Taking a stand

I blame David Hess.

He was the owner of the gym that I worked out at in high school. He was also a church member and family friend which, apparently, gave him the right to boss me around while I worked out at his gym. He wasn't my personal trainer, as such, but he thought he was. The only thing I got to decided was what cardio machine to use and for how long. Once I was finished with that, he took over. He started me on this circuit training system and pushed me to do the complete circuit more than once each time I came to the gym. He had me doing these weighted calf raises. I hated weighted calf raises! I complained throughout the entire set of reps only to find that because of my bad attitude, he expected me to do another set of them.

As much as I hated to admit it, however, I was really feeling the results. Not too long after I started going to David's gym, I noticed these muscles in my legs that hadn't been there before! My calves, especially seemed really strong and tight. Perhaps my bad attitude and extra reps had paid off!

Every October and November, shoe stores assemble their displays of tall, leather boots that have made it to the "Must Have" list of every major fashion designer's table. They go with everything. But, I have to longingly walk right by those displays. To this day, some ten years after David's weighted calf raises, I cannot fit my calf into these tall leather boots. My calf muscles will overpower any zipper, any day. I hate it. I want those boots. And, I blame David Hess.

Life, sometimes, feels like a pinball machine to me. Little levers of issues and conflict, unexpected traumas, and devastating situations sling me forward and propel me headlong into a maze of flashing lights and ringing bells. The more bumps and bruises I receive, the more points I rack up.

I used to think my job was to fight: fists up, face grimacing, stomach taunt, ready to block the first blow and prepared to deliver the second. I would fling my arms around and yell and curse and say things that I thought would thwart the enemy and his evil schemes to take my joy, convince me of my shallow worth, and destroy me from the outside in. It only led to my exhaustion, usually tears, and always turned into a pitiful cry to God that I couldn't do it; I couldn't fight against an enemy who hit below the belt.

The book of Joshua is like the prequel to the series Band of Brothers. Joshua is one page after another of wars and attacks, lists of kings overthrown, inheritances taken, strategies, war plans, and outcries to God. If the Israelites sought God's divine attack plan, they were given victory. God gave them every detail of how and when to attack the opposition; those who were not in the Lord's army.

A few years ago, I was seeking God's attack plan for the opposition; the enemy who hit below the belt. I recognized that my efforts to fight were in vain. And, I stumbled upon Ephesians 6. I had read it so very many times before, but for some reason, it sounded different to me. Verses 10-18 call us to put on the full armor of God. We are called, once we have put on the full armor of God, to stand. No fists, no words. Just to stand.

"Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes." Eph 6:11 (emphasis mine)

"Therefore put on the full armor of God so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." Eph 6:13 (emphasis mine)

"Stand firm then..." Eph 6:14a (emphasis mine)

Our attack strategy is to know the Word of God, continually pray, and to STAND. The only weapons needed to carry out this attack strategy against the Prince of Darkness is your Bible, open communication between you and God, and strong legs!

God will fight for us. He does all the hard work. We are to raise our voices in prayer and scripture, dig our heels in, and stand.

We are to stand through the pain of loss and suffering. We are to stand against the winds of lies and deception. We are to stand amidst the lack of understanding. We are to stand among the ruins. We are to stand until He calls us to "Fall Out!"

And, suddenly my perception has changed. Those tall leather boots don't look so appealing. My heart is filled with gratitude that I had parents and teachers and mentors in my life to help develop my strong, sturdy spiritual legs. And, my heart is filled with sheepish gratitude for David Hess and his weighted calf raises that developed my strong legs that have helped me dig in deep and stand up under the weight of an enemy that hits below the belt.

Content to Be

I am single. And, I don't want to be.

I want to be married. I want, with every fiber of my being, to be happily married. And, I want God to pick him out for me.

And, because of this deep-seeded desire of my heart, I have a hard time with the verse in the Bible that says, "... for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances." Philippians 4:11b.

I am just so stinkin' proud of Paul for being such a trooper. You know, Paul the persecutor of Christians until, on the road to Damascus, he is struck blind until he promises to stop being so hateful and start spreading the Good News. Of course, people are hesitant to accept Mr. Mighty Transformation, so making friends wasn't his strongest quality for a long time. People jeered him, stoned him, plotted against him, turned him away, beat him to near-death, threw him in jail, spit on him, hated him... and he has the nerve to say in his letter to the Philippians that he has learned to be content in whatever circumstances he is handed.

