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Mother’s Day is always a Sunday of mixed emotions for me. While I definitely desire to honor the moms who are present in worship on Mother’s Day, I also am aware of the pain this day brings for so many people.  Some people have lost their moms and live with the ache of facing the future without them. Others have estranged relationships with their children or their mom, and this day feels like salt in that wound. Some have lived through the loss of a child, and others experience unmet longings for a family.

This Sunday will be my first Mother’s day with my own child. Last year at this time, I thought that women became mothers when they went to the hospital and gave birth or welcomed a child into their home through adoption–similar to how you go to Starbucks un-caffeinated, and come out caffeinated. But now, having a 9 month old of my own, I recognize that the act of mothering is so much more than giving birth, adopting, or living with a child. When I reflect over my life, I’ve been mothered by a whole tribe of people– some of them with children, some without.  Scripture sometimes describes God in mothering language, using imagery that is nurturing and fiercely protective (Isa. 46: 3-4, Job 38: 29, Hos. 11:3-4, Ps. 22:9).

I am grateful for my biological mother and the countless ways she has shaped my life. She taught me how to throw a really good dinner party, how to respect my husband even in the heat of conflict, and most recently: how to settle down a fussy baby. For her endless gifts to me, I thank God for my mom. I also thank God for Colleen – a single woman who invested thousands of hours in me when I was a teenager; and our entire elder board, which nurtures and fiercely protects our church family today.  These are acts of mothering, and these are a reflection of the heart of God.

This year, I honor biological and adoptive moms, as well as all those who through their nurture and love make this world a more beautiful place.

From age 8 to age 20, I spent at least one week of every summer at a place called Camp Timberlee.   Each year I’d venture off to camp and cram the week full with new friends, bunk bed living, campfire songs, and arts and crafts. I remember the sound of a hundred screen doors slamming as we zigzagged our way endlessly in and out of our cabins to swim in the lake, practice archery in the field, horseback ride, eat snacks and play games at the canteen, and attend sessions in the chapel. 

I was a camper, then a teen counselor, then a counselor, and then a program director.  Camp Timberlee—the place, my friends, and my leaders—is woven into the texture of who I am today in countless different ways. As a camper, I learned how to cry when I missed home, how to play hard but fair, how to dream beyond what seemed possible, and how to trust in God. Later that place taught me how to lead and communicate creatively, and how to risk being seen as ridiculous for the purpose of something bigger then just me. It was the routine, the rhythm, the habit, the commitment of going there every summer that afforded me so much growth and so many great memories.

One summer when I was a teen counselor, I remember the youth pastor leading us in some fireside singing like we’d done every night that week and every summer prior.  Toward the end of the week, when all the campers knew the songs, and the sky was cloud-free with just the stars shining, I remember the youth pastor waving his hand to stop the band from accompanying – leaving just the voices of about 250 2^nd-5^th graders and the crackle of the fire, all lifting up our voices to God. I’ll never forget that moment. It was so pure and true – it was full and free and powerful. Because I went to Camp TimberLee every year, I was there that year – and I’m so glad I didn’t miss it.

This past Sunday at church was another moment I’ll not forget.  The sound system basically stopped working, and by default we were “unplugged” and at some points “just the voices” remained, and the effect was unpolished, beautiful and sacred. Because our church community has the habit, the rhythm, the routine, and the commitment to worship together weekly, we were together for that moment. I’m so glad I didn’t miss it.

As one of my seminary professors, Vernon Grounds used to say, “May the ruts of routine become the grooves of grace” in your life today.

 

 

Why is it that I can receive 10 compliments and one criticism and walk away thinking about the critique?  Not all criticism is to be ignored but some of it sure is. Several years ago, when I was first beginning a new role that required skills I hadn’t practiced much, I received a lot of criticism. My environment felt charged with discouragement and negativity. I heard from a lot of nay-sayers.  Thankfully, God gave me some people who were an encouragement in the most biblical sense of that word. They literally put courage into me – a true gift from heaven.  Without them, it would have been easy for me to measure myself against others who were more experienced and better equipped than I was. I’m sure you can relate. We all encounter people who promote fear, speak negatively, and get really loud in the face of our dreams.  Jon Acuff says, “Haters get loud when you do something that matters.”

Here’s the thing: God is the antithesis of the haters. He regularly says “Yes” when others say “No.”  And his voice is the one that matters most. If you sense a dream from God beginning to bloom, seek wisdom to discern between honest, loving caution from friends and misguided gloom from those whose fears and disappointments have jaded them. When it comes to bringing love to the world – you don’t need approval, or a green light from anyone. You already have God’s go-ahead.

Are you willing to put yourself out there and risk (reputation, misunderstanding, comfort) in order to love radically? If you sense an invitation to make a positive impact and bring love and light to our hurting world in some way, then go do it! Right now. Pick yourself – choose yourself. Don’t wait for someone else to give you permission. Pay attention to God’s “Yes!” Don’t let fear of failure or inadequacy hold you back. Our world needs you.  Our communities and churches need you.

I need you.

~Susie

Tim and I have a love-hate relationship with old houses. The first house we ever bought was built in 1895 in Muscatine, Iowa – a big old beautiful house with a grand staircase, old wood floors and ultra wide molding. This house was set up on a hill close to the little downtown, overlooking the river. However, the wood floors were beat up, the wallpaper must have been put on with the 1800’s version of Gorilla glue, and there were virtually no closets. Our houses tend to score huge points for character and low points for perfection.  They are usually projects that require patience, gentleness, faith, and imagination.

Recently, I visited my friend’s new house and I drove away with a little new-house-envy-fairy hanging over my shoulder pointing out all the beautiful things she has in her house that I don’t have in mine – like quiet toilets, big walk-in closets, and level floors.

On my worst days, my envy fairy gets a little more personal. When I see someone who really seems to have their act together, I walk away wishing I could get mine together.  When I see someone who is never late, who rarely loses their composure, and who always seems to be happy with their children.  Sometimes I think God is the envy fairy voice on my shoulder telling me, “Get cleaned up, fix those broken places, shine yourself up.”

But this can’t be true because God’s love is not dependent on an extreme makeover. The Scriptures say that while we were dead in our transgressions, Christ died for us. In Mark 2:17, Jesus said that the healthy don’t need a doctor, but the sick do. He explained that he didn’t come to call those who were already righteous, but those who were sinners—the old houses, in other words.

Being patient and gentle with an old house reminds me of how I need to be patient and gentle with myself. I’m learning to receive and apply God’s love and grace to the chipped paint and deteriorating brick of my own heart.