Look What I Can Do!

Two of my children are 3 and 4 years old.  Sometimes I think their favorite phrase at this age is, "Hey, mom, look what I can do!"  From jumping down the stairs two-at-a-time, to drinking down the last half of a milk cup in one gulp, to dribbling a basketball for 3 seconds... it's all praiseworthy and fun as they're learning all the new things they can do - whether or not anyone else thinks those things are particularly cool or interesting.  Last night after Austin's basketball game, they ran out onto the floor to show off their own basketball skills.  Levi shot baskets, and Violet bounced a ball - both shouting the usual, "Look what I can do!" to passersby.  

I am going to "date myself" with this next paragraph and appeal to some of you Gen Xers to recall with me a skit from MADtv.  There was a "little boy" named Stuart (who was played by a grown man, of course) and his mother who had a big hairdo, built in shoulder pads, and a shameless Wisconsin accent.   She always called him, "Styert".  Stuart had a way of trying to show off to strangers by saying, "Hey, look what I can do," which he would follow with some totally random and unimpressive antic meant to impress.  I can't help but think of this skit every time the two little ones say, "Look what I can do!"  In fact, from time-to-time I like to show off for Mark with some type of odd, random antic and shout, "Hey, honey, look what I can do!"

"Look what I can do," might be a phrase that is isolated to children.  However, it is a concept that is perpetuated to the point of perfection by us adults.  From Facebook, to blogs, to tweets, we love to show everyone all the "good things" we can do or all the brilliant things we know.  I am not pointing any fingers, see... I am so guilty.  I like to show off things I make and things I do.  In fact, motives unclear to myself half the time, I am ironically doing it right now.  I tell myself that I blog for me, and that is partially true, but I'll post it to the internet, and I'll link it from Facebook like always, and I'll hope that a few people read it and think about it too.  

My pride is an ugly thing, and God has been making it so blasted clear to me these past two weeks, to the point of overwhelming me with it.  So I've humbled myself and learned to just let God figure all these tough issues out for me and defend me and help me, right??  WRONG.  I only wish that were true, but seems to have only made me more aware of it - not stopped it.  From the overflow of my ugly heart, my ugly mouth speaks.  That's one Facebook status you won't see me post, but that's not because it isn't true, but because everyone who would comment on it would try to convince me that it wasn't true - that I'm not a rotten sinner... that deep down I'm a really good person.  They are my "friends", after all, right?  But I know better about me.  I like to think I'm decent, but then I see me in action and realize that, much to my own dismay, I'm not.  

We like to think that we should be able to take pride in what we do... that it is good to take pride in yourself and your abilities, etc.  It's fine to brag, and, as I mentioned in a FB status a few weeks back, it's a societal norm that's infiltrated something as simple as greeting cards.  I can't stand to read most cards anymore, because they go on and on about wonderful, sweet, perfect ME.  I go to buy a card for a loved one and who is the card about?  ME.  "Dear Mom, Thanks for supporting me, seeing the best in me, being there for me when I needed you, and lifting me up when I was weak, because - let's face it - we both know what a fantastically amazing and remarkable person I am and how much I deserve to be lifted up... after all, who got you this card??  ME, that's who... Happy Birthday to the person who gave birth to ME!  Love Always and Best Wishes, Me"  Okay, prone to exaggeration might be in bold print on my dossier, but you get my drift here, right?  

In the midst of my God-given smackdown this week (and it's barely halfway over), my attention has been drawn to one thing.  Look what I can do?  

LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!

God vs. Us style:

ME:  I can have a new body in 6 weeks with my new diet/exercise program!  

GOD:  I can have a new body in 3 days and save the whole human race in the process.

ME:  Look what I made!

GOD:  Look what I made.

ME:  Look how much I love my kids!

GOD:  Look how much I love your kids.

This list could go on for longer than I have before it's way past my bedtime, but the bottom line is this verse that keeps coming to my mind:  In John 15:5, Jesus says, "I am the vine.  You are the branches.  He who abides in me and I in him, he bears much fruit.  For apart from me, you can do nothing."  Yet, despite the nothing I can do apart from Him, to my shame, I do a whole lot of nothings apart from Him, none of it amounting to anything and so much more of it causing undue trouble and stress for myself and others.  This thing called life is not about us, but we try everything within (and without) our human power to make it about us, even though it renders us completely ineffective.  The moment I've bragged about something, it's made me ridiculous.  The moment pride has reared it's ugly head, it's made me a fool.

