Faith can be a fickle thing. Easy in good times, more difficult in bad. Sometimes, looking around at the world we’ve created, I feel the fickleness of faith. Sports Illustrated has a weekly feature in their magazine entitled “Signs of the Apocalypse”. This past week’s sign of the apocalypse was that a man who owned a strip club in Wisconsin was offering a lifetime membership to his club in exchange for Superbowl tickets. I think I saw another sign of the apocalypse on the Today show this morning when they featured a segment entitled, “Sexpressos”, showcasing drive-thru coffee places in Washington state which are more known for their eye-popping servers rather than eye-opening coffee. My husband stated that he felt dumber for having watched that segment, but I felt more disappointed than anything else. Why does getting coffee now have to be a sexual event? It’s not that I truly believe the apocalypse is near. I’m not sure I even believe in the apocalypse. I just find it difficult at times to keep my faith in a good, just, and merciful God in the midst of the chaos that surrounds us. Be it the absurdity of our society, showcased so perfectly in this year’s Superbowl commercials, or the greater tragedies of war, oppression and poverty which overwhelm so many in our world. Where is God to be found? It’s not a crisis of faith, per se, just the longing for a little light to break into a darkness which seems to abound.

It’s kind of like the Christmas hymn, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” Over the past few years, this hymn has become one of my favorites. The tune invokes the sadness and urgency of people living in despair, yet the words move the listener to hope and to rejoice. Like the ancient Israelites, we live in a world that is captive and exiled. There are those who are held captive by violence; those who live in war-torn lands, crime-ridden neighborhoods, or are victims of abuse and neglect. There are those who are held captive by poverty; those who are homeless, those who hunger, those who always go without. Then, there are those who are held captive by disease, both physical, mental, and emotional. In one way or another, we are all held captive in this world, mourning in lonely exile. Yet, as people of faith, we are called to rejoice. Emmanuel shall come…

As a Christian, I believe in this hope. Moreover, I believe that Emmanuel did come, that Jesus is indeed the Messiah and that the Spirit of God is with us still. It just gets so hard to see at times. Part of my problem is that I look for the goodness of man, rather than the goodness of God. I want to believe, like Anne Frank said, that “in spite of everything, people are really good at heart.” Yet, if that were the case, why would God have to reconcile himself to humanity? Why would Jesus have had to die? What would be the point of the resurrection? Why would people still be suffering? People cannot be inherently good, which is why we must be redeemed. I cannot reconcile the actions of man to the actions of the God in which I believe. This, I suppose, is where faith comes in. I have to trust that God is there in the midst of the darkness.

Every night, before I put my son down to sleep, I say a little prayer over him, and ask God to keep watch over him through the night. I am, in a sense, handing him over to God each night for safekeeping. Some nights, this is harder than others. Last night was one of those nights. Our son had a coughing fit and, at one point, gave a great gasp. My husband, who had been sleeping, sat bolt upright and asked if our son was o.k. The coughing subsided and I laid him back down to sleep, but I couldn’t let him go. I ended up at the foot of the bed, my ear pressed close to his playpen, listening to him breathe. After about ten minutes of this, I felt God pulling me away. I remembered the prayer I had prayed when I first put my son to sleep, and realized that in order to have faith in God, I first had to trust God. And to trust, I had to let go of my own fears and anxiety. God is acting in our world and in my life, I just get too caught up in the bad to see the good. But God’s goodness is there, all around. It’s in the healing that comes to friends who have been ill. It’s in the warmth of time spent with family and friends. It’s in the smiling faces of the students I work with. It’s in the warm laughter of my son. It’s in the warm embrace of my husband.

Yes, faith can be a fickle thing. Yet, it is only when we have faith that we can see the light in the darkness. We can see God working in the world, in spite of the world. We can see God working in our lives, in spite of ourselves.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

My Bible study this past month has taken me back through the book of Genesis. In that book, the family tree of the Israelites is established through Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. It’s a family tree that impacts and defines many people of faith throughout the world. Millions of people can find their roots there, still, today.

As I was rocking my son back to sleep early this morning, I realized that, like Abraham, Isaac or Jacob, he is in himself a little family tree. Looking at him, I can trace the roots of both mine and my husband’s family history. There’s the obvious: he has his daddy’s eyes and mama’s mouth. But he also has his Grandpa Clell’s nose, which goes back at least two generations. He has his Great-Grandpa Clell’s ornery smile, and his Great-Grandpa William’s stubborn chin. When I look at him I see he has his daddy’s build, long torso with short legs, which his daddy inherited from his dad, and his dad before that. His long feet come from his Grandma Mikki’s side of the family, and the width comes from his Grandpa Ken. His seriousness he gets from his grandmas, and his playfulness from his grandpas. Stubbornness goes back generations on all sides of the families, and his fierce independence comes from at least a few generations of strong-willed German women.

