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Category Archives: Grace in Big Gulps

Un-Defining a Day: Setting Expectations Properly

I wasn’t going to blog this morning. I was going to take the day off. I’m tired. I just published my first book. It’s my birthday. It’s the dogs’ birthday (that was God’s very personal gift to me last year: Samson and Delilah landing on this planet exactly on my birthday). I just took my child to the early arrival program while still in my pajamas (vest over me, but you get the picture). I have the oldest home from high school today. I haven’t had my coffee.

I could watch the dogs play with their new rubber squeak toys, sip a pumpkin spice latte, and read my own book. LOL.

I haven’t stopped much to rest in the past two months.

And really, after a blog 6 times a week, for 7 weeks, how much more could I possibly have to say right now?

But this morning was an OCD battle morning. And I realize that I need to blog. I sometimes can’t turn off the writing noise in my head until I’ve thrown a few words out there, italicized and bolded for good measure.

The blogging compulsion is so strong lately that I blogged an email to a high school teacher. Yes, yes, I did. What I mean by that is that I wrote the email blog-style (although it was shorter). After, my son and husband agreed with me that maybe right now I shouldn’t really be trusted to write emails to teachers. It wasn’t horrible or anything. But she probably needed it more in paragraph form. I hope she at least sipped some tea and might consider a little trip to my amazon.com page as a result. But, that really wasn’t my goal or my point.

And this blog isn’t about the specific episode I encountered this morning with some inflexible thinking, rigidity, and panic in one of my offspring. It’s really just about how to not let a day completely derail you. I’m actually learning a lot about this as we look for ways to keep our calm on around here.

As this morning’s getting-dressed-for-school-and-twitching-about-the-time-arriving-to-the-flexible-arrival-school-program episode played out (how’s that for avoiding detail?), I found myself back to my pretzel breathing again. My blood pressure was climbing to unpleasant levels, and I needed to get a grip. I’m not a morning person, I made a decision as a parent not to rush that morning, the husband is traveling all week, and I just have to let perfection go.

But this particular child of mine could not let it go. And so I drew a calm, clear boundary (while thinking a lot about the metal pot I once threw in frustration on Kwajalein—I didn’t throw it at anything but the floor, but that’s a blog for another time). Reliving the feel of tensing my muscles for that metal pot throw in the past really did alleviate the need to do it again today. I don’t throw things anymore (I only have a handful of times anyway). I’m growing up! But I thought about it.

Boundary was received not too long after the last round.

And I know that not every morning is going to fly by and smile at me. I know when we’ve been up too late the night before, the next morning will not be smooth. A birthday doesn’t guarantee that a traveling spouse is home, high school three-hour Back-to-School Night isn’t on the same day, and our usual issues and struggles take a vacation.

I’m in my 40s and just recently figured this out. If you’ve figured it out sooner, that is so awesome. It’s toffee-nut-latte-worthy, really. I genuinely mean that. Sometimes I wonder how I got to be this age and still do not have this whole expectation thing down. My child certainly had expectations this morning. I kind of just threw mine out the window today, but I’m not mad about it. I’m actually quite peaceful.

Expectations can often dictate the day. Mine always have coffee in it. And Jesus. Beyond Jesus, everything else can flux and be unpredictable (even my beloved caramel white mocha latte!).

I want to start un-defining my day because it’s not me who really controls everything. And reasonable expectations help me chillax. When I over-define the way in which it should go: epic fail. I can strive to achieve a few things in my day, but I do not actually define it. Wrapping my head around this has been incredibly freeing.

The sidewalk I walk on suddenly got bigger, more open, and lots of room for more of Jesus and peaceful living.

Psalm 18:36, David speaking about God
You provide a broad path for my feet, so that my ankles do not give way.

Jeremiah 29:11, Jeremiah the Prophet sharing the words of God
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

2 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on October 2, 2014 in Anxiety/OCD/Depression, Grace in Big Gulps, Renewing Our Minds

Tags: expectations, jeremiah 29:11, latte, more of jesus, OCD, peaceful living, pretzel breathing, psalm 18:36, setting expectations

The Beautiful Road Less Travelled: Reconciliation and Relational Restoration

29 Sep

I consider myself deeply committed to keeping relationships working. So, when they fail (due to my own shortcomings and/or someone else’s issues), I take it very hard. I’m sure many of us do. I believe that there are very few situations in life that warrant a complete walk-away.

Taking space: Yes! That comes up from time to time and is healthy.

But jumping on an exit ramp out of a relationship at the first disappointment or hurt: No.

Everything in me screams against that. Why? Because redemption and reconciliation do not have to be ruled out. Yes, it takes two. And yes, it takes hard work. And yes, we can’t control the response of the other person. But if it’s important enough to us, we can always leave the door open. We may have boundaries. We may have healthier ways we’d like to try to interact when we re-engage. We may have apologies to exchange or offer, but relationships can heal if both parties are

willing

and

committed.

This has been on my mind as I thank God for relationships in my own life that have healed. Sometimes, people take a lot of space from each other. That can be painful and rejecting, but it is also a chance to pray for God to put things back together. That is what I have done in several situations, and He is so incredibly faithful. In some cases, the wait has been years. Yes, years. Sometimes, it was just months. But it was always worth the wait.

