or maybe, you'll have better ideas to springboard off these.

First, email—Current time management wisdom is to handle email once or twice a day so it doesn't become an interruption and time sucker. Current wisdom is often wrong. For me, it's really a better use of time to try to answer it as it comes in. If I don't, chances are it may sink into the deep dark anonymous hole that becomes my inbox. Trust me, I will never find it again.

Plus, I just get overwhelmed when there is a ton of email to go through, and I procrastinate on it. Does this happen to you? So, it's easier to take care of it right away, and it actually takes less time.

Important caveat--I have to make sure I get back to the task at hand afterward. If I remember what that task was. For someone who can't remember why I opened the refrigerator, that can be tricky.

The other thing I did about email was to create a ton of separate folders within my inbox. A huge source of stress for me is the mental clutter of knowing there are messages, phone calls, and appointments out there in free fall but not knowing exactly where they are. Or knowing they're all in my endless inbox. Thus, a neat arrangement where I can pay attention to one segment at a time. Church, blogs I follow, writing group, theater, etc. All neatly organized so I can deal with them one at a time. Yeah!

Once a week, I'll now go through each of those boxes and deal with anything left over. Yes! I am going to love this.

That's one area of electronic clutter I am learning, through 7, to “de-noise.” I'll talk about some of the other areas another day. Anyone else have great suggestions?

new thing tuesdays

I'm starting a new thing on Tuesdays, and I think I'll call it . . . New Thing Tuesday. Has a ring to it, no?

There are so many of us out there loving to write but loving to market? Not so much. And these days, it's pretty much all on us. Unless you're Stephen King. And I'm not. Ick, I'd be scaring myself on a daily basis. I already do some days.

So on selected Tuesdays, I'm going to be bringing attention to new books and telling you a bit about them. If it's a genre you like to read and it sounds interesting, there are usually some free gifts associated with that day's launch, so click on through. Like this one: http://tammyhillbooks.blogspot.com/p/knowing-launch.html

So to kick off . . . ah, what was that again? New Thing Tuesdays (what will I do when it's a an old thing?), here is the first writer, Tammy Hill (pictured above), from where I'd love to be, the south of France. 

Ember Matthews has a gift...

Sixteen-year-old Ember Matthews is tired of being the person everyone else wants her to be. Although she is nervous about moving to a small town and leaving behind the comforts of her old life, Ember welcomes the opportunity to escape the mistakes and pain of her past. 

Ember truly wants to change, but when faced with temptation and peer pressure from some new friends, she finds herself slipping into the same old patterns.  As she reconnects with God, Ember begins to realize that she is no ordinary teenager. She sees things that no one else sees and knows things she has no business knowing.  Will Ember learn to use her God-given gift, or will the burden of her calling be too much for her to carry?

Readers Reviews:  

 "Tammy Hill has hit a home run with her first published novel."

A Christian Supernatural Novel for Teens, Knowing:  A Series of Gifts.  Today only:  Purchase your copy and enter to win a Kindle. http://tammyhillbooks.blogspot.com/p/knowing-launch.html

is anything bugging you?

It was one of those split-second decisions. Which is not normally how I operate. FlyLady (http://flylady.net/) said that I had to clean out from under my bed last week, and when FlyLady speaks, I've learned to listen.

I knew what was under that bed. Almost forty years worth of a collection that has now spanned two generations. When I was eleven, I took a summer school class in biology. (Yes, for fun. Call it weird if you want. I'm OK with that.) In that class, we learned two things: how to play Frisbee, and how to collect insects. I'm still pretty good at both.

Collecting insects appealed to me, because 1) I love collecting things; 2) I love identifying things; and 3) I love wildlife. And no, it is not inhumane, since, as was pointed out to me, insects live for a grand total of about two weeks anyway. So it's not like you're ridding the planet of the spotted snow leopard or anything.

Later, two daughters would continue the saga, and one would amass a hefty collection of 4H championship trophies for those efforts. Her work was superior, by any standards.

But it was time, I realized, for that collection that we have all stopped adding to to find a new home. I've been avoiding that decision for years, because parting with almost 40 years of memories, hard work, and a great deal of family memories into is a tough, tough thing to do. So before I could rethink it, I googled natural history museums, dashed an email off to one of them, and offered up those years.

Reaction of daughters who owned part of collection:

#1—Well, OK, I guess. Maybe. But can I look at it one last time?

#3—Psh. So?

You can guess which one won the trophies.

So on a very rainy day last week, nine boxes of six-legged critters found a new home at the Midwest Museum of Natural History (http://www.mmnh.org/). To say the staff was ecstatic when they saw the extent of their bequeathment (I thinkI just created that word) is like saying the Field Museum was happy to acquire Sue.

Which is what made the parting easier. Someone will love that collection. Kids will learn from it. Instead of being tucked under my bed with nowhere to display them, they're out in the world. (And really, my friends already think I'm odd. How do you think they'd feel about us if we did display nine boxes of dead insects in strategic locations around our house? “Hi—welcome to dinner. Oh, don't mind the giant wasp behind the table. Just part of our ambiance.”)

Bottom line: They're being used and profiting other people in a way they could not in our possession. And people think we're generous benefactors instead of scary psycho freaks. It's a win-win.

Do you have things like that in your home? Or maybe not tangible things in your home, but perhaps cramming your soul? Those things that may have been useful and valuable once, but now they are collecting cobwebs? A lot of us have talents hiding under our proverbial beds, or gifts that we hold close rather than use. We've been storing them up, but no one is benefitting from them because we are afraid or too busy to take them out and set them free.

I look forward to a trip to the museum to see our collection finding new life. Dust off a talent or two and see what you can do, as well.