The Tea Cup Minister

I have inadvertently started a ministry at my house.  I have lots of other ministry projects going simultaneously so taking on any new endeavors was not what I was looking for.  All that being said and the fact that my plans seem to be upended by God pretty regularly these days, I have found myself running a healthy ministry with people routinely taking advantage of what I have to offer, a cup of tea and a listening ear.

It all started with two relatives who were at a discourse.  They decided after years of a cold war of sorts that it was time to sit down at the negotiation table and diplomatically mend fences.  Every Wednesday at about the same time, I'd start the kettle.  Sometimes one would show, sometimes neither but I remained faithful to my being available with a ready cup of hot tea for whomever sat down.  Over time, the routine and the mediation has started heading things in the right direction.  To God, for that one I am grateful.

Angels must have gotten the word out about my success because more people started happening by.  They'd shrug off their coats and drop their handbags and I'd ask, "care for a spot?" as I held up the cold kettle over the stove.  Most nodded in agreement, some asked for coffee but everyone took a seat at my dining room table and I'd follow suit after I set up cups and bags next to the stove to await hot water.  The anticipation of tea and my staring blankly at the person in front of me seemed to start the conversation rolling.  People would tell me that they just stopped in to say "hi" but they end up saying a whole lot more by the time the tea bag was cold on the spoon in front of them.  I was happy to listen and share my views when the need called for.  Sometimes it was a lively conversation of the bible, those are the ones I love the most.  God is always a splendid and timely topic at my table.  A good God chat can go on for hours around here.

I must have been doing something right because the ones who happened by came back again.  They'd come and I'd fire up the stove, no need to ask.  I knew what we'd be doing.  I'd make small talk while I got out my supplies and we settle in again for a spell.  Somehow my daughter always seemed to be perfectly enthralled in her own thing as soon as someone came in.  You'd hardly know she was there.  Must be those angels again.  They keep my otherwise rambunctious pre-schooler occupied during my ministering time.

I love the tea times with friends and family. I get ministering too.  Just caring enough to come by and entrust me with their thoughts and trials says a lot about how much they value our relationship.  Now, when I got to the store, I stock up on tea supplies.  I have a bunch of different kinds now.   I think I'll spring for some nicer cups.  I have been using plain old coffee mugs.  I think the new tea cups with spark a fun start to the conversations and let my friends know that I find our tea time special too.  In a world that is ever revolving around the Internet and social networking, it is nice to have people who treasure the art of the in-person conversation like I do.

The Climb and The Accomplishments

An objective lesson on life that I got from running on the treadmill today:

Everyone has a weight that they want to be at.  It is seldom the one that is currently being displayed on their scale.  Like most people my age, somewhere around 40, losing weight has suddenly become a battle to maintain my ground more than an occasional skirmish that usually ends with some temporary adjustments that need to be made for me to obtain a win.

I like to run.  Well, I like the results of running.  When I first started running again last year after a 6 year hiatus, it was an accomplishment to just get on the treadmill.  My inner whining and subsequent negotiation to talk myself out of running would start as soon as the gym sensor beeped when I held up my membership tag on my key chain.  I'd start right in with lots of reasons why running today wasn't good.  I had to be careful of my knees, I didn't have enough time, I ran yesterday, I should try some other equipment too.  Lots of reasons not to run but the real one was that of all the other exercises that I'd encounter that day, running would require the most effort.

When you are new at something, it does require a lot.  I'd get on the machine and punch in my numbers.  I always get a twinge of resentment that it has the audacity to ask for my weight and age.  The only pay off for me being honest is that I get a more accurate read out of what my actual calorie burn is at the end of my run.  I am into numbers so having that one is the prize worth suffering through having to put where I am at.  During this time, I'd huff and my inner negotiator would chime in on whether or not we really need to run the whole half hour. Maybe I was too optimistic about the intensity.  These questions would go around until I hit about a mile into it and then I could relax a little more into the music and think about things.

I have been making progress with the running.  I can run 4 miles and I have lost almost 25 lbs since I started last year.  I noticed that as my weight went down, my calorie burn per mile went down as well.  It is simple science, really.  My body requires less calories to move now that I am smaller, but I am also eating the same amount of calories.  The fix to that is also elementary, I need kick the intensity up again.

