For the Birds

Hi, Birds.

We need to talk. I have thought for years that I was most afraid of heights and Anne Frank and Nazis and snakes and Amelia Earhart and the people that run carnival rides. But that's because I had never seen that many of you up close. In most of our encounters, you’ve just been sort of flying around tweeting (how tech-savvy!) and being red or whatever, and that was charming and pleasant, and plus you helped wring out Cinderella’s big yellow sponge and sat on Snow White’s finger to sing a duet, and that’s all quite lovely. Yay, birds! Aren’t you quaint!

Except—NO YOU AREN’T. You have transformed from your flittering cartoonish cuteness into feathered fiends who want to peck out my eyes. I KNOW YOU WANT TO PECK OUT MY EYES!!

Let’s start with the worst of you: the ostrich, obviously. You are supposed to be cute, quirky, silly creatures, but the stuffed animals at Anthropologie have grievously mislead us. This summer we decided to do a cute thing and go to a local safari park, and the lady at the entrance is very casual like, "Here are your buckets of feed and keep the windows rolled up or the ostriches will peck the babies and have fun," and we're like, "Haha, okay! What an adorable activity!" and then we drive in and suddenly everywhere there are OSTRICHES, and they are looking at me right in the face, and in their eyes I see SATAN HIMSELF. Because, seriously birds, ostriches have RED EYES, and this is not okay. THEY ARE RED. RED!!!!!!!!! And they looked at me with wide open beaks and unblinking red eyes, and I can tell that the lady was not joking around about them pecking babies and also that they DEFINITELY want to suck my soul out of my body like in Hocus Pocus. This is when I realized: Ostriches are way, way, way worse than carnies. Obviously, I cried/hyperventilated/screamed the entire time while my husband laughed because probably an ostrich grabbed his soul, and it made him forget how to act like a kind human. Or something.

And then on our way to the beach a month ago, we stopped at a quaint petting zoo to let our 2.5-year-old daughter pet the llama and wave to the goat, and then suddenly my brain siren goes off: ALERT ALERT, THIS IS NO LONGER QUAINT! I REPEAT, NO LONGER QUAINT. Yeah, there’s an ostrich on the scene, and I witness him PECK ANOTHER LITTLE GIRL RIGHT ON THE ARM, and her mom didn’t even care. The little girl cried, the mom shrugged, and I nearly threw up. Then a parrot says, “Goodbye now!” and I’m like NOT NOW PARROT ARE YOU INSANE and BYE GIRL, BYE. We haul babies out of there, and I eat like 600 Oreos to recover. 

Oh, but birds, you did not stop with the ostriches and that horrible parrot. Two days ago I thought I was being neurotic (it happens) because I kept hearing a strange pecking sound. I brush it off, like “hey Caroline, it’s fine. You are having ostrich PTSD.” Then I go into our bedroom, and there you are BIRDS, pecking on the bedroom window like you need to get in and take my soul. I do the little wiggle dance that I do when I’m feeling creepy-crawly, and I shut the door and forbid anyone from going in the master bedroom. Oh, but you are determined, birds. You start pecking on the front room window, and when my husband comes home, he says there’s one of you pecking on the van window. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND, BIRDS?! The van?! The love of my life?! Leave Jean Claude Van Damme alone!

Then he tells me something else: There’s a weird purple goo all over the driver’s window. It’s a pretty color, and it reminds me that at one point in my life I cared about and could articulate the difference between magenta and fuchsia. I dwell on this for a second and then notice the same purple goo on the front window. And the bedroom window. What kind of devil bird magic is this?! “ALFRED HITCHCOCK, I KNOW YOU ARE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE,” I shout to no one, but I can’t find him. I do the creepy-crawly wiggle dance and try to focus on something else, like cookies. You are driving me to eat a lot of cookies, birds.

The babies and the cookies and I head back to the playroom to read books and play with blocks and forget about birds and whatnot. I look up and spot a tiny purple dot on the playroom window. “Is that…?” I start to say, and then BAM!—a little bird head pops up into the window and starts to peck. I scream, and it makes a baby cry. THANKS A LOT, BIRDS.

