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Not a Stalker, Just a Fan

I jumped up and down in my living room yesterday.

I screamed at the TV.

I clapped and hollered and nearly chest bumped my husband in my exuberance.

I never get that excited about NFL football. I occasionally watch college football, but only because my man loves Ohio State and I love my man.

So what made me go wild during the Broncos game?

Tim Tebow.

I heard a woman talking on the radio today. She said that while she was happily married, she is so taken by Tim Tebow that when she saw him in a store the other day, she stalked him all through the aisles.

I wouldn’t go that far. I like Tim, but my husband is the only one I’ll ever stalk.

I think I like Tim Tebow for the same reason I liked that guy on X-Factor who was doing his best to stay clean for his little boy. Tim seems to be the real deal—at least, I want him to be the real deal—a guy who walks the walk as he talks the talk.

Maybe I’m just hungry for a hero, for a public figure who loves Jesus and lives it out in his every day life.

Maybe a lot of us are hungry for that.

I read an article today. Gary Shelton of the Gazette, said: “In the end, however, you had to admit this about Tebow. There is something to the kid that goes beyond pretty spirals and staggering statistics. There is an energy to him, a spark, a rare collection of intangibles.”

That spark, that energy, it’s totally Jesus—and I’d bet a gazillion dollars Tim would say the same thing.

Some people are quick to call any football star a hero. And while I think it’s awesome that someone can take a hit or catch a spiraling ball while being run down by massive muscle bound guys, I don’t think that necessarily qualifies for hero status.

But I think standing for faith is heroic.

I think being kind and generous and hard-working (in the midst of harsh scrutiny) is heroic.

I think being aware of his role-model status and humbly reaching out to others – is heroic.

So I find myself cheering for Tim. I cheer for him during the game, but I also cheer for his life off the field.

I long for him to make it, to be one to stand for the long haul. To be the guy who inspires teenagers to be unabashed in their love for Jesus too. To be the man who stays pure and marries the woman of his dreams and has little baby Tims who will love Jesus too.

But you know what God seemed to whisper to my heart as I watched Tim and cheered his football while cheering his faith?

I felt like He reminded me that while it’s great to pray for Tim Tebow and to cheer on his heart for God, I have the same opportunity as Tim. Oh, not to run down a field or throw a spiral or barrel over burly men to score a touchdown (as totally fun as that would be), but I certainly have an opportunity to live my faith every day. To be one to stand strong. To live it out. To walk the walk, talk the talk, dance the dance.

To be the real deal.

We all have the opportunity. People are watching, people are cheering, people long for a hero – to see someone authentic and true.

Why not me? Why not you?

Dare I say it?

Go team!

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Held me a Raccoon

I got to hold a baby human yesterday.

Ten little fingers, ten little toes. I was the first grown-up (other than Mom, Dad and nurses) to hold him. He was only 2.5 hours old.

And he didn’t even cry.

His name is Dominic, but he was nicknamed “Raccoon” in the womb. I think it’s the best nickname ever! I hope it sticks.  I can almost picture him as a young teenager (cool as can be) being summoned by his friends, “Hey, Raccoon!”

“Yeah?”

“I love your nickname!”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

Sigh.

I fell in love with Raccoon yesterday. Such a miracle! I stared at his baby face and wondered about all the potential inside of him. I imagined seeds of strength and wisdom, creativity and play, humor and passion.

Raccoon

God did such good work in creating baby humans! And what potential in each one…

I don’t know how old you are today, but once upon a time, you were a baby human. There’s a good chance that people held you in their arms and with tears in their eyes, wondered at the miracle of your birth. They kissed your little nose and found you absolutely perfect.

And then there was your God. Even if your birth circumstances were tough, He was right there. He marveled at your form and patted himself on the back for how good you came out.

I did a fine job with that one, He thought to himself, I get better at this every year.

And inside of you were those seeds—seeds He planted himself.

Created by design to live for a purpose.

It’s inspiring, really. All that baby human potential bursting to come out…

All that hope lies inside you, you know. Seeds of strength, beauty, talent, wisdom, courage, passion, humor, creativity.

I remind myself of the same thing. And I remember that I need to keep pulling weeds to get about the business of sprouting.