Has every broken relationship in my life healed? No. Will they all heal? I don’t know. That depends on the other people, too, and where their hearts are, but I do know the best thing is asking God to do something beautiful with the wreckage, show me my own wrong, and help me to remain in a posture of humility.

Is there any other posture possible, really, when we want reconciliation?

I don’t think so.

It doesn’t mean being a proverbial doormat and taking all wrong upon ourselves if some of it isn’t ours to take. It just means being ready to be sorry, apologize, open our arms back to the one ready to rejoin us. When we stand in angry stances, we aren’t exactly an open door.

That said, I don’t believe toxic relationships should be re-started unless new boundaries can be agreed upon and followed, so I’m not suggesting every situation is healthy enough to re-enter. There are definitely situations in which we need to let go or keep distance when they are regularly unsafe, emotionally or otherwise.

This has been on my mind a lot because I love watching my kids discover this. When they have had falling-outs with friends, I always tried to remind them that today’s difficult misunderstanding or hurt does not have to mean a forever rift. Sometimes, people grow in different directions and come back to a place where they find value in each other again. They grow from tiny, elementary school kiddos whose biggest disagreement is that Cassidy isn’t sharing nicely anymore, to more upper elementary school grades, when the friendships shift and twist, and alliances are made so frequently and painfully, it’s like watching a reality tv show about social survival. Middle school is its own bomb going off of hormones and insecurities, and then comes high school when they can settle in a bit more. I love when my children come to me and say: “So-and-so and I are hanging out again sometimes” (assuming so-and-so is not some horrible influence). And I love to respond: “That’s so awesome! Aren’t you glad you allowed the space, expanded your friendships, but left the door open? I bet you will find new things that you appreciate about each other in these new ages/grades that you are.”

I don’t have a hang-up about my kids losing some friendships and making new ones along the way. That’s part of life. It’s human sorting, more or less. It’s how we find out what we value in ourselves and others. And that leads to growth.

But I do celebrate when they make a choice to not permanently shut off or out a person they once cared deeply for—when they take the space needed but leave an open door for healing and recovery. Not every relationship will go through that door, but doesn’t it teach us something so beautiful about God’s redemptive work and reconciliation to Himself through Jesus on the cross on our behalf when we see Him take our yielded, open hearts and make what’s messy all sparkly and new? There is so much darkness and lack of hope in this world that one of the most precious things to me is seeing answered prayer through restored relationships. It’s God working in our midst, taking what is broken on each side of the relationship and giving it the wholeness only He can give. He asks us to be reconciled, before it escalates into something big and brutal.

Are there places you desire this? Do you struggle, like I do, on waiting it out, being patient, letting God take it? We can find hope in His promises, today and always, if you trust Him and call Him your own. There is a God who hears and wants to bring not only reconciliation of people to Himself but also with each other. It can require the often difficult choice of humility and a yielded heart, but that’s the road I want to always travel on—because it’s the only one that leads to peace of heart and lived-out grace.

Matthew 5:23-24, Jesus speaking
“Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift.”

Colossians 1:19-20, Apostle Paul speaking (reference to Jesus Christ)
For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.

2 Corinthians 5:17-20, Apostle Paul speaking
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation.
We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God.

More on relational healing and restoration can be found in Not Just on Sundays.

*This blog linked up at Grace & Truth, Saturday Soirée Blog Party, Christian Mommy Blogger, and Mom 2 Mom Monday Link-Up.

8 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 29, 2014 in Drawing Healthy Boundaries, Grace in Big Gulps, The Healing Cloak of Jesus

Tags: 2 Corinthians 5:17-20, broken relationships, Colossians 1:19-20, grace, Matthew 5:23-24, peace, reconciliation, reconciling to Himself, recovering relationships, redemptive work, restoration

When We’re in Pain: Keeping the Circle Small

27 Sep

The blog right before this one talked about opening ourselves up to more feedback in life. This one is more about the times when we need to keep our circle small.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m hurting, my circle of interaction suddenly shrinks to about five people outside my own immediate family. I think we’re all selective on purpose, during these moments, as a self-protection reflex, an instinct. I’m sure shelves of psychology reference books have been written about this very thing.

Part of the reason behind the shrinking circle is because others are often in their own very rough seasons and can’t really take on something else right now to help.

And that’s okay. We’ve all been there.

Another reason is because it can be difficult to be around people who aren’t tuning into our pain on any level. It can be beneficial to just put those relationships on hold until we regroup and come out of the gray clouds over us. They’re still our friends. They just might not know what to do in this particular situation. That’s okay too.

Sometimes our pain touches in too close to someone else’s pain, and they can’t be part of our inner circle for this reason—at least not in this exact moment. Grace, much grace for them. It’s okay to need some space in these situations. Our experiences can be used to help others, certainly, but if we are still in the throes of deep pain ourselves, it might be wise to not advise others until we’ve come out of it.

Then there are other folks who only really want to be around us for what we offer—not for what we need. That’s okay, too, but they are definitely not entering into the inner circle of “safe”—and really, it’s okay, because that’s not necessarily their goal. They don’t want to. Better we realize that up front. It’s all about expectations, and setting them correctly.