And now, birds, right this very second, you are zooming around my yard like you are possessed by tiny bird demons. You are totally freaking out and one of you is ping-ponging his weird bird bod back and forth in the carport and RUINING MY LIFE.

What is happening? My house has an adorable yellow door and a yard gnome, and you are turning all of it into a horror movie. We are like the first scene of Law & Order: Birds Edition over here, where life is happy and normal until there’s some purple goo and suddenly everything becomes dark and terrifying. PLUS I KEEP TYPING IN ALL CAPS AND USING A ZILLION EXCLAMATION POINTS AND THIS IS YOUR FAULT!!!!!!!

You are the absolute worst.

On Jesus and Slut-Shaming

Are you reading this because the word “slut” is in the title? (Wondering if I should retitle all of the stuff I write? Just kidding.)

What is it about that word that jars us? It’s truly awful—crude, demeaning. The kind of word that makes you forget that someone is an actual person, a soul with skin. I know some people who will not like that I used that word, will not like the way that the black letters affixed on a white screen causes their teeth to clinch. 

But I have something to say about the clinched teeth—that sometimes it’s a little out of whack. Like the way we viscerally react to the word “slut," yet we can treat someone or witness the treatment of someone as the living representation of that word and be pretty unaffected. Or worse, we lean into the conversation a bit: “She wore what?” “She did that?” Or perhaps we aren’t viewing a woman as a slut—perhaps we demean her personhood in other ways. We just think she’s inconsequential. Silly. Overly emotional. Maybe that other jarring word that starts with a “b” and only ever applies to women. 

I’m taking us into some choppy waters, and I’m going to go ahead and admit that I am not qualified to write this. You may want to get out of my boat. I do not have a vast knowledge of women’s issues, just a collection of stories and a heart that longs to protect women, to preach their worth, to invest in their knowledge of and love for God. 

One of the reasons I love to study the Bible: Over and over again I am brought to tears when I see the way that Jesus treats women. When the other men in the scenario are ignoring, judging, or demeaning women, Jesus draws women into meaningful conversation, using words full of gentleness, not condescension, fully acknowledging their person-ness in a society that loves to deny it (John 4). He speaks up for them when others are shaming them (Luke 7). He warns that indulging sexual thoughts about women, as if their bodies are available for mental ownership and degradation, is every bit as destructive and sinful as adultery (Matthew 5:28). 

“Don’t look at her like that,” he seems to warn. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he seems to caution.

He wasn’t supposed to be talking to her—“They marveled that he was talking with a woman” John 4:27.

He wasn’t supposed to let her near him—“If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner” Luke 7:39.

And yet he did. The world pushed away what he pulled close, and it did not go unnoticed. His love evoked a strange new strength and dignity from them. In his eyes, they were not silly. In his eyes, they were not sluts. In his eyes, they were not drama queens. They were just loved. And when someone looks at you like that, speaks to you like that, speaks up for you like that, it changes you from the inside out. It makes you brave.

It seems like it’s the curse of women to look for love like that (Genesis 3). Maybe that’s why some of us have been labeled sluts—because we hoped that what we had to offer would inspire a man to love us forever. Maybe that’s why some of us have become angry and hardened—because we have become so weary and cynical of the search, so hurt by the violations. Maybe that’s why some of us have chosen to dive into the superficial—because things of meaning are too painful, too difficult.

But we were looking at the wrong men. There are certainly many wonderful men out there, men that are a lot like Jesus (marry one like that), but none of them are Jesus. He’s the only one who can love us like that. It’s the kind of love that brushes away tears, that tucks flowers into our hair, that clothes us in a white dress, even though we don’t qualify for the color. And yet, we step out, with that special strength and dignity that comes from being totally unqualified yet loved all the more. And we walk forward, to the one who unfailingly loves us, in that white dress and make this promise: I will always follow you. I am always yours.

