Well-formed love

I have a confession to make. I am scared of teenagers. Always have been. Never mind the fact that I'm like, at least 10 years older than a lot of them. I'm not entirely sure where this came from. I remember one day when I was about 12 years old, my sister and I were in a store close to a high school. This distraught teenage girl came running in, crying. She was freaking out, shouting, "They are trying to set my hair on fire!" I don't remember what happened after that, or even what really was going on. In my head, it was probably a bunch of mean and tough high school kids who were picking on this girl. After that, I always wondered what I would do if someone set my hair on fire.

The thing with teenagers is that I think they can be unpredictable. Who knows what is going on inside their heads? Stereotypes define them as being disrespectful, uncaring, and emotional punks. Even the ones who haven't been in any real trouble or arrested often get the same distinction. Especially by me. I've noticed this more and more as my walks with Lucy take me by a highschool, often just as school is out. Along the sidewalk students linger, some waiting for the bus, some killing time until their parents' show up. They're usually laughing, sometimes together, sometimes at each other. Doesn't matter to me. Instantly, my guard goes up, as if preparing for war. What if one of these punks does something to Lucy? What if they start heckling me? What will my exit strategy be? I don't even look them in the eyes for fear they'll notice my quivering lip.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Is this really fear, or have I written off an entire generation because I don't understand them? I assume that they can't be trusted, that they're always only up to no good, that every single one of them would like to chance to set my hair on fire. The other day I was walking through the mall, and I had to pass through a group of teenage boys. I would say they were about 15 or 16 years old. My guard went up, and my first thought was, "These kids, so disrespectful. They're not even getting out of my way". As I continued walking, I heard one boy say to another something to the effect of, "What was that? You didn't see her?" In that moment, the Lord convicted me. I had written these boys off as punks. I didn't even consider the fact that maybe, just maybe, they hadn't seen me. I didn't even say, "Excuse me". I just barreled through, expecting them to get out of my way.

Currently, many different aspects in my life seem to be merging at one specific point: Love people. Loving is noticing. Loving is giving people a chance. Loving is not listening to stereotypes. Love is walking by a student and smiling at them. Maybe it's the only smile they got all day. How dare I just keep walking. I want to start looking at people in the eyes. How silly to be controlled by fear when I can be controlled by love.

1 John 4:18 (The Message)
God is love. When we take up permanent residence in a life of love, we live in God and God lives in us. This way, love has the run of the house, becomes at home and mature in us, so that we're free of worry on Judgment Day—our standing in the world is identical with Christ's. There is no room in love for fear. Well-formed love banishes fear. Since fear is crippling, a fearful life—fear of death, fear of judgment—is one not yet fully formed in love.

Hope Proved True

Psalm 33:4:
"For the word of the Lord holds true,
and we can trust everything he does."


To the future she laughs, wipes the hair
From her eyes
and dances
Nothing appears more beautiful
More pure, more elegant
Than hope proved true.

The moment, glorious
The preparation, long. Painful.
Full of tear-streaked faces.

Seems cruel to me that
Time takes its time to finally realize.
How dreams don’t often materialize
Until the proper time
Like a clock that ticks, over and over
Ignoring the pleading,
Forgetting we’re waiting.
It’s the tock we’re watching for.

We want forward movement of dreams
That were planted.
We want to catch a peek, a glimpse,
To know that what was promised
will not be hiding forever.

So she waits. And waits.
Keeps waiting, trusting, believing
Some days hopeful
Some days pleading

How to trust in the dark,
Imagining a sun does exist.
To trust in something, Someone
Who is so faithful, but maybe
Maybe
forgetful?

Then one day, the switch turns on
IT’S TIME! Is blazed across the sky.
How beautiful is this?
How beautiful is she?

To the future she laughs, wipes the hair
From her eyes, and dances
Declaring – no more whispering –
That the word of her God holds true.

Calling out the Princess.

The other day a lady told me a random little story about some people she knew. There was this little girl that, right from birth, was told she was a princess. By the time she got to kindergarten, she went around the classroom telling everyone that she was a princess. I thought the story was really cute. The lady telling me the story seemed a little bit apalled that this little girl had the audacity to call herself a princess.

I started thinking about that. Why would a little story like that invoke two different responses? I think the problem lies in the definition of "princess". Maybe not even the definition, but the connotation. The pictures that the word "princess" paints.

