Making Independence Day Meaningful

John Adams' famous letter penned July 3, 1776, in which he wrote to his wife Abigail:

The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more. You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not. I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will tryumph in that Days Transaction, even altho We should rue it, which I trust in God We shall not.

And celebrate, we shall!*

Here are the challenges I'm throwing down:

1. Begin by referring to Thursday not as "July fourth", but as "Independence Day".
2. Before festivities, spend time in prayer for our amazing nation.
3. Read or listen to the Declaration of Independence.
4. Take a moment to soak in the looks of unbridled joy reflected on children's faces as they behold "Parade[s], with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations". It's the best show you'll catch tomorrow, guaranteed. 


Grateful and Proud,
Cynthia



*Two days later than Mr. Adam's predicted, but whatever.

Redecorating The Closet Door

With Boy Scouts of America's recent landmark decision now is as good a time as any to tackle a completely benign topic.*

Our church recently engaged in a highly transparent discussion on the issue of same-sex couples and the Church; A conversation more congregations would do well to have, and one I believe will help our church maneuver an unprecedented social issue. While we are not the first generation of churchgoers to address homosexuality, we most certainly are the first generation to navigate the choppy waters of integrating sound doctrine and inclusion of gays on a wide scale.

The maiden voyage is not going well. The flame of The Lighthouse is barely discernible.

Most of us have probably not shared a pew with an openly gay individual. However, there is a high probability we have sat next to someone who is grappling with their own sexual identity, but they sure as Hades aren't going to divulge such information during "sharing time". Why? As the nuclear family disintegrated we fabricated a new unpardonable sin. And oh the attention was fierce-some. We have bared our teeth, displayed impressive hackles and emitted guttural growls so as to leave no one unsure of our stance.

Well done, Church. Bravo.

Now that we've marked our territory, can we please move beyond snapping at each other? May I suggest we consider a new old approach? It's got a pretty good track record. I think it's worth a shot.

Love. It's a word so foreign to our tongues as we hoist our heterosexual banners higher into the air, but isn't it possible to simply love? No agenda, no judgment, no fear? Not only is it possible, but we have an excellent example in the unexpected friendship of Shane L. Windmeyer and Dan Cathy. If you haven't read this article, go. Read. Be challenged.

For it seems all chance of civility (let alone love) fly out the window as soon as "gay" enters the equation. It's as if all common ground hinges upon sexual orientation. You're gay. I'm a Christian. I guess we can't be friends after all. We have adopted such a polarizing "Us versus Them" mentality and it's horrifyingly toxic within and outside the Church. It's time to shrug off our condescension and disgraceful judgement and instead "Above all, put on love—the perfect bond of unity."**

When we put on love, we cease to identify sin as the common denominator. There is a fundamental flaw in our dialogue when we conspiratorially admit "You know what? I sin too". "Huh. You don't say..." (accompanied by stony expressions and thin-pressed lips). We're attempting to have a point of connection, but this is not it. This is a faulty premise that undermines a central part of a homosexual's identity. A handy common denominator is that, as humans, we all happen to need love. A simple "I may not agree, but I'm sorry for how poorly the Church (and Christians therein) have handled this issue. I'm hoping you will give me a chance."

When we put on love, we cease to make conversion to heterosexuality our #1 goal. Most likely the majority of gay people I talk to are not going to sway from their opinions, and I know that I am not either. That's OK. Attempts to convert individuals to a heterosexual lifestyle will rarely end well. In the end, Christ's name is what ultimately gets dragged through the mud and we forfeit the greater battle. To turn the tables, I imagine very few of us have been (seriously) proselytized by someone gay.*** Therefore, it baffles me as to why Christians act suspicious as though gays are lurking in the shadows, waiting to pick off the weak heteros in the herd.

When we put on love, it does not mean our position is altered. Welcoming friendships with the gay community does not indicate a soft stance on homosexuality; It indicates a gracious and humble stance. All of the studies we've read and statistics we've heard from the pulpit are no less valuable and insightful. However, they are just as potent on the back burner. Let's let them simmer until they are savory and instead allow love to burn brightly in the foreground.

We can yet be the generation to turn the tide.



Eyes On The Lighthouse,
Cynthia






*That whole "Don't talk religion or politics" advice was before the dawn of the blogosphere. Game changer.
**Colossians 3:14
***And sober. One too many drinks doesn't count.

Why All The Silence?

I haven't meant to neglect you. In fact, my fingers are practically bursting with words to type to you all! There has hardly been a moment to gather scattered thoughts into strings of words that (at least) loosely resemble sentences. 

Our crew has been working overtime on a little undertaking that is an answer to prayer. And by "little" I mean kinda big. I'm not smooth with the big reveals, so I won't attempt a glamorous build-up. For now, suffice to say we find ourselves in need of additional funds to cover some costs of the "family building" nature. 

"Debt free" has been a common phrase in our prayers over the last year. As we move forward, we desire to keep that monkey off our backs. Can I get an "AMEN!"? Remember Gideon and that whole dew/fleece bit? Folks, our fleece has been bone dry and soggy alike.* First sign from God: A substantial surprise check in the mail. Dew on the fleece. Second sign: Our dear friends/landlords called to say they were sacrificially lowering our rent. Dew on the ground. Third sign: A home-based business purchase practically lands in my lap. 

"The Angel of the Lord extended the tip of the staff that was in His hand and touched the [the offering]. Fire came up from the rock and consumed [it]. Then the Angel of the Lord vanished from Gideon's sight."

We offered Him our flawed, crazy family and he touched it with His holy, consuming fire. 

And that is the reason for my silence. 

