Why Urban Retreats Matter

I never cease to be amazed at the strength, dignity and perseverance of women who have endured much hardship in this lifetime. I get to know many of these remarkable women through our urban leadership retreats. Some of these women have suffered loss, abuse and loneliness, yet they have become pillars of strength and encouragement to their churches and communities.

Sometimes I wish we could do more to help them carry the load. I know our retreats make a difference, but sometimes I wonder, “What can a mere weekend away do in the scheme of things?”

I was reminded that God uses even the simple things like a retreat-themed t-shirt to help these precious women remember that they are not alone and they are strong in the Lord.

Vicki, one of our faithful retreat participants, recently lost her adult son to a drug overdose. Vicki is a loving mom and grandma who has done so much to help take care of her family and grandchildren. In the midst of this tragedy, Vicki has chosen to stand strong and be fierce in her faith. A few days after her son’s death, she posted this picture (below) on Facebook where she is wearing our retreat “Fierce: Women of the Word” t-shirt. This image speaks volumes of why urban retreats matter. They matter because of women like Vicki. Women who embody what it means to be fierce, empowered woman of God- even in life’s darkest moments.

When our women wear these shirts, it is a visual reminder that they are not alone. They are surrounded by a sisterhood of like-minded women who are united through their faith in Christ. They are reminded that they are stronger than they feel during a moment of crisis or sorrow. They also know that they are a part of a “tribe” that will love them and pray for them.

I am so honored to serve these women through our retreat ministry. May we all be FIERCE through the power of Christ working in us and through us.

What's in a Name?

When I pray for my boys, I pray for the men they will become. I pray that they will be men of integrity and justice. I pray that they will fight for those who are oppressed and speak for those who have no voice. It is this prayer that got me thinking of the name we would bestow upon our third boy.

As we contemplated naming our third born, I gravitated toward the name Caden. It’s Welsh/Irish meaning is “spirit of battle”. As Christians, we know our battle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of sin and the evil one. I pray that as Caden matures, he will battle against the powers of evil- the powers of oppression and injustice.

His middle name, Earl, is in honor of my late Grandpa. Earl means “warrior.” When we think of “warriors” in the traditional sense, we think of fighters- bloodied from battle, aggressive and powerful. But perhaps, there is another way to view “warrior.” What about the man or woman who fights for justice using their words and influence rather than brute strength? What about the person whose care and compassion toward others is so fierce that nothing will get in their way of showing the love of Christ toward their fellow brother or sister? This is the kind of warrior I want to raise. A warrior for the King of Kings.

As it happens, Caden has already proved his warrior-like spirit. When he was born, he had trouble breathing. The doctor thought he might have swallowed some amniotic fluid. In what felt like a deja-vu nightmare (Justus had trouble breathing and spent 12 days in the hospital after he was born), more and more doctors flooded our delivery room and then it was decided to take him to the NICU. Silent tears streamed down my face as I realized what this could mean. I pleaded to hold my baby one last time before they took him away (pictured to the right). After they took him away, I was alone in the room- an empty shell- no baby in my womb or my arms.

But as always, God is in control. A few minutes later our warrior baby was rolled back into my room. Apparently, once they reached the NICU, his breathing became regulated. The doctor and nurses were joking that he was, indeed, a little fighter- living up to his name.

I know this is only one of many battles my son will face. But I take comfort in knowing that God will equip him for each battle he will endure. Not only that, I pray that he will fight on the behalf of others- a warrior for Christ.

In the Dark Watches of the Night

The other night I lay awake with a horrible toothache due to a newly installed crown. I began having my own little pity party for my pregnant self- bemoaning the fact I couldn't take any ibuprofen and the unfairness of tooth pain on top of my other uncomfortable pregnancy symptoms. As I lay there,  I recalled a passage from a book on prayer that spoke of praying through the "night watch." 

When you can't sleep or find yourself awake during the still, quiet hours of the night, you have the opportunity to be in prayer for others who might be lying awake. Those who are in pain or sorrow. Those who weep and feel alone:

"In the middle of the night I pray for those who sleep and those who cannot sleep. I pray for those with fearful hearts, for those whose courage is waning. I pray for those who have lost vision of what could be." (Seven Sacred Pauses,  31).

So I started praying. I prayed for friends I know are going through tough times. Friends battling sickness. Friends struggling with marriage issues. I prayed a general prayer for all who were suffering.

As I lay there in the dark, my own pain began to surface. Not the physical pain in my mouth, but the deeper pain in my heart: the death of a dream. As overjoyed as I am to give birth to a precious baby boy in a few months, there is a fuzzy type of grief that accompanies this joy: a grief that I will never know the delight of a daughter (this is our third and last child). I'm not quite ready to unload all of these emotions in written word yet, but I know that grief and sadness over small "deaths" is a normal part of life and nothing to be ashamed of.

