sorry not sorry--ten things I'm done with (while still being polite)

Some things I've taken my kids out of
school for. Yeah, not sorry.

My daughter posted this video the other day and began a rant discussion about how perhaps rather than stop saying “sorry” we should all—male and female—just be more polite. Amen. A little “sorry” can make for more kindness all around. I plan to keep it in the repertoire.

Yet for whatever reason lately, I started making a mental list called “Things I'll Never Apologize for Again.” I think it's healthy, as long as you don't go overboard and go with the whole, “I am who I am and no one better question it,” thing. 

Honestly, I hate the current “take me as I am” party. I get that women (it's usually women) need to feel empowered and confident. Absolutely. But to imply that the rest of the world had better adjust to whatever you feel like doing and being, regardless of how plain insensitive that may be? Um, no thanks.

We all need questioning once in a while. We all need tweaks of improvement. Sometimes, I need a complete attitude overhaul. I'll be the first to say (before my children do publicly) that I do not have it all together and should not be left as I am to remain as I am. God has more work to do. I appreciate His willingness.

But we apologize all the time for stuff we should not. Then I thought, what the heck? Why not share the list. It's a fairly random list. So, here's my list, so far, of things I am so done apologizing for. What would you add?

1--Telling people the truth. Nicely. I used to worry they might not like me anymore. Now, I worry more about being trusted than liked. I care more about peoples' needs than their good opinions. More them, less me. It's a nice tradeoff. Understand, I don't do this with total strangers. Because 1--I haven't earned the right by hanging in a real relationship, and 2-- I haven't had time to gauge the person's likelihood of owning a firearm. And should I stress again? NICELY.

2--Explaining to a phlebotomist she/he only gets one chance. I have had my blood taken approximately 5 ½ billion times. Give or take. Some of these people could find a vein in the dark and I wouldn't even feel it. Others appear to be on an archaeological dig. I finally decided that if I was going to do this on a bimonthly basis, it would be on my terms. This is particularly relevant right now, as the last person to perform the task hit a nerve, and my left arm is painfully disabled. I will not apologize for never letting him near me again.

Classroom in China, on mission trip where all three kids
were out of school. Gasp. 

3--Being smarter. It starts in school when the smart kids are the ones made fun of. We learn to hide it, pretend it isn't so, and apologize if we give even the hint of an impression we think we know what we're talking about. I'm done. I like to learn, I probably do know the answer, and it's a Reading Rainbow out there, people.

But it's OK. Because you're probably better at math, or more musically talented, or able to make conversation far better than I am. Maybe you're just plain nicer. Or you are an ace at Twitter, which puts you above a lot of us. Odds are really in your favor that you're a better cook. Can we just be happy to be diverse and encourage one another's gifts? Wouldn't that be a great world? I think so.

Birthday zoo trips out of school? Just don't eat the food.

4--Taking my kids out of school to learn something better. Hey, I used to be a teacher. I know what they'll miss in a week. I also know what they'll learn by a mission trip to Latin America or in the museums of Washington DC. I know what they'll remember from a surprise day off with just mom at the zoo. (Besides the food poisoning. That's what Child #3 chiefly remembers from that excursion.) I know which will matter longer.

5--Deciding I don't like something. It's not you, it's the brussels sprouts. And green beans. And wine. And Indian food. And most chick flicks. That kid who sat at the dinner table for five hours because her mom said, “You won't get up from that chair until you've eaten that chop suey? That was me.

I vividly remember the time the wind blew our back door shut and shattered the glass in it. Even my mom would not make me eat chili potentially laced with glass shards.

But now—I've tried those things. I've made it a hobby to try new things and never say never. And if I still don't like it? I don't have to pretend to. It's not you, it's me. And we're both OK to like what we want. That extends to political opinions, by the way.

6--Not explaining why I can't do something. It's taken me years to realize—I don't have to. Conversely, you don't have to explain to me, either. If we're good friends, I trust your decision. If not, it's none of my business. So if you invite me somewhere, and I say I can't, please don't ask why. I am not required to say.

7--Giving people a break. I know, I know. Give them an inch, they'll take a mile. Give the homeless guy a dollar, and he'll use it for booze. Give that kid a second chance, and he'll walk all over you. You've got to protect yourself. It's better to be safe than sorry. You know what? Not so much.

