ElizabethEsther.com

All he wants for Christmas is a nose-hair trimmer

As long as we're talking practical gifts--I'd like a year's supply of deodorant. I'm serious.

How awesome would it be to open my medicine cabinet and be all: YES! The Senate has unanimously voted to give my armpits universal coverage. For an entire year. Holla!

I mean, who wants a kiss that begins with Kay's when instead you can get a brand-new water heater? Now, that's my kinda romantic.

Except, sometimes even practical gifts go awry. My husband kept talking about how great it would be to have a fogless shaving mirror. He was tired of "shaving blind" in the shower. So, two years ago I got him one.

He still hasn't opened the box.

"Real men shave without mirrors," he explained.

Dude. Maybe real men can use tweezers to yank out their nose hairs, too.

I mean, what's the point of buying a practical gift if it's not gonna get practical use? 

Even those dopey Christmas sweaters are better than unused practical gifts. At least you can get a good laugh over that one Christmas when Great Aunt Marge bought everyone matching reindeer sweaters that sang. In harmony.

Not so with the unused nose-hair trimmer. Just seeing its unopened box will make me feel all depressed. Like an underachieving gift-buyer. Like I need to apologize. Do penance.

I dunno. Gift-buying is fraught with emotional landmines. Should I stick with the gift cards this year?

That way if he doesn't use it, I can use it.

'Cuz I still want my year's supply of deodorant.

Blood, bottled water, forgotten children and a messy, beautiful life

I feel like I'm crash landing into Christmas, skidding in sideways and barely alive. The presents are wrapped, the ham has been ordered, the house is clean. But I've lost my mind somewhere between unmet expectations and the child I forgot to pick up from school.

She waited for an hour and twenty minutes. She managed not to cry.

I felt like crap. Like the worst mother to walk this earth as I came careening into the parking lot, spilling myself out of the mini-van and into the school office, apologies falling out of my mouth.

I don't know how I forgot that it was early dismissal. But I did.

And what's worse, it's not the first time.

It probably won't be the last. I never imagined I'd be one of those mothers who forgets her child at school. But here I am.

I don't know if it's the stress of everything but I also nearly passed out this week at the sight of my daughter's blood. It was insanely embarrassing. I've handled cuts, bruises, screams, vomit, pee, poop and birthed five children. Blood does not scare me.

On Wednesday, blood scared me. I got so faint my ears went deaf, my knees gave out and I stumbled heaving and gasping for air in the brisk afternoon wind.

I also forgot to send candy to the school so my son could decorate his Christmas party cookie. I even sent an email saying I would send it. And then I forgot.

And when my husband showed up for the school Christmas concert, I wasn't there.

He text'd me: Where r u?

I couldn't understand why in the WORLD he was sending me that text. I was at home. Where else would I be?

So, I text'd back: I'm in Hollywood selling my first screenplay.

When Matt got home he smiled and gave me a kiss that melted the universe. Then he told me everything was alright and that I should go take a shower.

The next morning he took us all to the beach. Somehow, the beach makes everything right again.

Except Jude was thirsty. And I'd forgotten to pack water.

"Here, have this," said a pregnant mommy sitting nearby. She handed us a bottle of water.

And I almost cried right there because here I am, a total mess and even strangers are offering me grace.

Life is an amazing thing.

A light in the darkness

It's dark and cold as I pull around the corner, onto my street. I'm bundled up in thoughts, to-do-lists, plans. A smattering of worry whips across my mind. There's so much to do and I'm doing it all so very imperfectly.

And then I see it.

Home.

It sparkles in the darkness, a twinkling beacon of hope. Lights to banish the darkness. Lights to guide us safely home. Lights to cast out the doubts.

I pull into the driveway and pause for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, 'till He appeared and the soul felt its worth...

I trudge through the darkness and toward the light. I enter the house, spilling keys, packages, jacket. Warmth surrounds me.

Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother, and in His name, all oppression shall cease...

Sometimes the chains that bind us are invisible. Our souls don't know their worth--a silent oppression seeking to quench the light.

I've been fighting the encroaching darkness, fending off the shadows that seep into my mind. It always seems to happen this time of year--revisiting anniversaries of pain.

But now, standing here with little feet running toward me and little arms thrown around my legs, the light shines in. It warms me. I choose to remember the good--especially in its smallest manifestations.

And that gives me Hope.

"The God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope."
Romans 15:13

Top Ten Preacher Types (or why I have trouble in church)

I'd like to preface this list by saying it doesn't apply to any of my readers. :) In fact, I wish there were more preachers like the ones who read here (hi Tal, Brad, Aaron and Fr. Mathis!). The following list is just a fun compilation of the kinds of preachers I've listened to over the past 32 years--perhaps as an insight into why I struggle so much with the modern, American church.

1. THE SOAP-BOX PREACHER: he has a pet doctrine he likes to work into every sermon. He could be preaching from Leviticus and somehow End Times prophecy will make a miraculous appearance.

2. THE POLITICO: he wants to change the world through grassroots political movements and pithy bumper stickers. He has voter guides distributed with the church bulletin. Depending on his politics, he's a principled vegetarian or a proud carnivore. Ye shall know him by his feelings about Sarah Palin.

3. THE "GET HIGH ON GOD" PREACHER: his considers his preaching a success if everyone is moved to tears. He's into experimental church experiences like impromptu altar calls, turning off the lights and worshiping in the dark, encouraging people to prostrate themselves and/or yell, laugh, scream out extemporaneous prayers.

4. THE FAITH HEALER: he can help you solve all your problems if only you have faith and a solid optimistic attitude. If your problems don't get better, well, you only have your weak faith to blame.

5. PROSPERITY PREACHER: he promises that following Jesus equals lots of material "blessings." His favorite verse is "God honors those who honor Him." Your problems will disappear with a generous monthly offering to his ministry--extra "blessings" if it's automatically deducted from your checking account.

6. BEST SELLING AUTHOR: he was an unknown pastor with a smallish church until he wrote his first bestseller. Now he runs a thriving mega-church, hosts Presidential debates and makes appearances on The Colbert Report.

7. THE NOVICE: mid-30's, promoted from youth group leader to pastor.  His enthusiasm and zeal make up for his questionable degree from a non-accredited "Bible college." Wants to "fire-up" the congregation, expunge apathetic "church-goers" and recapture the essence of "New Testament" Christianity.

8. THE ROCK STAR: wears designer jeans and Converse sneakers while he preaches. May also flat-iron his hair. Keeps his MacBook Pro open on the podium. Tackles edgy topics like masturbation. Broadcasts his sermons on YouTube.

9. THE MEDDLER: his favorite topic is sin and he uses your problems as sermon illustrations. He makes unannounced visits to your home. He raises his voices and/or pounds the pulpit, waves his Bible in the air. He's a firm believer in "speaking the truth." 

10. THE CULTURE WARRIOR: an entrepreneur-cum-pastor who wants to "redeem the culture" from the mires of feminism, homosexuality and public education (aka, humanistic indoctrination). He sells books, homeschool curricula and videos espousing a young Earth theology (no dinosaurs) and views child-raising (aka, generational faithfulness) as the important work of raising an "army for Christ." 

Thanks to my Twitter friends for helping me compile this all-in-good-fun list.
Am I missing any other Preacher Types?
And if you're a pastor, do you have a Top Ten Church-Goers list?
Please share!

Let your heart be broken

She can't be more than 22 years old, standing on the street corner with her cardboard sign. We pull up at the stoplight right next to her and all my children stare.

It's a long stop light. Long enough for me to feel my heart breaking. 

I used to ignore the homeless. This is America. Get a job.

This year I decided it wasn't my place to judge. I decided to let my heart be broken.

I've decided that if I can help, I will. It's usually inconvenient. 

It was no different this time. We were running late for an orthodontist appointment. The twins were restless and shrieking in their carseats.

But getting this girl a hot meal was the least I could do.

She sees me pull into the parking lot behind her and she looks up, shadowing her eyes from the sun. 

"Here you go, honey," I say, handing her the bag of food.

Oh, man. She's so young.

"Thank you," she says, squinting at me. Her short, dark hair is thick with dirt and grease, her fingers are swollen and chafed. She has multiple ear and facial piercings.

"You're too young to be out here," I say. "Where's your family?"

"Broke," she says, shrugging. "I was living out of my car. But it got impounded and I lost my job."

"It's gonna be cold tonight," I say. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"I'll figure something out."

Her teeth are yellowed and stained. I can smell the nicotine wafting off her.

She's a druggie, I think. But then I stop myself. It's not my place to judge.

"Look, I have to take my kids to the doctor. But I'm gonna come back and we'll talk, OK?"

"OK," she agrees.

"I'll be back in less than an hour," I assure her. She nods and as I pull away, she opens the bag and begins to eat.

I don't know exactly what I'm going to do. But I have to do something.

While Jewel gets her braces tightened, I make some calls. I find a place for her to stay: a local charity that provides emergency shelter. I scribble down the address, punch it into my in-dash navigation system.

If I can help, I will. The least I can do is give her the address, maybe offer her a ride.

"Mommy, I'll pray for her," Jude says as we drive back to the street corner.

We all pray.

But the girl is gone. The street corner is empty.

We drive around for a few minutes, scanning the alleys, checking the bus stops. Nothing.

"Where is she?" James asks. "Why isn't she there? Doesn't she know we're going to help her?"

The twins are wailing inconsolably. I need to get home. We do one more pass, scanning the store-fronts, the sidewalks. We can't find her.

So, we go home.

I was ready and willing to help.

Was she ready to let me help her?

Arguing with a priest, failing everyday and praying anyway

I'm not a particularly spiritual person. I can't drum up mystical feelings. Most of the time I don't "feel" God near me. And also, I dislike going to church.

But I go anyway.

It's almost like going on a diet. I don't want to restrict my caloric intake, but I force myself to do it anyway. I'll never want to exercise. But I do it anyway.

It takes effort to keep the bitterness and cynicism at bay. I find myself sitting through a sermon criticizing everything and getting fidgety. I think up sarcastic Tweets, doodle on the church bulletin.

You know, generally acting like a stubborn child.

"You need to get over yourself," Matt says to me. He has a point. I place great importance on my own thoughts and feelings. But I can be ridiculously dismissive of the thoughts and feelings of others.

Last week after a particularly dismal failure in character, I found myself shaking my fist (metaphorically) at the sky.

I imagine God got a good chuckle out of my tantrum. I mean, did I really think I was better than anyone else? Did I really think myself immune to the same failures and breaches of integrity that plague all of us?

I called up a friend--who happens to be a priest--and started arguing with him. Thankfully my friend knows that arguing is how I figure stuff out and he doesn't take it personally. Also, he's unafraid to argue back.

Which can be frustrating. And annoying. I want validation and sympathy. Not cold, hard truth.

"I'm gonna quit calling you," I said. "Because you say the same thing every time."

"What's that?" he asked.

"You tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself, cheer up and start praying for others."

He laughed. "Well, I'm preaching to myself, too," he said.

I'm finding that most of my angst can be directly correlated to lack of prayer. I neglect prayer because I'm not good at it. But I should know better.

Have I forgotten that the only thing that brought me through the first two years of my twins' lives was prayer? It was sink or swim. Prayer helped me swim. Prayer was my source of strength.

If I wait around until I feel like praying--I'll never pray. Truth is, I'm never going to evolve past the point of needing to pray.

Most of the time I just have to do it in spite of my stubborn, complaining self.

I don't know what I know

It's a dark, rainy night and my brain is keeping me awake with questions that will not shut up.

I keep midnight company with questions. Sometimes I make them a pot of tea and we stare bleakly at each other over the empty table and I say to them: "What do you expect me to do now?"

They shrug, sip their tea. We're sorry, they seem to say. We didn't ask to be here.

These questions, they ruin my life. Jerks.

Because with them, comes their friend: doubt. An evil bastard, that one. He blows in like a blast of cold air, making our teacups rattle in the saucers.

And now I'm making midnight tea for a whole host of these unwelcome guests and what I'd really like to say is: Could you all please go away so I can be the happy, confident Christian I've always wanted to be?

No. It seems that perpetual doubt is to be my constant companion.

I'm beginning to make my peace with that. I don't mind being Thomas. At least, I don't mind it as much as I used to.

Some of us seem to require proof. We can't take the leap without seeing the bridge. 

Most of all, we doubt ourselves. I doubt my own ability to objectively analyze my own beliefs. I am too invested, you might say. I'm not exactly an honest broker because I get in the way of me.

In other words, I would like the things I believe to be true. It's not purely scientific. I am cooking the books to make sure that the result is the one I want.

My egocentricity skews my objectivity, don't you think?