Neither should we let in, during these very sensitive times, those likely to remind us of our own failing (or the failing of one of our children) later.

Yup, not allowed in.

While we may find that our support group of prayer or bringing meals in a moment of sickness or sorrow may be larger than we realized, when we are either struggling with our own particular torment, or a loved one in pain or at risk, we tend to not want to share that with the world. We tend to keep it close, at least until the storm has passed.

Although people are well meaning and offer comfort in their own ways, there are also those tougher moments when someone might walk right up to us, see our tears ever on the edge and rigid tension in our face, and talk on and on about themselves in whatever mundane way or demand our audience over something we can’t really handle at the moment. And while they are not wrong—just maybe a little insensitive—it can make us want to run and hide, find the exit ramp and speed madly down it.

These are the things that overwhelm me personally when I’m in that place. One of my worst triggers is not feeling heard or understood. It also throws me into a panic if I think someone is coming to take from me when I am beyond depleted. I’d so much rather not be approached when I am in that place if the pain is going to blown past as if it is a figment of my imagination. That’s assuming, of course, the person is aware. Obviously, they are not accountable for what they do not know.

Sometimes, “I’m hurting right now. Can I get back to you a bit later?” needs to be enough of a #response. #healthyboundaries

— Bonnie Lyn Smith (@BonnieLynSmith) October 19, 2015

And it needs to be accepted.

We recently closed our shutters during a nine-month struggle getting one of the birds in our nest from mental unwellness to a better place of mental wholeness—or something approaching it. I walked around during those nine months tensing up so incredibly afraid of encountering people who wouldn’t “get it” because they hadn’t experienced anything like it yet (thank God!), wouldn’t offer grace, would probe unkindly, or would still want to take something from me in my weakness. My shoulders are still coming out of that tense posture, even now, months after the crisis. And I did run into those kinds of people. Definitely. And I had to draw my boundaries. But I found more grace along the path to soothe my wearied, battered soul—dear, trusted folks who loved me back to safety.

And really, it’s healthy to keep the circle smaller in those moments. Not only is our private stuff, well, private, but I find God calls a few people to help carry us in these times—not the masses. The masses often bring tangible provision, like meals during moments of sickness or for welcoming a new baby, but few will walk through each burden with us in our heaviest times. And that’s okay.

And it may be different people each time. Sometimes it’s a family member or a different friend than the last situation. I love how God uses the people who are going to be able to give us what we need emotionally and offer good counsel at that moment in that particular struggle.

I don’t think we’re all meant to carry around all burdens at once. It would be too weighty. Only Christ could do that on the cross.

I need to also be okay with the idea that I am not always someone else’s answer or “circle person” as they walk through something difficult. I love it when I can be used in this way, but I certainly cannot meet every deep need out there. None of us can. That’s why listening for His guidance and leading is so important. It can overwhelm otherwise.

#Proverbs18_24 One who has unreliable #friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks #closerthanabrother.

— Bonnie Lyn Smith (@BonnieLynSmith) October 19, 2015

What do you think? Do you find this to be true?

More of our faith walk through personal struggles can be found in Not Just on Sundays: Seeking God’s Purpose in Each New Day.

*This blog has also been shared at any link highlighted here: Mom 2 Mom Monday Link-Up, Make a Difference Mondays, Pick Your Pin Tuesday, Women With Intention Wednesdays, Grace & Truth, A Little R & R, RaRa Link-Up, Me, Coffee & Jesus, Dance With Jesus, Blessing Counters, Coffee & Conversation, Saturday Soiree, Tell His Story, Find Stability, So Much at Home, Faith-Filled Fridays, Reflect His Love and Glory Link-Up, Bonbon ‘n Coffee Linkup, and Christian Mommy Blogger.

3 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 27, 2014 in Anxiety/OCD/Depression, Drawing Healthy Boundaries, Grace in Big Gulps

Tags: boundaries, boundary, circle of trust, crisis friends, expectations, grace, inner circle, inner circle of trust, keeping the circle small, mental health, mental wellness, pain, proverbs 18:24, support group

When People Don’t Need to Hear About Your Honors Student

22 Sep

I seem to always be behind a car with a “My Kid Is an Honor Student at Blah-Blah-Blah School” sticker.

Is that wrong? No.

Should we celebrate and let our kids know we are proud of them? Yes.

Is it any different than a sticker with a dancer, lacrosse player, football player, cheerleader, or martial artist? Well, that depends.

It’s not really about the sticker.

It’s about knowing our audience. It’s okay to share our joys, delights, pride, and happiness about our kids’ achievements, successes, and talents with close friends and family who also enjoy seeing our children thrive, but I firmly believe we need to be sensitive with whom we share those things.

I have honors students in my house, too. I fully understand the enthusiasm. I occasionally post about one of my kids’ successes or achievements on my private wall of social media. I also enjoy reading about the amazing talents among my extended family and friends. It’s fun to follow that. I also love seeing people rise above struggles, challenges, and handicaps. I’m not at all condemning us for encouraging our kids, celebrating, or even being happy for them.

