Shout out to my man Zeke for using this week after graduation to serve our family. Fixing the plumbing, washing the truck, cleaning out the garage. The towel suits you.
Since the dawn of time, man’s most Frequently Asked Questions have been 1.) Who am I? 2.) Where am I going? and 3.) What should I do? Or, if you’ve ever heard these questions asked by your mom, it may have sounded like this: 1.) Who do you think you are, mister? 2.) Just where do you think you’re going? and 3.) What on earth are you doing?
Valid questions. Deep questions. Have you ever wondered how Jesus would answer these questions?
“Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist” (John 13:3,4).
In other words, he knew who he was, and he knew where he was going, so he served.
Friend, we can copy his answers. You know who you are because you know Whose you are. You are a dearly loved child of God. You know where you’re going because Jesus went to hell and back so you could be with him – now and forever. And you know what to do. If Jesus lowered himself to serve, so can you. You don’t need to scramble for worldly prestige. There is so much to be gained through the self-forgetfulness of service.
I’ve heard the story of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet summed up this way: “The insecure grab titles; the secure grab towels.” Secure in your answers and identity, you can grab a towel.
An affluent city near us is known for its plastic surgery. Plastic surgery is such a blessing for cancer patients, burn victims, or people who have been disfigured in car accidents. However, it’s very tempting for those with disposable income to use it to turn back time, erase wrinkles, lift that which sags, give where the Lord has taken away, and take away where the Lord (or Häagen-Dazs) has given.
“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit” (2 Corinthians 3:17, 18).
Father, You are love. You are loving. You have made us in Your image, so we are lovely—and all the more so as You change us to look more and more like Jesus.
Forgive us for making our flat stomachs an idol or for worshipping smooth skin and toned tushes—as if those things will last, as if those things will satisfy the aching in our hearts. What we really want is approval, and we have that in Jesus, through His perfection. What we really want is acceptance, and again, through Jesus we already have it. What more could the world give us?
Cultivate a gentle inner beauty in all of us that draws others to seek You. Not for our admiration and glory, but for Yours.
“You know there’s more men out there and you know where they are. Find ’em.”
Courtesy of Tri-Star Pictures, 1985
The men and women I have the privilege of working with in area sober living homes remind me of Rambo. In First Blood Part II, John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) is a Vietnam veteran who courageously returns to Prisoner of War camps to free other POWs.
The residents I meet are tasting the freedom of life outside of prison walls. They are working on how to walk on the shaky ground of newfound sobriety. Free from the bondage of serving their drug and alcohol addictions, their big question is, “So now what?”
Take Marco, for example. Marco doesn’t want to go back to his old way of life. He had used and abused people and substances. He had damaged relationships with friends and family—some beyond repair. But through the gospel Marco knows that’s not who he is anymore.
Marco eventually graduated from the program and moved out of the sober living home. But he came back—not because he had relapsed, but because he wanted to help free more prisoners. He wanted to use the freedom he’d been given to help others break the cycle of homelessness, drug abuse, and prison.
“You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love.”
Galatians 5:13
What about you? You were a slave to the accuser, your secret sins, and the appetites of your flesh. But through Christ, that is not who you are anymore. You have been set free. Like Marco (and Rambo), use your freedom to free more prisoners.
Skilled tradesmen volunteer to train teens on how to frame a shed and pour concrete as part of the Build Up program through Kingdom Workers — acts of service for DAYS!
I am a horrible person for whom to buy presents. “Gifts” is not my primary love language; “Acts of Service” is. My husband could have saved so much money when we were dating by forgoing flowers and jewelry. I feel cherished when he schedules the plumber, vacuums out the car, or cuts up all the veggies for a salad.
I teared up a little last Mother’s Day – not because my kids gave me a gift, but because someone had put a fresh roll of toilet paper on the holder. To commemorate the moment, I snapped a picture. (I will not post the picture on social media lest I arouse the jealousy of moms everywhere.)
Have you ever wondered what God’s love language is? Maybe it’s “Words of Affirmation” because in the Bible He gives us page after page of reminders of His love for us. Or perhaps it’s “Quality Time” because as we linger in prayer, meditate on His Word, and worship wholeheartedly, our relationship with Him is strengthened. What about “Physical Touch”? Is that one reason He gave us the bread and wine – His body and blood – in the Lord’s Supper?
