Invest in Your Community

Dear Jacob,

Dad took his truck in today to see why it's wobbling a little. It turns out the tires aren't fully circular.  I think that means we're getting four new tires. This makes me cringe and yet smile. I cringe because I know that's a big price tag and we're living on savings a bit right now.  But I smile because if that's the way God wants us to spend his money, then that's just fine. I could have thought of something more exciting, but I'm not going to argue with God about his spending habits.

Right after we moved here one of our cars had its own version of elevation sickness and one day it just stopped working like it had a migraine and it wasn’t going to even attempt to go out that day. We had a chaotic evening in a gas station lot trying to figure out why in the world more gas wouldn’t solve its problem, stuffing sub sandwiches into the back seat for you guys and finally having to trust the tow truck driver’s recommendation for his friend’s tire shop. You never know what you’re getting into on a stranger’s suggestion but when he has your car chained to his truck bed, cigarette hanging from his bottom lip and the only people you can think to call are the guys you moved here to work with -- from whom you’ve already requested 200 favors over the friend limit -- you just go with it. It turned out, according to the tire guy, to need a small adjustment. I mean, he literally turned a greasy screw and changed our car’s life. I think we paid him $30 just because it seemed right that we should give him something and we were on our way. 

I have tried to live this past decade with a local mentality. I keep my business in my neighborhood.  Meaning, I won’t drive to North Denver so you guys can play flag football even when you were scholarshipped for a free session. I don’t ask friends for their recommendations for dentists, pediatricians, salons or bakeries because they’ll suggest them all over the map and for me the very best one will be no more than five blocks away. I choose to shop at the grocery that’s closest (even if there’s more “rif-raf,” as one unenlightened friend put it) because it’s close, yes, but they also hire people with disabilities to bag the groceries. I go to the little local libraries and trust inter-library loan to do its job when I need something they don’t carry. The rec center, my dentist, your first eye doctor are all at the east end of our neighborhood along a wooded bike trail.  

We moved to Denver from Portland, Oregon just about the time Denver was rated the 49th best city to live in in America. It's not like Portland though. One of the things we loved about Portland was its commitment to community. Driving through the Alberta Arts district or Sellwood or Rose City you see little storefronts with fruit stands, eye doctors, Pho, bike repair shops and dog washing hotels. You don’t have to wonder how they stay in business because it’s inherent in the culture that those neighbors will give them all the business they need. They’ll learn their names, talk about their kids and invite each other to their passion-of-the-moment lectures. Portland taught me to be a good neighbor and that if I had to drive eleven miles for the very best coffee shop then I was really missing the point of being a Portlander.  So, I still try to still be a Portlander. I just live in Denver.

We're in this position frequently enough, taking the cars to the shop. As a result we got to know our mechanic, Jim, who owned a shop on the next street over through the neighborhood to the north.  Because Jim was seriously a block away it was very easy to put these beasts in neutral and push them over there when we needed to; Dad would push and I would steer. Which is what we did the first time we had a real problem. And what we did a year ago, twice, when the motherboard in the van fried.

I think he knew that we were coming to him with every little windfall check we received -- escrow overages, insurance refunds, tax returns -- they all seemed to have Jim's name in the memo line. When money drops out of the sky we don’t fool ourselves into thinking that we can get ahead or that we can send you kids to something snazzy called college. We look at where our boat is leaking and plug the hole.  Jim helped with this.  He was the kind of mechanic that wouldn't fix something unless it really needed to be fixed. Breaks are squeaking? Don’t worry about it, there’s enough left on the pads yet. He could fix that other thing, but it really doesn’t need to be done yet. And you might think about replacing the tires in the next few months. No rush. 

I appreciated that about Jim. He really seemed to want to help. I remember we'd take the van to him in the morning and then walk to our coffee shop to work on school while we waited for it. One time, when Jim was done with it, he walked over, ordered himself a coffee, sat down with us, handed me my keys and said, "So, how's life?"  Jim was a true dude. 

Dad left this morning with his truck and our tax return and my instruction to try not to spend all the money. He called me a little later saying that it just was what it was and we'd need to spend more than we thought. I’ll take it and claim “abundantly more than we can ask or imagine” anyway.  However, today he didn't go to Jim because Jim is gone. 