The following scenarios are fictional and do not reflect my not-at-all-perfect life. They are hypothetical and are not based on real people or situations in my life. But I think it’s helpful to drive home a point. I hope you can hang in there with me… Read the rest of this entry »

6 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 22, 2014 in ADHD, Grace in Big Gulps, Tweens/Children

Tags: 1 thessalonians 5, ADHD, brag fest, braggy bumper stickers, galatians 6, honors student, hurting hearts, sensitivity

Planted Promise: Fresh Hope for Wearied Hearts

15 Sep

Sunflower

Beautiful sunflower
Up on the patio table,
Away from curious and hungry bunnies,
Repotted,
And climb-climb-climbing toward heaven,
Until it’s tall enough to open up
Into full, golden bloom.

Little Man’s planted promise.
A takeaway from a tough school year.
A living stalk trying to get up to God—
—To open for Him,
Reflecting part of His amazing, creative glory.

That sunflower climbs for all of us:
For Little Man,
For our family,
For my father,
For the book,
For hopes and dreams.

Bonnie Lyn Smith, 2014

——————————

My eight year old, Little Man, came home with a sunflower seed on the last day of school last year. I have as much luck growing things as I do dusting. (Let me know if you see my furniture because it’s been a while since I have.) I’ve never really been able to keep an indoor plant alive for very long. The previous owners of our home had beautiful landscaping done. I felt so conflicted every time I pulled into my driveway because I felt like the neighbors might actually expect me to keep up with that standard, when my intention was just to pull a weed out now and again.

And every time we have tried to plant sunflower seeds—rows of them—animals have come along and dug them up. So, it was almost a burden to have this seed come home. I knew it was like already breaking a hope of Little Man’s. It felt like a letdown already in motion. Really, teachers should have to ask if it’s okay if things like seeds come home, just like they ask about frogs and goldfish. My answer on the permission slip would have been a resounding: “No, thank you!”

That said, the seed did come home, and with it, an enthusiastic Little Man. Considering that joy had rarely visited his sweet face in the months leading up to this and that he was slowly emerging from a diagnosed depression,* I decided to get a pot and some soil and half-heartedly toss the seed in there. After all, growing and tending something could be therapeutic for Little Man.

Oh, God, please don’t let this thing be a dud. Please don’t let me be a dud, God. Little Man needs this to grow.

At first, three feet into it, I really was convinced I was naively growing a weed. It was five weeks in, and that green stalk produced nothing but leaves. And since I’m not known for distinguishing weeds from real plants, I thought maybe the joke was on me, that somehow a determined squirrel had found its way onto the table and that some old weed seed ended up in my plant instead. We saw the “stalk” climb and climb with absolutely no bloom. Four feet. Five feet. Really, how patient can one be? And I had no idea this was the six feet variety. This isn’t Kansas, after all!

But watching this sunflower all summer has been a gift only God can give. It means so many things to us, and we have stewarded its life with tender care, eagerly awaiting its announcement that it is time, time for a tiny sun-bloom to wow us with hope, growth, and the incredible and unending love of a Father Who let a little boy grow something beautiful out of a year of many struggles and a few triumphs.

It was also a summer of great change in some ways. My father battled his fifth tumor and lost his bladder. It was a time when my first book, Not Just on Sundays, was inching ever closer to publication, and so was the stress. And it was a season of watching Little Man tentatively approach the world again and occasionally crack a smile.

The sunflower meant so much to all of us that, unbeknownst to each other, my husband and I each took pictures of it, which I just now found on my camera.

Fast-forward to Day 1 of the new school year, and this was my journal entry:

Little Man’s sunflower is starting to bloom today, and I find that so ironic, because he planted it on his way out of a difficult first grade year, and on this day, his first day of second grade, after growing tall all summer, protected on our patio table from gnawing critters, it is about to burst forth.

I had one enter high school for the first time today, one new to middle school, and a Little Man not sure if this whole school thing was going to go well this year.

And I’ve battled my own anxiety and self-worth because there are always voices trying to tell us we’re not at all worthy. They are voices on rewind-and-repeat cycles. And I just have to remember to push “off.”

Because God loved me, my kids, and Little Man so much to send His Son Jesus, but also—to open that flower up when the time was right.

And it’s right now, Jesus, thank You.

I went out with the dogs, and I saw that bloom readying itself to announce created life. I can’t wait to show Little Man! This year will be different, Little Man.

As surely as God put the rainbow in the sky, He grew this sunflower:

For you, for me, for love, and for fresh hope to wearied hearts.

Where does your heart need some hope today? His “word sustains the weary.” We can start by talking to Him, and then it slowly becomes a process of learning how to listen and to open our eyes, allowing Him to show us His goodness, love, and encouragement each day. It is often deeply personal—the way He reaches us—because He is a deeply personal God.

Isaiah 50:4, Isaiah the Prophet speaking

The Sovereign LORD has given me a well-instructed tongue, to know the word that sustains the weary. He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being instructed.

*Yes, eight year olds can experience depression. For more on this story, kindly refer to the Anxiety/OCD/Depression section of this blog.