I'd rather give and be taken advantage of than hold back because I might look foolish. I'd rather be walked all over by ten kids if it saves just one. I'd rather give someone a second, third, tenth chance and be wrong than not give one and be wrong. And I'm not going to apologize anymore for having a tender spirit. It's not stupid—it's just an economy of the heart rather than the head. You may be safer. But I'm not at all sorry.

8--Saying, “I don't think that's right.” Firmly and unapologetically.

9--Being a woman and a pastor. I will be polite, respectful, thoughtful, and gracious. But I will not back down. There is too much at stake in the kingdom of God. For me, it's no longer “don't rock the boat with my brothers and sisters.” It's, “God wants to unleash his kingdom, and we're telling half the population they're less qualified to take part.” We're hampering the only real mission there is and paining his creation. That's unacceptable to me anymore.

And last one. Niagara Falls. Because the exchange student
needed to check off one more country she'd been to.
And, it was senior ditch day, after all. 

10--Not once in my life saying totes, adorbs, LOL, or cray cray. Except in cases dripping with sarcasm. Oh wait, not sorry. Not ever been sorry. Scratch that.

OK, your turn. What are you going to stop apologizing for? What have you learned about yourself you don't need to hide?

And maybe later we should talk about—what should we apologize for more often?

joy

Linking today with a great, fun project. Click and check it out!

No Words Are Needed

what is one thing?

Last week, I mentioned one of my all-time favorite comic strips. The Closet of Anxieties and scary beasties that won't let us sleep. What's the best tactic for tackling that scary place that harbors all our biggest fears and nagging worries?

I found a quote that perfectly sums up my new philosophy of fear.

When I’m afraid, I have a practice of walking right into my fears rather than away from them. If people can get used to that, their fear will dissipate. Most of the power of fear is in your mind; it doesn’t really exist. It’s just this idea that looms because we are unwilling to face it. But the way to declaw it, the way to defuse it, is to step into it—right into the middle of it—and do the thing that you are afraid to do. (Michael Hyatt)

Isn't this true? Simply, plainly, true? But soooo hard. As Princess Mia would say, “The concept is grasped. The execution is a little elusive.”

“The way to declaw it is to step into it.” Eek.

So quickly, today—what is one thing you need to declaw? Notice, I didn't say want. I said need.

What is one step you can take to walk straight into it? What equal and opposite reaction might you get when you step forward? (There will always be opposition to change. Inertia has power. That's why it's called a law of the universe.) Can you prepare for that?

Take that one step, and tell me about it. Let's walk together.

And for fun, appreciate the genus of Opus here. We all need a dandelion break.

is safe overrated?

Fear. Risk-taking. Change. Becoming. All words in popular use right now. All words I use a lot in this blog. Words that, on this day after Father's Day, I want to put into the perspective of parenting.

I can't say my parents were the overprotective sort. As the parents of seven kids, they considered crowd control their main activity and lack of injury on any given day a bonus. 

As the last of those seven, I basically flew under any radar that remained. I could have done just about anything. But I didn't. Like Binkley, I lived with a closet full of fears that didn't make a lot of sense if one examined them, but I never did.

Naturally, with that background, I followed the masses who tried to make certain no nasty beasties harmed my wonderfully special children. I covered their ears; I fought their battles; I slapped helmets on their heads and blinders on their eyes. It made sense. Then. (And bicycle helmets still make sense—let's be quite clear on that, my children.)

Now, I have children who want to skydive and take flying lessons and go on archaeological digs in the Middle East (and that's only one of them).

I have a theory. Maybe this regeneration of thrill seeking and risk taking is a result of a generation that has been trussed in bubble wrap and carefully structured from sunrise to bedtime since the day they were born. It's their rebellion against the can't-be-too-safe paranoia of their parents. I don't really blame them.

In fact, quite often I've joined them. It's been terrifyingly freeing. Honestly, you don't know what you're capable of until you're zipping down a mile-long cable over the Costa Rican canopy.

I wonder--maybe all the half-pipe skiers and shark swimmers are one big reaction to American paranoid parenting.

And now, we have studies like this one that surprise us by showing that, when we allow kids to be kids and use their common sense around risk, they actually do better. They are less bored, less violent with one another, and more engaged learners. Maybe, we were wrong to take away the slides and dodgeballs.

Might I turn a corner and suggest this is also true spiritually?

With three-fourths of youth leaving our churches and not intending to return, we have to ask the reasons. And while they are probably complex, I wonder if one of them might not be that we focused too much on protecting said youth. 

We spent too much of our time holding their little ears lest they hear a bad word and too little of our time opening their ears to the world around them and their place in it as God's person.