Care to join me, fellow human?

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13).

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Oma (almost) got run over by a bull elk

(Attention all environmental sorts: no harm came to any elk in the writing of this blog or during any of the experiences described herein. Police officers were on site and kept us in line.)

The song began playing in my head almost immediately. Instead of “Grandma got run over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas Eve…” it was “Oma got run over by a bull elk, hanging out with our fam Sunday Eve…”

Not good.

It all unfolded when we went to Estes Park to see some elk bugling. I’d never heard of it before, but apparently when the bulls try to woo their women, they bugle. I’m thinking the most impressive bugler gets the girls.

Makes sense to me. If Brian had asked me out with a little ditty on a trumpet, I would have answered even faster than the whopping three seconds it took me to say yes.

So we showed up in Estes Park to find that the elk were literally right there in town, gathered around one of the parks. We quickly pulled over with the zillion other tourists and grabbed our cameras.

The big guy

 

His admirers

People were getting pretty close to one of the bulls, so we did too, snapping some great shots.

My mom wandered over to where a mighty bull stood…

Then there was some commotion.

Then some running.

Then a sheriff sprang to action: “Ma’am, ma’am, run over here please!”

Here’s a slice of the action Sam caught on film. You won’t see mom in the shot because she ran out of the way… She’s smart AND fast.

Luckily, Mom was safe and sound and NOT run over.

But here are a few of the deep profound lessons I got from the day:

  • Just because elk bugle, doesn’t mean they’re the happy sort.
  • Never get between a guy and his dame.
  • If you’re trying to convince your mother to move to Colorado, don’t let her get run down by a large grumpy animal—with horns.

And a final thought: Today is my birthday. I turn 43 years old. My mom is 75. The very fact that she tangled with a bull and survived, that she climbs around the mountains with us – well, it’s inspiring. And you know what else? She recently bought a Mac after being a PC girl her whole adult life. She’s learning a new operating system and just made her first DVD of pics and music.

While I’m going backwards and prefer Velcro to tying my own shoes, she is forging ahead into new territories.

So here on my 43rd birthday, I’m committing to live like my mama and become a bull-elk tackler, budding computer guru, and live-life-to-the-fullest-continental-divide-conqueror.

But first I have to remember how to tie my shoes.

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Less naked jiggling, more good stories please

So we watched X Factor last night.

Aside from the half naked man that totally creeped us out, we liked it. In fact at the end of the show, they had a great story about a young guy who has been sober for 70 days. He sang his own rap song and when they interviewed him at the end, he talked about the three best days of his life:

  1. The day his son was born
  2. The day he got sober
  3. The day they put him through on X Factor

I always pretend not to cry when I watch TV, but as I looked from underneath my bangs at Mom and Sam, I could see tears in their eyes too.

Whew! I wasn’t alone.

I let a few spill over onto my cheeks.

There’s nothing like a good story.

In the midst of my tears I found myself fiercely hopeful for the guy: that he’d stay clean, that he’d be the dad he wants to be, that he’d succeed in his dreams.

Good from bad, life from death, hope from addiction.

This morning in my quiet time, I was reading about the Israelites. God was forever reminding them to remember. Remember what I’ve done. Remember where you’ve been. Remember what I saved you out of…

He commanded them to have festivals and parties and all out celebrations so they wouldn’t forget his goodness.

So I sat on the porch and I remembered.

I remembered when lies flowed as easy as the truth.

I remembered when addictions were more appealing than life.

I remembered when I hurt people I loved and didn’t care very much.

I also remember the way God loved me in the middle of that, how He sent people to be nice to me, to reach out to me, to provide for me when I didn’t deserve a single thing they did.

I remembered my own Egypt and how He, like a fiercely devoted lover, rescued me out of it.

When I think of how I’m different now, I know it’s not my own doing. I’ve tried to be better “tomorrow,” only to put that off one more day: “For sure, tomorrow I’ll be a totally good girl. Seriously!”

But tomorrow never came.

What changed me from the inside out, what continues to mold and shape me, is a love I can’t explain and don’t deserve. It’s a love that fashions and forms me as I sit in its presence. It’s a love that rescued me from Egypt and tells me to “Party on” as I remember that incredible work.