Today I decided to increase my speed.  Only one tenth of a mile but you'd have thought I threw an extra 5 miles on the count today.  The exertion, while noted, wasn't impossible.  I think it was made worse by the fact that regardless of how my body felt, my mind knew it was going to be harder.  With that it woke up the inner negotiator to try to solve the problem of Britt's optimism in wanting to reach further toward her goals.

The usual inner monologue was squashed by a memory.  I remembered the time I climbed Mount Washington.  The route we took from base to summit was Tuckerman's Ravine.  I went on that hike with a bunch of friends.  Some new hikers, like me, and some well versed.  The first 1/3 of the hike was markedly steeper than I envisioned.  I was thinking it would be a gradual grade, stopping to survey and pick flowers to stick in the side of my ball cap.  It was more like a 40 degree angle with boulders to find footing on and step up.  No matter, I was grateful for the workout.  I found distraction in my natural competitiveness and challenged and encouraged my friends as I climbed along side them.  We made our first landing and I was satisfied with my performance. We stopped for water and I took notice of a beautiful waterfall cascading down the rocky mountain face in the distance.  My heart quickened at how breathtaking the view would be when we got closer to the water.  Little did I know that I would be basically hiking through it in less than an hour.   It was still picturesque.  It was an awesome experience to see the water flowing right next to me.  It was a trip to look down a waterfall up close and personal knowing that if I wasn't deliberate with my steps that I could be at the bottom of it in seconds.  I still managed to find the beauty and embrace the work.  My spirit was willing to see it through.

Imagine my surprise when we made our second landing and I looked up at the last 1/3 to see that what stood between me and the summit was nothing short of an all out rock climbing experience.  The hiking was over.  Time to use all 4 extremities and meat this thing out once and for all.  I was tired, hungry and  every bit completely disillusioned as to what hiking was all about.  I gritted my teeth, grunted, pulled, sweated and willed myself up that rock wall until at last, I saw the most amazing site that day.  The gift shop, complete with a bathroom and real toilet paper.

Yes, once I left the gift shop, I stood on the edge and reviewed my travels. I was astonished at what I had done.  I couldn't get over the fact that I had climbed an honest to goodness mountain.  How many people can say that?

Once my mind finished the movie of my climb, as I ran I related it to my life. There have been times where I have been comfortable but unsatisfied with where I was at.  To reach further required an expense of energy and effort.  It felt hard and clumsy at first but once I continued to endure, it got easier and more rhythmic.  How many times, I have wanted something but didn't want to do the work to get to the glory on the other side?  Don't we do that?  Picture the end of the journey and want to transport ourselves to the destination. Anything worth doing is going to take a piece of you with it.  What you need to ask is easy.  Is it worth it?

The First Rule of Cool

Awakening from sleep, yet another start of the week.  The harassing noise of the alarm clock jars my comfort and rallies me quickly to silence the piercing buzz.  Semi-coordinated, I scuff down the hall to the bathroom for my lava hot shower in order to come to.  The light sting to my skin lets me know that I have the optimum temperature as I stand under the water.  I close my eyes and soap up, pondering my schedule.  As I shut the water and throw back the curtain, I relish the cool waves that wash over me as I reach to find my towel on the rack.  I wrap my over-processed, long black hair in my towel and with a flip and a toss, my turban positions itself firmly on top of my head.

I find my reflection after a wipe with my hand over the mirror.  My shoulders let down as I stare at my blemished face.  Just once, God, could I have nice skin?  Why does my complexion seem to always know where to position a red spot that will distract me from socializing for the week?  I roll my eyes and prepare to primp.  I'll have to do the best I can to make this mess look like something I can live with.  My makeup becomes a mask that I can hide behind.  I feel comfortable now that it is on.  No one can see me.

Next on my list is my hair.  Not to be outdone by any other Heavy Metal Princess, I delight in my home-dyed mane.  Black as pitch.  It is the bane of my mother's existence but it is my jeweled crown.   I need at least 45 minutes to comb, dry upside down, spray, tease, curl, tease some more and then solidify in place with at least a half a can of Aqua Net hair spray.  Once I am satisfied that it is high enough and has no chance of moving or listing in any way, I weakly smile and leave the bathroom.

Last is my costume.  I need to dress the part.  Leopard skin jeans or the ripped ones, maybe a concert t-shirt, lots of studded belts and my favorite, cowboy boots with chains and spurs to complete my look.  I want to look like I walked out of a video on MTV.  If I can't be pretty, then I can be shocking to look at. Either way, I have your attention.  I am so uncomfortable with my appearance that it is easier to look like a freak than a pudgy, ugly girl who tried too hard to look like a homecoming queen.  I am in my garb.  One last fluff of the hair and some hula-hoop sized earrings and it is out the door for me.  No breakfast, I am fat enough as it is.  Coffee and a cigarette will be my only sustenance.

Settling in to my moss green '78 Chevy Nova, the Love Pig,  I make my route to pick up all of my friends that would gladly take a seat in my beater than face ridicule for being over 16 and still taking the bus.  After I have filled my car to the brim, we pull into the parking lot.  It looks like a parade as most of the upper class makes its way from the parking lot, across the green of the town square and into the high school.  Rockers, Jocks, Nerds, New Wavers, and of course the cool kids.  As they walk by, I smooth my clothes and shake my head.  They look my way and my eyes cast down.  I'd rather not see their look of disapproval.  At least no one makes fun of me, to my face anyway.

That was my academic career from '86 to '90.  Every day a Ground Hog Day experience.  Nothing ever changed.  I longed to suddenly become one of the cool kids but it never happened.  I chalked it up to it just being my station in life.  I was nothing special. I was just a sight.  Being named 'Class Individualist' was the highlight of my time there.  I was also noted in the yearbook for my 4'x6' self portrait that to my horror, Miss Lee, my art teacher, proudly displayed in the front hall of the school.  I would have had an easier time if she asked me to strip naked and greet everyone who came in the door.

Years later with the birth of Facebook, I'd make online friends with some of the cool kids.  You know, the ones who always had it all together, got invited to the parties at all the cool kid houses.  Turns out, they didn't live the good life I thought they did.  All those feelings of isolation, rejection, feeling different, like an outsider, they felt all those things too.  That's weird. I thought it was just me.  After I regained my composure from this revelation, I made my peace with the fact that maybe most teenagers just felt like that even if they were cool.

Days ago, I ran into someone from high school.  She was alight with enthusiasm to see me again.  She gushed over and a smile covered her face as she chirped questions and danced in place as I answered.  I kept talking and politely asking about her life, trying to figure out who she was. She looked familiar but I couldn't place how she would have known me.  My mind was a cavern of vague as I grasped at any solid memory.  A conversation, a class,  maybe homeroom or study hall?  Nothing.  I asked a friend of mine about her and she couldn't recall either.  I was ready to end the call when she uttered these words, "She probably just idolized you.  We all did.  You were so cool.  I was so jealous of you."  In my complete disbelief I laughed out loud.  I thanked her for flattering me as I gasped for air but she pressed on with confession.  "I was, I was cool?  Me?"  She seemed to irritate, "Yes, we all thought you were."

Cool is in the eye of the beholder it seems.  Like everyone is trying to attain some status that just never can be found.  All the cool kids were just doing their damnedest trying to live up to the coolness of other cool kids.  A relentless circle of nothingness and eternal frustration especially for the hormonally challenged teenager.

The number #1 rule of Cool is there is no cool.

The Gift

I want you to picture someone who loves you more than anyone else in the whole wide world.  Close your eyes and think about that person. Get a good feel for their face.  They are smiling at you with tenderness and affection.  Their eyes are fixed on you.  They are walking towards you slowly and deliberately with a gift.  With outstretched hands, they are holding this gift out to you.  It is beautifully and carefully wrapped with a large ribbon surrounding the package, fastened in place with a large bow on top of the box.  They are standing now with their gift extended out to you.  All that is required of you is to take it.  I want you to sit with that thought in your mind for just a minute.  Does it make you feel good to think about? 

It's not your birthday, it's not Christmas.  The present is simply because they love you and they want you to know how much.  You did nothing to deserve it at all, they just want to give it to you. They want to experience the joy in seeing you unwrap your special gift.  