It's late and I'm tired. Loneliness is nipping at my heart. I wish I could be a Peter or a John, basking assuredly in the warmth of irrefutable belief. But I'm a Thomas with a faltering faith and a stammering tongue.

My beliefs might not be true. I'll never know for sure. And by the time I do know, I'll be dead.

Now there's a soothing bedtime thought.

I'm going to go tuck the questions into bed.

Hopefully they'll let me sleep tonight.

Christmas is Pagan?

I celebrated my first Christmas when I was 25. My fundamentalist church eschewed all "pagan holidays" including Christmas and Easter. The thought was that these days were originally pagan celebrations co-opted by Constantine in order to make Christianity more palatable to the culture.

We were right, strictly speaking. But in many ways, we missed the point.

Our intention was noble: we were striving for a pure expression of Christianity. We craved the "simplicity of Christ." We demonstrated that through an austere rejection of materialism and excess.

If Christmas was really about the Christ-child, why not celebrate His nativity every day of our lives? We saw very little use in choosing one day to commemorate His birth.

To this end we rejected traditional symbols of Christmas: trees, presents, Santa Claus, candles, decorations.

We did, however, take the opportunity to help those in need. Which means my parents never bought me Christmas presents, but we often took presents to children who were poor.

There was something beautiful about being outward focused on Christmas. Instead of glutting ourselves on self-indulgence, we sought ways to help others.

And yet, something was missing.

In our insistence on separating ourselves from "the world," we made an idol of our separation.

It almost became a point of pride that we never bought presents for our own family members but always and only gave to the poor.

Our sobriety, dignity and modesty were as much a show as the twinkling Christmas lights we condemned as worldly.

We had created an alternative way of life and we held it dearly.

But our rejection of symbolism was itself symbolic. Our austerity bespoke our conviction just as for other Christians December 25 bespoke celebration.

Purity of conscience is one thing--and I don't hold abstinence against any believer--but elevating matters of individual conscience to spiritual mandate is quite another thing.

By outlawing Christmas trees, we set ourselves up as arbiters of conscience; no matter how subtle that arbitration might have been.

And in so doing, we deprived ourselves of our humanity. Because despite all our high-flying rhetoric and soaring spirituality, we are quite human. Something inside us cries out for the ritual, the texture, the smell, the songs.

Some of us hold feasts and some of us fast. I don't think one is better than the other. Just different.

Was Jesus only the ascetic fasting in the desert? Or was He also the the convivial party guest who turned water into wine? 

It seems that if we intend to mitigate a spiritually meaningful Christmas, we must combine the fasting with the feasting. There is a time for reflection, quietude, examination of conscience.

And there is also a time for exuberant rejoicing.

I plan on doing both.

How about you?

The Twins Are Two Years Old!!!!

Happy 2nd Birthday to my twin baby girls: Jorai & Jasiel!

 

 

 

And just to prove how connected they are--that there truly is a special bond between twins--here is Jasiel trying to convince me that she's actually Jorai! Enjoy!

(And a special thanks to my loyal readers who have been with me since I was pregnant with these girls--your prayers, emails and support through these years has been so meaningful to me. Thank you!!)

All is (not) calm, all is (not) bright

The holidays are not always joyful. This time of year is mingled with pain. For some of us, the holidays serve to underscore our grief, the finality of brokenness in our lives and relationships.

Something is not right. Our eyes blur with tears when we're supposed to be smiling. We find ourselves filled with a kind of hopeless desperation--a Christmas measured out in sorrow. 

This is why I appreciate the season of Advent. Over the blessed birth of the Christ-child hangs the foreshadow of the Cross. Joy is mingled with sorrow.

And right after Christ's birth we remember the slaughter of innocent children by a jealous, rage-filled King Herod. Advent is not only a time of rejoicing, it is also a time of weeping.

There are days during this season when I am overwhelmed with sadness for things lost, relationships broken, the dissolution of an entire way of life.

Is it possible to forgive and forget? I'm not sure. I know that it's possible for me to forgive--but I don't know that I can ever forget.

What I can do is choose not to dwell on the pain. I make that choice every day. I make the choice to see the good, to focus on the smallest gifts, those small mercies that somehow carry me through another day.

If you're grieving or struggling this season, please feel free to leave small request in the comment box (anonymously, if needed) and it would be my privilege to pray for you as we approach Christmas.

With love, EE.