THE Must-Have Gift List

So, what’s on your holiday wish list?

Me… I’ve been eyeing a pair of black suede boots and an antique birdbath.

(What can I say… I’m a Vanity Fair-meets-Southern Living kinda gal these days.)

As much as I’d love for Santa Baby (ok, Steve) to slip these gifts under the tree – for me – I realize at some point the boots’ll wear out and my feathered friends will crap all over that beautiful birdbath.

And you know what? When I close my eyes at the end of a rough day (or the middle of a crisis), it’s not boots or birdbaths that I want.

What I must have is…

Hope.

Comfort.

Clarity.

Safety… security… serenity.

Peace.

And some tender loving care. (The kind that won’t quit.)

Aren’t those the gifts we all want? All 8 billion of us?

What if I told you they could be yours? Guaranteed delivery. What if I told you there’s a prince waiting to bestow everything your soul longs for.

A Prince… of Peace.

A Protector. Comforter. Counselor. Listener. Lover.

He’s ready/waiting/willing/able to give you what you ache to have.

Himself.

It’s Jesus we’re desperate for.

He is the gift.

But there’s a catch. Neither you nor I can receive him… until we open our hearts wide and bare our souls. And tragically, most of us won’t ever do that.

Unless… until… we realize how desperate we really are.

Most of us are pretty obtuse. We don’t even realize we need Jesus in the first place. But even those of us who do, we rarely want to admit that our self-sufficiency is… well… insufficient.

(It’s called foolish pride for a reason.)

Not to mention the fact that without him, we remain unforgiven… beholden to our failures and faults, riddled with guilt and shame.

I’ve got my share, that’s for sure:

I’m selfish.

Stubborn.

Lazy at times.

I jockey for position and play favorites.

I indulge my pride with self-pity… or a runaway sense of entitlement.

(Just scratching the surface here.)

If I dig deeper, I uncover…

I’m weak-willed, short-sighted, much-afraid.

I interrupt and interfere. I try to control things – and people! – far beyond my reach and resources (a limited perspective and lack of power, for starters).

But the beautiful thing (beneath all that muck and mire) is that I know it.

I know myself.

And self-awareness is a precious commodity. Because it can lead straight to contrition.

(That’s the part where I own it.)

And contrition can lead straight to confession.

(That’s when I admit it.)

If I choose not to duck/dodge/deflect blame for my own s&*t.

God knows it all anyway. So I may as well unburden myself.

Plead guilty, if you will.

(And breathe a huge sigh of relief.)

Exhale guilt and shame; inhale mercy and grace.

Come clean… and come near.

That’s the invitation of Christmas.

To gaze up at the heavens and turn your heart toward the One who created them… and you.

He knows all about you – the good, the bad, the ugly. And here’s the really crazy thing:

He adores you.

No, really.

And nothing you’ve ever done – or will do – changes that.

How can it be? That our God, our Gift, can see us so clearly… and love us with such unflinching devotion?

It’s inexplicable.

A Christmas miracle.

And now – this year, this day, here and now – it’s our turn. To come clean and come near.

Open your heart wide, bare your soul, believe.

By entering through faith into what God has always wanted to do for us—set us right with him, make us fit for him—we have it all together with God because of… Jesus. And that’s not all: We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand—out in the wide open spaces of God’s grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise. ~ Romans 5:1-2 (The Message)

Oh, come let us adore him.

Wendy

Heartsick

If you ask me, Valentine’s Day could use an overhaul.

It’s a bit tired/dated/overrated.

And everyone knows it lacks… substance.

Flowers, chocolate and overpriced greeting cards are nice and all… but they can’t convey love (or measure it) any more than a heartfelt wedding toast can guarantee a healthy marriage.

If you are happily coupled, Valentine’s Day is – at best – a reminder to celebrate that. But if you’re not, it’s simply SAD.

(Single Awareness Day.)

*Cue Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.*

Either way, Valentine’s Day usually turns out to be a bit of a disappointment. And it sure can’t cure what ails us, deep down.

A sage once wrote:

Hope deferred makes the heart sick… ~ Proverbs 13:12a (NET)

(And everyone’s had it deferred… or dashed altogether.)

But even before that inevitability, we discover in our hearts… distress.

Dis-ease.

We recognize the symptoms (and hate how they make us feel).

Insecure.

Anxious.

Unsettled.

The truth is… there’s a whole lot of heartsick people on this planet.

(I know because I’m one of them.)

There’s no vaccination against heartsickness. No natural immunity.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, we just contract it. Some toxins penetrate, our hearts suffer damage, and we find ourselves in dire need of critical care.

It starts early. A valentine crush turns out to just be… crushing. Bad boys take. Mean girls fake. Lonely nights break our sense of belonging and leave us… just… longing.

The longer we live, the higher the incidence.

Someone who was supposed to protect us, fails. Someone we were sure we could trust, betrays.

People are difficult. (You and me included.) Some are downright cruel.

I don’t know the neuropsychology of all that. But I know this:

Hurt people hurt others. Troubled people trouble others. Broken people break others. Abused people… (well, you know.)

Our world is fraught with danger, darkness: earthquakes, mass shootings, terminal illnesses, animal cruelty, human trafficking, hate crimes. It’s too much to bear. We become much afraid and try to manage (or manipulate) circumstances (or people) to alleviate our symptoms.

But it’s not always outside contaminants that afflict us. Our own constitution is compromised/corrupted/culpable too.

We’re easily bored and wander off to places/people/patterns that are unsafe. We’re prone to self-absorption, impatience, passive aggression. We make ourselves heartsick with our own lousy decisions and foolish pride and bitterness.

Sometimes, upon self-reflection, we’re startled to see that we’re the hurt/troubled/broken/abusive ones.

Where’s the cure for that?

Try as we might – and oh, do we – we can’t cure it ourselves.

Any more than we can cure Alzheimer’s/autism/addiction… or terminal depression.

Ever been in a cardiac care unit? If so, you know you want the best doctor to be yours. A top-tier cardiologist who can accurately diagnose and effectively treat you.

That’s what the whole heartsick lot of us need now.

A brilliant, compassionate heart specialist.

Someone to ease our fears and alleviate our suffering.

Someone to give us hope.

Heal us.

Allow me to give you a referral.

His name is Jesus.

(He’s in network, available, accepting new patients.)

If we’re gutsy enough to be honest, most of us would admit that we desperately search… elsewhere.

We want a different referral.

We prefer our own “second opinion.”

We think if we get a new job, start this program or change that habit, find new friends (or a special “someone”), do/don’t do this or that, move and “start over” elsewhere, that somehow, that will be the thing that cures us. But it turns out, when we do this or that, go here or there… we’re still there.

We can’t outrun ourselves.

Or escape pain.

Heartsickness… is a global pandemic.

The road to healing is one way. (Full disclosure: narrow road.)

Jesus.

He is the Way.

His treatment plan is holistic, yet incomprehensible. He asks us to trust as he administers an exacting dose: mercy to resuscitate us, grace to sustain us.

He pours his love into our hearts, like he poured out his blood.

It’s a miracle drug, that love. And one day, it’ll prove to be the cure-all.

“… I’m leaving you well and whole. That’s my parting gift to you. Peace. I don’t leave you the way you’re used to being left—feeling abandoned, bereft. So don’t be upset. Don’t be distraught.” John 14:27 (The Message)

Heartsickness – though it feels excruciating, relentless – is a temporary condition. One day, it’ll be eradicated completely.

That day is coming.

Jesus is coming.

God himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever. ~ Revelation 21:3b-4 (NLT)

If you’re feeling heartsick this Valentine’s Day, please reach out to the aforementioned Specialist. He promised to take good care of you.

Get well soon.

Wendy

The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty — it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There’s a hunger for love, as there is a hunger for God. ~ Mother Theresa

Birds, Bees and the Buzz About Gender

Pretty sure I’m going to get some blowback on this one. Which is ok… I welcome discussion. (Passionate is fine; nasty is not.)

Perhaps we can just follow the classroom rules of my son’s kindergarten teacher:

No name-calling.

No screaming.

No spitting.

I don’t know about you, but when I watch the news I’m both horrified and heartbroken by the prevalence of war in our world.

Geopolitical wars.

Guerrilla wars.

Civil wars.

And uncivil ones too.

Culture wars. Information wars. Ideological wars.

(Is it just me? Or does it seem they’re all escalating?)

The latest involves an NCAA swimmer, pregnant prisoners and legislation regarding elementary education. (Not going to wade into those waters here. Sorry to disappoint.)

All I know is this:

When God created humankind, he made them in the likeness of God. Male and female he created them…

Distinctly… beautiful.

If that concept rankles, here’s my rhetorical question:

Isn’t that exactly what we’ve been working toward all this time?

Celebrating our differences, our distinctiveness, our diversity? (Maybe I’m missing something but why does this concept apply to race, religion, orientation… and not gender?)

Listen, the last thing I want to do in this space is provoke, incite or infuriate. I want to be one of those blessed peacemakers. I really do.

And I want to be the best kind of friend to my loved ones who are wildly different from each other (and me). Because why would anyone want to be a lousy friend?

I’m blessed with family, friends and lovely acquaintances who are far-left and right-wing. Atheist, agnostic and devout (Jews/ Christians/ Muslims/ Buddhists/ Universalists). White collar, blue collar, no collar. A sublime array of races/creeds/colors. Single, separated, married, consciously uncoupled, divorced. Straight, scared straight…

And LGBTQ.

I cherish them all.

So I’ll gladly use their preferred pronouns. For the same reason I will ask the person sitting next to me on the plane if they prefer I wear my mask.

Because…

Respectfulness.

Kindness.

Care.

These are pretty simple, practical ways I can love my neighbor.

I get one shot at this.

And I’m not throwing away my shot!

(Couldn’t help myself.)

I’ve got one chance to get this right.

One lifetime – day by day – to live and love the way Jesus does.

And here’s what I’ve come to realize:

Often I have no clue about a person’s backstory. Their upbringing or education or relationships. Their poverty, privilege or present circumstances. Their trauma or tender places.

Or why they see themselves a certain way.

When I was six years old, I thought babies came from heaven… and came out through Mom’s belly button.

But I knew boys and girls had inherent distinctions: anatomical and physiological. (Though I had no idea how to spell those words or what they meant.)

In other words…

Follow the science.

The problem is… we don’t always like the science. We want to change the science, bend it to our will, re-shape it, re-package it and re-present it to the seeing world.

We’ve invented colored contact lenses and sunless self-tanning lotions and cosmetic surgeries/dental veneers/Botox. And when those fail, we can improvise with editing tools and filters.

Because we want control over our bodies… and our images.

I’m no different. I use whitening toothpaste and wrinkle cream and Spanx. And my lovely stylist Rachel whips up a “potion” that magically eliminates the grey from my hair and makes it fifty shades of auburn again. (Love that. And her.)

And since I’m no different, I surely can’t/shouldn’t/won’t point a finger or wag my tongue. I agree that chromosomes – while they may seem ill-fitting – are telling. That’s called biology.

But if someone feels “trapped” in the anatomy of a gender that doesn’t “match,” shouldn’t that evoke compassion, rather than ridicule? Tender care rather than harsh judgement? Mercy rather than malice?

Shouldn’t it compel us to convey the most comforting/compelling/conclusive truths about who they are?

You are special.

You are wonderful.

You are beautiful.

You are one-in-a-trillion, a true original.

Because God says so. (Your Maker.) He’s an innovative designer, nurturing parent, brilliant artist, loving friend.

Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
    you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
    Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
    I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
    you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
    how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
    all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
    before I’d even lived one day. ~ Psalm 139:13-16

We need to teach our children their intrinsic value… and affirm their infinite worth. We can acknowledge their physiological differences without regarding one or another as inferior or impeded. We ought to relate from a starting point of kindness and care so we can all safely reach our (divine) destination.

We can heal the world by seeing – through loving lenses – and listening – to truly hear – and loving – deeply and well.

If we don’t, we will lose an entire generation to isolation, disassociation, despair.

The time is now.

May Day!

Wendy

P.S. You can’t love your neighbor, if you never get to know them. When was the last time you had someone who doesn’t look/sound/talk/think like you into your home? How often do you invite someone with opposing views (on anything – religion, politics, pastries) for coffee and conversation? Start with “hello” and a smile and see where it goes.

Almost Friday…

You’ve seen those memes, right?

With images of clinging koalas/dancing ferrets/fist-pumping babies… or (my personal favorite):

Lionel Richie wearing a smile and a “Friday” nametag… and sporting a caption that reads:

Hello… is it me you’re looking for?

Almost Friday means… you’re about to get a breather, a break, a blessed respite from the drudgery of the daily grind. Almost Friday signals stress relief… freedom!… sweet celebration.

We get 52 Fridays included with every trip around the sun.

(Pretty great.)

So if you’ve had a rough week, chin up. Soon the dismal/ dreadful/ disappointing/ disastrous events of the last few days will be in the rearview mirror… and everything above the dashboard will be looking oh-so-bright and beautiful.

If you’ve had a rough year (or life), take heart.

Because tomorrow isn’t just any Friday.

It’s guaranteed…

Good.

Tomorrow marks the most beguiling/ bewildering/ bewitching day in all of human history. That single, life-changing, earth-shaking Friday was both celestial and cataclysmic.

Heavenly and horrifying.

Divine and deadly.

(It was unthinkably brutal… bloody… barbaric, really.)

And yet we call it Good.

Why?

Because it harkens back, looks forward, and wraps up in the present all the best things in life:

Debts cancelled.

Evil overcome.

Mercy sprinkled.

Injustice overturned.

Sins forgiven. (Even the ugliest and worst.)

Grace gifted.

Death defeated, once and for all… for all who dare to believe. (That Jesus is who he said he is. And did what he said he would. And will do all he’s promised.)

The hero prevails.

The villain slinks back into the shadows.

And every one of us who’s desperate to be cherished… knows… now… and forever… we are.

The One who embodies love… offered up his body.

The One who loves us to death… died.

The One who breathes life itself… breathed his last. For you and me.

Because love compelled him to.

Jesus.

Loves.

You.

It’s not a fearful, flimsy love. It’s fierce, firm. It’s not fleeting.

It’s forever.

It’s the stuff of dreams-come-true and happily-ever-after… but it is not a fairy tale.

Real love isn’t the story arc of a two-hour rom-com. It sticks around a whole lot longer. (And it’s far more practical, capable, durable, valuable than anything Hollywood could dream up.)

Real love looks closely, tenderly. And it overlooks.

It listens carefully and hears – between, beneath, beyond – what’s spoken out loud.

Real love has grit, strength, steely resolve.

And it (eventually, always) requires sacrifice.

Selflessness.

It gets its hands dirty… pulls up out of the muck… or sits weeping together in it.

It’s the kind of love that’s willing to lay it all down.

Even when the beloved is unlovely.

Unworthy.

Ungrateful.

(Like me.)

Now, would anyone dare to die for the sake of a wicked person?  We can all understand if someone was willing to die for a truly noble person. But Christ proved God’s passionate love for us by dying in our place while we were still lost and ungodly!

And there is still much more to say of his unfailing love for us!  ~ Romans 5:7-9 (TPT)

Real love will bear the worst, believe the best, wait expectantly when everything in sight tells it to abandon hope… and endure beyond the bitter end…

Anticipating a fresh new beginning.

That kind of lay-down-your-life love is a force. It has resurrection power. It breathes life into dead things.

Dreams.

Relationships.

Futures.

Forever afters.

So, what do you think? With God on our side like this, how can we lose? If God didn’t hesitate to put everything on the line for us, embracing our condition and exposing himself to the worst by sending his own Son, is there anything else he wouldn’t gladly and freely do for us? And who would dare tangle with God by messing with one of God’s chosen? Who would dare even to point a finger? The One who died for us—who was raised to life for us!—is in the presence of God at this very moment sticking up for us. Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us? There is no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins listed in Scripture…

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us. ~ Romans 8:31-39 (The Message)

The human mind can scarcely comprehend that kind of love.

It’s inexplicable.

Unsurpassable.

Flawless.

And… finished.

Yes, friend.

It.

Is.

Finished.

Ready, waiting, yours for the asking.

I know… because I’m the blessed recipient of that kind of crazy love. And I pray that you are – or will be (today?) – too.

We want all sorts of things in life. But what we need isn’t something. It’s someone. And when we look for him and find him, we gain everything.

Looking for truth? A way through? The meaning of life? Jesus really is…

All that.

He’s the one you’re looking for. (It’s been him all along.)

Jesus told him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me. ~ John 14:6 (NLT)

A Father’s love, a Son’s obedience, a sinner’s pardon.

Relief… freedom!… and sweet celebration.

That’s what Good Friday looks like.

T.G.I.F.

Wendy

P.S. Sunday’s coming. Tomb’s empty. Love wins.

Heart Medicine

It’s February. Which means everything in view is red (velvet) and white (chocolate) and pink (petals) and heart-shaped.

That sugary-sweet, sappy (sometimes sickening) day looms.

Strategically scheduled so retailers can attempt to cash in on L-O-V-E for first-quarter profits, Valentine’s Day is a booming business…

And…

The quintessential hopeless romantics/ desperate housewives/ Hallmark holiday.