So blow up some balloons, hang some streamers, toot a horn, bake a cake, eat cookies and laugh until your belly hurts.

You’ve been rescued.

Or maybe you’re being rescued.

Whatever it looks like for you, take a moment to remember. After all, there’s nothing like a good story worth celebrating: Life from death, hope from despair, freedom from addiction.

Way better than naked jiggling – any day.

Thank you, Lord.

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Just another day saving the world

I’m rarely a good citizen.

Sure, I pay my taxes and vote my conscience and smile at senior citizens, but beyond that, I’m really pretty self-absorbed.

I don’t recycle.

I don’t pick up enough random garbage.

I don’t carpool. (Although sometimes Brian gives me a piggyback ride from upstairs to my home office…. Does that count?)

So I’m pitifully behind the times in fulfilling my part in the greater good.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I was Mrs. Crime Stopper extraordinaire, a super sneaky neighborhood watchdog.

So here’s what happened. I observed some criminal activity. This has been going on for a week or two and since I’ve seen other people around said criminal activity, I confess that I thought they would do something about it.

But it continued.

So yesterday, in my super stealth detective way, I jotted down a license plate number of one of the participants and called the non-emergency police line.

“I have a clue!” I said, super excited.

“I’m sorry, ma’am?”

“Oh sorry. I have a clue about some bad stuff happening and I know who’s doing it and I have their license plate and I’m calling because I’m a good citizen!”

She seemed very excited and immediately transferred me to someone’s voicemail.

Hmmph.

Well, that certain someone called me back and I filled him in on all my great detective work.

And guess what he said?

He said, “Ma’am we’ve been looking for some people, and I think you just helped us find them.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I was thrilled. My chest puffed out. My grin widened.

I wanted to ask if I get anything for my good deed. Like one of those cool Sheriff stars to pin on my shirt or maybe a reward or a meeting with the mayor or something…

“So have a nice day, ma’am. And thanks for calling.”

Wait! Wait! But… is that it? No star? Reward? No small press conference? I could totally be ready in 15 minutes to talk to any one of the news stations.

Click.

That’s it?

That’s it.

So dear friends, as I thought about this travesty, I couldn’t help but wonder if there are others of you out there,  other unsung heroes who have gone unnoticed. Everything inside of me rose up as I imagined that I might not be alone. What about my friends? What about all their good deeds?

Well, since I’m in the mood of righting wrongs, I just want you to know that I celebrate you today. All of you unsung community heroes — you recyclers and carpoolers, you snitches, neighborhood watchdogs and random garbage-picker-uppers—I see you! I celebrate you!

You rock and I am singing your tune this very second!

WAY TO GO!

Now get out there and keep saving the world….

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What was that, God? Sign or fluke?

Sometime I crack myself up.

I’ve been pondering a big change in my life and have been asking God about it. Two days ago, I was reading in Deuteronomy about the hill country and decided that yes, this change was a little bit like heading into the hill country.

So I read: “Break camp and advance into the hill country…”

Sweet! God must want me to make this change!

Then a few days later, I read: “You have made your way around this hill country long enough; now turn north.”

Oh.

So you don’t want me to go to the hill country?

No, I thought, that must not be what you mean, God. After all, I really think you are calling me to the hill country. That other thing about leaving the hill country? That was just a fluke, not a sign.

It seemed like God smiled.  See, that’s the problem with me and signs. I should really just be honest with God. When I’m looking for signs to do something, I should just say, “God, I really want to do this thing, so I am going to look for things that point to it and call them signs. If I see something that points away from it, I’ll brush it off and call myself silly for doubting what I’m certain you are saying to me.”

I thought I was seeking God’s will, but He (in his gentle way), let me know that I was really just looking for him to agree with my way of doing things.

Oh.

Sorry about that, God.

What would you really like to say to me?

 

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Biker Babe and a Mighty God

Sometimes I get scared.

I’ve always wanted to get a motorcycle. I had one at 18 and loved it. Granted I starved it of oil and blew up the engine within two months, but oh wow, while I had it – I was a very cool biker babe.

I’d still like to be a biker babe, but these days I get scared. What if someone cuts in front of me? What if I slide out of control?

