A simple request

In my early walk with the Lord I was petrified to pray out loud. I would hear the prayers of others and know that mine would never sound so beautiful, so fluid. Anytime I was in a situation where I would have an opportunity to pray out loud, I would wait quietly, seconds dragging by, for the silence to be filled by someone else calling on God. I was embarrassed of stumbling. I did not want to sound like a bumbling fool before these godly people whose prayers, I was sure, delighted the Lord in their purity and simplicity.

Praying alone was not a problem. I could be honest with God and just be myself. But to open my mouth in front of others, that was a different story. I made it through high school and college mostly dodging the spotlight of prayer.

When you are a pastor’s wife, however, you can’t stay away from community prayer for very long, so soon enough I couldn’t hide anymore. I would be called to pray out loud often. And my face would turn red and hot. And my words would not make sense. And I would hear myself and think, as I prayed, you sound like an idiot; get it together; why did you just say that?; you need to stop now. And I was sure the pats and hugs from people afterwards were expressions of sympathy and pity for my poor attempt at divine communication on their behalf.

And I wasted so many wonderful years feeling that way…

I wish I could say I remember the moment in which this changed. I wish I could pinpoint a divine intervention or specific situation that opened my eyes to promises of spoken prayer but I can’t. At some point I cannot define, perhaps just out of growing intimacy with Jesus, I stopped worrying about what others heard and begun to dialogue with my “Audience of One,” to use the well-known expression.  I came to understand that to my Holy God my words sounded like music both in the secret of my prayer closet, and in the open of a spoken conversation.

I don’t pray long, elaborate prayers. I simply talk to my Maker. He talks and I talk and we talk. And my friends listen and are encouraged and I listen to them and I’m encouraged and together we lift our voices in a chorus of agreement and we call on the Lord, claiming his promises and his presence. “When two or more are gathered…” you know the rest.

And when I discovered the power of communal intercession I also discovered a new avenue to love. When someone has a need, rather than saying I will pray for you, I say let’s pray. And we stop, right then and there, and raise our voices to the heavens in unison, pleading and thanking. And I count it a privilege to share that moment with you and an honor that you trusted me to intercede on your behalf.

Let’s pray together…

Let me pray for you; let me hear you pray for me. I promise to never judge your conversation with our Father. I promise to simply listen, to echo, to agree. I promise we will be changed and feel closer to each other and closer to the Lord in the end. Be my “two” and I will be your “two” and He promises to come and listen and respond.

Don't you know?

My daughter humbles me. She has an understanding of who God is that is unadulterated by any personal agenda, any past experiences and any un-repented transgression. She takes Him at his word, with child-like trust, and believes He is exactly what she has been taught He is. No doubts, no questions, no suspicions.

Yesterday she and her little friend M. were sitting down to watch a movie while M.’s mom and I chatted in the kitchen. In an unusual move she didn’t pick a princess movie when I gave her the choice but took instead The Lion King.

I was surprised because she had not seen this movie in a while. When she was younger she had a love-hate relationship with Simba, Mufasa, and Scar. She loved, loved, loved the movie but would only watch the scary parts holding on to one of us. She would bury her face in her daddy’s chest but refuse vehemently when we asked if we should turn it off. As she got older and traded her animals-dressed-as-people stage for baby dolls, so did her taste in movies shift to princesses and fairies, and she had not asked to see Lion King in a while.

When M. found out what movie they would be watching she voiced similar concerns to those Isabel had had in the past about the story:

-“But the Lion King has Scar and Scar is scary!”

And here I was humbled. My little girl replied with a smile on her face:

-“But we don’t have to be scared. God will take care of us. Don’t you know?”

Don’t you know?

I know, don’t I? It is what I tell her when she is worried and we sing God is bigger than the boogie man. I know. It is what I say to her when she is afraid to walk from her bed to the potty in the middle of the night. I know.

Don’t I?

I know until…the doctor tells us a biological child is not likely to happen for us.

I know until… God calls me to quit my job and stay home with my children and the budget doesn’t add up.

I know until…my friend is diagnosed with terminal cancer at 15.

I know until…something happens to stir my world around and to take away from me all the illusion of control.