The last time Dad took a car to Jim it was to fix our intake manifold, which had some nasty leak and was somehow connected to why I didn’t have heat for about a year. Dad first thought it was a thermostat issue and spent $10 replacing that himself on a cold day in mid-winter Colorado. I adore him for trying so hard to spend our money well. But I just might love him more when he assents to letting the mechanic diagnose and repair the problem. At least I do when my hands are freezing to the steering wheel. The intake manifold turned into a whole host of problems in the cooling system and we pretty much spent that winter at Jim's shop, to visit our money.

At the end of that process Dad called me one day and sad, “Jim’s gone. He sold the shop.” And then he unfolded a wonderful story that sounded an awful lot like selling everything and following Jesus. As far as I know, Jim is currently in Texas helping others build and rebuild things. He put what he had into an RV and took off to be a light in the world. I’m amazed that a guy my age could manage to do something so heroic and I'm so honored to have been a patron for a guy with a heart like that. 

I'm also pretty satisfied that our commitment to community, in part, funded his passion that in turn rekindled my commitment to keep investing in this place where God’s planted me. When we go out to eat, I try to stay close to the house. When I call for your orthodontist consultation, I'm going to call the guy who's in the same building as my dentist. And the coffee shop behind the house will forever be our second office. 

The new shop owner’s name is Joe. Joe isn't exactly like Jim and so we've priced some jobs out to other shops as a result.  But I know that if something goes really wrong, I can slide the van into neutral and get it to a shop that has a legacy of leaps of faith, risk taking adventure and community care.  That's something I can get behind.

Pay attention to the kinds of things you're supporting. It matters to lives that are other than your own.

Love,

Mom

Paint God's Big Picture

Dear Jacob,

When we moved to Colorado I had to assimilate. We moved into our house the first day of April carrying in boxes and watching over our shoulders the spring snowstorm that was rolling in over the Rockies. We went from spring to winter in about a minute. That was new. On trash days, the neighbors would pile up can upon can at their curb and I couldn't detect a hint of recycling. This was new. The very first time I went to the grocery store, there was country music playing and I sighed and wondered just how much new I'd really have to endure.

Part of my assimilation came in the things we had to take up and part in the things we had to give up. We took up a renewed hope, a hope that our lives would hold new meaning and effectiveness. We took up new relationships, wondering all the while which of them would be life-changing or even life-long. We took up trust in a new community, one that we thought might help us raise you three.

One of the things we gave up had to do with our parenting structures.  The designs we'd made in our old home and way of life, wouldn't fit will with the structure we were merging ourselves into here. We gave up a habit of worshiping together and let you go to kids' classes. We gave up exclusive discretion of how we presented the gospel message to the three of you. We gave up being your sole teachers and leaned on the community to play a greater training role in your lives.

I taught you the Scriptures from the beginning.  In our daily school time we included Bible lessons. Some had an impact and many didn't which is no different from any other person. But day after day with all the other tasks at hand, I think it became more a part of our curriculum than it became a part of your heart. Despite this, I persevered to teach you the nuances of knowing and following Christ and left you and the Spirit alone to make your connections.

My gospel presentation to you was always one of journey and desire. To follow Christ, you accept his invitation to be like him again and again and again.  As you remain available he guides you and before long, drawn from your very foundation, you'll genuinely identify yourself as a Christ follower. When you understand that he loves you, even died for you and your sins and rose again establishing a new life in order to give you the opportunity to be a dwelling place for God and when your response to that is service and selflessness, you'll know you belong to him.

I never wanted to use that phrase, "ask Jesus in your heart" because I didn't and don't see it in Scripture anywhere as a method by which we are to know Jesus and I didn't want you to think that lasting faith comes in a moment. That was the way I was told to enter God's kingdom and there have been many times in my life that I doubted my own "moment." This led me into some distressing questioning that I wanted you to avoid. I know now, that questioning will happen no matter what set of words we use to bring people to Jesus.

