Lose the Lines

Facebook is good for a lot of things, not so good for others. One of the things I like the most about it is reconnecting with old friends. It’s neat to see how people I knew in high school and junior high, and goodness, even elementary school sometimes, are doing. I like being able to see where life has taken them. Some of these “online” friendships have really taken on a surprising depth for me. No, we don’t chat about our deepest fears or spend hours commenting back and forth, but I find myself gravitating to see what’s going on with some people that I never really would have expected.

There are lots of examples of people I’ve reconnected with, or connected for the first time, in small ways. People I lost touch with, people I never knew that well, people I knew in school but didn’t hang with much outside of class. It’s kind of amazing and I’m really grateful for it. I’ve read other folks blogs, chatted about organic gardening, traded recipes, received encouragement and parenting advice from people I haven’t spoken to in years. It’s all really humbling and such a blessing. I love, love, love the prayer community that’s built up on facebook. Because information is so easy to share, and comments are so easy to post, the amount of prayer requests that you actually KNOW about, not just hear through the grapevine, are overwhelming and an unsurpassed blessing. It’s really cool to see us rally around each other. But, especially with the women I knew before, but maybe wasn’t as close to growing up, as these relationships grow I keep thinking,

“ I wish I’d known you better when we lived in the same town.”

Today’s blog is a message straight to high school and junior high folks, mostly girls because we tend to be the worst about drawing lines where no lines should be, but boys are certainly capable of it too. I’m not talking about some of society’s more obvious lines; I’m talking about the subtle ones we may not even realize are there. We separate from each other because of common interest, comfort zones, hanging with kids we’ve always known, never bothering to get to know someone else because it takes a little effort. Lose the lines ladies, they’re stupid and pointless. I wish I could count how many times since high school I spent some time with someone who maybe didn’t know me that well back in the day, and vice versa, and they said something along the lines of, “You’re not really the bratty little princess I thought you were.” Ouch. Is that really how you saw me? Because I promise I was more scared, had way worse self image, and was more fearful of rejection and judgment than anyone. If I didn’t talk to you much, it had nothing to do with not wanting to be your friend; I probably thought you wouldn’t want to be my friend. I still struggle with my self- image and fear of rejection, probably worse than most people. Or am I really worse than most people? I’m seeing now, as an old lady of 34, that maybe it’s not only me. Recently our bible study group laid some fears on the table. You know what? We were all afraid of rejection. We all desperately wanted community, support, and friends. We all second guessed ourselves and often felt like we weren’t enough. When you get honest, we really aren’t so different.

One of the main advantages of getting older is mental clarity. The women of my mother’s generation are laughing at me thinking that I have mental clarity at age 34. I can hear them saying, “Honey, you know nothing yet”, and they’re probably right. But for now, though time is giving me gray highlights in my dark hair and my post-baby body is never going to be the same, it’s also giving me some pretty clear hindsight. If I could go back to my 16 year old self the first thing I would do would be to kick my own arse for thinking I needed to lose a few pounds. Really?  I would love to be able to rock a bikini again but I think spanx one pieces are probably what’s in store for me from now on. Ladies, you are young, love yourselves for how you look RIGHT NOW.

Second, and waaaaay more important than bathing suits, I would open my eyes. Look at my neighbor in class. She may not be my bestie that I’ve hung out with since 2^nd grade but what do I really know about her? Maybe we do have some things in common, maybe we could be friends. Being different from each other, having different backgrounds, different parents, different home lives – that does not mean that friendship isn’t possible. For all you know you’re really not different at all, you just never took the time to get to know each other. We draw lines between each other, invisible ones, from such an early age. I’m not just talking about racial lines or social status, but even more vague lines based on things like talents, interest, people we hang out with, proximity, and yes, even fear. Fear of judgment, rejection, gossip, whatever.  We are only hurting ourselves, missing out on amazing friendships from people who can enrich our lives and we can do the same for them. God made us all different for a reason – not so we could separate from each other and narrow our worlds, but so that this world would be interesting, beautiful, colorful, and that we would learn from each other. Stepping out there is scary, and ya, you may get rejected. I wish we would all learn to be a little kinder to each other, but don’t think that I don’t remember how hard high school can be. I’m from a small town girls, I know what it is to be the victim of gossip. But I wish that fear hadn’t held me back so much. I wish I’d believed what Dr. Seuss said, “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter, don’t mind.”