**This post been shared at Mom 2 Mom Monday Link-Up, Make a Difference Mondays, Pick Your Pin Tuesday, A Little R & R Wednesdays, Christian Mommy Blogger, Grace & Truth, Women With Intention Wednesdays, RaRa Link-Up, So Much at Home, and Coffee and Conversation.

More anecdotal stories about faith, family, and relationships can be found in Not Just on Sundays: Seeking God’s Purpose in Each New Day (includes Book Club Discussion Questions).

22 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 15, 2014 in Anxiety/OCD/Depression, Grace in Big Gulps, Tweens/Children

Tags: bloom, depression, God's promise, hope to wearied hearts, isaiah 50:4, not just on sundays, sunflower, sustains the weary

Grace That Changes: One Forgiving Moment at a Time [Excerpt]

13 Sep

Today, Espressos of Faith offers an excerpt from the upcoming Not Just on Sundays: Seeking God’s Purpose in Each New Day, due out this month.

Cover design: Traci Carmichael Art

—————————————

I performed an interesting social experiment in the past year at a favorite establishment in my town. Folks working there weren’t very friendly, to the point I dreaded going in. So, I tried being very kind every time I went, going out of my way to clean up any mess we left, saying something encouraging at the counter, and in general bringing in a consistent smile, no matter what attitude came back at me. I went in more regularly with my kids, having them do homework and lingering, looking for opportunities to bless. It took a few months, but then suddenly, the staff not only knew me by name, but they started going out of their way to also be kind: They brought my kids free food, helped me more with questions I had, and apologized for mistakes even when I didn’t complain. Although I’m sure I’m not the reason the entire establishment is friendlier, I was able to show my kids that kindness begets more kindness. Even they have noticed a difference.

So, I keep thinking how deliberate the choice is to love and bless. It doesn’t always flow naturally; it is a minute-by-minute choice, but if we employed this same idea everywhere—the car that cuts in front of us for a parking space, the tired clerk at the market counter, the pharmacy technician who doesn’t need one more prescription coming in when she’s already so behind—how many people could we each reach with love and grace? Too much in this world tears us down. What if that pharmacy clerk was going to go home and drink herself into a stupor again tonight because of problems weighing on her unbeknownst to me? What if the impatient car parker is also impatient at home with his kids, snapping at the least little annoyance? Do we need to cause him more angst, or could grace perhaps make a small dent, leading to bigger dents, in the way he daily functions? Could our choice to extend grace turn around a despairing, tense, hopeless attitude? All I know is grace changed who I am, and the people who offered me grace in my own bad attitudes deserve so much credit; they overlooked the ugly in me and encouraged the beautiful. Grace changes things, one forgiving moment at a time. My mouth can’t hold poison and antidote all at the same time. James, brother of Jesus, said it best:

James 3:9-12

With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

And here is a fun one for you. I thought it was amazingly descriptive to wear cursing as one’s garment and have it enter one’s body like water and bones like oil. Hello, songwriter! Modifiers and analogies make my heart jump!

Psalm 109:17-18, David (not yet king) speaking

He loved to pronounce a curse—
may it come on him.
He found no pleasure in blessing—
may it be far from him.

He wore cursing as his garment;
it entered into his body like water,
into his bones like oil.

Summertime presents some nice opportunities for learning how to relate better to one another. I bet if you’re a parent of kids still at home, it does in your house too. One of the rules of my house is: “If you come to any of us with accusations, anger, or emotional response of any kind, you may not walk away when you are in the middle of receiving a response. If you are not prepared to hear out a response to a problem/accusation you put forth, you should not present it in the first place.” I told my children that I know adults who do this to me all of the time. They drop their emotion down but run off and sulk without sticking around to hear another perspective. Any issue or relationship worth working out deserves to have both people heard. We better ourselves with stronger, committed relationships if we learn to develop this one important concept. I see this as part of the blessing/curse idea. Working through misunderstandings or upsets needs to be approached from a stance of blessing. Blessing invites openness and vulnerability. Cursing shuts relationships down. I don’t want cursing to enter my body like water or my bones like oil as the Psalmist depicts for us, which suggests to me a “soaking in.” Toxic interactions have a way of soaking in and permeating so many areas of our lives. Grace and love do just the opposite; they cover us:

1 Peter 4:8, Apostle Peter speaking

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

Along the same lines, I had a difficult “issue of character” discussion with one child at bedtime one night. It wasn’t a huge deal, really, and it was only one area of correction, but this child struggles to receive constructive criticism no matter how delicately it is presented. I waited to make sure it sank in and shared that we all have to be able to take feedback and ask God if it’s something He wants us to correct. Then, because this child bruises easily from feedback, I spent the falling-asleep moments listing all of the things this child does well, areas where I am very pleased, and at Item Number 20, the slight smile gave way to slumber, and peace climbed beside us and laid its head on the pillow as well, a welcome companion. That is not how I conduct myself every day, but when I consult God and come from a standpoint of blessing, informed by His living Word, it is a much more peaceful way to do life.

