I ‘John Wayne’ Through Life

Straight out of high school, I worked at a small meat packing facility. My job was to grind three or four hundred pounds of beef every morning and bulk-pack it for shipping. The tubs of beef weighed eighty to a hundred pounds each, too much for the average eighteen-year-old girl to lift. But I figured out a way to shuffle them off the cutting table onto my shoulder. Then all I had to do was stand up under them, stagger to the grinder, and heave them into the grinding pan.

There would have been five or ten strong men at the ready to help, but I didn’t want to ask. I was too shy, or too proud to admit that I couldn’t do it myself. So instead I permanently damaged my shoulder.

This fall I’ve had to grit my teeth and tighten my belt financially.  Last winter I had nice clothes but I’ve since shrunk out of them. No shopping spree could be justified.  So though my coat was shabby to the point of embarrassment, I decided to keep wearing it and wait for the right opportunity.

Well, last week my church hosted their Thanksgiving Food and Clothing Drive.  Free food and clothes for anyone who needed them.  I had an extended argument with myself, going “you ARE poor” and “no I’m NOT” back and forth and back and forth. Whether I fit the criteria wasn’t the true issue. The real issue was shopping among the tables, and then being seen up in the choir in my new threads.  If I walked through those doors, I would admit that I couldn’t provide for myself just then.

I sensed God saying ‘let me provide for you, here.” Still I hemmed and hawed.  Finally, I was running nearby so I wrestled myself into the building, looking like a schlep with my windblown hair and my sweaty gear. Even when I had my bag in hand and was looking through the stacks of gently used jeans, I had a hard time admitting to my friendly church family that I wasn’t there to volunteer.  I was there to ‘shop’.

I found some clothes, but in the end I wonder if it was more a lesson in humility than in provision.

“God gives grace to the humble,” the Apostle Peter said.  I remind myself that independence is good, but when I ‘John Wayne’ my way through life, a lone gunmen against my battles, I miss out on the greatest sources of strength I have: my family, and my God.

Why bust my shoulder, when a stronger arm can help me lift?

On my Way from Couch to 5K

“Oh yeah? I’ll show you.” Those were my famous last words.

I’ve always claimed I didn’t have the body type to run. Runners are graceful like gazelles, all legs and arms. I’m more of a clydesdale. That was my excuse. I’d never run–I couldn’t.

But my friend had to put out a challenge to all of us Trim Healthy Mamas, telling us of an upcoming 5 kilometre run. “It’s not too late to start training,” she said. “I haven’t run since highschool, but I’m starting on Monday.”

I could do that, I thought.

No you can’t.

Yes I can.

I ran the idea past my family, and they said “Well, you’re pretty busy,” and “Five kilometres is farther than you might think.”

Oh yeah? I’ll show you.

Monday found me picking out purple running shoes (for price not vanity, I maintain). I downloaded the ‘Couch to 5K’ app, learned a few stretches, and prepared to bound out the door.

“Wish me luck,” I said to my sister.

She just looked… skeptical.

I’ve been running for four weeks now. Tomorrow I’ll be halfway through the program. I’m constantly asking myself, “This will get easier, right?”

If you’re on the bike paths in town and you hear clumping footsteps and wheezing behind you, fear not–’tis I. I have the grace of a chicken and less endurance.

I try to run in privacy so no one sees my cherry-tomato face, but at eight in the evening, every elderly couple, young parent and gaggle of teenage bff’s is on the bike path. I play it cool. THEY don’t know I’ve only been running for two minutes when I blow past them. But in the last quarter of my run, there’s no way to hide how poor of shape I’m in. I grimace like I’m in the last leg of a triathalon. I can’t muster a smile or even gasp out ‘hey’ as I pass.

But when the app says “cool down by walking five minutes,” I pump my fist. Every completed run is a victory.

Yeah, I want to prove to my family that I can do this. But it’s become more and more about the actual accomplishment. I visualize crossing the finish line and I choke up. And when the app says ‘well done’ I’m thrilled.

I think of the Apostle Paul, who said “I do not run like a man running aimlessly… I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not myself be disqualified for the prize” (1 Corinthians 9:26).

Paul knew what awaited him at the finish line and he’d do anything–he’d “put up with anything rather than hinder the Gospel of Christ”–to obtain that goal.

In running I’ve found that mental strength is every bit as important as physical. Self-talk and visualization push me past the pain threshold. Clearly, Paul was a disciplined man who would rather deprive himself of physical happiness than of spiritual gain.