When this lady thinks "princess", I bet she thinks spoiled little rich girl who has been given everything she has ever wanted. This princess expects those around her to stroke her ego, tell her how great she is, give in to every little whim, and never challenge the character of the princess, as, of course, this princess is perfect. Examples of these kinds of "princesses" would be the evil stepsisters in Cinderella, the Wicked Witch in Wizard of Oz, the White Witch in Narnia, Sharpay Evans in High School Musical, Josie Pye in Anne of Green Gables, etc, etc. These girls all thought they were something special, and demanded the recognition of princess. That made them ugly.

When I think "princess", I think about those girls who have integrity and characteristics that make them beautiful. These are girls who don't need a title; who would serve and love and behave like ladies rather than stand in the spotlight, demanding respect. Cinderella was gentle with the birds and mice, making her a princess. Belle looked for the beauty even in something ugly and that made her a princess. It's not the title, it's the character inside the girl that creates the princess.

There's a book called A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It's been a while since I've read it, so I apologize for any inaccuracies. The story is about this daughter (Sara Crewe) of a wealthy man who is sent away to boarding school for her safety. This little princess is treated very well as the woman who runs the school knows that Sara has a rich father. One day, Sara is informed that her father has died. Suddenly, Sara is declared not to be a little princess, and therefore, has everything taken away from her. Instead of a student, she becomes slave to the headmistress. The few dresses she is allowed to keep get dirty and torn as she scrubs the floors and chimneys. Sara isn't even fed properly. I remember one part where she is so hungry, she stands outside a bakery desperate even for a crust of bread. As she is no longer a student, she is forced to wait on the other girls, who in turn shun her for her poverty.

Through all of this however, Sara maintains the same personality she always had. Kind, gentle, honest. Inside her heart, she is still the princess she remembers her father calling her.

That's the kind of princess I want my daughter to be. I want her to grow up hearing everyday that she is a princess. She will be taught that princesses clean bathrooms, empty garbages, wash dishes. She will be taught that princesses share their toys, spend their money to buy gifts for others, and smile at the homeless man as she walks by. She will learn that princesses don't always get their own way and that even princesses get spanked.

However, as she's learning the hard parts about being a princess, she will also learn that princesses are valuable. They are loved. They are beautiful. They are special and important. She will be told that all princesses need a prince, and if she watches and waits for him, he'll come riding up on a white horse to take her to her own castle (only after asking permission from the king and performing dangerous feats involving dragons and fire to prove his worth).

There is an old Russian proverb that says: "Call to the Princess and she will answer." As my daughter is learning what a Princess is, we will call to her. We will call out the very things we are teaching her. As we do that, I believe she will answer. With her cute little smile and big blue eyes and crazy curly blonde hair, she will walk into kindergarten telling the others that she is a princess. And then she will call out to the other princesses around her and they will giggle as they discover this great secret.

"Princess Lucy"

So, my church is hosting the annual Women's Weekend Away. They've done something different this year in terms of location. Usually, we go up to this camp around Hope. It's a lot of fun. Good food, cozy rooms. I like it. For this year, they're going to an actual hotel up by Harrison. That should be so pretty. My initial thought was, I'll just go up for the day. It would be too hard to bring Lucy up for the whole weekend, and I'm pretty sure my husband wouldn't like having her for the whole weekend. Plus, the cost went up a fair amount because of the location. Understandably so, but not totally practical for our family.

Then I found out that they don't allow drop ins. Either you go for the whole weekend or you don't go at all. Enter: Jenny's bad attitude. I thought it silly that my leaders would choose a place that didn't allow one-dayers. Didn't they think about that? And the cost. And the "inconvenience". Blah, blah, blah. I think I did a good job reigning in my pity party, so the world didn't see it, but still, the thoughts were there. I've since fixed that part. How great that my leaders took the risk of change. They wanted to do something different and special for the ladies this year. And really, they got a killer deal for staying at the hotel they booked. They work so hard at planning this weekend every year. I have no right to complain.

So, part one corrected. Part two, however, was still very much alive and active. I REALLY, REALLY wanted to go. The speaker this year is a fabulous woman (and friend of mine) whom I have had the pleasure of hearing speak numerous times, and I never get tired of her. I will listen to the same message 50 times over if it's given by her. She is amazing. But, pretty much due to finances, I had resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be going this year. I would get the CD after the weekend was over.