Our new church in Denver held new promises and as such we had to give up some of the shelter we'd erected, the assumption that being "pastor parents" was enough, and the fear that community could potentially fail us. As much as we had to entrust our future to the Father, we had to entrust you as well. I had to consent to let you participate in the children's ministry, with it's balance of well-meaning and flaws. It wasn't my favorite move, but it was one tool that would help you assimilate into our new way of life.

When I released you to go to children's classes at our church I knew that there would be some competing ideas you'd have to grapple with.  There would be some who taught you that you had to pray a prayer to be saved and then try your hardest to be good thereafter. There would be those who explained that God and Satan were equal adversaries who would equally tempt and guide you your whole life. There would be those who would teach you that salvation was necessary so that you could go to heaven one day when you die, like you were getting in on God's IPO and all you had to do was let your investment sit there until you cashed out. I knew these slighted teachings would show up, but I had to trust that God would, even so, invite you to himself.

I have always taught you something different. I have taught you that God is busy about renewing his creation -- a renewal that we can witness when we understand that we are now his temple. You see, God is a tabernacling God; he likes to be with his people. He is not distant. He is not far. He is with. As his people wandered around the wilderness he was with them in cloud and in fire.  He gave them the plans for a tent that would mark a space where he was with his people, a tent that would foreshadow the very lives we would have one day in Christ, covered and full of sacrifice and mercy.

He did similar things as you move through Scripture. In allowing Solomon to build a temple, he established that he didn't want to be transient with them; he wanted to be permanent.  In sending Jesus, Emmanuel, he gave physical evidence of his desire to be God with us.  His final remarkable act in sending the Spirit was simply to move in, to replace our hearts of stone with hearts of flesh and to be present with us always and forever.  As often as we allow him to take up residence in us, he continues his plan to redeem his creation. We move from being God-fearers to God-followers to God-dwellers. He moves in and he doesn't move out. That's how his glory fills the earth. That's his whole big idea.

The difference in these designs of how to know God and follow Jesus is simple. One way is man-centered and one is God-centered. In one we do something to secure a position. In the other God does something to secure a relationship. We don't stay the way we are and just smooth a God-colored paint on our walls.  He requires a different kind of a place, like a tabernacle in the wilderness, like a temple in the desert.  He has all the plans and all the ideas for what it should look like. Which means we have to give up our own and take up his if we're going to become his address.

I went to our cousin's funeral this week. All of us in attendance had the honor of hearing read aloud a paper he wrote about salvation when he was in the eighth grade. To this topic of living with God's spirit within us, Josh said this:

The idea of having someone living in me just seemed weird. Now, I consider it my greatest asset—it modifies my worldview. As I've grown as a Christian, I've increasingly seen people more as God sees them: dearly loved, but in rebellion. The Spirit also augments my conscience: I'm still tempted, but I can no longer allow a sin to run rampant in my life. Whenever I do something that saddens God, it also offends me (why would I dare to betray my savior) and He helps me conquer the issue. I also now have a peace, an unnatural, illogical and unexplainable peace, that I can call to whenever life throws something crazy at me. Basically, I did absolutely nothing to earn salvation; I just humbled and gave myself, and asked for forgiveness.

The Spirit envisions for us a way of living that is transformed by love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.  I see you as a container in which God can dwell. You're, potentially, one touch point among many where his glory longs to fill the earth.


Love,
Mom

Live a Life Without Regrets

Dear Jacob,

I'm sitting in the Dallas Fort Worth airport writing to you and hoping my battery doesn't die.  This world of finding outlets and charging things at every layover has forever changed the world of travel.  It's humid here, I just spent $8 for a sandwich and Grandma needs to stop texting me so I can focus (Hi, Mom).

When I left home this morning there were four inches of snow on the ground. I put on my coat and gloves to drive to the airport and then I stripped down and left them in the van because where I'm headed it's supposed to be nearly ninety degrees today. Kind of a shock to my system, but the whole reason for this trip is a shock to my system.

For the past several years I've had one guiding principle for the decisions that I make: have no regrets. I don't mean that I say yes to everything, or that I explore all the ways I can have the most excitement every day of my life. I don't mean that I try to have a hedonistic position wherein I yell YOLO while I go jumping off bridges... because you know how I feel about jumping off bridges. I mean that there are times when I just know something inside, or I have a little voice in my head that deposits an idea, or I just feel a physical yearning to move a certain direction and when those things happen I stand at a crossroad.  I can ignore the impulse, push, voice.  Or I can move with it no matter how much courage or cost is required.

When I determined to write you a letter everyday of Lent it wasn't my own fantastic idea.  It was one of these promptings.  Daily, it takes me a certain amount of courage to tell you these stores and make these connections and show you the raw things that make me human.  It costs me several hours of my day and there have been days where many things were pressing on me, but I keep writing.  It's not a comfortable commitment, but it's the right one.

There have been a couple of times in this past decade where I haven't followed that leading, where opportunities have presented themselves and I found a reason not to take them. I had good reasons, but in the end I should have climbed a mountain, or said the thing, or bought the plane ticket and just pushed into it instead of opting out.

When my cousin, Doug, got married ten years ago, our family was in a tough place.  We were in Santa Cruz, living on a severance pay that would be running out soon. We were in a state of emotional gloom that soon would turn into spiritual desperation.  There wasn't room in our bank account to buy the tickets, the wedding gift, the time away from our search for work. Besides all that, he got married on my birthday, and the most selfish part of me didn't want to share the day. That was a minor reason, but it told me something. It told me that if I was willing to scrape the edges of my excuse box to that extent, then I was running from an opportunity I needed to run toward. I regret not going to Doug's wedding. I missed something that day and I'll never know what.

When your Aunt Karen's mother died I shrugged off the nudge again. My first response was "I'll be right there," but then I hung up the phone and looked around at what was happening. We were living in Portland, preparing to move to Denver in two weeks. We had half our stuff in boxes, dad was headed to Denver for some initial meetings already and one of you was sick. I forget which one. I looked at all the things that needed to happen, at the cost of flying four of us to California and the trouble of taking two kids and a toddler on a plane by myself and it was enough to make me back away from the opportunity. When I see your aunt now it's one of the first things that goes through my mind, "You didn't go." While I wouldn't call it self-condemnation, I do call it a signpost to keep me from taking that path again, that path that leads to regret.

When the events happened in our family last week I had that same first response, "I'm going." I could have looked at the cost, at the challenge, at the calendar and found good reasons not to give my presence to my grieving family. I could have chosen not to go.  No one asked me to do it, but those signposts of regret remind me that something is always to be gained from being with family, from going through grief together, from being there strong when one less person is now among us.

So, before my battery runs out, I just want to tell you this.  When you know that there is a true choice to make and when it seems like it would be easier not to make the choice than to make it and when that choice will lead you deeper into life, into family, into truth -- take that opportunity, follow that nudge, say that thing and get on the plane.

I miss you. See you soon,
Love,
Mom

Anticipate Getting The Keys

Dear Jacob,

I'm proud of you.

I wanted there to be a record of me saying this. I wanted you to have that moment of staring at words on a page that catch your breath a bit.  And I know that there's usually a follow up question in one's head when they hear this phrase, "Proud of me for what?"  So, I'm going to tell you.

I'm proud of the way you asked some important questions yesterday; of the way you acknowledged that you know exactly where your biggest weakness lies. It was impressive to hear you ask the questions that you did and to hear you do it with maturity and true concern.  You were in a state of openness to learn and you made that time into everything you needed it to be. You did it with respectfulness and civility. I don't know if you saw me smiling, but I was.

I'm proud of the way that you are taking joy in your abilities. You've worked so hard to get your grades up. I'll say it again -- you've worked so hard and it's doing what you want it to do.  It's doing what we all want it to do: freeing you to become the man you're designed to become. You have to know that I don't care about grades as much as I care that you care about learning. A disinterested student is more of a concern to me than a C-level striver. Dad and I are always looking ahead to your future and I'm glad that you're moving toward your future too.

I'm proud of the way that you have taught yourself guitar. You're really good and I love to hear you play.  I love to hear the technical skill you've gained and I love that you can play with friends and perform without nerves (seemingly).  I think this is one of the things you were designed to do.  You have always been rhythmic and musical and I love that you're using this gift to its fulfillment. If music does anything, it grows your heart and it unifies people with a language we can all speak.