This past evening, Levi (whom we've been weaning from naps lately) was interrupted from "working out" on the eliptical trainer by his sister who wanted to "take his picture" with a Viewmaster.  He was annoyed enough (and perhaps sleep-deprived enough) to jump off the eliptical, approach his sister and push the Viewmaster into her eyes - causing her to cry.  Having been in the bathroom during the whole time this occurred, I got this story second-hand from Mark and the other kids.  After Mark told him he must apologize, he refused and ran to his room, slamming the door, and carrying on like a madman about the injustices of the world and his particular situation.  He received discipline for his actions and was told he must apologize to his sister, which he (reluctantly and after much coaching) eventually did. The funny part of this story to me was that when we took food to my grandparents tonight at their home, he sat at their kitchen table and confessed the whole of the situation to the entire table of people.  He admitted to hitting his sister in the eye with the Viewmaster, and making her cry and then he said, "And I wouldn't say I was sorry, and I got mad and mad and ran to my room and then (higher pitched, as if he couldn't believe his own actions) I slammed the door, and then I threw a big, BIG fit!"  My grandpa tried to suppress a grin and a snicker as he listened intently to the story.  Levi said, "I was being so bad, and mom and dad both told me I needed to say sorry."  His confession was sweet to hear - as if he couldn't believe the way he had acted and that, despite the fact I doubt he was remorseful at the time he apologized, he seemed to truly be at that moment.  The best part about this story was the true confession - big, ugly tantrum and all - was something he felt he wanted to share.  Pride gone and glad of it, he bared his soul, and it seemed to be freeing for him.  


This type of honesty could revolutionize my facebook posts.  I can just see them now:


"Marinated a steak for my amazing husband's birthday and then gave him the silent treatment because he didn't appreciate all the trouble I went to."


"Spent the day adoring my wonderful children and then avoided eye contact with an acquaintance at Walmart, because I didn't feel like making conversation."  


"Learned some amazing new truths at Bible study and then went home and ate chocolate chip cookies and milk in the bathtub because I was feeling sorry for myself."


"Ran 8 miles on my eliptical trainer and topped it off with that quart of ice cream I've been hiding in the outside freezer after everyone went to bed tonight."

I hear complaints all around me that are well-founded.  What's wrong with the church?  It's full of ME.  What's wrong with the world?  It's full of ME.  What's wrong in the universe?  It's populated by billions of galaxies in the midst of which is one which has a tiny, little planet that is populated by people like ME.  Why should we look at other people on earth in exasperation at how not good they are?  They're in our same predicament - sin.  Why should we come to church expecting people to be good and act righteously?  We're all in the same predicament - sin.  And all too often, the One who could help us act right is the One we don't ask for help.  

On the list of the things God hates, what made the top of the list?  #1?  The most hated thing?  Pride.  (Proverbs 6:16, Proverbs 8:13) When I look at the photos above, it's rightly obvious to me one of the reasons God hates it when we're proud.  Because we have no basis for it!  The things I can make and do in comparison to the things He has made and done (including making the person who can make and do the other things)?  It is a non-comparison - a laughable comparison.  I have no basis for feeling proud of myself - what I've written, what I've accomplished, what I've made - when I consider what He has written, what He has accomplished, and what He has made.  It's like taping a finger painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  Have you ever seen someone try to strut his/her stuff when they have no stuff to strut?  How does it make you feel?  Do you pitty that person?  Do you laugh?  Do you feel embarrassed for that person?  How much more would you feel this way if you were the stuff?  If you were the glue that holds the universe together, how would you feel about your creation hanging its pittiful self out to brag.   Yet, as sickeningly ridiculous as that would be, I don't think that's what angers God the most about pride.  Like most sin, I think He hates that it hurts us and that we use it to hurt each other.  And despite all of this, He loves us anyway.  There are a lot of remarkable things that we all see on a daily basis, but what is the most remarkable is that the God of the universe would care for you and for me.

Soft and Sanitized

Lately, my oldest son and I have been enjoying war movies together.  I had quite a collection of war movies when Mark and I got married, from The Dirty Dozen to Wind Talkers to The Gladiator, I enjoyed them all.  Austin is always in awe that I - a GIRL - actually enjoy stories of war.  It's true, real or fictional, (but especially real) I enjoy a good war story.  Austin rationalizes that it must be because my name is derived from the Roman god of war.  I just think that "girls" can enjoy history, including the war parts, as much as "boys" can.  We recently finished the last episode of World War II in HD from the History Channel.  It's no exaggeration to say that I loved this documentary series.  It was so well done, and it provided a more in depth look at WWII than I had ever seen or understood before we watched it.


We watched a movie last night called The Eagle about a Roman soldier who was trying to reclaim a symbol of Rome that his father had lost in combat years earlier.  I thought the movie was mediocre at best, but I was reminded of something that was also impressed upon me as I watched WWII in HD... I am soft.  As I watched the conditions under which millions of people have lived...  As I watched the conditions under which millions of people have existed... I am overwhelmed.  I don't even want to use the word "lived" in the sense that I think of it.  I realize - almost with pain - that I could not live that way.