I know of many dear sisters who are grieving the loss of a dream- the loss of a vision they had for themselves, their marriage or their children. 

Maybe you, too, are grieving a personal loss. Maybe your child is getting bullied at school and you feel helpless. Maybe you were passed over for a job you desperately desired and thought God had directed you to. Maybe the marriage bliss you expected when you said "I do" turned out to involve more heartache than you anticipated. Maybe you feel anger at God and this makes you feel even worse.

It's okay. It really is.

It is okay you feel anger. Pain. Sadness. God can handle your feelings and His great mercy, He does not condemn us for our human emotions. He longs to draw us close and hide us under the shadow of His wings (Psalm 91.4).

It is okay to mourn the death of a dream- no matter how "silly" or "unimportant" it may seem to others.

So next time, you find yourself staring at the ceiling during the dark watches of the night, remember others are in the same place you are. You are not alone. God sees you. And He sees all who suffer. Take a few minutes and offer a short prayer for those burdened by grief, pain and sorrow:

"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend to the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen." (The Divine Hours, 515).

From Pine Trees to Palm Trees: Basking in the Beauty of God’s Creation

Earlier this year, the Lord challenged me to live out Psalm 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.”  It’s hard for me to be still…correction: It is hard for my mind to be still. It is constantly churning out ideas, worries, schedules, grocery lists, worst-case scenarios…you get the idea. So I figured with Daren and I taking a sabbatical from ministry, this was the perfect time for me to practice.

Recently, as I was sitting by the pool, Jackson climbed out and settling down on the warm cement he sighed contentedly, “I am going to bask in the sun.” The word bask resonated with me. I looked up the definition: “to lie or relax in a pleasant atmosphere; to take pleasure or derive enjoyment.” I knew immediately that the Lord was inviting me to bask in His creation- to be still in the beauty of it and to simply enjoy being in it.

When it comes to God’s creation, I have always been drawn to the artistry and grace of trees. They manage to stand tall throughout decades remaining unchanged (with the exception of the seasons). There is something soothing about watching the wind blow through their leaves- a secret love language from God whispering His presence.

While on sabbatical, we have traveled to a variety of places, allowing me to spend time with the Lord in many resplendent settings. During many of my quiet times, I have situated myself near a window or balcony overlooking trees. At the first place we stayed, it was a giant weeping willow, gently swaying in the breeze. In Colorado and New Mexico, it was the magnificent pine and aspen trees. In California it is the statuesque palm trees that captured my attention. I find it easier to be transported into the presence of God when I focus on His creation, one of His many love letters to us, His children. His creation is not to be worshipped in and of itself but rather it is merely a window through which we glimpse His glory, His power and love for us- His most prized creation. I am beyond grateful that the Lord has allowed me to be refreshed and renewed through the variety and magnitude of His creation: mountains and oceans, hills and valleys, pine trees and palm trees.

As I walked along the beach a few days ago, marveling at the ebb and flow of the tide, I was reminded of what Henri Nouwen wrote about creation: You, O Lord, can be found in your creation because it all came into being through the Word of your Almighty Father, who spoke the creation into existence and saw that it was good.

Reflections from the Front Office: Beauty amid Brokenness

Every Wednesday from 9:00am- 9:30am, I sat in the front office of the local public school in the low-income community in which I live and serve. My youngest was receiving speech therapy from an excellent speech pathologist who was on staff there. He would go back with her to her classroom and I would wait in the front office. I would usually bring a book or some work with me, but after the first few weeks, I was simply too absorbed in all the activity that found its way to the tireless administrative staff in the front office. Some of it was amusing and some of it heartbreaking. This school is located in the heart of the inner city- in an area where crime, poverty and neglect run rampant. This is a school that had at least 4 lockdowns this past year due to the violence happening right outside their building. My sister taught for 5 years at this school and her heart broke for the students living in fear, living without parental oversight or even regular meals. Yet despite the brokenness that pervades this school, beauty, like a subtle ivy, creeps in unexpected places.

I see the loving grandpa who comes each day to drop off his grandsons before heading off to his second job. Once, I even saw him come back to school with the lunch one of his grandsons had forgotten. I see the ever-smiling Ms. Harris who greets every child by name and manages to answer phones, fill out late passes, give hugs and find a spare uniform shirt for the little girl who never has the appropriate attire. Beauty amid brokenness.