Young people are turning away because, according to Barna surveys, they find the church too judgmental and too ingrown. Might that be code for “You taught us to stay away from what was wrong but never told us how to make those things right? You kept us in our sanitized Sunday school rooms and homeschool classes but never accepted the messiness of honest life? You kept us safe but pointless? 

(I am NOT blasting homeschooling here. Let us be clear on that. Only some of the reasons people give for doing it. I believe it's a great alternative for reasons other than protectionism.)

Our kids want to go down giant metal slides and feel the wind and yes, sometimes feel the concrete beneath. They want to get on the dodgeball court that is the real world and see if they have what it takes to play hard and long. They find our Holy Grail—safe—overrated. They are leaving the church that has told them that safe is their highest goal. I don't blame them. We lied.

And there's one of my terrors. Going up stairs
you can see through. Many, many stairs.

I see two choices for the church and parents. We can equip them to take on their yearnings with Christ, or we can retreat and let them go at it alone. We can guide them toward the battles worth fighting and the thrills worth seeking, or we can let them jump off cliffs for their thrills, desperate for a feeling but devoid of purpose. We can smugly watch them “get it out of their systems,” or we can point them to the heart worth following, the one that took a giant risk to love us and live among us.

They will go at it. This is a generation that believes in blasting the door off the anxiety closet. If we want them back in the church, we've got to stop steering them away from the doors and instead put the light sabers in their hands. And honestly? If we want to be taken seriously in that, we've got to go through a couple doors ourselves.

Afraid? Try ziplining somewhere. It will put you in the mood.

because accents sell

hey, good for you can be pretty

Overheard at a writing conference I attended:

Writer: “Well, my hero is kind of brash, mega-hot, of course, and . . .”

Editor: “Wait. Can you make him Scottish and immortal? Because that would sell.”

It's no secret to anyone who has even fleetingly seen a book cover the past few years what sells. If it features a vampire, werewolf, zombie, or possibly angel, it sells.

And in romance circles, it's true that if the guy is from Scotland, he's automatically attractive. Well, that one makes sense. I mean, the accent and all. I totally am on board with that preference.

The advent of web 2.0 and the declining budgets of businesses have meant new marketing for just about everyone, those of us in creative and service fields especially. Basically, it's up to us to sell ourselves. So it makes sense to go after what we know sells.

This isn't true solely for writers. It's been conventional wisdom in that other big thing I do—church--for some time. Find out what people want and tailor what we do to meet them where they are. And it makes sense—to a point.

Yet I'm uncomfortable with the whole thing. On one level, yes, agreed. We have to know our audience. We have to determine what they want and need. We should try to fill those needs or we have no real purpose doing what we do. Certainly no rationale for saying we care. Paul said that we should “be all things to all people to reach some.”

But part of me holds back. Part of me whispers, “What about what people need?” Part of me wonders whether serving people and giving them what they want is really synonymous or a semantic game of marketing to the biggest audience.

I'm not sure.

I just completed a grocery shopping trip. I filled the entire cart with produce, pretty much. Organic produce. Pricey stuff, that. I would have liked to fill it with garlic bread and key lime ice cream and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Really, really liked to. But I didn't. I didn't because I know that a diet of those things would result in me being tired, overweight (OK, more overweight), and icky all over. My productivity level would tank.

It's what I want—and the stores know it. That's why there was an entire aisle of only ice cream. But the part of me that knows what I really long-term-goal want—a healthy body that functions for all the things God has for it to do? That part avoids the things before my eyes meant to engage me at the level of “want.” I hunger for need. 

But what I want has so much more curb appeal than what I need. [tweet this].

Who is offering the broccoli while we run after the mac and cheese?

Who is hawking salmon when I'm lured by fish and chips?

Who is waving carrot sticks at me when the 3 Musketeers are turning my head?

Who is speaking the things we may not want to hear, and how are they dong it in an environment where selling a popular self is the only way to get a platform? If no one is, then we will have an entire church of spiritually obese, sluggish, non-disciples. Spiritual obesity is not a pretty sight.

What if we just need a plate of unattractive, unbuttered-up, peas and carrots?

Does a mysterious immortal guy with a scottish accent sell in the marketplace? Yes.

But what if what we really need is an average-looking mortal guy from Pittsburgh who just does the right thing?

Honestly, I think he's easier to live with in the long run anyway.

Shaking hands with skeletons (and other things I don't try)

Remember that scene in Fellowship of the Ring where Pippin knocks the skeleton into the mine shaft? No? Well, I remember it. Of course, I remember all LOTR scenes and could probably reenact any of them, given enough time to get a costume together. But let me recap.

Pippin—the goofball of the fellowship—just has to touch this skeleton's hand. I am not sure why he has to. Touching a skeleton would not be on any of my “Do This Before You Die” lists. But, he is Pippin. He is the Curious George of Middle-earth.

He accidentally knocks it into the shaft, setting off a foreboding echo all through the caves. You guessed it—the bad guys hear the noise and come running. Cue angry eyes and not so fellowship-y words toward Pippin.

But wait. Let's take a look at the chain of events afterward.

Eeew

>Pippin knocked a skeleton into a well. 

Stay with me here. This has a point.

>This act forced Gandalf to fight one of the aforementioned bad guys, a balrog. 

Because we all know grey just looks like it needs bleach.
not to mention he stars to use basic grooming after that.

>Thus, Gandalf gets to die and return as Gandalf the White, more powerful and, well, clean looking. 

Yeah, this one goes in all kinds of directions
 

>This allows him to defeat Saruman in Rohan, free Theoden, save the kingdom in war, thus saving Eowyn from death. (Whew!)

Since Eowyn is conveniently alive, this allows her to kill the Witchking and thus save . . . all of Middle-earth. True story.

Without Pippin's dumb act, Frodo would have never made it to the Mountain because everyone else would have died first. And the books would have been a lot shorter. And heaven knows what Peter Jackson would have used to fill out the other movies. (Wait. We're not sure what he's using now. But that's another story . . . )

Some days, I'm a lot like Pippin. Saving the world by screwing up.

*I hurt a friend and offer that look of horrified repentance you often see on Pippin's face. Forgiveness becomes sweeter than what was there before.

*I advertise my failures as a parent in a national magazine. Women relate and feel hope.

*I (unintentionally) torch a dessert meant for company. We laugh over it, and the frailty that is our mask of perfection slips long enough to create real relationships.

*I carelessly leave credit cards around when I know I shouldn't, and suddenly the kid who steals them is living in my house and talking to me about Jesus.

My messes somehow leave more room for God to work, not less. I haven't figured out the math on that. I think it's in 1 Corinthians 1 somewhere. How God can take less and make more when the best mathematician at MIT can't.

I want to be more like Pippin. I calculate too much at times, and I fear failure to a paralyzing extent too often. I prefer being right. I don't play nicely with admitting wrong. Sometimes, I ought to just touch the skeleton's hand to see what will happen.

Leave a place for others to look in the holes and cracks and be comforted. Leave space for an unexpected turn of events that may come from my mistake. Leave room for God to take my weakness and make others stronger.

I knew there was a reason I liked Pippin. Besides the accent.

To read more about Pippin and how much we can relate, check out Hobbits, You, and the Spiritual World of Middle-earth. A devotional/Bible study for teens on Amazon.

when life happens, at least get pictures

Hello! We interrupt this regularly scheduled 
blog to bring you this:

Prom 2014

My kind-of-might-as-well-be daughter
We are blessed to have her.
So is he.

and this: 



                and this:



















and this, too:

because we have to celebrate those graduating peoples. 
Also, graduating people have to move home
so they can afford to look for a job. And all
their stuff conglomerates in the dining room
because their bedroom may still be in use by our
wonderful exchange student. Such is life.

These things happened as well:

Church with lovely MOPS ladies who (I think)
enjoyed my talk

school with 100 fantastic, smart high school
students I got to talk to for hours!

Discipleship conference where I learned how to do
what I do. Better.

Yes, this has all happened just in May, so no, there is no regular blog post today. And in fact, it was supposed to be yesterday, and it wasn't then either. That's how crazy it's been around these here parts. So--here is the photodocumentary of two weeks in the life of this author. I did not include pics of the wedding anniversary and the birthday because, well, we haven't had time to celebrate those yet. Even though they, too, happened this week.

and this yet to come in a few days

But--life has settled again into semi-normal rhythms. Hey, the laundry and dishes are done, so sanity cannot be far behind. Normal programming will return next week. Thanks for understanding!

And now, it's nap time.

dreams, diplomas, and shenanigans

Our family celebrated a first yesterday. Child #2 graduated from college—our first college grad. 

In a blindingly short time, child #3 will pack up and begin her college years. 

I have enjoyed having a kid at college a ten-minute drive away, and it is completely not cool that Child #3 is not being as cooperative. Not cool—but it is right.

Yesterday we watched that raven-haired toddler with the adorable curls and the insatiable need to take things apart stand tall and accept her diploma—a paper validating her need to explore, take apart ideas, and put together her own worldview. 

There have been bumps, bridges, tears, and peals of laughter on the journey of this young woman becoming a force to be reckoned with. I can't think of one thing I would add to make the person I saw cross the stage better. Time, experience, and God will do their work in refining her. But at this moment, there are not many a-few-days-shy-of-twenty-two-year-old women like her. At least, that's my personal belief.

So on the day after your college graduation, Thing 2 (aka Shenanigan girl), here is what your mother wishes for you:

• I want for you a joy in being independent and loving the life you create with God. Maybe Prince Charming will walk in, and maybe he won't. Either way, make a life you love. Look forward to what you can do, not backward to what you didn't get.

• I want for you a simple life that knows it isn't the things but the experience. It will be so difficult, especially if you join the suburban-house-with-kids merry-go-round, to keep that focus. Resist the urge to be like everyone else and have all that they have and do all they do. They do not have it all.

• I want for you a recognition every day that time is fast and people grow up or disappear from your life. Don't be so busy you forget that. Don't watch kids grow up or parents get old or friends move away while you're concentrating on cleaning a house or forwarding a career. There is always time for people.

• I want for you the joy of being a mom. Plus, I want to get my revenge for all the kitchen cooking “projects” and grocery store meltdowns. But if that doesn't happen, I want the joy of throwing yourself into the lives of other children who need someone like you. The willingness to forget caution and toss unconditional love at someone who hasn't experienced it. You'll get hurt. All lovers do. Just do it anyway.

• I want for you a quiet faith that there is One who loves you beyond what even I can do, and He has your life and your heart in his hand. I want this bedrock to be your refuge no matter what life throws at you. I want it to be your launching pad to venture out into the scary world and do whatever it is He calls you to do. I want it to be your first thought on waking and your last thought on going to sleep. Jesus loves me. This I know. With that, you can do anything.

Not bad for a kid who still, technically, does not have a high school diploma.

the big band theory

There was really no choice. The car pulled up next to use as we waited for the bus in San Francisco. The stereo was blaring big band music. And I love big band music. We danced. Middle Child and I. On the sidewalk, at the bus stop, in the middle of the city. I believe a few people raised eyebrows, but then again, this was San Francisco. Possibly no one even noticed.

I've seen the pretty pictures with the encouragement to “dance like no one is looking.” It's easy to say. I never find it so easy to do. It is not in my nature to stand out in public. If there are people looking, I don't want them looking at me unless I am behind a podium or on a stage. But letting go and freestyling it in public? Sooo not me.

The Streets of San Francisco.
a whole new meaning

I get braver when I'm with my kids. Being in a city where no one will ever see me again doesn't hurt, either. For a couple minutes, we had a glorious time dancing and not caring who was looking.

Tomorrow is my sister's birthday. She would have been have been 63 this year. I know—I am not old enough to have a sister who would be 63. Keep telling me that. One of the advantages about being the youngest of seven. I have nephews almost as old as I am. But Marilyn isn't 63 tomorrow, because she died just short of her 25^th birthday. Why is this relevant? 

Because she would have danced.

Marilyn spent twenty of her 25 years in a wheelchair because of muscular dystrophy. I never knew her any other way. Every time my sister went out in public she drew attention. She probably didn't want to either, but in those days, wheelchairs in public were not commonplace. 

Maybe that's why she grew into the kind of person who didn't seem to care what people thought. She had to either cringe at the attention or smile at it. Being the wise woman she was, she chose the latter.

Marilyn did all kinds of things no one thought she could. Graduated high school. Got baptized in a swimming pool. Lived ten years longer than they told her she would. But one thing she definitely never did was dance. I am guessing my sister would have loved to dance.

Child #1, who already knows
how to do this well.

Dance like no one's looking. It's a nice idea. But it jut seems like no matter how well we play the “I'm not listening” game, we know someone is listening. And looking. And talking. And thinking we're out of our minds. No matter how much I don't want to, I care too much about that.

It may be dancing. It may be writing. It may be parenting, or painting, or preaching. Whatever it is, it is hard to do it without fear of someone's critical eye. 

Not without consideration--considering others' ideas and opinions is good. I said FEAR. And that's not.

So what I'm thinking is, maybe next time I'll think of Marilyn. Who never danced in her whole life. Who would have. She would have, and she would have relished the chance. Maybe I'll think about how blessed I am to have two legs, or whatever it is I need to do whatever it is I'm afraid of. And I'll dance for her. Because she would have liked that.

What is public opinion keeping you from doing? Who is your inspiration for dancing?

Saving Mr. Jesus (is that sacrilege?)

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall.
Yes, Robert Frost knew where it was at.

For Easter, we got Child #2 the movie Saving Mr. Banks. She is a big Disney fan. This is the child who would wear a ball gown gardening if she could find a fairy godmother to launder it later. (Note: I am not a fairy godmother.) So, this movie + her = yes.

We watched it this week for the first time. If you haven't seen it, I have two things to say to you. 1—Why the heck not? What is wrong with you? And 2—Go. Get your Amazon or Netflix account signed in and watch it. Now.

Story synopsis: P.L. Travers, author of Mary Poppins, refuses to sell movie rights to Walt Disney on account of his tendency to turn stories into overly optimistic, animated saccharine. That's her stated reasoning, at least. Really, however, her refusal stems from the childhood trauma of losing an affectionate father to alcoholism and tuberculosis. It colors how she views everything, even—especially—optimism and imagination. Learning to free her father allows her, in the end, to free her story as well. Roll credits.

Young P.L. Travers could not control her father's actions. No matter how hard she tried to be good enough, he made his own drastically bad choices whose consequences reverberated for decades. In reply, she carefully controlled all aspects of her life from then on. Nothing would get in. No one would alter her equilibrium. She would always be practically perfect in every way, but nothing else ever quite was.

She maintained control of Mary Poppins not because she didn't want it to become a Disney movie but because she didn't know how to let go. Of anything.

I've done that. A result of my possibly-stubborn-perfectionist personality but also my background, I suppose. There are a lot of control issues attendant on a kid who lost both parents at 17—one to death and one to alcohol. You kind of start to draw the walls close. You want to know, with certainty, what is and is not going to remain inside your suffocating safe world.

I'm going to take a wild guess and suppose there are more than two of us who have ever done this sort of thing.

It's also what I'm increasingly realizing we do in our evangelical world.

We evangelicals are the kid who's seen too much too soon of what the world can do, and we have the control issues to prove it. We're a whole subculture of P.L. Traverses running around, and should I remind you of something? No one likes her much in the beginning.

We draw the walls close. We decide who's in our world and who's out. And sometimes, we have solid biblical reasoning behind some of those lines. But way too often? The lines are drawn by fear, not faith.

We spend way too much time deciding who's up to our practically perfect standards and far too little time freeing Mr. Banks. And ourselves.

Guilty as charged.

We're afraid. So darn afraid. So stupidly, erroneously, un-Godlike, afraid. Something might get in to make us uncomfortable and uncertain. Like P.L. Travers, we've seen the dangerous results of free will, and control suits us better. It's safer. It's sunnier. It's . . . unbiblical. Oops.

Hey, anyone remember where that free will thing we're trying to improve upon came from?

God turned his people free to learn, in their faltering, mistake-ridden, yes, sin-infested way how to love Him well. He offered to do whatever was necessary to help them love Him well. Then He did it. And it was the sacrifice, not the safety, that finally drew our hearts to His.

I told our lead pastor yesterday I was having a crisis of evangelicalism. It's not a crisis of faith, but maybe a crisis of the faithful? One thing I learned at the writing conference I attended recently was that I am called to remain where I am—firmly in the evangelical world. But no longer as an order-obeying enlistee. As a revolutionary. Funny, that's what the “What type of person are you” quiz I took the other day said I was anyway. (Although that might just be because I said I'd like to vacation in Paris.) Might as well embrace it.

And what say we juts stop using these things?

My risk, in line with being part of that fantastic group RiskRejection (do go read their inspiring posts! After you finish mine), is to willingly live with uncertainty. To embrace the not knowing. To peek through some of those walls and love, really love, people outside them--not to bring them inside my walls but to expand my small world. And to accept that the world I belong to might not like that.

I heard someone the other day say that, “As long as another person is in agreement with me on the non-negotiables, we can be in Christian fellowship.” OK, I can understand that. It's just that I suspect my list of non-negotiables is much shorter than yours. And I'm not as sure as you are that your rules are drawn from Scripture as they are from a fear that once you open those floodgates, there's no way to control what may come through.

That is so gloriously true. There isn't. Amen. There isn't.