Just as mourning comes in waves, so does His grace. It rides in on constant tides like a covering of love that soaks into every pore until it fills the heart. There is never grief without grace, if we’d only learn to keep our feet in the Living Water, facing the oncoming surf, not fearing the raging storms, but instead standing steadfast to receive as He gives. If only we stood there in great faith and expectancy, we’d quickly find He never ever stops giving. We’re the ones who lose hope or courage and walk away from the source. His waves of grace chase us and lap at our feet, desiring to heal, to nurture, and to be received, but if our backs are to those waves as we walk away, we never even know what was there for us, what we failed to discover as we walk back inland to where discouragement and fear are ready to take hold and plant roots—only because we gave those dark thoughts permission again. I don’t want to give them permission anymore. I want to sit in tide pools of never-ending grace at the feet of Jesus. If you trust Him, you can sit there too!

Waiting for the Telephone Call

29 Aug

My father has struggled with cancer since the early 1980s. He was actually told his first one was terminal. My mother didn’t accept that diagnosis, given at a local hospital, and took him for a second opinion. And here he still is, decades later, because of her persistence—but also because of our faith community, which rallied in prayer. (And I know not everyone’s story of healing plays out this way. We each have our own story. This is just ours.)

His first cancer was a liposarcoma in his leg. I remember that one well. I was about 9 years old, and I’d come home to find him in his bathrobe laying on the couch airing out the leg that went through radiation. The pastor would come, sometimes an elder (leader) of the church, and there would be prayer. A lot of prayer. Sometimes they would invite me to come over to the couch to talk or join the prayer. I also remember a spaghetti dinner brought over by a neighbor; she made it with pepperoni in it, and I was consequently really happy every time she was slotted to bring a meal. When you’re 9 and your strong father is home sick and weakened in your family room, pepperoni in spaghetti makes your whole day. I think I may have played barber shop with his hair a lot while he was so sedentary. He tells me now, years later, he really didn’t mind. And I believe him.

His second cancer, only a year later, involved the colon. And back then, colon cancer victims very regularly ended up colostomates, where they have to redirect the waste to exit through an opening (called a stoma) out the front of the body into a pouch. Dad has been managing that lifestyle change now for over 30 years. In my ninth grade year, I wrote a paper on living with an ostomate, and it went into the Ostomy Quarterly. But that wasn’t so much about getting published. It was about taking the biology class I was in and finding direct application. It was about honoring my father.

Somewhere during Cancer 1 or Cancer 2, I wrote him a song and sang it into an old tape player so my mother could take it to him in the hospital. I remember that my grandmother was there, intermittently, while Mom had to go between hospital and home. A part of the song went something like this:

“Waiting for the telephone call, bringing all the news,
Remembering the Bible says that Jesus died for you.
God the Father, God the Son is all I think about
I know the Holy Spirit; there never is a doubt.”

Originally the part about “Jesus died for you” was “Jesus was a Jew” because I was 9 or 10, and that rhymed, and I saw Jesus being a Jew as a good thing (and it is!). But Mom asked that we readjust that so it wasn’t accidentally taken as some kind of slur or mocking in our culture, or be misunderstood by the man next to Dad in his room when they played my song. That was probably wise on Mom’s part. At this time, I remember my childhood pastor talking to me. I have no idea what he said, but he ministered to me as Jesus would a child who approached Him. He saw that this whole sick family member thing was about each of us: my parents, my sister, and me. It made a lasting impact on me that he found me worthy to stop, in the middle of talking with adults in crisis, to address my needs.

And then there was reprieve, and in 2002, in came bladder cancer. And at first, the BCG treatments kept it at bay. Dad was fortunate; the bladder was spared, although he had years of uncomfortable procedures to make sure the beast kept its teeth out. But back it came in 2013 and again in 2014, a very unwelcome companion.

And last night, my father lost his bladder.

But he didn’t lose his life.

Or his faith.

Or his God. He walks with Christ, the hope of glory.

Colossians 1:27, Apostle Paul speaking

To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.

And I’m convinced God has used this journey to not only build my father’s faith but to build the faith of so many around him. Because while God doesn’t cause the yucky things of life, He promises to take them and bring them to good purposes for those who love Him.

Romans 8:28, Apostle Paul speaking

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Good-bye, bladder. We’re very sorry to see you go, and we have certainly mourned your parting. But your part of the story is over now. And the disease within you has not stopped a very real God from inspiring people through a previously-very-red-going-slowly-white-headed, 6-foot-tall man who, through the power of prayer, has lived beyond three different cancers and five tumors into his eighth decade. Nor have you slowed down his impact on this world—because the God he serves is so much bigger than you, or any yucky disease for that matter.

[Dad, earlier this year, with three of his six grandchildren.]

3 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on August 29, 2014 in Grace in Big Gulps, The Healing Cloak of Jesus

Tags: all things God works for the good, bladder, bladder cancer, cancer, christ in you, colon cancer, Colossians 1:27, colostomy, liposarcoma, ostomy, ostomy quarterly, Romans 8:28, the hope of glory

Yelling My Way up the Highway

27 Aug

Overall, I am not a yelling kind of mom. I have my moments, but overall, I am not too bad on the temper. But this title tells it exactly as it was a few months ago. I yelled my way up the highway. On the phone. To the two family members at home who were not going to therapy, while I went to therapy with a different one. Screamed my way right up to our appointment. Yes, yes I did. To share how I got to this lovely place, let me back up.