And so the women—the silly ones, the sluts, the drama queens—they gathered at his feet as he was being crucified (Matthew 27:55). Most of his disciples had fled, but they stayed, faithful through his most painful moments, ministering with nearness despite certain fear and darkness, weeping over the brutality.

They stayed because he spoke up for them when others debated their worth. Because he was gentle when the world was harsh. Because he spoke words of peace when the world spoke words of violation.

Praise God for the woman who stays, who ministers with nearness, who weeps when she sees pain! Let us not speak a word against her. She is not silly. She is not a slut. She is not dramatic. She is His. How beautiful and brave is the woman whose sin the Lord will not count against her! "Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame." Psalm 34:5

And if she is not His? Surely it goes without saying: Let us not speak a word against her. We must be gentle as he is gentle. We must defend her as he does. Perhaps it’s through us that many hurting, defamed women will be able to finally rest in the love and kindness for which her soul aches. Dear one, “come out of hiding, you’re safe here with me. There’s no need to cover what I already see” (Steffany Gretzinger, “Out of Hiding”).

Praise God for His kindness to us, for his love for women! Even when the world forgets it, he could not—that he created us to be image bearers, too.

Staying

Dear babies,

We've always been good on-the-go, haven't we? Grocery trips and Sonic runs—these have been our saving grace many times.

Outside our house, the world seems to have order. Peanut butter jars lined up on grocery store shelves, neatly cut grass, stamps sold in perfect little booklets. I've always loved the precise beauty of a sheet of stamps.

But inside our house, nothing is lined up. You and I both make sure of that. (Dad helps some, too.)

Because once we get home from the grocery store, and I try to put the food away while you grab at my legs, I often find myself longing to get out again, back to the orderly place. Because usually I’ve forgotten a crucial ingredient, or I bought too much or too little, or it isn't very healthy, or it was too expensive, or maybe it was all the right things but then I burned it anyway or you threw it all on the ground. At our house, often everyone is loud, and the piles of laundry and toys and dishes seem like they're expanding, inching closer to us, conquering another square foot every few minutes. I fear the chaos will eventually swallow us up, and we'll tumble into a black hole of madness, never finding sure footing again.

So sometimes it feels easier to get out. To leave the bloated mess to devour us another day, to go somewhere where we can pretend to be calm, a place where I can carry a list and feel accomplished, where you can be distracted by crackers or at least fall asleep in the car.

Going is good—but sometimes I make us go because I’m not brave or strong enough to stay. Staying requires a different set of muscles entirely. Staying is hard, especially for people like us who naturally perk up around new scenery.

But here’s a truth that I’m learning about these too-familiar walls, babies. God is here. Right here, in our house. It’s not too messy for him, and it’s not too loud for him. He knows that it’s our mess, and it’s our loud, and he likes us. He likes to stay with us. He’s good at it. 

God goes with us, too, but I’m realizing that there’s something particularly beautiful about seeing him in the staying, in the overly familiar, in the mundane.

My brain rails against this idea, and I often find myself dreaming of the going—doing important work, teaching with conviction things that matter, and I start to piece together the words, but you're upset again, and the words slip away. Good words have never been much match for your best word: "mama." And there’s something in the tone of your voice that God put there to remind me that I’m already doing important work. Beautiful, staying work, work that requires different muscles. Hanging with you, helping you learn things, comforting and feeding and loving you—these are millions of tiny steps that eventually complete a marathon. My greatest victory. My best work.

Babies, remember what your mama is learning about God—that he doesn’t just live at the finish line. He fills up every square inch of the path and the lungs inside your chest. He doesn’t just live in the crises and big joys. He fills up the Thursdays and the nap times and the no-one-napped times. He doesn’t just live in the orderly place of Bible study and highlighters and coffee. He fills up the laundry room and the coat closet and your mama’s heart. I know that because sometimes he holds my hands when I pause over the sink of dishes, because I’m overwhelmed, and he’s trying to make me rest.

It’s at the sink that the words of Genesis 28:16 leap into my mind: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it."