I know until…

…and then I don’t know. Then I panic. Then my faith slips through my fingers like water. Then it’s hard to look at someone and ask “don’t you know?”

and then...

…Isabel and Noah happen.

… a job from home happens.

…my friends’ parents reconnect with Christ in the sorrow of her loss.

…God shows up.

Over and over again. God shows up. I know. I’ve seen. I’ve experienced.

And yet, this four-year-old with seemingly no life-experience to speak of or tangible answers to prayer to show for, trusts God’s care wholeheartedly. She, who does not have volumes and volumes of journals recording all the times God has shown up; she, who doesn’t have story after story of God-ordained moments that saved the day; she, who in her short existence cannot look back and marvel at God’s constant hand over her life. She can ask confidently: “don’t you know?”

Amazing.

And humbling.

One day I will be like her.

One day maybe I will have faith like a child.

The Picture

On my nightstand there is a picture of us on our first date.

 We look so young! Sometimes I forget what we looked like then.

Ten years ago your hair was still brown and your face was smooth and fresh. Life was not yet written on it; it was full of possibility. Over time and almost imperceptibly your face has begun to show the results of living and loving, of suffering and rejoicing.

I watched you the other day wondering when these changes happened. They have been gradual, to be sure, and I, who memorize you again and again each morning, sometimes have to step back a moment to notice how times marches on.

There are lines around your mouth. Those began to appear almost five years ago when we brought Isabel home and have become deeper since the arrival of Noah. They are laugh lines. Lines of happy moments and the joys of being a dad and all the laughter shared with your children. Those are a work in progress and day after day I enjoy watching them deepen.

There is a small groove between your eyes. That one is the legacy of a hellish year I put your through when we almost didn’t make it. How you grieved and prayed through that time. Your prayers and your unshakeable love for me saved me; saved us. I’ll never really know how much pain sketched that little groove but I do know that I will do anything I can to keep it from growing, till death do us part.

There are little wrinkles next to your eyes. They are the result of your growing passion for photography and all those hours spent squinting into a camera lens. There are very few pictures of you, dear moment-capturer, but when I look through your snapshots I see us through your eyes. Your pictures are glimpses of your love for us, as you patiently wait for the perfect smile, the sweetest shot, the right light.

There are ridges crossing your forehead that speak of your wonderment at the world. I love the face that wrinkles your brow. It’s the wide-eyed face you make when life sends you a pleasant surprise, a moment to cherish. You help me see the world with child-like amazement at the ordinary. You laugh, teaching me how not to take myself so seriously.

You have changed over the last decade. The kid smiling at me from that picture so long ago is not the same man who kisses me so tenderly every night. The one I can reach out and touch is infinitely better, stronger, wiser, weathered.

Life has left its mark on your face but in it I read different parts of the story of us. I thank God every day for you and for each line on your face that reminds me how blessed we are.

The Wide-Eyed, Clenched-Jawed Monster

I lose my temper.

I’m not proud of this. I wish I were one of those people who, like my father-in-law says, are sweeter by nature than others are by grace. But I’m not. I have a short fuse, a quick temper, and a wide-eyed, clenched-jaw, scary look when I get angry. It’s not pretty.

Nowhere does my temper cause me more pain than in my parenting attempts. My children’s antics can make me go from zero to sixty in no time and anger me more than anyone else. I don’t like this side of myself and I’m trying to be a gentler momma. Sometimes I succeed, many times I fail.

One of those times happened this week. It was one of those days. You know, THOSE days. From the moment my feet hit the floor everything was a struggle. The kids woke up in their own difficult moods, the morning was hard, lunch was hard, life was hard. By the afternoon, I was tired, grumpy, and dejected. I asked Isabel to pick up some toys lying around the living room while I piddled in the kitchen. She came to the kitchen with all the toys, dumped them on the island and started to leave the room. When I turned around and saw the toys on the table I lost it.

Silly, right? It was just some toys on the table. Right. Right. RIGHT. I see that now. But at that moment those toys were the whole day’s worth of repeated requests, whining, and siblings’squabbles.

I…Lost…It.

With a clean motion of my arm I swept all the toys from the island.

- I TOLD YOU TO PUT THE TOYS AWAAAAAAY! growled the wide-eyed, clenched-jawed monster as she threw the toys to the floor.