So I picked up the child who is dealing with some ADHD-based anxiety. This required me having everything else in place for the two other children during that time. It meant making sure that they had snack to get themselves, managed homework, and were ready in dance/karate clothes by the time I arrived home to take them to their activities. It meant getting to the school before the buses lined up and getting on the main highway traveling one state over before traffic jumped on with me.

But it also meant catching a pastry and frappuccino with the one headed to the appointment. And sitting there getting some work done while soothing music played in the waiting room, eucalyptus scents pumped in the air from somewhere, and chairs were comfy. It meant quiet, calm, taking a deep breath, and something to build good things into my child.

So just as I got on the road, the first child off the bus obediently called in to let me know he had arrived. Twenty minutes later, the second child called. I asked about her day, cheerleaded her on about the list I hoped would be done by the time I came home, and quickly got off the phone, knowing my peeps were home safe and had locked all doors behind them. But then—but then. The phone rang again two-thirds of the way into the next state, and here came that Mama Know: that feeling that trouble was afoot. And indeed it was. There was a control battle going on between the one with homework to do on the computer and the one using it for game-playing who got on first.

And they couldn’t work it out themselves.

And I was driving in traffic.

And I didn’t want to be a parent right then.

I wanted my drive with the other child to be peaceful, expectant, and free of anything at home. But it never is when we are responsible for others, even when they are not physically with us. So, I ended up so frustrated and disappointed with their behavior, after several rounds of the innocent act on both of their parts via phone, that I did what every traffic-crazed, frustrated, stressed-out parent wanting five minutes of peace to him/herself does: I barked out a bunch of consequences, made the recreational-computer-use one get off the computer, drew a boundary that I would not hear any more about it (I’m a boundary junkie, after all), and hung up. But in the meantime I had yelled my way up the highway, and when I hung up, there was complete silence. Not peace, but silence. I think even the radio knew to turn itself off.

The child traveling with me shared the silence with me for the last 6 minutes of the ride. I think he knew better than to mess with me in that moment. But as I pulled in and said I was still angry because of an issue the siblings were having over the computer, this one quietly piped up: “That’s what I figured.” And, BOOM! It hit me that we were on our way to THERAPY, for crying out loud, looking for some peace in a few areas, and I yelled our way there. How’s that for anxiety levels? Blood pressure? And I could just imagine him sharing with the therapist how Mom yelled all the way there. Oh wow. I half-expected her to invite me in to the office as well. But this child, despite the anxiety, put calm into his words. He was gentle, yet strong. He reassured me just by tone of voice.

And God does this. He takes the rage in us and quiets it—when we ask Him. He settles the matter by speaking into the storm. He doesn’t take on the anger of the storm itself or fight with the wind. He just tells it to be quiet. His calming-yet-commanding voice alone has the power to defuse it. Jesus, please tell the storm in me to settle. My rage needs to lick a shut-up-sicle. In Your presence, all chaos must settle and peace usher in.

Mark 4:35-41, Apostle John-Mark narrating

That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the
other side.” Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”

I am not proud of this moment, but am glad that there are second chances at these times, that the other child didn’t go into his appointment permanently scarred by Mom’s rage, and that I can take my lack of peaceful parenting and give it to God, and when He gives it back to me (assuming I fully let go), He will help me do better the next time. He will teach me and humble me.

And He will for you too.

*This blog has been shared at Women With Intention Wednesdays and A Little R & R.

3 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on August 27, 2014 in ADHD, Anxiety/OCD/Depression, Grace in Big Gulps, Tweens/Children

Tags: ADHD, anxiety, Even the wind and waves obey him, Jesus calms the storm, Mark 4:35-41, rage, storm, yelling

Valley Walking

22 Aug

A friend of mine recently talked to me about her family’s wait through a lay-off and subsequent job-seeking trial. She shared how hard the wait was. This is so true for any wait of any kind when we sit in the valley and can’t see the other side. I haven’t walked through that particular job wait recently, but I have waited out months on several prayer requests that have roots deep into my heart. We all can relate to that at one point or another. It’s the human condition: We sometimes cannot control ending up in the valley. And we do the best we humanly can, many of us, but we ultimately can’t rush the view of the other side, the one where we start climbing back up that majestic mountain of answers. This friend is one of my “authentic” peeps, the kind you can be real and raw around, no pretenses. So I said what I said to so many others in moments like these: “You are in the valley, and valley walking sucks.”

“Sucks” is not a polite word, but I don’t mean it in the way you might be thinking. Maybe I wouldn’t use it from a pulpit or even in my junior high Sunday School class. But sometimes “sucks” just nails it. Because it sucks the life and energy out of us…or tries to. Because it sucks in good and bad, like a vacuum that consumes the Polly Pocket shoe as well as the dog hair and pine needles it was meant to pick up. Because after it sucks it all in, we have to go through the vacuum bag or bagless canister and sort through our trash: what is not good to think on or dwell on—and what is. Because when I am valley walking, I find it is so easy to have my attitude suck in bad things as well; it sucks in negativity and discouragement and wants to then spew it back out.