But mental strength isn’t enough in times of emotional and spiritual hardship. Then we must tap into the unlimited strength of Jesus. We were designed to exceed our human limits through our relationship with Him. “When I am weak, then I am strong,” said Paul. It was Paul’s relationship with God, ultimately, that allowed him to endure. He endured to the end–his execution–and gained his prize.

A big deal compared to my 5K.

I’m not expecting this to get easy any time soon. I’m not sure I even like running. But I like the prize, I like how I feel about myself after I run, and I like what it’s teaching me about life.

I’ll keep you posted on how the race goes. August 17th is the day!

Goodbye: A Letter to my Church

It’s difficult to leave home because you can’t ever go back–not really.

The philosopher Cratylus said that you don’t even step into the same river once. For not only is the river flowing, but so are you. Everything flows forward and when you look back, home has ceased to be.

So I’m leaving with the realization that I will never truly come home.

I’m not leaving because of conflict–if I were, I would have left long ago. But I knew that like any relationship, periods of frustration and anger are par for the course, and if the relationship is as important as the one with the church, you just stick it out.

This is about growing up–about taking my place in this world.

As I’ve grown, my theology and my worldview have been in constant evolution, and I’ve realized that not all of us think and practice the same. This is normal, and okay. It’s analogous to personalities.

For a time now, I’ve felt like the round peg in the square hole. I don’t disagree with this church’s theology and practice, but they aren’t “me” either. I thought something was wrong with me at first, but now I see that I am meant to be elsewhere.

A friend connected me with a ‘cell group’ from a church here in town. I never wanted to attend there–it’s too big, to demonstrative, too ‘hocus pocus.’ But the moment I met those girls, I felt at home. I’ve never grown more, spiritually, than I have among them–praying, learning to listen to God, confessing to each other. It was, and is, uncomfortable, but I’ve come to peace with that.

I leave with deep regret because I’ll miss my friends. I’ll miss my Sunday School kids. I guess I’ll miss my identity here. I’ll never forget that this was the church that nurtured me, fostered a love of service in me, taught me to serve, to teach and to lead in song. I thank God for you, my brothers and sisters. I love you. Goodbye.

With tears,

Geralyn

Why Christians Should Make the Best Employees

As a Christian, realizing your coworker has the same faith can be like finding a fellow countryman in a strange land—an instant connection.

But sometimes a coworker claimed to believe as I and hoped no one else knew. I remember one young guy I worked with who was often late, disappeared once for a few days (he said later he was sick), and was laughed at behind his back because he was lazy, stupid, and couldn’t be relied on to do his job well.

And then I found out he was quitting to go work at a Christian camp. I cringed.

Another time, a coworker was telling me a humorous story about another guy who used to work there who, while out in the field, would hide his vehicle and take a nap. My coworker caught him because he forgot to turn off the flashing beacon on the vehicle. He told me his name and my heart sank. I’d gone to Bible School with him.

Neither of these are isolated incidents in my short career.

It shouldn’t be this way. Christians should be the best employees. Why?

We are Ambassadors of Christ

“We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us” (1 Corinthians 5:20 NIV).

I’ve been drilled since childhood: we need to share the Gospel with our friends. But if we do not display the results of the Gospel in our lives, why should they listen to us?

Excuse me, but the fruit of the spirit is not laziness, tardiness, abrasiveness and irresponsibility. If we cannot be trusted, if the supervisor has to correct us constantly, if we take longer breaks than is our due, if we gossip and engage in political games, what proof of the Gospel is there? Faith without works is dead.

By being the example of an excellent employee, we build our platform for witness.

Work is our Divine Mission

Paul said to the slaves in Ephesus (a position more like the typical employee of our day and less like the North American slavery we are accustomed to reading about) that they should obey their earthy masters with respect and with sincerity of heart, “Not only to win their favour when their eye is on your, but like slaves of Christ, doing the will of God from your heart. Serve wholeheartedly, as if you were serving the Lord,” (Ephesians 6:5-8 NIV).

Do you see what he says? “Doing the will of God from your heart.” Your work—God’s will. We serve wholeheartedly, because God has given us a job to do, and he is our true master. Even before the fall of mankind, Adam was given work to do. Work is not a punishment, but a mission.