Maybe I should buy a station wagon instead…

I get scared for my girl. The dangers at 19 are greater than the ones when she was 2… burning her little finger on a hot stove or bumping her head on a table don’t hold a candle to what’s out there in a city at night or what can happen in today’s dating relationships.

This whole launching thing gets my tummy in knots sometimes.

I get worried when my man climbs big mountains – like today he’s climbing one that requires a helmet for all the stray rocks that come flying down. “Oh really?” I said, gulping down my nag, “Rocks fly down just like that, huh? How fun!”

Oh God, please keep him safe.

Sometimes I’m afraid of going after a goal. Like this whole triathlon dream I have. I don’t like the idea of being the last chick in the pack, huffing and puffing as people look on. “Look at that lady,” I imagine they’ll whisper, “I think she took a wrong turn on her way to the ice cream shop. Doesn’t she know we’re in a race here?”

I didn’t used to be scared about stuff. I didn’t care about what other people thought. I didn’t care about danger. I had my motorcycle, I dove off cliffs, bunji-jumped, went skydiving and tried new things just for the fun of it.

I was all that and a bag of barbecue pork rinds.

But then life came. I lost people I loved in sudden tragedies. I totaled my car. I embarrassed myself trying something new. Suddenly the world didn’t seem as kind or friendly or accepting of wild risk-takers like me.

So today I’m tempted to temper my life – to keep danger at bay.

I could take up knitting.

I could force my girl into a convent and give her a tricycle to ride.

I could give my hubby a honey-do list so long that he won’t have time to don his rock helmet to go out in the wild.

But in the end, what would that say about my God?

Yes, sometimes people laugh at you.

Yes, things get messy.

Yes, motorcycles crash and bad stuff happens.

But if I shrink back, something even worse will happen – I’ll turn into a wimpy old woman.  Even more tragic, I’ll turn into a wimpy old woman with no life, no stories to tell, no adventures to share. I’ll miss the chance to tell people how God is God even when tragedy strikes, even when things don’t go right, even when you’re the last chick in the pack huffing and puffing away.

This world is tough, but our God is tougher.

The world is risky, but our God doesn’t shy away from risk.

He proved that one on the cross.

So I will not shrink back. I will not be a wimpy old woman. I will buy that Harley Davidson one day. I will be the wild godly chick with a red leather jacket riding down the road on a purple Harley Davidson. I will encourage my daughter to pursue every last crazy dream and I will cheer my hubby on to climb dangerous mountains.

I will not shrink back because my God parted a sea, healed broken people and raised my Jesus from the dead.

Which means He’ll take care of me.

And He’ll take care of you, my friends.

No matter what comes.

So we might as well live…

BIG.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Just call me “Paddler”

I need to dream big.

Really big.

My husband is off to climb a mountain this weekend. Its one of the tougher climbs and he’s been training like a madman. Jogging seven miles at high altitude, working out at our gym, gearing up for the big day.

I need a big day of my own, a goal to shoot for, a prize to pursue. Jagged mountain peaks are more for my man. I need something different to stir my soul.

So I’ve been doing some research. A triathlon sounds like a blast. I love to swim, love to bike and could tolerate the jogging. I could be one of those over-40 super-woman feel-good stories you sometimes hear about on the news. “Can you believe it? Elsa started out as a slightly frumpy desk chick and burst on to the triathlon scene with astounding strength and an uncanny knack for the doggy paddle! She’s amazing!”

They’d nickname me “The Colorado Paddler.”

I imagine myself, standing on the platform and ducking down to receive my gold medal, the applause ringing in my ears.

But then I did some more research and most triathlons are really long and unreasonably difficult. Crazy thing? They don’t even let you take breaks between legs. No latte before the swim, no nap before the biking.

That doesn’t seem very healthy at all.

So I tried to see if there is some kind of duo-athlon or even a pick-ur-own-athlon I could participate in. You know, where I could set my own pace, do my own thing. Swim if I want, jog if I feel like it or swing dance if I’m feeling really feisty.

Nothing.

So I guess I’m back to the triathlon, cruel as it seems to be. I’ll try and keep you updated as I torture myself into this new pursuit. And if you have a big thing you’re shooting for, let me know. Let’s be in it together.