(insert awe-inspiring segue)

So without further ado (and absolutely no shame for self-promoting), I present to you Lil' Outlaws! We own this little gem of a business and are jazzed by the response we've already received. If you have babies with butts, we've got you covered (along with a host of other uses**). I'll spare you the five minute spiel if you promise to go check it out, m'kay? Four words to pique your interest: Fruit Loop Laundry Detergent. 

Lil' Outlaws

Blessed In Abundance,

Cynthia



*If you think I've finally gone off my rocker, just go check out Judges 6 to get the lowdown. 
**Who knew ointment for butts could be so beneficial for cracked heels and gardener's hands? 

Seven Signs Your Friend Has Left The Building

My good buddy Normal C. has hung around long enough. See what I did there? I know my corny wit can be intoxicating. 

Without further ado...

Seven signs Normal C. has left the building:

1. You reluctantly do the Hokey Pokey at story time, hoping you don't accidentally bust out with "Heeeeeeey Macarena!"

2. You decide it's not worth it to wash poopy undergarments, and make an executive decision to toss 'em. Don't judge me.

3. You use a nursing pad for a bookmark.*

4. You use whatever leftover makeup is already in your makeup brush.

5. You swell with pride when your child brings you a plastic prototype of her "Wedgie of Fire" concept.

6. You go all ninja mode when the doorbell rings.**

7. You check to make sure everyone is breathing before you retire to bed. Baby, children, husband, dogs...the whole enchilada.***



Happy Monday,
Cynthia




*Oh relax. It was clean.
**You know what I'm talking about.
***This follows the door lock check, because what's the point of making sure everyone's alive if a a serial killer is going to waltz through the front door like he owns the joint? You're welcome.

A Memorial

sa·lute  [suh-loot] - to express respect or praise for; honor; commend.

To the young man fresh out of high school, we salute you.

To the single mom soaking up little hugs before she faces months of separation, we salute you.

To the man who has no one but his dog to hug goodbye, we salute you.

To the career soldier with his sights set on Colonel, we salute you.

To the husband wondering if his marriage will survive his new orders, we salute you.

To the women who have bucked tradition and signed on the dotted line, we salute you.

To the scores of men and women enlisting because you love this country, we salute you.

To those who arrived at boot camp wondering if you'd made a mistake, you pressed on and we salute you.

To those who desire to serve, but find themselves ineligible, we salute you.

To those who served your time and got the heck out, we salute you.

To those who reenlisted, we salute you.

To the units who have pressed on when grieving the loss of one of their own, we salute you.

To those facing second, third, fourth deployments, we salute you.

To those who disappointingly faced a medical discharge, we salute you.

To those who are forever changed from the heavy toll of combat, we salute you.

To our veterans who fought wars so unlike today's, you paved the way, epitomized patriotism, and we salute you.

To our wounded who feel cheated out of duty, we salute you.

To our Prisoners of War, you endured much and paid a steep price. We salute you.

To our Missing in Action, all hope is not lost. You are not forgotten. We salute you.

To our Killed in Action, you have paid the ultimate price for our freedom. We solemnly salute you. And it is not enough.

We salute the mama who hugged her daughter for the last time, the father who recognized the honor shining back in his son's eyes, the spouses who dread to answer the door, the children whose childhoods are colored with a little more fear than their peers, and the widows who validate those fears.

To our United States Military, every branch, every uniform. Past and present. 

We strongly salute you.

Cynthia

Muddled Thoughts And Made-Up Words

I took a braincation.

I sent my brain on a vacation. It wasn't a glitzy destination with gobs of sightseeing and colorful memories. It was more of a gentle river ride, drifting to the whims of a lazy current; The details of which are easily forgettable, but the effects of which are far-reaching. I drifted from bank to bank, allowing refreshing waters to wash away grimy sludge. What's left behind are more pristine thoughts than the muddled quagmire I've been slogging through for the past few weeks.

It wasn't writer's block, it was writer's deluge. So very many thoughts and too few minutes left before the clock strikes midnight. With an overload of ideas, I short-circuited my own creativity. Not brilliant, I tell you.

So after a nice little trip down the lazy river, I've returned with less sludge, more clarity and a sweet tan.* My thanks and admiration to you dear readers for indulging my fancies. 



Blessings,
Cynthia


*If I'm going to get tanned on my braincation, you'd better believe it won't be one of those burn-and-then-peel-back-to-pasty-white jobs. 

Let Them: A Saturday Series

This first Saturday series is called "Let Them". There are so many things we just big, fat don't let our kids do. I'm meeting some of those things head-on and seeing what happens.

Let Them Dream God-Sized Dreams

In this final installment of this "Let Them" series, I am feeling nostalgic and hopeful; Nostalgic for cultivated tender years and hopeful that perhaps my children will one day nestle into their childhood memories wrapped in warm nostalgia. And when they slip into the crevices of their past, I pray their path is cushioned with big dreams. God-sized dreams.

As my children journey through their memories there will always be shards of broken dreams littering the way, and that is OK. For some dreams are white-washed and need to be shattered in one sacred breath by The Cornerstone. Other dreams are nothing short of God-breathed. These are the spaces of our lives where Christ is most evident; Where I leave off and my God is all that remains. And who's to say this can't all be accomplished in the tiniest of frames? Who's to say a toddler is too small for God-sized dreams? Who's to say your 4 foot, nuthin' son cannot be the link to eradicating extreme poverty? Who's to say your teenage daughter cannot be a voice for the voiceless, braces and all? If your children come to you with dreams so big your breath catches in your throat, let them. Let them dream and let them pursue those dreams, no matter how impossible or elusive they may seem to be. 

Dreams, fulfilled and broken alike, all reflect the handiwork and brilliance of our Savior. In wholeness or brokenness all we have, are and hope to be is cocooned in our Creator. He alone knows what vibrant colors will emerge to take wing. 

Let them dream, let them soar!

Blessings,
Cynthia