Leadership

If you want me to follow

Lead with your heart

And know what makes mine beat.

 

If you want to be master

Teach me to serve

By washing dirty feet.

 

If you want my devotion

Give me a cause

For the poor or sick or meek.

 

But if you want me to go

Rule me by fear

Eventually I will leave.

Fake Mom

After school today, one of my kids called me on my cell phone because one of his buddies was looking for me in need of a registration card for night school.  I was in a classroom checking on another situation when the call came in.  I headed back to my office to find the caller had already gone, but his buddy was waiting.  This same student who called me has recovered a couple of credits this year, is on track to graduate in June, and is now regularly harassing his buddies about doing their homework and coming to school.  And for the record, he is the sole financial support for his home and has the only means of transportation.

Another of my kids texted me tonight while I was out walking.  He just wanted to let me know he had finished his night school course and is almost finished with another course in our online credit recovery program.  I’ll be giving him a registration card for the next session of night school tomorrow as well.  And then he too will be on track to graduate.  Incidentally, he became a father this week.

Another student I’ve been working with for two years recently found his motivation.  I’ve been speeching and harassing this kid for two years trying to get him caught up so that he can graduate in June.  Last Tuesday, someone told him he wouldn’t graduate.  That night, while I was at a basketball game, he began texting me and talking about dropping out.  I responded with my thoughts and encouragement but refused to get drawn in to his drama.  Saturday, shortly after my plane landed back in Houston, he texted me again.  Several others had talked to him, and he’d decided the only person keeping him from his dreams was him.  He had a renewed since of purpose and declared that if he didn’t graduate in June it would only be because of his laziness. 

I was very glad to hear (read) about his decision and began planning with him what needed to be done to get to the finish line.  After this texting exchange, he thanked me for being such a great “fake mom”.  He said that his mom didn’t care anymore, so it was all up to him. 

Tonight I checked in with him to see how he was doing.  He reported in his progress, and I offered a few words of encouragement.  He ended with “Thanks fake mom,” to which I responded, “You’re welcome fake son.”

Some people go to Africa.  Others to the inner city.  But I’ve found that the greatest ministry and call on my life happens to be the place I go every single day.  I currently have 711 kids that I claim as “my” kids.  But I’ve been honored to have a handful who have chosen ME to be their “fake” mom. 

Freedom

It was a startling, pull the car over and breathe deeply, savor it slowly, kind of realization.  I was not afraid.  I was driving around Amarillo.  And I was not afraid.  My heart was not pounding.  My thoughts were not racing.  I was at peace.  In Amarillo.

Years ago, I had a life altering realization about my fear of being a counselor (which you can read here).  It was life altering because it was the catalyst that lead me to begin walking into fear in a way I’d never understood before.  Now, I regularly walk into things that scare me to death simply because I have to.  The difference is that now I know what I’m doing, and it’s purposeful.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I am no fire fighting, coal walking, confronter of the fires of ALL my fears.  There are plenty of things I run from and even more that are so deeply rooted I couldn’t begin to know where to dig to even find them to face.  But a few things, I’ve begun to walk into with purpose.

I walked into one of my biggest fears this fall.  I was planning a trip to Amarillo and really wanted to go worship with my friends at Southwest.  So I messaged one of my praise team buddies on Facebook to see if I could sit with her that Sunday.  Her response was quick and fairly surprising.  She was happy for me to sit with her, but she wanted me to know that my ex-husband would most likely be sitting on the same pew.  With his girlfriend.

For about five minutes, I was hurt.  Not because I wanted him back or felt jealousy, but because I was so easily replaced.  I guess if I’m being honest, it was mostly a blow to my pride.

But that wasn’t the problem and had nothing to do with my fear.  My problem was in knowing I’d have to see him.  That made me afraid.

I was not physically abused.  But for the vast majority of the 13 years of my marriage, I lived in fear.  Fear of words.  Fear of silence.  Fear of rejection.  Fear of messing up.  Fear of being an annoyance.  Fear of indifference.  Fear of revenge.  Fear of sabotage.  The list goes on.

Leaving was the single most courageous act of my life.

But I continued to live in fear.  Fear of words.  Fear of rumors.  Fear of family.  Fear of church people.  Fear of judgment.  I looked over my shoulder every time I left my apartment.  WalMart was excruciating.  My first trip there I had to take a friend.  For months after, I went to get groceries with my headphones on and my mom’s voice in my ear.  If I were talking on the phone, no one would approach me.  Mom was happy to be my shopping security blanket. 

The fear did not end when the divorce was final.  It didn’t end when I moved back home.  With every trip back to Amarillo, I was afraid.  The fear lessoned.  But it was always there.  A slow, small burn that threatened at any moment to grow into a devastating conflagration fanned by the familiar winds of the past in the Panhandle.

