One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

Ukulele strings and the youthful joys of procrastination

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It’s Sunday morning and I’m in my closet, deciding if I’m changing my outfit or not. My husband and I are in casual conversation about the different people we were when newly married compared to who we are 17 years later. I used to drink sugary mochas with my carb-filled bagel and didn’t think twice. He used to view work as a specific place with specific hours, and now his weeks look like an endless string of tasks. And both of us seem to be wondering the same thing: How do we get back to that ‘Life is delicious, I can’t not do this fantastic thing, Whoa, what just happened to the time’ kind of life?

Our younger two barge in, holding ukuleles.

“Hey mom, look what we’re bringing back! We’ve been practicing.”

My kids know they’ve got an old school mom who loves watching them do awesome things – and yes, that includes playing ukulele. Not long ago, these two took ukulele lessons and the house was filled with singing and strumming, but the lessons ended and practicing dwindled, and the island sounds disappeared. Occasionally, I’d suggest they pick up their picks again, but I dropped it knowing music – true to its name – is a muse, and one day, it’d draw my children back.

This is that ‘one day’.

This also happens to be the day my son must finish reading the remaining 100 pages of his book, because the 24 hour countdown for the book report he was assigned last month is running out…and he’s playing ukulele.

This is the morning after a student election poster-making extravaganza, when my daughter promised to clean up the bottles of paint and layer of glitter strewn over my dining room floor…and she’s searching ukulele chords on YouTube.

I shake my head at my husband who’s smirking much like I am, because what else can we do? A procrastinating minstrel is smiling at us. They know they have deadlines, and we all know the clock is ticking, and it seems there will be rushing in the final minutes, but somehow, the important things will get done. My husband and I aren’t angry – proof we’re not the same people we were years ago. And yet simply by enjoying a ‘right now’ moment, without thinking any further than this minute we’re living, we’re assured that somewhere in these older bodies, we’re still the same people we were once.

I tell my kids I love hearing them make music and they nod, and I remind them there are only so many hours in a day and they pluck their way out the door, humming as they go.

By bedtime, the report is printed and the dining room looks less like a construction zone. I finish a few important things and push off the rest. They’ll get done. The sibling duet is camped on the landing, playing their newest favorite for the 67th time, and I sit on the step next to them, not wishing to be anywhere else. ‘One last time’ turns into 12 more times, but eventually, they lay down their strings, promising to practice again in the morning.

It’s late and my husband’s in bed, but he smiles when I come in the room. Our morning conversation was never resumed, because in some strange way, music answered our question. There will always be plans and busyness, and the clock will continue counting the minutes until something, but those are precious minutes. We’ll just keep practicing the balance of important things for as many years as God allows, giving time an occasional glance, and giving more attention to the songs being played in between.

 

Jesus modeled a full life, not a busy life. Want to model that kind of balanced life? My guest blog on TheBetterMom.com may help!

Beaches and the better way of thankfulness

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March is here, and with it, the happy promise of spring. Wearing the same rotation of sweaters for a few months is what desert dwellers refer to as ‘winter’, and while I know this version is desperately distorted compared to many places in the world, it still requires great personal discipline not to grumble about the cold come the end of February. Most of the Phoenix calendar is varying degrees of summer – July’s variation being very close to hell – so when I’m tempted to complain about space heaters and heavy coats, I remind myself summer will be here soon enough and will stay for a very long time. Then I pull on a hoodie and snuggle into happy memories of the beach.

I think I was made for the beach. The waves, salt air, people watching, and swimming with creatures I cannot see – I love it all. But beach trips cost money and when the warm waters of the Atlantic are all you’ve ever known, it’s a struggle to accept California’s hotel prices knowing the best they can offer is the chilly Pacific. This reasoning kept our family from the beach for 6 years, but last summer, about the time temperatures peak and the city goes post-apocalyptically desolate, we booked a spontaneous weekend getaway.

We had the best time. Sure, the six of us uncomfortably filled every square inch of our tiny hotel room, but I rather enjoyed waking to the sight of my sprawling, slumbering children. We tripped over each other, ate more junk food than necessary, and regardless of how well we hung our wet bathing suits from every bathroom fixture, we never had a dry suit by morning. But did it matter? We were at the beach, scooping up buckets of sand dollars, basking in sunshine, and mellowing with the sound of the surf.