I have always felt selfish for being so strong-willed about my husband who I was certain was just around the next corner of my life. And, here is Paul, hanging out in jail, bloodied and beaten and singing songs to the Lord, all content and satisfied with his life.

I thought, for a long time, that content meant 'not wanting'.... like, I am content in being single so I do not want to be married any longer. And, I could throw off all of my wants and desires except that one. That desire to be married has thorned my side and kept me from being 'content' all these years.

But, in further contemplation about the word content, I have come to the realization that I have had the definition incorrect all these years. Being content doesn't mean void of wanting. I believe it means being satisfied with not receiving what is wanted.

I believe that God is Sovereign and has infinite wisdom. I believe He loves me better and more abundantly than anyone else. I believe He hears my cries. I believe He hears the prayers and petitions for my husband. I believe He knows the desires of my heart and will give them to me if I choose Him over them. Because of these beliefs, I know that if I am single, it is because there is a good, good reason for me to be single. And, in that, I am satisfied. I am content. The want has not gone anywhere. It is still, very much, deep in my heart. But, I am satisfied with the knowledge that God has chosen another path for me today, and, for today, I will follow the path that He has chosen for me, even if that path takes me away from my wants.

So, maybe it was WHO Paul believed in that gave him such a irritating high as to sing songs of worship in jail. Maybe Paul understood that our hope isn't in what is hoped FOR, but in WHOM we hope IN. And, if that were my stance, I bet I could drum up the nerve to sing a verse or two, as well.

Africa or Bust

Late-night calls home for a parent to come pick me up from whoever's house I was sleeping-over at were not uncommon during my formidable years. I would be fine until it was time to go to sleep. Then, I would get panicky. My stomach would start to hurt. I wouldn't be able to breath. Then, the fear would creep in, forcing me to tell my friend that I wanted to go home. The shame of being the big baby who had to go home in the middle of the night was NEVER more than the fear of having to stay.

So, I quickly dismissed the fleeting thoughts of my going to Africa to do mission work. That would be a really expensive phone call, a smidgen more than a quick drive through the neighborhood to get me, and the shame factor amps a little considering I'm 32.

But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b

I went to a little junior college nestled in a quaint little west Texas town for my freshmen year. Well, half of my freshmen year. It seems that, although bustling during the week, little junior colleges roll up their sidewalks and bed down for the weekend. This was not ideal for a car-less newbie freshmen who was homesick before she even pulled out of the driveway. I cried for four months straight. I had near-constant stomach aches, I ate sporadically, and slept less. I contemplated how much nicer death would be if it meant I could, at least, be at home. I filed transfer papers before midterms. I was completely packed and drove to my last final that December. I was home by supper.

But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b

The transition to being among the working class in Dallas was quite a bit less traumatic. I only cried for a few days. The stomach aches subsided after a few months. And I had a car that I drove back and forth from Abilene to Dallas frequently. I held myself together during the day. And, at all other times, I kept myself very busy. I read a lot. I would go driving, just to prove to myself that I wasn't "stuck" anywhere.

But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b

These whispers have to be from the Lord. I would NEVER, on purpose, decide that I needed to travel to a whole other continent for any length of time to do anything. That is so very far out of my comfort zone.

And, I think that is precisely why God has been calling me to Africa; to think of someone else's needs; to work myself to exhaustion for someone who cannot repay me; to get a much-needed, swift kick in the perspective; to show me how futile my superiority complex is; to help me recognize that this world is not my home, and that I should never feel so comfortable that I would rather be here than at Home with Him.

"Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?' And I said, "Here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8

Keepin' it real

I think I could just kick that Jillian Michaels in the shin. She and her 30 Day Shred. And her perfectly toned abs. And her encouraging spirit and her own fat-to-skinny story that has propelled her to do what she can to help women not have to go through what she went through. Yeah. She's the one. I mean, kick her HARD in the shin.

I am not one to obsess over needing to lose weight. I used to obsess over the idea that I was fat. I have, more times than I care to count, obsessed over how much I could do and how long I could go at the gym, thinking it would help me lose weight. I have obsessed over the magical numeric equation of calories that could be consumed without ousting my hard, obsessed work in the gym. But, I have never obsessed over the need to lose weight. I guess I figure the need, itself, is pretty outright; an undeniable fact. No need to obsess over something so concrete.