I couldn't get the thought of going out of my head, though. Talking it over with my husband, he just said, "Let's pray about it." Sounded good to me. For the next couple of days, my prayers pretty much sounded like this, "Lord, I really want to go. Please put me on someone's heart so they'll pay for me." Ugh. How selfish is that? Well, maybe the prayer itself was not selfish, but my attitude accompanying the prayer was selfish. Kind of like it was my right to have someone pay for me because I deserved it. Gross, huh?

One morning, as I renewed my selfish prayer, I really stopped and thought about it. I remembered a teaching I had just listened to a couple of days ago (ironically, by the same lady who is speaking at the retreat). She said, "You will sacrifice for whatever it is you value." I value this retreat weekend. I value the teaching that I could sit under and listen to. I value the time I could spend with some of my friends. I value meeting with the Lord without distraction. What can I sacrifice? So, I've sacrificed a few things. Small, trivial things that don't even compare to a weekend like this. Some might say, "Well, now that your attitude is changed, maybe someone will pay for you". Thing is, I don't want them to. I want to pay for this. My trip. My value. I'll pay the price.

No More Featherdusters

"Evil never surrenders its grasp without a tremendous fight. We never arrive at any spiritual inheritance through the enjoyment of a picnic, but always through the fierce conflicts of the battlefield. And it is the same in the deep recesses of the soul. Every human capacity that wins its spiritual freedom does so at the cost of blood. Satan is not put to flight by our courteous request. He completely blocks our way, and our progress must be recorded in blood and tears. We need to remember this, or else we will be held responsible for the arrogance of misinterpretation. When we are born again, it is not into a soft and protected nursery but into the open countryside, where we actually draw out strength from the distress of the storm." (John Henry Jowett)

I read this at Youth the other night and then challenged the kids to enter the battle and pray hard for their friends, their schools and their country. I believe I also used the word "crap" when telling them how not to pray their usual halfhearted prayers. You know, the ones that are whispered, "Dear Lord, thank you for this day. Please save my school. Amen." Instead, together, we shouted out the words, "OH GOD, SAVE OUR COUNTRY! BRING REVIVAL, RESTORE PURITY! WE NEED YOU!" I even lost my voice a little bit.

It's now Friday morning, and I can't even think of a moment since Tuesday night where I've prayed, let alone cried out for the lost generation. It feels like there are two worlds inside me, and the "protected nursery" is the one in which I most often reside. Over the years, I have had to fight hard to learn how to pray in the countryside. The place where I recognize I'm in a battle, and I need to have blood on my sword. I remember those days. I felt strong. I believed nothing was impossible for the Lord. I recognized the dying world and I signed up to help save them. I learned how to pray the prayers that made evil surrender.

My sword is rusty right now,
sitting dusty on the shelf.
Barely touched.
I feel like I'm wielding a feather duster.
I can't remember the last time tears
Fell from my eyes for the lost.
When did I last raise my voice
Above a whisper?

I miss those days. I know, many would say the choices I make every day are a form of warfare. I believe that. But, I know, down in the warrior part of my heart, there is also a place for a more "violent" lifestyle. Oh, Lord, restore that part in my heart. I signed up for war, and I want to be put back into active duty.

Peter did not feel very brave; indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do. He rushed straight up to the monster and aimed a slash of his sword at its side...he had just time to duck down and plunge his sword, as hard as he could, between the brute's forelegs into its heart. Then came a horrible, confused moment like something in a nightmare...A moment later he found that the monster lay dead and he had drawn his sword out of it was and was straightening his back and rubbing the sweat off his face and out of his eyes. He felt tired all over...

Peter, still out of breath, turned and saw Aslan close at hand. "You have forgotten to clean your sword," said Aslan.

It was true. Peter blushed when he looked at the bright blade and saw it all smeared with the Wolf's hair and blood. He stooped down and wiped it quite clean on the grass, and then wiped it quite dry on his coat.

"Hand it to me and kneel, Son of Adam," said Aslan. And when Peter had done so he struck him with the flat of the blade and said, "Rise up, Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane..." (Lion, Witch and Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis)