Blessed Insurance

Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up...-James 5:14-15

I should start by assuring you all that no one is currently sick (feverishly knocks on wood).

But

Young people do tend to get sick or fall down in a structurally unpleasant way, so I’ve been looking around to see if I can get health insurance for the big kids. The rest of us don’t have this problem because we are fortunate enough to have social security numbers. The big kids are on student visas rather than immigrant visas, so the regular channels for insurance are closed to them. Further complicating matters is the fact that they are young. Colleges have special insurance programs for foreign students but middle schools don’t. I looked on the internet, I called local hospitals, I contacted social services – anyone I could think of that might know something.

The state people were particularly helpful; they sent me an application for Medicaid (on the front page it says, “Be sure you have your social security number ready”) and a voter registration card. Wow. Way to completely misunderstand everything I told you.

For the moment, our insurance policy is James 5. If you are any kind of rational human being, you are probably also thinking that that is no way to live. If one of the kids comes down wrong on their foot while playing soccer in the yard, we’re totally screwed. That’s just crazytown!

This is either Jesus about to heal the sick
OR
Mitch Hedberg doing to killer stand-up

You may have noticed from previous blog entries that I am a pretty religious woman. I <3 Jesus.

But

Now that I am backed into a corner and forced to put the health of my kids and our family’s financial future solely in the hands of God, I find my faith would feel a whole lot sturdier if I had some insurance. Which is basically the same as no faith at all.

I am a Christian! I believe in healing and miracles! You know, for other people.

I always used to give the ancient Israelites such a hard time for their lack of faith. Come on guys! Why all the doubt? Didn’t you just see, like with your very own eyeballs, God’s salvation? He released you from slavery and you freaked out at the Re(e)d Sea. He parted the waters, and you freaked out about the desert. He fed you heaven-o’s, you drank water out of a freaking ROCK and not ten minutes later, you freaked right the crap out about fighting giants.

Seriously guys? Why can’t you remember for two consecutive chapters how great and mighty God is?

Yup. Now I get it. I totally understand.

Didn’t I just see God move heaven and earth to get the kids their visas in the first place? Didn’t He, only a couple months ago, miraculously provide a dentist willing to donate over $3,000 worth of work for Gabriel’s mouth? These aren’t stories on a Sunday school flannelgraph; I have touched, I have experienced, I have seen the wonders of God Most High.

So why is faith so difficult?

Maybe this is why Jesus tells us that even a teeny weeny mustard seed-sized faith can accomplish the impossible. Don’t worry about shooting for the XXL version, just faith it up as best you can.

Do you know what Jesus was doing in Matthew 17 when he talks about moving mountains by faith? He was healing a boy of epilepsy.

How ‘bout that?

Situational Awareness

Recently, I visited a church out in St. Peters to see a production of one of my favorite musicals. While I was sitting in the comfy pew-chair (P’chair? Chew?), Troy started making tiny little explosions in my lap. Were these harmless toots or something more sinister?

I had to know!

So I hefted my sweet boy and the diaper bag and hauled them off in search of a bathroom. Just when I was beginning to think I would need to lug everything down a flight of stairs, I found it! The bathrooms were hiding beside the large, elaborate coffee shop (‘cause Jesus enthusiastically endorsed using places of worship to sell a bunch of shit... Sigh, don’t get me started).

Anyway.

This bathroom suite was spiffy wowzers! I mean it was sumptuously and beautifully decorated with murals on the walls, plants everywhere and shelves displaying tasteful arrangements of fancy rocks and stuff. Prominently displayed by the entrance was the verse from Philippians “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Great verse. I love that verse! It’s so uplifting, so inspirational.

But.

For the bathroom?

What the hell is in that coffee????

Do you know someone who has fallen victim to Bad Situational Awareness Man?

Mission Trippin'

So I haven’t posted anything in a while. Oh time! How you get away from me!

I wasn't writing blogs because (pause to put on a suitably pretentious face) I was working on my book. The downside is I haven’t had any spare witty thoughts. The upside is the book is now way awesomer than it was (sorry all my test readers who got subjected to the bad draft). So if you happen to know of anyone who likes to do things like publish books and hand writers piles of money, hey, give a girl some love! I promise the book in no way includes made up words like “awesomer.”

The person largely responsible for making my story coherent, and not just the lunatic ramblings of a terrible missionary, is my friend, Marissa. Every time I thought, “Hey, this is pretty good.” She said, “It’s OK, but you should spend a couple more months rewriting the whole thing.” 

Thanks for helping me find my voice and make sense of a very strange time in my life. If I ever do get this thing published, expect a check.

As I was tweaking the latest draft, I stumbled across an old post by one of my favorite bloggers, Jamie the Very Worst Missionary. She was guest blogging for a guy going on a mission trip and talked about how our model of short term missions is pretty much exactly the opposite of how Jesus told us to do things. 

We don our eye-bleedingly bright matching t-shirts and haul tons of supplies to some lucky poor people place; Jesus said not to bring anything, not even our wallets (there were clearly no passports in those days). We stay in hotels or special secure dorm compounds; Jesus said to stay with one family – be dependent. We eat in pre-scouted, gringo-friendly restaurants; Jesus said to eat whatever the family cooks – take risks. We put on puppet shows for kids and pass out stickers; Jesus said to work like someone doing an actual job for money – work your ass off. We paint churches; Jesus said to heal the sick – participate in the miraculous.

I loved the whole article. Especially the part where she prayed that the guy going on a short term mission trip would have his whole trip totally ruined so he could experience something more akin to the Jesus model. Isn't it great to find something brilliant that goes along with the headspace you were already in?

And then I thought…um…..hold up. Has anyone actually experienced total dependence in a third world country?

‘Cause I have.

Sometime after I had given up on the idea of mission work, I had the chance to encounter the third world in an authentic way and not like a poverty tourist. And while I would love to stand before you today and testify about how Jesus’ vision of mission was the best thing ever, how even the demons obeyed me, how I was blown away by God’s goodness and his provision…I’m pretty sure that living like a real poor person was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

Maybe I should have tried to heal the sick more.

Yup. That. Fried.

You know what dependence means? It means beds with no mattresses and little control of your own schedule. You know what people might serve you? Cow udder. Fried, like it’s really a food. You know what earning your keep looks like? It looks like scrubbing filthy laundry for two hours, by hand, every damn day.

I’m not saying don’t go on a mission trip. What I am saying is that Jesus is not for sissies. He openly invites us to pick up an instrument of crazy painful torture and death and follow him around. Somehow we've weaseled our way out from under that so that it has no meaning. “I have to get up early on Sunday AND throw $20 into the plate? Man! Oh well, guess I’ll take up my cross.”

Crosses hurt.

Missions hurt.

Go anyway.

Why? Because Jesus is calling. Because this life isn’t all there is. Because what is right doesn't always feel good. Because God is reconciling all things to himself and we get to participate in the miracle of restoration and resurrection!

Because real faith is worth the price.

At least, that is what I hope; I'm a pretty big sissy after all. But I do what I can.

Do you have a crazy mission trip story? I’d love to hear it!

A Finer and Even Fancier Ramble

For Christmas, my wonderful husband bought me a camera. A real camera, with fancy buttons and flash and stuff. It even has a strap that I can put around my neck so that everyone will know that I am a professional photographer. I think we can all agree that this second trip to the zoo saw a marked advance in my photo skills. 

This is what you would have seen had you also gone to the zoo.
Provided that you were drunk at the time.

Apparently I married a friendly, albeit scary-ass ghost

Hey! Where are you guys going? I'm photographing here!!

Those weird sticks in the tree are actually awesome lights dropping
magically from the sky. Trust me.

The happy couple. No amount of shivering on the part of the
picture taker can disguise our love. 

Baby Love, My Baby Love

Can a baby be over-loved?

Can a baby be held too often, smooched too frequently, adored too much?

The books all say babies should learn early on to play quietly and put themselves to sleep.

As a total sidebar – I have just now noticed that practically all of my parenting angst starts with “the books all say.” Why do I read? That was stupid. Anyway, back to my point… sorry to slow you down.

On second thought, maybe they have a point about his head...

My particular baby lives with an aunt and an uncle who regularly vie for a turn to hold and play with the nano (Nano cabezón they call him, Baby Bighead. Yeah, Spanish is weird). And we are currently living with my parents. As this is their very first grandbaby, you can imagine that there’s plenty of snuggle time there too. And of course, there’s my husband and me – we kinda like us some Troyboy lovin’. That’s six big people for one little dude. Six people who absolutely love the stuffing out of baby. And who wouldn’t, really? He’s such a charming, cuddly cutie-pie with P-L-E-N-T-Y of stuffing to love! One squeaky little chuckle and anything bad that happened in the day melts away.

With a 6:1 ratio, the baby doesn’t spend a substantial amount of time by himself in our house. This is a really great thing for me. What new (or not so new) mom wouldn’t want to suddenly sprout three or four extra pairs of hands? The other day, my mom and I were musing on how I have never had to learn to cook one-handed or take the babe to the bathroom with me.

And while I gratefully luxuriate in a couple extra minutes in a hot shower, sometimes I worry that this is bad for the baby. He definitely does not care for alone time. Part temperament and part custom, he loves to be the center of attention. If we put him in the swing while we eat dinner, he fusses but if he’s in his bumbo on the table with us, he is all smiles. And joyous exclamations. And all-limb wiggles.

Are we ruining this kid with affection?

I am inordinately worried that my child will be the kind of hideous brat that everyone hates and secretly murmurs, one to another, “what terrible parents that child must have.” And while that sentence might be ridiculous, as well as grammatically awkward, I can’t shake the fear.

I remember people always used to tell my mom what wonderful, polite, children she had. And she would smile somewhat wryly knowing full well that we were only angels in public. In private my sister and I were often tattling (Pam), scratching (me), bickering (both) little shits. While I would obviously like to have perfectly behaved children in every single moment, I think maybe publicly tolerable kids is the best you can hope for. I would be thrilled to be as successful a mother as my mom was.

Of course, maybe my muriphobia (I was trying to find a fancy word that means “fear of being a bad mother” but all I could find was “fear of mice.” That’s similar, right?) is running amok and over-loving a baby isn’t a real thing.

As I watched Troycito snoozing peacefully away in Juli’s arms last night, my knee-jerk reaction was to bemoan the missed opportunity to plop him in his crib the second he looked sleepy so he could learn some bedtime independence. But then I thought, he is so little and fragile and innocent. The world is an awfully hard, cruel place; is it so bad to let someone feel safe and secure for a while? I want my son to develop things like discipline and self control but I also want him to know, I mean really know down in his bones that he is loved. And that, at least for right now, he is safe in our arms.

Maybe all the books say to teach your child independence as soon as possible because most people don’t have nearly unlimited baby holding help. I could see a frazzled mom benefiting greatly from this advice. But I have been immensely (awesomelyhugelyohmystarsIamsostinkinglucky) blessed to have so many wonderful, available people who love my boy as much as I do. So Troy will get snuggles and I will hold tight to my sanity and hope he turns out ok.

And, as I flaked out on a Christmas letter this year, or any kind of year-end blog post – I will just wish that in this new year each and everyone one of you will know

deep down in your bones

that you are loved.