But, it occurred to me this evening, while Jillian Michaels was shouting out encouragement for me to "Keep going!" and "Push through!" during the last segment of Level One strength training (squats and shoulder raises - eesh!), that I am most obsessed with failing. Failing. Not passing. Not completing the task at hand. Not winning. Not making the cut. Not fulfilling what was sought out to accomplish. Failing.

This personal trainer with arms the size of Civil War canons comes to my school three days a week to assist some of us teachers in our quest to health via exercise. He charges a teeny, tiny fee for a 45-minute workout that comes complete with running sprints, squats, encouragement throughout, and a prayer for us to meet our goals at the end. I know. I just hate him.

He started coming back in September, all fired up and wanting to help. I decided pretty quickly that I didn't like him. He was nice and accomodating. He remembered people's names and asked where they had been the last workout session. He told people they were doing well and praised their hard work. He helped people over the plateau of weight loss by creating specific diet plans and tweaking their workouts to push them a little harder. He smiled a lot. Ew. It just made my skin crawl.

Several people from school encouraged me to join them. My friends and coworkers started fitting into dresses and jumpsuits and clothes from years ago that were unflattering to them before Coach Big Guns showed up. Coach Big Guns, himself, tried to get me to take the icy plunge into the depths of horror that was their workout sessions. But, don't worry. I stayed strong for four months.

Then, last week, I succumbed to their pleas. Mostly, it was my friend Cookie's doing. Cookie, although she has mentioned wanting to, doesn't mother me. She doesn't nag. She doesn't tell me what I should do. She would just say, in passing, how much better she felt having worked out. She would just mention, off the cuff, that yesterday was a tough workout but that everyone had encouraged her to keep going until she was through. She would slip in how we are all in a place to better ourselves for the mission that God had called us to. You know, sneaky stuff, like that.

Coach Bug Guns was late for the first two sessions I attended. His excuses, although legitimate, made it very easy for me to snuggle down deeper in my poor judgement of him. I added arrogant, lazy, and habitually late to the list of disdainful qualities about him. He and Jillian Michaels would make a lovely couple. Of course, she wouldn't be able to walk what with the injury to her shin and all. But, he could carry her, no problem. Remember, his arms? Huge.

I was making dinner a few minutes ago, thinking about how much I dislike that Jillian Michaels and how I would write a blog about wanting to kick her in the shin which I thought was a fine way to start a new blog post when the pattern struck me.

These lovely people with hearts, as far as I know, of gold, wanting to help others who have not mastered the art of purposely pushing their bodies to work for them represent the element of change that peak my deepest obsession. It isn't them that I don't like, so much as it is the thing they represent: the opportunity for change. They are my fear's enemy. The opportunity to change is on one side of the battle field; my fear of failing is on the other. The war is waged. Up until now, I had given into the fear. I had given up the fight long before it ever really got heated.

Well. Let me just say this as I gather my things and cross the battle lines.

I am not on Fear's side. I am on Change's side.

"For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline." II Timothy 1:7

My rock (ing chair)

My parents tell a story of waking in the early morning hours to the irritating squeak of the springs on a toy rocking horse that was a Christmas present for my brother. It was a 16-month-old me. My brother got very little time on his rocking horse, according to their story. Apparently, I pretended it was mine and acted as such.

Santa brought me my own rocking chair the next Christmas. It being 1980, the rocking chair was a brown striped tweed material with orange vinyl accents. I think it may have matched my mother's living room assemble, horrifyingly enough. It was miniature - perfect for a three-year-old. I rocked in it until the sliders at the bottom literally broke off. It was a sad, sad day when we had to throw that rocking chair in the dumpster.

I developed terrible stomach pains in middle school. They would come on quickly and stay for minutes, hours, and sometimes days. There was no medicine that proved to lessen the pain, and doctors would come up empty handed as to what was causing the pain. I would sit, for as long as the pain lasted, in a brown-clothed rocking recliner that my granny gave my mother when we moved to Texas the summer before. I would rock and rock and rock, deliberately breathing in a Lamaze-type ritual that would help me make it through the pain. (Once we moved to Abilene, a doctor took a chance on the fact that, even as young as I was, I may have gallstones causing the stomach pain. He performed surgery to remove the gallbladder that was, as he suspected, full of stones.)