After receiving my friend’s FB message, I very seriously considered not going to church after all.  Especially with the girlfriend there.  I really had no desire to cause trouble or drama, least of all for her.  I really just wanted to sit next to my friend so we could worship in song together.

I thought about it overnight and came to the inevitable conclusion that it was time to face my fear.  I had to go to church.  I had to sit with my friend.  I had to see him.  I needed to know that I could be in the same town, in the same room, on the same pew, and be safe.  My fear was allowing him to have power and control over my life.  And that wasn’t his fault.  It was mine. 

On the Sunday morning of battle, I put on my full Woman Armor…figure flattering outfit, coordinating sparkly jewelry, great hair, rebel bonus earrings, and  woman-on-a-mission lipstick.  I was ready.

The actual battle was sort of anticlimactic.  I went in and found my friend.  Sat down and worshipped.  I saw him.  And her.  And it wasn’t any big deal.  I sat with my friend and sang my heart out.  The songs and sermon were perfect.

About halfway through the second song, I started giggling quietly.  I was on the verge of losing it to loud laughter and barely managed to reign it in.  Why?  Because I was suddenly struck by my own silliness.  What in the world had I been afraid of?

He’s just a person.  With good and bad, strengths and weaknesses.  Just a person.  No better or worse than me.  Just a person.  Who no longer had power over me.

I left that service more free and joyful and unburdened than I had been in about fifteen years.  Glorious.

I went back to Amarillo this weekend to celebrate Darcie’s life.  While I was there, I realized I have much to celebrate in my own.

Three Minutes, Fifteen Seconds

It was a much anticipated basketball game.  The Lady Mavs vs. Lady Oilers.  There is no question that the Oilers had the advantage, height, experience, and let’s just be honest…money.  Most of their girls play club ball; maybe two of ours do.  But our girls have heart.  And a great coach.

But we got off to a bad start.  Our girls were a little intimidated; and they weren’t listening.  With three minutes and fifteen seconds left in the first quarter, we were down eight points, two timeouts, and our best player.  She racked up two fouls fast and went to the bench.

Then something unexpected happened.  At three minutes and fifteen seconds, the girls head back in from a timeout.  Mavs have possession and throw the ball in from the Oiler side of half court.  Our coach calls the play and the guards and posts spread out to the corners of the Mav side of the court.  Our point guard dribbles to just past half court into Mav territory.  And she stops walking.  And just dribbles.

I sensed immediately that something was amiss because our point guard, who is a very good ball handler, looked down right uncomfortable.  All movement on the court had stopped except for her steady dribbling.  The normal crowd sounds had diminished slightly so that when our coach hollered instructions, everyone heard,  “Just stay right there and dribble for the next three minutes and fifteen seconds.”

I thought to myself, "Is he serious?"  I'm sure the rest of the gym was thinking the same.  But our guard didn't move, and I realized that he was.  And though she looked a little unsure, she listened to his voice.

The gym became silent except for the steady pound of the dribble.  Right hand.  Left hand.  Back and forth.  The tension was thick, all eyes on the guard.  Oiler girls looked to their coach for instruction and just held their positions.  Someone in the crowd shouted, “C’mon.  Play some basketball!”

But Guard held steady and Coach encouraged, “You’re doing good.  Bend your knees.  Stay right there.”  And she did. 

I watched the clock ticking down, watched Guard, watched Coach, felt the tension of the crowd, the anticipation of the players, the uncomfortableness of Guard, and courage of Coach.  And smiled.

There are times in our lives when we are called to pause.  When it is our instinct to rush in and take action.  But we are called to wait.  To slow the game.  To stand and dribble.  To hold for three minutes and fifteen seconds until the fresh start of another quarter.

We spend so much time in a fast paced game, reaching in and picking up fouls without thought or need.  Throwing up desperate junk shots that we can’t possibly make.  All in the name of taking action.  But sometimes we need to stop.  And let the clock run.

But we resist the pauses.  They are uncomfortable.  Voices from the sidelines shouting.  Unspoken pressure from our peers on the court with us.  And just when you feel yourself wanting to give in, pass the ball because it feels like you should, you hear the voice that matters.  The one that says, “Hold steady.  You’re doing good.”  And for once, you hold.

It takes courage to pause.  But in the pause, there is rest.  There is time to think.  Time to listen.  Time to regroup.  Time to heal.

May you recognize the pauses in your life and have the courage to stand steady in their uncomfortableness, listening closely for the next play to be called.