I see parents trying- some more than others. I hear “I love yous” but I also hear harshness in the voices of some. I see the exhaustion, desperation (and sometimes despondency) that is a result of adults who are living in generational poverty. I also see teachers who don’t give up on their students- who smile and remain hopeful despite the odds. I see Ms. Holle, Justus’ beloved speech therapist, who still loves on her students after years of teaching. Beauty amid brokeness.

I see the mother who explained to one of the staff that her son wouldn’t be in school for the next few days because he had been attacked by a vicious pitbull while he was playing in his front yard. The dog tore into his leg and this precious boy had to be taken to the ER. I live not to far from this mom- my boys play in our front yard. It all became too real too fast. I watched as the secretary came out from behind her desk and wrapped this shaken mom into a hug and told her, “I’m praying for him and you.” Beauty amid brokenness.

I see a young father getting a late pass for his son. The son’s name is Sirius. Good-naturedly, the secretary asks the dad how he came up with that name. I love his response: “Well, I was studying constellations and the Sirius constellation is the brightest one in the galaxy, so I thought, I want my son to be the brightest star." In a school where many of the children are without loving, involved fathers, here was this dad who deeply valued the incalculabe worth of the son he was raising. Beauty amid brokenness.

I live in a low-income neighborhood. Across the street are two empty lots where houses have been torn down. As I sit on my porch and sip my coffee, I see remnants of broken fences, garbage and overgrown weeds. Yet among the plain weeds, grows these beautiful purple flowers (yes, I know they are weeds). I enjoy gazing at them. They remind me that God creates beauty amid brokenness.

You are Loved

"I know my kids have forgiven me and I know God has forgiven me, but I can't forgive myself."

In her eyes was a mixture of hope and guilt. Hope for a fresh start with the forgiveness she knew had been granted but guilt for a past that still haunted her. I have heard this same refrain from many women over the course of my ministry.

Truthfully, I have heard this in my own mind- a place where my darkest, most insecure parts of me are buried deep. Where I re-live the things I most regret- words I have screamed at my children, the critical comments I have thrown at my own husband and the judgmental thoughts I have harboured toward friends and co-workers, to name a few. Forgiving yourself is hard. Loving yourself, with all your baggage and flaws, is even harder.

How could God love me in my most wretched state? I am not talking about pre-salvation when I had yet to acknowledge my sin or experience God's grace. What about my daily wretchedness? Does God still love me despite the habitual sin- despite the sin of my "secret self" no one sees but me?

At our recent Regional Women' s Retreat several women poured out their hearts as they shared deep wounds and secrets they had deemed "unforgivable." One woman shared how her alcohol addiction had caused her son to be born with fetal-alcohol syndrome. Her shame and guilt over this had caused her to bury this secret. Until that evening, she had never told anyone. Another woman bravely admitted a narcotics addiction she had kept hidden from everyone at her church. In their most vulnerable states, they let us in. And we, in turn, offered love- the love of God. Because God loves us wholly and completely- in our sin and ugliness. No, He does not condone sin but His love isn't lessened because of it.

Dear sister or brother, you are loved just as you are right at this moment- in the midst of your own personal chaos, whatever that may be.

The Son of the Most High God loves YOU.

Noxzema and Nostalgia

Last Saturday as I was perusing the skin care aisle at WalMart (I was enjoying my childless shopping trip), I couldn't resist purchasing a small tub of Noxzema. Every time I take a whiff of this cream, it brings back a flood of childhood memories.

I remember looking at the classic royal blue tub while my mom curled my hair in the bathroom (I think when she wasn't looking, I would open it and smell it).

I remember her gently applying it to my sunburned skin (it always cooled the sting of the burn).

I remember receiving my first jar as a teenager- stumbling my way through puberty but excited by the prospect of using "grown-up" face cream.

So as I stood there in the aisle contemplating on whether I should buy it (I really didn't need it- I already have an arsenal of skin care products), I decided I just had to have it. I had to smell it and revel in nostalgia.

Noxzema is just one in a long line of "smell memories" that when inhaled lets waves of my childhood wash over me. I still have an ounce left of the Love's Baby Soft perfume my parents gave me in fourth grade. Every time I take a whiff, I remember the Christmas I received it. We were living in LA. We flew back to Kansas that year to celebrate with family. It was my first plane ride. Whenever I open I box of Fruit Loops (which is rare these days) and the fruity, lemony flavor wafts toward my nose, I am brought back to childhood vacations to Colorado when we were treated with sugar cereal in those small, travel boxes.

So, here's to smells and all the memories it brings back. Hopefully, some day, my kids will smell a whiff of vanilla and remember how much I loved burning vanilla-scented candles. And maybe that smell of vanilla will bring back happy, contented memories of home and childhood.