Laughing Faith

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Laughing Faith

Two things make me roll my eyes: When we don’t take our faith seriously and when we think our faith means we always have to be serious. Every single college girl to whom I’ve ever spoken has gotten my lecture on this. We step onto a college campus thinking there are only two options: party with the fun people or sit alone in your dorm room reading the Bible. There may be a time or two when that’s the scenario, but generally, NO, FALSE, UNTRUE, GIANT RED X, not a great way to approach life. Frat houses do not have the market cornered on fun. UGH, IT MAKES ME SO MAD TO THINK WE WOULD GIVE UP ON FUN.

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Trophy Mom

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Trophy Mom

I am a Trophy Mom, which is less cool than a Trophy Wife (a title I relinquished long ago mainly because it was never bestowed upon me). Trophy Moms like me are not trophies themselves but rather the ridiculous and indiscriminate distributor of trophies to other people, particularly their children. I realized today that it takes nearly NOTHING to impress me. My kids stepped five inches into their new Parents’ Day Out, and I exclaimed, “I’m so proud of you!” and meant it wholeheartedly. When I was waiting to pick them up, I turned into an actual beam of light because I was so overwhelmed with pride that my babies went to school, a.k.a., did nothing special. I mean, I have been tap dancing ever since I picked them up. I actually think my face is not longer a face but a giant banner that says HOORAY. We came home and ate popcorn and I ceremoniously placed Olympic medals around their necks while singing the National Anthem and sobbing over the pictures they colored of apples.

Can you imagine what will happen if my children end up actually being good at anything?

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Sundays

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Sundays

I recently had the opportunity to attend a Sunday morning service at the church where I grew up, something I haven't been able to do since I was 22, when my husband was an seminary intern there. There was something precious about the familiarity of the drive and the direction of the sunlight, the fact that the childcare worker in Adelaide's room knew exactly who I belonged to, and she shed a tear over the memory of my grandmother, Addie Mae, who taught five-year-old Sunday School at that same church for 55 years. How grateful I am for the welcome reminder of the faithfulness I inherited, for the legacy she spotted in my eyes and in a bouncing three-year-old girl in a twirly blue dress.

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Quiet Schedule

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Here’s a thought that, for me, was revolutionary: Jesus doesn’t want your hustle. He wants your trust.

Cue brain explosions.

I am a person who has always had a loud schedule. I don’t like to say no or disappoint people, and I like to be viewed as reliable, productive, and efficient. I am an expectations-meeter, and my calendar has always been dictated by other people. My insides may whisper, “Say ‘no!’ This is too much!” but my default response is to squelch that little weakling, make her buckle down and get to work. My desire to outrun any possible accusations of “lazy” or “flaky” have led me to the verge of complete panic approximately a zillion times in my life. The pages of the planners I’ve owned have practically hemorrhaged inky scribbles and sticky notes, my colorful attempt to wrangle my life into order, to please everyone, to get everything done. It’s a shrill, neon scream: “THERE IS SO MUCH TO DO.”

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