This baby boy is rocked to sleep in the same glider his Great-Grandpa William rocked himself in as he grew older. He naps under an afghan knitted together by his daddy’s grandma, and under which his daddy slept. He was laid in the bassinet that his great uncle first used and which every baby on his mama’s side of the family has laid in. He was baptized in the same outfit his daddy was baptized in, and lays each day on the same changing table his Grandma Mikki used with his daddy.

Some people have family Bibles. Others have family crests or shields. I find, however, that when I look at my son I see our family history in the flesh. And that is all I need.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

I take a lot for granted. I’m generally pretty aware of this, but there are times when the realization of what I take for granted jars me. Yesterday was one of those days. It was snowing most of the day, light snow, but with enough accumulation to make the commute a bit of a mess. My husband called to report on traffic in our area, and told me that there had been a fatal car accident at the intersection of highway and city street two blocks from where we live. It’s a familiar intersection to me, one I cross almost every day in my commute. The thought occurred to me that there was possibly someone in our neighborhood who wouldn’t be coming home from work. And I realized then, very clearly, how much I take for granted.

I take for granted that I will arrive home safely each evening. I take for granted that I will come home and have a roof over my head, even if it leaks a bit. I take for granted that there will be food to eat whenever I’m hungry, and sometimes even when I’m not. I take for granted that my paycheck will come every two weeks. I take for granted that my son will always be safe and healthy. I take for granted that when I reach out to touch my husband during the night, he will always be there. I take for granted when I call my parents that both of them will always be on the other end of the line. I take for granted that my sister is only 15 minutes away. I take for granted that my friends will always be there, even if we don’t stay in contact as much as we should. I take for granted that I will grow old, and that my husband will grow old with me.

Yet, the truth is, none of these things are promised to me each day. They’re little blessings and miracles that surround me all the time, and that should make each day I have with them all the more special.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

I don’t always enjoy being a mother. I realize that in the age of “The Supermom” this is an incredibly heretical statement, but it’s true. It’s not that I don’t enjoy motherhood, or that I don’t love my son. On the contrary, I do both. I view my son as a beautiful blessing from God, but all blessings can be a bit of a pain at times, can’t they? I mean, the Israelites were blessed with the land of Canaan, but then there was the issue of those pesky Canaanites to resolve. In my son’s case, our pesky issue is sleep. It’s not that he can’t sleep through the night; he can, and does, just not consistently. So, it’s mornings like these, after I’ve been up with him a few times in the night and am tired and cranky that I think one baby-free night of sleep would be nice.

The problem with thoughts such as this, is that they elicit an immediate backlash of guilt and remorse from within. Our society has created this image of “The Supermom” in which such thoughts are unacceptable. As a mother, “The Supermom” says, you give yourself over completely to your child, and you love every minute of it. Not only does this logic seem dangerous to me, it doesn’t seem humanly possible. Maybe it’s just the people I hang around with, but I don’t know any other moms who love every minute of motherhood. I also don’t know many moms who don’t want to get away from their children every now and then. We just don’t talk about it. It’s become one of the new taboos in our society. There’s a lot of pressure out there to be “The Supermom”. I remember an incident shortly after our son was born when my husband took our son to work with him for the afternoon so I could get some rest. I spent much of that time crying because of the guilt I felt being really happy to be free from our son for a bit. I still feel a little bad just thinking about that. But, that’s the reality of motherhood. It’s hard, and challenging, and consuming, and energy-draining. It’s also one of the best things I’ve ever done and something I truly delight in every day. However, when you throw a marriage and full-time job on top of it, there’s not a lot of room for yourself.