You have to reach out for the box in order to unwrap it, don't you?  You need to take it from their hands.  The gift is not the wrapping of course, although it is pretty to look at.  You could stand there with your loved one and just take in the moment but sooner or later you have to take your present from their hands.  It really isn't yours until you receive it.  What is it like to unwrap a special present?  Do you get excited?  Do you thank the giver?  Do you tear open the package with urgent anticipation?

I want you to picture again that loving smile with the gift out in front of you, waiting for you to take it.  Now I want you to focus on their face while you look into their eyes and slap the gift out of their hands, sending it to the floor.  I want you to conjure up that feeling you get just before you send something flying.  Next I want you to envision pushing them to the floor.  What do you think the look on their face would be now? 
What would their reaction be?  Do you think they would be hurt?  What did they do to deserve such treatment? 

Quite a colorful exercise.  The only reason for their wanting to give was simply out of love for you and to see the joy that comes when you receive.  Why would you send their present hurling and them to the floor in rejection?  Do people actually do things like that?  You'd probably think that someone was crazy for doing something so cruel. 

People do it every day.  On any given hour, thousands and thousands of people will stand in front of the One who loves them more than anyone ever will.  They will see Him standing there with outstretched hands, the most precious gift they could ever receive and they it away like it was garbage.  They will tell Him that His present is foolish, stupid and not worth opening.  He will say, "I love you" and they will laugh in His face. 

The next time He comes to you with His gift, I'd like you to ask yourself what the risk is in just simply receiving it. 

God's Macaroni Necklace

"Here, Mama!"

She shoved a rattling string of wooden beads in my face with a beaming smile and gripping fist.  Her eyes danced with pride as she waiting for my reaction. 

"Oh, Honey!  It's absolutely beautiful! Did you make this for me?"

"Uh huh!"

I reached for the necklace and she released her clutch, dropping it into my open hands.  A long necklace of beads and painted wood butterflies as big as silver dollars lay in a pile before me in my palms.  The ornaments were polka-dotted and colored in every bright pastel hue you can think of.  She waited beside me as I stood up to put it over my head and glance into the mirror over the buffet in my dining room.  It looked more like a lei than a necklace.  I smoothed my hands over the butterflies.

"It's really nice, Honey!"

"Are you go to wear it to church?"

I am team teaching a bible study on Tuesday mornings until January.  We were readying ourselves to head out the door when she handed me my surprise.  I hadn't considered that a lei of clanking butterflies would be perfect with my carefully selected outfit. 

"Oh, um.  Well, of course. Yes, I will wear it to church."

I left it on and hoped that I would remember to remove it after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitting room in the building but I forgot about it in the chaos of setting my stuff down on a table and trying to find the child care provider so I could leave Carli to play.  I finally got her settled so I could set up for the lcass when I found one of my teachmates in the study room.  We were reviewing what the morning would be like when I noticed that she kept glancing at my blouse.  It took about 4 times for me to get what was distracting her.  It was my butterflies.  I grasped the beads when I figured it out, chuckled and told her about my gift that morning.  We had a laugh and she went on to tell me about a scarf that her daughter had knit for her in junior high school.

"You don't know how many mornings I'd leave that on just long enough to head out the door and into my car to change into another one."

"I forgot about my necklace.  I didn't want to hurt Carli's feelings."

As I said that I started thinking about what would happen if I'd made a macaroni necklace for God.  I remembered making one for my mom when I was in Kindergarten.  It was an elbow and penne macaroni necklace that was spray painted silver by the teacher.  I was so proud of that necklace.  I couldn't wait for her to wear it.  I am sure she had many of the same thoughts I had about my butterfly one. 

Compared to God's gifts to us, our gifts to Him are like macaroni necklaces.  His gifts are perfect, valuable and hand selected for us.  Our gifts are primitive, easily duplicated and sometimes clumsy.  He loves everyone.  He delights in our efforts to love Him back, just like we do with our children.  His love is perfect though.  I believe He does wear our macaroni necklaces with great pride.  I believe He is eager to show them off to the angels and say, "Look, see what my precious one made for me today."