Let’s read what the Apostle Paul has to say: “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8).
Before I was baptized, before I made a public proclamation of my faith at Confirmation, while I was still God’s enemy, Christ died for me. He gave His life for me. Is there a greater act of service than that?
Note: John, I adore the necklace you got me for my birthday last week! Please do not return it. Love, Liz
Quotes from historical books of the Old Testament are rarely embroidered on throw pillows. Poetry from the Psalms and wise quotes from Proverbs? Sure. But when was the last time you saw something from Judges hand-lettered onto a shiplap sign? Come to think of it, I would pay good money for pallet art with 1 Samuel 17:46 in decorative script:
“This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head. This very day I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds and the wild animals, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel.”
Live, laugh, love! Hobby Lobby, let’s talk.
But here in the United States, with Election Day this week and election fallout for who knows how long, I am so grateful for the historical books of the Old Testament.
Good kings, evil kings, political hijinks, times of military success, times of Israel getting its collective rear kicked to Babylon—it’s all written down for us in the Old Testament. But what was it all for? What was the point?
Jesus. Jesus was the point, and Jesus is always the point. In times of prosperity and comfort, people tended to forget about Him. In times of pain and judgement, they remembered God and their need for a Savior. In God’s mercy, He preserved His people AND preserved the timeline and context for the Savior to be born into a politically messy, sinful world.
I saw an election sign on Instagram that read, “JESUS 2020.” I approve of this message. Whoever wins on election night or however long it takes to tally up the ballots, God is still on the throne. Jesus is still the Lord of lords and the King of kings. Did it take everything that has happened in 2020 to remind us? If that’s the case, bring on the murder hornets! Bring on the noisy debates with overlapping boasts and pesky flies. Bring on the COVID tests with cotton swabs shoved so far up your nose you think they’re swabbing for gray matter. Without a doubt, mourn the loss of life and liberty. Weep for sanity having left the building, but then pick up your embroidery needle and get to work:
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
Joshua 1:9 (an historical book of the Old Testament that was written in exile, by the way)
Fearlessly and full of hope, we can go into November with confidence. By the amazing grace of God, we can even dance…like no one is watching.
My dad was born on September 15, 1940, in the shadow of Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Shortly after he was baptized, the Armistice Day Storm claimed the lives of 154 people in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa. In his eighty years on the planet, my dad would ride out many impressive and sobering storms.
My dad lived through World War II, the Cold War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, Reagan’s “Star Wars” and the War on Drugs, and Operation Desert Storm. As a pastor of baby churches and churches of a thousand members, he weathered doctrinal battles, worship wars, and the struggle against missional drift. As a husband, he fought to find a date night with his wife that didn’t involve a broasted chicken buffet at a church member’s wedding reception. As a father of four, he resisted the urge to yawn during bedtime prayers after long, long days. He battled his children’s apathy and selfishness, and he stormed the throne of grace on behalf of those same kids.
One of the personal storms he has faced was his health. At the end of one Holy Week, as is fitting for Lent, his heart broke. Subsequent surgeries would forever change the way he swung a racquet or bait a hook, but his heart healed stronger. Those who know him best say he mellowed. He became more focused. His desire to disciple and reach people who were disconnected from their Heavenly Father became his priority. Without weekly services to prepare and council meetings to attend, his mission became single-focused: to lead others through the storms of life to the arms of their Savior.
This 80-year-old is living on-purpose, tenderly attentive to the things of God, and passing the test of the tempest. He’ll continue to break storms until the Harbor Master calls him into port. In my dad’s wake is a legacy of little boats all bobbing along toward the same goal. Until then, we thank God for every year of my dad, Carl Pagel, Stormbreaker.
Love, Your Fleet: Paul, Kelly, David, Christine, Matthew, Elizabeth, John, Sarah, Jack, Hannah, J.K., Elle, Joey, Maddie, Sam, Caleb, Eva, Zeke, Xander, Zuzu, Vivi, and Oliver
My face when someone wants to be accountabili-buddies.