More or Less

In 2013, I am going to be more like Jesus.  I’m going to love the woman caught in adultery even though I know she’s been living in sin.  I’m going to treat her with the same kindness and respect I’d treat my momma.  I’m going to judge her less.  I’m going to spend less time thinking smugly about how much better I am and how small my “little” secret sins look in comparison.

In 2013, I am going to focus more on wellness.  I’m going to eat more fruits and vegetables and less meat and sugar.  I’m going to walk more and be more active and spend less time telling myself that I’m too tired or busy or whatever other excuse seems handy.  I’m going to remember that if the number on the scale is more this week than it was last week, it still doesn’t define me or determine my happiness.  But ultimately, I’ve decided that there will be less of me at the end of the year.

In 2013, I’m going to read more.  I’m going to savor the smell of books and the feel of beautiful words and phrases being absorbed from their pages.  I’m going to use my yellow highlighter more to mark the special words that touch my heart or make me think and feel less guilty about not owning an e-reader. 

In 2013, I’m going to write more and watch television less.  I’m going to use DVR more and watch commercials less.  I’m going to choose only a few shows to keep track of and let all the others go.  With more time, I’m going to write.  I’m going to spend less time thinking, “I should write about that,” and actually spend more time writing it.

Give more.  Take less.

Recycle more.  Trash less.

Play more.  Worry less.

Save more.  Spend less.

Bless more.  Neglect less.

Savor more.  Waste less.

Listen more.  Say less.

Forgive more.  Begrudge less.

Dream more.  Quit less.

Do more.  Try less.

Think more.  Speak less.

Grow more.  Complain less.

Love more.  Judge less.

Live more.  Regret less.

 

May your 2013 be more and less.

Love Poem

Makes you high
Makes you cry
Makes you wonder why you try
Love sucks

Makes you crazy
Thoughts all hazy
Makes you wanna push up daisies
Love sucks

Brain’s irrational
Heart is smashable
Emotions rising, falling, crashable
Love sucks

Makes you question
Overthinking, obsession
Desperately seek some kind of direction
Love sucks

But it gives you hope
So you try to cope
And you tie a triple knot in your rope
Love sucks


This random nonsense was inspired by and is dedicated to a couple of my crazy girlfriends.  You know who you are...

Triple Grande Mocha, Extra Hot, No Whip Please

If you follow my blog much, you already know that I’m friends with all of the gals (plus Tom) at my nail place.  I’ve tutored several of them in English and helped edit their papers.  They treat me like family when I go there because we have an ongoing relationship.  I know their names, and they know mine.  I think there is something to that. 

There is something about calling a person by name that is special.  When I can greet students by name, they light up.  They somehow know that to be known, matters.  I wish I could call them all by name. 

On one of several Starbucks runs last week, it dawned on me that I see the people in my favorite store more frequently than my family.  Certainly not with the intensity or duration, but in terms of frequency, my baristas are very familiar faces.

The more I thought about how often I visit, the more it bothered me that I know none of their names.  They are always super friendly, and we chat briefly over my order.  They’ve never messed up my drink, and they always smile and wish me well.  Occasionally, like this Saturday morning, I’ll hang out in their living room sipping a warm treat, enjoying a rare moment to just relax and escape into the pages of a favorite book.  And yet, I don’t know their names.

When last week’s tragedy happened, one of the things the media reported about the shooter was that he was a loner.  It seems like that is always the case in these kinds of events.  I guess mental illness was also a factor, but it bothers me that these people are always so disconnected from others.  I don’t understand why there are so many people who feel alone.  Unnoticed.  

I’m not suggesting that all school shootings could be avoided by someone befriending one of these isolated kids, but I sure don’t think it would hurt.  People isolate themselves because they are hurting.

But I don’t think we were designed by our creator to live in isolation, to brave the world alone.  I was struck yet again by the truth of this while I was sitting in Starbucks reading from Cross Roads.  Jesus tells Tony, the protagonist, “You can’t do any of this on your own or even on your own terms.  You were created by a community to exist in community, made in the image of a God who has never known anything except community.”

While I don’t fully understand the Trinity as community, I do get what he is saying.  God exists in community as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  One, and yet three.  Yeah…it boggles the mind.  But it emphasizes our innate need for community.  To be known and to know others. 

I love, love, love the lyrics to the song, “He Knows My Name.”

I have a Maker
He formed my heart
Before even time began
My life was in his hands

I have a Father
He calls me His own
He'll never leave me
No matter where I go

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And He hears me when I call.


There is something special about being called by your name.  Belonging to a community of people who know you and notice your absence. 

We have opportunities every day to mingle in a whole slew of communities.  Family, church, work, school, Facebook, Happy Nails, and even Starbucks. 

I think it’s time for me to introduce myself to my baristas.