As soon as the last item hit the ground I realized what I had done: Jonas, Isabel’s precious newborn baby she had lovingly “carried in her belly” for two days, and then birthed to great rejoicing of the whole family, was among the victims of my ire.

Too late.

Her little face crumpled into a look of such pain and betrayal that I wanted to crawl into the trashcan and be carried to the curb the way I deserved at that moment. All the anger evaporated in an instant giving way to nothing but shame and regret.

I once heard someone say that apologizing to your children only makes you look weak in their eyes. I pity the children who grew up in that household. Thankfully, I follow the One who is as gentle and humble as a lamb, so as quickly as I could I hit my knees to come eye-to-eye with my little girl and try to explain to her, between her tears and mine, how sorry, so, so sorry I was.

- Mami made a mistake, baby. I should not have reacted the way I did. Mami got angry, but she did not have the right to yell and throw Jonas to the floor. Please forgive me, do you forgive me?

Thankfully, she is learning to follow the One how is as gentle and humble as a lamb, so she nodded and nuzzled her head on my shoulder. Thank you, Jesus, for a child’s innocent forgiveness.

I teach Isabel many things every day. With me she is learning to read, to count, to cook. But I worry about the other lessons she is learning also; the ones I don’t want her to learn. My lack of self-control could damage her little soul and teach her ways to respond to anger for which I will have to give account. “In your anger do not sin” Paul reminds us in Ephesians. I want my children to watch me get angry and know that it is normal. I also want them to see in my response a reflection of the God I serve who is “compassionate, gracious, slow to anger and abounding in love.” (from Exodus 34).

I need your help. Will you please pray for me and ask me how it’s coming?

When God laughs...

There is a game my students used to love playing. It is called “I’ve never…” The premise of the game is to state experiences you have never had in hopes the other players have had them. The person with the longest list of lack of experiences wins the game. For the last ten years God and I have been playing a slightly twisted version of this game. It is called: “I will never….” Here is how it goes: I say “I will never….” and God laughs. He must be really good at this game because he is yet to lose.

In college I was a Resident Assistant in a Freshman dorm at a small Christian university. I spent many evenings counseling sobbing Freshmen girls who would come in shaking because some upperclassman, religion major told them the Almighty himself pronounced they would marry each other some day. I vowed to never marry a religion major.

God laughed…

In December I will celebrate ten years of marriage to my husband, the pastor. Being his wife has been one of the greatest blessings God has given me. The man is unparalleled, in my humble opinion.

When I graduated from college with a degree in Communication Education, my goal was to teach debate and drama. Being a native Spanish speaker, I let my advisor convince me to pursue an endorsement in Spanish as well, just in case, she said. I told her I would never, ever, ever, EVER teach Spanish. This is only plan B, I said.

God laughed… I think that time I actually heard him.

When I started looking for a job, there were no Communication jobs to be found. I taught Spanish for the better part of seven years and I discovered that teaching teenagers a new language also opens up their eyes to new cultures and a new worldview. Very cool. In the process my life was enriched by some amazing kids who shared their stories with me and still do. Even cooler.

When Matt graduated from the Seminary and began his search for a church to pastor, I had resigned myself to the role of pastor’s wife. But, I clearly told God in no uncertain terms, I will NOT sing and play the piano like the stereotypical pastor’s wife.

Guess what God was doing the whole time I was ranting?

The first church we pastored needed…you guessed it, a piano player and one more voice in the worship team. We are no longer at the same church and I am still playing the piano and singing. It is my honor to be a part of leading our congregation to worship.

As I continued my journey discovering how God wanted to use me, I have done many things and served in many capacities. The one thing I said I would not do is lead any kind of women’s ministry. Leading women, I told God, was neither my calling nor my passion.

By now I imagine tears were pouring from my Lord’s eyes, he was laughing so hard.

About March of this year our church began a Wednesday night Women’s Bible Study led by…who else? Recently I even organized a women’s retreat for our church with the help of some amazing ladies. To surround myself with these incredible women has changed me from the inside out. I, who have been an only child, have found sisters… and lots of them.

A few months ago I sat at a Starbucks with one of these sisters of mine discussing Isabel’s education. My friend and I were weighing the pros and cons of public education, private education, and homeschooling. She had homeschooled her two oldest daughters and is a big proponent. I told her I admired her and gave her the old: “more power to ya, sister” but informed her that homeschooling simply was not for me.

That time God had a laughing companion…

In true God-like subtlety he began to send my way sign after sign that I was speaking too soon. In typical Gaby-like stubbornness I began to fight him. Long story short, I’m homeschooling Isabel…at least this year. In hand-to-hand combat, God’s grace always prevails over my stubbornness. Thank you for that, Lord.

The dreams and desires God has for my life are not those he has for everyone’s life. Not everyone is called to become a teacher, a pastor’s wife, a women’s ministry leader, or a homeschooling mom. But he does say: "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55:9)

I don’t think I’m done saying “I will never” to him. It is in my nature to be hard-headed and it takes me a while to learn a lesson. I think God made me this way to assure a good laugh for himself every now and then. I don’t mind. And I don’t mind losing at this game. When He laughs, I know something life-changing is coming my way. Laugh away, Jesus, laugh away.

Monster

I wasn’t going to write this one. I didn’t know if I could tackle it in a way that would truly give voice to my thoughts in the sentiment in which they are intended. But I have quickly found that when something grabs me and won’t let go, it is blog-worthy. So please bear with me as I try to put into words some thoughts brought upon by a simple game of tag.

Last Saturday I took my kids to McDonald’s with my friend J. and her two little ones. It was a cloudy, mild day so we sat outside and let the kids play in the outdoor playground. Because the day was beautiful there were several other families with children eating outside and quickly the playground was swarming with kids between the ages of 2 and 5. They were running, laughing, and having a great time, while J. and I caught up on news and chatted. As I was watching the games, I realized all the children would run out of the slide screaming and laughing, calling out for the “monster.”

“-He’s coming, hurry, run!”

“-Ahhhh….run! He’s coming!”

I was half listening to J. and half processing this game when I realized the “monster” they were all fleeing was my son, Noah. It looked like an innocent enough game but I noticed they were using his name:

“-Run away, Noah is coming!”

As any concerned parent, I wanted to make sure he was a willing participant and that he was not being shunned by the other children. I caught him as he ran past me and I asked him: “Baby, do you like being the monster?” He nodded, smiled at me, and ran away growling and making paws of his hands. Ok, no harm done yet. He obviously did not think anything of being the monster they all avoided and was enjoying the role. I silently prayed, as I watched, that he would always have that innocent, open outlook.

As I reflected upon the events of the day, I realized it is a natural thing that happened. Noah is usually the youngest, he enjoys chasing other children while growling, and he doesn’t get his feelings hurt easily. What a better combination to be nominated monster of the game? But I am, by my own admission, hypersensitive to my children’s future struggles because their situation is, in so many ways, unique. So my wheels started turning...

When I taught high school I used to do an activity to raise awareness among my students about the ugliness of stereotypes. We would openly discuss the origin and validity of stereotypes they had heard or even believed at one point about people of other races. I loved how open and honest the kids were and I always felt that, by the end of the hour, we all walked away better informed, and more compassionate. We got to know each other more deeply and we had a more sympathetic understanding of each others’ ethnic backgrounds, cultures, and struggles as well. One of the questions I would ask is how many of them had ever been followed in a store by a security guard, had noticed people changing sides of the street if they saw them coming, or had, in any other way, been made aware that people feared them or didn’t trust them. Invariably it would be my males of color (Black and Hispanic) who would raise their hand. Every now and then I would have females of color raise their hands as well (I, myself, was followed in a JC Penny when I was in high school). Many of the kids who would raise their hands were straight “A” students, good kids who did not get in trouble. Others were kids who looked rough but had hearts of gold. Usually, they expressed dismay and hurt that this was the case.