But there was another sound crashing with the waves. It was a grumbling sound, the noise of complaining. The affliction wasn’t the cramped room or the wiggling into damp suits – it was the sand. Specifically sand’s shocking ability to radiate fire on bare feet, its persistence in discovering every nook and cranny of a person’s being, and its endless victories in making a person look and feel like the slowest, clumsiest walker in the world. Sand was an insufferable tragedy and the laments surged in eulogy of all things wonderful. My children hung their heads above sandy towels, preparing to forfeit all happiness to the perils of sand, and I had no solution for ridding the beach of innumerable tiny grains, but I knew sand wasn’t the problem. The problem was discontent and its pervasive way of creeping into soul nooks, sucking every cranny clean of joy, and ridding the heart of thankfulness. I had a solution – an honest redirect.

“There are seagulls flapping, foamy tides pounding, and treasures being washed into salty pools. Babies’ toes are being kissed by the ocean for the very first time and their laughter is floating through swaying palms. The sun feels 30 degrees cooler here than at home, and its rays are rousing a shimmer from the shoreline as if it’s covered in diamonds. There’s nothing but brilliance and blue as far as the eye can see, and you’re telling me the luxury of enjoying all this isn’t worth the troubling cost of little sand? A day at the beach has its sand, but it’s still a day at the beach. Be thankful, and make the most of it.”

No indignation, no disdain, just a matter-of-fact reality check, not to silence or shame my children, but to redirect them from the miserable path of grumbling toward the better way of gratitude.

Truth is, sometimes I’m the kid on the beach, glaring away at small problems while missing the bigger joy all around me. Sometimes a loved one offers wisdom that redirects me from lifeless discontent. Sometimes my complaints are secrets of the heart and God’s Spirit nudges me with truth, back to the path of full life. But here’s what I’m learning every time I’m pointed back to Jesus: only a thankful heart can follow Him.

Thankfulness is the real and sobering difference between life and death.

The sun set behind the water and each of us gathered our things and trudged through sandy heaps. Smaller heaps of sand were shifting in our suits, causing some to stride longer while the short-legged fell behind. I heard a little voice behind me. “Mom, I found a better way through the sand. I’m stepping in your footprints.”

Lord Jesus, help me. May I always follow You with a thankful heart, leading others in finding their way closer to You.

 

Sunrise and sleepy souls

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It’s 7:23 and the chill of asphalt is traveling quickly through my flimsy flip flops. I lean my bike against my body, the cold metal causing my legs to protest, and now my torso is chiming in about the coat I left at home, but I’m not about to go get it. I look out over the desert. The mountains are hiding the sun, but its fire can’t be hidden, and electric clouds light the horizon. It won’t be long.

Within seconds, the sun pops from valley folds, and slightly blinded, I breathe in sunshine for as long as I can before my veins turn to ice and I can’t pedal home. I never once question if witnessing this every day happening is worth standing in the cold.

It’s worth it.

For years I enjoyed watching day break, but sometime last winter, I stopped making the time. It was probably too cold, too inconvenient, too common. Another rotation of the earth, another sunrise. No big deal. The sunrise alarm would jingle my phone and I’d silence it, get back to tasks consuming my attention, and that was the daily routine – jingle, swipe, back to life. Routine had absorbed my soul.

This went on for quite a while, until one day – unable to recall when I’d last seen the sunrise – I deleted the alarm altogether. And part of me was really sad about it. Not sad about the absent alarm (less noise is always welcome) but sad that God was throwing color on waking skies and I’d lost delight in it all. I didn’t want to forget, but I apparently didn’t care to remember either.

The funny thing about the soul is, it remembers. Its cravings can’t be silenced with distractions or the petty sustenance that quiets mind and body. There came a morning when gold leaked through my kitchen windows and not a task or duty could hold me indoors. I ran the few minutes to my familiar spot, and as light filled the sky, delight filled my bones, and I stood in awe once again. Next morning, same thing; then the next, and the next, until I’d established a better routine of go, see, delight. I’d snap a picture for my sisters, sometimes send it with a verse or encouraging word – a little good news to break the monotony and monotone that soon fill a day – and it’d be back to life, just like before. But unlike before, now I had fire in my bones.

God is called the ‘Father of Light‘ only once in the Bible, but I think it’s my favorite name. It fits Him, and it explains why I need Him so much: His light wakes every facet of my being. The world’s darkness lulls my soul to sleep with bleak news and dull talk from dim minds. It’s a cynical forecast of gloomy attitudes telling me it’s just another day of drudgery. But God invites me to come and see His graces. If I silence His reminder, I’ll forget to delight in who He is. And when I forget Who God is, I forget who I am – a soul with a purpose, not a human with a routine.