On Saipan, immediately following its conquer by the United States in WWII, US Marines witnessed the mass suicide of civilians - men, women, and children who had been brainwashed by their government to believe they'd be better off dying than falling into American hands.  The Marines watched helplessly as parents killed their children and then themselves - jumping off (or throwing children off) cliffs onto rocks below, drowning themselves, holding grenades to their chests and pulling the pins.  These piteous people who lived in abject poverty and who were treated as second-class citizens by their own government crawled out of the caves in which they'd been hiding in order to kill themselves.  They believed they had nothing to live for - no reason to believe they could expect better from life than worse than what they had already experienced.   But why?  Isn't life precious?  Not for many.  It makes me wonder if, after humanity's fall from grace, it was ever meant to be precious.


Dean Sherman states that Western civilization, particularly Western Christianity, exists in the world of the theoretical.  We believe in analogies.  We believe in theory, because we rarely exercise our ability to live out our faith in reality.  We really have no idea how most of the world lives.  Even the poorest of our poor are not abjectly impoverished.  We have provided ourselves with so much comfort that we are disgusted by discomfort.  We've tried many things (good and bad) to rid ourselves of the types of discomforts that the rest of the world endure on a daily basis.  Through vaccinations, pain relievers, lawsuits, foods, diets, climate control systems, and thousands of other things we use every day, we've managed to rid ourselves of "life"... or what is considered life for most of the other people on earth.  Even death has become too uncomfortable and inconvenient for many to face these days.  Funeral homes go bankrupt because people choose cremation and no memorial service to save on costs and presumably on grief.  As a hospice volunteer, I am often surprised had how many families choose no services for their loved ones.  Does this really save us?  Does refusing to grieve in a traditional sense work for us?  At least in the Caucasian culture, we'd already managed our grief down into bite-sized tokens (at least in public) of sniffles and tissues. Why not wail and moan and sit in a heap of ashes like other cultures?    Why not ugly cry - snorts, snots, and all?  Too "undignified" has become too easy to ignore.


I miss the passion of earlier generations.  I miss the sense of duty that people felt toward God, family, and country.  I've spoken a lot lately with a lovely single friend of mine who is at a loss to understand why she cannot find a "good" man.  Despite her beauty, intelligence, education, and job - all the things the world says she needs to be and do, and then some - there is not a man to be found who will "fight for" her.  Not a man to be found who values her enough to work at establishing and maintaining a relationship.  Is it her fault?  No way.  It is all of our faults.  We have come to a point in our society where we expect less and less of ourselves and more and more of each other - a combination that can't possibly work.  Women have continued to fight for "rights" and "freedom" which mostly boils down to control over our circumstances (and our men), and we wonder why men are apathetic when it comes to pursuing us.  We've taken the roles that were traditionally theirs - including pursuer - and we wonder why we are so dissatisfied with the mealy-mouthed, dispassionate man lying next to us in bed.  What are they supposed to do?  What's left for them?  What distinguishes them as different from us?  Nothing, and we wanted it that way, and now we hate them for it.  What's worse - a strong, confident man who is sometimes insensitive or a soft, sensitive man who refuses to fight for his woman, family, home, and country?  I know which one appeals more to me.


The comfortable, soft, sanitized world we've created for ourselves largely rids us of our dependence upon anyone - least of all God - and yet we lament our feelings of loneliness and isolation.  We live our lives with the most minimal involvement from God, but He's the first one to get the blame when things go badly for us.  Ironically, the most valuable spiritual truths I've ever learned were in the times of my greatest trials and tribulations.  My most precious times of being "held" by my Savior were in times when there was no one else to hold me.  We wonder why people in more impoverished and persecuted parts of the world seem to have a more vibrant faith, but it's small wonder to me.  After all, real life, like it became after man's fall from glory, is rotten.  It's not fun.  It's not pretty, and it's certainly not easy.


I recall a story that a friend of mine who moved here from another country once told me.  He said that when he had lived in his home country, he had been important and prominent.  He had much pride in who he was and in his home country.  He came to America excited, because he felt God was leading him to make a difference in our country.  He asked God what God wanted him to do.  He was met with frustration after frustration.  He found himself asking God why he would bring him to this country only to meet him with frustration and humiliation.  He said he felt God impress upon him that he was not brought to America because God needed him in America but because God knew that, only in America - far away and humbled from his former way of life - would this friend realize his constant need for God.  Since that time, I have witnessed many people who think their life's work is to change a person or group of people when the reality is that they can't and never could.  We aren't in the business of changing others.  God doesn't need us for that.  He puts us here so that, through the living of our lives - particularly the most painful parts of those lives - we are caused to depend on Him in a way that grows and changes us.  How prideful of us to think that God plans to use us to change other people.  It's only when we realize that we are the ones who need to change that we become truly useful to God at all.


Those Marines on Saipan tried everything they could think of to communicate their good intentions toward the civilians who were killing themselves by the hundreds, but the language barrier and the lack of trust between them prevented a potentially life-saving exchange.  You can't change a person's heart - no matter how good your intentions might be.  Next time, you're facing something difficult and dirty, and you're frustrated out of your mind, the person God probably wants you to change is YOU.