The Little Me

It's Monday morning.  I roll over with a groan and stretch to the sound of my chirpy pre-schooler who has formally announced the time and is already firing questions at me about our day.  I try to delay the answering in hopes that she will slow down and crawl under the covers for a few more precious minutes of rest.  Like most days, she sits beside me and refuses my unspoken offer of blankets, pushing them away and asking me, "Mama, can we get up now?"

I force my rising and head for the coffee maker.  A couple of hits of my favorite drug and I can try to fien an equal excitement about the day.  The beginning of the week always holds a list of 'To Do's.  Today I don't want to do any of them.  I homeschool my daughter now and though I know there is a lesson scheduled for Monday I am already negotiating how I can do something else by 9:00 AM.  Monday mornings always include the gym.  I need my exercise.  Trust me, the world is a safer place because I work out.  By 10:00 AM I am convinced that I am over tired and under ambitious. 

Against my will, I dress and head for the 'Y' with a crying child who doesn't want to play with the other kids in the playroom while I do my workout.  "Stay home!" she yells as she bounces up and down, shaking her hands and scrunching her face.  I have to admit, it's compelling when normally it is an annoyance.  She settles as we pull into the parking space and I walk her in and down to the babysitting area.  She doesn't even toss back a glance once she sees all of her playmates busying about the toys.  I am still wishing she talked me into her agenda earlier but I am here now so I head to the fitness area.  It's treadmill day.  I don't want to run but I make myself even though I want to hit the stop button about 20 times in the first ten minutes. 

With every step, an ongoing war.  The battlefield is my mind.  The need to discipline myself versus giving in to the desires of the day.  I recalled a buzz word as this went on that I haven't heard since the early 90's.  I remember it very clearly.  It was on the lips of every psychologist and in the discussions of many talk show hosts.  The topic was the Inner Child.  I had a therapist who spent hours with me, helping me to first identify the voice of my inner child, discover what she lacked, and then how to help her.  We spent a lot of time with my eyes closed, picturing what she looked like and how she felt.  Most of my sessions were about her.  This delicate creature within, so damaged.  I had to be careful not to make her worse, I had to tell her that I loved her and that she was safe.  I was even instructed to sit quietly for a half hour every day, give myself a hug, say 'I love you' and see her in my mind surrounded by soft, warming yellow light.  What ever became of her?  I haven't seen her in so long.

She is still there. Her agenda usually doesn't include effort.  She'd rather go willy-nilly, avoiding anything that has to do with work or sacrifice.  I made a french toast breakfast this morning with egg whites.  She wanted eggs, sugar and cinnamon in the mix.  I made two slices, she wanted three and with extra syrup.  I made her have one tablespoon.  She didn't want to go the gym and do penance for any misuse of calories from the weekend, I ignored her whining and got into the car.

I used to spend so much time being careful not to upset her.  I invested so much in making her happy, thinking that if she was that I would be too.  Now, instead of coddling her every whim and weighing it against what I would like to do, I just say, "Get moving!"  Turns out that my inner child needed the one thing everyone told me never give her, a simple spanking. 

Please Accept This Blessing

A day at Wingaersheek Beach last week proved enlightening.  Carli had successfully worn me down about going.  It isn't that I don't like the beach.  I just have a different idea about what to do there than an active 4 year old girl.  Carli squeals and hops toward the water as soon as we put our things down.  She delights in the surf with a beaming joy, begging her reluctant mom with "C'mon Mama, c'mon! Come in with me!".  My aching toes and ankles shock in the frigid water.  She is pulling me like a dog who doesn't know how to walk on a leash with her little arm dragging me further in.  We will do this about 10 times.  We can't just stay in.  We have to leave as soon as we get numb and go play in the sand for 15 minutes and then run back to the water again.  Occasionally this mantra is interrupted by chasing seagulls while yelling 'boo!'.  To Carli, this proves to be hysterical.  She can barely keep her running pace from the laughter.  I am running out of steam about a 1/2 hr into our trip.