Oh, babies, this kitchen floor is holy ground, too. Sometimes it’s mopped and sometimes it’s covered in rejected grapes and spilled flour, but it is holy nonetheless.

Alongside the blocks and sticky counters, God has things to teach us. So let’s stay in this messy house together a little more. Maybe it’ll get clean today, or maybe it won’t. But God is not some grumpy houseguest. He’s here for the long haul—steady, constant, unchanging, and never ever intimidated by our mess.

Babies, don’t let me lament the dirty house or fret too much over its noise. That makes it seem like I don’t love this place, but I certainly do. I love this messy house because God is here, and because you’re here, and I really like you. I want our house to be the place where you learn what God’s like, so I’m praying that God will teach me to be like him: steady, fearless in the face of mess, constant in the tumult. 

In this messy place, you are safe to be a mess. Here’s you’ll find a soft place to land when the world prickles. Here you'll always find a heart that loves you, arms ready to pull you in. In this loud place, you can yell or cry or laugh, and you will be heard. Here you’ll always find someone to brush your hair back and sing our song: “So goodnight, my someone, goodnight.”

Babies, what a good God we serve that he would choose to answer prayers in our kitchen. To provide wisdom at our coffee table. To grant comfort as we rock together in that glider.

He fills this house, and he makes it a place worth staying.

“Am I a God at hand, declares the Lord, and not a God far away? Can a man hide himself in secret places so that I cannot see him? declares the Lord. Do I not fill heaven and earth? declares the Lord.” Jeremiah 23:23-24

Let Them Be Weird

One of my favorite pre-children pastimes was attending midnight premiere movie showings and feigning obsessive interest. I AM VERY GOOD AT BEING EXCITED, even if I’m not sure why I’m excited. Mainly, I love move premieres because I get jazzed seeing people fully embrace things they love. Screaming at the sight of the full moon at the beginning of Twilight: New Moon, stretching out my hand to 3-D Justin Bieber, spending hours perfecting my Katniss braid—all things done in the name of hysteria participation. In a shrieking crowd united over one weird thing or another, I am a happy camper. In fact, this sums up a lot about me: Around shrieking, I am a happy camper, and around camping, I am unhappily shrieking. 

So yeah, I’m an advocate of the indoors, of being excitable, and of weirdness. The first is a character flaw, and I’m working on it (no I’m not), but the latter two are pretty life-giving. Especially weirdness—the best things are always a little weird, and really, when people appear too “normal,” it’s probably a sign that they have a giant jar of toenail clippings in their closet.

But though I am only mildly troubled by toenail clipping collections (I mean, we’d all probably watch that TLC show, right?), I am tremendously troubled by this uglier-than-toenail-clippings thing I’ve been noticing. It’s been happening as long as I can remember, and I’ve been involved more often than I’d like to admit. The ugly thing bothers me because now I’m a parenting some people, and I want to raise my people to be the little weirdos God created them to be. But they’re growing up in a world, as did I, that loves to do this ugly thing: stomp on weirdos.

Sometimes I forget about my love for weirdos and premiere-goers. Sometimes I'm the stomper.  About a month ago, my husband and I were in Madewell. It’s a super cool store full of chill, fashionable clothes and the people that belong in them, and I was basically just trying to keep my voice down, so as not to taint the coolness and beauty of the place. Luke was not—in fact, he was playing PokemonGo. POKEMON IN MADEWELL! This is such a violation of the Madewell cool girl vibe, and I just cannot emphasize this enough. “You cannot catch Pokemon in Madewell, Luke! This is MADEWELL,” I hissed, like a thirteen year old who can’t believe her dad is wearing cargo shorts. (“Don’t write that,” says Luke. “People will think I wear cargo shorts.”) 

Luke’s response to my thirteen-year-old girl hissing: “I got one!” (A Pokemon. Ugh.)

One thing to know about Luke is that he has a big voice. Another thing to know about Luke is that he doesn’t know that he has a big voice. Luke was basically yelling about Pokemon in Madewell, and though this was a welcome break from his "I hope this is made well," joke, the midi skirts were still coiling in disgust.