God is leading me to see my job as a sacred calling: yes, manufacturing pharmaceuticals, a divine appointment. Every day when I walk into production and look at the board for my assignment, it isn’t just my supervisor who has given me that task, but God—my true master. Whatever I am doing, I must do it well. Whoever I am working with, I must bless.

I like calling it an assignment.  It makes me feel like a secret agent.

It’s far harder to do than to say, because by definition, excellence requires going against the current. And the current sure is strong in my workplace.  It seems I’ve failed just as many times as I’ve succeeded.  But it is fulfilling to know that my job in manufacturing is just as important as my job as a Sunday school teacher.

Your work is your mission field.

I hope to flesh this topic out further in the next couple of weeks, with the intention to write a more comprehensive ‘theology of work’. Dorothy Sayers wrote an essay on the subject, called “Why Work.” It is challenging, but incredibly affirming for those of us who don’t work in traditional Christian ‘ministries.’  

 

One of the Biggest Lies I Know

One of the biggest lies you will ever hear is “Mom, these aren’t my cigarettes. I’m holding them for a friend”–to paraphrase Claude Hamilton.

Another is this: no one understands you.

Have you ever just known that no one ‘got you’? Have you ever been sure that if people knew the real you, they’d never accept you? I’d venture that we all have, and I’ve come to believe it’s a lie.

We are not alone.

I’m the only writer in my family. They find my imagination and my humour and my obsession with social media to be rather off the wall. Don’t get me wrong–I love my family to death. But sometimes I find this frustrating, because I can’t talk about what is important to me. I thought I was completely unique–perhaps even a wacko–until I found entire communities of others just like me. It was sort of a homecoming. “You mean you’ll take me seriously if I ask ‘do clones have souls?’ You mean we can have whole conversations about punctuation?”
Yup.

I had an addiction that was eating away at my insides. I was ashamed, and didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to deal with it myself, but I couldn’t. When I finally confessed it to friends, they said “Uh huh. I know what you mean,” and gave me grace and encouragement. Just having it the open took away its power.

It’s a humbling thing to realize that your eccentricities and your dirty secrets are actually not uncommon. What? I’m not special?

Well, yes, you are.

But the belief that we are the odd one out may actually make things worse. It drives us away from those who could help us, and who may actually understand what we’re going through. We get all turtled up in ourselves and don’t see that hands are reaching out.

Its actually a great strategy. I don’t know if you believe in the devil, but if you were the devil and wanted to destroy God’s creatures, what better way then to drive them all apart? Feeding them the lie that ‘no one understands’ is a great place to start.

There may be a scenario where we actually are alone, and in that situation, it is helpful to have a solid grounding in faith. My own faith is in Jesus Christ, and he is always with me. Sometimes it just requires me to pull my head out of my troubles and look up at him. Because he came to earth as a human being, he can empathize with the failings of our mortal selves.

My brothers and sisters, the weirdos, you are not alone. Your oddities and your secrets do not have to isolate you. Keep looking. We will find each other eventually.

Why I Ignored My Phone Yesterday (Or, A Guilt-Free Holiday)

I love to write. But what I didn’t realize that, these days, writing means building a social media presence. Before I began taking my writing seriously, social media was something I did once or twice a week. Now whenever I pick up my phone, I hit the Facebook, Twitter or WordPress app immediately. And I pick up my phone every ten minutes.

I just checked my phone.

You’re looking at your phone, aren’t you?  I knew it.

Checking my blog stats is beginning to feel like an addiction. It’s beginning to feel like… slavery. So, this Sunday, I decided to take a Sabbath from social media.

‘Sabbath’ is a Judeo-Christian concept, which began as a day in which no work was to be done. It memorialized a couple things: first, that on the seventh day of creation, God rested from all his work. Second, it reminded the Children of Israel that God had freed them from slavery and forced labor. And, now, in the Christian tradition, the Sabbath falls on Sunday to honor the resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is a day to reflect, and a day to be free. As Mark Driscoll has said, God is a loving Father who doesn’t want his kids to work all the time. He wants them to have time to spend with him.

But it isn’t just for those of faith. We all need time to be free. Daniel Pink, author of A Whole New Mind (and of no discernable religious affiliation), suggests taking a Sabbath as a way to “remove yourself from the maw” and refocus. He says “Whatever your faith, consider experimenting with this practice [of taking a day of Sabbath]… If committing to this weekly ritual isn’t right for you, consider [Wayne] Muller’s alternative: ‘Choose on common act during your day to serve as a Sabbath pause.’”