I look back at the friendships I might have missed out on, and it is my prayer that you won’t miss those things. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t only gravitate towards people you already know. Make friends with the new kid. Go try a musical instrument, even if you can’t play, with someone who can. Laugh at yourself. If I could have laughed at myself, basketball probably would have been a lot more fun. If I wasn’t afraid, I would have been in drama and not waited until college to realize I love to sing. I look at the people I’ve seemingly randomly connected to on facebook, and over and over again I think, “I wish we’d been better friends when we were in the same town.” We could have gone to Triple T and had a bacon cheeseburger and fries and a Wild Thing before we cared what the calories would do to our waistlines and had to arrange child care. And yes, I know that we can still be friends, we can still get to know each other. And this is not to say that I’m not incredibly blessed by the people I did know well, and did spend time with and continue to keep in touch with. I’m just saying that my adolescent world could have been bigger, I wish it had been. Yours still can be.

 Give each other a break, girls. Get out of your comfort zone. That girl sitting next to you that you don’t know that well is just as nervous as you are. Let your young life give you a multitude of friends that you spent face time with. Build a prayer community now, while you can hold someone’s hand and be literally, right by their side, when they need you. Then, when you’re old like we are, and live in separate cities, you can celebrate the memories instead of wishing you’d made more of them when you had the chance. 

Triple T Grill - Brownwood, TX. Doesn't look like much, best Wild Thing ever (Cherry, Lime, Pineapple Sprite)

A Shining Star - Remembering Judy Moore

Last week I made the 5 hour drive to Brownwood for Thanksgiving so that I could be with my wonderful family. I had planned to drive home on Wednesday, but the loss of a dear friend sent me home on Tuesday, so that I could be present to say goodbye. Judy Moore touched hundreds of lives in Brownwood, mine included. I took dance from her for nearly 13 years, but she was so much more than a teacher. Before we could gather with family to give thanks, we needed to gather to say goodbye to one we loved so much, and give thanks for her life and her influence in our lives. I could type for days about all I learned from Mrs. Moore; I’ve tried to highlight the things I have held most dear to give you an idea of what she meant to me.

                Discipline is an important part of life. A necessary, vital part. We all wore pink tights and black leotards for lessons. I wish I had a picture of those outfits but I don’t. You were expected to be on time and work hard. We had a lot of fun – a whole lot of fun. But just like in Ecclesiastes, there was a time to laugh, and there was a time to dance. Through learning to remain disciplined, we learned success and near perfection, grace, and confidence. And we also learned that sometimes, the time to dance coincides with the time to laugh.  We respected Mrs. Moore, as evidenced by the fact that most of us still, even as adults, refer to her as Mrs. Moore. It wasn’t because she was stiff or unconnected with us, it was just respectful. Every day when we left she hugged us and gave us a lemon drop, even if we hadn’t been as productive that day as we should have been. She loved us. She loved watching us dance. She wanted us to be proud of ourselves, and she taught us that those who work hard will see the fruits of their labor. Grace, poise, discipline, and practice will take you far in every aspect of life, not just on the stage. And I think someone once said, “All of life’s a stage” anyway, didn’t they?

              Mrs. Moore believed in rewarding your milestones. Sticking with it was important to her. Each student got a present based on longevity. The biggie was the flowers on your 4^th year (picture below). Your dad would present them to you and it was after the show. Super. Big. Deal. I honestly am not sure I have ever been as proud as I was in that picture. After 4^th year you got jewelry. Necklaces that you could add a new gold bead to each year. I still have my necklace. Mrs. Moore taught me to hang in there, and that continuing to show up is worth everything. 