Accountability. Is this a word only masochists love? My friend Andrea’s eyes freakishly sparkle when she talks about wanting accountability to be a major component of her small group. It reminds me of the way my friend Melissa’s face contorts with joy when thrusters are part of the workout. What’s wrong with these people? For me, the word accountability (and thrusters) makes me want to climb into a death hole.
By my way of thinking, accountability carries such a heavy load–heavier than 45-pound plates on a bar for thrusters. It carries a weight of shame.
How did shame and accountability get entangled in my mind? It goes way, way back:
I’m in my tiny desk in the dank basement where I attended my earliest years of school. In my grasp is a navy pencil, fat with shiny lead that tore the lined newsprint sheets. Hovering over my shoulder is a teacher enshrouded in the acrid aura of burnt coffee and strong cough drops. I hear her crisp comment to the class as she assesses our handwriting practice, “I wish I could hook up electrodes that would give you a shock when your pencils went outside the lines.” (!)
To this day a thrill of fear runs through me when I jot down a quick note in a sloppy hand, say, when I’m on the phone and capturing a rattled-off confirmation number. What if I were to die and my first grade teacher were to witness my tragic penmanship? The horror!
But my aversion to accountability runs much deeper than idle childhood threats. It goes to the core of my soul, my natural bent that seeks to cast off the heavy mantle of responsibility, of being called on the carpet to explain myself and my actions when asked–especially when I’ve penciled outside the lines. My inclination is to run and hide like my spiritual ancestors who ducked behind fig leaves to cover their nakedness and shame.
For me, expectancy does not carry the same burden as accountability—not even close.
Whereas accountability scowls with crossed arms and impatient weight-shifting, expectancy is light, eager, already laughing in anticipation of the punchline.
Think of a baby shower. We call people about to have a baby expectant parents not accountable couples. Do we throw a baby shower to take the mother-to-be to task? To make sure she’s toeing the line? “You are accountable for producing an heir. We best see results!” Or, are we sharing in the joy of the miracle God is going to do by knitting together new life within her womb? Therein lies another difference:
With accountability, the workload lies on my shoulders whereas expectancy anticipates the handiwork of God.
My sister and I had precious few cassette recordings growing up. Our most prized tape was The Go-Go’s Beauty and the Beat, and we played it until the B-side melted into the A-side. Another one we played over and over was a kids’ album of worship songs. To this day, “I anticipate the inevitable, supernatural intervention of God—I expect a miracle,” is burned into our brains every bit as much as, “We Got the Beat.” Aside from the fact that the songwriters slam 400% more polysyllabic words into one line of lyrics than all other kids’ songs combined, they define what it means to expect a miracle—without the finger-crossing and sending of good vibes into the universe popularly associated with the word.
But don’t let me wriggle off the hook of accountability under a guise of spiritualizing expectancy. Because Lord knows I need both.
We all need both accountability and expectancy because we have each been entrusted with gifts, talents and ideas.
Let’s say you have an idea to start a hydroponic garden or learn to speak Mandarin. You know yourself. You’ve had good ideas before that have fizzled out before they’ve started. Your friend knows you. She might ask, “Is this something you really want?” And before you can stop yourself, you say, “Yes! I’m all in. I’m really going to do it this time. When we get together next week, I want you to ask me for a progress report.” This is accountability.
Now flip the script. What if your friend listens to your idea to garden or speak Mandarin and says, “I can tell this has lit a fire in your belly. I can’t wait to see what God does with your idea this week. I’m going to follow up and ask you about it because I know how doubt can set in – especially when we hit obstacles. Let’s pray it up between now and then.” This is expectancy.
Here’s the thing: Either scenario is great! Both words have their merits. Does it really matter what you call it? What matters is that the idea doesn’t get lost, lose momentum, and get jettisoned before it’s begun its sacred voyage. What matters is that you have been blessed with a friend who sees the potential in you and your idea.
If you saw the 1986 film Stand By Me, you’ll recall River Phoenix’s character, Chris Chambers, a kid from an abusive family who was endowed with wisdom beyond his adolescent years. It was Chris Chambers who saw the potential in his friend Gordie LaChance (Wil Wheaton):
“It’s like God gave you something, man. All those stories that you can make up. And He said, ‘This is what we got for you, kid. Try not to lose it.’ But kids lose everything unless there’s someone there to look after them. And if you’re parents are too [messed] up to do it, then maybe I should.”