Personally, I’m grateful for February 14th because our local Hallmark store employs my college student. (Sincere thanks to all the significant others who made Valentine purchases to declare their devotion… and in so doing, helped fund her DoorDash habit.)

Valentine’s Day is sweet and all that… but… sometimes… it’s not.

Like when you’re single.

Perpetually.

(Or suddenly.)

If you’re in one of those two categories… 2/14… well, it sucks.

It’s not happy. Or lovely. Or Valentine-y.

For you, it’s simply Single Awareness Day.

As in… S.A.D.

Or Brokenhearted Anguish Day.

As in… B.A.D.

But even if you’re happily “coupled” this Valentine’s Day, deep down you know the truth. Underneath all the cards and candy and cologne (and even the wildly creative declarations of undying affection), there’s a crushing conclusion that every lover comes to eventually.

Love hurts.

Hearts get broken every single day. Even on Valentine’s Day.

(Ouch.)

Because people are imperfect/impatient/stubborn/selfish.

Two flawed human beings trying to relate flawlessly forever and ever? Not happening.

Because we’ve all got hangups and habits and hurts that we just can’t keep “tucked in” for 50 years. Or even 5…

(Days.)

Inside, we’re all riddled with self-centeredness. And outside – around the edges – we’re all a little raggedy and rough and bruised and banged up. And you know what?

Hurt people hurt people.

(Even when we want to love well, we fail. Because that’s the human condition.)

You want to know how much love hurts?

Ask Jesus.

But Christ proved God’s passionate love for us

by

dying

in

our

place

while we were still lost and ungodly! ~ Romans 5:8 (TPT)

While you and I and the rest of humankind were busy ignoring/offending/afflicting him, he was silently suffering at the hands of people just like us – malcontents/mockers/murderers. You’re not a murderer, you say? Here’s Jesus’ take on that:

You’re familiar with the command to the ancients, ‘Do not murder.’ I’m telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother ‘idiot!’ and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell ‘stupid!’ at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill. ~ Matthew 5:21-22 (MSG)

But think about this: while we were wasting our lives in sin, God revealed His powerful love to us in a tangible display—the Anointed One died for us. (VOICE)

The Anointed One is the only one capable of loving you well always. In all ways.

He loves you to death… and offers… life. A really, really good one.

Fresh.

Full.

Fruitful.

Free.

Not a run-of-the-mill, one-size-fits-all kind of life. A daring, dazzling, divinely-designed one… tailored to who you are, how God made you and where he’s inviting you.

You were made for forever, friend.

And you’re loved like crazy.

No.

Matter.

What.

When somebody loves you like that, you’d think you’d spend the rest of your life feeling indebted and devoted. Captivated by the sense of safety, serenity and sweetness that comes from being intimately known and infinitely – and perhaps more importantly, irreversibly – loved. But most people don’t know that kind of love.

Because they don’t know the one who is love.

How can you love or be loved by someone you don’t really know? Oh, people say they “believe in God” or that they “know Jesus.” (But they mean it like they “know” Harry Styles.)

Knowing of someone isn’t the same as knowing them.

You’ve got to look for him. Listen for his voice. Get to know him. Read his love letter. It’s a (really) Good Book.

You’ll find him there, on those pages. And you’ll discover…

God

is

love. 

Be his.

Wendy

P.S. If the 14th of February seems bitter… take heart. Because the very next day is abundantly, affordably sweet. The day after Valentine’s Day is what I like to call Candy Consolation Day – when every item in the candy aisle is half-price!

Sometimes self-care comes in the form of a king-sized Kit Kat.

Daddy Issues

This one might hurt a little.

‘Cause Father’s Day isn’t just fun and (baseball/bags/poker/tennis/golf) games. Sadly, this third Sunday in June can toss up all kinds of heartache and here’s why:

There’s a whole slew of troubled guys out there who happen to have reproduced.

And more than a few of their kids grew up… hurt. So many battle-scarred adults were wounded by the person responsible for protecting them:

Dad.

(Others were just collateral damage in his own private battles.)

All this means there’s a mess of kids – young and old – for whom Father’s Day seems a little ridiculous/offensive/pointless/painful. Or a lot.

I’d venture to guess that most of those troubled dads got that way because their dads were troubled.

(Unfortunately, it’s often an inherited trait.)

Doesn’t take a PhD in Clinical Psychology to figure out that a lot of deadbeat dads were raised by men who were chronically distant or distracted. Dismissive or demanding. Demeaning or downright mean.

Or maybe Dad just took off. Without thinking twice about the fallout.

Either way, daddy issues almost always come back to haunt somebody. Usually two somebodies:

Parent.

And child.

The sad truth is there are a lot of lousy dads. And even more mediocre ones. But the good news is there are some really fantastic fathers out there too.

My kids got one of the all-time greats.

His name is Steve… but he mostly goes by Dad, Daddy, Dizzle or (my personal favorite)…

Hoosier Daddy.

He’s the best of the best. Steady, strong, hardworking, humble, faithful, fun and fiercely devoted. He counsels, coaches, comforts, consoles. He folds laundry and settles disputes. He’s good with a mower, shovel, glove and putter. And he can grill a mean rack of ribs.

He plays with our kids and prays with our kids.

And he practices what he preaches.

He loves them. Dearly. Deeply.

Day after day after day.

Real love means sacrifice. For dads, it means willingly relinquishing their desires (perhaps their dreams too) so their kids can grow up healthy, safe and strong… and pursue their own dreams.

Being a good dad requires intentionality and investment.

Because you know how kids spell “love?”

T-I-M-E.

The best dads give their kids that gift, again and again.

(Even when it’s inconvenient or seems “unimportant” in comparison to other demands.)

If you got a dad like that, it’s pretty easy to respect, appreciate and celebrate that guy. But what if you didn’t?

Honor your father…

Anyway.

(Because God said so.)

Notice the lack of conditions/caveats/qualifications. It doesn’t say “Honor your father if (fill-in-the-blank).”

