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So I think I can dance…

I love dancing.

I enjoy doing the Macarena, the Electric Slide and the Boot Scoot Boogie. Yeah, I know. Those dances are as old as dirt. So it’s been a little while.

But today I discovered Zumba.

Usually when I go to the gym, I take the BodyPump, BodyFix or the TrimEverythingAndQuick class. I never take classes like Zumba. Why? Because I don’t have rhythm. I learned this when I slipped during the Electric Slide and tripped over my boots during the Boot Scoot Boogie. And trust me, I didn’t magically improve with age.

But I love my daughter, and she wanted to try Zumba.

We showed up at the gym in our shorts and T-shirts. Women started walking by with bright-colored pants with lots of zippers and strings and such. They all looked similar and really, really cool. We leaned over to a woman next to us. “What’s up with the pants?”

“Zumba-wear” She said, as she fidgeted with one of her 27 zippers.

Sam and I nodded. “Nice.”

She went on, “You can go to Zumba.com and find all kinds of Zumba stuff. Zumba shirts, Zumba pants, Zumba bracelets and keychains.”

“Do they have Zumba eyewear?” I asked.

She looked at me funny. “No.”

So the music started and we all lined up. Sam and I were in the back row, trying to hide behind the rows of flowing pants in front of us. It happened quick. The woman leading us began to wiggle her hips, clap her hands and move at a high rate of speed in multiple directions at once.

I looked at Sam. She looked at me.

And we started to wiggle.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl who can multi-task. I can’t read with the TV on or eat while I whistle or build a Lego building while I read a crime novel. It just doesn’t work. So when the woman at the front of the room asked me to wiggle, walk and clap all at the same time, I gave it a shot… and about fell over.

Sam laughed.

I consoled myself with the 80-year-old woman beside me. She turned left when we were supposed to go right. Raised her hand when we were supposed to clap and jiggled when we were supposed to wiggle.

I smiled over at her, thinking we’d share a non-rhythmic moment.

Her disapproving glance said it all.  You stink at this, missie.

Whatever.

So I’ll probably do Zumba again. Sam really liked it and I like Sam. So as soon as my jiggler stops aching and my wiggler quits cramping, I’ll be back – with my new Zumba pants and fancy new eyewear.

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It’s not easy being a woman (flashback Friday)

November 21, 2003

Being a woman is hard, and the traps of womanhood snare me with greater and greater frequency. It all started with the whole eyebrow waxing thing. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. How would that look? One eyebrow to two, two eyebrows to one.

Way too confusing.

Then there came the panty hose, heels and even coloring my hair. These were fun things, little adventures into my girly world, but these seemingly innocent pursuits can turn on you. All of a sudden like.

Let me explain: my friend recently introduced me to fake nails. “They’re fun!” She said. “And they look good… and really, Elsa, they only take a minute to put on.”

So I sat on my bed, clipping and filing my fake nails. Strange, really, to hold a nail in your hand as you clip and file it. Then there’s the glue, strong enough to put airplanes back together. I read the instructions carefully. Put a touch on the nail; press the fake one on the real one. Paint. Be happy.

So I did.

The next morning I took a shower and three nails fell off. Apparently, you’re not allowed to shower once you put on fake nails.

I glued them back on.

Later I washed the dishes and another nail fell off.

Great. No dishes either. I glued it back on.

I put on my panty hose and poked ten lovely holes in a dashing formation. Which promptly caused ten galloping runs. Fine. I guess I just wish the panty hose onto my legs or ask the dog to help – as his claws are now shorter than mine.

Later on, I arrive at work and type. It sounds like I’m performing a drum solo on my keyboard. TAP, TAP, TAP. People gather around my cubicle and start swaying to the tune.

I growl at them and determine that I am done with the nails. I try to pull of the remaining fake ones and nearly pull off my real nail along with twelve layers of skin.

So now ten days later, I have seven nails on and three nails off.

Great. I’m a mutant.

I’ll probably die this way.

(Postscript: Nearly ten years later and I remain traumatized. I shudder walking through nail salons.)

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Trapped!

I remember when it happened.