My idea of the beach is to park myself in my sand chair, fix it to a slight recline and dig my heels in the sand until it feels comfortable and stay there.  I like to bring a stack of magazines that I have no time for at home and leisurely flip as I either redecorate my home or put together a haute couture wardrobe for the upcoming season all from the laziness of the shore while listening to the hum of fellow beach goers and the slap of the ocean waves.  There is little reason to leave my station.  Imagine my distress when my little baby grew to walk then run and didn't consider the wishes of her mother while visiting the beach.  If I want to read a magazine these days, I have to get used to reading it in 5 minute increments and only when Carli is satisfied to dig by herself for a spell.  No, my fond summer respite has become a mission to corral someone who can't swim and is too friendly to not want to wander off with whomever pays attention to her. 

I endure it because she likes it.  We get to be together and I watch my child enjoy herself even if it means that I have to run around and try to keep up with her while I opine for my chair.  Wingaersheek Beach was a first time trip for Carli.  I was happy to find showers, bathrooms and  a snack shack so close to the shore and Carli was elated to find a sign that she could recognize, a picture of an ice cream. 

"Ice cream, Mama!" she sang out as I held her little hand in my right and tried to hold and balance everything else with my left. 

"Yup, later.  Okay?", I tried to reassure her that it was coming but not right now. 

Who doesn't like a frozen treat after a day at the beach?  I couldn't blame her.  I just didn't want to indulge her at 10 in the morning.  We had to visit the rest room two times and each time I heard the same thing, "Can I get an ice cream, Mama?". 

It came time for lunch which we ate at the snack shack.  I didn't bring much for myself and I knew if I was going to buy lunch for me, I'd need to get some for her. She would not be happy with Goldfish and cut up Smart Dogs while watching mom eat something that came in a cardboard box and wax paper.  We sidled up to the window with a smiling face peering out and placed our order.  The cost of our lunches, most of hers of which I tossed in the garbage, cost about as much as the interest on the national debt.  Lunch plus the cost of parking took all but a dollar out of my wallet.  No worries, ice cream would still be had.  I just would use my debit card.

I announced that we'd get ice creams when we were leaving.  No need to get them now, we just ate.  When the beach ran it's course with Carli after many sessions of dragging mom into the water, chasing the poor water birds, digging and seashell hunts, she announced that it was time to go home.  I agreed.  I was exhausted.  We packed up and made our way to the snack shack, discussing what she wanted before we could even see the building.  We returned to the ordering window and my heart sank as I read the sign, "Credit Card Purchases -$10 Minimum Requirement".  I certainly wasn't going to buy 10 dollars worth of stuff for a 2 dollar ice cream.  I looked down at my wide-eyed little girl and tried to gently explain the situation. 

"Honey, Mama doesn't have any cash on her and the man won't let Mama buy the ice cream with her debit card."

Sadness and confusion covered her face and her smile disappeared as she tried to take in what I said.  I felt so terrible that I was doing to have to disappoint her.  My mind ran with remorse over not just paying for lunch with the debit card and leaving more cash in my wallet. I thought of how foolish it was of me not to check beforehand.  I also didn't want her to start crying.  I tried to explain again and smooth it over with a promise to get ice cream somewhere else.  She didn't want to go elsewhere, she wanted the treat I had been promising her all day and she wanted it at the beach.  As I continued to reassure her a woman came up to me and held out her hand. 

"Here, just take this." she smiled and stuck out 2 dollars and 50 cents in my direction.

I hesitated.   I was so touched by her generosity and strangely ashamed to take it from her.  She stuck her hand out again and I took the money from her grasp slowly, thanking her with a sincere quiet humility.  I ordered Carli's ice cream and took it back to our spot for her to enjoy.  The waves of shame still washed over me as I watched her eat it.  I felt silly for feeling that way.  I didn't do anything wrong and I wasn't a charity case and even if I was, couldn't I allow someone to bless my daughter? 

This woman had two children with her.  She understood what it was like to let a little one down.  She wanted to save the day and I almost didn't want her to.  I had forgotten in that moment what a gift it is to bless other people, especially when the blessing is anonymous.  As I reflected on what had happened, I realized what a gift I had given her by allowing her to bless my daughter.  The times I have bestowed this on others were the moments of the greatest joy.  There was a much bigger gift here than just a 2 dollar ice cream.  I connected with another human being in love. To me, that is worth not having enough money in my wallet.  Who ever you are, Ma'am, thank you.