If he was honorable. Or admirable. Or available. (Or even around.)

It just says honor him.

Sometimes that means expressing gratitude (for a job well done) and admiration (for a life well-lived).

Sometimes it’s just acknowledging that he did the best he could. (Often this requires some hindsight… and humility.)

But if your dad was someone who abused you – physically or emotionally, intentionally or repeatedly – how in the world are you supposed to do that impossibly hard thing? Honor him?

Honestly, I have no idea. Because my dad didn’t abuse or abandon me. He didn’t belittle or manipulate or prey on me… he protected and provided and prayed for me.

Maybe “honoring” your dad just means allowing God to be your Father… and asking Him to help you not repeat the cycle of abuse.

Or maybe it means mustering every ounce of mercy and bravery that God offers and saying, “I forgive you.” Even if you’ve never gotten a glimpse of remorse or a whisper of “I’m sorry.”

Because forgiveness is a gift you give yourself.

(When you open it, you’ll find buried treasure inside. For some, freedom. Others, healing. Some, transformation. Others, a whole new identity.)

The truth is it’s our Creator who defines us. The real question isn’t who your father is… or even who you are… it’s whose you are.

Who’s your Daddy?

If you don’t already know Him, I pray you’ll get to know your Heavenly Daddy.

I just hope you’re not too wounded or bitter to even try.

Maybe you blame “our Father who art in heaven” for your troubled/absent/abusive one. You figure if He’s really God (all-knowing, all-powerful and all that) then He’s responsible for the dad you got (or didn’t get, as the case may be).

Fair enough.

But God’s not a dictator. He didn’t “make” your father do – or not do – anything. He isn’t responsible for that great big gash your dad left on your heart.

He just wants to be the one to stitch it up. (And make it better than new.)

He promises to be the Dad you never had: protective, patient, kind, strong, gentle, wise, merciful, fair, full of good humor and giver of good gifts.

He really is the… Best. Dad. Ever.

And He loves you like crazy.

From the bottom of my heart, I wish you a Heavenly Father‘s Day.

Wendy

P.S. Pretty sure if all dads were good dads, a lot of the world’s problems would vanish in a heartbeat.

Crazy Little Thing

Love is in the air.

It wafts through February with not-so-subtle notes of fresh-cut roses, chocolate truffles and pricey cologne.

(And occasionally, a hint of desperation.)

Valentine’s Day looms, casting its candlelit shadows and sultry melodies, rendering hopeless romantics everywhere… lovestruck.

Quick PSA: If you haven’t procured a token of affection for your sweetheart, you’ve got about 24 hours to bring the magic. And a giant teddy bear with big brown eyes and a red velvet bow is – sadly – devoid of magic… unless the object of your affection possesses the emotional maturity of a third-grader. (In which case you have have much bigger problems than finding the right Valentine’s Day gift.)

Since there seems to be a fair amount of confusion (and endless debate) about what love is and isn’t, I thought I’d try to sift through some sentiments/platitudes/poems/prose and toss a few of the fantasies/fallacies/falsities/fables.

(In honor of Saint Valentine, of course.)

Love is never having to say you’re sorry. (Erich Segal)

I disagree. Humility and mercy are pretty essential to love’s survival. Say sorry, mean it, make amends… start again.

Love is blind. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

Nope. True love gazes intently, sees clearly… and loves anyway.

Love is friendship set on fire. (Jeremy Taylor)

Don’t really think so. I get the gist but… fire burns down. Love builds up.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. (William Shakespeare)

Smoke vanishes. Love sticks around.

Love is a game and true love is a trophy. (Rufus Wainwright)

If love is a game to you… you’re a player. (And a jerk.) Thank u, next.

Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same. (George R. R. Martin)

Wrong. Love shouldn’t be toxic. Ever. (If it is, run for your life.)

Love is a flower; you’ve got to let it grow. (John Lennon)

Sweet sentiment… lousy analogy. Flowers wilt. Love is ever green.

Love is a serious mental disease. (Plato)

No, psychosis is a serious mental disease. Love, on the other hand, heals.

Love is a battlefield. (Pat Benatar)

Wrong. Life is a battlefield. Love is a bunker.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. (Robert Frost)

I’m thinking this sounds an awful lot like objectification. (And isn’t that what we tell our daughters to avoid at all costs? Thought so.) It’s devotion – not desire – that lasts.

Love is a reciprocal torture. (Marcel Proust)

Nope. Love doesn’t inflict pain. It endeavors to ease it.

Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it’s probably s&*#. (Smart, Alec.)

Actually, I have no idea who said this. (I just really wanted to attribute one of these quotes to the aforementioned fictional character.)

While these sayings are oft-quoted (and make catchy memes), none of the above is actually, well, true.

And I daresay it’s not what love is that matters most. It’s what love does.

Love rescues.

Love rights wrongs.

Love banishes fear.

Love bears the worst… and believes the best.

Love never double-crosses or quits or falters or fails.

Love lasts. Forever and ever. Amen.

That’s real love. And there’s only one like that.

God’s.

(But you already knew that, didn’t you?)

God’s love is pure… profound… perfect.

And nothing in the entire universe can stop it.

For I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from his love. Death can’t, and life can’t. The angels won’t, and all the powers of hell itself cannot keep God’s love away. Our fears for today, our worries about tomorrow, or where we are—high above the sky, or in the deepest ocean—nothing will ever be able to separate us from the love of God demonstrated by our Lord Jesus Christ when he died for us. (Romans 8:38-39, TLB)

It’s utterly indestructible, startlingly tender.

It can be shunned, mocked, betrayed, rejected or reviled… and it isn’t deflected, deterred or destroyed. In fact, it isn’t dimmed or diminished in the slightest.

In love, God fixes His adoring gaze on us – even at our ugliest and worst. (Which, let’s be honest, is often far more unsightly than what we allow to seep out into the public eye.)