So I keep in mind these verses below, where God is speaking through Ezekiel the Prophet that He will breathe life into the dry bones in the valley and bring His people back to their land. What? Valley walking won’t be forever! And my friend exhibits this beautifully through her trial. Trusting in this promise is the only way to walk until we get to the other side without leaving shrapnel evidence of ourselves all over the valley as we cycle through anger, disappointment, and grief in the wait. And you know what happens with shrapnel in the valley? It’s a minefield for those walking behind us. And I want to do better than that. I want to believe He will breathe life into the dry bones in my valley—in your valley—because we asked Him to, and that we will get up with renewed “tendons and flesh,” walking out stronger to the other side, His breath of life in us, if we trust Him.

———————————

Ezekiel 37:1-14, Ezekiel the Prophet narrating

The hand of the Lord was upon me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”

I said, “O Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.’”

So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, son of man, and say to it, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe into these slain, that they may live.’” So I prophesied as he commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army.

Then he said to me: “Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone; we are cut off.’ Therefore prophesy and say to them: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: O my people, I am going to open your graves and bring you up from them; I will bring you back to the land of Israel. Then you, my people, will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and bring you up from them. I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land. Then you will know that I the Lord have spoken, and I have done it, declares the Lord.’”

5 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on August 22, 2014 in Grace in Big Gulps, Ministry Moments, Renewing Our Minds

Tags: dry bones, Ezekiel 37, hear the word of the Lord!, valley, valley of dry bones

Freeze, or Burn?

21 Aug

So, the other day I finally got fed up with a painful growth at the tip of my middle finger, that, because of it being my tallest finger, ended up bumping into everything with force, no matter how cautious I was about it. I was sure it wasn’t a wart. I didn’t think there had been a splinter or sliver of glass in there, but I also knew it had been there for two months with no improvement, but also no infection. I figured they’d send me to the dermatologist to get it sliced off and studied like so many other parts of me that lived near the equator for a few years. But I was wrong.

I went in early in the AM and had to quell my own laughter about my middle finger going up all of the time to protect it from getting knocked by accident. The PA who helped me was not amused, but I find I have to laugh in moments like these. Maybe it’s a nervous habit, like when the dermatologist is cutting something from somewhere normally clothed for a reason. I have to crack jokes or else I cry from the lack of dignity of the moment, and sadly, there are way too many of these moments. I am a dermatologist’s bread and butter! And I find dermatologists to categorically be a humorless bunch (if you’re a derm peep, I’m probably not talking about you). Maybe I provide some comic relief from staring at skin lesions all day, or maybe they are so narrowly focused, my stand-up comedy show is really unwanted. I’m socially awkward anyway, so I walk out of these situations at least having made myself laugh and completely unaware of the extremity of how awkward I really was.

Anyway, it hurt like a son of a gun every time it was bumped. She really had no clue what it was initially. She sliced off the top of the bump, saw no signs of wart “roots,” and decided it might be a hemangioma. So she said I could have it frozen or cauterized, and it would dry up and fall off, and maybe then the vascular bump at the end of my finger would be no more.

Um, okay.

Given the choice, I thought some medically induced frostbite would be the better way to go. And I’ve never been fond of smelling my own flesh burning with medical welding tools. No thanks. If we were going to go that direction, why not just hot-glue-gun my finger at home without the copay? Not my favorite thing. Since I’m a wimp, I assumed a needle of anesthetic would be presented. Nope. She barely asked me if I was ready (doesn’t she know I’d love an epidural just to have a mole removed?) and blast that arctic burn right at my finger for what felt like a full minute. I’m admittedly a real wimp with pain, so it was about two minutes before I could breathe again. I was so incredulous she wasn’t turning that thing off after 10 seconds. Really. I kept looking at her with complete disbelief in my eyes as if any second now she was going to turn that puppy off. Finally, between choking down some oxygen (told you I was a wimp), I declared: “Okay, then. I think I’m all set.” She was having way too much fun with her freeze-blast tool, and she looked like a superhero being told to go back to her secret identity when her services were proven no longer necessary.

And you know what? I got over it. I claimed a little social media sympathy over my little experience, sucked it up, and moved on. But it got me thinking how I wish my sin, insecurities, relational hurts, feelings of betrayal could all be heroically blasted like that. That a full minute of holding my breath and twinging would make it be over.

Oh, wait.

They already were. Over, that is. Those of us with faith in Christ believe they hung on Jesus for several hours. It wasn’t quick or painless or pretty, but “it is finished.” It is finished indeed!

John 19:30, Apostle John speaking
When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

So when I’m tempted to dwell on those things, I need to remember that I can live in restored, redeemed relationship with Christ, and therefore with others. My thoughts, my fears, my temptations, my hurts…all taken care of on that cross. Grace covering me like a blanket I never have to take off. I need to look at my finger (it’s tall and the middle one, after all, so hard to miss) and remember He took that all on for me so that I don’t have to dwell in a lack of peace. I can dwell in Him. And there’s truly no place I’d rather be.

What does “It is finished” mean to you?