Category Archives: confessions

Dirt… on me.

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When it hurts

Sometimes things fall apart.

A desire remains unfulfilled.

A dream is dashed.

A hope is deferred.

Death crashes into life with unwelcome abandon.

It’s tempting in those moments to wonder about God’s goodness.

Does He see us?

Does He hear our cries?

Does He know the desires of our hearts?

Does He notice our pain?

I remember talking to my brother not long after the loss of his 17-year-old son, Caleb. He looked at me and said, “Elsa, there is no anesthetic for this pain. It rips my heart out.” And yet a little later he said, “But in all of this, I don’t doubt God’s love for me. He loves me. He already proved that on the cross.”

Jesus gave it all so that we could have life.

He paid a huge price for us.

He gave us a way to God.

To life.

To hope.

To love.

To purpose.

He already proved his love.

So every disappointment we experience, every heartache we encounter, every dream that turns out differently than we expected… instead of running from him, we can run to him.

With our tears, with our pain, with our anger or frustration or fear.

For comfort.

For strength.

For refuge.

For hope.

Because He already proved it.

He loves us.

No matter what.

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This Christian, atheist and ex-military guy walk into a…

We’re like the start of a bad joke: An atheist, a Jesus-lover, an artist, a teacher and an ex-military guy walk into a bar…

Only it’s no bar. We met at the dog park and (most) every Monday night we walk into a coffee shop or someone’s home to talk writing.

They’re my writer’s group—and they rock.

It’s our dogs that actually brought us together. Mattie brought her owner, Jayson, to the dog park. Max and Simba Roo brought me.

Max and Mattie

Max and Mattie are sweet on each other, so while they whispered sweet nothings into each other’s ears , Jayson and I found out that we’re both writers.

Tiva hangs out at the park too, and she introduced me to her owner, Thom.

Jayson, Thom and I started chatting and they invited me to their writer’s group. We’re a diverse band of artists. Thom is a gifted cartoonist and sculptor. He’s a great writer as well, and has written a book on being the best atheist you can be. I write books on loving Jesus and then speak at women’s retreats. Jayson does Civil War fiction, Cheri writes children’s books and Pam does a little of everything, including painting and sculpting.

You’d think Thom and I would go at it at our Monday night meetings—I’d thump my Bible and he’d debunk my beliefs and the others would vote for the most eloquent argument. A good old-fashioned rivalry: like the Yankees and the Red Sox, apples and oranges, vegetarians and cattle ranchers… you get the idea.

But it’s not like that. We genuinely like each other. And while I occasionally say things that make his eyebrows go skyway, he smiles when he sees me at the dog park and still welcomes me into the writer’s group.

The others are just as engaging. We don’t share a lot in common beyond a love of the arts and a tenderness for our pups, but that’s enough. It’s enough to make us laugh together, cheer for each other and share life.

Now I’m not saying that I wouldn’t love for Thom to believe in Jesus. After all, I love Jesus and care about Thom – I’d be crazy not to want that. But I don’t hang out with Thom for that sole purpose. I hang out with Thom, Jayson, Pam and Cheri because they are lovely people with unique talents and I genuinely enjoy their company. They make me a better writer, a better artist and a better person.

And bad joke or not, that’s good enough for me.

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She paved the way

Here I sit, in Okinawa, Japan, and the truth is I should hate being here. Years ago my mom was imprisoned by the Japanese. From 6 to 10 years old, she was held captive on the island of Indonesia. She suffered deeply through those horrific years and then into adulthood as she relived the trauma through flashbacks and nightmares.

PTSD. Depression. Pain.

My mom could have gone bitter. I could have easily grown up in a home where the Japanese were demeaned and dishonored. I could have been hardened as my mom fought through difficult days and sleepless nights. So much so that the mere thought of going to Japan would only bring harsh feelings and deep resentment.

But it didn’t happen like that.

As a young mom, my mother fought for her healing. She pursued her God. She sought out counsel. She did the hard work of forgiving… and she didn’t give up when she faced a setback or two.

As a result I am here in Okinawa with great joy in my heart. I’ve had the chance to serve at the military base, but also to go out into the community and visit shops and restaurants. The Japanese are polite, gracious and honoring. I ache for their deep losses in the recent tragedies and this weekend joined others to petition God for their needs. I am drawn to these lovely people and only wish I could do more in this painful season.

I wouldn’t feel any of these things if my mom hadn’t paved the way to the cross – refusing to give in to her past wounds and the potential bitterness that lived there.

I’m so proud of her.

Me and Mom. She’s lovely, isn’t she?

Way to go, Mom. In your darkest moments, you probably didn’t realize the long-range impact of your choice to heal through forgiveness and grace – thanks for holding tight to our God and never, ever giving up.

I love you.

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Dance in your jammies (Part 2 to Look at me!)

Ok, so yesterday I talked about my deep need to know I matter, that I’m special to God, my family and at least a few thousand (OK, OK, 787) Facebook friends. I pooh-poohed thinking too much of the good things God has brought into my life or pondering too long on the things I’ve accomplished. There’s a flip side though. I don’t really want to be the person who berates herself either… “I’m just a slimy piece of Twinkie wrapper, a piece of dirt caught in the bottom of someone’s shoe, a smidge of mouse dropping in the corner of the garage… covered by dust… and a 12-year-old bag of fertilizer.”

No, that’s not going to work. If I think of myself as a no-good, rotten ne’er do well, then that’s exactly how I’m going to act.

So how do we do this thing?

Four things popped into my brain as I was thinking about it. One of those four had to do with pepperoni pizza, so we’ll forget that – but the other three thoughts stuck with me. They may not feel all connected, but it’s my blog so I get to break all literary rules that force me to keep it neat anyway.