I was working at Focus when I read the news article about the young man who went hiking in the Utah canyons—he was an adventurous guy who went off to play and explore. As he climbed over one rock, it slipped beneath the weight of him. Both he and the rock tumbled and when the dust settled, he couldn’t move. His hand was wedged between the heavy rock and the canyon wall. After six days, his only option was to cut off his arm to escape to freedom. I remember reading his story with a mingled sense of horror and awe.

A few weeks ago, we watched a documentary of his painful journey.

On Friday night, we watched the movie.

I went to sleep that night with Aron’s story on my brain. And I woke up rather philosophical. That happens sometimes. Some days I wake up hungry with a need to go potty. Other times I wake up with profound thoughts on the brain.

You never can tell with me.

So I woke up thinking about the rocks in my own journey. As a young woman I was a lot like Aron. I went out to play and explore in life. I journeyed into canyons and clambered over rocks that seemed so cool. And then I tumbled. The very rock I played on became my trap.

I was thinking on that as I got up. I grabbed my cup of coffee and sat in the living room. I had my quiet time. I read about a man who came to Jesus to ask what He needed to do to inherit eternal life. He gave Jesus the list of the commandments he followed. Jesus looked at him and loved him… (I love that. It says, “Jesus looked at him and loved him.”) And then Jesus asked him to sell all of his possessions and give them to the poor. Jesus knew this guy was held captive by something, and He wanted to set him free.

The man walked away, sad.

He was trapped.

A little later that morning, Brian read through some sports news—as is our Saturday morning custom, he read a few stories out loud to me. One story was about a former football star who became a gambling addict. This broken adult, once a young superstar, had been arrested for scamming people out of millions of dollars. As a young man, he had all the potential in the world, but he’d given in to his addiction. His playful pursuit became a heavy rock that pinned him and drained the life away.

He was trapped.

I’m not always the sharpest needle in the pincushion, but I didn’t want to miss what God might be telling me. What broken piece of my life continues to trap me? The danger with Aron was that the huge rock had cut off all circulation to his hand. His hand was dead and that death was creeping into the rest of his body. Now Aron could have given up and let that happen. Like the rich man in Scripture and the gambling guy in the paper, he could have wrestled for a bit and then given up, “I guess this is just my fate. I can’t break free.”

He could have let death seep into the rest of his body…

But he didn’t. He cut off his own arm to know freedom.

I suppose for the rich man and the gambler, it would have felt like they were cutting off a piece of themselves to break free. I’ve felt that. I’ve had different rocks in my life, habits I didn’t think I could change: Smoking, a longing for romance, food… The list goes on. Habits that felt so much a part of me that it felt like I was cutting off my own arm to let them go.

For Aron, cutting free from that rock was excruciatingly painful.

But it was possible.

And ah, the freedom! The freedom of walking the other way, climbing to safety and leaving that rock back in the dust. And then  after he did the hard work of walking away, the helicopter swept in and rescued Aron. He was tended to and cared for – his wounds healed. Yes, he wears the scars, but he is free.

Free!

Talk about joy. Talk about dimpled abandon!

In one scene, when Aron was still trapped, he had a vision of a little boy he knew was the son he would one day have. That vision strengthened him to tear free from all that bound him.

What vision has God planted in your heart? In my heart? That we would go through the painful process of breaking free from the things we’ve come to accept as unchangeable?

Oh friends, I want to take this to heart. Will you join me? Lets not get trapped by anything but the love of God.  Lets not get lost in riches, addictions, poor self image or any other familiar habit that has weighed us down for years, slowly sucking the life from our spiritual bodies.

Will you join me today in asking God what our rock might be? And asking him for strength to tear free and run for his care and mercy?

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting (Psalm 139:23,24).

 

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Cute boys, worthy goals and lasting life tokens (Flashback Friday)

Well, after tallying all the results, organizing them, sifting them and analyzing the polls from this week, I’ve come to a huge decision:

I’m going to post whenever the stuff comes pouring out of my brain.

Actually, you really helped me come up with a plan. I’ll share once or twice a week and then every Friday will be Flashback Friday. As some of you know, I used to be a blogger by e-mail, sending out stories and snippets from my journey. On Fridays, I’ll share from those archives.