Love refuses to be spurned. It simply… waits.

It doesn’t flinch in the face of rejection or rage. (Or even turn away.)

Because with God, there’s no such thing as “irreconcilable differences.”

In fact, there are no conditions for God’s love whatsoever… and no reciprocation necessary.

Crazy, isn’t it?

Who could possibly love like that?

Not a single soul on this spinning blue ball has the grace and guts to love that way.

Love is… and love does…

because…

I AM.

Love isn’t just God’s idea. It’s His very nature. It’s who He was, who He is… and who He will always be.

And since He’s the inventor of love, He’s the one who gets to decide what defines and distinguishes it from all of its imitators: attraction, affection, camaraderie, chemistry, compatibility, flattery, obsession, esteem, loyalty, lust. It isn’t just sweet talk. It’s truth. And it’s true blue.

He shows us the essence of love by example.

Quite simply, He lives it.

(In epic proportions.)

Who He is… is what LOVE is:

Incredibly patient, exceedingly gentle, consistently kind. Strong and steady and wholly unselfish. Refreshing, resilient, restorative, relentless.

God lives and breathes love. And let His only Son die to prove it.

Because love will sacrifice everything for its beloved.

Jesus bore the shame and blame and excruciating pain, and He did it for those who were inflicting it. (You and me and all the rest of humankind.) He did it with no guarantee that we’d ever appreciate – or even acknowledge – His incomprehensible sacrifice. He did it, knowing we might never return His affection and adoration. (Or pass it on.)

My beloved friends, let us continue to love each other since love comes from God. Everyone who loves is born of God and experiences a relationship with God. The person who refuses to love doesn’t know the first thing about God, because God is love—so you can’t know him if you don’t love. This is how God showed his love for us: God sent his only Son into the world so we might live through him. This is the kind of love we are talking about—not that we once upon a time loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to clear away our sins and the damage they’ve done to our relationship with God.

My dear, dear friends, if God loved us like this, we certainly ought to love each other. No one has seen God, ever. But if we love one another, God dwells deeply within us, and his love becomes complete in us—perfect love!

This is how we know we’re living steadily and deeply in him, and he in us: He’s given us life from his life, from his very own Spirit. Also, we’ve seen for ourselves and continue to state openly that the Father sent his Son as Savior of the world. Everyone who confesses that Jesus is God’s Son participates continuously in an intimate relationship with God. We know it so well, we’ve embraced it heart and soul, this love that comes from God.

God is love. (1 John 4:7-16, The Message)

Turns out that crazy little thing called love is… a crazy big thing.

The biggest – and best – thing ever.

Wendy

P.S. Be(Love)d.

 

Dearly Beloved

It’s wedding season.

Which means the “Wedding March” and “Love Shack” are topping playlists everywhere. I happen to be a fan of the B-52s – and Mendelssohn too – so I’m ok with that. (I draw the line at “Turn Down for What.” Just… no.)

I love weddings. The solemn vows, the sentimental toasts, the sacred union. The blushing bride, dashing groom, teary-eyed parents. The dress, the flowers, the CAKE. That last, lovely daddy-daughter dance, the crazy kid doing the Worm, the bevy of bridesmaids clap-hop-stomping to the Cha Cha Slide. The bouquet toss, the clinking glasses, the joyful rice/bubbles/sparkler sendoff.

But first – barely above a whisper – the seating of the guests, the lighting of the candles, the sprinkling of the petals to herald the bride’s slow, sweet stroll down the aisle. And then the pastor/priest/rabbi/internet-ordained-second-cousin-of-the-groom begins the ceremony… and at that point, I have to suppress a little giggle.

Because I’m envisioning the bishop from “The Princess Bride,” that’s why.

Mawwwage… Mawwwage is what bwings us togevver today. Mawwwage, that bwessed awwwangement. That dweam wifffin a dweam…

(Well played, Peter Cook.)

There are lots of terrific films about engagements and weddings and brides and grooms but “The Princess Bride” is my favorite… (six-fingered) hands down. It’s action, adventure, romance, comedy, fantasy and fairy tale all delightfully mined and cut into one brilliant little cinematic gem.

Brandishing a stellar cast, quotable script, and enduring lessons on life and love, the film adaptation of William Goldman’s book was a sleeper hit. It opened just a few weeks before Steve and I were married in 1987 and had a mildly successful run in theaters before gaining widespread fame and “family classic” status following its video release. Perhaps that’s the reason I remain so enamored: the story harkens back to the beginning of my own “happily ever after.”

(You may heretofore refer to Steve as “sweet Westley” and me as Buttercup. If you wish.)

“The Princess Bride” launched Robin Wright’s award-winning career and brought Columbo’s to a satisfying and splendid close. It introduced us to the dangers of shrieking eels, fireswamps, and iocane powder, and the wonders of MLT sandwiches, swashbuckling swordplay, and chocolate-covered miracle pills. And it bestowed a rich stash of witty and iconic film quotes (which serve as regular retorts in our household).

I’m not a witch; I’m your wife!

Have you ever heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates…? Morons!

When I was your age, (YouTube/Netflix/Xbox) was called books.

We are men of action. Lies do not become us.

Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.

You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

But I digress.

The reason I find weddings so captivating is this: they remind me what matters most. Family, beauty, devotion, worship. They make no apologies about what we ought to do: keep our promises, cherish our people, love big and bold and brave… ever after.

Sadly, things don’t always turn out as swimmingly as they did for Buttercup and Westley. There’s a whole lot of living that happens between “once upon a time” and “happily ever after,” and it requires copious amounts of grit and grace. Day after day after day after day after day.

Every so often, I watch the bride and groom wave goodbye to their guests, and I think…

Have fun storming the castle!

Do you think it’ll work?

It would take a miracle.

The odds are stacked pretty high against lifelong love and devotion. Two people are drawn by their differences, then dashed by them. Or by the natural (and/or manmade) disasters that inevitably strike every living thing on planet Earth.

Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

Some couples grow apart, others grow bitter. And a few – those rare and lovely few – grow old together. They hold tight – for better or worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health – ’til their very last breath. Gladly. Gracefully.

Mother Theresa once said, “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.” Yes, that’s the hard holy work, isn’t it? Loving the people under your own roof.

Sometimes I wonder if I have what it takes. To serve, sacrifice, set me-me-me aside.

For us-us-us.

Love – real love – costs. (The people who say it’s free are… well… morons.) Love costs a bundle.

A willingness to risk your life… and lay it down. Risking your life may be the easier thing. It’s the laying it down, day in and day out, that’s really hard. Choosing to selflessly, relentlessly love an imperfect person. Someone whose flaws have become glaringly apparent. Someone who has failed you time and time again.

It’s an impossible task, really. Unless we are filled and fueled by Love Incarnate.

Here’s the hitch:

We must be fully loved before we can love fully.

This is true love. You think this happens every day?

Yes.

God loves you, truly.

Nothing you accomplish could make Him love you more than He already does. And nothing you do will make Him love you any less.

Inconceivable, isn’t it?

All He wants from you, beloved, is that you… be loved.

So, soak it up. And splash it all around. It’s what you were made for.

All you ever really wanted was to be loved (just the way you are)?

As you wish.

Wendy

P.S. You can quote me.

What Love Isn’t

My dear reader,

If you’re in love – or looking for it – I’m writing to you today. With the hope that maybe I can clear up a few misconceptions.

‘Cause we live in a crazy, confused, capricious world. And we sure as heck can’t rely on its loudest voices to tell us the truth about love. (On Valentine’s Day or any other day of the year.)

Our only hope for anything remotely resembling “happily ever after” is this:

We’ve got to keep the true in true love. (And denounce the dirty, degrading and rapidly mutating lies.)

In any relationship, at any age or stage, under any circumstance…

Here is what love isn’t:

Love isn’t impatient. If someone hurries you or hounds you or pushes you or pressures you to do anything, (s)he loves self, not you.

Love isn’t harsh or unkind or casually cruel. Sarcasm and snarky comments included. (It may seem witty at the time, but hurtful never really is.)

Love isn’t jealous or possessive or aggressive.

It isn’t arrogant either. If (s)he’s full of him(her)self, there’s no room for you.

Love isn’t rude. (Tone and tenor matter. More than most people think.)

Love isn’t demeaning or demanding. If you’re always the one giving in or giving up, get out. Now.

Love isn’t easily angered. Do you really want to be close to someone who might detonate at any moment? Rage-shrapnel is the toughest (and most painful) to remove.

Love isn’t easily offended either. It doesn’t keep a tally of missteps and infractions. The person who says “you owe me” rarely gets paid.

Love isn’t bitter. Forgive early, often, and liberally. (Mercy is a beautiful thing.)

Love isn’t gratified by another’s downfall or degradation. And it isn’t dishonest.

Love isn’t flimsy or fickle.

It isn’t fleeting.

Or unfaithful.

Because love isn’t chemistry. And chemistry isn’t commitment. (And commitment doesn’t have an expiration date.)

Love isn’t quick to assume or accuse. It isn’t cynical, suspicious or slanderous.

Love isn’t insecure.

It isn’t desperate.

Love isn’t controlling. Or clingy.

Love isn’t skittish. It doesn’t jump and run at the slightest pang. Or buckle under pressure. Love sticks around, hunkers down, rolls up its sleeves and gets to work. It digs deep and doesn’t quit. It holds on tight ’til challenges are met, conflicts resolved, obstacles overcome, crises weathered and storms ceased.

Love isn’t readily available (even – especially – on Tinder) and it cannot be store-bought. Though Hallmark, Fannie May (and florists and jewelers everywhere) would suggest otherwise. Especially today.

Love isn’t manmade. (In fact, nothing could be more divine.)

Love isn’t a coward.

Or a quitter.

Love holds on tight. For always.

Love… wins.

How can I be sure about all this?

God said so.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)

See? Told you.

Here’s another translation:

So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love. 

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.

 

Yeah, that’s the good stuff.

True love.

If you don’t have it, I hope you find it. And if you’ve found it, I hope you cherish it.

Here’s to the real thing,

Wendy

P.S. If you’re desperate for love this Valentine’s Day (and who isn’t?), allow me to introduce you to its inventor and its essence, Jesus.

Be His.

Hello, love.

Sweet Talk

My dear reader,

Today is the day you’ve all been waiting for…

TACO TUESDAY!!!

Kidding. Or not, since your local Mexican joint is probably the only restaurant within a 50-mile radius that has any last-minute reservations available… in case you forgot to book a table for…

VALENTINE’S DAY!!!

That red-letter day everyone anticipates with fluttery hearts and flowery expectations… ok, maybe just the starry-eyed lovebirds who met their soulmate on Match.com a couple weeks back (and a handful of Hallmark and Hershey’s stockholders, perhaps).

Last week, my daughter came home from school and told me her girlfriends were buying up Val-o-Grams like clearance lip gloss and bubble gum.

“What on God’s green earth is Val-o-Gram?” I tried to hide my concern that some enterprising sixth-grader was selling his mom’s anxiety medication out of his gym locker. Again. Yes, this had already “been a thing” when one of our older boys was in junior high. (I’ve made a couple trips around the block, kids.)

“It’s really just a blank valentine. You buy it for a dollar and write a note to somebody, then the Val-o-Grams get delivered on Valentine’s Day.”

I can hear the sales pitch now:

Here, kid, buy some blank paper for a buck and scribble a note on it…

You’re a Bae/Hottie/(flame emoji).

I Heart You

Be My Boo

I Like Big Butts I Cannot Lie (you just know some 7th grade boy is gonna go there. Punk.)