Another way of looking at it: when I was in college, my professors suggested working hard all week, and then making Sunday a guilt-free, ‘homework holiday’. I’m suggesting the same thing. Make one day (or afternoon, or evening, or moment) your guilt-free holiday.

There is something powerful and invigorating about a break from the ordinary. If you are person of faith, I suggest taking time for prayer, meditating and reflecting. Then, do something you wouldn’t normally do. Go for a walk. Play a game. Read a novel. Or, my personal favorite, drink good coffee and cook something awesome. Recognize that you need it. If God ordered a day of rest, take it! I think that’s license for a break.

So, this Sunday, in order to ‘remove myself from the maw’, I put my phone on my nightstand and removed myself from social media. What did I do instead? Napped. Napped for two hours. And then, I hung out with my family, watched football, and fried fish.

The concept of Sabbath is ever-evolving for me. I don’t claim to have a fool-proof plan, or even stick to my guns on this all the time. I’m learning. Next Sunday, I plan to put my phone on the shelf again, and the Sunday after that, and after that. Maybe I’ll make this a life-long habit.

The Backhanded Cure for Low Self-Esteem

This is what happens to me when I walk through a mall: I observe another woman’s effortless elegance, hour-glass figure, or the handsome dude she’s with, and feel like a pitiful excuse for a human being. I might have felt like a million bucks when I left home, but once I saw what she was wearing… jig’s up.

And so I take the next left into the clothing store, or the makeup counter, and spend money I shouldn’t–or I medicate with a Pumpkin Spice Latte (no need for a spoonful of sugar to make that medicine go down). This insidious form of low self-esteem, called comparison, lurks at every corner of the mall.

I say to myself: “There must be something wrong with me. If I was beautiful like she was, I’d have a man.” Or, “It’s bad genes that keep me fat.” Or I just medicate with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.

That would be a lack of pride, right? I don’t feel proud of myself, so I lack self-esteem.

Edward T. Welch has a different take:

“Low self-esteem usually means that I think too highly of myself. I’m too self-involved, I feel I deserve better than what I have. The reason I feel bad about myself is because I aspire to something more. I want just a few minutes of greatness. I am a peasant who wants to be king When you are in the grips of low self-esteem, it’s painful, and it certainly doesn’t feel like pride. But I believe that this is the dark, quieter side of pride—thwarted pride” (1).

That’s a head-scratcher. Let me get this straight: low self-esteem equals thinking too highly of myself?

Right.

But it actually makes sense. Welch said “I feel I deserve better than what I have”—as if the hand I was dealt by the Creator is beneath me. I’m too good to be single. I’m too good for acne. I’m too good to be fat. I should have been given a better hand!

I’ve always believed that if someone was truly great at cards, they could win with whatever they were dealt. The glory was in winning against the odds, not with a stacked hand. We root for underdogs—just watch any sports movie Hollywood puts out.

Reason number one to stop bemoaning my life: if it’s bad, all the more impressive when I win. I must make the best of it.

And the biggest reason: God gave me this life and its set of circumstances. How prideful of me to say he was wrong!

“Yeah, you’re Creator and omniscient, but you should have given me a better face.” Tear, sob, sip of PSL.

Stop it, you big baby! (Talking to myself, here—or the person beside you). Put on your big-girl panties and get to work.

I’m not preaching fatalism, here. I’m saying play the hand you’re dealt, and play it well. It wasn’t given to you at random, but for a particular mission. If you don’t believe there is a creator, that doesn’t exempt you. What makes you so good that chance should have dealt you a better hand? Make good on it.

Get your focus in the right place—not on yourself, not on the other person’s stuff, but on the face of Jesus Christ. “And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.”

Let’s work on this together, shall we?

Reference:

(1). Edward T. Welch, as quoted in Confidence of a Champion by Tim Marks.

The Calm in the Center of my Storm

9:30 pm. I was pacing back and forth in front of my coater. It was running smoothly and didn’t require my attention. Nothing to do but think. My chest ached. My heart was heavy because there was nothing I could do to alleviate the conflict that was swirling around me. I wanted to pray but my words had run out. So I leaned against the warm glass of the coater’s door and stared at the tablets rushing past, and said “Lord, you can fill in the blanks.”