And just like that Chris became Gordie’s ad hoc accountability partner.
Accountability is born of necessity when the cost of losing a gift, talent, or idea outweighs the uncomfortable friction of being held accountable.
If you can’t see the importance of your gift or calling, thank God for friends who can.
You might not have a Chris Chambers in your life right now, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find an expectancy/accountability partner. Having a friend you meet for coffee might be your reality during this time, but it might not. Your reality could look more like joining a Facebook group dedicated to your specific passion and finding someone to Zoom work times. It sounded weird to me at first, too. You set up a Zoom call, say hi, and get to work for the allotted amount of time. My physical therapist friend Christine works out with her buddy on FaceTime to ensure they stick to their fitness goals. So smart! My daughter Eva has a journaling partner with whom she’s exchanged snaps of daily entries for the past four summers. They don’t miss a day. Genius!
We’d like to think that just because we know something is good to do or good for us, we’ll go through with it. But resistance is real. Obstacles are real. However, if we know someone is counting on us to show up, we are much more likely to do the thing we wanted to do in the first place.
To bring it close to home, the main reason I am writing today is that I have a standing weekly appointment tonight to chat with T, my big sister. T is going to ask me how my latest blog post has progressed since last week. Now, I could come up with a laundry list of justifications—true and compelling reasons for not writing: we had a family birthday, refinanced our mortgage, volunteered at church, took advantage of a free hotel stay with our family, and literally, needed to do the laundry. T is off-the-charts when it comes to empathy, and she would respond with “mmm-hmm” and “uh-huh” in comforting and appropriate ways, I am sure. I am certain that’s how she’d respond because that’s what she did last week when I hadn’t made any significant progress. Then she gently poked and prodded. T would not let the seed of the idea die after germination. She painted a landscape without words of hope, choked by weeds of fear and despair, and she made it positively unconscionable to not water the seedling I had started. My sister is an amazing idea-birthing coach, and it’s taken me forty years to fully appreciate that about her.
I hope the irony is not lost that I need an accountability partner to write on the topic of accountability.
I continue to refine and edit my work because I volunteered to show it to a trusted circle of friends in the morning. I made myself accountable, and they responded with joy on par with expectant grandparents. If you ever wondered why the “Acknowledgements” section in a book is so long, this is why:
We remember and treasure the people who love us enough to hold us accountable and hold space with us in eager expectation of what God is going to do.
Whether you have a friend like Chris Chambers, a virtual accountabili-buddy, or a sister like mine, you have a world that desperately needs your unique gifting. I can’t wait to see what God does with it. I anticipate His handiwork, and I applaud with the angels when you fight the resistance to use the gift that’s been entrusted to you. I expect a miracle.
“Write it. Shoot it. Publish it. Engrave it. Paint it, whatever. MAKE.”
Joss Whedon
Bonus: Next Steps if You Need to Get Started TODAY
Are you blocked? Stumped? Dead in the water? Do you have an idea-baby stuck in the birth canal and you’ve lost the energy to push? Then set aside two hours. Use one hour to listen to the introduction and first chapter of a book that comes out on March 11, 2020: The Lazy Genius Way by Kendra Adachi. She’s giving this content away for free on her podcast, The Lazy Genius. Full disclosure: I don’t know her from Adam, but she clearly knows me. As a recovering perfectionist herself, she deeply understands how the pendulum swings between frenzied activity and apathetic lethargy. She will thaw you out of your frozen state of fear and kindle a flame for your calling. In short, she’s your big sister poking you when you need it the most. Set aside the hour after listening because I guarantee you that you’ll want to throw yourself headlong into your passion project. Happy birthday to your idea!
I just happened to have this book near a potted tree. My life is art, y’all.
I wanted to name this piece “Reading Fiction Will Save the World” or “Reading Memoirs Will Save Your Life” but that sounded a little too dramatic, even for me. At the heart of it, though, I believe it.
I grew up spending my summers luxuriating in the air conditioned stacks of our local library. I would ride my banana-seat bike just two blocks in our one stoplight town of Hortonville, Wisconsin, (population 2,016), hop off, not lock it up, and stride in with all the confidence of someone who carries the power to unfold the mysteries of the ages via the creased cardboard library card in her back pocket.