First I contemplated hiding behind the cognac leather bucket bags, and then I decided too be mature and accept my reality, like, “Ugh, in sickness and in health, y’all. Guess I’m stuck with this loser forever.” But later I read something Sarah Bessey wrote about Pokemon and Pokemon haters, and it reminded me: Weirdo-stomping is not a good fit for the person I want to be. She said, “Feeling superior to other people is tempting, I know; it's even more tempting than being angry. It's fun to think we're better because of the games we play, the books we read, the songs we sing, the music we listen to, the doctrines we believe, whatever. I've learned by now to be a little wary of my own sense of superiority. I see it in myself and it's always gross. Snobbery is never a good address. Because we all have weird stuff we enjoy and we should let people love what they love.”

Yep. I got called out. I loved it. Because getting on to your husband for doing something weird seems like a silly issue on the surface, but it’s not really that silly. It means on some level I cared more about the way we looked to strangers than him doing his fun thing. I let the presence of a few flannel shirts and jumpsuits and ankle boots turn me into a big fat fun squasher, and I DO NOT WANT TO BE A FUN SQUASHER. I’ve got to let Luke be Luke, to love what he loves, do his little weird things, even if it’s wearing camo crocs here and there (NO NO NO I TAKE IT BACK I CANNOT DO THIS PRAY FOR ME). But camo crocs notwithstanding, we’ve got to let people love what they love. We’ve got to be brave enough to be weird ourselves, but we’ve got to be kind and patient enough to let other people do the same thing, even when we don't understand their brand of weird.

Do I understand Star Wars? Not really. Space stuff of any kind is not really my cup of tea (although I have taken several of my best naps in planetariums), unless we are talking space ice cream (Dippin’ Dots), in which case I will take several cups, thank you. But I officially support your Star Wars t-shirt/DVD/figurine/whatever collection (can you tell I have no idea what I’m talking about?), and you should definitely rock Leia or Rey or wookiee hair, even if t's not Halloween, even if you go into Madewell, and really we should all work the word “wookiee” into our vocabulary a bit more because it makes our ears happy. Does my husband understand my need to give everything we own a name? Ms. Nancy Bobo the blender and Peter the pan and Ida the iPhone and what not? No, this gets on his nerves. Especially when it's hard for me to get rid of my old iPod Nano because her name is Nanette, and what if Nanette develops abandonment issues? And yeah, maybe I have spent a significant portion of both my childhood and adult life trying to figure out how to make my room look like the inside of the bottle on I Dream of Jeannie. IS THAT A CRIME? No it is not, and if anyone feels called to find me some round purple pillows and renovate my house so that the rooms are circular, that would be great.

So, look, you little weirdos, live long and prosper and catch those Pokemon and maybe even some toenail clippings. Be weird in Madewell, be weird at your house, be weird wherever you go, and do not fear stomping from me. I've given it up.

In conclusion, please picture me rolling down my van window in future car line and yelling, "Be yourself!" and then picture how much this will mortify my children. The end.

A Wretch Like Me

Would you like to hear a bad metaphor?

My heart is a sun. It’s hard to look at. When I’ve been brave enough to stare at my heart directly, to consider its shape and composition, its deep places and shallow, I have to look away. It’s a sun.

I don’t look away because of the brilliance or brightness. It’s not a blazing light that causes my eyes to sting. I look away because of darkness—darkness too overwhelming to bear, darkness that begs me to divert my gaze. Within it I see my true intentions, my deep insecurities, my fears, my propensity to pick the wrong thing, the ugly thing, the cruel thing, and they swirl about viciously in an ominous, oppressive cloud, and I realize: there is nothing good here at all. There is no light here to guide me.

This is where the metaphor goes bad. My heart is not a sun at all. There's no light in it.

The world tells me “Follow your heart.” The world promises that if I am true to my heart, I will find what I’m searching for. 