The day was in wreckage. I’d melted down at job #1 that morning, and biked home in tears. I’d gotten myself together in time to go to job #2, and now there was friction and hurt between my friends. My mind was too full. I’d pushed myself to breaking. I was spent.

But CTP-10 wasn’t out of God’s reach. The concrete ceiling couldn’t keep my prayers, nor my songs from reaching him. Thus, as I prayed and sang, my stark process room was God’s temple, and his presence brought me peace. He is the constant, the anchor.

“You are the calm in the center of my storm. When the cold winds blow, you’re the fire that keeps me warm. When this old world gets me down, I will rest inside your arms. You are the calm in the center of my storm” (Paul Overstreet).

A Lesson from Purple Fish-scale Pants

I’m a vain, vain soul. I know this because of the inordinate amount of time I spent staring at my purple fish-scale pants when I should have been paying attention to the pastor this morning. And yesterday my coworker teased me that every time she turned around I had my scarf arranged differently. And that would have been almost true.

I can buy new clothes every month and still not have enough. I can fix up my hair (which never falls perfectly even if I’m trying) and do my makeup, wear my most stylish outfit, strut around like a peacock, and feel like I’m really quite a spectacle—and that’s not enough.

And it isn’t enough. All the outer trimmings can’t make me truly beautiful.

The Apostle Peter said, “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight” (1).

Someone once told me a story about a woman I know. This lady was working at a summer camp, and, as a grandmotherly woman, went to one of the girls’ cabins at bedtime to say goodnight to the girls, tell them stories and pray with them. As she gave out goodnight hugs, one of the girls said to her ‘you are the ugliest lady I ever saw’.

I was taken aback when I heard this. Ugly? The thought of this lady being ugly had never occurred to me. If I thought about it, I could reason that perhaps she wasn’t going to be on the cover of a beauty magazine. But ugly? Never. This woman, who is very dear to me, is a constant positive, smiling, encouraging presence. She has the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.

I was convicted today, while gazing down at my purple pants, that I spend far too much time and energy on my outward appearance, and far too little on my inward appearance.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it” (2) and “the mouth speaks what the heart is full of” (3).

I’ve been praying for God to graciously show me the selfishness and hardness in my heart, and clearly this is one such example. I pray that as I know him more, this self-absorption that keeps my eyes on the mirror and on my purple pants, will dissipate, and leave behind the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.

References:
(1) 1 Peter 3:3-4, New International Version
(2) Proverbs 4:23, New International Version
(3) Luke 6:45, New International Version

All verses taken from Bible Gateway, at http://www.biblegateway.com/

I’m Not Good at Waiting: A Guilt-Ridden Confession

I hate to wait. Hate it.

And I don’t mean waiting in line, or for the microwave to finish. Actually, due to my Twitter app, Facebook app, WordPress app, and Kindle app, I can pass my line-waiting time in productive bliss. It’s the unproductive waiting I abhor.

And that is what my day was all about. Lemme ‘splain.

When I arrived at work I was given a coating assignment, but the coating pan was awaiting a post-cleaning swab so I had to wait. It was eight. The swab was scheduled for ten. I accomplished every small job I could think of, which took fifteen minutes. After waiting, and deliberating, it was decided that my two coworkers and I would make a suspension. But, just as we were ready to begin, it was discovered that one of our mixers was broken.

A mechanic was summoned. There was nothing else to do. Everything was set up. The instructions were read and reread. So we waited for his arrival, and we waited as he tinkered.

The mixer was pronounced serviceable, but the supervisor required consulting. I waited for the supervisor to be consulted.

Seems I would have made as much progress if I’d stayed home.

Ah, but what else could you do but wait? You may ask.

I have no idea. I asked my coach if I could do something. I tried to spur my coworkers along. Nothing worked. I was guilt-stricken, because I was raised to work hard and waiting doesn’t constitute of working hard unless one has a Kindle app to read furiously on. I felt like a slacker, because I was being paid good money to stand there.

Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe I could have, I dunno, swept the floor or something.

Or, maybe, I just needed to wait, and when the time came, be faithful with my work.

I liken this to my life as a whole. I work hard—I set goals, I read, I write, I network. Yet things don’t seem to change. So I work harder! I obsess over what I’m doing wrong. I feel guilty.

But what If I need to wait? What if I need to be still? What if, by my very attempts at busyness, I miss the point?

Perhaps I need to be diligent in my work, and wait, trusting that my Heavenly Father shall work all things out in his time?

Do I have to?