So here we go:

I’m loved.

God loves me. He loved me when I used to sneak out of the church to smoke a cigarette and when I sat doing that radio broadcast with the big kahuna. He found me downright adorable when I was 3 years old, spunky at 16 and fondly persnickety at 42. He loves me because I’m his own. His girl. His daughter. That’s what defines me and thank God that’s the way it is. When I define myself by things I’ve done, it gets messy. It means when a book tanks, I tank. When 1000 friends de-friend me, I am a loser. It means if half of you unsubscribe from this blog because I don’t follow literary rules, I’m done.

But if God loves me and holds my “success,” then I’m safe. If my journey as a loved woman of God takes a few dark turns, I’m in good hands. If I make some strides in earthly success, it’s his deal. If I tank one day and shine the next, He’s got me.

Ah, the freedom in being defined by his love and not by my works!

But we should still dance in our jammies…

When we get things right, we should still celebrate. When we get noticed at work, when we share a chocolate bar (and we really don’t want to), when we love on our child even after he or she gets 27 speeding tickets in 19 days – we should take some time to boogie. David, in the Bible, knew how to celebrate. At one point he danced in the street in his linen ephod.  What’s a linen ephod? Think Fruit of the Loom, loincloth, tighty whitey. People were shocked, but He could care less, He loved his God and couldn’t contain the wild celebration of God’s goodness.

Now, I am not encouraging you to dance in your underwear. David was lucky. They didn’t have charges like “indecent exposure” back in his day.

Perhaps you could dance in your jammies instead. Although do avoid any main streets….

Listen, when good things come, celebrate. Dance, Smile, laugh. Go out to dinner. Treat yourself on ice cream. Do a jig in your jammies. Good things and our good God are worth celebrating!

One last quick thing – when we do that, live loved and dance for God’s goodness, we point the way to God.

Late one afternoon, I was looking over a lake. The sun was just setting. The rays created a pathway of light on the water. I traced its sparkling beauty from the shore to the setting sun. That jeweled pathway was pointing the way to the source of light.

That’s what we get to do. When we live loved and celebrate God and the good things He is doing in our lives, we point people to him. Like each shimmering wave on that lovely lake, we all sparkle together and point to the same source.

The cool thing? When we do that, others find him easier to spot… and ultimately, get to dance in their jammies too.

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Look at me!

Look at me!

My longing to be noticed started off harmless enough. After all, I was the first girl born after a batch of boys. Look at my toes! Look at my dress! Look at how cute I am! John, on the left, was less than thrilled with me, but don’t you worry, I did what I could to win him over through my toddler years.

Just a few years later…

At 7 years old, I’d spin a hundred times. “Watch me, Mama, watch me!”

At 9, I’d climb a tree and cling to the branch. “Look at me, Dad! Look at how high I got!”

My parents were kind over the years. My brothers, not as much. “That’s nothing, you’re just a girl. I could climb higher than that.”  (They couldn’t, by the way. I was a superb tree climber.) But never mind that. For the most part, my little girl need to be noticed was met.

So now I’m a little older, a growing and mature believer in our God. I’ve learned that it’s not very polite to stand in front of a group and say “Look at me!” And I get that it would be weird for me to spin a hundred times in my living room and then turn to my husband, “Wasn’t that good? Wasn’t it, love?”

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, those little girl longings still surface.

Like when I recently filled out a marketing form for my publisher. They asked me how many friends I have on Facebook. I wrote, “1000-ish.”

 

Look at me!

Almost immediately it felt like the Holy Spirit cleared his throat over my shoulder.

 

Fine. (Erase, erase). “787 – but I’m working on it.”

I saw that little girl again when I was recently interviewed for a national radio broadcast. After the interview, someone took a picture of me with the big kahuna on one side and the lovely doctor co-host on the other. I received a letter (with the picture) a few days later.

 

Look at me!

I put the picture and letter up on the fridge.

I was tempted to invite over my neighbors, the newspaper boy and any random strangers meandering by our home. “Come on in, grab a bite to eat… no, really. Just open that refrigerator door and help yourself!”  Maybe I’d even tape up the door so they couldn’t actually open it, then they would be forced to ogle the prominent picture on the fridge. “Oh my goodness, Elsa, is that you with….”

“Oh, that silly old picture? I forgot it was there.”

Oh friends, what is wrong with me? Does a picture make me matter? Do 1000 friends make me more special then 787 friends? If that’s the case, what happens when I bump over the 2000 mark? Does God invite me up to heaven for a VIP dinner? Hand me a certificate and call me out in front of the crowd? “Goodness, Elsa, I was waiting for the moment you would cross 2000 friends on Facebook. Now you have truly arrived and can officially be my number one girl.”

Blech. Ugh. Gross.

So I sat in that awhile. Gave myself a good tongue-lashing for my little girl self-obsession.  And then God in his grace, reminded me that He has slowly been growing me up. He brought to mind the stories I talked about on that radio show… the tales of my most broken moments as a young single mom – how I made bad choices and hurt people I cared about. And then how I told the big kahuna and the kind doctor and that radio audience all about my God. I told them how He met me with his grace through loving older women. I talked about the sweet gifts He gave me in the midst of my poverty, pain and foolishness. I talked of how his love wooed me and drew me and set me free.

On that radio show, I got it: Look at HIM! Look at HIM!

And I imagine in that moment, God smiled. And nudged the nearest angel. “Ahhh, now see? Look at my girl..”

 

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time (1 Peter 5:6).

P.S. I’d love to hear your comments… and just so you know, there’s a part two to this blog. Stay tuned. 🙂