My best friend was also a bibliophile, and when we weren’t forming our own detective agency or careening down a Slip ‘N Slide littered with grass clippings, we were reading together. I remember the afternoon we had each picked up a copy of Little Women and the only sounds came from page-turning, a most satisfying sound I recall when I hear my youngest daughter bite delicately into an apple.
That was before we had novels assigned to us in school, before vocabulary lists and studying the text for thematic elements won out over reading for the sheer sensuous pleasure of it. In a way, school killed books for me even as I learned to analyze them better. What E.B. White said of comedy is true of fiction: “Explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog. You understand it better but the frog dies in the process.” I still loved reading, but as high school and college wore on, it became harder to keep the frog alive.
John and I were married shortly after college graduation, and we were both relieved to have left syllabuses and term papers behind us. As newlyweds, we rediscovered reading for pleasure, finding two library copies of a novel about immigrants who came through Ellis Island in the early 1900s. We stretched out on the mattress we had moved from his parent’s house and contentedly turned the pages as our feet touched. Afterward, we discussed what we’d read over the simple meals we knew how to make, like grilled cheese and tomato soup, peanut butter chicken, and adding a can of tuna to a prepared box of Kraft mac-n-cheese. It was amazing how intense literary discourse could make the humblest meal feel like we were in a Parisian salon.
At some point, we found things to do on that mattress other than reading, resulting in five time-consuming bundles of joy in nine years. During the blur of early motherhood, the quality of books I was willing to read jumped up a couple of notches. I wasn’t about to waste my time on trash. A notable exception was when I burned through the Twilight series during a scorching bout of mastitis. I couldn’t think straight, so YA vampire fiction was the perfect prescription. The best books of that era were Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The former ripped out my still-beating heart while the latter filled me with the sheer joy of being alive along with the desire to write more letters. These novels provided a much-needed connection to history, philosophy, and theology while living out my important — but often isolating — calling as a mother.
This summer, reading real books has again given me connection, enlightenment, and at times, an escape.
Books transport me anywhere, anytime.
Travel plans have been smashed to smithereens. John and I were looking forward to taking a week-long cruise in mid-July with shore excursions on Italy, France, and Spain. Our plans, like so many people’s, have been canceled.
Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are.”
Mason Cooley
Instead, I am taking a virtual vacation in a dirt-poor, early 1900s neighborhood as I reread Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I’m going on holiday to London and quaint surrounding villages in Rosamunde Pilcher’s The Shell Seekers. I’m revisiting Italy in the delicious yet heartbreaking memoir of Tembi Locke’s From Scratch. I’m not limited by days off, budget, or travel restrictions. I don’t have to pack a suitcase, kennel the dog, or secure a house sitter. Within moments of opening the Audible app or book cover, I am transported to not only places but time periods I could never visit in real life.
Reading real books allows me to see life from multiple points of view, which is especially poignant this summer.
People are screaming to be understood, and I am struggling to understand. The voices from social media are conflicting on how to even broach the subject of injustice and inequality. Reading books allows me to educate myself which lays the foundation for conversations with friends whose background differs from mine. Don’t believe the meme that you can’t ask a person about their story because it isn’t their job or my job to educate you. Read the whole article. Educate yourself first, and then ask away, proceeding thoughtfully.
If you don’t know where to begin, remember that characters in books will never judge you for not knowing. Celie and Shug were patient with me in The Color Purple as they unfolded their stories of pain and perseverance. Poets like Langston Hughes let me chew on verses until I sensed the flavor and texture of a dream deferred. Maya Angelou understood when she said of her autobiographies like I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,
I want to write so that the reader … can say, ‘You know, that’s the truth. I wasn’t there, and I wasn’t a six-foot black girl, but that’s the truth.’ ”
Maya Angelou
Books build a bridge of understanding between us.
Reading makes me feel connected to friends.
Remember when you could meet a friend at the local coffee shop and see their mask-less face light up with delight or struggle to hold back tears as you caught up on life? I miss face-to-face connection dearly, and Zoom will never beat the real thing. I am hopeful that it won’t always be this way, but this summer, I am taking the time to read the books recommended to me by friends. When I read a book that spoke to a friend, it’s like we’re sitting together, turning crisp pages on a summer’s afternoon.