The reasons behind this phenomenon are multiple and I’m not going to get into that. It’s just that lately, the voices of my students have begun to hit very close to home. I started to think about how cute Noah is. He has always been. When he was a baby, people would stop on the street to fuss over him. He has a dimpled smile, big brown eyes, and a winning disposition. As he grows, however, he will turn from a cute little boy to an ugly-duckling elementary school child, to an awkward, moody, teenager. And not just any teenager: a Black teenage-boy. I wonder if the same people that right now flirt with him in the grocery store will clutch their purses a little tighter when they see him coming. My little boy, a threat? My sweet little, compassionate Noah? It is a hard pill to swallow and yet it may just be his reality in a few years. It is what it is and I alone cannot change these facts. This is not a rant against society or an attempt at making any kind of social commentary. These are just the ponderings of a wistful mother.

A few months ago Isabel came crying to me because her little friend had told her they were no longer friends. My heart broke with hers but I knew what to say and how to console her: friends may be mean, they may have a bad day, they may be grumpy. She understood; she had been grumpy herself, she has been mean to others before. In a few years, when Noah comes to me hurt and bewildered because a stranger played “monster” with him and he was an unwilling participant, what could I say to mend his little heart? How do I explain that one?

The Measure of a Man

This has been a hard week. It began with the passing of a beautiful 15-year old girl from our church. She had been battling bone cancer for a couple of years and went to be with Jesus last Sunday. Matt had been spending considerable amount of time with the family prior to her passing, to be a source of comfort, strength, prayer, wisdom, and whatever else a family in such a situation needs. He was there when our little friend took her last breath, and he accompanied the family through planning the funeral, choosing the casket, and making sure all the arrangements were made.

On Tuesday he spent the afternoon and evening with them at the viewing, and on Wednesday he performed part of her funeral, held at our church, before a crowd of about six hundred people. When he got into the car after the funeral was over, he broke down in exhaustion and grief. We made our way to the graveside service, accompanied the family home for a few more minutes and left. Matt has been in full-time ministry for eight years now. This sweet teenager was the first member a congregation he pastored to die.

The next day he stayed home to rest after what had been four grueling days. Late that night he received a call from a dear friend and congregation member stating that her husband had a heart attack and was recovering in CICU. Off he went to the hospital to pray with them and be their pastor. The next morning he got up early to take me to the doctor, for I had not been feeling well for a few days. The diagnosis: pneumonia. Since I was bed-ridden and very sick he had been taking care of the children and me, visiting the hospital, going to be instructed on how to take care of two different households full of cats that we would watch over the weekend while their owners were away, and trying to squeeze the necessary work that is required to hold a Sunday morning service, including preaching and leading worship.

Last night I walked into the living room feverish and miserable, and I found him listening to a broadcast of his beloved football team playing and folding laundry. Later on he got up in the middle of the night to hand me medicine and rub my back. Sunday he will stand in front of his congregation and deliver a sermon he has carefully researched and prepared and nobody but I will notice the stress marks around his mouth or the few extra gray hairs he developed this week.

And I simply watched and marveled. Because I married the man I have a certain bias, this I know. Sometimes it is a positive bias that sees the things he does as wonderful and sometimes I can be his worst critic because I know what he is capable of accomplishing. But this week I saw a side of him I had not had the privilege to experience before. This is not a tribute to a husband or a man; this is a tribute to my pastor. I knew just how broken he was about L’s death, how much he agonized to find the right words to say that would paint the picture of the wonderful human being that she was, and how much he prayed for her family as they dealt with her loss. I saw him hop to his feet, weary as he was, and jump in his car to get to the hospital when his friend needed him by his side in the CICU. I’ve witnessed him feeding, bathing, playing and reading to our kids at the end of the last few long days, then come to our room to make sure I had water, a blanket, or a kiss. And come Sunday, I will sit in the front row as he brings us words from God to encourage us and challenge us.

You may know lots of pastors who do this on a regular basis. This is what the good ones do. I just happened to have a front row seat this week into the world of one and a pair of eyes willing to pay attention. I thought about the old cliché: “what is the measure of a man?” Matt loves his congregation deeply, his family tenderly, and his God passionately. And because he loves them, he serves them unconditionally. I thought about the words of Jesus in Matthew 20:19 when he states that “whoever wants to be great among you must be a servant.” Matt serves. His understanding of Christ is that of a loving God who takes care of his people and that is the image of God he strives to portray every day of his life. What the measure of a man is can be debated. But the measure of my pastor is love.