How To Have A Ridiculous Vacation Part II

So where were we? Oh riiiiiiiight. Yodeling tie-downs, possessed children and Munchkin Land.

Step Seven: Since you've now learned to always stake the tent and affix the rainfly (you quick learner, you), it's time for a new camping lesson: Always put your shoes inside the tent at night. Not that wearing soggy sneakers for days on end isn't a TOTAL HOOT.

Step Eight: In your enthusiasm to create memories in Memphis, forget the obligatory "headcount". It's ten o'clock in the morning. Ergo, you should still have a few caffeine-infused brain cells ricocheting around in your skull. 

Your tour guide will be duly impressed with your stupidity. 

Step Nine: Plan to experience Chicago's famous deep dish pizza (Remember: You're a ridiculous tourist AND this is practically on your foodie bucket list AND you're practically a pizza connoisseur). Do this on the weekend, and be overconfident in your ability to navigate the city. Bonus points for making the rest of your party wait AN HOUR (bless him) while all of Chicago honks at you for driving like the idiot out-of-towner that you are.

Step Ten: In lieu of a touching bedtime story, try a traumatizing one like "Once upon a time an hour ago, Daddy had to shoot a suffering deer. And everyone lived happily ever after. Except the deer. To summarize: Daddy killed an innocent woodland creature. Sooo...goodnight..." 

That'll go over like a lead balloon.*

Step Eleven: Eat questionable food, because you like to live dangerously.** Someone's apologies to the fellow patrons of every available ladies powder room along I-80 from Iowa to Colorado. 

Moving right along.

Step Twelve: With forty miles worth of gas registering in the tank, decide you'll "just wait for the next gas station". Oh yes. Sixty miles later, coast to a nice easy stop. It's a good day for a walk. Fortunately, your dumb shoes are dry.***


To be continued once more...because some people are just that ridiculous.

Anonymous Vacationer strikes again!



*Cue weeping and wailing of caterwaulic proportions. In order to know your story has been effective, children should be one minuscule step away from rending their garments and tossing ashes on their precious, tow-headed noggins.
**Hey! For some of us, playing "Potty Roulette" is living dangerously. I can't do this with you right now.
***When in New Mexico, always top the tank off when you see a gas station. By doing this, you avoid getting picked up by a Good Samaritan who may or may not have been lucid enough to remember the event (however, we were grateful for the lift).

Confessions Of A Crybaby

1. I carry myself like a grocery produce connoisseur when choosing which fruits and veggies go in my basket. I sniff, squeeze and thump my way through the aisles.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. If it's hairy or oozes, I put it back.

2. Facebook peeps already know I was sneaking s'mores last week, in lieu of eating the dinner leftovers I was (coincidentally) forcing the children eat.

No regrets. Why is an explanation necessary? S'mores. For dinner.

Earlier, I shared with you my word for 2013. God cheated and gave me a second word.*

Confession

I like my other word. 

Preparation is exciting and adventurous and elicits responses such as "Oh! WOW! God is going to do something HUGE in your life!" Confession, not so much. Confession is scary and intimidating and garners responses akin to "Oh. Bummer. That sucks. Sorry God's being such a Debbie Downer about your word of the year." Friends want to get involved in preparation. Confession can lead to criticism and alienation exercised by those selfsame friends. 

Raise your hand if you think confession is fun.
*crickets chirping*
Anyone...Anyone...?

Raise your hand if you remember the last time you confessed something to God.
That's not so hard, because I know I'll be forgiven. Plus I can't see the disappointment in my Father's eyes. 

How about to another person?
Starting to squirm.

At a church meeting?
So...uh...heard about Pluto?

It's one thing to confess that which will make readers laugh. It's painless to confess the silly things of which most of us can relate (don't even try to convince me that you know a ripe star fruit when you see one). It's quite another thing to confess wrongdoing and seek forgiveness or to confess a personal struggle. I no longer hold all the cards when I confess. Confession is an act of choosing to involve others in my intimate relationship with Christ. It requires humility (which I lack), vulnerability (which I avoid) and community (which I deflect).**

Pride, resistance and detachment are roadblocks to confession.