How about you? Do you find yourself reading more these days? What new authors have you discovered?
You can check out Goodreads to see what your friends are reading. Also, I highly recommend downloading the free 2020 Summer Reading List from Modern Mrs. Darcy–not just because I love her name, but because she reads more books in a year than I could get through in a decade. She has a conversational podcast where she answers the question, “What Should I Read Next?”
You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.”
Photo cred: The sweet professional photographer who volunteered to take our pic on her day off because she couldn’t handle our incompetency. Thank you!
What began 54 years ago as a honeymoon retreat in Wautoma, Wisconsin, for my mother- and father-in-law has grown into an annual week-long gathering of more than 30 people, two wiener dogs and a Yorkipoo living under two roofs. That’s eight couples, 18 grandkids, and one newborn great-grandson–like Grandma’s plaque reads–“All Because Two People Fell in Love.”
This year was our best family reunion yet, and I want to analyze why it was our best. Leadership expert Andy Stanley says, “If you don’t know why it’s working when it’s working, you won’t know how to fix it when it breaks.” So I’ve compiled a list of things we did right–sometimes after decades of getting it wrong.
We were grateful. Among countless other lessons, 2020 has taught us to not take meeting together for granted. We were grateful that families drove for twenty hours across the country or ventured out with a week-old baby or flew in masked and slathered in hand sanitizer to make this happen. We were thankful that couples loaded up their cars with Costco hauls to feed and clean up after our tribe. Most of all, we were thankful that God preserved the health of our parents that they could live to see another family reunion. We don’t take any of these things for granted anymore.
We were gracious. The best families are made up of the best forgivers, and sharing close quarters gave us many opportunities to forgive or simply overlook irritations. It helped that we kicked off the week with a worship service including a celebration of Holy Communion. Confessing our sins, sharing in the joys of forgiveness, and singing with every bit as much enthusiasm as when we’re at a karaoke bar while we sat on the screened-in porch overlooking Silver Lake was one of my top memories of the week.
Good sense makes a person slow to anger, and it is to his credit when he overlooks an offense.
Proverbs 19:11 EHV
We soaked in the beauty of creation. We could not have had better weather: Sunshine and gentle breezes, low humidity, and one Midwest rainstorm to quench my desert-dwelling heart. During quarantine, I think we’d all had our fill of being indoors, Netflix, and the constantly running news feed that does nothing to feed our souls. Instead, we greeted the lake each morning with arms open wide, filling our lungs with fresh air imbued with the scents of algae, of boat engine fuel, of bass who have passed on from this life, of sunscreen and the ashes of last night’s campfire. When it was time to call the kids into shore and their bodies would sway from the waves’ imprint on their muscle memory, we knew it had been a good day.
We paid attention to love languages. For example, my dear brother-in-law shows love by sharing whatever he happens to be eating or drinking. Jovially he will shove a fork or glass in my face and declare, “You must try!” While I am normally quite careful about what I eat, I chose to take a bite or swig or at least an appreciative smell because doing so would fill his emotional bucket. (And this is after last year when he unknowingly fed me rotten pickled sucker fish. A good family is good at forgiving. See above.) We saw love in action in the uncles who drove countless circles on the lake as they pulled skiers and tubers, the aunts who washed a counter full of dishes sticky with BBQ sauce after meals, older cousins who drove the little ones to the overpriced candy story for $3 mystery bags, and in grandparents who stayed up way past their bedtime so that they wouldn’t miss out on conversations with their teenage grandkids playing Settlers of Catan and Jackbox games. We loved well.
We didn’t try to fix people. I can’t tell you how much more relaxing it is to just listen, empathize, and affirm someone’s story without feeling the need to direct the course of their lives. It is positively liberating. In fact, this revolutionary idea of not fixing people was so effective on vacation that I am going to make it a habit the other 51 weeks of the year. Imagine that! Quite possibly, this is one of the best souvenirs I could’ve brought home.