I’ve learned over the past eight months, that despite what “The Supermom” says, you can’t do it all. When I’m fully devoted to my job, things slip at home, and when I’m fully devoted to home, things slip at work. There’s no perfect balance. So, as my wise mother told me, you just have to figure out what sort of balance works best for you and then be comfortable with it. Forget “The Supermom”. She’s to motherhood what the Stepford Wife was to homemaker. The majority of us out there don’t live in that world. (Check out Po Johnson’s article for Time Magazine on this subject at http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1541260,00.html) Most of us moms out there love our children, we love being moms, but sometimes, we just need a break. Or, in my case, a nice long nap.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

I do not like dealing with adults. I used to think that there was a definite line drawn between the behavior and attitudes of adults and the behavior and attitudes of youth. The older I get, and the more experience I have working with adults disproves this theory completely. Especially when you live in the suburbs. Suburban living was a new concept to me a few years ago when we moved to this area. I spent the first part of my life in a small town and the latter years have been in more urban areas. Moving to the suburbs was a bit of a culture shock. I remember going to a local shopping center and feeling clausterphobic with all of the huge SUV’s parked in the parking spaces, many of them sporting youth soccer stickers on the rear windows. Then there was the feeling of inadequacy as I watched woman after woman emerge from these SUV’s looking trim, stylish, and Gucci-ed. My little Neon and I just didn’t seem to fit. I’ve since gotten over that. I also got a Volkswagen. And, I’ve learned that there is a much darker side to suburbia which includes massive debt, high-stress, lack of intimacy and infidelity. One thing I haven’t gotten over is this sense of entitlement that seems to seep into everything in the suburbs.

My husband has been battling this attitude for three years now in our church. Church members who run corporations think that they can bring those same attitudes and principles into running the church, regardless of the experience and expertise the pastors bring. Staff members fight each other for power and postition. Cliques are formed, alliances made. It’s like middle school all over again. Then, there is my breastfeeding support group. Although I no longer attend the group meetings, I still participate in the web-post. Today, for the second time in just a few months, e-maill in-fighting has occurred. One woman sent out an e-mail about her negative impressions of a child-care facility she toured. Another woman, who uses the facility, took great offense and the e-mails started flying.

Now, I can handle these situations when working with my fifth graders. But these are adults. Doesn’t that mean anything anymore? Judging by the newest spate of reality T.V. shows on the air this season, I would have to say no. I think we’re taught in our culture to behave like perpetual junior high schoolers. It sells magazines, and makes for good T.V. Good ratings mean good business. However, I believe there is a reason we aren’t all still in junior high school. The natural progression of life is that we grow and mature. We shouldn’t be out there still behaving like 12 year olds. We, as adults, need to come back to adulthood. We need to forget what we think we deserve or should have, we need to stop being so thin-skinned and easily offended, we need to value good dialogue and learn the art of constructive criticism. More importantly, we need to set an example for our children, not let our children be the example for us.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

I love to write. Really, that’s the whole purpose for beginning this blog. I haven’t done much writing lately. I have several excuses, but I’m not sure I’d call any of them good, my infant son being the exception. I just sort of came to a place where I stopped writing, and aside from the occasional tug when seeing a new writer interviewed on the Today show, didn’t really care. However, as I’ve been reading through my husband’s blogs lately (www.myemergingmind.blogspot.com), I’ve had this itch in my fingertips to start pounding down on a keyboard again. Blogging seemed to be a good place to start. I don’t yet know where this blog will take me (or you, for that matter), but there are a few things that will define what this blog becomes.

First, I am a pastor’s wife. I must confess that in general, I’m not a big fan of that term. It seems too trite, too dismissive. Yet, being the wife of a pastor does define you in some ways. When I tell people at work that my husband is a pastor, there’s this instant, “Ohhh,” (smile) “that’s great!” It’s as if being married to a pastor makes me an o.k. person somehow, and that’s alright with me. Also, I’ve come to realize that pastors are pastors whether they’re at church or not. Not only can we not go anywhere without running into church members, most of my husband’s thoughts while at home revolve around church. Being a pastor is an all-consuming profession, so being married to one definitely plays a huge part in who you are.

Second, I am a new mother. I have an almost eight month old son at home, who fills a spot within me I never even knew existed. He’s beautiful. Motherhood is an amazing journey that absolutely shapes and defines who you are as an individual and, therefore, will probably play a big role in this blog.

Third, I am a professional youthworker. That term can take, and has taken, many different forms in my life. I went from high school teacher to seminary student to before and after school worker and am now running a before and after school program in the Kansas City, MO school district through an organization called the Local Investment Commission. (Check out their website: www.kclinc.org They do good work.) I have a master’s degree in Christian Education and specialized in urban youth outreach. I’m not really using my degree to its full potential at the moment, other than teaching mid-high Sunday School at church, but I trust that it will eventually be money well-spent.

Last, but certainly not least, I am a Christian, and a United Methodist at that. My faith has always had a major impact on what I think and what I do. It will, in turn, have a major impact on what I write.

I think I’m going to enjoy this journey. Let me know what you think!

Blessings and Peace,
Sara