We must set aside our pride. It will likely get us in hot water and it oftentimes "goes before the fall". Pride is more than simply saving face; it's pompously claiming, "You are not worthy of me." 
Likewise, resistance builds a parapet around my soul, locking out believers and capturing sin in, with no emergency escape hatch. Confession to God is paramount, but the need to confess to the body of believers is also crucial for a healthy relationship with Christ (and one another). 

Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The intense prayer of the righteous is very powerful.
James 5:16

No doubt about it, it is hard work to confess. It's like learning to tie shoelaces. At first my efforts are feeble and awkward. It doesn't pan out how I expected. Things come unraveled and I'm left frustrated with tears blurring my vision of the goal. Seeing as how I no longer struggle to tie my shoes, it's safe to say it gets better.*** I can't point to a day on the calender when tying my shoes was no longer a chore. It happened slowly, over time. Knots became surer with each honest effort. The ends evened and no longer slipped through. It became a fluid motion. This was partially due to my own perseverance and partially due to outside influences (I know this is a lot to require of a shoe-tying analogy, and I've already stretched it pretty thin, but hang in there with me). Surrounding me were some expert shoelace tie-ers. They had the choice to berate and guilt me or gently lead by example and encourage me.****

Our family is blessed to be part of a church fellowship that beautifully models confession. We've witnessed several confessions and each have been met in the same way: The confessor has been enveloped in love, prayer and instruction. This is as it should be. 

I'll admit, confession still causes my stomach to do little flips (mostly because I'm a big crybaby), but I know three things:

1. My home and my church family are both gracious in their responses to confession, of which I must exhibit the same level of graciousness toward them (and others).

2. Little eyes are watching and little lives are being shaped by what they see. I want my children to witness and practice confession.

3. Despite being a crybaby, confession is still scriptural and we are admonished to engage in this practice regularly. 

As regularly as tying our shoes...

Blessings,

Cynthia

P.S. A shout out to Ben Stein and Dulé Hill. Classic lines. Commit them to memory.



*I politely showed Him the rule book, but He insisted on an additional word. He doesn't color inside the lines either.
**See what I did there? "-ity" endings. There will be a test.
***This statement probably doesn't hold much water since I just got done telling ya'll I wear flip-flops. 
****Side note: Acute, able-bodied adults with velcro shoes concern me. 

Kick Off Your Flip-Flops

Dust bunnies. Afghans crumpled on the floor. Smudges on the door jams. Laundry here. Junk mail there. Dishes here and there.*

Holiness. Pure righteousness. Anointed. 

Sacred.

It hardly feels sacred. It feels mundane, ordinary. Stale. 

Remove your shoes. For you are standing on holy ground. 

Amidst toys strewn on the floor and a dog sneaking something from the trash bin? Really?

Too often we equate "holiness" with "exhilaration." Somewhere along the journey, we presupposed that there is always movement to the sacred. 

Be still and know that I AM. 

But there is something sticky on the floor, and what I'm hoping is only peanut butter on the faucet handle.

Are we too busy waiting for sparks and fireworks? Are we straining our eyes to catch sight of a flashing Vegas-style neon sign pointing the way to our personalized burning bush? "Cynthia! Follow the lighted arrows to your very own bush, aflame with God...stuff!"

Baaa! Where the heck did that moronic sheep wander off to this time? Every day is the same hum-drum. Chase that wolf away, lock up the sheep at night, rescue this lamb, clean that off my sandal. 

Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground. 

This was a personal and intimate moment between God and man. It was sandwiched betwixt the common and garden-variety of Moses' day. There was still a sheep to locate, still messes to clean and still the mundane to live. But everything changes when God touches the expected. There's a new lens through which we view our purpose. 

I still have noses to wipe, meals to prepare, rebukes to dole out, and furniture to dust. In between, and even during, there are countless moments to connect with Holiness. It's a matter of intentionally cultivating a sacred home. Not a Martha Stewart home. A sacred home. Imperfect, but bending before the throne and anticipating His presence.

Even in the mundane. 

Come to think of it, holiness and ordinary-ness seem perfectly suited for one another.

Off To Tackle The Dishes...With My Flip-Flops Off,

Cynthia

*And, wait! What? Is that a booger on the wall?!?