Which is why I keep going out, watching melon clouds and violet stripes as the sun carves its path across the mountains. Nature’s beauty is a rhythm of thanks to its Creator – a song of gratitude – reminding me it’s another day to recognize God’s wonder and reflect His splendor with gladness.

 

Wisdom: the subtle fall trend

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My children wanted haircuts over the weekend, so being the mom I am, I took them to the salon that had just mailed out coupons. I brought nothing with me – no books, no half-fleshed writing, no unopened mail – so I could enjoy a little one-on-one time with each child while the other one was being shorn, and wouldn’t you know, they both got seated in a styling chair at the same time. So I glanced through the fall trends of a magazine instead. A few paragraphs into the cover article, and I was immediately reminded why I let my past subscriptions lapse: I’m embarrassed by my own gender.

Of course a magazine isn’t to blame for the embarrassment – it only reflects the times. And oh, these times. So many women celebrating the discovery that they have a voice, but they haven’t figured out what they’re trying to say. Millennials acknowledging that yes, they have a body, and they’re proud of it, and – oh, look! – they’re posting pictures because it’s empowering, but empowering them to do what? Wear a bikini? Cool. Anything useful, though? Do they have the power to end toxic behaviors or break disordered habits? Moms my age deadlifting like a boss, celebrating muscle because it shows their strength, but they’re not strong enough to show up in the gym or anywhere else without false eyelashes, full makeup, and cosmetic surgery. Middle-aged women are pleased with expressing themselves as a contribution to society, but their contribution rarely has much benefit other than garnering applause, and I wonder, if they received no attention for their contribution, how quickly would they express their displeasure?

There are many conversations being had, with people ‘joining the conversation’ and whatever, and everyone seems to have a strong opinion with dislikes that trigger them and likes that suit them, and these preferences seem to make saying the same 8 buzzwords about the same 3 topics very exciting, but no matter the word choice, the message is clearly, “Me. More.” The communicators are attractive and privileged, revered as authorities on authenticity (behind the guise of contouring and spanx, or manscaped beards and expensive suits) and they speak of ideals without understanding the ideas behind them, without any clue which weak ideals we’d need to strengthen right now in order to build a perfectly impartial world. Everyone’s talking, but nothing being said has any utility. It’s a just tangle of prophets with unprofitable declarations, valued quotes without value, and many (so many) words without wisdom.

But no need to despair. Wisdom is still alive and well, because here’s the truth about wisdom: it has a subtlety to it. It clearly communicates without speaking a word. Wisdom understands that being fair, staying disciplined, and doing what’s right is more useful than talking about it.

When the wisest man in the world wrote Proverbs, it wasn’t to highlight his opinions or exercise his privilege. He shared his wealth of wisdom so that anyone could enjoy dignity and honor, and he did it radically…by personifying wisdom as a woman. It seems equity is alive and well, too.

And I can’t help but smile because I’ve known and I know women who personify wisdom. They are single moms proudly putting food on the table, regardless the size of their paycheck. They’re former victims who’ve learned to cope, heal, and grow, and they’re ending the cycle of abuse by looking out for vulnerable girls in their neighborhoods. They’re women whose bodies have been weakened by cancer or disability and they aren’t strong enough to lift their own legs most days, but they’ve lifted their chins with resolve and they are leading and loving with tenacity. They are grandmas raising grandkids and hardworking women who are respected because they deserve it, not because they demand it. They are women encouraging their friends, wives supporting husbands who want to go back to school, and marathon runners who don’t run from difficult discussions with their children. These women are comfortable in their own skin, comfortable with making tough choices, and comfortable with being sincere. They understand that patience builds peace, self-respect nurtures love, and outrage is most often a mask for unchecked self-centeredness. They’re not grabbing for privilege, they’re gripping dignity and they’re keeping composure instead of folding like a lawn chair every time they don’t get their way. It’s an honor to know these women, and I’m equally thankful for the good men who adore and applaud them – because I know full well there are many.

Men and women of wisdom, much love to you. You aren’t busy defining yourselves – you’re letting the distinct features of wisdom classify you instead. You know how to stand together and you know how to confidently stand alone. If I could put you on a magazine cover, I would, but just know that I see you, my children see you, and we are learning wisdom from you, so carry on in your subtle teaching.

Please and thank you.