Granny gave us a blue glider not long after we moved to Abilene. It quickly became "mine." It was where I would go when I was rattled with adolescent emotions too confusing to speak about. It was where I went to work through whatever drama clogged my though processes. It was where I silently gathered my strength to be able to move away to college for a semester. (No rocking chair in Levelland, Texas proved to be a terrible idea so I came home to attend college that winter in Abilene.)

I have a white, wooden rocking chair here at my current place - two, actually. One is a backup, I guess, having learned from my 4-month stint in Levelland. I sit out on my balcony, no matter the weather, almost every day. It is a place to think. It is a place to sort out and process. It is a place to dream. It is a place of comfort.

David said in Psalms 71 "Be my rock of refuge.... (God) is my rock and my fortress..." Several more times, David couples the comforting thoughts of a fortress and refuge with God being a rock. Turn the noun (rock) into a verb (rocking) and you can see the special bond that I have had with God since I was old enough to climb onto a plastic, squeaky-spring rocking horse at 16 months.... He is my rock (ing chair). He helps me work through pain, physical or otherwise. He sorts out the emotions too confusing to speak about. He works through whatever drama clogs my thought processes. He supplies my strength to help me do what I am most certain I cannot do. He clears my head. He sorts and processes things. He hears and tweaks my dreams. He is my comfort. He is my refuge. He is my fortress. He is my rock (ing chair).

My New Year's Resolution

I have this ritual. A tradition, if you will.

Every New Year's Day, I take down the Christmas stuff, clean my entire apartment, and purge everything. I take bags and bags of things to Goodwill and bags and bags of things to the dumpster. By the end of the day, it is as if Christmas were never here. My apartment smells fresh and clean. My closets, cabinets, and cupboards are lighter and roomier. And, usually my lower back aches because I am getting older now, and that is what lower backs that are getting older do.

Usually, in this state of OCD bliss, I make my New Year's Resolutions. I always list the amount of weight I want to lose first and the amount of debt I want to tackle second. Then, I wrap up the list with the desire to change some terrible flaw in my personality. There. Done.

But this year: something different. Here I sit on New Year's night, with a little more than an hour until it turns into the 2nd of January. The tree is still up, the apartment is only half-way cleaned. The bags and bags of things are scattered here and there, waiting to be taken to their appropriate resting places. For the first time ever, I am not writing my resolutions down in a cheap, spiral notebook, I am blogging them. And, those New Year's Resolutions look different, too.

2010 New Year's Resolutions

1. Learn more of the Word:

I grew up in a church. I cannot remember a time that I did not have a Bible of my own. I went to a Christian university where Bible classes were non-negotiable to graduate. I worked as a counselor at a Christian camp. I went on mission trips. There is absolutely no reason for me, at 32, to not know the Bible backward and forward. But, I confess to you, that I do not. I have read most of it. I have studied a lot of it. I can quote a few verses. But, I do not KNOW the Word of God. So, I resolve, with some help from Dallas Theological Seminary Center for Biblical Studies and some personal Bible studies that can be purchased at your local Christian bookstore, to learn more of God's Word. The struggles of the past six or seven months have always led me to a calling to know His Word. But, I have not heeded that calling until now. I am expecting, as with every instance when obedience takes place in the Kingdom of God, for big things to happen with this learning.

2. Take on an adventuresome spirit:

I like structure. I like schedules. I like lists. I like being in charge. These personality traits do not lend themselves, willingly, to someone wishing to be adventuresome. However, after reading Donald Miller's new book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, I have taken on a new mantra: Live a good story. So far, I have lived a safe, solid, comfortable story. There is nothing wrong with living that kind of story. Except that it is kind of..... boring. My mother writes a Christmas letter each year to catch all her friends up on what has happened in our family since the last Christmas letter. The blurb about me was.... boring. It isn't Mom's fault. I didn't DO anything all that exciting for which to write about. And, so, God help me, I resolve to throw off the need to control everything and take on an adventuresome spirit. I resolve to recognize and participate in the adventures that are happening right under my nose, in my own life, that I don't see, right now, as adventures. And, I resolve to seek out and participate in other adventures that God sends my way.

There. Done. And my lower back doesn't even hurt.