I’ve often listened closely to my heart, indulged in its whispers. Yet when I am honest about its voice, I realize it sounds hollow and cold. It sounds like darkness. 

Shall I follow the darkness? Shall I wrap myself in its shadows? It’s a tempting thought—there is rest to be found amongst shadows. But only for a time. For what true rest will I find in the dark heart-whispers about my marriage (It’d be easier to do this without him; he doesn’t really love you), about my parenting (Everyone is watching; you need to hustle more; be perfect and you can stay ahead of judgements), about my passions (You don’t have anything original to say; everyone is tired of listening to your words anyway), about my body (Everything will be better if you’re thin—look how stupid you look when your clothes don’t fit right)?

Sometimes my heart tells me unspeakable things, things of true ugliness. Things that if you saw them, I’d be outed. You’d be on to me. You’d know that I’m a phony.

For what can be said about a girl who does good things, but when she is honest and brave enough to really look, she finds that they are guided by ugliness? What can be said for a girl who talks about God but secretly hopes people give her the praise? What can be said for a girl who silently measures herself up against everyone in the room? What is her heart made of?

“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” Jeremiah 17:9

Part of maturity is learning whom you can trust and whom you cannot, and my journey has led me inward. For I now know that in the truest parts of me, I desperately want to follow Jesus, but at the same time, I watch, horrified, at the ugliness that still thrives. Paul’s words ring true in my life: “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate” (Romans 7:15).

I hate harsh words, snap judgments, condescention, self-centeredness, pride, and yet when I dig around in my heart and pay attention to my thoughts and actions, I see these very things. Even as I plan a Bible study or a talk, I catch myself prioritizing not what people think about God but what they think about me—will they think I’m funny? Will they think I’m wise? Sometimes I wonder—do I even trust the Bible to transform, or has pride somehow convinced me that transformation is my job? Do I believe Jesus is the Savior, or do I think it’s me?

And so I find this to be hauntingly true: Even the good things I do are gross. God knew what he was talking about in Isaiah 64:6: “All our righteous deeds are like a polluted garment.” These are the words that echo in my brain when I work to redeem clothes that have endured accidents from a potty-training toddler. I hold the filth in my hands and think, “The good things I do are like this.” It’s the wisest thing I’ve ever learned from laundry.

“For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself serve the law of God with my mind, but with my flesh I serve the law of sin.” Romans 7:18-25

Wretched woman that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

Jesus is my rescue. He is my rescue when I stare at my heart with burning eyes, quickly looking away because I cannot bear it. He is my rescue when I am overwhelmed to find that there is no light there to guide me, only oppressive darkness.

Perhaps that’s why Jesus was called the Light of the World. “In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” John 1:5.

I can look at my heart and say this: “The light shines here, in this darkness. This darkness will not win.” He saw it all—the things I try to hide from you, all the ways I’m a phony, the motivations behind my seemingly good acts, all the fears I scribble on top of articles I write (“You have nothing original to say, no one wants to hear you talk”)—he saw all of that and chose to rescue and love me anyway. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it! Thanks be to God!

And so those good things—the disgusting, stained clothing things—I will be faithful to do them anyway, to recognize and call out the ugliness when I see it, to fearlessly pursue good, to continue to string good words together even though darkness discourages me and failure scares me. Because God in his overwhelming goodness is not only my rescuer and the lover of my unlovable heart, he lets me borrow his metaphor: “You are the light of the world,” Jesus said in the Sermon on the Mount. What kind of God loans his followers, possessors and purveyors of darkness, his very own metaphor? What a mysterious honor!

He continues: “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 5:14). We ought to shine, because our darkness has not overcome his light, and even though our light shines bleakly in comparison to his, it is powerful enough to bring him glory.

And so we shall stay faithful. We shall recognize the darkness in our own hearts by being brave enough to look at them honestly. And when the overwhelming darkness makes our eyes burn, we can divert our gaze to the one who inexplicably loves us, who inexplicably rescues us, who inexplicably lets us be light like him.

“Whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.” John 3:21