Student Announcer: “And our Valentine Valets will hand-deliver your sweet sentiments all the way down the hall and around the corner to Mr. Brown’s science lab.”

Enterprising, indeed.

My brain leapt from felony prescription drug charges to ill-fated junior high crushes… and then my heart sank.

“I remember that whole scene. Only for us, it was carnations. Red for true love. Pink for friendship. And white for secret admirer.”

Chloe gave me the question-mark eyebrows. Kid was clearly not tracking.

“‘Secret admirer’ means you’re crushing hard.  Anonymously,” I added for clarification.

“Mom, I know what a secret admirer is.” Sigh. Eye roll.

“But you did that thing with your eyebrows,” I insisted. She did. I  swear she did.

“Yeah, because…  Flowers?! For guys too?” Apparently the manly men at HIJH (nearly all of whom are doused in copious amounts of Axe Body Spray and sporting peach fuzz) wouldn’t be caught dead clutching pink carnations on February 14th or any other day of the year.

“The guys dug it,” I said, matter-of-factly. Because they did. And because I thought it was a cute little play-on-words. Flowers. Soil. Dig?

“That’s weird.” Meaning, Mom’s weird. Her friends are weird. The 80s were weird. She has a point there. (But we can talk about women’s shoulder pads and men’s mullets and Brooke Shields’ undies and Madonna’s armpits another time.)

“I’m not gonna send any Val-o-Grams. I’m gonna save my money and do my own thing.”

Smart cookie, that one. (She’s got 60 bucks in babysitting money, and she isn’t gonna blow it on BLANK PAPER.)

What I didn’t say was… WHEW!  Thank God you’re not (literally and figuratively) buying into the Public-Proclamation-of-Pubescent-Popularity Contest. Because honestly, that’s what it is. It’s a social hierarchy spectacle and not-so-subtle indicator of junior high-and-mighty. And the Valentine Valets know it. And they are profiting from the vulnerability and insecurities of 11 to 14-year-olds. For shame.

I remember Carnation Delivery Day like it was yesterday. (Actually, I don’t remember that much from yesterday. Except the hot yoga and cold pizza. I highly recommend both.) For me, February 14th eerily resembled the rising action of “Sixteen Candles.” Plenty of awkward moments and mortifying embarrassment and maybe, just maybe, a little thrill of hopeful romanticism thrown in. But for the most part, Valentine’s Day denoted a whole lot of dread. I dreaded the possibility of getting a red or white carnation from someone who – like me – was gawky and geeky and self-conscious… and mingled mainly with the “Mathletics” crowd. I dreaded the thought of getting one pink carnation from a well-meaning, merciful, misguided friend trying to deliver me from enduring an entire day empty-handed and forlorn. Or the worst fate of all. Zero carnations. None. No love, no friendship, no admiration. Another high-level equation for me and my mathletics team:

0 Carnations + 7 (48-minute) Class Periods = Valentine’s Day Despair.

One girl I knew regularly collected bountiful bouquets during the annual school-wide flower shower. It was an embarrassment of red, white, and pink riches for this girl. I think she topped out at 37 carnations* one year. (If you’re reading this, Hi Gretch!) She was one of those perky/pretty/popular/party girls who made all the boys’ heads turn and cheeks burn (and caused other physiological and anatomical responses as well, but it would be inappropriate for me to elaborate in this family-friendly corner of the world wide web).

*I feel obliged to place an asterisk beside this statistic because she may have already begun dating the guy she eventually wed, raised a family with, and remains happily hitched to. (Hi Scott!)

Chloe went off to school this morning sporting her sparkly valentine necklace and bearing candy conversation hearts and Ring Pops for her friends. She may or may not return home with a Val-o-Gram or a flower (of any color or variety). Either way, I hope she will bound in the front door with a bright smile and a happy heart, because she is loved. Like crazy.

But if my girl comes home empty-handed and forlorn, I will tell her this:

You know what carnations and Val-o-Grams (and fancy chocolates and fine jewelry) do, sweet girl? They make us feel noticed, cherished, wanted… wonderful. It’s not really the swag we crave; it’s the kindness, care, and crazy-about-you vibes. Not the expense, but the esteem.

I read once that there are only two things in life we really long for:

Security and significance.

Every single one of us wants to feel safe and special. We want to be protected and prized. If we’re completely honest, we are all quite desperate for attention, affirmation, affection. We want somebody to tell us we matter, notice beauty in us, talk sweetly to us, and listen and truly hear us. Someone trustworthy to unburden ourselves – bare our souls – to. Someone who will uplift and refresh us, or comfort and console us. When we’re lovable and lovely… and when we’re ugly too. Someone who will look past the unbecoming and see the hidden exquisite. Someone who gets us; who’s got our back; who’ll help us become the very best version of ourselves.  Somebody who’s willing to run the whole 26.2 miles with us, pacing us, cheering us, giving us water, urging us onward… toward the finish line. (And then stick around to hug and high-five us in the post-race party tent!)

Someone.

Someone who’s near.

Someone whose love for you will not fade or falter or fail.

Someone who will never, ever leave. No matter what you do or say or don’t do or don’t say.

He has written you a soul-searing love letter… and grown fields of wildflowers for you.

He sees you. Knows you. Hears you. He defends you. And He delights in you. He adores you, draws you close, sings sweetly over you. When you call out, He will save and strengthen you. Hold you and help you. He gives hope when you don’t have a razor-thin glimmer and drenches you in His good grace. He loves you so wildly and boundlessly that…

He would die for you. (Already has.)

He’s the love of your life… and ever after.

His name is Jesus.

Be His.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

With all my heart,

Wendy

P.S. I do hope Chloe gets at least one Val-0-Gram. But far more than that, I hope she knows how dearly and deeply and endlessly she is loved. By the One whose name is Love. And a whole bunch of others: family, friends, maybe even a secret admirer. On second thought, let’s postpone the latter. (Her Daddy is so not ready for that.)