               You sound better when you work together. I can’t tell you how many times she and Terry, her daughter, would tap together so that we could hear what it was supposed to sound like. One person, not 14 little girls tapping to their own beat. There was always a time for your own beat, but in most situations, working together as a group makes a better performance. 

            The show must go on. I wish I had a picture of Mrs. Moore in the wings at the recital doing every step of every dance (and there were lots of them) and cuing us when to go, when to smile, when to leave the stage. She was the ultimate professional and she knew how to put on a recital. It was more than just little girls doing their dances, it was a first class production. She reminds me now of one of my favorite sayings, “No matter how you feel, get up, dress up, and show up.” In life as well, not just in dance, the show must go on. I was lucky to have someone to teach me that, and to know that she had my back if I forgot the steps. We learned to be comfortable in front of a crowd, to smile even when you mess up, stay on your toes, and never stop dancing.

           

               Make everyone feel important. She gave us lemon drops at the end of every lesson. She loved a good song. I used to bring in new music for her and she would always listen, find the beat, tap it with her toes, and count out the 8’s. She loved the oldies but was open to the new stuff too. She made us feel special, like we mattered to her. She honored our opinions when we ordered costumes. Someone said on facebook that they could still remember the giddy feeling of pulling out the costume magazines. I remember that well. There was no dancing that day. We all sat in the floor around Mrs. Moore and picked out what we liked. Putting on those costumes was like being the beauty pageant winner. A little sparkle and some red lipstick, to this day, can lift my spirits. She taught us how to feel beautiful and like we were the most important girls (and boys) on earth. This picture is one of my earliest recitals, but I remember feeling so pretty (clearly, based on my pose), and like I was a rock star about to go on stage. 

                          

               I’m sad to say that I quit dance before I graduated from high school. I got busy doing other things and it was hard to find the time for twice weekly lessons. I still remember the day I told Mrs. Moore and the disappointment I saw in her eyes. It’s one of the biggest regrets of my life. I still have dreams that the recital is going on and I haven’t learned the dance because I quit! I guess that’s another lesson I learned from her. Don’t quit the things that matter, even if it takes a little extra effort to get it done.

            We gathered together on a chilly Tuesday afternoon to say goodbye to Mrs. Moore. There were lots of family, friends, and former students there. It was good to see her family, even under such sad circumstances. I watched her daughter Terry dancing in her chair to “In the Mood”, one of Mrs. Moore’s favorite warm up songs. It was all I could do not to break into the time steps or a jazz square. I hope that all her daughters and grandchildren know how very much we loved their Mimi, and how much we love them. We all felt like we were an extended part of their family, and I’m ever so glad they let us be a part of it. Mr. Moore picked out “Sentimental Journey” as the last song they played at the funeral. It was so fitting. We all to some degree have gone down a sentimental road this week, remembering a lady that was the epitome of class and grace wrapped in love. She changed our lives for the better. The pastor said that when we all meet in the air someday, Judy Moore won’t be hard to pick out. She’ll be the one dancing. He couldn’t have said it better. 

“A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” Ecclesiastes 3:3-5

We love you Mrs. Moore. When I get to heaven, I expect the angels to know the time steps. 

Blueberry Muffins and Spaceship Pj's

We have decided to sponsor a child through Compassion International. (Yay! look at me! I posted a link!) I researched a lot of different organizations and for various reasons decided to go through Compassion. However, that’s not the point of this writing. If you want to know more please just ask me and I’ll probably tell you more than you ever wanted to know.

I don’t write about this so that you will think I am super spiritual and out there saving the lost. I’m doing a bible study (Interrupted by Jen Hatmaker) and someday, if I ever meet her, I am going to thank her for ruining my life. We had decided to sponsor a child before I started the bible study, and I will admit that I may have patted myself on the back a little for being so helpful. But then I started reading Jen’s book, and I realized there is so much more I can do at home. She is shedding light on my soul in areas I didn’t know existed, and it’s not pretty. I have never felt this uncomfortable about whether or not I am helping the world, if I am doing my part. I realize now that sponsoring Hendrick should just be the start of my journey. All that is a post for another day, today is about how if you’re looking for a way to make a difference, sponsoring a child is a good way to start.