All right, here we go. I’m off for my first jog…

(Or maybe tomorrow, after my morning non-fat caramel latte.)

 

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God’s Graffiti

I used to be a graffiti artist.

It’s true.

I’m praying that the statute of limitations on high school bathroom infractions has long past, but even if it hasn’t, I’m confessing it here and now.

It was me.

I was the one who wrote “Lori loves Billy.”  “June-Bug was here,” and “Down with physics.”

It was my first business. I charged $5.00 to each willing criminal, and then wrote their name, love interest and any other pertinent information on the bathroom wall.

I thought it was quite the creative idea for a high school kid.

But after the last two days, my whole take on creativity has expanded.

I was at a leadership conference called “Global Leadership Summit.” While I was there, I was exposed to God’s creativity displayed in people of every type.

I listened to Mama Maggie, who about sprouted wings on the stage as she humbly shared about her love for the children of Cairo. She spoke in a quiet voice but her words were bright and bold and beautiful in the heart of every audience member.

Then there was Steven Furtick, a young, passionate lover of God wearing skinny jeans and a lopsided smile. He was insatiable, contagious, totally delighted in our God. He spoke of God’s power and ability to do anything and everything. His passion geared us all up to run right out the door and change the world.

Erwin McManus is a California dude. Brilliant and passionate, he challenged us to remember the beauty of story, the uniqueness of each human life and the power of creativity.

There were lots more—loud and quiet; organized and scattered; funny and serious.

God’s graffiti—written for a far larger venue than what my high school bathroom had to offer. Each human word written with a brilliant stroke of genius. Some written in script, some with box letters and dancing lines, some in lowercase, others in all caps.

Each one an outpouring of God’s creativity.

I LOVED it… it made me square my shoulders and dimple out my smile and remember that I may not look like everyone else or think like anyone else or act like that person over there, but God made me Elsa. And I will revel in the way he has written me.

And you, my friends, just have to be you—the living word God created—unique, vibrant, beautiful you. We need you to keep things alive and interesting and good.

Lord, help us to live that today!

And Lord, sorry about the whole high school thing. That was really naughty.

 

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“Step off!” I say…

Sometimes I get grumpy and say things I shouldn’t say.

Today I woke up from my nap and told my dog to “Step off!” He was chewing on my pinkie toe and I let him have it.

“Step off, mutt!”

I know. I shouldn’t have cast disparaging comments on his lineage, but that’s what happens when I don’t watch my words.

I did make it up to Max. “I’m sorry Max. I think you’re the finest pup around and I don’t even care that we have no idea who your parents are…”

He seemed okay, but you know, once you put those words out there….

My dad and I shared a lot of words over the years. Some were good, some not so much. After all, I was a mushy gooey girl, he was a stoic engineer. I was a wild, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants teenager, he was a focused and analytical dad. My room looked like a minor hurricane had swept through while he had a drawers for every single tool he owned—each labeled and in alphabetical order. By the time I drove him crazy by eloping in my 20s, our relationship was more than a little rough around the edges.

I suppose we could have stayed there.

I suppose we could have let old words sit in the air and fog up our view of one another.

I’m so thrilled that we didn’t. Oh, not that cleaning things up went perfectly. There were times I disagreed with him, and he with me. But as I grew a little older, I began to appreciate the many things he did so well. And he was able to see me beyond my childhood goofiness and teenage insanity.

Two years ago, my dad died in a sailing accident.

Eighteen hours before he died, he left a message on my cell phone.

Here it is: Final Words

I have that message on my I-tunes playlist and today it came on as I walked my dogs. My dad’s final words to me were ones of encouragement, and they encourage me still today.

I was telling a family friend about my nephew Caleb yesterday. How he was 17 years old when he died in a car accident, twelve days after my dad died in a drowning. He looked at me with eyes wide, “I’m 17,” he said.

I could see the wheels turning.

We have no idea when our time will come. We have no idea what our final words will be. For me I just pray I don’t go out saying things like,  “You mutt!” to those I care about.

Instead, I pray that I remember how words can either destroy or build up, cut or heal… and how they linger either way.

Thanks for the voicemail, Dad. It made my day. Again.