Wouldn’t change a thing about these participants in our annual Silver Lake Talent Show
While our family might be unique for keeping a 54-year tradition going, we are prone to the pitfalls that are common in all families: selfishness, grudge holding, score keeping, and pride. But we’ve also gotten really good at forgiveness, grace, and gratitude. God willing, we’ll keep learning and growing and continue to make beautiful memories on Silver Lake.
If you’re gearing up for vacation, you might enjoy some of my favorite lines from “A Liturgy for Leaving on Holiday”:
In our days away let us play together. Let us laugh together.
Let us be moved to speak such meaningful words as ought to be spoken among family and friends.
Let us linger long at tables and drink deeply of one another’s company, enjoying each for who they are with the steady pressures of our ordinary days now lifted.
So help us also, in this time of our vacation, to carve out spaces merely to be,
to be with You,
to be together,
to be refreshed.
Ah, how we long for that fierce freedom for which we were created!
This is me in 1987. I’d just finished riding in the Detroit Thanksgiving Day Parade with my unicycle club. (Please, no autographs.)
When I was in 5th grade, my class memorized a prayer that seemed like overkill. Its translation from German goes like this: “I thank You, my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ, Your dear Son, that You have kept me this night from all harm and danger; and I pray that You would keep me this day also from sin and every evil, that all my doings and life may please You. For into Your hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Your holy angel be with me, that the evil foe may have no power over me. Amen.” (Luther’s Morning Prayer) Doesn’t that seem a little heavy for an 11-year-old? At that age, my biggest concerns were keeping my perfect spelling test streak alive, accurately copying down Van Halen lyrics, and getting my 80s bangs to defy gravity. I don’t think I was aware of the spiritual forces at war around me.
But there was one girl who was. Her name was Janice, and she had a reputation of being weird. For starters, Janice played the bass clarinet, and everyone knew that the only acceptable musical instruments for a girl in my school were the flute, violin, or maybe a regular clarinet, but even that was pushing it. Also, while the rest of us played street hockey or kickball at recess, Janice stayed inside. She had a broken leg, so she used her recess time to leisurely eat her lunch, work ahead on assignments, and talk loudly to God.
(Yeah, it was that last bit that did her in.)
It was a Christian school, and we all sang hymns reminding us that if we had trials and temptations, we could take them to the Lord in prayer, but Janice had the audacity to take these words literally. She called out to God when her leg was hurting, she asked for His guidance on what subject to do next, and even thanked Him for her peanut butter sandwich. (Hadn’t God been sufficiently thanked in our classroom’s mumbled prayer before lunch?) Her constant communication with the heavenly realm was unsettling.
Now that I’m older, I would give anything to be like Janice. I want to be weird and ask for God’s guidance on everything from how I should spend the next ten years to how I should leverage the next ten minutes. I want to wreck my reputation by thanking God for every blessing that comes my way instead of taking the credit myself. I want to take God literally when He tells me to rejoice always, pray continually, and give thanks in all circumstances (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). I would risk all my popularity points to enjoy the same type of intimacy with the Almighty that Janice had.
These days I can’t deny that spiritual forces are at war. Evidence of evil and threats of harm and danger smack me like a kickball to the face every time I boot up my laptop. There is a theme of fear, mistrust and discord running through my news feed. My dreams are troubled, and I wake up with the weight of the world on my shoulders.
And the heavy prayer that seemed like overkill in middle school feels just right for today.
So today, while I’m still in bed, I thank God for keeping my loved ones safe through the night. I ask God for angelic protection from evil. I pray for the world to be healed and that we would experience a supernatural spirit of unity in our country. I put my personal agenda in God’s hands and ask Him to amend it as He sees fit. And I ask that sin would not run rampant in the world—starting in my own heart.
Janice, if you’re reading this, I am sorry I thought you were weird. You had it right all along. Please forgive my immaturity. I hope your leg healed beautifully and you continued to play the bass clarinet; I secretly always admired its dulcet tones. Most importantly, I hope you are still talking to God all the time because the world needs His wisdom and help without delay. Sincerely, Liz
My son, do not let wisdom and understanding out of your sight, preserve sound judgment and discretion; they will be life for you, an ornament to grace your neck. Then you will go on your way in safety, and your foot will not stumble. When you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet. Have no fear of sudden disaster or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the LORD will be at your side and will keep your foot from being snared.