I have always had a heart for saving the lost. Birds, cats, dogs, boyfriends, etc. Perhaps in my youth that desire was a little misguided (really, Rachel, you do not have to date them in order to help them find the right path), but regardless the desire to help and save has always been there. As a grownup I know that people are not mine to save, they are God’s. But I’m learning more and more that I can be an instrument. But that’s also not really the point of this writing, either. This morning I had to sit down and write because my heart is just pierced through thinking about Hendrick.

I don’t know why this morning, of all mornings, he is on my mind but yet here I am, just having finished breakfast with Sammy and I can hardly hold the tears back. Hendrick is 6 years old. I picked him because he has the same birthday as Sammy, and he had been waiting for a sponsor for over 6 months. He lives in Indonesia. He has 4 brothers and sisters. His father works as a farmer and sometimes his mother helps his dad. Together they make an average of $55 a month. That’s right, I said $55. The $38 a month it costs to sponsor a child is almost equal to their entire earnings. To help out, Hendrick takes care of his siblings and runs errands for his dad. He is 6 years old. It blows my mind. That is only 3 years older than Sammy, barely old enough for kindergarten, and he is the man of the house while his dad is working.

I watched Sammy devour a banana, 2 blueberry muffins, some corn pops, and grape juice for breakfast. He is wearing space ship pajamas. Does Hendrick have pajamas? What did he have for breakfast? Did he make it by himself? Has he ever had grape juice and blueberry muffins? Was his mama there to wake him up with kisses and good mornings or did he get himself out of bed and then go wake up his siblings? Does he even have a bed? Does he get 3 meals a day or does he only eat when he’s at the child development center that Compassion works with? 

How must his mother feel, watching her child sign up to ask for help from an unknown person halfway across the world? What does that kind of helplessness feel like? As a mother there is nothing more painful I can consider than watching my child suffer. My heart hurts for his parents this morning too. And I wonder - we are only helping Hendrick. What about his brothers and sisters? I want to box up clothing and food, and empty our bank accounts (which are not full of much these days) and send it to them. I know that what we consider a “hard time” financially would be indescribable wealth to Hendrick and his family. But that’s not how sponsorship works. I don’t know what they need, that’s why you send money, and the center works with the family to answer THEIR specific prayers, not my prayers for them.

That’s why God is in charge of these things. In my finite knowledge, I don’t have the foggiest idea what they need. But the mama in me wishes I could wrap him up in my arms and make sure he is never hungry, scared, worried, or even uncomfortable ever again. But I can’t assure that, not in this world. What I can do is send our gift to him ever y month, and pray for him, and his family, and the workers that are helping them. And really, that should have been listed first. We treat prayer as a Hail Mary pass at the buzzer instead of the first and most important game plan. Praying for someone is powerful stuff. Because of the blood of Christ, we have access to the throne of grace. I can go before God, the One who created everything we see, the King of all Kings, kneel before him and ask him to watch over Hendrick. God will hear me when I ask; he promises us that he hears all our prayers. We don’t always like his answers, but we know he has a heart for the poor, the orphans, the widows, and the downtrodden. I can ask that his heart will be tender towards Hendrick and his family and that our gifts and prayers, however paltry they may seem, will make a difference in his life. I might even pray for grape juice, blueberry muffins, and spaceship pajamas for him. Every little boy needs some of that.  I am truly, desperately, clinging to God’s robes and begging him to help this little boy specifically. I can’t remember the last time I prayed with such fierce intensity.

I think what gets me this morning is for the first time; poverty has a face for me. A 6 year old face in Indonesia. And it’s such a cute, sweet face. He is not the face of poverty, that’s the wrong thing for me to say. He’s a little boy, with a family and things he likes and dislikes. He’s a child of God – the same God that I pray to and call Father and Lord. Hendrick is so much more than a mission or a sponsorship. That hit home to me when I read this blog by Anne Voskamp A HolyExperience. It’s relationship that is missing in our broken world. Hendrick is the first time I’ve ever tried to form a relationship with someone outside my cushioned existence. It hurts ya’ll, when you let it in. But it’s a good hurt. I don’t know where this journey will go. But hopefully someday it will take me to Indonesia to hug a little boy’s neck and tell him I love him. And then I’ll give him a blueberry muffin and watch him savor every bite. 