I appreciate you!

Here we go—from the summer of 2003:

August 15, 2003

The other morning Sami started middle school, 6th grade. Before she left I grabbed her hands. I asked if I could pray for her and she nodded. I prayed for her bus ride, her teachers, her friends and her schoolwork. At the end of my prayer, I looked up at her with tears in my eyes, so full was my heart.

“Mom,” she said, highly offended,  “you forgot to pray about the cute boys!”

“Oh,” I quickly bowed my head. “And dear Lord, please keep all the cute boys as far away from Sami as possible.”

“Mooooommmmmmm……”

August 23rd, 2003

I spent some time with one of my favorite people the other day, Emma Joy. She’s only 3 years old. She’s very smart and we have some of the best conversations. We were talking about her fourth birthday. “I’ll be able to swim all by myself… and jump.”

Yes, jump.

She jumped right then and there and solemnly informed me that she couldn’t jump very high as a 3 year old. “But when I’m 4, I’m going to jump much higher.”

I thought that was a worthy goal. And so, by the time I’m 35, I’m going to be able to jump. Not high, but much higher than a 34-year-old.

(Post note: I’m 42 and I still can’t jump. Although to be honest, I haven’t really tried lately. Hold on; let me check real quick… (pause, stand up, jump, hear an odd noise in my knee, sit down…) Uh, nope. Still can’t jump. Maybe when I’m 43.)

Reeses, Sam and me

September 2, 2003

Sami and I were driving back from Missouri late last night. Sami was feeling especially affectionate. The dog was settled between us and Sami reached over and pulled me towards her. (Yes, I was driving, but I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road.  Yes, I am very safety conscious. Totally.) In between us our dog, Reeses, was pleasantly smashed.

“Mom,” she said, “I know what I want for my birthday. I want God to give you, me and Reeses Lasting Life Tokens. That way, we will all die at the same time and never have to be without each other.”

It kind of choked me up. Lasting Life tokens.

I thought some more. I guess He does do that. I guess He did do that. His Son.

“Oh Sami, we may not die at the same moment, but we do have tokens. Free passes. The entry into life together for always. We didn’t even have to pay anything for it. We just said yes.”

One Lasting Life Token please.

Oh thank you, Jesus…

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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. 🙂

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God has dimples…

I like to think that God has dimples.

I don’t think I’m projecting… at least not in the way that I used to when I pictured our Jewish Savior as an American with long brown hair and hazel eyes. I mean, yes, I have dimples, but that’s not why I think God has them. I think God’s smile is broad, warm and engaging. I think his Son, Jesus, was the kind of man who won you over with just a look and a smile—not good looks and perfect teeth—He wasn’t really the GQ type, but there was something about him: warm divinity, disarming grace and authentic love—and I like to imagine that those traits were highlighted in his broad, dimpled grin.

Why else would men drop their nets and follow him?

Why else would broken women feel safe in his presence?

There was something beautiful about the look in his eyes and the smile on his face.

Like a grandfather who chuckles as his first grandchild toddles toward him…                   Like a man in love watching his bride walk up the aisle…                                                        Like a new mom, smile on her lips and tears in her eyes, gazing at her precious newborn…

I confess that I forget about God’s dimples sometimes. I forget to sink my feet into his love and imagine his smile. I forget that He loves me, gave everything for me and thinks of me with tenderness.

Life gets hard, loss creeps in and it gets easy to think about all the darkness that surrounds me. Even simple things, like cleaning up dog poo or balancing my checkbook or attempting (in vain) not to eat the chocolate hidden in the upper left hand corner of my kitchen cabinet… can distract me from his smile.

I need to sit in God’s goodness. I need to sense his love. I need to feel his smile. I need it like I need my next breath, for without it I’m afraid I’ll shrivel up into a bitter, old, frumpy ne’er do well.

And  no one wants to hang out with a frump ne’er do well.

So I’m believing and I’m imagining and I’m trusting that God has dimples – and I think you should do the same.

You make him smile. He loves you. He has good things for you. His dimples crater out when you come to him. Believe it, live it, look for it.