I'm proud of you for being responsible to get yourself places.  For walking to youth group, for riding RTD responsibly, for getting yourself back to school when you had to run back for something you forgot.  I know that I can trust you to do the right thing when you're moving about the city.  I know that you'll call me when you get there, that you'll be respectful to people around you. That you'll follow the rules.  This is a great sign of maturity and I have no problem saying, "See you later" when you head out the door.

I did a little survey of some friends a while ago and I asked them this, "When did you feel like an adult?" Interestingly enough, for many of them they felt like an adult when their parents acknowledged that they saw them as one. This told me something that I already guessed, that becoming an adult isn't something you do on your own. It's something that you're led to and given the keys to open.

When you were born, you were a month early. I was expecting you to be late just because I was late when I was born. With first babies there are so many unknowns.  It turns out that my body expels healthy babies early which is such a marvelous gift that it's the one thing I wish I could pass on to a daughter.  No big deal though.

Grandma was visiting with Dad and I when you were born because my baby shower had been that weekend and she wanted to attend.  She had no idea she'd also be attending your birth. She also didn't know that she'd be stranded in our apartment to set up a crib and a nursery and wash baby clothes and cook meals while we were getting to know you that first day in the hospital.  But she did all of that.  The timing of it all was a gift from God.

Of course, Grandma extended her stay by a week. You were the first grandchild and there was great celebration in all the corners of our family. Meanwhile, Dad and I were strapping you into your first car seat in the parking lot of the hospital, latching you into the backseat of Dad's F150 and staring scared at one another. I think Dad said to me, "I can't believe they're just letting us take him home.  Don't they know we don't know what we're doing?"  We had this moment of gravity knowing your life was now our responsibility.

But I had drawn a wild card; Grandma was there from your first moment.  I watched her carefully: the way she lifted you out of your car seat, the way she gave you a bath and dried you off, the way she calmed you and spoke to you and patted your bum while you laid face down on her lap. I didn't just watch her technique, I absorbed her posture. She wasn't surprised by your spit up, wasn't alarmed at your cries. She didn't shudder at your poop or flinch at your pee trajectory when you were naked.  She was calm, loving, and settled.  All her baby skills showed up. She didn't ask me alarming questions, didn't tell me what to do. She just gave me an example of care and I drank it deep into my heart and that week, that one week of my life, made me into the mother that I am today.

When Grandma left for the airport. She was getting into the car and I hugged her and cried a little. I don't typically cry when I tell people good-bye, but in that moment I felt like my teacher was leaving me to take a test I could never pass.  I felt vulnerable, stripped of my confidence to ever be anyone's mother. Without even asking me what was wrong she said to me, "You can do this. You'll do just fine."

She may have said more than that, but those were the words that I needed to hear. In that moment, she handed me the keys.  I had been living on my own since I was twenty.  I had held down a job, finished college and paid for it.  I had met and made a wise decision to marry your dad.  I had been married for five years, paid my rent, worked full time, cared for other people's kids, purchased two cars, turned twenty eight and had begun seminary.  You would think that I felt like I was an adult by that time.  But it wasn't until my mother said those words and kissed my baby boy and said that she believed I could mother you well when I walked through that door into adulthood.

Parents have this amazing power over us. You'll spend your whole life trying to please us, whether you think you're doing it or not.  It's just the nature of the relationship.  Here's the thing I didn't know though, that I would spend my whole life trying to help you become your best version of you.  It begins now, by helping you make decisions and learning new relational skills while we're together, being concerned for your health when you aren't, and sending you into experiences that will grow and challenge you.  But I'm sure it will still come out later in your life in the the form of sending you money, giving you my ear, and showing you how to keep your own baby boy from peeing on you while you bathe him.

I can't even tell you how full my heart is in writing this to you today. I have this picture of you as a man with a satisfaction that you've yet to feel.  I have a vision that your ingenuity will work its best for you to build you a brilliant career that lets you do the most good in the world.  I believe that you're capable of being a communicator that can change things, a creative that will think outside all boxes, and a man that lives his life by the laws of integrity, and grit, and justice.

You have an amazing life ahead.  You'll be a great adult.  I'll keep the keys ready.


Love,
Mom