My Favorite Blue Sweater

I know this is a passage we all know. But it spoke to me fresh this morning, just popped into my head as I was wrestling about my favorite blue sweater. Recently the ladies in my bible study group attended the Woman’s Conference at our church. Jen Hatmaker, the author of our bible study, Interrupted, was the key note speaker. From what I can tell, it was life changing. I was out of town, so I didn’t attend. However I got this email Monday about how they had all agreed to bring their favorite shirt to donate to Katy Christian Ministries this Thursday at bible study. My first thought was, “Um, what? I didn’t agree to this!” I felt a bit railroaded, to be honest. But God apparently knows where He needs to work on us, and this was an unknown sore spot for me.

 I walked into my closet and thought, “Whew, nothing favorite comes to mind. I’ll just pick a shirt.” Then I saw the sweater. I knew it was the sweater the moment my eyes hit it and I immediately thought, "Nope. Not that one. I waited all summer to wear that sweater again." In fact just last week my mom and I were discussing said sweater, and she said, “I love that sweater, it’s so pretty on you.” I. Love. That. Sweater. The fact that my reaction was so intense led me to know that it was the one.....and I did not like it. I was more willing to give my Texas game day shirt, if you can believe it. So....it probably doesn’t paint me in a great light, but I was really struggling, clearly, with this donation. I mean, it’s just a shirt. I give away shirts all the time. But I don’t usually give my FAVORITE. I’m ashamed at how long it took me to get to a place of peace about it. Others might have come immediately to the verse below, but I did not. It didn’t hit me until this morning, a full 3 days after I got that email, while I was still bargaining with Jesus about why he didn't really need my sweater. At this point I had even promised to wear it while going to feed the homeless. Seriously. 

 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you? “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. Matthew 25:37-40.

Ok, I get it, we're supposed to help the poor, the least of these, but what got me was the last part: "You did it for me." Sadly, at first not even that convinced me that I would give my blue sweater. I mean, Jesus just said to clothe them. He didn't say give them your favorite shirt. So I continued to wrestle. I even thought about going out and buying a new sweater to give. I mean, it's brand new. Isn't that nicer than my 2nd hand sweater? Then, honestly, in my head (or maybe my heart), I saw Jesus standing there asking for my sweater....for HIM to wear. He said the least of these is the same as doing it for him. THAT’S what he meant. By giving it to those who need, I am giving it to Him. I admit I giggled a little picturing Jesus wearing my sweater. But then I got serious and thought about it. If he were standing before me asking for my sweater, I would give it to him. A thousand times over, I would give it to him. I would be PROUD to give it to him. I would tell everyone that Jesus was wearing MY sweater and doesn't he look so handsome in that shade of blue?  He could have any sweater he wanted, and some shoes, and my jeans, and whatever else he asked for. My closet would be his for the taking. It would be the greatest honor of my short little insignificant existence to give Jesus my sweater. 

So that's what I'll do. And I'll feel good about it. 

Anyway - it may come across silly, but it gave me peace about a blue sweater. It is perfect. I love it. I waited all summer looking at it thinking, "I can wear that soon and I will feel so pretty!" But maybe someone needs a sweater to wear to their kid’s Christmas program so that they can feel pretty. Or maybe they want to go to church and don't have a nice shirt to wear. Whatever it's needed for is ok with me. I won't think of it as giving it to Katy Christian Ministries. Even though that's a noble cause, I'm sad to say it didn't get it done for me. I would have done it, but I would have been sad to say goodbye to my perfect sweater. But it is with great happiness that I hand it over to Jesus, and whoever he gives it to is much more perfect than that sweater ever looked on me.